Chapter Text
Evening, somewhere outside of Larriberau
His cousin had controlled his life since he was nine years of age. Kidnapping him after slaughtering his parents, burning down his home and destroying the family farm... there was nothing left for him now. Maman and papa gone... livelihood gone... his freedom ground to nothing but dust. But d'Artagnan vowed he would one day break Martin's vicious hold on him soon.
He had tried, many times in the past, to escape only for Martin to hunt him down like a dog and drag him back into his cousin's sordid life each and every time. Now that d'Artagnan had finally reached the age of eighteen years, he knew he was more than able to defend himself against his cousin's harsh treatment. The next opportunity that presented itself, d'Artagnan would break away from this hell.
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Martin Labarge was a ruthless giant of a man, committing violent crimes against his fellow Gascons. He was brutal in his conquests, leaving nothing but terror and despair in his wake. Proud of the fact that he was known as a thief, bully and murderer, Martin wore them like badges of honor. Tearing through Lupiac, Toulouse, Bordeaux and many other surrounding towns with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, Martin enjoyed causing mayhem wherever he struck.
His pillaging made him a comfortable living, a life to which he'd adapted to quite well. Though having a price on his head meant that Martin couldn't stay overly long in one place. This nomadic life never wearied him in fact he relished it. But his men grumbled from time to time, not enjoying having to move constantly to evade capture by the authorities. For they all knew what getting caught meant. There would be no mercy shown to any of them. They would be brought before King Louis and ordered strung up by their necks. That is if they were captured at all something which Martin swore would never happen to them if they all kept their heads.
Despite all the discontent he heard, Martin had his men all under his thumb which was just the way he liked it. Speaking of having someone under his thumb... Martin observed his young cousin, Charles, taking care of their horses and it reminded him that the boy hadn't made any escape attempts the last few years. Rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed on the younger man.
There were hidden fires within Charles. Fires that Martin hadn't yet put out. All the beatings the boy had endured at his hands never quenched those flames he could still see burning hot in his cousin's eyes. "Kid, come here!" he barked out, eyes narrowing when his cousin was slow to comply with his order. When Charles stood proudly in front of him, Martin's demeanor dramatically changed as he began to laugh. Knowing the boy probably wondered what the joke was, he extended his right arm to reach around the youngster's shoulder. Tugging him in close, Martin whispered in Charle's ear. "You're not planning on leaving me again are you?"
Taken by complete surprise at the question, d'Artagnan schooled his face to show no emotion. Pulling away from the mockery of friendship Martin was displaying, d'Artagnan backpeddled away from the older man. "I believe I've learned from my past mistakes," he responded icily.
"That remains to be seen,"Martin grinned devilishly. "Are the horses settled for the night, Charles?"
"Oui," with a jerk of his head, d'Artagnan turned away from the man. Then he paused, turned back around and glared at Martin. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me d'Artagnan?"
Chuckling Martin enjoyed egging the kid on. "What? You think by having everyone call you d'Artagnan that your pere's name won't ever be forgotten?"
"NON!" d'Artagnan stood there shaking with rage. "Tis because I'm proud of my name! Proud to have been Alexandre d'Artagnan's son!"
Wiping the cocky smile from his face, Martin frowned with distaste at the boy. "Do you think I care that I killed my uncle?" he spat, noticing Charles clenching his fists as if the youngster could land a solid punch against him. Ha! That would be the day. "Hell! I killed my own parents before I ever came to your farm to do the same." Briefly gazing up at the stars twinkling in the night sky, and then back again at the seething youth, he added, "Think of it this way, Charles," he sneered in contempt, "Alexandre and his sister are together for eternity now."
"One day," d'Artagnan's chest heaved, wanting so badly to wipe Martin's miserable existence off the face of this Earth, "I'll have revenge for papa, maman, Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Theo."
"Hold that thought, kid," Martin winked at the boy, leaving Charles behind to go layout his bedroll.
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Another campsite also near Larriberau
Spreading their blankets on the hardened ground, the three men situated themselves around a nice-sized fire blazing in the center of their camp. Ready for bed the inseparables were calling it a night.
"Shame what Labarge did ta Lupiac," Porthos was lying on his back, arms folded underneath his head while staring into what stars he could see through the foliage of surrounding trees that provided them protection.
"Razed the entire town," Aramis murmured quietly, chewing on a blade of grass, while fingering his crucifix that always hung around his neck.
"He will pay for his crimes," nothing could be seen of Athos' features as his chapeau did an excellent job of covering his entire face.
"From your mouth to God's ears," Aramis threw the blade of grass away, tipped his own chapeau over his face, closing his eyes.
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Next day, break of dawn
A soft whistle rent the air signaling to Porthos and Athos that Aramis had discovered Labarge and his gang of cut-purses.
When Athos and Porthos joined the sharpshooter, Aramis lowered his voice. "Labarge is over there," he pointed to where the large brute stood talking to a few of his men. It looked like they were getting ready to leave.
"Tell me the king sent more than just you three?" a voice whispered.
Gasping in surprise the inseparables whipped around with weapons raised, expecting to be surrounded by Labarge's gang, they were all silently kicking themselves that they got caught with their collective pants down. But they were in for another surprise, when all they encountered was a young boy crouching behind some brush trying not to be seen.
Signaling the unarmed lad to come over which the youngster did positioning himself between Athos and Aramis, the men began wondering what was going on.
With an arch of his brow Athos tilted his head and studied the features of this child. The map of Gascony was clearly written on the boy's face, along with the accent that none of them missed. He pondered how someone with the face of an angel got mixed up with a thug like Labarge. "I assure you that we three are more than enough to take on that piece of trash and his band."
Staring the blue-eyed Musketeer in the face, d'Artagnan wasn't really convinced they could do as this man boasted. "You do know that Martin has ten men working for him?"
"We do now," Aramis smiled, tipping his hat at the lad.
"How did you spot us?" Athos thought they had been quite cautious in their approach of Labarge's camp.
"I was readying the horses when I thought I caught sight of some movement behind the bushes," d'Artagnan answered observing the older man, who he assumed was the leader, arch a brow at the handsome one.
"I was careful," Aramis defended himself against Athos' accusing glare. "The pup's got sharp eyes."
"So I sneaked up behind you and was very much relieved to see your pauldrons," d'Artagnan explained.
"Ya gonna 'elp us, kid?" Porthos felt that if the whelp wasn't yelling at the top of his lungs, to give away their position, that the youngster was here to lend a helping hand.
A flash, of what only Athos could assume was hatred, came and went so fast in the young Gascon's eyes that he nearly missed it. There was a story here and if things went in their favor Athos believed they would discover what it was. For the time being, he felt that this child would be on their side.
"Martin killed my parents and burned down our farm," d'Artagnan shot the three men a dark look full of venom, "I want nothing more than to see justice done."
"I like him," Aramis grinned at his brothers.
"I'm a good judge of character," Porthos slid a glance at Aramis, the latter was shaking his head sadly back at him, "I say we trust the whelp."
"You're a poor judge of character when sober," Aramis threw back earning a mean glare from Porthos.
Listening to the strange exchange between the two men, d'Artagnan began to worry about this lot. Feeling the heavy gaze of the older Musketeer upon him, d'Artagnan turned holding out his hand to him. "I'm d'Artagnan." He got a firm handshake from the one known as Athos, another from Aramis whose eyes were dancing with merriment even though d'Artagnan didn't see what there was to make light of and a hardy slap on the shoulder from the dark-skinned Musketeer known as Porthos. "By the way," d'Artagnan leaned in toward Porthos speaking softly to him, "you are a good judge of character."
Smirking, Porthos turned to stare at Aramis who simply shrugged one shoulder.
"Having commenced with introductions I suggest we now make a plan of action," Athos was quickly taking stock of the pup and seemed to like what he saw. There was a world of grief in d'Artagnan's eyes. Eyes that had seen too much for the child's young years.
"What's ta plan?" Porthos grunted holding up a pistol and musket, one in each hand, and pointing with one of them toward his shiny poignard sticking out of his weapon's belt. "We go in as usual and take care of business."
"What he said," Aramis nodded, readying his own musket and pistols.
"Here," Athos shoved another pistol into d'Artagnan's hands, "take this." Noting a puzzled look on the Gascon's face, Athos grimaced. "I assume you do know what it is for?"
"Of course I do," d'Artagnan snapped. "I was just surprised you're actually trusting me."
"As Porthos already said," Athos' features were devoid of emotion as was his tone of voice, "he's a good judge of character. Tis enough for me."
"Well then," Aramis chuckled low, holding out his hand palm down, "All for one..." he waited for the familiar feel of leather clad gloves on top of his own. When Athos and Porthos followed suit, Aramis stared up into the young man's curious gaze. "Go on, d'Artagnan," he urged. When the boy tentatively rested his hand on theirs, Aramis grinned, "and one for all."
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Notes:
In this story Labarge only works for himself not the cardinal.
Larriberau, known as Ger, lies between the mighty River Garonne to the north of the Pyrenees to the South.