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They came for him in the night. D’Artagnan was dragged from his bed before anyone quite knew what was happening. By the time Athos had stumbled out of his chambers, the Red Guard had dragged d’Artagnan down the stairs and were halfway across the Garrison courtyard with him. Athos ran up behind them, sword drawn, with Porthos and Aramis close on his heels, shouting for Treville.
“What are you doing? Where are you taking him?” demanded Athos.
One of the guards jerked roughly at d’Artagnan’s arm, causing him to stumble to his knees.
“It’s to the Bastille with this one,” the guard sneered.
“On what charges?” called Treville, coming down the stairs. The Guards stopped, turning.
“On the grounds of high treason. This man conspired to murder the King and Queen.”
The Musketeers stilled in fear. That was a crime worthy of a gruesome death. D’Artagnan looked back helplessly at his friends as he was dragged away.
****
D’Artagnan was thrown in a cell, chained by one wrist to a wall, and that’s where he stayed for the next two long weeks, with barely enough food and water to keep him alive. The others were able to talk their way in to see him just twice. Both times they stretched their arms through the bars, reaching for his outstretched fingertips, just barely able to grasp his hand and offer some small comfort.
Treville pled with the courts, he pled with the Queen, he pled with the King. They all knew d’Artagnan had been set up but they had no proof. They could not swing a release. D’Artagnan languished in prison. The Queen was sympathetic but held no power to pardon him. The King had since been distracted with a failed coup and had seemingly forgotten all about the young prisoner. When it was nearing three weeks with no trial or execution in sight, and having exhausted all legal options, the Musketeers decided to mount a prison break.
And that is when the Red Guard moved d’Artagnan.
No one seemed to know where. All that was known was that they had taken him again, like a thief in the night. The Musketeers searched for weeks, through every prison, dungeon and back alley they could think of, to no avail. They began to lose hope. The trumped up charges, the never ending prison sentence, and now this magic trick, this game of keep away. Perhaps d’Artagnan was gone, lost forever, buried in a shallow grave. And they would never even know the cause of all this.
Treville became quieter than ever. Athos was beside himself with worry and guilt, Aramis was nearly sick with grief and Porthos was angrier than he had ever been, and taking it out on anyone who crossed his path.
It was at the end of the second month since d’Artagnan had been taken in the night when Milady strolled into the Garrison courtyard, bringing news. As usual, she had discovered what no one else could. A lead on d’Artagnan’s location. And without even asking for anything in return. She cared for him more than she would ever let on.
And so the wicked woman’s tip brought the three Musketeers to a dark basement dungeon on the outskirts of Nanterre, about fifteen miles from Paris. They had not searched far outside the city before; they would not have known where to begin.
Athos, Porthos and Aramis crept down the stairs in the flickering torch light, eyes peeled for trouble. All they found was one armed guard, asleep at his post. Aramis easily took care of him with a choke hold. The man barely had time to wake up before being put back to sleep. Porthos snagged the key ring on his belt. The three men then searched through several empty cells before pausing at the last one. If d’Artagnan wasn’t here then even Milady’s intel couldn’t help them. They really would be out of options. Out of hope. Athos took a deep breath then peered through the bars into the moonlit room.
D’Artagnan was curled up against the stone wall, shackled arms lying loosely by his side. His head was on the damp floor, lank hair hanging over his face. Athos, in the lead, came up short at the sight. He yanked the door open, approached slowly and knelt down tentatively, afraid they were too late. Once closer though he could see the slight rising and falling of the boy's narrow chest, the only indication that d’Artagnan was alive. He laid a gentle hand on d’Artagnan’s cold one.
D'Artagnan jerked awake and scrambled backwards, pressing himself flat against the wall, visibly shaking. It was clear that others had come into his cell and given him something to fear. Athos raised his hands, palms outward towards the boy, the universal gesture for peace, for I mean you no harm. He crouched there stock still, waiting for recognition to set in. After a long moment wherein d’Artagnan sat, back to the wall, breaths coming fast and heavy, realization washed across his face. His eyes, bright with fear and pain, widened as he saw Athos, really saw him. Then recognition quickly turned to disbelief and doubt. Athos saw the switch. The boy believed this was a dream, a trick. What had they done to him down here?
“It’s alright d’Artagnan,” he said in his soft, slow way. “It’s alright. We’re here. This is real.”
D’Artagnan stared at him with wide eyes, frightened as a rabbit. He pushed his palms into his forehead, clutched his hair and tugged. Then he let his hands drop and stared at Athos tiredly, visibly sagging.
“It’s alright,” Athos said again. “We’re here to bring you home.”
At this, d’Artagnan’s expression changed. Tears welled in his eyes. He seemed to collapse in on himself further. Athos raised his right hand higher, subtly motioning for the other two.
Porthos and Aramis had been hovering in the doorway; now they rushed forward to unlock d'Artagnan's manacles. D'Artagnan flinched as they approached, but allowed them to touch him, never averting his gaze from Athos' steady one. Aramis worked quickly at the locks while Porthos murmured assurances and gently rubbed his hands up and down d'Artagnan's bruised, bleeding arms.
Once free the boy sat still for a moment, wrists lying limply on the cold stones. Then he lunged forward and threw himself at Athos, collapsing into him and burying his face in the older man’s chest. Without hesitation Athos pulled him into his lap, stroking his hair and making soft noises of comfort.
All this time d’Artagnan had not said a word, hadn’t uttered a single sound. Now a wrenching sob burst from his throat. Athos held him tightly as he cried, trying desperately to keep his own emotions in check. What in God’s name had they done to him?
“Athos,” Porthos murmured. “We need to go. The guards…” Athos nodded.
“Time to go lad.”
With a soft grunt, Athos tried to pull d’Artagnan to his feet but his legs were weak as a newborn foal's from disuse and collapsed beneath him. He sat boneless on the ground, as if all the meager remaining life had drained out of him as he had cried. Aramis was at the cell door now, looking around, quietly urging them to hurry. Athos glanced down anxiously. D’Artagnan stared up at him listlessly, tears gone as quickly as they had come, as if he had nothing more to give. Deciding, Athos stooped and lifted d’Artagnan easily off the ground. Always slim, the young Gascon now weighed next to nothing. He had lost much weight during his time locked in the dark. Athos could feel each rib beneath his fingers. The other two led the way out of the dank cell. D’Artagnan clung to Athos, face again pressed into the older man's chest.
They made their way back up the dark tunnel and out into the silent streets of the sleeping city, Aramis in the lead, Porthos in the rear, both men with their pistols drawn and ready. But they met no resistance. D’Artagnan’s grip loosened as they walked and eventually his body went limp in Athos' arms as he slipped into unconsciousness. Athos repositioned him, the young man’s head lolling against his shoulder, arms and legs dangling. They walked stealthily back through the dark streets until they reached their horses in a clearing at the edge of town, never meeting a soul. D'Artagnan did not wake as he was transferred quickly to Porthos while Athos mounted, nor when he was lifted onto the front of the Musketeer’s horse. Athos wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close as they headed back to Paris. Back to the Garrison. Back home.
D’Artagnan had become a shell of himself during his time imprisoned. He had been taken but he had also had something taken from him. Stolen, captured, locked away as well. It would take time and care to bring him back to the young man they knew.
It was a miracle he had been delivered back to them and Aramis always told them not to squander a miracle. They were all willing to put in the work. They would do whatever it took to care for d’Artagnan, to help him in any way they could. He would recover from his ordeal. He would become a Musketeer. And he would have his brothers by his side every step of the way.