How Far We Fall

Summary: Sequel to 'Which Way I Fly.' Athos threw down the proverbial gauntlet for D'Artagnan and unknowingly started them down a path of death, destruction, and retribution. Family/Friendship.

A/N: This is a sequel to 'Which Way I Fly.' I had considered making revisions to this piece as well, but revisions are the exact problem that's backlogging me with my other fic 'True Faith' at this point. Part of me does enjoy reading back through my old stories every now and then. So, while there may be some things cut and added, it definitely won't be too extensive, because these fics have been sitting on my hard drive for a little too long. So, this will be a fairly fast upload. My goal is to get the whole thing back up either by the end of this week or by the middle of next week.

Warnings: Blood, torture, angst, mentions of past child abuse, etc.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Despite Dumas being public domain, these characters are still his incarnations that I continue to borrow for writing exercise.

"Pick up your feet," Athos scolded. "Don't drag them in the dirt."

D'Artagnan bit his lip and growled as he lunged forward in retaliation. Athos met him passively and continued the match as fast and as grueling as it had begun, half an hour ago in the courtyard. It had started out innocently enough, and Athos knew that goading the boy by playing on his skill and pride was asking for trouble. It was the laziness, despite D'Artagnan's nearly perfect footwork, that Athos couldn't stand to see, and sought desperately to correct.

The boy rushed forward again, and Athos deflected with as little energy as he could muster to strike forward at the last second. And he nearly had the boy as he circled around his back but, typically, D'Artagnan saved himself at the last possible moment. Athos would have been more annoyed at his own failure to successfully find an undefendable opening if it weren't for the frustrating need…or rather impulsive urge to lecture the boy about his recklessness. Drawing your opponent in by feigning weakness would one day get you killed if you weren't careful.

As if sensing his inner turmoil, D'Artagnan halted for a moment to catch his breath, and Athos granted it out of need for it himself. But he did not lower his sword, nor did he take his eyes off his opponent. Passivity was what Athos knew best. Hiding his fears and feelings was done with an immeasurable ease in comparison to the young musketeer-in-training before him. D'Artagnan in too many ways was an open book, making himself an easy target for smarter villains to take advantage of. So when a cocky smirk suddenly burst forth on the boy's face, the elder of the two couldn't help but feel the smallest bit of disappointment.

"Do you have something against the dirt, Athos," D'Artagnan asked in a coy tone.

Clearly, the boy needed another lesson in the mindful aspects of a duel. For when one finds a weakness in his enemy, the worst course of action is to reveal it. "Perhaps I do," Athos encouraged while pushing forward again. "And perhaps I do not. I hope that was not meant to take me off my guard-"

Athos attempted to disarm D'Artagnan, and when that failed he tried to take advantage of the boy's feet again, only this time, to his surprise, D'Artagnan was ready for it. He kicked up a thick cloud of dust from a patch of dirt and skirted around Athos as quick as a hare. Athos scrubbed at his watery eyes and swung his arm out in attempts to dissipate the newly formed cloud between them. "Damn you, boy," he cursed.

"No, but that was-" But D'Artagnan was cut off by his own self when the heel of his foot landed awkwardly in the large divot that Planchet had yet to fill in from the duel that Porthos and Aramis had yesterday. The next thing he knew his bottom was aching something terrible and there was Athos' sword staring him in the face.

"Pity," Athos said with a smug face. "I seem to have come out the victor."

Something caught between a glare and a childish pout on the boy nearly made him laugh out loud, but he held it in and instead held out a hand to help him up. "You pushed me toward that damned hole," D'Artagnan complained.

"You irritated my eyes."

"You criticized my footwork!"

"You should have been paying more attention-"

"Are you ladies finished," Porthos called from the back door. "I'll not wait all damn day to break open this old vintage!"

"You mean to tell me you've waited this long," Athos retorted.

In reply, Porthos gave Athos a rude hand gesture before disappearing back inside.

D'Artagnan chuckled as he went to collect his discarded jacket.

Leave it to his cousin to distract them from the important matter at hand. One of these days they were going to have a long talk that involved no wine, no food, nor cards of any kind. Porthos would be sure to crack before five minutes. As they went in for water Athos tapped the boy's shoulder as he passed by. "Remember to pick up your feet and I'll have nothing to criticize."

D'Artagnan followed not too long afterwards.

That night, Athos tossed and turned for an hour before getting up in a dark mood, resigning himself to no sleep yet again. If fighting and exercise were not good incentives for deep blissful dreamless hours, he didn't know what was anymore. He was counting on the silence and privacy of the empty fireside, but when he saw that Aramis was already its occupant, nose deep in a religious text, he considered taking his chances with the bed. But, ever like a bird of prey at night, Aramis spotted him before he could make his retreat. Reluctantly, Athos took a seat beside him. The only question that remained was whether the priest was in a particularly talkative mood or a reflective one.

"He's a good fighter, Athos."

Talkative then. So much for companionable silence. "He's young."

Aramis looked up from his book, affronted. "And we're not? I think I should be insulted."

Athos rolled his eyes.

Aramis turned a page. "We all were once his age, fueled by a fire that made no obstacle too great."

"Hopefully one day soon it will do him a favor and fade."

"Has it done you any favors?"

Athos glared in his direction and wished that he had a glass of the wine they shared earlier in his hands, rather the whole of another bottle. "Some," he stubbornly replied.

"Athos," Aramis said, softly, closing his book and pulling his glasses off. "There isn't much that anyone can do to take away the kind of pain that D'Artagnan carries. You say the practice will help and I see that it does, but at what cost? At this rate it won't be long before you push him too hard. The boy works on his footwork and speed every morning. He's already faster than a hawk on a clear day in some respects. Not to mention that it's driving Planchet up the walls trying to keep the poor grass alive. I'll say it just once more tonight. D'Artagnan is a good fighter. His instincts are sound."

"Perhaps," Athos snapped. "But his weakness is knowing it. You've seen him. One day he will goad an enemy into a careless mistake and I do not want to be the one to bear witness of it. Do you?"

Perhaps it was the light from the fire that softened the features on Aramis' face, because it had only seemed that way for a scarce moment before they hardened in a fierce determination. "No. But we are human. We fear, we feel, and we err. It is an inevitability. What matters in the end are the people you surround yourself with when those inevitabilities come to call."

Athos sighed, knowing Aramis wasn't done. "And?"

Aramis smiled. "A little positive reinforcement couldn't hurt. I'll not say a word more." Then he opened his book again, leaned back, and laid his feet on a stool close to the hearth. He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and to his word, did not say another word that night.

Athos settled down in his own chair and was determined to stay there for the rest of the night, fully knowing that he would wake with a stiff back in the morning. But he needed to prove a point…even if it were only to himself.

The next morning saw D'Artagnan up earlier than the sunrise with a light breakfast in his hand. He took another bite from his apple and let his legs dangle freely over the side of the roof of their apartments. There was little wind in the cool morning to rustle his hair, which made him glad that he hadn't given a thought to wear his jacket. The bright warm light of the morning remedied any previous discomfort and made the experience pleasantly familiar; because it was quiet and peaceful moments like these he missed the most from his farm back home. Paris certainly wasn't home like the country was. It was too dense and close together to really take the time to appreciate the bustling life around, and the innumerable people that colored it. Things had been simple for him since his birth, and though his home wasn't as happy and carefree as it had been when he was a child, it was still something to call his own, something he missed.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a moment like this at the start of his day to simply breathe the morning in and feel the rare clarity of his normally tumultuous thoughts. It made him wish that he wasn't the only one up here. But soon the sounds of his friends waking and talking below him brought forth part of the company he desired. He listened with half an ear, his head still in the clouds, as the sounds wafted out from the open window he made use of earlier.

"Porthos," Aramis inquired. "Have you seen D'Artagnan this morning?"

"The boy's on the roof," Porthos replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"What," someone else exclaimed.

D'Artagnan tried not to laugh. Really, he did. But when Athos' head poked out the window and spotted him, he lost that battle. "Good morning Athos," he chuckled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

D'Artagnan smiled. "Watching the sunrise. Would you like to join me?"

Athos scoffed…or rather huffed and disappeared without another word.

"That boy has a damned death wish!"

Next, Aramis' head poked out the window with a kind smile. "Do Porthos and I a favor, D'Artagnan, and please come inside when you are finished. Preferably before Athos decides to do anything foolish."

"Which would be soon," Porthos called.

Aramis was then yanked inside, an indignant shout following from Athos. "Do you think this is funny?!"

Just to spite the older man D'Artagnan took his time to finish the apple. Then, after another swish of his dangling feet he climbed back down, the apple core secured in his mouth, and landed through the window with the grace of a cat. But D'Artagnan stopped short of coming up when he noticed he was under a particularly heated gaze from a particular musketeer with crossed arms and dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

D'Artagnan slowly reached up and plucked the apple core from his mouth, trying to decide whether it would be to his advantage to make a run for the front door. But Porthos came to his rescue, yet again, by hauling him to his feet and demanding that he try the fresh strawberries that Planchet had just laid on the table. The last he heard of Athos that morning was a growl and a slamming of his door upstairs. Athos didn't reappear until they made ready to leave and receive their morning duties from Monsieur de Treville.

As luck would have it, Athos and D'Artagnan were paired together on patrol. The latter valiantly tried to hide a wince at the news, but said nothing. They spent the majority of their morning in silence, which was nothing new as far as Athos was concerned, but D'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder if the older musketeer was still ruffled about his escapade earlier this morning and their duel the previous evening. The words were just on the tip of his tongue when suddenly something…or someone purposefully knocked them both to the ground from behind.

D'Artagnan whipped his head up in time to see the villain turn and flash him a derogatory gesture and run off. He growled out loud and would have taken off right then if he hadn't heard Athos groaning beside him. "Are you all right," he asked, checking his friend for injuries.

"Fine," Athos groused, attempting to get to his feet.

Like the trigger of a pistol, D'Artagnan was off, hearing the one word he needed to hear before seeking justice. D'Artagnan could vaguely hear Athos calling his name, shouting for him to wait, but the boiling anger in his chest urged his feet faster. He spotted the offender easily and let the villain lead him on a high-speed chase into the rougher precincts of the city. A brief thought of concern over Athos flashed through his mind and had him hoping that his friend hadn't followed his stupid example and instead went to find Aramis and Porthos. But, knowing Athos, he probably wasn't far behind.

And it was a good thing the musketeer wasn't. D'Artagnan had just turned down a wide passageway that ran between a number of rundown and abandoned row houses when his enemy turned to face him, with his face hidden by a coarse black scarf. The gleam in his eyes, as D'Artagnan approached, was the only warning he had of another blade that abruptly swung out, from behind a corner, with the intent to take off his head.

Instinct saved his neck when he flung his head backward and dropped to slide forward on his knees on the slick uneven cobblestones. The stones jarred his knees and shins, but he paid the pain no mind because he barely had enough time to register that the blade had missed him by less than an inch. His reflexes helped him quickly draw his own sword, and before he could think he heard it clang against the failed strike from the weapon of his original pursuer. He righted himself and was forced to defend against two men roughly twice his size with twice his strength and swordsmanship. The two masked men double-teamed and started pushing D'Artagnan into a corner. He tried to hold his ground but the strength behind the blows that were raining down on him made it difficult. Before one of them could swipe at his exposed chest, Athos joined in the fray and threw the offender away to make it a fair fight.

As soon as the space was open, D'Artagnan darted out and stood back to back with the older musketeer. For a moment no one dared move. Then, two more masked men walked out of the shadows from a covered alleyway. Not a second later two more followed.

Then another two.

And yet another pair.

D'Artagnan's heart fell with each addition to their opponent's encircling force. Two against one wouldn't have been as bad as the odds were now with ten villains to split between the two of them. This…was not a good day, at all.

"Have we angered anyone untoward recently, Athos?"

"Not to my memory," the man replied, having yet broken a real sweat. "Have you?"

"Not that I can recall," D'Artagnan replied, deflecting one assailant's eager attempt to goad the boy into an attack.

Athos deflected a similar attack from his side, getting angrier by the moment at the feeling of being toyed with purposefully. "Did I not shout for you to wait?"

"Are we to have this argument now?"

"Unless you think the point already made," his mentor snapped.

The boy tried very hard not to take that to heart, but he knew Athos only spoke the truth, and that made him feel all the worse. He had run into this head first without thinking, without reinforcements, into a part of the city he knew to be perfect for an entrapment like this. And here he and Athos were surrounded by ten men with little chance for escape.

"I'm sorry, Athos" he whispered in remorse.

"D'Artagnan," Athos whispered. "I'm going to tell you to do something you're not going to like."

"Which is?"

"Go and find Aramis and Porthos-"

"Not a chance-"

"Boy, this is no time for heroics-"

"I'm not leaving you, idiot!" D'Artagnan turned to level a glare of his own for once and was not intimidated in the least by the obvious anger that incensed Athos. It was suicidal to even consider such an option!

Athos took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of resignation. "We will likely die in this alley if you don't-"

"Then we die together," D'Artagnan interrupted.

Athos slowly reached for D'Artagnan's free hand behind their backs. D'Artagnan chanced a look back at Athos and found the older musketeer looking at him with grim determination. They grasped wrists in silent understanding and sank into their ready positions for what was promising to possibly be the last duel they would ever have. And D'Artagnan thought that if they were, indeed, destined to die here today, there was no one else in the entire world he would rather fight alongside.

"Stay low and move quickly, do you understand," Athos asked.

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied.

It went beyond matters of pride, honor, and friendship. Athos had become so much more to him in the past couple of weeks that it hurt to think his reckless need for justice was the cause of all this. Suddenly, he found he didn't want to die today, and more than that he didn't want Athos to die either. He'd finally found someone to confide in, someone to trust in these awkward years in his life, and it seemed cruel for anyone to attempt to take that away.

"Whatever you do," Athos whispered. "Don't let go."

D'Artagnan tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "I won't."

Athos tightened his hand around D'Artagnan's wrist in anticipation.

As was typical, D'Artagnan made the first strike.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Defending and parrying blows from five men at once was a fool's fantasy, and both musketeers learned that within seconds. D'Artagnan did his best to follow in Athos' footsteps and even went out of his way, making himself vulnerable in the process, to keep their dishonorable enemies from striking him in the back. What was surprising was that the men who were attacking D'Artagnan didn't take advantage of the openings. They kept trying to tear him away from Athos. They kept trying to attack Athos.

To injure him.

Not to kill him.

To disarm him.

To disarm them both.

Realization dawned on D'Artagnan at the worst possible moment. It slowed his reaction time to block a sword strike aimed at Athos' leg. When it went through, when the scent of blood hit the air, when Athos cried out in pain, faltered in his balance, and loosened his hold on D'Artagnan's wrist, everything irreparably fell apart.

Someone slammed into D'Artagnan's middle and, after a couple of hard attempts, successfully wrenched D'Artagnan and Athos' hands apart. The moment it happened, something snapped inside him, making him almost animalistic in his efforts to return to his mentor's side.

"No," he cried, lifted up and manhandled away like a child without the gentility. "Athos!"

He was thrown up against a wall and firmly held in place with his feet a good foot away from the ground. He writhed and tried to slip his way out of the bruising hold, but one of his enemies pressed a knife to his throat. He growled in discomfort and reluctantly had to stop struggling to keep the blade from cutting too deep. Athos looked for him in the midst of the melee and their eyes locked for one endless second, revealing something that D'Artagnan had never seen nor expected to see Athos show.

Regret.

D'Artagnan was forced to watch as they drew and tied a black bag snuggly over the head of his friend. When Athos started to blindly strike out at the number of men holding him down he was dealt a hideous blow to the face that he couldn't have anticipated. Immediately after that his entire body went limp.

"Bastards," D'Artagnan shouted, kicking out in rage. As they lifted Athos' body and started to carry him off, D'Artagnan managed to get loose and get the ground back under his feet. He knocked another two men down on an impossible second wind. All that drove him was getting to his friend before he was lost forever. But then an arm snaked around his neck from behind and the pressure cut off his air. He kicked his legs out again and managed to knock down two who rushed to subdue him. But another one caught both of his legs and held on while the air was continuously knocked out of him. He grabbed at the arm around his neck and tried to create an air pocket for his throat, space to breathe, but the man twisted him down toward the ground and used gravity to his advantage.

D'Artagnan's strength abandoned him and blackness started tunneling in, ceasing his struggles for freedom and retribution. They dropped him onto the grime and dirt of the rough cobblestones before he blacked out. For a few long agonizing moments he knew nothing but pain and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Then pain exploded in his side as someone kicked him for good measure. Feet scuffled around him, but no one made any attempts on him again. D'Artagnan did have enough strength left to get one last look at their adversaries as they fled. But all he could see were blurry shadows and splotches of red.

Then he saw nothing nor knew nothing else for God knows how long.