Name of Story: Family
Fandom: Musketeers BBC
Rating (If Applicable): General
Pairing: No precise pairing, just brotherhood.
Description (Authors): The Gascon lifted his head again, the movement placing an unbearable strain on his overtaxed shoulder muscles but he was determined to meet the man’s gaze. This was a question that he remembered the answer to and he grinned mirthlessly as he answered, “Family.”
Holy crap, so besides DebbieF it’s Celticgal1041 that writes the most amazing angsty whumpage that I have seen. Truly. But out of all her stories its Family I love the most, it’s dark and keeps you on the edge of your seat wanting to know what happens next.
It also shows the true bond between the quartet, the unbreakable bond between brothers. There is honestly not much I can say besdides a bunch of sounds to express my words to describe how good this story is. For those of you who don’t watch the TV series, I suggest you do and for those who do watch and have yet to read fanfiction for it, I suggest you start here with ANY of Celtic’s fics.
Give it a chance, read the first chapter below! Go give her some love!
“Tell me!” the man snarled, his demand accompanied by a vicious backhand blow that had the Musketeer’s vision swimming as his head snapped to the right. d’Artagnan allowed it to loll there for several seconds, gathering his strength and his breath at the brutality of the beating he’d taken which had left him barely capable of coherent thought beyond the myriad of aches that screamed for his attention.
He could no longer recall what information his captor was seeking, nor could he remember the details of the mission or the events that had brought him to be in this man’s hands. The only thing that he was certain of was that they would come for him. No matter what the man did to his body, his mind had retreated deeply inwards where a warm flame burned brightly and reminded him that he was not alone. A few months ago, he would not have been as certain, possibly failing under his attacker’s forceful hits, but in recent weeks, things had changed for him significantly, not the least of which was the attainment of his commission in the King’s Musketeers, bringing with it the leather pauldron that he’d worn with such pride until it had been ripped from his shoulder by the bandits.
d’Artagnan forced his head upwards, spitting a glob of blood from his mouth as he nearly gagged on the copper taste of the liquid. Where it came from, he knew not, his lips and the inside of his mouth shredded from repeated strikes to the face, which had his teeth gnashing against the tender skin. His focus still swam alarmingly making his stomach protest in sympathy but he swallowed determinedly as he slurred up at his captor, “No.” Regardless of the fact that he had no idea what the man wanted, the Gascon was steadfast in his determination that the bandit would receive no satisfaction, his only goal now to draw things out long enough so that his friends could rescue him.
The bandit screwed up his features at the beaten soldier who hung in front of him from his arms. They’d been deliberately cruel in their treatment of the man, certain that, as the youngest, he’d be the easiest one to break. Instead, the boy had fought like a demon, keeping his men busy long enough that the others had escaped, saving their own necks rather than coming to the young man’s aid. He’d tried to use that fact against the Musketeer, goading him with ugly words as he described the cowardice of the other soldiers as they’d fled, leaving him alone to face capture, but the words had provoked a surprising reaction from the young man, lips turning up in a hideous smile that pulled at split lips and caused them to begin bleeding again, the teeth underneath stained with red. “Good,” he’d said and then his expression had turned flat, as though he was drawing on some inner strength and preparing himself for what was to come. Rather than disheartening the boy, the words had someone buoyed him and the bandit had allowed fury to guide his fists as he’d pummeled the boy’s face and torso mercilessly.
Now, it was only the ropes that pulled the Musketeer’s arms up over his head that held him upright, kneeling on the cold ground beneath him, the ropes high enough that he couldn’t even sit back on his heels to alleviate some of the discomfort. He grasped the boy’s face cruelly, pressing filthy fingers into the Musketeer’s cheeks as he forced the young man to meet his flinty gaze, “You’ll die here if you don’t tell us what we want to know.” He held the Musketeer’s face for several long seconds as he waited for his words to sink in, searching the boy’s eyes for any sign that he’d accepted the statement.
d’Artagnan’s gaze showed no indications of defeat, his eyes turning darker and somewhat more dangerous as he spat back at the man as soon as his head was released, “You’ll die first.”
The man snorted in derision, staring down at the mangled body that had withstood so much abuse. “How can you possibly say something like that? Touched in the head, you are,” the man chuckled at his own words. “Who do you think is gonna save you?”
The Gascon lifted his head again, the movement placing an unbearable strain on his overtaxed shoulder muscles but he was determined to meet the man’s gaze. This was a question that he remembered the answer to and he grinned mirthlessly as he answered, “Family.”