Faith and Doubt

Notes: Set just after series 1. The timing isn't really important to the story, except that episode 8 (The Challenge) has already taken place. Any mistakes (geographical, historical or grammatical) are, of course, mine alone.

Chapter 1: Earth

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan gasped, breathing heavily in the cool evening air. He panted, limbs shaking and eyes blinking madly as he tried to compose himself.

Porthos shook his head, helping the younger man to sit on the cold ground before putting a comforting arm around him. "It's all right," he said calmly. "You'll be fine."

D'Artagnan shuddered beneath the large man's arm and didn't respond. In the encroaching darkness, his features were difficult to make out and what was visible was coated in thick layers of dirt and debris. Tracks of clean skin marked his face where tears had escaped the Musketeer's red-rimmed and irritated eyes. As though sensing Porthos's scrutiny, d'Artagnan raised his hand weakly to scrub at his eyes, swearing softly as he only succeeded in getting more dirt in them.

Porthos sighed in relief as he caught sight of Aramis and Athos approaching with a skin of water and some relatively clean rags.

"How are we doing?" Aramis asked lightly, his voice taking on the tone he used primarily with frightened women and curious children. Porthos frowned at him, but d'Artagnan didn't seem to notice his friend's cautious approach.

Aramis wet one of the rags and moved closer to d'Artagnan. "I'm just going to get some of that dirt off of you so I can see if there are any injuries," he explained softly. "It won't hurt."

D'Artagnan didn't respond, seemingly resigned to allowing the other man to check him over. Porthos watched the proceedings carefully, looking for any sign of the young Gascon's usual spark. Seeing the younger Musketeer so pliant was unnerving.

Athos had taken to pacing the perimeter of their makeshift camp, anger evident in every movement he made. Porthos could sympathize. They had almost lost their friend and the close call had left them all shaken, though none more so than the man in question.

Aramis had finished cleaning d'Artagnan's face and checked him over carefully, gently patting his arm in a comforting gesture. "Well, my friend, it would seem that you have managed to emerge relatively unscathed. A few scratches and terribly dirty, but I daresay you'll live to fight another day."

Athos stopped in his tracks and looked up at Aramis's words, his face still glowering in an almost menacing expression. To anyone familiar with the Musketeer's ways, it was obvious that Athos was furious at the man who had put their newest companion in danger, but Porthos was certain that d'Artagnan would misinterpret Athos's anger as being directed at him.

He spoke before the Athos could. "That madman won't though, will he? You did a good job, d'Artagnan. You should be proud."

D'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "There's nothing to be proud of," he muttered, keeping his gaze resolutely on the ground in front of him.

"You survived something terrible," Aramis pointed out. "You showed great courage."

Another shake of the head was the only response.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged concerned glances over the Gascon's bowed form. This was incredibly unusual behaviour from the usually vibrant man.

Then again, his ordeal had been a particularly harrowing one.

The Musketeers had been following rumours of a deranged man living in the woods outside of Paris. Apparently, the man had been laying traps along the road for unwary travellers. It had started with simple mischief; everything from fallen tree branches to holes dug into the road. Initially, it was more of an inconvenience than a real danger, but then the madman upped the ante.

He began using gunpowder.

While no one had been killed so far, the man had rigged numerous ambushes in which property had been damaged and people shaken. Added to that were the concerns about where he had even procured the powder in the first place and just how far he intended to go with his game.

The Musketeers had ridden out three days prior, scanning their surroundings carefully, determined not get caught in an explosion. D'Artagnan in particular had expressed a desire to conclude their business without having another powder incident. The older Musketeers had frowned grimly at that reminder of Vadim and his near-successful attempt on d'Artagnan's life.

Despite their caution, it was on the morning of the second day when they realized that there were, indeed, traps hidden along the wooded roads and rocky outcroppings.

The first indication had come only as the tree in front of them had suddenly come alight in a brilliant explosion of fire and rain of woodchips. The men had drawn their weapons, scanning the trees for any sign of their attacker. Without warning, more explosions sounded behind them, startling their horses and creating an atmosphere of chaos and confusion.

With nowhere to direct their attack, the Musketeers had spread themselves out, hoping both to make less of an easy target as well as to spot their attacker.

It was d'Artagnan who saw him first; a weasel-faced man watching from up on the hill. The man was dirt-streaked and manic, jumping with glee as he watched the fires burn. D'Artagnan shouted a warning to his friends and promptly rode towards his quarry as quickly as he could.

The man ran as soon as he realized he had been spotted, but his Musketeer pursuer was gaining quickly. D'Artagnan was forced to dismount as the man reached a rock wall and disappeared into a small opening. Drawing his pistol, d'Artagnan cautiously approached the hole, readying himself for gunfire from within. He could hear the other Musketeers riding through the trees behind him.

"Over here!" he yelled, not taking his eyes of the dark entrance. He heard Porthos shout something in reply, but the young man was already inching his way into the cave. The madman had held no weapon as far as d'Artagnan could see, but he was loath to risk that the man might have a cache of arms within the narrow shaft.

Sucking in a deep breath and hoping that the man was unarmed, the Musketeer rushed into the cave.

Even as he did it, d'Artagnan knew it was a foolhardy move. What possessed him to think it was a good idea was beyond him as he found himself instinctively keeping close to the wall. There had clearly been a number of rock-slides over the years judging by the large piles of rubble lining the entranceway. Thankfully, the path cleared as d'Artagnan made his way farther into the cave.

The passageway was deeper than he had originally thought and it wasn't until he saw the glimmer of an open flame ahead that the Musketeer stopped.

At that moment, d'Artagnan realized how much trouble he was in.

The madman was standing before him, a lit candle held aloft in his right hand. His grinning face was bathed in a flickering glow, lending a sinister shadow to his expression. D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat as he noticed that the man was holding the end of a long fuse in his other hand.

D'Artagnan came to a stop in front of him and raised his pistol, hoping to stave off the impending disaster. "Monsieur, you need to put down the fuse. I'm going to have to insist that you come with me."

The man shook his head and smiled. "I knew they'd send Musketeers. I had hoped so, and here you are! Now, we'll die together!" With a chilling laugh, the man touched the flame to the fuse and watched as the sparks began to fly.

Eyes widening in horror, d'Artagnan turned to run. "Get back!" he yelled, hoping his friends would hear him and heed his call. The fuse burned quickly, branching off at multiple points as it did so. Knowing he couldn't stop them all and cursing the fact that he was once again facing death by gunpowder, d'Artagnan raced to the opening. The debris lining the tunnel hampered his retreat and he clenched his fists as he clambered over the rocks.

He saw the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was too late for him to reach it. There was a deafening noise and the world simply collapsed.

D'Artagnan wasn't certain how long he'd lain in the darkness before he became fully aware once more. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the darkness was absolute. He coughed painfully, feeling the bruises beginning to form around his ribcage. Sitting up left him dizzy, a state that was not helped by the disorientation of being unable to see.

He was still alive.

"Athos! Porthos!" d'Artagnan called out, coughing as he did. "Aramis! Can you hear me?"

He ran his hands along the crumbled wall in front of him, a solid barrier of earth and rock. He felt a sense of complete dread fall over him. D'Artagnan pounded on the heavy debris, knowing even as he did so that it was a futile gesture.

He was buried alive in the walls of the earth.

Letting out a growl of rage, d'Artagnan kicked the rocks. He paused as he heard a noise behind him.

Behind him . . .

Why was there still space behind him?

He couldn't see anything, but the cavern behind him echoed loudly from his movements.

Feeling around for his pistol, d'Artagnan was dismayed when he could not locate it. He settled for his sword instead and began feeling his way along the walls until he was deeper in the chamber.

His feet kept hitting debris and d'Artagnan couldn't stop the dry coughs that plagued his progress leaving his approach less-than-stealthy. It wasn't until his foot impacted something soft that he knew he'd found the madman.

A soft chuckle greeted him.

D'Artagnan pointed his blade at the location where he assumed the man's throat to be.

"Why?" the Musketeer asked, his voice dangerously low. "Why did you blow up the entrance?"

Another laugh had d'Artagnan pushing the blade closer to his enemy's flesh. "Answer me!"

"Now, you are mine," the man replied, a hint of manic glee in his voice. "It is only fitting."

D'Artagnan shook his head, knowing the other man couldn't see it. "I don't understand."

"When we die, we shall go together into the next world," came the reply. "And you shall be my servant, bound to serve he who defeated you and sent you into death."

The Gascon frowned. "Are you mad? It doesn't work like that!"

"Does it not? Did I not seal your fate? Did I not cause your death?"

"I'm not dead yet!" d'Artagnan replied, anger growing in him. "And there is no way, dead or otherwise, that I will ever serve you! It's crazy!"

"And yet, here we are."

D'Artagnan let out a deep sigh. "You can think what you like, but my friends are out there and they will not rest until they have saved me."

"They think you are buried under the earth. There is nothing they can do," the man tsked as though correcting an unruly child. "We have only to wait for death."

It had been easy to ignore the lunatic's ravings at first. D'Artagnan had kept his sword ready, but hadn't needed it thus far.

Despite his clearly unhinged nature, the man seemed genuinely content to allow nature to take its course and for the two of them to die a slow death of starvation or dehydration. D'Artagnan had explored the tunnel as thoroughly as he could in the all-pervasive darkness, but there were no other ways out that he could find. The cavern went on for quite a distance, leading the Musketeer to believe it was possibly the opening to an old mine shaft. At least he wouldn't have to worry about suffocation. The shaft was long enough to ensure there was enough air for other manners of death to be more likely.

Though his companion had finally quieted, d'Artagnan had learned his name was Maurice and that he had rigged the fuse to collapse the entrance to ensure just this scenario. It seemed dying slowly with a Musketeer was his way of guaranteeing a desirable afterlife with an armed bodyguard.

Just who he thought he'd need protection against in the afterlife was causing d'Artagnan some confusion. Then again, a man with Maurice's charming outlook on life probably expected to end up in Hell and thought bringing along a bodyguard might save him from the Devil.

Regardless, d'Artagnan had lost track of the hours he had spent waiting for rescue. There was no sound from the entrance and part of him worried that his friends had been caught in the blast. Perhaps they were there, buried under the earth and rock that he had been pounding on. Maybe they weren't responding to him because they couldn't. Maybe they were crushed and bloody beneath the weight of-

He stopped himself there.

The inactivity was driving him crazy. He had initially tried digging himself out, but the shifting rocks led him to fear that he would only succeed in bringing more earth down on top of himself.

Maurice had remained silent. That, more than anything, had concerned d'Artagnan. When Maurice was quiet, he could be anywhere or doing anything. The Musketeer had no illusions about the other man's sanity. Maurice could get tired of waiting and simply walk up behind d'Artagnan and slip a dagger into his ribs.

Not that his careful, but blind, search of the cavern and its other occupant had yielded any sign of a dagger. For that matter, even some rope would have been useful to bind Maurice and protect against any potential attack.

More hours passed without sound.

D'Artagnan fidgeted restlessly as he sat leaning against the wall. Maurice remained silent. The dark spread out before the Musketeer until the weight of it was more than the weight of all the rock above him. It was so thick, he felt if he could only cut through it, he should see the light beyond.

In all his years, d'Artagnan had never known darkness so complete. Even in the woods in the middle of the darkest night there were shadows. There were hints of shapes and form. Here, there was nothing but the darkness and the waiting death it concealed.

He clenched his fists and drummed them against his knees. He felt madness coming for him. How long had he been in here?

When he could no longer take it, d'Artagnan headed to the entrance again. He didn't care if he brought the entire cave down upon himself, he would not sit idly by and wait for rescue.

He started near the top, shifting what rocks he could and sweeping away the loose dirt that filled the gaps. Throwing the rocks behind him, he didn't care if Maurice was in the line of fire or not.

Working solidly, he paused only twice when the wall groaned ominously. The second time it happened, Maurice laughed again.

"You only hasten your own demise," the madman warned with a note of glee in his voice. "One step closer to the glorious world beyond."

The Musketeer ignored him.

"We will die together," Maurice continued. "Death waits, but it is so patient, watching us. Can you feel it here, lurking in the darkness? I feel its fingers on my spine. It comes for us, Musketeer. Do you feel it?"

Despite himself, d'Artagnan felt a shiver run down his body. Maurice was hitting far too close to home.

"This is your world now, boy. No more light. No more breeze on your face. Only darkness. An eternity of darkness in a tomb of rock, forsaken by your friends-"

"Stop!" d'Artagnan cut the man off, crossing the distance to where Maurice sat against the wall. His hands were around the man's throat before he even realized he had moved. "Stop talking! I am going to get out of here!"

Maurice let out a gurgling noise as d'Artagnan's fingers tightened. He hammered ineffectively against the Musketeer's grip before d'Artagnan realized what he was doing. In horror, he released his grip, letting Maurice sag to the side gasping for breath.

"Keep your mouth shut!" the Musketeer warned, retreating back to the tunnel entrance. He could feel Maurice's eyes follow him, though neither man could see the other.

D'Artagnan's heart pounded in his chest.

He had almost killed Maurice in cold blood. Lunatic or not, he couldn't simply murder the man.

He closed his eyes, letting himself believe that the darkness was of his own choice rather than the result of his earthen prison. Leaning his forehead against the rock, he took a shuddering breath.

No one was coming. It had been too long. There should have been some sound, some indication that his friends were out there, but there was nothing.

He had faced death before, but never like this; not with the interminable wait for his own demise, or the growing hopelessness that came from being trapped in the dark. Not with his friends so near and yet with no sign that they were even trying to save him.

Why weren't they coming for him?

He bit his lip. He couldn't let himself think like that. They were coming for him. He just had to-

Pain erupted at the back of his head.

Bright light, for the first time in what seemed like years, flashed before him, but it was not the harsh glare of the sun.

He spun and flung his arm up to defend against the next assault, barely managing to deflect the rock as Maurice brought it down again.

D'Artagnan heard the rock fall to the side as he punched Maurice in the stomach. His attacker responded by flinging himself at the stunned Musketeer and driving him bodily to the ground.

D'Artagnan cried out involuntarily as he hit the rocks beneath him and found himself pinned by Maurice and his wiry strength.

"You dare to attack me?" Maurice growled, bringing his hands up to grip d'Artagnan's throat. "You ungrateful lout! I was willing to grant you an eternity of honour! You would have served at my side forever and instead you refuse!"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and grabbed at the strangling hands. He kicked his feet, but was unable to dislodge the madman.

"You are not worthy of such an boon! I will not look upon you anymore! You will die here and be forgotten in the dark!"

Reaching out with his right hand, d'Artagnan sought anything that he could use as a weapon. He looked up into the face of his would-be murderer, but could see nothing. Fetid breath fell over him and he could hear the other man gasping as though he himself were choking instead of d'Artagnan. The Musketeer finally felt a loose rock beneath his fingers and grasped it tightly before bringing it up to slam against his attacker's head.

Maurice cried out, but did not release his hold.

Coloured spots danced in front of d'Artagnan's eyes and he felt a final surge of desperate energy come over him. He hit Maurice again and again until the lunatic's grip faltered and he teetered to the side. A final blow brought the man down with a sickening crunch and d'Artagnan was aware of the wet, sticky blood covering his hands. There was a thick, coppery smell in the air and d'Artagnan almost retched.

He breathed heavily for a moment before reaching down to check Maurice. There was no need to search for a pulse. The moment d'Artagnan's fingers found the man's skull, he knew there was no way he had survived.

Dropping the rock, d'Artagnan crawled a short distance away and gagged.

Hours passed.

The darkness grew more pervasive. The silence grew louder. The smell of blood was everywhere.

D'Artagnan could feel the presence of Maurice's body near the entrance to the cave. Even without sight, he knew it was there. The Musketeer had retreated farther back into the tunnel, unable to stand being near the dead man any longer.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself small in the darkness.

The darkness was his tomb and his only companion was death.

It waited for him.

He could hear it coming for him, sending shivers down his spine.

He was going to die alone in the darkness, trapped with the corpse of a madman for all eternity.

Alone and forgotten.

He heard death coming.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for it to claim him.

There was a crumbling sound. His world was collapsing. His death would come and he would be buried in the earth -

"D'Artagnan!"

Death knew his name.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?"

He laughed. Who could ignore death when it came for them?

There was more crumbling and . . . cursing?

"It's not him! It's not d'Artagnan!"

The voice sounded relieved. The voice was familiar . . .

"Give me the light!"

Pain shot through his skull as blinding brilliance made itself known behind his closed eyelids.

"D'Artagnan! He's here!"

His eyes shot open as he felt hands on his shoulders. He fought them off with a ferocity that surprised even him. Just because death was coming didn't mean that he would go easily.

"Easy, d'Artagnan. We've got you. You're going to be fine." Another voice. Another jolt of recognition, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't going to give in.

More hands were on him, gently pinning his flailing fists to his side. He tried to kick, but there was no space to manoeuvre.

"D'Artagnan, look at me," the voice was commanding and so familiar, d'Artagnan felt himself moving to obey before he even realized he was moving.

He blinked against the bright light, tears filling his eyes as they struggled against the pain.

A blurry figure came into focus. "Athos?"

"We're here, d'Artagnan. You're safe," the older Musketeer intoned, his grip tight on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

The Gascon looked to the side. "Aramis? Porthos?"

Aramis smiled. "We're getting you out of here."

"Can you stand?" Porthos asked, not waiting for a reply as he helped the younger man to his feet. He pulled d'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder and gripped him securely, pausing only to make sure he was somewhat steady before heading to the entrance.

The dim light coming through the small hole near the top of the wall was enough to bring fresh tears to d'Artagnan's eyes. It was clearly twilight, but even the encroaching darkness was nowhere near as absolute as that of his tomb.

Aramis passed them and scrambled up the fallen rocks, ready to help d'Artagnan make the climb to freedom.

In the flickering light of lantern he now realized Athos carried, d'Artagnan caught a glimpse of Maurice's body. He stared for a moment before Athos stepped between them and blocked his view.

Porthos helped heave d'Artagnan up the rocks to Aramis's waiting arms and before he knew it, d'Artagnan was outside in the cool air for the first time in what seemed like eternity.

He felt Porthos's steadying grip once more as he was led a short distance away. He was aware of the other men talking to him, but he couldn't form a reply. Not yet.

He stared up at the rising moon and felt like weeping. Never before had he seen anything so beautiful.

Athos and Aramis stepped away and he was hardly aware as Porthos tried to get him settled.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan gasped, breathing heavily in the cool evening air. He panted, limbs shaking and eyes blinking madly as he tried to compose himself.

Porthos shook his head, helping the younger man to sit on the cold ground before putting a comforting arm around him. "It's all right," he said calmly. "You'll be fine."

The men had camped a short distance from the cave, unable to move farther away in the fading light and unwilling to make d'Artagnan travel when he was so clearly exhausted.

Despite the horrors he had faced and the all-consuming weariness in his body, d'Artagnan could not bring himself to sleep. He worried that he would wake to find himself once more entombed within the earth and feeling the grasping fingers of dark despair reaching for him.

The other men seemed to understand, staying awake with the younger man, making certain they were always close and that the fire stayed brightly lit.

Through it all, d'Artagnan barely spoke. All he could think of was the fear he had felt and the total certainty that no one was coming for him.

Of course, that was a thought unworthy of a Musketeer. His friends would never have left him to die and he felt ungrateful for having let the notion cross his mind.

He found out from the others that he had been trapped for little more than a day and half, and that had been all it had taken to break him.

He felt ashamed.

He recognized that the others were watching him worriedly, but he couldn't assuage their fears. How could he, when all he felt was fear himself?

"You had us quite worried," Aramis's voice cut through the silence. "We're sorry it took so long to get to you, but we were digging with daggers and our bare hands. Porthos was like a man possessed; I swear he would have moved the entire hill, eventually."

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan said softly, his voice cracking from lack of use.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Athos stated firmly. "It was that man who caused all this and he's dead. None of this was your fault."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Not that. I mean for after."

He looked up, only mildly surprised to see the intensity of the other men's expressions as they watched him closely.

"I thought I would die in there," he explained hesitatingly. "I thought . . . I thought perhaps you weren't . . ." He trailed off, unable to give voice to the words he needed to say. "I shouldn't have doubted you," he finished quietly.

Porthos let out a loud breath and patted d'Artagnan's knee reassuringly. "Don't you worry about that. It's normal to have doubt in life-threatening situations."

"The important thing is that you're alive," Aramis agreed with a nod. "Besides, it was the first time one of us has been buried in a mountain. It was a stressful time for everyone."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos and was surprised to find a small smile on the man's face. "It wouldn't be the first time one of us believed we would die alone in a hopeless situation. It probably won't be the last, either."

"Athos," Aramis chided lightly. "We're trying to cheer the boy up, not drive him to drink."

"You can't deny that you've done the same thing," Porthos interjected smoothly, pointing at Aramis. The large man grinned. "I remember the time when you nearly met your end dangling off a -"

"Yes, well, we don't really need to go there, do we?" Aramis interrupted, eyes widening in alarm. "In any case, you were no better, as I recall."

"What were you dangling off?" d'Artagnan asked, curious in spite of his lingering guilt.

"Nothing. I was not dangling off anything."

"That's actually true," Athos agreed. "You were more clinging."

"What were you clinging to?" d'Artagnan asked, rephrasing his question to Aramis.

Aramis ran his fingers through his hair, discomfort evident from his body language.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologized. "It is an unpleasant memory and I do not wish to cause discomfort."

A long sigh was Aramis's reply.

"You were trying to explain to him that we've all faced something dark and horrible and how that doesn't reflect poorly on us," Porthos pointed out.

D'Artagnan could tell from the set of his shoulders the moment Aramis capitulated. "Very well. I'll tell him the tale of my moment of hopeless despair if you both agree to do the same."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a quick glance.

"Fine," Porthos shrugged.

Athos stood and headed over to the horses. "I think we'll need something stronger to drink if we're going to be walking down this path."

He returned with two wineskins passing the first to d'Artagnan and the second to Aramis.

Aramis drank deeply before passing the skin to Porthos. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Have you ever heard of the cliffs of Étretat?"

D'Artagnan thought for a moment. "Normandy?"

"That's the place," Aramis confirmed lightly. "Normally, I'd say such a place was a wonder. The cliffs seem to glow white in the sunlight. I've heard sailors say that they can be seen from great distance, guiding them home. They are high, too. So high that it seems like you can see the farthest reaches of the world from the top."

His voice faded as he thought back to the first time he'd seen the cliffs of Étretat.

"I had wanted to see the cliffs for a long time. I never thought for a moment that I might die there . . ."

TBC