El Impostor Espanol

Chapter 8 - The Prodigal Father

To be perfectly honest, Aramis had not expected the day to take this turn. His morning routine had been beautifully undisturbed and he was starting to think that Anna might be right about the merits of waking up in your own bed especially as he didn't have to run down a flight of stairs half naked with only one boot in hand...but enough about last Friday. No, this morning had been...perfect.

He'd strolled to the Garrison and was greeted by a steaming bowl of porridge over which he was regaled with stories from his fellow Musketeers.

He'd even had enough time to undertake one his favourite games: make sweet Antoinette blush. It wasn't something he did regularly; the fact that it took far too much time to get her suitably riled and if done too often could lead to her not responding anymore, but it was a definite winner and even D'Artagnan had joined in – clearly enjoying not being the subject of ridicule for once.

It had taken him nearly forty minutes, but eventually she was bright red and fuming and he was blue in the face with laughter. Athos 'stern' words after just added to the amusement and he was embracing her threat of payback with open arms.

It had all gone to hell in a hand basket quite quickly after that.

Obviously Porthos' absence from breakfast had been noted but the burliest Musketeer had been a little withdrawn lately (though he was adamant about no discussing why) and so they had chalked it up to that.

It wasn't.

Apparently he'd been with Treville; his presence in the Captain's office made clear only when shouting emanated from the closed room. The door had been promptly thrown open and a scowling Porthos stalked down into the Garrison with only a gruff growl as a greeting.

Aramis felt a little honoured that he was the only one Porthos had asked to accompany him on this trip he now found himself on and so was trying to not push it when it came to questions.

So far he'd managed to weasel out of him 3 things: they were going to meet his father, Treville had known who he was for a long time and, unsurprisingly; Porthos was angry.

And that's how he found himself here; on a dirt road 2 hours outside of Paris with an eerily silent Musketeer heading towards said Musketeer's father's home. Thank God he wasn't hungover; he wasn't sure he could have figured it all out otherwise.

He was relieved to finally see the beginnings of an estate as they crossed a small wooden bridge and headed for a set of incredibly tall wrought iron gates.

"This looks fanc-" Aramis cut himself off as two girls appeared from nowhere and skidded to a stop on the other side of the fence.

"Get away from the gate!" The girls pressed themselves to the bars as a jet black horse and its rider stopped a hairs breath from them. "What do you think you're doing?!" The rider shouted and Aramis felt the protestation to his next action rise up his throat before it even happened.

"What's going on here?" Porthos demanded; the girls' screams filling the air as the rider lashed out at them with the riding whip in his hand.

"What business is it of yours?" He asked, moving his horse slightly away from the girls as Aramis and Porthos stopped just outside the gates.

"What have these girls done?" Aramis asked, his eyes never leaving the cowering children as Porthos no doubt fixed the rider with his well-known stare.

"They're my wife's maids." He explained, his grip tightening slightly on the whip. "They stole from her." He wasted no time in striking the nearest child again. "Move it! Now!"

"Is this true?" Aramis leant forward to peer at the girl still gripping the bars separating them. Her lips pursed and eyes on the brink of crying he knew it was all lies but with a stiff nod, she wretched herself from the bars and stood at the riders' feet; her body still shaking with fear.