Misguided Revenge
A Musketeers story by Deana

My entry for the July 'Fete des Musquetaires' contest: revenge.

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Aramis shivered violently, sitting in the snow on the cold, hard ground. He could feel itchy, sticky blood on his forehead and a searing pain in his right side.

Savoy.

No, he thought. I'm not in Savoy. I'm not in Savoy...I wasn't tied up and wearing a gag in Savoy...and wasn't that wound on the left side?

Feeling confused, Aramis blinked, trying to dislodge snowflakes from his eyelashes. He was too disoriented and in pain to realize that men surrounded him in the woods...foes and friends alike. If he'd been more aware, he would've sensed the worried stares of Athos and Porthos as they watched him and assessed his physical condition.

Tied up as he was, Aramis could no longer feel his hands and they rested limply in his lap as he sat slumped on the ground, head hanging forward. He wished that there was a tree behind him to lean against, and he had no idea that there was one only four feet away. He certainly couldn't lie down in the snow, and so, he was stuck sitting up, exhausted and in pain. The left side of his jaw up through his head were throbbing mercilessly from repeatedly being struck there, and the gag over his mouth was ironically a blessing, as it was big enough to support his jaw...plus, it kept the bottom half of his face warm. He was dizzy and lightheaded but refused to give in to unconsciousness, knowing that to do so would mean that he was accepting death, and it would likely come in swift wings to claim his injured and frozen body.

With difficulty, Aramis tried to remember how he'd gotten there. He remembered waking to strange sounds creaking in the darkness. Were they real sounds? Imagined sounds?

The day had begun like most others; morning muster followed by breakfast and patrolling the marketplace. The only problem was, Aramis couldn't remember anything beyond that; he'd simply woken in a strange location with no explanation. For what seemed like days, he sat in the corner of a place that he couldn't identify...tied up, gagged, and blindfolded. He could tell that there was no light beyond the cloth tied across his eyes, and assumed that he was in a cellar...but where—and why—he had no idea.

The injuries that he felt seemed to attest that he'd fought back; or tried to, at least. Blood had dried down the left side of his forehead, which showed that the blow had come from the front. His head throbbed, and there was a dull ache on the left side of his lower back that suggested a kick from behind. The left side of his neck hurt every time he moved it, which he knew had likely been caused by his head whipping back from the blow.

Aramis remembered chuckling. Porthos had said many times that he should've been a physician; it certainly would've been safer than being a musketeer...but then again, he might never have met his three closest friends, and his life would have been very lonely.

Then again, he likely would have married and had a herd of children by now. Would that have been a better life than the thrill and danger of being a musketeer?

Absolutely not, he'd thought, though Aramis sometimes wished that he could have both lives.

Aramis remembered asking himself why he was just sitting there doing nothing, and a moment later, a door had opened and he was yanked upright. It was impossible for him to see where he was going, so the blindfold was ripped off his face and he was brought outside and thrown down in the snow.

"Move and I'll shoot you in the head, musketeer," a voice told him. Sudden sounds heralded the man walking backwards and Aramis was left alone to shiver in the snow, the daze caused by his head injury making him obey.

"Moreau! I'm here!"

The sudden voice shattered the quiet, badly startling Aramis who tipped to the right, catching himself on his elbows, bent at the waist. He gasped from the pain that shot through his side, breathing heavily as he remained in that position, too weak to push himself back up. The freezing snow seeped into the sleeves of his forearms, and he abruptly realized that he wasn't wearing his jacket. When had they taken it off him?

"Moreau!" the voice called again...Aramis realized that it was Captain Treville. "I'm here to give myself up! Release Aramis!"

"No!" Aramis exclaimed...or tried to, behind the gag.

No answer came from Moreau.

Now that Aramis realized that his friends were there, he could feel them watching him. He struggled to sit up, to get off his bleeding right side, but his frozen body hadn't the strength and he was stuck there, leaning sideways on both forearms. His head spun dizzily and he closed his eyes, his lungs screaming for air as his breathing came faster but was inhibited by the gag. Now that he needed it off, he tried to reach up with his hands and lower his face, but his fingers were frozen and ineffective.

There was a scuffle in the bushes, and Aramis imagined Porthos trying to rush out to him but being held back. He opened his eyes just in time to see Treville suddenly step out of the woods, and his heart skipped a beat.

A gunshot suddenly sounded, and a bullet struck the snow beside him.

Treville stopped, holding up both hands to show that he was unarmed. "Moreau? Let him go and you can have me."

A laugh filled the air. "Finally, after so much time! Step forward, Treville."

"After you let Aramis go," Treville answered.

"Come closer and I'll consider it," came Moreau's voice.

Treville and Aramis looked at each other: the captain concerned for his wounded soldier and resigned to his fate, and the half-conscious musketeer guilt-ridden that he'd been the instrument in what seemed about to be Treville's demise.

With a nod at Aramis, Treville faced forward and took a few steps. "Can't we discuss this like men?" he called out.

Even through the pain and disorientation, Aramis knew that Treville was trying to draw Moreau out into the open.

"What's to discuss?" Moreau replied, finally showing himself. "This is my revenge!"

Treville's reply was drowned out by a sudden buzzing in Aramis' ears, and he knew that he was finally passing out. He tried to hold himself up in his painful position rather than fall face-down into the snow, but it was quickly becoming impossible.

Suddenly, a gunshot sounded and the world erupted.

Aramis somehow regained his senses and instinctively tried to move. Hands grabbed his arms and sat him up again, and he blearily looked into the face of Treville, who quickly used a knife to slice through the ropes around his ankles.

"Let's go!" Treville exclaimed, pulling Aramis to his feet.

After sitting for so long in the snow, Aramis' legs were numb and his knees buckled. One of his arms was suddenly pulled around Treville's shoulders, and he was forced on wobbly legs into the woods. A moment later, another hand grabbed his other arm, and then he was again sitting in the snow as Treville cut the rope around his wrists.

"Why did you keep the gag on?!" Porthos asked Aramis, reaching around his head to untie it. He was a little rough in his haste, and was surprised at the sound of pain that Aramis made.

Once the gag was off, he and Treville were dismayed to see that the bruising down the side of Aramis' face was even worse on his jaw.

"Oh," Porthos said, before pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around his friend.

Aramis scrunched his eyes shut and lowered his head, bringing up a shaking hand to gingerly hold the side of his purple and blue face.

"Is it broken, Aramis?" Treville asked, tightly gripping his arm.

Aramis would've shaken his head, but it hurt too much, so he managed to whisper, "No," without moving his jaw. He was shivering so badly that it was sending pain up and down his face from his neck to his head and through his right side, and he couldn't prevent what could only be described as a whimper.

Porthos' hand tightened on his other arm in support, and he suddenly exclaimed, "Is Moreau dead?!"

"Yes," Athos' voice suddenly replied.

Aramis felt Athos kneel before him and place his own cloak around his shoulders. He gripped Aramis by both arms, trying to see into his face, but Aramis' hair was blocking it, his head still lowered.

"Let's bind his side and get him out of here," Treville said.

After that, Aramis wasn't very aware of much. His eyes were closed and they stayed that way, even through the pain inflicted when they wrapped the deep bullet graze in his side…through the pain inflicted when they wrapped his head…through the pain inflicted when he felt someone rubbing the feeling back into his hands—even while barely conscious, he knew that Porthos was the one doing that. He barely realized it when the cloaks were wrapped more tightly around him and he was lifted to sit in front of someone on a horse. His head spun as the horse started to walk.

"Shh, just take it easy, you'll be fine," Porthos' voice suddenly said.

Aramis realized that he must've groaned without noticing. He remained slumped against his friend, and the next time he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a bed in an inn, with his friends and Treville surrounding him.

Porthos' face lit up in a happy smile. "Hey there," he said.

Aramis tried to speak, but changed his mind when pain flared through his jaw. He closed his eyes with a wince, and suddenly felt a hand gently lift up his head and hold a cup to his lips. Rather than water, it contained broth, and the warmth spread through his chest and into his stomach, combating the chill that he still felt from sitting outside for...he didn't even know how long.

Suddenly, Aramis' head was being lowered back down to the pillow, and the hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing it gently. He laid there quietly for a moment, almost forgetting to reopen his eyes until a voice spoke.

"Aramis?" It was Treville.

Aramis opened his eyes to see that the hand on his shoulder belonged to their captain.

"I'm so sorry for what Moreau did to you," he said.

"Who...who was he?" Aramis managed to mumble.

Everyone looked surprised.

"He didn't tell you why he took you captive?" Porthos asked.

Aramis closed his eyes, wincing at a flare of pain. "No." He could barely open his mouth, but was glad to see that he was still able to talk.

Treville sighed. "Years ago, I witnessed a murder that Moreau committed. He and I had always been rivals." He shrugged. "And I was only too happy to provide the testimony that put him in prison."

"And he somehow escaped and wanted revenge?" Porthos asked.

Treville nodded. "It appears that way. I just don't understand how you got involved, Aramis."

At the sound of his name, Aramis realized that his mind had been drifting away. "Don't remember," he mumbled.

"What is the last thing you recall?" Athos asked.

Aramis thought hard. It increased the pain in his head and he dragged up a hand to place over his eyes. "The three of us...in a tavern." He thought for a moment. "When was that?"

"The night before last," Athos told him. "You've been gone since yesterday, when you never appeared for lunch."

"We didn't realize that you were actually missing at first, though," Porthos said, sounding guilty.

"We searched all over Paris for you," said Treville. "And then a message was delivered to me today offering a trade: you for me."

Aramis had trouble following who was saying what, and foolishly, he tried to shift his position, which resulted in sudden dizziness and nausea passing over him like a wave.

He must've made some kind of sound or they saw it in his face, for hands suddenly turned him onto his side. The motion shot pain through his bullet wound and made the dizziness worse. He couldn't stop himself from groaning.

"Take it easy," said Treville, pressing a cold, wet cloth against the back of his neck. "It'll pass."

Comforting hands touched him in various places, and Aramis found himself breathing too fast, while sweat broke out on his skin. He felt like he was spinning in circles, and when Porthos' hand suddenly smoothed his hair away from his forehead in what was meant as a comforting gesture, it made things even more disorienting and Aramis wanted to tell him to stop, but he was incapable.

The sound of distress that Aramis gave made Porthos frown, and since he didn't realize that he was making things worse, he continued to pet his hair.

In desperation, Aramis opened his eyes to try to figure out which way was up. He closed them again and reached out a hand to grab the edge of the bed, but another hand grabbed his own and squeezed it tight.

Suddenly, the awful spinning started to slow down, and the overheated feeling that filled his body started to lessen. He finally started to catch his breath, and shivered at the feel of the wet cloth that Treville was still holding to the back of his neck.

The others quietly watched, waiting for Aramis to regain control before asking him if he was all right.

The dizziness didn't leave, but the awful spinning motion almost completely stopped, and Aramis found himself feeling very weak, still breathing heavily. He knew, by what had just happened, that he'd obviously lost a lot of blood and had a concussion.

Aramis opened his eyes slightly, seeing Treville first. Guilt and regret were written all over the captain's face at what his soldier was suffering because of him.

"You..." Aramis broke off with a weak cough, wincing from what it did to his jaw. "...were saying?"

Treville smiled slightly at Aramis' words. "Forget that, for now. Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?"

Aramis closed his eyes again and took a long careful breath, feeling Porthos smooth his hair back again. Now that his brain wasn't spinning anymore, it felt good.

"Aramis?" he heard. It was Athos, who squeezed his hand.

Aramis realized that he'd forgotten to answer. "No," he scratchily mumbled. "I'm fine."

Porthos huffed. "After what just happened, you did not just say 'I'm fine'?"

One side of Aramis' mouth curved up in a half-smile.

"Sleep," Athos suddenly said. Aramis was still weakly gripping his hand, and Athos squeezed it. "Go to sleep."

Aramis gave no reply to that, but less than a minute later, his breathing evened out in slumber.

Treville silently watched all three of them; Aramis was very pale under the awful bruising, but was visibly calmer under the care of his brothers. Athos, usually so stoic and hesitant to show emotion, willingly held Aramis' hand, even after he'd fallen asleep. Porthos continued to smooth Aramis' hair gently enough to provide comfort without waking him.

The three men before him were like sons to him, and Treville knew that to lose one would be to lose them all. Sighing noiselessly, he inwardly thanked God that Moreau hadn't succeeded in his plot for revenge.

THE END