"Are you alright, Madame?"
Ara's ears are ringing, and she feels lost, floating, almost. The only solid thing in the world is the pistol clutched behind her back. It takes her a second to focus on the man in front of her, his lips moving, forming unintelligible words, a slight crease in his brow as he looks at her with earnest brown eyes, his feathered hat doffed to her…
She swings her head and looks around, takes in the bodies everywhere. Behind him, the man's comrades-there are four men in all- walk through the carnage, surveying the scene. The youngest one pulls his sword out of a fallen man's gut and studies it; his friend looks him over for injuries, then quietly sheathes his own sword. The biggest man is knelt, crossing himself in prayer over the body of a girl.
Ara sees the blonde hair, the unlaced corset, and bile rises in her throat, and then everything speeds up again. She's no longer floating, she's grounded, and she whirls wildly back to the man in front of her, the Spanish-looking one, and she hears him repeat- "Are you alright, Madame?"- she steels herself, meets his eyes, and then raises the pistol she's been holding behind her back, and points it straight at his chest.
"Aramis!" A shout sounds from behind him as one of his friends sees his predicament, and she nearly drops the pistol right then. Aramis simply stares back at her, shocked, apparently, that she would pull a pistol on her rescuer, and then slowly raises his gloved hands, "Madame-"
"Turn around," she orders, gritting her teeth over her fear, the pistol still trained on him.
He complies, quietly turning around to face the rest of his men, hands still held in surrender, and she closes in behind him, pressing the barrel of the pistol to the side of his head. She's shaking now, and she knows he can feel it, but she holds the gun steady, "Don't move, or I'll shoot him!"
They've all gathered, now, his three friends, hands on the hilts of their swords, studying this new development with wariness.
The big one veritably growls as he meets her eyes, and she shudders at the unadulterated rage in his gaze, before the one in the middle speaks, the young one.
"Madame, I'm sure we can work this out," he removes his hand from his sword hilt, and takes a single step forward, hands raised in placation, "let's just talk about this-"
But her eyes are drawn to the last man, the one on the end. He's of medium build, brown hair, unremarkable, almost, except for the unmistakable air of authority with which he holds himself- he's the leader, she realizes. And then he nods, in her direction, a brief, subtle nod, startlingly blue eyes trained on her, and before she can wonder what it means, the man she's holding hostage, Aramis, throws an elbow back, catching her in the stomach, while simultaneously grabbing her wrist, angling the pistol away from himself.
They have called her bluff; she was never going to shoot him...
She doubles over in pain and surprise, and he easily twists the gun out of her grip, side-stepping and sending her stumbling forward, right into the young one. She doesn't waste time acclimating to the loss of her single advantage, and instead lunges at the young one in front of her-
The blue-eyed leader sees her objective a split-second before her victim, and growls a warning, "D'Artagnan-" but she's already grabbed onto the hilt of his sword, and in one fluid tug, she unsheathes it, just as the poor man's hand goes to his hip, to his empty sword-belt.
For a second the young one, D'Artagnan, gapes at her, and then, again, everything speeds up. Instantaneously, every single weapon is drawn. The leader is immediately in front of her, pushing the young one she's just disarmed behind him, but it is the big man that charges her.
Ara doesn't know the first thing about sword-fighting, but she knows immediately that there is no way she can meet the force of his incoming blow, so as he runs at her she braces herself, and then spins out of his path; he's quicker than she's given him credit for, though, and he corrects for her motion immediately, already bringing his sword up to finish her, and she's bracing herself again, this time to meet his blow, futile as it may be, but as the blade arces through its zenith, there's a clang, and then the clash and scrape of steel on steel, and the big man is thrown off his course.
It's the blue-eyed leader who's spared her, his blade crossed under his comrade's. He's looking hard at her, but his quiet order is for the ears of his friends as he flips his wrist, rolling the big man's blade off his: "I'll handle this, Porthos. Aramis, go after Khan, we'll catch up with you."
It's these words that make her blood run cold- if they go after him…
She yells, and with every last vestige of her strength, she swings the stolen sword at him. He's not expecting her swing, but he meets it in a flash of steel, and parries it away. He's quicker, far more skilled than her, and she knows as she swings again that she's already lost the fight. Indeed, in a fluid maneuver, he parries, twists his right hand, and easily disarms her, sending the sword spinning into the air towards him. He catches it in his left, and tosses it behind him to the young D'Artagnan who eagerly reclaims it.
The point of the leader's blade is at her throat now, and she feels his critical gaze on her as she stands there, gulping air, empty hands stinging, but she's only got eyes for the two men who've already mounted their horses.
The feeling of dread sinks into her stomach as she watches the Spanish-looking one, Aramis, her former hostage, spur his horse and prepare to gallop away after Khan, and she knows she cannot let this happen if it's the last thing she does.
In a mad moment of desperation, she does the only thing that comes to mind, and without a second thought, launches herself into the path of the horse.
A lot of things happen at the same time.
D'Artagnan chokes out a strangled "Good God-!" mouth agape, while the leader lunges for her, latching onto her wrist. Porthos reins his mount back just in time, but Aramis is too late, and as she throws herself at the oncoming hooves of his horse, he yanks on the reins; the steed startles, bucks wildly, and Aramis is thrown off its back with a silent cry followed by a thud. She gasps, her knees smarting from where she's scraped them on her landing. The hand on her wrist tightens, hauling her roughly back, away from the trampling hooves, but her eyes are fixated on the heap of a body that she has created. God, has she killed him?
"ARAMIS!" Porthos shouts, throwing himself off his own steed to tend to his fallen friend; D'Artagnan is instantly at the riderless horse's side, hand at the bridle as he tries to calm the startled animal, "Are you mad?" He throws over his shoulder at her, tugging on the bridle.
She must be, she thinks, unable to look away; she must be mad, she must be positively insane…
The leader drags her forcibly to her feet by her wrist, tugging her to face him, and she finally does, tearing her gaze away from the body on the floor, the big man kneeling over it, the young man struggling with the horse... He's looking at her, gaping at her, absolutely speechless. His face is white in astonishment, lips parted, breathless, and his eyes, those startling blue eyes, pin her with wordless bewilderment. He's staring at her like she's mental, like she's lost her mind, or like she's grown another head.
Ara feels like a cornered animal; she's sure she looks it, too, but she's all out of dignity, all out of self-respect, and she just needs to stall these men, just for enough time, just so Khan can get away, otherwise...
She's breathing hard, but hardly breathing right now, she's running on nothing but pure adrenaline and desperation, running with the first insane thought that comes to her mind because that's all she can do, and that's why, as she stares at his dumfounded expression, his brilliant blue eyes, she flings herself into his chest, and crushes his parted lips to hers.
She feels his eyebrows fly up in shock, his mouth unresponsive, but his right hand, the one not gripping her wrist, automatically comes up around her waist to steady her, and she takes the opening.
She lunges for the hilt of his sword, left unguarded by his right hand, but he anticipates it, and grabs her other wrist, pulling her off him two-handedly.
She struggles against his hands, cursing inwardly, and with a deft knee to the groin, she manages to momentarily destabilize him enough to wrench her right hand free.
Without hesitation, she cocks and swings it into a fist, driving it right into the side of his face.
He grunts at the impact, the blow snapping his head to the side a bit, and she gasps at the pain erupting in her knuckles.
"Bleedin' Hell!" Porthos exclaims from a distance.
The leader calmly recaptures her arm, and transfers both of her wrists to his right hand, grasping them much tighter this time. With his left hand, he rubs the spot on his jaw; it's definitely going to bruise, she realizes. He turns his head to the side, and spits out blood, and when he turns to face her again, unreadable blue eyes meeting hers, Ara flinches, sure he is going to strike her in retaliation.
Instead he turns back to his men.
D'artagnan has settled the horse, and the leader holds his free hand out to him: "Rope."
So she's to be their prisoner. The panic that erupts in her stomach settles a bit, as she realizes she's done all that she can. With any luck, she has stalled them for long enough and Khan has gotten away.
Wordlessly, D'artagnan passes his leader a coil of rope from the saddlebags.
He takes it and loops a length of rope around her trapped wrists, knots it, and calls over his shoulder- "Aramis?"
Ara looks behind him, and sees the Spaniard, looking slightly worse for wear, but alive, at least, and on his feet, too, even if he is being propped up by that giant, Porthos...
"I'm alright, Athos," he calls back reassuringly, and just like that, the blue-eyed man methodically binding her wrists has a name.
"Can you ride?" Athos calls back, giving a final tug at the rope. He's bound her hands securely in front of her. He measures a length of extra rope from her wrists, and then cuts it with the knife at his belt, wrapping it around his hand.
"Of course," Aramis affirms.
Athos tosses the remaining coil of rope to D'Artagnan. "Good, because we ride hard until nightfall." He turns, inadvertently tugging on the extra length of rope connected to her bound hands, and she stumbles forward.
She expects him to keep walking, to drag her forwards by the lead, but he stops and turns, steadies her. His hands are gentle on her shoulders, and she can feel his warm breath on the crown of her head. "Easy, there," he says quietly, "We're going to my horse," he gestures, "Can you manage?"
She nods, unsure why he's treating her so well, and he leads her to his horse.
It is decided that she ride with Athos, as Aramis now sports a makeshift sling, Porthos is the largest, and D'Artagnan, a rather sour look on his face, doesn't offer, which she expects has something to do with her disarming him earlier.
Porthos hoists her, surprisingly gently, onto Athos's saddle and secures her wrists to the pommel, "Not going to gag the little hellion?" He asks, but his voice is friendly, and he smiles at her non-threateningly. She feels Athos mount the horse, settling easily onto the saddle behind her. He reaches around her body to grasp the reins, and she bites her lip as the warmth of his body surrounds her. "I didn't see why it was necessary," he tilts his head towards her, "not going to bite, are you?"
Porthos grins conspiratorially as he mounts his own horse, "Or try to kiss him again, eh?"
Ara feels her face heat up, and she drops her head to avoid his eyes.
"Porthos, stop wasting time and leave the poor girl alone," Aramis calls, "We've got a slaver to catch."
Her heart catches in her throat… Hopefully by now Khan is long gone, and hopefully the girls are safe. Hopefully she's stalled long enough because she doesn't think she has it in her to stall any more. She's nearly killed one man, and was nearly killed herself. She looks around at the men; they've spurred their horses into a gallop, D'Artagnan taking the lead, and Porthos bringing up the rear… They might kill her yet.
She tries to sit rigidly in the saddle, careful not to lean back against the firm, armored chest of the man behind her, but eventually the rocking motion of the horse beneath her and the rhythmic sound of the hooves combine with her thorough exhaustion.
She's prisoner, yet again, to unknown men, hungry, bruised, and bound to a saddle, and yet, as she slumps, finally succumbing to the pain, the fatigue, the hunger, a pair of arms tighten around her and before she passes out she feels, oddly… safe.