Hazards of War
Summary: When the war with the Spanish hits a little too close to home, Athos is torn between duty and friendship.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers. But I do like to play with them once and a while.
A/N: So I am in the middle of writing another multi-chapter Musketeer Fic at the moment that I am determined to not start posting until I am finished. Then this fic came out of no-where and wouldn't leave me alone until it was written. Hope you enjoy. PS. All Mistakes are my own. This is not beta'd.
Chapter 1. Torn.
The sun was warm; it's rays pleasant as they caressed his skin. Giving a brief glance upward the sky proved to be a brilliant shade of bright blue with white clouds peppering the sky. It was picturesque.
Athos glanced back down to earth as musket fire exploded near his ear. An explosion from his right rocked him, forcing him to flinch. He somehow stood his ground. His feet felt like lead as he watched his men – his men – push forward into battle. Enraged cries could be heard as soldiers attacked their Spanish counterparts with vigour. The clash of metal on metal was like a song in the air that felt a complete contrast to the beautiful scenery around them.
They had been surprised, ambushed on their way to their new encampment. Athos didn't know how, but this battle was no way happening by chance. Explosive material had been buried in the sides of the road; men had been waiting – hiding – and had caught them off guard. Dead French soldiers littered the ground around them and Athos felt his anger rise.
"Jacques!" Athos shouted to the young, newly commissioned soldier who still remained mounted. He tossed him his saddle bags. "Take these! You three!" he shouted at the shoulders around them. "Go with him! Second meeting point! Wait for us there." It was imperative that none of their orders or sensitive information were captured by the enemy. "Go!" Athos yelled, slapping the backside of the lad's horse.
With four of his men galloping away in a cloud of dust, Athos turned back to the battle. Porthos' large frame caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. His new armour glinted in the sun and seemed to make the large man all that more intimidating as he used his brute strength to throw Spanish soldier over his shoulder. Porthos growled, rage rolling off him like a fiery wave.
Athos jumped back into the fray, swinging his sword into an unsuspecting soldier, blade slicing through stomach. Pulling his sword back, Athos moved past the falling soldier. d'Artagnan was ahead of him, twirling with his blade and main gauche, defending his back while ending with the throat of his enemy slashed open.
Athos dodged an attack from his left, stumbling to his right before turning and plunging his sword toward the Spanish soldier. His attack was blocked and returned with a ferocity that caused Athos to fall back a step. Their blades clanged together, each man gaining the advantage and then fell back before Athos saw his moment, bringing down his sword twice in quick succession before kicking the man square in the chest with all of his strength. His opponent went flying, landing on his back, the air knocked from his lungs with a grunt. He didn't have time to recover, Athos sword finding itself imbedded in the man's chest.
Aramis was up towards the other end of the road, taking on two men at once. Despite his hair being tied back in a low pony tail, his unruly curls still managed to fall free, obscuring his face as he danced in battle with a flair that only Aramis could master.
Athos moved towards his friend, stopping to elbow an assailant in the nose. He reached out, grabbing a fist full of doublet as he turned, driving his blade into the soldier's stomach. The man's hand's clutched at his own leather. Athos pushed him away, moving on before the man had even hit the ground.
Aramis finished off his last opponent and looked up in Athos' direction, a rakish smile forming on his friend's face, the adrenaline of battle still coursing through his veins. How Aramis had ever expected to last in a monastery with his love for a good fight was beyond him. The man was more alive right now, than the man they had come to collect in Douai at the start of the war. Athos found himself smiling too, nodding to his friend in acknowledgment.
"Captain!"
Athos turned towards the call, the title still foreign to his ears – Captain of the Musketeers – Athos felt the urge to shake his head. Who would have thought? A fellow Musketeer was making his way over to him. Alain had been with the regiment for many years before Athos had been commissioned, a soldier many years before that. His battle knowledge was invaluable.
"They're retreating!" Athos responded as the other Musketeer reached him.
"Those that still breathe," Alain agreed. His long mousey brown hair had slipped free of its bindings, his face was flushed with exertion. "I think it would be wise to move on as soon as we can."
Athos nodded, taking in their surroundings. The sound of battle had waned, leaving behind the quiet peacefulness of the warm sun and the bright blue sky. The road around them was anything but peaceful. Soldiers from both sides of the war lay scattered where they were slain, many dead, others injured. Athos swallowed thickly as he watched Porthos and d'Artagnan leaning over an injured Musketeer.
He hated war. It was a waste of good men. He was good at it - battle and command. He was better at it than he thought he would be. But he didn't like it. With every battle he ached for the men he lost and feared for his brothers. Porthos and Aramis had both been soldiers for many years and had seen their fair share of battles. d'Artagnan on the other hand did not have the same experience, not to the extent of war. Athos trusted the young man with his life and with the life of all of his men but it didn't stop him from worrying.
Aramis appeared at his side, wiping his sword clean of blood with a rag before returning it to his scabbard. "Well that was ..."
"Unexpected," Athos intoned. He was troubled. Their movements had been classified even to other regiments. No-one but Minister Treville and the King himself had known where their company had been headed.
"In war we need to expect the unexpected, I'm afraid," Alain pulled his hair out of his face and replaced his floppy wide-brimmed hat back upon his head.
"The question is how did the Spanish know we'd be on this particular road?" Aramis asked the question as if he had been privy to Athos' silent concerns. "This was no accidental run-in, that much I am sure." The marksman picked up his hat off the ground and dusted it off before placing it back on his head.
"Jacques got away?" Alain asked.
Athos nodded, his gaze watching as what was left of his small company regrouped. "I sent three others with him. They won't stop until they have reached the back-up meeting point."
"We should check the bodies for anything useful, scan the area," Alain stated, pulling his gloves on tighter.
Aramis sighed. "We should give them a proper burial."
Athos turned to his friend, watching as his dark eyes scanned the carnage that lay before them. Athos placed a hand on his shoulder. "If we had time for such sentiment ..."
A loud shot ripped through the quiet conclusion of battle causing Athos to jump. Aramis gasped beside him. Athos' head whipped around fast to the source of the sound, mentally cursing himself for not having cleared the area immediately. His eyes landed on the end of a smoking pistol not ten feet from where they were standing.
Athos' gaze travelled up the short length of the pistol to the Spanish soldier who had fired it. The man was young and already dropping the smoking weapon and making a run for it. Athos reached out and pushed down Alain's already rising musket. "No, we take him alive." Missing that one of the soldiers was alive had been a dangerous mistake but they could make up for it by capturing a prisoner to interrogate.
Alain moved off, shouting orders to the other Musketeers and Athos watched as his men made chase and quickly brought down the Spanish soldier. Athos quickly glanced over to where he had last seen Porthos and d'Artagnan. Porthos had the injured Musketeer they'd been tending to on his feet and d'Artagnan...
"Athos..."
Athos tore his gaze away from surveying his men and turned back to look at his friend. Aramis' eyes were wide, pain and confusion showing from the brown depths.
Time seemed to slow; sound was lost to him as soldiers cleaned up the scene around them. He allowed his gaze to drop to the hand Aramis had pressed to the area just below his ribs. His green glove was stained dark as thick liquid spilled over his fingers. Athos brought his gaze back up to meet Aramis' shocked stare. He'd been hit. How had he missed that Aramis had been hit?
"Aramis ..." Athos uttered his friend's name as time suddenly sped up and the sharp-shooter's knees buckled. Athos tried to help control his friend's descent to the dirt road. Aramis fell to his knees, trembling as he clutched Athos' arm in a painfully strong grip, his fingers flexing in Athos' leather sleeve. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes were squeezed shut as he attempted to suck air into his lungs. Athos turned to look behind him for Bernard - the company's official field medic - ignoring the rising fear as he screamed for help. "Medic! I need a medic!"
He brought his attention back to his injured friend. "Aramis? Aramis, look at me!" Athos demanded. With his free hand he knocked Aramis' hat from his head and pushed back the curls. "You're okay; you're going to be okay." Please let him be okay, he thought as he attempted to lift Aramis' head up. "Hey..." he started as Aramis locked eyes with him.
Aramis' breath hitched in his chest and Athos felt his own panic build to meet Aramis'. The younger musketeer's breathing was becoming short and ragged. Athos eased him down onto his back and pulled the scarf free from around his own neck. They needed to stop the bleeding – there was so much of it. Aramis' life-blood was covering a good portion of his doublet now, the hand covering the wound doing nothing to slow it down. Athos ripped Aramis' doublet open and hastily pulled his shirt up. Aramis' hands were shaking, hovering over the weeping hole in his side. Athos quickly folded his scarf and then pressed it to the wound eliciting a growl from the injured man.
Aramis' hand flew to the one Athos had pressed against his stomach. "Athos..." Aramis gasped, pulling at Athos' hand as he pressed down harder.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Athos kept his gaze locked on Aramis' panicked ones. "I have to stop the bleeding. Just … stay with us."
"Where …arghh … where w-would I go?" Aramis chuckled and then gasped again, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Aramis!" Porthos was at his side, crashing to the ground. The big man's hands hovered for a moment over the injured Spaniard as if he were afraid to hurt him further. "Where the hell is Bernard?" Porthos looked over his shoulder, looking for the absent medic.
Athos reached out and snagged the other Musketeer's wrist and pulled his hand to the wound in Aramis' side. "Keep pressure on the wound." Athos relinquished control of his blood-soaked scarf to Porthos and then reached up to where Aramis still had a white-knuckled grip on the sleeve of his doublet. He pried his friend's grip away and wrapped his fingers around Aramis' hand tightly.
The harsh, panicked breathing coming from their friend was like torture to his ears. With every second it became more of a struggle and Athos' concern grew to new heights. Where the hell was that medic? Porthos leaned in close to Aramis, whispering something Athos couldn't quite hear that made the man laugh wetly. The action turned into a cough, blood coating his lips. Athos' eyes widened at the sight. Internal bleeding? On the battlefield it could be a death sentence. Where the hell was Bernard?
d'Artagnan joined them, holding the medic's field kit in his hands. "Will this help?" The young Musketeer's eyes were glued to Aramis' shaking form.
Porthos glanced up at him "It'd 'elp more if Bernard were with it. Where is 'e?"
"He's dead," d'Artagnan supplied, his eyes lifting to meet Porthos'.
"Damn it!" The big man growled. He reached up and pulled his bandana from his head, large curls springing forth from where they had been contained. He tossed the material to d'Artagnan. "Fold it." Porthos waited until d'Artagnan had followed his orders and then pulled Athos ruined, blood-soaked scarf away and replaced it with his now folded bandana. He pressed down hard, wincing as Aramis cried out and clutched at the big man's arm, pulling him down toward him with more strength than Athos would have given him credit for.
"What are we goin' to do?" d'Artagnan asked, his eyes wide as saucers, looking to Athos for answers.
Athos kept his own gaze on Aramis. The man had his eyes closed, his face lined with distress. He was doing his best to stay with them, relying on them to do what needed to be done.
"If we don't do somethin' soon 'e's gonna bleed out, Athos," Porthos stated, truth mixed with fear filled his voice.
Did Porthos think he didn't know that? If they tried to dig the ball out now it would more than likely do more harm than good but if they didn't get the ball out and stitch him up the end result would be the same.
"Captain?"
Athos jolted at the sound of the title. He didn't want the title. He didn't want the responsibility of these men. Not now. Right now he wanted his sole attention on his injured friend. All colour had leached from Aramis' face as he fought to breathe through the pain. Regret filled him. It had been a mistake to pull Aramis away from the safety of Douai. He'd encouraged the idea, wanting their friend with them as much as Porthos and d'Artagnan had but now ... if they lost him ...
"Captain?"
"What?" he snapped, the soldier behind him flinching at the tone in his voice.
"We've found a small wagon hidden in the bushes. It has weapons and supplies…"
"A wagon?" Athos repeated, his hand still clasped tightly in Aramis' as he turned to look at his soldier.
"Yes, Captain. We believe the Spanish were set up to wait for us, hiding their supplies in the forest."
A wagon could work. Aramis couldn't ride. He'd lose blood faster and never make it to camp. But a wagon … that would be their best chance. "Get it on the road … now!"
"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked from his spot kneeling beside him.
"You and Porthos are going to take the wagon and get Aramis to camp," Athos instructed. He leaned forward, resting a bloody hand on Aramis' soft hair. "You need to hold on, my friend."
Aramis didn't answer. He kept his eyes tightly closed, breathing in and out of his nose and looked as if he were trying very hard to hold himself together. His hand squeezed Athos' impossibly tighter. Aramis had heard him.
He sat back on his heels, taking a shaky breath before releasing his hold of Aramis' hand, giving up his protective spot to d'Artagnan who took over without question. The boy looked grateful to have something to do, even if it was just to hold his friend's hand.
Athos stood and forced his legs to stop shaking. He was Captain of the Musketeers. He needed to act like it. Knowing Aramis was in good hands, Athos turned to his men. In the short time that it had been since Aramis had been shot, his men had cleared some of the road and were rushing to not only get the wagon on the road but get it hitched up to a couple of the Spanish horses.
"We're ready, Captain."
Athos watched as Porthos and d'Artagnan lifted their fallen comrade. The man in question groaned, the sound bordering on a whimper as Porthos pulled him backwards onto the wagon. The big man sat all the way to the front of the wagon, his back to the front seat as he pulled Aramis up against his chest. Aramis' head lulled back against Porthos' shoulder, sweat beading on his pale, clammy features.
d'Artagnan climbed up after them and wordlessly replaced the soaked Bandana with some rags that he'd procured from who knew where. Once Porthos' arm was wrapped around Aramis' body and his hand pressed against the wound he nodded up at d'Artagnan. The lad patted his shoulder before stepping over him to get to the front seat, picking up the reigns.
"Get him there as fast as you can." Athos didn't need to give the order. It was clear to everyone how imperative it was that they make haste. There was no telling if their friend would even survive the trip. The thought caused Athos' heart to beat wildly in his chest. d'Artagnan nodded at him and then whipped the reigns, shouting for the horses to move.
As Athos was left standing on the road, he watched as the wagon sped away from them with a cargo that had never been so precious.
TBC...
A/N: Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. One more chapter to go :)