Chapter 2

Athos shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowed as he studied his friends. The physician had managed to repair Porthos' shoulder – with much complaining from the man for his brusque manner – and told him to keep it immobile for a few days. Knowing the big man would comply out of concern for Aramis and a need to watch over his friend tempered Athos' worry, but at this point, he decided to take what he could get and not complain. If Porthos was intent to remain by Aramis' side, at least he would not be putting undo pressure on his own healing wounds.

Athos followed his friend's gaze to the unconscious marksman, swallowing thickly at the damage to his handsome face. The physician had assured them the burns were superficial and would leave no scars, but the red, blistering skin looked painful, and Athos found himself thankful Aramis was still unconscious, delaying the inevitable drop back into an aching reality. Although the burns and the man's state of unconsciousness were of concern, it was the bandage around Aramis' eyes that caused Athos' heart to race.

Apparently, it had the same effect on Porthos.

"D'you really believe he'll be all right?" Porthos' voice was low, uncharacteristically soft in the quietness of the room. "That he'll be able to see when this is all done?"

Aramis must have been looking directly into the blast – or so the physician had surmised. He'd obviously managed to raise a hand to protect part of his face, but the physician had shaken his head when he'd pulled open Aramis' eyes to view the damage. It had been a meticulous and lengthy procedure to pull the small splinters of wood that had embedded themselves into the soft tissue of the normally expressive eyes, but the man had assured them he had found every last one, smiling confidently while he wiped the blood from his patient's face. As he'd wrapped a bandage securely around the marksman's head, he had expounded on the miraculous healing powers of the human eye, and he'd given them every reason to believe Aramis would recover with little or no impairment.

"The physician seemed fairly sure," Athos responded, trying to keep his own doubts buried for Porthos' sake. "I see no reason to suspect his word."

A low grunt was the only response.

The physician's assurances had lifted the veil of fear that had settled in Athos' chest since he'd first seen the blood leaking from beneath Aramis' closed lids, but it hadn't erased it entirely. Athos knew how much his friend relied on his keen sight – any impairment would have devastating consequences, not only for Aramis, but for the regiment itself. It was Aramis' uncanny ability to see things others missed that made him so deadly and well suited for this life. His sharp vision had saved their lives more times than he could count and to lose that advantage… he didn't want to contemplate the cost.

A low moan from the unconscious man brought Porthos' head up immediately and he shifted himself to the edge of the mattress, his free hand moving to grasp Aramis' arm, just above the heavily bandaged hand.

"Aramis?"

The marksman's head moved, his face tilting toward the hushed sound of Porthos' voice.

"P'rthos?" He cleared his throat and coughed weakly, his brow creasing as he shifted, the pain beginning to take hold. "Wha' happ'ned?"

"Easy, my friend." Porthos moved closer, sliding his hand to Aramis' shoulder. "Try not to move, you took a pretty good blow. Fairly bruised up."

Aramis hitched a breath and went still. "Back 'urts."

Athos moved to the bed, lowering himself to the side, mirroring Porthos.

"You got caught in an explosion," he explained. "Hit the ground hard. Your back is bruised, but nothing was broken, though you will be quite sore for a while."

Aramis nodded, turning his head toward the sound of Athos' voice. As if suddenly realizing his eyes were covered, he lifted his bandaged hand toward his face, but Porthos caught his wrist, forcing it back down to his stomach.

"You don't want t'do that, 'Mis."

"Why is my face covered?" The marksman's voice shook. "Why can't I see?"

"You were burned," Athos informed him. The sudden tension in his friend's body had him quickly continuing. "It is nothing to be alarmed about. Your hand and face are red and blistering, but the physician assured us there would be no scarring."

Porthos' smile leaked into his voice. "As soon as all that skin peels off, you'll be just as handsome as ever."

Aramis sighed, some of the tension draining from his body at his friends' assurances. "That is good to know." He smiled tentatively. "My eyes? Why are they bandaged? Were they also burned?"

Athos shook his head before remembering his friend could not see the motion. "No, Aramis. There were splinters of wood embedded. Your eyes were bleeding when we found you."

"Not your best look," Porthos admitted.

Aramis huffed a weak laugh at the attempt at humor.

"The physician removed the splinters and is confident you will make a full recovery." Athos forced every ounce of doubt from his voice, trying to reassure their friend that all was well. Without being able to see Aramis' eyes, Athos had no idea if he was successful in convincing his friend of the diagnosis.

The marksman nodded, swallowing hard before he spoke. "So I am to be blind," he took a deep breath, "at least for a time."

"Temporarily," Porthos reluctantly concurred. He squeezed Aramis' arm. "It'll be fine. We won't leave you alone for a moment."

Aramis laughed again, stronger and sincere. "That declaration is not as reassuring as you think, my dear friend."

Porthos smiled and shared a glance with Athos.

"Porthos rarely makes threats he is not willing to support," the older man intoned.

A soft smile lifted his lips. "Thank you," Aramis whispered. "Consider me warned." He moved his head as if searching for something he could not possibly see. "Where is d'Artagnan? Was he injured in the explosion also?"

"D'Artagnan went to the Palace with Captain Treville to report to the King." At Aramis' huff of surprise, Athos shrugged. "I thought it better I stay here and keep an eye on the two of you."

"The two of…" Aramis turned his head toward Porthos. "Porthos?"

With a scathing glance to Athos, the big man squeezed his friend's arm before moving his hand up to rub against his wounded shoulder. "Just threw my shoulder out," he admitted. "It's fine now. Nothing to fret over."

Aramis reached out to find the sling binding Porthos' arm to his chest. "Is that all?"

Porthos nodded. "A slight headache, but nothin' that'll keep me down." He took Aramis' hand and returned it to the bed. "You just worry about you for now, yeah?"

A soft knock on the door caught their attention and they all turned toward the sound as d'Artagnan poked his head into the room. Upon seeing the marksman awake and moving, the younger man smiled and stepped inside.

"You're awake!" he crossed the room in three strides, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. "How are you feeling, Aramis?"

"A bit disoriented," he pointed to the bandage around his eyes, "but I have been assured of my full recovery."

D'Artagnan's look of surprise was met by Athos' even gaze.

"Aramis," Athos redirected the marksman's attention before d'Artagnan could cast doubt on the assessment. "What do you remember of the explosion?"

Aramis shifted on the bed, wincing as the bruises on his back flared. "I remember the man we were following."

"Did you see his face?"

Aramis nodded, then snorted a derisive laugh through his nose. "For whatever good that will do now."

Athos sighed. So their confident assurances weren't being taken quite as readily as he'd hoped.

"A few weeks, 'Mis," Porthos reminded him.

"Right." Aramis responded quickly. "A few weeks." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Our mysterious stranger had dark hair, his face was swarthy but he wore no beard. There was a scar running down his cheek." He moved his hand to his face, using a finger to demonstrate. "I didn't get a look at his eyes, it was too dark, but his clothes were old, worn. He was of the lower classes, or at least that was the impression he was presenting."

Athos nodded. "Is there anything else?"

"He spoke," Aramis said, his voice soft with memory. "I ordered him to halt and he turned, laughed, said 'Goodbye Musketeer' as if he knew me." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It was then I heard the hiss of the fuse. I didn't realize what it was at first. When I finally realized, I saw the barrels of gunpowder hidden beneath the stacks of crates. I remember a loud explosion, then nothing." He shrugged, finished with his recital.

"And the man?" D'Artagnan asked. "What happened to him? We found no sign of him in the alley after the explosion. Just you and Porthos."

"There was a door, to the side of the crates," Aramis recalled. "He must have ducked into it just before everything went to Hell."

"We'll go back to the warehouse and check it out," Athos decided. "Although I am sure they would have removed any evidence by now."

"You should have checked it out then," Aramis admonished.

"We had… other concerns."

The marksman nodded, a soft smile on his lips.

Athos squeezed his shoulder and stood, pushing his chair back and away from the bed.

"Porthos, keep an eye on him. Try not to let him get into any trouble." Athos smiled fondly at his wounded friend, knowing Aramis would hear the affection in his voice. "D'Artagnan and I will return to the warehouse and see if we can ascertain who this man is."

Aramis' hand shot out and grabbed Athos' wrist with uncanny accuracy. "Don't go alone. Take more men with you. We now know what these thieves are capable of."

Athos patted the hand that held him tight. "I promise we will be diligent. I will inform Treville of our plans." Aramis relaxed at the promise, falling back against the pillow wearily. "Rest, Aramis." Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos. "Both of you. We will update you when we return."

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As soon as Athos' and d'Artagnan's footsteps faded, Aramis sighed and leaned back into the pillow. "For all his skill with diplomacy, Athos is a terrible liar."

Porthos snorted a laugh. "I thought he was doing pretty well."

Aramis' smile faded. "Tell me the truth, Porthos. Will I see again?"

The larger man shifted on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his hand against his sore shoulder. "The physician said he pulled all the splinters and debris, and that nothing had pierced the centers of your eyes. The damage wasn't as severe as it could've been, and there is no reason to believe you won't recover your sight…"

"But?"

Porthos studied Aramis' face and he sighed, unable to lie even when his friend couldn't see his eyes to recognize it. "But," he continued reluctantly. "There's no way of knowing how much your sight will be affected until the eyes heal and the bandage is removed." He dropped his hand onto Aramis arm and squeezed forcefully. "I'm sorry, 'Mis. There's just no real answer right now."

Aramis nodded, forcing a smile to his lips. To anyone who didn't know the man, the smile would seem like acceptance. "Well then, I suppose I can only hope for the best. Thank you, Porthos."

"I expect you'll be just fine," Porthos responded with conviction. "If there's anyone who could survive something like this, fully intact, it's you. You're the luckiest bastard I know."

Aramis chuckled, his features softening at his friend's unyielding faith. "Lucky in love, my friend. That doesn't necessarily translate to lucky with gunpowder."

"You?" Porthos laughed, grunting as his shoulder shifted uncomfortably. "You're a damn marksman. I would think you and gunpowder are on quite intimate terms."

Aramis could only nod in agreement. "Point taken." His brows drew together in a frown as he recognized Porthos' grunt of pain. "Are you sure your shoulder is all right? I could take a look at it –"

They both froze as the words floated between them, the ridiculousness of the statement registering on both their minds at once.

It was Porthos who recovered first. "Actually, it does hurt a bit. You think you could check it over, make sure it got put back in properly?"

Aramis swallowed, unsure, but nodded. Forcing himself up onto an elbow as Porthos reached forward to push the pillow further up his back in support, he reached his good hand out and placed it against Porthos' chest, feeling his way to his friend's wounded shoulder.

"Lean forward," he instructed as his nimble fingers began to prod the injury.

Porthos did as requested, holding his breath against the throbbing Aramis' examination elicited. He watched the marksman's face carefully as the hand pressed into his shoulder, smiling as he saw Aramis slowly relax, his natural need to help taking over, forcing his fears for himself to ebb for the moment.

"The joint feels as if it's in proper alignment," Aramis acknowledged, moving his hand down the outside of his arm. "There is still some swelling, but if you are careful to keep it bound, that should abate within a day or two." He patted Porthos' arm affectionately and let himself fall back against the pillow, smiling confidently. "I believe you will recover quite quickly, my friend. The physician did an excellent job."

"Good to know," Porthos said, pleased with having found a way to keep Aramis from worrying about his own uncertain future for at least a moment.

The silence returned, comfortable, not as tense as before.

"Thank you." Aramis' voice was soft, and the smile that played upon his lips this time was genuine, obviously aware of what his friend had just done for him.

Porthos didn't need any explanation for the heartfelt words of gratitude. "You're welcome."

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"This looks so much worse in the light of day," d'Artagnan muttered as he stepped around another partial crate. "Aramis is lucky he made it out in one piece."

Athos grunted in response. "Good fortune is a valuable commodity for a Musketeer."

"Makes me want to stay closer to him in situations such as this," d'Artagnan chuckled. He looked around the area, shaking his head in wonder. "Or as far away as possible."

Debris littered the area; metal, clumps of dirt and stone strewn across the narrow width of the alley. The buildings on either side were scarred, blackened by the blast, but still intact. Athos scanned the side of the warehouse, noticing the small door near the rear of the carnage that blended in with the charred stone of the building's outer wall.

D'Artagnan followed his gaze. "You don't actually believe they would have left any evidence behind, do you?"

Athos sighed. "No. But one can never be sure of the intelligence of criminals. We should be thorough."

They made their way through the maze of debris to the door. It was not latched, and with a firm shove of a shoulder, the charred wood gave way, a cloud of dust and smoke billowing from inside.

Waving the haze away, they entered the warehouse, ducking as a pigeon flew past them, escaping into the light of day. There was little light inside, but the open doorway provided enough illumination for them to see the room was empty. There was a pile of straw near the far wall, scattered as if it had been thrown about carelessly, along with a coarse, woven piece of cloth tossed down on the dirt floor.

"Apparently our criminals are more intelligent than hoped."

D'Artagnan snorted a laugh at his mentor's comment. "Or they were never here to begin with."

Athos moved across the floor, squatting down and retrieving the piece of cloth, rubbing it between his fingers.

"They were here." He held out the cloth as he rose, kicking at the scattered pieces of straw. "This is from one of the bags the gold was transported in."

D'Artagnan stepped forward and took the bag, looking it over closely. "How can you tell? It just looks like a piece of cloth."

Athos pointed to a small yellowish cord weaved into one end of the cloth. "There are not many who use a gold cord to secure a bag in transport. That is something used only by the nobility, most notably royalty."

D'Artagnan leaned toward the doorway, letting the light hit the small piece of rope. "So you think this was part of the treasure the King's cousin was transporting."

Athos nodded, letting his eyes roam the empty warehouse. "I believe we should find out who owns this building."

D'Artagnan nodded, handing the cloth back to the older Musketeer. "And how do we do that?"

Athos strode by him, quickly making his way back to the alley. "We ask."

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