AN: Guilt is the cave, shock is the winding tunnels, and hope is that tiny gleam of light that flickers in the distance. It dances through the settling dust, at once closer and further away, but it's still hope. It has to be, because in that cave, in those tunnels, hope is all you have.
"Hope guides me. Hope is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight it will not be the last time I look upon you."
Athos dug through the rubble until his hands bled, but even the pain could not drown out the darkness creeping through his veins like poison, clenching his heart in an icy fist. This wasn't the plan. They were supposed to escape the caves and bring help to their brothers.
Not drop the ceiling on them.
Beside him, D'Artagnan shoved aside the rock with single minded determination. "I think we're almost through," he said, his breath coming in harsh pants.
Athos had sent him back to their ambushed camp to look for their weapons as soon as the dust had cleared. God must have smiled upon them, for they were still there. The moment they were armed, they had wordlessly begun to dig, all thoughts of returning to the city fled.
"D'Artagnan," Athos began, the band around his chest tightening at the thought of what needed to be said. "There is a chance they will not be-"
"Don't." D'Artagnan's voice was harsh and rough with grief. "I don't want to hear it, Athos."
Athos nodded mutely and returned to his digging. To be honest, he did not wish to think it, but he had always been the practical one, even when it hurt like glass being ground into his heart.
They had no way of knowing how much damage the cave in had done. They had just cleared the cave when they'd been spotted by a group emerging from a side tunnel. Without weapons, they were easy targets, but D'Artagnan in a fit of inspiration had grabbed the torch from the wall and flung it at the barrels the men were carrying, hoping to cause a distraction.
The lad couldn't have known the barrels were full of gunpowder.
The roof of the cave had collapsed with a crash, spewing dust over them. They'd narrowly avoided being crushed themselves. But they had no way of knowing if Aramis and Porthos had been as lucky.
Athos knew D'Artagnan was telling himself that they were far enough in to have been unaffected, but that wasn't working for him. There was too much that could have gone wrong. They might have been crushed by the rocks, or killed by the bandits that had been alerted to their escape when they dropped the ceiling on half of them, or they could be trapped somewhere they would never be found until it was too late, or…
Athos kept digging.
"I'm through!" D'Artagnan yelled as his hand suddenly sunk through the fallen rocks up to his elbow. Athos quickly dug away the loosened debris, opening a hole large enough to crawl through.
"Let's go," he said, the band around his chest slackening slightly at the prospect of being able to do something at last, but D'Artagnan hesitated, eyeing the makeshift entrance.
"Will it hold?" the boy asked quietly, serious eyes turning to Athos. "We'll both be trapped if it falls again."
Athos stared at him, nonplussed by the sudden wisdom and ashamed for not having thought of that himself. He was supposed to be the leader.
Not that he'd been doing a very good job of it lately.
"You're right," he croaked out, his throat raw from breathing in too much dust. "I need you to find a horse and ride back to Paris. Explain what happened to Treville and bring backup. If the tunnel falls again, you can dig us all out."
"What?" he snapped when the boy did not move.
D'Artagnan gazed at him, clearly torn. "I just- I don't want you to find them alone," he said softly, unable to meet his eyes.
Athos felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, hearing the words that went unsaid.
If they are dead, you should not find them alone.
It was the closest D'Artagnan had come to admitting they might be too late.
Swallowing heavily, Athos managed to say, "I appreciate your concern, but we'll do no one any good if we get ourselves trapped as well. You'd best hurry to Paris. Return as quickly as possible."
D'Artagnan nodded reluctantly and turned away, heading into the woods to search for their escaped mounts.
Athos watched him go, wondering when the lad had grown up. Then he took a deep breath, picked up the torch he'd prepared, and pushed his way through the tiny hole into the dark of the caves.
Barely ten feet in he tripped over a body. A long spire of rock had pinned it to the ground like some obscene needle. Several more were visible in the faint torch light, scattered near the rubble. He knew more must be buried.
Athos moved quickly back down the tunnel, trying to find the room where they'd been held captive to use as a base point to begin his search. It was clear the cave in had been sporadic. Whole sections were untouched, but then he would round a corner and find rubble had fallen haphazardly across the tunnel, sometimes requiring him to dig his way through.
He found the cavern they'd been held in at last and nearly dropped the torch in the face of the grief that swept through him. It was completely buried.
It took him a long minute to remember that they would not have stayed there. He prayed they'd gone far deeper into the caves, even if it would be harder to find them. The deeper he went, the less extensive the damage.
There was no trail to follow, no clue as the where they had gone, so he simply chose a path and hurried down it. For so long he saw nothing but bare walls and broken rock that he almost turned back.
Then he saw the bodies.
Three men lay sprawled across the floor. Two had been killed with a sword, but the third's head had been bashed in with a rock, which lay beside the body. They had not been killed by the cave in, which could mean only one thing.
At least one of his brothers was still alive and fighting.
Hope burned though his heart, and the pain was worse than the grief because he knew how easily it could be extinguished.
He stared down the darkened tunnel past the bodies, wondering how much further they might have gone, when a faint sound from nearby drew his attention. He cocked his head, listening: it came again, a faint shifting from somewhere to his right.
Athos turned and saw the outline of a dark, jagged archway by the light of his torch. The sound came again, louder this time.
Hardly daring to breath, he crossed the few meters to the mouth of the cavern with hasty steps, pausing in the entrance with the torch held high before him.
It was the light that saved his life, casting his face into sharp relief in the darkness. Had he been obscured by shadow, he had no doubt that the pistol pointed unwaveringly at his heart would have been discharged.
Instead, it dropped heavily to the floor. "Athos," Aramis breathed.
The relief hit him like a tidal wave and he all but staggered to reach the seated forms.
"You're alive," he croaked.
Aramis smiled tiredly at him from his position beside Porthos's unconscious form. The expression looked out of place on his too pale face. "It would appear."
Athos's eyes flicked to Porthos, hardly daring to ask. "Is he-?"
A frown marred Aramis's face for a moment before understanding dawned. "Oh, heavens, no." He reached out and shook Porthos sharply, and the larger Musketeer stirred sluggishly.
Not unconscious. Asleep.
He wasn't too late.
Athos could have wept from the relief, but he kept his expression neutral. "Is he alright?" Porthos's reactions seemed slow, and he had yet to focus fully on him.
Aramis scowled. "He took a blow to the head. Another one. I couldn't keep him awake."
Porthos seemed to recognize him at last, jerking forward to clasp his shoulder. The unexpected motion made Aramis groan as he pulled away hastily, trying to keep his leg still. Porthos broke off the movement with a murmured apology, a concerned hand finding Aramis's shoulder. His reactions might be slow, but they were still his. No serious damage.
"I thought you were the injured one," Athos smirked, relief restoring some of his wry humor.
Aramis just glared at him.
"We'd best get you out of here and into the fresh air." Athos was desperate to leave the cloying air of the caves behind him.
Aramis glanced over at Porthos. "Do you think you can walk now?"
The large Musketeer nodded doggedly, rising with only slight amount of unsteadiness. Aramis smiled again, looking relieved. "Oh good. I doubt Athos could carry us both out of here."
Athos shook his head at his friend's unflappable good humor. "Time to go." He lifted Aramis carefully to his feet, wincing at the pained groans the other man failed to hold back. Porthos hovered anxiously, but when he stretched out a hand, Aramis waved it away.
"You'll have enough trouble keeping your own feet. I won't have you pulling us both down with you if you go." His smile lightened the rejection, and after a moment Porthos echoed it sheepishly.
Their progress back out of the caves was painfully slow. Porthos could walk, but only shakily, one hand pressed to the wall in case he grew dizzy while he carried the torch in the other, since Athos had his hands full with Aramis.
Aramis was worse. Even his uninjured leg had grown stiff, and every step seemed to pain him terribly. More than once he blacked out and Athos's arm around his waist was all that kept him upright.
Just outside of their prison cave, Porthos had to stop to be violently sick. While Athos waited for him to finish retching, he thought he felt the earth rumble faintly beneath his boots.
They needed to get out of here.
Two turns away from the exit, it happened again. "Did you feel that?" Aramis asked, sounding worried.
"The cave system is unstable," Athos said tightly, trying to increase his pace but slowing when Aramis gasped in pain. "We need to get out before the whole thing comes down and takes us with it. We need to hurry."
"Oh no, I don't think you'll be going anywhere."
The voice came from just ahead of them, sibilant and cold. Porthos growled immediately and stepped forward, waving the torch to light the tunnel.
Standing just before the final corner, sword drawn, stood the tall, pockmarked man that had broken Aramis's leg.
Porthos growled again and attempted to shove himself off the wall towards the man, hatred and fury written across his dark features, but he wobbled alarmingly and had to clutch it again for support.
The man simply laughed. "I have to admit, I am surprised," he hissed, stepping closer and fixing his eyes on Athos. "I thought you had perished in the cave in."
"Musketeers don't die easily." Athos took a half step towards Porthos, positioning himself with arm's reach of the larger man.
"So I see," was the cold response. "Perhaps we ought to test that theory." The man's smile was merciless. "Once you have fallen, your companions will be easy prey."
It was clear the scarred man had no honor, and he proved it by ignoring all rules of chivalry and attacking without giving him time to draw his sword.
Fortunately, Athos was ready for this. He all but threw Aramis at Porthos, praying his friend would catch him before he passed out, and ripped his own sword free in one smooth motion, circling away to draw the man from his brothers.
The man darted in with a flurry of slashing attacks. Athos parried them easily, searching for a quick way to end this and get out before the ceiling let go. Though the man was not his equal, he was skilled enough to keep Athos breaking through his guard.
Their swords met with another ringing clash and Athos saw an opening. It was not chivalrous; in fact, it was downright vindictive, but it was no more than this man deserved. Thrusting the man back a pace, he whipped his sword down to slash neatly across the place where foot met ankle.
The same spot the man had so ruthlessly broken.
The man dropped to one knee with a cry of pain, and Athos slammed the hilt of his rapier into his temple, knocking him flat. He stepped neatly around the semi-conscious man and pulled Aramis, who had indeed passed out, from Porthos's uncertain grip.
The floor shifted alarmingly. "We need to go, now." Porthos nodded and hurried toward the entrance, dropping the torch to the floor.
Athos glanced back over his shoulder at the man lying on the ground, clutching his head and groaning. Chivalry dictated that he should finish him before the roof did, but then, chivalry was more than he deserved.
He turned his back and walked away.
Porthos was waiting just outside the small opening, and between the two of them they managed to get Aramis through. Athos himself was only just emerging when he heard the heavy crack behind him as the ceiling let go at last. They grabbed Aramis and stumbled away through the fresh dust cloud.
Porthos sunk down heavily against a tree, Aramis cradled protectively in his arms as he stared at the billowing dust. Athos dropped down beside him, relief and exhaustion blending together to sap his remaining strength.
"We made it." Porthos's voice was breathless.
"We did."
"Why are we covered in dust?" This was from Aramis, who had regained consciousness and was staring at the pair of them in confusion.
Athos couldn't help himself. He laughed aloud, and after a moment's delay, Porthos joined him.
"What's so funny?" Aramis demanded indignantly.
Porthos howled. Athos clutched at his sides, laughing as he hadn't laughed in years. After a minute of this, Aramis's lips twitched, and then he too was laughing delightedly.
That was how Treville and D'Artagnan found them when they thundered into the clearing not five minutes later.
Well, that's all, folks. What did you think of it? Was the ending to abrupt? I could be persuaded to write an epilogue if there was any interest :)
