Many thanks for the lovely comments in response to the last chapter. Here's a slightly longer one as we see how the boys are doing.
They shared a simple meal in the relative solitude of their tent, even though everyone knew where to find Athos, should he be needed, the man never really off-duty. Once they'd finished eating, Aramis pulled out a bottle of brandy from one of his bags, and poured generous measures out for everyone before settling himself back on the edge of his pallet. After a few sips of the amber liquid, he broached the conversation that had been playing on his mind since earlier that day. "The Spanish forces seem to be gaining ground." The statement got Athos' attention and he met the marksman's gaze, waiting for him to continue. "Will there be reinforcements?"
The Captain should be keeping those details to himself, but the friend in Athos needed an outlet, seeking to unburden himself if only a little. "There has been no news of additional forces." Aramis' penetrating stare had the older man adding, "And no indication that we should withdraw."
Athos looked down at the dark liquid in his cup, seemingly mesmerized by the tawny-colored drink. It was often the case in situations such as these that regiments were deployed to a particular spot where they remained until either successful or decimated by the opposition. Those in Paris would receive impersonal reports with tallies of the dead and wounded, but their distance made them coldly objective, not caring for the individual men who suffered under their command. It was still early days, the former comte allowed, but to his mind, the losses they'd incurred were already too high. Taking back the chateau that was at the heart of their objective would require many more lives – lives that were a finite and precious resource, and one that Athos was already struggling to part with.
Softening his tone, Aramis asked, "You've written to Treville?" In his new position as Minister of War, the former Captain was the only one who might be able to help them, but it would be dangerous to ask for too many favours, too early on in the conflict.
Moistening his mouth with a drink of brandy, Athos replied, "I've made him fully aware of the situation and provided my own recommendations." Choosing his words carefully, he went on, "The King and his generals seem to have ideas to the contrary."
The statement seemed to awaken d'Artagnan who'd so far stayed silent, listening to the two older men's discussion. "Don't they care about those who are hurt and dying?" His tone reflected his disbelief, and Aramis wondered idly if he'd ever sounded as young as the Gascon.
"It is a matter of politics," Athos responded, knowing his answer was sorely lacking, but having no other to offer.
"And when we are all dead and their objective remains out of reach?" the Gascon countered in outrage, his mind again conjuring the image of Porthos being shot.
Seeing Athos' discomfort, Aramis offered a reply, trying to make light of it by shrugging offhandedly, "They'll hire mercenaries and conscript who they need; there are no pleasantries in war."
d'Artagnan looked to the Captain, who didn't dispute the marksman's claim, instead taking another sip of his drink in agreement. The young man had nothing he could add, having heard stories of men being forced to march in the King's name in the past. Often, there would be little choice, with existing soldiers rounding up all of the able-bodied men they could find, decimating entire families and villages in the process. The Gascon could not fathom what that would be like. He was no fan of the war, but he was there by choice, living the life he'd picked with full knowledge that his decision would likely cut his life short. To be forced into fighting, however, disturbed him deeply, conflicting with the very reason he became a soldier in the first place – to protect those who could not protect themselves.
His hand trembling slightly with the stresses of the day, d'Artagnan took a long swallow, grimacing at the burn of the fiery drink in his throat and belly. He looked back to his friends, grateful for their patience with him as he came to terms with what he'd heard, slowly adjusting the less-known horrors of war. The older men's faces showed nothing but compassion and, for a moment, the Gascon felt shame at having looked forward to the glory and thrill of battle. One by one, his misconceptions were being corrected, and he wondered how the others had managed to tolerate his enthusiasm as they'd marched.
As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis spoke, "Being at war is impossible to fully understand until one has experienced it."
Giving a slow nod as he raised his cup, Athos concurred, "It is a lesson I hoped you might avoid."
The older man's comment brought a frown to d'Artagnan's face, uncertain if it was brought on by protectiveness or a concern for his inexperience. Before he could clarify, another's head appeared in the doorway, the newcomer's gaze swiftly landing on Athos. The Captain was already rising, passing his cup back to Aramis as he moved to follow the new arrival out. "Get some sleep," he ordered, holding the medic's eye for a moment until his friend dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Glancing briefly at d'Artagnan next, he added, "That goes for you, too."
Ducking slightly to pass through the tent flap, he was gone, and Aramis and the Gascon were left alone. Several seconds passed before d'Artagnan caught the medic's gaze, "Go and sit with him now; I'll be by in four hours to relieve you."
Aramis' lips quirked mildly but he didn't reply, simply tipping his cup to empty it, before putting it and the bottle of brandy away. Repeating Athos' words, he said, "Make sure you get some sleep." d'Artagnan gave a nod and watched as the other man left, feeling the rush of loneliness that seemed to fill the space in his friends' absence. He looked down into his cup, seeing the amber liquid that had somehow lost its appeal. He'd known that things would be difficult at the front, but acknowledged now that he may not have been as prepared as he'd thought for the harsh reality they now faced.
Even when others among them had fallen, d'Artagnan had naively assumed that their group would be safe, somehow protected from the heartbreak of having a brother fall. The events of the day had served to cruelly dispel that illusion, and listening to Athos and Aramis speak had served to only further drive home the seriousness of their situation. There would be no additional men riding to their rescue, and there would be no strategic retreats. Their days would be spent throwing themselves at the enemy until one or the other emerged victorious and, after today, he felt shaken in his profound belief that that title would be theirs.
While the Musketeers were the more disciplined, skilled soldiers, the Spanish had the weight of numbers on their size, and the French forces would eventually be overrun by the sheer might of the men they faced. d'Artagnan had meant to ask about their orders for the next day, wondering if they'd again be deployed to attack, or whether the large canons would spend a day or two attempting to strip the Spanish of their fortifications before additional men were thrown into the fray. He hoped that it would be the latter, needing to spend some time by Porthos' side as they waited to see if their friend would recover.
The wound on the large man's back had been horrific, and the Gascon understood how difficult it had been for Aramis to dig around in Porthos' body for the elusive ball. It would have been better if the projectile had passed through, and the thought made the Gascon wonder what part of the injured man's body had prevented the ball from doing so. Seconds after Aramis had successfully pulled the piece of lead free, d'Artagnan had seen the unadulterated fear in his friend's eyes and, in that instant, his faith that Porthos would pull through faltered. The medic had been quick to recover, making a glib comment about the toughness of the injured man's skin, but it hadn't been quick enough for the Gascon to miss the fact that Aramis was very, very worried about their friend.
God, what if Porthos died, he wondered, his breath stuttering for a moment as he allowed himself to consider the thought that had been quietly lurking at the edges of his mind all day. He'd always known that their lives were dangerous, and they'd all had close encounters in the past, but miraculously they'd always survived. He simply couldn't fathom a reality in which that might change. Surely Porthos was far too strong to be taken down by a small piece of lead, and Aramis was certainly far too stubborn and skilled to allow the man to die without a fight. And yet, he considered, it was entirely out of their hands.
A few days earlier he'd watched as two of his brothers-in-arms had gathered around their third, cajoling, ordering and finally begging the man to get better. Despite their unflagging support, Didier had died of his wounds and d'Artagnan had observed the man's friends weep like children over their brother's body. The memory made his throat constrict uncomfortably as he swallowed against his own tears. He knew, without a doubt, that if Porthos were to leave them, he and the others would make Didier's friends' mourning pale in comparison.
Scrubbing a trembling hand across his face, he drew a steadying breath, no longer wanting to contemplate Porthos' uncertain fate. He threw the rest of his drink back, relishing the burn and hoping it would dull his senses enough for him to sleep. Realistically, he knew the alcohol wouldn't be enough, but tried to convince himself otherwise as he tiredly undressed and arranged himself in his pallet. Forcing his anxious mind to calm, he closed his eyes and prayed for a few hours' rest before he went to relieve Aramis at their injured friend's side.
They'd received three days' respite from the fighting, the canons booming unceasingly throughout the daylight hours. It had been a blessing that had allowed Aramis and d'Artagnan to continually remain at Porthos' side as he battled infection and pain so severe it had him retching helplessly each time he awoke. The medic had done everything in his power to ease the large man's suffering, but the draught he brewed barely touched Porthos' agony, so they sat by his side, holding his hand, speaking unceasingly until he passed out again.
There was only one other who was as critically wounded as their friend, and Aramis had returned earlier with news that the man would soon die. The information had pulled the medic even further into his despondency, his medical knowledge a burden that would not allow him to delude himself about Porthos' chances. Athos came by when he was able, but his many duties required him to spend hours in consultation with the other commanding officers, planning not only for battle, but also for the continued operation of the camp, a feat in and of itself. On the third evening of their vigil, the Captain had joined them, sharing the news that the following day they would once more go into battle.
Both men could see how much the decision weighed on Athos as the older man's gaze sat firmly fixed on Porthos' glistening, sweat slicked back. Reaching out, he rested a hand on the large man's shoulder, feeling the minute tremors that racked him, even in sleep. When he looked up again, d'Artagnan could see the deep sorrow in his mentor's eyes, and he ached to try and comfort the man, but recognized that this was not the time or the place. Above all, Athos worked hard to maintain his stoic and confident façade, and any attempts on the Gascon's part to console him would not be appreciated. Instead, by silent agreement, the three stayed by Porthos' side throughout the night, unwilling to spend any time apart before the next day's skirmish.
The morning began very much the same way that their previous engagements had, and once the order was given to fire, d'Artagnan carefully picked out his target and ensured the man fell before he began to advance. Aramis was again covering their rear, his superior marksmanship helping to tip the odds in their favour, if only marginally. It didn't take long for the Gascon to meet his first opponent, and he channeled all of his worry and despair over Porthos into making his sword fly as he sliced and struck and parried. Soon, his blood was singing with the heat of battle, and optimism was pushing away the shroud of melancholy that had been plaguing him since his friend's injury.
As euphoria began to take hold, he understood why some men spoke fondly of war, his mind and body feeling sharper and more alive than they had in days. He felt invincible, and the feeling was reinforced as he gutted another man with his blade, tugging hard to pull it free from the skin and sinew that tried to hold it. Although he wasn't aware of it, he now wore a manic grin, his white teeth contrasting sharply with the red on his face which spoke of his numerous kills. As he turned, another attacked from the side, and d'Artagnan struggled to raise his sword in time, stunned when his opponent neatly twisted it out of his hands.
The first inkling of fear stirred in his belly as he glanced in the fallen blade's direction, cursing inwardly when he realized it was out of reach. His attacker didn't care and was already stepping forward to finish him, and the Gascon swiftly shifted his main gauche to his right hand in order to block the man's next blow. Stumbling backwards a step to give himself some room, d'Artagnan's eyes scanned his surroundings in search of another weapon, his short dagger nothing more than a stop-gap measure that would buy him a few seconds. Another thrust from his opponent had his blade spinning away, and he side-stepped awkwardly to avoid the subsequent strike.
His foe was grinning now, realizing the Musketeer's vulnerable state. At the same time, d'Artagnan's eyes had landed on the pistol in the man's belt, and he ducked low under the Spaniard's blade to reach for it, praying the man hadn't already spent his charge. Lifting it to eye-level, he wasted no time in pulling the trigger. With a flash of sparks and a plume of smoke, the weapon discharged, sending the Gascon reeling.
Behind him, Aramis was running, his cry of anger announcing his presence to d'Artagnan's opponent. The enemy Spaniard had only a moment to register the crazed Musketeer running in his direction before the marksman's ball plowed into his skull, dropping him instantly. Others were beginning to notice now and were converging on Aramis as he continued to fight his way to the Gascon's side. He'd seen the young man cutting his way through the enemy's lines and had noticed when overconfidence had crept its way into d'Artagnan's approach. In that moment, he'd dropped the musket he was holding and had thundered onto the field, meeting little resistance since the majority of the fighting was still ahead of him.
He'd arrived in time to save d'Artagnan from being cut in half by the man who'd disarmed him, but it seemed now that he might still be too late. As if in slow motion, he'd watched the young man steal his attacker's pistol and pull the trigger, only to have the weapon backfire and blow up in his face. d'Artagnan had swayed and Aramis had expected him to fall, but a moment later a Spaniard on horseback had arrived, swinging his sword pommel at the back of the unsuspecting Gascon's head. The young man's body seemed to waver in place before deciding on a direction as gravity exerted itself, and he crumpled gracelessly to the ground to land on his front.
After days of sitting and worrying at Porthos' side, the sight of another friend falling sent Aramis into a frenzy and he threw himself forward with the express goal of reaching the still young man. He was shocked when his forward momentum was stopped, his arms suddenly gripped by two others. Swivelling his head from side to side in an attempt to understand what had happened he took note of the two soldiers who now held him. "No, you have to let me go to him," he pleaded, recognizing the desperation in his voice, not even realizing that he'd spoken in French and was unlikely to be understood. When the men holding him merely tightened their hold, his face turned ugly as he growled, "Release me."
Aramis looked up into the mildly amused face of the mounted Spanish soldier as a shadow landed across him. The man stared down at him dispassionately for several seconds before speaking in barely-accented French, "You believe you can save your friend?"
The marksman didn't hesitate as he nodded, "Yes, if I can get to him in time." Aramis realized that his fear for the Gascon might work against him, but he prayed that the Spaniard wouldn't have asked if he was planning to simply kill them outright.
The rider took a moment to consider before nodding, and Aramis found himself suddenly free. He moved immediately to close the distance between himself and d'Artagnan, kneeling beside the young man and placing a hand on his head. He felt the telltale tackiness of blood immediately and lifted his fingers away, momentarily mesmerized by the bright red before coming back to his senses. With a hand on the Gascon's shoulder and another at his hip, Aramis rolled the limp body over onto its back. The area around d'Artagnan's eyes was red and sore looking, and the marksman winced in sympathy. This time, his fingers reached for d'Artagnan's throat, searching for a pulse.
When he found it, he slumped in relief, grateful that he wasn't destined to report the young man's death to his friends. The Gascon was alive but hurt, and Aramis reached instinctively for the bag that hung across his shoulder, pausing as one of the Spanish soldiers ordered him to stop. Looking up to meet the rider's gaze, he said, "I just want to wrap his injuries." Holding up the strap of his bag, he indicated, "I have bandages in here."
The Spaniard dipped his chin in agreement and Aramis proceeded to pull a length of linen from his supplies, gently wrapping the bandage around d'Artagnan's head, covering his face from the bridge of his nose to his forehead. When he'd finished, the marksman dropped his hands and looked again at the Spaniard, waiting to see what would happen next.
"You are a doctor?" the rider asked with interest.
"No," Aramis replied, "but I have some knowledge of medicine." The admission was a gamble, and he hoped it might keep them safe since there seemed to be only two options currently open to them – be killed or become prisoners.
The Spaniard nodded thoughtfully, "We have need of a doctor. Will you help?"
The idea of assisting the same men who'd been slaughtering his brothers-in-arms made Aramis' stomach roll, but with his agreement, he hoped to save the Gascon. Rising carefully, he held his hands away from his body in supplication as he replied, "Yes, I'll help."
The man above him gave a dangerous smile, "Good. I am pleased that you are so reasonable." Turning to the other soldiers, he commanded, "Kill the other one."
Aramis' response was immediate as he sprang forward in an effort to attack the Spaniard, but he was caught once more from behind and held tightly. "No," he pleaded, "I won't help you if you kill him. He lives or there's no deal."
The rider took a moment to consider the Musketeer before agreeing, "Very well; he will come with us."
"No," Aramis protested again, needing d'Artagnan to be left behind so that the regiment could find him and bring him back to their camp. "You have no need of an injured man."
The Spaniard was grinning broadly now as he answered, "What you say is true, but I think you will be much more cooperative with your friend's life in the balance." He nudged his horse into motion, swinging it back towards the chateau that towered over their battleground.
Aramis found his arms being bound tightly with rope, and watched helplessly as two others lifted the Gascon from the ground and threw him roughly across the back of the Spaniard's horse. As the beast began to move away, the marksman had no choice but to follow, and he sent up a silent prayer that Athos would forgive him for what he was about to do.