Warning: Violence, mentions of slavery and a bit of gore ahead.
The breeze up there was cooler, the world quiet.
He crossed his arms before him and leaned forward against the balustrade, the stitches at the side of his stomach pulled and the skin on his right wrist prickled where the rope had bit a little tighter. He hoped he hadn't made a mistake by trusting Kitty with Porthos' care or the three that he had left behind with that of Athos and d'Artagnan. As the wind ruffled his hair like a playful lover dark eyes scanned the rolling waves that were lit with the pale glow of the waning moon and the flashing beam from the lighthouse.
"Either speak what's on your mind or let it rest Devereux,"
He didn't have to glance aside to see the surprise on the man's face. Devereux shifted, his boots creating a soggy crunch on the scattered wet straw, that had escaped from the platform above, as he sidestepped the unconscious observer of the watchtower they were in. Aramis could feel his eyes burning holes in the side of his head.
"Why didn't you kill him?"
The Spanish agent his mind supplied, he hadn't missed the frown on Devereux's face when he had insisted to patch up their prisoner, the one Devereux had worked so hard towards convincing the man to talk. In his defense Aramis firmly believed that the pain of setting broken bones and a dislocated shoulder was not far from torture either.
"He told us what we wanted to know," Aramis said.
"He's useless to us now,"
"He is, but our part of the deal was that we'd let him live,"
"He will try to escape," Devereux said.
"And then we kill him,"
The snort was not encouraging. Aramis still didn't look the man's way, not ready to offer him reasons he couldn't understand himself. He knew his decision was delaying the inevitable, knew he was risking exposure of his own identity and Devereux's and he was taking a chance in that they would stop the man's expected escape. Yet he could not order his death simply because he could.
"You should've let me do it,"
"But that's not for you to decide," his tone held a finality to it.
He stood back from the railing, eyes narrowing as he peered over the water and settled far at the ship still ways off from the coast. It would probably take it over hours to make landfall, likely in the middle of the night Aramis guessed.
"There it is,"
Devereux came to stand at his side and followed his line of sight, leaning over the barrier as he squinted in the night.
"You can read the name from this distance?" he asked.
"No, but he didn't give us a name," Aramis smirked, "The 'Señora en el barco.'"
"The lady on the ship," Devereux muttered to himself.
And when next the beam from the lighthouse rolled over it the darker shadow of a woman's figure painted on the white sails became much more defined. It was identification clear and distinct for the harbourmaster the Spanish agent had bought. Devereux watched the galley for a few minutes before he turned to Aramis.
"It'll reach the docks in an hour, two at most," he said.
Aramis raised a brow; he hadn't expected the man to sound so certain.
"I know what I'm talking about,"
"So it seems," Aramis nodded and turned to look at the ship, "we need to slow it down,"
Devereux turned to him, an expectant look on his face that barely hid the mockery behind it. Aramis looked from him to back at the Spanish ship heading their way. As his eyes fell on the various boats and ships docked below a smirk flashed on his face. He walked past the man to the small box the observer kept in the watchtower and pulled out the flint. His companion frowned as he climbed up the ladder to the reach the bales of wet straw on the platform and pulling out a handful he doused it with a pinch of gunpowder from the pouch in his belt.
It caught the spark in a matter of seconds.
Carefully easing the burning straw into the rest of the pile he blew on it to let the flames grow. Satisfied that it would not go out Aramis hopped off the ladder and watched the thick smoke curl up even as the flames began to burn in earnest.
"How does that help us?"
"Flame and smoke here is a signal that a whale had been spotted in the water," he nodded towards the docks where activity was gaining speed, "and the hunters will be off to chase it,"
With so many ships leaving the harbor it would force the Spanish to slow down if not stop completely. Aramis just hoped that his gamble would pay off and in their need for a quiet sneaky entrance the enemy would not blow the whalers' ships out of the water.
"C'mon," he said.
Turned to the unconscious observer and dragged the man down a few steps until he was sure no errant flame from the platform would reach him. Then he was rushing down the wooden staircase with Devereux right behind him and a plan shaping up in his mind. He would need a boat.
Aramis hurried through the men on the beach as orders flew loud and sharp among the sailors and crews readied to take the waters. By the time he had reached the harbormaster there were already ships and boats pulling away from land.
"Look around you, who would be ready to give up a vessel at the moment?" the portly man demanded.
"Oh I don't know, I think I'll take the one you keep in your office here," Aramis stepped into the dimly lit room and towards the enclosure that the beautiful Maria had told him about this evening, "a long, slim one that is said to be the fastest in the land, the one you had bought only last week,"
"How dare you! This is preposterous, a theft I tell you! Robbery!"
"So is selling access to an enemy warship," Aramis rounded on him, eyes glinting in the glow of the lantern the harbourmaster held and teeth flashing in not a smile, "But then I'm a mercenary, I could choose to murder you for it if that's what you prefer?"
He let the silence hang about them, watched the man's face redden, his eyes flicking to the sword and pistols in Aramis' belt, his mouth opening and closing before clicking shut.
"Good," Aramis nodded.
He stepped through the door in the side of the office and found the rowboat he had been looking for, bobbing in the waves that rolled to meet the section of the shoreline partly enclosed by the harbourmaster's office and home. The portly official merely whimpered his protests as Aramis took his lantern, stepped in the boat and began casting off.
He looked up only when he realized that Devereux was watching him, the man hadn't said a word but he was still standing on the shore, making no move to come aboard.
"We're in a hurry if you remember,"
"I'm not coming,"
Aramis sat up straighter.
"Yes you are,"
"I'm not getting on a boat and I'm sure as hell not going aboard a galley,"
There was something beyond the words, in the slight tremor of his voice that told Aramis of a deeper problem. Slowly pieces started falling into place and he winced, wished he had brought Kitty with him.
"I plan to save as many lives as I can but if you don't come with me it may not be a number it could be," his voice was even although his heart ached.
He should have known, should have considered it, Devereux knew about the speed of the galley and he understood Spanish after all. He glanced back at the waters filled with vessels sailing off and prayed that the enemy would slow down, that they would not lose patience and simply clear a path for themselves. His hands didn't shake, his eyes didn't water but in that moment Aramis despised himself as he brought up his pistol and aimed at Devereux.
"Get in," he said.
"No,"
"I won't miss," he said, "you'll die where you stand or you'll face this fear,"
It took a minute that stretched into years but finally Devereux stepped into the boat. Aramis stowed back his weapon and throwing off the last tethering he took up the oars, silently assuring himself that rowing could not be that bad this time around as he fumbled to find the best grip for a second. The right position to sit in needed adjustment and the first few strokes of the paddles were a picture of dissonance. But then slowly as he pulled away from the land the rhythm settled; what he had learned years ago as a young soldier at La Rochelle came back to him in the smooth drag of the paddles.
"I could easily murder you here and throw you overboard," Devereux observed.
Dark eyes studying him in the glow of the lantern as the shoreline disappeared from Aramis' view.
"You wouldn't have come aboard if you hadn't wanted to," Aramis breathed out.
His shoulders ached and so did his chest; sweat beaded his hairline and rolled down his face, trickled down his back and chest. He had forgotten how difficult this was. Or maybe I'm just growing old he told himself, grit his teeth and ignored the man watching him as he glanced towards the galley at his back before turning to face the stern again and rowed with renewed haste.
He growled a curse when Devereux stood up suddenly.
"Get up," said the man.
"What?"
Devereux simply stepped closer to where Aramis sat, towering over him as he bent and grabbing the front of his shirt hauled the man up. Aramis had his pistol out and the muzzle pressed to the man's chest even as he was pulled up, if he were to die he would take his murderer with him. He nearly gasped in surprise when his companion pulled him around so that their places where switched.
Aramis watched Devereux as the man let him go and settled down to take the oars.
"You'll probably bleed out before we reach the galley," he said.
Aramis lowered his pistol and glanced down. What he had assumed to be sweat making his shirt cling was clearly not so, the stain growing from the side of his shirt was darker and reddish even in the little light that they had. Pressing a hand against the cluster of wounds under the bandage he grimaced at the idea of having to put in new stitches and took the place Devereux had abandoned.
"Care to share your plan?" the man rowing asked him.
"We enter through the portholes,"
"The ones where the cannons are,"
Aramis grinned, sharp and harsh.
"Exactly," he said, "we go up and free the people rowing this thing, then blow it up."
Devereux didn't miss a stroke; instead his eyes remained steady on Aramis' face.
"Why free the rowers?" he asked.
It had always been the plan to free those he could before he sank the ship; the smattering of marks on his skin from his Captain's fury at his insubordination when he had done the same in La Rochelle had faded over the years but the humiliation of the punishment still crawled down his spine at the thought of that time. And yet he hadn't regretted his actions even then and Aramis had to wonder if that was what had spurred Treville into a hurry to get him transferred to the man's regiment; wondered if he would have survived this long if Treville hadn't. He looked to the man echoing the same question that his Captain at the time had demanded.
He decided to give the same answer.
"It gives them a fighting chance to survive when this ship sinks,"
Devereux nodded slowly and glanced back over his shoulder. They were getting closer to the Spanish ship and Aramis reached for the lantern to snuff out the flame. For minutes there was only the sound of paddles in the water and the chatter of sailors carried from the various ships in the distance. The shadow of the Spanish galley crept over their boat and Devereux let go an oar to maneuver them to come along its portside.
"People will still die," Devereux's voice was low.
"I know,"
It was a given, a large number onboard this ship would die. Even with so many ships close by to rescue those in the waters the chances of survivors were slim. Aramis watched the galley as they drew alongside; it was a death toll of hundreds looming over him.
"We are soldiers Captain; we follow our orders wherever they lead us. Even to death,"
But this was not following orders, not like when he had blown up the ships in La Rochelle. This was his choice, his decision, his conscience that would take the weight of the lives lost and suddenly he was glad he had forgiven Captain Treville for his part in Savoy. With a shake of his head he pulled himself away from the burden that was settling over him and drew the daggers from his boots; the hilts snug his grip as he positioned to stab the smooth wooden surface to create a handhold.
"You can scale that?" Devereux asked.
Aramis merely snorted lightly as he reached up and stabbed the hull, the wounds in his side pulling again.
"So we free the men then you blow up the ship,"
"I can't take all the credit for that," Aramis smirked, "I'm just bringing a flint; they are the ones hauling gunpowder,"
He blinked open his eyes.
Winced and closed them again, breathed through the churning in his stomach as his head ached and left him feeling like he was sinking in the solid surface that he was lying on. Pulling in a breath he grimaced as his ribs protested against the move but it gave him enough focus to open his eyes again and glance about the room he was in.
It was empty save for a few chairs and lit with two lanterns, one of which was set by his side and shed light on the bandages wrapped around his chest and waist. The lingering ache of a flesh wound underneath pulled at him as he shifted. Rolled onto the side that didn't feel like it would snap under his weight and swinging down his legs he pushed to sit up on the table.
The groan could not be avoided.
"That is not a wise move Monsieur soldier,"
Pressing a hand to his hurting side he craned his neck to watch the woman emerging from the door off to the side behind him. The glow that emitted across the threshold told him she was coming from a kitchen.
"It's Porthos Madame,"
"Charlene," said the woman, "just Charlene,"
She walked up to him, movements slow and poised as her blue eyes studied him with a disturbing intensity. Porthos shifted where he sat; there was something in the way she was looking at him, something almost like fascination in her gaze.
"Thank you for saving my life,"
"That wasn't me," she smiled, "I helped but it was my husband who went in the river after you,"
"A brave man,"
"Reckless more likely," she shook her head.
Perched on a chair, one leg crossing over the other as her eyes drew to the bandages, lingering over the stitches he could feel in the skin at the side of his forehead. Porthos rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, feeling heat rise to his face and caught the woman smile a little at the movement.
"But he seemed to have patched you up alright," she said.
Porthos let his fingers graze the tight thread holding his skin together.
"He did that?"
She nodded, her face splitting in a grin.
"And you stabbed him with a bottle to thank him,"
He grimaced, guilt and regret warring for dominance in his eyes when he met the woman's blue ones. With her elbow on her knee and her chin propped up on her hand she looked up at him as if he was the most interesting tableau on a canvas.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be, I think he learned his lesson to not leave the empty bottles lying about,"
"If I could apologize to the man before I leave –"
"He's sleeping but you can't leave just yet,"
Porthos shook his head and stood up, clutching the edge of the table when his vision wavered slightly. He had wasted enough time as it was; he only hoped that the food supply he was supposed to lead had not turned back when he had failed to reach them. At least with some luck he had reached the place he was supposed to. He let go of the table and forced his knees to take his weight; and that was when he realized that his weapons were missing. He looked up and the young woman rolled her eyes as if she had read his thoughts.
"Your armour is probably resting at the bottom of the river with your weapons belt but your doublet is there," she motioned with her head towards another chair, "your horses are outside,"
Porthos glanced at the chair where his doublet hung; his musketeer pauldron was there too. It was the new one, the one that had been commissioned before they had headed to war, one from the set of four they had ridden out with to Douai. He wondered what Athos had done with the extra one as Charlene got to her feet and picking up the doublet and the pauldron offered them to him.
"Thank you,"
She nodded, perched on the edge of the table and he drew away to shrug on his doublet, very aware of the eyes following his every move.
"You really do need to rest, there are at least two ribs likely cracked and your shoulder was out of joint,"
That explained why it hurt to move his arm. Porthos raised it experimentally and bit back a hiss. The woman tskd and hopped to her feet to get the bag that had been hanging from the same chair where his doublet had been. She grabbed a roll of bandage from it and turned to him, suddenly appearing too close. He stepped back and she grinned.
"One day we'll sit down and I'll explain women to you,"
He shook his head slightly and winced at the pain it caused. It was still better than the hot twinge behind his eyes the thought had brought him.
"Why are you in such a hurry Porthos?"
"I have to meet someone here, official business."
"And that wouldn't happen to do anything with the carts loaded with food that had left the men accompanying them guarding the stables of the Whaler's Inn third street from here?"
Porthos cleared his throat and looked straight ahead at the wall, despite everything he was not ready to trust this woman with what was desperately needed for his brother in arms; it was not something of his to give in trust. And yet he wondered if she had deliberately mentioned the food caravan to help him locate what he had feared lost. Was she helping him, was she sending him into a trap. His head hurt.
He started when Charlene draped the makeshift sling around his neck.
"Do you have a family Porthos?" she asked.
"Three brothers," he said.
Stepped away from her with a nod of gratitude and walked past her towards what he guessed was the main door. The night breeze held the cloying smell of fish oil and he looked up at the curling smoke that swirled in pale light of the moon. Out towards the sea, over the rooftops he could see the glow of a fire blazing atop a tower.
"The hunt is afoot," Charlene appeared in the doorway.
Turning his eyes to the five horses by the trough Porthos took the saddles the woman had brought him and began preparing his ride; Jean's horse beside his own a painful reminder of another soldier lost. He glanced at what looked like damaged wooden equipment and bits of rope at the side of the house.
"Your husband is one of the hunters?" he asked.
"A merchant,"
"At least tell me the name of the man who saved me,"
"Rene,"
He flinched, hand stilling on the girth he was tying up with one of his arms in a sling. He could hear the blood pounding in his veins as his hands curled into fists and something sharp cut into his lungs. He opened his eyes not knowing when he had closed them and let go a slow breath.
"I'm in his debt,"
"He isn't looking to collect,"
Porthos nodded and thanked her again, avoided the curious tilt of her head as he settled in the saddle. It took him a few seconds to find his balance at the new height, his chest tightening against the need to draw in a deeper breath. Adjusting the reins of Jean's horse in the hand hindered by the sling he turned the two animals around.
"Your brothers must be worried for you," Charlene said, "with the war going on,"
"They're both soldiers," he said.
"And the third?"
"What?" he pulled his horse to a stop.
Calmed it without conscious thought as the animal huffed in irritation while he met the blue eyes looking up at him; her serene expression pricked at him.
"You said you had three brothers,"
He did?
Porthos frowned.
"He's dead," he said.
And nudged his horse to a trot, leading the two animals down to the nearest end of the street. He found the Inn where Charlene had said it would be and saw the sentry loitering around the stables before he could read the signboard above the Inn's door.
"I'm Porthos du Vallon of the King's Musketeers here to see your Captain Henri d'Vienne."
Porthos reached for the missive he had tucked in the secret pocket of his doublet the morning before and found himself grasping a lumpy mush. Grimacing he wiped his fingers on his breeches as one of the men with a musket at his back came closer to look up at him.
"And what proof do you have of being a Musketeer?"
Dismounting he stood straighter despite the protest of his wounds and moved closer to the man, face setting in a scowl borne of frustration and worry for his brothers. He was already late in taking the supplies to them.
"And what kind of question is that?" he growled.
Shifted his shoulder just so and frowned; the pauldron was missing from its place and his frown deepened as he realized it was likely left sitting on the table at Charlene's home. Not letting the man see his confusion Porthos grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him forwards, hefted him close and up until the toes of his boots scrapped the ground.
"Now I have a regiment fighting at the border and waiting for the food that you're carrying and I plan to take it to them come bandits, high water or some duke's bought soldiers. So I will ask once more; where is your Captain?"
"I am here,"
It was the man nearest to the door of the stables. Porthos raised a brow, he hadn't imagined the man to be dedicated enough to be guarding the caravan himself. The man before him stepped back as Captain Henri; a silver haired man with dark eyes came forward.
"Porthos is it?"
He nodded.
"I was ambushed by the bandits on the way here, fell in the river and drenched the missive,"
"We heard about them on the road," Henri nodded, "Your Captain sent you out alone?"
"I lost my comrade to the bandits,"
It came out as a snap, his temper irked at what he saw as a jibe to Athos' skill as the Captain. The man before him glanced back at his men in a silent order and turned back to Porthos.
"Alright son, we'll head out with you and we might not be much but the Duke had sent us to get this food to the men at the borders and we will make sure that we do,"
Porthos nodded and mounted his horse again, biting back the gasp as a jolt of pain spread out from his ribs. He handed the reins of Jean's horse to one of Henri's men and turning his horse around he looked over to the Captain.
"I'll meet you at the south edge of the town in fifteen minutes," he said.
And urged his horse into a canter as much as the narrow lanes allowed him, making his way back to Charlene's house. He stopped by the trough, surprise flitting across his face to find no sign of the horses he had left behind. Dismounting and tying his own animal in place he reached for the broken harpoon leaning against the wall of the house. Slowly approached the front door that was left open and stepped quietly into the darkness beyond.
He wondered if the family had gone out but no good reason came to his mind as to why they would do so in the middle of the night, with the house left open and the man of the house injured. Someone or something had drawn them out or, Porthos stopped in the empty main room and looked around, it could be that they were in here and taken hostage by whoever had taken their horses. If that was the case Porthos could not leave without helping them, not least because they had saved his life.
"Charlene?" he whispered.
But only silence replied him.
Except that, there it was again.
A low moan.
Porthos hurried over to the kitchen door and pressing back against the wall he peered inside. The hearth fire was out but the window was open and the curtains not drawn. And there, in the square of the pale light of the waning moon lay an inert figure. Even in the dimness Porthos could tell the dark patch under it was blood. His grip tightening on the broken harpoon Porthos slowly moved ahead. Sprinting with speed and silence that had often surprised his enemies he reached the motionless form, relived for a second that it was not Charlene. It was a man and he wondered if it was her husband as he glanced at the musket shot that had hit the man in the back.
Porthos rolled him over, wincing at the low groan that his action caused. His brows pulled together in a frown at the sight of a face that had clearly taken a recent beating. He leaned forward when the blood stained lips moved, his eyes widening in surprise at finding the breathy murmur to be in Spanish.
"Who are you?" he muttered, straightening as the man stilled.
He looked around him.
There was something odd, something missing that he could feel about the house ever since he had woken up in it and the dying man's Spanish words only added to his suspicion. The stillness about him told of a place abandoned and as Porthos got to his feet it dawned on him that the kitchen held no pots and pans and as he made his way back to the front room his mind finally touched upon the fact that he hadn't come across a single item that would show the place to be lived in. No shoes lying about, no carelessly discarded shirt, no curtains on the window, no cloth on the table. He stopped before the table where his pauldron lay and looked around again, his eyes falling on the foot prints left on the dusty floor before they settled on the handful of bloody bandages tossed with empty wine bottle to the side. Charlene had taken the bandage for his sling from a bag, a supplies bag not a drawer where one would keep such things in a home.
She had lied; his fingers curled against the leather of his pauldron and gooseflesh trailed up his arms.
His first instinct about these people was right, they were likely Spanish spies. Porthos closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, flinching when his fingers grazed the stitches there. He tried to think if he had unknowingly passed on some important information.
"The food caravan," it left him in a hushed whisper.
He rushed out of the house, fearing the safety of the men who had come with the desperately needed supplies for his regiment and stopped short at the echo of a blast that rolled through the night air. The sky was glowing orange far over the sea and as the distant booms rumbled people came stumbling out of their houses. Porthos mounted his horse and rode past the anxious faces and on towards the sea. Pushing through the throngs gathered at the shore he stared at the ball of fire floating over water, flames leaping skywards as the chunks of burning wood fell into the sea and the people stared in awe.
"Was it one of ours?" someone asked.
"I hope not," someone else replied.
But Porthos knew it was a Spanish warship, he knew the sound of exploding bombs and the ferocity with which the gunpowder burned. His eyes scanned the waters for more warships, wondering if there was an armada coming over the dark line of the horizon and yet there were too many boats and ships out to hunt the whale that any one of them could be the one carrying Spanish troops in disguise.
Porthos turned his horse around, the arm in the sling bracing his sore ribs as he urged the animal into a fast canter. He needed to get the supplies safely back to his regiment and report the possibility of an army closing in on them from the back.
"GET DOWN!"
Another hollow boom.
And the men a stride away from him were cut down as if they were a line of paper figures; the tunnel of air shoving him back from them and off of his feet. Athos pushed up to his knees and peered at the darkness above that rained death on them, wiped the blood off from his eyes, refused to acknowledge the taste of it on his lips, the warmth of it on his chilled skin. He steeled himself against the rampant loss of his men as he silently urged d'Artagnan to hurry up. Getting the enemy cannons focused their way was a literal bloody risk.
"How long Captain?"
He glanced over his shoulder at Cornet, noting the ravage look beyond the mud and grime and blood on the young face and suddenly remembered the man as the recruit outside his office with d'Artagnan's message. He looked nothing like that memory of what seemed from a different life.
"A few more minutes," he said.
His voice coming out calmer than he had expected it to be; showing nothing of the horror and utter disgust at the loss of life around him, hinting to none of the crushing weight against his breath that it were his orders that had brought them here.
Cornet nodded and glanced back up at the top of the hill, not mentioning that this is what Athos had replied a few minutes earlier. Athos followed his line of sight and held on tightly to the faith he held in the stubbornness of the young friend he had sent to lead the majority of their men through the wetland on the other side of the hill.
He ducked instinctually when a deafening explosion from above ripped the night air.
And then another.
And another.
And screams, raw and wailing filled the night.
His heartbeat was an anxious presence in his throat, the echo of the blasts reverberating in his bones. But what his mind registered was the pause in the rain of cannonballs, it took him a few minutes but it dawned on him that there were three explosions, three that were different from the ones that had been coming their way.
"The cannons," he whispered, "the cannons,"
He looked up again, noticing the slowing of the fire shooting their way and he knew this was their chance; hoped that it was d'Artagnan who had made from the other side. Scrabbling to find his footing on the slight incline Athos pushed to his feet and raised his sword.
"Charge!" he bellowed, "Charge! CHARGE!"
He was up the last stretch of the slope leading his men in a vengeful wave crashing onto the enemy. Blades and musket shots searched out blood through flesh and Athos carried on cutting through any man that stood against him. His wavering strength reigniting when in the glow of the flames devouring the enemy camp he recognized the faces of the men that he had sent with d'Artagnan.
Pulling his rapier out of the man in front of him he turned to the next.
Only this one threw down his sword, empty hands rising slightly.
Athos blinked, his sword still raised although not lunging for the easily accessible target. His breaths coming in torn gasps he forced his arm steady as he looked from the corner of his eye at the slowing frenzy. On his left, on his right the enemy soldiers were throwing down their weapons, they had for once been outnumbered.
Because we've cut them down to that number Athos realized as he changed his stance, standing at rest as he observed the battlefield. With a tilt of his head he ordered his men to start taking prisoners as his eyes sought the face he had bid farewell to a few hours earlier.
"Captain?"
He blinked at the man suddenly in front of him.
"Have you seen d'Artagnan?"
"No sir, but I can look for him,"
"You do that," he nodded.
Stumbled past the frowning soldier and tried to decipher one grime covered man from the other, he would not look for him among the dead and the dying, not yet, not until he absolutely had to. His eyes snapped up at the soldier who had stepped to his side, it was the same one from before.
"Did you find him?"
"No but Captain –"
"Find him," he ordered.
His stomach clenched, a cutting pain slicing at his insides and he curled an arm around it. It was different from the pain he had suffered when he had withdrawn from consuming his usual amount of wine but had the same intensity, prompting the same swirling need to throw up. His flesh shivered under his skin that felt like a brittle tree bark barely managing to hold it in place.
Athos still walked on, searching, hoping, wanting to find the one brother he knew was with him in the battlefield. His right leg trembled under him, there was pain there somewhere but he hadn't the time for that, not yet, not yet.
He stopped, peering at the soldiers milling about, the victorious and the surrendered all exhausted while the dead and the wounded littered the ground. His eyes settled on the figure coming towards him, armour nearly black in the dim light, but that face, that smile as the man approached him.
"d'Artagnan..." it was a whisper.
And then darkness.
He rubbed at his eyes and winced at the dry itchy feeling of them under his knuckles. Swiping his hand down his face he sat forward in the chair he had been occupying for hours now and studied the man on the narrow cot. Gaze trailing to the bandaged leg where a long row of stitches were hidden under the white linen and tried to forget just how badly the slice in the flesh there had bled, made worse by the fact that the stubborn fool kept walking on it, kept walking when he could have stopped to at least bind the wound, kept walking because he had been searching for him.
D'Artagnan shook his head slowly, forcing himself to not dwell on the moment when his heart had stopped in his chest. A shiver ran down his spine as the vision of Athos crumpling like a marionette without strings flashed before his eyes.
"Should I get Marcel?"
His head felt heavy as he lifted it to look at Alain, the man who had been hovering by Athos' shoulder, who had caught him when the Captain fell, when d'Artagnan was just too far to reach him in time.
"He checked on him an hour ago but with the regiment down to two physicians he has a lot to work with,"
Alain nodded, eyes turning to their unconscious Captain and d'Artagnan let him have his silence. He was simply grateful to watch Athos breathe and reached out to lay a hand on his friend's clammy forehead, it was still a little warm but Marcel had assured him that the fever was only the result of weakness and exhaustion. That much was clear by the sight of the pale face that looked haggard even in unconsciousness, the dark dips under the closed eyes and the sunken cheeks that the beard and the air of authority usually hid were obvious now. Athos never had truly recovered his apatite after the bouts of vomiting he had suffered when he had withdrawn from drinking copious amount of wine. The shortage of food hadn't helped.
D'Artagnan withdrew his hand; fingers grazing over the bandage that covered the path a musket ball had burned at the point where Athos' neck met his shoulder. It had been too close, too close to him losing his brother, if that musket ball had been a little more to the right – his hand curled into a fist and d'Artagnan pulled it back.
"I should have said something," Alain said.
"He would have gone on," d'Artagnan reached for the cloth in the bowl of water by his feet and squeezed out the excess moisture, "even if he had been aware that he was injured."
He dabbed the slightly warm forehead and wiped the ashen face, hoping for a sign of awareness and blinking back tears when there was none.
"I meant about him not eating,"
D'Artagnan closed his eyes, gut churning with guilt because he should have noticed, he should have seen this; should have put a stop to it when his friend had taken to starve himself. He should have known that Athos, the inane noble fool that he was would have taken to cut back on his share of food for his men.
Great lot of good that did them.
Dropping the cloth back in the bowl he drew a sleeve over his eyes and nearly jumped in his seat when heavy steps hurried into the Captain's tent. He turned and stared at the man for long minutes, noting the stitches on the side of his forehead and the arm that was in a sling.
"Porthos,"
He was up and pulling the man in an embrace between one breath and the next. Closing his eyes he reveled in the feel of the arm at his back that instinctually held him close. This was support, this was stability, this was brotherhood.
"Is he…?"
D'Artagnan pulled back with a bark of laughter only just shy of hysteria.
"Alive, and will be on the mend as soon as he wakes up to eat something,"
He saw the implication of his words seep into Porthos' mind; saw his understanding in the grim pursing of his lips and the tightening at the corner of his eyes. D'Artagnan, feeling much more hopeful and steadier laid a hand on his friend's good shoulder and guided him to the chair.
"And what happened to you?" he asked.
Looked back at where Alain had been and realized the man had already slipped out. Pulling close the only other chair he dragged it beside Porthos, squeezing it in the little space that was left near Athos' head. He watched as Porthos reached out to lay his hand on their Captain's chest, saw him close his eyes at the feel of his brother's beating heart. D'Artagnan grasped Porthos' arm that was resting in a sling, his touch light yet solid. And that was how they sat as the big man explained what he had went through and what he had seen.
By the time silence settled again d'Artagnan could feel the unease stirring like an errant breeze through the small tent. He tried not to think what damage an enemy army at their back with one at their front could have cost them. Suppressing a shiver at the stroke of good luck that had destroyed the galley at sea he glanced down at Athos and startled. The bleary blue eyes were open at half mast and staring back at him.
"Athos,"
The man swallowed, winced as d'Artagnan reached for the cup of water he had been keeping at the Captain's desk. Sliding a hand under his brother's head he helped him raise a little to drink the water he pressed to the cracked lips. He wasn't pleased when Athos stopped after just a few sips but eased the man down nonetheless, his fingers lingering over the bandage near his friend's neck. Dark eyes flew to meet tired blue ones when shaky fingers grasped the hand d'Artagnan had been hesitant to retrieve.
A small smile met an understanding crooked one.
"I'll live," Athos said.
"I'll hold you to that,"
"Better yet, we'll make sure of it," Porthos growled.
Athos' brows rose in amusement as much as they did in challenge but worry flashed in his eyes when they took in the sight of the big man.
"What happened to you?"
"Porthos fell in the river and was rescued by a river sprite and her husband who he thinks might be working for the Spanish," d'Artagnan sat back down, hand still holding his brother's, "and he witnessed the result of leaving a lit candle unattended in the gunpowder storage of a warship,"
Athos' eyes rounded.
Porthos chuckled as he gently patted his Captain on the chest.
"Don't worry Athos;" he said, "it'll make sense to you soon enough,"
He sniffled.
Cleared his throat to get rid of the tickling there and sat up straighter in the saddle.
He will not sneeze, he absolutely will not sneeze.
Aramis closed his eyes to tamp down the urge and let his horse follow Kitty's. The wound at his side throbbed mercilessly and each clomp of the steady pace sent a ripple of dull ache through his joints. His dip in the river followed by his dive in the sea had left his head feeling too light and too heavy at the same time, there was also the chance that being thrown back by the exploding hull of the galley was the reason but Aramis didn't want to think about that.
"We could stop for a while,"
He shook his head slightly just as he had when Devereux had offered him the rest the past four times.
"We're almost there," he said.
"We're not in a hurry,"
"I am,"
Devereux gave him a quizzical look but Aramis decided against explaining his need to get to the frontlines quickly, Kitty had told him that Porthos was as good as could be expected after what he had been through but he needed to see it with his own eyes. So he let his horse fall in step with Devereux's and hoped that he was not coming down with a cold. Pinching the bridge of his nose Aramis cleared his throat again before he glanced to the man at his side.
"I was wrong," he said.
Devereux almost yanked his horse to a stop.
"About what?"
Aramis rubbed the back of his neck but turned his head to face the man he owed the apology to. His eyes met the dark confused ones and he made sure that his words were heard clearly.
"I had no right to make you face your fears like I did," he said, "it was needed yes, will I do it again in the same situation? Yes. But I need you to know that I'm aware that I was wrong to force you like that,"
"Is this an apology?" Devereux asked.
Dark brows knitting into a frown, displeasure and vengeance flashing in dark eyes at the thought of those moments.
"It can't be if I don't look to change my actions," his voice was even.
No hint of the disgust that he felt for what he was becoming, for accepting that he had to do what his conscience told him was wrong. He would do what was needed, and live with the shadow that stretched just a bit more as he gave in little by little. But then what was a bit more guilt to add to the mountain he was carrying anyway? Aramis let his gaze drift back to the trail they were following, it would lead him back to his brothers at least as far as he allowed it. Silence settled over them as the sun rose steadily in the sky, where for once there seemed to be no cloud on the horizon.
"I was a soldier in their army until I was told I had stolen from the crown," Devereux said, "was thrown into a ship's belly to serve ten years, I did four,"
Aramis inclined his head, listening yet not asking for more.
"Down there I saw the ones they had bought, watched them slowly wither away in their shackles," he looked straight ahead, "They hadn't the hope that I had; for it all to end if I survived and still I couldn't take it. Escaped the first proper chance I got. But only few of them survived to try that; for them that was it. That was their lives."
"Men are born free. No-one has the right to make slaves of them,"
"Yes, but the real world isn't driven by romantic notions of freedom, is it? It's driven by commerce. And I'm a trader. That's all. I deal in commodities."
"A man is not a commodity," Aramis echoed his friend.
"In our world they are," Devereux said.
And Aramis found them grating against the soldier in him that he had assumed lost. The soldier who had believed in honour, in serving the crown, a crown he trusted to be just when Athos was accused for murder, when Bonnaire was brought forward for his crimes, when Porthos was framed for murder but he had only seen a mockery of it, seen it floundered and used to serve the purpose of those who were in the position to do so. He had believed himself outgrown that expectation but now suddenly he found it pushing back.
"That will change, for the better," he was surprised by the conviction in his own voice.
"A man of faith eh?"
Aramis shrugged, not dwelling on it and by the silence that followed he thought that was the end of it. But then the man at his side turned his head to look at him. He met the gaze that lingered on him and Devereux' shoulder rose in half a shrug.
"It's like you said, I wouldn't have come aboard if I hadn't wanted to Captain," he said.
"Rene,"
Devereux smirked.
"Of course,"
The sound of a sharp whistle brought his attention to the woman ahead of them. When the softer tone replied a few minutes later Aramis let go a breath he didn't know he was holding. He had just dismounted when two young men bounded up to him, covered in dirt and drying blood although the patches of clean skin proved some effort had been made to get rid of it. Bazin and Planchet stopped just short of pouncing on him with their wide grins and eyes alight with excitement.
"Captain you should have seen it!"
"I've never heard anything like it before!"
"It was so loud –"
"– and the air just –"
"– BOOM!"
"–WHOOSH!"
"Lads," Aramis shook his head slightly and looked them up and down for any sign of injury, "what did you do?"
"It wasn't us," Planchet shook his head.
"It was Mousequeton," Bazin added.
Aramis turned to regard the narrow faced man who shrugged a shoulder.
"Our charges decided to launch a surprise attack in the dead of the night," he said, "I blew up the Spanish cannons,"
And suddenly his blood chilled in his veins. He stumbled back a little, coming to a stop against his horse. Aramis cleared his throat for a completely different reason than the cold from his adventures in water. He nodded slowly as he looked from one man to the other.
"Anyone of you injured?" he asked.
"Cuts and bruises," Planchet said.
"I'll go and check on the regiment then," he said.
Turned towards the path they had traced through the copse of trees to the west, it would take him longer to get there but provide a better cover for observation. He had only taken a few steps when a hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced at the woman who was frowning at him.
"Do I need to keep an eye on you?" she asked.
"You know I wouldn't expose us,"
Blue eyes studied him, there was something there ever since she had met them on the shore to tell them that the soldier had left her care to meet the food caravan and she had killed the escaping spy, and no, the man they had recued hadn't witnessed it.
"No," she shook her head and let him go, "you wouldn't,"
Aramis didn't question her thoughts, surprised to find himself trusting her to explain whatever bothered here when she thought it was the right time. Instead he made his way through the trees, trekking across the still damp ground until he finally neared the Musketeer camp. Choosing the right tree came easily to him, climbing the same tree proved difficult with his aching body and torn stitches. He would have to redo them soon Aramis reminded himself as he braced a hand over the bandage tied low around his stomach and settled onto one of the sturdier branch. And then he watched like an eager child awaiting a gift.
And a gift it was, an exquisite torture and a bone melting relief, just to see the men he called brothers safe for one more day when they faced death so often.
As though summoned by his searching eyes his brother's emerged from the Captain's tent, Athos moving slowly as he leaned onto d'Artagnan while Porthos brought up the rear. He watched the way the other Musketeers made way for them, dereference clear in their movements as they made room for the three by the fire.
"Porthos needs your loyalty now more than ever,"
As his finger traced the rope burn on his wrist Aramis watched his brothers settle in the sunshine that had been denied to them for quite some time.
"And you shall have it," he murmured, "all three of you, always."
TBC
The longest chapter yet!
Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank You guest reviewers Debbie, Jmp and Guest for taking the time to leave me your thoughts.
A/N: Okay, now I know you all are waiting for the resolution of this plot and I can promise you it will come (in all its angsty glory) but I don't want anyone to feel betrayed, or disappointed at the end of this story so at the risk of losing the interest of you lovely readers in this fic I just want to clarify that these are the chronicles set in the four year gap between season 2 and 3. It will eventually lead to the first episode of season 3 and the entire plot is basically in 3 Acts, the one-shot before this being the 1st, this being the 2nd and then there will be a 3rd. So...yes, there you have it; I just didn't want anyone to feel let down when this fic ends. Thank you for all your kind words and amazing support!