AN: Slightly shorter chapter today because I am emotionally shattered by the How I Met Your Mother series finale. Seriously, two finales in two days was not fair. C'mon universe. If there are any mistakes in this, I apologize, but I'm too tired to edit it as closely as usual. Anyway, this chapter is mostly just setting up the next one, but hopefully the end will bring a smile to your face. Soon we'll see Porthos confront Aramis on his actions and the Cardinal's guards get their comeuppance.


"YOU TOLD ME HE DID NOT CONFESS!"

She had barely made in through the doorway before the Cardinal's hand was fastened around her throat like a vice. He slammed her against the wall viciously, cracking her head against the hard stone. She fought the urge to slip a knife between his ribs. It would be oh so easy with him blinded by rage. It took all of her self-restraint not to kill him this very moment, but she still needed him. She wondered if he planned on filling her in on what exactly had occurred. From the anger radiating off her employer, something had gone badly wrong.

"The Musketeers delivered a sealed confession to the king! He pardoned his man instantly!" The Cardinal was seething, eyes bright like coals in the flickering light. He looked half-crazed, nothing like his usual poised self.

She struggled to speak around the hand at her throat. "He's alive?"

The Cardinal released her, spinning on his heel and pacing the length of the room. "What does it matter if he is alive? The king's sympathies lie more strongly with Treville now than ever before! My entire plan is ruined, my very person was at risk, and all you can think about is your petty revenge!"

"Is he or isn't he?" she demanded. She didn't want to push him when he was like this, but she had to know.

The Cardinal whirled to glare at her balefully, stalking back towards her. "Yes, he's alive, it would seem, and already there are questions about his treatment at the hands of my guards. According to your beloved Athos, he was assaulted in his cell! The king has proposed an inquisition into the matter!" She noticed his hand clenching convulsively, clearly itching to wrap around her neck once more. She eyed him cautiously but held her ground. If he touched her again, she would kill him, patronage be damned.

But he didn't. He simply stopped in the middle of the room, glaring at the wall above her head as if it had done him some personal injury. "You assured me the Comte did not confess. You swore he was dead!"

"He was!" she shot at him, monitoring his reaction. "I was watching through the window. He wrote nothing at all before I killed him. He did not even finish speaking."

"Then where did the confession come from!" Richelieu bellowed.

She curled her lip, eyeing him distastefully. "I would imagine it was a forgery," she told him, keeping her voice even. "Athos has a fine hand and very few morals where his friends are concerned."

"You should have killed the Comte before he ever had the chance to speak with them! If it was a forgery, it was based off of his testimony. He might have implicated me! You stupid, incompetent woman!" He took a step toward her and she tensed, making sure he saw the motion. He paused, clearly unwilling to risk the argument turning physical. He was no fool: he knew she could kill him in a fight. It would do him no good if his guards dispatched her afterwards. He would already be dead.

"You will silence the Comtesse immediately," he breathed, fury written across his face. "I do not know how much she was told, but we cannot risk her revealing my hand in this."

She nodded at him and turned to go. The Cardinal stepped forward and grabbed her arm. "And know this, Milady," he hissed. "If I go down for this debacle, I will take you with me. And if you fail me again," his hand tightened painfully, "I will have you killed in the most violent way I can imagine, and my imagination is excellent. I have read Dante's Inferno. I will show you suffering you could never dream of."

She refused to show fear. Rather than dignify the threat with a response she simply glared at him until he released her. She passed down the hallway silently, heading directly for the wing of the palace that housed the Comtesse de Mironne. She had poisons with her, as always. It would be a simple enough matter to tie up the loose ends.

As she walked, she fought to keep her expression blank in case anyone were to see her. Inwardly, she fumed. The first step of her revenge had ended in utter failure. Aramis was alive and Athos was not lying half-dead in a tavern, drowning in grief and guilt. She ought never to have trusted the Cardinal to help secure her revenge. It was time she took matters into her own hands.

It was the work of a few moments to arrange for a tray of sweet buns to be sent to the grieving Comtesse as an early breakfast, and the blink of an eye was all the time she needed to add a deadly powder to the Comtesse's goblet. For good measure, she dusted more over the buns themselves. She'd seen the trouble caused by sloppiness.

Her work done, she crept away, mind buzzing with plans. She needed to go see Sarazin and set in motion the final stage of her plot. She had planned to kill Athos's two older friends first, but it seemed too difficult now. She would not take revenge in gradual steps, not again. No, this time, her revenge would be swift and absolute.


If Athos was surprised at the sight that greeted them when they entered the room, he didn't show it. One eyebrow may have risen in faint astonishment, but what did that matter? The unorthodox position that Porthos was currently occupying was of little concern compared to the fact that it was evidently allowing Aramis to breathe more easily than he had since they had first rescued him.

Porthos glared daggers at D'Artagnan beside him, clearly daring the boy to breathe a word about his new occupation as a human pillow. A quick glance showed he was fighting to contain a smile, but Athos sensed it was relief, not amusement, that was lighting the younger man's features.

Porthos was sitting slouched on the bed with his back against the headboard, looking tremendously uncomfortable but unable to move due to the fact that Aramis had managed to sprawl across most of his body, twisted half onto his side with his face pressed against Porthos's chest and one hand tangled in his shirt. His breathing was still strained and ragged, but it was missing the desperate edge it had the night before, and even from the doorway Athos could see that the bandages around Aramis's neck were looser. The swelling was going down.

Athos stepped softly over to the bed, examining Aramis's neck, which was returning to a healthy skin tone at last. "You should probably get up," he whispered to Porthos as D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder. "The doctor will arrive shortly."

"I'd love to," Porthos whispered in return. "But I can't make him let go." To demonstrate his point, he tugged gently on Aramis's arm. The sleeping man made a sound of protest and curled further against him, fist clenching in his shirt. "See? You've got to help me!"

"I suppose the doctor might think it rather unusual," Athos conceded, "but you are hardly in mortal peril." D'Artagnan sniggered but Porthos shook his head, looking frantic.

"It's not that," he hissed, turning imploring eyes up at them. "I really need to piss!"

D'Artagnan had to leave the room before his muffled laughter woke Aramis. Athos himself fought back a smile, his own heart unusually light with relief at the sound of Aramis's steadier breathing. He tried to gently pry Aramis off of Porthos's chest, but the man was like a leech. He didn't want to hurt him, but he had to get him off somehow or everyone would become very uncomfortable. Eventually he levered Aramis up enough for Porthos to slip out from beneath him and disappear out the door. He heard D'Artagnan break into fresh laughter as Porthos pounded by.

Athos lay Aramis gently back onto the bed, mindful of his injuries. He smiled fondly as Aramis tried vainly to curl into warmth that was no longer there, reaching out to brush dark curls from his friend's forehead.

Porthos and D'Artagnan reentered a few minutes later, followed by the doctor who had tended to Aramis the previous night. Athos and D'Artagnan stood back as the man checked Aramis's injuries with a critical eye. Porthos, who had apparently forgotten the meaning of the phrase 'personal space,' hovered anxiously over the man, watching the proceedings. There was a look of intense guilt on his face that gave Athos pause. He would be having a serious conversation with Porthos when this was over about blaming oneself for things entirely out of one's control.

At last the doctor unwound the bandages from Aramis's neck. Athos winced at Porthos's stricken expression as he bent over, cursing softly. A vivid red line encircled Aramis's throat, scabbed in places where the rope had chafed away at his flesh. The entire area was puffy and swollen, with bruises spreading across the skin as if they had been painted on. From the corner of his eye, he could see that D'Artagnan looked vaguely ill and was staring fixedly at a long shallow cut scored lengthwise across the line.

After a moment, the doctor smiled. "He is healing well," he announced. He must have noted the incredulous look in Porthos's eyes, because he nodded and continued, "The swelling is going down already, and the cuts are not particularly deep. The scarring will be minor."

Athos fought an urge to vomit at the words. Aramis would bear a scar just like the one his wife surely bore. It would mark him forever, and he was vain enough that he would hate it. He would try to hide it. Athos thought of the ribbon around Anne's neck. His ears were ringing and he struggled to hear the doctor's next words.

"It will be some time before he is fully mended. He must have absolute bed rest. Do not allow him to become agitated or upset until his breathing has settled. He should also not be allowed to speak for a week. I do not believe his speech will be affected, but it is better to be safe than sorry. No solid food until the swelling is completely gone. He may have broth, and honey will sooth his throat if it aches within. I will leave you herbs to brew tea for the pain."

He laid out a few packets on the table before glancing up at Porthos. "And you, young man, these are for you," he said as he placed another bundle beside the first. "I can see you are injured. These will help."

He bustled out before Porthos could protest or Athos could offer him any money, calling back that he would return the following afternoon. They all stared after him in a stunned sort of silence. The old man was a force of nature.

It was D'Artagnan who spoke first. "He's going to be all right." His voice was soft, disbelieving. Then again. "He's going to be all right." His face broke into a broad smile as he repeated it for a third time, and Athos found himself echoing it with no reservations. Porthos grinned like a madman, and in moments they were all laughing with abandon. Any attempts to stifle their joy and not wake Aramis served only to make them louder, and soon they were collapsing through the doorway into the hall, clutching one another to keep upright, laughing until tears rolled down their faces.

We may all be insane, Athos thought dryly, but he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered. They had won. Aramis was going to live, and they deserved to have a laugh. God only knew when they would get another.


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