Once again, your reviews and follows make my day. My sincere thanks to everyone bothering to read this.

A/N Hollywood physics (as opposed to the real stuff that really wouldn't work for most stories) applies in this chapter.


A Simple Mission

Chapter 6

L'Ensors. Around midday.

Treville knelt, regarding the face of the body lain on the improvised bier of straw. His subordinates stood just behind him both making sure they had a clear view of the corpse.

None of them said a word.

Treville and Athos both managed impressively impassive masks at the sight before them. Porthos could not.

He turned and walked through the open stable door and to the side. Bracing his back against the solid wooden wall, he slid down to a crouch and ran his hands over his face to compose himself. As he opened his eyes again, he found himself looking straight into a pair of concerned blue orbs.

"Monsieur...Porthos...?" Bastien approached and reached out a hand cautiously. Porthos grabbed it, realising what the boy must think.

"It's not him," he almost whispered. "It's not Aramis."

The boy smiled broadly. Porthos envied him his freedom to do so, feeling guilty that he himself was so relieved, even happy, when a young man, a recruit to his regiment, lay dead just a short distance away.

He'd left the barn because he hadn't know how to react when he'd seen who was lying there: Despite his protestations that Aramis couldn't be dead there'd been part of him that was ready for Athos to be right and now he wasn't sure what to think.

Standing up again, he drew a deep breath.

"I'd better get back..." The short break leaving him feeling more capable of dealing with whatever the situation was, he moved to return inside.

"So where's Aramis?" Bastien asked with a directness so typical of youth.

That knot of dread which had inhabited Porthos since the previous night and had temporarily loosened when the blanket was withdrawn, tightened again full force at the question. In some ways they knew less now than they had before.

He squared his shoulders and made a solid effort at a reassuring smile for the youngster's benefit:

"That's what we're going to find out."

TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM

26 hours earlier.

It would have been extremely unlikely that Aramis could have fully explained exactly what happened next if he'd ever needed to.

He was only briefly aware of the thrashing mess of limbs and rubble plummeting to the bottom of the ravine in front of his eyes before the earth beneath him, previously tethered by the deep roots of the oak, began at long last to also give way.

The collapse was in no way as precipitous as the other men's fall but it was, nonetheless, unstoppable.

Instinct took over. Releasing the pistol and drawing his weakened, and slightly numbed left arm, in toward his body, he managed to turn on the increasingly insecure footing. The ancient oak seemed to hang at an odd angle for several seconds as the remainder of its roots made a futile attempt to hold it secure: He used that time to haul himself to the other side of the toppling trunk.

Completely shrouded by the clouds of debris and dust rising from all sides, Aramis pushed off from the unstable platform and threw himself in the general direction of where he hoped some unaffected land remained just as the oak finally tore free of its moorings and began its terminal descent at an angle.

As it did so, its roots arced over to one side like the spokes of a cartwheel, one collided with him mid-leap, smashing into his already injured arm and causing his hand to spasm involuntarily: He was vaguely aware of something slipping through his fingers but could only concern himself that he was starting to rotate in mid-air with nothing solid, as yet, within reach.

Blinded and half-choked, he connected sideways on with something firm, ribs first. Unable to breathe, he reached, unsighted, with his right hand and found some fragile purchase. For an agonising few moments his entire weight was hanging on his fingertips as his feet kicked at empty air until he eventually managed to force his weary left hand to join its partner with a determination that could only be found in those fighting for their very lives.

His fingers worked their way desperately into small hollows formed by what the minimal vision he had confirmed to be earth compacted and secured by a tight, fine root system from the dense thicket of trees and undergrowth which formed one end of the clearing. A brief look upwards, as the flow of debris finally slowed, informed him he was only around a man's height from the top.

Aware that the landslide was exhausting itself and, more to the point, that, should he still be here when Climence and the others decided it was safe to return, he would present an easy target, he summoned what was left of his rapidly waning energy and commanded his tiring limbs to propel him up that short distance.

It wasn't far but it felt like a mountain as, more than once, soil crumbled from under his fingers and he had to hastily seek a better grip. When, finally, he managed to raise himself enough to dig a booted foot into a small gap and push himself upwards more rapidly, that last short distance felt interminable before he finally found himself scrambling on to level ground once more.

Exhausted, he all but dragged himself into an uncomfortable but reassuringly dense cocoon of the forest's undergrowth. With the last of his reserves he pulled his legs in after him and rolled slightly further into the relative safety the scrub afforded him, ignoring the stabbing and scratching of some of the more robust flora.

For the next few moments, he lay completely still, focussed only on forcing himself to breathe and the fact that, somehow, he was still alive.

As the noise of the subsidence lessened and he fully recognised that he was, in fact, on safe ground he took a moment to offer a brief prayer of gratitude that in a world where there was a general paucity of miracles he appeared to have just been the beneficiary of one.

The sound of horses and angry, dismayed exclamations drew him back fully to his current situation. The most strident voice among those who'd just re-entered what was left of the clearing was instantly recognisable as that of Climence.

He considered trying to move to obtain a better vantage point but realised almost immediately that, while they couldn't see him where he was, any movement amidst the undergrowth would be bound to attract attention. Judging from what was being said, they clearly believed he'd been lost among the rubble, along with their comrades.

At the back of his mind, he could hear Athos' soft, reasonable tones offering strategically sound advice as though the man was right next to him:

"Don't waste what little advantage you have. You can never be safer than when someone thinks you're no longer a threat. You're injured and could not get close enough to use your sword against so many. Just gain what information you can for now."

Aramis wondered if the more rational side of his brain was just giving him the instructions he needed to hear in a voice it thought he might actually listen to, but the point was a good one: His body was reporting a catalogue of minor but, certainly, painful injuries and he had to accept that, for the time being, he was in no shape to fight five men no matter how unskilled they were nor could he hope to employ the element of surprise with any movement likely to draw their attention.

In conclusion, any action that could potentially reveal his position at the moment would be tantamount to suicide: Gritting his teeth in frustration at his forced inaction, he listened intently to the activity so very close by.

Initially, when he heard the instructions to rig up a rope, he thought they may be trying to recover one of the bodies but, from the complaints of whoever had been told to volunteer for the job of being lowered down the treacherous incline, it quickly became evident that they intended to retrieve something else.

In fact, to his disgust, not once did he hear any of them express any distress or concern at their fallen men, only their own fears and recriminations that it could have been them.

"If you don't get down there and get it, you'll get paid nothing." Climence's manner was harsh and unsympathetic despite the man's obvious misgiving.

"The bag," Aramis groaned inwardly. He'd assumed it was buried but, from what he could hear, it sounded like it had got caught up on something, probably some part of the fallen tree, and was, at least, visible if not easily accessible:

"There will be a better opportunity than this to retrieve the letter. Just stay alive now," Athos spoke again in his head.

Aramis was inclined to tell his inner Athos to shut up and mind his own business. He wasn't used to being in situations where there was absolutely nothing he could do and his own powerlessness annoyed him to the point where he was close to behaving completely irrationally and hang the consequences.

Except there was still his mission. While that bag and its contents existed so did the task with which he'd been entrusted and, reluctantly, he had to accept that his better judgement was right: Any course of action that had no good chance of success would, effectively, hand Climence and her men victory.

His irritation caused him to clench his painfully scratched and bleeding hands into fists as he continued to monitor the, increasingly aggravated, dialogue.

"Well why don't you go down there and get it then. I bet you and Bouchier are taking the lion's share anyway..."

"Yeah, just a quick job you said. Dispose of a couple of messengers and we'll be on our way..."

"Nobody said anything about 'em being musketeers...should be double-pay for killing musketeers..."

Aramis heard the instantly recognisable sound of pistols being prepped to fire.

"One more word from any of you and you'll all find yourselves down there with yer mates and we'll still get paid." It was the man who'd appeared to have been giving orders prior to Climence's arrival. The musketeer assumed that was Bouchier.

After what seemed like an age filled with numerous complaints, the unwilling individual tasked with the perilous descent succeeded in retrieving the bag and was hauled back up.

Aramis keenly noted the general air of recalcitrance and dissatisfaction among the hired men during the whole process: He mentally filed the information under 'useful'. There was good reason to suspect their morale was sufficiently poor that it wouldn't take much to cause real trouble within the group.

The bag's recovery accomplished, it wasn't long before Climence's ruthless tones started barking her orders again.

"Two days and you'll all be paid in full. Now we get everything cleared up and then get on our way."

Aramis wondered how many would make it to collecting the financial reward they were anticipating given the general lack of regard their employer had shown for those working for her so far.

"A lot fewer if I have anything to do with it," he thought, finally daring to move as he heard their horses depart.

TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM~~TM

L'Ensors. 25 hours later.

Porthos returned to the interior of the barn, his face a mask of professionalism.

If either Treville or Athos felt the need to question his previous action, neither voiced it. Indeed, the briefest of nods from Athos suggested he understood his friend's behaviour exactly.

"So how did he die?" Porthos queried with a steady voice.

"A single gunshot wound to the heart. Died instantly. " Athos, succinct as ever.

"The absence of other wounds suggests he didn't even have a chance to even defend himself." Treville's tone was even but bitter. Even though he understood and even shared the other two's relief as to the corpse's identity to some extent, this was still one of his men for whom he was responsible and losing anyone assigned to the regiment never got any easier.

Porthos regarded the body. He looked so young in death and, whether he'd known him well or even at all, it was still a terrible waste.

The man's hands had been crossed over his chest, his doublet slightly opened halfway down to allow them to be tucked in securely. However, between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, he noticed something odd: A small piece of linen was protruding, oddly untidy on a body that had clearly been treated so respectfully. He stepped forward to investigate further.

Treville had withdrawn to stand by Athos and consider their next step.

"This doesn't answer why Edouard was wearing Aramis' pauldron?" The Captain addressed the question to neither of his men in particular.

Porthos ran his hand over the pauldron in question, he'd kept it strapped securely to his belt ever since it had come into his possession, and grinned as he stepped back with the cloth in his hand.

"To ensure we'd get this."

He presented the small square of white fabric of the type usually kept for dressing wounds. On it was stained a single word:

"Auchonne."

TBC