Athos

He followed Porthos. His friend seemed to accept his presence-or perhaps he was not really paying attention. They left the garrison and went out into the dark, wet Paris night. The lights in the windows of the taverns seemed to promise warmth and comfort.

An hour ago, Athos had thought it certain that all four of them would spend the evening gathered around a table with a few bottles of good wine. Athos had planned for the bar tab to be on him, as a sort of apology. But all of that had just been a dream. It was more than likely that the four of them would never spend an evening together again. No! Athos refused to accept that thought. Aramis and d'Artagnan had to be alive! Whatever it took, they would find them.

A dark silhouette suddenly appeared in front of Porthos. Athos put his hand on the hilt of the sword as the dark shape stopped in front of his brother.

"Flea!" whispered the dark skinned musketeer.

"I knew you would be looking for me. Aramis and d'Artagnan are no longer in Paris. We found the cart that took them from the capital. Another one was waiting outside the city limits. Then the second cart got on the main road, so it was impossible to track them any further."
"Do you know who captured them?"
"No, no one saw them. These men knew when to strike. Porthos… they wanted them alive. So I think it is likely that they are still alive."
"Thank you, Flea, if you…"

She snorted in irritation.
"If I find out anything, I'll come looking for you." She kissed him. Porthos handed her something. She gave him a sad smile, then disappeared.

Porthos' eyes were bleak when he turned his gaze towards Athos. They returned silently to the garrison. Athos was quite surprised that Porthos decided to follow him to his room, and could not figure out why.

Normally, they would sit together in order to have the comfort of a friend. However, things were strained between them. Athos sunk onto the bed, a bottle of wine in his hand.
Porthos sighed, and took away the bottle from him.

"We need to be sober. Try to get some sleep. I hope we will know where to go tomorrow."
Athos stared at Porthos, a bit startled by his words. However, he had no strength left for a discussion.
Porthos took some blankets and laid down on the floor. Athos knew he was right. They needed rest.

D'Artagnan was curled around Aramis. Both men were still, lying on the floor of a cellar. There was a smell of death in the small room. Athos could not force himself to enter. Porthos went in without him, and fell on his knees near their friends' bodies. He gently stroked Aramis' bloody hair.

"Leave, Athos," he said, not looking at his comrade. "Leave me here-just like you left them behind."
"Porthos-" he choked.
The dark skinned musketeer gently drew the decomposing body onto his lap, his tears spilling onto Aramis' face.
"Just leave…"

"Athos?! Damn it, wake up!" Porthos was shaking him. He awoke, gasping for air.
"Why are you here?" he asked, not really alert.

"We will find them, and we will save them," Porthos murmured. "Athos… I am still angry with you but I DO NOT hate you. I hate the men who captured them. Are we good now? Can we work together to find them?"

Athos looked at him, amazed at how simple it was. He felt genuinely relieved that Porthos did not hate him. He had dealt with his friend's anger before, and knew he could handle that. After all, he deserved it. However, he knew he could not cope with Porthos' hatred.

They sat together, not ready to succumb to another round of nightmares.

They were standing by the gate before dawn. The search parties were returning without any leads. Their fellow musketeers avoided their eyes, conversations trailing away. They were not grieving openly-not yet-but Athos knew there was only a slim chance that they would find their brothers alive after so many days.

Two groups had still not returned. Tréville seemed to be quite anxious about them, judging by how often he was on his balcony instead of inside, taking shelter from the rain.
Athos desperately hoped that one of the missing groups had found a lead worth tracking down.

"Athos!" A shout startled him. His eyes snapped open as a rider jumped off his horse, the poor beast swaying from exhaustion.

"Pierre?!" He was shocked to see Louise's nephew.

The boy took a moment to catch his breath. He was covered in mud, and had difficulty standing on his own feet. However, Athos did not see any blood on him.

"It's Aramis! Monsieur Aramis! I found him in the cellar of that old church-the same one he was in before!. Aunt Louise sent me to fetch you as his condition is… serious."
"How bad is he?" Porthos' voice was shaking.
"We are not sure… when he regained consciousness, he fought against my aunt. He would not allow anyone to come near him."
Athos cursed under his breath. A panicked Aramis was a very dangerous Aramis. He could only hope that his friend would not hurt the people who wanted to help him. If he did, the guilt would destroy him.

"There is something else."
Athos did not notice that Tréville had joined them. "What is it?" he asked quietly.
"There is a bloody bandage covering his eyes," Pierre answered, his voice uneasy.

Athos felt as if he was very close to collapsing on the spot.

"Athos, Porthos-you will leave immediately!" Tréville voice was rough. "Take Nuit and Orage. You will need to change horses during your ride. In the morning, I will send Etienne with several musketeers in order to search for d'Artagnan. Bring your brothers home."
"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

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