A/N: Hi everyone! Well, dang. We're almost done with this one! So. A few quick things. I feel like this chapter needs a slight warning for the violence. The fight scene isn't necessarily over-the-top graphic, but it's still pretty brutal.
I feel like people are either really going to love this chapter or really hate it. Any type of feedback is great, even if you didn't like it much, so don't be afraid to say what you really thought about it.
The next (and final!) chapter is written but definitely needs to be revised and looked over again, so don't expect it for a few more days.
HUGE thanks to everyone who is reading this one. I really, really hope you're liking it so far. The reviews are beyond awesome, and it's amazing to see your take on the story. Someone mentioned something about the awesome plot twists in one of the reviews, and that really got me thinking about what I could do for the ending. I hope I've done alright, but we'll see.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Namaste :)
At the noise, Aramis opened his eyes and looked at his friends with a mixture of disbelief and hope.
Bastian hid his reaction well, although inwardly, he realized the moment had finally come.
"Back down to your cells," he said, looking at the door and gesturing at them with a gun he pulled from his belt. "Now."
The guards came forward and grabbed the musketeers from behind. They were hoisted roughly up, and then marched back down the stairs.
Bastian waited until they were downstairs before going over to the table. He picked up two pistols and checked to see that they were loaded.
He tucked them into his belt, along with several knives, and hurried to a different room which was void of all furniture save for a narrow, mullioned window. The ancient glass was broken in several places. Peering out, he met the sight with the calm gaze of a man who has courted death for many years.
In the gathering darkness, he spied about twenty horses that had appeared from the wood line surrounding the fortress. They all rode swiftly, and the multitude of hooves tramping the ground created a sound like distant thunder.
Bastian's sharp eyes turned to the riders and he recognized the light cloak of the King's musketeers on almost every horseman.
He moved away from the window and strode from the chamber, thinking of the things he would need for the coming battle.
Running downstairs, he made his way to the entrance of the prison. He extinguished all the torches, and the massive entry room was plunged into darkness. He moved to the door, heedless of the encroaching black, and threw it open.
Silvery light from the softly winking stars leaked into the room from the open doorway. Bastian smiled to himself and went towards the back of the room to wait, moving like a cat in the darkness.
On the long walk through the corridor back to their cells, Porthos, who was leading the group, cleared his throat. Unsurprising, considering the amount of grime and dust in the air. Still, the musketeers looked at him, and he shot them a look that they recognized immediately from countless missions. Be ready.
They took a few more strides until they were a sufficient distance from the landing and stairwell. Porthos shook out his hands lightly, making the manacles and chains rattle.
The others understood the signal, and all four soldiers immediately burst into a flurry of energy. D'Artagnan spun, quick as a wild dog, hit the brute behind him squarely in the nose with a heave of the manacles still weighing down on his hands.
The guard dropped to his knees with a pained grunt, eyes watering with agony and blood spilling down his face. The young musketeer pulled his fist back again and hit the thug in the temple, watching his eyes roll back into his head and collapse to the ground.
Aramis had spun around and somehow gotten the chains wrapped around his adversary's neck. He also buckled slowly to the ground, face turning a mottled purple from lack of oxygen. Aramis released him, but the thug was already unconscious.
Porthos had simply brought down his large fist on top of his guard's head as hard as he could. The man had dropped to the ground without a sound, perhaps already dead. He rummaged through the man's pockets, wincing as he jostled his broken right hand, and took out a bundle of flint and steel. None of the men were carrying weapons.
Athos alone was struggling with his opponent, hands scrambling to fight against the powerful blows from the man's ox-like strength. Aramis and d'Artagnan sprang onto the man, taking him to the ground and dispatching him with a sharp blow to the temple.
Porthos steadied Athos' shaking figure as the others straightened up. They all paused to catch their breath and looked at each other grimly in the dim light.
"We need to leave," Aramis finally said, affirming what they were all thinking. They headed back down the corridor, according to where Porthos led them. Bastian had blindfolded them when they had left the fortress for the disastrous mission, but Aramis had counted the steps.
Aramis and Porthos led the small group and talked quietly to concur on the way out. D'Artagnan followed, with Athos leaning heavily on his arm.
They took a left turn down the seemingly endless stone corridor, and Aramis felt a cold draft of air.
"There was another turn somewhere," he murmured, frowning as he peered around him.
"There," Athos said weakly, gesturing to an unlit passageway to their right.
They advanced and were plunged into near-complete darkness. D'Artagnan was struck with the sudden, irrational fear of wandering alone in the labyrinthian tunnels.
They moved as quickly as they could, trying to be quiet lest Bastian hear them. In the darkness, every sound seemed amplified.
Each step was an earthquake; each panted breath was a massive gust of wind that threatened to give away their position.
Porthos was leading, when he heard a scuffling sound from somewhere off to his right. He stopped, and the others followed suit.
They all listened in the darkness, huddled close and straining to hear anything.
A piece of stone fell from the crumbling walls and echoed sharply on the floor, from behind them. They all spun, peering in vain through the blackness surrounding them all.
D'Artagnan breathed out, willing his heart to quiet. Suddenly, he sensed a shape come out of the darkness beside him.
A large pair of hands closed around his throat in an iron grip, effectively choking him before he could even utter a cry.
He instinctively tried to pull himself away and the strong hands tightened further.
He gurgled, lungs screaming with lack of air and struck out at where the assailant's head should have been.
His weakening blows struck only air, and he sank to his knees, head spinning. All at once, the horrible grip loosened, and he sucked in air desperately.
Porthos stood over the prone attacker, the manacles around his wrists rattling as he shook out his smarting fist. He had knocked out the man with one punch, almost a miracle in the pitch-black surroundings.
Athos, who seemed a little recovered, slowly stepped forward until he could hear d'Artagnan's harsh panting in front of him.
"Are you alright?" he asked, and cautiously put his hands on the man's arm.
"Yes," the Gascon rasped out painfully between gasps for air.
Athos' mouth twitched in a grimace of sympathy and helped pull the young man upright once more.
"Who is it?" Aramis asked, creeping forward cautiously.
"I think we got all of the guards," Porthos said, trying to remember each one they had taken out.
"Wait, you don't think-," d'Artagnan said painfully in a hoarse voice.
Porthos passed the flint and steel to Aramis, who struck them a few times. In the brief flash of the sparks, they all recognized their assailant with a sharp intake of breath.
It was Jacques, the last bandit from Dulaurier's original gang that had attacked Constance and d'Artagnan on the cliff so long ago.
Blood was rushing out of his head in a steady stream, having impacted with the floor when he fell.
"Bastian could be down here already," Athos intoned, listening anxiously to catch the smallest sound.
D'Artagnan looked at the injured man for a long moment, and Athos could almost feel the old hatred seething in the air.
"Let's go," the Gascon said coldly, stepping over the man's prone body.
The others followed after a moment's hesitation.
"The exit should be just ahead, to the right," Porthos called softly over his shoulder. They walked on.
Antoine pulled his reins up, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop. Scarcely waiting until he had stopped moving, he sprang from the saddle with the remarkable agility of a practiced horseman.
Henri came up beside him, dismounting with similar alacrity. "All right, men," the leader said, addressing all the musketeers.
"You know what to do. Our men are in there, and it's our duty to bring them home. You lot," he said, addressing half of the soldiers, "go in first. The rest of you, follow at a distance. I don't want any of these bastards slipping past us by mistake."
"Sir, request permission to take point," Antoine said, dismayed that he had been placed in the latter group.
"Denied, soldier," Henri said briskly, while the others turned to their assignment. The sound of pistols being loaded and primed filled the air.
"Henri, please," Antoine said in a low, desperate tone, grabbing his leader's arm and pulling him closer so they could talk without the rest of the group hearing them.
"Antoine, you're not even a proper musketeer yet," Henri said, tone half sympathetic and half commanding. "What do you think Treville would say if he knew that I allowed you to take point on a mission like this without a proper commission?"
"There have been exceptions to that rule before," Antoine said stubbornly, feeling his temper rise.
"Not in situations like this! We don't have time to argue!" Henri snapped back, knowing that every second jeopardized their chances of recovering the Inseparables alive.
Antoine stormed away furiously to join the phalanx of soldiers that made up the vanguard of the expedition.
Henri sighed, then looked to the ancient door, which was gaping wide like a monstrous set of jaws held open to attract prey.
Into the belly of the beast, he thought, and led the way.
Finally, after an eternity, the Inseparables reached the door. Aramis swung it open and stepped through. The others followed and stepped into a large atrium.
It was filthy and in obvious disrepair; the rafters from the ceiling were splintered and covered in cobwebs. Some were broken, and the ruins of stone pillars littered the floor here and there. However, it seemed to be the entrance to the entire prison. The meager starlight flooding in weakly seemed to the musketeers the light of a thousand suns after being away from the sun for so long. D'Artagnan could have wept with relief in that instant if he weren't so tired.
Porthos was nodding, as he took in his surroundings through the nightmarishly twilight surroundings. "That's our way out," he said, nodding to the giant wooden structure flung open across the wide floor of the great room.
They began making their way across the floor. D'Artagnan's legs were shaking with fatigue and pain; he felt light-headed and dazed after the attack in the corridor. Athos wasn't faring much better. His pale face was visible even in the dim light and Aramis thought with dismay that he had seen corpses with better color.
The dried blood on Porthos' face was congealed into large areas, some of which were still glistening freshly red. His movements were jerky, lacking his usual coordination, and he looked almost dead on his feet.
Aramis reached up to scrub a hand nervously through his hair and had to stop when his fingers met angry tangles. He knew he looked just as bad as the others and was inwardly grateful that he couldn't see himself.
Slowly, painfully slowly, they began crossing the cracked stone floors of the great hall.
Porthos heard a scuttling noise behind them, near where the shadows pooled the darkest in the corner. He whirled as quickly as he could manage, and barely managed to see a stray piece of stone tumble to the floor and bounce dully.
From behind a cracked pillar, Bastian crouched low to the ground in an eerie display of dexterity. His pupils expanded, absorbing every possible particle of light and showed him with an almost inhuman clarity the four men limping towards their escape.
He noted that no guards were with them, and his sharp hearing couldn't detect any sign of them approaching. He was on his own, once again. Bastian's lips curled back from his sharp teeth, more reminiscent of a wolf baring his fangs than of a human smile.
Moving again, he flowed effortlessly with the shadows across the floor. The musketeers stood in a circle in the center of the room, back to back. D'Artagnan peered desperately into the gloom, trying to discern their tormentor's shape from the darkness to no avail.
Bastian was now situated silently behind a different pillar, almost parallel to the one he had left, giving him a different view of the circle in front of him. Athos was now the closest, near enough for Bastian to reach forward and touch him, with two steps.
The musketeer looked sharply into the space near him, and almost leaped out of his skin when he caught sight of two shining orbs staring at him from the darkest recesses of the room. They blinked once, and then disappeared again, accompanied by another small shifting of stone.
Bastian slowly climbed up a crumbling pile of stones, creeping forwards silently. The obscuring darkness rendered him virtually invisible. Despite the tiny amount of light present, he could see everything in the room clearly. The footsteps of the approaching soldiers rang over the empty hall, growing closer with each passing second.
Ever so slowly, Bastian coiled himself up, like a cobra ready to strike. Every muscle in his body sang with tension, and he waited for just the right moment.
The group of musketeers approached the door, getting into formation. The vanguard waited anxiously, ducked behind some trees. Antoine felt his anxiety crank up a notch as he saw Henri motion towards another soldier to take the opposite side of the doorway.
Unable to bear it any longer, he made to break away from his vantage point. Another musketeer next to him grabbed his shoulder.
"Where are you going?" he whispered harshly.
"To help them," Antoine hissed back furiously, attempting to shrug off the hand.
"Henri said to stay here," the other soldier answered, pulling him harder.
"I need to go," Antoine said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Lightning never strikes the valley."
Something about this statement snagged in the back of the other soldier's thoughts.
"Isn't that what the old man said?" he asked. "What does it mean?"
Antoine gave him a tragic look of complete determination, and the saddest smile the man had ever seen.
"It means nothing was ever accomplished by just sitting around. For years, I've been at my lowest place, my valley. Keeping my head down and staying safe. I can't anymore," he said softly. Before the other soldier could protest, Antoine tore himself away and ran swiftly towards the group of soldiers now crossing the threshold.
The others in the vanguard watched in dismay as the musketeers spilled inside and vanished in the gloom, with Antoine heading directly into harm's way.
The footsteps of the rescue party startled the Inseparables. Soldiers entered the room, each trying to cover every inch of the room with their aimed pistols. Henri's eyes immediately found the missing soldiers. They were still huddled near the center, looking at their rescuers with a numb kind of disbelief.
While the soldiers were momentarily disoriented, the squad leader took stock of the room and noted all the deep cracks running through the ancient stone floor and the numerous piles of rubble.
With a sinking heart, he realized the pitiful light streaming through the door wasn't enough to illuminate the entirety of the room; many areas were still obscured entirely by darkness.
The musketeers moved in a tense semi-circle, moving towards the four prisoners. The vanguard filed in behind them, completing the formation.
Antoine held his pistol in front of him with a steady gaze, although his heart beat so rapidly in his chest that it hurt.
Bastian crept silently through the room, until he had circled around the encompassing party of rescuing soldiers.
One of them heard a scuttle to his left and turned to face the noise. Before he could fire a shot, a knife embedded itself in the soldier's throat. He went down with a painful gurgle, and the other musketeers around him spun towards the threat. A few shots went off, and the grinning face of the criminal glowed eerily in the brief flashes of pistol fire, creating the illusion of moving at incredible speed.
Another flash went off, this time of Bastian's pistol, and another soldier slumped dead to the floor. The room rang with the sound of a sword being pulled, and two more musketeers fell beside their dead comrades.
Henri stood his ground, standing protectively in front of the Inseparables. He focused his breathing and listened to the sounds of panic around him.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He spun with his sword raised and barely managed to parry a blow that would have cleaved his head in two.
He could just barely see the shine of Bastian's eyes glimmering through the darkness, and they began dueling. Henri was relying on instinct alone to save him, honed over long hours of patient practice and muscle memory.
He couldn't see anything, but his sword seemed to move on its own, reacting to save him at the last possible second. Even so, he felt his enemy's sword turn and skitter sideways off his own blade, sliding across his chest and opening a deep gash.
Henri took an involuntary breath of surprise at the pain and would have been dead for his hesitation if something hadn't knocked into his adversary.
A warm body slammed into Bastian's right side, sending them both sprawling to the floor. It was Antoine.
Bastian caught the hand that was raised to thrust a dagger into his chest and twisted, breaking the wrist in one smooth, brutal motion.
The stable hand let out a cry of pain and was rewarded with a staggering punch to the face. Blood instantly flowed from his now broken nose. His hands scrabbled uselessly for his pistol, which had been knocked from his grip. Bastian leaped up over the young cadet and pulled out his own dagger. Antoine brought his hand up instinctively to protect himself, and the blade was buried in his forearm.
He screamed again and Bastian pulled the knife out with a grisly yank, prepared to deal him a fatal second blow. Finally, Antoine's other hand brushed the smooth handle of his gun in the darkness. Bringing it up, he shot the cruel jailer in the stomach just as the knife descended over his body.
Bastian flinched at the sudden pain, but didn't utter a sound. Antoine took the advantage and kicked hard, bucking his hips. The unsuspecting jailer flew off and landed with a soft thump a few feet away.
The stable hand scrambled away, and Henri then reached in the darkness and caught hold of him in an iron grip, helping him stand unsteadily.
Bastian retreated to the corners of the room, feeling warm blood seep through the fingers pressed tightly to his midsection.
The musketeers regrouped, and all stepped in front of the Inseparables, slowly backing them up towards the open door now at their backs.
Porthos panted harshly in the darkness, feeling his frayed nerves stretch to their breaking point. Waiting helpless in the dark for an enemy to strike was never desirable; with freedom so close, it was nigh unbearable. Just when he thought he would start screaming, he caught a glimpse of the same eye-shine Athos had seen.
With a cry that sounded like it was torn from the throat of a wild animal, Bastian launched himself towards the crowd of unsuspecting soldiers.
The criminal leader buried his last knife in the chest of one musketeer, shot another, and ducked a punch from a third. His reaching hands groped the air in front of him and caught hold of another unfortunate soldier, where his strong thumbs jammed mercilessly into eye sockets and pushed until the soft, jelly-like tissue caved under his fingers. A scream borne of bright pain rent the air and ended abruptly with a horrific crunch when Bastian snapped the man's neck.
In the commotion, more shots were fired and blows aimed. However, Bastian seemed to have the luck of the devil himself and slipped past their defenses.
His silhouette filled the doorway and his shadow was cast upon the floor for an instant. Bastian fled into the star-filled night. His steps pounded the ground and he left a trail of blackish blood behind him.
The majority of the musketeers left standing rushed after him into the forest, tracking his blood with loud shouts of anger and triumph.
The Inseparables were still standing in the middle of the room, too shocked to move or say anything.
Henri was the first to move. He gently helped Antoine lean against a broken pillar, who promptly slid down it to the floor, breathing harshly in pain. Kneeling down, he took off the scarf he habitually wore and tied it tightly around the stab wound in his arm to stop the bleeding. The cadet hissed in pain but didn't pull away.
"Are you four alright?" Henri asked, moving to where the musketeers stood on trembling legs.
"No," Athos answered for the others, the shock in his eyes mirrored on the faces of the others.
Later, they wouldn't remember much about that hellish night. Eventually, the grisly trail of blood was lost in the darkness of the forest. Bastian slipped off to join the legion of shadows the woods harbored, and the musketeers had to concede defeat. Henri eventually called back the survivors, and they helped support the wounded Inseparables out of the prison and into the woods.
Athos would later recall motion and then remembering the stars. The former comte opened his eyes wide and stared into the heavens as if it were his first time. He drank in the beauty of the sky, the patterns of the swirling galaxies. The brightness of the moon made him flinch and hurt his eyes after so long in the dark.
The others followed suit, gazing with wonder at the sky. Henri had them carefully supported and walked a safe distance to set up camp for the night. He set a few musketeers to the task of getting the cruel manacles off the soldiers, which was shortly accomplished.
After they were taken care of, he tended to the other wounded musketeers and pulled the bodies out of the fortress. He knew they couldn't be brought back to Paris, but the idea of leaving them in the abandoned fortress was unbearable. They lay still and cold, shrouded in silvery moonlight.
Henri's limbs now ached with weariness, and the wound on his chest burned with every breath. Nevertheless, he stood in front of the men that had followed him to their deaths. There were seven in all, and the leader felt grief settle itself heavily on his shoulders. Suddenly, one of the soldiers came up to him and said that they needed medical supplies.
Many more injuries were present in the group of soldiers, although the most pressing were those of the Inseparables and Antoine.
Any blankets and bedrolls that could be spared were taken and given to the four soldiers, who seemed to be in shock. They would eat the food given to them but wouldn't speak. They huddled together closely in a small group in the center of the camp, near the fire.
Eventually, d'Artagnan's limbs ceased shaking and he was able to fall into an exhausted, dreamless slumber leaning against Athos' shoulder. The extra weight didn't agree with his injured ribs, but the eldest musketeer didn't complain. Slowly, Aramis and Porthos also nodded off after staring into the flickering firelight, near the other two.
Henri made his rounds of the camp, making sure all his soldiers were accounted for once again.
Antoine was asleep or unconscious, leaned upright against a tree with a naked sword laid across his knees. The scarf wrapped around his arm was completely soaked in blood and had stained his broken wrist with its garish color. His face was smeared with gore from his broken nose. Sighing regretfully at the sight, Henri shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around the front of the young boy's body.
The squad leader heaved himself to his feet and began mentally preparing for things they would need the following day.
Sitting down near the fire, he was shocked when he felt Athos' gaze on him. The musketeer was still white as a sheet. At first, Henri thought he must be cold because he was shaking, but he was wrapped in a blanket and sweat beaded his pale forehead. As the squad leader watched, a thin ribbon of dark blood began flowing from his nose.
The former comte didn't speak, only looked at him. Then his lower lip trembled slightly. Athos immediately tightened his jaw and the piteous look disappeared, but it had been enough.
The squad leader felt a desperate pang of heartbreak for the men in front of him and grabbed an extra bedroll and towel, maneuvering d'Artagnan's still frame onto it.
"Sleep, Athos," he said quietly, wiping the blood gently from the man's bruised face. "Sleep now. It's over."
Athos obediently laid down on his back, breathing as deeply as his damaged ribs would allow. He later remembered the crackling heat of the fire and relishing the smell of the soft blanket he wrapped around himself. The last thing he saw before falling asleep for the first time in three days was his brothers, sleeping peacefully beside him.
All of them slept through the night, watched over by the serene light of the stars. They remained asleep through the next day, when Henri had a wagon come from Paris to transport the injured men.
D'Artagnan woke briefly to catch a glimpse of the castle, its spires jutting gracefully into the clear azure sky. He blinked, dazzled by the sight, and fell into darkness again, comforted by the knowledge that he was home.
