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They had made the decision to attack under cover of darkness, hoping that the night would provide them with additional cover from unwelcome eyes and give them the advantage of engaging a force that was mostly asleep and hopefully slow to react. Porthos had ridden to the Baron's house that afternoon with two others, who then stayed to watch in case anything of consequence happened. Treville had the remaining men preparing themselves for that night's attack, allowing Aramis to get some much-needed sleep, since he knew it would be impossible to keep him away from that evening's foray.
It was nearly dinnertime before Aramis emerged, hair in disarray but looking much more rested and aware, and the Captain silently applauded his earlier decision to let the man sleep. He dropped into a chair at the table, helping himself to a plate and some of the food that was laid out, while Porthos poured him a glass of wine. Raising the glass appreciatively before he took a sip, he swallowed and turned his attention to the Captain who sat across from him. "What's the plan?"
Treville watched as Aramis took a bite, pleased that the man had an appetite after the previous day's events, "We'll ride out tonight. Thierry and Sebastien are there now watching, and the others have been making their preparations out in the barn. Aramis, you'll stay on the ridge to provide covering fire, while the rest of us move in."
Aramis swallowed quickly, countering, "Captain, I won't stay out of this fight again, waiting above where it's safe while my brothers are in danger below."
"Aramis," Treville interjected, "I know that you want to be closer to the rescue but it's my job to use the strengths of every solider under my command. I don't make this decision lightly, but our odds of success increase with you on high ground."
Aramis bit his lip and considered the Captain's words, clearly unhappy with the idea that he would once more be so far apart from his friends. Porthos reached a hand over and placed it on the sharpshooter's shoulder, causing Aramis to meet the larger man's gaze. After a few seconds of silent communication, Aramis seemed to deflate and he looked back at Treville and nodded. "Good. Porthos and I will enter the house with Fouquet while the others guard our exit. We'll leave as soon as we have Athos and d'Artagnan."
"And what of the Baron's crimes?" Aramis questioned.
Treville glanced at Porthos, obviously having had this same conversation earlier, before tiredly replying, "If we can take him, we will, but our primary objective is to rescue our men."
Aramis' eyes flitted to Porthos before he returned his gaze to his food, shovelling another bite into his mouth. He was confident that he and the larger man were of the same mind and the Baron would have a target on his back, but he said nothing more in front of the Captain. When he'd swallowed his last mouthful, chasing it down with the wine, he placed his empty glass on the table and leaned back in his chair, "I'd best clean my weapons if we're to have some fun tonight." His dry tone belied any humour in his words as Porthos reached down, his hands coming up with two harquebuses which he placed in front of the sharpshooter.
"Cleaned and loaded, and there's four more ready and waiting for you outside," Porthos explained. "Your pistol too, but you'll have to scrub the blood off your blade yourself." At Aramis raised eyebrow, he added with mirth in his eyes, "Couldn't do all of the work for you, lazy bugger."
Aramis grinned fondly at his friend's words, knowing that they were intended to make him relax, the time before battle always the worst, causing many normally steady men to shake with fear and anticipation which could lead to later fatal mistakes. While the upcoming skirmish would not have typically caused either man to hesitate, the fact that they'd been defeated once, combined the with the high stakes of the friends' lives, made both men more tense than they would be otherwise. Trusting that the men would do what was necessary to get themselves ready, Treville stood, "We'll leave two hours after sunset." At the returning nods from both men, he turned away and made his way outside to check on the others.
As Aramis began to scrub at the blood left on his sword with the cloth Porthos had handed him, he asked, "How's your head?"
Porthos rolled his eyes at the predictability of his friend's question, "Told you, it's fine."
Aramis raised his eyes for a few moments, assessing the truth of his friend's words and gave a short nod when he was satisfied. Scrubbing at his blade once more, he continued, "You were at the Baron's earlier?"
"Yeah," Porthos answered, pulling a hand through his curls, "They've doubled the guards at the gate and the front door. I'm hopin' he doesn't have more men than we saw yesterday, otherwise it'll be a near thing."
Aramis hummed absently before he paused in his cleaning, pinning his friend with an intense look, "We have to get them out of there tonight, Porthos. Promise me, whatever it takes."
Porthos nodded, sharing Aramis' desire to free their brothers from the noble's grasp, "Whatever it takes."
Aramis gave a satisfied nod before returning his attention back to his blade, Porthos sitting quietly at his side, the two men drawing comfort from each other's presence as they readied themselves to fight for their brothers' lives.
Athos was pleased when d'Artagnan awoke, noting the subtle shifts in the young man's breathing and the tension in the boy's limbs. "d'Artagnan?"
The space between them remained silent for several long seconds before Athos could see the Gascon visibly steeling himself to take a deeper breath so he could reply, "Athos."
"Yes, I'm here. How are you feeling?" Athos queried, flinching at having asked such a seemingly redundant question, but his need to know too great not to voice it.
"Really?" came the incredulous response, followed by another pause during which d'Artagnan fought for breath. Despite their dire situation, the reply brought a soft smile to Athos' face as he imagined the wry grin that would have accompanied the young man's words. "M'fine, Athos," the tone was resigned, the Gascon familiar with the older man's need to confirm that his condition was no worse than before, and that he would be unlikely to desist with his questions until d'Artagnan provided a satisfactory answer.
"Good," Athos breathed out, the knot in his stomach loosening just slightly. "I'm glad that you're awake," he began, pausing as he searched for the right words to continue. "It will give me a chance to try to explain about before."
"Before?" d'Artagnan wheezed.
"I want to apologize for my behaviour when you came to my rooms to ask for help," Athos confessed, his tone contrite. "I regret not having listened to what you were saying and ordering you to leave."
"S'alright, Athos," the Gascon replied softly. "Shouldn't have asked."
Athos frowned at the young man's reply, confused why d'Artagnan would believe that he had been wrong to ask his friends for help. "But who else would you ask?" he wondered aloud. He watched as the Gascon gave a slow shake of his head but missed the lowly mumbled "no one" that slipped from the boy's lips. "d'Artagnan?" Athos prompted.
"What?" the reply came back, the irritation clear in the young man's tone.
"You were well within your rights to ask for my help – for our help. It is no less than you have offered freely to us in the past and I am sorry we failed you," Athos declared, infusing his voice with as much sincerity as he was able, desperate for his protégé to understand the depth of his regret.
d'Artagnan's head was reeling, his mind foggy from days of too little food and too much pain, and suffering from the effects of the mistreatment piled on him by the Baron and his men. A part of him prayed that Athos' words were genuine, longing to return to the comfort of his previous beliefs when he counted himself incredibly fortunate at having been allowed into the fold, becoming one of the inseparables – three morphing seamlessly into four. But he was plagued by doubt as he recalled Porthos' eagerness to return to his card game and Aramis dismissing him outright, as if the Gascon's words were of little consequence. The men's brusque replies had shaken the faith he had in the bond between himself and the three men, bringing to mind the many times when he'd been dispatched on their behalf to assist with one task or another, and while he'd given his help freely, their last encounter had him considering the previous months in a different light. Perhaps instead of helping the men out of friendship as he'd thought, the others had viewed his deeds as expected payment for the privilege of being in their company. He gave his head another small shake, desperate to find clarity in his muddled thoughts. What if Athos' words were true? Was it possible that the men's reactions had been mere coincidence, a result of poor timing and even worse luck which had conspired to separate him from his friends when he needed them most? d'Artagnan moaned with the conflicting thoughts that clouded his mind, the tendrils of one twining with the others until he could no longer make sense of the chaotic tapestry that overwhelmed him.
Athos had watched the Gascon silently, hoping to hear that he'd been forgiven and fearful of what would happen if he had not. He saw the young man shaking his head and wondered if that meant that his transgression had been too great to absolve, adding his ruined relationship with the boy to the many others which he had destroyed. He found the thought to be unacceptable and vowed that he would not let the matter drop so easily, doing whatever was necessary to earn absolution. d'Artagnan's moan caught his attention and made Athos worry that perhaps there was something more paining the boy, and he drew a breath to call out when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The Baron appeared outside the cell door and pushed his way in, Athos groaning to himself in anticipation of the man's actions. The creak of the cell door opening caught d'Artagnan's attention as well, and Athos was heartened to see the boy momentarily lift his head up to watch the noble enter, suggesting he was not yet so far gone as to be unaware of his surroundings.
The Baron strode forward confidently, taking his time in examining the older Musketeer, noting the sodden bandage that wrapped around the man's thigh, how he leaned to one side in order to remove the weight from his wounded leg, and the lines of pain around the man's eyes. Despite his obvious discomfort, the look on the man's face was as neutral as before and Gerard found his anger rising at the disdain that was clear in the Musketeer's eyes. Sensing that this man cared little for his own welfare, he turned slowly and moved to stand by the Gascon's side, watching the older man carefully. As he'd predicted, the Musketeer maintained his façade of calm but his eyes watched the Baron's every movement.
"Are you ready to answer my questions yet?" Gerard asked, his tone casual, as if he cared little for the answer. Not unexpectedly, neither man answered. A slow smile spread across the noble's face as he locked gazes with the Musketeer standing across from him. "Who is he to you, hmm?" Several silent seconds passed, Athos making it clear that he had no intention of responding. The Baron began to walk slowly between the two as he thought out loud. "Musketeers often speak of their brothers-in-arms, their loyalty to one another which guides their actions, both on and off the battleground." Gerard paused for a moment, his eyes flitting back to Athos. "All soldiers will tell you that a special bond exists between the men who fight at their side; such things can only be forged in the heat of battle and those who haven't experienced the fear of death and the exhilaration of killing the enemy simply don't understand. But we do, don't we?" Athos was still silent, but Gerard could see that he still had the other man's attention. "Of course, most soldiers have been seasoned, their mettle tested in battle so they have proven their worth to the men who fight with them. This boy," the Baron shifted his gaze to d'Artagnan, "is hardly old enough to shave, let alone have proven his worth to stand by your side. So I ask you again, what is he to you?"
Gerard now stood uncomfortably close to the Gascon and the young man lifted his head briefly, meeting Athos' eyes for a moment before he could hold the position no more. The few seconds of eye contact had been enough, though, and Athos understood d'Artagnan's silent plea to say nothing, no matter what happened. Meeting the noble's gaze, Athos replied, the true implication of his words lost on their captor, "As you've said, he is my brother." As the words left his mouth, Athos prayed that the Gascon would understand his meaning, intending to remind the boy of what he meant and to make amends for how they'd treated him earlier.
The Baron was nodding, seemingly considering the man's words and Athos was beginning to relax, believing that the man would leave them once more to suffer before returning to try again. Instead, the man moved incredibly quickly, and Athos caught sight of a flash of steel before hearing a howl of pain. Stunned, his mind tried to process what had just happened, the Baron speaking again, followed by another cry and then the noble was gone. Athos was breathing hard, trembling with rage and worry, and he licked his dry lips in hesitation before speaking, "d'Artagnan." He could see how the young man was struggling to breathe, the hunched position offering little space for his damaged ribcage to expand as it pressed against his knees. Minutes passed and Athos' gaze never wavered, grateful for each movement that confirmed the Gascon still lived.
Finally, when he'd given up hearing from the boy, d'Artagnan raised his head, eyes glazed with pain. "Still here," he hissed, his head dropping again almost immediately after he'd spoken.
Athos' legs nearly buckled in relief and he gasped with pain as his weight shifted, the wound in his thigh protesting vehemently. "How bad?" he asked, the position he was in affording him little more than a view of a patch of red against the boy's shirt.
"Bad enough," d'Artagnan gritted out as he watched the drops of blood leak from his shoulder and land on the ground at his knees. When the knife had plunged into his shoulder, the shock of it had pulled a scream from him. The knife's exit had almost been worse, the pain blinding in its intensity as the blade retraced its path, this time skimming through already damaged muscle as it was sickeningly pulled from his flesh. The wound was not so much on his back as it was at the top of his shoulder, near the joint, and the thought that both shoulders were now damaged almost had him giggling in hysterics until he realized how Athos would likely interpret his actions. Blinking, he tried to rid his eyes of the excess moisture that pooled there as his body struggled with the extreme pain of his injuries. His shoulders and side seemed to be the only pinpoints of heat in his otherwise cold body, and the feeling was spreading now as his limbs shook again, completely unable to control the trembling no matter how much he wanted to. His vision was dimming and his hearing seemed to have deserted him, and with no reason to remain, he allowed his eyes to close and fell unconscious despite Athos' urgent calls, which couldn't penetrate the darkness surrounding him.
Athos watched as his protégé lost his battle to stay awake, the toll on his body too great with the added pain of his new wound, compounded by blood loss. He pulled harshly to free his hands, feeling the fresh trickles of blood winding down his arms as he reopened the barely healing wounds on his wrists. The desperation of their situation had him throwing his head back for several moments before allowing it to drop again, painfully reminded that they were reliant on outside help if they were to get out of their current situation. The only question was whether they would be rescued in time. While he could see the Gascon racked more frequently by shivers, he himself was actually quite warm, rapidly becoming uncomfortably hot. The hole in his leg throbbed with each beat of his heart and he recognized the inevitable signs of infection, his wound not having been treated properly and the ball still sitting awkwardly in the meat of his thigh. Closing his eyes, he tried to distract himself from his growing discomfort, reminding himself once more that Aramis and Porthos had escaped and would be coming for them – it was only a matter of time.
They checked with Sebastian and Thierry first when they arrived at the hill that overlooked the Baron's house and were glad to hear that all had been quiet. The men at the gates and front door had been rotated twice while they'd watched, at three-hour intervals, suggesting a larger force inside than what had been previously anticipated since none of the men on guard duty had been repeated in the hours they'd spent observing. The news was unwelcome but the Musketeers were resolute and, as Treville looked at Aramis and Porthos, he knew that nothing would stop them from the night's attempted rescue. They totalled eight men, which suggested they were still outnumbered two to one, but the Captain was confident that a stealthy entry along with their superior skills could still deliver victory into their hands. Aramis prepared his weapons, laying them within easy reach, Sebastian to stay with him and reload for as long as was practical. The sharpshooter again chafed at the fact that he'd be separated from his brothers while the men below disarmed the guards and enacted their rescue plans, with him only entering the fray if the men were discovered since the sound of gunfire would draw unwanted attention to the Musketeers' presence.
Porthos clasped Aramis' arm in a brief but firm grip, the touch conveying so much more than words could. Be safe, I'll bring them back, don't do anything foolish. Aramis smiled warmly as he returned his friend's hold, similar unspoken messages reflected in his own eyes and Porthos ducked his head shyly as he gave a quick nod of understanding before releasing his friend's arm. His focus immediately shifting, Porthos returned to Treville's side and with a quick glance to the other men, the Captain nodded and they moved forward stealthily, keeping to the shadows as they crept downwards towards their target. Aramis lay down on the hill, holding a harquebus in the firing position, Sebastian's quiet breathing beside him the only sounds in the still night. They were fortunate to have only a half-moon lighting the night, protecting the men who glided silently down the hill but sufficiently illuminating the guards below who remained unaware of their attackers' presence.
Aramis watched as men seemed to separate themselves from the gloom to silently incapacitate the guards at the gate. From this distance, it was difficult to clearly distinguish one Musketeer from another, but the sharpshooter recognized Porthos' fluid movements as the man seemed to rise up from the earth to draw a blade along one of the bandit's throats, supporting him quietly to the ground, lest the sound of his death draw any others' attention. They didn't kill indiscriminately, but in this instance he and Porthos were in agreement – there would be no mercy for the men who had imprisoned and tortured their brothers. The Musketeers moved forward cautiously, getting lost in the deeper shadows closer to the house and Aramis had to stop himself from sighing in frustration. Then he saw the front door open for a moment, the light from inside revealing three figures who crept inside before the door was closed once more. They had successfully made their way inside and there was nothing more to do but to watch and wait.
