A/N: Thank you for the great reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy what happens next!
His walk down the hallway, and subsequent descent to the main floor, had been harder than he'd expected, the earlier adrenaline rush that had energized him quickly draining away to leave him feeling weak and worse than before. Uncertain he'd be able to continue, d'Artagnan stopped at the bottom of the stairs to lean against the wall, hovering in the small alcove where customers could make the choice to either head upstairs or into the tavern.
Letting his head fall against the wall, he gingerly hugged his damaged ribs with his broken arm, using his other arm to brace the injured limb. He swallowed convulsively against the nausea his pain had prompted, praying the meagre contents of his stomach stayed where they were.
A voice from the tavern drifted towards him, a single word attracting his attention.
"…Musketeer."
d'Artagnan straightened as best he could, listening intently for anything more.
"I have a debt to settle with 'im." A moment of silence passed before the same man replied. "Upstairs? Thanks."
The Gascon's heart raced with the implications of what he'd heard. The voice was unknown to him, and he seemed to recall Porthos telling him that Etienne and the others had returned to the bandits' location to retrieve their latest prisoners and search for Athos. The sound of footfalls had him searching the small space for a spot to hide, but there was nothing there. Out of time and options, d'Artagnan painfully scrambled up the stairs, managing only the first two before the unknown man appeared at the bottom.
Trying to act normal, despite his half-clothed state, the Gascon lifted his foot to ascend the next step, conscious of the other man following in behind him. Another step and the man was beside him, intending to pass by the injured Musketeer. Dipping his head, d'Artagnan shrunk toward the wall on one side, giving the other man the chance to pass. An inadvertent glance in the stranger's direction had d'Artagnan sucking in a surprised gasp as recognition blossomed. It was one of his kidnappers.
The abrupt inhale to his right caught the bandit's attention and the Gascon found himself suddenly pinned by the man's intense stare. The formerly unknown man wore a look of shock, which quickly turned to pleasure as recognition dawned. d'Artagnan didn't think and reacted merely on instinct, panic flushing his system with a burst of adrenaline as he threw himself at the other man.
The bandit reacted quickly, blocking the Musketeer's clumsy punch and retaliating with one of his own, landing a hard blow to the young man's midsection. d'Artagnan started to curl forwards, but was stopped by the other man's grip around his biceps. He was pushed harshly against the stairwell wall, first once and then a second time with greater force, and he swore he could feel the plaster crumbling at his back.
Half-stunned, he struggled to muster a proper defence, letting the man pull him forwards and using the momentum to push against the bandit, momentarily upsetting his balance so he could pull free. As soon as his attacker's hold released, d'Artagnan turned to move up the stairs, managing two steps before he was caught from behind as the bandit grabbed him by his shirt. He fell backwards into the man, and was grateful to be stopped by his opponent's bulk, which kept him from plummeting down the stairs.
Before he could resist, the man swung him around and planted his meaty fist into the side of his face, sending d'Artagnan once again sprawling against the wall with a loud thump. His vision blurred and darkened with the hit, his body having nearly exhausted the small amount of strength he'd regained since being reunited with his friends. The resulting lethargy had his limbs feeling heavy and his movements slow as he tried vainly to regain his feet after the punch that had pushed him against the wall before sliding down to land heavily on his backside.
His foot slipped beneath him as his struggled to rise, his head rolling along the wall at the guttural shout that came from the top of the stairs to echo all around him. "Porthos," he breathed out breathlessly, his heart jolting happily at the arrival of the larger man. His body still uncooperative, he could only watch as the bandit raced upwards while Porthos raced down, the two intent to meet in the middle.
Porthos' higher position should have given him the advantage, but it was the outlaw who turned the tables yet again. As the Musketeer approached, the bandit stopped and braced himself, reaching for the large man with both hands and using their momentum to pull the soldier off balance. Porthos registered the strategy too late and found himself suddenly plummeting out of control down the stairs.
d'Artagnan watched in horror as his friend fell, wincing in empathy at the sickening thud that resonated when Porthos head cracked against the bottom step before his body slid bonelessly to the landing below. Blood began to flow from underneath the large man's skull almost immediately, and the sight had d'Artagnan again rallying his flagging energy to engage the other man.
The Gascon was guided by a single thought as he and his opponent grappled in a futile dance that d'Artagnan knew he could not win. His right arm was screaming at him as he willed it to retain its grip on his attacker's forearm, his sole focus on keeping the man away from his other friends. That was how Athos and Aramis found them, d'Artagnan barely managing to hang on as his muscles were fueled by a single-minded determination to protect the men who were as dear to him as any family he'd ever had.
With a shift of his weight, the Gascon's opponent managed to gain the upper hand, once more positioning himself above the young man. Pulling his arms free from d'Artagnan's weaker hold, he delivered a viscous backhand blow that caused sparks to fly in the injured man's vision as he reeled backwards against the wall.
He could hear someone shouting his name, and the sound pulled his shattered focus upwards, briefly noting the presence of his friends' worried expressions before his gaze skittered back to the bandit who was now armed with a knife. The sight dumped a fresh batch of adrenaline into his veins as the need to protect once more brought him to his feet.
"No!" he screamed as he threw himself at the outlaw, with no plan other than to keep the man from harming his friends. The bandit turned towards him, welcoming the attack and driving a fist deeply into the Gascon's stomach before pushing him away. The force of the blow pushed the air from his lungs, and d'Artagnan found his legs suddenly unable to hold him.
As his knees folded, he found himself crumpling to the ground, his chest still unwilling to cooperate with the necessary act of breathing. Time seemed to slow and skip for him then as darkness encroached on his vision. His whole being was focused on the simple act of drawing breath, an ability which the bandit's blow had robbed him of. Finally, his chest stuttered in an uneven inhale, allowing blessed oxygen into his lungs. Another force of will caused another inhale, and the fog enveloping him seemed to thin a little, allowing reality back in.
"d'Artagnan," a voice called, the sound accompanied by an insistent tapping on his cheek. Blinking owlishly, he peered up into Aramis' concerned face. "d'Artagnan, please, say something," the man pleaded.
"Mm," he mumbled through thick lips, catching the distressed expression on the medic's face which darted past him for a moment before returning. The shift in his friend's gaze reminded him that Porthos was laying, bleeding, at the bottom of the stairs. The memory sped his heart, and he struggled to offer a more coherent reply, knowing that Aramis was torn between helping his two injured friends.
"I'm alright," d'Artagnan slowly articulated, focusing hard on making his words understood. "Go, check on Porthos," he said, his need to know the larger man's status as keen as the medic's.
Aramis hesitated for a moment, but seemed satisfied with the Gascon's reply, squeezing his upper arm for a moment before moving away. d'Artagnan was content to lay there, his body exhausted by its recent struggles, and he shifted his gaze upwards to see Athos' worried face looking down at him. Using his left arm, he tried to push himself into a slightly higher position against the wall, grimacing as the movement awakened an ache in his belly.
With a look of confusion on his face, he brought his right arm to the hurt, only to wince once more as the added pressure only increased his pain. Shakily bringing his hand up, he absently noted the splint that was now loosely hanging onto his forearm, the bandages having shifted and worked loose during his struggles.
"He's alive!" Aramis called from his spot at the bottom of the stairs, and d'Artagnan found the knot of worry in his chest loosening with the news. His gaze still firmly fixed on his right hand, he squinted to focus his blurring vision, wondering at the red that painted his fingers. Slowly, as though moving through molasses, his mind connected the dots, and pain spiked hot and fierce from his belly.
He groaned at the fiery agony, suddenly unable to hold his arm up any longer. The injured limb dropped to knock heavily against a stair, the protest from the broken bone barely registering. His friends would be alright, and the threat had been eliminated, leaving him no reason to hang on. With a final shaky breath, he let go, falling gratefully into the pain-free abyss.
Despite his earlier flippant reply to Athos about his newly acquired blade, Aramis was fighting against the panic surging forth in his chest. Porthos and d'Artagnan were both down, Athos was barely mobile, and his own world was still shaky and fuzzy at best. Swallowing thickly against the lump in his throat, he gamely descended towards the Gascon, keeping his hands lightly on both sides of the stairwell to maintain his balance. He paused for a moment to confirm the bandit's status, pulling his new gift from the man's throat and wiping it hastily on the dead man's breeches.
Arriving at the young man's side, he crouched down, looking his friend over as closely as his uncooperative vision allowed. Moving a hand to the Gascon's face, he tapped lightly at one cheek, wincing in sympathy at the bruising that covered it. "d'Artagnan," he called, waiting a moment before trying again. "d'Artagnan, please, say something." He recognized the note of panic in his voice, each moment spent at the young man's side keeping from discovering Porthos' fate.
To his great relief, the Gascon's eyes fluttered open, accompanied by a low incomprehensible mumble. The response wasn't overly comforting, something that must have shown on his face as d'Artagnan's lips parted and he carefully said, "I'm alright."
Alright wasn't a word the medic would associate with the young man, but it was enough to satisfy him that d'Artagnan wasn't in immediate danger of expiring. With a squeeze of his friend's upper arm, Aramis rose carefully and made his way down the remaining stairs to check on Porthos.
There was so much blood. 'Head wounds bleed a lot,' he chastised himself as he squatted next to the large man. Porthos' face was completely slack, and were it not for the red halo, Aramis might have said he looked peacefully asleep. Taking a steadying breath, he reached forward to lay two fingers on his friend's neck, waiting several moments before registering the slow thrum of a heartbeat.
Exhaling shakily, he called, "He's alive!" The welcome discovery had deflated him, threatening to turn his bones to jelly, but he knew there was still much work to be done. Pausing a moment, he considered how best to proceed, painfully aware of his and Athos' limited mobility.
"Aramis!" the former comte shouted from the top of the stairs. The voice sounded terrified, and not at all in control, which seemed to be Athos' near-normal state.
The medic shifted his gaze upwards, surprised to see the older man slowly and painfully making his way down the stairs. "Wha'?" he began, when his comprehended the only thing that would make his brother move so quickly - d'Artagnan.
Pushing himself to his feet too quickly, Aramis swayed and had to catch himself on the corner of the wall until the floor stopped shifting. By the time he felt steady enough to move, Athos was at d'Artagnan's side, awkwardly seated next to the young man with his wounded leg outstretched.
Beginning the climb to their position, the medic asked, "What's wrong?" Athos momentarily raised one red hand, before replacing it to keep pressure on the hole in the Gascon's stomach.
"My God, what happened?" Aramis questioned as he ascended to the step immediately below where d'Artagnan sat. "Dammit," he cursed as his sluggish brain reminded him of the bandit's knife, and the way the man had rammed his fist into the Gascon's belly.
Athos was staring at him now, hands still pressed against the bleeding wound. "What do we do?" he asked, clearly in shock from the events and the trauma to his own body.
Aramis glanced towards Porthos and then back to the Gascon, noting the too-pale features that bespoke of serious injury. Suddenly, it was all too much and his concussed, overwhelmed brain refused to cooperate. "I…" he stammered, his mouth as dry as a desert. "I…" he tried again, but his thoughts were still too scattered, his years of experience and training having vanished as though they'd never been.
He met Athos' gaze with wide, panicked eyes, knowing the older man was counting on him, just as his other friends were. Failing…he was failing them, and they could die for his incompetence.
The door to the tavern flew open below, startling them and bringing their attention to the man who'd entered. Adrenaline immediately cleared Aramis' inconsistent vision as he stood, fingering the thin blade in his left hand that he'd retrieved from the bandit's neck. An errant thought flickered through his mind as he said to himself, 'I'm going to do him left-handed.'
The newcomer's gaze took in the bleeding man on the floor in front of him before tracking upwards to consider the three on the stairs. Clearing his throat, he asked, "You the Musketeers?"
Aramis' heart skipped a beat as he tensed for another fight. "Who wants to know?"
To be continued on Thursday...
A/N: The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride", spoken by Inigo to Vizzini when referring to how he'll kill the Dread Pirate Roberts: "I'm going to do him left-handed."
Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos, and thanks to everyone for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.