Chapter 11: The Things We Believe In

Athos couldn't see. The armed men were swarming through the area around him, they were nothing but blurred outlines in his sight. He tried to stay upright, but his muscles just wouldn't cooperate, and he was stuck in this crooked posture, forced to watch the fight around him without being able to do anything.

On the inside, he was glad Porthos had escaped. Not only did it mean that he was safe, no, now there was hope. Porthos could get help, he could find Tréville. Athos only counted on Porthos now, as his friend was the only reliable source of hope.

Athos clenched his teeth, and tilted his face towards the grey sky. He could almost hear Porthos' complaints he would have to endure in the future. And for the first time, he really wished he would hear them soon, as it would mean he had defeated Morel too.

Slowly but surely, the fighting noises around him died down. Athos saw riders disappear over the open fields, and he heard a lot of cursing and yelling, as Morel's men were trying to figure out who on earth had attacked them.

Morel, who had kept Athos on the ground the whole time, started shouting orders, but the musketeer couldn't focus, and his captor's words barely reached his ears. He did not understand this man – he had ambushed them, hurt them, but still, he had the courage and the moral to let Porthos go, even after all that had happened.

Suddenly, Athos was yanked back into reality when somebody grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up on his feet.

"Looks like your plan failed miserably, Athos," a man hissed into Athos' face, and the swordsman recognized the unpleasantly beat-up face of Dénis, who apparently had regained his balance after he had so gloriously lost against Porthos. "Where is the other one?"

Athos said nothing; he just stared at Dénis with a wry grin. "Looks like my plan was good for something," he merely commented, and growled in frustration when Dénis put a hand on his injured shoulder.

"I'd be careful, Athos," the man growled, and Athos could feel the blood flow freely down his chest, coating his dirty and damaged doublet. Overwhelmed by the burning pain and the sudden whiteness in front of his eyes, Athos crumbled back down on his knees.

"You are not needed much longer," Dénis continued. "And after this, I am free to do with you musketeers whatever I think is right."

"You should've known that challenging a musketeer is a bad idea," Athos panted, his eyes still closed. "I'm hardly to blame for your overconfidence."

Within seconds, he could feel the fist smash against his face, but the pain in his shoulder was so evident that he barely noticed how his skin split next to his eye. He knew that he was needed, which at least meant he was needed alive.

Suddenly, a blurry shadow entered Athos' sight and he immediately recognized Morel.

"You damn idiot!" Morel yelled and punched Dénis so hard Athos thought the man would go unconscious a second time this day. He stumbled back and rubbed his temple, while staring shockingly at his superior.

"This man is a musketeer, and I need him. Touch him one more time and you'll taste my blade," Morel replied sharply, and gestured his other men to pick Athos up from the ground where he was kneeling.

When Athos was carried past the leader, he murmured something into the swordsman's ear.

"Don't mistake my kindness for weakness, Athos. For me, you're only a mean to an end."

Athos was busy trying to catch his breath, but he stared at Morel through his tangled hair-strands, indifference again forming a shadow over his face.

"I hope your end is worth it."

With that, he was roughly transported back to the cart where the remaining prisoners were still sitting. One of them had been caught in the crossfire and lay sprawled on the ground, but the rest of them seemed shaken, but well.

"Does anybody know who these attackers were?" Morel called out loudly so all of his men were able to hear his voice.

He received a few shrugs, a few curses and some "No, boss!" as answers.

Athos tried to prop himself up on one elbow, and faced Morel with as much dignity as he could muster, with his shaking arms and blood all over it.

"How can you be so blind?" he asked sourly, and he let himself drop onto the prisoner's cart again.

Morel mounted his horse and furrowed his brow, his pale eyes roaming all over the place, inspecting the now silent battlefield.

"What are you talking about?" he asked nervously.

Athos sighed, and let his head drop back on the floor of the wooden cart. He felt how one of the prisoners, a young man, barely more than a child, pressed something against his shoulder to stop the bleeding.

"Dorian," Athos explained calmly, but didn't bother to look up to see Morel's reaction. "You should pay more attention to your prisoners, Morel. He's gone."

Porthos firmly readjusted his grip around the reins and urged his horse into a fast gallop. He wasn't alone, and he knew it. The more distance he brought between himself and Athos, the more his wrath ignited. How dared he? Athos knew that Porthos would've never left his friends behind, no matter how 'smart' or 'necessary' it would be. Porthos just didn't act this way.

He did not know whether he would see Aramis or d'Artagnan again, and now he wasn't sure if it may have been the last time he had seen Athos.

Merde. Porthos cursed vividly, knowing that his words got lost in the wind. He knew he had to come up with a plan, but his instincts yelled at him to get onto safer grounds first. He could hear the thundering of hooves in his back, and he turned around to see the riders who had attacked following him closely.

"Shit," he cursed and dug his heels even deeper into the scared animal's flank. He could hear shots somewhere behind him, and when he turned around a second time to check the distance, he managed to duck his head the very last second to avoid a bullet to the head.

"Come on, come on!" he yelled at his horse, the reins whipping against the animal's neck as Porthos tried to urge it into an even faster gallop. The sounds of the shooting followed him as he got closer to the forest, and he counted on the labyrinth of trees to shake his followers off.

But before he even had the chance to think about the best way to get rid of the men, he suddenly felt the horse stumble under him. Another gunshot pierced through the air, and the next thing Porthos was aware of was being thrown through the air as his horse made a complete descent to the ground, a gunshot hole in its neck.

Porthos screamed in frustration and hit the ground hard, pushing all the air out of his body at an instant. He gasped for air, and groaned when he felt something in his shoulder snap due to the impact. But he had no time to lose. His horse stayed motionless, but the gunshots still tore through the air and aimed for his head.

As quickly as he could, he scrambled back on his feet and hid behind a large tree-trunk to avoid getting shot by the men who hunted him.

He heard how they brought their horses to a halt and dismounted, unsheathing their weapons in the process. Porthos was armed with nothing but a short dagger he had stolen from an opponent shortly after they had been attacked.

He took a deep breath to prepare himself, the dagger enclosed in the hand of his unharmed left hand.

With the moment of surprise on his side, he lashed out with his fist. It connected with bones, even though Porthos could barely see which face in his rush of adrenaline. He stepped aside and the sword that had been aimed at his heart got stuck in the tree. Porthos kicked its owner in the chest and lashed out with his dagger, but he missed.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see more people approaching, all on top of their horses, and all armed to the teeth.

He cursed. He had to get a horse, and try to make an escape. Suddenly, a knee connected with his torso and he stumbled backwards, where another man was waiting. The man caught Porthos' fist right before it hit his face and tore on Porthos' already damaged arm.

He couldn't bite down the howl of pain that escaped his throat, and he started throwing punches with his other arm, but even though he managed to knock one of his opponent's unconscious with his sheer power, he knew he stood no chance.

Another man grabbed Porthos' other arm and wrenched it behind his back, just to force Porthos down to his knees.

He was held there, his muscles tense, while the two men tried to keep him at bay while they searched for a weapon to threaten him with.

"For God's sake, that man isn't one of Morel's men, you bloody idiots."

Porthos' heart flamed up with anger when he recognized the voice. No one else than Dorian de la Rovière was bringing up his horse to the front row of his mercenaries or soldiers, whoever the hell they were. Porthos didn't care. He shook off the men who were holding his arms, and didn't fail to head-butt one of them so hard he went to the ground at an instant.

"You!" Porthos bellowed and pointed at the man in question. "You are the reason why our escape plan failed, you damn bastard!"

"Recalling the image of Athos crawling in the dirt, I'd say I just saved his life," Dorian purred with amusement in his voice.

Porthos continued to shoot him glares. "A warning would've been nice."

Dorian shrugged. "You were incredibly helpful. You distracted Morel and my men were able to ambush the party nicely."

"At the risk of our lives!" Porthos couldn't believe that this man had help, had an escape plan, and the whole time they were in the prison, he didn't even mention it once.

"You are free now, aren't you?" one of Dorian's men countered, but he was silenced by his superior.

Porthos just stared at them, looking grim. "If you would've told us, we all could've gotten out of it unscathed!" he said accusingly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, sending intimidating glares at the mercenaries he had just fought. They still stood way too close to him.

Dorian sighed. "I mean no offense, musketeer, but that wasn't my priority. I have my own affairs that need to be taken care of."

"So what, you're going to help me or you're going to stand around and make an arrogant face?" Porthos snapped, but he tried to be careful. He was good, but he was mercilessly outnumbered. And he needed to get out of this unscathed.

But to Porthos' dismay, Dorian de la Rovère shook his head. "No. My men freed me, and now I'm going to take back what's mine."

"There are more important matters that need to be taken care of right now," Porthos instructed. "Morel plans to march against the Baron de Villiers. We need to stop him, before he does something that could trigger a chain of events that end up with the King being involved!"

Dorian exchanged a few looks with some grim looking mercenaries to his left, but then he leaned forward in his saddle. "No, I don't think so. Morel took my home, and I'm going to take it back."

"Why?" Porthos scoffed and raised his chin, his tall figure towering over the men around him. "It's just a building made of stone. What makes you think it's more important than to prevent a bloody and cruel battle?"

"What's a knight without his castle?" Dorian sneered, and raised an eyebrow, while staring at Porthos with arrogance.

Porthos looked seriously annoyed. "I guess that's up to you to decide." He folded his arms. "Morel's a rogue. A polite one, I'll admit, but still a criminal. Should he attack the Baron, it won't take long until the King sides with the nobles, and then this is a war of a whole different level."

"And why should I care?" Dorian spoke, and finally dismounted from his horse to come down to Porthos' eye level.

The musketeer made a step forward, and faced Dorian with as much authority as he could muster. "You said it yourself. There are innocent people, who are forced to join Morel in his longing for whatever the hell it is he's after. They don't deserve this." He swallowed. "My comrades didn't deserve this.

"What, and you spread justice?" Dorian sighed. "That's a nice thought, but it's just a dream. It's always been a dream. Wherever you musketeers appear, there's nothing but trouble."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall having been present when your castle was taken."

"No." Within seconds, Porthos could feel Dorian's fist connect with his face, and then he gasped when clawing fingers enclosed his throat. Dorian's face was red with anger.

"How about you help me get it back then? I saw you fight this Dénis, and I suspect you'll be of magnificent use to me."

Porthos almost broke out into a choked off laughter.

"What?" Dorian rolled his eyes. "I freed you, big boy. You owe me."

Porthos closed his mouth again and bit down what he originally had wanted to reply. Instead, he bore his teeth, and the anger in his eyes was replaced by a calm and dangerous indifference. He didn't master it as good as Athos, but he had the physical appearance to intimidate his opponents even further.

"I owe you nothing," Porthos growled, and to the surprise of the surrounding men, he locked his hand around Dorian's wrist and casually managed to free himself out of the chokehold he had been kept in. Within seconds, he had his own hand around Dorian's throat.

"I don't blame you for Morel's crusade or whatever the hell that is," the musketeer hissed. "I don't blame you for our imprisonment. But if you stand in my way for one moment longer, you wish that I'd never ended up in the cell next to you."

Dorian's lower lip quivered with anger, and Porthos saw out of the corner of his eye how his mercenaries aimed their weapons at Porthos, but he acted as if he didn't care. For a second, there was nothing but silence. Porthos stared down Dorian, and the knight withstood it as best as he could. He seemed to weigh his options, as he knew he could just shoot Porthos here and now.

But Porthos was able to see a little bit fear in his eyes. He was a knight after all, honoured with a title due to his past accomplishments. And Porthos, in some way, was a representative of the King. Dorian wouldn't want to have to stand up for the murder of one of the King's elite guard.

That's why he now raised his hand, and the mercenaries around them lowered their weapons as Porthos let go of Dorian's throat.

"Leave him." He made one step closer. "Go, rescue your comrade, prevent a war, whatever you like to do and what you think is noble."

Porthos managed a sly grin. "It's not nobility I'm after. I thought you had that figured out already."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, but eventually he lowered his head and chuckled.

"You should go north towards Auxerre," Dorian explained as he mounted his horse again. "That's the route Morel and his men will take. And if I were you, I'd be careful. Morel has powerful allies."

He nodded at one of his men. "Give him your horse."

"But...," but the man's protest was too weak. He surrendered under Dorian's intense stare and jumped out of the saddle, before he offered the reins to Porthos. He snatched it out of the man's hand and mounted quickly. The animal was agitated and resisted, but Porthos had a strong hold.

"I would say until we meet each other again, but I sincerely hope we won't," Dorian said to Porthos with something that resembled a grin, before he saluted.

Porthos just growled and grabbed his reins. He had more important matters to take care of at the moment, and if he had to, he'd do it alone.

Without wasting another word at the knight or his mercenaries, he put one foot in the stirrup and lifted himself onto the brown horse. He granted Dorian one last, disappointed look, and urged his horse into a fast pace. He knew that he had to be south of Auxerre, so he oriented himself with the help of the sun and rode north.

His path led him through the forest, and he tried to stay left of the main road so Morel wouldn't spot him by accident. Also, he did not know where Morel had possible reinforcements, so he had to watch out.

His heart was beating nervously in his chest, and the adrenaline of the past hour was slowly fading. There were so many things he needed to do now, but he could barely think straight. Should he search for Treville? Should he try to free Athos single-handedly? Or should he even chase after the uncertain fate of Aramis and d'Artagnan?

He and Aramis had agreed a long time ago that should something happen that would lead to them being separated, there was one question that they needed to ask themselves: What would Athos do? Athos had a ridiculous talent to keep a clear head in the direst of situations. He barely let his emotions direct his actions.

Think, Porthos, think. He tried to clear his mind as he subconsciously observed the area from his place on horseback, trying to look for Morel's party or even another clue.

He crossed a tiny stream and balanced his horse up a slope, when suddenly, he saw a cabin, almost completely covered by the large trees.

He gently brought his horse to a halt behind some thick bushes and a tall tree, and he moved the branches aside to have a closer look.

At the first look, the place looked abandoned. There was an old fireplace in front of the cabin, but the building itself was halfway destroyed, by the looks of it, it had caught fire once. Porthos also saw some stables, which looked like the roof was going to come down very soon. He had no idea what the purpose of this place was, but his experience told him that he should always make sure that this place really was abandoned.

And he wasn't mistaken. He could hear hooves clattering on the hard forest floor, as well as voices coming closer. Out of instincts, he ducked his head, but once he was sure they were coming from the other side, he risked another look.

Suddenly, his eyes widened when he spotted the reinforcements he had suspected. And he cursed quietly. This was a lot more complicated than he had thought, and his chances of getting Athos out of there unnoticed had just gone straight to zero.

He saw a horde of men, on their horses, talking to each other with low voices. And they wore the dark, leathern uniforms, with dark red sleeves and a red cloak slung around the shoulders.

„D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked again and made an unsteady step forward.

The figure in front of them, completely drenched and covered in mud and blood, was indeed the missing Gascon. It took him a second to recognize the men he was standing in front of, but eventually, his eyes landed on Aramis. Aramis' disbelief was mirrored on d'Artagnan's face, and for a moment, nobody, not even Treville, said a word.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked, as if he was unsure. But then, he and Aramis faced each other, and they both grinned in their common relief. D'Artagnan walked up to his friend and pressed his forehead against Aramis' head, before pulling him into a short hug that almost threw both men off balance.

Treville also couldn't help but smile. Another one of his musketeers found, and he was alive.

"D'Artagnan!" he said to draw the young man's attention, but d'Artagnan was still busy.

"I thought you were dead?" he said towards Aramis, who replied with a grimace.

"Could say the same thing about you. I don't remember anything after being kicked off the bridge. We found no trace of you."

"They...they...," Tréville could see that d'Artagnan had trouble forming words, and judging by the amount of blood that was covering the side of his face, it was no wonder. "They stabbed you!" he finished, and his glassy eyes tried to look for Aramis' wounds.

The marksman raised an eyebrow, and chuckled dryly. "I know, my friend. I've noticed."

"Luckily, we found him before he bled out," Francois joined in the conversation, and d'Artagnan finally turned to meet Tréville and Francois.

"Captain?"

Tréville nodded his head, and approached the young musketeer. "Good to see you're alive, d'Artagnan. We've been looking for you."

D'Artagnan's eyes wandered over Tréville to Francois and Aramis and back. "Athos and Porthos? Have you...?"

"No," Aramis admitted and Tréville could see that he was close to collapsing. Francois helped Aramis over to a tree and sat him down on the ground, where the musketeer gathered himself for a second and then looked at d'Artagnan with bloodshot eyes. "There seems to be a trail, going to...?"

"Mailly-le-Château," Francois helped out.

"Where we suspect at least Athos. I guess that Porthos is with him."

"D'Artagnan." Tréville tried again and laid a comforting hand on the restless man's shoulder. "What do you remember?"

"I remember that Porthos and Athos were overwhelmed by the attackers. I was pulled off the bridge." He shook his head slightly. "I woke up at the river's bank, I think somebody pulled me up there."

"Then I think we found your trace," Tréville confirmed. "And the man who saved you was one of the attackers?"

D'Artagnan leaned against the tree to steady himself. "Yes, yes. The one who pulled me down the bridge. But Sir, I think...I mean we have to get to Auxerre. Now!"

Tréville could see that d'Artagnan was confused, probably because of the nasty head-wound, but he had no idea why he should go to Auxerre now.

„We need to get to Porthos and Athos, and the trail leads to Mailly-le-Château, not to Auxerre," Tréville explained sceptically.

"The...the Baron," d'Artagnan stuttered. "They said something about a Baron."

"Who are 'they'?" Aramis wanted to know from his place on the forest floor.

"Some of the bandits. I listened to their conversation, like...what time is it?"

"Midday," Francois threw in.

"Then I think that was yesterday. They said something about a plan going down, and the Baron being involved."

"Involved, or the target?" Tréville wanted to know, and kept d'Artagnan upright with his hand. He seemed to have been all alone ever since the ambush took place, and he needed rest, but d'Artagnan knew his duty too. His captain needed the information.

"I think the target," d'Artagnan said. "And it seems like 'the musketeers' as they called them are in the hands of a man named...damn." He pressed his hands against his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember the name in his foggy mind. "Morel? I think the name was Morel."

"So, in conclusion," Aramis rasped and rested his head against the tree-trunk, "a man named Morel has Athos and Porthos and wants to do something against the Baron there?"

"The Baron de Villiers," Francois continued, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Haven't you been guarding his wife the past week, Captain?"

Tréville just nodded, but he didn't say a word.

"For what would this man need Athos and Porthos?" Francois guessed loudly. "And why did he capture the two of them, but you two were meant to be killed?"

D'Artagnan threw his hand up in the air in a desperate gesture. "No idea. But I think the intention was to capture me and Aramis too. They are just bad at following orders." He hesitantly looked at Tréville, and tried to approach his captain. "Sir. We need to go to Auxerre. Whoever the man is who has Athos and Porthos, they will go to Auxerre. And whatever the plan is, it will go down there."

"You said the man's name was Morel?" Tréville asked, and his own voice sounded very distant.

D'Artagnan frowned, but nodded slowly.

"Captain, what is it?" Aramis asked carefully. He could see that there was something off. "You know him?"

Tréville bit his lip, and started shaking his head in disbelief, while he connected the present with the pieces of a time long gone. This could not be a coincidence. He had never thought to encounter Morel Dupois once again.

Thank you for reading, I hope you still enjoy as we're taking steady steps towards the finale. I hope I answered at least some questions here.

To Guest: I've wanted this story to be about all four (five) of them, and that's what I'm going to try to continue to do. I apologise if you feel like Porthos is being neglected, that wasn't my intention. However, I think that each musketeer plays a role in this story, and it's equally important. I can promise that Porthos won't just sit around and do nothing but worry in the following chapters, but you'll have to see for yourself whether you like to read it that way or not. But I appreciate your words, thank you for taking the time to tell me. And thank you for the compliment, I hope you enjoy nevertheless!:-)