Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Note: Yet another one of the Post S2 AU Aramis joins his friends stories. And yet another (though not as graphic) war story. And it will not be my last one, I think. My apologies. Just, see this as a warning concerning my future works.
The Italics are people speaking in Spanish. I didn't translate it so it would be easier to follow. Second language English only. Entry to the Fete-des-Mosquetaires September Challenge.
When Autumn comes
You will all be home when autumn comes.
Athos remembered the King's words as if he had heard them yesterday, but truth was, it had been a year and seven months since his majesty had spoken them. A year and seven months since the King with the Queen by his side had addressed the musketeer regiment and a few of the other parts of his army from the balcony of his palace. A year and a half since they had last seen the towers of Notre-Dame, since they had last breathed the Parisian air.
And at the time, they had believed him. How could they not find comfort in the words of the man who had sent them out here, how could they not trust them. In reality, they had merely sought an excuse. They had chosen to believe a lie, a promise that had been doomed right from the start. It was not the King's fault, it was not Athos' fault. But war played by its own rules.
"I don't want to repeat the question." A hand grabbed Athos hair and pulled it back, exposing his neck to the man in front of him. A Spanish Captain, dressed in a black uniform with a wooden cross pendant swinging from his chest.
Athos' eyes found Porthos to his right, tightly bound against a wooden pillar, his face covered in bruises and he sported a black eye. His chin was resting on his chest. Behind him, there were three other men of Athos' regiment, all more or less in the same condition as Porthos.
Athos felt the coldness of a sharp blade against his throat and a tickle of warm blood ran down his neck, but he gathered all the courage he had left and spoke with a raspy and sore voice.
"I don't know," he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. "But if I would, I'd gladly walk into the fires of hell before I told you."
The sound of the horses' hooves got damped by the leaves covering the ground. Brown, green, red and yellow colours decorated their path, framing it in a beauty they refused to see at the moment.
D'Artagnan's horse eagerly followed Aramis' horse in a soft gallop down the narrow path between the treelines. Leaves were falling down on them gently from the high treetops, and the rain made them stick to their saddles and armour.
D'Artagnan readjusted his dirty hat to avoid the rain running down into his eyes, and he breathed in relief when their destination finally came into sight. The narrow pathway had led towards the ruins of an old mill, probably abandoned for decades now. The stone was covered with moss and nature had clearly started to reclaim its territory. The three horses bound to a tree nearby told them that the others had already arrived.
Without uttering a single word, Aramis brought his horse to a halt next to an old Oaktree on the other side of the building. D'Artagnan, fully knowing what would come next, hastily jumped out of the saddle and tied his reins around the tree trunk.
"Wait," he instructed Aramis and as soon as he was done tying the knot, he firmly grabbed the bridle of Aramis' mare with his right hand and offered his left to his friend.
Aramis clearly suppressed a sigh, but they both knew he was in no condition to deny the help. The marksman grimaced, took in a deep breath and swung his leg over the horses' back and down to the ground. He swayed, and the horse, a young and nervous animal, only stayed where it was due to d'Artagnan's grip on its bridle.
The Gascon steadied his friend with his free hand and as soon as Aramis made a declining gesture, he tied the horse to the tree as well.
"Thank you," Aramis said sincerely and d'Artagnan merely nodded. For now, he and Aramis were carrying the command of the regiment. For Aramis, it had added yet another challenge he had to carry out, since he had been injured in combat roughly two weeks prior. The wound covering his ribs had been deep and it was still healing slowly, but he was getting better each day. And ever since he and d'Artagnan had been on their own, the two of them had kept going. Without much sleep, without much rest. Relying on each other, because there was no one else left.
"Not a word of this to him," Aramis said with a low voice and made a vague gesture towards his wound, covered by his dark and damaged armour.
"You should know me better than that," d'Artagnan merely responded with the hint of a smile, and together, they headed towards the entrance of the mill. With the arrival of the rain, it had gotten even colder outside, and despite their heavy travelling coats both musketeers were shivering when they finally entered the warmer room of the mill. Somebody had already lit a fire.
"Finally," a sharp voice greeted them. "We expected you here yesterday."
A man stepped out of the shadows into the light of the fire, with a tense expression on his face but a kind and slightly worried glistering in his eyes. Minister Treville. He was accompanied by two musketeers that had been stationed in Paris, and who chose to stay near the door.
"Didn't we write you to meet us here on Tuesday?" d'Artagnan replied slightly confused but went forward to greet his former captain appropriately.
Treville arched an eyebrow. "Yes. And today is Wednesday."
Aramis sighed and buried his face in his hands. "My apologies, Sir. We must have lost track of time."
Treville just made a declining gesture and took a few seconds to look at his men. D'Artagnan could only guess how they looked in the minister's eyes. Their armour dirty and wet, dark circles underneath their eyes from the lack of sleep and Aramis, despite his best efforts to stand up straight, leaned crookedly against the wooden beam, his face the mask of a ghost.
Treville had noticed it, but he obviously refused to speak it out loud. Because the absence of Athos and Porthos spoke louder than anything else in the room.
"You were not really clear in your message." Treville crossed his arms in front of his chest. "So, who of you is going to tell me what happened to your Captain? And what happened to Porthos?"
D'Artagnan shared a quick look with Aramis, but since the marksman made no attempt to take over, it was up to him to explain the situation.
"Athos, Porthos as well as three other men of our regiment have been ambushed and captured five days ago." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a slightly damaged and dirty map. Without hesitation, he unfolded it on the table and pointed at the handmade drawing of a forest near the location of their own camp. "They were on patrol here. Our camp is here," and he showed it on the map, only a short distance away from the ambush spot.
"The Spanish regiment and ours have been doing this cat and mouse game for almost two months now," Aramis intervened and approached the table as well. "Their stationary camp is here, on the cliffs." He used his bloodied finger and showed the said spot on the map, right on the ocean's border. "The Spanish Captain has Athos, Porthos and three of our men in his captivity. No doubt they were left alive for questioning purposes. And we all know that none of them is going to say anything."
Treville raised a hand. "Can you be sure that they are still alive?"
Aramis had a look of betrayal on his face, and d'Artagnan could not hold it against him. "There were signs of a fight, and we found Porthos' weapon. We scouted the entire area, and we haven't been able to retrieve a body, so yes, Sir," and d'Artagnan was trying hard to keep it together. "We are fairly certain they are alive and in need of a rescue."
Treville looked up briefly to meet the musketeer's desperate glares. "Your…our regiment, what's the status? Food and water?"
"Running out. We are lucky if we last another three days." That was Aramis' sober statement.
"Ammunition supplies?"
"Given that we make every shot count, perhaps we can take down fifty Spaniards with us." D'Artagnan found no way to sugar-coat it. The last few months had been hard on them.
"And what about the men?" Treville closed, and his presence and behaviour all set them back to a time where things had been much easier.
Aramis sighed and ran a hand over his face, his shoulders indicating a half-shrug. "We are currently twenty-three men down. We lost eleven. Five are in captivity and seven are injured and in no condition to fight."
D'Artagnan knew for a fact that Aramis had excluded himself out of that number.
"The moral on the other hand is not too bad," d'Artagnan added. "The men are angered by the past few weeks and the battles we fought against this Spanish Captain."
"Captain Torres," Aramis interrupted, gritting his teeth with frustration.
"Exactly, they are not ready to surrender," d'Artagnan continued mildly. "And," and with that, the hint of a smile appeared on his face, "our men really want to free their captain."
Even Treville had to hide a grin. "So Athos made the men like him after all, I take it?"
Aramis chuckled weakly. "Not thanks to his charming nature, that I can promise you. Many of them are scared of him, but you know how he is. Somehow, they are looking up to him. And to Porthos too."
"And you two, otherwise, you would not be the ones doing the talking right now," Treville concluded. Aramis and d'Artagnan said nothing, but they were aware of the curious stares from the two musketeers in their backs.
Treville sighed and he kept his gaze locked on the map on the table, his fingers scratching his beard. D'Artagnan and Aramis just stared at their superior in an impatient silence, not sure if their message had come across.
"Why exactly am I here? For a rescue?" Treville wanted to know straight-forward. "What do you need?"
Aramis hesitantly took a step forward. "Look, Sir, we would appreciate all the help we can get, but know that we are not asking for permission. There is no way we are leaving our brothers alone out there."
Treville threw him a sharp glare. "I am not asking you to. Yet, from what you told me and from what I can see myself, I really don't see a possibility for a rescue that doesn't end in a bloodbath. The past few weeks have not been in our favour."
"We know where their camp is," d'Artagnan interrupted before Treville could continue to map out how unlucky exactly they had been in the past weeks. "That is an advantage. They have us outnumbered, but if you support our attack with another battalion, we…"
"That's suicide," Treville cut in sharply. "A frontal attack, and we're all dead. They are up on a hill, on a cliff. They can barricade themselves, and sit it out while we die trying to get past their defences. There is not one way we can get close enough to break through undetected." He rested his hands on the desk, his jaw clenched tensely, his mind visibly trying to find a solution.
Aramis exchanged a quick look with d'Artagnan. The Gascon nodded and gestured his friend to continue.
"What if they have troubles within their camp? What if they don't look what's going on outside?" Aramis' question was rewarded with a longer silence, as the captain did not say anything until he had thought about a proper answer.
His keen eyes wandered from Aramis to d'Artagnan and back to Aramis, narrowed in suspicion. "You two already have a plan, am I right?"
While d'Artagnan had a somewhat guilty look on his face, Aramis stayed focused and serious. "We captured a Spanish lieutenant and two companions, who were headed to the Spanish camp. We have the letters they carried, and we have their armour."
Treville's face was a mask of curiosity. "Did you question them?"
Aramis huffed. "Didn't need much questioning. The letter they carried gave me all the information I had to know."
"One of the Spanish prisoners is a man called Julio Navarro, a lieutenant sent to Torres' regiment after the former lieutenant died in the battle against us, six weeks ago," d'Artagnan continued. "The other two men are his guards."
The room fell so silent, d'Artagnan wasn't sure they were even breathing. Treville was just staring at the musketeers, putting together the information they didn't give him.
"You are thinking about going in in his place, I presume?" the minister finally asked, but the tone in his voice indicated he wasn't really expecting an answer.
"We are still debating about the details of the plan, but yes," d'Artagnan threw a sharp glance towards Aramis, who ignored him politely. "The short questioning of the prisoners revealed to us that the Captain and the lieutenant have never met before. One of us will take the part of the lieutenant, and free the way for our regiment once inside."
"How so?" Treville still seemed more than unsure.
D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "We are counting on receiving some help from Athos and Porthos. Cause a fight between the soldiers and the prisoners, should they be in a position to do so. We only have to last long enough for you, Sir, to reach the gate."
The minister nodded slowly, and seemed to rewind the entire plan in his head. "And what are the debatable details?" he wanted to know.
"I really don't know what there is to debate," Aramis cut in harshly before d'Artagnan could open his mouth. "I am the only one among us who is capable of speaking Spanish. I am the only one they will believe. Your few words you learned over the past few month are only going to get you killed quicker, d'Artagnan."
Frustration grew in the Gascon. "I was merely suggesting that you are not fit enough yet to place your head in the line of fire. And that your desire to clear your conscience might lead to deadly mistakes."
Aramis huffed, but before he could respond, the minister intervened. "Clear your conscience?"
"Aramis and Athos got into a fight, just hours before the Captain went on the patrol he never returned from. I'm afraid Aramis' conscience might lead to reckless actions. It's not like it has never happened before." He knew that those were hurtful words, but in some ways, they were true. D'Artagnan's worry for Athos and Porthos had clouded his own judgment too, but he was also worried about Aramis should he go in there alone. It was not that he did not trust his friend, but he knew the harsh words might help to convince Treville that it was a bad idea.
He recalled that the fight between Athos and Aramis a few days prior had only been a result of the tension and frustrations the past months of war had bore with them. A minor disagreement had fuelled the dispute, and though both of them had not meant what they had said, it had been hard to watch. D'Artagnan would always remember the look on Aramis' face in the medic's tent as he had told him about Porthos and Athos' disappearance.
"Let my conscience be my own worry," Aramis now retorted. "And yes, you are right. There is no way I'm allowing Athos to die before I had the chance to give him my apology. Same goes for Porthos. I am not leaving one of them behind." He made a short pause to collect his breath. "But I know my limits, and I am no fool, d'Artagnan. I am the only one who can do this, I am the only one they could believe to be the Spanish lieutenant."
"And your injury?" d'Artagnan countered.
Aramis jaw clenched. "I'll just hide it. I can be very convincing."
"You are not," Treville interrupted him and sent him a sharp glare. "But that should not be the problem. What if you two go in together? You portray Lietunant Navarro, Aramis, and you and your men have been attacked along the way by the musketeer regiment. You, d'Artagnan, are his prisoner." Treville looked at Aramis. "You make sure d'Artagnan can break out Porthos and Athos, and that we can approach the gate without being seen to early. From then on, leave the matters to my hands."
"You are helping us?" d'Artagnan couldn't help but be surprised by the lack of resistance he was met.
Treville shrugged, and though his face resembled the mask of the Captain he wore so often, his eyes had a kind glistering. "I know I cannot stop you, so I might as well make sure you survive your plan. Also, if it all goes well, the fighting in this area might be stopped once and for all, and I could really use some good news for the next time I step in front of the King."
Aramis clapped his hands and shared a relieved look with his younger brother-in-arms. "Well, then. We have no time to waste. The sooner we get this done, the better are the chances we see Paris again soon."
Porthos awoke with a gasp, and his senses were flooded with memories and sensations at an instant. He smelled food and blood. He heard heavy breathing and distant whispers. He saw nothing but the dirty ground he had fallen on to after his captors had knocked him out. He felt the raw ropes around his wrist and the cold rain falling down onto his skin.
Then he remembered. He remembered the questioning, he recalled Athos' helpless face as the swordsman could do nothing but watch how Porthos got beaten again and again. Athos…
Porthos' senses were on high alert at an instant. His wrists were on fire and protested as he sat up quickly, drawing strength from his disorientation and desire to know how his friend was faring.
He spotted Athos a short distance to his left, his wrists tied just like Porthos, but the Captain was on his knees. He was facing straight ahead, but his look of determination could not conceal the shivering his body went through. Athos' shoulders were shaking violently, and Porthos soon realized that the heavy breathing came from his friend and Captain. Athos had a larger cut on his neck as well as some bruising along the left side of his face. It seems like one, they had started to question Athos as well, and two, Athos had been as stubborn as Porthos and not given away any information.
"Athos…," Porthos whispered, and Athos' head snapped to the side to meet Porthos' gaze.
Relief briefly crossed the swordsman's features before he nodded into the direction he had been staring into. Porthos followed his friend's gaze and found the Spanish Captain, Captain Torres, who had interrogated them, as well as the soldier who had assisted him. They were standing close to the tent, discussing something Porthos could not understand.
Athos was narrowing his eyes, as if it could magically help him understand Spanish. But truth was, he was trying to read their body language and their mimic, searching for the hint of an information concerning the next steps, or the fate of the rest of his regiment.
"Give them water, and the leftovers," the Spanish Captain instructed his associate.
The soldier opened his mouth to protest. "But Sir, those are…"
"Men. Like you and me. They may be our enemy, but they are just as hungry and thirsty as we are."
"These men killed two of my closest friends", the man hissed. "They killed many dozen of our men."
"And we killed theirs. You have your orders, soldier." The tone in Captain Torres voice tolerated no further input.
Porthos had no idea what they were saying, but moments later, the soldier walked over towards them and handed them some water out of a bowl, as well as some bread, hard as stone.
"What, first they beat us, then they feed us? What kind of sick game is this?" Porthos wanted to throw away the bread, but his hunger won over his anger. It was not much, but it was enough to ease the hunger a little bit and the fresh water tickling down his throat made him forget about his pounding face for a moment.
"They need the information we have," Athos replied, his mouth barely moving as he continued to stare forward towards where Captain Torres had just entered his tent. "But they are men of faith as well. Just because they are our enemy it doesn't magically make them morally bad men."
Porthos nodded slowly, and a quick glance over his shoulder assured him that the other three musketeers that were here with them were listening attentively to their conversation.
"Do you have a plan yet?" Porthos hissed, his eyes darting towards the Spanish soldier that was still watching them. Porthos did not think he understood what they were saying, but one could never be cautious enough.
Athos' shaking head was barely noticeable. "D'Artagnan and Aramis are out there, undoubtedly looking for us. And I am running out of options here. We have to keep our faith that they won't leave us here to die."
Porthos gritted his teeth, cursing internally as he felt his eye slowly swelling shut.
"Well, they need to hurry. Because I am not sure any of us will survive another questioning."
"And you are sure they are going to buy this?" D'Artagnan seemed to be feeling all but comfortable right now. His hands had been tied in front of him, and he was riding in the saddle, Aramis behind him, managing the reins of the horse.
"Your confidence in my acting skills is incomparable, my friend," Aramis hushed him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's our best shot. Now shut up and look as if you are annoyed by me."
"Not much acting needed there…," d'Artagnan commented under his breath, his voice dripping with irony. It earned him a well-deserved slap against the back of his head from Aramis.
Aramis and d'Artagnan had interrogated the prisoners once more before they had left their men to Treville, and though the real Spanish lieutenant Navarro had not said a word, he didn't have to. Aramis had been able to get an impression of how this man behaved without him saying so.
Navarro seemed to be an ambitious man, roughly Aramis' age as well. Ambitious, but dutiful, and deeply religious. In some ways, he resembled Aramis more than d'Artagnan liked to admit, but he had deliberately chosen not to address this fact.
Aramis had taken the man's uniform. It was a little too small for him, as he over towered the real Navarro at least half a head, but it fitted just good enough to not raise any suspicions. It consisted of simple, black pieces, with silver ornaments on his doublet. The hat was black too, with a rather pompous white feather on top.
Aramis, despite his best efforts to show the contrary, was not feeling overly confident. They counted on a lot of luck here – the luck that none of these men had encountered Lieutenant Navarro yet. Or Aramis, on the battlefield. But the chances were good, and he just had to play his role convincingly.
Now, they approached the wooden outlines of the Spanish camp. It had no solid gate, but a group of Spanish marksmen guarded the pathway to the entrance. From their position, they could easily cause a bloodbath should the French regiment approach. Which is exactly what Treville warned them about. The men were on high alert, their weapons aimed at Aramis who did his best to radiate calmness and act as if this was exactly where he belonged.
"Not one step closer!" Someone bellowed, and Aramis gently brought his horse to a stop, before he pulled out the orders he had taken from Navarro and lifted them up high so the men could see them.
"My name is Lieutenant Julio Navarro. I have orders to report to Captain Torres as his new officer."
The men seemed to exchange a few hectic words. Two of them lowered the weapons, the others were not so quick to comply.
"And what about the other one?" he asked and undoubtedly referred to d'Artagnan in front of him.
"My men and I were ambushed on our way here," Aramis explained matter-of-factly, and forced his mare to turn to the right so they could see d'Artagnan's bound wrists. "A splinter group of the French regiment. My guards were killed, but I was able to fight them off and take a prisoner."
To his own ears, he sounded somewhat convincing. And apparently, that was enough. A few moments passed by, but eventually, the soldiers signalled him to pass through. Aramis urged his horse into a fast trot and led the animal into the Spanish camp.
"Lieutenant Navarro!" A voice called out for him, and Aramis, trying to ease his nerves, dismounted quickly, before he roughly grabbed d'Artagnan and pulled him off the animal too.
The source of the call revealed itself soon after in the form of a man in another black uniform, with long, curly brown hair and a big wooden cross resting on his chest. This had to be Captain Torres. Aramis took a deep breath, then he bowed his head as a greeting.
"Captain Torres. I report for duty."
Torres smirked. "You have been busy, so it seems." He rounded d'Artagnan, his eyes scanning the musketeer from head to toe. "He wears the same uniform as the other prisoners. Must be the same regiment."
"I have been attacked on my way here, Sir," Aramis reported dutifully. "You have other prisoners?"
Torres nodded. "Over there. Vasquez!" A Spanish soldier approached quickly, bowing his head. "Vasquez, this is Navarro, your new lieutenant. He brought us another prisoner, will you secure him with the others, please?" Torres used a polite, almost friendly tone with the soldiers he was commanding, but nevertheless, he radiated an authority that almost resembled Athos'. And he seemed to be highly respected.
The soldier nervously scanned Aramis, furrowing his brow as if it seemed strange to him, but eventually, he bowed his head and took d'Artagnan by the upper arm to guide him where the others supposedly were chained as well. The Gascon threw one last glance over his shoulder, and they needed no words. The plan was set. And so far, it worked well.
"Perhaps your prisoner can provide some answers. If we don't get any soon, I fear we will have no choice but to get rid of the prisoners." "Torres spoke soberly, with no hint of anger or hate. "We don't have the supplies to keep them with us much longer."
For a split second, Aramis was not sure he could conceal the shock in his face, but as quickly as his features had derailed, he had regained the control.
"Walk with me," Torres instructed, and Aramis had no choice but to do so. He followed the Captain to the higher ground of the Spanish camp, always one step behind his superior.
"I am sorry you were exposed to the French regiment," Torres continued. "I fear we have ignited their thirst for vengeance. Do you need medical assistance?" His eyes rested on Aramis' side, and Aramis noticed how his hand had subconsciously been pressed against his aching and burning wound.
The musketeer in disguise managed a brief shake of the head. "Nothing serious, Sir." He made a short, respectful pause. "Why do you expect their vengeance?"
Torres' face was unreadable. Either he was very satisfied or deeply saddened. "We are certain we have captured their Captain. The prisoners have not talked, but we are sure."
"You have the Captain of the French eighth regiment in your captivity?" Aramis repeated, making sure he sounded as surprised as possible.
Torres nodded, but scepticism overcame his features and he furrowed his brow. "Why?"
"Sir, I was sent here not only to serve as Lieutenant, but to bring information the General has been able to gather." Aramis was completely improvising, and he knew he was walking on a thin line here. "The eighth French regiment is no ordinary regiment, Captain. The General has reason to believe it is under the command of the King's personal guards."
Whatever emotion Torres had had on his face, it froze at an instant. Aramis could see him slowly releasing a breath he had been holding, and his hand worriedly scratched his chin.
"You are saying…Musketeers?"
It had been no secret in this war at all. Half of the Spanish Army knew that this regiment was led by Captain Athos of the King's musketeers. Yet, it was fortunate it was an information that Torres did not have yet. He had been isolated from the Spanish main forces for the past few weeks, thanks to Athos and his regiment, so this information was new to him. And it had the desired effect.
Fear, and respect, crept into Torres' eyes. "I will have to see to my strategy. Take some time to gather your strength, Navarro, but I expect you to report back to me in two hours, understood?"
Aramis bowed his head. "Sir."
With that, Torres left him alone and Aramis finally released a deep breath, trying to get the tension out of his stiff body.
He was walking freely, but the invisible daggers were not only at his throat, but at his friend's throats too. One wrong move and this could end up in the greatest disaster in the history of the musketeer regiment. But the fear in the Captain's eyes was something he had wanted to achieve. Not to warn them, but to draw their attention to the valuable prisoners. In addition, it had strengthened his disguise.
Fear was a powerful weapon. But caution was the armour needed to win the fight.
"Somethings happening." Porthos' voice managed to cut through the heavy fog in Athos' brain, and the musketeer immediately redirected his attention towards where the Spanish soldiers were talking hectically. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly as a bolt of pain shot through his upper back, and his face was still pounding heavily.
"What is it?" Athos asked their companion, the musketeer Léo. He was the only one among them, except for Aramis of course, who was able to understand a little bit of Spanish. It was very little, but it was better than nothing.
"I am not sure," Léo answered and furrowed his brow. "A new lieutenant, I think. Arrived with new prisoners, but I am not sure what else. We…"
He shut his mouth the moment another Spanish soldier came around the corner, half-guiding, half-dragging another prisoner with him. Athos blinked a few times, not entirely sure he wasn't imagining it.
The new prisoner was hissing in protest, and he was colourfully insulting the Spanish soldier. The musketeer pauldron on his shoulder was dirty, but Athos would recognize it anywhere.
D'Artagnan was eventually shoved on a spot next to Athos, and as the Gascon revolted against the treatment, the Spanish soldier landed a heavy punch on d'Artagnan's face that sent the musketeer down to the ground at an instant, where he was tied and secured.
"What on earth are you doing here?" Athos brought out between clenched teeth, not daring to look up or speak his friend's name. He never knew who was listening.
D'Artagnan coughed and spit out a mouthful of blood. "What do you think?" He took a deep breath, and though Athos did not look at him, he could hear the sarcastic grin. "I thought you could use some company."
Porthos did not believe it. "Why, did you miss us?"
D'Artagnan chuckled. "Sure. We both did. Aramis sends his regards." He spoke with such a confidence that Athos doubted he had been captured by accident.
Athos finally granted his younger companion a side glance. "Did Aramis say anything else?" he wanted to know, carefully trying to get on the ground of whatever rescue this was.
D'Artagnan waited until another Spanish soldier had passed before he answered. "He says you two have to remember what happened in Chartres, during the revolt in '31." He made a short pause, but the look Athos gave him told him the Captain had understood.
They shut up the moment another Spanish soldier approached, and this time, the man walked towards d'Artagnan. The man's body language looked familiar, but the hat was pulled down deep over his face, plunging his face into shadows. He stood between Athos and d'Artagnan, and by all Athos was able to make out, he had grabbed the Gascon by the collar, speaking to him in a low voice Athos could not hear.
And if Athos was not imagining it due to lack of sleep or hydration, he was sure that the Spanish soldier not only carried the face of Aramis, but also winked at them briefly as he passed by.
For a short while, nobody spoke a word. Athos was internally cursing as he finally realized what exactly the plan seemed to be, and he spotted faults in this plan, everywhere. He recalled what had happened in Chartres in 1631. A group of cult like fanatics had managed to capture Aramis and Porthos during a revolt against the King, and Athos had infiltrated their well-protected camp, posing as one of them while d'Artagnan brought reinforcements. The whole ordeal had ended with Porthos catching a bullet, Athos being almost drowned and Aramis narrowly escaping a burning building. All in all, not their greatest success.
"Please tell me my eyes are betraying me?" Porthos threw in in clear disbelief. "Please tell me this idiot did not…"
"Porthos!" Athos hissed quietly. "Ears. Everywhere."
Porthos shut up immediately, with a somewhat guilty look on his face.
"As I said," d'Artagnan repeated, and out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw that he now was in possession of a small blade he was using to cut his ropes with. Undoubtedly Aramis' doing. "Remember what we did in '31." He lowered his voice, now barely more than a whisper. "Be prepared."
The moon was high up in the sky when the next step of the plan took place. D'Artagnan had managed to cut through his ropes, and in a moment of inattentiveness on the Spanish side, he had kicked the knife towards Athos, who had used it to cut his own ropes and Porthos'. Judging by the sound in his back, the three other men of Athos' regiment were currently busy trying to free themselves.
"Tell me again why we are not sneaking out?" Porthos hissed so quietly that even Athos had troubles understanding him.
"I can give you at least five dozen reasons," Athos countered dryly, referring to the number of Spaniards between them and the gate. He heard Porthos mumbling something incomprehensible in his back.
Finally, they spotted Aramis in the Spanish lieutenant's uniform coming around the corner, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. As far as Athos could tell in the darkness of the night, he had a pained and slightly worried expression on his face.
Without looking twice, Aramis strode over towards the prisoners, and he came to a stop in front of Athos. He towered over his friend, just for the sake of upkeeping the disguise, but the words he spoke were whispered, meant to get lost under the noise of the wind.
"I took out the guards at the entrance, but it is only a matter of minutes until they realize it." He threw a quick look towards d'Artagnan, who granted him a confirming nod.
„Attack me," Aramis ordered under his breath, staring back at Athos with urgency written all over his face.
Athos, who had kept his now free hands locked behind his back, arched an eyebrow, as if he was truly looking at a Spanish officer. "Beg your pardon?"
Aramis' eyes widened as panic seemed to creep into his worried eyes. "Attack me Athos, or God help me, I'll kill you myself."
Athos did not need the second invitation. Though at only half of his strength, he leapt forward and landed a heavy punch on Aramis' face. He went in for another attack, making sure to avoid his friend's injured side, but Aramis turned away, seemingly to dodge the attack, but granting Athos free passage towards the dagger the marksman kept secured at his belt.
Without thinking twice, he grabbed the dagger and launched an attack he knew Aramis was able to parry with his sword. As Athos tried to break through the marksman's defence, he could see the almost amused spark in his friend's eyes. He was having a bit too much fun for Athos' taste, but the Captain himself couldn't help but feel reminded of the various training exercises they had practised in garrison's courtyard during brighter days.
"A little help here!" Aramis yelled in Spanish, and within moments, their little spot was the centre of all the attention. Quite possibly exactly what Aramis had aimed for.
Athos turned all of his attention on disarming assailing Spanish soldiers, who supposedly came to Aramis' rescue, and he threw Porthos and d'Artagnan all weapons he was able to gather. He felt the effects of his days long captivity in his legs and bones, and the wounds on his neck and face were burning, but he was able to stand and hold his ground for as long as it was necessary.
Athos did not know why they were fighting against such a high number of enemies when they knew they couldn't win, but Aramis had told him he had taken out the guards near the entrance. And there had to be a damn plan behind it.
He watched how Porthos had to take a heavy hit against his already heavily bruised face and was sent to the ground, and it seemed to be that exact moment Aramis decided to drop his mask and send all senses of acting to hell. Without thinking twice, the marksman fiercely defended his fallen friend and lend Porthos a helping hand.
Just when Athos thought that he would not last another minute against this crowd of angry Spanish soldiers, they heard shooting noises from further down the cliffs, as well as loud screams and thunderous clashes of steel.
Many of the Spanish soldiers no longer wasted one ounce of strength on the prisoners and raced towards the noises, their weapons drawn.
"What's that?" Athos wanted to know, referring to the newly erupted tumult where he thought the gate to be at. He quickly defended himself against an assailing enemy.
"Treville," was all d'Artagnan brought out between his gasps, and Aramis ran past them, dragging them towards the other side of the camp that ended on top of a small cliff. Aramis led them, followed by Athos and Porthos with d'Artagnan coming last. The Gascon was shooting stolen pistols at the few Spaniards that tried to stop their escape. Which were still a good dozen.
Athos came to a slithering halt on the edge, and cast a sceptical look down. He heard the soft rushing of the waves, but all he was able to see was darkness. The moon was shielded by the clouds, and it looked like a black veil was protecting the ocean against unwanted visitors.
Athos saw the looks on Aramis' and d'Artagnan's faces, and he saw the pure terror on Porthos' face as well. The Captain shook his head, which only worsened the pounding in his skull.
"We don't know how deep this is, but we know how many Spaniards there are between us and our freedom," he explained as an answer to a question that had never been posed. "It's only logical to fight what we can see."
"And what does your common sense tell you, Athos?" d'Artagnan threw in. "You know how many Spaniards there are between us and Trevilles reinforcements, and you know as well as I do that we won't last long enough until the minister gets to us."
Aramis growled. "It's this," he said and pointed towards the ocean, "or that," and he motioned towards the Spanish soldiers standing between them and Treville. Aramis grabbed him by the jacket.
"Do you trust me?" The question was simple, yet it carried much more value than just asking which way to go. It demanded a truthful answer.
Athos locked eyes with Aramis for a brief second, then he just nodded stiffly.
"I'll be damned," Porthos muttered, before he shook his head in doubt, but approval, and threw one last glance
"Don't worry, my friend," d'Artagnan smiled. "We got you."
They exchanged another deep look, and the shooting noises behind them grew louder as the Spanish soldiers tried to stop their escape. Athos hissed as he felt one of the bullets grazing his upper arm.
He felt his friends' presence by his side, and that was all he needed.
Time froze. They took in a deep breath. And together, they fell.
It was cold and hot at the same time. The coldness of the water threatened to numb all of Athos' senses, but it was the salt that burned in his open wounds. A bolt of pain shot up his body, and he opened his mouth. A scream nobody could hear escaped his throat, and water mercilessly filled his mouth. Athos' eyes widened as he felt the lack of oxygen creeping towards his brain, and he quickly defied all pain he felt to scramble all the way back to the surface.
He broke through the dark veil with a gasp, and as he looked up towards the distant lights, he had to give it to Aramis and d'Artagnan. The fall hadn't been too deep, but the water was deep enough. Still, Athos was sure that he had dislocated his already damaged shoulder during the fall. Pain shot up his arm and all the way up to his neck, but in the coldness of the ocean, he was barely able to feel it.
He turned his head as he heard loud gasping and he saw d'Artagnan breaking through the surface side by side with Porthos, who immediately spat out a mouthful of water. Aramis appeared on Athos' other side, coughing, but alive as well. He shook out his long hair like a wet dog, before he flashed a grin and started swimming.
"Once this is all over, I'll kill you myself," Athos threatened numbly and followed his friend the short distance towards the shore.
"Hey, stand in line," Porthos murmured as he dragged himself onto the sand, collapsing onto the ground and rolling onto his back, breathing heavily and grimacing as he touched his bloodied face.
"You two are the most ungrateful souls I have ever met," Aramis complained with a spark of his usual self enlightening his eyes as he got rid of his wet jacket. The temperatures were freezing, but the soaked doublets didn't help to warm them up. His teeth were clattering. "Also, why do I get all your hate? D'Artagnan came up with at least a third of this plan too."
"But d'Artagnan didn't make us attack our friend," Porthos answered grimly and out of breath, and Athos could not help but smile. "But trust me, next time, I won't be as hesitant."
Aramis merely answered with a dry laugh.
Athos felt shivers running down his back as the coldness got a hold of him too, and together, they slowly walked, or in Athos' and Porthos' case limped, towards the entrance of the Spanish camp, in the hopes to find Treville. Athos body was aching terribly. Soft tremors had taken hold over his body, and the wounds on his neck as well as the one on his arm where the bullet had grazed him were burning terribly, but it did not diminish the relief he felt walking free again.
As they made their way over towards the other side of the camp, Aramis grabbed him by the good shoulder. "Athos, I…"
"I know," Athos interrupted him, and offered him a weak half-smile. The best he could do at the moment. He had not forgotten how they had parted ways days ago. "I am sorry too."
Aramis granted him a relieved smile, and Athos saw the devilish expression in the marksman's eyes as well as where his hands were too late. With one well-adjusted grip, Aramis put Athos' shoulder back in place. Athos bit down the curse words in the last second, and instead doubled over as the pain shot through his limb sharp and hot. He let out a stuttering breath, and shot Aramis a death glare.
"It was better if you did not anticipate it," Aramis replied with a shrug. "Besides, don't think you can hide your injuries from me, ever. But I'll take care of you two once we get back to camp."
Athos contended himself with thinking the swear words he refused to say, and together, they arrived on the other side of the provisional Spanish entrance.
They were greeted with smoking tents, and the sound of screaming men and sheer agony they had gotten used to over the past few months. The air smelled like ashes and iron, with a tinge of salt from the ocean. For a while, they just stood there, unable to take action and unable to make out friend or foe in the chaos that reigned.
After what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, the silhouette of Minister Treville appeared in the entrance and as soon as he spotted them, the minister came to greet them. He laid a hand on both Athos' and Porthos' shoulder.
"I am glad to see you two in one piece," he said sincerely. "As mad as the plan was, it worked. We won. It was the only way to win the fight against Torres' regiment for good."
He made a short pause.
Athos felt Aramis' warm hand resting on his shoulder, and Porthos' reassuring and calming presence by his other side. D'Artagnan's eyes stared back at Athos, filled with relief, but also a certain numbness.
"I have to apologize," Treville spoke up again, and his eyes rested on Aramis and d'Artagnan. "I was not fully honest with you." He turned towards Athos. "You have new orders. You will regather your men and march east, where you are set to meet the troops of General Lantier."
And for a moment, his mask slipped. "I am sorry. I truly am. I tried." With that, the minister turned on the heel and returned to his men to give new orders and regain some control over the chaos they had caused.
Athos' eyes wandered over the burning tents. He watched the men coughing due to the smoke, he saw the musketeer Léo desperately running for water, not to drink, but to wash the blood off his hands.
There was a French soldier desperately crying for help as he had his hands clasped around a knife in his shoulder.
There was a Spanish soldier, cradling another man's limp form in his arms while speaking a soft prayer, with steady tears running down his face. His eyes were empty. Hollow.
French soldiers, the remains of Athos' regiment and Treville's men, greeting each other in relief and weariness. Glad that this chapter of war was over in a victory, but scared of what else was to come.
There was the Spanish Captain, with blood running down his forehead. His weapons on the ground, a wooden cross pendant swinging from his clasped hands. The hands behind his head, in defeat, a surrender. His face was covered in cuts and bruises, but he faced straight forward as Treville approached. With dignity. With the honour he had left.
"I'm glad we are back together." That was d'Artagnan's voice, cutting through the fog of silence around them.
"At least we don't have to face what's to come alone." Porthos' words reached him from the side and all Athos was able to do was give his brothers a reassuring nod and the hint of a smile.
He looked up towards the dark, grey sky, and as if there was someone or something answering the unspoken questions, he felt something wet and cold on his face.
You will all be home when autumn comes.
The King's words echoed through his head as he watched the white snow fall to the ground of bloody tears, burying the coloured leaves underneath its might.
-The End-