Yes: I'm still alive!
I'm sorry for not updating for so long, but real life has kept me somehow occupied.
However here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it.
D'Artagnan ripped the bread apart, putting one of the pieces into his mouth, grimacing at how dry it was. Wordlessly a skin of wine was passed to him from his left. He drank greedily, his eyes never leaving the tent which stood a good hundred meters away from them.
"I hate observations." He muttered as sweat dropped down his neck and into his leathers. He was sure he could have been swimming in the liquids caught in his clothes. Only a few hours earlier, Porthos had praised the weather. The sun giving them an excuse to sit outside their tents and pulling their hats low. D'Artagnan had frowned at his brother earlier, already guessing that it would be an unpleasant experience. And as it seemed, Porthos thought so now too. The tall man had unwound his scarf from his hair to wipe away the sweat from his face very few minutes.
"How long can this spy take? Word had spread through the camp hours ago."
Athos, seemingly untouched by the heat, shrugged. "He will take his time. Would want to be careful not be caught."
After Aramis had been brought to Girard three days ago, not much had reached the musketeers ears for some time. Until yesterday, where the rumours started. Some soldiers had told that the spanish prisoner had died, others said he had escaped, some more explained that he was still being questioned – rumors that were just normal to come up when a prisoner was held.
But then in the morning a medic was seen entering the tent where the prisoner had been held and leaving an hour later. Since then the musketeers had took their place, keeping an eye on the tent.
Since the moment the news had spread through the camp it was possible that the spy could have heard them too and hopefully wanting to visit Aramis to check on him.
….
"There." D'Artagnan whispered and punched Porthos, who had dozed off, against the arm. The three of them squinted through the dark, noticing a figure coming closer to the tent.
"If this is just another false alarm…" Porthos muttered, but reading himself nevertheless. Over the day there had been several occasions where one of them believed to have found their spy, but it always turned out it wasn't.
"Stay low." Athos ordered, following the figure with his eyes, while his body was still turned to the side. They couldn't risk to be seen.
The soldier had reached the tent by now, looking around shortly before slipping into it.
In an instant the Musketeers were on their feet, running as silently as possible over.
Athos, who had reached the tent first stopped in front of the entrance, holding his hand up to signal the others to wait. They all held their breaths as low voices reached them, trying to make out the words.
"Spanish." Porthos announced, was he was able to hear enough words to make out the language.
Athos nodded his agreement, his still upraised hand counted off three.
As he had counted down to the last finger and had made a fist, he opened the tent.
D'Artagnan and Porthos stormed in first, their muskets raised at the spy.
"Drop the weapons." Athos ordered, pointing at the weapon belt around the man's waist.
The spy had still turned his back to them, facing Aramis, as the order came. Slowly, hands raised, he turned around, assessing the situation. His eyes flickered from one musket to another.
Porthos thought he saw resignation on the young face. Too young for his liking. The man – boy, couldn't be older than d'Artagnan as he had first met them a few years ago.
D'Artagnan tried to peek around the lad to get a view on Aramis, who had been untypically silent, but the spy blocked the view. "Down with the weapons." He repeated Athos' order.
His movements slow and careful, the lad lowered his hands to get to his weapon belt.
It was Porthos who reacted first, as the boy suddenly pulled the musket out of the belt and raised it at Athos. Two shots rang out. One ripped through the wall of the tent, alarming the whole camp that something was going on. The other one hid the lad into the chest, causing him to stumble backwards and then collapse to the ground.
"NO!" Athos rushed towards the spy, pressing his jacket onto the bullet wound. "What do you now?" He urged. "What did you already tell them?" While his left hand still tried to slow down the blood floss, he slightly slept the lad into the face. But the shot had been precise and Athos too late. The spy was dead.
Athos breathed out audible before getting back to his feet and turning to Porthos. "What did you think you're doing?!"
"He was about to shoot you." Porthos stood his ground. He didn't want to kill the spy, neither and wished to be able to still question him – but he wouldn't apologize for saving his brother.
"We needed answers! And he won't be able to give them now that he's dead." Athos growled, stepping closed to Porthos.
D'Artagnan, who had assessed Aramis condition in the mean while turned towards his friends furiously. "Could you stop arguing for just a second?! We have more urgent problems now." The Gascon pointed towards the marksman, who sat slumped in the chair unconsciously.
Porthos gulped and nodded, before heading towards Aramis. As d'Artagnan had already cut his ropes, Aramis was on Porthos' shoulder a few seconds later.
"Let's get him home." He muttered and carried his precious burden outside, not caring about all the curious soldiers that had reached the tent by now. Some had drawn their muskets and swords at the sound of the shots, but Athos had followed Porthos and had commanded them to leave swiftly.
Until word had reached Girard, the tent was, except for a corpse, empty and the musketeers and Aramis back in their part of the camp.
Porthos laid Aramis down on a cot in his and d'Artagnan's tent. The marksman hadn't made a sound since they got him, raising the worry of all of them.
"I will get the doctor." D'Artagnan announced and hurried outside.
"I will have some explaining to do to General Girard." Athos muttered, leaving Porthos and Aramis alone.
"Girard will surely miss you by now." Porthos tried to laugh, but it came out more like a growl as he started to undress Aramis and assess his wounds.
There was no place in his face which wasn't covered in bruises and blood and his neck showed the ugly evidence of being choked with a rope. Cuts and dark spots on his torso indicated that it hadn't fared better than his face.
At least his legs seemed somehow unhurt, but Porthos feared the injuries most he couldn't find now. Maybe there were some broken bones he didn't know about. He sighed, pushing the sweaty hair from his friends face.
"I'm sorry you had to endure all of this, mon ami. And most importantly, I'm sorry I had treated you so wrong. Should have known you would never betray us…"
The story is coming to it's end. I'm not sure how many more chapters I will write - maybe one or two.
I hoped you enjoyed it this far and would be happy about some reviews from you xx