(I) Showdown
They're on the run.
There are simply too many of them to make a stand; what's more, they've brought pistols to a sword-fight.
And they're shooting.
There's nowhere to take cover, they can only run and run and hope the men will keep missing until they're out of range. Out in the open. They're made of legs -solid, thumping, feet flying off the ground- and hearts - no longer in the chest, but the conqueror of their whole, beating, pulsing, thumping on war drums - duck - veer to the side - shoot back - how many pistols have they brought?!
They need cover.
They need the cavalry. There's only the two of them and no one knows they're here. Every gasped, tearing breath may be their last.
Legs, hearts, the pitch-black rectangle towards which they run, never giving way to light, never coming closer, and nothing else.
Exploding pistol shots, one after another.
A burst of sparks as a ball struck the wall just to side, chips flying off as another mimicked it on the other side.
Between one step and the next, without warning, Athos is suddenly not where he was.
No longer running for his life in a long, narrow, endless corridor; no longer the flame of the torches drag that dazzling light across the edges of his sight - he's somewhere else. He is at the garrison, stepping calmly into the night, under a gentle rain that's washing off the dirt on the cobblestones.
It is quiet, and still.
The soothing, steady hush of rain is all peace and serenity.
Taking a breath, Athos closes his eyes, and tips his head skywards.
He doesn't feel the rain.
He opens his eyes and looks down with a frown: his hat is catching the drops and they slide off over the leather of his gloves. That, in itself, is right, but it is wrong too- he should feel the rain but-
"AH!"
The cry ripped from Aramis's mouth yanks Athos back to where he was, shattering the illusion as if it's made of glass. Aramis stumbles, arms flailing to catch his balance but it's no use and goes down, hard.
"ARAMIS!"
"HOLD!"
Another shot - feet pattering - they're almost on to them-
Skidding to a halt on the ground Athos swerves around, turns and sprints the distance he's carried off to - bullets raining towards his face - he should feel them but he does not - he grabs Aramis under the arms and drags him even though there's still nowhere to hide -
They're caught.
The sound of blades drawn echo shrilly on the walls.
Letting go of Aramis, Athos turns around, his own sword raised, gripped in both hands, ready to face them all. Aramis is unmoving on the ground, the breath forced out of him by a shot to his back not having yet returned.
But pistols are spent now.
Now let them come.