'Athos?' Aramis moved his head upwards, to peer across the room as the two figures moved into the light, flanked by men on either side. His eyes widened and worry filled his nerves as he saw Athos tense in pain at every movement, his face screwing up and a series of pained moans escaping his lips. Marsac was pulled along behind him, his face a panicked, yet strangely impassive, mask.

'What happened?' Porthos called from the side, his own eyes widening as the dungeon-master hurried around fetching more tables for both Athos and Marsac.

'He's not healing.' Marsac eventually answered after a few beats of silence- he growled as he was pushed onto the wooden table, before both he and Athos' arms where tethered to it. 'I killed him.'

Aramis turned to their leader, mouth almost falling open as he watched Athos close his eyes in pain- his face was lined and taut, and Aramis felt his mouth turn dry as he looked down, to the gunshot wound to his side.

Before anyone else could speak, they all looked up at the sound of footfalls- Porthos didn't even need to look up to know it was Rochefort. The man in question strode forward, face set in a smile as he looked down at Marsac and Athos. His smile faltered as he took in the scene.

'What happened?' he spat, turning angry eyes to the dungeon master, who shrugged as he collected his equipment once more. 'He needs to be kept alive at all costs.'

'Not my area.' Pierre grunted- he looked up as Rochefort moved towards him, yet no flicker of emotion crossed his face as Rochefort grasped him by the lapel.

'Make it your area!' he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. 'Do not think I don't know the roles you play here- long periods of torture would be no use if the subject died within the first few minutes, would they? You have medical knowledge, perhaps more than most physicians in this city.' He let Pierre go as the man wrenched himself backwards, eye now narrowed.

'See to it he doesn't die. If he does, you know what will happen to you, and to your children.' Pierre looked up at his words, a flicker of emotion passing in his eyes. He looked over to Athos, who was still groaning in pain. 'He might die even with my help.'

'You know the rules.' Rochefort dismissed the words, before stepping back to the four men tethered to the table before him. 'Something's changed.' He muttered, more to himself to anyone else. 'I need you to find out what.'

He stepped backwards, eyes flicking from one man to the next. His eyes turned back to Aramis as he cleared his throat. 'All things die.'

A beat of silence. Porthos looked to Rochefort, who had danger lurking in his eyes.

'What was that?'

'Everything has to die, Rochefort.' Aramis spoke, imploring him to see. 'The only reason Porthos and I haven't, after everything you've done, is that its not our time yet.' He turned to Athos, who was now being tended to by Pierre. 'If its now Athos' time, nothing you can do will stop it.'

Rochefort breathed out a laugh, shaking his head lightly. He moved towards Aramis, who looked across to him, now unafraid. 'I will carve slices off of you for years if needs be, to get what I want.' His eyes flicked over to Porthos, who looked murderous at his words. He looked back down to Aramis, 'your time is coming.'

Aramis smiled at that, yet his words were deadly serious. 'As is yours.'

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, each not willing to break the eye contact first- finally Rochefort smiled again and withdrew, looking over to Pierre as he strode to the door. 'I expect results!' he yelled, before slamming the dungeon door behind him with a deafening crash.

d'Artagnan crossed the courtyard to the Bastille, eyes flicking around the crowded area as he tried to figure out a way to get in. As the cart taking Athos and Marsac rode into the great stone building, flanked on all sides by armed guards, he had watched from behind a pillar, nerves in his chest as he watched yet more armed guards close the wrought-iron gate behind them, closing it off from the public. He had to get in somehow.

A laugh, sharp and brittle against his ears, made him turn away- an idea hatched in his brain as he saw it was a lone guard, staggering his way down the road from a tavern, obviously the worse for wear. He sized the man up, then looked down at himself- he would have to do.

With one final look to the closed gates of the Bastille, he steeled himself and turned back to the man, licking his dry lips- he had never done anything like this before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

He crossed the path and fell into step behind the drunken man, trying to keep the drum of anxiety from deafening him as the two of them ambled into a quiet alley- as the man turned the corner d'Artagnan reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun Athos had given him; he twisted it in his palm so the stock was at the front and, not giving himself time to stop, swung it at the side of the man's head as hard as he could. Eyes wide, he leant forwards and caught him as he crumpled with a groan; pulling him against the wall he worked quickly, stripping the man as fast as he could and pulling on the clothes.

Finally he was ready- slamming the dark hat atop his head, he awkwardly did up the buttons to the guard's black outfit with shaky hands and stepped away, looking back towards the now groaning man with some concern, before steeling himself. Pocketing the man's gun, he hoped it would be enough; looping the rapier around his belt he felt somewhat more prepared.

As he walked towards the gate he found it was surprisingly easy to get in now- he doffed his hat at the guard, cheeks reddening as the man looked at him like he'd just sprouted a second head. Perhaps he was supposed to punch him in thanks, he thought to himself as he stopped just inside the prison walls, and took a good look around.

Where could they be? Nowhere other people could stumble in on then, he wagered. So, either high up or low down… he settled on low down. He had heard stories of the dungeons deep in the bowels of the Bastille- letting out a long breath he made his way down the long, filthy corridors, one lone candle the only light in the dank spaces.

As he went lower, the air seemed to stagnate- he hoped the others were alright. He turned the last corner, to where he was now sure the others were, and came face to face with three other guards sitting at a wooden table outside a large door.

'Who are you?' one of them barked, spitting out a lump of tobacco onto the floor, whilst the others pushed away their plates of food.

d'Artagnan didn't reply; he merely stood still, staring at the three men as they now stood, looking at him warily.

'You shouldn't be down here- Mr Rochefort only gave us permission to be down here…' one of the other men said, their hands now reaching to the pistols at their sides.

Again d'Artagnan didn't respond- he reached into his own pocket and pulled out his own gun slowly, letting the men see it was there. A few seconds was all it took for the men to simultaneously raise and fire their weapons. d'Artagnan grunted at three bullets slammed into his body, sending him to the floor, blood pooling around him as he felt the darkness come up to claim him.

The three men frowned as they looked down at the now clearly-dead intruder. 'Stupid fool.' One of them scoffed, shaking his head.

'You would have thought he had a death wish or something!'

The three men laughed at the words, before turning back to pour themselves some more wine- a pained groan caught their ears a few moments later. They looked back, eyes widening in fear as d'Artagnan drew himself upwards, gun already raised and ready; the three men went down in seconds with no time to ready their weapons in return.

Breathing heavily, d'Artagnan moved forwards, wincing as the bullet holes in his body healed themselves as he walked towards the door, wondering what he would find on the other side.