VIII. The Guilt Is Mine

The chase continued for at least another mile.

The musketeers were dangerously split, and it was a weakness Porthos immediately spotted. "Musketeers!" He didn't need to say more; they instantly reacted and started to run closer together. It appeared ridiculous to Porthos. Here they were, running after the English troops like a horde of barbarians. With their only goal to chase them as far away as possible. Every now and again, one brave English soldier fired a pistol at them, but the short moment he needed to stop and aim cost him dearly.

Porthos' head was pounding, and the blood running into his eye limited his vision enormously.

"How many are left?" one musketeer, Porthos did not know who, called out to the others.

It was Arthur's voice that answered. "About ten, maybe fifteen."

Porthos decided to save his breath for the running, but a queasy feeling in his guts told him this needed to stop. He had no idea how long they had been pursuing the English, but something told him it was enough.

Behind the cover of the trees, he could see the dunes, which meant they had chased them through the forest and all the way back to Saint-Blanceau, leaving the village and every musketeer remaining there unguarded. Porthos refused to believe that Aramis and Athos had been killed in the village, and he needed to go back as soon as possible.

Porthos narrowed his eyes. The English soldiers had no place left to run. Which meant the Musketeers were a lot closer to the English General and Buckingham than they were comfortable with.

"Wait!" Porthos' shout reached the others just in time and they came to a halt just as a salvo of gunshots tore through the air in front of them. The English perimeter defenses had noticed the musketeers' approach, and reacted immediately.

The English troops continued running and stumbling towards the safety of the beach, and Arthur finally raised his voice.

"Let them go, we turn back!" His tone tolerated no protest.

"But they…," Guillaume started, but Porthos and Arthur simultaneously made a dismissive gesture.

"Leave them be," Porthos panted. "If we go on, they'll shoot our heads off on the beach. Besides, we must go back."

Guillaume raised an eyebrow. "You mean to the village they almost overrun? Wanted to destroy?"

"Yes, exactly!" Porthos snapped. "We owe it to the others, and we owe it to everyone who got caught in the crossfire today." Turning to Arthur, he admitted, "The English had us by surprise, they would have killed us all if you haven't arrived…"

"Porthos!" Arthur insisted, grabbing his brother-in-arms by the neck and pulling him into a quick hug. "We prevailed. We won."

"Today, yes," Porthos replied, casting a worried glance towards the English camp in the distance. "But this is going to be a siege. And we're only on day two."

Meanwhile, in Cévry

Athos took a deep breath, and made another attempt to sit up without whitening his vision. His arm felt like it was on fire, and he was pretty sure that his back was a mass of bruises, if he was lucky. But the worst thing was that his skull felt like it was going to explode.

He ran a hand over his face, and felt the trail of blood running down his forehead. But he was sure he had heard voices somewhere in the village and in the dead silence that enveloped him ever since Leo had left, it meant that someone else was here. He wasn't sure yet if it was a friend or a foe.

His shaking hand reached out to the abandoned sword of one of his earlier victims, and his fingers closed on the cold metal of the sharp blade. He carefully pulled it through the dirt and used it as support to lean on. His vision swam, and while he concentrated on taking in deep, calm breaths, he could barely ignore the pain it caused in his back with every movement. It reminded him of the time when he fell out of a tree as a young boy. His father's lecture was something he'd never forget, and neither he nor Thomas had ever climbed a tree again. He just hoped that nothing was broken.

His eyes wandered over the ground in front of Lucien Valle's house. The barricade of the door was in pieces all over the ground, and most of the English soldiers who had tried to get in were dead. Athos could barely remember having fought them.

The floor was grotesquely decorated with abandoned weapons, bodies and shattered wood, and right next to the doorstep of Lucien's house, next to the splintered barricade, was one body that caught Athos' eye in particular. The man wasn't dressed in a uniform, nor did he have his hands clasped around a weapon. He wore nothing but a linen shirt and leather pants; his long, grey beard was dirty and bloody. There was one single gunshot wound in his chest, and the blood was dripping slowly, watering the earth.

A phantom fist punched Athos straight through the chest, and wrapped its iron claws around his heart. A civilian. One who had tried to escape, and had gotten caught in the crossfire. One Athos hadn't been able to save. Guilt suddenly crashed down on his shoulders and he swayed, his hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of the sword that kept him upright. He tried to calm his breathing, and held onto the sword so tightly his knuckles began to whiten. Sweat and blood were slowly running down his forehead and into his eyes, but all he did was blink, trying to process what had happened and what he had to do now.

Another sound pulled Athos out of his distraction and his attention snapped towards the road. It was the sound of something dragging over the dirty ground, sharp and scratchy, and despite his blurred vision, he was able to make out a figure slowly crawling towards him, leaving a trail of blood.

Athos' alarm bells went off and he grasped the sword with both hands before he dropped to the ground again. It needed all of his willpower not to groan at the pain the movement caused he heard now was the scratching over the ground and his own shallow breathing. He was ready to defend himself if necessary.

"Athos?" The voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for Athos. "Is it you?"

He suppressed a smile of relief and rammed the sword into the ground once more. "Over here."

Never had he been so grateful to see another musketeer. Not only were their odds of survival increased, but his worry for the fate of his new-found friends was eased. For some reason he took comfort in that.

For it was none other than Aramis who revealed himself as he half-dragged, half-limped his way towards Athos. He looked exactly how Athos felt.

Aramis' face was pale and bathed in sweat, his expression pinched with pain and a little relief. He continued to drag himself over the ground, past the bodies in front of Lucien's house and collapsed against the house wall five feet in front of Athos. He was panting due to the exhaustion, but his eyes had their usual spark.

Athos did not know how to react, nor did he know what to say. He merely stared at his friend, with numb, defeated eyes.

"I see you decided to follow my advice," Athos finally spoke up. It was meant as a droll witticism but his voice lacked any kind of lightness.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "The 'don't die' advice?" He chuckled weakly. "Yeah, it really saved my life out there."

Athos lowered his head, and mumbled an answer Aramis did not hear. His head sank back against the wall of the house, and Athos could see he was clutching a stranger's pistol in his bloody hands.

"They got out, I think" Aramis whispered, and his mouth formed something like a relieved smile. "At least it wasn't for nothing."

Athos' face darkened and his eyes wandered to the ground next to Lucien's house again, where the old man with the gunshot wound lay. Aramis' keen eyes followed the swordsman's gaze and locked on the body as well, quickly putting the pieces together.

He gulped audibly, and his worried glance was aimed at Athos directly. "It's not your fault, Athos," he said sincerely, but his words were barely a comfort. "You did all you could. We both did."

Athos put on the mask that hid his emotions. He merely managed a light shrug. "Doesn't make it right, does it?"

"There was chaos out there," Aramis countered with an unusually sharp tone in his voice. "I don't know if I succeeded, Athos, but I know that you and I both did everything within our power."

Athos scowled. "Doesn't … change things either."

Aramis made a sound as if he wanted to reply to that, but decided against it. He just looked at his comrade with tired eyes.

For a moment, they sat there in silence, both occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. Athos couldn't bring himself to divert his gaze from the man, but something inside him screamed at him to get his priorities straight. Survival. That was his first priority.

Aramis seemed to have similar thoughts. "Porthos will come back for us," he stated mildly, with a weary expression on his face.

"Porthos could be anywhere, and who knows how this battle will end for him and the others." Athos knew it was painful, but it was the truth. They knew Porthos would come back for them if he could, but the when was a whole different question.

Aramis met his gaze, but said nothing. Athos scanned him from head to toe. The marksman was pale, and as he searched the ground Athos could see the pool of blood that had formed underneath his leg. His limb was trembling hard.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked matter-of-factly.

Aramis huffed a miserable laugh. "I almost got strangled, there's this constant, annoying ringing oh, and there's a knife embedded in my leg, mon ami. Why do you think I dragged myself here?"

Athos closed his eyes, as the pain in his skull grew worse. "I see," he whispered.

"What about you? Any injuries, apart from," Aramis made a wide gesture, "You know the obvious." The medic-side in him had emerged at an instant, and he approached his friend slowly, scanning him for obvious injuries on the outside.

Athos groaned. "My skull feels like I got trampled, and I don't think I'll be using my left arm again anytime soon. But yes, I'm fine."

"That's all?" Aramis asked sharply, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Yes," Athos lied, just as another bolt of pain shot up his lower back.

Silence, again. Aramis seemed to weigh Athos' answer, to find out whether it was the truth or not, but in the end, he fell back on the ground in defeat.

"Look, on the bright side, we're not dead yet," Aramis said dryly.

The swordsman merely lifted his gaze and rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, for your valuable input," Athos panted and ignored Aramis' huffed laugh. "I suppose you don't have a suggestion on how to proceed?"

Aramis coughed briefly and turned his head to oversee the mess that was the village. "Getting the hell out of here doesn't sound like a bad idea to me."

Athos closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "You don't say."

The marksman cleared his throat, and grabbed Athos by the arm. "So I can't stand, and you can't walk. Perfect conditions, I guess."

"Haven't tried walking yet," Athos replied instantly, and started leaning on the sword in order to get up safely.

Aramis looked at him warningly. "You can't see yourself, Athos. Half of your face is covered in blood; you can consider yourself lucky if it's only a concussion. Don't try it."

"At least I have better chances at walking a straight line than somebody with a damn knife in his leg," Athos growled stubbornly and started to rise from the ground, his arm trembling heavily.

"Fair point," Aramis granted, and locked his fingers into Athos' sleeve. The swordsman hissed angrily.

"Come on," Aramis insisted.

Athos tiredly threw him a glare. "Excuse me?"

His friend hinted a smile. "We may be damned, but at least we're not alone. Let's do this. Come on. I'm not planning to die in this damn village because of my own stubbornness."

Athos stared at him for a short moment, but then he gritted his teeth, using all of his remaining force to lean onto the sword and drag himself into a standing position. He suddenly froze. Through his foggy brain, he heard more voices, yelling in excitement or in urgency, he couldn't tell.

A quick glance towards Aramis told him he had heard it as well.

"How high is the chance that this is Porthos rescuing us?" the marksman hissed quietly, wincing in sympathy when Athos gasped as he continued to stand up.

"You mean considering our recent luck?" the swordsman countered and gritted his teeth.

Aramis sighed. "Yes, you're right. We're done for."

Athos didn't pay him much attention. As soon as he straightened up, his world started spinning, but he took a second to calm his breathing and ignored the pain.

"Come on. Let's leave this damned place." With grim satisfaction, he offered Aramis a helping hand.

Beach Saint Blanceau, Ré Island

„What do you mean, you couldn't?" the English General, Lord Eadmund, asked dangerously slow, as he approached the reporting soldier. The man was bathed in blood and sweat, and his legs were trembling due to exhaustion.

"We were overrun, Sir," the man spoke quietly.

Eadmund ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wide open with disbelief. "You lost against a small group of French soldiers? You had them outnumbered!"

"Musketeers!" the soldier suddenly raised his voice, glaring at his superior in a manner that was not appropriate to his rank at all. "They were musketeers. The three of them in the village had decimated our numbers by eighteen." He swallowed hard. "Sir, three of them killed eighteen of ours. And then thirty more of them arrived. We didn't stand a chance!"

Eadmund hesitated for a second. He considered having this man arrested and punished for his behavior, but then again, he remembered he had a reputation to lose, and he couldn't really blame the soldier.

"So, you're saying that one small regiment, musketeers of the King, apparently, didn't retreat to the citadel with Décart and the rest?" He tried to focus on what information he could gather, before he decided what information was worth sharing with the Duke.

The man shook his head. "Yes, sir. We scouted the northern areas, and spotted them in a village. We…" His voice broke off, and he choked slightly. "We just saw their uniforms, saw their weapons and opened fire. The civilians there…"

"…were caught in the crossfire. They weren't the target," Eadmund cut in. "Why did you attack them anyway? You had no orders but to patrol the area," the Lord asked sharply.

The soldier in front of him bit his lip, and lowered his gaze to the ground. He said nothing.

"Who gave you the order to attack?" Eadmund repeated.

The man finally found the courage to face his superior again. "It was Edwards, Sir."

The General sighed and ran a hand over his face, before he approached the now kneeling soldier. "Tell me, do you address Edwards with Sir? Or with General?"

The expression on the soldier's face turned to stone. "No, Sir," he replied monotonously.

"Then he was not authorized to give orders, and you were not allowed to take them from him," Eadmund pointed out coldly. "Where is Edwards?"

"He's dead, Sir. The musketeers killed him in the village."

The General growled something incomprehensible, but eventually offered the man a hand and pulled him to his shaking feet.

"You had your orders, soldier. Get your wounds tended to, and get some rest. Then, you'll report me again, and leave out no details."

The man nodded, bowed his head and limped out of the tent. Eadmund turned on the heel, risking a quick glance towards the map that was spread out on the table in front of him. They had English flags all over the southern beach, and with a grim look on his face, he marked the northern area with a French flag. They now were fighting on two fronts.

With that, he left the tent, shouting for someone to fetch him a horse. His lieutenant arrived moments later, a tall, black horse by his side.

"Where are you going, Sir?" the lieutenant spoke up, handing the General the reins of the agitated stallion.

Eadmund grasped the reins tightly and swung his leg over the horses' back. The animal snorted angrily.

"The Duke awaits me."

Don't worry, Porthos is definitely not on the sideline in this story. Special thanks to Sara, Uia and Jmp for the anonymous reviews, I am really thankful for it! Thanks everybody for reading!