Warning: Descriptions of field medicine ahead.

XIII. The Butcher of La Rochelle

Athos felt a bit paralyzed. He could see his own shock and disbelief mirrored on Aramis' face, and his friend looked as if he wasn't sure whether to yell at someone or break something.

Athos noticed the strange look the marksman was giving Suard, who was still standing near the gate, so he decided to step in first.

"Aramis, you should go see after Gino." He gently grabbed his friend by the shoulder and carefully turned him towards the medic's tent.

Aramis opened his mouth, but the sudden scream that reached them out of the medic's tent seemed to change his mind. He cast one last glance towards Suard and just gently patted Athos' uninjured arm.

"Please deal with this," the marksman murmured and limped towards the tent.

Athos ran a hand over his face, trying to gather his thoughts without showing his unease to the musketeers surrounding him. He noticed his own rapid breathing, and the pounding in his head grew even heavier as he and Arthur moved closer to General Suard.

Suard finished whatever he was doing at the gate and finally granted Arthur and Athos all of his attention. He laid a hand on his weapons belt and stared at them expectantly. "Report!"

Arthur exchanged a quick look with Athos. Apart from the open and bleeding wound on his jaw, Arthur seemed unharmed, but there was an expression in his eyes Athos had never seen before. Arthur was an experienced musketeer, had been serving in the regiment since its foundation, but Athos had never before seen a look of terror in his eyes.

"Our patrol had passed Cévry, sir. Porthos suggested searching the village for supplies, and so we did. There had been no sign of English troops for the entire area." He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"How many men attacked you?" Suard asked firmly.

Arthur looked straight ahead, his gaze getting lost in the distance. "I don't know."

Suard looked surprised. "Are there still English soldiers on the route you patrolled?"

Arthur's jaw was clenched tightly, and the blood continued to run down his neck. "Unknown, sir."

"Well, that's one 'unknown' too many, soldier." Suard scowled. "Did this investigation lead to any positive results?"

Arthur stood tall, and folded his hands behind his back. "Sir, Cévry fell victim to the cannons. Most of the houses are destroyed and can no longer be used as a hideout. However, it indicated that some of the English ships have moved, and are now anchored at the western side of this island."

Athos' attention snapped towards Arthur, and he diverted his gaze from the general to look at his fellow musketeer. "Wait, what exactly happened? Did the cannons fire out of nowhere?"

Arthur lifted his shoulders. "There were signs of English activities south of the village. We retreated to Cévry before they would notice us, or so we thought. As we searched the houses, it all happened so quickly. One moment we were gathering supplies, and the very next, everything around us suddenly…" He was breathing rapidly and put a hand on his throat as if he had trouble getting the air in. "…tiny pieces everywhere and I…"

Athos put a calming hand on the musketeer's forearm. "Slow down. Take it easy." He pulled the can of water he kept at his belt and poured a little bit of the cool liquid over Arthur's face.

He was well aware of the general narrowing his eyes and eyeing the two of them impatiently, but he acted as if he didn't notice.

Arthur eventually did as Athos suggested and took a deep breath, his face distorted with a grimace as it jarred the open wound on his face. "We were separated. I lost sight of Porthos during the rain of cannon balls. Everything around us suddenly seemed to explode, and we could hear English soldiers approaching the village, ready to attack us as soon as the cannons would stop." He leaned forward, lowering his gaze as he addressed the next subject. "Gino was injured when he tried to get to Porthos." Now, Arthur's voice was shaking audibly. "The damn house exploded right in front of him. So we grabbed him and got the hell out of there. The place is probably swarmed with English soldiers by now."

Athos barely managed to keep an indifferent expression. "And Porthos?"

Arthur's eyes locked on Athos, and a mixture of panic and sorrow reflected in his eyes. "I don't know. He could be out there, lost during all the chaos and destruction. But we can't be certain."

General Suard, who had been watching the two of them with a silent scowl, raised his voice again. "Then it seems it was all for nothing. We lost Cévry, we lost a musketeer and might still lose our medic." His voice turned bitter at the mention of Gino. "I will have to reevaluate our next steps. Athos, I want to see you in the commander's tent in two hours. You too, Arthur. And bring Aramis with you. It's time that the tides turn." He finished his little speech with a growl and turned around.

Athos quickly stepped forward before Suard could walk away. "Sir, I'm asking permission to form a search group for Porthos."

Suard didn't even look up. "Denied."

The musketeer didn't show any emotional reaction, instead he stepped into the general's path. "I don't understand." He did understand. However, he did not accept it.

Suard sighed and looked up. He didn't look angry; he looked tired. And if Athos didn't misinterpret it, there was a hint of compassion on his face. "Look, Athos, I know that Porthos is your friend, but as I pointed out before, we cannot risk the lives of many for the sake of one. If he is alive, he will find his way back to us. If not, he's presumed dead. Don't make it too complicated."

Athos' eyes widened in disbelief. "Sir, with all due respect, do you know how valuable Porthos is? What he contributes to this regiment?"

Suard raised an eyebrow. "I have heard that most of the other men don't trust him."

Athos suppressed an angry hiss and straightened up abruptly, which resulted in a painful bolt shooting through his entire arm and shoulder. "Some of them have a problem with the color of his skin. However, you will not find one musketeer here that knows how the others think and feel better than Porthos."

Suard hesitated, but a strange expression crossed his face. "He had been told not to search Cévry for supplies. I made myself very clear the last time we spoke."

Arthur made an unsteady step forward. "Sir, he did what he thought would be best for the muske…"

"He rejected a direct order!" Suard cut in loudly, and his eye was twitching with anger. Athos stayed calm and composed, and made sure to show his superior that these kind of emotional outbreaks had no effect on him. The general ran a hand over his face and tried to gather himself. "If captured, would he ever tell the English any information?"

Athos gritted his teeth. "Porthos would rather die than betray France."

Suard tilted his head. "Then I have nothing to worry about." He made a dismissive gesture. "Except for all of this, of course."

Giving no time for more arguments, he disappeared into the commander's tent, leaving Athos and Arthur frozen on the spot, rooted by disbelief and suppressed anger.

The first thing Porthos noticed was his own shallow breathing. It droned through his head loudly, as if all other noises were damped out and far, far away. Slowly, he regained one sense after the other.

He could feel the dirt under his face, he felt his sweat-bathed hair sticking to his head. There was a dull, slightly painful sensation in his right side. He could smell sweat and gunpowder, as well as a bit of…was that smoke? He groaned and tried to bring a hand to his face, only to find out that his wrists were tightly secured behind his back.

Muffled voices reached his ears, as well as the soft brushing of waves against wet stone. Slowly but surely, he dared to open his eyes, despite the feeling that heavy weights were trying to hold his lids down. He was laying face first in the dirt, and with his injured eye, he was able to make out the blurred outlines of two other men sitting around him, their hands bound to wooden stakes.

Porthos blinked in confusion and continued to struggle against the ropes around his wrists.

"Don't bother," one of the other prisoners chipped in, his voice high and sharp. "You wouldn't get very far."

Porthos just growled as an answer and thrust himself on his other side to face the two men, the pillar he was bound to didn't bend one bit.

"Porthos," the other figure greeted him and nodded his head. "Are you alright?"

Relief and dismay both flooded through Porthos' veins as he recognized the voice, and after his vision finally cleared, he eventually laid eyes on a muddy, leather pauldron and wet strands of hair.

"Mathis." Porthos' greeting was short, but the relief of discovering that the lost musketeer was alive was evident in his voice. "Knew you weren't dead." He coughed. "Been better."

He now quickly turned his head and soaked in every detail of his environment. He and the other prisoners were shackled to wooden stakes in the sand of the beach. To his right, there were a handful of boats floating in the shallow waters. It seemed that he was being held captive in the English camp at Saint-Blanceau. The only question left was whether he would face the English general, or Buckingham himself.

It was a question that was surprisingly answered within the next minute. He heard a warning hiss from Mathis and he instinctively straightened up as much as possible. Two men were approaching, and neither of them was Buckingham.

One of the men was short, wearing simple, linen clothes but a very pompous hat. The glasses he wore were crooked and dirty, and all in all he had the appearance of a scholar. Or a scribe. The profession of his comrade on the other hand was clear. The man was about Athos' height, and approximately Treville's age. His grey-streaked hair was tied carelessly at his neck, but his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore heavy leather armor, and the cloak he wore around his shoulders underlined the rank Porthos guessed.

He had never seen the English general, except for the few seconds he battled him at Saint-Blanceau. But the stories that surrounded this man were known among the French soldiers, and most of them involved the event that had earned him the name of ' the Butcher of La Rochelle'. The battles that had started in the city earlier this year had nothing to do with it.

Porthos vaguely remembered the story. La Rochelle has always been the stronghold of the Huguenot resistance, and in one of his many attempts to suppress the rebellion, the King had ordered a blockade of the city five years ago. During that time, a few French captains had managed to use the distraction to their advantage and had found a way into the city, where they had run straight into the trap set by this English general, who had been sent to support the Huguenot rebellion. All that was known was that the men's bodies had been found in an alley near the newly built fort, grotesquely slaughtered and with the English general's flag decorating the scene.

His banner soon became a reminder of everything this man was capable of doing, or at least, what was told about him.

How much of this story was true, Porthos did not know. But he always made sure not to be fooled by another man's appearance. 'Lord Eadmund' radiated everything a French soldier would expect after having heard the story of 'the Butcher of La Rochelle:' menace, cruelty, coldness and infinite loyalty to the English cause. Porthos had played enough card games in his life to see through a man's bluff. However, he wasn't sure about this one.

The English general inspected his prisoners shortly, his dark eyes wandering over every single one of them. Then he started speaking. Porthos could not understand the language, but the man's voice was raw and scratchy, with an unusual high pitch in it for a man of his age.

The scholarly-looking individual by his side waited until his superior was finished, and then began translating with such a heavy accent that Porthos had trouble understanding the correct words.

"You stand in front of Lord Eadmund, general in command of this regiment. He wants to know your name, musketeer."

Porthos cursed internally. The English general seemingly knew that he was a musketeer, so Porthos was at disadvantage. He chose his next words not as carefully as he should.

"Since I doubt that 'Lord Eadmund' is your full name, I deny you my answer."

The scribe looked a little irritated, but he translated. Lord Eadmund showed no visible reaction. He merely said a few sentences straight into Porthos face, sounding almost bored as he did so.

Porthos just stared at him, his eyes narrowed as he tried to read his opponent's thoughts.

"If you tell us the number of the musketeers, the contribution of your camp and everything you know about the citadel, the general offers you a more comfortable stay at this camp."

"Well, tell him," Porthos hissed spitefully. "If he wants to know more, he is very welcome to try to find out. But as far as it concerns me, there is nothing to say."

Lord Eadmund narrowed his eyes as his translator relayed Porthos' words to him. It was a look Porthos could not place. Something between irritation and self-confidence. His lips formed a devilish smile, and an arrogant expression crossed his face for a split second, before he opened his mouth again and answered. The language, Porthos could not understand, but he got the message without needing the scholar's translation.

"I just want to make myself clear," the translator said while the English general bent down in front of his prisoners. "Whether you get out of here alive is up to you. But escaping, or being released back to your commanding officers, are not among the options available."

Porthos' eyes locked on Lord Eadmund, facing him with all the courage he had left.

"I don't think that's up to you to decide."

"Athos!" Aramis' call managed to reach through Athos' red curtain of anger and pull him out of his frozen state. The marksman's voice rang out of the medic's tent, and panic was so evident that Athos managed to put all other thoughts aside for a moment.

"Come," he said to Arthur, who was still frozen in shock at Suard's reaction, and he pulled the musketeer with him by the arm and into the medic's tent, where he roughly shoved him onto a chair.

"Aramis will take a look at you later," he explained to a confused and slightly angry Arthur, and luckily, the man showed no resistance. Without waiting for further reactions, Athos turned on his heel and faced the grotesque and bloody scene in his back.

Daniel and Aramis had laid Gino down on the table, but the medic was resisting, clearly unaware of his surroundings and still thinking he had to protect his life. Aramis and the cadet were holding him down with all the strength they could muster.

"I cannot help him if I have to restrain him," Aramis shouted in desperation. "Athos!"

The swordsman understood immediately and took a place by Gino's head, leaning on the medic's chest with his right arm and all the force he had. In the meantime, Aramis limped towards the corner where Gino kept his medical supplies, and he grabbed the entire bag and threw it on the table next to his patient.

"Shit, shit…," the marksman muttered under his breath and ran a bloody hand through his hair. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" He was talking more to himself than to anyone else, but Athos felt the need to intervene.

His injured, shaking arm reached out to his comrade and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Aramis, focus."

Aramis' eyes found Athos and he held eye-contact for solid five seconds, before he seemed to gather himself.

"Alright, Daniel, I need to know exactly what happened." Aramis took a pair of scissors out of the bag and started to cut Gino's shirt open.

The cadet was white as a sheet and was staring at Gino as if he hadn't heard Aramis' request.

"Daniel," Athos repeated a little bit louder and more forcefully. The cadet jerked in surprise when Athos' voice reached him. "What exactly happened?"

"We…Gino tried to go after Porthos and…there was … there…," Daniel swallowed hard and took a deep breath to calm his shaking voice.

"The cannons tore the house to shreds," Arthur chipped in calmly from his place by the entrance. "Gino was standing right in front of it when it happened. The blast threw him backwards, where he landed on Daniel."

Athos could see that Aramis bit down a remark. This information was not as helpful as his friend had hoped. However, the wounds that decorated the medic's body were quite self-explanatory.

As soon as Aramis had cut away the fabric of the shirt, they got a better look at the extent of the wounds. The medic's entire chest was bloody.

"Cloth," Aramis demanded. Luckily Daniel heard him this time and handed him the materials. The marksman used it to wipe away as much of the blood as possible. He gritted his teeth.

"There are wooden splinters still embedded in these wounds," he explained to Athos. "I have to get them out. But first…," his hands now hovered over Gino's leg. He didn't explain any further what he was intending to do. Instead, he ripped the boot off, a little too forcefully, and Gino, who barely seemed to be aware of his surroundings, screamed in agony.

Aramis, with an apologetic expression on his face, furrowed his brow and he gently pushed away the fabric of the clothing and revealed a mess of blood and bones. Athos was not squeamish in any way, but he could feel the bile rising in his throat and had to swallow frantically in order to keep his focus. Daniel was not as composed, and he let go of Gino and hastily left the tent. Athos could hear him losing the battle against the nausea outside.

Aramis released a stuttering breath, and immediately turned back towards the medic's chest. "First things first," he murmured under his breath and started the procedure of removing the wooden splinters in the open cuts and wounds.

Athos quickly sent a look towards Gino, but the medic seemed barely conscious. Even in this state, with the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and his face scrunched with pain, he managed to look strict and annoyed.

The swordsman quickly reverted his gaze towards what Aramis was doing, and couldn't help but respect how calm and steady the marksman's hands were as they quickly but carefully treated the numerous wounds. It was an ugly procedure, and after a while, Athos couldn't determine whether the sticky substance underneath his hands was blood, sweat or tears. But he kept his hold on Gino's shoulders, while using his own injured arm to slowly treat the burns all over the medic's face. He knew if they went untreated, the risk of infection was very high.

Once the shards were removed and the cuts treated, Aramis again moved towards the leg and hesitated. He paled at the sight of the injury, and his hands were frozen in indecision.

"Just keep your focus," Athos admonished, with a firm but kindly tone in his voice.

"Focus?" Aramis' voice was filled with honest fear. "Athos, I have no idea what I am doing here."

But nevertheless, Aramis started treating the leg. And Athos really did not want to trade places. He assisted, he held Gino down whenever he regained enough consciousness to resist, but he felt a certain relief that he did not have to dig in this mess of open, bleeding flesh, bones and muscle. Athos had no idea what Aramis was doing, but after an excruciating two hours of a screaming Gino, a cursing Aramis and a nervous Athos, Aramis finally finished the procedure with wrapping the leg in white bandages.

"I need to stay here and check on him regularly," Aramis explained tiredly and gathered the medical supplies he had used.

Athos' gaze was still locked on the patient in front of him. His own arm was burning, and the dull pounding in his head had returned too. He had to admit, he felt utterly exhausted. But more importantly, he was angry.

"Athos?" Aramis asked worriedly.

"Sending our only medic on a mission, one I told him was risky. Dangerous. Now he refuses to let me search for Porthos." Athos lowered his voice when he realized how loud he was expressing his anger. "It's like we're nothing but pawns on a chessboard for them."

Aramis scowled. "I believe that's exactly what we are." But he put a hand on Athos shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "Seems like it's up to the three of us to make sure we musketeers somehow survive this island."

Athos' eyes were devoid of any emotion. "The three of us?" His own voice sounded hollow, distant.

The absence of Porthos was more noticeable than ever, and his possible fate shook both musketeers to the core, holding their hearts in ice-cold fear.

Aramis swallowed hard. "Unless I see his body, Porthos is alive. And he will find his way back to us." He sank down on the chair next to Gino, and ran a blood-stained hand through his hair. "Get some rest, Athos, while we still can. You're injured, and there's really not enough space in here to perform another medical procedure like this."

"Says the one who can't use his leg," Athos retorted grimly, but he sighed.

"I will look after Arthur, and I'm going to get some rest watching Gino." Aramis glared at him, with an unusually stern expression. The worry on his face was evident. "I mean it, Athos."

"I'll do my best to keep the work off your shoulders," Athos said, in a very weak attempt to lighten the mood, and he left the tent with a nod to his friend. But Aramis was right. If it was the general's agenda to throw musketeers into certain death just to keep the English occupied, it was up to them to protect the musketeer regiment from this kind of strategy. Nobody else was going to take their place.

To Jmp: Thank you for your nice words, I'm very happy to hear you're enjoying it! And I hope this chapter answered some questions about Porthos' whereabouts. Thank you for your review! :)

To Laureleaf: Thank you, that's very kind. And the way you describe Suard matches with the image in my head. Haha yes, as much as I love writing fight scenes, sieges like this are not just about the fight scenes. Which doesn't mean there aren't any more fight scenes to come :) Thank you for reading and for leaving the review!