XIV. Shadows, Greys and Evil Ways

It had been a week and a half since Cevry had been destroyed and Porthos had gone missing. Though many of the men were saying that time was moving much too slowly, Aramis could not agree. Every minute he felt was speeding past and he was not doing enough. It was driving him insane.

He had managed to keep Gino alive so far. It was not looking good, and the medic was barely holding on, but since Aramis hadn't expected him to make it this far, he considered it a win. For the first three days, he had barely slept, as he had always kept a watchful eye on Gino. Then Athos had stepped in, and by now, Aramis was back to his usual routine, at least as far as his leg allowed him. Still, he was now in charge of the medic's tent and all the responsibilities that came with it, and it terrified him more than he was willing to admit. He had far less medical training than Gino.

Over the course of the past eleven days, he had needed to stop Athos from going out alone to look for Porthos twice, and Athos had stopped Aramis from doing the same thing three times. They kept each other grounded, but they could feel the situation sliding out of their hands with every minute that passed by.

Though Suard had declared Porthos dead, something inside Aramis told him that his friend was alive. But he knew that if he could not look for him soon, or if there was no sign of him, the thought might fade. The general had asked about Gino's condition only once during the week, and it was immediately after Aramis, with Athos' support, had finished the tiring and painful procedure of fixing the leg as much as possible, which had resulted in both of them missing their meeting with the general. Aramis had never heard a man ask about someone's condition in such a rude and uninterested manner, but whatever history there was between Suard and Gino, Aramis knew better than to address it now.

The musketeers had successfully secured the area up to the ruins of Cévry and they were keeping the English troops at a secure distance for now. But doubt was growing about Suard's ability to command the regiment. There had been another, shorter, battle with the English forces five days ago, which had cost the lives of two more musketeer cadets. Athos had assured Aramis that there was nothing he would have been able to do for them, but the loss still made the marksman's heart ache.

Athos was yet another one of Aramis' many concerns. Suard was using his friend as a right hand, which meant he loaded all of the work and responsibility straight onto Athos' shoulders. Athos had stated multiple times that he was coping well, but Aramis wasn't blind. The swordsman's eyes were surrounded by dark shadows, and the color he had lost during the battle of Cévry still hadn't returned to his face. Aramis had asked to have a look at Athos' arm three days ago, but his friend had been too busy organizing and leading patrols to comply with Aramis' request.

They had had one bit of good luck in the past few weeks however. They had discovered a single, wooden boat, barely large enough for one person, and with it they had established a line of communication between their little fortress and the citadel. Suard was able to report and receive orders directly from Decart. Athos and Aramis also could continue to send reports to Treville as they had done since arriving on the island. The musketeer messenger, usually it was the cadet Henri, chosen because of his short height and small stature, made sure the reports were brought to the citadel where Decart, according to the information Suard had received, had established a line of communication and transport with the authorities on the mainland.

Aramis was now sitting against one of the wooden pillars of the fortress' walls, his injured leg sprawled in front of him. He had successfully avoided infection so far, but he still was limping badly, even though superficially, the wound appeared to be healing. He pulled his hat over his face, seemingly enjoying the first couple of minutes of rest he had had this day. But the truth was, ever since Porthos had disappeared, he hadn't experienced a moment of calm. He was restless, and that would not change until he had found Porthos. No matter what he would find. He and Athos had sworn an oath a few evenings back, when they had a chance to exchange some news, that they would not leave this island unless they knew of Porthos' fate. They knew that their friend would have done the very same.

"The calmness is unsettling." Aramis attention suddenly snapped towards the voice he heard, and he quickly identified the musketeers Guillaume and Eric, sitting on the ground near the supplies and organizing the portion for the civilians, the duty to which Athos had assigned them. By the looks of it, they hadn't noticed Aramis' presence.

"I know what you mean," Eric replied nervously, his voice low as if he was scared someone in particular would listen. "I can almost feel Buckingham's blade at my throat."

"I suspect Buckingham is the least of our concerns," Guillaume retorted. "But what shall we do should they decide to besiege this fortress?"

Eric, by the sound of it, shattered one of the boxes containing the fruit. "We fight 'em off, of course," he replied smoothly. "And I, with certainty, believe we are able to do so. However, it is more likely we will starve first."

Guillaume huffed. "That's the purpose of many sieges, you know."

Eric ignored him. "And should any of us sustain an injury, well, our medic is in no condition to help us, because a damn house blew up to his face. On a mission Athos assigned him to."

"The general sent him there to replace the wounded," Guillaume cut in. "That was none of Athos' doing. Athos and Aramis would not have been so foolish."

"They are not our commanding officers," Guillaume continued mildly. "but after what happened to Porthos, I think the two of them are just trying to keep it together. You can see it with every move they make. Not only are they as exhausted as we are, but they are doubting the general as much as we are." He made a short pause. "You should have seen them after the procedure on Gino. The way they looked at Suard."

Eric snorted. "I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss the captain. He would know what to do."

"Aramis!"

Startled, Aramis jerked upright, the sudden motion making his leg twitch with pain. He readjusted his hat and looked around for whoever had shouted his name. Guillaume and Eric too suddenly stopped talking, as soon as they laid eyes on Aramis. They probably wondered what Aramis had heard and what not. But for now, he had different matters to attend to. He spotted Arthur running towards him, his breath hitching as if he had just run a marathon. His face was cleanly shaven, and after Aramis had treated the gaping wound on his jaw, he had been advised to keep it that way. He was going to have a large scar on his jaw, despite Aramis' best efforts of needlework to avoid it. He came to a slithering halt in front of the marksman, and offered him a helping hand.

Aramis, without comment, accepted it gratefully and was pulled to his feet. "What is it?" he queried as he hurried to keep up with the other musketeer. He knew Arthur, along with Athos and three cadets, had been part of a patrol organized to scout along the northern shore.

"Athos and I, we ran into a man and his son, hiding near the cliffs a few lengths east of here. We believe the boy is sick, and we don't want to bring him in here…"

"…in case he infects the entire camp," Aramis concluded and nodded as he limped next to Arthur. They passed the gate, and Aramis briefly stopped and grasped the cadet Frederic by the arm. "Get the general, tell him to meet us outside."

"Near the cliffs," Arthur added helpfully and Frederic grudgingly saluted. "Yes, sir."

Aramis just raised an eyebrow but did not waste any more time. "What's the matter with him?"

Arthur managed a tense grin. "Had a lecture from Athos and Théo, so I heard."

Aramis shook his head and kept following his comrade along the walls and towards the cliffs. "That would explain it."

It didn't take them long to reach the others, though Aramis' injured leg was preventing him from running. He soon spotted Athos, calmly leaning against a rock, exhaustion written all over his face, which he didn't even try to hide. But he kept a watchful gaze on the two strangers, a man in his forties and a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. They were pleading with the cadets, who were arguing loudly.

"Please, just stay, Monsieur!" one of the cadets said, but the uncertainty in his voice had little to no effect on the stranger.

"I see no sense in it," the stranger insisted, facing the cadets bravely.

"It's a precaution," Athos cut in coolly, radiating a whole different form of authority than the cadets. "We cannot risk it."

"I've been with him for weeks," the man explained, his voice shaking as he was trying to hold back tears of desperation. "And I'm not infected."

"You need to understand that our medic will have to decide it." In that exact moment, Athos laid eyes on Arthur and Aramis approaching. He tilted his head as a greeting. "Thank you for coming." He made a gesture towards the two strangers, ready to explain, but Aramis shook his head.

"Arthur filled me in," he explained shortly before his gaze wandered towards the boy and the cadet that was with him.

The boy's neck was covered in an unhealthy, swollen mass and red, open flesh. He had red circles under his eyes, and his face was pale and bathed in sweat, possibly from a fever. It seemed oddly familiar, and within seconds, all alarm bells rang in Aramis' head.

"Get away from him!" Aramis yelled, his eyes wide open. The cadet shrank back immediately. Aramis kept up a placating hand, and gestured the other musketeers, including Athos, to take a few more steps back.

"I need you to keep your distance, do you understand me?" Aramis said with enough kindness in his voice hopefully to cover his own horror. He knelt down, a few lengths in front of the boy. "We do not wish to harm you, but I need you to promise me that you will not come any closer, do you understand?"

The boy's eyes were wide open, but he nodded and folded his arms behind his back. "I promise, Monsieur." His voice was shaking with fear.

"What's your name?" Aramis asked, cautious not to show his own concern.

"Jacques," the boy answered, and it was barely more than a whisper.

Aramis placed a hand on his chest. "Jacques, my name is Aramis. How long have you had the symptoms?"

It was his father who stepped in first. "The neck has been like this for a few weeks. The fever has started a week ago."

Aramis nodded, and unsteadily stood up to join Athos near his place by the rock. He felt Arthur following him closely.

Athos just shot him an expectant look, raising a questioning eyebrow. "And?"

"Mal du Roi," Aramis explained quietly, running a hand over his untended beard. "As far as Parisian doctors suggest, it isn't necessarily contagious, however, there is no proof it is not. It could also be a form of consumption. We have to…"

"What's going on here?" Suard's voice interrupted all of them and Athos, Aramis and Arthur turned around to bow their heads as a greeting. The general did not wear his armor, but only linen pants and a white shirt, with a cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His hand was constantly resting on his pistol, and he was clearly nervous being out in the open without proper protection.

"Sir, we rescued two more civilians," Athos explained shortly. "The boy is sick; we are evaluating the risk of taking him to the fortress."

Suard's gaze wandered from Athos over Aramis to the boy and then back to Aramis. "And?"

"We are not sure whether it is a sickness that could spread to the others," Aramis did not know how else to say it.

Suard narrowed his eyes. "Well, can you be sure?"

Aramis lifted his shoulders and raised his hands in defeat. "Not right now, not like this."

The general sighed and ran a hand over his face, the other hand still resting on the pistol. He turned towards the man, who had thrown all sense of caution away and had put a calming hand on Jacques' shoulder.

"Monsieur, my apologies. But we are unable to bring you with us to the camp. The risk for my regiment is too high."

Aramis could see his own thoughts mirrored on Athos' face, and the swordsman slowly approached his superior and lowered his voice. "Sir, may I speak to you in private?"

Suard eyed Athos, and Aramis who was lined up behind him, skeptically, but eventually he nodded and gestured them to follow him. He came to a halt near a tall tree, in safe cover, so it seemed.

"What is it, Athos?"

"I don't think we can allow ourselves to leave anyone to their fate on this island," Athos declared, his eyes resting calmly on the general, but Aramis could see that his friend was more nervous than he was permitting himself to show.

Before Suard could respond in any way, Aramis came to his friend's aid.

"At least let us set up a quarantine camp, outside of the fortress if necessary. We all know the commander won't let them into the citadel, so we owe it to them to provide at least some sort of protection."

The general raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think we have the resources or the time for this?" He looked deadly serious. "I admire your compassion, musketeers, but as I've said before, we cannot share what we need the most. It is our duty to prevail here, and we cannot spare the men for a quarantine camp."

Suard already wanted to turn away, thinking the matter has been dealt with, but Athos wasn't finished yet.

"I am certain that it is in the interest of the king that we treat his civilians right and fairly." Athos' tone was respectful, but sharp. "He gains nothing if he keeps this island but has to justify himself for letting his own people die."

"The king has no influence here," Suard hissed suddenly, before he seemed to reconsider the company he was in. He cleared his throat, and Aramis was sure he almost looked embarrassed. "What I am saying is that we have to put our own needs before anyone else's if we want to keep this island in French hands," he said.

Athos folded his arms in front of his chest, and he made a step forward, his face inscrutable. "Sir, with all due respect, that's not the musketeers way."

"But it is my way," Suard countered confidently, with a tone that tolerated no further input.

"At least let me give them something to help with the fever," Aramis said, trying his best to hide his discontent about the general's decision.

Suard bit his lip, his own fingers frozen in indecision on the hilt of his sword, and eventually, he nodded. "Fine. But only the resources we can afford to spare." He gave Athos a sharp look. "This is my last word." With that, he headed back to the camp, without wasting one more second on the boy and his father.

Aramis and Athos exchanged a meaningful look before they rejoined the cadets and Arthur. The older musketeer gently patted Athos' uninjured arm and met Aramis' eyes.

"I've heard it; I'll take care of it. You two better get back to camp."

Aramis waited for Athos' protest, but it never came, so he just nodded gratefully and the two of them returned back to camp.

Back at the fortress, Aramis immediately saw the opportunity and grabbed Athos by the arm to drag him with him to the medic's tent. His friend reluctantly let him do so, and once inside, he pushed Athos onto a chair.

"You need to rest," Aramis decided and just raised a hand when he could hear Athos' take in the breath to protest. "Stay here."

He limped outside, and grabbed a bowl of the broth Guillaume had made earlier that day. It wasn't hot anymore, but it was at least warm and should still be enjoyable. He limped back into the tent, the numb pain exploding in his leg as a reaction to his own exhaustion.

"Eat!" Aramis shoved the bowl into Athos' hands before he himself collapsed onto another the chair. "I don't want to make it an order, considering I have the medical authority at the moment." He cast a worried glance towards Gino, who was sleeping uneasily in the cot near the entrance.

Athos did not say anything, but eventually began to eat.

The gap left by Porthos' absence was noticeable. With his loudness and cheer missing, Athos tended to be more silent than usual, and Aramis was sure he himself hadn't smiled one time since their friend had disappeared. Right now, he felt like the fact that Athos was still here was the only thing keeping him grounded. Keeping him sane.

"How is Gino doing?" Athos had decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

Aramis sighed and cast a worried glance towards the sleeping medic. "He is alive. But truth is, he could still lose his leg, and if the wounds on his chest reopen or, God forbid, get infected, I don't think I can do anything."

Athos looked sympathetic. "I know you are doing your best. If there is anything you need, let me know."

Aramis shot him a grateful look. "You know, I have my experience with musket wounds, stab wounds, anything like that. I know how to stitch and how to fight off infection. But all this?" He made a wide gesture. "My skills are limited. And if we continue to sit this out in this fortress, it's only going to get worse."

Athos swallowed another spoonful of the broth. "So far, we have succeeded." The lack of emotion in his voice contradicted the optimism of his words.

Aramis lowered his head and stared at the blood-soaked ground. He could see his leg trembling with exhaustion and he just took a deep breath to calm himself. "Yes. But at what cost?"

The missing presence of Porthos once again hung unspoken of in the air between them, but Athos, much to Aramis' content, emptied his bowl. "We will find him," he simply replied.

"Yes, we will. I am not leaving here without him, one way or another." Aramis managed a dry chuckle, but he got alarmed when he saw the pained grimace on Athos' face as his friend leaned towards the table to put down the bowl.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "How is your back?"

"Sore," Athos admitted. Aramis took a deep breath

Athos stubbornly stared straight ahead as his friend examined his back. The skin was slightly swollen, but but it was now a light green color which had replaced the deep purple from a week ago.

"Does it hurt?" Aramis queried.

Athos shrugged. "Only when I move."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "I can give you something for the pain. Other than that, you should try to cool the skin."

The swordsman lifted his arms and pulled the shirt back down. "I'll ask the general for some ice the next time he wants to see me." His voice sounded bitter. "Perhaps he'll be as generous as he was with the poor boy and his father."

Aramis was not as easily distracted. "Try the ocean," he suggested. "It is cold almost the entire year. It should ease the swelling." He made a short pause. "Do you think we should have…you know," he nervously cleared his throat. "…defied the general's order and done what we think is right?"

"Suard would have found out," Athos answered hollowly. "He would have had us punished, or worse, court-martialed." Aramis had to suppress a grin. Only to Athos would the thought of having to face a long and tiring hearing be more intimidating than being physically punished.

"He says he takes our survival as his first concern," Aramis evaluated, "but he doesn't care about any other living soul." He made a short pause. "Did you notice how he reacted to the mention of the king earlier? Doesn't quite leave the impression of a loyal servant of France, don't you think?"

"Indeed. To be honest, I don't know what he is doing," Athos admitted tiredly. "But I feel like if we want to survive this, we need to have him on our side.

"Porthos!" The urgent voice reached his ears. That, and the sound of over a dozen boots stamping on the wet sand. Porthos' eyes snapped open immediately and he inhaled sharply, only to cough it out shortly after. Despite the late summer heat, the wind on the beach was strong and cold, and he, as well as the other two prisoners, did not cope too well in that weather.

All in all, Porthos had to admit that he had expected worse. Sure, there had been some questioning, and yes, it had resulted in a few more bruises than he was fond of, but none of them had given any information to the English, and the English on the other hand, or Lord Eadmund, to be more specific, didn't seem too eager to find out more. Porthos knew the general was waiting for something, and he would make his move sooner or later, but Porthos hoped that his escape plan would have taken more shape by then.

Mathis, after the arrival of Porthos, had come up with one plan after the other, but Porthos, much to his own regret, had to point out multiple weaknesses in the plans and they had abandoned them, with the approval of the third prisoner. The other prisoner was one of Commander Décart's captains answering to the name of Méchant. Porthos was sure that Athos had spoken about him at least once or twice, but Porthos himself had never met him. Méchant clearly thought himself to be superior, being born in a noble family and all, but he had proved to be a good observer, and, more importantly, he had the advantage of a noble education. Which meant that he was able to understand some English, contrary to Porthos and Mathis. Luckily, Lord Eadmund seemed to be unaware of that, and still used the scribe to translate during the many 'questionings'.

"Porthos, are you awake?" Mathis hissed again and pulled Porthos out of his reverie. Porthos' head snapped to the side to look at his comrade with his good eye. The other one, which had been injured in the village, was still troubling him.

"What is it?"

"He's gathering the men." That was Captain Mechant's calm and emotionless voice to Porthos' blind left side. "Something is happening."

Porthos' turned his head back forward and his eye fell on the two dozen English soldiers lined up near the dunes, with Lord Eadmund pacing in front of them, waving a letter in his right hand and delivering a very stern speech, by the sound of it.

"Does anyone know wha' they're sayin'?" Porthos had to force himself to lower his voice.

"Something about a fortress on the northern shore of Ré Island," Méchant answered tiredly, but with a spark of curiosity. He turned towards Porthos. "Your camp. They are talking about your camp."

Porthos watched how the English soldiers aligned themselves in front of Lord Eadmund. They were all armed to the teeth as they awaited their orders. Fear gripped Porthos' heart as the realization came to him, and Méchant voiced aloud what they were all thinking.

"By the looks of it, I don't think he's planning to negotiate."

Note: The 'Mal du Roi', or 'King's Evil', is a disease we know as scrofula, caused by tuberculosis bacteria. By the time (especially in England and France), it was believed that the King or the Queen were able to heal sick citizens by touching them ('Royal Touch'), due to their divine gift.

Hope everyone is ready for a bit of action again.
To Jmp: Thank you, I am glad you like it! More about Porthos and Mathis coming soon, first, I fear Aramis and Athos will have plenty do deal with at the fortress. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
To Laureleaf: Yes, I think you could say Aramis is a bit overwhelmed with his new duties, and it's going to be stressful in more ways than one. 'Neither general knows what they've triggered in these three' - you basically summed up one of the main themes of the story :-) Thank you for your review!