XVI. The Breaking Point

Lord Eadmund was pacing. His wet boots got stuck in the sand way too often, but he just shook it off and continued walking in circles around his tent. If this attack was successful, Buckingham could use his entire force to storm the citadel and chase the French off this island for good.

He didn't underestimate the musketeers, but after his spies had told him about the weakness in their defenses, he knew that surprising them was the only way to get rid of them. He had known that the musketeers were supported by one of Décart's generals, but so far, he did not see this man as a threat.

Eadmund's eyes wandered towards the wooden pillars where the prisoners were sitting in the sand. He still did not know all their names, but their uniforms already told him a lot. Two of them, the giant and the one who looked like he was twenty years old, at most, were musketeers, members of the French king's elite regiment. The young one answered to the name of Mathis, that's what he had been able to overhear. The other one, he did not know, and the man had stubbornly refused to say anything over the course of the past week. Still, Eadmund could not dismiss the feeling that this man was important. Perhaps even more important than his third prisoner, one of Décart's captains. He too hadn't said a word, but he was a man of French nobility, that was something a blind man could tell.

He knew that Buckingham was busy trying to find a way into the citadel, but it had proven to be more difficult than expected. The Duke's engineer had drowned during the landing at Saint-Blanceau. The cannons they had brought from some of the ships were not as many as they had hoped for, and the damage to the citadel's walls had been mediocre, to state it kindly.

And while the Duke was busy trying to eliminate the French threat under the French Commander, Eadmund was far more intrigued by the challenge the small musketeer regiment was giving him. His regiment had theirs outnumbered 5 to 1, but he already counted about 30 losses – and the musketeers, as far as he knew, only counted half a dozen, at most.

His heart was pounding with nervousness as he finally heard the unmistakable sound of boots trampling the earth, however, it did not sound self-confident and calm. This was no march of victory.

He looked up just as his men appeared running towards the beach, like scared rabbits escaping back to their holes. All of them instantly avoided their commanding officer's look, except for the one person, Captain Harris, the man in charge of the operation. The man was covered in sweat and dirt, the sleeve of his uniform was torn and drenched with blood. He looked like he had just climbed out of hell.

The Captain approached the General, while the rest of the remaining soldiers scattered all over the beach.

The General knew the answer, but he still posed the question.

"The mission?" the General asked coldly.

"Unsuccessful, Sir." Harris' voice was shaking. With fear, if Eadmund was not mistaken. But he couldn't bring himself to pity the man.

Eadmund growled. "You disappointed me, soldier, and you should have a good reason why." He sent a warning glare towards one of the lieutenants who looked as if he wanted to intervene. "You really want to tell me that this unknown French General managed to defeat you after you had them trapped in their own damn hideout?" He was almost yelling now.

"No, no, we are pretty sure we knocked the General out shortly after the battle began." Harris shook his head as if to clear his mind of the images his eyes had just seen. "No, it was the musketeers, Sir. They all seemed to listen to one man, and they regained all of the control we took from them in the beginning of the battle."

"Then why on earth weren't you able to kill every last one of them? You had them outnumbered. You have to give me a very good reason now, soldier."

Harris lowered his gaze. "They forced us into a trap. As soon as we reached the gate, muskets shot at us from behind. Running was the only option we had left, if we wanted to survive."

"Next time," Lord Eadmund hissed, clearly dissatisfied, "next time, I'll lead the operation myself."

He was fuming with anger, and he was not quite sure whether to lecture his soldiers or calmly start all of this anew. He knew that encouraged men fought more bravely than intimidated ones.

"Sir." A man in English uniform whom he had never seen before approached him, carefully as if he feared the General might murder him if he got too close. Behind him, Eadmund could see a boat floating in the shallow waters.

"General, this is for you." He lowered his voice and stretched out a hand with an unsealed letter. "From Paris, I believe. For your eyes only."

Lord Eadmund snatched the letter out of the man's hand, unfolded it and let his eyes soak in every word. Over the course of reading, his mouth started to form a satisfied grin. Perhaps this information could be useful. He lifted his gaze and his eyes came to rest on the three prisoners, observing them with keen eyes.

He had a few new questions for them.

Athos did not waste a lot of time looking after the fleeing English soldiers. He used all of the adrenaline he had left and ran over to where the civilians were crowded in the corner, his eyes swerving over them to look for any casualties.

"Is everyone unharmed?" he asked loudly, drawing all of their attention. He recognized Lucien, who made an unsteady step forward.

"I believe so…" His eyes were wide open as he laid eyes on two musketeers who had been wounded as they had protected the civilians. They were still alive, but they were bleeding heavily. Luckily, Théo and two other men were already taking care of them. "Thank you."

Athos had to look at Lucien to make sure he hadn't misheard it. Did this ignorant fool just thank him? Athos sighed inwardly. He must've been filled with pure terror.

Athos growled and made a gesture towards the fallen musketeers. "Thank them." He turned towards Marie, the woman who had so fiercely defended them in front of Lucien. "Is anything…?"

"My children!" the panicked voice belonged to another young woman, one who hadn't spoken a word so far. "Where are my children? They were with me before…"

Athos released a stuttering breath, and as the adrenaline began wearing off, the pain exploded in his upper arm. He grimaced, not sure where to press his good hand against – his arm, his side or his head.

"They may have hidden as soon as the English arrived." He tried his best to stay calm and composed, and to not show them his own fear or uncertainty. The woman along with the other civilians, even Lucien, nodded knowingly. "We'll search this place," Lucien declared.

"Arthur, can you join…?" Athos began, but the musketeer cut him off.

"I have it, Athos. You should see the General." With that, he turned on the spot and waved at two other musketeers to help him search.

Athos took a second to gather himself and his eyes hesitantly rested on the commander's tent, where the musketeers apparently had dragged an unconscious Suard. He could think of roughly a hundred things he'd prefer over talking to the General right now, but his sense of duty told him otherwise. At least he had to check whether his commanding officer had regained consciousness.

As he turned to go towards the tent a noise coming from the gates distracted him. Athos looked up and relief flooded through him when he saw the noise came from Aramis and his group of marksmen reentering the fortress. They looked as if they hadn't managed to avoid the English completely, but he couldn't find anyone missing at first sight.

Aramis too had spotted him and made his way over to Athos as quickly as his limp allowed and briefly pulled him into a quick, one-armed hug.

"I almost thought your aim had failed us," Athos remarked dryly when Aramis loosened his grip, and his friend just shook his head, grinning darkly.

"Forgive me. We had a run-in with a few of the Butcher's men. I didn't have a lot of time to prepare my shot."

Athos sighed. "Is everybody unharmed?" His eyes wandered towards Aramis left shoulder, against which the marksman was keeping firm pressure.

"I think so." Aramis wasn't looking at him, his eyes were wandering over the fortress and locked on the group of civilians. "One of the cadets I took with me received a slash against his head, but he'll be fine."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

"Oh yes." Aramis looked at is as if he had forgotten. "Shoulder's out." He grimaced. "Would you mind?"

His friend shook his head and stepped forward.

"My apologies in advance." Athos stated and put one hand on Aramis' shoulder, the other one grabbed his hand.

"No…" Athos, without hesitating one second, put Aramis' shoulder back in place and elicited a pained gasp out of his friend, who grasped his hand so hard he almost broke the other man's bones.

"…need," Aramis finished, hissing through clenched teeth. He carefully moved his shoulder, and Athos could hear it crack slightly. The marksman's breath was ragged, and he was definitely in pain, but the shoulder seemed to be back in place.

Aramis tried his best not to show any of his pain. "Alright, your arm, Athos."

Athos, whose attention had been on the gate that Guillaume had finally closed, snapped around. "What?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Your arm Athos, you have avoided medical care for long enough. Let me have a look." The tone in his voice told Athos he wasn't asking.

Athos sighed and reluctantly unbuttoned his doublet and pulled up the sleeve on his left arm, to show Aramis the bloody mess that was his upper arm, going all the way down from his shoulder to his elbow. His expectations turned out to be quite correct – the two deep gashes crossed each other and one of them was bleeding sluggishly, despite the wound being over a week old. The flesh around it was red and swollen.

Aramis' let out a hissing breath at the sight of it and carefully moved closer, taking Athos' arm in both hands.

"Athos, this is inflamed. I don't know how you managed to fight today…"

"Right-handed," Athos commented dryly, but Aramis acted as if he hadn't heard him.

"…but this needed treatment days ago."

"There were other matters I had to attend to in the past weeks," Athos explained in a poor attempt at self-defense, which earned him nothing but a sharp glare from Aramis.

"You should never put something like this at the bottom of your priority list," Aramis admonished. "I should say something along the lines of 'you fool, you deserve it', but…" he stopped his rant and carefully probed the leaking wound.

"But?" Athos asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

"But I know better;" Aramis retorted and ripped some more of Athos' sleeve away. "You are a fool," he muttered under his breath.

"Does it make you feel any better if I say you are right?" Athos asked and tiredly rubbed his eyes. He was feeling the weariness in every bone of his body, and the lack of sleep was quite noticeable too now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

"I need Gino's medical stuff from the tent to tend to this properly," Aramis declared and eased his grip around Athos' arm to put pressure against his own aching shoulder.

"First, we need to report to the General, I'm afraid." Athos rolled down his sleeve and put on his doublet again. "Also, he was knocked out by an English bullet. He'll need treatment as well."

Aramis scowled. "I'm fairly certain there are more severely injured men here. I don't care if he has noble blood, if he has to wait, he'll wait."

"We still have to report to him," Athos merely stated, his voice numb.

"Yes, indeed." Aramis' face darkened. "But forgive me if I slip and stab him in the face."

Athos narrowed his eyes as his conversation with Aramis from earlier returned to his mind. How Gino had said something that had massively influenced Aramis' opinion about the General.

"What is it you…" But Athos wasn't able to finish his question.

"Aramis!" That was Guillaume, who came running towards the two of them, his eyes wide with panic. "Aramis, it's Gino."

Aramis casted a frantic look towards Athos and gestured towards his friend's side. "Is it bad?" Athos heard the hidden question. Aramis was trying to evaluate how grave it would be if he treated Gino first, but Athos merely nodded towards the medic's tent with his head.

"I can wait. Go, I'll join you as soon as I can."

Truth was, it wasn't his side that worried him, it was his arm. But whatever had happened to Gino could prove to be fatal, and Athos knew it. And if they lost their medic, they had a major problem.

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to follow Aramis into the medic's tent, but his duty took control and guided his feet towards the commander's tent, where he had been told they had taken the General.

He noticed that the area around the tent was empty, leading Athos to conclude that not one musketeer had yet felt the need to look after their commanding officer. At the moment, he could hardly hold it against them. The attack on the fortress had once again shown him that Suard knew nothing about the men he was commanding, hence he did not know how to give the proper orders.

Athos pulled aside the linen sheets and entered the small tent. The chair near the table had been knocked over, and the map had been thrown on the ground carelessly. Perhaps the result of a duel between a French and an English soldier. It didn't take long for him to find Suard. The General was lying in the corner of the tent, stretched out on his back. The left side of his face was marred with dust and blood, and the wound seemed to be bleeding sluggishly, but from what Athos could tell, it wasn't too bad.

He slowly approached the man, not sure if he should try to rouse him. Perhaps it was better to get some things done before he regained consciousness. But before he could make his decision, or act accordingly, a voice filled with urgency cut through the silence in Athos' head.

"Athos!" Guillaume reappeared in the entrance of the tent. He was bathed in sweat and blood, which was obviously not his. "Athos, Aramis needs your help."

Athos didn't question it one second. "Watch the general," he growled on his way out and he ran over to the medic's tent as fast as he could. He heard angry shouting and hastily exchanged words from inside.

He slapped the curtains to the side and the smell of iron and the bitter smell of sweat hit him hard. Athos took a quick second to observe the scene. Gino was on the working table in the middle of the tent, writhing and screaming in agony. Aramis was right next to him, as well as Philippe and two cadets.

"What happened?" Athos asked with barely controlled panic in his voice as he hurried to get the medical bags from the other side of the tent.

"A few English soldiers passed through this tent during the attack," Aramis filled him in, clearly in a hurry to get this over with. He didn't even look up. "Gino was awake and fought them. He was wounded. The old wounds reopened."

Aramis made a vague gesture towards the leg, which was nothing but a bloodied mess. "If I don't stop the bleeding soon…" The unspoken words were hanging in the air.

"What kind of animal attacks a wounded man?" one of the cadets murmured, and Athos would have overheard it if not for Aramis' sharp answer.

"They saw an armed man attacking them," he said. "Even in his state, Gino is a force to be reckoned with."

Gino was already quite pale to begin with, but the wounds, especially his leg, were bleeding continuously. Aramis threw Athos a wet cloth and a small bag.

"You take the chest, make sure the wounds are clean before you close them."

Athos knew now was not the time to address the fact that he had never sewed a wound in his life, he had merely watched other people do it. But he knew his little experience was the best shot they had.

Aramis placed a bucket under the leg and started multiple attempts to stop the bleeding, but the truth was, there were too many wounds for one man to control.

Gino's screams grew weaker, and he was now only shaking, his pale and sweat-bathed head lolling to the side.

"Stay with me, hey!" Aramis gently slapped Gino's cheek. "Stay with me you bastard. We won't survive here without you."

He handed one of the cadets another cloth and continued working on the leg, trying to close the wounds that covered Gino's leg from foot to right above his knee, but whatever had happened to Gino during the attack had reopened so many wounds at once that stitching them individually was no longer an option, but burning them could prove to be fatal too.

Aramis continued to yell orders at the cadets who were trying their best to assist. Athos was trying to close the wounds in Gino's chest and keep him awake, but casting a frantic look towards the medic's face, he saw that the man had lost his battle against unconsciousness. His eyes were closed.

Fighting down his panic Athos focused on stopping the bleeding at the medic's side, and just when he started to sew the next gash, he noticed the lack of resistance in any form. His eyes found Gino's white face again, and wandered down to his chest. Something heavy hit his heart when he realized that the medic wasn't breathing.

"Aramis." Athos' voice was seemingly calm, but his whole body was shaking.

Aramis did not listen to him, even though he had noticed it too. Instead, he kept dressing the wounds and kept yelling at the cadets to bring him the supplies he needed.

"Aramis, it's over," Athos tried again, but his friend once again showed no sign of having heard him.

"Damn it, stop it!" Athos lashed out and grabbed Aramis' upper arm firmly, forcing him to look at him. "He's dead, Aramis. He's gone. There's nothing you can do."

"No, no, NO!" Aramis' exploded, turned around and kicked over the water bucket. Its bloody content spilled over the ground.

Athos just stood there, unable to process the events and unable to show any emotional reaction. They had lived through the ordeal that was the siege of Saint-Blanceau. They had been shot at, they had spilled blood and they had buried comrades. They had obeyed orders they did not believe in, and fought for the last bit of duty that they held dear on this damn island. They had been used as bait, they had served as prey for the English butcher. But now, Athos realized, they could not go on like this. It had to change, and they had to gain the upper hand. With or without General Suard and his foolish orders. Athos would gladly face a court-martial if it meant he could get the musketeers off Ré Island alive.

He looked at Aramis. His friend stood a few feet away, his empty gaze locked on Gino, his jaw clenched tightly. Tears of desperation ran down his cheek and mixed with the blood and sweat on his chest. He held one bloodstained hand against his neck.

Everyone had a breaking point. And compassion clenched Athos' heart as he realized that Aramis might have just reached his.

Two hours later, Sunset

Athos had checked back on Guillaume and the General, but the officer hadn't regained consciousness yet. He and Aramis had gathered the men in front of the gate and informed them about Gino. The reaction they had received was about what he had expected. Some just had sheer shock on their faces, others showed blatant fear. And then there were a few whispering about how Suard should have never sent their medic on the fateful mission.

Aramis had offered a few words about how he would try his best to take care of their wounds, but that had been all he could give them. The musketeer Philippe, who had served many months with Gino before he had entered the regiment, assured them that he would also try his best to provide support in the medical duties.

The civilians luckily had been able to find the missing members of their community. The children, as expected, had fled to a hideout near the cliffs outside the fortress. Further on, Athos had assigned Arthur and Guillaume to fix the hole in the wall that had cost them all so dearly. Not one person had objected to his suggestions, they had all nodded and accepted their duties.

Now, Athos was keeping his promise to Aramis and he had decided finally to have his arm looked at. He found his friend outside the medic's tent at a campfire, standing in front of it and cleaning his blade absent-mindedly.

"You are not as sneaky as you think you are, you know." The tears of desperation from earlier had dried on his face, his own bloody handprint still decorated his neck.

Athos calmly approached him and stood next to him at the fire, deciding not to respond to that. The warmth of the flames was soothing, despite the fact that it was August. His lids were heavy and he felt the soreness in every inch of his body, in bones and muscle, in limbs and chest.

Aramis turned to look at his friend. "Sit." He gestured towards the tree trunk they had been using as campfire resting spots and quickly strode back towards the medical tent.

Athos, in defeat, didn't even argue and just dropped on the wooden surface, unbuttoning his doublet and pulling his sleeve up.

Aramis reappeared with a few medical supplies and knelt down next to Athos. His face was inscrutable.

"Your side?" he asked.

"Merely a superficial cut," Athos reported. "I cleaned it and dressed it myself." He raised an eyebrow and nodded towards his friend's shoulder with his head.

"Your shoulder?"

"A little swollen and sore, but fine." Aramis usually was not a man of few words, however, he kept his answers short and his voice sounded hollow.

"The General has not yet regained consciousness," Athos informed him, not sure where he himself was going with the conversation.

"Good," was all Aramis was able to say. He carefully poured some water over the arm wound and grabbed some herbs out of the bag.

"Will you tell me what you found out about the General?" Athos asked bluntly and by the look on Aramis' face, he had hit a nerve.

The marksman nodded. "I will. But not here."

For another few minutes, they sat there in silence, Aramis concentrating on fixing his friend's arm and Athos silently enduring the procedure. Aramis stopped once or twice to briefly inform him about how Athos needed to rest this arm and how these herbs would try their best to prevent the infection from worsening. Then they dived back into silence.

"I have to go there," Aramis stated out of nowhere and elicited a pained hiss from Athos when he jarred the open wound. What would have sounded more like a desperate whisper from others sounded like an angry threat out of Aramis' mouth.

"Beg your pardon?" Athos subconsciously knew what his friend was talking about, but still, he needed to hear. He needed the reassurance that Aramis had drawn the same conclusions as he had.

"I'm going there," Aramis repeated tiredly. "…and see for myself if he is there. I need to know, Athos. The fact that you are still here is the only thing keeping me sane."

If he is there. If Porthos was still here. Or, in other words, if Porthos was still alive. The past dozen days, Athos and Aramis had worked hard to stop each other from going out alone, in order to search for their missing friend. Both of them had prevented each other from doing so in order not to get the other one killed.

But perhaps, Athos mused, it was best to join forces.

Aramis tightly wrapped the clean bandage around Athos' arm and tied it together. The swordsman put on his doublet again and looked up to Aramis, his own face devoid of any emotion.

"It is dangerous. You could get kidnapped, stabbed or shot on the spot. They could even torture you. Imprison you. You wish to hear more?"

"I am aware," Aramis snapped. "But I need to know. You're not talking me out of it, Athos. Not this time."

"I'm not intending to." He got up, swaying dangerously and carefully squeezed Aramis' good shoulder. "We leave at midnight."

A bit early this week, because I don't have my laptop with me over the weekend. Thank you for reading.