XXII. Far Away From Home

Porthos' eyes rested on Athos, trying to understand what exactly they had just talked about, and if it was a good idea considering they were both not in the best of shape.

"What if I am too late?" Porthos asked Athos, but his friend made a dismissive gesture.

"You won't be. It's our best shot."

"Musketeers! Back to the fortress!" It was none other than General Suard's voice echoing over the abandoned battle scene, and Athos, still breathing heavily, exchanged a quick look with Porthos, as if asking him if he was sure. Porthos was distracted, as he had silently hoped that the Suard problem would have solved itself.

He merely nodded and they both looked towards the distant silhouette of their commander. Athos finally accepted Porthos' help and his friend pulled him back to his feet. Athos rested his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his shaking body.

"It's settled then." He raised his voice. "You go, keep the civilians safe, from whoever poses a threat. I'll check the farmhouse and catch up as soon as possible. Théo!" To Athos' surprise, Théo was there immediately, looking a bit worn out, but all in all more healthy than Athos. "You are with me."

"Athos." Porthos grabbed his shoulder firmly. "Be careful. The place may be occupied by some remaining English soldiers. "I'll deal with the civilians, and, if necessary," he exchanged a meaningful look with the swordsman, "with Suard."

Athos nodded and squeezed Porthos' arm in assurance. "You are aware you might be guilty of insubordination then?" It was more a question than a warning, the question whether Porthos was willing to risk it. But Athos knew the answer before his friend spoke.

Porthos just tilted his head and lowered his voice. "In all honesty, that's the least of my concerns at the moment." He threw a look over his shoulder. "You should hurry." He bit his lip. "If there are survivors…bring 'em back."

Athos took a step backwards. "That's the plan."

With Théo by his side, Athos stumbled in the direction of the farmhouse. Unease ran through every part of Porthos' body as he watched his friend disappear behind the trees, knowing that it should be him going with Athos to look for Aramis and other survivors, but Athos had explained to him the necessity of his role in this whole exercise.

Porthos, accompanied by three more musketeers, one of whom was Guillaume, ran towards the woods where Suard was already leading the remaining men back towards the fortress. Porthos had no choice but to follow, casting nervous glances back towards the direction Athos had taken.

It took Suard about fifteen minutes until he first came to a stop, apparently realizing that they needed to regroup. Porthos, with his energy beyond drained, tried to use his gloved hand to prevent the sweat from running down his forehead and into his eyes.

Suard had come to a stop in the ruins of Cévry, with his impressive broadsword clasped between his hands.

"We're going straight back to the fortress," Suard ordered, letting his gaze swerve over the remaining musketeers. "The English could be anywhere, but at least they no longer occupy Saint-Blanceau. If anybody is in need of assistance, he should speak now."

"Robert is heavily injured," Mathis reported. Porthos looked towards them, and Mathis as well as one of the cadets had the musketeer Robert between them, keeping him upright, while the injured man fought for consciousness. "But we have him."

Suard fixed him with a cold stare. "He could slow us down."

"Save your speeches," Mathis shot back, his voice venomous. "I said we have him."

Suard visibly thought about taking measures against Mathis' inappropriate behavior, but he noticed Porthos standing not too far away, and apparently he remembered their earlier conversation, before the battle had begun.

He decided just to nod stiffly, and then he motioned north with his sword, and the musketeers took formation and managed a fast trot. Meanwhile, Suard fell back and came to a halt in front of Porthos.

"Where's Athos?" Suard wasn't asking kindly. His tone was sharp, and the glistering in his eyes looked dangerous to Porthos.

"Headed to see if any of the marksmen survived," Porthos replied, his voice devoid of all emotion. The mere image of his friends, of his brother, being slaughtered by English cannons made his heart race.

"Damnit! I didn't tell him to do so!" Suard ran a hand over his head. "Porthos, you bring the musketeers to the fortress, and clear any English soldiers from this part of the island. I'll get Athos out of there. He could run into the enemy and need help." Without even bothering to wait for Porthos' reply, he charged west, towards the old farmhouse where Athos and Théo had gone. It almost looked as if he really did intend to rescue Athos, not endanger him.

"Guillaume!" Porthos called, and luckily, the musketeer appeared at his side immediately. Porthos gave him the orders, and despite the fact that he was in no way authorized to do so, Guillaume didn't even question them. He had seen the look on Porthos' face and he had put the pieces together.

Grim satisfaction spread over Porthos' face as he grabbed the hilt of his pistol even tighter. Suard would come this far, and not one step further.

Aramis awoke with a gasp. The light rain the wind blew onto them seemed to have awoken him, though he hadn't been asleep voluntarily. He must have lost consciousness, but by the looks of it, he hadn't been out for too long. Philippe, to Aramis' right, didn't show any signs of waking up yet, his motionless body propped up so it was hidden inside the hollow. Arthur was leaning against the rocky surface to his left, the musketeer's arm still cradled against his bleeding chest. His eyes were only half open, and Aramis did not like the paleness in his friend's face.

"The battle is over." Arthur's voice was barely more than a whisper, and he kept his gaze focused on the ocean.

"What makes you think that?" Aramis groaned as he tried to get himself into a sitting position, causing a sharp pain to shoot across his upper back and neck.

"The island is so silent." Arthur's words were slurred.

Merde, Aramis thought. His moments of unconsciousness, even if it had only been minutes, had cost them dearly. He had to take care of the others, as much as he could manage under these circumstances anyway.

Aramis leaned forward and grabbed Arthur's arm. "I need to see, my friend."

Arthur needed a few seconds to comprehend Aramis' request, but then he carefully loosened his grip around his lower abdomen. His arm came away bloody, and a pool of blood had formed on the ground underneath the soldier's body. Aramis also noticed the rattled breathing, and fear gripped his heart as he realized he might be useless to Arthur after all.

Aramis grabbed his main gauche to cut through the remains of the uniform around the wound, and the lack of resistance scared him more than he allowed himself to show. When the true extend revealed itself, Aramis closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, to gather his thoughts and steady his hands. The wound was deep. And it was still bleeding profusely.

Aramis had little to no possibilities for medical treatment here. He couldn't leave the hollow, as he was sure that there were English soldiers somewhere in the area. With two severely injured musketeers, plus himself in no good condition, it would be no contest should he meet with any opposition.

"I'll have to…," he started, but he didn't bother to explain more. He merely grabbed the sash tied around Arthurs waist, loosened it and pressed it on the wound.

"I have nothing to cauterize the wound here," Aramis murmured, more to himself than to Arthur, but his friend was still conscious and listening.

"What about the water?" Arthur nodded towards the ocean, only a few meters away from their feet.

Aramis bit his lip indecisively. "The wound is too deep. It would only speed infection. I want to spare you the pain."

The words had left his lips before he thought about it twice, fully aware of how it must sound to Arthur's ears, but the musketeer merely grabbed Aramis' wrist. "Then don't. I'll…just sit here for now." His head sank back against the stony surface. Aramis studied him suspiciously. Arthur was already going into shock, but he had absolutely nothing here to stop the bleeding except his prayers for a miracle.

"Keep pressure on that," Aramis ordered before he turned towards Philippe. A flood of memories hit him when he looked at Philippe's bloodied and pale face. He remembered the last time on Ré Island, where he and Philippe had previously fallen victim to the cannons. They had gotten out of it that time. They had never been the closest friends, but Aramis had a deep respect for the man. Philippe was an excellent marksman, almost on Aramis' level, and he too had some medical experience. He was a helpful soul, but also had a tendency for irrational thinking, emotional outbursts and egoistic decisions.

But now that he was lying there, Aramis, for the first time, felt completely and utterly helpless. Philippe's chest was slowly rising and falling, indicating the musketeer was still clinging to life, but apart from the obvious injuries to the eyes, there was also a deep wound in his chest, one Aramis could not treat here.

"A marksman without eyes," Arthur said in his half-delirium, leaving the rest of his statement unfinished. Aramis closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I know."

He could go out there. Out of the three of them, he was the least injured, despite his bleeding back and his injured leg. But if he could find a way out of here, for all of them, there might be a chance to get help. Or he could go to find resources to treat his comrades' wounds. The complete and utter helplessness wrenched his heart. He slowly climbed to his feet and, crouching down in front of Philippe, used a piece of cloth from his sleeve to dab the blood off the musketeers face.

"I know what you're thinking," Arthur's murmured voice interrupted his thoughts. "Don't do it. You'd condemn yourself and us to death."

"I might not be able to save us anyway," Aramis retorted a little harsher than he had intended, but Arthur didn't hold it against him. He felt a reassuring pressure on his upper arm.

"Athos will come. Porthos won't leave us here to die either." He coughed, and a yelp of pain escaped his lips.

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. "I know. But we don't even know if they survived the battle. Survived Suard. They could be dead for all we know."

"Oh, you'd know. The bond you three share…," Arthur made a short pause. "Trust me, you'd know. Where's your faith when we need it?" Another pause. Aramis did not know what to answer, but he didn't need to.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Arthur's lips. "Besides, I prefer to die in the company of friends than in the company of my enemy."

Aramis, cradling his crucifix in his free hand, almost smiled. "Hold on my friend. Just a little longer."

By the time he and Théo reached the location of the farmhouse, Athos was not only panting, but his heart was pounding so heavily he feared it might jump out of his chest. Still, for his own sake and Théo's sake, he made sure not to show any emotional reaction.

However, as he looked at the ruins, it felt as though someone had punched him hard. It was difficult to imagine this used to be a house, a big farmhouse even. Where the building once had been was nothing but a large pile of wood, surrounded by a few smaller piles and the ground was covered in pieces of the building and ashes from the fires. Some parts of the frame, about three solid wooden beams, had survived the attack, but they were looking so frail Athos doubted they would hold on for long.

"We should…" Théo started and Athos just nodded numbly, following his comrade to the smoking rubble. He was not a man of faith, but he prayed that there were still some people left to save. And, as selfish as it was, he hoped that his brother was one of them.

Athos carefully stepped over a pile of flaming wood, one hand constantly on the hilt of his rapier, prepared to defend himself if necessary. He was expecting at least one unfriendly visitor after all, as he had talked about with Porthos.

They had no idea what they were walking into. Théo sped past Athos, as he was still more or less uninjured, and walked straight towards the first body in their eyesight.

Athos did not know what he had expected, nor did he know why he had thought to be prepared, but dizziness hit him with a sudden jolt as he laid eyes on the torn and lifeless body of the musketeer Dénis. A marksman and the regiments architect in the eyes of Suard, but a kind-hearted and joking comrade in Athos' eyes, one who had never taken anything too seriously and had annoyed the hell out of him more than once. By the looks of it, Dénis had fallen victim to one of the cannons directly. One half of his body was a bloodied mess, and Athos could only hope that he had not suffered long.

Théo squeezed Athos' good arm and together, they kept looking for more. A short distance away, they found Dorian, whose eyes were closed, his own hand clasped around his neck, still leaking with blood. Athos didn't need to check to know that there was nothing he could do.

Athos almost stepped on the body of the cadet Pierre, his big, blue eyes staring into nothingness. He had no personal connection to the cadet, but the young man had been promising and did not deserve such a horrible fate.

Eric had been harder to find, as he had been buried in the rubble up to his chest. Athos determined that the cause of his death was probably the musket that had impaled him from behind, and he felt a sting in his heart. Aside from Aramis and Porthos, he didn't let people get close to him, nor did he feel the need to worry about others opinions of him. But with Eric, it had been different. He had not necessarily liked the man, but he had deeply respected him for the sincere and honest way he had treated himself and those around him.

The more the images of his butchered brothers-in-arms burned themselves into his mind, the more Athos' anger and frustration with Suard grew. Suard had taken it too far. He had been toying with lives that were not his to play with.

While Suard might have seen these men as acceptable casualties in his own personal vendetta against Aramis and what secrets he may or may not possess, Athos had memories flooding his mind. Memories of Dorian, whose wife had so graciously provided them something to eat when the King had been late with their wages.

Dénis, who had arrived late to guard duty because his little brother had fallen from a roof and broken his leg.

Pierre, whom Aramis and Porthos had loved to tease when he once again had failed to regain control over Cesar, one of the garrison's most ill-tempered horses.

And Eric, whose death would hit Guillaume hard. They had been inseparable ever since they had received their commission over a year ago, and Tréville had always referred to them as another Damon and Pythias because of their close friendship. But all of them were now decorating this grotesque scene, and they all had died trying to protect each other. Given their lives, so far away from home.

"You see anyone else?" Théo asked impatiently, trying to keep his voice low. "How many did you say they were?"

"Seven," Athos replied shortly. "That leaves Philippe, Arthur and Aramis."

While hope for his lost friend sparked up again in Athos' chest, he also could not ignore the queasy feeling in his guts. Aramis either had made it out of here, or he was buried so deep under the rubble that they hadn't managed to reach him yet. Athos, who kept going on pure adrenaline and willpower alone, started to shovel the rubble away with his hands.

Théo, on the other hand, didn't move an inch.

"Would you…?" Athos began tersely, but Théo just brought a finger to his lips. Athos shut up immediately and froze in his motion. He heard it too. Voices, talking to each other, clearly in panic and clearly nearby.

"English," Théo stated, his voice trembling with fear.

Athos' eyes were still glued to the bodies of the musketeers in front of him, clasping the hilt of his rapier even tighter, ready to fight. "How many?"

Théo carefully peeked around the corner. "At least a dozen. We don't stand a chance."

It was a decision Athos had to make within a split second, with Théo's questioning gaze resting on him.

"Out," Athos hissed, "Quickly." Even though every fiber of his being screamed at him not to leave anyone behind, he knew that it would only result in his and Théo's death if they stayed, or worse, tried to take on the English soldiers. Yes, they were injured too, and on the run on top of it, but they still outnumbered the two musketeers. By far.

Athos climbed back over the piles of rubble, making sure not to get too close to those still smoldering, and he felt Théo following closely behind him. Together, they made their way passed the bodies of the men who had fallen victim to the cannons and towards the line of trees indicating their way back to the fortress.

Athos felt the blood pounding heavily through his arm and head, and black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, but his feet moved over the ground swiftly, causing as little noise as possible.

Théo and Athos stood side by side behind some larger bushes, watching as the English soldiers discovered the ruins of the farmhouse and started investigating it themselves. They were moving slowly and carefully, some of them were visibly wounded, but they didn't show any pleasure at what they found, at least not from what Athos could tell at this distance, and they soon moved on. He had to remember that these men were experiencing the exact same thing as the musketeers. On the run, under attack. They had suffered on this island too.

"Athos!" Porthos' voice cut through the haze in Athos' brain and Athos whirled around. Standing about twenty feet away from him was none other than General Suard, with a pistol raised high, aiming directly at Athos. And behind him, only a short distance away, was Porthos, holding his own pistol close to the General's head.

"Nice try," Porthos commented, taking a small step forward and snatching the pistol out of his commander's hands. "Though I expected you to have more guts and at least face the man you intended to kill."

"You followed me here," Suard concluded, his hands raised in his ultimate defeat. His voice was dangerously calm.

"You can be read like an open book, Sir," Athos explained as he raised his own pistol and aimed it at Suard. "You wanted to clean up. To eliminate everyone who knows about this mess, about your personal vendetta against the King and everyone affiliated with him. You sent those men to die."

"After you got rid of Aramis, Athos was the logical next target. And him, on his own, only being accompanied by Théo, was more than inviting for you, wasn't it?" Porthos looked downright furious, and his voice was filled with pain and the longing to understand.

"You overstepped your boundaries, musketeers," Suard answered coldly. "You questioned orders, endangered our position because of your senseless moral code, and dug your noses into affairs that are none of your concern."

Athos had to respect Suard for one thing– he was not denying he had just tried to murder Athos. He could have said he wanted to rescue Athos, and was preparing his shot for an English enemy, but no, he chose to admit the ruthless and cold-blooded murder he had just attempted.

Suddenly, Athos felt Théo right next to him, and though the musketeer had no idea about what exactly had happened between Athos, Porthos and the General, he chose to speak up.

"With all due respect, Sir, it was your orders that got a lot of good musketeers killed. It was your decision that led to us having to choose between starving ourselves or allowing innocent people to starve. This was none of the musketeers doing. We have been too busy with surviving to pay attention to your incompetence against Lord Eadmund."

Athos was surprised. Théo was not one for questioning orders, nor was he one for challenging authority. But after what they had just seen in the ruins of the farmhouse, Théo's perspective apparently had changed.

"You don't even know what you're talking about," Suard scoffed.

Athos had a hard time controlling his temper, but he managed, though the arm with his pistol was trembling noticeably. "There are at least four men butchered in there, torn apart by cannons." His cold eyes looked straight into Suard's. "Good men. Loyal men. Sent to their death by the man who was supposed to guide them, protect them." Athos' voice was filled with hatred.

"You are soldiers, not some young farm boys!" the General shot back loudly.

"Quiet. There are at least a dozen English soldiers around," Athos hissed.

"The English would not have come so far if Aramis and his marksmen would have done their bloody job!" Suard cursed.

"It's hard to do your job when your own commander tries to kill you, you know," Porthos retorted angrily, "English cannons have the reputation of being rather deadly." He didn't even bother to look at Suard's reaction, he merely made sure to bring some distance between himself and the General, the barrel of his pistol still aimed at Suard's head.

"Whatever it is that you have been doing, you should know that we take an assassination attempt on one of our own rather personally," Athos added slowly, not lowering his pistol an inch.

Suard looked like a wounded predator. "Look around you. Your head is so full of conspiracy that you can't look the fact in the eyes. The English did this. They tore this shelter to shreds and…"

"And you knew about their position," Athos interrupted bitterly, as he felt the last tiny bit of respect for Suard fade away. "You knew what would happen if the English saw French marksmen shooting from here. It was a set up."

"How dare…"

"It's over, General. You'll come back with us, but you are no longer in charge."

Suard's eyes flashed with hatred. "I'll have your heads for this."

Athos gave a hint of a smile, and on his pale and bloodied face, it looked a lot scarier than usual. "That will be for the King to decide. And I heard you two are not on the best terms."

If looks could kill, Athos would have dropped dead on the spot, but instead, Théo stepped forward, grabbed Suard by the shoulder and pointed his pistol at the General's head, gesturing to Porthos and Athos that they could drop their weapons.

Athos lowered his, and Porthos was by his side, grabbing his friend by the forearm. "Aramis?" he asked anxiously, and Athos just shook his head.

"We didn't find him," he croaked as he felt the adrenaline fade away and his body giving in to the exhaustion and the pain of his injuries.

An expression of despair crossed Porthos' face, but he just grabbed Athos' good arm and offered support. "We have to get back. We will find him."

Together, they followed Théo and Suard back to the fortress, and Athos couldn't help but keep his gaze locked on the smoking building for as long as possible.

We'll come back, Athos thought, as the guilt of leaving possible survivors behind tore his heart to shreds. We'll come back for you.

Thank you for reading. I'll do my best to get the next chapter done soon. Take care of yourselves, take care of each other. Stay safe.