XIV. Lord Buckingham

"Is…is anyone…there?" the murmured words startled Aramis, and he twitched violently. He swallowed multiple times to get some fluid back in his dry mouth and his head jerked sideways, finding the source of the voice.

Philippe had woken up. Barely, so it seemed, and he was more a ghost than a man. The pale, white face was a stark contrast to the dark grey surface of the rock, and the bloodied flesh in his face seemed like a grotesque painting. It was the long and deep wound in his guts that drained the blood, but Aramis knew that it was the missing sight that would scare the musketeer the most.

Aramis slowly and gently reached out with his shaking hands and carefully took Philippe's hand into his own. "Philippe?"

"Aramis?" The marksman sounded so confused it shattered Aramis' heart. He could see how Philippe's hand almost reached for the place where his eyes were supposed to be, but he turned out to be too weak. He gathered all his strength to speak. "Is that you?"

"It's me," Aramis confirmed, and tried his very best to hide the anxiety and the dismay in his voice. His voice might just be the only thing to ground Philippe on this beach. The beach he would never leave.

"Where…where are we?" Philippe's voice was barely more than a whisper, but he seemed to trust Aramis' voice, and the musketeer felt Philippe's grip tighten around his wrist.

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line. "I don't know. The beach somewhere. Safe from the English, for now."

Philippe's free hand wandered down his own torso and he gasped when he felt the leaking blood coming from the wound in his lower stomach. He didn't even seem to register the pain of his broken arm.

"If it weren't for you, none of us would have made it," Aramis continued hastily, trying to distract Philippe from the unavoidable fate. "Thank you. And…I'm sorry."

Even though Aramis knew he should not take the blame for the death of the marksmen, he could not help but take the responsibility. His medical skills had been of no use, and he had known that Suard had been after him. The utter brutality of the truth, the truth that all those marksmen were dead because Suard had wanted to kill him, was a burden he wasn't going to shake off so easily.

"I…my eyes…," Philippe stuttered helplessly, and his friend's despair and his own sorrow brought tears to Aramis' eyes. His vision swam and he used his sleeve to wipe the tears away.

"I know," Aramis whispered, trying to be of comfort, and knowing he was failing miserably. "Tell me, what can I do?" He did not like how helpless he sounded, but he wasn't ashamed of it either. This was beyond his medical skills, and this was not a situation they had trained for. Not a situation they had expected.

"Don't let me die alone in this cursed place." Philippe's voice was shaking with fear, a fear Aramis could not even imagine. Philippe could only feel the blood leave his body, only feel the pain his wounds caused him, and only hear the silence that surrounded him and Aramis. He could not see the absolute beauty of the sky, with the moon being partly veiled by thick clouds. The horizon was beginning to light up, announcing a new dawn.

Aramis would have said something among the lines of "Hold on" or "Just a little longer" but the words wouldn't come to him. Instead, he grabbed Philippe's hand a little tighter, giving his friend the reassurance a wounded soldier desperately craves in the midst of darkness and pain.

Aramis stayed and talked to Philippe for the next, excruciating, half an hour. He didn't receive many answers, but he knew that it was his voice that grounded Philippe as the tension in his comrade's body continued to fade. When Philippe went limp, and the body was unable to take the burning pain anymore, the musketeer's head rolled to the side, facing the ocean now being filled with dark orange light of the rising sun. Aramis carefully put Philippe's hand on his chest and ran his hand over the dirty musketeer pauldron on his shoulder. Cannons, fire, falling and bleeding. Despite all, it was still intact.

Aramis didn't believe that the old man would come back, and he could not hold it against him. It would be difficult enough to get Arthur to safety, and Aramis just prayed that he had made the right decision.

Aramis did not pin his hopes on a stranger he barely knew. He had served as a soldier long enough to know that would be foolish. But something told him that Athos and Porthos were alive, and that they would not leave him here to die. With a heavy heart, Aramis brought his bloodied hand to his lips and then to Philippe's forehead, bidding him farewell and asking forgiveness.

"Go with God, my friend."

He murmured a short prayer, then he put both hands against the stony wall, slowly lifting himself on his knees and after some cursing and a few false starts, he made it up to his feet. The exhaustion, the dehydration and sleep deprivation tried to pull him back to the ground, but he resisted. He kept staggering over the sand, gaining more strength with every step he was able to take. Determination and anger took over, and he kept marching north. Very slowly, but he was moving forward.

They had to be out there. Athos, and Porthos. Somewhere. He had never given up on them, and he still believed in the three of them reentering the gates of Paris. Together.

He did not know if he could find them. But he had to try.

Athos followed Mathis through the open gate, still trying to forget the horrific images that flashed in front of his inner eye. On top of all that was going on, he seemed to be losing his mind now too.

He did not know what to expect, but finding Porthos and Guillaume in the open area close to Cévry, arguing and gesturing towards a woman wasn't exactly matching his expectations. The tiny hope in his heart that the mysterious 'somebody' was one of the missing musketeers was crushed, but he tried his best not to show it.

He approached quickly, his good hand on the hilt of his weapon, his brow furrowed. He cleared his throat to make himself known and looked at Porthos, waiting for an explanation.

His friend caught his gaze and took a step back, making a wide gesture towards the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, Athos caught a movement behind the trees. The woman wasn't alone.

"She knew where to find us," Porthos explained. "There are four of them. She said she was sent here." He made a gesture towards the other three people who had come forward to stand behind the woman. Their body language spoke volumes – with their arms protectively around their middles, the head up high and the muscles tense, they were scared. Scared of the musketeers.

"How?" Athos asked sharply and looked at the woman. She was approximately in her forties, the dark blonde hair tied loosely at her neck. The bruises on her skin and the blisters on her fingers spoke of the experience of the last week.

"He…" She swallowed nervously. "He said you would help us. That we're to ask for two men called Athos and Porthos."

All alarm bells went off in Athos' head and he grabbed her by the hand, a little more forceful than he had intended. He let go immediately and took a step back.

"Who told you that?" he asked, trying hard to maintain the calm and composed tone in his voice.

"He…I don't know his name. But he rescued a musketeer called Arthur, I believe," the woman answered slowly. "I've only been with them for about two days."

Athos' head turned towards Mathis. "Get those people inside the fortress," he ordered, but Mathis didn't move an inch.

"What about Arthur?" he asked, and Athos once again asked himself what it was that connected those two men. They were friends, but there was a worry and a connection that went beyond that.

"Porthos and I will take care of it. You escort these people safely to the fortress." Athos turned to face the woman again, noticing how she shrank away when he reached out to her. "Where is this man, and the musketeer?"

She raised a shaking hand and pointed south. "A hideout, close to Cévry. About five more of us are there too."

Athos nodded and turned back towards Mathis again. "We'll gather those in Cévry." He grabbed Porthos by the arm and dragged him with him, before turning his head again while walking away, facing Mathis and Guillaume once again. "Get some men from the camp and secure the road," he ordered. "But watch out."

"Wait!" the woman called and quickly caught up with Athos again, with urgency written all over her face. "The English. They are around, we saw their banners, we saw their soldiers. If they spot us…"

Athos nodded. "I understand. Go back; let my comrade bring you to safety. We will bring the others."

Without waiting for another second, Porthos and Athos headed towards the direction of Cévry.

"This could be a trap, you know," Porthos threw in quickly as he hurried to keep up with Athos. "We're forgetting that some of these civilians could be Hugenots. They could hate us, because we represent the King, and they could side with Buckingham."

"I am aware," Athos replied, "but she mentioned Arthur, she mentioned a rescue. How would they know about him?"

"Perhaps they know what happened to Aramis too," Porthos guessed but Athos could almost hear his friend's doubts.

"Or they are responsible for his death." Athos found no way to sugarcoat it. It all seemed to be a bit too fortuitous for his taste. They were rarely that lucky.

"Look how far we've come," Porthos growled. "Suspecting suffering innocents of vicious crimes." He shook his heads to dispel the thought. Athos knew that Porthos was not accusing him of anything, he had started that thought after all.

"But again, what if it's a trap?" Porthos lowered his voice, taking his loaded weapon into his left hand.

Athos shot him a grim look. "Then I'll apologize."

He thought he saw the hint of a grin passing over Porthos' face, but it died down as soon as they reached what was left of Cévry. The place had obviously been raided, whether by English soldiers, French ones or civilians, Athos did not know. It wasn't important now.

Porthos brought a finger to his lips and then to his ears. Athos heard it too. Voices, quietly arguing, and the language was definitely French.

Athos took a few steps forward. They were standing close to the village's forge. That was the place Athos would choose as a hideout. With weapons, to defend himself. Next to the forge, leaning against the stony wall, was a pair of boots, and a bloodied hand was resting on the ground next to them. Athos slowed down.

Someone's there, he mouthed towards Porthos, and his friend nodded before he rounded the forge carefully. Once Porthos had his eyes on the unknown figure, his eyes went wide with worry and disbelief.

"Arthur?" Porthos hissed, and a sudden movement behind the door connecting the forge with the blacksmith's private home led to Athos grabbing his pistol and Porthos raising his arms menacingly.

A man had emerged from the shadows, an older man, with blood-stained hands and clothes, armed with nothing but an iron rod. When his sad, blue eyes found their uniforms, he lowered the rod only a little bit. Athos walked up next to Porthos, and he cast a quick glance towards the unmoving figure near the forge.

Arthur was white as a sheet, and his chest was covered in blood-stained bandages. There was blood all over the ground.

"Musketeers," the man in the doorway said slowly, and his voice didn't show any sign of threats. "So the others found you?"

"You are in need of help?" Athos countered. He phrased it like a question, but it was a statement. "We are here to escort you to the fortress."

The man just looked at them, and recognition dawned on Athos. He knew this man. He had seen him before when he had been forced to send him away. Judging by the fact that his son was nowhere to be seen, Athos could guess the rest of the story, and he did not ask. Out of respect, and out of guilt.

The man narrowed his eyes, still keeping his 'weapon' up high. "Athos or Porthos, I presume?"

Athos didn't move a muscle, but Porthos took over. "Yes." The musketeer didn't bother to introduce them, nor did he specify which musketeer was which. And Athos understood. He feared that the man might be holding a grudge after all.

"Two of your comrades are at the cliffs, beyond the destroyed farmhouse. Had to leave them behind."

Athos and Porthos shared a brief, but meaningful look and Athos felt as if a tiny bit of the weight had been lifted off his weary shoulders. Aramis and Philippe were alive, so it seemed. And as much as this news filled his heart with new hope, he had to keep his focus.

"One thing at a time," Athos explained. "Come."

"You are only two," a young woman who had come out to kneel next to Arthur said, with her eyes wide open.

Athos' face darkened. "We two are all you are going to get if you don't move soon. Reinforcements are securing the road."

Without even bothering to argue further, he led the way back through the forest. He knew that Porthos would make sure all of them were following, and that Arthur was transported as safely as possible. On the whole way back, Athos kept his good arm on the hilt of his weapon, every muscle in his body prepared to leap into action if necessary. About halfway to the fortress, they encountered a large group of musketeers, led by Mathis and Guillaume, and with all of the rescued civilians and Arthur between them, they carefully but quickly moved towards the wooden fortress near the cliffs.

"Arthur?" Mathis' voice was filled with concern as he laid eyes upon his bloodied comrade. He made a step forward to take one of the civilian's places in supporting the limp musketeer, but Athos intervened.

"He's alive, Mathis. If we are able to give him the care he needs, he should make it. But I need you to stay focused now." He held eye contact with Mathis in order to pressure his request.

Mathis nodded briefly, though Athos could see he was biting down remarks he had on his lips, but they wordlessly continued to run down the path.

They had almost made it back, with the fortress in plain sight, when Mathis grabbed Athos' by the shoulder. "You hear that?"

Athos exhaled slowly, and the time seemed to move a bit more slowly as he spotted movements out of the corner of his eye. In one motion, Athos pulled out his rapier and dagger.

"Ambush!" Porthos' yell tore through the air and Athos whirled around on the spot, his eyes wide. Suddenly, one musket ball after the other hissed through the air around the musketeers and civilians, burying themselves in the ground and the trees.

For a short moment, the surprised panic caused rampant chaos. Some musketeers dove into cover behind trees or rocks, others threw themselves in front of the unarmed citizen, and some even fired back blindly, wasting bullets on a target that had not revealed itself.

Athos cursed, grabbed the old man who had rescued Arthur by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground as another hail of bullets rained down on them.

"Take your formations, protect these people!" Porthos bellowed and Athos could feel his brother by his side, pulling him swiftly to his feet.

Athos dared to throw a quick look towards their fortress, maybe a hundred meters away. They just had to get there. But right now, they were the only thing standing between Buckingham and the civilians.

"The gates are closed!" Mathis yelled desperately and took a step to the side just in time to avoid being stabbed in the neck. "The civilians are scared. They locked themselves in for protection!"

"I'll go." The old man ducked his head and ran towards the fortress, apparently trusting the musketeers to make sure he wouldn't get shot in the back.

The fighting didn't give Athos one second to breathe. The red face of an angry, but already wounded English soldier appeared in front of him, and landed a strike against Athos' pauldron. Athos hissed when the pain erupted through his injured arm as he raised it to defend himself. He used his elbow to bring some distance between himself and his attacker. He didn't allow himself to give in to the pain in his arm and instead, he gathered all of his strength and forced the man to drop his blade with a trained and swift move of his own rapier.

"Athos!" Porthos shouting reached his ears and he turned his head to look for his friend.

Porthos was using his fist to knock an English assailant unconscious, but his other hand was waving towards the trees from where the attackers had emerged.

"That's Buckingham! Those are Buckinghams troops!" Athos followed his gaze and his eyes eventually fell on a few riders, hidden behind the thicker branches of the trees. They were watching from a distance, but Athos would recognize the armor everywhere. Just like he had when Buckingham had landed in Saint-Blanceau all these weeks ago.

Athos knew it was foolish, but his feet unconsciously carried him towards the treeline, as if attacking Buckingham or the Butcher would make up for the pain they had endured the past weeks. He did not get very far. Two English soldiers crossed his path, one who lashed out with his rapier so quickly Athos could only thank his instincts that the blade missed him by a hair's breadth.

Athos tightened the grip around his rapier and parried the next strike so effectively it threw the attacker off balance and into the blade of one of the remaining cadets. The answer of the second English soldier followed shortly after in form of an attempted stab, but Athos caught the blade and disarmed his opponent. Before Athos had the chance to finish the duel, the man's fist connected with his chin and he stumbled backwards, and the only reason he had been able to maintain his balance was due to one of his own men being thrown against him from behind.

Athos straightened up again and faced the Englishman, when suddenly, the man's facial expression turned to shock and his mouth opened to a silent cry of pain. He heard the disgusting sound of metal being pulled out of flesh and the Englishman crumbled to the ground, revealing his killer behind him.

It was none other than Suard who lowered his blood-streaked blade and turned around immediately to face another English soldier. Athos felt no relief. He felt a surpressed panic and brought as much distance between himself and Suard as was possible in the chaos of clashing blades and falling men. He crossed blades with at least four more Englishmen on the way, dueling them with the little energy he had left. His useless, left side was targeted more often and he cursed that he had left Porthos' side earlier and exposed himself to his own weakness.

As Athos fought his way through to the rest of the musketeers, he could see the gate was now open. The old man seemed to have been successful. The civilians were now hurrying toward it, supporting Arthur, who was barely conscious. The musketeers were forming a defensive line in front of them. He turned abruptly and nearly collided with Théo.

"You couldn't have tied him somewhere?" Athos yelled, and kicked his opponent in the chest so he stumbled backwards, directly onto Théo's waiting blade. Within moments, Athos saw Porthos reappear by his side again, having his hands around the throat of an English marksman and using him as a shield against the numerous attacks of another opponent.

"What?" Théo didn't seem to follow, and he was busy parrying the harsh strikes of a tall Englishman.

"Suard!" Athos growled loudly, cursing as a new opponent broke his defense by kicking him hard against the knee.

Théo hesitated for one second to give Athos an irritated look. "Mathis just said it's urgent, and I didn't…I mean, he wouldn't have been able to defend himself should we lose."

Athos dove underneath his enemy's blade and grabbed the man's sword arm, causing enough distraction to finish the duel properly. And he cursed Théo for his reckless belief in the good will of General Suard.

"Your point?"

He could almost hear Théo's eye roll, but they had no time for further exchanges, and Athos definitely did not have the time to watch Suard's moves. This was Buckingham himself watching from behind his troops, with none other than Lord Eadmund by his side. In the shadow of those two Generals, Suard seemed like a small worry, but Athos knew that that was an illusion. Though he feared to get stabbed in the back by their murderous commanding officer, he had a feeling Suard wouldn't try it with all of the remaining musketeers around.

He felt Porthos at his back going down, struck against his armor by an English blade, and before his friend would face his own execution, Athos stabbed backwards, trusting Porthos completely to anticipate the movement and not get up. His blade sliced through flesh, and he didn't need to look to see the English attacker fall. The dull thud could be heard even over the constant clash of steel.

There was another sound that drew Athos' attention immediately, and a sensation that came with it. The earth was trembling, just a little bit, but enough to be a concern. Enough to announce Buckingham's next step.

"Riders!" he yelled as a warning when a group of five heavily armed horsemen broke out of the treeline and headed towards the newly established battle line. "Porthos!"

Porthos knew what to do by the tone in Athos' voice. He got rid of his opponent and looked up to see the riders too, grabbing the pistols of his former attacker and handing two of them to Athos. Counting on Mathis and Guillaume to cover them, Athos and Porthos stood side by side, each of them having a pistol in both hands.

"Now!" It took all of Athos' strength to keep his left arm high enough to pull the trigger, but on Porthos' command, all four pistols thundered over the battle scene. Two of the bullets hit the horses and knocked the riders out of the saddle, another hit one of the horsemen in the chest. The fourth one went straight into the ground, and Athos could only guess that it was the one his left hand had fired.

"Athos!" That was Mathis' voice, somewhere in Athos' back, and another shot echoed over the ground and knocked the fourth rider out of the saddle. The fifth rider's horse suddenly bolted, and he was distracted regaining the control over the animal. "The gate is open!"

Athos quickly threw a glance towards the fortress and saw the civilians were all safely inside. The gate remained open just enough for the musketeers to pass through. He took his chance, and he didn't wait one more second.

"Retreat!" His raspy voice barely made it over the noise of the ongoing duels, but the musketeers, now forming one protective line covering the path that led to the fortress, started running back towards their shelter with everything they had left.

"Retreat!" Porthos repeated a bit louder, and it spurred them into action even more. Athos too felt his feet running over the ground. He stumbled twice, but the sheer adrenaline kept him going and the musketeers were able to bring some distance between themselves and the English attackers, whose blades and bullets continued to follow them towards their shelter.

The musketeers squeezed through the gates as quickly as possible. One after the other stumbled through the gate and into the shelter and safety they so desperately craved.

Athos and Porthos followed last and they sprinted through the narrow space without a second to spare. Athos had felt the hiss of air close to his cheek where a bullet had barely missed him.

The loud creaking sound was accompanied by the sound of bursting wood, but then, finally, the doors closed and the civilians, led by Lucien, put the barricades in place.

They heard some English knock against the wooden gate, but the reinforcements they had installed some days ago were solid, and close to unbreakable without artillery. And artillery seemed to be the only thing Buckingham hadn't brought with him. Yet.

They were safe. For now. Athos closed his eyes, heard the blood rushing in his ears, and for a moment, the earth stood still. There was silence, there was no movement. Nothing. The pain radiated from his damaged arm, a burning pain that seared through his arm to his head. There was a dull pounding in his knee, but it wasn't enough to reach his senses properly. He only heard his own, harsh breathing.

The calmness, and the silence, didn't last long.

"Athos!" It was Porthos who had called him, and it was the tone in his friends voice that made Athos forget all else and look for Porthos. He found the musketeer close to the gate, in the area where they kept the horses. He was kneeling next to a withering figure on the ground. Athos recognized the armor, and he recognized the voice that called out for help.

General Suard.

For a moment, he had forgotten about their General, who had so foolishly tried to participate in the battle as well, for a purpose only he knew, though a purpose Athos could definitely guess.

Athos approached swiftly, though with a slight limp from his sprained knee, and narrowed his eyes. The General was bleeding heavily from two wounds in his chest, one close to his heart and another one a bit lower to the stomach. Gunshot wounds, so it seemed. He had probably been hit shortly before they had made it to the safety of the fortress, otherwise, there was no way he would have made it back here with those injuries.

The wounds were mortal. Athos knew it the moment he laid eyes on Suard.

"Get me a medic," Suard rasped as blood continued to drip out of his mouth and he grimaced when his fingers dug into the wound.

It was the irony that almost made Athos walk away. After all the man had done, he couldn't bring himself to care for the fate of their commanding officer, and as dark as it was, this was probably for the best.

But Suard was still a soldier in the service of France, in the service of the King. Even though Athos doubted his loyalties, he did not deserve to die like this, without being offered care. Without being offered help.

"A medic, damnit!" Suard repeated and glared at Athos for his apparent idleness, but Athos, as well as Porthos, just looked at him.

"There is no medic. You got all of them killed." Porthos' words stung badly in Athos' heart, and the images of the past weeks flew past his inner eye, but it was this irony that Suard had sealed his own fate that made him believe perhaps they would make it after all.

The short expression of shock on Suard's face didn't stay long. He slowly lifted his gaze, facing Athos with a certain defiance. "I saved those people." He gasped for air, his head sinking against a wooden pillar in defeat. "Look where it got me."

Athos did not know whether that was a plea for forgiveness or merely Suard trying to redirect the blame. Truth was, it didn't matter. Athos knew that Suard had fought to protect himself, a weak attempt to reestablish his reputation with the musketeers and retake the command that had been ripped from his hands. Athos didn't believe for one second that Suard had done it to protect "those people." Suard was a strategist, although not a very good one. He had looked for possibilities to fight and win the war against Lord Eadmund, using the musketeers as pawns on a chessboard and the civilians had not even been a part of the equation.

Athos slowly leaned forward, his face unreadable. But the expression in his eyes spoke volumes. "I just regret that I didn't see through your schemes sooner." His voice was cold, emotionless. Scarred by Suard's actions and the past weeks on this island.

Porthos knelt down on the General's other side. "Despite your best efforts to the contrary, it turns out we won. We are surviving."

Athos could not bring himself to feel sorry for Suard. In the face of his own ultimate demise, Suard dropped his cold, calculating mask of command. His eyes were lit by fear and even the hate had vanished from his face. Athos guessed that even Suard knew that neither he nor Porthos were to blame for the lack of available medics.

Athos knelt down on Suard's other side. "Just know that everything we know about your actions will be presented to Captain Tréville, and to the King." He lowered his voice so only Porthos and Suard could hear him. "And I want you to know that should the King's mother attempt another revolt, we will be there to stop her. Whatever you had planned to achieve here, you, your family or Medici herself, it was and will continue to be unsuccessful."

Suard's white face was lit by what looked like a grin, showing Athos his blood-stained teeth. "Be clever all you want," their commander rasped. "It won't change the fact that…" He stopped and coughed, squeezing his eyes shut in pain as he continued to press his hand down on his stomach wound. He tried to gather himself, his lips forming a thin line. Eventually, his eyes shot open and locked on Athos again. "…you disobeyed orders. You are not righteous heroes, you failed in your duty."

Suard's struggle to keep the blood from leaving his body grew weaker, and Porthos, despite the obvious disgust written all over his face, pinned the General down on the ground to ease the pain Suard was obviously in. "Disobeying was more honorable than following your orders, Sir," he growled towards his former commander. "And for killing my brothers, you'll have to ask for God's forgiveness. You will never have mine."

The General's eyes rested on Porthos, and he clawed onto the musketeer's shoulder and sleeve, unshed tears pooling in his eyes. Whether it was due to the pain or due to the belated realization of his actions, Athos could not tell.

He had spent weeks worrying and debating about how to deal with Suard, how to explain the whole situation to the King and questioning whether he or his brothers could risk losing their heads over this whole affair. All those worries were gone, eradicated by the island, erased by the war they had found themselves in. The war might grant different positions of power to different people, but in battle, it was live or die. Kill, or be killed. This bloody nature of war did not respect the boundaries of authority or power.

Suard continued to hold onto Porthos, who was surprisingly calm, but cold. His face showed very little empathy. After a few moments, it was over.

The swordsman slowly climbed back to his feet, and he could feel the presence of the other musketeers who had formed a circle around them, all of them staring blankly at Suard. He heard some of them murmur a quick prayer, others just sank to the ground in exhaustion, barely taking notice of their dead commanding officer. Again others, Guillaume among them, cursed the General in his last moments. Guillaume's eyes were filled with nothing but hatred and sorrow.

They had survived Cévry, they had survived multiple ambushes. They had survived the Butcher of La Rochelle, and they had even withstood the Duke of Buckingham himself. And they had only been a handful of men.

They all looked at each other, and the truth hung in the air between them. A truth that they all seemed to share. That now, they were a brotherhood of men, connected by their past, connected by their present and bound by their duty and loyalty, to France and to each other. They drew their strength from it. And from the one other thing they had left – hope.

The hope that France had not forgotten about them.

As the sun started to set, the dust of the past battle began to settle and the blood began to dry on the ground. The English had retreated, for now, but it was only a matter of time. They were either collecting the bodies of their fallen soldiers, or they were getting the artillery to destroy this fortress once and for all.

The musketeers had headed out silently, to search for Aramis and Philippe, as well as the other few musketeers who had been missing since the battle of Saint-Blanceau. Arthur, in his few moments of awareness, had given them a vague description of where to look for Aramis and Philippe, which is why the patrols had cautiously avoided going too far into the English territory. The old man who had rescued Arthur had confirmed the musketeer's statement. They had stuck to searching the area of the farmhouse, but English patrols scattered all over the island had forced them to retreat earlier, bringing no news of the whereabouts of their missing brothers.

The only thing left to do was to wait inside the fortress, and hope for a miracle. A rescue. They were still sending out patrols to secure at least the immediate area around the fortress. They did not want to be surprised. Despite the fact that with Suard gone, they had one less problem on the table, the English were not the only threat. The musketeers were running out of gunpowder supplies. There was still some left, but it would hold on maybe one more battle. If they were lucky.

There had been times when Athos had hated the screams echoing through the fortress, there had been times when he would have given anything to calm the atmosphere, to drown out all of the noises. But the silence now was oppressive, and it burned itself deep into his heart and soul, tearing every nerve he had left.

He was standing at the wooden table of the commander's tent, his hands on the desk, his face hidden by the curtain of sweaty hair. His knees were trembling, and his whole body shaking with exhaustion. A small trail of blood ran down his left arm and stained the dark wood of the table red.

For a while he wasn't able to notice anything but his own, unsteady breathing, as well as the blood pounding in his ears. He wasn't even able to name all the emotions crowding in upon him.

There was exhaustion, weariness and worry, but there was also anger, disappointment and fear. But despite all, and despite his dire situation, there was still a spark of hope in his heart, filled with the desire to fight, filled with confidence in his brothers.

"Athos?"

He looked up into the eyes of Mathis, standing in the entrance of the little tent. The soldier met Athos' look with an expression of worry on his face, his chin held high.

"What is it?" Athos' voice sounded very distant in his own ears.

"The evening patrol reports some suspicious movement west of here."

Athos released a stuttering breath and nodded.

"Any news about Aramis?" he asked. Mathis just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, his lips pressed together tightly.

"Porthos and the others?" Athos dug deeper, desperately searching for any kind of reassurance. Porthos had taken it upon himself to look after the civilians, and the musketeers in need of help. Both physically and mentally. Many civilians were in need of comfort, of reassurance, and that was something Athos felt unable to provide for them. Porthos on the other hand was born for it.

"Holdin' on," Mathis reported briefly, but his tone told Athos that there was not much left to say. The truth about the past weeks, and the truth about their whole situation, hung in the air, unspoken and threatening.

Athos slowly reached for the quill to his right as he made a decision.

"What are you going to do?" Mathis asked with a spark of curiosity.

Athos swallowed hard, before he grabbed a piece of paper and started writing with his shaking hand.

"I'm going to write to the Captain. One last time."

He chose his words with care. He informed Tréville about their current situation, and noted that they would not be able to hold on without any reinforcements. He decided not to mention Suard's fate. There was no point in it; Tréville would gain no necessary information for a possible rescue out of it. He hurriedly finished the letter and folded the message, sealing it with haste.

He grabbed his pistol from the table, tightened the bandage around his arm and put on his doublet again before he exited the tent and called Henri over.

The cadet saw Athos with the piece of paper and didn't ask any questions, he just nodded and left the fortress to bring it to the citadel.

Athos on the other hand strode over to the wooden post where they had tied the few horses they possessed. He walked towards the tall, grey stallion and untied him, before he saddled the beast. It was the horse Suard had first entered the camp with, a moody horse but fierce. Once it was saddled, Athos untied another horse, an equally tall dark-brown mare, one of the horses they had caught during the battle of Cévry. He saddled her too, and tied her reins to the saddle of the stallion.

He noticed the presence of Mathis out of the corner of his eye.

"Where are you going?" Mathis queried as he steadied the horse for Athos.

"I will go find Aramis and Philippe. You have the camp Mathis, you and Porthos. Inform him. Be prepared."

Mathis' face darkened. "Be prepared for what?"

Athos put his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle. "For everything. One way or the other, I believe our time on Ré Island has come to an end."