XXV. Hearts of Iron
Athos forced his horse into a fast trot. He kept his injured arm and hand tight around the horse's reins, and his good hand rested on the hilt of his pistol. The mare he had tied to his own horse was following calmly, but every sound the hooves made on the ground was one step closer to being spotted. Athos knew that the English could be anywhere, but he had decided not to wait any longer. The risk of losing Aramis' trail was too high, and he doubted his friend could survive out here on his own any longer. Especially with Buckingham's and Eadmund's troops scouting the entire area.
The destroyed farmhouse came into sight, but Athos took the path to the right, following down the track that led to the narrow beach, right underneath the cliffs. The horses had a hard time keeping their footing on the uneven and narrow space, but with a calm and steady hand, Athos made it down safely.
He could feel his own heart beating heavily in his chest. He knew that heading out on his own was a risky and somewhat desperate move, especially because he went without Porthos. But he would deal with Porthos' wrath at being left behind later. His heart and his mind shared one sentiment – that the time on Ré Island was coming to an end. But whether it would be due to the musketeers' complete annihilation or a miraculous, heroic rescue was not clear, and something told him that in order to get all their hopes back up, they needed a win. Finding Aramis alive was something Athos considered a win.
Despite his best efforts to keep everyone out of his life, ever since he joined the musketeers two years ago both Porthos and Aramis had managed not only to reach out to him, but to earn their places in his life, his concern and his care and protection. They had become the closest thing he had to a family, and it made Athos vulnerable, whether he liked it or not. He owed it to them to keep them as safe as he could manage. It was what he fought for, along with honor, and what he believed was right.
And in the end, he did not care what happened to this island. All he cared about was getting the civilians, his comrades and his brothers off the island alive.
Athos' stallion slowed the pace as his hooves buried themselves in the sand with each step, but he kept going, as fast as he possibly could. The wind was blowing harshly down here. The waves slapped the land energetically, but they weren't high enough to pose a direct threat.
A larger rock came into sight, halfway in the waters. Athos immediately grabbed his weapon as a shadow jumped out from behind the cover. He saw the outlines of the pistol just in time to duck his head.
The bullet wheezed past his left side and struck the rocky surface of the cliffs with a loud bang.
"God damn it!" Athos cursed under his breath when his stallion made attempts to bolt. The animal's eyes were wide open as he reared and neighed in protest and surprise. Athos grabbed the reins with both hands again and used his feet to force the animal back on the ground.
As soon as the stallion had calmed down and placed all four hooves back on the sand, Athos bent over the horse's neck and narrowed his eyes to take in all the details of the figure that had emerged from behind the rock.
Relief flooded through his veins and he almost felt like laughing. Instead he slowly exhaled, and forced the horse to turn sideways so he could get a better look.
Aramis' eyes went wide when he realized what he had almost done. The marksman's left side was drenched in fresh blood, possibly from a wound on his back. His face was covered in some cuts and bruises, and his neck showed a minor degree burn. His hands were covered in dried blood, but whether or not it was his own, Athos could not tell.
From what Athos could see from his position on the horse, the attack of the cannons hadn't broken any bones in his friend's body, but whatever had happened to him since had left its mark. Of exhaustion, of pain.
It was the weariness and exhaustion, yes almost hopelessness, that he read in Aramis' face that scared him the most, even though it was slowly replaced by relief and joy.
Athos just raised an eyebrow and tucked his pistol back into his belt.
Aramis on the other hand lifted his shoulders a bit, raising his hands and clearing his throat.
"I'm sorry?"
Aramis blinked multiple times to clear his vision, the better to take in and process the image of Athos coming to his rescue.
"When did you forget how to shoot?" Athos asked him dryly, but Aramis could tell that it wasn't a serious question by the slightly amused smile on his friend's face.
"Oh, you know, ever since the English cannons blasted me one floor down, my muscles are not exactly cooperating as they should," Aramis attempted a lame justification, lowered his still smoking weapon and rested his hands on his knees.
Athos brought his horse to a halt and slid down from the saddle. Though Aramis was incredibly delighted to see his friend, the relief he felt was replaced with a tinge of worry. Athos was alive, he was breathing and still standing, but the dark circles under his eyes and the sweat plastering his forehead spoke of how much he too had suffered under Suard and the English attacks. Aramis could only guess how hard the past couple of days had been for him, but this was not the time or the place to ask.
Athos walked towards him, with a slight limp, and when he reached Aramis he briefly pulled the marksman into a quick hug. Aramis was surprised, since it was not like Athos to show his emotions openly, except maybe for anger and frustration, but he too gently clasped his friend's good shoulder and felt a smile on his lips.
"This island does not seem to be fond of you," Athos observed impassively. He let his eyes swerve over the area behind Aramis.
"Tell me something I don't already know," Aramis replied breathlessly, as he doubled over to catch his breath and steady his heartbeat.
"Philippe?" Athos asked him, but he already seemed to know the answer.
Aramis just shook his head. "Porthos?" he asked instead, but Athos just squeezed his arm reassuringly.
"Alive and as well as the circumstances allow us."
Aramis closed his eyes, and as if his heart was sending him a reminder, he saw images flashing in front of his inner eye. Of the dead musketeers in the farmhouse, of the exploding walls, of Philippe's body at the beach. Panic stirred in him, and he grabbed Athos' good arm. Hard.
"Suard?" Aramis' voice was surprisingly steady but was filled with anger and frustration. "If I get my hands on…"
"Suard is dead," Athos interrupted him, with no expression in his voice. "He didn't survive Buckingham's latest ambush." He made a very brief pause before he started to guide Aramis towards the horses. "As much as I'd love to fill you in, I prefer not to get shot doing it. You can ride?"
Aramis just grunted in affirmation and limped towards the tall brown horse. Athos, without asking or waiting, gave his friend a boost until he was on top of the horse. Then he turned towards the stallion and shakily mounted up again, handing Aramis' the reins of the mare he had tied to his saddle.
He exchanged one brief look with Aramis, but his friend assured him he was coping well with a flick of his wrist and both of them dug their heels into their horses' flanks.
Aramis left it to Athos to take the lead, and he trusted his horse to follow. He was tired and exhausted, and he felt it in every bone of his body. Athos looked as if he was barely holding on himself. Aramis wrapped the reins around his left hand and began to reload his empty pistol. It was better to be prepared, and as he watched how Athos kept looking to the left and right, he guessed that there were reasons to believe there were a lot of English patrols around.
"Does Porthos know you are out here?" Aramis doubted that Porthos would have let Athos go out alone, especially in his condition.
Athos said nothing, he merely steered his horse to the side and passed the thick trees.
Aramis raised an eyebrow, even though Athos could not see it. "I'll take that as a no," he concluded with a low voice. "You like to live dangerously, don't you? Nobody in his right mind would provoke Porthos' wrath in a place like this."
Athos managed something that sounded like a huff. "Well then, it's a good thing I found you to make up for it."
Aramis just shook his head in exasperation, and as much as he enjoyed the somewhat lighthearted words he exchanged with his friend, they were all numbed by the shadow of what they had been through. He still could not dispel the images of the dead musketeers from the farmhouse, and they mixed with the older images he had never quite shaken off from earlier deployments.
He noticed that Athos' horse was going at a slower pace, and his friend raised a hand and brought it to his ears to indicate he had heard something. Aramis too slowed his mare down, keeping a firm hold on the pistol in his right hand.
Athos seemed to have spotted something. His eyes rested on something only he could see, further east between the trees. He gave up all attempts at stealth.
"Quick!" he said, and Aramis knew better than to waste time with questions. He was about to spur his horse into a gallop to follow Athos when it all happened at once.
He heard two muskets go off somewhere to the east. The next thing he saw was how Athos' grey warhorse collapsed and the impact threw Athos right out of the saddle.
Aramis' horse neighed and reared up in shock, and it took all of Aramis' control to prevent the animal from bolting and running away. Aramis could not see the origin of the gunshots; his eyes were glued to Athos who was still on the ground, unmoving, with half his arm trapped underneath the big horse. The stallion was lying on the ground, and the blood pooling underneath the horse told Aramis he wouldn't go any further.
"Athos!" Aramis cursed and as soon as he was sure his horse was calm enough, he slid out of the saddle and landed on his knees as they gave in. He still had his left hand tightly around his horse's reins, as he was too scared the animal might bolt. His right hand was clasped around the hilt of his pistol, but he refused to waste his shot on a target he could not see.
Another two gunshots hissed through the air. Judging by the time that had passed between the first two shots and the second two, Aramis guessed those were four men, at most. Otherwise, he wouldn't be standing here, alive and breathing. The attackers must be working in pairs, just like the musketeers did at Saint-Blanceau. The two muskets missed, but it didn't help to calm the one horse they had left.
He cursed once again and crouched down next to Athos. The swordsman's eyes were wide open, and filled with unspeakable pain. Aramis, in a hurry, quickly scanned his friend for injuries, praying that none of the muskets had hit Athos, but he couldn't find a gunshot wound.
However, the state of delirium, where the pain had grown so immense that Athos was unable to answer told Aramis he was missing something. He nudged Athos' face with the hilt of his pistol, as he still refused to let go of the reins of the horse.
"Athos, are you with me?" Aramis' panic grew as he received no answer from his friend, merely a stuttering attempt to breathe.
Another two gunshots, this time, one of the bullets only missed Athos on the ground by inches.
"For the love of God!" Aramis yelled and finally took his aim towards the mystery figures behind the trees and fired. And this time, as Athos had so charmingly put it, he had not forgotten how to shoot. The distant yelp of pain assured him he had hit someone, but he concentrated back on Athos. The adrenaline running through his veins ever since Athos' horse had been killed was the only reason why he was still on his feet.
Pushing his now empty pistol into his belt, Aramis grabbed Athos by the shoulder but was unable to shift the animal enough to free his friend's arm.
"Athos, do you hear me?" Aramis asked loudly and roughly snatched Athos' pistol from his friend's weapons belt.
Athos was blinking rapidly, but before he had a chance to answer, Aramis pulled at his shoulder once again, finally freeing the arm from its trap. Athos gasped for air when obvious pain shot through his entire body, and Aramis felt his friend's fingers clawing onto his sleeve for support.
"Merde," Aramis cursed. Though he knew he had no time for this now, he quickly assessed Athos' overall condition and saw the blood stains on his left arm. Athos' face was plastered with sweat, and Aramis was sure that was the effect of the poorly treated wounds on Athos' arm which seemed finally to have caught up with him. Athos' eyes were disoriented, but he was still conscious.
Aramis breathed out, struggling to keep his grip on the panicking horse's reins. There was a swordsman with two infected wounds on his arm and probably a few bruised ribs on top of the numerous smaller battle wounds, and a marksman with a bleeding wound in his upper back, an old wound in his leg and a serious case of dehydration. He had unfortunate throwbacks to the battle of Cévry a few weeks earlier.
Aramis made the decision in the blink of an eye. The only way out of here seemed to be through. And there was only one place on this island where they would be 'safe'.
Just then two new bullets were fired at them, one of which buried itself in the flesh of the dead horse. Aramis put Athos' arm around his shoulder, biting down curses when a bolt of pain shot through his upper back.
Athos, despite the obvious pain he was in, tried to help and Aramis pulled him into a standing position. Aramis had a hard time trying to keep his own balance, hold Athos upright and not let go of Athos' pistol or the reins of the horse.
Just when it was time for the next freshly reloaded salvo of musket shots, Aramis closed one eye, took his aim and fired. He didn't wait to see or hear if he had hit something, instead he turned towards the horse which was dancing nervously on the spot, clearly spooked by all the noise. He saw how Athos buried his hand in the animal's mane and put one foot in the stirrup. At least he was conscious enough to know what to do.
"Can you make it?" Aramis asked unnecessarily and shot another worried glance towards the dangerous treeline. As soon as Athos was halfway into the saddle, Aramis steadied the horse and with every ounce of strength he had left pulled himself up to sit a little ungracefully behind Athos, who was slumped over the horses' neck, trying to pull himself together.
Aramis dug his heels into the animal's flanks and grasped the reins even tighter, before he headed off north. And the gunshots, threatening and deadly, did not stop.
There was absolutely no way that the mysterious English marksmen were keeping up with a horse and following them so quickly, but then again, he noticed just how many gunshots pierced the air. All of them missed their target, but the horse became more frightened with every deafening sound.
Aramis realized that it was not only the one group of four English marksmen. There were multiple groups, all aiming on the path that led straight towards the musketeer fortress. Which meant they would be riding through an explosive corridor.
Athos in front of him lifted his head as if he had just woken up. The trembling that had had hold of his friend's body seemed to grow weaker, and Aramis just hoped that it was a good sign.
"You're good?" Aramis yelled over the noise of the wind and the shooting.
"Golden," he heard Athos' growl, but slowly and surely, the musketeer seemed to regain his senses. "Give me the reins."
"Are you sure?" Aramis shot back, and couldn't hide the worry in his voice. "You…"
"Just give them to me," Athos interrupted harshly, and snatched them out of Aramis' hands.
Aramis cursed Athos' stubbornness, but he contented himself with trying to reload one of the pistols. Meanwhile, Athos tried to evade the musket shots by steering the horse around the trees with elegance and skill, finding cover from another salvo just when it was fired. The shots hit the tree which Athos had passed moments earlier, sending splintered wood raining down upon them.
"They are on foot!" Aramis yelled his assessment into Athos' ear. "If we ride fast enough, they won't have a chance to follow."
Athos showed no indication whether he had heard him or not, but Aramis could feel the animal speeding up as much as it could underneath the weight it carried.
They galloped straight towards the wooden fortress, while a few English muskets riddled the ground around them with bullets and sent the dirt flying through the air.
"They weren't even fifty men, Eadmund!"
Lord Eadmund was standing in front of a wooden table in a big, white tent. Buckingham was glowing with anger and frustration, his hands resting on the surface, his nails digging into the wood.
"Not even fifty," he repeated. "You had this one task, and yet, here we are. I cannot take care of the musketeers while I am besieging the bloody citadel."
"The musketeers' General is dead," Eadmund defended himself. He stayed calm. Buckingham was his superior, but unlike some of his men, he wasn't afraid of him. "One of my men said he shot him during the retreat."
Buckingham rounded the table, slowly, like a predator. "In case you haven't noticed, it was never this General leading the musketeer regiment. Musketeers are…reliant." He exhaled slowly. "Stubborn. And hard to kill. And except for one of their own, or the King, they don't do well with authority."
He smashed his fist against the wooden table, hard. He let out all of his caged anger, and more importantly, his frustration. "It has been weeks, but I am unable to break the citadel's defense. Commander Décart refuses to be lured out. You will have to get rid of those musketeers for me. I will not withdraw with with nothing to show for it!"
"The musketeers are very few in numbers, but they killed almost half of my men." Lord Eadmund knew that despite the circumstances, he could speak openly with Buckingham. And the truth was, those French elite soldiers were better fighters than most of the English recruits in his own regiment. "I'm open to suggestions, Sir. How do you think we can defeat them?"
A sinister smile played on Buckingham's lips. "Well…I've got a feeling musketeers are only defeated when they die." He lifted his head. "They are wounded, they are running out of resources if they have to feed the civilians too. The only thing that saves them right now are those walls."
Lord Eadmund ran a hand over his hair. "Then give me a few cannons. I can tear those walls down, and corner them in their hideout. We can besiege them, pin them into the fortress, and then we shred those walls and attack. Half a dozen cannons…"
"Three," Buckingham cut in. "You'll get three cannons. I need the rest for the citadel. If you get this done, if you finally get rid of the musketeers for good, I'll put in a good word with the King for you. I'm sure Charles will appreciate loyalty and consistency."
Lord Eadmund bowed his head. "Give me the cannons, and I'll be happy to oblige."
"Porthos, what's going on out there?" Lucien's voice reached Porthos' ears, but the musketeer was too distracted in a discussion with his comrades to give him an immediate answer.
About five to ten minutes ago, the shooting had started. It was outside the fortress, and the musketeers inside the fortress were obviously not the target, but everyone had taken a battle position immediately, cornering the civilians in the safest place of their hideout. Arthur and another badly wounded musketeer had been dragged into the space as well.
Then Mathis had found him, and reported that Athos had left the fortress with two horses about an hour ago. Porthos was still fuming with anger, but he knew that going after his friend would be foolish. Still, he was going to have a word with him.
But when he had started to connect the shooting to Athos' apparent rescue mission outside, his worry levels had spiked up to high alert. Because they had no patrols out at the moment, Athos was the only logical target the English could have. Or Aramis and one of the missing musketeers.
"Porthos!" Lucien tried again but Porthos made a dismissive gesture with his hand and hushed him.
"Not now," he hissed and turned towards Mathis who was standing close to the gate. "Do you see something?"
Mathis peeked through their little lookout between two wooden beams and grimaced. "Not sure. But I hear a horse."
"One?" Porthos dug deeper, and his hope that Athos had brought Aramis back with him was crushed. Athos had left with two horses, Mathis had said. So either he had lost one of the horses or the rider outside was not French.
Mathis narrowed his eyes, before he jumped back in surprise and started waving violently. "It's Athos."
"Open the gates!" Porthos said, but the musketeers closest to the gate, apart from Mathis, didn't even move one muscle. They stood there, frozen in indecision, and Porthos knew it was probably because of the lack of commanders around.
"For God's sake!" Porthos shouted and ran towards the gate himself. He disabled the blockades and with an amount of strength only he possessed, he opened the left side of the gate widely, so that a rider could pass through. He was not one second too soon.
The horse galloped through the open gate at full speed, snorting and neighing in protest at the treatment. Porthos would recognize the two riders anywhere, and the weight that had crushed his shoulders ever since the battle of Saint-Blanceau felt a lot lighter. For a moment, it seemed as if they hadn't lost half of their men, that their own commander hadn't tried to kill them, and as if Buckingham himself hadn't set out to eliminate them. It was almost the same atmosphere as it was back in Paris, whenever they successfully returned from a risky mission to which Treville had assigned them.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Porthos laughed in delight as he set eyes on the two men on top of the tall horse. He hurried to close the gates, but the gunshots had already stopped. Apparently, his friends had outrun the English marksmen.
He carefully put the barricades back in place before he finally turned around. Athos was sitting in front of Aramis, holding the reins. At the moment, he was trying to force the nervous animal to a complete halt, but Mathis was there and he grasped the bridle and guided the horse to a full stop.
Porthos slowly approached his brothers. Guillaume carefully gave Aramis a hand in getting off the horse, and the marksman's face was a mask of pain as he slid down the animal's back with little of the elegance he usually exhibited. When he had his two feet on the ground, he and Guillaume both had to catch Athos, who managed to dismount with even less elegance than Aramis, if that was even possible. He was cradling his left arm close to his chest, and keeping pressure against his rib cage as if he was in pain. Which he and Aramis both undoubtedly were.
Now both of them were more or less keeping each other upright as they walked to meet Porthos. The rest of the musketeer soldiers approached as well, many of whom put their weapons back into their belts. Guillaume and Mathis continued to deal with the frightened horse.
Porthos quickly hurried to cross the distance between them and he simultaneously pulled both of them into a quick half-hug, before he took a step back.
"You look like hell," Porthos assessed. "You both look like crap."
"Speak for yourself," Aramis' comeback was rather weak by his standards and he rested his hands on his knees. "The blood and sweat only adds to my good looks. Women call it 'dangerously intriguing.'"
Athos snorted. "I'd call it 'almost died'."
"Besides," Porthos added with an eye-roll, "there's a lack of ladies around you could impress."
Aramis laughed, but then all of them went serious again, the smiles wiped off their faces at an instant.
"Not really my priority now," he whispered and his eyes were locked on the ground, his fingers nervously playing with his dagger. Suddenly, his head snapped back up and his gaze swerved over the area, searching.
"What about Arthur, is he…?"
"We found them," Porthos explained just as Aramis seemingly spotted the figure of a wounded Arthur amidst the crowd of civilians. "The civilians treated his injuries as best as they could. He's still alive." He bit his lip, and posed the question despite the fact he already guessed the answer.
"What about Philippe?"
"Dead." Aramis' voice was filled with so much pain and regret that Porthos decided not to dig any further. He would learn the details, in time. "The English have marksmen positioned all the way down the main path," Aramis reported. "We won't be able to take one step out of the fortress without being seen." A worried murmur spread through the rows of the remaining musketeers around. "If it weren't for the horse, Athos and I wouldn't have made it back."
"Speaking of horses, what happened to the other one?" Théo threw in from the side and received nothing but a death-glare from Athos and an eye roll from Aramis.
"What do you think?" Aramis quipped. He slowly limped to the side and dropped onto the old tree-trunk near the campfire, exhaustion written all over his pale face.
"I…I really need something to drink." The surrounding musketeers heard Aramis' words, and took the hint. They withdrew to the civilians, giving Athos, Porthos and Aramis the space they needed. The space they needed to properly regroup and catch up with each other.
Porthos grabbed his water bottle and handed it to Aramis, who dumped half of its content right down his throat. He seemed to be beyond thirsty. Athos slowly limped over to sit next to Aramis. He was moving slowly and stiffly, his arm cradled around his chest. A small trail of blood was running down his sweaty forehead.
Porthos took his position on the other side of the campfire, and for a moment nobody said a word. Aramis kept playing with the dagger in his hands, and Athos seemed to be brooding silently. Porthos could almost see the adrenaline leaving his friends' bodies, and he knew that both of them were currently fighting hard to maintain the impression that they were holding up just fine.
"Are you two going to be alright?" Porthos broke the silence with a worried tone in his voice. He looked from Athos' infected arm back to Aramis' blood-stained jacket.
"I'd be very thankful if one of you could treat the hole in my back before too long," Aramis answered tiredly, "but I am alive. That's as fine as I'm going to get. As for Athos…"
"Yes, I know," the swordsman interrupted him brusquely. "You told me. Weeks ago."
"I did." Aramis sounded more worried than reproachful or triumphant.
"Yes." Athos didn't look as irritable as he sounded. "But the pain is manageable. Thank you."
Aramis showed clear discomfort and was hesitant to speak up again, yet Porthos could see that something had happened out there that justified Aramis' following words.
"Your whole arm is a mess. I don't know what happened to you, to both of you, in Saint-Blanceau, but Athos, that little rescue mission out there could have cost your life, heaven, it almost did." He shook his head as if to dispel whatever he had seen out there. Porthos guessed it had to do with the dead horse and Athos' brilliant idea to go out alone.
Then, Aramis gently nudged Athos' good shoulder. "And I didn't expect you to do anything else. Thank you, my friend. If it weren't for you, I would have died out there."
Porthos could see that Aramis was not really angry at Athos, he was more a little desperate. Desperate that Athos once again had foolishly risked his life for one of them, but then again, Porthos or Aramis would have done the very same thing for Athos. If Porthos interpreted it right, Aramis was frustrated because Athos did not take proper care of himself and was too stubborn to see it. Aramis was grateful for the rescue, that he could see. But he seemed concerned. Concerned about Athos, concerned about the musketeers entire situation.
Athos' face was unreadable, but Porthos could see that the tension slowly left the swordsman's body and he visibly relaxed a bit.
But now it was Porthos' turn. He did not want to further reprimand his friend, he merely longed for understanding.
"You went without me." His eyes were fixed on Athos.
"…and you want to know why," Athos concluded keenly, finally meeting Porthos' accusing gaze. He kept fumbling with the water bottle in his hands, as if to distract himself, to keep his body and mind occupied. He sighed. "The risk of being spotted is lower when I go out alone. And since Suard is dead…"
Aramis reacted to that statement with a satisfied growl.
"…it is up to us to handle the situation. We cannot allow ourselves more mistakes, and somebody had to take care of the fortress. Of the civilians."
"We have perfectly trained men for that," Porthos replied soberly. "Nobody here is in charge now, we are all equal in rank. You could have left the fortress to one of the others."
Athos exhaled slowly and diverted his gaze, almost looking ashamed. "Yes, I could have." He lifted his head and his eyes rested on the group of musketeers that had retreated back to the spot with the civilians.
Porthos narrowed his eyes. He knew Athos well enough to make his own conclusions.
"You don't trust them." He frowned. "I know that look on you, you don't trust the others. After all of this, after these past weeks?" He was more surprised than reproachful.
Athos rolled his eyes. "I trust them," he replied shortly. "I just trust you more."
Porthos did not know whether to feel angry or flattered. He decided to let it rest, and after they had spent another minute in uncomfortable silence, he spoke up again. He knew that Aramis and Athos both longed for rest, and both needed it desperately, as well as medical treatment, but there was one subject nobody had dared to address yet, so Porthos did.
"So, what are our next steps?" he asked. "We need a plan."
Athos stared into the void and wordlessly just took a sip out of the water bottle. Aramis on the other hand finally put down the dagger and straightened up as much as his back injury allowed him. "I am going to restock my supplies, treat any injuries that need treatment, and if God allows me, I'll try to get some sleep."
"I was thinking of something more farsighted," Porthos continued. "We may have no commanding officer, but perhaps all of us can join forces, come up with a proper plan. I won't sit around and do nothing."
His friend pressed his lips into a thin line.
"What do you want me to say?" Aramis asked and ran a shaky hand over his beard. "It is the way it is. If Lord Eadmund doesn't shoot us off this island, Buckingham will. We've given all we have. I don't know how…" His voice broke and he shook his head in desperation.
"So what, this is it?" Porthos cut in unbelievingly. "Hell, I am not one for abandoning these people."
Aramis looked up, and Porthos could see the hurt in his eyes. "That's not what I meant."
"He knows," Athos threw in before Porthos could answer for himself. "And I didn't endure you two for the past two years for things to end here. I've written again to Treville. I don't think the Captain will leave us to our fate."
"Lord Eadmund is right at our doorstep. It won't be long now until they decide to besiege this fortress in earnest. They are going to hit us with everything they have, and you know it," Aramis justified himself.
Athos slowly nodded. "Yes."
Porthos sighed. "Right now, we're the only thing standing between the Butcher and the civilians." It was a statement, not a question.
Athos continued. "Eadmund will take the loss of Saint-Blanceau personally. He will bring all of his soldiers, he will bring artillery. Perhaps he even has some horsemen left. He is better equipped thanks to Buckingham, and in case I haven't mentioned before, he has us outnumbered."
Porthos grimaced. "Sounds like it's worth the effort."
The hint of disbelief and amusement passed Aramis' face. "The odds are against us, my friends," he said as if Porthos and Athos needed a reminder.
Athos just smirked, and he noticed the broad smile on Porthos' face. The big musketeer chucked dryly and gently clapped Aramis' arm, before he put one arm around each of them.
"And when exactly has that ever stopped us?"
The finale which is up next will be split into two parts. I'll try my best to get it done somewhat quickly. Special thanks to Jmp for your kind review, it means a lot to me! Also, thank you to Laureleaf, I hope quarantine is treating you well too. I'm very glad to hear you're still enjoying, and thank you for your nice words!Thank you all for still reading.