Warning: Graphic descriptions (of violence and battlefield) ahead

XXVII. The Last Stand

Ten minutes earlier

"Is it time yet?" Treville was pacing along the side of the small ship, sending impatient stares towards the Captain of the vessel. They were aboard the Verseau, a small but robust ship. Not even two miles away, three other French ships, big war ships led by the strongest one, the Tonnerre, were engaged in a slow, but deadly exchange of cannon fire with the English blockade.

They were supposed to draw the enemy's attention so that the Verseau would be able to get closer to the shore unnoticed, until they were close enough to launch the rescue boats the ship carried. Additionally, it was not only a distraction so Treville could get his men out, but also so that another ship, filled with fresh soldiers and supplies sent by Richelieu, could land on the other side of the island at Fort de la Prée.

Treville and his men, as well as a few regiments granted to him by the King, had ridden all day and night to get to la Rochelle and Ré Island as fast as possible. The Captain had learnt that the musketeer regiment on Ré Island was believed to be still holding out. His worry for his men had almost consumed his heart and mind, but one of Commander Décart's contacts near la Rochelle had reported that he had received reports of musketeer activity only two days ago.

The Captain and steersman of the Verseau, a man named Charles Doix, had his eyes locked on the rough outlines of the wooden fortress, located on the northern shore of the island. Treville had no choice but to trust the man's experience and await his signal until he could lower the boats.

Treville faced the Captain once again. "Is it?" he repeated sharply.

"Not yet," Doix admonished. "In this weather, you won't even reach the shore, let alone make it back. We need to get closer."

Treville hissed something incomprehensible but made sure his frustration was not noticed by his men. They were all aligned on deck, with their weapons ready and their gazes locked on the distant cannon fire, ready to step in and support their friends in battle.

The Captain leaned onto the railing, as the cannons' loud noises tore the night apart. His mission was risky, some called him foolish, but if there were still some of his men to save, he would not abandon them.

They had to hold on. Just a little bit longer.

When the first hail of cannon balls struck their target, the sound was deafening. As Athos had expected, they impacted against the front wall of the fortress. The sound of splintering wood filled the air, but Athos and the rest of the musketeers did not stop.

He had known that the cannons would not be able to change their trajectory so quickly, so the trick was to stay in motion, to do what Eadmund would not expect. And as soon as the cannons were in a position to attack the musketeers, the civilians would start to escape the fortress and flee to the beach.

It sounded easy, but with the walls crashing down behind them, the clock was ticking until the next salvo would hit them, and this time, it would not be wood flying in all directions.

Everybody had their pistols in hand, prepared, and ready to fire. Aramis and two others were the only marksmen left, but they all had some arquebuses prepared as well.

The English front line did not move forward, probably waiting for the next round of cannon fire to hit their targets first. Athos could see in his enemies' faces that this was not what they had expected. They had prepared for a siege where they were in control and had the upper hand, but now, the odds had evened. At least for the moment.

Much too quickly the next thunder split the air. And the deadly cannon balls struck their target with a little delay. One of the cannon balls hit the ground roughly ten feet in front of the advancing musketeers, swirling around nothing but dirt and rocks. Athos still raised his hand to shield his face.

The second one struck the ground only a few lengths behind them, and the impact gave them a little push forward, leaving some of them stumbling and struggling to keep their footing. The third one, however, struck right on the outer edge of the musketeer formation. Screams of agony filled the air as one musketeer was thrown sideways and another one fell to the ground immediately, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Some musketeers were startled, but none of them stopped in their charge. Because, just like Athos had hoped, the cannons were unable to shoot a third time if they didn't want to hit their own men.

"Now!" Athos yelled and everyone aimed their pistols at the first row of the Butcher's men. The thunder of the fired pistols equaled the noise of the cannons from earlier, at least in their ears. The English soldiers, unsure about what to do, or whose orders to follow, did nothing and at least seven to eight men fell dead as the pistols found their targets.

The English marksmen who had been spared didn't wait long with their answer. At least one musketeer crumbled to the ground, shot straight through the chest. Athos heard Porthos hiss next to him as a bullet grazed his arm. But scaring the English had apparently worked, not even half of the shots fired found a target.

The musketeers gave the English no time to recover. In one motion, each and every one of them pulled out their swords and daggers and attacked the first row of English marksmen, who desperately tried to move behind the swordsmen.

The moment steel clashed against steel, their world was swallowed up in chaos. The tense anticipation and nervousness was replaced by a ruthless and angry attempt to get out of this alive, on both sides.

But the fear, and the uncertainty, was evident on both sides as well.

Porthos was seeing red. He did not know if it was his desperation that fueled him or the pain that had erupted in his arm when that bullet had grazed him, but he plowed through the rows of English soldiers like a battering ram. He had taken his pistol in his left hand and used it to smash against his opponent's head. The man went down immediately, but tried to stab Porthos in the leg in his last moments. Porthos merely jumped over the man on the ground and evaded the blade by kicking it out of the man's hands, before he ended the duel quickly.

Porthos soon had to realize that their original plan, their overall intention of staying together, had not worked out at all. The scene was a muddling mess of soldiers engaged in close combat. The cannons had fallen silent due to the risk of hitting their own men, but the noise had only grown louder.

He did not see Aramis anymore, but he managed to catch a glimpse of Athos out of the corner of his good eye. His friend was doing his best to avoid getting attacked from the left. Porthos did not know where his friend drew his current strength from, but he did prevail.

Before he could plan his next steps, he felt a dull pain as a sword connected with his pauldron. Porthos automatically hit backwards with his elbow and felt a reassuring crack as his punch broke an Englishman's nose. The man howled in pain and stumbled backwards, swinging his sword blindly in front of him to keep Porthos at a distance.

The musketeer merely ducked his head under yet another deadly swing of the blade and, dropping his pistol, grabbed the man's sword arm with his left hand. He wrenched it so hard that the bone snapped. The man dropped his sword, screaming in pain, and Porthos kicked the weapon out of reach before he rendered the soldier unconscious with a headbutt.

His head was ringing and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. All around him were English uniforms, reminding him of the musketeers' inferiority in numbers once again.

"Behind you!" Guillaume's warning reached him just in time. He felt the hiss of air as the blade missed his head by inches, and Porthos instantly whirled around to face the coward who had tried to stab him from behind. The man was one giant of a man, at least Porthos' height, and with a determined look on his face. The soldier wasted no time and sent a series of strikes against Porthos' sword, but the musketeer was able to parry them with ease.

The man seemed to be a match for Porthos' strength, but he had little to no strategy. He kept advancing with his sword, attacking Porthos' weapon rather than Porthos himself. It took the musketeer not even half a minute to confuse his opponent by launching a quick counter attack, using the parrying dagger in his left hand as support. He didn't even look back as he thrust his own sword through the man's chest.

Porthos exhaled rapidly and turned on the spot to show his gratitude to Guillaume, but the musketeer was busy fighting off two Englishmen at once, standing protectively over a body on the ground.

Porthos' eyes fell on the man down, and he recognized the cadet Frédéric. Though Porthos had originally had no positive feelings for the young man due to his entitled and arrogant attitude, he had shown growth over the course of the past weeks, yes even something like compassion and thoughtfulness.

He leapt forward towards the spot where Guillaume was so fiercely defending their fallen comrade, and he made attempts to come to the musketeer's aid, but Guillaume just yelled at him. "He needs help, I can manage this!"

Porthos felt as if he was acting through somebody else as he dropped to his knees next to Frédéric, but his entire body was on high alert, ready to defend himself. The cadet was still conscious, and his hands immediately clawed onto Porthos' shoulder for support. But Porthos could see the deep cut on his neck. He pressed his gloved hands against it, but he felt useless.

"Shit," he growled and he feared his grip might be so hard he was choking the boy. His eyes wandered down and he saw the dagger sticking out of the cadet's chest. His heart dropped.

Porthos bit his lip in desperation, and did the only thing he could think of.

"Aramis!"

The blue, piercing eyes of the English soldier were wide open, and he was showing Aramis his teeth as he tried to fight his way back up to his feet. Aramis was sending one strike after the other against the Englishman's blade, keeping the man on his knees but was unable to break his defense.

"Aramis!"

Somewhere amidst the madness of this chaos, Aramis heard his name, and he recognized Porthos' voice. A voice filled with pain and urgency. His heart started racing with worry.

His eyes went wide and the short moment of inattentiveness cost him dearly. His opponent located Aramis' weak spot and kicked him hard on the knee, pulling the ground out right from underneath the marksman's feet. Aramis felt his injured back connect with the muddy ground, and the next moment, he felt a foot connect with his wrist and he lost his grip on his rapier.

Just in time to protect himself against the death blow, Aramis grabbed the pistol from his belt and blocked the sword that came clashing down on him. The steel collided hard with the barrel of the pistol, but the man kept going and used his free hand to grab Aramis' throat. The marksman needed both of his arms to keep the sword away, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to get out of the hold by throwing his head to the side. The choke hold grew even tighter. Just when Aramis considered having one hand free and risking being stabbed in the chest, his opponent's eyes went wide and a barely audible gasp escaped his bloodied lips.

The man went down in an instant, and revealed a sweaty and hard breathing Athos, who pulled his blade out of the soldier with an ugly sound.

Athos offered him his injured arm, but Aramis declined as he did not want to aggravate Athos' wounds. Instead, he scrambled to his knees, recovering his rapier and getting back on his feet. He exchanged a brief look with his brother.

"Go!" Athos merely said before he whirled around to stand his ground against another attacking enemy, clearly he had heard Porthos' yell too.

Aramis didn't have a good feeling about leaving Athos alone, but he knew better than to argue and stumbled towards where he thought Porthos to be. He located his friend closer to the treeline. Porthos was kneeling on the ground, one hand around the neck of someone Aramis recognized as Frédéric. Guillaume stood in front of them, and he was struggling against two English soldiers at once. One of them had landed a heavy punch against the musketeers' jaw, and had broken his defense in the process.

Aramis leapt forward and impaled one of the attackers from behind, before he kicked him to the ground. Guillaume forced the remaining Englishman into a choke hold and gestured to Aramis that he was coping well.

Without wasting another moment, Aramis rushed to Porthos' side and got down on one knee. As soon as Porthos laid eyes on him, he gave him a reassuring nod and stood up to defend Aramis from another English attacker. They didn't need any verbal communication, Aramis just took over and trusted Porthos to cover him.

His eyes quickly wandered over Frédéric. The cadets eyes were closed, and his neck was bleeding heavily from a deep cut. There was a large knife sticking out of his chest. Aramis brought a hand to the neck, frantically searching for any signs of a pulse. But through all the blood, it was hard to be certain. He rested his hand against the young man's chest, only to realize that it wasn't moving. He grabbed the wrist and tried to feel a pulse there, but he felt nothing.

For a short second, he could do nothing but stare at his fallen comrade, and despite the aversion he had felt for Frédéric, his heart broke for the young man. But he wasn't allowed to hesitate for long. He murmured a very short prayer, and in the same movement, he jumped back on his feet as quickly as he could and aided Porthos against his three opponents.

His friend freed himself from one of them by smacking his dagger hard against the enemy's temple, and Aramis grabbed one of the others and used him to get rid of the third, before he threw him into Porthos' waiting blade.

During the short moment of calmness, Porthos grabbed Aramis by the shoulder. He didn't need to say anything.

Aramis merely pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Nothing I could do."

Porthos took a deep breath and squeezed Aramis' shoulder in sympathy, until a group of four Englishmen decided to interrupt their moment of silence.

As the fighting continued, Aramis was involuntarily separated from Porthos' again. He saw and felt how his sword cut through one Englishman after the other, but it was more a self-defensive mechanism. One that cost him all of his remaining strength.

He felt the sweat running down his neck, and heard his own heartbeat over the sound of screaming men and clashing swords. His lungs were burning and he was panting due to the sheer effort of not getting killed.

A tall Englishman with the expression of a frightened ghost threw him backwards against another man, and just when Aramis raised his sword to eradicate the danger at his back, he looked into the eyes of Mathis who stabbed past Aramis' raised arm with a devilish grin. He seemed to be operating on pure battlefield adrenaline.

"Not dead yet then, are you?" Mathis greeted him loudly, but Aramis just growled and saved the young musketeer from a knife to the back. The fallen Englishman in front of him revealed the useless artillery near the treeline, and Aramis saw a few soldiers running towards it, gesturing towards the relatively open area Aramis and Mathis occupied at the moment.

Even from afar, he was able to make out the absolutely terrified faces of the English soldiers, and his concern spiked up immediately. His many years as a soldier had taught him that there a few things as dangerous as a man afraid for his life. He almost heard the loud bang before it was fired.

"Merde!" Aramis cursed and tackled Mathis to the ground as the cannon ball tore apart the earth, only a few lengths away from where they had been standing moments earlier. He covered his head as rocks and dirt rained down upon them, and the impact from the fall had pushed all the air out of his lungs. For a short moment, he lay there, gasping and trying to regain his strength to get back up.

Mathis threw him a grateful nod and pulled him back on his feet, before he plunged back into the crowd of enemies. As much as Aramis wanted to stay where he was and breathe, just for a short moment, he knew this short moment could cost his life. Instead, he went after Mathis and took on an English soldier that launched an attack on Mathis' back.

The soldier was strong, but not a good fighter. Aramis' sword sliced through the skin on his thighs and the man went down with an angry howl.

Now with a short window of clear sight, Aramis watched how Mathis seemed to run towards the outer treeline, right where the English reinforcement troops were hidden behind the artillery, waiting for their orders.

"Where are you going?" Aramis yelled over the head of the attacking Englishman, and angrily forced the man back down as he made attempts for a counter attack.

"I'll go make sure those cannons stay quiet!" Mathis yelled back, but he didn't even cast a glance back and merely continued to fight his way even deeper into enemy territory. Within moments, he was enveloped by an unruly and muddling mass of soldiers. Most of them wore English uniforms.

"Mathis!" Aramis' eyes were filled with terror and he made an attempt to follow the young musketeer, but he was forced to duck his head to avoid getting his throat slit by an English sword. He angrily used his first opponent as a shield and threw him right into the blade of the second attacker, before he tore the Englishman's pistol from his belt and fired the weapon at close range.

His second attempt to run after Mathis was blocked once again, and Aramis got so lost under the chaos and confusion that reigned on the battlefield that he had lost all sense of orientation. He was the more surprised when after he knocked out another English soldier, he found himself side by side with Athos again. His friend's arm was coated in blood, but he was still fighting with a calm and deadly elegance that was more than frightening to a potential enemy. It was an aura only Athos possessed.

"Don't you think," Aramis panted as he shoved his sword through an opponent's chest and kicked him away, "that we may have potentially overestimated ourselves?"

He received nothing but a pained grunt from Athos, but he hadn't expected an answer anyway. Instead, Athos was able to gain the upper hand and end his current duel, but he froze on the spot as his eyes locked onto something a short distance away.

Aramis disarmed his opponent, but was forced into hand to hand combat and eventually managed to hold him in a headlock. The man struggled fiercely, but Aramis wondered why Athos hadn't moved an inch.

He followed Athos' gaze, and his eyes landed on a man in a rather pompous uniform atop a tall horse. Aramis grabbed the loaded pistol from his current victim's weapons belt and threw it towards his friend. He knew that look on Athos' face, and he knew that it was better not to stand in his way.

Athos threw him a doubtful and worried look, but Aramis merely strengthened the hold he had around the Englishman's body as the man struggled to break free.

"I've got this," Aramis assured Athos loudly, and raised his rapier to block an attack from a second opponent. "Go."

Athos didn't need to be told twice. They had already scared the English soldiers enough with their charge to have made a fight of it. The fact that he was still breathing was enough proof of that. But Eadmund, despite Athos' own personal feelings towards the English General, seemed to be what kept the English going, and what would keep them going until every musketeer on this island was dealt with.

Athos hastily shoved every possible man in his way to the side and stumbled over the rocky terrain and the bodies which littered the ground until he had a clear shot at the Butcher, who was sitting proudly atop his black warhorse. He was using his firearm only and seemingly trying to keep his distance from the battle before him.

Athos steadily raised the pistol Aramis had given him, and he was able to block out everything else around him. He didn't hear the sound of steel anymore, he didn't hear the screaming and grunting of the fighting and dying men. It was only him and Lord Eadmund, at whose chest he calmly aimed with his good arm.

The moment he pulled the trigger was the exact moment the General's horse bolted and reared up. Instead of hitting the General in the chest, the bullet buried itself in the animal's neck. The horse neighed loudly and fell to the side, dead in an instant. Eadmund himself was thrown out of the saddle, his face a mask of surprise.

Athos didn't wait for him to get up and refocus, instead, he crossed the distance between the two of them as quickly as the circumstances allowed him, readjusting his grip on his sword in the meantime.

As soon as he was within a reasonable reach, Athos attacked. The General was only halfway back up on his knees, and that was the only advantage Athos could use. Eadmund was visibly surprised and angered, and he hissed as one of Athos' strikes managed to break through his defense and cut through the skin on his upper chest.

But just as Athos had expected, Lord Eadmund was a good fighter. And he had not endured what Athos had physically endured during the past weeks. From his lower position, Eadmund started a counter attack and he hit Athos' blade so forcefully the swordsman stumbled backwards to keep his footing.

Eadmund used the time to get back on his feet. Athos saw the pistol being aimed at him by the English General just in time to throw himself on the ground. The bullet wheezed over his head and missed him by a good meter. But his new position on the ground made him vulnerable and exposed him too much.

He looked up and saw Eadmund already towering over him, his figure casting a menacing shadow over the fallen musketeer. Athos reacted quickly and desperately. He lashed out with his rapier and his blade sliced through the General's lower leg. It wasn't very deep, but it bought Athos enough time to scramble back to his feet.

By now, Athos did not know where his strength was coming from, but a part of him knew that if he and his brothers wanted to get off the island alive, Lord Eadmund would be their main obstacle. There was also the anger and frustration that he had locked away for weeks now. Eadmund was not to blame for all of it, since Suard's part had not been minor, but somehow this felt personal. After all, it had been Eadmund who had kept Porthos captive, and it had been Eadmund's ships that had killed the marksmen in the farmhouse. Athos knew it was probably hopeless, but there were two things he had not yet lost faith in – his brothers, and his own resistance.

As soon as Athos was back on his feet, Eadmund reopened the duel. The General's face was marred by dirt and a mask of blind anger and the way he fought reminded Athos of Treville. Classy, but with brutal efficiency. And he was not too noble to use dirty tricks if necessary.

But Athos had trained with Treville, who shared his tips with his soldiers. Athos had trained with Porthos, who was a master in hand to hand combat if it came to that. And Athos had trained with Aramis, whose methods were not always classy, but were always deadly.

Athos managed to parry the first flurry of strikes the General sent against his sword, and he made a step to the side to launch a counter attack which took Eadmund by surprise. He stumbled and avoided Athos' blade only with a good amount of luck.

Athos on the other hand dove underneath Eadmund's outstretched sword arm and lashed forward, but he missed. Instead, he grabbed the General by the collar and threw him to the ground. Eadmund swung his sword violently while he was on the ground and Athos was forced to step back, during which time the General scrambled back to his feet.

But he didn't attack. Instead, he eyed Athos suspiciously, and almost seemed to be trying to give Athos a breathing spell.

"It's you," Eadmund shouted over the turmoil, and he pointed at Athos with the tip of his sword. "I knew it when I first laid eyes on you. Now that your General is dead, you have taken charge haven't you?" He lashed out with his rapier and missed Athos' neck only by a hair breadth. "In a way, I admire you."

"Guess that was your first mistake," Athos hissed and made a step to the side, wasting no time and sending a couple of well placed strikes down on Eadmund's sword. The General was forced backwards into defense, but he had spotted Athos' weakness. And he aimed right at it.

Before Athos was able to react, Eadmund attacked his left side, which resulted in Athos almost losing his parrying dagger and earning a deep cut on his left hand as he lacked the strength in the arm to lift the weapon in order to parry effectively. Just in time, he pulled up his rapier to catch the second strike that followed and Eadmund's sword clashed against his own.

"My first mistake?" Eadmund spoke, gritting his teeth at the effort. "Then what's my second?" He pushed hard against Athos' blade. Athos used every ounce of strength he had left to keep his own sword away from his own throat, as Eadmund was trying to use his own blade to end the duel.

Dark spots were dancing in Athos' vision, but he managed to keep both hands on his rapier, trying to steer it away from his throat. And then, behind the blurry outlines of Lord Eadmund's concentrated face, he saw the answer to the question he hadn't bothered to answer.

One of the figures behind the General lashed out with his rapier and Eadmund let out a pained shout when the metal pierced through a hole in his shoulder armor.

"Forgetting that he isn't alone," Aramis growled and Porthos ended the sentence with a heavy punch to the General's face. The force against Athos' sword disappeared and the swordsman stumbled backwards to regain his footing and his balance.

Lord Eadmund held his shoulder, his sword was dragging through the dirt as he turned to look at Aramis and Porthos, who kept him at distance with their swords. He looked like a wounded animal, but still, in this scheme of things, he was the predator.

"And I thought stabbing a man in the back was an act of cowardice," the General panted and straightened up again, his face a grimace of pain.

Aramis' head twitched to the side. "Made an exception for the sake of my friends." Aramis was seemingly struggling to keep his rapier up. Adrenaline seemed to be the only thing keeping him going. "And besides, I don't need the Butcher of La Rochelle to lecture me about honor."

Porthos nodded in agreement. "I'm sure the innocent inhabitants of this island would have liked to have a say in this before their homes were blown to bits." His voice dripped with spite.

"This is war," the General wiped away the blood from his face and grasped his weapons even tighter. "We all try to win without losing our humanity." He sent a sharp glare towards Porthos. "And sometimes, we fail."

Athos narrowed his eyes, and those words made him question whether he would have acted so differently in Lord Eadmund's position. No matter the history, or all this man had or hadn't done before, they all had one thing in common – they had been following orders and trying to survive.

And then, without another word, Eadmund attacked. The General might have been outnumbered, but Aramis, Porthos and Athos were only at half of their strength, at most. All three of them were bleeding, and all three of them were hurting. The Butcher on the other hand had spent most of the battle safely atop his horse.

And nothing fueled a man like his own survival instinct. He launched his first attack against Porthos who stood closest to him. The quick and precise strikes were hard to parry with Porthos' broadsword and the tall musketeer had to take a hard hit against his shoulder which threw him off balance. Before Eadmund could make an attempt to go for the killing blow, Aramis intervened. The marksman's attacks lacked his usual speed, but he was able to steer the General away from Porthos before Eadmund sent him back to the ground with a heavy blow against his injured leg, which destroyed every bit of balance Aramis had had.

This time, Eadmund didn't even bother to finish the duel, instead he turned around and fixed his eyes on Athos, an angry and dangerous glint in his eyes. As long as the General was still armed, Athos feared this was a duel he could only lose.

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw how both Aramis and Porthos were now under attack by an Englishman whose uniform gave him the rank of a Captain. Both musketeers were physically struggling to compete against him, but they stood their ground.

Athos remembered an old trick Treville had taught him on the training ground many months ago. It required a physical strength he wasn't sure he possessed at the moment, but it was his only chance. He saw how Eadmund lifted his sword in his wrath, ready to take Athos down by any means necessary, and it was in that exact moment Athos threw himself forward. The blade hissed past his side and merely scratched the skin on his cheek, but he had aimed for the General's arm. He punched backwards with his elbow which elicited a pained grunt out of Eadmund, and then he used his main gauche and slit through the Englishman's sword arm.

The reaction was immediate. Eadmund howled in pain and dropped the sword, but the heavy punch as he struggled to get free cost Athos his last remaining weapon as he lost his footing and crushed to the ground.

He had just enough time to turn onto his back when Lord Eadmund suddenly appeared above him. He hadn't bothered to reclaim his weapon, instead, he kneed Athos in the stomach and his hands reached for Athos' neck. Athos instinctively raised his right forearm to block an attack, but it was useless. The General's cold and bloody knuckles punched him hard and then he felt fingers clawing into his neck.

Panic got hold of him and while he used his right arm to try to block the General, his useless left hand kept scrambling through the dirt trying to find something with which to fight back. He tasted blood in his mouth and his vision began to blur. All he saw was the angered and determined face of Lord Eadmund above him. Athos gave up on trying to block the man with his forearm and instead found the wound in the General's back from when Aramis had stabbed him earlier.

Eadmund let go of Athos' neck briefly and brutally slapped his hand away, but it was all Athos needed.

His left hand had found something familiar. He felt almost nothing when he used the short moment of distraction and without hesitation plunged the dagger into the General's chest. The reaction was immediate. Eadmund's eyes went wide and he gasped, before his hand reached for the dagger he could not extract.

His eyes found Athos again, and his lips were quivering as blood ran down his chin. He managed to move to the side before he went limp and crumbled to the ground next to Athos, the hatred and anger disappearing from his eyes as they stared into the void.

Athos gasped for air and coughed, and he tried to calm his racing heart as the pain in his arm became unbearable.

Slowly but surely, the noise of the battle returned to his ears and threatened to deafen him. He looked up from the ground and searched for his friends.

Aramis was on the ground, bleeding heavily from his leg, and seemingly unable to get up. Porthos was only a few feet away, choking and retching as his muscles refused to cooperate in his desperate attempt to struggle back to his feet. The English Captain stared at the defeated musketeers in front of him. He was only one strike away from killing them. Both Aramis and Porthos had nowhere left to go, and Athos was a captive of his own numb shock as he realized that he would not be quick enough to save either of them.

But the English Captain merely lowered his weapon and looked toward his dead commanding officer. The man's gaze slowly wandered over the three of them, Athos included, and then he just gave them a brief nod, before he turned on his heel and disappeared behind the other men still engaged in combat. If Athos was not mistaken, he had seen something almost like respect paired with a tinge of fear on the Englishman's face before he had spared the lives of his brothers.

Athos climbed over the body of the Butcher of La Rochelle towards his friends, before he ultimately collapsed into the dirt. His arm was burning like hellfire and leaking with fresh blood, his world was spinning and dark spots were dancing in his vision.

He heard Porthos' panting to his right and Aramis' heavy breathing to his left, assuring him that they were still there and still alive. And then, the winds of battle changed, the atmosphere became a different one. Athos heard more boots marching on the ground; he heard some men's victorious yells and the fearful cursing of others.

Maybe a rescue, maybe Buckingham was sending English support, Athos did not know. It didn't matter. Because all he saw were English uniforms, dancing with swords, and himself and his defeated brothers, right in the middle, with no way out.

It was the all too well-known smell of sweat and blood, mixed with the stench of gunpowder and salted with the scent of the sea that had threatened to numb Treville's senses as he had first put his feet on the ground of Ré Island.

The situation had not been what he had expected, and even though every fiber of his being wanted to get his men out of the grotesque and violent battle scene that was unfolding in front of him, he had needed to get the civilians and the injured musketeers that were with them out first. He had ordered five of his men to get them back to the Verseau, and in the meantime, he and the others infiltrated the battlefield to support the remaining musketeers who were still fighting.

One by one, Treville pulled out the fighting musketeers. Most of them were dead on their feet, and they were only standing thanks to sheer will power alone. He had them brought to the shore and to the boats. The battle had started to turn, and the English were slowly beginning to realize that they had no longer held the upper hand.

As Treville's gaze swerved over the battlefield, he desperately kept looking for any last men standing. The musketeers he had saved so far were not even half of what he had sent here weeks ago.

In the middle of the mess of abandoned weapons and fallen men, Treville finally found them. Together.

Porthos, Aramis and Athos were on the ground close by, disarmed, injured and unable to defend themselves. The support troops were already beginning to shield the injured men from the English, but the English attackers barely seemed to pay attention to them anyway.

The Captain rushed over to their sides, and took in a deep breath of relief as he was greeted with three pairs of open eyes that looked at him, first hostile, then relieved.

"Captain," Aramis exhaled slowly and the hint of a grin played around his lips. "Your timing is impeccable."

"I have a reputation for that," Treville countered shortly. He pulled Porthos up by his arm and then walked over to Athos.

"Come, come!" Treville roughly pulled Athos into a sitting position, wincing inwardly at the pained gasp that escaped the swordsman's lips.

"We can't, we have to…" Porthos mumbled, keeping a firm grip on his sword. His confused gaze wandered over the battlefield.

"Look at me!" Treville grabbed him by the shoulder. "This is not your fight anymore. You have done all you can, now it's time for others to do their part."

Porthos stared and blinked slowly as if he hadn't understood him, but then, he nodded.

"The other musketeers?" That was Aramis' voice, and Porthos grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him up to his feet.

"You're the last ones," Treville answered shortly and cast a quick glance towards the shifted battlefield. The men he had brought with him were forming a line in front of him and were pushing the English toward the treeline, but there was no musketeer left to save aside from the three men in front of him.

They didn't need any more convincing. Porthos grabbed Aramis and they held each other up as they made their way towards the beach, Treville steadied Athos who leaned onto the Captain heavily.

As soon as they arrived at the beach, he helped the three of them into the boat the musketeer Ecale had prepared, where they collapsed onto the wood.

Treville gave the signal and jumped into another boat and their small fleet of rescue boats departed the shore, bringing the injured and exhausted musketeers back towards the ship, back to safety.

The further they rowed, the more the battle noises died down. Treville's job wasn't done yet, as he had to return to get the relief troops off the island too, but seeing some of the soldiers he had sent here weeks ago alive and breathing was the only consolation he needed right now.

Silence hung over them and it was only disrupted by the harsh and heavy breathing, and the soft panting of the men trying to contain their pain. Their eyes were locked on the shore, which grew more distant with every moment that passed.

In their eyes was the reflection of the fire burning down the remains of the wooden fortress. They thought about what they had lost there, and few wasted a thought of what they had won. And despite all, there was a common sensation read from every soldier's face – relief. That they had survived yet another hell on earth.

Treville's gaze wandered towards the boat to his left.

Aramis' head rested on his knee, his other leg was stretched out as far as the boat allowed him. His left hand was clasped around his bloodied leg, the other one rested against Athos' severely injured arm. It looked like a mixture of medical aid and spiritual assurance. Athos, in front of him, held his head up high, and his gaze was locked on the distant shore, his pale face giving nothing away.

Porthos next to both of them still had both of his hands on their shoulders as he had when he had helped them onto the boat, as if the danger had not yet passed, and he was the only thing shielding his friends from death. His eyes found Treville's, and the look he gave his Captain spoke more words than Treville ever needed. Porthos managed a small nod, before his attention too turned towards the distant shore.

Whatever had happened during the past weeks, it had drawn these men even closer together. It was a silent and effortless reliance on one another that Treville could feel between those three, a strength that they shared with each other. And he knew that it was only thanks to this brotherhood that there had been men left to rescue at all. And as he looked at them, he could tell they felt it too.

The clouds were beginning to clear, and slowly but surely they were able to get a glimpse of the setting sun on the horizon.

Its rays reflected in the irises of the musketeers eyes, sparking a new hope as they left the island and everything that had happened there behind them.

We still have the Epilogue to go. I'll try to get it done soon. Thank you for reading.