D'artagnan studied the guards around him, watching for when they changed posts to find any patterns. He had noticed a ten second gap between the evening guard taking over from the noon one. However it was pointless hoping for an escape, there were too many men station around the edge of the small camp for them to slip by unnoticed.
He had been working the rope around his wrists for a good hour now and there was still no sign in it loosening. He knew his wrists would be cut and bloody, the burning pain flaring up across his skin indicating it. He also knew Aramis was going to kill him when the marksman found out D'artagnan had be inflicting pain upon himself even in his current weaken state.
He knew all hopes of escaping would be fruitless if he didn't narrow down the numbers of the Spaniards stood guard around them, watching the musketeers with harsh eyes and waiting for one of them to make a move.
He glanced down at the musketeers sat to the left of him, all still bundled up together with their heads hung low. All expect Beaumont who was staring daggers at the closest guard, wanting nothing more than to kill the Spaniard with his bare hands.
D'artagnan tried to shift his position, gripping the rope above him to twist it around in his hands and pull himself up gently in hopes to ease his aching muscles, even if it was only for a few seconds. He dropped again with a soft grunt to cause himself to swing forwards and backwards slightly, his aching shoulders tensing violently from the sudden movement.
He tried opening his right eye, the throbbing having died down slightly after the beating he had gotten a few hours ago. However, he knew a black eye was slowly forming and making its ugly mark upon his face. The blood from his cut on his cheek had dried, having ran down his neck and stained his collar. His ribs were still protesting against him, the constant strain on them from his hanging body kept them from healing properly.
He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain he was in and trying to focus his mind on more important things. The evening guard slowly walked past, giving him a glance before looking at the others, slowly circling them like they were prey and he the predator.
The sun was slowly setting, brightening up the surroundings with a soft amber glow. One of Antonio's men was setting up a fire a few meters away from the prisoners, warming his hands up once the flames had risen high enough.
A flap of a tent and the sound of boots on the leaf covered ground broke D'artagnan from his thoughts. He glanced up to see the Captain mumbling orders to one of his men, who then nodded and walked off to carry out his duties.
"How are the shoulders? Feeling stiff yet?" Antonio asked, glancing towards D'artagnan with a small yet smug smile on his face.
"No, they're good thanks," D'artagnan replied, using Athos' normally dry tone which only caused Antonio's smile to grow, his lips curled up menacingly.
"You amuse me D'artagnan," the Captain said, sitting on the log opposite him on the other side of the fire. "Your strength is one of great fascinations," he said, watching D'artagnan through narrowed eyes. "I wonder when that will slip." And D'artagnan gritted his teeth, seeing Antonio glance towards one of the younger musketeers, Philippes.
"I've told you that they know nothing," D'artagnan spoke up, drawing the Captain's eyes back towards him and away from the others.
"And you know everything?" He asked, pointing at D'artagnan and pushing for a rise from him. He had to admit, he had walked straight into that. However, he didn't let the Captain faze him, holding his head high as he replied.
"Everything that is of value to you," he replied with a smirk, making sure to keep the Captain's attention on himself and not on the others. They truly knew nothing and D'artagnan wouldn't let Antonio get to them. He couldn't watch them be pressed for answers when they could give none.
"Which is why I should keep you alive, right?" The Captain asked, standing up and walking around the fire. He came to a stop in front of D'artagnan's hanging form and looked him up and down. D'artagnan glanced at the Captain wearily, trying to figure out what game Antonio was playing this evening. "And if they know nothing then why should I waste my valuable food supply on them?" Antonio asked and D'artagnan swore at himself for letting the Captain get the upper hand.
"Because if kill them, then you'll have to kill me too before you get any answers," D'artagnan said and Antonio let a small smile appear on his face, impressed at how the musketeer had handled the question.
"I could just slit your throat right here, right in front of your men. Or I could let you hang, leave you tied up here for a slow and painful death. Decisions like these aren't my strongest I have to admit," Antonio said, apparently going for a more threatening approach this evening. D'artagnan raised an eyebrow at the Captain, who simply smiled before moving towards the other musketeers, a knife slipping out from behind his back and twisting it around his fingers.
"But now I know you value these men over your own life, I'm sure I can manage to get some answers from you," he said, stopping in front of the musketeers who glanced up at the Captain. Each one quickly looked away, hoping not to get chosen. Antonio noticed Beaumont holding himself strong and chuckled at the musketeers determination, before he crouched low in front of the closest musketeer, Philippes, the youngest of the group.
The boy jumped slightly as the Captain grabbed his hair, pulling his head back roughly to press the knife against his now exposed neck. He winced under the pull against his hair, trying to stop a whimper that was trying to escape from his lips
D'artagnan stiffened, fear suddenly gripping him as he watched on, carefully trying to assess the situation and which way he should play it. Clearly, the Captain was not a patient man and would do anything to get answers.
Philippes' eyes went wide in horror at the thought of dying in a Spanish camp, tensing slightly due to the Captain's presence so close it him. He trembled slightly as the knife was pressed harder against his neck, causing him to grit his teeth from the pain. Blood leaked onto the cool blade, some slowly running down his neck to stain the collar of his shirt.
"Now I have your attention, how many French parties are within Spanish territory?" Antonio asked. However, D'artagnan didn't look away from Philippes, their eyes locked and speaking a silent conversation between the two of them. Philippes set his jaw, determination suddenly setting in his eyes to tell D'artagnan to not back down. No matter what Antonio did to him he would not back down, he was prepared to have the worst brought down on him if it meant protecting the crown and country.
"I don't like repeat the myself," the Captain said and the blade pressed harder, causing Philippes breath to catch in his throat and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. At that, D'artagnan saw the boy crumble slightly, the determination that was there a second ago having now vanished and replaced with pure fear of dying. The Captain sighed at D'artagnan's silence, removing the knife before slamming a fist against Philippes jaw, causing his head to snap to one side. He then grabbed the musketeer by the hair again, pulling his head back and once more placing the knife against Philippes' already bleeding neck.
"Okay," D'artagnan suddenly said, not being able to allow any more pain to come to Philippes over his own stubbornness. "I'll answer your question, just leave him be," D'artagnan then said and Antonio let a small smile creep onto his lips, knowing he now had a way to get the Gascon.
He suddenly removed the blade from Philippes' neck and pushed the young musketeer forward. Philippes fell to the ground, his tied hands unable to stop his fall. He grunted on the impact before letting out a shaky breath, finally allowing his lungs to fill now he didn't have the restriction of the knife against his neck.
"How many?" The Captain asked, moving over to stand in front of D'artagnan. He glanced at Philippes who had managed to pull himself up with the help of a fellow musketeer, Duval.
"Seven," he finally said, looking back at Antonio and the man gave him a smile that made D'artagnan sick to the core.
"That wasn't so hard now was it," he said, wiping the blade of his knife clean on D'artagnan shoulder, Philippes' blood staining his shirt. "Now, where are these parties camping?" he asked, slipping his now clean knife behind his back.
"I said I'd answer your question, not questions... Only one," D'artagnan said, slightly cocky with his way of playing the Captain's game. Antonio let out a soft chuckle in response, impressed by D'artagnan's wit.
"I suppose you're right," he said before dropping the subject and moving back over to the fire, happy that he was slowly breaking the musketeer.
However, Antonio knew nothing about D'artagnan. He didn't know how stubborn he could be, or how determined he was in protecting the musketeers that sat next to him. D'artagnan was far from breaking, he's only just beginning to play the game.
Porthos returned a few hours later, the sun hanging low in the sky, having met up with one of the couriers who took letters to Paris. He had told the man to take an alternative route in fear of the Spanish intercepting him; the man had nodded before riding out, the letters secure in his breast pocket.
When Porthos walked into the tent he found Athos stood up at the table, pouring over the maps with a finger tracing across one of their supply routes. The man wouldn't stop working, even when he was shot he still kept pushing on with every ounce of effort he had left.
Porthos heard a soft snore sound from his left and glanced over to see Aramis fast asleep, face down on the bed and arms spread across the thin bedding. How on earth the marksman could sleep peacefully in wired positions always seemed to be an unanswered question for his brothers.
"He's only just fallen asleep," Athos informed him, drawing the larger musketeer's gaze away from Aramis and towards him. "You should get some rest as well," he then added, knowing none of them had been able to sleep last night. "I've organised for a scouting party later this evening to go out near the river. One of our informative's got word of a Spanish party setting up camp there for the night. I was hoping you and Aramis would lead the group," Athos said, not looking up from the maps he had now spent a few long hours staring down at.
"You think D'artagnan and the others are being held there?" Porthos asked, moving to sit opposite where Athos stood. The Captain let out a painful sigh before glancing up at his friend, the sorrow in his eyes showing his doubts.
"It's too close. Their Captain wouldn't risk setting up camp there in fear of us finding them and taking back our men," Athos said, finally sitting down before rubbing his face with his free hand. He couldn't look at the maps anymore, it all seeming to blur into a scrambled mess. "You sent the letters out successfully?" Athos then asked, dropping his hand and hoping to take both their minds of their missing brothers.
"Yes, I told Treville to take an alternative route for the supplies to the front," Porthos informed Athos who nodded before looking up at his friend. He could see Porthos was dealing with the loss just as hard as Aramis and him, the bags under his eyes slowly making themselves know and the tension in his shoulders still set strong.
Porthos studied the maps, feeling Athos' eyes on him but deciding to ignore the man's gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching his back slightly to ease the aching in his muscles.
His mind slipped to D'artagnan, hoping that he was safe and unharmed. However that was wishful thinking, knowing for certain that D'artagnan was in danger and probably being interrogated this second. He knew his brother wasn't dead though, being too much of value to the Spanish.
However, it didn't stop him from worrying. He didn't know how he would cope, how his brothers or how Constance would cope if D'artagnan was killed by his captors. Yet Porthos allowed the thought of the Spanish needing D'artagnan alive to ease his racing mind... Only slightly however.
"Sleep," Athos then said, breaking Porthos from his thoughts as the Captain suddenly stood. "And that's an order," he added when Porthos didn't start making a move from the table. The larger musketeer allowed a small smile to creep onto his lips at Athos' way of showing he cared.
"Right away Captain," Porthos said before standing and making his way over to his bed. Athos moved to fix himself something to eat, the growling from his stomach finally winning the battle against him.
Porthos let out a sigh as he flopped down onto the bed next to Aramis, shifting slightly to face his sleeping brother.
He watched Aramis sleep, seeing the man at peace slowly eased the pain and worry Porthos was in. He turned to lay on his back and stared up at the tent's ceiling, fully intent on staying awake for a while. However, before he knew it he was suddenly being shaken from his slumber by Aramis.
His brother grinned down at him as he blinked his eyes open, Aramis flashing his teeth before patting Porthos on the shoulder.
"You snore louder when you're on your back," Aramis stated before straightening up and moving away from the bed. Porthos groaned, feeling disorientated from the rude and sudden awakening. He pulled himself up to sit while rubbing his face as Aramis shrugged on his leather jacket.
"I don't snore," Porthos grumbled in response and Aramis simply turned, giving him a raised eyebrow before moving to pick up his sword.
"Yes you do," Athos suddenly said, entering the tent and glancing at Porthos with a small smirk on his lips. Aramis chuckled at the larger musketeer's blank expression before moving over to pick at the scraps of food Athos had left on his plate at the table.
"The soldiers are waiting at the entrance of the camp for you both, your horses await with them," Athos informed them and Porthos rolled off the bed, stretching his back once stood. Aramis nodded, picking at the bread on the plate and popping some into his mouth before glancing over at Porthos.
"Ready?" He then asked after swallowing Athos' food and Porthos nodded, checking his pistols. Athos walked over to them, placing his right hand on Aramis' shoulder and meeting his eyes.
"Stay safe," he said and Aramis gave him a small smile before pulling him into a gentle hug, being weary of Athos' injured shoulder. It was quick embrace but it was all that was needed. Athos pulled away and drew Porthos into a hug before they began walking in silence towards the front of the camp as a threesome, slowly realising it should have been foursome instead.
So Aramis and Porthos are on a mission, let's hope that goes well ;) Thank you for the follows and favourites and especially the reviews, which make me get these chapters out quicker. Tell me what you thought of this one, hope it was good.