They rode the seven miles in silence, all trying not to think of the worst that they could find at the camp. However, all three of them were failing miserably and imagining the bloody sight of their brothers all dead. Logic would suggest that all seven of the musketeers were still alive yet the mind played tricks on them, driving them deeper into a pit of growing worry.
They managed to find the camp just as the sun was setting through the trees, the light quickly dropping.
Athos climbed down from his horse, pulling at the reins to walk slowly towards the remains of a burnt out fire.
"They're not that good with covering their tacks," Aramis stated after Porthos helped him down from his horse, ignoring the pain from his healing injury. He glanced over to where Athos crouched down, holding a hand over the burnt firewood before the Captain sighed in defeat, his heart sinking slightly. The fire was cold, which meant they had moved on a while ago.
"Or maybe they're not trying to," Porthos then spoke up as he bent down to pick up some rope that laid abandoned by the tree he was about to tie the horses up to. "Looks like they had one of them hung up by the branch," Porthos said, glancing up to said branch and seeing the worn out bark. He suddenly realised who to could have and probably had been, fear rising up within him as well as anger towards the men who were doing this to their brother. They all fell silent, looking at the frayed rope in Porthos' hand.
"He's going to be fine," Athos then bluntly said, turning away from his brothers' gazes. The two knew Athos too well to not recognise the worried tone of his voice which he had tried and failed to cover up.
"You sure?" Porthos then asked, crouching down by the tree and pulling his knife out. He picked at the dirt on the ground with the point of his knife before lifting it up to show them both.
Blood.
It was dry and mixed in with the dirt but it wasn't hard to recognise the deep red colour that stood out on the larger musketeer's blade.
"You don't think..." Aramis then wondered off, not wanting to say what they were all thinking.
"No," Athos said sharply, twisting around to look at them both. "He's not dead," he said with such force that they believed him in a heartbeat. "He's too valuable to them, they need him alive," he added, his voice slightly softer this time as he reined in his anger and worry.
Aramis simply nodded, watching Athos, who turned away from them both once again. He then glanced over at Porthos to see the man also staring at Athos, concern written all over his face. Feeling Aramis' eyes on him he turned his head to look at his brother. He gave Aramis a soft smile that just felt wrong on his lips.
Aramis let his shoulders slump slightly, hating seeing his friends worried. He couldn't stop thinking about D'artagnan and the other musketeers that were missing and knew his two brothers couldn't either.
It seemed wrong, like everything was off place without D'artagnan completing their foursome. His mind flickered back to the times before D'artagnan had strode so strongly into their lives and couldn't believe that it ever felt right just the three of them. It just didn't work anymore, D'artagnan was part of the family now and by God they were going to find him and put things back in place.
After starting a small fire, Athos went off walking through the nearby trees that surrounded the clearing, trying to find more firewood they could use through the night. Porthos had started to cook some of the food they had brought with them while Aramis had been forced to sit by the tree and do nothing.
He felt helpless, itching to do something but knowing Athos would scold him for working while
injured.
"Stop fidgeting, it's putting me on edge," Porthos suddenly said from where he was crouched by the fire.
"Then let me help," Aramis replied and earned a look from the larger musketeer.
"You're injured," he stated and Aramis rolled his eyes, straightening up where he sat against the tree.
"Injured but not incapable," he responded with a humorous tone, a small grin appearing on his face when he saw Porthos' expression.
"Just relax, you should be happy we're doing everything for you," Porthos said with a grin, turning back to his cooking.
"Not in the slightest, I know you're cooking skills are limited," Aramis replied but stayed sat against the tree, crossing his arms gently to not cause more damage to his injured side.
"At least they're better than your skills," Athos teased as he walked back into their little camp, arms full of firewood.
"You shouldn't be straining your shoulder," Aramis said and Athos gave him a look which was one of pure annoyance at the medic for bringing his injury back up and being concerned over nothing. However, there was a slight humour behind it, his eyes smiling but his lips staying flat.
For a moment it seemed like everything was back to normal, that they were on a simple musketeer mission and joking around, and that any second now D'artagnan would come walking into the camp with a smile on his face, easily joking with the rest of them.
Aramis knew the others had felt the same way, the looks on their faces conveyed it all. The two slowly sunk back in on themselves and continued on with their tasks of setting up camp for the night.
With a heavy heart Aramis sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the tree, allowing the smell of Porthos cooking to drown over him.
He had to admit, it did smell pretty good. However, he'd never actually tell Porthos that the man was the better chef than him. Never.
As night fell, the prisoners were getting tired, feet dragging slightly as they walked along the path. D'artagnan had kept his eyes boring into the back of Antonio's head for most of the journey until slumping forward; passing the time by imagining the different ways he could kill the man. It somehow soothed him.
"Here," Antonio finally said, pointing towards a small clearing. "We'll camp here for the night," he added before climbing down from his horse. D'artagnan's shoulders were slumped forward, his head hanging low as his stomach growled for a decent meal.
He was pulled with the rest of his comrades to sit at the edge of the camp, falling onto his knees when he was roughly pushed to the ground. He let out a small grunt and glared up at the Spaniard who simply ignored him. He bit down on the scarf that was still acting as a gag, grinding his teeth on the material.
"Leave the tent for tonight," the Captain told his men. "We'll set it up once we get to the main camp," he said as he sat down against a tree, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Philippes was pushed to sit down behind D'artagnan and without thinking D'artagnan leant back to rest against his friends back. Philippes smiled softly before leaning back against D'artagnan too, supporting each other as they sat in silence.
Duval and the rest of the musketeers sat down next to them, knees drawn up to make themselves as small as possible in hopes to be ignored.
D'artagnan however knew that wasn't going to happen; after being thrown the scraps of the Spaniard's evening meal and D'artagnan's gag being removed so he could eat, Antonio stood to stretch.
D'artagnan took in a breath before letting it out in a long sigh, thankful his ribs didn't protest against the simply act which meant he was slowly but surely healing.
The Captain nodded to one of his men and suddenly D'artagnan was being dragged towards the centre of the clearing, pushed to the ground next to the fire. He let out a grunt before pushing himself up with his bounded hands, coming to kneel.
"Question time, my friend," Antonio said as he came to stand in front of D'artagnan. The musketeer simply tilted his head back, lifting his chin as if to challenge the Captain. "The route which you transport your supplies to the frontline; tell me it," Antonio rather ordered them asked.
"Like I said before, they've probably changed it by now," D'artagnan simply said, seeing the frustration building up within Antonio.
"Tell me the route," he ordered, his voice low and threatening.
"You must think my Captain as stupid. It's obvious they would change it and well...It's pointless knowing an old route," D'artagnan said with a small grin on his lips, pretending to be the little shit that he actually was.
"Tell me or I won't hesitate in using force," the Captain said and D'artagnan actually laughed.
"You can threaten and torture me all you like but you won't get anything of value from me," D'artagnan said, holding his head high.
"Then he dies," Antonio said, pulling his pistol out from behind his back and aiming it at Philippes. The musketeer straightened up from where he sat, heart hammering against his chest as he stared into the eyes of the Captain.
"Don't," D'artagnan warned and Antonio just clicked the pistol, grip tightening.
"Then answer my question," Antonio said and D'artagnan took in a breath, glancing behind at Philippes to see the man had his eyes closed, praying. His heart broke at the sight, the other musketeers watching on in horror.
Antonio rolled his eyes at their silence, walking over and flipping his pistol over in his hand. He slammed the butt of the pistol across Philippes' face before stepping back. He twisted the pistol once more to aim the barrel at Philippes' head, pressing it hard against the man's skull.
"Answer! Now!" The Captain said and Philippes opened his eyes to look at D'artagnan. The musketeer bit the inside of his cheek, struggling with his loyalty to the crown but not wanting to see his brother murdered in cold blood.
"I'm waiting," Antonio said and all D'artagnan could do was stare at Philippes, his friend shaking slightly in fear. "I can make his death painful," Antonio then warned, his free hand moving to his sword.
"There's a route along the Seine river, that's the one we use to get supplies to the front," D'artagnan finally said, hoping it was enough information to let Philippes live. He knew Athos too well to know he would have changed the route by now, not wanting to risk another ambush by the Spanish.
Antonio seemed to study him for a second before lowering his pistol.
The musketeers all let out a collective sigh in relief and D'artagnan thanked God for letting his brother live.
"Liar," Antonio suddenly said before lifting his pistol once more, D'artagnan's heart leaping into his throat.
So this chapter just came out of no where. I'm very thankful for all the reviews and encouragement to continue with this story and I am trying. I have the next chapter currently needing editing so that's a start. Thank you again for the reviews, please tell me what you thought of this one :)