The guards were right behind them and there weren't many possibilities as to where they could turn. There was only that one long corridor d'Artagnan had been shown; behind that lay the unknown, and the unknown posed an even bigger threat.
The only remaining option was the window.
D'Artagnan sprinted toward it, his body burning even through the numbing effect of adrenalin, and René, catching on, followed eagerly. The Gascon let the other recruit inspect the opening quickly, before the screams behind them got too deafening.
"Time's up," d'Artagnan panted, almost choking on his own tongue. René nodded, his bloody face and bloody body already backing away. He got ready just when the first guard burst around the corner.
The huge newcomer had a dagger and he knew how to throw.
D'Artagnan saw the small blade whistle through the air and in René's direction. He felt frozen to the spot, but he pushed and pushed and pushed himself until he could stop watching and engage. He tore his eyes away from the guards – whose numbers were steadily increasing –, jumped at René and pushed him out the window, using the momentum to sail through himself. He heard shots fired, felt bullets and other things whistle through the air next to his head, until the wind drowned out every sound and they were falling.
They landed hard and all the breath was knocked out of their lungs. He let himself rest for a moment, but a bullet hit the grass somewhere near his head and he forced himself up. He was a Musketeer and he was a d'Artagnan, and because of that he could never give up, much less now. He urged his pulsing body to move, dragged René to his feet, too, and together they stumbled toward the huge forest nearby.
Once he started running, everything fell into place. He hadn't run in such a long time – it felt unreal. Winter was without question already approaching; the air was cold and burning in his starving lungs. It was satisfying to finally feel a pain he knew how to numb; a pain he was sure would go away once he stopped, sat down and rested long enough. Not yet, though. It was time to move, and move fast.
He knew how to run, had always been good at it. Now it was just a matter of will. A matter of not collapsing.
He panted and ran and grunted and pulled René along. Sometimes René pulled him along. They reached the trees but didn't stop; they continued on and on and on. D'Artagnan knew that there were people following them, there had to be, but for some reason he couldn't hear anything except for the heartbeat in his ears.
He'd been trained to run for hours on end, but this time, his body wouldn't play along. It didn't even seem that long when they finally collapsed behind two huge beeches, their breaths hitching and their visions greying. The last thing d'Artagnan registered was a new burn somewhere in his left thigh.
When he woke up, René was lying, motionless, beside him. D'Artagnan groaned. He wanted to sleep, but they needed to continue, needed to get to them. As soon as possible. They needed for this to be over.
"René," he croaked pitifully. There was no response. He grunted anew, his body flaring, and rolled onto his belly.
Something dug into his thigh.
He screamed and stopped and vanished.
The next time he came to, René was sitting, inspecting his own arm. D'Artagnan rubbed his eyes and slowly leaned onto an elbow.
"I've been shot," René said without looking in his direction. He pointed to his left shoulder. "I've bandaged it now, though I don't know how long it'll hold."
D'Artagnan nodded curtly, slowly sitting up. He grimaced and glanced down through half-lidded eyes.
"And you've got a dagger in your leg. Pretty sure that one was meant for me. So thanks."
"No problem," d'Artagnan retorted, smiling sourly before getting to work on his thigh.
The dagger was still nestled in the flesh. He knew from Aramis that he could bleed out if he removed the weapon now, without bandages, the right utensils or the right people around to do the job, but he could hardly imagine walking around with a knife in his body. He had to prioritise.
With two trembling hands around the hilt, he counted from five to one, only to be stopped at two. Calmer hands were laid over his. René looked at him, his face relaxed and serious. "Let me do it," he said and d'Artagnan nodded once more, wiping the sweat off his brow.
"Three, two, one."
And out it went.
D'Artagnan saw the world grey at the edges again, but refused to collapse. The bloodied weapon clattered to the ground unnoticed, forgotten. He gritted his teeth, then pushed his hands against the wound just so he had something to do. From far off, he heard cloth tearing. Then there was something around his leg, and he could think a bit clearer.
"Better?" René asked, tying off the makeshift bandage.
"Yes," d'Artagnan said, even though it wasn't. "Let's go."
René sighed and d'Artgnan pulled himself to his good leg, then tested his bad one. It hurt when he stepped on it, but he knew he could manage. He had to.
"Come on," he said to René. "Let's go. It can't be that far."
He didn't say what they both knew, though. Which was that Paris could be anywhere, near, far, on the other side of the world or just around the corner. It could be in any direction. It could be everywhere or nowhere; wherever they turned, they could be walking toward it or even farther away.
And that was the truth. Only neither of them felt the urge to point it out.
When evening fell, they saw a house.
D'Artagnan, in his dreamy state, was at first sure that the scene was only a trick of his mind. But René beside him stopped, rubbed his eyes and squinted into the distance – exactly at the house – and that could hardly be a coincidence.
They hiked, their legs slow and heavy like lead, and needed a lot longer than they should have to close the small distance. It was a modest hut, not unusual for the countryside; a wooden house and behind it the stables with a few animals. D'Artagnan looked around to make sure no one else was there before knocking.
A head appeared behind a crack in the door. "Yes?" it whispered. Apart from a grey mop of hair, d'Artagnan couldn't see anything – not even if he was talking to a man or a woman.
"Hello. We are d'Artagnan and René, recruits of the King's Musketeers. We are on our way home and were hoping you could let us stay with you for the night."
The head shook, then stepped back and away from the door, all in a frenzy of movement. René pulled d'Artagnan away, crouching in front of the crack himself and lowering his voice to a gentle, if quite raspy murmur. "Okay. I know you can't help us. The bandits would know, wouldn't they?"
The shadow inside moved further, but d'Artagnan couldn't tell what was happening.
"Wait!" René called, louder and more urgent this time. "Can you at least tell us if we're moving in the right direction? We want to get to Paris and we're lost." He took a deep, shaking breath d'Artagnan could more than relate to.
"Please."
D'Artagnan could relate to that, too.
For a long while, everything stood still. Then the shadow reappeared also for the Gascon to see. It said, "Paris is a two days' ride from here if you move in that direction."
D'Artagnan exhaled. Two days. That wasn't little, but compared to all the scenarios he had been imagining throughout the day, it was pure heaven. Days he could deal with.
Even if they were on foot.
"I have one last request," René said, nodding, his voice back to the rational bass it normally was. "Do you have any horses you could lend us? We will send them back, of course, as soon as we have reached Paris."
The shadow vanished once more and d'Artagnan had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't be returning this time. René called, "Wait!", but it didn't help. Nothing could have. The quiet steps petered out and they were left alone with only owls for company.
D'Artagnan groaned. "That went well," he commented sarcastically and René threw him a toxic glare.
"I did everything I could."
"Yeah," the Gascon agreed irritably. "And now we're stood out here, alone, without horses or food or so much as a cup of water."
He knew he wasn't being fair; there had been little to no chance that the terrified farmer would have helped them to begin with. But he was exhausted and aching all over. The world was tilting dangerously around him and his whole body was pulsing along with his ever weaker heart. The wound on his thigh had gone through several stages of burning and pain and had then numbed into nothingness, which, d'Artagnan knew, was never a great sign. The idea of a good night's rest had settled into his brain, possible and real for the first time in so long, and now that it had been ripped away again, he was lost, unsure what else to hope and long for.
"But that's hardly my fault," René countered, head held high and arms crossed in front of his chest. He was obviously ready for a fight, too, even though his skin was paler than d'Artagnan remembered it ever being, his cheeks flushed and eyes wild. The blood had been blown or rubbed or washed away with sweat, and left behind were scratches, small, big, shallow, deep. His face was marred and small and drawn.
D'Artagnan struggled to avert his attention. "It for sure wasn't mine!"
"Oh, really? And who chased him away the first time?" René seethed.
"Well, if you hadn't pulled me away –"
The sound of hooves blew over to them on a gentle breeze. They turned around. Two horses were being brought out of the stables by an elderly woman, her hands strong, meaty and unrelenting. The animals looked healthy and young. They were saddled and equipped with bags that seemed to be bursting full. The woman handed the reins over to René and looked to the ground.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. I have children, you know. Be safe," she said and vanished into the house once again.
René looked at d'Artagnan, his orbs glassy and intense, his eyebrows raised. "You were saying?"
The Gascon rolled his eyes and took one of the horses' reins. "Let's just go," he grumbled.
