Hey, guys! Three chapters to go! I'm really enjoying writing this and I just hope it's not getting too long or boring. They are getting closer, I promise. :) Please let me know what you think!
They travelled throughout the next day, only stopping here and there for a rest. Even with their injuries, they made good time. Noon came and went; the day floated into a chilly afternoon and then into a chillier evening. They followed a crumpled path out of the forest and into another one. D'Artagnan was grateful for the cover of the trees – they made him feel safer than he had in a long time.
After the whole day of riding, the Gascon noticed that René's condition was steadily worsening. He himself felt like collapsing any minute, but his fellow Musketeer looked, if possible, to be off even worse. His head was dipped low over the neck of his mount, his eyes closed.
D'Artagnan, unable to sit up too straight himself, decided that they needed rest. He caught René's reins, almost falling out of the saddle attempting it, and stopped both horses. He dismounted, stumbled over to the other mount and shook his limp friend carefully.
"Hey, René. We're stopping. We're going to rest a little."
The only answer he got was indistinguishable grunt.
"Okay. Let's get you down."
He forced his aching arms up and dug them under René's armpits, ever careful of the injured shoulder, then pulled the man out of the saddle like a sack of potatoes. His arms burnt and his back ached and he wanted to yelp but stifled it with difficulty. René's legs thudded onto the forest ground, limp, heavy and unresponsive. His eyes stayed closed.
D'Artagnan dragged him to the nearest tree and carefully laid him down against the stem. He needed a few moments of breathing and recovering before he could force his body into action; he bound the horses, looked into the saddlebags for water, drank some and made René drink some, too, found food and decided that he couldn't stomach it but forced half a slice of bread down René's throat either way, then sat down, leaning his back against the same tree as René – he found that he needed the indirect contact – and decided to keep watch.
His eyes drooped and he was asleep only a moment later.
D'Artagnan woke up in the middle of the night. The moon was bright, big and beautiful, as if it wished, by contrast, to underline the ugliness of d'Artagnan's predicament. The Gascon looked to his right, finding René fast asleep, paler than he had seemed before – but whether his condition had actually worsened or his appearance was only a result of the bright white illumination, he couldn't say.
He didn't have the time to figure it out, either, didn't even have the time to register how miserable he himself was feeling, how his wound burned, how soaked the bandages were, or how loudly his head was pounding and his body screaming – because he heard a voice.
There was someone there.
He forced himself to his feet and couldn't supress a groan, even though he knew it could well cost him his life. He tried to straighten up, but something in his back creaked and wouldn't let him. His head snapped around as one of the horses wiggled nervously with its tail, and he reprimanded himself for wasting time. He limped to the animals, dragging his injured leg behind, and then forward, forward, forward, deeper into the trees, until he stumbled upon the distinctive yellow gloom of fire and stopped.
The light was warm and inviting and if d'Artagnan hadn't been so on edge, he might have even let himself enjoy it. As it was, though, he slowly moved closer, wary not to make any sounds, and carefully peeked around two low-hanging branches.
The fire was small and simple, and there were about seven men gathered around it. D'Artagnan took it in and let himself study them closer, catching a few details here and there. He was looking for a certain face, and he found it quickly enough. His heart froze, but he didn't let his body fall into a stupor; instead, he careered back in a frenzy. His legs staggered and stumbled over something, and he landed on the ground. A jolt of pain ran through his body. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the inevitable scream that spilled through his throat. He bit down. A coppery taste spread on his tongue. He bit harder and concentrated on the one single pain he had under control. And he slowly got his bearings.
"Yes," said a voice near the fire. It rang in his ears and echoed off his eardrums a hundred times. He knew the voice well. He also knew the person it belonged to well. He could guess exactly what the man looked like, even though he couldn't see him: his hair messy, his expression unhappy but his scowl well-hidden under the uncaring façade.
"Yes," the voice repeated. "You did a good job."
There was a pause, and then someone else spoke up. "You're getting reckless." The new voice was low and serious.
"I am not," the captor protested. "It was one mistake, one –"
"It only takes the one," the other pointed out. "Frankly, I'm pretty disappointed. You've never let anyone escape before. Just what were you thinking, letting a Musketeer anywhere near another Musketeer without guards around? You know they're little devils. And you had nothing better to do than to unshackle him. And give him a weapon."
"It wasn't loaded," the captor protested.
"It doesn't matter!" D'Artagnan flinched violently as the ground underneath him boomed from the rumbling voice. "Musketeers can make a weapon out of pretty much anything. You should know that by now! But you just had to do it, didn't you? You just had to enforce your superiority, had to show them that you could do anything. Well, you can't. And now I have to freeze my ass off to help you find those two idiots, just because you thought you could."
A tense silence followed and d'Artagnan found himself drifting off, right there, on the ground next to the lion's den. After a while, though, the deep voice spoke up again and forced him to focus.
"How long do you plan on doing this for?" it asked. "I have enough of my own affairs to take care of, you know."
D'Artagnan saw the captor shrug in his mind's eye. "I hope we find them tomorrow. You yourself said that we're getting close."
"We are."
"Well, then there's nothing left to worry about."
Obviously, the other man had to object. "Besides your incompetence, of course. I will greatly reconsider our working relationship after this. You can be sure of that."
"You need me just as much as I need you," the captor barked. "And now stop acting all superior and let's focus on what we have to do."
The man grunted. "I will be right back." And it was silent once more.
If nothing before had been, this was definitely d'Artagnan's cue. He had to get away, and not just from there, he had to get away, period. He had to get home, to his brothers, and he had to survive.
He pushed himself up, his muscles groaning but his mouth not producing a single sound, and hurried away. He didn't look back. Heart in his throat, he felt his steps growing quicker and more frantic as his panic increased. He could hear the ground rustling behind him, as if someone were following him, but whenever he turned around, all he could see were trees and moss. At one point, he just turned forward and ran, without regard to anything else. He didn't even try to dodge obstacles in his way; to crouch or straighten his back would have been a hundred times more painful that to let the branches add a few scratches to his already marred skin.
His two horses came into view, and then René, sleeping peacefully against the tree. D'Artagnan didn't bother glancing around, didn't bother making sure that they were still alone; he merely prepared the horses as quickly as his weak hands would let him, and then skidded over to his friend.
"René," he whispered harshly. "We have to go."
To his surprise, he was met with two orbs. They were unfocused and twinkling glassily in the silvery light, but it was enough for d'Artagnan.
"Come here. You're going to have to help me."
He slowly, painfully got René to his feet, and supported him all of the five steps to the horses. The animals looked rested and ready. D'Artagnan helped René climb into the saddle of the first one – his own arms burning from the effort –, then mounted himself and positioned himself comfortably behind his friend so that he would be able to support him should the need arise. He grabbed the reins of the other horse and off they went.
D'Artagnan was no stranger to animals. He'd grown up on a farm and he knew what horses were capable of. One loaded as heavily as his, carrying two people at the same time, could hardly be expected to do much more than walk. But that wasn't enough. They had to get away from there as soon as possible.
So he spurred it into gallop.
The animal wouldn't be able to manage that for long. Neither would he, for that matter. His bruises made themselves known and René's body was once more slack against his. He had to stay conscious, though, otherwise they would both fall. And then they would be the easiest prey possible.
So after only a few minutes, he slowed the horse down into a canter and tried to relax. It was hard, because his body seemed to be caught in a cramp – not to mention his bleeding thigh. The horse sputtered and shook, already drained from the effort, and d'Artagnan patted it reassuringly on the neck.
"I know," he muttered. "I'm not feeling too peachy either. But we'll get through this, you and me. Right? And everything will be fine."
The horse's breaths grew more laboured. It carried them up a little hill and down the other side. The whole time, d'Artagnan was half-suspecting that someone might be on their heels – so when he finally did hear a sound, he wasn't surprised as much as he was angry. Couldn't they let him alone for just a freaking second?
But, of course, that was too much to ask.
He guided his horse away from the path and deeper into the woods. The sounds came closer and became clearer; they were the sounds of moving horses. He continued on deeper and deeper, his panic flaring – the riders were quickly approaching and he was still in plain sight.
He reached a group of boulders. They were just big enough for a man to hide behind, but not for a grown horse. His mind reeled, his thoughts curled and uncurled, and an idea started forming.
The sound of the horses' hooves became more noticeable. D'Artagnan could count the animals from afar – there were probably three of them, which meant three riders, three men to deal with. He had won against worse odds in the past, but this was not his day. He was tired and bruised and bloody. He couldn't win this. He couldn't win anything.
He pulled René off the horse, his hands rude and ungentle in the haste, then took one bag off the saddle and left the other three on. He hid René behind the boulder.
Then he crouched down and started planning.
