~§~
"'Tis was not how I imagined m'day going," Porthos growled, hands wrapped around his knees as he pulled his legs closer to his chest. It went against everything that he believed in, to be hiding like a coward as he currently was, but there were over twenty Red Guards surrounding them and, despite their best efforts, they had failed to lure them away from where Aramis was hiding.
Neither of them had gotten much rest in more than two days, first searching the tunnels and then watching over their injured brother for the whole of the previous day and throughout the night. Aramis' fever had steadily climbed and, at one point, in the middle of the night, Porthos was sure that he was going to lose his friend to same sickness that had taken his mother.
After his mother's passing, Porthos had sworn that never again in his life would he allow himself to feel as hopeless and impotent has he had felt watching her slowly drowning in sweat and vomit, too weak to even raise her head for a drink of water. There were no weapons to fight a fever, no defenses, no options but to surrender and pray for the best.
His prayers had gone unanswered when he was five, begging to a God he was too young to understand, his voice perhaps too small to reach the Heavens. Tears and snot had dribbled down his face and hands as he had feverishly repeated words his mother had taught him, making promises that only a child can make and break. Writhing in pain and heat on her deathbed, her mother had smiled at his devotion, before her mind became lost.
There had been no snot this time, but his prayers had been just as fervent, just as heartfelt as he begged and then threatened to turn his back on faith if God refused to listen to his words again.
As the sun begun to rise over the horizon, on the day after they had rescued their brother from Rochefort, Aramis' fever broke. And Porthos' heart became slightly lighter.
It had been Athos who had taken that lightness and plunged it back into the dark by pointing out that the Red Guards were getting closer. The older Musketeer had spent the night dividing his attention between Aramis and the movements of the Cardinal's men through the surrounding streets, in the hope that they would either give up or move past them. They had no such luck.
It was just a matter of time until they ended up knocking on Constance's door, either because someone pointed them that direction or because it was one of the few houses left in the street that they had yet to search.
Moving Aramis somewhere else had been out of the question. He would never be able to walk on his own and two men carrying a third was all that the Red Guards would need to know that they had found their prey.
Porthos had cast another look at Aramis before they had left, heaving a tired sigh. After cleaning and bandaging his wounds the best they could -there had been at least one on his back that could've used a little bit of needlework, but neither of them was very good at it and it would be cowardly to ask Constance to do it- they had carefully moved the injured Musketeer to the spare room that, as Madame Bonacieux had assured them, her husband was thinking about renting anyway.
Aramis had not said a word from the time they had found him to the moment they carried him into that room, nothing but a few deep and guttural moans of pain as they were forced to shift his body around in order to get him more comfortable.
Porthos could not understand why Aramis had allowed Rochefort to go that far, to hurt him so much for...for nothing, a ruse to prove something that they were all well aware of, that the Cardinal was a despicable man and that only the scum of the Earth would work for him. The mere thought of the matter filled Porthos heart with anger and made his fists hungry for guilty flesh.
It was one thing to do everything in one's power to protect the secrets of the kingdom, to safeguard the lives of their fellow soldiers and companions; that was a cause Porthos understood, one that he had been prepared to give his up life and had given his blood for, had so ever since he had met friends who were worth dying for, ever since he had become a soldier.
Allowing Rochefort to...Porthos felt the bile rise from his stomach at the mere thought of the burns covering Aramis' chest and back. To allow that...sewer rodent who pretended to be a man, to do that, to abuse him so, for the sake of planting a lie, that Porthos could not understand.
Unless Aramis harbored some secret wish for Rochefort to claim his life.
The idea came out of nowhere and planted itself ins his mind, taking root and refusing to be disregarded, as ideas often did. It made Porthos shudder, an icy cold feeling taking over his limbs.
Now that he was aware of what Aramis had been through, now that he knew what his friend had survived, Porthos couldn't help but wonder how attached to life Aramis truly was.
He had seen it before, during the war, and even prior to that, in the Court. Pigeon's whole family had been taken by disease, some type of boils that no one had been able to stop, not until it had taken his wife and three children. Pigeon alone had been spared, and life had gone on. Carelessness, rather than grief, had claimed Pigeon's life not one month after the passing of his family, sending him to his death under the wheels of a speeding carriage, during a robbery.
Porthos had been there; he could still remember the feel of Pigeon's sleeve slipping from the grasp of his fingers as the man raced towards the carriage that had been going at too great a speed for them to force it to stop. Everyone knew that it would be courting Death to even try, but Pigeon hadn't cared. And that had been the death of him.
Deathwish or not, it looked like Aramis would, quite possibly, outlive Porthos and Athos, the way things were going sideways. They were surrounded, taking cover behind a few barrels abandoned by the morning merchants when the Red Guards started flooding the courtyard. It was only a matter of time before the Guards decided to end the game of cat-and-mouse that they had been playing and started using their pistols.
"Treville should be here by now," Athos whispered, more to himself than to the man by his side.
Porthos nodded, nevertheless. "Ya think he got t'message?" he asked, wording his question around the fact that Athos seemed to have put a lot of faith into a girl that he had just met the previous day, in the Court of Miracles, of all places. She had been helping them, Porthos couldn't deny that, and she had been crucial in getting them in and out of those accursed tunnels, but he also knew where she came from and how a place like the Court could mold and twist people.
"She got the message to him," Athos replied, reading him like a book. "There must be some other reason for his delay."
Porthos nodded again, turning his head to look at the street that led directly to the garrison. Still not a Musketeer in sight.
The faint whistle of a ball flying, quickly followed by the an explosion of white plaster on the wall behind them made Porthos curl down and seek protection. The Red Guards had decided to act, then.
Porthos and Athos wasted no time in returning fire, swiftly raising up just long enough to aim and shoot, not sticking around to wait and see if they hit their target. Screams of pain and the sounds of bodies hitting the ground were more than enough to know that they had not wasted a shot.
There was no time to recharge their pistols. The Red Guards were on top of them as soon as the smoke cleared, aware that there was only the two of them and the safety of numbers was on their side.
Athos and Porthos fought back-to-back, pushing and parrying, fending off two and three blades at the same time.
It was an impossible battle to maintain for longer than a few seconds. Athos, the better swordsman between the two of them, was still no match for the sheer number of bodies surrounding them and slowly pushing them into the open; Porthos, who had always preferred his fists to a blade, was having more trouble keeping track of every single attack that was coming his way, hissing in pain as one blade finally made contact, slicing skin and muscle on his left arm.
"Come on, ya lil'shits!" Porthos screamed in a mixture of anger and hopelessness. They were going to die in this courtyard and then it would be only a matter of minutes until the Cardinal's men figured out which house they had been protecting and were all over Aramis and Constance. The failure hurt more than the prospect of twenty blades piercing his body.
Instead of blades, however, it was a loud bang in the courtyard that drew the attention of Musketeers and Guards alike.
The sky above them, which had turned blue and cloudless at some point without anyone taking notice, was now red, like the clouds had decided to change color and join them on the land. Another explosion flashed above them, sounding like thunder and a yellow explosion of light cascaded down to join the red, forming a colorful rain.
The Red Guards shrieked and scrambled away from the colorful sparks tumbling towards them, ignoring their intended targets and using their arms and hands to protect their heads.
Porthos had no idea what those colorful and loud lights were. It sounded like black powder, but he had never seen colorful black powder before. What he could see was that the sparks, like they were made of smoke instead of light, faded away long before they reached even a foot above the head of the tallest of the Red Guards.
They were fools if they were afraid of something that couldn't possibly do them any sort of harm-
When the first Guard dropped to the ground, his forehead a bloody mess, Porthos revised his theory. And then another fell, in exactly the same manner.
"Shit! Wha' t'hell is tha'?..." Porthos let out, fighting the urge to take a step back and protect his own head as well.
Athos, by his side, looked as surprised and confused as he, even as he pulled at the taller man's sleeve to get him to move. "It's just fireworks," he whispered, looking at the colorful lights still exploding in the sky above them. "I have seen them only once, from afar. They are nothing but bags filled with black powder and colorful dust," he added, clearly also lost as to why these, in particular, were killing men.
Because there was no denying that the Red Guards continued to drop around them. Two more had fallen less than a minute after the first. The ones still standing had such a look of terror on their faces that Porthos was sure they would be running away, were their legs capable of moving at that moment.
"There," Athos whispered as they pushed through the mass of bodies, his eyes looking at some spot on one of the roofs surrounding the courtyard. The roof across from Constance's.
While he could not see who stood there, the figure cleverly hidden from view, he could clearly see the trail of smoke as the firework sticks rose into the air before exploding in a burst of light and color. Still, he couldn't understand what was killing the Guards. Porthos closed his eyes for a moment, willing his ears to shed some light over the mystery his sight was unable to solve. There!
The sounds were very close by, but over the unfamiliar pop of the fireworks, Porthos could hear another explosion, a smaller one. One he was very familiar with. A pistol being fired.
"T'fireworks are just a decoy," he whispered to Athos. "Some'un is shootin' t'bastards!" Porthos grinned, a strange sight to see on a man surrounded on all sides with enemies. Logic told him that there was only one person that could be doing this, one man that could shoot with such precision and accuracy. But in his mind, that man was bedridden, consumed by fever and the pain from all that he had endured at Rochefort's hands and with a useless right arm.
They were almost at the edge of the courtyard when Porthos caught a glimpse of their improbable savior. From a window near the top of Constance's house, barely visible under the glare of the sun, he could see the very edge of a pistol barrel. Smoke exploded from its tip and, down below, another man screamed and fell dead.
It was not the time for questions, though. It was their chance to escape with their lives intact, and neither Porthos nor Athos were willing to waste the help they were receiving from above. It was not enough, though.
The fireworks went on for a few minutes, but the pistol had gone silent at some point, no more guards falling dead to the ground. Slowly, the Red Guards started to realize that God was no longer striking them from above, as some had seemed to think and begun to return their attention to the two Musketeers in their midst.
Even as swords were once more dawned in their direction, Porthos' primal concern was not for his safety but as to why Aramis had stopped his aid.
~§~
Treville was furious. Partly at the Cardinal's ability to scheme his way out and come out mostly unscathed and smelling of roses from his involvement both with Savoy and the explosion at the garrison, but mostly at his inability to prove that the man's hands were in deep in both tragedies.
The Cardinal was getting away, but at least Rochefort would not escape the King's justice. What was left of his life would be spent behind iron bars until the day to face the noose came. And it could not come too soon.
Being in the hands of the Cardinal, knowing what he knew about the First Minster, only meant that the Comte would probably not live long enough to regret his choices or swing from the end of a rope. Richelieu had a way of tying up loose ends that never failed to end in blood.
The Cardinal's words as they had left the King's presence had made sure to sent Treville into a state of constant worry and to start a frantic for Aramis. There had been no word from Athos or Porthos and every group of Musketeers that he had sent out had returned empty handed on the whereabouts of any of those three.
There was one person, however, who knew for certain where Aramis was, which was why Treville had left the constricting boundaries of his office and decided to shout and threaten his way into the Comte de Rochefort's prison cell at the Bastille. "Tell me where he is," the Captain demanded as soon as he stopped in front of the locked door.
Since the day he had decided to dedicate his life to serving the King, first as a commander of armies and then as the leader of the Musketeers, never once had Treville felt the allure of taking justice into his own hands.
Looking at the poor excuse of a man behind those bars, the Captain felt himself wavering in his beliefs for the first time.
"You are a fool," Rochefort said as a greeting, his cold eyes filled with mirth even in the gloom. "A fool that surrounds himself with bigger fools, so that his foolishness may pass unnoticed."
"Where is he?" Treville repeated, ignoring the blatant provocation in the Comte's words. If he were to lose his temper, Aramis' life would be forfeit and Rochefort's blood would certainly be on his hands. As it was, the tight grip he was keeping on his sword was the only thing preventing him from punching the smug man through the bars.
"Dead."
The Captain's nostrils flared in anger. "You lie," he hissed, because anything other than that would be unacceptable. "Where is he?"
"This one was quite young, was he not? Pretty too…well, at least he was before I started," the Comte went on, the sly smile on his face telling how much the words were meant to provoke Treville and how much pleasure he was taking from the Captain's reaction. "Is that how you pick the men that join your ranks? Or just by how far they're willing to go to serve your lost causes? Because one can tell that they're all incompetent fools, judging by the number that die under your command. Or maybe it is the hand that guides them..."
Treville's hand curled around the iron bars, white knuckles pressing into the metal. For a moment he was thrown back in time and was standing in front of the Duke of Savoy, informing him of the whereabouts of his Musketeers, the King's command forcing him to betray him men. Did Rochefort knew about that? Had the Cardinal shared those plans with him? "I could tell you about honor and duty," he eventually said, his voice low and carefully controlled. "But it would truly be a waste of French to try and explain concepts that you will never understand, Rochefort."
The Comte's smile slipped for the first time since the Captain's arrival, a vicious snarl replacing it. "It was truly a pity that I couldn't have more time with your half-Spanish dog, Treville," he voiced, his tongue slicking out to brush his lips. "The way his screams echoed around his broken body, the way he begged me to stop, to kill him…I only did my duty as a God-fearing man when I obliged his cowardly pleas and slit his throat. By the end, he was more than willing to do anything I thought to ask of him, spineless animal that he was," Rochefort commented, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. "You should be grateful...in a way, my blade saved his honor."
"You lie," Treville hissed, suddenly frustrated by the presence of bars between the two of them. The fact that Rochefort kept referring to Aramis in the past tense was starting to grade on him, his certainty that the Comte was lying fading with each sentence that he uttered. "Tell me where he is, and I'll make sure that the Cardinal doesn't do to you the same he did to Gerard!"
Rochefort's face paled and he made no attempt to deny a reality that he was well aware of. He had been the one that the Cardinal had used to make sure that no one knew of his involvement in the garrison's explosion, but the Comte was smart enough to know that he wasn't the only agent in the First Minister's pay. "I was the one who killed that rat," he said, his voice almost steady, barely betraying the doubt that he was starting to feel. "Were you not listening when I made my confession? I killed him because he could betray me, not the Cardinal," he added, his voice slightly raised above the whispering tone he'd been using so far.
The Cardinal had eyes and ears everywhere. Treville was aware of that and Rochefort, who was no fool, certainly knew it just as well. "You think yourself safe in here?" the Captain growled, stepping closer. "Do you think your title will protect you after the King Himself has damned you? Tell me what I want to know and you can count on my protection, the only anyone will offer you now."
Treville knew that the Comte was a proud and pompous man, but he had never expected him to be so to the extent to throw away his life. Rochefort laughed, a dry sound that made the hair at the back of Treville's neck stand at attention. "A fool, surrounded by bigger fools," he said again. "I left the fool you're looking for hanging from the ceiling, his pants soiled like a child and his throat gaping open, like a whore's legs!"
Treville's anger consumed him, his whole world turning blinding white as he hit the iron bars. The sound of metal hitting metal echoed across the small prison, the only hint the Captain had his pistol in his hand, his finger itching to discharge it.
Slowly, in a gesture that required more strength than he thought himself to possess, Treville loosened the grip on his pistol and withdrew, taking a deep breath.
Rochefort wasn't going to tell him anything. He was merely wasting Treville's time, stalling while the Cardinal, no doubt, sent his men to whatever hideout Rochefort had used to kill Aramis. "I hope you'll be spared the noose," Treville whispered before leaving. "It will give me great pleasure to know you rotting away in some forgotten cell for the rest of your miserable life, knowing that those whom you have wronged will live full and joyful lives, basking in the light of a sun that you will never see again."
Rochefort laughed, the cruel sound bouncing around the walls like a wolf seeking his prey. "Like I said...a fool."
~§~
If nothing else, the fireworks and the hidden shooter had managed turned the tide of the fight, making sure it would be less of a massacre and more of an actual fight.
For Athos, there was only the sense of danger and avoiding serious injury, not because he feared either, but for what was at stake. With only two of them fighting the Red Guards, one of them falling would surely mean the end of the battle for the other one. He could not do that to Porthos.
They were both exhausted, the effort of lifting their blades becoming more and more of a impossible task, muscles quivering and beginning to turn rebellious, refusing to obey his commands. And then he saw it.
Back when Athos was a small boy, he and Thomas used to spend one hour a day with Brother Serras, learning the holy scripture. For the most part, those stories were a terrible bore and he barely remembered half of them.
There were some, however, that he'd never forgotten, like Cain's murder of his brother or Moses and his people's escape from Egypt. As a child, the idea of such distant lands and the mysteries hidden there had been nothing short of wondrous, filling him with awe and curiosity, longing to see such things and live those kinds of adventures. The parting of the Red Sea, in particular, had impressed him, for truly only a superior being could manage such an astonishing deed.
Athos had tried to imagine what such a feat would look like. He had failed to do so as a child; his adult self, however, had no need of using his imagination. He was seeing it now.
Instead of water, it was a sea of red from the Guards' uniforms that he saw parting reluctantly, forced apart by a flood of blue from the Musketeers' cloaks. Leading them, looking more fierce than Moses defending his people, was Treville.
With the balanced tipped, the Red Guards soon realized that they were fighting a battle that they could not win or cared to die for, a sudden chorus of 'I surrender' replacing the sound of clashing swords. It was over in minutes.
"How are you two?" Treville asked as soon as the last of the Guards dropped his weapon on the ground. Even as he asked, the Captain's eyes were carefully running over them, analyzing every splotch of blood and tear in their clothing. "Do you require a surgeon?"
Athos shook his head, regretting the action as it sent his vision spinning. It was nothing but tiredness, he was sure of that, but still it would not do for his reputation and pride to flounder around like a drunk man after battle, certainly not when he could not recall the last time he had sat down with a glass of wine on his hands. "We're alright, sir," he finally answered, focusing his eyes on the most solid of the three Trevilles he was currently seeing. "What took you so long?"
From the Captain's raised eyebrow, Athos gathered that his question had come out rather demanding, perhaps - most likely - too insubordinate for a Musketeer addressing his leader, but he was too tired to care.
"Rochefort is in prison," Treville informed them. "I was returning from speaking to him when I met your new friend," he pointed out, his voice flat and composed. He was not justifying himself in front of his men, Athos realized, merely sharing with them important information. "Quite the feisty one, that little lady...had to lock her in the kitchen with Serge to stop her from coming with the rest of the regiment to rescue you."
Athos could feel a smile taking over his lips, imagining Charlotte's lack of propriety and respect when talking to Treville. It was a wonder that their message had come across at all.
"We came as fast as we could," Treville concluded, looking around at the bodies on the ground and taking in his men. "And Aramis, where is he? Have you found him? Does he live?"
Despite the calm and efficient way the questions were asked, Treville was doing a poor job at masking his concern. In between escaping the tunnels, providing assistance to their injured friend and escaping the Red Guards, there had been no time and no one available to send word to Treville, something that the former Comte had deeply regretted when they had found themselves surrounded. Now, unaware of what had happened so far, Athos could only imagine what sort of grim conclusions the Captain was reaching from the absence of Aramis from the battle. "He is safe," he said, putting some of Treville's concerns at rest.
While it had been clear that it had been Aramis' aim that had aided them at the beginning of the battle, the abrupt way in which it stopped fueled Athos' own concerns over what might have happened to his friend. Porthos, fidgeting by his side, seemed more than eager to go find the answer to that question.
"We left'im with Madame Bonacieux," Porthos said, his gaze still lingering at the window where they had seen the pistol barrel. "He wasn't lookin' so good. Best we-"
There was no need to say anything further. The three moved as one, the same worry urging them forward, rushing their steps towards the house.
The house felt empty, too silent after the clamor of battle. "Aramis? Madame Bonacieux?" Porthos called out, getting no answer in return.
Their fears doubled in measure, making them race up the stairs that led to the room where they had left them both. More worrying than the fact that Aramis wasn't answering, it was Constance' silence that was stealing the breath from their collective chests. Had the Red Guards snuck past them and been inside the house already? Were they racing to meet two corpses?
As they entered the room where they had left Aramis, the only thing that Athos registered was the fact that the bed was empty and his friend was nowhere to be seen. So focused was his attention on that particular detail, that his foot slipped on something at the door of the bedroom, nearly making him lose his balance. Whatever he had stepped on rolled away with the sound of metal. A musket ball.
There were more on the floor, scattered like children's toys.
They found Aramis alone, like a boneless scarecrow, leaning against the window. By his side, still held in loose fingers, was one of the pistols Porthos had left behind, the pouch of gunpowder spilling its contents on the wooden floor like black snow.
Porthos was racing to their friend' side before anyone could react. Athos thought to follow, but his body seemed utterly detached from his mind and paying no attention to his thoughts.
He had to look down, to make sure that his feet were not, in fact, strapped to the ground, preventing him from taking another step. Inside his chest, Athos could feel his heart racing, thrashing as a madman. He was absolutely sure that Porthos was going to search Aramis' body and find the musket ball that had claimed his life; that he would turn his body and everyone would be able to see the large stain on his chest, red and accusing.
"He's alive," Porthos announced, relief making his deep voice sound lighter, younger. "I can't see no new wounds on'im, but his fever's back."
"What in Heaven's name happened here?" Treville said, his eyes taking in the mess of supplies on the floor, Aramis' blood-stained bandages and the conspicuous absence of any of the house's owners. "Where are the Bonacieux?"
Athos was beginning to wonder the same thing. They had left Aramis in Constance's care and, while the woman held no obligation to do so, she had promised to look after him while they were gone. "Monsieur Bonacieux is traveling on business and Madame is-"
"Right here," a woman's voice announced, from the door, her face covered in soot. "What happened to him?"
Athos blinked, wondering if his exhaustion was making him imagine things, for the woman was a mirror of absolute composure, behaving in such a manner that hardly reflected her appearance. Judging from her face and clothes, one would think that she had been trapped inside a chimney. "Are you quite well, Madame?"
The smile that blossomed on her dirty face was like a ray of sunlight. And then Athos realized that she was not covered in soot, but gunpowder. "It was you!" he let out in surprise. "Where did you find the fireworks? I wasn't aware that their manufacture had already spread to French soil..." And he had absolutely no idea how a simple cloth merchant would have access to something so rare and expensive, but that went without saying.
Constance's cheeks reddened under the black dust. "They were a gift, from the last time my husband bought some rather expensive silk in his travels," she explained. "Best he doesn't find out what happened to his 'gunpowder sticks'..."
"Best 'im not finding out 'bout any of this," Porthos pointed out. "Ya talked to 'im? Did he say anythin' 'bout wha 'happen'?" he asked, clearly no longer talking about Constance's absent husband. He let out a faint huff of air as he pulled Aramis' unconscious form from the floor and carried him to the bed.
Their friend looked dwarfed in Porthos' hold, thin, pale limbs askew and dragging through the floor.
"He's a very stubborn man, your friend is," Constance let out, sounding slightly offended by that particular aspect of Aramis' personality. "It was all I could do to stop the fool from going downstairs and getting himself killed trying to help you two," she added with a gentle smile.
It was certainly one of the most infuriating aspects of Aramis' nature, and one that Athos was slowly starting to learn how to deal with. There was no stopping him when the man decided to risk his life for some foolish errand, that much was guaranteed but, as Constance had cleverly figured out, steered in the right direction it was possible to save Aramis from himself. "The fireworks were a very nice touch, Madame," he recognized, knowing that without them, Aramis would've been taken down after firing his first shot. In the condition he was in, it would have been impossible for him to reload at even a quarter of his usual speed.
Constance shrugged, like what had just happened was common-place in her life. "It was that or shouting from a window at the top of my lungs," she said with a smile, "and I like to save my shouting for someone who deserves it."
From the look she gave Aramis and everyone else inside that small room, Athos had an idea that there was going to be some of that shouting in their near future, if they misbehaved.
"I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Madame," Treville offered, replacing his hat on his head. "I shall see that a cart is sent to transport Aramis back to the garrison and allow your life to return to normalcy as soon as possible."
For a moment, Athos was certain that he'd seen disappointment in her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"Yes, normalcy," she agreed with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'd very much enjoy that."
Athos, more than accustomed to live his life in a state of constant lies and half truths, had no trouble recognizing the falseness of her words.