Chapter Two - Neither here nor there (Pt. 2)

Monsieur de Treville regarded his four best men in front of him with a stern look of expectancy. None of them fidgeted or broke into a sweat. All stood at attention and awaited their orders to proceed with their pre-approved plan. At length, the captain of the musketeers sighed and went around to the other side of his desk and retrieved the sealed official papers, which he handed to Athos. Taking that as a dismissal the musketeers began to file out of the room, and not without a victorious skip in their step and barely concealed smiles.

"Athos," Monsieur de Treville said, catching him on his way out the door. "You had better be right about this. Louis' patience is running thinner than the Cardinal's. I trust you'll understand that all our necks lie in wait?"

Athos didn't hesitate in his response. "You will have your evidence, Monsieur. I promise you."

"There will be no more chances after this."

"Understood."

"If you earn it," the captain said with a sigh. "You will all be placed on extended leave. However long you want."

Athos wanted to scoff, but remained impassive when he gave his answer. "Knowing Porthos, that won't be long enough for any of our likings."

The captain cracked the barest hints of a smile for the first time since they all had entered the hotel. Athos bowed and exited the building. Then the four friends made their way over to the training grounds and barracks to put the final stages of their plan into place. By nightfall musketeers and guards alike were each respectively partnered up for experience and the task at hand. Under Treville's and Essart's combined supervision they mapped out routes, checkpoints, the point of interception, and the position of reserves should the need call for them.

With the safe house commandeered for prisoner detainment afterwards, nothing was left to be done but for one insightful suggestion by D'Artagnan. Supervised by Aramis, he gave his friends and some other musketeers and guardsmen a quick rundown of key words in Spanish that could signal a possible escape attempt or attack. After that every man broke for the evening meal and returned after darkness fell, ready and hungry for action. One last minute particular was a weapons check, and once everything was found to be in working order the four inseparables left to take their positions at the very bridge where their contacts had said their enemies would attempt to exit the city and bring their shipments to the Calvinists in the south.

When they deemed the area secure Porthos held out his fist, to which Aramis laid a hand overtop it. D'Artagnan and Athos moved at the same time and bumped hands. Athos looked over at him but D'Artagnan looked down and pulled back a bit out of surprise and respect, not wanting to offend the man any further. But when Athos grabbed his hand and secured it between his and Aramis' he shook off his insecurities and gave his friends a reassuring smile, secretly pleased on the inside that things hadn't deteriorated too badly since last night.

A knowing and understanding look passed through all four men before they parted to take their places. D'Artagnan and Porthos were to be at the mouth of the bridge on either side, obscured by the edifices that looked out over the Seine River. Porthos crossed the road, calm and nonchalant, choosing a dark doorway underneath a low-lying eave to obscure himself. Aramis went next, walking to the corner of the bridge and stopping to wait for Athos with his back turned. It would be him and Athos who would hide under the side ledges of the bridge until their targets were in such a position to where all four of them could surround the party without trouble. It was certainly the most strenuous of the positions they had to take, but neither man complained about it.

And ironically of them all, Athos abhorred the idea of swimming, but the main gave no complaints. D'Artagnan had volunteered himself for part of the job but Athos stoutly refused the boy's offer. He had wanted to argue with Athos but couldn't figure out a way how to voice his opinions without insulting the man. Instead he bit his tongue and accepted the least dangerous position with thinly veiled reluctance. It was three against one after all, and he had made a promise to Athos, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

D'Artagnan looked up at an empty balcony above him which regrettably was to be his spot for the night and noted that the brickwork would make it difficult to climb, but not impossible. He turned back to Athos, daring to think that his friend would give him a leg up, but found the man pulling out his pistol. Athos loaded it and then pressed the gun into D'Artagnan's hand. "The trigger sticks so be careful," Athos said.

D'Artagnan frowned as he held the familiar weight of the weapon. "Won't you need this?"

"You'll be at a better vantage point than any of us. And I would rather not lose it in the Seine should it slip loose from my pocket." Athos looked at him with something that could neither be described as normally aloof nor openly affectionate. It was something in the middle. Fierce and mesmerizing.

Though he wasn't a demonstrative man, D'Artagnan had learned to pick up on quite a few things about the older musketeer. And something told him that it wasn't just a matter of trust that made Athos give him the gun. Hope blossomed in his chest, because though it wasn't much, it was the closest to a full apology as he was going to get from Athos. Just knowing that he was forgiven was all he could have asked for. So, this time, when he smiled, it was with a lighter heart.

"Make sure I don't have to use it," D'Artagnan replied, pointing a finger at the man for emphasis.

Athos raised an eyebrow as he stowed his gloves away. "And if you do, make sure you don't waste the bullet."

"Athos," D'Artagnan asked quietly.

"Yes, boy," Athos sighed.

The boy turned to the older man in the dark and stood to his full height, which wasn't all that tall compared to his companion, but the weight of his words made him feel as such. "This isn't my pistol. And I don't want to become familiar with it. I fully expect to return it to you when we're done."

Athos looked at him with hard eyes. "And I fully expect you to as well. I trust I don't need to remind you of your promise."

"Our promise," D'Artagnan corrected him.

Athos rolled his eyes, but nodded his head in agreement. Without further comment, the older man held out his cupped hands and D'Artagnan took the cue to get a leg up to the bottom ledge of the balcony. He barely caught it due to his short height and had to heave himself up largely with his arms. He swung his leg up and hooked a foot through the iron-rails and climbed awkwardly the rest of the way over the flat railing to safety. He grunted from the effort, annoyed at his less than graceful landing on his backside and when he peered over the edge he swore he saw Athos smirking.

"We have faith in you," Athos whispered up to him. Before he went his countenance hardened again and he pointed a finger up at him in such a way that brokered no room for argument. "No heroics."

"Nor for you," the boy returned. "Or the promise is off."

Athos cast one final heated glare at him before he shook his head and crossed the street to an impatient Aramis. D'Artagnan watched with an anxious spirit as they made their way to the middle of the bridge, parted to either side, and hopped over the stone balustrade, disappearing from street view. He could barely make Aramis out in the distance, but let himself relax against the stone wall of the empty building behind him, into the shadows. A small handheld mirror from his pocket helped him see around the corner of the building without giving himself away.

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

And wait some more…

Until sounds of horses and a wooden cart startled them all out of their dozing. As it turned out their Spanish company arrived earlier than planned, but not by much. D'Artagnan signaled to Porthos first and then used the mirror to signal Aramis next, catching the light from the full moon. Then he pressed himself as close to the window next to him as he dared. A large covered cart slowly rolled by, pulled by two tired horses and directed by a man hunched over and hidden by a large hood. Next to him sat a man with a musket under his boots. In the cart behind them, on top of covered supplies sat two more armed men, and following the cart behind were another two on horseback. Once they started over the bridge D'Artagnan swept his gaze over to Porthos, who moved in once they crossed the threshold.

He signaled to Aramis again and watched as his two friends sprung in front of the company, halting their journey out of Paris. D'Artagnan held his breath and kept a firm finger on the trigger of the pistol. He could distantly hear words being exchanged, and Porthos being insulted, which was his first clue that things would not proceed well at all. Then he saw one of the horseback men raise his musket. And Porthos was looking in the other direction. D'Artagnan didn't hesitate. He aimed and fired. Then, when his target went down with a cry of pain and imminent death, all hell broke loose. He secured the gun at his side again and flung himself over the railing, hearing shouts, clashes of swords, and a few gunshots mixed in the fray. He landed hard and in a heap on the sidewalk but he pushed himself up and raced to Porthos' side, who was currently engaged in a duel with the other man who had been on horseback. One of the musket men who had been sitting in the back of the cart leapt out and rushed at D'Artagnan, intending on taking him by surprise, but the young man was ready and dispatched him in an instant.

"Nicely done, lad," Porthos called, as he lunged and pressed his enemy forward towards the edge of the bridge.

"What, you're not finished with yours yet," D'Artagnan called back, teasing as he held back another man who tried to rush him. "You're getting slow!"

Porthos chuckled as his enemy grew more frantic, pressed against the side of the bridge. "I'm merely repaying this villain for his foul mouth!"

D'Artagnan let his enemy push him backwards, then used the man's momentum against him, spun around, and cut the back of his legs with a quick swipe that ended any further threat. "Ah, so he's the one that insulted you."

"Unfortunately for him, yes," he friend said, driving his point home with a punch to the face that sent the man to the ground, unconscious.

Athos and Aramis held their own against another two men that D'Artagnan hadn't previously seen. He looked around for the other man he had seen in the back of the cart and was suddenly thrown off his feet as the enemy in question barreled into him with great force. D'Artagnan groaned after his impact with the unforgiving side of the bridge and spat out some blood from where he had inadvertently bit the inside of his cheek. He scrambled to his feet in the dark, for the moon had gone into some clouds when their fight had begun. He reclaimed his sword when he picked his head up and saw Porthos on the ground shouting and cursing between the two men who were trying to do him a worse injury.

D'Artagnan rushed to his side to make it a fair fight but both Spaniards ran when they saw him coming. For only a second D'Artagnan stopped to see what had been done and was furious to see that not only had they disarmed Porthos and knocked him off his feet, but they had injured him while he was down and defenseless, stabbing him clean through in his right thigh and stomping on the arm of his sword hand. The latter injury, even through the large man's shirt, stuck out at an odd angle and told the Gascon all he needed to know without having to differ to a physician.

"Bastards," Porthos cursed, holding his bleeding calf in his other hand and cradling the broken arm to his chest.

D'Artagnan would have stayed to tend to his injured friend but the logical part of him saw nothing but red. Revenge and stubborn perseverance that their plan not fail and that those villains pay for acting the way they had ruled his feet. Porthos called after him but he ignored his friend's calls with a slightly guilty heart. D'Artagnan growled as he full out sprinted down the streets, shouting after the Spaniards as he went, sometimes in his own native tongue and half in theirs.

"Come back here, you cowards!"

Athos turned at hearing D'Artagnan's cry and groaned when he saw the boy chasing after two Spaniards that were trying to escape. He finally finished quick with his man, who had been a far more formidable adversary than he had first surmised, disarming him and dealing a vicious and debilitating blow that was sure to keep him down until the cavalry arrived-speaking of which, he thought in annoyance, where the hell were they?!

"D'Artagnan," Athos called, part in outrage due to their now broken oath. But his call was in vain because the boy continued running without hearing him. Just before he disappeared around a corner Athos heard the rest of their musketeers arrive behind them and join in to detain the wounded adversaries. He turned to Aramis who was holding a man at his mercy with his sword. He too had heard their young friend take off and cast another worried glance at Porthos who was sitting up with a firm grimace on his face.

"Go, Athos," Aramis said. "Our friends can handle this and I'll see to Porthos."

Athos nodded, needing nothing more, and took off after the boy, cursing at regular intervals and planning exactly what he would do once he found D'Artagnan.

"Vayas, Mateo," (Go, Mateo!) one of them shouted in a rough voice. "Vayas!" Then the same man spun around, didn't bother to draw his sword, and engaged D'Artagnan in an all out no-holds-barred fist–fight street brawl. He knocked the boy's sword away bare-handed and with ease-to which D'Artagnan would have colored in embarrassment in front of his superiors if he weren't busy trying not to be manhandled into submission.

Seeing as how the man was taller, leaner, and stronger than him, D'Artagnan was hard-pressed to gain the upper hand, never mind preventing the other man from escaping. For every punch and blow he landed, his adversary delivered three. At one point or another pain disappeared into the background when you had to fight for your own survival. One particular fist to the face had him tasting and spilling more blood from his mouth, but he retaliated in kind by grabbing the man's head and introducing it to his knee. This wasn't the first brawl he'd gotten himself into, and it certainly wouldn't be his last.

The Spaniard stumbled and D'Artagnan used the moment of weakness to catch his own breath. "Has perdido," D'Artagnan exclaimed. (You've lost!)

The Spaniard glared at him, but did not advance. Some shock in his face registered, likely due to the fact he hadn't expected a small French boy to know his native tongue. D'Artagnan would have smirked at that small victory, but he was too busy trying to remember the correct words and form them behind bruised and bloody cheeks and lips. "Tus amigos están presos y que pronto lo sera," D'Artagnan continued. "Dar seguridad y guardar lo que el honor que le queda." (Your friends are prisoners and you soon will be. Give up and save what honor you have left.)

"No hay tal cosa," the man responded, cold and deadly. (There is no such thing!)

D'Artagnan lunged for his sword but his enemy was faster and ran into him, wrapping his arms around his small middle, and tackled them both into a newly furnished stone balustrade on the small staircase outside a noble's house. The damp cement gave way but did nothing to cushion the impact on D'Artagnan's back. He cried out as the pain ricocheted up to his head and down to his legs, stunning him momentarily.

The Spaniard groaned at the impact but recovered enough to pull out a dagger from his belt. As he brought the blade down to finish his opponent, D'Artagnan dodged it by a thin margin, receiving a scrape on the side of his face for it. Dizziness disorientated his vision and made his limbs heavy and awkward but he managed to gain some leverage and start pummeling the man's head with his fists, growing more desperate by the minute to end the fight before his strength left him completely.

But the bigger man threw D'Artagnan off him like he was a rag doll and staggered to his feet. D'Artagnan was slower, gritting his teeth against the sharp immobilizing pain in his back, but he was ready when the Spaniard came at him again. The rest of the fight was vague. All he knew was the shaky adrenaline energizing his body and the pain that was slowing it. Sure he had been faster, but he was pitted against an experienced fighter who fought dirty and probably only carried a sword to play a part. And, he suddenly realized, his first mistake had been expecting that their match wouldn't stoop to such a low level of sportsmanship.

The Spaniard dealt him a strong uppercut and then grabbed the side of his head and rammed it down to meet the stone that was left intact of the staircase.

With a sickening crack, D'Artagnan knew no more but darkness.

Athos saw the injury, saw D'Artagnan fall like a lead weight, and he saw the boy not get up afterwards. Fear seized in his chest and spurred him on faster to his friend's aide. The Spaniard drew his own sword and moved to deal a killing blow, and Athos neither shouted a warning nor tried to keep his footfalls silent as he approached and swung out with his rapier, catching the villain in the face. The Spaniard saw him at the last moment and screamed in pain and clutched at his face as he pulled back. Athos paused for only a second to check on the boy's condition. D'Artagnan was still out cold and hadn't moved an inch from where Athos had seen him fall. Though on the inside he was raging for the villain's blood, somehow his head kept him still and close to the boy.

"Hijo de perra," (You son of a bitch!) the Spaniard spat between his bloody fingers, brandishing his sword in a blind rage.

"To me, villain," Athos threatened. "Or your miserable life will end slower than you think!"

"Lucio," another man called, down the street. "Tenemos que irnos!" (We must go!)

Lucio panted and glowered as if looks could kill, but Athos' sword was steady and he met those murderous eyes with a deathly cold pair himself.

"Vaminos, Lucio," (Let's go, Lucio!) his friend called again. "Ahora!" (Now!)

Lucio spat a mouthful of blood at Athos, and it took nearly all of his self-restraint not to retaliate. He pointed at the Frenchman with his sword. "Que te vas a arrepentir el día de hoy!" (You will rue this day!)

"As will you," Athos seethed, understanding enough from his schooling days to know when he was being threatened.

Athos didn't put his rapier away until both villains were out of sight and he could no longer hear them. Then, he moved with a purpose, stooping by the boy's side and trying but failing to rouse him. He felt the boy's head for the injury he witnessed and noticed that the dark pool beneath the boy's head hadn't been a shadow.

It was a dark pool of blood.

Blood that was staining his hands.

Blood that had no business seeping out in the first place!

"No," he gasped. He hastily shrugged off his cloak, balled it up and gently lifted the boy's bloody head to pillow the material underneath it. Then he grabbed a handkerchief in his pocket and pressed it to the boy's head to staunch the flow. "You stupid little fool!"

Fear was something Athos never admitted to. Ever. And though he was not immune to its power, he learned over time to tame it-wild as it still was in moments like this. Because if he gave into those fears, those incessant thoughts and memories of-

Not again. Not again. Dear God, not again!-

…then he could be of no use, no help when his friend needed him most. And more than anything he absolutely hated feeling or being useless. So it was with steadier hands that he searched his pockets and pulled out another handkerchief-one of Aramis'-and added it to the already soaked one. He looked around, wildly, and to his dismay found no guards or musketeers in sight, or perhaps within calling distance. Then his eyes landed on something glittering by the boy's side. With one hand on the boy's head he reached out with the other one to see what it was.

In the scarce moonlight a gold-hilted dagger shone bright enough to reveal a small, if slightly worn, crest at the top of the blade just below the hilt. He would have stuck the blade in his belt but he froze when the barrel of a musket was placed at the back of his head. He guessed that it was the owner of the house come to see who had disturbed his home and destroyed his property, so he reigned in his rampant emotions and spoke with an authority that would have cowed the most staunch of soldiers he had the pleasure of knowing. "I am a musketeer of the king's guard, monsieur," he declared. "You would do well to lower your musket."

"Athos," a familiar voice asked in surprise.

The musketeer spun around and stared at his good but old friend above him in confusion. Memory counted the years for Athos, reminding him of the long periods of time between visits and letters, but despite that negligence, he was more than glad to be in the man's company at present. "Mainard?"

"I'll be damned." The tall bearded man lowered his gun with a smirk. He looked around for the Spaniards who ran off, back to his frightened family beyond the doors of his house, then gestured down to the still D'Artagnan with the same air of urgency that Athos was radiating. "That one of your boys?"

"Yes," was all Athos could manage.

"I'll go fetch the guard and a physician," Mainard said, giving his musket over to his eldest and shutting him behind the door before taking off. "Don't move him!"

"Hurry," Athos called after him.

Not too long after Mainard disappeared from sight did the boy start coming around. His eyes fluttered open. His breathing hitched as he tried to move, and he moaned in discomfort and pain from his efforts.

"Lie still," Athos said, holding D'Artagnan down. "You've hit your head pretty badly. Help should be coming soon."

The boy obeyed probably just to keep the pain at bay instead of actually heeding his warning. But moments later D'Artagnan was again trying to sit up, mumbling nonsense and waving, or attempting to wave, his arms at Athos to either keep him away or use him as leverage to get up. Athos tried to be patient with the boy but that virtue wore out the moment the boy's face turned pale and he turned to the side to vomit the insides of his stomach.

Though Athos inwardly sighed at the inconvenience, he held onto D'Artagnan's thin frame and kept him from falling over into his own mess. He wondered where the strength for the strong retching came from, and from the looks of it so did the boy. After he was done, D'Artagnan shook like a leaf and gasped for breath. He clutched at Athos' arm that was snug around his waist. "Easy, boy," Athos whispered in his ear. "I have you."

D'Artagnan seemed to breathe easier at that, and-dare Athos think it-appeared a bit stronger and more about his wits than before. "Th-Thank y-you, m-"

That word. That one traitorous word instilled such a fit of unspoken but harsh terror in Athos that it seemed to make every hair on his body stand on end. Breath had been stolen from his body by that unfamiliar word, and left him as empty as a punch to the gut would have done. And those lively eyes…

That young face…

Those features he knew so well…

They turned foreign and unrecognizable, slapping him in the face with an intense gravity of wrongness.

"What did you say," Athos whispered, unable to confront such an absurd truth, not with this unnamable icy chill in his heart.

"I would properly beg your pardon, monsieur," D'Artagnan said with a pained but blank look. "But I do not believe I know you…"