Eight.

The sunlight shining in through the window woke Aramis from his sleep, and he stretched carefully. His back sent radiating pain through his body, but it was not as bad as it had been the last couple of days. He felt more awake and alive than he had in days, and he carefully sat up in bed. He was in his smallclothes, his cross and rosary still around his neck. He knew his friends would never mind at removing his clothes when necessary, but they had so far never, ever, removed his rosary. They knew what it meant to him. He rubbed his face carefully, as if trying to rub the sleep away from his eyes.

Looking up he realized he was alone in the room, and he frowned as he wondered where d'Artagnan had gone. Looking around he saw the lad's leather still draped over a chair along with his weapons, but he was nowhere near to be seen. Aramis carefully put his feet down to the floor, testing his shaky legs a little bit before attempting to stand. He smiled pleased as his legs held his weight, and he took a wobbly step forward. He caught himself with a hand towards the wall as everything turned black for a moment, but a few breaths cleared that up. He walked over to the table and held onto a chair as he drank a large portion of the water standing there.

He found a linen sweater that he was quite certain didn't belong to him, but he donned it anyway, before pulling on his trousers and boots. Having a look at himself in the mirror made him sigh – he needed a bath, and he needed a shave. His unruly hair was everywhere, and his beard was getting out of hand. Giving his head a small shake, he left the room he'd been in for the last couple of days, and made his way down the stairs.

He had not expected the sight he was met with, but after the initial shock had eased out, he smiled happily.

He had a full view of the kitchen ovens as he walked down, and inside the kitchen were a woman not much older than himself, standing with both her hands stirring at two different pots, she had a wide smile on her face as she laughed out loud. Next to her were d'Artagnan, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, kneading away on dough that looked as it would be bread in the near future. D'Artagnan had a cheeky smile on his face, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

Aramis slowly made his way over to the bar desk by the opening of the kitchen, where he sat down on a barstool and leaned over the desk, happily observing his friend. It took them both a moment to notice him, and as they did d'Artagnan smiled happily.

"Aramis! You are up!"

D'Artagnan grabbed a large cup and filled it with water as he made his way over to Aramis, setting the cup down next to him. The woman behind him filled a bowl from one of the pots she had been stirring, and gave it to d'Artagnan who in his turn put it down in front of Aramis.

"Chicken stew. Great for recovery." The woman smiled gently as she eyed Aramis. Aramis was still too stunned to talk.

"This is Madame Annette Lavoie, she's the keeper of the inn. Annette, this is Aramis."

Annette reached her hand forward, and Aramis, being who he is, grabbed it with soft fingers, leaned the back of her hand upwards and gently kissed it, all while giving her the stare. D'Artagnan sighed. Annette giggled.

"It's nice finally meeting you monsieur." Annette smiled gently, retrieving her hand as she went on to fill a glass of newly pressed oranges, which she put in front of Aramis as well. "Are you feeling better?"

"A lot better, thanks to the great hospitality."

Annette smiled gently. "Well I've always been interested in you Musketeers, my father always said I really should've been born a man. He took me to see a parade in Paris when I was younger, and since then I always wished a Musketeer would happen to pass by my inn. Then four of you came at once. Charles here have been helping me with cooking and cleaning while you've been resting upstairs."

Aramis looked over at d'Artagnan as he raised an eyebrow in questioning. 'Charles?' D'Artagnan responded with a look saying 'leave it' as he kneaded away with the dough, forming into beautiful loaves of bread before skilfully placing it inside the bread ovens.

"Since when can you cook?" Aramis asked, raising an eyebrow as he ate from the stew.

"Oh, Charles here is a great cook, he gave me the recipe of both the bread and the stew. He taught me how to press the oranges and how to treat my vegetables better outside."

Aramis was stunned. As far as he knew, the lad had no idea about cooking, mainly because he was too young, he had no experience in it. But this just proved that he was probably better than all of them.

"Aramis, I grew up on a farm. My mother forced me into the kitchen at a young age."

"You never told us."

"You never asked, you just assumed I can't. Therefore I can just sit back and relax while you guys deal with all of the cooking. I might be good at it, that never meant I enjoy it."

Aramis shook his head. Sneaky little bastard. This stew he was eating was one of the greatest things he had tasted in a long time. He would certainly make sure the boy cooked in the future, and cooked a lot. Talent like this should not be wasted.

D'Artagnan walked out to sit next to Aramis as Annette walked out to tend to the other guests. D'Artagnan put a hand on Aramis' shoulder, his other hand gently tugging at Aramis' shirt, peaking underneath it.

"How does it look?" Aramis asked between bites, allowing d'Artagnan to move his clothes best he wanted.

"So much better, you have no idea. It was bad for a while, blisters popping and-"

"You know I'm eating right?"

"Sorry. But it was bad. And now it's real nice, the right colour is slightly returning and it looks a lot softer. Is it feeling better?"

"It's still straining, but it will for a while. It does feel a lot better, it cooled down nicely."

"I'm glad. Athos would have my head if you were not better upon their return."

"If they return."

"Aramis. Don't doubt them. They will be fine."

Aramis mumbled something into his spoon as he had another mouthful of the stew. He had no idea he was so hungry, but thinking about it, he hadn't been eating for days. Now he didn't seem to be able to stop, spoon after spoon filling his mouth at fast speed. D'Artagnan seemed to hear his thoughts.

"Easy Aramis, don't eat it all at once. Remember your stomach has been starving, there's plenty of food here to last you all day. If you eat it all at once it will just come back up."

Aramis smiled shyly as he slowed down his eating frenzy.

"I was going to take out Buttercup and Belle for a walk, but since you're up and feeling better, do you want to join us? Are you feeling well enough for it?"

Aramis nodded, swallowing. He couldn't wait to see his beautiful mare again.

"No rush though. Eat up, go upstairs and have a shower if you want it. I'll be down here helping Annette for lunch, just come and tell me when to go. I've already given them hay and fresh water, I just wanted to take them out for a walk so they won't get stiff and don't have to be inside all day. I've taken them out the other days as well."

"Knowing I would never forgive you if Belle wasn't in pristine condition as I came around?"

"Something like that." D'Artagnan smiled.

"Are you fit to ride though?" Aramis asked, suddenly aware that the reason d'Artagnan had been the one to stay behind with him was due to his own injury.

"I'm fine Aramis, I had time to heal nicely. It's sore but not bad."

Aramis wasn't content on hearing just those words, so before d'Artagnan knew it, Aramis nibble fingers were inside his sweater, peaking under the bandage still sporting d'Artagnan's ribs. The bullet wound was nothing to worry about anymore, it was nothing but a small scar, and the bad bruising around his ribcage was slowly fading as well. The dark purple and blue had shifted into light-red and yellow instead. He put his hands on it, while looking up at d'Artagnan, and even though he could see a reaction in the lad's face, it was not a twist in pain. Pleased, Aramis let down his sweater, and gave d'Artagnan a smile. D'Artagnan gave him another pat on the shoulder, before he headed up and around the little dining hall, where loads of people were enjoying lunch. Aramis finished his food while watching d'Artagnan collect plates, refill bowls and cups, wiping of tables and bringing finished plates into the kitchen. The lad was surprisingly good at this.

"So, how do we do this?" Porthos asked. He and Athos were lying up on the bank, just above the camp where Bastien were staying.

"How many pistols do you have?"

"Two. You?"

"Same. A couple of rounds."

"Yeah I got quite a bit of rounds. So we shoot as many as we can from here first, then we go down there?"

"Yes." Athos agreed. "We could wait to see if any backup is coming, but I really want to get to them while they are not really awake yet. It's not very gallant, but it will be effective. And there are a lot more of them than us, so it only seems fair if we have one thing to go for."

Porthos nodded. "Bastien lost his right to gallantry the moment he put Aramis afire."

Athos nodded as he made sure both his guns were loaded, leaving them up on the bank, making sure they could get proper shots while still having enough protection from the bullets that would come flying their direction. Porthos checked his gun as well, before nodding to Athos.

"You ready?"

"Let's do this." Porthos nodded, their hands joining together into a handshake, whispering their motto between them. 'One for all, and all for one.'

Then they were off. Athos landed the first shot, killing a man who had gotten up to take a piss. They were at least gallant enough not to shoot sleeping men. Men with their smallclothes down was a completely different story.

Athos had time to reload his gun before men stumbled out of their shelters, most of them in their smallclothes, their guns drawn as they twirled around, trying to figure out where the shots had come from.

Porthos fired both guns at once. Reloaded while Athos fired. Athos reloaded, while Porthos fired. They kept the pace up for a good ten minutes, before they both ran out of bullets. The men down the camp were firing less and less as well, them too probably running out of bullets.

Athos and Porthos' eyes met as they unsheathed their swords, and went down through the forest, straight into the camp, warrior shouts rumbling through the woods as they slayed down everyone coming in their path.

For a long time, nothing could be heard but battle cries, the clinking of swords slamming together, and injured people screaming in pain. It didn't take long before Athos was highly regretting this, because they were too many, and he only had Porthos on his side. Porthos was brilliant, but he was still only one man. He could see people standing along the trees creating walls around the open glade, just waiting to get their swords dirty, but not wanting to join in just yet. There were definitely too many of them, and Athos realized as fear grabbed onto his conscience, that this wouldn't be a fair fight – it would be slaughter. Athos could see Bastien standing along the treeline, smiling, grinning, as he drank from a bottle in hand. He even raised the bottle in salute to Athos. The nerve.

As they had fired the first shot, people had just appeared from nowhere, and by then it had been too late to back out. Athos had presumed there would be possibly fifteen people at the most, but he now guessed they were closer to fifty, or worse. And those odds were not anything he had expected. They were highly outnumbered. Even if both him and Porthos could take down one man every single time they swung their swords, there was just no way they could take down every single one of these men. At the moment they were doing alright, but the men kept coming at them two or three at the time. If Bastien got bored he could easily send out every single one of his men at once, and the fight would be over within the blink of an eye.

Athos rapier went point first straight through a man's throat.

If he was going to die, he would at least take as many others down with him in the fall.

He looked over his shoulder as he heard the sound of a man literally losing his head. The sight behind him showed Porthos, still holding the severed head by the hair, as the body fell limp to the ground. There was blood everywhere. And cutting someone's head was a difficult task, Athos had never managed to do it in a clean cut. Managed it physically that was – his rapier was no good at slashing, it was designed for piercing - but even by using a broadsword he just didn't have that kind of power needed to swing it hard enough.

Angry Porthos sure did, and he had just proved to these men just how much damage he could do when angered. He threw the severed head over to Bastien, it rolled and landed by his feet. Bastien didn't move a muscle as Porthos lifted his hands into the air and roared.

"Come on!"

Three men came at him, and he had them all down on the ground within the matter of seconds, but it was not enough. Athos fought down the four people coming at him as well, only to have three new men step up before he had even caught his breath.

Athos knew they were outnumbered, they were by far too many, and for some reason it just appeared to be more and more coming from every corner. For every one man Athos killed, another three appeared. He knew they were losing, the adrenaline leaving his body, the aches evident every time he moved. He managed to catch another glimpse of Porthos, the big man still going at the men at full speed, but Athos had known him long enough to be able to tell that Porthos was losing energy just like himself.

Realization hit like a brick.

They were losing.

They would be killed.

There was nothing more to do than to fight until they died.

Athos could feel his hands trembling, he could feel sweat run down his back, he could feel his breath becoming more and more laboured, but that didn't stop him as he pierced a man's lung with his rapier, letting him fall, then stepping over the man who was wheezing on the ground. He would fight until his last breath, he had too, for Porthos, for Aramis, for d'Artagnan. He would do everything he could, for as long as he could. He would never give up. And he knew Porthos wouldn't either. But the two of them had no chance of winning this, unless… Unless…

Something blue in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he quickly brought down the two people in front of him, and the man behind him, before he turned around towards the blue colour. He knew that colour, he could point it out at any time.

The light blue colour, the one and only colour of a Musketeer cloak. It sure was, it sure was a Musketeer cloak being twirled around as it followed the body it was attached to. And it was not just one. The battlefield was all of a sudden divided in the black leather from Bastien and his men, and every other man carried the Musketeer blue. Athos felt like raising his hands in the air and cheer. They had help. Their backup had arrived in the nick of time.

They would win this.

He looked around, and met the eyes of a man he would be able to single out in any crowd. The light brown leather underneath the blue cloak, the shining silver breastplate, the white ruffles coming out of the leather by the neck. The hat with the feather, and underneath it were those eyes that could pierce through anyones' soul. Athos took two steps up to the man, their hands colliding into a solid handshake.

"Captain."

"Athos."

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you." Athos panted, not sure what else to say.

"I'm glad we made it in time. Now let's bring these men down."

Athos gave a nod as Treville pulled his sword out of the hilt, and from there on it didn't take long before most of Bastien's men were on their knees, backs or stomachs, unmoving. Bastien was still standing, a heavy limp on his right leg, blood trailing down the side of his face, breath panting, but still very much alive. Blue cloaks now surrounded him, everyone with a sword raised towards his face, and Athos watched how the man surrendered in defeat. The sword in Bastien's hand fell to the ground, as the man put his hands up. Athos sheathed his own sword, and walked up to Bastien, close enough so they could feel each other's breaths against their faces. Athos stared into Bastien's eyes for a long moment, before his fist collided with the man's ribcage. Again. Again. Again. And again. Already by the first blow, Athos had felt the ribs give way completely, but he didn't feel like stopping there. When he eventually let him go, Bastien crumbled to the ground, and Athos wiped his hand off as he walked away, making his way over to Porthos who patted his shoulder.

The two of them walked over to Treville, as their fellow Musketeers bound and gagged Bastien, heaving him up into a cart, where he was tied to the corners of the cart as well. He would have no way of moving, no way of escaping. He'd lost his privileges. He was now being taken back to Paris to be executed.

"Where are Aramis and d'Artagnan?" Treville asked as two of his finest soldiers came up to him.

"We left them at an inn about two days ride from here. Aramis was in no state to ride. We will return to them before returning to Paris." Athos said. It was not as much of a question as it was a statement.

Treville just nodded, knowing Athos and Porthos would do what they wanted at this point, there was no talking out of it. In the same time, he hadn't planned on arguing with that. Of course they were to go to their comrades and they would all return together. "Go back and bring them home. We will deal with Bastien and we will meet up again in Paris where I want a full report of what has happened."

Athos and Porthos nodded, and they both shook hands with their captain before heading over to their horses. Getting up on their backs, they turned them around and set off back towards the inn, where they hoped Aramis and d'Artagnan would be up and waiting, fully recovered. They couldn't wait to meet up with them, and they both ushered their horses into canter, leaving the other Musketeers behind them as they rode off into the forest again.