Chapter 12:
Author's Note: So, I think we need some comfort after all this angst, yeah? Read this for some heart-felt apologies and action. Enjoy!
Athos looks at his friends in despair. The things that d'Artagnan says can be random at times, most thoughts that he has jumping from his mouth the moment they spring into his head. Sometimes they don't make much sense, but with a bit of thought, they can always be figures out. He is always, always articulate, though. Now, this sentence, is not. It's barely a slur, and it comes out like repetition, like the Latin that Athos has spent hours learning by heart. He remembers them, word for word, but their meaning is lost to him.
The thought that d'Artagnan has been reduced to this, to these two words, makes bile rise in Athos' throat. There's anger somewhere in him, lust for Chassroi's blood on his blade, but mostly fear.
Both Aramis and Porthos return the look, worry in their eyes. Aramis drops to his knees, and lets his one useful hand run over the injuries on d'Artagnan's chest. Moving back slightly, Athos recognises his friends need to check on their friend.
Porthos on the other hand, reaches out immediately to pat the Gascon's face. "No, d'Artagnan, open your eyes. Stay with us."
For a moment, Athos is back in another place. A courtyard filled with drunk men, his hand around his wife's throat, and the angry charade he had almost started believing in himself. Then the shot had gone off, and d'Artagnan had fallen. They were in the same position then, Aramis checking the wound, Porthos attempting to wake d'Artagnan up, and him in the background. Staring, unable to help. He had owed d'Artagnan an apology then, too.
But it's not the same, he reminds himself. Anne isn't here. There is no need for him to stay back, and he won't. Not again.
D'Artagnan's eyes blink open again, lids fuzzy and eyes unfocussed. Then he twitches away from Aramis' hands with a wince, and stares at his friends around him. The moment seems endless, until his eyes latch onto Athos. The comte tries to portray as much apology and sheepishness as he can, as he tries to figure out the Gascon's state of mind from just his eyes. There's pain obviously, both physical and mental, but there's no accusation, only something like relief shining from d'Artagnan's dark orbs.
The same relief floods into his voice as he croaks, "You came for me."
"Of course." Athos says, and his friends nod in agreement.
"All fine?" He slurs after that.
"Right, ask us if we're fine…" Aramis mutters.
D'Artagnan smirks, then a memory assaults him. His friends, saying Vasser was alive. He needs to know that more than anything, he realises.
"Vasser?" he asks.
"Alive, the others too." Athos tells him with a frown, then adds, "Thanks to you."
Suddenly, d'Artagnan's eyes open wider, his breathing quickening, "Chassroi…" he murmurs, "Where is Chassroi?"
"Not here." Porthos assures him, "He's somewhere in the château looking for us."
D'Artagnan nods, and closes his eyes again.
"That does mean, though, that we have to move soon or we will be found." Athos quietly starts, then he shoots Aramis a look, "Can d'Artagnan walk?"
"I'm right here." D'Artagnan says indignantly, eyes open and locked on Athos, "And I am perfectly capable of deciding whether I can walk, thank you very much."
Aramis snorts, then eyes d'Artagnan critically. His mouth twists into a disapproving pout, and he says, "We met Melanie. She told us about your injuries and your fever."
D'Artagnan nods. "She is a very brave woman. Gave Chassroi quite the tongue-lashing." He tells them.
"I'm sure she did." Aramis says with a smile, "She also told us that you were barely capable of standing before Chassroi inflicted his newest torture on you. So forgive me if I'm a bit sceptical of your ability to walk."
D'Artagnan scowls. This entire situation is disproving, once again, everything that he has said about being able to handle himself. He is glad to see though, that his friends' anger has all but disappeared. As has his own, of course. Between everything that has happened over the past….. week? D'Artagnan doesn't even know how long. What he does know is that the events transpired since their separation have erased all this anger towards his friends. There's still bitterness of course. Shooting pain over Athos' words. Lingering regret over his own. And fear over how easily the other two had seemed to side with Athos. It all seems trivial now in the wake of his torment.
He thought he might never see them again, and whatever happens after this, even if they do relapse into their clash, he will be happy that he was allowed at least this moment with this friends.
"I can carry 'im." Porthos says, entirely too much cheer in his voice.
"There will be no carrying!" d'Artagnan says loudly, "I can walk if you support me."
At the three sceptical looks that are thrown his way, he adds, "I promise I will tell you if I no longer can."
Athos nods at that, while Aramis simply purses his lips.
"Fine." Is the Spaniards short answer, "But let me at least dress your wounds first."
As he quickly ties strips of linen – kindly given to him by Melanie – around the worst of d'Artagnan's wounds, he regrets how little time he has. The Gascon is still pale and warm to the touch, many of the cuts are still weeping, and judging by the bruising on his ribs, there may also be internal damage. He really wants to check more, to search for infection, but there is only so much he can do with one hand and limited time.
Porthos is at the door, standing guard in case someone comes, but as soon as Aramis calls that he is finished, the large man comes over. Aramis sighs. He knows how this will play out. With his arm still in a sling, there is nothing he can do to help the Gascon, so it will all be left to Porthos and Athos. Mostly Athos, Porthos will need to keep from draining too much of his energy because of his concussion.
With some dreadful manoeuvring, and more than one grunt of pain on d'Artagnan's behalf, they get the Gascon into a standing position. His legs are weak, and Porthos swears he weighs less than he did the last time he was in this position, but d'Artagnan locks his knees. Indeed, as he promised them before, he can walk with some help. His arms are swung over Athos' and Porthos' shoulders to steady him, and his breath comes out in harsh pants.
When Athos casts a concerned look over d'Artagnan, Porthos knows the man is thinking he same as he is. The Gascon may be up and walking, but he's that is only by sheer force of will.
Stubbornness can only get a man so far. Porthos dreads what comes after that.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Passages wind like snakes before them, each different, but somehow all inherently the same. Cold, grey stone greets the musketeers everywhere they go. Had Melanie not had the presence of mind to share the inner workings of the castle with them, they would surely have been lost by now.
Still, their hearts beat loudly, echoing through the halls like beacons to those who seek them. Thus far, they've been lucky. No Chassroi, no guards, not even any maids have crossed their path. But every corner is terrifying. Every shadow is a potential threat.
They're nearing the back entrance, it's a near the servant quarters, and it's rarely used by Chassroi. In fact, Melanie didn't even think the man knew where it was. They're two passages away when they hear the guards coming. Heavily booted feet crash through the halls, and Athos looks back in worry.
"Hurry!" he tells his friends unnecessarily, and speeds up his pace.
D'Artagnan can barely keep up the renewed pace, and they only manage a few steps before his legs buckle. Athos almost loses his hold on their charge, but Porthos manages to keep him up. Together, they guide the Gascon to the wall where they help him down to rest for a moment. The sound of soldiers has retreated somewhat, but Aramis and Porthos still share an anxious look.
"Wait here, we'll go and cut the guards off." Porthos suggests.
Athos head snaps up in disagreement, he speaks on a shake of his head, "You're hurt. Both of you. I should…"
Athos gestures, unsure of what exactly he should do. Anything is better than what Porthos is suggesting though. Then Aramis locks eyes with him, he nods his head silently towards d'Artagnan and smiles sadly. Porthos nods at that, eying Athos as well.
Athos knows what they're saying. He is not doing well. He needs to be kept safe. Aramis' eyes tell him. Porthos seems more direct in his look, eyebrows raised expectantly. He needs you. Athos almost swears at his friends, but he does not want to upset d'Artagnan, who seems to be holding on to consciousness by a thread.
"We can handle this." Aramis reinforces his silent words, "You need to watch out for d'Artagnan."
The unspoken, 'and apologise' hangs in the air. Athos wonders when it became so obvious that there is anything to apologise for. He looks back at the Gascon, the fact that he has yet to protest Aramis' words showing just how bad his health really is.
"Also, I really want to test some of the weapons I stole." Porthos smirks.
Athos does not so much as smile at Porthos' attempt at humour. He does nod, though, and his friends disappear around the corner, their small arsenal of weapons at the ready.
"Are you awake?" he asks d'Artagnan.
Bleary eyes open, lined with pain, and Athos can't help but tilt d'Artagnan's face up towards him. He thinks of the peril they're in, thinks of two of his closest friends fighting injured. Of his youngest friend, his brother, too weak to stand.
With a lurch in his stomach, he realises this may be it. This may be the day they all die. Here, in a gritty chateau, where no one will ever find them. And he still has unresolved issues with a stubborn Gascon he would not think twice of giving his life for.
"D'Artagnan?" he queries again.
"Mmmmh." Comes d'Artagnan's muffled reply.
"I need you to listen to me." Athos intones.
"I am." The Gascon says, and his eyes focus on Athos face.
"During our… separation, I recalled the rest of the events in the tavern." Athos starts hesitantly. If possible, d'Artagnan pales even further, then he smoothly averts his eyes. Athos continues softly, resolve in his voice now, "Why didn't you tell me back in the infirmary?"
D'Artagnan muses on that with this fuzzy mind. He is not quite sure why, actually. Maybe, as long as he was the sole keeper of that memory, he could pretend that he had dreamed it. That Athos does not believe him to be the cause of his father's murder. True as they are, those words cannot be forgiven. But d'Artagnan needs to forgive his friend.
"Do we have to speak of this now?" he asks instead of answering. He doesn't want to think about Athos remembering his words or the implications of that.
"There might not be another time." Athos whispers, eyes shooting to the corner that Porthos and Aramis disappeared around, "Most of what I said was untrue. This mission alone has proven to everyone that you are perfectly capable of holding your own. Even before that, I think I knew, I just wanted to keep you safe."
Athos curses inwardly. What he's apologising for now is only trivial, it's not really the part that broke d'Artagnan's heart. And the Gascon knows it, that's why his eyes are closed and why he is leaning away from Athos against the wall.
He's not good at this, Athos knows that about himself. Apologising not too difficult, nor is making people believe it. Making d'Artagnan believe just how much he means to them, that is more difficult. It's also something he would have let his friends take the reins in, had it not been his words that caused this breach in their brotherhood in the first place.
"The things I said, they… came out wrong. What I meant, d'Artagnan, is that you have one of the biggest, kindest hearts that I know. You've got an intense hatred of injustice, and –"
"That's not what you said that night," d'Artagnan murmurs, there's no heat in his voice, but he's obviously sceptical of Athos' words, "If you're just saying this because I'm injured…"
"No!" Athos retorts immediately, then pleads, "That's not… Let me finish."
D'Artagnan nods, and the comte continues, "I said that your hot-headedness would get us killed. What I meant is that if you die because you selflessly try to stop some sort of injustice…"
Athos shakes his head, the thought of that happening unbearable, especially with the Gascon injured before him. "… Our brotherhood would not survive that. I do not think I would either."
D'Artagnan nods shakily, hoping beyond everything that this is real, and not some fabrication of his imagination brought on by his lingering fever.
"And about your father, d'Artagnan," Athos hedges. D'Artagnan truly flinches now, "You had no hand in his death. I realise that I implied that, but d'Artagnan, you must believe me, that was a drunken slip of the tongue."
D'Artagnan looks away again, and like before, Athos reaches out and pulls the Gascon's face to look at him. The next words he says almost reverently, "There is not a single part of me, or anyone else, that believes that you are in any way responsible for your father's death. The fact that after a year, you still believe that you are, is a reflection on me and my lack of support."
D'Artagnan looks up at him now, frown on his face.
"I promise you, when we get back to Paris, we are going to have a conversation about guilt and grief." Athos continues.
"You are going to lecture me on guilt?" d'Artagnan asks with a chuckle. Athos sees the irony in his words and fixes the Gascon with a half-hearted scowl.
"I will try. If it helps you, I will always try." Athos says, and then uncertainly, "D'Artagnan, my words that night were wrong, dishonourable, and unforgivable. Though I do not deserve it and I know I should not be asking this of you, I am loathe to lose you over an argument like this. Therefore I ask, do you think that, over time, you could forgive me for this?"
D'Artagnan looks at him blankly. Sweat glistens on his face, and the bruises on his pale face only serve to drive home how difficult this week has been for d'Artagnan. Also, how Athos may lose him today, in more ways than one. He knows that the Gascon has every right to say no, and though it will pain his very soul, he will honour that answer as well as any other.
"Athos," d'Artagnan speaks, in that voice that says you're-overthinking-this, "You are already forgiven."
Athos expects relief or happiness. But the words make his chest tighten, and his breath still in the air. Something seems to be lodged in his throat as he looks down at this brave, stubborn, forgiving man and wonders, what this world has done to deserve a man like d'Artagnan, what he has done to deserve a brother like d'Artagnan.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
The heavy footfalls that singled the guards booted feet have all but disappeared. The halls here in are not quite as dark and cold as the ones underground. Down by the dungeons there's an atmosphere of pain an death, but not here. This is a place where people work, where the hustle and bustle of servants usually marks the whitened halls. Which is why the quiet is so disconcerting.
Porthos and Aramis don't speak for a while after they leave their friends. They're both aware of the danger that they've thrown themselves into. While Porthos head pounds with every step, and swift movements of his head send white spots into his vision, Aramis is not much better off. Breathing still slightly stunted, he has only one arm to defend himself with.
It's still better than even the idea that armed guards would get their hands on d'Artagnan. Again.
"He looks so broken," Aramis' whisper carries softly through the hall. There's no need to mention who 'he' is. Porthos will know. The large man's feet stutter slightly. The kid is beat up, sure, but he's not dead.
"Nah," he answers, "He ain't broken. A little bent at the edges is all."
The answer is inherently Porthos, both reassuring and endlessly optimistic.
"Do you suppose Athos is apologising?" Aramis asks then, and Porthos snorts.
"He had better be," he says fiercely, and then, "And I suppose, when we get back we'll exchange apologies as well. We need to leave all this behind us before the chance is wasted."
Aramis is nodding in agreement to his friends statement when they finally catch up to the guards. Rounding a corner, they come eye to eye with six heavily armed men.
"Three each," Aramis calls jovially to Porthos, "This is going to be fun."
With a chuckle, Porthos pulls a musket from his heavy belt, and aims. Due to his slightly blurry vision, his shot goes sideways, and only wings the guard he was aiming to incapacitate. The man springs forward with a growl, rapier in hand and already swinging Porthos' way. He dodges the blade easily and pulls his own sword. He bring his sword down harshly from above, allowing for more power behind each strike.
With the clang of metal, and loud grunts of exertion, the musketeers match their foes' every move. When a particularly hard hit reverberates into his previously dislocated shoulder, Aramis almost bends double in agony. As he does so, he sees, in the corner of his eye, two of the guards split from the rest of the group.
"The others must be down where they came from!" the broader one shouts over his shoulder to the rest. Aramis' heart stutters. They're going after his friends. It'll be Athos against two people, with a dead-weight musketeer to protect.
This thought alone is enough to give Aramis the additional strength that the needs to overcome his pain. The soldier who delivered the hard hit is still in front of him, picking his rapier off the ground and ready to split Aramis' bowed head from his neck. The musketeer punches the man in the stomach with his good hand and, in a move of excruciating agony, grabs the sword arm with his injured one. He wrestles the rapier from his foe's grip, and cuts deep into his jugular, only to swing the blade around to his second opponent.
Porthos, Aramis sees, has also managed to bring down one guard, the man lies on the ground with his neck at an unnatural angle. One against one.
Aramis smiles. It seems the odds are finally in their favour.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Before Athos can deliver a suitable answer to d'Artagnan's forgiveness, he hears loud steps down the hall. Not Athos or Porthos, this tread is unknown.
The booted feet come closer.
Athos makes to move, to cut off the assailants before they get to his injured friend. He tries very hard not to think what it means for Porthos and Aramis that the opponents have even managed to reach this hallway.
Suddenly, d'Artagnan's hand shoots out, holding his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Athos turns to the Gascon.
"Don't go. You'll get yourself killed." The boy whispers, voice hoarse from abuse.
With a small shake of his head Athos intones, "I will do what I can to save your life, d'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan's answer is to meet him with a glazed, but steady gaze, his voice is stronger when he says, "Don't die, Athos. Remember, there is no dignity in death."
Something in Athos' chest clenches as his own words are thrown back at him. They were true when he said them, and they are true now, but that matters little in the face of his brother's suffering. D'Artagnan's hand slips from his arm, apparently no longer strong enough to stay clenched around the bicep.
"I remember." Athos gives a watery smile and hopes that his voice is as steady as he thinks it is. Not usually one for affection, he feels he can make an exception at a dire time like this.
"I will return for you." He promises with a slight touch to the Gascon's bloody torso. Even as he says the words he knows he will most likely have to break his vow. Now that he has apologised, and been forgiven, the thought is not quite as unbearable. With a flourish, he hands a main gauche to d'Artagnan. Just in case.
D'Artagnan no longer possesses the strength to do more than whisper a pleading, "Athos..." and follow his mentor with sorrowed eyes. He's not stupid. He knows a lie when he sees one.
Athos has already turned away, he is moving up the hall towards the voices of their captors. He will try to return, but will not resent Death if it comes. There may be no dignity in death, but there is certainly dignity in saving a fellow musketeer. In fighting for a friend.
In dying for a brother.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Patience has never been one of d'Artagnan's virtues. He is aware of this, and though he often tries to compensate, he rarely fools anyone. Now, sitting with his back against the wall, he feels his impatience surge again. Athos and Porthos are off somewhere, probably getting themselves killed, Athos is faces who knows how many foes alone, and for what? For him? A broken musketeer who may not survive this journey, regardless of his friends efforts?
He's in a bad way, he can feel it. The heat that he had felt before, in his cell, is back. It burns through his blood and his energy again, and d'Artagnan hears the listless beating of his heart reverberate endlessly in his head. Apart from that, everything hurts.
All the welts from the whip, the cuts from the knife, the hot poker that will give him nightmare for months… He can feel them all like they're still on his skin. Inside he can feel bruised ribs, the muscles on his arms stretched to a breaking point. Not to mention the way his left hand has been throbbing since he was taken. He thinks it may have been broken when he struggled to avenge Vasser.
Vasser… Who is not dead, thank God.
That leaves him here, injured, weak. Useless. He sighs in frustration. Athos has only just apologised to him. He has yet to speak to his other two friends about is harsh words.
He's not just going to let them die.
So, with more difficulty than he likes to admit, d'Artagnan manages to get himself upright. The manacles are still around his wrists, his friends did not have enough time to release him of them. It doesn't matter much, because they're bound in front of him, and he is free to walk.
In a stumbling gait, gripping the wall with all his might, d'Artagnan follows his friends.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
Athos finds two men walking towards him, as soon as they spot him, they grin.
"I think we've got us an escaped prisoner!" One yells, while the other moves to get past Athos.
Athos stand in the middle of the hall, he will not allow anyone to pass. These guards, whoever they are, will only get to d'Artagnan over his dead body. It makes the fight more difficult, though, because he cannot use the entire space around him like he usually does. Still, Athos is the best swordsman in the garrison, and he will not be bested by just two men.
Naturally, as soon as he thinks this, another man rounds the corner at his back, attracted by the sound of metal on metal. Immediately, Athos shifts his priority to the newcomer, who is by far the closest to d'Artagnan. With a few fierce blows, he attempts to get the man on the other side of the hall. This fails when the guard who spoke earlier opens his mouth again.
"The other one, he's-" the man begins, but Athos cuts him off with a sudden lunge of his sword. The soldier drops to the ground, blood dripping from his lips. This abrupt move, however, unbalances Athos, and he finds the hands of the man behind him on his left arm, twisting it against his back. He throws his head back to get loose, but the third man, who arrived with the dead guard, is already on top of him. A harsh kick to his knee sends Athos to the ground in pain. He can practically feel the kneecap shift to the side.
This is it, Athos thinks, I just hope they're too stupid to find d'Artagnan.
Suddenly, the man at Athos' back is gone. With some manoeuvring, he twists out of the hold of the other man, punching him hard enough to make Porthos proud. The man goes down like a brick, and Athos quickly grabs the man's main gauche. When he finally turns to see what happened to the man behind him, his heart skips a beat.
Because, d'Artagnan is there. Stupid, brave, loyal d'Artagnan. The Gascon is barely standing, lips thin with pain in an ashen face, but the chain between his manacles is wrapped around the neck of a burly guard. The guard chokes, face purple from lack of breath, then falls back. D'Artagnan is unsteady on his feet, so when the man falls into him, they both go down.
There's a cry of pain as the Gascon hits the ground with his injured back. Athos is pulling the soldier off him before he even manages to open his eyes again.
"D'Artagnan!" He cries in worry, hands brushing away sweaty hair as d'Artagnan attempts to compose himself.
"Here." The Gascon croaks through gritted teeth, "I'm still here."
"That was a stupid thing to do." He spits at d'Artagnan, but there's no real heat behind his voice. He's just glad to see the man is still alive.
"As stupid as running off to fight three men on your own?" d'Artagnan asks as his eyes flutter open, mirth in all his features. Athos sighs. Aramis and Porthos are really starting to rub off on the boy.
Summoned by his thoughts, it seems, the two missing members of their brotherhood come tearing across the hall. Or, Aramis comes tearing, while Porthos stumbles along in a fast pace with one hand on his head.
Skidding to a stop some two feet away from them, Aramis lets a sigh escape. He's a little worse for the wear, he wears a few new bruises and a ruined sling. Porthos seems to be doing alright, considering. There are no visible injuries, but he does curse like a sailor when Athos asks him how his head is.
"Let's just get ourselves out of here," the Parisian concedes, "'Bout time we left his special piece of hell."
His friends nod, and soon most of d'Artagnan's weight is on Porthos' shoulder while Aramis pops Athos' kneecap back with ease. The comte lets it happen to him with a grunt of pain, but refuses to look at his knee while it's happening. He's seen it before, with others. The sight of the bone moving under skin is slightly sickening.
When that's done he stumbles after his friends towards the servant exit. Aramis hovers near him, granting Athos his healthy shoulder to lean on when the pain gets too heavy. All in all, though, they make good time in getting out.
The door is in a kitchen, where the smell of broth fills the air while cooks and maids run around busily. They get a few strange glances, but manage to sneak through the busy kitchen almost unnoticed. That is, until Porthos stumbles against a pan.
The pan falls down with enough noise for an entire orchestra, and the nearest heads turn to them in unison. The four musketeers stand there sheepishly for a moment before they slowly start making their way to the door again.
"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" One woman asks, hands at her sides, one of her eyebrows raised.
"We…." Aramis starts, searching for an excuse, "We're looking for the village?"
The woman doesn't even dignify that with an answer. Instead, she raises her other eyebrow.
"We were sent through here by Melanie." Athos tries then.
Something in her face clears, then. She wipes her hands on her apron, and picks up a basket of some sort.
"Everyone back to work!" she yells at the servants, then turns back to them, "Melanie told me some friends would be by. I hadn't quite expected her friends to be convicts, though."
Athos takes the basket in his hands, the smell of bread billowing through it.
"Thank you." He tells her honestly.
"Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you, but for Melanie. God knows I owe her everything." The woman answers strictly.
"We don't mean to get you in trouble, Madame." Porthos warns.
The woman chuckles, then tells him with a wink, "Don't worry, no one ever asks the cook."
The musketeers nod, and make their way out. For a while everything seems to be going well. Though their gaits are uneven, and their feet constantly trip over roots, their pace is steady. By some miracle Porthos manages to keep both himself and d'Artagnan on their feet.
After about an hour or so, the Gascon starts flagging. His feet stumble constantly, and his head hangs on his chest.
"Can we…." D'Artagnan pants, "I need… to sit…"
Athos looks around in fear, but nods anyway. His knee is killing him, and he can see his friends are not doing much better in terms of ailments. They find a reasonably sheltered place to sit. Between two large trees, and enough underbrush to cover half of Louis' palace, they're almost entirely hidden from view.
The basket comes out, and they break the bread between them, taking large gulps of water from the skins they were given. Silently, they all thank Melanie and the goodness of her heart.
Finally, things seem to be looking up.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
A loud curse sounds from the servant quarters in Chateau Rouge.
"How can four men, three of which are bloody injured, best seven of my men?" Chassroi yells, spit flying from his mouth, "Why am I surrounded by incompetent fools?"
The guards shoot each other concerned looks, while they crouch down by their friends. Three are dead, one is dying, and two have yet to wake. Three men, probably four, who leave behind widows. And still Chassroi cares only for the capture of those men.
"They will have flown, by now." Chassroi murmurs, "Find them for me."
His men stay silent, their minds still filled with grief over their colleagues.
Chassroi looks around at his men, and recognises the look.
"Now you see how dangerous these men are. They murder with ease. With pleasure." Chassroi lies, "Find them for me, and deliver them to me. And when I am done with them, I will let you have your revenge."
The men look at each other with determination. One man lets his mouth curl up in a smile. As one, the guards move to find four errant musketeers.
TBC
Author's Note: Not quite sure about the ending, but I'm posting anyway. Let me know what you think! ; )