Chapter 14

Author's Note: Okaaaay. I'm sorry for being so late. I…. do not have an excuse. But, here's a chapter for you all *grins awkwardly*. A great thank you for everyone who reviewed, favourited and followed. We're at 99 reviews… Aw yeah! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Also, not based on true historical facts. Again.

In Porthos' experience, the word 'deal' is never followed by anything good. Agreements that call themselves deals are rarely favourable for both parties, either one side comes out as a firm winner or both sides end up dissatisfied. When it's a man like Chassroi who speaks of a deal, then what follows will certainly be bad.

So as the lord sweetly suggests a deal, Porthos can already feel the request for d'Artagnan's life coming and his fingers reflexively twitch tighter around his friend's arm. Aramis laughs and starts saying that d'Artagnan is not stupid. Athos stands firm because Chassroi's deal is ridiculously bad. But Porthos knows what d'Artagnan will answer. He knows that d'Artagnan will say yes because, contrary to what Aramis' jests may suggest, Porthos is in fact an excellent judge of character.

And d'Artagnan is as brave as he is stubborn. So naturally the self-sacrificing idiot will give his life for them.

When the Gascon says yes, Porthos is already pulling him closer and spitting threats. D'Artagnan turns to him abruptly, eyes connecting with his. The Gascon is blatantly unsurprised by his friends reactions, they were as predictable as his own response, but there's a plea in his eyes that Porthos can't help but answer.

It never ceases to amaze Porthos how easily d'Artagnan has wormed himself into their tightknit little group. The Gascon has somehow managed to bypass years of prior brotherhood and military training and become part of them with such ease that Porthos forces himself to stand back sometimes and marvel and the whirlwind that has roiled into their midst.

Now, he's giving Porthos that look, a silent question, an soundless conversation. And Porthos understands what he's saying.

Let me go. d'Artagnan pleas with wide eyes. With a simple narrowing of his own, Porthos replies; never. Then the Gascon's stare flits briefly to his right sleeve and Porthos allows himself to follow the gaze. He sleeve looks bulky, ill-fitting because it was made for a rogue comte instead of a stubborn farm boy. When the Gascon twists his arm slightly, Porthos can see the vague outline of a dagger under the leather and understanding dawns.

D'Artagnan plans to hand himself over to get close to Chassroi, only to strike him down when he least expects it. It's a good plan. A dangerous one, obviously, but better than any that Porthos has come up with. He glares at d'Artagnan for a while longer, begging him to come up with something better. But, as usual, the stubborn Gascon does not budge.

It's with a growl and a tug on d'Artagnan's arm, that is probably harsher than strictly necessary, that Porthos complies with his friend's plan. He hopes to convey if you die, I will bring you back to life just to throttle you in his growl, but he doesn't quite know if he manages it.

When he breaks through his circle of friends, he finds it physically difficult to let go of his brother's arm. He does, eventually and he shoots one last lingering look as d'Artagnan turns towards Chassroi.

Please don't die.

D'Artagnan answers with a half-smile that means I won't, be safe.

Athos moves behind them, stepping forward to intercept d'Artagnan. Porthos sets a heavy hand against his chest, stilling the comte mid-step. He shakes his head, wills his friend to understand that there is a plan involved, but it is clear that Athos cannot see through his own desperation. His own feelings of betrayal.

Something in Porthos' chest constricts; he's seen that look before. It's the same look that crosses his face when he speaks of his wife, the look of betrayal that can only come from former love. Porthos can scarcely believe that Athos would think this of him, that Athos is so ready to believe that he would sacrifice one of his brothers. It doesn't last long though.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos can see the dagger slip from d'Artagnan's sleeve and he twists around to punch the nearest guard in the face. There's a crunch as bone gives way under bone. Fist defeats knuckle.

Three simultaneous shots go off, but Porthos pays them no mind. He elbows is way through men, frisks blades from soldiers' fingers, kicks and knees whatever body part is closest in the hope that it is something sensitive. Still, he can't see what has happened to d'Artagnan. Can't see what the Gascon is doing because every time he looks up he's met by a fist or a face.

He can't see if d'Artagnan is still alive.

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Aramis curses the day that he convinced his friends to give d'Artagnan a chance in their little group. It's not an unusual occurrence. In fact, now Aramis thinks about it, it happens about three times a day. At least. He doesn't curse because he dislikes the boy, or wishes them away, he curses him because he loves the Gascon too much. The boy really does too many dangerous things for Aramis' liking.

In recent circumstances, with the love of his life and his son on the line, Aramis has found renewed admiration for Constance. Constance who, despite her lawful marriage and her words to the contrary, loves d'Artagnan. She loves him despite the fact that she knows how brave and impulsive the Gascon is. Despite the knowledge that she can lose him in a second. How she manages to sleep at night is anyone's guess.

It's a miracle that a smart woman like Constance fell in love with someone as stupid as d'Artagnan, Aramis sometimes thinks. Stupid, because intelligent people don't agree to deals like the one Chassroi proposes. Intelligent people don't trade their valuable life for their friends in the knowledge that Chassroi will undoubtedly come back on his side of the deal. Intelligent people don't walk, wounded and traumatised, up to their aggressor and hand themselves over on a silver platter. They just don't. Not when they know how much the people around them care.

How, Aramis thinks aggressively, staring at d'Artagnan's retreating back like it has wronged him (and it has) how do you expect me to tell Constance that you are dead, you stubborn Gascon?

But Porthos is at his side, and if Aramis trusts anything, it is Porthos sheer sense of loyalty. So Aramis attempts to quell the stab of betrayal in is chest at his friends' actions and decides that there must be a plan… Aramis refuses to believe anything else.

Still, his finger moves of his own accord and cocks the hammer of the musket in his hand. Moments later, when d'Artagnan lunges forward with a dagger, his other finger twists around the trigger. A bang sounds through the air as a bullet soars.

Then there's a sword swinging his way that he nimbly sidesteps, followed by a fist. His view of d'Artagnan is obscured. He can't even see if his shot hit his target, can't see if Chassroi is lying still on the ground with a bullet in his head.

He hopes it though. He hopes even more that d'Artagnan is still breathing. Still okay.

Aramis slams the butt of his musket into someone's head. He feels blood and sees a blade drop to the ground where he can pick it up. As he brings it up, swinging, he thinks of d'Artagnan. Today, more than ever, Aramis wishes he had never let the Gascon into his life.

Then again, what a boring life that would be.

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Despite the knowledge that his plan is the best they have, d'Artagnan didn't really expect Porthos to agree with it. The man generally doesn't, when it comes at the cost of the life of another. But d'Artagnan is nothing if not stubborn, so Porthos agrees. This time.

Saying he'll step forward and kill the man who has tormented him for near on a week is something very different from actually standing in front of Chassroi. D'Artagnan's entire body aches and the very sight of Chassroi's smirk seems to make the welts on his back burn. He stands tall and silent, though. Chassroi will not have the pleasure of seeing his pain.

The lord whispers, so softly that only d'Artagnan can hear it, "Here we are again; you, helpless against me."

D'Artagnan smiles sarcastically, tensing up as the man moves closer. It's instinctual now, he realises, to move away from the man who has caused him so much pain. He forces down the shudder that comes over him at Chassroi's lilting voice and looks the man straight in the eye.

When the two of them are close enough that they could touch if they wanted to, d'Artagnan slowly lets the dagger slide out of his sleeve. One more step, and Chassroi reaches out a tentative hand. The dagger slips out completely, sharp edges cutting through d'Artagnan's palm as he lets the blade slide through his fingers until he can curl them around the hilt.

Chassroi's hand clenches around d'Artagnan's shoulder hard, unwilling to let him go and d'Artagnan takes his chance. He lunges with the dagger, embedding it deep in the man's stomach and twisting it up in hopes of doing damage to the lungs. Still looking into Chassroi's eyes, the Gascon can see the realisation of what's happening. The shock, the terror. The pain.

Behind d'Artagnan the world falls apart. Knuckles hit flesh. Metal hits metal. Flint ignites and muskets fire. The Gascon has eyes only for the man before him. There's a strange satisfaction in killing this man, the man who has caused him so much pain and fear, but there is no pleasure. He feels none of the glee that he saw reflected in Chassroi's eyes every time the whip cracked, just anger and relief. Like a burden lifting from his shoulders.

Before the thought can truly form, a musket-ball flies past d'Artagnan's head and takes Chassroi's ear off. The blood splatters into the Gascon's face and he recoils in shock, blade slipping out of flesh as his left hand unconsciously clutches around the fabric Chassroi's clothes. That was Aramis, d'Artagnan is sure of it. No one else can manage to shoot past d'Artagnan but hit Chassroi. The man's knees give way, and d'Artagnan does not possess the strength to keep him up. Nor to keep himself up, for that matter. He slumps down gracelessly, releasing Chassroi so he can catch himself before his face meets the ground.

Blood bubbles around Chassroi's mouth and d'Artagnan can see life slowly seeping out of the man.

D'Artagnan wants to say something. He wants to mock the man like he has been mocked for days. He wants Chassroi to forever associate his voice with agony and disdain. In his mind, d'Artagnan has countless words lined up, countless insults and threats.

I don't think you'll be needing that letter, after all.

Have fun in hell.

Don't worry, I had something up my sleeve.

Before he can choose one, or even open his mouth to say something, he catches the glint of a blade out of the corner of his eye. With a speed born from instinct alone, he twists around and slashes at the closest body part he can reach. As it turns out, that body part is a leg, and judging by the shout of pain above him, d'Artagnan's aim is as true as ever.

The man's balance teeters, rapier clattering to the ground as he clutches at his injured leg and d'Artagnan takes the opportunity to stab deeply into the second leg as well. That turns out to be a mistake, because the man crumbles to the ground. Or, not quite to the ground, because his fall is broken by none other than d'Artagnan himself.

If d'Artagnan had enough breath left in his body to yell out, he would. As it is, the weight man crushing him stills the air in his lungs and sends white spots dancing into his vision. He thinks he hears his name being called out, but with the blood rushing to his brain, he really can't be sure.

How ironic, d'Artagnan muses, to defeat a man only to be smothered by a dying body.

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Athos carves his way through men and steel and frankly anything else that decides to stand between him and d'Artagnan. The echoes of the musket shots have died down, the loud scuffle of fists and swords the only sound under the midday sun. No obnoxious remarks on the weather from Aramis, no dangerous growls from Porthos and no emotive yet witty remarks from a certain Gascon.

Bodies lie strewn around Athos, some moaning, some dying. And he can finally see. He can see Chassroi, twitching through every difficult breath he takes, blood still seeping from his stomach an mouth. He can see a second man, half conscious and moaning in pain as his legs lie at strange angles and tinge the dirt red.

And Athos can see a third man, underneath the second. He recognises the hand first, fingers splayed and unprotected by leather. The gauntlet is familiar as well – his own, caked with blood and dirt. Add to that the matted black hair and the bloodstained shirt and Athos knows who the man is. The man still, crushed under the weight of another, with enough blood on his clothes to last a lifetime.

"d'Artagnan!" He cries out hoarsely as his feet move of their own accord. The Gascon does not move.

No. NO. No. Not d'Artagnan.

Athos crashes to his knees next to the Gascon, already pushing against the body that is crushing his friend. He man lets out a strangled yell as he tumbles the rest of the way to the ground, fingers twitching towards his legs as he stares up at the sky in agony. Athos pays him no further attention. Instead he lets his fingers dance over d'Artagnan's slack face. He smooths dark hair and runs a careful hand over the bruises and abrasions that colour the Gascon's face.

"D'Artagnan. Open your eyes." He whispers. He should be feeling for a pulse, listening for stilted breaths to see if the man is still alive but he can't bring himself to do it. Because, what if there is no pulse? No air from the lungs? What is he supposed to do, then?

D'Artagnan, obstinate as ever, does not do what Athos asks him to and keeps his eyes firmly shut. A man cries out behind Athos and he looks around to see a man falling under Porthos' heavy fist.

"I said, stay away from them." the large man spits, before dropping shooting first d'Artagnan then Athos a worried look, "Is he…?"

Words fail the comte de la Fere, and he shrugs. At the look on Porthos face, he finally turns to d'Artagnan to find out how… If… Porthos lays a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady. Athos' hovering fingers shakily pick up d'Artagnan's wrist as he lays a finger on the pulse.

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Stumbling slightly, his injured arm throbbing like a hymn, Aramis makes his way over to his friends. He can see d'Artagnan now, can see him lying on his back, pale and still. Athos leans over him, shoulders tight with stress, looking for all the world like Porthos' strong grip is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Athos is reaching out for d'Artagnan's wrist, undoubtedly to check the pulse and Aramis' feet stutter.

What if there is no pulse? What if he loses another brother to a senseless massacre? All this time, Aramis has been trying not to think of massacres, trying not to look at the bodies around him or the blood-soaked ground they lie upon. He tries not to think of Savoy. Not to think that maybe they're just as bad, raising all these people to the ground. Because most of the men are still alive, wounded yes, but alive. And if d'Artagnan survives this, it will have been more than worth it.

Aramis steps forward as Athos' finger lands on d'Artagnan's pulse. It stays there. Long. Aramis' feet are still carrying him forward.

Then Athos' head bows and Aramis' world falls apart.

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For the second time in a month, the palace gates slam open with enough force to dent the walls. Kind Louis, who was conversing with his Swedish friend, Axel Porse up until a moment ago, holds in a shocked shriek. Instead, he stands to face whomever is entering. Storming in with a look of thunder on his face, is Captain Treville. He is flanked by six musketeers who all spread around the door, allowing Treville to approach the King.

"Treville!" Louis exclaims in surprise, "We're not taking audiences at the moment."

"So I've heard." Treville answers, still striding forward and Louis wonders if he should be more firm, more king-like and order the man away. Before he gets the chance, Treville is speaking again. "However, I am afraid this is a matter of life and death."

"Life and death?" Louis asks in wonder.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Your own." Treville answers, now stood right in front of Louis' throne. Beside him, the Swedish earl seems to flinch.

"Someone is planning an attempt at my life?" Louis asks, feeling small and vulnerable again. When will the danger to his life finally stop?

"Yes, Sire. By someone very close to you." The voice Treville speaks in is rough with anger, and he shoots a distrustful look towards the earl that would have gotten him a dressing-down on a better day, "I have a letter from your uncle; De Mausin. In it you will find proof of my words."

"You will not say who it is that wishes me dead?" Louis asks, wondering if Rochefort would have been more forthcoming.

Treville takes a bloodstained letter from his doublet, laying on top of his hand as he waits for the King to take it and read. He inclines his head slightly, then says, "Not until you have read the letter, Your Majesty."

Louis eyes the letter, the childish part in himself unwilling to pick up something as dirty as the parchment that is being held before him. It his hardly fit for a king, after all. However, the other part of himself, the king, the father, extends a hand.

The letter does, indeed, bear de Mausin's seal. Red and unbroken it stares at Louis like a beacon. Read me. The seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and the parchment, rough with disuse, opens easily under his fingers.

Cher Cousin,

Though I am always happy to enquire after your and your family's health, or how the Kingdom is being run, I am afraid that today there is no time for pleasantries. Your life, and perhaps the lives of the Queen and the Dauphin, are at stake.

Some days ago, though nearing a week when you read this, my home was attacked by a unidentifiable noble who sought to either kill me or turn me against you. I am told it happened in much the same way as the attack to the Boirgeaux-Parcet manor. Who the attacker is, I do not know. But he is a man who knows the area, and his men are well trained. We managed to capture two of the attackers, and after some interrogation, they admitted their plan to us.

I will be blunt about it.

Axel Porse, your Swedish friend, is planning a coup d'etat.

Be careful cousin. Do not let him in. If you have already done so, I would suggest arresting him as soon as possible. Once you have done so, I have two men in my custody who would be willing to witness against the Swedish Earl.

Stay safe, cousin.

Remember; your will is law, use it well,

Antoine de Mausin.

Louis is frozen. His eyes have passed over the sentence Axel Porse, your Swedish friend, is planning a coup d'etat, at least four times. He can feel the presence of the man next to him, strong and twice Louis' size. He can feel, not for the first time, betrayal curling in his stomach and wonders why he is doomed to always be betrayed by those he loves most. His mother. His best friend.

Even his musketeers in how they fail him sometimes.

But not this time. Were it not for his own musketeers and their captain, he would not have known this. He doesn't doubt the truth in his uncles words, they match those of Marie-Claire too closely to be fabricated. Also, in a sideways glance, Louis can see the tension radiating off Axel, he can see the hand that is already sitting on the hilt of the man's sword.

After a deep breath, Louis looks up from the letter. Where is Rochefort? Where is he now when the need is greatest? Where is the Red Guard? Louis looks into Treville's eyes. The Musketeer Captain is here at least. As he always is.

"Axel," Louis begins, "Would you mind giving us a private moment, please?"

He looks sideways at his Swedish friend, who has his brows knit together and seems to be looking over Louis' shoulder rather than in his face. The earl nods, then pulls out his rapier and lunges towards Louis.

The King, despite reading of his friend's betrayal only moments ago, is caught completely by surprise. He only has time to flinch back and wonders if this is to be his death, betrayed by a friend. Then steel meets steel as Treville lunges forward with his own rapier, throwing the earl off course. The battle that follows is quick. Even someone as strong and talented as Axel Porse cannot win against the expertise of the Musketeer Captain.

For the first time, Louis allows himself to look around to his family. They're unharmed, flanked by two of the Musketeers Treville had brought along, their enemies lying dead at their feet. More Swedish soldiers an French soldiers alike lie bleeding on the ground with Musketeers standing over them.

Treville holds Axel Porse at sword point.

"What shall I do with him, Your Majesty?" the Captain asks.

Louis wants to say Kill him. However, as a King, he knows he will have to allow for a trial. It will be an example: no one threatens the King of France.

"Put him in the Châtelet." He whispers shakily. Treville allows to Musketeers and a Red Guard to pull the earl away.

Before Treville leaves, he rounds on Louis again.

"Your Majesty, I wish to organise a reconnaissance mission to retrieve some missing Museketeers."

"Missing Musketeers?" Louis asks, perplexed. How little that matters in the face of the almost assassination he just went through.

"In the course of delivering this letter, one of our Musketeers was captured by the man who has been attacking nobles. He managed to hand the letter to some of the injured Musketeers who were left behind, and with the help of a fourth, they were able to bring the letter to my hands. However, three other Musketeers went in search of the captured Musketeer. They have yet to return and I fear for their lives."

Louis hopes he doesn't look as stunned as he feels by Treville's heated tirade.

"Your Majesty." Treville adds as an afterthought.

"Who are these brave Musketeers?" Anne, always so sweet, asks of Treville. There is something of fear in her voice.

"Those who returned are Vasser, Moreau, DuPont and Petit. All except for Petit were injured. D'Artagnan was taken, and his friends Porthos, Athos and Aramis went after him, Your Majesty. I was told that they took a prisoner, too. This man said that the worked under a man named Chassroi, who under further investigation, seems to be the Lord of Château Rouge."

"Oh!" Anne exclaims, true fear in her voice now. Louis understands, those four Musketeers are as much his favourite as they are Anne's, "Then we must retrieve them!"

Louis nods. "Yes. You must. I order you to dispatch some Musketeers to find these brave men."

That was very Kingly. Now Louis excuses himself, because he needs to have a breakdown in his chambers, preferably with Rochefort to shout at.

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Miles away, Chassroi lets out gasping breaths as he attempts to turn to the boy that murdered him. He has to admit he is almost impressed, the farmboy turned out to be a worthy adversary. But now he, too, lies still on the ground. Chassroi grins a bloody grin.

Perhaps the boy is dead after all. Chassroi closes his eyes against the pain.

To his right, a Gascon's finger twitches.

TBC