Hi all! I'm sorry you had to wait for so long, I just had trouble getting this chapter to where I wanted it, and it's been a very long week with me not feeling well. Weekend was dramatic when it came to the teamwork, but horses did great (it's just so hard when you have four stallions and then a mare in heat... Boys!) and results reflected the teams for sure. Anyway, another competition weekend is up, so I wanted this posted before that. Next chapter will be faster, for sure, cause I have most parts written already.

In advance, I ask your forgiveness if there is loads of errors on this - I'm writing it on my iPad so I can update before the weekend. I also drank a lot of wine. I apologize. Please point out mistakes so I can correct them.

I am forever grateful to AZgirl for helping me out when getting a bit stuck. The first 'scene', which by the wat is a flashback, is totally inspired by her ideas.

Now, on with this story!

Chapter 6

He reached a hand up towards his neck, sliding fingers in underneath all those layers of clothes. Sweat was sliding down his neck, and the humidity was making his dark hair curl out of control. It was really too hot to wear all these layers, but it was not his place to wear anything less of what was proper around the estate. He just had to endure.

Bringing his hand back to the book, the fragile pages instantly became damp with sweat and he groaned as he remembered why his governess would always tell him to wipe his neck with a handkerchief, and not his hands. That was foolish of him, he really ought to know better. Sighing loudly to himself, he pulled out his handkerchief and tried his best to dry the pages, but realized it was to no use in this hot, and stuffy library.

It was in the middle of the summer, and the heat they were experiencing was ridiculous. The fact that he was presumed to be wearing his thick waistcoat at all times were driving him up against the walls as the heavy material left no room for air. The inside of it was padded, and then wearing a leather vest, and the linens underneath made him feel like he was steaming from the inside. The ruffles coming out of his collar was soaked in sweat. What he wouldn't do for a swim in a lake right now.

But no, he had been ordered into the library, to read up on his upcoming duties. At 15 years of age, he was expected to know everything about what it would be like to be a Comte. He was having lessons in everything from history, geography as well as manners, but the only thing he could really take from all of this was just how small his desire to be a Comte actually was. It was so proper, it was so controlled and he really felt like he was suffocating. Not only by his clothes, but also by all the responsibility. He had never asked for all of this, but it was his heritage, and he was the oldest son. It was expected out of him.

He would never voice it – well, perhaps to his governess, his Nounou – but he felt so incredibly out of place. He would not be fitting of this, he wanted to do something in his life that left him feeling alive, not suffocated. But he also knew that he had no choice But to endure.

So he read every book his tutors told him to read, and his days, for as long as he could remember, had been a constant lesson in everything he needed to know. He would study horsemanship, good manners, playing instruments, mathematics, poetry, literature and history. He studied maps and the stars, he read books in French, Latin, Spanish and English, and then struggled his way through the Greek and Hebrew. He knew how to hold himself while dancing at a ball, and he knew his seat at a dinner table. And he found it all so incredibly tedious. The only class he would take that actually gave him joy was fencing.

He was given his own sword, a beautiful, strong piece of metal, and he had brilliant tutors who had fine-tuned his swordhand. That was the only thing he actually felt real passionate about. Roman, his sword master, would gladly tell him all he knew about different battles, teaching him strategies and outcomes of all the large battles that had taken place. It was least said interesting, and he happily plunged himself into every book about military strategy that he could find in their big library.

Olivier didn't even realize he had lost himself in his thoughts again, before he heard a voice by the door.

"What is it this time?"

Startled he turned around, only to knock the book in front of him down to the floor. Feeling his cheeks turn red, he quickly grabbed the book and placed it back at the table, before looking up and meeting the eyes of his governess, his Nounou, Madame Simone Sergeant.

Olivier pondered for a moment before answering with a deep sigh. In front of his mother, father, brother and all the men at court, he could easily get away with any kind of lie that would be more appropriate than his real thoughts, but not to his Nounou. She knew him too well, as if she could see right through his facades, and he knew she didn't like it when he lied to her.

"Do you believe I will be able to manage this responsibility?"

Simone smiled gently as she walked up to the teenager in front of her. She already knew about his worries and doubts, and it appeared that no matter how many times she told him her opinion, he would just not take it to his heart.

"My sweet Olivier. You were born for this."

"I wish I wasn't, and I don't feel that I was. There must've been some mistake. All this is doing, is making me feel uncomfortable. And it's making me tired, following everyone's rules, having others make all of my decisions. I want to feel alive, but I don't."

"Olivier. At this age, we do expect you to obey the rules of your father, we trust you to read and learn as much as you possibly can, and we want you to learn your duties. Because one day, you will be known as the Comte de la Fére. The day you lay your vows is the day we expect you to stop obeying, and begin to rule. You will not only be making decisions for yourself, but also to everyone on your lands. And that's what you were born to do – you were born to lead. You are a leader, and people will turn on their heels to hear your guidance. Men will gladly follow you into battle, and you will make your people proud."

Olivier sat quiet for a long time, his eyes staring out the window. He could see Thomas from here. The eleven-year-old was playing with the black colt he had gotten for his birthday last year, and the two of them were now running up and down the gardens while the gardeners were yelling at them to go away. Thomas was laughing, and not listening to a word they were shouting. He seemed so full of life, so full of energy, and Olivier could feel a hard sting of jealousy in his chest. What he wouldn't do to be running, playing, and laughing like that.

"It would not be appropriate." The governess whispered, seeing where his eyes had travelled. And Olivier let out a heavy sigh. That sentence was probably his least favourite one, and it would be told to him over and over. Of course it wouldn't. Because he was the oldest. Thomas was the youngest, and apparently that meant that Olivier would spend his summer days stuck in a library reading mathematics while Thomas would be running barefoot in the soft grass which his horse whinnying loudly behind him.

He really should not be jealous, but he could not help, nor suppress, that feeling. It had been growing strong since they were little, as he had grown up watching how differently everyone would treat them. How Thomas seemingly could get away with anything, anything. And right now Olivier couldn't even take his padded waistcoat off. It just was not fair.

Olivier knew he would be nice to his brother, it wasn't Thomas' fault that he had no rules to follow, duties to take care of and books to read. Well, Thomas really should be doing everything Olivier did, in case Thomas were to inherit the title himself one day, but no one seemed interested in the fact that Thomas barely knew how to read in Latin. Thomas was definitely not more interested in anything than Olivier himself, but he didn't hide the fact that he could not be bothered sitting inside reading. Their mother would laugh at his rebellion, and his father would smirk along, and then turn their attention to Olivier instead.

It just wasn't fair.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he turned his attention back to his Nounou, and she met him with a soft smile.

"I understand how much you dislike this, I know how uncomfortable it makes you, and I wish I could change it. But I can't, and neither can you. But I will tell you that it can only become better, and one day you will be the Comte, you will have a wife, and children at your feet. The king will ask for your attendance at court, and you will serve alongside the King and his Musketeers, you will have men stand guard behind your back, ready to take your orders without hesitation. You will swing that sword like no other man in France ever will, and you will feel proud. And I will be proud."

Athos let his eyes flutter open, with the memories from his dream still present in his mind. Images from one of the many times he had been sitting in the library watching his younger brother, and sometimes Isaac, play outside the window. That had been a long time ago now, it had been another lifetime, and he hadn't been thinking about those moments in many years. Least said, other things had kept him occupied.

His head wasn't hurting as bad as it had been last time he woke up, and even though the nausea was still present, at least the beams in the ceiling wasn't moving too fast. Carefully turning his head, he could see Treville sleeping in a chair next to his bed. It was a rare sight, watching their Captain keep vigil over him. Normally his friends would all be here instead, staying awake in shifts as Treville came in now and then to get a report on how the patient was doing. But that was not the case right now, and Athos could feel a heavy knot in his stomach, a knot of longing for his friends. He always felt out of place when they were not anywhere near him, he had gotten so used to their presence, and he cherished every moment he could spend with them.

Knowing they had most likely ridden straight into danger was not helping his worry.

His throat was dry and sore, and as he turned his head he could see a cup of water on a small bedside table. He stared at it, as if it would move by him using his thoughts alone. Unfortunately, after a few moments passed, it was still standing on the table, and he sighed as he instead tried to move his arm to get to it. It took him a great effort to lift his arm from the sheet, and he did manage to move his hand to the cup, but almost instantly knocked it over.

The cup shattering on the hard ground made Treville jump high in his chair, dagger drawn immediately in reflex as he spun around in search for an enemy.

"Apologies." Athos mumbled as Treville turned back to him, and calming down he could see the broken cup on the floor. Treville smiled lightly as he sheathed his dagger, and leaned forward to pull the pieces of the cup back up to the bedside table. Grabbing another cup, he filled it with water, and gently helped Athos to drink from it.

"How are you feeling?"

"A bit better." Athos nodded. He wasn't feeling well, but he was feeling better than before. It was not like it would've been possible to feel any worse than what he had endured earlier.

"It makes me glad to hear that. You were getting a bit warm there for a while, but it appears to have settled."

Athos smiled lightly, swallowing, before meeting the eyes of the Captain. "Did they ride to La Fére?"

"They did." Treville said, not hesitating in telling Athos the truth.

"They shouldn't have. They will be killed." Athos mumbled, as the knot in his stomach grew tighter.

"Athos, you know they are resourceful. They will return soon."

"They don't know what… whom… they are up against." Athos sighed as he pushed his head back into the soft pillow. He knew what Isaac was capable of, and he knew how angry he was. But most of all, he knew what Isaac was set out to do, and all of his cousin's plans had to do with his brothers… His brothers, who had ridden straight into Isaac's hands.

Panic was welling up, knowing just how much danger would be waiting his brothers at La Fére, and knowing there was no way he could stop them. They would already be there… Maybe they would already be dead? No, Isaac would wait until the last moment before he did anything drastic, he would want Athos to watch them die, not just find them dead. That was his master plan. Not that he had said so, but Athos was not a stupid man. It had not taken him long to figure out why Isaac let him live, and most of all, allowed him to leave. He had wanted Athos to return back, fall apart and have the other Musketeers set out on a mission of finding out what had happened. Athos' plan had been to tell them to wait until he was better, and then return to La Fére with their help, when they knew what were to expect. He had not planned to faint like a damsel in distress.

A hand was suddenly on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to meet Treville's.

"I… I need to go there."

"You are not going anywhere Athos. You are not in shape to move just yet, that bullet wound was not very well when you arrived here. You know Aramis would be angry with me if I allowed you to damage his needlework."

"But, sir…"

"Athos. They will be alright. They will return soon. And I want them to find you here, in bed, upon their arrival. You are not, under any circumstances, to walk out through that door. And that's an order. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir." Athos mumbled. "I will not walk out through that door."

"Good then." Treville smiled pleased, knowing very well that Athos was a man of his words, and he would never go against a direct order, no matter how much his heart told him to do otherwise. Moving his attention over to the bedside table, he grabbed a cup with the liquid Aramis had prepared before leaving, moving it to Athos' lips and helped him drink. Athos gulped it down, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't. The drink was a relief as it removed a big portion of the pain still rummaging through his body, but it also left him tired and sleepy, and it didn't take long before Athos was drifting off to sleep once again.

"You have three seconds to begin talking before I start shooting." Aramis said with confidence in his voice, as he was loading the musket in his hands. He hadn't brought his own musket, but found this beautiful piece inside the manor, and even though the musket is way clumsier and more difficult to handle, when it comes to scaring the breeches of a man held captive, it was always more intimidating than just holding a pistol.

Aramis had no intention of shooting them, not wanting the bloodstains all over the house. It would just be so messy to clean up. That said, he wouldn't hesitate to threaten the living daylights out of their captives, and so far it was working well.

Except for the fact that none of them were talking. At all. And Aramis was getting frustrated. So he had gone to get the musket, which he was now aiming at one of the men, while loading it.

D'Artagnan was sitting at a chair, leaned back with his legs propped up on the table, looking more dead than alive. He had kept saying he was absolutely fine, but the more time past, the more grey he became, and Aramis wanted him to go lie down. D'Artagnan promised he would – when the raiders began talking. He was not going to miss out on what was happening for the world. He could rest later. Right now, he kept his eyes closed but his ears sharp as he let Porthos and Aramis doing their best at getting the men to speak.

D'Artagnan could hear Aramis talk to them, talk about what he was going to do unless they began answering his questions. Porthos would add promises of pain, and praise Aramis' skills with the musket. Aramis played with the weapons, doing his old routine of firing without the ball. Whimpers escaped from sealed lips. Then one of the men opened his mouth, and took a few deep breaths as he prepared himself to tell the story about what was going on, but he never got the chance to actually tell them anything of value, before the sound of a gunshot silenced everything else.

D'Artagnan's eyes flickered open as he for a short second thought Aramis had fired. Then upon watching how Porthos grabbed onto Aramis and pushed him down to the floor, he realized it was not Aramis' musket that had fired, but someone outside the window had. D'Artagnan's instincts took over, and he threw himself down to the floor as well, hands over his head as glass was flying around in the air from the shattered windows.

By the time the gunshots died out, they looked up to see the three raiders, with their brains smeared across the wall behind them. The gunshots had definitely been deliberate and deadly accurate.

"Well, I doubt we will get more information out of them then!" Aramis muttered angrily as he grabbed the musket again, and raced for a window. Peaking his head out carefully, he could see several riders take off into the woods, gone by the time he rose to full height.

Aramis turned around to meet the eyes of Porthos and d'Artagnan, wondering what information the men could've possibly been holding on to that made them deserve to die like that. Someone did not want them talking, apparently.

"Do you think that was Isaac?" Porthos mumbled as he moved over to the bodies, untying them so it would be easier to carry them out of there.

"Most likely." Aramis sighed. Part of him really wanted to meet this Isaac.

Another part of him really did not.