So, I've been starting at the text "Chapter 8" for 3 days straight not managing to write a single word. And then it all just kinda fell out of my brain. And then I wrote it in a couple of hours time. So here you go! Hope you enjoy!

And as always, thank you for your feedback (all of you who favorite, are following, reviewing or just reading.) You rock.

Chapter 8.

As they ate, they contemplated weather or not to stay in La Fére, or go back to Paris, go back to Athos. Feeling like all they would be doing here was sit around and wait, they could just as well go back to Paris… Where they would probably sit around and wait as well. It would set their minds at ease if they were at Athos' side, to know he was healing well. They were all growing sick with worry not knowing how he was. On the other hand, if he weren't healing well, they would probably be even more worried.

Leaving La Fére would also mean leaving every man, woman and child living in the town, and that meant leaving them in danger. They had a feeling that if they left, Isaac would attack random people to get their attention, and get them back into town so he could take a hold of them. And none of these men were going to let another person get hurt, these were Athos' people and they would protect them for him when he was not able to do so himself.

But just sitting around, waiting for someone to attack, was something they could all agree was tedious business. They were not much for patience, none of them, and they were already growing restless at not actually getting anywhere or accomplishing anything.

Simone left shortly after they finished eating, having her own business to tend to. The men stayed at the table for a while, playing cards while talking about different ways to proceed. Waiting for someone to grow too bored. Of course, none of them were surprised, as Aramis was the first one to reach the limit of insanity.

"I waited long enough. Come on, we're leaving."

Both Porthos and d'Artagnan looked up at Aramis as he rose from the chair, picking up his hat from the table.

"Where are we going, Aramis?" Porthos asked, knowing well enough all of Aramis' plans, but still feeling the need to ask, especially after seeing d'Artagnan's confused face.

"If Isaac is not coming to us, then we should go and find him."

"Simone told us he had gathered people to make up a small army. Do you believe it wise to ride straight into that army hoping they will lay down their swords?" D'Artagnan questioned.

"Surprise is everything." Aramis smiled, then raised an eyebrow towards d'Artagnan. The Gascon knew exactly that he was still referring to their first mission together, when they snuck up on Gaudet and d'Artagnan ran head first into the camp after Aramis had uttered those exact three words.

"How many times do I have to tell you – I did surprise them! I didn't realize you meant another type of surprise. It still worked, right?"

Aramis grinned as he looked at d'Artagnan – they had been going through that same discussion many times. Now, looking at the man in front of him, he realized just how much d'Artagnan had grown and learned since then. He had learned how to control his temper, he wasn't as reckless as he had been and he fought with his brain as well as his heart. He was still just as hotheaded and would plunge himself straight into danger, but the outcome was often better than before.

"Right, right. Well, we can't just sit here, now can we? We know who is causing this, we know Milady de Winter might have a card in the game as well, we know what Isaac wants and most of all, we know he doesn't want to ill us. So I say we go and find him. Have a little talk."

"You're actually serious?" Porthos asked, rising to his feet as he met Aramis' eyes.

"Yeah." Aramis smiled, nodding to Porthos in a manner that made the curls around his face dance with the movement.

Porthos shook his head as he walked over to his own hat and placed it on his head, before pulling on his massively large leather gloves. He had a smile on his face as he turned to d'Artagnan.

The Gascon sighed, but did indeed get up, snapping his own gloves out from the linen of his trousers and pulled them on. He didn't feel well enough to go out and look for trouble, it was not like trouble never just came by them anyway? No, when trouble didn't send them tumbling down a hill fast enough, Aramis wanted to give them a push along the way.

Aramis observed d'Artagnan as he got ready, and a small frown came upon him as he realized he might be asking too much.

"D'Artagnan. If you don't feel well enough to do this, we won't. I'm not putting you at harm's risk unless you feel strong enough to fight."

"I'm fine." D'Artagnan answered stubbornly. He had fallen with horses before. He might've been hurting upon waking up, but Aramis' fingers and potions sure could work miracles, and the pain level now had settled at 'tolerable'. His pride was not going to allow him to stand back if his friends were ready to fight.

"Mhm." Aramis mumbled with a quirk on the lips. "If you say so."

D'Artagnan gave him a smile as he pulled his black boat cloak over his shoulders, walking past Aramis and Porthos out through the door. The two Musketeers left in the room smiled as they could hear him yell "Well, are you coming?!" to them as they pulled on their own boat cloaks, walking out, following the Gascon.

The scene they walked out into was nothing they had expected.

D'Artagnan was facing them, with two men holding him tightly across the chest, pressing his arms down, and one of them held a hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming. D'Artagnan was still struggling with all his power to free himself from the strong arms holding him still, but it was to no use. Aramis met his eyes, and realized they were wide open, and it wasn't from pain or anger – it was from fear.

Aramis had always had good intuition and it didn't fail him this time either. Grabbing his pistol he held it by the pipe as he twirled around, instantly swinging, and managing to hit the arm coming towards him with high force. The dagger fell out of the man's hand in the same time as Aramis' heard the man's wrist snap, with the same sound as a branch splitting from being stepped on.

Porthos wasn't late to catch on, twirling around himself, seeing a man coming at him with a dagger as well, but his reflexes didn't make him go for his pistol, his reflexes made him grab onto the arm coming at him with one hand, using brute force to twist the man away from him like a ragdoll, sending him straight into the man Aramis had just fought. The two attackers landed sprawling on the ground, trying to untangle themselves from each other.

Then the fight was on. As Aramis and Porthos had managed to fend off the people attacking them, d'Artagnan managed to land a heel-kick to one of the men's knees, twisting out of his arms, and then he could get an arm free to elbow the other man straight into the ribs.

The three Musketeers gathered up against each other, close enough to protect each other but far enough not to hurt another with a sword as they swirled them. They fought with their backs against each other, in an attempt to cover everyone's back as people were closing in on them.

Simone had been very much correct when she said it was a small army that Isaac had gathered up. Probably close to 30 people were surrounding them, walking closer to their little group as the three Musketeers stood ready with swords and guns drawn. Wherever they looked, there were bandits, their faces masked with scarves, and all of them carrying weapons. All of them were on a mission and they didn't look like they had any plans on failing their leader.

"Remember what Simone said." Aramis whispered. "They want us hostage. They are not here to kill us."

"Are you saying we should lay down our swords and surrender?" D'Artagnan whispered back, confusion and surprise evident in his voice.

"Now why would you say that?" Aramis asked confused. "What I mean is that they will hold back. If Simone is right about Isaac's plan, then these men will not want our deaths on their conscience as they meet up with Isaac. They will try to knock us out, knock us down, but they will fight carefully not to hurt."

"So are you saying it would not be honourable to kill them?"

"You are blabbering such foolish nonsense today. Are you sure Buttercup didn't crack your head?"

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan wheezed. The large amount of people were coming closer every second, and he wished Aramis would just get to the point.

"I am saying we should try to break our record. I think 7 to 1 have been the best duel before, and that is Athos' record. Count all the people you take down and we'll see if we can break it. I believe there are about 10 to 1 here. Athos will be so jealous when he hear we broke it."

D'Artagnan sighed loudly. Porthos laughed, an evil grin spreading across his face. "The one who takes down the fewest will buy rounds tonight."

"Deal." Aramis grinned, elbowing Porthos in the side before casting a glance over his shoulder. "D'Artagnan?"

"You are crazy." Was all he heard from the Gascon behind him, and Aramis couldn't help but to smile proudly.

"Is that a deal?"

"Of course it's a deal." D'Artagnan muttered, but even though Aramis didn't look at him, he could see the hint of bemusement in the lad's eyes.

"Well then, let us get started."

And with that, Aramis launched himself at the bandit closest to him, their sword clashing together, and the distinctive sound of metal against metal allowed hell to break loose.

Athos leaned his head into his pillow and closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts some freedom. He had woken earlier and felt weird, and he had expressed this to his Captain, telling him about his 'symptoms'. It wasn't really any negative feelings, he just felt really, really weird. Treville had laughed for a long while before explaining to Athos that five days without alcohol will do that to you. Sobriety. It was an odd thing.

Treville had left him alone to go and get a bottle of whiskey, to wash the weird feeling away. It wasn't the first time Treville had left Athos' side, he had really only been keeping vigil the first day, before Athos seemed better. His head wound was still giving him all sorts of trouble though, and he had a lot of trouble moving around. The pain wasn't too bad, it was the nausea and dizziness that was coming to him every time he moved too fast that had him careening to the ground without having time to break his fall. Treville didn't want him up and running just yet, worried that his valiant Musketeer would injure himself further.

The bullet wound looked very well, it had been given plenty of rest and Aramis had left a paste that Treville had helped Athos apply. There was some redness but nothing that looked as if it were becoming infected. The rest of Athos' body still covered in bruises, his ribs leaving him breathless as he moved around and he could feel every muscle in his body ache. Athos had been shocked when Treville told him five days had passed since he rode into the garrison – he still couldn't remember the ride back from La Fére - but he knew he had been sleeping on that drink Aramis had made for him. It was nothing uncommon that Aramis slightly drugged them whenever they were hurt. It was to take pain away, and to force the stubborn Musketeers to get some rest.

Right now, he was feeling sleepiness was over him once more, and as his eyes slid close, flashes of memories played once more as he entered the dream stage.

"Please tell me I made the right decision?"

Simone dried off her hands on a towel before coming up behind Olivier, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her chin coming down to meet his hair. He was slumbered over the table, his body trembling just as steadily as the tears rolling off his cheeks.

She had never seen him like this, not even after his parents died. After he had recovered enough from the injury and realization of his failure had set in, she had found him grieving, crying as he was now, but back then he had mainly drowned himself in fine brandy and red wine, his life moving on with a dull mind. Even though he was still, somewhat, looking after his duties as the new Comte, he only ever did so because his honour told him he had to. He blamed himself for the loss of his parents, his honour telling him he should've been able to protect them. Simone tried to explain to him that what happened was not due to his lack of honour or inability to fight – Thibault falling over him was nothing he could've prevented or expected.

Isaac had tried to tell him too that he was blaming himself too much. That conversation had ended when Isaac told him about hiding in the stables, watching it all like a coward. The anger in Olivier's voice when he deported Isaac could be heard miles away.

And nothing good seemed to be coming his way after that. Thomas blamed Olivier for his inability to protect their parents, and Thomas grieved openly, in front of the whole town to ogle. Everyone stood by him as he told the townsmen about his brave parents, his brave father on the battlefield, and his brave mother as she protected him from a certain death. The people of La Fére turned against Olivier as they comforted Thomas through this tragedy.

Olivier pretended like he didn't hear their hurting words, but how could he not? It was stinging straight through his heart, and as if he didn't blame himself enough already, everyone else seemed to be blaming him too. So, to erase the pain in his heart, as well as the thundering pain in his leg, he turned to the bottles in the earth cellar. And Simone had been certain that he would drink himself into an early grave, no matter how many bottles she smashed while ripping them from his hands.

Anne had saved his life. She had just been travelling through the town when he first saw her, and it had been love at first sight. He had gotten straight up, leaving his bottle at the table for the first time in forever, and introduced himself to her. She had been shy and uncertain. He had been truly, madly, deeply in love.

She had noticed the smell of liquor on his breath, and seen how he had been swaying on his feet. Beard unshaven, hair uncut, clothes messy, but there had been something in him that she had not wanted to miss out on. And he had refused to let her leave, so intrigued by her presence. It didn't take long before the two of them had been inseparable, never seen without the other, and the look in their eyes had been nothing but pure love, desire and need.

Simone had been grateful and welcomed Anne into the family with open arms. And everything had seemed to go so well.

And now they were here. Olivier crying into his arms folded over the table, shaking from fear, hurt and sorrow as he had just witnessed the love of his life drop with a noose around her neck. If he had been blaming himself for the loss of his parents, it was nothing compared to now. He should have stopped this, before it got out of hand. He should've stopped Thomas rampage before he laid a hand on Anne, he should've protected Anne, he should've been the one to kill Thomas for trying to force his wife, he should've… He should've…

But if he looked back now, he would forever be lost.

"You did everything expected of you." Simone whispered into his hair as she hugged him.

"So I did not make the right decision?" He whispered, choking on his breath.

"It was your duty to uphold the law. You had no choice. You have to believe that, and you have to believe that you are strong enough to rise from this tragedy. I'm here to help, but I'm afraid this is a journey you have to take by yourself."

Olivier didn't answer her, but he was listening.

"Leave here. We'll pack the most essential and then you take a horse and you leave. There are no good memories left here and if you stay, the empty manor will kill you slowly. And I'm not ready to watch that. So I need you to go out and find your path. Find a reason to live again. It's out there, waiting for you, and I know you don't believe me now, but you will find it. One day you will stand straight again, but you must find a cause for it."

"I do believe you Nounou. I have always believed in you – because you have always believed in me." Olivier whispered as he straightened his back.

He knew she was right, he had to leave where he ever to survive. He could not stay here, this place was haunted and the source of his nightmares. Everything he had ever loved had died in this house, and he knew that if he stayed in it, it would consume his very being.

"I will make haste." Olivier announced as he raised to his feet, turning to look at Simone, his Nounou. Now she moved close to him, and placed the palm of her hand towards his stubbly cheek.

"Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast."*

Olivier couldn't help but to smile as she used a quote from one of the most tragic love stories of all time. A story about a woman from one background, and a man from another, who falls in love, but can't live out their love, and what's living without love? They both die. And that's what Olivier felt like at this very moment, she had died – and so had he. Maybe his body was still here, but his heart had shattered into a million pieces and his soul had vanished with despair. He felt like Romeo, and she had been his Juliet. The love of his life, his life that he could not spend with her.

All Musketeers had soon lost count on how many men they knocked to the ground as they literally ploughed their way through the mass of bandits. They had started with their backs against each other, but had soon been forced out of formation, as the battle had grown too intense. There were men everywhere, coming from every direction, but they were not soldiers. They might carry a sword, a dagger, a pistol, or other forms of weapons, but they fought like farmers who had been handed a weapon.

And thank God for that, otherwise the trio of Musketeers would've been slaughtered after a few moments.

Aramis and Porthos were still rather close to each other as they fought with all their strength and heart, taking the great amount of men down one at the time. A fist in a face there, the butt of a pistol swinging there, the swords slashing, the dagger moving. They were fighting strictly on instinct, skill and experience, and they felt in control as they moved their bodies around, forcing anyone charging at them to back off.

D'Artagnan on the other hand wasn't doing all that well. His body was sore before, his ribs screaming at him to stop, his ears ringing loudly and a sour taste rising from his throat. He was on the verge of exhaustion after just taking down a few men, and a boot to his lower back was all it took to send him into the ground, and have him staying there. Normally that would've been something he could just brush off, but his entire body was screaming in pain, and it took over as he landed on the ground, wheezing to catch his breath as pain shot through his limbs once again. He closed his eyes hard as he felt bile rise up his throat, and he swallowed over and over not to be sick right then and there.

Something, well someone, grabbed onto his ankles and pulled him roughly over the frozen ground, dragging him along, before a pair of strong arms grabbed onto his wrists as well, pulling them behind his back. He could feel ropes being wrapped around his limbs, and before he knew it, he had been tossed on top of a horse, landing behind a man, slung like a sack of potatoes across the mount's behind. Had he even had the smallest bit of energy or adrenaline left in his body, he would've rolled himself off that horse in a heartbeat, but his body didn't seem to be following his instructions. Instead, he let the ringing in his ears grow louder as his world seeped into the darkness.

Aramis was the first to notice that their youngster was being shipped off like cargo. Trying to end the fight he was dealing with, he screamed from the top of his lungs so Porthos could hear him through all the fighting.

"Porthos! They got d'Artagnan!"

Porthos head whipped around at the sound of Aramis' voice, but with four people coming at him at the same time, there was nothing he could do to help. Looking towards the direction of Aramis, he could see that he too was way too busy staying alive right now than helping their brother. The minute they let their attention wander, their eyes focusing on d'Artagnan hanging lifelessly across a horse as it galloped away, that was all the time the attackers needed to land hits. Aramis could feel how the butt of a pistol hit him square in the jaw, and his head whipped sideways with a loud crack of the neck.

Then he just got angry. He was so done with this, done with Isaac still being a coward, not fighting by himself. Done with all these men attacking them all at once, going at it four, even five to one without hesitation. Now where is the chivalry in that? He was done with his friends being hurt, threatened and now kidnapped as well? He was just done with it all, and he wanted to throw his sword down in the newly fallen snow and just sit down and pout. Nothing was going the way they planned. They had been here for days already and gotten nowhere. Only thing that had found them was pain and worry.

Maybe Athos had been right all along. Maybe the lands of La Fére actually was haunted.

* For those who didn't get it, the quote "Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast." is from Romeo and Juliet (Act 2 Scene 3, line from Friar Lawrence), of course written by the lovely Sir William Shakespeare :)