Ask Me, I Will Remain Chapter 15, a musketeers fanfic

Well since my mom is feeling great my body decided now is a great time to come down with a ridiculous chest cough and fever. I'm staying in bed this weekend. But that said, I've had time to properly catch up. I got one chapter left to write, then it will be done. Total will be 19 chapters!

Anyway. Here's 15. The showdown. Prepare, oh, prepare.

Chapter 15.

Athos looked across the field where the battle that had once claimed his parents had been held. It was a massive field where crops would no longer grow, 'a field of death' they called it. And today there would be more blood seeping through the cold ground.

As Isaac arrived upon a bay horse, the winter sun high in the sky but air still cold, Athos was ready at the frontline, sitting upon Roger's back with his back straight and chin up. Every breath allowed small puffs of air to escape from his mouth, and even though he was just in his doublet and blue Musketeer cloak, he was not going to let the cold get to him. He was dressed for battle. Even Roger had gotten a decorated bridle, and saddle cloth with the colors and arms of La Fére. Porthos, mounted on Flip and also dressed in his leather and blue cloak, was stoic besides him. On Athos' other side were Treville seated on his black Friesian mare, Treville clad in his shining breastplate and cloak. All three of them held their right hands on the hilt of their swords, prepared for the big fight they knew would be unavoidable.

Behind the three of them was a perfect row of fifty Musketeers dressed in the light blue leather cloaks, and behind their line were every single man in La Fere who was able to hold a sword, pistol, club, pitch fork or whatever available weapon they had. Some of them were not even holding weapons, sure enough in their abilities to fight with their fists.

Up on the balcony, covering two sides of the manor, planned as a perfect view of the field in case of battle, of Athos' newly built manor was Aramis and d'Artagnan. Aramis had several muskets and harquebuses loaded and ready, placed on top of supports to allow Aramis to fire with only one arm. D'Artagnan was preparing to reload for him, his pouches full of bullets and powder, pre-wrapped by Aramis. That way the two of them were in the battle, but not on the ground with the other men.

The total of the brave men standing behind Athos were almost a hundred men strong.

Athos had paid a runner to find Isaac, and after d'Artagnan's description of where he had walked, and Aramis' and Porthos' descriptions of where they had found him, Athos had soon realized to where Isaac was hiding. There was an abandoned farm not far away, a place long forgotten as its owners had died.

They didn't need to wait for long. Isaac had been delivered a message saying Athos would give him what he deserved, and Isaac had ridden to them in haste. Not alone, of course, strong men in long rows followed him both on horseback and on foot.

Upon his arrival, Isaac rode all the way up to Athos, their horses close enough to snort at each other.

"Nice to meet you cousin."

Athos was not in the mood for formality.

"I would say the same, but I'm not a perjurer. So please allow us get this over with. I will offer you two options. One is for you to leave and never return, and I will forget about this little mistake caused by your hand. Or the second option is that today will be the day you draw your last breath. No matter your choice, this ends here, and this ends now."

"How you disappoint me! This is not what I rode here for. I want La Fére."

"You will never have La Fére. A coward does not deserve nobility. A coward cannot protect other beings. I'd rather die today and give La Fére to the Crown than to leave her in your unqualified hands."

"That can be arranged." Isaac grumbled, his eyes narrowing.

"I bid you good luck. Every man behind me will fight to dismiss of you, and your devotees. We will not let you have this land. This has to stop."

"I will not turn and walk away. I want my life back."

"Your life is not here anymore. There is nothing left for you here. I want you off my land and I do not want you to return."

"I am not leaving without fighting for what is mine!"

Isaac was growing restless and agitated while Athos had kept his exterior cool, the way he usually did in a fight. Kill your enemies with indifference. Now he observed Isaac, looking at his cousin and reading his movements. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he inched his sword up, just a teeny tiny movement, that was more than enough to warn Porthos and Treville of what was about to happen. But Athos was never the one to draw first. If he could settle a battle with words it would be a good day.

But that was not going to happen to day. A second later Isaac roared out a command, and one of his men from the frontline ran forwards with a pistol in hand. Athos, Porthos and Treville stood dead still as the man came running, his voice screaming and his pistol aiming. The man only made it a few steps before he fell, dead on the ground as a musket ball cleft his head wide open.

Isaac froze. Athos, Treville and Porthos all fought back their grins.

"You chose to fight, and you will watch all your men die." Athos said, stoically.

"I have more men than you."

Athos tried his hardest, but he could not help the smug look creeping onto his face. "I have better men than you."

Isaac's eyes once again narrowed in anger, before his voice travelled loudly, and this time it didn't take long before the battle was at full speed forward. The two armies collided with horses, swords and daggers, and a vicious fight broke lose.

Isaac and Athos dealt with each other while their men had a go at whoever came in the path of their swords. Shots were fired from the balcony, bringing people down every single time Aramis fired. Even gravely injured, he was a marksman out into the tip of his fingers, and Athos knew he could trust him in combat. Porthos was swinging his Balizarde around him, every turn of his shining blade bringing down another attacker. He was determined to stop the fight, this battle of Isaac's head, so they could return to Paris soon and find some time to relax and heal. He was just so done with the hurt and the worry by now.

In the heart of the bloodshed was Athos, with his eyes locked with Isaacs as the two of them fought against each other. They had both dismounted, both of them ungracefully, after ramming each other hard. They had once trained for the same sword master, but Athos had been practicing a lot more since those years, and even though the bullet wound was still pulling at his side, he was still a better fighter than Isaac when it came to the technical part of it. But Isaac was strong, he had grown to a large, tall man with wide shoulders and upper arms the size of logs, and he was using brute force as he was swinging his broadsword. Athos soon came to realization that Isaac might be able to take him down by just using sheer force. Athos was faster, more skilled and more experienced, but certainly not stronger, and he was not at his best right now.

Porthos and Treville were both close, their battle techniques so different from each other. Treville was planned, structured, and lethally precise. Porthos was twirling his sword wildly with one hand, he used his other, free hand, with thick gloves donned, to disarm his attackers by just pulling the weapons out of their hands.

Aramis was on the roof still, firing without taking a break. The musket balls were hitting people down on the field in a non-stop motion, d'Artagnan reloading for him as he moved from weapon to weapon. Aramis was not only covering Athos, Porthos, Captain Treville and the rest of the Musketeers, he also did his best to cover everyone standing behind them. He wanted people to feel safe as they had followed Athos into battle, all those minds of distrust put to rest.

For the longest time, they appeared to have the upper hand, Isaac's men falling like leaves in the autumn wind, some of them realizing they were losing and deciding to run instead of dying. From the overview Aramis and d'Artagnan had on the balcony, it looked like they would be victorious. They never saw the brutal change in the winning streak coming before it was upon them.

The fight was over as quickly as it started. Isaac's people were retreating, running for their lives, not wanting to be part of the brutal swordsmen inhabiting La Fére. Men were howling behind him, striking down one opponent after the other, and feeling great doing so. To Athos' right, Porthos was cutting down people faster than they would even approach, and when he didn't have anyone to fight he would grab someone. He was at his very best as he fought mercilessly. On Athos left, Treville held his own as well by using his sword. His fighting technique was cleaner than Porthos', but just as lethal. Athos still held his stance against Isaac, but he was certainly tiring, his untrained muscles shouting at him by every movement. He knew his stitches had ripped, he could feel the tickling sensation of blood running down his side, and he thought for sure he was doomed when Isaac suddenly rammed the hilt of his sword straight into Athos' temple.

His world went spinning out of control, his world tilting rapidly, ad he reached out, bracing himself as his hands and knees collided heavily with the cold ground. Athos didn't comprehend anything surrounding him, he could not see nor hear anything for a long moment, everything rocking underneath him and even though his was fighting it, he could not stop himself from vomiting right in between his hands.

As his vision slowly crept back, still foggy and swaying, he glanced up to notice his line of vision had been cut off due to a pair of big legs, standing in front of him, close enough to touch – if he had been able to lift his arms, that was. The massive legs were wide enough to be actual trees, and seemed just as sturdy, rooted into the ground. His very drowsy mind offered him but a single name.

Porthos.

Porthos was standing in front of him, protecting him. That realization was enough for Athos push himself away from his breakfast and lay down on his back in the snow panting roughly as he fought his hardest to remain conscious.

Aramis had seen Athos take the hit through his scope, and now he had his eye locked on Isaac, with his finger on the trigger. He didn't want to kill Isaac - only so they could bring him to court and let him hang in public instead - but would without hesitation blow his head off if he had to. D'Artagnan next to him had a musket lined up as well, his eagle eyes with wide range, spying around in case of other danger approaching the men while Aramis guarded Athos on the ground.

Isaac had been using brute force to bring Athos down, but he was no match against Porthos. The large Musketeer was bigger, stronger and a lot more skilled with a sword. It didn't take him long to literally push Isaac back, while disarming him. Isaac was panting hard as his sword went flying out of his hands, tears of anger and rage welling up in the sockets of his eyes, and he roared angrily in one last attempt.

The pistol came from nowhere, and the bullet left it faster than anyone had expected. Athos turned his head at Isaac's scream, and noticed that the pipe of the pistol was aimed for his head as Isaac pulled the trigger.

"NO!"

No one had time to explore who the screaming voice had belonged to. It could've been any of them. It could've been all of them at once.

Isaac had taken the shot, with the pistol still aimed at Athos' head. But the bullet didn't hit him, because someone jumped in front of him, coming out of nowhere in the same time as Isaac forced the bullet out of the harquebus.

There was a moment of limbs, bodies, shouts and movements all mixed together with the loud gunshot, before everything suddenly seemed to fade out into slow motion. And as Athos regained his wits just long enough for him to roll up on his knees and hands, he could see Simone on her knees next to him, her face pale, lips slightly blue, and her hands pressed towards her chest. And blood. There was so much blood. Way too much blood. It was everywhere.

No one dared to speak, everything seemed frozen in time as Athos met Simone's eyes, the two of them staring at each other in shock.

"Nounou…" Athos whispered, tears welling up with an uncontrollable speed to his eyes, before she drew a heavy breath and tilted forward. Athos caught her gently and eased her down into his lap, her head resting at the bend of his arm, his hands pressed on top of hers covering the wound, and he let his forehead fall to meet hers, his own pains forgotten. He kept mumbling, pleading through his tears, as all the sound he could hear was her gasping for air. "No, no, please…"

Athos was shaking on the ground as he cradled the woman he loved like a mother, the woman who had kept him sane and been the stoic rock in his never-ending storm since the day he was born. The woman who knew everything about him and still loved him like her own babe. She had always been his security in a precarious world, she had taught him everything she knew, she had kept vigil by his side when he was sick, and she had cradled him into her embrace when he cried in agony after losing his parents. And now she was dying, and it was his fault, that bullet had been meant for him, he was meant to be dying in the new fallen snow, not her. She was not supposed to die. Not like this. No, no, no…

Athos tossed his head up, his cheeks wet from tears that didn't seem to have an ending to them, and he searched the faces around him until he found Aramis' dark eyes. The marksman, and their rookie, had both been running down to the scene the minute Isaac had fired. Now they were standing next to Porthos and Treville, all of them in silence as they watched Athos break completely before them.

"'Mis… Aramis, please, do something."

Tears were in Aramis' eyes as he knelt next to his friend, placing a hand on top of Athos' hands on her chest. He wished for nothing else at the moment that there was something that could be done to save her life, but he knew she was beyond saving. A bullet wound to the chest was always fatal, he had seen it before, and he had tried to tend to similar wounds before, but found that there was greater mercy to not start digging for a bullet. He looked down at the governess in Athos' arms, and found her glossy eyes. She knew, she definitely knew that there was nothing he could do, and Aramis could feel his heart cramp violently.

Aramis took a breath as he looked up to meet Athos' eyes, moving his hand to squeeze Athos' shoulder, leaning in as he whispered, his voice unsteady. "I'm sorry, my brother. I wish I could, but her wound is beyond my abilities to heal. You need to let her go."

Athos stared at him before shaking his head. He didn't want to believe Aramis' words, and even though the rational part of him told him Aramis was telling him the truth, he just did not want to accept it.

"No, please God, don't take her from me… No, please…"

Athos begged as his head fell forward again, his forehead connected with Simone's, their breaths on each other's faces.

"Je suis désolé Nounou, I'm sorry. Please forgive me, please…"

"Olivier." Simone's voice was just a pained whisper, but it caught Athos' attention. "Stop… hating… yourself. Let go. Find… comfort in your… brothers. I am… proud… to call you… my son."

And with those words, Madame Simone Sergeant closed her eyes.

The sound that followed could be felt in every person's heart within a five miles radius. The heaving sound of pure agony that escaped from deep down of Athos' throat was nothing they had ever heard before. The sound brought Isaac, who had been immobile whilst staring at the scene he caused, down to his knees and hands, retching violently. Porthos placed a big hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder as the youngster staggered at the sound. Aramis closed his eyes and prayed. Treville lowered his head.

And the entire battle on the field stopped. Swords were sheathed as everyone pulled back. The fight was over. The leaders were down. One side had been victorious. But as the townsmen saw who their leader had cradled in his lap, no one felt joy.

No one moved for a long time. They stayed like that, Athos crying whilst pulling Simone's body closer to his, Isaac on his knees, Porthos and d'Artagnan still standing, leaning on each other as they watched the scene in shock and terror, and Aramis crouching by Athos' side, a hand still squeezing his shoulder as words in Spanish and Latin was escaping his lips in a whisper.

"The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace."*

Somewhere through Athos' dazed mind, he could hear the words Aramis mumbled, and somehow they seemed to have a calming effect on him. She is at peace. His tears eased up as he carefully stretched his upper body – still cradling her lifeless body in his arms – and leaned in on Aramis. His brother was not slow on understanding his needs, and Aramis' good arm pulled Athos towards his chest. Athos let his head drop towards the dip in Aramis' neck, and he could feel Aramis' beard towards his forehead, Aramis still praying in a mix of languages.

Aramis let his hand slide down from Athos' hair, gently rubbing his back up and down, and he held Athos until he could feel his breathing calm down to somewhat-normal, the tears slowing down. He eased back a little, Athos feeling him shift, and they looked up to meet each other's eyes. Aramis moved his hand from Athos' hair to his cheek.

"Will you be alright?" Aramis whispered carefully, gently studying Athos' features, while his thumb caught a tear sliding down the cheek. Athos swallowed hard as he gave Aramis a short nod, the movement sending his world into dizziness once again, but he could barely feel the physical pain over his heart that was cramping roughly.

"With help." He whispered, his eyes pleading for comfort he knew was right there in front of him.

"Don't ever doubt it." Porthos breathed behind him, his hand coming down to Athos' shoulder. Another hand was placed at the nape of Athos' neck.

"We are all here." D'Artagnan offered.

"All for one…" Aramis said with a small, comforting smile on his lips, and Athos let out a heavy breath before answering with the familiar 'And one for all.'

"How do you want us to proceed?" D'Artagnan asked carefully, looking down at the sweet woman in Athos' lap.

"Move her to the house. I'll send for the priest and some of the nuns, they will prepare her for burial." Athos said quietly, his words aching inside of him, but he knew he needed to collect himself for what was about to come. He had to move on with it, he couldn't get stuck in the moment, or he would never pull himself out.

Porthos moved around and knelt in front of Athos, and warily placed a hand underneath Simone's upper back, and one underneath her legs, before pulling her up into his arms, holding her as careful as one would with a newborn babe. Porthos rose to his feet, and Aramis and d'Artagnan helped guide Athos to unsteady feet, each with a hand holding his elbows. Athos suddenly turned, realizing who was still on his knees in the grass, not far off. Isaac hadn't moved, and his face was pale and sweating, his features displaying all signs of pure shock. Athos walked up calmly – although extremely unsteadily - to him, and looked down at the imbecile on the ground. Isaac turned his head as he saw feet standing in front of him, and he met Athos' eyes.

"I want to kill you, I want to strangle you with my bare hands, and I want to cause you pain you have never felt before. But I know that you loved Nounou as I did, so I will let you live until you reach Paris where you will be seen to court. I will allow you to live, knowing you killed her. I know that pain will be worse on you than anything I could possibly inflict."

And with that, Athos walked away, turning his back on Isaac, and following Porthos who was already walking towards the manor. Treville grabbed a hold of one of Isaac's arms and hauled him to his feet, dragging him along with him. Isaac made no move to escape or be of any trouble, he had given up the fight, and he felt that he deserved anything coming his way. He had never meant for that to happen, but she had pushed Athos out of the way and he had put that silver bullet into her chest. He had killed one of the very few people he had ever loved, and he would never, ever forgive himself for it. Trying to dispose of Athos and everything he held dear suddenly seemed so… pointless.

Unnecessary.

"The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them.
In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster,
their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace."