Athos had been anxiously awaiting his two brother's return from their secretive mission for the better part of the day. The Musketeer sat outside on the picnic tabletop with his feet resting on the bench all afternoon; he stared intently at the gate waiting, though it had been cool and breezy with scattered rain. Even the weather couldn't deter the man.
That is, until the captain ordered Athos inside after he noticed his Musketeer shivering and nearly doubled over in a fit of coughing. "Why on earth are you outside in the rain?" Captain Tréville snapped. "Go on up to your room and get back in bed; you shouldn't be outside getting wet with that cough of yours."
"Thank you all the same, sir, but I prefer to wait for Porthos and d'Artagnan's return out here," Athos drawled with temerity.
The captain shook his head at the stubbornness of the Musketeer. "Athos, that wasn't a suggestion; it was a direct order. Now, get on up to your room before you make your condition worse. Porthos and d'Artagnan may have been delayed due to the weather and will probably be home tomorrow- it's getting too late for travel now." The captain turned on his heel and went to his office muttering under his breath. "I have to look after these men as though they were children."
"Delayed due to weather." Athos repeated to himself with a huff of skepticism. "Not likely," he shook his head. Upon standing, the lieutenant had to steady himself by leaning heavily on the table until the dizziness passed and a new round of coughing ceased.
Athos resolved that he would begin at dawn in search of his brothers, despite his illness. If there was a safe way to travel at night he would set out now rather than waste several good hours, since time was of the essence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible had caused the delay of his friends and he wasn't going to sit around the garrison tomorrow doing nothing but waiting.
Athos went up to his room and packed a small bag of extra clothing then climbed into bed to get some rest before his long journey ahead. After some time spent tossing and turning, worrying about his friends, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.
His was a restless sleep and after waking one too many times, Athos decided to get up to begin his journey presently. Why waste valuable time when I wasn't sleeping anyway? Athos thought. The Musketeer lit a candle allowing him to see in the dark room before changing into fresh clothes and donning his uniform.
He buckled his weapons belt over the leather doublet and attached the desired weapons, taking two pistols and his main gauche, before finally strapping on his sword. He grabbed his hat and opened the door; he peeked out beforehand to make sure the way was clear. He took the candle, carefully cupped his hand in front of the flame to block the wind, then stepped out at a quick pace toward the garrison stables.
Stopping in the stables, Athos was glad he had the candle to maneuver around in the darkness. He gathered his saddle and necessary tack then brought them over to Roger's stall where he prepared his horse for travel.
He led the large black horse to the stable door then blew out the candle, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the dark. At last, Athos mounted the horse and kicked the animal into motion, beginning his do-or-die mission toward Blois to find his two missing brothers.
Never could he think of a time when he yearned more for the company and help of his dear friend, Aramis. I wish you were here with me, brother. But then again, you would have tried talking me out of this foolish mission. Perhaps it is a fools mission, but when it comes to the lives of my brothers, I would rather be safe than sorry. Something tells me that if I don't go to find them, I will be sorry.
Athos rode through the empty streets of Paris making his way by the scant moonlight until he finally reached the edge of town and onto the open road without incident. Once on the road he set out on the familiar route south toward Orléans, hoping the sun would rise long before he hit the forested woods of Torfou.
On the Road to Paris:
Aramis was making good time on his borrowed stallion, passing through villages just beginning to awaken and bustle for the business day. His mind was set firmly on reaching Paris, so much so that he paid little attention to his surroundings and the terrain as it blurred past. Nothing was going to prevent him from reaching the garrison where he hoped he would learn the whereabouts of his friends.
Nearing the little village of Toury, a group of armed highwaymen waited behind a copse of trees as they watched a lone rider racing toward the village with obvious haste. They hoped this rider was on an important mission and could provide substantial ransom; perhaps he was carrying money or valuable correspondence to a recipient of high stature and with a deep purse.
This is exactly the lucky break the bandits had been waiting for. They backed their horses into the trees to better conceal themselves as they pulled out their pistols, ready to take aim as the rider passed. "Don't kill the man; let's find out if he's got anythin' of value to us first," the leader ordered.
Aramis noticed the village sign and sighed, still too damn far to go. The sound of horse hooves rushing at him from his right brought the marksman out of his reverie. He didn't have time to react when suddenly the sound of a gunshot rang in his ears, followed by the indisputable burning sensation in his right side.
One moment, he was watching the village of Toury ahead on the road when suddenly he was seeing a blur of blue sky, green trees and brown dirt as he tumbled from his horse to the ground. The air gushed from his lungs as he hit the hard ground and rolled a few times, leaving him dazed. The medic began to fade but was abruptly brought back to awareness as he felt rough hands dragging him across the ground into the treeline.
"What'cha got on ya, rider?" A dirty, smelly man with nearly brown teeth asked. "Why you hurryin' so, eh? Maybe you're carrying somethin' of value to us?"
Aramis shook his head, still too dazed to make sense of the unforeseen quandary he found himself in. "I d-don't have anything of value on m-me. I was returning to Paris. . ."
"Bloody hell, Antoine," exclaimed one man. "Look, we got ourselves a Musketeer! Look and see," the bandit said. He pointed at the marksman's pauldron, with the unmistakable fleur-de-lis symbol of the King's Musketeers engraved in leather, on the right shoulder.
"Holy Mary Mother of God, do you know what this means?" Antoine said to his two companions. "The king's got real deep pockets; maybe he's willin' to pay us lots of money to get his Musketeer back," the man laughed viciously.
Aramis kicked up with his foot and connected hard with the man's shin, doubling him over in pain. The marksman took the opportunity to scramble to his feet then run a short distance, until the other two bandits caught up to him.
The men tackled Aramis and sent him to the ground; the air forced from his lungs once again as he was buried under a pile of bodies. A boot slammed into his ribs which sent white-hot pain streaking through his body, further stealing the breath from his lungs. He felt his ribs give slightly as they cracked from the sudden booted assault.
Aramis groaned and tried to curl on his side as another onslaught of boots and fists pummeled his torso. There was little he could do but take the beating while writhing in the dirt, trying to protect his ribs from additional injury as the assault continued.
The marksman began feeling strange, as though floating on a cloud. The feeling had surprisingly caused him to burst out laughing, which angered his assailants further.
"Oh, so you think this is funny, Musketeer?" Antoine snarled. "Maybe we'll stop ticklin' ya and give you some real pain."
Aramis felt himself being lifted to his feet, only to be knocked back down as a fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head backward as he fell to the ground. The taste of copper filled his mouth as blood trickled between his teeth and down his chin. The marksman spit the blood out on the ground in stoic defiance.
The ruthless assault began anew with a fist slamming into his stomach, followed by laughter as they watched their victim writhe in pain and gasp for breath. Three sets of boots began kicking the Musketeer, causing incredible pain wherever the boots happened to land.
Aramis twisted and turned on the ground trying to escape the storm of boots striking his back, stomach, legs and ribs. An involuntary cry escaped his lips, immediately causing him to feel ashamed. Don't give them the satisfaction of hearing you cry out, Aramis. You are a King's Musketeer! The marksman scolded himself.
The Musketeer bit his lip to stifle the groans of pain; he wasn't going to give these monsters the satisfaction of hearing him cry out again.
Aramis struggled to cling to consciousness but it was growing more difficult with every blow landing on his sore and battered body. As his vision began to grey, he heard the familiar sound of a wheellock pistol firing, followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground with a dull thud.
Curious at the intervention of an unknown intruder coming to his aid, Aramis tried to roll himself in the direction of the gunfire. He found his body too heavy to move and decided it would be best to gather his strength before trying to move again.
He listened to the sound of approaching footsteps, which then went chasing after the remaining two assailants running away toward their horses. The wounded Musketeer continued lying on the ground as he listened to the sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard with a familiar ringing of steel.
Aramis turned and followed with his eyes the two blurry forms sparring as the din of steel against steel echoed in the trees. He watched as one of his attackers tried to ward off the long, steel blade with a mere dagger; it was easily knocked from the attackers hand and sent flying into the grass. The man with the sword plunged his blade deep into the chest of the bandit, letting the momentum of the falling body pull the blade free.
The wounded Musketeer croaked a raspy warning as he watched Antoine lower his pistol at the unknown intruder. He then watched with amazement as the intruder turned on his heel and, with lightning speed, he hurled his dagger through the air; the weapon landed on target deep in the bandit's chest.
Aramis watched as the intruder retrieved his weapon from the man's chest, then wiped the blood on the dead man's shirt, before sliding it into the scabbard behind his back.
The disoriented marksman watched as the intruder approached then knelt down beside him. Something seemed very familiar with this 'intruder' so when he was rolled onto his back, he didn't resist him or try fighting him off.
"Aramis, my God, what have they done to you?" the intruder asked.
"Ath's, is 'at you?" Aramis slurred. The wounded Musketeer finally allowed himself to cry out in pain and hot tears soon stung his eyes. He felt himself being pulled into the lap of his comforter until his head rested against Athos' chest. Strong arms wrapped carefully around his hurting chest; gentle hands soothed away the relentless assault of pain tormenting his battered body.
How long the pair sat on the ground as Aramis drifted in and out of consciousness was unclear to either man; both Musketeers appeared content to sit and rest in the comfort of each other's company before attempting the difficult task of moving.
Aramis was startled awake by harsh coughs jostling him as he was held against Athos' chest. The ill Musketeer drew in a ragged breath then let it go, exhaling slowly through his nose. "Damn," he cursed to himself at the stubborn cough plaguing his body.
Completely aware now, Aramis struggled to sit up so he could get a better look at his friend. "What are you doing here, Athos? How in the name of Heaven did you find me anyway? Why are you here when you should be in bed?"
"You're welcome," Athos drawled while ignoring the hail of questions.
"No, seriously, Athos," Aramis pressed. "What are you doing here, why did you come down this way? Where are Porthos and d'Artagnan?"
Athos sighed and drew in a deep breath, instantly regretting it as another round of wet coughs wracked his body. "Dammit, I don't have time for this," he growled as he leaned to his side.
Aramis winced as he sat up to rub soothing circles on Athos' back; the medic's face grimaced with concern for his friend but also from the pain throbbing in his side. "Easy. . . just take shallow breaths. We sure are quite a pair." Aramis laughed, but hissed in pain as his sore ribs made themselves known.
"What's wrong?" Athos stared at Aramis' hand cradling his ribs as he tried denying anything was wrong. What the medic failed to notice was the blood seeping between his fingers that refuted his claim.
"You seem to forget, mon ami, that I know you and I know when you are hurting, so don't bother lying to me." Athos calmly began unbuttoning the doublet so he could peel away the layers to check on the wound.
"Nevermind me, Athos," Aramis grumbled with impatience. "You haven't answered my question, where are Porthos and d'Artagnan?"
"Let me check this bleeding wound first, dammit!" Athos growled. "The ball passed cleanly through your side, but you'll need to get that looked at," he smiled with relief.
"I will later," Aramis paused, "but first answer my questions, will you?"
Athos' face darkened as his jaws clenched in anger. "We need to get moving," he tried to stand but Aramis held him fast.
"What the hell is going on, Athos? Dammit, talk to me!"
"Porthos and d'Artagnan were sent on a mission to deliver a secret letter from the king to one Marie d'Hautefort at the Château Royal de Blois," he explained. "Unfortunately, they did not return when they were due yesterday. I feel something has happened to them; I feel something is wrong."
"So you were going to Blois on your own?" Aramis was stunned. "Does the captain know you left?"
"Yes. . . and no," Athos replied to both questions. "Aramis, I can't shake the feeling that something bad has happened," his eyebrows wrinkled with worry. "I am not returning to the garrison until I learn that they are well. I intend to travel to Blois and I will not stop searching until I find them."
Aramis nodded his understanding. "I dreamt last night they were both hurt; I saw their bloodied faces. I saw them standing in front of a firing squad." Aramis' brow creased as he remembered the vivid details of his dream. "Athos, we need to find them!"
Athos shook his head. "No, you are in no condition to go anywhere but to the nearest doctor," he protested, "I can find them on my own."
"If you think that I'm just going to let you ride off by yourself when our brothers could be in danger. . ." his voice trailed. "Well, you are sadly mistaken, my friend. All for one, remember?"
"Yes, I remember," Athos nodded with a smile. He glanced over his wounded friend whose face was bleeding, bruised and swelling; his side still seeped blood from the bullet graze. "You are certainly in no condition to ride, Aramis. How can you help our brothers when you are so badly hurt yourself?"
"I'll be alright; I've had worse," he protested stubbornly. Aramis downplayed his injuries knowing his brothers were in trouble and, though he was in pain, he would move heaven and earth to come to their aid. "Time is wasting, Athos; we need to go now."
"Are you sure you can handle this?" Athos inquired. "We need to ride to Blois with extreme haste," he said bluntly. "Are you sure you can make it?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." Aramis set his jaw hard with determination.
"Alright then, we ride to Blois." Athos helped Aramis to his feet then waited patiently as the medic swayed on his feet. Finally, the pair made their way to the waiting horses.
Athos helped Aramis up into the saddle with more pushing on his part than the lieutenant was happy with. The medic had to bite his lip to suppress the cries of pain, though the agony was clearly evident on his face. Finally settled, the medic waited as Athos mounted his horse then paused beside his friend.
"Let's go get our brothers back!" Athos called out as he kicked his horse into a run. Aramis fought to catch up while trying to ignore the pain now flaring through his torso. He brought his horse even with his friend so they were side-by-side on the road riding south.
They didn't know where their brothers were or how they would find them, but finding them was all that mattered. Together the duo raced their horses forward in a desperate hunt to save their missing brothers, wherever they were. They raced against time- hoping against hope—and praying they weren't already too late.