"How could your men have allowed this?" Anne demanded, indignation coloring her tone. This was...unbelievable. That the musketeers had not only taken the King into a dangerous tavern in Paris, but then allowed him to be kidnapped, in the dead of night! And that Anne had no knowledge of this foolish plot until then.
"The King was adamant that he experience Paris as a commoner," Treville reported, and she might have heard the resignation in his tone at any other time, might have pitied him.
"Then they should have made clear to him the utter stupidity of his suggestion!" Anne shouted.
"We can't entirely blame the musketeers," Rochefort cut in, in an attempt to calm her. She was certain that she would be grateful for it later; she was not so now. "When the King demands something, it is...difficult to refuse."
Her husband was a whimsical man, and she knew all too well his tempers, brought on by the slightest of offenses. But the musketeers were there to protect him, and, in her mind, this meant standing up to him, if need be, not allowing him to walk into the fray.
She took a deep, calming breath, resolving to thank Rochefort for helping her see some small amount of reason. Later. "You have searched everywhere?" she demanded of Treville.
The Musketeer's Captain nodded.
"Even..." and bless her, she could hardly bring herself to voice the thought instantly at the forefront of her mind. "The brothels?"
Who knew what had been in his mind, drunk and foolish enough to dress as a commoner in the middle of the night?
And on the day before his son's christening. Had he no care for the child whatsoever? Was he so self-absorbed with this little scheme that he had completely forgotten his own child?
A thought occured to her then, which she immediately buried down. Perhaps the King could sense...could sense that he had nothing in common with the child, and therefore had no interest in him.
She gave a frightened little laugh. Of course not. There was no way her Louis could possibly suspect...
"Yes, Your Majesty," Treville said quickly, seeming to find the topic just as distasteful as she did. Anne forced herself to remember what, exactly, that topic had been.
Ah, yes. Whether or not her husband had gone to the brothels.
"Then where is he?" her voice rose again, but this time, she could hardly bring herself to care.
"Let's not forget, the King is not alone," Treville counseled, in another attempt to calm her. "He has D'Artagnan."
Oh yes, a great comfort. One of the musketeers who had allowed him to go on this foolish little trip was still with him. One man, against any in Paris who might have a grudge against the King. Which, she had to admit, must include a great number.
Apparently, Rochefort shared her sentiments. "Who has so far failed to return the King to the palace."
"If you are implying that D'Artagnan has neglected his duty, you are wrong," Constance interrupted then. "He is the King's Champion."
"I don't care if he is alone or with D'Artagnan," Anne snapped before anyone could point out that Constance's place was not to argue with Rochefort. "I only care that he is not here. The Dauphin's christening is tomorrow. Guests are arriving, expecting to see the King, whose absence will be a scandal!"
In truth, she was not sure she did not care for this more than the fact that her husband was missing. Indeed, it hardly mattered when he was here; what little attentions he paid to the Dauphin and to his Queen were few and far between, and what little time he spent at his duties even less so.
Oh, this was so like him, and anger bubbled up in Anne's chest before she could push it back down.
Royalty would be there, from nations across the world. From Spain. If the King was not there, there would be questions as to why that was. Questions that would imply ambiguity toward the parentage of the Dauphin, though not in so many words.
Her heart was beating far too wildly in her chest and for one, terrifying moment, she thought the whole world must know her secret.
She took a deep breath, rounding on Treville. "You will tear the city upside down, and find him," she ordered. "Wherever he is." And she tried to pretend that the thought of her husband, the King, hidden away in some brothel did not break her heart.
Treville bowed, quickly taking his leave and she hoped, for his sake, that he found the King quickly.
She was not one to stay calm, in such situations. Oh, she kept her head, but she could not deny her anger at this moment; at the King, at the musketers, at them all, unjustified though it might be.
"Perhaps in the meantime, we should let it be known that the King is ill," Rochefort suggested. "To explain his absence from Court."
Anne breathed a sigh of relief, the thought having not yet occured to her. "Thank you, Rochefort. Those are the first sensible words I've heard this morning. See to it."
Treville opened his mouth, as if to object, when Rochefort interrupted, "I'll have the Red Guards join the search. We will find the King."
She looked away, not wanting to see the compassion in her old mentor's eyes. And then the door opened, and Marguerite was bringing her son into the room.
She gave the governness a smile, genuinely pleased. The woman always knew what it was Anne needed, and the sight of her son, though distantly reminding her that his christening was on the morrow, also helped to calm her. She took the babe from Marguerite's arms and nodded. "Just...find him," she said quietly. "Before the christening."
Treville nodded, executing a short bow before turning on his heel and leaving her alone with Rochefort and Marguerite.
Rochefort turned a concerned gaze on the queen, where she stood murmuring into the dauphin's ear.
"Your Majesty, there is something I think we should consider, as the King's situation could perhaps be...dire," Rochefort said carefully, and she glanced at him.
She had a terrible feeling that she already knew what he was going to suggest, for it had already crossed her mind, and yet, she waited, nodded expectantly.
"It's the right decision, for you and France," Rochefort assured her.
She had written the whole of the letter. Why it was so difficult now, just to sign her name, she didn't know. The King had forbidden her from continuing to write to her brother, and yet she had done so.
Perhaps she knew, deep down, that signing her name would only make this all the more real.
She glanced at Constance, if only to hear her own doubts reflected in the woman's words, for she knew that Constance Bonacieux would not hide her opinions on the matter. And she knew that Constance was not in favor of this arrangement at all. She had been very vocal about that, when Rochefort first suggested it, though not, Anne couldn't help but notice, before him.
"Perhaps you should wait, Your Majesty. If the King returns..."
"The King might already be dead," Rochefort interrupted, levelling Constance with a glare that Anne did not have the time to interpret.
"I don't believe that!" Constance snapped.
Ah, yes. Her unshakeable faith in her musketeer, D'Artagnan. Still, her words caused the doubt in Anne's heart to grow.
If the King was dead, and she did not send a letter pleaing for help to her brother immediately, France could be thrown into chaos. There were those who would attempt to reach for the throne, threatening the life of her son.
This was the best option, the safest. Her brother's armada, the strongest in Europe, would protect her from nobles vying for the throne, from the English.
And yet...And yet, if he was not dead, and returned unscathed, a miracle, at this point, to find his wife writing to her brother after he had expressly forbidden her from doing so...
It would be treason.
"D'Artagnan will bring him safely home," Constance tried again.
"It was D'Artagnan who lured him into trouble in the first place," Rochefort argued, and though the words sounded bitter, Anne certainly understood the sentiment. She did not believe this had been done out of malice, but the truth of the matter was that D'Artagnan had not protected his King as he ought, or they would not be in this situation.
Rochefort turned pleading eyes on the Queen. "Hesitate now, and it might be too late. With your brother's protection, you can hold the throne until your son is ready. It is his birthright."
And it was those words that convinced Anne.
It was not her son's birthright. He had the birthright of Anne herself, as a princess of Spain, and of a poor musketer in the King's regiment. But he would sit upon the throne of France, and she would be damned if she allowed anyone to try and harm him. So she would sign these letters, and take the chance.
"Rochefort's right," she said calmly. "I must protect my son."
Just after she signed her name, Rochefort slid the parchment carefully from her. "I will ensure it is delivered to the Spanish ambassador," he promised, and she only gave him a nod in response.
For her son. She would do anything for her son. She would even die for him, if she must. And she had to believe, now, that Louis himself was dead, or she just might be given the chance to prove it.
She reached for Constance's hand then, seeking comfort in the girl, even though she had disagreed with her.
And Constance gave it, as she always did.
As she signed the letter, Anne reflected that, other than Rochefort, Constance was perhaps the only true friend she'd ever had.
He had thought he would never have to see her again, that last time. Had known, from the fear in her eyes when he issued his threat, that she would leave Paris and never return.
They were not in Paris. Why was it that God had cursed him with such a woman?
D'Artagnan had to admit, seeing Milady in the Spanish camp where men were kidnapped to be used as slaves should not have surprised him so much as it did.
Still, it did, and far more so, when she let them free, claiming to be a changed woman and wishing only to help.
He did not trust her. Could not, after everything she had done. After he had watched her hold a musket to Constance's neck, had listened to her words against Athos' honor; Athos, a man whom he trusted above all else.
And yet, she had freed them, and they had no other chance but to run. He knew that she was plotting something, that she would only ever do something like this for her own means, and yet, there was not time to figure out what, exactly, this was.
They ran into the woods, abandoning the other kidnapped souls who had only sought to help them escape, but his duty was to the King. To getting him to safety, no matter the cost.
"Get down, Your Majesty," D'Artagnan ordered, shoving him down behind a rock and hoping that he would not take offense.
It was the sort of thing which might have made him angry, despite the fact that it was done to save his life, he supposed.
He spun, sword in hand, only to be faced with...Milady, astride a horse, two more at her side.
She smirked. "I thought you'd never stop running."
d'Artagnan hated the sigh of relief that escaped his lips, sending Milady a fierce glare before gesturing for the King to come out of hiding.
The King moved out from behind the boulder then, and D'Artagnan pretended not to notice the way he was staring at her; as though she were an angel come to rescue them.
He had no doubt that was her intent.
"Quickly," she said finally, meeting the King's eyes with a dazzling smile, "we must hurry."
D'Artagnan helped the King into his saddle, and then jumped into his own, giving Milady a terse nod of thanks, though it rankled him to do so.
She only continued smirking, and they rode away in tense silence, though d'Artagnan did not dare to take his eyes off of her, in the very likely case that she had some nefarious plot underway.
He did not know how long they rode; Milady seemed to know where she was going, and he only had a vague recollection that Paris was North.
Eventually, the King began to complain, loudly, and d'Artagnan let out a long sigh. For a moment, he thought he saw his own feelings reflected in Milady's expression, but she quickly covered this with a smile toward the King.
At least, if it did only destruction otherwise, it managed to get the man to fall silent.
There was a noise behind them; the sound of horses' hooves, and d'Artagnan straightened in his saddle, the other two turning to see what was wrong.
"Wait here," D'Artagnan said suddenly, and pulled his' and the King's horses to a halt. "I'll see if anyone's following."
It went against everything he was to leave the King alone with Milady de Winter, but he did.
And it was a mistake that he would regret for the rest of his life.
He hurried on ahead, swearing softly under his breath at the sight of the approaching horses, though he could not see who road them. However, given that they came from the direction of the slavers' camp, he had a good idea.
When he rode back, he did not even notice the way the King held Milady in his arms, too preoccupied. Or, if he did, he was too disgusted to think of what it might mean.
He knew from Athos, as well as his own experience, what a temptress she was. The thought of her in the King's arms almost made him sick.
Though he had decided, during this jaunt, that he felt more pity for her than true anger. Yes, she had threatened the life of the woman he loved; and he woudl never forgive her for that, but she had stooped to such levels now to stay alive...
He shook that thought from his mind, slightly disgusted with himself.
"There's someone coming. Get back, get back." And they rushed into the bushes.
"Give me your pistol," D'Artagnan snapped at Milady, once again at her mercy. And he knew all too well that she carried that pistol. The one that she had used to threaten his beloved. When she hesitated, he snapped again. "Give me your pistol, now."
"I keep this, only to protect myself," he heard her assure the King, as she handed it over.
He rolled his eyes, the feeling of the pistol so wrong in his hands. The pistol that she'd held against Constance's pulsing neck, now his only defense against slavers.
The horses kept coming up the trail, and d'Artagnan had a feeling that he had only minutes left to live.
Then he recognized Athos' hat.
"Oh, am I glad to see you," he breathed, as his brothers in arms burst into the clearing.
"Is the King safe?" Athos demanded without preamble.
The King moved out from behind the boulder with a self-satisfied smile on his face, and d'Artagnan noticed the way the others breathed in relief at the sight of him.
Athos moved down from his horse before the King began speaking again. "Allow me to introduce our savior," he said, and d'Artagnan was hard-pressed not to roll his eyes once more, "We owe this lady our lives."
And then Milady was moving out from behind the bushes, carrying herself like a queen, rather than the vile woman d'Artagnan knew her to be, and smirking at the identical expressions of shock on the other musketeers' faces.
Athos froze; d'Artagnan was watching him closely.
"Your Majesty," though he had spent the last few days becoming well-acquainted with the King's reasoning, or lack thereof, he felt the need to at least try, "she was part of the criminal band that kidnapped you in the first place. She should be held for questioning."
Milady turned doe eyes on them.
"With respect, Your Majesty," Aramis tried, voice low, "we don't know what other crimes she's committed."
The King sighed. "This humble woman has shown true nobility of character. Her crimes...are hereby pardoned."
Out of all the looks of shock on the faces of those listening, Milady's was perhaps the greatest...or the least sincere. She dropped to her knees, clasping the King's hands in her own, and d'Artagnan found it difficult not to reach for the pistol she had given him moments earlier.
"You have made a new woman of me, Your Majesty," she whispered, and he sighed, moving away before he rolled his eyes in front of the king.
She would not be so foolish as to try something now; not after the King had just pardoned her, after all.
Athos followed him. "Did she really save your life?"
He sighed, hating to admit it. "For her own reasons, but yes."
Athos opened his mouth, but he did not have time to answer, for the slavers appeared then, coming out of the rocky hillside on their horses, guns shooting off shots toward the king.
"Get the king to safety!" Athos shouted, and then drew his pistol, shooting into the mass of men following them as the King climbed up onto his horse. D'Artagnan moved to take the horse beside him, but Milady was there first, grabbing the horse by the reins and looking expectantly at the musketeer. The King glanced back impatiently.
With a sigh, D'Artagnan helped her up, giving her a warning glare that he doubted she would heed, before turning back to the fray.
He knew he couldn't trust Milady de Winter with the King, of course, but he wouldn't be able to trust her with the King for very long if they didn't take out these slavers, and she wouldn't do anything so stupid as harm the King when she had just received his pardon, after all.
The fighting was short and brutal, and by the end of it, D'Artagnan had quite forgotten his annoyance with Milady for annoyance at the almost cheating way in which these men fought.
He was the first to hear the scream, a scream they had heard often enough from the King's own lips when he did not get his way, amplified ten times.
Athos moved quickly, grabbing the gun from d'Artagnan's waist and bringing it around to bear on the culprit.
Porthos jumped down from his horse, sword in hand, and Aramis was already waving both of his legendary pistols at the woman.
"Your Majesty!" D'Artagnan shouted, struck with horror as he watched the King's body slide to the ground at Milady's feet. The King let out a gurgling sound, alerting them to the fact that he was still alive, and Athos pulled the trigger.
Milady screamed, from pain, not surprise, and Athos turned dreadfully pale as the sudden realization of what he had done sunk in.
He had not been able to kill Milady twice, and yet had shot at her now without a thought.
She was not dead.
Milady let out another scream, falling to her knees but still clutching her knife in front of her; protectively now rather than murderously, and d'Artagnan had to admit, he preferred the look on her face.
The bullet, it seemed, had only grazed her shoulder when Athos had fired; strange, for, though Aramis was the better with a pistol, Athos never missed a target.
The King continued gasping; his rapid breaths the only sound.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, d'Artagnan moved forward, ignoring Porthos to stay back. He grabbed Milady by her left wrist even as she moved to cut him, twisting it savagely behind her, pistol trained on her, though he knew Athos' and Porthos' were, as well.
Milady bit back a cry, glaring at him but not resisting, her knife falling from her fingers and into the dirt. Stained with blood.
He had never wished harm upon a woman before; he was a Gascon, after all, but he suddenly wished very much harm on this one for what she had done.
Attempted to kill the King, and, by the look of him, had already succeeded.
Aramis dove underneath the line of fire, moving to the King's side and checking his injuries while the others attempted to subdue Milady. Armed with only a knife, she didn't appear to be giving up anytime soon.
Aramis' face paled as he took in the extent of the King's injuries, though his hands moved frantically in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and, though d'Artagnan could not see them himself from his position, he knew by the steady gasping that the King was not well.
He cringed at the sight of Aramis digging into the King's injury, before the man cursed loudly - in Spanish - and started stripping off part of his shirt beneath his uniform.
Athos was moving forward then, shocked out of his stupor at Milady's actions, her own pistol in hand, Porthos right behind.
Athos, with a detachment to his actions that even d'Artagnan noticed, grabbed Milady's wrists from d'Artagnan and began to bind them with rope.
She let out a snort, and d'Artagnan came very close to hitting her, in that moment. He stepped back, however, reminding himself that she had wounded the King.
She would see justice in Paris for it.
"You are a fool," Athos hissed in her ear, loud enough to echoe through the small valley. "What have you done?"
But Milady had eyes only for D'Artagnan in this moment, it seemed, watching him with an expression akin to the one she'd had when she singled him out in that inn in Paris.
The King let out a distressed cry, and all eyes turned toward him, Milady's the widest. Clearly, d'Artagnan thought with some annoyance, she had not expected him to still be breathing.
Aramis moved feverishly, binding the King's neck wound with the bottom half of his shirt, pressing it tightly to stop the flow of blood.
But there was so much blood...
"It's all right, Your Majesty," Aramis breathed, still frightfully pale, "Hold still." His hand on the King's neck wound pressed deep enough to cause another clot of blood to stain the shirt, but he didn't seem to notice, leaning down and breathing into the King's mouth.
No one spoke, watching in terrified fascination as Aramis breathed for the King, the King's breaths coming slower and softer now, though his chest still heaved.
"Aramis," Porthos snapped warningly, and d'Artagnan wondered if Porthos knew something about Aramis' shaking fingers that he did not.
Aramis took a deep breath, pulling back. "He will not survive the journey home," he said softly, "or to the nearest place of safety."
The King let out a whimper at that proclamation, and Aramis turned his attention back to his patient.
"Dammit!" Porthos shouted, the words reverberating through the forest, the others having apparently forgotten that they were likely being tracked by slavers...
"Your Majesty," Aramis tried again, reaching for his flask of ale, "stay still."
D'Artagnan had to morbidly wonder why he kept telling the King this; it was painfully obvious that any sudden movement only brought the man more pain.
He poured a few drops of ale - much less than he'd even done to one of their own wounds - onto the King's skin, and the man let out a scream of pain.
"Aramis!" Athos barked.
Aramis glanced up, tears shining in his eyes. "He's...he won't..."
The King grabbed Aramis by the arm then, pulling him down close, though his eyes were closed. "Anne..."
And then, what other words he might have said stolen from his lips, he fell silent.
"He's dead," Aramis said finally, dumbly, not bothering to look up at the others. "The King is dead."
He sighed lowly, reciting the Catholic creed that he favored so highly when dealing with the dead. Even, d'Artagnan had oftened noticed, with the bodies of enemies.
His mind refused to process what was happening, even as Athos placed a hand on his arm in warning.
He knew only one thing. Well, two.
It had been his duty to protect the King. Milady had slit his throat, like an animal. Slit the throat of their King.
"You!" D'Artagnan moved forward then, a righteous anger overtaking him as he raised the musket to the level of her eyes. Athos, still holding her by the arm, did not move to stop him.
"You won't do it," Milady snapped. "The King pardonned me of all my crimes before he died."
He snorted. "I highly doubt those included ones you had yet to commit."
"D'Artagnan, please," she begged then, voice suddenly as sweet as it had been the very first day he met her. "Have mercy."
"Like what you offered him?" d'Artagnan demanded hotly, ignoring the cautious look that Athos sent his way.
Porthos grunted, and, though he did not sound very convincing, reasoned, "d'Art, we need her alive. France will want justice for the King's death."
"No," d'Artagnan hissed.
Athos took a step forward. "D'Artagnan..."
"No!" he shouted, a bit too loudly this time. "No, I want to know why she did it." He never took his gaze off of Milady.
"I...I didn't want to murder him," Milady went on, eyes softening on D'Artagnan as her lower lip slid into a pout. "I just wanted...freedom."
"So you thought to murder the King of France?" D'Artagnan bit off each word, unable to keep his gun hand from shaking.
Milady's eyes were frightened now, and she fell to her knees before them, truly surprising them all. "Kill me if you wish, if you believe that I did this of my own volition."
"We have the evidence before our very eyes, Madam," Athos said coldly, but Milady did not bother to look at him.
"But know that I did this in the service of another, and you will want to know who that is before you take my head," her eyes sparkled. "And you know I will not take the journey back to Paris."
"As I said, we've no intention of taking your head. You're going back to Paris with us, to answer for what you did here."
Milady only smiled. "I think not." She lunged forward, and suddenly there was a gun in her free hands, though it was not the same one from before.
D'Artagnan blinked, wondering where she had been hiding it, and then the cool metal of a pistol was pressed against his forehead, even as she pulled him toward her, with a smirk.
"Stupid boy," she hissed in his ear, hand twisting savagely in his hair as he gasped for breath.
For a moment, he wondered if she would kill him merely out of spite. The thought of going wherever she planned to, as her hostage, was so appalling he knew he'd rather die then and there.
Athos and Porthos froze. They could have probably disarmed her, should they wish to, but not without blowing off D'Artagnan's head first.
Aramis, still knelt over the dead body of the King, reached for one of his gun's, returned to its holster, and Milady glared, cocking the gun against d'Artagnan's head.
"There's nowhere to go, Anne," Athos beseeched her then, no longer threatening her with a gun, but looking genuinely scared that she had killed their King and could now just as easily kill d'Artagnan.
D'Artagnan only hoped that Athos would one day forgive him for this, for failing so greatly.
"Let him go, and I will do what I should have done long ago." He blinked, and d'Artagnan was surprised to see that his eyes were shining. "Anna..."
She glared, tightening her grip on d'Artagnan to the point of pain. "You think they will allow me the mercy of a quick death? My master would have given me that much, at least."
Athos eyed her. "So you have found a new benefactor," he said. "No one in France is as powerful as the Cardinal once was. No one has the ability to save you from the hangman's noose. Come back with us now, without a fight, and it will be easier for you."
Her lips twitched into a smirk, but d'Artagnan could feel the way she shook against him.
"This is my fault as much as yours," Athos continued softly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "I am responsible for you, for everything you've done..."
Milady blinked up at him, her features suddenly shifting as they had when the King had offered her pardon. "Will you promise me something if I agree to come willingly?" she asked then, gun hand twitching.
Athos stared at her, face betraying and agreeing to nothing.
"A quick death," Milady pleaded. "It is more than my master will give me when he finds out that I failed."
"It doesn't look as though you have failed, Milady," Aramis bit out, still kneeling by the King for fear that she would shoot d'Artagnan if he stood. "And the manner of your death would be decided by the Courts, not by Athos."
Milady snorted. "You know nothing of my master, Aramis," she spat scathingly.
"I did not think to find you amongst Spanish slavers," Porthos interrupted then, eying her suspiciously. "Who is this employer of yours?"
Milady just lifted her chin, eyes only for Athos now, the gun rubbing against d'Artagnan's forehead almost soothingly. "No one you need concern yourself with, if you wish to keep the boy alive as you failed to do with your king."
Athos swore, moving forward slowly and ignoring the way she tightened her fist in d'Artagnan's hair. "I would save d'Artagnan if I could, but I will kill you if I must."
Milady rolled her eyes. "Please. You have tried to kill me twice already, and have failed in each endeavor."
"Do you remember the words I spoke to you in Paris?" Athos asked softly. "I told you that if we met again, you would die. I am a man of my word, Anne."
She squinted at him, as if considering her options. And then she was moving far too quickly for the musketeers to follow, and d'Artagnan had to wonder just how extensive her training for the Cardinal had been, for desperation to make her faster than the King's men.
Her gun fired, and, for one horrible moment, d'Artagnan was sure that it had hit him, that he was dead now, for a quick shot to the head should have surely killed him quickly, but then he realized that he felt no pain whatsoever.
He forced his eyes open.
Porthos was running to Aramis' side, where the man now lay sprawled in the dirt beside the King, covered in blood.
It was not, d'Artagnan had a spare moment to think, the King's blood, and Porthos let out a grunt as he surveyed the damage. Athos swore, firing off his gun at Milady without a second thought, but she only dodged it, a sick grin on her face as the bullet slammed into a tree behind them.
"The King of Masks sends his regards," she hissed in D'Artagnan's ear, and then tossed him forward, into the dirt, the butt of her pistol slamming into the back of his head.
Aramis let out a shout, somehow mustering the strength to throw one of his knives in her direction before collapsing into the dirt once more, but Milady ducked behind a boulder at the last moment.
The world was hazy then, and d'Artagnan vaguely realized that someone was shouting his name before hearing another gun shot, seeing Aramis fly forward hit the ground beside him, blood spurting across d'Artagnan's uniform as the man fell; blood that d'Artagnan knew did not come from himself.
Athos' musket fired off then, and they all heard a scream. It sounded, to d'Artagnan, like a woman's scream, though he couldn't be certain.
And then he wasn't certain of anything, for a while.
When he awoke, and this was not for some time, he supposed, for the stars hovered above him where there had been sunlight before, d'Artagnan let out a groan of pain.
Unlike his usual awakening, the memories of what had happened before he fell unconscious hit him instantly, and d'Artagnan sat upright, groaning at the throbbing pain in his head but managing to ignore it.
"D'Artagnan!" a voice which was not familiar, at first, called out, and then hands were reaching for him, pushing him back down onto...a saddle.
He was asleep, strewn across a horse's saddle, still galloping without a care to its rider's movement.
And then he realized that he was not alone on this horse.
Treville's hands pressed against his forehead, and then around to the back of his head, where a rather large bump had manifested, thanks to Milady's efforts. He grimaced, instinctively flinching away.
"The King?"
Treville glanced away, and that was when D'Artagnan saw the other horse, Aramis' horse, he thought, though Aramis was not on it, and he couldn't understand why until he remembered that Aramis too had been injured.
Instead, strewn across the saddle and covered with Treville's cloak, lay the King, his eyes closed as if in repose, though D'Artagnan knew differently. Dead. The King was dead.
And beside him, Aramis.
D'Artagnan froze. "Aramis?"
The Captain let out a sigh. "He lives yet," and if D'Artagnan had any relief left to feel in that moment, it lodged it's way in his throat as his eyes swept over Aramis' bloody forehead and stained clothing, red with life but draining still.
"Milady..." he murmured, finding it rather difficult to concentrate on the situation at hand.
"Athos and Porthos went after her, d'Artagnan," Treville said calmly. "She was injured during the fight. I have faith that they will not return without her."
D'Artagnan groaned, trying once again to sit up. "Have to...the King..."
Treville's face, if possible, grew even more somber. "The King is dead, d'Artagnan," he said, rather shortly, and the youngest musketeer let himself fall back onto the horse, boneless.
The King was dead.
The full enormity of his failure seemed to hit him then, leaving him breathless and weak, but he couldn't focus on it, not now.
"Aramis?" he finally asked, though he now found it rather difficult to form any words.
Treville shook his head. "We need to get him to a physician, as soon as we can. But returning the King to Paris is paramount."
D'Artagnan did sit up then, glancing at Aramis' still body on the horse behind him, at all that blood. It almost made him sick to look at, for he had never seen Aramis so pale.
Treville hesitated. "It was not your fault," he said finally, as D'Artagnan dragged his eyes away from the sight before him and back to his Captain. "None of you. You did well, D'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan swallowed numbly. "I've failed. I'm not worthy to call myself a musketeer. I never was."