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Chapter Text

The sun was high up in the sky, and the air was filled with the sounds of soft waves brushing against stone in the river nearby. The wooden sign of a tavern slowly swung in the wind and creaked awfully. It was the middle of the day, and the citizens of Auxerre were hurrying across the street to get their tasks done.

They all jumped aside when a man on a horse appeared, accompanied by three other soldiers. The pauldrons on their shoulders indentified them as musketeers, the King’s elite guard, led by their Captain, Tréville.

He came to a stop in front of the tavern, and turned around to one of his men, who was talking quietly to him.

“All I’m saying, Captain, is that we should check it out, maybe they’ll need our help,” the musketeer next to Tréville called Devin was saying.

The Captain raised an eyebrow.“Really? We’re musketeers, not some common arbiters for some drunken men’s fist fights. No, I think they’ll deal with it on their own. If they wish to be drunk at this time of the day, it’s not my fault.”

“But Sir, I really think...”

“No, we don’t have time for this, Devin,” Tréville said angrily. “We’re already late. Athos and the others are waiting for us, and I’m awaiting their report.”

He jumped off his horse energetically and knotted the reins around a wooden pillar. He glared at Devin one last time before he opened the tavern’s door, the urgency written all over his face. The scent of wine and bread came pouring out of the building and Tréville embraced it. He had spent the last week accompanying the Baroness de Villiers and her son to Auxerre, where he was supposed to meet up with Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan, as well as another musketeer group that would return from their duty today.

He wanted to give them new orders here, so he did not have to travel all the way back to Paris again to meet up with them.

Tréville entered the sticky tavern and walked over to a broad table with a can of water, and with a gesture of his hand, he invited the others to join him, before he let himself drop on a chair.

His eyes searched the area, and when he discovered no other musketeers, he called the keeper of the tavern over to his table.

“Monsieur, have you seen any musketeer’s lately? Have they arrived yet?”

The tavern’s owner, an old man with a giant, grey moustache, shook his head.

“No, Sir. Your group is the first one this week. We don’t see musketeers here very often.”

With those words, he left, and Tréville felt the stares of his soldiers on him.

“So, no trace of Athos, Porthos, Aramis or d’Artagnan yet?” one of them asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How shocking.”

“Yeah,” Devin joined in. “Last time I was supposed to be on guard duty with Porthos, he was delayed by an hour because he needed to sort out a fight caused by one of his card tricks.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, he cheated,” the third one grumbled into his beard.

“And Aramis once missed a parade because a woman did not let go of him. Can you believe that?” Devin continued.

“What exactly are you trying to tell me?” Tréville cut in sharply.

Another man shrugged. “That they’re not always the most punctual men. No need to worry, Captain. They’ll arrive, eventually.”

Tréville scowled. “First off, you of all people have no right to point out mistakes some of my best men made once or twice in their careers. Second, Athos and d’Artagnan are with them too. Tell me, did Athos ever not arrive on time?”

That was a question his soldiers had no answer to, so they just steered their gazed back to the wooden table, cradling a cup of water between their fingers.
Tréville’s eyes burned holes into the building’s door, but then, he sighed.

“If they’re not here this afternoon, we’ll search for them.” He waved with his hand. “Until then, feel free to get some rest. You all deserved it.”

His musketeers grunted approvingly and gathered their stuff, when they heard loud noises from outside, startled gasps and the nickering of a horse that was forced to a violent halt.

Tréville rose from his chair and wanted to look for the source of this riot, but he did not have to. The tavern’s door was kicked open again, and out of reflexes, the Captain drew his pistol. When he spotted the man filling out the doorframe, however, he relaxed visibly and tucked his pistol back into his holster.

“Francois,” he greeted the senior musketeer. “I see you’re making a habit out of your dramatic entrances.”

A flash of confusion passed the musketeer’s face and he just left it uncommented and took his hat off, before he quickly walked over to his captain. Tréville sceptically searched for more men to come in behind Francois.

“Where are the others? You did not go on the mission alone, if I remember correctly?” Tréville asked sternly.

Francois shook his head. “My brothers stayed in Tonnerre. We delivered the letter, but something else required our attention.”

“Like what?” the Captain wanted to know.

“People vanished there. Without a trace. Without any evidence of fighting. So I volunteered to report to you, Sir.” He let his gaze wander over the assembled musketeers. “Athos and the others haven’t arrived yet?”

Tréville shook his head with a dark expression on his face.

“Not yet. According to plan, they should’ve passed Cablis this morning and arrived here an hour ago.”

“Chablis, Sir?” Francois furrowed his brow in confusion.

Tréville grunted. “Yes. Their main mission was to accompany the diplomat, but afterwards, they were supposed to stop in Chablis to deliver a letter from me to an old friend.” He narrowed his eyes when he saw Francois’ worried features. “Spit it out, Francois.”

“I just came back from Chablis, Sir,” Francois said slowly. “The people there claim they haven’t seen musketeers in weeks.”

“What?” the word escaped Tréville’s mouth before he could think about it. He quickly gathered his thoughts. “Are you sure?”

Francois raised his hands defensively. “The people there looked at me like they’ve never seen a musketeer before. So I asked them. Turns out, in fact, they haven’t. So wherever they are, they have never passed Chablis.”

“But the main road runs through the village,” Tréville said, more to himself than to anyone else.

“Perhaps they’ve taken a little detour? Or were forced to do so?” Francois suggested.

“No, there aren’t many detours they could take. Travelling offside the road harms the horses after a time, so they would’ve been stupid to do so. And we all know they aren’t stupid.” Tréville bit his lip, thinking.

“So, either they are that slow with their missions, or...” one of Tréville’s musketeer’s speculated, but their captain cut him off.

“This is Athos we’re talking about,” Tréville hissed. “And Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan. No matter what you think about them, but this behaviour is unusual!”

“Something might have happened,” Francois added, not helping at all.

“That’s what I’m trying to...” Tréville buried a hand in his hair. “Never mind. Our task here is done. Chablis is barely more than an hour from here. Perhaps we can start our search there and find out what happened.”

“If something happened,” Devin said, and received an angry stare from his Captain.

“Devin, you go and tell the Baroness de Villiers that she has to stay at her house for now. My duty calls.”

“Isn’t it your duty to protect her?” Devin asked innocently, and Tréville was close to just punching him.

“No!” he bellowed as he holstered his pistol. “That’s yours now. Move, before I forget myself!”

Devin’s eyes widened, and he quickly took a bow before he had to experience the legendary wrath of the musketeer’s captain nobody wanted to suffer gladly. Then he ran out of the tavern, and Tréville followed him, mounting his horse. Francois and the others followed his image, all with rather worried looks on their faces.

“Sir, despite all, I have to ask,” Révier, a musketeer sitting on the large black horse next to Tréville, spoke up. “What makes you think something happened to them? Devin could be right and they could just be delayed.”

Tréville swallowed down a snappy response and tightened his grip around the reins.

“Those four share a connection beyond my comprehension. And I have to admit I look at them as not only my musketeers, but also my friends. I have a responsibility, and I have a feeling that tells me something is wrong. If you doubt me, Révier, feel free to spend the next few days with Devin.”

Shock glistered in Révier’s dark eyes for a moment, but then he looked up at his captain with a certain determination.

“I’d never doubt you, Sir.”

South of Chablis, France
The water of the river was gently brushing over the flat stones. The warm rays of the late midday sun warmed the shallow water, but the tall, sharp treetops of the surrounding forest cast dark shadows across the river, as if it knew what had happened hours before.

The silence was depressing, and no human soul could be seen. But a horse was grazing on a piece of meadow nearby, a large, brown animal, which was furnished with a leather saddle and a beautifully adorned bridle. The rider was nowhere to be seen, and the horse was peacefully occupied.

Nearby was stony bridge, connecting the two river banks, some of the stones looked old and morbid, covered in moss and dirt. An abandoned hat was lying on the ground, stamped and torn. Next to it, a sword with a golden, decorated hilt, as well as a pistol, which had been prepared, but never fired.

Near the railing, gathered in between two cracked cobble stones, was a pool of blood, some drops could be seen on the railing itself too, already dried by the warm sun.

The birds were singing cheerfully, framing the abandoned battle scene in a grotesque atmosphere.

And no man could be seen.

Chapter Text

Chablis, France, 1631

„Get your damn horse under control, Révier,” Tréville muttered with a stressed voice. “Before it startles the others and we cause an unnecessary delay.”

“On it, Sir, but something seems to have spooked to her,” Révier replied calmly, violently tearing on the reins to get the mare under control. Tréville furrowed his brow, his keen eyes attentively searching the surrounding fields for any signs of what could have possibly startled the animal.

Finally, Révier, managed to calm his horse and together they passed the wooden sign, that told them, they had just entered the village of Chablis. It was nothing but a small cottage, a couple of houses lining up at both sides of the main road. A woman that had just picked up some water from the well spotted the musketeers, and she froze on the spot, her eyes wide open with surprise and something Tréville believed to be hope.

The Captain saw his chance and gently brought his horse to a stop in front of the woman, before he jumped off and bowed his head respectfully.

“Good day, Madame. My name is Captain Tréville of the King’s musketeers.”

She showed no reaction, she just gaped at him, her whole body tense as if she was expecting him to be a threat any moment. Tréville offered her a placating smile.

“May I help you with this?” He motioned towards the bucket she carried and she hesitated, but eventually handed it over to him with shaking hands.

“Cécile!” a man exclaimed from behind Tréville’s back, and the captain could hear his musketeers grabbing their weapons out of reflexes. He carefully looked over his shoulder and saw a man approaching, about the same age as Cécile, his eyes wide open with worry.

He mustered Tréville’s uniform and his cold, questioning stare, before he tilted his head as a greeting.

“Excuse me, Monsieur...?”

“Tréville,” the Captain introduced himself. “King’s musketeers.”

The man gulped visibly. “Jules,” he stuttered. “Jules Dubois.” He exchanged a concerned look with the woman. “It’s not my sister you’re looking for. It’s me.”

Tréville heard Francois snort in amusement behind him, and he just rolled his eyes.

“No worries. We are here to ask a few questions, nothing more.” Tréville frowned and put the bucket of water on the dirty ground. “Wait you said you are Jules Dubois?”

The man sighed and held out a hand. “Yes, exactly. About time you arrive. I’ve been waiting all day. Though I have to say, I was told to expect a musketeer called Athos, not his...”

“Captain,” Tréville interrupted coldly and had to suppress a laugh when he saw Jules’ jaw literally dropping.

Jules quickly bowed his head deeply, and gestured his sister, Cécile, to do the same thing.

“My apologies. I was angry because of the delay. My landlord expects the letter this evening, and until now, all I did was wait.”

“Well, I have bad news,” Tréville informed him and folded his arms in front of his chest, trying to show all the authority he got. “The musketeers you were supposed to meet here, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan, they have the letter. They probably still do.”

Jules froze. “Then what gives me the honour of your visit, Sir?” he asked sheepishly, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

Tréville growled impatiently. “As you so rightfully pointed out, my musketeers never arrived here. But they were on their way. Something must have happened. And I’m here to find out what.” He now looked directly at the woman, Cécile. “Are there any reports here about bandits? Or any other strange people you met recently?”

Cécile stayed quiet, but her eyes told Tréville there was something she wasn’t telling him. Her brother answered his question instead.

“No, not as far as we know. This is a small village. Nothing like that happens here, except for when you count the red guard as bandi...” He quickly swallowed down what he was about to say, once he realized again who he was talking to. “My apologies.”

Tréville waved with his hand. “No need. Go on.”

Jules shrugged. “Well, there honestly is not much to say. It’s calm here. Your visit is probably the most exciting thing that has happened here in the past two years.”

Révier chuckled. “I sincerely doubt that.”

Tréville motioned him to be quiet with a raised hand. He looked directly at Cécile again.

“Please, tell us what you know. The lives of my men may depend on it. We’re just trying to help.”

Jules now also gazed curiously at his sister, hands on his hips. “Cécile.” He carefully took her hand into his, trying to soothe her. “Whatever it is, you can tell him.”

Cécile looked a little frightened, and she was shaking a little, but after Tréville granted her another, encouraging smile she spoke up.

“The son of the local baker disappeared without a trace, three days ago. His family has been looking for him all day and night, but he is just...gone.”

“Did he have any enemies?” Tréville wanted to know. “Someone who might want to kidnap him perhaps? To demand a ransom?”

Cécile shook her head. “The family is poor, Sir. They don’t have the financial possibility to pay a ransom.”

“That sounds like the cases that happened in Tonnerre too!” Francois threw in from the side, only to receive a confirming nod from Tréville, who was still staring at Cécile. She did not seem to be finished.

“Anything else?”

She exchanged another look with her brother, before she took a deep breath.

“This morning, I was out to pick up some herbs that grow near the river. Usually, I am alone, but this time...” She stopped, swallowing nervously while she was carefully avoiding the Captain’s questioning gazes.

Jules put a hand on her arm. “What did you see?” His tone was stern, but with a pitch of compassion.

“Not see,” Cécile stuttered. “I heard...noises. Men screaming and steel clashing. There must’ve been a fight somewhere near.”

Tréville desperately ran a hand over his face, trying to process the information. Jules looked a little angry. “Why didn’t you say anything, dearest sister? We could be in danger!”

She took a step back, lowering her head in defence and shame.

“I was scared.” Then, she looked up, suddenly with a wild spark in her eyes, looking offensively at her brother. “Last time I told you about my concerns, you just shrugged them off, and told me I shouldn’t exaggerate. So I did.”

Before an argument could evolve, Tréville raised his hand.

“That’s something between you two. But I need to know where this fight could’ve possibly taken place!” It was his only trace right now, and he needed to follow it.

“I don’t know. Up the river,” Cécile responded with a small voice.

“The bridge, perhaps,” Jules guessed, biting his lips nervously. “That’s the only place to cross the Serein around here. It’s south of Chablis, when you ride along the river bank.”

“Thank you,” Tréville said and turned around. “Stay here in Cablis. I want you here in case I find something out and need some more information.”

“Captain!” Jules called out and made an uncertain step forward. “If you find them, please remember the letter for my landlord.”

Tréville just scowled, but he tipped his hat as a farewell and mounted his horse again, to lead his little group south. It did not take long for them to leave the village, and soon, they were encircled by a lot of fields and even more trees.

They rode slowly, their eyes attentively searching the area for any tiny details on what might’ve happened, and where their lost musketeers could possibly be. The river was on their left as they kept going south, and the noises of the soft, brushing waves against the river bank accompanied them.

The bridge they were all looking for came in sight, an old, but solid one, made of stone. But it was something else that required their attention.

“Captain!” Francois said and without a warning, he urged his horse into a short gallop. Tréville quickly understood what had drawn his soldier’s attention. On a meadow not far away from the bridge grazed a horse – one that was saddled and fully equipped. With a spark of hope, Tréville followed behind Francois, who had already dismounted and grabbed the abandoned horses’ bridle.

Tréville let his gaze wander over the area, but unfortunately, there was no sign of the rider or the owner of this horse.

“Sir? That’s one of our horses, Mirabelle.” Francois was inspecting the saddle, while he was caressing the animal’s neck. “And I’m very sure the last time I saw her, there was d’Artagnan on her back.”

Tréville closed his eyes, and suppressed the urge to curse loudly. Just like he had suspected. D’Artagnan would never just abandon his horse in the middle of nowhere, at least not voluntarily. The Captain now pointed at Francois.

“Tie her to your saddle. Her rider will need her once we find him.”

“Captain!” Another voice was calling him, and he turned his head to find Révier kneeling on the ground in front of the bridge, his eyes locked onto the stones.

Tréville did not hesitate for a second and quickly strode over to his soldier, eager to know what he had found. He peeked over Révier’s shoulder, and his heart sank when his eyes found the evidence of what had undoubtedly happened here.

The first object he noticed was a hat, a black one, which was now stamped and slightly torn, covered in a thin layer of dust and one or two petals. Tréville’s lips quivered as he did not dare to speak it out aloud. He did not need to.

“That’s Porthos’ hat,” Révier stated, his voice numb and low.

Tréville didn’t get a word out, he just presses his lips together to pretend them from shaking and managed a brief nod. Though he was sure that the shock could be read from his face.

Next to the hat, not far away, was a pistol. Révier reached for it, and gently took it between his fingers, eyeing it intensely.

“And that’s Athos’ pistol,” he determined slowly, and Tréville furrowed his brow.

“How do you know?”

Révier snorted, in a weak attempt to lighten up the mood.

“It’s the one Aramis stole from him when he was giving me lessons in shooting. He never skipped an opportunity to point out how poorly Athos cared for this weapon, at least in his opinion.” Révier made a short pause, turning the pistol in his hands, and inspecting it carefully. “It was prepared, but never fired.”

Tréville took a deep breath, and tried to calm his nerves. Those were not the traces he’d hoped to find. The worst thing was that there was just no trace. If someone had been killed during the battle that had obviously taken place, he had been taken away afterwards.

The Captain now narrowed his eyes and they landed on a dark spot close to the stone railing of the bridge. He quickly walked over and bent down to inspect it. A pool of blood, some of it not completely dried yet. There were blood spots all over the bridge, but this one seemed to have a connection. It marked a little trail, going from the bridge and over the railing.

Someone must’ve been thrown off the bridge, Tréville concluded. Probably injured. No indication if friend or foe.

He heard footsteps and out of reflexes, his hand darted towards his weapon, but he quickly relaxed once he realised that it was just one of his soldiers.

“Shit,” Francois stated bluntly, and the worry was evident in his voice. Tréville just nodded, thinking hard what to do next. His men did not need to wait long for new orders.

“Scout the area. I want you to search everything in a one kilometre radius. Something or someone has to be nearby!”

His men did not need to be told twice, and they quickly headed off into two different direction, while Révier stayed at Tréville’s side.

“Sir?” Révier asked hesitantly, and he lowered his head once he felt Tréville’s stare on him. His musketeer swallowed hard, and then he continued. “Did they carry anything valuable? Maybe something secret you would not want the other musketeers to know about?”

Tréville waved with his hand in denial. “If so, it would still be a secret, Révier, and I wouldn’t tell you.”

“My brothers, my friends are endangered. So whatever it is, I have a right to know about it!” Révier stayed persistent. “The information might help us save their lives!”

“But there isn’t anything!” Tréville yelled. “There’s nothing secret they carried, so stop your conspirancy theories! How dare you to even think I would deprive information from you in a situation like this?”

Révier looked as if Tréville had just slapped him. “My apologies, Sir. I did not mean to insult you.”

Tréville stared at him for a second, and then he felt sorry. Révier had just been his target for his worry and his anger he kept locked under his captaincy-facade.

“No, no.” Tréville weakly patted Révier’s shoulder. “I’m just worried, Révier. I went too far.”

Révier withstood his look, and compassion was written all over the young musketeer’s face.

“We all are worried.” He took a step back, and grimaced when he stepped into the blood on the stone. “A battle on such a narrow space,” he murmured, more to himself than to his captain. “A risk for anyone involved.” Then, Tréville noticed a frown on the musketeer’s face, and he followed his gaze and saw bolts of a crossbow, shattered on the cobble stone, next to a marker where it had hit against the hard stone.

“This was an ambush,” Révier stated slowly, picking up the bolt. He then took a look around and leaned over the other side of the railing. His eyes widened, and without a comment to his Captain, who was watching attentively, he left the bridge and walked to the shore just below it, picking up something that had been embedded in the grass.

Before Tréville could ask, his musketeer returned to his side, and he showed his superior the object of interest. It was a musketeer pauldron, of a light brown colour, the bolt of a crossbow had struck in the leather, but hadn’t managed to cut through completely.

“D’Artagnan...,” Tréville whispered and he hectically walked over to the railing. “Anyone down...?”

“No, Sir,” Révier replied saddened. “Maybe the search-troops will have more luck. But I wasn’t able to see anyone.” He inspected the straps of the pauldron. “The straps are slightly torn. Must’ve been ripped off his shoulder.”

Tréville started pacing, his hands folded behind his back. “What on earth happened here?” he whispered to himself. What surprised him the most was why somebody would have the guts to ambush musketeers, especially since they did not carry anything valuable.

The sound of someone calling for him awoke him from his thoughts.

“Captain!” Francois’ voice was unmistakeable and Tréville’s head jerked to the side. He saw his musketeer a good distance away on horseback, waving vigorously at him.

“Anything?” he yelled back, and the face Francois made led him to worry.

“We found someone!” Francois made a pause, and failed to cover his anxiety. “Sir, you should come!”

Chapter Text

With his heart pounding nervously in his chest, Tréville quickly got into his horse's saddle and followed Francois as fast as he could. The senior musketeer led him north, chasing the path that ran along the river's bank. It did not take too long until Tréville saw whatever, or better whoever his men had found.

The other musketeer that had gone with Francois was kneeling on the grass, only inches away from the water, his hand firmly holding the figure that was still halfway in the water on his side.

The captain did not waste a moment and swiftly dismounted and trusted his horse not to run away. He just let go of the reins and strode over to the musketeer and Francois, who was as much in a hurry as Tréville was.

"Who is it?" Tréville wasted no more time, and wanted to get to the point before he could see to the matter himself.

"It's Aramis, Sir," Francois replied quickly, and swapped places with the other musketeer, who went to tend to the horses. Tréville knelt down on the other side, and took in every detail of the man in front of him, matter-of-factly, and as objectively as he could manage.

The person that was only halfway on solid ground was indeed one of his missing musketeers. Aramis' armour was completely soaked, and his skin was ashen. A dark shadow of bruising was beginning to form just below his temple. His eyes were closed.

Tréville's eyes wandered down. The cloak his soldier usually wore over his left shoulder was torn and bloodied. The captain quickly discovered the source of the blood. A knife was embedded on the back of Aramis' right shoulder, and the blood was leaking slowly. The blade was probably stopping the bleeding. Before Tréville could comment, Francois spoke up, stating all of the facts he could give his superior right now.

"Worst thing is probably the knife in his back." He gestured at the marksman's torso that was turned towards him. "Two wounds in his side, probably caused by a rapier in a duel. We'll know more when we get him out of the water."

Tréville quickly took off his glove, and wanted to put them on his soldier's neck, but Francois was faster. "He's alive. But he must've been in here for a couple of hours, at least. Good thing that the water isn't too cold."

Tréville gulped, but he tried to cover his emotions through his captain mask. "He must've been the one thrown off the bridge."

Francois nodded. "Don't know how else he could've ended up here." He sighed. "He must've been conscious enough to drag himself onto the shore."

Tréville nodded stiffly, and his sorrowful gaze met Francois'. "You know what confuses me the most?" he asked, his hand protectively on Aramis' shoulder.

Francois bit his lip. "That he has been lying here for hours and we are the first ones to find him?" he asked bitterly, and his gaze swerved over the surrounding forest.

Tréville grunted confirmatively. "Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan would've never just left him here." He took in a deep breath. "So he is either the only one who was able to escape or..."

"...or the only survivor," Francois concluded and spoke out the bitter phrase Tréville did not want to think about. Dear God. Please don't let that be, he thought. But the absence of the other members of the Inseparables was disturbing and unsettling. And told Tréville a story he did not want to hear. He looked down at Aramis' ghostly pale face, and he stood up.

"We need to get him out of the water," he growled at Francois, who nodded, but also threw a sceptical look at the river.

"We need to do this slowly, Sir," Francois explained. "I believe his foot got caught up in those branches." He pointed at the branches, empty of any leaves, that were floating on top of the water's surface.

Tréville grunted approvingly and took Aramis by the armpits, attentively avoiding touching the knife.

"On three," Tréville ordered, and watched how Francois shifted towards the river bank, taking the legs of the musketeer.

"One, two...three!" On his word, Tréville pulled, but got stopped very soon as he noticed Aramis' foot being tangled in those branches.

"Careful!" Tréville ordered as he watched how desperately Francois was trying to free Aramis' leg from the thin scrub.

Finally, they slipped, and the captain was able to drag the wounded musketeer out of the water and on the dry ground, where he gently lowered his upper body to the ground.

"Sir." Francois required his attention again. "His leg. Cut open. By the looks of it, it happened when he was in the water. Maybe a rock or something." Francois nervously looked around. "We need to take care of this, as soon as possible."

Tréville nodded again, before he returned his attention to Aramis, who hadn't stirred once during the past few minutes.

They kept him on his side, for as long as the knife was still stuck in his shoulder. Francois was yelling at the other musketeer to bring the horses over. Tréville pressed his lips together, and his mind was working endlessly on trying to put the pieces together.

When he looked down, he almost jumped as he saw dark brown eyes staring back at him, blinking slowly and in confusion.

"Aramis?" he asked, not sure whether his eyes were betraying him. And he received an answer. Aramis' eyes suddenly went wide with horror, and his whole upper body jerked upwards, his hands forming claws that dug into Tréville's biceps.

"Easy," Tréville tried to calm him, and looked him straight into the eye. "Take it easy, son."

Aramis listened to the sound of his captain's voice, and he seemed to be sure that he wasn't imagining all of this. It took some time, but eventually, he calmed down, and dropped back on to the ground, where he lay and stared at Tréville, his eyes wide open and wet with unshed tears of terror.

"Ambush," Aramis murmured, and the captain had to get even closer to hear those words. "Captain, the others..." His voice broke.

„Aramis," Tréville whispered and gently kept his soldier upright by the shoulder, giving him comfort and support. "Tell me everything you remember."

Flashback: Near the Pont Chablis, five hours earlier

"I seriously don't get why we have to do this now!" d'Artagnan was complaining, staring at the pocket Porthos kept the letter in as if it could magically make their task disappear. "We endured the talking of this diplomat for ..." he stopped shortly, and tilted his head, thinking, before he just snorted and shook his hands in exasperation. "Whatever. Way too long. I don't even remember which day it is. And now we have to deliver a letter because the King did not want to pay an errand boy?"

Athos rolled his eyes, seriously annoyed, while Porthos and Aramis just grinned in sympathy.

"It's on our way to Auxerre anyway," the swordsman replied dryly, as he tried hard not to be rude. "It's a matter of ten minutes."

Aramis squinted his eyes as he looked to the sky to see the sun rising higher. "And, just for general information, it seems that we're already running a bit late." He gazed at Porthos, who raised his gloved hands in defence.

"Don't look at me. It's not my fault!"

Aramis huffed. "Then it must've been someone else in your armour who started a fist fight this morning."

Porthos shrugged. "Hey, that's on d'Artagnan. I was just coming to his aid."

"To my aid?" the Gascon echoed, slightly offended. "I'm so not taking the blame for that incident!"

Aramis definitely seemed to enjoy the discussion. "Well, I feel like I need to back Porthos up on this one," he declared dramatically, sending an amused glance at his friend. "This brute was about to give you a serious beating, just because you cleared his table of the breakfast. Porthos saved your pretty face."

"I wasn't fully awake," d'Artagnan defended himself, and ignored Athos' helpless sigh of exasperation. "Not my fault those people aren't capable of accepting a simple apology."

"One that I offered in your place, my friend," Aramis scolded his young friend, still with a broad grin on his face.

"If you were so tired, perhaps you should consider not to stay up so late competing in card games, especially not since it was the first night we were actually allowed to get some proper sleep," Porthos suggested.

"Yeah, and who are you to tell me that?" d'Artagnan teased, fully joining the unnecessary talking now. "That's as if Athos would tell me that liquor doesn't help to solve my problems."

"It doesn't," Athos threw in dryly from the side. "It helps you forget them."

With those words, he had finally managed to end this senseless discussion, and the four of them concentrated on the road again. The narrow path was getting wider as the trees became less. The sound of water rushing nearby reached their ears, which told all of them they were getting close to Chablis. The small river Serein connected with the Yonne, which ran a couple of miles north-west, and the river's waters contributed a beautiful detail to the calming atmosphere the village of Chablis represented.

Soon, the bridge came in sight. As far as they knew, it was the only way to cross the river in this area, and behind it, it would take only minutes to reach Chablis. They were all longing to meet up with their Captain in Auxerre soon, with the hope that they might be allowed to return back to Paris. All of them haven't seen their home in a few weeks now.

"I never thought I'd say this one day, but I can't wait to be back with the King," d'Artagnan muttered as they approached the bridge. "I really miss Paris."

"Certainly this hasn't to do with a certain madame, right?" Aramis couldn't help himself but to comment, and Athos shot him a warning glare while d'Artagnan's face turned to stone. He just grunted, and urged his horse into a slightly faster pace.

Porthos nervously looked at Aramis. "Now you've upset the whelp."

His friend shrugged. "What? It's the truth. Whether he likes it or not."

"Yeah, good job. Now his mood is down on a level with Athos'," Porthos countered, rolling his eyes.

"I heard that," Athos commented wryly from behind, and Porthos snickered.

"Yeah, I'm aware."

D'Artagnan in front of them just sighed now, and shook his head in what looked like suppressed resignation. His horse had entered the stony bridge, and Aramis and Porthos followed closely.

"Doesn't anybody else got ... a feeling?" Porthos asked suddenly, his dark eyes worriedly roaming all over the place.

"A feeling?" Aramis echoed sceptically, and he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yeah, like..."

Before Porthos could tell them about his suspicion, they heard the humming and hissing of a sharp object shooting through the air, and then, everything happened very fast.

D'Artagnan gasped in surprise when a crossbow bolt buried itself in his shoulder pauldron. His whole upper body jerked backwards, and he accidentally pulled very harshly on the reins. Mirabelle, his horse, nickered loudly and threw the Gascon right out of the saddle. The musketeer was way too startled to even make an attempt to hold himself on the animal's back.

Before his friends could respond, another crossbow bolt missed Porthos' head only by inches. All of them saw no choice but to jump out of the saddle and duck behind the stony railing of the bridge.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos roared, eager to learn how their youngest was doing. They received a soft groan as an answer, and Athos rapidly crouched over to his friend and helped him stand.

When they looked up, they spotted at least a dozen men, on both sides of the bridge, blocking both ways of a possible escape route. Some of them wore giant hoods, and pretty much looked like casual bandits that so often tried to cross the path of the musketeers, others had the appearance of poor farmers, and wore the only clothes they were able to afford.

"Gentlemen," one of them spoke up, apparently one of the men hidden behind their disguises. "Drop your weapons. And please, follow us."

It was Athos who tried to hide a sarcastic snort, and he just calmly pulled out his pistol to load it. "Sure. Anything else you wish?" He made a short pause. "A bow, perhaps? While we're on it, why don't you accept these magnificent weapons as a gift? I'd love to just leave them to you." His voice dripped with dry sarcasm, but his face was hard like stone, determined.

"Stop mocking us, musketeer," the man sneered. "We're trying to do this peacefully, if we can."

"Peacefully?" Aramis echoed scornfully, and took a look at the amount of crossbow bolts that covered the ground. "I think we're already past that."

"Yeah, ironic to say peacefully when you just tried to kill us," Porthos added sourly, his hand locked around the hilt of his rapier.

Without another warning, the men launched their attacks, encircling the musketeers from both sides. They were mercilessly outnumbered, but the number had rarely stopped them in their past days.

Athos fired his pistol immediately, and started reloading it again in one motion. When he felt the first man approach, trying to tackle him from behind, he made a step to the side, before he hit the man against the head with his elbow, so hard, that he went down at an instant. He did not have the time to draw his rapier, as the next one approached. Athos just evaded his attack and threw the man into Porthos' direction, where he was greeted with a fist to the face.

His elbow bones again collided hard with another man's mouth, and he could feel how it knocked the teeth out. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched how d'Artagnan ripped off his pauldron, because the bolt stuck in it limited his mobility.

For a short moment, Athos was distracted, and just as he raised his pistol to fire at an enemy that went for Porthos, he felt the barrel of a gun pressed into his neck.

"Not another move," a man hissed into Athos' ear, "I don't want to make this any harder than it is." Athos hesitated for another second, but he had no choice but to drop his freshly reloaded pistol, and he let go of the hold he had around his rapier attached to his belt.

"You're making a mistake," Athos explained matter-of-factly, and he spoke it like a warning it definitely was.

"I have the upper hand, so you better..." But the man behind Athos didn't get to finish what he was about to say. Within a second, Athos ducked his head, to escape a shot the idiot hadn't fired, and smashed his elbow against the man's nose. He could hear the crack of bones, and he head-butted the man so hard that he went limp at an instant.

Just when Athos was about to reach for his rapier, a boot connected with his knee and he crashed to the ground when his balance was shattered. He fought back blindly, not sure who he was up against, but he rendered two other men unconscious while he wasn't even standing.

Athos turned his head and spit out the blood that had gathered in his mouth after one of the opponent's fists had found his face and he wanted to get up, when he once again felt someone pull his head back by his hair and the cold sensation of metal dug into his neck again.

"Your last warning," the man behind him growled into his ear. "And contrary to my comrade, I don't make empty threats."

Athos wasn't ready to let go so easy, but just as he moved a tiny bit to start a counter-attack, he could feel the finger of his opponent flinch towards the trigger. Athos was forced to drop his defence and raise his hands in surrender, his teeth clenched tightly as he hoped for the others to finish the battle in his place.

The other three were still engaged in a furious, breathtaking battle, and Athos could do nothing but watch. The cold metal of the pistol aimed at his head left him no choice.

D'Artagnan's and Aramis' horses had fled, while the other two were also trapped on the bridge with their riders. Which made the battle even harder, as everyone had to watch out not to get hit by kicking hooves.

Athos watched how Aramis desperately fought against two men at once, one of them being the man that had spoken to them, the face still hidden behind a disguise. Aramis landed a strike on his shoulder, but the other opponent required his attention immediately. The marksman wasn't quick enough, and had to take in two hits of the sword against his side.

Athos was sure to hear his friend insulting his enemies harshly, but he eventually managed to finish off his opponent with a well-placed stab to the chest. Before Aramis even had the chance to pull out his sword, the men from earlier approached cowardly from behind. Athos' choked warning got lost under the noise of the battle.

He had to watch how the attacker buried his knife in Aramis' upper back, and he saw how his friend's eyes went wide when the realization hit him.

With a yelp of pain, he crumbled to his knees, breathing rapidly and though he immediately tried to get back on his feet, he failed mercilessly.

"Aramis!" Porthos roared to Athos' side, and for a moment, it seemed as if the fighting would stop. Athos struggled against the hold he was kept in, risked getting shot in the head, but he would not just watch in silence.

"Boss said we need them alive!" the man behind Athos yelled at the one who was standing in front of Aramis. The musketeer had scrambled back halfway on his feet, the railing of the bridge behind him, but he now faced the attacker who had so cowardly stabbed him in the back. Athos could not see the man's face, but the tone in his voice spoke for itself.

"Well, he did. And he also said to bring them unharmed." He shrugged. "I failed him once, I may as well fail him twice."

And without wasting another word, he forcefully kicked Aramis against the shoulder, destroying the bit of balance the musketeer had. His friend fell backwards over the bridge's railing, without uttering a single word. All Athos was able to hear was the splash when he hit the water's surface.

Porthos started yelling and throwing punches at everyone within his arm reach, so wildly that he lost his hat, and, at one point, his balance. Porthos drew his pistol, and wanted to shoot an assailing enemy, but another man kicked against his legs from the side and Porthos crashed down, where he collided with the ground. He seemed unharmed, and immediately tried to get up, but the very same man that had thrown Aramis off the bridge now dug his knee into Porthos' back and held his pistol to Porthos' temple. He just shook his head, as a warning not to resist.

The only one left to fight was d'Artagnan. The young musketeer was a little further away from them, mostly dodging the attacks and avoiding getting impaled by one of the swords flung at him.

Athos and Porthos watched in horror how the young Gascon looked from Athos to Porthos and to the men who blocked his escape. Then, the musketeer, unarmed and exhausted, attacked the man standing closest to him with his bare fist. The two struggled for a short while, and nobody else moved. Except for Porthos, where they needed four men to hold him down.

Then, just when it looked like d'Artagnan was winning, his opponent violently slammed him against the railing. D'Artagnan gasped for air, and he again looked at Athos and Porthos, unable to come to their help. With a last ounce of strength, d'Artagnan swapped places with his opponent. But the man lost his balance and swayed dangerously. When the Gascon punched him in the face, the impact was too much. The man tumbled over the railing. In the last second, he dug his clawing hands into d'Artagnan's sleeve and pulled him with him, both men descending into the water, disappearing from their view.

And then, there was nothing but silence.

Chapter Text

The first thing he was aware of was a constant ringing in his head. His cheek was lying in a sticky, wet substance, and his lids were heavy. Then, his ears picked up the sounds of the environment. The rushing of the water told him he was near a river, but he himself was sprawled in the grass at the river's bank.

D'Artagnan groaned and sluggishly tried to open his eyes. He was able to make out the blurry outlines of trees somewhere in the distance, as well as the fuzzy outlines of another figure lying next to him, looking straight into his eyes.

D'Artagnan jerked in surprise and tried to crawl backwards, but he was stopped as soon as he felt his back collide with a hard surface. He dropped back onto the ground, tried to calm his breathing and slowly but surely managed to focus his eyes.

The sight he got was disturbing. He recognized the figure that was looking at him with wide, lifeless eyes, staring into the void the Gascon could not see. It was the bandit he had been struggling with, the man that had pulled d'Artagnan with him and in a weird and twisted way had helped him escape.

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, before he started pulling himself forward with his hands digging into the grass. Just to be sure, he put two fingers on the man's neck, but the branch that was buried halfway in his chest was enough proof that he was beyond saving.

The musketeer sighed and briefly closed his eyes. Flashes of images appeared in front of his inner eye, and he slowly began to recollect his memory.

The bridge. All of them joking around. The letter to Auxerre.

He furrowed his brow. What had happened again? An ambush. Yeah, that's what had happened. Due to his usual routine, he quickly started moving around, trying to locate any injuries that might be present. Apart from his temple, where the deeply split skin had coated half of his face in now dried blood, he felt mostly fine. He was sure to have cracked a rib or two, but that was all.

Drop your weapons, and come with us. He heard the echo of the bandit's voice in his head. They had come to make prisoners, not to kill them. The letter they had carried was of no big value.

Aramis. A shocked gasp escaped d'Artagnan's lips as he relived the horrible image of his friend being stabbed in the back, before he too had been kicked into the waters and had been abandoned to the river's mercy.

Boss said we need them alive. He remembered what the bandits had said to one another, and he could not help but wonder who their boss might be, and why on earth they would make the mistake to attack musketeers and let them live afterwards. If Porthos would ever break free, he'd probably crush them to pieces, and Athos would take them out with his murderous look and sharp weapons alone.

He sat up, a hand pressed on his head wound, and his eyes tried to soak in every detail of the environment. He was close to the river, and here, it was surrounded with a deep forest on one side, and some open fields on the other. The sun was beginning to set, so it was probably late afternoon. The soil between him and the water had drag marks in it, as if he had been rescued out of the water.

He narrowed his eyes. He had no recollection of what had happened after his dramatic exit from the bridge, and judging by the ringing in his head, he had good reason to believe that this was the first time he had been awake in...what? Hours?

So he for sure hadn't pulled himself onto the shore, and into safety. He turned his head and his eyes locked on the motionless figure of the bandit on the ground. He was sprawled on the ground, behind the spot where d'Artagnan had woken up. It took a few moments for his foggy mind to process what had happened but eventually, he put the pieces together.

"Oh, mon dieu," he murmured, his words slurred together, and he approached the man and closed his eyes one last time. "You saved my life." He sat next to his fallen foe and saviour in silence, and gently patted the man's shoulder in gratitude.

"A good man after all. Thank you." He knew that nobody could hear him, but he spoke anyway. It helped him to collect his thoughts and to form a proper plan.

He gathered his sword and a dagger and started stumbling forward, into the safe cover of the tress. His mind was working rapidly, as he was thinking about what to do next. In front of his inner eye, he was reliving the images of what had happened on the bridge. Of Aramis getting stabbed and kicked off the bridge. D'Artagnan could feel phantom knives turning in his guts. Was it the last time he had seen Aramis? It had all gone down so fast. And Aramis must've been washed ashore somewhere, but d'Artagnan had no idea where. His heart told him to look for his friend, no matter in what state he might find him. It was a promise he had made when he had entered the musketeer regiment.

But his head just told him that he had no trail. The river was long, and the area where Aramis could possibly be was enormous.

He had to go and find out what had happened to Porthos and Athos. Last time he had seen them, they had been held at gunpoint, and were now most likely imprisoned. But there was a trail he could pick up, at the bridge, further up the stream.

He was put in front of a choice, a choice he had never wanted to make. To choose between his brothers. To make a decision in favour of one of his friends. But now, he chose to find out the location of Athos and Porthos.

He knew it was the only reasonable choice, as he had no clue where to look for Aramis. Additional to that, his head told him that he needed to look after the living, and not waste his time with those beyond saving.

But deep down, he felt like he was betraying one of his brothers. That he was betraying their faith in one another. That he was now a sinner, an unfaithful man, who left one of his brothers behind.

And with the thought of it, his heart screamed.

Mailly-le-Chateau, south of Auxerre, in the afternoon

"This is stupid!" Porthos was cursing, and he hadn't stopped his rambling in the past two hours, ever since they had arrived here. "You bloody cowards!" He jumped up for the fifth time in the past twenty minutes and started joggling at the bars that prevented his escape.

After the ambush on the bridge, and the dramatic descent of Aramis and d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos had been transported to a village about an hour south of where they had been. Their captors hadn't exchanged a word with them, and while Porthos had sought for a conversation, in order to learn about their purpose here, Athos had remained silent.

But Athos had to admit, he was not only confused by the sheer lack of reason for their captivity, but also angered. Contrary to Porthos, he was going to wait patiently. He knew he had no other choice.

While Athos was still shocked and slightly traumatised by what had happened on that bridge, even though he did not show it, Porthos was wild in his wrath. The big musketeer was punching violently against the iron bars, and was using his whole body in an attempt to crush the cell doors.

They were in the prison of a château, that much Athos had figured out. And he also knew that they weren't alone. There were many other men held in the other cells, but he and Porthos shared their little prison alone.

"For God's sake, musketeer, could you please stop that?" a voice muttered out of the cell to their right, and Porthos froze, before he walked over to the iron bars that separated him from the other cell. He enclosed it with his hands, and stared down at the man who had spoken.

"At least I am not content with doing absolutely nothing!" Porthos hissed, clearly angry.

Their neighbour stayed unimpressed, and just mustered Porthos with his cold eyes. "These cells are made to lock even the most dangerous men in there. You can try as long as you want, musketeer, but it helped holding in men that were a lot more violent than you are."

"Hard to imagine," Athos commented with a low voice and shot Porthos a piercing look. Then his gaze wandered back to the man who had spoken. "How do you know that?"

"I spent more time in here than I ever have wished to. You can believe my words."

Athos just nodded slowly, and Porthos finally sat down opposite to Athos on the cold and hard floor.

"What's your name?" Porthos asked with a grunt and tried very obviously to sound indifferent.

"Dorian," the man answered calmly, and Athos noticed a spark of curiosity passing his eyes. "And you, musketeers? Two hours now and I still have no idea what to call you."

"None of your business," Porthos replied sourly, still a little offended that nobody had supported him on trying to kick the door in. Athos shot him a warning glare.

"Athos," the swordsman replied slowly and tilted his head in a greeting manner. "And my friend over here is Porthos."

Dorian nodded. "A pleasure."

"How did they get you? And what do they want from us?" Porthos wanted to know, and Athos nodded vigorously. Those were the right questions.

Dorian did not move a bit, he just resisted Athos' questioning stare with cold, blue eyes. "My full name is Dorian Eduarde de la Rovère," he explained, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I own this château."

Athos was surprised, but made sure to hide his reaction. Porthos on the other hand did not care.

"You're the bloody owner?" he asked bluntly, his eyes wide open. "How on earth did you end up in your own prison?"

"Not my choice, exactly," Dorian snapped back. It was apparently a very sensitive subject. "Mind your own business."

"Do you know what the plan for us is, Dorian?" Athos asked patiently, and with a hint of faked sympathy. "And why those people think it's a good idea to ambush musketeers?"

Dorian shrugged. "I can guess. But I'm not in the place to tell you that."

"Very helpful," Athos commented sarcastically and turned towards Porthos. He leaned over to his friend. "One way or another, they don't know that we were supposed to meet our captain," he whispered.

Porthos swallowed hard, but nodded. "Yeah, Tréville's most likely looking for us already. You know how much he hates it when we're not on time."

Athos grunted approvingly. "And as for d'Artagnan and Aramis..."

"Tréville's got it," Porthos interrupted a little too loud. "But until then, we should try to get out of here on our own."

"No argues about that," Athos responded and let his head fall back against the solid wall. For a few minutes, they sat there in silence. Athos knew that Porthos was considering to pick up a conversation with Dorian again, but the man, approximately Tréville's age, looked like he had laid down to get some sleep. Sleep was the last thing Athos could think of at the moment. There were so many questions left unanswered, and so many actions to be taken.

His eyes were taking in every detail of what he could see of the dark prison. It was small, with about eight cells in it. No chains nor any ropes could be seen, Dorian probably hadn't used it that often. And that's what it looked like all in all – unused. It was impressively clean, but also very empty except for the amount of men trapped behind the bars.

Suddenly, they heard steps, and the huge, wooden door that separated the prison from the rest was opened. Three men came through, and Athos recognized their clothing. The bandits from earlier. The one in the middle was holding a torch, while the two others were armed with pistols and daggers, their eyes carefully watching every movement in the cellar.

"Evening, gentlemen," he greeted and Athos witnessed Porthos flinch violently as he too recognized the voice that spoke. It was the very same man that had tried to talk to them on the bridge, and the one who had stabbed their friend and kicked him down the bridge.

"You!" Porthos growled and jumped up in one single movement, his whole body tense. Athos followed his image a little slower.

"Yeah, me." The man made a gesture with his hand and the cell door was unlocked by one of the guards. "I'd say it's good to see you again, but I think we can spare us the polite lies, right?"

"What do you want?" Athos growled indignantly.

"I?" the man repeated and a grin spread over his face. "Nothing. But my boss. And I'm just here to make sure you don't cause any unnecessary trouble." He made a short pause. "And if I am ever so inclined, I may as well tell you what's awaiting you."

"Spit it out, damn you," Porthos demanded harshly.

"Auxerre," the man replied simply and hinted a grin. "That's all I know. You will be transported to Auxerre soon." He stepped into the cell and tried to tower over the two musketeers with as much authority as he could muster. Unfortunately for him, it was hard to tower over Porthos.

"What the hell should we do in Auxerre?" Porthos asked, while Athos posed a different question.

"I wish to talk to the person in charge here."

The man just snorted and raised an eyebrow in his arrogance. "Sorry, but he'll see you as soon as he wishes, not the other way around."

"This can still go down peacefully," Athos warned, and tensed his muscles, preparing a fist, just in case.

The man broke out into a scornful, mocking laughter. "Sure. After I killed two of your friends, I am supposed to believe that you don't want to rip my throat out?"

Athos saw Porthos twitching nervously at his side, and he raised a calming hand. "Porthos!" he warned, knowing exactly what thoughts were going through his friend's mind right now. To Athos' dismay, the man in front of them wasn't finished yet.

"I'll convince my boss that it's hopeless with you two. I guess violence is your only option at the moment." Those words were an open invitation for Porthos.

"Alright, as you wish," Porthos snapped and without a warning, he landed a punch on the man with the torch. He swayed, but eventually managed to fight back and slam Porthos into the iron bars.

"Hands off him!" Athos growled and smashed his elbow a little too hard into the man's ribs. He stumbled back and looked a little irritated, until he understood what had just happened. Athos and Porthos exchanged a quick look, and then they saw their chance.

Together, they grabbed the first man, and he let out a very unmanly yelp. Athos could feel the interested stares of the other prisoners on him. Next thing he felt was a foot that caught him in the knee and he was forced backwards, but Porthos had it under control. He had locked his big hands around the man's upper arm and was twisting his arm behind his back. Athos quickly rejoined his friend and grabbed their victim's throat.

When they saw the pistols aimed at them, they froze, but made sure to hold their hostage in a deathly grip.

"No!" the man panted when he saw his comrades aiming their weapons at the musketeers. "Boss said we need them alive. And I already broke that promise once or twice. I really don't want to exacerbate the lecture I'm undoubtedly getting."

"I would not do this," Athos threatened, and kept a firm grip around his victim's throat. "We don't want any unnecessary casualties here." He glanced at the man that was forced to stand in front of him and Porthos. "But you need to give me a damn good reason why I should not rip his throat out right now."

"You started this, musketeer," the man with the pistol hissed, but Athos was sure to see fear in his pale eyes glowing in the darkness of the prison.

"No, that was you the moment you attacked us on that damned bridge!" Porthos retorted, every muscle in his body ready to jump into action any moment. He shot Athos a look that spoke of a tiny bit of uncertainty, and a little doubt, before he focused back on their opponents.

"Let us go, and nobody will be harmed," Porthos promised, his voice full of sincerity. But one of the men with the pistols just narrowed his eyes, and raised his pistol even higher.

"Screw it," he yelled and pressed his eyes shut.

The next second, the pistol was fired. The bang that echoed through the small prison was deafening, and while everybody else was lowering their heads and covering their ears, Athos stumbled backwards when the impact hit him. For a second, he felt nothing, and his eyes searched Porthos', who looked at him with evident shock.

One thing Athos knew for sure now. Their escape plan, for now, had failed.

Chapter Text

Tréville was shocked as he patiently listened to what Aramis had to say. After his report, the last thing he remembered was being kicked off that bridge, and the last couple of hours were a gap in the marksman's memory. Judging by the shape he was in, it was no surprise.

"I saw Athos lose his fight," the musketeer whispered, his glassy eyes focused on something only he could see. "And then this coward stabbed me in the back. I wanted to do something, but I just...I physically couldn't..."

"And now, here we are," Tréville concluded, his hand firmly on his soldier's shoulder. "Do you remember how they looked like? How they spoke?"

Aramis closed his eyes, his face distorted with pain.

"No," he admitted. "No face I've seen before." Suddenly, a thought seemed to pass his mind and he clawed onto the captain's sleeve as if his life depended on it.

"Captain," he said insistently, "We have to..." He cut off and bit down a wince of pain. "They wanted us alive. I don't know what has happened to the others, but I fear ... I fear for their safety."

Tréville gulped and exchanged a worried look with Francois. "If they wanted them alive, then that's some sort of comfort at least."

Aramis just glared, his lips were quivering. "You and I both know..." He stopped to catch his breath. "...that it's not true. We musketeers, sometimes we'd rather die than...you know. Being robbed of our freedom."

Those words were knives stabbing into Tréville's heart and soul, but he made sure that he did not show his emotions. "Aramis, don't go this way. For now, all we know is that they wanted them alive, as you said." He patted Aramis' arm reassuringly and moved in closer. "Aramis, that's good. It means that there is hope."

Aramis did not seem to have the nerve nor the strength for Tréville's enthusiasm.

"We have to... find...," he gasped.

"I will do that," Tréville replied sternly, and put his other hand on the side of Aramis' face to support him. "But you need to get treatment for your wounds. I will make sure that we collect all other clues that can help us understand where the others might be."

Aramis seemed to think about it for a second, before he pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Aramis, don't be a fool!" Tréville admonished and gestured Francois to bring the horses over. "There's a knife still sticking out of your upper back, and I have no intention of removing it by myself."

Aramis' glassy eyes stared at him. He did not look pitiful, or broken. He looked angry, and reproachful. Mixed with the pain he was undoubtedly in, Aramis could turn into a dangerous man.

Tréville tried to ignore it, as he had no fitting answer to his soldier's desperate plea.

"Aramis." That was Francois who had approached from behind, his hand stained with the blood that was coating the marksman's back. "We need to get you to Chablis. Your wounds urgently demand treatment. Révier and I, we will keep looking. You can trust us."

Aramis said nothing, he just kept breathing through his pain, his mind elsewhere. Tréville sighed. He knew that it was a lot harder for the musketeer because he wasn't with his friends, wherever they may be. Tréville kept his worried gaze on the blood coating the back of Aramis' shoulder, and his overall pale complexion.

"Francois, we need to get him to Chablis," Tréville ordered. "He needs treatment right now! In the meantime, the others will turn every stone over." He gently patted Aramis' face. "We'll find them," he declared in an unusual soft tone and tried to put on a smile.

Truth was, he had no idea how serious Aramis' wounds were, nor did he have any trace to the others. He had no idea what to do or where to start, but he had to do something. This was not the place or the time for idleness, and he did not plan on changing it.

He watched Aramis' eyes losing its focus, and the grip he had on Tréville's sleeve began to loosen.

"Francois, help me lift him up," Tréville ordered and he put one of Aramis' arms around his shoulders.

"Sir," Francois just replied and appeared at Aramis' other side. Together, they slowly rose from the ground, paying attention that they did not jar his wounds too much.

The musketeer couldn't prevent a grunt escaping his lips, and he was so delirious by now that Francois had to take his weight completely, while Tréville grasped the horses' reins.

"Take Mirabelle," Francois grunted and nodded towards d'Artagnan's horse, which was waiting calmly next to the others.

Tréville sent Francois an angry look. "We don't have time for..."

"I cannot lift him so high," Francois interrupted with an unusual harshness in his voice. "Mirabelle can come down, the boy taught her." He stopped to readjust Aramis' arm around his shoulder. "Captain, now!"

Tréville did as his soldier advised and went to get Mirabelle. The horse indeed was able to bow down at Francois' command. At least, now Tréville knew what the Gascon was doing in his free time. Together, they placed Aramis, who barely resisted as he was clinging onto consciousness by now, on the horseback. Mirabelle rose from the ground and Tréville quickly lifted himself into the saddle behind Aramis, to support him.

"Chablis," he just hissed and did not wait for Francois. He gently but firmly dug his heels into the animal's flank and carefully rode into the direction of the village.

Within ten minutes, Tréville and Francois arrived back in Chablis. The people on the street gaped at them, and made space, their mouth's wide open as they stared at the three men on their two horses. This was probably the most grotesque sight they've ever gotten in months.

"Is there a medic around here?" Tréville barked from his place on the horse. The blood from Aramis' back in front of him was coating his doublet by now. "Anyone?" he yelled at the staring crowd.

"Get him off the horse," a man, who had stepped forward, suggested. "I'm no trained medic, but I'll see what I can do."

Tréville looked a little skeptic, but he had no choice. He carefully handed an unconscious Aramis down into Francois' awaiting arms, before he jumped off Mirabelle's back and helped his musketeer with their wounded soldier.

"Come," the stranger said nervously and led them inside a small house at the outer ring of Chablis. "On the table," he instructed, and Tréville and Francois did as they were told.

Aramis did not make a sound as they lifted him onto the wooden, but clean table, and that did not help to ease Tréville's nerves.

It was hard not to let his Captain-mask slide.

"Francois." Tréville just called his musketeer's name, and without further orders, the man knew what he had to do. He nodded at Tréville and started asking the stranger what he was supposed to do.

The captain on the other hand left the house again, as he knew he needed a moment to collect his thoughts and clear his mind. He knelt down on the ground in front of the house and pressed his eyes shut against the headache. In his head, he was rewinding everything Aramis had been able to tell him, as well as all the clues they had found.

He couldn't connect it yet, no matter how hard he tried. But maybe he was just a little distracted.

"Captain." Tréville looked up when he recognized the female voice that had spoken to him. His eyes met the gaze of Cécile, the woman from earlier. Next to her was another woman, red-haired and probably a few years older. Her green eyes shone with kindness and compassion.

"I cannot tell you about the whereabouts of the letter right now," the captain stated tiredly, before he sighed and buried his face in his hands.

"No, it's not that. Your man, he is treated by Michel. He is a good man, but he is probably as skilled in treating wounds as you are, Sir."

Tréville looked up, dangerously slow, as he was trying to understand what this woman was trying to tell him. It took him all of his nerves to answer quietly and composed.

"Then what do you suggest I should do?" His voice raised towards the end, and he had to fight hard not to yell.

Cécile did not care. "That's my sister, Agathe. She knows what can help your man, she has saved many others before as well."

Tréville immediately rose from the ground. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?" he asked reproachfully, and a little harder than he had intended to.

Cécile shrank back. "It's that she..."

"Not of importance," Tréville interrupted and opened the door to the house. "Please, I appreciate any help."

The two women hesitated for a long moment, before they entered the tiny house. The reaction they received was rough and unexpected.

Michel, who was carefully inspecting one of his patient's wounds, looked up, and he tensed immediately, his lips pressed together as he was trying to hold back what his mind wanted him to say. Francois looked up in confusion, his keen eyes wandering between Tréville and the two women, trying to find out what all of this was about.

One of the men who helped Michel hissed between clenched teeth, and his gaze threw daggers at Agathe.

"Get out of my house, witch," he snarled, and out of instincts, Tréville's hand darted towards his weapon.

"Watch your tongue," he said coldly, and with all the authority he could muster. Cécile and Agathe looked intimidated, and the captain understood why Agathe hadn't offered her help earlier.

She seemed to be an outcast, marked as a witch by some of the citizens in Chablis. For what accusations exactly, Tréville did not know, nor did he care right now.

"I'm trying to help," Agathe replied unexpectedly sharp and tried to make her way over to Michel, who was watching in silence.

The man who had helped him suddenly lunged towards Aramis, who was still not moving, and grabbed the golden crucifix around his neck.

"He is a man of God," he declared. "He would not want this witch to touch him!" All of his attention was on Tréville.

Tréville growled, and walked up to the man, his chin up high, his jaw tense. "How dare you to think you know him?" He made a short pause and glanced at Francois, noticing that the senior musketeer had one hand resting on his weapon, ready to use it if necessary. "And how dare you to deprive him of the help he desperately needs?"

"But, Captain," the man tried again, but with a much smaller voice. "She is a witch. Everybody in this village can confirm this."

"That's not true, and you know that," Cécile defended her sister, but judging from the expression on her face, she was scared.

"Because she studied nature better and, contrary to you, decides to be helpful?" Francois joined in and he grabbed the man by the collar.

"Out," Tréville growled, and without hesitation, the clearly intimidated man ran out of his own house. The captain turned towards Agathe and her sister.

"Madame, you have my permission to do whatever is necessary to help him. Michel, Francois, you assist her."

He turned on the heel to leave. During his walk out of the house, he exchanged a meaningful look with Francois, who understood immediately. He was supposed to represent Tréville in here, and make sure that nobody tried something foul. Tréville threw one last glance at Aramis, before he opened the door and stepped back outside.

As much as he wanted to be helpful, he had a job to do. The other musketeers were still looking for traces, and Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan were still missing without a trail.

Tréville wondered if that ambush had something to do with the other disappearances Francois had told him about. If so, then the men behind it had been careless, as they had left evidence of their doing.

Suddenly, he heard the hard sound of hooves clattering on stone, and he lifted his gaze hopefully, in the desire that someone could finally bring him some good news. Three riders, which he identified as his musketeers, trotted towards him and came to a halt once they spotted their captain.

"Sir?" The rider that had spoken to him was Révier, and the musketeer sceptically shot a look at the house behind Tréville.

The Captain straightened up at once, and was on high alert when he saw a body slung over the horse's back.

"What is it?" He demanded to know and wanted to go check on the body, but Révier's gesture told him to calm down.

"Sir, we found the body of a man, but he is no musketeer. We were hoping Aramis could identify him for us."

Tréville sighed and rubbed his temples to soothe the headache that had been plaguing him the whole day already. "Right now, Aramis is in no condition to do anything." His eyes locked on Révier. "Bring the body over to the stables, we will wait until Aramis can say something before the man gets a proper burial."

The musketeer nodded, and for a moment, there was silence, until the door to the house opened and Francois came out of it. He looked exhausted and tired, and he was desperately trying to clean his bloody hands.

"He should recover," he stated simply, his voice numb. "But it'll take time." Francois' eyes found the body behind Révier and his head shot up in surprise. "Anything new?"

"They found a body, about two miles down the stream," Révier informed him. "It's no musketeer, but we don't know if it might be one of the men who have done the ambush."

Francois scanned the body, and then, he noticed Révier's tense face.

"What else did you find?" he asked sharply, definitively using the authority he had as one of the senior musketeers.

Révier deliberately avoided his captain's angry stare and focused on his brother-in-arms.

"There were two bodies," he finally confessed. "One of them must've been alive and left the other there."

"One of ours?" the Captain asked and Révier shrugged.

"Possibly. Whoever it is, he did not head back to Chablis. The trail led us into the forest before it got lost there."

Tréville cursed loudly, and he did not care that everybody saw and heard it.

"Révier, I want you and Francois to head out with a search patrol this evening, after the horses got a little bit of rest. " He pointed at the body behind Révier. "Until then, I want you to go and look for Jules Dubois. Go fetch him and ask if he recognizes this man."

Révier had already dug his heels into the animal's flank, when Tréville called him back.

"And Révier?" he called, and received a confused look from his musketeer. "I know that it's not exactly your strength, but try to be a little empathic, understood?"

Révier just saluted, before he headed off into the direction of the tiny stables in this village. Suddenly, the door in his back opened with an awful creak. The stench of blood and sweat poured out of the tiny house, and the captain whirled around wide-eyed to meet the gaze of Agathe.

"Are there any problems? Did something happen?" Tréville fired his questions mercilessly at the young, overwhelmed woman.

She bit her lip. "No, Captain" the woman stated nervously, and cast a shy, but urgent glance back into the house. "But we could really use your help."

Chapter Text

It took a few moments for the echo of the gunshot to fully vanish, and it caused a stunning ringing in Athos' head. He did not know why, but he stumbled backwards, his hands subconsciously reaching for his shoulder. He saw how Porthos was trembling, as if he was deciding whether to rip the man's throat out or come to Athos' aid.

Porthos pressed his lips together, let out an infuriated yell and kicked the man away from him before he quickly appeared at his brother's side.

Athos' raised his hand in front of his face, and saw the red liquid coating his dirty fingers. It's not that he hadn't been shot before. He had, way too many times, but he was wondering why the man hadn't aimed for his heart.

"You're a miserable shot," Athos panted in an attempt of sarcasm, before his back collided with the wall and he slid down, painting the stone wall red.

The young man who had fired the weapon looked at him with compassion and pity.

"Am I?" he just asked, and Athos understood that the man never had the intention of killing him.

The man who they had attacked threw the cell door shut and turned the key in the lock.

"Don't you dare laying a hand on me again," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Or next time, you'll see how good my man can shoot."

Porthos just growled, he sounded and also looked like a wild animal ready to attack. To Athos' silent amusement, the three men quickly made their way out of the dungeon, leaving the two musketeers alone in the dark.

"Well," Dorian murmured from the neighbour cell. "You don't do much negotiation usually, right?"

"Not helpin'," Porthos grunted as he carefully helped Athos to pull the doublet down, so they could have a look on his shoulder.

Dorian raised his hands in defeat and arched an eyebrow. He looked straight at Porthos.

"How bad?" Athos could swear he heard more curiosity than sympathy in his voice.

Porthos gritted his teeth. "Not sure," he answered out of routine. "It's gone straight through, I think. So hopefully, he can consider himself lucky. Still, it's a gunshot wound. Those are serious. He needs treatment."

"I'm right...here, you know?" Athos threw in sourly, annoyed that they acted as if he wasn't in the room.

"You shouldn't have provoked him," Dorian said and watched sceptically how Porthos tried to build a provisional bandage out of his own white linen shirt. "How are you, Athos?"

"Brilliant," Athos huffed sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

"Stupid question," Porthos muttered next to him and Athos snorted.

"I've had worse," he said and bit down a groan when a flash of hot pain erupted anew in his shoulder.

"Doesn't make it better," Porthos replied sharply and gently pushed Athos back against the wall as the swordsman tried to shrug his friend's hands off.

"Careful, or you'll start sounding like Aramis," Athos whispered, not thinking about what he was saying. A short expression of sadness crossed Porthos' features, and he quickly turned his head away. But Athos was too tired and too occupied with his shoulder that he could take back what he had said.

Being ambushed was no news to them, being captured was no news to them either. Hell, even being shot sadly had become part of their lives as musketeers. The King did have many enemies, and they were always in the way between the King and those who'd harm him. But in the past times, Athos always knew that someone was coming for him. He didn't wear his heart on the sleeve, but deep down, he had always had the spark of hope, and the confidence, knowing that Porthos, Aramis or d'Artagnan were on their way to rescue him once more.

But now? Porthos was stuck here with him, facing the same uncertain fate he had to expect. Aramis had been stabbed in front of their eyes, and god knew what had happened to their fellow Gascon.

Athos hissed when Porthos jarred his wound, and his friend sent him an apologetic look.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I'm not that experienced with wounds. You should know, after I sewed your arm past June."

Athos closed his eyes and tried to ignore the burning sensation in his shoulder that seemed to climb up his neck and down his whole arm. "I carry your scars with pride, my friend," he said hoarsely.

Porthos' hand slightly squeezed his uninjured shoulder in thanks, and grabbed his own linen shirt to rip a part of it off.

They all liked to tease Porthos about it, but Athos knew that the musketeer was doing his best, and he would continue to do so until the very end, whatever that would be.

"By the way, how is it that when anything happens, it is always the two of us who end up together?" Athos asked breathlessly, in a pitiful attempt to break the tension, as he endured the pain of whatever Porthos was doing to his shoulder.

Porthos snorted. "Dunno. But you did not give me a reason to complain." He hesitated, and looked up into his friend's eye, the hint of a grin playing around his lips. "Yet."

He eyed his bandage work sceptically, and seemed to consider taking it off again.

Athos just waved with his hands. "It'll do, I'll live. Leave it, Porthos."

Porthos huffed, helped Athos putting the doublet back on and then he sat down on the ground, his whole upper body facing towards Athos. It was Porthos' usual protective gesture, one that the swordsman had witnessed many times.

He hated Porthos' hovering, and he never failed to remind his friend of that. They had more important things that needed to be taken care of.

They sat in silence for at least thirty minutes. The only sounds that could be heard were the coughing of another prisoners and Athos' deep, raspy breathing. His head was resting against the back of the wall, his eyes closed, and his left hand was digging into his own armour in an attempt to dull the pain in his shoulder. Athos knew that Porthos had done all he could, but he also knew that if this wound wasn't going to be treated soon, he might bleed out.

Suddenly, they were able to make out voices, and the door to the little prison opened again. One lonely shadow filled out the doorframe, and he slowly approached the cell Athos and Porthos were kept in.

Athos took a second to look at the man. Judging by the way he entered the prison, and the way Dorian next to him tensed at the sight of this man, he guessed that this was the one responsible for everything that had happened the past day.

He was of an average height, Athos' height at most. His shoulder-long, black hair was tied in his neck and he wore a thick, long beard. He was definitively older than Athos, possibly Tréville's age. He finally stepped into the light the torch attached to the wall granted them, and Athos, even though it was a little hard to focus, got a closer look.

From what he could see, there was a large scar running all the way from his brow over his eye and ended just below his lip. Due to the scar, it looked like his mouth was weirdly contorted to a devilish grin, and judging by how milky and unfocused his right eye looked, Athos guessed he was blind on one eye.

As he moved closer now, Athos could see he was limping slightly, but by the way he was just slightly shifting more weight on his left leg, it was obvious that it was an older injury.

Weirdly, Athos did not feel intimidated, even though it was quite obvious that this was the man behind the ambush. Despite his rough and scarred appearance, he had a soft facial expression, and contrary to the others that had visited them earlier, he did not see the need to stand tall in front of the iron bars. He just grabbed a wooden chair and dropped on it, before he leaned forward, his hands folded carefully and an apologetic spark in his one eye.

A moment of silence followed, before Porthos spoke up.

"Care to introduce yourself?" Porthos was impatient, and Athos was not going to hold it against him. This whole scenario was getting more confusing and senseless with every second that passed.

The man shot Porthos a piercing look, but eventually, he relaxed on his chair, his hands now dangling uselessly and, more importantly, not menacingly, at his side.

"You two are the musketeers my men told me about," he stated. His voice was unexpectedly soft, and it sounded kind. Which totally didn't match with the information in Athos' head that this was supposed to be the evil genius behind the cowardly ambush.

"And you are?" Athos growled between clenched teeth, his hand clasped around his bleeding shoulder.

"Ah, yes, where are my manners." He tilted his head in a greeting manner. "My name is Morel Dupois. It is an honour to meet musketeers of the King." There was no sign of irony or resentment in his voice, at least not as far as Athos could tell. And it confused him.

"I'd feel more honourable under different circumstances," Porthos retorted bluntly and he stood up, signalling Athos with his hand not to move.

"I came here to apologize for the way my men treated you earlier," Morel continued slowly. "It definitely wasn't the fine way. Unfortunately, most of them use their weapons before they use their brains."

"Really?" Athos scoffed, and let his gaze wander towards his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. "I haven't noticed."

Morel leaned forward, and Athos could see the full extent of the scars on his face. Whoever he was, he had been through a lot of physical pain. Perhaps he used to be a soldier, or perhaps he had just messed with the wrong people.

"I'll have someone come down to look after your wound soon," he explained. "As cruel as it may sound, I need you alive, and bleeding out in this prison won't serve my purpose."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but he let Porthos speak.

"Which would be?"

Morel just offered a smile, and decided not to answer Porthos' question.

"If it is any consolation, I did not know you were musketeers," he explained, and the honesty was so evident in his voice Athos doubted he was lying.

"I'm feeling better already," Athos replied dryly and rolled his eyes. "Why would it make a difference?"

Morel steered his gaze towards the floor and bit his lip, before he answered truthfully.

"I have the highest respect for the musketeers. Call it a personal affair, but I would've never attacked or harmed musketeers on purpose."

"You just did," Porthos said flatly. "And I'm really interested to learn why."

"You'll learn soon enough why you are here. I only received one name and the route you were supposed to travel. I was told to recruit you for my cause. I told my men to follow you and capture you, but I had no idea who you are."

"What name?" Athos asked, his head leaning tiredly against the morbid stone wall.

Morel raised an eyebrow. "Well, you travelled as a group of four. It got out of hand. But does someone of you happen to go under the name Athos?"

Porthos threw his friend a surprised side-glance, and cleared his throat. Morel's eye locked on Athos.

"I see. And you are?" he asked into Porthos' direction. For some reason, he seemed like a common man who was trying to hold a casual conversation with two friends. The atmosphere was grotesque.

"Porthos," the musketeer answered shortly, and Athos had to agree that there was no point in hiding the names. They would find out anyway.

"Athos, Porthos," Morel nodded. "It's a pleasure."

"Cannot confirm this," Porthos growled. "Who told you that you should attack Athos and his group and recruit them for whatever stupid cause you're after?"

Morel tensed a little bit, but he showed understanding for the stressful situation both Porthos and Athos were in. He chuckled weakly.

"I cannot tell you that," he replied. "I never meant to harm anyone." He lowered his head and ran a hand over his face. "I am deeply sorry about the fate of your comrades."

Athos sent Porthos a warning look, but he knew there was no use. Besides, it didn't change anything. Apologies won't magically unharm d'Artagnan and Aramis.

"Shut up," Porthos snapped surly.

Morel looked up in surprise. "I mean it. Killing them was never my intention. They are musketeers." He had a sad look on his face. "They were meant to fall in defence of the King or the country and its people, and not die by one of these brute's hands. I cannot express how sorry I am about that incident. I'll have the men responsible punished."

Porthos huffed. "You think it's that easy? No, sorry, but he's alive. Both of them are."

To everybody's surprise, it was Athos who rose from his delirious state to answer with an annoyed snort. "Please, Porthos," he mumbled. "Stop playing a fool, we both know you aren't."

It was as if the words were fists that hit Porthos' face, and for a moment, his worried expression was replaced by anger. "What?" It was as if he could not believe what he had heard. Both of them felt Morel's attentive stare on them.

"You saw it with your own eyes," Athos replied coldly, his voice showing no empathy.

"You don't mean that." Athos had expected everything. From violent outbreaks, to yelling, to bitterness and hate flashing out of Porthos' usually so kind eyes. But what he got was even more horrifying.

Unshed tears had gathered in Porthos' eyes. Not only did he look hurt, he looked accusing and broken. And, above all, disappointed. As if Athos had not lived up to his expectations, as if he had betrayed him.

"I know what I saw, my friend," Athos tried to sound kind, but he failed miserably. He sounded as cool and calculating as usual, and his words were icy daggers stabbing into Porthos' heart. "We should stop lying to ourselves. We are trained to accept the circumstances, and live with it."

"Live with it?" Porthos echoed, affronted. "Sure, Athos. Live with it. As long as there is a chance that they are out there? Alive? I won't accept whatever nonsense you claim to be true." His friend's voice quivered with anger and disappointment. "What about all for one, and one for all, heh? You're just abandoning it?"

"I know what I saw," Athos snapped back rudely. "Aramis got impaled by this bastard's blade. He showed no resistance when he was kicked into the river." His own words were scorching his soul.

Porthos swallowed down a lump in his throat, and his face turned to stone, showing no emotions anymore.

"And the lad?" He seemed to have forgotten about Morel's presence.

"Porthos, with the little amount of training he has until now? Last I saw him, he was embroiled in a battle with a man who had the upper hand, carried down the river. If his opponent hasn't killed him, the river probably got the better of him."

"He's an excellent swimmer," Porthos hissed, his eyes sending daggers at Athos.

"I am too," Athos countered. "But with a head wound? Adjust to reality. And let's focus on getting out of here as soon as possible." He winced as he tried to sit up. The sweat had gathered on his forehead, and his vision was blurred. He was enormously tired, but he tried not to give his enemies the satisfaction by showing it.

Porthos remained silent, but it was Morel who raised his voice.

"I should get you someone to look at your gunshot wound. It doesn't look too good, and I don't want another musketeer to die. I'll tell you what all of this is about soon."

He rose from his seat, bowed his head and left through the only door in this room, leaving behind a crushing silence.

Athos sighed, and pressed his eyes shut to process the words he had just said. He had never before felt like a traitor, but now, he couldn't help but wonder if he had turned into one.

"Are you out of your mind?" Porthos asked reproachful, and it was a miracle Athos didn't get to experience his friend's anger firsthand. "Just giving up on them? They would never, ever lose their faith in you. I really thought higher of you."

"I know that, Porthos!" Athos hissed as quiet as he could. "And I feel the same as you do. But what do you think they'll do when they know that one or two musketeers could've survived to tell someone else about this ambush?"

Porthos just blinked at him, and he finally leaned back against the wall. "I did not think about that," he confessed. "But what happened on that bridge, I...I simply refuse to believe what I saw with my own eyes."

Athos snorted, but winced slightly as he jarred his shoulder. "You're not alone, Porthos. But for now...there's nothing we can do."

Porthos looked up, and his doubtful gaze met Athos'. "Not doing anything?" he asked, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to believe that too?"

Athos sighed and closed his eyes. "Please, Porthos. If you see a god-given opportunity, don't hesitate to take your chances."

"And leave you here?" Porthos countered sharply and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Nah."

"You could go and get help. We cannot count on d'Artagnan, or Aramis, or the captain right now, as much as it pains me to say so. If you have the chance, take it."

"No matter what happens to you?" Porthos was having none of it. "Spare me that shit, Athos. It may work on the pup, but not with 'mis and me." He scrunched up his face, thinking. "Actually, I don't think it works on the pup anymore either."

"It's your goddamn duty!" Athos would've yelled if he'd had the nerve to do so, but in his current condition, it was nothing but a growl.

Porthos moved in closer, and encircled Athos' lower arm with one of his giant hands. "Right now," he explained with icy determination glistering in his eyes, "You are my only duty. That's part of being a musketeer too, my friend."

Chapter Text

D'Artagnan leaned heavily against a tree-trunk, his vision was blurry, and his lips dry. He did not recall the last time he had eaten or drunken something, but it felt like an eternity. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Without further warning he bent forward, his arm clasped around the tree, and he started retching. The nauseous feeling didn't left him once he was done, and he kept stumbling forward like a drunkard.

Tréville. Perhaps finding Tréville was his best shot. But, truth was, he had no idea where he was. All that surrounded him where fields and forest, and that didn't really indicate a certain location. Tréville had to be in Auxerre, and even with a horse, that was still about an hour away.

D'Artagnan stopped for a moment and leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, breathing heavily as he tried to recover. He suppressed the urge to empty his stomach even further, and pressed his eyes shut, concentrating on the calming silence the nature provided him.

He could feel the sweat and the blood running down his forehead, and the sun mercilessly pierced through the treetops.

D'Artagnan drew in a sharp breath, unsuccessfully tried to clean his dirty hands on his pants and continued stumbling forward. The feeling of tiredness became a constant companion, as he kept making his way over the ground covered in dry and broken branches, falling every now and again when he grew dizzy or his knees buckled due to the exhaustion and dehydration.

He again leaned against a large and wide tree trunk, with thick and raw bark, which uncomfortably scraped his dry skin.

Just when he was about to push himself away from the safety of the tree, he could make out distant voices, cutting through the air and ringing through his awareness. Out of reflexes, d'Artagnan exhaled slowly and quietly, his chest pressed tightly against the tree, hoping it would cover him entirely.

The voice that spoke was a deep, raspy one, sounding menacing and impatient. "Move your ass, Serrier, before I become one with this goddamn forest."

A dry huff could be heard, as well as the sound of someone kicking a rock across the dry ground. "The earliest we leave is tomorrow," the man in question answered. "Shut up and focus on not dropping those bags, will you?"

D'Artagnan pressed himself even closer to the tree trunk, as those voices seemed to be very close.

The other one grumbled. "Boss really is one of a kind. First captures those musketeers, and then wants to save them." D'Artagnan heard something that could be the shuffling of a bag.

"After what I heard, he had order to capture those men, only knowing their names, not their profession," Serrier answered scornfully. "You know how Morel is. For whatever reason, he respects them to no end. Still, I doubt he'll let them out. He has his orders, after all."

It didn't matter how tired or confused d'Artagnan had been, right now, he was on high alert. He knew that he had run into some of the men who had attacked them on the bridge. And they seemed to spill the information so carelessly. The Gascon only hoped they wouldn't see him.

"Yeah, and he refuses to tell us from who he receives these orders. Only says that it's someone from Paris."

D'Artagnan couldn't see it, but he could almost hear the other one, Serrier, roll his eyes.

"Well, I don't know about you, but if I had a reputation to lose, I'd probably prefer to stay anonymous too."

"Right, smartass." D'Artagnan heard the sound of a bag colliding with the ground. "Their captain has been seen in Chablis. We need to be careful. We have orders not to cross paths with him."

"Yeah, I heard that," Serrier replied. "But we can take a different route to Auxerre, and make sure not to come close to Chablis. The whole thing has to go down quickly, Morel says that we almost have enough people."

The other one snorted. "Yeah. Don't get me wrong, I don't like the Baron either, but Morel's plan makes no sense."

It sounded as if Serrier smacked his comrade against the head. "It doesn't have to concern you, does it? You get paid, that's all you should worry about. Besides, I said it once, I'll say it again, there's nothing as dangerous as an angry mob."

A dry laughter could be heard. "Clearly, you have never been engaged in a duel with a musketeer yet, my friend."

"That's what you call a duel?" Serrier countered. "You just shot this musketeer, I'd hardly call that a duel. And now Morel wants us to do this piece of crap as work until the plan goes down."

A queasy feeling settled in d'Artagnan's stomach. One of the musketeers, shot? He doubted that it was Aramis, and he knew for sure it wasn't he himself. Only left Athos or Porthos.

"At least I did something, while you just watched how these musketeers were close to killing Renard."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Their bickering was really getting on his nerves, and their tone was more than annoying, but he received so much information.

"I really don't want to be in Renard's skin," Serrier explained. "I mean, first he killed two of the musketeers, and then he almost let the other two get away? With the way Morel thinks about musketeers, that was just plain stupidity."

"Not our concern," the other one murmured. "Come on, let's get those bags to where they belong."

D'Artagnan, at his place by the tree trunk, exhaled slowly, and slightly slumped against the wood in a moment of inattentiveness. His foot slid over the floor and one of the morbid branches snapped. Shocked, he held his breath, and pressed himself even closer to the tree.

"Hey, Dénis, you heard that?" Serrier asked and d'Artagnan could hear footsteps approach. He closed his eyes and concentrated on what he could hear. He was unarmed, the river had appropriated itself with his weapons. He knew it would be a fight he could not win.

"Not again, Serrier," Dénis called, his voice stressed. "You asked me that at least five times in the past hour. Look, what I can already hear is the lecture from Morel we're going to get if we don't get those bags back soon, and that would really sour my mood. Choose wisely."

A moment of silence, of hesitation, where the man called Serrier seemed to be frozen on the spot, indecisive, but eventually, d'Artagnan heard a sigh.

"I'm not risking your sour mood again, Dénis. My arm still aches when I think about the last time."

Dénis growled. "Then let's go."

And finally, d'Artagnan could hear the two of them disappearing into another direction, judging by the sound, in the opposite direction of where he was standing. Slowly but surely, he released the breath he was holding and relaxed a little bit.

That was a very fortunate run-in. Now he knew what they were going to do. And he knew that Tréville was apparently in Chablis, already looking for the lost musketeers.

D'Artagnan slumped against the tree and his back slid down, until he landed on the ground more or less softly. He knew he should have followed the two men back to their camp, and he was eager to free Porthos and Athos. A couple of month ago, perhaps he would've recklessly jumped into this fight, no matter the outcome.

But he was no fool. He was beyond exhausted, and he needed to get some drinkable water and something to eat soon. Then he'd continue. But as much as his heart now screamed at him to get up and jump into action, his limbs just didn't cooperate. He just sat there, gazing at the distant sky, before exhaustion and tiredness took over.

In Chablis

With a pinch of concern, Tréville followed Agathe into the small house. The smell of blood and sweat was overwhelming, but as a long-time soldier and captain, Tréville had learnt to get used to it.

He didn't need to look closely to figure out what had worried Agathe. Michel stood in the corner, his eyes wide open, and his lips trembling with shock and indecisiveness.

Aramis was still lying on the table, at least halfway, because it was Francois who was forcing his shoulder back down on the table with all the force he had, while Aramis' hand was wrapped around Francois' neck.

"Captain," Francois rasped and shot Tréville a pleading look, his eyes teary from the procedure. Without wasting another second, Tréville walked over, locked his hand around Aramis' wrist and forced him to let go of Francois. The musketeer stumbled backwards, his hands rubbing his red neck, but then, he approached again, just like he was used to, and helped Tréville to hold Aramis down.

"It looked like he didn't recognize me," Francois stated, his voice hoarse from the half-hearted choking. Tréville's eyes wandered to the marksman's face, and indeed, they did not look at someone specific, they were more fixed on a point in a distance Tréville couldn't see, filled with hate only he understood.

The way he had reacted was not unusual. Tréville had seen many wounded soldiers over the years. Some of them, when they awoke again after being injured, had a hard time remembering what had happened that had led to them being in the condition they were. Fighting off the threat, they could feel with their minor-alert senses was a natural reaction, like a subconscious alarm that made them dangerous at any time.

"Aramis!" Tréville said, his voice firm and commanding, and his fingers carefully but strongly wrapped around his soldier's shoulders. "Let them help you. They're just trying to help you. You hear me?"

Familiar voices could ground someone in this state, Tréville had learnt it firsthand. And the effect was immediate. Aramis stopped throwing himself against the hold and relaxed a bit, and he blinked a few times, as if to get rid of the veil that had clouded his eyes and his judgment.

He now stared directly at Tréville, and this time, the captain knew that Aramis was aware.

"You'll let them help you now, understood?" With someone like Aramis, he had to say it as if there was no other choice, because if he would be put in front of a choice, he'd most likely choose the other option. But he did not have one now, and the captain made it very clear.

"Yes." The words were barely audible, but it was enough. Tréville nodded at Francois and Michel, and the two men started to treat the wounds again. Agathe shot Tréville a thankful look and gave her assistant the instructions.

Tréville threw a sceptic look towards Francois, but the senior musketeer noticed it and understood what his captain was referring to. He pressed his lips together and nodded tightly, as if to give his own captain the permission to leave. We got it, Francois' face expressed.

The Captain squeezed Aramis' shoulder reassuringly, not knowing whether the soldier was aware of it, before he left the house to talk to Révier and find out more about what had happened to the others.

Outside, he quickly pulled out his water bottle and took a deep sip. The cooling liquid running down his throat was refreshing and woke him up again. The whole story was exhausting, but it was nothing he wasn't used to.

He knew he'd get no rest the day he had been appointed Captain of the musketeers.

A few hours later

A dull pounding in his upper back was what drew Aramis back into the land of the living. Sluggishly, he opened his eyes, slowly and carefully, not quite sure what was awaiting him. His lips were dry, and he swallowed multiple times to get rid of the dry feeling in his throat.

When his eyes were finally able to focus, he was able to make out the slumped figure of the musketeer Francois, who was draped on a chair, his chin resting on his chest. By the looks of it, he was sleeping. He had taken off his doublet, and smears of dried blood were visible on his white linen shirt.

Next to him, there were two women. One was cleaning some sheets, the other one was shredding some herbs into tiny pieces. All Aramis was able to hear was his own breathing, and he felt the pounding in his upper back. It was uncomfortable, but he was still too numb to notice the burning pain it caused. Whatever they had treated him with, it killed the pain for now.

Slowly, he tried to prop up on his elbows.

"Monsieur, please stay down."

When he heard her voice, he remembered something. Even though his last memory was him tumbling over the railing of the bridge, this voice brought up a memory, though he only remembered some pieces.

"Witch...," he mumbled, his eyes blinking in confusion.

The woman's face fell, and it hardened like stone, the kind expression vanished from her eyes the second he said that word. "Pardon?" Her tone was slightly hurt, and very affronted.

Aramis managed to finally focus his eyes, and he tried to smile, though it ended up in being a grimace. "Are you the one they called the 'witch?' The woman who offered to save my life?"

Her gaze softened just a tiny bit, but she pressed her lips together tightly, and finally nodded.

"Thank you." Aramis did not know what else to say. He knew that many women these days were falsely accused of witchcraft, but mostly, the god-fearing women who just happened to be a little different than the others were accused. Those who could as well be possessed by the devil himself did not fit in the scheme, and therefore were left in peace.

She managed a thin smile, before she quickly occupied herself with checking the bandage he could feel around his upper leg.

"Why did they call you that?" Aramis' voice was barely more than a whisper, but he needed to know, he needed to know why this woman was suffering from those accusations.

She stopped halfway through the bandaging procedure, and looked up with sad eyes.

"They say I'm cursed," she said with a small voice, her eyes not even looking straight at Aramis. They were fixed on a point in the distance only she could see. "My sister says I'm blessed. But..."she shrugged, "she's my sister."

"What you're doing, is it improving other people's lives?" Aramis asked kindly.

She nodded. "Yes, I think so. I was able to save some lives, able to mend a child's pain."

"Then it's a blessing, Madmoiselle. A gift. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

She quickly avoided his gaze, but he could see her smile softly. But it vanished quickly when she seemed to remember something.

"They did not want to let me treat you. Said you were a man of God, and you wouldn't want to be saved by a witch."

Aramis closed his eyes in exhaustion. "And yet here I am."

"So, you're not angry? You don't regret that I was the woman who was responsible for your saving?"

Aramis had to suppress a dry chuckle. "By all means, Madmoiselle, you saved my life. I'm grateful."

"You're good for now," she responded, very harshly all of the sudden. "I cannot guarantee how good those wounds will heal."

"I am alive. That's all that matters now," Aramis responded tiredly. He saw how she was still very taken back, unsure of what she had accomplished, and still very intimidated by whatever had happened earlier when he had been unconscious. He swallowed, before he loosely reached out for her, in order to calm her.

"How can someone that gifted be accused of devilish crimes?" he asked, and gently squeezed her hand to reassure her.

"Ask the people," she merely responded, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, which reminded Aramis of Constance.

"People tend to hate what they don't know, or don't understand," he implied. "Give them time. Your skills will be needed, and they will value them."

She was biting on her lower lip, but eventually, she rose her gaze, and she looked directly at Aramis.

"I saved their husbands, I healed their children, I helped their wives," the said slowly, her voice quivering with hidden anger. "And not once they questioned my methods. How I use what God gave us when he created the nature. How I tend to the wounds, or how I talk to the children."

Aramis lay there, not moving, his eyes resting attentively on the woman. Tears of frustrations had gathered in her eyes, and she was blinking profusely, while trying her best not to let it show.

"Two years ago, this village had a minor outbreak of the plague. The King abandoned us, and the Baron ignored us. We were on our own. Twelve people were affected, I was able to save eleven." Her voice broke and she quickly steered her gaze to the ground.

"The man who called you a 'witch' earlier?" Aramis concluded."Was he...?"

She shook her head. "No. Her parents were devastated, and in pain. But they never blamed me. The man from earlier was my husband."

Aramis froze. He hadn't expected that.

"He liked to boast about his wife, the magic healer. It helped him build his reputation, and soon, he had a lot of influence. But when that child...when I couldn't..." She swallowed hard, her hands clenched into fists. "He turned on me, called me a 'witch', and said it's what I deserve after failing with my gift, and therefore failing in front of God. And the people, they just...they believe him. They think it's their duty to believe what he says."

"You're showing them they are wrong," Aramis explained. "You're showing it to them every time you save their children, or heal their husbands."

She was biting her cheeks nervously. "You're a man of God," she said and gestured to the pendant resting on his chest. "Tell me, Monsieur. Is it true? Did I fail my duty, and did I end up with this curse as a result?"

"You are skilled," Aramis answered thoughtfully, shifting slightly when the burning sensation in his back returned. "You save people. That's a gift, not a curse. If they don't know how to value this blessing, give it to people who do." He broke off to catch his breath, a reminder of what he himself had just been through. "I'm eternally grateful. I will never forget what you did for me."

She pressed her lips into a thin smile, and then she looked at him again, the frustration and the anger gone. She gently pushed him back on the table and bowed over his chest, pretending to check the bandage going around his torso.

Aramis was already halfway back in the welcoming embrace of sleep, but he heard her voice very clear.

"Thank you."

She granted him a shy smile and turned around, walking over to the other woman who had watched the whole scene in silence.

"Aramis!" Aramis slightly tilted his head and his eyes landed on Francois, who had been awoken by the sudden noise. "You're awake."

"So it would seem," Aramis countered weakly. He sighed. "Francois, what are you doing here? How...how did I get here?"

Francois raised an eyebrow, but he approached the table Aramis' was draped on and quickly grasped the marksman's hand in a tight fist, squeezing it softly.

"I knew you were one stubborn bastard." He grinned. "We found you at the river's bank." He made a short pause. "I'm glad you made it, brother."

"Athos, Porthos...d'Artagnan?" Aramis' voice was barely more than a whisper. Francois' face fell immediately and his expression turned stone cold.

"We're looking for them, Aramis. Don't worry. We'll find them."

Aramis' head fell back against the wooden surface of the table, and he closed his eyes. Pain and exhaustion were creeping into his consciousness, and weren't ready to let go of him.

"You're following the right trace...?" he murmured, but he was barely aware of Francois' answer.

"I'm going to get the Captain," the older musketeer answered hastily and hurried to get up.

The last thing Aramis heard was the door falling shut.

Chapter Text

Tréville had just finished questioning another villager of Chablis. What he knew so far was not much. One or two people had reported, that in neighbour villages, some people had mysteriously disappeared, without a trace. Most of the times, the disappearances didn't follow any specific conditions. One of the missing persons was a fisherman, the others were millers, linen-weavers or farmers.

The only case that differed from the others was the disappearance of a nobleman, a knight who owned the castle Mailly-le-château, a couple of kilometres south of Chablis. The villagers seemed to think that he had been killed during an assignment, but his guards won't let anyone in. Still, if Tréville had the time, he should have a look in it.

The sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestone tore him out of his thoughts, and he turned around, a hand on the hilt of his sword out of instinct. But he quickly loosened the grip when he saw the musketeer Révier coming towards him, a horse trotting next to him, with brown fur and a black mane. The captain recognized the saddle as one of the garrison's saddles, with the musketeer emblem engraved on the right side. Sprinkles of dried blood decorated the horses' right flank.

"Isn't that...?" Tréville frowned as he laid eyes upon the animal.

Révier, who held the mare by the reins, nodded. "Yes, that's Carline. Pretty sure Aramis took her when he and the others left Paris. We found her about five-hundred meters south. Poor thing was terrified."

Tréville looked at the horse. Carline was a tall and lean horse. She was a calm and patient animal, and known to be very protective of its rider. Aramis had fallen in love with her at once.

He now approached the frightened animal, which neighed and tried to back away, but Tréville calmly reached out with his hand and stroke Carline's nose. He had never seen her so terrified. She danced backwards, but as soon as Tréville's hand touched her blaze, she calmed a bit, puffing out the air rapidly through her nostrils.

"Anything else you can report?" Tréville asked and looked at Révier. The musketeer looked tired. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and his light brown hair was hanging dirty and loosely over his shoulder. But it was the strength and determination in his pale eyes that assured Tréville that his musketeer wouldn't give up soon.

Révier rubbed his cleanly shaven chin and nodded hesitantly.

"The man we found has been identified. Rud Boulier, a baker from Tonnerre. It is said that he left the village six months ago to go to Auxerre, but he has never been seen there."

Tréville furrowed his brow. "So, if he left Tonnerre, but never arrived in Auxerre, how did he end up dead at the river's bank?"

Révier shrugged. "That's the question. We pulled Aramis out of the river too, right?"

The Captain nodded tensely.

"I doubt that it's a coincidence. Once Aramis is able to, he should tell us more." Révier made a short pause, sighed and took off his hat, before he slowly gazed at his captain again. "He is going to make it, right?"

Tréville closed his eyes. "Yes, the woman who treated him says, that he should be good for now. He woke up one time, but let's just say he wasn't in the condition to make any helpful statements."

Révier raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn't dig any deeper. "Sir, what are we supposed to do next?" The musketeer asked carefully, fully aware of his captain's stressed mood.

Tréville ran a hand over his face. "You didn't find another trace near the bridge?"

Révier shook his head. "No. There are traces of hooves, but they disappear the further we went south." He chewed on his tongue. "My guess is that Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan share the same fate of those other poor people who have disappeared."

Tréville shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that. But the traces go south, you said?"

Révier suppressed a yawn and nodded.

The captain grabbed his shoulder. "Then that's where we're going. Go, rest for an hour."

"And then?" Révier was never one to hold back. He asked the questions straight away.

"And then, we'll find our lost brothers."

Tréville and Révier shared a meaningful look, before the musketeer bowed his head and brought Carline over to the other horses. The captain was about to check on the situation with the other soldiers, when he heard a voice behind his back.

"Captain!" Francois came out of the front door of the little house they used as an infirmary at the moment. His hands were now clean, and he looked a little rested, even though the red mark around his neck could not be missed. He had a look of urgency on his face.

Tréville snapped back into his captain-mode at an instant. "What is it?" he asked sharply, quickly crossing the distance between him and Francois.

The senior musketeer tilted his head into the direction of the house. "He's awake and aware. I think you are needed in there."

He didn't even wait for Tréville's answer before he turned on the heel and headed back inside, in the knowledge that his captain was following him. To hear that Aramis was alive and aware at the moment was a huge relief, though he couldn't help but worry.

Inside, he was met with a desperate Cécile and an angry Agathe, as both women tried to hold Aramis down on the table. Aramis may be wounded, but just like wounded animals, he could draw strength in the direst of situations.

"Enough!" A single bark from Tréville was enough to fully diminish his musketeer's struggling and the two sisters sent the captain a thankful look.

He tipped his hat as a greeting. "Mesdames, would you give us a moment?"

Cécile wordlessly headed towards the door, while Agathe sent one last, sceptic look at Aramis before she followed her sister and left the building. That left only Francois, Tréville and Aramis, who was staring at his captain through glassy eyes.

"Aramis." Tréville walked over and gently laid a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "It's good to see you...well..."

"Alive?" Aramis concluded with an amused smile flashing over his face. "Feels good too. As much as I love to see your grumpy face again, Captain, I'm really missing the one of Athos, as well as the stupidly childish grins from Porthos and d'Artagnan." He made a short pause. "Where are they?"

Tréville sighed and took off his hat, only to let himself drop onto a chair next to the table. Aramis eventually tried to sit up, and instead of forcing him back on the table, it was Francois who gave him a hand and put a supporting hand on his friend's back. Aramis nodded thankfully before he turned to look at his captain, with a little more dignity.

Tréville withstood his soldier's questioning look. "We're following a trail that's leading us south. The musketeer's are scouting the area and collecting the clues. It won't be long until we find them."

An expression of betrayal passed the marksman's face for a split second, but he had himself under control very quickly. "Please, captain. I can't take any lies."

Tréville swallowed, and took in a deep breath, before he raised his hands in capitulation. "Alright. We have a trail going south, but it's fading, and it's fading fast. It looks like the ambush on you four stands in direct relation to the disappearance of people in this area. We're doing all we can, Aramis."

Aramis just stared at him, his brown eyes piercing Tréville with a single glare.

"Do you doubt that we're doing our best?" Tréville asked, a little affronted.

Aramis shook his head, grimacing as a wave of pain passed through him. "No, Sir. I'd never. But why are we sitting here? We need to find them, and you need every single man you can get!"

Tréville knew that in situations like these, Aramis would always be honest with him. He had taught the man since he had been a part of the regiment that he may be their captain, but he was also open to any advice or opinion.

"Aramis, you just barely survived the ambush. We found you at the river's bank, with severe wounds and a knife sticking out of your back!"

He could almost see how his words uselessly smashed against Aramis' inner wall.

Tréville straightened up and folded his hands, leaning forward to look Aramis in the eyes. "Let me clarify something: I want to find the others too, they're important to me too. But I also needed to save you."

"And I am grateful, captain," Aramis explained carefully. "But now, I need to know about Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. I need to know that they're not..."

"They wanted you alive," Francois interrupted from behind. "They wanted you all alive. That's a good thing."

Aramis grimaced. "Then how did I end up on this table?" he muttered bitterly and closed his eyes to endure the burning sensation that exploded in his side as he moved.

"Musketeers are scouting the whole area. We will find them soon," Francois assured.

"Then why are we here, talking, when we should be out there, looking for them, or any trace of them?" Aramis snapped. Tréville didn't take it personally.

"Because we just saved your life, Aramis. That is a priority to me too. Now that I know you're going to make it, I'm going to look for them myself."

"Let me come with you!" Aramis demanded, and stood up straight. The sudden movement jarred his wounds, and he grimaced, before he doubled over in pain. Francois laid a supportive hand on his good shoulder to support his friend. Aramis gasped and squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the flaring pain to pass.

It took him several moments, but then his breathing calmed, and he straightened up again, shaking badly. He was still ghostly pale, and a sweat was plastering his forehead, but there was a resolution in his eyes that overthrew his instability.

"No way," Tréville said coldly, and made a refusing gesture with his hand. "Your wounds are grave, and need time to heal."

"I'm fairly capable to take care of myself, thanks," Aramis hissed angrily.

"I do not doubt that, Aramis," Tréville responded, trying hard to maintain a calm expression. "But tell me exactly how you plan on doing that?"

"Get up, saddle a horse, move to find my brothers. That's how." Aramis remained mercilessly stubborn.

"For God's sake, Aramis!" Tréville exclaimed. "You're not even going to make it out of this room. If you run into one enemy, and you are alone, you risked your life for nothing."

"You know that's not true, Tréville," Aramis replied flatly. "I assure you, I'm going to take care of myself. I know my limits. But I can't sit here, and do nothing."

"Your brothers won't thank you if you play with your life so foolishly," Francois threw in from the side, but he was ignored by Aramis. The musketeer swallowed hard, and closed his eyes briefly, as if to gather his thoughts once again.

"It's not just all for one, Captain. It's also one for all." Aramis' eyes shot up and murdered his captain with the sheer willpower of a look. "I won't be the first to break that promise. As long as I'm alive, and as long as I'm aware, I'll do whatever I can to help my brothers."

"You can help us from here, identify the people, question them, but I don't want you to wield a sword until I have the reassurance that those wounds won't kill you."

Aramis made a gesture as if to wipe his captain's words away.

"They attacked the four of us," he growled. "Not you, not the King. The four of us. And I'm not going to sit here, in a bed with food and water, while others fight my battles for me. I will never forgive myself, should it turn out we can't save them."

"Your wounds are grave, Aramis," the captain snapped, trying to use all of his authority. "You are a fine soldier, and the best marksman I know, but you need to get better before you are able to help. And that's a fact."

"I'm not useless," Aramis was deadly calm now. "Six years ago, in Savoy, there I was useless. I could do nothing but watch how my brothers were slaughtered. The ghosts of them haunt me to this day."

Now he got Tréville in his hands, and he knew that too.

"Every day that has passed since then, I wished that I would've been conscious enough to do something. Anything. And it took me five damn years to find out what has happened!" He explained it calmly.

Tréville exhaled slowly. "You're crossing a line here, Aramis," he said, his voice dangerously low.

"I did not cross a line then, I do not cross one now, Captain," Aramis replied coldly. "And I could not change what had happened back then." He took in a deep, shaky breath. "And neither could you." His expression turned softer.

"What are you implying, Aramis?" Tréville was very tense.

"That it was a sacrifice!" the words harshly escaped Aramis' mouth, and his red eyes glared at Tréville, almost accusingly. "A sacrifice long forgotten, forgotten by all but the two of us. And they...," and his voice began to tremble when he referred to his brothers as 'they', "they won't be the next chapter in this book no one cares to read anymore. Not as long as I can prevent it." He swallowed hard, and steered his gaze towards the dirty ground. "They deserve better."

"You would only slow us down." Tréville was going the harsh way now. He understood Aramis' desire to search by himself, but he just could not allow it. The risk for one of his best musketeers was just too high.

"I can find them, and you know it." Yes, Tréville knew. He knew those four souls shared a connection beyond his comprehension, But as he now watched how Aramis, white as a sheet and with a face distorted with pain, tried to throw himself into an unknown battle he could never participate in, he was left no choice.

"Rest." Tréville ordered. "I'm going to investigate. I'll let you know as soon as I have news."

Before Aramis had the chance to protest, Tréville rose from the chair and walked towards the door, ordering Francois to watch over Aramis. Francois was a soldier he couldn't go without, but if that was what's necessary to restrain Aramis and potentially save his life, it was worth it.

But one thing he knew. If Aramis truly wanted something, he would find a way. No matter the cost.

Mailly-le-Château

"Athos, stop the bullshit, or I'm gonna lose my mind." Porthos' plea went into nothing.

A doctor, or rather a former field medic, was kneeling down next to Athos, his hands stained with the blood that still poured out of the swordsman's shoulder.

Athos was resisting hard, pushing the man away with every chance he got. Porthos was considering pinning Athos against the next wall if necessary.

The medic on the other hand was the calmness in person. He didn't bestow as much as a glance at the musketeer and simply pulled a strange looking liquid out of his bag.

"On a scale from one to ten, how bad is the pain?" he asked, completely unfazed.

Athos gritted his teeth and sent an intimidating glare at his potential saviour, leaving the question unanswered. The medic took a little glass and began to pour the liquid. Halfway done, he stopped, and arched an eyebrow.

"So?" he asked again, his voice dripping with impatience.

For a second, Porthos thought Athos was going for the man's throat, but then, the usual, calculating expression lay as a shadow over Athos' indifferent face.

"Pardon me if I bleed profusely while thinking about the best way to describe the pain," he growled sarcastically.

The medic sighed dramatically and decided to fill the glass completely, before he handed it to Athos.

"Drink." Athos blinked at him, as if he hadn't understood. The man shrugged. "If you don't want to get rid of the feeling of your shoulder being set on fire, please, feel free to deny my help."

Athos exchanged a quick look with Porthos, who looked at his friend like a parent ready to scold his child, and eventually, the swordsman brought the glass to his lips with a shaky hand and downed its content down his throat.

"It will ease the pain in the shoulder," the medic explained monotonously. "The bullet went straight through; I tried my best to sew the wounds. You need to be careful, give it some rest, and keep it clean." He hesitated for a second and seemed to rewind the words in his head. He stood up and picked up his bag. "No matter what Morel is going to ask of you."

Porthos shuddered. This was definitely a warning, subtle, but it was there. Which was probably the thing that pissed Porthos off the most. He was used to be pushed around back when he was no musketeer, he had also been imprisoned by bandits before. Sometimes, the captor had demanded a ransom, sometimes, they tried to sell him to work on rich people's lands. One time, they even wanted him for illegal cage fights, and threatened to kill him should he not cooperate.

But all those times, the men and women who had captured him had a motive, and also, most of the times he knew that his brothers were already on their way to rescue him.

This time, it was entirely different. Morel Dupois, whoever he was, was a mystery. He held no hateful attitude against his prisoners; he had even apologized for harming them. And this time, Porthos had no idea whether d'Artagnan and Aramis were still alive, and Athos was caught with him and in a state where he could make no escape. Though Porthos knew in his heart that his brothers were alive, and probably already turning around every stone to find them, he couldn't dispel the images.

The images of Aramis getting stabbed and kicked off the bridge. The images of d'Artagnan almost going out victoriously, before one of his opponents pulled him down with him.

Porthos shook his head.

He had to focus on getting out of here. With Athos, no matter what it would cost him. He would never leave him behind. But as long as he was behind the bars, he couldn't find a way. In the past hours, he had played through all possible scenarios how he could make an escape when he and Athos, together with the rest of the prisoners here, were supposed to be transported to Auxerre.

So far, he had only found one solution, and that was to take on any man that might think it's a good idea to come between Porthos and his freedom.

The medic now finally bandaged Athos' shoulder as best as he could and roughly pulled Athos' doublet back over the shoulder. The swordsman showed no reaction at all.

Without saying another word, the medic left the cell and the guards that had protected him closed the cell again and locked it.

"You know what I don't get?" Porthos asked as soon as the guards had left, still full of energy.

Athos didn't even lift his gaze. "Enlighten me."

Porthos huffed. "Why? Why all of this? This Morel didn't seem like a vile personality to me, or am I wrong? What the hell are we doing here?"

Athos shook his head so weakly that Porthos barely noticed it. "No. He's following someone's orders. Perhaps he's being blackmailed."

It was Dorian in the cell next to them who interrupted their short conversation with a surprised snort. "Seriously, you musketeers may be good with wielding a sword and planting bullets in the King's enemies, but you are terrible judges of character."

"If you are all wise and knowing, why don't you share the information with us, instead of being stuck on your throne of arrogance?" Athos snapped impatiently, with his chin resting on his shoulder, his sweaty hair covering his face like a curtain.

"He wants you all in Auxerre because he uses you for his purpose," Dorian countered. "He acts out of hate, and nothing else. You're just a pawn in his game."

"Did he look like a hateful man to you?" Porthos asked honestly, and scanned Dorian sceptically. The man sent Porthos a scornful stare.

"He brought his men to my home!" he exclaimed. "To my home, and his men slaughtered and imprisoned my people. He's keeping hostages to keep them under control, so they do as he wishes.

Athos managed to lift his hand. "His men attacked us," he explained, his voice deadly calm. "He killed two friends of mine. Trust me, he'll taste my blade as soon as I get the chance!"

Dorian rolled his eyes and let himself drop dramatically against the wall. "Unfortunately for you, he doesn't kill musketeers. So you may as well be stuck in this cell forever."

"At least I won't have to see your arrogant face for much longer," Athos growled, his voice still tainted with the usual indifference. "What are you doing, except for complaining that a thief stole your castle you stole from someone else?"

Even in the dim light of the prison, Porthos could see Dorian getting red with anger. He wanted to reach through the iron bars, where Athos' injury was within his arm-reach, but Porthos leapt forward and shot him a warning glare.

"You know, but he's right in one thing," Porthos pointed out, nervously shifting from one foot to another. "Knowing Morel may not know what to do with us could be more dangerous than being forced to participate in his plans. We should make a plan."

"Porthos, by all means," Athos' words were slightly slurred together. "Did you really think I'd silently suffer in this cell and not think about one way to get out of here?"

His eyes rested on Porthos. The musketeer withstood Athos' cool gaze for a moment, before his face lit up with mischief and his mouth formed a crooked smile.

"Now, that's the Athos I know."

Somewhere near the river Serein

D'Artagnan awoke with a loud gasp. He leaned against a tree, his legs weirdly folded under his body. Had he fallen asleep? If so, for how long? He gazed up at the sky, in the hope that the sun could provide him with the necessary information, and he squinted his eyes just in case, but through the clouds, he wasn't able to locate it.

He coughed. His throat was dry like the desert, and he could feel the lack of fluid in his entire body. Once his brain was able to form proper thoughts again, it came back to him like an iron fist to the face. He had to look for the others. He had to.

With a strength he couldn't tell where he drew it from, he scrambled back on his feet, trying his best to ignore the soreness of his limbs.

Water. He needed water.

The water can he had carried had been strapped to Mirabelle's saddle, and God knew where his horse was.

For a moment, d'Artagnan could've sworn he had become deaf. His vision was so blurred that he used all of his remaining energy on trying to focus, and to get to find his way back to the river. D'Artagnan was stumbling forward blindly, swaying like a drunkard, his boots disappearing in the tall grass, and his hands were wildly striking through the air, searching for a source of support.

He could hear the river's water, barely through his pounding ears, but it was there, so it couldn't be far.

He almost tripped over an elevated root, and managed to catch his balance in the last second, even though it led to a blackened vision. He continued to walk forward, no matter how shaky his legs were, no matter how tired he was.

And finally, after he fought his way through some thick bushes, he could see the river. It was a different spot than where he had woken up not so long ago, but his mind wasn't focused enough to determine where exactly he was.

D'Artagnan heavily dropped onto his knees, and carefully started to bend forward, his hands touching the cold, refreshing water. He almost had to laugh at how desperately he relied on the river after the very same river had tried to kill him.

He cupped some water in his hands and poured it down his throat. It tasted horrible, and d'Artagnan was sure to swallow some tiny leaves as well, but most importantly, the water cooled his throat, and later on his neck and face. He sprayed some more of the refreshing liquid over his head before he tried once more to drink something.

He had been so occupied with the water that he hadn't heard nor seen the man approaching.

"I could've sworn you were dead." The voice was unnaturally high for a man, and d'Artagnan whirled around, absolutely startled.

"I..." but he had no time to reply. The man, clearly one of the bandits from the bridge, leapt at him, and in his weakened state, d'Artagnan couldn't do anything against the hands that locked around his neck like iron chains.

He gasped and encircled the man's wrists with his own hands, trying to steer them away from his throat, but they were resistant. D'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut and smashed his head against his opponent's, feeling the clawing fingers digging so deep into his throat it almost made him gag.

He wheezed for air, and in a last attempt to break free, he drew back his fist and hit the man's chin, while forcefully kicking him against his hip.

Just when he felt the grip around his throat loosen a bit, he took the chance and took the only escape route there was.

Without thinking twice, d'Artagnan let himself fall backwards into the water.

Chapter Text

"We were able to follow some of the hooves tracks, Sir," Révier was explaining. "By the looks of it, they were going a fast pace."

The musketeer had just returned from the bridge, where Tréville had sent him to pick up the trail again. The captain on the other hand had gone to search in the other direction, and since it all led him to the conclusion that they were dealing with bandits, he had gathered some information about criminals in this particular area.

"That's no information that proves to be helpful, Révier," Tréville responded, a little rudely, but he knew that Révier wasn't going to blame him.

"And...," his soldier cut in, completely unfazed. "We found a different trail. On the other side of the bridge, where we didn't bother to look until now. It too leads south, but also gets lost there."

Tréville nervously bit his lip. "Perhaps the attackers have a camp down there?"

Révier shook his head slowly. "We scouted the whole forest. We didn't come across a possible camp once. I don't think that wherever Athos and the others have been brought is nearby."

Tréville cursed under his breath and ran a hand over his face and beard. Then he looked up to meet the questioning look out of Révier's grey eyes.

"Révier, send word to Devin in Auxerre. He has to guard the Baroness for a little longer."

The musketeer nodded eagerly. He was still atop of his horse, and he strengthened the grip on the reins, while patting his horse's neck with his gloved hand.

"Anything else I can do, Sir?" he asked.

The captain hesitated. There was indeed something that needed to be done soon, but he wasn't sure what reaction his words would evoke. So he chose his next words carefully.

"Are you exhausted? Are you tired?"

Révier frowned, and shook his head sceptically. "No, Sir." It was a blatant lie, and the captain knew it. The dark circles under the eyes of Révier spoke for themselves, and the way he was hunched over in the saddle told Tréville that his muscles were aching from all the time spent on horseback. But Tréville appreciated that lie.

"Then I need you to ride to Tonnerre. Francois said that he left two musketeers there, and I need every man I can get at the moment. We have no idea what or who we're dealing with. Try to be as fast as possible."

Révier seemed surprised, but he just put on his hat and kept his eyes locked on the mane of his horse. "But, what about the Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan? We have to pick up the trail somehow."

Tréville was about to come up with a good answer, when he spotted two figures on the other side of the street.

He sighed. "I have an idea. But I need all my men!" He sent Révier a stern and slightly intimidating look. "Can I count on you?"

The musketeer hesitated for another split second, but then he saluted and dug his boots into the animal's flanks, disappearing from Tréville's view within seconds.

The captain took a look around. He was at the stables, and the musketeer's horses were all saddled and ready to go on yet another mission, but there was one thing he had to take care of first.

He shouldered the saddlebags he was supposed to strap to his own horse but instead of walking towards the grey stallion, he approached the two figures on the other side of the street.

He should've known.

The two men were none other than Francois and Aramis. Aramis looked awful, Tréville asserted. His hair was stringy, and crusted with dirt and dried blood. His posture was a little crooked, and the captain could tell this was due to the knife wound on his back. At least he wore a clean jacket, which covered the bandages around his abdomen. He had a bad limp, that's why he had one arm over Francois' shoulder.

But Tréville couldn't help himself. He did not know whether to be proud or angry. That Aramis was up and walking, eager to find his lost brothers and to contribute to the search spoke of loyalty and devotion, two things the captain valued very highly. On the other hand, he knew it was foolish. And dangerous. But what else should he have expected.

He wondered what he would've done if it would've been him in Aramis' position.

Tréville came to a halt in front of the two and he contented himself with shooting piercing glares at his two soldiers.

Aramis looked seriously annoyed, and Francois looked a little resignated.

"Sorry, Captain." Francois shrugged and raised his hands in defeat. "I tried."

Tréville sighed. "Yes, I know." He glared at Aramis. "I told you to stay inside."

Aramis raised his chin stubbornly. "And I tried to explain to you . that's not what I'm going to do."

The captain shouldered the saddlebags again and sighed. He gestured both musketeers to follow him, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Francois, who knew what Tréville was going to do.

He and Aramis followed slowly, and Tréville came to a halt in front of a pile of straw, where Révier had thrown off the body he had found. Not exactly the way Tréville had wanted him to take care of it, but it would do.

He pointed at the body with his free hand, and locked his eyes on Aramis.

"You recognize him?"

Aramis, surprised by the sudden change of subject, raised an eyebrow and stumbled closer with Francois' help. When his brown eyes landed on the man, he frowned.

"I recognize the clothes." He exhaled slowly. "It could've been one of the men who attacked us. The hood fits too, some of them wore a disguise." He stopped when he laid eyes on the blood that covered the man's head, and turned towards Tréville.

"Where did you find him?"

Tréville just grunted and threw the saddlebags over his horses' back, while he was untying the reins.

"His name is Rud Boulier, a baker from Tonnerre who disappeared six month ago. Révier found him dead at the river's bank."

Silence. Aramis' eyes wandered to Francois, who was carefully avoiding the musketeer's gaze, and back to Tréville.

"And...?" Aramis finally asked.

Tréville pressed his lips together. "It seems like whoever he fought with got away. Two people have washed ashore there, but there's only one body."

"It could be one of them," Francois concluded quickly before Aramis' reaction became too harsh, but it didn't help. A look of slight confusion passed the marksman's bruised face, and he clenched his teeth, his jaw tense.

"Then why are we still here again?" He limped towards Tréville. "They are out there. They might be hurt, and they need our help."

Before Aramis could continue to spark Tréville's anger, Francois cut in.

"Sir, we cannot hold him here, and we need every man we can get to find Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. The longer we wait, and the more time we spent on arguing about Aramis even though we know the result, the more the trails are going to fade." He sighed, and Tréville could swear he saw Francois shooting daggers with his eyes at Aramis. "He could be a help, and we will watch out for him."

What Tréville valued most about Francois was his open honesty. He never bit down anything, and always stood up to others or the captain himself when he didn't share an opinion. Still, he was never disrespectful.

"Captain, I'm asking kindly," Aramis persisted. Tréville noticed how he didn't try to play anything down anymore.

Aramis knew he was hurt, Aramis knew that it was a risk. He didn't try to hide the pained expression that crossed his face whenever he moved his shoulder, he didn't cover the hand that was pressed against his side. He didn't even try to hide the limp.

But despite those obvious handicaps, Aramis was still standing, and the bloodthirst that was written all over his face was assuring Tréville that for his musketeer, there was only one way left to go. Search for his brothers, or die trying.

Tréville couldn't even hold it against him. It reminded him of himself when he was a young recruit in the French army. He had experienced similar things, and made similar choices. But he knew that he regretted some to this day.

"I know I might be a burden," Aramis concluded, while buttoning his doublet. "But I'm willing to prove that I might still be useful."

„Don't you think I know that?" Tréville pressed his lips together, before he wordlessly handed the reins of the horse over to his soldier. Aramis took them, a surprised spark glistering in his eyes.

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" he offered Aramis a helping hand in order to mount the horse. It took some time, and Aramis definitely needed a lot of self-control to prevent the pained grunts to escape his mouth, but eventually, he was seated in the saddle. Tréville quickly mounted his own horse and raised an eyebrow at Aramis and Francois.

"Shall we?"

Mailly-le-Chateau

"Before I compliment you on your planning skills next time, remind me of this situation," Porthos complained while he was playing with his glove.

"You asked for a plan," Athos replied dryly, and carefully leaned forward.

"You are the first person I ever encountered that counts on the captor's honour to escape. Their honour, Athos." Porthos made a dismissive gesture. "That's the aristocracy in you, you know."

"I'm giving you a chance," Athos merely retorted. He could feel the adrenaline vanish, and the exhaustion from the blood loss was taking over. "How about you just take it?"

Porthos visibly bit hit tongue, and whatever he was about to snap back, he decided against it. Instead, he strode over to Athos, and knelt down next to his friend.

"Look, I appreciate it, okay? It's just...my history with people like these have shown me that they don't give a damn about honour, they don't give a damn about bloody morals. Otherwise, we wouldn't be sitting here and having this discussion."

Athos stoically resisted his piercing look. "You'd like to sit here and be pushed around to their liking?" he asked.

"That's not what I was..." but Porthos didn't get to finish his answer. The heavy, wooden door of the prison was burst open violently and Morel entered, in company of several, rough looking guards.

Athos tried to push himself off the wall and stand upright, but he was a lot slower than he thought. Before he even had the chance to get on his feet on his own, he heard the muffled sounds of Porthos struggling against the men, and he could feel how two strong pair of arms grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up.

Athos groaned and hissed, when the fire erupted anew in his shoulder, and he could hear Morel clicking his tongue.

"Careful, you idiots! Can't you see the man is wounded?"

Athos heard a mumbled "Sorry, Boss," next to him, and the next time he was able to see clear, after he had successfully dispelled the dizziness in his head, he was standing next to Porthos, surrounded by half a dozen of bandits and farmers.

Athos tried to play it off, but he was nauseous, and he was swaying dangerously on the spot. Porthos steadied him at his side. Athos didn't know whether it was whatever this medic had given him, or the wound which had been sewed pretty badly. It annoyed Athos more than it hurt him. He hated to have a handicap.

"We're leaving today," Morel announced loudly.

"What is this about?" Porthos asked, raising his hands in defeat when one of the soldiers aimed a gun at him.

Morel smiled. It was a kind, and honest smile, Athos could see that. "You're asking yourselves what I need musketeers for, right?"

"Not necessarily," Athos responded imperturbably. "I've been a musketeer for some years. And I have a vivid imagination. The options are endless."

"Still, you're asking yourselves what a man like me wants to do with men like you." Morel didn't fall for Athos' strong indifference.

"That is correct," Athos stated dryly, and blinked a few times when Morel's features became blurred. The pain medics were wearing off, and the pain in Athos' shoulder aggravated. He bit down a groan, before he continued, slowly, his voice toned with his usual indifference and a little mockery.

"You claim that you're an honourable man who didn't want to attack musketeers. So you're very wise, and truly desperate." He lifted his gaze dangerously slow, and eyed Morel. He did not need to continue, he knew Porthos would do it for him.

"You shoot Athos, kill other musketeers, and claim it has been an accident, with no personal meaning," the tall musketeer declared. "If you really thought you could go after musketeers, and they wouldn't take it personally, you clearly don't know us."

"I know musketeers," Morel suddenly snapped. "You put your duty above all else. The duty to care for the King and secure the country in his name. And as I already said, you have my deepest respect. But we all know what happened to your comrades, they won't look for you. This isn't Paris."

"We have a captain, you know," Porthos laughed it off. "We have such a loving relationship, I'm sure he's missing us already."

Athos was sure to see Morel pale a little bit with the mention of possible reinforcements nearby, but then, he lowered his head, and seemed to rewind Porthos' words in his head.

"You can kill us if you like," Athos concluded, and he realized how raspy his voice sounded. "But you'll have to deal with the entire regiment of the musketeers if you decide to do so. And to think you can take down the whole regiment is ... debatable."

"For God's sake, this isn't about you, or the musketeers!" Morel growled. "This has nothing to do with you, nor with your fine regiment." He meant the words he said. Athos was sure he really did have a high opinion about the musketeers, but whatever he was after was more important than that.

Morel continued. "This is about me, and my plan to make up for the past ten years living as a rogue."

"Does your plan involve risking a war with Paris and the King?" Athos countered, absolutely unimpressed.

Morel circled the two of them slowly, like a predator ready to kill his prey. Athos' words had definitely upset him. But he bit his bitterness down, and instead, he pulled out a letter from a pocket in his jacket.

"You want to know the reason you are here?" His face was twitching weirdly, as if he couldn't decide whether to look sympathetic or angered. "Let me tell you."

He unfolded the letter, which definitely had burn marks on both sides, and cleared his throat, before he raised his voice dramatically.

"My plan will go down as soon as you have gathered enough men. Remember them of the reason why they are following you." Morel seemed to skip a few lines, before his eyes stopped at one sentence again. "My men will join you when it's time. Oh, here comes the interesting part. There's a man called Athos...," and he stopped to shoot a meaningful glare at the wounded swordsman, "...travelling the route to Chablis coming from the south. I want you to have him, and the men who are with him, ambushed. Capture them, and you'll learn why you can use them to your advantage. Make sure that no one escapes, or you'll have trouble. I don't care what you do to them, just make sure they never set a foot in Paris again. If you fail to follow my orders, remem..." suddenly he choked off, as if he had just noticed he had read the last part out aloud. He tried to hide his nervousness, but Athos could see the fear reflecting in his eye.

In all fairness, Morel had himself under control very quickly. Within seconds, his face was the usual, scarred devil-smile, but the sad expression in his one eye hadn't vanished.

"There you have it, Athos." Morel sighed. "You see, you pissed someone off pretty badly. And I hope you understand that I can't let you return to Paris. I still need you, after that, I'll allow you to move to the South and start a new life there. No musketeer blood shall be shed."

"You already have musketeer blood on your hands, Dupois," Porthos snarled. "Where is your respect now?"

"It's still here," Morel countered, his voice very loud and quivering with an anger Athos hadn't seen yet. "But if you think for one second that I value your well-being higher than the one thing I've been after for over a decade, then you are terribly mistaken."

"And what would that one thing be?" Athos challenged him, his voice dripping with a contradictory indifference.

Morel's lips were trembling, but he had an enormous self-control. He made a step closer, his scarred face only inches away from Athos'.

"None of your bloody business, I'd say," he growled. Then, he stepped back, and a kind expression returned to his face.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it twice. You musketeers deserve better, and under different circumstances, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you. You can choose to cooperate – which would be very welcoming – and you'll be free to go later on. If you don't, as much as I hate to say it, I'll do what's necessary. I don't care what I have to do."

Athos stubbornly resisted his look, sending him a death glare which had intimidated many enemies in the past. Still, Athos wasn't sure Morel was really his enemy, and it didn't seem to have an effect on the man.

"Come on, we have to get moving," Morel just said and waved at his men to bring the musketeers outside. "And careful you brutes, I don't want Athos here to bleed out on our way to Auxerre."

Now it was Porthos who lost his patience. "You could at least tell us where in Auxerre we're going! If you want us to cooperate, we need to know what this is about."

Morel turned around again, lifting his arm a little higher as he grabbed a torch.

"The Red Star," he just murmured. "My fate will be decided there. And by the looks of it, yours too, muskteeers."

He left the prison first, and Athos and Porthos were roughly dragged out behind him. Porthos, who needed three people to keep him in charge, tried to catch Athos' gaze.

Red Star? He mouthed quietly, confusion written all over his face.

Athos' face had turned to stone. "The Baron de Villiers," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "We're heading to his estate."

Paris

The sun hadn't even begun to rise yet. The streets of Paris were still plunged into darkness, and empty of most people. The clock of Notre-Dame was close to striking six. Then, the people would come pouring out of their houses, and start their daily businesses.

In the cover of the darkness, a young boy ran along an alley. His feet flew over the dirty cobble stone, barely making a sound, and in his little hands he clutched a small, rolled piece of paper. He came to a sudden stop in front of a larger house. In the second floor was a little light, granted by two burning candles. The wax was covering the oak table underneath in a thin, white layer.

The boy knocked carefully, still checking the area every now and again to make sure he was alone. After the third knock, the heavy, wooden door was opened by a young woman in a white nightgown. Her blonde hair was falling in locks over her back, and she wore a massive red gemstone as a pendant around her neck.

Her blue eyes lit up with confusion.

"What is it, so early in the morning? Nobody's awake yet!" she whispered gently, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

The boy wordlessly reached out, and offered the unopened piece of paper to her.

She nodded, and handed the boy a coin to thank him for the delivery. She frowned when she saw the name written on the letter, and instead of opening it herself, she gracefully turned on the heel and hurried up the wide staircase, the steps lightly creaking under her fast and direct pacing. She headed towards the room

"This was submitted for you, my love." She nervously held out the paper. "No consignor."

The man in front of her lifted his chin higher, and ripped the paper out of her shaking hands. His mouth formed a forced smile, and now he had all resemblance with a snake.

"Go," he just said, his voice smoky and a little hoarse.

The woman ran a hand through her blonde hair and bit her lip in indecision, but eventually, she lowered her head and left the room, closing the door behind her back.

The man just raised an eyebrow, before he turned his attention towards the piece of paper. He unfolded it, and his pale eyes soaked in all the lines, written in a chaotic, and cursive handwriting.

I did what you asked. We're heading to Auxerre soon, to start what you've asked of us and what is my right for a long time. We're counting on your support there.
The ambush on the men you ordered went down with difficulties. We captured two of them, called Athos and Porthos, but the other two who have travelled with them were killed in battle.

I hope this is enough to pay my debt. In front of you, in front of my Love, and in front of God.

Morel Dupois

The man read through the letter again, his hooded eyes flowing over the short lines. He neatly folded it back together, before he threw the paper into the fireplace to his right.

He energetically turned on his heel and headed over to the door. And on his face, barely visible in the faint light, there was a smile.

Chapter Text

„This was a terrible idea," Tréville murmured towards Francois, who was riding to his right.

"We had no other option, Captain," Francois explained, casting a quick glance at Aramis riding behind them. The musketeer's face was empty of all emotions, and his brown eyes were staring into the void. He was very pale, but he managed to stay upright in the saddle.

"Better he is going with us before he tries to go on his own," Francois continued. Tréville just grunted confirmatively, and murmured something the others fortunately did not hear.

"There it is," Francois stated and pointed at the bridge that had come into their sight. At his word, Aramis sped up a bit and brought his horse to a violent halt in front of the bridge. His posture was crooked, but he turned his head and looked at his captain.

"What do we know?" he asked.

The Captain sighed. "The trail on that side of the river..." and he pointed towards the other side, "...gets lost. That's where we looked most of the time, and it's also that side of the river where we found the body if I'm not mistaken." He exchanged a quick look with Francois, who cleared his throat and continued in Tréville's place.

"Révier picked up a different trace on this side, so I was told." The musketeer nodded towards the area where Aramis was. "But he wasn't able to follow it."

Aramis pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded, before he took a deep breath and dismounted. His wounded leg was shaking terribly, and once he was on the ground, he clung onto his horses' mane to stay upright.

Francois was about to rush to his aid, but Aramis held out a hand in a refusing gesture behind his back, saying he was going to be fine. The captain was able to see the bandage around his leg was red in spots, but he didn't comment. He knew that Aramis was going to ignore him anyway.

Tréville patiently waited until Aramis was able to move again, and then, he posed his question.

"What do you remember?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes. "We came from the other side, where you picked up the trail. It could be ours, or the one of the attackers when they snuck up on us." He carefully made a step forward, and his horse, Carline, was there to steady him with every step. No wonder Aramis loved that horse. He stayed on this side of the bridge, and started to look for the second trail.

"It would've made sense if they had gone this way. The horses don't leave so many traces on this ground." Aramis pointed at the dusty ground, covered in leaves that had fallen from the dozens of trees that were surrounding them.

Tréville watched how Aramis scouted the area, until his eyes landed on the hooves print Révier had mentioned earlier. The marksman frowned, and with an intense amount of will and self-control, he got down on one knee, but no matter how hard he tried, Tréville could hear him cursing violently in more than one language.

Then, the musketeer took a second to gather himself and inspected the leaves around the footprints very intensely.

All of the sudden, he threw his head into his neck, a relieved grin playing around his mouth. "I knew it," he whispered, and started to soak in the air so deeply that Tréville was afraid he would topple over.

"Oh Athos, you sneaky bastard." Tréville had almost missed the comment coming out of Aramis' mouth, but he was sure he hadn't misheard that.

"What is it?" he demanded to know, and furrowed his brow in confusion. The only thing he could see was the trail covered in dirt and hooves prints, and due to the leaves covering the ground, it faded very quickly.

But not for Aramis, so it would seem. He straightened up again, and even though he was swaying dangerously, he made a few steps forward only to kneel down again, his injured leg stretched awkwardly away from him. His fingers reached for the ground and stuck into a tiny pool of liquid on the ground, which Aramis sniffed and within seconds, there was the hint of a smile on his face.

"Aramis, talk to me," Tréville now ordered, and brought his horse up next to the spot where Aramis was surveying the ground.

"The smell," Aramis explained; his voice unusually low. "That's the brandy Athos carries with him. I'd recognize that smell everywhere."

"And you think he spilled it here on purpose?" Francois frowned. "The bandits could've spilled some brandy by accident."

Aramis shook his head, and reached for his horses' reins to stand up again. He closed his eyes and rested against the animal's flank for a second, before he stared right back at his captain.

"Athos used the same method last April, when he and d'Artagnan fell victim to the Chauzet gang. I spend so much time with him and the others, I recognize the smell of his damn alcohol. That's how Porthos and I found them at the time, and now he leaves a message for us here." He grinned darkly. "He left a trail."

He limped ahead, towards the space where the trees stood closer together, their branches covering the sun like a shield.

"Where does this path lead?" Aramis asked, and tilted his head towards the trees that offered a small, narrow path between them. The sunlight did not reach through the thick crowns, and bathed the path in shadows, giving it an even more menacing aura.

Tréville scratched his head. "Mailly-le-Chateau, if I'm not mistaken." He furrowed his brow. "The owner of the castle disappeared too, so I was told."

"Then the bandits went there," Francois speculated. "Don't you think it's wise to wait for reinforcements, Sir?" he asked Tréville.

Aramis shot him a piercing glare out of his bloodshot eyes, and made his opinion very clear without uttering a single word. But this time, it was Tréville who shook his head in refusal.

"No. There's no time to lose. We need to follow the trail for as long as we still can. And then..."

Suddenly, he stopped. They heard the rustling of branches, and the subtle clattering of metal being dragged through the dirt.

Tréville and Francois pulled out their pistols, Aramis too kept one hand on the handle of his weapon. They were all ready to fire if necessary, and the anticipation was high when the sounds grew louder and came closer.

Tréville had a firm grip on his pistol, icy determination was written all over his face.

And then, a young man stumbled out of the bushes. He was completely drenched, and his wet hair was covering his face like a curtain. The entire side of his face was coated with dried blood, and when he noticed the three men in front of him, he reached for a dagger he had kept in his belt and started swinging it wildly in front of him.

Tréville recognized the uniform, and then Aramis let out a surprised sound.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Hey, Athos." Porthos gently nudged him against his good shoulder. "You with me?"

Athos slowly raised his head, shaking it to get the hair, which was sticking to his sweaty forehead, out of the way. His pale eyes looked for Porthos, and he met his friend's gaze with a confused look. "Yes."

Porthos grimaced. He and Athos were sitting side by side on a cart, together with Dorian and some of the other prisoners, surrounded by Morel's men who were armed to the teeth, and watching their prisoners attentively.

Porthos' eyes wandered towards Athos' shoulder. It was pounding painfully, a sharp sensation that reminded him with every movement he made.

"You don't look so well."

Athos grunted, and shot a look at his bloodied shoulder. "It's hardly pleasant."

His friend just rolled his eyes at the snarky comment and he tried to move his head a little closer, speaking so low that their guards didn't hear it.

"You still believe your plan's going to work?" Porthos asked quietly.

Athos' mouth formed a crooked grin. "For one of us, at least."

Porthos didn't look satisfied with the answer, but didn't bother to argue with the swordsman.

"So, you're ready to give it a go?" he asked instead, and only received a brief nod from Athos. Now or never. Before Porthos could continue, it was Dorian de la Rovère who raised his voice.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, as he watched how Porthos raised his head to look for a sign of Morel.

"Survivin'", Porthos replied angrily and didn't bestow as much as a glance to the castle owner. Athos knew Porthos didn't like the plan, and that it looked stupid in Porthos' eyes, but Athos thought that the chances of success were somewhat realistic for Porthos. For him, not too much.

"Morel!" Porthos spoke loud and clear.

A surprised murmur spread through the rows of Morel's men, and while some of them threatened to rip out Porthos' tongue, others nervously whispered with their neighbours. But there was no sign of their leader.

"What are you doing?" Dorian repeated, his voice high pitched in its fear. "You're going to get us all killed."

Athos managed to shut the prisoner up with the power of a single look.

"Come on, come on," Porthos murmured. "Morel Dupois!" he shouted this time, and his voice thundered through the rows of bandits and his words rocked them like lightning strikes.

Then, they all turned around, and over two dozen pairs of eyes came to rest on the man riding in the very back. Athos needed to look twice, because his eyes just wouldn't focus, but he was sure that it was Morel. The straight black hair, the clothing and the giant black horse were enough details for Athos to identify this man as his captor.

He was engaged in a deep discussion with his neighbour, and it took him several moments to notice the sudden silence, as well as all of the attention

Porthos took a ridiculously formal bow."Your presence is requested," he declared with a loud voice, and a mocking grin appeared on his face.

Even at that distance, Athos could see how Morel raised an eyebrow and exchanged a slightly surprised look with his neighbour, before he gently dug his heels into the animal's flank and brought it up to the cart of the prisoners.

Once he was in front of them, he dropped the reins and leaned onto the giant animal's neck.

"What can I do for your?" he snarled, definitely unhappy that the prisoners were causing a delay.

Porthos looked hesitantly to Athos, who gave him a piercing look and an encouraging nod, which didn't help in order to erase the doubt from Porthos' face.

"We challenge you and your best warrior to a duel," Porthos finally said. "If we win, we get to leave. If we lose, we'll help you with whatever crimes you intend to commit."

"There are no crimes," Morel countered, and he remained serene. "The criminal is Baron de Villiers. And all of us, we're just asking for justice."

Athos could see on Porthos' face that he was weighing his possible answers and their possible outcome, but to Athos' content, he stayed focused on their plan.

"It's a matter of honour," the musketeer said accusingly. "A duel between two honourable men." Porthos' face turned to stone. "You owe us this chance. After all you did to us."

"No." Morel seemed hesitant, but nevertheless, he growled the word out between clenched teeth.

Athos threw him a sour look. "I guess this is the answer to the question of your honour." He looked at Porthos, who confirmed his statement with a shrug.

"We should've known," his friend said. "Don't know what we expected. He captures and kills musketeers. Of course he has no honour."

Morel glared at him, and bit his lip, as if he wasn't sure whether to ignore Porthos or play along.

"I am no fool!" he hissed, and his one eye twitched angrily in its hole. "I am needed for something bigger than this."

"What, afraid you might lose?" Porthos provoked, and even though Athos knew that Porthos liked to brag with his musketeer reputation, he also knew that at the moment, it was Porthos' full intention to anger Morel.

"I was a soldier long before you learned how to hold a sword," Morel replied, and the tone of his voice could've frozen all of France. "I can take you, even when I'm half blind and with a damaged leg." While saying this, he pointed at his scarred, milky eye, which seemed as if it was resting on Athos.

"Confidence is the key," Athos remarked dryly and stood up on shaky legs.

"Forgive me if I question your skills at the moment, Athos," Morel said, his face devoid of any emotion. "I doubt you'll be a match to me."

Which is your bloody fault, Athos thought, but he chose to stay silent. He did not need many words to express his thoughts.

"We are musketeers," Porthos explained again. "Not some common mercenaries."

"Damn it, Boss, just give them what they want. What do we need them for anyway?" one of Morel's men, in which Athos recognized the one he had almost knocked out in the cell, exclaimed.

Morel sighed. "I am needed for a different purpose," he growled. "I cannot allow myself to think about my honour."

"Then choose someone to fight in your place," Athos stated tiredly. "I can't believe I have to explain the simplest of rules."

Morel stayed quiet, but he exchanged a few looks with some of his men. Athos noticed how Dorian next to him watched the whole scene with sharp eyes, like a predator waiting to attack.

Athos desperately wished Morel was the kind of man he thought he'd be. His plan depended on it, and even though it would just offer them a small chance, it was better than nothing. There was no way they could get out of here unnoticed, so they'd have to choose the obvious way.

Athos' shoulder felt numb, and he noticed how his entire arm was trembling, but he knew that he was a fine swordsman, more than capable to take on some of these men, even with a flesh wound.

Morel had finished consulting his associates, and eventually turned back towards the prisoners.

"Alright, musketeers, you get your duels. But for your own sake, you better not set a foot into Paris again, should you go out victorious." Until now, Morel had seemed as if he genuinely didn't want any harm to come to Athos and Porthos, but this time, it sounded not only like a warning, but like a dangerous threat.

Morel grabbed his reins again and violently turned his horse on the spot.

"Dénis!"

A tall man with broad shoulders, who was seated on a ridiculously small horse, made his way through the crowd and came to a stop in front of Morel. Without hesitation, he dismounted and shot a questioning look at his Boss.

"Porthos," Morel introduced with a gesture of his hand. "Dénis. Try not to kill each other, will you?"

Athos recognized Dénis as the man who had fired the pistol. The pain in his shoulder flared up again when he made a sudden movement forward to have a closer look at Porthos' opponent, but he was kept back by Porthos' hand on his chest.

"It'll be a pleasure," the musketeer growled, as he too recognized who the man he was facing was, and what he had done. In one single movement, Porthos jumped off the cart he had been standing on. He crossed his arms, his dark eyes filled with hate as he scanned Dénis from head to toe.

Dénis looked like a worthy opponent for someone like Porthos. Athos did not know how Morel's man fought, but from the body language and his stature, the swordsman guessed that his fighting was as physical as Porthos' was.

"Over there, the ruins," Morel directed and pointed at the remains of a stone building, which was now nothing but a short, demolished wall.

Morel's men stayed on their horses, but all of them shot curious looks at the improvised fighting ring.

Porthos took off his gloves, and granted his opponent a grin before Morel gave the signal and the two of them jumped at each other.

Where Athos had thought earlier that Dénis was a worthy opponent to Porthos, he had been terribly mistaken. Dénis was strong, but it was nothing compared to Porthos when he was angry and out for revenge.

Dénis tried to plunge his sword into Porthos' leg to limit his mobility, but Porthos managed to catch the blade with his foot and kicked it out of Dénis' hands with ease. A few quick punches from Porthos followed and completely destroyed his enemy's balance. Dénis tried to dive for his sword, but the musketeer saw it coming. Porthos brought his sword down next to Dénis, but he missed him on purpose.

But it had the desired effect. Dénis flinched back and tried to overpower Porthos through agility, but Porthos was faster. He forcefully kneed Dénis in the guts – twice.

It did not need any more. Dénis raised a hand in defeat, and it needed two of Morel's men to get him back on his feet.

To Athos' satisfaction, Morel looked downright surprised and shocked. In passing, he absent-mindedly patted Dénis shoulder, and then he opened his mouth.

"Nothing is decided yet," he spoke. "Athos, your turn." He raised a questioning eyebrow, but he too handed Athos a rapier and then he looked for a worthy opponent.

"Renard, come on, let's get it done with." One of the two guards who had helped Dènis grinned and entered the self-proclaimed fighting arena. Athos recognized him as the leader of the ambush on the bridge, and the one who had so cowardly stabbed Aramis in the back.

"Ready to defend what's left of your honour?" Athos hissed angrily, and prepared himself for what was about to follow.

"I'll try not to kill you, musketeer," Renard snarled as he and Athos circled each other like predators. "Though I cannot make any promises under these circumstances."

Athos ignored him, he had no time for words. He was a man of action. In a series of well-placed strikes, he quickly forced a surprised Renard into his defensive.

Renard spit into the grass and again had to parry six of Athos' attack in a row. Whenever he tried to attack, Athos made a step to the side, and therefore scotched the attack. Two minutes into the fight, Athos already knew that he wasn't at his highest form.

He didn't use the movements he usually used when he participated in a swordfight, and he moved much slower than he had expected himself to. But he was still a musketeer, and he was still a hard opponent.

He cursed internally when Renard managed to land a strike on Athos' upper arm, and suddenly, he was the one parrying and dodging all the attacks from his enemy.

Athos dodged it when Renard swung his sword at him, and managed to get on Renard's other side to quickly cut into the side of his doublet.

Renard howled in pain, but he was still standing, and his next attack came so soon and so hard that Athos was unprepared. He crashed against the stone wall and almost blacked out when his shoulder collided with the sharp stones.

In this tiny moment of inattentiveness, Renard's sword clashed so hard against Athos' that it slipped right out of his hands and knocked him off his feet.

He could hear Porthos yell something, but it was hard to understand.

Athos gasped for air and dragged himself backwards through the grass. He had known it would be hard, but he had never thought he might actually be overpowered like this. He did not care that it wasn't a fair duel, and him being shot shouldn't be an excuse. This should not have happened.

All he was able to make out were the blurry outlines of Morel and Porthos, as well as of the figure who was approaching to land its final strike.

That was when a gunshot pierced through the air. Athos let out a shocked gasp and he quickly managed to roll to the side, to escape a possible final attack from his opponent, but Renard in front of him didn't move a bit.

Slowly but surely, Athos understood what had happened. Renard's eyes were wide open in shock, and for some reason he looked accusingly at Athos' empty hands, before he brought his hand up to his chest. There was a red spot on the left side of his chest, and within seconds, it was growing larger and the blood was beginning to soak in the man's doublet.

With a horrible gurgling sound, Renard crashed to the ground face first.

Chaos erupted around them. Athos heard horses coming from all directions, their hooves flying over the dirty ground, and he could see other animals bolting and running across the field. Morel was shouting orders, and pistols were being fired right next to Athos' ears.

Out of instinct, Athos lunged towards the rapier that was still lying in the grass, and he managed to grab it just in time to block a sword that had almost beheaded him. The opponent looked like a minor noble, and he was definitely none of Morel's men.

Athos had to suppress an ironic laugh. Apparently, Morel had been too busy with his enemy in Auxerre that he had forgotten about the others he had possibly made. Athos had no idea who these men were, but they didn't belong to the Baron de Villiers, nor were they musketeers.

They attacked each of Morel's men, and apparently, they mistook Athos and Porthos for Morel's men too.

Athos watched how Porthos was forced backwards, his back against the morbid stone wall, while he was using both hands to keep an attacker's blade from slitting his throat.

Athos wanted to come to his aid, but he was distracted when he someone crashed into him from behind. Athos lost his balance and was buried under the man who had been thrown at him. He let out a grunt when the pain in his shoulder blinded him, and with an angry growl, he tried to get back to his feet.

He struggled to get the man away from him and once he was able to breathe again, he looked up to the barrel of a pistol being aimed at his head. In the last second, Athos rolled to the side and knocked the unknown man off his feet.

The bullet was fired and lodged itself into the grass where Athos' head had been moments earlier.

Without wasting a thought on his burning and bleeding shoulder, Athos used his rapier to slide through the man's calves. His opponent screamed in agony and crumbled to his knees, where he also dropped his sword.

Athos didn't bother to end the fight; he scrambled back onto his feet and threw himself into the next duel. He did not care who these men were – right now, he saw them as enemies for attacking him, and they were definitely trying to kill him.

Without his usual elegance, but with his well-known precision, he ended the duel with a well-placed stab to the heart.

He threw a look over his uninjured shoulder to find Porthos– it wasn't intended, but this was their chance to make an escape. He spotted his friend close to the street, a short distance away from him. Right now, he was choking the attacker he had in a headlock. A few of the attackers had already started to retreat and by the looks of it, Morel's men had the upper hand.

Athos tried to make his way over to Porthos, but his vision was blurry, and it was only by sheer luck how he managed to avoid the musket ball that had been shot at him. Still, he dropped to the ground when another fusillade erupted around him.

He let out a frustrated growl and with his remaining strength; he tried to get up again as soon as he could be sure that he wouldn't get shot immediately. When Athos saw the men running away in all directions, and horses chasing after them, he knew that he wasn't going to make an escape.

But Porthos could. His eyes landed on his friend again, who had also found Athos' gaze and now violently waved at him to come over.

Athos wanted to in one last attempt, but suddenly, a grim looking man jumped in front of him and crossed his sword with Athos'.

"Porthos, move!" Athos yelled through the noise and fought to keep the other man's sword away. He could feel the cold, bloodied metal coming dangerously close.

"If you think for one second, Athos, that I'm leaving you here, you haven't been paying attention the past couple of years!" Porthos roared as he punched his shoulder into a man who went for him. He didn't even know if it were Morel's men or the others.

"I'll manage!" Athos shouted, and managed to kill his opponent by surprising him with a painful headbutt. "Find Tréville. Just go!"

"Not a chance!" Porthos had managed to growl right after he had buried an abandoned crossbow bolt in another man's chest. He had thrown the man out of his saddle and now, with an elegance Porthos rarely showed, he pulled himself onto the horses' back.

That was when Athos felt someone grabbing him from behind, and seconds later, he felt the cold metal of a knife at his throat. He tried to resist, but he overestimated his strength, and his attempts to break free were soon interrupted when he felt fingers digging into his wounded shoulder.

Athos suppressed a pained gasp and squeezed his eyes shut.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill him." Morel's voice echoed from behind his back, calm and composed, but Athos heard the small trace of desperation in it. "You may leave, Porthos," he continued, and he sounded a bit sympathetic now. "But you'd be wise to leave us in peace."

Athos could feel his knees buckling and he crumbled to the ground, his knees colliding hard with the rocky floor. The only thing that kept him upright was Morel's firm grip around his shoulder, and he could feel the warm, sticky liquid running down his chest.

His pale eyes found Porthos', and he clenched his teeth, as he fought to stay upright. A pistol was fired not far away from his ear, and he grimaced when he saw how the bullet missed Porthos only by inches.

For a second Athos was able to blend out all the noise around him, and when he stared at Porthos, he tried to put all the words into the power of one look while his lips only managed to articulate one word.

"Go!" he barked at his friend, with all the determination he could muster.

And Porthos was left with no choice. He let out an angry scream, before he tore on the reins of his horse and took off into western direction, leaving Athos in the midst of a battleground.

Chapter Text

Athos couldn't see. The armed men were swarming through the area around him, they were nothing but blurred outlines in his sight. He tried to stay upright, but his muscles just wouldn't cooperate, and he was stuck in this crooked posture, forced to watch the fight around him without being able to do anything.

On the inside, he was glad Porthos had escaped. Not only did it mean that he was safe, no, now there was hope. Porthos could get help, he could find Tréville. Athos only counted on Porthos now, as his friend was the only reliable source of hope.

Athos clenched his teeth, and tilted his face towards the grey sky. He could almost hear Porthos' complaints he would have to endure in the future. And for the first time, he really wished he would hear them soon, as it would mean he had defeated Morel too.

Slowly but surely, the fighting noises around him died down. Athos saw riders disappear over the open fields, and he heard a lot of cursing and yelling, as Morel's men were trying to figure out who on earth had attacked them.

Morel, who had kept Athos on the ground the whole time, started shouting orders, but the musketeer couldn't focus, and his captor's words barely reached his ears. He did not understand this man – he had ambushed them, hurt them, but still, he had the courage and the moral to let Porthos go, even after all that had happened.

Suddenly, Athos was yanked back into reality when somebody grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up on his feet.

"Looks like your plan failed miserably, Athos," a man hissed into Athos' face, and the swordsman recognized the unpleasantly beat-up face of Dénis, who apparently had regained his balance after he had so gloriously lost against Porthos. "Where is the other one?"

Athos said nothing; he just stared at Dénis with a wry grin. "Looks like my plan was good for something," he merely commented, and growled in frustration when Dénis put a hand on his injured shoulder.

"I'd be careful, Athos," the man growled, and Athos could feel the blood flow freely down his chest, coating his dirty and damaged doublet. Overwhelmed by the burning pain and the sudden whiteness in front of his eyes, Athos crumbled back down on his knees.

"You are not needed much longer," Dénis continued. "And after this, I am free to do with you musketeers whatever I think is right."

"You should've known that challenging a musketeer is a bad idea," Athos panted, his eyes still closed. "I'm hardly to blame for your overconfidence."

Within seconds, he could feel the fist smash against his face, but the pain in his shoulder was so evident that he barely noticed how his skin split next to his eye. He knew that he was needed, which at least meant he was needed alive.

Suddenly, a blurry shadow entered Athos' sight and he immediately recognized Morel.

"You damn idiot!" Morel yelled and punched Dénis so hard Athos thought the man would go unconscious a second time this day. He stumbled back and rubbed his temple, while staring shockingly at his superior.

"This man is a musketeer, and I need him. Touch him one more time and you'll taste my blade," Morel replied sharply, and gestured his other men to pick Athos up from the ground where he was kneeling.

When Athos was carried past the leader, he murmured something into the swordsman's ear.

"Don't mistake my kindness for weakness, Athos. For me, you're only a mean to an end."

Athos was busy trying to catch his breath, but he stared at Morel through his tangled hair-strands, indifference again forming a shadow over his face.

"I hope your end is worth it."

With that, he was roughly transported back to the cart where the remaining prisoners were still sitting. One of them had been caught in the crossfire and lay sprawled on the ground, but the rest of them seemed shaken, but well.

"Does anybody know who these attackers were?" Morel called out loudly so all of his men were able to hear his voice.

He received a few shrugs, a few curses and some "No, boss!" as answers.

Athos tried to prop himself up on one elbow, and faced Morel with as much dignity as he could muster, with his shaking arms and blood all over it.

"How can you be so blind?" he asked sourly, and he let himself drop onto the prisoner's cart again.

Morel mounted his horse and furrowed his brow, his pale eyes roaming all over the place, inspecting the now silent battlefield.

"What are you talking about?" he asked nervously.

Athos sighed, and let his head drop back on the floor of the wooden cart. He felt how one of the prisoners, a young man, barely more than a child, pressed something against his shoulder to stop the bleeding.

"Dorian," Athos explained calmly, but didn't bother to look up to see Morel's reaction. "You should pay more attention to your prisoners, Morel. He's gone."

Porthos firmly readjusted his grip around the reins and urged his horse into a fast gallop. He wasn't alone, and he knew it. The more distance he brought between himself and Athos, the more his wrath ignited. How dared he? Athos knew that Porthos would've never left his friends behind, no matter how 'smart' or 'necessary' it would be. Porthos just didn't act this way.

He did not know whether he would see Aramis or d'Artagnan again, and now he wasn't sure if it may have been the last time he had seen Athos.

Merde. Porthos cursed vividly, knowing that his words got lost in the wind. He knew he had to come up with a plan, but his instincts yelled at him to get onto safer grounds first. He could hear the thundering of hooves in his back, and he turned around to see the riders who had attacked following him closely.

"Shit," he cursed and dug his heels even deeper into the scared animal's flank. He could hear shots somewhere behind him, and when he turned around a second time to check the distance, he managed to duck his head the very last second to avoid a bullet to the head.

"Come on, come on!" he yelled at his horse, the reins whipping against the animal's neck as Porthos tried to urge it into an even faster gallop. The sounds of the shooting followed him as he got closer to the forest, and he counted on the labyrinth of trees to shake his followers off.

But before he even had the chance to think about the best way to get rid of the men, he suddenly felt the horse stumble under him. Another gunshot pierced through the air, and the next thing Porthos was aware of was being thrown through the air as his horse made a complete descent to the ground, a gunshot hole in its neck.

Porthos screamed in frustration and hit the ground hard, pushing all the air out of his body at an instant. He gasped for air, and groaned when he felt something in his shoulder snap due to the impact. But he had no time to lose. His horse stayed motionless, but the gunshots still tore through the air and aimed for his head.

As quickly as he could, he scrambled back on his feet and hid behind a large tree-trunk to avoid getting shot by the men who hunted him.

He heard how they brought their horses to a halt and dismounted, unsheathing their weapons in the process. Porthos was armed with nothing but a short dagger he had stolen from an opponent shortly after they had been attacked.

He took a deep breath to prepare himself, the dagger enclosed in the hand of his unharmed left hand.

With the moment of surprise on his side, he lashed out with his fist. It connected with bones, even though Porthos could barely see which face in his rush of adrenaline. He stepped aside and the sword that had been aimed at his heart got stuck in the tree. Porthos kicked its owner in the chest and lashed out with his dagger, but he missed.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see more people approaching, all on top of their horses, and all armed to the teeth.

He cursed. He had to get a horse, and try to make an escape. Suddenly, a knee connected with his torso and he stumbled backwards, where another man was waiting. The man caught Porthos' fist right before it hit his face and tore on Porthos' already damaged arm.

He couldn't bite down the howl of pain that escaped his throat, and he started throwing punches with his other arm, but even though he managed to knock one of his opponent's unconscious with his sheer power, he knew he stood no chance.

Another man grabbed Porthos' other arm and wrenched it behind his back, just to force Porthos down to his knees.

He was held there, his muscles tense, while the two men tried to keep him at bay while they searched for a weapon to threaten him with.

"For God's sake, that man isn't one of Morel's men, you bloody idiots."

Porthos' heart flamed up with anger when he recognized the voice. No one else than Dorian de la Rovière was bringing up his horse to the front row of his mercenaries or soldiers, whoever the hell they were. Porthos didn't care. He shook off the men who were holding his arms, and didn't fail to head-butt one of them so hard he went to the ground at an instant.

"You!" Porthos bellowed and pointed at the man in question. "You are the reason why our escape plan failed, you damn bastard!"

"Recalling the image of Athos crawling in the dirt, I'd say I just saved his life," Dorian purred with amusement in his voice.

Porthos continued to shoot him glares. "A warning would've been nice."

Dorian shrugged. "You were incredibly helpful. You distracted Morel and my men were able to ambush the party nicely."

"At the risk of our lives!" Porthos couldn't believe that this man had help, had an escape plan, and the whole time they were in the prison, he didn't even mention it once.

"You are free now, aren't you?" one of Dorian's men countered, but he was silenced by his superior.

Porthos just stared at them, looking grim. "If you would've told us, we all could've gotten out of it unscathed!" he said accusingly, crossing his arms in front of his chest, sending intimidating glares at the mercenaries he had just fought. They still stood way too close to him.

Dorian sighed. "I mean no offense, musketeer, but that wasn't my priority. I have my own affairs that need to be taken care of."

"So what, you're going to help me or you're going to stand around and make an arrogant face?" Porthos snapped, but he tried to be careful. He was good, but he was mercilessly outnumbered. And he needed to get out of this unscathed.

But to Porthos' dismay, Dorian de la Rovère shook his head. "No. My men freed me, and now I'm going to take back what's mine."

"There are more important matters that need to be taken care of right now," Porthos instructed. "Morel plans to march against the Baron de Villiers. We need to stop him, before he does something that could trigger a chain of events that end up with the King being involved!"

Dorian exchanged a few looks with some grim looking mercenaries to his left, but then he leaned forward in his saddle. "No, I don't think so. Morel took my home, and I'm going to take it back."

"Why?" Porthos scoffed and raised his chin, his tall figure towering over the men around him. "It's just a building made of stone. What makes you think it's more important than to prevent a bloody and cruel battle?"

"What's a knight without his castle?" Dorian sneered, and raised an eyebrow, while staring at Porthos with arrogance.

Porthos looked seriously annoyed. "I guess that's up to you to decide." He folded his arms. "Morel's a rogue. A polite one, I'll admit, but still a criminal. Should he attack the Baron, it won't take long until the King sides with the nobles, and then this is a war of a whole different level."

"And why should I care?" Dorian spoke, and finally dismounted from his horse to come down to Porthos' eye level.

The musketeer made a step forward, and faced Dorian with as much authority as he could muster. "You said it yourself. There are innocent people, who are forced to join Morel in his longing for whatever the hell it is he's after. They don't deserve this." He swallowed. "My comrades didn't deserve this.

"What, and you spread justice?" Dorian sighed. "That's a nice thought, but it's just a dream. It's always been a dream. Wherever you musketeers appear, there's nothing but trouble."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall having been present when your castle was taken."

"No." Within seconds, Porthos could feel Dorian's fist connect with his face, and then he gasped when clawing fingers enclosed his throat. Dorian's face was red with anger.

"How about you help me get it back then? I saw you fight this Dénis, and I suspect you'll be of magnificent use to me."

Porthos almost broke out into a choked off laughter.

"What?" Dorian rolled his eyes. "I freed you, big boy. You owe me."

Porthos closed his mouth again and bit down what he originally had wanted to reply. Instead, he bore his teeth, and the anger in his eyes was replaced by a calm and dangerous indifference. He didn't master it as good as Athos, but he had the physical appearance to intimidate his opponents even further.

"I owe you nothing," Porthos growled, and to the surprise of the surrounding men, he locked his hand around Dorian's wrist and casually managed to free himself out of the chokehold he had been kept in. Within seconds, he had his own hand around Dorian's throat.

"I don't blame you for Morel's crusade or whatever the hell that is," the musketeer hissed. "I don't blame you for our imprisonment. But if you stand in my way for one moment longer, you wish that I'd never ended up in the cell next to you."

Dorian's lower lip quivered with anger, and Porthos saw out of the corner of his eye how his mercenaries aimed their weapons at Porthos, but he acted as if he didn't care. For a second, there was nothing but silence. Porthos stared down Dorian, and the knight withstood it as best as he could. He seemed to weigh his options, as he knew he could just shoot Porthos here and now.

But Porthos was able to see a little bit fear in his eyes. He was a knight after all, honoured with a title due to his past accomplishments. And Porthos, in some way, was a representative of the King. Dorian wouldn't want to have to stand up for the murder of one of the King's elite guard.

That's why he now raised his hand, and the mercenaries around them lowered their weapons as Porthos let go of Dorian's throat.

"Leave him." He made one step closer. "Go, rescue your comrade, prevent a war, whatever you like to do and what you think is noble."

Porthos managed a sly grin. "It's not nobility I'm after. I thought you had that figured out already."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, but eventually he lowered his head and chuckled.

"You should go north towards Auxerre," Dorian explained as he mounted his horse again. "That's the route Morel and his men will take. And if I were you, I'd be careful. Morel has powerful allies."

He nodded at one of his men. "Give him your horse."

"But...," but the man's protest was too weak. He surrendered under Dorian's intense stare and jumped out of the saddle, before he offered the reins to Porthos. He snatched it out of the man's hand and mounted quickly. The animal was agitated and resisted, but Porthos had a strong hold.

"I would say until we meet each other again, but I sincerely hope we won't," Dorian said to Porthos with something that resembled a grin, before he saluted.

Porthos just growled and grabbed his reins. He had more important matters to take care of at the moment, and if he had to, he'd do it alone.

Without wasting another word at the knight or his mercenaries, he put one foot in the stirrup and lifted himself onto the brown horse. He granted Dorian one last, disappointed look, and urged his horse into a fast pace. He knew that he had to be south of Auxerre, so he oriented himself with the help of the sun and rode north.

His path led him through the forest, and he tried to stay left of the main road so Morel wouldn't spot him by accident. Also, he did not know where Morel had possible reinforcements, so he had to watch out.

His heart was beating nervously in his chest, and the adrenaline of the past hour was slowly fading. There were so many things he needed to do now, but he could barely think straight. Should he search for Treville? Should he try to free Athos single-handedly? Or should he even chase after the uncertain fate of Aramis and d'Artagnan?

He and Aramis had agreed a long time ago that should something happen that would lead to them being separated, there was one question that they needed to ask themselves: What would Athos do? Athos had a ridiculous talent to keep a clear head in the direst of situations. He barely let his emotions direct his actions.

Think, Porthos, think. He tried to clear his mind as he subconsciously observed the area from his place on horseback, trying to look for Morel's party or even another clue.

He crossed a tiny stream and balanced his horse up a slope, when suddenly, he saw a cabin, almost completely covered by the large trees.

He gently brought his horse to a halt behind some thick bushes and a tall tree, and he moved the branches aside to have a closer look.

At the first look, the place looked abandoned. There was an old fireplace in front of the cabin, but the building itself was halfway destroyed, by the looks of it, it had caught fire once. Porthos also saw some stables, which looked like the roof was going to come down very soon. He had no idea what the purpose of this place was, but his experience told him that he should always make sure that this place really was abandoned.

And he wasn't mistaken. He could hear hooves clattering on the hard forest floor, as well as voices coming closer. Out of instincts, he ducked his head, but once he was sure they were coming from the other side, he risked another look.

Suddenly, his eyes widened when he spotted the reinforcements he had suspected. And he cursed quietly. This was a lot more complicated than he had thought, and his chances of getting Athos out of there unnoticed had just gone straight to zero.

He saw a horde of men, on their horses, talking to each other with low voices. And they wore the dark, leathern uniforms, with dark red sleeves and a red cloak slung around the shoulders.

„D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked again and made an unsteady step forward.

The figure in front of them, completely drenched and covered in mud and blood, was indeed the missing Gascon. It took him a second to recognize the men he was standing in front of, but eventually, his eyes landed on Aramis. Aramis' disbelief was mirrored on d'Artagnan's face, and for a moment, nobody, not even Treville, said a word.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked, as if he was unsure. But then, he and Aramis faced each other, and they both grinned in their common relief. D'Artagnan walked up to his friend and pressed his forehead against Aramis' head, before pulling him into a short hug that almost threw both men off balance.

Treville also couldn't help but smile. Another one of his musketeers found, and he was alive.

"D'Artagnan!" he said to draw the young man's attention, but d'Artagnan was still busy.

"I thought you were dead?" he said towards Aramis, who replied with a grimace.

"Could say the same thing about you. I don't remember anything after being kicked off the bridge. We found no trace of you."

"They...they...," Tréville could see that d'Artagnan had trouble forming words, and judging by the amount of blood that was covering the side of his face, it was no wonder. "They stabbed you!" he finished, and his glassy eyes tried to look for Aramis' wounds.

The marksman raised an eyebrow, and chuckled dryly. "I know, my friend. I've noticed."

"Luckily, we found him before he bled out," Francois joined in the conversation, and d'Artagnan finally turned to meet Tréville and Francois.

"Captain?"

Tréville nodded his head, and approached the young musketeer. "Good to see you're alive, d'Artagnan. We've been looking for you."

D'Artagnan's eyes wandered over Tréville to Francois and Aramis and back. "Athos and Porthos? Have you...?"

"No," Aramis admitted and Tréville could see that he was close to collapsing. Francois helped Aramis over to a tree and sat him down on the ground, where the musketeer gathered himself for a second and then looked at d'Artagnan with bloodshot eyes. "There seems to be a trail, going to...?"

"Mailly-le-Château," Francois helped out.

"Where we suspect at least Athos. I guess that Porthos is with him."

"D'Artagnan." Tréville tried again and laid a comforting hand on the restless man's shoulder. "What do you remember?"

"I remember that Porthos and Athos were overwhelmed by the attackers. I was pulled off the bridge." He shook his head slightly. "I woke up at the river's bank, I think somebody pulled me up there."

"Then I think we found your trace," Tréville confirmed. "And the man who saved you was one of the attackers?"

D'Artagnan leaned against the tree to steady himself. "Yes, yes. The one who pulled me down the bridge. But Sir, I think...I mean we have to get to Auxerre. Now!"

Tréville could see that d'Artagnan was confused, probably because of the nasty head-wound, but he had no idea why he should go to Auxerre now.

„We need to get to Porthos and Athos, and the trail leads to Mailly-le-Château, not to Auxerre," Tréville explained sceptically.

"The...the Baron," d'Artagnan stuttered. "They said something about a Baron."

"Who are 'they'?" Aramis wanted to know from his place on the forest floor.

"Some of the bandits. I listened to their conversation, like...what time is it?"

"Midday," Francois threw in.

"Then I think that was yesterday. They said something about a plan going down, and the Baron being involved."

"Involved, or the target?" Tréville wanted to know, and kept d'Artagnan upright with his hand. He seemed to have been all alone ever since the ambush took place, and he needed rest, but d'Artagnan knew his duty too. His captain needed the information.

"I think the target," d'Artagnan said. "And it seems like 'the musketeers' as they called them are in the hands of a man named...damn." He pressed his hands against his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember the name in his foggy mind. "Morel? I think the name was Morel."

"So, in conclusion," Aramis rasped and rested his head against the tree-trunk, "a man named Morel has Athos and Porthos and wants to do something against the Baron there?"

"The Baron de Villiers," Francois continued, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Haven't you been guarding his wife the past week, Captain?"

Tréville just nodded, but he didn't say a word.

"For what would this man need Athos and Porthos?" Francois guessed loudly. "And why did he capture the two of them, but you two were meant to be killed?"

D'Artagnan threw his hand up in the air in a desperate gesture. "No idea. But I think the intention was to capture me and Aramis too. They are just bad at following orders." He hesitantly looked at Tréville, and tried to approach his captain. "Sir. We need to go to Auxerre. Whoever the man is who has Athos and Porthos, they will go to Auxerre. And whatever the plan is, it will go down there."

"You said the man's name was Morel?" Tréville asked, and his own voice sounded very distant.

D'Artagnan frowned, but nodded slowly.

"Captain, what is it?" Aramis asked carefully. He could see that there was something off. "You know him?"

Tréville bit his lip, and started shaking his head in disbelief, while he connected the present with the pieces of a time long gone. This could not be a coincidence. He had never thought to encounter Morel Dupois once again.

Chapter Text

"Look at me, Monsieur." The voice of the boy who was still keeping pressure on Athos' wound reached his ears and he blinked at the young man.

"Where are we?" Athos croaked, and he hastily tried to regain his orientation. He was still lying flatly on the cart, surrounded by the other prisoners, but they weren't moving. They weren't on open field anymore, their little party had come to a stop in the middle of a forest.

The boy shifted uncomfortably, and elicited a hiss out of Athos as he jarred the wound, but then he shrugged. "Don't know." He didn't seem to be a man of many words either.

"Did anything happen?" Athos wanted to know and harshly addressed the boy.

He shook his head. "They wanted to chase after the other musketeer, but Morel stopped them, and said they have more important things to deal with right now." He shot a stern look at someone Athos couldn't see. "We just stopped."

Athos groaned, but used his remaining strength to lift his upper body into an upright position. To his left, he could see a little cabin, but it looked abandoned. Behind him, he could hear Morel talk to some men, and he saw that the horses were all tied to the surrounding trees.

"Finally," someone grunted and Athos turned his head to look for the source of the voice. One of Morel's men, who looked more bored than annoyed, gestured that Athos should come down.

The musketeer took a moment to send him a sceptic look, but eventually, he tried to climb out of the cart. Morel's man watched for a moment, but then, he grabbed Athos' unharmed shoulder and yanked him into the direction of the horses, where some of the other prisoners were already assembled.

With a pained hiss, Athos was forced down on his knees. A crowd of Morel's men had gathered around the few prisoners, and Athos could vaguely hear Morel's voice in the back. He seemed to be arguing with another man, a man whose voice Athos did not recognize.

"Show me," the man ordered, and Morel seemed to snort affirmatively.

"Put your weapons down," he just said loudly, before Athos heard how he and the other man tried to make their way through Morel's protective crowd.

"Uh, well," Athos heard the man's voice and soon after, he revealed himself and came to have a look at Morel's famous prisoner. Athos was so surprised he just blankly stared at the man, and his face was devoid of all emotions. The man was tall and thin, but he wore an armour Athos was very familiar with. He would recognize those damn cloaks everywhere.

How often had he buried his rapier in those leathers? How often had he smashed the heads of those who wore this armour against the next wall? And how often had he ignored the inferior insults those men liked to express in his presence? He hadn't bothered to count the amount of times he and Aramis had to restrain Porthos, when one of those figures with the red stripes on their sleeves had managed to provoke the musketeer.

The man now knelt down in front of Athos, and roughly grabbed his chin to make him look at him. "Athos, isn't it?" he asked. "You almost killed me in a duel a year ago, near Saint-Germain-de-Prés."

"I don't participate in duels," Athos replied coolly. "I feel obliged to remind you that duels are illegal."

The Guard looked surprised for a moment, but then his lips formed a spiteful grin. "Finally, we have you and your little friends off our backs," he sneered.

"You, or the cardinal?" Athos queried, and for a second, he was sure that he would get beaten. But the man seemed to hold back after Morel's intimidating glare.

"Where's the other one?" the Red Guard snapped. "I was told you have two."

Morel's face remained indifferent, as he met the guard's face courageously.

"De la Rovère's men attacked us on the way here. The other musketeer was killed in battle."

Athos frowned when he heard that lie. Morel was his enemy, and he would continue to say so as long as he was in chains, but he just covered them and possibly saved Porthos' life. But why?

The red guard seemed to suppress a grin. "Well, it seems like musketeers are dropping like flies at the moment." He stared at Athos, as if he waited for his response.

"So it would seem," the swordsman growled between clenched teeth.

"The Cardinal wishes that you hand the musketeer over once the feud with de Villiers is settled," the Red Guard explained Morel without diverting his gaze from Athos, who just met his eyes with cold indifference.

Morel frowned. "I was told to let them go if I wish to. They..." He swallowed down what he was about to say and started anew. "He is allowed to lead a life outside of Paris, so I was told."

"Then you've been misinformed," the Guard snapped at Morel, but he was challenging the wrong man, that much Athos could tell. Morel's face turned dark, and he made another threatening step towards the line of Guards.

"This isn't Paris, Monsieur. You don't get what you wish for just because you think you're entitled to it. If the Cardinal wishes to get his hands on this musketeer, then he can tell me so himself."

The guard's eyes were twitching with anger, and Athos didn't miss out the fact that Morel had one of his hands tightly wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

"Careful, Dupois," the Guard hissed at Morel. "You need us."

"I do," the man in question replied calmly. "But I have the command. Ask your boss." Athos could hear a lot of disgust in his voice when Morel mentioned the Cardinal.

The Guard bit down an answer, and with a murderous look on his face, he tilted his head and stepped back.

"Ready to leave in ten minutes," Morel shouted at his men and the newly arrived Red Guards. "I want to reach Auxerre before midnight." He sent a quick glance over to Athos, who was still very pale and swaying dangerously on his knees, before he murmured something the musketeer wasn't able to hear.

Athos only head the blood rushing in his ears, and with narrowed eyes, his eyes locked on the Red Guards. He had never had much respect for them, but now, there was nothing but sincere disgust.

From what he knew about the Baron de Villiers, he could guess why the Cardinal was involved. He hadn't expected the Cardinal to do such thing, but after all that had happened in the past year, Athos wasn't surprised. The Cardinal was like a wounded animal, and he tried to get back up on his feet again. The role of Morel, however, remained a mystery to him.

His hand subconsciously reached for his shoulder, and he tried to put pressure on the flaming wound by himself. Once he had reclaimed his place on the timbers of the carriage, he gladly accepted a cloth the boy from earlier handed him, and he pressed it against his shoulder with all the strength he had left.

He did not know how much longer he could endure this. Athos wasn't scared. He was almost a hundred percent sure that he was going to get used to put pressure on the Baron de Villiers.

But Athos was angry. He didn't feel the hot, uncontrolled wrath, but it was a wrath and a hunger for vengeance that burned ice-cold in his guts.

He wasn't going to make it that easy for them.

Ten years earlier, Ponts-de-Ce, August 1620

"Third company, assemble!" An expectant silence followed. Then another yell. "Lieutenant, report!"

The bass voice droned over the open area, and Tréville had to bite down a groan in the expectation to have to report to his superior. He had been sitting at a small campfire, together with some of the other men of the Third. When they heard their orders, they all jumped up, picking up their weapons from the ground.

Tréville readjusted his sword around his belt, picked up his hat and made his way over to his superior.

"Lieutenant," the commander greeted him, but he sounded very grumpy and it was no secret he couldn't stand Tréville. He had despised him ever since Tréville had rightfully pointed out the mistakes in their plans, and after he had refused to change it, they had lost a dozen men.

"De Medici's troops are numerous, Sir," Tréville reported placidly. "They are expecting an attack at any given moment."

The Commander nodded, and his gaze swerved over the men who got ready as quickly as they managed. They were all tired, and the previous battles had diminished their numbers noticeably. Most of them sported some bloodied bandages somewhere on their bodies, but those who were capable of holding a sword now stood in lines, their faces determined.

The anticipation hung over them like a mantle, one that threatened to strangle them should they wait any longer. They were under the direct command of the King, and Tréville expected his commander to read out his majesty's orders any moment now.

"The King gave us orders," the commander began. "And we, along with the rest of our regiment, have orders to launch a direct attack on their infantry." He made a short pause, and for some reason, he stared directly at Tréville. "This could be the day, men. We can defeat the army of la Reine-Mère today, right here. It'll be a dawn of victory."

He cleared his throat, and with an air of importance, he pulled out a little piece of paper out of the inner pocket of his cloak.

"Alright." He pointed at Tréville. "Lieutenant, you lead one group on the western flank, Morel, you lead the other half, and approach from the south."

Tréville couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You don't want to lead a group, Sir?"

The eyes of the Commander flashed with anger, but he just growled. "I have the honour of protecting the King during the battle. Can you handle your orders, Tréville?"

The man in question nodded, and exchanged a look with Morel, the leader of the other group. Morel was a good friend of Tréville's. He was a man about Tréville's height, with sleek, black hair, tied in his neck to a low ponytail. Like most of the men, he wore a beard he hadn't tended to in a long time. Times like these didn't allow time for cosmetic needs. Morel was devilishly handsome, with his sharp jaw and his green, bright eyes, he had never failed to mention which woman he had managed to charm.

But that had changed in the past year.

Tréville now withstood the judging look of the commander for a while longer, until he didn't bother anymore and yelled for his men to assemble. He attached a bag with ammunition to his belt before he made his way over to Morel, who had quickly returned to his place by the fireplace.

He was picking up his two pistols from the ground, and Tréville noticed his open bag. Ink was spilled all over the ground, Morel must've knocked it over when he had been looking for his weapons. That's when Tréville noticed a piece of paper, a letter, already sealed and ready to be delivered. Out of curiosity, and with a dark premonition forming in his head, he picked it up and read who should receive the message.

His heart seemed to drop when he read the name. Lucienne du Gérand-Vitonne. No one else than the betrothed of the Baron de Villiers, a powerful nobleman residing in Auxerre. Morel had met her a year ago, when the King had sent the regiment des Gardes francaises to help the Baron against a complot. The younger brother of the Baron had intended to exile, and in worst case, kill the Baron if necessary.

During their time in Auxerre, Morel had met the woman the Baron was supposed to marry soon. Lucienne was a beauty, with her red locks and kind brown eyes, but Tréville had always known how to separate his private life from his duty, and his duty was always his priority.

He waved with the letter, and stared and Morel accusingly.

"You are still in contact with her? How many times do I have to remind you how dangerous your liaison with this Lucienne is?"

"Not here, my friend," Morel hissed, and snatched the letter out of Tréville's hands. He folded it back together and stuffed it in his bag.

"We should go. We have our orders." He didn't look as enthusiastic as he sounded.

Tréville nodded. "We do." He reached out and placed a hand on Morel's shoulder. "Good luck. We see each other tomorrow."

A shadow passed Morel's face, but then he managed a forced smile and squeezed Tréville's shoulder. "Promise."

And with that, they both headed their ways, and followed their orders. The battle that followed was dirty and violent. It was nothing Tréville hadn't seen yet. He was used to dirt and blood flying in all directions, he was used to the burning pain when a rapier managed to catch his flesh.

But for the first time, he had underestimated their enemies. The troops of Maria de Medici were outnumbered by Louis' forces, but they fought valiantly.

Tréville had a hard time fighting off three at once at one point. He was dancing around the three men with as much elegance as he could muster. His sword was clashing against theirs in a series of strikes he tried to land on them, but they blocked him, and forced him into defence.

Tréville was a good swordsman, and he knew that. After he had managed to catch his breath, he lifted his rapier, just in time to catch the sword that would've cut his shoulder into half. With all the force he managed, he kept the sword there, and saw the exhaustion on the face of his opponent. Without thinking twice, Tréville pulled out his loaded pistol and fired the bullet. It tore through his enemy's torso and he went limp instantly.

It wasn't the fine way, and he knew it. But war wasn't connected with honour, war didn't consider dignity or morality. War was dirty, a game of survival. And only those who played by their own rules would come out as victors.

When the other two men saw that, their faces lit up with anger, and they attacked Tréville simultaneously. They did it with so much force it threw him off balance and he landed ungracefully in the mud. A boot hit his face so hard that he tasted blood, and before he had a chance to prepare himself, one of the men was on top of him, his dagger coming down, aiming for Tréville's throat. In the very last second, he lifted his forearm, and protected his throat from getting impaled. He could feel the dagger slice through his leathery armor on his arm, but he didn't care. All he was able to see were the pale, blue eyes of this stranger that was his enemy, shining with anger and desperation at the same time. Tréville could not do anything. He could see how the man lifted his arm again, and this time, he knew there was no way to avoid the blade.

Thud.

A wet, sticky substance tickled down on Tréville's chest, and suddenly, he looked at the tip of a sword, sticking out of his opponent's guts. The man fell to the ground with a gurgling sound, and suddenly, there was a hand around Tréville's wrist, and he was pulled back on his feet.

"'u 'kay?" the words barely reached his ears, and he blinked a few times to process what had just happened.

Morel was standing in front of them, how he had ended up on this side of the battlefield, Tréville did not know. He still had his hand around the rapier, whose blade was streaked with the blood of Tréville's enemy.

"Thank you, I suppose," Tréville yelled over the noise of the battle.

Morel showed him his white teeth. "Nothing to thank me for."

And with that, he disappeared in the muddling mess of bodies, weapons and blood, and Tréville was forced into another duel.

It took them longer than expected, but when the red morning sun finally showed its face, they heard 'Retreat!' shouts all over the battlefield. It was done, it was over.

Tréville longed for nothing else than a good rest, and a bath. But his duties came first, as he had to experience next. A solider, barely able to stand, limped over and came to an unsteady halt in front of the lieutenant.

"The commander awaits you," the soldier said and motioned towards the place where the regiment had set up their camp.

Tréville nodded thankfully and went to the camp, but he was slow, and his body started to ache and the pain almost became unbearable when the adrenaline finally vanished.

The commander waited in their camp. He was standing next to the infirmary.

"Good to see you're still in one piece," the commander growled as a greeting. "You fought well, Lieutenant. The King himself asked for you, he'll meet you in an hour."

Tréville was startled, but with all the confidence he could muster, he bowed his head.

"What an honour," he said, and looked up to the commander again. His superior showed no emotion. No matter how much he hated Tréville, he knew that look. There was something else.

"What is it, Sir?" Tréville asked as politely as he could. "And where is Morel?" He turned his head to look for his comrade.

"He has tried to run away, Lieutenant," the commander explained. He wasn't arrogant as usual, but he looked deadly serious. "He is charged with treason." He gestured over to a tent, a little further on the right. "You may see him, but don't expect the King to drop the charges."

Tréville swallowed hard, and made his way over to the small, dirty looking tent. It was dark, and a small, burning candle was the only source of light nearby. He grabbed it and entered the tiny, sticky tent. Morel was sitting on the ground, bound to the wooden pillar that carried the whole tent. He was covered in dust, and he had a bloody bandage around his ribcage.

He looked up when he heard someone entering, his black hair falling loosely into his face.

"You, here?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the yelling he did on the battlefield.

"Of course I am here," Tréville answered stiffly. He was still standing. He hadn't bothered to kneel down in front of his friend yet. Silence enveloped them, oppressing and murderous. The words they hadn't spoken yet hung in the air between them, but Tréville couldn't do anything. He just stood there and gaped at his comrade, who was chained to the pillar like a rabid dog.

"What do you want to hear, Tréville?" Morel asked, and he looked up.

Tréville's lips quivered with anger, and he could feel the rage flowing through his veins, mixed with the desperation and sadness his mind burdened him with.

"Why?" he finally asked, the word barely more than a growl.

"I did it for her," Morel answered truthfully. "I haven't abandoned my post, Tréville. And I haven't abandoned my comrades. But when the battle was won, in the aftermath and the chaos, I ran."

"What, you thought they would claim you're dead and you could lead a peaceful life with a soon to be married woman?" Tréville almost shouted, and his voice was shaking with disappointment.

"You know I am no traitor," Morel whispered. "I deserted, because she needs me."

"She is going to marry the Baron de Villiers," Tréville exclaimed, and dug his hand into his hair. "How can you be so foolish? Run away, to hunt after a woman you can never have. It would cost you your head if the Baron ever finds out!" He was still fuming with anger, at the sight of Morel, who was looking so calm and relaxed with a trial in sight. A trial he wouldn't win.

"You know that your chances of winning in the court are going straight to zero, right?" Tréville said accusingly. "You risked your head for this woman. You are going to lose your head for this woman."

Morel rested his head against a wooden pillar. "I had to try. I love her, Tréville." He made a short pause. "I'd do it again."

The Lieutenant grabbed his friend by the collar, the faces now only inches away. "All the women in France, and you chose the only one you can never have. You abandon your King, you abandon your brothers." He let go of Morel and made a step back. He did not want to hear the excuses. He just couldn't believe it. Before he left the tent, he turned on his heel one last time, and his eyes met the one of his old friend.

"You saved my life, Morel, many times. But this time, don't expect me to save yours. This is something I can't fix."

As he headed out into the dark and silent night, he heard Morel's reply in his back.

"I know, my friend. And I'm sorry."

Chablis, present time

"Morel served under the King?" d'Artagnan exclaimed, full of surprises. The information had even led to him looking way more focused, and the confused spark in his eyes had disappeared.

"But deserters are sentenced to death," Aramis threw in with a low voice. "And as we had to experience firsthand, Morel wasn't killed."

"No, he wasn't," Tréville admitted.

"He ran away?" Francois guessed. "Made an escape?"

Tréville shook his head impatiently. "No. Two weeks later, I received a letter from him. He thanked me for the years we spent as comrades, and told me that his life was spared. Someone in Paris talked to the King, and convinced him to drop the charges."

"Convinced?" d'Artagnan echoed. "So you mean he paid enough money."

Tréville shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I was appointed Captain of the Musketeers just two years later, and I had my own affairs to deal with. But Morel was released, as far as I know. I've never heard of him again."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. D'Artagnan blankly stared at Tréville, as he leaned against the tree-trunk, his eyes still veiled and unfocused.

Aramis had his brow furrowed with worry, and his brown eyes lit up with understanding, shining bright in his pale face.

"Captain...," Francois was at a loss at what to say. His jaw had dropped, and his eyes were staring at Tréville with a mixture of pity and surprise.

"I don't know what happened to him afterwards," Tréville cut in before anyone said something. "But honestly, I thought he left the country, after the Baroness de Villiers still married the Baron."

"Obviously, he has enough hate in him that he can do his own crusade against the Baron." Aramis looked deadly serious.

Tréville sighed. "Morel has always been a realist. He knew that it was damned the moment he had met her. He wouldn't want to murder the Baron for that."

"You said he was denied his one true love," d'Artagnan threw in and pressed a hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes to small slits. "I'd say he has a motive."

"He has never been a cold blooded murderer – not like this, and not because of her! He knows the Baroness would despise him for killing her husband." Tréville knew how he must sound, but those were facts, and they were important.

"So you think he's heading towards Auxerre with captured musketeers and a hired army because he wants to 'talk it out'?" d'Artagnan had a hard time covering his scepticism.

"No. I have no idea who he is now – what he has done, what plans he has," Tréville explained stubbornly. "No matter how wicked his motives might seem at the moment, I've never met a person with a purer heart."

"Captain," Aramis started and gratefully accepted the help d'Artagnan offered him to get back on his feet. The wounds on his side were leaking with blood again, but Aramis didn't seem to notice or care. He limped over to face his captain. "Right now, he has musketeers in his captivity. He almost killed us. That man might not be the same one you used to know all these years ago."

Tréville shuddered, as he knew that Aramis was right. Still, he sent Aramis a stern look, and shook his head.

"Come on, on your horses. We have to get to Auxerre before Morel arrives there. And no matter what it seems like Morel is doing – We were brothers once. A man doesn't just forget that."

He almost didn't hear what d'Artagnan added.

"But not all men are like you and me, Sir."

Chapter Text

"Come on, mon ami, let me have a look at it." Aramis used his usual, though very effective soothing voice.

"It's fine," d'Artagnan hissed impatiently. "We don't have time for this."

"We also don't have time for you falling off your horse. I'm in no condition to collect you from the ground," Aramis replied dryly, and the annoyance on his face could compete with Athos'.

D'Artagnan finally gave in, and allowed Aramis to have a look at the nastily bleeding wound on his temple. He gestured at Francois and waved with his hand, asking for the musketeer to bring his bags.

Tréville was deep in thought, still on horseback, watching silently. His mind was working rapidly, reliving memories of a different time. He barely took notice of the minor argument that erupted between Aramis and d'Artagnan.

"Drink this," the marksman ordered and pulled out a strange looking liquid he had kept in his bags.

The Gascon eyed it sceptically. "Why?"

"You don't ever just do as I say, do you?" Aramis sighed. He rubbed his tired eyes. "It helped me against the pain, it'll ease your headache too." He held up a hand, and started rummaging in his bag again. There was a paste in a little box, a mixture of yellow and green. It looked disgusting.

"Put that on the wound," Aramis advised, still busy with his pocket.

D'Artagnan snorted. "No way. That can't be good."

"Who's the medic again?" Aramis asked, and instead of looking annoyed, he just winked at d'Artagnan, almost in amusement. "Trust me. I don't have the energy to argue with you."

D'Artagnan trusted Aramis, but that didn't change the fact that he put on the paste very hesitantly. Once he was done, he turned towards his friend. Aramis was leaning against a tree-trunk, one hand clamped against his side, where he was holding a blood-soaked bandage in place.

"Let me look at it," d'Artagnan instructed, but Aramis made a declining gesture.

"I'm okay," he simply said, but he didn't look at his friend.

"And I'm the Queen of France," d'Artagnan scoffed, before he approached his friend carefully. "That needs treatment," he said and pointed at the wounds.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Does it? I haven't noticed."

D'Artagnan hissed. "I'm just trying to help, you know."

Aramis' shoulders sagged. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, my friend. It's just..." He took a deep breath. "I'm worried."

"We all are," d'Artagnan replied, but laid a comforting hand on Aramis' back. "But they are going to be fine. Whatever Morel's up to, he doesn't know we are still alive." With that, Aramis' eyes shot up, and he looked at d'Artagnan fully awake and aware now. "And he isn't prepared for our intervening."

Aramis' mouth formed something like a crooked grin, and he nodded with determination. Tréville was watching impatiently by now. He wanted to spur his horse into action, and find his musketeers and his long forgotten friend. But he also had a responsibility towards the three men in front of them, and with two of them wounded, he couldn't just leave them here.

"Are we ready now?" he just asked stiffly, and reached for his reins.

Francois held up a hand. "Aramis, d'Artagnan's right. Accept some help, will you?"

"I am. But this will take too much time now." The musketeer remained mercilessly stubborn.

"Aramis, this is not the place, nor the time...," Francois started, but Aramis cut him off.

"Not here, not now," he growled, before he limped towards his horse and Francois, in his defeat, stalked over to help the musketeer into the saddle.

"So, Auxerre?" d'Artagnan asked.

Tréville nodded. "As fast as possible. The Baron is definitely in danger, as are Athos and Porthos."

Aramis hastily tore on his horses' reins, and Carline made a complete turn and allowed her rider to face his captain completely.

"Sir, with all my respect," Aramis started. "Morel may have a motive. He may be after the Baroness. But what about all the other men? Those who are following him, those who are supporting his personal crusade against de Villiers. What motivation do they have?"

Tréville hesitated. He had asked this question himself, and no matter how he put the scenario together, there was no logical answer.

"I don't know. But we will find out."

"We should ask someone," d'Artagnan suggested. "We have a name. Perhaps Morel Dupois has a reputation here."

"We don't have time." Tréville's words barely passed through his clenched teeth, but his men, especially Aramis and d'Artagnan, did not seem to be bothered by their Captain's temper.

"We have to know what we're dealing with, Captain," d'Artagnan pointed out, and Tréville noticed how much more mature he had become over the past months.

The Captain pressed his lips into a thin line. "Five minutes, nothing more."

Fifteen minutes later, or so it seemed, the four men entered the village of Chablis again. Tréville was anxious, he did not want to stay here any longer. The battle was fought in Auxerre, not in Chablis. But for once, he felt the need to look for answers. Answers to questions his heart did not want to have answered.

It was Céline, side by side with her brother Jules, who they ran into first. The two seemed surprised, but when their gazes fell on Aramis and d'Artagnan, they nodded.

"What is it, Captain?"

"The people who have disappeared. Here, in Auxerre, and in Tonnerre." D'Artagnan got straight to the point. "Can you think of anything they might have in common?"

"Well, they all disappeared," Jules replied dryly, but he instantly regretted it at the look Tréville sent him. He quickly cleared his throat. "It doesn't come to me so surprisingly. Some of them have openly criticised the Baron."

"Why?" Francois wanted to know, and Jules just shrugged.

"The list is very long, you know." His eyes wandered over the small group of musketeers. "De Villiers isn't exactly popular in this region."

"Can you give us any reasons why?" Tréville could hear Aramis' voice was seriously annoyed and he sounded very tired. He wanted answers as much as Tréville.

Jules looked at the injured marksman. "Multiple. They have stacked up over the years. But after what he has done last year, the Baron lost all the friends he had here."

"Meaning?" Tréville asked impatiently. He had to squeeze out all of the information step by step, and he still just wanted to ride to Auxerre as fast as possible.

"The plague," Céline whispered. "It came to our village a year ago."

"Yes, Agathe mentioned it," Aramis explained and nodded.

Jules raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sure she did. The Baron left us on our own. Every plea we sent to Auxerre was ignored. He didn't even help us after we defeated it. The people of Chablis almost starved."

The answer created a silence. Aramis was visibly trying to comprehend all of this, while d'Artagnan just stared pitifully at the siblings.

"Morel Dupois," Tréville suddenly said into the silence, his voice audibly strained. "Does the name ring a bell?"

While Jules seemed to be genuinely overwhelmed and confused, the Captain could see Céline's features derailing. She swallowed hard, and lifted her gaze.

"About your height, Monsieur?" she asked. "Black hair, thick beard? The scarred face, the limping walk?"

Tréville furrowed his brow. "I know of no scars, but yes. That might be the man we're looking for."

"I know the story of Morel Dupois," she whispered. "And it's not one I enjoy telling."

"Try it," Aramis offered kindly.

Céline lowered her eyes. "He was first seen here about ten years ago. I was still very young. He was a kind man, Captain, and very good looking too. He helped us out, but then he disappeared. He said he wanted to go to the Red Star..."

"The what?" d'Artagnan interrupted.

"The estate of the Baron de Villiers," Tréville explained absent-mindedly. "Go on."

"...and free the love of his life, in his words. I don't know what happened there. I can only take my guesses."

Now her brother took the word, an indifferent expression all over his face. "He vanished for some time. The next time he was seen, he had all those scars across his face. And he didn't have any woman by his side. He never said who did it to him, but there was only one place he had promised to go by the time." Jules made a dramatic pause. "If you ask me, Dupois stood in the way of de Villiers."

"You don't seem to be very fond of the Baron, or am I mistaken?" Aramis threw in suspiciously, but Jules ignored him politely.

"I don't know what happened to him, but people report that they see him once or twice a year," he added. "He used to help out in a bakery in Tonnerre, some report they have seen him working as a guard in the warehouses by the docks in Auxerre."

"Any chance that he has reason to march against the Baron?" d'Artagnan queried. "You're suggesting that he has reasons to do so?"

"The man had to endure hell," Céline said, her eyes locked onto the ground. "It's said that de Villiers broke him. That Morel is nothing but the shell of a man he once was." She nervously shifted from one foot on the other, but then she continued. "Lately, there have been new rumours. About the very same man, who used to be so kind and caring."

"What is it?" d'Artagnan was growing more impatient with every minute that passed.

"That he has a heart of stone, filled with hate, ready to strike once he is able to." Céline's voice trembled. "I don't know why people are saying that, but it can't be without reason."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Tréville said, with an unusual coldness in his voice. He turned on the heel and headed towards his waiting horse. "We need to hurry. We have to warn the Baron. There's an army full of angry citizens marching towards his estate. He needs protection."

"You said that Morel is a man to be reasoned with," Francois threw in indecisively.

Tréville's face turned dark. "He was. But should Porthos and Athos not be in one piece when I arrive, I won't be a man to be reasoned with."

"He was your friend." D'Artagnan's voice was calm and patient, and his statement was true.

Tréville whirled around. "Some things cannot be excused. Treason cannot be excused. Do you want to save your comrades, or do you want to spend the rest of the day reminding me of facts I'm already familiar with?"

D'Artagnan raised his hands defensively and exchanged a quick look with Aramis, who was pale as a sheet, but d'Artagnan's worry was mirrored on his own face.

Aramis gritted his teeth as he mounted his horse, but he had one hand on the hilt of his pistol, which was attached to his belt. "For Athos and Porthos," he mumbled, and d'Artagnan nodded affirmatively. He had experienced it before, but in his not so long career with the musketeers, it had never been that clear. It truly was one for all, and all for one. No one would be left behind. No matter what awaited them in Auxerre.

Porthos' whole body was trembling, as he peeked through the branches onto the clearing with the cabin.

About ten minutes ago, Morel's party had arrived. The man had indeed met up with the red guards, and Porthos watched in horror how a prisoner, whose posture and replies unmistakably gave him away as Athos, had to face the self-proclaimed head of the Red Guards. All Porthos wanted to do was storm onto the clearing and pick up a fight with all of them at once, but no matter how good he was, he knew there was just no way he'd survive this.

Porthos could not hear what Athos said, nor could he hear what Morel and the Red Guard argued about so vividly. The appearance of the Red Guard was never a good sign, and though Porthos did not know whether the Cardinal was involved personally, his guards represented him here.

No matter how much he hated the Red Guards, he knew that most of them were only following orders. They were arrogant idiots, who did not seem to use their brains very often, but most of the time, they acted on behalf of the Cardinal's orders.

He had to restrain himself not to jump at Morel right now. He stayed hidden in the bushes, a safe distance away. Morel shouted orders, and everybody went to collect their stuff. Porthos watched how Athos was shoved back onto the prisoner's cart again, and despite his current freedom, he would've given everything to be at his friend's side now.

Without a plan, and without another friend to rely on, Porthos felt terribly alone at the moment. He wasn't sure what he had to do next, and it resulted in him sitting on his horse here behind some bushes, the reins running through his fingers indecisively.

Suddenly, something red caught his eye. It was a cloak, and with an unsettling satisfaction, Porthos saw that one of the Red Guards, who was approaching a little pond with clear water, barely visible between the thick roots of the trees.

Porthos snuck up on him. On light foot, he approached the man from behind, and he was careful that he did not make a sound. The man bent down, and reached for the water bottle next to him. He saw his chance. Porthos leapt at him, one hand pressed on the man's mouth, the other one against his throat. He felt how the man struggled back, and instinctively tried to bite Porthos, but it was nothing the musketeer hadn't experienced before.

However, he was unprepared for the man to use his legs. The Red Guard placed both of his feet on the ground and used all the force he could manage to fall backwards onto Porthos. All of the air was pushed out of the musketeer's lungs at once, and he was so startled he loosened his grip around the man's mouth. To his surprise, the man didn't yell for support. No, he let out an animalistic hiss, and tried to turn his head to look at his attacker.

Before he could gain the upper hand, Porthos unleashed his fist and it collided so hard with the man's jaw he was sure he could hear something crack. He forced the guard on his back, and enclosed the man's throat. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins.

"How is Richelieu involved?" Porthos tightened the grip around the man's neck. "You don't want to die for the Red Guard, do you?"

The man made a gurgling sound, but he stared at Porthos with pure hate in his eyes.

"You know who I am?" Porthos hissed.

The Red Guard nodded tensely. "Porthos," he croaked. "Usually strutting so proudly next to this Athos, and this damn marksman...what was his name again?"

"Aramis," Porthos answered calmly, and he didn't like the grin on his opponent's face at all.

"Yeah, right." The man coughed. "You won't get any answers from me, musketeer." He said the last word with so much disgust that Porthos had to duck his head to prevent himself from being humiliated by the spit out of the man's mouth.

"The Cardinal's Guards are supporting Morel's troops – which are headed towards the Baron de Villiers. What is the Cardinal's business with Morel? What does he plan to do to the Baron?" Porthos wasn't ready to give up yet.

The Red Guard in front of him just stared. "Why don't you ask him yourself? Or didn't you have the courage yet to free your friend out of the claws of evil, cruel Morel?" The corners of his mouth twitched and hinted a crooked grin. "So much for the musketeer motto."

Porthos just growled. "Bite me." With as much force as he managed, he smashed his fist against the man's temple. He dropped to the ground, his eyes closed, but still with the disgusting grin on his face.

Porthos considered smacking the man's head once more, just to be sure, but then he heard voices in the distance. With an unusual speed, Porthos grabbed the Red Guard under the armpits and dragged him into the bushes, before he made his way over to his horse as fast as he could. The voices faded again in the distance.

The musketeer calmed his agitated horse. It was pawing the ground nervously, and it took Porthos longer than he had hoped. Finally, the animal was quiet, and he gently lifted himself into the saddle.

Suddenly, he ducked his head. There were the voices again, coming closer and closer. Porthos wasn't exactly well-hidden, so all he could do was to hold his breath and wait for them to go on.

He could see them. An older man of the Red Guards, together with a younger man, almost a boy, who Porthos had seen at Morel's side. Curiously, Porthos wanted to have a closer look, but he did not dare. Instead, he just listened very closely.

"It isn't enough," the boy complained. "The Baron's estate is a fortress. No matter what uniforms you wear, he is not going to let you in so easily." He cleared his throat. "Monsieur, if we could only send message to my uncle. He lives in Chablis, and he has some powerful friends. They could arm themselves, and help us out. If he only knew..."

"You heard Morel, you idiot," the man said to the boy. "No message to Chablis. The captain of the musketeers seems to reside there at the moment, and Morel made it very clear he doesn't want to get the Captain involved."

Chablis? Tréville was in Chablis? Porthos weighed his options for a moment. He could almost hear his heart shattering into a million pieces, but he knew it was a choice Athos would understand.

And with that, Porthos tore on the reins of his horse, and as silently as he managed, he took the narrow path that he knew led to Chablis. He was so focused on seeing a friendly face soon that he did not notice the rider that followed him at a safe distance.

Athos wasn't sure when he had lost consciousness, but he returned to the land of the living with a loud gasp. The young boy who had kept pressure on his wound jumped in surprise, and he brought some distance between himself and Athos as the swordsman propped up on his elbows and pushed himself into a sitting position. He felt dizzy, and all in all, his shoulder felt incredibly sore.

Athos took a second to find out where he was, and when he was. It was getting dark by now, and the last rays of sunlight bathed their path in a gentle orange. They had left the forest and by the looks of it, they had arrived in a small city. One house after the other towered up on each side of the road, and he could hear the curious murmur of the people who lived here. They stared at Morel and especially at the Red Guards, who were protecting Morel and his warriors from all sides.

"Back with us, I see?" Athos' eyes fell on Morel, who was riding closely to the prisoner's cart. "How do you feel?"

Athos huffed sarcastically. "Like I got shot."

Morel almost looked apologetic. "Once this is all over, you need to see a medic."

Athos rolled his eyes. "Really? What a brilliant idea." He made a short pause. "When it's all over you say. Tell me, is it all over when you got your personal revenge on the Baron? Or when the angry mob you have with you lynched him?"

"What are you talking about?" Morel asked stiffly, and Athos didn't bother to look up. His eyes were still locked on his own bloody and dirty hands.

"The connections to Madrid," Athos whispered. "I suspect you only received all the help because the people in Tonnerre and Auxerre don't necessarily hate the Baron, but they dislike his trade deals with merchants in Madrid. And you just happen to use it to your advantage."

"How do you know about that?" Morel seemed more surprised than angry, as if Athos had just casually told him about the weather.

"None of your concern."

Morel bit his lip, and concentrated on the mane of his horse.

"I know why Tréville chose you as his second-in-command," Morel said out of the sudden.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Beg your pardon?"

Morel almost smiled. "Tréville always liked those who used their heads before they listened to their hearts." His eyes mustered Athos sharply. "I haven't been to Paris in a decade, but your reputation precedes you, Athos."

"I'm not interested in my reputation," Athos replied shortly. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Morel's mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a smile.

"I used to know your captain," he continued to answer the question Athos hadn't asked. "He is a man whose heart is in the right place. I questioned his methods once or twice, and we had our fair share of disagreements, but in the end he always had my back. A great man. I was happy to hear he made it this far." Morel shook his head. "Captain of the musketeers, of his own regiment. A decade ago, we would've laughed about it."

He made a short pause, as if to wait for a reaction from Athos, but the musketeer didn't twitch a muscle.

"For him, I'll make sure that you'll get out of this. As long as you don't enter Paris again, you are going to be a free man, Athos."

Athos had some ideas, but no direct answer why he wasn't allowed back in Paris. He lifted his head, and looked Morel into his pale eyes.

"That's very touching," Athos commented, and his face resembled a mask of stone. If there was one emotion that could be read from his expression, it was resignation. "Still I'm having a hard time ignoring the phantom blade pressed against my neck."

Morel sighed. "Understandable." He hesitated, but eventually, he raised his voice again, loud enough so Athos could hear him. "I'm no evil man, Athos. I know how my actions make me look, but I swear to you, my intentions are pure."

"Honestly, I'm not particularly interested in your intentions," Athos replied sourly. He leaned his back against the side of the cart. "All I see is the armed group of men, marching against the Baron. I see innocent people in your captivity. If you still think that your intention excuses your actions, I'm surprised how the Captain was ever able to value your council."

His words hit Morel like daggers, and he knew that Tréville seemed to be a sensitive subject. For a second, he thought he had lured out the true Morel, the angry one. But the man's lips only formed a thin line, and he avoided Athos' gaze.

"And you should learn that not everybody is wearing his heart on the sleeve like most musketeers do."

Athos managed a crooked grin, before he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the sudden pain in his shoulder. He growled out an answer between clenched teeth.

"Clearly, you don't know me either."

He didn't hear a reply, and he didn't bother to open his eyes to check whether Morel was still there. All he heard was the yelling of the Red Guards, and suddenly, the cart and the horses came to a violent halt.

Athos could smell it in the air. He was sure he must be close to the Yonne, the largest river in this area. Before he could waste one more thought on Morel or his intentions, he was grabbed by the shoulder, and two strong and firm hands jostled him out of the cart and onto the uneven ground. Was that wood he was standing on? Athos only saw the world's blurry outlines, and he blinked sluggishly to get his balance under control.

Athos hissed as he was pushed to the ground next to the wooden pillars. He didn't even try to resist, but he knew exactly where he was now.

Those were the docks of Auxerre. And whatever Morel had planned, it was going to go down tonight.

Chapter Text

"Sir." Francois' voice tore through the veil that surrounded Tréville. The Captain diverted his gaze from the mane of his horse and looked at his soldier.

Francois kept throwing worried gazes to the two riders that rode a couple of metres behind them. D'Artagnan's eyes seemed empty, and Tréville had no idea where the Gascon's mind was at the moment. He was riding one handed; the other one was locked around the hilt of his dagger, safely secured at his belt, as if d'Artagnan expected an attack at any given moment.

Next to him, Aramis was more alert; at least Tréville thought that the marksman's eyes were steadily scouting the area. His skin was ashen, and the sweat had gathered on his forehead, but Tréville was almost intimidated by the pure hate written all over the musketeer's face. Hate was not something one would associate Aramis with usually. He had a temper, yes, but he was a spiritual soul, usually grounding the others and calming them.

"We should probably get some rest." The words were spoken softly, but everything in Tréville wanted to keep going, so they could reach Auxerre in time. The sun was almost gone, and the night plunged their path in its shadows.

The reaction he received was the expected one. Aramis just rolled his eyes, and d'Artagnan looked downright insulted.

"There is no time, Captain."

"You are barely able to stay on your horses," Tréville said sharply, with a tone that tolerated no protest. "This was an order."

"Well, this order I'll have to refuse." Aramis' words were barely audible, but his eyes met Tréville's, a challenging look crossing the marksman's face.

"I'm sure I misheard that," Tréville said dryly, and sent him a piercing look, but Aramis just shook it off.

"Sir, you and Francois should ride ahead. D'Artagnan and I will manage. We only hold you back."

"I'm not...," but Tréville couldn't say what he was not going to do, because d'Artagnan cut in.

"Aramis and I we need rest, Captain, as you said. But if you two stop now, the Baron will be unprepared, and Morel will tear down every piece of Auxerre."

Tréville gulped, but he knew that the musketeers were right. He exchanged a quick look with Francois, who looked very indecisive.

"You are armed?" he now asked shortly.

"As usual."

"In condition to watch each other's back?" Tréville queried.

D'Artagnan just rolled his eyes. "We'll look out for each other. Please, Captain. You need to go."

Tréville bit his lip as he was making a decision, and finally, he growled. "Fine. But if you two don't arrive in one piece in Auxerre, you'll wish that you would've just listened to me."

D'Artagnan raised his hands in defeat, so Tréville just sighed and turned his back on them.

"Oh and Captain?" Aramis dared to speak up again, and Tréville tore on his reins to look at his soldier, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Aramis continued carefully and thoughtfully. "I know it's hard. But Morel is the enemy. Athos, Porthos and the Baron are our priority, aren't they?"

"Yeah, who are you to tell me that?" Tréville just hissed, and dug his heels into his horses flanks, forcing it into a faster pace. He could hear the conversation going on behind his back.

"Are you sure?" Francois asked sceptically.

"No," d'Artagnan replied honestly, and rolled his eyes. "Go. We'll meet you at the Baron's."

Aramis underlined his friend's statement with a short nod.

"Warn the Baron, and save our brothers. We'll be there as fast as we can."

With that, Francois tilted his head one last time and steered his horse after Tréville.

"What was this about?" d'Artagnan asked almost accusingly. "You wanted us two to be alone, right?"

"You have always been too smart for your own good," Aramis commented breathlessly.

"You doubt that the Captain will be able to ignore his past with this Morel, am I right?" d'Artagnan dug deeper.

"I think the Captain is going to do his duty. And I think that he's going to try to negotiate."

D'Artagnan drew in a deep breath. "I see. So, you have a plan?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "A plan?"

"On how to rescue Athos and Porthos."

Aramis grimaced, and d'Artagnan noticed his hand pressed against his side, where the blood was staining his hands red by now. "Not yet. But when did one of our plans ever worked out anyway?"

D'Artagnan managed a tired grin. "Morel and his men stabbed you, almost killed me and who knows what Athos and Porthos have to endure." It was a statement and a question at the same time, and Aramis did not need any explanations. He nodded, clenched his teeth and grabbed the reins with both hands. His face was a cold mask, one d'Artagnan had rarely seen on Aramis.

"The time for negotiations is over."

Athos was shaking. It was not only the exhaustion he felt in every bone of his body, nor was it fear or pain. He was cold. It had started raining, and while on the bright side, the rain washed away the blood stains on his upper body, it also drenched his clothes and pulled him into an ice-cold embrace.

"I do believe the wound stopped bleeding, Monsieur," the boy next to Athos spoke up shyly. "But it's looking nasty. Should the negotiations fail, I doubt that you'll be able to fight."

Athos threw a side-glance at him, but didn't comment. Right now, he wasn't even sure he could hold a sword. But he desperately awaited the adrenaline of a fight, in order to give him the strength to make a stand of his own.

A small part of him was uneasy, because there hasn't been a sign of Tréville or Porthos yet. He didn't dare to hope for Aramis or d'Artagnan. Last time he had seen them, they had been carried down the river, both injured and without resistance. As much as it pained him to admit, he wasn't sure he'd ever see them again.

Athos now grimaced as he tried to scramble to his feet, fully aware of the multiple weapons aimed at him. They weren't near the docks anymore, but they had moved to the outskirts of the city, and in the distance, Athos was sure to be able to make out the Red Star, their destination.

Out of nowhere, Morel appeared in front of him. He was bellowing orders through the rows of his men, who were all busy with grabbing different farming tools to their protection.

"Come here." Morel grabbed Athos' arm, with an unusual care, and guided, yes even supported the injured musketeer over to what looked like tent whose walls were missing. It was nothing but a canopy, but at least it provided shelter from the rain.

Athos was released and he sank to the ground immediately, leaning heavily against a wooden pillar.

"What do you want?" Athos was tired of the talking, and he was tired of Morel's charade.

Morel took a chair and sat down in front of Athos, his eyes worriedly locked on the bloodied mess that was Athos' shoulder. "Is the pain bearable?"

"My anger helps to ignore the pain," Athos countered mildly, and refused to look into his captor's eyes.

There was a short moment of silence, and judging by Morel's behaviour, Athos guessed that he had made up his mind a few times before posing this question.

"How did you know about the trade deals de Villiers has with Madrid?" he asked out of nowhere. The question took Athos by surprise, but he hid it very well.

He stoically avoided Morel's gaze, and said nothing. He owed this man no explanation.

"You have no idea how long it took me to get this information. This one information I was able to use to my advantage." Morel didn't sound furious, but this forced kindness in his voice disturbed Athos even more. "And you just walk in here and claim you know about all of this. The connections to Madrid, established by the Queen herself. Nobody but the Baron and his closest allies knew about this. So how does a musketeer receive this information?"

"It shouldn't bother you," Athos said coldly, but Morel wasn't ready to give in yet.

"But it does. You have nothing to lose, Athos."

Athos hesitated, but then he sighed. Every minute he spent in here with Morel could buy Tréville and the others more time.

"De Villiers had a partner, you know," he began with a raspy voice. Morel raised a finger and offered him his water can. Without thinking twice, Athos grabbed it, and dumped half of its content down his throat.

"I know about this partner," Morel said slowly. "The Comte de la Fère, as far as I know. A difficult man. But that's not of importance anymore, right?" Morel furrowed his brow. "The old Comte de la Fère is dead, and his older son has abandoned his title and his estate."

"True. But his son has known about those negotiations."

"How do you...ah." Morel didn't act so shocked. "I should've known. The way you act, the way you talk. I should've noticed sooner."

Athos closed his eyes. All he wanted to do now was to get some rest, but first, he had a role to full fill. "It doesn't matter. It has no relation to your trifle with the Baron."

Morel shook his head absent-mindedly. "No, that's right. You're going to stay here while I go and make my offer to the Baron. I need you alive, and you need to be safe for now."

Athos threw a look at the angry mob that surrounded them, and just raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not used to put pressure on the Baron?" Athos couldn't help but be surprised, even though he hid it famously.

Morel shook his head. "No, you're my insurance. We are protesting, and we'll lure the Baron out of his hiding. I want a fair duel." He made a short pause and swallowed hard, as if he was uncomfortable with his own actions. "With you amongst my people, the Baron won't dare to openly attack my men."

"Why would you think that the Baron gives a damn about the life of a musketeer?" Athos wanted to know. "This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Because it's no secret that you musketeers enjoy the respect and toleration of the majesties in this country," Morel sneered.

"We're the King's guard," Athos replied dryly, and shifted his weight so he wouldn't crumble to the ground. "I think we are entitled to the Palace's respect."

Morel pressed his lips together, and visibly tried to ignore Athos' statement.

"Those people you see around you – they are not only here for de Villiers."

"Get to the point," Athos snapped weakly, his eyes nervously scanning the surrounding men, all armed with rusty rapiers, torches and pitchforks.

Morel shrugged. "You didn't notice the similarities between all these people?"

"I'm from Paris," Athos simply growled, as if it was the answer to Morel's question.

"You see, Arture here," and he gestured towards a bull of a man, armed with a giant pitchfork and a bright torch, "his brother has been captured and enslaved by Spanish criminals. And Giroud," and he pointed towards another man, a younger one, who looked more reluctant than the others. "He lost his wife and his two sons a couple of months ago, when those Spanish raiders destroyed everything within their reach near Nantes."

"Like I said," Athos' voice almost got lost under the tumult. "You're not fond of the Baron's connections to Madrid, so it would seem. You all hold a grudge against him because you think the Spanish are our enemies. And that's what you call treason? Really?"

"Yes, and who gave him this damn connections to Madrid?" Morel added calmly. His calmness was disturbing. "Who arranged all of it?"

Athos closed his eyes, and he could feel a phantom fist tearing out his guts. "The Queen," he whispered, and shakily released his breath as realization hit him. "You're protesting against the Queen."

"Not we," Morel corrected. "They. I only care for de Villiers. And my task will be done once I demanded justice."

"You'll kill him," Athos started dryly. "Because you have history with his wife? Because of that, really?"

Morel's fingers twitched, but he had himself under control. "How do you know about Lucienne?"

"Your men may be strong, but they never learnt to use their brains. They enjoy talking about your secrets with the others way too openly, Morel."

Morel growled, but Athos continued.

"Your Baroness is married. Get over it. The world is as it is."

But his opponent just shook his head again, and tore down the scarf around his neck. Like the one half of his face, it was covered in scar tissue. And the scars that gave him the distorted and crooked grin now gave him a look of insanity, in combination with those wide-open eyes.

"I paid for my love for Lucienne. I begged for mercy, because I loved her." His voice was trembling. "I paid for it, and I moved on."

He came nearer, and while Athos thought for a second that Morel was going to strangle him, the man almost broke down in front of him. His injured leg did not carry the weight anymore, and Athos was sure that his eyes were wet with unshed tears. But those were angry tears, and the man in front of Athos suddenly became a lot more dangerous.

"I'm not going to kill him because he wedded his betrothed all those years ago, who happened to be the love of my life. No." Morel trembled, and his face was clouded by shadows, the wet and dirty hair covering it like a curtain. The next words sounded like a growl.

"But he'll pay for my daughter. You have my word. I'll unleash hell upon him."

Tréville and Francois galloped through the gates of the Red Star, that had just been opened for them by the Baron's guards. The estate had received its name thanks to its gardens, a plain, green square right in front of the mansion. In the middle of it, there was a little stone, with a little sign carved into it. A star, the one that had given the estate its name. Many legends referred to this star, but the most famous one, and the one Tréville happened to know to be true, was that the red colour of the stone came from the blood of the de Villiers enemies. A great-grandfather of the current Baron is said to have challenged an unfaithful French commander in his gardens, and the blood prints that have never been washed off are his.

But Tréville had no time to waste another thought on this ancient building. He jumped off his horse with elegance, and he headed past the guards into the main room, the musketeer Francois on his heels.

Tréville ran up the stairs, guessing that the Baron's office was there, just as it had been last time. He was right.

He almost crashed into the room, and was greeted with a short surprised scream from the Baroness de Villiers and a gaping Baron de Villiers. The Baron was a couple of years older than Tréville, with short hair and a grey beard. His clothes represented his title, with his neat, white pants and the red vest, ornated with golden embroideries.

Suddenly, one of the servants of the Baron ran into the room behind Tréville, and announced the visit while he was gasping for air.

"Monsieur, you ... have visitors. Captain Tréville of the King's musketeers."

The expression on the Baron's face changed immediately. He relaxed visibly, and walked over to shake the Captain's hand.

"Your timing is good, Captain."

Tréville didn't waste one second, and he came straight to the point. "There is an angry mob, a possible army marching towards your estate. They could be here any moment."

"They are already here, Captain," Francois suddenly chipped in from the side and now Tréville too was able to filter the noises. He heard screaming and shouting, apparently from all directions.

"You don't seem surprised," Tréville addressed the Baron again.

"No, Captain," the Baron said sourly. "I was prepared for this."

Tréville raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you are?"

The Baron nodded. "I have been warned that there will be a revolt. People protesting, maybe even the use of violence."

Francois furrowed his brow. "We have heard about what has happened between you and Morel, but..."

"Wait, Morel?" The Baron's voice was cold as ice, and his eyes flashed with anger. "What is Morel's role in this?"

The Captain withstood the nobleman's judging look. "Morel is leading them."

Now the Baron seemed equally confused. "I was told that this is a protest against the Queen. Not this personal vendetta of Morel's."

Tréville's facial features derailed. "Wait, the Queen?" All kinds of alarm bells rang in his head.

"Can't you hear what they are shouting?" the Baron forced himself to look disgusted. Tréville knew this man good enough to know that he did not really care for the Queen and an open attack against her, but he feared for his position and reputation, as his following words proved.

"Captain, I was warned, and I will do something. I'm sided with the Crown, and I'll protect it against its enemies."

Francois, standing in the corner of the room, snorted. "Then you should reconsider your definition of evil."

Silence. Tréville tried to punish Francois with the power of a single look, but the Baron was faster. "What did you just say?"

Francois seemed to hesitate for a second, but eventually, he straightened up.

"With all my respect, Monsieur," he started, and bowed his head respectfully. "But Morel may be using angry, hurt and disappointed people to his advantage. You don't know what he told them. So if we can prevent a fight, we should do it."

"I can win this fight," the Baron whispered. "I can end this. I can prove myself to the Crown, and end this traitor Morel once and for all."

"Listen, I know Morel," Tréville cut in sharply, eyeing the Baron intensely. "He is an intelligent man. I'll talk to him, and find out what it is he truly seeks here."

"That's no secret," the Baron spat. "He has been after me ever since I released him nine years ago. He shouldn't have been after my wife."

"What you did to him isn't important now," the captain insisted. "You know as well as I do that with the amount of men gathered down there, he has the high ground. We can't get out once they are in." He made a short pause to add some weight to his words. "He could just wipe you out. Question is, why doesn't he just do so?"

The Baron bit his lip and murdered Tréville with his eyes, but didn't say a word. The captain pulled his hair in desperation and turned towards the Baroness. Tréville remembered her as the beauty she used to be, but it seemed as if she had suffered terribly in the marriage. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her posture wasn't nearly as elegant as it used to be all these years ago. Her red hair had become very dark, and her dress was dirty and worn out.

"He wants a fair duel," Lucienne finally whispered, her teary eyes locked on the chain around her neck. "He wants to look my husband in the eye when he kills him."

Tréville gulped as he threw a glance over the railing of the balcony. Down in the gardens of the estate, he could only see fire, steel and angry faces. The mob had arrived. And Tréville knew he did not only have to fear for his safety, but for the others as well.

A voice rose over the riot. It was terribly raspy, and, more importantly, Tréville closed his eyes because he knew that voice. But he had never heard it so distorted with anger.

"I request a meeting with the Baron, Eduarde Robert de Villiers. He stands accused of treason, and he stands accused of murder." The mob erupted with anger. They lashed out with their rapiers, and one or two pistol shots tore through the night. "Should he not be willing to show himself, I should point out that I have three members of his household, as well as a musketeer in my captivity." Tréville couldn't see where Morel was standing in the crowd. The voice sounded like it echoed over the whole area.

Only one musketeer? That meant either Porthos or Athos had been able to escape Morel's clutches. Or they have already been killed.

Tréville shook his head to dispel the thought. No. Morel was a good man. He would never do that to a musketeer. But on the other hand, he wasn't sure he knew that man down there.

"I suggest that the decision is made quickly. Otherwise, one of my prisoners will pay the price."

Tréville was tense, and he quickly looked over to the Baron to await his reaction. The nobleman just huffed, and turned his back on the crowd.

"You're not accepting the terms of a simple negotiation?" Tréville asked. "it could buy us time. I can do it for you, if you don't want to risk your life for it."

The Baron walked over to his wife, and gently took her hand.

"That's very generous of you, Captain, but I am in no need of negotiations. I don't need Morel's conditions, or whatever else he so smartly developed. The fight is unavoidable, I'm afraid. These people out there, they'll have to pay the price of whatever Morel did to win them for his cause."

"I don't understand," Tréville said coldly, and used all of his authority. He couldn't grasp what the Baron was trying to tell him.

The nobleman just smirked. "I'll have no choice but to eliminate this filthy pack. The Queen has been gracious to me, and what loyal citizen would I be if I tolerate such a demonstration?"

"You are outnumbered," Tréville commented, gritting his teeth. The Baron was really testing his patience.

"I will receive help from Paris," de Villiers replied calmly, and he threw an amused look out on the crowd. "They should arrive any time now. My partner there assured me he'd know when this revolt would take place. He'll send help, I have his word."

"Your partner..." Tréville repeated slowly, to elicit the rest of the sentence out of the nobleman.

De Villiers smirked. "Cardinal Richelieu, Captain. We can count on him to send us support. And then, Morel will be the one who is terribly outnumbered."

Chapter Text

Porthos dug his heels deep into the horses' flanks. The animal neighed and even sped up a bit more. Porthos had no idea if he was going the right way, he wasn't sure if this road was leading him to Chablis. Orientation had never been his strong suit.

On the other hand, getting to Chablis wasn't his number one priority now. Ever since he had left Morel and the Red Guards behind, he had known that there was a shadow following him. Whoever it was, he probably thought that he was being smart, and he must've thought Porthos would be stupid enough to be fooled. However, Porthos was a musketeer, and his senses were on high alert, especially when he was alone with no one else to watch his back.

As careful as he managed in the strong wind, he turned his head to the side, to get a glimpse of his pursuer. He was riding a good distance away, but he had been catching up once he had realized that Porthos knew about him.

Suddenly, he heard a gunshot, and out of instincts he ducked his head. The bullet missed him by far, but his shadow now made very clear what his intention was. Porthos could hear more horses nearby, but he couldn't see them nor its riders.

Another gunshot pierced the air. Porthos cursed and ducked his head, and this time, the bullet went into the ground only a couple of meters to his right. He had no pistol, so he was unable to return fire.

Then, he thought of something else entirely. He tore on the reins and with a terrified scream, his horse dug its hooves into the grass and came to an abrupt stop. The rider behind Porthos wasn't so quick. He galloped straight past the musketeer, not without firing another shot which fortunately did not find its goal.

Porthos now turned the sides. He started to chase the one who had been chasing him, and every now and again, he had to duck his head to avoid getting shot in the head.

That's when the source of the other hooves sounds became visible. Three riders stormed out of the forest near Chablis and their horses galloped straight at Porthos and the other man.

"Porthos!" one of the figures shouted, and Porthos was sure to know that voice. The rider was waving violently, and he understood the instruction immediately. He steered his horse sharply to the right when the hail of bullets rained down.

The pursuer got knocked out of his saddle due to the impact and stayed motionless on the ground. Without wasting one second, Porthos jumped out of the saddle and ran over to the body, tearing the rapier from the weapon belt before he knelt down in the grass.

The man was lying face down in the grass, and judging by the bullet holes in his back, Porthos knew that he was beyond saving. He pulled him over by the shoulder, and once he recognized him, he couldn't help but sigh.

It was the Red Guard from earlier. The one Porthos had interrogated and presumably knocked unconscious. Apparently, he had tried to follow Porthos and get all the information on the musketeers he needed. Porthos was a compassionate soul, but he did feel no remorse. This man should've known that he couldn't take down the musketeers alone.

Porthos now stood up and faced the three riders that approached him. Their leader wore a uniform like Porthos, and he would recognize that facial expression everywhere.

"Révier," Porthos breathed in surprise, and recognized the two men behind Révier as well, both also wearing a musketeer pauldron. "And Michel and Laurent! What on earth are you doing here?"

Révier, still busy trying to calm his horse, cleared his throat nervously."Tréville ordered me to get Michel and Laurent from Tonnerre. But Porthos...we have been looking for you all over the place! Where's Athos? And d'Artagnan?"

Porthos bit his lip. "Athos is still in captivity. The man who ambushed us is planning an attack on the Baron de Villiers. He is in Auxerre."

Révier furrowed his brow. "Then, my apologies for the question, but what are you doing here if Athos is in Auxerre?"

"Getting help," Porthos snapped surly. "With Aramis and d'Artagnan killed or missing, the only one I could think of was Tréville. I overheard someone saying that he is in Chablis."

Révier tightened his grip around the reins. "Well, we just came from Chablis. I was told that the Captain and the others left for Auxerre this afternoon."

"Damn it," Porthos growled, and without hesitation, he mounted his horse again. Then, he froze. "Wait. The others?"

Révier nodded. "At least Aramis and Francois."

Porthos took a moment to process the information. "Wait, Aramis is alive?"

Révier nodded slowly. "We dragged him out of the river. He's badly injured, but I was told he left Chablis together with the Captain."

"And d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked, his voice full of hope. To his dismay, Révier grimaced.

"I have no information on d'Artagnan, I fear. We just were on the road to Auxerre, when we heard the turmoil."

Porthos scratched his beard and closed his eyes, thinking. "I see. Well, there's a huge group of people, marching against the Baron de Villiers in Auxerre. I bet Tréville is there, and Athos has been shot. He's still in captivity. I..." His voice broke, and he looked away as if ashamed. "I was forced to leave him behind."

Révier ignored Porthos' facial expression and reached over to pat his back. "Which gives you a good chance to get him out of there." His gaze swerved over to the man he had shot off his horse. "Can you explain what the Red Guard has to do with it?" he wanted to know, but Porthos just growled.

"No. They seem to be on Morel's side though, they are supporting his troops against the Baron."

Révier exhaled slowly, and exchanged some worried looks with Michel and Laurent.

"What's the plan?" Révier asked, as he handed one of his pistols to his brother-in-arms. He knew that he and Porthos were equal, but they all knew that there was an unspoken hierarchy within the ranks of the musketeers, and no position was undeserved. Whenever Athos was there, he usually had the command, but Porthos being the only one left of the Inseperables, the other musketeers trusted him to make the right decisions.

Porthos growled. "To Auxerre, now."

D'Artagnan was close to losing his patience. He and Aramis had finally made it to Auxerre. It was late in the evening, but it hadn't been hard to find this Morel and his allies. It was a larger group of people, almost all of them carrying torches, enlightening the darkness of the night. They were right outside of the Baron's estate, yelling and stamping the ground. He and Aramis were hiding at a safe distance, behind a wooden fence that surrounded an apple garden.

It hadn't taken long for them to discover Athos. Between all those people running around, yelling hectically or screaming paroles against the Baron, there was a group of people on their knees, in the middle of the riot, unarmed and bound tightly.

Athos was unrecognizable. Even though it was hard to see in the dark, and even worse with all the smoke from the torches, Athos' posture was one d'Artagnan would recognize everywhere.

"He's wounded," Aramis analysed worriedly, his eyes locked on his friend. D'Artagnan furrowed his brow.

"I overheard Morel's men talking about someone shooting a musketeer...," he remembered slowly. He threw Aramis' a sceptic look. "You can tell? From this distance?"

Aramis managed something that looked like a forced and crooked smirk. "I'm a marksman, d'Artagnan. My eyes are my greatest gift." His face turned dark again. "Where is Porthos?"

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes and let them swerve over the open area in front of him, but he wasn't able to make out the fourth missing friend. It's not like he was easy to miss.

"I can't see him. He's not with Athos."

Aramis worried features turned to stone. "Athos needs treatment," he whispered. "Urgently." He exchanged a quick look with his friend. "Someone has to go in there and help him. Those bastards don't give a damn."

D'Artagnan shot Aramis a look as if to question his sanity.

"Come on, you can't be serious."

"Do you see that?" Aramis next to him clenched his teeth, and d'Artagnan followed his friend's gaze. Not far away from Athos and the other prisoners, he could see a couple of men in uniforms talking to someone who d'Artagnan thought to be Morel. D'Artagnan growled.

"Red Guards? What are they doing here?"

Aramis shook his head worriedly. "I don't know. But with the Cardinal involved, this fight is taken to a whole different level."

"It doesn't change our priorities," d'Artagnan stated, and looked at Aramis for confirmation.

His friend nodded. "No, it doesn't." His eyes were locked on Athos in the distance. "Alright, I'll go in there, and see if I can tend to Athos' wounds. In the meantime...," but d'Artagnan didn't let him finish.

"This isn't a plan," d'Artagnan exclaimed. "This is an announced failure, and you know it."

"Thanks for your confidence," Aramis commented dryly. "I don't know about you, but all I care about now is getting Athos out alive." He made a short pause. "And if we wait any longer, you can scratch 'alive'."

"And what about this, heh?" d'Artagnan violently slapped Aramis' hand away from the wound he had kept the pressure on. The bandage that had covered the marksman's side was soaked with blood, and d'Artagnan shockingly realized that Aramis wasn't even trying to hide the pain he was in. His brow was furrowed, and his lids red.

"That's nothing," Aramis now replied coldly, and quickly covered his side again.

"You think you can fool the Captain, fine," d'Artagnan hissed. "But don't try to fool me, Aramis. We will come up with a better plan, one that leads to the two of us getting Athos out. Together."

Suddenly, Aramis' hand locked around d'Artagnan's wrist, and he looked so serious it almost made d'Artagnan uncomfortable.

"I don't know how much time we have left. I'm going in there, and I'm going to take care of Athos. And you, my friend, you'll arrange a distraction. One I can use to get both me and Athos out of there."

"And how do you plan on doing this?" D'Artagnan asked mercilessly. "You think you're just going to walk in there and ask politely whether you can treat the musketeer's wounds?"

"I can be very convincing," Aramis replied dryly, and d'Artagnan just snorted, and threw his hands up in the air.

"You're a musketeer," d'Artagnan hissed as if it was news to them all. "They'll kill you as soon as they see you."

Aramis hesitated, and put a finger up to signal his friend to wait. With a tortured look, he took off his pauldron and his doublet, and almost toppled over when the pain from his wound became unbearable. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands firmly pressed against his bloodied side.

D'Artagnan knew that his words would be to no use, so he contented himself with laying a protective hand on his friend's shoulder until he had gathered himself again.

"That's your plan?" he eventually dared to ask. "You think you take off the uniform and you're no musketeer anymore?"

"I'll always be a musketeer," Aramis snapped weakly. "But I don't have to be recognized as one, right?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "Aramis, you must think those people are beyond stupid!"

His friend innocently raised his hands. "That's what I'm counting on. I'll go in there and save our dear Athos, and you go and arrange a distraction." He laid a hand on the Gascon's shoulder. "That's all we can do. Athos need us. Not in an hour, but now. It'll be you once more who has to bail both of us out."

D'Artagnan ran a hand over his face in frustration. "I'm never getting used to that, and you shouldn't either." He scowled, with a disapproving look on his face, until he sighed.

"Fine. Don't make me regret that," d'Artagnan added with a raised hand, but Aramis just smirked.

"Oh, you will." He limped out into the night, before he turned around one last time. "Oh, and d'Artagnan?" For the first time in a long time, d'Artagnan was certain to hear Aramis slightly scared. "Don't take too long, yes?"

Athos released a stuttering breath. His surroundings were blurred, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The screaming and yelling of the men were muffled, but with a heavy heart, he filtered out their words.

Those were paroles against the Queen, and not ones demanding justice or asking for a stop of the Spanish trade deals. No, the words spoken were insults, racist and derogative. The Baron would have no choice but to act if he wanted to uphold his position and his trade deals.

Athos still wasn't sure what Morel's true intentions were. After he had told Athos that he'd take revenge for his daughter, he had ordered that Athos would be taken back into the crowd. Apparently, he had decided that it would be the place where Athos would be the safest, though the musketeer sincerely doubted that.

"The Baron will have no choice but to negotiate." Morel was pacing restlessly in front of Athos, and he barely seemed to notice anything around him. "With the Red Guard by my side, he'll have to surrender. And I can finally ask for the duel he owes me for almost a decade."

Athos couldn't help but roll his eyes. The pain in his shoulder had increased, and he was so exhausted by the sheer effort to stay upright on his knees.

"You must think I'm a madman, right?" Morel just didn't stop talking. He was a lot more nervous than he liked to admit. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same if our situations were reversed. I know you would've. Don't even try to lie to me!"

"I can assure you I would never let innocent people suffer for my personal purposes," Athos answered dryly.

Morel looked affronted. "If it was your family, you would understand. I suppose you know what they say about the son of de Villier's old partner? The Comte de la Fère? The wife murdering the brother. Recall what it felt like, and double it. Then you might understand what I'm feeling."

"Careful," Athos hissed. "It is dangerous territory you are entering here."

"How insensitive of me," Morel commented, and he seemed to mean it. "But you are blinded by what has happened to your brothers-in-arms. You blame me for it. You can't judge me."

Athos looked at him with tired eyes. "You don't see the irony, do you?"

"Boss!" One of Morel's men interrupted them, and came running up to his superior, one hand on his ribs. "Boss, we caught this one sneaking around here. He claims he's a citizen of Auxerre." A short pause. "A medic of some sorts. He said he wanted to help out, look after our injured."

Morel raised an eyebrow. "Then let him do his work." His eyes caught sight of something behind the men's backs, and he let out an annoyed sigh. "Why did you capture him?"

"The man has multiple, fresh wounds," the henchman answered. "Why would a medic carry those?"

Morel seemed to be sceptic too. "You're implying that there is a spy amongst us?"

His follower shrugged. He didn't seem to care. "Perhaps. He said he wanted to look after the prisoners. It made me suspicious."

"Get him over here," Morel grunted.

Athos watched how they hauled a man into the front row, and for a second, Athos had no idea who it was. The man was shaking, one hand pressed against a bloodied side, and his hair was plastered to his forehead, covering the eyes in shadows. But Athos was able to ignore the dirt and the blood, and within moments, he recognized the man.

It was Aramis.

Morel instantly turned towards Athos and pointed at him with his pistol. "You know this man, Athos?"

Athos glared at him and clenched his teeth, stoically avoiding Aramis' gaze. "No."

"He is one of the musketeers who we thought Renard had killed in Chablis," one of Morel's men cut in and Athos closed his eyes. "They have travelled together."

Aramis was forced down on his knees next to Athos. His hands were tightly bound behind his back, and his hair was sticking to his sweaty forehead. Out of all people, Aramis was the one he had least expected to show up.

"You have to be Morel," Aramis panted and shook his head to get rid of the hair in his eyes. "Tréville sends his regards."

Morel's face turned to stone. "Tréville?" he repeated slowly. "He's here?"

Aramis snorted. "You really thought you could attack his musketeers and he wouldn't even notice?" he asked. Morel said nothing, so Aramis continued. "No matter what has happened between you two, let me assure you that the Captain won't spare you."

Morel stared at Aramis, his eyes wide open and his hands twitching indecisively. Then, he turned on the heel and headed towards the tent where he and Athos had talked earlier.

"I thought you were dead." Athos' voice showed no trace of emotion, just the usual, slightly mocking tone he naturally had in it.

Aramis shook his hair out of his face and grimaced. "Yeah, likewise."

Athos waited until most of the men around them couldn't hear them anymore. Then, he slowly bent over, and tilted his head towards Aramis.

"What on earth are you doing here then?"

Aramis rolled his eyes, and out of the corners of his eyes, Athos could see that he had a tiny little blade in his hands he now used to cut the ropes. "This is a rescue, my ungrateful friend."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Rescue's working out well, I guess?" He shot a look at Aramis' bound wrists.

"It may not have been the best plan," Aramis admitted, and continued to cut the ropes. Athos could see the sweat on his forehead, and he saw how exhausting it seemed to be for the musketeer, whose side was sluggishly bleeding and drenching his clothes in a dark red colour.

"I wouldn't have guessed," Athos replied sarcastically.

Suddenly, a thought seemed to pass Aramis' mind. He stopped in his motion and his head shot up, his dirty and bloodied face turned towards Athos.

"Athos, where is Porthos?" he asked urgently. "Is he...?"

"Escaped," Athos murmured, as he blinked against the dizziness in his head. "He's out there, somewhere. Hopefully, he isn't consumed by idleness."

Aramis threw Athos a glare. "You really believe that Porthos has idle hands?" he asked and snorted with amusement.

Athos threw his head back into his neck and stared up into the starless sky. "So," he asked with a raspy voice. "What's your rescue plan?"

The marksman was still busy trying to cut the ropes around his hands, and Athos didn't miss the pained grunts that escaped his throat. "I've got to admit, getting caught wasn't part of my plan, but at least we have d'Artagnan and the captain to count on. Oh, and Porthos, for sure. I'm just waiting for the second he runs in here, wielding his sword like a madman..." Aramis' voice got lost under the noise and he turned his head, as if to indeed look for Porthos' entrance.

"Come on, let me have a look at your shoulder, "Aramis demanded suddenly.

"What?" Athos couldn't follow. Aramis finally managed to free himself from the ropes and rubbed his red wrists.

"I'm here to make sure you don't die until d'Artagnan finds a way to get us both out."

"You..." Athos wasn't sure whether to be angry or impressed. He decided to go with angry. "You came here just to take care of my injury?" He didn't even hide how pissed he was.

Aramis shrugged. "Listen, spare me your lecture Athos. It's not going to change anything anyway."

"Why?" Athos' question was simple, and if Aramis' hadn't paid attention, he would've missed it.

He just looked up into Athos' pale eyes, while he started cutting the ropes around Athos' hands too. The mob around them was too busy with themselves to have noticed it, they just made sure they stayed on the spot.

"You know me," Aramis merely retorted, and there was no trace of regret in his voice. Just tiredness and exhaustion. "You know why."

Athos closed his eyes. "I thought I witnessed your most foolish moment, but apparently, I was mistaken."

Aramis snorted. "You're so ungrateful." With a snap, the ropes around Athos' wrists loosened. The swordsman immediately leaned forward, to catch himself in time to prevent his total descent to the ground. He barely noticed Aramis' hands locked around his shoulders.

Athos could feel Aramis' hands probing his shoulder, and seconds later, he could feel a cold liquid running down his chest. He jerked in surprise but didn't have the energy to protest.

"Water, just water," Aramis reassured him.

"How did you...?" Athos didn't bother to finish the question, he knew Aramis knew what he was going to ask. How come Aramis hadn't been searched once he had been captured?

"They aren't exactly the brightest people I've ever met," Aramis explained. While he continued to steady Athos with one hand and take care of the wound with the other, he lowered his voice.

"Athos, why are they yelling out insults against the Queen? Are they protesting against her?"

Athos managed a brief nod and squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of pain passed through his shoulder.

"I thought this was a personal crusade against the Baron," Aramis continued, and Athos knew that it was Aramis' way to distract him from the treatment. But it didn't matter, because it worked.

"For Morel, it is," Athos growled out between clenched teeth. "But this mob is acting this way because they disagree with the trade deals the Baron made with Madrid."

"And how does this concern the Queen?" Aramis dug deeper.

"She...arranged it," Athos murmured. "The Red Guard..."

"You think the Cardinal is using this opportunity to spur on the revolts against a Spanish queen?"

Athos grimaced when Aramis tore on his shoulder, and he attentively ignored the apology his friend mumbled.

"The Cardinal is a lying snake," Athos rasped. "But he's not stupid. Why should he so openly try another move against the Queen?"

"You want to know what the desire for revenge makes people do?" Aramis asked and Athos managed to look up into his friend's eyes. "Then just take a look around you."

"Point taken," Athos countered, and with Aramis' help, he managed to straighten up again. Even though it wasn't quite easy to determine who was supporting who here. Aramis looked like he had a rough couple of days too, to say the least.

Suddenly, a shot went off in the distance, and the atmosphere changed at an instant. They heard the unsheathing of weapons, and before Athos could even blink, he was hearing the noises he was used to hear on a battlefield. He heard the clang of steel, he heard the cries of men. He could smell the blood and sweat, and the frustration and anger was in the air. He could feel it.

He and Aramis had no choice. With a lot of effort, they hauled themselves up into a standing position, and with a good amount of luck, they managed to avoid the random blades that crossed their path, even though it wasn't quite easy to make out which blade belonged to whom.

Then, an explosion went off, not very far away. They ducked their heads, and while everybody was trying to figure out where to go next, nobody paid attention to Athos or Aramis.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis whispered next to Athos, and together, they limped through the angry mob of people wielding swords and pitchforks. Athos focused on getting Aramis out of there, and he knew that Aramis was doing the same vice versa. That's how they always worked, without even having to say so out loud. Athos wanted to point out that if that was d'Artagnan and Aramis' master plan, they really needed a lecture, but he saved that for later. If they were going to make it out of here.

And then, Athos had no time to react. The minute he protected himself against a rapier flung at him, something hit him hard against his injured shoulder. A white, hot flash of pain and he could feel his knees buckling and his descent to the ground was immediate.

"Shit, Athos?" Aramis cursed vividly and quickly bent over him, checking his wound.

For a second, there was silence, and then, Morel Dupois appeared by their side and Aramis growled in frustration. There was no way of getting Athos out while their captor was watching them personally.

"Is he...?" Morel asked with honest concern in his voice, and Aramis, to his own relief, shook his head.

"No, he's still conscious. Barely."

Morel gritted his teeth. "Stay alive, both of you. The Baron didn't accept my offer, his troops just attacked. Whatever you do, just stay alive."

He wanted to turn away and rejoin his forces on the frontline, but he was interrupted by a loud bang followed by multiple screams. Morel's men retreated a few meters, and one of his henchmen appeared out of nowhere next to his boss, bloodied and out of breath.

"What are you doing?" Morel managed to hide the confusion in his voice very well, but it was written all over his face. "What is this about?"

"The Red Guards, Boss!" the man was barely able to catch his breath. "Back there. One minute, they were fighting at our sides, and the next one, they turn their weapons against us." He drew in a deep breath to calm himself. "They already killed two of us."

"I don't understand," Morel murmured. "No, no, this doesn't make any sense. He said he'd help me. He said I'd have to..." His mumbled words got lost under the riot that erupted around them.

Aramis lifted his gaze, and stared at Morel from his place on the ground.

"I hate to be the bearer of this message, Monsieur," Aramis said with a disgusting politeness, and looked at Morel with dark eyes, his hand still reassuringly on Athos' shoulder. "But you have just been another pawn a game you didn't know you were playing."

Chapter Text

"What's going on down there?" Tréville tried his best to get on the balcony, but the Baron's guards were blocking his way. He whirled around to face the Baron. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," the Baron replied coldly. "But Morel seems to have put his faith in the wrong person. He was so foolish to believe for one second that the Red Guard, yes, that the Cardinal would support his cause."

"So what?" Tréville shouted, and he didn't even try to hide his anger. "You have him outnumbered. And now? You're just going to forget that Morel has hostages? You're going to ignore that there are innocent people down there?"

"I have no power here, Captain," the Baron explained with a disgusting patience. "The Red Guard is just following orders."

"Don't try to outsmart me," Tréville hissed in his fury. "You have enough control over your own men, who are protecting your estate and are side by side with the Red Guard now."

The Baron rolled his eyes and raised his hands in refusal. "Sorry. The Cardinal is trusting on me not to stand in his way."

Tréville snorted angrily and grabbed Francois by the arm, in an attempt to make it past the nobleman and out of the door. But the Baron's guards blocked his way, and seemed to be frozen on the spot.

"What are you doing?" the Baron hissed.

"If you are unwilling to do something, I will," Tréville snapped surly and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Let me through."

"You can't go down there and fight against the Red Guard and Morel alone," the Baron sneered coldly.

Tréville straightened up with all the authority he could muster, a dangerous expression on his face. "You may be enjoying the Cardinal's respect, but don't you dare to think you deserve mine. I'm a direct representative of his majesty, King Louis. Deny my wishes, and you'll be up against the crown."

"It's the crown I'm protecting here," the Baron snarled and pointed towards the balcony. "I'm sorry. The Red Guard has its orders. There's nothing I can do."

"Call your forces back, and tell them to protect the civilians," Tréville ordered sharply, but the Baron shook his head, slowly but determined.

"The civilians who are marching against the Queen? I can't and won't protect them against the Cardinal's justice. You may go, Captain, and try to get your musketeers back. I'll help you. That's all I can promise."

Tréville scowled, and looked at the Baron and his wife. Lucienne just stood in the corner, gaping at Tréville and her husband, without uttering a single word.

"Captain, we have to get Athos or Porthos, whoever is down out of there!" Francois had raised his voice and completely ignored the nobleman's attempt to speak up again.

Francois too had a hand on his pistol, but eventually, the guards stepped aside and the Baron made an inviting gesture with his hand, the false politeness all over his face.

"After you, Monsieur Tréville."

In front of the Red Star, Athos was still on the ground. Aramis was kneeling by his side, roughly slapping Athos' face. Athos' bloodshot eyes opened widely and he gasped. Once his eyes fell on Aramis above him, he visibly relaxed.

"My apologies, my friend, but this is a very inconvenient time to take a nap," Aramis commented and reached out with his hand to help Athos sit up. Meanwhile, he turned his head back to Morel, whose eyes were locked on something only he could see.

"You seriously relied on the Cardinal to help you in a personal crusade against a French nobleman?" Aramis asked. He didn't show that he was a bit confused as well. He had seriously thought that the Red Guard was supporting Morel's plans. The second he had learnt that this was a protest against the Queen, he had thought this was another weak try of Richelieu to strike against the Queen. Apparently, he was mistaken.

"He...he said he'd help me. I owed it to him, and I paid my debt!" Morel looked so confused and shocked that Aramis almost had pity. "I don't understand!"

"He used you," Athos commented breathlessly. He had been out of it for most of the time, but he had quickly figured out what had happened. "Richelieu didn't care about you, or your plans against the Baron. He did not care about the injustice you claim has been done to you." Athos squeezed his eyes shot as he tried to catch his breath. "You were foolish to believe you were more than just a pawn in his game."

Morel's men had started to retreat, and they were all crowded together, with their backs to gate. Now, without the support of the Red Guard, it showed even better that Morel's men, in total, were nothing but scared farmers and angry villagers. They stood no chance against a barricade of armed soldiers.

The Red Guards came closer, and Morel started moving backwards too, dragging Aramis and Athos with him.

„Surrender. There's nothing else you can do. We'll get slaughtered!" Aramis yelled, but Morel just threw him an ice-cold glare.

"I won't give up this fight!" he spat. "The moment I give up, I lost."

"Great," Aramis muttered, still holding on to Athos' shoulder. "Then we're all dead men, but at least you can say you never gave up." He snorted angrily, and continued to limp backwards as the Red Guard approached.

"Where's d'Artagnan?" Athos whispered urgently; his voice so low only Aramis could hear him.

Aramis made a dismissive gesture with his hand, but the frown on his face told Athos everything he needed to know. "He's on his way," Aramis just said confidentially, but his worried eyes were still locked on Morel and the Red Guards.

Morel looked around hectically, and his men were yelling at him, asking for orders. Out of the corners of his eyes, Aramis could see one or two of Morel's men trying to escape, but the Red Guards were trained soldiers, and the few poor souls were shot before they even reached the gate.

Morel hectically looked from the left to the right, looking for a way to escape, but the Red Guard had them surrounded. They even managed to block the gate.

"Sorry, Morel," the apparent head of the Red Guards said with a calm voice. "But we have orders. No one in this revolt can survive. You marched against the Queen. A crime that needs to be punished."

"What kind of game is this?" Morel asked, clearly panicking by now, but he hid it under an indifferent facial expression.

The Red Guard just smirked and grabbed his pistol, aiming it at Morel.

Suddenly, Aramis could feel a movement to his right, and before he could say anything, Athos had limped forward, and he calmly, yes even with elegance, manoeuvred himself between the Red Guard and Morel, consciously stepping into the line of fire.

Aramis cursed him for a second, but when he caught Athos' gaze, he understood. Slowly but surely, he limped forward too and took his place at Athos' side.

"Out of my way, musketeers," their opponent snapped. "As much as I hate to say it, but this doesn't concern you. You may be spared."

Athos exchanged a quick glance with Aramis, and Aramis chuckled weakly. Even Athos managed a sly and pained grin.

"Sure," Aramis snorted and Athos continued.

"All I see right now is how you are preparing to kill innocent, simply mislead people."

"The only answer you seem to know is violence," Aramis added.

The Red Guard stared at them in disbelief. "I have my orders," he brought out between clenched teeth, but both Athos and Aramis didn't move an inch.

Athos withstood the accusing look of the Guard, and even managed to look menacing, despite his wounded state.

"And as loyal servants of the King, I fear we'll have to intervene," Athos stated.

It all happened very quickly. One moment, they were facing the Red Guards, waiting for another exchange of words so they could buy time, and the next, a big fire erupted behind the lines of the Red Guard, and isolated them from the estate.

The battle erupted like wildfire. Morel's men used the moment of distraction and launched a chain of attacks on the Red Guard, filled with fury and anger. To Aramis' surprise, it was Morel who handed each of them a weapon, before he too participated in the battle, not without shouting some orders at his men.

Despite the searing pain in his side, Aramis managed surprisingly well, and he fought off at least three members of the Red Guard without even killing them. Athos to his right struggled too, but he had always been a natural when it came to sword fighting. Still, once or twice, Athos stumbled, but he managed to block the final strikes in the last second.

But Aramis could do nothing but watch as Athos was attacked by a strange man, in noble clothing. Athos usually fought back with elegance, a leftover of his time as a Comte, but his opponent was strong. The musketeer successfully defended himself a few times, but the stranger wasn't injured like Athos, and with sheer power he landed a strike so hard it almost threw Athos off his feet.

Aramis didn't need to guess who this was, it had been so obvious, but still, he did not know why the Baron de Villiers himself would be attacking the King's musketeers.

Aramis could see Athos crumbling to the ground, and even though he started dragging himself backwards, the musketeer knew he stood no chance. Why was de Villiers attacking them? And where on earth was Tréville?

He received an answer a lot sooner than he had anticipated.

"You damn idiot!" Aramis heard Tréville, wherever he had come from, yell at the Baron. "Those are my musketeers you're attacking!"

The Baron dropped his sword arm immediately and backed away, but then he laid eyes upon Morel, who was regaining his footing the very moment.

"You," he hissed, and the year old feud between the Baron de Villiers and Morel Dupois flamed up again the moment the two men spotted each other. It felt like everything around them was forgotten at an instant. The two of them started circling each other like predators ready to strike, and Aramis' eyes were wide open with horror. But he was glued to the ground next to Athos, his hands firmly pressed against his friend's shoulder.

Morel raised his sword arm, his eye locked on the Baron. "We can end this here. No one else has to suffer."

The Baron answered with a hysterical, dry laugh. "It's you who started all of this, and it's you who was ready to pay with other men's lives. I'll happily be the one that brings you the justice you deserve."

The Baron made a step forward and pointed at Morel with the tip of his sword, ready to challenge his old foe to an old fashioned duel. He lashed out before Morel even had the chance to prepare himself, and for a moment, Aramis thought that the blade had found its target and this would be Morel's inglorious end.

But instead, they heard a clang of steel, and the Baron's sword collided with another one. Aramis, one blood-stained hand pressed against his side and the other one against Athos' shoulder, looked up, and wasn't surprised at all to see Tréville standing in front of the Baron, preventing the duel both men had been waiting for a long time.

"No!" the Captain ordered firmly, and allowed the Baron to take a step back. Then, he turned towards Morel.

"Drop your sword and run. Don't look back once. No man shall be killed tonight."

"I'm not leaving," Morel hissed, with an unexpected harshness in his voice. "Not after everything that has happened. It ends now Tréville, one way or another."

"For the last time, and I'm warning you, Morel: You have been played with, and you lost. This is your last chance. Drop your sword, and leave."

"You have no idea what he has done," Morel growled and gritted his teeth. "You are really going to stand against me now?

"Don't play this with me. You knew what you were getting into the moment you started your liaison with the Baroness," Tréville yelled at Morel. "You knew it was a crime to be punished, so don't act all this surprised now, Morel. I'm just surprised that you were stupid enough to come back here, and even walk over the bodies of my bloody musketeers!"

"I had orders to capture them, but I chose to let them live," Morel snapped back. "Out of respect for you, and out of respect for the musketeers. I never meant to kill them!"

"But you almost did!" Tréville erupted, his eyes flashing with disappointment. "And you were willing to use Athos and Porthos for your own damn revenge!"

"I lost the love of my life to this imbecile," Morel yelled and pointed at the Baron. "Fine. He tortured me, told me it's a debt I'd have to pay. I endured it. He punished me because I loved her, and I accepted it and moved on. But I'm not going to ignore that he took Marie from me. After everything else he did, this was one step too far."

"I was merciful!" the Baron countered. His face was bright red with anger. "I was merciful, even though you did not deserve it. And don't ever think I did it for you."

"No, never," Morel hissed. "Just you and your reputation." He made a step forward to meet the Baron with steel, but Tréville stepped in.

"Can somebody finally tell me what's going on?" he asked, and looked from the Baron to Morel. Morel's eyes were wide open, and unshed tears had gathered in his eyes. His good eye landed on his old friend, but he didn't say anything. He did not need to.

"The daughter..." It was Athos' voice, and Tréville whirled around as if he had forgotten Athos was standing there. He stared at his soldier as if there was more to come, but Athos' face was a mask of stone. The only vivid thing in his face were his eyes, filled with pain and exhaustion. And, if Tréville was not mistaken, compassion and pity.

With growing concern, the Captain pointed his sword at the baron and tilted his head towards Morel.

"Morel, I'm begging you. Explain what's going on, or I'll be in no position to save you."

Morel didn't divert his gaze from Tréville, and he was so angry and desperate that Aramis could almost feel sorry for the man.

"My daughter," he brought out between clenched teeth. "I had a daughter with the Baroness. And he...," and he threw a hateful gaze at his opponent, "...he thinks it's mercy that he exiled the child and released me, so I could take care of her. She was my world, Tréville." Silent tears ran down his cheek, and he seemed weirdly absent. And for the first time, Aramis could see that this violent madman in front of him was nothing but a broken soul, driven by his revenge for his loved ones.

Suddenly, Morel snapped back into reality, or so it seemed. He gritted his teeth, and strengthened his grip around his sword.

"And then he took her from me," he growled, and now fully returned to the deadly soldier Aramis knew he once was. "He took my daughter from me!"

"The daughter I granted you!" the Baron spat. "The daughter that should've been mine. But don't you dare to blame this witchcraft on me! I'm not responsible for what happened to her, and if you believe I am, you are beyond saving, Morel."

Aramis looked from the Baron to Morel, and finally his eyes landed on Tréville, who was still the only reason those two weren't tearing each other apart. Shreds of words were floating through Aramis' mind, and within moments, everything that had happened over the past few days made sense. The puzzle was finally complete.

No.

Agathe's words echoed through his head, back in Chablis where she had tended to his wounds, and where he had learnt why she had been accused of witchcraft.

Her parents were devastated, and in pain. But they never blamed me.

Aramis shot a quick look at Athos, who was still on his knees, clutching the blade between his hands for support. With the last bits of adrenaline, Aramis pushed himself off the ground, and to everybody's surprise, he entered the scene and limped at Tréville's side. The Captain subconsciously offered a hand for support, and Aramis gratefully accepted the offer. He tried to catch his breath and murmured: "Agathe. The 'witch' in Chablis."

"Beg your pardon?" Tréville asked in confusion, and wasn't able to hide his impatience.

"She told me that the Black Death came to their village a year ago. She wasn't able to save one child, that's why she was marked a witch. The King abandoned us, the Baron ignored us, I think, were her exact words."

Tréville stared blankly at Aramis, and he himself connected it to the information he had. But it was the Baron that broke the sudden silence.

"What was I supposed to do?" he mocked. "You wanted me to come in there and hold your hand during the time?"

Morel suddenly went completely still, and he stopped resisting against Tréville's restraining. Aramis could feel the danger before it happened, but he was too slow to warn the captain.

"If you would've helped those in need, Marie might still be with me," Morel said, and his voice sounded very distant. He made a step forward.

"Morel, no," Tréville warned, but his old friend did not listen. Without a warning, and without hesitation, he smacked his fist against Tréville's temple and the Captain crumbled to the ground.

Aramis and Athos watched with terror in their eyes how Morel and the Baron finally met each other on the battlefield. Aramis had walked over to Athos and made sure that he stayed where he was. He didn't need to ask to know that Athos highly disagreed with this battle, but right now, neither Aramis nor Athos would be a match to Morel or de Villiers.

The Baron launched multiple, well placed attacks on Morel, precise and elegant as he had been taught all his life. He moved very similar to Athos when they were training.

Morel on the other hand fought like he was driven by his vengeance, and nothing else. He used to be a soldier, and it showed. He had no remorse to use his surroundings effectively to even out his lack of skill with the sword. He threw the Baron into a Red Guard, he tried to knock him out with his bare hands and he hid behind a statue placed in these gardens.

The Baron quickly realized what his opponent was doing and when Morel rolled to the Baron's left side again, the Baron made a step to the left as well. He ended up on Morel's blind side and Morel received a deep cut just below his ribs.

Morel quickly turned around, to be able to see the Baron with his good eye, and in his wild and blind wrath, he lashed out with his sword again. The Baron caught the strike with ease, but he wasn't prepared for the quick following ones Morel let rain down upon him.

Suddenly, it was the Baron who was in a defensive mode, and Aramis could see a flash of fear crossing his face, before it was replaced by anger and exhaustion.

But Morel wanted too much. Instead of simply parrying the strike, the Baron caught Morel's blade and blocked his sword. Morel used all of his force, trying to move the blades an inch closer to the Baron, but the nobleman was resisting hard.

With an unusual force, the Baron steered Morel's blade to the side, and before his opponent had time to gather himself, the Baron thrust his sword through Morel's stomach.

Morel gasped audibly, and his one eye stared at de Villiers in disbelief. Still impaled by the sword, he staggered backwards, and collapsed to the ground with a thud.

The Baron wasn't done yet. He pulled another blade from his weapon belt and approached the fallen man.

"He is defeated," Athos spoke up with a dangerous voice, but the Baron simply ignored him and moved closer to Morel, who was twitching helplessly on the ground, his hands enclosed around the sword sticking out of his chest.

Suddenly, there was a third man, who had jumped between Morel on the ground and the Baron who had been ready to impale his opponent a second time. The Baron was so surprised that he was quickly overwhelmed by the stranger and was forced to drop his weapons.

With an enormous relief, Aramis recognized the man's clothing and the way he moved around the Baron, the way he wielded his sword. It was d'Artagnan.

He separated the Baron from Morel, and before Aramis, who was having a hard time right now restraining a wounded Athos, could ask how d'Artagnan did know what to do, he could see Tréville back on his feet. He was approaching Morel slowly, his hand ordering d'Artagnan to keep the Baron away.

"Let me finish it," the Baron growled. "Let me finish what I should have done a decade ago!"

"Enough!" d'Artagnan shouted at the Baron, apparently not quite sure who this was, and grabbed the nobleman's arm.

"Let go of me, musketeer!" the Baron growled and tried to go for Morel's throat again.

"I SAID ENOUGH!" d'Artagnan yelled, and used all of his force to keep the Baron at bay. Judging by the captain's look, he was authorized to do so.

"I'm sorry," Tréville simply said, his attention back on his fallen friend. He laid a supporting hand on Morel's shoulder. "But you played with powers beyond your comprehension."

Morel's lips were quivering, and an expression crossed his face that Aramis hadn't expected. There was fear, there was disappointment. But to Aramis' surprise, there was no remorse.

"My whole life, I thought the Baroness saved you from the gallows," Tréville said with a low voice, and Morel looked at his old friend with desperation written all over his face.

"It wasn't Lucienne, Tréville," he answered. "She begged for mercy, but her words were ignored. No, she wasn't the one who saved my pretty head." His eyes looked empty, and he bowed his head as if he was ashamed. "It was the Cardinal."

"Your connection to the Cardinal was the only reason why I spared you all those years ago," the Baron hissed from the side, and d'Artagnan silenced him with the power of a single stare.

"You were indebted to Richelieu," Tréville concluded, his face not giving away anything about his thoughts. "He used you for his own purposes."

"He's a man of God," Morel rasped, but he sounded like he wasn't so sure about his own statement. "I had faith in his word." Now it was obvious that he didn't mean it. In Aramis' eyes, Morel was still a violent and cruel warrior, driven by his thirst for revenge, but he had fought side by side with the Captain once. He wasn't stupid.

Tréville seemed to notice that too. "The Cardinal is more likely a man of gold. And you knew that, Morel."

Morel closed his eyes. "He threatened her," he mumbled, "...he said he couldn't guarantee for her safety if I don't do as he wishes. And...," his voice broke and he released a stuttering breath. "And what would I be without her? I had to do as he said. I'm sorry for the pain I caused."

"Being sorry doesn't make it disappear," d'Artagnan hissed from the sideline. "No offense, but you were ready to sacrifice everything and everyone who stood in your way. No intention can excuse that, no matter how noble you think it was."

Tréville raised a hand and d'Artagnan shut up immediately, concentrating back on the Baron. Out of nowhere, a scream pierced the air, and Aramis hectically scanned the area to search for any kinds of threats. It revealed itself as a middle-aged, red-haired woman, with sunken eyes and dirt all over her green dress. Judging by the clothing, this had to be the Baroness.

Instead of stopping at her husband's side, who tried to grab her by the arm, she ran straight up to Morel and Tréville.

"No..., she whispered, and dropped to her knees next to her fallen lover's side. Her hands roamed around the sword sticking out of Morel's chest, and finally, her eyes found Morel's face.

Morel gasped, but he reached for her hand. The Baroness' eyes were wet with tears, and her lips were quivering. She had nothing left of the fierce, strong woman she used to be.

Her lover's mouth was close to her ear, and only the few who surrounded them were able to make out what he said. Morel's voice sounded soft, but honest.

"I would have loved you all my life."

The Baroness didn't say a word, and for the first time, her eyes looked completely empty. She took Morel's hand between her own, and caressed them carefully.

"Marie would have been proud of what you did," she reassured him.

Morel smiled, but it was cold. "We both know that that's a lie. She loved the man..." he took in a rattling breath, "...the father I used to be. Not what I've become."

"You saw no choice," Lucienne argued, and clasped her hands around Morel's hand and brought it close to her heart. "If you could reverse things, I knew you would have..."

"Done the same," Morel whispered, and ended the sentence for her. "I would have done the same again. There's no reason in denying it."

The Baroness swallowed hard and pressed a gentle kiss on her lover's hand. Aramis could see the Baron watching with an evil satisfaction written all over his face. No matter how much Aramis despised Morel, if he would have had the strength, he wasn't sure whether he would've been able to restrain himself from attacking the Baron for his arrogant and cruel behaviour.

There was another gurgling noise and Morel trembled. His one good eye turned towards the sky, and it stared into the void.

For a moment, nobody dared to speak up. Tréville just stared at his old friend, unable to express any kinds of emotions. The Baroness still clutched Morel's hand, but there was no resistance anymore, no reassuring pressure on her fingers.

Aramis' eyes wandered from Athos, who was barely managing to keep himself upright and who was more focused on staying conscious than on the dramatic scene in front of him, to d'Artagnan, and for the first time, he noticed how his ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton. He could see d'Artagnan's lips moving, but he didn't hear anything at fist.

"...nd you!"

And with that moment, the riot around them erupted again with the volume of a thousand war cries. The smell of blood and sweat reached their noses, and their ears were filled with screaming of pain and of wrath.

Aramis used his last bits of energy and limped over towards Athos, handing him a blade he had gathered from the ground.

"Athos for God's sake, turn around!" d'Artagnan's voice could be heard again, and Athos and Aramis simultaneously turned around just to see two Red Guards running up to them, with their rapiers up high in the air.

"Where's Porthos when you need him?" Aramis huffed, but Athos was able to make out the worry in his voice. Even when they were fighting together, both of them were badly injured, and their position was fragile.

One well placed stab, and both Aramis and Athos wouldn't be able to get out of this hell alive.

"Down!" Another voice droned over the area, and Aramis couldn't see its source, but he knew that voice, and his heart flamed up with hope again. He and Athos both ducked their heads, and when they looked up again, both of the guards were lying in a pool of blood.

Aramis turned his head and his eyes fell on no one else than Porthos, who looked very impressive, though roughly beaten, on top of his horse. Right now, it was a beautiful sight in their dire situation.

"When this is over, you and I are going to have a conversation long overdue," Porthos yelled at Aramis from his place on the horseback. Aramis just grinned, and saluted sarcastically. Révier, Michel and Laurent, three other musketeers appeared behind Porthos and started shouting for Tréville.

Porthos' eyes landed on Athos. "Don't you dare to think I forgot what you have asked of me!" he said, his eyes flashing dangerously. "We'll talk too."

He whirled his horse around, but threw a glance at d'Artagnan.

"Oh, and whelp?"

D'Artagnan, currently busy trying to avoid getting stabbed in the neck, looked up.

Porthos grinned and pulled out his pistol to shoot d'Artagnan's attacker. "Good to see you alive," he said. "I told you Athos, it takes more than a damn river to get rid of the whelp."

"I can hear you, you know?" d'Artagnan commented, but Porthos was distracted when someone, he did not know who exactly, tried to pull him off the horse, which was already panicking thanks to the fire and the weapons.

What followed was all like a blur, so surreal that Athos completely relied on his instincts to survive. With his good arm, he blocked blades, he dove underneath whirling swords and he felt his fists connecting with more bones, and he could hear the sound of his blade finding its target. He sensed Aramis to his left and d'Artagnan standing in front of both of them, working like a shield protecting them from all harm.

The Gascon danced around his opponents, and used his sword like a part of his arm. Apparently, all the training with Athos had paid off.

However, their dynamics were shattered when Aramis took a violent hit against his injured side, and he fell to his knees, fully exposed to his opponent's blade. Athos and d'Artagnan both were quick enough and their rapiers impaled the attacker from both sides. Aramis tried to scramble back on his feet, but he was swaying dangerously, and out of the sudden, all Athos could see of d'Artagnan was how he got hit hard in the face. He tried to save both Aramis and d'Artagnan. While he was facing d'Artagnan's opponent, the man didn't stick to any code in terms of combat. He violently tore on Athos' injured arm, and the pain that flared up in his injured shoulder whitened out his vision.

He stumbled backwards, and turned his head to the side.

Athos saw Aramis drop to the ground, clutching his bloodied side, and he could feel himself sliding down the pillar as well. He wanted to shout for d'Artagnan, or for Porthos, but nothing but a undefined gasp escaped his throat, before his head collided with the ground and there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter Text

D'Artagnan hectically let his eyes swerve over the battlefield. He did not know how it had happened, but he had lost Aramis and Athos under the turmoil of the battle. One minute, they had been behind him, and the next, he could not make out anything in the tangle of red uniforms, clashing swords and screaming men.

His sword arm was moving through the rows of enemies naturally and instinctively, but the truth was he had no idea who he was attacking and who he was defending himself against. Red Guards, the Baron's men or Morel's men, he did not know. Right now, he considered everyone within his way his enemy; especially because they aimed to drive their blades through his heart.

Not far away, he could see Porthos galloping through the rows of men, and as soon as d'Artagnan spotted Michel, Laurent and Révier doing the same thing, he knew what Porthos was doing. They were trying to separate the Red Guard and the raging crowd of what used to be Morel's men, and with that, they were trying to offer them a way to escape.

D'Artagnan dove underneath someone's blade and smacked his elbow backwards – the sickening sounds of bones cracking assured him he had found a target. Before he wasted any more thoughts on the stranger behind him, his eyes fell on a very familiar figure near a wooden pillar, and he watched with horror how Athos crumbled to the ground, his head hitting the hard ground. Aramis wasn't far away, but his eyes were closed and his face distorted with pain. Both of his hands were clutched around his side, the blood flowing freely from the wounds.

The Red Guards and Morel's men luckily didn't pay much attention towards them. Some of them climbed over Athos, apparently assuming he was just another victim of this battlefield, others didn't even bother and stepped on his arm or leg.

Aramis on the other hand was visibly conscious, but not in the condition to protect himself. D'Artagnan noticed a Red Guard walking up to him, the man's face a mask of hate. The Gascon recalled the image of himself and his three companions a couple of months back in a tavern, where an evening of drinking had resulted in a violent brawl with the Red Guard, one of them had been ingloriously humiliated by Aramis.

Aramis' eyes showed a spark of recognition when the Guard approached him dangerously slow, but he closed his eyes again, his breathing shallow, as if he accepted his defeat.

D'Artagnan stormed forward, and just when the Guard raised his sword above his head and muttered something d'Artagnan couldn't understand, the Gascon raised his pistol and aimed for the man's leg. The bullet buried itself in the man's thigh and he fell sideways, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He turned his head to look for the man who had fired the gun, but just as he laid eyes on d'Artagnan, the musketeer kicked him in the face so hard he went limp at an instant.

He took a very brief second to catch his breath, and then, he looked down at Aramis, whose eyes had found him too. Before he could ask the question, Aramis tilted his head towards Athos.

"Athos," the marksman mumbled. "Check on Athos."

D'Artagnan knew better than to argue but as he approached the unmoving figure of Athos, his worry increased. He had entered many battlefields side by side with Athos, but he had never seen him defeated in the dirt. And it was a sight he never wanted to see again. His guts twisted with worry as he knelt down next to the swordsman and quickly turned him over.

Athos was white as a sheet and he didn't respond to d'Artagnan almost shouting at him, but as the musketeer laid two fingers at his brother's neck, relief spread through him like the warmth of a wine.

He turned around to catch Aramis' gaze.

"Still with us," he announced, with a devilish grin on his face, and wasn't able to hide his relief.

Aramis barely twitched a muscle, but his head sunk back to the ground and he squeezed his eyes shut."He's one stubborn bastard," he whispered, and under the noise of the battle d'Artagnan almost couldn't hear him.

D'Artagnan was torn, he did not know whether to stay at Athos' side or move to Aramis', but unfortunately, an assailing enemy made the decision for him. He charged towards d'Artagnan with an infuriated yell, but d'Artagnan quickly made a step to the side to steer the fight away from Athos and Aramis. He caught his opponent's blade way over his head, and a quick look at the man's clothing confirmed him that this wasn't a Red Guard, this was one of Morel's men.

With their leader gone, they did not seem to know who to fight against, or what their original cause was. Right here and right now, this man fought to survive, d'Artagnan could see that.

The musketeer dominated the duel by far. He forced the man into a defensive position, and ended up being able to disarm him. The man's eyes widened, the anger from earlier gone. Now there was nothing but pure fear, and d'Artagnan, trying to catch his breath, lowered his sword.

He energetically nodded towards the gate. "Go," he just said, and turned around without waiting for the man's reaction.

Something else had drawn his attention, and the relief from earlier was washed away at an instant. In the dim light the few torches and fires on the field allowed them, he could see how Porthos was smacked off his wild horse, and he landed on the ground hard.

Without thinking twice, d'Artagnan ran towards Porthos, who was facing a Red Guard and one of Morel's men at the same time, both of them trying to kill each other too. Still, they worked together to get Porthos, the biggest threat to them, out of their way.

Porthos was still trying to catch his breath from the sudden impact, and he avoided getting stabbed in the chest only by rolling to the side in the last second. With sheer force of will, he parried multiple strikes from his position on the ground, but he had nowhere to go. Just when the Red Guard aimed for Porthos' chest, d'Artagnan reached the three of them and drove his dagger into the Guard's sword arm. He screamed in agony and dropped his sword as if it was on fire, before he turned on the heel and staggered into the raging crowd.

D'Artagnan had to take in a hit from Morel's man, but Porthos kicked away his legs and together, they managed to knock the man unconscious.

"Good timing, whelp," Porthos granted and held out a hand, demanding some help.

"D'Artagnan!" The captain's voice reached his ears, and he appeared out of nowhere and helped to pull Porthos back onto his feet.

"Where are the others?" Porthos instantly asked, and d'Artagnan could give him nothing but a vague direction. However, Porthos was held back by Tréville.

"If we don't run now, we'll all get slaughtered!" the Captain yelled angrily, but Porthos wrenched his arm out of the Captain's hold.

"There's no honour in running," Porthos hissed. "I'm not leaving anyone behind."

"To hell with honour," d'Artagnan responded, and faced the Captain. "But you're not seriously expecting us to just stand by and watch, or leave the others behind?"

Tréville pressed his lips together, his eyes locked on something in the distance. "No, of course not. You think I would do something that irresponsible?" He shook his head. "No, we either come up with a plan, or we'll fight until the Red Guard killed every last one of us."

"Morel's dead!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "What the hell is left of their orders?"

"They are supposed to wipe out everyone who stands up against the Queen!" Porthos explained in a rush. To d'Artagnan's questioning glare, he merely responded with a shrug. "I asked one of the Guards. He was very cooperative."

"Well, looking at you, I would too," a fourth voice, belonging to Francois, muttered.

"CAPTAIN!" A voice broke through the turmoil and d'Artagnan's eyes landed on none other than the Baron de Villiers. His clothes were torn and slightly dirty, but there was no trace of blood on his noble clothing. The Red Guard and Morel's men didn't seem to have hurt him.

He hurried towards Tréville, his eyes wide open. In the distance, d'Artagnan was able to make out the Baroness de Villiers. Nobody attacked her, nobody dared to approach her. She was still bending over somebody on the ground, who d'Artagnan identified as Morel.

"Captain," the Baron spoke again and barely took notice of the other musketeer's presence. "The Red Guard is out of control. They do as they please. They kill Morel's men, who are my citizen, and they don't hesitate to kill my damn guards! You have to do something!"

"Well, but you can count on the Cardinal, he'll do the right thing, right?" Tréville snapped with disgust in his voice. "If you don't have a better plan, I'll fight."

"The protest against the Queen is a crime," a calm voice sounded from behind d'Artagnan, and everyone whirled around to see who had spoken. It was a man dressed in the Cardinal's Guard's uniform, and suddenly the riot around them died down. Swords were dragged through the dirt, defeated men were kicked to the ground, and everyone focused on the Baron. The Baron's guard as well as Morels remaining men had gathered behind Tréville and the Baron.

"And you got Morel," de Villiers replied, his rapier held out in a protective manner. "Your task here is done. Go home, cause chaos in Paris, I don't care. But this here, it's over!"

"They are outnumbered, you are outnumbered," the Red Guard replied coldly. "I will fulfil my orders. And my orders are to punish everyone involved in the protest against the Queen."

"The one I didn't participate in," de Villiers hissed. "You may think you're untouchable because you're in the Cardinal's service, and don't get me wrong, I think very highly of his Eminence. But, my friends," and he made a wide gesture with his free hand. "This here isn't Paris. Your rules, and your orders, are not valued here."

"Out of my way, Monsieur," the Red Guard replied with annoyance. "You may be spared. But we'll do as we were told. They have to pay for their revolt against Her Majesty!"

"This is my estate!" the Baron thundered. "I won't accept that it turns into a field of slaughter. I already sent word to Dorian de la Rovère – he resides in Mailly-le-Chateau at the moment. His men should be here soon." He towered up in front of the Red Guard. "You've done your task. Morel and his threat are gone. Leave, now!"

With those words, the Red Guard exchanged a meaningful look with his neighbours,

His eyes darted towards the lifeless body of Morel in the distance, and he eventually lowered his sword. "Under those circumstances...," he said and bowed his head, but with so much disrespect d'Artagnan had never seen. "We are happy we were able to help, de Villiers. The threat is eliminated. You'll hear from His Eminence."

With that, the Red Guards turned on the heel simultaneously, and they walked out of the open gates. D'Artagnan watched with an open mouth, still trying to comprehend what exactly had happened. He almost missed how the Baron turned towards the crowd in his back.

They had looked so furious, so proud under Morel. He had encouraged them, and told them it was a right cause to fight for. That it was the Queen responsible for the suffering those poor people, and they had voluntarily bought Morel's delusion. It hadn't been right, but it didn't justify Richelieu's plans to kill everyone who participated in Morel's plans.

Now, Morel's men looked scared and lost, there was no longer pride or anger on their faces. They had lost, and the battle had broken them. They just awaited their sentence, and the judge was none other than the Baron de Villiers.

"Go now!" the Baron growled between clenched teeth. "And I'm going to forget what happened today. But remember this," he said and grabbed one of Morel's men, standing in the front row, by the sleeve. "I owe you nothing. You live under my protection, and that's more than every single one of you deserves!"

Morel's men were defeated, and they knew it. They did not need to be asked twice. With their heads hanging low and their pitchforks and torches falling into the stamped ground, they ran away in all directions.

"This isn't fair," Porthos growled between clenched teeth, and de Villier's eyes shot up.

"Beg your pardon?" he asked, and Tréville sent Porthos a warning look. The big musketeer seemed to think for a moment, before he shook his head and briefly closed his eyes.

"Nothing." Porthos' tone and facial expression said it all, but with the battlefield now silent, d'Artagnan knew what his brother's priorities were.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan said nervously, and grabbed the taller man by the sleeve. "Athos and Aramis."

Porthos didn't need to be told twice, and together, they ran to the spot where d'Artagnan had last seen his two friends. Athos was still lying on the ground, and by the looks of it, he hadn't moved an inch.

He was still on his back, his entire shoulder and arm coated in blood. D'Artagnan didn't know who else it belonged to. Athos' clothes were covered in layers of dirt and blood, and there was a deep bruise forming on his cheek. Probably when one of the men carelessly stepped over him or almost trampled him.

Aramis didn't look much better, but after Porthos slapped him violently, he blinked at them in confusion. The events of the past couple of days had left their traces, and Aramis certainly was going to carry some scars. When Porthos now gently pressed his hands against the marksman's bloodied side, he visibly relaxed. The presence of Porthos and d'Artagnan seemed to reassure him that he was finally in safe hands.

A phantom fist of guilt suddenly wrapped its sharp claws around d'Artagnan's heart, as he came to realize how damn dangerous and reckless it had been to leave both of them on the grounds of the battlefield without protection. He had gotten distracted by the duel, and afterwards, he had to come to Porthos' aid.

Still, as he saw the two of them now, he knew that it could've gone way differently. While d'Artagnan dealt with his own guilt and slightly insecurely wrapped a hand around Athos' arm, Porthos, who had just checked on Athos, turned back towards Aramis.

"I swear, Aramis, if you ever dare to repeat such a dramatic exit," Porthos growled, but whatever he had wanted to say, it got stuck in his throat.

Aramis just smirked. "Oh, please," he rasped. "You know how much I love the dramatic."

"If you ever do this again...," Porthos rambled but Aramis just threw his head back and chuckled weakly.

"Yeah I know," he panted. "Next time I'll ask for your permission to get stabbed and kicked off a bridge. I promise."

Porthos sent Aramis a look that seemed like he didn't know whether to laugh or to strangle his friend, but in the end, he just decided to send him an intimidating glare and pulled him into a brief, but tight hug. Aramis just grinned weakly, then he sunk back to the ground and closed his eyes, his hand that used to cover the wound uselessly dangling at his side.

Porthos shared an indecisive look with d'Artagnan, who was still keeping a firm grip on Athos' shoulder.

"We need to get them out of here," he said and turned his head only to spot Francois and Révier hurrying over the bodies and abandoned weapons on the ground into their direction.

Porthos' eyes were locked on a blank spot between where Aramis and Athos' were lying, and there was an expression on his face that d'Artagnan had never seen before. Despite his worries for Aramis and Athos, it was unusual, and d'Artagnan couldn't help but ask.

"Porthos," he started carefully, while Francois helped him to lift an unconscious Athos up.

Porthos stayed where he was, his eyes slowly darting upwards and meeting d'Artagnan's with a mixture of anger and desperation.

"This should've never happened," he whispered, his voice shaking with wrath. "After all we've been through, after everything that we all endured, this really shouldn't have happened."

D'Artagnan bit his lip, and carefully lifted Athos' arm around his shoulder. The swordsman's feet were dragging in the dirt, despite Francois' and d'Artagnan's efforts. "I think we've known it before...," d'Artagnan admitted and watched how Révier and Porthos picked Aramis, who was barely clinging onto consciousness by now, up.

"What do you mean?" Porthos asked tonelessly.

"The Cardinal is a power you, we, have never encountered before." D'Artagnan swallowed hard.

"He may be the greatest threat the musketeers ever had to face."

Tréville was standing in the middle of the battlefield, witnessing the aftermath of something he had experienced way too often in his life.

Bodies lay scattered on the grass and dirt, and the screaming of injured men reached his dull ears. Abandoned weapons and shreds of clothing were grotesquely decorating the battlefield, and the Baron's men and the remaining musketeers were searching the area, looking for people to save.

The smoke from the fires was lying over the field like a coat, and it made it hard for the Captain to grasp every detail of the situation. His head felt empty, while his guts were burning with guilt.

An expression of sadness crossed his face when he spotted the Baroness in the distance, who was kneeling down next to Morel's body. Her husband had arrived, and was arguing loudly that she had to come with him now. What was terrifying was that she didn't fight back, she didn't yell at her husband for killing the love of her life. She stayed quiet, and showed no resistance when her husband dragged her away and handed her over to the guards of his estate.

Tréville's eyes caught sight of another picture, one that terrified him equally. His face however remained a mask of stone.

He could make out the giant figure of Porthos in the smoke, and with a heavy heart, Tréville recognized that Porthos and Révier were carrying Aramis between them, whose face was plastered with sweat and who didn't look like he could stay upright without his brother's help. His side was bleeding sluggishly, and Tréville cursed himself for having allowed him to come with him. On the other hand, he knew that Aramis would've found a way, whether he liked it or not.

Behind Porthos, Aramis and Révier followed d'Artagnan. He and Francois were half-carrying, half dragging an unconscious Athos. Athos' head was resting on his chest, and his skin looked ashen. Seeing one of his greatest swordsmen defeated like this sent a shudder down the captain's back. He quickly looked for d'Artagnan's gaze, and the young musketeer just gave his captain a reassuring nod.

"Both of them need urgent treatment," Francois addressed the Captain, who unfortunately had no order to offer at the moment.

"Bring them inside," a voice snapped, and the Captain recognized the Baron again. "My men will take care of them."

"Those men who also tried to kill us?" d'Artagnan scoffed sceptically, but Tréville just raised a placating hand.

"D'Artagnan," he admonished. "Get them inside. Now."

It didn't need much words, d'Artagnan complied to Tréville's orders. The musketeers carried their wounded brothers into the house, and Tréville chose a different direction, as much as he wanted to watch his men at the moment.

But his feet carried him towards the place where Morel, his old friend and foe, had fallen. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he knelt down in the dirt at Morel's side, and shared the memories one last time.

A short time later, Tréville rejoined his men inside the Baron's estate. Athos and Aramis had been brought to some makeshift beds, and the stench of blood and sweat was in the air. Tréville was sure that he could hear Aramis involuntarily insulting someone in his pain, but Athos still remained silent. The Captain tried not to let his Captain-mask slide.

Francois and Révier gestured that they would take care of Athos and Aramis, and so d'Artagnan and Porthos sought their captain's company again. Not because they liked to leave their friend's sides, but the Captain knew what they were looking for. It was written all over their faces.

Answers.

"So," d'Artagnan cut into the silence with a nervous voice. "Please, Captain. Tell me. What. The. Hell. Happened here?"

Tréville sighed and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Well, what does it look like?" He knew they wanted answers, but right now, the exhaustion and stress was taking over.

"The Red Guard was sent here to support Morel's troops," Porthos stated slowly. "Why did they turn against Morel?"

Tréville sighed and pulled out some torn and damaged pieces of paper out of the inner pockets of his doublet. "I found these in Morel's pockets," he started, his voice sounded weirdly distant. "Those are letters to and from the Cardinal."

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow. "You told us how Morel was accused of treason all those years ago," he remembered, and ignored Porthos' muttered 'Oh great' completely. "And if I heard correctly, the Cardinal saved him? But why?"

"Not because of the kindness of his own heart," Tréville hissed bitterly. "In these letters, the Cardinal orders Morel to march against the Baron, under the cover of protesting against his deals with the Queen."

"Morel didn't care about the Queen," Porthos interjected. "So, what is this nonsense about the Queen?"

Tréville's eyes darkened. "Richelieu promises Morel here that he'll send support troops, so that there is a guaranteed success of Morel's cause. Of course Morel only cared about the Baron, and he wanted to try to use the Cardinal for it." He made a short pause. "Little did he know that he was the one being used."

"Morel also received letters that ordered him to, and I'm quoting here, 'find a musketeer called Athos and ambush him and those who are with him'," Porthos told them. "He spoke of a powerful ally in Paris. It can only be the Cardinal."

"Against Athos?" Tréville repeated in confusion, and his eyes wandered over to Athos and Aramis in the other room. "What is Richelieu's motive against Athos?"

Porthos shrugged. "Perhaps he's still pissed about the way we tricked Milady?"

"It doesn't matter," d'Artagnan cut in. "Morel almost killed Athos, and he almost killed Aramis and me too."

"I don't think it was Morel's choice," Porthos reported. "His men just didn't follow his orders. All the time we spent in his captivity, he said that he'll let us live once he finished his stupid personal crusade against the Baron. He made sure that we were left unharmed."

"Wasn't Athos shot?" d'Artagnan asked sceptically, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Porthos rolled his eyes.

"That was more or less an accident. Long story."

"Knowing the Cardinal, I doubt that he said 'capture' the musketeers," Tréville brought them back to the subject. "After all that happened in Paris, I think he wanted to get rid of you for good. And he used Morel for it. Unfortunately, Morel had never been too good at following orders." A faint grin appeared on Tréville's face, but it was gone quickly.

"But if Morel wanted to spare the musketeers, why didn't he just left us in peace?" d'Artagnan wanted to know, and Tréville had to admit it was a good question, but one he knew an answer to.

"He couldn't risk that Richelieu learnt about his disobedience," he concluded slowly.

"Then why did he always say that he needs Athos and me for his plan?" Porthos threw in. "No offense, Captain, I get it that you used to be friends, but Morel for sure wasn't innocent."

"I never said so," Tréville hissed. "But it's known everywhere that the Queen favours the King's musketeers. And Morel didn't care about the Guards of the Baron, he wanted an old fashioned duel, face to face with the Baron. He wanted to use musketeers as hostages to make sure that the Baron's men didn't fire at him."

"Like...his shield?" d'Artagnan asked, and Tréville nodded while Porthos just stared with disapproval.

"Unfortunately, Morel counted on the Cardinal, and thought he was clever enough to use the most powerful man in France. Richelieu had different plans, that's for sure."

"But why would Richelieu give the Red Guard orders to kill everyone that presumably marches against the Queen?" D'Artagnan's head was still filled with questions.

Porthos snorted. "Maybe he wants to show the Queen he is trustworthy after all."

What sounded like a sarcastic remark was very close to the truth in Tréville's eyes. His face darkened and he nodded. "The Cardinal doesn't matter who he has to kill to get what he wants. If he wants to regain the trust of the Queen, the lives of a few innocent, angry and misled people are a price he is willing to buy."

Porthos' jaw dropped. "You're implying, Captain," he started slowly, "that the Cardinal organised a damn revolt against the Queen just so he could end it bloodily and take the glory in front of the Queen?"

Tréville nodded, and Porthos snorted. "And he used the opportunity to hire someone to kill us, so we don't continue to stand in his way?"

Tréville nodded again, more tensely this time. For a moment, they let the information sink in, and an expectant silence hung over them with the question they all had in mind.

"So, what do we do now, Captain?" d'Artagnan dared to speak up again. "After what happened here, how can we return to the palace and act like we did before?"

"We have to," Tréville merely responded, but he closed his eyes as if the thought of it tortured him. "We'll return to Paris as soon as we are able to travel. The Queen needs to know what has happened."

"So, you're going to tell her?" Porthos chipped in and raised a questioning eyebrow. The Captain nodded.

"After all these years at the King's side, I've learnt that the Queen is not as easily fooled as the King. She will ask questions, and I'll give her the answers."

D'Artagnan threw a side-glance at Aramis and Athos in the makeshift beds. "And what about the Cardinal?" he asked, his voice trembling with anger. "This was an assassination attempt. On Athos, and with Athos, on all of us." He pointed at his two injured friends with his hand, his eyes flashing with controlled wrath. "Hell, he almost succeeded! We have to do something!"

Tréville raised a placating hand, and he responded carefully, choosing his words wisely in order not to spark the young musketeer's wrath even further.

"We'll return to Paris soon, d'Artagnan. We'll report to the King what happened, but we'll leave out the part about the Red Guards. As far as it concerns the King, this was just a violent and brutal strife between the Baron of Auxerre and a long lost deserter." With the word of Morel, his eyes darkened, and he quickly turned his head to the side.

"Just because the Queen decided that Richelieu...," d'Artagnan started, but Porthos interrupted him, with an unusual determination.

"The Queen decided not to tell the King about the Cardinal's doings, and we'll support and value her decision, whelp," he said. "The Queen will know the truth, and the King will continue to trust Richelieu with the sake of this country. All we can do is cross his plans."

"Well, how high does the price have to be?" d'Artagnan asked, not ready to give up yet. He pointed at the remains of the battlefield around them. "What if the Cardinal continues to make plans like these?"

Tréville sighed, and ran a hand over his face.

"It's our duty to protect the King and the Queen," he explained. "If Richelieu decides to involve them in his deceitful doings, then we'll be there to stop him. Just like we always do."

Chapter Text

Paris, five days later

Tréville and the others had arrived back in Paris this morning, and the Captain had insisted that they needed to go to the palace as fast as possible. The journey back home had been torturous. The usually so chatty musketeers had remained deadly silent. It wasn't unusual for Athos, who always chose the moment with care when he opened his mouth, but it was an unusual sight for Aramis. Both of them had all of them worried, and they had to stop multiple times on their way back home to ensure that they were safe.

Now, Tréville was atop of his horse, leading a smaller group of musketeers, including Porthos, d'Artagnan, Francois and Révier, into the court of the Louvre. He did not know where the Cardinal had his spies, and he wanted to be the first one to report back to the King, and, more importantly, the Queen.

Once they had arrived in front of the palace, Tréville dismounted, and he watched how the other musketeers were following his lead. The Red Guards at the door exchanged some worried looks, and Tréville could see how they strengthened the hold around their weapons.

Just as the captain made an attempt to enter the throne room, they spoke up.

"Captain, the King is in a meeting with..." but he didn't even get to finish his sentence.

"Out of my way," Porthos growled, and Tréville could only guess how intimidating he must look. Porthos was still wearing his slightly torn doublet and his blood stained and dirty pauldron. The Captain could tell he had troubles with his shoulder, but he chose not to address it. He knew the answer anyway.

D'Artagnan backed his friend up immediately. "We have urgent messages for the King concerning his safety. You better step away now." D'Artagnan sounded a lot more tired than Porthos, and Tréville had noticed that he still had a hard time walking a straight line. But the wound on his temple had been sewed neatly and looked a lot better.

The Red Guards didn't hesitate for another moment and cleared the path with a bitter expression on their faces.

The musketeers entered the throne room, together, with their Captain in the front. Tréville could the King and the Queen, both on their seats, and the Cardinal was half-standing, half kneeling at the King's side, talking quietly to both of them. When they heard the musketeer's entry, they looked up, and while Richelieu straightened up into a standing position with an almost disappointed look on his face, the King looked surprised and horrified at the same time.

"Captain!" Louis exclaimed, and let his eyes swerve over the assembled men. Out of the corners of his eyes, Tréville noticed the Queen doing the same. She looked a little irritated.

"What happened to you? You were expected back in Paris three days ago!" Fortunately, the King sounded more surprised than reproachful, otherwise Tréville wasn't sure he would have been able to continue this conversation with the respect the King was entitled to.

He shot a quick glare at the Cardinal, who was watching him with a deadly calmness, and he took a deep breath to gather his thoughts.

"Please, Captain," Queen Anne raised her voice, her kind eyes still wide open with horror. Tréville could only guess what he and his musketeers must look like. "Tell us everything."

And so, Tréville started to tell the story. He reported how his men went missing, and what he did to look for them, and he told the King everything about the revolt in front of de Villier's estate and how they had prevented it to turn into a slaughter. He did leave out the role of Richelieu, who was listening attentively to Tréville's words, probably just waiting for the moment Tréville told the King the truth. But the Captain did not mention the letters of Richelieu to Morel, and he left out the part about the Red Guards switching sides, and their threat to eliminate everyone on the battlefield. He merely changed it up a bit, and told them about deserted Red Guards, which Morel had 'hired' to support his cause.

Once he was done, the King was clawing onto the armchairs, his face red with disbelief and anger. "This Morel attacked my musketeers and threatened to kill loyal servants of the crown?" the King couldn't believe it, and he looked really affronted. "That could have ended up badly. Very badly."

"Good thing Captain Tréville and his musketeers happened to be nearby," Richelieu commented through clenched teeth. The Captain could see how every muscle in his body was tense. He knew Tréville had left out a part, and he was wondering when he was going to tell it. And how he was going to use it.

Tréville acted unbothered. "Yes, indeed." He caught Richelieu's hateful gaze. "As if somebody had known." He made a short pause and faced the Kind and the Queen again. "This has not only been an assassination attempt on the musketeers, but it has also been an attempt to undermine your authority on the countryside, using innocent people for the purpose."

"But you said they protested against the Queen!" The King exclaimed. "Against my wife. How can that be excused?"

The Captain had been prepared for that reaction, it was something he had expected of the King.

"The people had been misled by a former regiment officer, a deserter at whose side I fought ten years ago. They were just pawns in a game. I can assure you, Sire, that we brought the situation under control. The threat against her majesty is eliminated."

The King seemed to rewind the words in his head for a moment, but eventually, he nodded. "Very well, I always trust your judgment, Captain."

"Oh, and your majesty," Tréville started and looked straight at the Queen this time. "Once my men have regained their strength, we'll be back to full duty. I expect you to give me details about the banquet this Friday soon?"

The Banquet had been organized by the Queen, therefore, the King had told her it was her responsibility. And as Captain of the musketeers, Tréville was sure to have some duties there.

The Queen caught the hint, and she gracefully rose from her seat, exchanging a look with her husband, who just nodded briefly. "I'll await you in the council room this afternoon, Captain," she said and walked down the stairs.

"Of course, my dear," Louis replied and pressed a kiss on Anne's hand. "We'll talk about this incident later."

Anne just nodded, and as she walked past Richelieu, she pressed her lips together and tilted her head. "Your Eminence." Her greeting was brief and cold, and the message to the Cardinal was loud and clear.

Richelieu bowed his head ridiculously low, and waited until she had left the hall before he straightened up again. Tréville just raised an eyebrow, but the Cardinal ignored him.

"Tréville, I want a written report about the past few days soon," the King raised his voice again. "Further on, should you or your injured men need anything, don't hesitate to tell me. Your men fought bravely to protect the Queen."

"All within our power..." d'Artagnan murmured behind Tréville's back, and judging by the grunt of pain and the cracking sound, the Captain was sure that Porthos had just kicked the younger companion against the shin.

"You fulfilled your duty bravely," the King continued and approached the small group. "I suspect that since you've been in that area, you can send one or two of your men to Mailly-le-Chateau soon, Captain?"

Tréville shared a confused look with Porthos. "Mailly-le-Chateau? Why?"

Louis shrugged. "Apparently, I've received a letter from a Knight who seems to reside there. He says his castle has been taken and damaged by local bandits, and he asks for financial support in rebuilding it." The King shook his head. "They do think I can lend all of them money, don't they?" He clapped his hands and chuckled. He obviously didn't take the plea for help seriously. Everyone else managed a faint smile. Before Tréville could give an answer, even though he didn't really have a choice but to send one of his men there, the subject in the room was changed.

"And Cardinal, I wish that you test the loyalty amongst your men," the King continued. "We don't want something like that to repeat itself."

Tréville watched with amusement how Richelieu forced a smile and tilted his head in front of the King. "No, Sire. That would be a shame." He turned on the heel and faced Tréville. "Captain, can I talk to you for a second?" He froze in his motion and returned his attention to the King. "Unless you demand my presence, your majesty?"

The King rose from the throne and just made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "No, I'm going to train with the musket in the gardens. But your presence is required during the meeting with the Spanish diplomat in the afternoon."

The Cardinal again bowed deeply. "I'll be there, Sire."

With a content face, as if Tréville had never told him the horrific story of the past few days, Louis left the room, and Richelieu was alone, facing half a dozen musketeers.

"So, Captain," the Cardinal was asking, utterly respectful. It was a mask, Tréville knew that, but he was going to play along.

"How did this Morel gather the men to march against the Baron? I think you left that part out."

Tréville noticed Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanging some meaningful looks, and he knew too that Richelieu was trying to figure out how much he actually did know.

The Captain lifted his chin. "Ah, yes. It seems like Morel received help from somebody here in Paris. The contact sent him more men for his cause."

"You told the King that the problem is settled," Richelieu was like a vulture, aiming for the last crumbs of bread. "If the contact is still in Paris, I doubt that you have been able to bring your task to an end." He cleared his throat, and put on an arrogant face. "But what else could I expect of the musketeers?"

Tréville smirked, but then his face turned to stone and he made another step towards the Cardinal. "Oh, let me assure you, your Eminence," he sneered. "I'm certain that the case is closed." He lowered his voice, so that only those that surrounded them could hear them. "We don't want to risk more than we have to, wouldn't you agree?"

Richelieu's eyes flashed with anger, and Tréville knew he had gotten the threat, and he was taking it seriously too. The Cardinal made a step back, his cloak slung around his shoulders.

"Then I expect you to watch out for your musketeers, Captain," he sneered. "Who knows how many men like Morel are still out there?"

Before Tréville had a chance to counter, Richelieu strode over to the door and disappeared without another word, leaving nothing but an unsettling silence behind. For a moment, nobody dared to speak up, as everybody was still staring with anger at the place where the Cardinal had been moment earlier.

"Why is it that whenever I'm near him, I can almost feel his poison creeping through my skin?" d'Artagnan asked and shuddered. Porthos smacked his back lightly.

"Because the Cardinal is a snake, d'Artagnan, and a dangerous one as well." Porthos turned towards the Captain, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "What are we going to do now, Captain? Except for telling the Queen all we know. Richelieu has to pay, damn, he almost got us all killed!"

Tréville bit his lip, and chose his words with care. "To kill a serpent, you have to cut off his head. Unfortunately, we are in no position to do so. So, as a matter of fact, we are left with only one thing to do."

"Which would be?" d'Artagnan asked and Porthos just wrapped an arm around his younger friend's shoulder and dragged him towards the exit.

"Make sure the beast loses its poisonous fangs." Tréville exhaled slowly and waited for a reaction of his men. Porthos grinned darkly, and d'Artagnan looked a bit uncertain.

"Then that's all we're going to do? Stand in the Cardinal's way whenever he decides it's a good opportunity to get rid of the musketeers again?"

"Lower your voice," Tréville hissed and nervously scanned the area, but then, he looked at d'Artagnan, who was waiting patiently for a reply. "Yes, d'Artagnan. For now, that's the only thing we are able to do."

Porthos grinned and as they entered the palace's courtyard, Porthos walked straight up to the horses and handed d'Artagnan his reins.

"Asking for permission to return to the garrison, Sir," d'Artagnan asked stiffly, and Tréville sighed, but nodded. Porthos didn't even wait for an answer, he had already returned to his horse. The Captain didn't need to ask what they searched for at the garrison.

"Granted," he replied tiredly, while he mentally prepared for his later meeting with the Queen. "You're dismissed. You have jobs to do at the garrison."

The Infirmary, the Garrison, Paris

"Aramis, for the last time," Athos growled menacingly. "Sit. Down."

"What?" Aramis didn't pay much attention to Athos, as he continued to walk around the room in circles. "Calm down, I'm fine."

He indeed looked much better than a couple of days ago. Aramis was still moving slowly, and he was still limping, but his face had a healthier colour and he was conscious enough to start conversations again, under which Athos' had suffered for the last day, ever since he had regained full consciousness. No matter how annoyed he acted to be, in fact, he was glad to hear Aramis' voice again. It reassured him that they had once more made it out more or less in one piece.

Athos shot his friend a piercing glare. "Congratulations, but your constant pacing is going to make me lose my mind soon, and then I won't be fine. So for the last time: Sit. Down."

Aramis needed another moment to fully comprehend Athos' order, but after spotting Athos' moody face on the other bed, he complied without further resistance. Both of them had been told to stay in bed, as their bodies needed time to regain their strength. Athos still felt uncomfortably weak, and every time his arm was moved the wrong way, his vision whitened out for a moment. But thanks to a miracle, the bullet wound hadn't gotten infected, and it was slowly beginning to heal.

"I mean no offense, my friend," Aramis started talking again, and Athos suppressed a sigh. "But I can't wait for the day we're both allowed to get out of here. The silence here is making me nervous."

"Try enjoying it for a moment, will you?" Athos merely responded, his eyes closed. "You'll be impressed by how soothing it can be."

"I know where to enjoy silence when I need it," Aramis countered. "But after what has happened, the whole story with Morel and the Baron..." He stopped mid-sentence, and when Athos opened his eyes to look for his friend, he found him staring at his folded hands.

"There's nothing left to say," Athos stated with a hoarse voice. "Morel's story is told. No need to tell a story twice."

Aramis snorted. "Don't get me wrong, Athos, I'm still mad about the ambush and all that. But was it fair? What happened to Morel?"

"He had it coming," Athos replied coldly.

Aramis' features hardened. "Why? Because he loved a woman and wanted to avenge his child?"

Athos finally straightened up as much as he could and resisted Aramis' judging stare. "No," he growled. "Because of the way he chose to do it. He was blind, and needed someone to take the blame."

"What happened to his child was not his fault," Aramis explained weakly, and Athos nodded.

"No. But it wasn't the Baron's either. Leave it be, Aramis." Athos tried to be comforting, but realistic. "We did what we thought was right. Save your thoughts for those who didn't try to kill you."

Aramis chuckled weakly. "Yeah, you're probably right." He didn't seem convinced though, and Athos saw him clutching his pendant. He had to ask. There was this one question that had been stuck in his head ever since he had learnt the truth about Morel.

"Doesn't it remind you of something?" Athos asked indifferently, and he could see he had hit a nerve. Aramis wasn't stupid. He had seen it too.

"If you're implying that I'm going to end up as a violent madman, blind to the truth and deaf to everyone around me..." Aramis rambled, but Athos just raised a hand.

"I'm not. But see what has happened to Morel because he loved the one woman he could never have – and accept it as a warning."

"Very helpful," Aramis grunted, but his eyes were locked on his own hands. "No matter what my personal feelings are, I would never, ever, do something that cruel."

Athos raised his gaze dangerously slow. "I'll cover you, Aramis, but if the Cardinal fi..."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Aramis hissed. "Tell me, Athos. I'll do anything. What am I supposed to do?"

"Pretend it didn't happen," Athos replied coolly, and he could almost see how his words hit Aramis like sharp daggers. But it was the harsh truth, whether he liked it or not. And deep inside, Aramis knew that too.

The marksman threw his head back in his neck and closed his eyes.

"It's your duty to protect the King, the Queen and the future heir to the throne," Athos explained calmly. "But for your own sake..."

"I got it," Aramis snapped, and before Athos could continue to lecture him about how to save his head, they were disturbed by the door being opened loudly.

As expected, Porthos appeared in the doorframe first. Judging by his appearance, it was raining outside, and he cursed under his breath while he entered the room. D'Artagnan followed closely behind him, shaking his hair like a wet dog, and replying something to Porthos Athos couldn't put together.

"How are you two doing?" Porthos asked straight away and dropped onto a chair, while d'Artagnan leaned against the wooden table.

"Fabulously," Athos muttered dryly and slowly tried to ease his muscles. There was still a flash of pain shooting through his arm every time he moved it just a tiny bit. He bit down a grunt.

"It's hard not to be bored when you share a room with Monsieur 'Sit down and Shut up' over there," Aramis complained and pointed at Athos, who simply raised an eyebrow.

Porthos huffed. "Sharing a room," he repeated mockingly. "That sounds like this isn't the damn garrison's infirmary. What do you expect, a whole apartment for yourself?"

Aramis just rolled his eyes.

D'Artagnan grinned. "Good to see that we're back to the usual. But, I'm sorry. We were interrupting something?"

Porthos too nodded to underline his friend's question. "What were you talking about?"

Athos exchanged another, slightly worried look with Aramis, but he acted unbothered in front of Porthos and d'Artagnan. He leaned his head back against the wall.

"Nothing," he just grunted, and thankfully, d'Artagnan took the hint and quickly changed the subject, reporting them how the Cardinal had reacted when he had learnt of the news.

Athos' mind however was still troubled with what was uncertainly left to come, and he feared that the incident at the convent had repercussions, whose shadows still lingered in the present and future. And he knew that he had been involved the moment he had opened that damn door at the convent, but he chose not to tell Porthos or d'Artagnan about it. It would be too dangerous for them, and he felt the need to shield them from it.

The incident with Morel had shown him what love made other people do, and even though he knew that Aramis was a reasonable man, he was also impulsive. He shot Aramis a meaningful look, and even though it seemed like the marksman was closely listening to Porthos right now, Athos knew that he had received the message.

But some things were better left unsaid.