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The city of Paris loomed ahead, the cobbled streets shimmering in the humid air. Athos felt hope swell once more and he glanced back at his band of bedraggled Musketeer’s, prepared once more to give the order to increase their pace.

The compte’s gaze came to rest, as it had so often, upon the slumped over figure of Aramis, riding double in front of d'Artagnan. The youngest member of their group nodded at Athos, as if to assure him their friend still breathed.

“Come now,” Porthos interrupted his thoughts. “You know it takes more than a bloody Spaniard to kill Aramis.”

Athos looked at Porthos, then down to the filthy bandage tied about his leg. The larger man’s light words were not matched by the serious lines on his face. Athos merely nodded and they continued, the horses moving at a trot. Soon the muffled sound of the dirt changing to a louder clack of cobblestone.

While the ride back to Paris had been long and exhausting, Aramis, despite his injuries, endured it without complaint. Even on the necessary stops to spare the horses and shift the marksman’s weight to ride double with someone else. Despite the jostling to his injuries, he’d remained stoic, save for the odd grimace of pain.

Once settled, the marksman had merely slumped forward in the saddle, eyes closed, blindly entwining his fingers in the mane of which ever animal he’d been foisted upon. Athos knew all too well Aramis’ actions were in effort to remove some of the burden for whomever was tasked with keeping him aloft, that brother fighting off his own exhaustion.

Many times, over the course of their sojourn home, Athos had caught sounds of quiet conversation between Aramis and either Porthos or d’Artagnan. They were always one-sided exchanges, the marksman never responding, even when conscious. This had resulted in shared glances of concern, but there’d been time for little else. Besides, Athos doubted Aramis could speak if he’d wanted to. The concentration it took to remain in the saddle, from being overwhelmed by his injuries, it left no room for casual pleasantries.

While Aramis had suffered the greatest, none of them had escaped completely unscathed. Each bore visible signs of abuse at the hands of the nobleman, and his heavy-handed whims. That, combined with their frantic exodus, insufficient rest and proper nourishment, left them all weary and worn, but as was customary, none gave voice to their individual discomfort.

Athos would never forget those early hours of their exodus, each one fraught with unease and tension; during their early hours away from their captors, they were still far too vulnerable. It was only after the second day that they felt secure enough to stop and take a six-hour rest.

Their first respite hadn’t been much, little more than a hastily built camp along the side of the trail. Aramis took little convincing and spent much of it sleeping, while Athos, after convincing Porthos to take a few hours for himself to counter the blood loss he too had suffered, traded shifts with d’Artagnan, to watch for possible pursuers.

Three long days later and well overdue, they rode through the garrison gates just before dusk. Given their slow plodding pace through the city, Athos was unsurprised that the news of their arrival in Paris reached Treville’s ears long before they entered the courtyard.

“You’re late,” the Captain snapped. He stood in the courtyard, hands on his hips, eyeing them speculatively.

It was a comment that did not merit reply and Athos had known Treville long enough to know when it was time to speak and when quiet was warranted. For now, this was such a time, especially as Treville’s gaze scoured all of them before it came to light on Aramis, who hadn’t stirred, even at the sound of their captain’s voice.

Treville strode purposefully over and stopped before d’Artagnan’s mount. After staring at the dark mop of hair, much of it clumped with dried blood, the Captain bent slightly to study the marksman’s face. Athos could swear he saw concern etched on his brow, especially as he raised one hand to touch Aramis’ head briefly before dropping it in an almost abrupt manner.

The captain glanced back at Athos, mouth in a tight line that bespoke of anger.  “I see you did not waste any opportunity to meet with some trouble.”

“I can explain that too…” Athos offered, his own anger rising at the too fresh memory of all they’d suffered.

“I’m certain you can, and you will.” The Captain’s blue gaze hardened once more as he stepped back. “But not from up there. Get down, all of you, before you fall from your saddles. And see to Aramis.”

The invitation was no sooner made when Porthos sprung from his horse, as if the hours of travel and the wound to his leg mattered not at all.  Athos watched, with no small amount of awe, as the larger man hobbled with determination over to d’Artagnan’s mount and gazed up at their injured friend. After a quick, quiet conversation, and with d’Artagnan’s help, they managed to ease Aramis ever so gently down, the marksman letting gravity do the work for him.

Athos sighed and dismounted stiffly, groaning at the numerous sores on his backside and the ache in his spine as his feet touched the ground. Off to his left he heard Porthos and d’Artagnan talk quietly to Aramis who did little more than grunt his answers as they worked to keep him upright. The swordsman gave a cursory glance to his men before moving gingerly over to stand before their expectant Captain, drawing on the last of his reserves to straighten his posture as best as he could manage.

“Would you believe me if I said that the fault of this particular incident completely escapes us?” He turned to see Aramis braced between Porthos and D'Artagnan, the three of them awaiting some form of dismissal. “Aramis is in—”

“Need of a physician,” Treville interrupted, tilting his head slighting to look at them. “Yes, I see that. One was sent for already and will be here shortly. Get Aramis to his room and see to him. I'll send the doctor once he arrives. When you are all rested, we will talk then.”

The Captain turned to leave and Athos sagged visibly, only then realizing all activity in the garrison had come to a halt at their arrival. With Treville’s dismissal, the courtyard was once more bustling as first, two stable hands rushed forward to take their mounts. Three other Musketeers nodded greeting and stepped forward to pat Athos on the shoulder, muttering their relief at seeing them all home before their eyes glanced over Athos' shoulder and each one grimaced.

Even knowing what to expect, Athos turned and could not help echoing their reaction.

While none of them looked particularly well, Aramis—God. He looked ghastly. Supported between Porthos and d’Artagnan, one side of his head was covered in dried blood and, no longer wearing his doublet, the blood-stained shirt at his side, where they’d torn it to get to his wound, had a bloody, grimy bandage peeking out beneath.

“And gentlemen.”

The sound of Treville’s voice brought all of them up short. Athos, his back to their commander, turned to eye him curiously. It was only then the swordsman saw some hint of relief in the older man’s gaze.

“Welcome home.”

“For the last time, will you stop moving?” 

“Dammit,” Porthos growled, ignoring D’Artagnan’s peevish demands. Sitting in the dirt, arms behind his back and secured to a tree, the larger man continued to shift his shoulders, furthering his efforts to loosen the bindings. “They had to use leather. Why can’t they use rope like most bandits?” 

“Because, they are clearly not like most bandits,” Athos replied coolly. He looked past where the young Gascon was tied and to where their captors had set up camp, noting their fine tents and expensive rigging on their horses. “Between the leather and the quality of their retinue, someone of means is funding this…” 

“This…” Porthos derided, sagging against the tree to which he was bound. “Would be nice to know what this is. They haven’t exactly been chatty. Been here for hours and they’ve not said a word.” 

“They’ve said plenty, alright,” D’Artagnan countered. “Just all of it in Spanish.” 

“Yeah…” Porthos grumbled. The Musketeers turned their gazes to the only member of the Inseparables yet to speak since their arrival. “Sure could use his help about now.” 

Unconscious, Aramis was tied to a tree just like them, to the right of Porthos, with Athos directly across from him. His head hung, chin resting on his chest, hair curtaining his face, obstructing their view but they all knew the blood coating his face beneath. Most disconcerting was that he’d been in the exact same position he’d been since they’d arrived. Too many hours ago.

Porthos was first to break their quiet concern. His struggles took on a new, added determination and fury when, redoubling his efforts, he began twisting in the dirt where he sat. He pushed and shoved at the bindings, arms straining with the effort to pull his wrists free—

“Porthos…” Athos hissed urgently. When he could not get through to him, Athos pulled back his foot and kicked a rock his direction. It wasn’t until the stone went skittering speedily across the dirt and slammed into the larger man’s calf that Porthos ceased his movement and blinked at the Comte in question.

"What was that for?" Pothos glared.

"To get your rather bull-headed attention," Athos whispered urgently. "As d’Artagnan tried to point out before, since the bindings are leather," he explained pointedly, "all your moving and tugging will only succeed in making them tighter.”

"I can't just sit on my arse and do nothing," Porthos grumbled even as his shoulders slumped in defeat. His gaze turned, as it had on several occasions, to stare worriedly at their fourth member. “Come on, Aramis. Rouse and shine, already…”

Athos understood the more underlying reason for their larger friend’s frustration and watched as the marksman continued his unresponsive repose.  During the ambush, Aramis had taken a hard blow to the head, the impact enough to spill blood from his scalp and he had not woken since the initial attack and arrival at camp.

That had been several hours ago…

“We are all worried about him,” Athos continued, attempting to allay his fears. “But, for as long as we possibly can, we do nothing to call attention to ourselves until we figure this out.” He looked back over his shoulder to where their captors gathered some distance from them. Some of the soldiers were busily setting up camp, while others were gathered around a main fire near the largest tent, assuring him that their muted conversation and movements had yet draw notice.

Porthos turned his gaze to the camp as well, his eye going to the men gathered around the fire. One had pulled out a bottle as others joined them to sit and soon, the bottle was being passed around, all of them smiling at their success. “They’re too busy celebratin’ to notice us. Idiots…” He struggled again. “I intend to make them regret it, soon as I get out of these bindings.”

Athos opened his mouth to order him otherwise when Aramis suddenly jerked his head slightly to one side. The movement was quickly followed by a low groan, loud enough to get the attention of the other two Musketeers and all eyes turned toward the injured man...

“About bloody time,” Porthos murmured, staring anxiously at Aramis. While he sounded annoyed, there was no hiding the worry in his tone. Even d’Artagnan relaxed in open relief.

Athos turned a sharp eye toward the men at the camp. While concerned for their reviving friend, the swordsman was equally cognizant of their movement and conversation drawing unwanted attention. Whatever the intent of their captors, Aramis would need time to regain his faculties and Athos space to gauge their injured friends condition. 

“Aramis…” Porthos hissed, reaching out a foot to nudge Aramis in the leg. The wounded man groaned louder this time, his head pivoting more pronounced from side to side. “Quit fooling around and wake up, dammit!” 

Aramis’ head lifted once, then again before dropping to one side. 

During the ambush, one of their attackers had gotten in on his blind side and he'd taken a hard blow to the head. The impact was hard enough to spill blood from his scalp, coating one side of his face alarmingly and he had not moved since. While the motion was small and slow, it was far better than the utter stillness, not to mention the overwhelming helplessness each of them felt for not being able to go and check on him. Now, they could all breathe a sigh of relief as he finally showed some sign of rousing.

“Patience Porthos,” Athos admonished sternly. 

“Not my strong suite,” Porthos said and reached one leg and nudged him again, harder this time. “Aramis!” he whispered louder. 

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan called angrily. “Quit kicking him. Making him lame will not improve his situation.” 

“Nor ours, for that matter,” Athos included. “He may need that leg when we make our escape.” 

“I didn’t kick him,” Porthos defended. “I barely touched ‘im. But if it comes to it, I’ll carry his arse out of here.” 

“S—stop—” Aramis hissed in pain, slowly lifted his head. He leveled what appeared to be his best squinting glare at each of them, eyes blinking rapidly. “S…stop shouting.” The dried blood covering one side of his face made for a wretched sight. 

Porthos chuckled. “Mate, that’s not us shouting. That’s just your head, ringing.” 

The marksman’s gaze blearily at the larger man, as if trying to reconcile the comment. “Who—what... oh. Dios…” he groaned again, his chin sinking back to his chest, his bindings making it impossible to curl into himself. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Porthos stretched out further to add more strength this time. “Stay with us,” he kicked harder this time. “Hey—you don’t get to nap again.” 

“You definitely kicked him that time,” d’Artagnan whispered angrily. 

Aramis lurched violently to one side and promptly threw up.

The expulsion of his stomach contents was at least brief; there was little in way of content and in fact was mostly bile. Still, it sounded painful and they all grimaced in sympathy and d’Artagnan found it infinitely easier to resume his vigilance of their captors.

“It might be best next time if you refrained from kicking him," Athos glowered peevishly. 

“I didn't kick him that hard,” Porthos muttered petulantly.

“I’d imagine his head and stomach might say otherwise.” 

Aramis slowly righted himself and leaned back against the tree to which he was secured. Panting, hair plastered to his face, eyes closed. “P’rthos…that you?” 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Porthos exhaled in obvious relief. “Good, you alright now?  Talk to us. Tell us you’re alright.” 

“Did I—” he swallowed dryly, looking at him from one opened eye, “did I... throw up on you?” 

“No,” Porthos answered curiously. 

“To— too bad,” Aramis sighed, sagging against his bindings.

 D’Artagnan grinned at Porthos’ slightly perturbed face. “I think he’s feeling better.” 

“Well it worked didn’t it?” Porthos huffed with no small measure of vindication that the fourth member of their group was at least awake and talking to them again. “Just so long as you don’t nap no more.”

“Nap,” Aramis repeated and lifted his head again, though it seemed to take great effort. “Is that what you— you call it?” Propping his head back carefully against the tree to which he was secured, he rolled it to the side to gaze muzzily once more at his friends. “I assume whatever I missed is to blame for this headache and...” he sighed, closing his eyes, “and this tree.”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan put in. “And you can thank our Spanish captors for both the headache and the tree.”

“And the lack of mobility,” Athos added. “But if you must limp out of here, you have my permission to shoot Porthos in the leg.”

Porthos tossed a quick frown of disapproval at Athos, his gaze catching on the gathering at the campfire off to their left. “You going to fill ‘im in on our situation?”

Athos followed his gaze and noticed Aramis’ eyes were closed. “Aramis,” he watched as his friends’ eyes opened ever so slowly. “What’s the last thing you recall?”

Aramis took a breath, the skin around his eyes tightening, a sign of the pain he was trying hard not to show. “We were ambushed, we were holding our own fairly well then,” he swallowed hard and started to shake his head but winced and held very still. “That’s as much as I recall.” 

Porthos shifted, clearly agitated. “One of the Spanish bastards got in behind you and slammed you in the head.” 

“With what?” Aramis squinted at Porthos. “His horse?” 

“All that matters,” Athos put in, “is that Porthos made him see the error of his ways.” 

Porthos grunted. “Yeah, but he’s still breathing.” He turned and eyed a rather dower Spaniard by the fire, the one less jubilant of their success over their captives. “My aim was for him to take his regrets to Saint Peter.” 

“As I recall you were promptly overwhelmed shortly after.” Athos also eyed the men at the camp. “Hopefully we will have yet another opportunity to remedy any errors we made previously.” 

Aramis looked over at the fire, the flames flickering their reflection in his dark gaze. “How long have I been out?” 

Porthos and Athos shared a pointed look before Athos answered. “Four hours, thereabouts.” 

Aramis grimaced, his head bobbing slightly, clearly painful to keep upright. “And our hosts…w-what is it they want with us?” 

“No idea,” Porthos continued. “They’ve spoken nothing but Spanish since our capture.” 

“They took us,” Athos put in next, “loaded us on our horses—” 

“The entirety of which you spent slung over your horse.” D’Artagnan would have taken a measure of amusement at his words had he not witnessed Aramis grimace of pain, and Athos' annoyed glance. 

“We rode three hours south at a good clip,” Athos continued, “before finally stopping to make camp here. Since then, they tied us to these trees and proceeded to tell us nothing.”

“They are waiting for someone…” Aramis surmised, blinking slowly in some apparent attempt to focus. 

Athos nodded, grateful their injured friend was lucid enough to arrive at such an assumption. “It was what we had concluded as well.” 

After a moment, however, Aramis’ eyes squinted against what Athos knew to be a dreadful headache. It also did not escape his notice that the marksman had not once looked at any of them. No eye contact at all. More curiously, he seemed uninterested in their captors and their lively conversation where they were gathered around a large blazing campfire.

Porthos noticed it too. “How’re you feeling?” 

Aramis grinned weakly, dried blood on the side of his face nearly black where it had run from his scalp. “Like a man who’d been struck over the head with a horse.” 

Athos let that go for the time being, instead noting how there was something not quite right in the way the marksman’s eyes moved. “Aramis…” Athos called, watching the injured man curiously as he looked over his direction. “How is your sight?” 

Aramis blinked and took a breath as if to answer. Athos cut him off: “The truth, Aramis.” 

Designated as lookout for his position nearest their captor’s camp, d’Artagnan had stayed mostly out of the conversation but at the pointed question, he turned and watched. “His sight?” He looked at Porthos, trying to catch his gaze, but the other man also stared at Aramis. “What about his sight?” 

“Blows to the head,” Porthos answered but did not take his eyes off Aramis. “‘Specially those that leave you unconscious for long periods of time, could mean bigger problems. It was Aramis who taught me about ‘em. Stay out for too long means it was a bad one. So, how’s about it, Aramis. How bad?” 

Aramis lifted his eyes slowly and d’Artagnan squinted; the Musketeer’s eyes didn’t really hold steady like they should. D’Artagnan swallowed hard. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos called, catching the young Gascon’s attention. “It would do us all well for you to let us know if someone approaches.”  

D’Artagnan conveyed his concern in his eyes but nodded just the same. After a quick glance at Aramis, he turned and watched the men around the fire. They spoke Spanish and he had no idea what they were saying but they were certainly getting louder, more boisterous. The celebration over the capture of their French prisoners had grown, as had the flow of alcohol. 

“Aramis…” Athos prodded. 

“A— a little double vision, maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Athos deadpanned. “There’s either one of each of us, or there is more.” 

Aramis grinned. “Given our situation, I would settle for more if it meant we were out of this predicament sooner.” 

Athos eyed him suspiciously, not at all fooled by his witty retort. “And?” 

“I’m fine, Athos.” 

“You will forgive me if I do not take your word for it. Especially since you were once fine with a musket ball in your left shoulder.” 

Aramis squinted at Athos, his eyes locking on a spot just over the Musketeer’s shoulder. “Alright," he continued curtly. "Such is my headache, I was only partially kidding about the man having clubbed me with his horse and I have a constant urge to throw up. Satisfied?”

Athos was. He allowed a quick nod before he sat back to study his friend more carefully. Blood coated left side of Aramis’ face, where his skull had bled profusely, his hair was stiff and sticking up where it coated the strands. All in all, he looked probably as bad as he felt and Athos was not at all certain he could manage it if made to stand, certainly would not an escape, by foot or horseback.

“That will clear up though, won’t it?” Porthos queried, searching Aramis’ face for some reassurance, or obfuscation. 

Aramis sighed gustily. “In time, my friend.” He gave a shrug. “Perhaps.” 

Athos and Porthos shared a worried glance. A lack of certainty was not overly reassuring. 

“Time,” d’Artagnan snorted softly, his gaze locked on their captors a short distance away. “That is something I hope we don’t spend a lot of here.” 

D’Artagnan’s worried tone drew everyone’s attention. Gathered around the fire and passing a jug between them, the men made motions toward the Musketeers, some pointing and laughing, but seemed unconcerned about their ability to get free. 

Athos looked to Aramis. “Our hosts seem either incapable or unwilling to speak anything other than Spanish. Whomever we are waiting for, it would be nice to be a little more informed. Think you can fill us in some?” 

Aramis gave the slightest nod in deference to his aching head. “I shall do my best...” he murmured, gazing at the boisterous men gathered about the fire some distance away. 

Despite the obvious discomfort the little movement caused him, Aramis leaned toward the gathering and tilted his head to one side to listen. Whether from to gain focus, or to clear his muddled sight, he squeezed his eyes closed and remained completely still. 

After a moment, Aramis translated. “Well, they are certain of some sort of favor for having captured us. I—” the marksman blinked rapidly toward the men at the fire, obviously trying to focus. “Seems we are indeed waiting for someone, he leaned forward, tilting toward the men, trying to catch a name. “de.... de Guzmán, I think.” 

Athos rifled the name around in his head, trying to think if it was familiar. He could think of nothing and soon shook his head. “I have no idea who that may be.”

One of their captors, however, seemed to be in a far less celebratory mood. Not smiling like the others, he sat quiet, sullen in his repose, his face purple and littered with bruises while the men around him drank and laughed. Porthos had noticed him earlier and expressed concern; naturally being responsible for most of those bruises, Athos expected no less. As if sensing their attention upon him, the Spaniard slowly turned his gaze to stare at the bound Musketeers before suddenly jumping to his feet and rushing toward them. 

Their suddenly attentive guard impeded his progress and stepped in to block his path. The single guard was quickly joined by the others before the angry Spaniard was subdued. The group spoke urgently to the man who’d charged but he seemed inconsolable; thankfully, he could not break their hold on him. 

“That cannot be good,” Athos stated before glancing at Porthos. 

“Let'im come,” Porthos growled, staring menacingly at the Spaniards. “He fights poorly and suffered for it. I’ve no regrets and if he wants a rematch, I’ll gladly oblige.” 

Aramis and d’Artagnan smiled. Athos saw little humor in a man wielding power over them especially given their current state of vulnerability. Any sort of grudge this man held against their group could prove deadly and irreparable. 

There was another exchange, this time between another man who seemed to garner some deference from all the men. The others seemed to bend to the sound of his voice and soon, the one who’d charged them, seemed to respond with a quick nod of his head. 

“What is going on…?” D’Artagnan whispered anxiously to the marksman, the other Musketeers also looking toward him for an answer. 

Aramis shook his head, listening intently. “The one carrying the Porthos-size bruises…his name is Javier, that much I heard clearly.” 

After a moment, Javier seemed to regain control of himself and was released. Still, he prattled on, a litany of angry words no one but Aramis understood, all the while gesturing at Porthos in particular. Judging by the dark look that came over Aramis, they were more than inflammatory.

“Seems Javier did not like being bested by a—” Aramis stopped, face clouding over with barely controlled rage. “A man of darker complexion,” he glanced quickly at Porthos. 

Porthos chuckled. “Then he should learn how to fight better.” 

Javier yelled and lunged at them once more before the others drew him back. He was soon wrestled to his seat, several pairs of hands pressing him down, the force enough to keep him in place. Another Spaniard stood before the angry soldier, hands on hips, glaring down and speaking in an authoritative tone. 

“Ah,” Aramis continued. “Their employer—de Guzmán—would apparently be most upset if his prizes were further damaged before he arrived.”

Porthos shrugged. “Lucky for Javier then,” he grinned. 

In no time the voices of their captors returned to light tones, and this time Javier seemed to join in, though he remained on edge, like a rabid dog about to strike. After a time, he even commanded the attention of the others, rising to his feet, his voice both triumphant and hard. 

“They… they are all talking about,” Aramis brow scrunched up, “who is the better shot. Seems Javier believes himself the best.” 

The Spaniard strutted about, preening like a peacock, the others cheering him on. Javier stopped abruptly and spun. Facing their captives, he lifted his hand, curled three fingers to palm until his hand is the shape of a gun, then pointed it at each of the Musketeers and made a shooting noise. 

Aramis meets Athos’ gaze. “I don’t think I need to translate that.” 

“No,” Athos sighed but his eyes clearly concerned. “No, you do not. Sadly.”

Aramis grew quiet, suddenly no longer interested in their captor’s words, more withdrawn.  It was clear he was still listening and at something they said, his gaze turned inward, contemplative and Athos was no stranger to the tell-tale signs of when their friend was troubled. 

“There is more, isn’t there?” Athos pressed. 

Aramis gazed unsteadily at Athos, concern etching his features. 

“What is it?” Porthos prodded. 

“Probably nothing," Aramis continued. "Just, something about their search for a specific Musketeer.” 

Athos could not help feeling that Aramis was leaving something out. Even Porthos eyed him suspiciously.

“Hey!” d’Artagnan interrupted, his voice low and urgent. “Someone’s just arrived!” 

Two men rode in, one slightly shorter, the other tall and thin. Like everything else in their encampment, their horses and tack bespoke wealth and power. The taller of the two men, more so. The horse beneath him more spectacular than all the others, and he sat it with a more refined manner, dressed in clothes that were a combination of fine linen and silk. This man was no commoner, nor was he a soldier. Nobleman, Athos decided, and most assuredly the one funding this endeavor as others deferred to him quickly. 

Next to him, his traveling companion was in every way different. More like the soldiers around the camp, but familiar in a way Athos, at this distance, could not put his finger on. As the men drew to a halt, he was swift to dismount but the well-dressed man seemed less so. He sat his horse while the man who had admonished Javier earlier, approached his mount and spoke. 

They conversed a moment, Aramis glancing at Athos with a quick shake of his head; they were too far for him to make out their words. The man addressing the well-dressed newcomer, pointed at the copse of trees where the Musketeers remained bound and the wealthy man turned his dark gaze their direction. After a moment, the taller man dismounted as well, garnering the attention of his traveling companion and the other soldier as they gathered to discuss their fate, Athos thought grimly. 

Athos and d’Artagnan were the only two whose position allowed a closer look, and the younger man could not contain his curiosity any longer. “Well?” he glanced at Athos, who continued to study the financier, and likely the man with some manner of grudge against one of them. 

“After the battle," Athos began, "I got a look at the pommel of one of their blades. From what I saw of the etchings, I believe our new arrival, the tall one, is Spanish nobility.” He looked knowingly at his men. “This does not bode particularly well for us.” 

“What would the likes of him want with us?” 

The small gathering of men finished the conversation and the man they’d all come to realize as their leader, gave a quickly worded command. The small group turned and, flanked by four of his men, the taller member lead the way to the larger tent near the fire. The proximity of their destination allowed closer inspection and d’Artagnan gasped.

“Athos, the man on the left,” D’Artagnan called quietly. “Isn’t that—” 

“Horácio de Flores.” Athos supplied. All too quickly he pieced together what Aramis had relayed— and that which he was now certain the marksman had withheld— and given the presence of the agent to whom he’d brokered a deal some time ago, a coldness hollowed out the pit of his stomach. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse. 

“Who—I can’t see.” Porthos leaned toward the former Comte before trying to twist against his bindings again, this time to see who approached. “What’s going on?” 

“Stay still, Porthos,” Athos ordered. “You remember the Spanish agent we turned Emilé Bonaire over to nearly a year ago?” he explained all the while holding Aramis’ gaze. “He travels with another man, one who looks wealthy enough to have bankrolled this endeavor.” 

“What for?” Porthos asked. “We gave him what he wanted.” 

“But not without taking something in exchange…” Aramis said, his voice hollow. 

“You think Flores is helping him?” d’Artagnan ventured. 

Athos nodded minutely. “But something of this magnitude. It takes funding and Flores was only a foot soldier for his King. He would not have this kind of pull.” 

The marksman hadn’t even attempted to catch a glimpse of the newest arrival, not that he could have if he’d wanted too. And by the look on his face, he knew the implications as well. He’d overheard something he’d not shared and it left a pit fear deep in Athos’ gut. 

“So why’s he coming after us?” Porthos asked, noticing how Athos studious gaze was locked on Aramis and so did the same. “You heard something you haven’t told us,” he pressed the marksman. “What is it?” 

Aramis sighed and closed his eyes a moment. “Nothing I could make out with any certainty.” 

“Bollocks!” Porthos hissed angrily. “I know that look in your eye.” 

“What look?” Aramis shot back. 

“The same look we’ve all come to know over the years,” Athos added. “The ‘I’ve got this self-sacrificing, suicidal idea’ look.”

“I do not,” Aramis looked completely affronted but they could not be sure if it was in dispute of their claims, or that he was perturbed at having been found out.

Porthos huffed. “You do so, and I’m here to tell you—don’t. Don’t you even think it. You say one word that brings this all on you and I’ll knock you out again so you don’t talk.” 

Aramis gave a tired grin. “Well, that won’t do my headache any favors.” 

“Better to have a head to ache," Porthos added, "than to do something utterly stupid.” 

“Hey, hey,” D’Artagnan interrupted. “They’re up to something,” As one they quieted, watching as the men had drawn to a stop, the nobleman pointing to an area just south of their tents. Men scrambled to gather weapons and head to the clearing where a rack was quickly set up and muskets leaned against it, one by one. 

The color drained from d’Artagnan’s face. “Well, looks like a lovely day for a firing squad.” 

Athos wasn’t so sure and returned his intense gaze to the marksman. “Are your eyes any better?” the former Comte asked. 

“Some…” Aramis answered his voice resolute. “Athos, if this has anything to do with that agent I killed—” 

“You did hear something,” Porthos shot back angrily. "I knew it."

“It does not matter," Athos hissed. He tossed a quick glance at the men approaching.  "All that does matter is getting out of this. Alive. All of us.” 

“But if I confes—” 

“Not happening,” Porthos cut in with a tone the brooked no argument. 

“Don’t be fools,” Aramis ground out. “You could all get away. Get back to Paris, the Garrison—” 

“And what makes you think they’ll let any of us go?” D’Artagnan leaned in. 

“D’Artagnan’s right,” Athos continued. “They let us go and we report to the Captain. He takes that to the King and war would follow. I doubt they want that.” 

Aramis wanted to say more but stopped when D’Artagnan cleared his throat. The Gascon nodded to his right and they all watched as the contingent of men, led by the nobleman, Horácio de Flores among them, drew within a few feet before coming to a halt. All but the nobleman. He stepped into the haphazard circle of trees, stopping only when he reached the center to command their attention. The Musketeers watched nervously as the accompanying men fanned out, coming to stand just behind each of the bound Frenchman. 

“Who are you and what is the meaning of this?” Athos demanded. “We are the King’s Musketeers. I demand you let us go immediately.” 

The men surrounding them laughed, save for the man in charge. He walked over to stand directly before Athos and the swordsman had to crane his neck to meet the man’s eyes. 

“You are in no position to make demands, señor,” the nobleman sneered, his French layered with a thick Spanish accent. He gave a quick nod to someone.

The blow came without warning. Athos’ head rocked to one side. Pain radiated up and down his face and neck. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his ears rang. Beneath the clanging in his head, the sounds of shouting filled the spaces in between. 

Desperate to regain his faculties, Athos shook his head and the ringing gave way to clarity. His bleary gaze trailed over to Porthos. The larger man was in a rage, three of the nobleman’s men were fighting to keep him in check. They fared poorly, blood streamed down one of the soldier’s faces where his nose was obviously broken. To Athos’ right, D’Artagnan too was waging his own battle and losing. And Aramis, too weak to do more than shout at the captors nearest him, did so with a litany of Spanish that, judging by the purpling faces of those around him, were clearly debasing.

At the center of it all, the nobleman stood glaring at them, though he’d taken a more keen interest in Aramis and his obvious command of their language. How much longer before the man lost all patience and had them shot and be rid of their insolence…?

“Stop…” Athos panted, looking at his men, realizing he’d not been heard. “All of you stop!” he managed and at full voice. “Don't give them reason to do worse.” One by one Porthos and d’Artagnan complied and Aramis quieted. Things settled, though the tension was thick. 

Athos watched as the nobleman eyed his prisoners. He then issued orders to his men in Spanish before turning on one heel and walking away. 

“What did he say?” Porthos looked at Aramis, as the men surrounding them knelt to undo their bindings. 

“Just to bring us. And Porthos?” Aramis looked pointedly at the larger man to make certain he’d garnered his attention before continuing. Porthos gazed at him and waited. “He also said to shoot you if you got out of hand.” 

Porthos looked ready to argue, certainly thinking it was to encourage compliance, but the gravity of the marksman’s gaze told him the truth of it. Unbound and ordered to rise, three men moved to stand before the dark-skinned man, their weapons leveled at his chest as he gained his feet slowly. Those too leant an air of gravity to Aramis’ interpretation. 

The slowest to rise, Aramis found it necessary to steady himself against the tree to which he’d been bound, his body swaying precariously. Then vertigo tipped him into the nearest guard and Athos tensed as Javier was knocked back three paces. Naturally, the volatile man took affront instantly. He grabbed the marksman’s upper arm and hauled him up until his back was pressed forcefully against the tree. Aramis had long since gone pale from the sudden change of elevation and Athos was not certain he could remain upright on his own. 

“What’s the matter, French dog?” Javier leaned in, his face menacingly close, his Spanish dripping with derision. “Don’t you like how I rearranged your skull before?” The soldier trailed one finger along the line of dried blood covering Aramis’ face and up to where it disappeared into the marksman’s hairline. “Because I can make the hole wider…” 

Javier suddenly pressed one finger cruelly into the wound at the side of Aramis head. The reaction was immediate. 

Aramis sucked in a gasp of pain. His eyes slammed shut and he tried desperately to pull his head away from his tormentor’s touch. Javier would have none of it and when Aramis started to collapse in on himself, the guard tightened his grip, pinning him back harder. 

Athos and his men could do nothing but watch in helpless rage, their guards raising their weapons to take aim as Porthos nearly lost control and charged forward to aid his friend. Each of them held themselves tensely, ready to spring to the marksman’s aid regardless the cost. 

Even with his eyes closed, Aramis knew his friend well. “Porthos,” he panted. “Stop. He cannot kill me,” he opened his eyes and slanted them toward his tormentor to make his point. “His master would not like it.” 

“For now, perhaps, cabron,” Javier snarled in a mix of French and Spanish. “But your time is coming. Do not doubt it!” 

“Porthos…” Athos warned the larger man. “Listen to Aramis. Now is not the time.” 

Aramis turned his head slowly and glared at Javier. “Whatever happens, it won’t be by your hand, Javier,” he said in Spanish. Then, the marksman gave a sudden grin. “But if being bested in battle bothers you so much, perhaps a change in occupation is in order. Might I suggest… needlework?” 

Athos had no idea what Aramis said but clearly Javier hadn’t appreciated it; he jerked the marksman forward and viciously slammed him back against the tree, his head making hard contact with the bark. Aramis’ face contorted in pain and in the fragment of a moment, the soldier produced a large knife and pressed the blade against the Musketeer’s neck hard enough that a thin red line of blood seeped beneath it.

“Basta!” 

Athos breathed a measured sigh of relief. Horácio de Flores strode purposefully into their midst, his steps directed to where Javier held Aramis against the tree, shooting a quick glance at Athos as he stalked by. When he noted his man had not released Aramis, he pulled his pistol and leveled it at Javier. 

“Put your knife away, Javier,” Flores demanded and Athos could only hope Flores’ words were meant to rebuke his soldier. “That is an order.” 

Athos tensed as the guard remained unmoved, apparently too caught up in his anger. 

“This man…"  Javier glared at Aramis, the sharp blade still pressed against his flesh, “he and his Musketeers killed two of our men.”

“That is a matter for another time, perhaps. Release him now or I will be forced to tell Don Gaspar de Guzmán that you are disobeying his orders.” 

Javier looked angrily at Flores, then again at Aramis. Time seemed to freeze as the knife bit once more into Aramis’ throat before it was withdrawn with an angry growl. The guard quickly released his hold and stepped back, sneering as the sudden loss of support saw Aramis crumple to the ground. 

“Get back to the main camp,” Flores snapped, his Spanish commanding and accepting nothing short of compliance. “Now.” And they all watched as Javier walked stiffly back toward the tents, his shoulders high and tense. 

Flores did not return his pistol to his belt but instead turned to Athos. “Help your friend,” he motioned with the weapon. “But do not try anything, or the big one dies first.” 

Porthos sighed. “I’m getting real tired of being the one threatened with bein’ shot first.” 

Aramis grinned tiredly, one hand testing the depth of the cut on his neck. “Big and intimidating is both a blessing and a curse, mon ami.” 

Athos walked carefully over to where Aramis sat on the ground with his back to the tree for support. “What was that all about?” he asked stooping down next to the marksman. 

Aramis shrugged. “I suggested a career change. He did not take it well.” 

Athos shook his head but caught Porthos concerned gaze. He nodded that Aramis was well—well, well enough anyway—and was gratified when the big man relaxed. Athos sighed, pulling Aramis’ arm across his shoulder to lend support. “Well,” he lifted until they were both upright. “I would appreciate you not doing that again, at least not until we figure out what is going on. Understood?” 

“The man has no sense of humor,” Aramis mumbled, gritting his teeth as they rose. Athos gave him a moment to steady himself but had no intention of releasing him. “But I shall do as you ask.” 

Athos looked at Flores, gave a quick nod that they were ready and soon the small band of prisoners and captors moved out of the copse of trees. “Strange how your compliance gives me little comfort.” 

Aramis chuckled dryly. “You worry too much.” 

“No.” Athos adjusted his hold, his concern growing with how heavily the marksman needed to lean on him. “No, I am pretty sure I worry as much as is necessary. If anything, I do not worry enough.” 

It wasn’t a great distance they needed to cover, but Aramis was soon breathing harder than he should have when they managed to make it to the small clearing next to the camp. Athos could only hope the marksman was exaggerating his weakness in hopes of their foe underestimating him. It would give them an advantage in a bid to escape, albeit a small one. However, between the blood covering one side of his face and the pain behind his eyes, Athos doubted that was the case. 

Porthos tried to hang back to help them, but each time he slowed, the two guards flanking him prodded his sides with their weapons to get him moving. They’d be easy enough to take out but now they were too close to the nobleman’s other men and the numbers were not in their favor. 

“Just so we are clear, I did not want this señor…” 

Athos looked at Flores; he’d not realized the man had flanked them. Still, he kept them moving toward the area outside the tents, where the rack of muskets awaited. “What is going on?” he asked the Spaniard. 

“That is not for me to say.” 

“No, it seems not,” Athos snapped, his steely gaze glaring up at the man he’d once helped. “But perhaps your friend should be informed of the proportion of the mistake he’s making before this little mishap plunges both our countries into war.” 

“Don Gaspar is acutely aware of the consequences,” Flores retorted, his spine straightening in contempt. “It is, however, a matter of honor.”

Porthos huffed. “Got a funny idea of honor,” he pointed out, anger lacing his words. “Keeping the four of us in the dark and prisoners without cause.”

The Spanish agent gave him a withering look. “Very well. Do you recall the last time we met?” he asked, searching each of the prisoner’s faces for recollection.

“We do," d'Artagnan answered. "And as I recall, we did your work for you,” he hissed, making it clear what he thought of the man’s efficiency. 

“And I recall a dead comrade," Flores threw back, his eyes lingering on Athos, Aramis and D’Artagnan for a moment too long. "Spain’s best marksman.” 

Aramis huffed. “That was the best you had?” he smirked. “Spain is truly in trouble then.” 

Athos would have jabbed Aramis’ side for his impertinence but he feared he’d lose his grip and the marksman would end in a heap on the ground. Besides, he didn’t think the man capable of withstanding even the slightest assault to his person, not if the way Aramis leaned so heavily on him was anything to go by.

“Is that what this is about?” Athos pointed out, casting a look in the marksman’s direction. “The dead Spanish agent?” 

Flores was quiet a moment, his gaze suddenly catching that of the noblemen. “Enough conversation,” he snapped, shoving Athos and his charge down the path, urging them to walk faster. It was all the swordsman could do to keep Aramis upright as they stumbled forward, but they managed. And he was equally relieved Porthos and d’Artagnan complied as well. “See about using your feet instead of your tongues or find yourselves without them.” 

Flores fell back out of earshot and Aramis leaned into Athos. “Tell him the truth, Athos,” the marksman said through gritted teeth, the stumbling gait no doubt making his headache worse. 

Athos tossed Aramis a perturbed look. “That is not happening.” 

“Why not?” he hissed. “You heard what he said. I’m the one who shot that agent. Once they know, they’ll move me out of France and in to Spain as fast as possible to avoid risk of detection. And in case you haven't noticed, I’m in no condition to travel; I’ll only slow them down. That gives you three time to get back to Paris and get help.” 

“Or they kill us all when we try to save you.” 

Aramis shook his head. “I do not think that is the plan. One Musketeer’s death may be small enough to avoid an incident with France but not four. Unless you think Horacio is lying...”

Athos heard talking and turned to look at Guzmán; he stood some distance ahead, talking to Flores. “No…you’re right.” It occurred to him just how this member of royalty would extract his revenge. “He’s a nobleman. He will want to stay within the code of the nobility,” he looked at Aramis next, a cold hand of fear gripping his heart. “A nobleman’s fight.”

Athos read it in Aramis’ eyes that he understood. They came to a stop. “Aramis, you are in no condition—” 

They were nudged by the guard following them. The man rattled off something in Spanish and Aramis nodded that they should continue. 

Athos glanced quickly at Aramis’ pale face. he could practically hear the wheels turning in his head and he knew without a doubt he would not like what he was thinking. Rather than engaging a useless argument, he chose damage control. 

“We delay them for as long as we can,” Athos murmured. “For the longer it takes, the more of your faculties you regain. Understood?” 

Aramis grunted his assent and the rest of their journey was made in silence, Aramis concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Athos bracing his friend while mulling over their situation. A nobleman’s terms would deem a duel with either swords or pistols and if Aramis’ prowess was discovered, pistols would immediately be off the table. Don Gaspar de Guzmán would stack the deck in his favor and chose swords instead. 

Whatever happened, Athos had to make sure the nobleman did not get his way. While Aramis was nearly Athos’ equal in swordsmanship, it mattered not when the man could take no more than three steps without tipping over. 

They moved slowly to come up next to where Porthos and d’Artagnan now stood, their guards now having moved away but their weapons remaining at the ready. Against a wooden rack near one of the tents, propped up on the poles, were four muskets. Beyond them stood a single pole and behind it, nothing but open field. The scene an ominous reminder of d’Artagnan’s earlier comment… 

A firing squad. 

Don Gaspar de Guzmán walked over to stand in front of them, behind him, Flores and the man who they’d come to realize was the leader of the soldiers. Guzmán locked his hands behind his back and glared down his nose at them in an uncomfortable silence and out of his periphery; Athos saw Aramis sway. He reached out to grab his upper arm, steadying him. The marksman gave a grateful nod and seemed to hold his own from there. 

“He don’t look so good,” Porthos murmured, leaning forward to look past Athos to make a quick assessment of Aramis. 

Athos shook his head. “No thanks to Javier…” 

“I get my hands on that little p—” 

“Have any of you ever heard the story of Wilhelm Tell?” The nobleman started pacing in front of his prisoners. “Tell was an excellent marksman, though with bow and arrow, still, he was the best in all of Sweden. Then, one day his skill was put to the test; he was forced to shoot an apple off the head of his own son.” 

Forcing himself to keep all emotion from his features, Athos could not help but to exchange a look with Aramis. Or at least try to… their own marksman had a glassiness to his gaze that left the former comte wondering just how much of Don Gaspar’s children's story he was truly hearing. 

“I will not be as villainous as the nobleman in that tale, however. I see no point in making any of you shoot fruit off the heads of children.” Gaspar’s expression turned pious and Athos could not help the dread that filled his gut. “Instead, you three,” he pointed out Athos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, “can shoot a bottle off the head of this one,” he finished, pointing at Porthos. 

“You’re out of your mind!” D’Artagnan exploded, lunging toward Guzmán but he was quickly restrained by four men, two grabbing his arms, the other two retreating enough to aim their weapons at him.

The Musketeers watched with helpless frustration as Porthos was directed to move by five more men, but not before he stopped and stared hard at the swordsman. Athos knew what he waited for; he need only give the slightest of gestures and they’d fight. They’d take them all on for outnumbered they may be, but they were never outmatched. 

Until he looked at Aramis. Eyes squinted in pain, trying to focus, he swayed on his feet, head tilted at an awkward angle as if he could not quite decide which of the two Athos’ before him he should obey. 

Athos looked back to Porthos with a resigned gaze and the big man understood immediately. They would have to look for another chance later. And pray there would be a later… 

The dark-skinned Musketeer turned, walking with confidence some twenty paces ahead to where the pole stood. He faced his friends and pressed his back to the post, waiting, chin high, his eyes fearless in the face of his brothers’ skills. Another Spaniard approached with a clay cask in one hand ready to place on his head only to be thwarted by the Musketeer’s height. 

Athos would have found it amusing but for the dire consequences ahead. Instead, he took pride as Porthos grabbed the cask out of the perplexed Spaniard’s hands and placed it on his head himself. He then folded his arms over his chest, braced his legs in a wide stance and waited, eyes gazing steadily ahead. 

The nobleman gestured and one of the soldiers grabbed one of the muskets off the makeshift rack and carried it over to the closest of the Musketeers: d’Artagnan. The young Gascon looked at the weapon with a mixture of trepidation and determination; then, casting a quick glance at Athos, took the weapon in hand. 

 “I warn you señor,” Guzmán put in.  “Any attempt to point that musket at me or my men...” He gestured to two soldiers on either side of Porthos; the men backed a safe distance away from the larger Musketeer, at the same time training their weapons on the larger man. “And he dies instantly.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Athos shouted. He’d had enough of this game. “Tell us what it is you want and be done with this!” 

Guzmán looked past Athos, his dark gaze boring into d’Artagnan. “I will give you a count of three. At its end, a pistol will be fired, either yours aimed at the target, or one of my men's, aimed at the Musketeer's head. Your choice." 

D'Artagnan cursed and brought the weapon to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel and faltered. “I… I don’t…” he murmured uncertainly. 

“One.” 

The Gascon dropped his right hand quickly, wiping his right palm against his pants to remove the sweat. 

“Take a breath d’Artagnan…” Aramis called, his words quick but his tone soothing. 

The younger man’s shoulders seemed to loose some of their tension at the sound of Aramis’ voice. He returned his grip to the stock and sighted down the barrel.

“Two.” 

“Exhale as you fire.” 

The younger Musketeer did as instructed and squeezed the trigger. He grimaced as the ignition caught and a blast shook the air around them. A thick cloud of smoke obscured the field before them and nobody moved. 

When the cloud dissipated, Athos and d’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief. Porthos was on his feet, back ramrod straight against the post, a slow grin curling his lips. The clay bottle on top of his head, was equally unscathed. 

“Tell me my eyes do not deceive me...” Aramis asked, squinting at the distance ahead, a hesitant smile on his face. 

“They do not, my friend,” Athos responded, clasping him on the shoulder and met his smile with one he dared himself. “He is unharmed.” 

Before either of them could dwell on this small joy, d’Artagnan grunted in suprise. Athos turned in time to see him arch his back, face screwed in pain as he fell to the ground. The guard responsible evident as he stepped back, the stock of his arquebus, withdrawn, the man’s eyes cold and ruthless. 

Flores looked away. Even he knew this was wrong but did not dare speak against it. 

“Next,” the nobleman’s cool voice interrupted. “I believe,” he said from his safe distance on the sidelines. “That is you, señor Athos.” 

Athos ignored him, his eyes locked on d’Artagnan’s still form. He did not hear Flores say something in Spanish, nor notice another soldier take yet another loaded weapon from the rack and approach. With a relief born out of temperance, Athos watched as the younger man got painfully to his feet, clutching his back. When d’Artagnan seemed able to breathe once more he grimaced, but nodded that he was well. Or… well enough. 

Athos spun on the nobleman and glared. “He did as you asked.” Pointing at the Gascon and taking a step forward Guzmán, not once realizing the soldiers around him were leveling their weapons at him. “That was completely unnecessary!” 

Guzmán did no more than stare down his nose at the swordsman; though it was clear his next words may be Athos’ doom, in that moment he cared very little. It was Aramis who managed to block his path, putting his wavering body between him and the nobleman.

“Athos,” he said quietly, his voice close to his ear. “I may not see too well, but my hearing is good enough to have heard the men surrounding us ready their weapons to fire on Porthos if you take one more step.”

A quick glance at Guzmán told him all he needed to know; the man looked disappointed… 

Athos exhaled loudly, the tension in his body forestalled for the moment. He looked at Aramis and patted him on the shoulder in thanks and withdrew, making sure his brother was steady before he released him.

“The moment you grasp that weapon,” Guzmán said, inspecting his fingernails as if he were now bored. “You have three seconds. And do not try to fail on purpose, as your young friend did.” 

Athos did not hesitate. He took the arquebus, tucked the stock snugly into his shoulder and ignoring Guzmán’s countdown, took careful but steady aim and, after a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and fired. 

Just as with d'Artagnan's shot, a cloud of smoke shrouded his sight. When it cleared, Porthos was still standing, his face awash with cautious relief. The target over the dark-skinned Musketeer’s head stood proudly as well, unmoved. 

Athos’ own relief was fleeting as he braced for Guzman’s reaction to yet another miss. 

The nobleman looked from Porthos to Athos, his eyes cold and hard and for the first time, Athos noticed Guzmán held a pistol in his right hand. With little thought, Guzmán raised the weapon, aimed and fired. Porthos shouted in pain, clutched his leg and fell to his knees, the pottery falling from his head and landing in the soft grass fully intact. 

It was all Athos could do to contain his rage, let alone that of d’Artagnan and Aramis. But Guzman’s men made that easier for him; a half dozen formed a line across the field between the Musketeer and the nobleman, weapons aimed and eyes showing no hesitation to use them. Flores gave Athos a warning shake of his head and the swordsman knew he had to rein in his men. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos shouted. He slowly unfolded from the ground and painfully got to his feet. “It just… just grazed me,” he finished, straightening as best he could, though his right hand clutched the side of his leg, blood seeping between his fingers. 

“Indeed,” Guzmán said smugly. “Because if I had wanted him dead,” he turned and looked knowingly at Athos. “He would be. Now.” The nobleman’s gaze locked on Aramis. “I believe you are next. Do not disappoint me.”

While the Musketeers returned to their places further back, Athos used the repositioning to get closer to Aramis. “Well?” 

“How bad?” Aramis replied with a question of his own. 

Athos glanced back at Porthos. “He still stands; the bleeding is not bad.” 

Aramis sagged in relief. “Then if indeed Guzmán tells the truth,” he rubbed at his injured temple, grimacing, “and he grazed Porthos on purpose, he is a formidable opponent.” 

“Stop messing with that,” Athos pulled his hand away gently, righting the marksman as he stumbled forward to where they were to take their mark once more. “While I appreciate your appraisal of the nobleman’s prowess with pistol,” he continued as they turned to face their target once more, d’Artagnan watching them closely, “that is not what I want to know…” 

Aramis nodded, squinting downfield where Porthos stood, waiting. “Not worse,” he offered, squinting, his breathing not at all even. “Mostly…” 

“Gentlemen,” Guzmán interrupted. He gave a flick of one hand to one of his men waiting by the rack of muskets where only two remained. A nearby soldier grabbed a Musket and approached Aramis and Athos, extended it and waited expectantly. “I grow impatient. Either the next man takes his shot, or your friend dies.” 

“My friend is injured,” Athos argued. “In his current condition, you would not get a fair assessment of his abilities.” 

Guzmán sighed. “Truly I grow weary of your complaints, Musketeer. Apparently, the King of France has overstated the caliber of his elite guard,” he mocked. The soldiers around them laughed. “You fire or I do, and my target,” he turned and aimed a freshly loaded pistol at Porthos, “will be his heart.”

Aramis looked into his eyes, and Athos hated what he saw. A mixture of guilt and love. Of resolve entwined with heartbreak… a spectacle of contradictions as only Aramis could achieve in a single expression.

“Step aside Athos,” Aramis said evenly. Athos shook his head.

“Aramis—”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” the marksman said, pulling his gaze away and fixing it on Porthos. He took an unsteady step forward as he moved into position.

Athos blinked in momentary confusion before it dawned on him just what Aramis was apologizing for and what he planned to do. “Aramis, no. You cannot.”

Two guards approached, one purposefully placing himself between him and Aramis, putting an end to their stilted conversation. Athos stood mute, even as the other guard motioned him back, leveling his weapon when Athos did not immediately comply.

A myriad of options blazed through his mind and quickly dismissed; there were too few that left any of them alive in their outcome. So, feeling the weight of defeat, the swordsman turned and walked on wooden legs to where d’Artagnan stood, waiting. The Gascon’s face was restless, ready for action, for a command, for something that bespoke of anything other than the inevitable that Athos felt.

“He’s going to reveal himself, isn’t he?” d’Artagnan whispered.

Athos did not answer. There had to be a way out of this. It was up to him to find one. He would watch. He would wait for a chance to change course, until then, talking did nothing.

“Athos,” D’Artagnan grabbed his arm and moved in close. “Surely you’re not going to just let him—”

“Let?” Athos shook his head, the weight of command like an anvil crushing him. “Please, if you see any way out of this, say so now…” He turned and resumed watching Aramis. “I am out of ideas.” For a moment, Athos considered telling them what he had seen in in Aramis’ tired, unfocused eyes. But he could not find the words or will to acknowledge his own helplessness.

He felt the Gascon release his arm and together they watched events unfold before them.

Aramis accepted the weapon, took a wobbly step back and with shaking hands, positioned the stock in the crook of his shoulder. He looked down the barrel, only to stop and blink furiously against what Athos knew had to be wavering vision. At any moment he expected the nobleman to threaten a countdown but it seemed not to come, Guzmán perhaps more patient given Aramis’ handicap.

Time stood still as d’Artagnan and Porthos waited for Aramis to take a shot they knew he was incapable of, and Athos prayed for a miracle to happen in the next few seconds. He asked it of a God he no longer trusted or pretended to understand. He implored it on behalf of a friend whose faith never wavered. Surely He would intervene on his behalf…

With a heavy sigh, Aramis moved. Only, instead of the thunder of gunfire, it was the soft words they all heard.

“Creo en Dios,” Aramis began, “Padre todopoderoso, creador del Cielo y de la Tierra…”

Guzmán’s head turned from the target to the shooter, surprise washing over his expression. “What…?”

Ignoring the nobleman’s reaction and the confused looks hurled his way, Aramis continued, his quiet cadenced speech like a melody with no music. “...la comumión de los Santos en el perdon de los pecados, la resurrección de los muertos y la vida eterna.”

Don Gaspar surged forward, as if the very fires of hell had been lit beneath his feet. “Do you care so little for your friend that you waste his life away in such a manner?” he threatened.

“And do you care so little for the way in which your comrade left this earth?” Aramis threw back, meeting Gusman’s gaze, unwavering.

Don Gaspar’s breath hitched, his composure broken for a fragment of time. “How do you know this?” he yelled. 

It was Aramis’ turn to take a deep breath and Athos found himself taking one along side him, knowing what would follow... 

“Because,” Aramis lowered the weapon. “I was there to witness his final breath,” the marksman said quietly. “After I shot him.” 

Silence fell upon the gathering of men for the second time in a short span of minutes. 

“He lies,” Athos shouted. “It was my shot that killed him.” 

“No, it was mine,” d’Artagnan followed. “Don’t believe them!” 

“Don’t listen to them,” Porthos voice boomed from across the field. “It was my shot that took his life.” 

Aramis ignored his friend's' words, each trying to pull the blanket of guilt upon himself. “You wanted to know which of us killed the Spanish agent...,” he said, his gaze holding Gaspar's eyes steady. "I have just given you the answer!" 

The nobleman looked around at them, his gaze touching each of them fleetingly before returning to Aramis. His face went immediately purple with rage. He’d made up his mind and Athos felt his heart sink. 

The nobleman grabbed Aramis by his shirt front and jerked him forward until their faces were inches apart. “Tell me, señor, have you any family? Anyone you would die for? That you would take their place if they were in danger or pain?” 

It was impossible not to see the anguish in the nobleman’s eyes, hear it in his voice, stoked by the rage he felt in his stance and his white knuckled grip on Aramis. If things seemed bleak before, they were downright lethal now, especially as Guzmán twisted the shirt in his grasp drawing it tight around the Musketeers neck until it cut off his air. 

“I did. Once. Then he was taken from me…” Guzmán continued. “While in service to the King. You see, he was more than simply an agent to Spain. He…” he pulled Aramis closer, lips pulled back in a snarl, “he was my... brother.” 

Aramis’ face went pale as he choked, tried to get a breath. Out of desperation he brought both hands up and tried to peel the nobleman’s hands from his shirt. “He…” the marksman gasped. “...shot first. W-warned him. I... had no choice.” 

“Let him go!” d’Artagnan shouted and in a fit of fear-born rage, launched at the nobleman. He was immediately grabbed by two soldiers and subdued. It wasn’t until another came up and slammed his side with a musket that he crumpled to the ground, clutching his ribs. 

“I could live with his death,” Guzmán hissed, ignoring d’Artagnan’s words, “He served his country and his King with honor and duty, but…” he twisted harder, “to know that his body was left in a shallow grave in the woods off some God-forsaken trail, in unconsecrated ground.” He pulled Aramis closer. “You robbed him of his life, and then you denied him the resurrection of the dead!” 

Athos was not sure how much longer Aramis could endure the nobleman’s rage. He had to do something to change the tide of things, even if that meant further endangering his friend. 

“So you would dishonor your brother’s values and beliefs by killing a man in cold blood?” Athos asked. “Honor for dishonor. I do not think your brother would appreciate you soiling his memory in such a manner.” 

Guzmán looked up quickly at the swordsman. 

“You may not have his future, but you have his past and would you not be better off avenging his loyalty and honor with some of your own?” 

“He is right,” Flores interjected as he moved over to stand before Guzmán. “Something more befitting a member of the King’s court, perhaps?” He glanced at Athos. 

The nobleman released Aramis suddenly and it was all the marksman could do to keep his feet as he stumbled back. Athos moved carefully to stand behind him, his hands catching Aramis about the shoulders in support. 

Guzmán straightened his clothing, smoothing down the fine silks and realigning his finely tailored coat. Flores leaned in and murmured something Athos could not hear, but he could feel the slight tremor beneath Aramis shirt and took this time to assess the injured man’s health. 

“You alright?” 

Aramis huffed out a laugh. “You don’t really want to know the answer to that.” 

Guzmán and Flores seemed to have completed their conversation and the latter marched stiffly over to Aramis and Athos. “A duel has been decided. Swords.” 

“No,” Athos looked quickly at Guzmán, willing the man to meet his gaze. “The code of honor amongst gentlemen clearly states that there should be equality on both parts. My friend can barely keep himself upright, hampering his ability to fence. If you insist on swords, then I insist you allow me to fight in Aramis’ place.” 

Guzmán sneered. “I fight the man who killed my brother and left his body to rot in Hell.” 

“My friend suffered at the violent cruelty levied by your own men. If he dies in a battle of your choosing, they will carry word of your dishonor back to Spain. Is that what you really want?” 

Athos had struck a nerve, evident in the way the nobleman’s men seemed to murmur and nod in agreement. They apparently knew some French and he felt certain it was enough. Guzmán, however, seemed unwilling to relent and while Athos knew he was right, the nobleman would rather suffer some ill-will from his men than risk dying at the hands of his foe. 

“Pistols,” Porthos called out evenly. All eyes swung in his direction as he hobbled over to where they stood, escorted by his guards. “Surely that would be more even in scale.” 

Athos did not know what to make of Porthos’ suggestion. He gazed at the man as if he’d sprouted a second head. 

All around them, the nobleman’s men seemed amenable to the terms; each nodded their assent, seeing this was more balance for them both. Athos, however, was less than certain, and d’Artagnan’s face held the same hesitance; the nobleman had already established himself as a good shot, Aramis had commented on it with his well-placed shot grazing Porthos earlier. 

Flores entered the discussion for the first time. “By all accounts received when I inhabited your fair city, señor Aramis is an expert marksman. Well known for his prowess with shot and powder…” 

Aramis smirked proudly, even as he wavered. Athos wanted to knock him upside his head. 

“Surely not as fine as your Don Gaspar, no?” Porthos pointed out, having noticed firsthand the man’s skill. 

“Aramis, his eyes are just as bad as his balance,” Athos put in. He wasn’t exactly sure where Porthos was going with this but he was fairly sure he had something up his sleeve. “Going against a man who can barely see isn’t exactly better than crossing swords with one who can barely walk.” 

Porthos seemed to think it over and arrive to a rather unhappy conclusion. “Fine then,” he gave a resigned shrug. “Both shoot blindfolded. How about that?” 

Athos could not have been more dumbfounded at the suggestion. He fought to keep that from his expression neutral as murmurs once more rose around them. Guzmán’s men chattered excitedly and Flores moved to whisper something in the nobleman’s ear. It was a quick exchange that had the nobleman nodding, seeming more confident than before and turning to face them. 

“Entonces, pistolas it is,” Guzmán’ announced. “Ten paces, we turn and fire.” 

The nobleman, accompanied now by Flores, turned to prepare himself. 

Porthos hobbled over to them and d’Artagnan met him half way, the soldiers allowing him to offer a shoulder in supporting their friend. Before Athos could be made to follow them, escorted away to watch the events unfold from a distance, he stepped over to stand next to Aramis. “I’m his second!” he said resolutely. 

The soldiers looked at one another questioningly before one decided they’d had enough of Athos’ impertinence. The soldier stood back, aiming an arquebus at him, a lethal gleam in his eyes. Porthos and d’Artagnan looked prepared to assist when Aramis intervened, repeating the words in Spanish. 

The men hesitated until Flores shouted something in Spanish, confirming their claims. The soldiers gave a quick nod and moved off to join the others guarding Porthos and d’Artagnan. Athos noted their younger counterpart was on bended knee securing a makeshift bandage around Porthos’ wound before turning to gaze at Aramis. 

“Make sure d’Artagnan packs that wound and ties that bandage tight.” 

“Stop a moment and worry for yourself,” Athos replied before he was interrupted by one of Guzmán’s soldiers. The man handed him black strip of cloth, which he took with no small measure of trepidation.  “You can do this?” he asked, gazing up at Aramis. 

“Shame on you Athos,” Aramis scolded, frowning mildly. He snatched the blindfold from his hands. “You’ve never doubted my abilities before.” 

Athos rolled his eyes at the feigned affront, reclaiming the strip of cloth “You were never unconscious only hours before, only to awaken suffering the effects of a head wound, all while preparing to go into a duel with a man who has already proved a formidable opponent.” 

Athos glanced over to where Flores and Guzmán stood, the former agent obviously elected as the nobleman’s second. The shorter man was busily fitting the cloth around the nobleman’s neck, preparing him, measuring it to pull up and over his eyes. 

“Ah but we shall both be given a similar handicap,” Aramis refuted. “Besides, my ears are working perfectly fine. Now,” he tugged at the blindfold, “either do your job as my second or go stand with Porthos and D’Artagnan where you can all fret needlessly.” 

Anyone who didn’t know Aramis would think he held an abundance of confidence, but Athos did know him. He could read between the lines, see the edges of fear, the acceptance of fate. The preparation for the inevitable. 

“Aramis...” he said seemingly unable to move. 

“Before we begin,” Aramis interrupted, his words directed to where Guzmán now stood, with Flores standing several feet away, checking the load on pistols. “I will require your word, on your honor as a gentleman, that regardless of the outcome, my friends go free. Your men will neither attack nor follow them as they return to Paris. Have I your word, spoken, here and now with God and your men as witnesses?” 

All eyes turned to the nobleman. Athos hadn’t considered such a declaration necessary before, but now, as Guzmán stood before them, hands clenched in fists at the demands made against his character, his men expectantly waiting his reply, he saw the sense in it. The man truly had not intended on letting any of them go. 

After another beat, Guzmán cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “You have my word, on my honor and as a member of the Spanish nobility.” His gaze touched first on Athos before traveling to where Porthos and d’Artagnan stood. “Once I kill your friend, you are free to go.” 

There was no mistaking the enraged growl Porthos issued as he took a threatening step toward Guzmán, heedless of the soldiers around them, their weapons brought to bear. Acting quickly, d’Artagnan stepped in front of their friend and pressed hands against this shoulders to contain him. He seemed to settle slowly, though his face remained red with anger as he glared at the noble Spaniard. 

“Or if I kill you,” Aramis stated clearly and with more confidence that Athos knew he possessed. “I will secure that promise too, on your honor.” 

The Spanish nobleman glared at Aramis, the anger on his face rivaling Porthos’. Around them Guzmán’s men seemed anxious for a response, some of them exhibiting displeasure, others suspicion at the Spaniard’s delay in answering. 

It wasn’t until Flores stepped forward and whispered something in his ear that Guzmán relented. After a brief but obviously heated exchange the nobleman nodded, grinding his teeth, his jaw shifting from side to side before he locked eyes on Aramis once again.

“Fine,” Guzmán snarled, his lips tight against his teeth. “If  you live, you and your friends may leave, you have my word as a gentleman.” 

Athos breathed a quiet sigh of relief, watching with apprehension as Flores approached and extended a pistol, powder and shot to Aramis. “Señor. I expect you, or your second will prefer to load the weapon yourselves, to assure its proper function.” 

Aramis gave a quick nod to Athos and the swordsman took the weapon and firing material. he began loading the weapon as instructed, glancing at Flores. “This is wrong and you know it. The other agent—” 

“Antonio,” Flores snapped. “His name — the one you killed — his name was Antonio and he was a good man.” 

“Who shot at us,” Aramis interjected, “even after he was ordered not to. I had no choice.” 

“And Guzmán feels his choice has been made as well.” Flores turned and looked at the field where the nobleman waited. “Once that pistol is loaded, keep it in a neutral position or you—” he looked at Athos as well “—all of you will all be shot, immediately.” 

“What,” Aramis chuckled, eyes sparkling in amusement though still dull and unsteady, “don’t trust me with a loaded weapon near your master?” 

“Not in the least,” Flores replied, unamused. “I would merely hate to deny Guzmán the right that is his alone.” He gave a curt nod and turned to leave before stopping to stare down his nose at the marksman. “I would wish you luck, señor, but...” 

What wasn’t said spoke volumes as the Spaniard made his exit, beating a hasty return to the nobleman’s side. Athos finished loading the pistol, prepared to rebuke Aramis for poking their enemy when he glanced at the nobleman and noticed something. He glanced down at the thick strip of cloth he’d been given, that would act as Aramis’ blindfold… 

“What is it?” Aramis asked.

Athos plucked the cloth from his belt and held the it out, watching as the breeze to caught the material, noting how it moved very little. He glanced back at the nobleman, noting how the black strip of cloth, one end hanging from his hand, practically flapping in the breeze.

“Guzmán’s blindfold. I believe—” the nobleman wrapped the strip around his eyes, allowing Flores to step in behind him and tie it behind his head. “It’s not quite the same as yours.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“It’s thinner.” Athos turned and met Aramis’ gaze. 

Aramis canted his head. “You think he’s... cheating?” 

“It would not surprise me.” Athos felt his blood boil. “I’m going to demand to see his blindfold,” he started to move away, stopping short when a hand on his upper arm grabbed him. 

“No, Athos,” Aramis said quietly, the swordsman swinging around on him as if he’d lost his mind. “If discovered, he’ll have no hesitation in killing us all outright. Best to let this play out, I fear it is the only hope we have of walking away from this.” 

“Are you mad?” Athos hissed, moving in close to the marksman, barely a hair's breadth between them to maintain what privacy they could. 

Aramis grinned. “Come now,” he looked down at the blindfold. “You’ve always thought me to be a little untethered.” 

Athos so no humor in his reply and felt anger build in the face of Aramis’ resolve. “This is murder. Once revealed to be a cheat, his men will surely be unhappy—” 

“And then what?” Aramis said calmly. “We are back to fencing and that, I can assure you, in my current state, I will lose.” 

“Caballeros,” a nasally, familiar voice interrupted them. 

Athos tossed a glare over his shoulder at the nobleman before once more staring into the resolute face of a friend, a man who’d claimed him as friend long before he’d realized it was something he wanted. A friendship that, over the years, had been his salvation in every way that mattered. 

“This… cannot be allowed,” he murmured tightly, eyes locked on his friend. 

“Señors,” Flores called out, interrupting them. “Complete your preparations and meet here. We commence soon!” 

“And yet,” Aramis continued, ignoring the command for the moment. “It must. Now,” he plucked at the black cloth. “If you don’t mind, I’d surely hate for us all to be shot before I’ve had my chance at him.”

Athos stepped behind Aramis to measure the cloth around his head. Once it was secure, Aramis tugged it down to rest on his neck until it was needed. The marksman then motioned to where the nobleman and Flores waited. “Shall we?”

Athos shook his head. “You are unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Aramis grinned as they turned and advanced to the center of the field. “Many ladies have said the same… although, you are the first man.” 

Athos wanted to say more but held his tongue for now. Instead he glared across the field at the nobleman and his second, his gaze traveling the men lining the field, his mind seeing no way out of this, and there was no way Porthos and d’Artagnan would refrain if Aramis went down. 

Aramis suddenly swayed, bumping him from his thoughts. Athos tightened his hold on the marksman’s elbow, watching him blanch before finding his balance and nodding for them to continue. Across the way, Aramis' lack of balance was not lost on Guzmán; he gave a smug smile, watching as they approached, their steps slow in order to keep Aramis upright. 

“That’s it,” Athos squeezed Aramis' arm. “When we get there, I will insist on taking your place.” 

“Have you ever shot blindfolded before?” 

“And you have?” Athos huffed. 

“Actually—”

“Besides, that is not the only problem,” Athos interrupted. “You can barely stay upright,” he murmured out of one corner of his mouth, “and yet you are somehow to find the ground beneath you for ten paces, for which I doubt the nobleman will allow me to be at your side—” 

“Heaven’s no,” Aramis shook his head. “And even if he did, I would decline the offer. You might get shot.” He stumbled a bit before Athos righted him. “And as for allowing this, that really isn’t your call, is it?” 

Athos narrowed his eyes at the marksman. “And just how do you intend to find your target without use of your eyes?” 

“Oh, God gifts us with many senses, sight being only one of them and largely over relied upon. Now, have the good sense to trust me, and maybe say a prayer that the nobleman’s sense of self is as overblown as I think it is.” 

They stopped a few feet from Guzman and Flores, the former agent stepping forward a pace to address them. “Place the blindfold over your man’s eyes and when both men are sufficiently covered, we will move them into place so their backs touch.” 

“This is madness…” Athos murmured, pulling the cloth from his belt once more and stepping up behind Aramis. “I hope you know what you are doing,” he said into his ear as he brought the blindfold up and over Aramis’ head. 

“Is that not the wish of every man?” 

Athos rolled his eyes. “I am fairly certain that one of these days, I am going to throttle you.” 

Aramis chuckled softly. 

Giving a nod to Flores, Athos positioned Aramis until his back was turned and the former agent did the same with Guzmán, both of them shuffling the men the final feet necessary until their backs touched. Athos gave Aramis’ arm a reassuring squeeze and stepped back, hesitant to move too far but knowing he had to. 

In a few strides, he reached Porthos and d’Artagnan, the larger man looking tense and worried. The Gascon fared no better. He nodded at each of them and turned to cast his own dour gaze upon the theater before them, where the players would decide the fate of them all. 

Flores stood several feet from the two men. “When I give the word, you will step off, complete ten paces which I will count. At the end of it, you will turn and fire. Am I understood?” Aramis and Guzmán muttered their understanding and the nobleman’s second moved back again before stopping. “Begin.”

“One.” 

“Two.” 

“Three.” 

Aramis’ step faltered, but he remained upright. Athos felt his heart jump. 

“Four.” 

“Five.” 

“Six.” 

“Seven.” 

“Eight.” 

Athos felt Porthos shift nervously as Aramis went slightly off course, his steps carrying him out of line. 

“Nine.” 

“Ten.” 

Guzmán spun first, his balance not at all hampered by his lack of sight. Aramis’ movement was slower, his turn came up short and he had to brace his feet to keep himself from tumbling over. But once he was around, he held perfectly still, his pistol still by his side. 

“What is that idiot doing?” Porthos grumbled, worry edging his voice. 

Athos could not have answered if he’d wanted to. All ability to breath was locked in his chest; his gaze was trapped by the Spanish nobleman’s aim and how it shifted, even as Aramis veered off course. It tracked perfectly; Guzmán had no trouble adjusting his direction to point straight at Aramis. If there was any doubt in his mind that the nobleman’s blindfold was as effective as an extra leg on a horse, this proved it. 

Guzmán brought his weapon up, sure and true, prepared to shoot as he thumbed back the hammer, an ominous click filling the air— 

Aramis canted his head to one side. He suddenly dropped to one knee, lifted his pistol and the next instant, the blast of two pistols filled the air, smoke emitting from the firing pans. The field was obscured by the ignition of gunpowder. 

Athos felt his world narrow to that solitary moment. Silhouettes of two men stood frozen in the cloud. Unable to wait any longer, Porthos broke first and launched forward, d’Artagnan right behind him, needing to go to their friend. 

Broken from his trance and paralyzing fear, Athos followed, no longer caring if the nobleman’s men chose to shoot them now. Nothing mattered but getting to Aramis and seeing if he still lived. 

They came to a stop, distance giving way to clarity as a good stiff wind carried off the heavy powder smoke revealing the macabre scene before them. 

Guzmán slowly lowered his pistol.  He looked at Athos, lips twisting in a cruel smirk. When something dark and bubbly burst through his lips, he looked as surprised as everyone else. Blood trailed down his chin, the pistol falling from his hand as he moved both up to clutch his chest. In a slow-motion fall, his knees gave and the Spaniard fell ungracefully to the ground. 

“Aramis!” 

Porthos' call broke Athos out of the trance. He whipped around in time to see the larger Musketeer hobble quickly across the field. Aramis wavered dangerously on his knees, his eyes fluttering closed. The dark-skinned Musketeer picked up speed, landing on his knees before the injured man just as he collapsed forward to land in Porthos' arms. D'Artagnan arriving seconds later, turning angrily to face any challengers that might attempt to stop them.

Athos got to them in four strides, and knelt on the other side. Together, he and d’Artagnan pulled him out of Porthos’ arms, until he was upright. “Are you hurt?” His gaze traveled over his friend. “Aramis?” 

“Here…” d’Artagnan called out and while Porthos propped their friend upright, the boy undid Aramis’ sash, ready to bandage his wound. “It’s his side. I can’t tell if it’s deep.” 

“It’s … not.” Aramis slowly opened his eyes and smiled softly at Porthos. “Just grazed.” 

The big man laughed, the sound thin and more relief than joy, bringing up one hand to gently cup one side of Aramis’ face. “I knew you could do it.” 

“Yes, well…” Aramis exhaled gustily, “I’m glad you were so sure. I, on the other hand...” 

D’Artagnan stared from one to the other and shook his head. “Well, I for one have no clue,” he put in. “How on earth did you do that?” 

“Time enough for explanations later,” Athos interrupted, turning to see Flores coming toward them, behind him, four soldiers encircling the deceased nobleman, tending his lifeless body. “Tend his wound as well as you can. I have a feeling we shall be traveling very soon…” 

Then while Porthos and d’Artagnan tended their friend, Athos stood and met the Spaniard at midfield, stopping a few feet from the man. Athos looked from Flores to the soldiers and beyond, where another group of men gathered around Javier. Many of them seemed less than happy with the arrangement and more than eager to break it and Javier gladly played their champion. While the others appeared determined to remain in accord with the nobleman's promise, Athos wondered just how many naysayers it would take to sway one side or the other...

The situation was as tenuous, Athos feared. And Flores was the key.

Athos met his unwavering gaze. “I expect as his second, you will see to it Guzmán’s terms will be honored.” 

Flores hesitated, turned to gaze to Javier and the men around him. Their faces were resolute but filled with anger. “I will,” he faced Athos again. “And I will try to keep his men in check but I advise you leave immediately.” 

“Our horses?” 

“Are being readied as we speak,” Flores indicated to the Musketeer mounts, as they were lead to the far side of the field. His eyes slid over to where Aramis now sat in the grass, his doublet removed and his blue sash being secured around the wound in his side. “Half of Guzmán’s men want only to avenge his death, the other half think your friend possess some kind of powers that are not of this world.” 

Athos studied Flores. “And you, where do you fit into this?” 

Flores considered Aramis. “That was a shot the likes of which I’ve never seen, but,” his gaze returned to Athos. “I’m not one prone to superstition. I am duty bound to see to it Don Gaspar’s words are upheld.” 

“Will Don Gaspar’s men see it that way?” 

Flores looked around at the men, eyeing them as they moved about restlessly, muttering to one another. “It is best you leave hastily,” he said before turning back to Athos. “The longer you remain, the less likely I am to contain them.” 

Athos nodded. “Thank you.” 

Flores ignored the words. “I took the liberty of restocking your saddlebags, in addition to the supplies you arrived with.” He looked earnestly at Athos. “And may we never cross paths again.” 

Athos gave a small bow and returned quickly to his friends. “Gentleman, we are away. Now.” 

“Now?” D’Artagnan squinted up at him before rising to his feet. “Aramis is in no condition to ride.” 

“Athos is right,” Aramis grabbed Porthos’ hand and was pulled to his feet where he wobbled a moment before Porthos steadied him. “We go. Now.” His voice was thin, breathless, but his eyes were alight with a familiar determination. 

Athos nodded and with Porthos and d’Artagnan supporting Aramis between them, the four of them approached the soldiers to claim their horses. Athos glanced behind him before stepping into the saddle. “Porthos—” 

“I got ‘im,” the larger man replied as he took hold of Aramis and slung one of his arms across his shoulder. Together, they limped over toward their horses, d'Artagnan running ahead to position Porthos' horse closer. 

“Porthos, your leg...” Aramis balked but hadn’t the strength to do more than voice his concern. 

“Is fine. It was just a scratch.” Porthos stopped next to his horse and handed Aramis off to d’Artagnan while he climbed into the saddle. “No wonder that bastard cheated…” He kicked a foot from the stirrup and leaned down and between the pair of them, Aramis was hefted into the saddle to ride in front. 

“Oh this is most demeaning…” Aramis muttered unhappily. His face was too pale and layered with sweat for anyone to take him seriously. 

“Hush you,” Porthos rebuffed lightly, adjusting his reins. “You’d not last an hour in the saddle alone and you know it.” 

“True,” D'Artagnan commented. “And you’d only slow us down every time we had to stop and pick you back up.” The Gascon had a sudden, mischievous look. “Unless you’d rather ride belly down over your saddle. Again.” 

The marksman gave him a withering look, the other two chuckling. “I thought we’d sworn never to mention that, ever again...” 

“We ride two hours then switch, each of us taking turns until we reach Paris.” Athos looked at the sullen and angry faces around them. 

“How far do you think we’ll get?” d’Artagnan moved his horse next to Athos before swinging into the saddle. 

Athos brought his horse's reins over the animal's head and climbed aboard. “That remains to be seen.” 

They were in the process of turning their horses, Athos at the lead, d’Artagnan close behind and Porthos, with Aramis slumped before him bringing up the rear, when a shout, followed by a scuffle broke out behind them. The swordsman peeled his horse away from the group and drew a pistol. “Keep riding!” he shouted, and turned to face the new threat. 

Javier was on horseback and racing toward them, a sword in one hand, pistol in the other, the reins to his horse flapping about wildly. He was barreling in their direction, rage in his eyes, pistol aimed at them; he alone determined to defy the nobleman’s honor. 

Athos thumbed back the hammer on his pistol and hoped his skill would suffice. He took aim… startled when a shot rang out from behind the rider.

The Spaniard arched his back, face pinched in pain as he fell from his saddle, one foot hooking in the stirrup. The animal, unaccustomed to the shift in weight, turned to the left before slowing to a stop, Javier’s eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky. 

Beyond him, near the camp, Flores stood, lowering the now spent musket and met Athos’ eyes. He gave a quick nod before shouting something in Spanish to the soldiers around him. They scurried to do his bidding, having now established himself their leader, his promise to see Guzmán’s terms followed. 

Athos bowed slightly and turned to rejoin his friends. 

The warmth of two candles cast a gentle glow in Aramis’ rooms. Treville sat at the table in the outer room, Athos across from him and each of them had a glass of warmed wine to cut the evening chill. Neither seemed interested in their contents, Athos less so as he sat slumped in his chair, elbows on the table, rubbing at bloodshot eyes.

Treville set his glass down and leaned back. “Well,” he sighed, speaking softly, “you made it back, a little worse for wear perhaps, but alive. And for that, I’m grateful.”

Athos twisted to gaze over his shoulder at his friends: Aramis was in the bed, naked to the waist, a white bandage stark against his tan skin where the doctor had cleaned and dressed the wounds to his side and head. Fortunately, he’d suffered no effects of an infection but exhaustion and blood loss had taken their toll. 

Next to him, Porthos was stretched out, one arm draped over the side of the bed, the top of his knuckles resting on the floorboard. The upper thigh of his left leg was wrapped in a fresh bandage as well, he too having escaped any signs of infection. The long ride had been punishment enough. 

On the floor but next to the bed, d’Artagnan lay sleeping on a pallet of blankets they’d piled there, snoring lightly. Constance had been by once and seeing them all, chose not to disturb, but it was clear she was relieved to see them home and safe. 

After they were seen to by the doctor, and fed a nice hot bowl of soup, sleeping arrangements were… negotiated. Tersely. 

Porthos had tried to take the chair next to the bed but Aramis had argued more aggressively than a man in his state should have been capable of, against it. He insisted that due to his own injury, that the larger man take one side of his bed; there was plenty of room. In the end, and to shut Aramis up so he would sleep and heal, they agreed. The pallet had only been suggested and accepted because d’Artagnan was not injured, but practically dead on his feet. 

Athos could relate. But he’d chosen to delay his rest to report to the Captain. 

“Did Aramis ever tell you how he managed that shot?” Treville continued, his fingers tracing the lip of his drink container. 

Athos turned back around to face his commander, leaning exhaustedly over his drink, staring down into its contents. God he was tired. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sound.” He looked at Treville. “The sound of Guzmán’s pistol being cocked was enough to tell him where the nobleman was seconds before he fired.” 

Treville sat there blinking at him. “That simple?” 

“Not exactly,” Athos sat back stretching his legs. “Some practice was involved.” A laconic tilt to one side of his face at his the captain. “Seems, he and Porthos have been working on a way to make some extra money by profiting off Aramis’ uncanny hearing.” 

Treville grimaced. “Do I really want to hear this?” 

“It is mostly within the law… Aramis wears a blindfold, Porthos puts a pebble in a bottle, tosses it in the air, and before it hits the ground, Aramis locates it by the sound and shoots it out of the air.”  

Treville threw his head and stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Ah,” he looked at Athos and set his glass down. “That should not surprise me. Those two…” he shook his head again and stood. “Well, I shall leave you to sleep next. You look as if you need it.”

Athos sighed, running both hands through his head, elbows resting on the table top. “Morning muster—” 

“Can wait. For the foreseeable future, you four are on leave. Take three days, more if you need them. Just let me know.” Treville picked up his hat and placed it on his head.

“Three should suffice.”

“Regardless,” he moved to the door, adjusting his cloak. “Good to have you home. All of you.”

Athos stood and moved to the other pallet he and Treville had arranged before he’d began his report. He looked fondly at each of his friends, then settled on the pile of blankets. A small smile played along his lips as he drifted off to sleep. 

“Yes, it is good to be home.”

fin