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Chapter Text

Aramis had screwed up. That was about the sum of it. It should have been a regular assignment: deliver some highly classified documents, don’t get killed, be back in three days. Simple.

Only then they’d been ambushed on the road and it had been all they could do to just stay alive, let alone worry about getting away to deliver their cargo. They’d known exactly where the documents were – tucked neatly into Athos’ jacket, out of sight – and when it became clear that the musketeer wasn’t going to relinquish them without a fight, they’d battered him into semi-consciousness and dragged him away.

And that was about when things started to go wrong. A stray bullet took out d’Artagnan’s horse and dragged the both of them to the ground, pinning the youngest musketeer and – judging by the snapping sound and the following scream of pain – breaking his leg. Porthos instantly moved closer to cover him whilst he was helpless but that left Aramis’ back undefended and it wasn’t long before he was forced to back into the trees to keep from being surrounded.

Now Aramis might be the best shot in the garrison but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an expert swordsman too – the few faults in his technique had been eradicated under Athos’ tutelage. But even the best can be brought down if they let themselves be distracted. There had been a yell of pain, instantly recognisable as Porthos and Aramis had frozen for the briefest of moments in a momentary flash of terror and then –

Well, everything got a little hazy after that. What he did know was that he’d woken up several hours later to the sight of a very tense Athos beside him and bare stone walls, complete with a thick wooden door. Across from the entryway, the smallest rays of light were struggling their way through a minute gap – it couldn’t pass for a window – that was barred; As if there was any chance of them fitting through it anyway.

“About time you woke up,” Athos griped sullenly, clearly in a foul mood. “I half thought you’d died on me.”

“Your concern is truly touching my dearest Athos,” he sniped back. He wasn’t exactly in the best of moods either. His head was aching fiercely enough that even the dim light was enough to aggravate his eyes and at some point someone had managed to take a decent shot at his ribs, leaving them aching and bruised. “The others?”

“Not here.”

“I can see that.”

Athos just gave a small, one-sided shrug, wincing a little. Aramis immediately zeroed in on the little hints of pain written all over his companion and rose from where he was sprawled on the floor. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing ‘Mis, don’t worry about it.”

And that just sent his concern skyrocketing. Without requesting further permission he started pushing and poking at Athos, probing for the injury he was sure to be hiding. It only took him a few moments for his fingers to find that the left shoulder was oddly misshapen and that the slightest pressure had Athos paling too fast for it to be anything other than a dislocated arm.

“You’re an idiot,” he admonished, irritation filling in to cover his worry. Athos grunted at him. “You know that I’m going to have to reset that, don’t you?”

“I’m aware. You’ve done it before.” His voice was thin and breathless.

“So I don’t need to warn you that it will hurt?”

Athos glared at him and silently began tugging at the ties of his jacket with his good arm. It took quite a bit of squirming and a lot cursing to get Athos out of his shirt but eventually the man was bare chested and white as a sheet, chest heaving with the force of his panting.

“Do you need a minute?” Aramis asked as gently as he could.

“Just do it.”

He didn’t wait to be told twice, holding the limb firmly and starting to rotate it with practiced ease. Despite the number of times he’d done this, it still unsettled him to see the bone moving beneath the flesh in unnatural patterns, to hear the muted gasps of pain that the action caused. When the bone realigned and moved back into place with a sharp pop Athos yelled through clenched teeth, his whole body clenching and coiling in response to the pain.

“Stay awake,” Aramis cautioned, hands going to his friend’s face to make him look at him. “Athos, stay awake.”

His eyes rolled dangerously in his head but Athos eventually blinked himself back into something resembling coherency. He groaned softly, trying to quell his shaking – it just made the pain worse.

Aramis was muttering in Spanish, instinctively falling back into prayer in times of need. Without even thinking about it, his fingers moved to the crucifix around his neck.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Athos muttered indistinctly.

“What? Fix dislocated shoulders?”

“Speak Spanish.”

Aramis blinked. “My mother was Spanish. I’m perfectly entitled to speak it should I choose,” he retorted, mildly affronted. “France isn’t technically at war with Spain right now anyway.”

“No,” Athos said, shaking his head lethargically. He didn’t seem fully conscious. “Not that. I don’t like not knowing what you’re saying, be it Spanish, English or Ancient Greek. You could be insulting me for all I know.”

“It would take a cruel man to insult you in this state my friend.”

Athos snickered softly, eyelids drooping again. Aramis tapped his cheek insistently. “No, none of that. I’ll speak French if it makes you so much happier but if you fall asleep and leave me here all alone then I’ll only ever speak to you in Spanish. Maybe English. I’ve been meaning to get some practice in.”

“You strike a hard bargain.”

“Yes, well, needs must. Besides, you’re normally the one with all the plans. How are we getting out of here exactly?”

Athos thought for a moment. “The others get away? I couldn’t see.”

“Neither could I. Last I saw d’Artagnan had a broken leg and Porthos… I think he might be injured too but I didn’t see.” Fresh worry tore through the musketeer as he remembered the pained cries of his two friends. Dealing with Athos had allowed him a distraction to everything else around them but the simple truth was that they were really in trouble here.

“So, not much chance of a bold and daring rescue then?”

Aramis dug deep for his usual witty, unruffled disposition. “Slim to none I’m afraid. Looks like it’s down to us.”

Athos groaned softly. “How heavy do you think that door is?”

Aramis rose and padded over to it softly, leaning against it to test for give and rapping against it with his knuckle. There was a dull thud that spoke of several inches of wood. He sighed heavily. “Too heavy. Guess we have to wait until they open it and then make a break for it.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Do you still have the documents?”

Athos fumbled through his discarded jacket with one arm and found the parchment still tucked inside it. They both frowned at it

“They didn’t do a very good search.”

“So we’re being held by idiots,” Athos remarked, quirking an eyebrow. “Perfect.” He seemed to have recovered slightly and there was colour back in his cheeks, a brightness in his eyes that spoke of a growing awareness. “Still, it should make escaping easier.”

“So, we wait?”

“Depends on whether or not you think you can squeeze yourself through that window.”

Aramis squinted at the space that was no wider than his head. “I think it unlikely. Maybe if d’Artagnan were here he could have a go.”

Time passed slowly after that. They kept themselves occupied with idle prattle, distracting Athos from the pain in his shoulder and Aramis from his growing discomfort at being confined. Despite their best efforts though, the walls were pressing in on them both when they heard movement outside the door.

Aramis stood and helped Athos up, carefully avoiding his now swollen shoulder. He’d put his jacket back on but had allowed Aramis to tear his shirt into strips to make a rough sling in a vain attempt to prevent the joint from further aggravation.

“Ready?”

“Let me go first,” Aramis told him sternly. “I don’t want to end up having to put your shoulder back in twice in one day.”

Athos didn’t have time to reply to that before the door was pushed inwards and Aramis was throwing himself forwards, dodging the sword tip and slamming a fist into the man’s nose. The bone crunched unpleasantly under his fingers but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as he lunged for the second man. A third guard managed to get his pistol drawn but Aramis threw his opponent at him, taking them both out.

When he turned around, Athos was watching him from the door of the cell, an eyebrow raised. “Looks like you won’t be needing me after all. You seem to manage well enough all on your own.” Regardless, he dipped and snagged one of the fallen guards’ swords, swinging it experimentally with his uninjured arm – thankfully, his dominant right.

They stopped only long enough to relieve the guards of their weapons before taking off down the dimly lit corridor. Aramis tried to ignore Athos’ strained breathing. Three more men tried to stop them but they were taken down swiftly, before they even had the chance to call for help and the musketeers progressed swiftly. The problem was, they had absolutely no idea where they were going.

“Aramis, stop,” Athos ordered quietly. They paused in a shadowed alcove, just out of sight of the corridor they were following. “This isn’t going to work. We need to know where we’re going – I’m pretty sure we’re going around in circles.”

“Maybe we should ask them politely then,” he suggested wearily. Concern for his companion was making him edgy again. “But I take your point. So what do we do?”

Athos’ lips quirked. “Well, ask them politely of course.”

Ten minutes later they were marching out of there, bearing no further injury and feeling just a little proud. The next man they had run into was only too happy to tell them where to go when he found Athos’ sword at his throat and once they had their information, Aramis had taken a certain amount of sadistic pleasure in knocking him out. They’d hurt his friend after all.

Their day only got better when they found an unguarded stable, and were able to sneak away two horses that could get them to Paris. They hadn’t been so far from the city when they were taken and it should be less than a day’s ride. Aramis had had to help his friend into the saddle when it became very apparent that his left arm was unwilling to cooperate any further; Athos grumbled unhappily the whole time but he nodded gratefully at the help.

They’d only just gotten through the garrison gates when they were hailed with “Well, that certainly makes things easier.” Treville was eyeing them from the balcony with a gentle smirk on his lips. “Porthos has been demanding that I send the regiment out to find you two for the last three hours and I was running out of excuses.”

Exhausted though they were, they both perked up at the mention of their teammate. “Porthos is here? Is he alright?” Aramis felt the nervous energy rising again and he was almost overcome with the need to see his three friends together and safe again.

Treville seemed to read the desire in his face because he inclined his head. “Porthos and d’Artagnan are both in the infirmary right now – nothing life threatening.” His eyes flickered to Athos. “The documents were lost I imagine?”

The musketeer pulled them out from where they were still tucked inside his jacket and waved with them. “Have you ever known me to be so careless?”

The Captain’s sly smile was fond. “Bring them to me then and go to the infirmary. I want the both of you checked over before you even think of doing anything else. Give me a full report in the morning.”

d’Artagnan crowed happily when they appeared in the doorway, sliding himself further upright on the bed he was laying on. Porthos rose to his feet and dragged Aramis into a hug before the smaller man even knew what was happening, though he was happy to return the embrace a moment later. Once he disentangled himself, Porthos clapped Athos on his good shoulder and beamed at them both. The leg of his trousers was torn and the white of clean bandages poked through, but he seemed relatively unhurt.

“Miss us?”

“Something like that,” Porthos replied easily, relaxed now that all of his friends were back within arm’s reach.

Aramis herded Athos onto an empty cot and eased him out of his sling and jacket, intent on looking over his shoulder now that there was sufficient illumination to see more than vague shapes. Seeing the black and blue swelling had them all hissing in sympathy but Athos just looked at it dispassionately and sighed.

“That’s going to take forever to heal, isn’t it?”

“As if you’ve got anything to complain about,” d’Artagnan griped. “I’ve broken both the bones in my lower leg – I’m going to be stuck in this bed for weeks.”

Aramis’ eyes flickered to the oddly shaped lump beneath d’Artagnan’s covers that must be a splint and frowned softly. “They’ve been set?”

“By Treville’s own physician,” he informed them smartly. “It was a clean break – no need for surgery.” The paling of his usually tan skin was enough to tell them just how much it had hurt, despite the absence of knives.

“For someone who can't walk, you seem very chipper about it all,” Athos observed wryly, before hissing and glaring when Aramis prodded at his shoulder. “What purpose did that even serve?”

“I need to know if there’s a build-up of fluid. Ergo,” he said, and poked him again. Porthos and d’Artagnan both laughed at the murderous expression on Athos’ face while Aramis winked at him.

“I hate you all.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” d’Artagnan groaned, blinking the tiredness out of his eyes as he focussed on the musketeer beside him. Aramis grinned and winked. “Why do you look so happy? It’s too early for you to be this happy.”

“It’s the afternoon, d’Artagnan.”

He blinked at that, taking a quick glance out of the barred window to confirm that the sun was high in the sky. He groaned again. “I’ve only been back on duty for two weeks,” he muttered to himself. “Athos is going to kill me.”

“Most likely.”

d’Artagnan wanted to hit him but decided that it was far too much effort to stretch across to do so. He took a closer look around the room and came to the conclusion that really, it wasn’t so bad. It was warm enough and spacious, with plenty of light and even a handful of blankets, one of which Aramis must have covered him with at some point because he had no memory of doing so. He’d been held in worse prisons than this. “Plan?”

“Wait.”

“Seriously?”

Aramis shrugged. “It won’t take long for Athos and Porthos to find us. I left them a trail to follow when they caught us. And since a rescue is no doubt imminent, I don’t really feel the need to exert myself with escaping. I’m really quite comfortable.”

d’Artagnan had to concede the point. “Porthos is never going to let this go you know.”

“Perhaps not. But then, I have stories of my own that he wouldn’t appreciate me spreading; we have an understanding of sorts.”

“And what about me?”

The musketeer just shrugged again, utterly unconcerned. d’Artagnan huffed moodily and lay back on the floor, stuffing an arm behind his head as a pillow. His leg ached quietly but he ignored it. Athos would be furious that he’d risked himself so soon after being allowed back onto active duty after their last kidnappers dropped a horse on him and snapped his shin bones but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. At least neither of them were hurt this time.

“You look like you’re planning someone’s demise,” Aramis observed, eyes glittering with laughter. “Can I ask who the unlucky party is?”

“The people that took us, you, and whoever it was that killed my horse and broke my leg.”

“In that order?”

“I’ve not decided yet.”

“Well if it’s any consolation, the man who killed your horse is probably already dead. Anyone Athos and I left alive found themselves facing the musketeers Treville sent when we got back.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

“It was around the time Porthos knocked your leg off the bed and you passed out.”

“Ah.” Not d’Artagnan’s finest moment but Porthos had been full of genuine apologies and they’d forgotten all about it. “How long do you think it’ll take the others to find us?”

“Well, we’ve been here for several hours already, so not much longer I’d wager.”

“Hours?” d’Artagnan asked in surprise.

Aramis grinned again. “You were, er, sleeping.” The younger musketeer raised an unimpressed eyebrow that only made his friend laugh. He sobered slightly after a moment and leaned closer. “That reminds me.”

He snagged d’Artagnan’s chin and put their faces close together and for a perplexing moment, d’Artagnan thought that he was going to kiss him. But all he did was stare intently at his eyes for a moment before removing his hand and retreating with a nod of satisfaction. “No concussion. That’s some good news at least.”

“What hit me?”

“I think it might have been the butt of someone’s musket. I was a little preoccupied at the time.”

d'Artagnan let that go – it wasn’t worth dwelling on. He let the silence fill the room for a moment before it started to feel oppressive. “Why is it always you getting in these situations?”

“Because, my innocent young friend, I am irresistible. And that means that all manner of men and women want to take me and keep me for their own. It is a terrible burden that I have to bear.” He managed to get the words out with sincerity but there was laughter bubbling in his chest and shining in his eyes. d'Artagnan muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘how is this my life’ but Aramis chose to ignore it.

“Irresistible, huh?” Said a voice from out the window and they both looked up with pleasant surprise.

“Porthos?”

“The one and only. How are you doing?”

“I’m as perfect as I always am,” Aramis informed him, entirely ignoring d’Artagnan’s groan. “And my young companion is unhurt.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan begged. “Get me out of here. I’ll do whatever you want just please don’t leave me stuck in a room with him.”

The voice outside the window chuckled and d’Artagnan could see his wide, kind smile in his mind’s eye. “We’re working on that, don’t worry. We’re not cruel enough to leave you in a cell with Aramis – Athos knows first-hand what that kind of hell is like.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent cellmate,” Aramis retorted with mock offence.

“You’re a terrible cellmate,” said a forth voice, and they could hear Athos’ wry grin.

Aramis huffed. “That’s the last time I get held prisoner with you.”

The easy nature of the conversation belied their positions but it was comforting to know that their friends were there and just maybe they’d all get out of this uninjured for once. After a moment they sobered.

“There’s only a few men inside from what I can tell. Nothing we can’t handle,” Athos told them. “Just sit tight.”

“We’re not exactly going anywhere,” Aramis pointed out. It grated on both of them that there was nothing they could do to help their friends but as it was, they were defenceless even if they found a way out of their cell. “Be careful.”

“Are we ever anything but?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

There was the sound of movement outside and then silence. Aramis and d’Artagnan shared a look of worry but they let silence reign, waiting. Within minutes there was shouting, the noises drifting through the door and without conscious thought, they both listened for familiar voices.

They needn’t have worried. A few moments later a key turned in the lock and the door swung open to reveal a grinning Porthos, bloodied sword in hand.

“Make us do all the work, why don’t you,” he chided them before tossing them their swords, apparently recovered from their captors. They pulled on their belts gratefully, glad to have weapons in their hands again; it made them feel so much less helpless.

“But you do it so well my dear Porthos,” Aramis tossed back, smiling widely.

“If you could hurry this up,” Athos called from further away, “We really should be getting out of here.” Just as he finished speaking there was a thud and a yelp, as another attacker fell before the musketeer.

“We really shouldn’t leave them to face Athos,” Aramis reasoned. “It’s really not fair on them. They’ve never seen him fight before.”

“I’m content to let them learn the hard way,” d’Artagnan argued back, but he followed them out nonetheless.

Athos was in a hallway, the ground around him almost impassable due to the number of men strewn upon it. The musketeer was sparring almost lazily with the only remaining man. Seeing that they were ready to go, Athos sighed, sidestepped and lunged, bringing the pommel of his sword to the side of the man’s head and knocking him out cleanly. He dropped like a stone.

“All done?”

“Clear on this end,” Porthos replied. “You look like you’ve been having some fun.”

Athos shrugged, offering a smile. He nodded down the corridor, presumably to the exit. “Well, if that’s all, we really should go now. Treville will have my head if he finds out I let Aramis get captured again.”

d'Artagnan sighed softly, relieved that Athos didn’t seem angry. The musketeer heard him.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” he cautioned, glaring meaningfully at him. “I specifically told you to keep out of trouble.”

“This wasn’t my fault,” d’Artagnan argued back as he followed him over the fallen men. “Blame Aramis and his ‘irresistibility.’”

“Hey!” Aramis protested.

“Oh, I intend to. But you still managed to get yourself captured on your first mission back. I don’t know whether to be angry or impressed.”

“Impressed. Definitely impressed.”

Aramis smirked at Porthos and muttered in an aside: “He’s learning.”

Despite their low voices, Athos heard and rubbed at his temples wearily. God save him from foolish musketeers.

Chapter Text

Athos didn’t hear d’Artagnan’s shout of warning until the boy was slamming into him and knocking him to the ground. He did hear the gun shot in the next second and an answering cry of pain, followed shortly by Aramis shouting something. His head was muddled, trying to catch up with what was happening but his skull had collided with a tree root when he’d fallen and it felt like his brain had turned to mush.

He rolled himself, trying to fight back the nausea that the move caused and looked about himself. The man he had been duelling was standing over him, a sword pointed at his throat and a vicious smile on his lips but Athos barely even noticed. His attention was focussed on the Gascon laying on the ground just out of his reach, blood covering his chest.

They were dumped in separate cells that were in fact more like cages. The back wall was stone but the remaining three were thick iron bars that they didn’t have a hope of squeezing through. Aramis and Porthos were in adjoining cages and Athos and d’Artagnan were in the ones opposite. A thin corridor ran through the middle.

As soon as the guards released him, Athos crowded against the wall he shared with their youngest Musketeer, who hadn’t said a word since he’d been dragged from the forest floor.

“d’Artagnan? d'Artagnan, can you hear me?” He was vaguely aware that Aramis and Porthos were watching intently, shifting helplessly when they realised that they couldn’t help their friend.

“’Thos?” His voice was quiet, pained, but he was awake. He was alive.

“Mon Dieu,” Athos muttered, feeling like he’d just aged thirty years. “You almost had me worried there.”

“Athos, we need to stop the bleeding,” Aramis cautioned. “Can you reach him?”

He tried to snake his arm through the bars but the Gascon lay just out of reach, no matter how much he twisted. “d’Artagnan? I need you to try and move closer to me, alright? Think you can do that?”

d'Artagnan didn’t waste time trying to verbally answer him, just started twitching his limbs, trying to remember how to get them to cooperate. He was barely conscious, pain radiating through his torso and every beat of his heart sounded off a cacophony of agony but he was still aware enough to realise that he was in need of help. Slowly, agonisingly, he made his way across the cold stone towards his friend, slumping when he could go no further, utterly spent.

He’d done enough. Athos was able to reach out and snag his arm, dragging him closer as gently as he could. He was muttering encouragements quietly, trying to give d’Artagnan something to focus on even while he took stock of his injuries. There were the usual cuts and scrapes that always followed a fight but Athos skimmed them, zeroing in on his chest that was by now slick with blood.

It took some fumbling to find the small tear in his jacket that led to the bullet hole beneath and Athos did his best not to quake at the sight of all that red.

“Okay, Athos. You need to cover the wound and put pressure on it,” Aramis instructed, even though this was something that Athos already knew. It was their habit that their marksman also oversaw all medical treatment and his cool demeanour bled into the others at times of stress, keeping them calm when they needed to be steady.

He tore off a strip of his own shirt without even thinking about it and wadded it into a small bundle before pressing down hard on the opening. d'Artagnan cried out at the treatment but Athos didn’t relent; it would hurt, more than anything, but it would keep him alive.

“Okay, now tell me about it. Describe the wound.”

Athos forced his voice to remain steady. “Musket shot. No exit wound. Just below his ribs but I can’t see any blood on his lips so I think his lungs are safe. The blood doesn’t seem to be clotting but… it’s hard to tell.” He choked a little as he focussed on the blood, now coating his hands and wrists. This shouldn’t have happened.

Aramis was muttering to himself in Spanish as he scrambled desperately for some useful advice, anything treatment that they could perform in their cells. “We need to remove the ball and then it needs stitching or cauterising,” he admitted in French when it looked as though Porthos might try and punch him if he didn’t start providing answers.

“And we have neither needle nor iron.”

“Tear up the rest of your shirt into strips. The best we can do is bandage it – tightly. We need to get out of here as soon as we can.”

“The doors ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Porthos informed them, shoving at his fruitlessly. “And there’s not another way out.”

“We were taken for a reason,” Athos pointed out, eyes staying fixed on his hands as he shredded what was left of his shirt. “It won’t be long before some men come to get whatever it was that they wanted. If they open the doors…”

“And if they don’t?” Aramis asked. No one answered that, sitting instead in the quiet, listening to their youngest gasping for breath.

They watched helplessly over the next hour as d’Artagnan grew paler and his breathing slowed, life visibly draining out of him as he slumped where he lay. Athos kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder, whether for d’Artagnan’s comfort or his own, he didn’t know. Porthos was pacing restlessly in his cell like a caged beast, furious and trapped. Aramis was silently and still, so unlike his usual self as he sat and stared at their fallen comrade, tormented by the knowledge that he could have saved him if not for the bars between them.

d'Artagnan was practically grey by the time the guards reappeared. There were two of them, each carrying two bowls – their dinner apparently. Any hope left in Athos slid straight out of him. They didn’t have to open the doors to slide their bowls through the bars and d’Artagnan didn’t have any time left – this was their only chance and there was nothing they could do.

Just before the guard slid d’Artagnan’s bowl through, he hesitated, glancing at the injured man. “He dead?”

Athos’ fingers tightened protectively on d’Artagnan’s sleeve but he didn’t answer, glaring at the man instead. He could feel the grief on his face.

“Hey, Henri,” the guard called. His companion looked up from where he was eyeing Porthos like the man was a piece of meat. “We got a dead one.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t want him stinking the place out. Come on. We can ditch him outside the gates. Let the foxes have him.”

Aramis started shouting then, automatically switching to Spanish in his grief filled rage. He was practically throwing himself against the bars, his previous stillness a thing of history as his fury ignited. Henri laughed mockingly. “Looks like the Spaniard doesn’t want us near his friend. Come on then. We dump the body and then head to the kitchens.”

Henri entered the cell alone, cautiously approaching d’Artagnan’s prone form and nudging at him with his toe. Athos tried to lash out at him but he stayed well out of his reach. The guard kicked the Gascon so that he was flat on his back; he went without resistance, flopping limply.

“Don’t touch him,” Athos warned but it just drew another cruel chuckle out of the guard.

“I don’t think you can tell me what to do little Musketeer. Not unless you want to end up like your friend here. Etienne, help me.”

The second guard drew closer and pulled one of d’Artagnan’s arms around his neck to haul him up. His feet dangled helplessly against the floor, his head falling forwards onto his chest. When he was upright, it was easier to see just how much blood he had lost and Athos felt his heart clench, instinctively moving to the front of his cell alongside his friend.

They were just passing Athos when it happened. d'Artagnan’s eyes flickered open, his feet suddenly taking his own weight as he threw himself at Henri, surprising him enough to send him staggering into the bars in front of Athos. The Musketeer didn’t hesitate in sliding his arms through the bars and locking him in a strangle hold, throwing his weight back and chocking him. d'Artagnan had fallen on Etienne – literally – and was doing his best to claw at his eyes but he was far too weak to do anything to resist as the guard surged upwards, slamming a fist into the wound.

d’Artagnan’s vision went white and he tumbled sideways, slumping to the ground as Etienne scrambled for a knife to end him. He never got that far.

Athos had, with a simple twist of his arms, snapped Henri’s neck and hadn’t wasted any time in finding the keys at his belt, freeing himself from his cage. As soon as he was out, he killed Etienne, using Henri’s dagger to cut his throat.

He went to Aramis’ cell first and unlocked the door, letting him dash to d’Artagnan’s side as he moved to free Porthos too.

“How is he?” Athos wasn’t sure if it was Porthos or himself who spoke – his very soul felt numb, unable to deal with the emotions coursing through him.

“Bad,” was the short answer, Aramis not looking up from where his hands were flying over the Gascon’s chest. “We have to get somewhere I can treat him, now.”

Porthos stepped forwards without having to be asked and scooped the boy up as Athos and Aramis took what weapons they could from Henri and Etienne’s corpses. Athos automatically paused for Aramis to say a quick prayer for the souls of the fallen, as was his wont, but the marksman strode past him without a word, his face stony. None of them blamed him.

For the first time that day, they got lucky. They didn’t run into anyone else before they stumbled outside and into a stables where they found several horses already tacked up, apparently ready to ride out any moment. Aramis hauled himself into a saddle and then reached down to help Porthos settle d’Artagnan in front of him.

The boy’s skin was freezing and he trembled against Aramis’ chest. None of them were wearing their cloaks so he resigned himself with making do by keeping d’Artagnan as close to him as possible to try and share their body heat.

They were miles from Paris so they headed towards what they hoped was the nearest civilisation as fast as they were able. By unspoken agreement, they rode close together, unwilling to put too much distance between themselves and their youngest member.

Aramis almost passed out with relief when they saw lights ahead, aware that d’Artagnan’s breathing had been growing steadily weaker with every hoof beat. His hand had settled over the boy’s heart naturally and he took comfort from the reassuring rhythm he felt there.

Athos dashed into the inn as soon as they pulled up. Aramis lowered their injured comrade into Porthos’ waiting arms before throwing himself out of the saddle, already slipping out of his jacket and pushing up his sleeves.

The innkeeper, apparently sufficiently convinced by Athos’ desperation, led them into a back room and gestured for them to put d’Artagnan on the table. He left with Porthos to show him where the well was.

“Heat up that knife,” Aramis instructed Athos with more calm than he felt. He stripped d’Artagnan of his upper layers and took his first good look at the wound, wincing as he did so. It wasn’t bad… if he’d been able to treat it hours ago. Now, the boy was in shock and he’d lost a lot of blood, along with being wide open for infection to settle in and an endless amount of jostling from a long ride. It was a miracle that he was even still alive.

“Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,” he started muttering, the familiar words rolling off his tongue. The prayers calmed him, helped cool the fire in his gut that demanded retribution for what had been done to his friend, to all his friends. If d’Artagnan died… it might be the end of them. It would certainly cripple Athos – he couldn’t lose another little brother and survive in one piece.

“The blade’s hot,” Athos announced quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.

“And I have fresh water,” Porthos said as he walked in with a bucket in each hand. Aramis dunked his hands in one, washing off the blood coating them – they’d be covered again in moments but he might as well start afresh.

“This will hurt, won’t it?” The words were whisper soft, mushy and indistinct but Aramis heard them nonetheless. He was over his patient in an instant.

“d’Artagnan? I didn’t think you’d be waking up any time soon.” In fact, he’d hoped that he wouldn’t. This wasn’t just going to hurt, this was going to be agonising. “We’re going to take care of you, alright? You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“’Mis,” he said and damn if he didn’t manage to pull off stern when barely conscious. “Tell me.”

He sighed gently, absentmindedly stroking away the sweat-soaked hair on d’Artagnan’s forehead fondly. “Yes. This is going to hurt.”

D’Artagnan nodded very slightly and Aramis could feel the shiver that ran through him, drawing out a quiet groan.

“Here,” Porthos said quietly, handing Aramis his belt. “Let him bite on this. It’ll help.”

“Okay. You’ll have to hold him down.” Aramis quickly rummaged through a small kit that the innkeeper had left for them, sighing with relief when he found a small pair of forceps that should be able to grip the musket ball. He took the knife from Athos and leaned over his patient, another prayer falling from his lips.

They were only half way finished when d’Artagnan’s convulsions and muffled screaming ceased suddenly and they all froze in momentary terror. Athos ducked his face down to put his cheek beside his mouth. “Still alive,” he reassured them. “Passed out, thank god.”

“’Bout time,” Porthos muttered. It had been agonising watching him suffer through this. “How are you doing Aramis?”

Aramis tried to say ‘I’m almost there but this would be a lot easier if you weren’t trying to talk to me,’ but he was only half concentrating and what came out was a string of Spanish that neither of the others understood. They shared a shrug and settled back to watch Aramis work now that they didn’t have to fight to keep the boy still.

It was a long night. When Aramis eventually pulled back and told Athos to bandage him up, they were all exhausted, worn thin but the worry that still spread through all of them. They’d done all they could to help him but it still might not be enough.

“If he stays clear of fever then, by the grace of god, he should pull through,” Aramis told them tiredly. Now that he didn’t have to stay calm, his whole body was shaking slightly, minute tremors that spoke of too many hours coiled with stress. Porthos put a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s alright. Come here.” He steered Aramis into the cot on the other side of the room, wiping most of the blood off his hands with a cloth and tugging off his boots. The marksman was half asleep already, eyes fluttering closed even before Porthos had got him lying down.

Porthos turned back to Athos who had settled himself in a chair beside d’Artagnan. “You go to sleep,” the elder man told him. “I’m not quite ready to let this one out of my sight yet.”

“There was nothing else you could have done, you know that right?”

“He was shot because he pushed me out the way of a bullet,” Athos reminded him. “I’d say there’s quite a lot more I could have done.”

Anyone else might have missed the hint of self-loathing in the statement but Porthos heard it loud and clear. His face darkened as he glared. “Athos, I swear, if you blame yourself for this then I’m going to have to break your nose. And then Aramis would be angry at me for ruining your fine looks and d’Artagnan would wake up to our group in carnage. Is that what you want?”

Athos blinked slowly, too-tired mind trying to keep up. Eventually he just said, “What?”

Porthos chuckled softly. “Stay awake if you really want to. But this wasn’t your fault. d'Artagnan will tell you the same thing when he wakes up.”

“When?”

“When.”

“Treville’s going to be furious about this, isn’t he?” Athos sighed. The last time he’d had to report that Aramis and d’Artagnan were captured, the Captain had just glared at him for a full minute before asking after their health and then banishing them all from the garrison for at least a week. None of them had quite been foolish enough to ignore the order.

“Oh yeah.”

“Well that’s just perfect.”

Chapter Text

When Porthos was first shoved into his cell and heard the door slam shut behind him, his first thought was ‘Well, at least it isn’t Aramis this time.’ The marksman’s confidence had been dented a little after being taken prison three times in only a few months and Treville certainly hadn’t found any humour in the statistics. It might be nice for him to be the one doing the rescuing this time.

And it would be a rescue, since Porthos had absolutely no intention of escaping. He was alone which meant there was no one to watch his back and the people that had taken him were numerous – there was no way he’d be able to fight all of them unarmed, and still make it out alive.

The space he was confined in was small but dry and mercifully cool. Summer had sprung upon them unawares and all of Paris was left sweating and panting underneath the unforgiving sun; it was something of a relief to rest somewhere that didn’t feel as though it was on fire.

Porthos sighed and settled himself down against the wall furthest from the door, letting his head thunk back against the stones. “Tick tock,” he muttered to himself.

Several hours came and went before the door to his cell swung open again and he levered himself to his feet in one smooth move, ready to defend if necessary. It wasn’t. The man at the door just jerked his head behind himself and moved aside to let the musketeer past, making sure that the sword in his hand was in full view. They weren’t taking chances.

He was led through a labyrinth of corridors, taking so many corners that he couldn’t even begin to try and remember the path they’d taken – no doubt their intention. Eventually he was pushed into a larger space, this time a familiar one.

As a child, Porthos had learned his way around every inch of the Court of Miracles and that fact had saved his life on more than one occasion so he’d made a point of not forgetting any of it. And this, this was definitely the Court.

There was a man in the centre of the room, looking him up and down with a faint smirk on his face. “So this is the great Porthos du Vallon, once heir to the Court. I must admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

“Oh?” He replied, deciding that it was best to play for time. “Why is that?”

“I’d heard stories you were seven feet tall and carried a flaming sword. Others that you were a master pirate who ruled the seas.”

“You don’t want to listen to stories.”

“Is that so? What about the stories that say you killed the king for his throne?” Porthos froze momentarily, confused, before his mind focussed and he remembered a childhood friend dying in his arms. His face turned sombre.

“I didn’t kill Charon for his throne. Had I done so, I would sit upon it now. I never wanted it to end like that.” His voice was low, edged with brutal honesty.

“And yet our king lies dead and everyone seems to think that you’re to blame.”

Porthos bristled at the implication. “If you’d taken the time to talk to the Queen, you’d know exactly what happened to Charon and why he died. It was his own actions that led him there.”

Invoking Flea’s support seemed to stir something in the people who lingered at the edges of the room, and a few heavy glances were exchanged. Porthos realised belatedly that this was a trial – of sorts – and these men were accusing him of murder. Unless he worked the crowd, this could all go south very quickly.

“I take it that no one has told the Queen about this? Go then, fetch her. She will tell you the truth.”

“We needn’t bother the Queen with something such as this,” the man replied quickly, glancing about himself furtively. Not as sure of himself as he appeared then.

Porthos pressed the advantage. “If this is to be my trial then I would suggest the Queen would very much want to be bothered by it. After all, as you say, I was once known here and I have known the past three rulers personally. It seems only fitting that I be tried by the high power.”

This time murmurs swept through the room and the man scowled. “Silence! You have no right to demand such from us. You are a murderer and you killed our king. Charon was loved and he trusted you above all others, even after you abandoned your own kind to kiss the boots of lesser men! He brought you here to save you and you murdered him!”

Despite the lack of truth in his words, the outburst had lost Porthos some ground and again many people in the room were glaring at him with open hostility. There was a voice in the back of his head that was firmly telling him to keep playing for time but there was a much louder voice shouting that he couldn’t let a slight against his brothers like that pass. He stared at the man across from him coldly. “What is your name?”

“Raoul, formerly of Brittany.”

“Well then Raoul, you have presented your accusations. I have no proof with which to defend myself and so I find myself forced to invoke the Right of Knives.” There was a muted gasp around the room. “Do you accept?”

The Right of Knives was an ancient, somewhat barbaric tradition in which a man or women could defend themselves through combat. The accused and the accuser could fight themselves or elect a champion to fight for them so that the contest would be more even. It wasn’t like a duel for honour that the highborn fought, this could be a fight to the death if neither side surrendered and the risk was such that it rarely occurred anymore.

Raoul looked Porthos up and down, taking in his height and build, and went pale. But if he refused then he’d be forced to admit that Porthos was innocent and release him. “I accept.”

The room exploded into tense mutterings but Porthos didn’t focus on that. Instead, he watched Raoul as he stepped backwards, towards a small gaggle of people that had been glaring at Porthos viciously throughout, and took in the way he moved and how balanced he seemed on his feet. He wasn’t muscled – rapier thin, in fact – but there was an edginess about him that made him appear as though he could move like lightning when provoked.

“Du Vallon?” A voice was saying at his elbow. “Er, sir?” He turned and looked towards the voice, seeing a young boy, no older than thirteen holding a dagger out to him. He blinked in confusion and the boy blushed. “I know that it’s not much sir, but it’s all I have and you’re not armed…”

Porthos understood just before the boy looked as though he was about to burst into tears and he smiled widely at him. “Nonsense, it is a fine blade. I thank you,” he said, taking it carefully. “And you needn’t call me sir. I’m no gentleman.”

“All the same, you’re still respected in the Court,” the boy argued gently. “Among most of us, anyway. It’s not right, what they’re saying about you.”

“No, it isn’t, but these men have lost their king. They’re grieving and they need a target. It might as well be me.”

The boy looked very much like he wanted to argue against that as well but Raoul was talking again and Porthos gently nudged him back towards the outskirts of the room. “Are you ready?”

Porthos raised his borrowed blade in reply and bowed slightly over it, a gesture of respect that was not returned. Well then. If he was determined to be rude, Porthos was going to have to teach him a lesson.

There were no rules to be read, no code of conduct that had to be followed. Raoul just leapt at him, dodging around Porthos’ first stab and aiming his own blade for the back of his shoulder. The musketeer slipped sideways, away and disentangled himself, backing away to allow himself some time to think. As predicted, Raoul was quick on his feet and seemed to think that he could slide around Porthos’ defence – he would be sadly mistaken. For all his bulk, Porthos was as agile as a cat when he needed to be.

They circled for some time, making occasional jabs at one another but neither one willing to attack first. The speed of their encounters had their audience gasping and groaning distractingly but Porthos did his best to tune them out.

Eventually Raoul broke. He dove forwards, trying to snake to Porthos’ left to attack from behind but the musketeer easily read the move and stepped into the motion, forcing Raoul back onto his less dominant foot and setting him off balance. Pressing the advantage, Porthos slipped his blade up, aiming for the ribcage, knowing before he did so that Raoul would dodge to his left in an attempt to balance himself – right into the path of Porthos’ fist.

The slighter man went sprawling, dagger flying out of his hands as he clutched at what must surely be a broken nose. Porthos hovered over him, blade raised as though to attack. “Do you yield?”

Raoul stirred angrily, spitting blood as he glared up at the musketeer. “You’re a murderer. I will not yield to you.”

Porthos sighed. It was within his rights to strike now and end this charade but then he’d be killing an unarmed, injured man and no matter what his rights were, that would always be wrong. He let his hand fall to his side.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It is not in my nature to strike at an unarmed man. Just like it is not in my nature to murder men who I used to call brothers. I did not murder Charon.”

He dropped the dagger and turned, fully intent on walking straight on out of there – ‘didn’t need the others to save me after all,’ he thought to himself – but blinding pain struck the back of his shoulder. He spun wildly and came face to face with a bloodied Raoul who had regained his feet and snatched up Porthos’ abandoned blade.

There were cries of outrage at the unprovoked attack but no one moved to stop them – after all, interference in the Right of Knives was punishable by expulsion from the Court and even something as dishonourable as this was within the rules. “Turn your back on me?” Raoul hissed, a madness glinting in his eyes. “Like you turned your back on Charon?”

Porthos backed away quickly. His right arm was out of action and he was unarmed – he needed to finish this quickly or he’d be in real trouble. Athos was already going to have his head for getting captured and Aramis would be furious that he had a wound to stitch; he didn’t need to anger them both by dying on them.

“I did not turn my back on the Court! I clawed my way out of the gutter and I made something of myself. I never wanted to leave Charon behind.”

“Liar! You think that you’re so much better than us just because you’ve wormed your way into the Musketeers!” He ran at Porthos again, anger making his movements less elegant and careful. He was easily able to dodge away from the wide sweep of the blade and dart across to Raoul’s abandoned knife, snatching it up and raising it to deflect the second blow coming towards him. The room filled with the ringing sounds of blades colliding, so fast that it was hard to work out where one move ended and the next began.

Now that Porthos was forced to use his left hand, he was losing ground quickly and Raoul knew it. It was only a matter of time before the Musketeer faltered and his momentary lapse in judgement ended with a knife being shoved through his left forearm, drawing out a muffled scream of pain as he desperately tried to back away. He lost hold of his own weapon as his entire arm went blessedly, terrifyingly numb.

Raoul moved back as well, understanding that he’d won. He could take the time to gloat and mock, it wouldn’t make any difference now – Porthos didn’t have a fully functioning arm and unless he pulled the blade out of his own flesh, he was weaponless.

“And to think people here still worship you as a hero,” Raoul mocked. “You’re pathetic. You’re nothing but a murdering coward who thought he was so much better than the gutter rats he came from.”

“If those gutter rats are men like you who stab others in the back, then yes, I am,” Porthos replied, his voice strained with pain. He was pressing against the wound, careful not to dislodge the blade that was preventing him from bleeding out, but it wasn’t enough – he needed treatment. He’d promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t die in the Court and he had every intention of keeping his word.

Raoul snarled and Porthos knew before he moved that he would throw himself at him and this time there was nothing he could do to defend himself. Raoul’s knees bent, he started stepping towards him and –

– “Stop this instant!”

Everyone in the room, including Raoul, spun to look for the source of the voice. Porthos turned idly, already recognising the tone and was greeted by the sight of Flea glaring at the room at large with three Musketeers lingering behind her, torn between concern and bemusement.

There was a moment in which Porthos was savagely gleeful as he watched Raoul flounder for an explanation. But then, blood loss and pain started kicking in again and he swayed where he was; Flea muttered something to Aramis and like a hound released from its kennels, the Musketeer shot towards him. Athos and d'Artagnan stayed back, hesitant.

“Damn it Porthos,” Aramis muttered as he reached him, instantly grabbing for his injured arm to examine it.

“Hey, at least it wasn’t you this time. I think Treville might actually have punched you.”

“Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered. “Where are you hurt?”

“Arm. Shoulder. Apart from that I think I’m whole enough.”

“You’re an idiot. Athos is going to be mad at you for a month.”

“This was hardly my fault.”

“You scared d’Artagnan.”

“Still not really my fault.”

“Porthos,” he said, his voice suddenly much quieter and far more vulnerable. “You scared me. Don’t do that again.”

The Musketeer softened in understanding, relaxing for the first time since this had all started. “Sorry.”

Flea was talking to the gathered Court, her voice steady and commanding, every inch the Queen she had become. Her eyes were knives as she glared about. “Since the days of the old king it has been our tradition that the king or queen shall be involved in any trials of this magnitude. We are not the barbarians Paris believes us to be and with actions like this you shame us all.”

“That man,” shrieked Raoul, red with fury, “Killed our King! You of all people should want to see him dead!” Stood there, with blood dripping from a broken nose and face flushed, he looked like a spoilt child in the middle of a tantrum.

The Queen gazed at him steadily, stoic in the face of his emotion. Her ire only showed in a flicker in her eyes. “This man did not kill Charon. The king killed himself when he tried to destroy the Court for his own personal gain. Porthos and his friends saved us all and we shall forever be grateful to their actions; they are heroes, not murderers.”

“Charon loved us! He would never abandon us!”

“Do you doubt your Queen?” Flea was still outwardly calm, displaying an easy grace and control that had most of the people immediately ducking their heads in reverence. Those who had sided with Raoul were starting to look nervous. “Charon was corrupted by power. He was no longer the boy who grew up in these streets but a man who was determined to find a way out, even if it meant forsaking everything he had once held dear.”

“Porthos,” Aramis muttered, drawing his attention away from Flea's speech. He blinked at him. “I need to take this blade out and it’s going to hurt more than hell. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Aramis looked up at Athos and d’Artagnan who were still lingering near Flea and gestured them over. “We need to get him somewhere I can treat him.”

“Is it bad?” Athos asked, sending a vague glare in Porthos’ direction.

“It needs treating but it should heal up nicely if it stays clear of infection.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Porthos asked, glancing at his arm and then away swiftly. There was a lot of blood.

“Well… You don’t really need two arms, do you?”

d'Artagnan chuckled slightly and Athos actually smiled – ‘smug gits,’ Porthos thought uncharitably. He sighed heavily and allowed the others to lever him to his feet where he swayed uncertainly. His head was swimming in a way he knew from experience was consistent with blood loss and fatigue but he blinked the dancing spots out of his eyes. He turned to Raoul who was still standing there, his hands wet with Porthos’ blood. “Your loyalty to Charon is admirable, even if it is misplaced. Don’t let your hatred for his death consume you.”

Raoul looked at him for a long moment then in one smooth move, pulled a blade from his sleeve and stepped forwards. Aramis had put a bullet in his skull before he was even half way.

The rest of the room went still, watching them with tense anticipation. Flea caught Porthos’ eye and nodded slowly before turning back to her subjects. “Leave this place. The Musketeers are to be given hospitality until Porthos is well enough to leave and no man or woman shall ever attack him on Charon’s behalf again. Am I understood?”

“Someone’s going to need to tell Treville about this,” Aramis pointed out as they half led, half carried Porthos from the room, being given a wide berth by those who had seen the fight.

Athos blinked around at them all when three pairs of eyes settled on him. “Don’t look at me. I’m not doing it. I’ve had to explain the last three times and he’s starting to believe that I’m the incompetent one.”

“I’m not doing it,” d’Artagnan said instantly. “I still ‘the apprentice Musketeer’ remember?”

“You have a pauldron now,” Aramis argued. “That makes you a Musketeer. And I can hardly do it – he’s still berating me for my previous record.”

Porthos looked at them all blearily, consciousness wavering. “I’ve been stabbed, twice, and I still have to tell the Captain?”

It did seem excessively harsh, Athos had to admit. He hesitated then sighed, resigning himself to the next few days of tedious chores. “Fine then. But next time, one of you is going to have to do it because honestly, I think he’d take away my commission.”

“Next time?” d’Artagnan grinned.

Athos groaned at him, scowling. “Shut up.”

Chapter Text

Athos, generally, liked running. It was nice to feel his legs pumping and to let the air flow in and out of his lungs just as God intended but didn’t mean he ever enjoyed running away. Especially not through a dark forest where he kept stumbling over bracken and tree roots that he couldn’t see and when he could almost feel the breath of the hounds chasing him.

Far behind him, he could still hear the shouts of his human pursuers and with every second heard them drawing closer. He wasn’t going to get away, he knew that. But at least he could lead these assholes on a merry hunt before he allowed himself to be taken.

He could see the edge of the treeline when he was taken down. For the shortest of moments, he’d thought he might actually get free but then something solid was slamming into his back and sending him sprawling in the dirt, winding him enough that he couldn’t immediately regain his footing. The hound that had knocked him over had recovered and was looming over his prone form, panting heavily and growling, shortly to be joined by his fellows until the night air around the Musketeer trembled with their feral grunting.

Since he was a child, Athos had never particularly liked dogs – he’d always found he much preferred the silent company of cats – and this whole experience was not endearing him to the creatures. He had to admit though that they were well trained; they didn’t move to attack as he sat himself up, just growled in warning that if he tried to run they’d bring him down.

It wasn’t worth the risk. He sat there as he listened to his pursuers grow nearer, following the noises of their hounds. When the appeared out of the gloom, he didn’t resist the hands that pulled him up and bound his hands, just sighed quietly to himself and wondered how long it would take to escape this time.

It said a lot about his life that when Athos was shoved into a cell to find Porthos and Aramis already there, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. They nodded at each other in calm greeting, Aramis sliding sideways so that Athos could sit against the wall beside them, their shoulders brushing reassuringly.

“Not hurt?” It was always Aramis’ first priority to ensure that his friends were hale and whole.

“A little bruised perhaps. Nothing of any consequence. You two?”

“Porthos took a dunk in the river and managed to give himself a cold but other than that, yes, we’re fine.” The dark skinned man chose that moment to sneeze so loudly that Athos jumped. “Looks like d’Artagnan’s on rescue duty this time then.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” Athos put in drily.

“It is his turn,” Porthos informed them.

“Actually,” Athos corrected, “I’m pretty sure it’s Aramis’ turn. d'Artagnan was technically the one to get us out of those cages and that was with a bullet in his gut; I’d say he’s done his share. And he was there when you fought Raoul even if it was Flea who stopped him.”

“It’s not my fault I keep getting captured,” Aramis retorted with faux irritation.

“Ah yes, that would be your irresistible charm, wouldn’t it?”

Aramis glared at Athos while Porthos snickered quietly before descending into wet coughs. “Did you really have to go swimming in the middle of winter?” Aramis asked as he patted him on the back.

“I was trying to help your sorry arse, since you decided that getting surrounded was a good idea.”

“As fantastic as my skills are, I’m not actually able to outrun horses,” he defended easily. “Or hounds,” he added as an afterthought.

“Gentlemen,” Athos called them to order. He was weary and cold and he was unwilling to deal with a drawn out discussion over whose fault this was. “Priorities. Do we have any chance of breaking out of here alone?”

Porthos shook his head. “Even if we get past that door, there’s too many of them, and we’re not armed. They’d cut us to ribbons.”

“So instead we’ll sit here and let d’Artagnan fight his way through all those men, alone?” Athos raised an eyebrow.

“If he has any sense at all,” Aramis reasoned, “He’ll go to the garrison first and get back up. He’s not stupid enough to just march in here alone… Is he?”

Athos just shook his head with a shrug. He had every faith in d’Artagnan’s ability with a sword but even after the Musketeers’ combined efforts, he still let his heart rule his head more often than not. It was unlikely he’d leave his friends in captivity, even if it was to get some support.

But there wasn’t anything they could do. Porthos utilised his ability to fall asleep absolutely anywhere – something picked up on the streets as a child when rest was infrequent and irregular – and slumped down onto Aramis’ shoulder, snoring gently. Athos had been content to sit in silence but Aramis, unnerved by confinement, filled the space with quiet conversation.

“So, who’s going to tell Treville this time? Assuming of course that he’s not on his way here right now with half the garrison at his back.”

“You, if you don’t stop smiling,” Athos warned.

“I think it should be d’Artagnan.”

“That’s a poor repayment for a rescue.”

“He needs to learn these things if he wants to be a good Musketeer.”

“He is a good Musketeer.”

“I know. But it’s a good excuse to lecture him about certain things. He can be remarkably stubborn when he feels like it.”

Athos hummed in agreement. “Reminds me of some other fools I know,” he said with a pointed look at the two of them. Porthos slept on, unaware.

Aramis put a hand over his heart and pulled an exaggerated expression of surprise. “You wound me. And when it comes to stubbornness, neither of us have anything on you.”

Athos couldn’t refute it and wasn’t willing to argue so he just shrugged his agreement. The silence stretched for a moment and he felt a shiver slide down his spine.

“Cold?” Aramis asked, concern filling his features.

“A little.”

Aramis looked like he wanted to shift closer but he was pinned in place by Porthos’ bulk so he gestured his friend over, offering him a chance to tuck into his side for warmth. It really was cold in that cell. Athos shook his head. “I’m alright.”

“What did I tell you? Stubborn,” Aramis muttered. He reached out and grabbed Athos’ arm, tugging him closer before he could pull away and fixing him in place under his arm. Porthos stirred a little at the jolting sensation.

“Whazza?”He murmured, still not conscious.

“Just Athos being a stubborn fool,” Aramis reassured, ignoring Athos’ grunt of protest. Satisfied, Porthos drifted off again.

“Should we be worried about him?” Athos asked, listening to his slightly strained breathing.

Their makeshift medic shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he will dive into half frozen lakes in the middle of a winter night then there’s not a lot we can do about it. It’s best to just let him sleep it off.”

“How are you not cold?” Athos griped, feeling himself unwillingly pressing himself into Aramis’ warmth. He hadn’t realised just how cold he was until it was pointed out.

Aramis chuckled and nodded at where Porthos was pressed against him. “He’s doing a fine job of heating me up. And I’m wearing more layers than you do because I actually planned ahead.” Since they’d left Paris, Aramis had found it hilarious that none of his companions had thought to wear anything warmer than their usual jackets, despite the fact that the air was heavy with the promise of the first snow and the northern wind was biting. d'Artagnan was somewhat forgiven, since he was used to Southern warmth and hadn’t yet gotten the hang of Parisian winter.

Athos had no such excuse.

“In all fairness, this was supposed to be a short assignment. Go to Meaux, talk to the Musketeers stationed there, go home. Simple.”

“Athos, you really should have learnt by now that nothing is simple when it comes to us.”

The Musketeer sighed and scrubbed at his face. “If only. I’m genuinely concerned that Treville will take us off duty when he finds out about this.”

“Blame it on d’Artagnan. He can’t get rid of the King’s new favourite just yet.” Athos’ lips twitched but he was too tired to come up with a reply. He could feel his head sagging down on to Aramis’ shoulder. “Hey, wake up you,” he protested, nudging his head up again. “I’m not a pillow.”

“Porthos is sleeping on you.”

“Porthos is ill. You are not. And I am not a piece of furniture – I’m far too handsome for that.”

Athos blinked, rubbing at his eyes to try and wake himself up. The cold was making his brain foggy and his thoughts indistinct but he shook it off. “You have a very high opinion of your looks, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Many a time my friend, though mostly they were jealous husbands seeking to wound me with their words. I have never taken their criticisms to heart.” He sniffed haughtily, drawing a smile from his companion. “How long do you think it would take d’Artagnan to get from here to the garrison and back?”

“A day, perhaps? Assuming Treville can muster the troops quickly, they’d be back here by nightfall tomorrow, I’d wager.”

“And if he’s tried to free us on his own?”

“Then he’ll probably be joining us any second, having been captured himself.”

“And then what do we do?”

“You have a lot of questions.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, you could always flash the guards some ankle. Put that irresistibility of yours to good use.”

Aramis laughed at Athos’ unexpected rise of humour, hard enough that Porthos stirred again, blinking at them both in mild confusion before he reminded himself of where they were. “No rescue yet?”

“You’ve only been asleep a few minutes. Give the poor boy a chance.”

“Do we have a plan for if he gets himself captured?” Porthos asked.

Athos groaned heavily, rolling his eyes at the pair with the air of someone who had long since gotten used to their antics. “One of you two can come up with a plan,” he said firmly.

“Athos thinks I could flirt our way out of here,” Aramis informed Porthos with a sly wink. “I’m willing to give it a try. But then, you’d have to be the ones to tell Treville of my great bravery and personal sacrifice. He might actually forgive me for getting captured.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Athos put in.

“He’s going to have you cleaning the stables for a month,” Porthos agreed, grinning.

“I don’t know why you’re so happy – you were the one captured last time. He’ll be just as angry at you.”

“But I’m ill you see,” Porthos pointed out, as though it wasn’t obvious from his clogged voice. “He’s not going to punish a man who’s already suffering.”

“He might once he realises that we’ve been taken prisoner, again,” Athos pointed out.“You didn’t see his face when I told him that you’d been taken to the Court.”

“We could hear him shouting from downstairs,” Aramis told them. “d’Artagnan looked petrified.”

Porthos chuckled then coughed, before settling back down against Aramis’ shoulder. “Wake me up when he gets here.”

“Why does everyone insist on using me as a pillow today,” Aramis griped, but he kept still so that Porthos could settle comfortably. Athos’ lips quirked as he shifted closer again, crowding Aramis.

“Might as well keep warm.”

Aramis looked like he was going to say something witty back but then he just smiled a shook his head with a chuckle. “Terrible cellmate indeed.”

“You are a terrible cellmate when you don’t shut up,” Porthos grumbled. Aramis laughed but lapsed into silence, taking comfort from the warm weights pressed against him that helped to keep the shadows in his mind at bay.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed since they had no window to judge, but Athos thought that it was probably about dawn by the time they heard anything. There were voices outside the door, too low to make out any words then a cut off shout and a heavy thud as something collided with the wall. Porthos was awake again in moments and Athos clambered to his feet, ignoring the trembling in his limbs. Even huddled together, the cell was freezing.

There was a quiet rattle as the lock unlatched and then the door slid open, revealing a dripping wet, filthy d’Artagnan. His skin was almost grey with cold and he was shaking so badly that he looked almost blurry but he smiled happily at them.

“Ready to go?”

“What the hell happened to you?” Porthos asked as they trooped out of the cell. d'Artagnan looked down at himself, apparently noticing for the first time that he was covered in dirt.

“I spent most of the night in the river,” he admitted as they stripped the two guards he’d knocked out of their weapons.

Aramis blinked at him, taking a more intense interest in his shaking. “You spent half of the night in a river, in the middle of winter?” He only just remembered to keep his voice low. “You didn’t think that, I don’t know, that might be a bad idea?”

d'Artagnan looked a little put out. “I didn’t have much of a choice. It was the only way to avoid the hounds.”

“You couldn’t have just run away like any sane person would have done?” Porthos raised an eyebrow at him as he strapped a sword belt around his waist. Aramis had taken all the firearms and Athos and Porthos had claimed the two swords. d'Artagnan still had his own sword but his gunpowder was soaked through and useless.

“How well did that work out for you three?” He asked, looking pointedly at the cell he’d just freed them from.

Athos sighed, cutting them off before they could start arguing. “Worry about his foolishness later and worry about getting out of here now. d'Artagnan, how many men are between us and the way out?”

“Too many for us to fight alone. Follow me. There’s a door nearby we can sneak out of that puts us right next to the wall. It’s how I got in.”

“I can assume that you didn’t go to Treville for more men?”

d'Artagnan looked at his feet, shook his head slightly and left without a word, assuming that they’d follow him. Swearing under his breath, Athos did.

As promised, there was a small door that had been left slightly ajar not far from where they were being held. Outside it there was a thin corridor, no more than two metres wide that ran between the building they were and a stone wall, easily ten feet high. d'Artagnan poked his head out the door to make sure it was clear and then ushered them out.

“If we go over the wall and go straight, we’ll hit the road. Should take us right back to Paris.”

“Are there men between us and it?” Athos asked, doubtfully. It couldn’t be that easy.

“Some. I’d be more worried about the dogs though I think it should still be clear. I lead them off towards the other side of the compound before I came to get you.” It sounded like a good plan, Athos had to admit.

“How exactly did you get over the wall?” Aramis sounded more sceptical.

“There are trees on the other side. I climbed them,” he said, glancing around nervously as though he was expecting to be ambushed at any moment.

“And on this side?”

“I jumped.”

“That’s at least ten feet.”

“Yes.”

“And you jumped?”

d'Artagnan looked at him like he was crazy. “Yes. I bent my knees when I landed, no harm done. Can we go now?”

Aramis was clearly still disgruntled but he accepted the leg up from Porthos, swinging himself onto the wall and leaning back down to drag with larger man up to sit beside him. Athos and d’Artagnan mimicked the trick. For all that d’Artagnan claimed to have dropped down the other side, all four of them decided without speaking that it was far safer to use the branches to lower themselves to the ground.

As they headed through the trees, it became very obvious that d’Artagnan was not quite as alright as he wanted them to believe. He kept staggering over nothing and having to make small corrections in his course when he failed to notice an approaching tree.

“d’Artagnan, what’s wrong?” Aramis murmured quietly. He was attempting to be discreet but in the silent morning, all of them could hear the words clearly.

“Just a little cold. Don’t worry about it; we need to keep moving.”

He wasn’t wrong but at the same time, they could all tell that he was growing worse. His skin was almost grey and his breathing had grown increasingly erratic. He’d stopped shivering – definitely not a good sign.

Athos let them make it as far as the road before he pulled them to a stop. Thankfully they hadn’t had to fight anyone, though on a few occasions they’d been forced to duck for cover to avoid being spotted; it seemed that whatever d’Artagnan had done for a distraction had worked.

“Athos,” Aramis said softly. He caught his eye in time to see him look meaningfully at the flagging Gascon. “We should get warm.”

“You’re right. I think we’re far away enough to risk a fire.” He led them off the road for a short way until they stumbled upon a small clearing, where Aramis forced d’Artagnan to sit and began looking him over.

“You’re an idiot,” Aramis informed him casually as he felt for his pulse.

“I think you’ve said that already,” d’Artagnan slurred back. He sounded… bad.

“Well, I thought it worth repeating. Hounds or no hounds, sitting in a river for several hours is a bad idea at any time but when it looks ready to snow, then you should definitely rethink your priorities.”

“My priority was not getting caught,” he muttered back, frowning a little. His eyes had closed. “Which, I succeeded in doing.”

“And now you’ve made yourself ill.”

Athos, who was busying himself building a fire with Porthos, looked up. “How’s he doing?”

The marksman grimaced. “We need to get him warm. I’ve read about this condition… ‘congelation generale.’ His body has been so cold for so long that it’s trying to shut down to save itself.”

“That sounds counterproductive,” Porthos commented, frowning. “How do we stop it?”

“You build a fire. I’ll get him out of these wet clothes and into something dry.” He pulled off his own jacket as he spoke, knowing that the younger man needed it far more than he did. “Come on d’Artagnan, we need to get you out of those clothes.”

d’Artagnan muttered something that was no doubt a quip about Aramis trying to get into his breeches but it was too slurred to really make it out. Thankfully the lad was too dazed to feel any awkwardness as Aramis methodically stripped him and then bundled him into whatever layers he and the others could afford to spare. Once that was done, he put him as close to the fire as he dared and tried to rouse him to full consciousness.

“Come on kid,” he said, tapping his cheek. “Time to wake up now.”

He stirred a little, swatting vaguely at Aramis’ long fingers. “Five more minutes,” he muttered sleepily.

Aramis grinned. “There you are. Come on, the others are getting concerned about you.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “If you die then there’s no one to tell Treville that we got captured again.”

“No,” d’Artagnan said instantly. “I got you out, all on my own. I am not telling Treville. Let Aramis do it.”

The marksman pulled a face of utter betrayal. “And after all my hard work saving your life. Makes me wonder why I bother.”

“Because I’m adorable,” d’Artagnan muttered under his breath, sending Aramis into a laughing fit so violent that his face turned bright red. Having not heard, Athos and Porthos watched on in bemusement.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, when he finally had enough air in his lungs to speak. “Yes you are.”

d'Artagnan grinned to himself, shifting slightly before settling. He looked about ready to pass out for the next week. Athos looked over and allowed a rare, fond smile to soften his features. “Get some sleep d’Artagnan. We’ll wake you in a few hours. You did well today.”

Finally starting to warm up again and surrounded by the safety of his friends, d’Artagnan felt comfort wrap around his heart. The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was Porthos pointing out that they needed work out something to tell Treville and Athos’ pained groan.

Chapter Text

Treville, generally, liked his job. He was a soldier all the way to his bones, his loyalty to the Musketeers was second only to his loyalty to his country and he was a natural leader to boot. And so if you asked him if he was happy with his career, he would have been able to say with his whole heart that he was – until of course, he met Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He'd met them individually without incident when he'd recruited them but then something awful had happened: they'd become friends.

This event, seemingly so inconspicuous, had been the beginning of the end of Treville's clear cut, by-the-rules way of life. Some days he couldn't even convince himself that he missed it but then there were other days when he was perpetually moments away from just locking himself in his office until he could think clearly without wanting to punch someone.

Today was one of those days.

His four best soldiers had been out on a routine mission and had been due to return the previous morning – only none of them had turned up. It wasn't like them to be late unless there was very good reason (or a very bad one), and given their record over the last few months, Treville thought that he had good reason to panic.

The scouts he'd sent out had returned with the news that they'd found their campsite, complete with signs of a fight and of course, no sign of his missing men. They had found two dead men who bore the crest of an English noble who had land in the vicinity, which was about the best they could hope for in this situation.

Men had been gathered, informed and now their Captain was leading them through a freezing forest as night fell around them. Needless to say, he wasn't best pleased.

"You realise that Treville will probably be looking for us by now."

Athos glared at Aramis. "Yes, thank you."

"He's going to be furious."

"I am aware of this fact."

"He's going to blame me."

"We can only hope."

Aramis looked thoroughly scandalised and Porthos laughed aloud, clapping him on the shoulder. d'Artagnan glanced between them all, caught between humour and worry. "Are we going to even try getting out of here?"

"There's not much point," Athos pointed out sagely. "They have a whole garrison out there and we haven't got a single blade between us. We'd be slaughtered before we even made the courtyard."

"Actually," d'Artagnan said slowly, wriggling strangely around his bound hands. The other three watched him with some bemusement until they saw a glint of steel in his fist and he waved a knife at them triumphantly.

There was a moment of dead silence before Athos dropped his head into his hands, Porthos laughed and Aramis looked at the Gascon like he'd hung the moon. d'Artagnan just grinned at him.

"Where did you get that?"

"I always had it. I keep a knife hidden for situations like this – most people just take the weapons they can see." His eyes flicked back to Athos, silently looking for guidance in light of the revelation.

The elder man sighed heavily, weighing up their options and coming up short. "Keep it hidden for now. Even with it, there's no way we'll be able to fight our way out and if they realise you have it, they'll take it. It'll be useful later."

"So we wait?"

"We wait."

d'Artagnan's face had fallen slightly at the realisation that they really were going to have to stay there in the hopes of rescue and Aramis forced himself to brighten, intent on cheering the Gascon up. "It's not so bad in here," he observed. "At least this cell isn't too cold."

Three sets of eyebrows edged towards hairlines at that, glaring pointedly at him. He shrugged and sat back.

Aramis was a man who could sit with a rifle in his hands, in absolute stillness, for hours at a time, waiting until he could take a shot. He had patience in spades. What he did not have, however, was the kind of personality that took well to being confined in small spaces for any great length of time, and his usual method of dealing with this particular occupational hazard was to talk. The others knew this and accepted it without comment.

That didn't mean they couldn't find it infuriating.

"So whose turn is it to tell Treville what happened?"

There was a collective groan while Athos considered. "Well I've had more than my fair share, so I'm not doing it. d'Artagnan has been single-handedly responsible for getting us out twice now, even though it nearly killed him both times, so I feel he should be allowed a certain amount of immunity." The Gascon's face split into a wide grin.

"So it's either Porthos or me?"

"You could flip a coin."

"We don't have any coins. They took our purses."

Athos groaned. "Then decide between yourselves."

Aramis looked at Porthos imploringly, trying to utilise his natural charm to weasel out of the problem. Porthos looked thoroughly unimpressed. "That doesn't work on me."

He scowled before relaxing into an easy smile. "It was worth a shot." There was a long moment of silence before he had to break it again. "How long do you think it will take Treville to get here?"

"We're already late and we're not more than a day from Paris. If Treville sent scouts to our campsite then he'll know that there was a fight and hopefully there should be men here by tomorrow morning."

"Does anyone actually know why we're here?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Well you see, d'Artagnan," Aramis started, "we were ambushed by some men, who, through superior numbers, were able to disarm us and take us captive-"

d'Artagnan interrupted him. "Not that. Those men were specifically after us. Why?"

"Slept with any noble women recently?" Porthos asked Aramis casually.

He pulled on a faux scandalised expression, ignoring Athos' subtle glare – a continuous reminder of his misstep with the Queen. "You wound me."

"I'm considering it."

d'Artagnan snickered, covering Athos' faint groan. Aramis glared at them all. "As it happens, I haven't taken any English noblewomen to bed for some time. In this, I am blameless."

"Could be someone with a grudge against the Musketeers," Porthos commented. "God knows we meet enough people like that."

"But why would an Englishman care about us? We're not technically part of the army. Something doesn't add up." Athos was frowning at the wall, eyes distant as though his mind was buried under too many thoughts. "What news has there been from England in recent months?"

"They're starting more colonies in the New World," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Something to do with Bonnaire?"

"The English would have taken the same position as the Spanish," Athos pointed out. "They don't want us over there any more than King Felipe."

"Haven't England just found a new Secretary of State? Sir Francis something?" Aramis asked.

"Windebank," d'Artagnan supplied, ignoring the general surprise that followed.

"A man known to support the Spanish," Athos moaned. "He'd be in control of foreign affairs and the messages of the King. He'd easily be able to convince a noble that destroying the Musketeers would be serving his country."

"Someone should probably remind him that we currently have a treaty with England and I'm fairly sure there's a clause in there somewhere about not taking Frenchmen hostage," Aramis said, somewhat bitterly.

"I'll be sure to inform him on our way out," Athos said, lips twitching. "Unless of course, Treville gets there first."

The Nobleman hadn't been hard to find. He didn't own a large estate but he'd spent what must have been a fortune building a sprawling mansion, visible from some distance away. Treville spent some time sending out men to scout the surrounding area, trying to work out where he might have been holding their men. Assuming that he was holding them, and hadn't killed them already.

He shook the thought away. It might be inappropriate given his position, but he found himself very fond of his men, especially Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He felt almost like a parental figure and he was relatively sure that the feeling was mutual. If he found them dead, then there was no force in all France that would stop him dealing a swift retribution to those responsible.

When his men had all returned, Treville ordered all but a few to remain behind and marched up to the mansion himself, intent on having a word with the nobleman residing there. If they did not return in two hours, he left orders that the rest of the men should storm the place.

Servants greeted them at the door and they were ushered into a bright, extravagantly decorated waiting room. Another servant moved to take their weapons, but when none of them moved to unstrap their swords, he backed away uncertainly. The aura of fury rising off them was tangible and Treville could see the servants growing restless under his glare – it made him feel powerful.

An ornate wooden door at one end of the room was flung open and a tall man, wrapped in rich silks, strode through, face stern but not hostile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His French was rusty but comprehensible.

"Several days ago, several of my men went missing," Treville told him, unwilling to spend time trading pleasantries. "We have reason to believe that you are involved in their disappearance."

He half expected the man to be scandalised or offended but he just blinked calmly and nodded. "Four men are currently being held in my house, on grounds of trespassing."

"The King's Musketeers are the highest military order in France. They are entitled to travel where they will provided they cause no damage to property not belonging to them. I trust this is not the case." He knew already that it wasn't the case – his men would never be so careless and Athos would never have allowed the others to do anything reckless enough to get them arrested.

"This is my land," the noble reiterated. "They did not have my permission to enter it and I have taken the action I deem appropriate."

"This may be your land but this is still France, and that is my jurisdiction," Treville told him with iron in his voice. He was not one to be bullied by fancy rooms and expensive clothing and he wouldn't allow this man to intimidate him when his men's lives could be in jeopardy.

"Your country does not respect the rights a man has over his own property?" The noble was starting to grow agitated, glancing at the sword at Treville's hip then quickly away, as though the sight burned him.

"As I have told you, the Musketeers have permission to travel through any estate in France, including those owned by non-French citizens. The permission comes from the highest order: the King." There was a shift in the room then in which subtle hands were placed on sword hilts and everyone's eyes darted about to reassure themselves of the layout of the room.

A long, tense moment passed before the noble seemed to rally himself. "I'm afraid that unless I receive orders from your King, I will not bow to your whims. Those men entered my land without my permission and I will see them punished accordingly. I must ask you to leave." He gestured with a long fingered hand to the door they had entered through.

Treville weighed him up, silently judging his next course of action. There were likely guards throughout the mansion and starting a fight, even under such circumstances, attacking an English noble could start a war.

It was as Treville turned to leave that he saw it. There was a glint in the corner of the noble's eye, a slight shift in the set of his mouth and he knew in that moment that if he left and returned to Paris to entreat the King, he'd never see his men again. He'd return to find their corpses already cold and the noble long gone back to his own country.

There was no way he was going to let that happen.

"Do you hear that?" Aramis had perked up suddenly from where he'd been idly conversing with Porthos. d'Artagnan and Athos had spent most of the time in silence, losing themselves in their own thoughts, waiting. Now, they all looked about, listening.

"Sounds like fighting," Porthos agreed, a smile working its way across his face.

"Treville?"

"Let's hope so. d'Artagnan," Athos ordered, "Cut the ropes." The Gascon busied himself with working the knife through the ropes around his own wrists before moving onto Aramis. Once they were all unbound, d'Artagnan offered Athos the knife; he took it, frowning.

"You're a better fighter than me," he explained simply, without any bitterness or jealousy. "It makes sense for you to have it."

"If it is Treville here for us, there's a chance the guards will try and kill us before we can be reached. Be ready."

They all nodded, tensing and readying themselves for a fight. It was for nothing. When the door swung open it was Treville that greeted them from the other side, not any would-be attacker. Seeing him filled Athos with a great sense of relief, lifting a weight that he hadn't noticed he'd been carrying.

"Captain," he greeted, as though this was a normal encounter. He offered a rueful smirk.

Treville's lips curved, taking in the sight of his men, uninjured. "You're late gentlemen. We thought we'd best find out what had become of you."

"We're grateful for the assistance. It would have been a terrible trial to fight our way out alone."

Treville looked about himself then sighed. "We'll discuss this later. For now, we must return to Paris and inform the King that we had good reason for raiding the home of an English noble and taking him prisoner." He ushered them out of the cell, still watching them carefully to ensure that they truly were unharmed.

"About that," Athos said, wincing slightly. "We might have some information that might help."

"Tell me about it on the way back. We have quite the march ahead of us."

They followed their captain out of the mansion, taking care to nod heartily and the restrained noble, Aramis tipping his hat in vague mockery. He had taken them prisoner after all.

"Does he seem angry to you?" d'Artagnan asked Aramis under his breath. The Musketeer observed their captain's relaxed shoulders and shook his head slightly.

"I think, my young friend, we might have gotten away with it."

It wasn't until they reached the rest of the men gathered on the edge of the estate that Treville turned back to face them, a smug grin curving his lips. "By the way, the four of you are on stable duties for the next two weeks."

The collective groan that caused was enough to double the captain over with laughter.