The place that they are approaching is a small church set within walled grounds in the northern outskirts of the city. Attached to it is a single storey monastic building from within which is emanating the kind of dreadful cacophony that cannot possibly be human in origin.
"You seem disturbed, Musketeer," says Vallion with a chuckle. "An appropriate reaction because this is indeed a refuge for those who are disturbed beyond reason."
A suitable place for Vallion then, thinks Athos wryly as a set of manacles are secured to his wrists. He's dragged from the cart, falling to the ground, and whilst he's being hefted brutally to his feet by two of the men he looks about him and wonders at Vallion's diminishing state of mind. What made him choose such an impossible site to defend? If he thinks a few screeching lunatics will deter the Musketeers then he's a very misguided man.
Inside the building Athos is shoved along arched, stone corridors and past monastic cells, inside which huddle a number of nuns in grey habit. They look frightened but unharmed. He hopes with all his heart that they will remain that way, but their captor is not known for his sympathetic nature.
"The Daughters of Charity see fit to look after the mad men of Paris." Vallion shakes his head. "A worthless cause if you ask me."
"A more worthless one comes to mind," says Athos, inwardly cursing himself. He must not infuriate Vallion too soon or his friends will be rescuing a raped corpse.
"Brave words from a brave soldier," sneers Vallion as he pushes Athos down a short flight of steps and turns the key in the lock of an iron gate. "Let's see how much you enjoy the remainder of your evening spent in here with these fellows."
The stench coming from behind the bars is revolting and Athos almost brings up his dinner as he is forced inside the cellar room with these poor wretches. The compacted mud floor is scattered with foul smelling straw and the men contained here are naked and chained to the wall. Athos curses under his breath; if this is the humane way to treat the lunatics of France then he dreads to think of the alternative.
Locked away Athos keeps to the far corner, as near to the slit of a window as he can manage. At least here he can keep an eye out and also have the blessing of some fresh air to breathe. Frightened beyond belief he calms himself with the idea of rescue and for a moment imagines he hears the distinctive whinny of Porthos's horse. Too soon, he knows for certain, but come they will and he must be ready for it when they do.
Excited by the presence of an intruder within their cell the inmates begin to scream and haul on their chains, but Athos ignores them, intent on working free a set of lockpicks he has secreted in the lining of his doublet. He's been preparing for this.
At first he has no success, managing to drop the tools more times than he can successfully manage to hold them between his teeth and tease them into the keyhole. Eventually, however, he remembers his lessons from Porthos--there are many ways to overcome the boredom when one is bed bound--and manipulates the workings of the simple lock until it opens with a soft clunk. A thin smile of satisfaction on his face he removes a length of wire from his boot and twists it ready, then replacing the chains loosely over his wrists he watches and waits.
Besnard is the first to die. Coming to the cell on the pretext of bringing water he crouches close to Athos and looks him over with a gloating smile. "When this is over and you're no longer needed as bait then I'll slice off your cock at the root and let you know the pain I suffered at your hands."
"I'm sorry," says Athos politely. "I had no idea I actually emasculated you that day."
"No! No you didn't," the man says, eyes widening at the implication. "I still have my-"
Besnard is not expecting Athos to move so swiftly, nor to be enmeshed in a noose of wire that tightens until he is firmly garotted and the life squeezes out of him. Taking possession of keys and pistol Athos hides the body under a heap of straw. Normally he regrets his killings; this time he only hopes that his friends will reach here before the decaying corpse adds to the smell.
With an arm looped through the bars he secures the cell door, leaving the keys in the lock. He then waits, hoping against hope that rescue will arrive soon, but detects no sounds from the outside of the building. Worse still, his plan of picking off the men one by one is a failure when four of them arrive at once to take him to Vallion. If they strip him all will be lost. If they gang rape him he will not recover this time.
"How did these come undone?" says one of them as the chains slip free from Athos's wrists.
The response to this question comes in the form of a musket ball to the eye. At this short range the man's head explodes like a melon and his associates, standing immediately behind him, are covered in a liquefied mix of brain matter and splintered skull. One of them falls backward in disgust, by chance uncovering the greying corpse of Besnard in the process, and the frenzied excitement from the inmates only adds to the horror of the moment.
Needless to say, the three remaining men are not kind to Athos as he is hauled back along the corridors. Looking to see that the nuns are still unharmed he catches sight of Aramis in one of the cells and heaves out a stuttering breath of relief. Head swimming from the onslaught of punches and kicks, he fights to retain his focus knowing that this time he is not alone.
Fury is written all over Aramis's face and he is about to rush in to help when Athos throws him a warning glance. However unnerved he is, however broken and beaten it doesn't matter, because getting the Daughters of Charity to safety is vital. They are good women who don’t deserve to be pawns in Vallion's game. There is time for him; Athos knows. He is, as Besnard so nicely put it, merely bait in a trap for Treville.
Dragged through the building and into the church Athos is thrown at Vallion's feet -- a bloody offering. He’s aching and bruised from the treatment he’s received, but he won't go down without a fight. Not alone, he reminds himself.
"We should kill him now," says one of the gore splattered men. "De Blois is dead, as is Besnard, both by his filthy, catholic hands."
Vallion ignores them and squats to examine Athos, wiping away the trail of blood from his nose with the pad of a thumb. In a disturbing gesture he sucks it clean with a look of utter relish on his face. "You are a feisty one; I can see why Treville likes you so much. Now up you get," he says in that sing-song voice, helping Athos to his feet then shoving him face down across the upper surface of a carved tomb, cheekbone crunching against cold, stone features. "Tie him here," he says pointing to coils of rope and the iron rings that are set into the slab floor. "I was going to crucify him for the sake of theatre, but this allows easier access." He slaps Athos across the backside. "A spectacle of a different sort."
The sound of a gunshot has the henchmen looking about them with nervous eyes, but Vallion is in a very different state of mind. "Finish restraining him then hunt down our former captain and escort him inside," he says with an unhinged laugh.
For a man who, up until now, has been playing such a clever game, Athos wonders why Vallion now seems to have thrown caution to the wind, his sanity, once hanging by a thread, now seemingly departed for good. From outside the church he picks out the subtle sound of a blade and gurgle of a slit throat and allows himself a half smile.
So far his own game has been a high risk one with odds lengthening by the hour, but now, still in one piece if a little roughed up, he's in a better position than he expected to be. Easing the small blade out of its hiding place in the lining of his cuff, he begins to work away at the ropes, stripping through the strands of hemp with tiny measured movements as Vallion is occupied by a new arrival to the scene.
"Give up, Vallion," says Treville, stepping forward into the aisle of the church. "There are, at present, three guns aimed at you from inside the church and more on their way."
"Three?" sneers Vallion. "And how many, do you suppose, are pointing at you?"
"You had eleven men left in total and we've disarmed ten of them," says Aramis from the shadows.
"One way or another," adds an unmistakable growl. "The last scarpered as soon as he set eyes on me."
Athos’s lips twist into a smile of satisfaction because Porthos, at his most menacing, is a wonder to behold. He can turn a twenty stone killer into a blubbering wreck, just from the tone of his voice.
"No matter, Treville. I have you where I want you,” says Vallion, all the time his pistol aimed surely at Athos. “You betrayed me. Your words are empty. Your promises of loyalty and protection are meaningless." Vallion's gun wavers, but only for a split second. It's not long enough. "I trusted you."
"How could I do anything but hand you over to the authorities?" Momentarily Treville's voice is tinged with regret, but it swiftly turns to anger. "You played me for a fool. Helping me track down those killers when all the time it was you, you sick bastard." He pauses to collect himself. "Even now I'll let you walk away from this alive, Vallion. Even after all that you've done."
Athos tenses; Treville might have mercy in mind, but he has not. He's spent too long imagining the hot, slippery feel of blood on his hands.
"And live out the rest of my days covered in my own filth in the bowels of the Bastille?" The pitch of Vallion's voice rises. "I think not, Captain. You may have saved the Daughters of Charity from rape and burning, but I can assure you that neither he"--his pistol is inches away from Athos's temple--"nor I will, walk away from this alive."
Beneath the depraved layers there's an underlying effeminacy to Vallion and Athos has long since doubted that religious suppression plays anything but a minor part in this. The man is a twisted product of self hatred for his own predilections and he strongly suspects that Vallion suffered at the hands of a catholic order, trying to cure him of unnatural desires. "I'll wager you personally never raped any of the nuns you captured," he says and when Vallion hisses at him it's the most inhuman sound Athos has ever heard, including those of his former roommates. It doesn't deter him. He needs to rile Vallion, needs him close. "I imagine the only time you can get a stand for a woman is if she has a prick hidden away under her skirts." Hand now freed from the ropes he reaches carefully into his boot.
"Athos! Quiet!" snaps Treville, watching in trepidation as Vallion slowly circles the stone tomb over which Athos has been spread out and secured, the gun brushing his temple and lingering there. "Vallion, your quarrel is with me alone. What has he got to do with any of this? He wasn't even a Musketeer when you were in the company."
"All of Paris knows you look on him with favour."
"Of course I look on him with favour. He's a damn good soldier. He's my second in command."
"And still you fool yourself."
"Let him go." Treville’s words are slow and steady.
"Why would I do that when he's so much fun to play with?" Vallion leans closer to Athos and strokes his face with the barrel of the pistol. "The captain always has his favourites, lad. You're not the first by a long way." He turns his attention back to Treville. "No, I'd much rather fuck him again and watch your face as I'm doing it. He was tight as a vise last time, but I'll bet fifty livres he's a lot slacker now after we all had a go with him."
For a moment Athos loses his way; shrunken, wretched, sick with shame he can’t bear to think of Porthos and Aramis hidden amongst the shadows, revulsion on their faces as they finally hear the truth. How will they ever look at him again with any kind of respect? He leans into the cold rim of the pistol barrel and, as he has done so many times in the past, longs for death. Imagines himself swinging from the bough of that lone hanging tree at La Fère.
Treville, unable to retain any measure of calm, roars with rage as Vallion drapes himself over Athos in a parody of a loving pose. It’s the moment Athos has been waiting for and is enough to bring him back from the edge of despair. With hands and feet now loose from the ropes he whips around, jabbing his elbow into Vallion's throat, at the same time bringing his knee up to make contact with delicate tissue and sliding the fine blade of a stiletto cleanly between Vallion's ribs. The pistol clatters away and Treville lunges forward to retrieve it.
Vallion leans back against the carved side of the tomb, a line of pink spittle running from the corner of his mouth. He coughs and the colour changes to crimson. "Captain," he says, an exhalation of blood accompanying his words as he slides to the floor. "Your pet had more fight left in him than I expected."
"He's a good soldier," Treville says again, handing Athos the pistol as Aramis and Porthos approach from the outer reaches of the church, all of them closing ranks. "One of my best men. Not my pet."
Athos leans in close to Vallion. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers and these gentlemen are my brothers in arms and my friends." He lowers his voice to a whisper meant for one man's ears alone. "I could follow Treville's example and show mercy, or I could slowly fuck you to death with the barrel of this gun, but seeing as you're dying I'll be kind and hasten the process."
Stepping back a pace he aims the flintlock at Vallion's heart and fires, tissue and fluid exploding outwards in an expiration of droplets as the man exhales a final, bloody breath.
Looking down at the crumpled body Athos feels nothing but weariness. Perhaps once he's recuperated he'll gain a sense of relief that Vallion and his companions are dead, but for now all he wants is to go home and sleep.
Hands clamp tight around his shoulders. "Did he harm you?" says Treville, facing him, his eyes fastened to Athos as he hunts for the truth.
Athos shakes his head. "No."
"Why didn't you tell us your plans? It would have made things a damn sight easier."
Treville's lips are drawn into that thin, angry line that Athos knows only too well. He can feel the thrum of nervous tension and knows the captain is a hair's breadth away from shaking him senseless, or perhaps something more revealing. Too close for either of their comfort Treville stumbles backward, coming to rest against the tomb.
Athos's hackles rise. "How would it have made things easier? I had nothing but suspicions and therefore nothing to tell."
Treville hadn't trusted them with knowledge of the death threats he'd received, which were, in contrast, absolute proof of Vallion's intent and the weight of this injustice causes Athos to slump into himself. Immediately he's surrounded on both sides, weight of a different kind bearing down on him, holding him up, making him compact and safe and as far from rejected as he could ever dare hope.
"Leave it, Captain," says Aramis, pressing a flask of brandy into Athos's hand. "I could have safely made that kill-shot, by the way. A thousand times over."
"And if you’d missed?" says Treville. He stares bleakly at Athos who remains safely ensconced within the boundaries of Aramis and Porthos and his complexion pales. "What then?"
"I never miss," says Aramis coolly. It’s nothing but the truth.
"No need to talk of such things now," says Porthos, his hand squeezing tightly around Athos's waist. "For the first time in months all is well, my friends, and we can rest easy. Let's not spoil the moment with quarelling."
Fill: By Design 8/10 TW rape, pissing, violence
"You seem disturbed, Musketeer," says Vallion with a chuckle. "An appropriate reaction because this is indeed a refuge for those who are disturbed beyond reason."
A suitable place for Vallion then, thinks Athos wryly as a set of manacles are secured to his wrists. He's dragged from the cart, falling to the ground, and whilst he's being hefted brutally to his feet by two of the men he looks about him and wonders at Vallion's diminishing state of mind. What made him choose such an impossible site to defend? If he thinks a few screeching lunatics will deter the Musketeers then he's a very misguided man.
Inside the building Athos is shoved along arched, stone corridors and past monastic cells, inside which huddle a number of nuns in grey habit. They look frightened but unharmed. He hopes with all his heart that they will remain that way, but their captor is not known for his sympathetic nature.
"The Daughters of Charity see fit to look after the mad men of Paris." Vallion shakes his head. "A worthless cause if you ask me."
"A more worthless one comes to mind," says Athos, inwardly cursing himself. He must not infuriate Vallion too soon or his friends will be rescuing a raped corpse.
"Brave words from a brave soldier," sneers Vallion as he pushes Athos down a short flight of steps and turns the key in the lock of an iron gate. "Let's see how much you enjoy the remainder of your evening spent in here with these fellows."
The stench coming from behind the bars is revolting and Athos almost brings up his dinner as he is forced inside the cellar room with these poor wretches. The compacted mud floor is scattered with foul smelling straw and the men contained here are naked and chained to the wall. Athos curses under his breath; if this is the humane way to treat the lunatics of France then he dreads to think of the alternative.
Locked away Athos keeps to the far corner, as near to the slit of a window as he can manage. At least here he can keep an eye out and also have the blessing of some fresh air to breathe. Frightened beyond belief he calms himself with the idea of rescue and for a moment imagines he hears the distinctive whinny of Porthos's horse. Too soon, he knows for certain, but come they will and he must be ready for it when they do.
Excited by the presence of an intruder within their cell the inmates begin to scream and haul on their chains, but Athos ignores them, intent on working free a set of lockpicks he has secreted in the lining of his doublet. He's been preparing for this.
At first he has no success, managing to drop the tools more times than he can successfully manage to hold them between his teeth and tease them into the keyhole. Eventually, however, he remembers his lessons from Porthos--there are many ways to overcome the boredom when one is bed bound--and manipulates the workings of the simple lock until it opens with a soft clunk. A thin smile of satisfaction on his face he removes a length of wire from his boot and twists it ready, then replacing the chains loosely over his wrists he watches and waits.
Besnard is the first to die. Coming to the cell on the pretext of bringing water he crouches close to Athos and looks him over with a gloating smile. "When this is over and you're no longer needed as bait then I'll slice off your cock at the root and let you know the pain I suffered at your hands."
"I'm sorry," says Athos politely. "I had no idea I actually emasculated you that day."
"No! No you didn't," the man says, eyes widening at the implication. "I still have my-"
Besnard is not expecting Athos to move so swiftly, nor to be enmeshed in a noose of wire that tightens until he is firmly garotted and the life squeezes out of him. Taking possession of keys and pistol Athos hides the body under a heap of straw. Normally he regrets his killings; this time he only hopes that his friends will reach here before the decaying corpse adds to the smell.
With an arm looped through the bars he secures the cell door, leaving the keys in the lock. He then waits, hoping against hope that rescue will arrive soon, but detects no sounds from the outside of the building. Worse still, his plan of picking off the men one by one is a failure when four of them arrive at once to take him to Vallion. If they strip him all will be lost. If they gang rape him he will not recover this time.
"How did these come undone?" says one of them as the chains slip free from Athos's wrists.
The response to this question comes in the form of a musket ball to the eye. At this short range the man's head explodes like a melon and his associates, standing immediately behind him, are covered in a liquefied mix of brain matter and splintered skull. One of them falls backward in disgust, by chance uncovering the greying corpse of Besnard in the process, and the frenzied excitement from the inmates only adds to the horror of the moment.
Needless to say, the three remaining men are not kind to Athos as he is hauled back along the corridors. Looking to see that the nuns are still unharmed he catches sight of Aramis in one of the cells and heaves out a stuttering breath of relief. Head swimming from the onslaught of punches and kicks, he fights to retain his focus knowing that this time he is not alone.
Fury is written all over Aramis's face and he is about to rush in to help when Athos throws him a warning glance. However unnerved he is, however broken and beaten it doesn't matter, because getting the Daughters of Charity to safety is vital. They are good women who don’t deserve to be pawns in Vallion's game. There is time for him; Athos knows. He is, as Besnard so nicely put it, merely bait in a trap for Treville.
Dragged through the building and into the church Athos is thrown at Vallion's feet -- a bloody offering. He’s aching and bruised from the treatment he’s received, but he won't go down without a fight. Not alone, he reminds himself.
"We should kill him now," says one of the gore splattered men. "De Blois is dead, as is Besnard, both by his filthy, catholic hands."
Vallion ignores them and squats to examine Athos, wiping away the trail of blood from his nose with the pad of a thumb. In a disturbing gesture he sucks it clean with a look of utter relish on his face. "You are a feisty one; I can see why Treville likes you so much. Now up you get," he says in that sing-song voice, helping Athos to his feet then shoving him face down across the upper surface of a carved tomb, cheekbone crunching against cold, stone features. "Tie him here," he says pointing to coils of rope and the iron rings that are set into the slab floor. "I was going to crucify him for the sake of theatre, but this allows easier access." He slaps Athos across the backside. "A spectacle of a different sort."
The sound of a gunshot has the henchmen looking about them with nervous eyes, but Vallion is in a very different state of mind. "Finish restraining him then hunt down our former captain and escort him inside," he says with an unhinged laugh.
For a man who, up until now, has been playing such a clever game, Athos wonders why Vallion now seems to have thrown caution to the wind, his sanity, once hanging by a thread, now seemingly departed for good. From outside the church he picks out the subtle sound of a blade and gurgle of a slit throat and allows himself a half smile.
So far his own game has been a high risk one with odds lengthening by the hour, but now, still in one piece if a little roughed up, he's in a better position than he expected to be. Easing the small blade out of its hiding place in the lining of his cuff, he begins to work away at the ropes, stripping through the strands of hemp with tiny measured movements as Vallion is occupied by a new arrival to the scene.
"Give up, Vallion," says Treville, stepping forward into the aisle of the church. "There are, at present, three guns aimed at you from inside the church and more on their way."
"Three?" sneers Vallion. "And how many, do you suppose, are pointing at you?"
"You had eleven men left in total and we've disarmed ten of them," says Aramis from the shadows.
"One way or another," adds an unmistakable growl. "The last scarpered as soon as he set eyes on me."
Athos’s lips twist into a smile of satisfaction because Porthos, at his most menacing, is a wonder to behold. He can turn a twenty stone killer into a blubbering wreck, just from the tone of his voice.
"No matter, Treville. I have you where I want you,” says Vallion, all the time his pistol aimed surely at Athos. “You betrayed me. Your words are empty. Your promises of loyalty and protection are meaningless." Vallion's gun wavers, but only for a split second. It's not long enough. "I trusted you."
"How could I do anything but hand you over to the authorities?" Momentarily Treville's voice is tinged with regret, but it swiftly turns to anger. "You played me for a fool. Helping me track down those killers when all the time it was you, you sick bastard." He pauses to collect himself. "Even now I'll let you walk away from this alive, Vallion. Even after all that you've done."
Athos tenses; Treville might have mercy in mind, but he has not. He's spent too long imagining the hot, slippery feel of blood on his hands.
"And live out the rest of my days covered in my own filth in the bowels of the Bastille?" The pitch of Vallion's voice rises. "I think not, Captain. You may have saved the Daughters of Charity from rape and burning, but I can assure you that neither he"--his pistol is inches away from Athos's temple--"nor I will, walk away from this alive."
Beneath the depraved layers there's an underlying effeminacy to Vallion and Athos has long since doubted that religious suppression plays anything but a minor part in this. The man is a twisted product of self hatred for his own predilections and he strongly suspects that Vallion suffered at the hands of a catholic order, trying to cure him of unnatural desires. "I'll wager you personally never raped any of the nuns you captured," he says and when Vallion hisses at him it's the most inhuman sound Athos has ever heard, including those of his former roommates. It doesn't deter him. He needs to rile Vallion, needs him close. "I imagine the only time you can get a stand for a woman is if she has a prick hidden away under her skirts." Hand now freed from the ropes he reaches carefully into his boot.
"Athos! Quiet!" snaps Treville, watching in trepidation as Vallion slowly circles the stone tomb over which Athos has been spread out and secured, the gun brushing his temple and lingering there. "Vallion, your quarrel is with me alone. What has he got to do with any of this? He wasn't even a Musketeer when you were in the company."
"All of Paris knows you look on him with favour."
"Of course I look on him with favour. He's a damn good soldier. He's my second in command."
"And still you fool yourself."
"Let him go." Treville’s words are slow and steady.
"Why would I do that when he's so much fun to play with?" Vallion leans closer to Athos and strokes his face with the barrel of the pistol. "The captain always has his favourites, lad. You're not the first by a long way." He turns his attention back to Treville. "No, I'd much rather fuck him again and watch your face as I'm doing it. He was tight as a vise last time, but I'll bet fifty livres he's a lot slacker now after we all had a go with him."
For a moment Athos loses his way; shrunken, wretched, sick with shame he can’t bear to think of Porthos and Aramis hidden amongst the shadows, revulsion on their faces as they finally hear the truth. How will they ever look at him again with any kind of respect? He leans into the cold rim of the pistol barrel and, as he has done so many times in the past, longs for death. Imagines himself swinging from the bough of that lone hanging tree at La Fère.
Treville, unable to retain any measure of calm, roars with rage as Vallion drapes himself over Athos in a parody of a loving pose. It’s the moment Athos has been waiting for and is enough to bring him back from the edge of despair. With hands and feet now loose from the ropes he whips around, jabbing his elbow into Vallion's throat, at the same time bringing his knee up to make contact with delicate tissue and sliding the fine blade of a stiletto cleanly between Vallion's ribs. The pistol clatters away and Treville lunges forward to retrieve it.
Vallion leans back against the carved side of the tomb, a line of pink spittle running from the corner of his mouth. He coughs and the colour changes to crimson. "Captain," he says, an exhalation of blood accompanying his words as he slides to the floor. "Your pet had more fight left in him than I expected."
"He's a good soldier," Treville says again, handing Athos the pistol as Aramis and Porthos approach from the outer reaches of the church, all of them closing ranks. "One of my best men. Not my pet."
Athos leans in close to Vallion. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers and these gentlemen are my brothers in arms and my friends." He lowers his voice to a whisper meant for one man's ears alone. "I could follow Treville's example and show mercy, or I could slowly fuck you to death with the barrel of this gun, but seeing as you're dying I'll be kind and hasten the process."
Stepping back a pace he aims the flintlock at Vallion's heart and fires, tissue and fluid exploding outwards in an expiration of droplets as the man exhales a final, bloody breath.
Looking down at the crumpled body Athos feels nothing but weariness. Perhaps once he's recuperated he'll gain a sense of relief that Vallion and his companions are dead, but for now all he wants is to go home and sleep.
Hands clamp tight around his shoulders. "Did he harm you?" says Treville, facing him, his eyes fastened to Athos as he hunts for the truth.
Athos shakes his head. "No."
"Why didn't you tell us your plans? It would have made things a damn sight easier."
Treville's lips are drawn into that thin, angry line that Athos knows only too well. He can feel the thrum of nervous tension and knows the captain is a hair's breadth away from shaking him senseless, or perhaps something more revealing. Too close for either of their comfort Treville stumbles backward, coming to rest against the tomb.
Athos's hackles rise. "How would it have made things easier? I had nothing but suspicions and therefore nothing to tell."
Treville hadn't trusted them with knowledge of the death threats he'd received, which were, in contrast, absolute proof of Vallion's intent and the weight of this injustice causes Athos to slump into himself. Immediately he's surrounded on both sides, weight of a different kind bearing down on him, holding him up, making him compact and safe and as far from rejected as he could ever dare hope.
"Leave it, Captain," says Aramis, pressing a flask of brandy into Athos's hand. "I could have safely made that kill-shot, by the way. A thousand times over."
"And if you’d missed?" says Treville. He stares bleakly at Athos who remains safely ensconced within the boundaries of Aramis and Porthos and his complexion pales. "What then?"
"I never miss," says Aramis coolly. It’s nothing but the truth.
"No need to talk of such things now," says Porthos, his hand squeezing tightly around Athos's waist. "For the first time in months all is well, my friends, and we can rest easy. Let's not spoil the moment with quarelling."
tbc