13There was a rush to fighting, a clarity that came from knowing that each step could be his last in this deadly dance, that each breath, warm from exertion could also be his last, that thrilled Athos. At some point he had come to realise that was why he had become a Musketeer, chasing that thrill, that feeling of being alive that had been stolen from him with the same noose that had failed to free him from Milady's clutches. However, that didn't mean he appreciated fighting in the pouring rain, and as he ducked under a wildly swung sword, he glanced across at Porthos, just in time to see the other man slam one of their unfortunate attackers into the trunk of the tree. The impact was enough to send bark flying in all directions and to have the man crumpling into a heap at the base, eyes rolled back in his head.
"Impressive," he commented, as Porthos grinned at him before the other man's eyes widened at movement beyond his shoulder. Without pause, he twisted, driving his blade home into the heart of the man who had been coming up behind him, before glancing back as he drew it free. "However, if you ever suggest a shortcut again, I will shoot you myself."
"Come on, Athos," Porthos was unfazed by the threat, ducking as Aramis fired off a shot that would have taken off his head, but instead downed another of the bandits who had come upon them as they cut through the forest, hoping to shorten their trip back to Paris. "It makes a nice change of pace after the long ride." He was already moving, words lost in the rain and sounds of fighting as he moved to cover D'Artagnan, who had been almost asleep in the saddle before the ambush and was pressed on four sides, the sleep slow to clear from his mind.
"I think I preferred our earlier pace," Aramis threw into the conversation, as he ducked past Athos, moving to join the other two as D'Artagnan, a little more alert now echoed his sentiments even as he drove an elbow into the nose of one of his assailants.
Athos shook his head, rolling his eyes at their byplay, watching the water spray off the brim of his hat for a second, before turning to face the next assailant. It was easy enough to sidestep the first swing, parrying it off to the side. The fist that followed clipped his chin, but it had lacked any real strength against wet skin, and Athos swung downwards with his elbow, feeling his attacker's wrist shatter under the impact. A second blow had him crumbling, lost in the mud at his feet and Athos didn't spare him a second glance before moving onto the next. Because what they lacked in skill, they were making up for with surprise and sheer numbers, as it seemed that for as many men they had put onto the ground, another three loomed out of the darkness to replace them.
He had downed at least three more before pain erupted in his shoulder and stifling a groan, he whirled to face the source of it, realising his mistake a moment too late, as the knife twisted with the movement drawing a strangled cry from his lips. His vision blurred, and it was pure luck that he lifted his blade in time to parry the sword thrust that followed, flinching as metal clashed much too close to his face for comfort. I'm not going to die here. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to think like that, at times almost welcoming the thought of the peace death would bring him, and he growled under his breath, blinking to try and clear his vision, just able to make out the shadowy form looming over him. It wasn't enough, not when they were this close, and whispering a prayer that would do Aramis proud he lunged forwards.
There was no elegance in his plan, but it did its job as he found warm flesh beneath his grasping fingers and gripped hard, using his weight and momentum to push them both down, praying that he wouldn't land on the wrong end of a blade as he did so. There was no burning pain beyond the one in his shoulder, which he took as a good sign. What wasn't so good was the terrifying sensation of being in mid-air, the ground which had been treacherous at best due to the rain, but had at least been solid, disappearing from under his feet.
And then they were falling.
Desperately he tried to release his hold on the bandit, but the man in his panic was gripping at the only solid thing within reach. He twisted and turned, fingers digging into flesh as he tried to free himself, vision whiting out as the bandit, in turn, clawed at him, catching his shoulder and reigniting the pain from his wound. A strangled noise slipping free, even as he jack-knifed, slamming his head into the bandit's head. The blow was enough to have his ears ringing, and he was almost regretting it when the hands grabbing at him slipped away, the weight that had been pulling him down faster disappearing, a distant cry lost on the wind. He didn't have time to celebrate his release, throwing his arms out blindly in the hopes of grasping something, anything, that would at least slow if not stop his fall.
Too late, he remembered that the narrow path that Porthos had directed them too had run along the rim of an old quarry, unsurprised when loose rock and scree greeted his searching fingers. He had little hope as he tried to bury them into the material, desperately seeking purchase, feet scuffing against similar material but sliding helplessly against the steep face. For a second his fingers seemed to find a grip, hissing as full weight swung from his arms and more worryingly his throbbing shoulder, but there was nothing he could to ease it, his breath catching as for a moment he swung in place. Then with a slow skitter of pebbles that heralded worse to come, he felt himself beginning to slide downwards.
How high am I?It had already been dark before they'd hit the path, with nothing visible below but a deeper shade of black, and he had no idea how far he had fallen already or how far below him the ground lay. He wasn't keen on finding out. Tilting his head up into the rain, he tried in vain to spy the top as he fought against the slow slide pulling him down. "PORTHOS!" He shouted, realising that his fall was inevitable as he slid a few feet before managing to tighten his grip on the loose rocks, feeling the edge of some of them slicing into his hands, turning his palms and fingers slick with blood. A little longer, he thought, ignoring the burn in his shoulders and the pain spreading through his hands, as he clung on through sheer stubbornness. "ARAMIS! D'ART…" He had no idea if his voice had been loud enough to hear over the rain, and sound of fighting, let alone at this distance, and it was cut off abruptly, as the struggling rock face gave way beneath his weight.
This time there was nothing for him to grab hold of, and all he could do was throw up his ravaged hands to try and shield his face as half the wall seemed to come away with him. Rubble rained down on him, a mixture of scree and larger rocks, and there was only so much he could do to protect himself, feeling several pieces slicing into his face as they made it through his feeble defences. He lost all sense of direction, head reeling from the sensation of falling and the sickening burn spreading through his shoulder, and all he could do was twist around, knowing that he didn't want to land on his back, although he doubted that would be enough to save him. He finally glimpsed a darker shadow that he assumed was the ground, looming up out of the night air. It was peppered with the vague shape of trees and rocks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that it was futile, and for it to be rendered useless as one of the larger rocks that had been falling with him clipped him behind the ear.
Pain exploded through his head, bringing with it an almost welcome darkness, and he spared a last thought for what the others would find before he surrendered to it. Mercifully unaware as his body slammed into the upper branches of one of the trees he'd spotted through the darkness, freewheeling through branches, oblivious to the fresh wounds his wild tumble inflicted on his helpless body. However, even unconscious, he jerked as the knife was torn violently from his shoulder, dragged downwards in the process, before his body escaped the tree and slammed heavily into the uneven ground beneath.
Porthos let out a triumphant shout as the last of the bandits fled back into the trees, leaving the ground around them littered with their fellows. "Well that was bracing," he called to the others as he turned away, doubting that they would risk a second attempt as they'd wiped out at least half their number if not more, wiping his blade against the leather of his doublet before sheathing it. A quick pat down revealing that the worst injury he'd received was a cut on his cheek from where he'd ducked a hair too late, and while it was sore, he could live it.
"That's one way of putting it," Aramis grumbled, holding up his ruined cloak, which he had flung into the face of one bandit, sparing his own face but leaving the blue material in tatters. Letting it fall to the ground, he looked across at Porthos. "After some thought, I think I agree with Athos' earlier sentiments. I'll hold you down, while he shoots you if you take us on another shortcut like this."
"Athos you've corrupted Aramis, he's lost his sense of adventure and become all prim and proper like you," Porthos complained with a laugh, before coming up short when there was no tart rejoinder from Athos. "Athos?"
"Where is he?" Aramis demanded, noting the concerned note in Porthos' voice, turning and scanning the area, expression darkening as he realised that there was no sign of the other man. "Athos?!"
"Athos?!" D'Artagnan was scanning the ground, kicking over the bodies that were sprawled face down in the mud, while Aramis went to check on the horses that had bolted into trees at the start of the ambush, hoping that Athos had gone to do the same.
It was Porthos, backtracking to where he had last seen Athos who found a familiar sword half-buried in the mud, as though it had been dropped or knocked out of his friend's hand. "ATHOS!" He called again, lifting his voice, aware of how loud the rain on the trees was. There was no reply and growling under his breath in an attempt to curb his growing worry he scanned the ground, although he doubted that there were any usable tracks left between the rain and the fighting. However, it only took him a few moments to find the deep gouges in the mud, as though someone's feet had been dragged through them…backwards, he realised, following their path, and feeling like he had just been punched in the gut as he tracked them to the rim of the quarry where part of the edge had crumbled away. "No…"
"What is it?" Aramis demanded, having returned with their horses in tow and no sign of Athos, catching the quiet groan. Porthos didn't speak, instead tilting his head towards the precipice and watching as the colour drained out of Aramis' face as he realised what had happened, letting the reins fall from his hands as he moved to the edge and peered down into the darkness as Porthos moved to join him. "ATHOS! ATHOS!" He roared, and they strained, leaning out as far as they dared, trying to see through the darkness even as they listened for a reply, hushing at D'Artagnan as he rushed to join them as he realised what they were doing.
D'Artagnan leaned out further than they had, Porthos reaching out to grab his doublet, making sure that he couldn't join Athos even as he demanded. "Can you see him?"
"It's too dark." The younger man shook his head, allowing Porthos to pull him back. "Are you sure that he fell down there?" It was a desperate hope, and Porthos glanced back at the tracks praying that he could say 'no' and they would turn around and find Athos appearing between the trees, but that was wishful thinking, and he bowed his head.
"How deep is it?"
"I don't know," Porthos admitted, cursing himself for ever suggesting this shortcut, all teasing forgotten as he glanced back at the quarry before moving away. "Come on, we need to find a way down there."
"Porthos…" Aramis began before trailing off, none of them ready to voice the thoughts that they were all starting to think, aloud. He might be dead… He met Porthos' gaze, seeing the same fear in his eyes, before forcing a smile. "He will probably be sat down there laughing at us all for worrying so much and grumbling about us being late." It was a weak stab at comfort, and they all knew it, grim-faced as they moved to the horses. And it was D'Artagnan who crouched down and retrieved Athos' hat when he spied it lying in the mud, making a futile attempt to brush the dirt off, hanging it carefully of his belt before swinging himself into the shadow and looking at him.
"Let's find him."
