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What?

Athos keeps his face blank, leans against the recently vacated tree, and raises an eyebrow.

When that doesn't invite further confidence, he doesn't push it.

He wants to ask then who? There is a story here he's not privy to, and he wants answers. He hates charging blindly into the fray. But he can't help feeling that he has no right to ask, that he has to earn her trust. After all, what reason does she have to entrust him with her secrets?

It's...frustrating.

He ignores her in favor of scanning the woods stoically, keeping his expression closed.

It's an inconvenient time to notice that she smells nice. Of course he could smell her when they were riding, but it's an inconvenient (if not unpleasant) revisitation on his senses.

He wants to say something. Order her to go back to sleep, tell her to leave him, tell her she can trust him, but every unformed idea dies on his tongue as he looks back at her. She's exhausted in that slow, burning way that being out of immediate danger, but not quite out of the woods, takes a toll on one's energy reserves.

His eyes are drawn, once again, to the bruises on her neck, then down to the rope burns on her wrists and he feels immeasurably guilty. He gestures to her wrists- "I did that?" he finally asks, but it's more of a statement; the words roll like lead off his tongue. "Forgive me, that was no way to treat a lady."

He dips his head to meet her eyes earnestly, and is surprised when she huffs out a tired half-laugh: "Well I'm hardly a lady."

A corner of his lip tugs upwards almost of its own accord.

Everything about her is endlessly frustrating, endlessly inconvenient to the carefully cultivated walls he's put up around himself.

Anne...Milady...had windows, she had loopholes, little chinks in the walls that she would force her way through to come and claw and tear at him.

This girl seems to walk right on top of the parapets, a precarious balancing act, walking doggedly on, toe-heel-toe-heel, skinny arms aloft… and Athos wants to rush out from the deep recesses he has retreated into and catch ahold of her, keep her from falling…

...Never mind he might fall himself.

"Listen," she says, and her eyes are dark and penetrating as they lock onto his, "You seem like good, honorable soldiers. I swear I will do my best to help you arrest Khan, but-"

But Athos sees a flash of something in his periphery and it tears his attention away from her. He pushes her roughly behind him and surges towards the campfire circle, drawing his rapier even as he roars a call of warning and awakening to his sleeping comrades- "AT ARMS!"

And then they are overrun.

Athos launches himself forward, and the ground burns and scrapes as he skids to a painful stop on his knees; his sword slashes upwards, blocking a foreign blade just above D'Artagnan's head.

The Gascon in question catches Athos's eyes in brief acknowledgment and thanks before he rolls to the side, out from under the crossed blades, grabs his own sword-belt from the end of his bedding, and jumps to his feet and straight into the fray, immediately engaging two of the four men Porthos is currently fighting off.

Athos disengages the block, and then swiftly attacks, lunging hard, plunging his sword into the expanding chest of his his opponent's ill-timed recovery breath.

"Athos, duck!"

He defers blindly to Ara's warning cry, only belatedly wondering if that's a good idea… A dagger soars right over his head and embeds itself in the watch tree behind him, answering his question for him. He banishes his doubt, meeting an oncoming attacker with a flying fist while simultaneously pulling his sword from the chest of his fallen opponent, ignoring the squelch it makes as he withdraws it.

He pivots and parries, backing up to accommodate a second attacker. He tucks his left hand in a fist behind his back, switches to the offensive, and fluidly dispatches one.

He advances, parries, feints left; his opponent takes the bait, and Athos finishes him cleanly.

He finally has a chance to look up and take in the rest of the fight. It's still dark, but he can just make out the shapes of his friends, all locked in battle.

He's about to dive in and take a man off Porthos's hands, when the one farthest away- the leader, Athos supposes- spots Ara and gestures wildly- "It's her! Get her! Get her, you idiots!"

Athos falls back to defend her, holding his sword aloft warily as he eyes the four men who have approached him at their leader's command.

And then as one they attack, and Athos has his work cut out for him, strictly on the defensive, now, as he keeps himself and his blade between the men and Ara.

He considers telling her to run, but it's dark and he's fairly confident in their ability to win this fight.

He hears her harsh breathing behind him, and then the leader, frustrated, yells - "GET HER! GET THE QUEEN!"

The reaction is instantaneous. Athos misses a beat in surprise and almost pays for it with a chunk of his flesh, but he sidesteps and falls back, regaining his rhythm.

D'Artagnan dispatches his attacker and immediately comes to Athos's assistance, throwing him a confused look, and Porthos grunts to register his surprise, fiercely dueling two men at once.

But Aramis, damn it, Aramis nearly drops his sword as he whirls, eyes searching the clearing for his beloved queen, heedless to the upraised blade of his opponent.

Athos growls a warning, but it isn't necessary.

There's a whoosh of air from behind him, then a solid thunk, and a girl's startled exhalation.

Aramis whirls, wide-eyed, just in time to see his assailant's body collapse, a dagger embedded in his chest.

Shock...and then a familiar sense of dread swoops through Athos. It's barely a flicker, but in his mind's eye, he sees her. Green cat's eyes flash coyly at him for a split-second. Not now. He shuts it down, and throws himself back into the present. He stabs, withdraws; he's fighting with two blades, now, one...borrowed from a fallen assailant... thrust, hit, parry; thrust- he's compartmentalizing; only his engagement in the battle is keeping his whirling mind at bay.

D'Artagnan turns, letting Athos cover him for a moment as he meets Ara's eyes with a bewildered- "Good shot."

Athos parries.

Aramis raises his eyebrows and lifts his hat a bit in recognition, before rushing to aid Porthos.

D'Artagnan turns back, intercepting a blow on Athos's behalf, and between the two of them they plow through the remaining men with ease, and then Athos casts his second blade aside and whips the tip of his own blade up to rest under the chin of the leader, right above his bobbing adam's apple.

"Why did you attack us?"

But his opponent is, apparently, not to be subdued so simply, and he ducks, swinging his sword up to engage with a snarl.

D'Artagnan takes care of that, easily swiping away the strike and stepping forward, deceptively casual. "You don't want to test him," he walks forward, cocking his head to indicate Athos, behind him. "Tell us."

The man slashes, but D'Artagnan bats it away again like child's play, and Athos can't help but feel pride surge up in his throat.

The man backs up; D'Artagnan advances. "Why did you attack us? Tell me."

The man launches an attack; it's not bad, but D'Artagnan is better, and he blocks it blow for blow, and then, with a quick thrust and roll of his wrist, D'Artagnan has disarmed him.

He takes a step forward, pointing his sword at the man's throat. The man turns to run, but is met with the point of Aramis's sword. The Spaniard raises an eyebrow and nods in a "go on" gesture.

Porthos closes in from the right, and Athos advances to take the spot at D'Artagnan's left. The man looks at them from the circle of their brandished swords, a squinty defiance in his eyes.

"Start talking," Athos orders dryly.

"I'm not saying anything," the man declares.

"We have ways of persuading you," Porthos says conversationally, an uncharacteristically menacing look on his face.

The man gives a harsh chuckle. "You think anything you lot do to me could come close to what my employer would do to me if I squealed?"

Athos feels Ara fall in behind him, and he's about to tell her to go see to the horses or something as he has a feeling this might get dirty, when the man's eyes fix on her, and they go round with surprise.

It's almost daybreak and the diffused light of the sky makes it easier to make out faces, and besides, now they're all in close proximity with each other. Maybe that's why the man looks at Ara and whispers in horror, "You're not the Queen," before promptly wrapping his hands around D'Artagnan's blade and jerking it towards him, straight into his heart.

The man slumps forward on D'Artagnan's blade, skewered.

They all stare in shock for a moment, and then D'Artagnan pulls his sword out.

The body crumples.

"Damn it!" D'artagnan roars, casting aside his blade and kicking disgustedly at the man's boots.

Athos can't help but agree with the sentiment.

There's a collective moment as he, Porthos, and Aramis regard each other and sheathe their swords. They share a loaded glance. Was it all simply a case of mistaken identity or is there more to the story?

They break gazes eventually, and Athos feels himself grow rigid as he remembers the perfect dagger thrown in semi-darkness. That couldn't have just been luck. He knows this; this is the Anne effect, the Milady effect… all the warning signs, the coincidences, the plot holes that he was too blind to see before… only he won't fall for it a second time. He retreats into himself, throwing up his mask.

His voice is cold and dry as he addresses the air, pivoting slowly- "So where did you learn how to handle a dagger?"

But as he turns, he registers the sound of ragged, shallow breathing, and then he sees her, a huddled mess on the ground, shaking, and the cold fury in his mind loses its edge.

Athos follows her line of sight and sees the corpse with the dagger buried to the hilt in its chest. He looks back at her, trembling, sobbing, and he doesn't know what to think.

And then Aramis is pushing past him to get to her side. He gathers her into his arms, rubbing soothing circles in her back as she hyperventilates.

"Was he the first, Ara?" Aramis asks quietly. "Was he the first man you killed?"

And then it's a violent inhalation, and she scrambles out of his arms to get on her hands and knees on the grass, and she's dry heaving: awful, shuddering heaves that wrack her whole body. "Oh God," she cries, "Oh God, I killed him. Oh God, I killed him," she repeats. "I killed him."

Aramis crawls over to her, and then grabs her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"He's dead," she tells him hysterically. "Aramis, he's dead. I killed him."

"I know," he says lowly. "Look at me, Ara. I know. It was either him or me, Ara. You saved my life. Thank you, Ara."

She stares at Aramis, and Athos recognizes the wild look in her eyes as she attempts to get her breathing back under control, and something twists in his chest.

Soon her breathing is ragged, but even, and Aramis takes her by the hand and leads her in prayer over the dead body.

Athos tears his eyes away from the scene, and looks up, meeting Porthos's gaze. The big man shakes his head, then crosses himself with an enormous hand. "Poor kid."

D'Artagnan murmurs in agreement, picks up his sword, re-sheathes it, and then looks to Athos and Porthos. "Well, I think that's about all we're getting out of the night. What do you say after we're done here," he jerks his head in the direction of Aramis and Ara, "we start riding?"

Athos nods his assent, as does Porthos, but as they split to go ready the horses, Athos looks back at the two figures huddled on the ground.

There it is again, that twisted feeling in his chest. He stands back and allows himself to feel it this time...

It's a pang of...guilt...and also something else...

He pauses for a moment, allows himself to examine every fibrous thread of this twinge, then turns away, irritated with himself, and also half-wishing he was the one giving her comfort. As he turns, he accidentally catches her eye.

Stormy blue eyes meet watery brown.

He completes his turn, but as he walks towards his horse, he feels her gaze on his back.