A/N: It's been a long time since I wrote fanfiction and I've seriously missed it. As a birthday present to myself I promised myself I'd write and post a brand new fic and so here we are. Like it says in the description, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic in a similar length to A Mire of Trouble or maybe even longer. Please bear with me as I set the stage for a most epic adventure.

Entrenched

"Duty, Honor, Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be." -Douglas MacArthur

Over the course of his career, Captain Jardis had come to realize that certain facts could always be predetermined based on specific indicators and truths. For example, he'd learned early that camp fights and tavern brawls would always follow parade days no matter how hard he tried to subdue them. He knew a messenger's news would be good if the man paused long enough to introduce himself. On a march, if the ground was spongy beneath his steps, he knew it would take twice as long to move cannons, and if the soil clung to the soles of his boots, then that time would treble. Jardis had even come to the conclusion that the state of a siege camp could be determined by the state of its bread.

That morning the bread shattered into dust when he poked it with his fork.

Jardis frowned and opted to leave his crumbled breakfast where it lay. He made due with the accompanying shriveled apple and promptly left his tent to instruct the camp cook to boil the bread in goat's milk for the rest of the men.

"Goat's milk sir?" The camp cook's bristly eyebrows lifted just enough to reveal a pair of squinting eyes. His lips pursed in a sour line.

Jardis pinched the bridge of his nose, "Yes, goat's milk. The quartermaster requisitioned some only yesterday." They were getting a slow but steady supply from a local farmer. It was one of the few food staples they could rely on. A supply wagon from the western camp was due any day, which might relieve a fraction of their supply problems, but he wasn't about to waste crumbs if he could help it.

"He may have requisitioned some but not enough to feed the whole line."

"Then cut it with water but you will not hand out bread that is little better than dust. I'll not have it feed the floor of the trenches."

"It'll mean breakfast'll be late for the men."

"Better late than not at all."

"The men won't be happy about it."

Jardis narrowed his gaze on the sour little man, "If you do your job properly, they'll be happy enough to receive a hot breakfast in lieu of a timely one."

The cook cleared his throat and straightened, "Er, yes sir."

With the first disaster of the morning settled, Jardis turned back down the lane. The early morning sun was just touching the edges of the camp; golden light spilling between the rows of picketed canvas. Behind him the dug-in line of trenches would still linger in darkness and Jardis was glad of it. The nightly barrage of cannon fire from the besieged town pounded the front line most hours of darkness until the wee hours and it was then that the hardened men of the front line clung to their rest. If the sun was late to reach down into the trenches then the men gained the benefit of extra moments of uninterrupted sleep.

Jardis glanced behind him to see the sun drenched walls of Lemain, thick and high, they were a strange blend of new and old. The height made them hard to scale and would have made them formidable in eras of old. Their thickness would have been added later as the need arose to withstand better cannon. The only saving grace was the fact that the upgrades had been limited to keeping with the old design of straight walls between towers and his men didn't have to contend with the killing crossfire of a star shaped fort of the newest era. He'd heard the horrors of such. Still they'd been here nigh on two months and still the besieged town was holding, and holding well enough to fire cannon through the night. A feat that was impossible without constant resupply. The question was how were they pulling it off?

Jardis muttered a curse; he'd lost more sleep to that mystery than he had to the bloody cannons themselves. If their tunnelers didn't find that errant supply tunnel soon they'd all be boiling their own shoe leather.

Jardis reached his tent and swept the canvas back to step inside.

"Sir!"

Jardis turned to see his lieutenant striding toward him. There was news on the younger man's lips and it was approaching without preamble. His stomach flopped on its emptiness.

Lieutenant Bachard started talking before he'd reached Jardis' side, "The northern cannon embankment was blown asunder in the night. The cannon's exposed. I've got Sergeant Alphonse and the men pulling her back but—"

There was a boom of cannon fire and both of them turned to see gray smoke billow off the walls.

Jardis swore softly. He turned back to Bachard, "How far along were they when you left?"

"Only just started but I doubled the crew. If the ground's still stable she'll be free in a half glass maybe two. But sir, we need to rebuild that embankment if we don't want to lose another forward gun emplacement."

"I know. Save the gun. I will speak with the commander. Report to me as soon as possible."

His lieutenant saluted and rushed back to the trenches.

Captain Jardis ducked inside and grabbed his hat from the corner of his desk. He scowled at the crumbled bread beside it. He firmed the feathered hat on his head and steeled himself for the coming argument with his commander. That bread was an omen. He should have known this day would mean trouble.

TMTMTM

"Absolutely not." Commander Lestrat leaned back from his desk. "Charging the walls requires men we don't currently have Captain Jardis. I will not waste them when this siege will just as simply be won by sitting back and letting nature take its course." The commander swept his hand over the map spread between them. The oblong shape of Lemain was ringed by the king's forces, main camps east and west, two support camps on the short walls of north and south. A metaphorical noose around the Huguenots' necks. A noose that was currently impotent without a strong jerk to yank it closed. Jardis clenched a fist behind his back to keep his frustration in check.

"If the king loses faith in this front and we continue to be under-supplied, nature's course will not work in our favor," he reasoned.

"Which is why your men are better spent finding that errant supply tunnel."

"Sir, with respect, we're down to three forward cannons. If we lose this placement, their north eastern flank will go unmolested and we'll face considerable risk of fighting an enemy sortie."

From inside the thick canvas command tent the thunder of cannon was muffled, distant. Even the answering call of their own cannon fire was subdued. Without even that sense of urgency to support his argument, Jardis knew he wouldn't win, the man would not be swayed.

"The answer is no. You will pull that cannon back. If it survives the ordeal, we will put it in reserve."

Jardis swallowed his rising dread. In part the commander was right, storming the walls was always a costly procedure. Each time they did so without gaining a foothold on the walls was another score of men lost for little, but Jardis could feel the control of the field slipping from their fingers and the loss of another cannon was a substantial decrease in weight and pressure. He struggled to grasp the commander's belief that they would win the siege simply by standing by it. Was it simply arrogance? Or disregard? Perhaps the walls of his tent were too thick to know of the true realities beyond.

Commander Lestrat met his gaze evenly and Jardis struggled to master himself.

"Excuse me sirs," someone had brushed open the door at Jardis' back and the commander leaned around him to acknowledge the messenger. There was the snap of a salute and the man stated his name — so it would be good news then.

"A column of fresh recruits has arrived and are awaiting your orders."

The commander nodded, "Send for the quartermaster."

"Yes, sir."

The commander turned his attention back to Jardis as the messenger departed, "Well Captain, it seems fortune favors your strategy today. You now have the men you need to repair that precious embankment of yours. I'll leave the particulars to you, and if you happen to win the day, I'll even ensure you take the credit." And Jardis was sure any resulting loss would ride on his head in equal measure.

He saluted his commander and turned on his heel before the anger that strangled all his words could fade enough for him to say something he would regret.

His long strides carried him toward the edge of camp and soldiers scattered out of his way at a glimpse of his expression. His lieutenant fell into step beside him and Jardis' mind churned for a full breath before he felt level enough to acknowledge the other man without unduly barking at him.

"Well Bachard, how did we fair?"

"We managed to free the cannon with minimal loss of life but it will take two score men at least to rebuild that bank. We could do it over the course of two nights but they'll know our intent and we won't go unmolested."

"Very well. Prepare the men. We attack before dusk. That should give you the diversion necessary to put two score men on the task and get it done before nightfall."

"Sir?" The lieutenant glanced at him in surprise.

"I said we attack the walls today, before dark."

"Your discussion with the commander was a success sir?"

"Only because we have new fodder to throw into the field." Jardis tipped his head to the milling group of men they were fast approaching.

"New recruits sir?" The younger man hesitated.

Jardis was not in the mood to watch his lieutenant struggle against propriety. "Yes. Spit it out man."

"It's just… Is that wise sir? We could use the new blood to bolster our ranks. Spilling it prematurely feels like a… well, a waste sir. They're green, they'll have no experience with the field."

Of course his lieutenant was right but Lestrat had made it clear they would only get this one chance to shore their lines and Jardis wasn't about to pass it up. Damn that man for making it a question of pride. Jardis didn't care for it either way but the blood would be on his hands and for all intents and purposes he would have spilled it to assuage his injured pride.

If that was what it took to end this infernal siege, then so be it.

"They'll be divided up and scattered through the ranks so they might well learn from the men around them. You'll pick a score or so who seem strong and might be steady under fire. Instruct them in the finer art of shoveling if you must. I want that cannon back in place before dark."

"Yes sir!" The lieutenant hurried off. There was a lot to do before they would be ready, but Jardis trusted his man to know his role. Before he could set about his own tasks however, there were the new recruits to deal with.

Jardis approached the aides bustling around a small table that the quartermaster had supplied for the task. The tall enlistment roll-book was already laid out and opened to a fresh page. An accompanying sergeant began bellowing the men into a rough line. By the way the men milled around in a disorganized tangle, he would be surprised if most of them survived the day.

For a moment Jardis felt bile rise to the back of his throat as his mind turned to the reality that it was once again his order that would send men to their deaths. It was a feeling he was familiar with and one that he hoped, and alternately feared, would lessen with time. Today he would take down the names and descriptions of every man before him and he would commit to memory the souls he chose to send to their deaths. The irony that he had nearly begged for today's privilege was at the forefront of his mind.

Jardis dipped the quill in the ink bottle and looked up at the first man. "Name?"

"Marlein."

Jardis' quill scratched across the yellowed page of the roll-book; Slender, short brown hair, blue eyes, small nose, bowed lips, mole left cheek, baker's hands.

"Age or date of birth?" he asked, pausing for the answer.

"Age nineteen sir."

"Your father is a baker?"

The young man looked surprised at Jardis' guess, "Yes sir. From Limoges."

It was a shame the troubles they were facing couldn't be solved by finding a better baker.

"Good. Make your mark here… Next."

TMTMTM

"Name?" the stern faced captain asked. His quill hovered above the page.

When the letter had come from Paris demanding a commitment to the war effort, Athos had been strangely happy.

La Fere had little to offer its king for the war effort. His father had ferreted away arms and munitions as required of all old landed titles but La Fere couldn't boast an armed guard and it had one small village to call its own from which troops could be mustered at a point of need. The war with the Huguenots was such a time to France herself but to the estate, which was far removed from the conflict in the south, it was not. Any attempt to conscript Pinon's peasantry would therefore justifiably be met with anger and resentment, though what mattered more than the disapproval of its peasantry was the economic cost of stripping La Fere of its working farmers. With the weight of all of these concerns threatening to send his father from his sickbed straight to his grave, Athos had seen fit to take it upon himself to fulfill the king's request.

It wasn't until he was standing in line with the new recruits at the Siege of Lemain that he realized the true source of his eagerness to volunteer for war...

"My name is Athos."

The man who would be his captain leaned forward, sharp grey eyes flashing as they flicked over every detail of his person; the man's quill had yet to touch paper to add his name.

"Soldier, if you carry noble lineage you are entitled to declare it so we may grant you an officer's position."

It was strange to think that he had come all this way without knowing his true intent, but as the captain's questioning gaze cataloged his dress and his carry and correctly determined his standing, Athos came to realize that he had been hoping to escape it completely.

With his father ensconced on his deathbed and the prospect of being granted the title of Compte de la Fere looming, Athos had felt a growing desperation for more air. The precious little that he had was being squeezed from both sides as responsibilities began to pile high. Conversely, Catherine had been boiling with anticipation, predicting that a wedding would come shortly after an inevitable death.

The discerning gaze of the grim man before him with its weight of experience and calm assurance seemed to cut through all dissimulations and Athos found himself truthfully examining his thoughts and finding that he no more wanted to marry Catherine as he wanted the responsibilities of his heritage.

He had come here to escape all responsibility save one; that which he owed to his king.

"I have no desire to lead men to their deaths," he stated his answer as fact and indeed it was one, honest and straightforward. For once he was setting aside all pretenses.

It was refreshing.

The captain seemed just as surprised by his answer. He examined Athos a moment more, a question in his pause that churned with obvious curiosity. "You would not lead men to their deaths but you are content to seek your own?" he asked.

The statement made it clear the captain expected officers to far outlive their men in this conflict. Armed with that knowledge, Athos didn't regret his declaration in the least.

"I seek to serve the king for a time. That is all."

"You must be sure of this. Should you declare your heritage you would be exempt from certain indecencies and be granted privileges that reflect your rank. If you do not declare it, I cannot be held accountable to your family should you perish. This is not to be taken lightly."

"My name is Athos. I wish only to serve my king."

Finally the captain bent his head to scribe Athos' name and details into the roll-book. Athos was alert for any sign of disgust or distaste but he was surprised to find nothing of the kind from the other man. Athos didn't dare hope that he had found understanding, it would be too much to ask.

"Have you any experience in the field?" the captain asked, still recording his detailed description.

"Yes. A few skirmishes."

"Can you load a musket?"

"I've had some practice."

"Good." He pointed to the blade at Athos' hip without looking up, "If that is a dress sword then I urge you to replace it."

"I know the difference. I came to war, I didn't come to court."

The captain snorted. Finally he met Athos' gaze. "I'm eager to see how you fare." The man nodded, satisfied and decisive. He pointed at the supply tables, "Helmet, musket, powder, and shot. Ignore the standard issue steel. Gather the rest and standby at the front. Wait for me there. I have a special matter I wish to discuss with you."

TMTMTM

Standing relaxed at attention amidst the nervous shifting of the new recruits gave Athos plenty of time to grow familiar with the camp and the field he could glimpse beyond it. In the distance he could see the besieged town, its walls stout and well fortified, built of large blocks of stone from the surrounding countryside. Men were moving across the ramparts, light flashing off their helmets to look like the glistening ripples of a flowing stream. The attackers, in contrast, were dark shapes at their feet, moving like brown beetles through the furrowed wood of an infested tree. The trench lines were long and deep, running wider than the width of the camp, curving around the walls as if a giant had dropped the town from above and rippled the ground beneath it.

Both parties were well established, a clue that spoke to the length of the siege to date and Athos couldn't help but admire the Huguenots' tenacity. But perhaps that made sense, the men on the walls were fighting for more than just their freedom; they fought for their lives and livelihoods.

The captain stood and addressed the assembled men, introducing them to a Lieutenant Bachard who would be in charge of handling their dispersal through the ranks. He asked that they follow the guidance of the men who had been living on the field these past months who they would be paired with. The news that there would be an attack before dusk rushed through the new recruits like a cold wind.

Athos glanced at the men around him who, in truth, were mostly boys and little better than farmhands and he felt a twinge of dread. He wondered if this was what the captain had had in mind when we he had asked if Athos was purposely seeking his own death.

The captain stepped aside to let his lieutenant continue with the task of dividing the men into smaller groups. He caught Athos' eye and motioned him out of the line-up as he turned away from the training field.

The captain led him away from the milling recruits and through the pitched camp.

As soon as they were out of earshot he began speaking, "Athos, I don't care if you're the son of a Comte or the bastard of one, if you have prior experience with a musket then I have a special task for you."

The captain's words seemed to suggest he felt a need to excuse the act of singling Athos out. Athos supposed that if the captain considered himself to be a fair man above all else then perhaps that was exactly what the man would need to say to justify the action.

He followed the captain through the camp without comment.

Past the picketed tents, the trenches were in a state of controlled preparation. The dug earth was well packed and reinforced with boards and beams, some walls were bulked up by rolled bundles of willow. The men he saw look grizzled and experienced; their varied mixture of clothing, leather, and armor weathered and worn. The wide-eyed naiveté of the new recruits was nowhere to be found here. Instead inexperience had been filed down and replaced with a laconic grit that Athos was at once familiar with.

Athos was amused to find himself relaxing after leaving behind the heightened tension and fear of the recruits. These men would welcome his skills, not stare in fear at its mark of status and privilege.

The captain picked up the conversation again as they snaked through the narrow trenches toward the walls, "Our cause was granted fusiliers to support our six cannons and their crews. As they've been with us since the beginning, their numbers are declining. The best marksman who remains is in need of a man who can load muskets as fast as he can fire. Seeing as he's one of the best that I have left, it would be of extra benefit if that same charge could also watch his back. He is a touch… exuberant. Well I'm sure you'll see for yourself. Ah here we are."

They rounded a sharp bend and the trench widened into a small alcove. Three men lounged in various positions of exhausted repose and boredom around the base of the walls, their features at first obscured and made equal by the ocher color of dirt and dried mud across their faces and clothes. A final man stood leaning with his chest flat against the top of the trench, elbows braced against bundles of willow, hands grasping a musket that was trained on a distant enemy that Athos couldn't see from the bottom of the trench. A dove grey hat sat next to the marksman on the lip of the embankment.

"Aramis, this is Athos. Athos will be your new partner on the field. I expect you to treat him accordingly."

The captain turned to go but stopped at Athos' shoulder. He lowered his voice. "This is as far as I go for you Athos, and only because this is of benefit to both of us. I urge you to take heed." With that the captain left to prepare the rest of his men for what was to come.