Howdy! Long time no see! Miss me? Sorry for the long delay between stories, but after my daughter's wedding in August, real life kind of threw me a curve. All is back to normal now and I was finally able to finish this story. Yay! As always, I have to give credit to my wonderful beta, Sharlot, who always makes my stories much better with her insight and wisdom. And a high five to Jackfan2 for the encouragement! So, without further delay, let's get to it!

What Remains to be Seen

Chapter 1

"Explain again why we're just sitting here just watching the warehouse when the King's gold could be right inside those doors?"

Aramis exchanged a grin with Porthos but remained silent, allowing Athos to field the young Gascon's question. D'Artagnan's patience was thin on a good day, and the drizzle and biting wind they were enduring was doing little to keep his eagerness at bay.

Athos sighed and closed his eyes before looking at d'Artagnan with forced calm. "Because, we have no evidence said warehouse is connected to the crime, merely speculation and hearsay from one of Porthos' rather questionable contacts that the treasure stolen from the royal caravan is within."

"Did he just insult my integrity?" Porthos asked, sotto voce.

Aramis' grin widened. "I believe he insulted your friend's integrity. I'm sure Athos has no qualms about your honor."

Porthos considered the statement for a moment, then shrugged in concession, his eyes never leaving the doors of the warehouse just across the narrow street. "Prichart isn't exactly a friend and even I suspect his motives, so I suppose I can let it go."

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. "As long as he doesn't begin insulting your true friends, I applaud your restraint."

"Are you two quite done?"

The two Musketeers exchanged another grin, both turning to Athos and shrugging in unison.

D'Artagnan fought hard to contain his own smile.

They'd been tasked to find the thieves who had attacked and robbed one of the King's distant cousins while en route to Paris for a visit before continuing on to Rome. Though the royal cousin had come away unscathed, he'd been shaken up, outraged at the rough treatment from the bandits – and the cargo he had been accompanying had been stolen. Louis was livid that these thieves had had the audacity to steal directly from the King himself.

Insulted by the treatment of his relation, Louis had ordered them to track the bandits and bring them before the court so he could exact punishment. While outwardly projecting the image of concern for his cousin, the Musketeers were under no illusion as to the King's true motivations. Their mission was to ascertain where the thieves had stored the stolen gold and return it to the royal coffers where it belonged.

Movement near the warehouse caught their attention, and the four Musketeers tucked themselves behind the pillars of the opposing building, out of sight of the man cautiously approaching the warehouse. The relentless drizzle had kept traffic on the street to a minimum, most of the Parisians scuttling quickly to their destinations, few loitering outside under the steady rain. The scant populace made concealment more difficult, but the pillars had offered adequate cover, the rain and shadows of early evening further providing effective screens to keep them from view. The man paused in front of the warehouse, tugging the brim of his hat low, obscuring his face. He walked hunched over, masking his true height, a bulky cape concealing his build.

"He doesn't look suspicious at all." Aramis' quiet voice dripped with sarcasm.

Athos grunted in agreement.

The man ducked around the corner of the warehouse and Aramis and Porthos stepped from behind their pillar to follow. As they passed, Athos reached out and grabbed Porthos' arm, causing the bigger man to pause.

"We have no idea how far these thieves will go to protect their identities," he warned. "If there is a way inside other than the main doors, do not be foolhardy enough to follow him inside. Return and we will devise a plan to gain access."

Porthos nodded, noting the Aramis had already crossed the street and made it to the corner of the warehouse. The marksman pressed up against the wall, shaking the rain from his hat before slinking around the corner as quiet and graceful as a cat. Porthos hurried across the road, hunched as the rain turned into a more impressive deluge, not wanting to leave his friend alone any longer than necessary. They had no idea what these thieves were capable of. They had left the King's cousin unharmed, but had killed one of the guards when he'd tried to defend the caravan. The cousin had reported at least twenty bandits, though after speaking with the drivers and remaining guard they had ascertain the number was closer to five. They'd only seen one man slinking around, but more could be hiding out of sight. Aramis had already disappeared around the corner into the narrow alley beside the warehouse. Porthos shook his head and quickened his pace, knowing his friend's natural curiosity had a tendency to overcome his sense of caution and more often than not, lead him into trouble.

As he approached the corner of the warehouse, Porthos swore under his breath as he heard Aramis call out for someone to stop. The order was met with a laugh and another voice saying something low and guttural that Porthos couldn't quite make out.

Realizing Aramis had confronted the target, Porthos didn't hesitate as he breached the corner. He stepped out into the narrow alley just as a loud explosion ripped the silence of the early evening. The blast forced him backwards and his legs tangled, tumbling him to the ground. As his head and shoulder made contact with the cobbles of the street, the last thing he remembered was seeing a bright flash and the dark silhouette of Aramis' body thrown violently through the air.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos instinctively ducked as the loud explosion rent the quiet patter of rain, twisting to look back toward the warehouse, staring wide-eyed as the debris floated to the ground. He cursed under his breath at the sight of Porthos lying just to the side of the building. The big man was moving, but his actions were sluggish, uncoordinated. He was obviously trying to push himself from the wet cobbles, but lacked the strength to do so.

He glanced to his left, quickly checking on d'Artagnan. The younger man was on his knees, his arms around the pillar for support, blinking rapidly as he shook his head as if to clear it. He caught Athos' eyes and nodded hesitantly, letting his mentor know he was unharmed. Taking the Gascon at his word, Athos pushed himself from the pillar and bolted across the road, dropping to a knee beside Porthos' struggling form.

"Lie still," he ordered, pushing the larger man back to the ground far too easily for his liking. Porthos pushed his hand aside, forcing himself onto an elbow.

"Help…" His voice broke and he launched into a fit, fighting to breathe, his gasps strained between rough, hacking coughs. His normally dark complexion turned bright red as he fought to catch his breath.

"I am endeavoring to do so," Athos groused, still pressing the man to the ground. He glanced up as d'Artagnan dropped on the wounded man's other side. "Please, Porthos, stay still so we can –"

Porthos grabbed Athos' doublet and yanked, pulling Athos' face to within inches of his own.

"Ar'mis…" he forced through his clenched teeth. His pointed gaze shifted past Athos' shoulder and the Musketeer turned, his breath catching in his throat as he noticed the familiar form lying further down the alley.

"Stay with him!" Athos didn't bother to look to see if d'Artagnan complied, but launched himself down the alley, sliding to a stop next to Aramis' too still body. The marksman lay on his back, covered with debris, his head turned to the side, one hand lying across his chest. The skin on the exposed hand was red and already blistering.

Desperately tossing aside the splintered wood that partially covered the unconscious man, Athos brushed Aramis' dark curls from his face, grimacing at the puffy, painful looking burns and weeping gashes across his cheek and forehead. The burns looked no more severe than a bad sunburn and the gashes, though bleeding sluggishly, were not deep, but it was the marksman's eyes that made Athos' throat constrict tightly. Although closed in his unconscious state, blood leaked out from beneath the lids, matting the long lashes in dark clumps and running down his cheeks and temples into his hair.

Scuffling footsteps announced Porthos' and d'Artagnan's arrival, Porthos dropping heavily down beside their wounded friend.

"Is he alive?" he rasped, his voice rough as gravel, his concern easily read in his eyes.

Athos shook himself, silently cursing for not having already checked. He placed a hand on Aramis' chest, relieved to feel a strong, rapid, heartbeat thumping within.

"His heart is beating."

They sighed in collective relief.

Porthos reached out, sliding a hand through his friend's thick curls. "His eyes…"

Porthos voice shook with the fear they all felt, and there was little need to elaborate as they all stared at the bright red blood leaking from the marksman's eyes.

D'Artagnan reached for Aramis' face, but Athos caught his arm, staying his movement.

"I think it best if we don't touch them," he advised. He pulled his scarf from around his neck and folded it, carefully placing the soft material over Aramis' eyes. Lifting the marksman's head gently, he wound it behind the unruly curls, tying it securely on the side. He winced as a clump of hair caught in the hasty knot, running his hand over the area in an attempt to comfort.

He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the alley. The explosion had originated at the far end near the back of the warehouse. There were remnants of blackened wood that had probably been gunpowder barrels still smoking, the narrow space littered with wood and debris from crates that had been stacked among the barrels. The man they had followed was long gone. Their quarry had obviously known the warehouse was under surveillance, leading them into a carefully constructed trap. The warehouse itself stood unharmed, the blast being meant to destroy what was in the alley alone.

A low groan brought Athos attention back to the man on the ground and he shifted, laying a hand on his arm, carefully securing the wounded hand to his chest.

"D'Artagnan, head back to the garrison. We'll need a wagon to transport him. Inform Treville of what has happened and have him send for a physician immediately."

D'Artagnan nodded and without a word took off at a sprint.

The explosion had given momentary birth to a fire that had been mostly extinguished by the heavy drizzle, and the smoke from the crates that still burned drifted through the alley, causing Porthos to cough roughly. Athos leaned across Aramis head, attempting to keep the drizzle from hitting the damaged skin of his friend's face. Belatedly, he noticed Porthos had done the same thing to keep Aramis' hands dry also. The marksman's heavy leathers had probably saved the bulk of his body from damage, although Athos had little doubt his back would be sporting some impressive bruising from where he'd landed on the unforgiving cobbles of the alley.

Remembering Porthos had also been caught in the explosion, he glanced toward the bigger man, noting the way he held his left arm against his torso.

"Are you hurt?"

Porthos' gaze didn't leave Aramis' slack face.

"Shoulder's out," he admitted in an unusual moment of candor. "But it'll keep till we get 'Mis seen to."

Athos nodded, knowing there would be little anyone could do to keep Porthos from Aramis' side until the man was back to his normal, garrulous self.

"He'll be all right," he said softly, unsure of which of them he was trying to convince.

tbc