Disclaimer: I do not own anything. All rights belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC.

Warnings: I know this is rated T, but I'm giving out several warnings. This is a pre-series war story. It's going to be violent, cruel, bloody and everything else you'd expect from stories of this kind, with plenty of adventure, action, some drama and overall h/c. But I promise some friendship/brotherly moments throughout the story, so don't worry. Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all included. Beforehand, I'd like to state that updates may be irregularly. I'm still writing this story, it isn't finished yet. So every now and again, updates may/will be delayed. I've been working for about a year so far.
Special Thanks to Mountain Cat for proof-reading this for me, and helping me out with all of the different problems that occured. This work is definitely a co-production.

Enjoy.

I. Prologue

Oh gather 'round me, and listen while I speak
of a war, where hell is six feet deep
And all along the shore, where cannons still roar
They're haunting my dreams, they're still there when I sleep
-'To Hell and Back' by Sabaton

There had been times when he had hated the screams echoing through the fortress, there had been times when he would have given anything to calm the atmosphere, to drown out all of the noises. But the silence now was oppressive, and it burned itself deep into his heart and soul, tearing every nerve he had left.

He was standing at a wooden table, his hands on the desk, his face hidden by the curtain of sweaty hair. His knees were trembling, and his whole body shaking with exhaustion. A small trail of blood ran down his left arm and stained the dark wood of the table red.

For a while he wasn't able to notice anything but his own, unsteady breathing, as well as the blood pounding in his ears. He wasn't even able to name all the emotions crowding in upon him.

There was exhaustion, weariness and worry, but there was also anger, disappointment and fear. But despite all, and despite his dire situation, there was still a spark of hope in his heart, filled with the desire to fight, filled with confidence in his brothers.

"Athos?"

He looked up into the eyes of Mathis, a musketeer, standing in the entrance of the little tent. The soldier met Athos' look with an expression of worry on his face, his chin held high.

"What is it?" Athos' voice sounded very distant in his own ears.

"The evening patrol reports some suspicious movement west of here."

Athos released a stuttering breath and nodded.

"Any news from Aramis?" he asked, but Mathis just shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, his lips pressed together tightly.

"Porthos and the others?" Athos dug deeper, desperately searching for any kind of reassurance.

"Holdin' on," Mathis reported briefly, but his tone told Athos that there was not much left to say. The truth about the past weeks, and the truth about their whole situation, hung in the air, unspoken and threatening.

Athos slowly reached for the quill to his right as he made a decision.

"What are you going to do?" Mathis asked with a spark of curiosity.

Athos swallowed hard, before he grabbed a piece of paper and started writing with his shaking hand.

"I'm going to write to the Captain. One last time."

The Garrison, Paris, Late September 1627

Through a crowded alley, a few riders made their way through the people, carefully steering their horses towards the garrison of the King's musketeers. The hooves clattered over the cobblestone, and drowned out most of the conversations on the street.

One of the riders spurred his horse to a faster pace and caught up with the leader of the group. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and his whole body was tense.

"Captain, wait," he addressed his superior, and the leader, Captain Tréville, leaned over to his soldier.

"What is it, Ecale?"

"Something's going on there...," Ecale pointed towards the musketeer garrison. Loud voices and the sound of shattering glass could be heard from behind the giant gate.

The musketeer's worry was mirrored on the Captain's face, and without wasting more time, he dug his heels into his horse's flanks and rode towards the gate, which two other guards hurried to open very quickly.

The scene that greeted Treville was a little grotesque, but nothing he hadn't witnessed before. The table, which Serge had purchased only a couple of months ago, was shattered, and there were weapons, pistols and rapiers, scattered all over the courtyard.

In the middle, Tréville could see the source of the turmoil and he dismounted quickly before he joined the men assembled there.

"Gérard, what's going on?" he demanded, his cold voice cutting through the scene like iron. Musketeer Gerard and two of his comrades were busy pinning a man to the ground. The victim was yelling and throwing punches in all directions, and the three men had a hard time keeping him under control.

"Gérard!" Tréville repeated sharply, and the musketeer finally looked up. He threw a questioning look towards his brothers, but once they assured him they had things under control he straightened up and faced his Captain.

"We arrested this man a short distance south of Paris," Gérard reported through clenched teeth as he threw a hateful glance at their prisoner.

"Then why is he here and not behind bars?" Tréville asked indifferently and raised an eyebrow. "What did you arrest him for?"

Gérard swallowed. "At first, he was the main suspect in the smuggling of stolen wares up north to the Spanish Netherlands. We wanted to make him talk, he acted very strange and then..." Gérard sighed and reached inside his jacket with one hand. He pulled out a handful of letters, dusty, creased papers stained with dirt and blood. "Then we found these, Sir. He had a whole lot of them. All sealed, and all of them addressed to you."

Tréville managed to hide his surprise and shock behind his Captain's mask, and he took the letters without hesitation.

"Where do they come from?" His own voice sounded very distant. He turned towards the struggling prisoner. "How long did you...?" He wanted to make a step forward, but Gérard held him back and raised a placating hand.

"La Rochelle and Ile-de-Ré mostly," he answered. "And those letters should have been delivered to you weeks ago. Whoever this man is, or whoever he works for, they wanted to make sure that the information in those letters never reached you."

Tréville blinked at the musketeer for a moment, and tried to get his anger back under control. Then, he turned on his heel, turning his back to the prisoner, before he grasped one of the letters in his hands and unfolded it.

He was greeted with the words he had been awaiting for months, and he recognized the handwriting of Athos.

Captain,

The Commander ordered us to set up a camp on the other side of the island, with the intention of forcing Buckingham to stop the siege. Little did I know that we would end up being the main target. At the moment, we're fighting back, but if they continue to attack us at this rate, I'm not sure how long we can hold on without reinforcements.

Tréville frowned. He had waited weeks to receive the reports he had asked from Athos. He hadn't heard anything since the musketeers were forced to retreat to the Ile-de-Ré, and somewhere deep inside, he had thought that there was an unpleasant reason for that. He quickly unfolded more of those letters, very well aware of the musketeers in the courtyard that continued to stare at him. His eyes flew over the papers, and every now and again, a fragment of a sentence burned itself into his mind. Most of the times, it was Athos' or Aramis' neat and cursive handwriting, but every now and again, he also recognized Porthos' crookedly written words.

...they call him the butcher of La Rochelle...

...buildings were under attack...

...there's no way to get through to the citadel...

...we had to cut the rations, and nobody's happy about it...

...I don't know how much longer we can give you these reports. I mean no offense, but there are different things that require my attention at the moment...

...the General is ignorant to think his plan will work. He doesn't listen to us, and it may cost us more than our pride...

...we lost good men today, and we are still trying to save others. Right now, we are the only thing standing between the enemy and the civilians...

"Who?" Tréville's voice was nothing but a growl, and without hesitation, he locked his hand around the prisoner's throat. "Who paid you to make sure I received none of these letters?"

The man's grey eyes stared at Tréville, and his mouth formed a disgusting smile. "It's war," he rasped. "And I chose to be on the winning side."

"Search him," Tréville ordered, and Ecale just nodded briefly before roughly searching the brown coat the stranger wore.

"Well...," Ecale exclaimed and the sound of metal clanking against metal assured the Captain that the musketeers had found this man's payment. Ecale opened a little leather bag and took two of the coins between his fingers.

"English," he stated, without having to look twice. His worried eyes found Tréville. "He's working for..."

"...Buckingham," Tréville finished and let go of the stranger's throat. "Get him into the Bastille."

"The Bastille?" the man echoed, and suddenly, a flash of fear crossed his face. "No, Captain, you can't do that. It's just a few letters. I didn't..."

"You stand accused of treason, and you stand accused of murder. You can consider yourself lucky if the King decides that you get a lifelong stay in the Bastille rather than a date with the official executioner."

"Murder?" the prisoner repeated, his voice shaky. "I didn't murder anyone, I swear." He almost seemed to beg for forgiveness..

The Captain just glared at him, and raised the hand holding the letters.

"Do you have any idea how many men paid with their lives because those letters didn't reach me in time?"

The man started throwing random punches in an attempt to break free, but three musketeers had him surrounded at once and arrested him.

Tréville turned away from the still struggling prisoner, and started unfolding the last one of the letters, the only one that apparently hadn't been sealed properly.

He noticed the ragged handwriting, and the blood spots in the corners of the paper. This had been written in haste and under some duress. While the screams of the man the musketeers had arrested echoed through the garrison's courtyard, Treville took a deep breath and let his eyes soak in every word he could decipher.

The musketeer company is completely isolated. Buckingham himself ambushed us yesterday, and the location or fate of many of our men is uncertain. As far as we know, Commander Décart has been able to force Buckingham's troops onto the defensive for now. The siege is still going on.

We are still on our own, and we're running out of supplies. The English have us surrounded, and they are besieging our fortress. Half of our men are missing or dead, the other half are injured, or too weak to put up much of a fight.

If we don't get some sort of help soon, I fear that this might be the musketeers' last stand.

Athos

Treville's eyes were wide open with horror, and he was very well aware of the dozens of eyes that were focused on him. The Captain gulped and he suddenly looked up, facing his men.

"Gérard, assemble four companies of les Gardes francaises. If there are any problems, I will talk to Richelieu. Ecale, send immediate word to the troops near la Rochelle. They are to send as many supplies and reinforcements as possible over to Ré Island."

"Captain..." Gérard tried, but Treville cut him off.

"Now!"

The musketeers nodded and hurried to get their tasks done. Treville remained in the center of the garrison's courtyard, the last letter still between the fingers of his shaking hand.

His eyes found the top of the letter, and they locked onto the date. The date this letter had been written, the date where his men had urgently asked for help.

It was five days ago.

Important: The siege of Ile de Ré in 1627 serves as historical background. However, I changed most of the historical names (except Buckingham) and a lot of other stuff that probably did not happen that way during the siege.