"Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do." - H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

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Aramis freezes.

Everything that revolves around him moves in slow motion as if time itself is coming to a halt. A grey vignette emerges from the corners of his vision, pushing the focus on his brother in the distance. The clang of steel on steel and the sounds of muskets going off melt away from the world, leaving nothing but the accentuating cry of agony from Porthos.

His face construes into one of horror as he watches his brother topple limply to the ground, unmoving. Being fueled purely by desperation, he charges; his sword moves on its own accord as if it had a mind of its own, slashing and parrying through the group of dissidents who get in his way, desperate to reach the large musketeer.

His heart lodges into his throat at the sight before him after clearing out his path of enemies. Porthos is on his knees, held up by a big man behind him with a musket pointed to his head. The man is tall, dressed in black with a bandana covering his lower face along with a tilted cavalier hat that masks his eyes. Accompanying him are two of his comrades, stationed out front on either sides of him like bodyguards -  both with pistols aimed at Aramis and his brothers who have now joined him by his side.

"Drop your weapons or I will shoot this musketeer where he kneels," the leader commands.

Aramis furrows his brows in anger and worry, causing wrinkles to appear on his forehead. His shoulders tense as his fingers clench tightly around the rapier's handle, the colour of his knuckles matching that of the snow. The pounding in his heart is rapid and fierce, the vibration reverberating through his whole body.

Aramis' frustration on the ordeal immediately clouds his mind, but it isn't until he registers the sight of Porthos' state that he almost loses all control of his emotions.

Porthos is leaning heavily, favouring his right side due to the musket ball embedded in his left thigh where crimson blood slowly soaks through his breeches. The only support preventing him from falling over is the man's firm grip in his hair. A trail of blood trickles down the side of his face from a small gash above his right brow, painting the snow with drops of red. He gasps to get air into his lungs, evident from the large frozen puffs that escape his lips. A field of anguish is plastered across his face, the wound taking its toll with waves of constant pain shooting through his body. Despite the distress, he manages to keep a steady gaze upon them through glassy eyes.

White hot rage disperses through Aramis like venom. His eyes become a crosshair, targeting the enemy and ready to eliminate the man in a flash. His body aches with desperation to take action, the building mixture of frustration and anger itching to burst out all at once. He can't just stand by and watch the dissident treat Porthos like a puppet, using him to manipulate them to conform to his every demand.

As he's ready to throw himself at the man, a gentle whisper from Athos saying 'don't' stops him from continuing forth. He glances angrily at the lieutenant who's giving him a warning glare, clearly knowing what he intends on doing.

He can't help it. His emotions are already out of control and they're commanding his body to do something. Anything.

Athos scowls quietly, urging him to hold back for now. Aramis' course of action is usually contrary to what Athos tells him to do, but a constant nagging thought that has managed to break its way through his emotions told the marksman to obey his lieutenant for once. The strength it takes for him to restrain himself is beyond difficult as he forces his eager legs to plant themselves firmly on the ground so they don't burst into a full sprint at the man. He closes his eyes briefly and sucks in a deep breath, barely managing to suppress the fury that threatens to escape.

D'Artagnan stares daggers at the enemies, teeth bared into a vicious snarl while clutching his grazed left arm. Athos' expression is blank, but behind that neutral mask is a layer laced with concern and fear. This may have been indecipherable to anyone else, but not to Aramis or his brothers.

The older musketeer straightens his posture and speaks in a strong, calm voice.

"Sir, put the gun down. I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers. Let's talk about this like gentlemen."

The dissident pulls his bandana down from over top his face and scoffs, almost breaking into a laugh. "There's nothing to discuss. I suggest you all be good little musketeers and cooperate if you don't want to see me blow your friend's brains out," the man prompts, his mouth curling into one of mischief. "Now drop your weapons or I won't hesitate to fire." He jerks his chin towards the musketeers.

Initially, none of them move a muscle. The three musketeers exchange glances, their faces grim knowing that they must comply, having been cornered into an impasse. Aramis' bites on his bottom lip so hard that it nearly bleeds. He's trying his best to keep his body chained from making any impulsive movement yet he can't stand to render himself unarmed.

All they can do is stall time as much as possible until they can find an opportunity. With no other choice, Athos and D'Artagnan start unfurling their fingers from their sword as Aramis grips his tighter.

The bandit snarls at the slow response to his demands. "I'm not a patient man. Drop your weapons or I will shoot," digging the pistol deeper into Porthos' skull.

Athos mutters Aramis' name, having noticed the tightening of his fingers around the handle.

The marksman keeps his gaze fixed on the lead man in front, contemplating in what way he should kill the man once he gets his hands on him. The clouded emotions cease to disperse and continue to remain untamed, but his heart tugs at the hint of rationality left in him to consider the consequences of an abrupt outburst. A reckless attempt will cost Porthos his life and Aramis wouldn't be able to live another day knowing his thoughtless actions caused that outcome. If there is any way to save Porthos, they must wait for or create an opportunity that won't cause him any harm.

Aramis loosens his grip - with forcible reluctance - and thrusts the sword onto the snow along with Athos and D'Artagnan as a signal of surrender.

A smirk climbs its way onto the bandit's face as he nods in delight. "Good, good. It seems you're capable of listening to instructions. Now slowly drop the muskets," he pauses and glares at them sternly. "And no funny business."

"This isn't the way to go about it. Let our friend go," D'Artagnan prompts with a vicious scowl.

"I will give you five seconds to drop your pistols," the leader commands while pushing the barrel of his musket even harder against Porthos' head.

Aramis bites his tongue to keep down an insult from escaping his lips. They slowly reach for their pistols, making sure not to make any sudden movements that would give the man a reason to shoot.

Lifting the firearm so it's pointed upwards, their fingers slowly start uncurling from the weapon, but not intending on dropping it yet.

The marksman's eyes skim his surroundings, trying to see if there is any probability of gaining the upper hand. With nothing but trees within their surroundings, he curses under his breath at the lack of leverage.

"Five."

Aramis' eyes land on Porthos when he catches him staring at them with an odd, coaxing intensity through his weary eyes. The gaze confuses him and he studies it inquisitively for its meaning. Porthos must have seen his examination because that's when he catches the brief glance his brother shoots towards his own right boot. Porthos' hand can be seen slowly inching towards it.

The medic shares a worried glance with Athos and D'Artagnan who have also noticed, all having the same concerned thought in mind as they know exactly what Porthos plans on doing. 

Aramis wants to shout 'no' at Porthos, for the intended act is a very dangerous and risky one. So much is at stake and the chances of accomplishment are slim to none. Without precise timing, there is no way this will succeed. It's clear that Athos believes the same as wrinkles appear from the corner of his eyes and on his forehead. Aramis disagrees with Porthos' plan to a great extent. The given opportunity he's providing is something the medic cannot bare to see if it fails. But this is their only chance as there may not be another. Despite the meager odds, there is always a sliver of hope. To utilize that hope, they must prepare themselves if they are to make this work.

Athos lowers his chin as a return signal to Porthos that they understand his intentions while Aramis whispers a prayer to God for Him to be on their side as the man continues to count.

"Four."

Oh, glorious Almighty God

Please assist us,

in this time of great devastation

and fulfill this mere opportunity

that has been presented.

I implore thee,

not to take our Porthos away.

For this, I promise thee,

I will forever be in thy debt

and I will never cease

to honour thy glory.

Amen.

"Three"

"Don't do this... Have you no honour?" Athos exclaims, trying to keep the man's attention directed at him.

Aramis glances at Porthos subtly and sees his hand has already climbed into his boot and is re-emerging from the brim with his fingers wrapped around the pommel. His movements are sluggish, the injury clearly affecting him greatly as he grits his teeth to prevent making any noise that will attract attention.

Under the brim of the dissident's hat a large grin can be seen spreading across his face, showing how he thoroughly enjoys the sight of desperation and begging that comes from the soldiers. "You think I care about your code of honour? I do what is necessary," he scoffs before continuing on with the countdown.

"Two."

"This is necessary?! Cold blooded murder?" Athos yells, his mask of neutrality slips away, letting the fear and desperation escape.

Porthos has re-adjusted his fingers from the pommel to the handle, grasping it tightly between his palm as the dagger slides further out of the boot, exposing the cross guard and half of the blade.

Aramis prepares himself mentally, trying to push his emotions down long enough that it won't disrupt his concentration for what's to come. He takes a deep breath to calm his pounding heart as this move will make the difference between life and death.

"One."

The timer is coming to an end and Aramis' stomach drops when Porthos halts his withdrawal of the dagger.

Porthos can't go on any further. The plan isn't going to work, Aramis thought.

The marksman can't take it anymore. He can't watch his brother die in front of him like this. He has to do something. Now.

Preparing to whip his musket at the bandit's head, Porthos slowly lifts his head and glares at them, causing him to stop his impulse. His eyes are dull and large puffs of smoke emerges from his mouth, gasping for air as he fights for concentration. Porthos' lips curl into a slight smile and nods.

"Time's up."

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Everything happens so quickly.

One second he's up.

And the next he's down.