"ATTACK!" Athos voice echoes over the battlefield, men start to run – swords and guns drawn. The Captain is in the first row, leading his men into the battle, into death. He never asked for being a Captain, for fighting at the front but this is just how life goes. Athos tries to shove away the memories of the last fights, about all the soldiers that had died under his command. He knows it's not his fault, that's just how war goes. Still, he feels guilty. The weight of many deaths laying on his shoulders. He is their captain, he is the one in command and the one responsible for them.

Athos fights his way through the opponents rows, taking more lifes than he can count. His eyes flicker over to d'Artagnan and Porthos very now and then, making sure at least these two will make it. He nearly drowns in guilt over the deaths of his soldiers, but he would surely die if one of his brothers would die by his side.

The battle is over too quick. Athos had no other choice than to order his men back to their camp, as the Spanish were outnumbering them. He is the last one on the battlefield. The last one breathing. The soldiers are already back in camp, letting their wounds being treated and resting as long as they can. The next fight will come and it won't be long till then. The Captain looks over the fallen ones. The bodies of Spanish and France mixed, only the color of their blood strained clothes is separating them somehow. But they all have something in common. They all died in a fight for more powerful men, to save their people and families. They all died at the same place. Athos kneels down to one of his fallen recruits. Thomas, he was at the musketeers regiment just for a few weeks as they were ordered to the front. He was a good boy, Athos remembers. Always smiling, a bit clumsy sometimes. He still lived with his mother, who was very ill. She would be alone now.

Athos closes the eyes of the fallen musketeer, feeling weak now as the adrenaline has left his veins. He stands up again, taking one last look over the fallen ones before returning to the camp. Thirty-four more souls that would be following him for a long time.

D'artagnan stares at the fire, as the young recruits beside him talk about the battle. "Thomas didn't come back," one of them says, his voice sick of sorrow. "He was shot right beside me," another one – Phillipe, if d'Artagnan remembers correctly – states.

The Gascon looks up from the flames to the faces of the recruits. They are not much younger than him, but he feels as if they were just children. None of them was long with the musketeers before war started. None of them has enough experience to go to war. None of them is ready to die. D'Artagnan isn't either. "He didn't die in vain. He died to save France, Paris, his family and us. He gave his life to save ours – always keep that in mind. Thomas died in a honorable way. I know that doesn't brings him back to life, but it can ease your grief. Think about the people he had saved, not about his loss."

D'Artagnan knows that the young soldiers would need time to understand this. They never experienced dead like this before. Still, he hopes that his words can bring some comfort to them. The Gascon stands up, clapping his hand and ripping the recruits out of their thoughts. "Come with me. We will tend to the horses and then build up some more tents. It's freezing cold tonight, no one should have to sleep outside."

They shouldn't be alone with their thoughts and grief, it would slowly tear them apart. No they need distraction and work was the best thing to do. D'Artagnan knows himself. After the death of his father, the work of the musketeers was what had saved him from drowning in sorrow and fury – and of curse his brothers took a great part in this too. He was sure that the young recruits would be there for each other, he already sees a bond forming a strong as the one from the inseparables. Hopefully death and war wouldn't separate them.

As the horses are fed and watered, the tents are build and fires lightened, the sun has already set. D'Artagnan is on his way to his friends, as a hand on his shoulder stops him. "D'Artagnan?" Philippe looks at the older soldier with big eyes, pain but also hope sparkle in them. "Thank you. For today. It's… We have never lived through something as cruel as this and we… we sometimes feel a bit lost between all this experienced soldiers and grown men, who are so desperate to fight and so fearless. Thank you for trying to comfort us." A small smile lies on the boys lips as he looks at the ground nervously.

D'Artagnans heart warm at the words. He nods slightly before turning around to go on his way again. A few feet away he looks back to Philippe one more time. "No one hear is fearless, don't ever think that."

Porthos lets out an frightening battle cry as he starts running towards the enemies, sword raised up high and desperation written on his face. One man after another dies by his sword, gun or hand. He makes his ways through the field, leaving a trail of bodies behind. No one who dares to hurt one of his companions shall live. And nearly no one has a chance to flee from Porthos enormous strength.
He would feel bad tonight, he knows. He always did. Killing someone – even when it's at war – is never easy. He remembers every face and every scream, the blood on his clothes never leaves fully. His hands feel dirty, even when he had washed them clean. But he has no other choice and he wouldn't choose different if he had. He does this not only for his country and the king, or his honor, but to defend his brothers and Elodie. And Marie Cessette. Everytime he starts thinking that what he does is wrong, he remembers them. He remembers Athos and d'Artagnan, who always count on him when they're in need, he remembers Aramis who could be slaughtered in the medical tent, Elodie and Marie who need him back in one piece.

Porthos just digs his blade into the chest of a Spaniard as he feels a burning pain in his side. The musketeer has now time to pull his sword out, so he turns around and faces his opponent with just his dagger. His guns were spent a long time ago. He feels the warmth of the blood soaking through his shirt, as he attacks the other man. Somehow Porthos manages to bring the Spaniard down, before he collapses himself.

Between the dead ones no one seems to care for another fallen soldier. In the heat of the moment no one notices that he's still alive. He knows he has to wait till the battle ends and the medics will find him – hopefully in time. He has to get home alive.

Aramis stays at the hill nervous as he watches how Athos orders his men to go back to the camp. He feels so useless, when he has to watch his brothers fight without him. His fingers tingle with the need of holding his sword or shooting his gun. But he can't. He has already fought in many battles, but not only soldiers died. In an ambush ten medics were killed, who were on their way to the French camp. In the desperate need of field medics, Athos has talked to Aramis, who was already helping to tend to the injured ones after the fights. He isn't allowed to fight as long as they need every available medic so desperately. The risk he could get injured himself, or even die, would be too great.

So, Aramis sits at the beds of the injured soldiers, tends to their wounds, prays for them and when he has time he watches the battles. He tries to count how many men are killed or wounded, already looks for survivors between the lifeless bodies to get to their aid as fast as possible.

Something in his heart shatters as he believes to see how Porthos is collapsing to the ground. His hawk-like eyes are sure, it's his brother that had fallen. The medic has to gather all his strength to not start running to him right in the moment. Dead he wouldn't be any use to them. His heartbeat fastens until he can finally run onto the field safely.

He is careful to not step onto the bodies beneath them as he runs straight towards Porthos. His eyes haven't lied to him. The field medic speaks comforting words as he bandages the wound as fast as possible and waves to the soldiers who are carrying the stretchers. Two young men hurry up to him, lay Porthos onto the stretcher before bringing him back to the tents. Aramis wants nothing more than to run after them, but he has to tend to the other injured men also.

The marksman goes over his work as fast as possible and returns to the camp, his hands and clothes blood covered, his heart full of fear and guilt. Two men have already died as he tried to save them. He wonders how many will follow tonight.

Fourty-nine, the number of men who have died, while being in his caring hands. He steps into the tent, scared of what he will see. The three other remaining medics were already running around, shouting orders and stitching men. Aramis goes over to the place where Porthos lays, moaning in pain and clasping is hands at the blood-soaked bandage.

"I'm here, mon Ami. Everything will be just fine. You will see." Aramis removes the dirty and improved bandage, before he starts to clean the gasping wound properly. If he is true to himself, he really doesn't know if Porthos can make it. He has already lost a lot of blood, dirt in the wound could curse an infection and moreover they were running out of medical supplies. No – Aramis shakes his head. He can't think about that. Porthos will live.

The medic tends to his friends wound with a steady hand, even though the rest of his body is shaking and his heart races. As he makes the last stitch, Porthos is already unconsciousness. As much as Aramis wants to stay at his friends side now, he has to care for the others too.

Lost in screams, pain and blood Aramis doesn't notice how Athos and d'Artagnan have entered the tent. They decide to live him alone and hurry over to Porthos, who was mumbling senseless words in his sleep.

Athos feels as if there is no air left for him, something in his chest clenches painfully. Not only one more man is injured under his command, but one of his brothers. The safety of them is his responsible and he wasn't careful enough. But what could he have done different? He can't save them all, but he feels like he has to.

D'Artagnan lays a comforting hand on his brothers shoulder, as he feels how Athos tenses up. "He will be alright. It's Porthos." "That's the problem. It's Porthos!" Athos looks at the Gascon, his face emotionless but his eyes show all the pain and guilt he is in. D'Artagnan squeezes slightly, not letting go of his brother. "It's not your fault, Athos. It's just the way war goes. No man can do anything against it."

Hours later, the medics are still running through the tent to treat all the wounded soldiers, Porthos moans in pain. Sweat drips down his face and Athos notices that the man is burning up. "Aramis!" D'Artagnan looks around just to find the medic hovered above another patient, concentrated as he stitches a ugly looking wound on his neck. The Gascon decides to disturb him not, as long as Porthos isn't getting any worth. Unfortunately, the injured man starts to struggle and gets paler with every minute. As he starts to vomit, Athos turns him on his side fast, to save him from choking.

"His stitches are open!" D'Artagnan say shocked, as he lifts Porthos shirt and reveals the blooding wound. "Aramis!" Athos turns around to see his brother again deep in his work. No, this couldn't wait any longer. Porthos still seemed not fully conscious as he tried to breath – the wound making it even more difficult.

The Captain hurrys over to Aramis, as he still doesn't react. "Aram-" "What?!" The medic snaps, without looking up from his patient. "I'm busy." He explains, surely not noticing who speaks to him.

"It's Porthos, he's bleeding again." Aramis shots up right away, looking at Athos in confusion for a moment. The Captain notices the tiredness in the medics eyes and wonders when he had his last break or full night of sleep. This would need to wait. "He is feverish and vomited."

Aramis nods and goes back to stitching his patient – now a bit faster than before. As he is ready he runs over to Porthos right away. "Merde." The medics allows himself a deep breath, as he strokes through his hair – making it as bloody as his hands.

"I need to stitch him up again. But the infection has already spread. If I don't give him something against it, he will just open the stitches again when he vomits." "Then do it, hurry!" D'artagnan looks at Porthos scared, as the large man falls unconscious again. The young soldier earns a sharp look from Aramis for the command. "Don't dare to speak to me like this. I'm working as fast as I can. But… we don't have enough medicaments left. We need to reserve them for men who are much worth than Porthos. I can stitch him up again… but without something against his infection he will probably just vomit again." The Gascon feels bad immediately as he notices the desperation and weakness in the marksman's voice. But now it's Athos who hisses at the medic. "Porthos isn't sick enough?! He will die if you don't do anything!"

Aramis looks at his brothers for a few seconds in silence, his face doesn't give any information about what's going on in his head. "Leave the tent, it's already full enough," he finally mutters and turns to his injured friend. D'Artagnan has already turned around, feeling guilty, but Athos stays at his place. "I think you forgot who you Captain is. You're in no place to give me commands and I will stay here with Porthos. And I will make sure he lives. Someone has to."

D'Artagnan notices how Aramis tenses up at the last words, but the medic doesn't answer anything. He just starts stitching, but the air in the tent just seems to get even thicker as the musketeers remain in silence.

Aramis once again disinfects the wound, bandages it and wipes the sweat from Porthos' body, before he wants to head toward his next patient. Athos' hand on his arms, makes him stop in motion. "He needs medicine, you said it yourself."

The medics turns around dangerous slow, his eyes wander from the still form of his injured brother over to d'Artagnan and stop at Athos face. He feels his heart twist, but he has made his decision already. As much as it's hurts, he can't let men die for the life of one. He has to treat everyone the same and after he had thought how he would behave if there would not lie Porthos but some stranger, he had made his decision. Aramis shakes his head. "His chances of surviving without medicine are high enough… I need it for others."

"Don't lie to me, Aramis! We both know how bad injured Porthos is and that he is too weak to survive this infection! You kill him if you don't give him anything!"

"Athos," D'Artagnan reaches for his Captain, but his hand is slapped away. The Gascon can understand Athos grief, but still it's wrong to let it out on Aramis. D'Artagnan is sure the medic does everything in his power to make Porthos survive, but even Aramis ability has it's ends.

"I'm your Captain and I want you to give him the medicine, that's a command!"

Aramis falls silent once again, anger sparkles up in his eyes. It was already hard enough to make this decision, he doesn't need Athos to question it. And as much as he wants to follow the order, he can't.

"Then you will have to court-martial me, Captain. I won't follow your order and no other medic here will do it either."

Athos glares at Aramis with fury. His brother knows that he would never court-martial him. But how could he let Porthos die? Aramis just needs to save him from the death Athos commanded him to.

D'Artagnan follows the Captain out of the tent. "He can't let him die! He can't!" Athos lets out a frustrated scream, before his sits down by the fire. The Gascon takes the place right beside him. Even though Athos won't talk anymore about what's going on in his mind, d'Artagnan knows that he needs someone with him in these times. The young musketeers can imagine how hard it has to be a Captain, while war kills your men merciless. He knows that even a Captain is powerless in war. When the king says fight, they all will fight. And when he says die, they will. 'Cause they're soldiers. Then the Captain is there to take the responsibility for the deaths. He is the one who informs the families and makes sure everyone is properly buried.

Aramis feels how strength leaves his body as he watches his friends leave. He wishes for nothing more than to help Porthos properly, but he can't just medicine out of thin air. He feels how his body longs for rest, just a few hours of sleep, a bit of water and bread. But he has to deny it, as pained screams still fill the thick air of the tent. It will be another restless night for the four medics.

Aramis looks after Porthos every second he can. The colossus seems to get weaker with every hour that pass, his skin gets hotter and paler. "I'm sorry I can't help you, mon Ami. I fear you'll have to fight this fight alone. But you're strong, aren't you?"

…

The soldiers already had breakfast, as d'Artagnan and Athos visit their injured brother again. They're surprised to see four full plates on the table by the door, one slice of bread is half eaten, the rest of the food untouched. The water skins that were brought to the tents in the night, were nearly full as well. Three beds are covered with blankets, hiding lifeless bodies beneath them. Athos starts to search for Porthos in panic but is relieved as he finds him within seconds. He seems to be awake.

"How are you?" D'Artagnan takes Porthos hand, noticing how hot it still is. The injured musketeers smiles slightly. "Have been better. I'm making Aramis a lot of work. Have opened my stitches two times this night."

"You're making me not any kind of work," Aramis cleans his hand in a towel as he walks over to his brothers, his eyes avoiding Athos masterly. "Moreover I love seeing you squirm and curse just because of a small needle." The cheeky smile he places on his lips isn't more than a mask. Porthos, in his weakened state, is the only one who doesn't look behind it and doesn't see the exhausted face behind it.

Athos thinks about apologizing, but decides that this would need to wait. There were men dying, there is no time for personal conflicts now. "I need your report."

Aramis nods slightly. He looks around if he has to help anyone, but it seems calm for the moment so he heads over to the table by the door. A sigh of relief leaves his lips, as he finally sits down and gives his legs some rest. "When have you all had a proper rest?" Athos asks as he takes the chair on the opposite side of the table.

"We're fine," Aramis shrugs off. He takes a few sips from a water skin. Once again he looks around the tent, fearing anything could happen to his patients. "Report," he remembers himself. "Three died this night. Dubois, Durand and Simon. Good men. Uhm…" Aramis thinks about what else he has to report, still eying his patients. "Eight still critically. Robert, Petit, Mercier, Girard, Morel, Roux, Vincent and Porthos." He doesn't even flinch as he goes through the list of names, as if Porthos is just another name on it. He needs to stay professional. But Athos gulps, his eyes wandering over to Porthos who is talking with d'Artagnan at the moment.

"Five can back to light duty, today. Four others can be send home, as they won't be able to fight anymore." Athos snaps from his thoughts, as Aramis voice reminds him of the situation. "What happened to them?" The captain asks curious, as he couldn't visit the wounded as much as he wanted in the past weeks.

"Amputated legs, hands… one lost the ability to walk and poor Fabre isn't himself anymore." The medics gaze stops at the bed with so called man in it. "He will need help… with everything. Has even forgotten how to eat, after the blow to his head."

Athos sighs as he stands up. All these innocent men… "You all should rest. I will send some men who can look after the patients for you." Aramis nods slightly. He won't be able to rest properly but is thankful that Athos gives them the chance at least.

"Before you leave," Aramis lifts from his chair, "we need new medical supplies. Fast. We are useless without them. Not only medicine is rare, but also bandages and alcohol is going out."

"I will send letters to Paris. We will have new supplies in a few days."

I fear, they won't make it through a few days, mon Ami.