For those of you just joining us: you shouldn't need to read The Road to War to understand what's going on, but the events of the last chapter are addressed in this first chapter. If you don't want to read the last chapter/the first installment, that's fine, just know this is set six or seven months after the events of season two, they faked Porthos' death, and now Aramis and Porthos are on their way to be spies in Spain. Also, Aramis' horse's name is Gelos.

Aramis' horse side stepped several paces before stilling for a moment. Porthos observed horse and rider even as he ran a soothing hand over the neck of his own mount.

"Aramis," Porthos breathed. His companion failed to react to his name; instead he removed his hat and ran an ungloved hand through his hair.

"Aramis," Porthos called.

Aramis' head jerked toward his friend, his right hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Gelos skittered away once more and tossed his head.

"Easy, mate," Porthos cautioned and looked pointedly at Gelos unsettled stance.

Aramis followed Porthos' eyes and realized how his own tension upset his horse. Dropping his reins, he audibly took two deep breaths and focused on relaxing his twitching muscles. The lessening of tension in his legs especially helped to ease Gelos back to a more settled state. Only when he felt he and his mount had regained their usual calm did he reclaim the reins with light hands and looked to Porthos.

"We're nearly to the border," mumbled Aramis as he passed by Porthos and led the way.

Porthos shook his head and followed after.

The day wore on in various hues of grey. There were fleeting moments when the clouds thinned enough to reveal the pale sphere of the sun, but those seconds of light became rarer and rarer as morning turned to afternoon. After they crossed into Spain, the humid air grew ever more thick and heavy until the sky could bear the weight no longer. Fat drops of rain fell to the earth, filling the countryside with its pitter-pattering but doing little to lessen the heat. Swirls of mist billowed up around them until it, taken together with the onset of darkness, made traveling far more dangerous than further progress was worth.

They came across a rocky overhang which faced away from the storm and was miraculously large enough to provide shelter for their horses as well. Porthos and Aramis dismounted, and, stiff and wet, they set up camp.

At last they settled around a crackling fire, wet clothes set out to dry and meager dinner in hand. Although neither of them spoke, the atmosphere was far from silent. The fire spat and cracked, and now and then the wood would hiss and collapse as it burned. The horses carried on their own conversation while drying off and seeking out their meal. All of this was quiet in comparison to the gentle roar of the rain bouncing off of leaves, branches, and rocks.

However this symphony of nature was as silence to Porthos in the absence of Aramis' customary chatter. The marksman sat against the back of their shelter idly prodding the burning branches. His eyes glowed in the firelight, but gone was their customary mischievous glint, the sparkle of mirth. Porthos was confident he could wait Aramis out, yet between the rain, the mission, and Aramis' tension, he found he was in no mood to do so.

"Is this how we'll be spending the whole trip?" he asked without preamble.

"It's not a trip; it's a mission," grumbled Aramis.

"Still."

Aramis looked away from the flames but failed to meet Porthos' gaze.

"Aramis, if I were injured but wouldn't let you help me, how would you feel?"

"Betrayed, like you don't trust me." Aramis finally managed to make eye-contact, and he was held there by the seriousness in Porthos' eyes. "I'm not injured, Porthos."

"Maybe not your flesh and bones, but you can't convince me you're fine. Before now you've not said more than ten words to me today. I'm not blind, Aramis; you've been actin' like this since we started south. Aramis…" Porthos eyes' darted back and forth across the ground as he sought whatever words might sway his friend. "You are my brother. Let me help you if I can."

Aramis rose and crossed to the edge of the overhang. Where he stood, the mist of scattered rain drops drifter over him.

Porthos only moved to breathe. He'd said what he could, and now he was prepared to wait.

Aramis trudged to and fro along the shelter's fringe, left hand landing on his hip and the right carding restlessly through his hair made frizzy by the humidity. After several minutes of this, he turned toward Porthos and took a step away from the rain. His hand ceased its roving in his hair and settled on the back of his neck.

"Do you remember when I laughed at you for being upset at Athos' burial?"

Porthos dipped his head and leaned forward to better hear is friend's whispered words. "I'm not dead, Aramis," Porthos reminded him, tone soft and gentle.

"Clearly." He settled across the fire from Porthos. Lowering his head into his hands, he rubbed around his eyes and brow and the fatigue gathered there. "But you certainly looked it."

"So did Athos."

"Yes, but we had purpose then, and each other. We had a part to play. This time I spent nearly half a day riding to Spain with you loaded on your horse like a corpse." Aramis sighed and lifted his head. "I've faced my own mortality more times than I can count, but rarely am I forced to acknowledge that you are anything less than invincible. And on those occasions when I am, I have never been alone. There's always been Tréville or Athos, someone, but not this time. It sounds childish, but…"

Aramis fell quiet, and Porthos did not say a word as he considered what he'd heard. Thunder rolled around them; sporadic lightning drenched the world in flashes of pale light.

"It's not childish," Porthos stated. "It's not childish to need people. It's not cowardly or weak. How do you think I felt when you were pushed out of a third story window? Or when Athos told me Rochefort threw you in prison and made you a date with the executioner: Brotherhood comes with a price, Aramis." Porthos moved around the fire to sit beside the marksman. "You know, I'd be concerned if you weren't affected by all of this. We're soldiers, and we may put on a brave face, but we're still human."

Peaceful silence descended between them even as they sat watching and listening to the storm.

◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊

Athos jolted awake and, throwing is blanket back, stood and distanced himself from his bed roll, as though he could physically distance himself from his nightmare. In it he'd seen Porthos lying bloodied and deathly still in the street, and Aramis' terror echoed in his mind.

He reached for a bottle of wine hoping to dull the sights and sounds of that day. Being Captain, he couldn't attempt drinking it all away the he wanted to, but he'd settled for easing the rush of emotion that haunted him.

When he set the bottle down, his hand drifted to the scarf around his neck, a gift from Porthos delivered by Aramis. His thoughts had been, at least in part, on his brothers since the moment of their departure. Aramis had told him he'd send word as soon as he was able, but reality told him that could be months in the future. Nevertheless Athos tore through every delivery of mail in search of news from Aramis and Porthos.

Deciding to make use of his time awake, Athos donned his coat, cloak, and hat before journeying out in the rain to check on d'Artagnan and the rest of the camp.

He found d'Artagnan having as much trouble sleeping as himself, so the Gascon rose, dressed, and joined Athos on his walk.

They didn't have to speak to know their thoughts were in the same place. Instead each drew strength from the presence of the other until they were too tired to keep their eyes open a moment longer.

As Athos laid down with eyes already closed, he hoped once more that his brothers were as safe as they could be with their luck and in Spanish territory.