"Do you see it?" Aramis asked, from where he stood leaning against the tree, staring up to where D'Artagnan stood in the upper branches. They had left Paris early that morning, along with Athos and Porthos, on a mission to deliver a missive to the Clergy in the village of Pere. Only Athos had gotten them lost, although he continued to vehemently deny the fact.
"I see it," D'Artagnan replied, pointing East. "Maybe a two hour ride. We should easily reach it before nightfall." His latter comment was meant for Athos, to further tease the older man. They had all been rather relentless since Athos seldom gave them reason to torment him.
Porthos chuckled and patted the tree. "Come down then, D'Artagnan. Best we leave now, just in case we get lost again." He ignorned the scowl Athos directed at him and started to head for his horse. In that moment they all heard the snap of a branch underfoot and instinct kicked in as a half a dozen men appeared and attacked the Musketeers. They glided out of the shadows of the forest, armed and focused.
"Look out!" Aramis shouted, as he turned to slash at an attacker.
"Athos!" D'Artagnan shouted from his perch, even as he hurled his dagger into the back of a man who was about to blow the Musketeers head off. He followed up that action by leaping from the tree branch he was perched on, onto the back of the huge man who had Porthos in a choke hold. A man at least twice Porthos' size.
Which was just the opening Porthos needed. In that split second that the giant eased his grip, Porthos broke free. He couldn't resist punching the bigger man, even though it felt like hitting a rock. It satisfied him to see the giant stumble, D'Artagnan still clinging tenaciously to his back. His next move was to finish him off though, seeing as how the brute was about to try and stab the youngest Musketeer in the thigh.
Porthos kicked the giant in the crotch, grabbed the dagger from the beefy hand, then stabbed it into the massive chest, straight into the heart. He grinned as he watched him lurch about for a moment before toppling over dead. The only problem being he twisted as he fell, landing on his back. Which meant he landed half on D'Artagnan, who didn't get the chance to detangle himself first.
A grunt was the only sound D'Artagnan made as he hit the ground with the giant heaped over him.
"D'Artagnan!" Porthos shouted, catching the attention of the other Musketeers. They had disposed of their adversaries, leaving the bodies littered about, as they ran to the young Muskateer's side.
"Get him off," D'Artagnan pleaded, pushing at the giant with his one free arm in an attempt to roll him aside. His efforts did nothing. The giant didn't even budge.
In fact it took the effort of Porthos, Athos and Aramis combined to heave the big man off of D'Artagnan. Then the trio hovered around their youngest, eyes filled with worry.
Porthos was the first to move, reaching out to help D'Artagnan sit up. "Are you all right?" he asked, not liking how pale the young Musketeer looked.
"Been better," D'Artagnan allowed, wincing as he shifted in an attempt to gain his feet. He couldn't swallow back a groan as he hunched forward, an arm curled over his ribs.
"What hurts?" Aramis asked, pushing Porthos aside so he could kneel next to D'Artagnan. His skilled hands moved cautiously over the younger man's shoulder and side.
"D'Artagnan whimpered with every touch. "Please don't," he begged, trying to move away from the roving hands. "I feel rather like a horse fell on me."
Athos chuckled, eyes glancing over to the fallen giant. "He is about the size of a horse," he allowed, hoping that his words would offer a distraction. He did get a slight smile from D'Artagnan.
Aramis, on the other hand, was not amused. "Porthos, let D'Artagnan rest against you so I can check his ribs and arm."
"Right." Porthos jumped to do as bid, only for D'Artagnan to shoo him away with his good hand. Which Porthos gently captured, before carefully moving the young Musketeer into position. He ignored D'Artagnan's glare and stated the obvious. "You know it's best to just do as you're told." They both knew Aramis would get his way in the end.
"I need to open your jacket and lift your shirt," Aramis explained, as he went about his task. He whistled sharply as he revealed D'Artagnan's ribs to his gaze.
Athos leaned in. "Looks swollen," he commented.
Aramis nodded. "Hopefully they're not broken."
"They're not," D'Artagnan stated firmly, before hissing in pain as Aramis' prodded his side. "Stop that!" He slapped the hand away.
"Not broken," Aramis confirmed, giving D'Artagnan an apologetic look. "Sorry, I needed to be sure."
D'Artagnan had to take a moment to regain his breath before glaring at the man and replying, "So my word is not good enough for you? I've had broken ribs before."
Porthos looked intrigued. "Do tell. When was that?"
"When I was fifteen," D'Artagnan replied, trying to shift away as Aramis reached for his shoulder.
"So last year?" Athos drawled, straight-faced.
Which made D'Artangan pout at him. "Very funny. I really wish the lot of you would stop treating me like a child."
Porthos ruffled his hair. "Maybe you should stop acting like one," he countered, chuckling the young Musketeer smacked his hand away. But his smile faded when D'Artagnan choked on a cry of pain. "Easy there," he whispered, trying to shift the boy so he could support him more comfortably as he rode out the waves of agony.
"We need to get him back to the Garrison." Aramis rose to his feet, worry etched on his face.
"It's going to be painful," Athos commented.
D'Artagnan heard them and found himself irritated. "I can handle it!" he snapped at them. "I'm not made of glass, you know."
Athos patted him on the shoulder. "We know, we're just worried about you."
"It's my fault," Porthos spoke up, looking miserable. "I should have been more careful when I took that brute down. I wasn't thinking."
"It's not your fault." Grunting with the effort, D'Artagnan managed to lurch to his feet before anyone could stop him. He locked eyes with Porthos. "Don't blame yourself. What happened was an accident, plain and simple. " He turned a slow and careful circle, gazing at the dead bodies littered about. "Any idea who they are or why they attacked us?"
Athos shook his head. "I've never seen any of them before."
Aramis nodded in agreement. "Neither have I."
"Maybe they were sent to keep us from completing our mission?" D'Artagnan threw out there. The others looked rather impressed by his observation, which served his purpose well. He wanted to distract them from fussing over him. "I think we should continue on to the Abby and deliver our missive. Maybe Father Clemont will know of them."
"Good plan," Athos conceded. "Are you certain you're able to ride?"
D'Artagnan nodded. He was hurting and he knew he couldn't hide that fact, but he also knew he could tough it out. "It's closer to the Abbey than to Paris. After we deliver the missive I can rest a bit before we head back home."
Aramis looked pleased. "Good plan," he allowed. "Let me help you mount up." The sooner D'Artagnan could lay down and truly rest, the better he would feel.
"I'll help him," Porthos countered, elbowing Aramis out of the way. Which, of course, turned into an impromptu competition where they pushed and jostled each other to get the upper hand, so to speak. By which time Athos had offered his assistance and D'Artagnan was now mounted and guiding his horse in the proper direction.
"How long do you figure before they notice we're gone?" D'Artagnan queried, as he listened to the sounds of horseplay behind him.
Athos grinned. "I'm guessing we'll be halfway to the Abbey."
D'Artagnan chuckled, regretted it as his ribs protested, but he was still smiling as they continued on their way.
By nightfall they had all reached the Abbey and it turned out one of the clerics had hired the men who had attacked the Musketeers. The details were rather fuzzy, especially since said Cleric took his own life when he realized he'd been caught out. It appeared to be a matter of jealousy and the desire to take over the Abbey and the surrounding village.
"Greed is a terrible sin," Aramis commented, as they sat sprawled around the bed in the where their youngest lay resting. Father Clermont had offered them lodgings for the night when he learned of D'Artagnan's injuries.
"So is gluttony," Athos countered, his words directed at Porthos who was working on his fifth bowl of mutton stew.
Porthos glared at him, before swallowing a mouthful to reply, "Wasting food is a sin as well. Since D'Artagnan didn't want his dinner, I'm just making sure it doesn't go to waste."
Aramis rolled his eyes as he moved to check on the Gascon. Dark eyes stared up at him and Aramis sighed. "You should sleep, since you won't eat."
"You're all loud," D'Artagnan complained, hissing in pain as he attempted to shift further onto his good side.
"Easy." Aramis moved to help him. "We'll try to be more quiet," he promised once D'Artagnan was comfortably settled with a couple of pillows braced behind him for support.
Fighting off a yawn, D'Artagnan studied the others. "Try to worry more quietly while you're at it," he beseeched.
Which comment brought Athos to kneel at his bedside. "Try to be more careful then, child," he chided, but he was smiling to take the sting from his words.
"It's not my fault a giant fell on me," D'Artagnan defended himself. His accompanying pout made him look ridiculously young, which was not working in his favor in his quest to be treated as an adult.
"That would be my fault," Porthos interjected, setting aside the bowl of stew in favor of sitting on the side of the bed. "I can't apologize enough for that."
D'Artagnan heaved a dramatic sigh. "Once again, not your fault. I blame the cleric for sending the brute after us. Stop blaming yourself, Porthos. I beg of you." D'Artagnan kept his tone light, but he meant his words. He hated seeing the other man feeling guilty. They were always there for him. All of them. They never had reason to place blame upon themselves in his regard. Porthos, in particular, made D'Artagnan truly feel as if he belonged with the Musketeers, because from the moment he had arrived in Paris, Porthos had belived in him. That meant more to D'Artagnan than he could ever truly convey.
Athos clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Do as the child asks. You're quite annoying when you're moody and I can't take it much longer." He winked at D'Artagnan as he spoke, as if to let him know he understood what he was saying and why. Supporting him.
"Fine, I'll stop apologizing then," Porthos allowed, although he didn't look completely convinced.
"Good, now all of you hush!" D'Artagnan commanded. "I want to sleep." That said he let his eyes drift closed, knowing that even if crushed in body, with the Musketeers in his life, he would never be crushed in spirit.
THE END.