AN/ And we're back! This story is very nearly finished (I've got about 2-3 chapters left to write) so I'll be posting relatively regularly (most likely every 2 days, if not more often). I am VERY excited to share this story... it's the longest one I've ever written/posted on this site. I really hope you all enjoy it.

So, without further ado, let's get started... we begin deep across the Spanish borders, a few months into the military campaign. The first chapter is something of a prologue and a bit short, the following chapters will be longer.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.


Chapter One

December

The noises of the camp bled through the tent canvas: the sharpening and clang of weapons, coals burning, men chatting and yelling, and the wind roaring up a perfect storm. The cold seeped through as well, and the small stove in the centre of the tent did little to stave off the winter chill.

Huddled over the desk with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders Athos cursed the cold and the noise as he tried to finish writing the report due to be sent back to Paris that same evening. He heard the tent open and two men walk in and approach the desk. A cup of ale was placed before him and he glared at the object as it had offended him greatly before reluctantly sitting back in his chair and taking in the sorry state of his comrades.

He looked at Aramis first, wanting to ignore the inevitable for as long as possible. Aramis' hair was tied out of his face, and the tell-tale blood stained the edges of his coat and smeared his forehead.

"How're the injured?" Athos asked his friend.

Aramis grimaced. He'd spent most of the day dealing with the most recently injured soldiers.

"Two dead," he reported. "Another three will need to be sent home. They won't be fit for duty anytime soon. Etienne's included in that number. The rest can travel when we're ready."

"When are we moving, Captain?" Porthos interjected. Athos frowned at the use of his title. He knew that this was a decision he couldn't make with his heart, and that he couldn't risk the war, nor all the lives of his men for just one soldier, but Porthos' underlying anger seemed to be ignorant of how much his next decision would truly pain him.

"You had no luck?" Athos asked, a pleading sound entering into his voice.

"I didn't find a trail," Porthos sighed, dragging a chair towards the stove and sitting down to try and warm himself. He had arrived back less than a half hour previous after traipsing at great speed through the forest trails behind their current position. The snow had fallen steadily and wet him to the core.

Athos watched his friend and felt the urge to throw his ale across the room in his anger and frustration.

"We have to move tomorrow," Athos said. "I can't wait any longer. I…"

"Send me back out there," Porthos said. "I only had two days before I had to turn back. If I had a little longer—"

"You were out there for a full two days, Porthos, and you couldn't even find a trail!" Athos cut him off angrily. "You won't… you're not going to…"

Aramis and Porthos shared a look with one another.

"We don't know he's dead," Aramis said tightly.

Athos looked at Aramis with hallowed eyes.

"With his injuries, in this weather… he is by now."

"Athos…"

"I can't condone leaving men behind to search for a dead body," Athos said harshly. "We move out tomorrow."

"Ath—"

"Leave now." The command was that of a Captain. But it held inside of it the undertones of a grieving friend trying to cope with the loss of a brother. He knew that if his brother wasn't dead already, his decision to move out would be the finishing blow.