Still lying where he'd been dragged and dumped, D'Artagnan heard footsteps approach. He blearily wondered if they belonged to friend, foe, or curious passer-by, not sure he cared, and then a familiar voice said his name with equal parts reproach and worry. There was a scrunch of leather as Athos crouched.
D'Artagnan made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, the best he could do to acknowledge his friend's presence.
"Come on."
He felt Athos pat his cheek twice, and knew that if he didn't come around, the love-taps would turn insistent. He opened his eyes just a crack, and a third, harder tap of Athos' hand jarred them all the way. A slightly blurry Athos leaned over him, silhouetted against a gray sky, and D'Artagnan blinked several times to clear his vision.
"Anything broken?"
D'Artagnan licked his lips and tasted blood. "No..." He didn't sound sure. He wasn't sure.
Athos raised a skeptical eyebrow and shifted position. D'Artagnan started painfully at the feel of Athos' hands, searching gently and expertly through his hair for a cracked skull. Aramis was their usual medic, and D'Artagnan had never stopped to wonder what the musketeers did when he was the one hurt or, like now, absent. Locked in a cell, awaiting execution...
"Well, your head's in one piece."
...like Constance... Oh, God—
"—Constance!" he said aloud, struggling to sit up. Athos helped him, and he tried not to double over with the pain in his left side. "I saw Constance. Before they caught up with me."
"And?"
"She's not hurt." D'Artagnan, hearing himself, realized it was true, and let out a fervent — and painful — sigh of relief. "She's not hurt."
"Good." Athos hesitated a moment, then asked, "Aramis?"
"I... I don't know. I didn't see him."
Athos nodded, blank-faced, then clasped D'Artagnan's hand and elbow and, at D'Artagnan's assent, pulled him to his feet. D'Artagnan stifled a groan, and Athos held onto him while pain flared in his chest and white stars bloomed and faded before his eyes. Maybe the beating had been worse than he thought, but it didn't matter. Broken, bruised, shot, stabbed, or missing an arm, he would be back at first light and, if need be, cut his way through every Red Guard in the regiment to get to Constance.
And he wouldn't be alone.