October 1625


Athos had never considered himself to be a man in love with nature. He could tolerate a day spent riding through the countryside well enough, but despite the unusually warm weather France was currently enjoying, his opinion of nature, and specifically the forest they were currently struggling through, was very unflattering. As was his opinion of his companion's current mental state.

"Are you quite mad?"

"Well of course," came the flippant, breathless reply. "Now Athos, I know we haven't been friends for very long, but I thought that would be clear to you by now." Although he couldn't see the marksman running behind him, Athos guessed that Aramis' face would be lit by a wild grin. The former comte frowned at the use of the word "friends". He still wasn't quite certain how he managed to get saddled with this reckless, somewhat strange young man, but at the moment, figuring that out was very low on his list of immediate priorities. He slapped another branch out of the way before it could meet his face.

"No, absolutely not. There are at least five of them and only two of us. And, if I must remind you, you are wounded," Athos hissed.

"Yes I noticed, thank you." Aramis lightly pressed a hand against his left thigh as he loped on. "Five against two aren't impossible odds. I wouldn't even say that they're terrible. Not great, perhaps, but not terrible."

"I said at least five. That means there could be more of them. So no, we will not be making some misguided stand." Did the man have some sort of death wish?

Aramis sighed. "I do so hate running," he muttered with mock dismay.

Despite the young Musketeer's inappropriately cheerful attitude, Athos could hear the underlying fatigue that dragged at his voice. Their night had been rudely interrupted when a group of armed strangers had crept into their camp. Aramis, ever alert to danger, had immediately awoken and sprung up from his sleeping spot with both loaded pistols already in hand. Athos - who was supposed to have been on watch - had been less ready, having indulged past his own very high threshold while staring blankly into the dying embers, oblivious to his surroundings. With his head pounding and thoughts swimming through syrup, he'd been slow to react and as a result, even his impeccable skill as a swordsman couldn't save him from being overrun. The men that came after him were oddly well-trained for what he had assumed were common bandits.

Aramis had quickly dispatched two of the men with customary efficiency and then pulled his own rapier out to engage the rest. In the darkness and confusion it had been difficult to tell how many invaders were left - five? six? Three of them had come at Athos at once, and what would have normally been a manageable fight suddenly seemed much less so as he forced his clumsy brain to focus. As he parried one attack and circled his blade down and around to disarm his opponent, another man had snuck up behind him and kicked him in the back of his knee. With the world spinning sickeningly around him, Athos was knocked off balance. Although he managed not to go to ground, he still stumbled a few steps and struggled to get his sword in position fast enough to ward off the three blades that flashed at him simultaneously. Too slow, he mused detachedly. The thought didn't bother him much.

It turned out that his anticipation of death had been premature, as Aramis had seen him stagger and had charged across the clearing, slamming into one of Athos' attackers before their weapons could make lethal contact. He swung his rapier in a wide arc, took one attacker out with an elegant but vicious blow, and then immediately put his back to Athos' to help the inebriated Musketeer with the remaining two. It was in the dying moments of the fight that one of the bandits had made one last desperate jab at Athos. His reflexes were still a fraction sluggish, and it had been clear that Athos would not be able to parry in time. Once again, Aramis had intervened and had ended up catching the enemy's blade for his trouble. The younger Musketeer's grunt of pain as the sword plunged into his leg finally shocked Athos into some semblance of clarity, and he whipped his weapon around to put down the final man. Once the immediate threats had been dealt with, Aramis had hobbled back to support himself against a nearby tree with a stifled groan, his hands pressed tightly around his profusely bleeding thigh. Athos spun around and stared down at the half-Spaniard in alarm, his chest heaving with adrenaline.

"What on earth were you thinking?" He demanded as he knelt in front of Aramis and pulled at the marksman's wrists.

"I was thinking that I preferred not to see you skewered." Aramis winced as he steadily increased pressure on the deep stab wound. His knuckles turned white with effort.

"But you thought it acceptable to find yourself in that same condition? You should have just let it be!" An unexpected surge of cold, irrational anger clawed at him. He hadn't asked for this.

The marksman's brow furrowed in confusion, his breath coming in short pants. "Athos..."

"Forget it." Athos cut the younger man off. He tamped his anger back down and ignored the furious pressure rising in his skull. Now was not the time. He turned his attention back to the wound, which was still pulsing crimson streaks through the other Aramis' fingers. "Aramis, let me see," he insisted when the other resisted Athos' attempts to pull his hands away.

"Leave it. It's fine," Aramis responded, shrugging Athos off. The tension in his voice belied his words.

Athos raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. "You may want to rethink your definition of the word 'fine'." He eyed the dark stain that was rapidly spreading across Aramis' breeches. "This is most certainly not 'fine'."

"It's...not that bad," Aramis amended somewhat raggedly, his eyes squeezed shut as he wrestled the pain into submission. "I've had worse."

"If that was meant to be comforting, let me assure you that it was not," Athos muttered. "Do you have your sewing kit?" It was something the marksman now carried with him at all times, a new habit he'd apparently picked up in the past couple of months.

"I do. It's fortunate I decided to keep it with me as the rest of our supplies seem to have run off with our horses." A tinge of worry seeped through Aramis' voice, and Athos' eyes narrowed as he turned to glance at the spot where they had tied up their mounts for the night. The two animals were clearly missing, along with the majority of their belongings. His mouth tightened with displeasure.

"We shouldn't linger here," Aramis' words brought Athos' attention back to his companion. "Two of our attackers retreated when they realized we weren't going to be easy prey." The thin smile that stretched across Aramis' bloodless lips was unnerving.

Athos frowned. "They may have gone for reinforcements."

"Yes. I can do this quickly if you'd be so kind as to bring me my needles," Aramis replied. "You wouldn't happen have any of that wine left, would you?"

Shame and self-recrimination swept over Athos in a familiar, hateful flood. "No, I'm afraid not."

The wounded marksman huffed out a small laugh. "That's impressive, even for you," he said, winking at Athos. "Well, I suppose I will have to make do with water. Could you please bring my waterskin over here as well?"

Athos complied and he had helped Aramis flush out the injury, which had punctured the muscle almost halfway between his knee and hip. In order to be done quickly, the marksman had simply taken his dagger and widened the bloody tear in his breeches to expose the hole in his leg. The younger Musketeer had then enlisted Athos' aid in keeping the edges of the wound closed while he set to work with his needle and thread. Although Athos was no stranger to committing gruesome acts, he found Aramis' steadiness as he sewed his own flesh together to be both admirable and a bit gag-inducing. The stitches were hastily placed in their rush to be done quickly, but when Athos released the wound it no longer leaked.

"Not my finest work, which is a shame considering it's my own leg," Aramis said with a sigh. "But it will have to do." He unwound the blue sash tied at his waist and wrapped it tightly around his stitched thigh. Athos watched as he did so, his head pounding steadily in the aftermath of too much drink. Aramis looked up to catch him staring, and Athos didn't know what the younger man saw in his face but it made the marksman's gaze soften.

"Athos, this isn't your fault."

The former comte turned away from him without reply.

They had finished their field surgery not a moment too soon, as the beat of hooves on packed dirt alerted them to approaching riders. Athos tilted his head away from the main trail, and Aramis nodded. They would move deeper into the woods in the hopes of losing their pursuers and try to circle back around to the path they had been taking. Without their horses, they'd be forced to travel on foot. As he watched Aramis gingerly test his leg to see if it would bear his weight, Athos felt a leaden weight settle into pit of his stomach which had nothing to do with the immense amount of alcohol he'd consumed just hours earlier. Although Aramis seemed oddly carefree for a man who had just been stabbed, Athos had serious doubts as to how far the other Musketeer would be able to go with only one good leg.

A loud thud and strangled curse pulled Athos out of his reminiscence. He immediately stopped and turned, his rapier halfway out of its sheath, only to find Aramis on the ground pushing himself up to a sitting position. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the younger man falling further and further behind.

"Aramis?"

"It's nothing. I tripped over a root."

While it was a plausible explanation, Athos sincerely doubted that was what had actually happened. Crouching down to check on the marksman, he noted with concern that Aramis had gone from mildly pale to completely ashen. Athos assumed that it was a trick of the weak moonlight, but between the severe pallor and the dark shadows that hid Aramis' eyes, the man looked more like a ghost than a living being. He glanced down at the marksman's leg and his brow furrowed.

"When did this start bleeding again?" Athos demanded, his eyes narrowed. The clean blue cloth that Aramis had tied around his leg earlier was now a dark purple, as it had become completely saturated with blood despite the stitches that they had put in.

"I'm not sure," Aramis lied. "I'll be fine. Let's keep going."

A toxic mix of guilt and fury threatened to overwhelm Athos as he stared at the other Musketeer. Why on earth had he kept silent about this? It simply defied all common sense. Close up, he could now see the fine tremors shook the younger man. They had been rushing through the woods for what felt like hours now, and Athos had no idea how long the Aramis had been losing precious blood. Considering his current state, it was clear that it had been much too long. At this point, running was no longer looking like a feasible option.

"No. You can't go any further."

"Yes I can, and I will," Aramis snapped.

Athos shook his head. While he didn't doubt Aramis' courage or willpower, the former comte refused to let the man suffer a minute longer than he already had because of Athos' own mistakes. While he usually drank in an effort to drown out his too recent past, tonight it seemed that his newfound habit was only going to create new demons. His poor judgment had already led to one complete catastrophe too recently in his life, and Athos was determined to never let it happen again. Aramis would not be able to run at the pace they'd been going for much longer, and if the men chasing them caught up to them, Athos refused to risk the other Musketeer being killed because of his weakened state.

"No," Athos repeated. "We split up. I will draw them away from you. Try to make it back to the main road."

"That's a terrible idea," Aramis whispered fiercely. "It's better to stay together."

"You are not going to be able to keep pace, Aramis. You've already lost too much blood. Head for Paris if you can."

"No Athos, please. I will keep up." Aramis pressed closer to the swordsman, his hand reaching up to grasp Athos' shoulder. His eyes were wide and anxious. "If we must, we can stand together and fight. Do not doubt me, Athos. I can do this."

"I don't doubt you," Athos said flatly,"But every man has his limits. I think it is clear you have reached yours."

"You know nothing of my limits," Aramis spat vehemently, his grip tightening almost painfully. "Please, Athos. Don't do this to me. Don't leave me behind." There was a strong pleading note beneath the heated words that made Athos pause. He briefly wondered if this was the spectre of Savoy, rising up to haunt the marksman on this dark night in the woods. Athos only vaguely knew about Aramis' involvement in the disaster that decimated the Musketeer regiment less than a year ago, if only because it was nearly impossible to avoid the chatter surrounding it. Aramis had never spoken of it to him, though, and he hadn't asked.

"I'm not leaving you behind," Athos said, his voice thawing to a gentler tone. I am merely ensuring that you do not meet your end here because of my own stupidity.

"Good," Aramis sighed with relief as he visibly relaxed. "Good. Shall we go?" He shifted, ready to rise.

Athos knew that Aramis had the reputation of being a tenacious man, but Athos was nobility. Although he abhorred the trappings of the life he left behind, the natural authority that developed over a lifetime of having his every wish catered to gave him the advantage. He would get his way, especially if meant increasing Aramis' chances of survival. Although it was still quite dark, Athos guessed that dawn would be upon them soon. If Aramis could make it to the road without being harassed by their pursuers, then he could hope that some travelers would pass by and be able to help the wounded man back to Paris.

In a rare gesture, Athos reached out and clasped the back of Aramis' neck, bringing their heads together. A look of surprise flashed across the his face, and then Aramis leaned into Athos' touch without comment. From the moment Athos had stepped into the garrison a couple of months ago, the younger Musketeer had repeatedly extended a warm hand of friendship only to have it repeatedly rebuffed. The former comte had been immensely annoyed by Aramis' efforts as he'd had no intention of engaging with any of his fellow Musketeers. Athos simply wanted to drink, do his duty, and drink some more. But Aramis was irritatingly persistent and Athos had eventually found it easier to give in than to keep resisting. Between the marksman and Porthos, the large, dark Musketeer that constantly watched over Aramis with a vigilant eye, he found himself slowly drawn into their camaraderie against his own will. Athos didn't quite understand what it was about him that Aramis had considered worthy of attention, but he would not let this man die because he'd offered his friendship to the wrong person.

"Aramis," Athos whispered. "Forgive me."

"What?" Aramis sounded confused for a split second before his eyes widened and a look of betrayal flashed across his face. "Athos, no - "

The young Musketeer didn't have a chance to finish as the former comte struck him fast and hard across the head, knocking him out instantly. Athos caught Aramis as he slumped bonelessly towards the ground.

"You may disagree, but this is the best way," Athos murmured at the unconscious man as he dragged him towards a thick clump of undergrowth. He rolled Aramis underneath and dragged a pile of dead branches in front, sweeping up their tracks. "I'm sorry."

Satisfied that Aramis was hidden as well as he could be, Athos turned and started to run back in the direction they'd come from. If Aramis was going to have any chance at all, Athos would have to lead their pursuers away from his hiding spot or, should it come down to it, eliminate as many of them as he could in a final stand.

Despite the fact that he knew the bandits - or whatever they might be - were chasing after them, Athos wasn't exactly quite sure where they were. As it turned out, he didn't have to put much effort into locating them, as they were startlingly closer than he would have thought.

A pistol shot cracked in the darkness, and Athos flinched as tree bark and splinters sprayed out from a tree just to his right. Shards of wood peppered his face; just a few inches to the left and he would have been dead. Athos pulled out his own unused pistol as he turned towards the direction the shot had come from. Now that he knew where to look, he could see three figures crouched in the shadows. He took hasty aim and fired, but his own shot also missed it's target. It's a good thing Aramis wasn't here to see that, Athos thought distractedly.

"'Ey! We found one!" One of the men shouted. Now that they had come face to face, it seemed that the bandits no longer saw the need for silence and stealth. "On me!"

Faced with three men and the promise of more, Athos did the only sensible thing - he turned and ran. Deliberately angling himself away from spot where he'd left Aramis, Athos stumbled along in the dark, his heart pounding and his breath coming fast and shallow. He was acutely aware of how close his pursuers were and could hear them shouting behind him as they started to gain on him. He pushed himself harder, hoping that he wouldn't trip and fall on the uneven forest floor. Who were these men?

The blast from another pistol shot sounded behind him, and this time Athos wasn't quite so lucky. It felt like someone had taken a hammer and slammed it high against his left shoulder, the force of it strong enough to knock him to the ground. Warm wetness immediately soaked through his shirt and began to pool under his leather doublet. With a stunned groan, Athos clutched at the deep furrow the ball had dug into the top of his shoulder, dangerously close to the junction with his neck. He grimaced as he felt his collarbone shift under pressure.

"Nice shot," a deep voice said somewhere above him. He opened eyes he had no recollection of closing to find a two dark figures looming over him.

"I meant to get him in the head." To Athos' distant surprise, the second voice sounded like it belonged to a woman.

"I can't question him if he's dead, Evie. You," the man barked, nudging Athos with his boot, "where is the other one?"

Athos didn't bother to answer. He rolled over and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, stifling a grunt of pain as he did so. If he was going to die here, he would not do so groveling in the dirt like a stray dog. He only managed to get to his elbows before he was knocked on his back again by the same booted foot.

"Stay down," the man ordered. Although a mask covered the bottom half of his face, his words were crisp and cold. "Where is the other one? We know there was another one with you." The man moved his foot so that it settled high up on his chest under his throat and he started to step down. "Tell us."

The Musketeer stared up at his attacker, his breath coming in short bursts as heavy pressure compressed his chest. The other man stared back at him, eyes narrowing when it was clear that Athos would not respond.

"Find him!" The man shouted, his eyes still on the Musketeer beneath his foot. "Don't stop searching until you do. The other one can't be far from here. When you do find him, kill him."

An image of Aramis, unconscious and utterly vulnerable, raced through Athos' mind. "He's already dead," he croaked out.

"What did you say?"

"He's dead. One of your people wounded him earlier and he didn't survive."

"Is that so? I suppose we will find out soon enough. Giroux! Get over here, and bring the rope."

When it became clear that Athos was not going to immediately meet his end at the hands of his captors, he instinctively began to struggle, kicking out with his legs and pushing against the leg pinning him down with all his remaining strength. Although the steady flow of blood from his shoulder had weakened him considerably, adrenaline kicked through him and loaned additional strength to his limbs. It was all for nothing, however, as the man standing above him quickly knelt down and grabbed him forcefully by the front of his doublet, lifting him to a half-sitting position. Athos bit back a groan at the sudden change in elevation.

"Let's make this easy on both of us, shall we?" The man said casually. He then reached back and punched Athos hard in the temple. The irony of his situation struck Athos in the split second before the black consumed him.

TBC


Err...sorry for the long chapter! If you made it through, thank you for reading. :) This was written in response to a prompt posted by Veritas365 in the story ideas forum. I think the original request was supposed to be focused more on Athos, but Aramis demanded attention and I couldn't refuse. My apologies if this doesn't quite hit the spot! Also, this is un-betaed, so all mistakes are mine. Please feel free to point any out any major errors.

Finally, this is takes place less than a year after Savoy and Anne's "death", so obviously there will be no D'Artagnan. Next time!