Chapter 2

It wasn't long before they came upon Aramis' sword, abandoned in the dust. It was Athos who dismounted to retrieve the weapon, frowning at the bent tip of the metal.

"At least we know we're headin' the right way." Porthos observed, waiting anxiously while his friend secured the sword on his horse and remounted. "How far ahead do you think he is?"

Athos shrugged. "He couldn't have gotten too far with a head wound." He pointed to the tracks still obvious in the dirt. "His stride is not strong, nor his steps firm. I doubt he's moving quickly."

The two Musketeers had discussed their missing marksman's probable injuries, both agreeing from the placement and amount of blood back at the attack, he had most likely suffered a blow to the head, which could leave him disoriented. It could explain why he was moving in the opposite direction from help – disoriented or confused – though Porthos' initial belief that Aramis had gone after the men who'd taken Esprit wasn't entirely dismissed.

It was another hour before they pulled their mounts up, their gaze locked onto the shuffling form silhouetted in the glare of the setting sun. Aramis was struggling, his head bowed, his feet dragging through the dirt like he was wading through water. His arms were wrapped around his torso as if they were all that were holding him together. He took no notice as they rode up behind him, but kept placing one foot in front of the other in determined, dogged steps.

Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Porthos handed his reins to Athos and slid from his saddle, slowly approaching the marksman. Reaching out, he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, his breath catching in his throat at the toll of exhaustion he could feel shuddering through the marksman's frame.

"Aramis." He kept his voice soft, non-threatening, not knowing how the wounded man would react.

Aramis stilled, breath coming in short staccato bursts. He swayed slightly in the breeze like the grass beside the road.

"Aramis?" Porthos called again, stepping around his friend, locking both hands on Aramis' arms as much in need as support. "Hey, you in there?" He chucked a finger under the dirt and bloodstained beard and pushed the marksman's head up.

His concern doubled.

The side of Aramis' face was covered in dark, congealing blood. Porthos raised a hand, gently parting the matted curls, finding a long furrow that traveled from the bruised temple well back into his hairline. It was obviously a gunshot wound and Porthos forced himself to swallow his anger. It was so reminiscent of the injury Aramis had suffered at Savoy, Porthos had to close his eyes for a moment to regain some sense of equilibrium.

Aramis' eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring through Porthos rather than at him. The taller man ducked his head in an attempt to catch the marksman's wandering gaze.

"Aramis?" He punctuated the name with a gentle shake, cupping the bloodied cheek in one hand, tilting his face up. "Can you hear me?"

It seemed like an eternity before Aramis' eyes managed to focus, and Porthos let out a choked laugh when the familiar dark orbs finally showed a semblance of recognition.

"P'rth's?" the name was slurred, barely recognizable, but Porthos smiled brightly at the sound nonetheless.

"Who else? What have you gotten yourself into this time, my friend?"

Aramis slumped into himself further, letting some of the tension drain from his body as the sudden appearance of his friend began to register in his sluggish brain.

"Stole m'orse."

Porthos brows climbed toward his hairline. "Huh?"

"I think he's saying someone stole his horse," Athos interpreted as he approached behind Aramis. The marksman didn't turn around, just nodded once before allowing his head to fall forward onto Porthos' chest. The big Musketeer chuckled fondly and carded a hand through the curls on the back of the bowed head.

"Told you," he shot Athos a knowing grin.

"It is too late to return to St. Germaine as it will be dark soon. We should find someplace to make camp and see to his wound." Athos looked around, pointing out a clump of tall bushes just off the expanse of tall grass. "There. There appears to be a small clearing. The bushes should provide adequate cover."

Without waiting for an answer, Athos began to lead both horses off the road, through the grass, leaving a pressed down path for the others to follow.

Porthos placed a kiss on the top of Aramis' head. "How 'bout we get you comfortable, huh? Take care of all that dried blood? It's got to be pretty itchy by now."

Aramis didn't raise his head, but twisted it back and forth against Porthos' doublet.

"Esprit," he mumbled.

Porthos heaved an impatient sigh. "Forget the horse, 'Mis. You're in no condition to fight. Besides, Athos is right. It'll be dark soon. Let's worry about it in the morning."

Aramis suddenly went boneless, forcing Porthos to tighten his hold to stop his friend from dropping to the ground in a heap.

"I'll take that as a yes." Porthos leaned forward, letting Aramis' pliant form drop across his shoulder and hefted him up with a grunt. They would tend his wound and clean him up as well as they were able, waiting until morning to spirit him back to St. Germaine or, if he was up to it, back home to Paris where he could get the attention he needed. Porthos prayed his stubborn friend would cooperate, but knowing how Aramis felt about Esprit, doubted it would be quite so easy.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"He'll be fine."

Porthos grunted at Athos' assessment, arms crossed on his chest, eyes on Aramis' sleeping form near the fire. He hadn't moved since they'd laid him out on Porthos' bedroll, using the water from their canteens to clean the dried blood from his face and head.

The bullet had left a long but, thankfully, not deep furrow on the side of his head; serious enough to cause an unenviable headache for the next few days, but shallow enough to avoid severe damage. Upon further inspection, they'd found a second lump further back in the mess of hair. Obviously the marksman had been struck after he'd been shot, which raised their concerns further. Two blows to the head could render a man bereft of his senses more permanently, but Porthos told himself if anyone could come out of this completely intact, it was Aramis. The marksman had been in a situation quite similar before and survived, there was no reason to doubt he would do so again.

"It won't be like Savoy." Athos crouched by the fire, adding new branches to keep the flames dancing in the darkness. "If that is your concern."

It was, and it showed an uncanny ability to read his thoughts, an indication of how well his friend knew him to address a concern he'd been hesitant to consider out loud. "How do you know that?" Porthos wasn't convinced, the image of Aramis' blank, bloody face bringing back the vivid memories of finding him in that snowy clearing all those years ago, the bodies of twenty Musketeers lying scattered around him.

"Because Aramis won't let it be." Athos sounded so sure, Porthos almost allowed himself to believe it. "He's like a cat," the swordsman observed as he settled near Aramis' side near the fire. He unconsciously tugged the blanket up over the sleeping man's shoulder. "No matter how far he falls, he always seems to land on his feet."

"Except this time he landed on his head."

Athos shrugged in concession. "So it would seem. But he was aware enough to give pursuit – slow as it was. And he did not falter until he knew he was safe in our care."

"Since when are you such an optimist?"

"I'm not." Athos looked down fondly at their sleeping friend. "I just know that despite a penchant for finding trouble, Aramis is one of the most capable soldiers I've ever known. It will take far more than a bullet graze to the head to take him from us, Porthos."

The big Musketeer managed a grin. "Yeah. He's too stubborn to die." He shifted, finding a more comfortable position against the fallen log he rested against. "He's still goin' to want to go after the damn horse."

"We will persuade him to reconsider."

"And when he insists?"

Athos sighed. "We will go after the damn horse."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis was warm, comfortable despite the pounding in his head that had forced him from slumber. There was a crackling nearby, the scent of burning wood floating around him like a blanket. The breeze on his face felt refreshing, helping to disburse the heat from the flames. There was the low murmur of conversation beside him, the familiar voices giving off a sense of peace and safety he had come to rely on.

"I think he's wakin' up."

Aramis heard someone shift and felt a hand card through his hair. The sigh of contentment escaped before he could stop it.

"Yeah," Porthos' chuckle was close, the hand stilling at the nape of his neck. "He's definitely wakin' up. Come on, 'Mis. Open your eyes. Let us know you're all right."

The concern in Porthos voice made him attempt to comply, though his lids seemed much too heavy and the act much trickier than expected. It seemed like hours passed before he blinked his eyes open, the dancing flames coming into focus behind the dark silhouette of his friend.

"There you are," Porthos smiled, leaning back, allowing the orange light to catch the side of his face.

Aramis winced at the sudden brightness, blinked again and Athos appeared as if by magic.

"I don't think he's quite with us yet," the swordsman observed.

The world was spinning and his stomach heaved, bile hot in his throat. Aramis felt something push at his lips, a hand gently lifting his head from the cushioned ground.

"Drink, Aramis."

It was an order, and though he normally balked at orders, he was willing to give this one some effort.

The water cooled his throat, but pooled in his stomach like acid. He drew back with a grunt, swallowing thickly, desperately trying to keep it down, knowing it would be a very unpleasant return trip. His headache notched up a tick and he frowned, the wound on the side of his head pulling with the motion.

"Easy," Porthos soothed. "You're doing good. Just take it easy. Breathe."

Aramis did as instructed, unable to think past the escalating ache in his head. He sensed himself being lowered back to the ground, moaning, the world tilted behind his closed lids. A hand pressed against the top of his head, nimble fingers rubbed against his scalp in an offer of comfort.

"Shhhh," Porthos continued his litany of soft words. "Just take it easy. You're safe. We're not going anywhere."

He didn't know how long he lay there, listening as Porthos' voice washed over him. He wasn't really paying attention to whatever his friend was saying, the cadence and familiar tone enough to ground him, giving him a chance to find a tentative balance between the pain and reality. After an indeterminable amount of time, he chanced opening his eyes again, this time pleased that the world seemed to remain still.

"M'srry." His own voice ratcheted the pain higher, but he swallowed down the discomfort, needing to let his brothers know he was all right.

"You don't need to apologize for being attacked," Athos informed him.

Aramis disagreed. "I wasn' paying 'ttention," he mumbled, trying to sound contrite. "M'mind was elsewhere."

"No doubt already back in Paris with the lovely Adele," Porthos presumed, a touch of amusement coloring the indictment.

Aramis hummed in response.

"I did tell you she would end up causing you harm, didn't I?"

Aramis squinted his eyes open, frowning at Athos' accusation.

"It was hardly Adele's fault I was distracted," he argued, coming to the defense of his lover despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. "I did manage to kill one of them." His thoughts were clearing and his strength returning even though he was quite confident something as mundane as sitting up could be a bit beyond him at the moment.

"Apparently the wrong one," Porthos mused, running a finger down the side of Aramis' head near the wound.

"Despite coming out of this with your head mostly intact," Athos continued unabated, "cuckholding the Cardinal can bring nothing but trouble."

Aramis moaned dramatically and closed his eyes against the throbbing pain as well as Athos unfailing logic. "So you have said. Repeatedly." Though he normally enjoyed baiting his more conservative friend, he simply wasn't up to his usual standards of debate at the moment.

"Aramis, I am only concerned for your continued wellbeing."

"You worry too much."

"I fear I don't worry enough." Athos sighed. "If the Cardinal discovers your affair, he will find a way to make you pay. Perhaps with your life."

"Athos," Porthos intervened. "Perhaps this can wait until he can actually fight back?" Athos huffed in defeat and Porthos chuckled at the expense of his friend. "Besides, the Cardinal is a man of God. He couldn't formally charge Aramis with anythin' since he could never openly admit to havin' a mistress in the first place."

Aramis grunted in agreement, finding mere sounds easier to contribute to the long-standing discussion than actual words.

"I still believe he is playing with fire," Athos conceded. "I just do not wish to see him get burned."

Aramis smiled, his friend's concern not lost on him. He enjoyed being able to rile the normally composed swordsman up once in a while, and would never admit that some of his exploits were construed to do just that.

"I still want to go after Esprit," he changed the subject, knowing it would probably set them both off again. It wasn't that he didn't realize he was in no shape to track down and confront the thieves that had stolen his horse and left him to die, but he owed it to the mare to at least try. She had been the finest horse he'd ever had and was not ready to give her up, no matter what it might cost in pain. Besides, he had allowed the bandits to defeat him far too easily; his honor as a Musketeer impugned, the need for remuneration crucial.

"Aramis –" this time it was Porthos arguing.

"They took Esprit. I want her back." He knew he sounded petulant, but it was a matter of honor and he would not back down.

"He's got a hole in his head and he's worried about the horse." Aramis could almost feel Porthos shaking his head in disbelief.

"She's a good horse. More than that, she's a friend. We've been through a lot together." He didn't mention his other motivation, but didn't fool himself into believing they weren't already aware. "I've been tracking her by the nick in her shoe."

Porthos grunted, impressed. "You were able to follow that?"

Aramis shrugged. "It gave me something to focus on," he admitted. "Keep myself moving."

"How many were there?" Athos asked, his tactical mind already calculating the odds.

Aramis forced himself to think. "Not counting the one I killed, four, I think. I wounded another with my dagger, but that's when things get a bit hazy." He reached up and ran a hand over the gash in his head, wincing as his fingers touched the wound.

"Even if you weren't distracted, five to one odds are a bit daunting," Porthos consoled. "Even for you."

Aramis opened his eyes, gracing Porthos with a grin in appreciation of his support. "Are you going to help me or not?" He shifted his gaze between the two, trying to will them into agreeing to his plea. When the big Musketeer glanced at Athos and shrugged ruefully, he knew he'd won.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah."

Aramis nodded, pushing himself up awkwardly until he was sitting. His head began to spin and he swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the water he'd just managed to drink where it belonged. He knew his friends' help in finding Esprit hinged on his ability to convince them he was up to the task… he just wasn't all that sure he could pull it off.

"That's not a good idea," Porthos cautioned, backing up, his hands outstretched, ready to catch the marksman when he inevitably fell on his face.

Aramis waved him off, rolling the opposite way to his knees, pausing as his head began to pound anew. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he struggled to his feet, his eyes squeezed tightly as the world tilted and his stomach clenched in rebellion. He swayed, his balance teetering dangerously, reaching out, flailing for something to hold on to.

Hands grabbed him, pulling him against something solid, firm, keeping him from plummeting back to the ground. He panted, trying to regain his balance, finally giving in and allowing the hands to gently ease him back down, propped up against something warm. After a few moments, he opened his eyes to find Athos holding him against his chest.

"I assume you still have enough sense to avoid trying that again in the near future?"

Aramis managed a grunt of acquiescence.

He groaned as Athos shimmied out from under him, jostling him as he lowered him back to the bedroll. As soon as he was lying down, Aramis sighed in relief, the pain radiating through his skull leveling off into something more manageable.

"Well that was fun," Porthos grunted.

Athos snorted a laugh. "We have very different ideas of fun." He shifted back against a tree, winded by the burst of activity. "Aramis, you are in no condition to go traipsing after horse thieves. We should return to St. Germaine and retrieve our prisoner. Perhaps he can tell us something about these thieves' whereabouts. Treville can send a troop out after them."

Aramis shook his head, his mind still reeling, but determined to convince them all the same. "No. Please. I need to – what prisoner?"

Porthos chuckled. "Wondered if you'd heard that. One of 'em showed up with your pistol. Young kid, not too smart. That's how we knew where to find you." He crossed the small camp, pulling the familiar brass plated pistol from a saddlebag. Crouching down next to Aramis, he held it out, smiling as the marksman's eyes widened in surprise.

Aramis looked up at his friend in wonder, but the big man just shrugged. "Figured you'd want it back. Don't see guns like that every day."

Touched, Aramis smiled in gratitude.

"So you see," Athos explained. "We've no need to follow the tracks. It is quite possible our prisoner will be able to give us the location of his comrades without putting you or ourselves at undo risk."

Aramis closed his eyes, pulling the pistol to his chest. He knew Athos was probably right, but he couldn't abandon Esprit. And he seriously wanted to make them pay for what they'd done. Nobody attacked a Musketeer and got away with it - especially if he could do something about it. He had no idea how to explain it to them, the pounding in his head making it more and more difficult to think.

"Please," he whispered. "I need to do this. I need to get her back."

It was a long moment, the crackling fire the only sound, and he may have drifted until finally he felt a hand on his head. He opened his eyes to find Athos' staring down at him, eyes dark in the shadows, brows raised in surrender. "We will find Esprit, Aramis. We cannot track them in the dark, but if you are able when light dawns, we will follow them as long as it is safe to do so."

Content with the promise, Aramis let himself succumb to sleep.

TBC