Chapter 2: For Love

Summary: There are battles that can be fought and others that you can merely hope to survive. Facing an impossible obstacle, only their union and love for one another can give the Musketeers a chance to live to see another day.


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"Well…?"

Aramis didn't bother looking at their youngest member; his eyes remained locked on the angry, wet beast before them.

Any other time, he would have just called it a river, but now it was much more than that. The water had been little more than a lazily drifting stream when they'd crossed it on their way to Savoy, but seemingly endless days of non-stop, heavy torrents of rain, had left it nearly unrecognizable.

Thankfully the rains had abated for now, but the damage was done.

"Well what?" Porthos all but growled. "I know you're eager to get home but we try crossing that and we're all as good as dead."

Swollen beyond its banks and littered with rocks and debris from upstream where the flooding had been the worst, the torrent was almost deafening as it crashed along its newly formed banks. Occasional sprays shot upward, air born from a collision with something unseen beneath, before smashing against the boulders too large to be unseated. The river flowed wildly by, hampered only occasionally by the odd assortment of debris, branches and sometimes whole trees, their root systems intact, all hurdling along the rapidly rising water.

"We all long for home as much as you—" Athos glanced at the boy. "—well, almost as much. But we need to find a safe way across. It's either finding that bridge the villagers told us about or remain here until the river subsides."

"Presuming the damn thing even exists," Porthos added unhappily.

Athos looked at him. "You think they lied?"

"I think we've been riding for hours and haven't seen a damn thing," Porthos pointed out, twisting around on his saddle to look at the path they had traveled. "I think we'd do better to go back to that Inn and wait until the river is more passable."

Aramis smirked. "I think Porthos liked that pretty barmaid and wants to see her again."

Porthos looked at his friend. "You're just sore because, for the first time in our travels, the pretty girl had eyes for me and not you."

"Not at all," Aramis shook his head. "It was bound to happen. Even a blind squirrel gets a nut once and awhile."

"You sayin' she was blind?"

"Certainly not," Aramis said with just the right amount of affront. "She was far too lovely to liken to a squirrel." He glanced at Porthos' questioning gaze and gave a quick shrug. "But perhaps her eyesight is on the decline."

Porthos scowled and thought for a moment. "So you're saying I'm a nut?"

Aramis opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it. "Really my friend, you make this too easy."

The Musketeers had left Paris nearly a week ago and rain had threatened the entire time. It hadn't come to fruition until they'd delivered their prisoner to the Savoy guard and turned for home. It was a round trip that should have taken four, five days at the most, but once the rain began, it had forced them to seek shelter in some out of the way village. It was there they heard of this bridge that, apparently, had managed to avoid being depicted in any of their maps.

They'd been overly optimistic on the first day at the Inn. Positively certain the deluge would last no more than a day, two at the most. Instead, it had lent itself to a three-day downpour. Three days. Three miserable. Boring. Mind numbing days of doing little more than sitting in the pub or their rooms, watching from their respective windows as the countryside disappear behind a curtain of gray.

The tedium was suffocating for all of them. Save for Porthos. The servant girl had taken a shine to him right off, that much was evident and things had gone nicely. Up until the time the flirting had gotten heated, then Porthos had retreated. And since then, Aramis found a new game to play called needle your best friend mercilessly. A game only Aramis could play to perfection.

"What was her name again?" Aramis looked at the sky as if the answer lay there. "Serena… Salette...Sarah—something with an S..."

"Annette." Porthos shot back.

"Ah." Aramis smirked and adjusted the reins in his hands. "You my friend, have a type."

"What type? You mean the type that fancy me over you?"

"That, and dark hair, blue eyes and names that start with the letter 'A'". Porthos looked confused and Aramis obliged. "Or have you forgotten the lovely widow, Alice?"

"Enough," Athos interrupted. "You two are giving me a headache. I shudder to think how much worse it will be if we have to continue our patronage of that Inn."

"What?" d'Artagnan all but shrieked. "You can't seriously be thinking of going back." Three heads turned and stared at him expectantly when the boy finally sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's not just about Constance."

"Tha'd be a first," Porthos grinned, looking at Aramis who nodded solemnly.

"The boy is smitten," Aramis sighed, laying a hand over his heart. "He has good taste. Not so sure about hers, though."

D'Artagnan looked pointedly at Athos. "The letter the Duchess of Savoy gave us, about Spain's renewed attempts at a treaty..." He looked from Porthos then to Aramis. "Or has the rain slogged all of your brains?"

"Ah, sense in the form of youth," Aramis sighed. "How rare a thing to behold." This time Aramis and Porthos chuckled together.

"Nevertheless, he is right." Athos cut in. "That is information of the utmost importance and we should present it to the Captain as quickly as we can."

"Alright," Aramis offered, refocusing on the matter at hand as he looked at the river. "We could split up? Two of us upriver, two down, look for this elusive bridge?"

Athos nodded. "Porthos, you and d'Artagnan head upstream, while Aramis and I will head down river. Whoever finds anything, a bridge or just a suitable crossing, fire a shot."

Nothing more was said, the four broke out into groups of two and headed their separate ways. One headed east, the other in a more southwesterly direction, carefully navigating the banks of the treacherous water.

Aramis lead the way along the river, moving up and away from the rushing water as they rode single file. They spent an hour or more within earshot of the rushing water, noting how the terrain rose somewhat steeply beneath their horses' hooves where the earth had been altered greatly by the heavy rains and flooded river. Several times, they had to encourage their horses to ford small streams that had broken through the soft ground and were beginning to create creeks of their own in other directions. Thankfully those cut-throughs were easily handled.

For the most part.

After that first hour and at a particularly wider juncture where water had begun cutting its own direction, they'd done as before, and got their horses to jump the small stream. Aramis had gone first, his horse clearing the small gorge easily, Athos following. Roger had done well enough but the ground seemed to shift when he landed and the animal shied frightfully to one side, shrieking in fear. Aramis turned in time to see the earth all but disappear from its back legs as they came down.

Athos made a grab for the reins, attempting to get his mount under control. Aramis was quickly out of the saddle as the horse continued to flounder. He rushed to grab the horse's bridle, striving to bring the frightened horse the rest of the way up until his back legs were once more on solid footing.

By all outward appearances, they made it unscathed, though it took some time to get the horse to settle. Roger was not despondent. He snorted, stomped and threw his head about, clearly unhappy with his master for having betrayed him in some manner.

After several minutes, Aramis finally got the animal to lower his head and he began talking quietly to the beast. When it seemed he'd succeeded in calming the horse, Aramis released his bridle and repositioned himself to the animal's side. He continued to stroke its forehead gently, Roger growing more docile by the moment.

"What…" Athos exhaled, the danger passed, "did you say to him and was that... Latin?"

Aramis tossed a grin over his shoulder as he moved back to his own horse, gathered up his reins and prepared to mount. "It was a prayer in Latin." Once he was settled in the saddle he looked at Athos and shrugged. "Works on my horse all the time and I noticed on yours too when I visit the stables. Yours," he pointed, "dislikes the farrier when he's re-shod. So, I talk to him and he seems to calm."

"Huh," Athos reached down and stroked the horse's neck. "I did not know this about him."

"You should visit the stables more often."

"I don't know any prayers either…"

Aramis nodded, his face taking a mock serious tone. "I take that back. You should visit a priest more often."

Athos moved his horse next to Aramis. "I hear the wine is dreadful."

"Ah, but it's free."

"No, it's not," Athos deadpanned and moved to take the lead.

Aramis smiled and fell in behind Athos, the pair of them once more on the move.

It soon became apparent that Roger hadn't fully recovered his nerve. His earlier scare seemed to make the horse recalcitrant at approaching even the smallest stream, jittery when skirting it meant getting closer to the river. He grew more agitated as they continued and it was all Athos could do to keep him on task and obedient to his commands.

It seemed to worsen rather than improve when a large tree, gnarled and flipping about in the water, smashed into the bank just ahead of them. The impact displaced the water in a terrible splash, great enough to send water raining about them. Too frightened to continue, the horse tossed his head and started to skitter back.

Aramis moved his horse to one side to stay out if the way. "Athos, perhaps you should dismount. Let him figure himself out a moment."

"Can—" he dug his heels in to try and change his direction. "Can you not say something to him in Latin?"

"I think he's beyond hearing sweet words now."

"Come on, Roger..." Athos gritted. "Easy boy." For a moment, the horse seemed to settle but if his head-tossing were anything to go by, it was a tentative truce between man and beast. "There, that is… mostly better."

"That is not my definition of better, mostly or otherwise." Aramis cringed when the animal raised his front legs, only to come down and began pawing at the ground. "Truly Athos, dismount of your own free will before he forces the matter..."

"He will be fine," Athos countered, though it seemed more for his own benefit, "once we find that bridge and put some distance between us and this river."

Aramis wanted to say more but Athos was already well ahead of him, clearly indicating the matter was settled. He prayed to God it was and touched his heels to his horse's side, moving to close the distance.

He almost made it.

Counter to Athos' words, Roger continued his restlessness. He refused any attempt to return near the water's edge, even when the terrain dictated they should. The ground seemed to rise where the water had cut into the earth, carving out large chunks and carrying them downstream. Whole root systems lay exposed at the edge, the river cutting in around and through them before moving on.

Roger just worked his way up one small mound when a terrible crack split the air.

A tree, barely clinging to the ground in which it had grown for decades, dislodged a large, severely waterlogged branch. The thing split down into the core of the trunk, the sound of it like that of five muskets firing simultaneously. For Athos' mount, already spooked and on the verge, it was more than enough.

Roger whinnied in fright and reared fully upright this time. Aramis could only watch, helpless to stop it as Athos tumbled out of the saddle.

"Athos!" Aramis shouted as he jumped from his horse.

The swordsman landed on uneven ground and immediately began tumbling down the embankment. The river waiting eagerly to receive him.

"No…" Aramis ran but the slippery ground hampered his movement. "Athos!"

Athos disappeared over the ledge, followed seconds later by a heart rending splash.

Still in pursuit, Aramis stopped short of the water's edge, nearly falling in himself as the soft ground gave way beneath his foot. He grabbed hold of a nearby sapling tree to steady himself and locked eyes with Athos. The muddy water all but had him in its grasp, swirling around him as if preparing to ensnare him further.

"Take my hand!" Aramis tried to stretch out and reach him but it was no use. It was too far.

Just as Aramis thought to run back to his horse for rope, the water surged. It was as if an unseen hand grabbed Athos and jerked him away. Athos flailed wildly before he was dragged out from the bank and into the current.

"Athos!" Aramis shouted and watched in terror as Athos was quickly swallowed by the current and whisked out of sight.

Cursing under his breath, Aramis spun, slipped and clawed his way up the muddy slope until his feet hit solid ground and he was able to rush back to his mount. He made a quick grab for the reins only to have his horse toss its head, whipping the leather cord out of reach as he nickered nervously.

"Oh, not you too…" Aramis grumbled.

There was no time for the beast's ruffled emotions. The water was moving fast and the longer he delayed, the further away Athos was moving. Anger surged as Aramis shot a hand out, grabbed the rein and tugged the reluctant animal forward. He held it only long enough to snatch the coil of rope from the pommel, then, caring not what the animal did, he took off, loping along the side of the bank, eyes locked on the river. Looking for a sign of his friend…

He'd nearly fallen into despair when a large, oddly shaped clump breached the rushing water midway out.

Athos.

Still too far for Aramis to reach, he could only watch as Athos' body bobbed and tumbled to the surface. His arms flailed about, desperate for something to stop his careening momentum.

"Athos!" Aramis shouted, breath coming out in wet clouds, eyes darting between his struggling friend and the terrain in front of him as he ran. "Hold on! I'll get to you! Hold. On!"

In a moment sure to haunt his dreams, Aramis caught a glimpse of Athos' face, one last time before the water pulled him under once more. Terrified.

"No…" he whispered, to God, the Devil, to Mother Nature or whomever that seemed determined to make this Athos' day to slip the surly bonds of this earth. No.

Swearing this would not be that day Aramis found new resolve.

Without stopping or missing a step, Aramis looped the coil of rope around his neck and left arm, leaving his hands free to unbuckled his weapons belt. He palmed a pistol in each hand as the leather strap fell away, no longer hampering his stride. Aramis now ran faster along the soggy ground, keeping one eye on the river, one on the way ahead, wary of the debris that littered his path, hidden in the tall grass as he raced along.

Prayers rolled of his lips as he glanced at the river, searching the angry waters for anything familiar. Still no sign of Athos. Neither stopping nor slowing, he quickly raised one of the pistols high and fired it into the air, tethering a prayer to the shot that the sound and the words carried back to their friends.

A massive tree lay on its side just ahead; he saw it only seconds before colliding with it. He had just enough time to toss the spent pistol aside, plant his free hand on the rough surface and leverage himself up and over. Without missing a beat, Aramis was off at a run again, barely stopping to regain his balance as his feet hit the ground.

His gaze swung anxiously to the river, hoping for another glimpse of Athos. When none came, Aramis had to trust to the fact that the water was moving too fast for him to properly get a glimpse of anything and so he surged forward. He raised his second pistol, and fired it next. Porthos and d'Artagnan would not expect a second shot.

Glancing once more to the water, Aramis caught sight of a strange shaped black lump pressed up against a large bolder. He skittered to a halt, chest heaving and studied it. The protrusion was too small to be a tree, too solid to be any sort of brush, or one of a various assortment of dead animals swept off by the river's fury.

It was Athos. It had to be.

And his body was trapped against a large rock out in the center of the river. Athos' back was to him, head resting partially against the rock and on his shoulder at an off angle.

The sight of it left Aramis' heart lurching. He moved as close to the bank as he dared, cupped his hands around his mouth and called out. "Athos!"

There was no response. Short of his body ebbing occasionally with the pulse of the water, Athos did not move.

Aramis tried to calm himself. The water was loud; could be the roar of the river washing out all other sound. Could be he had taken too much water in his ears and could not hear. Could be anything, but he was most certainly not dead.

Athos was, however, in grave trouble. Sheltered behind a large boulder in the swift moving water, he could not move, for if he did, the current would surely take him once more. The rock was truly his salvation.

For now.

"Hang on, Athos!" Aramis shouted. Still no response.

A plan quickly took shape and Aramis began unwinding his sash. After shrugging out of his doublet, he dropped the leather garment and considered removing his breeches next, only to dismiss the idea. While some clothing would hamper movement, the breeches would be an extra layer between his flesh and the cold. With the doublet gone, he rewrapped the sash about his waist to offer protection against the chaffing of the rope. His boots were off next and when that was done he rose to consider his next step.

Mud cooled the bottoms of his feet as they sank into the soft wet ground but he didn't feel it. He licked his lips, taking in the scene before him. Athos had not moved.

There was another rock, not quite as large as the one protecting Athos, but large enough that if Aramis could get to it, would make a good mid-point, out and back. He gauged the distance and while he'd rather move a bit further upriver to tie off his line, and let the current ease him out and reserve his strength, Aramis hadn't the luxury of chance that the angle would see him run out of rope before he could reach Athos.

No. He had to play this conservatively. He'd tie off closer, maybe afford a small angle and do the rest himself. He was a strong swimmer, and while that would help he knew in his heart, swimming wasn't the problem. The problem was that this wasn't water one swam in…

This was water one died in…

Grabbing up the coil of rope, he thought to remove his breeches for their added weight but quickly dismissed the idea. The water would be cold and he would need all the layers he had. Though it would make things more difficult. He would simply have to overcome.

A location to tie his rope was not easily had. He scanned the bank for anything to use as anchor. While wisdom dictated he tie off to a tree less likely to have roots in soft silt, thus further from the water, he was not altogether certain he had enough rope to get to Athos in the first place. No. He needed something closer to the water's edge to be on the safe side.

After a hasty search, he came upon one. It wasn't much as trees go but it was slightly up river without being too far, and offered just enough of an angle to make it work. Hopefully, it would help preserve his strength until he reached the first rock. Aramis knew all to well the power of swollen rivers and he'd need his strength and then some if he was to have any hope of success.

The tree's placement made it ideal not only for its location up river, but the fact that it was so close to the shore. Hell, it was partially in the water and with plenty of places to tie in the exposed roots.

Aramis uncoiled the length of rope and tied one end around his waist, over his sash before securing the knots as tightly as he dared. If only one of them came loose…

That task done, he took a deep breath and carefully climbed down the embankment, to reach the tree that would service as his anchor.

The marksman was halfway down when he nearly lost his footing, his weight sending more of the ground crumbling beneath him. Holding absolutely still, the earth seemed to solidify and he was able to slow his descent as first one foot sank beneath the water, then the next. The chill sent an almost blinding shock up his body but one look at Athos was enough to shove that feeling aside. He was having his first taste of the gelid water; Athos had been submerged in it for too long already.

More in control of himself, he examined the trees roots once more and plunged his hands into the water, tying the rope around a sturdy part of the tree's roots while he could still move his fingers. When he was done, he straightened, tugged at the rope to reassure himself it was secure and turned to look at Athos once more.

He hadn't moved. Which on one hand was good, on another, not so good.

"I'm coming Athos," Aramis shouted. He offered a quick prayer, crossed himself and waded out into the deeper water.

In those first three steps, Aramis quickly learned two things. One, being a strong swimmer was definitely a good thing and two, what he could see wasn't the problem. It was what he could not see.

The undertow.

It was, in fact, that thought that occurred to him just a bit too late as he was quickly ripped off his feet and catapulted down river.

~§~

"Can you swim?"

Porthos looked at d'Artagnan, noting how his eyes looked worriedly at the river. "Not a lick. You?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, lifting his horse's hoof to get at the mud lodged in the shoe. "Not much call to learn on a farm. Oh, there was a small pond not far where we fetched water for the livestock but um… nothing like that," he inclined his head to the rushing water a few yards away.

"Aramis did try to teach me once."

"Aramis swims?" He stopped a moment to look up to where his friend still sat his horse.

"Like a bloody fish. Athos, too, if need be, but he hates it. Aramis however," Porthos shook his head and chuckled. "You'd think he might have gills hidden underneath his armpits."

D'Artagnan chuckled, the image clearing some of his apprehension. "So you're not worried then, about getting across?"

Porthos shook his head. "Nah… done it before. It's why we carry rope in our gear." He looked curiously at the boy. "You?"

"Not necessarily," d'Artagnan said straddling another hoof between his thighs and cleaning it as he had the others, "though I don't relish it. I much prefer to find that bridge, or continue believing it exists for now."

Porthos didn't laugh. He knew the boy's fears all too well, had lived them, in fact, and he had only been a bit younger than d'Artagnan at the time when he'd experienced such fear. While running with his friends in the Court of Miracles, he'd fallen into the Seine. If Charon hadn't been there to fish him out… Well, Porthos'd had nightmares for weeks after. Admittedly, the water then had been nothing like what they faced now.

Much as Aramis had ribbed him about the girl back at the tavern when they first arrived at the river's edge, he knew, and even appreciated his friends' true intent. It was in effort to take his mind of what they may yet have to do because, regardless of the thousands of rivers they'd crossed in the past, it never ceased to shake Porthos at his core. He didn't wish that on anybody, certainly on the younger member of their group.

Porthos twisted in the saddle to look behind them. "I hope Aramis and Athos are having better luck than we are," he grumbled, letting his horse snag at some tall grass and chew on it quietly. The water continued to thunder past just to their left, like an angry beast, ready to devour them.

"I doubt it, or we'd have heard from them by now."

"Could be they're just making sure the crossing is safe," he offered staring at the water, "or found that bridge and are making certain it's sturdy."

"Maybe," d'Artagnan hedged as he finished and returned the animal's foot back to the ground. Standing straight, he patted the animal gently on the neck. "I'd be happy if we could just find some ground that wasn't so mired and thick." He wiped his hands on his pants. "That's the fourth time we've had to stop and clean out their hooves."

Porthos nodded. "Might be we'll just have to return to that village and stay another day or two." He stared dourly at the rushing water.

"The Captain won't be happy. We're already days late as it is."

"Yea, but he'll understand. It's not like we planned this."

D'Artagnan mounted up once more and looked at the ground around them. "I think we should stay further away from the bank, see if the ground's a bit more solid. We can see the river well enough from back here."

"Sounds good," Porthos lightly dug heels in his horse's side and together they moved off. "Regardless, if we don't find anyplace to cross in the next few hours, we'll have to either turn back or—"

A shot echoed faintly off in the distance and they both froze.

"Was that...?"

Porthos grinned. "They found the bridge." He turned his horse back the way they'd come, though made it a point not to get too close to the thick mud nearer the river's edge. "Come on."

D'Artagnan smiled, relief evident on his face. "Thank God. I was all but certain we'd be spending the night in the rain. Again."

"Not in the rain," Porthos replied, a wistful look on his face. "Told you already. We'd've gone back to that tavern."

D'Artagnan grinned. "You and Annette, eh?"

Porthos nodded earnestly. "Indeed. I could look at her for days and never tire of her."

"You sure looking at her is all you want to do?"

Porthos looked at him sourly. "You've been hanging about with Aramis too much."

Another shot rang out, this one fainter than the last and both men drew to a halt. As one they looked in the direction of the sound.

"A second shot," D'Artagnan said, his voice full of dread as he fidgeted in the saddle. "There was only supposed to be one." He looked at the larger man next to him, the question and answer playing in his eyes.

"Could mean only one thing," Porthos stated grimly as he kicked his horse with greater urgency this time. "Trouble!"

~§~

Aramis managed to get his head above the surface, blinking furiously, trying to clear the river water from his eyes. He took stock of his predicament and grimaced at where the rope bit into his side.

The rope was taught where it was anchored to the tree, thankfully, his body being buffeted by the force of the water as he tried to regain his senses. The water had not only carried him well past his first intended mark, but the rock where Athos was pinned. Water dripped down his head and he licked at his lips, the familiar tang of blood mixing with the dirty water confirming his suspicions that he'd hit his head on something when he'd been swept down river.

Affording himself no more time to lick his wounds or lament the demise of his well-thought-out plan of letting the river do most of the work for him, he reached out with stiff, swollen fingers, wrapped them around the rope and pulled. The first attempt was dismal, but the next and the one after that were more productive.

Getting slack in the rope moved him closer to the first rock but also eased the pull on his midsection and for that, he was eternally grateful. Floating his legs out behind him, he began kicking, using his legs to push against the pull of the water. Between the tugging and kicking, he managed to get closer to the first rock, looping the slack he created, around his wrist to secure it in preparation for the next.

Aramis settled into a rhythm. Pull. Wrap. Kick. Pull. Wrap. Kick. It became his focus.

The beats in between left Aramis time to think and the absence of his gloves were his greatest regret. He hadn't thought to keep hold of them when he'd dropped his weapons belt. That, he realized as he watched the ropes squeeze the flesh of his fingers, making the skin a funny blue and white color, had been poorly planned.

He pulled harder, feeling his shoulders burn and spitting out more of the brackish river water that splashed his face relentlessly. Blinking the water from his eyes at every successful inch forward, Aramis turned his head to look at the larger rock, hoping for a glimpse of Athos when he lost his rhythm.

The marksman's hand missed and did not grasp the rope tight enough and before he realized it, the water shot him backward once more. At the last minute, the rope coiled around his wrist caught and he was jerked to a stop.

The rope burned where it dug into his flesh but Aramis was able to wrap his free hand around it and alleviate the strain as he pulled enough to get both hands working, tugging to make up the distance he'd lost.

It felt like an eternity, and he was exhausted beyond measure, but he finally made it to the first rock. The closer he got to it, however, the more the water seemed more determined to deny him victory— the torrent around it pummeling him ruthlessly.

The current behind the rock was nearly nonexistent. With no opposing force, he moved to take shelter and once there, pressed his body to the stone, using his legs to get in close. He felt the force of the water ease quickly and once there, tucked himself close, resting his back and head against the boulder, panting.

While fearful of what he would see when he opened his eyes, Aramis steeled himself for the sight he dreaded most, and lolled his head to his right. He slowly opened his eyes and gasped.

Athos was not only still lodged up against the rock, but his eyes were open. He was looking directly at Aramis.

Aramis did not trust his watery gaze immediately and blinked several times before smiling, a nearly hysterical laugh cutting through the ever-present drone of the water. Elation was soon tempered. Athos did not return his joy but instead, his pale, blue tinged face was drawn up in a deep, resentful glower.

"What?" Aramis shouted across the current, a distance at which he was sure to hear. "You think I would leave you?" He shook his head and smiled tremulously when Athos rolled his eyes.

"You're a fool!" Athos shouted back.

Aramis smiled wider. "Sorry… can't hear you." He gestured to the water that rushed angrily between them. "You'll have to come tell me that to my face!"

Athos merely shook his head in frustration, his lips moving as he looked away. Aramis could not hear what he was saying but he'd no doubt they were not complimentary.

Ignoring Athos' reluctance for the moment, Aramis felt at the rope around his midsection. It was still knotted securely but had ridden up above his sash and had become considerably tighter, likely made so when he'd been snapped to the end of his tether earlier. He noted too, as he felt around, that at some point in all the swirling, pulling, and jerking against the coarse fiber, it had torn through his shirt and the line had started to cut into his flesh. For the first time he was thankful for the chill of the water – for while it pained him some, he was too numb to feel more than a dull sting.

"Well?" Athos shouted. "Now what?"

Aramis continued to pay him no mind, moving his fingers next along the outstretched line where it bowed against the current and connected them to the shore. He managed to gather roughly four arms lengths of slack before there was no more to be had.

"Aramis!"

The marksman looked again to the distance that separated him from Athos, his mind turning quickly. The five paces that separated them might as well be fifty as there wasn't enough rope to reach his friend. But if they could meet somewhere in the middle… It would feel like far more for what he now felt compelled to ask…

"Aramis…?"

"You're going to move toward me, stretch as far as you can then I'll grab you before you can be swept away."

"You—what?" Athos' eyes went comically wide. "You're serious?"

"I know it sounds risky—"

"Not for you. You have a rope!"

"We have no other choice."

"Yes we do." Athos eyed the bank. "We do what you should have done before instead of risking your life. We wait for Porthos and d'Artagnan to find us."

"Look at your hands!" Aramis shouted angrily. "Now look at my face. This red color on my cheeks is not due to my blushing nature… you know what that means. If we stay in here much longer, the cold will take us as surely as the current."

Aramis had never seen Athos lose that well-bred cool, so long ingrained in his upbringing, until today. It was eroding away with the swift moving water that threatened to become his grave, the uncontrolled pitch, roll and tumble that had carried for leagues when he likely thought he would die this way. And the moment Aramis was asking for now, to risk doing it all again, punctuated as he slapped the water, teeth gritted in anger.

The swordsman mumbled something that Aramis didn't quite catch. "Athos...?"

"I said fine…" he yelled back at him. "If we live through this—"

"When." Aramis countered as his hands moved beneath the water to test the rope and gather the slack, intending to let it out as was needed.

"I just may shoot you."

"Agreed," Aramis shrugged a bit, squaring his feet against the rock, preparing to move but never taking his eyes off his friend. "Seems counterproductive to our survival but if violence gives you courage, you may shoot me twice..."

Athos was doing the same, making the same preparations, searching the rock with his hand for a possible place get a hold. "Don't tempt me…"

"Ready?"

Athos nodded. "No."

"I'm going to step off on three. You go on my command. Understood?"

Athos gave an angled nod of understanding. "I really hate you."

"I'm too pretty to hate," Aramis countered with a grin. "On three. Remember wait for my—"

"Go, damn you!"

There was barely a hair's breadth between their movements. Aramis leaped toward Athos and shouted for him to reach mere seconds after. Their hands brushed but the undertow—Aramis had all but forgotten its grip and power—it tore Athos abruptly away. Feeling the air leave his lungs, the marksman shouted angrily watching in horror as his friend disappeared from sight. Just as before.

Aramis hit the current and was immediately pulled along next. But he held fast to the slack in the rope while craning his neck, searching for Athos.

A moment later, Athos flailed to the surface. Gathering his legs beneath him, Aramis launched himself once more, this time toward Athos who had managed to get himself turned, hands trying desperately to grapple anything in Aramis' direction, eyes wide in that same terror he'd seen earlier.

This time, however, Aramis would not lose sight of him.

The coil of rope spun out of his hand as he rose out of the water, swimming with all his might to make up for the rapidly moving current that, for the first time, was not moving fast enough for him. He had no idea how much length was left, and if it came to it, he was prepared to simply untie that knot and go after his friend.

The motion of his limbs so long submerged in frigid water set his arms and legs on fire. He would not lose Athos. He would not. He'd trusted him. This had been his idea. He would not let him down.

"Ar—" cough "'Mis—"

Aramis heard him over the roar of the water and raised his head. "Athos—" he was right in front of him, one hand extended to him and Aramis did the same, shoved one hand out, stretching his body along the current, feeling the pull on his sides. He tucked his other arm tight to his side, straighten his legs out behind him and found new speed in the current.

"Gr—" he spat out water. "Kick! Grab my ha-hand!"

Athos face pinched in concentration. His feet and legs kicked at the current, trying to find push against the pull, while Aramis pushed against the shove.

Success was measured in inches. Each one tested when Athos stopped swimming long enough to test his reach, only to come up short. Then he swam again, legs kicking furiously behind him, another inch made, another attempt to get a hold, this time Aramis felt his fingers graze his hand.

Aramis flailed for him… nothing.

The marksman growled in combined frustration and determination, shoving his hand out harder, kicking his legs in frenzied resolve. Then he felt it. The solid hold as Athos grabbed the top of his hand. First one, then after a tenacious flurry of legs kicking at the water, Aramis doing the same, his other grabbed the bottom of Aramis' wrist and held tight.

Aramis, his palm down, grasped him back.

They were suddenly jerked to a stop. Aramis felt his wrist snap, the pain and shock traveling up his arm like a sword shoved up through his palm, skewering his arm. The jolt was nearly enough to make him lose his hold, but Athos saw the moment something changed in his eyes and held tight as Aramis howled in pain, the force of it making him clamp his hand all the harder on his friend's wrist.

Water rushed in his mouth and he spat at it manically. It was too much all at once. The fear of drowning, the utter panicked need to stop the pain as the rope continued to pull on his tormented limb, nearly robbing his senses. Then he felt a hand on his face as he dangled there in the water, the current rocking against him, bouncing around him, demanding to go through him…

"Aramis!"

The voice pulled at him, grounded him. "Aramis… Listen to me!"

And he did. Aramis raised his head and looked into the eyes of his friend. A man he'd known for nearly a decade. Water slapped at his face, making him blind to all else, but he never took his eyes off Athos. "I'm— I'm here…" he panted.

"Broken…?" Athos panted as he spat more of the river as they bobbed in the current, the rope tied to Aramis ruined hand the only thing keeping them anchored.

The thought turned Aramis gut so he tried to push it aside. "I thin-k so. Or dislocated."

"We've got to head back. Get to shore."

Aramis read it in his eyes. The journey would be excruciating for him and the marksman saw the apology in his gaze but nodded. "Together…"

Athos nodded and reached for the rope, Aramis doing the same with his free hand and together they pulled. It worked, though Athos did most of the work with two working hands, and they both kicked their legs, pushing to a constantly ravaging current. Aramis took up the slack with his good hand and insisted Athos wrap some of it around his wrist, just in case. The former Comte didn't argue.

~§~

"Isn't that Athos' horse?" D'Artagnan halted, pointing.

"Sure is," Porthos murmured, urging his horse past the Gascon and catching up with Roger. Lathered and not the least bit happy to see the larger Musketeer, the animal tossed his head, reins slapping about the air wildly, the leather straps matching the horse's mood.

Roger bared his teeth when Porthos reached for his bridle and the big man withdrew his hand quickly, narrowly escaped losing a finger. "I've never seen him act like this before."

D'Artagnan was out of his saddle and walking cautiously toward the skittish horse, hands patting the air between them, trying to soothe it. "Easy now..." the boy called quietly as he approached, noting the thick mud trail covering its hind legs. "Looks as if he slipped. Could be what got his dander up."

"Think Athos fell off?" Porthos twisted in the saddle, scanning the area for their possibly fallen comrade while d'Artagnan moved closer to the spooked animal. "Don't see Aramis or his horse about either."

Through careful maneuvering and whispered words of calm, Roger held as d'Artagnan moved in close enough to obtain one of the loose reins, even then taking up the slack slowly so as not to startle him. Roger, however, seemed in need of the comfort offered and moved forward, nickering as he nuzzled the Gascon's outstretched hand.

"I need to look around," Porthos turned his horse, eyes locked on the river scant yards from where they stood, his face grim. "See if you can keep him calm before you move him."

A shrill whinny cut the air and Roger's interest was piqued immediately as he answered. Twisting in the saddle, Porthos saw another horse, moving toward him, head high, ears peeked, legs high in an excited trot. Stable mates, these horses had a sense for one another, he realized, watching as Aramis' horse beat a path toward him – the stirrups flapping as he moved, not anchored by his rider.

Unlike Roger, Porthos had no trouble catching Fidget's reins. D'Artagnan moved up and patted the horse on the neck, before inspecting the saddle. "No blood on the saddle, that's good," the boy offered before looking up at his companion curiously.

Porthos didn't respond, his gaze locked on the river. "Tie the horses off and meet me at the river's edge." He didn't wait for a response, dug heels into his horse's' sides and took off.

~§~

"I'm— n-not going anywhere near w-water again, at least for a year after th-this," Athos muttered, his lips trembling.

"Af—after th-is you're supposed to sh—shoot me."

"Yes. After this."

They'd discovered if they move at an angle along the current, they'd reach the shore faster. Not easier necessarily, for the current was less accommodating to any of their plans, as they'd come to realize. But, the idea of it cut the distance considerably and that was the goal.

Their angled trajectory was less of a straight line and more likened to a night in a tavern, Athos deep in his cups and trying to make his way back to his rooms afterward. Athos bristled when Aramis voiced the comparison, arguing he could walk a straight line regardless of how much wine he'd put away. In truth, the marksman had to agree. Athos was a drinker of a professional level and alcohol rarely had much effect on him now.

"If-f you stopped d-drinking. What do you suppose would h-happen to you?"

"I'd die."

Aramis looked at him. "Then don't. Don't want you died."

"You mean dead."

"That either. Would have made this whole day a ter-terrible waste."

It went on like that as they worked their way to shore. The shore… like some mirage for a man dying of thirst in the desert only, at this point, a desert seemed endlessly preferable.

Aramis kept his eyes on the rope as they moved. They were already exhausted and shivering, the struggle to reach the shore had become a living Hell, the water a constant tormentor. For every two pulls forward, they were knocked back one, but fought to make it up in another two, another yank of the slack. Another inch of ground made, before it slipped away, the force and the cold undermining their efforts, sapping their strength.

Both men fought to keep their path steady, side by side, anchoring one another physically, mentally and in every way that counted. A kick forward, another, a pull of the rope, ground made and lost and if it were not for the inches of slack newly added to the coil that now acted as a sort of splint around Aramis' wrist, they would think it all in vain.

But it was not, so they kept at it. Another two, another pull of the rope. Kick. Pull, and again.

Another Kick. And ano—

The sound of crashing upriver caught Aramis' attention and he slowed. It grew louder and he stopped, held the rope tight and stared upstream. "Athos…" he called when he realized Athos' head remained bent to the line, pulling.

"What..?" Athos stopped, gaze following Aramis' upriver.

Together they watched as something large and dark rounded the bend in the river. Tossed and turning in the waves, it careened unchecked in the turbulent water. When it turned, Aramis gasped. A large, nearly intact tree hurdled down the rapids right for them.

They needed to get out of the way. He looked at the distance to the shore and knew it was no use. They wouldn't be able to move fast enough to get there. That left them only one option.

"The slack," he swallowed shouting at Athos. "Take the slack off your wrist. Hurry!"

Athos needed no further urging. He quickly uncoiled the length of rope and Aramis followed suit, the water already grabbing their feet and lifting them as if knowing of their haste. For once on their side.

The last of it fell away from Aramis broken limb. He tucked it in tight to his chest and grabbed on to his friend. Athos did the same with him as they were once more pulled back out into the more tumultuous waters. Struggling to keep their heads above the torrent, moving further from the shore.

Further from safety...

~§~

"Aramis!"

"Athos!"

D'Artagnan and Porthos lowered their hands and listened for a reply. Even the slightest sound would do. But when none came they dropped their hands and moved along the river's edge, both of them locked in a silent battle against doubt and their deepest fears realized.

No. Porthos shook his head as his eyes scanned the river, while he walked along the water's edge. They could not die. Not this way. Soldiers died in battle, not in some overgrown stream out in the middle of nowhere. This was not how it ended for them. He'd not believe it.

Something tickled his thumb and he gripped Aramis' hat tighter in his hand, not daring to take his eyes off the river. That audacious feather brushed against his hand, oddly soothing to his troubled mind. When they'd come upon the marksman's gear, his doublet, pistols and weapons belt, they'd gathered them and piled them near a tree to come back for after… after they'd found them.

But when the larger musketeer had seen his hat, he'd kept it. The brim of it fisted tightly in one hand as he'd stalked along the river searching. D'Artagnan had wisely kept quiet about it.

~§~

Aramis spat out more water and cursed.

It wasn't Aramis' nature to do so, but their predicament bordered on ridiculous and infuriating all in one breath. They'd gotten so close to shore only to find themselves back where they'd started, this time instead of behind the rock, they were in front of it. And the only thing keeping the current from crushing them, was the very tree they'd been desperate to avoid in the first place.

The tree was no longer Aramis main concern. When the current took them again, it had whipped them angrily into the rapids, spinning them around to the point that Aramis lost Athos for a moment. While he'd managed to reclaim him, it was not before the swordsman smashed his head on a rock and lost consciousness.

The second after Aramis secured an unresponsive Athos back in his arms, the tree twisted in the water and shoved into them, forcing them even more off course. Not that there was much of a course to begin with, but there had been an illusion of a course that Aramis had rather liked, especially considering all the frustrating lack of control at having been at the river's mercy for so long.

So, when Aramis had seen the rock they were heading toward, he'd held Athos tight, intent on protecting him from smashing into yet another rock, only to have his wrist absorb the blow instead. He was all but certain the thing was broken. It didn't hurt nearly so bad as his side, which he was sure was bleeding profusely where one of the branches had ripped a deep line in his flesh along his ribcage.

So really, Aramis was due for a blessing. Or fifty. He would atone for it later, if there was, a later. Or in person.

No, Aramis shook his head where he rested it against the rock, it was not time to die. This was not how he—or any of them—died. It was to be on some forgotten battlefield, as he and Porthos had discussed on many occasions.

One of the branches shifted – the one shoving hard at his shoulder – but he didn't dare move to relieve the pressure. If he did, the trunk of the tree that was holding back much of the force of the water from most assuredly crushing his chest, would be free to do so. So really, becoming a pincushion for the branches was preferable.

They would have to think of someth—no. He. He would have to think of something because Athos wasn't thinking of anything and they could not stay here forever. And he would. Eventually. For now, he could rest, keep Athos' head above water, and just rest, because God, he was so very tired. And cold. And wet.

And hallucinating. His mind must be playing tricks on him or perhaps his waterlogged ears were because he swore he could hear…

"P'rths…" Aramis cleared his throat, threw back his head and tried again. "Porthos!"

~§~

"Hold," Porthos shouted and stilled. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Seconds ticked by and there. A faint shout… "That." Porthos scanned the water and slowly started to walk, keeping his foot-falls as quiet as he could.

D'Artagnan watched him long seconds, listening until he threw out his arms, shaking his head. Then he too stilled. "I… I hear," he canted his head and looked at the water. "That's—"

"Aramis," Porthos murmured as he took off running along the water. "Aramis!" he shouted, out of his periphery noting d'Artagnan keeping pace.

"Aramis! Athos!" he called next.

They hadn't gone more than a dozen paces before stopping. The voice could not have carried much further than that. But there was no one. Just piles of debris clinging to rocks, the rolling river splashing against them, sending spray up as it collided and sped past the smooth stones.

"They've got to be here," Porthos looked around anxiously, starting to move, his stride shorter. "Aramis! Athos!"

"There!" d'Artagnan shouted, pointing at a large tree in the water.

Porthos' gaze followed the direction of his hand and he saw it. A piece of stained blue cloth, wet and filthy, but oh so familiar. Aramis' sash. It was draped haphazardly over the top of one of the branches. It clung to the wood, the intent a desperate attempt to be seen.

"Aramis!" he had a foot in the water when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Porthos, no!" d'Artagnan shouted. "You can't!"

Porthos spun on him, ready to shake him off because he would not waste time arguing. Then he turned again and looked at the water and felt his heart plummet.

No. No he couldn't. Not like this.

Porthos gritted his teeth stared at the tree, trying to catch a glimpse of his friend. "Aramis!" he cupped his hands around his mouth. "Can you hear me?"

A beat, or five passed, more than either of them cared for when an answer came.

"'B'-bout time!"

Porthos would have smiled but there was still the matter of…

"Athos is with me!" Aramis called back. "Unconscious but alive."

Porthos and d'Artagnan all but deflated in relief.

"We'll get ropes and come out to you!" d'Artagnan called back, Porthos already turning to go back to where they had left their horses.

"No!" A wet cough followed the order. The tree rustled, wood snapped and they could now see Aramis' face peeking through. "Too risky..," he shook his head, "…debris e-everywhere."

Aramis sounded rough. Weak. Failing. But that was nothing compared to how he looked. From what Porthos could see of his face it was pale, and had a sickly grey tinge to it. Porthos could not make out Athos from this distance but he was sure he fared no better. Clearly, whatever they were going to do, they had better figure it out now.

"You'll…" Aramis coughed harshly. "You'll have to cut… cut the rope."

Porthos and d'Artagnan shared a curious look before facing Aramis once more. "Rope?" d'Artagnan shouted. "What rope?"

It was quiet a moment. "Tied just up river to… w-willow tree."

Porthos watched as D'Artagnan moved over next to the tree and stared at the base before reaching his hands below water. "Aramis…" Porthos called to his friend, "what's the rope for?"

"I— Athos fell from his horse. Used it to get to him."

"Got it!"

Porthos glanced at the Gascon as he lifted some of the submerged twine then back to stare at Aramis incredulously. "So that's the only thing keeping you two from being swept away... and you want us to cut it?" he finished already shaking his head. "Have you bloody lost your bloody mind?"

"Can't you swim under the tree?" d'Artagnan shouted back. "Then all you do is hold on and we'll pull you both in!"

Porthos nodded. "I like that idea better," he started to move over to where the young musketeer stood.

"Can't!" Aramis coughed some more, his voice grating, tiring from having to outshout the river. "Not with Athos unconscious. You'll have to cut us loose. Take our ch-chances downriver."

"Porthos…?"

"No…" Porthos was shaking his head, hearing the conciliation in the younger man's voice. "No." The larger musketeer turned to look at d'Artagnan. "No. We can't."

"They're wedged out there," D'Artagnan argued carefully. "And fading fast. There's really no better option."

"Just lots of bad ones…" Porthos muttered. He hesitated only a moment more before finally giving a nod of his head. "Fine." He pointed at d'Artagnan. "But you give me a count of fifteen to get downriver before you cut it. Hear me?"

"Right," d'Artagnan agreed and Porthos knew the lad needed no further explanation. The Gascon stepped off the bank and into the water to get hold of the rope, while drawing his main gauche and waited.

Watching the lad, Porthos felt his heart plummet at what they were about to do.

"Aramis…!" Porthos shouted. The marksman had been fiddling with something and turned at his call. "I'll be well down river, waiting for you. You see me reach for you, you grab my hand, you hear me?"

"I'd be disappointed if you weren't," Aramis shouted back, his voice hoarse. "But you'd best get a running start!"

Porthos nodded and turned to leave. "Fifteen!" he shouted over his shoulder at the boy and then he was running as fast as his feet could carry him, his heart in his throat and his stomach in knots.

This had to work. Porthos had to find somewhere he could get to them. He had to…

~§~

D'Artagnan crouched in the water, counting. Aramis broke out into a coughing fit. He listened as it carried on for far too long before stopping.

"Aramis..?" he called.

There were a few more intermittent coughs before he answered. "Cut the rope d'Artagnan," he said hoarsely.

D'Artagnan swallowed. "How bad is it?"

"Knowing won't do any good…" he said through more coughing.

D'Artagnan looked down at the rope in his hand and the parrying dagger in the other. He'd no idea what to say next, but his fifteen seconds were up and yet, he found he needed to say something before. "Aramis…I—"

"Cut the rope, d'Artagnan," Aramis interrupted, his voice no longer demanding but pleading. "I cannot do this…m-much longer."

D'Artagnan sawed into the rope. He dammed the river. Cursed the rains that bloated its banks. Then he called on whatever God Aramis believed in to save his friends, watching as the rope all but disintegrated and broke in half.

~§~

Aramis immediately began reeling in the loose rope, knowing time was of the essence. He no longer shook as he had before and he knew that was a bad thing. And the cough was getting worse...

His one good hand was sluggish and clumsy but before they'd been loosed into the raging water, he'd managed to draw Athos close, facing him, their chests together. Then, as best he could, he looped the tether under the swordsman's arms, then back around himself, under his arms twice. With the remaining three feet of rope, Aramis wrapped it around his broken wrist— the cold having long since driven out any pain— several times, before knotting it off. In a way, the layers would act as a sort of brace.

He was glad Athos was unconscious for this bit. The man had suffered one unchecked, uncontrolled ride down this river and this time he would have no memory of it. Aramis only prayed that Porthos found somewhere further down to get to them.

When he felt he'd done all he could, Aramis looked at the river bank. D'Artagnan stood there, feet shoulder width apart, hands fisted at his side, eyes pinched and a crease in his forehead. Aramis knew that stance well. It spoke of frustration and fear.

"Go, d'Artagnan!"

The boy nodded but it was hesitant and lacked his usual bravado. "Give me ten seconds!" he shouted and with one last glance, turned and ran.

Aramis didn't allow his gaze to linger. Using his good hand he worked over to the edge of the rock and waited. He sent another prayer Heavenward and his eyes shot open when he lost track of how long they'd been closed.

He knew then he could not delay any longer. Ten seconds or not. They had to go.

Taking a breath more out of habit than for practicality, Aramis slid his back along the rock, determined to go down backward as much as he could to shield Athos. It was a slow drift at first, rising and falling with the churning waves, still abated from where the tree shunted their force.

Far too soon the swifter water took hold and Aramis could not help but gasp as they were sped along mercilessly, bouncing and spinning in a tumultuous ride down river.

~§~

Porthos rounded the bend and nearly tripped at the sight before him. The bridge. There was no joy, no moment of elation. Celebration would not come until he had Aramis and Athos on dry land and breathing. The bridge may be close but there was much further yet to go.

At the little road that lead to the bridge, he turned, d'Artagnan breaking from the trees filling his periphery. His feet thundered on the planks as he ran across the structure to reach its center before stopping, chest heaving, eyes locked on the rolling river, searching for his friends.

D'Artagnan reached his side moments later. "I hated that," the Gascon panted.

"Had to be done," Porthos grumbled before dropping his gaze down to the water as it swirled and churned passed beneath their feet.

"How are we doing this?"

"It's maybe five feet from the bridge to the surface of the water. When they come into view shout, wave, do whatever we have to but get Aramis' attention."

"If he's conscious…" He glanced at Porthos. "Then what?"

"Then," Porthos ignored him, "once we've an idea of where they'll pass under, we get Aramis to reach for us, you drop, hang over the side, far as you can and grab him as he gets near."

D'Artagnan looked down at the water. "Five feet… Porthos, I'm tall but that's still a long way to down. I'll have to stretch almost my entire body and somehow remain connected to the bridge—"

"I'll anchor you." He glanced at the Gascon. "You just drop and get hold of'm, let me do the rest."

"What?" The boy looked incredulously at him. "I may get him but I surely won't be able to lift their weight."

"You don't have to." Porthos met his gaze. "Just grab on and don't let go. I'll pull all of you up out of the water." He caught the boy in his steely gaze. "No doubts, d'Artagnan. Don't even think'em much less speak'em. Understood?"

The younger Musketeer stared at him a moment then nodded mutely.

With a plan in mind, Porthos turned to watch the river again and wait. His gut churned like the water below, and he could feel it, the rushing river battering against the bridge's base, buried deep into the bedrock— or so he hoped. If not, the thing will be washed away and likely them with it.

"There!" d'Artagnan shouted anxiously, pointing upriver.

Their friends' bodies shot out and around the riverbend and spun in a crazy rapid ride, speeding toward the bridge. D'Artagnan immediately started calling to them, waving his arms.

Porthos joined him. "Aramis! Here!" he walked up and down the bridge, flailing his arms. "Hey! Over here!"

The marksman, with Athos clutched before him, swiveled his head around and Porthos was certain he caught sight of him before the current spun and twisted his body once again.

"He saw us," d'Artagnan called out breathlessly. "I'm almost certain."

"Stay in front of me, watch them as they draw close and follow, I'll be a pace behind you the entire time," he shouted, glancing at d'Artagnan before returning his gaze to the Musketeers careening wildly toward them. "Once you're sure, drop and slide down the bridge. Don't wait on me." He stepped back out of the boy's peripheral vision. "I'll have you, you just have them."

They stalked the bridge, d'Artagnan in front, Porthos shadowing him, the pair of them pacing, shifting alignment to match the trajectory of their friends, waiting, tensing for that moment, that one second that would mean life or death for Aramis and Athos. For d'Artagnan as well, if he went over and Porthos was not able to hold him. Porthos stayed close, just behind, but not too far.

~§~

Their path in the rolling waters seemed to even out as they got closer to the bridge. Whether from the large posts that anchored it to the river bottom diverting the water, or just plain luck, d'Artagnan did not question it. He simply dropped to his chest and slid over the edge of the bridge, following them, his confidence growing as he felt the powerful grip Porthos had on his legs and hold fast.

Just before reaching his position, Aramis' hand shot up, extending his arm as high as he could.

D'Artagnan did likewise, strained toward him, his left hand still clinging to the lip of the bridge surface, ignoring how it cut into his ribs. He felt Porthos arms tighten about his calves, wood creaking to his left and right as he planted his heels against that same strip of wood for an anchor.

Focused on Aramis, d'Artagnan willed the marksman to make the connection as they neared, their bodies still swirling on occasion but moving slower now.

"Take my hand!" he shouted, straining, even from his neck as he extended nearly the entire length of his body.

Their fingers bumped and missed. Aramis' other hand dropped from where it had cradled Athos and paddled at the water in an attempt to maintain their current range. When their hands came closer again, Aramis thrust upward even higher, heaving himself up to reach for him.

It was just enough. D'Artagnan threw all caution to the wind, released the edge of the bridge and flung both hands down. He felt his body drop and it would have unnerved him more than it did save for his determination to get to his friends. He snatched once more at the extended arm, this time feeling solid flesh beneath his fingers. He quickly closed his hands around Aramis' forearm and clamped down tight.

"I've got you!" d'Artagnan shouted at Aramis, but the marksman's eyes were squeezed shut and he only nodded, mouth in a tight line. "Porthos!" d'Artagnan twisted his head slightly to be heard above the roar of the water. "Pull us up!"

D'Artagnan realized then that Porthos had him only by his ankles. The crushing grip was painful, but if Aramis and Athos could endure, so could he.

They were drawn back up in inches and d'Artagnan looked into Aramis pale, drawn face, hoping to instill some encouragement in him. But by the looks of him, keeping still and maintaining a firm grip on Athos was all the marksman could do to not make the ascent harder on the boy than what it already was. Still, d'Artagnan's shoulders burned from the pull and the unrelenting weight, and when he felt his hands cramping, the Gascon closed his eyes and refused to give in to fatigue.

Then he felt Aramis slip.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes wide in alarm. Hoping he'd been mistaken, he stared at where his hands held to Aramis—at the only lifeline that kept their friends from certain death. Then he saw them slip further. He was losing them.

"NO!" d'Artagnan shouted and tried to tighten his grip, but the water left Aramis' flesh slippery. "Porthos!" he shouted over one shoulder. "I—I'm losing—them!"

He tried to heave them up, but nothing. His attempt was not good enough. He lacked the strength. He lacked the leverage.

The weight of both his brothers dropped in d'Artagnan's grasp, another inch lower. Another inch closer to the swirling water below. Panic seized d'Artagnan's chest as Aramis continued slipping from his hold. Another shout of desperation burst from his mouth and he calculated a gamble and saw no other alternative. He pulled with all his might to lift them slightly, while releasing one hand to reach further down. It was just enough as his free hand grasped and tangled the marksman's collar, his fingers gripping the material tight and holding fast.

Aramis looked at him and smiled, but said nothing.

Wood suddenly shattered on either side of them. D'Artagnan had moment of terror that the structure was about to collapse and drag them all down. Then he realized he was being dragged back and away from the water. He held on, the weight pulling harder than before on his shoulders and when he thought his strength had abandoned him, a hand grabbed the waist of his britches and pulled. They slipped back again, then another set of hands reached down, trying to grab the weight that threatened to pull his shoulders from their sockets.

D'Artagnan turned to see Porthos next to him.

"I'm here!" Porthos shouted and thrust further down. D'Artagnan's hand held the marksman's forearm, so Porthos closed one of his big hands over Aramis' hand and clutched it tight. "Gothcha!" he yelled triumphantly.

At the same time, Aramis shouted in pain. His body went rigid for a moment and then he was unconscious.

There was no time to consider what had happened. Instead it spurred them on. One more mighty heave and Aramis and Athos' limp bodies dragged fully onto the bridge, the pair of them rolling to one side, unconscious. Porthos and d'Artagnan collapsed next to them in a heap.

D'Artagnan fell to his side, shoulders sagging. He watched through watery eyes as Porthos jumped to his feet. Their friends weren't moving. D'Artagnan could not tell if Aramis' eyes were open but from this angle he could see Athos' were not. He looked so pale… so… lifeless. "Are they…?" he panted.

Porthos knelt between them and placed a hand on each of their necks and d'Artagnan held his breath.

"Breathing!" he shouted jubilantly.

D'Artagnan looked up at Porthos and smiled. "Alive," he panted.

~§~

Aramis was drowning.

Waves battered his exhausted body from all sides, crashing over his head, their watery fingers pulling him under, filling his mouth, his lungs, ears, eyes, nose, robbing him of his breath. And no matter how hard he struggled against them, he could not prevail.

Caught in their grasp, they pushed and shoved at his body, pulling him left, then right, bouncing him off rocks, crushing his bones and no matter how hard he fought, he could not break the hold they had on him. He couldn't breathe!

Voices called all around- familiar voices and he struggled harder still to reach them.

Aramis was jolted awake, gasping. He struggled to draw breath, even the most shallow an impossible task, despite the soothing hand on his back and the familiar voice seeking to calm his panic.

He got one, then another before the air collided with something in his lungs and tried to sit up, and the pain in his side made him regretted it instantly.

"Hey, hey…" a familiar voice soothed, "easy, Aramis. I got you. Hang on..."

Hands helped him ease up and roll to his side, clutching his left hand to his chest as he emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground. His eyes watered, his stomach muscles contracting. The burn was intense and he gagged before what felt like buckets of river water poured from his mouth. It seemed to take forever and when it was done, he would have collapsed into it, if not for the strong hands that held him suspended as he hung there, trying to catch his breath.

"All done, yeah?" Porthos asked from behind him. "That wasn't as much as the last time. Going to get all that river water out of you yet."

"L-las' time?" Aramis panted, eyes closed, head hanging. He hadn't the strength to do more.

"Yup," Porthos rubbed his back. "You done?"

Aramis nodded feebly then felt himself being rolled back and reclined into a cocoon of warmth. Porthos pulled him in and returned to running his hands vigorously up and down the marksman's arms.

"Do-don't 'rmbr other times…" he said shivering as he burrowed more into the warmth radiating around him.

"Not surprised," the larger man's voice rumbled just behind and beneath him. "You were barely conscious the other three times."

Aramis lacked the energy to make sense of it all. He'd not remembered the other times and how one's body succumbed to such a violent expulsion of water from one's stomach and not remember it, was too much for his exhausted mind to take in at present. All he knew or cared about at the moment was that the cocoon that engulfed him was that of his friend for more years than his exhausted mind could count. Once he was settled, eyes closed, he felt hands rubbing up and down his arms, the heat increasing, chasing away the tremors and making him drowsy, as sore muscles relaxed into the friction where he drifted off once more…

In the darkness, voices drifted around him. Porthos chuckling at d'Artagnan's comment about the river water raising quite the stench on them and they'd need baths the moment they returned to the garrison. He breathed them, each of them, his friends, the world drifting around him; Porthos, d'Artagnan and—

"Athos!" he choked out, voice grating as he tried to rock upright. But his body refused to obey.

"Hey—" Porthos held his upper arms down, pulling his back against his chest. "He's fine, Aramis. Athos is fine." He held him carefully, not too tight until he was certain he would remain. "Now, be still. Quit floppin' about or you'll pull the stitches I worked so hard on."

"Or ruin the splint I placed on your wrist," d'Artagnan called sardonically. "I've never set a bone before," he blanched, a small shiver running up his back. "And I hope never to do it again."

"Or wake me with your constant prattling," the voice of the one he sought cut through his panic. "Though, I fear it is too late for that."

Athos raised his head and stared blearily across the fire at him. He was propped against a rock, wrapped in wool blankets but sitting up. D'Artagnan crossed over to him and handed him a cup of something hot, probably warmed wine. He dropped to his knees to begin rubbing the swordsman's' legs.

"Enough!" Athos snapped, waving a hand at d'Artagnan while pulling his knees into his chest. "You'll rub the skin from my bones. Stop."

D'Artagnan sat back on his heels and stared at their leader, hands on his hips. "You've got to warm up."

"I'm fine," Athos offered more evenly, huddling into the contents of the steaming cup in his hands. "This and the fire will suffice from here on," he muttered taking a sip.

"Fine," d'Artagnan threw up his hands in surrender before looking at Porthos. "He's impossible."

Porthos chuckled. "Athos is cranky when he's been almost drowned."

The swordsman sipped at the wine, his eyes never leaving Aramis. "D'Artagnan told me," he admonished a few beats later. "You took a terrible risk. Again."

"Yeah," Porthos put in. "And what's the idea of reaching out with a broken hand? Pretty sure we made it worse holding you over the water like that."

"You two should talk," d'Artagnan offered, his tone more sulky than angry as he knelt to fill another cup with some of the warmed wine. "I'm the one who had to cut the rope. God," he shook his head as he stood and crossed over to Aramis, steam rising invitingly from the offered cup. "Make that two things I hope to never have to do again."

Aramis took the cup with his good hand, supporting the bottom with his splinted one. He grinned despite the pain in his side, his wrist and in every muscle he possessed, as he once more looked at Athos, intent on getting his point across. "We're alive, aren't we?"

Athos huffed and looked away momentarily. "It was a fool's errand."

"I can handle being a fool for the sake of my friends." Aramis took a sip of the fluid and sighed. "Besides," he continued, leaning back against his Porthos' cushion for more warmth. "Pretty sure you'd be just as much of a fool if our situations had been reversed."

Athos looked down into his cup for several long moments. "Here's to fools then," he finally said as he looked up to meet Aramis' gaze. "Long may they save one another...for no one else will."

Aramis raised his cup in return but didn't get far before wincing in pain. "Blasted bone…" he hissed. "Remind me to break my left hand next time…"

"Next time?" Porthos inquired menacingly, his brow arching in alarm. "Once we reach the Inn, you best not be moving at all for the next few days, if you know what's good for you, fool."

D'Artagnan snapped at attention at the mention of the Inn.
"What are you talking about," d'Artagnan asked before turning to Athos. "What is he talking about?"

Athos sighed. "We are returning to the Inn. Aramis and I are in no shape to spend four days in the saddle. Since it's closer, we'll go back to the Inn and heal."

"But—"

Athos held up a hand, silencing the boy. "You won't be coming with us. In the morning, you are to continue the rest of the way alone. When you arrive, tell the captain of our delay. That is, unless you cannot handle four days alone on the trail…"

"Ha-ha" d'Artagnan mocked before settling down next to their leader, his back against the same stone, shoulder pressed against Athos, his proximity to keep him as warm as possible. He sniffed the air and his face wrinkled in disgust before turning to look at Athos and smelling again. "God… you reek."

Aramis chuckled and Porthos frowned, uncertain what it was he'd suddenly found funny. "What?" he looked down at the man beneath him. "You don't exactly smell of flowers. Maybe a good bath at the Inn when we get there..."

Dry, humorless laughter suddenly burst forth, catching d'Artagnan and Porthos off guard. They eyed the marksman curiously, looking for answers in what looked like the complete loss of their brother's sanity. Athos, by contrast, wore a look upon his face that made one think of haunting spirits and terrifying visions of Hell.

D'Artagnan sat up. "What's…wrong with him?" he looked at the larger musketeer.

Porthos shook his head. "'Dunno...maybe all that water has made him batty." He looked at Athos and did a double take. "What's wrong with you two?"

D'Artagnan turned, Athos face was stone, his eyes flat and annoyed.

"You're not getting me anywhere near a bath anytime within this century…" Athos hissed as he sank down into his blankets. "I will kill the first man who tries."

Aramis chuckled as he settled against Porthos' warm bulk. "Don't fret, my friends. He threatened to shoot me as well." He glanced at Athos fondly. "But if the water is warm, I doubt he will put up much of a fight."

An amenable grunt was heard from the depths of Athos' blanket.

Aramis closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. "Just promise me you will have dry clothes close at hand."

Porthos' chuckle rumbled beneath his ear as he drifted off to sleep.


TBC…