Hiya, here's my second installation! So obverjoyed with all the lovely, fantastic, great feedback I've gotten from you so please continue telling me how I'm doing! To that guest who didn't like that I referred to Porthos as a 'mulatto', I didn't at all mean it in an offensive way and if anyone was upset by it I have changed the words I think but do point it out if I've missed any. I love Porthos to bits and it was merely a description of his characteristics, which are rather unlike the others. Anyway, just felt the dying need to apologise. Please review and I hope you enjoy!

Olivier Athos de la Fere awoke with a start, beads of cold sweat dripping down his face and his body tense from the horror and fear of his nightmare. In his mind, Athos was still in his living room, with its expensive furniture, that ancient mirror hanging over the worn, marble fireplace. The storm was raging outside the window, rain pelting the glass and lightening flashing in tandem with rumbling thunder that seemed to shake the entire house. The image of his younger brother, his dear Thomas pulled against his chest, choking on his own blood, staining his lips a deep crimson as it rolled from the corner of his mouth. He could still feel the heat of his life blood on his hand as he pushed them against the knife wound, salty tears mingling with those on Thomas's face as he begged for life, asked Athos the innocent questions full of pain and fear that no older brother should ever have to answer as they watch someone they love die. Watched helplessly as his little brother breathed his final, choking breath, saying the name of the murderess he loved with all his heart and tearing his entire life apart in a moment. For a part of Athos died with his little brother on that floor of that home, clung to his soul as it left his body and drifted into the unknown place where all anima flee at the point of death.

That grief and helplessness and agony was what Athos woke to; something the world regularly greeted him with when he opened his eyes.

Slowly, Athos sat up and stretched his aching muscles, searching the darkness of his room in his slight disorientation and the bleariness of his eyes. It took him a moment to recognise his unfamiliar surroundings, the foreign space that of the inn they had stopped in during their mission to a small village outside Rouen. Rumours of a new group of bandits terrorising the town, followed by the arrival of one of the village's respected habitants had prompted the King's actions to protect his citizens and he had smartly ordered Treville to send his very best to deal with the issue, or at least scout the miscreants out. The room itself was rather barren, lacking in anything but the bare necessities of a small, boring chest of drawers, a bed and a chamber pot. It was hot when Athos sat up, shockingly so given the conditions the wet night before, and Athos allowed a frown at the suspicious rise in temperature. There was shouting outside, muffled by the heavy shutters and dirty glass but through it the Musketeer could see flickers of light, an unnatural glow that cast hazy orange shadows of the poorly painted wall. Curious, he shuffled to the window, opening the large glass panes with a twist of the brass knob before pushing out the shutters to see the first rays of dawn clouded by thick black smoke that invaded his nose with an acrid smell.

The whole village was on fire.

All around them, houses were alight and the streets were filled with screaming and panicked civilians as they rushed to put out the flames. Black smoke curled up into the air as the buildings crumbled and smouldered, throwing intense heat out and blanketing the streets in a thick, grey fog that settled itself deep into the lungs and deprived them of precious oxygen. Athos watched in horror as horses swept through the streets, their riders brandishing torches as they set alight to everything within sight and barrelled over any innocent bystanders unable to escape their path.

Athos pushed away from the window as flaming torchwood crashed through the first floor window below and bottom floor of the inn was engulfed in flame. Rushing out of his door, Athos barely had time to grab his belt and his weapons before he burst into the room opposite, starting Aramis awake as the younger Musketeer sat bolt upright in bed and pulled a musket from beneath his pillows.

"Athos?!" Aramis quickly turned the gun away from the older man "What's going on?"

"Fire!" was all the older man could cry, briefly catching Aramis throwing himself from his sheets and rushing to dress himself as he turned to the room down the hall.

His hand reached for the knob but it turned before his hand and he pulled back sharply as Porthos appeared in the doorway, hair and clothes in disarray and sword in hand, looking at him with wide panicked eyes.

"I heard shouting." Porthos explained quickly, eyes flicking up as Aramis emerged behind Athos, still shrugging on his jacket.

"The bandits must have gotten word that the King has sent men to deal with them." Athos shared his suspicion rapidly, heart thudding loudly in his chest as he became more aware of the steady rise in temperature and the smoke rising from the floorboards "They have set the village alight and the inn is going with it."

"There's a balcony outside of my window that leads down into the garden; we can escape from there!" Aramis shouted agitatedly, gesturing wildly with his arms as he leaned from his doorway with dilated eyes.

Porthos froze in dismay, eyes filled with terror as Athos looked back at him "D'Art's downstairs."

"What?"

"They didn't have enough clean rooms upstairs." Porthos gushed in a horrified gasp, already pushing past toward the staircase, now hidden by translucent grey smoke "D'Artagnan took the room downstairs."

All three hurried to the staircase, leaping down to the base only to be repelled by the roaring flames that threatened to consume them with their raging heat and tendrils of amber death. The heavy smoke tore at their lungs, sending all three into coughing fits as they squinted against the burning in their eyes and pulled their sleeves across their mouths.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos bellowed over the crackling of the fire and the creaking of burning timber, voice hoarse with the caustic, smothering fumes.

Athos begged to hear a reply but the crackling laughter of the fire continued uninterrupted.

"Get out." Athos' voice was unrecognisable to his own ears as he automatically shed his belt and shoved it into Aramis' surprised arms, ignoring the startled looks of protest from his two companions "Get out! No use all of us dying here. I'll get d'Artagnan."

"But Athos he could be-"

"Then I will perish with him. I will not leave him alone to burn." Athos stated sternly, eyes dark in his determination as he stared Aramis' objection down "We don't have time for this! Now, get out! That's an order!"

Aramis and Porthos shared a look over Athos' head before the larger man gripped him tightly "You get d'Artagnan and yourself out alive, alright? Or we'll drag you back from the dead and kill you ourselves."

With that sentiment, Aramis and Porthos fled back up the stairs and Athos plunged into the fire.

The flames burned his clothes and Athos could feel his skin blistering, the hairs on his arms being singed as he fought through the wall of fire armed only with his jacket. The floorboards beneath his feet groaned and grated as he traversed them, blackened by soot, pieces of the ceiling and the furniture littering the floor as he scooted through the mess. The hot air in his lungs made his insides feel as though they were liquefying, combing with the smoke like a noose around his neck, strangling him and sapping the energy from his limbs. It was dizzying in its intensity as he stumbled through the chaos, eyes finally spotting a door, blocked by a fallen beam of burnt timber. Athos pushed himself harder, resolute in his desire to escape the cleansing flames with his fellow Musketeer.

He would not lose another lifetime of memories, another smile, another laugh, another brother. Especially not to the power that d'Artagnan had pulled him from before; the boy he had known for only weeks whom had leapt into the hungry fire with no thought for his own life, who had pulled Athos from the fire and almost sacrificed himself to do so.

When his hands touched the fallen plank he was thankful for his habitual garment of thick gloves, feeling the searing heat even through the protection as he dug his fingers into the wood. Grunting with the exertion, Athos lifted with all his might; feeling the tug in the muscles of his shoulders and the tension in his back as he pulled the weight aside. Athos gasped for breath that was no longer there, numb fingers struggling with the latch on the door for a moment before he pulled it out toward him, ignoring the pain flaring through his body and the dark crawling into his vision. In his disorientation he almost tripped over the lump that fell at his feet; a dark-haired young man, lips blue, face ashen. Athos' heart seized in his chest, panic opening up a flood gate of emotions as he prayed to every almighty power he may have lost or never had faith in that the boneless person at his feet was not another dead brother he would have to bury. His legs felt wobbly and he almost dropped to the floor, ready to leave himself to the flames and escape to the better world, the peace he had been promised since childhood.

The image of Aramis and Porthos flashed before his eyelids and he could almost imagine their expressions; the disappointment, the devastation, the pain. Losing one brother was enough but two, at once? Athos could never do that to them, especially given their pasts, the way that they were everything to each other; they were the only family each of them had.

Athos bent down and hurriedly pulled the boneless body over his shoulder, unable to bring himself to check the boy's condition as he balanced his weight and braved the heat of the fire once more. He staggered forward, the extreme temperature verging on overwhelming as perspiration ran down his brow and soaked into his the tattered remains of his clothes.

The rest of his journey was a blur. Athos' world was consumed by the fire, the heat, the burning pain around him and the weight of his little brother's life upon his shoulders. His first conscious thought was when he fell through the window in Aramis' room, nearly blind from the smoke that billowed out of the small inn, coughing and gasping for breath as d'Artagnan tumbled from his shoulder to land beside him. Exhausted, Athos was unable to move his limbs, drifting in and out of consciousness before he felt arms grip him tight and pull him from the balcony into the garden and the fresh air-refreshing and painfully cool against his feverish skin—as the house collapsed in into a whirlwind of flames with a loud crash and the cracking of ancient wood. Time blurred and Porthos' face was floating above his own, Aramis' voice faint in his ears as he moved out of his vision.

"D'Art-" the short syllable had him curling into himself with a crippling coughing fit as Porthos rubbed his back gently and coaxed him back to lie flat, bring a cup of clean water to his lips that soothed his ragged throat.

"He's alive, Athos. You saved him."

Athos managed a weak grin before he gave in to the darkness of unconsciousness.