Hi everyone, how are you? Here we are with the third chapter of this collection, Cared. I hope you'll enjoy my work, and please, if you have any prompt, don't hold back. But first: thank you very much to my reviewers! I'm literally glowing! Sarah, Debbie, thank you very much, I'm so glad you enjoyed the story so far, I hope you'll like this one too! Thanks to 'Guest', too, for his beautiful review! And to those who preferred, favorited or simply read this fic, thank you! I planned to update this chapter next week, but since you were all so kind to me, well… I just couldn't leave you waiting!

Ok, back to the chapter!

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Cared

"You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it." (J. K. Rowling)

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It hurt. It hurt so bad it was almost unbearable.

The rope that bound his wrists to that darn wooden pole was so tight that it cut deep through his flesh, and with his bare arms stretched painfully above his head he felt his own blood oozing from the gash and dripping along his ice cold skin. And it was raining. Hard. So much water was pouring from the sky each and every passing second that he feared that in the end he would drown, even if he was imprisoned at the center of a courtyard, already a lake of mud, and not in the middle of a river. He felt it running along his naked chest, down to the rim of his breeches, his unsteady legs, dropping in small rivulets to the ground.

He had stopped shivering some time ago, and he knew it was bad. It meant that his body was failing, that it was abandoning the battlefield although he didn't want to, that the cold would soon force him to unconsciousness, accompanying him gently to his own death. But he couldn't move to prevent it. He couldn't fight. His hands and feet, bare against the wet muddy soil, were bound too tight to get loose without any help, and the beating he received before being tied up didn't help his mind to stay clear, focused, while waiting for his brothers to rescue him. He felt tired, oh so tired, that his eyelids were drooping, his legs were shaking, breathing was harder and harder, and there was a voice in his head hinting for him to just rest. Just for a minute. Just enough to regain some strength, to move an inch, to struggle against his bindings and escape.

Only for a second. I could close my eyes only for a second.

No, he couldn't.
He just couldn't.
He knew that.

If he did close his eyes he might never open them again.

But he felt numb, tired, and desperate after three days of captivity, after three days tied up like an animal, without food, water, sleep, his muscles sore and his body beaten and bruised. A part of him was aware that he had endured worst in his past as a soldier, and he tried to hang to that truth, but between the pain and the cold he felt he might jus surrender.

Just this time.

His head was spinning so fast that he fisted his hands, unable to even hiss when the movement made the rope pull and dig into his flesh harder.

More pain. More sorrow.

His heart clutched in his chest when his thoughts wandered to his brothers. He could almost envision Athos's despair, his death another weight to crush his already overloaded shoulders, Porthos losing his precious smile and morph into a mask of despair, of pain, of grief… D'Artagnan screaming his name, loudly, so loud that his throat would probably hurt… and he gasped, Aramis, abruptly, because he just couldn't stand those thoughts… make his brothers suffer was too much for him. Simply too much. They were his family and he couldn't bear….

A hand abruptly clamped his mouth shut from behind him, pressing his head hard to the pole, and for one moment Aramis closed his eyes, dread overwhelming him at the certainty of his death. But then a voice, barely a whisper, reached his ears, and he felt himself go completely still.

"Hang on Aramis, I'll cut you loose in a second"

D'Artagnan.

Aramis didn't even have the time to take a deep breath, to let his lungs fill with relief. Is younger brother was already kneeling on the ground, cursing softly when he saw how tightly the bonds that held Aramis in place were tied.

"I'm sorry, I can't see almost anything" the young Gascon murmured anxiously, moving the blade of his knife against the rope and grazing the Musketeer's skin in the process, ripping out a pained hiss from his mouth. Aramis didn't have the energy to reply, anyway. But he was still conscious, and he heard clearly, so silent was the night around them, those gunshots erupting from the barrack behind him.

Athos. Porthos.

Relief was immense and complete now that he knew that all his brothers were there to rescue him.

Instantaneous.

He felt almost renewed at this knowledge, even if he was tired, cold, hungry and in so much pain.

He was safe.

They were all safe.

They had found him even if he had been held captive in a godforsaken farm situated in the middle of the French countryside.

And he knew beyond any doubt that his captors would not escape. Because that bastards would never stand any chance against two enraged Musketeers.

It was written in D'Artagnan's eyes, after all, when they met is own, his younger brother's hands busy at freeing his wrists, and his face so close that he could see the pure fury beneath the chocolate brown of his irises. It was a promise of death, of revenge, it smelled like blood, and Aramis, a heartbeat before collapsing in D'Artagnan's arms, thought amusedly that it was probably a pain for his friend to not to be able to shoot those bastards himself.

But then the world spinned, his eyes rolled, and Aramis couldn't even hold up his own head, his stomach convulsing and his breath hitching. He allowed D'Artagnan to lift him up in his arms, stronger than they seemed, strong enough to hold him under his back and knees. Just a few moments, and then he was lowered to the ground, far away from the barrack where his brothers were fighting for him, and then a blanket, soft, it smelled like horses, was wrapped around his torso.

"How do you feel" D'Artagnan asked, coming near his face again, his brow furrowed in worry and his lips tight in fury. His friend looked so much battered that he didn't even know where to start to take care of him. All he could do was to touch Aramis's skin, to assure himself that he was there, alive, and that it wasn't just a dream.

They had found him.

Finally, they had found him.

Aramis held his gaze, fighting exhaustion now with renewed strength. For his family. "Cold" he breathed, flinching when he felt warm hands immediately rub his arms.

"Sorry" D'Artagnan repeated, swallowing convulsively at seeing Aramis's state. He looked so pale, so very pale in the dim light of the sky, rain still pouring on them in buckets. He wasn't even shivering, and he had felt so weak in his arms. The tree under which he laid Aramis was big enough to keep them almost dry, but the Musketeer needed a fire regain some warmth, and food.

Even so, anyway, D'Artagnan did his best to comfort him, murmuring sweet nonsenses while his hands moved gently to check for wounds, cuts and bruises, just like Aramis did so many times for them in the past. Aside from the gash on his head there were no more cuts, but he knew his friends was in a bad shape. So he added another blanket atop him, and then he moved at Aramis' back, lifting him slightly from the ground to hold him against his chest, wrapping his own arms over the blankets to convey his body heat and just sitting there, feeling once again reassured by the solid presence of his friend.

He was there. They had found him. He wasn't dead.

Those three days had been the hardest days of his young life, for D'Artagnan. It's been few months since he unofficially joined Les Inséparables, as they were called among their comrades, with the hope of one day becoming a Musketeer too, and he was stunned at how deeply he felt bound to them, after so little time. There wasn't only awe in his heart. And he knew that the word 'friendship' couldn't even begin to describe that bond. So, when they realized that those bandits they were sent to arrest had a backup, and that that backup had captured Aramis… for a moment he had felt his world crumble. Ready to retch. Athos and Porthos reacted better then him, after all he lacked their experience, but the despair they felt D'Artagnan saw it shining in their eyes in an unmistakable way, and for just a second, while calling for Aramis without getting a reply over and over, they paled, clenching their fists until their knuckles were white, before starting hunting down those bastards who dared to capture their brother.

I wouldn't mind exchanging a few words with those worms myself.

Athos and Porthos found them half an hour later. The two Musketeers were drenched, exhausted beyond belief since they had spent the last three days looking and searching for Aramis, but they smiled when they saw their two brothers waiting for them cuddled together. Aramis, his head nestled in the crook of D'Artagnan's neck, and the young Gascon, his cheek resting against the Spaniard's locks.

Well… at least before noticing Aramis's conditions…

Athos was the first to collapse to his knees, his left hand immediately at Aramis's face, just to make sure he was still alive. Because he was so very pale, paler than he had ever seen him, his skin as cold as a pile of snow, and vulnerable like that, in D'Artagnan arms… he looked…

"Is he ok Athos?"

Porthos kneeled as well, his piercing brown eyes running feverishly over his brother's body to search for a vital sign, because he couldn't really fathom another option.

"He is really cold, has a gash on his temple, but the bleeding stopped. We need to start a fire to warm him up, and fast" D'Artagnan informed them, tightening again his hold on Aramis to move him closer to his warmer body

"On it" Athos nodded, watching as Porthos moved to lift the Musketeer in his arms. D'Artagnan took the hint and mounted his horse, motioning for Porthos to position Aramis side saddle in front of him, so that he could keep a firm hold on him while riding.

They moved as fast as they could without further harming their injured brother, stopping an hour later, far enough from the blasted barrack to prevent more unexpected 'surprises'.

"Thank God the blasted rain stopped" a still enraged Porthos growled, even if his hands were like feathers while lifting Aramis from the saddle.

"Indeed" Athos agreed, spreading a few blanket on the ground for the Musketeer and then wrapping him up safely as soon as he was laid down.

"We found his clothes, we should dress him" Porthos pointed out, starting a fire with some wood kept dry by a big tree and a few rocks

"As soon as he is dry" Athos confirmed, rubbing gently Aramis to help the warmth into his body.

"I'll start some soup for him, then. I think…. They…. Left him…"

D'Artagnan found his voice trapped in his throat because he couldn't voice it. That those bastards had likely left Aramis starve. Because just considering that hideous possibility was making his whole body tremble in rage again, pure consuming rage so strong he felt his vision fuzz for a long, long breath… and it wasn't really a good moment to… explode and start shooting around even if he didn't have a target. Just to vent.

Breath D'Artagnan, Aramis will be fine.

He prayed for his wishes to come true soon, because right now… he looked so… helpless.

He was so pale, so darn pale under Athos's hands, his dark locks damp around his face, his eyes so glossy, so clouded in pain, his lips almost blue…

"He'll recover" was Porthos' gruff reply, who also swallowed hard as if trying to suck down that nagging thought, while adding more wood to stoke the fire, his eyes running to his brother every few seconds. "You'll see" he added mustering up some conviction, without knowing if those words were for himself or for D'Artagnan's benefit.

"Of course he'll recover" Athos stressed too, giving in to that inner voice that begged him to keep his brother closer, tighter, hold on Aramis, just hold on! and lifting him against his chest, his chin lightly pressed on his comrade's curls. Not at all surprised when Porthos, done with the camp fire, came close himself, sitting on the other side of Aramis to hug him too, hoping that their joined body warmth would help the Spaniard to feel better sooner.

Athos's winter light blue eyes simply moved to watch D'Artagnan working on a soup, dumping whatever was left of their food into a iron pot already filled with water and starting to stir, sharp brown orbs darkened by emotions.

And nobody moved, until Athos declared Aramis fit to be dressed, his face relaxing just a little bit as soon as he felt his brother's skin now finally warm. So the three of them worked together, carefully, and so very gently, to ease him in is clothes, wrapping him up in blankets again when the task was done.

"We should try to wake him up, he needs to eat something" Porthos murmured, placing himself at Aramis' back to prevent him from completely lay on the cold ground.

"…I'm…. 'wake"

His voice was slurred, barely above a rustle, but for Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan it was like a miraculous balm, that healed their own heart. The burst of relief they felt hearing their brother's voice was so abrupt and immediate that the trio almost collapsed to the ground.

"How do you feel, Aramis!" Porthos asked immediately, adjusting his hold on the Musketeer to be able to see his face. A precious reddish tinge was now on his cheeks, and his eyes were clearer, even if he was far from recovered.

"I've… seen better days" Aramis murmured, his lips twitching, warmed by his brothers's obvious affection

"That's an understatement" Athos gruffly retorted, immediately reaching for some soup for his wounded brother

"Where are we?"

"A day ride from Paris" D'Artagnan answered, finding himself incapable of letting go of Aramis's hand, that, who knows when, he had grabbed, kneeling directly at his side

"Are you up for some soup? D'Artagnan here prepared it for you" Athos suggested, allowing a small smile to grace his lips, especially because he saw a hint of a blush climb up the young Gascon's cheeks at his words

"Really?" Aramis grinned tiredly, huffing a weak laugh when the youngster grumbled something like "yeah, so?". "How did you find me?" the Musketeer asked, allowing Athos to feed him with a spoon. He was far too tired to care, anyway. And he felt so… good, so warm inside at being surrounded by his brothers, that he couldn't care less if he wasn't a baby anymore, and if he should feel embarrassed at being so obviously cuddled… he knew his brothers needed to take care of him to truly realize that he was indeed there with them, to let go of the fear that had seized him during those days. Fear to lose him by the hands of those bandits. He would have done the same if their roles were reversed.

"It's been hard" Porthos sighed, tightening his grip on Aramis just a little, just to make sure he was there, alive and very much breathing. "They covered their tracks. Good for us they liked wine almost as much as Athos, 'cos they left a trail by visiting taverns to replenish"

"It took us three days, but finally a barmaid told us that a group of men had occupied an abandoned farm nearby, and there we found you" Athos confirmed, patiently feeding his brother, his hawk eyes still on Aramis's face to measure his every expression. His eyelids were drooping again, he was obviously exhausted, Athos noted, but for their relief he managed to finish his soup before falling asleep.

"Tomorrow we'll need to check him up first thing, but for now we should just let him rest" Athos said, helping Porthos to lay Aramis down so he could sleep more comfortably

"I'll stand guard, just in case" a eager D'Artagnan offered, conscious that there would be no rest for him that night

"You can take the first shift, but then you'll sleep too, we all need some rest, lad" Porthos corrected him, his voice bearing a tone of finality, ignoring the way D'Artagnan's lips parted and his eyes widened in protest.

"He's right" Athos intercepted, arching an eyebrow pointedly even if his voice remained gentle nonetheless

"Right" the young Gascon conceded, staring at his friends who moved closer to Aramis, to sandwich him between themselves again.

He felt a pang of longing at noticing once again how incredibly strong the tie between these three men was, by simply sitting there watching them fall asleep close to each other. So close, in fact, that he couldn't tell where Athos's hair became Aramis's curls, or to whom it belonged the arm that rested atop the injured Musketeer's chest, which was reassuringly moving up and down at every breath he took. He had never felt something like that before. His father had loved him, he knew that, but he was never a man inclined to physical contact if it was not motivated by some reason, an injury, for example, or illness. The Musketeers, on the other hand, although they never showed the tendency to over-express their bond – you just had to watch them closely for a couple of minutes to notice their brotherly connection, however - touched, pushed and provoked each other freely, as much as they wanted, especially Aramis and Porthos. But even the usually reserved (and brooding) Athos didn't seem particularly annoyed by this behavior. It was… charming to see, even endearing, sometimes they were childish, namely Aramis, sometimes it was to protect each other… but every single time they reached for one another, well, there was such a fondness underneath every gesture that D'Artagnan more than once caught himself pining to receive the same treatment. Or better, he longed to be allowed to behave the same way with his friends. To be part, in short, of that strange, but tight – knotted, family.

But who knows, maybe he already was, he just didn't realize it.

In fact, this was exactly what Athos was considering, as he rested beside Aramis but with his piercing sea blue irises still on the young Gascon. He didn't really understand, D'Artagnan, how fond they already were of him, so much that just a few weeks ago Porthos was wondering aloud that he couldn't remember what their life at the garrison was like before he arrived. It would take time, the older Musketeer mused, and probably, more than words, for D'Artagnan to open his eyes he would require facts.

But that was not a hindrance, Athos mused.

Sure enough, right at that moment Aramis's eyelids fluttered, and as soon as he opened his eyes, the injured Musketeer noticed the Gascon sitting alone by the fire, a forlorn look in his face, his young shoulders hunched in concern.

"Come here" the Spaniard murmured, lifting his hand a little, just enough to motion him to come closer.

"I should stand guard" D'Artagnan hesitated, lowering his soulful eyes to the ground, a note of red creeping in his cheeks

"Come here" Aramis repeated tiredly, but with confidence.

The Musketeer grinned when his younger brother surrendered immediately at his gentle reprimand, moving silently beside Athos. And his grin broadened as he saw him realize that Aramis would not rest until D'Artagnan would lay down too. The young former farm boy huffed at that, rolling his eyes, but complied nonetheless, because deep inside he felt secretly warmed by his friend's concern. So, without much fuss he stretched his back on the blanket, rising his gaze to the stars cutting through the clouds finally thinning out.

Only then Aramis sighed in contentment. He felt his chest hurt, and burn, and scratch, the pain steadily flowing his body from head to toe, and breathing was an agony, but there, on the hard ground, under the stars, surrounded by his brothers, so close he could touch them without even move, he felt safe. Loved. And cared.