Thanks to everyone who has been reading along and has chosen to favorite or follow this story. There's some more trouble ahead - I hope you enjoy!
At some point, Aramis had fallen asleep, despite the discomfort of his wet and chilly disposition and the continual ache that consumed his lower leg. When awareness began to creep into his mind, it took him several moments to remember where he was and what had happened. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, his brain slowly catching up and recognizing that it was nighttime, the area illuminated by a half moon above, chasing away a small portion of the darkness around him. His leg was throbbing dully and he reached a hand down to his knee, wondering if it was the pain that had woken him. As he squeezed his eyes closed against another muscle spasm from his broken leg, he heard a faint rustling that had him stilling. Opening his eyes, he looked through the gloom, trying his best to discern the features of his surroundings. He sat there for nearly a minute, ears attuned to every minor sound, but there was nothing more and, with a sigh of relief, he collapsed back against the tree behind him. Moments later, his body tensed again, the sound of low growling unmistakable in the relative silence.
It took his mind a second to process the implication of the quiet around him, which suggested that a predator was nearby, stilling all other nocturnal activity as the other animals ran away or hid from the danger; all, that is, but him. Aramis suddenly found his mouth desert dry and he knew without a doubt that the condition was due to more than the small amount of water he'd consumed. His heart was pounding with the sudden rush of adrenaline, sharpening his senses and preparing his limbs for the classic fight or flight, except that the decision was out of his hands – incapacitated as he was, his only choice was to fight. The fingers of his right hand scrabbled to find the hilt of his sword, having removed it from his belt earlier to lay on the ground beside him, offering a small measure of comfort. Now, he could not grasp it quickly enough.
The growling he'd heard grew louder and he saw the bright glow of eyes cast in his direction. He watched with his hand on his blade, drawing strength from the feel of its cold solidity in his palm, ignoring the minor tremble in the limb which might be due to the cold, fear, or a combination of both. His tongue darted out to lick at dry and cracked lips as his breathing increased, murmuring to himself as he waited, "Come on." The seconds ticked by at a crawl, each infinitesimal measure seemingly lasting forever as the tension in his body intensified, making him gasp at the ratcheting throb in his leg. The shadow he'd seen was moving closer, the animal's eyes heralding its approach and Aramis could finally make out its shape, swallowing roughly against an achingly dry throat.
The beast was enormous, much larger than any he'd ever seen in the past and it seemed to be enjoying the agony it was putting its prey through as it took its time, pausing to sniff the air even as dark lips were pulled back to reveal a row of razor sharp teeth. The marksman found his breath catching in his throat as he tightened his grip on his sword, cursing the fact that his extra powder and shot had been lost with his horse and his pistol now lay empty and useless. Sweat was now beading at his brow, the autonomic reaction overcoming his dehydrated and chilled state, but Aramis wasn't even aware of the fact, his entire being focused only on the threat that approached.
"Come on," he whispered again, tormented by the fact that he'd had to put his horse to death and that he'd been unable to move far away from the poor beast to be safe. Some part of him had known that this would happen, his horse's blood acting as a beacon for scavengers eager for an easy meal. Normally, he would have buried the poor beast, preventing the smell from permeating the air and calling others to the site. Now, he could only brace himself for what would surely be a brutal fight for his life.
"Come on, come on," the words fell from his lips without awareness, the strain of waiting for the attack almost worse than the actual event when his training and instincts would take over to hopefully make him victorious over his opponent. As if taunting him, the animal took its time, swaying slightly as it shifted from one leg to the other, close enough now that the moonlight glinted off its silvery back. Another low growl was all the warning Aramis had before the beast gathered itself and sprang forward, its powerful leg muscles closing the distance between them in moments. He threw his left arm up, barely managing to protect his neck, not having had time to bring his sword into the proper position to defend himself. The animal's teeth sank deeply into his forearm, piercing through leather and flesh with ease.
Aramis allowed a grunt of surprise to escape his throat, the pain sufficiently numbed by adrenaline, and he took advantage of the fact, knowing that he would soon be overwhelmed by the injury and unable to fight. He brought his right hand up, striking against the beast's head with the hilt of his sword, repeating the motion several times until the animal finally released its prize and Aramis was able to pull his arm free. The victory was short-lived as the monster planted its front legs on the marksman's chest, this time aiming its jaws at his throat. Without conscious thought, Aramis flipped the hold on his sword, gripping the hilt so he could drive the blade of the weapon sideways and into the body of the animal that pinned him in place.
With a howl of rage, the beast fell to the side, staggering a few feet away and looking back on its prey warily. Aramis was panting heavily, the battle having nearly drained all of his remaining reserves, his broken leg and ravaged arm now protesting loudly at the abuse they'd suffered. Gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes on his attacker, the marksman forced his left arm to move, reaching behind his back to grasp the dagger that sat there. As if anticipating a last desperate move, the beast growled once more, preparing to pounce, even as Aramis compelled his numb fingers to close around the handle of his knife.
When recalling the story, the marksman would explain how time seemed to have slowed to a standstill, and how he remembered the glint of the dagger's blade under the moonlight as he threw it. He would describe how the wolf had just begun its leap and the smell of its fetid breath, which seemed to reach across the distance between them. The picture he would paint would tell of the sound that the knife made as it embedded itself deeply into the animal's eye, the blade long enough to pierce the beast's brain and kill it instantly, and of the thud that echoed when its heavy body fell lifeless to the ground. Lastly, he would tell of his relief at still being alive and how he remembers little of binding his wound to stem the bleeding or of passing out shortly afterwards, his body overcome by the dual shocks of blood loss and incredible pain, as he prays that the wolf was a solitary predator that night and that his friends would reach him before the animal's pack.
d'Artagnan's sleep had been poor, in spite of the fact that he'd been the first one to head to his room. His thoughts had been filled with possible reasons for the marksman's absence and he'd fussed endlessly with the bandages, herbs and other supplies he carried, double and triple-checking everything in the fear that they'd be insufficient. In truth, it was himself he doubted more than the items he'd packed, his training with Aramis having given him a rudimentary understanding of the most common wounds that soldiers received, but his practice of the man's teachings always conducted under the medic's observant guidance. Now, he might find himself alone, tending wounds that he had no experience with and doing so without Aramis' patient tutelage.
He'd seen the look of hope in Athos' eyes when the man had replied to his question about the medical supplies and he had no doubt that both Porthos and the older man would rely on him to care for any injuries Aramis had sustained. The idea of being wholly responsible for his friend's life was terrifying, only made worse when he considered the consequences of failing; he would not be able to live with himself if the marksman died because of his ineptitude. As a result, he'd consulted all of the notes he'd taken when observing at Aramis' side, even leaving his room around 2am to visit the medic's in order to borrow one of the man's medical books, pouring over it until the first rays of dawn.
When morning arrived, it brought a renewed sense of panic as the Gascon realized he was out of time. Drawing a deep breath to clear his head, he allowed the book in his hands to fall closed, placing it on the small table next to him and then closing his eyes for several seconds as he prepared to face the day. Determinedly he rose and poured a small amount of water into the basin, wetting his hands and then his face in an effort to quiet the sting of his red and tired eyes before going out to meet his friends.
As he dried his face, he looked longingly at his bed, recognizing his need for sleep but resigning himself to the fact that his nighttime hours had been better spent preparing himself to deal with whatever might await them when they found Aramis. Both Porthos and Athos had seemed confident in their beliefs that whatever had delayed the marksman would be outside of his control, and that thought had made the Gascon's chest tighten with fear for his friend, and only the act of preparing himself in any way that he could had helped to ease the feeling in the slightest.
He took a last look through his medical bag, confirming what he already knew but needing the comfort offered by going through the familiar motions. When he'd finished, he slipped into his doublet and boots, fastening his weapons around his waist before snagging the bag and throwing it over one shoulder. With an energy that he'd didn't feel, he strode from the room, moving quickly along the walkway that led to the stairs and descending to the courtyard below. Athos and Porthos were already waiting at their usual table, both men looking just as sombre as he felt. With a quick nod of greeting, he waited for one of them to speak and Athos gave a short shake of his head instead to indicate that there was still no sign of their missing friend.
Forcing his taut muscles to relax, d'Artagnan sat on the bench across from Porthos, Athos standing at one end with his eyes firmly glued to the garrison gates. Although he had no appetite, he reached for a small crust of bread and ripped off a piece, chewing slowly before swallowing with difficulty. Porthos' head was bowed as he leaned both arms on the table, a forgotten portion of food in front of him. As if sensing the Gascon's gaze, the larger man looked up, providing the boy with a proper look at the man's tired features which reflected his own.
Deciding it would be hypocritical to ask if Porthos had gotten any sleep, he said instead, "You should try to eat." Putting his words to action, he took another bite of his own food before continuing, "We'll need to keep up our strength and we may not have much time for our own needs later." Porthos stared at him for several seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not to argue before giving a dip of his head and taking a bite. Glancing at Athos, d'Artagnan was surprised to see the man looking back at him, giving a slow nod of approval. Pleased that he'd been able to help but not wanting to draw attention to the fact, he dipped his head in reply and then turned his attention back to his breakfast.
Minutes later, the activity around them increased as the Musketeers gathered for morning muster. Athos had once more turned his attention to the gate, but the entrance remained stubbornly empty. Above them, the sound of boots was heard as Treville exited his office. The Captain's appearance seemed to prompt Athos into action and d'Artagnan watched as the older man's gaze moved upwards, the two older men exchanging some form of silent communication. Moments later, Athos' head snapped back towards them and d'Artagnan realized that both he and Porthos were now watching the older man expectantly. "The horses are saddled and waiting; it's time for us to go."
Athos moved away quickly, Porthos standing and following immediately and leaving the Gascon to stumble as he took a moment to rise and gather his things. A backward glance showed the Captain watching them and left d'Artagnan wondering if he'd been correct about the brief flash of concern he'd seen pass over the man's face. Pushing the thought aside for later, he faced forward and sped up his steps in order to close the distance between himself and his friends. After all, Aramis was waiting for them and the young man was determined not to let any of them down.