AN/ Thank you everyone for your reviews, follows, and faves. I'm so pleased to see that people are enjoying this story! :)
So this chapter's full of angst and questions... but all will be revealed in the next few chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.
Chapter Four
The train had stopped and Athos frowned as he passed by the stilled men to find out why the halt had occurred. Somewhere he heard a shout for Aramis to make his way to the front, and this only quickened his pace.
Both he and Aramis reached the front of train at the same moment, and he heard Aramis curse as he quickly moved towards the injured musketeer.
By the side of the path was Etienne, pale and shivering with a fever that was causing him to sweat profusely despite the chill in the air and the snowfall. Covering him was a cloak that looked too like d'Artagnan's travelling cloak than Athos cared to admit.
Athos stayed back while Aramis crouched down beside the injured soldier. He glanced about their surroundings and ordered a few men to set a perimeter. While he was giving orders, the amateur medic had finished his initial assessment and he stood up, giving orders for the injured musketeer to be carried to one of wagons at the centre of their troop, before approaching Athos.
"He's got some bruised ribs and a nasty slice across his side which has become infected. It was bandaged, and from the angle of the knot, I'd guess he tied it himself," Aramis paused, but clearly there was more to be said. Athos grunted expectantly. "The wound's at least a day old, if not longer."
"The advance party were attacked," Athos spoke the words he didn't want to hear. It wasn't a question.
"He's out for the count, and won't be able to tell us anything until his fever breaks," Aramis supplied sadly. "Perhaps he came back to warn us. We may find the others up ahead…"
"If he was the least injured of their party, then I don't take much hope in that speculation," Athos said. His foul mood was radiating off him in hot bursts, and the only reason Aramis didn't take offence was because he knew it was fear for d'Artagnan that fed Athos' anger.
"We need to keep moving down the trail," Athos said. "Make sure everyone is on alert."
Aramis frowned, but nodded, as he moved to carry out the command. Both musketeers mounted up and rode down opposite flanks of their marching troupe. As the group started moving, Aramis returned to the medic's wagons and rode beside it as the trained battlefield medics worked on Etienne. A little further down the line, Aramis caught Porthos' questioning look, but Aramis could do little more than shake his head.
The men marched on until another stall was called. Aramis lingered by the wagon as the medics finished re-binding Etienne's wound.
"We're placed a poultice on the wound to draw out the infection," one of the men said. "Now it's just a waiting game."
Aramis sighed and nodded. He briefly took his hat off so he could run his hand through his damp hair, before moving down the line to find the reason for their stalling. As he approached the front he caught stray whispers from his fellow musketeers that had him moving faster, and wishing he could move slower… backwards even.
Suddenly Porthos appeared at his side and reined his horse in.
"What is it?" Aramis asked.
"Perhaps you should go back to Etienne," Porthos suggested. Aramis scowled and jumped from his mount. Porthos sighed and followed suit, knowing that his ill-fated attempts to keep his friend away would never have been successful.
As he broached the clearing, with Porthos at his elbow, Aramis felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He momentarily forgot to breathe and found himself transported into a nightmare memory…
… snow… bodies… dead… blood… brothers… dead…
The bodies were strewn, half buried in the lightly falling snow that graced the winter skies. Aramis suddenly felt a pressure on his shoulder and turned to find Porthos looking at him with concern.
"We're not in Savoy," Porthos reminded his friend gently.
"We may as well be," Aramis said softly before heaving in a deep breath and moving forward.
Athos stood to the side with a face like thunder and a fist that was screwed up so tightly, Aramis feared he may pop his fingers out of joint.
"Athos?" Aramis called to his Captain and brother.
Suddenly one of the younger soldiers came forward.
"There are twenty-five bodies," the young lad – he as barely of age – told the captain quietly. "Seventeen Spaniards. Eight of our own."
Athos' head snapped up at this piece of information.
"Eight?" Porthos repeated.
"Yes sirs," the young soldier affirmed. "D'Artagnan isn't among them."
Aramis wasn't sure what to feel: relief, fear, and worry assaulted him all at once.
"That makes no sense," Porthos argued, although he, too, was conflicted, for he was relieved to find that one of his closest brothers was not among the dead… and yet, this offered no information for where he may be.
"Etienne was wrapped in d'Artagnan's cloak," Athos said quietly. "I'm sure it was his."
"Did they leave here together?" Porthos asked.
"If they did, then why wasn't d'Artagnan with Etienne on the path? Or further along the path, if he'd gone on for help?" Aramis asked.
Athos frowned deeply.
"How close is Etienne to waking?" he asked. A Captain's question.
"At least until after the fever breaks. If we're lucky a few hours, if not…" Aramis didn't have to finish the sentence.
"We're less than a day away from the camp," Athos finally said. "We'll move ahead and travel through the evening. Hopefully Etienne will be with us by then and we can decide a course of action."
"I could go back to where we found Etienne and look for any signs of him," Porthos suggested.
"We don't even know what happened," Athos shook his head.
"They were clearly ambushed," Porthos argued.
"And outnumbered at least two to one," Athos snapped angrily. "When Etienne awakes we'll arrange a search if one is needed!"
"And what if that's too late?" Porthos argued back. "If we're moving forward then that's even further we've got to go back for him. This is d'Artagnan we're talking about, damn you!"
Athos snapped to attention and glared at Porthos.
"Don't you think I don't already know that?" he asked scathingly. "I can't base a decision that affects everyone, on the life of one man. No matter how much I might wish it!"
Porthos looked in mixed emotions: ready to punch his Captain, and also ready to reassure his brother.
"We move out now," Athos addressed those that were gathered near. "Have our men loaded onto a wagon. We'll bury them as well as we can manage when we make camp."
No one moved for a moment. A few of the musketeer's glanced at Porthos' visibly shaking figure.
"You heard the Captain's order," Aramis called. "Let's move!"
The marksman placed himself between his two brothers and rested his hands of Porthos' shoulders.
"We'll find him," Aramis said sternly. "But first we need to make camp and set a perimeter."
Porthos glared at his brother, and then across his shoulder to where Athos stood. Their eyes met for only an instant, but Athos couldn't continue to meet Porthos' accusatory gaze, and dropped his look, before turning to direct the men.
"Porthos," Aramis called to his brother.
"Yeah, I heard," Porthos muttered gruffly, before turning and following the rest of the men back to the road.