Chapter 4

Merely a few minutes into the ride, and Athos is no longer sure which way is up. Although padded by the snow, each of the gelding's footfalls sends a spike of pain up his jaw, reverberating in his skull. The swaying movement of the horse has exacerbated his dizziness into vertigo. Nausea is swelling in his stomach. No, he pleads, remembering his painful experience from earlier, please don't let me throw up. He clenches his mouth shut and takes a few deep breaths through his nose.

"Athos? You 'righ'?" Porthos asks, his beard brushing Athos' cheek as he tries to catch a look at him over his shoulder. "Somethin' wrong?"

The back of Athos' throat is starting to tingle. He swallows hard. Bitterness floods his mouth.

I cannot be sick.

"If you need a break, we can-"

It's too late. Frantically, Athos tugs at Porthos' arm and bends over to the side, gagging. He fumbles for the bandage keeping his jaw closed and can't get it loose. Bile fills his mouth, mixed with the blood he's swallowed. Panic turns his legs into water, and he tilts sideways.

"Whoa!"

Yanking at the reins, Porthos brings his horse to an abrupt stop while clamping his arm tighter around Athos. He shifts, his other hand bracing Athos' chest as he doubles over, his knees and thighs pinning Athos' legs to the horse.

"Easy, easy!" Porthos voice is loud but firm, attempting to calm both the startled horse and Athos shuddering in his arms. "Hang on. I have you. Just-"

A strangled noise comes from Athos' throat. He is choking.

"Aramis!"

"Here." The marksman is beside them, already jumping off his horse. "We need him on the ground! Quickly! D'Artagnan, come here, help me!"

Voices. Not enough air. The sky capsizes, and Athos is falling. Did Porthos really let him slip?

Hands catch him, and then he's on the ground, being rolled onto his side. Someone holds his head and turns it, ripping the bandage off his chin. Breathe. He needs to breathe. He needs to open his mouth. He cannot open his mouth. Coughing and choking, he squirms.

"Athos! Calm down!" Aramis. Close to his face. Is he lying on the ground as well? "Hold stilI! I'm helping you. Don't bite me!"

Fingers between his lips, prising his jaw open. Athos gurgles a scream. Fingers in his mouth, scooping out the vile, congealed mass he's choking on.

Don't bite.

Somehow, he doesn't.

Pain. Retching. Then it's over. His cough subsides. His mouth is empty and closed again. There's air, and he sucks it in through clenched teeth and a running nose. Aramis' swims into focus in front of him, wiping his hand on his doublet. Behind him, hovering, d'Artagnan, eyes wide with fear.

"Is he…," he stutters. "Is he good? Is it over?"

Aramis bends low, angling his face to make eye contact with Athos, still on his side.

"Athos? Better?"

For a moment, Athos just closes his eyes, the snowy ground cool against the side of his head. He is exhausted. He is ashamed. He wants all of this to be over. Give him a bullet wound. Give him a slash across his torso, a broken arm or a cracked rib and he'll just walk off and deal with it, by himself. But this, this is becoming unbearable.

"Come on," Aramis urges. "Look at me."

He doesn't have a choice. Opening his eyes again, Athos schools his gaze into what he hopes is an annoyed glare. Aramis, God bless him, meets it with a smile.

"There's a good boy," the medic says nonchalantly, ignoring Porthos' exasperated chuff behind him. "Angry is better than unconscious."

Athos pushes himself up on one elbow, away from the disgusting puddle underneath his cheek. Everything feels sticky and he suppresses the urge to wipe his hand across his beard.

"Gave me a fright," Porthos mutters darkly, reaching to help him up. "Next time, jus' let me know somethin's up. Slap me o' pinch me, I don' care. I almos' let you fall, an' Aramis would've killed me if I 'ad."

His gruff fondness centers Athos and he gratefully squeezes the strong arm now hauling him to his feet. It's so much easier to handle than the pity and fear resonating from d'Artagnan, moving nervously out of the way as Aramis and Porthos guide him back to the gelding.

"You're not seriously putting him back on the horse," the young Gascon says, incredulous. "He can't ride. You saw what happened."

"You have a better idea?" Aramis asks over his shoulder, sounding annoyed.

d'Artagnan shrugs, arms flung wide. "I don't know. Get a cart from the convent. The two of you can stay with him, I can do it. I'll be quick."

"A cart. In this snow. On this terrain." Aramis shakes his head. "Not a chance."

The rest of what he says to the young musketeer is drowned out by a new cloud of pain engulfing Athos as Aramis, still talking, swiftly rebandages his face and, with Porthos help, maneuvers him back on the horse. Once up there, Athos no longer cares what anyone is saying or doing. All of his attention narrows down to keeping his head still and his hands clasped to the saddle. They cannot stop again. If they have to take him off the horse one more time, Athos isn't sure he has the strength to get back up.

xxx

Abrupt movement jolts Athos back to awareness. The gelding he's still sat on is shaking its thick neck, shedding a layer of white from its coat, rekindling the the fire in Athos' jaw. A small groan escapes him before he can shove it back down.

"Hey there." Porthos' voice is at his right ear. "You back with us?"

Athos feels himself being shifted as Porthos adjusts his grip around him. He's cold, his hands have slipped off the saddle knob, and he finds himself slumped against Porthos' chest. Whether he's been asleep or unconscious, he's not sure. Embarrassed and confused, he sits up, lifting one hand in answer to Porthos' question. Snow flutters from the brim of his hat. Through a curtain of thick flakes, he can barely see d'Artagnan riding up ahead, his grey merging with the landscape.

There is an awful taste in his mouth, his tongue thick against the inside of his swollen cheek, and he recognizes the headache and lag in perception he's familiar with from earlier concussions. His jaw feels stiff and hot. He wants to ask how long he's been out and how much further they will have to go, but he has no idea how and even turning around to look at Porthos feels like too much of an effort.

"We're almost there," Porthos says behind him, as if reading his mind. "You've been out for a while. 'ad us a little worried, to be honest, but we didn't want to stop an' lose more time. You alrigh'?"

Of course he's not, and they both know it, and yet Athos nods.

"Is he awake again?"

Aramis has appeared beside them, anxiously leaning in to see.

"Jus' came 'round."

"Athos," Aramis asks, "can you look at me?"

Cautiously, Athos turns his head. He can see a little out of his left eye again. Perhaps the cold brought down the swelling a bit. When he meets Aramis' gaze, he sees a gentle smile not quite covering the dismay underneath. He must be a sorry sight to perceive.

"How are you feeling, brother?"

In reply, Athos makes an attempt at lifting the corner of his mouth into a smirk. It's a terrible idea, and he pays for it with a sharp arrow of pain piercing from chin to temple. The smirk falters.

"Hang in there," Aramis replies fondly, reaching out one hand to give Athos a pet on his thigh. "Not much longer now. We're almost there."

And as if summoned by their reassurances, through the flurrying snow, the convent rises up out of the forest, on top of the hill they're slowly scaling. The fortified building looks dark and ominous in the winter storm, but Athos sags with relief. Just a few more minutes, and he can lie down, close his eyes and let Aramis fix him.

The thought crosses his mind that it might be an illusion. That this is out of Aramis' hands, capable as they may be. That he may not be able to speak, to eat, that he may actually die from this injury. But he is too cold, too exhausted and too numb from pain to linger on that thought, and Porthos' arm looped safely around him feels too comforting to be afraid.