D'Artagnan awakes some time later, minutes or hours he cannot tell. It's still light out but the rain has ceased to fall and he can just see the sun starting to emerge from behind the clouds. At some point he'd been moved and now he lies upon a cloak near the fire, and there are heavy linen bandages wrapped around his stomach. He's alone and for a moment he panics, looking around as much as he's able before his eyes find his friends. They stand clustered near him, debating something. Porthos' voice is the first he hears.

"We should turn back. Paris is less then two days ride, one if we push the horses."

Aramis replies, voice tight with worry.

"He will not survive a days journey, Porthos. He has lost too much blood and god only knows what kind of infection will set in."

Athos chimes in, voice quiet.

"Can you not just stitch him up here?"

Aramis shakes his head, long curls of hair shedding drops of water that shimmer like jewels in the pale sunlight.

"I dare not, this place is nothing but mud and dirt and the risk that some will enter the wound as I stitch is too great. I need somewhere clean and dry."

They are quiet for a moment, obviously contemplating their next course of action. Finally Athos broaches the silence,

"The village that we were going to spend the night in is barely half a days ride from here, and it brings us closer to Reims as well. There will be an inn there."

Aramis chews at his lip, indecision obvious on his face.

"I do not know…I do not know if he will make it."

They all fall silent at that, and d'Artagnan chooses this moment to speak. His voice is rough and barely above a whisper but it carries in the quiet clearing.

"I will make it."

They all turn at that, jumping a little at the sound of his voice. Aramis pushes past the other two and hurries towards him, kneeling beside him and gently placing a hand to his forehead. It's not until he feels Aramis's skin against his that d'Artagnan realizes how cold he is and he shivers, shaking under the heat of Aramis' palm.

"How do you feel?"

Aramis asks and d'Artagnan shrugs, or comes as close as he can to the gesture.

"Like I've been run through with a sword."

Aramis cracks a tense smile at that, and looks up towards the others.

"At least he is well enough to make jokes."

D'Artagnan feels more then hears Porthos' deep, rumbling, laugh and he manages a wan grin. Aramis turns back to him, face serious again.

"Are you sure, d'Artagnan? It will not be an easy journey."

D'Artagnan just nods weakly,

"I'm sure. You must deliver the letter."

Aramis shakes his head, frustration visible on his handsome features.

"We will, D'Artagnan, but our priority is making sure you are alive to see it delivered."

Athos cuts in then, voice flat and even and steady.

"Can you make the journey?"

It's a question and a command all at once and d'Artagnan could never find it within himself to lie to him.

"I'm sure."

Athos nods once and in it there is faith that makes d'Artagnan want to cry, then turns to Aramis,

"We must trust the boy, if he says he can do it he can. We head for the village."

Aramis looks like he's about to protest but d'Artagnan gently shakes his head and so he bites his tongue and sighs, nodding, but he's clearly dissatisfied.

"Very well."

As Athos and Porthos make ready to leave, packing the saddlebags and putting out the fire Aramis stays by his side, checking his bandages. D'Artagnan reaches a shaking hand up, resting it against Aramis' neck and leaving a bloody smear as he pulls him closer.

"It is alright, if you cannot save me. There are some things…some things worth dying for."

Aramis' face closes off, something d'Artagnan cannot recognize burning deep in his eyes. Pausing in his fussing Aramis grasps d'Artagnan's hand in his own, holding it tight, unmindful of the slick blood that coats it. His voice is low but intense, filled to overflowing with emotion.

"Do not say such things, it would not be alright if I cannot save you. Not for an instant. But it matters not, because you will survive this. You are too stubborn not to."

D'Artagnan cannot help but smile at the ferocity in his friend's eyes and so he nods slightly, even if he does not believe Aramis' words. Because what is there in this world to believe in if not his friends.

Aramis insists on riding with d'Artagnan, so Porthos leads his horse over to where d'Artagnan is lying. Aramis mounts first, and then Athos and Porthos carefully lift d'Artagnan and maneuver him in front of Aramis. It's a painful affair, despite their best efforts to be gentle and he has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. By the time he's solidly on the horse he's soaked in sweat and shivering, and they still have half a days hard ride to go. At the thought d'Artagnan can't help but groan a little, and he lets his head fall back against Aramis' shoulder. Aramis looks down, worry knitting his eyebrows together.

"D'Artagnan…"

Aramis says softly, breathe whispering in d'Artagnan's ear. D'Artagnan just shakes his head.

"I'm alright."

Aramis sighs, but there is affection in it.

"You will be the death of me some day, you know. You and your damn Gascon pigheadedness. If the pain grows too great tell me, there is no shame in rest."

D'Artagnan nods, although he has no intention of calling a halt to their ride. Athos pulls up beside them, hat pulled low over his eyes and throwing his face into shadow.

"Ready?"

D'Artagnan dips his chin, and with a slight nod in return Athos kicks his horse into movement and starts off down the road. Aramis follows, one hand pressed to the wound in d'Artagnan's stomach while the other holds the reigns steady and Porthos takes up the rear. Leaving the bodies and the blood behind in the little clearing they set out for the village.

The ride is misery, Aramis does his best to keep to the smoothest parts of the road but the path is rough and each thump of the horse's hooves against the compact dirt sends waves of discomfort rippling up d'Artagnan's spine. He sleeps through much of it, slipping in and out of consciousness as the trees thin and give way to rolling fields and the sun begins to fall behind the far hills.

As they ride the world grows foggy and indistinct, color seeping from the scenery as his vision blurs and fades. The only consistency is Aramis' hand pressed against his side and the feel of his chest warm and solid against d'Artagnan's back. At one point they slow, Aramis leaning forward and drawing his hand out from inside d'Artagnan's doublet briefly. The other man shifts behind him and he feels vibrations run through his back as Aramis speaks, the words sounding long and drawn out.

"He's already bled through his bandages."

His voice is grim and d'Artagnan wishes to offer a word of comfort but he falls back into sleep before he can.

D'Artagnan does not even realize they've arrived at the village until Aramis pulls his horse to stop in front of an inn. He hears him calling out to Athos and Porthos, but he cannot make out the words, his ears feeling as though they've been filled with cotton. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos slip off of his horse and disappear inside.

Then there are strong hands reaching up and gripping his shoulders, helping him slide from the horse. He lets Athos wrap his arm over his shoulder as Aramis dismounts and quickly takes a position at his other side. Together they hold d'Artagnan between them, half supporting him half carrying him as they make their way into the building and up a flight of stairs. The first step sends a jolt of pain through the fog that clouds his mind and he can't help but let out a groan.

"We are almost there, d'Artagnan, almost there. Just hold on a few moments longer."

Aramis' voice rings in d'Artagnan's ear and he clings to the words as they make their way up the stairs, clings to them as they maneuver their way through a cramped doorway and lay him gently on a small bed. Clings to them as Porthos enters the room with a pot of boiling water, a stack of bandages and a bottle of brandy. His father's voice comes unbidden to his mind, echoing from years in the past and mixing with Aramis' plea and they bounce against the walls of his skull till d'Artagnan cannot make out the words and all he can hear is hold on. And he will hold on until there is nothing left to hold on to because there are some things worth dying for, but there are some worth living for too. Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear. It's hard to distinguish the words being spoken to him from the ones in his head but after a moment he realizes that Aramis is talking. Shaking himself he tries to focus on the present.

"I have to clean your wounds again, d'Artagnan and then I will stitch them up so you do not bleed to death on us."

Aramis stops speaking and d'Artagnan realizes he's waiting for a response. He licks his lips but they are dry and he does not trust his voice so he just nods in acknowledgement. He's still cold, despite that fire going in the back of the room, his fingers and toes numb and detached and he shivers again. Aramis squeezes his shoulder and disappears from his view. When he returns he's holding the brandy in his hand and d'Artagnan squeezes his eyes shut knowing what is to come. The cool glass of the bottle's rim is pressed against his lips and he swallows, feeling the liquor burn against his throat and stomach. He has not prayed in a long time (not since his father died) but when he feels heavy hands press his shoulders to the bed he prays. Lets his mouth form the prayers he remembers from his childhood, recites hail mary and the nicene creed, and though he hasn't spoken them in years they fall from his lips worn and familiar. The words of the Vulgate and Douay-Rheims spring to mind unbidden.

"Dimitte mihi, quoniam peccavi."

His friends had teased him, asking why he bothered to put the words of a dead language in his mouth, but something about them had always rung beautiful in his ears. Something sad about the way that all those who had spoken them were long dead and buried, their bones turned to ash and dust.

"Si confiteamur pecccata nostra fidelis est et iustus ut remittat nobis peccate et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate."

They fall from his mouth like a string of pearls, breaking and scattering across the ground. He holds onto a truth in them that he once believed in, like a memory faded and worn around the edges but still there. And when the alcohol pours from the bottle like liquid fire and burns his flesh to cinders he does not stop, cries them out until he has no breath and the words lose their meaning, speaks them until finally, mercifully, darkness comes.

When he wakes it is dark, small room lit only by the low red glow of the fireplace in the back of the room and a few candles. Aramis is sitting in a chair by the small table in the center of the room, fingers splayed over his eyes and a pinched look on his face. There are bloody rags piled on the table and d'Artagnan shivers at the sight of them. Porthos is sitting on the bed opposite his and Athos stands in the corner, arms crossed and face as unreadable as ever but shoulders tense and eyes sunken. Aramis lifts his head from his hands, and for the first time since d'Artagnan was injured he look unsure, uncertainty etched into every line of his face and beneath the doubt there is grief, shadowed and hollow.

"I…I do not know if he will live through the night. The wound is severe and he has lost much blood."

His voice is dry and cracked as the riverbed by d'Artagnan's farm the summer of a harsh drought and he wants to tell him it's alright, that he's not afraid of death, but his tongue is heavy and he cannot force his mouth to open so instead he drifts back to sleep.


Notes:

dimitte mihi quoniam peccavi - forgive me for I have sinned

si confiteamur peccata nostra fideles est et iustus ut remittat nobis peccate et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate - If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness