Porthos could not help but think that this whole mess was somehow his fault, as if invoking the Cardinal's name had attracted trouble their way.

No one had been expecting something like this, not on that road, and not in broad daylight. The path was too well-travelled and close to the city for any robber worth his salt to try anything.

And that was if those men had actually been robbers.

It had not escaped anyone's attention that the attackers had concentrated their efforts around Athos, trying their worst to send the swordsman to the other side of the veil.

Right now, however, he had more pressing matters on his mind, like figuring out what kind of trouble Aramis had managed to get himself in. The only thing that Porthos found more terrifying than one of his brothers hurt, was two of them.

Confident that the group of attackers was too dead to cause any more concern, he had left d'Artagnan to help Athos – Lord, there had been too much blood on the swordsman's clothes - and ran to the riverside.

It was easy to see where the shrubbery had been crushed and torn apart by the passage of a body, two bodies if he was seeing it right, and exactly where they had fallen into the river. A solitary boot, too unfamiliar to belong to Aramis, lay discarded by the river bank, confirming the Musketeer's idea that Aramis had not fallen alone.

One thing that Porthos could not find, thank God, was blood. It was bad enough that his brother had gotten himself in the river; worse even, in the river with one of their attackers. To have found evidence of a wound would have made very hard for Porthos to hold on to any hope of finding Aramis alive.

As fast as the water was flowing, the tall man had no expectations about finding anyone in that portion of the river. Racing along the bank, the Porthos found himself sending up a prayer to Aramis' God, to find the marksman, to find him unharmed. Because, desperate as the Musketeer was to find hisbrother, the notion of what he might find, terrified him.

When his eyes caught on a pile of dark clothing, trapped against two stones in the middle of the river, Porthos' heart all but stopped. Right there and then, all he could see was the embodiment of his worst nightmare. It was clearly a man's body, but the only visible part was the person's back with everything else below the surface of the furious water.

Whoever that was, he had either learned to breathe like a fish or was long dead.

Just as Porthos was about to throw caution to the wind and venture into the river to see for himself who was the dead man, Fate intervened in his favor.

Water slapped against the rocks, the turmoil causing the body to edge free and turn around. Before the current could snatch it once more, Porthos was able to get a glimpse of the dead man's face. His forehead and eyes were covered in blood and deformed, clearly from bouncing around the sharp edged rocks hidden beneath the surface of the water, making it impossible to pinpoint any defining features. The lower half of his face, however, was hidden behind a dark piece of cloth, like the rest of the band who had attacked them had been wearing.

Porthos' legs grew weak with relief. It wasn't Aramis.

It was a poor excuse for a reprieve, but one that Porthos welcomed with all his heart, for finding the dead attacker meant that Aramis was still out there, hopefully alive. Lord! He had to be alive, or else Porthos was going to kill him.

So intent were Porthos' eyes on the river and its banks that, when he did find Aramis, he almost stepped on him. "Aramis!"

The fallen Musketeer was sprawled on the wet mud, lying on his side, soaked to the bone. With his hair plastered to his face and covering most of his features, it was nearly impossible for Porthos to see if the marksman was breathing or...

"Aramis!" he called again, crouching beside his friend, gently pushing his hair back. "Come on now…don't make me slap ya awake," Porthos threatened pointlessly, frightened by Aramis' stillness. His eyes quickly ran over his friend's body, searching for odd shapes and protruding bones. Satisfied that he found none, Porthos' gaze returned to the smaller man's chest. For the life of him, Porthos could not discern if it was moving or not and the uncertainty ate at his nerves until he was close to losing his mind.

Despair started to sink its teeth in as seconds trickled by and Aramis remained unresponsive. At a loss on what to do, Porthos grabbed him by his shoulders, resisting the urge to rattle his senseless friend. If death had already taken hold on him...

Aramis started to move so suddenly and with such violence that Porthos was forced to fumble his hold, lest he let his brother fall and add to his injuries. He held on with all his might, feeling the muscles underneath his touch tremble and shudder.

At first, it seemed like Aramis was having some sort of fit, making Porthos worry that he was witnessing his friend's final moments. It was only when he realized that the trembling was dissolving into raging coughs that Porthos allowed himself to relax ever so slightly before maneuvering his charge into an easier position to expel the river from his insides.

~§~

Aramis came to violently, as his body tried to cough up and vomit all the water he had unwillingly drunk, lungs attached and all.

As the spasms subsided, the hand rubbing his back and the soft words of encouragement slowly registered. He let himself sink into the familiar comfort.

"Tha's it, mate," the voice said, "better out than in, I always say...there ya go. Breathe, Aramis, breathe. Nice and easy."

The Musketeer did as he was told, his body apparently needing the reminder about such a basic task. The fresh air that he pulled in tasted as abrasive as the water had felt coming out, but like a starved man unperturbed by raw meat or rotten fruit, he kept on hauling more and more inside.

"Easy now," the voice went on, strong arms pulling him up until Aramis found himself sitting up, his back secured against a warm body. "Ya need t' calm down, or yer gonna make yerself sick again."

Porthos.

The name carried with it the weight of long years of friendship and the memories of all that had happened between them, including the last couple of hours. "Athos!" Aramis gasped out, setting off another coughing fit.

The last he had seen of the older man, Athos had been nearly senseless, barely able to fend for himself in the middle of the fight.

Aramis knew that he had pushed away the more immediate threat to his friend's life, but what had happened after his fall into the river, he had no way of knowing. And what of d'Artagnan? Why did Porthos stood alone with him without any of the others?

"They're safe," Porthos was quick to assure, once more showing his uncanny ability to guess what his brothers were thinking as easily as if they'd spoken out loud. "He stayed with Athos while I came to find where ya'd wandered off to," he added with a dry chuckle that was part relief and part nervousness.

Letting the words sink in, Aramis looked around, unable to recognize any of their surroundings. "Whe—where are we?"

"Somewhere down t' river," Porthos supplied, looking in the opposite direction. "I figure we're about a lieue away from t' others."

Aramis blinked, thinking he had misheard the distance. He remembered the feeling of hitting the water and being tossed around like a feather in a storm, but after that his memories were nothing but a series of flashes and the monstrous decision that he had taken in order to survive. "I don't remember being in the river for that long..." he confessed.

Porthos nodded, looking at the river like it was something that he wanted to punch. "T'water's running pretty fast, through some really sharp rocks. Ya're lucky ya made it this far alive and in one piece."

Aramis gave him a weak smile. It hadn't been luck, not for the entire path. He remembered grabbing on to the attacker that had fallen with him and twisting their bodies around, using the other man as a shield. He remembered feeling the jolt as they were both thrown against a large rock. The sound of the other man's spine, snapping in half, was one that would haunt Aramis' dreams for a very long time.

It hadn't been murder, not exactly, but the thin line between killing in battle and deliberately taking another's life for the sake of survival... that line had been undoubtedly broken the moment Aramis knew that his attacker could do nothing to defend himself from the brutal power of Nature and used him to save his own life.

Still, he could not find the strength to feel guilty about his actions in that very moment. Perhaps later, when he was sure that all of his friends were safe and that Athos' wound would not rob him of his life. Then, and only then, the Musketeer could regret his less-than-honorable actions.

"Can ya walk?" Porthos asked hopefully. They had quite the length to travel and both were well aware that it was not safe to leave d'Artagnan alone with a wounded brother. But if Aramis could not make the journey on his own, Porthos would have no choice but to stay with him and hope that the attack on the road had been a solitary event.

Aramis held on to Porthos as the taller man helped him to his feet. The world wavered around him for a second, the dirt beneath his feet cresting and waving more like the high sea than solid ground.

Bile rose in his throat and for a moment, Aramis was certain that he was going to be sick again. Breathing too deeply hurt inside his chest, so he opted for not breathing at all, hoping that the moment would pass.

"This ain't going t' work," Porthos whispered, his words kind and filled with concern. One of his hands had moved from Aramis' elbow to grasp the back of his neck, pushing forward until the marksman's head was resting against his broad chest.

Aramis breathed in leather and the smell of gunpowder and horse, earthy scents that almost made him forget about the washed-out flavor of the water that had been forced into his mouth and the sloshing feeling inside his stomach. Underneath the layers of clothing and muscle, he could hear Porthos' heart, steady and strong. "I'm good," Aramis whispered after a while, when he felt that the nausea was under control. "Besides, we must hurry back and tell Athos that he was right," he added with a weak smile.

Although he could not see the big man's face, Aramis could guess his confused expression perfectly down to the raised eyebrow.

"'bout what?"

"Water's very bad for your health," Aramis supplied, spitting some more of it out with a disgusted look on his face.

~§~

D'Artagnan had seen Aramis tend to wounds enough times that he knew, in theory, what needed to be done. There was, however, an ocean of doubt between seeing others do and doing.

Getting the older man out of his doublet had been the easy part, as Athos' consciousness seemed to come and go like the breeze.

There was more blood underneath the leather than what the young man had expected, the dark red liquid oozing out still, even as he looked.

Remembering Aramis' usual method of checking a wound, d'Artagnan reached around Athos' torso, feeling for the place where, if they were lucky, the exit wound should be. His fingers immediately felt tacky, sticking to each other as he found the second injury.

A small degree of relief filled the young man, fearful as he had been that he would be forced to dig around his mentor's chest in search of a lost musket ball. Of course, if that had been the case, the Gascon reminded himself, it wouldn't be him doing such an atrocious deed, because Aramis would be back by then and he was the one with the experience and steady hand for such matters.

Besides, there was no need to pull musket balls out of anyone because the shot had passed clean through and that...that d'Artagnan could deal with, even if, in the privacy of his own mind, he was frantically panicking.

Aramis.

Hearing Athos' breathless warning about the marksman had left d'Artagnan unbalanced and uncertain of what to do. He had barely started to deal with the fact that Athos was badly hurt; those few whispered words had been simply too much to bear, throwing his heart into a spiral of despair that robbed him of all thought. Aramis could be dead already and Athos, if left unattended, could quickly follow.

When d'Artagnan had started off that day, he could never have imagined that, in a matter of minutes, he would stand so close to lose two of his brothers. Porthos, bless his gentle soul and brave heart, had been the one to surge into action and take command.

The decision to choose who stayed and who searched the river for their missing friend had been an easy one; while both of them could somewhat swim, only Porthos possessed the strength to pull Aramis from the river, if the need arose. That left d'Artagnan with the equally important task of keeping Athos alive.

"Enough with the poking," Athos hissed in pain, once more master of his senses. "Where are the others?" he whispered, eyes darting around feverishly. "Did... did you find him?"

There was no need to ask about whom Athos was inquiring. He looked back at the slope that hid the river from sight, hoping that this was the one time he would see a twin set of dark, curly haired heads making their way up. No such luck.

They were taking an awful long time to return… D'Artagnan was unsure if that was a good or a very bad sign. "I'm certain Porthos and Aramis will be here shortly," he voiced, not sounding nearly as convincing as he had aimed for.

"Y-you should go…help them," Athos whispered, trying to curl onto his side as the young man applied more pressure over the wounds on his right side. "I'll be fine."

If not for the blood covering his hands, d'Artagnan might have laughed at the older man's words. Pity Athos could not see his own face, pale and sweaty as it was, eyes sunken, like his body was trying to consume them…the swordsman would have found the statement amusing as well, he was sure.

"Porthos would kill me if I were to abandon you here," the Gascon replied with a genuine smile. "And Aramis would patch me up well enough just to kill me next."

Athos sagged back against the tree, realizing that he would be – quite literally - wasting his breath trying to convince d'Artagnan to move. "The attackers?" he asked instead.

"All dead," the Gascon said all-too-quickly, not a trace of pity in his voice. The attack had been too similar to the one that had robbed him of his father and, looking at Athos' pained features, the young man could not find in his heart the will to think kindly of the men they had killed. "Or close to it," he added, as a moan that had not come from the wounded Musketeer filled the silence.

D'Artagnan stilled his movements as Athos' hands covered his. "This was no ra-random attack," the older man said, his intense eyes trying to voice everything that he lacked the breath to say. The explosion, the way they sought to divide the four of them, the ferocity of the attack and their targeting of Athos in particular…it all spoke of a planned attack, one ordered by someone else other than the dead men. "Find out what he knows," Athos ordered, knowing that dead men did not moan. There was still one attacker alive.