PRE-FIC NOTE: For some reason, when I go to reply to some of the reviews from chapter 3, once I click on the "REPLY URL" link, it tells me it cannot find the review to which I'm replying too. Which is odd since I can *SEE* it right there. So my apologies if you didn't receive a reply. I shall try tomorrow, perhaps they will have things worked out on their end.
Okay, did I warn you that I had more verbose chapters coming? Yea, this is one of those.
Brother's Keeper
Chapter 4
They rode as if the hounds of hell licked at their feet. Porthos gripped the reins to Aramis' horse tightly, in one breath cursing the full moon that made likely their foe's attempt at pursuit, and in the other, thanking whatever God Aramis subscribed to for enough light to make an escape possible.
Through every pounding hoof beat of retreat, worry churned deep in the dark skinned Musketeer's gut. More than once, he'd glanced back and each time the same; Aramis remained astride, quietly hanging on for dear life, dealing with whatever pain their jarring ride surely elicited. It was to that 'dear life' that Porthos' concern grew exponentially.
The longer Aramis' injuries went unattended, the less his chances of survival. He needed to stop and check those wounds before the marksman bled to death. And so with some distance between them and that bloody town, he spied a large copes of trees and veered their mounts toward it.
After a quick glance back at his injured friend, he ducked beneath the low branches and once behind the sheltering trees, turned their horses around until he faced out the way they'd come. Peering out between the dense foliage, his hand tightened its grip on Aramis horse but he did not otherwise move.
Years of training held him in check. After a hard ride, let the forest settle and your senses quiet to gage for danger or peace. Wait. Watch and listen.
Aramis' horse shifted and stomped at the ground before settling, the sound a whispered, urgent reminder of the condition of its rider. It took every ounce of strength within him to not immediately drop from the saddle and go to his friend.
When no sound of men and horses reached his hearing, he leapt from his saddle and reached Aramis' horse in two strides. The injured man's eyes were closed and his head lay on his horse's neck, his hands closed into tight fists over the animal's black mane. The leather of his gloves were tangled and twisted, indicating the grip tight enough to cut off circulation beneath.
"Aramis…" Porthos called out breathlessly, removing his friend's hat to push at sweat soaked hair that covered his face. It seemed an eternity before Aramis' eyes finally opened, and the big man sighed in relief. "Hey. Had me worried a bit there."
Hunched over, Aramis' head wobbled upright as he took in their surroundings. "Why-Why're we stopped?" he rasped.
"'Cause I'm takin' a look at them wounds." Porthos gripped Aramis' shoulder gently, resting the other hand on his back, ready to support him in dismounting. "C'mon, lets get you down, a'right?"
"No," Aramis leaned away, shaking his head in objection. "Sh-should keep moving. They'll follow."
"They can try but it's dark, save for the moonlight and that makes for better shadows than trail." He could see the marksman remained unconvinced and pressed on. "They'll likely wait for dawn before mounting a good effort. The trees'll shield us for a while. Come on." He tried to grab Aramis again, but noting the stubborn set of his jaw thought better of it.
"Just a b-bit further…"
The big man sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "If it were me shot, acting like a stubborn mule, what would you do?"
Aramis held his ground a moment, then sighed as he slumped in the saddle. "You're annoying when you're reasonable."
"And you're a stubborn ass when you're hurt." Porthos widened his stance and tried to guide his friend as he began to slowly tip from the saddle and into his arms.
"Di—" the marksman's voice stuttered, each shift of his body obviously aggravating his wounds. "Didn't want you shot." He hissed in pain when Porthos grip came too close to his wounded shoulder.
Porthos was no stranger to injury and that suited him fine. He would much rather deal with his own pain and discomfort than to be entrusted with the life of one of his brothers, something that he held more precious than his own.
"I know." Porthos ground his teeth together, trying to do most of the work without further hurting his friend, but knowing there was only so much he could do to spare him pain. "You got tired of taking care of me so you decided to take all the attention for yourself."
When Aramis' feet finally hit the ground, he groaned long and loud. The marksman was rarely hurt, but of the four of them, whenever fate deemed it his turn, it was never by half measures. Porthos prayed that just this once, it would be so.
Gripping the shorter man around the waist, Porthos tried disentangling his hands from the mane but to no avail. He hadn't the time nor patience for such an effort.
"Gonna have to cut it the hair," he murmured and pressed Aramis up against the horse. "You're gonna have to stand a bit. Won't be long. Can you do that for me?"
"I've been shot before," Aramis looked over his shoulder, pinning Porthos with a peevish glare. "I'll m-manage."
"Yeah," Porthos nodded, bolstered by Aramis' annoyance, knowing it meant things weren't as bad as they could be. Yet. "I know," he continued, keeping one hand on Aramis' back and reaching behind himself to draw his main gauche, "but you've lost a lot of blood. Don't have to be a medic to know that's bad."
Aramis leaned his head down against the animal's neck. "Then I suggest," he panted, his voice muffled into his horse's' neck, "you hurry and quit talking s'm-much."
Porthos was already sawing at the tangled hair, pressing close against Aramis' back to keep him upright. The longer it took, the more the marksman began to sway, and just as he finished, Aramis' knees buckled and he began to crumple to the ground.
Just managing to catch him about the waist, Porthos stilled, allowing the injured man time enough to catch his breath.
Fearful they were close to the end of whatever reserve strength Aramis possessed, he nudged his friend. "You ready?" he asked, goading him gently. "Or shall I carry you like some feeble old woman?"
That did it. Straightening somewhat, Aramis turned his head to glare. "I'll show you feeble," he ground out and tried to stand.
The sight would've been more comical if the frailty his friend so formidably displayed were borne out of a night spent deep in their cups, but that was not the case. Instead it was but a sore reminder of the severity of Aramis' injury, the sort that he could not just shrug off as a mere scratch.
"C'mon then," Porthos said, trying to keep his tone light as he brought his injured brother up with him as he stood. The marksman remained bent over slightly, his one arm clutched around his midsection. "Have a nice comfy tree over here for you."
It was the longest four steps of his life, Porthos supporting more and more of his friend's weight with each step. At the base of the largest tree he carefully lowered the wounded man to the ground, steadying him to lean his uninjured side against the trunk for support. The air held a chill so Porthos chose not to divest him of his doublet and garments if he could help it.
"Alright then," he knelt next to Aramis and plucked at the collar of the ruined shirt. "Lets get a look at your shoulder," he mumbled, pulling the material away from the bloodied wound. When he got to the wadded shirt, the fabric, tacky with blood, stuck to his flesh and he felt Aramis shutter as he tugged it off.
With his view mostly unencumbered, he took a good look at the torn flesh. The ball had entered the outer shoulder and skittered along the top a good five inches, leaving a furrowed trench in its wake, before embedding just beneath the muscle.
"This'n will be easy enough to dig out," Porthos observed as he gazed at the wound. "Not bleedin' much."
"Tha-that will change when you start diggin' your big hands around for the lead," Aramis panted.
"Yeah…" he bit his lip thoughtfully and realized he'd best get supplies set up before he went further. "Wait here," he sat back and jumped to his feet. "Be right back."
Aramis huffed. "I'll wait here," he sighed, head hanging in a combination of exhaustion and pain.
Porthos moved swiftly to Aramis' horse and pulled the Musketeer's pack from behind the saddle, where he knew the rest of his medical supplies. Then, shouldering both of their water skins, noting haltingly that one was far lighter than the other, he returned to where Aramis sat, still hunched over.
"I'm going to have to dig them out," Porthos muttered as he knelt in the damp grass and began rummaging around in Aramis' medical kit. He pulled out a bundle of meticulously folded clean cloths and set them aside, continuing to search the contents.
"Naturally." Aramis grimaced. "Do-don't imagine they'll do us a favor and fall out on their own."
"This one'll be easy," Porthos said, head bent as he searched the kit. "I can see the shape of the ball where it sits beneath the… skin." His voice caught in his throat. "What the—," he growled. The casual rummaging turned frantic and he finally dumped the contents of the kit on the ground and began shoving the various contents around.
"Porthos…" Aramis called, his voice full of inquiry.
Giving up, the larger man froze. "I can't find the flask of spirits." He stared forlornly at the wounded man. "The flask you keep for cleanin' wounds."
Aramis met his gaze. "Must've fallen out," he offered casually. He swallowed hard. "Water will suffice. 'Tis better tha-than nothing."
Porthos grunted in frustrated agreement and picked up the lighter waterskin. "Drink first," he ordered, removing the stopper and guiding the opening to his friend's mouth.
It was not long before the marksman indicated he'd slaked his thirst and the skin was lowered. "Use some of the water to flush the wounds," Aramis' ordered breathily. "Ball's shallow?"
"Yeah, figured I'd make a cut nearest I can to it. Then I can remove the ball."
Aramis nodded. "Y-your main gauche." He licked his lips and blinked slowly. "Water to clean the blade first."
It wasn't as if Porthos didn't know what to do. On the contrary, he'd doctored plenty of men over the years. But he appreciated Aramis' steady voice all the same. It grounded him, kept him focused. More than that, it told him it was alright. That he understood and that… that meant more to him than he cared to admit.
Leaning the marksman forward, he poured a gentle stream of water over the ravaged flesh, aware of his friends hiss of pain. When that was done, he used one of the clean cloths and blotted carefully around the wound to remove excess water.
Next Porthos drew his dagger and set about cleaning it as best he could, all the while feeling the weight of Aramis' stare on his every move. When he'd done his best, he hesitated, his gaze catching on the metal, noting how it glinted in the moonlight… and that his hand trembled at what he was about to do…
"You can do this," Aramis said with a tired smile. "Have faith."
Porthos nodded. If it gave his friend some comfort to believe he had any faith at all, he would agree to it willingly, but the weight of what he was about to do left him mired in doubt.
"You should've let them shoot me," he grumbled, knee-walking around Aramis' prone form to better position himself to get to the wound. "Then, at least you'd know what the hell you were doing."
"Tru—trust you, mon ami."
"Trust," Porthos huffed then shook his head. "It's not well placed."
"Would you give your life for me?"
Porthos opened his eyes. There was something in his friend's tone. "You know I would."
"As would I for you. Our trust could not be more safely placed, mon frère'."
Porthos wished he could accept that, but under the circumstances he felt woefully undeserving of such trust. "You uh, want something to bite down on?" he asked, knowing they could ill afford any loud noises just in case one of the Marquis' men lurked about.
Aramis shook his head. "No. I won't cry out. Just…" he turned painfully and grimaced at the larger man. "Get on with it. Delaying is not helping matters."
Porthos rose on his knees and scooted closer to get into a better position near the shoulder wound. Even in the moonlight he could easily see the outline of the ball beneath flesh and muscle, and the bloody trail of torn flesh it had furrowed. He licked his lips and after adjusting his grip of the dagger in sweaty palms, sent a silent prayer heavenward, a clumsy attempt he felt certain God would ignore, but a prayer nonetheless.
"This might pinch a little," he mumbled.
Aramis actually laughed. Porthos plunged the tip of the blade into his flesh and that laughter turned to a gasp. True to his word, though, the marksman did not cry out but his skin beneath Porthos' hands began to quiver for the effort to remain silent.
And when Porthos' took thumb and forefinger and pressed on either side of the ball to keep it from shifting while he cut, Aramis' silent resolve held. And when Porthos worked the ball free until it emerged through the slit, his friend did little more than tense. It wasn't until the musket ball fell harmlessly to the ground that he sank forward and leaned one shoulder hard against the tree.
The wound began to bleed and Porthos placed a cloth over it. "Sorry," he offered before pressing down. Aramis grunted at the pressure. A moment later, he wound another longer piece of linen under the marksman's arm and over the shoulder wound several times before tying it off. When he was done, they both sighed in relief.
"There…" Aramis panted, his voice cracked and strained. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" He turned and caught Porthos' eye.
"Crazy bastard," Porthos huffed, shaking his head. Then, he gave the injured man a crisp nod. "Okay, lets get this over with."
"My sentiments exactly," he said, placing his free hand on the ground. "First one was just practice," he grunted, trying to shift himself to lean back against the tree. "You'll get the hang of it."
Porthos reached out to help guide the marksman into a reclined position, mindful of his back and its contact with the rough bark. "It's all the same to you, I'd rather not."
Aramis was panting, eyes glazed with pain by the time he was settled. "Yes. Well, I'm not sorry our positions are re-reversed."
Porthos nodded and his gaze shifted down to where Aramis' hand still pressed the cloth he'd given him earlier to his side. The material was soaked completely and rivulets of a dark, slick substance that could only be fresh blood, trailed alarmingly downward to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Aramis noticed, too. "When we're done here, y—you," a full-bodied shiver wracked his frame, "you may w-want to tie me to my horse bef-fore we ride on." Porthos snapped his gaze up to look him in the eye. "N-not sure h-how well I'll be able to stay in the saddle."
Aramis' teeth were chattering. Porthos swore viciously and jumped to his feet.
"I'm such an idiot," he chastised himself as he moved swiftly back to his saddle. He pulled his woolen blanket from his pack and returned. "Should'a done this before. You're cold—too cold."
The larger Musketeer wrapped the blanket carefully around the marksman's shoulders, grimacing at the way Aramis hissed when the material touched is recently treated shoulder injury. Once it was settled and the blanket flat, Porthos folded it around and over his arms, careful to leave only the wound in his side exposed. Aramis sighed in relief and lay back against the tree, Porthos' hand supporting his movement.
Aramis nodded. "Thank you…" he gazed up at the night sky. "We haven't got all night…"
Of the two, this one frightened him most. Too many vital organs to be messing around with. Porthos knelt once more and began working the blood soaked material from the wound. The viscous fluid would not release so Porthos added water from the skin to loosen it some. This time Aramis did not just his in pain, his body shook and went rigid. Porthos was ready to call a rest when a bloodied hand grabbed his and yanked.
Dumbfounded, Porthos startled gaze went from the bloodied cloth in his hand to Aramis. He wanted to rail at him for interfering, for causing himself further pain, for… His thoughts trailed off when he looked at his friend.
"S-slow," Aramis blinked heavily at him, "is n-not always best."
"Well you could'a warned me," Porthos growled, tossing the soaked cloth aside with no small amount of annoyance. "Scared me half to death."
"Sorry.."
Porthos rolled his eyes. "No you're not, but if it feels better sayin' it…"
"It does." Aramis grinned tiredly. "Oft' times 'tis easier to beg forgiveness than permission."
"Yeah, yeah," Porthos leaned into get a better look at the wound. "Good thing you're hurt already or I'd've punched you." He grabbed another cloth to clean the slowly trickling blood and assessed the damage. The hole was neat and puckered, but even with the moonlight, it was hard to tell much else.
As before, he poured good measure of water on the wound, keeping his mind on his work, not on the way Aramis pressed hard into the tree, as if to escape the discomfort. The flesh surrounding the hole twitched as he blotted at the surface to remove the excess, then pressed it against the wound once more to staunch blood flow and to keep it as clean as possible.
"Going to ha- have to use the pliers, I th-think," Aramis instructed, taking charge of the bandage and keeping it pressed to his side.
Porthos nodding, sitting back on his heels. He stared at the mess of medical implements on the ground, his mind going completely blank. Which one? Where to start, his mind tumbled. They all looked like tools of torment, but he knew that in the right hand, they were salvation. But where to start?
"That one…" Aramis indicated, his voice breathy, a bloodied, shaky finger pointed at one of the tools. "Extractor-er-pliers to d-dig out the ball."
Porthos' brow furrowed as he picked up the tool and examined it. "Hey," he turned it in his hand. "Isn't this the thing you used to pull my tooth last year?"
Aramis lifted his head and gazed glassily at the tool. "Ah," he grinned slowly, "you remember that do you?"
"Yeah," Porthos rubbed his jaw, casting a mild glare at his friend, "and I remember getting punched that night too."
Aramis studied him a moment. "Truly, you have the most remarkable memory of that night for one whose brain was so recently addled." He lay his head back against the tree with a sigh, seemingly too exhausted to hold it any longer. "In my defense," he grimaced at the pull on his side, "we had hoped the blow would dislodge the offending tooth and avoid the pulling altogether. But that, sadly, was not to be. So…"
In the face of his friend's pain and his waning strength, Porthos set about cleaning the pliers as best he could, lamenting the absence of the flask once more. It was a piss-poor job but he did the best he could, all the while feeling the weight of Aramis' stare on his every move. When he finished, he hesitated, noting how the dull metal appeared black in the moonlight… and that his hand trembled at what he was about to do.
After removing the loose dressing, he glanced quickly at Aramis. The injured man's head was back, eyes closed, lips moving saying words he could not hear. Porthos gripped the pliers in his too sweaty hands and took a deep breath before bending close to the wound and sinking the tool into the small cavern.
The air seemed to go out of the marksman's lungs as he stiffened; Porthos ignored it. When Porthos began shifting the tool around his insides, searching for the ball, and Aramis suddenly began digging his heels into the ground, Porthos forced himself to ignore that, too. That and the steady stream of whispered Spanish curses.
"Mierda…" Aramis whispered, so faintly Porthos almost missed it. "Cabron."
The desire to hurry, to stop causing his friend pain was nearly overwhelming. Still, Porthos forced himself to move with great patience and care, the invasive metal sinking into flesh inch by painful inch. Sweat rolled down his face and he resisted the urge to close his eyes to enhance his sensibility. If he didn't stop at exactly the right spot…
It wasn't until Porthos felt the implement bump against something foreign that he knew he'd found his target. Opening the extractor, he managed to secure it on his first grab, his grip tightening, his arm ready to withdraw, only to feel it slip out from between the implement's paddled ends.
"Shit…" Porthos whispered, his shoulders sagging in disappointment, while his hand remained steady. Then he realized something.
The steady stream of invective's earlier, had ceased. Faint words, vaguely familiar phrases drifted around him. Aramis was praying, the words coming out in Latin, broken and stuttering…
"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus…"
It was nearly Porthos' undoing.
Steeling himself, he moved the tool carefully, small adjustments and felt the object once more. This time he eased his grip, clasped the ball and suppressed the desire to squeeze it tight, mindful of the slippery blood. He made to withdraw, careful to keep his path straight and steady. The implement exited the hole, the ball in its grasp and Porthos dropped it to the ground, a trail of blood left in its wake.
He wasted no time in celebration but instead soaked another cloth in more water before pressing it into the torn flesh, blocking out Aramis' grunts of pain. He added another on top and more still, packing the wound before applying pressure to the sensitive flesh. He held it steady, listening to the sound of Aramis' grinding his teeth, his body tense and trembling.
"Almost done," Porthos offered encouragingly. Once he was satisfied with the dressing, he secured the bandages to Aramis side with longer strips. The skin was clammy and altogether too cold, but then, so was Porthos. He couldn't be sure if it was fever or not, knowing time would tell.
Porthos sat back once he was done and exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. Aramis' eyes were closed, his skin too pale in the moonlight and his breathing came in shallow puffs. Using his own shirtsleeve, the only one not saturated in his friend's blood, Porthos wiped at the sweat on Aramis' face and wished fervently they could stay longer to let him rest, sadly knowing they could not.
The marksman's eyes opened slowly. He smiled, patting Porthos clumsily on the arm. "O-over already? B-barely felt 'thing."
"Yeah, yeah." Porthos swallowed hard. "If I never have to do that again, it'll be too bloody soon."
Aramis smiled tiredly. "Hazard of the job, unfortunately." Lifting one shaky hand, he pointed a bloodied finger at the pile of implements Porthos had dumped out earlier. "One of the leather pouches. There's some willow bark for pain."
Worry gnawed at his gut at Aramis actually asking for something to dull his pain, but went did as he was asked and began rifling through the pile. It was a familiar remedy, especially to soldiers refined on the battlefield as they were. Too many times he'd had to taste the bitter bark, when there had been no time to steep it in a proper tea. Chewing the bark wasn't the best method for relief but it was better than none at all.
Porthos gathered the many pouches before him and picked up one after another. Even with the moonlight, he had no idea which one to pick and soon sat back on his haunches and stared at them in confusion.
"They all look the same," he murmured, looking at the marksman questioningly.
Aramis opened his eyes and looked at the small collection. "Not to me." He rolled to his side, grunting at the pull on his injuries and with shaking hands, pressed the tips of his fingers over each pouch before stopping at one. "There. Th—that one." He grabbed the leather container but his hands proved too clumsy to open the ties.
"Let me…," Porthos offered, taking the pouch from him. Undoing the leather thong that kept it closed, he pulled a small piece of bark from inside and instead of handing it to Aramis, leaned over. "Here," he murmured. Aramis opened his mouth obediently and he placed the piece of bark on his tongue.
While Aramis' rested, Porthos moved back to their mounts and grabbed Aramis' cape from behind his saddle. "Lets get your cape on, eh?" He knelt next to his friend and positioned the garment around his shoulders. "It's a far sight better for riding than the blanket, and it'll keep you warm besides."
Aramis nodded and Porthos worked carefully to fit the garment securely around him, moving the blanket aside. When they were done, the marksman was settled back against the tree, panting, face drawn tight with pain.
Doing his best to ignore his friend's discomfort, and the helplessness he felt at allaying it, Porthos began gathering up the remaining bandages and cleaning up their makeshift camp. Whenever their foe set out in earnest –and neither had any doubt they would– it was best to leave little sign that they'd stopped here.
Porthos stared forlornly at the scant amount of bandages in their kit and weighed their number against the fact that he'd need to change those bandages again soon. He did a quick inventory in his mind and concluded they still plenty of clothing in their bags that they could use as bandages later.
Gathering up the medicinal herbs, Porthos huffed. "There's got to be dozens of these little satchels," he noted, putting the various pouches into the saddle bag last, "and they all look the same, even in the light of day. How the hell did you know which one had the willow bark?"
"A little trick the monks taught me at the abbey when I studied there as a boy. I notched each bag with a knife, marking them with a different carving to indicate the contents. I can find them easily in any situation."
"Clever."
Aramis closed his eyes as he leaned back against the tree. "We must leave soon…" he said with a sigh.
"Yeah," Porthos groused as he worked. "I know."
Grabbing up the repacked kit and water pouches, he rose and moved back to their horses, realizing his own legs felt shaky and his hands numb. After placing the packs behind their saddles and tying them off to stay in place, he went to his own mount and pulled a length of twine from his pack. Stuffing the used blanket back in its place, he closed and tied the cover down. A sound behind caught his attention. He spun, drawing his pistol in one smooth motion.
Eyes widening, he vaulted quickly to where Aramis was trying to stand. Free hand pressed against the tree, his other wrapped tightly around his midsection to clutch at his wounded side, he wobbled in place, calling to Porthos in hushed whispers.
"Aramis…" Porthos responded anxiously, reaching his friend's side. "What are you doing?" Unsure where he could place his hand in support of his friend, he chose to hover close, noting the Musketeer's head was up and he was staring off into the night. "What is it?"
"We need to go. Now." Aramis struggled to turn and get his feet solidly beneath him.
"Easy," Porthos soothed looking away only when he was assured that Aramis had stilled. He turned to look around them, searching and shook his head. "I don't see or hear anything."
"It's what you don't hear," Aramis breathed quietly.
While nothing but the sound of Aramis' harsh breathing met his ears, he knew better than to dismiss his friend's instincts. They'd long ago learned that Aramis' uncanny sense for danger, while downright unsettling at times, had proved invaluable. It had also saved their necks more often than not.
Porthos froze and listened. The night was unnaturally quiet. "Shit."
"My point precisely," Aramis said, eyes gazing intensely at the forest beyond. "Now can we go?" He tried to leave the support of the tree only to have his knees gave out.
Porthos just managed to catch him. "Bloody idiot. Let me do the work, yeah?"
Damn the man's pride if he didn't seem to hesitate for a bit before giving a quick nod. Porthos rolled his eyes before grabbing one of Aramis' arms across his shoulder to take his weight and helped him to his horse. That was the easy part. Getting Aramis into the saddle proved more difficult, but they managed and once he was settled, Porthos made quick work lashing him to his saddle, looping the rope around the pommel and back around his waist several times before knotting the end to the pommel once more.
Aramis waited patiently, hunched over, grimacing in pain but his head was up and he looked alert to their surroundings. One of his hands stayed close to the butt of his pistol the entire time, knowing that with his back turned, Porthos was more vulnerable. Once the final knots were secured, Porthos lay a hand on his friend's arm.
When their eyes met this time, there were no words. Porthos' gaze silently told his friend to hang on, that he was sorry, that this never should've happened. It hung in the air between them and finally, as if in response, Aramis nodded and Porthos responded in kind. Moving to his horse, the dark skinned musketeer mounted, grabbed both sets of reins once more and hoped they hadn't remained there too long. Hoped that Aramis was just being overly cautious, that no one was tracking them.
As they broke the trees cautiously, seconds before he gigged their mounts to a gallop, he swore he heard a voice, and someone shouting. And then they were swallowed into the night and the cacophony of frantic hoof beats yet again.
§
It was just before dawn when d'Artagnan cast a careful glance at Treville's window before he crept out of his room and made his way to the stables. The ease with which he went undetected by the sentry on duty left little doubt to the Captain's absence this morning, though he shook his head in annoyance at the lapse in security.
Once inside the stables, he moved through the gloom of the interior, squinting into its depths. He moved on instinct to his horse's stall, smiling at the animal's welcoming nicker.
A familiar voice spoke quietly from the darkness. "Disobeying a direct order, I see."
Stumbling to a halt, d'Artagnan cursed softly. "Athos…" he turned to face his senior musketeer, hand clutching his heart. "You trying to scare me into an early grave?"
"Scared of the dark. Interesting." A small lamp appeared in the darkness, the light increasing slowly to reveal Athos near an empty stall, his hand slowly adjusting the lever just enough to illuminate a small area of the barn. "I think Treville needs to be informed of this."
D'Artagnan would have given him a sour look but the mere mention of their captain struck fear in him. "Don't tell the captain."
"That you're afraid of the dark?"
"That I'm— wait." The young man's brow furrowed. "What are you doing here?"
Athos shrugged. "Disobeying a direct order." His face broke out into a grim smile, far too worried to be anything more.
D'Artagnan echoed his concern and exhaled loudly. "I couldn't sleep. Do you think the Captain would be terribly cross with us if we just rode out now?"
Athos rolled his eyes up as if to search for an answer. "Yes," he responded quickly. "Although cross is probably too tame a word."
"Yeah, probably." d'Artagnan rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, the tension that had built up over the last several hours draining some. "So," he flapped his hands out at his side, "now what?"
"Not much left, really," Athos turned and nodded at the gear stowed in the corner behind him. "Our gear is packed and ready to go. I've cleaned our tack. Twice. Brushed both our horses. Twice. Caught the guard napping. Twice… and promptly let him continue."
D'Artagnan canted his head at the older man. "You didn't wake him? Chastise him?"
"Of course not," he winked at the Gascon. "I was expecting company."
Thoroughly chagrinned, d'Artagnan nodded. "Well, he was at least up and walking by the time I came along. Not very alert, though. Might as well have been sleeping."
Athos nodded and grabbed his hat. "Let us hope so. I'd hate for us to be caught as we make our way back to my room."
"What are we doing there?" he asked, watching Athos pick up the small lamp and lift the glass.
"Treville gave me a map. It has the route Aramis and Porthos took." He adjusted the lever and the light began dimming. "I suggest we see if we can deduce the route they may have taken so we have a plan when we leave in the morning."
They made it to Athos' room, evading discovery with ease and spread out the map of the area south of Paris to plan their route. They mulled over and discussed the possible stops Aramis and Porthos would likely have made. Athos, knowing them best, had some insight as to what route they would choose, pointing out the topography that would offer the best sources of cover for any eventuality, whether that be from inclement weather, or a bad element. So it was decided fairly quickly and with great certainty that they would head east.
A knock at the door startled them from their planning. A very tired but determined Serge stood at the entry, apron covered in flour and other stains neither could identify.
"Be at my table within the hour," he ordered gruffly. "Bread's nearly ready and you'd better eat it all for the fuss it cost me to be up and about at this ungodly hour."
He'd just turned to leave when he stopped and leveled a warning glare at them. "And don't you dare come back without those boys," he growled affectionately, wagging a flour covered finger at them. "God…" the old cook muttered, wiping his hands ineffectively on his apron and managing only to smear the substance about. "You lot are going to be the death of me," he grumbled before turning to shuffle off.
They'd made a valiant effort at breakfast but succeeded in only swallowing a few bites. Keeping up appearances for their rapt audience - Treville who'd taken breakfast watch on the balcony outside his office and glanced at them occasionally - they did what they could. However, in the moments when he'd been distracted, they dumped whole portions of their meal to the many chickens that clucked about the table.
Finally, they were given the nod. They darted from the table toward the paddock only to stop steps from the table when the stable boy came out leading both of their horses, a sheepish smile on his face.
"Figured you'd want to be on your way."
D'Artagnan smiled. "Thank you Jacques. Did you—"
"I found all the accouterments just as you left them earlier. They're all packed and ready."
Athos patted the boy on the shoulder. "Thank you," he offered sincerely.
The boy nodded and stood back, allowing them to check their things one last time
"Here." A cloth pack, tied in string, and a skin appeared over his shoulder and Athos turned. Serge pointed at the pack. "Just some extra food for the road." The old cook looked behind him, noting Treville stalking toward them and leaned in conspiratorially. "The bits the chickens didn't get." He winked.
Athos would have grinned if he weren't feeling a thousand things at once. Anxious. Worried. Eager. Frustrated. Tired. Out of his mind with worry. "Thank you," he muttered thickly.
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Treville asked. He looked at d'Artagnan as he mounted. "Both of you?"
D'Artagnan adjusted the reins in his hands. "I can't rest not knowing whether or not they're okay. I can worry just as easily out there as I can here. I'd prefer it, in fact."
Treville nodded. "That wasn't the question, but I understand." He turned to Athos. "And you're still convinced they're in some sort of trouble?"
"I am sure of only one thing," he gazed steadily at his commander. "If I stay here, and they do not return by nightfall when I could have put some distance into finding them a day sooner... I would never forgive myself."
Treville respected Athos' instincts. "I have other men who're more recovered than the two of you. I should send them," he grumbled.
Athos stopped checking his gear and looked at the Captain, searching for any weight to his comment. Finding none, one side of his face quirked. "Who better to find them than the men who know them best?"
Treville grunted noncommittally. "And if you meet up with them on the road and they are fine?" Not that he believed it; Athos could see this for what it was.
Athos looped the reins over the animal's head. "Then we shall say we were out exercising our horses to get back into shape." He grabbed the pommel, slipped one foot into the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. "And we shall speak nothing of the intuitive feelings that lead us to believe they were in some mortal peril."
It was meant as an attempt at levity but fell flat. Not a one of them believed this would be the case, despite their hope it would be. Athos knew the captain best and it was clear to him, and he suspected d'Artagnan too, that he was more concerned that he'd admit.
D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "There is also the small matter of the guilt we feel." He looked sorrowfully at the Captain. "Aramis and Porthos have shouldered more than their fair share of the burden these last few weeks. And I…" he looked sheepishly at Athos and give a helpless shrug. "I miss them."
Athos didn't deny his own feelings on that score. "Three missions in a fortnight." His lips thinned to a tight line. "It's—"
"Unfortunate but necessary," Treville stated without hesitation. "Athos, if there had been any other way…"
Seeing his commander's guilt, Athos lightened. "The burden of command sir, not something easily shouldered."
Treville nodded and stepped back. "Best be gone. Take breaks and rest as often as you need. Remember, you're no use to them if you relapse because you pushed too hard. Don't throw caution to the wind until you're sure."
"We'll be careful," Athos gathered his reins. "When are we ever not?" he added with a devilish grin.
§
Porthos pushed their horses beyond what was wise but was by far, necessary. He kept them off the main roads as much as possible, and only prayed they'd not encountered the odd rabbit hole, root or boulder that might knock one of their horses off balance.
It had been a gamble, riding at night, but there had been little choice in the matter. They'd ducked into a thick copse of trees and watched a group of men thunder past them earlier, and Porthos had guessed their pursuers to number close to a dozen. A dozen men with a dozen fresh, well rested horses. And no injured, he thought glancing back at Aramis.
The miracle of it all was that somehow Aramis had managed to stay in the saddle. Every time Porthos had drawn a halt and searched him for sign of life, the marksman had managed a grunt or moan in response. It had sufficed, though just barely, and they'd been forced to continue.
Though both Aramis' injury and their horse's exhaustion had been perilous, the night ride had kept them some precious few steps ahead of their pursuers. With a clear trail and a mind set on the chase, the Marquis' men would surely have overtaken them otherwise. As it was, Porthos managed to evade their detection.
With day dawning, however, there were new decisions to be made. Continue moving or find them someplace to stop, someplace defensible where they could make a stand. His mind started listing the defensible signs to be on the look for, all the while picking his way carefully through the gray dawn of a new day.
"P'rthos..." a weak voice called to him.
Lost in thought, the larger man didn't hear him call at first, but startled when he noticed Aramis' horse jog unnaturally close, bumping his mount. Reining in his horse easily, he drew Aramis' closer and bent down to eye his friend. "Aramis?"
The barely conscious Musketeer's head slowly turned until his pain-filled gaze locked on him. "There-" he managed to lift one tangled finger, covered with horsehair and crusted blood. "Tha- that way."
Porthos sat back and looked at the lower valley that Aramis indicated. He immediately started shaking his head in dissent. "No. No way." The valley was massive but he could not tell how deep; the basin blanketed by a fog so thick he could not see ground below. "The pain must be getting' to you. We go down there, we risk our horses far more than we already have."
Before he could answer, Aramis grunted and folded tight into himself as a wave of pain overtook him. Porthos lay a hand gently on his back, waiting for it to pass. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the trembling muscles even through the thick gloves.
When Aramis could speak again, he looked at Porthos with wide, imploring eyes. "The... Marquis' men," he ground out through gritted teeth, "wi-will have the s-same pr'blm."
Porthos shook his head adamantly. "No!" He glanced again at the steep entry they would have to traverse. "If we were both healthy— which we aren't— maybe. That path is far too steep even for me, let alone an injured man."
Thinking the argument done, Porthos stood in his saddle to increase his range of vision and surveyed their surroundings. "Perhaps if we found a different way down—"
If it had happened to someone acquainted with Aramis only a few days, Porthos would have understood the short-sightedness of his action. But not him. Not the one man who'd been dealing with his friend's particular brand of stubbornness and stupidity for more years than he could count on both hands and feet.
So it only stood to reason that Aramis, injured, barely conscious, tied to his saddle to keep him from falling, stubborn fool of a friend, would simply ignore Porthos' perfectly reasonable argument and just do as he pleased. Because that was the sane thing to do.
The rein he'd been clutching was jerked from his hand and Aramis' horse began moving steadily toward the edge of the valley trail. Porthos realized nearly too late what he meant to do; he would go down despite his objections.
"Aramis!" he shouted and reached out to snag his horse's reins. The animal shied almost violently sideways and nearly fell over the edge of the drop off.
Porthos pulled hard on its reins, praying that Aramis would not be unseated as he worked to bring the animal back from the precipice. When both horses and riders were safely back and calmed, he sighed with relief.
"Dammit, Aramis," he growled leaning down to stare angrily at his friend. "Enough. No. We need to go a different way."
Aramis didn't flinch from his friend, staring calmly back at him. "They'll f-find us before we can do that." He took a shuttering breath. "You know as well as I, we- we're moving too slow." A sudden flash of pain gripped him and he grimaced, turning to bury his face into his horse's mane as he fought to ride it out.
Porthos placed a supportive hand on Aramis head, stroking his sweat soaked hair in hopes of offering some solace for his ailing friend. "Aramis…" he whispered quietly. "You're not strong enough for that kind of riding. Our horses barely are."
Turning his head to face his friend but unable or unwilling to lift this head, Aramis swallowed hard. "I haven't mu-much choice, have I? It's th-that or you leave me here and ride alone."
Porthos hated it, but knew he was right. If the trip down killed them, or Aramis, at least they died trying. There was no way in hell he would leave his brother behind to fight them alone.
Straightening in the saddle, Porthos looked around them. A gray, cloud covered sun cast a murky light on the dew covered grass and their surroundings. They'd left a trail a blind man could follow but if they could make that trail more difficult to manage, they might have a chance.
Porthos glanced back at his friend and conceded the point. "Fine, we do this your way. But you bloody well better hold on to that horse."
Aramis had the audacity to grin back at him. "You-you keep saying that as if I haven't managed it thus far. Besides," he fumbled with the bindings, "the ropes are merely for recreational purposes, really."
Porthos grinned back, stunned at the resolve of his friend to joke at a time like this. He took a deep breath, grabbed the reins of Aramis' horse and dug his heels lightly into his mount's side as together, they picked their way carefully down into the valley.
§
TBC….
NOTE: Okay, so here's the thing about me. I like the hurt- uh, of course I do- but I just LOVE the comfort and the medical-care-scene. I know. It may read a bit slow, slow down the pace but I love it so much. All that delicious angst surrounded in a great big goop of pain. *sighs* So you see, I can't apologize. I'd be lying if I did. :D And I will never lie to you. Ever.
And if you are writing without a beta, find one soon. They are the caffeine and happiness of writing. :)