VII.

"The temperature is rising, the fever white hot.
Mister I ain't got nothing, but it's more than you've got.
These chains no longer bind me, nor the shackles at my feet.
Outside are the prisoners, inside the free...
Set them free."

-U2, 'Silver and Gold'

It seemed like moments ago that Athos and Aramis had been sitting and eating their meal. Well, Athos had been eating, Aramis had just stared at his plate praying his stale bread would jump up and swallow him whole.

Aramis had tried several times to persuade Athos to leave him alone, to go away and save himself. But, like he had expected, Athos had refused and Aramis felt like a bigger burden. And now that everything was in an uproar, Aramis' emotions were intensified.

It was the perfect time for Athos to make a break for it, to run for the hills and save himself. But he wasn't. Athos was dragging him through the compound, through the clash of weapons, rampaging animals and hardened terrain, and trying to save him as well.

Truth be told, Aramis had no idea what was going on around him. But it was clear that this would be Athos' only opportunity to save himself.

"Just go!" yelled Aramis, struggling to free himself of Athos' persistent grip, but finding himself more entangled in his friend's arms. "Leave me behind! I'm slowing you down."

"No!" cursed Athos, throwing his friend over his shoulder. "I'm not leaving you! Now shut up!"

Aramis struggled further, but the pain coursing through his body deterred him. And it didn't help that Athos' shoulder was wedged into his stomach, making him feel more and more nauseous with each jolt. Finally, Aramis' inner defence system shut down his senses and he passed over to the world of unconsciousness.

Athos continued on unaware.

He felt Aramis heavy on his shoulder, and that was all he needed to know because there was too much going on around him to spare Aramis any more attention.

They were lost and consumed in a raging battle.

Athos swatted a falling guard with his free hand as he made his way through the compound. The wrath of battle was all around him, and he couldn't distinguish the good from the bad. The only ones easily detectable were the other prisoners.

They were either running about like chickens with their heads cut off, or standing in the middle of it all without a clue what to do. Athos felt sorry for them, but he had made a choice. He knew he couldn't save them all- that he would leave to the good guys, but he could save his friend. And he would save his friend. Even if that meant carrying him through this fight on his own.

So the battle ensued around him. Weapons against weapons. Projectiles against projectiles. Flesh against flesh. Bodies fell at Athos' feet as he tried to manoeuvre around them. And even more bodies collided with him as they fought to keep their ground in their personal wars.

But Athos pressed on not sure where he was heading. It was chaos in the compound. Athos couldn't tell which way to go, which way to run. And Aramis was starting to get heavy.

Athos put him down next to a concrete slab, careful to lay him on his stomach. There was so much activity going on around him, he had to keep ducking to escape wild animals and people fighting. And he didn't even want to think about the long projectiles piercing the air.

Until he had no choice.

A searing pain in his left upper arm made the projectiles hard to ignore. Athos grabbed his arm, careful not to push the projectile deeper into his flesh. Clenching his teeth, he bit back the urge to cry out. Not that it would have mattered, there was so much noise one couldn't hear one's self think.

He looked at his new appendage. "Arrows?" he said to himself.

Blood oozed from the wound, spilling over his fingers. His left arm was limp, useless, and his fingers were tingling as the blood slowed to reach them. Athos looked at the wound and grimaced. "Why now?" he cursed, slowly wrapping the fingers of his right hand around the shaft of the arrow. He gave it a slight pull, shooting sharp pain up his arm and across his shoulder. The pain ran up his neck, ending in an explosion behind his eyes.

Athos could tell it was a loosely fastened arrowhead, and if he tugged on it again the shaft would most likely come out, leaving the arrow head embedded in his arm.

Athos knew what he had to do.

He glanced at Aramis unconscious beside him, then closed his eyes. His thumb placed lower on the shaft, Athos snapped the wood as he pulled his fingers in the opposite direction as he was forcing his thumb. It was a clean smooth break, and the arrow didn't move too much under his skin.

After several deep breathes, Athos pressed the palm of his hand on the ragged end of the shaft. With gritted teeth, eyes squeezed tight, he held his breath.

Please don't let this hit bone, he prayed silently.

In one forceful move, Athos thrust the arrow the rest of the way through his arm. He cried out as the sharp tip pierced through his muscle and skin to come out the other side of his limb.

Shaking, he reached behind his arm, grabbed the arrowhead and pulled it the rest of the way out. "That's going to leave a mark," he hissed, dropping the bloodied arrow to the ground.

Now he was bleeding more than before and knew he would have to cover the wound. Dragging himself with his good arm over Aramis' legs, Athos reached for the guard lying dead beside his friend. Fortunately for Athos, fierce fighting had shred the guard's clothes, and it was easy for him to tear off a strip with one hand.

"Sorry," he apologized. "But I think I need this more than you right now." He was just about to turn over when he inadvertently looked into the dead man's eyes.

"Damn it," he cursed, recognizing the face of the guard that had helped him with Aramis the other day. But he didn't have time to mourn.

Rolling onto his back, and resting on Aramis' thighs, Athos tied the dirty cloth around his wound. He made sure to knot it directly on top of the wound, using his teeth as a replacement for his other hand. Then he let his head fall back. He was too weak to hold it upright any longer. His vision blurred, making the clouds overhead distort and fade together in grotesque images.

Athos felt the blood rushing from his head, adding dizziness to his accumulating symptoms. His arm was numb, like the rest of his body now. The sounds of the ensuing battle around him began to fade. A clash here, muffled screams there. Eventually it all sounded like music.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the fighters moving swiftly in slow motion across his field of vision- dancing to the music they were creating. It was a deadly ballet choreographed by their strategic manoeuvres, and their will to survive.

Athos let his head fall to the side so he could see Aramis' face. But it was buried by his arm lying haphazardly over his head. Athos watched his friend's back, looking for the rhythmic signs of respiration. His security blanket. Athos wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the muscles expand as Aramis drew in a breath.

"I'm sorry," murmured Athos, the last of his strength slowly draining. "I'm so sorry I failed you."

Before Athos' eyes closed tight, a weary smile spread across his lips. Hovering overhead was a familiar face. "Am I dead...?" he whispered, before blackness finally won its battle.

~The Musketeers~

D'Artagnan raised a flaming torch. He held it high above his head and waved it back and forth. From his perch atop one of the fortress walls he was easily visible to his friends hiding in the surrounding forest. Throwing his stolen black coat to the ground to reveal his true identity, d'Artagnan readied himself for the descent.

He jumped free of the wall and landed on the ground with both feet. It took a moment for his assault team to jump into action as well. Enough of them had infiltrated the camp to make an immense dent in Montcalm's defence. Although none of them knew exactly who Montcalm was, or even his name, they knew someone had to be in charge of this atrocity. And each member of the team wanted to be the one to bring him down.

D'Artagnan concentrated on the guard nearest him first. That was the plan. They would take them by surprise, and be careful not to harm any of the innocents in the interim. And there were plenty of innocents to be found. The guard d'Artagnan had decided to take out first was accompanied by several slaves, so d'Artagnan had to be careful.

He stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. The guard didn't have time to completely turn around before he was rewarded with a fist to his face. The guard dropped to the ground in a heap as the slaves scattered. D'Artagnan flexed his hand and turned to find his next target.

Elsewhere in the compound the other members of the assault teams were doing the same; picking their way through the guards and taking them down one by one.

But some fights were not so clean.

Horses were brought down. Arrows, fists and weapons were sent piercing through the sky- some finding their marks, some finding other not so admirable marks. It was discord and turmoil. People were running everywhere trying to find the enemy, but with both sides wearing the same clothes the task was arduous and tedious. And several fights ensued where the same sides battled each other until they realized their mistake and moved on.

But through all this turmoil and discord, Porthos noticed one thing. One very odd, unsettling thing. No one seemed to be helping anyone. The guards fought to save themselves. The prisoners scrambled, thinking only of their own safety. Porthos noted this with disgust as he fought his way through the flailing arms and ricocheting arrows.

Don't they care about anyone but themselves? he asked himself, throwing a well-aimed punch at an attacking guard.

He pushed on, his eyes searching for the familiarity of his brothers. But he couldn't see them amongst the mess. He tried calling their names as he ducked, paused, took the time to place a well-planted foot in a man's chest and send him flying backward.

"Aramis! Athos!"

Porthos continued onward through the battleground shouting orders over his shoulder as he fended off the persistent, and somewhat surprised, guard before him.

He sent his people off in different directions, both to search for the despot responsible, and to find his two missing friends. It had been too long for his liking since this battle had started, and there was still no sign of either Athos or Aramis.

It wasn't until Porthos noticed two men shuffling through the battle that his heart lightened.

It had to be Athos and Aramis. As he had noted earlier, aside from those fighting along side him, no one else seemed to be fighting for anything other than themselves. But the two men making their way across the compound, one carrying the other, obviously had more important things on their minds beside themselves.

And he knew Athos and Aramis well enough to know that no matter what was going on they would always look out for each other. His brothers were proud and strong, and more importantly, devoted to each other.

Porthos thrust his fist into the belly of his current opponent, then stepped back to aim his foot, ending the private battle quickly.

He turned to find d'Artagnan amongst the crowd. Spotting him, Porthos waved his arms over his head.

"D'Artagnan!" he called, cupping his hands over his mouth. "Over there! Over there!" He pointed to the giant slab of concrete where the two men had just fallen, and prayed the Gascon would get there in time.

D'Artagnan ducked and weaved his way through flailing arms, fending off opposers as he went. Finally he reached his mark and bent over his fallen friends. Athos' eyes were already half closed, and d'Artagnan wasn't certain, but he could have sworn there was a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Am I dead...?" murmured Athos.

"You are not dead," stated d'Artagnan, pulling Athos to his feet. He hoisted the fallen musketeer over his shoulder and turned to look for help.

Coming up behind, fighting his way through the onslaught, was Porthos. D'Artagnan didn't need to explain what was going on. Porthos rushed past him and scooped Aramis up in his arms.

"Let's go while the going's good," ordered Porthos, already making his way back through the deadly compound.

The Gascon followed, his charge securely over him shoulder.

~The Musketeers~

Doctor Lemay had not prepared for this when he had initially set out with the Musketeers. He had stayed behind in the nearest village during the rescue, setting up triage and medical first aid, should the need arise.

Unfortunately, the need had arisen, and on a level Lemay had not packed for.

But Paris was several days away.

Porthos had been the first to enter the small room, Aramis tight in his arms. Then d'Artagnan entered with Athos slumped over his shoulder. The musketeers had both stepped back after depositing their brothers and allowed the doctor to do his work.

As Doctor Lemay went about examining his patients, the two musketeers filled him in on the details he would need to know, and unfortunately, how no one had been able to find the despot responsible. The images forming in his mind as he listened to the tale of genocide and bondage made him want to retch. And he supposed retching on his two patients was definitely not the best way to cure them.

After doing a quick visual assessment, the doctor decided Aramis needed him the most. Athos, his arm wrapped in a filthy bandage, could wait or be taken care of by Porthos and d'Artagnan.

As the doctor set to work on Aramis, Porthos began caring for Athos' wounds by re-bandaging the arm with sterile dressings from Lemay's bag and stripping him of his filthy, tattered clothes. Athos was then put to rest in a fresh, yet somewhat large, set of clothes.

He would be fine. A little sleep, some good food and a long hot bath was the best prescription for Athos. Aramis on the other hand, was another story all together.

The doctor felt Aramis' forehead and discovered a fever. A raging fever. No doubt from an illness picked up in the slave camp or acquired from the poor living conditions. Either way, the young man was unearthly sick. But he was regaining consciousness, which was a good thing. Or so the doctor thought. He was not yet aware of the full extent of the young marksman's injuries.

As Aramis began to wake, he also began to stir restlessly, tossing his head back and forth and grimacing in pain. The doctor attributed it to the sickness and fever.

The thrashing continued as the doctor knelt beside him trying to keep the young man from apparently jumping out of his skin. He had to enlist the help of Porthos and d'Artagnan to hold the young man down. His patient was writhing in pain. His eyes were open, but unfocused and clouded with tears.

Athos heard the noise from deep within his slumber. It shot him upright in bed, sweating and shaking. It didn't take long for him to realize where the noise was coming from. He quickly threw off his covers and stumbled across the room, pushing everyone out of the way as he headed for Aramis. Athos knew he had to get to his brother. He had to stop his pain.

But he had to fight his way through d'Artagnan and the doctor to get to his friend. They were trying to hold Athos back, trying to stop him from inflicting harm to Aramis.

But Athos knew something they didn't. He tried his hardest to tell them to turn Aramis onto his stomach, but the words didn't come out right. Athos was too anxious and scared to form proper sentences. So instead, his words came out muffled and confused.

The rest of the people in the room had no idea what was wrong with Athos. Just that he seemed wild and out of control, and that he was trying to reach Aramis with outstretched arms.

It took a lot of self-discipline for Athos to calm himself down, but eventually he was able. And eventually he was able to articulate a full sentence. "His back," he said, taking deep breaths as d'Artagnan held him at bay. "Roll him onto his stomach. It's his back."

The doctor looked at him quizzically, and not seeing why he shouldn't believe him, he proceeded to roll his patient onto his stomach. This brought the thrashing to a near stop. But it was still present, only now it was merely unconscious shifting.

Athos drew in a deep breath before continuing his explanation. As he revealed what had happened to Aramis, he kept his eyes focused on the floor. The pain inside him was already too much for him to bear. He didn't need to see it reflected in Lemay's, d'Artagnan's or Porthos' eyes as well.

"My goodness," breathed the doctor, looking at his patient on the cot. "How can people be so cruel?"

"Can you help him?" asked Porthos, ignoring the doctor's dismay. "Will he be all right till we get back to Paris?"

The doctor pursed his lips, ran a hand through his hair. "I'll do my best," he replied, pulling a footstool up to Aramis' bed. "That's all I can say for now. But I ask that you leave," he continued, slowly stripping the shirt from his patient's back to reveal the blood soaked bandage. "This most likely won't be pleasant, and I don't need the distraction of you in the room."

Porthos was about to protest when a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You, and Athos can wait outside," said d'Artagnan, his voice quiet yet obstinate. "I will stay with Aramis."

"What's he going to do?" rushed Athos, his eyes darting between Aramis and Lemay's.

"I'll have to remove the bandage," replied the doctor. "And it will be painful. The blood's clotted and stuck the cloth to his skin. It'll take some time, and some careful hands, but I can do it. It needs to be done in order to clean the wounds. It would be easier under better conditions, but I can make do with what I brought."

"Please," said d'Artagnan, guiding Athos toward the door. "Wait outside with Porthos."

Porthos and Athos wanted to argue, but they knew their efforts would be futile so they relented and stepped outside to the porch. When the door banged closed behind them, they jumped- their hearts skipping a beat. They didn't say anything. And neither did the villagers waiting on the porch.

The villagers gave Athos encouraging glances while some shared hopeful gestures with Porthos. But for the most part they left them alone to sit on the edge of the porch. The body language of the two strangers was clear enough, they did not need to speak their thoughts- especially the one called Porthos.

It was easy to tell that looking at Porthos was like looking at an incomplete entity- a part of the whole. Appetite, spirit and reason: the three things that comprised the mortal soul. When one was missing, the others couldn't function properly.

And without Aramis, neither could Porthos.

The silence that ensued afterwards was severe; like the quiet before the storm. The not knowing was killing them. And Athos finally decided he couldn't take the silence any longer.

"I failed him," he murmured, staring at the floorboards between his feet. "I promised I'd get him out of there, and I failed him…I broke a promise."

"He isn't a prisoner anymore," replied Porthos, turning caring eyes toward his friend. "You did get him out of there. And yourself."

"No. I didn't," stated Athos. "I failed him. It was you and d'Artagnan who got him out. But I promised Aramis I would... "

"And how do you think we found you?" came the deep voice beside them.

So deep in his own revulsion, Athos had almost forgotten Porthos was there. "I failed him, Porthos," repeated Athos, dropping his head. "If you hadn't come along, Aramis would be dead. I wasn't able to get him out of there. What kind of friend am I? I'm sorry, Aramis."

"Athos," persisted Porthos. "How do you think we found you?" Athos' only answer was silence, so Porthos pressed on. "We found you because you didn't fail Aramis. You stayed with him. Amongst all that chaos and hell, I saw you because you were the only one trying to help someone. Everyone else was fending for themselves. But you were carrying Aramis. That true testament captured my attention." Porthos paused. "And that makes me proud to call you all my brothers."

The words were true, but they didn't help Athos feel any better. "I feel callous," stated Athos. "I understand what you're saying. But now that I have a chance to truly realize what was going on, I feel so cold inside. I never gave it much thought when we were prisoners, but I turned a blind eye on the reality of this country's situation. "

"What do you mean?"

Athos covered his face in his hands. "I was so preoccupied with how I was going to save Aramis, and myself in the progress," he rushed to add. "That I was nearly oblivious to the plight of these people. How can I be so unsympathetic towards others? I mean, I actually think I made jokes."

Porthos thinned his lips. "We make jokes in order to cope," he said. "Sometimes we have to. And as I see it, you never turned a blind eye on anyone. You or Aramis."

Athos shook his head. "You weren't there, Porthos."

"No, I wasn't," replied Porthos. "But tell me this, why didn't you and Aramis escape on your own? The two of you could have found a way out, or did you not really consider it?"

"We tried not to consider it," stated Athos, slightly ashamed. "If we had of left, the other prisoners would have been slaughtered for our punishment. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."

Porthos smiled gently. "There's your answer, Athos. Don't sell yourself short, you're a good man."

Athos sighed and reached for his belt buckle, the one Aramis had given him, the one he used to gain inner strength. But it wasn't there. He remembered removing it in the cavern to light the torches. He had forgotten to retrieve it. A hand gripped his heart, tightening the muscle. But it wasn't necessarily a sad pain for he had forgone his talisman to save others- to keep them warm. Athos had lost a great thing, but in return had gained a great feeling.

He shared a glance with Porthos. "And Aramis?" he asked. "He's going to be all right?"

"Only time will tell."

"He is asking to see the both of you," came d'Artagnan's voice behind them.

Caught off guard, Athos and Porthos turned to look at the Gascon quizzically then rose to their feet.

"He is awake," continued d'Artagnan. "If vaguely."

Athos and Porthos walked to the front door where Athos entered first. D'Artagnan remained on the porch, wanting to let them have some time alone.

Aramis looked peaceful, like someone taking a long nap after a hard day. His head was resting on a clean white pillow with one hand lying beside his face, the other arm stretched out along side him. He was asleep again, and he would have even looked normal if not for the wounds on his back.

Athos and Porthos crept across the wooden floor quietly, not wanting to disturb him. And the doctor, fixing bandages across the room, had issued a hushed warning to keep the noise to a minimum. Athos and Porthos abided, tentatively pulling up two chairs to the side of the cot.

"How is he?" asked Porthos, twisting in his seat to look at the doctor over his shoulder.

"He has suffered a great deal. But in my humble opinion, I believe he'll be right as rain," replied the doctor with a wink. "But it's going to take a lot of rest, and a lot of support. And I'm afraid there is only so much I can do about the scars- given the time lapse between infliction and definitive treatment. He will have to live with those. Most likely for the rest of his life."

Not wanting to irritate them, the doctor had left Aramis' back exposed. The blanket draped on top of him came up only to his waist. Porthos and Athos stared at the scars, clean and strikingly red against the pale of Aramis' skin.

There were so many. Some were small and deep. Others stretched across the entirety of his back. It was a mosaic of lines, criss-crossing a pattern across his skin. They were obviously painful, but they would heal.

It was Aramis' inner turmoil and memories that would be harder, and more difficult, to cure. And once again, time would be the judge of that. Time would tell if Aramis would be able to get past this; add it up to another adventure completed, another experience under his belt.

Athos still had to begin his journey down that long arduous path, but he would have Aramis to travel along side him. Together they would learn to forgive, but not forget.

Forgiving would mean they would accept what had happened to them, take it as a lesson learned on how cruel the world could be. They would take what they had learned with all that dying and misfortune, and carry it with them as a legacy to the living. They would take that backward glance for those that did not survive, of places they could no longer go. And in time, when they felt safe to call it all a thing of the past, they would take one moment to embrace those departed prisoners left behind.

But forget... Never.

Athos would never forget. He would never allow this to become a mere cobweb in his mind. Instead, he would draw from it strength and courage when life became too difficult. He no longer had Aramis' gift, but he would have this. It wasn't as tangible as the buckle, but it would do. And he could live with that.

"Oh, one more thing," said the doctor, clearing his throat. He crossed the room, heading for the pile of clothes sitting on a table beside the cot. Aramis' shirt was neatly folded, his boots placed under the chair, standing side by side.

The doctor lifted the clothes and picked up a small, silver clasp. He held it up before Athos and Porthos. "I found this in Aramis' boot," he said, turning the object around in his hand to examine it better. "I'm not sure why it was there, but I assume it was because he didn't want to loose it."

Athos' mouth dropped. The object in the doctor's hand was his belt buckle. The one he thought he had lost. The one he had buried in the cavern's floor. The one Aramis had given him.

A wave of emotion swept through Athos, making his skin flush from head to toe. His hands shook as he took the precious buckle from the doctor. He had to bite hard on his lower lip to control it from trembling.

"What is it?" asked Porthos, trying to look at the silver object being carefully held in his friend's hands. "Is that a fleur-de-lis?"

Athos grasped the buckle tightly, making a fist around it. "My goodness," he breathed, eyes fixated on his sick friend. Something dawned on him, something he had never considered before, but made perfect sense now. He hadn't been able to figure out Aramis' actions before, but now they were shockingly clear.

"What?" pushed Porthos, his eyes darting between them both.

Athos turned to him. "All this time..." he started, finding it more difficult to hold back the tears. He remembered Aramis trying to persuade him to leave him alone. He remembered Aramis telling the guards he wanted to die. Aramis had been trying to sacrifice himself, and Athos hadn't realized something till now. "All this time I thought I was taking care of him..." his voice trailed off as the words caught in his throat. "And he was actually looking after me."

"That's just the way he is," replied Porthos, nudging his friend gently with his shoulder. "Always looking out for others before himself. He's a special man."

Athos nodded, his eyes still on the resting form of Aramis. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, he is."

Porthos leaned forward on his chair, rested his elbows on his knees. "Do you think we tell him that enough?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he turned to Athos.

Athos thought about the question for a moment, then nodded his head. "Sure we do. He knows."

"Yeah, you're probably right," replied Porthos with smile.

Athos turned the buckle over in his hands, fingering the curves and etchings tentatively. "But I wonder..." he said thoughtfully. "Why did he take this? He must have seen me bury it, but if Aramis thought he was going to die there, why did he hide it in his boot?"

"Maybe his spirit had different plans?" suggested Porthos, crossing his arms over his chest.

"His spirit?" asked Athos.

Porthos nodded, looked at Aramis on the bed. "When the body's reached its limit and the mind has already given up, there's still a part that thrives." He paused and drew in a deep breath. Placing a hand on Athos' shoulder, he continued. "When all hope seems to be lost, the human spirit prevails. Maybe that part of Aramis took the buckle... His spirit hadn't given up yet, even though the rest of him had."

Athos drew his head back. "That's deep."

"Yeah," breathed Porthos. "But it makes sense. The history of human suffering is proof of that."

Athos smiled. "Makes you glad to be a Frenchman, doesn't it?"

Porthos nodded. "Definitely."

A soft noise from the bed caught their attention, diverting them from their self-discoveries…

"Athos...?" Aramis whispered as his eyes fluttered open.

Athos nearly jumped off his seat as he leaned forward over the bed. "Yes, my friend. It's me," he said.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, Aramis. You're not dreaming," replied Porthos, unable to contain his jubilant grin.

"Porthos...?"

"Yes, it's me," continued Porthos. "You're safe now. Everything's gonna be all right."

Aramis closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. "Safe... Yeah...Blow 'em to bits... Athos..." he mumbled.

"I'm right here," answered Athos, grinning ear to ear.

"Thank you."

Athos furrowed his brow, turned to Porthos in confusion. "For what?" he asked, cocking his head closer to Aramis.

"For not listening to a stubborn man," Aramis replied stiffly. "For not leaving me behind."

"Just get some sleep, Aramis," Athos ordered softly, not wanting to address that topic quite yet. He would save that discussion for later.

Athos was still harbouring guilt, but right now there were more pressing matters. And he knew if he went forward with this conversation, he'd end up crying. And that was definitely not something he would be caught doing. "You just rest," he repeated, turning his head as he covertly wiped an eye.

Aramis nodded slowly, letting his eyes flick open for a brief second before closing them again. "Sleep... Yes... Guards coming..." he said, before he grew too tired to continue.

Porthos sat back in his chair, rested a hand on Athos' shoulder as he too gave Aramis some room. "He's got a rough night ahead for himself," he said, squeezing Athos' shoulder.

Athos nodded, fingered the buckle still in his hand. "Indeed." A rough time indeed. He drew in a deep breath and watched the rhythmic rising and falling of Aramis' back. The sign of breathing. The sign of life. Athos's security blanket. "But he's going to be okay," he said confidently.

"We'll ride so far, ride so hard, far away from here.
When we look back upon them, it will all become so clear.
The gates will open up for us.
We won't have no more fears."

-Tom Cochrane, 'All the King's Men'

~The End~