A big thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! I really appreciate the encouragement and support!

SpaceCowboy, thank you for continuing to volunteer your time, efforts, additions and suggestions. This chapter would not be the same without your input :)

And I do apologize for the delay in posting chapters. It couldn't be helped as I was on vacation. I do hope you'll still enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.


Thy Friends do Stand by Thee - Chapter 8

Wednesday afternoon/evening

With a final grunt of effort, Athos thrust his rapier forward. The sound of ripping leather preceded a hellish scream as his sword pierced his victim's gut, forcing the man to his knees before he joined his comrades in death.

The thump of Athos' racing heart and cold fingers of sweat beading his brow, alerted him that the exhaustion of battle had taken its toll on his body. While he lifted the back of his hand to wipe away the manifestations of his exertions, his gaze drifted across the battlefield to weigh the situation.

Varying shades of red stained the earth before him as the blood of almost two dozen men seeped into the ground to mix with mud and water. A few yards to his left, Athos watched Porthos pull his schiavona from his opponent's ribcage and then turned to his right to witness Treville wipe his sword on a patch of grass, before returning it to its sheath.

When Athos looked back over the battlefield, he realized that Lazare's men lay defeated; every last one of them.

"But where is d'Artangan?" Athos muttered as he spun around, his insides coiling into knots when he failed to locate his friend.

The captain approached Athos, stepping over fallen bodies as he closed the distance between them. "Has either of you seen Lazare?" he called, cutting into Athos' thoughts and presenting another cause for concern. "His body is not amongst the dead."

Porthos joined Athos and Treville, shaking his head. "Haven't seen d'Artagnan either," he replied, his furrowed brow casting a shadow over his features. "You don't think…"

As Porthos' voice trailed off to scan their surroundings for signs of the young Gascon, Athos' instincts turned him toward the chapel at the other end of the battlefield. The blood rushed from his head when he noted the wooden door stood wide open.

The gruesome possibilities of what might be happening beyond that threshold sent Athos dashing across the field. Certain he had solved the mystery of both d'Artagnan's and Lazare's whereabouts, he devoured the distance separating him from the brick building.

"Bloody hell," Porthos exclaimed behind him as his hurried footfalls informed Athos he had joined the charge.

Athos' heart was bucking inside his chest by the time he reached the entrance to the building, threatening to damage the bones that trapped it. Maintaining his speed, he leapt across the threshold prepared to cut down anyone who dared to impede his efforts.

Three bodies disturbed Athos' line of sight.

Recognizing Lazare's bloodied corpse, Athos' mind quickly processed that the threat had been neutralized before narrowing his focus on the lifeless tangle of limbs belonging to Aramis and d'Artagnan. Panic seized Athos' vocal chords, trapping his voice. He ran forward and dropped to his knees next to his fallen comrades.

Aramis' lay face down on top of d'Artagnan; the unfavorable position of their bodies denying Athos the one piece of information that might calm the storm raging inside him.

Are they alive?

Reaching out, Athos cursed his anxious tremor as his gloved hand touched Aramis' shoulder. He worked his fingers into the marksman's muscles, hoping to rouse him. "Aramis?"

Athos' breath hitched when he failed to receive a response, the need for clarity regarding his men's condition crushing his chest with its weight.

Quickly, Athos slid his arm beneath Aramis' upper body, intent on separating his friends to gain access to whatever injuries lay hidden.

"Athos?"

Following the sound of Porthos' voice, Athos lifted his head to find his friend in the doorway; the imposing figure of the man a stark contrast to the fear coloring his words.

Unable to satisfy Porthos' need for reassurance, Athos returned to his task. "Help me lift him," he demanded, indicating Aramis' motionless form. "And where is Treville?"

Porthos' hurried steps whirled a cloud of ash and dust into the air as his boots disturbed the layer of soot covering the ground. "With the horses," he replied, dropping to his knees opposite Athos. "He's gathering our supplies."

Porthos slipped his hands under Aramis' shoulders. Together they turned his limp body over to settle him on his back next to their younger friend at Athos' knees.

"Check on d'Artagnan," Athos demanded, pulling off his gloves.

Pressing his bare hand against the marksman's chest, Athos' eyes fell shut and a breath of air rushed from his lungs as the frantic beat of a heart filled his palm. "He lives."

Porthos huffed a breath at the news, dragging one hand down his face as if to rid himself of the demons daring to whisper a different tale.

Withdrawing the fingers of his other hand from d'Artagnan's neck, Porthos rocked back on his haunches. "So does d'Artagnan," he revealed, the rasp in his voice exposing his stress. "His pulse is strong."

Athos' continued examination of Aramis' torso offered further encouragement as he slid his fingers across the man's chest. A layer of mud and grime covered the right side of Aramis' doublet but no obvious tears or holes revealed any indication of serious injury.

Athos studied the marksman's features. His gaze paused on the lines of pain crinkling the corners of his friend's eyes then traced every crack in his dry lips before settling on a large gash above Aramis' eyebrow.

The split flesh of the wound allowed a stream of red to escape and run down the side of Aramis' face to stain the white canvas of his skin. The collage of blue and purple bruises forming around the marksman's eye supported Athos' suspicion that the head wound presented the reason for Aramis' unconscious state.

When Athos reached out to probe the wound and stem the flow of blood, Porthos' voice halted his movements.

"Shit. D'Artagnan took a ball to the thigh and there's no exit wound."

Athos' eyes snapped up and he cringed in sympathy as Porthos removed his head scarf to cover the ragged hole in d'Artagnan's leg.

The younger musketeer flinched and groaned, his eyes blinking rapidly as he came back to awareness.

Porthos rested one hand on d'Artagnan's chest. "Easy lad. Take it slow n' steady."

With a grunt of effort, d'Artagnan struggled to work himself onto his elbows, his chest heaving under the strain while his eyes burned with determination. "How's Aramis?" he asked.

Prompted by d'Artagnan's strangled whisper, Athos reached to probe the gash on Aramis' brow. "He received a decent blow to the head, but he should be..." Athos' words died on his lips when his fingers made contact with the area around Aramis' wound.

"What is it?" Porthos asked, a nervous undercurrent tainting his voice.

"He's burning up," replied Athos, his brows knitting together as the heat radiating off Aramis' forehead warmed his palm.

Struggling with his weakened body, d'Artagnan pushed further against the stone floor and sat up. Porthos grasped the younger man's elbow to assure his balance while his other hand maintained pressure on the leg wound.

"Did you... examine his ribs?" d'Artagnan rasped, the fire of pain burning bright inside his eyes. "He could barely hold... himself up when I entered the chapel."

Spurred into action, and scared he had missed something, Athos fumbled with the leather clasps on Aramis' doublet.

"Wait," Porthos demanded. He relinquished his hold on d'Artagnan's elbow before leaning forward to wrap his fingers around the marksman's wrist and move his arm to the side. "What's this?"

Scrutinizing Porthos' findings, Athos swallowed the guilt forming a lump in his throat. "It seems a ball grazed his side," he acknowledged in disbelief, tracing the laceration along Aramis' ribcage with his fingers. "And this," Athos continued, hoping not to choke on his words as he stared at two ragged holes in Aramis' sleeve. "Is a knife wound."

Re-evaluating the stains he had previously dismissed as dried mud and grime, Athos released a rushed breath of air as the truth punched him in the gut. "Most of this is blood," he said, fear strangling his voice into a raspy whisper.

"I hope his wounds didn't fester," Porthos added as he too brushed his fingers across Aramis' heated brow.

"So do I," Treville said, entering the chapel and drawing Athos' attention. Carrying saddle bags and cloaks on his shoulders, the captain stepped closer. "We tended his wounds to the best of our abilities. We stopped the bleeding but..."

"Infection may have set in," Athos concluded, his own words causing his heart to flutter inside his chest.

Treville nodded. "It's quite possible," he said, placing the saddle bags on the ground next to his men and handing Porthos one of the cloaks.

Moaning at their captain's alarming response, Porthos accepted the offering and leaned over d'Artagnan to slip the wool coat under Aramis' head. "What the hell 'appened to you out there? Looks like he lost half 'is blood supply," he said, returning his hands to apply pressure to d'Artagnan's wound.

"It's his arm," the Captain responded. Rolling his shoulder, Treville grimaced before dropping to one knee to search the supply bags. "The blade went straight through and the bleeding proved… extensive."

D'Artagnan swayed, his voice altered by the brunt of his pain when he spoke. "Then we must…" His words of insistence trailed off as his eyes pinched shut and his chest heaved.

Athos cursed himself for not recognizing the seriousness of Aramis' condition, so when he witnessed tremors shaking d'Artagnan's frame and watched his olive skin turn ashen, Athos rushed to d'Artagnan's side, determined not to make the same mistake twice.

Reaching forward, he squeezed the back of d'Artagnan's neck, attempting to divert the Gascon's focus to his own wound. "We must tend to your leg. Aramis would be furious if he woke to realize we had neglected a serious injury on his behalf."

D'Artagnan shook his head, denial clouding his gaze. "Please, Athos. Help him," he begged. "He saved... my life."

D'Artagnan's strangled plea shredded Athos' emotions, causing him to blink back the needles pricking his eyes. "And I assume you saved his?" he asked, indicating Lazare's lifeless form.

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Then you have shown true courage and skill, and Aramis lives because of it," said Athos.

"Don't worry lad," Porthos added. "I'll tend his wounds and look for infection. Let Athos take care of ya, alright?"

Acceptance slowly settled into d'Artagnan's gaze and he issued a stilted nod as Porthos' words seemed to reassure him.

"What… happened?"

Aramis' faint mumble caused Athos' heart to leap into his throat. His eyes snapped down, hoping that his ears hadn't deceived him.

Porthos moved to Aramis' side and rested a hand on the marksman's chest. "As always, it seems you're too stubborn to die," he said quietly, a crooked smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "That's what 'appened."

When Aramis' dark eyes blinked away the shadows of confusion in his gaze, Athos released a breath of air. "It is good to see you awake, my friend," he admitted, allowing a wave of relief to warm his insides.

Trusting Porthos to tend to Aramis' needs, Athos took hold of the bandage covering d'Artagnan's thigh.

"So glad you could join us," d'Artagnan said, leaning over to grasp the marksman's shoulder. "I was starting to worry."

"No need," Aramis assured, locking his dark eyes on d'Artagnan's. "I'm right here. Thanks to you."

D'Artagnan shrugged, his lips thinning into a smile. "I only returned the favor."

"Alright," interrupted Porthos, his forehead creased in concern as he studied Aramis' features. "Let's take a good look at those wounds, yeah?"

Shaking his head, Aramis pushed against the stone floor with his left arm. "Not yet," he said with a grunt as he tried to sit up.

"Ey!" Porthos snapped. "What the hell do ya think you're doin'?"

Fighting his way upward with lips pressed tight and eyes pinched shut, Aramis' breath heaved under the strain. Once he was sitting straight, his torso rocked with a tremor when tortured muscles seized in protest, pitching him forward into Porthos' chest.

Aramis groaned in pain but refused to yield. "We must remove the ball from d'Artagnan's leg," he mumbled into Porthos' leathers as his friend's strong embrace held him close.

"Athos is handlin' it," Porthos assured, his voice desperate to convince. "It's not his first time fixin' a battle wound. No need to worry 'bout anything, alright?"

While the exchange of his two oldest friends played out in his periphery, Athos braced d'Artagnan to help him scoot backward, settling the young man's back against the wall of the chapel.

As Treville provided a bottle of spirits, a leather pouch containing their field supplies and multiple strips of linen, Athos pulled his main gauche to aid in his next task. Carefully inserting the blade into the hole of d'Artagnan's breeches, he cut the material to gain access to the injury, cringing at d'Artagnan's gasp of pain.

"You don't understand," Aramis insisted, pushing against Porthos' chest with an iron will.

"I understand that we're surrounded by self-sacrificin' fools," huffed Porthos.

Disregarding his friend's cynicism, Aramis' voice adopted a desperate edge. "Athos. Look at me!"

The distress marring the marksman's words halted Athos' movements. Turning, he locked his eyes on Aramis and flinched at the intensity of his friend's gaze.

"I've seen an injury very similar to this one," Aramis started. "The victim bled out mere minutes after the ball was removed from his thigh." Pausing, he edged closer to d'Artagnan's side. "We must be extremely careful or we might damage something we have no hope to repair."

Cold fingers crept up Athos' spine. Releasing a breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "What is your solution?"

"Let me do it," Aramis suggested. "My experience will increase his chances."

Porthos shook his head. "You can barely sit straight."

Aramis shrugged. "Luckily, that is not a requirement for the task I face."

As Porthos growled at the statement, Athos contemplated the marksman's words, his gaze shifting between his injured men.

D'Artagnan rested his head against the wall, his chest heaving a mad rhythm while Aramis' rigid posture signaled his distress; the arm he held around his midsection possibly the only thing holding him together.

While Athos shared in Porthos' reluctance to let Aramis push himself any further, he was forced to consider all variables when d'Artagnan's blood leaked through the bandage to remind him of the stakes. Staring at the trickle of red seeping through his fingers, Athos realized that for the sake of all of his men, he would have to defer to Aramis' better judgment.

Searching the marksman's gaze, Athos found a spark of confidence that seemed to override Aramis' physical ailments. Nodding in agreement, Athos moved to the side, allowing his friend to take charge.

When Porthos opened his mouth, Aramis' hand came to rest on the larger man's arm. "Please don't object, my friend," he whispered, his eyes alight with a desperate need to gain approval. "I don't have it in me to fight another battle and I cannot do this without you by my side."

Releasing a strangled breath, Porthos' forehead creased with lines of sorrow. "You're tryin' to save our young friend," he said, his voice a low rumble. "How could I object to that?" Reaching out, Porthos rested his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "I'm 'ere. As always."

As the offered support relaxed Aramis' features, he nodded slowly, his eyes flashing brightly with unspoken gratitude.

Clearing his throat, Aramis clenched his jaw and straightened his back before leveling his gaze on d'Artagnan. When Aramis studied the younger man's pinched eyes and skin that looked a few shades shy of its normal color, his brows knitted together. "D'Artagnan?" he called, cupping the Gascon's neck.

Slow to respond, d'Artagnan's lids fluttered open.

"There he is," Aramis encouraged. "How are you feeling, my friend?"

Blinking, d'Artagnan fought to focus on his surroundings. "I should be the one asking that," he replied. "You look... terrible."

With a chuckle, Aramis grasped the younger man's shoulder. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're not a pretty sight yourself."

"I could have guessed," d'Artagnan relented with a rueful smile.

"What do you say we get this offending object out of your leg, hm?"

D'Artagnan shifted in obvious discomfort, gritting his teeth at the movement. "I wouldn't say no to that."

Athos watched Aramis lift one corner of Porthos' headscarf to examine d'Artagnan's thigh. "What do you need?" he asked.

"Use the brandy to clean the forceps," Aramis instructed, probing the injury with gentle fingers.

When d'Artagnan flinched and his leg began to quiver, Athos moved closer and covered d'Artagnan's hand with his.

"Breathe," Athos urged. "You will be alright. I promise."

With a stilted nod, d'Artagnan seized Athos with a stare as if searching for an anchor.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned without breaking eye contact with his young charge.

"The ball entered the inner thigh at an angle," Aramis started, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "As far as I can tell, there is no fracture to the bone but the location of the swelling tells me the ball has lodged itself fairly deep."

"Course it did," Porthos huffed. "Can you remove it?"

"Yes," replied Aramis, looking up to meet d'Artagnan's gaze. "Very, very carefully."

When d'Artagnan jerked his head in understanding, Aramis turned to Treville. "Can you hand me the forceps and the bottle of brandy?"

"Here," responded Treville, placing the metal instrument into Aramis' open palm. "It's clean."

But instead of alcohol, Treville handed him one of the water skins. "I'll clean d'Artagnan's wound," he directed with a pointed look. "You drink this water. Small sips."

Aramis' tongue darted out between parched lips as his fingers wrapped around the skin. He seemed hesitant at first, but when he guided the water to his mouth and the cool liquid began to flow he closed his eyes and sighed.

As Aramis endeavored to quench his thirst, Treville pulled the cork from the bottle of spirits. Turning to d'Artagnan, the captain's eyes reflected a silent apology when he tipped the bottle over the wound. "Are you ready, son?"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes. "Do it," he rasped.

When the stream of alcohol flushed the ragged hole in d'Artagnan's thigh and caused his breath to fire in rapid succession, Athos instinctively tightened his grip on the younger man's hand, hoping the comfort he wished to convey would filter through his touch.

Longing for a moment of rest for both of his men, Athos felt the urge to move proceedings along. "Aramis?" he called. "Are you ready for the next step?"

When the marksman didn't respond, Athos lifted his gaze to investigate and frowned.

Aramis was staring at the metal tool in his hand, its uncontrolled bounce having captured his gaze as it shook along with the silent tremors that seized his injured arm.

"Athos," Aramis whispered. "I'm not sure I can..."

TBC


I hope you enjoyed this first part of my comfort scene :) I won't make you wait long for the second part. I promise.