A/N: Edits might go a tad slower for the next few chapters, we'll see.


TMTMTM

As d'Artagnan had suspected, neither man was willing to let the matter rest. For the remainder of the day and even far into the day after, Athos stayed angry and distant, the dark cloud of brooding hanging over his head even without the aid of wine. Aramis for his part grew increasingly quiet until Porthos was convinced he was hiding some other injury that was slowly killing him. He roped d'Artagnan into helping him strip the marksman down on the pretense of giving him a sponge bath, but the exercise only proved to drive Aramis into a darker mood while showing that indeed there were no other wounds save the two, both healing well now. D'Artagnan, however, suffered a moment of shock as the dressing around Aramis's bicep came free to reveal the stitched gash that had clearly been sewn single-handed with no one to help press the wound together.

Aramis seemed too lost in his own thoughts to notice d'Artagnan's freeze of horror, but maybe it hadn't gone unnoticed completely because Porthos joined him at the fire afterwards.

"He admitted he thought you were too tired to do any better," Porthos said with a sniff.

Had he been that tired? D'Artagnan couldn't remember.

He thought about shoving the stick into the coals again and instead tossed the whole thing to the flames.

"At least he can't complain about my stitches anymore," Porthos said gruffly.

And that was how he knew Porthos was feeling it too.

The next day Aramis was up on his feet, albeit gingerly and still more quiet than was healthy, and the day after that he declared himself fit enough to ride, to which Athos snorted loudly and made no other comment.

They had discussed their plans the previous day, deciding that they would ride to the nearest town and ask around about the man they were looking for. After all, even delayed as they were, they still had a signet ring to recover.

The ride back to a recognizable road and along it to the next village proved long and silent. None of the lighthearted banter present that had become a staple on their journeys.

D'Artagnan had finally decided to worry about Aramis's state of mind when he glanced back to find the man pale and sweating beneath his hat, his long fingers tangled in the reins and almost as white as his face.

D'Artagnan dropped back a bit to bring his horse level with Aramis, their knees bumping as he leaned over to catch the man's elbow. The man was stiff beneath his grip, not limp as he'd feared. He opened his mouth to suggest a stop.

"Don't," Aramis hissed under his breath.

D'Artagnan glanced at him in surprise.

"If we have to stop now then he wins," he said quietly. His dark eyes square on Athos's back where the man was riding point.

"But if you tear your stitches or fall off your horse he wins again," d'Artagnan whispered back, not entirely believing he was having this conversation.

Aramis groaned, "The village can't be too far now."

"Aramis we don't even know if there is a village."

The marksman's look was withering, "Roads always go somewhere."

"Aramis you're over-taxed already. We should have stopped ages ago."

"I'll be fine," he growled a little more loudly.

"Oh? What's this I hear?" came Athos's voice from the front. The man didn't turn in his saddle. "Have you blown all of your stitches yet Aramis?" he called louder.

Aramis stiffened, "Hardly Athos," he quipped back, "I was merely telling d'Artagnan here that I think your pace too slow! The faster we recover the Duc's signet ring the sooner we're back in Paris."

Porthos grumbled something unintelligible.

D'Artagnan swallowed the fold in his stomach.

"So I should call a halt to delay us further then!" Athos said, reining his horse to a stop. He glanced back to Porthos. "See to him Porthos. I'm going to scout ahead." And he kicked his horse back into motion, leaving them behind.

Porthos dismounted and circled his horse around to join them, looking up at Aramis.

"Dumb fool," he said, "you shouldn't provoke him like that."

Aramis's smile was cracked and hollow at best, "I can't help it. He's so irritating when he's like that."

Porthos pointed a finger at him, "That's a sure fire way to make it worse. Now can you dismount or d'you need d'Artagnan to help?"

"Can't I just stay here?"

"What happens when your horse gets bored and wanders out from under you as it goes for grass? If you fall off, Athos will have more to lord over you when he comes back."

Aramis ground his teeth, "Who in their right mind would want more of that." He sighed heavily, "D'Artagnan, if you would please…"

TMTMTM

Athos breathed into the brittle winter air as he let his horse have its head. He wrestled his anger for a ways and finally gave in to the motions of the ride, the rhythms of the canter matching the beat of his heart. He took solace in the fact that Porthos and d'Artagnan would care for Aramis even when Aramis himself would not, though that in itself was a driving source of his anger.

Had he not lost enough in his life? Sometimes it was difficult not to wish to have never known them rather than to envision them falling at his side. The rational part of his mind chided him for such a silly sentiment; they were, after all, soldiers. They would all die one day and that day was likely to be premature given their profession.

But he had reached the end of his patience with how readily his friend seemed to wish his life cast aside. Aramis had always been passionate and headstrong – quick to leap into danger and faster to leap to someone's defense. But none of those traits need equate foolish stupidity Athos decided with a mental growl. If that was how it was going to be, then Athos wasn't going to stand in his way.

Only… stepping back to let his friend fall had proven harder than he'd wanted. In fact, in that moment he'd rather have been anywhere else.

Now free of the situation and riding alone along the road, the thought of letting Aramis fall to his own foolishness was no easier than before, but at least now, he was nowhere near to act on his constant impulses to reach out and catch him when he did.

The tangle of that need and his anger made him shake his head, though there was no one around to read the gesture.

Separating the two contrary impulses proved an impossible task and Athos heartily wished for a bottle of wine to drown the headache the war of it made behind his eyes.

Finally, the road around him changed from tree-lined to open pasture and a cluster of buildings appeared ahead.

Athos took up the reins to pause a moment as he scouted the village from a distance. The view before him was typical of a backcountry village. The fields to either side of the road were fallow this time of season – the harvesting done for the year. Smoke trailed up out of chimneys as the populace hunkered down with indoor pursuits; mending, weaving, crafting, storing, and preserving. Likely, whatever tavern or inn this place held would be full as the villagers unwound from a backbreaking season and worked themselves up for the harshness of winter to come.

Athos debating turning around to rejoin with the others but his skin felt strangely raw at the thought. Instead, he clicked his horse forward to at least discover if this hovel had an inn and if it had rooms to spare.

The village did indeed have an inn, and just as Athos had predicted it was full to the brim with village folk and farmers.

Athos scanned the patrons as he found one of the last remaining tables. It wasn't his first pick of places, he usually preferred an out of the way table with his back to a solid structure and a good view of the room, but in this circumstance he was happy enough to have a seat at all as his knee wouldn't let him stay standing for long.

A young serving girl noted his presence and slipped between two boisterous tables to ask what he wanted.

"Wine, food, and a room with more than one bed if that's at all possible," he said sliding across three coins that he hoped would cover his order. He had no doubt she would tell him if it did not.

The girl, who was likely no more than sixteen, eyed him up and down. Athos arched an eyebrow, daring her to comment. With his clothing caked in dried mud and his hair slick with grease and travel, he knew he barely looked capable of paying for anything. But the coins on the table did their part and she nodded and scooped them up as she left.

He settled in to wait and was surprised when she returned a moment later with a bottle of wine and a comment that the food would be along shortly. Athos uncorked the wine and poured a generous serving into the earthenware cup the girl had provided.

The first mouthful was heaven on his raw throat, and three swallows later the war behind his eyes rounded off to the comfortable haze of gun smoke.

He was a third of the way through the wine when his food arrived. Steam rose from the bowl of stew, or soup he supposed since it wasn't thick enough to be called stew. Still the aroma wasn't unpleasant and it was clearly hot – better than he'd had in days.

It was as he was raising the first spoonful to his lips that he sensed someone behind him – too close. Athos reached for his hilt and stiffened as the cold edge of a knife pressed against his throat.

The man behind him clapped him on the shoulder, "What a surprise to find you here friend!" the familiar voice said, loud enough that no one in the busy common room questioned or even glanced over.

Athos readied himself.

"Oh. I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said quietly, leaning over his shoulder. A green jewelled ring flashed on the man's hand as he directed Athos's gaze to the other end of the room where a shadowed man held a corner seat. A pistol set easily across his lap and pointing at the unawares serving girl. "Wouldn't want to make a scene. Those can be so very messy."

"What do you want?" Athos asked, laying off for now and letting that show by turning his palms up on the table.

"That's complicated, but how about we go somewhere quiet to talk it out. Resist and she dies first."

"Alright you have my word. This place was too crowded for my tastes anyway."

The man slapped his shoulder and the knife disappeared from his neck as the man tugged him to his feet. The knife appeared a moment later against his back as he guided Athos towards the back door.

The door emptied out onto a narrow thoroughfare between the inn and its neighboring outbuildings. Evening had taken hold over the past hour and under the cover of cloud, it seemed as if night had fallen early. Athos scanned the alley, seeing no one in the shadows.

He knew this was his moment.

Something heavy cracked across the back of his head and muzzle flashes blazed behind his eyes as he descended into pounding war and darkness.