He came around slowly.

Swallowed to sooth his dry throat, brows pulling into a frown as the steady pain announced its presence. Flashes of movements and mummers came to his mind, of touches to his forehead and arms holding him up and d'Artagnan couldn't understand why he hadn't felt the panic that he knew he should. He knew he was not among friends, he had no idea why it didn't alarm him given his condition.

Head rolling against the rough surface it was leaning on, he turned it to the side and blinked open his eyes.

His heart stilled.

So did his breath.

Yellow eyes bore into his own.

And then the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot.

One and another and d'Artagnan's feet scrabbled against the cold ground as he pressed back against the tree bark and forced his legs under him. The cutting pain in his side and the need to fight in his blood warred within him; his head swam. Gut churning as a flash of metal buried into the wolf before him and his grasp on the tree at his back tightened. Torn between the need to move and stuck with the pain if he did, d'Artagnan eyed the wolves that were drawing back a bit. Fingers digging in the rough bark behind him he did his best to stay upright as his gaze shifted to the man a little way off to his side who had stopped with a musket in his hand, standing still and alert.

The growls were a low thunder in the air, a rumbling promise of bloodlust.

D'Artagnan watched as the wolf nearest to him stepped back a little, crouching slightly before it lunged. And d'Artagnan's eyes widened as the man with the musket fired a shot off into the distance, pulled out his sword and simply stepped in front of him; right in the path of the attacking wolf.

There wasn't even a touch of hesitation there.

Terrifyingly unfazed d'Artagnan realized, a sense that he had only associated with a Musketeer before, the one he had met when he had came to the garrison in search of Athos. A man who hadn't moved an inch to escape the dagger flying his way, who had simply been amused to see it burry in the wood a hair's breadth away from his nose.

Snarls rose amidst the clicking sound of jaws snapping on air.

D'Artagnan jumped when someone grabbed his arm.

It was Mousequeton.

The man fired at the wolf running towards them and dragged him along. Looking back over his shoulder at the man who had thrown off the dead animal he had been wrangling, d'Artagnan was relieved to see him get back to his feet. Turning his head back he nearly smacked face first into the horse that was suddenly there. Gasping and clutching the broken ribs that had not enjoyed the run d'Artagnan frowned at the man who fired a shot at the wolf about to lunge at his companion in the distance.

"The army's an hour out that way," Mousequeton told him, "go, go, go!"

"Have to – help him,"

"You leaving is all the help he needs right now," Mousequeton snapped at him.

Grabbed his legs and shoved him up on the horse.

The world lurched and blacked out; d'Artagnan clenched his jaw shut and willed it stay, held on to the tethers of his consciousness until the world spun back around him. He was certain he would throw up on the man steadying him in the saddle and blinked against the beads of sweat burning in his eyes, focused instead on the grip on his leg that held him in place.

It was the man who had stepped in front of the wolf in his place.

Breathing short and shallow through his nose d'Artagnan looked at the man now standing by his horse, head turned away to watch the regrouping wolves. Bile rising back to his throat when he saw the torn, blood drenched arm that was stretched up to hold him and d'Artagnan turned his head away. Bit back a cry as his horse broke into a trot, his shaking fingers wrapped around the reins but he let the animal keep its course. He was vaguely aware that it was the direction Mousequeton had told him of and slumped forwards, nearly lying on the horse's neck as the echo of pistol shots followed him.

He met Cornet halfway there.

The Musketeer stopped short in surprise as he and Porthos slid down the slope of the snow that had been brought down from the mountain. Absently brushing away the cold that clung to him Athos raised a brow.

"Well?"

"We heard shots fired," Cornet explained.

"So did we,"

"Not from the camp?" Porthos asked.

Cornet shook his head, ducking instinctually and turning on his heels when they heard pistol shots again. Much closer this time and then the cries of surprise erupted. Athos brushed past the Musketeer, pulling out a sword in one hand and his pistol in the other as he hurried to the army camp, with Porthos a step behind him.

Chaos greeted them in all its frightening glee.

Trampled campfires, upturned pots and forgotten dinners rolled underfoot as shots cracked the air and tents blazed in crisp air. The men were rushing towards the battle that seemed to have erupted in the corner of their camp, half dressed and hastily armed, eyeing each other in shock and doubt.

General Garth was screaming for his men to report while General Lavelle stood at his side watching like a particularly bewildered owl as the soldiers rushed past them. Spotting the cart ahead Athos stepped up on its back and onto the barrels piled there, blue eyes scanning the unprecedented battleground some feet away where many French soldiers had locked blades and shots still flew sporadically.

Porthos was at his back, just behind his shoulder and Athos knew that he would see any errant threat coming their way. He looked for his men instead.

"Musketeers to ME!" Athos called over the noise, "MUSKETEERS!"

And they answered in a breath; men quickly dispatching their opponents and breaking away from the fight, pushing through the throng that looked unsure how to help and ducking out from where they had taken cover under fire. In the confusion of Generals shouting for their soldiers, they responded to the one name they all carried and came to their Captain.

"Report,"

"It's General Pierre's men," Alain wiped the blood from his eye.

"They came through the camp shooting everyone in their path," Matiss spoke up.

"The General is dead," Francis said, "at least one of them boasted that he is,"

Athos could see what had happened, the General had confronted his men and they had retaliated. He looked to where the fight seemed to have dwindled out; light from the tents that still smoldered cast a flickering glow over the bodies left behind.

"They'd run," Porthos spoke from his side.

"Then we'll give chase,"

"There are too many," General Garth spoke up.

He stepped into the crowd of Musketeers that had gathered before the cart and looked up at Athos. His dark eyes challenging and face set in a grim blankness. Athos remained where he was, ignored the weight of his men's gaze and tucked his pistol back in his belt.

"That's too many that can regroup and attack us from behind," he said, "We give chase and end it now,"

"They're probably scared, afraid that we'll punish them for the deeds of one of their faction,"

"Those will be the ones who wouldn't stop tonight," Athos refused to look away from the hard eyes of the General, "they will know we are coming and they will try to put as much distance as they can between us and them. The other ones will be regrouping nearer,"

"And you are sure that there is such a group,"

Athos' hand shifted from the hilt of his pistol to the other item he had tucked in his belt. His fingers brushed the hard edge of the leather pouch before he laid a hand over it, he could feel the paper crinkle under his touch.

"I am sure, "he said, "I had warned you already and while we stand here discussing this, the men looking to wipe out our army are likely getting ready to sneak another attack."

Athos wasn't sure what he would do if the Generals still opposed him, a part him wanted to leave behind the position he was given if it meant he could hunt down the men responsible for d'Artagnan's death while the other felt indebted to the men who trusted him with their lives.

General Garth looked away.

His gaze scanned over the corner of the camp where men were seeking out the wounded from the dead while others were putting out the remaining embers of the burned down tents. He looked back to Athos and nodded.

"I can give you fifteen men," he said.

Athos kept the surprise off from his face and turned to the Musketeers.

"Any casualties among us?" he asked.

Ignored the one death that was lying heavy on his heart and went through the faces before him; of the forty able men under his command nearly all were there.

"A few nicks here and there," Francois shrugged and looked around, "nearly all of us are accounted for except for –"

He looked up at Athos and stopped.

Porthos shifted on his feet.

"Except for d'Artagnan, he is still missing," Athos said, "We will take ten of ours,"

"I will take them," Porthos spoke up.

Athos looked to his friend, protest forming on his lips but his voice didn't back. He knew he was needed here to sort through the aftermath with the other Generals and his brother was the best choice to lead the men in his place. But the fear that clamped tight on his heart even as he nodded his assent. He still stared at Porthos as the big man called out the men he would take before he stepped down from cart to collect his horse. General Garth walked with him to his men and picked out the ones he was sending out.

Athos stepped down from the cart and came to stand beside the General.

"We will need to account for the dead and the wounded," General Garth said, "And here I thought that we wouldn't be sending men back before we reached the fort,"

Neither had he. But it seemed they didn't have a choice, just like they had no choice but to change their route, just like he had no choice but to attend to his duties when all he wanted was to search for d'Artagnan, and just as he would have no choice but to leave him behind come morning.

"I think I should gave a name to the people under my command," said General Garth, "seems affective,"

"It is,"

Athos caught the smirk the other man sent him but couldn't find it in him to respond. Greif and worry tangled in his mind and his eyes sought the men that were about to leave. A touch on his arm surprised him and he cast a glance at the General at his side.

"When my men return, they'll need some rest before we can turn back and the take the other route," said the man, "and like you pointed out in the meeting this evening the other path is far more treacherous than this one. It wouldn't do to begin travelling through that in the night,"

Athos blinked.

The meaning behind the words sinking slowly in the ground of his belief that had hardened against the commanders he had come across in the past years. He stared at the man offering him another day and night in this place, offering him a chance to look for d'Artagnan.

"The others –"

"I'll handle them," said the man.

Athos nodded, still unsure of this sudden kindness. But his attention turned to the men heading out into the night and in the light of the torches they carried his eyes caught the figure at the front of the group. Porthos looked to him as he passed him by on horse, a grim determination in his eyes that promised vengeance and Athos' hands clenched into fists to keep from stopping the man.

As he watched the men leave their camp he wondered how many brothers was he supposed to bury.

The world was spinning, or he was.

It didn't matter to the muddy feeling in the pit of stomach.

Aramis fell back against the tree and slid to the ground. There was a trembling in his knees and a tightness in his chest as if a chain was wrapped around it; there was pain in there too somewhere, distant and blunted against the tremors of the memories shook loose in his mind. Warm blood on his skin and cold earth under him, the stench of death in the chilly air mingling with the smell of barren trees.

His cheek stung; it stung again.

Aramis opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them.

There was a face looming over him.

"Marsac,"

"What? No it's Mousequeton, c'mon Rene keep your eyes open."

Reality crashed into him, heavy and powerful and frothing and Aramis gasped.

He pushed away from the tree at his back and slumped forwards, blood drenched arms limp at his sides and fingers still curled around his weapons. Forcing his eyes open he pulled in a breath and his wits with it. His head felt heavy and light at the same time as he lifted it from where his chin had come to rest on his chest. Ignored the man talking at his side and looked to the gap in the trees where d'Artagnan's horse had ridden off to. His friend hadn't looked like he could sit straight in the saddle, but he knew that Musketeers' horses were used to having men draped over their necks and prayed that his friend had just held on.

The jolt of pain left him growling.

Mousequeton leaned back a little where he was crouched at his side.

"I have your satchel here," he said.

Drawing up knee Aramis unwrapped his fingers from the dagger in his left hand and pulled his arm to rest on the raised knee; clenched his jaw shut against the white hot pain that shot through his limb at the movement.

"Let me –"

"I've got it," he said.

Reached for the satchel with his right hand and propped it open against his side. Mousequeton watched him take the bottle of spirits he kept there, his face turning grim as Aramis pulled out the cork with his teeth and doused the wounds on his left arm. Bit back the hiss that threatened to break out and letting go a breath he sucked another in, clenched his eyes shut and poured a healthy dose over his right arm next.

And then he let his head thump back against the tree bark; hard.

"You'll need firelight to clean them properly," Mousequeton said.

"We're too close to the army camp,"

"They could get infected,"

Aramis considered the risk; he was sure that there were specks of dust and pieces of his sleeve stuck in his flesh and leaving them there was an invitation to infection. On the other hand they could be seen by those on patrol but they could escape them if need be he was sure about that but it would make the army they were shadowing more alert and the next time he will have to keep more distance and the paths ahead wouldn't allow that –

The loud crack had him sitting up straight.

Aramis blinked at Mousequeton who was breaking off branches from the trees, a bundle already tucked under his arm. He simply stared as the man brought it closer and clearing a patch of earth with a swipe of foot he set about piling the sticks he had gathered. Arranging them properly Mousequeton sprinkled some gunpowder on it and stopped with the flints in his hand.

"Would you risk getting caught if it was one of us?" he asked.

Aramis gave him a sharp nod, no hesitation.

A smirk split the narrow face that was already swelling around the nose and Mousequeton set the fire going. Aramis leaned forwards; he hadn't even realized that through the heavy cloak and the scarf around his neck he was still shivering, that is until the warmth reached out to caress his skin. Squinting slightly in the sudden brightness he grimaced at the sticky blood that was itching along the back of his hand and wetting a rag with his water-skin he began cleaning his fingers.

"You were a Musketeer,"

His hand stopped midway and he lifted his gaze from the long wound he had been inspecting to look at the man before him. His reaction to the man's confession had already proved that he was somehow linked to the Musketeers and Savoy. Aramis gave a short nod and went back to his work. A wry smile touched his face as the mixture of blood that hadn't yet stopped and the spirits he had used to clean the wounds made it easy to pick out splinters and shreds of cloth.

"Once we were there it was obvious that they weren't armed for an attack. I knew we've been fooled into attacking that unit," Mousequeton said, "Told the Duke as much."

It wasn't the best of stories to listen to but Aramis let his mind latch onto the words. The pain and anger and the bitter understanding of why his friends had lost their lives cut through the pain flesh was twitching with. His jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he probed the open wounds for anything he may have missed.

"Of course I was drunk out of my mind when I did that,"

Aramis turned to get his other arm into the light. His right seemed to have fared better of the two and he examined it quickly, picking out the debris from the wounds as he went before the pain in his left arm could reach a pitch that could leave him unconscious.

"I found my girls at the doorstep, my daughters –they must've thought it was me coming home," Mousequeton said, "My wife and boy were inside. The house had burned down, I – I hadn't made it in time to save them,"

Aramis closed his eyes, his fingers still hovering over his bloodied arm as something in him ached, a part of him that wouldn't die no matter how hard he believed that it had. When he opened his eyes it was to find the other man staring at the fire. Reaching out with blood tipped fingers Aramis grasped him by the forearm, looked straight into the surprised eyes that flew to him and he did not look away.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said.

Mousequeton's face twisted into a grimace as if he had been struck in the gut; but when Aramis pulled back the man turned his hand and grabbed his forearm instead. It took everything in him to not hiss at the pressure on open wounds but something in the wide eyed expression told him that the pain was not deliberately caused.

"And I am sorry for yours," Mousequeton said.

He glanced down and Aramis nearly smirked at the horrified look that came on his face.

"Oh hell!" he let go immediately, "wait let me – oh hell – I'll bind that up."

And Aramis let him.

The wounds were too close to each other for there to be a proper edge that could be stitched close and the faster he was done with this the quicker he could check on d'Artagnan. Aramis took the salve from his satchel and applied it on the long gashes before letting the man wrap them with clean bandages. Offering a word or two when it became clear that despite his many skills, including those of the cooking kind, Mousequeton had no idea how to properly tend to a wound.

"The clean linen first," the man nodded to himself as he started on the next arm.

Placing it over the salve covered wounds he started with the binding.

"Tilt it down a little at every turn," Aramis reminded him.

Ignored the throbbing in his limbs and wondered if he should chew on the willow bark he had in his stores. After a few false starts Mousequeton finally found a rhythm. He didn't look up from his work, although his hands slowed down.

"You lost a brother –?" he cleared his throat, "there? In Savoy?"

"I lost twenty of them,"

The hands stilled.

Aramis pulled his arm back and finished the wrapping.

"I watched them fight, I watched them die,"

He tied the knot with his left hand and pulled it tight his teeth.

"And I sat with their bodies warding off crows,"

He let his arms rest in his lap and looked at the man who hadn't blinked for a while. Mousequeton swallowed thickly and his eyes held unveiled horror when they finally rose to meet Aramis'.

"You were there," he said.

Aramis tipped his head to the side.

Held back the sudden wave of exhaustion that wanted to crash into him. Kept his back straight and shoulders set, there was no luxury of rest for him, it was a privilege lost to him when he had taken this position.

"So were you," he said.

Mousequeton flinched.

"And here we are," Aramis shrugged a shoulder.

The hate and rage that had burned through him was gone, leaving a bare tangle of understanding in its place. They were both mercenaries now but he had been a soldier once and so had this man, they had followed orders, not been asked for opinions. They had done what they were told to and that was that.

The clatter of horse hooves had Aramis reaching for his pistol.

He was up and aiming for the riders that neared them.

Two of them.

Kitty and Devereux.

Aramis only lowered his weapon when they slowed to a stop and dismounted. Letting his arm fall back on his side he focused on the pulsing ache there, it kept him present and alert for the new trouble he was sure to be the reason behind this meeting.

"Finally we found you," Kitty smiled.

Her gaze shifting from him to the dead wolves scattered about and her nose scrunched in displeasure.

"Shoddy work," she said.

"We were pressed for time,"

"Wolves at the door?"

"Something like that," Aramis smirked, "I'm guessing that's the reason you're here too,"

Kitty tipped her head slightly in the acknowledgement of his perception as Devereux looked up from where his gaze were lingering on Aramis' bandaged arms. The silent inquiry in his eyes met with a nod, he was injured not out of commission.

"We caught two spies," Devereux said, "they talked."

Aramis was not surprised.

"It was fun," Kitty added.

Aramis was still not surprised.

Devereux's eyes slid to the woman at his side but he said nothing and turned his attention back at Aramis.

"There's an entire Spanish regiment headed this way, about an hour or so behind us." he said, "Something about a surprise attack to finish off what's left of the French soldiers on this route,"

"They think the snow-slide had rendered the French incapacitated,"

The two new arrivals looked surprised.

"Long story," Aramis waved it off, grimaced at the pain it stoked anew, "that still doesn't change the fact that this attack would be a surprise,"

"So we warn them," Kitty shrugged.

"How?" Devereux asked.

Not from her but from Aramis.

And after so long of making decision that could end with the death of so many and finding ways around the two armies they were always in the middle of Aramis was not surprised by the expectant looks his way. He looked from their campfire still burning bright to the way d'Artagnan's horse had gone. Putting his pistol back in its place Aramis went over the wolf that still had his dagger stuck in its neck. Drawing it out he wiped it on the fur and turned back.

"We attack them first," he said.

They were found only a few minutes later.

Quarter of an hour at most.

Their enemy charged down at them from the gentle slope at their side. Porthos was glad he had ordered the men with him to tie a strip of white on both arms, they needed to acknowledge friend from foe when the faces were familiar and colours they wore identical. Still he was not used to being the prey, he was not a target for these men; he had set out to hunt them down.

With a roar he stabbed his opponent, pulled out the blade to block another's and with quick concise moves slit that one's throat; turned his horse around and stabbed the third one under his arm, the blade that man wielded bounced harmlessly off the armour Porthos wore.

These men had attacked them from within their ranks.

They were the reason d'Artagnan was dead.

They were the reason there wasn't even a body found of their friend.

Porthos cut down one man after the other, locked in the rage that flowed through his veins and pulsed in his head until there was nothing left but the battle. He pulled out his sword from another slumped figure before him and looked around. He had no idea when he had dismounted but there he was, amidst the men and weapons. In the flashing bursts of shots fired and the flickering glow of the few torches that had survived being trampled, his gaze fell on the man he had been looking for.

Aymeric was still on his horse with a musket in his hand.

Porthos made his way over; with the turn of a sword in one hand he reached up with the other and grabbed the man. Pulled him down in a single fluid move even as the man cursed and squawked. Porthos rolled with the butt of the musket that was coming to his face, felt the blow glance off without breaking any bones and slammed the pommel of his sword in the man's face in response. The musket dropped from Aymeric's hand and he backtracked, the red split in his cheek swelling into a deep blue.

"Porthos?" he sputtered, "I thought – we were buddies – friends,"

"I wouldn't go that far," he stepped closer.

His sword raised slightly at his side.

"You betrayed us?" Aymeric looked hurt.

It would have been effective if not for the exaggerated expression, Porthos stepped closer still, not ready to fall for the rouse.

"I thought you were one of us,"

"I would never be one of you,"

Aymeric fell; tripped over something in his backwards escape and went sprawling onto the ground. Porthos lunged at him, saw the flash of pistol the man had pulled out at the last second as he fell and he ducked to avoid the shot. Lost his footing and threw out a hand to stop his face from hitting the ground.

The muzzle pressed to his head left him stiffening.

Glancing up and to the side he saw Aymeric grinning at him.

His grip tightened on the hilt of the sword still in his hand and Athos' face, pale and grim, flashed before his eyes; the fear and the need for him to return alive from this battle had been a bright sheen in the blue lines that had met his own. And Porthos knew that he would not be dying that night, he would not be dying in this battle and not in this damned war; he could not do that Athos.

Porthos turned, the shot going by his ear in a deafening crack as his sword went through the man's chest.

Aymeric slumped and Porthos pushed him away, his ear ringing as a headache gonged through his skull. The dead surrounded him and those of the enemy that were alive were throwing down their weapons. Pushing back to his feet he stopped when the earth wavered around him, a steady swaying that increased with each step that he took.

But he had men depending on him.

Porthos ignored the steady ringing in his ear and willed the swinging earth to stop, grit his teeth and pushed through when it was clear that his order was ignored. He went over the men left alive, those wounded and those lost, ordered the prisoners to be secured before settling in his saddle.

He was ready to be sick right there.

But he caught Francis watching him carefully and met his gaze with a challenging one of his own. The younger Musketeer looked away, Porthos smirked and set his horse into a ride back stretched longer somehow, each shift of the horse forwards lurching his stomach until he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. And that annoying ding in his ear clung on.

But it was worth the look on Athos' face when they reached their camp.

The Captain of the Musketeers met them on the edge of the site and hurried closer to Porthos' horse as he dismounted, a hand snagging his arm when the motion set the world swinging again. There was a muffled sound at his side and Porthos turned to his friend.

"What?" he asked.

Athos looked from his one side to the other before he leaned towards the left and spoke again.

"You're injured," he said.

"Pistol went off too close to the ear,"

Athos nodded, looked him over again before turning to his left again.

"Thank you," he said.

And Porthos knew exactly what it was for; it was the same gratitude he had felt every time Athos and d'Artagnan had survived a battle. With a nod he informed the Captain of Armand, the Musketeer lost in this skirmish and Henri and Etienne the soldiers from General Garth's command that were also lost. He pointed to the eleven bound up men.

"The rest of 'em are dead," he said.

Athos nodded and as he turned away to order his men to secure the prisoners, Porthos caught sight of the lone horse standing off to the side. It was too far from the men who had returned with him and nowhere near where the other horses were kept for the night.

"Who's that?" he asked.

Athos turned at his inquiry and followed his line of sight. It dawned on Porthos just as Athos' eyes widened. The name fell from his lips and even though Porthos didn't hear it he knew who it was. And they were breaking off into a run towards the brother they had believed lost.

He was lost.

Every time he had opened his eyes he had met a changed view.

The loss of time expanded the bubble of panic in his chest; his chest that was on fire beyond the skin and flesh. His horse hadn't stopped in a while and for a while he hadn't guided it either. With an arm curled around his chest and body folded forwards he had no idea where he was. That is until the animal carrying him decided that it had had enough of the meandering.

D'Artagnan groaned.

Winced and raised the hand tangled in the reins to rub at his head. There were voices around him, distant and vague; and a sense of activity. But then he heard it, a voice, two voices.

"d'Artagnan!"

With an effort he pushed himself away from the neck of the horse. Holding his breath he lifted his head up and saw them. Athos and Porthos; running towards him. It was a bleary, wavering sight but it was the best he had ever seen. A slow smile crept up on his face. And then he tipped.

"d'Artagnan!"

He never hit the ground. Hands grasped him and arms held him and he was enclosed in a safety that left him lightheaded. It drained the last of his reserves and he curled into the person holding him close, the armour against his face told him it was Athos and the tight hold of fear vanished from around his heart.

"Open your eyes, c'mon," someone tapped his face, "c'mon d'Artagnan look at me,"

There it was again, the insistent patting that was getting sharper by the second. A particularly stinging hit had him opening his eyes. And he found two faces looming much too close to him, the worry and fear that was raw in their eyes left him grinning.

"I think he hit his head," Athos said.

And fingers carded through his limp hair, skimming over the skin with a gentleness one would not expect from the hands of a battle hardened soldier. But Porthos' search was achingly careful and d'Artagnan nearly slipped into the comforting lull of it before the touch was taken away.

"No head wounds," Porthos said, "but there's a bandage on his arm."

"And around the ribs," Athos' expression was grim.

And then he was shifting out from under him and d'Artagnan had the absurd urge to cling onto the man. His distress may have shown itself because Athos soothed him with a reassuring stroke up and down his arm that he would never have associated with his stoic friend before. But then he was pulled up onto his feet and the world blacked out.

"Two of them broken and three more likely cracked, can't believe he kept in his saddle with that,"

"He's alive; I'll take injured over dead anytime,"

"Don't remind me,"

"He's alive,"

"Yes, keep reminding me that,"

"Porthos, he is alive,"

There was no teasing in the words, no hint of mockery, just relief and a touch of awe. D'Artagnan felt the grip around his wrist and the hand on his forehead; the concern heavy in the touches that were ground him. The touches he had thought he would never again feel, the people he had been afraid that he hadn't been able to save.

He sat up suddenly, sucked in a breath and realized it a mistake in an instant. A moan escaped past his lips as he curled forwards.

"Calm down you idiot,"

D'Artagnan tried to curl again but large hands stayed him. Slowly, carefully they eased him onto his back and against the rolled up blankets behind him. With a hand pressed against his side d'Artagnan let them guide him. Gasping and fisting the blanket draped over him he savored the air that finally reached his lungs, breathing had never been so painful before.

"Easy, easy, you're safe,"

Grabbing the hand on his arm d'Artagnan looked from Porthos to Athos, turned that hand around and grasped Athos' that was latched onto his wrist. They were both there and they were both real and he felt like a child that had finally found home after being stranded in a storm.

Closing his eyes he let the burning in his eyes melt into tears.

"You're alive," he breathed out.

"And so are you," Athos gripped his hand back, "how?"

And that pushed forth the entire tale, the details as he spoke aloud sounded too harrowing and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he was shivering from relief or memory. He told them all that he had gone through and the decisions that he had made and the fear that he had felt at the thought that he had failed them.

"Can't believe it had only been some hours since I last saw you both," he said.

Blinked away the clinging wetness in his eyes.

And grimaced when he felt large hands grasp his shoulder to pull him up; but his broken ribs didn't have to take the weight for long because he was pulled forwards and up against Porthos. Strong arms wrapped around him as Porthos held him close.

"Thought you were dead," he said, "we thought you were gone,"

"Why? I mean I was –?"

He looked over Porthos' shoulder at Athos who pulled out something form his belt. And d'Artagnan's heart skipped a beat at the sight of his pouch that carried Constance's words. Of course these two would know he would never part with it willingly and if they had found it in the snow they would have thought –

D'Artagnan hugged Porthos back with the one arm that didn't hurt at being moved.

"Guess we were all wrong," he said.

"Thankfully," said Porthos and let him go.

D'Artagnan settled back against the bedding and took the pouch of letters from Athos, his eyes widening when the Captain rose from his seat and embraced him. His eyes prickled, something long faded flared in his heart and his throat closed up as his father's smile flashed in his mind.

"Thank you," Athos said, "thank you for returning,"

"I will always try to," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "will always try my best,"

Athos pulled away, blue eyes suspiciously bright as they refused to meet his own.

And d'Artagnan wasn't the only one who jumped in his skin when the sound of musket shot pierced the air.

Porthos was on his feet, his sword drawn and ready. D'Artagnan would have followed him up if not for Athos' hand on his shoulder, firm and strong. He looked to the Captain who was watching the entrance of the tent while his other hand rested on his pistol. Porthos glanced at him then at Athos.

"More of them?" he asked.

"More of whom?"d'Artagnan asked.

"The entire battalion is disbanded," Athos shook his head.

"Could be some of them returning," Porthos offered.

"Who is returning?"asked d'Artagnan.

More shots were fired and he winced when Athos' fingers dug deeper as his grasp tightened, he glanced at the man again and it hit him quite suddenly; his friend was torn between his duty to go out and face the trouble and his clear need to have d'Artagnan close. Warmth unfurled in his chest and eased the pain there like no herb or salve could.

Gathering his strength he pushed away from the support at his back and swung his feet down the side of the cot.

"What are you doing?" Porthos demanded.

He grit his teeth and pushed to his feet, Athos' arm instantly shifted around his shoulders as he took his weight.

"I'm going to see what the trouble is," d'Artagnan said.

All eyes turned to the tent flap that was pushed aside. Cornet's gaze flicked from one man to the next but settled upon Athos.

"We are being attacked at the front Captain," he said.

"Any riders?"

"Not that we could see,"

"Any damage?"

"None so far,"

Athos nodded at the man in silent dismissal and turned to d'Artagnan as the other Musketeer left. There was a wordless question in his eyes and d'Artagnan offered him a sharp nod; he was fine, he could handle this, he would be close to them but not a hindrance.

With that they left the tent and d'Artagnan reached for Porthos once they had made it to the end of the camp and beyond; where the soldiers had found a barricade in the slope of the snow that had been dumped in their path. He let the big man ease him down to the cold support at his back and shuffled to make room for his friends to crouch down.

"Now will you explain what's going on?" he asked.

And braced himself against the snow, measuring his breathing against the pain lest it pushed him to unconsciousness again. He listened to his brothers explain the sudden attack from within their ranks and found his mind wandering away to a coin flipping over grubby fingers.

"How did you do that?"

"The secret to a good trick? Make people look the wrong way,"

A hand touched his arm and he started. Porthos was frowning at him and Athos looked ready to send him back to the tent. But he was tired of being the victim; he was not going to be helpless anymore. D'Artagnan reached for Porthos' pistol and settled it firmly in his grasp.

"This was their plan all along," he said.

"Aymeric's?"

"Think about it," d'Artagnan said, "if you were caught in the snow-slide, most of the army would have been wiped out while their group would have been safe riding at the end. And those who would have survived would have turned back at least to change routes. While we would have been turned the other way the Spanish would have attacked us from this one at our back,"

"And Aymeric's men would have attacked from the front," Porthos said.

"They did launch an attack when they heard shots fired," Athos nodded.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened, he had forgotten about the men who had saved his life and his gaze moved towards the slope of the mountain. Those shots they had heard must have been when the wolves had attacked.

"Wolves?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan blinked.

"You said wolves attacked you?"

"And the men who saved me," he nodded, "Aymeric's men must have heard the shots they fired at the wolves as a signal of arrival of the Spanish army."

Athos and Porthos shared a look; ducked lower when a few more shots hit the snow beyond. There was no damage, again, just sporadic shots fired through the night between stretches of silence.

"And these men who saved you were armed?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan nodded and looked down at his hands; he wished he could send out some men to see if they needed help. He could return the favor if those two weren't dead yet.

"Spanish?"

They could have been, he was pretty sure they were from the camp he had found tracing the murderers of those men from General Pierre's men. Wrapping an arm around his lower chest to ease the ache in his ribs d'Artagnan tightened in his grip on the pistol. And then he noticed it, the gloves on his hands; gloves that were not his own and something warm curled in his gut.

"No," he said, "they were farmers,"

They had been firing shots for some time.

He had seen the soldiers duck behind the slope of snow, had seen them set the ammunition in order for refilling of their muskets and the movement along the camp edge told him the cavalry was prepared as well. Aramis put away his telescope and turned his gaze to the narrow path on his left. Perched on the slope that had been the path of the snow-slide he had a good view of both the sides.

He felt rather then saw Kitty shift at his side.

He head cocked to one side as she shouldered her musket, her eyes narrowing.

"They're coming," she said.

Aramis raised a brow and turned left again, this time with his telescope and sure enough he could see the moving lump in the darkness. Sometimes the tracking skills of the woman at his side scared him.

"One more round should do it," he said.

Raised his musket and fired towards the French army, his shot simply burrowing in the snow. It signaled the pattern of one and two shots from the people under his command and Aramis waited for his turn; felt the sweat bead on his forehead but couldn't find it in him to wipe it away. His arms felt like they were on fire and he needed what little stubbornness he had left to use their shredded strength for wielding weapons.

When the next pause came, he fired, clenched his jaw shut against the kick of the musket to his shoulder that jolted through his arm.

He turned and saw the Spanish army coming closer, the echo of their horses' hooves clattering through the distance. And he signaled his people to fall back. Now that the French army was still alert they could recede in the shadows and help from there. Moving up and into the cover of what little vegetation was on the slope, he stopped with a tree at his back. And waited for the enemy to come closer, measuring the distance in his mind by the thundering sound of the riders. His brows pulled into a frown and he inclined his head a little to listen better.

His eyes widening as the low rumbling under the beat of horse hooves turned into a roar.

By the time he had stumbled to the edge for a better view the only thing he could see was puffs of white, pluming clouds that filled the narrow valley where the Spanish army had been. The air shuddered and Aramis understood the sentiment completely; it was a terrifying sight.

He was still wondering if the Spanish army had been hit by this snow-slide or had they escaped it when another sound filled the air. Cheers, loud and sharp, and whistles filled the night.

He hadn't the heart to put a stop to their glee.

Not when relief was coursing through his own veins.

Athos looked away from the white mist in the distance, the one the Spanish had vanished in. Whether they were wiped away and buried or if they had escaped the swooping death like they had by some feet he could not tell. Either way, the attack that had been going on for over an hour now was finally, decisively at an end.

"We need to put a bigger watch on this front tonight," he said.

There was no reason to not be vigilant.

Porthos nodded and glanced at the path blocked with snow before them.

"And we need to send out scouts," he said, "that fire coming our way was from somewhere nearer."

"We'll send them out in threes,"

"Better make it five; we don't know how many men are out there,"

Athos agreed but touched his friend's arm to get his attention; it seemed that the big man was trying to decipher the presence of their enemies in the distance. The dark eyes that met his looked confused.

"You will not be going out tonight," Athos said.

"Why? I could –"

"Tonight we will stay together," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Raising the arm he had curled around himself he reached out to grasp Porthos' hand. Athos smirked at his friend who rolled his eyes and leaned down to haul the younger man up; his cautious slow movements belling the exasperation in his face. Athos looked to the distance where the snow had settled anew and suppressed the shudder that threatened to break through his control.

He had come so close to losing both his friends this day.

The fear still crawled up his spine, freezing and clinging onto his long held reserve.

Athos stepped forwards and wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's back; felt the younger man sag between them as Porthos' hand came up to rest on the spot between Athos' shoulders. Their gaze met over their young friend between them and the gratitude there was mutual.

They had traveled long into the night.

Had ridden for hours to avoid the men he was sure would be sent out to check on their enemies.

Aramis had ordered them to stop only when he was sure that they could not be spotted by those scouts. A glance around him showed plenty of tree cover and another glance closer brought to light how tired his comrades were, even the horses looked exhausted despite the fact that they had been rubbed down and fed.

He pulled his gaze away from the animals and back to the fire that was blazing merrily.

He knew Kitty was the first one who had dropped off to sleep; Devereux had followed next where he was leaning against the tree at his back and Aramis was sure Mousequeton was awake. The man hadn't said a word since he had told him about that he was a Musketeers at Savoy. Mousequeton had silently followed orders until they had set up camp and was now lying on his side now, turned to the shadows and the farthest from the fire; he was lying still; too still.

A smirk touched Aramis' face.

The man twitched and murmured in his sleep, he had seen it enough times.

Aramis leaned back against the saddle; his pistols were still in his belt and his musket was propped up against his knee. Taking the first watch let him stretch his turn as long as he liked and he intended to let those asleep to rest up; he was in too much pain to sleep anyway.

The steady beat of horse hooves against the ground had him looking up; one hand curling around his pistol even as he shifted only slightly from where he sat. There was no need to use his strength for actions not yet needed, he had to save his reserves for when they were under attack. Yet his gaze never left the spot he knew the horses were coming from and from the corner of his eye he could sense Mousequeton sit up; giving up the pretence to sleep.

They waited, tense and weapon ready until the riders emerged from the darkness.

Three of them.

"Captain!" two voices in unison.

Aramis winced; one day he will tame that excitement. But for now he was just happy to see the rest of the people under his charge safe and within sight. He stopped in his thought, wondering when he had come to care about these people this much.

"Captain! We thought we wouldn't come across you for days at least," Bazin said.

"Three days at least," Planchet corrected him.

"That's what I said,"

"You were vague,"

"I was not,"

"You've spent too much time with the children,"

"Well so have you,"

"And yet I haven't regressed,"

"That's what you would like to believe," Bazin grinned.

Alois who had long dismounted walked past the younger men who were yet to get off their horses; unless one of them was shoved off by the others successful swipe. Aramis let go of his pistol and sat up straighter, his face softening as he watched the younger men push at each other much to the indignation of their horses. He looked to Alois who had stopped before him and knew the second the man had caught sight of the bandaged arms; Alois' eyes widened in alarm.

"Captain?"

"Its fine," Aramis shook his head, "your son and the others?"

"Safe at the monastery," Alois looked back at his arms, "that doesn't look fine,"

"It will be,"

Alois didn't look convinced but handed him a letter. The seal told him that it was from the Minister and Aramis felt worry creep into his bones, he hadn't sent any correspondences and the Minister usually simply replied to his inquiries and reports. It was the best way to communicate, that way Aramis knew he had to send someone to retrieve the letter from Madame Pascal; it was sheer luck that they had to refill their supplies so soon that Alois was able to get his hands on the letter.

"Trouble?" asked the man.

"Could be," Aramis said.

He nodded towards the fire.

"Eat, rest, we'll be breaking camp at dawn" he said.

The man gave one last look at his arms before he left to check on the younger men who were seeing to the horses. Aramis opened the letter and skimmed through the words without the cipher; he could see that it was about some criminals recruited in the army but what worried him was the implication that there was trouble in Paris. Aramis let the missive drop in his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose. Trouble in Paris meant threat to the King, threat to the Queen and the Dauphin – he swallowed hard.

"Call them back Jean," he murmured, "get the Musketeers back where they belong,"

"Captain?"

He looked up at Bazin and Planchet and found them staring at him with something almost painful in their eyes. He followed their line of sight to his arms and stifled a sigh. At least they had been spared the horror of it this time around.

"They found you didn't they," it was not a question from Bazin.

"Lads..."

"They tore you up didn't they," it wasn't a question from Planchet either.

With a shake of his head Aramis pushed to his feet, reached out to lay a hand each on the younger men's shoulder and smoothed away the grimace from the gnawing pain it caused him. Waited until they were looking at his face and not at his arms.

"Yes the wolves attacked, yes they clawed at my arm," he looked from one man to the next, "but I survived. And that's what matters."

"The Captain is right,"

Aramis looked up at Mousequeton who had come to stand behind the other two; that man hadn't used that title for him since the very first day that they had met. And yet here he was with a slightly steaming cup in his hand and eyes that wouldn't meet his own.

"Now you two get some food and sleep," he said, "the Captain needs to rest too,"

Aramis looked at the younger men and nodded, hoping to somehow wipe the fear that still lingered in their eyes. He was surprised when they grasped a hand each and offered him a gentle squeeze.

"We're glad you survived Captain," Bazin said.

And then they hurried over to Alois to get some food. Aramis looked to the man left standing before him and waited until their gaze met. It took an effort to ignore the memories of Savoy when he looked at the man but he could not ignore Mousequeton's suffering either.

"Willow bark," Mousequeton offered him the cup.

Aramis hadn't seen him paying attention when he had brewed the first cup but he took it all the same. He needed something to blunt the edge of the throbbing pain that was leaving him just a little sick. Holding the warm cup in both hands he sat back on the ground.

Mousequeton came to sit at his side.

"Back there – with the wolves. You knew what I had done. Why did you save me?"

"You were closer to the supply of our weapons, better our chances with you reaching them," Aramis said.

He turned his gaze away from the three raiding their dry food stores and stared into the blazing fire before him. There was no warmth that it could offer to ease the ice that had crept over his bones and enclosed around his heart ever since the day he had watched his brothers ride away to war, believing him a traitor.

"You had enough weapons to take care of them,"

"Maybe,"

He couldn't deny the range of throwing knives he had taken to carry about his person. Aramis sipped the willow bark tree; the earthy flavor had just a bit too much bitterness for his taste. But it was healing he knew that.

"But you saved my life,"

"I'm not a murderer," it was a simple reply.

Because when one dealt in death nearly every day Aramis believed he had to draw a line somewhere. And taking a life for revenge was never his way; he had been a Musketeer, a protector and now he was – Aramis shook his head slightly.

"It wouldn't have been –" Mousequeton began.

"A sword, a pistol, a wolf; murder is murder." Aramis shrugged a shoulder, "I wouldn't condemn you to death if there is a way I could save you,"

He could feel the eyes burning holes in the side of his head. Mousequeton shifted his weight and shivered before Aramis felt the weight of his gaze move on. The man at his pulled his knees up and his voice when he spoke next was almost a whisper.

"How did you –?"

Aramis' eyes slanted towards the man at his side cutting the question off.

He drained the cup, not tasting the lukewarm tea as he forced his mind to stay in the here and now. Of all the wars he had been a part of, of all the battles he had fought in, that night; that one assignment only had the ability to break him off from reality. His grip tightened onto the empty cup as he found himself again in the one place in his life where he had tasted sheer helplessness. In a fight that he knew he would not win, could not win with any amount of skill or ability. A position in his life where he had learned what utter defeat felt like, had understood how ridiculous the sense of safety was and he had stared death in the face.

His chest burned, stretched and strained and Aramis let go a breath; pulled in the next as his heart thumped like the beat of a gallop. He had been close to death before and after that massacre but Savoy was the battleground where they had faced off. He had looked death in the eye, accepted its might and victory over him and he had still found in him the unreasonable will to fight on.

Aramis sat back against the saddle behind him and uncurled his fingers from around the cup he was holding, placed it down at his side.

"I was wounded," he said, "my friend dragged me to safety,"

The voice from beside him came as a murmur.

"A great friend,"

"He was,"

And Aramis caught the surprise in the eyes of the man at his side, saw him grimace as he assumed that Marsac had met his end in the clearing of Savoy and chose not to explain further. He owed his lost friend that much.

"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. Just took this long for his body to catch up."

Aramis looked up at the clear night sky, bright with stars and serene in its expanse. And he wondered if he too was a body searching his spirit, wondered if the two had parted ways in a monastery in Douai.

TBC

Thank you everyone who read, follow and favorite this story. And the guest reviewers I can't reply to personally, Thank You Debbie, Jmp, Beeblegirl, Thimble and Greenfern for your kind words and taking the time to share them with me. Greenfern I like your idea but as far I see I don't think I will be able work it into the story, but there is a sort of face-to-face coming ahead; I'll let you decide if it works :)

THE NEXT UPDATE will be a little ways away, the next chapter is halfway done but I will not post it until the entire next arch is complete, sorry. I'll try my best to finish those chapters soon! [but please remember the size of these things, it will take time]