snowmelt is not to be underestimated
. . .
Between one step and the next, the seemingly solid bridge gives way. When he looks back on it, he will remember how long it seemed to take to fall, how slowly and inevitably he seemed to approach the water, and how unbothered he was by it. There was no panic, no fear, no furious scrabble to grab onto something, anything – just a resigned sigh.
Good thing we didn't try to bring the horses across, he thinks, and then he hits the water.
It's shallow enough that his head doesn't go under, but the current is strong and the water is cold, the river swollen with rain and snowmelt. Between the force and the shock, he's swept away before it occurs to him to fight it.
"Athos!" Porthos and Aramis yell together at the same time that d'Artagnan lets out a startled and heartfelt, "Fuck!"
He watches the three of them clamber down the embankment from the bridge and start running along the shore, stumbling through mud and over rocks. Oddly, he still doesn't really seem to care – he should be at least concerned that he's being carried ever further away from them or that the river widens and deepens considerably not far downstream, but he's strangely philosophical about it.
That might just be the cold setting in, though.
"Cut towards the shore!" Porthos bellows, and oh, yes, swimming. He strikes out against the current, trying to pull himself forwards without letting his head go under, but his cloak is heavy around his arms and his boots are so full of water that his kicks are clumsy and half-completed.
"Downstream!" d'Artagnan yells, frantically motioning a circle as he runs. "Don't fight against the current, just angle yourself across it!"
"We'll be right behind you!" Aramis adds. "Just get to the shore and we'll be there!"
He doesn't want to let them out of his sight, but he knows it makes sense. He can exhaust himself completely trying to swim upstream and never get any closer; cutting across the current at an angle will get him to land eventually, even if it's miles from here. He turns reluctantly, and maybe it's the initial shock wearing off or maybe it's the sight of all that cold, grey water stretching out before him, but suddenly he is afraid. Men die like this, and he doesn't want to be one of them. He pauses for a moment, treading water, to pry his feet from his boots and struggle out of his cloak, and it might cost them another several yards but they're dragging him down and he has to get free.
The cloak is harder, his hands too cold to work the buckles easily, but eventually it falls away and he feels like he's flying through the water the moment it's gone. It's easier to swim without the weight and the resistance, and though he feels himself starting to flag he sets his sights on the shoreline and grimly pushes himself towards it, inching closer with each stroke, ignoring the numbness in his hands and feet, ignoring the burn in his throat and the tightness in his chest, ignoring the widening of the river and the roughness of the current, ignoring everything but pulling himself closer to land.
An uncountable number of strokes later his feet brush the riverbed, and in a matter of moments he's staggering up and finishing the journey on trembling, unwieldy legs.
There's still a bank to climb up, to get back onto solid ground, but while his arms will lift to grasp at the tree roots conveniently placed there, they refuse to pull him up. The water's still tugging at him, but it's below his knees here and even if he falls it won't be strong enough to carry him away again. He drops to his knees, noticing only absently the rocks that they land on, and waits for his friends to find him.
It's only a couple of minutes – the current had been strong, and the shoreline difficult terrain – but it feels much longer than that before hands are grasping his wrists and forearms ("Come on, come on, come on, get him up") and hauling him up. Then there are hands on his back ("That's it, Athos, come on, we've got you now") on his shoulders, on his waist, ("You're all right, you're all right, you're all right"), and he's falling to his knees again but this time in dirt.
"That's it, just breathe, you're safe now—"
"—help me with his clothes?"
"We'll get you a new cloak, don't you worry—"
"—frankly time to replace those boots, anyway—"
"—sit up a bit, let me get at this jacket—"
"—shirt next, there we go—"
Carefully, methodically, they strip him down, keeping up such a smooth hum of sound the entire time that he can't match words to voices. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but is still aware enough to know that he shouldn't, so settles for closing his eyes and letting the others do the worrying. By the time he's been dried off and wrapped in three cloaks, the only thing keeping him from nodding off are the hard shudders tearing through him, cold and fatigue combined and compounded.
Porthos is sitting behind him, holding him tightly and letting him shake to pieces in his arms while Aramis pats the blood from his feet and examines them.
"Whose shirt is that?" Athos asks, looking down at the bundle of formerly white fabric, only now realising what it is.
"Just part of a shirt," Aramis says easily. "I'd been meaning to trim it down, anyway. How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Cold."
"Perfectly understandable. These don't look too bad," he pronounces, and tears the strip of cloth in half to start winding carefully around his feet. "I'll want to wash them later, but nothing's deep. Walking will probably be a bit uncomfortable, though."
"D'Artagnan went back to get the horses," Porthos adds, and Athos looks up sharply. He hadn't noticed him leaving, but he is indeed gone. "When he gets back with them, we'll get you dressed and head to the nearest town we can find."
"We still have to—"
"—get a fire going," Aramis interrupts, blithely ignoring Athos' glare. "Excellent point, thank you. Porthos, do you think any of this wood will be dry enough, or shall I go and scout?"
"Doesn't matter if it's dry enough," Porthos points out, "since we left our weapons behind with the horses." The flints were stored in the belts with the powder and the musketballs. Athos still has his, fortunately, but it's currently draped over a branch with his doublet, everything too wet to be of any use.
Aramis snaps his fingers. "Yes, we did. Well, I'm sure that young d'Artagnan has found them all and is on his way back as we speak. In the meantime, we had best do this the traditional way."
"Agreed."
When d'Artagnan returns, riding his own horse and leading the other three by a complicated system of lead ropes and tack, Aramis' and Porthos' weapons belts fixed securely to their saddles, Athos can't bring himself to mind that he finds the three of them sandwiched together in a tangle of arms and legs and two bright, unrepentant grins.
. . .
if you wish, come to my tumblr (also takingoffmyshoes) and I will tell you the tale of the Cursèd Crew Practice that inspired this story.
P.P.S. ff and I have been having some technical issues lately, mostly in the form of my updated stuff not moving up on the timeline. this means that if you're just checking the musketeers homepage to see if it's updated, it might not always look like it has. so if you're enjoying the story and want to stay caught up with it, i do recommend following it, since it seems that ff will still send out the update emails even when the other stuff is funky. i know this sounds like a shameless plug for followers, but i swear this is just a PSA in case you're interested. Thanks!