A/N: Apologies for the long wait, as always. I'll most likely take a break over Christmas, but hope to get this finished sometime in the new year.

Many thanks to criminally charmed, pallysdeeks, theredwagon, Tidia, arduna (x2), elbcw, FierGascon and Issai for the reviews.

Again, sorry for any weird spelling and grammar mistakes (particularly randomly capitalised words at the moment) - my iPad's autocorrect is dying a slow and painful death.

On that note, have a wonderful Christmas, if you celebrate that sort of thing, a fantastic new year, and a chapter you should probably not read if you want to stay cheerful.

ON BROTHERHOOD

13

AND I CRASH AND I BREAK DOWN

Other, better, soldiers have spoken to him of the loss of everything but their primal, animalistic instincts during the heat of the battle. For Athos, it has always been far easier to keep himself, to put his head over his heart and control his actions. It is for this reason that he has always met d'Artagnan's swordfighting technique with such frustration: everything he does must be drilled into him dozens of times over before it becomes natural enough to him that he can use it without thinking. D'Artagnan, of course, believes such grim determination and severity to be part of his personality - it is Aramis and Porthos who expressed some surprise at Athos's harsher turn, when the lad was first recruited. While he worries about them just as passionately, he has definite faith in their own abilities. The boy, skilful or not, reminds him too much of his late younger brother.

It is this, too, which forces him to choose the boy as his partner each mission, even when marksmanship or brute strength would be a better option. He cannot bear to see the boy hurt, not when Athos himself has a chance to protect him. As much as he trusts Aramis and Porthos, he knows that for them, rational thought outweighs brotherhood in the direst of situations, and were they, perhaps, to see d'Artagnan half dead with themselves under serious threat, they would - reasonably - escape without him. It is not not a flaw; rather, Athos (a generally logical man) is of the firm opinion that logic should come above all else.

He simply cannot force his mind to work that way.

Abandoning all hope of leaving their opponents unharmed, he charges a man still on horseback and slides his sword into the soft flesh of his thigh, driving him screaming onto the ground. Pain flashes across his back and, quick as a cat, he darts away, turning to see a bloodied blade swing towards his head. He block the blow easily once adrenaline sets in and slams the flat of his blade into the man's rib cage, eliciting a grunt and muttered obscenity. Porthos appears out of nowhere, brandishing a sizeable stick (an improvisation after the loss of his sword, it would seem) and slams it into the same spot, knocking the man flying. He grins at Athos and plunges back into the fray. It is doubtful that he will remember this later.

Caught in a temporary stillness, Athos observes the battle, counting men, judging their odds. Aramis is nowhere to be seen. Morel, as he looks, falls. He is a dozen yards away and Athos cannot see for men and horses, but it looked like a blunt force blow - nonfatal. The man is a survivor, besides.

Athos cries out his friend's name in the vain hope that someone will turn, but nobody does. He has eleven men still fighting, including himself, though he can see four, presumably injured, watching from the trees. Unable to fire their guns, they cannot do anything but sit and watch. Perhaps Aramis is among them. The numbers of men they are fighting have diminished. There are maybe twenty left. Some are dead. Some have run for their lives.

"Retreat!" comes the order, without warning. The men still seated begin to back away. Porthos lunges at the man who shouted and forces him from his horse, pinning his struggling arms.

"Let them run," Athos says, at the questioning looks towards him. "I will not attack a retreating back, orders or no orders."

He sits down heavily in the dirt and watches tiredly as his men begin to round up and bind their prisoners. Porthos has the now resigned leader stripped of weapons and armour, and bundles him towards the centre of the group, which is guarded by four men wiphile the rest gather their wits about them and return to themselves.

Athos spots a prone form on the ground, a few feet away. Suddenly exhausted beyond measure, he shifts himself over and solemnly turns the body to face him.

It is Aramis.

He stares up blearily with glassy, unfocused eyes. Blood edges down his forehead. Athos eases him upright and starts talking quietly in his ear, urging him to speak, to wake up just a little. Aramis stirs, groans, mutters something indistinguishable and shuts his eyes with a sigh. "Aramis," he says, tired to the bone and scarcely able to move. He has seen too much. Everything moves sluggishly slowly, grey, colourless ... there is no life in him, no desire to move, to find the dead and help the injured. Will Aramis survive the hour? Will any of them?

Porthos speeds over and skids to a halt on his knees, gently slapping Aramis's cheek. He has paled considerably. "Aramis, don't," he whispers, "not another one. I can't lose another one."

He pulls his friend from Athos's unresistant lap, shaking him gently, touching the cut across his head. Athos looks up at him through dark, clouded eyes, unable to speak. He longs for an end to this - not death, but some sort of relief, some sort of assurance that Aramis is not dying and d'Artagnan is not dead ... some sort of alternate reality wherein they are fixed inside a happy, peaceful brotherhood without arguments or distrust or danger. Instead, God has given him this - this aberration from day-to-day life, from nature's cycles and changes, from the constant cycle of time.

But the worst is not yet over.

Dubois, Morel's poor, innocent man, who so violently expelled the contents of his stomach upon seeing an unknown tortured corpse, utters a single cry of rage and despair and falls at the feet of another senseless body. As if he is no longer in possession of his own body, Athos finds himself rise, sticky with blood, and glide like a spectre to the young man. He knows to whom the body will belong even before he sees the face.

Morel, ever the brave soldier, looks unseeing into his face. A bloody wound has torn open his chest. "Quick and painless," murmurs another man, whose name Athos cannot quite recall, and leans forward to close Morel's eyes.

A good soldier and an even better man. There is no justice in his death, no sense to it: he deserved to live far more than Athos does, but it is Athos stood frozen above him.

Something breaks. Athos gives a shrieks of rage and hurls himself at the group of prisoners, only to meet a wall of flesh in Dubois. "We're not to hurt them," he says firmly, despite the tears streaming down his cheeks. "The King's orders."

Frustrated, Athos clambers up the dreadful slope and tears open Porthos's bag, ignoring the noise behind him (Athos, your back, Athos, you're bleeding, Athos). He tugs out one of the skins containing wine and starts to drain it, trying to block out the world as best he can. (Athos. Athos!)

More. He blocks out the thoughts of d'Artagnan, deathly still in that terrible bed.

More. He blocks out the image of Aramis's bloody head.

More. He block out memories of Thomas, dead on the polished floor.

More. Gone is Morel, gone is Anne, gone is -

"Athos!" Porthos takes hold of his arms, forcing them back, but he fights, trying to take as much wine as he can. He half chokes on it as it goes down, but he continues to swallow. Wine spills everywhere, coating his face, his hands, his doublet, a grotesque mirror of Morel's lifeless form. Some falls into his eyes and for a moment all he can see is red.

"Careful of his back!" someone orders, as the near empty skin is wrenched from his grasp. His stomach heaves.

"Please, Athos, no," cries Porthos in his ear as he struggles, until quite suddenly the world tilts and he falls sideways, retching wine or blood as he goes.

Golden evening sunlight sparkles through the trees. It dances in Porthos's eyes and makes him feel sick.

He has Athos and Aramis laid side by side, cloaks bundled underneath their heads for support. Aramis has a bandage wrapped tightly round his head. Athos is on his stomach, heavy doublet removed from his bleeding back. The wound is not deep but it is long, and infection at this point seems more than likely. Porthos takes another skin of brandy and sloshes it savagely against the cut. The lieutenant stirs but does not wake. Good riddance.

For Porthos is angry. Angry and hurt. Hurt that Athos cares so little for himself, and so little for his friend, that he would try like this to destroy himself in a frenzy of pain and grief. Hurt that the man would leave him to suffer the consequences, to mop up the blood and wine, to bury their lost men, to grieve d'Artagnan, to see his murderers hang. Every minute they stay here he loses more and more hope that the boy lives. Every moment his fear grow slowly that Athos too has left him, and that Aramis, like it or not, is on his way as well.

It is too cold for it to be overly muddy, but the delicately frosted ground has a definite softness to it. Porthos sits down heavily on a blanket of dead leaves. Aramis, bless him, has not moved an inch since he was laid down here. It is a good thing that he was unconscious for the latter part of the battle, because they found him directly facing Morel's broken body. The whole ordeal will be terrifyingly similar to Savoy for him, and Porthos can only hope that the blow knocked him out instantly, and that he will take the news of each horror better than Athos did. He stands up again, after checking his friend's head for what feels like the hundredth time. The prisoners are a little way off, rounded up and individually bound. There are nine men in total, including the leader.

Porthos marches over. He has had enough.

"What's your name?" He barks. "Cooperate and the King will perhaps look upon you with mercy."

"Jean Fouquet," the man says stiffly, though he does not seem to care whether His Majesty will treat him with mercy or not. Porthos doesn't blame him. He's dead either way.

He grabs the man by the hair and forces his head up until their eyes meet. Fouquet gazes unflinchingly inside him. "Are you the bastard who tortured and nearly killed d'Artagnan?"

Fouquet blinks. "So he made it back alive? That's - well, that's remarkable. Not that I would expect anything less from - "

Sickened, Porthos slaps him across the face. Normally at this point, the cooler headed Athos would step in, but he is not here and neither are Aramis and d'Artagnan, and the rest of the men do not feel able to stop him. They have all experienced firsthand what he is like when he is angry. "Are you the bastard who - "

"The boy was never tortured," interrupts Fouquet, coolly turning his head back around to face Porthos. "We kept him, yes, but he was never tortured. I could not do that even if I wanted to. Loyal to a fault, he is - or was," he corrects, seeing Porthos's expression.

"Oh, poison, starvation, tying him up so that he hung from his shoulders - no, that's not torture at all."

"It was not I who poisoned him, and he refused to eat the food we provided. As for the method of restraint ... we find that it is the most effective way of preventing escape, however cruel it may seem."

"He still escaped, though, didn't 'e?"

"A brief error which cost me several men. I should not have untied him."

Porthos laughs bitterly and then hits him again, sending him stumbling back into the rest of the group. "You'll pay for this," he hisses, and walks back to his friends.

There are three men also injured, who managed to get themselves behind cover, though two of them died while hiding in the trees. Each of them have a vacant horror in their eyes from the guilt and helplessness of fleeing and being forbidden to shoot. Porthos nods at them, a silent display of respect, and crouches back beside Aramis. He shakes him gently. "Aramis."

The marksman shifts slightly and frowns, but does not wake. It is a small sign for which Porthos thanks God. Perhaps it is better, anyway, that he does not open his eyes. If they can get him to a proper bed, his reaction will be less severe when he wakes. Porthos moves round to Athos, who appears to be waking up.

"P'th's," he slurs, from alcohol or something else. It is difficult to know.

"I'm here." This is the part he hates: the part where he pretends that everything is fine for him, that Athos need only worry about himself. That he has not affected Porthos, that there is no need to apologise or make amends. Why should there be? Why should this affect a Porthos so deeply when it is so clearly an internal problem?

Dubois's shout rings across the largely quiet company. "We need to move. I'll get the carts."

They brought two carts. One for the opposing men and one for their own. They load the dead in first, and then help the injured who cannot ride. It is a horrible thing to be forced to do, but better than leaving them in the cold until help arrives. "Are you alright?" he asks Athos, offering a hand. "Can you ride? Do you need ... ?"

"I'm fine," Athos says softly, and they both pretend he isn't lying.