#20: Lost - Porthos finds himself far from home, far from his friends, far from... well... anything. Without medical attention, it's doubtful he'll make it back on his own. But he's betting on his brothers.

Porthos didn't want to say that he was in a bad spot, but, well, he was in a bad spot.

Slowly, painfully, he managed to drag himself up the bank from the river, using his forearms to heave himself away from the water's edge. On semi-dry land at last, the musketeer rolled over and collapsed onto his back with a sharp hiss of pain. Porthos didn't dare look down at his leg. He didn't want to see it. Bones belonged inside bodies, not sticking out of them. Just like he didn't belong in a raging river getting slammed into rocks and swept away from his friends, finally getting knocked unconscious and spat back out onto the river bank who knew how far away.

Porthos peeled his head up, glowering briefly at the dead body which had been similarly washed up with him. At least the would-be assassin was dead and the king was safe. So if Porthos died out here, well, at least it wasn't for nothing.

Panting, the musketeer laid back down again and tried to calm his frantic mind. He imagined his brothers and how they would deal with the situation. Aramis would mask any worry with humor and dry wit. Athos would be stoic and glowering and not seem affected in the slightest. D'Artagnan—well, he'd be so determined to get back that it probably wouldn't even occur to him that he might not.

There was a real chance Porthos wasn't getting out of this, though. Steeling himself, the musketeer pushed himself painfully to a sitting position to take stock of his situation.

He had no idea where he was. His leg was broken, which meant hiking back up-river until he reached the place he'd fallen in was out of the question. He'd gone into the river with the assassin with nothing but what he had on him, which meant no food or blankets or supplies. The sun was already starting to dip towards the tree line, which meant it would be dark soon—and with the dark would come the cold. He was soaking wet and shivering, so once the temperature dropped, hypothermia would probably kill him before anything else. His brothers would want to come looking for him, of course, but their main duty would be to get Louis back to safety, and they would have no way of knowing whether he was alive to even bother with a search.

Yeah, this wasn't good.

"Keep yer head, Porthos," the soldier muttered to himself, and felt a little better for having done so. He just needed to stay relatively calm and do whatever he had to to survive.

First things first.

"Fire," Porthos murmured, shivering again. He glanced at the woods surrounding the river; provided he could get himself over there, he'd have an ample supply of firewood. His parrying dagger was still tucked away at his back, which he could use with the flint he always carried to start a fire. At least that way, he could get his wet clothes to dry and hopefully avoid freezing to death overnight. He needed shelter but without any supplies and dragging around a broken leg, building one was out of the question. There was a rocky outcropping not far away where the woods dropped down suddenly to the river bank; maybe if he could tuck himself in there, out of the wind...

Taking several bracing breaths, Porthos forced himself to roll up onto his good knee, gritting his teeth against the absolute agony of his broken leg. Probably he would have to at least wrap that, otherwise Aramis would kill him when they found him. If they found him. But first, he needed to get warm. With two more forceful exhalations, the musketeer heaved himself up to his feet, balancing all his weight on one leg. He needed a staff or a crutch or something... he'd be on the lookout while gathering wood for a fire. Without one, limping towards the tree line was utter torture and Porthos was gasping for breath by the time he made it to the first young tree and grabbed it for support.

"Firewood," he choked out, trying to force himself to focus on nothing but his current task. "Firewood- oh shit, that hurts... firewood..."

It took everything he had to let go of the tree and reach down for some of the dried kindling already provided for him on the leafy floor. The last thing he wanted was to have to make several of these trips, but he needed one hand free to grab onto nearby branches so he didn't topple over, and he had nothing to use as a sack for the wood. Eventually, Porthos made his painful way over to the edge of the bank so he could drop the kindling down in front of the outcropping he would use as a shelter, then tossed several larger branches over as well.

With all of this accomplished, Porthos limped painfully back around and collapsed to the silty ground by the semi-protected outcropping. That task alone had nearly completely done him in... how was he going to survive until someone came to find him? There was plenty of water from the nearby river, but what would he do for food? What if any of his multiple lacerations from his trip down the river got infected? What if-

"Stop it," Porthos wheezed, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes from the pain of his throbbing limbs. "Not helpin'."

He shivered again, looking towards the west to notice with alarm that the sun was now almost entirely below the trees. He was getting colder and colder, and that was dangerous. Best make the fire now while he could still feel his fingers.

It wasn't the best of conditions to be starting fires under, but the musketeer managed. As cold as he was, Porthos shrugged out of his sopping wet doublet and shirt, propping them up on some driftwood to dry out. He'd put them back on once they weren't likely to make things worse. There was no way he'd be able to get his breeches off though, and at any rate Porthos was still trying not to look at his broken leg or the bone sticking out of it.

What would Aramis tell him to do? Porthos closed his eyes, willing himself to receive some medical wisdom from his friend. It was hard to think when everything hurt and he was freezing and miserable, but eventually he decided that he should at least cover and wrap the limb until someone could look at it who had a better idea of what they were dealing with. Reaching for his shirt again, Porthos tore off a long strip and steeled himself.

Oh lord, he shouldn't have looked. Bile rose in his throat and Porthos had to turn quickly to the side and lean over to empty his stomach. Great, and now that was going to be a nice addition to his makeshift campsite. Groaning, Porthos knocked some loose dirt over the sick and turned his attention back to the broken bone. He closed one eye and squinted the other so he could barely see the limb, carefully winding the wide strip of cloth somewhat loosely around his leg and trying not to throw up again. He tied it off well away from the protruding bone itself, then leaned back against the bank and gasped for fresh air as everything spun.

Okay... that was all he was going to be able to do for himself for the night. Porthos closed his eyes against the light-headedness. He was still shivering, but the fire was starting to warm his little sheltered cove somewhat; now that he was out of his wet things, he at least wasn't likely to freeze overnight as long as the temperature didn't drop too much.

Then he would have to decide what to do next. Porthos didn't much care for the idea of waiting to be rescued, but the alternative was to walk to safety. If he did leave, there were two choices: head back up the river, which was sure to get to the right place eventually but who knew how long it would take, or head into the woods and hope to find a road that would lead him quickly to a town where he could send word to the garrison. Porthos was a gambler by nature... and he knew how to read the odds. Those odds... they weren't good.

But he also knew a good bet when he saw one, and Porthos let himself start to drift towards unconsciousness. He would stay where he was and bet on his brothers coming to find him.

The next time Porthos opened his eyes, the fire had mostly died down and the sun was rising once more. He was cold but not frozen—thank God he'd picked a mild day to engage in a raging river battle with an assassin. His shirt and doublet were mostly dry, though some morning dew was dotting the leather with tiny, misty beads. Painfully, Porthos forced himself upright, maneuvering his sore limbs this way and that. They had tightened up overnight. He'd have to be sure to get as much movement out of his good limbs as he could so nothing seized up. Porthos pulled on his clothes and added more wood to the fire to get it blazing again, then he sat back to again consider his next move.

He needed to get down to the river for some water, first of all. Food would be a concern as well, if the others weren't able to make good time heading this way. Porthos didn't have Aramis's skill at fishing bare-handed, but he could use a buckle and some twine to fashion a hook, maybe...

Porthos froze as the sound of cracking twigs and crunching leaves came drifting through the trees. That could either be a wild animal that thought he looked delicious, or some humans who would either be able to help him or an enemy to take advantage of his bad situation... He debated shouting to draw their attention if they were human and risk the odds, but the decision was made for him when he heard his name.

"Porthos!"

"Porthos, where are you?"

"Anybody out there? Porthos!"

With a lump in his throat, weak with relief, Porthos waved a frantic arm.

"Here!" he shouted. "I'm down here!"

"Porthos?! Athos, he's here!"

"Hold on! We're coming!"

The musketeer smiled and sagged. Yes... he knew a good bet when he saw one.

And his brothers were always a good bet.