Porthos slowly pushed himself to his right knee as dawn broke the horizon. He inhaled deeply, rested his forearm on his thigh, and looked across the fog covered ground. Blood dripped from his chin due to a cut above his lip, mud splattered his face, across his nose, cheek, and the right side of his brow. His wet uniform hung heavy as muscles, over extended and abused, protested. He could barely see through the mist to the trampled grass, and men lying in the field. Some breathed their last, while others had long departed. A few had crawled toward the road in a last attempt to survive. They had left trenches in their wake, abandoned their weapons, and dying colleagues as they sought refuge. Water had pooled, reflected the gray fog, and tinged red with blood.

"Aramis!" Porthos yelled, inhaled deeply, coughed, and winced as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. He staggered a moment, looked upward, and then glanced around him.

The stillness of the morning was a direct contrast to the chaos of the night before. The wind had blown its last, and the rain had stopped near midnight. They fought hard, long, and without remorse. Porthos looked at his hand. Bloodied mud was caked beneath his fingernails. He couldn't remember when or why he had lost his gloves, but mud was embedded in his cuffs, and along the flanks and collar of his doublet. He looked toward the gray sky, took another deep breath of air, and felt his starved lungs expand.

"Aramis!" Porthos yelled again. He tilted his head, and wiped and dug mud from his left ear. "D'Artagnan!"

"Here," Aramis' distant voice echoed. "I'm here!" He lay still a moment, rolled to his right side, took a breath, and slowly pushed himself to his hands and knees. Mud slipped between gloved fingers, but he fell to his left side, and rested a minute more. He took a deep breath, spit mud from his mouth, forced himself upright, and looked toward Porthos' calls. Aramis placed both hands on his thighs as he rested on his knees, he thanked God for his survival, bowed his head, and breathed. Wet hair clung to his scalp, and the vision of his right eye was blurred. He could hear the pounding of his heart against his chest as exhaustion blurred his vision. "Porthos?" He called, and listened for the reply. Aramis stood, but bent at the waist, and rested his hands above his knees. "Athos!" He forced himself upright, and felt back muscles tighten as he stood. He turned to his right when he heard movement in the grass.

D'Artagnan lay on his back, groaned, grabbed his left arm, and raised his knees. He looked toward the sky, and sighed in disappointment when met with dreary fog. His wet hair was plastered to his scalp and caked with mud. He felt a stone beneath his hip but ignored it, and instead, continued to search for the early morning sun's appearance. He was cold, wet, and muscles he didn't know he had hurt. He unclenched his fist and looked at the broken blisters on his palm and inside the crease of his thumb. At some point during the night he had lost his right glove. He lowered his hand and slowly pushed himself to a seated position, and kept his left arm close to his side.

"You hurt?" Aramis asked. He stepped through the mud, reached for d'Artagnan's hand, and slowly pulled him to his feet.

"Shoulder," d'Artagnan said, and winced when he pulled his booted foot out of the mud.

"Let's find the others and then I'll see to it."

D'Artagnan nodded, and pointed toward a figure moving toward them.

Porthos huffed, pressed his right hand to his ribs, and looked toward them both. "Athos?"

Aramis shook his head. He tensed when he spotted three figures walk toward them. Their darkened forms slowly took shape through the fog as they neared. Aramis looked for his sword, and caught sight of the silver amongst the mud and greenery of grasses. He reached for the weapon, and flung sludge and shredded grass from the blade. Porthos positioned himself to fight, and d'Artagnan clenched his fist as the pain in his shoulder flared.

"Sir," Marc said, out of breath, and wheezing. "We heard your calls." He wiped his face, smeared mud across his nose and cheek, and stopped suddenly when he was close enough that Porthos and the others could see him.

Aramis sighed in disappointment. "Just you three?" He asked as he eased his stance, and replaced his sword in his scabbard.

"No sir," Marc sighed, relaxed his shoulders, and looked at those behind him. "Nine musketeers survived — not including you three."

"Athos?" Aramis said.

"No sign of him, sir."

"Injuries?" Aramis rubbed his brow with the back of his left wrist and returned his palm to the hilt of his weapon.

"Broken bones, a few cuts, and exhaustion, sir, but we're ready to continue."

Porthos sighed in relief and nodded.

"Members of the red guard?" Aramis asked, and tried to clear his vision enough to see anything other than the unmoving figured in the marsh.

"Difficult to say."

"We need to find Athos," d'Artagnan said, and looked toward Porthos who nodded.

Aramis took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, smeared blood across his eyelid, and over the bridge of his nose. He watched the sun's rays slowly start to alleviate the heaviness of the fog. He could see portions of the carriage in the distance, horses, and men that lay scattered along the road and within the folds of the marsh. "Start a search for Athos, and Auch — we need to make sure the king's orders are followed." He turned suddenly, and grabbed Porthos' arm to steady himself.

Porthos shifted to accommodate the weight, and grasped Aramis' arm. "You alright?"

Aramis nodded, but blinked away mud, blood, and grit as his eyes watered. He rubbed the corner of his left eye with the heel of his hand, and sighed. "Yes." He looked up toward Marc. "Number the dead of dragoners, and if possible, upright the carriage — we may need it."

Marc nodded and walked back toward the road with the others.

D'Artagnan sighed, looked again at the ground around him, and started to walk toward the trees in the distance.

"Where are you going?" Aramis said, and pulled his booted foot from the mud.

"I don't know —" d'Artagnan said, "Perhaps Athos went to collect the horses." He grabbed his left elbow to keep his arm tight against his side, and continued toward the trees.

Porthos sighed, grabbed Aramis' arm, and pulled him forward. "He's right."

Aramis took another deep breath, and started to follow. "Athos!"