Again, a HUGE thank you to Mountain Cat who has done a wonderful job at keeping me on my toes and I'm learning a few things... that's what I love. She's really cleaned up some of my bad habits and crutches.

Thank you all for sticking with this... and for all the wonderful words of encouragement!

Happy reading...


Porthos pressed his heel to his horse's left side to urge him closer to the gray as he gripped the back of Athos' doublet tighter. They continued their ride through the town of Chalons. Smoke still billowed upward from the fires that had demolished buildings, homes, barns, and markets. Bodies of the red guard who had scouted ahead lay scattered across the road, and along the path. Citizens not caught in the fight had long since departed, having run for their lives when the dragoners had destroyed what had been built. Those not able to escape lay dead amungst the ruble, some burned, shot, or trampled.

D'Artagnan caught his breath when he spotted Lorange, laying dead amongst those he had tried to protect. He shifted uncomfortably as his shoulder protested at the movement and looked toward Aramis who was searching for a shelter to tend Athos's wounds.

"Stop," Porthos said, as they reached the end of town. He kept his hold on Athos as he slipped farther across the gray's neck. Porthos dismounted on the wrong side. The big bay shied, and Porthos released the reins as he adjusted his grip, and pressed his hand to Athos' left side to keep him from falling from the saddle. "Brother?"

Athos lifted his head, felt the pommel dig into his chest, but he lowered it when he lacked the strength to keep himself upright. Sweat-dried hair fell in clusters around his face.

Porthos looked toward Aramis who had dismounted and stood beside him. He placed his hand near Athos' throat, and then gripped his shoulder in reassurance. He looked toward Porthos, then looked at the buildings that were uninhabitable.

"He can't keep going like this," Aramis said. He shifted his hand to Athos' upper arm and tightened his grip.

Porthos rubbed the back of his neck. He pulled Athos' foot from the stirrup iron, slipped his own into it, and forced his arm beneath Athos' chest to grab the pommel. Despite Porthos' exhaustion, he pulled himself upward, shifting Athos to the right as he did so, and seated himself behind the cantle. The gray gelding shifted to accommodate the weight.

Aramis pushed Athos back while Porthos tightend his grip and steadied him against his chest.

"The next home we come across," Aramis said, and met Porthos' eyes. "No matter what." He watched Athos slump slightly to his left, held only in place by Porthos who nodded.

D'Artagnan rode ahead, ponied Athos' and Porthos' horses behind, and looked for a shelter.

Aramis rode alongside Porthos and kept his attention on Athos, who was not unconscious, but lacked the strength to keep himself upright. They had been in situations before, fighting for their lives, leaning on each other for support as days turned into nights. Athos had always been strong, forcing them to focus when the chaos around them became overwhelming and unpredictable. He had been commissioned with the musketeers later than most, but his skill with a sword, strategic thinking had raised him in rank, and his ability to sacrofice personal advantage for that of the majority had earned him the respect of the men, Treville, and at times the king himself. Aramis sighed, there were times he hadn't agreed with Athos' decisions, but Aramis could not that those decisions had, on more than one occasion, saved them. Athos may have seemed hardened, nearly stone-cold as choices were made, but they were the choices needed at the time. And no matter the cost to him personally, Athos was willing to make.

They had one duty to their king; protect him — and do what was necessary to keep him safe. At times that meant compromising themselves and each other. At times, it meant sacrificing the lives of the men they stood beside: Putting themselves in danger for the greater good. Aramis looked toward Athos as he remained slumped to the left, his right shoulder forward to avoid movement of the bolt. His left arm hung bonelessly toward the ground, and swayed gently with the movement of the horse's gait.

Aramis looked up as they stepped off the path, and followed d'Artagnan who had noticed the peak of a roof in the distance. The trail was rarely used and overgrown with weeds and strewn with downed branches that the horses easily navigated. The small home came into view, hidden by the cover of trees, rampant jasmine, ivy, and honeysuckle. Smoke filtered from the chimney, a corral and shed were positioned to the left, and a freshwater creek flowed along the trees' boundary. Chickens squawked, pecked, and lost their feathers when they scattered as the riders approached.

D'Artagnan dismounted, grimaced, clutched his arm, and exhaled slowly as he rode out his pain. He looped all three horses' reins over the fence rail, and ran to the door as Porthos and Aramis rode forward.

D'Artagnan knocked. "We're the King's Musketeers," he said, "we require assistance." He turned as Porthos and Aramis carefully slid Athos from the saddle and carried him toward the house.

D'Artagnan pounded on the door again. "We require assistance!" He paused, when there wasn't an answer. He kicked in the door, wood splintered and the latch skidded across the floor. He stopped suddenly when he saw an older man protecting a woman in the far left corner of the room. The man held his hands up. Disheveled salt and pepper hair spiked upward, long eyebrows exaggerated the width of his brow, and his nearly white beard was full, but well trimmed. He wore simple plain attire: a quilted doublet, brown breeches, and boots that were covered in dried mud. The woman, who stood behind him, covered her face with her hands. Her long white hair was braided and encircled the crown of her head. Both were terrified.

"Please, monsieur," the man gasped, "we just want to be left alone." He lowered his hand to keep his wife positioned behind him. "Please."

D'Artagnan raised his right hand. "We're not here to hurt you — our friend is injured, we just need a place for him to rest and see to his injuries." He turned and motioned for Aramis and Porthos to enter.

"Table," Aramis said, adjusted his hold and helped Porthos lift Athos to the table without shifting his right shoulder. "Tools?" He looked toward the man who stood in the corner.

"Please," d'Artagnan said, lowered his hand and grasped his right arm. "Please, monsieur…?" He drew the inner corners of his eyebrows upward, and parted his lips.

"Richard," the man said, and lowered his hands. "My name is Richard."

D'Artagnan nodded, turned as Porthos slipped his arm beneath Athos's neck and head and steadied him on his left side to better expose his shoulder.

Aramis ignored the couple who coward in the corner. He tried to peel back Athos' doublet, but he groaned and gasped in response when the bolt shifted. He awkwardly scraped his right booted foot against the surface of the table until d'Artagnan grabbed the calf of Athos' leg and brought him to a stop. Aramis examined the mechanism that flared at the tip in the shape of a barbed arrow, and pierced flesh when pulled from the back. The end of the bolt was braced with a cross-guard, which prevented the bolt from traveling through its target. The ring in the center still held the remnants of rope. Aramis ran his hand over his face, pulled his brows together in a frown, and chewed at the inside corner of his mouth. He looked up, met Porthos' eyes with a look of despair, pursed his lips, and flared his nostrils.

"Tools?" Aramis snapped. He looked toward the couple, and his masseter muscles flexed as his frustration grew. He shrugged out of his weapons belt and leather jacket, and tossed them both to the floor. His sword clattered against the wood, and came to a standstill near the wall.

Richard swallowed, turned toward his wife, and motioned for her to stay. He reassured her with a nod, and then cautiously walked across the room. He kept his eyes on those surrounding the table, opened a wooden chest next to the left of the door, grabbed the center handle, and pulled it from its confines. He lifted the tray and carried it to the table. Richard swallowed and stood back as his tools were examined, tossed aside, and then the tray shoved to the floor. The crash caused the woman to jump and push herself further into the corner.

Aramis growled at the back of his throat, rubbed his eyes, and looked toward d'Artagnan who stood at the end of the table, his right hand still grasped Athos' calf, but left arm still hung awkwardly at his side. Aramis then looked toward Richard. "Was there a doctor in Chalons — a healer — someone who might have medical supplies?"

"There's nothin' left, Aramis," Porthos said, "we jus' rode through there."

Aramis bit his bottom lip, ran his hands over his face, and shook his head. "I could dig through the rubble — the tools might not have burned."

Porthos exhaled slowly, and glanced toward Athos. Porthos met Aramis' eyes. "He won't make it tha' long."

Richard glanced toward his wife, and backed into the wall. "Sorry, monsieur." He hitched his breath. His wife Sofie turned to face him, and exposed the scarred burned features of the right side of her face. The corner of her mouth drooped, as did the bottom lid of her right eye. She twisted her hands in her apron. She nodded toward him, and wiped the tear that fell down her left cheek.

Richard swallowed. "Promise me you'll not hurt Sofie —"

Porthos shook his head in disbelief, exhaled thorugh his nose, and adjusted his arm beneath Athos' neck. He shifted his hips as his back protested to the bowed position. "We're not here for you or your woman — can you not see that?" he said, and looked at Richard. Porthos watched him cower, and then returned his focus to Athos.

"I need tools, medical tools to remove this bolt — I can't use farm equipment!" Aramis glanced toward Richard.

Richard shook his his head. "There is no doctor…" he sighed, "Chalons was too small, not enough people to keep him busy."

Aramis turned back toward Athos whose muscles trembled, the tension in his neck exaggerated as he battled through pain, worked to control his breathing, and exhaled in short breaths into the crook of Porthos' arm. Aramis placed his hands on the edge of the table, tightened his hold until his knuckles turned white, and lowered his head. He stood there a moment, frantic in thought, and he looked again at the bolt that entrapped Athos' shoulder. There was fearful silence in the room when Aramis placed his hand near the bolt, and gently touched the tip of the mechanism. The rivets were weak, but intact, and the springs on either side were imbedded within the creases of each shard. Aramis looked at Porthos. "If we can remove the springs and replace each shard along the bolt's side… we might be able to push it through…"

"And if the shards open while you attempt to pull it out?" d'Artagnan said, frowned, and rubbed his brow. Sweat gathered along his forehead, and he blinked to clear his vision.

Aramis swallowed. "We'll have no choice but to push it back through —"

"And start over?" Porthos shook his head. "No," he said. "He could lose the use of his arm." He met Aramis' eyes.

"He may anyway," Aramis said, and rubbed his face. He hung his head and looked toward Athos who fought through the pain, jaw muscles tightened, brow furrowed, and his breathing hitched.

Sofie backed along the length of the wall, stopped when she reached a small hutch, and pulled a leather case from the confines. She held it tightly to her chest, looked toward her husband, and nodded.

"If I promise to help you," Richard said, his voice cracked. "Will you depart in peace?"

Porthos turned and looked toward him. "We're not here to hurt you or Sofie." He shook his head in frustration. He pursed his lips and pulled his brow together. "Can you not see why we're here?"

Richard clenched his jaw. "Soldiers have made promises in the past." He glanced toward Sofie as she stepped closer to him. "They nearly took everything… and what they didn't take," he sighed, "they burned."

D'Artagnan glanced at the scars on Sofie's face and shook his head. "We're not like those soldiers — we were ambushed… Athos…." He paused to collect his breath, "fought hard to protect the king and France."

Richard met his eyes. He took the leather satchel from Sofie who stepped behind him. "I was a clock maker," he said, "I might be able to help your friend." He shifted nervously toward the table, opened the satchel and exposed his finely crafted tools. "He'll need to sit up for this," he said, and looked at Aramis. Richard reached behind himself and grasped Sofie's hand in reassurance. "Bandages, boiled water, and your compress." He turned to look at her. "Have faith, my love."

Porthos adjusted his grip and with Aramis' help, positioned Athos into a seated position at the end of the table. Athos groaned, swallowed, and grasped the front of Porthos' studded doublet as dizziness caused his stomach to roll. He felt hands on his back, and a sturdy arm supporting him from behind as well as across his chest. He bowed his head.

Richard stepped forward, handed a cobbler lamp to Sofie, and motioned for her to hold it for him as he examined the mechanism. He licked his lips, glanced toward Porthos and Aramis, and grabbed a small pry tool from his kit. "This will be tedious," he warned, "and painful." His hands shook, and he tightened his grip around the tools.

"Just get on with it," Athos gasped, through clenched teeth. He looked up with half-hooded eyes, and through sweat-drenched hair. Perspiration traveled down his temples, he swallowed, and gasped for breath as blood tinged the corners of his mouth.

Richard nodded. "Hold him steady." He began.

Athos tightened his fist around Porthos' collar as the bolt moved in response to Richard's efforts. Every shift, bump, and tug of the bolt sent waves of agony though Athos. He stayed upright, listened to the murmurs of success, and the hints of metal being manipulated. Sweat continued to drip down his face, down his back, and around his neck. Muscles trembled and shook as the time passed. Another latch released and Athos felt the relief of as the left prong was pulled from his chest near his sternum. It had not been deep, but blood flowed freely from the injury and he could feel the warmth as it soaked his shirt beneath his doublet.

The edges of Athos' vision blurred, he leaned forward, and felt hands tighten around him. He focused on the rough boards of the floor, gaps between them where the dirt that had collected. The nails that kept each piece in place, and the ends that failed to butt together. He felt a hand on his left shoulder push him upright, as his strength continued to wane.

He heard another release, heard someone sigh, and then hands tighten around his left shoulder, behind his neck, and right arm. He cried out in pain when the bolt was pulled from his shoulder, and he was laid against the table. The sash Aramis had used to stabilize Athos' arm was discarded, and his fist forcefully removed from Porthos' doublet. Athos' doublet was pulled open and quickly removed, followed by this shirt. He groaned, raised his knee and scraped the heel of his boot along the surface of the table. He clutched Porthos' meaty hand, and felt strong fingers fasten around his own.

Aramis held his breath for a moment as he applied pressure to the wounds, front and back. Blood continued to pool, soak through the cloths, and seep between his fingers. "I need more bandages."

Robert had collected his tools and jumped back the moment they grabbed their friend and pulled him back onto the table, only to work franticly as blood pooled and collected below.

Sofie had pulled out a chair for d'Artagnan, and motioned for him to sit, while she grabbed a handful of cloths from a hutch and handed them to Aramis who applied them to Athos' shoulder. She walked toward her kitchen, poured red powder onto a cloth and mixed in a thick heavy oil. She allowed the mixture to soak into the cloth and then walked toward the table. She tapped Aramis' shoulder, and stood back when he looked at her.

Athos' grip on Porthos' hand relaxed, slipped from his fingers, and fell toward the table, and hung over the side. Athos stopped scrapping his heel against the table and brought his leg to an extended rest. His eyes closed and his head turned slightly to the left.

"Aramis?" Porthos met his eyes.

"I can't get the bleeding to stop," Aramis said, and he pushed more of his weight onto Athos' shoulder. "Don't stop fighting now, brother," he said.

Sofie tapped Aramis's shoulder, stumbled back again when he flashed panicked eyes toward her, and then he looked toward Porthos.

D'Artagnan watched as blood dripped from the table's edge, and dropped into a puddle on the floor. The fear etched on Aramis' face was enough to let d'Artagnan know the situation had worsened. His chest tightened as he watched the desperate actions of his comrades. Bloodied bandages had been tossed aside and lay scattered at Aramis' feet. Despite having rolled up the sleeves of his loose fitting blouse, blood had been smeared across the sleeves and stained the folded fabric. D'Artagnan leaned forward, arm braced against his side, and supported on his lap. The pain caused his eyes to water, and he caught his breath in his throat. Fear of the unknown gripped his heart, fear of falling asleep and not knowing if they would be facing life or death in the hours to come.

"Sofie can't talk," Richard said, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder and took the compress from her. "People would come from all over to see her… before the fire — her healing skills are unusual —"

"Witchcraft?" Porthos asked, frowned, and squared his shoulders.

"No!" Richard said, and shoved Sofie behind him. "No." He sighed and swallowed.

Sofie tugged on Richard's shirt and motioned with her hands toward the jars on the counter behind her.

"She uses herbs — just herbs."

Aramis tossed the soaked bandages to the floor and grabbed the compress from Richard's hand and applied it. "We've run out of options," he said, with a shake of his head. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and looked toward Athos' relaxed face.

Porthos stood back from the table, lips pursed, and could feel his heart burn as the fear of death loomed. He looked at the blood on his hands, closed his fists, and watched Athos' pallor pale, and listened as his breaths became shallow. "Will he make it?" Porthos asked, crossed his arms, but raised his hand, and rubbed his bottom lip.

Aramis met his eyes. "I pray he does." The bleeding had slowed and no longer seeped past his fingers. "Stay with us, Athos… please, brother," he muttered, and lessened the pressure on the compress. Aramis turned to ask for a needle and thread and found Sofie handing him the instruments. She nodded once and returned to her place in the kitchen. She stood beside her husband and watched.