Athos never felt Aramis suture the puncture wounds to his shoulder or his chest. He never felt Porthos slip a strong arm beneath his head and neck, pull him forward into a seated position, cup the back of head, or hold him steady as Aramis sutured the puncture to his back. He never felt the hot damp cloth wipe blood from his face, neck, and shoulder. And he never felt himself moved to the bed that rested against the far wall of the room. His shoulder had been bandaged, and he'd been slipped into a clean shirt. His boots, and breeches were removed, and then he was covered in blankets. He'd been oblivious to it all.

Aramis sighed, looked toward d'Artagnan, and winced in sympathy. Still seated, d'Artagnan leaned forward, pale, and yet trying to disguise the pain he was in. He continued to cradle his left arm in his lap.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said. He stepped toward d'Artagnan helped him remove his doublet. Aramis dropped the discarded clothing to the floor. He pulled d'Artagnan's shirt collar enough to expose his dislocated shoulder and exhaled slowly. "I'll make this quick," he said. Releasing the shirt, he grasped d'Artagnan's forearm and tricep. "When I count to three."

D'Artagnon met his eyes, swallowed, and nodded.

"One." Immediately, Aramis pulled on d'Artagnan's arm, separated the joint, heard the slight shift of tendons, muscles, soft tissue, and d'Artagnan's cry of agony, as the joint slipped back into place.

D'Artagnan hung his head, grasped the seat of his chair with his right hand, and tried to breathe through the pain. He felt Aramis' hand on the back of his neck, and his words of apology. D'Artagnan nodded, but felt his stomach turn as every nerve in his body awakened. "I thought you were going to count to three?" He turned and met Aramis' eyes.

"It's better this way," Aramis said, grasped d'Artagnon around the back of his neck, and forced him to look up. "Trust me." He knelt beside the chair and carefully wrapped d'Artagnan's shoulder and secured his arm to his chest. Aramis heard the door open and close but he paid it little mind as he worked. "Let me see your arm."

"It's just a scratch." D'artagnan lifted his arm and Aramis pushed the sleeve to d'Artagnan's elbow. The long gash across his forearm was slightly swollen, but would not need stitches.

Aramis turned as Sofie handed him a bowl of warm water, soap, and a bandage. He smiled in thanks, and carefully started to wash the blood from the wound.

"Will he survive?" D'Artagnan looked toward the bed.

Aramis sighed, focused on the injury, and took a deep breath. He unrolled the long bandage and carefully started to wrap it around d'Artagnan's arm. "He's strong."

"That's not what I asked." D'Artagnan met Aramis' eyes.

"Rest," Aramis said. "We're all in need of it." He stood, felt his knees give, and grabbed the back of the chair to steady himself.

Sofie returned to scrubing blood from the table. She dunked the cloth into the bucket, rinsed as much as she could before she twisted the cloth tight and wiped again at the edges where blood had dried, hardened, and contrasted with the warmth of oak. She had pulled up the sleeves of her dress, and exposed more burn scars along her right arm. She focused her attention on the strangers in the room, her task, and glanced from their positions in her home to the bood that seeped into the grains of wood. She looked up to see Porthos watching her, his attention focused on the water as it transitioned to red with each rinse of the cloth. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw firmly set, brow furrowed, and dried mud still speckled his features. He looked away when she met his eyes, and he glanced at his hands, turned them over and examined the red creases of his knuckles and red beneath his fingernails, along his palms and knuckles. Sofie looked up again when her husband entered the house with four bedrolls tucked in the curves of his arms.

Richard nodded toward Aramis. "I've put your horses in the corral next to the house," he said, "saddles are covered should it rain." He handed the bedrolls to Aramis. "We don't have much, Sofie and I…" he paused and looked toward his wife who knelt on the floor and continued to scrub, "but what we do have… we'll share."

Aramis nodded. "We're in your debt."

"No," Richard said, "I just ask that when your friends can ride, that you all leave, and not tell anyone about us — we just want to live in peace."

"You have our word," Porthos said, and turned to look at Richard. Porthos lowered his hands, clenched them into fists, and swallowed.

Richard nodded, and moved to join Sofie as she continued to scrub blood from the floor. The wood absorbed the moisture, swelled, and stood out in contrast to the rest of the planks.

Porthos ran a heavy hand over his face, turned to watch Aramis unroll a bedroll and help d'Artagnan lower himself to it. "I'll stand guard tonight," he said, but turned when Richard helped Sofie get to her feet. He grabbed the bucket.

"It's dark," Richard said, "you're the first visitors to our house in five years — rest," he said, "I'll watch."

Aramis took a deep breath, and looked toward Porthos who was just as exhausted. He tried to hide his shaking hands by keeping them tucked beneath his arms while crossed over his chest. The lids of his eyes were red and slightly swollen, and Aramis knew for a fact that every muscle in Porthos' body was screaming for rest. Aramis looked toward Richard and said, "Again, monsieur, we're in your debt."

Richard nodded, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he walked toward the door with the bucket. He paused a moment as if to say something, but thought better of it and left.

D'Artagnan, lay back, kicked his boots off, and felt exhausted muscles relax for the first time in many hours. His shoulder still ached, but not as it had before. The soreness would not be enough to keep him awake. He could feel the heat of the fire, listened as Porthos removed his heavy doublet and draped it over the chair d'Artagnan had vacated, and groaned as he took a seat on the bedroll beside him. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.

Porthos rested his arms on his knees and looked toward Aramis as he pulled a chair closer to the bed where Athos rested, took a seat, and sighed.

The door opened and Richard entered with another bucket of cold water from the creek. He set it beside the table and returned to scrubbing the floor while Sofie picked up discarded clothing, and replaced the tools into the carrier that had been tossed aside.

Aramis leaned forward, rested his head in his hands, and brushed the tips of his fingers against his forehead and scalp. He heard movement in the kitchen, but didn't bother to look. The tapping continued, a shift of chairs against the floor, and more tapping. He heard another log added to the fire, and the heat penetrated his skin and soaked through his clothes. Exhaustion nipped at the corners of his vision, and his mind focused on things beyond what was happening around him. Muscles twitched, relaxed, and succumbed to mistreatment.

Porthos' rested his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, listened to the sounds around him and surrendered to his exhaustion.