A/N: a whump prompt for Aini Nufire ^_^ This is pre-Inseparables era, so sadly no d'Artagnan. Athos is new to the musketeer regiment, Aramis and Porthos are already friends.

The horse was dead, and if Aramis didn't hurt in literally every part of his body, he would be more distressed by this. For one thing, Ganache had been a loyal mount in the King's army, but for another, more practical thing, Aramis was in the middle of the forest and far from help.

More to the point, the dead horse was literally on top of him, pinning him to the leafy ground.

Aramis turned pain-clouded eyes up to the rock face he and the horse had fallen from, driven over the edge by several well-placed bullets fired from their pursuers. Much higher and he was sure he would be dead now. As it was, the sheer face meant the bandits who'd killed his horse hadn't been inclined to climb down and finish him off, rather shooting off several more rounds down at them. Poor Ganache, already dead, had at least offered Aramis some protection and it had been easy enough to lie still until the bandits lost interest and wandered off.

Now, that same shield was more of a hindrance than anything. Aramis eased one leg out from under the unfortunate horse, gasping at the near blinding agony even that much movement caused. He prodded gingerly at his chest then tipped his head back with a soft cry. Broken ribs, definitely. Getting himself back to Paris alive was becoming more and more of an improbability.

"Alright," Aramis gritted out, voice falling flat in the silent forest. Fingers curled into the dead leaves, painfully seeking something to brace against to help pull himself out. Finding nothing, the musketeer rested his head back down again and took several bolstering breaths. Then he pushed against the horse's body, choking back strangled cries as he lifted her dead weight enough to start inching free.

The process took several minutes, sliding out centimeters at a time before having to stop and gasp for breath, and by the end Aramis felt like he'd probably died after all. He lay on the bed of leaves, trembling and staring at the sky. The sun slipping through the trees wasn't enough to provide much warmth. Though the exertion of his struggle to free himself had warmed Aramis somewhat, lying still brought the chill back, reminding him that evening would fall soon with the days so short and cold.

And after evening would be night, freezing and dark. Aramis gulped back a thrill of unease. There was no way he would reach shelter on foot. Not in that amount of time. Not when he could barely sit up without his body screaming for him to stop, just stop.

Forcing himself to focus on his options, Aramis decided the first step would be to take stock of anything and everything he had that would help him survive out here. He clawed himself up to a sitting position, leaning heavily on the horse's carcass, and looked around.

He hadn't gone far off the path, but it was up the cliff and he wasn't fit to climb. The nearest manageable slope was potentially an hour in either direction; Aramis wasn't familiar with this route and hadn't been keeping a special watch on such things on his way in. The nearest town he'd passed was well over half a day by horse, significantly longer walking with broken ribs. He had his pistols and all the usual supplies in his saddle bags, which fortunately remained intact: flint to start a fire, his medical kit which wasn't likely to do him much good, his water skin, a bit of dried meat and fruit that he might be able to ration for two or three days but certainly no more than that. There was also the saddle blanket he could use to wrap up in tonight.

Aramis looked uncertainly first in one direction down the ridge, then the other. The land didn't level out in either way that that he could see. Picking which way to go would be a fifty-fifty chance. Pulling out his crucifix, Aramis whispered a soft prayer for protection and deliverance. He kissed the cross and settled it back against his chest once more, then forced himself to get his knees under him and from there slowly up to his feet.

He only managed to stay standing for a few short seconds, then his leg buckled and Aramis came crashing back down with a cry that shattered the forest's quiet. White hot stars burst in his vision, preceding a rushing darkness.

.o.O.o.

The next time Aramis opened his eyes, a cold twilight had crept over the woods. The grey-purple pall brought a chill and the sound of scattered crickets, and Aramis knew with a sinking heart that his only choice now was to stay there for the night.

The thought of moving was almost more than he could stand, but not nearly as bad as the thought of freezing to death, alone in the wilderness. Aramis surveyed his immediate surroundings. The horse, already going cold at his side, wouldn't provide any shared heat, but it would at least be more of a windbreak than the sheer rock face behind them. Of course, it was also likely to draw the attention of any nearby predators—Aramis shuddered as he immediately turned his gaze out around them in search of any large, moving bodies. So far, he was alone. He drew a pistol, just in case.

The first order of business was to build a fire and gather enough fuel to keep it burning through the night. The forest had no shortage of sticks, thankfully dry, though Aramis couldn't reach much of it from where he was. Rather than try to stand again, he contented himself to stretch out as far as he could in all directions, crawling a little to a downed conifer whose needles would provide plenty of kindling. Aramis used his parrying dagger to strip off some of the smaller boughs to pile in front of him, then tried to break off some larger pieces for fuel. The movement forced him to close his eyes against the waves of pain that slammed into his already battered body. If he survived this, Aramis realized with sinking heart, it would be a miracle.

"Lord, if you see fit," he whispered as he painstakingly sawed at the larger branches instead. "Grant your servant a little longer on this earth. See me safely home, where I may continue to devote myself to you."

The work was far more exhausting than it should have been, collecting enough bits of wood and a few small trunks that he could feed the fire through the night. Aramis felt his eyelids drooping, but sleep would leave him unprotected. The grey twilight was fading swiftly to velvety darkness as he finally got a spark to land on the tinder, puffing it into a small flame. Soon, a fire was crackling, comforting in its warmth and semblance of safety. Aramis wrestled the heavy saddle off the horse and tucked it beside him, then pulled the blanket away to wrap around himself instead.

All he could do now was wait. Aramis settled in to prime both pistols and set out his shot and powder where it would be close at hand should he need to reload. Then he sipped some water from the skin and retrieved a bit of meat to gnaw, then he settled in for the long, long night ahead.

.o.O.o.

Aramis did everything he could to stay awake, reciting familiar scriptures and singing a few hymns under his breath, but at some point he must have drifted off. His feet were heavy with a bone-deep cold when he registered the dewy dawn livening up the woods around him. The fire was burning low; Aramis gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as he inched himself up from Ganache's side to sit once more. His body had tightened ove night from the injuries, leaving him half-sobbing at just that little bit of movement. Aramis reached out one shaking hand to push the last of the fuel into the fire, poking the embers until they blazed once more.

Winded already, he sank back against the horse. After a few moments to recenter himself, Aramis took as deep of a breath as he could before his chest screamed at the strain, then retrieved a few sparse pieces of dried fruit to chew while he deliberated his next move.

There were only two choices: stay where he was, or try to reach safety.

On the one hand, the horse's carcass, while a macabre partner, was also providing shelter. On the other, his food and water wasn't going to last, so he couldn't stay here forever. There was a chance someone would find him, though the forest path wasn't well traveled. Treville would note his absence in the next day or so, and if he didn't then Porthos would. If he could hold on long enough to be found, it would be worth it to stay in place, but if no one came looking then he would have wasted the few precious days of sustenance that he had.

He could probably carry the saddle bag with all the supplies if he chose to leave, though it would add another burden to his already battered, weary body. Aramis swallowed back the niggling fear that even if he decided he wanted to try moving on towards Paris, there was a very real chance that he physically wouldn't be able to do it. Then he would have left his best means of shelter behind. Besides which, anyone trying to pick up his trail would see the signs of disturbance on the path above where he was right now.

Either decision could spell disaster. Aramis chewed the fruit slowly, brushing off the flies that were starting to attack the horse's body, and his heart sank within him at the idea of not seeing the garrison or Porthos again. He touched the crucifix on his chest once more, desperately seeking guidance and comfort.

In the end, Aramis knew that inaction would drive him mad sooner than the pain. He was getting stiffer from sitting still and rolled over to his hands and knees, clawing his way up to standing. A wave of dizziness fought to knock him down again, but Aramis gritted his teeth and rode it out. His knee still wanted to buckle; he was certain he'd sprained it at the very least, or crushed it under the falling horse at the worst. Casting about, Aramis found another downed tree limb slender enough to easily carry but strong enough to support his weight. He picked it up and gingerly took a few limping practice steps.

Everything hurt all the worse with each movement, but he didn't fall. It would take days to get anywhere at the pace Aramis knew he would have to set, but his mind was made up: it was better than waiting there to die.

Gathering the meager bits of food that remained, along with the blanket and water skin, Aramis stuffed everything into the saddle bag then used the straps and his sash to fix it in a sling around his torso. The pressure brought tears to his eyes, every shuffling step a worse agony than before, but there was no better alternative.

With nothing else to do, Aramis set off at a painful, inching pace.

.o.O.o.

Athos wasn't pushing his horse, content to stay at a slow walk as he inhaled deeply to relish the silence and solitude of the forest. The bottle he'd stowed away in one of the saddlebags was calling to him, though he ignored it for now. Athos didn't regret his decision to join the Musketeer regiment; so far, it had proved a worthy distraction from the darkness in his heart, but it also meant he couldn't do half as much drinking as he would like. Now would be the perfect time to indulge except he had no idea when he would happen upon the other musketeer he was supposed to be meeting on the road.

Athos's fingers twitched towards the saddlebag again. Aramis had originally been meant to return the night previously, which meant Athos would likely run into him sooner rather than later, but perhaps there was time for a swig or two. No one would be the wiser.

Glancing up at the sun filtering through the branches overhead, Athos judged it to be nearly evening. Treville had asked him to intercept Aramis on the way home from his previous mission so he could accompany Athos on a separate errand to Dijon, but they wouldn't be reaching the city that night at this point, which meant they would be obliged to find an inn. There would be plenty of time then to drown his sorrows.

Where was Aramis? Athos felt he ought to have run into him by that point. The little he knew of Aramis warned Athos that he might well have run into trouble of some sort; he seemed the type.

Athos had only just finished being a touch resentful at the thought that he wouldn't be getting a drink anytime soon after all, when he noted the path in front of him and along the ridge to be severely trampled and disturbed. A few smaller, straggly conifers at the edge were flattened completely. Athos frowned and brought his horse to a halt. Surveying the area, he pursed his lips and dismounted, following a niggling feeling to investigate further. He approached the edge cautiously, leaning over to see if there were any obvious signs of what had disturbed the area.

The dead horse at the bottom of the gully might have belonged to anyone, but Athos's jaw clenched at the coincidence that it would be the same breed and coloring as all the musketeer horses, along the road that Aramis was meant to be on, when the musketeer himself was late.

Athos regarded the sheer side of the ridge. He needed to get down there, and quickly, but the drop was too far. He would need to double back and find a less severe incline. Hoisting himself back up on the horse, all thoughts of drink shoved from his mind, Athos wheeled around and set off at a much brisker pace. His eyes remained peeled on the edge of the ridge, which the trail followed for a long way before meandering off to flatter ground. Gritting his teeth, Athos didn't hesitate to direct his own horse off the trail so he could continue along the ridgeline.

It took nearly fifteen minutes before Athos found a more gradual descent. Still steeper than he would have otherwise pushed his horse down, he noted, but the mount was well-trained and agile, navigating its way down into the gully with barely a snort. Once he reached the bottom, Athos headed them back in the direction of the fallen horse. Up ahead, a flash of bright blue on the ground starkly contrasted with the dead brown of fallen leaves.

"Hyah!" Athos snapped to the horse, nudging it with his heels to take the remaining yards at a gallop. He leaped from the steed's back almost before it had come to a halt, kneeling over the motionless form of the very musketeer he was supposed to have been meeting. Aramis lay still and cold, a sturdy stick beside him and a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. His eyes were closed.

Heart beating faster, Athos frowned in concentration as he slid his glove off to settle bare fingers against the other musketeer's throat.

A pulse.

Athos sat back, only sparing a few seconds for relief before taking action. He rolled Aramis onto his back and scanned him with sharp eyes searching for blood or other obvious injuries. There were none that he could locate, though Athos would hardly consider himself a man of medicine. He couldn't tell how long ago the fall had occurred, but Aramis's body seemed dangerously cold. He'd gotten himself a decent distance from the site of the fall, so presumably it would be safe to move him a little, at least to get him onto the horse.

That was a trick in and of itself, but Athos managed to wrangle them both into the saddle with Aramis in front of him.

If coming down the ridge had been difficult on the horse, getting back up wasn't going to be much more fun. Athos would have been happy to follow the valley until it evened out again, but he wasn't sure how far from the road that might take them and he was more interested in expediency than in sparing the horse. The trail he'd made looked daunting when they reached it again, but Athos only clung harder to Aramis and spurred his mount on. The horse nickered in distress, slipping just enough to give Athos a brief second of panic, but it gamely scrambled ever upwards until at last they broke free onto even ground once more.

Now what? Had it been earlier in the day, Athos might have decided to head straight back to Paris, but as it was they would never make it by nightfall. Best to stop at one of the small hamlets or towns on the way. He knew he'd passed one not long before reaching Aramis, one large enough to have an inn and maybe even a physician.

The musketeer in his arms stirred slightly. A cough punched its way out of his throat, hard enough to jostle both of them. It must have caused Aramis significant pain, because he shifted again and then tensed.

"Whoa," Athos said, urging the horse to a halt as he loosened his grip on Aramis slightly. "It's alright."

"Who—" Aramis started, before another body-wracking cough punched through him again.

It sounded painful. Athos waited until he'd gotten through the coughing fit before saying,

"It's Athos." He paused, then realized he wasn't exactly social enough to be well known among the regiment yet and dryly added, "The musketeer."

Aramis slumped, then moved to cradle his torso. Athos clicked his teeth at the horse to get it moving again, noting when Aramis bit off a sharp exhalation.

"How badly are you wounded?" Athos asked, hoping to get as much information as he could before the other inevitably passed out again. When Aramis didn't immediately reply, Athos thought perhaps he already had, but then a murmured voice replied,

"Broken ribs... twisted leg."

Plus being out in the cold for however long it had been, Athos thought, listening to Aramis wheeze slightly. He tried to keep his grip somewhere between tight enough to keep the musketeer on the horse should he pass out again but not so tightly as to be causing him any more pain. Perhaps he should have taken a moment to put his cloak around Aramis for additional warmth, but just being off the cold ground should be doing him some amount of good. Athos hoped.

A moment later, Aramis's head drooped the rest of the way down to his chest, blessedly unconscious once more.

.o.O.o.

Aramis felt consciousness trying to pull him back to the land of the living, but it was like swimming against the current. Everything was so heavy, from his body to his mind. Aramis thought he felt warm, which was unexpected. He'd been trying to make it on foot back to safety...

With a soft groan, Aramis blinked his eyes open to find himself staring up at the wooden beams of a room somewhere. He slowly blinked again. He couldn't possibly have walked all the way to a town, could in fact barely remember getting any distance from Ganache at all.

Eyes trailing down the dingy walls in an attempt to puzzle out where he was and what had happened, Aramis jolted in shock when his gaze landed on another figure in the room, watching him.

"You're safe," the figure told him without inflection, continuing to watch him.

Aramis frowned, then his face smoothed over as he connected the figure to a name.

"Athos," he murmured in bafflement. Athos had joined the regiment not long before; was Aramis back at the garrison? He looked around the room but didn't recognize it. "Where are we? How did you get here—"

Aramis was cut off by a fit of painful coughing, each one sending a fresh tongue of fire through his chest. He retched from the pain, sitting upright but not having anything in his stomach to dispel. With a shudder, Aramis slumped wearily back down. A memory flitted through his mind, vague and hazy, of arms holding him up and a horse beneath him. Wheezing a bit, he glanced back to Athos, who was watching him mildly.

"You... you found me?" he asked. "How? I thought I was dead for sure."

"Treville sent me to meet you for an errand," Athos replied. "Though finding you was more luck than anything."

Aramis nodded, marveling that he'd been rescued at all. He sent a silent prayer of gratitude to Heaven, then closed his eyes. "I owe you my life," he said softly.

Athos brushed this off with ease, eyes returning to the book he was holding. "This town doesn't have a physician," he said instead. "The innkeeper suggested sending a boy to Paris to retrieve one, but if you're able to ride in the morning, it may be more prudent to return you to the garrison for a more thorough recovery. I judge it to be no more than half a day's ride."

Though the trip would be uncomfortable, certainly, Aramis did prefer the idea of getting home.

"If the innkeeper has a horse I can borrow," Aramis murmured, "you would be able to go on with Treville's errand. I'll explain everything to him when—"

"The captain's errand can wait," Athos interrupted with the same oddly detached tone. He turned the page of his book. "Returning you safely to Paris takes priority. We can ride together."

Aramis fought back a smile. His impression of the other man thus far had been of a rather standoffish sort who put duty ahead of any emotion or personal interest. He hummed, regarding Athos as he teased, "Well, who would have guessed you cared so much about anything beyond your swords and solitude?"

This drew Athos's attention back out of his book, one eyebrow quirking up as he drolly replied,

"I don't."

It was accompanied by a mild smirk, though, and Aramis easily read the rebuff for what it was.

"Of course," he snickered. "Your secret is safe with me."

The two traded a more genuine smile, only for a second, then Aramis grew serious once more.

"Athos. Thank you."

Athos inclined his head. "Get some rest," he advised. "If you're well enough, we'll leave for Paris in the morning."

The fire in the hearth, along with the feeling of being safe in friendly hands, drew Aramis back down into the warmth of slumber.

.o.O.o.

Less than a week later, morning found Athos trudging into the garrison, fighting the hangover he hadn't completely had time to nurse away yet. The errand for Treville had been simple enough, two days in each direction, so he'd reached his personal apartments early enough the night before to over-indulge. Now his head was paying the price, but Athos found himself still immediately searching the courtyard as soon as he stepped through. He wondered whether Aramis had made a full recovery yet.

The musketeer in question was sitting at one of the tables in the courtyard with a bowl and a tankard in front of him. He had a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders in place of his leather jerkin, so it seemed he wasn't yet on active duty again, but he was surrounded by other musketeers nonetheless. One of them, the burly one named Porthos, was laughing heartily and encouraging him to eat jus' one more bite.

In good hands, then. Aramis always did seem to be surrounded by friends. Unlike Athos, who shuddered at the thought of a crowd with his head in the state it was in. He turned towards the opposite side of the garrison but stopped in surprise when he heard his name being called.

Athos turned with a frown, seeing the entire group was watching him now as Porthos hurried over to him.

"Yer back!" Porthos exclaimed, for all the world sounding delighted by it. "Figured it would be any day now. We saved you some breakfast, if yer hungry." He lowered his voice conspiratorially and added, "Nothin' like a hot meal to take the edge off a hangover."

Athos couldn't help glancing over his shoulder in case Porthos was talking to someone else. He'd never joined the other musketeers for breakfast since joining the regiment; what made them think he wanted to start now? Porthos snorted softly as though knowing what he was thinking.

"Come on," he persisted. "Aramis wanted to thank you, proper like. So do the rest of us, come to it." Porthos paused, a shadow passing over his face. "I ain't got a lot of real friends," he said with a shrug, a sentiment Athos could relate to but with seemingly different feelings on the matter. "An' Aramis is the truest one of the lot. If it weren't for you, he'd—"

"Any one of you would have done the same," Athos pointed out with a shrug, uncomfortable with the attention he was still getting from across the courtyard.

Porthos huffed, but he was smiling. "Is it really that hard t' let someone be friendly wit' ya?"

Athos thought it over. "Yes."

Porthos's grin widened, warm and inviting and guileless. "Come on," he insisted, clapping a hand on Athos's shoulder and steering him back towards their table. "Don' make Aramis get up to come say thanks, the doc's still got 'im on bedrest."

It was hard to resist, both the heavy hand and the calmer, sincere smile Aramis was pointing in his direction.

Fine. One breakfast, Athos decided. Just the one.