Porthos

The marksman eluded his fist with the ease of a dancer. He attempted a kick next, only to have his target somehow dodge it. But he knew that his brother had to attack him. To do that, he had to cut the distance between them. And that was all the big man needed.

Aramis made a wild attempt to reach him. He even managed to make contact for a moment, but the blow was more of a soft caress.

Porthos' laugh boomed across the courtyard. "Stop tickling me!"

His brother made a face in response, but his eyes were shining. He attacked once more. This time, he met with more success, but he also paid a price. As the big man grappled with him, they fell to the ground, with Porthos landing on top.

Aramis attempted to wriggle out from beneath him, but Porthos pinned him down with his knee. An instant later, one big hand was around his brother's throat, while the other held down his opponent's left arm. Aramis' right arm was already pinned underneath the medic.

The dark skinned musketeer grinned. "Yield." Each time they practiced hand to hand combat, he saw Aramis recover a little more of his agility and speed.

At the beginning, Porthos had been disheartened by how easy it was to defeat his weakened brother. He had to remind himself that Aramis had never been an even match for him in this sort of fight. The question had always been how long he would last. However, Porthos had been reassured by the fact that the closeness of their bodies had not triggered any horrible memories for the marksman.

"Mis, I don't want to hurt you, but if I put all my weight on you, you'll be crushed!"

The medic seemed to consider his options for a moment, then simply nodded in acknowledgement of his defeat. Porthos released him, then stood up. He offered his brother his hand and Aramis accepted. Once he had been hauled to his feet, the marksman glanced up at Porthos, eager for another chance to best his friend. "Swords?"

Porthos looked him over closely, assessing his condition. Aramis was obviously tired, but did not appear spent. Still, Porthos did not plan to press him to the point of collapse.

"What about a race on the horses? Let's do that first, then we'll take up our swords."

Aramis, his breathing having returned to normal, shook his head. "No, swords first." He grinned. "After a ride, it might be difficult for me to focus on a fight-and I intend to defeat you!"

They saluted each other with their swords, then crossed them. Soon, they were entangled in a frenetic duel. The dark skinned musketeer's main goal was to see how much stamina Aramis had at this point in his recovery. He was relentless in his attacks, allowing no chance for the marksman to relax. It was a complete shock when he suddenly felt the tip of the Spaniard's blade between his ribs. Aramis was grinning like a madman. However, his dark eyes showed worry, with only a small hint of satisfaction.

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked.

"That was too easy. Did you let me win?" the marksman asked seriously.

"No! I was focused on tiring you out, and let my guard down. I should have paid more attention. Come on, the horses won't race on their own!"

"They will if we give them the opportunity," Aramis replied with a smile, following his brother to the stables.

The horses whinnied happily at the sight of their masters, and Orage nuzzled Aramis' hair.

The marksman laughed, and gave her something to eat. Aramis and d'Artagnan seemed to be competing to see who could spoil his horse the most.

Porthos watched as his brother readied his mount. Fortunately, Aramis was now strong enough to handle the weight of his saddle.

Aware of his friend's hovering, the medic cast a quizzical glance at him as he swung into the saddle. Porthos mounted Vent, and followed him without a word.

The day seemed quite warm for the season. The sky was clear, and the cold winter sun seemed to be trying to convince itself that it was already spring.

A wide path led from the estate gardens through a small forest, finally opening onto a broad expanse of pastures and fields. It was the perfect place for a long race.

They galloped through the dry grass, and headed towards a lonely tree that stood on a small rise. The hill offered a view of the empty fields. It was hard to believe that in just a month, they would be full of people tending to their crops.

Aramis reached the tree first. But instead of turning around triumphantly, he pulled his horse to a stop, his gaze focused on something in the view that spread out below them. It took Porthos a few moments to join him, but Aramis did not move.

"Mis?" Porthos eyes scanned the landscape. He spied a few rabbits, and found himself recalling the delicious rabbit stew that Constance had made a few days ago.

"A rider, "Aramis muttered. "Heading in the direction of the estate."

Porthos frowned. "Philippe told us he wouldn't be back until next week." Squinting, he saw a moving shape below them.

"We should check it out." Aramis spurred his horse into a light canter, and headed towards the rider.

Porthos followed him. They were close enough now that he could make out the figure of a man on horseback. Something was clearly amiss. The rider seemed to be barely holding on to his mount.

Aramis sped up, his curse muffled by the wind.

Porthos followed close behind, furious with his brother for being so impulsive. What if this is a trap?!

Show us a bandit pretending to be wounded, and Aramis will fall for it every time. Sometimes he is too compassionate for his own good.

"Captain!" Aramis' cry of astonishment contained an unmistakable note of horror.

Something was terribly wrong.

Aramis barely had time to pull to a stop. Porthos, leaping onto the other horse to keep the rider...their Captain… in the saddle, caught a glimpse of a gun touching his brother's chest.

Treville was unconscious. Porthos circled his arms around his commander's chest. His heart sank when he felt the man's doublet, and found it soaked.

He glanced at his companion nervously. "Aramis?"

The marksman's hand shot up to the Captain's neck. Before Aramis spoke, Porthos knew what he would hear.

"It's bad. We need to reach the estate immediately."

Although those words chilled him to the bone, the dark skinned musketeer wasted no time in nudging the Captain's stallion into a gallop. He trusted that Aramis would take up Vent's reins, and bring his horse back to the estate.

Treville was a dead weight in his arms. Porthos' heart was beating frantically. What had happened? How seriously was their leader was injured?

After they passed through the gate to the estate, Aramis overtook him. He knew that the medic would be in a rush to ready his medical tools. The only reason the Spaniard had brought up the rear until now was to secure their safety. They had no way of knowing who was threatening them.

When Porthos reached the inner courtyard, Athos was waiting for him, ready to help.

"Aramis is in the dining room. That table suits him the best." The swordsman did not ask any questions. Porthos assumed that he had already asked Aramis a few, but had not received an answer-because they had none to give.

They could only guess that the Captain had come to inform of a mission. However, he had not come from the direction of Paris.

Athos steadied Treville as Porthos jumped off the horse. The big man then took his commander gently in his arms. The movement caused the Captain to moan softly.

"You're safe, Captain," he murmured, not sure if the man could hear him.

Athos led them through several doors. A short while later, they reached the brightly lit room. The precious carpet had been rolled up and shoved against one of the walls. A candelabra sat on the table, along with a bucket of water and an old bottle of brandy. Aramis' fingerprints were clearly visible in the dust that covered the bottle.

"Put him here!" Aramis ordered. His doublet was off, and he had already rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Porthos obeyed, then stood near the head of the unconscious man.

Athos glanced at the big man. "What happened?"

"No idea. When we found him, he was riding in this direction." While he spoke, his eyes did not leave Aramis' hands, which were busy unfastening Treville's doublet. The medic's jaw tensed when he reached the shirt, only to find soaked in blood. He quickly cut the linen with his dagger, and stripped the garment off.

"Sit him up."

As Porthos held their unconscious patient, Aramis quickly scanned the Captain's back.

"You can lie him down," he muttered.

Porthos swore softly. No exit wound.

"I need to remove the bullet. Hold him still."

Porthos searched his brother's face for any sign of hope, but Aramis was completely focused on the wound. His expression and gestures were devoid of any emotion. Porthos knew that concentration was the medic's defense against doubt and fear. The more serious the wound is, the more focused he is.

Aramis started to irrigate the wound with copious amount of water, struggling to see anything amidst the blood pooling at the site. The floor was soon slick with a stream of bloody water.

"Constance, I need more light." Aramis said tersely. The woman came closer, momentarily blocking Porthos' view.

Porthos turned his eyes back to the Captain's face, and froze when he saw a pair of blue eyes staring up at him.

"Captain, you're safe." he said. Aramis' head snapped up.

"You'll be fine, Captain," the medic said quietly.

Porthos tried to estimate how much truth, if any, was in that statement. It seemed that their commander was in too much pain to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. His eyes were unfocused.

"Give him some wine!" the medic ordered.

Porthos reached for the bottle, but the Captain's hand shot out and seized his arm.

"The queen…. They have the queen…" His voice was barely audible.

"Who?"

"True…. Red Guard with them...Chartres…"

"You were travelling to Chartres?" Athos asked, his voice matter of fact.

The Captain gave them a slight nod, then rasped, "Don't waste any time! Save her!" Tightening his grip on Porthos' hand, he tried to lift himself up, but the attempt only caused him to gasp in pain.

"Don't move," Aramis said gruffly. He circled around the table to stand next to Porthos, and his eyes met the Captain's.

"We'll find her. But right now, I need to take care of you. And don't you dare call it a waste of time, Captain! However, if you have any information to give us, I suggest that you do it now. I don't plan for you to be conscious when I retrieve the bullet."

The marksman was deathly pale, but his voice was calm and steady.

Captain was silent as he searched his memory for anything that could be of use to them. Finally, he closed his eyes in defeat. "There is nothing I can tell you."

This time, he did not protest when Porthos put his arm under his shoulders and lifted him up. The instant that the bottle of wine touched his lips, he took several large gulps, probably unaware that he was searching for the relief of oblivion.

"Aramis, do you need us to assist you?" Athos asked.

The medic hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Porthos and Constance will be enough." Athos nodded, and stepped back.

Aramis resumed his place at the side of a table, and took in a deep breath. He turned to Constance. "Release the pressure."

The Captain stiffened when Aramis started to work. Porthos put his hands on Treville's arms to hold him still. He surmised that pain would soon overwhelm the injured man.

The Captain tried to remain composed, but just as the big man predicted, he was caught in that terrible state where he could still sense pain, and could remain neither motionless nor silent.

A cry of pain from Treville sent a shudder through Porthos, but he had to focus on keeping his commander still. He hated the times when he had to use his strength against his friends...or his leader.

Every second seemed to stretch into hours. The Captain choked on his cries, his eyes squeezed shut while his trusted medic tortured him.

Suddenly, Porthos felt the Captain go limp under his hands. Panic gripped his heart, and he barely noticed Constance slip her hand out from beneath the Captain's lax fingers. She felt for the pulse at his wrist, then nodded in relief. Porthos looked at her with respect. He suspected that her hand must have been half-crushed by the Captain's desperate grip.

A sickening, sucking sound announced the removal of the bullet. Aramis began to irrigate the wound with copious amounts of old brandy. Its rich scent was effective at masking the pungent smell of blood and sweat. Treville grimaced, and moaned softly. It seemed as if oblivion had not succeeded in blocking all the pain that the medic was inflicting on his body.

Finally, Aramis was ready to close the wound. Porthos felt a bit sick as he watched the medic bury the blood-stained needle in the Captain's flesh. Meanwhile, Constance turned her attention to preparing an herbal poultice in the mortar. She added a few drops of an aromatic oil, mixed it thoroughly, then placed it next to Aramis. He gave her a nod of thanks, then applied it to the wound.

"Porthos, sit him up so I can bandage him." Aramis' voice was still devoid of emotion. Porthos wondered if the reason for his friend's stoic demeanor was the Captain's wound or the news of Queen's capture. He lifted up Treville, and noticed that Aramis avoided his gaze.

When the wound was dressed, Porthos asked if he was should to move the Captain to a bed.

Aramis nodded.

"Just give me a moment to get the bed ready." Constance slipped out of the room.

"Aramis, how is he?" Athos voice was low enough to conceal the anguish that he was likely feeling.

The medic lifted his head.

"The bullet broke two ribs, but the impact served to halt its path. Luckily, the lung is unscathed."

Porthos felt as if he could finally breathe easily again.

"But the news is not all good. The wound was left untended for far too long. He has lost quite a bit of blood, and the risk of infection is high."

"But he did regain consciousness, didn't he?" d'Artagnan asked uneasily.

"He did… but that was before he lost more blood." Aramis gestured towards the blood that was slowly dripping from the table. "The next two or three days will be crucial. If we are able to prevent an infection, he has a good chance of surviving."

Athos nodded, accepting the answer he'd been given.

Aramis turned to him. "I thought you had already left."

"I had to wait, because I need Porthos to come with me," Athos replied.

To Aramis, this sounded like I had to wait, because I needed to know the outcome of the surgery. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Constance enter the room once again.

"D'Artagnan will come as well," the lieutenant continued. "You are to stay as long as the Captain needs you. I'll send a message to the garrison, asking for reinforcements to be sent here. I'll try to send word to let you know where we've gone. I'll use the usual code."

"You cannot be sure that a message will ever reach the garrison," Aramis replied grimly.

"I'll take it," Constance offered.

Athos shook his head. "No, it's too dangerous."

"It makes sense," she said firmly. "I can't be bribed...and I can fight. I'm more likely to survive than a boy from one of the local villages." She smiled. "And you should know by now that I don't scare easily."

Athos considered her words for a moment, then relented.

"Fine. I've already written the letter. I've worded it vaguely, and given just enough information for the men to find their way here. You may let them know that the Captain has been wounded. It would be helpful if they could bring a physician with them."

Constance nodded. "The bed is ready. It's in the room next to the one you have been using."

Porthos carried Treville to the chamber, and placed him carefully on the bed. There was a candle on the small table near the bed, along with a bottle of wine. Constance had also left a jar that contained the rest of the poultice.

Aramis gave her a grateful smile, and sat down on the chair next to the bed. He poured himself a glass of wine, and prepared for a long vigil. His fingers automatically searched Treville's wrist for his pulse. Porthos guessed that the Spaniard would spend many hours by the bedside.

Athos glanced at his comrades."Time to go, gentlemen."

Porthos went to Aramis, and embraced him. "Take care, brother," he murmured.

The last thing he wanted was to leave Aramis behind, but he knew that the medic's place was by the side of their wounded Captain. He also knew that his brother was tormented by fear for his beloved queen, and desperately wanted to search for her. However, none of them could take his place at the bedside. They had neither the knowledge nor the skill to care for the critically wounded Treville. If Aramis had thought any differently, he would have insisted on going with them.

Athos placed his hand on Aramis' arm. "We'll find her. Focus on keeping him alive."

"I will," replied the medic, his voice betraying his emotions. "Stay safe."

Athos held his gaze for a moment, then nodded, and prepared to leave.

As he passed Constance, he murmured, "I'll go get your horse ready."

Porthos doubted the young woman had heard anything. She was in d'Artagnan's arms, lost in a passionate kiss.

A/N

Thank you for all your comments! I appreciate them so much!

Special thanks to my awesome Beta - Riversidewren :)