D'Artagnan checked the dressing covering the wound on Aramis' hip. The bandage was still clean and dry. He hoped the deep cut had stopped bleeding and would begin to heal. Although that would only be the case if his friend was allowed to rest. Properly rest, not lie in the middle of a rocky natural enclosure on the boundary of the lands of a man who would very much like to kill them all. Aramis did not stir as d'Artagnan worked, he had passed out while he and Porthos were tending to the wound. But that was some time ago. Porthos had since left, albeit reluctantly, to deliver the intelligence, leaving d'Artagnan to watch over two injured Musketeers on his own.

Athos was watching him.

'You should scout the area.'

'No one will find us,' said d'Artagnan over his shoulder as he covered Aramis with his cloak.

Athos was lying on his side, trying not to show home much discomfort he was in. A similar injury afflicted Athos, although his had been obtained in a different manner. Where Aramis had been caught by a nail ripping into his skin, Athos had been shot as he caused a distraction to allow their mission to be completed.

'We do not want to be taken by surprise-'

'You should rest, Athos. I don't need to be told what to do,' d'Artagnan snapped back.

Athos did not respond for a few seconds. D'Artagnan regretted his words instantly.

'Porthos will be fine,' said Athos.

D'Artagnan wondered how much effort Athos had made to make his words sound genuine. His next words were honest.

'And neither of us is capable of looking after ourselves at the moment. Much as I would have preferred you to go with Porthos-'

'He's probably not going to draw as much attention on his own anyway,' finished d'Artagnan.

Athos nodded. D'Artagnan reached into Aramis' medical bag, hunting for another dressing. He knew he would need to change the bandage on Athos' leg. His fingers brushed against a couple of vials of pain-killing draughts. He doubted he would be able to persuade Athos to drink one, but that would not stop him from trying.

He turned to Athos and smiled. His friend had given in to the pull of sleep. His breathing was even, and his expression finally relaxed. After checking the dressing was not too bloody, d'Artagnan decided Athos could wait a while for attention.

He got to his feet easing out the kink in his neck from leaning over his two friends. He rolled his shoulders and looked at the darkening sky. He decided he would chance a fire. Athos would probably not approve, but if he could get it lit before Athos awoke the man could not do much about it. They needed to keep warm, the pain-killing draughts would need to be heated and there was a good chance the injuries his friends carried would need to be cleaned again.

It did not take d'Artagnan long to set a small fire in the centre of their camp. He prepared the painkillers and set them to warm on the edge of the fire.

'Where's Porthos?'

D'Artagnan looked across to Aramis who was looking around with confusion.

'Don't move too much,' admonished D'Artagnan. 'You're hurt.'

'I know I'm hurt,' replied Aramis with a shake of his head, 'but I don't know where Porthos is.'

'Gone to take the intelligence to Paris.'

Aramis sighed, 'I'll be glad when this mission is over.'

D'Artagnan huffed out a laugh, 'I think we all will be.'

He spent a few minutes updating Aramis on what had happened after he passed out. Aramis was annoyed that Porthos had gone before he had come around.

'You'll see him again,' assured d'Artagnan, a little worried by the pensive look Aramis gave him.

'I know,' said Aramis. 'I know I should not let it bother me, but…'

He trailed off for a few moments.

'I had a friend once,' Aramis said when he finally spoke again. 'In the garrison, I was in before Treville asked me to join the Musketeers. Jean was my age. We were… troublemakers. Always getting told off, threatened with the lash - more than once.'

Aramis looked into the distance and smiled sadly.

'What happened?' asked Aramis.

'He died,' replied Aramis. 'He was sent across the city to collect some documents. Nothing secretive, nothing serious. A cadet could have done it. A horse got spooked. He tried to calm it and was kicked.'

'That won't happen to Porthos,' said d'Artagnan.

'I know, but I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to Jean when he went… because I had been in a fight and was unconscious in the infirmary.'

'This is similar?'

Aramis shrugged, 'not really. A bit. I don't know. Similar enough.'

'Porthos will die in battle,' said d'Artagnan with certainty. 'Or in bed surrounded by grandchildren having spent his last days telling them embellished tales of what you two got up to in your youth.'

Aramis chuckled, wincing when he inadvertently shifted slightly, 'you're right. Of all of us, he will have the most glorious, or the most serene, death.'

They were silent for a few seconds, and d'Artagnan contemplated their situation. Despite them both saying they were sure Porthos would be fine, there was every chance he would not be. He could be intercepted by the landowners' men as he fled with the intelligence to Paris.

'You shouldn't feel guilty about not going with him,' said Aramis, who appeared to be able to read his thoughts.

D'Artagnan nodded. He twisted around to grab one of the painkilling draughts. Aramis wrinkled his nose in disgust.

'You know they work.'

'And I know they taste disgusting.'

D'Artagnan chuckled, 'perhaps you should play with the recipe and make them taste less foul.'

Aramis reluctantly took the cup and drank. D'Artagnan helped him to lay back on the rocks. He wished he could do more to make the injured men more comfortable, but they were cut off from anyone else and reliant on Porthos returning with help. The injuries both Aramis and Athos had received were such that neither man could move unaided nor mount up and ride to safety.

There was little d'Artagnan could do except watch over his friends.

Aramis was soon asleep, the pain-killing draught helping him to relax fully.

D'Artagnan walked to the narrow, stony entrance to their encircled hideout. When Porthos had scouted the area for a likely camp he had outdone himself. The natural wide gully had a slim entrance bordered by ragged rocks. The walls were high, it would be difficult for anyone to reach the top of the rocky walls due to thick brambles blanketing the area. D'Artagnan vowed to buy Porthos a drink on their return. The only issue would be that there was no other escape for them. If they were found, which he knew was unlikely, he would have to hold the enemy off along the narrow entranceway. And he would not be able to do that indefinitely.

A moan from behind him drew him back to his injured friends. Athos had woken up, moved and caused himself pain. D'Artagnan wondered if his caregiving duties would consist solely of offering comfort each time one of his friends forgot they were injured and moved to cause themselves pain.

It took Athos a few seconds to calm his breathing, his eyes screwed shut, a curse on his lips. D'Artagnan waited patiently, one hand resting on his friend's shoulder to steady him. Athos nodded he was alright and slowly eased himself onto his back, taking a while to relax again. D'Artagnan helped to prop Athos up slightly using a bag to soften the hard rocks.

Athos looked across to Aramis.

'He was awake for a few minutes,' said d'Artagnan. 'He was fine, making sense. He took one of the painkillers.'

Athos narrowed his eyes at d'Artagnan. He was about to say something derogatory, but d'Artagnan returned the narrowed-eyed look, stopping him. Athos sighed instead.

'I do not like being compromised. What if we are attacked?'

'What are you going to do if we're attacked? You can't get up and fight. You've only got a limited sightline to the gap in the rocks. You'd be no help.'

Athos looked annoyed at d'Artagnan's comments, despite them being the unembellished truth. He nodded towards the waiting painkiller. D'Artagnan handed it to him, watching him, to make sure he drank it all.

'You'll feel better for it,' said d'Artagnan as Athos settled back and closed his eyes in an almost defiant manner.

After a few seconds, Athos' breathing settled.

D'Artagnan was alone with his thoughts again.

He carefully changed the dressing on Athos' leg, not finding any sign of infection. Although it was still only a few hours since the injury was caused. D'Artagnan could not get complacent. Either man could take a turn for the worse. He had been a soldier long enough to see the horrible consequences of infected injuries. He had even been on the receiving end of one a few months before. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat. And not one he would wish on anyone else.

A sense of loneliness drifted over d'Artagnan. His friends were both sleeping soundly, something that would only help their conditions. Rest was important for the injured men. But it also meant d'Artagnan felt alone. He could think of nothing to do other than collect all their guns together and ensure they were all primed and ready. He did not risk taking them apart to clean, but he could ensure that he and his friends would be ready for a fight if it was necessary. Not that Athos or Aramis would be able to contribute much, but d'Artagnan did not want to leave them weaponless if the worst should happen.

The fire crackled a little, d'Artagnan poked at it for a few seconds, watching tiny embers float up and blink out of existence, like stars fading away. He thought back to his brief conversation with Aramis about Porthos. He wondered what each of their deaths would be like. He knew it was not a particularly pleasant thing to think about, but at that moment it filled his mind. There was glory in a battlefield death, dying for one's King and country, but dying hidden away with an injury that should have been survivable was wrong. He did not expect to see all his friends reach old age, he had already lost friends at the garrison. The first time had been shocking. The manner that the rest of the soldiers dealt with the death seemed odd to d'Artagnan. They visited a tavern and drank it dry, singing and telling tales about the dead man. It was oddly joyous. Tinged with sadness, but there was love for the dead man and fond memories. D'Artagnan wondered if the rest of the garrison would celebrate their lives if they did not return from the mission. Theirs would not be a death in battle, would they still deserve to be memorialised?

He was snapped from his maudlin thoughts by a sound. He could not place the sound, nor work out where it came from. He looked at the two sleeping Musketeers at his side. Neither man had stirred. Another sound. D'Artagnan looked towards the opening of their hiding place. Did he see a flicker of light against the jagged stone walls? The flames of the fire made the surrounding area darker, and d'Artagnan struggled to make out the natural alleyway. He could see a couple of yards into it then the inky blackness took over. Apart from that odd flicker.

D'Artagnan knew they had been found. It was too soon for Porthos to have returned with help.

His heart thumping in his chest, d'Artagnan felt for his weapons. His gun and sword were where they were supposed to be. He thanked whatever had given him the foresight to make sure their weapons were ready. With slow movements, he picked up Aramis' second gun and eased himself to his feet. He moved stealthily away from the small fire, his eyes adjusting to the changing light.

There was a flicker of flame in the natural gap in the rocks that formed the entrance to their camp. D'Artagnan crouched behind a boulder, aiming Aramis' gun over the top, watching the entranceway as the walls lit up. The light was bouncing against the rocks creating odd shadows.

D'Artagnan was as ready as he could be for whoever was about to emerge from within the rocks.

To be continued…

Whumpee: Athos and Aramis. Featuring: D'Artagnan.