Porthos lifted his head, spitting out mud as he did so. Aramis tried to stifle a moan of pain through gritted teeth. Porthos reached out to him.

'Idiot!' yelled the General who was pushing himself up to stand.

Porthos glared at Du Froid and listed the things he wanted to do to the man in his mind. Athos made eye contact with him and shook his head. There was too much at stake to waste time on the General despite their loathing of him. Porthos' revenge would have to wait.

'Aramis, where are you hit?' asked Athos.

Aramis lifted his hand which had been resting on his right side, his glove was slick with blood.

'Damn you,' said Du Froid who was looking down at d'Artagnan. 'The dressing, it's slipped. Deal with it.'

Porthos looked at d'Artagnan who was lying slightly on his side, his hand pressing down on his thigh where he had been shot. Athos moved towards their other injured brother.

'No. Him. He's the medic.'

Du Froid indicated Aramis, whose ripped doublet revealed a stained shirt beneath it. The injury was bleeding badly, and Aramis already looked pale.

'He's injured,' said Porthos with incredulity.

'He's the medic.'

Before Porthos could remonstrate further with Du Froid, Aramis moved forward, dragging his bag behind him. Porthos helped to support his friend, pressing down on the injury to his side. Aramis was taking shallow breaths. Athos went to reach for the bag.

'Aramis will deal with it. You two need to take out some of the musket men. Do what you're paid for.'

Porthos saw the look of disdain on Athos' face as he pulled his gun and twisted to find a target. Porthos did the same as Aramis worked on d'Artagnan. Each time he reloaded he glanced at the two injured men. D'Artagnan was watching Aramis' work, the shocked look on his face probably as much due to the pain he was in as to the attitude Du Froid had towards Aramis.

Each time Porthos took out one of the enemy, he imagined it was Du Froid. The General did not deserve to be a leader of men. He was not a leader of men; he was a fraud.

'Get him up.'

'What about Aramis?' asked Porthos.

'Leave him.'

'We need to get a dressing on the wound.'

'Leave him. That information needs to get through. D'Artagnan is the only one of you that is valuable.'

'You are insane,' said Athos, unable or unwilling to restrain his anger.

The General rounded on them both, 'if that man,' he indicated d'Artagnan, 'does not make it back to the camp. I will have you both shot. Move. Now!'

The General moved off, towards safety. Leaving the four alone for the first time.

'Go,' said Aramis, who was watching them from his position sprawled on the ground. 'Help d'Artagnan.'

Porthos shook his head. He turned to Athos who tilted his head and sighed. Porthos guessed his friend knew what he was going to say.

'You are signing your death warrant,' said Athos before Porthos could speak.

Porthos nodded, 'I know, but I ain't leaving him.'

'No, Porthos,' said Aramis as he worked out what was happening.

They both ignored him. Porthos helped Athos to pull d'Artagnan up. The pair stumbled off, taking a more circuitous route than the General probably would have liked. But if it meant they got to the camp without further issue and less chance of d'Artagnan's injury being agitated it made sense.

'Go with them,' said Aramis weakly from behind Porthos.

'I'll avoid him when we get back to camp. He'll forget I even exist once d'Artagnan's passed on the information.'

Aramis did not reply. Porthos grabbed Aramis' bag and pulled out the biggest dressing he could find. After pushing Aramis' doublet open, he pressed the dressing over the wound and grabbed Aramis' hand. Aramis held the dressing in place as Porthos wrapped it around his middle.

'It's bad,' said Aramis. 'I might not even make it to the surgeon. You should leave me. I don't want to be responsible for you being shot for helping me.'

'You don't get a say,' muttered Porthos. 'I'm not leaving you and that's the end of it.'

Aramis could not protest as Porthos pulled him up to stand. His friend was leaning heavily on him, occasional whimpers of pain underlining how bad the injury was. A deep furrow had been carved in Aramis' side. The ball may not have buried itself in his flesh, like d'Artagnan's wound, but it had done a good job of incapacitating its target.

They moved off, Porthos tried to lead them over the flattest parts of the battlefield. It always amazed him how focused soldiers would get on the man or men they were fighting. It meant that, although there was still the risk of being hit by musket men, they were able to move largely unmolested.

'Leave me,' Aramis said. 'He'll kill you.'

'Shh,' replied Porthos.

He did not care. Du Froid could try to have him shot, but at that point Aramis would be safe in the care of the army's surgeon. And Porthos would not go without a fight. If he could take Du Froid with him. He would.

To be continued…

Whumpee: Aramis and d'Artagnan. Featuring: Porthos and Athos