This directly follows up on Chp.9, 'Friendly Fire'. I'd recommend a quick read if you don't remember what's happened!

Manhandling (1)

For a moment, nothing but rain pattering on leaves, drops hitting and splashing from rocks, breeze creating a whirlwind among leaves, thrusting life from the ground, the earth, the trees. Silver sparks from joyous waterdrops, hitting everything as if in contest to prove which of them can sing the most alluring note. A thin layer of mist veiled over it all, giving the scene an almost other-worldliness: nature alone, calm and ethereal in its uncommon peace.

On the ground, there are four bodies.

Two of them are still - so still they almost seem part of the serenity of the scene. But the other two show signs of life yet: one is slumped against a large boulder with blood and rain running down his face, groaning pitifully, while the other is swaying on all-fours, hands buried in the grass, trying to get up and failing repeatedly. It is this latter one, Athos, who will manage to rise first, and propel life -and action- on again. Just... not yet. A harsh cough rips from his throat and turns into a tearing fit, his hands on the ground clench into fists before he brings one up to wrap his arm around his side. When he finally manages to push up, he sits on his haunches and yanks at his scarf, reaching up to massage his throat carefully.

Then his eyes alight on Aramis and with a curse under his breath he pushes to his feet, grabs his sword clumsily and, coughing some more, staggers towards Aramis. Once he reaches the marksman he sinks back to his knees and reaches out. Aramis's eyes are open, but other than that, nothing about his appearance is very heartening.

Not that it matters. They don't have time.

"Aramis." Turning the marksman's head towards himself carefully, Athos pulls off his scarf with the other and presses it over the cut above Aramis's eye. "Aramis, look at me. Look at me."

Aramis tries.

"We have to go. More men may be coming - can you get up?"

There's no voice from Aramis but he clumsily raises one hand up, and Athos takes it as compliance. "Come on." He ducks his head to draw Aramis's arm over his shoulder and straightens up, only to gasp when something stabs him sharply in the chest and takes his breath away. He squeezes his eyes, fighting an invasion of darkness and an explosion of stars.

Aramis's hand is trying to pat his arm, perhaps for support, perhaps for reassurance, but it doesn't matter - they don't have time. Athos grits his teeth, adjusts Aramis's weight and pushes up again. They can't linger here. They have to get down the hill. Men may still be in pursuit: how they discovered them up on the hill is a question to be solved later, Athos only hopes that the Musketeers down in the prison yard have the situation under control. He doesn't know if Aramis has managed to shoot Guerin, their target; he doesn't know if d'Artagnan-

He slips a little on the rocky terrain and instinctively tightens his hold on Aramis while righting their stance again.

The decent is precarious. The ground is slippery, the earth already mired under the heavy rain; mud squelches under their boots as they clamber down. The forest has grown dim around them, and beside Athos, Aramis is eerily silent. Athos, for one, feels like he has fought Goliath; if they are attacked again, he's not sure how well they will fare. He has no desire to put it to test.

He has no warning before Aramis abruptly comes alive and shoves Athos off, hurling himself aside and falling to his knees before being violently ill. Cursing under his breath Athos tries to right himself where he has fallen, seized by a string of harsh coughs (a lung feels like it's been ripped open- and why is he is trying to swallow whole walnuts?) - he crawls towards Aramis as soon as he's regained a little sense and pulls the marksman up to sit again.

Aramis is as white as a sheet under the rain. His hair is plastered to his face and the cut on his brow is still bleeding, now at the center of considerable swelling. His grimace betrays pain as he extends a trembling hand to grasp Athos's wrist.

"D'Art-" he falters, "d'Artagnan?"

"I don't know."

Athos refuses to think about it. They must get down and meet Porthos. "Come on."

"Athos, I've not -" Aramis tries to grab the front of Athos's uniform but fails-

"I don't know, but we have to go." They have no time for this - grabbing both of Aramis's wrists, Athos, for what feels like the hundredth time, gets them up again, but as soon as they're upright he reaches out in alarm as Aramis sways. Drawing one arm quickly over his shoulder again, he holds the marksman close and steady, looking over him in worry. That blow to the head must have had considerable force behind it; for the first time, Athos feels concern cut clean through the danger of their circumstances and the anxiety driving him. "I have you," he murmurs quietly.

There's a faint noise from Aramis as his eyes flutter close. Athos grips his sword even tighter in his other hand, sets his jaw, and with singular determination, starts them down the path again.

/

By the time they've reached the base of the hill, they've stumbled and fallen several more times; they're soaked to the bone and covered in mud - and frankly, they're miserable. Athos feels lightheaded, as if pushing through sludge, his limbs leaden. Aramis has lost all awareness. They must find the Musketeers - Athos leaves the marksman where he's slumped against the slope and uses his sword to propel himself forward, coughing and cradling his chest. Which direction now, left or right? The woods seem... foreign. Isn't this the way they'd come? No, this doesn't seem familiar -

Shouts are heard in the distance, and Athos draws a sharp breath and scrambles back.

(It seems he will have to test how well he'll fare in a fight. Very well. Let them come.)

So when the sound of horse hooves approach and the shouts come close enough to be discernable - "Aramis! Athos!" - relief makes Athos's shoulders sag as he moves out from behind trees he's chosen for cover. He walks down the side of the road to meet Porthos and promptly collapses.

"Athos!"

"Whoa, alrigh', gotcha-"

"Aramis," he mumbles, feeling Porthos's strong hands haul him up. He can't quite follow what happens next but realizes he's being helped up a horse by someone other than Porthos - another Musketeer? - and this time, can't help but let out a sharp hiss as that invisible dagger perforates his lung again.

Hands hold him secure in the saddle (he's doubled up with someone - who is it - d'Artagnan?). Porthos has drawn Aramis's arm over his shoulder and is carrying him hurriedly, putting him up on his own horse before swinging himself up. The person behind Athos nudges the animal, and they start slowly down the road.

"Porth..."

Breathing is decidedly painful. Everything is swaying, dripping wet, uncomfortable.

He wants to ask of d'Artagnan but he needs to catch his breath first. He leaves his head back against the shoulder of whomever it is that's holding him, and his eyes slip close.

He just... needs... his breath.

...where is d'Artagnan?