Thank you all for your comments on the last chapter! Here we are with a continuation to 'Manhandling' - this is the third version I wrote, and brief as it is, it seemed to fit best. We'll continue later with 'Broken Ribs'.

Shot.

He's... shot someone.

...who?

He's nauseous.

Is he on a boat? No, water would be softer – there's a harsh clanging noise – clop, clop, clop – quite rhythmical. Stop – stop, he's going to be sick – (is he sodden?) – his head, his head is about to burst – stop, stop –

What is he looking at?

Brown surfaces, different textures but too blurred to make sense – shifting, a gentle up-and-down. Something...about it is almost familiar – but the nausea slams into him again and he squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering as acid rushes up to his mouth. Disgusting. Let him go, leave him– God, he's going to be sick –

Movement stops (is he being manhandled?). Hands grasp at him, and there's a change in elevation and his eyes fly open and he pushes at the arms angrily, trying to get himself free. (Arms. Disembodied.) He can't get rid of them, they're restraining him - the world is tilting wildly, the grass and mud and earth under his palms are blessedly reassuring but the swaying has returned in full force – trembling so badly that he feels undone, and with a feeling that he's done this before, Aramis falls forward and heaves.

" –ronne d'Or in Elancourt?"

"- we push on. They need Lemay–"

"Easy now, got you-"

The words are garbled and out of tune – is he under water? He's wet – they are – they're talking to him. Porthos. Porthos –

Stilling himself, Aramis sat up with his hands firmly planted on the ground, and squinted.

"You with me?"

"Porth's-"

"Easy." The arm around his shoulders tightened. "You got a nasty wound on your head. You know where we are?"

Where–

Not important. Something... something else is, but...

"Shot..." he whispered, not realizing he was speaking aloud, "...I've shot..."

"Huh?"

"...someone..." Who? Who has he shot? Something is hovering just at the edge of his grasp, teasing –God, maddening him! – his fingers grasp a fistful of grass and pull at it – he needs to remember, remember urgently, who -

"Look at me – hey, look at me."

Porthos's hands cradled his head and lifted it and Aramis made a pitiful sound as his mouth soured again at the sight of eyes, a nose and a mouth sliding around and running into each other's space, all the while on an inexplicably translucent face. He didn't catch the way Porthos's expression morphed into worry.

"Nah, you can't," Porthos mumbled, squeezing Aramis's arm absentmindedly.

Something shifted.

"Alrigh'. You know the drill. Deep breaths. Nice an' slow, deep breaths, yeah? Not long 'till we reach the city. Lemay'll sort you out once we reach the garrison. But you need to 'old on a bit, yeah?"

And he was being shifted again, pulled to his feet.

His breathing quickened, loud and panicked – stop – his head, his head is exploding – Porthos, Porthos-! –

"Whoa –!"

"- got him?"

"Aramis? Nah, come on, come on-" Meant just for him, almost in his ear - but sound is melting now, like quicksand under his feet - his heartbeat is raising volume and consuming him, taking residence in his head and settling there with the self-assurance of a king – he is lost. Aramis knows, just then, that he's lost.

Defeated.

He accepts it. It is too painful to resist.

But one thought trails him like a snake through the dark, slithering and dead-set-

Who has he shot?