D'Artagnan

If he had been the only one on the horse, he would have remained in the saddle. However, when the blast hit, Vent stumbled, and Porthos started to fall. The Gascon made a desperate attempt to catch him, but failed. They both ended up tumbling down a steep slope towards the river.

D'Artagnan barely managed to take in a breath before they hit the water. The river, swollen from recent showers and melting snow in the mountains, was a challenge even for a good swimmer. The young musketeer was an experienced swimmer, but he was handicapped by the dead weight of the man that he held in his arms. The only thing the boy could do was to struggle to keep their heads above the water as the current carried them away.

For a moment he had heard the clash of swords and a few shots. That meant that his brothers had survived the explosion.

He felt like a deserter, and desperately tried to swim to the shore. After several minutes, however, he became numb from the cold, and exhaustion took hold of him.

He had to focus on the task he had in his hand - saving Porthos. Aramis and Athos were beyond his reach now.

Porthos' head lay on his arm in a position that allowed him to breathe. D'Artagnan held him securely as the river took them downstream.

A few minutes later, Porthos stirred in his arms. He was disoriented. Ignoring all of d'Artagnan's warnings and pleas, he struggled to free himself. The big man finally managed to hit the Gascon hard. Stunned, the boy sank under the surface.

With a strange sort of detachment, he found himself staring at the green river weeds, as well as the pale stones that were partially hidden by them. The silver surface above his head was adorned with little bubbles.

Suddenly something seized his collar, and he felt his body shooting upwards. An instant later, he broke the surface of the water.

"Breathe! D'Artagnan, breathe!" He heard the desperate plea, and found it puzzling. His blurred vision focused as he stared at his terrified friend. He could not understand why Porthos was so upset.

Something is wrong. Why am I not panicking?

Porthos dragged him roughly through the water, and the Gascon soon felt the ground under his feet. He managed to stand, and somehow followed Porthos, who seemed to be determined to stick to the direction he had chosen.

They finally reached the muddy shore, which was dotted with dark brown grass. For some time, they just lay there, gasping for air. After ten minutes or so, d'Artagnan finally coerced his frozen aching body to move. He struggled to his knees, and looked at the area around them.

They were now on the other side of the river, without any supplies. Their leathers were completely soaked, and it was certain that their powder was ruined. Luckily, the Gascon still had his rapier and dagger. He had not had time to draw them before they had been ambushed.

"Aramis? Athos?" Porthos croaked, slowly sitting up. He winced, and his hand clutched his wounded side.

D'Artagnan pried his hand off the area, and frowned as he inspected it. The boy bit his lip in frustration. "You've ripped your stitches."

Then he recalled Aramis' struggle to tend to Porthos' wounds. He remembered how the color had drained from the medic's face as he had stubbornly continued to work.

"I have no supplies... " d'Artagnan whispered, suddenly filled with guilt.

"It doesn't matter," Porthos growled. "Our first priority is to find Aramis and Athos."

Hopefully we will find them alive. Who knows what has happened to them…

"We need to cross the river," d'Artagnan said. He had almost commented on his companion's attitude, but had thought better of it. There was no way he would be able to dissuade Porthos from immediately setting out to find their friends.

The big man nodded, but eyed with distrust the water that separated them from their brothers.

"Since we managed to reach the shore here, perhaps the current is not so strong in this area," the Gascon said hopefully. However, he did not really believe his words. The river here was too narrow to be slow. He suspected that the local children chose this spot to play in during the summer months. The fast current would make it an exciting place to swim.

To swim… and to drown.

D'Artagnan knew that few children really knew how to swim. This was really not surprising, as few adults knew how to swim either. His father had been an exception - not only had he been an excellent swimmer, but he made it a point to teach all of his own children, as well as quite a few of their cousins and friends.

As they got up, d'Artagnan realized with fury that his vision had started to blur with tears when he thought about his father. No amount of time seemed to be able to change that.

Porthos was stumbling, but he finally reached the edge of the river, and started to slowly walk along it. He was moving at a snail's pace, and kept his hand clasped firmly over his injured side.

I really should do something about his wound, but I don't even have a dry cloth to use as a bandage. I hope he hasn't torn open all his stitches. If we are lucky, the bleeding will eventually taper off and stop...before he falls unconscious...or dies.

The walked on in silence, too exhausted to talk. D'Artagnan was in pain, but he doubted that any of his injuries were serious. However, if he did not get enough rest, they could be debilitating in the long run.

Finally, the river spread out into a vast marshland. Crossing it was feasible, but it would not be pleasant. D'Artagnan saw the silhouette of a horse on the other side, and froze. Was someone pursuing them?

But the horse had no rider.

"Nuit?" the boy whispered.

"Even if it is, she can't possibly hear you," Porthos murmured.

"I don't want to call out to her. Our enemies may be close by…plus, I don't want her getting into the marsh."

"What? Better we drown than her?!" Porthos asked incredulously.

"Well, she is my mare," d'Artagnan joked. He had attempted to lighten the mood, but he knew that he failed even before he saw Porthos' glare.

The ground under their feet was soft and slippery, and the level of the murky water rose with each step they took. Finally, d'Artagnan decided to swim instead of walking. Fortunately his leather protected him from the branches of the fallen tree which he encountered. Porthos followed him. He was doing his best to hide his pain, but did not succeed. Luckily, the current was minimal. Still, the water was freezing, and d'Artagnan struggled to remain focused. His thoughts drifted to Constance, and the time they had spent together at the estate. Even now, he was sure he could smell the scent of her hair.

Focus!

Even the knowledge that his brothers were in danger failed to give him any kind of nervous energy. As he approached the shore, the grass became too thick to swim through. He was shocked when he cautiously tried to touch the ground, and realized that water was only as deep as his knees.

After a few wobbly steps, he was out of the water. His soaked clothes stuck to him, and he was numb with cold. He glanced at Porthos, who was unsteadily splashing through the shallow water, then approached Nuit. The mare nuzzled his arm. Spots of dried blood covered her side and flanks, but she did not seem severely injured. However, he noticed that she was favoring her left rear leg. D'Artagnan patted Nuit's nose, then inspected her leg. A bad gash on her leg definitely needed stitches. He rummaged through his saddle bags, which fortunately were not too wet. Suddenly he realized that he had been so focused on his horse that he had forgotten about his wounded brother.

Some musketeer I am! I completely forgot about my wounded friend and brother!

Truly ashamed, he returned to Porthos. The big man gave him a quizzical look.

"I have to take care of your wound," d'Artagnan said hesitantly, not really sure what he could do for his friend. He definitely lacked Aramis' knowledge and skill. He took off the soaked bandage, then poured some alcohol on the wound. Porthos growled in pain, biting on his lip in an effort to remain silent.

D'Artagnan assessed the wound. It was still bleeding. Some stitches had opened up, but luckily, not all of them had. He gently prodded the swollen, red area.

"Just put a bandage on it and be done with it!" Porthos growled. "We need to get going!"

"I think it need stitches."

"We have no time for that! Bind it up so we can go. You've already had enough fun pouring brandy over my raw flesh."

"No! I do not want to have to explain to Aramis why I let you bleed out!" An exasperated D'Artagnan was nearly at the boiling point.

Ignoring Porthos' angry glare, he redid several of the stitches. Porthos tried to hide his discomfort, but he was obviously suffering. D'Artagnan knew the process had to be very painful for his friend, as he had to push the needle through burned skin.

"Are you satisfied now?" Porthos muttered, clearly annoyed.

The Gascon bound the wound, then gave him a curt nod. Then he turned his attention to the wound on Nuit's leg. There was not much bleeding, but the gash needed to be cleaned and stitched. Porthos' eyes followed his brother's every move with impatience. He was itching to set out on their rescue mission.

Finally, the Gascon was ready to go. He motioned for Porthos to mount Nuit. The big man managed to haul himself up onto the horse's back. He clearly was waiting for d'Artagnan to join him.

"She can't have two riders right now," d'Artagnan muttered "She really shouldn't be ridden at all, but we have no choice."

They started their journey back to the place of the ambush. It took them much longer than they had anticipated. D'Artagnan mentally cursed his poor physical condition. Although he was not hurt badly, his body was aching, and fatigue was slowly gaining the upper hand.

They finally reached the place of the explosion. The area was deserted. A few damaged trees and some marks on the sandy shore were the only signs that something had happened there. The sand was soaked with blood, and the hoofprints of multiple horses could be seen. They started to circle the area. D'Artagnan found a place where a cart had been kept.

"Do you think… they've been taken prisoner?" d'Artagnan whispered. He already knew the answer to his question, and he feared for Aramis. He knew that the medic would never survive being abused a second time. He had often thought that if such a thing were to happen to himself once again, he would likely be damaged beyond repair….and he guessed that the same wounds had mutilated Aramis' soul. There is only so much humiliation and pain a man can endure before he permanently loses his grip on his sanity. He was quite sure that Aramis was already close to the edge of the abyss.

If he crosses it, there will be no way back this time.

There will be no more Aramis…

That would be a wound that their brotherhood could not bear.

"He's strong," Porthos muttered, but he did not sound convinced.

He was… as was I once. Now we are just a liability…a weak link.

"D'Artagnan, stop it! We'll find them. Mis will be alright!"

When the Gascon merely looked at his brother sadly, Porthos seized d'Artagnan's leather jacket.

"They'll be alright! We must believe that they'll be alright!" he hissed desperately. Then he released his brother, and turned away, adding a barely audible, "Please!"

D'Artagnan only nodded. It was not difficult to track the path the cart had taken. He knew what he would find next - the tracks merged onto one of the larger roads, which had many carts travelling on it. However, the soil was still wet after the recent rain, so there was a chance that they would be able to tell where the cart had left the road.

D'Artagnan was not surprised when they found a tired, famished Vent. The horse greeted them happily, then immediately nosed the saddlebags in a desperate search for food.

"So Vent wasn't caught," d'Artagnan mused as he checked the horse. "And since we haven't found their bodies, I suspect that Orage and Nuage are also alive. Unfortunately the horse had sustained quite a few injuries. None of the damage was too severe, and miraculously, nothing was infected. However, the poor beast was in pain, and was obviously much weaker than usual.

"We're heading for Paris. Do you think they took Athos and Aramis there?" Porthos asked.

"Since Rochefort and his Red Guard are involved in this, it's quite possible," the Gascon replied. "Do you think the Red Guard were our attackers?"

"No. It would be unlikely for the Red Guard to venture so far from Paris… I suspect it was the True Musketeers."

"So we need to prove that the True Musketeers captured them on the orders of Rochefort and the Red Guard. That would be a very serious charge." There was hope in the younger musketeer's voice.

"First we have to find our brothers." Porthos' words sounded like a prayer.

"We'll find them," d'Artagnan murmured.

Porthos did not reply, and the Gascon felt that his brother was losing hope with every passing hour.

And many hours had now passed since the trap.