"You will be fine. Stay with me, Porthos. Please. Stay with me. You'll be fine." Those words had become Aramis' mantra as his world narrowed to the horse underneath him and the slumping man at his back. It helped him to keep the panic at bay, and to shore up his courage.

"You'll be fine. Stay with me."

Something was terribly wrong. The moment he heard the report of musket fire behind them and felt Porthos jerk against him, Aramis knew for certain that Porthos had been hit. When his friend had failed to answer his frantic questions, dread had begun to tighten like iron bands around his chest. The only question now was the severity of the wound. Guilt began to chew away at his roiling stomach as they rode on, and Aramis swallowed hard in an effort to push down his nausea.

Aramis felt Porthos' weight grow heavy on his back, and he realized that his brother was about to lose his battle against unconsciousness. Aramis had taken the reins from Porthos' slack hands and he now pulled up on them, forcing their horse to skid to a halt. He bent forward as low as he could as he awkwardly dismounted. His feet sank into the powdery snow just in time to see Porthos sag sideways. On a better day, Aramis might have been able to catch the big man and gently ease him down. As it was, the best he could do was to cushion Porthos' fall with his own body as they both hit the ground.

"Porthos?" Setting aside the pain that flared through his ribs, Aramis gently rolled his friend off and pushed himself up, settling on his knees. Cold leached in through the thin material of his breeches, freezing the skin underneath. He pressed his lips together, muffling the harsh cough that rattled his lungs. The white clouds puffing from Porthos' nose told him that his friend still lived. Pulling the big man up against him, Aramis began to gently and quickly prod at the unconscious man's back. His fingers came across the hole in the leather doublet and a patch of damp wetness almost immediately.

The wound was high on the back of Porthos' right shoulder, and the size of the wet stain on the leather doublet told Aramis that it had already bled heavily. Clamping one hand against the hole to try and stem the bleeding, he used the other to search for an exit wound. There was none.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," Aramis whispered. "I am so sorry. You shouldn't have come." He tore off two long strips from the edge of his cloak and wadded one up. "You should have stayed in Paris." Pressing it firmly against the wound, Aramis used the other to securely wrap Porthos' shoulder and to hold the cloth in place. Bright speckles of red marred the endless white around them, and Aramis' mind was suddenly wrenched back to the past year, when the deaths of his comrades had similarly stained sparse patches of snow under their still bodies. Not again. Please, not again. Aramis shook his head, banishing the memories to the back corner of his mind. He really, really hated Savoy. The place caused him nothing but pain.

Aramis glanced up at the horse that was standing patiently at their side, her sides heaving with exertion. He was acutely aware that they could not linger here. Even three soldiers could cause a world of trouble should they continue their pursuit of the Musketeers, and Aramis had no doubt that they would. The horse's back seemed impossibly high, and Aramis despaired at the thought of trying to lift his friend's heavy, limp body back onto the animal. It needed to be done, however. If he could get Porthos back on the horse, then he could send the animal on her way. His mind whirled dizzily with possibilites. The Spaniards only wanted him, not Porthos. If he stayed, then perhaps they would let his brother go free. Porthos did not have to die here.

Aramis staggered to his feet and bent down to lift the other Musketeer. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he was forced to pause with his eyes closed until the ground stopped tilting beneath him.

"Aramis? What happened?"

Aramis' eyes snapped open and he found Athos before him, staring down at him from his horse with a rare look of open confusion and concern on his face. Relief flooded through Aramis as he watched Athos dismount and rush over to the two downed Musketeers. In another unusual gesture, the swordsman clapped Aramis on the shoulder, his comforting grip firm and familiar.

"It is good to see you," Athos said, the words heartfelt and his eyes warm. Aramis reached up and clasped Athos' forearm, clutching it tightly in a wordless, thankful greeting. Suddenly, Aramis' task seemed a little less daunting. Releasing his grip on the marksman, Athos crouched in front of Porthos, lines of worry appearing between his brows. "What is wrong with him?"

"He was shot during our escape," Aramis murmured.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad enough." Aramis took a deep breath of dry mountain air and coughed. "We need to go, Athos. You need to take Porthos away to safety."

Athos frowned even as he moved to help Aramis lift the unconscious Musketeer. "We will all ride to safety. We came here to get you, and we are not leaving without you."

"No." Aramis blinked heavily, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. His head felt as though someone had replaced his brains with a small wad of wool. "They want me. Once they have me, they will leave you in peace. It is the only way - " The rest of his statement was abruptly interrupted as Athos roughly grabbed the front of his cloak.

"Stop this foolishness, Aramis," Athos ordered. Rather than the harshness Aramis had expected, the words were surprisingly gentle. "We either go together or we do not go at all. Failing to bring you home will wound Porthos as painfully as any lead ball. You know this."

Aramis looked down, unable to hold Athos' honest gaze. The past few weeks had been terrible, but the very thought of losing Porthos - or Athos - to this frozen wasteland was worse than anything he'd suffered thus far. As much as he wanted to argue, to yell at Athos and to force them both away, he simply did not have the energy for it. And it would have taken a lot - he was coming to learn that Athos was a deceptively and deeply stubborn man. Silence stretched between them and Athos gave the marksman a little shake. "Aramis? We need to go."

Aramis blinked again. He was not going to lose Porthos here. Not like Girard. Not like twenty Musketeers on a training maneuver. "Let's move."

With a wary nod, Athos stepped back. His critical eyes raked over Aramis and the marksman guessed that the view was very unimpressive. "Do you think you can help lift Porthos onto my horse?" the swordsman asked.

Aramis reached into his reserves and drew himself up. "I can take him."

Rather than disagreeing as Aramis expected, Athos merely raised an eyebrow, a grave look on his face. "I will protect him, Aramis. I promise."

With a long, shaky breath, the marksman finally nodded. Athos mounted and with Aramis' help, heaved Porthos' slack form onto his horse. Once Porthos was settled as comfortably as possible in front of Athos, he gestured for Aramis to get on his own horse. They were prepared to go not a moment too soon; Aramis' sharp ears picked up on the sounds of muted hoofbeats heading their way. As they kicked off in a white spray of snow, Aramis could feel his heart pounding, steadily pumping adrenaline through his veins. Despite the jolt that it gave him, he felt slow, stifled. He was still trying to wrap his mind around a reality that had suddenly shifted when Porthos had unexpectedly freed him from his captors. Things were moving too quickly, slipping in a direction that made fear bloom in his belly. He kept his gaze locked on Athos' back, afraid that the other Musketeers would disappear if he blinked. Perhaps that would be for the best, Aramis thought, briefly closing his eyes. If given a choice, he thought he would prefer to die alone in a Spanish prison than to see his friends go down by his side.

Athos squinted as he peered ahead, trying to see through the darkness. Night had fallen rapidly, and they had been forced to slow to a walk to save their horses from any fatal missteps. Although icy wind ruffled the edge of his hood, Athos barely felt it, as the exposed skin on his face had long gone numb. He felt Porthos stir once more, and he tightened his grip. Blood loss or not, Porthos was still a strong man.

"Porthos, please relax. It's Athos. You are safe." He pitched his voice low, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage. They did not need another mishap like the one they'd struggled through earlier.

"What?" Porthos mumbled as his head fell back against Athos' shoulder.

"It's Athos. Stay calm, you will be fine."

"I know who you are," came the testy reply. Athos might have smiled if their circumstances were less dire; it would appear that Porthos was more lucid than the last time he'd surfaced. "What happened? Where's Aramis?"

"Aramis is behind us." Athos craned his head around to peek behind his shoulder. He could see the dark silhouette of rider and horse about five meters behind. He noted with some concern that the rider appeared to be drooping over the horse's neck. "You were shot while fleeing from the soldiers that held Aramis captive."

"That explains why my back feels like I was stabbed with an icepick," Porthos muttered. He groaned as he shifted in the saddle. "You all right?"

"I am fine." His initial position above the procession of soldiers had been excellent; it had provided ample cover and was difficult to reach from the main trail. Once the Spaniards had ridden away from the prisoner cart, Athos waited until they had traveled a good distance up the slope, fired his pistol once more. His line of sight had been compromised by the movement of the soldiers, but his shot had startled one horse, who had stepped awkwardly to the side and had thrown its rider into a tree. The soldier had failed to get back up. Athos had ridden away then, easily evading the rest of the soldiers.

Upon reaching their rendezvous point, Athos had been concerned to find himself alone. That concern had rapidly grown into alarm as he waited for Porthos and Aramis, his mind persistently replaying the sound of shots fired down in the valley. After a few moments of indecision, he had spurred his horse into motion once more and had frantically ridden back towards the ambush point, hoping against hope that everything was fine. It had been quite a shock to stumble upon a beaten and bruised Aramis trying to lift a limp Porthos from a patch of crimson-stained snow. The elation that he had felt at seeing Aramis alive had mingled uncomfortably with his distress at finding Porthos bloody and unconscious. A relatively simple ambush and escape had suddenly become very complicated.

"How is Aramis?"

"I do not know." The marksman had looked rough and unhealthy, too thin and worn out. Athos had nearly failed to recognize the man when he had first encountered them. Despite it all, he had been standing on his own two feet - whole, breathing, and alive – which had been more than could be said about Porthos. "We will need to stop soon. We must to see to your wound."

Porthos grunted in response, which Athos decided to interpret as an affirmative. He drew his mount to a halt and waited for Aramis to catch up. The comte had not seen or heard any signs of their pursuers in the past hour. With the plummeting temperatures, Athos thought that the cold would be a greater enemy than the Spanish soldiers.

"Is something wrong? Is it Porthos again?" Aramis' voice sounded weary and scratchy, as if he'd swallowed a handful of broken glass.

"What do you mean, 'again'?" Porthos rumbled.

"Porthos? Are you truly awake this time?" Aramis pushed his hood back off his face.

"Yeah. Why, did something happen?"

"Nothing we could not handle," Athos stepped in smoothly. He did not need Porthos and Aramis arguing over something that was already done and past. "We need to look for shelter. Or at the very least, find some place to stop for the night."

"Should have looked before it started getting dark," Porthos grumbled. He was not the most gracious person when in pain, Athos was coming to find. Not that he could blame the man.

Athos shrugged. "Perhaps. I thought we might still be overtaken, but I do not believe we need to worry about that at the moment."

Aramis cast his eyes about as though he hoped to find a conveniently located cabin nearby. "There might be some caves up that way," he said, pointing. Athos strained to see anything in the gloom.

"Do you see something?" he finally asked.

"There is a series of stacked cliffs," Aramis said. He coughed into his fist and cleared his throat before continuing. "The face of the stone looks fairly jagged, and there are plenty of boulders. I think there is a good chance we will find something suitable."

Athos shook his head, marveling at the marksman's keen eyesight. He supposed it was a requirement for Aramis' specialty. "I will take your word for it," Athos acquiesced.

He allowed Aramis to lead the way as he could not see the formations that Aramis described. After struggling up a rough, steep trail, they thankfully found a cavern entrance that was was cut into the cliff face. The narrow opening widened into a cave that was not particularly deep, but wide enough to shelter three men and two horses. Several boulders guarded the entry point, shielding it from wind and hopefully from predators, both the animal and human kind.

Once Porthos was settled on the cavern floor and covered up in blankets, Athos braved the cold once more and gathered an armful of wood. Most of it was wet, but he'd managed to find a large, rotting log that was dry on the inside. Tinder and a strike of flint led to a small fire that glowed with warm life within the cave. It crackled quietly, offering cheer in a place where there was little to be found. Aramis placed a small tin pot filled with snow on the edge of the fire. Athos grimaced; he knew what would be coming next.

"Porthos?" Aramis crouched down by Porthos' still form and placed a gentle hand on the prone man's shoulder. "Are you with me, brother?" The flickering firelight served to deepen shadows, transforming the sharp lines of the marksman's bruised face into something grim and skull-like. He suddenly turned away and buried his mouth in the crook of his elbow. A series of deep, barking hacks escaped from him, and Athos frowned.

"Are you ill?" he asked.

Aramis waved away the question as he spat in disgust. "It will pass," he gasped. "Would you be so kind as to place your dagger in the flames?"

Athos let the moment go as they had more urgent matters to attend and did as Aramis asked. He then went and crouched by the other Musketeer's side. The marksman glanced at him. "You would not happen to have any wine?"

The comte shook his head regretfully. If only he did. "I have been dry since before we reached Susa and haven't had to time to replenish," he said.

"That is tragic indeed," Aramis murmured with a small, sympathetic smile. "Will you help me get Porthos up?"

The two men maneuvered their third into a sitting position despite his complaints and grumbles, and Aramis rapidly undid the makeshift bandage then stripped Porthos of his doublet and shirt. His brow furrowed as he examined the raw-looking wound, carefully palpating the muscle around the injury. "I will have to remove the ball," he announced. "It is not too deep, but we cannot risk leaving it in and causing more damage."

"I was afraid you would say that," Porthos said groggily. "This is the worst part."

"Worse than being wounded in the first place?" Aramis tsked as he helped to ease his friend onto his belly on a blanket laid out by the fire. "I believe the blood loss is beginning to affect your reasoning, my friend."

Aramis moved the bubbling pot of water away from the fire and pulled out a tightly rolled wallet from one of the pouches on his belt. The small leather envelope held needles of different sizes as well as coils of tough thread and a pair of fine forceps. Aramis smiled when he caught Athos staring at the tools.

"I learned a valuable lesson during our little escapade," he said lightly. "Now I keep these on my person at all times."

Athos nodded, recalling the ugly stab wound Aramis had suffered while delivering missives on behalf of the king. Their horses had been frightened off, and it had only been luck that Aramis had saved the saddlebags that carried his needles. Athos pulled his blade from the fire and allowed it to cool, watching in silent, morbid fascination as Aramis cleaned his tools and prepared to treat Porthos' wound. The marksman's newfound determination to learn a medic's trade was proving to be unfortunately useful.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. This will hurt, but I must ask you to remain still."

The big man nodded silently, his eyelids at half-mast.

Aramis bent over Porthos' back and slowly, delicately inserted the tip of Athos' knife into the wound. The big Musketeer's hands clenched into tight fists and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. A deep, agonized growl rose up from his chest, and Aramis firmly pressed his hand against Porthos back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered. Aramis dug in deeper, trying to work as quickly as he could as fresh blood spilled from the ragged hole, but it was no use. Porthos bucked under his hold and rolled his side, his arm reflexively swinging. The back of his hand caught the marksman in the jaw and knocked him over. The dagger Aramis held clattered to the ground.

"Porthos!" Athos scrambled over as the big Musketeer collapsed back onto the ground. "Calm yourself!"

The big man lay panting on the ground, eyes still closed as he tried to ride out a wave of agony. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

Athos turned to Aramis, who was slowly pushing himself upright. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Aramis blinked a few times, looking groggy. "I should have expected that."

Despite Porthos' violent reaction, the wound still needed to be treated. Aramis bent over Porthos once more, this time with Athos leaning his weight against the prone man's back. It proved to be unnecessary, however, as the big Musketeer promptly passed out as Aramis resumed his grisly duties.

"This is much easier," Aramis acknowledged as he removed the offending ball and bits of cloth with his forceps. He thoroughly cleaned the wound with cooled, boiled water, and sewed it up with shaking fingers.

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps next time we should ensure that he is unconscious before you begin."

Aramis shook his head, gazing down at his insensate friend with a mix of fondness and guilt. "I'd rather there not be a 'next time'," he said quietly, pulling a blanket up over Porthos' shoulders. "Take Porthos back to Susa tomorrow morning, and care for him there. He is in no condition to be on the trail."

Athos frowned. "And where will you be?"

"I will lead the soldiers way from you. They only want me. There is no need for you or Porthos to suffer from what they perceive to be my crimes. You will be safe."

The swordsman made an ungentlemanly sound, unimpressed with Aramis' plan. "You cannot truly believe that Porthos would be safe while we remain in Savoy. We attacked and killed a convoy of Spanish soldiers. There is a garrison in Susa. I will allow you to draw your own conclusions."

The worn marksman shrugged. "You should not have come here."

Athos tilted his head. "And why not?"

Aramis shuffled back, pulling away from the warm glow of the fire. He leaned against the cold stone of the cavern wall, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows upon them. He dug his fingers into his unkempt hair. "You shouldn't have." Aramis closed his eyes and coughed.

"If Porthos was in your position, would you not do the same as he has done?"

The marksman shrugged, but he did not disagree.

"I know are you many things, but I did not think a hypocrite was one of them."

Aramis' eyes flew open. "I would gladly be called a hypocrite if it meant my brothers were safe," he snapped.

"So you are the only one that is allowed the privilege of ensuring that your friends are alive and well? You would deny Porthos and me the same reassurance?"

The marksman glared at Athos as he cleared his throat. The sound was thick and gritty, and Athos winced to hear it. "I would. I am selfish in that regard." His eyes slipped shut once more, clearly done with the conversation.

Athos poked at the fire with a stick. It felt dry in his hand, and so he added it to the flames. The swordsman gradually felt himself relaxing as his frozen limbs thawed. He thought that perhaps he should not care so much, but the marksman's rejection of their help stung him. Athos felt himself sliding into a dark mood as a long, loaded silence stretched between the two men.

"Porthos said you were a part of the Savoy massacre." Athos was not quite sure what possessed him to bring up the painful topic, but the words involuntarily slipped out of his mouth. Perhaps it was a small, petty bit of retaliation.

Aramis nodded wearily, eyes still closed. "This wretched place has given me nothing grief."

"I see."

"I have already lost twenty-one brothers to this land." Aramis sighed, and when he finally looked at Athos, his gaze held none of the angry fire it had before. It was simply tired, swirling with ghosts that refused to leave him in peace. "My partner as well. I would rather die than lose another. I could not bear it."

Brothers. Athos thought that he understood. Maybe he could not fathom Aramis' specific pain, but loss was loss, and it was something Athos was well-acquainted with. "Sleep, if you can," he said, standing to take care of their horses. "I will take first watch."

tbc

Thank you to everyone that reviewed, and thanks for reading!