Porthos woke next to the dull glow of ash-coated embers. Carefully tucked under a thick wool blanket, the cold had yet to touch him. He blinked heavily at the image of Athos, dozing fitfully before the dying fire and it was a moment before panic seized him.
Aramis? Where is he? His brother was not in his line of sight, and suddenly Porthos feared that the rescue had been nothing but a dream. He tried to roll himself onto his side with the intention of rising to his feet, and was immediately punished for his hasty movement when pain erupted in his shoulder.
"Aramis?" His voice was a weak croak, and it irritated him to hear it. He licked his dry lips and tried again. "'Mis?"
Oddly enough, it was Athos that responded, jerking awake at the sound of the marksman's name. "Pardon?" he said, blue eyes swimming with confusion. Porthos rolled his eyes. Even with his brain cobwebbed with sleep, the new Musketeer was annoyingly refined.
"Where is he?" Porthos asked.
"He is behind you," the swordsman replied, and Porthos realized that the faint whistling sound he heard was Aramis' steady breaths. Athos came over to Porthos' side and lay a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. "How are you feeling?"
"Could be better, I suppose," Porthos grunted. In truth, it felt like someone had snapped a bear trap around his shoulder. The pain unrelentingly squeezed at him and radiated down his arm.
"Do you think you could drink something?"
Porthos nodded. Athos helped Porthos to sit and it was a testament to Aramis' poor state that he did not stir while the two Musketeers grunted and struggled their way into an upright position. Supporting Porthos against his own chest, Athos handed him a cup filled with a thin broth made from boiling a piece of dried, salted meat in melted snow. Porthos nodded his thanks once he finished. The big man glanced at the marksman, who was huddled and still under a blanket next to the wall.
"How is Aramis?" Porthos asked quietly.
"He is ill," Athos said flatly, "and stubborn."
"Yeah, that sounds like him," Porthos murmured, a touch of amusement lacing his voice. "How bad?"
The swordsman shrugged. "I am not a physician, but I would wager that both of you are in need of one."
"I see." Porthos grimaced as he shifted, trying to take strain off his shoulder without putting all his weight against Athos. "We need to leave this place. Return to France."
"I agree, unfortunately," Athos said. "It is not safe here, for anyone. But it will be much easier said than done. The mountains block our way, and the main pass will be patrolled. Travel will be challenging."
Porthos' pride bristled at the implication, hearing an accusation in Athos' words. "I won't hold you back," he grumbled. Porthos felt Athos' chest lift and fall as the man heaved a silent sigh. He imagined that Athos might have rolled his eyes, if he was the type of person to do such a thing.
"I did not think you would," Athos simply responded. "We still have a few hours until sunrise. Rest more if you can. We have a difficult journey ahead of us." The swordsman helped to settle Porthos back on the ground. The wounded man watched as Athos tended the fire, adding more fuel and stirring up the embers.
"We will make it," Porthos said suddenly. He did not know why, but it needed to be said. A stony silence greeted his outburst and the other Musketeer refused to meet his eyes. "Athos," he demanded sharply.
"Yes, we will," the other man finally muttered. "All of us. Even if we must drag his unwilling body over the border into France." There was a vindictive determination in his voice that made Porthos bare his teeth in a ferocious, answering grin. He had no doubt as to whom Athos was referring, and Porthos felt an unexpected burst of warm camaraderie for the swordsman.
"I am with you," Porthos agreed, satisfied with Athos' commitment. He reached out with his good hand towards Athos. After a surprised moment, Athos clasped it firmly, locking together two men with a common purpose.
Porthos assumed that he must have dozed off once more, because when he opened his eyes, he found Aramis leaning over him. A pleased smile creased the marksman's tired face as he checked the dressing over Porthos' wound.
"Our sleeping beauty, awake at last," Aramis teased, his voice rough. Porthos did not miss the note of mingled relief and guilt in his tone. "How are you, mon ami?"
"Was fine until I woke up to the sight of your face," Porthos said, shuddering in mock disgust as he attempted to push himself up. "Thought I might still be sleeping and having a nightmare."
Rather than the fake affront he expected, Aramis chuckled ruefully as he ran his hand over his mouth and beard. "It is probably a good thing we have no mirrors," he said, "as I suspect my pride would not survive the encounter." It was as close as Porthos would get to an admission that Aramis was not at his best.
"You mean your vanity," Porthos corrected as the marksman hooked his arms under the big man's shoulders and carefully helped him up.
"I most certainly do not," Aramis shot back. "Jealousy does not suit you, my dear brother." A serious expression wiped away the brief merriment in Aramis' pale face as he crouched before Porthos, eyes dark and concerned and far too big. "How is the pain? Do you feel ill?"
"I should be asking you that," Porthos muttered under his breath. "It is manageable. I'm fine."
The marksman sighed and bit off a cough that threatened to escape. "If only that was the truth," he murmured. "I will get you something to eat."
Aramis stood and wavered on his feet for a moment before procuring a hard heel of bread and more of the salted meat broth that Athos had made the night before. It was a paltry meal, but it was the best that they could do. Their provisions had been low when they had reached Susa, and they had not found the time to fully replenish them. Normally, the pass between Susa and Briançon could be traversed at a brisk pace in less than two days time with fair weather and good horses. Porthos highly doubted that they would be able to travel with such speed.
Despite a lack of appetite, he took the offered items and nibbled away, watching as Aramis slowly sipped the same broth from a battered pewter cup. The marksman looked like he needed far more food, but there was none to spare. Serge is going to have a fit when we return, Porthos guessed. I don't think Aramis will be escaping the kitchens for at least a month. Maybe two.
Now that Porthos had time to study him, the only conclusion he could come to was that his brother looked terrible. The swelling that had distorted his face the day before had subsided, leaving behind motley splashes of greens, yellows and purples to mar his ashen skin. He also noted the fresh bruise on Aramis' jaw with a flush of guilt. Even with his cloak wrapped tightly around his body, Porthos could easily see that the past couple of months had whittled away Aramis' already lean frame. It was clear that the marksman's time in Savoy had treated him very poorly, and Porthos' rage rose once more. He still had not reconciled with Tréville's decision to allow Aramis to come back to this place, knowing the horrors the marksman had previously witnessed here. I doubt his memories of Savoy will be any fonder after this visit, the big man thought regretfully.
A few minutes later, Athos came back into the cave, his cheeks red with cold. "There are no soldiers in the vicinity," he announced. "We should leave now, before that changes."
Athos and Aramis set to quickly packing up their belongings and saddling up their mounts, while Porthos rolled up his blanket and tucked it under his arm. He watched as Aramis approached Athos and murmured something unintelligible to the swordsman, which led to a quiet argument. Despite the grim set of Athos' mouth, he eventually took Aramis by the shoulders with far more patience and gentleness than Porthos would have expected from the swordsman. While Aramis nodded in response to Athos' words, when he turned away, disappointment was written on his face. Although he could not hear their conversation, Porthos had an idea or two about its topic. The big man clambered to his feet, pulling in harsh, deep breaths as pain flared from the change in position. Being careful not to jar his shoulder, he stamped out the fire and slowly walked over to the horses. He would not allow this wound to be the thing that drove them apart.
They left their refuge and rode out into the frigid morning. The spring air still had a winter bite, and it seemed to Porthos that they wouldn't see fairer weather until they reached Paris. He and Athos rode double once more while Aramis sat astride the other horse. Athos led the way, directing them away from the main trail along the floor of the mountain pass and higher up into the jagged peaks. The obvious marks they left in the untouched snow clearly showed their path, but there was nothing to do about it. Their only option now was to move quickly and quietly as they could and pray that none of the soldiers guarding the pass caught sight of them.
In spite of the cold, the day was bright and clear. The sun glanced blindingly off the icy white blanket that covered the land, and Porthos locked his eyes into a permanent squint in an effort to ward off the glare. Although their pace was almost torturously slow, Porthos still found the gait of the horse jarring and painful. They stopped frequently to rest the horses and switch riders, and Porthos could almost feel the tightly wound impatience rolling off both of his companions as they crawled across the moutains towards safety.
Their luck held out for almost an entire day of hard travel. The sun was slowly descending behind the mountains as Porthos and Aramis rested, waiting restlessly for Athos to return from a short scouting trip. When he appeared, he brought unfortunate news. "There are Spanish soldiers below us," he reported tersely. "I do not think they have spotted our tracks yet, but we should get moving."
The three Musketeers grimly remounted and silently urged their mounts to climb uphill. Aramis rode double with him this time, leaving Athos free to roam and scout as necessary. The marksman sat behind him like a stretched bowstring, so taut with tension that Porthos worried he would snap. He could feel Aramis' chest jerk violently each time he held back a cough, could hear the light wheeze that trailed each inhale and exhale. That sounds awful, Porthos thought anxiously, unhappy with the knowledge that nothing could be done for it. The big Musketeer could only hope that the illness that gripped his brother was not as dire as it seemed.
The snow was different here, frozen into a thick solid crust that would suddenly give way to weightless powder beneath. The unstable surface made the footing uncertain for the horses, and Porthos grunted as each lurching step stirred fresh agony in his shoulder. He clenched his jaw so tightly against it that he could hear his own teeth creak under the stress. Clouds had rapidly coiled around the mountaintops as night had fallen, threatening another wretched round of ice and snow. They kept ascending, fighting against the gusting winds that threatened to topple horse and rider. Porthos eventually descended into a half-daze and aimlessly bobbed in a sea of hurt, unwillingly but instinctively trusting Aramis to keep him upright.
"Athos, we need to stop." The marksman's low murmur cut through his reverie.
Only the howl of the wind and clatter of hooves responded to Aramis' entreaty. Then he heard Athos say, "I know. They would be wise not to follow us in this weather." There was another lengthy pause. "There is shelter up ahead. It looks like an abandoned guard post. We can stop there for the night."
Aramis coughed. "Are you certain? What if the Spaniards decide to roost there as well?"
"I suppose that is a chance we shall have to take," Athos replied. The marksman did not argue.
Porthos slipped back into his fog as they took off again, and roused once more when movement ceased. A light touch on his knee made him look down at Athos, who was standing by his side.
"What is it?" Porthos asked dully.
"Let me help you down," Athos replied. It was then that Porthos realized Aramis was still in the saddle behind him, shivering with cold, waiting for him to dismount first.
The big man swung his leg around with all the grace of a cow and managed not to bruise either his pride or his backside as he slid from the animal's back. The quiet embers in his shoulder roared to life once more, and he could not prevent a gasp from escaping him. He felt Athos' hands on him, guiding him down, and was begrudgingly thankful for the aid. As the swordsman helped Porthos stagger towards the tiny stone hut, he glanced back at Aramis. His brother was nothing more than a dark shadow, his cloak whipping around his legs as white flakes began to fall from the sky. Porthos wanted to stop, to call out to his brother and tell him to come along before the strength of the storm increased, but it was too late. Athos worked open the rusty latch on the door and they were inside, sheltered and safe, while Aramis remained outside in the cold.
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