They roared in fury, storming the Spanish camp early in the morning with their swords held high and the horse's hooves pounding hard against the ground. It was an easy take, most of them surrendering to the French with only a few going against them.
Porthos swung his sword, connecting his blade against the Spaniard's side and causing the man to grunt in pain. The Spaniard put up a fight; bringing his sword back around and trying to land a hit against Porthos. However, the musketeer was more skilled and disarmed the man with a simple twist of the wrist, drawing his sword up to the man's neck. The Spaniard quickly held his hands up in surrender and Porthos granted it.
He pushed the Spaniard down onto his knees before a shot rang loud over the few men still fighting. He ducked slightly out of instinct before glancing around, trying to determine who had fired. His eyes were drawn to Aramis and saw him fall backwards, the Spaniard he was dueling against falling too and landing harshly on top of him.
"Aramis!" Porthos shouted before he quickly ordered one of the free musketeers to tie the surrendered Spaniard up.
He took off running across the camp, taking out two Spaniards who tried to intercept him. They were foolish enough to think they could come between Aramis and him, not knowing what Porthos could do when one of his brothers went down.
Aramis hadn't moved and neither had the man that laid on top of him. Once he had made it to Aramis he quickly grabbed the Spaniard's shoulder and pulled him off his friend.
His eyes were met with blood and his heart leaped into his throat. For a second he thought Aramis had been the one to get shot, his fingers quickly moving to Aramis' neck to check for a pulse. Suddenly, his hand was swatted away by his brother, Aramis' eyes flickering open to look up at Porthos' concerned expression.
"I'm fine. Not my blood," he said and Porthos dragged his eyes away from Aramis for a second to see the Spaniard laying dead, shot in the stomach, before noticing Aramis' grip on his pistol by his side.
The larger musketeer suddenly let out a sigh of relief, leaning back on his heels slightly.
"I thought..." He began but his words didn't come, unable to think off what could have happened. He had just lost D'artagnan, he couldn't lose Aramis too.
"I'm here," Aramis then said, a hand going up to cup Porthos' cheek. "Alive," he reassured his brother before pulling himself up to sit. Porthos nodded before standing, holding out a hand which Aramis waved off. "Go and tie the remaining Spaniards up. I'm fine," Aramis said and the tone in his voice allowed no room for argument. Porthos seemed to hesitate before nodding and turning on his heels, going to help the other musketeers.
Aramis pulled himself up to stand, wincing in pain slightly. He slowly looked down at his side, the stinging pain making his eyes blur with tears. He blinked them back as he lifted his shirt, seeing the deep cut on his side where his opponent had managed to land a hit earlier in their fight. He gritted his teeth, forcing the pain down and telling himself there was nothing he could do just yet, knowing he needed to get back to camp to deal with the injury.
They had limited medical supplies with them and unfortunately, Aramis had forgotten the needle and thread to stitch himself up with. So Aramis decided he would grit his teeth in pain and that there was no point in saying something because all it would do was worry Porthos more.
Porthos dragged one of the Spaniards up to stand, forcing him to walk towards the horses. He ordered one of the musketeers to tie the now prisoners wrists together before Aramis and him walked through the camp.
There was only one tent set up, which was for the leader of the small group they had ambushed. Porthos glanced back at Aramis who nodded, lifting his pistol up before Porthos pulled back the tent flap. They both entered to find it empty, hearts deflating slightly even though they knew D'artagnan wouldn't be here. It was too close to their camp.
Aramis walked over to the papers slowly burning in the fire and quickly blew the flames down, picking out burnt papers that the Spanish had tried to get rid of. He narrowed his eyes slightly to read one of the letters, the black edges making it hard to read it.
"It's from their captain," he said once he glanced at the bottom of the page, noticing Antonio's signature.
"What's it say?" Porthos asked from where he was stood at the table, looking at their maps.
"I can't really make it out," Aramis said honestly, a part of him silently swearing to himself in anger. He had hoped the letters would have some sort of direction to where D'artagnan was.
Calling their search as a defeat they scooped up the letters that weren't completely ruined before heading out.
They got to the horses and Aramis tried to cover the wince that coursed through his body as he climbed onto his horse, the pain flaring up from the cut. He took in a deep breath, calming his heart while gripping the horse's reins tightly until the wave of nausea settled. Nothing he could do, don't want to worry Porthos, Aramis told himself, and it would be pointless to worry him.
They rode in silence back to the camp, keeping their pace slow for the four prisoners to be able to keep up with them from where they walked behind the group.
Once back at the camp, Porthos ordered a few musketeers to take the prisoners to where the others were being held. They nodded before quickly moving to take the Spaniard's away, pulling at the ropes that bound their hands together.
Aramis slowly lowered himself from the horse at an awkward angle to not inflict more pain on himself. He held onto the saddle to steady his balance when his feet touched the ground, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs and causing the pain in his side to increase. He winced again, gritting his teeth in anger when a small groan escaped from his lips.
"Are you alright?" Porthos asked, passing his reins to one of the musketeers who took his horse to be fed.
"Perfect," Aramis replied with a nod before pushing up from the saddle and turning to face Porthos. The expression on his brother's face said it all; clearly the state of him had betrayed his words.
"You look like hell," he said, moving forward to Aramis as concern and fear for his brother took over.
"I may have lied slightly when I said the blood wasn't mine. Some of it is," Aramis said with a weak smile and Porthos glanced down at the bloody shirt before growling in frustration.
"You fool," Porthos said before lifting Aramis' shirt up to study the injury. "You need stitches," he stated and Aramis simply nodded.
"I know. I left my kit in Athos' tent, that's why I didn't say anything," Aramis said to defend his actions before he began to walk towards the Captain's tent to only have his legs betray him and buckle.
Porthos' strong hold was quickly there, holding him steady on his feet. Aramis let out a breath through gritted teeth, swallowing down the pain and allowing himself to lean into Porthos.
They made it over to Athos' tent, Porthos holding up most of Aramis' weight. He pushed the flap open and walked inside with Aramis' hunched form next to him.
Athos turned from talking to one of the older musketeers, Thomas, having been discussing battle strategies. His eyes landed on the two of them, Porthos holding Aramis up, and then on Aramis' blood stain shirt, fear gripping him for a second before his mind began racing.
"Leave us," he ordered Thomas, his voice slipping into Captain mode, and the man quickly left. "Lay him down," Athos then ordered and Porthos was already in the process of doing so. Aramis let out a small groan as he was gently lowered to his bed, the movement pulling on his injury.
"What happened?" Athos asked, moving over to them with bandages and alcohol to clean whatever wound Aramis had.
"The idiot got hit, thought it would be easier to wait until getting back to say anything about it," Porthos informed as he lifted Aramis' shirt back to reveal the deep cut that ran across his side.
"Like I said... I left my kit here," Aramis breathed, closing his eyes and trying to focus on anything but the stinging pain from his side. Athos unfolded the neatly packed cloth and poured the alcohol on it as Porthos moved to grab the stitching kit.
Aramis let out a hiss as Athos pressed the alcohol covered cloth onto the wound, flinching away from Athos' hand. Athos simply used his other hand to push Aramis back down to lay on the bed and press the cloth back onto the wound, beginning to clean it to stop infection.
"It will sting," Athos said dryly and Aramis let out a huffed laugh.
"You don't say," Aramis breathed, making sure his sarcasm was heard strongly within his voice.
Porthos returned, kneeling down opposite Athos and holding out the stitching kit. Athos dropped the blood stained cloth to the floor and took the kit from Porthos.
"Sadly, I'm not as talented as you are with this," Athos said with a small smirk appearing on his lips, trying to lighten the situation they were currently in.
"Please don't," Aramis then said, opening his eyes to look at his Captain. "It's going to look horrible, like a child has done it."
"So you'd rather get an infection or bleed out?" Athos asked in his usual dry tone to which Aramis had no words for. He simply let out a long sigh and then nodded, allowing Athos to stitch him up.
Out of all of them Aramis was the most experienced in medicine. However, being the one injured made it difficult for him to treat. So Athos took it upon himself to stitch him up. He wasn't as good as Aramis but he had watched the man work, patching both Athos and their brothers up when things got a little out of hand on previous missions.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Porthos asked, looking down at Aramis with concern laced in his voice. Porthos felt the guilt eating away at him from how he hadn't spotted his brother was in pain earlier.
The man in question just grinned up at Porthos through tired eyes.
"It's living on the edge my friend, nothing makes you feel more alive than risking your life," he said and Athos glanced up at Aramis to lock eyes for a second.
"Next time, eat some undercooked chicken. That's risking your life just as much as this," Athos said dryly before continuing to stitch his brother up. Aramis let a grin stretch wide across his face as Porthos shook his head slightly, chuckling at Athos' words.
It took longer than he would have liked but Athos finally pulled the last stitch before surveying his work.
"I think that's actually a pretty good job," Porthos said, giving Athos an approving nod.
"Great great, Athos is a brilliant seamstress. Can you please just bandage me up now?" Aramis said, getting slightly impatient in his tired state. They set to work in bandaging his side up tightly before allowing Aramis to sit up.
"Here," Porthos said, passing a clean shirt to Aramis. He helped his brother slowly lift his blood covered shirt above his head before dressing him in a clean one.
Athos stood, disposing of the strained cloth and cleaning up his blood covered hands. He let out a long breath, his heart finally settling now that Aramis was bandaged up. He sympathised with the man, now knowing it must be hard being the doctor of the group given that Athos knew how they all were when injured.
D'artagnan always replied to whatever Aramis said with sarcasm laced thickly in his words. Athos refused to admit defeat more times than most, only finally allowing Aramis to fix him up when he was forced down to the bed by the angry doctor. Porthos had some issues with needles, always hating it when he had to have stitches and sometimes needing to be knocked out by a swift punch just so Aramis could work.
Athos turned back to see Porthos lowering Aramis back down to the bed, mumbling something to the injured musketeer to cause him to roll his eyes.
"I'm not dead yet Porthos," came Aramis' reply with a smirk on his lips.
"Just get some rest, we can't have you stumbling around the camp half conscious," Porthos ordered and Aramis grinned up at the man, the curve of his lips putting Porthos on edge.
"What?" He asked, his brows pulled into a small frown as Athos walked back over to join them.
"You're using Athos' captain voice," Aramis replied, earning a sharp glare from both his friends.
"Rest, and that's an order," Athos said, his voice stern.
"Of course, Captain," Aramis replied. Porthos gently squeezed his brothers' shoulder as the man closed his eyes to sleep. "Wait," Aramis suddenly said, his eyes snapping open and landing on Athos. Both his brothers were quick to react, leaning over Aramis slightly and thinking there was something wrong.
"What is it?" Athos asked as Aramis particularly gave the Captain a death glare.
"Your sling. Why are you not wearing it?" Aramis asked, his eyes glancing down to Athos still bandaged shoulder.
"It's not hurting as much," Athos said, even though that was a lie. He still felt a numbing pain and it would increase every time he moved his shoulder.
"Porthos, do me a favour and punch our dear Captain in the shoulder," Aramis said and Porthos chuckled, shaking his head at his two brothers.
"Rest Aramis, I'm fine," Athos told him.
"Yeah, clearly," Aramis said sarcastically but decided not to push Athos due to the look he was currently getting from him.
Aramis settled back down in his bed, letting his eyes fall closed as his brothers straightened up. Athos then nodded to the tent entrance and the two men exited to grab some food and leave Aramis to rest in peace.
Thank you for the follows, favourites and reviews. Thank you to pallysdeeks and Issia for leaving reviews, glad you're liking it. Next chapter will include D'artagnan, so prepare for the pain (sorry/not sorry). Don't forget to review and tell me what you thought, until the next chapter :)