Author's Note: While awaiting the final chapters of 'Dispatched to Hell' to return from my beta reader, I thought I'd whip up a little one shot. Don't go looking for plot, it's more of an 'I had this thought…' than anything else. But enjoy none-the-less.

The Nest

by SpaceCowboy

Nest: a place offering snug refuge or lodging; a home.

"How long has he been up there?"

"Long enough."

"Shouldn't we bring him down?"

Athos raised his head above the fallen log providing them minimal shelter, quickly ducking back down when the bark of the dead tree splintered next to his left temple. "By all means, Porthos," he offered, crouching into the mud soaked ground. "There isn't even time to find a target. And I'm running low on balls. But if you wish to take your chances…"

Porthos scooted downward, rested his back against the log and stretched his legs out. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. The pouch hanging from his belt was nearing empty as well, and after their recent battle, he figured d'Artagnan was fairing no better.

With a grunt, Porthos stuck a hand out to his side and watched as hundreds of sharp, stinging rain drops splattered off his hand. "But I don't like it. He's gonna get himself killed. And this weather ain't helping matters."

D'Artagnan's head poked out from the other side of Athos, a hand shielding his eyes from the rain pouring down on them. "Aramis will come down when he's ready," he said.

Porthos' head fell back against the log. "That's what I'm afraid of."

No one knew Aramis quite like Porthos did, and it rattled him to the bone knowing why his friend was really perched several feet above them, alone against man and elements. But motivations aside, Porthos knew Aramis would not let them down, so he took a deep breath and settled in alongside his comrades and prayed Aramis' pride wouldn't get him killed.

Musketeers

Having nestled in atop a flat rock several feet above the tree-line, Aramis kept his movements to a bare minimum. His cloak heavy from hours of accumulating rain, his chest and stomach inches deep in a pool of frigid water, he adjusted the musket pressed against his shoulder and raised his head to peer across the tree strewn valley. Moments ago he'd seen movement in the northern tree line, but now the branches of the forest swayed and drooped only by the grace of wind and blanketing rain.

With a stiff trembling hand, Aramis hitched his cloak further over his head, protecting the trigger end of his loaded musket. The wet ragged rock of his perch beneath him had long since drained all the warmth his body produced. The prickling pain of numbness that once frustrated his torso had turned to nothingness long ago. Aramis' body had become one with the mossy rock which he laid upon, and he no longer felt the warm pool of blood which oozed from the wound on his stomach.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, reached down to feel the hole of his shirt through his doublet, but felt nothing through the numbness.

His brothers would never have let him leave had they'd known he'd taken a musket ball. As it was, they were against him coming up here where there was little cover, save for the slight ledge of rock where Aramis rested the muzzle of his musket.

A few slips on the rain slick rocks, scrapes which shredded the knees of his leather pants and abrasions on his palms from scrambling for purchase as he'd hoisted himself upward, had been nothing compared to the throbbing pain in his side from where a ball had lodged itself just under the skin.

But against his brother's adamant dispositions and passionate pleas, Aramis had climbed above the tree tops which gave sanctuary to his comrades below, in search of a better view.

It's the only way, he'd told himself. The bandits had created a kill box with no retreat, and allowing them no forward advancement until the marksman taking pot shots at them from across the valley was eliminated.

Before their entrapment at the cliffs' edge of the valley, there had been a skirmish; short, brutal and leaving Aramis with a small, bloody hole in his side.

Ambushed after retrieving taxes from the local homesteads, the four musketeers had been quickly flanked and outnumbered with their retreat hindered by a deep valley. The bandit's main force, situated behind them, had not yet found the Musketeer's harbour, and the ones across the valley holding them at bay with a well-trained marksman, could not relay the musketeer's position, for to cross the valley was a dangerous predicament with Aramis perched on high.

He'd given back equally what the bandits had thrown at them with two already laying dead in the valley as proof. It was a standoff. The bandits were as unable to cross the valley as he and his brothers.

Aramis could no longer see the lifeless corpses of his marks, the forest now hid their bodies well, but he remembered clearly as each one had fallen in a boneless heap when he'd taken the shots.

A challenge, Aramis had decreed, before hustling away from the relative safety of the fallen log to climb up the rocky cliff. Pitting skill against skill. Which marksman could slay their opponent first?

Marksmanship was a beautiful thing. The precision and elegance of its discipline matched only by the euphoria forged from the power of taking a life in one skilled shot.

Aramis thrived on both the visceral and physical exultation of proving his artistry, desired it like a drug. Nested on a perch while searching out a target was a place of solitude, concentration and sanctuary for a marksman. A place of mind where few were granted passage. And the challenge before him, finding the other marksman before he killed his comrades off one by one, was a sandbox built specially for him.

The sudden crack of wood below stiffened his form, he gripped his musket and peered across the valley through the driving rain, searching for the remnants of smoke trailing after the shot.

"Damn it," he cursed. The rain was quick to extinguish the muskets flame and he'd lost the opportunity.

But a quiet, near-evil thought crept into his mind. If one of his brothers would poke…

"No," he said aloud, reaffirming his grip on his musket. "Stay down. Stay safe. I will find him."

Aramis glanced upward at the sky where dark ominous clouds showed no sign of breaking. The rain would pour for hours still. Already soaked and chilled beyond physical sensation, Aramis flexed his right hand again, reassuring his ability to squeeze the trigger. He blew on the match-cord, keeping it lit, and retook his vigil across the valley, his heart beating with the anticipation.

Musketeers

"We can't just keep sitting here," said d'Artagnan, shivering as he huddled down next to Athos behind the log. "Eventually they'll find us."

"Or come across the valley," stated Porthos, rubbing his hands vigorously.

"I believe Aramis is taking care of that," replied Athos. "But I agree," he said, turning to d'Artagnan. "We won't be able to hold out much longer."

"Got any ideas?" asked Porthos, stretching backward to peer over the log then quickly righting his head.

"None at the moment," replied Athos.

"We're well past the hour of our return," offered d'Artagnan. "The Captain will have sent out a party by now, wouldn't he?"

Athos ran a hand down his face. "By protocol, yes," he said. "But will they get here in time?"

"Well, if that damn fool up there gets his man, we could take our chances with a forward push," said Porthos.

"How can Aramis even see in this rain?" asked d'Artagnan. "There's no way he can get an accurate shot. His hands must be frozen."

"He got two already," said Porthos, shaking his head. "I don't know how he does it. It's like he and that musket are one and the same."

"It's a good thing he's on our side," sighed d'Artagnan.

Athos slid down and rolled onto his stomach. "I've got an idea," he said, then waved his hat above the sightline.

"What are you doing?" demanded d'Artagnan.

"Giving Aramis a target," replied Athos.

A bang roared in the distance, followed by another overhead.

"Did he get 'im?" asked Porthos.

"We'll have to wait and see," replied Athos, returning to his position behind the log. "But I'm not inclined to lose my hand, so let's pray he did."

Musketeers

In the tree-line across the valley a flash of orange breached the vegetation, lasting only a second. Aramis trained his sight on the giveaway and spotted a snatch of red. He adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger.

The recoil of the musket vibrated through Aramis' body. Apparently the cold had not penetrated deep enough into him to harbour him from the explosion of pain in his side. His back arched upward and he flopped onto his side, cradling his torso. With eyes squeezed shut, tiny sparks of brilliant white flash-bangs erupted behind his lids, all thoughts of his target were briefly washed away by the cursives screaming in his mind.

With each inhale of breath, sharp vice-like grips pinched his side and he choked on his own breath. A cloud of blackness entered his mind, extinguishing the bright lights as it closed in, drawing him nearer to oblivion.

But before the dark cloud could fully render him unconscious, an image flashed into his mind; a red cape breaking through the bleakness of darkened foliage, a ball crossing the valley and hitting its mark.

A smile stretched Aramis' blue-tinged lips.

He let out a stuttered breath, pride holding his pain at bay long enough for one more coherent thought… go now, brothers, the path is clear.

Musketeers

"How long was he up here?"

"He's… he's been shot."

"Take care… he's…"

His head whirling with the sounds of familiar voices, Aramis felt his body being lifted upward, light as a feather and in complete compliance with whatever carried him.

"Rope… leverage…"

"He's barely…"

"Aramis. Aramis."

His name, called with a softness which caressed his frozen ears, wasn't enough to seduce the marksman to open his eyes. Gone was the pain in his side…

Wait. What pain? Was there pain?

Eye lids heavy, Aramis forced them open. The world was moving at a strange angle, his chest was tight and constricted and he barely had the strength to hold his head upright until something suddenly stopped his downward movement.

Aramis sensed more than felt, hands gripping his arms and waist as he was laid out on his back. Unshielded from the rain, he blinked up at ghostly faces looking down on him, his mind racing to comprehend his situation.

Snippets of memories glimmered in the periphery of his mind, but as he snatched at them they disappeared. Porthos' hunched down. The clash of swords. D'Artagnan turning back to him, face frozen in a silent scream; each one dying out as fast as they'd come alive. There had been a battle, but when, why? Aramis couldn't focus.

"It's over."

"We'll take care…"

"…. blood lost."

Aramis moved his lips, but no sound came out. He tried again, this time his voice loud within his own head like an echo bouncing in his brain. "Captain? You made it."

"Just in time," replied Treville. "Any longer and you'd all have been dead. Now let's get you home."

Aramis' head lolled to the side and a corner of his mouth twitched up beneath his beard. "I got him."

"You got him alright."

"Porthos..?"

"Yeah, it's me," said his friend. "We're all here, now hush up."

Aramis had neither the strength nor ability to return words, but found comfort in the ones issued by his closest friend as he let the dark cloud permeating his mind take him over once again.

When next Aramis returned to consciousness, a loud bellow echoed in his ears. It took a moment for him to realize the sound was coming from his own lips. As if submerged in hot fiery coals, every inch of his skin pierced with pain, every muscle, tight and coiled, screamed to be released from their unrelenting contraction.

Through the fog encompassing his brain, Aramis heard voices and tried to latch onto to them, hoping they could pull him from his misery.

"He's trembling…"

"He's frozen. Get that fire stoked!"

Hands gripped his shoulders, pressed him down against something soft. Aramis shook beneath them as if his body demanded its release.

"Aramis! Wake up!"

I'm awake, said the marksman's inner voice. I'm awake. What's happening to me?

"You'll pull the needle work. Stay still."

Aramis reigned his strength; not enough to stop the tremors but enough to quell his shuddering limbs and open his eyes. D'Artagnan hovered above him, his shoulders shrouded in a blanket and Aramis presumed by the warmth above his eyes, his hand resting on his forehead.

"You're cold?" asked Aramis, before he could consider his words.

D'Artagnan smiled. "That's what you have to say?"

"Athos? Porthos?" asked Aramis. Before the Gascon could answer, his brother's faces appeared several feet above him.

"Where… where are…" Pain licked at Aramis' side where he suddenly remembered a bullet creating a hole. His words died on his lips as he rolled onto his side to guard his wound.

"A town outside Paris," said a soft voice.

Aramis opened an eye. "Captain."

"We couldn't risk going any further," continued Treville. "You were losing a lot blood, and your brothers were nearly as frozen as you when we found them."

A silence ensued to which Aramis used to collect himself. Curled on his side, the pain in his stomach relented to a dull ache. His body still shivered, but as heavy blankets were placed on top of him, each one providing a layer of comfort, his muscles began to relax. Aramis could think clearly again now that he had some control of his weakened body, and he used his new found strength to look up at his brothers.

But before he could say anything, Athos hunched down beside him with a blanket of his own draped over his shoulders. "What were you thinking?" he asked. "You almost got yourself killed. Going up there already injured."

Confessing how much the challenge of finding the other marksman had backed his decision was a bad idea. They would never understand. Not all soldiers were alike. Some fought for honour, some for money, while others fought for what they believed in or because circumstances left them little choice. But a marksman was a breed apart from most soldiers, taking the mastery of the musket to a higher level and finding honour and fulfillment in a perfect shot rather than in championing for moral goals.

"I did what had to be done," replied Aramis. "Everyone is safe."

"For now," said Athos, rubbing a hand down his face. "But pull that stunt again, and I'll kill you myself."

Athos pushed himself up and Aramis sensed the conversation was over. His secret remained safe, his sanctuary unbreached, his brother would not push him further on the topic.

"But thank you," said Athos, before turning away. "For as much as we fear your pig-headed stubbornness, sometimes we owe our lives to it."

"Now rest son," said Treville.

By daybreak the next morning, most of the chills which rattled Aramis' body throughout the night had subsided to mere trembles and the healing of his side wound had begun. Little did it bother him except when stretching or bending, allowing Aramis to move with slow, cautious movements without too much aggravation.

He sat on the side of the bed, a hand wrapped around his torso while the other held his head. A presence in the room tickled his instincts and he slowly looked up to see Porthos sitting at a table situated in the middle of the small room. The scowl on his brother's face spoke volumes to Aramis. If anyone understood Aramis, it was Porthos, so he decided to speak first before Porthos could start in on the reprimands.

"I will never change, old friend," said Aramis, holding his brother's stare.

"I never implied there was a need," stated Porthos, equally as committed to their shared gaze.

Aramis smiled as he shook his head. "But you were going to."

Porthos scooted his chair forward and leaned over his knees. "I'll never understand this romance you have with death," he said.

"Not with death," corrected Aramis. "With life. I feel more alive each time I find myself in danger, each time the challenge of life and death befalls me. It is with that, that I share my love."

"I get you," said Porthos. "I do, but you were shot. Shot, Aramis! And you still climbed that perch."

If it were anyone else, Aramis would have given a different answer, but it was Porthos so the truth fell from his lips as if it were his own breath. "When the gauntlet has been thrown, my mind listens not to my body," replied Aramis. "An instinct takes over. I become a tool for my own self-glorification to abuse at will. To do what I do, I must abandon reason and empathy or I would be a broken man by now."

"Are ya sure you aren't already?" mused Porthos, shaking his head.

"That remains to be seen," replied Aramis, holding out a hand. "Now help me up. Where are the others?"

As Aramis was pulled to standing with his friends help, the movement tugging on his wound, his body stuttered before reaching full height. "I'm all right," he said, before Porthos could vocalize the worry etched on his face.

It was apparent Porthos was stifling his next words, instead answering the question with a bemused shake of his head. "Getting the horses ready," he replied, helping Aramis on with his doublet. "You sure you can ride?"

Aramis smiled at his friend. "I'm up for the challenge," he said, with a wink.

Porthos brows nearly reached his hairline. "I could hit you right now?" he said. "Would you like that?"

Aramis chuckled softly and allowed a comfortable silence to fall between them. He leaned against the table for support and watched as Porthos gathered their belongings. If anyone could instill change in Aramis, it was Porthos. But until that day came, or Aramis felt safe enough to reveal his dark secrets, Porthos' companionship would be the only one welcomed inside his nest.

Le Finis