And we're off for more.

d'Artagnan

Finally—finally—yanking the bloody tip of his sword from the man accosting him, d'Artagnan trips himself into a full-out run, skidding to a halt at his friend's side and then hovering inanely for half a second before dropping to his knees. God, Porthos. He grips his hands to the wet leather—leather so cold his knuckles immediately ache with it. "Porthos," he shakes. "Porthos!"

"D'Ar-t-an," Porthos blurrily whispers, eyes closed and mouth barely open—panting—like he can't get enough air.

"I'm here. I'm here. We've… we've got you." It feels stupid to ask him if he's all right, so d'Artagnan doesn't. Instead, he takes in the situation and tries to form a plan, skittering his gaze across the bitter terrain.

Aramis is locked in combat with the last two bandits who'd remained behind to assail them, and the only cover available to any is the sparse tree line battling the wind beyond the roadway from the lakeshore. There is no shelter to get to, not nearby, but they have to move—Porthos needs to move.

Scanning farther just as the wind shifts, d'Artagnan frustratedly swipes hair out of his eyes, compressing his numb lips. The darker copses of trees seem too far to get to and would be of little aid in this weather, and he feels warily uncertain about whether additional ambushers from the party might await them in the outlands or not, but it seems like too much of a possibility to ignore.

"Porthos," he determines, patting at the side of his face, knowing only that to stay as they are is folly. "We need to get you up." Getting no response, he tugs futilely at the stiffening coat. "Porthos, we have to go and we have to get you moving." He changes his grip, pulling up on the shivering frame, but it's all solid muscle, twitching and jerking from the icy plunge. "Porthos."

Come on come on come on! thinks d'Artagnan. He tries again, but gets nowhere, and feels the panic begin to build. Porthos's lips are a dark bluish color, and his eyes, when they flicker, squint blackly with the cold. "Aramis! Aramis! I can't move him!" he cries, uncertain what turn the remainder of the small battle has taken. The wind has stolen the sound of clanging swords.

"It's all right. I've got him," says Aramis, suddenly just there, puffing clouds into the cold that hover eerily before being whisked away by a draught. Bodily shifting d'Artagnan over, he expertly grips Porthos's wrist to quell the jerking, then pulls it up and across his own shoulders, leveraging himself under Porthos's arm and then up to his feet in a smooth motion that suggests he's done this a time or two before. "I've got him," he repeats, though his voice is strained.

D'Artagnan rises with him, and then stands fidgeting, scanning their quiet surroundings and their dead opponents while his breath hisses visibly into the air. The ambushers who already escaped made off with everything. They have no blankets. No horses. No fire-starting materials. Nothing. "What can I do?" he asks, looking at Porthos's fluttering eyes, then at Aramis's dark and serious ones. He wishes he did not sound quite so lost.

Aramis gives him an assessing look. "Give me your cloak," he says, visibly swallowing, then pinning d'Aragnan with a gaze that is as apologetic as it is determined. "And then run. Run ahead to the cabin—as fast as you possibly can. Athos has no idea we were overtaken. He'll be waiting for us, and we need him to know Porthos's condition. We need him to know it now."

The cabin. The cabin where they're meant to meet Athos is some two leagues away, not far under normal circumstances, but—but if they had other options, Aramis would have said so, so d'Artagnan nods, watching his breath curl worriedly before his face before a gust surges and steals it away.

In the next heartbeat, he strips his cloak off, handing it over to Aramis, and with one last look, simply takes off, picking up speed as he leaps over branches and boulders and holes in the ground. All the while picturing Aramis trudging the distance behind him with Porthos trembling and convulsing against Aramis's body. Convulsing with a cold that d'Artagnan understands much too well to want to consider Porthos experiencing it for long.

Run, he thinks, letting his mind white-out to the purpose at hand. Run.

tbc

Not that I'm all about historical accuracy, but my understanding of French measurement in this time period is that they were still based loosely off the Roman system, but with some of their own adjustments until 1674 when things changed a bit. Thus a league in this context would be 3.248 km, or 2.018 miles. So when d'Artagnan indicates that he's going to have to run nearly two leagues, he's got about a four-mile dash ahead of him.