Aramis goes forward and does not know if it's been minutes or hours.

Aramis

"Ar-mis," Porthos whispers. The rough, wispy tone curls over the shell of Aramis's frozen ear and hangs there. It is like a mountain turning into dust. He wants to respond—to ignore the thin quality and shove forth a litany of light reassurance—but his own voice has become harder to manage. The motion of it is not something he needs Porthos to hear.

"A-mis," Porthos whispers again, stumbling heavily and frighteningly into Aramis's hip before somehow finding the will to recover tension in his knees. "Ar-am-s."

Aramis compensates, rocking and tightening his spine to take more of Porthos's weight, going forward without losing a step.

"A-r-is."

"Yes?" Aramis gets out, cognizant of the strain his voice doesn't manage to cover.

"Posse…" Porthos says, then breaks off, jerking sharply. "Ban-d-its… ab-out?"

"No," Aramis assures. His voice shakes. "They have what they wanted. No reason for them to come back."

"'cept to… kill… us," Porthos mumbles, sounding too far away. The slackening timbre blows an inky darkness into Aramis's mind. There is something about it… something about it that makes Aramis feel like a sword is pointing at his chest.

"Which would be more trouble than it's worth… in this weather," he answers. Not when they can allow the cold to kill us for them. He turns his head, banishing the thought. "They won't be back."

Step right. Step left. Step right, he thinks.

Only that.

Porthos is not finished. "Y-'re… you're… worry… worr-ied. C'n… tell."

"No," Aramis denies, scuffing his boot heel over a rock. His teeth clench and he can't feel them.

"Flea," stutters Porthos, voice lost in a different sort of distance. "Flea should… should be… back… now. Shouldn't…?"

"She stole a ream of wool from the baker of all people. She's bringing it to you."

Step right. Step left.

"I... remember." Porthos's head jerks around, confused. "Do... do you?"

"You told me about it once."

More and more dead branches are scattered on the ground. The bare trees look like parchment, perhaps having been thinned by some former blight. Still, the low phase of twilight lengthens their height. They loom heavily.

Step left. Step right.

"Cap… Captain?" Porthos murmurs next.

Aramis stumbles, only just. The last trace of heat in the whole landscape finds the space behind his eyeballs and sparks a temporary sting.

Step left. Step right, he thinks. Step left. Step right.

"No," Porthos corrects himself. "Not… not the… captain."

Right, Aramis thinks. Left.

"Ar-mis."

Step right. Step left. Step right. Aramis moves. And moves. A murky, trembling urgency rolling through his body. Step left. Step right—d'Artagnan runs like a falcon flies—it won't be long now. Step left.

Porthos breathes and staggers beside him.

Step left.

The world continues to narrow. Twigs fracture beneath Aramis's boots while the wind abruptly changes direction, twisting his hair into complicated tangles.

His mind teeters precariously above of chasm of brutal thoughts.

While navigating the next branch, Porthos's head dips to Aramis's shoulder in a moment of boneless apathy, then jerks to attention with a shudder. Aramis flinches and reels with him, darkening his mind. Step right. Step left.

Step. Right.

Step.

Every three paces, Porthos's arm flexes uncontrollably around his neck, straining tendons and dragging on muscles. Aramis would take the action as reassurance, if not for his awareness that each of Porthos's spasms flutters more weakly than the last.

Shiver, damn you, shiver, he wants to say. Then wants to laugh—in his head, the voice issuing the order sounds like Athos. A complicated conscience, if ever there was one.

Step. Right.

Step.

Step—

The clopping of horse hooves descending upon them sends Aramis's heart into a panic. The sparse stretch of trees gives them few options for hiding and he can't balance Porthos and get to his sword at the same time. If it should be the bandits returning, they have little left to lose but their lives. If he drops Porthos, he doesn't think he'll get him up again.

"Aramis!" comes the distinguished shout. "Porthos!"

"Athos," Aramis breathes, his heart and body turning to water in a flood of relief he is not entirely prepared for. The sensation of stabbing pins scatters under his hair and the sudden way his legs stop threatens to collapse them both to the ground.

Porthos makes a pained noise, swaying. Aramis clutches his freezing torso nearer to his own as a wave of emotion blurs over him. Soldiering his voice, he clears the weakness from his throat and lifts it up. "Athos!" Athos.

The horse is already veering in their direction, rounding through the trees.

"It'll be short work now. Porthos, are you with me?"

"With… you." Porthos turns his head, mumbling a sound nearly distinct enough to be a name. "'thos"

"Yes. Athos." Aramis closes his eyes as Porthos shudders. His jaw shivers and his voice nearly breaks. "You're going to be all right, now. Fine and fit in no time."

When he looks up, Athos is already upon them—vaulting off his horse and reaching for Porthos's skin. His eyes pinch as the flat of his hand presses over Porthos's jaw, the haste of his breath being whipped away by an equally urgent gale. "He's not shivering?"

"He's fighting yet," Aramis answers, leveling the rough chatter in his own voice with little success.

Athos looks at him as he pulls Porthos's arm across his shoulders. "Your hat?"

"With my horse. Bandits."

"Cloak?"

"Same. D'Artagnan?"

"Stoking the fire. Trying to learn how to breathe again."

The boy can run, Aramis praises quietly. Thank God the boy can run.

Together, they lurch closer to the blustering horse.

Eyelids fluttering, Porthos lifts his head between them, sags, then jolts stiffly. "Ath-os."

Standing next to the stirrup, Athos pulls Porthos closer, bumping their heads together, once. His wind-burned face is impassive, but his eyes look like vengeance. "Let's get him up."

Aramis nods, forcing liquid knees to cooperate. Porthos gets stiff hands over the saddle and together they wrangled him up, Athos's steady horse snorting through its nose as Porthos bends over its neck.

With one hand holding Porthos's leg, Athos reaches for Aramis's arm.

Aramis stumbles back, catching his balance by the mount's flank. The muscles in his body collectively begin to tremble, forming a resolute shiver he feels in his bones. "No," he says. "You have to go. Now. He's been… confused."

Athos frowns and Porthos's head comes up. "No," Porthos denies. "I'm here… I'm… I'm here." Athos glances up, catching Porthos's hip as he starts to slide.

"Now, Athos. Go."

"Get on the horse, Aramis."

"I'll walk up behind. You have to get him to d'Artagnan—to the cabin."

"No." Porthos whimpers, struggling to shove upright.

Athos hardens his gaze. "The horse will carry you both."

"But not three of us."

"I haven't been in the cold," Athos growls, reaching again for Aramis's arm. "Running will do me no harm."

"I can't hold him on the horse," Aramis hisses bluntly, displaying the uncoordinated shuddering of his hands. "If you put me up there, we won't make it. You—you—have to get him to d'Artagnan."

Staring at him, Athos goes completely still.

"Don't," rumbles Porthos. "Don't you—we can't… can't leave him. I won't."

For a moment, the wind slips away. The trees around them stand in silence. Brittle and dead. It is all too easy to imagine this place with corpses on the ground.

"It's not so far a distance," Aramis argues. "Get him there, Athos. Then you or d'Artagnan can come for me."

Porthos makes a snarling sound. "Don't. Don't. Ath-os."

Athos blinks at him, then looks back, face turning to stone. "Get on the horse, Aramis."

Truly frustrated, Aramis shakes his head, jerking back when Athos reaches again for his arm. "Leave, Athos. Leave now."

"No, damn you."

"This is not Savoy!" Aramis shouts, surging forward and surprising all of them. He sucks air through suddenly burning teeth and drops his voice an octave. "This is not Savoy," he repeats, then hammers his gaze into Porthos. "You are not Marsac. And the only dead behind us are the corpses of the enemy. Stop wasting time."

Porthos hums a negating sound. It is again like a mountain turning into dust.

"Your life, Porthos. Your life is at risk. I am not in so much need, and I will not lose you in deference to a ridiculous scar you fear my soul won't carry."

"Ar-mis," Porthos grits, pained.

But that's the last of it. Athos folds. Porthos is bent and visibly troubled, but can get no more words out should he even still be trying to protest.

It is a hasty affair as Athos slings his cloak and scarf around him, shoving gloves onto his hands. "I'll be back for you."

"I know."

"Keep moving towards us."

"I know."

With one hand balanced on Porthos's leg, Athos uses the other to grip the back of Aramis's neck, leaving a promise in form of a rough kiss above his eyebrow. "This is not Savoy," he swears darkly, then swings himself up behind Porthos with a snap, securing Porthos into his hold and maneuvering his steed into as fast a pace as it can manage.

Already walking, Aramis feels the phantom weight where Porthos used to be and watches until he can see them no more, crunching the frost on the ground into powder below his boots, left in the silence of bare trees.

tbc

Sorry this one was such a long time coming. I couldn't stop editing this chapter. Which was stupid, since it's pretty much the same as when I first finished it, and it probably still has typos. I was trying to tighten it up because in comparison to the other chapters it felt unruly and kind of off. Which, it is a bit, but I'm also pretty sure I'm just over thinking it now.