CHAPTER 17

By dusk they had slowly and meticulously searched on their respective sides of the river, until they reached the area where they believe their two friends had fallen into the water. A bit more upstream from that point, was a bridge and through a series of hand-gestures, d'Artagnan indicated he would ride there and rejoin Porthos on his side of the river.

After the younger musketeer had ridden off, Porthos had passed the time eating some of the trail rations that the Abbott had given them and searching the area for any other clues, of which he found none in the dusk. The sound of hoof beats eventually met his ears and instinctively he reached for his pistol. However, a greeting whinny from his gelding to his stablemate set him at ease.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked as he drew his horse alongside the small fire Porthos had built.

"You get down, give that horse a rest and eat something yourself." The Gascon looked as if he was about to protest. "We can't find them if we get hurt ourselves. Eat, rest for a bit. It's very dark and the road is still icy. We'll stay here until it gets light."

After d'Artagnan finished eating, and they rubbed the horses down, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and bedrolls, got close to the fire and took turns catching some sleep while they waited for the dawn. Once a hint of light appeared in the east, they shook off their fatigue, put out the fire, readied the horses and then slowly moved down the road that was glistening like diamonds in the pre-dawn light.

-MMMM-

Aramis woke with a start when a cold tendril worked its way down his back. Shivering, he realized two things, the fire had burned low and Athos was missing. Springing to his feet as fast as his cold-numbed body could manage, he moved outside and scanned about, expecting Athos to be nearby, perhaps stoking the fire. But his eyes registered emptiness.

"Where the hell are you, Athos," he muttered, half-worried and half-annoyed. He told Athos not to leave the campsite on his own. There was really only one logical way in and out of the campsite, so Aramis walked that way, shivering when the strong winds hit him. He had only taken a few steps when he saw a dark shadow on the snow. It didn't take long to ascertain it was Athos. Stumbling over to the prone body, he dropped onto his knees, not even registering the pain that ripped through his frozen bones.

As he reached out to check for a pulse, he realized the snow surrounding Athos had started to melt and he knew exactly why as his hand drew close to the musketeer's skin. The man was afire with fever. His questing fingers found a pulse, but no amount of verbal or physical stimuli would awake the man. So with some reluctance, he grabbed Athos by the back collar of his doublet and tediously dragged him back to the shelter. The whole way he cursed himself for not checking Athos over, especially the burn he'd inflicted on the man's arm. Aramis, as an experience medic, knew that burns are apt to get infected. This freezing weather had not only numbed his body but also his common sense.

Once inside their pine bough shelter, he maneuvered Athos onto a blanket, though when he tried to wrap it about Athos' body, the man shrugged it off, muttering incomprehensible words. Gripping the tin cup, he found some previously melted snow in their pot that hadn't been turned into 'tea' yet, nor had it refrozen. Carrying this over to Athos, he propped the man up and cajoled and forced the now semi-conscious man into ingesting the liquid.

That seemed to help revive the musketeer a little, as his eyes cracked open. "What happened?" he slurred as he peered about with unfocused eyes.

"It would seem," Aramis stated as he set the cup aside, "you decided to go for a midnight stroll and forgot the way home."

Trying to push his jelly limbs into obeying, Athos struggled to sit up. Aramis helped him, sitting next to him and wrapping his hands around Athos' middle which elicited a groan.

"You are hurt?" Aramis said with concern, as he withdrew his hand from around Athos's middle and moved to support him more from the back.

Athos grunted a bit, squirmed and finally settled against Aramis' chest. "Ribs. Banged. Rocks. River."

While Aramis would have loved to make Athos take off his doublet and shirt so he could see for himself what was going on, he knew it was a poor idea. The man had survived this long, so the risk that a lung was punctured was probably minimal. Still they needed to be careful not to injure them further.

"What were you doing out there? I told you not to leave this place alone," Aramis scolded, his fright for his brother overcoming him. "You could have died out there."

"Signal fire out."

"And you didn't think to wake me." He didn't expect to get an answer and he didn't, so he moved on. "Well the good and bad news is you have a fever, a high one at that. It probably kept you from freezing to death in the snow. But…" he let his voice trail off because he didn't know what to say. The same fever that saved his life could easily kill him tomorrow.

"I need to examine that burn on your arm, see if it is infected," Aramis demanded but Athos simply shook his head. "Why not?"

"I'd have to take my coat off. And shirt. Too many buttons. Too cold. You have nothing to treat it with. Waste of time. And," he slurred, his voice growing weak, "I am too tired."

He felt Athos drifting off to sleep and he tried to make them both a bit more comfortable. The only good thing was the excess heat pouring off of Athos was making Aramis warm, the warmest he had been in a long time. Glancing one last time at their fire, he deemed it was sufficiently fed to last through the rest of the night. Raising his eyes to the sky, which now had a bright moon in it, he saw he could still see the light of their signal fire. Nothing more to be done, other than pray. So, he did just that and then drifted off to sleep.

-MMMM-

Porthos and d'Artagnan rode for an hour before they noticed something strange. Dawn was coming and they weren't sure of what they were seeing, but it appeared as if there was a glowing in the middle of the river. They dismounted, and picked their way down the slope towards the Seine's edge and, in the pink light of dawn, they saw the tiny island.

"You don't suppose," d'Artagnan said quietly, as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, on the edge of the river.

A note of hope crept into Porthos' voice. "The river carried them onto the island? They can't get off so they built a signal fire? Makes sense to me."

Porthos and d'Artagnan scanned the area to the left and right of the pyre, but didn't see any signs of their two missing brothers.

"We've gotta get on that island," Porthos said desperately as he continued to shift his gaze from the fire to the surrounding area. That mysterious six sense they possessed was telling his gut his brothers were on that island. But were they alright? "Ideas country boy? If we were in the city…," the child who grew up in the Court of Miracles shook his head and shrugged, "Out here, especially dealing with water, not my area of expertise."

The farmer turned musketeer studied the island, the river surrounding it and then the banks on both sides. Both of them had coils of rope attached to their saddles, but as single lengths they wouldn't reach the island. Tied together maybe. He could tie the ropes together, then around his waist, swim across the river and explore the island. But if they were there, how would he get them back to this side of the river? Have Porthos and the horses drag them back one at a time? That would be a lot of trips through the deadly cold water, and if his brothers were injured it wouldn't be an option at all.

Scanning the banks, there was no sign of a vessel of any sort, boat, canoe, raft; that would be too easy. He debated about building a raft, but they didn't have an axe to chop down trees and it would take too long. There was no telling what condition Aramis and Athos were in, if they indeed were on the island at all. If they weren't there, every minute spent here was a waste. Maybe it was worth braving the water and swimming across, to see if they were there.

"I'll swim across and see if they are there," he announced as he began to unbutton his coat. A firm hand stopped him.

"No, you won't. It's too cold if you are wrong. Then you'll be wet and in this weather, that will kill."

"But Porthos, if they are there…"

"Find another way. They won't thank you for endangering yourself needlessly on their account," he said firmly, even though Porthos wished he could swim well enough to go check. But if they weren't there and they had to continue to search, a wet d'Artagnan would be a serious liability.

Scanning up and down the river banks, d'Artagnan wished a bridge would magically appear. His eyes lit on two trees, hanging low over the river. Their roots were exposed due to the erosion of the river's bank. It appeared a good firm push might have them toppling over and floating away. An idea started forming in his head, though he didn't know how well it would work. If there was no bridge, maybe they could make their own.

"What I'm thinking is those two trees." D'Artagnan pointed up the river towards the two leaning oak trees, which, because they were nearly dead, had lost most of their branches and were somewhat bare. "I think if we can knock them into the stream, we can use them to build a bridge."

Porthos eyed the trees dubiously. "They don't appear long enough to span the space. And how would you keep them from floating away?"

All very good questions, d'Artagnan thought as he worked through the scenario in his mind once more. "Ropes. We each have a coil of rope. We tie them to the ends of the trees and using the horses we should be able to keep them from floating away."

"And to span the river, reach the island, if you could lash them together, almost end to end, I think they will reach," Porthos suggested as he let his eyes travel up the height of each tree. "Narrow to walk on. Doable for you maybe, but if they are injured…"

"One thing at a time. First let's see if they are truly there." With that d'Artagnan headed back towards the horses, with Porthos following behind after giving one last look at the island.