Sorry, sorry, sorry! I promised a quick update but the snowstorm, trying to keep my workplace open in the face of snow, ice and power cuts, and fighting off a bug meant the last couple of days have flown by. On the plus side we are still snowbound (or rather ice-bound) and it's far too cold to do housework, so I'm forced to curl up on the sofa with a warm basset-hound at my side and write!

Chapter 17: Burning brighter than ever before

d'Artagnan drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings. Occasionally everything sharpened back into focus for a few seconds and he felt an ocean of pain lapping at his body, but then the world wobbled and faded away and he sank back beneath the dark waters. He felt impotence and frustration – he knew there was something important he should be doing – but the world was completely outside of his control and for the moment all he could do was float above the sea of pain which, he somehow knew, awaited him when he opened his eyes.

He had no idea how much time had passed since... something ... What had happened? He couldn't actually remember the last thing he remembered. He thought he should be worried by this, but he couldn't muster the energy.

He was finding it hard to breathe; it felt like there was a heavy weight crushing his chest. After a while he realised there actually was something there; he tried to raise a hand to push it away but nothing happened. He couldn't feel his hands; everything was numb. It was dark, and he couldn't feel his legs either, only the weight on his chest and the pain waiting in the shadows.

It occurred to him that he might be dead. He moved his head, tried to look around, wondering if he'd get a glimpse of golden light, or just something he recognised. But the tiny movement sent pain lancing down his neck and back and he cried out in agony – and realised something; no, two things, he thought, clumsily. The first thing was that he could move his head, so he still had a body, and it hurt – which he guessed meant he was still alive.

The second realisation was that he couldn't hear anything. His throat clenched with a cry of agony when he moved his head, and he could feel the vibrations in his chest, feel the air rushing over his tongue, but his cry was silent. He wondered if he'd lost his voice or his hearing, but the rush of impressions had exhausted him already and he slipped back into the cool arms of darkness with relief.

When he next stirred, he found the weight on his chest had moved. Was moving, in fact. He opened his eyes warily, remembering the pain he felt last time he tried, and saw a blurry shape right in front of his eyes. He squinted, blinking sticky eyelids, and the shape slowly resolved into a familiar face. Athos. He felt a rush of emotion as the name floated into his consciousness, and knew this man was dear to him. "Athos!" he called, but heard nothing. Slowly he remembered that his world had gone silent. The pain held at bay by the darkness crept a little closer. The weight on his chest shifted again, and there was a vibration in his chest as the face twisted. Athos was speaking, he thought, and he tried to smile, but that tiny movement cracked the fragile wall holding pain at bay, and like the tide rushing to fill a sandy moat, pain began to punch its way through his defences.

His chest heaved as panic crowded on the heels of pain. It was going to hurt. He couldn't remember why, but he knew his body was damaged and the fact that he couldn't speak, couldn't ask for help or cry out, was terrifying. And now the pain was insistent, demanding attention, and he could feel it looming larger and stronger by the minute. Very soon he wouldn't be able to ignore it any longer. He stared at Athos, willing him to open his eyes before the pain dragged him under.

And, as if he'd spoken aloud, the blue-green eyes suddenly opened and for a moment frozen in time, they were nose-to-nose again, and Athos smiled at him. But d'Artagnan saw his features twist and felt another rumble in his chest as he saw Athos gasp in pain, and then the weight disappeared from his chest as Athos rolled off him, and he wanted to cry even as he relished the sweet air rushing into his lungs, because he missed his warmth.

The first thing Athos saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of dark eyes fixed intently on his: d'Artagnan was conscious. Athos couldn't remember, for a moment, how they come be here, but he knew deep in his bones that he had nearly lost d'Artagnan and for several heartbeats all he could feel was a surge of grateful love.

He was lying across d'Artagnan's body and he felt the other man move restlessly under him. It was coming back to him now, the image of d'Artagnan's bloodied body lying amongst the ruins of the cannon, and he couldn't imagine what pain the other man was in. His weight could only be making things worse so he put his hands to the ground either side of d'Artagnan's shoulders to lift himself off, before remembering why this was a bad idea.

He'd been shot.

A gasp of agony escaped him before he could hold it in, but d'Artagnan was struggling feebly under him, eyes blinking slowly in distress, so he pushed through his own pain and rolled off, hissing as his bruised back touched the bare ground. He lay for a second, or a minute; he had no idea how long, able only to wait for the nausea to settle. In the end it was only the urgent need to make sure d'Artagnan could now breathe that drove him to push upwards on his hands – swearing as the throbbing in his left arm surged to meet the ball of fire in his chest – and lurch to a sitting position.

When the world had stopped whirling, he looked around to get his bearings.

It would be nice just for once, he thought bitterly, to have imagined the worst and woken to find it was a dream. Sadly, as the events of the previous hours slowly re-established themselves in his consciousness, the reality was all too dire. d'Artagnan had been caught in the explosion. Fouchard was badly wounded, the others dead. They'd gone over the edge of the mountain and no one knew they were even alive, let alone where to find them. Not forgetting, of course, that he'd been shot. The clamour of pain from his upper torso left no room for doubt about this last.

For the first time he dared to look down, and exhaled noisily in relief when he saw the dark stain spreading from just left of his armpit. The ball had entered high on his shoulder and passed right through him. Although he was still losing blood he had felt worse: the shot must have missed anything vital. He could still use his right arm which he hoped meant there will be no lasting damage, but there was a dragging ache in his left forearm which was sadly familiar. Something's broken, he thought sluggishly, remembering belatedly the pain as he had tried to bring their slide to a halt.

He couldn't see any heads peering down from above. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious; the bastards must have assumed they were both now dead. Which didn't feel far from the truth, if he was honest, but then he had always been good at ignoring uncomfortable truths. It was more important that they were completely vulnerable here, and they needed to move.

He struggled to his knees, ignoring the waves of pain that pulsed through his body at the moment, peeled off his gloves and bent over d'Artagnan, whose eyes had closed again, to check his pulse. He remembered doing this several times already, and found the heartbeat was slower now, but steady, and he swallowed the lump of apprehension in his throat.

He looked over the young Musketeer properly for the first time since finding him apparently dead on the platform above. His skin was almost black with soot from the explosion, but marked with patches of oozing blood and tracks of sweat. His entire left side looked somehow melted, as if skin and clothing had melded in a mess of torn flesh and oozing blood. There were black gouges all down his leathers where burning metal had peppered his body, and ... He breathed out a soft curse and reached a trembling hand to the lump protruding from d'Artagnan's left side, a lump that had no business being there. He touched it delicately, hoping it will be something soft, a spur of flesh or leather perhaps, but it was not. It was hard, and felt cold, and horribly slick.

It was a piece of metal, coated in d'Artagnan's blood. He stared at it, his finger tips brushing its surface, his mind reeling. It was a fragment of the cannon, he realised, embedded in his lower ribs. Athos tried to lift the torn leather uniform to see underneath, and d'Artagnan opened his eyes, and screamed.

Christ! Athos shushed him frantically, checking over his shoulder at the skyline above them. Still no heads, but he couldn't risk it, and clapped his hand over d'Artagnan's mouth, feeling him struggling feebly for a second, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

Athos took his hand away, his own heart still thundering, and patted d'Artagnan gently on the chest, then snatched it back as he realised the leather under his hand was sticky with blood. He'd thought the damage was all on d'Artagnan's left side: what had he missed? He peered at the leather on d'Artagnan's shoulder and saw, to his horror, a round hole from which blood was oozing. The kind of hole he'd seen far too many times, and which no doubt matched the holes in front and back of his own leathers. A hole left by a musket ball.

The ball fired from above – when he'd flung himself across d'Artagnan to protect him – must have passed right through his own body and straight into d'Artagnan, high on his chest. For a moment Athos couldn't breathe properly. Jesus! The lad's body surely couldn't take any more punishment. He'd already lost so much blood... Athos could feel his panic rising and tried to gulp it back down, to steady his breath. From that distance, and passing first through his own body, the ball could not have penetrated far. d'Artagnan was conscious, sort of, and they weren't dead yet. Prioritise, he told himself.

Safety first. He had no idea what was happening above but if any Spaniards spotted them still moving down here on this bare slope they would be easy targets: they had to move. Gritting his teeth, he made it to his feet, waited until the dark spots recede from his eyesight, then stooped to gather d'Artagnan.

He quickly realised he couldn't do it. Both of his arms felt weak and although he got his right arm under d'Artagnan's shoulders, he couldn't muster enough strength to lift him; his arms were both damaged and his muscles just wouldn't respond.

He swore, and sank to his knees again, dropping his head and watching the sweat dripping from his forehead until he had control of his breathing again.

He would not stop until he'd got d'Artagnan safe, even if it killed him. So he didn't have a choice; he had to move them both somehow.

Resolutely he reached around d'Artagnan, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, laced his fingers together around his back, then rocked back on his knees and heaved.

It wasn't elegant but it worked. He managed to pull d'Artagnan's upper body up and the Gascon's full weight flopped onto Athos' chest. Ignoring the hard rock digging into his knees, Athos wobbled, trying to balance the deadweight. It was like trying to stuff jelly into a coin purse, he thought irritably, but eventually he had him balanced just so, and shoved his right shoulder under d'Artagnan's, then struggled to his feet again, this time managing to drag d'Artagnan upright with him.

They stood, although that might be too strong a word for it, with Athos swearing, fingers slipping on blood-slick skin, and for a moment he thought he was losing the Gascon and he would drop back to the ground in a lifeless puddle, but then he felt the battered body slowly stiffen and take a tiny bit of his own weight, and the pained brown eyes struggled open again.

"d'Artagnan! Can you walk?" he asked urgently, stifling the urge to look above him again: if he moved too much he feared he would lose the precarious balance he'd achieved and d'Artagnan would crash back to the ground.

There was no answer. His head was drooping, his eyes skittering around their surroundings.

"d'Artagnan? Dammit, answer me!"

And this time his head turned slowly, and a slow smile spread across the filthy, bloody features.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked again, shifting his grip slightly. He was terrified of knocking against the metal protruding from d'Artagnan's left side, and knew he had to swop sides, but he wanted to be sure the Gascon could hold himself up before he tried this manoeuvre.

d'Artagnan's eyes fastened on Athos' mouth, which didn't strike Athos as odd until he realised that yet again d'Artagnan had not answered. A chilling thought nagged at him.

"d'Artagnan?" He refused to listen to the doubt in his mind, but then d'Artagnan's eyes creased in distress and he shook his head ever so slightly.

"I can't hear... " he croaked, then erupted into coughs that brought a soft cry of pain as he folded over himself, arms flailing feebly. Athos reached automatically for his water bottle, usually hanging at his belt in battle, and found it was missing, presumably ripped off during their fall. Of course. Luck was hardly with them, today.

He looked at d'Artagnan again as the coughs subsided and saw, this time, the thin trails of dried blood which had trickled from both his ears. Cold fear clamped his stomach. How was he even standing?

He realised d'Artagnan was watching him with fierce concentration, but his face frequently twisted and his body shuddered, and Athos knew he was fighting to stay conscious. They had to move.

Speaking as clearly and slowly as he could, he told d'Artagnan he was going to shift sides. d'Artagnan blinked in incomprehension and Athos tried again, telling him tersely to "stand still!" then changed his grip and managed to get to d'Artagnan's right side without dropping him, though there was a nasty moment when he removed his shoulder and the Gascon lurched to the side. Athos snatched hastily at his leather and jerked him back upright, then rammed his left, uninjured shoulder under d'Artagnan's right arm and got them both anchored again.

They swayed together for a moment, both men breathing heavily. He'd almost forgotten his own injuries in his desperate worry over d'Artagnan, but he knew he was still losing blood – he could feel the wetness spreading down his shirt under his leathers – and they both urgently needed proper medical attention. He could feel d'Artagnan's body shuddering constantly against him. He couldn't tell if it was from pain or the effort of standing but he knew they had to move straight away, before d'Artagnan blacked out again. There was no way Athos could carry him with his own injuries; if he slipped unconscious he would have to wait with him, or drag him, and neither were good options.

So he nudged d'Artagnan and jerked his chin, and d'Artagnan nodded, and they took an uncoordinated step. Athos hissed as d'Artagnan lurched and nearly fell, his weight yanking on Athos' left arm. He couldn't feel bone shifting, so he thought the break was not a bad one, perhaps just a hairline fracture, but his hand felt weak on that side and the whole limb was aching. However he refused to let go, and in the face of his fierce determination, they took another step. Then another.

Step by step and inch by inch they lurched down the rocky slope, stumbling to find a path between the boulders and crevices of the steep scree. Sometimes there was no room for them to manoeuvre side-by-side so Athos went first, walking almost backwards with d'Artagnan's body cradled against his chest. The Gascon's feet were floppy and uncoordinated and Athos thought he probably had little or no idea where he was placing them.

They didn't talk. Athos didn't have the breath, and d'Artagnan couldn't hear him anyway, but actually there was no need. Their bodies were moulded together by necessity, and Athos felt every tremor in d'Artagnan's body, knew exactly where he needed support, when he was losing balance, and when he needed a rest.

By contrast d'Artagnan had very little awareness. He felt completely disconnected from everything, aware of little but the pain and weakness that threatened to overwhelm his body. Everything around him looked grey and fuzzy and he knew he was battling to stay conscious. Inside he was sobbing with pain, but he didn't make a sound. He trusted his brother, and if Athos wanted him to move, he would move.

Eventually Athos had to stop. He was drenched in sweat – at least he hoped it was sweat – and his legs were trembling so violently from the effort of moving that he couldn't lift them anymore. He steered them both towards a spur of rock and tried to lower d'Artagnan gently, but lost balance as d'Artagnan's deadweight got away from him and they both crashed to the ground. Athos panted, sweat pouring down his dirt-smeared face, and struggled to his knees to check d'Artagnan again. He'd gone limp, his eyes closed again, but his pulse still thrummed under Athos' fingers and he exhaled noisily in relief.

He settled beside him to rest, his aching left arm still wrapped around the slender waist just below the awful shard of metal embedded in d'Artagnan's side. It didn't seem to have moved, and he couldn't feel much blood. Maybe it wasn't that deep.

He felt a flicker of hope as he looked around, taking in their surroundings properly. He couldn't see the top of the mountain anymore, only chaotic pillars and rock falls, so they'd covered a reasonable distance and at least they were safe from further overhead attack now. His heart sank when he looked forward though; he couldn't see far ahead but if he squinted, he thought he could see the valley floor between two spurs of granite. It seemed a long way down still.

It was also getting dark. Where had the day gone? When everything went haywire, the battle was only an hour or two old. How long had they been lurching around on the side of this god-forsaken mountain?

For the first time since they fell, he had time to wonder what happened in the battle, and his heart started pounding uncomfortably. He'd left his men in the middle of their biggest ever battle. He tried to remember where he last saw Porthos, and which of his men had still been on their feet. Did they get the wounded away safely? Were they still fighting, or had they been overwhelmed? He should be there, making sure everyone was alright. He knew Porthos would do it just as well as he could, but only if he was still alive. What if he was ... He shook his head, shying from the terrible thought. That way, madness lay.

Still, it made him wonder if he shouldn't leave d'Artagnan here and try to get back to his men alone. He could move much faster on his own, and if he could find them – if they were still encamped, and not dead or imprisoned – he could bring help back. d'Artagnan would be safe here, for a little while, tucked in this fold of rock, and it would surely be better for him to rest than force him to move again which couldn't be doing his injuries any good. And, if he was honest, he was not sure how much longer he would have the strength to hold his brother upright.

He turned to d'Artagnan decisively and found the dark eyes watching him closely, so he mustered a reassuring smile from somewhere deep inside, and pushed himself off the rock so he could face him. "I'm going for help. You stay here. I won't be long," he told him, speaking slowly.

d'Artagnan's face creased in confusion so he repeated himself. d'Artagnan followed his lips carefully and suddenly got it. A look of desolation crossed his face, and he shut his eyes for a moment, turning his head away from Athos, biting his lower lip fiercely. Athos watched him struggle to regain control then turn his head back, giving a small nod of agreement. "Go. I'll be here." He managed a feeble smile. "Not going anywhere." His voice sounded weak and a bubble of red spit leaked from his mouth as he struggled unsuccessfully to contain a bout of coughing which left him gasping for breath and folding one bloodied hand over his stomach, the other bracing himself on the rock. Athos planted both hands on his shoulders and held him, cursing under his breath at his inability to do more to help him.

Once he'd stopped coughing Athos tried to settle him, pulling his own shredded doublet off and laying it over d'Artagnan in an attempt to keep him warm, then stood with difficulty, leaning on the rock face for a moment, blinking as everything went dim around him for a moment. Then he told d'Artagnan he wouldn't be long, trying for an optimistic tone he knew neither of them believed, and started to shamble away down the mountainside.

He managed ten paces before the urge to look back became too strong.

He told himself he was just checking that the wounded man was resting comfortably but he knew it was fear that dragged his eyes back: fear that his friend would die while his back was turned.

How long would it take him to get help? If the French forces had been defeated and returned to their camp, it could take him hours to reach them. Assuming he didn't collapse from blood-loss on the way.

He didn't think d'Artagnan had hours.

d'Artagnan sensed warmth by his side, and opened his eyes to find Athos settling back down beside him. "That was quick."

As jokes go it was weak, made more so by the feebleness of his voice, but Athos' eyes relaxed into a warm smile. "Decided to stay with you. Let Porthos do some work for once. He'll find us soon enough."

d'Artagnan's face creased as he tried to follow, and Athos rolled laboriously to his knees so d'Artagnan could see his face more easily, and repeated himself until d'Artagnan got it – which was obvious from the frown on his face when he worked it out. "You need to go."

"I'm fine here."

"Athos – "

"Save your breath. I'm not leaving you."

"Y-you are – "

"Staying right here." Athos was implacable and the argument was clearly tiring the younger man. "We just have to wait. They'll be here soon."

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes, with obvious effort. "You can leave me. I am not dying."

Good argument. Athos mentally saluted him; he was hardly going to contradict him by telling him this was exactly what he was afraid of.

d'Artagnan seemed to be able to read his Captain's face. "I promise. Not ... planning ... to die ... today."

His breathing was becoming shallow, his neck muscles corded as he strained to pull air into his battered lungs. Fear flooded Athos' body and he realised he was gripping d'Artagnan's shoulders fiercely. He forced himself to relax his fingers. d'Artagnan's eyes were locked on his and he saw naked fear there, battling with pain and panic. And something else. Trust.

Athos' gut twisted again. Somehow the knowledge of that trust scared him more than the possibility that d'Artagnan was dying. What if he couldn't help him? What if the next breath d'Artagnan took was his last? And Athos was just watching, completely bloody helpless, as the light faded from those huge dark eyes?

He suddenly realised those eyes were sliding away, the eyelids blinking more and more slowly, and panic flooded him. "No! d'Artagnan! You don't get to die here! You have given your word!"

The eyelids closed and he found himself shouting urgently. "d'Artagnan!"

He remembered, belatedly, that the lad couldn't hear him and before he knew what he was doing he'd slapped him, hard, across the face. The Gascon's head lolled to the side and for a horrible moment he wondered if he'd just slapped a dead man. He was already reaching out to touch the same cheek he'd just hit when the eyes slid open again and d'Artagnan turned his head laboriously, found Athos' outstretched hand there and leaned into his touch, eyes closing again.

Athos didn't know what to do. He was d'Artagnan's Captain, his elder, his mentor. But he was also his friend and his brother and he was rooted to the spot. Fear and panic were crashing in around his head as his hand curled protectively around d'Artagnan's soot-grimed, bloody cheek, watching the laboured breaths whistling from his mouth.

Feeling like a man drowning in quicksand, he mentally grabbed the first coherent thought that flitted through his brain and hung on to it for dear life. Aramis. What will Aramis say when he tells him how he lost d'Artagnan on this bare mountainside? He couldn't imagine that conversation; didn't want to. Aramis would be furious if he hadn't done everything he could, he thought.

Something about shock, and blood loss, drifted into his mind and before he knew it he was pulling d'Artagnan towards him. He had to help the heart to work – that valiant, doesn't-know-when-he's-beaten heart – to pump whatever blood was left in his body more easily. He got d'Artagnan lying on his back again, head first down the slope, and bent his legs at the knees, tipping them to the side so the rocks propped them in place. Not knowing what else he could do, Athos sank to the ground beside the Gascon's body, positioned himself alongside, careful to avoid the metal embedded in his side, and wrap his arms around the lax body. He told himself he was keeping him warm, which was good for shock according to the Aramis in his head, but he wondered whether he just didn't want d'Artagnan to die without feeling human warmth and love. He knew he was probably not the best person to give that comforting touch, but he was the only person here so to hell with it.

He didn't know how long they lay like that; he only knew that time was passing. He didn't think he slept. His chest felt as if it were on fire and the deep ache in his forearm stopped him from sinking into oblivion but for once he was grateful for the pain. He didn't want to be asleep when – no, if - d'Artagnan needed him. He refused to articulate precisely what that need might be.

He didn't pray, not formally, but he thought constantly of Porthos, willing him to know, somehow, that they were alive and needed him, desperate to see that familiar outline shambling into view, bringing his own brand of fierce comfort and hope with him.

And he thought of Aramis too, and wondered if their missing brother might sense when they were in trouble. Selfishly he hoped he would, then laughed quietly at his hypocrisy. He was too bitter and stubborn himself to pray (though he knew it was the Church, not God, with whom he was angry for it was the Church who interpreted God's laws and made the aristocracy responsible for carrying out his will) and yet he was happy to entertain the notion of Aramis being tormented with visions of his brothers at war so that he could pray for them.

Mentally he tried to substitute an image of Aramis lying peacefully asleep, cocooned in a blanket in a simple cell, bible on his table... and gave up. He just couldn't see Aramis gliding silently around a chapel, eyes downcast, obedient to the will of God and the Abbé. Aramis was vitality, head flung back in laughter, barking laughter, teasing smiles, arm flung around a shoulder, twinkling eyes recounting a battle. Aramis was a tongue pushing the corner of his mouth as he threaded a needle, corded forearms working delicately over a wound, bloodied hand shoving curls out of his eyes. Aramis was fickle and passionate, silver-tongued and annoying and brilliant.

He bloody missed him.

And he was not going to ride to Douai at the end of the war and tell him d'Artagnan had died alone on a dark hillside – for it was fully dark now – while he went for help.

He could feel cold air rolling down the hillside, but the side that was pressed against d'Artagnan was warm, and he couldn't bring himself to move, so he knew instantly when d'Artagnan came slowly back to consciousness.

d'Artagnan rolled his head towards Athos and his eyes flickered open. He looked confused for a moment until his brain had processed their new position, then he smiled. "Thanks," he breathed.

"What for?"

d'Artagnan's eyes fasten on his and he took a moment to answer. Athos remembered that he was lip-reading in the dark, and repeated the question.

"For staying... Sorry."

"What for?" Athos asked for a third time.

"Everything." d'Artagnan mumbled and his eyes closed again, and Athos felt a moment of panic, quickly pushed aside in favour of fury. He would not let him die, and certainly not with the thought that he'd got anything to apologise for.

He gripped d'Artagnan's jaw none-too-gently and turned his head, seeing with relief the eyes flicker open again. "You have nothing to apologise for!" he hissed. Then added, fiercely: "Unless you bloody die on me. You'll bloody well have to haunt me to apologise for that, do you hear?" He saw d'Artagnan blink, then the face twisted and for a ghastly second he thought it was a death-grimace. Then he realised it was a smile, or a parody of one, and he relaxed his grip slightly, his own features softening in relief. d'Artagnan may not have understood every word but he'd clearly got the message.

d'Artagnan whispered something and he'd missed it, so he leaned closer. d'Artagnan repeated himself indistinctly, something about having a busy time apologising to him and Constance and Porthos and Aramis and Tréville... and suddenly his eyes were sparkling again, as if mumbling the names of everyone he loved had pulled him back from the brink.

He touched d'Artagnan's cheek again, and the eyes fastened on his. "Best if you don't die today, then," Athos told him clearly, and was rewarded with another tiny smile. He nodded, and said it again, believing it more this time. "You don't die today, d'Artagnan." He couldn't stop himself now. "Not here, not on this hillside, do you hear me? You fight it, fight for life, dammit. Don't you ever give up on me ..." He was gripping him by the shoulders again, almost shaking him with the ferocity of his determination that this precious man would stay with him, so he almost missed it when d'Artagnan nodded shakily and whispered something. "What?"

d'Artagnan repeated it carefully, painfully, each word carried on its own tiny breath. "I'll ... do ... my best."

Athos blinked the hot grit from his eyes and cleared his throat. Worry and relief battled for supremacy but his voice was calm as he answered "Damn right. Now shut up and let me get you warm, then I'll scout for a path down the hill..." d'Artagnan's eyes closed again and Athos stopped, then finished to himself: "I'll find a way, mon ami. I promise you." He lay close to d'Artagnan, so close that he could feel every slow breath and every tremor of pain. He draped a leg carefully over d'Artagnan's legs and put his hand on d'Artagnan's chest, high up so he was not restricting his breathing, and shut his own eyes. Five minutes rest, he told himself, five more minutes until d'Artagnan's trembling slowed and then he would find a path down the hill and get help.

There was a light bobbing around below him and he was not sure how that was possible. He blinked and squinted, catching sight of the body nestling partly under his own. d'Artagnan! He felt clumsily for a pulse, catching his breath at the pain spiking up as he moved, but he could feel the Gascon's heartbeat and right now that was all he cared about.

He raised his head and found the light was much closer, and then spotted feet moving underneath it, and the world suddenly sorted itself out and he realised he was lying face down the slope, watching someone pick a path towards him. Before he had time to wonder through the fog in his brain whether it was friend or foe, there was a shout, and the light suddenly lurched crazily as the feet underneath it started to run, leaping madly in the pool of flickering light, and more voices answered from a distance, and he started to push himself to his feet, once again fumbling fruitlessly for a weapon and trying not to pitch head first into the ground as pain lanced up both arms and met in the middle of his chest in a fiery ball, and he gasped, and then someone was there, arms wrapped around him, holding him up and calling his name.

Porthos.

Porthos was here!

Athos heard himself whisper Porthos' name and then everything faded.

Author's Note: Readers who have not posted their own stories may wonder why it takes us so long to get the chapters up, especially when we swear we've already drafted them. I know I did, before I tried it for myself. Well, one thing is fear: that I'll have missed an apostrophe or a tense change, or just forgotten to transfer a vital plot point from my head into words, so I draft, then rewrite, then tidy up, then load into fanfic and check again before hitting the "post" button. Then there's you guys, with your speculation and enjoyment and logical brains, who frequently raise questions I've not thought of, so I have to tweak and add... And finally there is the mystery of technology. So I originally wrote this chapter in the present tense, then decided it didn't work here and changed it to the more usual story-telling past tense. In doing so I deleted a couple of paragraphs that I thought were repetitive. Saved it, opened Fanfic, uploaded my word document ready for final edit... and suddenly came across those deleted paragraphs. They stood out as they were still in the original present tense. Cue frantic searching of laptop, thinking I'd uploaded a different version but no, I only have one version saved and those paragraphs are not there. So it seems Word has a phantom earlier version of this chapter hidden beneath the one I've saved. And Fanfic has found those paragraphs and decided they are good enough, after all, to appear! So I've thrown my hands up and handed power to Word and Fanfic, who seem to know better than me.