Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter and sorry for the cliff hanger - or, cliff dive, as one reader called it - at the end. Hope you enjoy this next part!
Thanks, as well, to AZGirl for all of her help and her last minute beta (totally my fault) of this chapter.
Aramis had watched helplessly while Bernier and Porthos had fought. Despite admiring his friend's strength and abilities in hand-to-hand combat, he recalled his own embarrassingly easy defeat at the hands of the large enforcer, and couldn't help the inrush of worry as the two men clashed. d'Artagnan was ahead of him, but not yet close enough to assist Porthos, the young man's nimble grace serving him well as he'd swiftly pulled away from the marksman. Aramis had gritted his teeth in response, forcing his arms and legs to pump faster, and doing his best to ignore the stubborn throbbing of his head that kept time with his heart.
Still too far away to be of any help, he watched powerlessly as Bernier dealt a vicious blow to Porthos' upper torso, the strike bringing forth a howl of pain from his friend as he immediately dropped to his knees. In that moment, Aramis wondered if Porthos had been stabbed, and he pushed his leaden legs to move faster. Despite the pain he must have been suffering, the large man waved to d'Artagnan to keep going, and the young man put on a fresh burst of speed, as his determination to catch the money lender was renewed.
Seconds later, Aramis skidded to a stop and yelled down to Athos below, "I've got Porthos. Go; stay with d'Artagnan!" Next, he moved to his friend's side, his chest heaving as he struggled to find more breath to ask the other man if he was alright. Porthos was still on his knees, having sat back on his heels, his back bowed with the effort of trying to curl in on himself. Reaching out a trembling hand to rest on the large man's shoulder, the marksman began to speak, only to be cut off by a whimper of pain from his friend. The sound shocked him, and he withdrew his hand as though burnt, startled at the awful cry that was so unlike the brawny man.
Licking his lips anxiously, Aramis tried again, this time refraining from touching as he asked, "Porthos, where are you hurt?" The seconds passed slowly as he waited for an answer, the silence between them filled only by Porthos' harsh breathing. Finally, the large man lifted his face, his features twisted into a grimace of agony.
"My shoulder," he gasped, and Aramis noted for the first time the way in which Porthos supported his left elbow in his other hand.
There was no obvious injury evident, and the marksman needed more information. Crouching down to the large man's eye level he queried, "What happened?"
Closing his eyes for a moment while he swallowed thickly, Porthos reopened them to meet the marksman's gaze as he answered. "I think it's dislocated." Taking another steadying breath, he added, "Bastard hits like a bear."
Aramis allowed a slight upturning of his lips as Porthos' response eased some of the worry constricting his chest. A dislocation would be a relatively simple matter to fix, but this was neither the time nor the place to tend to the injury. Instead, he would need to get the large man back to the garrison where he could offer something for the pain. Once the man's muscles had relaxed from one of his special draughts, he would manipulate the arm back into position. That left the matter of restraining the injured limb to minimize the pain that movement would bring.
He reached for the sash at his waist, unwinding the material, which he would use as a makeshift sling. Reaching a hand out, he gently touched Porthos' uninjured shoulder, waiting until the large man had made eye contact before speaking. "I'll need to bind it so we can move." He waited for a nod of acknowledgement before putting his words into action, ignoring the low grunts of pain that Porthos couldn't contain.
A minute later the task was done, the blue sash snugly pinning the large man's arm to his chest. Aramis swiped angrily at the sheen of sweat on his brow, reminding himself that of the two of them, his had been the easier role. Pushing aside his irritation at having caused his friend more pain, he asked, "Do you think you can get up?"
Porthos opened his eyes, having closed them again during Aramis' ministrations, and gave another nod. It took both of them to get the large man to his feet, and he swayed dangerously once he was upright, the marksman bracing him until he regained his balance. "I'm good," Porthos mumbled, and Aramis had to stop himself from snorting in disbelief.
Ducking beneath the large man's uninjured shoulder, Aramis wrapped his other arm around Porthos' waist, slowly moving him forward as he said, "We need to find a way down from here that you'll be able to manage with just one arm."
Porthos used his chin to indicate the building behind them. "There's an easy access point on the other side of that roof. Can take the stairs inside all the way down to the street."
Aramis merely shook his head at his friend's knowledge of the rooftops, as he reminded himself that this was Porthos' territory. The large man had grown up here, and was just as familiar with these rooftops as the marksman was with the women's bodies he worshipped. As they made their way down and exited onto the street, Porthos asked, "Athos and d'Artagnan?"
The band of worry from earlier returned as Aramis admitted, "I don't know." Without discussion, they moved automatically in the direction that Bernier had fled, both men hoping it would lead them to their friends. The marksman could hear Porthos' labored breathing as they walked faster than was comfortable for the larger man, but neither of them was willing to slow down, their pace fueled by their fear for their friends.
"No!" Athos' voice reached their ears, which spurred them into an awkward run, Porthos gasping with each footfall as his shoulder was jarred. A minute later, the older man came into view and the marksman slowed their speed, aware that the larger man at his side was nearly spent. Moments later, they'd arrived at the former comte's side, Aramis' worry plain on his face as he asked, "Athos, what happened? Where's d'Artagnan?"
Athos' face was pale and his eyes were wide with shock. His gaze seemed fixed on a faraway point, and he seemed unaware of the other men's presence. "Athos, are you alright?" Porthos tremulously asked, the other man's condition enough to penetrate his pain-filled fugue.
After several more seconds of silence, Aramis leaned closer to peer into the older man's face, noting the somewhat glazed look of his eyes. "I'm sorry for this, brother." Before Porthos could question Aramis' words, the marksman had lifted his free hand and slapped Athos across the face. The harsh sound of the impact seemed to echo around them as the medic waited for some sort of reaction.
Athos visibly startled and blinked several times, the shock of the strike bringing him back. Another moment passed before his gaze landed on Aramis' frowning features. "Are you back with us now?" the marksman asked, forcibly pushing aside the panic that was threatening to take hold at his friend's unusual state. "Where's d'Artagnan?" he asked again, hoping Athos would finally be able to reply.
He watched as Athos' gaze fixated on the same spot he'd been looking at before. Turning slightly, Aramis followed the older man's line of sight, still unsure what they were looking at, but suddenly certain that he needed to move to that location. Preparing to slip out from underneath Porthos' arm, he was surprised to find his shoulder tightly squeezed beneath his friend's hand. "Don't even think about leavin' me behind," his friend growled.
Wordlessly, Aramis began moving, idly noting that Athos had fallen into step behind them. They covered the distance quickly, despite Porthos' pained gait, stopping when a tangled bundle of clothing came into view. "What the…" the large man began, breaking off when Aramis abruptly left his side to dash forward.
It had only taken a few seconds for the marksman to discern the men in the clothes that lay on the ground ahead of them. Bernier was facing them and Aramis swallowed down a surge of bile at the man's lifeless eyes. Beyond the dead enforcer, he could see a full head of black hair, the Gascon lying limply next to his abductor's still form. Where the criminal had fallen onto his back, d'Artagnan was on his stomach, and a closer look showed his hand still tangled in the other man's arm as it had been before their fall.
"Oh, God, is he dead?" Porthos asked.
Aramis jumped, realizing only after the large man had spoken that his friends had joined him and were now standing on either side of him.
"No," Athos said, his tone not brooking any argument. "He can't be dead." He turned to look meaningfully at Aramis, waiting for the man to agree, but the marksman couldn't offer any guarantees.
"I'm sorry, Athos, but…" he began, seeing the older man's face blanch at his words. "No, that's not what I meant. I mean that I don't know yet; I haven't had time to check." Aramis clarified. Athos' eyes pleaded with him to put them all out of their misery, and the medic gave a slight nod before moving forward to check on their friend.
He walked around the splayed legs of both men, noting the awkward placement of Bernier's that hinted at numerous broken bones. Grimacing, he knelt next to d'Artagnan, casting his eyes over the young man's face and then down the length of his body, looking for any obvious signs of life or death.
The Gascon's face was peaceful, his lax features seeming almost too relaxed to be alive, and Aramis found himself having to force the unwelcome thought from his mind. With a visibly trembling hand, he placed two fingers on d'Artagnan's throat, praying for the telltale thrum that would signal life. He counted in Spanish in his head, automatically falling into his mother's language as he sought out the comfort it provided. 'Ocho, nueve, diez.' The numbers flowed through his mind like water, and yet he could feel nothing but stillness beneath his hand.
Drawing a steadying breath, he pressed harder, closing his eyes and focusing all his attention on the spot where his skin met the Gascon's. Beginning again, he prayed for a sign of life before he once more reached ten. 'Cuatro, cinco, seis.' He abruptly stopped counting as he felt a faint flutter, prompting him to exert more pressure, lest he'd been mistaken. The action elicited a weak cough from the young man, followed by a low groan, and Aramis' eyes shot open at the sounds.
Looking up at his friends who'd held their earlier position, he announced, "He's alive."
His words had both men moving and soon d'Artagnan was surrounded. "How?" Athos asked, the wonder plain in his voice. Aramis met the older man's gaze as he waited for more. "I saw him fall."
The marksman shook his head, not wholly certain he could provide an adequate explanation either. Instead, it was Porthos who replied. "Heard about it happenin' once when I was a wee one. Two men fell together while they were running away from the Red Guard. One died, but the other one walked away with barely more than bruises. Claimed he'd fallen on top of 'is friend, and that was enough to break his fall." He shrugged at the incredulous expressions on his friend's faces. "Never really believed it at the time, but I don't know of any other way to explain this," he said as he pointed to d'Artagnan.
Aramis and Athos exchanged heavy looks, shaken by the knowledge of how close they'd come to losing the Gascon. "Regardless of how it happened, I don't think d'Artagnan will be walking away from this," the medic observed with a sigh, turning his attention back to assessing the young man.
Aramis had refused to move the young man in any way that might exacerbate his injuries, so Athos had taken it upon himself to drag Bernier away from the Gascon, unable to stand the criminal's proximity to their friend. Once the marksman had confirmed that d'Artagnan was still alive, he'd fallen into complete medic mode, largely tuning out the rest of the world around him as he examined the young man.
Unbeknownst to him, Athos had set off to organize a cart, acknowledging that the Gascon's injuries were grave enough to preclude any other form of travel. Porthos had stayed close to the other two, keeping curious onlookers away with a combination of harsh glares and the occasional stern word, recognizing that d'Artagnan would hate the attention he was currently drawing.
Within a half-hour, Athos had returned with a wagon filled with a layer of clean hay and several blankets. By then, Aramis had completed his cursory examination and determined that it was safe to try and move the still unconscious Gascon. With Athos' help, the marksman settled d'Artagnan in the back of the wagon, with Porthos sitting at the young man's side. It would be up to Aramis to get them both back, while Athos dealt with their horses, who were tethered several streets away.
As Aramis prepared to move out, he looked down at Athos' troubled expression and said, "We can still detour and get the horses before we head back." His tone was questioning, and he waited several seconds while Athos considered his offer.
"No," Athos said, firmly shaking his head. He desperately wanted to go with his friends, but he would not be the cause of any further delays in his friends' treatment. "You head back to the infirmary, and I'll meet you there as quickly as possible."
"Are you sure?" Aramis questioned, giving his friend once last chance to change his mind.
"Yes, I'm sure," Athos replied, his words holding greater conviction than what was conveyed by his tone and expression. "Besides, I still need to make arrangements for the body." He meaningfully glanced toward Bernier for a moment before returning his gaze to the marksman.
With a weary sigh, Aramis nodded, flicking the reins attached to the horses that pulled the wagon. As they lurched into motion, he forced his thoughts away from the friend he was leaving behind, focusing instead on everything he'd have to do to tend to the friends he was bringing to safety.