Their escape from the thugs was going to be a fine tall tale to tell cadets. Porthos would embellish the exciting moments and gloss over the bits where they almost died.

He just hoped he could tell the story. There was still a chance they would not make it. There was still a chance d'Artagnan would not make it.

The young musketeer was heavy in his arms. He was barely trying to lift his feet. But he was trying. Just that small amount. That small spark of a need to save himself was still there.

And that was all they needed.

That spark.

Although Porthos had a horrible feeling it would be a different type of spark that would be needed to save d'Artagnan.

Athos was ahead of them one moment and circling to check behind them the next. He was encouraging them to keep moving, but not rushing them. Porthos was aware of Aramis limping slightly, the kick to the ankle he had sustained was not helpful when he was helping to support their injured friend. If the ground were not so treacherous Porthos might have considered slinging d'Artagnan over his shoulder.

But that was not practical, not just because of the uneven ground they were traversing but because of the injury d'Artagnan carried.

The young man had been shot, the ball had grazed a furrow across his side leaving him in considerable pain. Pain that he had been forced to hide for some time due to the men that had taken them threatening to kill any man who was badly injured because they would not be worth anything.

D'Artagnan had stoically suppressed the pain. Until he did not have to anymore.

Now he was whimpering with every step. Getting heavier in their arms.

'We have to stop,' Aramis said, making the decision they all knew was inevitable.

Athos was behind them at that moment.

'I do not think we are being followed. But we need to be quick.'

Porthos helped Aramis to lower d'Artagnan to the ground. His head lolled forward.

'Don't pass out, d'Artagnan,' said Aramis. 'We need to keep moving. Once we've dealt with this we need to move.'

Aramis shook d'Artagnan hard. Porthos knew there was no time to be gentle. Aramis, who was usually a caring field medic, could not take his time, he had to be quick. The men that had taken them could find them at any moment.

'Have you got it?' asked Aramis, glancing up at Athos, who was reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out the collection of kindling. And held it up.

'You will only get one shot at this,' he said. 'And we need it to heat up fast.'

Athos handed the kindling to Porthos who got to work on setting the fire, clearing a space on the fortunately dry earth and laying their precious kindling in the centre. He pulled the flint from his pocket, and Aramis handed him the small knife he had grabbed during their hasty escape.

As Porthos set the fire he was aware of d'Artagnan's continued mumbled apologies. Aramis continued to talk to him, shaking him occasionally when he appeared to be falling asleep.

'The chances are he's going to pass out when we do this,' said Porthos as he pushed the blade into the fire and gently blew on the flames to build them up.

'I won't,' mumbled d'Artagnan.

Porthos smiled, 'see that you don't,' he said before glancing at Aramis who looked worried.

'Can we fashion a stretcher?' asked Athos.

'Won't pass out,' said d'Artagnan with a little more conviction before hissing in pain as he aggravated his wound.

Porthos looked around, he spotted a couple of likely thin but sturdy branches. He pointed at them. Athos nodded and got to work, pulling off his cape as he went.

Porthos returned his attention to Aramis who was unbuttoning d'Artagnan's doublet. The stain across his shirt was larger than before. The wound was still bleeding. Aramis was correct, they needed to deal with the injury. They could not wait.

'Help Athos with the stretcher,' said Aramis. 'But I'll need you both to hold him still when I do this. I can't have him moving about.'

'Won't move.'

'Of course, you won't,' replied Aramis distractedly as he pulled d'Artagnan's shirt loose and prepared to unwind the blood-soaked fabric strips.

Porthos knew Aramis would have no choice but to reuse the same makeshift bandages.

He got to his feet and wandered across to Athos who had managed to break off the two branches that would form the handles for the stretcher.

'How is he?' asked Athos.

Porthos shrugged, 'it's hard to tell. He seems aware enough, but he's been under a lot of strain. Hiding the injury, then being forced to move at pace before we've had a chance to deal with it. He needs rest-'

'We all need rest,' pointed out Athos. 'None of us got out of there without injury. Aramis' is limping, you are avoiding using your right arm if you can and I could do without what I suspect is an impressive black eye and the ache that goes with it.'

Porthos sighed, he rolled his right shoulder nodding, 'I doubt we could cobble together a fit man between the four of us.'

'Do you still have the dagger you took off that old man?' asked Athos, who was stretching out his cloak.

'That was not my finest hour, that old man could barely stand-'

'That old man was about to shoot Aramis in the back, he deserved what he got and he might recover.'

Porthos pulled the small rusty dagger from his belt and handed it to Athos who began to cut holes in his cloak to thread the branches through. With the roughly made stretcher finished they returned to d'Artagnan's side. Aramis was inspecting the dagger blade before thrusting it back into the fire. He looked at them both and nodded.

'He cannot cry out,' said Athos.

'I'm still awake,' mumbled d'Artagnan. 'Not passing out.'

Porthos shook his head, they all knew their friend would pass out. It was impressive that he had stayed conscious as long as he had.

'Are you ready?' asked Aramis.

Porthos pulled d'Artagnan up a little, pinning his arms to his side. D'Artagnan started breathing faster, anticipating the pain. Porthos had his arms in such a position that he could move his right hand to smother any sound d'Artagnan made. Athos knelt by d'Artagnan's legs ready to keep him still, he rested his hand over his friend's legs. They both nodded to Aramis.

With one swift movement, Aramis pulled the blade from the fire and pressed it against his friend's flesh.

The End.

Whumpee: d'Artagnan. Featuring: Athos, Porthos and Aramis.