Author's Note: HEY LOOK! I'm not DEAD! Apologies for the 2 and a half year wait but hey, I finally got a new laptop that works, I've got internet, AND I have some semblance of motivation.

However, I have moved several times within these last 2 years and have lost the notes I had on the remainder of the story. I still remember how I want the story to end, it just may be a little different then was originally intended.

Also if characters know things they didn't know in previous chapters, I apologize as I have no memory of who knows what and at this point I'm not sure I can keep it straight. (All mistakes are mine)

So without any further possible delay, Please enjoy Chapter 9.

Disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever be the owner of anything within the rights of The Musketeers. And honestly that's probably a good thing, as I tend to hurt them too much.

Chapter 9

Dread in the Dawn's Light.

Aramis blinked as his eyes were slowly opened. Still in incredible pain, he could hardly register what was happening. There were hands on him and that thought immediately gave him a sense of dread and he started to struggle away from what he expected to be more pain. There were hushed whispers that sounded almost urgent. He didn't recognize the voices but they were speaking in Spanish, calming tones that Aramis was only able to decipher parts of what they were saying in his pain diluted state. "...trying...help" "...calm...please". And other phrases that Aramis was too tired to even try to understand.

After a few moments of struggling, the bloodied man understood what was happening and calmed himself. Allowing the strangers to continue to do whatever it was they were doing before he woke up. Once he had stopped struggling, the strangers laid him back on the stone floor and continued to wash clean his various wounds. They were gentle in their work, and did their best to not cause him additional pain. He was unsure who they were now that he got a better look at them. They had the look of Spaniards, but then again so did he. But they didn't appear to be soldiers either judging by their attire. Whoever they were they were helping and Aramis wouldn't say no to that.

After a while, when they had finished with his arms and torso and Aramis was about to fall back into his restless sleep, one of the men grabbed hold of Aramis's face and looked him in the eye making sure to have his attention before speaking in clear French.

"We are going to start on you back now, nod if you understand."

Aramis, realizing what he was saying and knowing full well this was going to be far more painful, closed his eyes and nodded to the man.

Aramis assisted them in rolling him onto his now stitched and bandaged stomach, trying to place himself in the most comfortable position that he could before they started on his back. As soon as he twisted around however there was a gasp of shock from one of the 3 men, the younger looking one, once they saw what they were to be working on.

The one who had spoken earlier grabbed Aramis's attention once again and said

"There isn't much to be done other than to clean and bandage. What comes of it afterwards will be god's will."

Aramis nodded his understanding once again and prepared himself as best as he was able.

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Porthos woke as the sky was just starting to change from the dark night to the grey of early dawn. There was a light layer of frost on the ground around him and, upon further inspection, on himself as well. Having spent one to many mornings like this, Porthos stood and allowed himself to get his blood moving as quickly as possible. Glancing over to where Raul was standing keeping watch, he looked exhausted and cold. The boy was roughly the same size that D'Artagnan was when they all first met, probably even smaller, so it was no shock that he was cold, there was nothing to retain any body heat. Porthos walked over to him and Raul nodded in acknowledgement. Keeping his voice low Porthos asked

"Anything exciting happen while I was asleep?"

Raul had convinced Porthos to get some rest even if only for a couple of hours with the promise to wake him if anything drastic was going on.

With teeth chattering the young medic responded

"About an hour ago a few people went into the stable, it's been quiet since."

Porthos nodded, having a hard time peeling his eyes away from the building not fifty yards away from them. His dearest friend was so close, yet he could do nothing to get to him. If he did then not only would he probably also be captured, but Raul would undoubtedly try to rescue the two of them and get caught himself, and the element of surprise would be completely gone. Their only advantage at the moment.

"Go walk around for a bit. It'll warm you up a little."

Raul nodded and turned to do just that when there was a shout of muffled pain coming from the camp, and sadly having heard that noise one too many times in their lives, Porthos knew immediately that it belonged to his captured comrade. He was three steps forward before he was grabbed by the arm by the younger man, who looked him in the eye with an expression of pity but also stern and resolute. A look that reminded him so much of Aramis it hurt. Porthos looked away with a nod of acceptance and could only stand and listen to the almost silent gasps and grunts of pain, until they slowly died away. He wasn't sure which was worse, hearing his friend in pain, or the then distinct lack of noise.

After some time Porthos watched as three men walked out of the stables carrying small armfulls of red cloth, and a bucket of liquid, which one of them tossed into the grass to the side of the building. Porthos assumed that at one point that it had been clean water, but it was now a sharp crimson color.

The man standing guard at the doorway to their friend shook hands with one of the trio and gave a slight nod of what looked to be appreciation before the three of them turned away and headed back into the camp.

The large man finally looked away, to see Raul had been hovering a step behind him, ready to grab him at a moment's notice, should Porthos have forgotten himself and rushed off to the stable.
"At least they've tended to him," Raul said tentatively.

Porthos just stood still, a look of desperation in his eye, but he couldn't disagree. If anything this would make getting him out easier, if he was more mobile and they didn't have to carry him. This was a good thing, of course it was.

"Yeah, that's good."

A few hours of silence passed. The camp of enemy soldiers started to wake up and begin their daily duties. The guard at the stable was replaced with a new one, and a few moments later another came out of the stable to chat with the new guard.

So there were at least two on guard at all times. One inside and one outside. That was good to know. Raul had come back from refilling the water skins a short while ago and since then all had been quiet.

Porthos was beginning to think that Aramis was going to be left alone the remainder of the day, but the moment that thought crossed his mind, he spotted three figures walking towards the stable with purpose. His stomach dropped when he recognized the leader of the trio. Lucian Grimaud was walking casually but with an air of importance, like he always did, toward his friend. A friend who had once already been in the clutches of that monster, and was once again at his mercy. Porthos was on the verge of screaming in rage. Why, why was this happening again? Why Aramis? Why Grimaud?
Porthos thought back to the first time they rescued Aramis from the slimy prick, how hurt Aramis was that Porthos had decided to NOT kill him to get to Grimaud. And they all three had then proceeded to ignore him the entire journey home. Now thinking back on it, had Aramis been hurt then? He didn't even know. He had looked fine, if a little disheveled, but had they even checked?

All these thoughts were racing through his mind as the group walked towards their destination.

Regret was not a feeling Porthos was well acquainted with. Sure there had definitely been moments in his life he looked back on and wished he had done something differently, but this one was different. The three of them had been so wrapped up in their own heads with their own reasoning behind why Aramis had done what he did, they didn't even bother to look at the bigger picture.

As the three men entered the temporary prison, Porthos held his breath. It was still only mid morning. D'Artagnan wouldn't be returning with the reinforcements until at least dusk. Try as he might, Porthos didn't know if he was going to be able to wait that long.

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Listen, I have some unresolved issues with the treatment of Aramis in the third season. Has it made for some great fix it fics? Absolutely , but it still hurts that they never even asked if he was ok…

I hope you liked it. PLEASE forgive me for the incredibly LONG delay, and i know that there wasn't much plot movement in this chapter, but then again, I wanted to spend some time with Porthos, so there ya go.