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Athos hisses harshly, tipping his head back to swear at the ceiling as the alcohol makes contact.
‘It needs stitching,’ says the medic, Buchet, crouching by his knee, and Porthos issues a pained grunt from across the tent. He’s been hovering by the door for the last half hour, too wired to sit down, his eyes straying to the tent flap regularly.
‘Get on with it then,’ Athos croaks. ‘I’ve got to get back on my feet.’
‘Battle’s over, what are you in such a hurry for?’ squawks Buchet – he looks too young to know his business, Athos thinks, though this, he’s aware, is largely a mark of his own advancing years. He’d much rather it was Aramis doing the needlework, but that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Aramis isn’t back yet.
Porthos shuffles unhappily again. His face is blotched purple at one temple; Athos doesn’t know what did that, could have been a musket stock or a fist. Porthos might not remember himself – it looks like a hard hit and it has been a long, hard day. The field is a mess. There are a lot of men missing, and he knows he should be concerned about the young recruits he trained himself who might never walk off that field out there, but he has no worry left for them. Where the hell is Aramis?
They weren’t with him; he’d been on the ridge with his musket when the battle started while the others were already engaged, but the enemy’s reinforcements had overrun their snipers’ positions when they charged in after it had looked all but over. Neither of them knows if Aramis was still up there when that happened.
‘How’s it coming?’ Porthos asks sharply from the doorway, impatience in every line of his body.
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Buchet snaps. Athos doesn’t look at the wound; he feels sick enough as it is with today’s events and the dread still thick in his stomach for his missing comrade. He knows it’ll be a mess. (And if they don’t get Aramis back, the ugly scar will always be a reminder of how he wasn’t there to stitch it with his neat precise fingers.)
‘Go faster,’ Porthos grunts. He would never usually rush something like this; tending wounds takes care and can’t be hurried. (If Aramis were here, he would -)
But Porthos is twitching with anxiety, all the power of his body barely contained, simmering with it. He won’t so much as sit down until he can go out there and look for Aramis.
The last of the fighting died off some hours ago now, and the musketeers are victorious, for a given definition of victory. It’s been hours, and if Aramis were able he would be back here by now, which means either that he’s still on the field because he was held up tending the wounded and hasn’t been able to get away – which is possible and has happened before, Athos reminds himself sternly – or he can’t walk to get back under his own power. Aramis can handle himself on the battlefield but what happened today was a mess, and even the finest soldier can get caught out. Athos’ bleeding leg is proof of that.
Despite himself, he risks a glance. It looks appalling, but the stitches have nearly closed it, and he doesn’t care what it looks like so long as Aramis will have the opportunity to despair over it on his behalf.
There’s a commotion at the tent flap; another musketeer is asking after him, and when Porthos confirms that yes, Athos is here, Etienne strolls in, holding a skinny scrap of a boy by the shoulder.
‘Musketeer Athos?’ says the boy, when prompted with a nudge by the man steering him.
Athos grunts a confirmation.
The boy looks nervously from one musketeer to another, turning pale at the sight of Athos’ leg. ‘A man on the field asked me to find you,’ he blurts.
Athos glances at Porthos, adrenaline thudding through his muscles.
‘Another musketeer?’ he asks sharply. ‘Dark of hair, and carrying a musket?’
The boy shuffles his feet and squirms. ‘No. An old man, with grey in his moustaches. And the king’s arms, on his chest.’ He thumps his own bony chest to demonstrate.
‘The captain,’ Porthos mumbles, practically wilting with disappointment.
Athos takes a careful breath to stifle a wince. ‘What was the message?’
‘That someone is alive. Alexandre? Albert? I don’t remember the name.’
‘Aramis,’ Porthos says, the syllables tripping over one another in his haste.
‘That’s it. He’s alive, and the old man will bring him back. He was on the ground all gored up- ‘ here the boy makes a horribly expressive gesture ‘-but he was moving a bit.’
‘Aramis was?’ Athos demands.
‘Yeah. I think.’
‘Where were they?’ He half stands as he speaks and the man tying of his stitches squeaks in protest, snatching at his knee. Athos hisses again in frustration and against the way his leg sears.
The boy shuffles his feet, looking anxiously from one man to the other. Porthos steps towards him and crouches stiffly, struggling not to be intimidating when it’s clear that he’s positively shaking with urgency.
‘You remember where they were, boy, eh?’ he says quietly.
He just looks more and more anxious and Athos doesn’t understand what he’s so worked up about, just wants him to answer the damn question.
‘…I wasn’t up there -!’ he blurts, tensing himself as if about to flee. ‘I wasn’t doing anything!’
Athos, as evenly as he can in the circumstances, says ‘I don’t care what you were or weren’t doing. Tell us where to find our comrade.’
He hesitates a moment longer, distrustfully.
‘Once you’ve told us, you’ll be free to go. I won’t even ask you to turn out your pockets. On my honour as a musketeer.’
With one last uncertain look, the boy finally nods. ‘Halfway up the ridge, behind the ruined barn.’
Porthos strides towards Athos and hauls him upright by the arm. Buchet has finished tying the bandage now, but he still scrambles to his feet to protest.
‘He needs to rest that leg!’
Athos gingerly puts weight on it and bites back the stream of curses he would like to let loose. But he can move it alright, and with Porthos to help him he thinks he’ll be fine.
Buchet grunts disapprovingly, and Porthos gives the medic such a dirty look that he sulkily retreats to the back of the tent to pack up his things. Athos almost feels sorry for him – technically, it isn’t his fault that he’s not Aramis.
Etienne, still standing at the boy’s shoulder, is watching them uncertainly. ‘Athos, mate, that leg doesn’t look too clever. Why don’t you let me go with Porthos to meet the captain? We’ll bring Aramis back here before you know it.’
Athos shakes his head steadily, breathing very carefully as he moves. ‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘Thank you. I’ll be fine.’
‘Get the boy something to eat, eh, Etienne?’ Porthos says, steering Athos towards the tent flaps.
Etienne sighs. ‘Sure. Fine.’ He shoots a glance at the medic. ‘You might as well wait here for them to get back,’ he tells him wearily, clearly thinking that Athos is likely to undo all the work that has just been done, quite apart from the yet-uncertain nature of Aramis’ injuries (‘he was on the ground, all gored up….’)
It isn’t all that far – soon after they leave the encampment they can see the shadow of the ruined barn further up the valley – but it is uphill and the ground is uneven and still lethal with the detritus of battle. Athos doesn’t curse and wheeze every time he jolts his injured leg on something, and Porthos doesn’t comment on the way his muscles tense and twitch as he moves.
He doesn’t so much as hear Porthos breathe until they get over the escarpment and can see Treville crouched in the shade of the wall, apparently talking to the man stretched out at his feet.
‘Captain!’ he calls, and Treville looks up without even a hint of surprise. ‘We received your message,’ Athos adds, limping closer as Porthos releases him to go and kneel next to Aramis.
Aramis is conscious and his doublet is peeled back at one side to bare the shoulder, where Treville is pressing a scrap of cloth over the wound that has streaked blood over his chest and fingers. He smiles wearily when Porthos puts a hand on his chest and murmurs, ‘Alright, brother?’
Athos doesn’t think he can crouch without falling to the floor in a thoroughly undignified manner, so he has to content himself with watching as Treville and Porthos very gently tug the wounded man to sit up, and then carefully lever him upright, sagging between them. Aramis finds his feet, smiles reassuringly for Porthos, and then finds Athos and nods to him before he notices the bandage and frowns.
‘Y’alright?’ he croaks.
‘Buchet stitched me,’ Athos tells him, mostly just to see his eyes widen in horror.
‘Bet that’s not a pretty sight,’ Aramis says, predictably.
‘Like it was so pretty before,’ Porthos mutters, smirking sideways at him.
The captain ignores them, peering down at the distance back to camp. ‘Gentlemen, perhaps you could continue this discussion somewhere more hospitable?’
They concede, stifling smiles. Porthos gets a more secure grip on Aramis. ‘I can manage him, captain, if you help Athos,’ he says.
‘I won’t ask why you limped up here in your state, when I explicitly said in my message that we were on our way down,’ the captain grumbles, pulling Athos’ arm over his shoulders.
Athos says nothing, and waits for Porthos and Aramis to pass before he follows them back to the camp.