Summary: There had been whispers and rumors of dissidents gathering a force in Doue. Treville had ordered them to investigate. They'd been pointed to this country estate by a barkeep in town, but it looked quiet and empty. Which made Athos uneasy.

Author's Notes: I've noticed that Athos smiles for Porthos more than anyone else. And, I mean, who wouldn't? I think it's impossible to face that kind of vivacious personality and not be a little caught up in it.

I'm trying to do something a bit longer here, and I do have most of it figured out, but I'd love some feedback ere I finish it.

Also, medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

"Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark."
―Isaac Bashevis Singer

It was not yet mid-day when Athos, Porthos and their small party reached the house in the country near Doue.

"Amaury, Theirry, Alain, we will go and check the outbuildings. Etienne, Michel, Thibaut, Laurent, Benoit, Porthos, you have the main house. Signal if there's trouble."

"I hope so," said Porthos, flashing Athos a wicked grin. "I'd hate to think we rode all this way not to have a little excitement." Athos tilted a look at Porthos, but couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips. Only Porthos would be disappointed at not finding a group of revolutionaries plotting to overthrow the monarchy and blow up the palace.

There had been whispers and rumors of dissidents gathering a force in Doue. Treville had ordered them to investigate. They'd been pointed to this country estate by a barkeep in town, but it looked quiet and empty. Which made Athos uneasy.

"Be wary."

Porthos nodded and led the way toward the house.

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There wasn't much in the stables, a dusty wagon and no evidence of animals being recently kept there. Perhaps this place was as abandoned as it appeared.

Athos was walking to one of the smaller outbuildings when there came a roar and a push of heat at his back.

When he turned, he stumbled and nearly fell.

The house had erupted in fire and smoke, walls collapsing and tumbling. The breeze brought the unmistakeable burn of gunpowder to his nose and horror rising in his gut.

It was a heartbeat, but it felt like forever. He couldn't move. In the ashing plumes, he could see lonely, cold years stretched before him, unbroken by warm, loud laughter. Empty of the one person who could make him smile with any sort of regularity, whether he wished it or not.

How would he tell Aramis?

He slowly began to run toward the smoking ruins of the house, then faster and faster.

The other Musketeers were close behind, searching the wreckage, calling out for comrades.

He wanted to scream Porthos' name, but the commander in him fought it down. Athos knew he had more than one man who was probably dead this day.

Through the smoke and dust, the edge of a sword caught his eye. He climbed over a fallen stone wall, sliding down the rubble until he reached the shine of metal. The sword was still in its owner's hand, but the hand was not still in the possession of its body. If Athos had eaten that morning, it would have been for nothing as his stomach rebelled. But it wasn't Porthos. Those dark blue gloves were Michel's. It did not take Athos long to find the rest of him.

Athos moved on.

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"Athos!" Athos made his way carefully toward the sound of his name. He arrived to see Alain and Thierry lifting a heavy beam to free the man below it. Porthos.

Athos knelt next to Porthos. Grey stone dust coated him, hollowing his eyes, paling his skin, except where it ran black with blood.

Dead. He looks dead.

Athos shook his head sharply, pulling off his gloves and reaching to feel for a pulse. Porthos' skin was cool and gritty, but there was a low throb under his fingertips.

"Is he alive?" asked Alain.

"He is." Athos marveled at how steady he sounded, considering how his own life felt balanced on the edge of the question. "Keep moving, locate everyone."

When they had scattered to obey, he gently ran his hands over Porthos, searching. A gash at his hairline, blood running down his face and neck. Ribs that shifted under pressure. Athos longed for Aramis' steadiness. He'd know how best to proceed.

Athos looked through the hazy, smoky air, his fingers resting on the pulse at Porthos' neck. If this was a trap, they'd walked right into it. But it didn't feel like a trap, it felt like panic. If it was planned, someone should have been there to finish them off. Had they surprised the dissidents, who chosen to die rather than be apprehended?

Perhaps Porthos would know, if he survived.

If.

Something cold and fearsome spread through Athos' chest.

He needed to get Porthos out of there.

But the mission remained unfinished.

Take the wounded back?

Leave the dead?

Wait until they recovered everyone?

What if it took hours?

Don't you care about Porthos?

Athos set his jaw, decision made.

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Two hours later, the first wagon was traveling toward Paris, Theirry at the reins. Athos held Porthos against his chest, trying to keep him still as the wagon bounced along quickly. Beside him, Etienne's face was white as every jolt traveled through his broken leg.

Athos couldn't stomach the idea of his brothers being brought back to Paris tied to the backs of their horses like so much luggage. So he'd commandeered another wagon from a nearby farm. It already contained the bodies of Michel, Benoit, and Thibaut, wrapped in their cloaks. Amaury and Alain had remained to keep looking for Laurent. They'd follow when they found him.

Athos chafed at leaving them behind, not staying to see this finished himself. But Athos had already lost so much to duty. If Porthos died this day, he would die in the arms of a friend.

At least Athos could give him that.

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