This is my entry for the "Fête des Mousquetaires" competition, the prompt is brotherhood.

I realised just now that the basis is similar to one of the other entries but I assure you that's just coincidence

Anyway, enjoy

There was a predictable pattern in the seemingly chaotic birdsong. There were times like now when there would be a brief lull in the noise, then one lone singer would begin again, and the mimics would latch on to the tune – a tune lost to the answering calls, which were themselves mimicked in turn – until the two birds in the centre had said all they wish to say and all that was left was chorus of variations on the original notes. Then there would be another lull and the process would begin again.

This would normally not be anything worthy of observation but after hours alone with the only other thoughts being of your own probable demise, pondering the logic of birds begins to appeal more and more.

In the overlapping melodies – some clashing, some impossibly harmonising, he could almost believe that he recognised a lullaby from his youth.

No temas mijo,
Eres amado,
Siempre estaré a tu lado,
No temas mijo,
Eres bendecido,
Nunca deje a su lado,
Si alguna vez sientes solo,
Acuerdas de ese momento,
Te acuerdas de que eres amado.

The words did little to comfort him. He had never felt so alone in his life.

At first he had attempted to keep track of the time he was left for – certain that it would not be longer than a few hours at most. As far as he knew, that had been days ago.

He had once received advice from an older soldier who had learnt a valuable lesson from a particularly disastrous mission. A man can survive for hours only in the cold with no fire or shelter, days without water – days if you are lucky.

The tree which he was tied to provided some shelter from the rain and wind, though there was no chance of fire, so that was not his first priority.

Water, however... He had tried his best to catch the leftover droplets of rain as they fell in staggered beads but it had been a day or more since it last rained now and soon his situation would become even direr than at present.

He hadn't even begun to consider food. He knew in a detached sort of way that he was hungry, starving even, but it wasn't going to kill him yet and the overwhelming fatigue and sense of despair distracted him from the thought.

Hope. He still had to hope. Though his limbs felt heavy and his eyes stung with lack of sleep, though his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with dehydration, though shivers periodically shook his whole body from head to foot, he still had to have hope that he would be found – that they would come for him.

All for one.

Those were words which had helped many a despairing soldier remember that his was a family that never left a man behind. No matter how bleak the situation was they would be looking, and he would be missed.

Though perhaps rather morbid a concept, the thought that he would be missed and remembered offered some comfort when attempting to face the prospect of his own death. A prospect which seemed more likely as the hours turned to days and the days dragged by.

First day he had believed, honestly truly believed for all he was worth, that they would find him, easily, quickly, laughing at his expense. Teasing him for being captured when fighting against such a supposedly easy opponent.

Second day he knew they were delayed, somehow, either their search proved too difficult or another among them had been wounded or worse. The second day he wasted precious water with tears.

Third day, he could not waste water – he caught droplets on his tongue as they fell and held his tears through force of will. He had no proof of any other casualties – his priority was to survive and he could worry about anything that had happened without his knowledge later.

They next day he abandoned his count – he knew that if he thought about how long it had been he would have to admit to himself that there was no chance he would ever be found now. No chance. They had given up, or (more likely, as his treacherous brain supplied) had perished in the subsequent battles. Battles they would not have faced had he not been so stupid as to let himself be captured.

So days later, a week maybe more (not much more, the hunger was still bearable, ignorable even) he stood, or slumped, contemplating the birds.

Birds can fly so free, no cares or worries to shackle them to the earth and as if to boast this fact to the surface-bound creatures they take each and every opportunity to sing. Incessant happiness runs deep in all the tunes they sing, and it was in this that he found his semblance of hope.

The personification of animals is an inherent human trait that we find hard to avoid – so he thought the birds must be happy. And for the same reason he thought they must also be sad, sometimes, to know when they are happy. He was sad now, despairing, and so desperate – but if he was not, sometimes, how would he know when he was happy?

They would come, they would. If only to sit by him as he took his last breath. And that would be enough. He had thought they would go out together in a blaze of glory, but he knew how the motto went.

United we stand,

Divided we fall.

They had stood together through so, so much. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, the little oddities which you learn to ignore – or accommodate for – past heartbreaks, present struggles, hopes and dreams for the future. They were, in other words, united.

And now came the fall, the lonely endless fall. All for one, one for all. All for one.

One for all.

United we stand.

Divided we fall.

Birdsong, leaves, darkness, almost darkness, colours before the dark – burning, flaring.

Darkness, real. Nothing else, no sight. No sleep, not now – can't sleep, no water.

Can't sleep, not now. Not yet.

"Aramis!"

"Don't shout, they might be near."

"He might be near."

"And it won't do him any good if they hear us before we get close."

"Aramis!"

"Porthos..."

"What?"

"It is dark. We will have a better chance of finding him if we come back in the morning."

"Just a bit longer."

"If we don't start back now we'll freeze before we reach the camp."

"Aramis!"

"Porthos..."

"No, I see him!"

"Aramis!"

A face, blurry, obscured in the darkness. None of that mattered – Porthos.

"Aramis, Jesus, what happened, are you alright?"

He almost laughed at this, tried to, even, but it scraped against him throat and prompted a painful cough; one which must have sounded pitiful at best.

"Aramis look at me – you are going to be fine, we are here to take you home." Athos - they had come.

Of course they had come – he could have sung his joy in chorus with the birds had his previous attempt at laughter not been so unsuccessful. Besides, the birds were quiet now in the darkness.

"Took your time." He managed to gasp through the pain of his dry throat.

He had meant this as a joke but he knew that the way his voice must sound coupled with the situation in which they had found him made it sound far sadder.

Athos looked at him with evidence of that in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by relief. Relief at finding his brother alive and in one piece at least.

"I'm so sorry. We are here now."

Aramis just nodded his reply, with a smile on his face.

He felt Porthos sawing through the thick ropes that bound his wrists and legs to the tree.

"They just left you here?" Athos asked.

Again, Aramis simply nodded – not trusting his voice until he had drunk half the seine.

"How long?"

At this Aramis shrugged, a motion which jarred the ropes as Porthos struggled to cut through them and caused the knife to nick his arm. From the gasp this drew from Porthos it might've cut his arm clean off.

"Hours? Days?"

Aramis said nothing.

"... more than that? When you were first captured. Aramis, that was over week ago – tell me you have not been here for all that time."

Again, Aramis said nothing which was an answer in itself.

"I'm so sorry, we followed the bandits after you were captured but we lost them and thought they must have doubled back. If we hadn't then we might never have..."

Aramis shook his head.

"What?"

"We will always find each other." It was worth the effort to say those words, though they left him with the same painful cough.

With a snap Porthos finished sawing through the ropes that bound his arms, the ropes around his legs proved easier work and he was soon free.

Aramis wasn't expecting it when his legs buckled and his remaining strength abandoned him, and he collapsed.

Porthos it seemed, was – darting around to catch him and lift him up into his arms before he could fall.

"It's alright – you're safe now – it's okay."

Aramis understood why the birds were happy; they heard the tune of another and knew that they were not alone.

Despair was loneliness, happiness was brotherhood. It was really as simple as that.

Ta da. Right?

I have written and re-written and scrapped and started all over with this so many times then went back to my original plan, on top of the fact that my usual upload speed is abysmal I am pleasantly surprised that it is finished in time.

Oh, by the way the Spanish song was made up by me(and probably made literally no sense). It isn't really important though what it says - just that it was sung to Aramis as a child.

If you want to enter the competition, or judge, then check out the Fête des Mousquetaires forum. (deadline for this prompt is October 3rd, but there will be more)

EDIT: Just fixed some formatting issues and a typo I noticed...

Thanks for reading :) Reviews are a mantis shrimp's best friend.