The heat came up suddenly, turning his vision to red as he took in the scene before him. His friends – his brothers – laid out on the hard ground completely silent and motionless, their limbs loose and oddly arranged. There was only one thing on earth that could create that sort of complete slackness – death. Without a doubt, Athos knew in his heart that his friends were dead, and his mind was occupied by only one objective – revenge.

Without thought for his own safety, he charged forward across the barren expanse that separated him from his brothers. Pistols in both hands discharged their loads, and he barely noted the men who fell before the lead projectiles. Knowing that it was impractical to try and reload the weapons, he let them drop from his hands, his right one already reaching for the third pistol that was holstered at his back. Once its load was spent as well, he drew his sword and main gauche, speedily crossing the ground between himself and the last three bandits who had robbed him of his most precious possession – his family.

He was unaware of the ruthless strikes and thrusts that killed the remaining outlaws, simply revelling in the feeling of their warm blood on his hands and face as they wilted before his deadly onslaught. The brutal battle lasted mere minutes, but its effect had drained him of his remaining strength, and he suddenly found himself falling to his knees, his arms hanging listlessly at his side and still holding the blood-covered blades.

His gaze floated across the bodies of each of his friends, his eyes conveying his deep regret and sadness at having failed them. Porthos lay twisted, partly on his side and partly on his back, his face lax despite the awkward position. If he didn't know better, Athos might almost believe the man's peaceful expression was a result of a deep, restful sleep.

Several feet away, Aramis lay completely on his back, his head turned away and his arms splayed out beside him. The position was so familiar that Athos had to choke back a sob as he recalled the many times he'd had to push those same arms away when sharing a bed with his friend. Further yet lay d'Artagnan, sprawled on his stomach with one arm trapped beneath him. In his stillness, it was easy to see just how young and innocent their fourth was, and Athos flushed with rage once more at the injustice of the boy's untimely and senseless death.

It was such a stupid thing to happen, the mission extraordinary only in its innocuousness. They'd already completed their task, and had retired to an inn for the evening before heading back to Paris in the morning. Athos had remained at their table long after the others had fallen into their beds, needing the solace he could only find in the bottom of a wine bottle. His demons were particularly persistent this night, their clawed fingers scrabbling at him as they did their best to drag him down into his own personal Hell. By the time his senses had sufficiently dulled, his brothers had been taken from him.

Athos allowed his head to drop to his chest, unable to look at the bodies of his fallen comrades anymore, his fingers going slack at the same time. He sat back woodenly on his heels and began to tilt to the side, suddenly unable to stay upright as his strength drained from his exhausted body. He wanted nothing more than to join them in death, yet fate had refused to grant his request. He'd waded into the fray without any concern for his own well-being, a part of his soul craving the release that death would offer, yet he still lived while his brothers did not.

He choked on a sob as a wave of overwhelming grief surged over him, unable to fathom being able to continue without these men at his side. None of them were perfect, he acknowledged, but they were better together than apart, accomplishing things they never would have been able to alone. Each of them strove to excel, not for themselves but for the others, unable to stomach the thought of ever disappointing or allowing their brothers to come to harm. Yet Athos had failed – utterly, miserably, and devastatingly. The results were clearly laid out for all the world to see. Whether Treville would forgive him was completely inconsequential since Athos would never be able to forgive himself.

Another sob pushed its way up from his chest and he swayed, this time making no attempt to stop his descent. Moments later he recognized the feeling of cool, smooth leather beneath his cheek instead of the gritty dirt that he'd expected. The sensation was soothing and helped to extinguish some of the flames consuming his mind. It took several long seconds for him to register the incongruity of what he was feeling and regain enough of his senses to lift his eyes in curiosity.

When he did, he came face to face with Aramis and d'Artagnan's concerned expressions staring at him with compassion shining in their eyes. Athos blinked once and then again, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The medic kneeled uncertainly before him, leaning forward and bracing himself on one arm as he searched for something in the older man's face. Aramis' demeanor was so unlike the normally confident man that Athos frowned, wondering what could have possibly shaken the man so.

Next, his gaze skittered to d'Artagnan, the young man also on the ground but sitting upright, his expression a mix of fear and worry that only deepened the older man's confusion. As he watched, the Gascon tentatively raised a hand towards him and then let it drop, opening his mouth for a moment before closing it. It seemed that, for once, the young man was speechless and his legendary brashness had fled, leaving this uncertain, anxious version of himself behind.

Athos closed his eyes, the images of his friends' faces following him, forcing his muddled mind to reflect on what he'd seen. There was something very wrong with this picture. Weren't his friends dead? Of course, they were, his brain reminded him, conjuring unbidden the vision of their lifeless bodies strewn across the ground. He'd fought for them and killed their murderers. It was not much, he knew, but it was the most he'd been able to give them as the heat had flared within him and taken over his mind.

A new coolness broke through his confusion, and he leaned into the welcome touch, revelling in the feeling of the heat dissipating once more. "Athos," a voice accompanied the sensation, and he struggled to open his eyes, a part of him fearful about what he might find.

Aramis peered at him, having moved closer and placed a hand on his cheek, cupping it in an act that was meant to comfort both of them. The medic's expression reminded him of his earlier bewilderment, and he forced his jumbled brain to produce an answer. Several long seconds passed in silence, the only sounds that of the men's breathing. As he registered the fact that his body was gently shifting in time with someone's inhales and exhales, he heard a voice calling to him again. "Athos, are you alright?"

The question forced him to focus on the speaker, and his scrambled brain reminded him once more of the odd expression on the man's face. Then it struck him – he'd put that look on his friends' faces, and with that realization, he was suddenly struggling to rise.

"Oi, hold up there," Porthos' deep baritone resonated through Athos' body, even as the larger man tightened his grip. Athos fought the hold for nearly a minute before he collapsed, boneless, into his friend's embrace.

Aramis traded a look of concern with Porthos and then d'Artagnan as tears rolled from the older man's eyes. Worst of all was the fact that Athos seemed unaware that he was crying, and the medic shifted his hand to gently wipe away the moisture that fell, grimacing as it mixed with the dried blood on his friend's face.

"Athos, please, tell me where it hurts," Aramis beseeched, his hand returning to its previous position and cupping his friend's cheek. The longer the stoic, unflappable man in front of them stayed unresponsive, the greater their fear for him.

Edging forward, d'Artagnan added his own plea, desperate to have his mentor come back to them so they could address the source of his distress. "Athos, please, let us help," the Gascon begged, resolutely ignoring the way his voice trembled. "Brother, please."

Brother. The word echoed in Athos' head, the sound reverberating and crashing against the vivid images of his murdered friends and leaving only dissonance in its wake. If his friends were dead, then where was the familiar voice coming from? The insistent repetition of his name tugged at his memories, replacing still, lifeless faces with joyful, vibrant ones. The paradox that was developing in his brain seemed untenable, and he forced himself to look again, hoping to see beyond the scattered bodies that had earlier filled his sight.

With effort, he blinked and focused on Aramis, the man's face so near his own that he could feel each soft puff of air on his lips as the marksman exhaled. The medic's face was pinched with worry, but his eyes were alight and full of life, bearing no resemblance to the dead, sightless eyes of his enemies. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to his right, landing on d'Artagnan's youthful face. The Gascon's expression was dark with fear and confusion as he observed Athos' struggle.

Shakily, the older man pulled in a breath, slowing the frantic beat of his heart as he leaned into the strong arms that still encircled him. As some of the tension bled from his frame, Porthos seemed to notice and his embrace shifted from one of restraint to one of comfort as he tipped his head downwards to place a chaste kiss on the top of Athos' head. The tender act was the final piece of the puzzle that Athos' mind required, his world snapping back into shape in the space between one heartbeat and the next as he softly exhaled, "Porthos."

Above his head, the large man's lips quirked upwards into a smile, squeezing his friend gently in response.

"Athos," Aramis said tentatively. "Are you back with us?"

The older man suddenly felt extremely heavy, his limbs leaden and his head too weighty for his neck to support. Choosing not to fight against the feeling, he allowed his head to loll against his friend's strong shoulder as he softly replied, "You're alive."

The odd statement had the three friends sharing looks once more, communicating silently as if afraid that the wrong word might put Athos back into his uncommunicative state. Moments later, the medic's face smoothed in comprehension as he said, "It was the wine, Athos. You weren't affected because you drank alone."

The older man's brow furrowed as his sluggish mind struggled to understand what he was being told. Seeing the expression, Aramis repeated, "The wine, Athos. Someone mixed a sleeping draught into it."

They waited silently for several seconds before Porthos queried, "You understand, Athos? We were never dead; only asleep."

Athos' mind seemed to creak into motion like an old, worn wagon wheel, recalling how he'd set himself apart from the others in the tavern the previous night. While the three men had shared a couple bottles of wine, Athos had found a table in one corner, his need for drink too great to allow him to share. There, he consumed the better part of three bottles alone before dragging himself upstairs to the room they has all shared. He vaguely remembered blinking in confusion at seeing the quiet and empty space that should have been filled by his friends' snores. His puzzlement had rapidly been replaced by fear as realization dawned and he'd gone in search of the missing men.

It had been easier than he'd anticipated to get the story from the innkeeper. Apparently, the leader of the outlaw gang had recognized Athos, and his memories of the Musketeer were less than positive. In the spur of the moment, the bandit had hastily arranged to kidnap the three men, planning to kill them as soon as they were far enough away. Of course, the man wasn't satisfied with the idea of simply killing Athos' comrades – he wanted the Musketeer to suffer when he discovered that he was too late. To ensure things went as planned, he explained all of this to the innkeeper, including his destination, so that Athos would know where to find them.

What Athos hadn't realized is that he'd arrived in time, the bandit not yet having had the chance to kill the others who were still insensate from the powerful draught that had been added to their wine. Instead of revenging his friends' deaths, Athos had saved them all when he dispatched the outlaw and his men. As understanding dawned, the older man nodded, and the others' worried expressions melted away.

Now that Athos seemed to understand what had happened, Aramis refused to be put off any longer, chafing to find out if his friend was hurt. "Athos, were you injured?" The older man looked at his friend blankly, and the medic adjusted his assessment of the man's cognition slightly downwards. "When you fought these men – did they hurt you?"

Athos remained silent for several heartbeats until the others began to believe they wouldn't be receiving an answer, but then the older man licked his lips and said, "No, I'm not hurt."

d'Artagnan stared at his mentor with a look of admiration and respect as he asked, "You killed all of these men by yourself, and without getting hurt?" Athos' eyes darted around at the bodies within his field of vision before dipping his chin. The Gascon let out a long whistle of appreciation. "How did you manage so many on your own?"

The older man considered his answer. The reasonable response would be to refer to his skill, or perhaps cite his good fortune in catching the men by surprise, but he knew that neither of these were true. His lips quirking slightly, he replied instead, "It was the heat."

Porthos snorted even as d'Artagnan spluttered unbelievingly, "The heat?"

"Mmm," Athos hummed, his smile growing wider.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Aramis wiped his hands onto his breeches as he said, "Then I'd say it's time for us all to get going and get out of the heat." He gained his feet as d'Artagnan did the same beside him, both men leaning down to extend their hands to Athos. The older man didn't hesitate and captured their hands in his, allowing them to pull him to his feet as Porthos stood up behind him.

They began moving away, leaving the blood-soaked dirt behind them, with Aramis slightly ahead and picking up Athos' discarded pistols as he went, while Porthos and d'Artagnan stayed at their friend's side. The older man paused only momentarily to look back at the bodies they were leaving behind, feeling no remorse and finally free of the fire that had roared through his veins, urging him on to kill the men. As he began walking again, speeding his steps for a few moments to catch up to his friends, he threw his arms across their shoulders. He knew they were surprised by the uncharacteristic act, but their brotherhood was like a cool balm that he wasn't yet ready to part with.

A/N: Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge for the prompt "Heat". For information about how to participate, as a writer or to vote, please see the forum page on this site under Musketeers. Many thanks to AZGirl for proofreading – all remaining mistakes are mine.

Thanks for reading!