At long last, here's the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 4: Water

"How many?" Athos asked as Aramis lowered his spyglass.

The other man shook his head. "At least a dozen . . . probably thirteen or fourteen." He turned to his companions. "Too many."

Porthos growled. "I hope you aren't suggesting that we run away. You know how I feel about that."

"Be that as it may," Athos stated, "we cannot allow these documents to fall into their hands." He patted the leather satchel that contained the sealed documents. While they weren't permitted to know exactly what information the papers contained, the Musketeers were well aware that, to certain people, it was worth killing over.

They had taken every precaution possible to avoid attention, even to the point of taking to the roads well before the sun had risen. The men had not stopped at inns, choosing instead to rest where they could in the forests along the route. Despite the chill in the early-Spring air, they had avoided lighting fires. Treville had been adamant that the mission had to be completed successfully, no matter the cost, and the three men would have been happy if the only cost had been tired, aching bodies and a lack of hot food.

Alas, it was not to be.

"We certainly aren't going to avoid attention for long," Aramis observed needlessly. He had secreted his spyglass somewhere and was looking at the other men with a frown.

There were too many men to fight without risking the papers. Hiding the satchel was not an option. They needed another plan . . .

Athos thought for a moment before reaching into the bag and pulling out the tightly bound bundle contained within. He handed it to Aramis.

"You ride south and then head west towards Paris. Stick to well-travelled roads and try to blend in." He turned to Porthos. "You head west, ride for a good while and then turn south. Make certain they can see you, but don't look like you're making certain they can see you."

"What are you going to do?" Porthos asked with a frown.

"I'm going to ride directly southwest for Paris with the dispatch bag in full view. With any luck, they'll think I still have the papers and follow me, leaving Aramis in the clear to get the real documents back to Treville."

"What makes you think they'll fall for it?" Aramis asked sceptically.

"We have to hope that they do," came the reply. "I don't see any other way that doesn't risk the papers."

Aramis shook his head. "What if they realize it's a diversion?"

"Then they'll all chase you. Porthos and I will be free to circle back to take them from behind," Athos said, glancing at Porthos for confirmation. "Otherwise, as long as they're chasing one of us, the longer we can keep them off your trail and the better your chances of reaching the garrison."

"I don't like splitting up," Porthos countered, "but we don't have time to debate it. They have fresh horses and more men. They'll catch us eventually. At least this way, we can try to mislead them."

Athos let the corners of his mouth turn up into what might almost have been a smile. "Aramis, do your best to stay invisible while Porthos and I deal with our unwanted guests. No matter what, you need to get those documents to Treville."

Aramis reluctantly nodded his acquiescence and carefully folded the papers inside his jacket. "Last one to the garrison buys the drinks?" he proposed with a faint grin.

"Sounds like a plan," Porthos responded. He slapped Athos on the back and nodded to Aramis. Athos felt like he missed some sort of silent communication passing between his companions before Porthos rode off, heading west.

"Good luck," Aramis called to Athos as he turned his horse south.

"And to you," Athos replied, watching only for a moment to ensure the other men were safely away before heading off towards Paris.

Their pursuers were still a fair distance back, but Athos was reasonably certain that the leather satchel he carried would be visible to anyone with a spyglass. As plans went, Athos had to admit that it wasn't one of his better ones. He hated dividing forces in the face of superior numbers, but there had been no time for other options.

He didn't know Porthos or Aramis very well, but he knew that they were both resourceful men and he could only hope that they would make it back safely. There were many leagues between them and Paris, and the way would be very dangerous. All he could do was try to keep as many of their enemies on his own trail as he could.

It seemed to be working, as it wasn't long before Athos saw the first signs of pursuit.

He had not wanted to push his horse too hard this early in the chase, but the other men seemed to have no such compunctions. Despite his best efforts, they were gaining. He rode as quickly as he dared, glancing behind himself from time to time in order to gauge the enemy's progress. It appeared that there were perhaps seven or eight men following him; a number that both worried and relieved him.

On the one hand, it meant that he was more than likely going to die if they caught up to him. On the other hand, it meant that Porthos and Aramis had only a handful of pursuers each, which greatly improved their odds of survival.

Unfortunately, it also meant that riding directly to Paris was no longer an option. With that many riders on his trail and a horse that had already been ridden many leagues in the past few days, it was only a matter of time before they overcame him. Once that happened, they would realize he didn't have the documents and would set off after the other Musketeers.

He needed a new plan.

Athos kept on the path until he felt that he had led them far enough from his friends' routes before leading his horse into the trees. Hopefully, he could double back a bit, riding far enough from the road that the men wouldn't spot him. With good luck, they would ride right past him. With his usual luck, they would notice his trail and hunt him through the woods.

Either way, it was better than just letting them overtake him.

Picking his way carefully through the trees, Athos strained to hear any signs that he was being followed. His horse was grunting, tired from exertion. Athos rubbed the horse's neck comfortingly, but kept the animal moving.

It was some time before he finally felt the distance between himself and his pursuers was great enough to risk stopping momentarily at a fast-moving stream. There he paused, allowing his weary horse to rest and drink. The water was incredibly cold and a light steam rose from it as it flowed along.

Athos kept an eye on his surroundings, aware that his position was not yet secure.

After a short while, Athos began to follow the stream as quickly as his horse could manage on the uneven ground. The stream would eventually lead him to a settlement and he could make his way back to Paris by road from there. He wished he knew how Aramis and Porthos were faring, but acknowledged that he could not help them at the moment.

His horse gave a small snort of nervousness and Athos reached for his pistol in response. He couldn't see anything, but his horse was not typically an uneasy one. Something was out there . . .

When it came, the attack was sudden.

It was only one man, as far as Athos could tell, and he sprang from behind some trees with his pistol readied. Athos moved to aim, but the other man shot first, causing the Musketeer's horse to cry out in pain.

Before he could react, Athos's horse was falling, sending both animal and rider over the banks of the stream and into the frigid water.

The impact with the water forced the air from Athos's lungs. For a moment, there was nothing but swirling water, flailing limbs and terrible cold.

Panic took hold as Athos found himself submerged, his left leg trapped between the body of his horse and the deep mud at the bottom of the streambed. Struggling against the shock of the cold water, he reached out until he managed to grab the edge of his saddle and used it as leverage to pull his head above the water.

Gasping for air, Athos desperately tried to pull his leg free, but it was mired in the thick sludge and pinned firmly under his horse's weight. He cursed, but the mud was probably the only reason his leg hadn't broken in the fall. He scanned the tree line, certain that his attacker would be coming to finish him at any moment.

The water was so cold it felt like fire, sending tendrils of burning pain throughout his body.

The water wasn't deep . . . if one were standing. Normally, Athos wouldn't have hesitated to walk his horse across it. From his prone position, however, the water was almost deeper than Athos could manage. Holding the saddle as he was, his shoulders barely cleared the water. His horse was almost fully submerged and plainly had been felled by a lucky shot. The animal hadn't moved since the attack.

Athos cursed creatively, suddenly realizing that he had lost his weapon in the fall and subsequent scramble to avoid drowning. He reached behind him to feel for his pistol, but the current proved too strong for his one-handed grip on the side of the saddle and he found himself once again submerged.

Managing to regain his hold on the saddle, he pulled himself up again and abandoned the search for his weapon. The powder would be too wet to ignite, anyway. Grimacing against the constant onslaught of the icy current, he managed to hold himself out of the water long enough to grip his main gauche and transfer it to his right hand. It wasn't the best option, but it was as good as he could hope for under the circumstances. His sword was pinned beneath him and it was all he could do to keep his head out of the water.

A flash of movement caught his eye and he spotted his attacker walking calmly toward the stream. His movements and bearing betrayed him as a mercenary . . . that and the small armoury Athos could see concealed about his person.

"Well, this is fun," the man smiled, stopping at the bank mere feet from where Athos lay trapped. "I thought you'd be a challenge, yet here you are."

"Help me out of the water and I'd be more than willing to provide you a challenge," Athos responded, gasping through gritted teeth.

The man laughed. "I'm only interested in the papers you carry."

"More than likely ruined by now," Athos observed, shivering in the icy water. He didn't bother correcting the man by telling him the papers were hopefully already halfway to Paris. His fingers burned with the cold and all he wanted to do was get warm. His head was pounding and he felt as though he couldn't catch his breath as his body tried to adjust to the frigid temperature.

"Just so," the man agreed. "I do wish you hadn't fallen in the water, though. I just bought new boots, you see, and I have no desire to ruin them wading out to you."

"We all have our problems."

"Yours seems to be the fact that you're going to drown in about two feet of water. Perhaps you'll freeze to death first." The man looked thoughtful at the prospect, as though weighing the possibilities.

"What is your plan for avoiding wet boots, then?" Athos questioned, ignoring the taunt and trying to hide the increasing tremors that ran through his body. He kept trying to pull his leg free, but he couldn't afford to let his growing distress show in front of his enemy.

The man shrugged. "I'll simply wait until the others catch up and have someone else do it."

"Ah," Athos responded simply. "You're not alone, then. I had hoped to avoid you altogether, you know." His teeth chattered mercilessly.

"It was a good attempt to circle back," the man replied with a polite nod. "Unfortunately for you, we have an expert tracker who spotted your trail leading into the woods. Sadly, not everyone believed him to be an expert tracker, so they only gave him a few men while the rest went on the original path."

"Let me guess," Athos managed to reply. His teeth were chattering and the words were becoming difficult to form. "You're the expert?"

The man gave a mocking bow. "I guessed you would be following the stream and rode ahead to cut you off. One man may ride faster than several and with less noise, after all. The others will be along in a bit, I'm sure."

Athos felt his limbs growing heavy. The burning pain in his fingers was growing incredibly intense. He didn't have much time before he wouldn't be able to fight back. "I'm sorry you're going miss them." Before the other man could react, Athos pulled back his right hand and flung his main gauche at the mercenary.

It was far from an ideal throw. He couldn't fully control his hands, and through the shivers that were tormenting him and his awkward angle, Athos hadn't been hoping to do anything more than injure the other man. Luck, apparently, had other ideas and the blade struck the man in the neck, sending him to the ground instantly.

Athos looked on in shock. He'd been aiming for his torso.

Through his violent tremors, he tried to see if the man lived, but all he could make out was the bottoms of his new boots.

Athos turned back to his own predicament. If he couldn't get out of the water soon, it wouldn't matter if the mercenary was alive or how many men were coming. It had only been a few minutes and Athos already felt as though he'd been in the stream for hours. The water was near freezing and his shivering was becoming intense. He tried using his right leg to push on his horse's back, but he could not get his left leg free. Kicking in frustration, Athos almost managed to send himself under the surface again.

Athos's hands were numb, and holding himself out of the water was becoming more and more difficult. He managed to partially wedge his right hand between the saddle and the blanket to take some of the strain off his fingers, but he knew it wasn't going to work for long.

He blinked, exhausted from his efforts and the constant shivering, when the realization struck him.

He was going to die.

He was going to die, alone in the woods, trapped under his horse.

His enemies were now the only ones who knew where he was, and it was unlikely they would pull him out of the water. If he was lucky, they might shoot him instead of simply watching him freeze to death. Porthos and Aramis wouldn't know that he had left the road. They would wait for him to ride back to the garrison, but he never would again. Athos hoped they wouldn't blame themselves. They would never know what had happened to him.

They wouldn't know where to look for his body.

The idea bothered him a little more than he thought it would. In his increasingly jumbled mind, Athos acknowledged the fact that it wasn't as though he actively avoided dangerous situations. Death was always a possibility. Athos couldn't have predicted the possibility of this particular death, though, and the thought that Aramis and Porthos might be burdened by guilt at his disappearance was a disconcerting one.

He knew firsthand the insidious nature of guilt and would not wish it on either of his gregarious companions. The fact that he was worrying about two men he barely knew while he was dying was surprising to him.

More surprising than that, though, was the realization that he didn't want to die. He had always maintained a certain disregard for his own mortality. He drank too much, fought too often, and tried his best to do everything on his own. Now that he was trapped alone in the cold, he found that more than anything, he wanted someone to save him.

It was too late, however. The only two men who could possibly help him were riding as quickly as possible in the opposite direction because he had asked them to. He had brought this on himself.

He didn't want to die like this.

There was nothing he could do to prevent it, though. He could only hope it wouldn't be much longer. The trembling was starting to ease, but the bitter chill had seeped into every part of him leaving only agonising pain. His muscles felt so tense he thought his bones might break under the strain. He just wanted the pain to stop. The water was so cold and he was so tired . . .

Athos felt himself shift as his left hand began slipping off the saddle. His hands felt like blocks of ice attached to his numbed arms. Absently, he tried to readjust his grip, but his right hand wasn't responding properly. Athos tugged at it, sending himself sinking lower in the water before remembering that he had wedged his right hand under the saddle against just such an eventuality.

He stilled his movements.

Death was so final. He wondered if his wife would meet him on the other side. Would she forgive him? Was there even the possibility of Heaven for either of them? He wanted to reach for her locket, but he couldn't make his limbs respond to his commands. Something told him he shouldn't move his hands . . . . He couldn't really remember why, though. It was hard to think.

He was so cold. His thoughts were confused. He'd been pondering something . . .

Right. Death. Maybe he would die before the other mercenaries arrived. His body hurt. He hoped Aramis and Porthos succeeded. They were good men. At least the shaking had stopped . . .

So tired.

He heard voices and turned his head to the bank.

Three men stepped out of the trees and ran to their fallen comrade.

Athos watched dispassionately as the men realized what had happened.

"That fellow killed him!" one exclaimed, pointing to Athos.

Athos merely blinked in response.

"He's dead already," another one replied, looking at Athos carefully. "He just doesn't know it yet. Get the papers and we can get our money."

"But he killed Renaud!" the first man exclaimed.

"Fine! If it bothers you so much, you can kill the Musketeer, but get the papers!"

Athos watched disinterestedly as the man drew his sword and stepped carefully into the stream. At least it would be over soon.

The man swore colourfully. "It's so cold!"

The Musketeer felt his attention drifting again, but he no longer cared. By the time the man reached him, Athos was already unaware.

"Why do you keep doing that?" d'Artagnan asked in irritation. "Every one of you just ended your story right in the middle. Aramis just as you pulled him up the cliff; Porthos just as he was saved from the barn; Athos . . . you didn't even get to the saving part!"

Athos shrugged unapologetically. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd realize that I was not aware of the rescue."

"Meaning he's out of wine, cranky, and tired of talking," Porthos chimed in with a laugh. "Aramis and I saved him."

"But you were on different paths and leagues apart by then!" d'Artagnan protested, unsatisfied at the explanation. "How could you have saved him?"

Aramis sighed, glancing at Athos briefly before turning to d'Artagnan. "Porthos and I realized that if most of the mercenaries followed Athos and the dispatch bag, we might have a chance of taking out our own pursuers. If we could do that, then we could go render aid to Athos. He was unquestionably going to need it. That was, after all, in the days before he had much sense of self-preservation."

Athos shrugged in response. He didn't argue.

"It was also in the fairly early days of our friendship," Porthos added. "We weren't certain how he'd have reacted if we told him we weren't going to follow the plan . . . so we just didn't tell him. It seemed easier that way."

"I had three men on my tail and I managed to take them down. It was difficult, but I succeeded. I was then free to circle back." Aramis resumed the tale before gesturing for Porthos to continue.

Porthos nodded. "Same here. Three men, took two by surprise and the third one with a good shot. For mercenaries, they weren't all that impressive. I cut across country and tried to guess how far Athos would have made it in that time. I met up with Aramis before long and then we went after Athos."

"We pushed our horses a little more than was wise," Aramis frowned. "It paid off, though. We saw the trail showing where the mercenaries had split up. Five horses went into the woods, one being Athos's, and three continued on the road."

"We followed the tracks into the woods and got there just as they were going to kill Athos. We killed them instead."

"It took some doing to lever the horse up enough to get him out from under it," Aramis explained, remembering the icy cold of the water and the blue-tinted features of his friend. He'd held Athos's head up while Porthos used rocks and a stout branch to lever up the horse. It had been very close. "If we'd been any longer, he would have simply drowned. As it was, he was as cold as death."

D'Artagnan looked at Athos with an expression of horror that was quickly becoming familiar to the Musketeers.

"I was fine," Athos stated calmly. "At least, I was until I woke up wrapped in every cloak and bedroll in the vicinity and with Aramis and Porthos trying to smother me."

"You were freezing!" Porthos protested. "We were warming you up!" The large man turned to d'Artagnan. "That's also when we learned that it's not a good idea to be close to him if he's startled awake."

Athos blushed slightly. "I did apologize for that. I expected to be dead, not . . . cuddled."

"Athos, please," Aramis snorted. "You looked like a half-drowned kitten. Your attempts at violence were truly adorable."

D'Artagnan glanced over at Porthos, grinning as the big man slowly shook his head and grimaced. Apparently not so adorable, then.

Athos sighed as he glanced down at the wineskin, wishing whole-heartedly that there was still wine in it. "Aramis was right when he said that I didn't have much sense of self-preservation in those days. I always expected to die alone." He looked back up at d'Artagnan and the younger man knew that Athos would likely never again speak so frankly about his fears. "I had lost all hope and had no illusions about my chances for survival. When I found out the lengths these two had gone to in order to keep me alive . . . that's a very rare thing, d'Artagnan."

"It took a while for that lesson to take hold, though," Aramis complained with a small smile. "We're still working on the drinking, but at least he's toned down the self-destructive tendencies. We don't have to work nearly as hard to keep him alive as we used to."

Athos let out a snort of amusement.

"What about the other mercenaries," d'Artagnan questioned. "The ones on the road?"

"They eventually came looking for their friends," Porthos explained. "They found us instead."

"So the three of you took out thirteen armed men?"

Aramis grinned. "Technically, Porthos and I took out twelve men. Athos only managed one."

"And yet I did it while pinned under a horse and freezing to death," Athos countered dryly. "It should count for more."

D'Artagnan grinned as the older men began to bicker over their fighting prowess. He gazed up at the sky and was surprised to note that many hours had passed while the group had been talking.

He'd almost forgotten the reason for their lengthy conversation in the first place. He glanced over at pile of rocks that hid the cave in which he'd nearly died. Not since his father's death had d'Artagnan felt such helplessness. Never before had he felt such hopeless fear, and the shame that his fear might cause him to lose the respect of his friends had been all the more horrifying to him.

It seemed obvious now, but he had never even considered that those same men might have had moments like that as well.

Each man had faced the possibility of dying alone and each one had come through the hopelessness stronger than before.

They hadn't been judged for their fears or their resignation to their fates. Instead, they had realized just exactly how devoted their friends, their brothers, were.

It was a strange thing to suddenly realize the depth of friendship he shared with these men. They would do anything to protect one another and now d'Artagnan was one of them. Of course, as Musketeers, they would still ride into danger, but d'Artagnan knew that with these men at his side -

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis interrupted lightly, realizing that the young man's mind was elsewhere.

"I'm fine," the Gascon replied, smiling slightly. "Just thinking."

"Oh?" A raised eyebrow greeted his statement. "Anything interesting?"

D'Artagnan shook his head with a smile. "Just that I'm glad to have you all as my friends."

"Judging by your expression, our terrible memories have at least wrought some good," Athos observed, noting d'Artagnan seemed greatly unburdened.

"All in a night's work," Porthos added lightly.

"It takes a while for it to sink in, but we will watch your back d'Artagnan." Aramis spoke again, his voice unusually sombre.

D'Artagnan looked at his three companions, each of them regarding him seriously. For them, Aramis's words were nothing less than a solemn vow, one that d'Artagnan reciprocated wholeheartedly. He smiled back at them. "Of that, I have no doubt."

The End