A/N: Welcome to my first Musketeers fic - I hope you enjoy.

A Mire of Trouble

The sun, which was hidden behind the grey of latent snow, balanced on the horizon two drinks past upright as the four musketeers trudged through the forest. The barren trunks and forlorn branches echoed the bleak mood that had befallen the men as their boots crushed the sugar-like crust of frost that sparkled across the fallen leaves. Of the four, there was one amongst them who was shedding the darkest cloud as he prowled between the trees ahead of the group by a pace.

Athos kept his eye on Porthos as the larger man growled low in his throat with each step – anger clear in the stiff set of his shoulders.

For his own part he was feeling an echo of the man's anger but also a flicker of foolishness not unlike being caught holding an empty bottle of wine that had not been his to drink. It was a strange feeling given that it was no fault of his own that had resulted in their horses being kidnapped.

He may not have chosen to have their horses stolen, but he did regret the fact that he hadn't taken ample precaution to suggest that all of them unhitch their saddlebags before finding drink and a hot meal in the inn's common room.

Athos glanced to his left where Aramis was keeping pace beside him, his sharp brown gaze flashing between Porthos storming ahead and Athos beside with equal parts amusement and concern. They'd been traipsing through this sleeping forest with winter hanging overhead for most of the day and Athos could feel Aramis's unspoken words between them. Athos glared at his friend until the marksman's lips quirked.

Athos refused to show himself quarter until they'd retrieved their mounts and the very important package that had been stored in their saddlebags that had necessitated this mission into the south of France to begin with.

"They'll have to stop to make camp at some point Porthos. At this rate we'll stumble into their camp before we've known it," came d'Artagnan's dry comment from behind them.

Porthos growled something unintelligible and didn't slow.

D'Artagnan sighed, "So we're just going to wander into their camp and hope they're all lazing in their britches with not a care in the world?"

Athos glanced back to the young Gascon then deliberately back to Porthos. "If you wish to stand in his way then I invite you to try."

Aramis snorted, "I don't think it will matter if we came onto them unawares or not," he said, tipping his head to their angry friend out front.

"Nobody messes with my horse," Porthos growled.

"Now if they'd only chosen to steal your hat as well Aramis, we'd be set to take on double their number," Athos quipped, the corner of his lip twitching of its own accord and serving to settle some of his inward facing anger.

D'Artagnan laughed as Aramis's face rippled through a series of emotions that ranged from horror at even the thought, mock anger at the jibe, and amusement, which leapt to his eyes and twinkled there for a time.

They walked in silence then as Athos's mind drifted to the sobering reality of how many men they were facing. The kidnappers had ridden away from the roadside inn two abreast and six deep, the stolen horses trailing behind.

Twelve men to their four weren't impossible odds. Porthos might even say they were barely fair for the bandits, seeing as each of them could easily account for three men apiece – more if Aramis got a few shots off. Nevertheless, Athos knew better than to be overconfident. Twelve men became a lot if every man sported a pistol, or worse, a brace of them. His experience counselled caution and as d'Artagnan fidgeted behind him, he knew the boy's instincts were saying the same thing even if the boy was too new to force the point with confidence.

Not for the first time, Athos found himself impressed by the younger man's natal skill – sensing a kinship born of an instinct for leadership and a sharpness that had yet to be tempered by experience.

Athos glanced behind him to catch d'Artagnan's gaze, holding it a moment to convey his thoughts. They were walking into something that might prove deeper than they wished.

D'Artagnan inclined his head slightly; in appreciation or understanding Athos wasn't sure, either way they held the same book and passed the page around.

"So, you think they knew what was in those bags?" Aramis asked lightly, his hand casually resting across his hilt, his head tipped towards the ground as they all did their best to keep up with Porthos.

Athos found himself frowning. It was a question that had already crossed his mind without answer. "It seems like a convenient coincidence otherwise."

Aramis nodded, "It would explain their numbers."

"And the fact that they didn't stop to rob the inn," d'Artagnan added.

"But perhaps they are merely horse thieves," Athos said, "There's profit enough in that profession if one knows what they're looking for."

Aramis hmmed, giving it some thought, but Athos knew his comment had only been to play fair to the devil's advocate – in truth, he was not so optimistic.

"Horse thieves turned a profit even in Gascony," d'Artagnan added, his tone almost hopeful.

"If you're implyin' they're intending to sell my horse for meat…" Porthos left the words hanging on a growl, his hands twitching at his sides.

His pace didn't slow, if anything it increased.

"Come now Porthos! A horse as fine as that? Even a bad horse thief would know to turn a profit better than a butcher's offer. If they are horse thieves by trade, I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to steal our horses for your mount alone!"

Porthos turned around long enough to point a finger at Aramis, "I'll not have you insulting my horse when he's not 'ere to defend himself."

Aramis held his hands up in mock surrender, "Insult! I merely wished to point out that this is likely your fault by the fantastic merits of your horse. How is that an insult?"

For a moment, it looked like Porthos wished to pounce on the marksman and demonstrate with his fists what he thought of that statement, but the war with himself ended when he seemed to decide that moving forward was more important.

With Porthos's back once again turned to them, Aramis glanced at Athos and d'Artagnan and shrugged as if to say he'd tried. Athos tipped his gaze to the barren branches overhead and cast a prayer to no godly target in particular.

"I'm hungry," d'Artagnan muttered.

Athos blew a breath through his nose, trying not to sigh. He could add to the younger man's complaint with cold, tired, and sore.

They had travelled steadily the day before on their way back from Toulouse and barely had a chance to eat their first mouthful of blessedly hot stew when the stable boy's scream had roused them all back to their feet.

Of all of them Athos suspected Aramis was the only one with recent experience in long marches, though he knew Porthos had been a soldier before he'd become a musketeer and likely had his own share of experience in the matter. As for Athos, he was feeling the burn of the relentless exertion. This amount of walking was using different muscles than the ones that received daily workouts with sword form. If he was feeling this worn by the day's activities, he knew d'Artagnan would be nearly dead on his feet.

He flicked his gaze to Porthos and then Aramis, debating how soon to call a forced rest to their march.

The lean musketeer beside him didn't catch his glance. His dark eyes were up and scanning the trees around them, a slight tension to his shoulders that told Athos that the soldier's uncanny instincts for danger had kicked in. Athos lengthened his stride, drawing closer to Porthos, his arm ready to reach out and drag the larger man down the moment the marksman's sharp eye spied what he was searching for.

There was a sharp intake of air behind him, "Wait… Listen," d'Artagnan said, his voice hushed.

Even Porthos stopped – proving that for all his anger he wasn't yet so far out of touch.

They listened for a beat, all of them still. Then from out of the trees ahead of them, they heard it; the panicked whinny of a horse, the cursing of a man, and the sharp snap of a whip or a riding crop.

"Porthos…" Aramis said in a low tone of warning, the word playful but deadly serious.

The big man's inarticulate growl was his only answer as he lurched forward; prowl turned to charge.

Athos breathed a curse and leapt after the man, d'Artagnan and Aramis following a beat later.

The trees before them broke open on grey sickly light and a sizeable clearing. A thin layer of snow had settled over the ground without the tree limbs to impede its progress.

Across the white expanse, the low fire of a camp illuminated a collection of canvas tents and the dark shapes of men moving between them.

All hope Athos had that Porthos would have the sense to stop at the tree line vanished with the echoing crack of a whip and the pained whinny of a horse. Two paces behind, Aramis hissed for his friend to stop, an edge to his voice that Athos noted but didn't pause to contemplate.

Athos moved to catch the big man's shoulder before he could go barrelling too far beyond the cover of the trees. His belly did an uncomfortable flop as he charged after Porthos into the clear. He reached for the man at the same time as he registered something different about the feel of the ground beneath his boots.

Where the ground should have stayed firm like a frozen field ought, he realised his foot had sunk a ways with each step.

A sound like gritting glass snapped out as a thin sheet of ice gave way to liquid mud.

Porthos turned with a yelp. Athos flailed for his arm as he too felt the ground break beneath him.

Athos gasped as cold water sluiced into his boots and sloshed up his pant legs.

A pace farther out, Porthos was worse off – dark water splashing as the man sank to his chest in the thick mud. The man's mouth opened in shock, the cold stealing his air. Athos clutched at his arm where he'd caught it just above the elbow.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted. The marksman drew up short on the bank as Athos barked at him to stay.

Athos took in a concentrated breath, trying to calm the race of his heart – the last thing they needed was Aramis stuck in this mire with them. D'Artagnan seemed to have the same thought and put a hand on Aramis's arm as he came up beside him.

"Porthos?" Athos queried, trying to assess the man's gasping breaths and pale features. He seemed to gather his senses and met Athos's gaze.

"Yea?" he grunted, breathing more deliberately now through puffed cheeks.

Across the gap that was now clearly not an open field, shouts range out from the camp. Athos set that out of his mind for a moment.

"I'm going to try to pull you out," he said calmly, trapping Porthos's wide eyes with his.

"Athos…" Aramis said in warning, his attention clearly on the camp in the distance.

"Ready? One… Two…. Three." He heaved up on Porthos's arm, leaning back but trying not to overbalance as his feet stayed firmly glued in the mud beneath the thin skiff of water swirling around his thighs. Porthos tensed his arm and shoulder, trying to lift himself out by Athos's grip.

The water shifted between them, black and foul to their noses.

Athos gritted his teeth, doubling his effort. Porthos growled his defiance of the mud that gripped back.

There was a new rush of water from around Porthos's chest. It spilled out across the pristine snow, a stark wound to mark their foolish trespassing. Inch by inch, Porthos came free of the mud until Athos no longer had an angle and had to risk a step somewhere unless he wished to land square in the mud on his backside.

Keeping the tension on his friend's arm to keep him from sinking back into the gap now quickly filling with water, Athos jerked one foot loose; offering a brief prayer that that small task hadn't proved impossible. He stepped backwards, putting knee to the snow crusted ice in an effort to distribute his weight.

"Athos, here," d'Artagnan called as he pushed a sizable branch towards them. Athos grunted, not letting Porthos slip back; knowing the ground they'd won would be lost in a moment if he let up. He reached for the branch with his free hand and shifted it to within Porthos's reach. In life, the tree had been the width of his thigh but it had rotted away on one side so that it sat flat against the mud. It sank a little as Porthos leaned on it with his other hand, but it didn't disappear as Athos had feared.

Now free to his waist Porthos roared as he drew one knee to his chest.

The movement was sudden for both of them. Unbalanced, Porthos stumbled forward, his free leg coming back down into mud and sinking to the top of his thigh. As Porthos surged forward, Athos pivoted, swordsman's impulses forcing him to keep his feet in lieu of falling.

It was a mistake.

With his right leg locked in the mud, all he could do was step back with his left. His torso turned to follow where his one leg could not. His knee wrenched. The blaze of pain making him bite down on a gasp.

A great gush of swamp water rose around them and spilled away across the ice. The swampy ground behind Athos proved softer even than the rest and, in a rush, he sank, water and mud closing around his waist – cold water reaching places it had no right to be.

It was Porthos this time who caught him, one broad hand fisting in the front of his coat.

From the bank, he could hear Aramis swearing. And then, above that and the roar of pain, he could hear the sound of hoof beats approaching.