A/N: I was distracted from the writing of my longer fic by a request from ajaali who kindly informed me that it would be wonderful if I could start posting a new story on her birthday (today). Since I knew my other fic wouldn't be ready in time, I offered her a shorter Aramis-focused story instead, which she graciously agreed to - this is the result. So, ajaali, Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag! I wish you all the best on your birthday and hope you enjoy this fic.

Aramis wondered how it was possible that such a simple task had gone so incredibly wrong. He and the others had been deployed to Savoy, a location that was most definitely far from his favorite place to be, but a responsibility he'd accepted out of necessity as part of his role as a Musketeer. Despite the previous uneasiness between the King and the Duke, relations had returned to a degree of quiet civility, the two leaders capable of being cordial and polite if not necessarily friends. Of course, friendship would have been a difficult state to achieve, given the King's obvious distaste for the Duke as well as the condescending view he held of Savoy, believing that the province was an essential but unfortunate inconvenience.

When the Duke of Savoy had sent word of Spanish activity within its borders, viewed as a requisite step to declaring war, the King had no choice but to act and send a small scouting party to the area to ferret out the truth of the rumours. Given that Savoy was considered its own sovereign territory, the Musketeers were ordered to complete their mission without the protection of their uniforms, instead adopting the clothing of mercenaries for hire, needing some excuse to continue carrying their weapons.

Their journey to Savoy had been blessedly uneventful, although Porthos was not fooled into thinking his friend hadn't suffered from the violent memories of his last ill-fated visit to the area. While Aramis would not admit it, he'd been grateful to find Porthos at his side each time he'd escaped from the grips of his nightmares, each dream conjuring new and horrifically creative interpretations of the events, leaving him covered in sweat and gasping for breath. Porthos had been a solid presence, grounding him with a touch on his shoulder or his back, or pulling him into a wordless embrace when tears leaked unchecked from his eyes. The larger man never asked about the dreams but Aramis knew his friend would listen if he ever desired to share any of his nighttime torments.

The resulting lack of sleep had made Aramis' brain fuzzy and his limbs slow, each movement taking more energy than he seemed to have available as each subsequent night turned into day and they travelled further from home. The Spaniard had been confident that things would improve once they'd arrived in Turin, Savoy's capital, but fate had other plans and they fell to an attack a day's ride from the city. The group that had assaulted them was fortunately not well-trained nor organized, but what they lacked in these areas they more than made up for in exuberance and numbers, forcing the Musketeers to face odds that were three to one against them.

Adrenaline from the surprise of the attack fueled Aramis' leaden limbs and gave him the strength he needed to fight at his brothers' sides, first using his superior shooting skills to reduce the numbers facing them by two and then wading in with his blade. As he engaged his first opponent, a man he'd managed to unseat from his horse, Aramis had a moment to check on his friends, confirming that they'd all dismounted and were embroiled in their own duels. A man came flinging past, Aramis barely able to side-step to avoid being felled by his passing, and a look to the side showed Porthos grinning in glee, obviously the cause of the bandits' misfortune.

The Spaniard gave a slight shake of his head accompanied by the ghost of a smile as he shared his friend's joy at being involved in battle, his blood singing and his senses sharp as the thrill of the fight coursed through his veins. The feeling carried him forward to victory against two of the men, and he paused for a moment as he dispatched the second, taking another look around to confirm that the others were still faring well.

Their odds had improved significantly, their skills nearly having defeated the group. Athos was off to one side keeping a man at bay with his sword, his moves almost leisurely in nature and Aramis wondered if the older man was simply toying with his opponent. On his other side, Porthos was in the process of disarming his attacker, using his main gauche to deftly pull the man's blade from his hand before stepping in close to land a killing strike. Aramis' head swivelled for a moment, seeking their youngest, fear sparking fast and bright and causing his breath to hitch as he turned around to expand his line of sight. Almost directly behind him but at least 20 metres away was the Gascon, down on his hands and knees, his head hanging between his shoulders while an armed man stood above him, preparing to deliver a final, lethal blow.

"No!" Aramis vaguely recognized the harsh scream as belonging to him as he thundered across the distance that separated him from d'Artagnan. Porthos' head snapped up to catch the marksman's wild dash, while Athos plunged his blade into his attacker's chest, freeing him up to chase after his friend, uncertain about the cause of his distress but certain that it could be nothing good.

As the bandit next to d'Artagnan lifted his main gauche, planning to drive it through the young man's bowed back, Aramis charged at the man, driving his shoulder into the outlaw's chest. The move had the desired effect, saving the Gascon and removing the threat to his person. As Aramis lay on the ground, next to the stunned form of the bandit, he began to feel a throbbing in his upper arm, the sensation escalating quickly as he became aware of it. He moaned lowly, not even realizing he'd done so, as Porthos dropped to his side, placing a warm hand on the medic's chest. "Lay still, Aramis, we'll have you sorted in no time."

The pain in his arm seemed to be spreading, sending a fiery ache through his shoulder and pulsing into his back and he couldn't help but let out another groan at the misery that seemed to be expanding along his left side. "Just try to relax, 'Mis; it'll only hurt more if you tense up," Porthos soothed. Grudgingly, he left the medic's side for a moment to check on the bandit that Aramis had knocked over, surprised when he found the man unmoving, his eyes closed.

Standing, he grabbed the man's arm in order to pull him further away from his friend, discovering, as he did so, a large pool of blood on the ground where the outlaw's head had rested. Stopping, he pressed a hand to the man's throat, feeling a faint thrum beneath his fingertips, looking again at the spot where the man had fallen and at the jagged rock that had impacted with the back of the man's head. A quick examination revealed an unnatural softness at the back of the man's skull, and Porthos was certain that the bandit would not be long for this world. Rising, he finished moving the man further away, confident that the outlaw would not cause them any more trouble, before returning to Aramis' side.

Athos was kneeling next to a partially coherent d'Artagnan, the young man still somewhat dazed from the blow he'd taken to the head, which had resulted in his vulnerable position. The older man had placed a hand on the back of the young man's neck as he bent low, speaking to the boy to gauge his level of awareness and determine how badly he was injured. Moments later, d'Artagnan shook his head weakly, the action pulling a moan from his throat as Athos gently eased him down to one side, so he could sit on the ground as he nursed his sore head.

Porthos watched all of this, his eyes darting between the two men and Aramis, the latter still laying on the ground, his breathing beginning to quicken and his face covered in a sheen of sweat. Aramis seemed unaware of the injury he'd suffered, and the larger man was completely out of his depth in trying to deal with it, his impatience growing as he waited for Athos' assistance. Finally, Athos seemed satisfied that the Gascon was alright and in no danger of dying on them, and he scooted over to Aramis' other side, his expression conveying the extent of his concern as he got his first look at the Spaniard's wound.

The outlaw's blade had been prevented from stabbing d'Artagnan and had instead been driven into Aramis' shoulder, entering at the front just beneath his collarbone, becoming lodged and protruding grotesquely from the muscle. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, but it was hard to determine whether the dagger had gone all the way through and Athos reached a hand forward to steady the blade. "I need you to turn him and check his back for an exit wound."

Porthos gave a short nod, already despising the additional pain they were about to cause their friend, but recognizing the wisdom of the older man's suggestion. As gently as he could, Porthos positioned his hands beneath the medic's shoulder and lifted, rolling him towards Athos as the older man stabilized the knife. The sound that emerged from Aramis at the motion was low and keening, more akin to a wounded animal than a grown man, and Porthos had to bite his lip hard as he forced himself to continue, shifting his friend until he could see the man's back. Releasing a sigh of relief he looked back at Athos and shook his head; the blade had not pierced Aramis' back, and based on the point of entry, it had been stopped by the Spaniard's shoulder blade. With infinite care, Porthos laid his friend back down onto his back, removing trembling hands at the agony he'd unintentionally caused.

Aramis panted for breath now, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to escape the thrum of pain that coursed from the tips of his fingers to the base of his neck, tendrils of liquid fire seemingly dancing through his veins. As his eyes fluttered open, he could vaguely make out the shape of his friend as he begged, "Please, make it stop." The plea was heart wrenching and all the worse because it was so unlike the Spaniard, normally stoically ignoring all but the worst injuries.

"We need to pull it out," Porthos hissed at Athos, unwilling to allow Aramis to continue suffering.

Athos gave a tilt of his head in agreement as he pushed to his feet, "Let me get the brandy and bandages first."

The brandy was an exceptionally strong spirit, chosen by Aramis specifically for its strength which would hopefully aid the man in banishing some of the agony that gripped him. Athos quickly removed both items from the medic's saddlebags before settling down again at his friend's side, sparing a quick glance at d'Artagnan who was still holding his head with one hand but watching them with wide eyes as he waited to see the drama unfold.

Offering the bottle to Porthos, Athos again stabilized the blade, the larger man moving immediately to lift Aramis' head up and tip the bottle to the man's lips. Aramis drank as though he was a man dying in the desert, choking on a swallow almost at once, prompting Porthos to pull the liquid away. The medic coughed weakly, grimacing at the hot spike of pain in his shoulder as the larger man soothed, "Easy, Aramis, you've got to go slow. I know it hurts, but chokin' ain't gonna make you feel any better."

When the medic had caught his breath, Porthos helped him drink again, allowing him several mouthfuls before pulling it away. Aramis' eyes rolled up to his friend's, his brown orbs already glazed with pain and blood loss, as he slurred, "Need to get it out."

Porthos nodded kindly, his hand finding Aramis' and gripping it tightly, "We know, 'Mis; we're gonna take care of it now." Placing the bottle on the ground beside him, he moved his free hand to the medic's chest, preparing to hold him down while Athos pulled the dagger free.

Standing, the older man gripped the handle tightly, knowing well how the muscle and skin around the blade would try to hold it in place. He nodded to Porthos, the large man returning it to indicate his readiness, and then pulled forcefully, driving a cry of pain from Aramis as the steel slid free.

Porthos leaned closer to the medic as the man gasped around the pain, his eyes rolling as consciousness threatened to flee. Both Athos and Porthos wished Aramis would let go, leaving him unaware of what they would need to do next, but the Spaniard was stubborn and his eyes remained half-open. Unable to wait any longer for their friend to lose awareness, Athos reached for the bottle and tipped it over the wound, causing Aramis to fight against Porthos' hold as he tried to get away from the sharp, burning liquid.

Aramis' head was lolling by the time they'd finished cleaning and firmly bandaging the wound, the man determinedly staying awake as he alternated between panting and whimpering in pain. Athos and Porthos felt nearly as wrung out as their friend, the act of tending to the man just as agonizing as the anguish they'd caused him. Athos glanced once more at d'Artagnan, gauging his ability to ride as he considered their options.

They needed to find shelter, quickly; the bandaging job he'd done on Aramis' shoulder was a temporary measure at best and the wound needed to be stitched. More importantly, the Spaniard would need somewhere to recover, preferably somewhere that included a bed and freshly cooked food. As Athos considered their situation, he scowled in disgust at the limited options that presented themselves; Aramis would have no choice but to ride and hopefully they would find somewhere to care for him before the man bled out.

As if sensing his thoughts, Porthos gave a slow nod, "There's no other choice, Athos, and that's not your fault. Why don't you repack everything and check on our young Gascon. When you're done, you can help me get Aramis up on the horse; he'll be riding with me."

As quickly as that they were decided and Athos rose to repack the remaining medical supplies and then detoured to d'Artagnan's side, the young man oddly silent and still staring resolutely at Aramis as if expecting the man to disappear if he looked away. "d'Artagnan," Athos spoke lowly as he crouched next to the boy. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," the Gascon replied listlessly, his gaze never wavering from the medic's still form.

Athos swallowed the sigh of frustration that threatened at the young man's predictable response. "I need you to be honest with me, d'Artagnan. Are you able to ride?"

The Gascon's eyes met Athos' and the older man could see the fear reflected there, the young man obviously very concerned about their fourth. "Will he be alright?"

Athos dropped his head for a moment before answering. Aramis' wound was grave and his survival was still in doubt; as much as the older man hated to admit it, there was little more they'd be able to do for him once they'd closed the wound. Meeting d'Artagnan's gaze, he said, "The quicker we move from here, the better his chances become."

d'Artagnan began to nod but was reminded of the folly of that action when the throb in his head swelled, and he spoke instead, "I can ride." He knew it wouldn't be pretty but was confident that he could stay in the saddle; no matter how difficult, he would not be a hindrance to them that delayed Aramis getting the care he needed.

Standing, Athos gripped the Gascon's bicep and pulled him gently to his feet, helping him over to his horse and standing nearby as he watched the young man mount. When he was done, d'Artagnan was several shades paler but he seemed stable enough in his seat. Patting the young man's thigh, Athos turned away and knelt next to Aramis, seeing the medic's eyes closed. Glancing at Porthos, the larger man confirmed, "Finally passed out, stubborn fool. Like he needed to be awake through all that butchery on his shoulder." While the words sounded angry, Athos knew that they were fueled by worry, a sentiment he wholeheartedly shared with the larger man.

Together, the two men managed to lift Aramis to his feet, Athos ducking under one shoulder while Porthos did his best to assist the insensate man with an arm around his waist. It was awkward and slow, but they eventually managed to get Aramis onto a horse, Porthos seated behind the injured man, providing support for the medic's back and ensuring he would not fall. With a last look around their impromptu battleground, Athos pulled himself into the saddle and nudged his horse into motion, d'Artagnan falling in behind him, while Porthos and Aramis took up the rear. Silently, Athos offered up a prayer that they would soon find somewhere to stop.