A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews of the last episode! Lol, I have been making a ton of fan art to go with these fics, and I do have one of Aramis giving Rhaego an exasperated look when he resists training. XD But I agree one of him and Grettir wearing his hat would be awesome.

"When the Snow Ran Red"

Snow crunched underfoot as the troop of musketeers made their way through the forest toward the site where they would make camp. They were close to the French border but on Savoy land. Twenty-one men in total—half of the regiment—were to practice war games in unfamiliar terrain. They'd left their horses stabled in a village on the edge of France before hiking a few more hours toward their destination. Since Savoy was an ally of France and the forest remote, they didn't expect to stir up any trouble by their presence.

Through the trees up ahead, Aramis spotted the green and gray colors of his and Marsac's dragons, who had flown ahead to a large clearing adjacent to their planned campsite. The two senior musketeer dragon riders were leading this campaign, and while there wouldn't be much for their dragons to do, Aramis had been devising some exercises the men could practice should they ever find themselves against saurian foes in close quarters.

"We're here," Aramis announced as he reached the edge of the clearing. "Make camp."

They had a couple of hours of daylight left to get settled and rest after the long hike. Tomorrow they would begin the training exercises.

He slid the pack he'd been carrying off his shoulders and dropped it on the snow-dusted ground. His own gear had been packed onto his dragon, Grettir, but just because he was in charge didn't mean he wasn't going to pull his own weight.

He left the men to set up their tents and cooking supplies and entered the clearing where Grettir and Vren were lounging about, having already scuffed much of the snow away to bed down on dry earth. Aramis went to remove the saddlebags from Grettir's back. Then he unbuckled her saddle and set it on a fallen log near a spot that looked good for pitching his tent. As he started unpacking though, he couldn't find the thick canvas covering. He was sure he'd packed it.

"Marsac, do you have the tent?" he asked.

The other musketeer looked over as he hefted Vren's saddle off the gray dragon. "No. I thought you did."

Aramis rocked back on his haunches, at a loss.

"If I have to sleep in the bitter cold because you forgot to pack the bleeding tent…"

"I did not forget to pack it." He huffed in consternation and moved to check one of the other packs. Maybe he just wrongly remembered which one he'd put it in. But it wasn't there either. At this rate, they were going to be stuck sleeping out in the snow…

A wheezing chortle made him stop and narrow his eyes on his dragon. Grettir quickly rolled her gaze away from him as though pretending to be occupied with a bug crawling on the ground in front of her face.

Aramis glanced back at the saddlebag. He supposed a few things had been tousled within it, though he'd automatically written it off as due to turbulence from the flight. He should have known better.

He got to his feet and stomped over to his dragon. "What did you do with it?"

Grettir blinked up at him innocently but Aramis wasn't buying it. She and Vren had arrived long before the musketeers, which meant she'd had plenty of time to worm the tent out of the bag without making too obvious a mess. But where in a blasted forest could she have hidden it?

Aramis lifted his eyes heavenward, not quite in prayer for an answer, but he got one anyway: the tent canvas was fluttering from a tree branch high above their heads.

Grettir chuffed loudly now, far more amused with herself than she had a right to be.

Aramis shook his head, though he could never really be mad at her. "I suppose you think you're terribly clever."

She flashed him a toothy grin.

Marsac marched over, crossing his arms as he looked first at the tent then at the green dragon. "Well, I don't. Stick to hiding Aramis's hat and leave stuff I use alone."

"Come on, Marsac, she didn't hurt anything."

Marsac shook his head. "You only encourage her."

Aramis shrugged; Marsac was probably right. But it made their partnership interesting.

He patted Grettir on the nose. "Yes, you win. Now please get it down."

The dragon rose up on her hind legs to catch the canvas with her nose and yank it off the branch. Though it ended up covering her face completely and she started thrashing to get it off.

"Now I think the tent wins," Aramis quipped as he helped get it off. He frowned as he held the fabric up, revealing the tooth marks in the corner. He shot Grettir a reprimanding glare, to which she ducked her head, properly abashed. At least he was still able to pitch the tent, though he'd have some mending to do once they got back to Paris.

The men settled in, the soft crackle of their campfires a tranquil backdrop to the deepening gloaming. They heated up some stew and passed out servings. Aramis and Marsac fed their dragons cured meat from their packs. Tomorrow while the musketeers were playing their war games, Grettir and Vren could hunt for some wild game.

Night fell over the forest and the fires ran low as men retreated to the shelter of their tents. They didn't set a watch, as they weren't expecting trouble, certainly not with two dragons sleeping nearby.

Aramis was awoken by an ear-splitting shriek and a surge of flames illuminating the darkness outside his tent. He bolted upright, bumping into Marsac as he too scrambled out of his bedroll. They knocked their tent down in their haste to get out, and both pulled up short in a brief moment of stunned shock at the sight of three dragons attacking their two in the clearing, their screeching roars shattering the silence of the night.

A geyser of fire from his right had Aramis instinctively flinching away as a fourth beast raked its fiery breath through the camp. Screams went up from men caught in its wave, and in the blazing light, Aramis saw masked figures pouring from the trees, swords glinting in the orange luminescence as they cut down bewildered musketeers still rousing from their beds.

Aramis dove for his sword lying beside his saddlebags and jumped up in time to meet one of the attackers. Marsac also retrieved his weapon and they fought side by side. But the onslaught seemed endless and the musketeers outnumbered.

Aramis heard a dragon's dying shriek behind him. Marsac twisted around, eyes wide in horror.

"Vren!"

A blade punched through Marsac's chest, and he looked down in befuddlement for a moment before it was yanked out and he crumpled. The masked man left standing behind him raised his sword and hollered for the assault to continue.

"No!" Aramis yelled, leaping in to fell Marsac's killer.

He was going to die, he knew that, and yet he would fight and die with honor.

His opponent was a broad man, relentless in his attack. Aramis caught a glint of murderous eyes through the holes of the mask in a flash of firelight. He parried a strike, riposted, and swung his blade up to catch the returning swing. He didn't see the dagger coming at his left until it was too late. Though he tried to twist away, the blade plunged into his side. His recoiling momentum meant it didn't go too deep, but the resulting fire still stole his breath and he staggered backward. The large man pressed his attack.

Aramis threw up his sword to block the mortal blow aimed at his neck. He twisted and ducked under his opponent's arm, then spun and slashed his rapier up the man's back. The masked assailant howled in response and stumbled. Aramis caught his balance and moved to finish the job, but the pommel of a sword came out of nowhere and struck him in the temple. He crashed to the ground, dazed. The freezing snow instantly seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Other men darted in to help the one Aramis had wounded, carrying their leader away. They shuffled past one of the enemy dragons, who immediately turned its head toward Aramis, lips pulling back to bare its fangs. It began to lumber toward him. Aramis's vision wobbled, the trees of the forest bending around him. A jagged scar on the dragon's hide rippled with the glow of inner fire being kindled, and it opened its maw wide.

A screech pierced Aramis's eardrums and Grettir came charging between the trees and slammed into the black dragon. They both went rolling in a tangle of gnashing teeth and ripping claws. Trees shuddered from the impact, dropping snow and dead pine needles from their canopies.

Aramis couldn't follow the fight; pain was spiking through his skull and his side throbbed. His eyelids fluttered and he struggled to stay conscious as the sounds of battle began to fade. All around him the snow was splashed with red, musketeers scattered about in pools of crimson, most of them mere feet from their bedrolls and crushed tents. Aramis closed his eyes in defeat and anguish.

He felt something large and firm curving around him, and then he was being lifted up. His head swam and the white and red swirled together beneath him.

And then there was darkness.

.o.0.o.

Cluzet stood at the window and listened to the distant, echoing screeches sounding through the night. Anyone within miles of the forest would be huddled in their beds, fearing wild dragons had come down from the mountains. He had no doubt his Duke would be triumphant. And such violent retribution would make the Cardinal think twice before moving against Savoy again.

A reflection moved in the glass pane, and he turned as a refined woman with wavy brown hair stepped out of the shadows in the back of the room.

Cluzet arched a brow in surprise. "Milady de Winter. I thought you left."

After she had passed him the Cardinal's secret orders alerting him to the assassination plot, she'd disappeared before he could bring her to the Duke. But the copy of the orders was evidence enough to encourage Victor to take action.

"I have already risked too much coming here," she replied. "If the Cardinal finds out I stole a copy of those orders…" She trailed off, bottom lip quivering at the unfinished thought.

"I can help you," Cluzet said. "You can flee to Spain. There are people there who will be pleased to put you in their employ."

She quirked a perplexed look at him. "Spain? Not here in Savoy?"

"The two are closer than you think."

She pursed her mouth in a coy moue and closed the distance between them. "Then I have another message to give you."

He frowned. "What?"

Her right hand moved toward her left sleeve. His eyes widened as she drew a small knife but he couldn't react fast enough before she'd stabbed the blade into his sternum. He gasped, all breath seizing in his lungs.

Milady leaned close and whispered, "The Cardinal bids you a swift journey to hell."

She twisted the blade, and a strangled sound gurgled past his lips. As the knife was yanked out, he fell to the floor, unable to speak or move as blood pumped out of his chest. Through vision sparking with dark spots, he saw Milady pick up the orders and then slip away into the shadows she'd come from.

.o.0.o.

Grettir broke through the trees with a splintering of branches. She gave a massive thwack of her wings to gain altitude, pain jolting through her body as the movement pulled at gaping wounds. Her wing nearly buckled and she dropped several feet before she was able to catch herself.

Her precious cargo jounced in her front claws, and her heart lurched with the terror of dropping him. She adjusted her hold, lungs burning with exertion. She would not be able to go far.

Veering toward some craggy hills sloping up from the western end of the forest, Grettir glided down, clenching her jaw against the pain as she pulled up before landing so she wouldn't simply crash onto the rocks. She nearly did anyway, stumbling on her hind legs as she kept Aramis cradled protectively in her front talons. She gently laid him on the ground, collapsing beside him.

They weren't sheltered enough though. Raising her head toward the tree line, Grettir mustered the strength to rise again, labored breaths puffing out white. She gingerly picked up her rider again in her claws and dragged them both toward the trees where the evergreen foliage would help conceal her green scales. A trail of blood smeared across the rocks behind her, which couldn't be helped. It was also possible the enemy dragons would track her scent, but they had their own wounds to nurse and she hoped they would not pursue her. The battle was over anyway, and they the victors.

Grettir shuffled near the trees and lay down, pulling Aramis close. He was bleeding too, both from the side and his head, but the near freezing temperature was slowing the flow, she could tell. But the cold held its own danger, and he was dressed in only his trousers and shirt, the entire troop having been caught off guard in their sleep.

With painful, stuttering wheezes, Grettir kindled her inner fire, not enough to spew a geyser of flame—she didn't have the strength for that—but it was enough to warm her belly, and she tucked Aramis under her as much as she could without squashing him. Folding her wing over him, she curled her neck and head under it and rested her nose against his damp curls.

There was little hope of help coming, little hope of survival. For both of them. She could feel her life blood oozing out of multiple wounds.

Grettir snuggled against her rider and closed her eyes as a shuddering breath shook her frame. No matter what, she would keep Aramis safe, even until death ferried them both away.

.o.0.o.

The garrison was quieter than usual with half the regiment away on a training exercise. Porthos was glad that now that he was a dragon rider, he hadn't been required to go, as the war games were for those of the ground ranks.

He stood in the back of the yard near the dragon pens, giving Vrita's scales a brushing down with a coarse bristle brush. The dragon vibrated with pleasure, arching her neck so he could reach under her chin. Aramis was right; dragons were like cats.

Porthos had been paired with Vrita for a few months now and he was still learning her quirks, but he found the partnership quite rewarding. He hadn't set out to become a dragon rider when he'd joined the Musketeers. Aramis was the one who'd encouraged him to work toward that. And he didn't regret it for a minute.

Athos walked over and stopped to watch him for a few moments. "You can get between the toes as well," he spoke up.

Porthos looked up, then at the large taloned feet.

"Though some dragons are ticklish."

Now Porthos furrowed his brow. Like him, Athos had only achieved dragon rider rank a few months ago, but he seemed much more knowledgeable about the creatures.

"An' what's she gonna do if she is ticklish?" he asked warily.

Athos shrugged and came closer, grabbing a barrel from against the wall and rolling it out a bit. He then signaled for Vrita to put one foot up on the lid. Porthos kept one eye on her as he bent to brush between her toes. She seemed to like it though, rumbling like a purring cat.

The captain's voice suddenly rang out across the yard, yelling for his dragon. Porthos looked over in confusion as Treville quickly descended the steps from his office and hastened his pace toward the dragon dens. Porthos had never seen the captain at a near-run, and he straightened in alarm.

"Athos! Porthos!" Treville called upon seeing them. "Saddle your dragons. Get every dragon rider in the garrison ready to leave in fifteen minutes!"

"What's happened?" Athos asked in a voice far too controlled for the level of urgency exuding from their captain.

"I just received word from Savoy. Hunters found the bodies of musketeers slain in the woods." The lines around his eyes crinkled in a rare display of fraught emotion. "There were no survivors."

Porthos felt the earth drop out from under him. The musketeers in Savoy… "Aramis," he breathed.

The captain's expression was grim, but his attention was diverted by the arrival of his dragon, Kilgar. "We fly to Savoy," he announced, marching toward the dragon tack room.

Porthos dropped the brush in his hand, not even caring to put it away properly. He jogged toward the call-to bell and rang it as hard as he could. As doors opened and heads peeked out to see what was happening, Athos raised his voice to carry across the garrison,

"Riders to arms!"

Eight musketeers scrambled out of their quarters and the mess hall, some halfway to putting on their boots. The tack room became crowded as each of them grabbed their saddles. Alerted by the summons, the dragons were already lining up in preparation to leave.

"Etienne, you're in charge," Treville barked to the crowd of other musketeers watching anxiously.

Porthos forgot to grab his altitude cloak, but Athos tossed it to him. He gave a clipped nod of gratitude before climbing up onto Vrita's back and gripping the pommels of the saddle. Treville mounted his dragon and turned Kilgar around to face the men.

"I received word that the troop in Savoy was attacked. No one survived. We go to retrieve the bodies and bring our men home."

Porthos's chest constricted as his heart warred against the announcement. It couldn't be true. Not Aramis.

Beside him, Athos's expression was like stone, not giving anything away. But the rest of the musketeers exchanged horrified looks. Treville urged his dragon into flight, the others following suit, and the skies above Paris were soon full of eleven dragons making a mass exodus from Paris toward the forests of Savoy.

The message that had come to the garrison would have taken two days to arrive, but the Musketeer dragon riders arrived at the border within a few hours. They landed outside the village where the troop had been due to stop at to stable their horses before proceeding into the woods on foot. The musketeers waited with their dragons while Treville went to speak with someone from the village.

"How can there be no survivors?" Porthos murmured. "Aramis and Marsac had Grettir and Vren."

No one responded to him. They would have their answers soon enough.

The captain returned, lips pressed into a thin line. "The bodies are still in the forest," he said. "After the hunters reported the discovery, no one wanted to disturb the scene."

"They've been out there fer two days?" Porthos blurted.

Treville nodded in displeasure. "Cornet, take three men and retrieve the garrison's horses. Get them ready to bear their riders back to Paris and meet the rest of us at the campsite."

Cornet nodded and pointed out three men to help him. The four dismounted from their dragons and headed into the village. Treville climbed onto Kilgar again and the remaining riders once more took flight, soaring over the snow-dusted woods toward the location the training group was supposed to be.

There was a clearing next to the site, but it was only large enough for three dragons to land at a time—and there was already a dragon's form lying broken under a thin blanket of snow at the bottom. The captain landed first, along with Athos. Porthos saw ravens scatter at their arrival, black apparitions breaking through the tree tops with raucous caws as they fled the area. Porthos could easily imagine the scene of carnage that had drawn them here.

He watched as Vrita circled the clearing, the captain and Athos giving the dragon corpse a cursory inspection before they and their mounts ventured between the trees, making room for the next pair to land. Porthos nudged Vrita into descending quickly, anxious and yet loath to finally see the site for himself.

He cast a glance over the dead dragon, its body gouged with a myriad of tooth and talon marks. It was Vren. Porthos turned away, chest constricting as he swept his gaze around the area. Even with all his battle experience, he still came to a stunned stop at the sight before him.

Numerous lumps lightly frosted with snow dotted the ground. Dark red frozen slush lay in pools and splatters. There were some charred bushes and tree bark, evidence of dragon fire having been unleashed at some point, along with splintered trees. Tents lay trampled among the bodies, camp gear scattered about.

Porthos's eyes found Athos and Treville, two of the most stoic men he knew looking as lost as he felt. This shouldn't have happened. They were on a training exercise, not a battle campaign. This shouldn't have happened…

"Line the bodies up," Treville said, voice echoing hollowly in the forest.

Athos turned in a full circle, eyes raking through the trees. "I don't see Grettir."

Porthos whipped his gaze around as well. It hadn't snowed enough to fully conceal a dragon's body, so where was she?

Treville's brow furrowed as he looked around too. "Sound off the bodies," he commanded more sharply.

Men fanned out toward the frozen lumps and started calling out the names of who they found. Porthos tried to keep count even as he listened with dread for the one name he was terrified to hear.

But it never came. Twenty men had been accounted for. Not twenty-one.

"Aramis and Grettir aren't here," Athos said when they had finished.

Porthos felt a thrill of hope, even as it was tempered with worry. "Where the hell would they have gone?"

They hadn't returned to the garrison, or even the village on the border to get help.

"Whoever attacked them could have taken a prisoner," Athos postulated.

Porthos's lips thinned; that wasn't exactly a better scenario. "You think they managed ta capture a dragon too?"

Savron belted out a clipped chirp, drawing their attention. Athos immediately went over to his dragon, who bent his head to the ground and sniffed at a massive patch of frozen blood smeared across gouged earth. There were no bodies near it.

"This much blood would have come from a dragon," Athos concluded.

A lump swelled in Porthos's throat. "Grettir?"

Savron made a show of sniffing the ground and then bobbed his head.

"Then she was wounded," Porthos said, that knot of fear coiling around his gut again. "An' Aramis is missin'."

"Captain," Athos said, "we can try to track Grettir's scent. If Aramis was taken, she would have followed."

Treville nodded. "Go."

Porthos leaped into Vrita's saddle and she took a moment to sniff the area as well. It was a long shot, really. The attack had happened almost three days ago and the snow could have made the trail go cold. But they had to try.

Athos mounted Savron and the two dragons walked back toward the clearing so they could take flight.

Savron and Vrita split up in opposite directions when they took to the skies, branching out in an effort to pick up a trail, no matter how faint. Vrita glided low over the tops of the trees, too fast for Porthos to see through the evergreen canopies. He scanned the open countryside beyond instead, though the likelihood of the attacking party still being in the area was slim. Who had done it, anyway? Who had the firepower to decimate a troop of twenty-one musketeers and two dragons?

A roar sounded across the air and Vrita immediately turned and flew back toward it. Porthos saw Savron up ahead as the blue silverback glided toward some hills on the edge of the forest. By the time Vrita landed behind them, Athos and Savron were staring at the large, still form of Aramis's dragon. Dark, frozen blood lay like sleet beneath Grettir's body, jagged wounds across her torso crusted with ice. She was pale, almost like a stone sculpture rather than the cold shell of what had once been a vibrant spirit so full of life.

Vrita tipped her head back and let out a mournful keen.

Porthos reached out to touch his dragon, offering what meager comfort he could.

Athos was staring at Grettir intently. Then he suddenly moved forward and took hold of the wing facing them. It had been erected at an odd angle, though it didn't seem to have any wounds or breaks. Then as Athos shifted it, Porthos's breath stole from his lungs at the sight revealed beneath the wing—Aramis, lying in repose as still and white as his dragon, dried red stains splashed across his shirt and down the side of his face.

Now it was Porthos who made a choked sound in the back of his throat.

Athos knelt down and reached out to place a hand on Aramis's chest, bowing his head in grief. Porthos dragged himself forward to stand behind him, clasping Athos's shoulder in shared anguish.

Then Athos snapped his head up. After a split second, he yanked his glove off and reached for Aramis's throat, fingers curved around his jugular and lingering for several long beats.

"He's alive!"

Porthos blinked. "What?"

Athos shouldered Grettir's wing further away. "He's nearly frozen, but his heart still beats. Quickly! We need to get him back to the village."

Porthos bent down and helped Athos pull Aramis out from under Grettir. The marksman didn't react to them at all, which ramped up Porthos's heart rate. Athos did a quick search of his wounds and determined they weren't life threatening, not more so than Aramis's overall state at the moment. Heaving him up, they carried him to Vrita and Athos instructed Porthos to climb into the saddle first, then passed Aramis up to him. Porthos opened the folds of his cloak and wrapped them around his friend as best he could. He shuddered at the icy feel of Aramis against his chest and wondered if they would still be too late.

Porthos cast a remorseful look back at Grettir as the dragons launched into the air and beat their wings back toward the village as though the hounds of hell were on their tails.

.o.0.o.

Cornet and the others had already left for the campsite with the horses by the time Porthos and Athos arrived at the village with Aramis. Athos leaped from his dragon and came around to take Aramis from Porthos's arms. Porthos was reluctant to let him go, even as his body quivered with relief to not be pressed against a block of ice anymore. As soon as he dismounted from Vrita, he hefted Aramis into his arms again, having to lean back slightly in order to balance himself with the awkward, heavy weight. Athos grabbed one of their saddlebags and led the way to the inn, bursting through the door with the force of a blizzard.

"We need a room and a physician," he barked at the stunned innkeeper.

The proprietor gave himself a sharp shake and gestured to the stairs. "Yes, of course. This way."

Porthos had to angle himself to ascend the steps with Aramis in his arms, trying not to knock his head against the wall. Athos moved to climb behind them, keeping his hands out to prevent them both from falling. It was arduous, but they made it to the second floor and thankfully the innkeeper directed them to the first room on the right.

Porthos's back twinged as he staggered to the bed and laid Aramis upon it. With his hands finally free, he immediately reached out to cup his friend's neck in search of that languid pulse that showed he yet lived.

"Heated bricks?" the innkeeper asked uncertainly.

Athos nodded. "And that physician."

The man made a hasty retreat, hopefully to get it done.

Porthos had set Aramis on top of the bed coverings and now he started to tug them out in order to cover the marksman.

"Get his clothes off first," Athos instructed, stepping in and removing Aramis's boots.

It didn't take much effort to divest him of his trousers and shirt. There was a stab wound in his side to go with the head injury, but neither were actively bleeding. Athos hastily wrapped a piece of linen around his stomach once as a temporary bandage, and then they bundled Aramis under the bed covers. Porthos ransacked the closet and dresser for extra blankets to pile on top.

When the innkeeper returned with some heated bricks, they tucked those under the blankets as well.

"I've sent the stableboy for a local herbalist. It's the closest thing we have to a doctor," the man informed them.

Athos's expression tightened just a fraction but he nodded. "Treville needs to know."

Porthos nodded, the statement having been directed to him.

Despite having said it, Athos looked reluctant. "I'll be back."

Then he turned and strode out.

The innkeeper left as well, leaving Porthos alone with the wraith-like form of his best friend. He reached out, feeling over the bulge of blankets for limbs, which he began to rub fervently in the hopes of aiding the warming process. Aramis remained unresponsive throughout it all.

"Hang in there," Porthos urged. "Don' leave us now."

The local herbalist arrived before Athos returned, a wiry man with spectacles and a leather-worn satchel. Aramis was hardly warmed up, but Porthos had to pull the blankets back so the healer could tend the wounds.

The man poked and prodded around the stab wound, tutting to himself. "It's too late to stitch. The flesh is too damaged from the cold. No sign of infection. I'll clean and bandage it, but I'm afraid that's all that can be done."

Porthos watched anxiously. He wished Athos was back; the other musketeer would know better whether the man was telling the truth or making pronouncements based on incompetency.

The herbalist cleaned and bandaged both Aramis's abdomen and head, then left some herbs for the pain. "He is still very cold, which can be a killer in its own right," he declared when finished.

"That's it?" Porthos couldn't help but snap.

The herbalist shrugged. "All that can be done now is try to get him warm and hope he rouses enough to take some liquid. I understand he's already been two days without? Though if he does regain consciousness, there could be complications from the head wound."

Porthos clenched his fists, cursing the lack of a proper doctor to be handling this instead.

The healer left, and Porthos swiftly resumed his place at Aramis's side, clasping the frozen hands and rubbing them between his own.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Athos entered with Treville. The captain drew up short, expression a mixture of stiff composure and shock as he took in Aramis.

"The local herbalist jus' left," Porthos said.

Treville gave a jerky nod. "We just spoke with him about his prognosis."

Porthos shifted his gaze back to his friend. "We should take 'im back to Paris, have a real doctor tend to him."

Athos moved closer and laid the back of his hand across Aramis's brow. "He wouldn't be able to make the flight, not at the temperature of that altitude. He's still cold."

Porthos gritted his teeth; what were they supposed to do, then? Stay here in this backwater village and wait for him to maybe wake up?

"It will take a few days for the others to return to Paris with the bodies," Treville said. "You two can remain here with Aramis until he's strong enough to make the journey."

Despite the confidence of the statement, Porthos still detected a thread of doubt in the captain's voice. Aramis had been half dead by the time they'd found him; some men never came back from that.

"Did you find any sign of who did it?" Porthos asked.

"No," Treville replied, expression grim. "The only one who can tell us anything is Aramis."

The unspoken "if he wakes" hung heavily in the air between them.

"You found him and his dragon west of the woods?" Treville went on.

Athos nodded. "It looks like Grettir tried to get him to safety but was too wounded to make it far."

Treville bowed his head in a moment of sadness.

"What about their bodies?" Porthos put in. "Grettir and Vren?"

"Unfortunately, they're impossible to retrieve," Treville answered.

Porthos lowered his gaze. It wasn't right to leave them like that, but he also understood there wasn't anything to be done about it.

"There is probably an alchemist in one of the larger towns not far from here," Athos spoke up. "I can get some incendie, and Savron and I can give them a funeral pyre."

Treville arched a brow at the idea but then nodded his permission. The incendie combined with dragon fire would make a flame hot enough to reduce a dragon's carcass to ashes.

Porthos thought Aramis should be there for that, but there was no telling when he would wake or be strong enough for such a task, and the bodies had already been out there for two days. Best it be done now.

Porthos turned his gaze back to his friend, wondering whether they would find themselves burying Aramis as well, in the end.

.o.0.o.

As Athos anticipated, the incendie wasn't difficult to obtain, along with some refroidi to keep the pyre contained, and he and Savron were back in Savoy with just enough daylight left to complete their task. They flew first to the hill where Grettir's body still lay, unmoved since the moment they'd found Aramis beneath her wing.

Athos took a moment to stand over the green dragon. His family had owned dragons and he was used to working with them, but he'd never considered them anything more than intelligent tools, like horses and hunting dogs. Even when he'd paired with Savron, he had initially viewed his dragon as a weapon to wield. It was Aramis and Grettir who had shown him a dragon and its rider could be more. An equal partnership. A friendship.

Athos had only been with Savron for a few months but he knew he would grieve the loss of the creature that had, in fact, become more than a winged steed to ride into battle. For Aramis, who had ridden Grettir for three years…Athos could not fathom the depth of loss the marksman would feel if he survived the night.

And if he didn't, that was a loss Athos himself did not think he was prepared to bear either.

He knelt on the cold hard ground and placed a gloved hand on Grettir's head, bowing his in honor of her sacrifice. She'd given her life to save her rider, and Athos owed her the deepest gratitude for that.

He finally straightened and pulled out the purple powder to sprinkle over her body, adding a scintillating sparkle to her hide in the receding sun. Then he moved back and Savron lowered his head, maw opening wide as he spewed out a stream of fire over the body. The flames washed over her, whooshing up with a purple hue as it reacted to the incendie. Athos and Savron stood back and watched her burn, embers floating up into the sky already tinged with orange and pink. When the flames grew too high, Athos tossed some refroidi into the blaze to keep them down, lest they spread to the nearby trees. And when Grettir's body had been reduced to ashes, he finally put out the fire.

Scorch marks marred the rock, a physical memorial in place of a grave. Athos spent one last moment in silence before mounting Savron and flying back to the clearing to do the same for Vren.

It was dark by the time they returned to the village. There was no stable large enough for the Musketeer dragons, so Vrita had been left out in a nearby pasture. Athos removed Savron's tack and left the saddle on a fence rail, then carried the rest of his bags to the inn and up to the room.

Porthos was replacing the heated bricks under the blankets. Aramis looked as though he hadn't stirred at all.

Athos didn't ask if there had been any change. He set his bags down and asked if Porthos had eaten. At the musketeer's negative reply, Athos went back downstairs to get them some food and wine, and then prepared to settle in for a nightlong vigil.

Aramis gradually began to feel warmer but had yet to wake. Athos knew that if he didn't in the next day, his chances of survival would be even less than they had been. And it was already a miracle he was still alive at all.

They checked the stab wound halfway through the night and were relieved to find it still hadn't begun to fester. There was hope on that front. But on the others, it was waning.

Until dawn was breaking through the window, suffusing the room with pale grey light. A muscle in Aramis's cheek ticked, followed by a muffled whimper. Porthos was on his feet like a shot and reaching to squeeze Aramis's shoulder.

"Aramis? Come on, open yer eyes." Porthos's voice cracked with the fervency of his plea.

Athos remained standing stoically at the foot of the bed, watching.

Aramis's face scrunched up as he struggled to rise from the miasma of weakness and frailty his wounds and the cold had bogged him down in. It took several long moments for his eyelids to flutter open, and once they did he immediately squeezed them shut again and moaned. One arm twitched with the desire to move but was trapped under the mound of blankets.

"That's it," Porthos coaxed, using his other hand to loosen the covers and reaching underneath to clasp Aramis's hand. "Try again."

"Wh-where?" Aramis rasped.

"At an inn on the French and Savoy border," Athos answered, finally moving to the other side of the bed.

Aramis prized his eyes open again and squinted at him, then at Porthos. "Wh-what happened?"

Porthos shot Athos a concerned look.

"In a minute," Athos said instead, reaching for a cup of water they'd left on the nightstand. "Drink first."

He slipped his other hand under Aramis's head to lift it while holding the rim of the cup to his lips. Aramis struggled swallowing the liquid but managed to get a few sips down before he let out a pained sound and finally freed his arm to reach for his head.

Porthos caught his hand before he could aggravate the wound there. "Easy. Don' touch it."

"What happened?" he asked again, tone taking on a distressed note.

Athos hesitated. "What do you remember?"

"I don't…" Aramis cut off with a groan and took several strained, controlled breaths. His hand inched down toward his side and carefully prodded the area. He winced.

"Didn't the herbalist leave something for pain?" Athos asked.

Porthos nodded to the small vanity in the room and Athos went to look through the herbs on its top. The man had left a small note explaining which was which, and Athos quickly grabbed what was needed and mixed it in the water.

"Aramis, drink this," he prompted, holding the cup to his lips again.

Aramis drank slowly, face scrunching up at the bitter taste. He tried to shake his head, only to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his face into the pillow. "I don't…" he started again. "It's all muddled. It was dark, but there was fire… You weren't there?" He looked up at Athos and Porthos with lost, beseeching eyes.

"No," Athos said gravely. "You and Marsac were leading a troop into Savoy for a training exercise…"

Aramis stared at him for a moment in confusion before his expression slackened with apparent recollection, and what little color he'd regained blanched from his complexion.

"Ambush," he stuttered out. "I didn't see them; they all wore masks. They had dragons…" His breath hitched. "Marsac's dead. So many were falling…" He suddenly twisted to look around the room. "How did you know to come? What day is it?"

Both Athos and Porthos reached out to prevent him from trying to get up.

"It's the day after Easter," Athos said. "Hunters came upon the scene of the ambush and sent word to Paris. It arrived two days later. We flew straight here and found you yesterday."

Aramis continued to blink dazedly at him as though struggling to follow. "How many others did you find?"

Athos couldn't help but look away, his gaze meeting Porthos's pained eyes instead.

Porthos cleared his throat and looked back at their friend. "Jus' you."

"What? No. That's not…" He trailed off, expression looking haunted as images perhaps played across his mind's eye. "Grettir," he blurted. "Where is she?"

This time it was Porthos who looked away.

"She didn't make it," Athos answered softly. "We found you with her, away from the site of the ambush. She tried to get you to safety, shielded you from the elements. But her wounds were already grave—"

Aramis reeled back against the bed, eyes rolling toward the ceiling before he shut them tight and shook his head. "No, no, no."

Athos and Porthos shared a helpless look, unable to offer their brother anything in this moment of devastating grief except their silent presence.

Athos sank onto the side of the mattress. "Savron and I gave her and Vren a funeral pyre. She died with honor and was treated with such."

Aramis didn't look at him, silent tears streaming down his face. He was the lone survivor of a massacre. And while Athos was grateful for it, he imagined it was a very difficult thing for the one left behind to live with.

.o.0.o.

After three days at the inn, Aramis wanted to leave. Though they weren't across the border anymore, he wanted to get as far away from this godforsaken place as he could; he wanted to go home. The stab wound in his side was slowly healing, hampered by the inability to properly sew it closed, but it was his head that pained him most of the time. Willow bark helped some, which was all the local herbalist had to offer. Porthos's desire for Aramis to be treated by a proper doctor back in Paris was the main reason he was able to convince them to leave, even though he knew the journey back wouldn't be pleasant.

Porthos fussed over wrapping him snugly in an altitude cloak for the journey. There was a chill he couldn't seem to shake, no matter how much he bundled himself in blankets.

Walking out to the dragons and seeing Savron and Vrita without Grettir by their sides made Aramis's heart clench. As he struggled to climb into Vrita's saddle, he almost couldn't breathe past the spiky lump in his throat.

He'd wanted to go to the site where she'd died, but there was nothing left, and he didn't know if he could handle that. There was nothing left in that forest but scorch marks and red patches of snow.

The flight back to Paris was indeed rough, jarring both Aramis's head and side, and by the time they arrived at the garrison, he was drenched in a cold sweat and unable to hold himself up. Porthos and Athos quickly ushered him to the infirmary and called for the royal physician.

Doctor Lemay had little more to offer than the herbalist had, in the end, save for better pain medicine, which Aramis was happy to take, hoping it would blunt the pain behind his sternum as much as his wounds.

Porthos remained in the infirmary, hovering as he had been for the past few days, while Athos went to take care of their dragons. A task Aramis was no longer responsible for.

He closed his eyes against another wave of grief. They came over and over, washing through him with suffocating frequency.

"Captain," Porthos suddenly said, and Aramis opened his eyes to find Treville had entered the infirmary.

The captain came up to Aramis's bedside and gave him a wan smile. "It's good to see you, Aramis."

Aramis swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Come for my report?" he said hoarsely.

Treville frowned slightly. "Only if you are up for it."

"He doesn't remember much," Porthos interjected.

Aramis pushed himself up to sitting with a wince, shooting his friend an angered glower. "I'm the only one who can give it," he said more sharply than was perhaps warranted.

Porthos blinked, looking stunned.

"Then go ahead," Treville interrupted.

"We arrived at the campsite on schedule," Aramis began. "We- we didn't set a watch." His chest hitched at the admission. Why hadn't he set a watch? Maybe if he had…

"You had no cause to," Treville's voice broke through as though knowing where his mind had gone. "What happened next?"

Aramis took a shuddering breath. "We were attacked in the night. They wore masks. They had three- no four- dragons. I…" He faltered as things became hazy. "I think I fought the leader, wounded him across the back. I was wounded…" Aramis broke off with a frustrated grunt. "I'm sorry."

Treville nodded sagely. "You stood little chance against such a brutal assault."

"Why?" he couldn't help but ask, even though there was no way for the captain to have an answer. "We were there on a training exercise…"

"I've spoken with the King since our return," Treville began. "And apparently the Cardinal received word through his network of spies that it was a Spanish raiding party."

"The Spanish?" Porthos blurted.

Aramis frowned, memories swirling in a dizzying eddy around his mind. Had they spoken Spanish? He thought he'd heard the leader giving orders in French. Or maybe he was too caught up in the battle to notice the switch, having a fluent understanding of both languages.

It wasn't like there was anyone else left to tell him differently…

"We had to bury the bodies in the cemetery immediately upon our return," Treville was saying. "But we held off on the memorial service until you could be there."

Aramis looked up at him blankly, then nodded. The laudanum was beginning to drag him under, and he turned his head away from everyone and let it.

.o.0.o.

It was a few more days before Aramis was strong enough to stand for any length of time, and the captain finally commenced with the memorial service. The entire Musketeer regiment assembled outside the garrison on the parcel of land allotted for the internment of its fallen soldiers. The Savoy loss had tripled the number of graves it held in a single day. Aramis stared numbly at the twenty fresh mounds of soil covering the bodies of his friends. A wooden cross marked each grave, and then another one near an old tree with the names of the lost dragons etched into it.

He barely heard the words Treville spoke over his fallen men in tribute, didn't hear the captain asking him if he wanted to say anything. Only the sudden, pregnant silence and weight of everyone's gaze on him snapped him out of his stupor. By then Treville had opted to move on, sparing Aramis from further scrutiny. It didn't matter; he had no words to give this day. The priest recited a prayer over them, commending their souls to God. Normally Aramis would take solace in that, but in this moment he found he could only turn his anger heavenward, asking how God could have let this happen. It was one thing to die in battle, to charge into it head first knowing what was at stake. To die slaughtered in a forest far from home when they should have been safe…what meaning was there in that?

"Aramis?" Porthos prompted softly.

He started and realized the memorial was over and most of the musketeers had left. Only Porthos, Athos, and the captain had remained, along with their dragons.

"I'm fine," he said automatically.

Treville cleared his throat. "Bonacieux wanted me to tell you that when you've recovered, you'll have your choice of dragon from the den."

Aramis continued to stare at the wooden cross with Grettir's name. "No."

Treville faltered. "No?"

Aramis looked over. "I'm not going to pair with another dragon."

"But," Porthos sputtered. "Yer a dragon rider."

Aramis turned away from them—the living and the dead—and started walking away.

"Not anymore."

NEXT TIME

The story of how Aramis and Rhaego came to be paired—and saved each other in the process.