A/N: Got the inspiration for this one from a post in the Musketeers Story Idea Forum. It came along just in time for our Halloween writing challenge. An entry to the Fete des Mousquetaires October Competition: Monsters and Manes. My thanks to Issai for smoothing out the rough edges and being such a supportive reader. The mistakes are all mine, the characters, unfortunately, are not.

The morning dawned cold, icy fingers of an early winter gripping them as they slept. A rain of colored leaves scattered over their blankets as the copse of trees they sheltered in gave up the last of their fiery bounty to the unrelenting wind pushing through the branches. Fall was coming to an end.

Athos encouraged their meager campfire back to life and looked at his men, still huddled under thin blankets but already stirring as the morning became damp and uncomfortable. They had all spent a restless night, sleep coming intermittently. Their injuries coupled with the cold ground kept any of them from getting true rest. When Porthos had woken him for the final watch, it had been a relief to be pulled out of his fitful slumber, plagued as it was with unsettling dreams of cold fire and jasmine perfume. Athos wished yet again for a bottle of wine, as much to warm his body as to fortify his soul, but the last of the wine had been used on the wounds yesterday.

The fire crackled, reminding Athos he should set some water to warm in case they needed it to redress any of their injuries. He pushed himself up stiffly, favoring his left leg where he'd taken a slice across the back of his thigh. Had it been deeper, it would have immobilized him, but as luck would have it, it was a glancing blow and only caused a long, shallow cut. It was stitched, but riding would aggravate it immensely. He was not relishing the journey back to Paris, but for the others, it would be worse.

Athos fished a large copper cup from his saddlebags and a water skin and moved clumsily back to the campfire. He eased himself down and filled the cup, setting it to the edge of the coals. He only had just gotten himself positioned comfortably when soft sounds of distress pulled his attention to the man curled on his side a few feet away. Aramis moaned softly again and seemed to struggle within the blanket cocooning him. Athos pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and limped to his comrade's side. Unable to squat, he rather unceremoniously lowered himself to sit with a thump beside the agitated musketeer.

"Aramis," he called softly, placing a hand to the man's shoulder and giving him a gentle shake, "Aramis, wake up. You're dreaming." The man's struggles eased as the voice and touch of a friend pulled him quickly toward wakefulness. Aramis blinked open his eyes, breathing heavily as the last of his dream left him. He started to uncurl from his cramped position on his side, but as soon as he moved to lay on his back, he winced and almost cried out.

"Easy, easy," Athos coaxed, tightening his grip on Aramis's shoulder to prevent him from moving further, "you're injured, remember?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos as he breathed through the pain, "Not possible to forget," he pushed through tense lips.

"Let me check it, while we are both down here," Athos said, waiting for a slight nod from the marksman before he pulled the blanket back to his waist. Aramis stayed on his left side but straightened out his legs to allow Athos to help him roll slightly forward. Athos gently moved Aramis's arm across his own lap, and then bent forward to raise his shirt. The five-inch gash at his side trailed down from below his rib cage, over his hip and toward his lower back. Towards the top it had been deeper, but luckily for Aramis it had missed vital organs and not gone deep enough at the end to come near his kidney. Stitching it had been a long and painful process that had left the two of them exhausted. Athos had been worried that there was not much wine to properly clean the wound, but despite the flesh being angry from the abuse of sword and then needle, it did not seem overly warm or to be seeping.

"When you are done admiring your handiwork," Aramis breathed at his side, "I'm getting cold." Athos gave him a derisive snort but pulled the shirt back down over his friend.

"It's not looking bad," Athos said succinctly, "Can you sit up?" Athos gave Aramis one hand for leverage and slipped the other beneath his left arm to help push him upright. With a small struggle, Aramis managed to swing himself up, panting with the effort to move through the pain in his side and the stiffness in his limbs from a rough night curled on cold ground.

"How are the others?" Aramis asked through clenched teeth as he let Athos help him into his doublet.

"Still asleep," Athos replied, "Porthos has been like a stone since he lay down, but D'Artagnan has been fitful. His head troubles him."

"Did you wake him?" Aramis asked, trying with just his left hand to get his doublet laced beneath his right arm. Athos pushed his hands away and gave Aramis a roll of his eyes.

"Of course, as did Porthos," he answered, securing the side laces with deft fingers, "You are not the only one who knows how to care for a head injury," Athos's tone had a hint of playfulness that only one of his brethren would be able to notice.

"How was he?" Aramis pressed, this time pushing Athos's hands away from where they had shifted to the straps on the front of his doublet, "I can buckle it, thank you," he added.

Athos gave his stubborn friend a derisive snort as he shifted to get his feet under himself to stand, "He was confused, but he recognized me. Remembered what happened when I reminded him." Athos put his hand on Aramis's left shoulder and used it for balance as he pushed his way to his feet, "We need to teach him not to fall off his horse," he added, reaching a hand out to Aramis.

Aramis took Athos's offer and let Athos help get him to his feet. Aramis stood a moment, breathing hard, forehead resting on Athos's shoulder. "We need to teach him not to fall on his head," Aramis's muffled voice quipped. Athos clapped him on the back of the neck and gave a little squeeze. After a moment Aramis raised his head with an exhaling sigh. Their eyes met and a thin smile from Aramis was met by a dip of the head by Athos. They were both alright the silent gestures said, alright but grateful for the care of the other.

Athos moved his hand to Aramis's shoulder, "I'll find us food, you wake Porthos," he said with an arch of his brow.

Aramis closed his eyes and scrunched up his face as if he smelt something distasteful, but nodded his head in acquiescence. They all knew that sometimes waking Porthos did not go well. Athos watched Aramis move carefully to the opposite side of the fire where Porthos slept on his back, head leaning on his saddle. Aramis wrapped an arm protectively around his torso and bent awkwardly to reach down and shake Porthos's shoulder, his face registering the pain of his action. Athos sighed as he turned toward the horses. The ride back to Paris would be hard on his brother, probably on all of them, as the weather turned to winter and denied them the rest they needed to heal.

Athos fished some apples, hard cheese and a round of bread from his saddle bags and returned to the fire. Porthos was on his feet, letting Aramis poke on his ribs and looking none too happy about it. The big man was the least injured of them all, but still, the bruises from being at the center of a melee were severe and Porthos was lucky his ribs were not broken. His right eye was swollen nearly shut from a dagger hilt to the face and the middle fingers on his left hand were splinted and wrapped having broken his knuckles while breaking someone else's nose. Athos had a wet cloth ready when Porthos and Aramis joined him by the fire.

"Sweet mother," Porthos hissed, pressing the cold rag to his swollen eye, "If the bastard who did this wasn't already dead, I'd kill 'im."

"You can't blame him because you didn't get out of the way," Aramis teased as he handed him an apple.

"Hard to get out of the way fightin' three of 'em at once," Porthos quipped back, "Don't recall seein' you doin' much of anything when those other six came ridin' out of the woods."

Aramis gave him a wounded look, "Not doing much? Why do you think there were six instead of eight?" Porthos gave a low chuckle and eased himself to the ground beside Athos.

"Expect we'll see more of 'em?" Porthos asked around a mouth full of apple.

Athos gave a shake of his head, "Not likely. That was a well-planned ambush and I'd wager with the best of their men. The comte is not likely to have much left to throw at us." Athos's cool face remained neutral and unconcerned, but still, his mind calculated yet again the probability of another attack.

Sixteen men in total had been lying in wait for them to intercept the dispatches from Orleans. They had broken their force in two, eight arising from the side of the road during the initial attack, and an unnoticed eight more moving in as the battle was most heated. Aramis's sharp eyes had caught sight of the reinforcements first and he'd been able to shoot two with pistols pulled from the corpses at his feet. But it had cost him in the wound to his side as one of the original group blindsided him as he was lining up the next shot. Porthos had dispatched that attacker quickly, only to be met by half of the new force swarming him like ants on sugar. The big man went down in a heap of bodies. Aramis finally got to his feet and was able to pull off one of the attackers. Porthos rose up like an angry bear, face bloody and swollen, but nothing slowed his attack of fists and feet as he flung men around like so many sacks of flour. Early on in the skirmish, D'Artagnan had been pulled from his horse, landing hard with the wind knocked out of him. Athos was able to dispatch the man who was grappling with D'Artagnan on the ground, and then stood over him protectively as he got himself to his feet. D'Artagnan was shaky, but drew his rapier and charged headlong into the fray. Athos had followed and the two swordsmen fought back to back against a circle of men until an unlucky misstep had Athos to his knees from a cut to the back of his leg. Before the attacker could drive home another thrust, his eyes bulged and he fell forward toward Athos, Aramis's dagger protruding from his back. Athos forced himself to his feet in time to see D'Artagnan take a thunderous blow to the head from a stout club. The boy dropped limply to the ground, his attacker moving in for the killing blow. Athos flung himself forward, catching the man off guard and with enough force to send them both flying to the ground. Athos make quick work of him with his main gauche, and rose to defend against another man, experience and stamina winning out against the attacker's surprisingly skilled swordplay.

Twelve men were dead by the end, and four others ran off, all wounded. They had searched the bodies and found purses full of coin and orders from the Comte de Blaise to intercept the dispatches. While the musketeers did not know the specific content of the messages they carried, they did know there had been some talk of several of the local Comtes taking issue with Louis's latest round of taxes. There was unrest in the region and the information from Louis's spies were likely to bring trouble for de Blaise and his comrades.

Wounded but able to travel, they rode the rest of the day with no pursuit and stopped only when the sun was too low for traveling wooded roads to be safe. Their night had been uneventful, other than their dealing with repercussions of their injuries. So Athos had to consider that the Comte had made one desperate attempt to intercept them and that his attention was now most likely centered on fortifying his own position or fleeing to Spain. Either way, further attack was not a logical course.

Athos was roused from his thoughts by a ragged cry. D'Artagnan was on his feet, staggering toward him, sword drawn and death in his eyes. Athos tried to spring to his feet, but the wound to his thigh made his leg uncooperative and left him off balance and down on one knee. "D'Artagnan!" he called out, stretching out a beseeching hand toward his friend as the boy raised the sword and prepared to strike.