Porthos in trouble, one of their number missing, d'Artagnan catching up, and Athos feeling torn and like time is running out.

Athos

"Help me," Athos commands, excessively conscious of the way the cold air seeps across his teeth. His throat is dry and rough, and as d'Artagnan stares at him with wide eyes, Athos swallows thickly, refusing to look behind them, and adds more. "D'Artagnan, I need help getting him down. He won't manage on his own."

He tries to say it without fear, but his voice wavers.

Porthos shudders strongly in his grip, a feat muted in comparison with his usual strength, but enough that he nearly slips from the saddle in a way that would do them no good. "No," he slurs. "No… Athos. I won't leave 'im. Not… this. Not… like th-s." His head rocks back onto Athos's shoulder and he breathes, though nothing of it shows in the air as he gasps and mumbles.

His chest heaves.

"I'll not leave him to his own despair."

The last sentence comes out surprisingly distinct.

D'Artagnan's wide gaze tracks from Porthos to Athos, then beyond, into the dense night. He doesn't say Aramis's name again, doesn't ask the question, even if Athos can see it there, hovering on his lips as plainly as if he had. "D'Artagnan!" he rebukes.

Waking to their reality and urgency, d'Artagnan jolts forward, landing a hand on Pothos's leg. "The fire is going," he reports, still sounding winded from his own arduous dash. His breath curls into the air in stuttered puffs, the way Porthos's has ceased to. "And I've dragged the bedding near the grate. How do we…?"

Athos nods, tightening his arms.

Porthos is like a block of ice. The sheer painfulness of the cold penetrating from Porthos's back to Athos's sternum makes him feel breathless, just by holding him. The frozen dampness that could not be curbed by whatever Aramis had been able to do to change Porthos from his lake-sodden clothing has been spreading into Athos by inches, and right now, he's not sure how to let go.

Mid-sentence, d'Artganan seems to realize this too, seizing the reins from Athos's fist and proceeding to lead both horse and riders straight in through the cabin door.

Porthos shudders again as Athos's eyes adjust to the dark and the firelight, but it isn't the shiver Athos has been hoping for, just a rattle of desperation, of rebellion. It echoes through Athos's body as he presses his mouth nearer to Porthos's ear and says authoritatively, "We're here. We're here now. It'll be all right."

More than swordplay, this has become his talent. He's good at summoning control, or at least the illusion of it, even when his blood feels drained, and his heart like it wants to stop. D'Artagnan, at least, latches onto it, even if Porthos doesn't.

"No," Porthos growls, rocking and slipping as they find themselves enclosed. "What'd we… what'd we do? Athos? Athos?"

It takes effort for Athos to loosen his grip from the folds of Porthos's coverings, to let only the present urgency consume them, but he does. Locking his mind to that purpose, he swings to the floor, ignoring d'Artagnan's gaze while together they pull Porthos towards them.

It's an awkward tumble, getting him down. Porthos is frozen and uncooperative, both purposefully and not, both with them and not. And by the time they get him off the horse, Athos realizes they are all three of them shaking.

Worse than that, Porthos has begun fumbling his limbs, like a bear waking from hibernation into chains. His eyes are muddled but fierce as they fasten onto him. "I didn't mean to close my eyes," he says, anguished, and Athos reels, working to keep his visage calm.

He's been confused, Aramis had said. Something they've both seen from men in this condition. Men who wake fighting when they should not be able to move their limbs. Men who throw their blankets aside, insisting they are burning when all the sensation in their skin has been passed over to the cold.

"Did we lose it?" Porthos asks, combative and lurching, nearly knocking d'Artagnan to the floor. "Did we lose where we left it? Did we leave him?"

Athos grapples, feeling like there's a knife in his sternum. It's of little help to realize Aramis had been right to be so worried.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan questions, apprehensive and labored.

The horse blusters and sidesteps as Porthos's focus carries past them to the door. He looks broken and Athos feels his eyes burn, even as he intervenes, using every ounce of strength he has to bear Porthos to the thin unfolded mattress d'Artagnan has flopped out onto the floor.

"Bastards. All of us," Porthos hisses, straining his head up and shoving.

Never you, Athos wants to say, bearing him down again with both of them panting. This one isn't on you.

Porthos shoves up once more, then drops his head back, heaving at the ceiling.

Athos holds him, uttering Porthos's name in repetition under his breath.

To the left of him, the fire crackles.

For the moment, Porthos seems to still.

"Bring the blankets," Athos snaps, looking to find d'Artagnan at his elbow. "Then help me get his boots off."

Kicking a stack of folded coverings into reach of Athos's hip, d'Artagnan is already taking action through the lull, tugging at Porthos's boots while Athos works on the rest of it.

Porthos is mumbling through desperate breaths. "Charon knew you'd come for me," he says. "He knew. And he… He didn't have to stay. Coulda left. Before. Before." His head jolts, turning from side to side. "I didn't… I couldn't… We have to go back. Athos, what'd we do?"

Athos blinks, trying to listen, and trying to not at the same time. Trying to keep his mind and hands hasty for his task. One of the cloaks on Porthos's body is d'Artagnan's. The shirt, Aramis's.

Accomplishing getting the boots tossed towards the wall, d'Artagnan lands a rapid pat to Athos's shoulder and gets to his feet. "I'll take care of the horse and get the door."

"Leave it saddled!" Athos calls.

D'Artagnan freezes, then nods, clomping the horse out and re-entering the room in a flash. Lowering the slat on the door, he kicks a worn horse blanket along the base to curb the draft of still-howling wind.

"D'Artagnan," Athos whispers, having stripped the most frozen clothing back from Porthos's skin, only to find the sensation of the knife in his sternum burrowing deeper. Across Porthos's chest, around his ribs, the underside of both arms—there is violent bruising. Athos can only imagine how bad it'll be once the cold no longer holds it back.

"He was shoved, onto the lake. Then broke his way through the ice, to get back to shore," d'Artagnan explains. "Battering at it, with his arms. His… chest. I… I was trying to reach him. We were… we were trying to reach him…"

Athos stops him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "I know, d'Artagnan. I know. Help me with his pants, then we'll need to get him wrapped, get him shivering. And I'll need you in with him. He—Aramis and I, we've seen men this bad before—he'll need…" Very briefly, he closes his eyes. "He won't come back on his own."

D'Artagnan nods, and for a few more minutes they work in silence, rolling and wrapping, while Porthos's eyes droop and shudder.

D'Artagnan had had the foresight to set warming stones near the coals to heat. As they finish, Athos distributes them carefully, rolling the last two below the mattress beneath Porthos's knees, then rising up to check his face. He curls his palm along the side of Porthos's neck, checking his awareness.

The next breath Porthos takes under Athos's hands feels stilted. His dull eyes blink slowly and he remains limp, even as he speaks. "I'm not Marsac," he says, barely audible, "'m not Marsac."

Athos stares back and feels a silence fall around him. "You're not," he agrees.

"I would not abandon him to the woods."

"Never, and he knows," Athos says, leaning close and tightening his grip. His ears feel hollow.

Already shallow, Porthos's breath hitches. He finds Athos's eyes, though Athos cannot be sure what he is seeing. "Don't leave him... long... Athos. They'll be demons then."

"I won't," he promises.

"Can't let them get there first," Porthos mumbles. "I should... I've got to."

Athos holds him down, with little effort now. "What you must do for Aramis now," he says thickly, "is live."

Porthos stares distantly as his eyes slip closed, open, then closed again. There is a bruise along his jaw that the blankets do not cover, and a scab of frozen blood is stuck in his hairline. Athos ghosts his thumb over it while watching his chest rise and fall.

When he thought of Savoy and Marsac's actions, this was the part that confused him most. He always wondered how Marsac could have looked at the blood on Aramis's face—how he could have wrapped the cloth to bind his head, seen him harmed and incoherent—and still walked away.

Behind him, d'Artagnan makes a small, unobtrusive sound, breaking into his thoughts. "I'll go," he says.

Athos looks at him.

"It isn't hard to figure out. You're here because Porthos needed to get here, and there was no way Aramis could have done it himself. Which means the cold was getting to him too. Wasn't it?" d'Artagnan asks it, but it's not really a question. "He's following, but he's not going to make it here on his own either. One of us has to go back for him. And soon."

D'Artagnan shifts on his knees, looking worn out and a little pale as he continues. "You're worried, and you don't want to leave Porthos. I understand. And you don't have to. I'll take the horse and bring Aramis back. I promise."

Slowly, Athos shakes his head. "You've taxed yourself enough."

"But I…"

"It's me," Athos interrupts him bluntly. "It has to be me, d'Artagnan. For all three of us."

Heavily, d'Artagnan swallows. "I know."

Taking a deep breath, Athos wraps a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck, like he often does with Aramis, and calls on all the confidence his voice can summon. "I trust you with this, d'Artagnan. With him." He nods to Porthos, and takes another breath. "Stay close. Try to wake him at intervals, if you can. Or if you can't, and his breathing grows too shallow, push here, on his stomach." Holding d'Artagnan's hand, he moves it to the spot he means, flattening it over the blankets covering Porthos's torso. "Or dig a knuckle into the space behind his earlobes. I will be back with Aramis soon." Still with his palm over d'Artagnan's hand, he clears his throat and says the same words Aramis had said when trying to convince him of the same. "It's not so far a distance."

D'Artagnan nods, his serious gaze diverting from the firelight. Finishing stripping his own boots, he peels back the blankets, rolling in next to Porthos on the outside of the hearth. Athos waits to help him settle then lingers a moment at the edge of the pallet.

He scrubs a hand into Porthos's curls and holds it there, closing his eyes to breathe while swiping his thumb along the cool forehead. "Live for me, too," he orders, hardly audible. "For all of us."

Then tearing himself away, he takes a last backwards glance, and leaves.

tbc

Terribly sorry for the wait, I'm just admitting that everything I do these days is going to be unfortunately slow.