they always try to stay together

. . .

It's mud and rain and chaos and cacophony, it's hair in his eyes and slippery, unstable ground underfoot and shouting and shooting and the clanging of metal on metal coming from all around him, it's the burn of every breath in his lungs and the sweat and blood smeared tackily on his face and the neverending push and pull between leaden exhaustion and furious survival.

It is, in a word, war.

It's their fifth engagement of the day, and the sun is starting to set through the haze of smoke and gunpowder that hangs thickly in the air.

Athos had shouted at the general at the order for the fourth, come within a hair's breadth of barefaced insubordination, nearly refused to send his company back onto the battlefield, but the general had held his ground, and two-hundred-odd exhausted men had been expected to stand theirs.

By now, what feels like hours into their fifth engagement, even Athos is too tired to seethe. They try to stay together, the three of them, as much as they can. It's such a habit by now that it barely seems to involve conscious thought, which is good, because none of them have anything left to spare on thinking. They only act.

Swipe, parry, deflect, lunge.

Duck a blow, roll to standing, shove and punch.

Block, block, counter, dispatch, turn to the next.

Slip in the mud, stagger up, pray there's nothing coming down towards his neck—

—there was, but Porthos blocked it and the clang reverberates in his empty, thoughtless head, but now his flank is open— no, it's guarded again, Porthos has always had a quick recovery, look for Athos, look for Athos—

—there he is, holding his own but clearly flagging, and should he go to him or stay and help Porthos—

He only pauses for a moment, waiting for whatever it is that will nudge him into a decision, and that's when something slams into his back.

He stumbles forward two steps before his legs give out, sending him to his knees in the mud but his hands haven't moved to catch him, so he keeps going over and feels the muted shock of his face striking the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos yells, and an instant later Athos is shouting, "No!" and it's wrenching and terrified, wrapped in so much fear and pain, or is that just the pain in his back, spreading sickly and stickily through him, starting at his shoulder and leeching wrongness down his side and into his chest.

Porthos roars. The ground shakes and the air reverberates with the sound of clashing violence. "Get him out of here!" Athos calls above the din. "I'll cover you!"

"We can't go far," Porthos calls back, suddenly closer.

"Doesn't matter! Just get him out!"

"I hope to God you don't remember this," Porthos says, sounding oddly far away again, and then his back erupts into agony as the ground drops out from under him.