A/N: Thank you Undertheoaktrees, Guest, and pallysd'Artagnan for reviewing!

Chapter 5

Now that Aramis was mildly warmer than the icicle Porthos had pulled from the river, they needed to get him to a proper physician. There was a village not far by dragon flight that was along a trade route and would therefore likely have a local doctor in residence.

Vrita carefully extricated herself from cocooning Aramis so Porthos could put her saddle back on. Then he went to do the same to Rhaego, but the russet dragon shied away from him.

"What?" Porthos asked gruffly, irritated by his worry for Aramis and the delay Rhaego was creating.

"Did he take an injury to his back?" Athos asked, coming over.

"Don' think so. He was wearin' the saddle when we found 'im." Porthos took a step closer with the item and Rhaego shrank back with a low mewl. "What's the matter wit' you? We need to get Aramis out of here."

Rhaego lowered his head and looked away.

Vrita came over then. Porthos didn't know what the two were communicating to each other but after a moment Vrita shuffled around to inspect Rhaego's wing. She then let out a bark at Porthos and Athos.

Frowning, Porthos set the saddle down and went to have a look. Well, no wonder Rhaego wasn't keen on moving out—there was a ragged tear in the sail that still had some stitches on one end but the rest had obviously been torn.

"This explains why they didn't get far from the border," Athos commented.

"Now what?"

"One of us will have to re-sew it if he's to fly."

Porthos took a step back and gestured gallantly. "Have at it."

Athos shot him a dark look, but of the two of them, the swordsman was the better choice for this.

Porthos crouched next to the saddle and found Aramis's med kit, which he then slapped against Athos's chest. He got another glower in return but ignored it and went back to check on Aramis. The marksman was shivering without Vrita's warmth, but shivering was good; he hadn't been when they'd first pulled him from the river.

His clothes were still soaked, so Porthos didn't think it wise to redress him for the journey down the mountain. He smiled when he thought of what Aramis's reaction would be to that…and he'd give anything for Aramis to wake up for it.

He picked up the sodden garments and wrung out the excess water, then packed them away. They'd have to hang them up to dry later. Then Porthos took a seat by his still friend and watched as Athos struggled to sew up the hole in Rhaego's wing. Fortunately, Savron did very well as a dragon nurse keeping the scamp from lashing out in pain.

Finally they were ready to leave. Porthos climbed up onto Vrita and Athos passed Aramis up to him, still bundled in the altitude cloak. They'd take a low flight to reach their destination, not only out of deference to the colder temperatures higher up but for Rhaego's wing as well.

They took off, making their way over the forest and out across the open countryside. It wasn't even half an hour before they reached their destination and left their dragons in a field to go find a room at the inn. Porthos got Aramis tucked into bed while Athos went to find a physician.

Aramis didn't stir the entire time, and Porthos was reminded of another time they'd plucked him half dead out of the cold…when they hadn't known whether he'd ever wake up.

Porthos wrenched himself away from those memories. Aramis had pulled through then; he'd do so again now.

Athos returned with a doctor in tow. The man looked Aramis over with brisk efficiency, cleaned and stitched the two wounds in his shoulder, and left a tincture after bandaging him, along with a promise to check on him the next day, though if he should worsen, they could send for him again.

Porthos only felt marginal relief after the man was gone, because now came the waiting. And he hated the waiting.

"I need to report what happened to Treville," Athos spoke up after a few minutes.

"We don' know what happened," Porthos said in a low growl. "Can't you wait until Aramis wakes up so he can tell us for sure?"

Athos was silent for a moment, then canted his head in concession. He left the room, probably to procure some wine from the establishment's proprietor. Porthos's stomach rumbled with hunger, but he didn't move from his place of vigil at Aramis's bedside. Fortunately, when Athos returned with a bottle of wine, he had a plate of food with him as well, which he wordlessly handed to Porthos.

Porthos ate heartily of the meal, though made sure to keep some aside for Aramis when he woke up. Athos seemed to be content with his liquid diet.

It wasn't until late that night that Porthos was woken from a light doze by a low moan. He jolted upright in his chair and leaned forward. "Aramis?"

Athos rose from his perch and crossed the room toward them.

Aramis lolled his head back and forth against the pillow, face scrunched up in pain. His eyelids peeled open gradually and he squinted in groggy confusion at them.

"'Bout time you woke up," Porthos said with mock chiding.

Aramis's brows knitted together. "Porthos?" he rasped.

Athos picked up a cup of water from the bedside table and gingerly lifted Aramis's head so he could drink. The liquid seemed to help and when he spoke again, his voice was clearer.

"The last thing I remember is the river. How…?"

"By the grace of God is how," Porthos replied with a huff. He wasn't religious, but he was inclined to give credit to the Almighty for them finding Aramis not a second too late. "We were out searchin' for you after word of the attack got back to the captain. Spotted you jus' as you went into the water."

Aramis continued to gape at him dazedly. "By the grace of God indeed," he breathed, then jolted. "Rhaego!"

"He's fine too," Porthos said with a smile of amusement. "Well, a tad beat up, but he'll live."

Aramis frowned. "His wing was torn. He couldn't fly."

"We know," Athos said.

"Athos sewed him up," Porthos said with a grin.

Aramis squinted up at the swordsman. "Did he give you any trouble?" he asked worriedly.

"Nothing Savron couldn't handle," Athos assured him.

Aramis looked relieved, but Athos's expression turned more serious.

"Aramis, the captain told us about the letters you were carrying. We didn't find them on you."

Aramis closed his eyes. "They were taken," he said, voice heavy with shame. "I don't know by whom, I never saw the man's face. He wasn't Spanish though, or at least he didn't have a Spanish accent. He ambushed us in Sanveterre, killed the two Spanish contacts. Rhaego was hit during our escape. We kept trying to make our way north but he kept on our tail…"

Athos laid a hand on Aramis's uninjured shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. You did your duty until the end. Now get some rest."

Aramis's eyes drifted closed and his breathing settled.

"I'll leave in the morning to report to the captain," Athos said quietly.

Porthos nodded. He imagined it would be a few days before Aramis and Rhaego were ready to travel. And that wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with the captain anyway.

.o.0.o.

Athos returned to the garrison the following afternoon. He removed Savron's saddle but draped it over a fence rail rather than putting it away in the dragon tack room, for he intended to head out again once he'd delivered his report.

"Athos!"

He turned as d'Artagnan came hurrying toward him, the boy's eyes wide with concern.

"Did you find them? Where's Porthos?"

"We did," Athos answered. "Aramis is at an inn recovering from wounds. Porthos stayed with him."

D'Artagnan's shoulders visibly sagged with relief. "Good. I should tell Constance. She'll be so relieved. Ayelet too. She's been wanting to go after you to help with the search."

"I'm surprised you didn't share her sentiment," Athos commented as he started across the yard toward the captain's office.

D'Artagnan grimaced in embarrassment. "The thought did cross my mind. But Ayelet's not ready yet."

"That's a remarkably wise stance."

D'Artagnan's expression scrunched up in chagrin. "I am capable of thinking before acting," he said defensively.

Athos paused to regard him. "I know. You've grown a lot in your short time as a musketeer. I have no doubt you'll one day be the finest of us all."

He left the young Gascon gaping slack-jawed as he resumed his journey up the steps to the second level of the barracks. The captain's door was already open, but Athos knocked anyway to announce his presence.

Treville looked up from his desk, gaze sharpening immediately. "Come in," he said tersely.

Athos closed the door behind him.

"Did you find them?" Treville asked.

Athos nodded and proceeded to give a full report of their arrival at Sanveterre, subsequent search, and encounter with the masked dragon rider. Athos relayed Aramis's statement on what happened and included his own failure to catch the assailant after he'd taken the letters.

Treville placed his palms on his desk and leaned over it with grim heaviness. "The King is going to be…most displeased."

"Aramis did his duty to the fullest and almost died for it," Athos pointed out. It twisted his stomach to think Louis might want to punish the musketeer who'd failed him.

Treville shook his head. "The responsibility lies with me."

Athos was silent for a beat. "There is the matter of how someone knew about the letters in the first place."

Treville's mouth pressed into a thin line. "There are spies everywhere."

"How damaging could these letters be in the wrong hands?"

"I don't know." Treville finally straightened and went to retrieve his cloak.

"Do you want me to accompany you to the palace?" Athos offered.

"No. As I said, I take full responsibility for this."

"Then permission to return to Porthos and Aramis."

Treville nodded. "I'll expect you all in a few days."

They walked out but parted ways in the yard. Athos watched his captain go before turning to head back to Savron, who was ready and waiting. Both of them were eager to get back to their friends.

.o.0.o.

Richelieu wrinkled his nose at the wilted and bloodstained stack of letters that were just placed in his hand, the red twine that bound them unbroken. "And the musketeer?" he asked.

His man shifted slightly. "As good as dead. But…"

Richelieu narrowed his eyes. "But what?"

"Two other Musketeer dragon riders had arrived at the last minute. I thought it more prudent to get away with the letters."

Richelieu snarled and spun away, tossing the letters on the table. Those damn musketeers. Every time. And Aramis…how many times did he have to try to kill that one?

No matter though. The victory still went to him this round. He had the letters, after all.

But that had been too close. The King daring to write to Spain and amend the two countries' foreign policy toward each other without the Cardinal's consent. Just who did that spoilt child think he was?

No, not Louis, the Queen. It was her who had encouraged the King to write to her brother. Her influence had been steadily growing these past few months. It had been a nuisance initially, but now she was going too far, sticking her nose into matters of state. Richelieu needed to regain control.

He steepled his fingers as a course of action presented itself. The Queen had yet to produce an heir for the throne. There were rumors she was barren, though there was that one miscarriage. Yes, there was a problem there. And if she couldn't produce an heir, then there really was no other reason to keep her around. Richelieu—and France—would be better off without her…

NEXT TIME

The arrest of a thief puts the Musketeers on the trail of an assassination plot. But with an uncooperative informant and betrayal within the palace, will they discover the truth in time?