Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breathing is a sequel continuing where Double Trouble ended.

Prologue:

Never had there been such a formidable array in the courtyard of the Château de Chamarande. A wagon containing Aramis and Athos, under the protection of a dozen highly armed King’s Musketeers as escorts, prepared to depart on the journey home to Paris. Any bandit or raider foolish enough to attempt attack would be killed on sight.

Porthos and d’Artagnan rode together behind the wagon where they could keep an eye on their brothers riding inside. Taking up the rear of the escort was Captain Tréville.

While waiting, Porthos turned in his saddle to take one final look at the château. Memories were still vivid and raw in Porthos’ mind of his first arrival here with the desperately wounded d’Artagnan and Aramis.

Porthos remembered the indescribable fear he felt for his bleeding and unconscious friends when he pulled them from the horses; when he didn't even know if they would survive. The raw memories sent cold shivers down his spine.

He experienced that same gripping fear for a hurt brother a second time around. He shuddered as he remembered riding up to the château with the severely wounded Athos held tightly in his arms, after spending a stormy night in the forest of Torfou.

During their stay at the château, Porthos watched helplessly as his brothers suffered from their near-fatal wounds. He sat with his brothers, comforting them and holding their hands when they hurt, as the lone brother who managed to escape serious injury.

Porthos had never felt so afraid his brothers might die, leaving him all alone to pick up the pieces. How would he ever survive on his own? Never had Porthos felt such fear; and never had he prayed so hard for healing.

As Musketeers, they had their fair share of close calls over the years. They had flirted with danger and courted death many times; yet nothing compared to how closely Athos courted death at the château.

Facing death of one of their own brought the four Musketeers—the four brothers—closer than ever before. The experience made their bond stronger.

One simply cannot go through the experience of helplessly watching a brother struggling to live just one minute—one hour longer—and not be forever changed.

It was an experience the Musketeers would carry with them for the rest of their lives.

ONE STEP FORWARD. . .

“I never want to see this place again,” Porthos muttered. His hands shook as he held onto the reins with a tight grip.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. “Are you okay?” The young Gascon’s brow creased with worry as he watched the trembling Musketeer next to him. Porthos’ face was pale, sweat beading on his brow as he stared into the distance.

The mansion disappeared as images of the last few weeks flashed through Porthos’ mind. He stared through the mansion, as though staring into an open portal. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Aramis’ bloody head; d’Artagnan’s bloody back; Athos’ infected shoulder. . .

“Porthos!” Aramis called from the wagon. Like d’Artagnan, he was watching his brother Musketeer, taking notice of the anxious behavior and the shivers trembling through his large frame. He worried for Porthos as he stared at the château, his eyes wide. . . yet distant.

“Porthos, answer me!” Aramis used his voice to loosen the grip of the haunting memories. “Don’t look at the château, Porthos. Turn around and look at us—we’re right here.”

The large Musketeer turned slowly in his saddle to face his brothers. “I got to get away from ‘ere, ‘Mis.” Porthos’s eyes began to mist, blurring his vision. He wiped away the tears, feeling both angry and ashamed. He didn’t want his brothers to see him react like this.

“Listen to me, Porthos.” Aramis moved to the back of the wagon for better eye contact. “We are leaving here together—all of us—alive. We are alive and we’re going home. We made it, Porthos.”

Porthos snorted lightly, but said nothing.

“Just forget about what happened here,” Aramis continued. “Let’s all just focus on going home where Athos can finish healing; he’s not out of the woods yet. Forget about this place, Porthos."

“How do I forget?” Porthos questioned the outrageous suggestion. “How do any of us forget about this place?”

“How?" Aramis repeated. “We don’t look back; we look ahead to home. Look at who is in front of you and beside you, Porthos. Your brothers are here. We are with you. . . and we’re going home.”

The Road Home:

Finally, the wagon escort proceeded slowly through the ornate iron gates of the Château de Chamarande, down the long private road leading away from the mansion, toward the road connecting to Paris.

The Musketeer escort sat waiting long enough Athos fell asleep. Perhaps it was for the best that the patient was unaware they were finally leaving the château where he nearly lost his life.

Aramis recalled his dream in which Athos departed the château in a very different manner—in a very different wagon—and he couldn’t help but tremble.

The memories of the vivid nightmare sent cold chills down his spine and he closed his eyes against the memories. He scrubbed a hand over his face, “pull it together, Aramis.” He opened his eyes to stare out the back of the wagon, still shivering from the chilling memory.

I told Porthos to forget about what happened here. I told him that we were all leaving the château together—alive. We are all alive. So why can’t I get the image of Athos leaving in a funeral carriage out of my mind?

Aramis shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the sticky web of memories. He looked down at his sleeping friend. “You don’t know how close we came to losing you, Athos.”

“You don’t know how frightened I was when I thought you wouldn’t make it.” Aramis took Athos’ hand while softly stroking his friend’s hair. “In my dream, you died. I was there to see you take your last breath. God, I couldn’t handle it—I fell apart. I couldn’t handle your death.”

“I didn’t die, Aramis,” Athos whispered. “It was just a bad dream; I’m still here.”

Aramis squeezed the hand in his own, still afraid to believe he was real. “No, you didn’t die, thank God. At the château, I couldn’t tell the difference between reality and a twisted nightmare,” he paused.

“When you were so sick, I started believing my dream was a premonition of what was to come. I was afraid every time you gasped for breath it would be your last.” A tear spilled from his eye and rolled down his cheek.

“No tears, remember?” Athos softly squeezed the hand still holding his. “Do you feel that? I’m here, Aramis. I don’t plan. . .”

BAM!

Athos’ words were cut off with a sharp gasp of pain as the wagon hit a large bump, causing the wounded man to bounce from the litter bearing his wounded body. “God. . .” He scrunched his eyes tightly closed as the wagon bounced over smaller bumps on the road.

“Athos, you’re alright.” Aramis squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I’ve got you. Breathe through the bumps—slow, easy breaths.” The medic breathed aloud, coaching the lieutenant, helping him fall into a calm and relaxed rhythm.

Athos’ face visibly relaxed as they drove over a long stretch of smoother road. He kept his eyes closed, allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep by the gentle motion of the wagon.

Sleep didn’t last long as the wagon hit another bump jarring Athos awake with a gasp. "Aramis, this isn’t going to work,” he hissed. “I’d rather walk to Paris than ride in here.”

Aramis chuckled, trying to keep the mood light. “That’s a long walk, brother. I don’t think you would get far before you were trying to catch a ride with the next carriage to come along.”

“That depends on who was in the carriage,” he smiled. Athos blew out a long breath then slowly breathed deeply through his nose. Breathe in and breathe out. . .

Bam!

“Damn!” Athos cried out, gritting his teeth. “Stop the wagon, dammit. I want out of here now,” he demanded.

“You are not going anywhere, Athos. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to endure this. We hoped putting the litter on top of these boxes and crates would help lighten the jarring but, obviously, it’s not working. Maybe I can find something to help cushion the litter. . .”

Aramis’ voice trailed as he began looking around the wagon for something to help cushion the bumps. “Ah, our cloaks might work!” He stood up to reach for the cloaks just as the wagon hit another bump.

Aramis was sent sprawling over the torso of Athos, his head bumping into the opposite wall of the wagon. “Curse this damn road,” Aramis growled.

“Damn!” Athos let out a howl of pain as Aramis sprawled over his body. The wounded Musketeer panted, his chest heaving, as he bore the unwelcome weight of his friend. “Ar‘mis. . . please. . . get off,” he gasped.

“I’m trying. . .”

“Aramis?” Porthos and d’Artagnan called out. Both Musketeers had seen Aramis get knocked off his feet and sent sprawling over Athos. He had landed head first in a heap and was finding it difficult to correct.

“I’m fine,” Aramis yelled to his friends outside, his voice muffled. “But I can’t get up, dammit! Every time I try, we hit another bump. Hold on, Athos.”

Bam!

The wagon hit another bump, sending Aramis further into the corner in a twisted heap. “Help, Porthos!” The Musketeer cried out, raising his free arm to signal his friends outside.

The unfortunate Musketeer had his left arm and his head trapped underneath the weight of his own body in a twisted pile, making it impossible to pull free.

“Stop the wagon!” Porthos called, breaking out of formation to get the captain’s attention. “We need to stop the wagon for a moment!”

“What is going on, Porthos?” Captain Tréville asked with concern, thinking the worst.

“It’s Aramis.” The large Musketeer answered, hesitating. “He’s. . . stuck.”

“What do you mean, he’s stuck?” Tréville rode up to the wagon to investigate the situation. He had to stifle a snicker when he saw Aramis nearly upside down with his head buried somewhere underneath his tangled body. Had it not been for the pale and pained look of Athos, he might have thought the situation amusing.

Athos groaned from the pain of having Aramis’ weight across his sore body and was becoming agitated that he was unable to free himself. “Can’t move. . .” Athos moaned.

“Athos, hold on,” d’Artagnan soothed. “We’re going to get Aramis off of you in a minute.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan climbed into the wagon to help pull Aramis from his tight predicament; taking care they didn’t hurt Athos in the process.

“Ah, ‘Mis, that’s quite a spo’ you got yourself into there, eh,” Porthos said as they pulled him free. “You okay? Thought ya might 'ave hurt your gourd.

“I’m fine,” Aramis growled, not amused. His immediate concern was for Athos as he observed his sickly pallor. “Hand me that waterskin, d’Artagnan.”

“Is he going to be okay?” d’Artagnan asked. “He doesn’t look so good.”

Aramis answered with a shrug as he held the waterskin to Athos’s lips. "Drink, mon ami.”

Athos took a sip, and then another at Aramis’ urging. “Don’t want. . . to be in the wagon anymore,” Athos whispered.

“You have to be in the wagon, son.” Captain Tréville interjected from outside the wagon. “You are in no condition to ride; you wouldn’t be able to sit upright in the saddle. I know it’s uncomfortable but we have no other choice.”

“Can we at least give him a moment to rest, Captain?” d’Artagnan didn’t like the pale appearance of his friend in the least.

After suffering from his terrible wounds and illness at the château, Athos was finally on the road to recovery. To have all of that undone with one wagon ride—it just sickened d’Artagnan to the core of his being.

“No, we do not have time, gentlemen. We have a long journey ahead and we must be moving on. We are on the edge of Torfou—the sooner we get through this stretch of forest, the better.”

The captain motioned for d’Artagnan and Porthos to return to their horses. “Take care of Athos and make him comfortable as best you can, Aramis.” Tréville instructed before returning to his place in formation.

“Damn!” Aramis cursed to himself. “I forgot to ask Porthos and d’Artagnan to help me put the cloaks underneath your litter for cushioning.” Aramis rubbed at his temple, feeling a headache starting at his temples.

Athos managed a small smile. “Remember what I was saying about that headache?” he asked in a whisper. “Where’s the feverfew I gave you? Take some now before the headache gets worse. You made me chew it raw. . . now it’s your turn.”

“Thanks a lot, doctor Athos,” Aramis quipped. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around, mon ami.”

“You took a header into the side of the wagon with that bump. Don’t think I didn’t notice you hit your head—just what you didn’t need. This wagon was not intended to carry two patients.” Athos chuckled, immediately regretting it.

Athos couldn’t help wincing in pain as his sides flared at the slight laugh. “Damn,” he muttered softly.

“Where does it hurt?” Aramis sidestepped the headache issue but Athos was having nothing of it.

“I am not answering until you take the feverfew as directed,” Athos drawled. Though he was sick, Athos’ words carried a tone of authority.

“Fine, you win.” Aramis lowered his head to hide the smile spreading across his face. He absently rubbed at his temples, which were now starting to throb. “I’ll take the feverfew—if it makes you happy.”

Athos smiled, watching Aramis with tired eyes.

Aramis popped a couple of feverfew leaves in his mouth and quickly chewed. He took a swallow of water to wash it down but not before the sharp bitter taste exploded on his taste buds, causing him to wince and frown. “Ach, that’s awful!”

“Now you know how I felt. . .” Athos softly gasped as the wagon lurched forward, restarting the journey north to Paris. The slower pace lulled Athos to sleep as he let his tired eyes slide closed.

Sleep while you can, my friend. I have a bad feeling we’re in for a rough road ahead.

Chapter Text

Aramis sat watching his friend sleep. Athos was finally relaxed enough to sleep through the minor bumps in the road; his head bobbed side to side with the bounces of the wheels. If the remainder of the road was this smooth he could sleep all the way to Paris. The rest would do him good.

Aramis suddenly realized his headache was almost gone. “Athos was right, maybe I’ll get some sleep while I can.” The medic smiled as he closed his eyes but just as Aramis began to fall asleep, the wagon hit a deep hole.

BAM!

The jarring and the pounding of the wooden wheels seemed to reverberate through Aramis’ bones, chattering his teeth.

Athos woke with a gasp, “damn!” he cried out. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the pain coursing through his body, his breath hissed through his teeth. He grabbed the sides of the litter with shaking hands, as if trying to still the tremors shaking his entire body.

Aramis quickly placed his hands on Athos’ shoulder to calm him. “It’s alright—I’m here. Easy, Athos, just take it easy.”

Beads of sweat began forming on Athos’ forehead and temples. The drops of sweat pooled and rolled down his face like streams of tears. Soon, his skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. His hair dampened and clumped, sticking to his face; his shirt plastered itself to his chest and back.

“I can’t take any more of this,” Athos blurted, a desperate tone in his voice. “J-just let me out. Leave. . . leave me by the road. . . please.”

“What?” Aramis was stunned. “What kind of crazy talk is that? I am not letting you out of here. And I’m certainly not leaving you beside the road, Athos!”

“Dammit to hell,” Athos hissed through clenched teeth. “Let me r-ride my horse then. It’ll be. . . be better than this damn wagon. Aramis . . please!”

“Athos, you need to calm down.” Aramis tried to soothe. “The captain said that you cannot ride—you’re in no condition to be on horseback. You couldn’t sit upright in the saddle—not with those wounds in your sides.”

BAM!

“God, please stop!” Athos hissed. The lieutenant squeezed the sides of the litter so tight his knuckles turned white. “S-stop the wagon. . . we need to stop. I will not do th-this. . . do this anymore!”

“Athos, you know the captain will not stop; he’s trying to get us back to Paris before nightfall. Can you hold on just a little while longer? Maybe he’ll let us stop for a break soon."

“Athos!” Porthos called in to the wagon. “We canno’ stop now. We’re clearing the edge of Torfou. No way are we stoppin’ near here. We have to keep moving.”

“Torfou? No. . .” Athos’ eyes grew wide.

“‘Mis, isn’t there something you can do to calm him down?” Porthos growled.

“Do you want to get in here and do this, Porthos?” Aramis snapped. “Don’t you think I am trying to calm him down?”

“What if. . . they’re waiting. . . in the trees?” Athos loosened a hand from the litter to grasp Aramis’ hand.

“Athos, there is no one in the forest.” Aramis said matter-of-factly. “We’re already out of the forest now.”

Athos was not hearing Aramis’ reassuring words. In his mind, they were in imminent danger among the trees of Torfou. “They might be hiding. . . in the t-trees. Aramis, we have. . . we have to be ready.”

“Athos, we are ready.” Aramis reassured his friend. “Why do you think Tréville brought along a dozen armed brother Musketeers to escort us home? If you don’t have faith our brothers can handle raiders without us. . .”

“I know their strategy for attack. . . how they c-catch travelers off-guard. . .”

Athos was always the brilliant strategist. Even when sick, he was a Musketeer ready to do his duty.

“Athos, my friend, you are in no condition to fight anyone—let alone any raiders. They have enough help out there without you and me. Besides, I believe he said we were out of the forest.”

“Aramis, I n-need. . . to get out. . .” Athos began to panic, his breaths were coming in rapid gulps. He tried to rise but he was too weak.

Aramis placed pressure on Athos’ chest to keep him from moving. “Athos, dammit, hold still. You need to calm down, you’re not going anywhere. Lie still before you hurt yourself.”

The medic looked to his brothers riding outside the wagon, sending them an unspoken plea for help. Aramis silently shook his head, helpless to do much in the back of a wagon. He raised his hand up, only to have it fall limply back to his lap in resignation.

His brothers outside were watching, worry etched on their faces. “Someone should be in there helping Aramis,” d’Artagnan said to Porthos.

“Yeah, we’re clear of the forest now, d’Artagnan. Maybe just a lit’le bit further and we can ask the cap’n to stop.” Porthos looked nervously over his shoulder at the forest behind them. “Torfou, I hope to never see that damn forest again.”

BAM!

Athos gasped with a sharp intake of breath. The Musketeer no longer had the strength left to curse the bumps in the road. The pain pulsing through his body consumed even the air in his lungs and he found it difficult to draw breath.

“Athos. . . breathe. Come on, look at me, Athos! Breathe!” Aramis took slow breaths breathing in and out, once again coaching Athos to get his breathing under control.

“Aramis. . . I’m going to. . .” Athos’s face paled and began turning green.

“Oh no,” Aramis groaned as he quickly turned Athos onto his side. He cupped his friend’s head, holding him as he vomited over the edge of the litter, splashing on Aramis’ boots.

Athos vomited and gagged, heaving violently again and again until his protesting stomach was empty and nothing was left to come up. The painful dry heaves continued until he was out of breath and left feeling as though he may have vomited up his lungs.

Adding to his misery, Athos felt an overwhelming burning sensation filling his entire torso. If he didn’t know any better, he thought he had combusted into flames. An unbelievable pain radiated and burned from both of his sides, as though he had been shot through-and-through.

“Ar‘mis. . .” Athos squeaked just as his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he fell limply into Aramis’ arms.

“Athos, no! Athos!” Aramis gently returned the wounded man to lying on his back so he could check his pulse. Placing his shaking fingers against the neck, he waited for a beat. Finding one, he let out a breath of relief then swallowed the sob rising in his throat.

“Athos? Talk to me—tell me what’s wrong.” Aramis put his ear to Athos’ chest to listen and could plainly hear the breaths taken in and out in labored wheezes. “Not good.”

“‘Mis, what happened?” Porthos yelled, standing in his stirrups to see Athos lying motionless inside the wagon.

“He vomited and then passed out,” Aramis called back. “Something is very wrong here. Hold on a minute. . .”

The medic leaned back over Athos’ body and replaced his trained ear to his chest, listening to the pounding beat of the heart. He placed his hand on Athos’ side then quickly sat up at the touch.

“Damn.” Aramis’ heart sank with dread as he suddenly felt his hand wet; he knew what it meant without looking. To confirm his suspicion, he raised his hand to find it covered in blood. “God, no. . .”

He stood, leaning over Athos to get a better look at the bleeding wound on his left side. He found the shirt already soaked in blood. He peeled away the linen to find the sutured wound torn open, the stitches having been pulled out with the violent vomiting. The edges of the wound were ragged and sharp where the sutures had once been so professionally and delicately sewn.

Instantly, he thought of the duplicate wound on the right side. The incision made to access the kidneys were the same; as were the closing sutures sewn by M. Berteau exactly the same on each side. Did the right side fare any better than the left, he wondered?

“Oh damn.” His heart sunk when he saw the stain of red already spreading on the shirt. Carefully, he lifted the shirt to find the stitches pulled away the same as on the left side. Both wounds were now torn open wide and bleeding.

“Porthos, where are we now?” Aramis yelled with alarm.

“We just passed a little village—its name started with an ‘A.’ Why, what’s wrong? Aramis, what’s goin’ on in there?”

“Tell the captain we need to find a place to pull over, now! We have an emergency in here. Athos has pulled his stitches on both sides and he’s bleeding badly. I need to repair the wounds or he’ll bleed to death. Athos cannot wait until we get to Paris!

Chapter Text

Aramis took out the satchel he packed with extra supplies for the trip home. “I had a feeling I was going to need this,” he thought aloud. He took out a linen cloth and tore it in two. Taking the halves, he pressed them into the wounds on both sides, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

“What is going on?” Aramis yelled over his shoulder to d’Artagnan. “Why haven’t we stopped yet? I need to take care of Athos and I can’t do it while we’re moving! Where is Porthos?”

“Porthos is up front with Captain Tréville. They’re trying to find a good place to stop.”

“We don’t need a good place to stop—we just need to stop!” Aramis growled impatiently. “D’Artagnan, go up there and tell them we need to pull this wagon over now!”

“Dammit!” Aramis cursed as took away the linens, now saturated with blood. “Athos, could you help me out here and stop bleeding so much?” Aramis quickly found another strip to tear apart for use as a bandage.

Finally, the medic felt the wagon pulling to a stop. “Thank God,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m going to need an assistant, is the captain available to help?” Aramis asked Porthos who appeared at the back of the wagon.

“What do you need me to do, Aramis?" Captain Tréville asked, having overheard the question.

“I’m going to stitch Athos up with a temporary, easy-to-remove suture, to tide him over until we get back to the garrison. I need someone to help hold the edges of the wound together while I sew.”

“Very well, I can do that.” Tréville said as he began stripping off the excess accoutrements of his uniform, until he was down to his linen shirt.

“Porthos,” Aramis turned to his friend. “We need every available waterskin you can gather from the men. If anyone happens to have a flask of wine as well—take it. I need water and wine for this surgery; hopefully, they’ll understand.”

“Tell the men it is not a request. Captain’s orders,” Tréville stated. “We have no time for negotiating, Porthos.”

“Yes, Captain.” Porthos turned to fetch the waterskins when he saw a small group of riders dressed in black approaching from the road. “Bloody hell! Captain, we’re about to have company!” Porthos yelled as he unsheathed his sword.

“Mon Dieu, you can't be serious!” Aramis growled. “We don’t have time for this, dammit!”

“Stay with Athos, Aramis. I’ll see what is. . .” Captain Tréville was interrupted by gunshots and the distinct sound of a musket ball hitting the wooden wagon.

“Dammit!” Aramis yelled as a ball came through the canvas covering of the wagon, just missing his head. “We need to protect Athos, Captain!”

Aramis threw himself over Athos to shield his friend from the flying lead balls. Captain Tréville also draped himself over the lower half of Athos’ body, each protecting the unconscious man as best as they could from the storm of lead.

Whizz!

“Damn!” Aramis cursed as a ball zipped by his ear, lodging in the wooden board near his cloak.

“What the hell is going on out there, dammit? Protect the wagon!” Captain Tréville yelled out the back during a lull in the shooting.

The captain could see two of his Musketeers engaged with the bandits, their swords glinting in the sunlight as steel crashed against steel. He watched as two other bandits turned to ride away but d’Artagnan and Porthos jumped on their horses to pursue.

“Oh no, you don’t!” d’Artagnan yelled. “I’ll be damned if you’re going to run like cowards after you shot up our wagon!”

Porthos aimed his harquebus at a rider, hitting him square in the back. The man fell from his horse, while the frightened animal continued racing away down the road.

The other rider turned and fired his pistol over his shoulder, without aiming.

Porthos watched in horror as d’Artagnan fell from his horse, his body tumbling over and over, until he rolled over a small embankment by the road.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos screamed. He brought his horse to an abrupt stop, deciding to let the other rider speed away around a corner and out of view.

“D’Artagnan, no!” Porthos jumped from his horse to run towards the Gascon’s unmoving form lying in the grass. He gently rolled his friend over, eliciting a moan from the injured man’s lips.

“Shh. . . it’s okay. You’re going to be okay, d’Art. Where were you hit?” Porthos frantically searched the young Gascon’s body looking for a bleeding wound.

There was no blood on his head that he could find. “No head wound, thank God,” Porthos muttered. “Oi, nothing on your chest that I can see. . . left arm is good. . . oh, damn!”

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan moaned.

“Damn, your right arm’s been hit.” Porthos winced as he saw the blood. “Hold on, pup, I need to check the wound.”

D’Artagnan hissed in pain as Porthos began removing the doublet, taking care not to jar the injured arm.

“Well, I’ll be damned. . .”

“What does that mean, Porthos? Is it bad?” d’Artagnan reached to cradle his injured right arm, his face wrinkled in pain.

Porthos laughed, clapping d’Artagnan gently on his good shoulder. “It’s just a scratch, little brother. Looks like the ball just grazed the flesh, not too deep. But, your arm will be a bit sore.”

“A bit sore, Porthos? Brother, that is an understatement! Dammit, it hurts like hell,” d’Artagnan muttered angrily.

“You are one lucky whelp, d’Art.” Porthos held up the Gascon’s doublet to view the bullet hole and tear on the pauldron and sleeve.

“Oh no, look at my pauldron. . . it’s ruined now!” d’Artagnan complained.

Both men were startled by the sound of gunfire coming from near the wagon, causing them to jump to their feet with pistols in hand. D’Artagnan aimed his pistol just as a bandit raised his arm, taking aim at a fellow Musketeer, shooting the man dead before he could fire.

The last bandit was heavily engaged in a sword fight with a Musketeer named Lamar. Porthos aimed his pistol to shoot the bandit in the chest, dropping him just as Lamar pierced the bandit through with his sword.

The Musketeers looked around the area ready for more bandits, but all the offenders were either dead or gone. The cowardly bandits that ran had fled for their lives after realizing the folly of their actions in attacking armed Musketeers.

“Captain, are you alright?” d’Artagnan yelled. “Aramis, is Athos okay?” The younger Musketeer gasped as he watched Aramis peel himself from the body of Athos.

“Oh God, ‘Mis.” Porthos paled at seeing Aramis pull away, his shirt now covered in blood.

“Were you hit, Aramis?” the captain asked in horror.

“Uh, no. . . no, I’m f-fine. It’s not my blood. . . it’s Athos’. I had to protect him from getting hit again, and with his sides bleeding so badly, it just looks like the blood is mine.” Aramis instantly stiffened, his eyes became cold and hard. “I need to take care of Athos and we’re losing time because of those godforsaken, damn bandits!”

“Aramis, it’s okay. We got them all; they’re all gone,” d’Artagnan said.

“Well, you’re not okay.” The captain observed the Gascon’s arm with concern. “You’ve been hit.”

“It’s just a scratch, Captain,” d’Artagnan smiled. “I’m alright.”

“You will need to get that looked at, d’Artagnan.” The captain motioned from the Gascon to Aramis.

“Yes, Captain, I’ll get my arm looked at after Athos has been taken care of.”

“What do you need us to do?” Porthos asked.

“Gather up those waterskins and the wine so we can get started on Athos,” Aramis ordered.

The two Musketeers returned to a very grateful medic with their arms full of waterskins.

“Thank you both,” Aramis nodded. He looked up at his assistant, Captain Tréville. "Are you ready?”

"Yes," the captain nodded in affirmation.

“Is there anything that we can do?” d’Artagnan asked before they got started.

“Actually, there is.” Aramis looked at his friends, and then to the captain. “I need someone to ride back to the château to ask M. Hurault where we could find either doctor Berteau or Molyneux. I’m going to need their help.”

“I will ride back to Chamarande,” Porthos volunteered. “But what do I tell them if I find them?”

“Tell them that Athos has torn the stitches out in both of his wounds, on the right and the left. Tell them that I am doing a basting stitch as a temporary measure until we get back to the garrison,” Aramis said.

"Is that all?" d'Artagnan asked.

“No," Aramis replied. "Ask if either of them would be willing to come to Paris—to the garrison—to help with surgery to repair his sides. It would also be a great help if they would agree to stay and oversee his recovery and healing, as well."

“We have a physician for the Musketeer regiment, Aramis.” Captain Tréville’s brow knitted in confusion. “Why ask someone to travel all the way to Paris when we already have a doctor?”

“Captain, with all due respect, I do not trust Athos’ life or his recovery in the hands of that so-called physician at the infirmary. His medical skills are primitive and his knowledge is basic. As a King’s Musketeer, Athos deserves the best physician in France—Berteau and Molyneux are the best.”

“They certainly proved themselves with their care of each of you at the château. I am quite impressed with both of them,” the captain agreed. “Alright, if one agrees to come, the Musketeers would be very grateful for their assistance and their services. I will speak to the king so that whoever comes is well compensated.”

“Captain, I’d like to ride with Porthos back to Chamarande, if I may?” d’Artagnan volunteered. “I don’t think he should ride all that way—especially through the forest—and then back to Paris alone.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to ride, d’Artagnan?” Captain Tréville asked.

“Yes, Captain, I am fine. Please, let me go with Porthos.”

“Okay, fine,” Captain Tréville agreed. “However, I do not want either of you to ride through the forest alone, so you will take four Musketeers as escort. Six of you together will be the safest means of travel—and I will feel better with you having a few extra pairs of swords, if needed.”

“Alright, we’ll be off then.” Porthos turned to leave.

“Porthos, are you sure you want to go back there?” Aramis asked with concern. “You seemed very eager to leave the château once and for all this morning.”

“I will ride back to the château—I will ride back through Torfou— if it means saving Athos’ life,” Porthos said with steely resolve. “I would do anything for him, you know ‘at.”

“I would ride through the gates of Hell to save Athos, or any one of you. I mean it.” d’Artagnan looked to his two friends and his Captain.

“That’s what brothers do for each other.” Porthos gave a hearty clap to d’Artagnan’s back and a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

“You be careful, my friends,” Aramis said to d’Artagnan and Porthos. “Please come back with one of the doctor’s—for Athos’ sake. I’ll see you all back at the garrison.”

“Take good care of Athos,” d’Artagnan said as he mounted his horse. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“We’ll take care of him, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said with steadfast optimism. “Do hurry and return with a doctor safely.”

“All for one. . .” d’Artagnan began.

“. . . and one for all,” Porthos and Aramis finished in chorus with d’Artagnan.

The Musketeers parted ways on a critical quest to save an ailing brother’s life. They each swore that they would move hell or high water to save Athos and nothing was going to get in their way. Not even the Forest of Torfou.

Chapter Text

“We didn’t go through Hell to bring you back from the brink only to lose you now. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you go without a fight.”

Aramis’ hands were cramping from holding the cloths in place for so long. “Captain, could you hold these for just a moment?” He flexed his fingers over and over to get feeling and circulation back.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m going to start by washing the wounds with some water, and then I’ll follow with some wine to disinfect.”

Aramis tucked a linen strip under each side then poured water over the seeping wounds, washing away blood and sweat until cleansed. He followed by pouring a douse of wine over each wound to carefully sanitize each area.

Gnawing memories of how close an infection came to robbing him of his brother still fester and ache in his heart. “We can’t be too careful with these wounds.” Aramis said to Tréville without lifting his head.

The medic would take any extra precautions to see that Athos’ wounds did not become infected again. He knew Athos would not survive another sepsis infection.

Aramis carefully sanitized the needle with some wine then took a deep breath. The medic nodded at the captain. "Alright, let’s get to work.”

Aramis began sewing while the captain held the edges of the torn skin together. “Hold on for us, Athos. We’re not going to lose you to a damn wagon ride!”

The captain shook his head, remaining quiet as the medic began his delicate work.

Gathering the edges of the torn skin, Aramis began pushing and pulling the needle through the skin with an even distance between sutures. “The good thing about basting sutures is that I don’t have to be as specifically intricate.”

“For temporary stitching, Aramis, this isn’t too bad.” Captain Tréville observed, raising his eyebrows with pleasant surprise.

“It’s a good thing Athos will not be stuck with these stitches permanently.”

“How well will these sutures hold?” the captain asked.

“They should hold effectively until tomorrow—barring any straining or pulling on the stitches—and if Athos remains still and calm for the remainder of the ride home.” Aramis answered with a sigh.

“I don’t like this, Aramis.” Tréville shook his head. “There are too many chances for something to go wrong; he could end up bleeding again.”

“Yes, Captain, I am fully aware of that fact,” Aramis answered tersely. "Considering I have to do surgery in the back of a wagon without proper instruments and supplies, this is the best Athos will get for now.”

“What happens if Athos gets sick and vomits again?”

“I’d rather not think about that right now, Captain. I have only enough thread for the basting sutures; and only enough to do this once. If he tears these stitches out—we’re in trouble.”

“This brings a thought to mind, Captain.” Aramis paused his stitching for a moment to look into the face of his captain.

“We shouldn’t have left the château, or at least Athos shouldn’t have left, until he was completely healed. Even if it meant that he was down there for another month or more.” Aramis spoke candidly as he continued with his stitching.

“Aramis, I understand that Athos should have stayed at the château longer, but the king wanted his Musketeers home. I already made excuses for all of you the last time he requested to bring you home. I could not—and would not—make any further excuses to the king.”

“Why is the king in such a rush to have us back?” Aramis asked, though he did not wait for an answer. “At least, could he have not made an exception for Athos—considering how gravely ill he was? Damn, he was just beginning to recover.”

“Again, I did not wish to negotiate with the king. You know how he is, Aramis. When the king has his mind made up, there is no changing it—without consequence.”

“Hold your fingers there, Captain,” Aramis instructed as he was moving along with the sewing.

“This damn wagon ride has set Athos back nearly to the beginning, after everything he went through to recover.” Aramis seethed with anger and let his feelings be known, while he had the audience.

“Aramis. . .”

“Captain, please, let me finish.” Aramis interrupted, holding his hand up to the captain with the sewing needle in his fingers.

“One careless order by the king has now set Athos back to roughly when his fever finally broke at the château. All the progress he had made since then is now gone with these two wounds being torn open!” Aramis was finding it hard to contain his temper, considering their current situation.

“Aramis, that is enough!” Tréville stated sternly.

“No, it’s not enough, Captain. We got into this bad situation because the king wanted the challenge of having a decoy take his place—with all the pomp and circumstance—so he could slip away to his vacation home unnoticed.”

Aramis continued while he had the opportunity, not allowing Tréville to interrupt. “How easy it is for the king to give orders when he is not the one dealing with the consequences. The king has no idea of the sacrifices we Musketeers make to carry out his orders; he only concerns himself in seeing that his orders are followed.”

“And that is as it should be, Aramis. Louis is the King of France. You are in no position to question the king or his orders—whether they make good sense or not. When the king gives an order, your job as a Musketeer is to follow his orders, not question them.”

“I understand that, Captain. However, I have concerns when his orders cause the death of his Musketeers.” Aramis exhaled an angry breath. “When his orders make no damn sense. . .” Aramis’s thoughts trailed off as he finished sewing the left side.

“I understand why you are upset and, for the most part, I agree with you on everything you said. However, you work for the king and you do not question him—if you value your job and your life. Tread carefully, Aramis,” Captain Tréville warned.

“I’m finished on this side,” Aramis sighed. “Let’s switch sides so we can close him up on the right.”

Aramis felt no better for having gotten his angry emotions out into the open. He knew the captain was right. His place as a Musketeer was not to question orders but to follow them; even if King Louis’s orders caused the death of a brother Musketeer.

Back at the Château:

Porthos and d’Artagnan arrived back at the Château de Chamarande much to the surprise of Jean-Luc who met them in the front courtyard.

“It is always good to see you, Porthos and d’Artagnan. However, if you are here without half your escort, I imagine it is not good news?” Jean-Luc asked.

“No, we came to ask where M. Berteau or M. Molyneux may be located. We need their help; Athos has torn out his stitches and Aramis is asking for either one to meet him in Paris to assist in surgery,” Porthos explained.

“Do you know where we can find either of the doctors, Jean-Luc?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I believe M. Berteau is visiting family in Orléans. If you need him for emergency surgery, unfortunately, I’m afraid he is too far away to arrive in time.”

“What about M. Molyneux?” Porthos asked with hesitation, afraid of a disappointing answer. Please tell me we didn’t ride all this way to find both doctors too far away to help.

“If only there was some way we could have communicated beforehand –without you riding all the way back down here to Chamarande, gentlemen,” Jean-Luc paused.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged worried glances, dread creeping into their thoughts.

“M. Molyneux and Cécile are in the village, Arpajon. Cécile left here to join M. Molyneux just after you departed this morning. The road to Paris travels directly through the village, gentlemen. The escort may very well pass by where they are working—which is why I wish we could have communicated this information in a faster manner.”

“Dammit to hell! Porthos growled. “The escort already did pass through the village,” Porthos scrubbed his hand angrily over his face. “Just before Athos tore his stitches, we passed through a village that started with an ‘A.’ I didn’t have time to read the sign but I'm sure that was the name.”

“Jean-Luc, how far is it from here to Arpajon?” d’Artagnan asked.

“It is about thirteen kilometers. Not very far at all,” Jean-Luc answered. “I am so sorry that we couldn’t have communicated this to you while you were already there. We could have saved you the unnecessary ride here, while allowing you to meet with M. Molyneux and Cécile that much sooner.”

“Bloody hell!” Porthos balled his hand into a fist and pounded it on his knee. “Can one thing go right on this mission?”

“Porthos, we need to get moving if we’re going to stop in Arpajon.” D’Artagnan attempted to soothe Porthos’ frayed nerves by instilling a sense of urgency.

Porthos nodded his head quietly. “Thank you, Jean-Luc, for your help. Au revoir.” The large Musketeer turned his horse, kicking it into a run, with d’Artagnan following close behind.

Sometime later, the group of Musketeers raced into the village of Arpajon. The horses were lathered in sweat, nostrils flaring from being pushed hard in the desperate rush for help.

They rode to the village church, Église Saint-Clément, certain they could obtain the information they needed. D'Artagnan ran inside to ask for the whereabouts of the village medical clinic.

"Excuse me, Father, would you know where we could find the village clinic? We are looking for a certain physician and his nurse who are here in the village training your new doctor—their names are M. Molyneux and Cécile René."

"Oui, monsieur," answered Father Jean-Baptiste. "I know the good doctor is staying at de l'Hôtel-de-Ville on Grande Rue, not far from here." The priest then proceeded to give the Musketeer directions.

"Merci, Father." D'Artagnan thanked the priest. He gratefully shook the cleric's hand before running back to join with Porthos. They soon found the hotel and were able to find M. Molyneux in the parlor, sipping on a hot cup of tea.

"M. Molyneux!" Porthos and d'Artagnan exclaimed, relieved to have successfully ended their desperate search at last.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan, what a pleasant surprise!" M. Molyneux greeted the two Musketeers. The physician sensed trouble with the hard expressions on the men's faces. "Is something wrong?"

"Forgive us, M. Molyneux, but we are in an extreme hurry. We have an emergency—it's Athos," d'Artagnan said, out of breath. The young Gascon suddenly got very dizzy and had to lean over with his hands supporting his weight on his knees.

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" The doctor was on his feet in an instant, helping the young Musketeer to a chair. "Your arm is hurt, d'Artagnan."

"You shouldn't have come on this ride, d'Artagnan." Porthos shook his head, squeezing his friend's left shoulder. "All this runnin' around isn't doin' ya any good."

"I'm fine, Porthos. Besides, I wasn't going to let you go on this ride without me," d'Artagnan protested. "It's just a scratch, remember?"

"This is slightly more than just a scratch, d'Artagnan." M. Molyneux observed with a grimace. "We really should get this taken care of before it gets infected. You remember what happened the last time one of your brothers let a wound fester too long?"

"Yes, I remember." d'Artagnan waved the doctor off and stood to his feet. "Athos is the reason why we are here, doctor. We need your help with Athos. . . we can take care of my arm later."

"Alright, tell me what is going on then." Molyneux nodded, looking to each Musketeer.

"Athos tore the stitches out on both sides when he vomited in the wagon. Aramis said to tell you he would be doing a basting stitch as a temporary measure until surgery could be performed back at the garrison," Porthos explained. "Will you be able to come to Paris to help us, please?"

"Of course, absolutely," M. Molyneux answered. "Cécile is right upstairs in her room. Let us go fetch her so we can leave immediately. If we hurry, we might be able to catch up to the wagon."

"Thank you, M. Molyneux," Porthos said gratefully. "Athos has been set back a lo' and we need your help to bring him back."

"We know Athos is in good hands with Aramis," d'Artagnan added with a frown. "But for Aramis—of all people—to make a request such as this, I suspect Athos' condition is more serious than he's letting on."

Chapter Text

“I’m finished on this side,” Aramis sighed. “Let’s switch sides so we can close him up on the right.”

Aramis felt no better for having gotten his angry emotions out into the open. In fact, he felt worse than before. He was in a foul mood, feeling disgusted that his friend’s health was needlessly put in jeopardy all because of a frivolous order given by the king.

A heavy silence hung in the air while they busied themselves stitching Athos’ right side. Aramis was halfway done when a faint moan escaped from Athos, who was beginning to stir.

“Oh no, he’s coming around, Aramis,” Captain Tréville said with alarm.

“Damn, I’m not done yet. Just a few more minutes, Athos. . .” Aramis continued sewing, his pace quickening with a renewed sense of urgency.

Athos let another moan escape. He winced away from the needle Aramis was trying to push into the flesh of his sensitive right side.

“Athos, don’t move!” Aramis ordered sternly. “I need you to hold still so I can finish. I know it hurts but you must lie still.”

Athos continued writhing, forcing Aramis to pause his work. “I wish I had Porthos here. This would be the opportune moment for payback. I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige.”

“Excuse me?” The captain was lost to the inside joke.

“The method Athos and I use to prepare Porthos for surgery—we knock him out. Well, Athos does anyway. Porthos swore to get his revenge and return the favor next time Athos needed surgery.” Aramis chuckled at the thought.

“I don’t believe Athos needs any further injuries at the moment, Aramis. That would not be an advisable way to render him unconscious at this time,” the captain frowned.

“You’re right, Captain. How much wine do we have left?”Aramis asked, motioning to the flasks.

“We have one and a half—still plenty—but it will take time for the wine to take effect,” Tréville reminded.

“I don’t. . . need wine.” Athos forced, his jaw clenched. “Just g-get it over with, damn you.”

“Athos, we have plenty of wine. Why not drink some to help alleviate the pain?” Aramis encouraged.

“No. . . it won’t. . . stay d-down. I want nothing. . . to come. . . back up again. Hurts. . .”

“I know the stitching hurts, Athos.” Aramis smoothed the sweaty hair from his friend’s face. “This is why I wish you would drink some wine to take the edge off.”

“No. . . not. . . not your stitching. My sides are b-burning.” Athos winced, his breaths shallow and rapid. “What happ’ned?”

“When you vomited, you tore the stitches out of both wounds in your sides. I finished your left side and was halfway done with your right. . .” Aramis paused.

"Mmm. . ." Athos mumbled.

“I was doing well until my patient woke up and started talking to me and questioning me in the middle of surgery. It’s rather distracting, I should say,” Aramis quipped.

Captain Tréville couldn’t help but smile at the comment. He knew the men well enough to recognize when Aramis used humor to lighten a grim predicament; the medic oftentimes masked his fear with humor and lighthearted bantering.

“Just get it. . . over with,” Athos panted. Beads of sweat rolled down Athos’ face to his throat, leaving his neck glazed with a layer of sweat.

Aramis looked to the captain, who nodded quietly to proceed.

The first push of the needle into the flesh of his side caused Athos to flinch at the touch of pain. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his clenched teeth, though no other sound was uttered. Aramis finished the stitch, eliciting a similar reaction.

“Captain, if you could dampen a cloth to wipe him down and cool his skin it might help. Then, I will need you to hold him down.” Aramis shook his head. “I cannot stitch him up like this—he’s moving too much.”

Athos’ eyes flashed an apology—but just as quickly—the look was replaced with hardened and determined eyes. “Finish your work,” Athos murmured, resigned.

Captain Tréville bathed a cool damp cloth over Athos’ face and neck, removing the glistening sweat. He steeled both hands against the patient’s shoulders to prevent further movement. At the next needle prick, Athos glanced at the touch but the bracing weight of the captain’s hands kept him in place.

Aramis continued without pause—in and out—pushing and pulling the needle with relentless toil.

Athos’ chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he fought to control the pain. With each pull of the thread his breaths became more labored, his chest heaving rapidly. The Musketeer set his jaw against the pain, determined to get through the unintended torture, though it was becoming more difficult to endure.

Aramis’ heart bled at the sight of his friend suffering so terribly by his own hands. He wanted to stop, allow his friend a moment to catch his breath, yet he knew the best method was to plow ahead and finish.

Drops of sweat dripped from Aramis’ brow, running into his eyes. The medic only took the time to wipe away the sweat with his shirt sleeve as he continued with his work.

Athos’ hands shook as he held tightly to the edges of the litter. Soft tremors coursed through his body with every stitch until finally his body gave in to the beckoning darkness, his head lolling to the side.

“Aramis?” Captain Tréville called out anxiously.

Aramis’ nervous fingers went to the neck, checking for a pulse. Finding one, he tied off the last stitch and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “He passed out—just as I finally finish up; I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. He is one stubborn, strong-willed. . . ”

Aramis took the linen cloth and poured water over it, just to dampen. He sponged the cloth gently over Athos’ face and neck, pushing the clumps of sweat-soaked hair away from his face.

“I’m done, you can rest now, Athos. I know it took plenty of determination to endure that kind of pain. I don’t know how you did it.” Aramis smiled at his friend. “You’re much stronger than I—stronger than any man I know.”

“Indeed he is, Aramis. While he is sleeping, I will have us get moving again. We need to be on schedule to arrive home before dark.” Captain Tréville climbed out of the wagon.

“Captain?” Aramis called out quickly. “Could you tell the driver to avoid holes, bumps, or otherwise anything causing Athos to be jarred or bounced. Any suffering inflicted on Athos could be dangerous. Thank you, also, for your help, Captain.”

“You are welcome, Aramis. Yes, I will relay the message but I cannot promise a smooth ride. Some bumps just cannot be avoided—no matter how careful we are.” Tréville left to speak with the wagon driver.

Finally, Captain Tréville took his place in front leading his Musketeers and the wagon back home toward Paris.

Porthos, d’Artagnan, and the carriage carrying M. Molyneux and Cécile, sped down the road with purpose, making very good time.

Porthos hoped if they hurried they might catch up to the Musketeer escort. He didn't know how long the wagon sat idle while Aramis performed surgery, but he knew his friend would never rush through a delicate surgery.

“Do you think we can catch up?” d’Artagnan asked wearily, as though reading the large Musketeer’s mind.

“I don’t know,” Porthos answered with a shrug. “Depends on how long they were pulled over for surgery. We’ve made pretty good time so it’s possible we can catch ‘em.”

They rode in silence for quite some time, each lost to their own thoughts of Aramis caring for the wounded Athos.

D’Artagnan said a silent prayer for his mentor, friend, and brother to make it through yet another crisis testing the man’s physical endurance and willingness to live. Despite everything Athos had been through with Milady and his past, and now this mission nearly causing his death, he always seemed able to push forward with resolve and determination to survive.

I don’t know that I could go through such torment and suffering and still have the will to live, like Athos. He is much stronger than I—he’s stronger than any man I know. d'Artagnan thought to himself.

Porthos had known his friend, Athos, for several years. He knew the stubbornness and grit of Athos’ strong will; it was those traits that had pulled him through some very tough times.

But even Athos had a breaking point.

If anyone could help pull Athos through a crisis, it was Aramis; there was no one Porthos trusted more implicitly than him. Yet, he couldn't help but worry for his wounded friend.

D'Artagnan's tired voice jarred Porthos from his thoughts. "Porthos, look it's the wagon up ahead!"

"Eh, why so it is." Porthos laughed heartily. "I knew we would catch 'em!"

"D'Artagnan, ride ahead and let them know we're back here. Ask them to stop so M. Molyneux can ride the remainder of the way in the wagon with Aramis," Porthos instructed.

D'Artagnan nodded then kicked his horse into a run, speeding to catch up to the wagon. Once caught up to the escort, d'Artagnan's yelling captured the attention of the Musketeers guarding the wagon. "Stop the wagon! Stop the wagon, now!"

The wagon slowed to a stop, rousing Aramis who just began to doze inside. "Why are we stopping?" he asked. After seeing d'Artagnan come around the back of the wagon, it thrilled the medic. . . until he noticed the pale and sweaty complexion of the young Musketeer. "D'Artagnan, what's wrong? Is your arm giving you that much pain?"

"It's starting to hurt some, but that is not why I am here. Guess who we have with us, Aramis?"

"Did you bring one of the doctors with you? Where is he?" Aramis stood to look down the road at the approaching wagon and riders.

D'Artagnan began swaying in his saddle, appearing as though he would fall to the ground any moment.

"D'Artagnan, come here before you fall from your horse," Aramis ordered. The young Gascon pulled his horse even with the wagon, not sure what Aramis had in mind.

Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan under the arms and pulled him easily into the wagon. "We need to take a look at that arm before you pass out and then I have two patients to care for."

"Hey, 'Mis, look who I have 'ere!" Porthos said as M. Molyneux came to stand at the back of the wagon.

"M. Molyneux, my friend!" Aramis got to his feet to greet the physician, eagerly shaking his hand. "It's so good to see you again. Thank you very much for coming—I know you didn't have to do this for us."

"It's good to see you also, mon ami. Once Porthos explained to me what happened to Athos, there was no other option but to come help. I have invested too much time, as did M. Berteau, in doctoring your friend back to health. For this setback to occur after he began recovering so nicely, it is most disturbing."

"Would you care to take a look?" Aramis asked.

"Indeed I would, thank you."

M. Molyneux looked over the sutures temporarily holding the wounds together and was quite impressed. "This is fantastic stitch work, Aramis. For simple basting stitches, this is beautiful work. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, it should hold until we can do his surgery tomorrow."

Molyneux looked at Aramis, "M. Berteau was right about you," he nodded. "I do indeed believe you missed your true calling."

"Thank you, doctor, but I am quite happy as a Musketeer," Aramis smiled. "Would you care to see to d'Artagnan's wounded arm while we ride to the garrison?"

"Indeed, I would. Let's take a look at that arm, shall we?"

Paris, Musketeer Garrison:

"We made the captain's goal of arriving by sundown, but just barely." D'Artagnan yawned long and loud. "I don't think I could have ridden in that wagon much longer. It's no wonder Athos was having such a hard time in here."

"I agree with ya, pup. How are you feeling?" Porthos asked.

"I'm alright,." d'Artagnan grimaced. "My arm is sore but I'll live."

"He'll live alright, the pup is tough, Porthos." Aramis squeezed d'Artagnan on the back of his neck gently.

"How's Athos?" Porthos asked, motioning his head toward his friend lying motionless in the wagon.

"He's out cold," Aramis answered, worry underlying his voice. "He only woke once after you caught up to us—mumbling incoherently—because of a deep bump in the road jarring him awake."

"It is better that he remain unconscious until we can repair the torn stitches properly," Molyneux added.

"The last bump we hit was fairly severe." Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face. "He was jarred awake gasping in pain. I was scared to death he would pull his stitches out again but we hit another bump and he's been unconscious since."

"This wagon is hell on wheels for the wounded," d'Artagnan muttered. "Athos never should have been forced to endure this after just beginning to heal."

"Damn this trip!" Porthos growled as he glared at his captain.

"Gentlemen, let's move Athos inside to the infirmary and get him settled there," Captain Tréville ordered.

Porthos climbed into the wagon to push Athos' litter to the open back, readying him to be carried inside. "I'll take the front, if Aramis can get the back." Porthos jumped out to wait until the medic was ready.

Together, the two Musketeers carried the litter bearing their friend and brother inside to the infirmary. They helped transfer Athos from the litter onto an empty bunk where the wounded Musketeer would await surgery in the morning.

"Let us get a good night's sleep tonight," M. Molyneux said to Aramis. "We will do him no good if we are not sharp and alert tomorrow. We must be at our best for his surgery."

"Athos is depending on us to save his life and he deserves our best because he wasn't given any options otherwise." Aramis clenched his jaw in anger. "Tomorrow we will open Athos up just to stitch him closed again." He shook his head with disgust. "It's such an unnecessary setback," he muttered in an icy tone.

"Aramis, don't start this again," the captain warned in a low voice.

"Dammit, Captain." Aramis raked his hands through his hair angrily. "Because of this wagon ride, Athos has suffered one step forward in recovery undone by two steps back in injuries. I don't know how much more his battered body can take before he completely shuts down. I will not make any promises regarding my actions as a King's Musketeer if anything happens to Athos because he was foolishly ordered home too soon."

Aramis stormed from the infirmary to get some fresh air with Porthos and d'Artagnan close on his heels, each worried for what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

A/N: I hope you don't mind a little ray of sunshine before the storm clouds roll in. Momentary and light romance as an unexpected guest puts Aramis is in a better mood.

"Athos has pulled through worse predicaments than this, 'Mis. I'm sure you and Doctor Molyneux will take good care of him tomorrow." Porthos placed a reassuring hand on Aramis' shoulder.

But Aramis wasn't listening. He seemed distracted as he looked over Porthos' shoulder watching Doctor Molyneux busy himself by the wagon. "What is going on? Is anyone in there with Athos?"

"I don't know, Aramis, we followed you out here. . ." D'Artagnan was abruptly cut off by the angry medic.

"Dammit!" Aramis growled. "Do I have to do everything around here?" The medic turned on his heel and brushed past his two friends back inside the infirmary.

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged worried glances as they followed their friend back into the infirmary.

"Someone needs to keep an eye on Athos tonight," Aramis yelled aloud in frustration.

"We have someone to watch him tonight, my friend." Doctor Molyneux smiled as he entered the infirmary. He called over his shoulder, "Cécile, where are you, my dear?"

At the name, Aramis' eyes widened with surprise. He quickly turned around to see Cécile standing in the doorway. "Hello, Aramis."

"Cécile, what are you. . .? How did you. . .?" Aramis looked to Molyneux then to Cécile, his brown eyes showing surprise at her unexpected arrival.

"I rode in the carriage with M. Molyneux from Arpajon, until he left to join you in the wagon. I rode alone from that point," Cécile laughed.

"Why didn't you say something?" Aramis asked. "You could have joined us in the wagon, Cécile. You didn't have to ride by yourself."

"No, I did not wish to be in the way," Cécile replied. "Athos is your first priority and you must remain focused on him right now; all else can wait until later. I will keep watch with Athos tonight while you and M. Molyneux get your much-needed rest. You have an important surgery tomorrow morning and you must be on your toes, yes?"

"I will sleep much better tonight knowing Athos is in good hands." Aramis breathed a sigh of relief. "But if Athos asks for me, please don't hesitate to wake me. I can manage without sleep if Athos needs me."

"Yes, of course I will, Aramis," Cécile answered.

"M. Molyneux, if you will follow me I will show you to your room," Captain Tréville called by the infirmary door. "Mademoiselle Cécile, your things have been put in your room. I'm sure Aramis will show you to your room when you are relieved. The rest of you gentlemen, we have a busy day tomorrow so I would suggest that we all get to bed and get some rest tonight."

"Thank you, M. Tréville," Cécile smiled. "Bonne nuit, M. Molyneux."

"Bonne nuit, Cécile." Molyneux nodded before turning to the Musketeers. "Gentlemen, I will see you in the morning." The doctor left to follow the captain to his room.

"Well, Porthos," d'Artagnan said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "I think we were just kicked out and ordered to bed."

"Yeah, I think so too." Porthos frowned at d'Artagnan before turning to Aramis. "Guess we'll see you in the morning."

"I'm sorry I've been so grouchy." Aramis apologized to his two friends, ashamed of his behavior. "I'm just so worried about Athos. . ."

"It's more than that, 'Mis, you're exhausted." Porthos placed his hand on Aramis' shoulder, squeezing gently. "You've been with Athos, caring for him, since we left the château this morning. You need to look after yourself too," he said in a tired voice.

"I'm not the only one who is exhausted." Aramis took both his friends by the shoulders and smiled. "You two have been running all over France looking for a doctor, while d'Artagnan here was bleeding with an arm wound. My young brother, you need to get some rest and give that arm a rest too."

"You don't have to worry about me, Aramis," d'Artagnan yawned, wearily. "My arm is fine and I am fine. . .”

"Rubbish," Porthos countered. "Yeah, you're fine and Aramis is not tired. . . rubbish! Come on, let's get you to bed, little brother." Porthos led the Gascon away with a wink to Aramis.

"See you in the morning," Aramis called after them.

Porthos simply waved his hand as he led d'Artagnan to their rooms.

Aramis turned to the nurse, "it is so good to see you, Cécile. I wasn't expecting you to come, I only asked for one of the doctors."

"When Porthos and d'Artagnan told me at the hotel what happened with Athos, there was no way I was not going to accompany M. Molyneux here."

"I am so glad you came." Aramis pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. "Have I told you how beautiful you are?"

"Not recently," Cécile remarked with a wink. "Now, off with you. Go, and get some rest. I will come wake you if Athos needs you."

"I'll just be around the corner and to the right." Aramis held Cécile in his arms for a moment before planting a soft kiss on her forehead. "I missed you."

Cécile giggled. "My word, Aramis! We only parted at the château just this morning, remember? It hasn't been that long ago, my darling." Cécile settled a soft kiss on Aramis' neck, causing goosebumps to spring on his skin.

"Now that's not fair, Cécile. You want to send me away after kissing me like that?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Now go, before I have to forcibly push you out."

"Is that a challenge, Mademoiselle Cécile?"

"Really now, off with you. Go, go on!" Cécile pushed Aramis toward the infirmary door and into the hallway.

"I love a strong and independent woman. . ."

"Aramis, you are absolutely incorrigible! Off to bed with you," she scolded.

"Hmm, imagine how much better it would be if you joined me." Aramis pressed his lips to hers.

At first, Cécile resisted, but alas, she gave in to his touch and caress. They kissed tenderly and passionately, until she finally pulled away. "My patient is waiting," she reminded him. "I must get back in there to Athos; and you must get some rest."

"I won't be able to sleep now; I'm not tired." Aramis stood still, not making any effort to go to his room.

Cécile gave Aramis one more soft kiss then pushed him toward his room. "Goodnight, Aramis, tomorrow is a busy day." The nurse turned and went back to her patient.

"I think I'm falling in love," Aramis said aloud as he shut the door to his room. Cécile is perfect—she's so beautiful. I don't deserve her, yet she's just what I've been looking for.

Cécile smiled as she sat down beside her patient. She checked Athos’ temperature, pulse and breathing; all of his vital signs appeared as well as could be expected. She was satisfied that her patient was resting well, which is what he needed most.

Cécile knew that as long as Athos was asleep there should be no risk to his temporary stitches, so she prayed Athos would sleep soundly through the night. A candle burned brightly on the bedside table where Cécile placed the book she had planned to read aloud to Athos to pass away the time.

She took Athos' hand in her own and settled in her chair for the long night ahead.

Storm Clouds are Coming:

As the sun began to rise, the infirmary physician brought in a very sick Musketeer. Cécile could hear the sick man vomiting in the hallway and he continued to do so as he was brought to the bunk right next to where Athos lay. The sick Musketeer retched again with a splash of vomit landing at the head of the bunk and across the pillow, near Athos' face.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. . . no!” Cécile exclaimed as she jumped up from her seat. The globular liquid was already running down Athos’ pillow and across his cheek. The nurse took out a handkerchief and wiped away the liquid and tossed the pillow onto the floor.

The physician tended to his sick Musketeer while ignoring the nurse and Athos in the next bunk. The sick man was obviously quite ill, as told by his grey pallor and profuse sweating, not to mention the vomiting.

The nurse was instantly angry and alarmed; she worried for her patient who could not afford any further infection or illness. "Excuse me, doctor, but your patient just vomited all over my patient and his bedding! Athos is going to need to be washed and he needs new bedding. I respectfully request that you move your sick patient to the other side of the room. We cannot risk infection or illness of any kind with Athos—he is especially vulnerable right now."

"I have placed my patient exactly where I want him, Mademoiselle. I don't know who you are, but I am the doctor and this is my infirmary. I do not need a woman telling me how to run my sickroom," the physician stated rudely. “I will send for my assistant to clean up the vomit and replace Athos’ bedding. However, my patient is not going to be moved.

"Doctor, I am Nurse Cécile René. I am working with Doctor Molyneux and Aramis to help care for Athos. Do you realize how critical Athos' condition was before arriving here from Chamarande? If you did, then you would understand why we can’t have a man so sick lying right next to my patient!" The nurse tersely stated, having lost all patience and respect for this rude man.

"I don't care if you are here with the visiting physician," the rude man said. "Also, Aramis is only a medic; he is not a doctor. This is my infirmary and I will not have outsiders telling me how to care for my patients. Know your place, nurse, and stay out of this doctor's business."

"Well, you certainly do not have a good bedside manner," Cécile said coldly. "You are about the rudest doctor I have ever come across. Keep your patient from vomiting all over mine."

"He will vomit where he vomits. . ." the doctor stated as he left the room.

"Well, of all the nerve of that doctor!” Cécile yelled as she watched the man leave.

“Athos, you are very special to your friends, please don't get sick!" Cécile stroked her patient's forehead. "Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan need you by their side and watching their back."

"I better go wake up Aramis, he is going to want to know about this.” Cécile quietly knocked on Aramis’ door. She hated to wake the medic up too early before surgery, but this news couldn’t wait.

There was no stirring inside the room at her knocking so Cécile opened the door. She poked her head around the door, while continuing to knock louder. “Aramis? Aramis, can you hear me?”

“Mmm. . .”

“Aramis, I need you!” Cécile came in and sat on the bed, gently touching Aramis’ shoulder. “Aramis, please?”

“Cécile, what’s wrong?” Aramis woke with a start. “Is it Athos, what has happened?”

“Your garrison physician brought in a very sick Musketeer and he vomited all over Athos’ bed and some got on his face. I wiped it off immediately but. . .”

“Oh, God no. . . Athos!” Aramis jumped up from the bed and ran to the infirmary with Cécile following close behind.

“I asked the doctor if he would move his patient to the other side to prevent spreading illness to Athos but he was very rude and said that he would put his patients wherever he wanted. After all, this was his infirmary and I'm just a woman who should know her place.”

“Dammit!” Aramis looked around the room, his face red with anger. “Where is doctor Senne, have you seen him, Cécile?”

“No, he left before I came to get you.”

Just then, the assistant came in with new bedding and pillow for Athos. “I also have a basin and a pitcher of hot water to bathe your patient,” the assistant said.

"What is going on in here?" Aramis turned to find M. Molyneux standing just inside the doorway to the infirmary. “What happened?” he asked with concern.

Cécile explained what happened earlier as she sponged Athos’ face with a cloth to clean all traces of the vomit away.

“I am quite appalled that a physician would be so careless regarding another patient," the doctor said. "Cécile, you said the other patient was vomiting and sweating profusely?”

“Yes doctor," the nurse nodded. "He vomited about three times before he fell into a restless sleep; he's been sleeping since.”

“It doesn’t take much for germs to spread, if there was contact with fluid from the sick man. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do to help Athos now. That patient has a fever; his face is flushed and he is sweating profusely, in addition to the vomiting. Dammit, this is the last thing Athos needed.” M. Molyneux paused to look around the sickroom.

“Aramis, why don’t we move Athos over there by the window before we begin the surgery?” The doctor pointed to the opposite side of the infirmary, far away from the sick patient.

Aramis and Molyneux moved Athos to the new bed under the window. “We should have put him here to begin with,” Aramis said, shaking his head.

“We will get natural light and fresh air through this window, so it should do well for surgery. As for the sick patient, we cannot worry about it right now. I am going to begin preparing the dwale potion for Athos—we’ll go ahead and get his surgery started now.” M. Molyneux left to get the anesthetic ready.

“So help me, Cécile, if Athos gets sick. . . I am going straight to the captain about having that inept doctor removed,” Aramis fumed. He scrubbed a hand over his face then let it drop to his side.

“I’m sorry, Aramis,” Cécile said sadly, almost in tears.

“You are not to blame, Cécile. No one is to blame but that idiot doctor,” Aramis growled. “I knew that doctor was a bumbling fool but I never expected this. . . not even from him.”

“If only I could have shielded Athos in some way. . .”

“Cécile, I said it’s not your fault.” Aramis turned as he heard the doctor approaching.

M. Molyneux returned with the dwale potion in hand. “Aramis, I need you to wake Athos so we can give him the anesthetic.”

Aramis sat beside Athos’ bed and began gently tapping his friend on the cheek. “Athos, it’s Aramis, I need you to wake up for me. Let me see your bright and shining green eyes, mon ami.”

Athos stirred a little and moaned, but did not wake.

“We don’t have time for this.” Molyneux rubbed his knuckles into Athos’ sternum and was rewarded with a loud moan, followed by half-opened blurry eyes.

“There you are, my friend.” Aramis smiled as he stroked Athos’ forehead. “How are you feeling, huh?”

“‘Mis?” Athos’ eyes darted around the room, his brow knitted in confusion. “Where. . . ? Are we. . . at the garrison?”

“Yes, we’re home, Athos. We made it home last night.” Aramis squeezed his friend’s hand. “See, you survived the wagon ride home—as I knew you would.”

“Mmm. . .” Athos mumbled as he closed his eyes again.

“Athos, wake up! I need you to drink something for me,” Molyneux handed the cup to Aramis. “You need to take a few good sips; it’s an anesthetic and will help you sleep through surgery. We want no more repeats of you waking up in the middle of surgery like you did yesterday.”

“That’s for sure,” Aramis interjected.

“When you wake up, all of this will be over and you will be well on your way to a full recovery,” Molyneux smiled.

“Take a sip.” Aramis held Athos’ head up with one hand, while holding the cup to his friend’s lips with the other. “Another sip,” he instructed. “Good, a little more, mon ami.”

Athos shook his head, spilling some liquid down his chin. “No more,” he sputtered.

“Alright, I think you drank enough.” Aramis chuckled lightly as he dried Athos’ chin. “What would you do without me, huh?”

Athos’ mouth curled upward with the hint of a smile as he let his eyes slide closed. “Aramis, don’t go. . .”

“Athos, I’m here. I promise I am not going anywhere.” Aramis squeezed his hand. “Go to sleep, I promise to be here when you wake up.”

Aramis gently stroked Athos’ forehead and held his hand tightly in his own. He whispered quietly in Athos’ ear while waiting for the dwale to take effect and for Athos to fall asleep.

Finally, Aramis planted a soft kiss on his friend’s forehead before standing up. “Alright, M. Molyneux, he’s ready.”

Chapter Text

Surgery:

Aramis poured wine over the left side of Athos, who was propped on his right side with several pillows. Cécile dried the area with a soft cloth and then moved to the head of the bed. She stood out of the way but ready with necessary tools, linen cloths for swabbing, and water for the surgery.

M. Molyneux gently cut through Aramis’ basting stitches, easily reopening the wound. “We shall get rid of these temporary stitches and close up these wounds for good. That is the hope, anyway, Aramis.”

“I think Athos is more than ready to close up these wounds up for good,” Aramis nodded.

“If you could pull the edges together and hold, I will run the needle through. . .” Molyneux instructed Aramis as he worked. “Very good, Aramis. Perhaps, if we work together at this speed and proficiency, we will have surgery done much faster than we thought.”

The sick Musketeer in the infirmary awoke, coughing heavily, before vomiting over the edge of his bed once again. Molyneux and Aramis exchanged angry glances, each shaking their heads.

“Aramis, could you hold the needle for a moment?” Molyneux placed a linen cloth loosely over Athos’ nose and mouth so he wasn’t breathing in germs.

“I should have thought to cover him with a mask this morning, doctor.” Cécile shook her head, sadly. “Actually, I should have moved Athos’ face away when Doctor Senne brought the sick Musketeer by his bedside.”

“Cécile, we already went over this.” Aramis chastised her lamenting. “I will speak to the captain about Doctor Senne.”

“I hope there are no more sick men brought in here,” Molyneux said. “If there are more, we will have to move Athos somewhere else to recover.”

The two healers went about working on Athos in relative silence, too concentrated on their delicate work for much chatter.

Molyneux placed the stitches in an even, close pattern for less scarring on the skin and less chance for tearing as it healed.
“How does that look to you, Aramis?” Molyneux stepped back to mop a towel over his face and take a long drink of water.

“Looks very good, doctor. It looks every bit as good—no, it looks better—than his first stitching.”

“Thank you, but don’t let M. Berteau hear you say that.” Molyneux laughed, as did Cécile. “I am flattered you would say it, however. M. Berteau is the best physician I know.”

“You both are the best physicians I know,” Aramis said, matter-of-factly. “May I ask you a question, doctor?”

“Of course,” Molyneux answered.

“You are such a talented physician, why aren’t you working at a hospital, such as Hôtel-Dieu here in Paris, where you can offer more people your services?”

“Have you ever gone into those hospitals, Aramis?” Molyneux shook his head. “They are frightful, barbaric places. I would never wish to be a patient inside a hospital; nor would I want to be a physician at one, unless absolutely necessary. You are more qualified than many of the doctors at the hospital, Aramis. Those so-called physicians have patients under their care, yet many of these same patients do not live through their prescribed treatment. It is terribly frightful.”

“I think that is the general consensus among, at least, my three brother Musketeers and me.” Aramis said quietly, his voice low. “We’d rather be treated anywhere but here in this infirmary. I have been encouraged to hone my skills as a medic because my three brothers won’t seek treatment from anyone else.”

“That is quite a compliment to your skill. Unfortunate, however, for the rest of the Musketeers who do not have the same access to your skills, Aramis.” Molyneux said, raising his eyebrows.

“I do help the other men of the regiment too, when I am available,” Aramis said.

“Alright, Athos is finished on his left side.” Molyneux informed the team. “Aramis, let us begin stitching up his right side. Cécile, if you could help prop the pillows while we turn Athos?”

“Of course, doctor.”

“Alright, let’s be very careful as we turn him to his other side. Together. . . now turn.” The men turned the patient while Cécile stuffed the pillows behind Athos’ back to keep him on his side.

The same efficient work was done on the right side without much chatter. The two healers repeated the same even stitches, though the damage was not as severe.

Molyneux swabbed Athos with a healthy amount of brandy to prevent infection around the wound. He then allowed ample time for the area to dry before wrapping the wound with clean linen cloths as bandages.

“We all must keep an eye on Athos and check both wounds frequently for infection. The signs will be redness around the wound or red lines going away from the wound; heat radiating around the wound; or pus draining from the wound.” Molyneux looked at Aramis and Cécile for acknowledgement.

“I think we are all too familiar with those symptoms with Athos, doctor. I do not wish to go through that experience ever again.” Aramis shuddered at the memory of his very ill friend on the edge of death at the château.

“Well, let’s hope that Athos doesn’t have to go through it again. Surgery did go very well—I am quite pleased. It was an honor to work alongside you again, Aramis.” Molyneux extended his hand to shake, while clapping the medic smartly on the shoulder.

“Thank you, M. Molyneux. The honor is all mine, believe me.”

Foreboding and Dread:

Molyneux turned to look at the other end of the infirmary as two more vomiting Musketeers were brought in. He shook his head, exchanging apprehensive glances with Aramis.

“What is going on around here, Aramis?” Cécile asked, her voice thick with alarm.

“I don’t know.” Aramis frowned as one of the men vomited over the side of his bed. “But this isn’t good.”

Just then, Captain Tréville brought in another sick Musketeer. “Aramis, I am glad to see that you are finished with Athos. We have men falling ill all around the garrison and I hear it is the same in the city. Something bad is going around and I could use your help with these sick men.”

“Captain, we cannot let Athos be exposed to these sick men.” Aramis looked around, incredulous. “The last thing he needs is to get sick!”

“I cannot help the illness going around, Aramis,” the captain said abruptly. “There is nowhere else for all these sick men to go.”

“Athos cannot stay in here, Captain,” Aramis said, as more sick Musketeers were brought in. “He won’t stand a chance of healing around all these men.”

“We must move Athos from the infirmary to a private room immediately,” Molyneux stated. “Aramis can tend to Athos, since he should only require observation at this point. Cécile and I will stay here in the infirmary to help you care for your sick men, Captain.”

“Thank you, M. Molyneux.” The captain readily agreed to the doctor’s offer to help. “I will tell Porthos and d’Artagnan to get Athos’ room ready for him to be moved over there.”

“I normally would not condone moving a patient so soon after surgery but he cannot stay in here with these sick men.” Molyneux was loath to admit.

“I can’t help carry Athos, Aramis,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “My arm is too sore and stiff; I would end up dropping him.”

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Aramis asked with concern

“It’s getting really stiff and I can hardly move it.” The Gascon rubbed his upper right arm, absently.

“Can you raise your arm up and hold it out like this, d’Artagnan?” Aramis raised his own arm, holding it out parallel with his shoulder to demonstrate.

“No, I’ve tried Aramis.” D’Artagnan lifted his arm partially to his shoulder but winced at the pain it caused him. “It’s getting so I can hardly move my arm at all; and it’s really sore. I didn’t think it was that bad earlier, but the pain is getting worse.”

“Alright, that doesn’t sound good,” Aramis frowned. “I’ll take a look at your arm once we get Athos moved.”

“I happen to have some ingredients in my luggage that will aid in healing his arm,” M. Molyneux said to Aramis. “I will give them to you after we move Athos.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Aramis nodded.

Molyneux took the Gascon’s arm and peeled back the edge of the bandage so he could see the wound. “The wound appears to be healing well. The problem with your arm, d’Artagnan, is that you are not exercising it, which is why it’s becoming so stiff.”

“Exercising it how?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I’ll instruct Aramis on the exercises you can do to help alleviate the stiffness; but you have to do them, d’Artagnan, or the stiffness will only worsen.

“I will make sure he does the exercises, doctor,” Aramis nodded.

“What are the chances Athos will get sick too, doctor?” D’Artagnan quickly changed the subject.

“I do not know at this time whether Athos will become ill from the virus going around the garrison or not. However, these symptoms and effects are quite different than with sepsis, young man,” M. Molyneux said.

“How is it different, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Sepsis is caused when a wound becomes infected and the bacteria enters into the bloodstream, which then goes on to infect the entire body—and it is usually fatal,” Molyneux answered. “It is too early to determine what we are dealing with here at the garrison, whether it is a virus or not, so it is too early to determine how it will affect Athos.”

“Damn,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Doctor. . .” Aramis hesitated.

“Yes, Aramis?” Molyneux sensed the hesitation. “What is it?”

“Is it possible that these men are suffering from catarrh?” Aramis surmised based on a medical essay he had read recently describing the symptoms of the men falling ill.

“Yes. . .” Molyneux’s voiced trailed. “Indeed, it is quite possible that we have an epidemic of catarrh beginning both here and in the city. Catarrh is a contagious virus, easily spread from one victim to another. If Athos contracts catarrh, it would be a serious threat to his system and could be every bit as deadly as sepsis.” Molyneux grimly shook his head.

“How long does it take for a patient to show symptoms of catarrh, M. Molyneux?” Cécile asked with hesitation. “The first sick patient was brought in here this morning and vomited on Athos’ bed.”

“If this is a viral epidemic as I now fear, it may already be too late for Athos.” Molyneux shook his head sadly. “Athos would have been exposed to the contagious germs when that patient vomited on him.”

“Oh God. . .” Aramis fell into a nearby chair, his ashen pallor expressing the fear he suddenly felt for his friend. “Athos may not have strength left to fight off another hit to his system. This could be the point to where he has been pushed beyond his ability to recover.”

Thinking of his dream, Aramis shuddered. Maybe the funeral carriage in my dream was a foretelling of what would happen here at the garrison.

Aramis’ heart sunk in his chest. "We may have brought Athos home to the garrison only to watch him die.”

Chapter Text

“There is a nagging fear growing in the back of my mind, doctor.” Aramis expressed his anxieties and unease. “I’m worried that if Athos gets sick like these men he is going to end up vomiting, which is how he tore his stitches out in the first place.”

“You will have to keep a close eye on him, Aramis. However,” Molyneux paused, “you will not know if Athos was exposed to the illness until he awakens. If he becomes ill, there are extra precautions we can take to help prevent him from tearing his stitches.

Porthos brought over the stretcher to carry Athos out of the infirmary. “Cap’n got Athos’ room ready for ‘im so we can take ‘im there.”

“Alright gentlemen, carefully, we must lift him together,” Molyneux instructed. Once lifted onto the stretcher, the men carried Athos to the room and carefully transferred him from the stretcher to the bed.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Molyneux said. “Now all of you must begin round-the-clock vigilance of Athos, while I take care of the men in the infirmary. If there is an emergency with him, please do not hesitate to come fetch me. Aramis, if you will follow me, I will get the herbs for d’Artagnan’s rub and show you the exercises he must do to help his arm heal.”

“Oh, I’m sure d’Artagnan will be thrilled to begin therapy.” Aramis winked at the Gascon with a wry grin.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the sarcasm.

“Remember, do the exercises and your arm will heal.” Molyneux squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder and shook his hand. “Come, Aramis. I won’t keep you but for a few minutes.”

“I’ll sit with Athos first.” Porthos informed the group.

Minutes Later:

“Cap’n knows where we are and has given us permission to be wit’ im. So we might as well pull up a chair ‘n get comfortable.” Porthos pulled the nearest chair—the only chair—and plopped his large frame down. He stretched out his longs legs and crossed his arms, settling in for the long haul ahead.

“What?” Porthos raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence, while giving a devilish grin at his two friends staring back at him.

“You just took the only chair in the room.” D’Artagnan shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Who said you get to have the chair?”

“There’s plenty o’ chairs in the other rooms—go steal one,” Porthos smirked.

“Steal one?” D’Artagnan’s questioned the instruction.

“Steal one, Porthos?” Aramis repeated drily. “Um, very unsound advice, mon ami. Seniority does have its privileges, however.” Aramis turned to d’Artagnan and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s the pup’s turn for this mission.”

“My turn?” D’Artagnan’s eyes widened at Aramis’ delegation of the chair hunting. “Why do I have go steal the chairs?”

Porthos slapped his knee and gave a hearty laugh. “You don’t really have to steal ‘em, pup. Just go next door and borrow the chairs—we’ll give ‘em back when we’re done wit’ ‘em.”

“That’s Giroux’s room next door,” Aramis motioned his head to the right. “He won’t mind if we borrow his chairs—just be sure to take both.”

“Oh no, I hardly know Giroux that well—nor does he know me well,” d’Artagnan protested. “If I am going to his room to borrow his furniture, you are coming with me.” He grabbed Aramis by the arm. “If he catches me in the act or later inquires where his chairs disappeared to. . . I’ll tell him it was all your idea!”

“Smart pup,” Porthos quipped. “Always thinkin’ ahead, eh. Athos is teachin’ him well.”

“Besides,” d’Artagnan added. “I still have an injured arm and I can’t carry two chairs.”

“Oh, you’re going to use that excuse, are you?” Aramis grinned. “I’ll come with you to borrow the chairs and then we’ll get started on your therapy when we get back.”

“Great.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. . . again.

“Lift your arm as high as you are able, d’Artagnan.” Aramis instructed, studying the Gascon’s movements while noting the grimaces and winces of pain on his face.

“This is as high as I can lift it, Aramis.” D’Artagnan hissed through his clenched teeth.

“Damn, you obviously experienced damage to the deltoid muscle in your upper arm, which is why you’re having trouble moving it up and down. Your body has gone into self-preservation mode by slowing the muscle’s ability to move; in other words, your muscle has become rigid.”

“Great,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Is this something that can cause permanent damage to my arm?”

“If left untreated, the muscle will contract and then basically shrivel up, rendering it useless.”

“Oh damn, Aramis!” D’Artagnan’s eyes grew wide with worry.

“I just said, if left untreated, d’Artagnan!” Aramis corrected, patting the young man’s arm reassuringly. “You will need to do some exercises to get those muscles stretched out and limber again—it’s going to be a little painful but it’s necessary for healing.”

“Hmm, thanks for the uplifting prognosis, Aramis,” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’m really looking forward to the exercises now, thank you.” The young Gascon uttered sarcastically.

“Come on, it won’t be that bad,” Aramis grinned. “Besides, the herbal rub we’ll apply afterward will help ease the pain; it will also pull out excess lactic acid that is causing the muscle stiffness.”

“How do you know all this stuff, ‘Mis?” Porthos asked with astonishment.

“Well, in my spare time, while you are out gambling and Athos is out drowning away old memories, I am studying medical journals and essays.”

“Rubbish, ‘at sounds boring.” Porthos scratched his head. “It’d put me to sleep.”

“How will I know how to take care of you boys when you get hurt out there if I don’t teach myself, huh?” Aramis raised his eyebrows expectantly. “I could send you to Doctor Senne,” the medic gave an evil grin.

“No thanks!” Porthos and d’Artagnan protested in unison.

The worried Musketeers sat around Athos’ sickroom keeping anxious watch over their unconscious friend. They busied themselves with small talk, an occasional game of cards or, in d’Artagnan’s case, exercising an injured arm.

“How long will he sleep, Aramis?” D’Artagnan stretched his arm sideways and then upward, wincing at the pain it caused. “Shouldn’t he have stirred by now? It’s been six hours!” The fear of catarrh adding complications to Athos’ recovery was beginning to gnaw at the Gascon’s patience.

“After a surgery such as his, Athos could easily be out for at least a day or two. If he has not awakened after two days, then I will start worrying.” Aramis answered wearily.

“Two days?” D’Artagnan scrubbed a hand over his face. “We have to wait that long?”

“His body needs time to recover and heal,” Aramis advised the Gascon. “What he needs most right now is rest. He cannot begin healing if he is awake and causing undue stress on his wounds.”

“You should go get some rest, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said softly, noting the weary features on his friend’s face. “You rose early this morning to do the surgery and you’ve been at his side ever since. You look exhausted and we may be facing another rough road ahead. Rest will do you some good.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aramis protested.

“Well, I’ll go downstairs to ask Serge to have dinner brought up.” Porthos stood and stretched, yawning. “I’ll ask the cap’n if someone can bring in an extra cot for you. If you won’t go anywhere else to lie down and sleep, you can at least rest in here.”

“I’ll come with you, Porthos,” d’Artagnan offered. “I need to get up and move around or I’m going to fall asleep. When I get back, will you put that herbal rub on my arm? It’s starting to hurt again.”

“Of course,” Aramis answered. “I’ll get it mixed for you while you’re downstairs.”

As the door closed, Aramis reached to check Athos’ temperature—for the hundredth time in the last hour. “I wish you would wake up, my friend. At least, let me know how you’re doing and how you’re feeling. Come on Athos. Give me a sign, please.” Aramis pleaded, but to no avail.

Aramis took Athos’ limp hand and grasped it firmly. He gently stroked his friend’s hair, his eyes filled with tears as a depressing thought came to mind.

“It seems we can’t get past the scenario of you lying unconscious while I watch helplessly, holding your hand. Meanwhile, I'm begging for you to fight; begging for you to live. When am I going to wake from this nightmare to find the moody—but healthy—Athos we all love so much?”

Aramis’ mind floated back to the nightmare he had at the château and shuddered as cold shivers caused goosebumps to spring up over his body.

I have a bad feeling about this mission. . .

Don't do this, Athos, Please, don't leave us, brother. What will we do without you?

We can't lose you, Athos. Please, don't do this—don't leave us.

“God. . . I can’t go through this again.” Aramis leaned forward, covering his face with both hands. “Athos was alive and well when we left the château. We didn’t bring him home just to watch him die—he is not going to die!” the medic mumbled into his hands.

Athos returning home alive has proven your nightmare wrong, ‘Mis. Stop worrying so much!

“Porthos did say that,” Aramis mused aloud.

“I won’t stop worrying until you wake up, Athos. We have another long road ahead. We have to stay one step ahead of sepsis. . . catarrh. . .”

“God, how much more can Athos possibly endure?” Aramis’ voice cracked.

“I am a well-trained medic. I know the best thing for you right now is rest, but all I want to do is shake you awake to calm my fears.” Aramis stood up in frustration, his hands tugging at his hair.

“It’s too soon to worry, I know that.” Aramis turned to face Athos lying motionless on the bed.

“So why do I feel like there’s still a chance of my dream becoming a reality? Everything is the same, only the location has changed. Before we left the château, you were doing so well. . .”

“Why in the hell did we have to move you?” Aramis growled.

“I feel like I am losing my mind.” Aramis sat back down beside Athos, a storm of worry brewing in his brown eyes.

“‘Mis and d’Artagnan are both going to be fine because of you. They’re alive because of what you did for all of us back there in the forest,” Porthos paused.

“But none of that means a damn thing, Athos, if you don’t fight for yourself; if you don't fight for your own life. Your life matters brother. You matter to all of us.” Porthos wiped at a tear threatening to fall.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep on us, Athos. You stay with us; you stay awake. I’m not letting go. . . don’t you let go either.”

“Do you remember me saying those words to you, Athos?” Aramis took Athos’ hand in his own again.

“Wait, or did I say that in my dream—just before you died? Dammit, I don’t know what is real anymore.”

Aramis leaned forward to rest his head on Athos’ chest, draping his arm across his friend’s stomach. The medic closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall asleep, listening to the steady rhythm of the Musketeer lieutenant's heartbeat.

Porthos and d’Artagnan later returned to the room to find Aramis draped over Athos. Both Musketeers stopped dead in their tracks, each thinking the worst. They exchanged frightened glances before rushing to the bed.

“Aramis, is everything alright?” d’Artagnan asked in a panic voice. “Did something happen to Athos?”

“What?” Aramis was pulled from sleep by Porthos’ strong grasp on his shoulder, waking him.

“‘Mis, what happened, what’s wrong with Athos?” The large Musketeer put his fingers to the lieutenant's neck to check his pulse. “He still has a pulse,” Porthos sighed with relief. “Aramis, did he wake up?”

“Nothing is wrong, he didn’t wake up,” Aramis sighed. “I just fell asleep, that’s all. I guess that I was more tired than I thought.”

“We have a cot comin’ up now,” Porthos motioned toward the still-open door. “But first, you are goin’ to eat dinner, and then you’re goin’ to lie down for a while. d’Art and I can keep watch over Athos; you’re no good to him if you’re dead on your feet.”

“Don’t say you’re not hungry or that you’re not tired, because, obviously, that is untrue,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

“We’re not takin’ no for an answer, ‘Mis, so don’t go there.” Porthos stood defiantly, his thumbs hooked on his belt. “M. Molyneux is helping the men in the infirmary, at the capn’s request, so it’s up to us to take care of Athos.”

“I forgot to make the herbal rub so I’ll get that for you real quick first.” Aramis said as he began pulling out the ingredients from his satchel. Soon, a refreshing aroma filled the room causing everyone to instinctively breathe in the lovely smell.

“Mmm. . . what is that, Aramis?” d’Artagnan breathed deeply with closed eyes.

“This is eucalyptus and wintergreen, which will pull the lactic acid from your muscles,” Aramis pointed to the bowl. “And this is chamomile and mint, which is an antiseptic that will prevent infection from settling in your arm.”

“Smells—and sounds—almost good enough to eat,” Porthos chuckled.

“Come here, d’Artagnan.” Aramis motioned with his head. “Let’s get this rub on your arm.”

Second Evening After Surgery, No Change in Athos:

“I l-love y-youuu. . .” Athos said, taking one last breath.

Athos was gone.

His glassy green eyes were open, but now were empty.

Time had stopped.

Grief slammed into the Musketeers like a tornado ripping away their very soul. Anguished screams of sudden sorrow filled the air. Like angry waves they rolled, echoing down the hall.

“No!” Aramis screamed as he sat upright in the chair. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over the Musketeer and he leaned forward in his chair. “God, I think I’m going to be sick.” The medic rested his head in his hands until the dizziness passed.

The soft snoring coming from the cot stopped abruptly at the scream. “‘Mis, are you alright?” Porthos fumbled in the dark, trying to light a candle. “Dammit, I can’t see!” the large Musketeer growled in the dark.

“What happen’d, Aramis?” d’Artagnan mumbled, still half-asleep.

“You had that dream again, didn’t ya, ‘Mis? Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed quietly.

“Do you want to talk about it?" d’Artagnan asked.

“Shh!” Aramis suddenly cried out. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Porthos asked into the darkness.

“I thought I heard Athos,” Aramis whispered. “Why haven’t you gotten that candle lit yet, Porthos? Dammit, I need to see!”

“M-m-m. . .” Athos moaned.

Porthos finally got the candle to burn; using it, he lit another candle and another, until the room was aglow in soft yellow light.

Looking to the bed, the three brothers watched as Athos tossed his head from side-to-side, moaning.

“He’s coming around, Aramis!” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“Athos, it’s Aramis. I’m here.” Aramis immediately leaned forward in his chair, one hand held Athos’ hand while the other stroked his face, tapping his cheek softly. “Come on, my friend, wake up for me.”

“M-m,” Athos moaned again, his eyes still closed. His movements stopped and his breathing evened out again as he appeared to return to sleep's grasp.

“No, Athos, dammit!” With an obvious sense of urgency, Aramis shook his sleeping friend’s shoulders to waken him. “You are not going back to sleep just yet, Athos. We need you to wake up, now!”

Sensing the tone of urgency in Aramis’ voice, Athos struggled through the fog of unconsciousness. The fog felt safe and beckoned him to return; slowly, it began pulling him back down into the darkness.

“Athos, we need you to wake up.” Aramis slapped his cheek lightly. “You have slept long enough.”

Athos weakly pulled his eyes open to mere slits.

Aramis looked into Athos’ barely-open green eyes. In the warm firelight, the medic saw his patient’s eyes were distant, unfocused and unseeing. “Athos, I’m right here; look at me.” The medic pulled Athos’ chin toward him so the patient's eyes would focus directly in front him

There’s a voice calling for me through the fog. . . Athos tried to fight the confusion.

“Ar‘mis. . .” Athos blinked slowly, seeing shadows of three figures hovering over him. His ears were no longer ringing, so he could clearly hear his friends begging him to wake up.

But Athos was so tired; he was finding it difficult to waken. He let his eyes slide closed again.

“Athos, I need to know how you’re feeling. Are you hurting anywhere? Do you feel sick?” Aramis questioned urgently.

“Come back to us, Athos. Please,” d’Artagnan begged.

Athos opened his eyes and blinked away the fuzziness, until he could focus on the smiling, yet worried, faces of his friends.

“There you are,” Aramis smiled. “How do you feel?”

“Tir’d,” he answered, his eyes closed again.

“No you don’t.” Aramis grabbed his chin, causing Athos’ eyes to fly back open in surprise. “Besides tired, how do you feel? Are you in any pain?”

“My sides hurt. . .”

“Alright, that’s to be expected and is perfectly normal. We’ll help take care of that, Athos. Is there anything else?” Aramis prodded anxiously.

“I feel c-cold.” Athos shivered slightly. “I don’t feel so good. . . I feel queasy.” Athos let out a small cough and let his eyes droop closed once more.

“Fine, Athos, you can sleep now. Rest, we’ll be right here when you wake up.” Aramis pulled the blanket to just under Athos’ chin, tucking it gently around his shoulders.

He wearily leaned back in his chair then looked up at his two friends; his eyes began to mist. Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face and paused with his hand over his mouth. He stayed frozen, deep in his own private thoughts, until Porthos’ voice pulled him from the dark reverie.

“What is it, ‘Mis? Dammit, what’s wrong?”

Aramis shook his head. He let his head droop until his chin nearly rested on his chest. “Earlier, I asked how much more suffering Athos could possibly endure. Apparently, we’re about to find out,” he paused.

"What do you mean, Aramis?" Porthos and d'Artagnan echoed, anxiously.

“Athos is showing early symptoms of the same illness bringing half the garrison to its knees. I’m afraid he has contracted catarrh.”

Chapter Text

Athos was becoming aware of voices murmuring like distant whispers in a thick fog. His fevered mind raced wildly, trying to remember. . .

His memory was cloudy and he couldn't think straight. All he felt was pain. His entire body ached but he couldn't remember why he hurt.

He felt a heavy weight on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath but the air wouldn't come. Instead, his body was wracked with wet coughs, seizing his body with stabbing pain emanating from both his sides.

He felt someone lifting him up and strong arms holding him close, protective hands applied pressure to his sides. He flinched and tried to pull away from the pressure in his sides, but the hands held him tight.

Why are my sides hurting like this? Why can’t I remember?

Athos felt another pair of hands gently pounding his back to help him breathe. They rubbed in soothing circles, massaging comfort into his aching muscles.

“Breathe Athos, slow and easy. D’Artagnan, go get M. Molyneux, quick! We need his help before Athos pulls out his stitches.”

“On my way. . .”

The fog was beginning to dissipate in Athos’ brain. He was becoming more aware, though he still couldn't remember where he was or how he got here.

“Athos, can you hear me?”

He recognized the voice and the tone interwoven with fear and worry. . .

Aramis!

“Keep pounding his back, Porthos. We need to loosen the congestion in his lungs so he can breathe easier.”

“Come on, Athos, catch your breath now. My hands are gettin’ tired.” Porthos’ light bantering contradicted the worry etched on his face.

“Open your eyes for me, mon ami.” Aramis tapped Athos’ cheek while holding his chin up with his other hand.

It took all the strength he could muster, but Athos pulled his eyes open halfway. He blinked repeatedly trying to clear his blurry vision. “Two. . . ‘Mis. . .”

“Pardon?” Aramis’ brow knitted in confusion. “What do you see two of, Athos?”

“I see. . . two of you.” Athos’ hand reached out to touch the pair of medics but missed, going just left of Aramis.

“Perhaps I have found a successful means of duplicating myself, doubling my mother-hen abilities,” Aramis joked. “Sometimes I get stretched rather thin around here. Having two of me would be of great use.”

Athos chuckled, bringing about a fresh round of coughing. Instinctively, he tried to double over with his arms wrapping around his middle as if to protect himself from the onslaught of pain. Strong arms pulled him backward and held him close.

Pain in both of Athos’ sides flared, eliciting a scream from the Musketeer lieutenant. The excruciating pain flashed through his middle, sending tremors surging through every limb and appendage. Black dots danced on the edge of his vision.

He wanted to give in to the darkness. At least in the darkness he didn't suffer in pain.

Athos was pulled tighter into the broad chest with strong, yet gentle arms. Porthos consoled and soothed away the wracking coughs with the ministrations of his voice. “Stay awake, Athos,” his soft voice whispered in his ear. “You’re okay; you just need to keep breathin’ for me.”

M. Molyneux quickly entered the room with d’Artagnan on his heels. The physician was wearing a leather and cloth mask to cover his face. They rushed to the bedside where Athos was sputtering to catch his breath, leaving him weak and spent.

“Let’s lay him flat.” Molyneux instructed Porthos and Aramis, his voice muffled under the mask. “I’m going to wrap his middle with these strips of cloths to constrict his movements and, therefore, keep his stitches from being pulled out. The hope is that these cloths will support the muscles that are straining when he vomits or coughs and it should reduce the possibility of tearing. It may be rather tight and restrictive; but such comforts are secondary to further damaging the sutures.”

Aramis and Porthos worked together to remove Athos’ shirt, exposing his skin now glistening with a layer of sweat. His heavy, labored breaths were made evident with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “C-cold.” Athos suddenly shivered.

“Shh,” the medic soothed. “It’s okay, we’re going to get you warmed back up in just a minute.” Aramis rubbed his hands up and down Athos’ arms to warm him.

“First, I better check his wounds and change the dressing before we wrap the cloths around him.” The physician proceeded to unwrap the bandages as carefully as possible, without touching the wounds and hurting Athos.

Athos closed his eyes and lay still while the doctor examined him. Despite Molyneux’s careful ministration, an occasional spurt of pain caused Athos to gasp, his breath hissing through his teeth.

“Forgive me, Athos,” Molyneux apologized. “I see that both your wounds are healing quite well; the sutures look good with no redness or sign of infection. That is very good,” the doctor smiled under the mask. “Ah, very good, indeed!”

Aramis glanced at the wounds, nodding his approval and appreciation of the healing injuries. “Looks like you’re going to be good as new and on your feet in no time.” Aramis whispered into Athos’ ear.

After applying new bandages and salve to cover Athos’ injured sides, the doctor readied the long strips of cloth. “Gentlemen, now I will apply the pressure dressing and I will need your help,” the doctor looked to the Musketeers. “The cloth will be wrapped around his body tightly, possibly uncomfortably, but it is necessary to protect the sutures.”

Aramis held the cloth in place as Molyneux wrapped the bandage around and around. Porthos and d’Artagnan lifted Athos as needed and just enough to allow the doctor to thread the cloth under and around his torso.

“Doctor, why do you wear the mask?” D’Artagnan asked the physician as he wound the cloths around his patient.

“After working with many different illnesses, M. Berteau and I have learned the value of wearing these masks over our mouths and noses to protect ourselves from the spread of germs,” Molyneux replied.

“Do they really work?” D’Artagnan closely observed the mask with interest.

“Yes, d’Artagnan, they do work, quite well in fact. We are of no help to the patient if we get sick ourselves.” The doctor looked directly at Aramis as he spoke. “It is something you should keep in mind, Aramis. It is a good practice to get into, especially when dealing with contagious diseases such as catarrh. As a matter of fact, I am recommending that each of you get a mask over your faces. You cannot help Athos if you fall victim to the illness too.”

“What about Cécile?” Aramis inquired. “Is she wearing a mask?”

“Absolutely,” Molyneux nodded. “I rely on her as my right hand, Aramis. I cannot afford her falling ill, so I insist that she take the same precautions. I wish I had thought sooner to have each of you wear a mask to protect yourselves. I will ask Cécile to prepare yours immediately.”

“I don’t know that I want to wear a mask around Athos.” Aramis sighed and shook his head. “What will he think?”

“Perhaps it would be wise to have each of you quarantined then.” Molyneux looked to the three men who were defiantly shaking their heads.

“Rubbish,” Porthos shook his head stubbornly. “I am not leaving Athos so I can hide in a room to protect myself. Sorry, but forget it!”

“I’m not either,” d’Artagnan added.

“You may have no choice, gentlemen.” Molyneux retorted. “Captain Tréville has ordered any healthy Musketeer to be confined to personal quarters. In addition, no one is allowed on or off garrison grounds. There have been cases of catarrh reported all over Paris, unfortunately. We have to stop the spread of this epidemic before it gets out of control.”

“Damn!” d’Artagnan cursed suddenly. “Oh damn, what about Constance? How can I find out if she is okay?”

“I do not know, young man.” Molyneux answered. “But no one is allowed in or out of the garrison until this illness has been contained. Until then, you will just have to pray for her safety. I am sorry.”

“Great,” d’Artagnan huffed with frustration, shaking his head.

“At least, you should all wear a mask as Cécile and I do. It will keep you protected and allow you to remain in here to care for Athos. It is the only compromise I am willing to suggest to your captain.” Molyneux stated flatly, leaving no room for negotiation.

“Fine, maybe we’ll do the masks then,” Porthos agreed. “I’m not leavin’ Athos alone; he needs us with ‘im.”

“Very well, I will speak to your captain about having masks brought up for each of you so that you may continue to stay with Athos. I do believe his chances of surviving this epidemic are greater with him being in this private room. . . and all of you are with him.”

“Thank you, doctor,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh.

“No need to thank me,” Molyneux said. “I got into medicine because I love helping people heal. My only reward needs to be my patients recovering.”

“We will do everything we can to make sure Athos gets through this,” Aramis resolved. “If he can beat sepsis, he can beat catarrh.”

“I must caution you gentlemen, Athos is still in the early stages of his symptoms. The nausea and vomiting is just beginning,” Molyneux warned.

“God help us. . .” Aramis muttered.

“Damn,” Porthos groaned heavily.

“You must try to keep Athos as calm as possible—make sure he does not pull out his stitching. The wrapping will help, but when Athos begins vomiting if you would support him in an upright position, it will help alleviate the straining on his sides. Do not let him double over and do not let him lay on his side to vomit, do you understand?”

“Yes doctor,” the Musketeers echoed in unison.

Molyneux helped the men lift Athos carefully back onto the bed with Porthos positioned behind the sick Musketeer as support. “I’ll send Cécile up with the masks as soon as she has them finished.” Molyneux returned to the infirmary to have Cécile get started preparing the masks for the Musketeers.

“M. Molyneux instructed me to give you each a mask and to make sure that you wear them.” Cécile proceeded to show the men how to properly wear the masks for optimum protection.

“Keep your masks firmly on your faces, with no gaps or loose parts. If the mask gets too loose, just tighten the strings. Do not take off the masks for any reason or at any time. When it is time to eat, the captain said he would send food to the room next door where you can safely take off the masks. Otherwise, your masks must remain on at all times. Do you gentlemen understand?”

“Yes,” they each answered.

“Is this what it’s come down to?” Aramis roughly snatched his mask from Cécile in disgusted obedience. “Protecting ourselves from our best friend and brother? Having to shield ourselves against his infected breaths?” Aramis glowered with anger.

“I’m so sorry, Aramis.” Cécile apologized softly.

Porthos and d’Artagnan traded resigned glances. They sighed as they donned their masks, covering up all but their eyes.

D’Artagnan’s expressive eyes conveyed deep sorrow as they filled with tears at being forced to wear a protective shield—while Athos remained maskless. “This isn’t fair—we each get a mask while Athos suffers alone in misery. This doesn’t feel right.”

“Athos’ life hangs by a thread and we can do little more than stand by and watch. He fights for survival, while we hide behind the protection of a mask.” Aramis’s voice was muffled under the mask, his throat tightening around a sob threatening to escape.

A tear fell from Aramis’ eye and quickly disappeared, soaking into the fabric of the mask.

“God please, help Athos to survive this.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan glanced sadly at Porthos sitting behind the Musketeer lieutenant, his large face covered by the mask. No words were needed as a silent message of heartfelt sorrow was easily conveyed in just a glance.

D’Artagnan hissed softly under his mask as his shoulder began to ache, instantly drawing the attention of the medic. “Is your arm hurting again?”

“Yeah, a little but. . .” D’Artagnan softly mumbled so low Aramis couldn’t hear the rest.

“Come on, let’s get some more of that herbal rub on your arm.” Aramis motioned to the chair for the Gascon to sit. “There’s no sense in you suffering from unnecessary pain.”

“Aramis, what are we going to do when Athos starts vomiting?” D’Artagnan winced as the medic applied the first glob of the remedy to his shoulder. “I mean, how do we protect ourselves if his vomit gets on us? We may have to clean up some messes, which mean the germs might get on our skin. What do we do then?”

“Hmm, I’m glad you brought that point up, d’Artagnan.” Aramis nodded. “I’ll go to my room and see what herbs I may have in there and I’ll check with Serge in the kitchen. If we can scrape up enough elderberry, ginger, oregano, and astragalus root, I can mix those with some hot water as a bath to wash our hands or any skin that has been exposed to the vomit.”

“Do you hear yourself, ‘Mis?” Porthos muttered from the bed. “First, we have to wear these damn masks to protect ourselves against Athos; and now we have to wash ourselves with antibacterial herbs like he’s got the plague or something.”

“Athos is our friend—our brother—and yet we’re treating him like a leper. I feel like this is barely one step above abandoning him to the infirmary.” D’Artagnan agreed with Porthos and echoed his sentiments.

“I’m not happy about having to take these precautions either, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said in a low voice. “But if it’s the only way we can stay in here and take care of Athos, then we must do whatever is necessary to keep ourselves healthy,” Aramis said with resolve.

“If Athos ends up in that infirmary ‘round all those sick men, it’s a sure death sentence,” Porthos said angrily. “Bloody hell, he’s got it bad no mat’er which way ya look at it.”

“We are the only hope Athos has in beating this virus. . .” Aramis was interrupted when Athos began coughing.

Athos groaned as he began a harsh bout of coughing. “D-damn. . .”

“It’s alright, Athos, breathe through it.” Aramis soothed as he rubbed Athos’ shoulders.

“I’ve got you, brother.” Porthos wrapped his arms tightly around Athos to keep him upright. He held him close, as though trying to absorb the suffering from his friend’s body into his own. With his free hand, the large Musketeer patted firmly between the shoulder blades hoping it would help his brother breathe easier.

Athos was barely aware of the aid his brothers were giving him as he struggled to catch his breath. Nor was he aware of the strong arms that held him tightly against the chest of his friend as he happily fell into the waiting arms of darkness.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan stepped forward with concern at seeing his friend go limp in Porthos’ arms.

“It’s alright, d’Artagnan, he just passed out.” Aramis said after checking Athos’ pulse.

“I don’t like having to hide behind these protections but it’s better than that cursed infirmary.” Aramis shook his head. “Athos going to the infirmary is like summoning death… and I for one will not let him go without a fight. We better prepare ourselves, brothers. We have a hell of a fight ahead of us.”

Chapter Text

Athos tried to lean over but firm arms held him upright as he vomited violently into the bowl held under his chin. Again and again he heaved, struggling to empty the contents of his stomach.

“Please, l-let me g-go.” Athos weakly attempted to pull away from the restraining arms holding him but he didn’t have the strength.

“We got to keep you sittin’ up, Athos.” Porthos held his friend tightly to his chest without budging.

“We can’t let your stitches tear out again,” Aramis replied with a serious tone.

The sick man was left gasping to catch his breath after being seized with yet another round of vomiting. He panted from fatigue, his chest rising and falling with exaggerated breaths. Sweat dripped from his face like drops of water.

Still, Porthos held Athos upright until he relaxed, and his breaths once again become slow and even.

D’Artagnan gently wiped the sweat from Athos’ flushed face with a cool, damp cloth. The Gascon dipped the cloth in the bowl of cold water and repeated the cooling process on Athos’ neck and chest. He rubbed in soothing circles with the cloth, cooling the fevered skin, as Athos leaned against the broad chest of Porthos.

“I need you to drink more water, Athos. You have to stay hydrated—you’re losing too much water between the vomiting and sweating.” Aramis held a cup of cold water to Athos’s lip, but he turned away his head.

“It won’t stay. . . d-down.” Athos croaked, his voice hoarse from vomiting. “Throat hurts. . .”

“I know it hurts, Athos.” Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ forehead, checking his temperature. “The water will help soothe your throat; but you need to drink it or you will dehydrate. If you dehydrate, your condition will worsen.”

Once again, Aramis held the cup of water to Athos’ lips. “Take a sip,” he ordered.

Athos obliged, bringing a smile underneath the medic’s mask. “Try another.” Aramis knew he was pushing his luck but Athos managed a small sip before turning away. The rest of the proffered water dribbled down his chin into his beard.

“Messy, aren’t we?” Aramis chuckled as he dried his friend’s chin and beard.

“Glad. . . I c-can make you laugh. . . in this dr-dreadful room,” Athos grumbled.

“That’s usually Porthos’ job but he’s been failing at his duties lately.” Aramis winked over Athos’ head at the large man tucked behind the sick Musketeer.

Porthos shook his head, offering only a throaty growl in response. He wasn’t in a merry-making mood, for obvious reasons.

“I’m going to make you some hot elderberry and peppermint tea.” Aramis informed, grimacing at the hot touch of Athos’ skin. “The elderberry will help reduce the fever; and the peppermint will soothe and calm your upset stomach. I’ll bring along some honey to soothe your sore throat too, alright?”

Athos gave a negligible nod.

“Do you need any help?” d’Artagnan offered.

“If you’d like to come, let’s go.” Aramis turned to Porthos and squeezed him softly on the shoulder. “Take care of him while I’m gone. Keep him sitting upright and don’t let him droop, no matter what. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t move,” Porthos nodded. “We’re goin’ nowhere.”

“Where. . . w-would I go?” Athos whispered. “Cap’n has. . . gates closed. Can’t go. . . to tav’rn for. . . drink.” The ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth as he let his head fall back into Porthos’ shoulder, completely spent.

“When we get through this, we’ll go to any tavern you want,” Aramis promised. “I’ll even buy the drinks.”

"‘M-m. . .” Athos tiredly mumbled his approval.

“I’ll hold ya to ‘at, ‘Mis.” Porthos nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Make ya wish you didn’t make ‘at promise.” Porthos smiled under the mask, though the smile did not reach his worried eyes.

“That’s a promise I intend to keep.” Aramis whispered as he lightly squeezed Athos’ shoulder.

Athos gave a faint nod as his head settled softly into Porthos’ shoulder, falling asleep right away.

“I think a nap might be in order till you get back, eh.” Porthos pulled his arm tighter around Athos’ middle and leaned his own head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The exhausted Musketeer fell asleep almost immediately.

Aramis and d’Artagnan traded amiable glances, each smiling at their two sleeping brothers. One brother held closely to the chest of the other with firm and devoted arms.

“Let’s let them sleep.” Aramis whispered as he and d’Artagnan turned to leave. At the door, he paused to glance at his sleeping friends once more.

Hold him tight, Porthos. He’s going to need your strong arms when he no longer has the strength to carry on.

Aramis and d’Artagnan stopped by the infirmary to see how many Musketeers had fallen ill. Before they even walked through the door, they heard the loud noises of coughing and vomiting emanating from within.

“Oh, dear God,” d’Artagnan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the full infirmary. Every bunk was filled with sick Musketeers; some were lying motionless, while others were bent over buckets retching.

Cécile was sitting beside a man and holding his hand as she wiped his brow. She looked absolutely exhausted and the poor sight of her made Aramis’ heart break. He wanted desperately to wrap his arms around her waist and softly kiss her cheek, telling her that everything was going to be alright. If he could pull her away from this wretched place—even for a moment—it would do her a world of good.

M. Molyneux saw the two Musketeers looking around with the shock of the scene before them clearly evident in their eyes. “Is there something wrong with Athos, gentlemen, do you require me?”

“No, Molyneux.” Aramis shook his head absently, as he watched his brother Musketeers. “We just. . . I just. . . Athos is sleeping. . .” his voice trailed.

“How bad is it, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked. He didn’t really want to know the answer yet he needed to know the truth.

“It’s not good, I’m afraid,” Molyneux answered. “We have over twenty sick men in here with a few more sick men in the barracks that Doctor Senne is caring for. I do not know the total number of sick but. . .”

“But what, doctor?” Aramis sensed the doctor’s deliberate hesitation.

“You needn’t concern yourself right now.” Molyneux avoided answering. “Just take care of Athos. He needs to be your only concern.”

“No, what are you holding back from us, doctor?” d’Artagnan pressed.

“I shouldn’t tell you this but perhaps it is best that you know the truth,” Molyneux sighed. “We’ve had two deaths so far, Brisbois and Giroux.”

“Giroux? Oh God. . .” d’Artagnan uttered with shock. He didn’t know the man, but he had just borrowed chairs from his room. . . and now he was gone?

“Giroux? Oh damn,” Aramis shook his head, suddenly overwhelmed. “Let’s get out of here.” Aramis faltered slightly and stumbled into d’Artagnan. “We need to go; Athos is waiting on that tea.”

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked the medic, just outside the infirmary.

“Our brothers are dying. . .” Aramis snapped. “No, I’m not alright.”

D’Artagnan took one last look into the infirmary, then turned to follow Aramis to the kitchen.

The two Musketeers entered the kitchen to find Serge busy stirring a large pot of soup. The wonderful smell rising from the cooking soup made their stomachs growl.

Serge laughed, “Your stomachs tell me that you are both hungry. Sit down here at the table and I will get you each a bowl. I see that neither of you have been stricken by this dreadful illness; that is very good news. How is our dear Athos doing?”

“He’s not doing so well, Serge,” d’Artagnan answered truthfully. “But he is hanging on—we’re determined to help get him through this—so help us God.”

“Do you think we gave them enough time to sleep?” d’Artagnan asked as they headed back to the room.

“Yes, but if they’re still sleeping we won’t wake. . .” Aramis stopped short when he heard the sound of Athos vomiting in the room.

“Oh no. . .” D’Artagnan groaned as he followed Aramis rushing into the room.

Porthos was tightly hanging on to Athos’ chest, with another arm wrapped around his shoulders. The large Musketeer slanted sideways to allow Athos to vomit over the edge of the bed, as the bowl was not within reach.

“Thank God you’re back!” Porthos called out. “He just started vomiting.”

“Damn. . .” Athos gasped, out of breath. “It hurss. . .”

“Keep him up straight, Porthos.” Aramis rushed to the bedside with the bowl. “I hope he didn’t strain his sides, dammit!” He lifted Athos’ shirt to check the tight cloths and bandages for signs of bleeding, but found nothing.

“ 'Mis. . . God. . .” Athos was overcome with more heaving, though nothing was coming up. The dry heaves left him breathless as he felt his chest constricting from the lack of oxygen. Gasping for air, he fell back against Porthos, trembling with panic as he fought to catch his breath.

“Shh, I’ve go’ you, don’t panic," Porthos soothed. "Just try to lie still and breathe. . . slow your breathing.”

Aramis cupped his hands around Athos’ face, supporting his head in his hands at eye level. “Athos, calm down and look at me. Catch your breath; you have to slow your breathing down!”

Athos began dry heaving again but Porthos didn’t move. He sat still, holding Athos up ramrod straight with a vice-like hold. “I’ve got you. . .”

Athos’ face began turning red from the struggle to breathe. He desperately tried to suck in gasps of breath but his lungs felt heavy and unwilling to cooperate. The small ragged breaths he drew were not sufficient to feed his oxygen-starved lungs.

“C-ca. . .” Athos cried. He could hear the voices telling him to slow his breathing, but he couldn't slow what he was unable to do in the first place. His friends were not understanding that he was not getting any air in his lungs.

Athos panicked and tried to pull away from the arms holding him down but the iron grip was too strong. His lungs burned for oxygen and Athos finally realized that he was losing the fight to simply breathe. His vision began fading to black and he welcomed the approaching darkness.

Athos suddenly went limp in Porthos’ arms. His panicked features went lax, his beet-red face set against lips outlined in blue.

“Oh, God.” Aramis cried out as he lifted Athos’ head to see the sickly color of his face.

“Help me lay him on the floor, d’Artagnan—quick!” The men laid Athos flat and immediately Aramis leaned over his friend’s chest to check for a heartbeat. He found a heartbeat but no rise or fall to his chest. “My God, he’s not breathing!”

Aramis tore off his mask as he tilted Athos’ head back and breathed air into his friend’s mouth. He could see the chest rise with his own breaths but nothing more. “Come on, Athos! Dammit, breathe!”

Aramis came up for air, taking big gulps before leaning back over the mouth of Athos and blowing his life-giving air into the oxygen deprived lungs.

“Please God!” Aramis gasped as he found himself short of breath from giving away the very air in his own lungs to aid his dying brother. “Athos, please. . . breathe, dammit!” He gulped a breath again just to blow into the open mouth.

Aramis breathed air again and again into Athos’ mouth, continuing with several breaths and subsequent blows, until he could finally see the gentle rise and fall of the chest as Athos began to breathe once again on his own.

“Oh, thank God!” Aramis cried out, collapsing over Athos’ chest. He let flow the relieved sobs until he toppled weak and out of breath onto his back, lying next to Athos on the floor.

D’Artagnan dropped to his knees beside Athos, opposite of Aramis, and took a limp hand in his own; he leaned over to rest his head on Athos’ forehead.

Porthos collapsed back onto the bunk and rested his head in his hands as he cried with relief.

D’Artagnan sat up after a moment to look at Aramis, his teary eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. “Oh no, Aramis. . . your mask. You took off your mask and touched Athos on the mouth. . .” his voice uttered, barely above a whisper.

“Doesn’t matter,” Aramis retorted. “Athos wasn’t breathing; I couldn’t just watch and do nothing.”

“Yes it does matter, Aramis!” d’Artagnan chided. “What about you? What’s going to happen to you now?”

Aramis just shrugged and let the subject drop. In his heart, he knew—and accepted—the certain consequence his desperate action of resuscitating Athos would bring. He fully accepted the fact that he just exposed himself to catarrh.

I would do anything to save Athos—even if it means that I exchange my life for his.

An overwhelming dread washed over the young Gascon as he contemplated the consequence of Aramis’ actions. But what else could he have done, watch Athos die simply because he didn’t want to get sick?

That would never happen, d’Artagnan thought.

D’Artagnan knew this was not the time to argue or question Aramis’ actions, so he turned his focus back onto Athos. “How long should we leave him lying on the floor like this?”

Aramis barely stirred. He moved his head to look at Athos with tear-filled eyes. “How long, d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, how long?” d’Artagnan replied, though now he was thoroughly confused. “How long, what?”

“How long can we keep cheating death? How long can we keep putting off the inevitable?”

“What the hell are you talking about, ‘Mis?” Porthos growled, raising his head up from his hands.

“Who am I fooling?” Aramis closed his eyes against the tears continuing to spill. “Athos needs more than what I can offer; I’m not a doctor. Hope is not enough to heal Athos.”

“What kind of insane talk is that, Aramis?” D’Artagnan couldn’t believe his ears. He looked up to watch Porthos as he stood and walked to where Aramis remained lying on the floor.

Porthos grabbed Aramis by the shirt collar and pulled him till he was sitting up. “Do you see ‘at?” He pointed to Athos’ chest, rising and falling with breath. “He’s breathing because of you!” He shook Aramis, his hands fisting his shirt. “You took off your damn mask and pu’ your mouth on his so he could breathe again! What more could you possibly offer him?”

Aramis said nothing.

“No, you’re not an actual doctor, Aramis,” d’Artagnan chimed in. “But you’re the best, without having the job title. You’re right, hope is not enough to heal Athos—but you’re the only hope he has!”

“Without you, he would be down in that infirmary, Aramis. . . and he would be as good as dead,” Porthos said gruffly.

Aramis closed his eyes at hearing Porthos’ words. He saw the awful scene of suffering and death in the infirmary; he knew Athos would not survive as a patient in there.

“Pull yourself together, ‘Mis. I don’t want to hear you doubt yourself like that again,” Porthos growled. “Do you hear me? You’re better than ‘at!” Porthos let go of the shirt with a push, leaving the shirt crumpled.

Athos awakened, having partially heard the exchange of words. He turned his head to watch Aramis sitting beside him with his eyes downcast, staring at the floor. “You’re. . . the b-best. . . I know.”

At Athos’ voice, Aramis immediately was back in action checking Athos’ breathing, heartbeat, and pulse. “How are you feeling, Athos? You scared us, I thought. . .” his voiced trailed as he choked on a sob.

“I’m here. . . b-but. . .” Athos paused, his eyes scanning Aramis’ face. “Where's your. . . m-mask? Please. . . don’t tell me. . .” Athos’ eyes filled with tears. “No. . .”

Suddenly, Athos was wracked with a severe bout of coughing that had him curling into himself.

“No, Athos!” Aramis yelled.

D’Artagnan quickly rushed to pull Athos into his arms, trying to hold the struggling man upright. He screamed out in pain as Athos’ thrashing sent pain shooting down his arm.

Porthos pulled Athos from d’Artagnan and backed himself and his armload up onto the bed. He sat back against the wall with Athos firmly in his grip, preventing him from doubling over.

Athos vomited up the water, just as Aramis rushed the bowl underneath the sick man’s chin.

“Hold him forward just a little bit, Porthos.” Aramis yelled. “He’s going to aspirate. . .”

Athos began choking on the vomitus. Once again, he found himself gasping for breath, wheezing with every panicked attempt to inhale. His eyes grew wide at the renewed inability to breathe.

“Please God, some help here. . .” Aramis pleaded as he rushed into action to help Athos. He pulled the choking man forward and began slapping his back to loosen the vomitus in the lungs. He continued slapping and pounding until Athos finally threw up the liquid, clearing his lungs.

Athos drew in a long and ragged breath, greedily gulping air into his lungs; his chest heaved heavily once again from exertion. He scrunched up his eyes at the overwhelming pain that seemed to envelope his body.

“Dammit, his sutures. . .” Aramis quickly pulled back the binding cloths and bandages but found the sutures still intact with no tears. “Thank you, God.” Aramis whispered quietly, looking upward as he crossed himself.

“I’ve go’ ya, brother,” Porthos said as Athos relaxed. Pulling the sick man close to his chest, the large Musketeer felt the tremors shiver through his brother's body; the heat radiating from his skin raised quiet alarm. “You’re goin’ to be okay.”

“My. . . throat feels like. . . I swallowed sh-shards of. . . g-glass.” Athos whispered painfully.

“Here,” d’Artagnan proffered a cup with the warm elderberry tea they brought from the kitchen. He held it to Athos’ lips and tipped the cup, allowing the soothing liquid to drip down his throat. “Careful, I don’t want you to choke again.”

D’Artagnan continued pouring the tea, a little at a time, into Athos’ mouth. He slowly swallowed the liquid coating his throat until he couldn’t handle anymore and turned his head.

“Good, Athos.”Aramis soothed, while checking Athos’ pulse and breathing. “The elderberry tea will help reduce the fever and the peppermint will calm your stomach, we’ll see how long it stays down. We have to keep a steady supply of tea going down because some will come right back up again. Eventually, however, the elderberry will work on bringing your fever down.”

Athos collapsed bone-tired into the safe and comforting arms of Porthos holding him tight. “Try to sleep, big brother. Rest while you can, while you’re not coughing or getting sick.”

Aramis shook his head as he pulled his hand away from Athos’ fevered brow. His fever was climbing and the medic knew if they didn't bring it under control quickly it could bring serious consequence—even death.

Athos shivered from a sudden chill trembling through his body, despite the heat burning inside of him. “C-c-cold. . .”

D’Artagnan handed Aramis a blanket which he draped over Athos, carefully tucking it around his shoulders.

“I’m goin’ to get real hot back here.” Porthos shot Aramis a worried glance.

“We’ll try to keep you as cool as possible, my friend.” Aramis smiled.

Aramis stood and turned to d’Artagnan. “We better go get some cold water for Porthos and hot elderberry tea for Athos. Plus, I need to take another look at that shoulder of yours. This may be a long, hard night for all of us.”

“God help us all. . .” D’Artagnan muttered under his breath as he turned with Aramis to fetch the water. The young Gascon wondered how much longer Athos could hold on when catarrh had already nearly robbed him of his breath.

D’Artagnan shuddered to think of what tomorrow might bring with Athos already so weak and deathly sick. Now Aramis has also been exposed to the illness, adding to their misery. “God, if you’re up there, we need your help; we’re in serious trouble down here.”

Chapter Text

“Raise your arm up so that it’s even with your shoulder,” Aramis instructed d’Artagnan.

“I can’t raise it up that high,” the Gascon complained.

“Just do it, raise it as high as you can.” Aramis ordered, not accepting any excuses. “Good,” the medic stated as he watched the younger Musketeer strain to bring his arm nearly to his shoulder.

“I can’t go any higher,” d’Artagnan said through clenched teeth. Tiny beads of sweat popped up all over the young man’s forehead.

“Alright, hang onto my arm,” Aramis nodded. “This is probably going to hurt, but we need to stretch out the muscles to prevent them from becoming rigid again. Hang on."

“Arghh. . .” D’Artagnan screamed in pain as Aramis raised his arm to the shoulder and kept going until it was raised above his head.

“I’m sorry, d’Artagnan.” Aramis apologized; his eyes conveyed regret at causing the young man so much pain. “I am going repeat this exercise until we get to five, then we will do arm rotations.”

“Do we have to do so many? It already hurts, that’s just going to make it worse,” d’Artagnan growled.

“We have to do this just as Molyneux instructed, d’Artagnan,” Aramis answered resolutely. “If you don’t exercise that arm it’s going to get worse, not better. After the exercises, we will follow with a heated compress for about twenty minutes; it will loosen those tight muscles in your upper arm and get the blood circulating again.”

D’Artagnan breathed heavily with dread. "Fine," he nodded with resignation.

“The applied heat will also pull the lactic acid out of your muscle and, therefore, will take away the stiffness. Your arm will feel much better after we are done, I promise. We’ll finish up with a nice herbal rub,” Aramis smiled.

“Sounds great,” d’Artagnan mumbled sarcastically. “Let’s just get this over with.” The young Musketeer gritted his teeth, steeling himself in preparation of the forthcoming torture.

Porthos was startled awake with the sound of hoarse coughing, the vibrations against his chest shook him from his sleep.

Still half asleep and bone-weary, Porthos shook the fog from his brain; he was momentarily confused as to why he felt so hot.

Is something wrong with me? Porthos wondered, tiredly.

Athos struggled against the arm loosely draped across his chest but still holding him in place. He felt the bile rising in his throat, “I’m going to. . .”

Athos strained as he vomited up the latest cups of herbal tea and water, breathlessly emptying the contents of his stomach into a proffered bowl.

“Hold him up straighter, Porthos,” Aramis said abruptly. “Don’t let him droop over.”

“Hold on, I’ve go’ you,” Porthos whispered in his friend’s ear.

“God. . . I c-can’t do this any-anymore.” Athos choked between gasps of breath. He grimaced as he tried to clear his throat, wincing at the pain it caused. “My throat is on f-fire. . . I can’t sw-swallow.”

“We’ll get you some more tea with honey,” Aramis offered.

“No!” Athos blurted out, immediately regretting such an impetuous response as it caused more harsh coughs. “No. . . more tea. Not drink-drinking more. . . jus' comes back up. No more.”

“I can’t let you dehydrate, Athos. I know some of the elderberry and peppermint is making its way into your stubborn system; even as you are vomiting most of the tea back up.”

“Damn, my st-stomach h-hurts.” Athos pressed his arms hard into his midsection; the muscles ached from the constant straining while coughing and vomiting. “I can’t do. . . this any-anymore. . .”

“Yes, you can do this,” d’Artagnan retorted quickly. “You can and you will do this, Athos. You have no other option.”

Athos groaned deeply as he felt his stomach knotting again as the bile began rise and bubble up to his mouth. At the urge to vomit, he instinctively bent forward—only to be pulled upright by Porthos.

“Can’t let ya do ‘at, Athos.” Porthos restrained the writhing man in his arms.

The sick Musketeer no longer bothered with the bowl in d’Artagnan’s hand. He had nothing left in his stomach to empty, though he continued to be plagued with terrible and painful dry heaves, twisting his stomach into knots. He curled up his legs close to his body and allowed his weight to be supported by Porthos behind him. When the dry heaves finished their course, he fell boneless against the body of the large Musketeer.

“I’m sorry, Athos,” Porthos apologized in a whisper. “If there was only something more I could do. . .”

“J-just k-kill me now. . . and g-get it over with.”

“Ain’t nobody killin’ ya, Athos. You quit that kind of talk,” the large man growled. “Don’t go there.”

Athos let his heavy head droop, his body now sapped of all its strength. Beads of sweat dripped from his face onto Porthos’ arm.

D’Artagnan leaned Athos’ head back against Porthos’ shoulder and frowned deeply. He used a damp cloth to wipe away the slick layer of sweat from the lieutenant's face, burning red with fever.

Aramis offered a fresh cup of tea to Athos’ lips. “Here, drink a sip of this.”

Athos tried to pull away. “No, no more. . . can’t drink any. . . anymore.”

Aramis remained patient, knowing he would have to convince his stubborn patient the tea was for his own benefit. “I put extra honey in here to help soothe your raw throat. I also changed the tea to ginger root to confuse that catarrh bug wreaking havoc on your insides.”

Athos managed a crooked smile, quickly followed by a long, drawn-out groan of pain. "Mmm," he drew in a ragged breath.

“D’Artagnan, hold his head up for me while I help him with this.” Aramis held the cup to Athos’ lips and tilted the contents into his mouth. “Come on, all you have to do is swallow and we’ll do the rest.”

Athos didn’t struggle but allowed the tea to flow down his raw and burning throat. “Good, a few more sips. . . slowly. Keep going. . .” Aramis coached.

Athos finally had enough and turned his face away, unable to handle anymore. He let his eyes slide closed, and fell asleep with his head still supported in the hands of d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan laid Athos back against Porthos’ shoulder gently. Looking at the man acting as Athos’ pillow, d’Artagnan noticed the sheen of sweat on the large man’s neck and the beads of perspiration dotting his forehead. “Let me get you some water,” he chuckled.

Aramis took a cool, wet cloth to Porthos’ face and neck, washing away the sweat. “Mmm, that feels nice, thanks.” The large Musketeer gratefully accepted the cup of cold water d’Artagnan offered him and drank it down in one quick gulp.

“Do you want more?” d’Artagnan asked, to which Porthos shook his head no.

Aramis smiled as he finished his cooling ministrations on Porthos.

“‘Mis, could you get that we’ again? I’d like to put it ‘round my neck for a bit.” Porthos let out a long huff of breath. “I feel as hot as Athos but without the fever.”

Aramis frowned and shook his head as he removed his hand from Athos’ forehead. “His fever is climbing, which is why you are getting so hot sitting back there, Porthos,” the medic stated with concern.

“D’Artagnan, let’s start sponging Athos down with cold, wet cloths. After we are finished, we will use the wet cloths as cold compresses, one around his neck and the other draped over his chest; it should help bring his body temperature down. I don’t want to have to make use of the cold water bath, but I will if we can’t get his fever down soon.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan set out sponging down the fevered body with repeated returns to the bowl of cold water, refreshing the cloths quickly warmed by his hot skin. After finishing, they left the cold compresses in place to do their job at fighting the spiking fever.

“Do you think we can lay him down so Porthos can get a break?” d’Artagnan asked.

“No, I’ll keep holdin’ him.” Porthos shook his head, dismissing the suggestion. “We lay ‘im down, he’ll vomit and tear out his stitches or he’ll choke again. Nah, I’m fine back ‘ere.”

Porthos settled himself against the wall and closed his eyes, entirely exhausted. His breathing soon fell into an even rhythm as he went to sleep.

At seeing his two friends resting, Aramis was overcome with fatigue himself. Rather than resisting, the medic decided to take advantage of the moment by lying down on the cot to rest.

I just need a few minutes. I only need a few minutes. . . I’ll sleep just a few minutes. . . Athos needs me.

D’Artagnan observed Aramis’ haggard and worn appearance with great worry. He took notice of the pale complexion and the sweat beading on the medic’s forehead. His heart sank low in his chest. He closed his eyes with memories of when Aramis took off his mask, breathing life back into Athos’ body.

“No, not you too, Aramis.” D’Artagnan sadly shook his head. “How are we going to take care of Athos and now you too?” Looking around at his sleeping friends, he sunk into the bedside chair completely exhausted and weary. “Someone, please wake me from this nightmare,” the young Gascon muttered to himself. “God help us,” he closed his eyes and joined his brothers in sleep.

D’Artagnan was awakened by the splashing of vomit over his boots and the painful groaning of Athos as he retched again and again all the healing tea in his stomach. The sour smell soon permeated throughout the room, crinkling the noses of the two nearest.

Despite d’Artagnan’s understanding of Athos’ condition, he couldn’t help the scowl of disgust as he eyed his boots now covered in the vile liquid. He rolled his eyes dismissively and shook his head. He can’t help it, it’s not his fault, the Gascon reminded himself.

D’Artagnan turned his attention to the commotion on the bed. Porthos strained against the incessant struggles of Athos as he attempted to double over while gagging and retching. The Musketeer lieutenant cried out in pain as he gasped for breath; finding his breath lacking, it only caused the panic to increase.

Aramis was awakened by Athos’ cry and rushed over to the bedside to help hold the writhing man upright. “Stop struggling, damn you.” Aramis blurted more abrasively than he meant. He’s sick, he can’t help it. What is wrong with you, Aramis?

“Hold still, Athos!” Porthos growled while trying to control the agitated man in his arms.

“‘Mis, he’s turning blue!” d’Artagnan yelled.

“D’Artagnan, go fetch Doctor Molyneux, now,” Aramis shouted. “Quick!”

The young Gascon ran out of the room to the infirmary, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

Aramis sat on the edge of the bed and carefully draped Athos across his lap. He began pounding on the choking man’s back with hard slaps to dislodge the vomitus in his lungs, fully responsible for robbing the man of his breath.

At last, some bubbly red liquid drooled out from Athos’ mouth to dribble down Aramis’ leg. The hand that had fisted Aramis’ pant-leg in panic, suddenly went limp and hung loosely over the chair.

M. Molyneux and d’Artagnan returned to the room in time to see the hand falling limp; the sight of which induced panic in the young Gascon. “Aramis, what’s wrong? What’s happened to Athos?”

“Lay him down on the floor,” Doctor Molyneux ordered, ignoring d’Artagnan’s questions.

The doctor laid his head on Athos’ chest to listen and watch for signs of breathing. He sat up and reassuringly nodded his head. "He is breathing, but. . .”

The physician's pronouncement allowed everyone to release the breath they were holding in one loud cry of relief, until they realized the hesitation.

“But what, doctor?” Aramis asked nervously.

M. Molyneux placed his ear to Athos’ chest once again, frowning as he listened to the wheezing and rasping sounds accompanying every breath. “His breathing is quite labored. I hear wheezing noises in his lungs, which suggests congestion in one or both lungs. The bloody sputum could mean that the infection has settled into his lungs.”

“What does that mean for Athos?” Porthos asked.

“The sputum could be a benign symptom of congestion clogging his lungs and his body is simply forcing it out; or it could be early symptom of infection, such as bronchitis,” Molyneux explained.

“Well, he aspirated on his vomitus—twice now.” Aramis informed the doctor. “He also stopped breathing . . .”

Molyneux looked at Aramis in surprise, realizing that his mask was missing. “Where is your mask?”

“I had to remove it when Athos stopped breathing; I had to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him,” Aramis answered neutrally. “It was either that, or watch him die. I sure as hell wasn’t going to watch him die.”

“Oh dear. . .” M. Molyneux allowed his shoulders to slump forward as his head drooped. “You know what that means, Aramis,” he stated quietly.

“Yes, doctor, and I fully accept the consequence.” Aramis declared, somewhat defiantly.

Molyneux sighed, nodding his understanding. “How long ago did this happen?”

Aramis looked to the other two as they each shrugged. “Doctor, we’ve lost all track of time in here. I couldn’t tell you if it was day or night outside. . .” He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It happened several hours ago. How many hours?" he shrugged wearily. "I don’t know.

“Alright, it's fine.” Molyneux tried to smile. He noticed the ashen and fatigued appearance of the medic, surmising the illness had already begun working on his system. Observing Athos closely, he watched the rise and fall of the patient’s chest and huffed in amazement.

“What is it, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked.

“In medical journals I have read of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but I have never seen it performed on a patient.” He looked to Aramis and shook his head. “At the risk of sounding repetitive. . .”

“I know, I missed my true calling.” He finished the doctor’s thoughts with a weak smile.

“Indeed you did, Aramis. Imagine the impact you could have in teaching others your skill. Imagine the people you could help. . .” his voice trailed.

“Doctor, can we just focus on helping Athos right now?” Aramis politely reminded the physician why he was called into the room, directing his head toward the patient lying on the floor.

Molyneux took a limp hand of Athos to check the pulse in the wrist. He placed a hand on his forehead. "What have you been doing to treat his fever?”

“We’ve been sponging him down with damp cloths and using cold compresses around his neck and chest. I’ve been giving him elderberry and also ginger root tea to help bring down the fever, but he usually vomits it back up again. Nothing is working,” Aramis sighed.

Molyneux gazed at the patient on the floor for a time, his brow furrowed as he stared at the unmoving form. He leaned over then placed his knuckles on Athos’ sternum, twisting down hard on the chest.

Porthos and d’Artagnan watched, horrified and confused at what the physician was doing. Aramis just sadly shook his head.

“That’s what I thought,” the physician sighed softly.

“Aramis, what is he doing, what’s wrong?” Porthos roared, getting angrier by the second.

“It appears that Athos has fallen into a coma.” Molyneux answered after he finished confirming his suspicions.

“Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed with a growl.

“Oh God. . .” d’Artagnan gasped. He turned to Aramis, his brow knitted as he watched his friend visibly pale.

“Hold on, a coma is not necessarily bad in Athos’ case.” Molyneux tried to ease the worries of the men. “A coma may be the only way his body will have a chance to heal. He is just too worn out—too wounded and too sick—his energy is too depleted to continue taking that continuous onslaught of suffering.”

“Alright, so how is a coma a good thing, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Athos’ body has sought out a way to shut down in order to rest and regenerate itself. He has suffered more than any man should with his many ailments and his body literally cannot withstand anymore. The coma is a survival mechanism. Without the vomiting and the coughing, Athos can finally get the much-needed rest his body requires for healing.”

“How long will he be in a coma?” Porthos asked, worry etched deep in his features. “Is there a way to wake him up?”

“A coma has both good and bad aspects, Porthos. It is good, as his body will finally be allowed to rest and heal; but I cannot determine how long he will be unconscious, nor can he be forcibly awakened. He will have to emerge from the coma in his own good time and when his body is ready,” Molyneux answered.

“That is if he will emerge from his coma, you mean doctor,” Aramis retorted angrily. “The truth is, Athos has slipped into a coma and he may never wake up. With everything he has gone through and has survived up until this point—it will all be for nothing.”

Suddenly, Aramis felt dizzy as his ears started ringing and his vision began fading to black. He wavered back and forth, then stumbled sideways trying to right himself. Finally, the medic went limp and fell forward, unconscious. Porthos was instantly on his feet to catch Aramis before his body hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Aramis curled on his side, his legs drawn to his middle as he lay on the bed. His flushed face was damp with a sheen of sweat, acting as glue matting his hair to the skin. He held tightly to the blanket with a shaking hand as his whole body shivered from chills, despite the fever that coursed through his body.

He curled into the blanket, squeezing it harder with his fist as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing, sucking the air from his lungs. He raised a shaking fist to his mouth in attempt to stifle his coughs.

The medic curled himself tighter into a ball as his stomach muscles protested the incessant strain caused by the coughing. He let a moan escape his lips, drawing the attention of his caretaker.

D’Artagnan took a wet cloth to begin wiping away the sweat from Aramis’ face, neck and chest. Again and again he dipped the cloth in cooling water, tenderly ministering to the man who had nursed him and his brothers back from sickness and injury more times than he could count.

Aramis insisted on lying on his side so he could keep an eye on Athos in the opposite bed. The familiar scene of Porthos holding the sick Musketeer upright in his arms had changed since he fell into a coma.

The large Musketeer now kept vigil in a chair beside Athos’ bed. He sat for hours while holding a limp hand in his own, watching as his friend lay motionless and frighteningly still. It was a place Porthos had not moved from since his friend had slipped into a coma last night.

M. Molyneux told the Musketeers there was nothing they could do for Athos but wait.

Doing nothing didn't settle well with Porthos; even if Athos was unaware of his devotion. He insisted on sitting with his comatose friend-- holding his hand and talking to him about memories of favorite missions, ladies and drinking—anything to let Athos know he was not alone.

Aramis could hear the soft mutterings from the other bed, though he couldn't make out what Porthos was saying. The large Musketeer spoke softly, as though to shut out prying ears, keeping his conversation private, intended only for Athos’ unconscious ears.

The sight before him made Aramis’ heart break to pieces. He should have been helping Porthos in taking care of their sick brother, rather than lying in bed doing nothing but watching.

The short calm observing his brothers was interrupted with a brutal fit of coughing that morphed into a fit of retching. Aramis’ stomach rejected the fever-reducing herbal tea by defiantly sending it upward.

He leaned over the edge of the bed just as the liquid burst from his mouth to splash onto the hard floor and d’Artagnan’s boots. Aramis instantly felt terrible—not just because of the illness wreaking havoc on his body—but because he didn’t have time to warn d’Artagnan before emptying his stomach.

“Damn, not my boots again.” d’Artagnan groaned. “Sorry, it’s okay,” he apologized. “I know you didn’t mean it and I don’t mind cleaning it up. Well, I do mind cleaning it up, but only because you can’t help it.” The Gascon flashed his boyish smile at Aramis.

Aramis managed a small chuckle but was assailed with a savage fit of coughing, leaving him curled into himself from the pain.

D’Artagnan grasped a hand, “I’ve got you, Aramis, hold onto me.” The Gascon clenched his teeth together, suppressing the yelp of pain as Aramis squeezed his hand so tightly he thought the bones might break.

Aramis grabbed the proffered hand, squeezing it as though it would help alleviate the pain pulsing through his body. “God, it hurts!” the medic cried out.

“Shh. . . I know it hurts. Breathe through the pain, Aramis. Breath with me; in. . . and out. . . and in. . .” d’Artagnan coached, just like when Aramis had coached Athos. “You’re a good teacher, Aramis; I learn a lot just from watching you.”

“Glad. . . glad you’re a g-good student. . . very ob-observant of you.” The corner of Aramis' mouth curled into a faint smile as he let his eyes slide closed. He let go of d’Artagnan’s hand to grasp hold of the blanket; he fisted a ball of the woolen cloth rather than hurting the Gascon's hand further.

“I’m going to make some more elderberry tea.” D’Artagnan wiped Aramis’ brow, sponging around his neck and throat where the sweat had pooled. “We need to keep you hydrated.”

“No, d-don’t want anything,” Aramis defiantly retorted. He rolled his face into his pillow to hide the grimace of pain emanating from his stomach. “God. . . make the pain g-go ‘way.”

“Aramis, I know you don’t want anything in your stomach, when it will probably just come back up again, but you have to stay hydrated.”

“Not drink-drinking anymore.” Aramis clenched his jaws; his breath hissed through his teeth as the medic braced himself against the excruciating wave of pain gripping his stomach. “Damn. . .”

D’Artagnan had seen this same defiant act with Athos and knew how to overcome that tactic well; he was not going to let the medic tell him no. “I’m not taking no for an answer, Aramis. You wouldn’t back down when Athos refused to drink tea for the same reason you’re now giving me. I know your stomach hurts, and that it will probably come back up again, but you have to drink it for your own good. In fact, you will drink it, even if I have to get Porthos over there to help hold you down.”

Porthos turned at hearing his name. “That's right, ‘Mis. Don’t make me come over there, ‘cause I won’t be as nice as the pup.” Porthos warned with a straight face, though he was doing his best not to smile.

D’Artagnan busied himself with making Aramis some tea while Porthos went back to sponging Athos down. The Gascon glanced over his shoulder at Aramis; he frowned at the trembling form whose gaze was fixated on Athos.

“I have your tea ready, Aramis.” D’Artagnan put the cup aside for a moment. “I’m going to roll you onto your back so I can help you sit up some—you can’t drink lying on your side.”

Aramis shook his head weakly, determined not to move from the ball he had curled into. In this position, it seemed the constant pain surging through his stomach was more tolerable. “C-can’t m-move.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes against the emotions surging in his heart; he blinked back the tears beginning to pool in the corners. His mind wandered back to a conversation he had overheard with an old Parisian physician giving wise advice to his young protégé.

Never treat a patient with your emotions but with intellect and logic—treat with your head and not your heart. As a doctor, sometimes you will have to cause the patient pain in order that they heal properly. If you omit a necessary treatment because it causes short-term suffering, then you are robbing them of long-term benefits—benefits they refuse to see through the pain.

“Porthos, I’m going to need your help,” d’Artagnan called over his shoulder. “We need Aramis in a position where he can take this tea without spilling it on him or him choking on it. He’s being stubborn; I can’t do this alone.”

Porthos gave a slight throaty growl of displeasure as he stood. “Remember wha’ I said about not makin’ me come over here, ‘Mis?” Porthos stood beside the bed with his hands on his hips. “Don’t think your sad eyes will work wit’ me; I’ve known you too long for 'at to work.”

“M-m. . .” Aramis shivered, his hand still clenched around a handful of blanket.

“Alrigh’, looks like we go’ no other choice,” he said to d’Artagnan. Porthos picked Aramis up by the shoulders then slid in behind him on the bed. He propped his large back against the wall before pulling the medic close to him; he wrapped his arms tightly around the medic's chest to hold him in place. “Okay, li'l brother, give ‘im the tea.”

D’Artagnan placed the cup at Aramis’ lips and tipped it back, allowing the liquid to pour into his mouth. The medic instinctively had to swallow, though some tea did dribble down into his beard. “Sorry,” the pup apologized. “I’ll slow it down a little.”

The young Gascon continued pouring the tea into Aramis until the medic had enough and turned away. “Okay, you took a good amount. Let’s hope it has time to absorb into your system before it comes back up again.” D’Artagnan wiped the spilled tea from Aramis’ chin and beard.

“Are you going to stay back there?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos, who appeared to be settling in and getting comfortable.

“Yes, I’ll stay wit’ ‘im for a while.” Porthos answered, pulling Aramis in closer to his chest. “He does better when one of us is next to ‘im, anyway. Besides,” he lowered his voice, “I don’t want him alone the next time he vomits. Sometimes our support at their back is the only strength they have left.”

“W-what ab-about Athos?” Aramis choked out, followed by a few painful coughs. His head fell against Porthos’ chest, exhausted. He let out a long breath through his mouth, followed with a shallow intake of air through his nose to avoid another fit of coughing. “God, it’s hard to breathe; it feels like a bull is sitting on my chest.”

“Well, if you had a bull sitting on your chest, Aramis, believe me, you wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.” D’Artagnan corrected, chuckling lightly.

Aramis opened his eyes just enough to glare at the young man staring back at him. D’Artagnan’s eyes were so warm and full of compassion for his sick friend that it melted away any annoyance the medic felt. Aramis gave his young friend a faint smile before letting his eyes slide closed again.

D’Artagnan stepped away when Aramis’ voice stopped him short. "Don’t leave Athos alone; sit with him a while.”

“Of course I will, Aramis.”

“The punishment for treason is death,” said the king’s magistrate. “For this particularly heinous offense, the king believes that death by hanging is not befitting of the crime. Aramis, you are hereby sentenced to be burned at the stake. All others who knew of this secret, but said nothing, including the queen, will be forced to watch you burn. Afterward, they will be taken away to be hanged.”

“No! You cannot hang the queen! You can’t do this. . .” Aramis screamed.

“You were one of my own Musketeers,” King Louis said. “I trusted you, Aramis, yet you betrayed me. You took my wife from me; I want nothing more to do with you. Take him away!” the king yelled to the guards.

“No! You can’t do this, stop!” Aramis screamed as the guards tied him to the stake and filled the pile with kindling poles. Slowly, they lowered their torches to the kindling and he watched with horror as the flames climbed higher and closer.

He fought to get away but the ties kept him bound in place. The flames licked his body, burning his clothes. “No. . .!”

“No!” Aramis awakened from his nightmare with a gasp. It felt like his lungs and his entire body was on fire. He struggled against the arms that held him in place but they were too strong.

“Aramis, stop struggling!” Porthos yelled as he wrapped his arms tighter around the medic. “You were having a bad dream—it was just a dream! ‘Mis, you’re okay. . . it was just a dream.”

“Porthos?” Aramis questioned, still in a daze. The confusion was quickly replaced by dread as he felt the unmistakable reflex of bile rising to his throat. “Oh God. . .”

Aramis leaned over the bed and vomited harshly again and again. Porthos held him as he rubbed circles on his back until he realized that the medic was gasping for air, unable to breathe.

Porthos began pounding on Aramis’ back with the ball of his fist, as he saw the medic do with Athos, to dislodge the congestion from his lungs; he continued pounding until he was able to breathe again.

Falling back into Porthos’ arms, Aramis was completely exhausted and out of breath. He felt as though he had just finished sparring with the devil himself.

“Try to get your breathing under control, ‘Mis.” Porthos soothed with a low voice. “Breathe slow. . . I’ve got ya, brother.”

“N-now I know. . . how Athos f-felt.” Aramis choked out, his body shivering again from the rising fever tormenting his body. “God, it hurts. . . I’m so c-cold.”

Porthos pulled Aramis closer in to his chest, settling his friend against his body for warmth. “Just lean your head back against my shoulder and go to sleep. I’ll keep you warm, my brother,” he whispered softly in the medic’s ear.

D’Artagnan draped a blanket over Aramis, carefully tucking it around the medic’s shoulders while trying to keep Porthos uncovered. “You should try to get some rest too, Porthos.”

“Yeah, I will,” the large Musketeer agreed as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

The young Gascon stood watching his sleeping friends for a moment as tears welled in his eyes. “Sleep well, my friends.” D'Artagnan wiped his eyes dry as he grabbed some towels and began mopping up the vomit on the floor.

“I know about you and the queen—your dirty little secret. Did you really think that you could keep such a thing hidden?” Rochefort’s malevolent tone was cold and hard, matching the look in his dark eyes.

Aramis circled around the blonde man, his sword in one hand and main gauche in the other, carefully watching his opponent’s body language to anticipate his next move.

“Aramis?” The queen interrupted, breaking the Musketeer’s concentration for a fraction of a second; that is all it took for Rochefort to lunge, piercing Aramis through with his sword.

“No!” Aramis screamed once again as he awoke. The pain piercing his stomach felt as though he was stabbed in reality. The medic doubled over with his arms pressing into his belly, groaning out in pain. “Oh God, make the pain stop,” he choked.

“‘Mis, please, tell me what to do!” Porthos begged. “Is there anything that will help wit’ the pain?”

“Doctor Molyneux talked about giving Athos valerian tea to help ease his pain,” d’Artagnan interjected. “I’ll go see if he has more; I'll be right back.”

“Lean back into me, ‘Mis.” Porthos suggested to his hurting friend. “Maybe if you sit up, your belly won’t hurt as much.”

“No, Porth’s,” Aramis protested. “No. . . it feels better. . . when I- I’m on m-my side. Let me l-lay d-down again. . . p-please.” Aramis begged, shaking so hard he could hardly speak.

“I’m not so sure ‘at’s a good idea,” Porthos grumbled.

“Please. . . I n-need to l-lay down. . . it hurts!” Aramis hissed.

“Alright, but if you start havin’ problems again, I’m comin’ back here. . . whether you like it or not.”

Aramis quietly nodded. He gasped in pain as Porthos moved out from behind him then turned to gently lay the medic flat on the bed. “God. . .oh God. . . it hurts.”

Violent tremors shook through Aramis' body, causing his hands to shake uncontrollably as he tried pulling the blanket around himself.

Porthos pulled up the blanket and tucked it around the medic’s shoulders. "Go to sleep, 'Mis," he leaned over and softly kissed his friend on the forehead. The large Musketeer squeezed Aramis' shoulder gently, letting him know he was not suffering alone. “I wish I could trade places wit you, somehow take away your pain. I would do it in a heartbeat, if I could. I hope you know ‘at.”

Aramis nodded as he slowly rolled onto his side; he curled himself into a ball and drew his legs up parallel with his waist. The medic grabbed a fist full of blanket to channel the pain from inside his belly then closed his eyes. He gratefully slipped into the awaiting grip of darkness where, at last, he felt no more pain.

Chapter Text

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged worried glances. Anxiously they watched as the medic appeared to slip deeper into a fevered slumber as his head tossed from side to side, caught in the grips of an unknown dream.

“His fever burns real hot, d’Artagnan.” Porthos shook his head grimly. “I think it migh’ be time to go ask for help.”

“I think you’re right. I’ll go see if Doctor Molyneux is available.” D’Artagnan left the room to fetch the doctor, stopping just outside the door where he leaned against the wall. He took off his mask and gulped in the fresh air as though he had been under water.

He wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes and leaned over at the waist as he was overcome with dizziness. “God please, I can’t get sick too; Porthos needs my help in there! I can’t leave him alone to take care of all three of us.”

Waiting until the dizziness passed, d’Artagnan put his mask back on before making his way to the infirmary.

D’Artagnan entered the infirmary and instantly regretted coming back to this place. Though he had stopped by the sickroom before and was surprised then at the severity of the illness, it was nothing compared to the appalling scene he was now looking at. The infirmary was overrun, with every bed full; extra cots filled the aisles and every row with the sick and dying Musketeers.

“Merciful God,” d’Artagnan gasped. The Gascon had to fight the urge to run from the room as his stomach rolled and threatened to rebel. He breathed deeply, reminding himself that he came here to get help; as he looked around, he feared they wouldn't be able to spare anyone. How could he ask the doctor to leave all these sick men to care for one; no matter who that one was?

“D’Artagnan, I assume you came here to ask for help, yes?” M. Molyneux inquired.

“I, um, y-yes. . .” d’Artagnan stumbled over his words. He really didn’t want to burden the poor doctor any further.

“As you can plainly see, we are overrun with cases and I have my hands quite full. What is the problem, is it Athos? Has he awakened?” Molyneux inquired.

“No, there is no change with Athos. It’s actually Aramis I’m seeking help for.” D’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably as a Musketeer vomited a great deal of liquid into a bowl near where the Gascon stood.

“What is wrong with our dear medic, my boy?” The doctor continued with his ministrations of the sick Musketeer while speaking with the Gascon.

“Doctor, Aramis’ fever is spiking,” d’Artagnan said, his voice laced with worry. “I think he’s becoming delirious—he’s mumbling and talking in his sleep.”

“Yes, you need to reduce the fever,” the doctor absently stated the obvious. “Have you and Porthos been using the cold compresses as you did with Athos?”

“Yes, doctor, and so far, nothing is working, not even the tea. He just keeps getting worse.”

“Doctor, excuse me,” Cécile interrupted. “I would like to assist them with Aramis, if I may? I know you are busy in here with so many sick men, but perhaps I can be of help to Aramis.”

“Yes, of course, Cécile.” Molyneux nodded. “It seems to have settled down in here somewhat. Doctor Senne and I can manage for a while. Please, do what you can for our young medic; these Musketeers need the talent and skill that only he can offer.”

“Thank you, doctor, you’re very kind,” d’Artagnan said. He smiled and sighed, feeling grateful for the compliment paid to his friend.

“Are you alright, young man?” Molyneux noted the weary sound to d’Artagnan’s voice. “Are you starting to feel ill?”

“I’m just tired, doctor.” D’Artagnan brushed off the question. “I hate to ask, but. . . but what are the casualties so far?

“Well, the good news is that I believe we have reached the climax of this illness. I’ve been studying the various combinations of herbs to administer as medicine and I think I have finally found what works the best. All new cases who have been given this special mix of herbs appear to be recovering within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” The doctor sighed with relief. “Many of the men you see in here have already begun showing signs of improvement, though further study of our other treatments is still required.”

“That is good news, doctor!” D’Artagnan knew Molyneux was hesitating on the remainder of information he really wanted to know, however. “And the bad news. . .?”

“And the bad news is that we have six dead Musketeers.” Molyneux sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Six?” d’Artagnan repeated with shock. “Last time I was in here there were two. . . and now there are four more gone?” The Gascon wobbled on his feet, but the physician reached out to steady him until he regained his footing.

“I am sorry, d’Artagnan, for your loss.” Molyneux apologized after delivering such terrible news. “Please, take Cécile and do everything you can to make sure Aramis and Athos get well again, do you hear me young man?”

“Yes, and thank you.” D’Artagnan turned and guided Cécile away from the infirmary, her hand resting in the crook of his arm.

“D’Artagnan?” Cécile stopped outside the infirmary with hesitation. “How is Aramis, is it bad?”

“Cécile, I don’t know, honestly,” d’Artagnan sighed wearily. “I mean, between Athos, and now Aramis, we’re doing everything we can, yet it never seems to be enough. We have fevers and vomiting and coughing. . . and more vomiting and coughing. As if that isn’t enough, Aramis is now delirious and I don’t know what to do anymore!”

“D’Artagnan, you’re tired.” Cécile squeezed the Gascon’s hand. “I see how worried you are—and how utterly exhausted. I pray this godforsaken illness will be over soon! Please, d’Artagnan, hang on just a little while longer; you and Porthos are so deserving of time off and rest. Come on, let’s go.” Cécile turned toward the room, dreading what she might find.

Later:

Cécile was seated in the chair beside Aramis’ bed, holding his hand tightly in hers as she sponged his fevered face, neck and chest.

New beads of sweat popped up to replace those only just wiped away. Fevered tremors racked his slender frame causing him to moan in pain.

“Shh. . .” Cécile once again replaced the cold compress on his neck and chest. She laid her hand flat, as though to calm his chest heaving beneath her cool hand. “You’re going to be okay, Aramis, just sleep.”

Aramis grimaced and tossed his head side-to-side as bad memories haunted his fevered dreams. “Isabelle, don’t go. . .”

Cécile glanced at d’Artagnan beside her, but he shook his head and shrugged. They both turned their attention back to the medic as more delirious babbling spilled from his mouth.

“We can try again. . . we can have a new baby. . .”

Aramis stared out the window, searching for the bandits hiding among the trees. The queen came in to put extra reserves of ammunition in the pouch at his hip.

“That nun downstairs. . . my arrival was a disturbance,” the queen braved.

“You did not disturb anything” Aramis lied.

“. . . I’m not a fool. . .” the queen pressed for answers.

“I knew her once. . . we were to marry. She fell pregnant and the marriage was arranged. I was happy. I was in love and so was she. . .”

The queen smiled.

“But then she lost the child. . . her father took her away and put her in here. . .”

“I could love you again. . . I could learn to be happy. . .”

“What is he talking about?” Cécile asked d’Artagnan.

“There was a nun at the convent Athos and Aramis took refuge in during a mission a while ago. Apparently, Aramis and a nun living there knew each other. I don’t really know the details.” D’Artagnan felt uncomfortable and quickly dismissed the question.

“I see,” she nodded her understanding. “Poor, dear Aramis. It sounds as though he really loved her.”

The words from Aramis’ mouth spilled out from his fevered dream and overflowed from a heart still aching with unresolved pain.

Cécile’s own heart ached as she watched Aramis’ face crease with pain; he called out for his past love interests—now forever lost—asking them to come and comfort him.

“Anne. . .” Aramis began mumbling again in his sleep.

“I know this is wrong. . . I shouldn’t be doing this. . . but it feels so good.”

“What are they building?” The queen asked as she decided to just get up after being kept awake by the incessant noise outside.

“A battering ram, perhaps. . .”

The queen watched Aramis, his hands raked absently through his hair. Isabelle’s death had reawakened many sad memories he long ago buried.

“I too fell pregnant once, it was perfect. . .”

“She was right about me. . . she was right to stay away from me.”

“No, Aramis. You are brave and honorable and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you.”

The queen’s hand was on his shirt, at long last, they came together in a passionate kiss.

She moved his rifle, then stood; they move from the hallway to her bedroom.

“The baby. . . my son. . . I can never tell him I am his father. . . I must watch him grow up calling another man papa.”

“Oh God, Aramis,” d’Artagnan uttered in a low voice as his wide eyes connected in horror with Porthos.

“The queen. . .” Cécile gasped as she figured out the secret Aramis unwillingly and unknowingly revealed to fresh ears.

“We only recently learned of these secrets ourselves,” Porthos said, his voice low and deliberate. “You understand the serious, and potentially deadly, ramifications these secrets carry with them, do you not?”

Cécile nodded briskly.

“Aramis’ secret could cost him his life—and the queen’s. This secret must never, and I say again, never be revealed to anyone,” Porthos whispered gruffly, his face deadly serious.

“Porthos and d’Artagnan,” Cécile nervously looked to each man. “I know you don’t know me very well and you have no reason to trust me. But know this, I understand each of you better than you realize, just from being around you and nursing you to health at the château. I know your brotherhood and your bond with each other is very strong—and I respect that about you.”

The two Musketeers traded glances, but remained quiet.

“You can trust, I will never reveal any secrets told by Aramis today. He has no control over what he is saying and I am rather embarrassed to be made privy to his inner and most personal secrets. As a matter of fact, it is best that Aramis not be informed by anyone in this room what he has said while fevered. . . for his own peace of mind.”

“That’s for sure,” d’Artagnan huffed in agreement.

“He would probably be horrified to learn that I know of his past secrets. So please, gentlemen, Aramis does not need to learn what he has revealed while fevered; I also will never speak of the secrets that I have learned. You have my word of honor on that promise.”

“Alright, I believe you then.” Porthos said resolutely.

“I do too,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Not a word to anyone—from any of us.”

Hours Later:

“Gentlemen, his fever has broken!” Cécile announced with excitement.

“Aramis? Can you hear me?” D’Artagnan took the medic’s hand in his own and squeezed gently.

Aramis groaned as he fought to escape the haze of consciousness. His eyelids were heavy, he felt so tired and weak; he simply ached all over. His stomach muscles screamed in agony with every movement and his throat felt ragged and raw.

“‘Mis, come on now,” Porthos encouraged. “Wake up! Your lit’le nap was more than long enough.”

“Hmm. . .” Aramis heard the voices of his friends beckoning and calling him back. He pried his eyes open, blinking against the brightness invading his blurry vision. Deciding the darkness was more agreeable, he let his eyelids slide closed again. No, I prefer the darkness where it’s peaceful and void of pain.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Porthos growled. “I said your lit’le nap was long enough, ‘Mis!” The large Musketeer lightly smacked Aramis on the cheek.

Aramis’ eyes popped open at Porthos’ smack. Why is Porthos so angry? Was he that worried about me?

Sensing the questions and confusion on the medic’s face, Cécile spoke up with the hope it would grab his attention; it would be rather unexpected.

“Aramis, it’s Cécile.” The nurse spoke softly as she took the medic’s hand in hers. “Wake up for us, please.”

“Cécile?” Aramis opened his eyes and abruptly pulled his hand from her grip. “No, don’t touch me! Please, stay away; I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Aramis, really?” Cécile frowned under her mask. “I have been around dozens of sick men already in the infirmary. I have held their hands as they vomited on the floor around my feet. I have held them as they cried out in pain; and I have held some hands that will never be held again. Don’t you tell me to stay away, Aramis!”

Aramis listened to the scolding without saying a word.

“Besides, you have to get better; you owe me a kiss.” Cécile quipped, trying to lighten the somber mood.

Porthos burst into laughter. “Well, I guess she told you, eh?” Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on the back in celebration and relief.

D’Artagnan winced at the well-meaning clap to his shoulder. He wanted to celebrate and laugh with Porthos, but he was fighting to control his rebelling stomach. He certainly did not want to spoil this happy moment for Aramis.

“It seems I have no choice but to recover,” Aramis yawned. “I am in debt to my nurse and to my brothers; and, yes, I still owe everyone a drink.” The medic managed a weak smile.

“I told ya I was goin’ to hold ya to that,” Porthos feigned a growl. “I mean it.”

Aramis’ smile grew a little wider with Porthos’ teasing but sleep was quickly overwhelming his exhausted body. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to consume him with a smile still on his lips.

Later:

“I wasn’t too much trouble, was I?” Aramis asked d’Artagnan. The young Gascon was slumped in his chair beside the medic’s bed, fighting to stay awake. He sat with his long legs crossed and his booted feet propped up on the bed next to Aramis.

“You were no more trouble than could be expected,” d’Artagnan mumbled weakly. “Perhaps you were a little. . . uncooperative.”

“I would add a lit’le stubborn too,” Porthos nodded. “But you know wha’ they say, healers often make the worst patients.” The large Musketeer smiled but it quickly faded as he watched Aramis’ eyes turn toward the unconscious Athos lying unattended and alone.

“How long has it been Porthos?” Aramis asked in a whisper.

“Almost a week now.”

“A week?” Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “God be merciful, if he doesn’t wake up soon. . .”

Aramis was interrupted as d’Artagnan suddenly pulled his legs from the bed and doubled over in his chair. The Gascon tore the mask from his face in a hurry as he vomited over his boots, retching again and again until his rebelling stomach was finally empty.

“‘Mis. . .” D’Artagnan muttered before collapsing forward onto the bed into blissful darkness.

Chapter Text

Aramis was stunned as d’Artagnan collapsed unconscious across his bed; no one had any idea the Gascon was even sick. The medic fought the dizziness and nausea washing over him as he threw his legs over the edge of the cot to stand; he stopped short as he nearly pitched forward to the floor.

“What do you think you are doing, eh?” Porthos cracked. The large Musketeer glared at Aramis as he squatted beside the Gascon, still slumped over the bed. “You can’t get ou’ of bed, you’re not well enough yet.”

“Porthos, d’Artagnan is sick, I can manage sitting in a chair so he can have the bed,” Aramis argued. “We have to take care of d’Artagnan now; I’ll be alright.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos protested. “I’ll go get another cot so you can lie down. If you start wearin’ yourself out by gettin’ up too soon, you’ll be sick again in no time. You are not well enough to take care of yourself—let alone the pup—I ca’ handle this.”

“Porthos. . .” Aramis stood to protest but a wave of dizziness toppled him sideways onto the bed, landing beside d’Artagnan.

“Stay put dammit, ‘Mis!” Porthos growled. He looked around the room to see where he could place the extra cot.

“Porthos, just let him lie here on the bed with me,” Aramis sighed. “There’s plenty of room and I don’t mind sharing.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Porthos shook his head against the suggestion. “What are you going to do when he starts vomiting,” Porthos paused as he thought. "Can you get sick again?”

“I don’t think I can get sick again. . . catarrh is already in me,” Aramis countered. “Besides, I don’t mind taking care of him; he took pretty good care of me when I was sick.” The medic smoothed hair away from the Gascon’s fevered brow.

“Alright, but if I see you startin’ to get sick again, I’m gettin’ another cot and you are moving!” Porthos ordered.

“Fine,” Aramis said as Porthos laid the Gascon down on the bed beside his new bunk mate. The medic moved to the edge of the bunk as far as he could go up against the wall; he lay on his side to give d’Artagnan plenty of room.

“Are you sure there’s enough room, ‘Mis?” Porthos asked as he watched Aramis scrunch himself against the wall.

“Yes, there’s plenty of room for the both of us.” Aramis let his head drop back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. He reached an arm over the Gascon’s chest and watched him sleep until he could no longer hold his eyes open. Only then did he allow himself to finally drift off to sleep.

Aramis was awakened by the sound of coughing next to him on the bunk. The harsh coughs wracked the body of the Gascon as he tried to catch his breath—to no avail. D'Artagnan turned onto his side with dread as he felt the bile begin to rise.

D’Artagnan vomited over the edge of the bed, the contents sent splashing across the floor. He heaved up liquid and bile again and again; his stomach tormented him with furious savagery.

“God. . . it hurts!” D’Artagnan pounded the bed frame with his fist, fighting against the pain. His aching muscles twisted in agony as dry heaves tortured his body and robbed him of his breath. When the retching stopped, he was left depleted and weak. He spit the sourness from his mouth and fell back against the pillow, panting and soaked with sweat.

Porthos swabbed the Gascon’s face with a cool cloth while tenderly moving the clumps of wet hair from his fevered skin. “Take it easy, pup. You’re gonna be alright.”

“I know it hurts, d’Artagnan, believe me.” Aramis rubbed soothing circles on the Gascon’s chest. “Don’t fight the pain, flow with it,” the medic advised. “Breathe through the pain—it seems to help. I know it sounds easier said than done, but I’ve been through this; if I can beat catarrh, you can too.”

“No. . . you are s-stronger than m-me, Aramis,” d’Artagnan shivered. “You’ve always b-been stronger than me. You s-seem to handle everyth’ng life throws at you wi-with such gr-grace. . . I’m n-not like you.” The young Gascon gasped as another wave of pain coursed through his middle. “Damn. . .”

“What are you talking about, d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked softly. “You’re right about not being like me; you’re better than me. Remember what you said when you first came storming into the garrison looking for Athos?”

D’Artagnan nodded slowly, letting out a slight huff of amusement.

“You said, ‘prepare to fight, one of us dies here.’” Aramis remembered the moment with a smile.

“And you said to m-me, ‘now, that’s the w-way to make an en-entrance.”

“That’s right,” Aramis nodded. “You stormed your way into the garrison and you stormed your way into our friendship—and into our hearts—with your boldness and tenacity. You’re not weak, d’Artagnan—far from it. You are strong enough to beat this and I’m going to help you, I promise.”

“I promise too,” Porthos interjected as he put aside the bowl of water.

D’Artagnan awoke with a constricting pain in his chest. He panicked as he tried to draw breath but found his lungs too heavy and sluggish; he felt as though he was suffocating. He writhed as pain shot through his middle like he had been stabbed, adding to the misery in his chest. “ Ar'mis. . .” he gasped.

“I’m here, d’Artagnan, breathe with me.” Aramis turned the Gascon's chin toward him as he leaned on his elbow. “Breathe in slowly. . . breathe out. . . breathe in. . . and out.” The medic breathed with d’Artagnan until the young man was wracked with another fit of harsh coughing that put him right back where he started—unable to breathe.

D'Artagnan distantly felt himself being lifted then draped over someone as large hands began pounding on his back. “Breathe, dammit!” Porthos growled as he pounded on the young man's back with the ball of his fist.

D’Artagnan fought, writhing and struggling to breathe. The burning in his chest sucked the air from his lungs until there was nothing left but the sweet approaching darkness.

“Don’t you dare pass out. . . don’t you do it, dammit!” Porthos gave one last hard smack on the back, freeing the congestion from the Gascon's lungs. The sputum came up, dribbling in slow strands from his mouth. “Spit, d’Artagnan,” Porthos ordered. “Spit it out; I’ll clean it up later.”

The young Gascon spit then finally drew in a gulp of air; he wheezed and gasped, trying desperately to fill his lungs and breathe again. “God, please help. . .”

“Shh, don’t try to talk, pup.” Porthos’ large hands turned from a fist to rubbing circles with the palm of his hand. He massaged with calming and relaxing circles over the tense muscles on the young man's back, trying to smooth out the knots. The large Musketeer watched with satisfaction as d’Artagnan visibly relaxed and began breathing normally.

A soft knock at the door made Porthos raise his head up, his concentration on the patient across his lap broken by the interruption. “Come in,” he called.

Cécile poked her head into the room and stopped short at the sight of d’Artagnan draped across Porthos’ lap, the Gascon’s face still darkly colored from his struggle to breathe. “Oh dear Lord,” the nurse gasped. “How long has d’Artagnan been sick? Porthos, why didn’t you come get me? You don’t have to take care of everyone by yourself!”

“I’m not by myself,” Porthos smiled. “‘Mis is helpin’ some too.” The large Musketeer motioned to the bed where Aramis was sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“Aramis!” Cécile exclaimed happily as she opened the door wide enough to spot him. “You are looking so much better than when I last saw you. How are you feeling?”

“Better, but still tired,” Aramis answered honestly. “D’Artagnan is the one to be concerned about now—and Athos, of course. I’ll be alright.”

“Things are beginning to look up in the infirmary with the perfect mixture of herbs to combat the fever. We also found—through trial and error—that we have been treating the patients all wrong!” Cécile informed the Musketeers with mixed emotions.

“What do you mean we’ve been treating the patients all wrong?” Aramis asked.

“We found that by allowing the body to sweat, the fever will run its course faster than by cooling the body down with the cold compresses and sponging. If we give the patient hot tea and pile on the blankets so that they sweat enough to soak their clothes and sheets, the fever is usually broken within a day or two.”

“You mean to tell me that if we had made Athos sweat, instead of coolin’ him down like we did, he migh’ no’ be in a coma?” Porthos asked, incredulous.

“Oh God. . .” Aramis visibly paled and swayed on the edge of the bed. “Then Athos falling into a coma is my fault.”

“What kind of talk is that, ‘Mis?” Porthos grumbled. “How is it your fault?”

“I encouraged treatment of Athos by cooling his skin with cold compresses,”Aramis said, horrified. “Oh God, what have I done?”

“Aramis, it’s not your fault,” Cécile assured the medic. “We were doing the same thing in the infirmary. If we had known we were using the wrong treatment earlier, maybe we could have saved more lives. The only reason we know this treatment works is because M. Molyneux experimented with different combinations of herbs, along with the hot and cold treatments, just to see what worked best. Please, don’t feel bad; we all had to learn this the hard way.”

“Don’t feel bad?” Aramis’s voice cracked. “Athos lies in a coma because I put him there! I compounded this catarrh bug every time I sponged him down with cold water.”

“Alright, then I put several Musketeers in their graves every single time I wiped their brows with a cold cloth, Aramis!” Cécile cried. “We cannot dwell on the mistakes that we made; we can only correct them and work toward saving lives with what we have learned.” The nurse wiped the tears from her face.

“She’s right, ‘Mis,” Porthos agreed. “There’s no way we could 'ave known our treatment for Athos wasn’t working. If you are guilty of puttin’ Athos in that coma, then so am I and so is d’Artagnan; we all took turns wiping him down with cold rags. If you are goin’ to blame yourself, then blame us too; we’re just as guilty!”

“Gentlemen, no one is to blame for Athos’ coma!” Cécile interjected. “Besides, I think the sweating treatment works only at the onset of catarrh, when the fever has initially begun. If the fever is advanced then, obviously, cooling their body down is top priority or else the fever rises to unsafe levels-- and that is what leads to death.”

“Then the treatment is too late for Athos,” Aramis said in a low voice. “If only I had known about this when he initially fell ill. I assume that once he’s in a coma there’s nothing we can do, correct?”

“Correct,” the nurse answered with a nod. “I’m sorry, Aramis, but Athos will have to wake up when he is ready. However, it’s not too late for d’Artagnan. We can save him a lot of suffering—possibly have him well by tomorrow—if we get started on this treatment right away.”

“Well, let’s ge’ started then,” Porthos resolved. “I’ll help you gather up anything you need, Cécile. If we can get d’Artagnan well by tomorrow, I’m willin’ to do whatever it takes.”

Chapter Text

It’s not too late for d’Artagnan. We can save him a lot of suffering—possibly have him well by tomorrow—if we get started on this treatment right away.”

“Well, let’s ge’ started then,” Porthos resolved. “I’ll help you gather up anything you need, Cécile. If we can get d’Artagnan well by tomorrow, I’m willin’ to do whatever it takes.”

“If I had known d’Artagnan was sick, I would have brought everything we needed with me. We have plenty more in the infirmary, let’s go Porthos.” The nurse turned and left from the room with a newly-encouraged Porthos on her heels.

Cécile mixed together elderberry, ginger and boneset in hot water then allowed the tea to steep and cool to a safe temperature. Porthos readied the blankets and set them beside the bed. The large Musketeer then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled d’Artagnan upright into his arms, holding him tight against his chest.

“D’Artagnan, I need you to drink this tea.” Cécile carefully brought the cup of tea to the Gascon’s mouth. “It’s going to help you get better.”

The young Musketeer turned his head away, refusing the proffered tea. “No, I d-don’t w-want it; I’ll just throw it up again.”

“Dammit, d’Artagnan, don’t argue with the nurse.” Porthos threatened with a low growl. “Do as she says and drink the tea!” the exhausted man snapped.

Aramis’ eyes widened at the uncharacteristic yelling of his dear friend and eyed him with concern.

The Gascon obeyed the harsh orders and allowed the nurse to slowly pour the liquid into his mouth, taking little sips until he couldn’t drink anymore. “No more, p-please.”

“Very good, d’Artagnan, that’s enough.” Cécile patted his knee softly. “Okay, let’s lay him down and cover him up with the blankets.”

“Um, ‘Mis,” Porthos stopped short at seeing Aramis still sitting on the bed looking downcast. “You can’t stay on the bed if we cover up d'Artagnan with these blankets, you’ll get too hot.”

“Why isn’t there a third cot in here?” Cécile asked, looking around the room.

“‘Mis, do you want me to go get another cot? Or would you like to lay on the bed with. . .” Porthos' voice trailed.

“No,” Aramis sighed, “I’ll sit in a chair.” The medic got off the bed and moved to a chair next to Athos’ bedside. He sat, quietly staring at his friend lying on the bed, in deep thought. “On second thought, I think I will lie down next to Athos.” Aramis’ face brightened as he looked to his larger friend. “Help me scoot him over, Porthos.”

“Hold on a minute, li'l brother.” Porthos patted d’Artagnan on the shoulder. “Be right back.”

Aramis and Porthos worked together to push Athos to the furthest side of the bed so the medic could position himself before pulling the unconscious man carefully into his arms. He rested Athos’ head against his chest then wrapped his arms around his friend; he turned toward the wall, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Porthos returned to d’Artagnan’s bedside, wiping his eyes dry. He readied the blankets then prepared to pull them over the young Gascon. “Alright brother, let’s get you tucked in real good.”

“No, Porthos, I’m going to get too hot under here.” D’Artagnan complained as his body already was heating up from the tea.”

“‘At’s the whole purpose, d'Artagnan. We want you to sweat so hopefully by tomorrow you are feelin’ a lot better. Now just quiet yourself, close your eyes and go to sleep.” Porthos pulled the blankets over the young Musketeer.

“Yes, m-mother.” D’Artagnan wearily smiled as he closed his eyes, falling asleep instantly.

An exhausted Porthos smiled, though his tired smile was hidden by the mask.

Porthos was awakened by the sound of moaning, but his tired mind didn’t register the urgency as he heard d’Artagnan mumble, “sick.” The Gascon rolled to the edge of the bed as his stomach emptied, the vomit splashing over the top of Porthos’ boots.

“Arghh. . . damn!” Porthos growled as he looked down at his wet boots.

There’s never a dull moment around these boys! Cécile thought quietly.

“I’ll get more tea made,” Cécile was glad for the mask hiding her smile as she got up to prepare the tea. “We need to keep putting the herbs into his system, even if he just vomits it back up again later. The herbs will work eventually at reducing his fever—as well as work on the nausea.”

Once again, Porthos pulled the young Gascon up into his arms while the nurse slowly offered d’Artagnan sips of tea. After drinking the tea, d'Artagnan was tucked back under the layers of blankets while the large Musketeer set out to clean the vomit from the floor.

After a while, Porthos checked on d'Artagnan and found his fevered face covered with a shiny layer of sweat. In the dim evening candlelight the Musketeer saw tracks of sweat where beads of perspiration had rolled down his hot skin.

“Constance. . . Constance. . .” The young Gascon repeated, mumbling the name as though calling to her in his fevered dream. Occasionally, d’Artagnan would moan in pain but, he never moved more than just his head as it tossed restlessly back and forth on the pillow.

“Can I at least wipe the sweat from his face?” Porthos asked Cécile as he watched a bead of sweat roll across his temple then disappear into his matted hair.

“You can dab at the skin with a dry cloth, but nothing more,” Cécile answered.

Porthos proceeded to dab at d’Artagnan’s sweat-soaked skin. He pushed back the matted hair from his face, carefully wiping around his eyes and around his throat. “I know you’re hot, lit’le brother. Tomorrow, when you’re feelin’ better, it will all be worth it.” He sat back in his chair to keep vigil on the youngest Musketeer, bracing himself for the long night ahead.

“Constance, please be okay. . .” D’Artagnan writhed under the covers, moaning in misery. Porthos saw the Gascon’s eyes suddenly spring open as he turned to his side, “I’m going to be. . .”

Porthos grabbed the bowl just as the vomit poured from d’Artagnan’s mouth. The healing tea was violently, almost defiantly, released in an agonizing and breathless bout of retching.

D’Artagnan gasped for breath as he hung over the edge of the bed, heaving every last drop of the tea until his muscles screamed in anguish. He clung to the mattress underneath him with a grip so tight his knuckles turned white. “Damn. . . it h-hurts. Please. . . make it s-stop!”

“Shh. . . I’m sorry, pup.” Porthos rubbed the Gascon's back as he lay on his stomach gasping for breath, still gripping the mattress. “Cécile, do we have some more tea to give d’Artagnan while he’s awake?”

“Yes, I’m making it now, Porthos.”

“No, I d-don’t want more t-tea. God, it h-hurts,” d’Artagnan grimaced in pain, his breath hissing through his teeth. “It feels like s-someone is tw-twisting a knife in my g-gut.”

“Brother, I’m going to sit you up so you can drink this tea." Porthos ignored the Gascon's earlier rejections. "It will help you sleep,” he said. The large Musketeer pulled d'Artagnan up and supported him in his strong arms.

D’Artagnan screamed out in pain as he was moved into Porthos’ tight embrace. Involuntary tears streamed from his eyes and rolled down his flushed cheeks.

“Don’t cry, lit'le brother.” Porthos’ voice cracked as he wiped away the tears with his thumb. “Just hang on a lit’le while longer; it will all be over soon.”

Over the course of the night, Cécile and Porthos prepared cups of the healing herbal tea for d’Artagnan, only to have him vomit it up hours later. The duo simply made more tea, helping d’Artagnan drink it down; the pair then tucked the Gascon back under his blankets so he could sleep.

Finally, after an agonizing ordeal of drinking tea. . . vomiting. . . repeating the entire process. . . a bone-weary d’Artagnan fell into an exhausted sleep. Sweat seemed to ooze from every pore on his fevered skin, drenching his clothes and sheets; the Gascon's hot skin shimmered in the soft candlelight. Porthos sat by the bedside dabbing at the sweat-soaked face, whispering words of comfort until satisfied his young friend would finally rest.

Several Hours Later:

Porthos’ slumped frame filled the chair that sat beside the Gascon's bedside. The large Musketeer slept with his head hanging over the back, his arm dangled over the side with his long fingers touching the floor. Loud snores emanated from the exhausted Musketeer, competing with the soft snores coming from the bed where d’Artagnan was finally sleeping soundly under the pile of blankets.

Cécile tried not to giggle at the echoing snores as she watched Aramis shake his head at the noise rising from his sleeping brothers. “It looks like we made it through another night.” Aramis smiled as the bright, early afternoon sunshine streaming in through the window.

“How are you feeling today?” The nurse whispered close to Aramis’ ear.

“I feel much better; in fact, better than I have in days.” Aramis licked his lips, feeling parched.

“Thirsty, huh?” Cécile handed a cup of water to the medic. “That’s a good sign. I believe you are on your way to recovery, Monsieur Aramis.”

Their attention was instantly directed to the bed where a long groan was heard underneath the pile of blankets. Soon, the blankets were sent flying off to the side as d’Artagnan cried out for cooler air. “Dammit, I can’t stand it anymore under there! I’m dying under all those blankets,” the Gascon growled.

“Um, poor choice of words, brother,” Aramis quipped lightly.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to suffocate me under those layers of blankets!”

“How are you feeling, d’Artagnan?” Cécile asked. “Since you are grumbling with harsh complaints, it sounds as though you are feeling better,” she chuckled.

“Miserably hot. . . and sore,” d’Artagnan complained.

“Hot from the blankets, or hot from fever?” The nurse checked d’Artagnan’s temperature then squealed with delight. "His fever has broken!”

Porthos woke with a grunt, moaning from the soreness in his neck. “His fever broke?”

Aramis got up and moved to sit on the edge of the Gascon’s bed. He put his hand to d’Artagnan’s forehead to check the temperature for himself, as though he couldn’t believe the good news otherwise. “Yes, his fever is gone. Thank God,” he crossed himself with grateful relief.

Porthos laughed heartily and clapped d’Artagnan on his left thigh. “You beat it, li'l brother; you did it!”

d'Artagnan smiled at his two big brothers. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you all for helping me get through this."

Aramis and Porthos nodded quietly, each giving d'Artagnan a gentle squeeze on the shoulder and leg.

“I guess you were right about that new treatment working, Cécile.” Aramis smiled at the nurse and then at d'Artagnan. His smile disappeared as he turned to stare at the unmoving form of his friend on the other bed. “If only we could have known about sweating out the fever sooner. Maybe Athos wouldn’t be lying in a coma, but would be recovering like the rest of us.”

“Aramis, Athos is recovering—just not in the way you would prefer,” Cécile reminded. “A coma was Athos’ best chance at surviving catarrh. Due to his injuries and poor physical state, he probably wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

“I know, that is true,” Aramis agreed. “But the longer Athos is in a coma, the more dangerous it is and the more difficult it will be for him to awaken. We need to step up our efforts; we need to reach Athos and pull him free of the darkness or he may never wake up. We cannot let that happen; we cannot lose Athos!”

Chapter Text

d’Artagnan

“I’m sitting by the bed holding the hand of the man I consider to be my brother and my mentor. I remember when I came to the Musketeer garrison looking for you, I wanted to kill you; though I knew nothing about you.” D’Artagnan huffed in amusement at the memory.

“You have worked by my side as brother and have taken me under your wing as protégé. You have allowed me to make mistakes, knowing that I must learn from them. You have instructed, guided and advised me; I have soaked it all up like a sponge.”

“I yearned for the influence of one I so highly esteem. I hoped your skill and talent would help mold me into the kind of Musketeer I aspired to be.”

“Yes, I came to the garrison looking for blood; I stayed because I wanted to belong. Over time, I watched the closeness, the brotherhood of the trio everyone referred to as the Inseparables.”

“I remember thinking that I would give anything to be a part of a friendship such as that. I didn’t set out to infiltrate your brotherhood; I considered myself lucky just to have the occasional sparring session with any of you.”

“I never imagined it would be so easy to fit into your tight-knit group, let alone be considered a little brother.” Tears formed in d’Artagnan’s eyes at the memory. He wiped his eyes and paused to collect his emotions.

“How did I ever get to be so lucky?”

“Do you remember when your house was on fire? You were kneeling in the grass watching the house burn and I came to flush your eyes out with water. You grabbed my doublet and poured your heart out to me about what happened with your wife—the excruciating duty of having to ‘uphold the law’ and see your own wife hanged.”

“I wanted to tell you then how much my heart ached for you and how I felt your pain at that moment, but it was not my place. I am sorry that you had to endure such torment all those years.”

“I can’t imagine having to watch such a thing as executing your own wife. No one would blame you for not staying to watch her die. My God, that you had the courage to carry through with the hanging is befitting of your noble character.”

“I saw everything that you had given up when we went back to Pinon for you. You could be living the life of luxury, power and prestige as comte; instead you choose to live the simple life of a soldier. Yet, as a distinguished King’s Musketeer—even as a soldier-- you are anything but simple.”

“Though I must say, perhaps, you missed your true vocation as an actor,” d’Artagnan laughed.

“You are a very good actor, Athos. However, I am not really sure how much you were pretending when you had Milady seized by the throat in the street. I’m sure somewhere inside, you could have choked her with your bare hands. . . if your conscience would have allowed it.”

“But when you told Milady to kneel in the tunnel. . . whew.” D’Artagnan blew out a breath, like a whistle.

“I really thought for a minute you might kill her in front of us. I remember saying that I was glad you saved her; though I had my doubts later on.”

“Of course, your threat to kill Milady if she was to ever show her face in Paris again. . . well, that flew out the window, didn’t it?” d’Artagnan chuckled.

“I guess we both have our soft spots for the fairer sex, haven't we? When it’s all said and done, you are still a man of honor—whether your opponent is deserving of that honor or not.”

“That I can call myself your friend—your brother—I am lucky.”

“I am the luckiest man on the planet.”

Porthos

“I sit ‘ere beside your bed, watching you lie so still. You don’t like to be still but enjoy keeping busy, honing your skill as a swordsman, as a soldier and as a Musketeer.”

“You never claimed to be perfect, and you aren’t. You have your own moments of weakness, like everybody else.”

“Are we so different? Just like me, you also would rather forget your past. Yet you try to forget your past by drownin’ away the memories, one drink at a time. In all your drunken stupors, we were there to pick you up and support you—no questions asked—though we did have questions.”

“You never told us why you drowned away the memories haunting you; we respected you too much to ask. We figured you would tell us when you felt comfortable enough to share—in your own good time.”

“I just wish that you had opened up to us sooner. If I could have helped carry some of your burden, help to ease your pain in any way, I would 'ave done it.”

“I know you are a very private person, perhaps out of shame, because of wha’ happened with your wife. You put your complete trust in a woman you loved and she betrayed you.”

“Where I come from, trust is never given lightly—if at all. If I was betrayed, as you were, I would probably react the same way. . . by turning to the bot’le.”

“Where I lived. . .” Porthos let out a huff of disgust. “Bloody hell, I didn’t live; I existed. You do wha’ you havta to survive. You trust no one,” Porthos scowled.

“You give your friendship to no one. You learn to survive on your own, or else ya don’t survive in the Court.”

“I wouldn’t be a Musketeer if not for Captain Tréville. Even then, I expected my position as a Musketeer to simply be a job, at least it go’ me out of the slum.”

“I finally was somebody. I felt proud of myself for the first time ever in my life.”

“I never expected to find friendship, and I certainly never expected to find brotherhood. I wasn’t lookin’ to gain any brothers; I was fine on my own.”

“Then I met Aramis. Oi, there was somethin’ about ‘im. . . we connected instantly.”

“We became close—like brothers.”

“Then you came along. In your quiet and commanding way, you forged a friendship with us—with me—that I wouldn’t have thought possible.”

“I don’t see how we became such good friends, our backgrounds are too different—like day and night.”

“You were raised in opulence; you lived a life of privilege and wealth. You’re a comte, it is your birthright, Athos. You could still be Comte de le Fère.”

“I grew up in the Courts, the slums of Paris, where the wretched hide from people like you. I knew nothing but poverty and despair. I had to learn to steal if I was goin’ to eat. I had to learn the ways o’ the street.”

“I never thought I would amount to much. I was just another slum rat destined to beg or steal my way through life.”

“Yet, somehow, we both ended up here, in the Musketeers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as equals—as brothers.”

“How I could become as a brother with the likes of you?” Porthos shook his head in disbelief. “I still do no’ know.”

“But then I find out about my real father-- what I could stand to inherit-- and I see that, perhaps, we are not so different after all.”

“Even knowin’ what I could 'ave, the estate and the money, I would rather have my brother Musketeers.”

“I never trusted anyone so completely. I trust each of you with my life.”

“I never thought I would give my heart—let alone, my trust—over to three brothers I love more than my own life.”

“I am lucky. . .”

“I am the luckiest man on earth.”

Aramis

“I insisted that Porthos and d’Artagnan move away from your bedside so I could talk to you. They’ve been hovering around you like mother hens, watching over you and talking to you.”

“They miss you, Athos.” Aramis paused for several minutes. “I miss you.”

“I’m tired of looking over here and seeing you sleeping. It’s time for you to wake up; we need you and we’re not complete without you.” Aramis choked back tears.

“Sorry, I swore I wouldn’t do this. . .” Aramis paused, changing direction of the conversation. “I’m still a little sick, but I’m getting better. Porthos and d’Artagnan said I wasn’t very cooperative as a patient. Well, that goes without saying,” he chuckled.

“I think you would understand, though. You and I are both very stubborn men.”

“I don’t really remember how we became friends; it just seems like we were meant to be.”

“Porthos and I were friends for a while, when along came this soldier who carried himself differently and spoke differently; there was something about you that I found interesting and appealing.”

“You are mysterious, Athos, I’ll give you that. Even though Porthos and I didn’t know much about you, we couldn’t help but be drawn to you as brothers. You easily worked your way into our friendship and into our hearts.”

“While we are different, we are also the same. Did I say that we are both headstrong? We complement each other so well, and I am glad that we do; we make a good team.”

“At heart, we are just soldiers, you and I. You weren’t at Savoy, but you didn’t question why I supported Marsac—despite the rumors that he deserted without cause, and that he was a coward.”

“You never questioned why I needed to know the truth about what happened at Savoy; you supported me, even when you didn’t have to.”

“I remember when d’Artagnan and I were helping hide Agnès and baby Henri from the cardinal, when you and Porthos showed up.”

“You, of course, looked very serious—very soldierly—as always. On a side note, I’ve always wanted to say, that you really had me worried there for a minute. You had me fooled when you first arrived. I thought you would stand by your duty; instead, you stood by me.”

“I’ve never been so relieved to hear you say that you would help me. Though I don’t know why I was so surprised, honestly. I should have known that’s why you had come to find me. Why would I think you would do anything else?”

“That was a brilliant idea, by the way, of blowing up the brandy as a diversion. I don’t know that I would have thought of that. You always were the brilliant strategist of the group.”

“You have always had my back, Athos. I know that I can count on you to support me, no matter what. I trust you implicitly—I trust you with my life.”

“Sometimes I tend to lead with my heart and not think things through. How many times have I done something foolish and gotten you into danger right along with me?”

“Yet, each time, you stand by me without question; even when it could cost you your life. I don’t deserve such devotion.”

“My mistakes should be my own. You should not have to pay for my bad judgment. Yet, I often drag you down with me, along with the risks and the potential consequences.”

“What happened at the convent was no exception. That morning, when I saw you standing in the doorway of the queen’s room, you obviously knew.”

“The look of shock and disappointment on your face. . . I will never forget it. At that moment, my heart broke because I knew I had let you down. I knew that, once again, my mistake might cost you—and it could cost you dearly.”

“I ran after you. . . I don’t know if it was to ease my guilty conscience or if I was afraid you might reveal what you saw. God, how could I think that you would ever betray me? I didn’t deserve your loyalty, after I had been so stupid.”

“I should have known that you would rather go to your death protecting my secret than go against me. But let me tell you, brother, my mistakes are not worth your life. I could never live with such regret and with such guilt on my hands.”

“Of course, that guilt and regret would have lasted only seconds if we were hanged together,” Aramis laughed.

“I would gladly give my own life to protect you. I would save your life without question.”

“I do not regret the decision to take off my mask when I saw that you weren’t breathing. There was absolutely no other option that went through my mind.”

“No, I don’t regret what I did, Athos. I would do it again, no question. So, I got sick because of my quick actions. At least, this time, my actions didn’t bring you harm. . . but saved your life instead.”

“To sit here beside your bed, knowing that you still struggle for your life—while I am already recovering—it’s just not right.” Aramis’ eyes filled with tears.

“You need to get well, Athos. You have been through so much suffering these last few weeks; it’s time for good tidings to come your way, for a change.”

“You always put everyone else’s needs before your own—another aspect we have in common—as I am always being reminded by certain brothers that I tend to do the same. You need to think of yourself and come out of this coma—and do it soon!”

“Who am I kidding?”

“We need you—I need you—to get well, Athos. An integral part of our brotherhood is missing and without you we are not the same.”

“I need your friendship, your leadership. . . I need my brother back.”

“I consider it an honor to stand at your side. I consider it an honor that you call me brother.”

“I am lucky. . .”

“I am the luckiest man in the world.”

Chapter Text

“Athos, it’s been almost two weeks. You need to wake up, now! No more sleeping, you have had enough time to rest. This isn’t acceptable anymore, do you hear me?” Aramis took the unconscious man by the shoulders and gently shook him; Athos’ head rolled limply back and forth on the pillow.

“I am not playing around; I am through being patient with you. What do I have to do to break through that fog in there?” Aramis began tapping the cheeks of his still-sleeping friend.

“Wake up, dammit!” Aramis shook Athos by the shoulders, rougher this time.

Porthos and d’Artagnan were on their feet, rushing to remove Aramis from Athos’ bedside.

“What are you doing, ‘Mis?” Porthos yelled as he pulled Aramis away.

“What is the matter with you?” d’Artagnan asked, shocked that Aramis would behave in such a way.

“Athos is in there. . . he is in there somewhere and maybe he can hear us. If he can hear us, then he needs to know that we want him back!” Aramis yelled toward the bed.

“‘Mis, I have never seen you act like this wit’ a patient before.” Porthos panted hard after wrestling with Aramis. “Wha’ has gotten into you?”

“He needs to fight his way back to us rather than settling in the darkness where it’s more comfortable, Porthos. He needs to be the fighter that I know Athos is! He has to fight this coma holding him hostage.”

“Aramis, the doctor said there is nothing we can do to wake him but that he would come around in his own good time,” d’Artagnan retorted.

“Time is exactly what Athos does not have anymore, d’Artagnan. The longer he is unconscious, the more the coma wins and we may never get Athos back.”

The Next Morning:

“You pull another stunt like you did yesterday, ‘Mis,” Porthos threatened. “You won’t like it.”

“No, you see, I disagree with you, Porthos,” Aramis protested. “I think what Athos has been missing is rough tactile stimulation.”

“What?” Porthos’ brow crinkled in confusion.

“Tactile stimulation—touch!” Aramis took Porthos’ hand and smacked it hard; the large Musketeer pulled his away with a deep growl. “You felt that, right? I got a reaction from you—it made you angry.”

“Yeah, and if you hit me again. . .” Porthos' tone conveyed a threat.

“Each of us past have been injured badly enough that we have welcomed unconsciousness, am I right?” Aramis waited, hoping his brothers would be honest.

“Yes,” Porthos and d’Artagnan answered together.

“Good, because I know I have.” Aramis nodded to his friends. “Why do we do this, you ask? Because we feel no pain; the darkness is a retreat, it’s comfortable and safe. Athos feels safe where he is. His body was in so much pain that it simply shut down. He needed to rest—I understand that—but the longer his body remains in a state of rest, the harder it will be for him to come out of it.”

“But what about what Doctor Molyneux said, that there was no way to wake him?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I know Molyneux is right, in most cases, but not this time. When we sit by Athos’ bedside talking to him and holding his hand, he feels comfortable; he expects it. What he won’t expect is us getting rough with him, just enough to shock him a little. If we shock him, we might penetrate his darkness and get him to turn from the edge and come back to us. If we do nothing, Athos may go over that edge—and we’ve lost him for good.”

“Aramis, I’m not sure I follow you,” d’Artagnan stated, shaking his head. “However, I am sure that what you are saying is not medically sound.”

"No, it certainly isn’t medically sound,” Aramis huffed in agreement. “But this time, I’m not talking as a medic; I am talking as a soldier. Athos always tells us to go with our gut instinct and never doubt it, right?”

“Yeah, sometimes ‘at’s all a soldier has,” Porthos nodded. “Always follow what your gut is tellin’ ya.”

“Right, Athos is always telling me that.” D’Artagnan looked to Aramis and nodded.

“He’s right, and my gut is telling me that we need to dig down through the deep layers of his consciousness and pull Athos out—forcibly if we have to.”

“By hitting him?” d’Artagnan asked, grimacing.

“No, not like that. . . I mean. . . dammit, I don’t know!” Aramis raked both hands through his hair with a frustrated growl.

“‘Mis, what are you sayin’?”

“Porthos, I know he can hear us. I don’t know how he can hear us but I know he can. Athos has to want to come back to us. He needs to hear urgency in our voices; we need to give him a reason to come back. The physical stimulation—the smacking of his cheeks, or shaking his shoulders—might be what it will finally take to get his attention. Athos needs us to do more than just hold his hand.”

A soft knock on the door, followed by Captain Tréville’s head poking into the room, interrupted the boy’s talk about how to break through Athos’ coma.

“May I come in?” Captain Tréville asked, stepping through the doorway. “I came to check on you boys and see how Athos is doing.”

“Still no change, Captain,” Aramis sighed.

“I’ve officially reported the regiment to the king as recovering, as most everyone is recovering or has already recovered. I have opened the garrison gates so that the men may go check on their families.”

“That’s great news, Captain!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “With your permission, Sir, I’d like to go check on Constance and see if she’s okay?”

“Yes, of course, d’Artagnan, go on.” The young Gascon rushed from the room, leaving everyone smiling.

“How long will Athos remain unconscious?” Tréville inquired of the man lying motionless on the bed.

“There’s no way to know, Captain,” Aramis answered sadly.

“Well, it may be time to admit Athos to the infirmary and put you all back on duty,” Tréville deadpanned. “There is no point to my best Musketeers being off-duty to sit watching Athos lie unconscious. It’s been almost two weeks, Aramis and Porthos. . .”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Aramis snapped, jumping to his feet to face the captain.

Porthos quickly stood between Aramis and the captain, forcing some distance between the two. “Easy, ‘Mis,” Porthos warned quietly.

“I need you back on duty,” Captain Tréville stated. “Listen, I’ll give you a few more days,” he relented with a sigh. “If Athos hasn’t woken by then, he goes to the infirmary and you are back on duty. It’s time we start putting this broken regiment back together again.”

“Cap’n?” Porthos asked softly. “How many? How many dead brothers are there?”

The captain sighed heavily and hung his head. “We have nine dead Musketeers, plus Doctor Senne—who succumbed to the illness just the other day.”

“Oh merciful God. . .” Aramis wavered on his feet then fell into the chair beside the bed. “Nine brothers?”

“Bloody hell!” Porthos growled. The large Musketeer sat down in a daze on the edge of Athos’ bed.

“Do what you have to for Athos, gentlemen,” Tréville said softly. “Try to waken him, if you can, but just get him well. This Musketeer regiment needs him,” the captain nodded and left the room.

Next Day:

“Athos, dammit, you need to wake up! You are neglecting your duty as a soldier!” d’Artagnan yelled. The Gascon later turned around to face Aramis, shaking his head as he felt terribly uncomfortable. “Aramis, I can’t do this; it doesn’t feel natural. I would never talk to Athos like this!”

“I know that, d’Artagnan; and Athos knows it too. God have mercy, if you ever spoke to Athos like that. . . well, we won’t go there. Remember what I was saying about shocking him? This is exactly what I mean. You’re doing good, little brother, keep it up,” Aramis snickered.

“Why do I have to be the one to talk to him like this?” d’Artagnan asked with dismay. “Porthos would be better at this than me; he does 'angry' very well.”

“You really want to go there, whelp?” Porthos growled.

D’Artagnan grimaced then swallowed hard as he shook his head.

“I though’ not.” Porthos approached the bed and paused there. He leaned over then took Athos by the shoulders and shook the comatose Musketeer roughly. “Wake up, damn you!”

Athos continued to lie still, his shirt now tousled from the rough handling, but otherwise unaware.

“I’m with our little brother, ‘Mis.” Porthos shook his head, frowning. “I can't do this to Athos; it don’t feel right.”

Aramis slumped in his chair and sighed. “I know. . . but I don’t know what else to do, Porthos. It’s all been for nothing—the conversations, holding his hand, wiping his brow—all for nothing! There is not a damn thing that I can to do to help him.”

“You’re wrong, ‘Mis,” Porthos corrected. “It hasn’t been for nothin’. You said earlier that Athos can hear us and I believe you. If you give up on him now, if Athos hears the defeat in your voice, then he may give up also and our battle for him is lost—the coma wins.”

“Where did the hope go of which you spoke about just a while back, huh?” D’Artagnan’s eyes filled with tears.

“Hope died a long time ago.” Aramis growled as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Next Day:

Aramis picked up Athos’ head. He cupped his hands around his friend’s cheeks, with his long fingers curling around the neck. “Remember what I said about my dream, Athos? Remember when I said I was so afraid we were going to lose you; that every gasp of breath you took might be your last?”

“I thought I was living my nightmare when you were sick. I was afraid that at any minute I was going to lose you. . . and we damn near did,” his voice cracked.

“Don’t do this, ‘Mis.” Porthos placed a gentle hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Athos wouldn’t want you to give up on him like this. He needs you to be strong; he’s depending on you.”

“No, I depend on Athos,” Aramis corrected. “Maybe my earlier hope in waking him was actually misdirected desperation. I’m so afraid of losing him that I can’t think straight.”

“We are all afraid of losing him, Aramis. What kind of talk is this, anyway?” d’Artagnan huffed in disbelief. “Why are we talking like Athos is already a lost cause? The doctor said to just give it time, so I’m not giving up hope just yet!”

Aramis sighed and let his shoulders droop. “Athos, we depend on you—we need you. You are the stability and the bedrock our brotherhood leans on. Without you, we fall apart. I remember distinctly what happened after you. . . after you. . . God, I can’t do this.”

Aramis let Athos’ head drop to the pillow as he collapsed over his friend’s chest and cried into his neck. The medic was so worn and distraught—so broken—his intense sobs shook Aramis’ entire frame.

“Aramis, please don’t cry.” D’Artagnan choked back tears as he reached for Aramis’ shoulder.

“This isn’t helping Athos—or us—any.” Porthos muttered to himself, wiping his tears away with the palms of his hands.

“Plesssse do’. . . cry. No. . . te'rrsss. . .”

Aramis stopped mid-sob, holding his breath and not making a sound. He sat up quickly to look at Athos’ face. “Am I hearing things?”

“No, I heard it too!” D’Artagnan yelled with excitement, his eyes wide.

“I heard it too, ‘Mis!" Porthos smiled.

A tear squeezed its way from both eyes and rolled down Athos’ temples, disappearing into his hair.

“Look, Aramis!” D’Artagnan jumped up from his chair.

“Athos?” Aramis rose from his chair to sit on the bed beside Athos. “My God, Athos! Are you awake?”

“No. . . m-more. . . cr. . . cry. . .” Athos went lax as he fell back to sleep.

“It’s okay, shh. . . don’t try to talk. You go ahead and sleep. Rest, we’ll be here when you wake up.” Aramis ran his fingers softly through Athos’ hair before letting his hand rest on his friend’s shoulder.

“Um, didn’t you say earlier that Athos had slept long enough, Aramis? A few minutes ago, you wanted him to wake up; now you’re telling him to go to sleep!” D’Artagnan laughed.

Aramis stood from the bed and grabbed his two brothers, pulling them together into a tight hug. The three brother Musketeers stood arm-in-arm—clinging to each other—laughing and crying together tears of joy and overwhelming relief.

Hours Later:

The three brothers sat by Athos’ bedside, waiting for him to wake up again. No one spoke a word, each was lost in their own personal thoughts.

It was d’Artagnan who broke the silence.

“Aramis, are you sure he came out of the coma? Can a patient slip back into a coma after waking?” d’Artagnan asked, giving voice to his worries.

“Yes, he came out of the coma, but Athos is not suddenly going to be alert. His body needs time to adjust; he’s been through a terrible ordeal. He needs time to become fully conscious, d’Artagnan.”

“You know, ‘Mis, there is one thing I’ll be real glad ‘bout when Athos is better?” Porthos grinned.

“What's that, Porthos?” Aramis asked absently, still watching Athos closely.

“I’ll be glad when you’re back to your normal self," Porthos grinned. "Righ’ now, you sound too much like some kinda philosopher or somethin'.”

A slight snicker was heard coming from Athos, causing all eyes to turn toward the bed.

“Athos? Come on, wake up! You certainly have been sleeping long enough now.” Aramis tapped his friend’s cheeks lightly to rouse him.

“In other words, it’s about bloody time you woke up from your damn nap!” Porthos growled.

D’Artagnan’s eyes grew wide as he looked quickly to Athos for his reaction.

The corners of Athos’ mouth curled up with the hint of a smile.

“Come on, Athos, open your eyes now.” Aramis tapped on his cheeks a little harder.

Athos turned his head away from the taps, moaning softly. His eyes remained closed.

“Athos, wake the hell up, dammit! We’re tired of playing games now.” D’Artagnan boldly asserted.

Porthos had to stifle a laugh as he clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder. “That's the way, pup.”

Athos peeled his eyes open, only to let them slide closed again.

“Oh no, you don’t! You’re not getting away with that, Athos. What kind of Musketeer are you? You taught me that we never do anything halfway. You taught me to put my whole effort into the task at hand—or don’t bother at all. Open your eyes, dammit, Athos!” D’Artagnan ordered his mentor.

As if following orders, Athos peeled his eyes open. His dull and tired eyes were unseeing, unfocused. He blinked several times, trying to clear his blurry vision. The Musketeer lieutenant scrunched his eyes closed then blinked again and again, until he could finally see. He turned his head to look at his three brothers watching him. “Wha’ hapn’d. . .?”

“You were sleeping for a while, Athos. You were very sick, my friend, but it looks like you’re going to be okay.” Aramis leaned over and kissed his brother on the forehead, squeezing his hand gently.

D’Artagnan stepped over and planted a kiss on Athos’ forehead. “I’m so glad to have you back, big brother.” The Gascon gently squeezed his shoulder then moved to the side to give Porthos room.

Porthos moved forward to softly kiss the top of Athos’ head. He placed his hand on the spot where he had kissed and left it resting there, gently stroking his hair. “Welcome back, brother. . . welcome back.”

Chapter Text

Aramis and Cécile strolled slowly through the streets of Paris near the garrison gates, her arm rested comfortably in the crook of his. The once bustling streets of the city remained relatively quiet and empty. Fear of the deadly disease that ravaged their beloved city was still too raw to venture out for most folk.

“I hear the death toll in Paris is in the hundreds; it could be much more once the final count is taken. I know thousands were sick,” Cécile reported sadly.

“The regiment was hit pretty hard.” Aramis shook his head. “We lost nine good Musketeers to a damn disease! How could this happen?” He stared into the distance as his mind wandered back to the events of the last several weeks. A shiver trembled through his body, leaving him suddenly cold.

“Are you alright, Aramis?” Cécile stopped to face the medic. “You’re thinking of Athos, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Aramis smiled briefly, though his smile quickly disappeared. “I feel guilty, Cécile. Is it wrong?”

“Feel guilty about what, Aramis? Is what wrong?” The nurse asked with concern, her hand gently caressing his cheek.

“We just buried nine good Musketeers—and I’m glad that one of them was not Athos. Since we were at the château, I’ve had these terrible dreams of having to bury my brother. During the memorial service, I thought of nothing but being glad that Athos was not inside one of the nine coffins at the church,” Aramis choked on a sob.

“There is nothing to feel guilty about, Aramis.” Cécile comforted in a soft voice. “Your reaction is perfectly natural and normal.”

“Those nine men were my brothers too, but I was thanking God during their funeral that it was not my brother Athos. What is wrong with me, what kind of Musketeer am I?”

“Nothing is wrong with you, Aramis!” the nurse exclaimed. “What kind of Musketeer are you? One that feels grateful his best friend is not dead after worrying about him for weeks, if not longer.”

Aramis let his head hang with guilt.

Cécile took the medic by the chin and raised his head up, meeting his eyes with hers. “Aramis, don’t ever feel guilty for simply being grateful your closest friend and brother is not counted among the dead,” the nurse whispered. “Athos’ death would only have compounded your grief to the point of despair and ruin. Why not be thankful that depth of grief was avoided?”

“I couldn’t have handled Athos dying. . .”

“Exactly,” the nurse nodded. “I know that from the talks we had at the château. But, if I may, I’ll go one step further; I’m glad that Athos and you are not counted among the dead,” Cécile smiled. “I don’t apologize for being thankful you both lived.”

“You’re right, of course.” Aramis kissed Cécile softly on the lips. “Come on, we need to get back to the garrison.”

M. Molyneux placed the last of his belongings in the carriage. “I am requested to report to the Hôtel-Dieu, so I must be off. They need more physicians to help with the last of the victims still being brought in. The contagious stage is over and it should be safe by now. Nevertheless, I will keep my mask with me and I will be wearing it, considering the hospital is not the most sanitary of places.”

“What about Cécile?” Aramis asked the doctor. “Is she going with you?”

“No, she is staying here,” the doctor answered. “Cécile will have to get back to Chamarande without me. I trust, Aramis, that you will see to her getting home safely?”

“Yes, absolutely, doctor,” Aramis nodded. “I wouldn’t think of Cécile traveling home all alone.”

“Very good then, Aramis,” Molyneux smiled. “I have already said my goodbye’s to the others. Athos has strict instructions to take it easy for the next several weeks. He is not to strain himself, or cause straining on his sides, in any fashion.” Molyneux informed the medic.

“Of course, doctor,” Aramis nodded. “But what you might consider ‘taking it easy’ as compared to what Athos might consider, well, it might be totally different.” Aramis frowned at the thought of Athos actually obeying the doctor’s instructions.

“There is to be no sparring, no heavy lifting, no fighting, no running, no jumping, or otherwise horseplay.” Doctor Molyneux went through his mental list. “Last, but not least, he is not to be assigned to any dangerous missions that would put him in the position of needing to fight. His body must rest and have time to heal fully. I do not want to hear of any further damage done to his sides due to his impatience. Am I clear?”

Aramis nodded, raising his eyebrows at the long list of demands from the doctor. I’m sure this same speech thrilled Athos to no end. He’s going to be climbing the walls in no time. Aramis thought.

“I will have you know that I made this same appeal to Athos—and I made it with your captain present. Captain Tréville is charged with making sure my wishes are followed, which I am sure they will be. Athos has no choice but to obey orders and take it easy so he can heal.” Molyneux smiled broadly, feeling quite proud of himself indeed.

“Ingenious, I must say.” Aramis let out a huff of air. “Doctor Molyneux, perhaps you missed your true calling—you would make an excellent captain.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Molyneux shook his head. “Thank you, my dear Aramis, but I rather enjoy my current job. I much prefer to save lives rather than order lives to be taken. This latest bout with catarrh has reminded me of why I became a doctor. No, Aramis, being a doctor is my true calling.”

“Indeed it is, Molyneux.” Aramis clapped the doctor fondly on the shoulder. “You are among the most talented doctors I have ever met. We were very lucky to have you help us here at the garrison. Without you and Cécile, there would have been many more Musketeer deaths—I’m sure of it. I count myself fortunate to consider you a friend.”

“No, I am the fortunate one, Aramis," Doctor Molyneux smiled. "Athos is alive strictly because of your treatment. You have true talent and skill for medicine—always remember that. Farewell, my friend. I hope we meet again.”

“Goodbye, Molyneux.” Aramis shook the doctor’s hand then pulled him into a hug. “Yes, we will stay in touch. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

In the Garrison Courtyard:

In the courtyard, Aramis found Athos sitting on the picnic tabletop with his face turned upward, soaking in the warmth of the sun. His eyes were closed, though he wore a satisfied smile on his face.

“You look happy, Athos.” Aramis smiled at the heartwarming sight of his content brother. He quickly suppressed a shudder as his mind flashed back to events in their private room upstairs. It wasn’t so long ago when I was staring at Athos’ flushed and fevered face, grimacing in pain and covered in beads of sweat. I still hear his request ‘just kill me now’ ringing in my ears.

“It feels so good to be outside, enjoying the sunshine on this beautiful day. Perhaps it’s just me, but the air smells so fresh.” Athos took a deep breath but it caused a short bout of coughing. “Damn, I still can’t rid of this cough.”

“It’s going to take a while for your lungs to heal fully, Athos, but you’ll get there. For now, try not to take such deep breaths; allow your lungs more time to clear up. Enjoy the sunshine, but I would recommend not breathing in the city air too deeply.” Aramis chuckled as he sat down beside his friend.

“The sunlight is warm on my face.” Athos still sat with his face turned toward the sun, relishing its warmth. “It feels so good just to breathe in fresh, warm air.”

“The sun is warm, but the air. . . well, it smells like Paris.” Aramis crinkled his nose.

“It smells fresh, compared to that room!” Athos frowned. “Besides, I’m so tired of sitting in that damn room. I’m going crazy, Aramis; I need something to do!”

“Whoa, hold on, Athos.” Aramis put his hands up. “You just woke up from a coma only a week ago. You are not going to be doing anything but taking it easy for a while. The doctor said. . .”

“Yes, I am well aware of what the good doctor said.” Athos dismissed Aramis with the wave of his hand. “I already got the lecture, twice; once from the doctor and again from the captain” he shook his head. “No, make that three times—no, four times—if you include Porthos and d’Artagnan’s input.”

“Ah, Aramis,” a young Musketeer named DuChamps interrupted. “I heard that new doctor, Molyneux, was very impressed with you after you had to resuscitate Athos when he stopped breathing.”

Aramis paled as DuChamps spilled the news of his impromptu treatment of Athos. The medic had no intention of revealing the specifics or details of his treatment to his friend but preferred to leave it to the past.

“Wait a minute!” Athos’ eyes sprung wide open as he sat up straight on the table. “What do you mean he ‘resuscitated’ me? Aramis, what is he talking about?”

"It's nothing, Athos. . ."

“Oh, you mean he didn’t tell you that he played doctor up in that private room of yours, while the rest of us were crammed into that cesspool of the infirmary? No?” DuChamps taunted. “Aramis didn’t tell you that he infected himself with catarrh when he did mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on you after you stopped breathing?”

“That’s enough!” Aramis yelled, standing to his feet suddenly.

Two passing Musketeers quickly wrestled DuChamps away from the angry medic before emotions got further out of control. Athos stared at his close friend with wide eyes, too stunned to speak.

“What is he talking about, ‘Mis?” Athos finally asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He recalled broken images from his fevered state of seeing Aramis without his mask; he remembered waking next to the medic as they both lay on the floor.

“After one of your severe bouts of vomiting and coughing, you had stopped breathing.” Aramis answered in a whisper. “I had to remove my mask to save you—to resuscitate you—to help you breathe again. I wasn’t going to let you die, Athos.”

“Mon Dieu, I remember now.” Athos paled then pitched forward. If not for the medic’s hand stopping him, the lieutenant would have fallen to the ground. “That’s why you got so sick. . . because of me.” I saw him without his mask; I remember asking him where it was. Why? Why would he do that? Athos thought to himself as he covered his face with his hands.

“Stop it now, Athos.” Aramis’ steely voice warned. “We are not going to do this. We are not having this conversation—it’s over.”

“Aramis, why?” Athos asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk your life like that, especially risking catarrh, for me?”

“Are you serious?” Aramis was incredulous. “Do you really have to ask that question, Athos?”

“You took off your mask and exposed yourself to catarrh, Aramis,” Athos countered. “You could have died!”

“And you were dying, Athos!” Aramis yelled, his finger jabbing angrily at Athos’ chest. “Was I supposed to just let you die on that floor in front of me while I watched and did nothing?”

Athos shook his head, saying nothing. He didn’t have the answer to that question, at least, not one that he dared to voice.

“If you answer yes to that, Athos, I swear to the heavens above. . .” Aramis paused, doing his best to regain his composure and not lose his temper.

Athos opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again as Aramis cut him off.

“Would you have done any different if the situation had been reversed?” Aramis challenged. “Answer me, Athos!”

“No, but. . .” Athos’ voice cracked with emotion. “I made you sick.”

“I saved your life, Athos,” Aramis countered. “It was worth getting a little sick; you know that I’d do it again, brother.”

“Thank you,” Athos whispered as he wiped at the tears misting in his eyes.

“No need to thank me, Athos.” Aramis placed his hand softly on his friend’s shoulder. “You never have to thank me; just you being here-- alive and healthy—it’s all the thanks I need.”

Athos nodded with a smile. He suddenly had a deeper appreciation for his friend and it made his heart swell with emotion.

“Do you know what kept me going when I was so sick up there?” Aramis motioned his head toward their room upstairs.

Athos shook his head.

“Watching you breathe,” Aramis admitted. “I watched for the rise and the fall of your chest; it assured me that you were still breathing. It assured me that you were still alive. If getting sick was the price I had to pay so that you would draw your next breath. . . well, it was worth the price."

“Aramis. . .”

“I watched you from the opposite bed—watching to make sure you continued to breathe—because watching you helped me get through the pain. All those times when the pain inside was so bad that I just wanted to die, as long as I saw you breathing, I was resigned to whatever happened to me.” Aramis choked back a sob.

“Aw, Aramis.” Athos blinked back the tears, unable to speak further as a sob constricted his throat. He swallowed hard then squeezed Aramis’ shoulder, relaying an unspoken message of gratitude.

“Yeah,” Aramis squeezed Athos’ shoulder in return. The two men understood there was no need for words; their actions spoke volumes. The medic cleared his throat, deciding to change the subject. “Um, where’s Porthos and d’Artagnan?” The marksman looked around the courtyard for his missing brothers as he wiped all traces of tears from his face.

“They went to the Wren to bring something back.” Athos answered, his face now showing no trace of tears either.

“Athos!” Aramis scolded angrily. “You just got over catarrh and came out of a two-week coma! Do you really need to indulge in wine right now?”

“Aramis, really,” Athos drawled. The Musketeer lieutenant tilted his head slightly to the side and frowned. “Do you think so little of me?”

“Well, no, but. . . of course not.”

Athos huffed in amusement at Aramis’ dismay but let the medic continue his rant uninterrupted.

“But still, it’s a little too early for you to be taking to the bottle again, Athos.” The medic shook his head disapprovingly. “And after everything Doctor Molyneux talked to you about; I cannot believe you!”

“Aramis, are quite finished?” Athos finally interrupted. “They went to get my favorite soup, bread and cheese; enough for all of us. I am tired of the broth I have been forced to eat and I will not have any more of it. I’m starving for real sustenance,” he growled.

“Oh. . .well. . . why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Aramis blushed. “You certainly are on the road to recovery if you have your appetite back—as well as your grumpiness.” The medic added under his breath with a grin.

“Ah, there they are!” Aramis clapped Athos on the shoulder with relief as he eyed his two friends coming through the gates with their arms full. “Perfect timing, my friends.”

“Should we go up to the room to eat?” d’Artagnan asked as he approached the picnic table.

“No,” Athos shook his head, “I want to stay outside; I want to enjoy every minute in the sunshine and the fresh air. Let’s eat out here.”

Days Later, Evening:

“Before you leave for Chamarande in the morning to take Cécile home, ‘Mis, you still owe us that drink, remember?” Porthos reminded with a low growl.

“Yes, I remember, Porthos.” Aramis smiled and shook his head. “Do you really think I would not honor a promise such as that? I swore if we all made it through that despicable illness, I would buy everyone a drink—and I meant it.”

“That's right, ‘Mis, you did” Porthos nodded, keeping his tone serious.

“And there’s no better time than tonight to collect on that promise.” D’Artagnan stepped in to lead Aramis toward the garrison gates, looking over his shoulder to wink at the large Musketeer.

Porthos clapped Athos on the shoulder and laughed. “I think it’s been enough time, so you can have a drink too, eh?”

“Maybe just one drink,” Athos answered. “But more than anything, I need to get out of here for a while; I’ve been cooped up in the garrison for too long. I think the walk there is just what the doctor ordered.”

“The doctor ordered you to take it easy, Athos. Are you sure you’re up for the walk?” Aramis asked as he eyed the lieutenant now walking beside him.

“It’s not that far, Aramis.” Athos muttered with irritation.

“It is a lovely evening,” D’Artagnan interjected at seeing his mentor’s growing irritation.

“Oi, it is a lovely evening, li'l brother; perfect for a walk,” Porthos chimed in.

“I missed seeing the stars at night and breathing in the fresh evening air. . .” Athos took in a deep breath but it caused him to begin coughing. He doubled over until the coughing fit passed and was finally able to catch his breath. The Musketeer continued to wheeze, however, as he breathed.

“Athos, are you alright?” D’Artagnan softly pounded on his mentor’s back.

The Musketeer nodded as he fought against the urge to cough again.

“No, we’re not going anywhere.” Aramis resolved, checking over Athos with concern. “I’m not going to Chamarande tomorrow either.”

“Now. . . hold on a minute, Aramis.” Athos croaked between coughs and wheezes. “You said yourself. . . wheeze. . . that it would take time for my lungs to clear up. . . cough. . . and I accept that, but I am not. . . wheeze. . . going to stop living life because of a damn cough.” Athos coughed with one last strangled hack and cleared his throat.

“Yes, but you’re still not well. . .” Aramis protested.

“I’m well enough,” Athos wheezed, cutting him off. “You don’t need to panic every time I cough, Aramis. The doctor said that I could have a lingering cough and it may take time to heal; there is nothing you, or any doctor, can do about it. Cécile needs to get home, so you will take her home. Everyone wants to go out for a drink, and so we’re going. That’s it, no more discussion. Let’s go.” Athos walked ahead toward the tavern, stifling a few stubborn coughs under his breath.

At the Wren Tavern:

“Interesting how we take breathing for granted until the breath in our lungs is almost taken away.” Athos mused as the Musketeers sat quietly around the table, still not having ordered anything.

“I think this sickness has made us all realize how much we take breathing for granted,” d’Artagnan agreed. “How often do we even think about taking a breath? It just comes naturally, so we don’t think of it—until we can’t breathe. There were a few times when I was sick, I thought I was going to die because I couldn’t breathe.”

“Same here,” Aramis nodded.

“It’s not just the air we breathe that we’ve all taken for granted, though.” D’Artagnan looked to each of his brothers. “We are all guilty of taking one another for granted. We rely on each other so heavily that we expect we’ll always be there for each other. I think catarrh has reminded us of just how fragile life really is.”

“I’m not takin’ any of you for granted ever again.” Porthos shook his head. “You don’t know what it was like bein’ the only one to not get sick. I had to sit by your bedside and watch as each of you fought to breathe—fought to live—while I was left wondering why God spared me but not you.”

“God has His reasons for everything, Porthos.” Aramis fingered the cross hanging around his neck distractedly. “Maybe the rest of us have been more stubborn in learning our lessons of not taking life for granted. Maybe God needed to knock each of us flat on our backs before we would give ear to that soft voice telling us to appreciate life more.”

“Rubbish, ‘at still don't explain why I didn’t get sick, ‘Mis,” Porthos muttered. “None of it makes any sense.”

“Perhaps we were supposed to learn from you, Porthos.” Athos suggested, his brow creasing in thought. “You’ve always been the one with the sunnier disposition; you have kept your good humor in life, despite the darkness in the world. Maybe the rest of us need to be less cynical and be more like you.”

“Wha’ are you talkin’ about, Athos?” Porthos questioned.

“We need a new perspective on what’s important in life; we need to appreciate the little things more—like you do.” Athos looked at Porthos with respectful appreciation.

“Rubbish,” Porthos grinned. “I think ‘Mis subconsciously brainwashed you durin’ all those talks of his while you were unconscious," he teased. “You’re beginnin’ to sound jus’ like ‘im; 'at's too much philosophical gibberish for my taste. I just want to order our damn drinks!”

“What were you saying about Porthos having a sunnier disposition, Athos, hmm?” Aramis chuckled.

D’Artagnan signaled the tavern wench and yelled out to her. "Four ales, please.”

“Ah, it’s good to be back, boys.” Athos smiled at each of his three brothers. “Damn, it’s great to be alive and breathing!”

Chapter Text

Porthos clapped together his hands with glee as four pints of ale were placed in front of each of the Musketeers. The ale was soon followed by four large bowls of stew and a large platter of bread and cheese to accompany the stew. “You migh’ need to order more, Athos,” the large Musketeer laughed. “I could eat all by myself!”

The boys each greedily dug in to their bowls of stew; their hands bumped into each other as they simultaneously reached for the bread. “Mmm, dis isso g’d,” d’Artagnan announced with his mouth full of food.

“It sure is, brother.” Porthos agreed as he washed his food down with a long swallow of ale. “Ahh, ‘at’s good ale!” he let out a loud belch as he slammed down the mug.

Athos and Aramis shook their heads and rolled their eyes at their friend’s boorish and shameless table manners. “I sure missed this,” Aramis smiled.

“What, Porthos’ bad table manners or the brandied beef stew?” Athos stirred his stew around in the bowl before taking a small bite.

“What’s the matter?” Aramis asked as he noticed Athos’ stew had barely been touched. “Aren’t you hungry? I thought you wanted to get away from the garrison for a meal.”

“It’s going to take a while for my appetite to return to normal, Aramis.” Athos forced a smile. “The stew is quite good but I have to eat slowly; my stomach is still not used to solid food.”

“Are ya feel’n sick, ‘Th's?” Porthos mumbled with his mouth full of bread. “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” Athos shook his head defiantly. “No, I’m fine. I want you all to enjoy your supper and your ales; I’ll just take a little longer enjoying mine.” Athos lied as he felt his stomach do flip-flops at the thought of eating much more.

Suddenly a loud crash startled the four, making them all jump. They turned to the yelling and watched with surprise as an angry woman poured a full mug of ale over the head of a man who had just been kissing a young lady seated at his small table.

“Uh oh,” Aramis laughed at the sight. “Looks like the wife caught her man having more than just a drink with the boys after work.”

The entire tavern seemed to erupt in laughter as the two-timing husband was drenched with a pint of ale. The young lady at his table ran out of the tavern screaming, causing another roar of laughter.

“Why, you old nag!” The man yelled to his wife as he attempted to slap the mug from her hand, but the sturdy woman kept her hold on the weapon-of-choice and used it to bang him over the head, stunning him.

“Ooh,” Aramis drew in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Damn, ‘at had to hurt,” Porthos grimaced.

“You wench!” The angry husband cursed as he stood then drew back his fist to hit his wife.

D’Artagnan was on his feet in a flash to intervene, but Aramis quickly pulled him back down into his chair. “You haven’t learned your lesson, have you?” the medic teasingly scolded.

“What are you talking about?” D’Artagnan snapped in bewilderment.

“Never get involved in domestic disputes,” Aramis advised drily. “Especially, never get between an enraged wife and a flirting husband. I thought you would have learned your lesson after the last time you got between a quarreling husband and wife! Remember, after she bit you on the hand as you tried to restrain her?”

“This isn’t like when the Bonnaire’s were fighting,” d’Artagnan countered angrily. “Are we just going to sit here and let him hurt her?”

“Oh, I think she can take care of herself,” Porthos chimed in. He motioned with his head in the direction of the fighting couple. “Look a’ her, she’s almost as burly as ‘e is!”

The group of Musketeers winced, simultaneously grimacing, as the wife caught her husband’s arm then chomped her snaggled teeth down on his flesh, causing him to scream out in pain. She then grabbed the man by his ear to drag him from the table and out the tavern door, cursing at him the entire way.

“See, told ya.” Porthos turned around in his chair with a satisfied huff. “I knew ‘at woman could take care of herself jus’ fine. If you had got’n between those two, she woulda hurt ya, pup.”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Aramis quipped. “I think Maria Bonnaire and that woman just proved the point perfectly.”

The Musketeers continued talking and laughing as they savored their supper and delighted in another round of ales, although Athos had only taken a few sips of his first. The Musketeer lieutenant sat quietly listening to his brothers enjoying themselves with merry conversation until he began to feel increasingly tired.

Athos found it difficult to keep his eyes open as his heavy lids began to droop. He leaned his head back against the wooden beam behind him and closed his eyes.

“No, Athos, don’t go to sleep in here.” Aramis gently shook his friend awake. “We need to go and get him to bed; he’s exhausted. He has packed too much into this evening and has worn himself out,” the medic informed his two companions.

“Mmm,” Athos moaned softly as Aramis shook him again. The lieutenant continued to rest against the beam with his eyes closed.

“Come on, let’s go.” Aramis grabbed one arm and Porthos the other, together they pulled Athos to his feet. They stumbled their way out of the tavern, much to the snickers and taunts of everyone; as they thought the exhausted man was so intoxicated he couldn't walk on his own.

A particularly troublesome group followed the Musketeers out of the tavern into the street; they jeered at the men as they stumbled with their uncooperative load between them.

Porthos raised his head to look at the troublemakers and gave a throaty growl.

“Ignore them,” Aramis snapped indignantly. “They’re not worth our time.”

The Musketeers continued down the street; they turned a corner where the troublemakers were waiting in the shadows to ambush. The ringleader kicked a foot out from under Athos, causing him to stumble into Porthos. The kick knocked them both backward, dragging Aramis along with them to the ground.

“Alright, dammit, that’s it!” Porthos growled with fury. The large Musketeer jumped up and swung his fist; it landed hard on the agitator’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward into a brick wall.

Aramis was pulled to his feet by one of the drunkards, only to be knocked back down with a punch to the jaw by another. D’Artagnan kicked one of the men to the ground then grabbed him by the shirt collar; the Gascon knocked the man out cold with a swift punch to the cheekbone.

In the meantime, Athos continued to lie in the dusty road while his brothers were all engaged in the unsolicited brawl. He sleepily looked up at the stars, tracing with his eyes along Ursa Major to find Polaris, the North Star. “It’s been a while since I’ve fallen asleep under the stars.” Athos smiled as he allowed his eyes to slide closed.

“D’Artagnan, watch out. . .” Aramis tried to warn as a man jumped the Gascon from behind, knocking him off his feet. The man attempted to punch the young Musketeer, but d’Artagnan used his weight to roll himself and his opponent; the Gascon now had the advantage. He pressed his hands into the man’s throat and began to choke the air out of him.

“Enough, d’Artagnan!” Aramis yelled as he pulled the Gascon from the man who was gasping, and pleading for his life. “These losers are not worth us getting into trouble over.” The choked man ran away, along with the remaining still-conscious losers. “Let them go,” Aramis yelled. The medic frantically looked around and found Athos lying motionless on the ground where he fell earlier.

“No!” Aramis dropped to his knees beside the older Musketeer to check on his pulse and breathing. “Come on, Athos, wake up! You can sleep, but not here in the road, my friend.” Aramis chuckled with relief, finding that Athos was merely sleeping and was not harmed. “Now is not the time to sleep, you can do that once we get you home.”

Athos moaned softly, trying to bat away Aramis’ annoying hands as they tapped on his cheeks.

“Athos, open your eyes now!” Aramis ordered. The medic was pleasantly surprised as Athos obeyed and peeled his tired eyes open.

“We need to get you home; do you think you can walk?”

Athos nodded a tired yes.

Aramis helped Athos to sit up and, once again, Porthos took one arm and Aramis the other as they pulled the tired man to his feet. They waited patiently as the lieutenant steadied himself on his feet and the wave of dizziness passed.

Slowly, the group of Musketeers made their way back to the garrison. Athos barely managed to stay upright between his supporters as he stumbled and dragged his feet behind him, growing more weary with each step.

“This was a terrible idea, going out tonight” D’Artagnan muttered as he watched his friends struggle with their semi-conscious friend. “We should have waited until Aramis got back from Chamarande.”

“I shouldn’t have suggested we go out for drinks,” Porthos brooded. “I shoulda known it was too early for Athos to venture out so far.”

“Well, I should have known better than to let him walk this far. I’m the damn medic, for heaven’s sake; I should have known better!” Aramis bellowed. “Doctor Molyneux was counting on me to look after Athos and I’ve let them both down.”

“If you three don’t stop your incessant ‘I should have’ lamenting, I will find another way home.” Athos somehow found his footing and stopped the trio mid-stride. “It wasn’t up to you whether we went out for drinks tonight. It was my choice and it was worth every minute; I wouldn’t trade tonight for anything.” Athos smiled wearily at his friends as he swayed in place.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the hapless one havin’ to carry your weight back home,” Porthos muttered, hiding his grin.

“Athos, I know you were mistaken when you said Porthos had a sunnier disposition,” d’Artagnan teased. “I don’t know which Porthos you were referring to but it wasn’t our Porthos.”

“It seems he is pretty grouchy tonight.” Aramis observed with a laugh.

“You want to trade places, little brother?” Porthos glared at d’Artagnan.

“No, you’re doing just fine, Porthos.” D’Artagnan moved to the other side of the trio. “I’ll just keep an eye out for possible hooligans over here.”

“Smart pup,” Aramis cracked under his breath.

The group approached the gates of the garrison when Athos stopped, refusing to go on. "Stop,” he rasped. The weary Musketeer tested his own weight on his legs, wobbling and tilting until his friends took his weight upon themselves again.

“Let me steady myself, please; give me a minute,” Athos pleaded. The Musketeer leaned over slightly before slowly standing up. He leaned his forehead on Aramis’ shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Beads of sweat began rolling down his face like tiny droplets of rain on panes of glass.

“I don’t think you’re going to fool anyone looking like this, Athos.” D’Artagnan gently wiped away the sweat from his mentor’s face with a handkerchief. “There, now you are a little more presentable,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” Athos nodded with appreciation. “Let me walk up to my room on my own now. I will not have anyone thinking I am drunk.”

“Are you ready?” Aramis asked.

Athos nodded as Porthos and Aramis eased their grip on his arms. He stood tall and forced himself to walk into the courtyard as though nothing was wrong. It took all his willpower to put one foot in front of the other; the very real fear of falling in front of curious eyes gave him the strength to continue.

The Musketeer lieutenant walked forward at a slow pace through the yard, with Aramis and Porthos staying right beside him, walking shoulder-to-shoulder in case he faltered. D’Artagnan walked right behind the trio, ready to catch Athos if he stumbled.

Athos arrived at the stairs, panting and sweating profusely. He grabbed hold of the railing, as if mustering the strength to climb a towering mountain. He couldn’t move. “I don’t think I can make it.”

“Come on, Athos, let us help you up the stairs.” Porthos wrapped an arm around Athos’ waist then took a step up, pulling the tired Musketeer with him. Aramis did the same on the other side to keep Athos from falling backward, stepping in time with the struggling duo. D’Artagnan stayed right behind the trio, his hands on Athos’ waist as support; preventing the trio from tilting backward.

With the trio stepping and climbing in unison, they were able to ascend the stairs without creating too much of a scene. They continued walking down the balcony hallway to Athos’ room with two now almost completely supporting the weight of the one in the middle.

By the time they reached Athos’ door, the tired man was exhausted and unable to move his feet. The lieutenant's boots dragged along the floor as the two Musketeers sat the ailing man on the bed inside the room. Porthos gently laid Athos back onto the pillow, while Aramis swung his legs up on the bed until he was lying flat.

The medic proceeded to pull off Athos’ boots, while Porthos and d’Artagnan worked on removing the leather doublet. After the row of tiny buttons were undone, Athos felt his upper body being lifted so the men could pull his arms free from the sleeves of his doublet. Once the left side was free, the doublet was easily pulled off then set aside.

Athos’ face was slick with a sheen of sweat; his hair formed in wet clumps and matted to his flushed face. His linen shirt was soaked through with sweat, so the men pulled it off over his head and waited while Aramis fetched a dry shirt.

Once changed, Athos was laid back on the bed and settled on his pillow. Aramis sat on the edge of the bed with a cool, damp cloth and began wiping away the sweat from Athos’ face and neck. The exhausted Musketeer couldn’t hold his heavy eyelids open any longer; he allowed them to slide closed and fell asleep almost immediately.

“I shouldn’t go to Chamarande tomorrow.” Aramis shook his head and looked up at his two friends. “I can’t leave him like this.”

“Aramis, you have to go; Cécile is counting on you to accompany her,” d’Artagnan reminded.

“You can’t back out on Cécile, ‘Mis, it’s too late for ‘at. You need to get some rest before your trip in the morning, so get to bed. It’s our turn to take care of Athos now.” Porthos pulled up a chair for himself and d’Artagnan and they both sat down; they readied themselves to watch over their friend in the long hours ahead.

Morning of Trip to Chamarande:

“I shouldn’t be going anywhere,” Aramis protested. “Athos needs me.”

“Cécile needs you,” Porthos countered. “Have you forgotten about her?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten about her, dammit!”

“Well then, you go on to Chamarande and have a good time with Cécile.” D’Artagnan soothed the rising tempers in the room. “Porthos and I are perfectly capable of taking care of Athos. There is no need for you to stay here, sitting beside his bed and worrying about him; he'll be fine, Aramis.”

“Besides,” Porthos chimed in. “We have a new doctor coming to the garrison tomorrow and Captain Tréville has sent notice to M. Molyneux-- if Athos needs help-- to be ready at a moment's notice. So, go and have a good time; don’t even think about cutting your trip short. We’ll be fine here!”

“I don’t like this.” Aramis shook his head while watching Athos sleep. Resigned to his duty to escort the nurse back home again, the medic sat down on the bed and took a limp hand in his own. “You take care of yourself, Athos. Do you hear me? I’ll take Cécile home and hurry back as soon as I can.”

“You will do. . . no such thing, Aramis,” Athos whispered lethargically. “I already have two mother hens. . . I don’t need a third. You go. . . and have a good time with Cécile. You deserve some rest and. . . happiness for a change. While you’re gone, don’t you dare even think about this place. . . or me.”

“How can you say that after everything we’ve been through these last few weeks?” Aramis bristled. “We almost lost you and now you ask me to not even think of you while I’m gone? Are you serious?”

“Aramis, please.” Athos firmly squeezed his friend’s hand. “I’ll be alright; I promise you, nothing is going to happen to me. You can’t glue yourself to my side every minute of the day because of a bad dream. There has to be a time when you let go of that fear in the back of your mind; you can’t live like this anymore. It’s time to let go of that nightmare and start living and enjoying your own life.”

“You’re right,” Aramis’ voice cracked as he blinked back the wetness in his eyes. “Why do you always have to be right, huh?”

“No tears, remember?” Athos smiled as his tired eyes drooped closed. A stray tear slid out from underneath the closed eyelids and ran down the tired man's cheek.

“No tears, sure.” Aramis wiped away the rolling tear with his thumb. “I expect you to be healthy and thoroughly bored when I get back. You’ll probably be going stir-crazy,” he paused"I'm sure you’ll be grumpy for having nothing to do, but you can’t argue with the doctor’s orders.”

“Aramis, I’m already looking forward to not having you hovering over me like a mother bird.” Athos peeled his eyes open to watch his friend’s reaction.

“Athos, I’m hurt.” Aramis put his hand over his heart and bowed his head, hiding his smile.

“Go. . . or you’ll make Cécile worry that you’re not coming. Please, have a good time and don’t ruin your trip with your beautiful lady by worrying about me; I’ll be fine. I have Porthos and d’Artagnan to hover over me.” Athos smiled then closed his eyes once again.

“Alright, I promise to have a good time if you promise to rest and concentrate on getting better,” Aramis waited.

Athos gave an almost imperceptible nod. The nod was enough for Aramis to notice.

Standing, Aramis leaned over the bed and kissed Athos on the forehead; he paused to stroke his friend’s hair as worry etched deep on his face. With his thumb, the medic rubbed his friend on the cheek before turning on his heel to leave.

Stopping by Porthos and d’Artagnan, Aramis paused with his head down. “You two take good care of him while I’m gone. I’m trusting both of you to make sure he gets plenty of rest. Watch for signs of illness; if you notice anything wrong, send for Doctor Molyneux immediately. Do not rely on this new doctor, since we don’t even know who he is yet. Am I clear?" Aramis raised his head to look his friends in the eye.

“You know we will, ‘Mis.” Porthos answered, placing his hand reassuringly on Aramis’ shoulder. “Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine. Athos will be fine too. . . you’ll see.” The large Musketeer pulled his worried friend into his arms for a long hug, clapping him on the back for good measure.

“Have an enjoyable trip and try not to worry; we’ll take very good care of Athos.” D’Artagnan was the next to hug Aramis, followed with a firm squeeze to his shoulder.

Aramis turned around for one last look at his sleeping friend. “You keep your promise to me, brother, and get better. Despite what you asked, I will be thinking about you and worrying about you, Athos. For you, my friend, I’ll try to have a good time. . . I promise.”