Chapter Text
"Found him!"
Porthos' shout was all that Athos and d'Artagnan wished to hear, even if the implication it carried left a bitter taste in their mouths. Now that the search for Aramis was finally over, it was time to deal with the reason he'd been missing from morning muster and face reality. Their friend was surely hurt… or worse.
As one, the two Musketeers turned and ran to the alley where Porthos had disappeared earlier. The narrow passage was littered with wood crates and refuse but given his built, they spied the larger man quickly. It wasn't until they reached his side that they noticed the familiar figure lying still on the cold stone floor directly in front of Porthos.
"Does he live?"
Ever the pragmatist of the four, only Athos could give voice to the words that had been plaguing their minds ever since their search had begun. He moved with bleak determination to where Porthos knelt, navigating around his bulk to see for himself.
Porthos, seemingly unwilling to break his contact with Aramis' face, was using his teeth to frantically pull off the leather glove covering his free hand. Once his fingers were bare, he laid a gentle touch against the side of their friend's neck, searching and praying. "His heart still beats," he announced, even if the smile that should've followed those words was sorely missing. "He's burning up," the large Musketeer added grimly.
D'Artagnan knelt and noticed the reddish puddle that had gathered underneath Aramis. "Blood," he announced. Searching his friend's body, he could see no obvious sign of injury on Aramis' chest or arms. "Help me turn him a bit."
Athos moved to assist and they folded Aramis over to get a better look at his back. Porthos remained as he was, seemingly incapable of removing his hand from Aramis' neck, fearful that any break in contact would make that fluttering pulse go away.
The wound quickly revealed itself. Burned powder had left a tattered gash in the leather of his doublet' right side, the scorched edges allowing view of a deep gouge in his flesh where the ball had grazed flesh.
"Cowards!" Porthos hissed, realizing that whoever had done this vile act had done so in the most treacherous of ways.
"When I find the bastard who did this..." he growled through clenched teeth, the promise of violence hanging in the air.
Athos looked around, noticing the crowd that was starting to gather at the end of the alley, gawking at the gory sight. "His quarters are not far from here," he announced. "Perhaps it would be best for us to take him there?"
D'Artagnan looked around in confusion. He was still getting acquainted with the enormity that was Paris and its many streets, slowly learning his way around. He hadn't realized that they were that close to the garrison. "His quarters?"
"Aramis keeps a room by the Seine," Porthos explained with a fleeting grin. "For the ladies, he says," he added, pulling the wounded man closer as Aramis started to shiver.
As one, the three Musketeers lifted their companion from the cold ground, Athos and d'Artagnan each carrying a leg while Porthos cradled his friend's upper body and head against his chest. Aramis barely stirred, even though the motion had to be excruciating for him.
D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair, despair overwhelming any hope he'd retained since finding Aramis alive. Chewing anxiously on one nail, his teeth grinding at the tip like the worry that ate at his gut. He cursed himself for having ever wished for an end to both the stillness and the dead silence Aramis had maintained ever since they'd found him, for his wish had been abundantly granted.
"NO! Plee—ease!" Aramis moaned. Sweat coated his torso, his face, and plastered strands of hair to his brow. He was deep in the throes of yet another horrid nightmare, in a series of apparently ever flowing ghostly visions. "Leave her...Giselle!"
The litany of passionate pleas and screams had hollowed out Aramis' voice, leaving it little more than a hoarse rasp, worn down by the length of his despair. It had started a few hours after heir arrival and hadn't stopped since. They were little more than fractured words, little pieces of events that those listening had no way of telling if they were real or figments of his fevered imagination.
Although the wound had long since been cleaned and bandaged, the long hours of searching had rendered them too late in stopping it from festering. In truth, the severity of Aramis' condition left it likely that the marksman's health had been dire long before any of them had even considered his absence a problem.
How wrong they had been…
The putrid tissue brought on a fever. Aramis' skin burned so hot that Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had been forced to relieve him of his leathers and outer layers, leaving him only in his braes to preserve some modesty. As if it mattered much. They'd rather lay him bare and listen to his complaints later, if that was what it took to get him healthy. Better a live Aramis than this, hollowed out harbinger of death…
Athos felt Aramis brow sometime later and sighed. "Damn…"
"What…?" d'Artagnan sat up, alert and concerned.
"I had hoped that by removing his clothing, the chill in the room would combat the rising fever but," Athos withdrew his hand and stood upright. "I should have known, for all his stubbornness, Aramis would attract an equally stubborn illness."
"Then we need to be equal to the task," Porthos said determinedly. He looked around the room then at the foot of the bed before picking up the sheet crumpled at the foot. "Perhaps if we use some linens, soak them in cold water and drape them over him?"
"It is worth a try," Athos nodded.
Yet, for all their efforts, fate was nothing if not determined to dash their hopes at every turn. The cooled linens seemed impenetrable to the fire that seemed intent on consuming Aramis, body and soul. The fever was so high that it had begun to addle his brain, turning his dark thoughts to turmoil and his confused actions to chaos.
Sometime later, well after midnight, Aramis sat up, moved his legs around to rise from the bed. The actions had been so composed and limber that it took d'Artagnan a second to realize his friend was not in completely himself. His eyes were glazed with heat and he kept listing to his left side, right arm flapping uselessly on his lap.
"Aramis?" he called gently, gathering the attention of the other two men. "Do you know where you are?"
The marksman looked at him, scowling at the apparent stupidity of the question. "Of course. Don't you?" he'd sputtered, patting the wet linens. "There, there, Fidget, we'll be on our way soon," he said, talking to his imaginary horse. "Now move aside, I'm in a hurry!"
It hadn't been easy to convince Aramis that his horse was actually made of cloth and that he was in no fit condition to go anywhere, riding imaginary horses or otherwise.
"His feet…" Porthos ground out, struggling to hold Aramis' arms to the straw mattress. "Grab his damn feet!"
This was the fourth time they'd been forced to hold Aramis down in order to keep him from leaving. Still in the midst of memories ravaging his mind and soul, the marksman was inconsolable, desperate to save his fallen comrades. Once Marsac had been mentioned, recognition of this particular haunting struck home.
"I'm trying"—d'Artagnan narrowly ducked a knee to the chin—"but this isn't easy." He made another grab for the offending limb and finally bore it under his weight to hold it down.
Athos knelt on the other side of the bed, bucking against Aramis other leg. He already sported a black eye, though none of them had escaped unscathed to Aramis feverish hostility. Porthos had a missing tooth where he'd been head-butted, and Athos a swollen, split lip.
"Much as it pains me to suggest it," Athos 'oofed' as the same leg he'd wrestled earlier came up to bump harshly into his ribcage. "I think we should tie him down."
Porthos nodded quickly. "Question is, how do we go about that without one of us letting him go?"
"We don't. We'll just have to regain the upper hand. He's weak as a kitten—"
"Could've fooled me…" D'Artagnan huffed.
"Two of us," Athos continued, "should be able to subdue him long enough for one of us to search for bindings and return." He looked at d'Artagnan and nodded. "Move quickly."
Sometime later and seated at a table, nursing their wounds and worrying themselves sick, Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan watched over their friend, feeling more like jailers than brothers. While they no longer had to worry about him attempting to leave the confines of his bed, Aramis continued to thrash, yell and shift restlessly on the bed, the bindings barely keeping him in place.
While d'Artagnan had not been acquainted with Aramis for long, it wasn't an easy sight for any of them, him included. Aramis looked so lost and distressed, tense and oft times he pulled at the bindings as if Satan himself had taken up residence in his soul.
Their friend, usually so full of life and passion, was now reduced to a quivering mess of shivers and sweat. Aramis continued to fight his demons, muttering incoherent words one moment, vengeance the next, before breaking down and begging for mercy. It was never for himself, but always in the name of some lady that none of them were acquainted with or had even heard of before.
As far as their best knowledge went, Aramis' latest professed love was solemnly for Adele Bessette, the Cardinal's mistress and, while he'd certainly earned the reputation of being an incorrigible womanizer, it wasn't like him to keep more than one lover at a time. So the mention of another woman was… confusing.
"His pistol's not been used, but the rapier's dirty," Porthos said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled around Aramis' moans and mumbles. He held the weapon high, showing the rusty stain at the tip of the blade. "Bloody."
"That's not like him," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Aramis always keeps his weapons clean. Overly so, if you ask me."
"Maybe he had no time to clean it," Athos pointed out, picking up the pistol from the table. The elaborate handle had been commissioned by Aramis himself, saying that it reminded him of the vineyards of his home. "Where's the other one?"
"There's another?" d'Artagnan asked, trying to remember how many pistols the marksman usually carried on his person.
"It wasn't on 'im," Porthos stated, thinking back to the place where they'd found their friend. They had left nothing on the ground other than Aramis' blood.
"A robbery perhaps?" Athos suggested with a raised brow. It would explain the missing pistol and the bloodied rapier.
The sound of jingling coins filled the air. "His coin purse's right here," Porthos pointed out. "Jealous husband? The Cardinal?" he suggested instead.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "He was left alive, for what it's worth," he noted. "Wouldn't such foes finish the job?"
Porthos nodded grimly. "The pup's right..." He turned his head and gazed at Aramis. "What were you doin' last night, my friend?" The last they'd known, Aramis had excused himself from their company to visit a church nearby, but that had been before the sun set the previous day.
"Giselle..." Aramis whispered, frowning as if the name pained him.
"A duel?" D'Artagnan suggested.
Porthos nodded. "It would certainly explain the blood on the rapier. And," he added with a grim smile, "it certainly wouldn't be the first time any of us would get involved in such activity, illegal as it may be."
Athos shook his head, unconvinced. "But why would he duel anyone without seconds? Without telling us?"
"His wound was made by a pistol, yet his was unfired," d'Artagnan pointed out.
"The one we have, yeah," Porthos agreed. "And whoever shot him, did it from behind, like a bloody coward," he reminded, hands closing into fists. "A dead man, that's guaranteed," he vowed.
Athos set the pistol back on the table and reclaimed his seat by Aramis' side, refreshing a piece of linen in the bucket of water on the floor before replacing it on the marksman's forehead. "First he needs to regain his strength," he said, "then we can see about taking revenge for what was done to him."
"Or what he might have done to others," an older but familiar voice broke in. They turned to see Treville standing by the door. "What happened? How bad is he?"
"Captain!" d'Artagnan replied, resisting the urge to hide the weapons on the table. "You know where Aramis lives?" he asked with a frown. It would seem that he was the only one unaware of the Musketeer's lodgings outside the garrison.
"Pistol shot wound to the back," Porthos explained as he moved to follow Treville.
"It only grazed him," Athos continued, "but he's been struggling with a fever since we found him..." The swordsman stepped back to allow their Captain room to move closer and see for himself.
Aramis' shouts had died out to mere whispers, words that only the marksman could understand escaping his lips. The lull allowed Athos to focus on Treville and what he said upon entering.
"What do you mean by 'others'?" Athos asked the Captain.
The Captain of the Musketeers sat on the bed, a look of compassion on his face as he took in the poor condition of his best marksman. "Why is he tied down?" he asked, ignoring Athos' question.
"Kept tryin' to get up, he did," Porthos explained. "What others?"
"Has he mentioned what happened?" the Captain asked, looking around the room. "Anything at all?"
D'Artagnan exchanged a glance with Athos and Porthos. None of them missed the fact that Treville kept avoiding a direct answer to what seemed a simple question.
"Sir," Athos voiced, drawing the captain's attention. "What happened? Do you know who did this to Aramis?"
Treville sighed, casting one last look at Aramis before rising to his feet. "I was summoned to the palace a few hours ago," he began. "The King was most distraught. One of His Majesty's cousins, the Vicomte de Turenne, was murdered last night. He was brought to his home, mortally wounded. Died in his bed, according to his grieving niece," he said, looking at each of the men standing around him. "You gentlemen wouldn't happen to know anything about such an affair, would you?"
Porthos cleared his throat, keeping his silence otherwise.
D'Artagnan looked at the others, hoping that one of them would do the right thing and share with the Captain what they had found out. The bloody rapier in Aramis' possession didn't necessarily mean that he'd killed the King's cousin, but it was important information that surely they should share?
"What makes you think that we, in particular, would know anything about the matter?" Athos asked in return, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.
The Captain's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning into a white line. He was, above all else, a man who did not like being played a fool. "Because upon my visit to the family, I came across this in the possession of his niece," he stated, pulling a long pistol from the parcel he carried under his arm. "Mademoiselle d' Goutier did not struck me as the kind of person to own such a weapon."
While the pistol itself was nothing out of the ordinary, the embossed work on its grip was unmistakable, especially when its matching pair was resting on Aramis' table.
"So... which of you gentlemen can explain to me what this pistol was doing in the dead Vicomte's house?"
The silence that settled over the room was a visceral, solid thing that poked at everyone present, urging them to say something just to make it go away.
It was Aramis, who, in his delirium, broke the quiet by renewing his struggles against his bonds. "She's not yours...you villain..." he hissed, managing to almost sit up, his face red with fever and the effort. "Giselle!"
Treville's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name, but his reaction went unnoticed as Porthos rushed to his friend's side. It never ceased to amaze that, despite his size and obvious strength, they belayed the great care with which the larger man took to press Aramis back to the mattress. "Settle down, Aramis...you're amongst friends."
In Aramis' delirium muddled mind, however, there were no friends or loved ones anywhere around him. There were only just monsters and foes, and Aramis seemed to want to battle them all to save this Giselle woman.
"No! Release me!" Aramis tried to scream, his eyes open and staring straight through Porthos, not really seeing him. "Can't you see that she doesn't love him?"
Athos went to help Porthos, a cup with a sleeping draught in his hand. There were still hours until they could give something more for his fever, so the best thing seemed to try and keep him calm. Already his bandages were dotted with fresh blood, most certainly from tearing his stitches.
"I think I've already heard enough," the captain announced. He turned abruptly and retrieved his hat from where it hung by the door.
"Captain?" d'Artagnan looked at him curiously.
"Giselle, the niece of the Vicomte de Turenne," Treville said, placing his hat on his head, "was meant to be betrothed to General Buchan in a matter of days, a marriage that would very much please the King and her uncle." Rage and worry clearly battled for dominance over his expression. "That was the reason why the Vicomte was in Paris in the first place...if she was involved with Aramis in any way..." He let the possibilities hang in the air as he opened the door.
D'Artagnan looked between his friends where they were occupied with helping Aramis, and Treville, torn about what to do. Given what the Captain said and the implications validated by Aramis himself, albeit, a fevered confession, it didn't bode well for the marksman. It certainly looked like he had been the one to kill the Vicomte over the matter of his niece's affections.
If pressed, d'Artagnan would confess that his first impression of Aramis had not been the best, not taking in account the fact that the marksman had defended Athos, the man who, at the time, the Gascon had believed to be his father's murderer. His flamboyant speech and actions, however… in those first moments, d'Artagnan had truly thought the older man to be touched in the head, or – at the very least – devoid of any honor.
But that wasn't the Aramis he had come to know over these last many months.
The Aramis he now knew liked to fool people into believing that he cared for very little and couldn't be bothered to worry about anyone else but himself. This revelation hadn't taken long for d'Artagnan to ascertain. The façade the marksman presented was little more than a mask, an illusion that the Aramis deployed to protect his caring nature and big heart.
That was the Aramis that was worth knowing. The one worthy of their trust and respect, and the undying friendship of Athos and Porthos.
If that man, a man d'Artagnan trusted with his life, had truly killed the Vicomte de Turenne, the Gascon had to believe that there existed a very strong reason to do so. Aramis was, above all else, a man of honor.
"Captain!" d'Artagnan called out, hurrying after the older man. "Wait...if you please."
Treville looked annoyed, barely slowing his steps to allow the young man to catch up. "What do you want, d'Artagnan?"
"Sir...you know Aramis better than me," the Gascon stated. "You know that there's more to this story than what appears at first glance. Aramis would never kil—"
"I do know Aramis," the Captain cut in, the hint of anger in his voice worrisome. "And I know that he is one of the most honorable and caring people I've ever known," he went on, his appreciation of the marksman's personality and skills easing his tone. "But I am also aware that, in the matters of women and love, Aramis is one of the most idiotic people on God's green earth, so, if you're done wasting my time, I have a King to appease and expla—"
"At least allow him to regain his strength and explain himself," d'Artagnan pleaded, his affection for Aramis lending weight to his words. "Just...a day or two...I'm sure that h—"
Treville sighed. It was plain to see that he had no desire to tell the King that one of his best Musketeers was possibly responsible for the death of a nobleman. "One day," the older man offered with a sense of finality. "After that, I will have to tell the King something."
D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile. "Of course, sir," he agreed readily. Before taking his leave, a sudden thought struck him. "Sir...if you don't mind," he called again, regaining the Captain's attention. "How exactly did the Vicomte die?"
Treville frowned, apparently surprised by the question. "He was shot," he replied. "Bullet wound very close to his heart...it was only the fact that the pistol was fired from a distance that prevented it from killing him instantly."
The Gascon stood in the street outside Aramis' quarters, baffled and surprised, not even taking notice when the Captain dismissed him and walked away.
All this time, they had been assuming that the blood on Aramis' rapier was from the wound that had killed the Vicomte, but if the man had been shot that...that made absolutely no sense at all.
"I strongly recommend leeches," Doctor Poulet repeated.
"'Course you do," Porthos folded his arms over his rather broad chest, stood to full height and stepped none too subtly between the physician and their injured friend. "But you get the same answer as yesterday, when you suggested bloodletting. No."
The doctor sighed. Poulet was a portly man, shorter than Porthos by a good head--then again, most men were-- and only slightly older than Athos. If he'd been a bit on the nervous side entering the room the first time, he was nearly apoplectic at his additional visit. If Athos were to guess, Porthos would have the man losing what remained of his hair by the end of the week.
On the doctor's first visit, paid with what meager coins the three of them had been able to put together on short notice, the physician had flushed the putrid flesh and sewn up the wound, as well as graciously given them some herbs and a few concoctions that they could use to ease Aramis' symptoms. At the time, he had suggested bloodletting to ease the fever, only to be met then with a resounding voice of descent from the three Musketeers, and a fearsome look from Porthos. Just to be on the safe side.
The Musketeers had been surprised to see him back on their doorstep the following day, until they learned it had been at Treville's bequest, and coin. Poulet had eagerly obliged if his much improved attitude was anything to go by, likely due to some expectation of a greater compensation from the Captain of the King's own soldiers. This time Poulet offered the less appalling and less costly version of bloodletting, one in the form of the revolting little blood-sucking beasts.
While d'Artagnan had confided in Porthos and Athos as to the Captain's suspicions, they all knew that their commander would spare no effort to make sure Aramis survived, as he would for any of his men.
The mere fact that Poulet had made such a differentiation in the type of services he offered, dependent on who paid and the sum involved, was enough for Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan to lose any —of the meager— trust in the man. Porthos, for his part, was more than willing to break the good doctor in two to make it easier for him to use his two-faced revolting attitude, a sentiment that, while shared, needed Athos calming hand on Porthos shoulder to stop him from doing something so hasty. And bloody.
As it were, d'Artagnan barely restrained himself from shoving the doctor out when he, politely, showed Poulet to the door.
Later that day, sometime during the night, Aramis had finally stopped struggling against his bonds. His body and linens soaked with sweat, he lay almost alarmingly still, compared to the rantings they'd come accustomed to and even his delirious speeches had ceased. In the void of it all, the room filled with a heavy silence and broken by the occasional moan or groan, the only signs that assured them life still beat inside Aramis' chest.
It was clear to see, aside the doctor's insistence on the leeches, that there was nothing left to do but wait and hope. Hope that this wasn't the one time when Aramis failed to bounce back from an injury. Hope that they weren't waiting in vain. That they weren't waiting for the end.
As they sat in silence, each trapped inside his own thoughts, d'Artagnan couldn't help but feel a deep sense of anger towards the situation.
In the short time since they'd met and worked together, the young man had seen Aramis charge a large group of Red Guards and remain unscathed; had heard about him jumping on top of a bomb and simply shrugging it off with a smile; had seen him being thrown from his horse, standing atop a bridge over a rushing river and never lose his composure or track of the deceit he was playing.
And now, a simple graze, caused by a treacherous bullet in the back, was the thing that seemed resolved to steal the marksman from them. Something mundane within their daily existence now invited Death to loom over their heads, ready to claim that which was not hers to claim.
It was hardly fair and d'Artagnan could not help but feel utterly helpless to defend Aramis against such an invisible foe. Were Death a breeze, and d'Artagnan could cut it down, to keep it from drifting by and chilling them with its touch.
On the matter of defending Aramis' honor, d'Artagnan felt, as they all did, equally powerless. With no one else but a dead man and a dying one to tell what had passed between the two of them, it would be hard to prove that Aramis hadn't killed the Vicomte, but even harder to dismiss the idea that he might have. The marksman's memory would be forever marred by such a deed, obscuring all the brave and selfless acts that he had achieved in his life. Relegating his legacy to one of shame and suspicion.
"It was the same with my mother," Porthos whispered, breaking the silence. A quiet sniff followed his words, but no one dared to look too closely at his face in search of tears. "First she got real quiet, and then by dawn..."
Athos and d'Artagnan couldn't help but glance at Aramis. He lay in repose, the single candle in the room revealing pale lips, sallow skin and hair pasted to his brow and neck. The only sign of life was the flush of fever upon his cheeks and chest. It was becoming harder and harder to imagine him as the same man who had arranged an impromptu party in a matter of minutes to celebrate Porthos' birthday.
"This is Aramis," Athos responded, neck stiff, nostrils flaring, as if the mere notion that Aramis would die was something that he found offensive. "If Death is a lady, as the poets seem to claim, he will have no trouble wooing her into letting him stay a little while longer."
Although Athos' tone was light and playful, the pain and worry were plain to see in the older Musketeer's face. It was a fanciful dream to believe Aramis' charms powerful enough to convince Death to return later, but all of them were all-too-familiar with the fate of most men who suffered from festering wounds.
A knock on the door pulled them out of their gloom, curious about who could possibly be looking for them. The Captain would've simply barged in, and no one else knew where they were.
Exchanging a look with the others, d'Artagnan went to the door while Porthos and Athos reached for their pistols. There was no way of knowing who had shot Aramis and whether the coward responsible would try to finish what he'd started. There could be one foe at the door, or a whole host of villains, but one thing was certain: none of them would get close enough to lay a finger on their friend.
Heart beating out of his chest with an odd mix of dread and excitement, d'Artagnan opened the door to find a young lady covered in a cloak of the finest material that did not fully cover the fine silk dress beneath. He stood there, stunned, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder in search of the foes his gut had been expecting.
"Please, Monsieur, I'm looking for the Musketeer Aramis. Is this where he lives?"
The first utterance of her concern and despair left d'Artagnan with little doubt. This could be no other than the mysterious and fair Giselle and she looked… not one day older than sixteen and absolutely terrified. "You should not be here," he hissed, looking for signs of her uncle's people, or even the Red Guards.
"You don't understand! I need to see him," she pleaded, tears rushing to her eyes as she tried to peer past him. "I need to know that I have not killed my savior!"
For a second time in as many minutes, the Gascon found himself confounded by circumstances. "You—You shot Aramis?" he gasped, even as the woman ignored his dismay and slipped past.
Giselle, however, was too deeply distressed to answer. She had fallen at the side of Aramis' bed, his lax hand grasped between hers, tears running freely from her closed eyes. "Oh...Aramis, my valiant knight..." she sobbed. "I am so deeply sorry for what happened..."
D'Artagnan exchanged a look with the others, finding their stunned expressions similar to his own.
Without a word, Athos fetched a bottle of wine that rested on Aramis' windowsill. He poured some into a wooden cup and came to her side.
"Mademoiselle," the swordsman said, gently resting a hand on the distraught woman's shoulder. "Drink this...it will help." He glanced at Porthos and d'Artagnan before continuing. "And then, perhaps, you can tell us what you know."
She gulped the wine, choking and coughing. By the time she had regained control over her breathing, her composure had somewhat returned.
"How rude of me," she apologized, seemingly realizing for the first time that she was sitting in front of three strange men. "I am Giselle d' Goutier, niece of the late—"
"Vicomte de Turenne, yes, we are aware," d'Artagnan cut in, eager to move past what they already knew. "You were bound to marry General Buchan, but got involved with Aramis instead and when your uncle discovered it, he challenged Aramis to a duel for your honor and lost. What we would like to know is—"
"What?" Giselle looked at d'Artagnan in surprise before shaking her head. "Truly, you know nothing, Monsieur," she retorted, heat flushing her cheeks pink. "And you assume entirely too much."
"Then, please," Porthos asked with a scowl. "Enlighten us."
Giselle extended the cup and gave it a shake, silently asking for more. The tale, it seemed, would not be easy on her fraying nerves. Athos obliged and with her cup once more filled, they watched as she took another drink, each of them sharing curious glances.
"My uncle was not an honorable person," she said bitterly. Disgust marred her face at the memory of the man. "Since the death of my parents, he had eyes only for the lands I inherited and my family's silver and gold, but as long as I remained alive and without a husband, he could not touch either. The easiest way he could find to dispose of me was to offer my hand in marriage to any man he pleased."
"And so he gave you to the General…" Athos filled in knowingly, his own level of disgust piqued. Such agreements were common within noble society, though he disagreed with the practice completely. Of course, in his case, escaping arranged marriages had not ended so well.
"The General was both convenient and a favorite of the King," she paused, sipping at the wine. "Everyone would get what they wanted... except for me."
"You asked Aramis for help," Athos offered.
"I asked God for help," she corrected. "Aramis must have overheard my prayers at the church and came to me, offered to intercede in my behalf." Giselle smiled warmly. "I could not believe my good fortune when he offered his assistance."
"What went wrong?" Porthos asked, looking past her to their injured friend.
"My uncle would not listen to any of his reasoning, and when Aramis threatened to take the matter to the King himself, my uncle lost his mind and challenged your friend to a duel. With swords."
"Aramis won," d'Artagnan guessed without much effort. While Athos was certainly the best swordsman he had ever encountered, Aramis wasn't that far behind. The few times he'd sparred with the marksman, d'Artagnan had found himself hard pressed not to embarrass himself.
"He did, and with such ease...but he refused to harm my uncle," Giselle confirmed. "Aramis drew first blood and called upon my uncle's honor to respect my wishes and give up his. But then..." she went on, sobs rising once more. "My—my uncle...we walked away— Aramis must have sensed that there was something wrong—" Tears broke out anew.
The girl looked around worriedly a moment before lifting one corner of her woolen cape and wiping her nose. Numerous times. Athos eyes widened comically before he started searching his pockets.
Giselle turned to send an apologetic look to the senseless man on the bed. Athos froze as together the Musketeers followed her gaze, respecting her need for some personal reflection, even as all of them had already guessed what had happened next.
"Your uncle reached for a pistol, didn't he?" Porthos supplied. At her teary nod, he growled, "He intended to shoot Aramis in the back?"
Again, she nodded, fresh tears breaking from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. A finely embroidered handkerchief unfolded itself in front of her gaze, Athos' hand attached to the other hand, offering the piece of linen in his off-handed, gentlemanly way. "Aramis tried to talk him out of it, but I knew my uncle," she went on. "He was going to kill him, for little more than meddling in his affairs, so—" she stopped, unable to utter the next words.
"You took Aramis' pistol and fired," Athos voiced for her. "Only Aramis was in the way and the same ball that killed the Vicomte grazed his back."
The woman dissolved in grief, bowing over to hide her face in shame. "I called out... Aramis turned sideways...I didn't meant to..." she whispered, the words muffled by the silk of her skirts. "I swear to God and all the angels that I didn't mean to..." she repeated, looking up, searching their eyes for forgiveness. "Aramis placed himself in front of me, shielding me from my uncle. I called out a warning when I fired but... it wasn't enough..."
D'Artagnan knelt beside her, taking her hands in his, much like she had done before with Aramis. In her watery gaze, he could see that she meant it, both for hurting Aramis and killing her own uncle. "We believe you," he whispered gently. "And we thank you," he added from the bottom of his heart.
"Tha-thank...me?" she asked, blowing her nose on the offered handkerchief, much to Athos' revulsion.
Porthos nodded, mirroring d'Artagnan's position and laying his hands over theirs. "You saved our brother's life. Aramis would've had second thoughts about shooting a nobleman and that could've cost him his life...you didn't, and we thank you for that."
"No! No, no, you've misunderstood me," Giselle cried, her nimble hands escaping theirs as she stumbled to her feet, the kerchief wadded tight in one small fist. "I hurt him! I...I was so lost at the sight of my uncle, bleeding, that I allowed Aramis to walk away on his own, foolishly believing that he would reach help in time," she sobbed anew. "I convinced myself that he was fine, that everything would be alright, just like he assured me."
"He did find help," Athos reassured her. "And grim as it looks at the moment, I can assure you that we've seen Aramis struggle through worse and come out victorious."
He was lying through his teeth; d'Artagnan could see that, even if Giselle, who didn't know either man well, could not. But that was the whole point, he decided. The young woman had already been through enough and her tale had, at least, put their hearts at ease.
"You are wrong, Monsieur," she stated boldly, wiping the tears from her face. "But there is something I can do for him. Felicks, our family's physician, is waiting outside," she continued with determination, handing over the used handkerchief back to Athos.
The older Musketeer took one step back, looking at the piece of cloth like it had teeth and was out for blood. "Please… consider it a gift for," he paused, grimacing, "your cancelled wedding."
The young woman nodded gracefully, moving to the door. "With your permission, I would like Felicks to look at Aramis' wound and treat it if he can."
Porthos' scoffed, unimpressed. "A fever's a fever, Mademoiselle...naught to be done 'bout it," he declared. It was clear by his tone that he was less than inclined to have anyone else poking at Aramis, especially anyone calling himself a physician.
"Felicks is not like most physicians, I assure you," she replied, a smile gracing her lips for the first time. It was only then that they could see how truly young and beautiful she was. "If I may?"
The fact that Giselle's miracle worker hadn't arrived carrying a bottle filled with leeches was encouraging enough for the three men to allow the physician, at least, the benefit of the doubt. The doctor, not much older than Aramis himself, had taken one whiff of the air permeating the room and, even before looking at his patient, had turned back out to the street.
"What… just happened?" d'Artagnan put his hands on his hips and looked around the room for answers that were not forthcoming in Athos' shrug or Porthos muttered growl.
So left to their own devices, the three Musketeers watched the door expectantly. Porthos simply raised a brow, crossed his arms over his chest, his demeanor giving off an air of vindication in his declaration that all physicians were crooks with little more than chicken feathers for brain.
Just when they thought they'd lost the doctor for good, Felicks returned a short time later. The young physician carried in one hand, extended before him a ball of spider webs and a victorious smile on his face. "Do you have bread? Stale would be preferable," he asked, his speech pattern hinting of something foreign, as he steadily ignored their looks of bewilderment.
While Athos and Porthos stood guard over the physician's every movement, watching and cataloguing any sign of distress on Aramis' part, d'Artagnan stood in fascination as the man mixed the webs with water and bread. In no time at all and with little effort, Felicks created what amounted to a thick paste, and he wasted no time in applying over Aramis' wound.
"Change that every three hours," he ordered, his eyes locking with the young Gascon's as he seemed the most interested. "This is very important, no more, no less than three hours, tak?"
D'Artagnan found himself nodding, unable to tear his gaze away. It could be only a mere coincidence, but to his eyes, Aramis already looked more at ease. "Three hours, no more, no less," he confirmed, earning a smile from the strange man.
"Good," Felicks replied, washing his hands in a bucket of clean water. "Your friend is young and strong," he went on, pushing Aramis' tangled, sweat-soaked hair away from his face. "He'll be back saving young damsels in distress in no time at all." He gave each of them a triumphant gaze before turning to Giselle. He bestowed upon her a gentle smile and a wink.
The young woman blushed violently, turning her eyes away. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile.
Her heart was certainly taken, but this once, it was not by their hopelessly romantic friend.
Aramis woke to a hellish symphony of snoring. Porthos' loud snorts commanded the music, while the others followed, some soft, some sharp, all in perfect harmony with each other.
Still, it was a ghastly sound.
He blinked, eyelids that felt like blocks of heavy stone grinding against his eyes as he fought his way through such a simple gesture.
The ceiling above his head looked like the one at the garrison, but beneath the snoring, he could hear the Seine outside, water lapping against the banks as fishing boats passed by. His private rooms, then.
Turning his head to the side proved to be easier than lifting his eyelids, and Aramis sighed in relief as his cheek pressed against the feather pillow that someone had placed under his head. From that position, he could easily see three familiar faces, all in similar positions of slumber.
Athos was in a chair, leaned back precariously, his feet propped on the table next to his hat. Inches away from his boots was Porthos' head, resting on his folded arms, his heavy breaths making the feather on Athos' hat flutter. Of d'Artagnan he could only see the back of his head, hair falling to hide his face as he slept on the floor, leaning against the bed.
"You're safe," a grave, familiar voice stated. "You're home."
Aramis smiled, feeling his cheeks protest even that movement. He cared not, for the words could not have been more accurate or welcomed. Slowly, he turned away from his family and faced the other side of his bed, where Treville rested against the window.
"I—" he started, the words dissolving into a croak as he discovered that, like the rest of his body, his voice was unwilling to obey his commands.
"It has been three days since you foolishly sought out the Vicomte de Turenne on your own," the Captain supplied, guessing most of what Aramis wanted to ask, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone. "The wound on your back became badly infected when you failed to reach help in time, causing those three to exhaust themselves tending to you," he went on.
Aramis closed his eyes, searching his own memories for what had happened and hiding his gaze from the judgment in his Captain's gaze.
Images of the Vicomte and the dismissive way with which the noble had treated everyone around him came flooding back to his otherwise sluggish mind. Next he remembered how the nobleman had foolishly challenged Aramis to a duel and how hard the marksman had tried to not harm the annoying little man.
However, the reasoning for it all was something else entirely. Try as he might he could not recall why he had been in such a foul creature's presence in the first place. Soon, the distraught cries of a young woman, echoing across the empty church's nave, came to his recollection with the force of a horse's kick.
"Giselle!" Aramis let out hoarsely. Forgetting about his aching body and weak limbs, he pushed both hands against the mattress to rise.
"Wha—?" Porthos sputtered, coughing as he rose too fast.
"Is it my turn?" d'Artagnan's head shot up quickly, eyes blinking behind a curtain of hair, while Athos nearly lost his balance before his chair settled harshly on the floor.
"Do not move!" Treville barked, instinctively taking a step closer to the bed.
The cacophony of words sent Aramis' head spinning, as he foolishly tried to look both ways at once, searching for Porthos and d'Artagnan on one side and the Captain on the other. In the end, his ailing body made the decision for him, as strength fled his arms and he sank back down with a oomph!
"Please don't tell me we need to tie you to your bed," Athos protested, side-eyeing the injured man. "Again."
Aramis frowned, his brain still working around the fact that his body was not working properly when Athos' words registered. "Again?" he asked, looking at his wrists. There was some redness there, but no broken skin. "Why?"
"You kept wanting to ride your bed out of the room," d'Artagnan offered, his expression the most grievous possible. "It was either that or find you a better horse," he added with a smile.
Underneath the banter and light words, it was easy to see the exhaustion and worry that his friends had endured. D'Artagnan's hair hung flat against his head, Porthos' beard was threatening to engulf his whole neck and Athos had shadows under his eyes that almost reached his mustache. While Aramis felt like he had spent a whole week battling street cats, he knew that matters had not been any easier for those who had been at his bed-side, taking care of him.
"I cannot recall reaching the garrison," Aramis confessed, "or how we ended up here."
"You were trying to reach the garrison?" Porthos let out a laugh. "Mate, you took a couple of very wrong turns."
"That would be because you never did," Treville supplied at the same time. "If you're all awake now," he went on, turning his attention to the bleary-eyed group on the other side of the bed, "I have actual duties that require my attention, other than watching my men sleep...namely, sorting out the trouble you and that young lady caused."
The marksman's eyes grew wide as he realized what the Captain was referring to. "The Vicomte," he whispered. "Does he live? Is Giselle safe?"
"No, he does not and yes, she is," Treville answered shortly, making his way to the door. "Fortunately for Mademoiselle d'Goutier, the Queen was present when she made her petition to the King and Her Majesty interceded on her behalf," he informed. "The Queen will be taking the young lady as one of her ladies in waiting, while the King has agreed to consider the death of the Vicomte de Turenne an unfortunate accident...one in which you took no part, are we clear?"
Aramis nodded as best he could, his head feeling like it weighed a thousand tons while his lids slowly lost the battle to obey his commands. "Thank you, Captain," he whispered.
He had no idea how the others had found him, but that was a question for another time. All that mattered at present was that Treville was aware of all that had transpired at the Vicomte's house— the how if it also a mystery— along with the Captain's apparent knowledge as to what transpired inside his own home over the past few days. But again, Aramis thought as he yawned sleepily, all in due time.
For now, he felt safe...and tired.
And while the first feeling wasn't going anywhere, the second was strongly demanding his attention. So, Aramis closed his eyes and rested.