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Hidden Danger
A Musketeer story by Deana
Thank you Snow-Glory for providing me with the title! :-)

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Aramis groaned when sunlight suddenly filled his room. All night, he'd had a tickle in his throat that had actually made it difficult to breathe without coughing. He'd slept fitfully and woke often, and just when he'd started to doze off again, he'd realized that it was morning. With another groan, he eventually got out of bed and slowly dressed, coughing when the exertion disagreed with him.

Voices suddenly drifted through his window and he realized that he was going to be late for breakfast. He hurried as fast as he could and headed out of his room and down the stairs, trying to suppress the coughing, but not entirely succeeding.

Porthos and Athos watched him as he headed over to their table. "Are you ill?" Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head as he sat down. "No...I just have a tickle in my throat." Even as he said it, he had to stop to cough.

Porthos didn't believe him and put a hand on his forehead. "No fever."

"I feel fine," Aramis told them. "Seriously."

They stared at him as they considered his words, until they were interrupted by Serge with their breakfast. "I 'ave more of those tarts left over from last night," said the cook, setting down their plates. "Wanna finish them off before they go stale?"

Porthos nodded happily and grabbed the extra dish off the cook's tray. "You don't have to ask me twice!"

Serge chuckled and went back into the kitchen.

Porthos deliberately put a tart on Aramis' plate, as if making sure that he ate.

"I'm not sick," said Aramis. "I feel fine." He coughed again after, despite his words.

"Maybe you do now," said Athos. "But you must be coming down with a cold."

Aramis shrugged as he ate. "I have no other symptoms. No sneezing, no dizzy spells…no falling." He said the last part with a slight grin, as they all knew how clumsy Aramis became when he was ill.

"Did you accidentally inhale something that you shouldn't have?" Porthos asked as he shoved a whole tart into his mouth.

Aramis opened his mouth to say no, that he'd coughed all night, but he decided to keep that to himself or they'd only become even more concerned. "Not that I can recall."

"Why don't you go back to your room and rest?" Athos suggested. "Treville would not begrudge you a day off if you are unwell."

Aramis had to cough again before he could answer, and he covered his mouth with a cloth napkin.

"Aramis?" they suddenly heard.

Looking up, they saw Treville coming down the stairs. "I could hear you coughing from my office," he said.

"I feel fine," Aramis repeated for the third time. "It's just a tickle in my throat."

Treville studied him. He and the other three knew very well the trouble that Aramis got into when he was sick. He had an odd problem that no physician could diagnose that kept him off-balance when ill and made him literally fall down when he sneezed.*

But right now, Aramis wasn't sneezing—yet.

"We're training new recruits today," Treville said. "I'd rather you not sneeze and get skewered."

"Hear, hear," said Porthos, eating the last tart.

Aramis couldn't blame the captain for that…after all, Treville had been the one to nearly skewer him after a sneeze had brought him down—literally—while the two of them had been demonstrating a swordfight to new recruits. Even though it sounded absolutely ridiculous, he couldn't change the fact that he was useless when sick. "I'll just sit here then," he said. "Or clean weapons in the armory."

Everyone was relieved.

"Good," said Treville, as if he wasn't the captain who was the one to ultimately make the decision.

As the captain walked away, Porthos suddenly made a face and looked at Aramis. "You know, you're lucky."

"Hmm?" Aramis said, which made him cough again.

Porthos waited until he finished before continuing. "The slightest sound from you, and you get a free day." He looked at Athos. "You think he makes it all up?"

Athos smiled slightly.

"Very funny," said Aramis, coughing again.

Soon, they were lined up as Treville took attendance and issued tasks for the day, but no matter how hard he tried, Aramis couldn't stop coughing. "I'm sorry," he told Treville, after the musketeers broke formation.

Treville shook his head, knowing that it wasn't Aramis' fault. "Tell me the truth; is it your lungs or your throat?" Everyone knew the dangers of a chest illness.

"My throat," Aramis answered. "I swear."

Treville nodded and gestured towards the table. "Go sit down, unless you want to rest in your room?"

"Out here will do," Aramis said. He headed over to the table—coughing along the way—and sat down, watching as Athos and Porthos were each given a recruit to train.

As Aramis sat there, he noticed that his throat felt thick, as if his airway had narrowed. It was harder to draw in air, and he continued to cough.

"That sounds terrible," he suddenly heard.

Turning his head, Aramis saw Serge heading over with a mug.

"Drink this," the cook said. "Tea with honey; it should help."

Aramis smiled and took it, taking a sip. "Mmm," he said. "Thank you."

Serge smiled and walked off.

Aramis drank it quickly, enjoying the heat on his throat. Within a couple of minutes, the cup was empty and he sat it down. He immediately had to cough again, and covered his mouth with the cloth napkin, not wanting to distract the other musketeers from their training.

Sticking the napkin in his sleeve, Aramis tried to take a breath, but to his surprise, it felt as if there wasn't enough room in his throat. He coughed again to try to clear what he assumed was mucus, but it only made it worse, and to his shock, he found that he could hardly breathe. Desperately trying to inhale, he succeeded partly, but it was obvious that something was very wrong.

Quickly, Aramis pushed himself to his feet and tried to call out for help, but the only thing that made it past his lips was a wheeze. He took a step away from the table, but the decrease in oxygen made him dizzy and he fell to the ground.

The musketeers didn't hear anything over the clash of swords until a gunshot suddenly cracked through the air.

Everyone stopped and turned towards the sound.

A thrill of fear filled Porthos when he spotted Aramis lying on the ground. The smoking pistol clutched in his hand that pointed towards the sky fell from his grip as his arm dropped to the dirt. It was then that Porthos realized that Aramis wasn't trying to get up, and had a hand around his throat. The sound of his friend gasping met his ears, and he started to run. "Aramis!" he shouted, throwing himself to his knees beside him.

Aramis continued to gasp, face extremely pale.

Porthos quickly pulled him upright to lay in his arm. "What happened?!" he exclaimed.

Aramis tried to talk, but couldn't. "C-can't…" he whispered. The only other thing that made it past his lips was a wheeze.

"Someone fetch a doctor!" Porthos shouted, panicked.

Treville and Athos knelt, as more musketeers surrounded them.

"He can't breathe!" Porthos exclaimed, holding his friend in a death grip.

"Aramis, are you choking?!" Athos wisely asked.

Aramis shook his head, eyes opened wide as he fought for air.

Treville turned. "Everyone move away!" he shouted, not wanting Aramis to be overwhelmed by the staring. He reached over and pried Aramis' hand away from his throat before placing his own hand on Aramis' chest. "Stop panicking," he said, trying to sound calm. "You're making it harder for yourself. You're breathing, Aramis…even though it's obviously difficult, you're breathing."

He was right; even though it was barely enough to survive, Aramis was getting some air.

Athos reached over and unbuckled Aramis' belts, pulling them all off before untying his blue sash and unbuttoning his jacket, hoping that it would help him breathe better.

Aramis continued to grow paler, and his lips started to take on a bluish hue. He blindly reached out for Athos' hand before his eyes fluttered and his struggle for air grew weaker.

"No, Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed, giving him a shake. "Don't you dare pass out!"

Aramis' eyes reopened and Athos squeezed his hand. "Keep breathing, Aramis!" he commanded. "Do you hear me?"

Aramis looked at him, before his eyes fluttered again. The wheezing, grating sound that emitted from his throat as he fought for air was terrifying.

There was a sudden commotion as the musketeers that had run for a doctor returned and rushed over to the four men on the ground.

"What happened?" the doctor asked as he knelt.

"He was sitting here alone and then I suddenly saw him lying on the ground unable to breathe!" Porthos quickly told him.

"Has he an injury to his chest?"

"No," Athos told him. "But he's been coughing since this morning…he said that it was a tickle in his throat, that it wasn't his lungs."

At those words, the doctor opened his bag and took out a small bottle. "Has he ever had an adverse reaction to something he ate or drank?"

"Lemongrass," said Porthos. "He's told us that he can't have lemongrass."

The doctor poured a small amount from the bottle into a cup before holding it to Aramis' lips. "Drink this, son," he said. "Quickly."

Aramis' eyes fluttered closed again.

The doctor tapped his face, hard. "Stay awake, and drink this!" He deliberately poured some into Aramis' mouth.

Aramis' eyes opened and he immediately choked, losing air that he didn't have.

"Swallow!" said the doctor, trying again. "If you want to live, swallow!"

It took two more tries before Aramis managed to do it, after which the doctor put the bottle back into his bag.

They all watched as Aramis continued to gasp.

"It's not working!" Porthos exclaimed. "He needs more!"

"Anymore would be too dangerous," said the doctor. "It will work. Sit him up a little higher."

Porthos obeyed, leaning Aramis sideways against his chest where he remained, still gasping, eyes closed. Less than thirty seconds passed before they suddenly realized that Aramis' breaths were a little fuller.

"That's it, Aramis," said Porthos, unconsciously starting to rock him. "Keep breathin'!"

Aramis gave no reaction to his voice, but before another whole minute had passed, the desperate gasps had subsided into shallow, fast breathing, and the blue tinge to his lips started to lessen.

Athos sighed raggedly, exchanging a look of relief with Treville.

Porthos had his chin resting on his friend's head as he rocked him. He realized that Aramis was shaking…or was it him? "Keep breathin', Aramis," he repeated. "Keep breathin'."

Aramis did, leaning unmoving against his friend's chest, his body tense. Even though it was now easier to breathe, it still wasn't easy.

Once Aramis appeared to be out of danger, the doctor looked at Treville. "He can be moved, now."

Treville stood, putting out a hand to help Porthos rise with Aramis in his arms.

Athos and the doctor stood as well, and they started to walk over to the stairs. Athos found that his legs were wobbly and he felt a little lightheaded; having nearly watched Aramis die from a sudden and unknown cause had badly shaken him. He could only imagine how Porthos felt.

A moment later, they were in Aramis' room, and they quickly pulled off his jacket and boots and reclined him upright in his bed. Porthos sat on the bed gripping his hand, watching worriedly as Aramis continued to breathe with difficulty.

Aramis returned the grip with more strength than he actually had—fueled by understandable fear. His other hand was fisted in his shirt over his chest, and as his breathing eased a little more, he finally reopened his eyes.

Porthos smiled with relief, glancing at Athos on the other side of the bed for a second. "Hey there," he said. "You're all right."

Aramis appeared to try to say something, but he failed.

Athos squeezed his arm. "Rest."

Treville looked at the doctor. "What did you give him?"

"Arsenicum album," he replied.

Treville blinked with shock. "Arsenic?"

The doctor nodded. "It is derived from arsenic, yes. What your musketeer suffered was his throat closing up from ingesting a substance that his body wrongfully considered as being harmful."

"I never put lemongrass in the food," Serge's voice suddenly said.

Turning, they saw him standing inside the door holding Aramis' weapons, which they'd neglected to bring upstairs with them.

"Ever since 'e told me 'e can't 'ave it, years ago," said Serge, putting the weapons down and walking closer.

"But is there any in the kitchen?" Treville asked.

Serge thought for a minute. "I'm not sure. I used to use it before…I thought I threw it all away."

"Have you put anything new in the food?" the doctor asked. "If this is from another cause, then you need to figure it out immediately, or this will happen again and he could die the next time."

Serge, flustered at the thought that he might've accidentally killed Aramis, shook his head. "Nothing new, no, but I made tarts yesterday with honey which I haven't used in a while…and ten minutes before this happened, I gave 'im tea with honey in it."

"And he ate one of the tarts this morning," Athos said. "As well as last night."

"Show me," said Treville motioning for Serge to follow him.

They quickly left the room and headed for the kitchen.

"Where is the honey?" Treville asked, once they entered.

Serge led him over to a large jar on one of the counters and pulled it out, opening the cover and showing it to him.

Treville picked it up and sniffed it, noticing that the scent was a little odd. Putting the jar down, he looked at the shelf above it, and saw a small bottle tipped on its side with the cover off. Picking it up, he turned it around to see what was written on it.

Lemongrass.

When Serge saw the writing, his bad leg buckled and he had to lean on the counter for support.

Treville put the bottle down and quickly grabbed him.

"I almost killed Aramis," Serge exclaimed. "I almost killed Aramis!" He closed his eyes and lowered his head. "God forgive me, I almost killed Aramis!"

"Take it easy," Treville said, even though his own mind was reeling. "It was an accident."

"I almost killed Aramis," Serge repeated, his eyes filling with tears. "One of my favorites."

Those last words had Treville smile slightly; Aramis' easygoing, friendly nature always made him a favorite of most of the people he met. "Calm down," he said. "Aramis is all right, Serge. For all we know, he'll be back to his usual self tomorrow." He gently helped him over to a chair and sat him down, before fetching him a cup of wine. "I'll go tell the doctor that it was lemongrass. Stay here."

Serge shook his head, tears still leaking from his eyes. "It's my responsibility—"

Treville sighed, before giving him his own handkerchief and shoving the cup into his hand. "Take a few minutes first and get a hold of yourself."

Serge sighed as he wiped his eyes.

"Drink the wine," Treville commanded.

Serge obeyed, before putting the cup down with a *thunk*. He took a deep breath before standing again—his hand shaking as he took the lemongrass bottle from Treville—and they headed back towards Aramis' room.

TBC

*'Looks can be Deceiving': story ID 11709057