This was initially an idea for a certain prompt that seems to inspire a lot of us. I'll tell which one at the end of the story (it's not a spoiler strictly speaking, but I feel that telling now would kill the mood a bit). When January 2017's theme for the "Fête des Mousquetaires" competition was disclosed, I thought it would fit very well in it.

As always, a big thank to my betas. Whatever you like in my stories, I have to share half of the credit with them. This time, my grammar savior is Kevin. Mini-ola for him! \o/./o\.\o/

xxxx

"Aramis, are you OK?"

Finger on the vein. Or is it an artery? No, there would be more blood. Would there be? There is a lot already. Focus! Press! Here you go. Now, what?

"Aramis?"

I can't let it go or he'll bleed to death, but I need this finger to… do what? I don't know. God, I have no idea what I'm doing! Focus! OK. I've sliced his chest open, so next… I've sliced a man's chest open! A bit. I had to. Still, that might kill him. I'm going to kill him!

"Aramis!"

"What?!"

On the other side of the table, Porthos' face tensed, more from surprise than anger. Aramis shouldn't have snapped at him. During their three missions together, the big man had never been anything but honest and friendly.

"You're white as a sheet," he said, voice filled with concern, as to illustrate the statement.

Fantastic. Now, I'm going to feel bad.

Focus. Focus, for God's sake!

"I'm fine."

"You're doin' great."

I'm doing shit. Just trying to postpone the inevitable. I'm a musketeer, not a bloody medic! I make the wounds, I don't tend to them!

He took a big breath. Porthos was here, on the other side of the table, ready to help. Now, he should give him some kind of direction.

I need my fingers.

"Press your index right here."

Porthos' trembling hand came nearer to the vein, before lingering, and Aramis could read the issue in the man's eyes before he phrased it:

"It's so small." he stated.

"You can't mess it up more than it already is." Aramis lied mechanically, before thinking better of it: "Your big hands don't make you a fine soldier, Porthos. It's your sharp mind and your good heart. We need them now more than ever. Please. I can't make it without you."

The older man nodded and pressed, flinching when a beat made him realize that, now that Aramis had used the little scalpel to enlarge the wound, a small part of the heart was exposed.

"OK," Aramis said, voice steadier than he'd feared. "Let's do this."

xxxx

It had started as a simple mission. They were to escort the Vicomte de Vouzier from his castle to Paris, where he was supposed to visit his daughter and renew his respect to his King and friend. The trip took a couple of days, they were not carrying anything monetarily or diplomatically precious, there were seven of the Vicomte's men to assist them, and even the difficult weather had been a blessing in disguise since the snow that cloaked the ground and the light fog that came with it in the mornings partially concealed their crew from belligerent eyes. Would it not have been for de Vouzier's constant interruptions and dull conversation, the trip would even have been a pleasant one.

But it appeared that some bandits were willing to take their chance, after all. They were riding through a forest when the small band of ruffians stroke. Porthos yelled, "Ambush!" before the first shot was fired, and two of their attackers were down without having even reached the path. Aramis dropped his still fuming musket and drew his sword to get rid of the remaining uninspired brigands, confident that the whole incident would be over in a minute, failing to take into account how incredibly stupid de Vouzier was.

He had time to see Athos strike down his first opponent, and one of the Vicomte's men be hit in the shoulder, before an awful cry rooted everybody on the spot. All heads turned at once to watch de Vouzier storm out of his little coach, in his colorful silk pants and fur coat, his sword risen above him, yelling his lungs out in something that was undoubtedly aimed to be threatening but sounded more like this strange bird called cockatoo that Aramis had seen at the Court once.

To the Vicomte's credit, he did manage to slay a brigand, the man too shocked to do anything but stand right where he was, eyes wide open, probably dying believing that he'd been slaughtered by an evil harlequin that some twisted mind had summoned from the snow. Then, a shot rang out and de Vouzier put his hands on his chest, a questioning look on his face, before the fighting resumed and the musketeers, along with the Vicomte's soldiers, quickly got rid of the remaining assailants.

When the last bandit hit the ground, Athos sent a few men to secure the area, and the others rushed to de Vouzier's limp body. The Vicomte was on his back, his face bearing an expression of plain terror, his breathing heavy, each expiration accompanied with a bit more blood pouring from the hole.

"Get him in the coach!" Athos ordered. "We're going back to the village to send for a medic!"

It was peculiar how the man, who had only been a musketeer for a month, naturally took charge of leading the operations. Aramis, despite his youth, was the most experienced soldier, and had been the one organizing the trip in detail. After retrieving the Vicomte, the musketeers were supposed to fall under the command of de Vouzier's main officer, but it had quickly become apparent that the man was almost as useless as his master in situations of crisis. He'd been surprisingly compliant, though, when it had come to acknowledge the novice musketeer's authority.

Aramis, for his part, was more than happy to relieve some of his charge on the natural-born leader's shoulders, since he was currently very much busy trying to keep de Vouzier from bleeding to death.

xxxx

They had ridden back to the village they'd come across earlier in the morning, settled in a small inn and asked for a doctor, but the man had been nowhere to be found. The innkeeper had guessed that he was probably visiting one of his old patients, a Monsieur Dujeux, whose tired body was suffering a lot from this winter's bitterly cold temperatures. Athos had gone to fetch him, leaving Aramis alone with Porthos to keep de Vouzier alive in the meantime.

The problem was… well, the main problems, among many others, were that the cold went hand in hand with a frozen slippery ground that slowed considerably the horses' progression – not to mention the snow that had resumed falling – and the fact that Dujeux's house was twenty miles away and that they had no idea if the medic was indeed there.

Aramis had done his best to keep the wound for bleeding too much but, at some point, it had been obvious that de Vouzier would die if nobody resolved to remove the bullet that had miraculously spared his main arteries and hadn't gone too deep, but stopped its course two inches and a half on the bottom of his heart.

"I have to take it out," Aramis had exhaled, and Porthos had just nodded, but then clearly caught something alarming on his fellow musketeer's face, because his had become very solemn before he'd said: "You can do it."

But he couldn't. He had treated bullet wounds before, even removed some with success, hence the naïve and slightly irritating confidence his brothers placed in his medical skills. Still, he had never been allowed near such a serious injury, and had certainly not expressed the desire to be.

There was blood everywhere. Before Aramis' pressure had quelled the flow, each beat of de Vouzier's weaker and weaker heart had pumped a little bit more out. They were barely able to see the projectile in this mess, but knew that it threatened to do more damage every breath the man took. Aramis had wondered if he would have to touch the organ to access it.

I don't want to touch a heart! his mind had frantically pleaded.

"You'll have to assist me," he'd said instead, and Porthos' over-confident expression had turned into something grim.

They both knew that having the Vicomte die while they were treating him could bear more dire consequences than just letting him succumb to his wounds.

Accidents happened. But causing a King's friend's death because you wouldn't wait for a proper medic?

Well, they would not just wait and do nothing, would they?

xxxx

His hands now free, Aramis tried his best to tame the shaking that threatened to claim control of his limbs and moved the pliers closer to the wound.

They are too big. God's teeth! They are so much bigger than the bullet! How am I supposed to take it out without hurting the heart? I can't stop the bleeding. I can only tear the damn thing out and stitch the wound to cover the damage and pray to God for a miracle. But who am I kidding? that will just kill him, he's going to die, and one of the easiest missions I've ever been on will be a complete disaster, and it will be my fault because I'm supposed to be the leader and even if I wasn't I should have waited for the doctor, what am I thinking to achieve with my big pliers and my clumsy hands? I'm a soldier, not a healer! how could I have been so full of myself to seriously believe for a second that I could make a difference? I'm going to kill him, for Pete's sake, there's blood everywhere and I can see the insides of this poor man and that's awful, why is everyone assuming that I can stand the sight, and I'm going to kill him!

"Oi! OI!"

Porthos' voice snapped him out of his ramblings once again, and Aramis looked into his eyes, desperately searching for this irrational and annoying assurance that he needed so much right now. He only found an echo of his own panic, but the big man was able to give him a smile.

"You can't mess it up more than it already is." he quoted, and Aramis smiled in turn, before his labored breathing grew into a burst of slightly hysteric laughter that sounded a lot like a cry.

It cleared his head, though.

And his hands – almost – ceased shaking.

Reflectively, he will say that he'd just stopped thinking alltogether. That, having nothing to lose, he'd let his mind go blank and his subconscious work on its own. That he'd just straightened his grab on the pliers and aimed for the bullet, moving the muscles that were in the way as best as he could, slightly brushing the beating heart…

Brushing the bloody beating hell of a heart.

… to access the item.

He'd then absentmindedly closed the pliers on it, gently moved them out and, being a lucky bastard, managed to pull the bullet out without tearing off half of the Vicomte's precious blood vessels in the process.

"Try to remove your finger," he said to Porthos.

When the hemorrhage didn't resume, and he realized he would not have to tie the vein, he was overcome with a wave of relief. He sighed, then ecstatically brandished the pliers that jammed the bullet, and looked at his friend with what he knew was a very stupid smile. The big man must have been in a state close to his own because he chuckled and, a moment later, they were both giggling like two simpletons.

Then, a small bloodstream sprouted out of the wound.

It was nothing, really. Maybe just some tiny vessel that had been squeezed under a muscle and finally slipped back at its proper place. A second later, everything was over, but the modest stream had been enough to weaken Aramis' already wobbly legs and turn his empty stomach.

Don't throw up.

It felt like the walls were getting closer. He had a hard time breathing and had to grip the table to regain his balance.

Don't throw up.

He heard the sharp sound of the bullet rolling on the ground.

Don't throw up. Don't throw up! Don't…

"… throw up!"

"Hand me the bucket!"

He felt someone pushing him upright, which was very disorienting because, as far as he knew, he was standing a second ago.

Except that he was now resting on Porthos' chest. There were voices outside the room, and the innkeeper was there, trying very hard to avoid the sight of de Vouzier on the table, and handing Aramis a bucket.

"What d'you want me t'do wizzat?"

God, that was no pretty elocution!

"You said you were 'bout to throw up." Porthos stated.

"didn't…" he started, before realizing speaking made him dizzy and opting for something more useful: "What happened?"

"You fainted."

"What? I don't faint!"

Porthos sighed – and Aramis could practically feel him rolling his eyes in his back – before compromising:

"Well, you were overcome with an irrepressible need to take a sudden nap, then. Did you hit your head?"

Aramis didn't believe so. He knew he should probably check, but he found it difficult to feel or think much right now. Porthos' fingers were patting his skull, anyway, in search of a bump. Good. Let him be in charge.

"Should've caught you but the goddamn table was in the way!" the big man muttered. He sounded really sorry, so Aramis tried and, his head being restrained by the hands, failed to look up and give him a comforting smile. He patted Porthos' arm instead. When his friend grunted reassuringly and released his grip, he moved to get up.

"What do you think you're doin'?"

"de Vouzier…"

"Is fine. You were out only a minute."

"have t'stitch his chest. 'nd should take care of his man's shouldr."

"Yeah, you're not gonna do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm pretty sure you can't stand and, even if you could, I don't think the King would like you near his friend in your current condition. I'll do the stitches, and check the man's shoulder, but I guess somebody has already taken care of that."

The innkeeper stirred uncomfortably. The voices outside came a little louder and the man seized the opportunity to get out of this hell:

"I should go back. Tell 'em he's not dead."

While he headed for the door, Aramis gave Porthos an inquiring look and the big man explained:

"De Vouzier's men. They thought we'd killed the Vicomte when they heard me call for help."

Aramis dispelled the idea and frowned.

"Can you really do that? Stitches, I mean."

Porthos smirked before answering:

"One day, I'll tell you where I come from."

Aramis would indeed like to hear that tale. He'd noticed the singularities in Porthos' fighting style, and often wondered where he'd learned these moves. He'd even contemplated the idea of asking him to teach him some, maybe in exchange for shooting lessons. The big man had a potential for improvement. But, right now, it didn't matter how many lesions Porthos had tended in his past. If he had been used to that kind of damage, he wouldn't have flinched at the sight of de Vouzier's chest. So Aramis asked again:

"Can you do it well?"

He wouldn't have the man ruin his preposterous luck by wrecking the wound.

Porthos shrugged.

"t'won't be as pretty as what you manage to do with these damsel's fingers of yours, but still better than sewing his chest with trembling hands."

Aramis shook his head before a wave of dizziness informed him that it was a bad idea. He blinked several times to clear his mind and leaned on his friend to get up, not taking any objection this time.

"You'll do it," he conceded. "But I'll tell you how."

xxxx

The time it took to close de Vouzier's chest seemed to pass longer than the one they'd spent getting him in the inn and removing the bullet. Aramis sat on a chair, and did his best to steady his voice and give Porthos the most explicit and comprehensible instructions possible but, after having supervised the trickiest part of the process and realized the big man was able to control his fear and repugnance, he started to contemplate everything from a distance, until his own words sounded far and hazy. He didn't feel very dizzy anymore. However, the depletion of the stamina that had kept him sharp and alert was leaving him exhausted, unable to formulate an articulate sentence. He heard Porthos say something about lying down and didn't know what he answered but the big man laughed before hauling him to his feet.

He felt hands supporting him, and was not even sure, in the end, if he was being helped to walk or carried like a child, but he didn't really care.

xxxx

The second time Aramis woke, the night had fallen. He was in a bed and, apart from a minor headache and a gnawing hunger, he felt comfortable. He shifted on the mattress, grumbled, and raised three fingers to his temple, attempting to put together the puzzle of the events before he'd fallen asleep. He noticed that his hands were clean, and a soft white shirt had replaced his bloody one.

"The Vicomte!"

He tried to sit up, only to be held down by a firm but gentle palm.

"He's alive," said a smooth deep voice.

Athos.

"I came back with the doctor a couple of hours ago. Apparently, you did a fantastic job."

Aramis managed to turn his head to face the man.

"I fainted," he stated in disgust, and Athos raised an eyebrow.

"After being the only one brave enough to do something."

What was I supposed to do? Nobody else had any medical knowledge.

"Anyone else would have killed him if they'd tried."

"Exactly. And you saved his life. We all saw you. As soon as the fight was over, you were by his side."

Aramis felt his cheeks blush. He didn't believe he deserved the compliments. He'd done his duty, and had barely been able to perform his task without melting down. But, somehow, Athos had managed to make him feel proud of himself.

A natural born leader, he thought again. Smart, down-to-earth but compassionate. And a remarkable swordsman. Aramis had only seen him fight four or five times, still he didn't remember ever witnessing such precision and fluidity, such a mixture of sophisticated technique and infallible instinct, in any other man. Maybe Athos' skills even surpassed Treville's.

I'd like to know him better, he mused.

When Athos' eyes started to display concern, Aramis realized he'd remained silent a bit longer than normally expected. He cleared his throat before refocusing the conversation on the Vicomte's health:

"Has the wound shown any sign of infection?"

"Amazingly no," the older man answered. "He's had a light fever but it seems to fade. He still has to regain consciousness, though. And he lost a lot of blood."

"I can't even think of what the King will do if he dies."

"I would not worry about that, if I were you. I've talked to de Vouzier's men. He's an idiot but a fair man. He'll know he has no-one to blame but himself for his condition, and, even if he doesn't wake up, you'll have half a dozen very impressed soldiers ready to testify that Porthos and you did all you could do to save his life, at the expense of your own interests. Where did you learn those skills?"

Aramis chuckled:

"I didn't. I'm just good at mending things."

Athos frowned.

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I mean… When I was a kid, I liked watching the family doctor when he worked. Sometimes, he would give me a tip on how to treat a common disease or injury, but that remained theoretical. Then, I became a soldier and I learned on the fly how to take care of minor wounds. But I've never seriously considered being a medic. Never thought I would be any good."

"Well, you might want to rethink that. You've worked miracles, today."

Aramis sighed. He was glad de Vouzier had a chance, and very aware that he and Porthos had given it to him. But the Vicomte would mainly have his luck to thank.

He'd been lucky that the bullet had missed the heart. Lucky it hadn't cut any major artery. Lucky to have survived the transportation. Lucky the village had been so close and so, so incredibly lucky that no infection had seemed to occur.

Miracles indeed.

But those reminded Aramis of a time when he had wondered desperately what to do with his life. When, having learned how to cook, and sew, and hunt, and fish, and ride, quote the Scriptures in a blink and speak fluently in three languages, he had ceased to take pride in doing so well at so many things, and wondered if he was nothing more than a master of none.

He'd always loved taking care of people. Their "family doctor", as he had so euphemistically told Athos, was a good man. Many times, he had praised the compassionate heart of this curious lad who would not leave him alone when he worked. But nobody in town would have understood if he had chosen a whore's son for his apprentice. When his father had finally taken him to his estate, Aramis had sworn to come back to his mother and take care of her. But she'd died before he could keep his resolution.

Then, he'd been introduced to the wonderful world of weaponry, and had grown into a great swordsman and an exceptional shooter. He had been so relieved to find out he could do some things better than anyone he knew that he had put all the rest aside. And he had become a master of killing.

Maybe he had liked it a little too much.

But now, if he could heal…

There was a big bookshop near the Palace. They would have some good medical volumes. And maybe the garrison's medic would be OK to share some of his knowledge with an enthusiastic young soldier.

The door opened and Porthos came in, a plate of food in his hand.

"Ah! Sleeping Beauty is awake!" he said, a bit too loud for Aramis' aching head, but the smell of hot broth ticked up the palm. Athos helped him up, and the three of them shared a meal, in silence first, until the two older men started discussing the details of their accommodation, and Aramis, after promising to take charge of the letter informing Treville of the reason for their delay, let his mind drift again.

He could heal.

He was not sure that de Vouzier would survive but, if he did, he would be the one who had made a difference. And, one day, that could be one of his brothers, on a same table. Marsac, Porthos, or this Athos he felt so fond of even after only knowing him for four weeks. That could be one of them, bleeding to death, lucky enough that God had given him a chance, but waiting for someone who could turn fate in the right direction.

Maybe he could be this someone.

He wanted to.

And, this instant, he pledged to do what it took to also be an instrument of life, after all.

FIN

x

Well, that was my take on the "Aramis faints" prompt, which became an entry for the first "Fête des Mousquetaires" challenge of 2017. I hope you enjoyed it :)

Note: French nobility, for those interested, is very close to the British one: chevalier (Knight), baron, vicomte (Viscount), comte (Count), marquis, duc (Duke), prince, roi (King). But being of very old nobility would have granted you more respect than the title itself.