Author's Note: To quote from the illustrious work of Douglas Adams, from his even more illustrious novel, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"… don't panic!
In the Company of His Brothers
by SpaceCowboy
D'Artagnan arrived at the garrison just after the evening meal. The sun was setting, taking with it the last of the day's warmth and making his already tired and weather beaten body feel even worse. As he dismounted, Treville approached him from the bottom of the staircase.
"Where's the others?" asked his captain, glancing at the front gates.
D'Artagnan shook his head as he removed his gloves. "They are a few hours behind me," he replied. "I was sent ahead to make preparations."
It seemed an innocuous statement, but Treville knew it wasn't by the tone of the young musketeer's voice and the disparaging look in his eyes. A lump suddenly formed in his throat making it difficult for him to speak. "Who is it?"
"Aramis."
"How bad?"
Again, d'Artagnan could only shake his head. He took a deep breath and started to follow his captain already walking toward the main building. "Porthos was preparing him to ride tandem when I left," he said, knowing his captain would understand the implication.
Treville stopped short just outside the infirmary and stared at the Gascon. "Ball? Sword?"
"He's sick," replied d'Artagnan.
"What? He's sick?" Treville repeated, a bewildered edge to his voice.
D'Artagnan looked down at his hands as he fidgeted with his gloves. "Very much so," he said, shifting his weight nervously to his other leg. "He's uh, he's… quiet, sir."
Treville felt a tension throughout his body reserved only for the worst of news. "Since when?"
"Yesterday morning," replied d'Artagnan. "It rained most of our mission, and all last night. When he woke this morning he…" D'Artagnan paused as he remembered watching the marksman struggling to breathe as he had packed his gear this morning. "He…"
"What?" pushed Treville.
"He didn't say much and we just sort of all knew we had to get him home."
Treville drew in a deep breath and let it out quickly. "I'll send someone for Doctor Lemay," he said. "Make sure the room is ready for his arrival."
D'Artagnan watched his captain walk back down the hall, his pace quick and determined, and then the Gascon turned into the infirmary with his head heavy and his heart even more so.
~Musketeers~
It was night and the courtyard was empty, save for Treville, and a few stable boys ready to take the horses from the musketeers when they arrived. The captain stared at the front gates with his arms crossed over his chest. Lemay had arrived, and was with d'Artagnan in the infirmary making preparations for Aramis' arrival. A long trough had been moved into the room and a bed lay empty near the fireplace. As a matter of fact, all the beds lay empty. It seemed Aramis would have the room to himself. Treville even had a table and some chairs brought in and put by the fire, knowing all to well his brothers would not leave Aramis' side.
Looking up, he searched out the stars above, hoping to draw some sort of peace of mind from their stillness in the night sky. It was a clear night, which meant a cold night this time of year, but looking to the heavens only made his concern deepen instead of raising his spirits. He was starting to feel a chill when he heard a noise outside the garrison. He stepped aside when the riders pulled in and his eyes went straight to the larger than normal load burdening one of the horses.
Athos and Porthos did not say a word when they came in- knowing their captain had been informed. Athos slid from his horse and passed off his reins and made his way toward Porthos, who still sat in his saddle holding tight to Aramis.
It was unnaturally quiet in the courtyard. The seriousness of the situation acted like a heavy blanket, making everyone move slow and careful, as if disturbing the stillness would somehow harm the marksman further.
Treville stepped up and placed a hand on Aramis' leg. He looked up at Porthos and spoke thoughtfully. "How is he?"
"He's been asleep most of the trip," replied Porthos, as he undid the cape spread around Aramis' and threw it to the ground.
Treville nodded with a grim set to his mouth. "Can he still be woken?"
Porthos nodded and leaned around his friend to look him in the face, and then he placed a gentle hand on his chin. "'Mis. 'Mis? We're here. Come on, wake up now."
Aramis stirred gently and then raised his head before opening his eyes. He looked around slowly, then closed his eyes and let his head fall back against Porthos' shoulder. The large musketeer gave him a gentle shake and he opened his eyes again.
Treville looked at Athos. "Can he walk?"
Athos nodded.
Treville looked back up at Aramis and held up both his hands. "Come on, son," he said. "Let's get you taken care of."
Porthos gently nudged his friend's leg, silently asking him to throw it over the horse. Aramis complied, but his movements were slow and awkward as he slid off into the waiting arms of Athos and Treville. He stood his ground, but was unsteady as he was led toward the infirmary.
Aramis remained quiet for most of the short journey, using his friends for support knowing they would never let him fall. Eventually they arrived at the infirmary where Lemay and d'Artagnan were waiting.
"Hot or cold?" asked Lemay, when the musketeers entered. No one answered, so he asked again more urgently. "Is he hot or cold?"
Porthos, ushering his friend into the room, noticed the trough immediately and shook his head despondently. He led his friend to a chair placed nearby and sat him down carefully. "Cold," he replied. "Been shivering most of the day."
Porthos began undressing Aramis; first his doublet, then his boots, and passed it all to d'Artagnan who placed them beside the bed by the fireplace. He became acutely aware of several men now bringing in buckets of heated water and pouring them into the trough, while even more water was being heated over the fire. By the time Porthos was done undressing his friend down to his shirt and braies, the trough was nearly ready.
"Put him in," ordered Lemay.
"He'll never be able to sit up on his own," stated d'Artagnan.
Porthos gave him a reassuring smile and began undoing his own doublet. "It's all right," he said softly, understanding his brother's concern. "I've got this covered. You just help Athos get him in."
Slowly, Porthos lowered himself into the trough, dressed similarly to Aramis, and sat back with his legs spread and knees up. He was much too large, but there was no way he would pass this task on to anyone, no matter how uncomfortable it was for him. A few moments later, Aramis was helped in and laid back to rest against Porthos' chest.
Aramis shivered violently at first, causing the water to slosh over the edges and wet the floor, but Porthos was able to control him from slipping under the water's surface until he settled.
Doctor Lemay pulled a chair up to the side of the trough and reached under the water to grab Aramis' wrist. Then he leaned forward to listen to the air as it passed from the musketeer's lips. "Any cough?" he asked.
"Been getting worse since it started yesterday," replied Porthos.
"Blood?"
Porthos nodded. "A little. Sometimes."
"Eating or drinking?"
"Nothing today."
"How did he sleep last night?"
"Restless."
"And today? The ride here?"
Porthos looked around at Athos and d'Artagnan who stood near the trough. "Hard to tell," replied Porthos. "I was kind of busy holding him in the saddle. We were burning the horses to get him home."
Lemay smiled somberly with a nod, then addressed the others in the room. "I'll need some fresh clothes, preferably warm ones, some extra pillows and some honey."
Time passed slowly as Porthos held his friend in the trough. Water continued to be brought in fresh from the fire until no more could be added.
Aramis awoke a few times, but was disoriented until his brothers were able to ease him back to a restful state. By the time they removed him from the water, he was more alert and even sharing in small talk between battles with his vengeful cough.
Aramis was even able to walk to the nearby chair with relative ease where he took a seat. He let his brothers and the doctor dry him off, as Porthos did the same. He then allowed them to dress him a new shirt and braies followed by an oversized, thick woolen sweater that nearly hung to his knees. He looked over to where Porthos was getting dressed and frowned.
"Only one they could find," Porthos said with a smile. "I hear it's quite the fashion this winter."
Aramis returned the smile and then got up and started making his way toward the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was led toward the bed, but he shook his head and pointed at the chairs and table instead. "I'd prefer to sit," he said, followed by a deep, rattling cough that nearly left him breathless. He chose the oversized chair beside the fireplace so he could rest his head back, and sat down carefully. He shivered, despite the warmth of the fire and his friend's too large sweater, and wrapped his arms around himself. A moment later a blanket was draped over him as his friends joined him at the table.
Several candles lit the room, but the glow from the fire illuminated it the most. It crackled and popped and shot tiny embers onto the hearth before being snuffed out by the either the cold air or stone. Aramis stared, feeling as if he shared a sort of harmonious nature with them as they lived fast and bright, only to be extinguished within a blink of an eye. The fact that it was the cold that ended their existence was not lost on him. He shared an almost despondent smile with the burnt embers before turning to his brothers.
They sat before him quietly observing. He didn't mind them watching, for he knew he had given them a scare. He felt more relaxed and the pain in his chest hurt less just knowing his brothers were by his side. He was suddenly aware that a profound serenity had encompassed him and his head began to swim in an easy haze, like being pulled into sleep- but not quite.
"Wow," stated Porthos, breaking Aramis from his peaceful retreat. "I can't believe how relaxed I feel."
This elicited several surprised and confused frowns around the room, except from Aramis who reciprocated with a knowing smile. "I was just thinking the same thing," he said quietly.
"I came across a curious salt in my travels through England," stated Lemay, while prepping the bed where Aramis would soon lay. "In a small farming town called Epsom. The salts are said to have regenerative properties and the ability to help the healing process. I added some to the bath water." He paused with a pensive look. "Perhaps more than I should have. But I wanted to see for myself if the tales were true."
"If it's these salts that have me feeling like I'm floating on a cloud, than please, feel free to leave some behind," said Aramis, settling himself further back in the chair and drawing his legs up so he could sit in the fetal position.
Aramis, as a man of both faith and science, did not question the abilities of the salts, but he felt there was something else enhancing his tranquility, and didn't have to look further than the faces in the room to know from where. Unfortunately, their presence could not abate the burning pain in his chest or the cough rattling his lungs. He knew he was going to get worse, and thought maybe his brothers knew this as well, since none of them had shown any inclinations of heading toward the door.
A few moments later Treville joined them at the table, but did not sit. He placed several cups and a bottle of brandy down, and then excused himself from their company. He expected a long night ahead, and planned on having to relieve more than just Aramis from the next day's duties. He didn't say as much, for he thought it better to keep the unsaid, unsaid.
Athos poured three full cups and then raised the decanter toward Aramis. Aramis indicated he would take a small amount, but Athos surmised he was only being polite and would not actually drink. To his surprise, the marksman took two tiny sips before resting it carefully in his lap. The others drank theirs more earnestly as they too needed something to help them relax, except Porthos, who was still enjoying the effects of his hot, salty bath.
"How are you feeling?" asked Athos, after several minutes of quiet, comfortable silence had passed.
"Tired," replied Aramis, bringing the cup to his lips for another small sip.
"Perhaps we should leave you to sleep," suggested Athos, as he started to rise.
Aramis held up a hand and shook his head. "Please," he said quietly, followed by a congested cough that made not only him, but his brothers grimace as well. "I prefer your company. If you leave, I'll probably take to the bed and I'm not ready for that yet."
Porthos looked sharply at his friend as a feeling of dread pulsed through him. He suddenly felt flushed and turned to Athos and found his cheeks looked a little too red as well.
Apparently, they had both heard the same thing in Aramis' voice- a sad despair trying desperately to hide behind casual words. But there was something else, something about the words Aramis had chosen that did not sit well with Porthos.
Finally, Athos said something to break the now, not so comfortable silence. "As you wish," he said, then poured each of them another cup of brandy. He looked about the room and found what he was searching for on top of the mantle. He retrieved the deck of cards and returned to the table. "Shall we play?"
Porthos forced a smile as he leaned forward, finding Athos' stare locked on him. The Comte's expression was all Porthos needed to confirm what was truly going on. He grabbed for the deck and started shuffling with trembling hands. He needed a moment to control himself, so he kept his head down as he dealt out the cards, breathing deeply as he tried to contain his rapidly beating heart.
D'Artagnan pulled his chair closer to the table and leaned toward Athos. "Really?" he asked, in a whisper. "Aramis wishes to play cards?"
Athos studied the Gascon's worried expression and understood that the young musketeer was not fully aware of the situation. He bowed his head and turned to him, shielding the conversation from Porthos- whom he knew was now fully aware of the situation. He also knew that Porthos did not like to talk about such things. "Aramis only wants our company," he explained in a hushed voice. "The sound of the game, our voices, will give him something to focus on and keep him tethered. He does not wish to play, only to be reminded that we are all here."
The blood drained from d'Artagnan's face as the full weight of the situation came to light. He felt ill and quickly tried to suppress the bile forming in his stomach by pouring the rest of his brandy down his throat, which helped a little. He nodded his understanding to both Athos and Porthos, and then picked up the cards he had just been dealt. "What are we playing for?" he asked, his voice as light and cheerful as he could manage.
"Money, of course," replied Porthos, the casualness in his voice betrayed by his downcast eyes.
Hours passed as they continued to play, each glancing over their cards every so often to see how Aramis was doing. For the most part, he remained still as he sat back in his chair, occasionally opening his eyes to look around at his brothers before closing them again with a small, barely detectable smile.
Every so often Aramis would cough, and over time each spell grew longer, harsher and more difficult to recover from. Doctor Lemay came and checked on him a few times, offering him warm honey with herbs, but Aramis found it difficult to drink.
His brothers continued to play cards as they watched him closely while sipping their brandy. After what felt like the hundredth hand, Aramis stirred.
Porthos looked anguished by the movement of his friend, and was seemingly unable to avert his eyes from the cards he held tenuously in his hands.
Athos and d'Artagnan shared a nervous glance with each other, but no one moved or said a word. Slowly, Aramis pushed the blanket from his weakened body and let his legs drop unceremoniously to the floor. Then he pushed himself forward in the chair with all the strength he appeared to have and leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees. He ran his hands through his hair but paused half way back when he began to cough. He grabbed his chest with one hand as he labored to regain his breathing.
D'Artagnan started to rise, unable to watch his friend struggle, but Athos put a hand on his arm to still his ascent. The Gascon looked at him, shocked and questioning.
Athos shook his head and quietly indicated toward Porthos.
They watched as Porthos placed his cards gingerly on the table and closed his eyes.
It was time.
With an unsteady breath, Porthos mentally gathered his strength, then pushed his chair back slowly and stood up. His legs heavy, his hands trembling with uncontrolled trepidation, he stepped over to his ailing friend and placed a hand on his back.
When Aramis stopped coughing, he let Porthos help him stand, and together they slowly made their way toward the bed waiting for him by the fireplace.
Porthos made sure Aramis was sitting high with lots of pillows for support as he eased him back. He then retrieved a chair for himself and sat beside his friend.
Athos drew in a steadying breath and turned to d'Artagnan- who looked as if he were going to bolt from his chair. "Sit," he said, and when the Gascon obliged, Athos put a hand on his forearm. "If you know any prayers, I suggest you start reciting them."
Over the course of the next few hours, Aramis' breathing became more labored and it took longer for him to recover after each painful coughing fit. There was now also a consistent, slightly rusty tinge to his phlegm, and a fever had hit- leaving him feeling more chilled than before.
He was restless and breathing quickly when not coughing, and Porthos remained by his side holding his hand and smoothing back the dark hair that fell over his eyes. Athos and d'Artagnan had moved their chairs closer to the bed, but remained back a few paces to leave the two close friends a modicum of privacy.
It was difficult to watch as their friend struggled, but it was worse when he eventually stopped.
Aramis lay still; no more tossing, no more coughing, no more pained expression marring his youthful face. He simply lay flacid as his breathing slowed to a raspy stutter that would occasionally break and cause Porthos to move even closer to the bed.
From his chair, Athos could see the occasional hitch in Porthos' breathing, and recognized it for what it was. He stared at him, his eyes only flicking occasionally to Aramis, his heart began to ache and the muscles in his jaw began to tense.
D'Artagnan was the first to visibly break, letting his tears fall before quickly wiping them away as he tried to remain strong. Athos gripped his shoulder in reassurance, both for himself and the young musketeer, letting him know he was not alone in what he was feeling.
When Aramis took in a deep, almost gasping breath, Porthos dropped to his knees and buried his face into Aramis' side, clinging to his friend's hand with all he had.
D'Artagnan jumped from his seat before Athos could stop him, placating him with a bared palm. "Just give me a moment," he said, slow and determined. Then he stepped over to the bed on shaking legs and looked down at Aramis. He was still breathing, but there was a harshness to his breath. D'Artagnan leaned down and reached behind his friend's neck, feeling heated skin as his fingers fumbled to untie a knotted ribbon. He tried not to disturb Aramis as he pulled his hands back, removing the golden cross given to him as a gift from the Queen.
D'Artagnan kissed the relic softly, then he placed it in Aramis' unoccupied hand and clasped his fingers around it. He wasn't sure, but he thought he felt his friend tighten his hold on the necklace before letting his hand fall open again. With a sharp intake of breath, d'Artagnan drew back and turned away quickly. He resumed his spot next to Athos at the foot of the bed and dropped his head into his hands, unable to control the emotion bursting from somewhere deep within his chest.
A moment later he felt Athos' hand on the back of his head. "That was a good thing you did."
D'Artagnan, unable to speak, nodded gently.
After that, no one stirred, not even Aramis, or Porthos- whose legs had fallen asleep a long time ago from kneeling on the floor.
When Treville and Doctor Lemay entered, nothing needed to be said as they made their way across the room. Treville remained with Athos and d'Artagnan while Lemay made his way to the edge of the bed and sat down. He felt Aramis' forehead and leaned down to listen to his chest, but he said nothing until Porthos looked up at him.
"He knew, didn't he?" asked the nearly heartbroken musketeer. "He knew this was going to happen?"
Lemay nodded. "He is a man of medicine, of sorts," he replied kindly. "And pneumonia is quite formidable and easily recognized, so I presume he did."
Porthos sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall, then looked back at his brothers at the foot of the bed. He rested his chin on his shoulder with barely the strength or willpower to hold his head. "He didn't even say good-bye."
Athos drew in a deep breath. "Perhaps not," he said. "But by asking us to stay last night, he was allowing us to say good-bye."
Porthos slowly turned back to look at Aramis. "Always looking out for us before himself," he said with a sad smile, and then he dropped his head back to the bed and returned to his silent vigil.
"He's also one of the most vibrant men I've ever had the pleasure of knowing," stated Treville, placing a hand on Athos shoulder as he stood next to him. "No one loves life more than our Aramis. If there's any fight left in him, he'll find a way back." Treville squeezed Athos' shoulder, then he motioned for the doctor to join him and together they left the room.
The infirmary returned to stillness with only the sound of the fire crackling and Aramis' raspy breaths making any noise. Although, Athos was quite certain he could hear his own heart beating in his chest as well.
He got up, unwilling to let it keep pounding, creating an ache he surmised would never end. He poured himself a rather large drink and went to stand by the window. He purposefully tipped a little on the floor, then downed the rest of the brandy in one quick gulp. Placing the cup on the sill, he leaned his head against the glass and turned to watch the room- hoping his slight detachment would help to lessen his pain.
It did not.
With his legs weak, he slowly lowered himself to sit on the sill, then leaned forward to rest his head in his propped up hands. He stared at the floor, lost in a trance as he watched tiny specks of dust dancing in the sunlight when movement from the bed caught his attention. Athos shot his head upward as he heart began to pound in his chest once again, but he quickly lost the rush of adrenaline when he noticed it was only Porthos swatting at something in his hair.
Athos sank back to the window and tried to get his nerves back under control. Typically he would look to Aramis if he needed some sort of comfort or steadfast resolve, but he was afraid of what he might see if he actually turned his attention on the marksman at this moment. But of course, one cannot help but stare at tragedy when it is before your eyes, so Athos let his gaze drift to the bed.
Porthos swatted the back of his head once again and Athos' flinched.
He stood up and let his weak legs carry him closer to the bed; his heart beat irregular and his mouth suddenly dry.
It wasn't some fly or gentle breeze ruffling Porthos' hair, but Aramis himself.
Athos nudged d'Artagnan as he passed him on his way to the bed, and found he could barely form words as he stood behind Porthos and shook his shoulders. "He's awake," he said unsteadily, but it was jubilation marring his voice and not anguish.
Porthos sat up abruptly and the hand Aramis had placed on his head fell to the bedside. The marksman was looking at him, a smile trying to make itself evident. Porthos pushed himself off the floor to sit in the chair behind him, but refused to release the grip he had of his friend's hand. "Aramis?" he asked, thinking this was a dream. But no, he could feel this was real, this was happening. Aramis' hand felt tangible in his own hand and he couldn't help but squeeze it with more force than he ought to.
"I'm here, old friend," replied Aramis, his voice barely a whisper as his smile finally made itself absolute.
D'Artagnan joined his two brothers at the bed as he wiped away errant tears. But they were tears of relief, and part of him didn't much care that anyone saw them. "Welcome back."
Aramis coughed gently, and thankfully did not go into immediate distress afterward. "Did I go somewhere?"
Athos chuckled very softly. "Thankfully, no," he said. "But we've certainly been to hell and back."
Aramis looked at each of them confused, and then, concerned enlightenment crept across his features. "You didn't… please, tell me you didn't…" He let his voice trail off, as he was unable to voice the fear that suddenly plagued his already weary head.
"You were so sick… you asked us to stay," stammered Porthos, his voice unsure as he looked back at his brothers. "And Lemay said you probably knew…"
"We thought we were here to say good-bye," finished d'Artagnan, as he too looked at each of his brothers in turn.
The uncertainty that had graced Aramis' face dissolved into sadness that he could not keep from seeping into his voice. "We're soldiers," he said slowly, removing his hand from Porthos' so he could place it gently on his forearm instead. Then he glanced at both Athos and d'Artagnan before letting his watery gaze fall back on his best friend. "I plan only on dying on the battlefield. And if I am lucky enough to not die alone, I will be more blessed to have you all by my side. But that is not why I asked you stay."
"Then why?" asked Athos.
"I did not ask you to stay so you could say good-bye," said Aramis. "I wanted to be in the company of my brothers so I would be reminded as to why I could not let go."
Finis.
Extra Author's Note- Thanks to my beta reader, medicsierra, for her relentless 'but' removals!
This story is part of the 'Fete des Mousquetaires' competition. Entry and judging guidelines can be found in the Musketeer forum section under the title 'Brotherhood'.