Disclaimer:- The Musketeers do not belong to me and no infringement of copyright is intended. The story has been written solely for entertainment purposes and no profit has been made from its creation.
A/N:- This story is unbeta'd and any mistakes are mine. I am very new to this fandom and this is my first time "dipping my toes." Story is set midway through Season Two.
Self from Self
Treville stood in the small, dimly lit, private room of the garrison infirmary. Exhaustion and concern etched into his weathered features as he regarded the ailing man in the bed before him. The young man's skin was ashen his long, dark lashes stood out starkly against pale cheeks as his breath stuttered out in staccato bursts.
The captain's attention was drawn to the thundering of hooves as several horses were ridden hard into the compound outside. Urgent footfalls drew nearer and he sighed in relief as the door was thrown open and three of the Musketeer regiment's best, entered the room.
In a rare departure from military protocol, the soldiers barely acknowledged their captain's presence as they gathered at the foot of the bed; their concern for Aramis reflected on each of their faces.
"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously.
Dispensing with platitudes that would not be welcome, the captain answered frankly.
"His condition is grave. His wound is infected and fever rages within him."
Moving forward, Athos placed his hand on the younger man's cheek, wincing at the heat he felt there. Taking a cool cloth from the bowl on the night stand, he squeezed out the excess water before gently placing it on his friend's forehead.
Gently tapping Aramis' cheek, Athos called his name several times until his voice reached into the darkness of his friend's mind and his long eyelashes fluttered. Bleary fever-bright eyes looked right at him but did not register his presence.
"Aramis?" Athos said quietly. "Can you hear me?"
"He must drink," Treville instructed, handing the lead Musketeer a cup of water. "His stomach rids itself of liquid as quickly as he consumes it but he needs the fluids."
Athos held the cup to his friend's mouth, allowing the man a few sips before passing it back to the captain. Aramis became agitated, slurring barely coherent words before suddenly attempting to sit up. The movement sent a spear of pain shooting through his abdomen and brilliant multi-coloured sparks exploded behind his eyes. A strangled cry spilled from his lips and, barely clinging to consciousness, his body pitched sideways. Only Porthos' quick reflexes prevented the marksman from tumbling to the floor.
"Aramis!" Porthos called as his friend's pain-filled eyes fluttered closed. He was out before they could lower him back to the bed.
With fire in his eyes and his hands tightly fisted with rage, Porthos turned to his captain.
"How did this happen?" he demanded. "Who did this?"
Treville pointed to the door and the three soldiers reluctantly left Aramis' side, leaving the door open so they could see their friend. D'Artagnan spied a large pitcher of wine the table and poured each man a drink.
"You were almost a day overdue from your assignment," the captain explained. "I sent a detail to locate you in case of trouble. They found Aramis in a small clearing, three leagues from Paris. He'd been shot; his wound already cauterised."
D'Artagnan paled at Treville's words.
"Wait…he cauterised his own wound?" the young Musketeer asked.
The captain nodded sombrely.
"He had to staunch the bleeding or succumb to it," Treville stated.
"Has he spoken of the attack?" Athos asked.
"No. Consciousness has been fleeting," the captain replied. "We believe he was set upon by bandits. Two bodies were found nearby."
"He prevailed," Athos stated with more than a hint of pride colouring his voice.
"At great cost to himself," Treville said. "What was the cause of your delay?"
Athos sighed audibly before downing his wine and refilling his goblet.
"We were ordered not to leave the Duke of Valois' side until he was safely home," he began quietly. "Despite our protests, His Grace insisted on a detour and a rather prolonged visit with his mistress. Aramis quickly grew bored by our inactivity and-"
"And when Aramis grows bored he has a tendency to exercise his frustration on the unsuspecting birdlife," d'Artagnan quipped.
In spite of themselves, Athos and Porthos grinned at the memory.
"Indeed," Athos nodded. "When it became apparent we would not be returning on schedule…and with the lives of many birds at risk… I sent Aramis to bring you news of our delay."
More mumbling from the other room drew their attention and Porthos moved quickly to his friend's side. He placed his large hand on Aramis' chest, equally alarmed by the rate of the shallow breaths and the heat of his dry skin.
"He's burnin' up," he stated. "He needs a physician."
"Doctor Jourdain tendered Aramis' wound as best he could but infection had already set in," Treville replied. "The influenza epidemic has depleted the resources of every physician in Paris. They are dangerously low on medical supplies."
"Why is the doctor not here now?" d'Artagnan asked. "Aramis is still in desperate need of his care."
"Monsieur Rondeau sent for him. His wife is heavily with child and required his urgent assistance."
"And you let 'im go?" Porthos accused angrily. "Aramis could be dying! What could be more urgent than that?"
"Porthos," Athos said quietly. "Madame Rondeau has previously borne two stillborn children. Aramis would be the first to put their lives before his own."
Knowing Athos' words to be true, Porthos nodded a reluctant apology to his captain. Accepting the sentiment, Treville clapped a hand on the man's shoulder.
"I have dispatched our fastest riders to Orleans for more medical supplies. Until they return, there is little we can do but keep the wound clean and hope his fever breaks," Treville stated as he walked toward the outer door.
"You're leaving?" d'Artagnan asked.
"I have been summoned to Fontainebleau to join the King," he told them. His eyes softened when he looked at their concerned faces. "Tell Aramis that, upon my return in a few days time, I expect to see him on his feet and fit for duty."
Athos nodded and the captain left them alone. They joined Porthos at their brother's side, hoping their closeness would bring reassurance and strength. The marksman's dark hair was damp and matted to his ashen face as his chest rose and fell at an unnatural rate.
"If we were almost a day overdue when the detail was sent," d'Artagnan said softly. "Aramis must have been lying there for hours before they found him."
"It is indeed testimony to his strength of will that he survived so long with such a grievous injury," Athos replied.
Porthos stood suddenly, anxiously carding his large fingers through his tight curls as he began to pace like a caged lion.
"There's gotta be something we can do," he said, frustrated by their helplessness. "Even with our best riders it'll be days before the medicine gets 'ere. Look at 'im...he won't last that long!"
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of Aramis' pain-filled breaths. They were each lost in their thoughts when d'Artagnan shot to his feet.
"Constance!" he said. "We need Constance!"
"I've no doubt that Constance would make a more proficient nurse," Athos replied. "But without the necessary tonics and herbs to relieve the fever and infection, I fear her presence will not be enough."
"You don't understand," d'Artagnan said, excitedly. "Constance has worked closely with Doctor Lemay. She mentioned that he has quite an apothecary at the palace. I'm sure they'll have whatever we need."
The three friends exchanged a glance; their eyes reflecting a new hope which they refused to surrender.
"You understand that the apothecary and everything it contains belongs to the King," Athos reminded them. "With Louis at Fontainebleau, the royal physician would also be in attendance. There is no way to formally request permission."
"Then we'll just 'ave to do it without his permission," Porthos said, standing to his full height and squaring his shoulders.
"If you are caught, the Red Guard-" Athos warned.
"We won't get caught," d'Artagnan said as he took his place by Porthos' side.
Athos looked at the determined faces of his friends and knew there was no dissuading them.
"I will stay with Aramis," Athos told them. "Ride swiftly, my friends. I fear we do not have much time."
"You just keep 'im alive until we get back," Porthos said before kneeling beside the bed and gently turning Aramis' face toward him.
"You 'ear that. Don't you go dying on us." Clearing his throat to rid his voice of emotion, Porthos continued. "Besides, you promised to introduce me to the charming Madame Villeneuve and I'm 'olding you to that."
"And you still owe me five livre," d'Artagnan added, placing his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Rest easy, my friend. We will soon return with help."
With one last look at Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos headed quickly to the stables.
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Athos looked anxiously out of the window. Night had fallen and only the glow of several lanterns lit the empty compound below. Porthos and d'Artagnan were overdue. They should have returned with Constance and the medicines an hour ago. Athos' stomach clenched painfully as he imagined the multitude of things that might have gone wrong. If the Red Guard had captured them breaking into the apothecary, he could lose all three of his brothers this night.
Taking a deep cleansing breath, he viciously banished such thoughts from his mind. Porthos was a mighty warrior and the young Gascon had the potential to be the greatest of them all. He trusted them with his life…with Aramis' life…and they would not let him down.
Aramis emitted a low moan and Athos moved quickly to his friend's side. He held a cup to the younger man's mouth and Aramis sipped with relief as the coolness slid down his throat, easing the dryness that had settled there. Keeping his voice calm and low, Athos called his friend's name, trying to further entice him back to consciousness but Aramis, once again, succumbed to the darkness. Despite his valiant efforts to reduce the younger man's temperature, he was still burning with fever.
Athos ran slightly trembling fingers over tired, red-rimmed eyes and shook his head at the injustice. There were many things in this life that he detested but he found the feeling of helplessness completely abhorrent. He was a military man; a man of action and valour, yet, as he sat at his friend's bedside, he had rarely felt so powerless.
As the former Comte de la Fère, he was expected to conceal his emotions; a trait that had served him well. More recently; he drowned those emotions in the bottom of a wine bottle as he desperately searched for solace. But as he watched his friend moving fitfully in the throes of delirium, he found himself reaching for the marksman's wrist, needing the contact and fighting the irrational thought that if he were to let go, Aramis might, too. His mental prayer to whatever benevolent deity was listening consisted of just two desperate words – not Aramis.
Aramis was the regiment's best marksman and a highly competent soldier who had fought by his side for many years. On any given day, he could be as fierce a warrior as Porthos, as daring and impetuous as d'Artagnan or as menacing and dangerous as Athos himself. But in keeping with his wealth of complexities, Aramis had an enthusiasm and spark for life that endeared him to those around him. Deeply religious, his passion, good looks and abundant charm were particularly appealing to women of any age and, as Athos had learned to his horror, women of any status and lineage.
Despite emphatic warnings to have no further private contact with the Queen or the Dauphin, Athos knew his friend would find a way to do so. He saw the way Aramis looked at her, the way they exchanged private glances and how he wore the jewelled crucifix with honour…and he recognised the look of heartache and longing in his friend's eyes at every mention of the Dauphin.
Already complicit by his silence, all Athos could do now was to try with all his might to save Aramis from himself. For if the younger man's deep affection for the Queen became known and if Rochfort or the King were to learn of their treachery, they would all likely hang.
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With Aramis seemingly caught in the twilight between consciousness and unconsciousness, Athos had been standing by the window, willing his friend's return, when three horses galloped through the gate. Relief washed over him as he recognised Constance's blue hooded cloak and Porthos and d'Artagnan riding either side of her. Dismounting quickly, the Gascon assisted Constance from her horse while Porthos followed with the medical supplies.
Athos moved to the outer room to greet his friends.
"How is he?" Porthos asked anxiously.
"Alive but the fever is taking its toll and he grows weaker." Quickly scrutinising his friends, he was relieved that they did not appear injured. "What happened? I expected you an hour ago."
Suddenly unable to look the older man in the eye, D'Artagnan lowered his gaze to the floor.
"We were…detained," he replied vaguely.
Athos stepped uncomfortably close to the young Gascon forcing him to take a step back.
"Aramis is close to death and you were detained?" Athos said, his voice menacing. "Tell me, d'Artagnan, what could be more important than bringing aid to your brother?"
The hood on Constance's familiar blue cloak was allowed to fall back and revealed the face of the wearer.
"I must apologise for our tardiness. I am unfamiliar with these medicines and the explanation took longer than I'd hoped."
Shock appeared fleetingly on Athos' features before he bowed reverently from the waist.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, your presence was unexpected."
"Of that I am certain, Athos," the Queen replied. "Please, take me to Aramis. I must administer these tonics immediately."
"Of course. Porthos will take you to him."
"This way, Your Majesty," Porthos said, motioning the Queen to the other room.
Once the Queen and Porthos had gone, Athos grabbed a fistful of d'Artagnan's doublet and pushed his back into the wall.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Athos whispered harshly.
"The Queen overheard me telling Constance that Aramis was ill," d'Artagnan explained. "I tried to dissuade her from coming but she would not hear me."
"Then you make her hear you. Her presence here puts her life in danger!"
"If we did not agree to escort her, she threatened to come alone," d'Artagnan defended. "Tell me, Athos, what would you have us do?"
Athos exhaled audibly and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Reaching out his hand, he clapped d'Artagnan's shoulder in apology.
"I apologise, my friend. My concern for Aramis has me on edge."
"We are all tired and concerned for Aramis," d'Artagnan replied, then cocked his head as a thought occurred. "What did you mean when you said the Queen's presence here puts her life in danger?"
"That's what I'd like to know," Porthos glared from the doorway. "What's going on? What are you not tellin' us?"
Athos' heart dropped into his boots. Porthos and d'Artagnan were his brothers in arms; their bond was based on trust and honesty. It went against his every principal to keep something from them but, for now, they could not know. He poured himself another drink; his mind desperately searching for an alternate explanation.
"I simply meant that the roads at night are no place for Her Majesty," Athos replied.
"That doesn't explain why she was so insistent on coming 'ere in the first place," Porthos said. "Why would she take such a risk to tend to Aramis personally?"
"The Queen is a kind and charitable woman who has always championed the Musketeers," Athos replied sternly. "It is not our place to question the wisdom of her decisions, only to ensure her safety above all else."
Athos could see the questions and concern in his friends' eyes and his relief was palpable when they nodded and let the matter drop. But the former Comte knew that the time was drawing near when Porthos and d'Artagnan would demand the truth. He looked at their tired faces and his eyes softened.
"You have scarcely been out of the saddle in two days," he told them. "Serge has kept a hot meal for you in the refectory."
"We'll stay," Porthos protested. "You'll need our 'elp with Aramis."
"Porthos is right," d'Artagnan added, barely suppressing a yawn. "Our place is by his side."
"Pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion will not help him," Athos said. "Eat, sleep if you can. I will need you in good form to escort the Queen back to the palace in a few hours. When you return, Aramis will be awake and I will likely be in need of your assistance keeping him in his bed."
Exchanging a quick glance, d'Artagnan and Porthos shrugged and then reluctantly agreed.
"You'll send for us if he needs us?" Porthos asked, needing to hear Athos' confirmation.
"You have my word," the older man replied and watched as his two friends turned wearily and left for the refectory.
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Born to Spanish royalty, Anne had never had cause to tend the sick or infirmed. But as she watched Aramis struggle with disturbingly high fevers, she instinctively knew how to offer comfort. She'd mixed a poultice, as instructed by Constance, and had felt her own stomach roil when she applied it to the angry burn on Aramis' side and changed the dressing. With an abundance of patience, Anne fed the tonic to Aramis; grimacing but persevering as his stomach repeatedly purged its meagre contents.
Athos had come and gone several times; stoking the fire and bringing fresh clean water from the well. His eyes spoke volumes of his concern for his friend and though their conversation was minimal, she was glad for his strong presence.
Despite her own fatigue she stayed by Aramis' side, gently hushing him when he muttered under his breath in snatches of unintelligible phrases or thrashed around, unable to free himself from the grip of fever. She wasn't sure whether keeping up a steady stream of encouraging words helped but it made her feel a little less helpless.
"Many times you have been my saviour," she whispered, "and many times you have proven yourself courageous and loyal. Your son grows stronger and more handsome every day. I look at him and I cannot help but remember our liaison at the convent. A more tender love I have never known. I shall cherish that night until I take my last breath."
Her hopes soared but were quickly dashed when Aramis looked at her with dark, fever-bright eyes that contained no hint of recognition or awareness. Taking his lax hand in hers, Anne pressed their palms together, admiring his long, slender fingers before kissing his palm and lightly brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. His eyes closed again and he slept while she fervently prayed for his survival until, finally, she closed her own eyes and surrendered to her body's demand for rest.
A quiet noise disturbed her from her sleep a short time later. She looked up, wide-eyed, to see Athos leaning over his ailing friend and wiping the sweat from Aramis' face and upper body with a clean cloth.
"Athos?"
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty," he nodded before surprising her with a rare smile. "His fever has broken. He still sleeps but I believe the worst is now behind us."
Her own fatigue forgotten, Anne rose quickly to her feet. Aramis' dark eyelashes were still painfully vivid against the pallor of his face and the remnants of fever coloured his cheeks but, for the first time in hours, he rested peacefully.
"The sun will soon rise," Athos said looking out the window at the hint of colour on the horizon. "You must return to the palace before your absence is noticed."
Ann nodded reluctantly and Athos moved toward the door.
"If Your Majesty will allow me to take my leave, Porthos and d'Artagnan are anxious for word of Aramis' condition," he said. "They will then see you safely back to the palace."
"Of course," she replied with a nod and watched as he left her alone with Aramis.
With shaking fingers, Ann gently cupped the sleeping man's face before leaning forward to tenderly brush his lips with hers. She held her breath as Aramis moaned softly and turned his head toward her but did not wake.
"Hear me Aramis," she whispered. "You must fight with your whole heart to regain your strength. For I could not bear the thought of raising your son in a world without you in it."
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Athos held Constance's cloak and, nodding her thanks, the Queen quickly slipped into it. She gazed at him with a mixture of shame and apprehension in her eyes.
"You must think me a fool for coming here," she said.
"On my honour, I would never believe your Majesty to be a fool however…"
"You may speak freely," Ann encouraged.
"With respect, my Queen, you must know that coming here was dangerous and needlessly endangered your life."
"You're right, of course," she said, her eyes filling with unshed tears. "But I had to see him, Athos. For if he were to die…I needed to tell him…"
"No," Athos interjected. "Forgive me, Majesty, but you must never tell him how you truly feel. Every day Aramis buries his feelings for you and the Dauphin lest someone learns the truth of your liaison. It is a heavy burden of his own making and it torments and consumes him. If he were to learn that his feelings were returned, the knowledge would ultimately be the cause of his demise and bring great peril to you and your son. If you care for him at all, it is imperative that he never learns of your presence here tonight."
The Queen blinked at the Musketeer's frankness but she knew he spoke the truth.
"What of Porthos and d'Artagnan? They will have questions about my presence."
"I have never lied to my brothers," Athos told her. "But I will do so to protect my Queen. What of Constance?"
"I trust Constance with my life," Ann replied. "She will not betray me."
Pulling the hood for the cloak over her head to hide her face, the Queen made for the door and turned one last time, extending her hand.
"Thank you, Athos," she said. "For everything."
Taking her hand, Athos bowed low and placed a chaste kiss on her fingers.
"I remain your humble servant, Your Majesty."
"Aramis will need your strength," she replied with a sad smile.
"He shall have it."
Athos quickly escorted the Queen to the compound where his friends were already waiting and assisted her onto her horse. Taking a deep breath, she turned to address the others.
"I came here tonight because I believed I owed Aramis a great debt. I now see that my decision was unwise as I have unnecessarily endangered all of our lives. The King would be furious and must never hear of this. I hope you will forgive my foolishness and speak not a word to anyone…not even to Aramis."
The three men bowed respectfully. If Porthos and d'Artagnan harboured questions regarding the Queen's presence, they would honour her request and die before they gave them voice.
"Whatever would I do without my loyal Musketeers?" she smiled. "Aramis has chosen his friends wisely."
Nodding that she was ready to leave, Athos released his grip on the bridle and handed the Queen the reins.
"Ride safely," he told his comrades. "Aramis and I will await your return."
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The thought occurred to Athos, that he had spent far too much time of late, standing by the window, anxiously awaiting the return of his friends. He poured a mug of wine from the pitcher on the table and swallowed it down in one long draught before refilling it immediately…after the night they'd had, he deserved it. Holding the mug in both hands, he leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees and watched over his sleeping friend.
He huffed a bitter laugh, realising that both men were victim to a powerful love that would not end happily for either of them. For many years, he had been trapped in the carnage of his relationship with Milady – unable to move forward or to let go of the betrayal and heartbreak that festered in his heart. Love gone dreadfully wrong was something Athos knew too well...a living torture from which he would spare his friend if it were within his power to do so.
"Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment," he whispered, quoting a line from Shakespeare.
A quiet moan from Aramis had Athos at his bedside in two quick strides. The marksman's eyes were closed tightly as the pain in his side made itself known. Reaching for the small vial by the bed, Athos uncorked it and poured the desired amount into a cup before slipping a hand under Aramis' head and easing him up slightly.
"Drink this," Athos instructed. "It will help with the pain."
Several minutes later, the lines etched into the marksman's face relaxed as the tonic numbed his body to the burning pain in his side. His dark eyes opened, blinking languidly and he offered Athos a weak nod of thanks.
"How long?" he rasped.
"Too long," Athos answered. "You had us worried but the worst is now behind us."
"The others?"
"They will be here soon. They are anxious to see you."
Frowning deeply, Aramis' gaze darted around the room and his breathing stuttered.
"She was here," he whispered. "The Queen…she tendered me."
"The sickness and fever have addled your mind, my friend," Athos lied. "It was Constance at your side...not the Queen."
Aramis stared at his friend, his confusion evident.
"Constance?"
Athos nodded, barely able to stand the look of disappointment on Aramis' pale face.
"Sleep and regain your strength," Athos told him. "We will speak more when you awaken."
Nodding his assent, Aramis closed his eyes and sleep took him quickly. Athos placed his hand on the younger man's forehead, relieved to find no evidence of fever. Needing the contact, he allowed his hand to linger and whispered.
"Forgive me, my friend."
THE END
A/N:- Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope you enjoyed it.