Author's Note: I had no idea so many of you thought this way! Great minds, and Aramis lovers, think alike! Thank you for all your great reviews. I love hearing what you think, not just about the story, but about Aramis as well. And another thank you to JenF, for beta reading this for me.

ii.

The citizens of Paris were settling in for the evening when only three of the four brothers returned to the garrison. Enraged, and more than a little despondent, Porthos smacked his palm on the wall of the archway before entering the tunnel. "Where is he?!" he yelled, as particles of clay and debris, disturbed by the impact, slid down the wall.

"Hold on," said d'Artagnan.

Porthos looked down and saw d'Artagnan's arm across his chest. The Gascon was staring ahead, brows furrowed, so Porthos followed his gaze.

Treville was standing in the middle of the courtyard shouting orders while musketeers were running into the bunkhouse carrying blankets.

Porthos' breath caught in this throat… Aramis.

He ran to their captain, his brothers right behind him. "What's happening?" he asked, his mouth suddenly so dry he could hardly speak. "Did you find Aramis?"

Treville turned to them with his hands braced on his hips, the creases on his face more prominent than usual. "You said you checked his room?" he asked, looking directly at Athos.

"I did."

Porthos' heart pounded, his shoulders shook and he felt lightheaded. "Captain," he croaked. "What's happening?"

"We found him," said Treville. "Only moments ago."

A musketeer ran to them dragging a man in finely dressed clothes and a leather bag clutched in his hands. "I have the physician," said the musketeer. "Doctor Callais."

"Go," ordered Treville, pointing toward the bunkhouse.

Porthos didn't wait for an explanation. He followed after them into the building, then to Aramis' room.

He stopped short in the doorway, knowing deep down the man crouched in the corner surrounded by several musketeers, was Aramis. A chill ran through him, he could barely breathe. But he had to see him, touch him, know he was all right, so he rushed across the room and pushed his way through the small crowd.

Aramis was shirtless and shivering on the floor in the corner across from his bed; one arm wrapped around his torso while the other was wrapped around his head. On his back was a large deep cut, bleeding and oozing out over a large abrasion surrounding it. Porthos grabbed a blanket one of the musketeers was bringing to him and threw it over his friend.

He knelt and rolled Aramis into his lap, his want of communication outweighing the need to protect the injury.

"Aramis? Aramis?" He called his friend's name while rubbing a hand down his cold cheek. Aramis didn't open his eyes, even when Porthos rubbed more vigorously.

"What happened? Who did this do 'im?" His voice boomed in the small room, causing those that didn't know him well to startle.

The physician stepped forward and lowered himself to Porthos' level. Porthos looked at him, swallowed then set his jaw. He could not allow himself to break down. "You can help him, right?"

"I need to see what is wrong first," said Dr. Callais, in a kind voice. "Let me see him. Bring him to the bed."

"Yeah, yeah," said Porthos, crawling out from under Aramis. He picked up his friend with the help of d'Artagnan and together they carried Aramis to the bed where they laid him down.

"Roll him toward me."

Porthos did as the physician instructed, holding Aramis by his trembling shoulders as his back was examined.

"I didn't see him."

Porthos looked directly at Athos. "You said you checked his room!"

Athos took a step back, ran a hand down his face. "I didn't see him," he said again. "I looked in the window and… I… didn't see him."

Treville put a hand on Athos' shoulder. "He was in the corner. You couldn't have seen him from your angle."

Porthos went rigid. "Why didn't you look closer?!" He glanced at Treville. "He was here the whole time?"

Treville nodded.

"Why didn't you look?!"

Athos stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Porthos let go of his friend to swat it away. He knew it wasn't Athos' fault. He knew Athos had not done this to Aramis, but the swordsman was an easy target for Porthos right now.

"I'm sorry," said Athos.

Porthos couldn't look at him without wanting to hit something, so he set his sights, and undivided attention, on Aramis.

On his side and facing the room, Aramis shivered while the physician prodded the wound. Porthos felt tiny tremors rippling across their friend's cold skin, so he inched his own body closer, hoping to give Aramis some much-needed warmth.

"How did this happen?" asked the physician, dabbing the open wound with a cloth. "This doesn't look like it was made by any sort of blade."

Porthos looked closer at the wound. The physician was right. The splitting of the skin was jagged, not smooth, looking more like a tear rather than a slice or stab. And the abrasions and bruising surrounding it were not conducive to a blade injury either. Red, shredded skin mottled with dark purple bruises consumed the entire left side of Aramis' back from his shoulder blade to his waist.

"It looks like he was hit with maybe a plank or something?" said Porthos.

D'Artagnan knelt beside the bed and leaned in. "He was also wet when he arrived, remember? Perhaps that's why he's cold?"

Porthos lowered his head till his forehead rested on Aramis' shoulder. The signs were there last night, and not one of them had taken heed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand up and down Aramis' bare arm. "I'm so sorry."

"I'd like to try and stitch this."

Porthos sat up and glared at the physician. "What do you mean, try?"

Dr. Callais was threading a needle as he spoke. "The skin may not come together," he said. "It may be too ragged, but I will try my best. Just hold him still."

Porthos adjusted himself on the edge of the bed so Aramis' head rested in his lap. He tilted their friend forward for the physician to access the wound, leaving Aramis' limp left arm hanging off the bed.

Still kneeling, d'Artagnan held the pale, thin fingers of their friend in one hand while rubbing his arm with the other. "He's so cold," he said.

Porthos leaned over to look at Aramis. "I know," he said, brushing fallen hair from their friend's eyes. "I can feel him shivering."

"I'll start the fire," said Athos, and Porthos saw him move to the hearth near the door.

He'd yelled at the swordsman, accused him of being negligent, and now that his anger was dissipating, Porthos felt a little guilty. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sure Aramis would appreciate it."

Athos turned back and nodded. That was all it took for the two of them to sort out their feelings.

"Everyone out," said Treville. "Let's give Aramis some privacy. I know you're all concerned, but it's a little crowded in here."

Porthos watched Treville usher all but himself, Athos and d'Artagnan out of the room, no one questioning why they were allowed to remain. Treville came back to the bed once the room was emptied and asked if the physician needed anything. Their captain left a moment later to retrieve the fresh water and towels he was instructed to gather.

Silence descended onto the room with the only sounds coming from the physician as he cursed under his breath when he missed a stitch. Porthos rested his head against the wall unable to watch.

Aramis still trembled in his lap, which probably made the needlework much more difficult. Porthos and d'Artagnan continued to rub his arms while trying not to get in the physician's way. When the fire had been going strong for several minutes, Athos put some of the blankets on the hearth to heat them, then brought them over when ready.

They placed one of the blankets against Aramis' chest where it wouldn't interfere with the physician's work, and one on top of his legs. It was hard for Porthos to tell with all the shuddering, but he swore he felt Aramis flinch when the blanket was placed against his bare skin. His body seemed to move a little as well, rolling forward into the heat.

"Aramis was sent to Orleans right?" D'Artagnan's voice cut through the silence, jolting not just Porthos but the physician's hand as well.

"Yes," replied Treville, leaning against the archway dividing the two areas of the room. "Delivering King's letters to a Comte in the area."

Treville pushed off the wall and headed for the bench under the far window where he sat down. "It was an easy assignment. There shouldn't have been reason for any sort of attack. That's why I sent just him."

"Who says Aramis was attacked?" asked Athos. "This could have been an accident. I don't believe he wouldn't have said something last night had he been attacked on the road."

"What about his horse?"

"Yeah," said Porthos, nodding at d'Artagnan. "What about his horse? He walked into the garrison last night."

"We're not going to know anything until he wakes up," stated Athos. "Which should be soon, right Doctor?"

The physician hemmed and hawed before raising his head. "I've stitched it the best I can, but it will need to be tightly bound to keep it all together." He stood up and went to the table where he threw the needle and thread into a bowl then pulled a thick roll of white cloth from his leather bag.

"First I'd like to clean up what the needlework created," he said, coming back to the bed. "It wasn't easy stitching that… that mess back together, and he unfortunately bled a lot during the ordeal."

Porthos cringed, not wanting to imagine what could have caused such a savage wound. Then he shifted sideways so he could get an arm under Aramis, careful not to disturb the injury. And while d'Artagnan helped by pulling, Porthos pushed their friend upright.

Powerless to stop himself, Aramis slumped off the side of the bed.

Porthos' quick reflexes saved him from landing on the floor as he dropped to his knees, twisting in time to catch Aramis' limp body. With a gentle touch, Porthos reached behind his friend's neck and pulled his head down to rest on his shoulder and held him in place. Then he wrapped his other arm around him so he wouldn't fall to the side.

Discomforted by the fact that Aramis felt cumbersome in his arms, and his skin only slightly warmer, Porthos whispered into his ear, "I've got you, brother." Then with his right hand, Porthos stroked the back of Aramis' head. "I won't let go."

Dr. Callais sat on the edge of the bed where he could access Aramis' back. Athos stood nearby holding the bowl of fresh water and towels Treville had fetched, so the physician didn't have to reach too far while cleaning the wound.

When the cool water touched Aramis' skin, Porthos felt him shudder. The large musketeer pulled back to check on him, inadvertently moving his shoulder where his friend's head rested.

Aramis' head fell to the side. His lips moved as if to speak, but nothing came out, so Porthos reached behind his neck and pulled him back down to his shoulder. "Not yet," he said. "Just sleep. There'll be plenty of time for talking later."

A blood stained hand rested on Porthos' shoulder, and he turned to look into the smiling face of the physician.

"You're a good friend," said Dr. Callais, as he dabbed the wound with the wet towel.

The words were meant to be a compliment, Porthos knew that, but they stung- hard and deep. He was no friend. A friend saw when another was in trouble.

Porthos closed his eyes to stop the tears from making it past their burning rims.

A real friend would not assume everything was fine simply because history had proven that theory time and time again, when in fact, history was notorious for repeating itself with dire consequences.

With a heavy heart, Porthos wondered how many silent pleas went unheard because everyone assumed he was fine?

Countless times, Porthos had thought his friend dead or doomed, and yet Aramis always showed up with a smile on his face ready to fight. So many times in fact, Porthos believed his friend was charmed.

Aramis possessed the strongest sense of vitality Porthos had ever seen. It was in the way he spoke with exuberance and passion, the way he sauntered instead of walked and in the way he carried himself with confidence and never hesitated. But now Porthos realized the error of his deduction; Aramis wasn't infallible, he was human like the rest of them.

"He fooled me," Porthos said, loud enough for the others to hear. "Had me believin' he was blessed."

And it's your own damn fault, thought Porthos as he held his friend tighter than he ought to. For being so damn good at living.

"Aramis had me fooled as well," said Athos.

"Everyman needs help and protection once in awhile," offered Treville.

D'Artagnan stared at the floor. "Unfortunately, we weren't there when Aramis needed it."

Porthos fought through his twitching jaw in order to speak. "Well, he may have fooled us, but we failed him. And for that, I'll never forgive myself."

"Yet, it's in his nature to forgive us," said Athos, his words triggering a sharp pain deep in Porthos' chest.

"Maybe he shouldn't," mumbled Porthos. "Maybe we don't deserve it this time." His body trembled, his breath hitching with every sob he forced back down, so he buried his face into the side of Aramis' neck to stifle his emotions.

The physician continued to work, wrapping a long clean white strip of cloth around and around Aramis' chest and stomach until he ran out of bandage. Porthos pulled away from his friend so the physician could secure the wrap then helped lower Aramis onto the bed.

Aramis was nearly as white as the bandage around him. His lips were tinged blue and slightly parted, and his shoulders quivered from shivers once again. Porthos found it difficult to watch his friend in this state, and when he placed a blanket over him he felt an overwhelming need to fall onto the bed and envelop his friend's body with his own. But if he did, he would never let go, so he dropped only the blanket and put a hand on his forehead instead.

"He'll most likely have a fever soon, won't he?" he asked, looking at the physician.

"In time, yes," said Dr. Callais. "That is likely to happen."

"But he'll be fine?" asked d'Artagnan, his voice infused with optimism.

"The wound will not likely kill him unless it re-opens and bleeds aggressively," replied the physician. "So let us hope that whatever has caused his hypothermia won't either."

Porthos was about to deny the notion that some condition could defeat Aramis, but bit his lip. Assumptions like that had caused this situation to get as bad as it was, and he now felt it was time to stop propagating the lie.

But the alternative meant there was a chance Aramis would not survive, and Porthos refused to think that way, it was much too painful. "No," he said, unable to contain his inner voice. "Not Aramis. If being thrown out a window can't kill him or… or…" He searched for words, his mind frenzied by anxiety. "Or musket or sword, then no sickness can either."

Athos let out a long, exasperated sounding breath. "Porthos…"

The large musketeer held out his hand, stopping the swordsman mid-sentence. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No. I can live with this lie."

D'Artagnan frowned. "What lie?"

Porthos swallowed. "That Aramis is invincible," he said. "Anything else is just blasphemy to me."

It was awhile before anyone else spoke, and it was the physician who broke the silence. He did not feel comfortable putting anything in Aramis' mouth while he was unconscious for fear of him choking, so over the next few hours he instructed them all to watch and wait, and keep changing the blankets with warm ones from by the fire.

Treville needed to take charge of the garrison and eventually left, but everyone else stayed. The physician sat at the end of the bed while Athos and d'Artagnan sat at the table. By the time the room turned dark and the lanterns and candles were lit, Aramis had not awoken.

To Be Continued…