A/N: Though it may not be much, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Linguam, who's left me two very beautiful reviews. Thank you, sincerely. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!
As always, I apologize for any grammatical errors...I work mostly at night (usually half asleep haha).
The reality found Athos unapologetically scraping out any sign of injection from deep in the flesh, grimacing at the slick of Aramis's too-warm blood as it oozed through his fingers. Porthos held the wounded man down, begging to anyone who would hear to swiftly let the man past out. Athos worked as quickly as he could while being thorough and doused the gash in wine without warning. Aramis screamed for the first time then; a harsh, ragged yell tearing from his throat and far into the brisk air. Porthos felt his eyes burning for the hot tears streaming down Aramis's face, but instantly stilled when Aramis breathed out once last pained breath, arched his head back and finally, he fainted.
Chapter 3
"About time," Athos visibly sagged in relief as he threaded the stitching needle.
Porthos's head shook. He made no effort to wipe away his own subtle tears as he shifted from holding Aramis down, to cradling him gently. "Isn't right..." he found he couldn't continue; his voice choked him like week-old bread.
But he didn't really need to. Athos bit away rare tears of his own, though only so he could see clear enough to stitch cleanly. Stitching was Aramis's forte; as far as Athos was concerned, that fact alone should immunize Aramis from ever needing someone to stich him.
Once convinced the wound was bound and safe from returning septicity, Athos thought it prudent to take advantage of the time Aramis was out. Working together with Porthos, he checked for any other forgotten life-threatening injuries. Happy to find none but despaired at the sheer number of bruises, shallow cuts, and welts along his body, both brothers sighed. At least his fever was to a minimum, if nothing else.
"Well, he'll be in pain for a while yet, but his body will heal, thank God," Athos finally announced. As he watched the larger Musketeer nod tiredly, he suddenly felt the adrenaline collectively fall from their little camp like melting snow, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind.
Wearily, he moved to place a few more logs on the fire before nodding toward the tiny sleeping cave. "Get some rest with him, Porthos. I'll wake you in a few hours."
Unusually docile, Porthos effortlessly picked up his brother like he would a small child and crouched into the nearby space. Athos's eyes crinkled sadly as Porthos took great care in tucking Aramis into the blankets they had warmed by the fire and carefully laid down beside him.
People would always say what they will about their tiny, unusual family, but in truth, Athos didn't care what anyone said (and most were too afraid of the famous Musketeers to speak out, anyway). They were brothers and they would always care for each other. If that meant sleeping close and embracing often, then so be it. Especially when it was Aramis who needed protecting. In reality, it was such a rare occurrence that Aramis could not handle his own affairs that they almost relished the ability to care for him…even though both Porthos and Athos agreed they'd much rather Aramis never be in pain enough to need help at all.
ooooooooooooooooooo
While Porthos settled in for some much needed rest, Athos took the quiet time with a deep appreciation to relax himself. There was a great part of Athos that always loved the winters in Northern France more than all else. With a blanket of freshly fallen snow alighting the night under a crisp moon sparkling in a newly clear sky, it was as near to silent perfection as Athos could imagine. Of course, his love had been tainted slightly by his constant worry for Aramis this time of year, but still. If Savoy had happened in summer, he would worry through the heat, too. That is not to say, however, that Aramis particularly needed someone to worry over him, but as it was said: they were brothers, and while Athos would never admit to it, he was terrified of ever losing either of them.
That being noted, Athos loved camping out this time of year. In a cushion of white, there wasn't a single sound from dusk till dawn. He could hear everything, even a twig snap hundreds of yards away. He knew they were in no particular danger at the moment; he knew from a messenger that Treville and the regiment had yesterday morning killed, maimed, or otherwise arrested all those involved in Aramis's kidnapping. So, all this into account, Athos let his mind wander. Half empty bottle in hand, he stared into the glowing fire with a deadness in eyes that betrayed all the buried fractures of his heart.
No matter what he tried, his thoughts always drifted to the past the moment the moon rose. He thought of Anne, briefly, but mostly, glancing up to where his friends laid, he thought of Thomas. At a boy of only twenty when he died, Athos couldn't help but wonder what kind of man he might have become. Would he be wise? Courageous? Or would he have grown dark and wasted away? For his own hearts sake, Athos had to believe there was a light in Thomas that somehow found itself fused in a brilliant star above…even if his regrettably wizening mind came more and more to believe his late wife's description of the boy.
The thought terrified him, and abruptly forced his thoughts back to the present—to the peace, to the snow; to the relief of finding Aramis still breathing.
Even with the injuries and the emotional damage, he knew they were very, very lucky. After four days without him, both he and Porthos had begun to dread the worst. Finding their brother half-buried in the snow…that was bad enough.
ooooooooooooooooooooo
The first few hours of his watch went by quietly and without disturbance. So much so that after the exhaustion of the last few days, Athos found himself slowly drifting as he watched his brothers sleep. In their rest, Porthos had opened his arms and gently wrapped up Aramis like a small teddy bear. The fact that Aramis was able to stay unconscious under Porthos's heavy snores was proof alone of the man's tiredness. Aramis himself didn't make a sound—not that he ever did—but simply wove himself into the bigger man's grasp: head resting on Porthos's arm and arms curled somewhere between his chest and Porthos's side. He was leaning unconsciously on his right side and Athos figured there were more breaks on the left half of his ribcage than the other.
It wasn't till early in the morning, when the moon was peaking high above the trees that the terrors finally hit Aramis's mind again. Porthos had just begun to stir from the biological alarm for his shift as watch. Athos was almost asleep, leaning heavier and heavier against the saddle at his back.
Both suddenly bolted awake when a scarce whimper echoed through their camp.
As Athos jumped to his feet and rushed beside them, and Porthos placed a forcibly calm hand on Aramis's trembling shoulder. The sharpshooter's features were rapidly tightening against the nightmare—the memories—playing out in his mind. "Aramis, wake up…you're dreamin'," he tried cautiously.
Athos joined them, crouching in the small space with an ungloved hand alighting through Aramis's hair—a gesture that had always helped in the past.
After sharing a quick glace with Athos, Porthos pressed himself a little closer to their suffering brother, protectively lifting him to his warm chest. If Aramis was stuck in the terrors, they both knew the only thing to get him out was contact and warmth. And they had to pull him out. Quickly. "C'mon 'Mis, wake up now,"
"No…c…cold…pl's…"
The words were broken and slurred as Aramis weakly tossed his head. One hand was fisting in Porthos's shirt, whilst the other had found Athos's unoccupied hand.
"Aramis!" Athos barked, words aching with anxiety. His hand worked to cup the dreamer's cheek and hold his thrashings still. "Come back to us, brother. You're not alone. You're safe, we found you. Wake up and see."
There was little response for a while, and as Porthos looked at Athos with wide eyes for guidance, it seemed there was nothing they could do but let the horrors play out as they would. But then, quite abruptly, Aramis jerked up with a yelp, surprising both of his brothers from the sheer force of it. For a moment, they were all still; Porthos still keeping a hand on Aramis's back and Athos still grasping his hand as the trembling man sat dazed, hopelessly trying to regain the world around him.
"Aramis?" Athos called very quietly like he was trying to coax a frightened child from a murky corner. More then anyone, he and Porthos knew well that even though Aramis might be alert, that didn't always mean he was aware. "Are you awake?"
With a weight that dropped in Porthos's heart, Aramis lowered his head and waved a weak hand in response. "'m okay…just…need a minute."
"Take all the time ya' need," Porthos rubbed a hand over Aramis's back.
The brothers were endlessly patient as they waited for Aramis to soothe himself. Eventually, when the stillness of the night again nested around them, Aramis shifted back with a grunt. The numbness of sleep was fading off, replaced by a vicious reminder of every injury wracking his body. Porthos was quick to support him, aiding his smaller brother to lean against the cushioned stone wall behind them.
"Sorry 'bout that," Aramis quipped with a little grimace meant to be a smile.
Despite himself, Porthos chuckled a bit. Of course Aramis would still find it in him to try and ease his brothers. Athos wasn't so persuaded; more concerned with the deep red bandage peeking through the blankets, clinging to Aramis's leg. With much effort, he bit it back. That wound could wait for a moment. There were deeper ones that needed tending at present. "How's the pain?"
Struggling to keep his eyes light, Aramis kept up his little smirk. "Worse than before, but at least I'm not cold anymore."
"You're not slurrin', either. Tha's a good sign," Porthos chimed in, hand never leaving Aramis's shoulder.
"Indeed. I was worried about your hard head," Athos attempted to joke before rapidly turning serious again. "It's still late in the night. Think you can sleep again?"
Sighing, Aramis raised a hand through his tangled hair. "I'd prefer not, but I'm not sure my body will give me much choice…everything's a little blurry around the edges."
"In that case, I need to check your leg. You still feel a little warm."
Aramis nodded. Of course he knew it had to be done.
Wordlessly, Athos cut away the old bandage while Porthos gathered supplies for cleaning and rewrapping. Aramis kept quiet through the whole process, tired eyes pointedly never meeting the wound. If Athos noticed this uncharacteristic behavior, he didn't mention it. The poor man had enough to deal with. Seeing a hatchet-sized gash in his thigh was certainly not an image he needed.
By the time Athos was finished, satisfied that the infection was healing and the stitches were holding, Aramis was already fading away again. Porthos had heated some broth just before and coerced the wounded brother to sip it until it was gone. It would seem now that the warmth in his belly was all he needed to settle his weary mind.
The sleeping draught Porthos might have slipped into the bowl had nothing at all to do with Aramis's sudden calm, of course.
Athos smirked a little as they lowered Aramis back to lay in his nest of blankets and Porthos admitted his guilt in the matter. Aramis heard the admission, too, but didn't register passed a simple snort. "Traitor…" he murmured lazily before collapsing into a deep, painless slumber.
TBC...
