iii.

Sustained by adrenaline and consumed with nervous anxiety, d'Artagnan needed to move. He got up from the table hoping to expend his tumultuous energy by tidying the room. He picked Aramis' shirt off the floor and held it up to fold and place on the bench by the window when he noticed something.

"It's torn," he said, holding it for the others to see.

The back of Aramis' shirt had a rip on the left side, ragged like the cut, and the edges were stained with blood. D'Artagnan brought it to the bed for Porthos and the physician to take a closer look, while behind him Athos swiped the marksman's doublet off the floor.

"This is intact," said Athos. "Nothing. Not even a scratch." He threw it on the table then picked up the weapons still on the belt and tossed them on the table as well.

"What do you think happened?" asked d'Artagnan.

"It's still a little damp," said Porthos, holding the shirt. "And this hole was definitely not made by any blade."

D'Artagnan considered what he'd seen last night when Aramis arrived; wet, tired, dishevelled. He looked at Athos when he considered something else. "Was he late?"

"No," replied Athos. "In fact, he was early."

"Early and without a horse," said Porthos. "This gets stranger and stranger."

A loud broken cry startled everyone in the room. Aramis had awoken.

The marksman was curled into himself facing the wall, his mouth open as continuous screams bellowed from between his lips. His eyes were unfocused and his body shook so hard not even Porthos and d'Artagnan could control him.

"Aramis… Aramis…" repeated Porthos, wrapping his arms around his friend.

D'Artagnan went for the legs, holding them still so Aramis would not kick the wall. He felt the physician squeeze in beside him and made room.

Dr. Callais put a hand on Aramis' forehead then drew it back. "It's not a fever," he said, rushing to the table.

D'Artagnan struggled to retain his grip on his friend's thrashing legs as he watched the physician frantically pull vials from his bag. Aramis continued to scream, harsh and heartbreakingly that which Porthos could not calm with soothing words.

"What's happening?" asked d'Artagnan, looking to where Dr. Callais was pouring wine into a cup. "Is he having some sort of fit?"

The physician was terse when he turned back holding the wine. "No," he said. "He's still cold. His muscles have been contracted for so long, it is most likely wreaking havoc with the injury on his back."

"What?" asked Porthos.

The physician looked at him. "Do you really want a physiology lesson right now?" he said. "Or shall I treat him?"

Porthos nodded, then he sat up and started to remove his own shirt.

D'Artagnan watched as the big man proceeded to undress down to his braies and stockings then move under the blankets to wrap himself around Aramis. It was body heat he was providing, and d'Artagnan thanked god for his friend's insight. He recalled a time or two while out on missions when he'd needed Porthos' warmth and how much better he'd felt within his bear-like embrace.

The marksman's tremors decreased with the skin-to-skin contact, but d'Artagnan wasn't sure if it was because he now had extra warmth or because Porthos was restricting his movements with his strong grasp. But the screams continued, loud and filled with anguish, which reached all the way through to d'Artagnan's heart, where it latched on and squeezed tight.

"Sit him up, he needs to drink this," said the physician, standing next to the bed with the wine in hand.

Porthos pulled himself and Aramis into a seated position with Aramis leaning on his chest. The screams diminished to moans at the movement, but the pain evident on the marksman's face still distressed d'Artagnan.

When he noticed Aramis' eyes were open he smiled. "We're here," he said, releasing his vice-like grip on his legs to rest them on top.

"Hurts," said Aramis, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

When Aramis spoke his first words in over a day, d'Artagnan felt the weight of the world rise from his shoulders. It wasn't what d'Artagnan wanted to hear, but the sound of Aramis' voice was comforting nonetheless. "You're cold," he said, patting the marksman's legs. "You're shivering."

"My back," said Aramis, turning away from Porthos' hold. But the large musketeer didn't let him.

"I need you to drink this," said the physician. "It'll stop the tremors and relieve all of the pain."

"What… is it?" asked Aramis, his voice crippled by his chattering teeth.

"It's something strong," replied the physician. "You can only take a little."

Aramis swallowed and continued to shiver, his words broken by moans and full body spasms. "What… is… it?"

The physician held the cup in front of Aramis and reached for one of his hands. "Take it and drink," he said.

Aramis pulled his hand away and it dropped to his side. "No… what…"

The physician held the cup to Aramis' lips, but this time Porthos pushed it away. "He wants to know what it is!"

The physician stood up and exhaled. "It will work," he said. "That's all that's important."

D'Artagnan heard a growl from deep within Porthos' chest and he felt the same building in his own chest. "Tell Aramis what it is," he said, his voice even.

The physician dropped his head appearing almost ashamed.

"Tell him!"

Athos' voice startled the physician and he jumped.

"It's opium," said the physician. "All right? It's pure form opium."

The breath caught in d'Artagnan's throat. "That'll kill him."

"Only if he takes too much," replied the physician. "The right amount will relax him enough to stop the tremors. And if he doesn't stop shaking those stitches will tear, he'll start bleeding again and we'll be right back where we started. That is, if he doesn't freeze to death first."

The room was silent for several moments. D'Artagnan could hear his own heartbeat. He watched Aramis' face for any sign of comprehension, wondering if he even understood what was happening. "It should be his choice," he said, quiet and obstinate. "Let Aramis choose. He knows what's good for him."

They waited for a response, watching as Aramis looked at each of them. It was hard to tell what was going through his mind, and d'Artagnan questioned again if he even knew what was happening. Aramis still chattered and every once in awhile his body would convulse and he would let loose a scream or groan.

"Give it to me," he finally said. "Just don't… don't let me stop breathing."

"What?" Porthos' face went red, his eyes wide. "That could happen?"

"It's a side effect of the seed if too much is taken," explained the physician. "But I promise I know what I am doing."

D'Artagnan leaned across Aramis' legs to look in his eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?" The results could be disastrous, but it was in Aramis' hands, not his. All he could do was support his decision whatever he chose and hope he understood the situation. He considered making the decision for Aramis, but even of sound mind he wasn't sure which to choose. It was a gamble either way, with devastating consequences on both sides, so he decided that it didn't actually matter if Aramis understood. But he hoped Aramis would say no, and was disappointed when he didn't.

"Yes," said Aramis, slowly lifting a hand. "Give it to me." His thin fingers trembled as he held them up. Porthos put his hand around them to stop them from shaking and together they received the cup into their hands.

D'Artagnan didn't like this, but he also didn't like the state his friend was in so he said nothing, stood back and prayed the physician and Aramis knew what they were doing.

"I can't take… It won't stop…" said Aramis, his head nearly vibrating against Porthos' chest.

Aramis, with Porthos' guidance, pulled the cup to his lips. It banged against his teeth as he tried to drink, sloshing wine down his chin.

"Only a few sips for now," said the physician. "We'll see how you react then we'll know if you can handle another draught later."

"No more," said Porthos, passing the cup back to the physician. "He doesn't need any more of your poison."

The physician sighed, but as a man of higher education and most likely noble birth, he knew how to stand his ground against those that questioned him. "Aramis needs to finish the whole thing," he said in an even voice. "He can take it slowly, but it'll do no good if he doesn't take the full dose. "

Porthos growled and motioned for Dr. Callais to give him back the cup. "If this kills him, then I'm gonna kill you," he said, resting the cup on his thigh till their friend was ready to drink again.

"Fair enough," replied Dr. Callais, with a nod.

The physician's confidence assured d'Artagnan that Aramis would be fine, relatively speaking of course. It was hard for d'Artagnan to watch Aramis so fragile and docile, but watching Porthos react with fear and anger was just as difficult. He wasn't sure if the tightness in his chest was over one or the other, but possibly both.

"We'll be with him all night," he said. "We won't take our eyes off him."

To Be Continued…