AN/ I should apologise... but you guys signed up for whump, so I'm not too sorry for what's about to follow. Thank you for all your reviews so far, you're all very eager to know what happened, but I'm afraid all is not quite yet to be revealed... lots of energy (and emotions) in this story, but answers take a while to come out of the woodwork.
Also, I finished the last chapter (which turned into two chapters as I was writing it), so will do my best to upload daily now. Occasionally my busy schedule might mean I can't get to my computer, but we should be good to go until the end now :) Incidentally, I had meant to post this earlier today, but there was a power outage, so had no access.
And so, without further ado...
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers
Aramis was practically catatonic when Athos and Porthos found them shortly after. His hands were still pressed against d'Artagnan's wounds, and they were slick with blood. The same blood was splattered all the way up Aramis' arms, on his chest and face. The same blood that was pouring out of d'Artagnan's body.
Athos and Porthos broke out into a run upon seeing the tableau set out before them.
"Aramis?" Porthos called to his friend as he came to settle beside the non-cognizant Spaniard. He gripped his friend's shoulder while exchanging a concerned glance with Athos whose eyes had been fixed on the deathly pale face of d'Artagnan. With a nod shared between the two of them, Porthos pulled a scarily compliant and numb Aramis away from the d'Artagnan while Athos took to applying stead pressure to the wounds and performing his own examination of the Gascon.
"How bad?' Porthos asked fearfully, his voice cracking slightly.
"I think the bleeding's slowed down, but that might because there's not much left," Athos voiced his concerns. "His breathing's affected."
Porthos clutched Aramis' still body as Athos tried to gage the extent of d'Artagnan's injury.
"We need to get him a Doctor," Athos said. "Can Aramis walk? We'll need the both of us to get him back to the Garrison without him bleeding out completely."
Porthos turned to Aramis and took in the sight of his friend. Aramis was almost as pale as d'Artagnan though there was no real sign of any visible injury. His eyes were glazed over and he was completely compliant to Porthos' manhandling.
"Aramis?" Porthos called to his friend, resting a large hand on his brother's cheek to try and get his attention. Aramis didn't so much a flinch at the move, nor shift his gaze from where he was staring resolutely ahead. Porthos frowned and felt concern ripple through him. Fear for both his brothers surfaced: d'Artagnan's potentially fatal injury was self-evident in the blood that coated both Aramis and himself, but Aramis was completely lost. And Porthos couldn't make heads or tails of it.
To the side of the pair, Porthos heard d'Artagnan's already floundering breathing hitch slightly.
"Alright," Porthos sighed. "Let's give this a try."
Porthos slowly stood and pulled Aramis up with him. Once he was certain that Aramis would remain standing on his own, Porthos turned to bundle the Gascon into his arms.
"Come 'ere whelp," he whispered soothingly as he brought d'Artagnan's limp body lose to his chest. Athos remained by their side, maintaining his grip on either side of d'Artagnan's shoulder.
"Press the wound on his back against my chest to free one of your hands," Porthos instructed. Athos saw Porthos' intention and followed through, forcing d'Artagnan's wound back against Porthos while still maintaining pressure through his hold on the front of the wound. He then reached out and grasped Aramis with his spare hand, and pulled the catatonic musketeer towards them. Aramis moved obligingly, but unseeingly.
Athos exchanged another wary and very worried look with Porthos before the four of them began to move slowly towards Paris.
/\/\/\/\/\
Porthos heard shouts as they neared the garrison, and was relieved to see the guards on duty running to meet them as the men came closer.
"What happened?" Henri asked in alarm as he took in the sight before him. D'Artagnan, held against Porthos' chest, was deathly pale and clearly struggling to breathe. Athos had his hand pressed against the Gascon's chest, and red blood spilled out amongst the elder man's fingers and drenched both the Gascon's and Porthos' clothing. To the side, Aramis stood with a vacant look in his eyes and Athos' other hand gripped the Spaniard's arm in a vice-grip.
"The whelp was shot," Porthos explained as they entered the garrison. "Not sure how it happened. Somethin's up with Aramis."
"Take him will you?" Athos asked the other guard, Etienne, passing Aramis to the man so that he could maintain a better grip on the bleeding Gascon.
"Pierre!" Henri called to one of the newer recruits. "Go fetch Doctor Fabien at once. Tell him he is to get here with the utmost urgency."
Pierre took one glance at the musketeers before him and bolted out of the garrison in search of the doctor.
"Let's get them to the infirmary," Athos said, and the group trooped into the barracks. Etienne guided Aramis, while Henri went to find Treville.
When they reached the infirmary Porthos laid his charge down on one of beds and pulled him into a semi-upright position so that both Athos and he could maintain a firm grasp on the bleeding wound. D'Artagnan's face was pinched with pain, even though he remained unconscious, and his breath came out in short, wheezing spurts.
"Doc Fabien had better get here double-quick," Porthos muttered anxiously as he glanced across to Aramis. Normally, their brother and medic would be centre stage by now, taking charge, barking orders and looking after his family. Instead, he sat where Etienne had deposited him on the bed opposite the centre runway of the room. His face was completely lax, his eyes failed to track movement.
"What's wrong with him?" Athos asked, though not to anyone in particular. "Did he hit his head?"
"I don't see any wound," Etienne said, as mystified as the others as to Aramis' current state. "He looks… He looks like he did when…"
"Savoy," Porthos muttered bitterly.
"Yeah," Etienne agreed with a lame shrug of his shoulders. He was about Porthos' age and was relatively close to the Inseparables, merely for having spent so much time in their company about the garrison and on occasional missions. He'd been on hand during the fallout of Savoy. In fact, his best friend had been one of the soldier's counted amongst the dead.
"Stay?" Porthos asked.
"I'll watch him," Etienne assured. "You watch the pup."
Athos caught Etienne's eye and nodded his thanks, just as Treville arrived with Henri at his back.
"You found him," Treville stated, not a question.
"Aye," Porthos acknowledged. "But something went wrong along the way."
Treville looked first at d'Artagnan, bleeding out and struggling to breathe, and then at Aramis, who might as well have not been there.
"Do we know what happened?" Treville asked.
"Only that the whelp was shot," Porthos sighed. "We found him on the ground with Aramis applying pressure, but 'mis wasn't with us even then."
"No one else in sight?"
"I think we'd have said so, Captain," Athos said pointedly.
"Of course," Treville acknowledged. "I'm merely trying to—"
Treville's words were interrupted by the hacking cough coming from d'Artagnan whose eyes slipped open, the pain finally dragging him back to consciousness, as blood sprayed from his mouth in a transfixing, terrifying display.
AN/ I'm sorry/ not sorry for the cliffhanger...
