When Aramis became aware of his surroundings again, he was displeased to find that the day's misadventure was not another one of his nightmares but was, in fact, painful reality. His mind played back the events that led to his current physical state, flashes of memory all jumbled up making only a small amount of sense to his yet muddled brain. He remembered breakfast and d'Artagnan's foolish decision to pelt Porthos with a boot, remembered the feeling of desperation as he tried to recall something just before losing consciousness, vividly remembered being outnumbered six to one, remembered d'Artagnan asking him a question he had almost no desire to answer… That was it! That was what he needed to talk to d'Artagnan about!
He jerked his head up to locate the young man and instantly regretted the movement as dizziness overtook him.
"Easy, Aramis," Porthos cautioned, and Aramis realized suddenly that he was seated in front of Porthos on a horse. That revelation combined with his dancing vision left him feeling utterly nauseous. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto Porthos' shoulder, having spent his energy on lifting his head with such speed. Once the nausea passed and the lightheadedness lessened, he slowly opened his right eye and was met with the sight of Porthos studying him.
"d'Artagnan?" Aramis managed to whisper. He was tremendously relieved when Porthos understood Aramis was asking for d'Artagnan, not confusing Porthos with d'Artagnan as any attempt to explain himself would likely deplete his energy reserves before he ever had the chance to say what he wanted.
Porthos caught d'Artagnan's attention and nodded toward Aramis. D'Artagnan steered his mount closer to Porthos' feeling equal parts pleased that Aramis was awake and unsure of why Aramis wanted him.
"Aramis?"
"I's not your fault."
D'Artagnan said nothing in response. What could he say? Once again Aramis knew exactly what he was thinking, and although he wanted to protest, to take as much of the blame as he could, he found himself incapable. He was fully aware of how Aramis would respond. Countless times he had heard the argument, he'd even made it himself on several occasions, but that made it no easier to accept. Aramis would take responsibility for riding away and claim that he could have, should have, reacted differently. D'Artagnan could find no fault in such an argument, but that didn't keep the guilt from creeping in.
Porthos was grateful for Aramis' words. Since rescuing Aramis, he'd been watching d'Artagnan struggle with what had befallen their brother. He would've said the same as Aramis and much sooner, but Porthos knew d'Artagnan wouldn't accept absolution from anyone except the man he believed he'd brought harm to. While Porthos understood that it would take time for d'Artagnan to fully pardon himself, he saw the young man's expression relax upon hearing Aramis' declaration and took it as a sign that Aramis had said all that was required.
Knowing from experience that Aramis would push the issue until he felt confident he'd been heard and his words taken to heart, Porthos verbally confirmed d'Artagnan's comprehension. "He knows it," he said and felt his brother relax in his arms.
A minute later Aramis began shivering despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.
"d'Artagnan, pass me a blanket," Porthos requested, and d'Artagnan quickly supplied the item and held Porthos' reins so the larger man could use both hands to wrap the cover around Aramis and himself. He smiled at Porthos' wisdom to encompass himself in the blanket along with Aramis; Porthos was always warmer than everyone else, so by placing himself inside the covering, he was providing their brother with much needed heat faster than the blanket alone could have. Porthos nodded his thanks when he reclaimed control of his horse.
"The town can't be much further," d'Artagnan commented.
"Should be just beyond the next bend in the road. Ride ahead and get a room. We'll be there as quick as we can."
"Will… If I go ahead, will you two be…?"
"We'll be fine, d'Artagnan."
The Gascon hesitated for several seconds more before urging his horse ahead; he had to admit, he was glad to feel useful again despite his unease at parting from his brothers. He'd decided long ago that waiting was the worst part of dealing with injuries; there was something indescribably depressing about the helplessness that accompanied the whole affair. It felt good to be rid of it, if only for a little while.
- : - : - : - : - : - : -
Once Athos reached Paris, he turned his charges in to the proper authorities as quickly as he could manage. His mood was growing increasingly foul with every minute he spent away from his brothers. He did not know the extent of Aramis' injuries, and that alone was enough to drive him to madness. He knew that d'Artagnan would be struggling with guilt, and he knew Porthos would be on edge until he'd done all he could for Aramis and been assured that his brother would be fine. Athos' small band of brothers took on a sort of manic tension when Aramis was wounded. When anyone else was injured, they trusted Aramis to tend to things while the others offered whatever help they could. But when Aramis was the one in need of medical attention, the entire dynamic of the group had to adjust and rearrange itself. Each of them had a part to play within their brotherhood, yet he was a number of leagues away dealing with the details, something he would never neglect but never accept as part of his role. He could be the leader, and God knows he did it well, but when his brothers needed him as they surely did then, he hated being the one to tie up loose ends.
He sped into the garrison, eager to procure a cart or carriage for Aramis and return to them at the inn. However, upon entering his office to grab a few items, he found Tréville and Constance waiting for him there.
"What's happened?" The former captain demanded and rose from the chair where he'd been lounging as he took in Athos' appearance and expression. His clothes were dusty and disheveled from his time on the road. His scarf was missing. His posture screamed anxiety, frustration, and exhaustion. Tréville crossed the distance to Athos before repeating himself. "Athos, tell me what's happened."
"While riding ahead this morning, Aramis was attacked by half a dozen men claiming he's a Spanish spy. When Porthos, d'Artagnan, and I joined the fray, three of the assailants were killed. I left Porthos and d'Artagnan with Aramis while I escorted the survivors here before one or all of us decided to take justice into our own hands."
"Where are they now?" Constance interjected, her instinctive protectiveness of the four brothers making her impatient.
"An inn about fifteen lieue north of here. I only stopped here to grab a few things and obtain a cart for Aramis. I would feel much better if he were here in the relative safety of the garrison."
"I'm going back with you," Constance stated. She left no room for argument and left the office to prepare for the ride.
"How bad is it?" Tréville asked softly.
"I'm not certain." Athos had abandoned his gloves on the desk, and Tréville watched his hands fidgeting. Knowing that Athos was not prone to that particular nervous habit, the Minister of War looked closer and noted the stains on Athos' hands. Removing a kerchief from an inner pocket, Tréville crossed the room to the water pitcher he'd filled earlier and wet the cloth before returning to Athos. Gently taking one of his friend's hands, he worked to remove the blood that had dried there.
"Were we mistaken? Should we have left him in Douai?" Athos asked as Tréville proceeded to clean Athos' other hand.
"I think Aramis would have left for the war regardless of whether or not the three of you sought him out. Be glad you were there to protect him." Tréville stepped back and examined Athos once more; his confidence was returning, and his determination to return to his brothers conquered what was left of his doubt. Satisfied with the change, Tréville moved to the door. "You'd best be going. I should inform the Queen that she'll be missing one of her lady's for several days," he added with a half-smile.
"Thank you, sir," Athos breathed and retrieved his gloves from the desk before following Tréville out of the office and into the yard below.
"Godspeed, Athos. Bring your brothers home."
- : - : - : - : - : - : -
By the time Porthos brought his horse to a stop in front of the inn, d'Artagnan was pacing like a caged animal.
"I've asked for boiling water, wine, extra blankets, everything I could think of." D'Artagnan spoke quickly while Porthos worked to disentangle himself from the blanket.
"Good. Can you take him?"
d'Artagnan positioned himself to support Aramis as Porthos slowly lowered their still trembling brother from the saddle. When Porthos was sure d'Artagnan wasn't going to drop Aramis, he slid out of the saddle. A stable boy appeared beside them and tapped Porthos' arm to get his attention.
"Monsieur? I'll care for the horses and bring your things in?" He formed his statement as a question, unsure of Porthos' intentions and unwilling to anger the heavily-armed man. Porthos looked at the boy then at his companions and made his decision.
"Quick as you can, yeah?" The boy nodded vigorously and led the horses to the stable.
Porthos turned to d'Artagnan and Aramis once more.
"Lead the way, d'Art," he said before gently scooping Aramis into his arms.
"'m not a child," Aramis mumbled into Porthos' chest.
"Course not. Children are much easier to carry," Porthos smirked.
Not a moment after they entered the room and Porthos laid Aramis down on the bed, the inn keeper's wife hurried through the door with the requested boiling water, her daughter following behind with clean cloths and extra blankets. Seconds later the inn keeper himself walked in with brandy, and the stable boy nearly ran headlong into the small crowd forming in the room. d'Artagnan expressed their collective thanks to the inn keeper and his staff while the inn keeper began shooing his wife, daughter, and stable boy from the room.
"If there's anything more you need, don't hesitate to ask. We're always glad to be of service to the Musketeers," the inn keeper informed the three men and, backing into the hall, closed the door.
When they were finally alone, d'Artagnan and Porthos tore their gloves off and set about unpacking their medical supplies and seeing to Aramis, respectively. D'Artagnan laid Aramis' kit out on the table, knowing that Aramis' side would have to be cleaned again and stitched. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Porthos waiting for him.
"Help me get his coat off?"
They set about removing Aramis' outer layer of clothing and mentally noted every hiss and groan as well as the cause of each pained reaction. It quickly became clear that Aramis' left shoulder was a source of immense pain for their friend, and d'Artagnan had to assist in Porthos' efforts to free Aramis' left arm from the garment while causing the least amount of pain possible.
"What happened to your shoulder?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Fell of my horse," Aramis whispered.
"Remind me to buy you a new shirt when we get to Paris," Porthos stated before slicing Aramis' shirt open with his knife. He was growing more and more frustrated with the amount of time everything seemed to be taking. Aramis was shaking like a leaf in a storm and had lost a great deal of blood since being wounded earlier that day. As Porthos watched the rapid rise and fall of Aramis' chest, he feared his friend's body was giving into shock.
After the initial slice in the fabric, Porthos simply tore the shirt away from Aramis' body as delicately as he could.
"d'Artagnan, make sure the needle is clean," he ordered and set about removing the bloodied bandages they'd previously dressed Aramis' side with.
"You with me, 'Mis?" Porthos asked even as he poured alcohol on the gash and worked to clean away the dried blood. Aramis responded with a strained grunt and blinked rapidly to clear his vision. "Your left arm's bleedin'."
"Blocked a sword with it," mumbled Aramis.
"With your arm? Why didn't you use your sword?"
"No time."
"You can't keep doin' this to me, 'Mis. My hair's gonna start fallin' out at this rate."
If Aramis wasn't in a mind-numbing amount of pain, he would have had some witty retort for his best friend; as it was, he settled for an attempt at laughter. However, the movement renewed the agony in his chest, and he quickly abandoned the act.
"Sorry," Porthos murmured, and Aramis shook his head at the apology.
"We apologize…too much," he managed to say. Porthos smiled sadly at his words.
"Maybe."
D'Artagnan stood beside Porthos with the needle cleaned and threaded in one hand and a mass of cloth in the other.
"Aramis, I need you to lay on your side," Porthos told the wounded man not because he expected Aramis to roll over but because he wanted to prepare his friend for the inevitable discomfort he faced. Aramis gave the slightest of nods and did what he could to help Porthos move him, although it wasn't much. By the time he was positioned on his right side so Porthos could properly stitch the wound, Aramis was barely hanging onto consciousness. He was glad when Porthos wasted no more time before pushing the needle into his flesh. The idea of receiving stitches was nearly as bad as the actual stitching in Aramis' opinion.
He needed a distraction.
"d'Artagnan."
"Aramis?"
"Earlier you…you asked about my family."
"You don't have to-"
"Oh, shush," Aramis huffed. He smiled when he heard d'Artagnan's mouth close. "My mother, she…she died…in a fire." He felt d'Artagnan tense behind him and wondered if he'd misjudged his choice of distraction. He dismissed the thought after considering that the only other topic he'd thought to talk about was the story about England, a tale he lacked the energy to tell at that moment.
"How old were you?" d'Artagnan's voice was small, childlike. Aramis recalled that the young man beside him had also lost his mother.
"Seven."
"Aramis, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I shouldn't have asked."
"It's fine," Aramis sighed and reached his right arm over his head to find d'Artagnan's arm. "Dad died when I was seventeen," he said as an afterthought. Silence fell over the room, Aramis moving ever closer to unconsciousness.
"We're all orphans," he realized as he drifted off.
- : - : - : - : - : - : -
Nearly an hour after the sun had bid France goodnight, Athos and Constance entered the inn. They were greeted almost instantly by d'Artagnan who had apparently volunteered to wait for them in the main room.
"Constance! Athos!" The Gascon yelled to be heard over the dinner crowd. d'Artagnan pulled his wife into a tight and lingering embrace, and Athos tried not to rush the reunion of his friends.
"How is he?" Athos asked when they finally pulled apart. d'Artagnan's expression immediately sobered.
"He was practically in shock by the time we were able to stitch his side; he lost a lot of blood on the way." Athos wasn't surprised by that news. He'd seen the damage before riding to Paris; he would have been more surprised if Aramis hadn't lost a substantial amount of blood. "He's got a cut on his left arm that Porthos had to stitch as well. His left shoulder is bruised and swollen; apparently it took most of the impact when he fell from Gelos during the fight. He's developing an incredible black eye, can't even open it. Other than that, there's a lot of bruising. He's going to be sore for some time."
"Can we see him?" Constance inquired while Athos worked to take in every bit of the information he'd just been given.
"Of course," d'Artagnan said and led them to the room. The Gascon stopped at the door, allowing Athos to enter first, something Athos was extremely grateful for. His worry had been growing ever since he'd left his brothers that morning, and Tréville's words kept echoing in his mind. Bring your brothers home.
He slowly pushed the door open in an attempt to not disturb the room's inhabitants with his entrance. He was met with the sight of Porthos lying protectively beside Aramis, both deeply asleep. Some of the tension left his body as he made a beeline for the chair next to the bed, and he sank into it, glad to be with his brothers once again.