A small gift for my awesome Beta - Riversidewren as she likes guilty Athos : )
Athos
He knew that his heart would break if Aramis' stopped. The problem was that his own death would not be immediate. The suffocating grief would finally end him, but first, he would experience the agony of loneliness. He deserved it. After all, he was the murderer, not his wife. He was the one to blame for Thomas' death-not Anne. He was the one who had condemned Anne and his – their - child.
He had not stopped Aramis from recklessly exposing himself to the poison. If the marksman had not been poisoned, he would have gone with Porthos-and then they would have returned together. Alive. But Athos had failed to protect Aramis. In doing so, he had sent another brother to his death.
And now d'Artagnan had not returned. Was he guilty of another death? Had he killed his youngest brother?!
Aramis' breath hitched, and Athos hid his face in the heated skin of the medic's palm. He hoped that the Spaniard did not feel pain. But that hope was nothing more than a false hope. Once again, he was trying to lie to himself. Even if Aramis was too far gone to feel physical pain, despair was still shattering his soul. Athos wanted to scream every time he felt Aramis' soundless pleas.
He finished the wine. It gave him no relief, and he continued his silent vigil. Try as he might, he could not remember any of the good moments they had shared. All he could recall were the times when he had failed-the days he had been cruel or rough to Aramis. Athos had been furious with his brother when he had discovered him in bed with the Queen. It had been hard for him to accept that the marksman had chosen to betray the King in such a manner.
Although they had never directly discussed Aramis' affair with the Queen, Athos had the uneasy feeling that Aramis' betrayal would bring down France-just as Lancelot's betrayal had destroyed Camelot.
He had been cruel to Aramis. He had never truly forgiven him for that night in the convent. And now it was too late.
How Aramis could find the will to fight?
To carry on?
For whom?
For a broken ex-comte who had mercilessly castigated the marksman for his mistakes? While failing to acknowledge his own failures?
Aramis' recklessness had given life to the Dauphin, but Athos' own failures had resulted in so many deaths. How could he expect to give Aramis a reason to live? He had disrespected and failed the Spaniard so many times...
And now he had made yet another mistake. He had thought it a wise to allow d'Artagnan to join the search for Porthos' body. But if he had stayed, perhaps the Gascon would have been able to convince Aramis to remain among the living.
"Aramis… I'm so sorry… I've failed you so many times…"
Why did such good men want to call him brother? He could not understand it.
But it would not last much longer. The Spaniard would follow his beloved brother, and then d'Artagnan would finally understand what a mistake he had made in choosing Athos as his mentor.
I've failed them for the last time. And now Aramis is paying the ultimate price for my mistakes. Porthos would never have let him test the antidote on himself… I should have known better! I know Aramis! I was well aware of his love for the Queen. I should have known…
I should have known Anne had spoken the truth about Thomas.
And Thomas had been right about her to some degree.
I should have known she was pregnant… But I wanted a child so badly...and she did not want to give me false hope before she was sure…
Someone entered the room, but he paid them no heed. He sensed a sudden movement nearby, then heard Porthos' voice. His head snapped up, and he found himself staring at his friend. Even in the dim light of the candle, Porthos looked awful. His face was covered in blood, but he seemed to be very much alive. Athos knew he should not be surprised. After all, the ghosts in his life were usually quite alive.
The dark skinned musketeer was sitting on the bed, holding Aramis close.
Athos held his breath. He wanted so badly for this dream to last just a little bit longer.
He watched as his friend cradled the marksman in his arms, just as he always did when Aramis was restless because of fever or nightmares.
"I'm here." Porthos' whisper pierced Athos' heart.
He watched, bewildered, as Aramis responded to his brother's presence. His hand clutched at Porthos' jacket frantically, and he seemed to disappear into Porthos' arms.
"Porthos!" whispered Athos. He was so afraid that his brother would disappear, and did not really even listen to the big man's reply. He snatched up Porthos' hand. Relief flooded through him when he felt a real hand beneath his palm.
"You're alive!" He could not bring himself to break contact with his friend.
"Yes, I am. What did Tannard tell you?" Porthos was still cradling Aramis in his arms.
"He said you fell…"
Porthos shook his head slightly, his eyes full of regret. He then focused on Aramis, trying to reach him.
It is too late…He has drowned in his despair, because there was no one capable of helping him. I am useless. I am nothing but a burden. I should leave them. I should have died after I condemned Anne to death…If this is not a dream, I will leave when this is all over. Porthos is all Aramis needs… and D'Artagnan will finally understand that…
"Athos!" The voice was weak, but it had the sharp edge of an order. "I need hot water- a lot of hot water- brandy, and my medical kit. Are you okay, Athos?"
The lieutenant found himself gazing into Aramis' worried eyes.
My dying friend is asking me about my welfare…
It was only then that he realized that Aramis seemed to be somewhat lucid. Athos felt a sense of dread when he stood up and went to the door. What if this is only a dream? What if he returned to find Aramis on his deathbed, and Porthos lost to them?
The lieutenant hailed the first page he saw. He recited the list of items Aramis needed, and asked the boy to fetch them. The page gave the musketeer a deep bow, then edged past him, and broke into a run. The boy was clearly frightened.
The swordsman stood for a while in front of the door. What would he find behind it? He put his hand on the handle, but only found the courage to open it when he heard Porthos curse.
The big man was sitting on the bed, and his jacket was half off.
Aramis approached him with a dagger, and Porthos growled, "Don't even think about trying to cut it!"
"Aramis, this is Porthos! You don't want to hurt him!" Athos was completely confused.
"He doesn't want to hurt me, but he wants to ruin my jacket!" snapped Porthos. "All because a stupid stick has pinned it to my body!"
"I have no way of knowing how deep it is embedded in your side," replied Aramis. His voice was weary, but he was trying to remain reasonable.
The swordsman realized that a branch was protruding from the dark skinned musketeer's side. The view was sickening. It was now clear why Aramis wanted to cut off the jacket. He was afraid of jostling the stick by pulling the jacket off.
"Athos, I need your help," the Spaniard said.
"What are you going to do?" asked Porthos, giving him a suspicious look.
"Do you trust me?"
"With my life-but not with my leather!"
Aramis sighed, but his hands never left his brother.
"Ok, I won't cut it. Athos, I need you to take hold of the leather." Turning to Porthos, the medic muttered, "I promise I won't harm your precious jacket, but I'd rather not pierce your liver-or some other organ which is not optional."
Athos glanced at the medic with trepidation, but followed his instructions to the letter. He did not feel he deserved to hold his brother's life in his hands. To be honest, he did not trust himself.
Aramis whispered something in Latin, his voice too low for the words to be completely intelligible. Athos froze for a moment, then looked at him quizzically. He saw a small smile on medic's lips, and sighed with relief.
"A flesh wound. It barely entered the muscle. We just have to keep it clean," explained Aramis.
"There is no wine here," muttered Athos. Another thing that was his fault.
"Just keep light pressure on it until the brandy comes," instructed the medic. Suddenly, his eyes widened.
"Why are you collecting sticks?!" Athos' gaze followed Aramis', and he saw another piece of wood embedded into Porthos' flesh.
"Well, I was in the forest…" muttered Porthos.
The medic sighed, and looked closer at the offending stick. Then he took hold of it, and gingerly started to pull on it. That action earned him a stream of colorful curses from Porthos.
"Next time, please find an alternative way to communion with nature," murmured the Spaniard.
"Should I knock him out?" Athos felt he had to ask the question, although it was the last thing he wanted to do.
"No…he hit his head. It is better for him to remains conscious. That way, we can monitor him for any change," answered the marksman.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of the page. The boy had brought all the required items.
"Quick, brandy! I need some now!" gasped Porthos. He was surprised when Athos immediately handed the bottle to him. The big man took several swigs, then muttered, "Alright, now you can stitch me up."
"Hold him steady, Athos," Aramis ordered, his voice faltering.
"Will you be able to sew him up?" asked the swordsman, his face creased with worry. He was amazed that Aramis was still able to function.
"I think so." The medic was clearly exhausted. "There is not much to stitch-only this cut." He gestured at Porthos' arm.
"What about the two wounds from the sticks?" asked Athos
"No, they are not bleeding that much, and I am afraid they are likely to become infected. I will put a poultice on them. Could you boil some water? Then take these flowers and… No, wait-when the water is ready, I will put the herbs in."
Athos had the impression that talking was incredibly tiring for his brother.
Or he realizes I am too stupid to trust with the poultice…
It was a mystery to Athos as to how the Spaniard managed to stitch the cut without his hands shaking. However, when he started to apply a salve to the multiple bruises covering Porthos' chest, his hands began to tremble a bit.
Athos gave the medic the hot water, and watched as the Spaniard went about the familiar procedure of preparing a poultice to fight off infection. He had witnessed it many times, but it still seemed like a sort of strange alchemy to him. While Aramis waited for the concoction to cool down, he meticulously cleaned both wounds. Athos could not help but feel a bit sorry to see such excellent brandy used for the mundane task of tending wounds.
Finally, the medic applied the strange smelling poultice to the wounds. Although Porthos did his best to remain still, it was obvious that he was in quite a bit of pain. The marksman whispered his apologies.
Aramis finally put the last bandage on Porthos, then sat close to him, gripping his hand. He cast a longing glance at the beds that had clean, dry sheets.
"You take those two beds," Athos said, and quickly pushed the beds together.
Neither of his brothers reacted. In fact, they looked barely conscious, and sat slumped against each other.
"Porthos, I'll help you first." Athos hauled the big man to his feet, and helped him hobble over to the bed. He knew he would never forget the look of betrayal in Aramis' eyes when he took Porthos away from him.
He helped Porthos lie down, then was back for Aramis.
"Come on," he murmured, and grasped the medic's hand. It was not much warmer then his own skin.
"Your fever has broken!" Athos cried out with relief. He angrily blinked back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. "Hang on, I'll get you a fresh shirt."
There was gratitude in the medic's eyes, but he still needed Athos' help in order to change.
The swordsman glanced at the jug of water mixed with honey that Deroux had left for Aramis. He poured a cup, and sat near the Spaniard.
"You should drink this."
Aramis was too tired to answer. He glanced at Athos and nodded, then accepted the cup and dutifully drained it.
"Do you think you can walk if I help you?" asked the lieutenant. Aramis shrugged, but allowed his friend to help him to his feet. He leaned on Athos, and made his way over to the bed. Once there, he collapsed on the bed next to Porthos. A few moments later, he was nestled by the big man's side. He laid one hand over his brother's heart, while the other clung to his friend's hand. He buried his face in his neck.
Athos covered them with blankets. He gave orders for the sheets to be changed, then sat down with a glass of brandy.
His friends were sleeping peacefully. He sat listening to their even breathing.
They were alive.
They were safe.
Perhaps the world was not such a bad place after all.