A/N: Thank you for your patience and my apologies for the delay in getting to this next chapter. I had minor surgery at the beginning of last week and the recovery from that has thrown off my writing schedule. I'm healing well and feeling nearly myself again, but now I understand why so many fic writers have their characters constantly falling asleep mid-sentence after getting musket balls removed or sword wounds sewn up! I am back in the swing of things and will be posting as usual going forward. Thank you for the reviews and comments - I was not able to respond to everyone on that last round but I can't tell you how much it means to me to know that you are enjoying the fic and look forward to more. Thank you of course to Issai for her insights as a beta-reader - she really makes the story so much better.

Aramis closed his eyes and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. His head was in fact throbbing and while he hadn't wanted to complain, he was deeply grateful that Master Farhad had noticed his discomfort. The willow bark tea would take the edge off enough so that he could tend to Porthos, and then he promised himself he'd rest.

He dropped his hand and opened his eyes only to meet Athos's stern gaze from across the bed. The steel blue eyes were hard with accusation and Aramis knew that Athos's patience was wearing thin. Aramis was sure that Athos was aware that there was more to his poor condition than just a blow to the head, but he wasn't ready yet to discuss it or to allow himself to succumb to the pull of his own injuries. His experience as a soldier told him there were times to rest and times to fight, and Aramis knew the fight wasn't over yet – not for Porthos anyway.

Aramis gave a slight dip to his head to acknowledge Athos's worry, but his eyes asked his friend's indulgence. Athos let out a frustrated exhale but gave him a nod in return. Yes, he'd wait, but not for long was the message.

Master Farhad returned to the stool by Aramis's side, giving him a kind smile as he sat. The man was a wonder and at another time Aramis knew he'd be fascinated by Farhad's box of medicines, but right now he just was grateful for his calm presence and confident knowledge. Aramis was a field medic, not a trained physician, and while he knew he could attend the cuts and bruises, managing all of what had happened to Porthos was beyond his skill. Perhaps it was his that his judgment was clouded with weariness, pain and worry but Aramis found himself trusting the healer and was ready to allow him to do his work.

"I have prepared a mixture of salted water and lavender that we will use to clean the wounds," Farhad explained, "While it cools, we will see what we can do to ease friend Porthos's pains. I must know first, what herbs already influence his mind and body before I can choose a course of treatment. May I?" Farhad asked, gesturing with open hands toward the body dozing on the bed. Aramis gave a nod and slid back the stool, allowing more room for Farhad to lean in.

D'Artagnan appeared at his side, pressing a warm cup into his hands. The bitter, tangy smell wafting on the steam from the warm drink told Aramis it was the promised willow bark tea. He gave D'Artagnan a grateful smile then brought the cup to his lips, sipping slowly as he watched Farhad again measure Porthos's pulse at the wrists and neck, listen to his chest through a small brass horn shaped like an elephant, and look again into his eyes, nose and throat. Farhad's movements were slow and practiced and Porthos seemed to accept them, although his eyes occasionally glanced to Aramis or Athos, as if to reassure himself of their presence. It tore at Aramis's heart to realize that Porthos was still not completely certain that they were really there.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor pulled Aramis's attention from the bedside. He had almost forgotten Captain Demont sitting quietly by the fireplace. Demont was on his feet now, returning to his place earlier at the foot of the bed

"Lieutenant Athos," he said, "Perhaps we could take this moment to prepare dispatches to Captain Treville? I'd like to send a courier to Paris before the noon bell rings," Aramis could hear the authority in the Captain's voice, but also an unusual softness for a man used to commanding a large garrison. He felt that if Athos were to protest, the Captain would let the dispatches wait. Aramis caught Athos's eye again, and saw the question that he did not voice. Aramis gave a small tilt of his chin and raised his eyes, yes he had this in hand. He could spare Athos and better now than later. Athos pushed himself up from the stool.

"Yes, Captain," Athos acquiesced politely, "I need to update our Captain on Porthos's condition and the situation with the Varades. I suspect the King will have issue with the abuse of one of his musketeers at the hands of a member of the court." Aramis couldn't help but suppress a wry smile. The King would have issue only in that it was a means to put the Varade's lands to forfeit to the crown. But action would be taken even if the motivation was not the justice that was deserved.

"I'd like a full report from you as well," Demont added, "and what you know of the Comte de Varade's business dealings. I will need to brief the governor this afternoon." Demont moved the door and paused, taking in the remaining men, "I'll have your Lieutenant returned to you within the hour," he assured them, "Corporal Durand is stationed outside should you have need of anything."

"Thank you, sir," D'Artagnan offered on their behalf as the Captain left the infirmary. Athos paused long enough to spare them all a glance – a quick acknowledgement that he would be back shortly and that they were alright without him – and left without another word to follow Demont. Aramis felt some small relief at Athos's departure. He didn't like lying to Athos and it was beginning to feel like he was doing that as he continued to avoid his friend's questioning looks. Aramis's attention was pulled back to Farhad as he had begun to question Porthos about his experiences.

"Do you know what it is that has so dulled your senses friend Porthos?" Farhad was asking, "Did your captors force you to eat or drink anything?"

"Was bitter," Porthos mumbled, half lidded eyes resting on Farhad, "The water was bitter." Farhad gave a knowing nod and exchanged a glance with Aramis.

"Laudanum," Aramis said quietly, "It would explain why he was subdued enough to allow the suturing on his back." Farhad nodded in agreement, then turned his gaze back to Porthos.

"How often did you drink of this bitter water?" he asked.

"Always," Porthos's answers were like sighs, "It was always bitter." Farhad nodded again and gave Porthos a reassuring pat as the big man's eyes drifted closed When he looked up at Aramis though, his eyes were hard, angry.

"That is six days with opium in his blood," Farhad said tightly, his voice hushed, "It is no wonder he remains confused. It is very dangerous. The dreams of the poppy weaken the mind as much as it dulls the senses of the body. We must be cautious now and lest we cause further damage before the cloud of opium lifts from his eyes."

"He will not tolerate sutures without something for the pain," Aramis answered, "Even before this, we could not manage it while he was conscious. But now . . ." Aramis trailed off, uncertain of what else could be done.

"There are other tinctures beside laudanum," Master Farhad said reassuringly, "We will use something else. Finish your tea, friend Aramis," Farhad said with a pat to his leg, "I would be glad of just one patient to worry about for the time being." Farhad retrieved his bag and returned to the small table, once again reviewing his potions and powders.

Aramis drained the last of the cup and pushed himself up from the stool, wincing as his doublet pulled against the wounds on his back. He exhaled and breathed through the pain, it was nothing he couldn't handle. He placed the cup on the mantle and D'Artagnan rose from his seat at the hearth to meet him

"Aramis, let me see to your back," he said quietly, his earnest brown eyes full of worry.

"It will be fine," Aramis gave the young recruit a genuine smile, "You worry too much." He gave D'Artagnan a pat on the arm and tried to move past him, but D'Artagnan blocked his way, putting his hand on Aramis's arm.

"Better now, while Athos is not here," D'Artagnan said softly, "You know he will not be pleased."

Aramis pursed his lips and looked down, feeling his anger rise at D'Artagnan's interference. He just bloody wanted to be left alone and it seemed no one was willing to listen. He raised his head to say something to the stubborn Gascon about minding his own business, but the words died on his lips. He saw only compassion in the gaze that met his and determination not to back down. He might be their newest member but he was not oblivious to the needs of his comrades or their moods. D'Artagnan did not deserve his anger when it was himself he was angry at for hiding his injuries from Athos.

"You're right, mon ami," Aramis said with a slight smile, "Let's have this done before Athos has my hide – and yours for not telling him about it." Aramis could see the relief in D'Artagnan's face, both for his own sake and the opportunity to avoid a tongue lashing from Athos about neglecting his duty.

D'Artagnan shifted behind Aramis and eased his long leather doublet carefully over his shoulders, trying to avoid rubbing against the open wounds on his back. Aramis could not help but wince as the garment pulled free, stinging where the leather had stuck to his wounds. The shreds of his torn shirt were similarly clinging to the drying blood and as D'Artagnan gently released them Aramis hissed with pain.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan breathed with dismay.

"I assure you," Aramis answered between clenched teeth, "it is not as bad as it looks," Aramis turned to face D'Artagnan as he stripped off the ruined shirt. The slices in his skin pulled as he flexed the muscles in his back, but Aramis felt bound to show D'Artagnan that he was not suffering unduly. "The ladies in Paris will enjoy the stories about this," he said with an almost feral smile and a wink of the eye. D'Artagnan shook his head in disbelief and took the remains of Aramis's shirt from his hands.

"Sit down," D'Artagnan said, nodding toward a chair by the fire, "I'll get the alcohol and a clean shirt." Aramis complied as D'Artagnan moved to their saddle bags, taking up the chair and straddling it backwards so that his arms wrapped around the back. The warm fire was comforting on his bare chest and as he waited for D'Artagnan to return, Aramis felt a deep weariness begin to settle into his body.

"May I?" Farhad's spoke softly behind him. Aramis hadn't even heard him approach. He gave a nod and bowed his head forward over the back of the chair. A warm hand brushed his unruly curls away from the wounds and rested reassuringly at the back of his neck. Aramis sucked in a breath as Farhad gently poked at the edges of some of the lashes, looking for signs of infection Aramis assumed and assessing which might need suturing. When Farhad's hand found the damaged ribs from where Varade had struck him with the farrier's hammer, Aramis couldn't completely stifle the sharp cry that the pain forced from his lips.

"My apologies, friend Aramis," Farhad said soothingly, but not releasing the slight pressure on his torso as he assessed the damage to his ribs, "This is something I did not expect to find." Aramis clutched the back of the chair, forcing himself not to pull away from the painful prodding. The hand on the back of his neck tightened in sympathy, but also reminded him to stay still. In another long moment it was over, and Aramis forced himself to take in some deep breaths despite the pain shooting through his side.

"That damage is not as severe as it could have been. Nothing is broken," Farhad assure him, "but it is perhaps that the bottom rib is cracked. I have a salve for this and will bind it. Your back, it is as you have said, it is not as bad as it might be. These welts are not deep, and you will not even need sutures. If we treat it properly, there may not even be scarring. Fortune has smiled on you in this."

Aramis gave a small laugh, "If you can call being strung up and whipped fortunate, then yes, I supposed so."

"No, that I would never suggest," Farhad said kindly, "Although we must realize that we are never given a burden to carry that we are not capable of bearing. In this my God and yours are the same." Farhad gave Aramis a small pat on the neck before releasing him and moving toward the table, "Let us clean your wounds and make you more comfortable and then we shall tend to friend Porthos."

"I'm fine," Aramis said, straightening in the chair, "Just need a fresh shirt. Porthos needs your help now."

"Come here by the bed," Farhad said turning to him with the basin of lavender and saltwater in his hands, "Sit with friend Porthos while I tend to him and perhaps we can press upon Master D'Artagnan to assist you?"

"Come, Aramis," D'Artagnan said, standing beside him, a spare shirt in his hands, "Do not be stubborn."

Aramis lifted a surprised brow and D'Artagnan met his eyes with challenge. The Gascon was cheeky to use his own words against him, but Aramis knew he was right. It was just pure stubbornness and pride that suggested Farhad was not as capable as he himself in tending to Porthos. Nor was it difficult to imagine how D'Artagnan would feel to think he was being coddled each time Aramis insisted they care for him but now would refuse care himself. As he was continually reminded, there was no room in their brotherhood for selfishness.

Aramis stood and moved the chair beside Porthos while D'Artagnan settled the basin on the top of the stool. He took up a clean cloth and began to gingerly dab at each of the open cuts along Aramis's back. The salt in the water stung, but it was not as cruel as the unrelenting burn of alcohol. Aramis made a note to remember this treatment when they were in a situation where they had other options beside the wine always on hand in Athos's saddle bags.

Across from him, Farhad was doing the same with Porthos. The big man stirred restlessly beneath his hands but did not seem fully aware of who was beside him. Aramis reached out and took Porthos's hand up between his, offering some comfort and soothing words while Farhad worked. Farhad gave him smile and an encouraging nod, approving of his attempts to comfort his comrade. This experience was so different than any Aramis had encountered with other physicians. There was something about them both being treated together that gave Aramis a strength of heart that made his own wounds easier to bear. He hoped that it was the same for Porthos, that he could feel that strength through the grip of his hand and the comforting words in his ear.

The injuries to Aramis's back were few and not deep. Many had not even broken skin as his torn shirt had provided some thin protection. D'Artagnan was finished quickly and stood to toss the bloody water into the bucket by the chamber pot.

"Master D'Artagnan," Farhad said, not looking up from his work, "Upon the table you will find a pot of ointment. Please apply some gently to Master Aramis's injuries, even the open cuts. Do not worry," Farhad added as he noticed Aramis's questioning glance, "it will be soothing, not painful. It has calendula oil which will aid in healing and keep the skin soft so as to prevent scaring. We will put some on your ribs too, then just your loose linen shirt to protect from dirt and debris as the wounds seal naturally on their own. By the time Master D'Artagnan is finished, I will have need of your assistance. Unlike you, there are lashes here that must be sutured and it is your hands that will aid his healing far better than mine. You must be ready."

The ointment had indeed soothed the fire in his back and Aramis was more comfortable, his headache dulled enough to allow him to concentrate. He stood by the bedside rolling his sleeves up and watching Master Farhad prepare. He had carefully laid out his surgical kit on the table beside Aramis, but sat on the stool opposite, tamping herbs into an unusual looking pipe. The shank and the bowl were some kind of fired glass, but there was also an ornate silver cone that could slip over the bowl.

"This I believe will be something you have not yet seen," Master Farhad said with a grin, holding up the pipe and cone, "It is one of the finest practices of court physicians in Persia. The smoke from these herbs is miraculous, providing relief from pain of the body and the mind."

Aramis had indeed seen nothing like it. "What are they?" he asked.

"Each healer has his own blend, secrets taught him by his respected tutor," Farhad explained as he finished packing the bowl of the pipe. "In this pipe you will find what you know to call mugwort to help dull pain and soothe the mind. But there is also some damiara to ease anxiousness and elecampane which soothes the lungs so the smoke does not cause irritation to the patient."

"You expect Porthos to smoke that?" D'Artagnan sounded incredulous. He was seated on the stool by Aramis's side, watching their preparations through half-lidded eyes, an arm casually wrapped around his torso. Aramis knew D'Artagnan was still another two weeks away from being past the pain in his ribs from the beating he took in the court. His youth and determination had kept him on his feet thus far, but like Aramis, the long night and the ensuing battle were finally catching up to him. The young Gascon had not faltered in caring for them since they had entered the garrison, but now with no task immediately to hand, Aramis could see weariness etched in the lines of his face. They would all need rest soon.

"No, no friend D'Artagnan," Farhad said with a musical laugh, "I shall produce the smoke and we will use this cone to direct it to his mouth and nose. This will put him at ease as Master Aramis provides the sutures."

D'Artagnan looked dubious and gave a glance to Aramis, asking without words what he thought of this idea. Aramis spared him a reassuring smile, "I have seen soldiers in a battlefield infirmary given mugwort in pipes to ease their suffering," Aramis said, "I imagine this will work too."

"It shall, Master Aramis, of this I can assure you." Farhad put away his pouches of herbs and took up a striker from the small bag at the bedside. "I am ready. Master Aramis, you will find a silver suturing needle in my kit and the finest and strongest silk for your work. When you are prepared, we shall begin."

Aramis picked up the spool from the kit unwound a length of the thin white thread, trimming it with a cut from a small golden knife shaped as the head of a heron. The silk was finer even than the linen threads ladies embroidered with, but when he tugged at it he found it didn't break. Aramis looked again in the kit and found the silver needle. He marveled at what silversmith could make a needle so thin and fine. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, marveling at the delicacy of it. The tiny diameter and sharp point would lessen the pain of the stitching. Aramis reminded himself to ask Master Farhad where he could acquire such needles. Surely somewhere in France, as Celeste de Varade had had one nearly of that quality.

Aramis's stomach clenched as he thought of her, remembered that not that many hours ago he had been forced to take her fine silver needle to his own flesh for no other purpose than her sick pleasure. A needle was meant for repair, not destruction. Memories of the markings on Porthos's back came to his mind, then Marie-Claire, her entire body a tale of cruelty. Aramis felt the bile rise in his stomach and he fought the urge to be sick.

His hands had a slight tremor as he raised them to thread the delicate silk trough the eye of the tiny needle. He couldn't manage it at first as his fingers refused to be still. But then he took a deep steadying breath, as he would if he was sighting a target down the barrel of his musket. He filled his lungs then let out a long slow exhale. As the air released a familiar and practiced calm soothed the jumbled thoughts in his mind. As the last of the air escaped his mouth, his hands were steady and he quickly pierced the eye with the thread, pulling it though. He took another calming breath as he set the knot at the end then gave Farhad a nod that he was read to begin.

"Wake him," Farhad said quietly, "Tell him to breathe. Tell him he will be cared for," Farhad gave Aramis a gentle smile, his eyes squinting again in that same curious way as if reading something on his face, "And you, Master Aramis, you will be as well."

Aramis felt a stab of sadness, knowing that his hurts were not the kind to be cured by potions and vials, but he simply nodded and put a hand to Porthos shoulder.

"Wake up, mon ami," he said, giving the big man a gentle shake, "It's time we tended these hurts." Porthos's eyes rolled beneath his lids but it only took a moment before he opened his eyes. Aramis watched Porthos's eyes settle on him and he gave him a reassuring smile. "Master Farhad has prepared something to ease the pain, just breathe in. Relax. I'll take care of you." Worry seemed to cross Porthos's brow, but he nodded and Aramis could see the trust in his eyes.

Master Farhad struck a spark to the pipe and started the bowl burning. A few soft puffs let out a sweet scented white smoke curling up into the air. Farhad slipped the cone over the pipe and leaned close to Porthos, the smoke gathered in the cone and spilled out the wide end. Porthos breathed deeply, the smoke curling into his mouth and nose. It did not seem to disturb him, and he did not cough or sputter. Just inhaled and exhaled slowly as Aramis encouraged him to breathe.

Master Farhad set the pipe aside, but a small haze of smoke hung delicately in the room, the sweet smell a pleasant shift from the smell of blood and human sickness so typical of an infirmary.

"You may begin," Master Farhad said solemnly, as if instructing Aramis to begin a ritual, "But you must tell him what you are doing. Your words, your hands will soften the wounds of mind and body and give hope and healing in the spaces where there was only despair and pain. The medicine in the smoke will open his mind, but it is you who will truly heal him." Farhad gave Aramis a nod, his face serious as he took up a damp cloth. The sutures would raise blood, and Aramis knew that Farhad would work to keep the area clean to ease Aramis's work with the needle. Beside him, D'Artagnan stirred slightly and leaned forward, and Aramis saw him take up Porthos's hand, needing to lend himself to this in some way as well. Aramis thought that Athos should be here too, but it was too late to worry about that now. He picked up the needle and laid a hand to the worst of the slashes.

"Porthos, I'm going to start here. I will be quick as I can, I know how much you do not like this," Aramis said, giving his friend a smile. Porthos narrowed his eyes and gave what might have been a growl and Aramis's smile deepened. That at least was a hint of the Porthos they knew.

Aramis gave a gentle pinch over each side of the deep cut in Porthos's chest and his stomach again threatened to rebel as he thought about plunging the needle into his friend's flesh. Sweat plucked at his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He could do this, he had to do this. If he thought of suturing as torture, he could not care for his wounded brothers. He needed the certainty that each painful stitch was an expression of healing, of love or he would never be able to lift the needle again.

A warm hand slipped over his where he held together the open wound, fingers echoing his own. Aramis glanced up to Master Farhad, the thin haze from the mugwort smoke haloing around his head. His face was still, a calmness that Aramis knew as the serenity of the faithful, of those monks and priests who found true spiritual sustenance through devotion and prayer. Farhad held out his other hand and Aramis extended his own, the needle laying loosely on his fingertips. Farhad cupped Aramis's hand and gently pressed his fingers together, encouraging him without words to take up the needle again. Aramis felt his hands trembling, but rolled the needle up between his fingers, and again, Master Farhad let his own hand lay over Aramis's duplicating the position. Together they guided the needle to rest the point delicately at the place for the first suture.

"We are healers," Master Farhad said, "And we shall do no harm." His kind eyes were full of love and mercy, his warm hand steadying the shake in Aramis's own. Aramis looked to Porthos, his eyes slightly gazed but looking up to him with such trust.

"I shall do you no harm, mon ami," Aramis echoed, then looked back to the needle and let the fine silver tip slide easily into Porthos's flesh. He felt his friend stiffen beneath his hands but also felt the calm sure grip of Master Farhad steady them both. He worked the needle through, pulling the thread cleanly and moving to reposition it for the next stitch. Farhad's hand was there again, an echo, a support of his own.

"Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy," Farhad's musical voice gave the words a sound of a chant. This was a prayer, Aramis realized, although not one he knew. He let the words wash over him as he and Farhad worked together. "Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion. Thy mercy to me is my healing and my succor in both this world and the world to come. Thou, verily, art the All-Bountiful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise."

Aramis slipped the needle through again, placing a small, neat stitch carefully beside the first one. It was important that the stitches be tight and even, that he pierce flesh strong enough to hold and not tear through the tug of the strong silk. His work here would be what remained on Porthos's body, not the cruel lashes of Benoit Varade. Each stitch, each tug of the thread and slice of the needle erased the wounds left at the hands of others. Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Aramis felt his heart lift on those words as Farhad continued to softly repeat the prayer. God had given him the steady hands of a marksman and he could take the life of those who threatened the innocent, but those same hands could heal as they had many times before, as they were now, and as they would again in the future.

His work took on a rhythm, a chant of its own, the in and out of the needle, the small tug on the threads, the knots to hold the silk in place. He spoke to Porthos, sometimes repeating with Farhad the words of the prayer, sometimes narrating his care, telling him he was placing a knot, or there were only five more sutures to go. Porthos stayed calm, sometimes muttering unknowable words but never seeming to be in distress. At some point Master Farhad had let go of Aramis's hands and he worked on his own now, surety returning to his heart and peace in his soul.

He was drifting again. Not a boat though, more like floating on a river. Different scenes passing by.

The furious fight in the stable, the fire burning through him as he strangled the life out of that bastard. Then Aramis. Aramis. Holding him up, his brown eyes real this time, the promise of rescue, safety.

Another shift, laying on his back in the sun, his brothers around him. He knew he could die then.

Softness surrounding him, his brother's hands tending his body. He was dead? They prepared him. He could let go.

Then he woke up, truly stepped from the fog in his mind and Aramis was there to tell him to breathe. Breathe. And he did, as he had before, as he realized he would again. Athos clasping his hand, refusing to let him die even though . . . even though everything. Athos would not allow it. Athos who protected them all. Athos who could not be refused. He was found. He would always be found. D'Artagnan promised it. Stubborn Gascon. Unfailing.

They wanted to know his story but speaking was too much. The days had been too much. He listened instead not truly focused on their words but comforted by the sound of their voices. He drank wine. There was someone else too. He couldn't remember but he was with his brothers and none of it mattered.

He felt the sting in his chest and opened his eyes in a panic, but there again was Aramis. The man with the musical voice and the soft brown hands continued to bathe his wounds – he would have pushed him aside but Aramis was there – steady, unwavering.

A sweet scent was on the air when he lifted again from the fog of his mind.

I shall do no harm.

He felt the first slip of the needle into his flesh and expected to see her. But it was Aramis, Aramis who promised he would do no harm. Instead of her incessant humming, the words of a prayer washed over him

Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy.

Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion.

Not her hands. Not her face. Aramis's mark was on his skin – as at had been before, as it would be again. She receded. A reflection, a ghost. Aramis, D'Artagnan, Athos – they were all he saw now eyes open or closed.

I shall do no harm.

He floated on a river. His brothers at his side.

Master Farhad sometimes used the pipe and cone again and the gentle smoke remained in the air. Aramis knew that its healing properties must be affecting them all, but there was no dullness to his mind, rather a clarity of purpose that seemed to enrich his every gesture. Farhad continued to manage the trails of blood that rose from the needle, and he traced the calendula ointment over each line of suturing. D'Artagnan laid strips of linen soaked in lavender water over Farhad's work, sometimes also wiping sweat from Aramis's brow. At some point Athos had returned, as Aramis noticed him at his side helping Porthos to drink something or taking his own hands now and then to wipe them clean of blood and hand him a cup of ale or water.

Time moved like water slipping along a beach, a slow unrelenting tide that seemed static until the waters rose to the pier. Aramis was lost in its ebb and flow, words of prayer washing over him in waves, words of healing to his brother slipping to the shore like gifts from the sea.

And then they were finished and Aramis let the needle be lifted from his fingers, let Athos wash his hands and wipe his face with a cool, damp cloth. Was it D'Artagnan that helped him to stand? Athos who stripped him of his boots? He didn't know, it didn't matter. Exhaustion settled over him like a blanket. He had enough energy left to drink something sweet from a cup pressed to his lips, and then sleep took him into its arms, promising its own healing oblivion.