Porthos
"So, you have a brilliant plan to bring the Captain down with you," commented Morineau. The man must have been talking for some time already, but Porthos had not been paying attention to him.
"What do you mean?" growled the dark skinned musketeer.
"It's very simple, really. You kill the noble who is the King's favorite at the moment, and the Captain pays with his head for it. After all, he was not able to control his men."
Porthos tried to be reasonable. "He can just say we were deserters. You can tell him to do so."
"So, you did not feel guilty when you abandoned your brothers in unsafe territory?" Morineau asked sadly.
"No!" cried d'Artagnan. "We don't want to abandon them!"
"Then you should go with me and turn in your pauldrons to the Captain. If Treville decides you are needed, you will stay-and leave only after he accepts your resignation," Morineau said, his voice firm.
"I don't believe it will be that simple," muttered d'Artagnan.
They followed Morineau in silence. Porthos sensed that his comrade was right. Their commanding officer would be blamed for their actions. Abandoning his brothers in arms was the last thing that the dark skinned musketeer wanted to do.
Aramis would not accept any decision Porthos made which led to abandoning their brothers in need-even if his closest friends were dead.
Porthos made up his mind. "We will go with you to the Captain." He could see the disappointment on d'Artagnan's face, but he did not care. Revenge could wait. Allancourt would die, but he would not take any of their brother musketeers with him. Just the two of them.
Not musketeers-just two deserters.
It was really hard to think of himself like that. He had dreamed for so long of his commission before winning it. He could never deny his brothers anything, so he had always known that he might one day lose his place among the musketeers because of them. However, he had never thought that he would turn in his pauldron to seek revenge for Aramis' death. They should have died side by side on a battlefield, not… Aramis dying alone, crushed by a rock.
Porthos desperately fought against the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. He rode ahead in order to keep his companions from seeing his emotion.
"I guess you must have a lot of sand in your eyes-they are watering quite a bit." Aramis' voice was soft, and full of compassion. Porthos wanted to growl at him, but the concern in those dark eyes was his undoing. Porthos lost his struggle against the tears. Tears of anger, tears of grief.
Exactly like now. He would give everything to look into his friend's brown eyes. To hear his teasing-his affection made apparent by the compassion in his voice.
They rode on in silence. Porthos was sure that they were an easy target for an attack, but it just did not matter to him. He knew that he should have take better care of his injuries. Just sticking some cloth under his doublet and shirt would never have met Aramis' standards. At this point, however, there was no reason to fight the numbness which had slowly entered his tormented soul. Feeling nothing was better than living with the unbearable pain of his loss.
I should grieve for you too, Athos. But there is no more despair left in me. Forgive me, old friend.
The ruins.
Aramis' grave.
They passed by the area, and headed towards the small ruined house which had provided the musketeers with some shelter. It was not much, but it was enough to shield them from the wind and rain. It also allowed them to build a fire without easily giving away their location. Porthos only now realized that it was still raining. The cold wind was blowing, and the water on their leathers had started to freeze.
Aramis hated the cold. It always brought back memories of Savoy.
Porthos dismounted. He led his horse to shelter under the partially damaged roof of the building which they adopted as a makeshift decided not to unsaddle his horse
When he turned, he found himself facing the Captain. Porthos winced. He was not able to hold his commanding officer's gaze.
"Captain…" He began to speak, but his voice trailed off. He had to report Athos' death, but could not find the words. His mouth was completely dry.
"Follow me," Treville said simply.
Porthos obeyed. He knew d'Artagnan was following him. He knew that it would be up to him to talk to the Captain. The young Gascon was too close to tears to do it, and Morineau had no plans to become a deserter.
They entered the little stone house. It was quite warm inside. A few men were lying on the simple cots. Treville approached one of them, and pulled the blanket away from his face.
Aramis!
They had retrieved his body…
How?! How did they manage to do it?
There was a bandage on Aramis' head. That was strange, but it probably meant that his head had been smashed.
Porthos took Aramis into his trembling arms, and stared at his pale face. At least he had been given a chance to say goodbye to his friend. He should be grateful.
God, it is so hard! I don't want to say goodbye to him...I want him to live!
"Careful, Porthos." He heard a warning note in the Captain's voice.
He froze. Had Aramis' body had been so badly damaged that he had to take care in order not to tear it part?!
At this thought, the nausea hit him hard.
He felt a hand squeezing his arm.
"He is alive, Porthos. He is alive!"
The voices seemed to get through to Aramis, and he moaned.
"Aramis?!" Porthos felt as if he was going mad.
The Spaniard whimpered softly, as if he was in discomfort.
"Open your eyes, Aramis…" Porthos gently touched his face, even as emotions ravaged his very soul.
Fear.
Relief.
Anger.
Fear.
"How badly is he injured?" Porthos asked. His eyes never left Aramis' face, focusing on the fluttering eyelids.
"It's hard to say… according to Calbert, it may be very serious."
"No…"
I cannot lose you. I cannot even stand the thought of it. Not again. This time my heart will just stop along with yours.
Aramis slowly lifted his eyelids. His brown eyes were glazed and unfocused. Porthos bit his lip when he saw no spark of recognition in his friend's gaze. A few seconds later, as the marksman closed his eyes again. He tried to push himself up in the bed, but hissed in pain and started to cough.
"Aramis!" Porthos lifted his friend gently, hoping to ease his breathing.
"I've got you brother… breathe." He murmured the words over and over as Aramis coughed, gasping for air. Porthos shifted him in order to better support his weight. He feared that he would soon see blood on his friend's lips.
Suddenly, was a commotion around him. He ignored it. Someone knelt near them.
"Aramis?" He heard a soft voice, full of concern. He glanced to the side, and his eyes widened in shock.
"Constance?!"
"Drink it. Please. It will help you." The young woman spoke to the injured musketeer, but her eyes met Porthos'. She gave him a tentative smile.
"It's good to know they lied about you," she murmured.
Constance! Does that mean…
"Athos?" he asked, shocked that he had forgotten to ask about his comrade. He had not even noticed that Constance was in the room. He was too emotionally drained….
Maybe I should take a few moments to tend to my wounds.
"Porthos?! Athos is alive. He was poisoned," explained Constance, gently touching a cup to the marksman's lips. When she glanced at Porthos, there was concern in her eyes.
The dark skinned musketeer felt strangely detached.
Aramis drank half of the cup, then hid his face against Porthos' arm. A shiver ran through his body. He tried to change his position once again, and hissed in pain.
"Cold…" he whimpered softly, curling up into a ball.
Porthos' heart broke. He went to take the wounded musketeer into his arms, but Constance stopped him.
"Take off your jacket!" she ordered. "Your leather is wet and cold. He needs the warmth of your body."
Porthos growled, hating himself for his thoughtlessness. He should have realized that without being told! Aramis was always sensitive to the cold.
He hastily took off his vest. He hoped that Constance, who was supporting Aramis, would not see his injuries. He was in luck, for the woman had her hands full with the shivering marksman.
The dark skinned musketeer took her burden from her, and was immediately rewarded by Aramis nestling against him. He could feel how cold his brother's body was. That could not be a good sign.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked, nervously stroking the marksman's unruly hair.
"Blood loss. That for sure. A head wound-but he was conscious for quite some time after receiving the blow… he is covered in bruises and-" Constance hesitated, and Porthos felt his heart stop.
"And?" he whispered.
"He might be bleeding internally." She said the words quickly, as if afraid that a slower pace would give them more emphasis.
"No!" Porthos sobbed. "You're not allowed, Mis! You're not allowed to bleed. You're not allowed to die. You're not allowed to leave me! Do you hear me, Mis?!"
"Mhm…" Aramis mumbled incoherently. It seemed as if he was focused only on huddling against Porthos, desperately trying to get warm. The cold apparently was tormenting the injured musketeer more than the pain of his wounds.
"Mis…". Porthos whispered, his heart breaking. He was not even sure that Aramis was aware of his presence. He had to have faith that his brother would survive, but there was no hope left in his heart. His inner fire had been extinguished by grief.
The only feeling left was the fear of pain. The pain of loss.
I should feel relief. I should feel hope… but I all I am conscious of is my fear. I don't want to hope in vain. I cannot bear to feel hope. I cannot bear waiting for him to die… no! No! He has to live… but there is no hope left in me that he will…
The guilt started to consume him. Aramis' skin was so cold. Porthos felt the chill begin to penetrate into his body. Fear for his brother was suffocating him. He had fallen apart. He was aware of that. The events of the last… months had finally been too much for him. He should have fought harder, but his legendary strength had waned, washed away by grief.
He sensed Aramis move just a bit. His breathing was uneven-and wrong.
"Aramis?" Porthos asked, his voice full of trepidation. His brother gasped for air, then curled up his side and started to throw up. Blood dripped from his mouth, and formed a small puddle on the ground. The marksman was struggling to breathe. Porthos lifted him up a bit, hoping that it would ease his struggle. In vain.
Aramis ducked his head, and their eyes met. The medic's gaze was full of pain-and panic.
"He knows exactly what is wrong with him," thought Porthos.
"Hush brother… it will be over soon," he whispered, his heart shattering into a million pieces.
Aramis moaned in pain.
"Hush… you're dying, Mis… I… I know it hurts…"
Aramis' trembling hands clutched his shirt. He begged Porthos for help, his eyes glazed with pain and fear.
"Mis… you're dying. I can't help you… forgive me!" Porthos sobbed, feeling as if shards of his broken soul were leaving his body with each labored breath that Aramis took.
