Aramis
"Mis… you're dying. I can't help you… forgive me." A despairing voice reached into the haze of his sleep. He decided to ignore it. He knew that the cold was waiting to attack him if he came close enough to the surface. He wanted to stay wrapped in the blissful warm presence of another human being.
And then the words hit home. He was dying.
Strange… I would say that I actually feel a little better.
A muffled sob.
Porthos! I cannot just lie here and die..not without comforting him!
Aramis dug his way out, at last coming to full awareness. As he suspected, the merciless cold was waiting for him.
He moaned at its savage bite, and tried to hide in the warmth of his friend.
I must comfort him! I cannot go to sleep. It is my last chance to say goodbye to my brothers…
"Porthos?" he mumbled.
"Mis…." The big man was sobbing.
Aramis finally won the struggle to open his eyes. He was disappointed to find that his brother was nowhere in his line of sight. He extended his hand to touch Porthos' face, which he guessed was behind him. His body protested at the movement. It was possible, but quite painful.
"Porthos…" he repeated softly.
It was night. A small candle gave off a bit of flickering light.
"How do you feel, Mis?" Porthos asked slowly. His voice sounded so wrong!
Is it really important? Should I lie to you, my friend?
"Thirsty." He chose most honest-and simplest-answer. If not for Porthos' words, he would have risked saying that he felt not too bad...although he was still cold, and each movement caused him some pain.
Maybe my body is just shutting down.
He was really tired, and very confused by the situation.
I should be grateful that I am not in much pain... and that I have a chance to speak with my brothers one last time.
Porthos started to lower him to the cot.
"What are you doing?" Treville asked.
"I'm going to get water for Aramis."
The marksman was astonished at the way that Porthos said his name. There was so much sadness... and at the same time, it sounded like the word was something incredibly precious to his brother.
Treville knelt near him, a cup in his hand.
"Constance was adamant you had to drink this once you woke up."
It smelled like a herbal draught. He took a sip. It was the same tea that she had given him earlier. It tasted amazing-perhaps because of all the honey that had been mixed in.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and vaguely remembered that Louise had given them a jar of honey.
"Drink, Aramis!" Treville ordered. The musketeer obeyed. When he finished, Treville offered him another cup of hot liquid. The heat started to spread throughout his body. It felt incredibly good.
"How's Athos?" he asked, forcing himself to focus on the reality he was about to lose forever.
Treville hesitated for a moment.
"The truth-please." Aramis' voice was pleading.
"Fine," answered Treville, his eyes narrowing. "But I expect the same from you in response to my questions."
The marksman gave him a slight nod. The headache was still lurking at the back of his head, waiting to attack if he made too sudden a movement.
"Athos' temperature is still high. We tried to give him some water but… the only way he can keep it down is if we give him a few spoonfuls an hour."
"I have some dried ginger in my things. Mix it with menthe and thyme. It may help with the nausea. He needs more fluid." Aramis did not even attempt to hide his concern.
"I'll bring over your satchel, and you can tell me what to do." The Captain squeezed Aramis' hand lightly.
The medic followed him with his eyes. He took inventory of his body, trying to assess his
condition. The more he focused on his injuries, the more confused he felt.
He glanced up at Porthos, who was holding him. He saw that his brother's eyes were red. Porthos would never have said he was dying if he did not believe it.
However, the Captain seemed to be acting more normally. Aramis had seen his commander interact with dying musketeers more than once. Usually he showed much more concern, and was quick to offer support. So why was he acting this way? Maybe he was relieved to finally get rid of the last soldier from Savoy.
Porthos was silent. Aramis knew he should talk to him in private. However, when the Captain brought the herbs over, the medic's attention was diverted. He gave Treville detailed instructions on how to prepare the draught. So much talking was profoundly fatiguing. He longed for sleep, but how could he even think about sleeping when he probably would not wake up?
"Porthos?" he whispered.
"Mis…" The dark skinned musketeer lightly squeezed his arm. Aramis stiffened as the fingers dug into his bruised flesh.
"Sorry… I-" His brother started to apologize, but Aramis interrupted him.
"It's fine, Porthos. You are the best friend a man could ever ask for…"
"No…"
Brother… there are things which need to be said...
"I want you to take care of Athos and d'Artagnan…"
"No!" Porthos stubbornly refused to listen. He was breathing hard, obviously enraged by Aramis' lame attempt to say goodbye.
"Porthos…" he whispered pleadingly. He started to tremble, and could not regain control over his body. His brother's wrath had broken down the last bit of the defensive shield that he had fought so hard to maintain.
Porthos untangled his brother from his arms. His muscles were shaking from barely controlled rage. He gently lowered the marksman back onto his cot, then stood up. He did not even glance at the medic, who followed his every movement with his eyes. When Porthos left, he curled up into a ball. He could not stop the tears that gathered in his eyes and flowed down his face. He had lost Porthos.
What did I do wrong? I just destroyed our brotherhood, and I don't even know what I did! Please, don't leave me now…. Please, just pretend to be my brother for a moment longer… and then you'll be free of me...for good.
"Aramis? What's wrong?" He heard Treville's voice, and hid his face. The shame of being seen when he was so weak hit him hard, but he could not regain his composure. He was so close to panic. He had always feared dying alone….and dying with the awareness that he had lost Porthos' friendship was more than he could bear..
"Aramis, answer me! Aramis, are you in pain, son?"
The last word spoken so softly, almost involuntarily, was Aramis' undoing. He grasped the Captain's hand, holding on as if he feared that his commander would abandon him also.
I should ask for a priest, but it would only cause problems… because they will feel obligated to find one. I cannot cause any more problems.
"Porthos…" he croaked desperately, flinching at the awful sound of his voice. He was so pathetic and miserable. He hated himself for it.
"Porthos… needed some fresh air," responded the Captain. "I will call him in a moment. We thought you were dead, Aramis. His grief was so intense. It is not easy for him to see you like this."
I am so selfish to demand his presence. He has already suffered too much…
"Tell him I'm sorry. Don't let him do anything stupid," he whispered.
Treville sighed. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
Bring Porthos to me…
"Nothing."
Don't be such a selfish bastard, Aramis!
"I'll wake Calbert."
"No…"
"Aramis, would you want to be sleeping if your patient's condition had worsened?"
He clung to Treville's shirt, and could not answer.
Don't leave me. I cannot bear to be left alone.
The Captain seemed to understand, and tossed a cup at Calbert. The musketeer woke up abruptly, but did not make a sound.
"Come here!" ordered Treville. He moved a bit in order to give Calbert access to Aramis, but was careful to maintain contact with the wounded man.
Aramis watched him, and prayed that he would not see fear in his commander's eyes.
"How do you feel?" asked Calbert softly.
"I...I don't know." Aramis was confused. He found it harder and harder to focus.
"May I touch you?" asked the musketeer.
Aramis glanced at him. "Sì."
Calbert's warm hand touched the medic's forehead. Aramis noted that his hand was not as warm as Porthos' had been.
"You're cold. I need to check on your injuries. I'll try to be quick, but gentle."
Aramis closed his eyes in order to show his assent. He really didn't want to be touched, but he was so cold. He desperately needed to be warm again.
But that will not happen in this life.
He stiffened as Calbert's probing fingers started to find more sore spots on his body. He tried to remain stoic during the examination, but when his comrade touched his abdomen, he hissed, and barely refrained from curling up into a ball. It hurt, but feeling like he was defenseless hurt more.
Calbert withdrew his hands, and covered the medic with some blankets. He squatted next to the bed.
"And?" Treville broke the silence. Aramis was grateful. The Captain's presence serve to ground him.
Maybe it is better that Porthos is outside. This would be too hard on him. I cannot hurt him more than I already have. God… please… I need his forgiveness.
He remembered all the times that the Captain had awkwardly offered his support when Porthos had been away-or wounded.
Calbert checked on the marksman's pulse, probably trying to buy some time before answering. Aramis finally lost his temper.
"Calbert, I'm know that I'm dying, so spare me your little act!" he snapped.
"What?!" Treville and Calbert stared at him in shock.
After a pause, Calbert asked, "Which symptoms make you think that?"
This time it was Aramis' turn to be shocked.
"Porthos told me I was dying! I suppose your diagnosis makes me think that- or do we have a physician with us?"
"No, we don't. To be honest, I initially was not at all sure that you were going to survive. I still cannot be sure that you are out of danger, as I cannot claim to have much knowledge of medicine…" He hesitated for a moment, then said, "You are the skilled medic here, so I should ask your opinion. Do you think you are bleeding internally?"
Aramis closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ease the pounding in his head. The tension in the room increased.
The marksman started to check himself. His hands seemed clumsy, and every place that he touched hurt. But the pain seemed to be just the pain of a bruised body, although he preferred not to concentrate too much on his ribs. They were not broken, but still hurt like hell.
His left hand finally found the sore spot-the same area that Calbert had touched earlier. When he pushed a bit harder, the pain was unbearable. The skin felt warmer in that area, and the abdomen a bit more rigid than it should be.
A bit more.
There is hidden damage.
But is it serious?
"How much time has passed since you found me?" he asked
"We found you in the afternoon. It's now after midnight," Calbert replied.
"And how did it look then?"
"The same."
So it has not gotten worse. That's a good sign.
He probably had much more experience with internal bleeding than Calbert did. After all, he had seen such injuries on more than one occasion. Each time, it proved to be fatal. However, experience had taught him that if internal bleeding was present, he should already be unconscious.
He felt the effects of blood loss, but those might be due to his head wound. It was also possible that he was confusing the symptoms of blood loss with the symptoms of a concussion, as he was pretty sure he had one. Especially with the irritating memory loss.
But still, there remained Porthos' words. Aramis knew that his brother knew next to nothing about medicine. The dark skinned musketeer was prone to panicking over wounded friends, as he really did not have the skill to assess how serious their injuries were. However, he had never told anyone that he was dying. Obviously, pleading with an injured man not to die was not the best bedside manner, but it was a different thing than taking away all hope.
Porthos must have had a very good reason for saying what he did.
Or maybe he did not say anything, and the words I heard were in my dream. After all, I have a concussion. Or was he trapped in a nightmare?
"Aramis? Are you still with us, son?" Treville sounded very concerned.
"Yes." Aramis opened his eyes, "Did I vomit blood?" he asked suddenly. He needed to know the truth, and he hoped that his question would take his companions off guard.
"As far as I know - no," answered Calbert cautiously.
"I will go get Porthos," Treville murmured.
"May I check your on your wound?" Calbert gestured towards Aramis' head.
The marksman gave a slight nod.
Calbert gently took off the bandage, and cursed under his breath.
"It has become infected. I must clean it again. It's odd that you don't have a fever."
"Maybe it's too soon…" murmured Aramis.
Or my body is too exhausted to fight…
"Calbert!" Treville's shout reached them.
"Go!" ordered Aramis, seeing his companion hesitate.
Calbert nodded, and rushed off.
Porthos…
He probably was wounded.
And hid his injuries.
Or he may have been attacked, even killed!
Aramis tried to sit up. The room tilted around him dangerously. But he did not wait, and stood up. The nausea and dizziness hit him hard.
"Aramis!" He heard Constance's scream. He tried to remain on his feet, but his body had other plans. He hit the ground hard. The pain had no time to register in his brain before darkness enveloped him in a thick blanket of promising warmth.
