Aramis drifted in and out of consciousness in the field.
Each time he reawakened, the pain seemed to have ratcheted up more. There was nothing he could do that he hadn't already done.
Thoughts floated through his mind. His brother's faces. Anne. Their son. He loved them all so much.
But he would never see them again. Never laugh and joke with his brothers. Or ride out on missions. Never see their smiles. Porthos' bear hugs. That raised eyebrow of Athos. D'Artagnan's energy and enthusiasm.
Anne. His beautiful Anne. He would never look upon the face of the woman he loved again. She was going to be heartbroken, as he was now.
His son. He would never have the chance of seeing him grow up to be a man he would be proud of. His son would never know his father's love for him.
He felt moisture on his cheeks. Tears had begun to fall, as he was realizing to himself that he was dying. Dying alone in a field on an otherwise beautiful spring countryside. Alone.
He had always enjoyed some moments of peace and quiet. Solitude. But not the enforced kind that surrounded him now.
He wished so badly to at least have his loved ones there when he passed. But there was no one as far as his eyes could see. Just grass, trees, sheep, blue sky.
His sight was getting blurrier now.
He prayed the prayer for the dying, telling God how much he loved Him, and commending his soul to Him.
As he once again felt himself losing consciousness, he wondered if it was for the last time.
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When Aramis' brothers came over the rise and saw the sight below them, they all three nearly had heart seizures.
Aramis was laying semi-curled up in the grass, eyes closed. His hands were wrapped around his middle, legs drawn up, almost in a fetal position. There was a frightening amount of blood on him, and on the ground around him.
Practically leaping to the ground instead of dismounting, all three of them flew down the hill to their brother.
Kneeling down around him, Athos knew he was going to have to be the one to check for his brother's pulse. It was a job he wished with all his heart wouldn't always fall to him. He was quite literally afraid of what he might find-or rather, not find.
Lifting his hand, he found it to be trembling. Nothing in the world ever caused that sensation, except fear for his brothers' lives.
Hesitating a moment, he took a deep breath, aware without glancing up that the eyes of Porthos and d'Artagnan were riveted on his action as he once more lifted his hand.
This time, he reached out slowly to press two fingers against the side of Aramis' neck to detect a sign of a pulse.
Nothing.
No. That could not be.
His heart nearly stopped. He knew that his brothers were waiting with hearts that were every bit as panicky as he was, so he steeled himself to try again.
Wiping away a stray tear that had found its way down his cheek, he once more reached out, hesitating right before touching his brother's neck again.
Nothing!
He couldn't move, couldn't speak, eyes now closed, frozen at the possibility that they had lost him.
But then, a tiny whisper of a movement under his fingers caused his eyes to fly back open.
He felt it again. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Then, looking up at his brothers, nodded his head, a wisp of a smile beginning to appear on his face.
Then, he began to take action.
"Let us lay him flat. We need to take care of his injury quickly."
They gently maneuvered him to lay flat, but not without eliciting a deep groan from their brother, who unconsciously tried to curl up against the increase in pain it caused him. Hating that they had to do it, they once more laid him flat on the ground, knowing the pain it caused by the tiny whimpers they could hear.
Once they had opened his doublet and shirt, they all three nearly exploded in fury. Someone had shot him in the stomach (a gut shot, as it was known in the army) from fairly close range, and left him to die out here alone.
Why? they questioned to themselves silently. What had he seen or interrupted?
But that would have to wait. They needed to focus every bit of their attention on saving their brother's life. They knew this type of wound had a very high casualty rate. Most men did not survive one.
The wound had begun to bleed again when they had moved him. Hurriedly yanking off his scarf, Athos pressed it against the wound and held it there. Porthos and d'Artagnan tore off sections of their shirts for bandages.
Even with the pressure, the bleeding didn't completely stop.
Athos, who had dreaded having to check to see if his brother still lived, now realized there was something even more traumatic that awaited his doing. His heart nearly cringed at the thought of it.
"The bleeding has slowed down somewhat, but it has not stopped," he said. "There is only one thing we can do to save his life now."
Porthos knew immediately what Athos was saying. " We can't. It would kill him.""He will die unless we do it, Porthos."
A long silence greeted these words, as the thought of a choice between his bleeding to death or having the wound sealed with a red-hot dagger hung in the air.
Porthos finally took a deep breath, and, without a word, pulled his main gauche, handing it to Athos.
D'Artagnan silently collected some sticks, and now quickly started a small fire. Athos laid the knife's blade in the middle to heat.
Porthos and d'Artagnan didn't speak to him. They knew he was trying to calm himself before doing what had to be done. He usually didn't let others are his emotions, but with his brothers, the pain in his expression was easy to read. They knew this was one of the most painful things he would ever have to do.
"Hold him still, please."
Porthos laid his hands firmly on Aramis' shoulders, while d'Artagnan did the same for his legs.
Then, taking up the blade, he moved it above the wound. Pausing for a moment, he then swiftly brought the flat of the blade firmly down on the wound.
As the blade touched the wound, a piercing tormented scream came from him as his body instinctively tried to protect itself by bucking and writhing. But Porthos and d'Artagnan kept him firmly in place.
Athos kept the blade pressed against the wound until he felt sure it had completely sealed it. Then, lifting it off, he flung it far away from himself.
Aramis now lay deathly quiet on the ground. Athos once more checked his pulse, finding it racing but very soft.
They wound the strips of cloth torn from their shirts around his abdomen,. They then covered him with blankets d'Artagnan had also retrieved from their saddlebags, as his skin was icy to the touch from blood loss.
"We need to keep watch on him. He is not out of the woods yet. He has lost a lot of blood. He also runs the risk of infection setting in. We do not know if this has affected anything else inside of him. We also need to see that he awakens," he said softly, not using the words 'if he awakens'.
They bedded down for the night around their brother, but none of them slept their eyes focused on their brother.
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I hope you are all safe and well.
I didn't have quite enough time to go further this week, writing in-between babysitting a very active and adorable two-year-old and working on an online class I'm taking. .
Thanks for reading, following, and if you have the time, reviewing.
