A/N: Thank you pallysAramisRios and SnidgetHex for reviewing!
Summary: How Aramis became the regiment's medic.
Pre-series
"These Hands"
Aramis's parents wanted him to become a priest. It was the one part of his very different upbringing between the two of them that they agreed upon. So he was a colossal disappointment when he set off on his own at seventeen without his father's blessing. Not that Aramis cared; he had never managed to get along with his father, knowing him only as the man who had taken him away from his loving mother when he was but eight years old. He didn't know what his mother would think of him becoming a soldier; he didn't remember the name of the town with the brothel he grew up in, and his father forbade him to ever speak of it.
So Aramis carved a path of his own with blade and blood. He was, he found, rather good at killing. Swordsmanship was the one skill of value his father had taught him in an effort to mold a bastard child into something presentable, something that fit in. But Aramis never took to conformity.
The infantry taught him how to shoot a musket, and he turned out to be rather good at that too. The thrill of battle made him feel alive, and he took pride in his work. But despite forsaking his parents' wishes that he join the Church, his faith was never far from his heart. And sometimes it conflicted with his chosen profession, in the aftermath of campaigns where men lay slaughtered on battlefields or in medic tents.
After Aramis's second major skirmish, he stood over the bodies being laid outside in a row and said a prayer over them, commending their souls to God.
"You, boy!" someone snapped.
Aramis furrowed his brow in confusion as he looked up toward a man hastening alongside a stretcher with a wounded soldier being carried toward the infirmary tent.
"The dead need no more help. Get over here and make yourself useful."
Aramis hurried over without question and followed the man into the tent. The stench of sweat and blood and fear hit him like a sucker punch, and Aramis froze for a split moment, overwhelmed by it all. But he was no coward, so he swallowed the taste of bile and strode over to the man who'd called for his assistance. He finally remembered his name was Jaspar, and he was the infantry's field medic.
The man on the stretcher had a bullet wound in his thigh, and blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage tied tightly around it.
"Bring me some light and hold it steady," Jaspar barked at Aramis as he cut through the sodden bandage.
Aramis cast his gaze around and snatched a lantern off one of the support posts. He held it as close as he dared and watched in morbid fascination as Jaspar began to dig around in the soldier's leg for the musket ball. The man was, thankfully, unconscious for the procedure. In a matter of moments, the field medic plucked the distorted ball free and plopped it in a nearby bowl. He then uncorked a bottle of spirits and liberally doused the wound. The alcohol ran pink with blood that continued to ooze out.
"Fetch me that kit over there," Jaspar instructed, pointing to a work table across the tent.
Aramis hurried over and scanned the supplies, guessing at the kit Jaspar had been referring to. He must have selected correctly because Jaspar accepted it upon his return and unfolded it, revealing a set of needles and horse hair.
"Jaspar!" someone shouted urgently from the other side of the tent.
"Be right there!" he yelled back.
"He's bleeding out now!"
Jaspar glanced that direction, then cursed and threw a hesitant look at his current patient, who would also continue to bleed if he didn't close that wound.
"I can sew it," Aramis spoke up.
Jaspar shot him a scoffing look, but then seemed to reconsider.
"I can," he insisted.
The other men continued to yell for Jaspar. He scowled in frustration and picked out a needle and strand of horse hair from his kit to hand to Aramis.
"Just make sure you do it before he bleeds out."
And with that, the medic hurried over to his next patient.
Aramis turned to the man lying unconscious on the table. He'd never actually sewn up human flesh before, but his mother had taught him his stitches, even some embroidery; the principle was the same, he figured.
He set the lantern on the soldier's stomach, murmuring an apology for it, and threaded the needle. He then bent over the exposed wound and began to stitch it closed, nice and neat. The distressed sounds in the tent threatened to distract him, especially when someone screamed in pure agony and the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air, but Aramis forced himself to focus. Just as on the battlefield, he couldn't afford for his attention to waver. He wielded that needle and thread with the same nimble dexterity as when he had to load and fire a pistol.
When he finished the sutures, he tied off the thread and snipped off the excess. Then he faltered, not sure what he should do next, so he settled for cleaning up the area. Jaspar returned not much later and inspected his work, brows rising as though impressed.
"That's fine needlework," he commented. "You'd make a decent medic."
Jaspar didn't stick around to praise him further; he had enough patients still to see to. But his words stuck.
And Aramis thought perhaps his mother would be proud of his work after all.
After that, he took every opportunity he got to learn battlefield medicine. He even did his best to pay attention when he was the patient on the table after being wounded in a couple of battles. And being on the other side of the alcohol dousing and needle certainly gave him a comprehensive perspective.
He settled into a rhythm—killing on the field, praying over the slain, and then attempting to balance the scales in the infirmary tent by trying to save as many lives as he had taken. It made for a rather poignant juxtaposition between his skills as a soldier and his respect for life, a balance between serving both country and God.
One night when the aftermath of a siege had finally settled and all was quiet, Aramis walked through the military encampment in need of fresh air. The fighting had been intense, as had been the struggle to treat the wounded afterward. He spotted one of the army's dragons off on the edge of camp, away from the tents, sucking intently on its foreleg. Aramis knew little of dragons, but he recognized abnormal behavior in an animal. No one else seemed to be paying the beast any attention, so after a moment of contemplation, Aramis crossed the camp toward it.
The dragon didn't even look his way as he approached, all its attention on its leg. Aramis cautiously sidestepped to get a better view and saw a glint of obsidian alloy in the wound tract. The dragon must have been struck with acimite, the only material known to pierce a dragon's scales. Aramis frowned and cast his gaze around the camp, wondering who was responsible for tending this beast. It had been days since the battle; why hadn't someone taken care of his wound?
Aramis turned back to the dragon and cleared his throat. The creature finally flicked its amber gaze up toward him.
"Need some help with that?" he asked, nodding to the dragon's leg.
The beast narrowed its eyes a fraction and tucked its leg closer against its body.
"I can get the shards out," Aramis went on. Supposedly dragons understood human language rather thoroughly. He held up his palms. "Human hands are more precise than teeth in these matters."
The dragon flitted its gaze indecisively between its leg and Aramis. Then, slowly, it extended its injured leg out again.
Aramis smiled and moved closer, taking a seat on the ground and crossing his legs. "Let's take a look."
Yep, it looked like a spear head had stabbed the dragon, the tip breaking off inside. And the dragon's gnawing had only served to splinter it and drive it deeper. Aramis grimaced at the raw and torn tissues, which had been needless. Although, he didn't know how a dragon was supposed to ask for help.
"Well, I can see a big piece right there," he said aloud and reached to pluck it out. The dragon's leg flinched in response, and Aramis froze, yanking his hands back non-threateningly. The dragon made a low sound in its throat and lowered its head, which Aramis took as permission to continue.
He inspected the wound more closely and found two more splinters within it. Tweezers would have been good to have, but the dragon had made such a mess of its leg, that he was able to reach in with his fingers and dig the shards out.
"There," he said. "Now, we should probably clean this."
He got to his feet and went over to the bucket of drinking water that had been left for the dragon. Honestly, it was gross negligence to feed and water the creature but not tend to its injuries. Aramis pulled out a handkerchief and dunked it in the water, then went back over and did his best to gently clean the leg.
"No more sucking," he said firmly.
The dragon merely gazed back at him.
He was used to his patients not always being able to talk back, so he didn't mind and went on his way when he was done. He didn't realize someone had been watching until he walked past a figure standing under the awning of a tent.
"You have experience with dragons?"
Aramis pulled up short and turned toward a man wearing an armor breastplate, which suggested he held some higher rank.
"Oh, no, sir," he replied. "That was the first one I've met."
The man's brows inched upward at that. They then furrowed as he studied Aramis for a moment. "I saw you on the battlefield," he said. "You're a good shot."
"Thank you, sir."
"Captain Treville," he introduced.
"Aramis."
Treville seemed to consider him for a moment more. "Aramis, I'm putting together a new regiment for the King, an elite one. Consisting of dragon riders."
Aramis straightened in intrigue at that. Dragon riders? "I also have experience as a field medic," he said, standing up taller.
Treville looked surprised again. "Is that so?"
Aramis nodded, fighting to contain an eager grin.
And that was how he joined the Musketeers.
The regiment had seven men at its start, all handpicked by Treville. Aramis was by far the youngest at nineteen. They all stood at attention in the garrison yard as the royal dragon keeper, Jean Bonacieux, brought over twelve dragons and let them loose to choose their riders.
Some of the men looked uncertain or nervous, while others held themselves ramrod straight. Aramis, however, tracked the dragons with his eyes in curiosity and watched as they subtly communicated with each other with head nods and soft snorts. He wondered what they thought of these humans being presented to them.
A green dragon stalked by him, eyeing him speculatively.
"Hi," he said.
She paused and cocked her head at him.
He smiled. "I'm Aramis."
If he didn't know any better, he'd say she looked mildly amused by him as she sauntered off. But as the dragons began to choose their riders, she made her way back around to stand before Aramis. And his smile became a grin.
After the pairings were done, Aramis approached Bonacieux on his way back to the dragon compound.
"I want to learn everything there is to know about battlefield medicine for dragons," he said.
Bonacieux blinked at him in surprise. "Can't say I've heard that before. Why?"
"I know how to patch up men, but dragon scales can't be stitched. I know their hides are difficult to penetrate, but they're not invincible. And I want to know how to treat them when they're wounded away from Paris and your care."
Bonacieux considered him for a moment before nodding in consent. "Alright."
Aramis spent every spare moment for the next two weeks at the dragon compound, where he met Bonacieux's young daughter, Constance, who joined him for his lessons as a fellow student, even though she was only eleven years old. Jean was a patient teacher to them both, and Aramis somehow found himself feeling at home in their family.
And when the Musketeers were dispatched on their first campaign, Aramis quickly earned the title of the regiment's field medic by putting every single skill he'd learned over the years to use—the hands his father taught to wield a sword dealt out death, while those same hands that his mother had taught to sew mended hurts. He performed both admirably, to the fullest of his ability.
And God blessed the work of his hands.