Aramis

Am I dying?

The fire in his chest demanded air to soothe it. But he could not take in a breath.

Or perhaps I'm not breathing in enough air… or it's not air…

He was barely holding on to consciousness. At this point, he could only feel pain and fear, and was no longer aware of the blessings which could serve to ground him.

He willed himself to concentrate on his breathing, forcing it to slow down.

Finally, his surroundings became more familiar. He gradually became aware that he was lying in someone's arms, embraced by the smell of wine...a smell strong enough to completely obliterate the scent of powder or blood.

Athos then. Not Porthos.

Porthos?!

He is wounded! I need to check on him!

Aramis slowly lifted his head, careful not to provoke a bout of nausea. He already felt lightheaded.

Lack of air. Something is really wrong with my lungs…

What has happened?!

Suddenly his memories returned to him with a vengeance. A confusing mix of images assaulted his exhausted brain. He gasped, his hands desperately fisting into something.

"Breathe, Aramis. You'll be fine." There was despair in Athos' voice. He clearly did not believe his words.

He lifted himself up a bit.

"Porthos?" he whispered.

"Asleep. But we have to leave soon." Athos gently shifted Aramis, planning to lay him down. The marksman, however, had a different plan. He preferred to remain seated, as it would be much easier to get up. Athos opted to leave him in a half-sitting position, giving him some support for his back.

I am so tired. I could sleep all day-and probably the next as well.

He blinked, his eyes focusing on the activity around him. The sky was still dark. He wrapped himself up in Athos' cloak, and saw that some of the musketeers had started to prepare breakfast, while others were breaking camp. His gaze finally halted on a sleeping Porthos. He needed to check on him.

He braced himself, and slowly started to get up. D'Artagnan suddenly appeared at his side. Without a word, the Gascon helped him to his feet, steadying him when he became dizzy.

Aramis winced when he saw the colorful bruises on the boy's neck. From the look of them, he must have been nearly strangled.

Catching his eye, D'Artagnan merely shrugged. The young man led him to Porthos, then helped him lower himself to the ground.

Aramis did not let go of the Gascon.

"Can you talk?" he asked.

"Yeah," d'Artagnan croaked.

"Any trouble breathing?"

The boy shook his head.

"Swallowing?"

This time the boy voiced his answer. "Hurts like hell."

"Well, it's unpleasant now, but you'll be fine," the medic murmured reassuringly.

"I'm not worried about myself," d'Artagnan replied, locking eyes with his friend.

"What about you?"

"I'll live," Aramis replied automatically.

The boy's fingers squeezed his hand.

"Will you?" d'Artagnan asked seriously.

Those hazel eyes were full of hope and fear. Aramis paused for a moment to consider his answer. He felt awful. His head was pounding, and he still had a mild fever. His ribs ached. When he drank, it felt as if he was swallowing liquid metal. Talking only made the pain worse. However, all of these things were minor inconveniences...well, perhaps major inconveniences. What was truly worrying was the shortness of breath. The constant feeling of having too little air in his lungs was terrifying. His experience with treating smoke victims, which unfortunately was significant, told him that he was not yet out of the woods.

"I'll do my best," he promised.

D'Artagnan quickly lowered his eyes, trying to hide the tears that stung his eyes.

"Hey, I have no plans for a date with Death any time soon," the medic said lightly.

D''Artagnan gave him a weak smile. "You had better not."

Aramis nodded, and turned his attention to Porthos. He swore under his breath, realizing that he could not reliably assess Porthos' temperature.

"D'Art?" He stopped the Gascon, who had been about to leave in order to attend to his other duties. "Does he have a fever?"

The boy ungloved his hand, and checked Porthos. He then turned to Aramis, taking him by surprise when he extended his hand to gently touch the medic's forehead.

"You both have a fever, but not a very high one." D'Artagnan spoke loud enough for Athos to hear.

Aramis sighed, and touched Porthos' cheek.

"I need to take a look at your wound," he murmured, and started to unwrap the blanket that was wrapped around his friend. The big man protested, and snatched the blanket back.

"No…"

Aramis ground his teeth in frustration. "Look, we can't afford to waste any time! We need to ride out soon." Suddenly, he felt the urge to cough building in his chest. He tried to fight it, but lost.

The cough seemed to tear his ribs apart. He trembled as he tried to catch his breath. Dark spots were dancing before his eyes. Finally, he managed to breathe through the pain.

"Mis… you'll be fine Mis…". A voice was whispering in Aramis' ear, repeating the same desperate words over and over. The marksman realized that he was being held by a pair of strong arms.

He lifted his head to look into Porthos' face.

"How do you feel?"

"Well, I don't particularly enjoy waking up to the sound of you suffocating."

"Sorry. Besides that?"

"Tired," the big man murmured.

"And the wound?"

The dark skinned musketeer groaned. "It hurts like hell."

"I'll check it."

"Go ahead. I know how much you enjoy undressing me, Mis." There was a undertone of strain in Porthos' voice- a fear of how Aramis would react to their usual banter.

The medic knew he should reply in his usual lighthearted manner, but he could not bring himself to do it. Instead, he started to unwrap the bandage.

As he gently palpated the area around the wound, Porthos hissed. Aramis was relieved to see that the wound did not seemed infected. The skin around it was a bit warm and red, but that was not unexpected after the brutality that had been inflicted on it. The medic put some calendula oil on the wound, then redressed it. He was just finishing when Athos and Morineau came up to them.

"I'm leaving to warn Treville about Rochefort," Morineau said. "Is there anything else you want me to tell him?"

"No," Aramis replied. Morineau nodded, then went to his horse.

"I decided to send him on ahead. He can travel faster than we can," Athos said. "Aramis, you'll ride with me, and Porthos will ride with d'Artagnan." He handed them some bread and cheese. "I suggest the two of you have a bite to eat, then rest until it is time for us to mount up."

Aramis nodded, and was relieved to see Porthos attack his rations with gusto. The marksman eyed his meal with distrust. He was not especially hungry, and was not eager to experience another bout of nausea.

"Eat!" Athos ordered.

The medic gingerly swallowed a bit of bread, and realized that his sore throat was definitely not eager to handle solid food. It was torture to eat, but he knew he needed sustenance. He could not afford to become any weaker, as that would only delay their return to Paris. So, he decided to force himself to eat. He sighed with relief when he finally finished. However, his throat continued to throb painfully, taking its revenge on him for all the abuse it had suffered.

They finally set off. Athos positioned Aramis so that the marksman could comfortably lean into him.

"Sleep if you can," Athos murmured. His voice was unusually soft.

He's still worried about me.

Aramis allowed himself to close his eyes.

Just for a moment.

Each time his cough tormented him, he touched the edge of wakefulness-and each time, he felt Athos' grip tighten on him. The support of his friend helped him fight against the pain that was searing his chest. The pain tormented him, causing him to gasp for air while blackness silently tempted him with the promise of a respite from the agony.

When the pain became bearable once again, he slept.

"Aramis?" Athos gently shook him. "Come on, wake up. We need to get down. Can you sit on your own for a moment?"

His throat felt too dry and sore to speak, so he merely nodded.

Athos jumped off the horse, and waited for Aramis to join him. When the marksman slid off the horse, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. Athos caught his arm, steadying him until it passed.

"Why…?", Aramis croaked.

"We'll change horses eventually, but they need a bit of a rest right now. How do you feel?"

"I'm…"

"The truth," Athos said, his voice firm.

"Sore and tired."

Athos nodded, but he did not seem entirely satisfied with the reply. Something seemed to be on his mind.

After a few moments, the swordsman turned to him, his voice low.

"Is riding making you worse?"

It was obvious that the lieutenant did not want the others to overhear their conversation. Aramis also suspected that Athos was afraid to hear his answer. There was no way they could stop, and leaving the wounded in the middle of nowhere was not an option.

The medic gave him a quick smile.

"No. It's only a bit unpleasant."

A moment later, the scent of smoke floated across the clearing to them, and he stiffened.

"Aramis?" Athos' voice was strained.

The marksman, his hand on his pistol, looked around him, and realized that the smell came from the fire that d'Artagnan had started. Despite this reassuring sight, his muscles tensed, and his heart was already pounding.

I am pathetic!

"I want you to drink some hot tea," Athos said softly, handing him a mug.

Aramis nodded gratefully. The warm tea soothed his throat.

Porthos sat on the ground, his back supported by an immense oak. As Athos led the medic towards him, the big man watched them with concern.

Aramis gingerly sat down next to his friend.

He checked on the bandages, ignoring Porthos' questions about his own well being. To be honest, he prefered not to talk, afraid of provoking another bout of coughing.

Porthos had been avoiding d'Artagnan, and guilt was clear in the big man's eyes when the Gascon approached them with some food and hot tea.

Aramis sighed. He knew exactly what had caused the bruises on their youngest's neck. It had happened to him on more than one occasion when he had startled Porthos. Each time had ended painfully for the marksman.

The boy felt Porthos' eyes on him, and he smiled briefly.

"I'll be fine-although I won't be singing for a day or two." He spoke loud enough for Porthos to hear his words.

The big man muttered something that sounded like an apology, and d'Artagnan patted his arm.

The break was too short to give them the rest that they needed, but no one protested when they set off again. They needed to get to Treville as soon as possible-or sooner.

They did not stop for the night, but only halted once or twice to rest the horses

The medic in Aramis was worried, as he knew they would end up utterly exhausted. However, at the same time, he was grateful for their strenuous pace. He tried to convince Athos that he could ride alone, but a violent paroxysm of coughing proved him wrong.

After another short rest, he felt the swordsman's gaze on him while he was busy changing Porthos' bandages. Once he had tied the last knot, he gave his leader a quizzical look.

"How is he?" Athos asked. His voice was strained with fatigue.

"As well as can be expected," the medic replied, glancing at Porthos. He was worried by his friend's silence. The big man gave him a quick smile, but worry lingered in his eyes.

"I'm fine, Porthos."

"Try again, Mis," the big man growled, patting his arm.

"I'll be fine."

At least, I hope I will, but I cannot be sure...

This time he was rewarded with one of Porthos' genuine smiles-and he hated himself for lying.

They rode off.

Aramis was not sure what brought him to full awareness. Was it a sound? Or the fact that Athos stiffened against him?

He looked around, trying to identify any danger that might be lurking in the darkness. They had opted to travel without torches, anxious to avoid providing an easy target for their enemies.

The rushing water of a river could be heard as they approached its banks. Aramis could not shake off the uneasy feeling that darkened his thoughts.

The path went along the far bank, which was muddy and slippery.

"A trap?" Athos asked, sensing his friend's disquiet.'

Aramis nodded. It was then that he realized that he had already readied his pistol. It had been an instinctive action.

They were rode along in silence, alert for any sign of an enemy.

Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Suddenly he saw it-the merest trace of a spark, instantly disappearing in the thick bushes. A faint smell reached him, and suddenly, he knew.

"Get down!" he yelled, diving from the horse. Athos reflexively tried to grab him. For a moment, they hung in the air. Then there was an explosion, and the world turned orange. The blast threw Aramis up in the air, and he landed hard in the bushes. He heard the horses' terrified neighs, followed by d'Artagnan's scream of pain.

Dark spots tried to steal his vision. His abused ribs protested violently when he threw himself to the side, just avoiding the sword thrust that had been aimed at him.

He found himself drawn into a fight, just when he should be searching for his comrades. "Athos!" he cried.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the swordsman stagger to his feet. He also made out the shape of a riderless horse. Was it one of their horses?

There was no time to think. He thrust his blade into his opponent's chest, then used his main gauche to stop a blade heading for his neck. He slashed wildly with his rapier, parrying another hit. Athos had joined the fray, and the medic was fighting back to back with him now. Aramis knew he could not falter-to do so would leave Athos unprotected.

"Take them alive! We'll have some fun!" The mocking shout rang through the air, and the marksman's heart froze.

He lunged forward in another attack, and his blade tasted blood. He plunged his main gauche into someone's side, then twisted it to free the blade. He heard Athos' gasp of pain, and the swordsman stumbled behind him.

The marksman could not avoid the next blade, as to dodge it would send his enemy's sword into Athos' back. He tried to stop it, but the blade slipped on his rapier, and slashed his arm. He barely held back a scream.

Suddenly, Aramis was driven to his knees. He was not sure what had hit him, but he could feel blood running down his face. He clumsily parried another blade, but something penetrated through his defense. A searing pain radiated through his head.

His weapon was thrown from his hand. He tried to escape the hands that were restraining him, but the pain from a sudden kick to the ribs paralyzed him.

Something squeezed his throat, and he could not breathe. Pain erupted in his lungs, which were now starving for air.

Darkness started to feast on his awareness...

He lost.

He was a captive.

He would be tortured.

God… please…

I cannot

Not again

Let them kill me

Let me die now

God please….

Special thanks to my awesome Beta - Riversidewren