Porthos

Anger and fury made his pain seem less important. How could Athos treat Aramis so poorly?! Didn't he realize how badly he had hurt their marksman?

Porthos knew why Athos had done it. Their lieutenant had wanted to punish Aramis for his willingness to sacrifice himself for his leader's sake. But he had chosen the worst possible moment to do so. Porthos had never seen their medic so distant—so emotionless. He was at a loss for what to do. He cursed the stupid fall that had confined him to bed just as his reckless brother had recovered enough to be more mobile. Obviously Aramis' condition was far from good—but he was fit enough to move, even if only to make his way to the closest inn and then pass out in a room.

That was why Porthos was so desperate to stop the medic. He did not feel much remorse when they collapsed in a heap on the floor. The wave of pain that crossed his abused body was initially a welcome distraction. Only then did he realize that Aramis was pinned under him. His mind registered the sound of Athos shouting for Calbert. However, the position in which he and Aramis had landed served to effectively block the door.

"Aramis?" he whispered. The big man tried to roll off his friend, but the combination of his injuries and the narrow space made it very difficult.

Calbert tried to enter the room, but his progress was halted by the door hitting their bodies.

"Wait!" Porthos hissed, struggling to untangle himself from his brother. Finally, he managed to move, and dragged Aramis with him. This made just enough space for Calbert to open the door a few more inches and slip inside.

The musketeer gave an exasperated sigh. He left Aramis alone, and moved to lift Porthos back onto the bed. The big man cooperated, but his eyes never left Aramis' pale face.

After dealing with Porthos, Calbert knelt near Aramis. He gently patted the marksman's face. There was no reaction. Sudden worry sickened Porthos. What if his stunt had killed Aramis?!

Calbert placed his fingers on the Spaniard's neck, then stilled.

Porthos felt the world start to spin around him. If Aramis had died...if he had killed Aramis—he would seek revenge by attacking Athos. However, one glance at the deathly pale man changed his mind.

He could not kill his feverish brother.

But will I be able to forgive him?!

No! Aramis had to live! There was no other option.

"He is still alive," Calbert said calmly.

"Then why is he unconscious?"

"A more appropriate question would be how has he been able to remain conscious for such an extended period of time," Calbert murmured, checking on Aramis.

"He's pulled out some of his stitches," he sighed. Leaning forward, he gently gathered the wounded man in his arms, then laid him near Porthos. "I'll have to redo the sutures."

The dark skinned musketeer touched the marksman's cheek, his fingers tracing the outline of the ugly violet bruise. "Please 'Mis… wake up."

Aramis eyelids fluttered, but he did not lift them. However, when Calbert started to work on the bandages, which were now stained with fresh blood, the Spaniard's body tensed.

Porthos sighed. Suddenly, he felt incredibly drained. The pain radiating through his abdomen should probably worry him, but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he focused on comforting Aramis by holding his hand.

Calbert finished sewing up their marksman, then dressed his wounds. After he was done, he withdrew, taking a place near the window in the far corner.

Once his wounds were tended, the marksman seemed to relax.

Porthos tried again. "Mis?"

Aramis looked up at him. "I need to leave," he mumbled.

"No. You need to stay."

Porthos saw a mix of emotions on his friend's face.

Confusion. Pain. Hurt. Anger. Sadness.

"Mis?" Porthos asked softly.

The marksman closed his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the tears that were sliding down his face.

"Athos hates me." Aramis' voice was close to a sob. "I cannot stay. I cannot bear the thought of losing you."

Porthos was at a loss. His brother was shivering, his eyes pleading with Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer did not know how to help him. Finally, he gently pulled Aramis into his arms.

"If Athos forces you to leave our team, I'll go with you. I promise."

"I'd never ask you to do that."

"I know. And you know how Athos is when he's feverish—or drunk."

"But he's right, Porthos. I am dead."

Porthos closed his eyes, and tried to regain his composure. He tightened his hold on Aramis, causing the other man to wince.

"When Athos told me that you'd been shot...it was the worst moment of my life. I… Aramis…. You're…" As Porthos cursed his awkwardness with words, his brother gazed at him intently. His muscles tensed under Porthos' hands. He reminded the big man of a skittish horse who was ready to bolt. The brief moment of unconsciousness had divested Aramis of his shields, leaving him vulnerable. Porthos knew he could not allow his brother to resume the cold stoicism that he had demonstrated earlier. He knew that if the marksman was allowed to do so, he would slip further away. Perhaps he was already beyond help. The dark skinned musketeer was more frightened of this possibility than he would admit.

"Mis… I don't know how you feel. I don't know how to help you. I don't know what they have done to you. All I know is that I need you at my side. It's selfish, but—please stay. Stay alive. Stay with me. Fight for me."

Aramis remained silent, but he pressed his forehead into Porthos' arm, allowing his friend to run his fingers through his hair.

The dark skinned musketeer was feeling worse, but he did his best to hide it.

"There's nothing left in me," the marksman whispered.

Porthos could not tell if this statement was contributing to his nausea, but the urge to throw up finally got the best of him. He was vaguely aware of Aramis reaching for a bucket. As he vomited, pain shot through the musketeer's body. His abused ribs and head protested strongly. Darkness started to eat away at the edges of his vision.

Finally his ordeal ended. Porthos realized that a cold cloth was soothing his face.

"Porthos?" Aramis' voice was full of worry. The care and anguish in his eyes belied his earlier statements about the hollowness of his heart.

"I'm still here," he murmured.

"I think this is only the lingering effect of your concussion, but just to be sure, I've sent for Lemay. It's not pleasant, but I doubt it's dangerous," Aramis said reassuringly.

Porthos caught his hand, and the marksman froze. He seemed to understand the big man's silent plea to give him some time to recover a bit from his ordeal. He sensed that Aramis wanted to inquire about his well-being, but chose instead to honor his plea.

Finally Porthos decided to risk relaxing his body. He was not at all surprised when a drop of tea fell on his lips. Aramis' fingers hovered near his mouth, ready to drip more draught into his mouth. Porthos licked the moisture tentatively, unsure if it would aggravate either his nausea or his thirst. He knew this was Aramis' way of testing him.

Porthos decided that he wanted more, and his friend readily obliged him. This time, he fed him slowly with a spoon.

In a normal situation, the marksman would tease him, and Porthos would protest against being treated like a child. However, this time, he simply needed his brother's care. This told him that Aramis was not lost.

"Mis?" he whispered. The medic immediately leaned towards him.

"You're not just a hollow shell. I can see that by watching you care for me. You're not dead."

The medic closed his eyes for a moment. "I am not myself anymore. I don't know how I'll carry on. You say to give it time, but I can't wait. I can't stay the way I am. I know I have to heal a bit before I go after Rochefort."

"You shouldn't go alone. Promise me you won't, Mis. We'll hunt him down. Together."

The marksman sighed. "We both need time to heal, but I don't have that kind of time."

Porthos could not find anything to say.