A/N: Thank you guests Uia, Julie, and Jmp for reviewing the previous chapter! Uia, I'll keep your prompt in mind. Also, I did write your previous request. It will be chapter 22. :)
This took a while, but here's that whumpier version of chapter 1, Deana. Gratuitous whump no plot. And probably a dubious representation of medical practices.
"Medic, Heal Thyself"
"It's been two days and we've seen no sign of these reported bandits," Aramis commented. "Do you think they need a written invitation?" He reached back into his saddle bag for a small coin purse and gave it a jangle.
Porthos rolled his eyes. "Do you want ta get attacked?"
"That would make finding them easier."
The three musketeers had been dispatched to deal with a group of bandits that had been plaguing travelers on the main road near the northern border, which was severely damaging trade relations. But after three days of riding up and down the road and searching the surrounding area, they had seen no sign of them.
"Per'aps they've moved on," Porthos grumbled.
Aramis huffed in his saddle. "That would be unfortunate."
"Indeed," Athos remarked. "I do not relish reporting back to the King with failure."
Aramis grimaced. No, neither did he.
Something slammed into his right shoulder, jerking him to the side and causing him to pull up on the reins. His horse whinnied and threw its head back, but thankfully didn't throw him. His vision went blurry for a moment around the crossbow shaft protruding from his shoulder. That explained the lack of a shot sounding.
A sharp report did crack the air then as Athos returned fire into the trees. Someone gave a cry of pain.
Hands grabbed at Aramis and pulled him out of his saddle. He stumbled as Porthos set him on his feet behind his horse, grasping the reins to keep the beast as a shield between them as he swung his arm over the mare's flank and fired his gun. The horse shied away at the sound and Porthos released it. Men were charging out from the tree line.
"Guess we finally found them," Aramis grunted as he drew his sword. His shoulder screamed at him and he quickly switched the rapier to his left hand. While not as proficient as with his right, he could hold his own.
He hoped Athos had killed the shooter with the crossbow. Or that the man had abandoned the stealth attack to join his comrades. Aramis met the blow of the nearest attacker, steel letting out a discordant clang. Every thrust and parry sent reverberations up his arm and across to his wounded shoulder, igniting bolts of lightning through the muscle around where the crossbow bolt still clung. He could feel the metal tip grating against the inside of his scapula with every movement. It took him twice as long to disarm his opponent, but he eventually felled the bandit, only to nearly have his head taken off by the next.
Their blades clashed, and Aramis shoved his boot into the man's chest, knocking him back a few steps. As the man staggered, Aramis deftly slipped his rapier into his right hand and pulled his pistol with his left. This close, there was no missing the target, and the man went down with an explosion of gunpowder.
Aramis whirled to meet the next, using his pistol as a bludgeon. The tip of the barrel was still hot from being fired, and the man whose face it struck screamed and jerked away. Aramis dropped the gun and followed through with a thrust of his sword.
The sounds of battle faded and Aramis swayed where he stood as he urgently swept his gaze around for his brothers. Athos and Porthos were still upright, the victors.
"Aramis!" Porthos lumbered over and reached out to catch him before he even registered that he was going to fall. With his brawn, Porthos easily slowed his descent to the ground.
The adrenaline from the fight had quickly waned, giving way to untempered pain. Aramis shifted on his knees, trying to steady himself. The next few minutes were going to be decidedly unpleasant.
Athos hurried over to them. "I believe we killed them all," he said as he knelt down on Aramis's other side. His brow furrowed. "It didn't go all the way through."
"Unfortunately, no," Aramis grunted. The sensation of metal scraping bone inside his shoulder made his stomach churn. "Porthos, if you would please do me the honor…"
Porthos's eyes darkened on the shaft as though it had personally offended him. He helped ease Aramis back to lie down so he'd have proper leverage.
"Wait," Athos said, drawing his small knife. "We don't want the bolt catching on your leathers."
Aramis sighed and thunked his head against the dirt. "I suppose there's already a hole in it."
"I'm sure you can mend it just fine," Athos replied and made a cut through both the coat and shirt underneath.
Once he was done, Porthos wrapped one hand around the shaft. "Ready?"
Aramis steeled himself and gave a curt nod.
Porthos yanked upward and a cry tore past Aramis's throat. There was a snap, and for a second he thought it was bone, but when his vision cleared, he found Porthos reeling back with a look of dismay as he stared at the wooden shaft in his hand—broken. Which meant…
Aramis shifted and sucked in a breath at the resulting spike of pain. The bolt head was still embedded in his shoulder.
Porthos flicked a look of horror at him.
"Well," he gritted out, opting for levity to alleviate his friend's guilt. "That didn't go to plan."
"Aramis…"
"We need to get him to a physician," Athos interrupted, but for all his collected demeanor, there was a glimmer of worry in his eyes. "Paris is a two days' ride," he said, the unspoken question in his gaze.
Aramis held back a sigh. He would much rather see a Parisian doctor than a back village one, but waiting two days would not be wise if he could help it, nor would riding for that long be advisable. Already there was a tremor in his muscles and he realized the wound was bleeding more profusely with the shaft removed.
"There's a village about an hour up the road," he managed to get out. "Bind this up to stop the bleeding and we'll see if they have a physician."
Athos immediately jumped to his feet and hurried to retrieve the horses from where they'd drifted off to, returning moments later with a roll of bandages.
"Are either of you injured?" Aramis remembered to ask as they propped him up to pack the wound and wrap his shoulder, his gaze searching their clothes for blood.
"I'm not," Athos replied.
"Nor me," Porthos said. "Worry about yerself, a'right?"
"I'm perfectly capable of worrying about all of us," he rejoined.
Porthos snorted, but there was no humor in his eyes.
Once the wound was bound, they hauled Aramis to his feet and helped get him on his horse, then flanked him on their own mounts as they set off to the village. He tried to settle into the rhythm of the canter, but every movement jolted his shoulder with fiery vengeance.
When the village finally came into view, he was ready to fall out of his saddle. But not yet. He forced himself to remain upright—mostly—as they made their way to an inn. Porthos helped him slide off his horse and then supported his weight into the establishment. Athos had entered first and was already barking out a demand for a doctor.
The innkeeper gave them wary looks, gaze lingering a moment on Aramis. "I'm afraid the doctor's not 'ere."
"What do you mean 'e's not 'ere?" Porthos repeated, his voice taking on a growl.
Aramis squeezed the arm supporting him to calm his friend.
The innkeeper shifted his weight. "I mean he got called away to Rue. He ain't due back for several days."
Aramis closed his eyes in resignation.
Athos turned back to him. "Should we continue on?"
Aramis swallowed hard. He'd broken into a sweat and knew the hourglass had already begun to count down. "No. The longer it waits, the greater chance of infection." Assuming the bolt head hadn't been dirty to begin with. Who knew how bandits treated their weapons. He lifted remorseful eyes to Athos. "You'll have to do it."
His brother's brows rose to his hairline. "I beg your pardon?"
Aramis inhaled sharply through his nose. "You'll have to remove the bolt and clean the wound before it festers. I'll talk you through it."
Athos immediately started shaking his head. "No. We'll find you a doctor."
"Athos." Aramis softened his expression. "I'm sorry, my friend, but I don't think it wise to wait that long."
He felt Porthos go rigid beside him.
Athos moved in close, dropping his voice to a hissed whisper. "I could make it worse."
Aramis quirked a lopsided smile at him. "It can't get much worse than a bloody bolt in the shoulder." He then sobered. "Best we do this now, when I'm still able to direct you."
Athos's expression pinched with reluctance, but after another moment he finally nodded decisively.
Aramis turned his attention to the innkeeper. "Might we have use of a table? And hot water."
The man looked unnerved about what they'd just discussed but gave a shaky nod. "Sure. This way."
Aramis bit back a groan as Porthos half carried him after the innkeeper and into the kitchen in the back. A woman in an apron looked up in surprise.
"Apologies, madame," Aramis wheezed as Athos quickly cleared the table in the center of the room.
Porthos leaned him against the edge and started tugging at his sleeves to get his doublet off. The movement jostled his shoulder and he curled in on himself protectively.
"Sorry," Porthos mumbled.
Aramis tried to wave off the apology, but his hand flopped uselessly back down at his side. Porthos got his coat off, followed by his shirt, and then helped him lay back on the table. Despite the fire in the hearth, a chill shivered across Aramis's bare skin, drawing a shudder. Blood loss had that effect.
"If I could trouble you to boil some water," Athos said to the innkeeper's wife.
"My- my med kit," Aramis said hoarsely. "You'll need that too."
"I'll get it," Porthos said and hurried from the room.
The innkeeper stepped forward cautiously. "We have some brandy, for the pain…"
Aramis shook his head. "Thank you, but I'll abstain."
Athos looked over sharply. "Aramis, you can't."
"I need all my faculties to guide you."
"This will be akin to torture."
"I'm prepared."
Athos made a low sound in the back of his throat, one that resonated quite accurately with how Aramis was feeling. He reminded himself he'd been through much worse.
Porthos returned and laid out the med kit on the kitchen counter. "All ready?" he asked nervously. "You give 'im somethin' for the pain?"
"He refused," Athos said darkly.
Porthos shot an alarmed look at him.
"I can't," he reiterated and swallowed. "So, Porthos, I'm afraid I have to ask you to hold me down."
Porthos stalked over to the other side of the table, dark eyes swimming with guilt. "Aramis, I'm so sorry."
"This is not your fault," he said firmly. "If you hadn't tried to pull the bolt out, we'd still be doing this." He focused on taking deep, steady breaths. "Athos, take the scalpel from the kit and heat the blade in the fire."
"Why? We are not cauterizing the wound."
"No, but the heat will help seal the blood vessels when you enlarge the hole. So, a smaller form of cauterization."
Athos's shoulders tensed marginally as he held the blade over the flames. After a few moments, he reached to snag a rag from their supplies and wrapped it around the handle, which had probably grown hot as well. Then he stood and walked over, but as he reached Aramis, he faltered.
Aramis weakly lifted his hand to rest on Athos's arm. "It's all right, my friend. You can do this."
"You're the medic, not me."
"Precisely, and I know what I'm doing. You just have to be my hands this time. Make a small cut above and below the hole."
Athos shook his head, but nevertheless raised his hands to the wound. However, again he hesitated.
"It's just like when you cut the slit in my coat for the bolt to come out," Aramis prompted.
"It most certainly is not," Athos glowered, but it got him moving again.
Aramis felt the light touch of the blade and tensed at the scorching heat against his skin. Porthos leaned over to put his weight on Aramis as much as he could without blocking Athos. Aramis gritted his teeth against the searing pain as Athos made the incisions.
"Now what?" Athos asked.
Aramis gulped down a breath. "Now the- forceps. But you'll have to- determine which way- the bolt is oriented. If the underside isn't lined up with the incisions, you'll have to…" He took in a shuddering breath. "Turn it, so the talons don't tear further on their way up."
Athos turned sharply but halted when he found the innkeeper's wife holding out the instrument to him. With a clipped nod, he angled his focus back to the wound.
Aramis clenched his teeth and groaned as he felt the metal implement dip into his flesh. Pain shot through him like a lightning bolt and he fought not to recoil away from it. The forceps shifted and wobbled, and Aramis slammed his head back against the table in agony.
"Athos," Porthos let out a low warning.
"I can't see," he snapped.
Aramis lifted his head to look, trying to clear his head enough to offer advice.
"Here." The innkeeper's wife stepped in and started wiping at the blood.
Athos's eyes remained fixed on his task as he delved further with the forceps. He spat out a curse. "I think I have to turn it."
Aramis choked on a groan and nodded for him to just do it, his jaw incapable of unclenching at the moment. His stomach lurched at the sensation of the foreign instrument digging deeper. And then there was a sharp tug.
Aramis felt more than heard the collective sigh of relief reverberate down through the arms still holding him. He had to take several shuddering breaths before he could open his eyes to look, but by then Athos had stepped away and there was a small clink as he deposited the bolt head into a bowl.
"We 'ave to clean it, yeah?" Porthos asked.
Aramis nodded. "Flask of…spirits…bag."
"I have it," Athos said, coming back over. He paused to give Aramis a regretful look. "Porthos," was the only warning, and then he tipped the flask over the wound.
Aramis let out a cry as he arched off the table, but Porthos was quick to push him back down. His wound was sizzling and he choked on another garbled scream. He wanted desperately to give in to blessed oblivion but knew the work wasn't done yet.
His breathing was ragged by the time he fully came back to himself and he blinked blearily at his brothers still standing over him. Tilting his head up, he looked down at the wound, trying to gauge its state.
"Is the…hole…bigger?" he asked in barely a croak.
Porthos snorted. "O' course it's bigger."
Aramis shook his head tiredly. "If…too wide…can't be stitched."
Athos canted his head as he studied the wound, his outward calm returned but his hesitation belying how unsettled this was all making him. "I'm not sure," he finally said.
"Try anyway," Aramis said.
He must have drifted because the next thing he knew someone was tapping his cheek.
"Aramis, stay awake."
"S'rry," he mumbled and blinked to clear his vision. Athos was holding a threaded needle. "Right. You've seen me…do this."
Athos shot him a sardonic look. "I've never actually looked at the exact procedure."
"Ah." He couldn't blame them, considering they were usually the patients in the past. "Well, it's rudimentary. Hold…edges together. Needle goes…through both. Tug firmly…holds." He shivered.
A heavy hand settled gently on top of his head. "Why don' you just pass out now?" Porthos suggested.
Aramis shook his head minutely. "Not yet." He shivered again. Had someone opened a window?
"I'm making the first stitch," Athos said, and a moment later Aramis felt the slight pinch.
He tried not to shudder with each nip and tug and breathed through his nose as he willed himself to stay focused.
The movements suddenly paused.
"What's wrong?" he asked blearily.
"It's…" Athos started. "I'll have to tug this section very tight to get it to close."
Aramis nodded his signal to continue. He was trembling now beyond his control, and Porthos placed his arms over his waist and shoulder, trying to keep him still while Athos finished.
Finally, mercifully, the pinch and tug stopped and he heard a faint snip as the thread was cut. That concluded the stitching. Was there anything else he was forgetting?
A warm breath wafted over his face as Athos leaned close to whisper in his ear. "You can let go now," Athos said, tone once more restored to confidence.
So he did.
The next time he woke, it wasn't to a rough table beneath him, but a lumpy mattress. Overall an improvement, though. He heard a fire crackling before he opened his eyes, and registered the weight of blankets piled on top of him. It almost lulled him back to sleep, but there was a terrible ache in his shoulder and his mouth was uncomfortably dry, so he pried his eyelids open.
"Hey," Porthos said softly.
Aramis turned his head toward the sound and blinked until his friend came into focus, seated in a chair by his bed. He offered a tired smile, which was returned in kind.
"Wa—" he opened his mouth to ask, but it came out a wispy rasp.
Porthos seemed to understand though and reached for a cup sitting on a nearby table. He scooted forward and raised Aramis's head a bit to take a sip. The tepid liquid both satisfied and choked as he tried to drink it greedily.
"Easy," Porthos said. "What is it you're always tellin' us?"
He dropped his head back as Porthos took the cup away. "Thank you," he whispered.
"How are ya feelin'?"
Aramis paused to take stock of himself. He hurt, but he didn't feel chilled or overly hot under the blankets, so that ruled out fever, which in turn ruled out severe infection. "Wretched, but it will pass now that the worst is over. How long have I been out?"
"It's the next mornin'," Porthos replied. "We're still at the inn."
Aramis lolled his head to the side to take in the room. He spotted Athos slumped against the far wall in the corner, on the floor, an empty bottle of wine still in hand.
Porthos followed his gaze. "Yeah, he, er, tried to drink the innkeeper out o' business."
Aramis sighed. "I shouldn't have asked that of him. Or you."
"You could've died had you not," Porthos said with surprising ferocity. "You think that's better?"
He blinked. No, it wasn't. Contrary to popular opinion, he did not actively court death.
He slipped an arm out from under the sheets and patted Porthos's knee. "Thank you."
Porthos nodded, then stood. "I'll see if he'll wake." He stomped over and nudged Athos with the toe of his boot. The swordsman came alive with a surprising jolt. "Aramis is awake," Porthos said understandingly.
Athos shuffled to his feet, swaying precariously as he stumbled over to drop heavily into the chair Porthos had vacated.
Aramis offered him a wan smile. "You don't look well, my friend."
"I should get you a mirror."
"Please. I'm curious to inspect your needlework."
Athos's eyes darkened at that. "I never want to do that again," he said in a low voice.
"I'm sorry. It was unfair of me to place that burden on you."
"Your life is not a burden," Athos said with a rare flare of emotion. He looked away. "But it was in my hands. The burden lied in…"
"Failure."
Athos turned back to him. "I don't know how you do it."
Aramis almost shrugged, but thought better of it at the last second. "It is not so different from the burden of watching a brother fall in battle, to know that you failed to get there in time. Learning battlefield medicine…it is my second chance. To…fix an error. I suppose the risk is in failing twice, but then I can only commend souls to God."
Athos was silent for a moment. "I'm afraid I cannot commend your soul to God. I would rather drag your soul back to this earthly world than see you leave it."
Aramis smiled and reached out to clasp his arm. "In that, we are mutually inclined. But I've always been selfish that way." He cocked a conspiratorial brow at him. "So, does this mean I will be teaching you how to be a medic?"
Athos huffed. "No, it means you are forbidden from ever being injured again."
Porthos barked out a laugh. "I second that."
Aramis shook his head with a tired smile as his eyes drifted close. "I will endeavor to do my best."
He did much prefer looking after others, after all.