A/N: Thank you guest Uia and BrokenKestral who wasn't logged in for reviewing again!

This one takes place early in the Inseparables' brotherhood.

"For the Love of a Brother"

Athos pushed open the door of the merchant's shop and entered, sweeping his gaze over the shelves containing various vials and bottles. The man behind the counter looked up and frowned.

"Can I help you?" he asked, a tad defensively.

While Athos's lineage made him part of this man's normal clientele, he was aware that he did not look it.

"I am Athos of the King's Musketeers."

The merchant faltered and gave him a reassessing look. "Ah. I was just at the palace the other day. Is there something His Majesty would like to add to his purchase? Or…did he find something…unsatisfactory?"

Athos had no intention of using the King's name on personal business, but the insinuation would certainly help move things along. "No, I am here on an errand for another." He did not expound on that and instead roved his gaze along the inventory again. "I am looking for lavender, cinnamon, thyme, clove, and frankincense. I am told you carry these."

The merchant was the preeminent supplier of oils, his stock the finest in the country, and thus he catered only to the royal family and surrounding nobility.

The man arched a brow. "Ah, yes." He moved around the counter and started going to different shelves to pluck down the corresponding bottles. When he returned to the counter, he reached for a tray of small, empty vials.

"No," Athos said. "I'll take the whole bottle."

The merchant's jaw slackened at that. "Uh…monsieur…"

Athos reached into his coat and pulled out the very full coin purse tucked within. He did not usually dip into the coffers of his title, save to keep himself fully stocked with wine, nor had he ever spent this much at once since leaving his life as a comte, but this was an exception. The coins clinked as he dropped them on the counter. Opening up the pouch, he revealed the amount inside.

The shop owner's eyes widened. "I'll, uh, just wrap these up," he stammered.

Athos waited. When the merchant handed him the parcel, he tucked it safely inside his doublet and swiftly left, heading back to the garrison.

The yard was empty when he arrived, everyone out seeing to their duties. Athos strode straight to the barracks and let himself into one of the rooms.

Porthos looked up at his arrival, his expression taut and mouth pressed into a tight line. His hands were clasped between his knees and he was rocking slightly in obvious agitation.

Athos removed his hat. "How is he?" he asked, referring to the pale figure in the bed. He hadn't even been gone an hour, yet Aramis's condition had been rapidly declining since the night before. The sickness that had begun like any other had spread to his lungs. In the stillness of the room, Athos could hear the wheeze issuing past bloodless lips as every fought-for breath eked out.

Porthos shook his head, staunch denial and impending defeat warring within the depths of pained eyes.

Athos moved to the side of the bed and began to unpack his parcel on the small nightstand.

"What is that?" Porthos asked.

"Something I hope will help," he replied, setting out the bottles and removing the stoppers.

Porthos wrinkled his nose. "Oi, that's strong. Wait, you went out an' got perfumes?"

"Oils. Specific ones with healing properties. Undo his shirt."

Porthos gave him a dubious look, but nevertheless reached to loosen the laces on the front of Aramis's shirt, pulling the fabric down to expose his chest. "How's that, anyway?"

Athos picked up the glass dropper the merchant had included with the bottles and dipped it into the cinnamon first. The aroma was pungent, hot even. He held them over Aramis's chest and let a bead slide off the dropper onto his skin.

"I met an apothecary a couple of years ago who was versed in oils, had been studying ancient applications of them. He said new medical discoveries were all well and good, but just because something comes from the past doesn't make it irrelevant. I had nothing to do at the time than to lend an ear, though I confess it was more out of polite boredom than anything. I've never been so grateful I still remember it."

He picked up the bottle of thyme and let a drop fall next to the first, then repeated the process with each subsequent oil.

"Cinnamon helps fights infection," Athos went on. He laid a hand on Aramis's chest and began to rub the oils in. "Clove and thyme treat the lungs. Lavender covers a great many ailments, and frankincense increases the potency of any oil it's mixed with."

"Frankincense? That stuff's worth its weight in gold. Athos…" Porthos lowered his voice. "Where'd ya get all that?"

Athos arched a wry brow at him. "I didn't steal it."

Porthos huffed. "Wouldn't turn ya in if ya had."

Athos's lips twitched. "I dipped into my inheritance." While he'd never divulged his true identity to anyone in the Musketeers, he couldn't hide that he'd come from noble birth. It was in his manner and speech and to deny it would be pointless.

Porthos shifted in his chair as he watched Athos gingerly and methodically massage the oils into Aramis's chest. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Athos paused to give him a look. "He is my brother too."

Porthos straightened and gave a clipped nod of solidarity.

"Boil some water," Athos said. "He can also breathe in the oils through the steam to get them into his lungs."

Porthos surged from his chair, eager to help.

Athos finished rubbing the oils in and reached a hand up to smooth back a lank curl from Aramis's forehead. He was still warm with fever, though not overly. It had already sapped his waning strength and left him sinking further into illness.

Athos moved his hand down to cup the side of his brother's neck, leaning close. "Keep fighting, Aramis," he whispered. "We are not done yet."

Porthos returned with a bowl of steaming water and Athos put a drop of each of the oils in it, then instructed Porthos to hold it under Aramis's face. The marksman's breaths were too shallow to fully inhale the steam, but Athos hoped even a little would be enough to turn the tide.

"So, uh," Porthos said. "How do we know if it's workin'?"

Athos wiped his hands on a spare cloth. The mixed scents of the oils were heady and not easily removed. "We'll repeat the treatment every few hours," he replied. That was why he'd bought the full bottles; he knew they were still in for a long battle.

Porthos nodded in acceptance and they fell silent, save for the occasional rattle from their friend.

Athos kept to a strict schedule—every four hours he'd open the bottles and rub the oils into Aramis's chest, followed by the steam treatment. The first few times yielded no visible results, but sometime in the middle of the night a prickle of unease brought his head up in alertness. The sounds he'd grown accustomed to hearing had changed.

He surged from his chair and went to Aramis's bed. Porthos was seated on the other side, head pillowed on his arms at the foot of the mattress. Athos leaned close, holding his breath in fear. But Aramis's chest was rising and falling and it took Athos a moment to realize that the new quietness didn't stem from the lack of breathing, but from a lack of strained wheezes.

He sank into the second chair and reached out to lay his hand upon his friend's chest, feeling the steady movement that no longer stuttered with each breath. At the touch, Aramis's eyes cracked open. Athos tensed, watching the dark irises still glassy with fever gaze blearily at him. Porthos made a snuffling sound, and Aramis's gaze drifted a fraction to look at him. Then he looked back to Athos and gave a sliver of a tired smile before sinking back into sleep.

Athos let relief finally wash over him. He inhaled deeply himself, the aroma of oils heavy in the air.

They'd been worth their weight in gold and so much more.