The "poison" prompt turned out to be the gift that kept giving. There will be another chapter to this story, for the prompt "stay". It will be the last one.

It was a relief.

It was a much-needed wave of relief to have his lieutenant finally awake and to be helping him sit up a little in the bed. Sapped of his strength by the poison coursing through his veins, Athos accepted the water the captain helped him to with quiet gratitude.

"What... happened?" he asked, settling exhaustedly on the pillows.

"Do you not remember?"

"The wine..." Athos's brow creased as he thought, "Poisoned... The king?"

"Safe. Worry not." It was a long story. A long and unsatisfactory one and it could wait; this was not the time to relay it. Athos was silent for a few moments, and Tréville knew what question was coming moments before he spoke again.

"The others - are they-?"

"Alive, Athos," thank God. "You've given us some cause for worry, I'll admit that. But by the grace of God, Porthos's fever broke yesterday, and you and d'Artagnan," he nodded towards the bed across from them, "turned the corner this morning, just after dawn. This is the third day, by the way."

Oh, seemed to be Athos's thought on that, as his eyes lingered for a few moments on d'Artagnan's bed, where the Gascon lay still in deep slumber. Then his gaze travelled two beds down, to the corner of the room.

"Aramis?"

The unrelenting claws of fear tightened once again on the captain's momentarily relieved heart.

"Fighting."

"It is bad," said Athos, the words more of a statement than a question as he stared intently at the captain. Seeming to read everything Tréville didn't say from his face, he appeared resigned, and began to push back the cover over him in order to sit up. The captain shook his head.

"Athos..."

"Captain."

No, there is no need for you to get up; you're still weak and there is nothing you can do for Aramis anyway.

Do not deny me this, I need to see them, I am sufficiently well. In the end, the captain did not object when Athos managed to sit up, even though it left him trembling with weakness, and with a resigned sigh, he got up to take Athos's arm to help him to his feet.

"Where is Porthos?" Athos inquired as they walked the few steps.

"He's stepped out to refresh himself. He should return shortly."

The air was hot and humid as it had been for days. Athos was bare-feet; the flagstones cool, but filthy. Once they reached d'Artagnan's bed, Athos stood over his young friend and observed him quietly for long moments. Taking support from the wall, he reached one hand to lay it tenderly upon the Gascon's head, and let it rest for a while. Then he straightened and started towards Aramis's bed.

It was then that the infirmary door opened and Porthos entered, stopping short when he saw Athos up and about.

Crossing the room in quick strides he pulled Athos to himself, kissing him on the side of the head, to which Athos responded with a one-armed hug. Wordlessly, Porthos replaced Tréville to help him to Aramis, and they sat.

Aramis looked terrible.

How a man could look both pale and flushed at the same time Athos did not know, but there Aramis was, his normally healthy complexion faded to a dull almost-grey, his closed eyes roving under the cloth on his brow. He was breathing with the desperation of a man whose heart was about to burst, and his chest rose and fell rapidly under the thin shirt. Out of his own accord, Athos's hand reached to grip the marksman's restless fingers, clasping them in his palm. Three days. He'd been in this state for three days.

Athos slowly turned towards Tréville.

"Lemay... Doctor Lemay was here." Again, half a statement, half-question.

"Yes, he was."

"What is his prognosis? Why is Aramis still...like this?" And by God, Tréville could see the fear lurking under the tranquil surface. With yet another sigh, he lowered himself on the empty cot across from them, feeling the exhaustion deep in his bones.

"Gentlemen...," he began, looking from one of his men to the other, "Doctor Lemay says the poison they used would have affected each of you in varying degrees. You all drank from the same decanter, the same amount. Whatever it was, Porthos's metabolism fought it off easier than the rest of you. Aramis..." his eyes strayed towards his ailing man, "...is simply taking longer."

"But he will recover," Athos pressed, unsure.

"'course he will," Porthos intercepted in a quiet growl before the captain could respond, but Athos held Tréville's gaze, awaiting his answer. Tréville did not look away.

"Lemay is confident."

But just as he could read Athos, so the lieutenant could read the captain, and like Tréville, Athos had the grace to see but not probe. For despite Doctor Lemay's assurances, the captain still feared for Aramis's life.

~0~

The door burst open and the Musketeers Duval and Berger entered, each of them carrying two wooden crates under each arm. Tréville rose from Porthos's bedside to rush towards them, Doctor Lemay momentarily stopped over his patient, watching with a frown.

"You've brought it?"

"Wasn't a problem. There's more outside."

"Captain?"

"I have ordered ice to be brought. I didn't ask your opinion, Monsieur, but I did not think you would object."

"On the contrary - that is very well-thought," said Lemay, walking quickly over to take a large block of ice from one box. He laid it on a large piece of cloth, wrapped it and carried it over to Aramis, who, after the fit, lay still, his limbs twitching slightly every now and then. "We'll need more cloths to wrap the ice."

More wet hands for next half-hour, sharp reactions to the applied ice when the cold contacted his Musketeers' burning skins. Time passed. The light changed, more people entered and left the room. There were more fevered dreams. Open, unseeing eyes, re-lived nightmares and galloping hearts. The smell of sweat in the cloying air, despite the open windows. Murmurs, occasional outbursts, nonsensical ramblings. The captain began to feel lightheaded; sick. He found himself staring at Aramis's face at some point, seeing it still, the struggling breast quietened.

Death, snuck up on them while they'd toiled.

Life, like sand between his fingers, had slipped away.

He'd never even noticed. Aramis was gone.

But a quiet murmur pulled him out of that horrifying vision, and reality crystallized once again before his eyes: Aramis, very much alive, was pleading desperately, tossing his head from side to side.

"...majesty... Your majesty, I beg you..."

Frowning, the captain wondered at Aramis's confused worry.

"Let me see him... Let me see him, please.."

"Hush," Tréville said softly, grasping his man's arm, "your brothers are safe. They are here, with you."

"Let me see him..."

What kind of twisted nightmare was haunting him now? Who did he plead to see; why was he begging the king?

What kind of impossible scenario played in his head, only God knew.

"Easy, my friend. It's only a dream. Don't distress yourself so."

He wet the cloth and laid it on Aramis's forehead, then grabbed the man's hand, and prayed.

~0~

Late in the afternoon Porthos's fever had broken, and in the early hours of the evening he'd awakened, one-fourth of the weight crushing the captain's heart finally disappearing. Worry for his three friends had kept Porthos awake longer than he'd normally remain, but after a check-over by Doctor Lemay and half a forced bowl of soup, he'd fallen into a deep, healing sleep, to wake up much recovered in the morning.

Around daybreak, Lemay had announced that Athos had left the worst behind, followed shortly by d'Artagnan.

Nearing noon now on the third day, Aramis alone still burned.

And as long as he did, Tréville knew, this nightmare would continue.

Notes: Athos is about twenty-five years ahead of his time in this chapter, as according to Merriam-Webster, the term 'prognosis' was first used in 1655. Tréville, on the other hand, is way ahead of his lieutenant, as 'metabolism' is as young a babe as having been born in 1878.