The only thing I proved with this Whumptober "challenge" is that I would make a very poor Musketeer indeed. Here is "stay", the concluding chapter of the poison plot. It was a bit of a nightmare to write, if you'll excuse the pun.

Movement.

Presences nearby.

Quiet conversation.

Aramis opened his eyes.

The scrape of a chair and the rustling of clothes as people came over to his side, and he blinked heavily to clear his shifting vision. Porthos was looming over him with dark, worried eyes.

"'bout time you woke up," he grouched.

"How are you? You're the last to wake up."

Last to wake... The word poison was floating around his head like an irritating fly. He licked his lips, intending to speak, but startled slightly when a cup was put to his lips. He drank obediently, trying to get his bearings.

Porthos towered over him, with Athos standing behind. Tréville at the foot of the bed and d'Artagnan on the other side. The faint light of dusk filled the room – the infirmary – what had happened?

"I don't suppose you remember fainting on me," d'Artagnan remarked humourlessly.

"Can't... say that I do."

"We've been poisoned. The servant at the palace grounds, with the wine from Her Majesty. It was three days ago."

Aramis stared at Athos blankly for several long seconds.

"Her Majesty—"

"Is safe," supplied Captain Tréville, staring at him with an odd frown. Aramis blinked again.

"The queen... wanted us poisoned?"

The question would have been ridiculous under any other circumstance, but now, Aramis watched a harried glance pass between his friends. The atmosphere seemed to tense imperceptibly - what was happening?

"Of course not," said Athos calmly after a moment. "It was someone else. One of His Majesty's guests wanted us out of the way so he could hold a knife to the king's throat in the middle of the banquet. He was shot by Boutin, then subsequently took his own life before he could be questioned."

"And before you ask, it is as ridiculous as that sounds," d'Artagnan put bitterly, sitting himself down on the nearby cot.

Now Aramis's head was spinning.

"Captain.."

"Don't worry yourself with it now, Aramis. I am sorry to report, however, that the man's accomplice, the fake servant who brought you the wine, has vanished. I didn't see his face that day, so only the four of you know what he looks like."

"'an we 'ave no leads," Porthos grumbled, crossing his arms, his anger and dissatisfaction with the turn of events clear. Aramis looked at each of his friends, and saw the same despondency in their faces. The man who'd almost killed them had gotten away.

He didn't know what to think or feel about any of this.

"The king... is well?"

"He is, though he was understandably upset. He is expecting to see you four as soon as you are back on your feet."

"For what?" d'Artagnan asked, still surprisingly bitter, "to reprimand us for getting poisoned?"

The captain threw him a sharp glare in silent warning. "My understanding," he put, "is that he wants to see you all back on duty as soon as possible. He's asked after you yesterday."

"Why... what did this – guest – have against the king? What purpose did poisoning us serve – he had to have known the king would be surrounded by Musketeers anyhow..."

"That, is the disturbing part," Tréville admitted, sighing deeply. In the fading light, he seemed almost as tired as his recuperating men. "The king is shocked – he can't think of any reason why the Baron would want to kill him. Besides, the fact that the man killed himself before he could be interrogated suggests that he wasn't acting alone."

"I doubt the fake servant was the mastermind," Athos put, looking terribly pale as he, too, sat, on the cot at the other side, passing a hand over his brow. "We're looking at a group of at least three, possibly more men involved in this plot."

"The security around the palace has been tightened," the captain nodded. "We don't know when they might try again, or in what way. As to why you four have been targeted..." He shook his head, pursing his lips.

"It was a test, wasn't it?"

In the vanishing residue of light, they all turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"That's the only answer that makes sense," the Gascon shrugged. "They wanted to test us – the four of us – to see if they could take us out. And they succeeded."

The words were all but acrid, dripping with disappointment, anger, and self-reprimand. Before anyone could say anything, d'Artagnan rose, threw his doublet over his shoulder and left.

"I'll go after 'im," Porthos grumbled. He looked down at Aramis. "Try not to die when I'm outside, yeah?" he grumbled, "I'd prefer if you did that when I'm near." Then, thankfully without waiting for a response to his black humour, hurried after d'Artagnan.

"Rest up, gentlemen," the captain said wearily when he was alone with Aramis and Athos. "This has been a difficult trial for all of us. Lemay has left medicine to be taken after the evening meal; I'll have your dinner sent here."

Athos nodded. The captain left, and Aramis drifted off before he even realized his eyes had closed.

The next time he woke, it was to a loud bang next to his ear; he startled, a curse and an apology following immediately. It was night time.

"Sorry. It's me." Porthos's just-loud-enough whisper became more audible as he approached, "Think I broke the window."

"Hm..." His thoughts saturated heavily with sleep, Aramis raised a trembling hand to wipe his brow, feeling the humidity in the air.

"Why are you awake?"

Porthos was silent for a few moments as he poured water into a cup. "I couldn' sleep."

He helped Aramis to drink without being asked, and the marksman sipped gratefully. He was feeling ridiculously weak.

"Porthos..." he whispered, glancing at his friend as he settled back, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?" Because the 'yeah' was clearly a no. Bare-feet and in a dishevelled nightshirt, Porthos fidgeted slightly, then crossed his arms once again, this time in clear discomfort - something Aramis wasn't used to seeing in his stalwart friend.

"We were almost killed," Porthos grumbled, staring down at the ground.

How strange that statement sounded coming from Porthos! But Aramis had a vague feeling that he understood what Porthos meant.

"Hardly for the first time," he pointed out half-heartedly.

"No... But every other time, I 'ad a chance to defend myself, you know? To fight back. But this..." He shook his head again.

"We didn't see it coming."

They hadn't. The wine was supposed to have come from the queen. It had been too clever, for it would have raised much suspicion had the man claimed the drink had been ordered by the king; but the queen...

They hadn't seen it coming.

This sense of... vulnerability... was almost too new. It was sobering to be reminded of their mortality like this.

"Sorry I woke you up," said Porthos, clearly wanting to close the subject; he glanced around the room, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "You good to sleep? Need anythin'?"

"I am well, my friend. Thank you. Go back to sleep."

With a nod and a pat on the shoulder, Porthos left him. And with a distinctly uncomfortable feeling settling all over him, Aramis, too tired to dwell on the events of the past few days, fell back into sleep.

Into an abyss.

So bottomless and dark, it was consuming him like a living, breathing creature – it was suffocating – how was he supposed to breathe, to subsist – he looked around, staring into the pitch dark until his eyes hurt. Porthos? They'd talked just two seconds ago – Porthos –

Was he awake?

The mat beneath him – hard.

The sweat on his brow – wet, sticky.

Aramis pushed himself to a more upright position and forced himself to calm down.

Calm. He was awake. It was only the night.

He lay back down, straining to hear the quiet breathing of Athos and d'Artagnan.

His heart continued to stagger. The throbbing absence of something gaping there - the teasing remnants of some unknown terror – he could not remember. He must have been dreaming, but he could not remember; he didn't know if he truly wanted to recall the dreams but anxiety coursed through his veins like a venom and he did not know how to be rid of it. He shifted on the pillows. He didn't know what to do.

It was too silent.

Perhaps Porthos was still awake – no snoring could be heard - and so dark – why hadn't a candle been left lit? His eyes roamed around the room. There - a circle of light! And there... standing in the middle of it was Her, tall and graceful, with the Dauphin in her arms. Aramis smiled, starting towards them, but Anne turned her back, keeping the baby out of sight.

Frowning, Aramis quickened his steps, confused at her behaviour , but he suddenly realized that he wasn't moving. No matter how fast or how long he walked, the distance was always the same – he wasn't getting any closer. He tried to call out, but his throat produced no sound. He broke into a run: he'd made a promise and he would keep it – he would keep them safe – but the darkness pressed hard on him from all around, closing on him as if he were a most prized prey and Aramis fought it, fought with all his might-

"Aramis, awake!"

The name left his lips before consciousness fully caught up with awareness - "Athos!"

His heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear himself. Athos's eyes, so close, were full of fear and worry.

"You were dreaming," he stated carefully.

But when had Aramis even closed his eyes - was this still the same night? Why did the queen keep turning away from him - the strange look in the captain's eyes earlier – this accursed darkness - was this the same night -

"Athos – I'm sorry -"

"It's alright. You're alright." His heart still beat so wildly – "You're alright, Aramis." A careful squeeze before Athos's grip on his hands loosened, and slowly retreated, although his friend remained close by.

"You're warm. I don't know if you're still fevered - "

No.

Aramis kept a tight grip on Athos's hand until the whirlwind in his mind quietened down, and his heart fought its way back to settling down. Then, with a grateful pat on Athos's knuckles, he let go.

"I'm alright."

It sounded weak and lame even to his own ears.

"Aramis." The green eyes never leaving Aramis's face, Athos pulled the nearby stool and sat down. "What is it that you fear?"

There was that habitual readiness in him, Aramis observed when he looked over exhaustedly. That preparedness against possible danger - the unspoken communication between two soldiers that had served side by side for years. Athos asked in order to be prepared; expected the answer as a comrade and a lieutenant. Not as the friend Aramis had burdened with a treacherous secret.

Should he answer?

Should he indulge; take advantage of the position he'd put his friend in by continuing to confide in him?

Athos's hand circled around his wrist, warm and comforting, and made the decision for him.

"Nothing," he breathed, leaving his head back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes. Dawn, he longed for the dawn. Despair was taking roots within him like a real, physical thing. What if he dreamt again?

What if he talked, spilled this secret while he slept? What if she kept turning away from him – what if he failed to keep his promise - what if, the next time, poison found its way to -

Involuntarily, he reached for Athos's hand on his wrist, gripping it tightly.

I've already asked too much of you, my friend, but... "Will you stay?"

Because all of his defences were gone.

A moment of silence, then Athos settled back, propped his legs up on the bed and made himself comfortable.

"Sleep," he commanded.

And they both slept, and neither of them dreamt.

So, was Rochefort behind this weird attempt on the king, and the testing of the Musketeers? Your guess is as good as mine.

I hope this was a satisfactory enough conclusion.