Thank you, Uia and Julie, for your comments on the last chapter!

Continuing with the unplanned saga, this is for 'Betrayed'. It's a longer chapter this time because Aramis's mental faculties aren't up to their usual standard, and he and Porthos were simply too much fun to write.

I plan to go back and forth across this timeline with further prompts to fill out the details of what's happened, so the 'holes' in this one are mostly intentional. Let me know if there's anything particularly confusing, and, as ever, please excuse the mistakes - even computers aren't smart enough to catch them all!

(IV) Betrayed

The village inn of Auvers-Sur-Oise, some twenty-two miles north of Paris. Late November, a cloudy, bleak day. It's early in the afternoon. A group of King's Musketeers hang about mysteriously by the fire in the common room, some of them sat around a table, others close by; their expressions uniformly dark, their presence intimidating. Every ten minutes or so, one or two of them will break from the group and go up, then come down hurriedly; there will be some hushed activity, murmured words, exchanged glances, and more coming and going about.

Something is happening.

No one knows what. The villagers are curious.

Three rooms upstairs have been cleared of their unfortunate occupants, hastily offered exceedingly comfortable bales of hay in the stables instead. The way the Captain of the Musketeers stormed in the day before, with two of his men carried in by their comrades at his heels, and started ordering about for rooms and a surgeon and supplies, had left the innkeeper and his wife in a state of bewildered frenzy. But by now, on the second day, word has spread quietly that the condition of the wounded Musketeers are indeed grave, and the village priest, who may or may not have been summoned 'discreetly' by the innkeeper, is ominously hanging around.

The atmosphere is subdued; quiet. The villagers are watching, spying from over the rims of their mugs.

What passes in the rooms on the upper floor, however, will remain strictly between those walls.

/

Aramis was finally coming around.

Porthos, currently alone in the room with Aramis and Athos, leaned forward expectantly, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his heart thumping sharply against his ribcage. Aside from Athos's brief wakefulness when they'd first discovered him and Aramis in the tunnels, neither of his friends had woken up properly; Athos lay quiet, not a twitch of a finger, nor a hitch in his breath since losing consciousness the previous day, whereas Aramis had taken up a fever, the surgeon grimly announcing that his wound had become infected the previous night. It had been a long, long night, trying to keep Aramis cool, to keep him from shifting around and hurting himself, sitting patiently with him as he dreamed and moaned and kept murmuring 'Athos'.

"I'm startin' to get jealous," Porthos murmured with a roll of his eyes at one point, as d'Artagnan was dozing in the chair by Athos's bed and Tréville had stepped out, "you never once mentioned my name."

The answering murmur was unintelligible.

"Come on, Aramis. Just wake up, yeah? Athos is.. not wakin' up, an' - d'Artagnan's takin' it real hard. Between you 'an me, I'm not.. takin' this whole thin' wonderfully, either."

"Aramis, we need to know what happened in that tunnel. We need to know what went wrong; how - how this all 'appened. So just.. Come around, yeah? Come around."

With no sign that Aramis had heard any of that, the night had passed on, the day dawning without any new promises. Porthos had managed to catch some sleep as the captain had taken his place beside Aramis early in the morning; and around noon, Porthos had had to practically order d'Artagnan to get downstairs and take a proper meal. That had been nearly an hour ago; Porthos guessed that the Gascon must have either fallen asleep right where he sat, or their comrades downstairs must have found ways to keep him diverted, taking his mind off of Aramis and Athos if only for a short while. If that were the case, Porthos would be grateful.

His attention was drawn back to the present as Aramis shifted his head on the pillow, his fingers bunching up the blanket.

"Aramis. Do you 'ear me?"

"..."

"Come on, Aramis.. Wake up."

"...what," Aramis's eyelids fluttered.

"Yeah, that's it. That's it.."

"Athos...?"

"Nah. No, it's me, Porthos."

Aramis finally blinked his eyes open, then frowned deeply in confusion. "Porthos?"

"Yeah." Relieved, Porthos couldn't help but smile. "Finally. How you doin'?"

Lying on his front with his head turned to the side, Aramis blinked rapidly, then his eyes left Porthos's face to roam around the room, taking in his surroundings.

"Where are we?" he breathed.

"At the inn in Auvers-Sur-Oise. We found you an' Athos yesterday, brought you 'ere."

"...yesterday?"

"Hm."

Aramis seemed to need time to digest that piece of news. After several moments of silence, he took a deep breath and began to drag his arms up to push himself on the bed. As quick as Porthos was, he couldn't prevent the sharp hiss and flinch that arrested the movement, Aramis's eyes falling shut in pain.

"'ey, don' move, don' move." Porthos gently took hold of Aramis's elbow and moved the arm back down onto the bed. "You're wounded, remember?"

It took several more seconds until Aramis seemed to understand that. But eventually, some of the lines on his face smoothed, and he sighed. Holding his friend's unfocused gaze, Porthos pulled the blanket back up over him.

"How're you feelin'?"

"..I'm.. hot.."

Porthos chuckled. "I'd reckon you'd be. You're sort of burnin' up with fever."

"..fever.. infection?"

Porthos gave a slow nod. He could almost see the time and effort it was taking for coherent thought to form in his friend's mind.

"Where's... Athos?"

"'e's 'ere. Look." He shuffled to the side along with the stool to give Aramis a view of their sleeping friend. Aramis's brows knit together as he stared, then suddenly, his eyes began to widen.

"'What - happened to him?" he gasped, "Is he hurt?!"

"Whoa, whoa! What do you mean 'is 'e hurt'-"

"Porthos - what - happened? Is he alright, is he well?"

"'Slow down- slow down, Aramis. Athos is not well, but 'e will be-"

"No, you don't - understand-" Aramis's hand shot out to grab Porthos's wrist, looking up him in agitation, "He was - fine. He was fine, I swear to you, Porthos-"

"Alrigh'.. Alright, I got you. But you really gotta calm down now. Athos is gonna be alrigh'. An' you, too; you're both-"

"You don't understand!" Wrung eyes filled with fear and - and something Porthos could not identify - "You don't understand.."

"Alright. Then why don' you tell me what it is that I don' understand, huh?"

"Porthos, he - he was fine, he wasn't - wounded.." Aramis looked at him in desperation, his brow furrowed as he tried to think, to gather his memories, "He wasn't.. wounded.. He can't have been..."

"Hold on," Porthos said slowly, frowning, "What are you sayin'? That you didn' see Athos gettin' 'urt?"

"He - wasn't - wounded!" Aramis all but rounded on Porthos, his hold on Porthos's wrist tightening and he pulled himself towards Porthos on the bed, his breath hitching, "He was standing," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I fell and he.. he..." He drew back just as suddenly, his expression rapidly turning into one of horror, "Dear God, Porthos - he was alone. I left him alone.."

Alone?

Wait a second.

Was Porthos getting this right? If Aramis hadn't seen Athos getting wounded...

"I.. left him alone.."

"Alrigh'," Porthos said aloud, moving gently to pry open Aramis's fingers on his wrist, then covering his friend's hand with his own and guiding them back down onto the bed, "Listen to me." He shifted on the stool to block Aramis's view of Athos and ducked his head to re-capture his friend's gaze. "Let's get one thin' straight. You didn' leave 'im alone. Now you may very well argue that I can't know that - I wasn' there. But I know you didn' leave 'im alone. If your brain weren' addled by fever righ' now you'd never be sayin' stuff like that." He smiled crookedly before continuing solemnly. "Aramis, we don' leave one another alone. Musketeers don'. An' we definitely don'. So, you didn' leave Athos alone. Do we agree on that?"

"I..." Aramis swallowed, struggling to hold on to the irrefutable logic Porthos had presented to him. In short course, it seemed to work, as some of the tension in his frame melted away; then his eyes left Porthos's face again and slid back towards the direction of Athos's bed. Porthos waited patiently as Aramis tried to sort out his thoughts.

"Porthos, he... Was he wounded...?" he whispered, more to himself than to Porthos. Porthos, despite himself, felt his concern spike at this persistent confusion. Was it only the fever meddling with Aramis's head and he was worrying in vain? Or was there something else going on?

"Aramis, why don' you tell me what you remember, hm? Then we can-"

"How bad?"

"Eh?"

"How bad, Porthos - how badly is he hurt? Is it grievous?" He made another feeble effort to get a glimpse of Athos, "Is he dying?"

"No. He's not dyin' - no one's dyin'."

"I need to see him. Help me to-"

"Oi, stop!"

Drawing back from the bed and straightening his back on the stool, Porthos somehow seemed to grow even bigger in the room. "I know you're not feelin' well, I know you're worried an' not thinkin' straigh', but this is gettin' tedious. Athos is goin' to be alrigh', Aramis. I don' care 'ow many times I 'ave to say it 'till you get it: Athos. Is gonna be. Alrigh'. Alright? Say it, Aramis."

"Yes.." Aramis murmured shakily, "Alright.."

"Good."

But although that seemed to have gotten through to him, Porthos still observed worriedly that his friend's fingers continued to tease the sheet, himself breathing in short, nervous pants. Taking another deep breath, he carefully let it out through his nose.

He truly hated fevers.

Turning on the stool, he reached for the pitcher and cup and wordlessly helped Aramis to some water.

"Thanks.."

"Hm. Come 'ere." Picking up the cloth he'd been using to wipe Aramis's face, Porthos ran it over his friend's brow again. "Look. Just try 'an get back to sleep, yeah? We'll be 'ere for a while yet. Everythin's under control."

But instead of reassuring him, Porthos's words piqued Aramis's interest. "Who else is here with you? How did you find us?"

"It's a long story, Aramis. Why don't I tell you later, when you're feelin' better?"

"Is there a surgeon - a physician? Did someone qualified take a look at Athos?"

"There is a surgeon. 'e certainly seemed qualified, but I'm not qualified to tell if 'e's real or fakin' it, am I?"

Aramis blinked in surprise, and a moment later, a breathy chuckle flew from his lips. Porthos found himself grinning.

"Now that's better, isn' it?"

"Good to see you.. still have your humour.."

"Hey, of course I got it. It's me best asset."

Aramis took a careful breath and let it out shakily, and as his eyes closed, he almost seemed to deflate before Porthos's eyes.

"It's good to have you here," he whispered.

Porthos swallowed. "Yeah."

Thank God we got to you in time.

"Sleep a bit, Aramis, huh? You really need to."

"Hmm."

Porthos watched as his friend seemed to relax somewhat more, his weight sinking a bit deeper into the mattress. But just as he'd thought Aramis had fallen back to sleep, his eyes fluttered open again, his gaze anxiously darting towards Athos's bed, as if he was simply unable to let go.

"It's alright, Aramis," Porthos murmured softly, moving his hand to rest gently on Aramis's shoulder, "I'm 'ere. Tréville's 'ere, an' d'Artagnan's 'ere. We got Athos. Everythin's under control."

Aramis's hand twitched once, twice, then his body relaxed, and he let go.

"Athos..."

"Alright, it's alright-"

"- I'll find the surgeon. All this moving about- he's going to aggravate his wound."

"-stop- stop-"

"Ssh, be calm, Aramis. Be calm."

"We must - other way - Athos -"

"What is he talking about?"

"..."

"I don' know. But whatever's happened in that tunnel, Cap'n... it was bad."

The door opened and closed.

"-Boutin's returned. They've found this."

"But not the man it belongs?"

"No."

"Well, this means nothin'. Tells us nothin'."

"No. We need either of them... both of them to wake up, and tell us what's happened."

"...How long is that going to be?"

". . ."

"Hey. It won' be long. They'll be alrigh'."

"You've been saying that since we found them, Porthos."

"Yeah, well - 'cause they're going to be. Or do you wanna think otherwise?"

"..No. No, I can't think otherwise."

Silence again.

The sound of water dripping; fire crackling in the background, drunken footsteps on the floorboards outside.

"d'Artagnan. Why don't you go to the other room, get some rest? The night is still young. You'll switch with Porthos later."

"I won't leave him."

"Then throw a blanket by fire and lie down. I don't want to order you, but act sensibly."

. . .

Porthos-

"I'll wake you if Athos' stirs."

The hours rolled on.

The second night had spent its youth and embraced its maturity. Aramis's fever had steadily risen. The re-summoned surgeon had had nothing more to offer than the medicine he'd left earlier: they needed to keep him cool, he'd said, as though they didn't know it, and perhaps, move him to another, cooler room. They couldn't put out the fire in the current one, for Athos still lay deathly pale in the bed he'd been placed near the hearth, no amount of blankets or hearty fire having yet accomplished to warm him. Then perhaps, the surgeon mused, they ought to move Athos to another room - transferring Aramis would, in all likelihood, cause him nothing short of agony, anyway. Yes. Yes, he should have thought of that sooner. Move Monsieur Athos to another room, and light another fire there; put out this one here and open all the windows; that should help both gentlemen immeasurably.

Porthos now wondered if he'd sold himself short regarding his qualification to form an opinion on the surgeon's credibility. The feeling was shared: d'Artagnan snarled so maliciously at the man that he backed all the way to the door, and Tréville verbally kicked his backside out of the room.

Now here they were: the four Musketeers and their captain, crowded in a dismal two-bed inn room, locked in a world of their own.

/

Aramis wouldn't settle.

"- Ath's," he mumbled, his face contorted in pain, shirt damp with sweat, "- out - Athos.."

Porthos squeezed the wet rag in his hand so tightly it dripped all of its moisture onto the wrinkled sheets.

".. It's just not gettin' through 'is thick skull," he muttered, his anger directed not at Aramis, but at his own helplessness.

"Porthos. Take a break. I'm here, I'll sit with him."

"I'm fine."

"- what's - Porthos-"

"Sshh.. What're you gettin' so worked up about, Aramis, eh? I told you Athos'll be fine. I thought we agreed on that."

"What - what happened to - Athos?"

"..."

"I'm really not likin' confused Aramis righ' now. Really not."

Smiling, the captain reached to clap Porthos's shoulder consolingly.

"Captain.."

"Yes, Aramis. What is it?"

"Captain-"

"'ey, slow down - slow down, Aramis."

"Calm, be calm. Breathe."

"We- listen - listen to me-"

"I am listening."

"We were... betrayed!"