Into The Unknown

Prompts: #15 science gone wrong #10 blood loss

"No. Yer not doin' that."

Porthos steps protectively between Lemay and the bed Aramis is occupying. D'Artagnan joins him, hand on his sword. Getting up from his stool beside the bed, Athos completes the line of defense,

"He's right," Athos says icily. "You're not touching him unless you put that down."

He points at the scalpel and at the bowl Lemay is holding. The doctor looks at the three musketeers, intimidated, but not willing to yield.

"Captain, you have to see reason," he addresses Athos. "He needs to be bled! It may be his only chance!"

Athos doesn't blink as he slowly shakes his head.

"No."

Behind him, he hears Aramis moan softly, and he wishes the marksman was awake to argue with Lemay over the course of his treatment. But two days after getting shot, a fever is burning through him, and Aramis hasn't been lucid for hours.

"Captain," Lemay tries again. "He has an infection. We need to drain it out of his blood. The vile juices have to leave his body. It's a proven method, and the only option we have left."

"Aramis says it's rubbish," Porthos throws in, squaring his shoulders. "If 'e was able to, 'e'd explain to ya that-"

"But he's not," Lemay cuts him off. Athos can tell that the doctor means well and that he thinks he is fighting for his patient and not against him, but it doesn't change the fact that he's wrong.

"He's not able to, and even if he were, he's not a doctor. He's a gifted man with rudimentary medical knowledge, but he isn't a physician. I am!"

Beside Athos, d'Artagnan fidgets with indignation, and on his other side Porthos huffs.

"'E's treated more wounds than you ever will. 'E's treated soldiers with real injuries while you've been 'andin' out smellin' salts to the ladies at court an' cough juice to the King."

Although they all know Lemay is capable of much more, Athos thinks that Porthos has a point. And it's why they're standing here, protecting their brother from a practice they've never seen Aramis apply in the field. A practice which Aramis, in fact, condemns with conviction. And more than once, he's explained to them why.

"He's lost enough blood already," Athos says cooly. "Taking more will only weaken him further."

Lemay raises a pleading hand.

"But I am convinced it will help him. Please, Captain, do you want to be responsible for your friend's death?"

Porthos growls and, fists balled, takes a step forward. Athos holds him back with an arm across his chest.

"We'll take that chance," he says, and Lemay flinches underneath his withering glare. "And unless there's any other and sensible form of treatment you can offer, we're asking you to leave."

Lemay hesitates. Metal hisses when, as a warning, d'Artagnan begins to slide his sword out of its scabbard. Then Lemay exhales in resignation.

"No," he admits. "There's nothing else I can do. Keep his wounds clean. Change the bandages regularly. Make him drink. Pray. Summon me if you change your mind, but it may be too late by then."

The doctor drops the scalpel into the unused bowl, throws a last, frustrated glance at Aramis' still form, turns on his heel and leaves.

Athos feels himself deflate, and, returning to Aramis' side, his heart races with the same feelings of doubt he can see on Porthos' and d'Artagnan's faces. He looks at their injured friend, his arm and leg heavily bandaged, his dark curls plastered to his face, so pale in spite of the fever. Aramis had lost so much blood by the time they'd got him here, and when Lemay had finally sewn up the hole in his arm and the deep slash in his thigh he'd looked like death.

"Did we do the right thing?" D'Artagnan voices the question they're all thinking.

"Yeah." Porthos sits down by Aramis' uninjured side, looking ridiculously big on that small stool. He dunks a cloth into a bowl of water and gently wipes Aramis' face. "Yeah, we did. 'e told us that bleedin' a wounded man only kill's 'em faster. 'E told us many times."

"But the infection?" D'Artagnan rakes his hand through his grown-out hair. "It needs to be drained, doesn't it?"

Athos, one hand settled on Aramis' good shoulder, shakes his head.

"An infected wound needs to be drained. Yes. Not the whole body. We've kept his wounds clean. We've done everything he would have done."

As if to reassure himself, Athos checks the bandage around Aramis' arm. There's no oozing, no foul smell. The same, he knows, goes for his leg. He's been checking it diligently.

"We've done the right thing," he reassures his brothers, reassures himself. "Lemay is wrong. Now let's make sure Aramis stays alive so he can tell him that himself."

D'Artagnan nods. "I'll go fetch more water."

Porthos continues to wet compresses and places them where Aramis taught him to, tirelessly explaining why. The marksman gives a little whimper of distress and rolls his head in Porthos' direction, his eyes fluttering, but not opening.

"I know," Porthos grumbles compassionately. "'Feels bloody cold. I hate compresses too."

Athos reaches for Aramis' rosary on the bedside table. He runs it through his fingers, searching his memory for the old prayers. He doesn't believe in a merciful God, but Aramis does, and they need all the help they can get.

One week later

"It's astounding," Lemay says, rewrapping Aramis' leg. "You're healing remarkably well! I think you're even ready to start walking on it."

Aramis smiles. He's sitting upright in his bed, his natural colour returned to his face, and with clear eyes. His arm is still in a sling, but the fever is gone, and an empty plate on his bedside table proof to the return of his appetite.

"Excellent," he says cheerfully. "As fun as it's all been with you, gentlemen" - he looks at his three brothers lounging around him in their usual spots - "entertainment in this facility has been lacking, and I have... matters to attend."

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, and Porthos rumbles a laugh. Athos' mouth twitches.

"Before you do," Lemay says seriously. "I have to admit that this has been an interesting lesson."

"Yer admitting that bleedin' people is wrong then?" Porthos' face grows stern again.

"I'm not." The doctor looks pensive. "We don't know if blood-letting would have changed the outcome. But the fact that you've recovered so quickly, much quicker than I would have thought possible - I'll give it some thought."

Aramis gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Bleeding makes no sense in a patient who's already lost a lot of blood. It only drains them of their strength."

"...and I told 'im so!"

"And I am very glad you did." Aramis gives his best friend a warm and genuine smile.

"In that case," Lemay continues. "I will consider it the next time the occasion arises."

A moment of uncomfortable silence ensues. They all know that there will be a next time. They are soldiers. They will get wounded, and they will lose blood. It's only a question of who's turn it is next.

"Until then, will you please excuse me?" Aramis breaks the uneasiness, mischief in his voice and a sly glint in his dark eyes. "I need to get dressed, and if someone could fashion me with a cane? There is a lady who is desperate to assure herself of my well-being, and I would like to receive her fully clothed and on my feet."

"I bet she's desperate to assure herself of something else as well," d'Artagnan comments wryly, but the tension is broken.

"I will leave you to it, then."

Lemay takes his medical bag and leaves. Athos leaves as well, after a last warning in Aramis' direction to take it easy. As he pulls the door to the infirmary closed, he hears the voices of his brothers behind him - banter, teasing, laughter. A weight drops from Athos chest. Straightening his spine, he strides back to his captain's office. He, too, has matters to attend.