Athos
He never understood what happened next. With one swift movement, Aramis reached for Porthos, his hands grasping the big man's shirt. Wild desperation was clear in his dark eyes.
At least he can see.
Athos waited, uncertain what to do. He could not be sure of his brother's mental state.
He watched as Aramis' fingers ghosted over Porthos' wounded side, then briefly touched his head.
The medic took in shallow breaths, trying to avoid a coughing fit. His hands shook slightly.
"Aramis, I'll take care of him," Athos said softly. The marksman met his gaze, his desperate eye pleading. He then turned back to Porthos' wounds.
Athos took a closer look at the injury. It was truly awful. He guessed that the slash had been made by a strong man wielding a serrated blade.
He sighed, and glanced at Aramis. "We need to cauterize it."
His brother gave him a slight nod, but Athos could see that there was some doubt in his expressive brown eyes.
The last thing Athos wanted to do was to inflict pain on any of his brothers. However, this time, he could not avoid it.
"I'll do it, Aramis," he said gently.
The medic clearly wanted to answer, but he started to cough violently. Athos supported him, and saw that d'Artagnan had coaxed Porthos to stay put. He gave the Gascon a nod of gratitude.
Aramis leaned his forehead against Athos' arm. He was struggling to breathe. The swordsman gently rubbed his back. Then a thought occurred to him. He had never checked Aramis' back for injuries.
"D'Artagnan? Look at his back-make sure there are no injuries!" he ordered.
The Gascon obeyed. Athos' heart stuttered when he saw d'Artagnan wince.
"What is it?" The swordsman struggled to keep his voice calm.
"Bruises. Mainly on the left. They really did a number on him."
Aramis squeezed Athos' hand lightly, but his nails dug into brother's flesh for a moment.
I am here! Don't talk about me like I'm not!
"It's easy to forget that when you're so quiet," Athos murmured, his attention focused on the Gascon. When their little brother's hands lightly touched the marksman's back, the lieutenant felt Aramis stiffen.
After a few minutes, d'Artagnan finished his examination, and shook his head.
"I don't think anything is broken, but I'm guessing it hurts like hell."
Athos glanced uneasily at Porthos. His brother lay dazed, his eyes now closed. Even close to unconsciousness, the big man kept a grip on Aramis' leg.
They needed to rest, but all Athos could give them was an order to set off soon.
You know it's nearly impossible with the condition Aramis in… but we have no choice.
"Aramis how can we help you?" he asked, gently stroking the marksman's hair.
The injured man was quiet for a moment. Then he tensed. Athos braced himself, preparing to hold his brother during another bout of coughing. However, the medic pulled away. His despairing gaze met Athos' eyes, then turned to Porthos.
Athos reached for a medical kit, but froze when he heard a sound. An instant later, two guns were aimed at the bushes. A familiar voice called out.
"Don't shoot! It's Morineau."
Only then did Athos realize that Aramis had a dagger in his head, ready to throw at a moment's notice. And not just any dagger-it was the swordsman's dagger. The marksman caught his brother's eye, and gave him a little smirk. His face was still much too ashen for Athos' liking, and his breathing too shallow and fast-but finally, he was lucid. Athos knew that Aramis' surge of energy would quickly pass as soon as he finished taking care of Porthos. Still, seeing Aramis ready to fight was a balm for swordsman's guilt ridden soul.
Aramis accepted a little pot of hot water from d'Artagnan, and added some dry leaves and flowers. Then he put it aside.
"You must hold him still," the medic whispered.
"Should I prepare him?" Athos asked gravely, cracking his knuckles.
Aramis shook his head, and gestured towards Porthos' bloody face.
"Concussion?" Athos guessed.
Aramis nodded.
The medic took a very thin dagger from his kit, and started to heat it.
"Should I wash the blood away?" d'Artagnan asked, a wet cloth already in his hand.
Aramis nodded. As d'Artagnan wiped away the blood, the medic's eyes never left Porthos.
Athos folded a leather belt, and gently put it in Porthos' mouth.
"Bite on it," he ordered. "We cannot afford to make our presence known."
Porthos blinked sluggishly.
"Mis?" he mumbled.
The medic squeezed his hand, briefly touching his face.
It spoke volumes about Porthos' condition that these simple gestures managed to calm him down. He obediently bit down on the leather, merely flinching when d'Artagnan started to clean the wound. However, when Aramis started to work, Porthos began to struggle, trying to elude the pain that was being inflicted on him.
Athos focused on holding his brother as still as possible. Two other musketeers were needed to help him immobilize their suffering brother. Porthos' painful cries were muffled by the leather, transforming into low growls of distress. It reminded them of the sound he had been making when they had found him.
The smell of burnt flesh was now in the air. Athos had expected it to be much stronger, but he couldn't spare a glance at Aramis. His whole focus was on keeping Porthos still.
Suddenly, Porthos broke their hold, and curled up on his uninjured side. Athos looked at Aramis. The marksman slowly corked the bottle of brandy, his hands shaking a bit. Then he reached for a bandage, patiently waiting until his comrades had managed to straighten their brother. Athos lifted Porthos' upper body a bit, giving Aramis better access to wind the bandage around the big man's body. Once he finished, the medic gestured for Athos to lay their patient down. He then started to clean the head wound.
A bullet graze.
Although it had stopped bleeding some time ago, Aramis decided to stitch it. Athos was amazed to see how steady the medic's hands were as he worked on the wound. This was the very same Aramis whose whole body had been trembling the last time he had flushed the wound with alcohol.
He gestured towards the bandages, and looked at Athos pleadingly. It was then that the swordsman realized that Aramis was begging him for help.
I should have offered sooner.
Athos took charge of patching up Porthos. Aramis closed his eyes and curled up on his side, close to the dark skinned musketeer. Just when it seemed that exhaustion had finally won, Aramis suddenly sat up, his eyes wide with panic. He frantically seized Athos' hand.
"Rochefort! The True Musketeers' leader- it's him!" he croaked, his voice barely audible. Talking was obviously not easy for him.
"He abused her!" Aramis whispered the horrible news, and paid for it with a terrible cough. Tears fell down his cheek as he struggled to breathe.
D'Artagnan offered him some tea, but he shook his head violently.
Athos gently rocked him.
Rochefort.
This explains so much, but at the same time, it has made things much more situation is far worse than I thought. We must leave immediately.
He looked at the trembling form in his arms.
"We must go," he said slowly.
Aramis nodded against his chest.
"What can we do to help you?" the swordsman asked gently.
Aramis shook his head slightly.
"Did d'Artagnan's tea help?" Athos asked.
The marksman waved his hand.
It soothes, but it doesn't heal.
However, Aramis accepted the tea, and drank it slowly. As he handed the cup back to d'Artagnan, his hand shook badly. Athos internally winced at the sight.
Aramis looked to be close to passing out. Athos helped him to lean against the saddle, and somehow managed to keep him upright. After everything that had happened, it was a true miracle that his friend was able to function…
At least long enough to help Porthos… as always, Aramis has put everyone's needs before his own.
"We will set off at first light." the swordsman decided.
His comrades nodded in silence. Athos devised a guard rotation, then watched as d'Artagnan and Morineau set up their cots. The Gascon tried hard not to show how much his throat was bothering him.
The swordsman had hoped for a peaceful night, but Aramis' cough soon broke the silence. Athos immediately went to the medic's side. When he realized that Aramis' fever had spiked, he cursed under his breath. He took a wet cloth and put it on the marksman's forehead. The injured man moaned softly. His breathing was too fast-and too shallow.
"Aramis…" Athos murmured. "Breathe with me, brother." He placed Aramis' palm on his own chest, hoping that the medic would feel its movement and breathe in time with it. However, the marksman succumbed to another coughing bout, and desperately gasped for air.
"Breathe, Aramis!" Athos whispered. He could feel Morineau's and d'Artagnan's anguished eyes on them.
The medic grasped his hand desperately.
"Can't!" he whispered, wild panic in his eyes.
Athos felt a wave of despair threatening to engulf him. Aramis made a strange noise, then collapsed. Athos caught him, and held the medic against his chest. With each painful gasp that Aramis made, the swordsman felt his heart shatter.
We're losing him. He has given the last of his strength to tend to Porthos.
"Athos?" D'Artagnan's voice could not hide the fear he felt for their brother.
The swordsman gently stroked Aramis' hair.
This is Porthos' place, not mine… if I hadn't left, he might still be able to take care of Aramis. If I hadn't left THEM, Aramis would still be safe and whole.
"He is still with us," Athos replied.
But for how much longer?