Porthos
He sat at their empty table, nursing a bottle of wine that tasted like acid. He had needed an escape from Athos' desperate calls for their deceased brother. He knew he had to be strong for Athos and d'Artagnan. Providing Athos survived…
Treville had brought the royal physician to the garrison, but the man had not promised anything more than his predecessor had. He had left a few draughts with some detailed instructions. D'Artagnan promised to follow them meticulously, although Porthos knew that the Gascon should rest soon. When that time came, he would take his place at Athos' bedside. Porthos was determined that they would not lose another brother.
He heard a desperate cry for Aramis, and stood up, ready to take a quick walk to the stables…. anywhere far enough away that he would not have to listen to Athos' calls. But just after the swordsman's shout, he heard d'Artagnan calling for him. Porthos ran upstairs and threw the door open. When he saw d'Artagnan supporting Athos, he wasted no time in lunging towards his friends. He guessed that Athos, who was clearly in the grip of a fever, had probably left his bed and tried to escape the room. Suddenly Athos went limp under their hands. Porthos caught him, and laid him on the bed. D'Artagnan frantically checked for the swordsman's pulse. He relaxed a few moment later, and nodded reassuringly.
"He's burning up," Porthos mumbled.
"He was conscious for a moment-conscious enough to refuse the draught," d'Artagnan blurted out. "Then he just passed out."
Porthos nodded grimly. "We need to clean his wounds. I'll hold him steady while you tend to the injuries."
I'm not letting you go, Athos.
D'Artagnan set to work. He redressed several wounds before going to work on the badly infected gash. Porthos stoically bore the foul odor which usually made him sick. More than once he caught himself waiting for Aramis to come and take over.
Athos was too obtunded to need much attention from Porthos. From time to time, he made a feeble attempt to avoid the pain, but most of the time he simply lay still, his breath only occasionally hitching. Porthos could barely stand seeing him like this.
"Should we fetch Lemay?" d'Artagnan asked.
"I'll send for him when we're done."
"I can go," d'Artagnan said hastily.
"You want to see Constance." Porthos said flatly. He could not blame the lad for taking the chance to escape the silent vigil that was likely to end in sorrow. Moreover, if Constance decided to leave the grieving Queen alone, she would probably need d'Artagnan. "I can't blame you. Go ahead, I'll take care of him. You need a break."
D'Artagnan finished winding the last bandage. He was headed towards the exit when there was a sudden knock on the door.
The Gascon readied his dagger and opened the door. One of the other musketeers, a man named Paul, entered. He gave the dagger a wide berth.
"Porthos, there is a boy at the gates. He swears that he has an important message for you."
The big man nodded, and headed for the gate. D'Artagnan followed close behind, having asked Paul to stay with Athos. The big man understood the Gascon's anxiety.
A frightened little boy stood near the gate, nervously watching the musketeers on duty.
"Monsieur Porthos?" he asked. "The lady told me that you should to go to the old warehouse near the port. The one called the Iron House. She said to tell you that you'll find your friend there."
Porthos fought the urge to detain the child and brutally interrogate him. He knew that if he frightened the boy, the child would simply run away, and they would lose any chance to get more information.
"Who told you to come here?" Porthos growled.
"A woman wearing man's clothes. She told me that mentioning a forget-me-not would make everything clear, Monsieur!"
"Milady!" Porthos hissed. The child took a step back, and the big man tossed him some money. He realized that d'Artagnan was not standing beside him anymore. The Gascon was already on his way to the stables, shouting that they needed two horses immediately.
Porthos found Calbert, and ordered him to stay with Athos. At this point, the man was the closest thing to a medic that they had.
A few minutes later, the two musketeers were galloping through narrow streets of Paris, heading towards the port.
Porthos' thoughts were completely occupied with the one name that was running through his brain. He refused to consider what might be waiting for they finally reached the warehouse, Porthos stormed inside. It was pitch dark. He heard d'Artagnan strike a spark. A moment later, the trembling gleam of a candle cut through the darkness.
The warehouse was nearly empty, although a few abandoned items lay near the walls.
"Is it a trap?" d'Artagnan asked in a low tone.
It seemed unlikely. Milady had recently been working with them.
Porthos shook his head. He was trying to reign in the despair gripping his heart when he saw it-a human shape curled up in the corner. In a few strides, he was there. As he squatted down, his knees nearly buckled. He gently swept aside the rags which covered Aramis' body. His brother lay on his side, his face deathly pale. A few drops of dried blood were clung to his lips.
Aramis was wearing a set of black clothes which clearly were not his. Milady must have discovered the plot to use his dead body against those whom he had loved. They could not stay here any longer.
Porthos knew he should think about setting a trap for their enemies, but all he could do was gently caress his brother's cold cheek.
The big man carefully scooped Aramis' broken body into his arms. He felt as if his heart was shattering, and was not sure why he was still breathing. His heart should have stopped when his brother's had. He should have known the exact moment when Aramis had died, but he had felt nothing.
Did I just imagine the bond between us? But it's not important now. I've lost him… Christ… why have you taken him from me?! You have everyone you want… I… I cannot lose him and remain alone… remain sane… without him…
He heard d'Artagnan's muffled sobs, but ignored them, slowly making his way to the exit.
He was grateful to Milady that she had given him the chance to bury Aramis as a hero with an untarnished name...and yet he hated her when Aramis' head lolled on his arm. He had not yet seen the wound which took his brother from him. He had no desire to search for it right now, but he guessed that Aramis' blood, and possibly his brain matter, would leave their traces on his vest.
He did not let d'Artagnan help him when he mounted his horse. He adjusted Aramis' body in order to shield him under his cloak. It would be better for Aramis not to be seen in those clothes. The material was fine. Probably silk-the clothes of a nobleman...
Porthos did not remember much from their journey back to the garrison. He tried to keep from crying openly. Not yet.
He left his horse and headed towards Aramis' room. Nobody dared to try to stop him. He gently lowered his precious burden onto the bed.
How many times had he done this before? He desperately hoped that Aramis would wake up and scold his brother for carrying him like a young bride.
"Mis…" he sobbed, staring at his brother's pale face.
He took his cold hand in his.
Despair.
Grief.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to kill.
He wanted to… have his brother back.
He would give everything for that.
He could not stand looking at his lifeless face, so he sat on the bed and took Aramis in his arms. He had done this many times in order to comfort his brother when he was in pain or in the grip of a high fever.
This will be the last time I'll get to hold him like this, so I just want to pretend that he's still alive. Before long I will have to clean him up and prepare him for his burial. He should wear his favorite leathers and his blue cloak… the privilege of a musketeer…
His anguish brought forth a muffled scream from his throat.
He hid his face in Aramis' hair and sobbed desperately. He felt like his very soul was dying.
He was crying and rocking Aramis when he felt it.
I must be going mad.
The warmth of an exhaled breath tingled his neck.
He held his own breath and waited. Then he felt it again.
"Aramis?!" With a shaking hand, he gently lifted his brother's limp head.
"Mis?!" He quickly brushed his brother's hair out of the way, and let his palm linger at the marksman's lips for a few seconds. Then he felt it again - a soft exhale.
What an idiot I am! I was grieving when I should have been getting him medical help!
"I need a physician! NOW!" he yelled, hoping that someone could hear him. He was relieved to hear a shout of acknowledgement, followed by quick steps on the stairs.
D'Artagnan ran into the room.
"He's breathing! He's alive!" Porthos was still barely able to believe it.
D'Artagnan lit some candles, then kindled a fire in the fireplace. He also ordered someone to bring both hot and cold water. While they were waiting, he started to undress Aramis. Porthos was still shaking, and did not feel up to the task.
D'Artagnan froze when he saw the bandages that crisscrossed Aramis' chest and limbs.
"What happened?" The Gascon looked shocked.
Porthos' hand ghosted over Aramis' head. He found no evidence of a bullet wound.
"I should have known that Athos' story was a lie. Aramis wasn't shot. I swear I will kill that woman!" he growled.
"If Milady feigned his execution, she saved his life," d'Artagnan murmured.
He started to cut off the bandages, revealing the carefully stitched wounds on the marksman's body. Porthos felt ill when he saw the various gashes, welts, and burns that covered his brother's skin.
There was a knock on the door, and a timid Lemay came in.
"I was on my way to check on Athos when your man found me," he explained.
"Please-you have to save him!" Porthos begged.
Lemay paled when he took a closer look at the wounded man.
"He was tortured," he whispered.
"Are you suggesting that makes him less worthy of your help?!" Porthos growled.
"No, no," the doctor said hastily. "I've just never treated someone who has been tortured."
"What about Athos? You took care of him!" d'Artagnan blurted out.
"His case is different," the doctor said carefully. "His wounds could have come from a battle. They are nothing like this."
Porthos did not reply. He held Aramis in a semi-upright position in order to allow Lemay to examine his wounds.
The doctor gently probed a large laceration on the musketeer's arm. Aramis let out a soft moan. Lemay froze. It seemed as if he wanted to speak, but Porthos shook his head to silence him, then started a soft whispered litany to calm his brother. After several minutes, he motioned to the doctor to continue.
Aramis tried to evade the stranger's hands, entrusting himself to Porthos. The reaction was so natural that Porthos nearly came undone. He kept his composure with difficulty.
The dark skinned musketeer murmured platitudes into Aramis' ear. He was deeply grateful for the opportunity to soothe his wounded brother.
He felt Aramis stiffen under the doctor's ministrations. It was wonderful to feel the life in his brother's body. He finally could not restrain himself, and placed a gentle kiss in Aramis' hair.
Lemay's presence be damned!
It took the doctor a long time to deal with Aramis' injuries. Finally, he redressed the last wound and sighed. He was clearly shaken.
"I don't like the way he is breathing…" Lemay murmured.
"He was suffocated by the smoke," Porthos explained, his voice shaking. "It was far worse…"
"That explains much." Lemay seemed a bit relieved.
"Will he live?!" Porthos' voice was close to despair.
"His wounds are not mortal. It appears that they were tended to and sutured in time. None of them appear to be infected, which is promising, but his injuries are numerous. He lost quite a bit of blood, and he's severely dehydrated. It is absolutely essential that he drink as much as possible. You will need to monitor his injuries to make sure that they do not worsen-and if anything happens that seems worrisome, send for me immediately. He has a fair chance of surviving, but we must be extremely careful."
"Thank you," Porthos whispered.
There was so much more that he dared not hope yet.
"I'm going to go check on Athos, but I'll be back. I'll leave some herbs for both of them," Lemay said. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
Porthos continued to hold Aramis in a upright position. D'Artagnan placed a cup of water within reach of his hand. Porthos took it, and glanced at the lad.
"You should go to Athos," the dark skinned musketeer murmured. The Gascon nodded, and left.
Porthos knew that he should lay Aramis on the bed, but he could not find the will to do so. So he held his brother close, trying to remain mindful of his various injuries. Still, he could not be sure that he was not causing his beloved brother discomfort.
Aramis shivered. His eyelids fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes. They were cold and distant. Porthos' heart ached when he saw the remoteness in his brother's gaze.
The marksman blinked slowly.
"You're safe. You're home," the dark skinned musketeer whispered. He reached for the cup, and touched it to Aramis' lips.
"You have to drink, brother," he whispered. Aramis turned his head, trying to avoid the cup. However, when the liquid touched his parched lips, he could not restrain himself any longer, and gulped the water down.
He drained the cup. As he did so, he stared at Porthos. His eyes showed no trace of warmth or familiarity. It was sort of look that he reserved for his foes, not his friends.
Does he recognize me?
"Mis…" Porthos whispered brokenly.
"Athos?" Aramis asked coldly.
"He's at the garrison. He's safe."
"Milady?"
"I haven't seen her, but she sent a boy to tell me where you were. D'Artagnan is with Athos. Constance and the Queen are at the palace. Treville is there too."
Aramis nodded slowly, and a lone tear slowly trailed down his cheek. He closed his eyes, but allowed Porthos to give him another cup of water.
A/N
I am so sorry for the the delay and I cannot promise nothing else that this story will be continued and completed when its time comes (not soon).