Athos

You're dead. I saw you dying—all because of me. As much as I want you to be alive, I know you're only a hallucination. You're so sad… even as my hallucination.

Athos stared at Aramis, who lay curled up on the floor in the small space between the two beds. The swordsman could not see his brother's face, but he felt despair radiating from the marksman.

Was he real? Was he alive? Or was it only his tormented ghost? A spirit who had come back to haunt Athos for the sins he had committed against his brother.

The swordsman must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes once again, he saw Aramis lying on the bed. Lemay was tending to his injuries. Athos gulped when he saw the extent of the damage that had been caused by the brand. He remembered seeing Aramis press the hot iron to his skin, and recalled how the smell of burnt flesh had hung in the air.

The wave of nausea hit him hard. It was embarrassing to throw up after seeing a comrade's injuries. Even when he was a raw recruit, that had never happened. Most likely the fever was to blame, he thought. He watched as d'Artagnan cleaned the floor. The boy's face was a pale, sickly grey.

Aramis flinched as the doctor applied some balm to the worst of his burns. Porthos reacted immediately. Athos could not hear the words that the dark skinned musketeer whispered to his brother, but he saw their effect. Aramis stopped trying to elude the pain, and instead lay motionless on the bed. He appeared lifeless—dead.

Lemay went to rummage through his medical bag, then approached the marksman with a draught in his hand. The wounded man turned his head away.

"Monsieur, your wounds have become infected. You need these herbs to fight the infection."

The Spaniard did not respond.

"Mis, please. Drink it," whispered Porthos. Aramis' reaction surprised Athos.

The marksman turned his head towards Lemay, and accepted the cup that the physician pressed to his lips. He drank the draught dutifully, draining the cup within a minute.

The doctor smiled reassuringly, but he was clearly shocked to see the marksman so cooperative.

Porthos' eyes met Athos' gaze. The big man smiled briefly, but there was sadness in his eyes.

"How do you feel, Athos?" his brother asked. His usually booming voice was far too weak for Athos' liking.

I don't know… too hot… too tired. My back feels like it's been consumed by a pulsing fire.

"I'm fine."

Porthos snorted, shaking his head in exasperation.

D'Artagnan, a steaming cup in his hand, came over and sat on the edge of Athos' bed.

"You have to drink this."

"No." Athos was sure he would throw up anything he tried to swallow.

"It will help you."

D'Artagnan was being annoyingly persistent. Athos was too exhausted to reply, so he simply closed his eyes.

Clearly they were not going to let him sleep. He felt a hand on his face, but decided to ignore it. He then found himself hauled into a semi-upright position. A cup, probably the same cup he had declined, was pressed to his lips.

He felt a hand on his throat, ready to coax him into swallowing the draught. Annoyed at the thought of being humiliated any further, he decided to cooperate.

He opened his eyes to glare at the person who had dared to assault him in such a fashion. It was d'Artagnan.

"I thought you were unconscious," the lad said sheepishly.

Those innocent words provoked a dark fury in Athos. Why had they put him in the same room as Aramis? To torment him by forcing him to witness the markman's slow decline? Why hadn't they just allowed the marksman to fade away? Why was he being subjected to it? Probably because it was his fault. How he hated Aramis for the sacrifice he had made! He would gladly beat the man for stubbornly clinging to his stupid honor.

"Monsieur, I am afraid that it's your turn to have your wounds tended." Lemay must have seen the anger in his eyes, for the doctor murmured, "I urge you to cooperate with me. I have no time to waste. I must return to the palace as soon as possible."

Athos saw d'Artagnan blanch at the man's words, and a sense of dread crept into his heart. "Why must you hurry back?"

"Madame Bonacieux is seriously wounded. I prefer not to be absent from her bedside any longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Wounded? How?"

"She was stabbed by a knife that was meant for the Queen. Rochefort's knife." D'Artagnan's face was lined with worry.

Athos made no move to object as the doctor started to work on his bandages. "So Rochefort has been arrested?"

"No. I was close to apprehending him, but I failed. He's on the run now," Porthos growled. The tone of his voice made Aramis stiffen. The big man sighed, and slowly stroked marksman's hair. Even this small movement was clearly painful for him.

Athos bit his lip when Lemay started to probe his wound. He realized that his hand was holding on to something. He focused on the object in order to try to channel the pain into his grip. Before the doctor had finished, Athos was drenched in sweat, and was barely conscious. When a bitter liquid was poured into his mouth, he was too exhausted to protest. He drank it greedily, hoping for relief from his torment. When he finally entered into an oblivion that was free from pain, he was not sure if his escape had been effected by the ordeal itself or the action of the herbs. In the end, it did not matter.

No.

I am not seeing Aramis kneeling in front of his captors. I am not seeing my brother being whipped and abused.

I am not seeing blood dripping from his cracked lips.

No.

I am not seeing his eyes open for the last time.

"So, I will offer you a choice. Who will die today? You? Or your friend?" Rochefort gave the wounded musketeer a cruel smile.

"Kill me!" Aramis replied instantly.

He did not flinch when the comte buried a knife deep into his abdomen. When the hilt finally touched skin, a smirking Rochefort gave the blade a vicious twist, then pulled it free. Blood poured from the wound.

Aramis trembled, but did not make a sound.

"Sweet dreams, musketeers." Closing the door behind him, the comte left, his laughter receding into the distance.

"Aramis! Aramis!" Athos cried. He cursed the chains that fixed him to the wall, making it impossible for him to go to his brother's side.

"Come here… Mis… please," Athos whispered. He needed to be able to comfort his fatally wounded brother.

Aramis began to crawl towards him. Each move he made was obviously painful, but he could not deny Athos his presence. Athos—the man who was responsible for their capture. Who would now be responsible for Aramis' death.

The marksman finally curled up in a ball next to Athos, his head leaning against swordsman's arm.

Athos tried to hold pressure on the bleeding wound, but Aramis gently moved his hand aside.

"I'm a dead man. I'd prefer it be quick…"

Athos' heart nearly broke with the sobs that threatened to rise from deep within him.

"Tell Porthos it was my decision—my choice… tell him… to take care of you and d'Artagnan… you have to live... "

"No! Aramis!"

"Try to save her and my son from… intrigues… and assassins… please... " There was so much pain in those brown eyes. Athos knew that he had to do whatever was necessary to help Aramis. He could do nothing for the wound, but he could respect his brother's last wishes.

"I'll do my best," he vowed.

Blood dripping from his mouth, Aramis tried to smile, but pain contorted his handsome features into a mask of suffering.

Athos desperately tried to comfort the marksman, but there was nothing he could do for the pain. He kept talking—about anything and everything, most of it nonsense —as he knew that Aramis did not handle silence well. He did his best to anchor his dying brother, hoping to see some sign of life from the marksman. But he knew the time would come when Aramis would no longer respond to his pleas to squeeze his hand.

Although part of him wanted that time to never come, part of him prayed for it. Witnessing his brother's agony was more than he could stand.

Finally it came.

He screamed Aramis' name when he did not feel Spaniard's breath on his hand. He screamed desperately, as if someone might appear and give Aramis back to him, alive and well.

A voice was calling him over and over. A cold liquid slowly dripping onto his hot skin. He licked the moisture from his lips.

"Athos?" He heard Aramis voice. It sounded uncertain.

He did not want to open his eyes. He could not bear to see the torment on his brother's face.

He seized the hand which had laid a cold rag on his forehead.

"Don't go!" the swordsman pleaded desperately. He hated himself for saying it. His words only served to confirm his selfishness.

"Look at me." Aramis' voice sounded much more stable—and stronger than he remembered.

One hand cupped his face, while the other squeezed his fingers. Exactly as Aramis used to—until there was no strength left in his fingers.

"No!" Athos choked on his sob.

"Open your eyes!" The command was given in the tone of an order that must be obeyed.

The swordsman slowly complied. His eyelids were heavy, but finally he succeeded in opening them. When his vision cleared, he saw Aramis gazing at him intently.

"Are you with me?" the medic asked. He was pale, and badly bruised. There was something strange and worrying in his watchful, but distant, eyes.

"Where am I?" Athos looked around the room, and saw Porthos sleeping on the other bed.

"At the garrison—in Porthos' room," Aramis murmured. "You had a bad dream."

Yes. It was a dream. You didn't bleed out from a stab wound to the abdomen, but you did sacrifice yourself for me, you idiot!

"You sacrificed yourself for me!" He remembered now—the crack of the whip as it cut Aramis' skin. The whip that Aramis had held in his own hand. "How dare you!"

"Athos, it was my choice. I am sorry it was not what you wanted." The marksman replied, his manner cold and formal. The Spaniard rarely spoke like this. His words only served to confirm Athos' worst fears.

"You're dead!" he cried.

"So you were a witness to my mock execution. I am sorry that Milady could not find a way to get word to you that I was still alive."

"No, Aramis! You're dead!"

"Athos, I'm alive." The marksman caught his hand, pressing it to his chest so his leader could feel the steady beat of his heart. Aramis' fingers felt cold against his skin.

I probably still have a fever…

"Your heart may still be beating, but we both know you're dead inside—and now I have to live—and serve beside you— with the knowledge that it's my fault that the Aramis I knew has been replaced by an empty shell of a man." He shook his head. "I won't do it. You've crossed the line this time, Aramis."

"Do you intend to punish me, Lieutenant? If so, I believe a whipping would be an appropriate punishment for my insubordination."

If his voice were not so distant, I would think he was mocking me—but he seems to believe what he's saying. Does he really think I would sentence him to a whipping? With his wounds still so raw? I cannot stand the thought of punishing him!

You're the embodiment of my guilt—and there is only one way to soothe my conscience.

"I plan to make a request to Captain Treville. I think it's best that he transfer you to another regiment."

Aramis' face drained of all colour. Even his bruises seemed to turn grey.

"Then I shall remove myself. I do not want my presence to serve as an impediment to your recovery." The marksman turned and headed for the door, his gait unsteady.

"No!" Porthos must have heard part of their conversation. He struggled to his feet, and took a few steps towards Aramis before stumbling. The marksman caught him in his arms, and they fell heavily to the ground.

Have I just killed another brother?