A/N: Again, it has taken me much longer to get this posted. I had it ready a week and a half ago but decided to add to it. Terribly sorry.
Chapter 3. Here Comes The Doctor.
"Porthos."
d'Artagnan watched the old man warily. He hadn't been sure what to expect on this venture. But the look in this man's eyes wasn't exactly hospitable. He didn't seem hostile so d'Artagnan refrained from his instinctual need to protect his friends. Aramis trusted Porthos and so did he. Porthos would handle this. d'Artagnan rested his hand on his rapier just the same.
"It's been a long time," Porthos stated. He remained standing straight, meeting the old man's gaze. His lips twitched upward in a small hesitant smile.
"You're looking well, Porthos," Maynard commented, his tone level. He waved a hand in Porthos' direction. "It healed well." The dark frown on the man's face changed to one of curiosity. "Did you retain full vision?"
"Perfect vision thanks to you." Porthos said with a grin.
Maynard moved forward, approaching Porthos for what seemed like a better look. "Remarkable. There had been so much blood and swelling the last time I saw you ... I wasn't sure."
"A story, perhaps, for another time," Athos interrupted, looking pointedly at Porthos.
Porthos clapped his large hand on Maynard's shoulder. "It's good to see you, old man."
After another moment of staring, Maynard huffed and turned away from Porthos. He turned back to his patient. "What are you doing here, Porthos?" He placed a damp cloth into a bowl of water, soaking the material before wringing it out. With gentle care, Maynard placed the cool material to the boys head. His weathered hand moved to the boy's wrist, holding it lightly between his fingers. He nodded to himself as if some silent question had been asked. He kept his back to them now, carrying on his treatment as if his home hadn't been invaded by a blast from the past. "What do you want?"
"Can't an old friend just stop by for a visit?" Porthos asked, eyebrow lifting.
His expression was hopeful and worried. d'Artagnan wondered if Porthos was surprised by the reception he was receiving. It brought his curiosity to new levels. He glanced sideways at Athos who just closed his eyes and shook his head, silently instructing d'Artagnan to bite his tongue for now.
Maynard glanced over his shoulder and snorted. "Old friends? Do you take me for a fool?"
Porthos frowned. "What's 'at supposed to mean?"
Maynard sighed and kept his back to them. His shoulders were hunched with strain or age. He moved on from his patient to a precarious looking shelf. His old hands ran lightly over different jars as if searching for something important. It was unclear whether the healer was simply seeking to look busy in the presence of his intruders. "You have the audacity to come back here after what you've done?"
Porthos looked confused and more than a little hurt. He took a step towards the diminutive man. "I don't understand..."
"Charon." The old man turned around, sadness in his eyes. "He was your friend too, was he not?"
"Charon? That's what this is about?" Porthos asked incredulously.
"You killed him. If that is how you treat your friends, Porthos, then I would rather not be one. He ... he was a good boy."
"A good boy?" d'Artagnan scoffed, looking between his friends and then back at the healer. Memories of finding Porthos in the court, of Aramis' blade cutting through Charon's body in defence of his friend flooded d'Artagnan's mind. The first time d'Artagnan had met the man in question he'd been about to attack Porthos. He'd tried to blow up the court of miracles and everyone in it.
This was ridiculous. Aramis was suffering and here they were stalled because of a man that had betrayed the very people this healer spent every day trying to save. d'Artagnan was well aware that he only had so much patience on a good day and the hurt expression on Porthos' face saw him reach his limit. "Porthos didn't kill him." It probably wouldn't do well to tell the man who did kill Charon. d'Artagnan got the feeling Maynard would be even less inclined to help them.
"That is not what I heard."
"Well you heard wrong!" d'Artagnan hissed.
Porthos reached out his arm and patted d'Artagnan on the chest. He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell this man that he was wrong. But he stopped under the weight of Porthos' hand.
"Maynard, I need your help."
Maynard shook his head and turned back around. "No. You need to leave. I wipe my hands of you."
Porthos eyes narrowed. "You owe me." His voice was low and dangerous. His frustrated tone was tinged with hurt. There was a story here. d'Artagnan made note to ask more questions … when the time was right.
Maynard turned around again, this time there was real fire in his eyes. "I owe you nothing." He spat. "Any debts were cleared when you turned on your own, Porthos."
"Turned on me own?" Porthos asked, taking another step forward. "In all the years since I left this 'ell 'ole I have never forgotten where I came from or its people. You want to be angry with someone, Maynard? Take a look around you. Charon would 'ave seen this place blown to bloody smithereens with you and everyone else 'ere."
"Nonsense." Maynard waved a hand on the air dismissively. "He was a leader. He looked after the people in this place. He would never harm them." Maynard crossed his hands over his chest, his look stern.
Porthos laughed, but it was anything but humorous. "I s'pose you didn't know 'e'd made a deal with the Cardinal then?"
"Nonsense."
"Cardinal paid 'im a 'efty price to betray you all. They wanted to clear the court to rebuild. The people in it are nothin' but a dirty nuisance who needed to be exterminated. You can ask Flea yourself. 'at was the type of man Charon was. 'e needed to be stopped."
The anger in Maynard's face had fallen a little. Porthos' words were hitting their mark. The old man shook his head, bringing his hand up to his jaw, he stroked his beard almost absent-mindedly. "No … no … you're lying. Flea would have told me."
Porthos closed his eyes for a moment. "Flea's bein' kind to 'is memory, 'at's all. Maynard, why would I lie?"
What was supposed to have been a simple mission to get a healer had turned into a battle. d'Artagnan shifted on his feet. That restless feeling was resurfacing again with the delay in getting back to their friend. They really didn't have time for this.
"We don't have time for this," Athos interjected, as if reading d'Artagnan's thoughts. He placed the paperweight he had been inspecting down on the table in front of him and gave his full attention to the healer. "Monsieur, we're in need of your assistance."
Maynard frowned at Athos, clearly not liking the interruption. "Why should this be my concern?"
"'cause you're a healer, Maynard, the best I've ever seen. Whatever problem you 'ave with me, 'as nothin' to do with my friend," Porthos implored. Maynard's face was now full of confusion so Porthos continued. "You've never turned away someone in need b'fore. Our friend, he's … he's real sick. We wouldn't 'ave come otherwise."
"Where is your friend?" Maynard asked and d'Artagnan felt a small sliver of hope that they were finally getting somewhere.
"He was too sick to make the journey," Athos supplied. "We need you to come with us. You will be well paid for your time. That I can assure you."
"Surely there are other doctors you could see in the city. You do not need me."
"Yeah, I do." Porthos told him in earnest. "I need 'im to be well again and I promised him the best healer I know. I am not leavin' without you, Maynard."
"So … I don't have a choice in the matter then?"
"Think of it as the highest of praise, Monsieur," Athos told him, his face remaining calm but d'Artagnan could feel the same urgency he felt in Athos' eyes. "We cannot leave without you."
Athos statement had a finality to it that brokered no argument.
"And you said I'll be paid?"
"As soon as you've seen to our friend I will pay you myself," Athos assured him.
There was a tense moment before Maynard turned and shouted towards the door to the connecting room. "Julian! Come out here at once! Julian!" In a few moments a young man with a head full of tousled hair and bleary eyes rushed into the room. "I need you to tend to Pierre here while I am gone." Maynard indicated to the sleeping boy on the cot.
"Where are you going?" The young man asked, rubbing at his sleepy eyes obviously confused as to why his sleep had been interrupted.
Maynard turned and locked eyes with Porthos. "It seems I have to make a house call."
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Athos looked up as he exited the building. The sky was as dark as the buildings surrounding them. In a few hours the sun would rise, bringing with it a new day. Hopefully it was a new day that was filled with no more worry for a foolish friend. There was no doubt about it; Aramis was an idiot but if Athos was truly honest with himself? He didn't like the idea of a dentist any more than his friend. There was no easy way to fix a tooth … especially when you were stupid enough to let it fester for this long.
Athos sighed and leaned his back against the outside wall of the ramshackle home. To an outside observer his presence would seem casual but Athos was watching the darkness. He didn't want any more delays and he really had no time or patience for any altercations. He just wanted to get back to Aramis and get the frustrating man well again.
d'Artagnan appeared at his side, the young Gascon's focus on the blackness surrounding them. Athos was no fool. d'Artagnan was full of questions. Since the boy had stormed into their garrison intent on killing him, Athos had come to know that d'Artagnan was never really still. His body was full of energy, bursting to the seams. His mind was passionate and loyal. He wore his emotions on his face for the world to see. These qualities were part of the reason he would make a great Musketeer one day but Athos also worried they could cause him trouble.
"So … what did you make of that?" d'Artagnan asked. He was looking directly at Athos now.
Athos looked down, shifted against the wall and then glanced sideways at his young friend. "It's Porthos' business, d'Artagnan. We all have pasts. The fact that we won't be returning empty handed is the important thing." It wasn't the first time that night that d'Artagnan had verbalised Athos' own curiosity. But Athos was content to wait Porthos out. He would share the finer details when he was ready.
d'Artagnan nodded and looked back out to the dark street. "Do you think he'll be able to help?"
"Porthos is confident."
"It wasn't exactly a warm reception and if Maynard discovered who really killed ..."
"There is no reason for that to happen," Athos responded, lowering his voice a bit more and glanced over his shoulder to where the entry was. Aramis had been the one to kill Charon but it had been in defence of Porthos' life. Athos couldn't find regret for that. He would have done the same thing.
"I just want to get back. We've been gone too long," d'Artagnan grumbled, kicking the dirt with the toe of his boot. He sighed. "Maybe we should have just gotten a doctor less … complicated."
"Possibly," Athos agreed. It was a lot of effort to go to for a doctor when they could have had one from close by. Aramis probably would have already been treated by now and they could all relax. But Aramis had been so desperate. It was a strange thing to see the Spaniard so terrified of something. Athos had always thought him fearless. It was unsettling and despite Aramis' foolish actions Athos felt the need to bend to his will. He was getting soft.
"I hope this healer is worth it," d'Artagnan stated, turning to look towards the door. "What's taking them so long?"
"Aramis will be alright, d'Artagnan." He had to be. Athos would accept no other result.
"I'll feel more like believing that if we ever get back to him."
Athos couldn't disagree with d'Artagnan's sentiment and turned to join the younger man's gaze to the door. Porthos chose that moment to exit the building. His face contorted into a deadly frown as he approached them. He was angry but more than that he was hurt. Athos didn't need the full story of Porthos' past to know that Maynard's accusations had cut deep.
Maynard followed the large Musketeer through the door. He wore a cloak that had seen better days and carried a medium sized brown leather bag. Maynard pulled a hood over his head and stood in front of them expectantly. "Shall we leave?"
Athos pulled the hood to his own cloak over his head and then waited for Porthos to take the lead once more. He indicated with a nod of his head for d'Artagnan to follow Porthos and then made a sweeping motion with his hand to indicate that Maynard should follow. "After you, Monsieur."
Athos brought up the rear, watching from under his hood as Maynard fell into step beside d'Artagnan. The group moved through the court in silence. The kept to the shadows like they had when they had entered the community to begin with.
Ahead of them, Porthos picked up his pace a little. The end was in sight. Athos felt relief sweep through him as he closed in on Maynard and d'Artagnan. Athos glanced behind him once more, scanning the darkened streets. Something small and white scurried across the street, its four legs moving so fast they blurred. A stray cat. The moonlight caught its white fur, illuminating the animal as it paused, frozen. It caught Athos in a staring match for a few moments. The spell was broken with a growl. Athos snapped his head back to his companions. He moved back to where Porthos was standing. The dark, derelict building at the edge of the court of miracles stood before them. The flimsy railing connected to the structure was missing something very important.
"Our horses…" d'Artagnan gasped.
"They're gone," Porthos growled.
"Damn it!" Athos cursed.
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Curled up on his side, Aramis shuddered for what felt like the hundredth time in a matter of moments. Chills ran through the length of his body causing him to shiver. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He fought to breathe through the thick heated air around him. It suffocated him. How could he be so cold and hot at the same time? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.
Aramis flopped over onto his back with a groan. His muscles felt weak and his neck was stiff. He laid there for a long moment, sagging against the bed beneath him. Raising a shaky hand to his forehead, he frowned at the damp heated quality of his skin. His face felt flushed and his hair was sweaty against his hand. He dragged fingers through the dark curls, moving them out of his face. It was trying to suffocate him. He needed air. He shuddered again, contradicting the heat pouring from his body. The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed as he stared around the room in confusion. Where was he? Where were his friends? He had the urgent need to see them. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong and he needed to find them.
Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Aramis allowed his bare feet to press to the floorboards. Bare feet? Where were his boots? He couldn't find his friends without his boots. He pressed a hand to the left side of his face. It felt thick and swollen. A dull ache resided behind his cheek. With a frown, Aramis licked his lips, registering a bitter horrible taste on his tongue. His tooth. He'd almost forgotten about it during the brief respite from pain.
Aramis glanced around the room again. Recognition started to swim into focus. He knew where he was. He was in d'Artagnan's room at Constance's home.
Constance had given him the blessed relief. He remembered the horrible smell and the disgusting taste of whatever she had applied to his tooth and gum. She had asked him to trust her and he did. He always had. But where was she now? He looked up, finding the open doorway that lead out into the main room.
Another shudder ran through him and his chest felt tight. He just couldn't get enough air. It was too hot. He looked around the room, wondering when d'Artagnan had gotten a fireplace built in his room. He found nothing. It took slow moments before he realised it wasn't the room making him hot. He was hot. His body was betraying him. He needed to get outside. He needed to cool down.
Desperate hands pulled at his shirt, seeking purchase enough to pull the fabric over his dishevelled head. His shirt discarded on the bed, Aramis scrambled to get to his feet as panic started to unfold in his heart. His lungs desperately tried to draw breath. His legs wobbled and the sharpshooter found himself on his hands and knees, panting like he was trapped in a steam house with no escape.
Aramis pushed himself to his feet once more, stumbling towards the door as his world tilted on its axis. He crashed into the door frame, managing to catch himself before falling into the main room. He was so hot. He thought that maybe he wasn't at the Bonacieux home. Maybe he was in hell. Maybe he'd actually managed to kill himself over a stupid toothache. Maybe God hadn't been so forgiving of all his sins and he was now burning in the fiery pits of hell. If he wasn't? The heat bearing down on him was surely going to finish the job his tooth had started.
He closed his eyes and leaned his overheated forehead against the door frame, trying to refrain from whining like a small child, his chest heaving up and down in rapid succession.
He needed water. There was a well just outside. The desire for the cool liquid pushed him on. Aramis staggered for the front door. Fumbling with the door handle with shaking hands, he pulled the door open. The fresh early morning air hitting his over-heated skin caused a dizzying effect and he wavered on his feet. He could see the well even in the dark, his vision blurring in and out like he was in a desert staring at a mirage. He moved towards it, one clumsy foot in front of the other until he felt the cool stone of the well under his hands.
"Twenty of our friends … murdered."
Aramis flinched at the sound of the familiar voice. It was a voice that he was never going to forget. It was forged in his mind along with the memory of those twenty dead Musketeers. The voice was angry and condemning. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of those snow covered woods and the image of his friend walking away, leaving him alone in the freezing elements. He shivered; a cold hand ran up his spine, spiking pain up into his tooth. It hit him hard, causing him to cry out and reach up to press on his puffy jaw.
"You let me walk away. You let me ruin my life."
Marsac's voice floated in the air, taunting him with words he'd spoken to d'Artagnan at this very well a few months prior. It was something that he hadn't been able to shake. The guilt of not doing more. The voice sounded so real. Aramis didn't want to look. But he did.
Upon opening his eyes, he turned to look over his shoulder. Marsac was standing there like he had on that fateful morning after the massacre of Savoy, flowing white shirt bloodstained and eyes hollow. They were in the forest, snow was lightly falling and he could hear the squawking of the crows as they feasted on his friends.
He turned back to the well, leaning heavily against it. "No …" he muttered. "No, no, no …" he sunk to his knees, feeling the soft ice-cold snow wet the knees of his breeches. Tiny drops of icicles fluttered and landed on his bare shoulders making him shudder. His fingers dug into the stone walls of the well as he pressed his flaming head to its cold surface.
"Aramis?"
There was a hand on his shoulder and he crumbled, finding himself sliding to land on his rear. His side was pressed to the well, huddled in an effort to stop the shivering. God, he was shivering.
He was cold again and he couldn't stop trembling. "D-Don't leave me. Don't leave." He was left injured and alone with twenty of his dead friends … and the crows. Those damn crows.
There was a gloved hand pressed to his uninjured flushed cheek. "Aramis, what are you doing out here?"
He scuttled back at the touch, eyes wide with surprise. "Why d-did you lea...leave?" He couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. His jaw ached like it had never stopped. "They're d..d..dead. All of t-them," he choked, bringing his hand up to its usual spot against his hurting tooth. His brothers were dead. He closed his eyes. All around him in the snow Musketeers lay scattered in a mixture of white and red. He had a sudden fear. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan. Were they okay? "Wh...where are t-they?" They wouldn't leave him too. But no, that couldn't be right. They were never in Savoy. It had been him, only him. Alone.
"Aramis, no-one is dead and no-one is leaving you. Please. Listen to me, look at me. It's Constance. I'm right here."
"Constance?" Aramis frowned. Reality started to fall back into focus with her name, with her voice. He opened his eyes once more and found Constance hovering worriedly above him. He glanced around in a panic as he searched for the ghost of his dead friend. Marsac was gone and so were the snow covered woods and the blood and the crows. He let his gaze fall back to her.
Constance nodded encouragingly at him. She moved her hand to his upper arm, keeping them in physical contact and he was glad for it. It was real and tangible and he needed it. "That's right. It's me. Are you okay? What are you doing out here? Are you trying to scare me half to death?"
"I wanted water."
Constance rolled her eyes. Her gloved hands wrapped tighter around his bare bicep. "The water I left by the bed wasn't good enough for you?" She asked pointedly, sighing in exasperation at his confused expression. She'd left water by the bed?
Constance helped to drag him to his feet. "Come on, you fool. Let's get you back into the house before you catch yourself hypothermia as well." She pulled his arm over her cloak covered shoulders, taking his weight with a huff of exertion. "That's all I bloody need. Your friends would never forgive me."
"Sorry." He tried to pull away, not wanting to hurt her with his weight. The motion almost landed them both on the ground in a heap. Constance was stronger than she looked. He marvelled at her. He could understand why d'Artagnan was so enamoured by her.
"Just walk with me, Aramis," she instructed and this time he did as he was told.
Before he even realised what was happening, Aramis found himself sitting on the edge of d'Artagnan's bed once more. He slipped back, snagging the edge of the bed covers and pulled them up and around him, shivering violently. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried his hardest to stop his teeth from chattering. It hurt too much. A headache was building again, all pain and pressure and no foreseeable escape.
The blankets were suddenly pulled from his shoulders and he whined with the loss of them. "F...f..freezing," He wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to stave off the cold. He was so cold. The snow had left with Marsac's retreating form but it had left a lingering touch. Now he just couldn't seem to get warm.
Constance pressed her palm to his forehead. He leaned into it, seeking the warmth of her flesh. "Your burning up." He shook his head in denial at her words. He was so cold; he wanted to curl up under a mountain of blankets next to a fire if only to stop the shivering from rattling his damaged tooth. "You feel hotter than before."
A cup full of water was thrust into his hand. He looked at it blearily and for a moment he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it. After a couple of beats he found Constance's gentle hands wrap around his and direct the cup to his lips.
The first sip was glorious. He felt it slide down his throat and into his very empty stomach. He took a bigger sip and regretted it almost instantly. The cool water slipped over his infected tooth sending his nerve endings into a shrieking panic. He dropped the cup and didn't even hear it hit the floor through the screaming in his head, or was it more vocal? He didn't even know any more. He pressed his hand firmly to his jaw and it only made it worse. It hurt to touch.
"...be here soon. I promise."
He was pulled forward into an embrace, his face resting against stiff material of a corset. A hand ran through his hair in comforting strokes. He shivered violently and even though some part deep inside him thought he should pull away he couldn't.
The hand ran through the mess of unruly curls in such a soothing way that Aramis allowed himself to sink into the touch. A feeling of love and absolute safety surrounded him and he felt he could weep.
She was here and she wouldn't allow anything to happen to him. "Mother..." He remembered the way she used to run her fingers through his hair when he was sick or after a nightmare. It always made him feel loved and safe and he missed it.
"No, Aramis, it's Constance. Remember?" The warmth of her body moved away and he shivered. "Aramis, open your eyes." He didn't want to. He hurt so much. He whimpered but did as he was asked when he felt hands squeeze his shoulders. "Are you with me?"
Aramis frowned. "Constance?" He looked past her, confusion filling his heart. He blinked, wincing against the pain radiating from his jaw. He was with Constance. He had a sudden ache in his chest as the memory of his mother vanished as reality returned. God, he hadn't thought of her in many years.
"You can stop that. You're going to be fine." Constance told him, smiling reassuringly. "The doctor will be here soon."
"Porthos?" He asked, hope and fear filling him all at once. Porthos was so adamant that this healer was good news. Porthos had promised him that he could fix this problem. God he just wanted the problem to go away. The fear melted away and he silently prayed that Porthos would be back soon. He prayed harder than he had in a long time. He folded forward, his head coming to rest on Constance's shoulder as he shuddered. The throbbing was getting worse again. He wanted to rip his head off.
"Madame Bonacieux?" The sound of a deep voice filled the house.
"In here," Constance called over her shoulder. Her hand found the back of his head as he pressed his forehead harder into her shoulder. "See," she whispered. "The doctor's here. We'll have you feeling better in no time." Her hand slipped down to squeeze the back of his neck.
Aramis sighed with relief. Porthos was finally back.
TBC...
A/N: I hope you enjoyed that if you read it. Don't worry, I will address Porthos' eye ... in the right time :) Feel free to drop me a line. You thoughts are always welcome.