Chapter 5

Aramis pressed a hand to his side, gasping at the sharp pain the mild force educed. His side felt warm and wet under the bandage. He knew he was bleeding, the constant movement of the ride having pulled at the tender flesh, tearing at least a few of the stitches holding the gash together. It was painful, but still secondary to the throbbing ache in his head.

They had been following a narrow, rutted road for the last hour, and Aramis tried to ignore the Captain's increasingly concerned glances. He knew he was more of a liability than a reliable soldier at the moment, but he forced himself to keep moving, not wanting to be any more of a hindrance to the Captain.

He shivered as the sun began to set, disappearing behind a low hill in the distance, red and orange tendrils reaching up to paint the sky in vibrant colors. It would be a beautiful sight – if he were in any frame of mind to appreciate it. But the constant pain and the concern for his friends had worn him down, and he knew if he didn't stop soon he would be physically unable to go on.

Apparently Treville had come to the same conclusion.

"I believe there is s village a few lieu ahead," the older man said as he dropped back to ride alongside Aramis. "We will stop there for the night. It will be good for the horses to rest and safer to avoid riding through the night."

"A soft bed will be welcome," Aramis admitted. He smiled, relieved, silently thanking the Captain for his pretext, knowing full well it was his condition that was causing the man's tacit caution.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the village. They stopped their horses in front of a long building located in the center of the village square that they assumed to be an inn. Aramis' shoulders slumped, relishing the sudden lack of motion, gathering his strength for the pain he knew was to come in dismounting. Steeling himself, he wrapped an arm around his torso – a feeble attempt to stabilize the wound. Foregoing his customary forward dismount in favor of hanging on to the saddle as long as possible, he eased his leg back and over the horse's flanks, letting himself drop to the ground.

He felt Treville's arms support him as his knees gave on impact, keeping him upright until his shaking legs decided to support his weight.

"Thank you," he breathed, not daring to look at the Captain, knowing the concern in the man's eyes would be his undoing.

Treville stepped back, hovering as Aramis found his footing and moved away from the horse, handing the reins to the young boy who had approached.

"Take good care of them," Aramis smiled at the lad. "They deserve it."

The boy nodded and led the horses toward the small stable next to the inn. Aramis felt a hand on his shoulder and bowed his head, allowing Treville to steer him to the narrow door.

Inside was quiet – quieter than a tavern had any right to be. The fire in the hearth cast an eerie glow around the mostly empty room, making it seem colder than it actually was. An old man with long, white hair was the only patron, leaning over his tankard, obviously lost in a world of his own. Another man with a large, round stomach stood behind the makeshift bar on the far side of the room. He looked up in surprise as the two Musketeers entered, wiped his hands on a rag and moved into the main room, his arm extended.

"Welcome, messieurs. Can I offer you something to drink, or perhaps some supper?"

Treville took his hand. "Both would be appreciated. We have ridden far and are in need of rest."

Aramis had turned toward the fire and the innkeeper caught sight of his pauldron, his round eyes widening almost comically. "You are Musketeers?"

Treville nodded tiredly.

"You are here then for the others?"

Both soldiers' heads swiveled immediately. In tandem, they took a step toward the man who leaned back, eyes shifting from one to the other nervously.

"The others?" Aramis asked in a low voice. "You mean other Musketeers?"

The innkeeper nodded and held up a hand with three fingers extended.

"Thank God," the marksman sighed in relief. "Are they here?" He looked around the inn, spotting a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. He headed toward it, but a hand shot out, staying him.

"Oh no, Monsieur. They are at the church."

"The church?"

"Yes, Father Boudreaux is the closest thing we have to a surgeon here. He was seeing to their wounds."

Aramis' heart seized at the man's words and he swayed, Treville's firm grip on his arm the only thing keeping him on his feet. "They are hurt?"

"They were wounded in a skirmish," the keeper admitted. "But the last I heard, they were recovering well under the Father's care."

Aramis lowered his head and gripped Treville's hand, which remained steadfastly on his arm.

"Where is the church, my friend?" Treville inquired, allowing Aramis a moment to compose himself.

"Just at the end of the lane. It's not much, but it's all we have."

"Thank you." Treville nodded, effectively dismissing the man, who stepped back hesitantly. The Captain turned to Aramis, grasping him by both arms, alarmed to see the younger man had gone very pale. "Perhaps you should stay –"

Aramis shook his head quickly. "No. If they are alive, I must see for myself."

Treville sighed. "Fine. But once we ascertain they are all right, you will rest."

Aramis' smile reached his eyes for the first time since their journey began. "As soon as I see they're alive, Captain, I will sleep for a week."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Though the ache in his head and the pain in his side still pulsed, Aramis was determined to make it to the church of his own volition. Treville remained at his side, but did not interfere with his progress, instead following close to his side, ready to lend aid if need be. As they approached the rustic stone church, a small man emerged from the great oak door holding a torch, his eyes widening, his lips parted in a smile as the two Musketeers stepped into the glowing light of the flame.

"Monsieur Aramis," the priest said as he rushed forward, taking the marksman's hand in his. "It is good to see you well…" He leaned forward as he studied Aramis' face, pale even in the golden glow of the torch. "Though I fear you are not as well as I'd hoped."

"That's what I've been telling him," Treville snorted. He bowed as the diminutive priest turned to him. "I am Captain Treville. The innkeeper said some of my men were in your care."

Father Boudreaux smiled. "They are injured, but doing quite well." He returned his attention to Aramis. "They have been concerned for you. It has been difficult keeping them from moving about, eager as they are to return to Paris to learn of your fate."

"Will you take me to them?"

The priest smiled at Aramis' heartfelt request. "Of course. This way."

He led them into the church, passing through a dark chapel and into a hallway, culminating in a large common room, lit with candles and a warm fire in the hearth. Inside the room stood a round wooden table. Leaning comfortably in their chairs, bowls and cups before them, sat Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan. They looked up as Father Boudreaux led the new arrivals through the doorway, and Aramis felt dizzy with relief.

"Aramis!" Porthos pushed himself from his chair and began to limp heavily across the floor. Aramis frowned, taking in his friend's haggard appearance, the bloodstained bandage around his right thigh and the bruises on his face and arms.

"Porthos," Aramis gasped. He tried to draw air, but it was as if his lungs had suddenly forgotten how to function. His vision swam and a tingle began in his fingers and toes, moving up his legs and arms, swiftly encompassing his entire body. He watched as Porthos expression changed from one of delight to alarm and the big man quickened his approach. Aramis tried to take a step, concerned at his friend's distress, but his legs shook, threatening to topple him. His head and his side pulsed in time, and he raised a hand to press against the bullet wound, surprised to find his doublet tacky with blood. He stared at his bloodstained hand then raised confused, pained eyes. Dots began to form in his vision, blotting out the sight of his friend, arms extended, almost within reach. He could see his name form on Porthos' lips, but the thud of his heart beating rapidly in his ears blocked all other sound. As the dots grew, painting his vision black completely, his reserves finally gave out, and he tipped forward into Porthos' waiting arms.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The low murmur of conversation woke him, the familiar voices sending a pulse of joy through his heart. He shifted, longing to see their faces, but his lids were far too heavy to open. The slight movement caused the dull ache in his side to flair and he moaned. A familiar hand settled gently in his hair.

"Easy, 'Mis." Porthos voice was a deep rumble, a welcome growl he had feared never to hear again. "You're all right. Everythin's all right. Just relax, we'll be done in a moment."

He became aware of hands on his side, smoothing a cool poultice across his wound. The smell of mint and black mustard wafted in the air, the scent doing as much to calm him as the soft strokes of Porthos' fingers through his hair.

He shivered. A cool breeze played across his skin and he realized his chest was exposed. He frowned, turning his head in discomfort.

Porthos' chuckle warmed him from the inside. "I know, I know. As soon as the prêtre is finished, I'll tuck you in myself. Just try 'n relax, my friend. We've got you. You're safe now."

Aramis leaned into Porthos' touch, trusting in his brother's words, content to do just as he was bid.

Good to his word, a warm blanket was soon raised to his shoulders, Porthos' large hands tucking the material around him before returning to card slowly through his hair.

"How is he?"

Athos' voice was close by, probably standing just behind Porthos' chair.

"He needs rest."

Aramis tried to place the soft voice, the diminutive form of the priest floating in his mind. Father… Boudreaux?

"The needlework was torn and he lost some blood, but he is fortunate there is no sign of infection nor fever. If we can keep him still for a few days, he should recover fully."

"You hear that, 'Mis? You're goin' t'be fine and fit in no time."

"If we can keep him still," Athos added drolly.

"I'll sit on 'im if need be."

"I believe that may defeat the purpose."

Aramis let the banter wash over him, relaxing into its familiarity.

"What about his head wound, Father?" d'Artagnan's voice joined the conversation and Aramis felt the last shard of fear in his heart melt away. "His memories?"

The priest sighed. "What your Captain has relayed is troubling, but your friend has been remembering things along your journey, has he not?"

"Yes," Treville's voice came from further away, perhaps still seated at the table near the hearth. "The memories have come in fragments, but the blanks have been filling in as we journeyed closer to our objective."

"Then I would presume his memories will return as he heals. He has tried to force them in his haste to find you, now he can relax and let them return of their own accord."

"If we had known…" Porthos' voice held more than a touch of self-reproach.

"We had no cause for alarm." Aramis could detect the guilt in Athos tone, belaying his words.

Guilt? His brow furrowed. Why would his friends feel guilty?

"He hid his weakness well," the priest agreed. "I knew he was injured, but he refused my offer of help and he seemed quite capable. If I had but known his true condition, I would have been more insistent he stay and not attempt to ride for Paris."

Oh. He cringed, knowing his friends' current feelings of remorse were his doing.

"The fault was not yours, Father," Treville consoled the priest. "Aramis is a soldier. He performed his duty admirably. You had no way of knowing the toll the journey would take."

The Captain's straightforward conviction brough a smile to his lips, and Aramis struggled to open his eyes, the need to see the faces of his friends and assure them he was all right overwhelming.

"Hey there," Porthos smiled as Aramis' eyes focused on him. "It's good to see you, my friend." The big man's relief was palpable, and Aramis couldn't help but return the grin.

"And you," Aramis croaked, coughing at the scratch he felt in his throat.

D'Artagnan hurried to the pitcher on the stand next to the bed, poured some water into a small cup and handed it to Porthos, who gently lifted Aramis' head.

"Here." He placed the cup to Aramis' lips, waiting patiently while the marksman sipped at the cool liquid. When he was sated, he relaxed into the pillow, letting his eyes rake across the three faces he had only dared hoped to see again.

He remembered Porthos limping toward him and tensed, his eyes searching the big man for any sign of pain. "You were limping."

Porthos smiled as he nodded. "Took a sword to the leg. But don't worry, the good Father patched it up. His needlework is almost as fine as yours."

Aramis returned the grin, relieved. "Athos? D'Artagnan?" He shifted his gaze to each of them, his eyes widening at the livid bruises along the side of Athos' face. Porthos chuckled, answering for the others. "d'Artagnan took a cut to the back – it didn't need stitches but we were afraid it would open up if he got on a horse. That's why we delayed our return a few days."

Aramis was still looking at Athos, studying the dark purple, blue and green skin framing his cheek and eye.

"Athos forgot to duck; took a branch to the face," Porthos explained. He craned his neck, giving the swordsman a teasing grin. "I think it's improved his looks a bit, eh?"

Aramis smiled. "The color does set off his eyes."

"At least I'm still standing," Athos pointed out, a grin playing on his lips.

"You are," Aramis admitted, pushing himself up against the wall with a pained grunt.

"Easy," Porthos admonished. "We just stitched you back together."

"I would advise against moving too much," Father Boudreaux cautioned. "But then, since you are here, it appears you do not exactly do what is in your best interest."

"I'm surprised the Captain allowed you to accompany him."

Athos looked over his shoulder at Treville, who simply shrugged. He raised a hand as if saying 'what can you do?'

"Like he gave 'im a choice." Porthos fussed about, shifting the pillow behind his friend's back to support him.

"I needed to remember what happened," Aramis explained. "And the best way for that to occur was to retrace whatever led to the loss in the first place."

"Makes sense." D'Artagnan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to the bed. "And it did lead them here."

"Why did you not send word?"

Athos returned to his seat at the table before answering Aramis' question. "As we've explained to the Captain, we did. But in your haste to ride to our rescue – and appease the Cardinal – you did not leave time enough for the messenger to arrive at the garrison."

Aramis exchanged a look of chagrin with Treville.

"What happened to the book?" d'Artagnan asked. "The Captain said you did not return with it."

Aramis frowned, his joy at finding his friends alive and mostly unscathed had overshadowed his own dilemma momentarily. "I…" he rubbed a hand across the lump on the back of his head. "I don't…"

"Perhaps I could shed some light on the matter?"

All eyes turned to the priest, who had retreated to a corner of the room to allow the Musketeers to converse.

When he had their attention, Boudreaux cleared his throat and focused his gaze on Aramis.

"You arrived a day before your friends. You were hurt, disoriented, but adamant I help you protect this book you carried. You explained who you were and that you were on a mission for the Cardinal himself; you begged me to find a place that was safe for this treasure while you returned to Paris for reinforcements. You do not recall this?"

Aramis shook his head, his eyes losing focus as the priest continued. "I led you to the cellar beneath the church. It is seldom used except to store wine and some old tomes and relics. I told you to hide the book among them. It would be safe."…

…. Aramis tumbled from his horse, his grip on the pommel the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. The pain in his side burned like fire, and his head throbbed relentlessly, making it harder and harder to think clearly. He had no idea how he'd found his way to the village, the small church on the edge of the lane beckoning to him like a beacon. As he leaned his head against the horse's withers, he sensed a presence behind him and lowered a hand to the hilt of his sword, slowly turning to confront whomever approached.

"Easy, my son. I wish you no harm."

The small man before him was clad in a simple tunic, belted at the waist with a frayed rope. The large crucifix hanging around his neck announced his vocation.

"You are a priest?"

"Father Boudreaux," the shorter man dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

Aramis managed to stand without the support of his mount and placed a hand over his heart, the other held tight against his still bleeding wound. "I am Aramis of the King's Musketeers."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Aramis." He stepped closer, holding out a hand as Aramis swayed. "Are you well?"

"I am in need of your assistance, Father," the Musketeer admitted.

"Of course, please, come inside and we will see to your wounds."

Aamis shook his head, squeezing his lids against the sudden bout of dizziness the movement induced. "I am fine. It is not for myself I ask your support."

Boudreaux looked at him a moment as if he were mad before finally accepting his statement, tilting his head in inquiry. "Then what may I do for you?"

Aramis turned and reached for the saddlebag, still lying across the horse's flank. "I need to secure something. I fear there are men following me who would try to obtain what is within this bag. They have already tried once, attacking my friends and I a few lieu from here."

"Your friends?" Boudreax inquired, his gaze shifted to the road, obviously searching for the others.

Aramis' breath caught in his throat. "They remained behind to ensure my escape. I had hoped to see them following, but…"

"I'm sure they will be along." The priest came closer, laying a comforting hand on the Musketeers arm. "In the meantime, please, come inside. We will find a place to hide your package, then see to your wounds."

Again Aramis shook his head. "I cannot delay, Father. I must return to Paris to inform the Captain what has happened. I fear, in my condition, I will not be able to defend against another attack. Is there someplace secure I leave the book until I can ensure its safe delivery to Cardinal Richelieu?"

At the mention of the Cardinal's name, the little priest's eyes widened. "Of course. Please. Follow me."

He led Aramis to a narrow door near the back of the small church, lighting a candle and preceding him down a curving stone staircase. When they reached the bottom, the priest reached up and used the flame of the candle to light a larger torch, bathing the musty room with a soft orange glow.

"This is mostly used to store wine and some old books and trinkets. Nobody comes down here except myself – and even that is on rare occasions. If it is a book you must hide, I believe leaving it among the old tomes we have in the corner would be a safe enough place."

Even through the pulsing pain in his head, Aramis could see the logic of the priest's words.

"Yes," he breathed a sigh of relief. "I believe it would be safe here." He moved across the dirt floor, his gait uneven, his vision wavering more than what he could blame on the flickering light. He moved a few of the old tomes and dug Richelieu's book from the saddlebag. Remembering what he had seen when the book had fallen upon the ground, he opened it, frowning at the blank pages within.

Why would a book with no words be important? It made no sense. Admittedly, he was not thinking clearly at the moment, but even in his present state, he knew there was something amiss. He ran his hand across the page, stopping when his fingers felt a bump near the binding. Holding it up to allow the torchlight to flicker across it, Aramis was surprised to see a tiny, flat stone bottle peeking out from a space between the binding and the pages. Digging in with his fingers, he managed to lever the bottle from the book, holding it up to the light.

The bottle fit neatly in the palm of his hand, the firelight playing over the intricate carvings on either side. As the light danced across its surface, he could just make out a crest containing three fleur-de-lis in the center of the smooth stone.

Knowing time was of the essence, he tucked the bottle into his ammunition pouch and placed the book on the pile, covering it with a few of the other dusty tomes. Turning he nodded to the priest.

"Allow no one down here, Father. My visit here must remain a secret. Three men – Musketeers – may inquire of me. Inform them I have ridden to Paris to report."

Boudreaux nodded his accord and led the Musketeer back up the stairs…

"Aramis?"

The marksman started as Porthos' voice broke into his thoughts, and he shifted his gaze to his friend's concerned face.

"You with us now?"

Aramis nodded, his eyes searching the room. "Where is Father Boudreaux?"

"He went to retrieve the book," Athos informed him. "He said he remembered where you hid it when you stopped here."

"We don't need –" Aramis statement was interrupted by a crash and a scream coming from the far side of the church. Treville and Athos rose from their chairs immediately, darting to the door. Athos held up a hand as Porthos struggled to his feet. "No, Porthos, you and d'Artagnan stay here with Aramis." He grabbed a pistol from their pile of weapons near the door and tossed it to the big man. "The Captain and I will investigate."

Porthos caught the weapon easily and, reluctantly nodded, resuming his seat, the pistol balanced on his thigh. D'Artagnan moved closer to the door, sword in his hand, eyes on the hall beyond the room.

"We don't need the book," Aramis said, his voice loud in the sudden silence.

Porthos looked at him askance. "What?"

"Our returning with the book was not the Cardinal's true intent."

Porthos laid a hand against his cheek. "You don't have a fever. What in the hell are you goin' on about?"

Aramis sighed and batted his friend's arm aside. "The monk at the abbey explained it to Treville and I. The book was nothing but a cover for the true object of Richelieu's interest." He made an attempt to push himself from the bed, but a sharp pain in his side – as well as Porthos' restraining hand – stayed him.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis grunted, pointing to his pouch on the floor near the rest of his weapons. "My pouch. Bring it to me, please."

The young man raised a questioning brow, but Porthos simply shrugged and tipped his chin toward the pouch, silently telling the Gascon to humor their friend. d'Artagnan picked up the pouch and handed it to Aramis, who immediately opened it and dug inside. A moment later he smiled in triumph, and produced a small, stone bottle from its depths.

TBC