Aramis curled on his side, his legs drawn to his middle as he lay on the bed. His flushed face was damp with a sheen of sweat, acting as glue matting his hair to the skin. He held tightly to the blanket with a shaking hand as his whole body shivered from chills, despite the fever that coursed through his body.

He curled into the blanket, squeezing it harder with his fist as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing, sucking the air from his lungs. He raised a shaking fist to his mouth in attempt to stifle his coughs.

The medic curled himself tighter into a ball as his stomach muscles protested the incessant strain caused by the coughing. He let a moan escape his lips, drawing the attention of his caretaker.

D'Artagnan took a wet cloth to begin wiping away the sweat from Aramis' face, neck and chest. Again and again he dipped the cloth in cooling water, tenderly ministering to the man who had nursed him and his brothers back from sickness and injury more times than he could count.

Aramis insisted on lying on his side so he could keep an eye on Athos in the opposite bed. The familiar scene of Porthos holding the sick Musketeer upright in his arms had changed since he fell into a coma.

The large Musketeer now kept vigil in a chair beside Athos' bed. He sat for hours while holding a limp hand in his own, watching as his friend lay motionless and frighteningly still. It was a place Porthos had not moved from since his friend had slipped into a coma last night.

M. Molyneux told the Musketeers there was nothing they could do for Athos but wait.

Doing nothing didn't settle well with Porthos; even if Athos was unaware of his devotion. He insisted on sitting with his comatose friend- holding his hand and talking to him about memories of favorite missions, ladies and drinking—anything to let Athos know he was not alone.

Aramis could hear the soft mutterings from the other bed, though he couldn't make out what Porthos was saying. The large Musketeer spoke softly, as though to shut out prying ears, keeping his conversation private, intended only for Athos' unconscious ears.

The sight before him made Aramis' heart break to pieces. He should have been helping Porthos in taking care of their sick brother, rather than lying in bed doing nothing but watching.

The short calm observing his brothers was interrupted with a brutal fit of coughing that morphed into a fit of retching. Aramis' stomach rejected the fever-reducing herbal tea by defiantly sending it upward.

He leaned over the edge of the bed just as the liquid burst from his mouth to splash onto the hard floor and d'Artagnan's boots. Aramis instantly felt terrible—not just because of the illness wreaking havoc on his body—but because he didn't have time to warn d'Artagnan before emptying his stomach.

"Damn, not my boots again." d'Artagnan groaned. "Sorry, it's okay," he apologized. "I know you didn't mean it and I don't mind cleaning it up. Well, I do mind cleaning it up, but only because you can't help it." The Gascon flashed his boyish smile at Aramis.

Aramis managed a small chuckle but was assailed with a savage fit of coughing, leaving him curled into himself from the pain.

D'Artagnan grasped a hand, "I've got you, Aramis, hold onto me." The Gascon clenched his teeth together, suppressing the yelp of pain as Aramis squeezed his hand so tightly he thought the bones might break.

Aramis grabbed the proffered hand, squeezing it as though it would help alleviate the pain pulsing through his body. "God, it hurts!" the medic cried out.

"Shh. . . I know it hurts. Breathe through the pain, Aramis. Breath with me; in. . . and out. . . and in. . ." d'Artagnan coached, just like when Aramis had coached Athos. "You're a good teacher, Aramis; I learn a lot just from watching you."

"Glad. . . glad you're a g-good student. . . very ob-observant of you." The corner of Aramis' mouth curled into a faint smile as he let his eyes slide closed. He let go of d'Artagnan's hand to grasp hold of the blanket; he fisted a ball of the woolen cloth rather than hurting the Gascon's hand further.

"I'm going to make some more elderberry tea." D'Artagnan wiped Aramis' brow, sponging around his neck and throat where the sweat had pooled. "We need to keep you hydrated."

"No, d-don't want anything," Aramis defiantly retorted. He rolled his face into his pillow to hide the grimace of pain emanating from his stomach. "God. . . make the pain g-go 'way."

"Aramis, I know you don't want anything in your stomach, when it will probably just come back up again, but you have to stay hydrated."

"Not drink-drinking anymore." Aramis clenched his jaws; his breath hissed through his teeth as the medic braced himself against the excruciating wave of pain gripping his stomach. "Damn. . ."

D'Artagnan had seen this same defiant act with Athos and knew how to overcome that tactic well; he was not going to let the medic tell him no. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Aramis. You wouldn't back down when Athos refused to drink tea for the same reason you're now giving me. I know your stomach hurts, and that it will probably come back up again, but you have to drink it for your own good. In fact, you will drink it, even if I have to get Porthos over there to help hold you down."

Porthos turned at hearing his name. "That's right, 'Mis. Don't make me come over there, 'cause I won't be as nice as the pup." Porthos warned with a straight face, though he was doing his best not to smile.

D'Artagnan busied himself with making Aramis some tea while Porthos went back to sponging Athos down. The Gascon glanced over his shoulder at Aramis; he frowned at the trembling form whose gaze was fixated on Athos.

"I have your tea ready, Aramis." D'Artagnan put the cup aside for a moment. "I'm going to roll you onto your back so I can help you sit up some—you can't drink lying on your side."

Aramis shook his head weakly, determined not to move from the ball he had curled into. In this position, it seemed the constant pain surging through his stomach was more tolerable. "C-can't m-move."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes against the emotions surging in his heart; he blinked back the tears beginning to pool in the corners. His mind wandered back to a conversation he had overheard with an old Parisian physician giving wise advice to his young protégé.

Never treat a patient with your emotions but with intellect and logic—treat with your head and not your heart. As a doctor, sometimes you will have to cause the patient pain in order that they heal properly. If you omit a necessary treatment because it causes short-term suffering, then you are robbing them of long-term benefits—benefits they refuse to see through the pain.

"Porthos, I'm going to need your help," d'Artagnan called over his shoulder. "We need Aramis in a position where he can take this tea without spilling it on him or him choking on it. He's being stubborn; I can't do this alone."

Porthos gave a slight throaty growl of displeasure as he stood. "Remember wha' I said about not makin' me come over here, 'Mis?" Porthos stood beside the bed with his hands on his hips. "Don't think your sad eyes will work wit' me; I've known you too long for 'at to work."

"M-m. . ." Aramis shivered, his hand still clenched around a handful of blanket.

"Alrigh', looks like we go' no other choice," he said to d'Artagnan. Porthos picked Aramis up by the shoulders then slid in behind him on the bed. He propped his large back against the wall before pulling the medic close to him; he wrapped his arms tightly around the medic's chest to hold him in place. "Okay, li'l brother, give 'im the tea."

D'Artagnan placed the cup at Aramis' lips and tipped it back, allowing the liquid to pour into his mouth. The medic instinctively had to swallow, though some tea did dribble down into his beard. "Sorry," the pup apologized. "I'll slow it down a little."

The young Gascon continued pouring the tea into Aramis until the medic had enough and turned away. "Okay, you took a good amount. Let's hope it has time to absorb into your system before it comes back up again." D'Artagnan wiped the spilled tea from Aramis' chin and beard.

"Are you going to stay back there?" d'Artagnan asked Porthos, who appeared to be settling in and getting comfortable.

"Yes, I'll stay wit' 'im for a while." Porthos answered, pulling Aramis in closer to his chest. "He does better when one of us is next to 'im, anyway. Besides," he lowered his voice, "I don't want him alone the next time he vomits. Sometimes our support at their back is the only strength they have left."

"W-what ab-about Athos?" Aramis choked out, followed by a few painful coughs. His head fell against Porthos' chest, exhausted. He let out a long breath through his mouth, followed with a shallow intake of air through his nose to avoid another fit of coughing. "God, it's hard to breathe; it feels like a bull is sitting on my chest."

"Well, if you had a bull sitting on your chest, Aramis, believe me, you wouldn't be able to breathe at all." D'Artagnan corrected, chuckling lightly.

Aramis opened his eyes just enough to glare at the young man staring back at him. D'Artagnan's eyes were so warm and full of compassion for his sick friend that it melted away any annoyance the medic felt. Aramis gave his young friend a faint smile before letting his eyes slide closed again.

D'Artagnan stepped away when Aramis' voice stopped him short. "Don't leave Athos alone; sit with him a while."

"Of course I will, Aramis."

"The punishment for treason is death," said the king's magistrate. "For this particularly heinous offense, the king believes that death by hanging is not befitting of the crime. Aramis, you are hereby sentenced to be burned at the stake. All others who knew of this secret, but said nothing, including the queen, will be forced to watch you burn. Afterward, they will be taken away to be hanged."

"No! You cannot hang the queen! You can't do this. . ." Aramis screamed.

"You were one of my own Musketeers," King Louis said. "I trusted you, Aramis, yet you betrayed me. You took my wife from me; I want nothing more to do with you. Take him away!" the king yelled to the guards.

"No! You can't do this, stop!" Aramis screamed as the guards tied him to the stake and filled the pile with kindling poles. Slowly, they lowered their torches to the kindling and he watched with horror as the flames climbed higher and closer.

He fought to get away but the ties kept him bound in place. The flames licked his body, burning his clothes. "No. . .!"

~§~

"No!" Aramis awakened from his nightmare with a gasp. It felt like his lungs and his entire body was on fire. He struggled against the arms that held him in place but they were too strong.

"Aramis, stop struggling!" Porthos yelled as he wrapped his arms tighter around the medic. "You were having a bad dream—it was just a dream! 'Mis, you're okay. . . it was just a dream."

"Porthos?" Aramis questioned, still in a daze. The confusion was quickly replaced by dread as he felt the unmistakable reflex of bile rising to his throat. "Oh God. . ."

Aramis leaned over the bed and vomited harshly again and again. Porthos held him as he rubbed circles on his back until he realized that the medic was gasping for air, unable to breathe.

Porthos began pounding on Aramis' back with the ball of his fist, as he saw the medic do with Athos, to dislodge the congestion from his lungs; he continued pounding until he was able to breathe again.

Falling back into Porthos' arms, Aramis was completely exhausted and out of breath. He felt as though he had just finished sparring with the devil himself.

"Try to get your breathing under control, 'Mis." Porthos soothed with a low voice. "Breathe slow. . . I've got ya, brother."

"N-now I know. . . how Athos f-felt." Aramis choked out, his body shivering again from the rising fever tormenting his body. "God, it hurts. . . I'm so c-cold."

Porthos pulled Aramis closer in to his chest, settling his friend against his body for warmth. "Just lean your head back against my shoulder and go to sleep. I'll keep you warm, my brother," he whispered softly in the medic's ear.

D'Artagnan draped a blanket over Aramis, carefully tucking it around the medic's shoulders while trying to keep Porthos uncovered. "You should try to get some rest too, Porthos."

"Yeah, I will," the large Musketeer agreed as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

The young Gascon stood watching his sleeping friends for a moment as tears welled in his eyes. "Sleep well, my friends." D'Artagnan wiped his eyes dry as he grabbed some towels and began mopping up the vomit on the floor.

~§~

"I know about you and the queen—your dirty little secret. Did you really think that you could keep such a thing hidden?" Rochefort's malevolent tone was cold and hard, matching the look in his dark eyes.

Aramis circled around the blonde man, his sword in one hand and main gauche in the other, carefully watching his opponent's body language to anticipate his next move.

"Aramis?" The queen interrupted, breaking the Musketeer's concentration for a fraction of a second; that is all it took for Rochefort to lunge, piercing Aramis through with his sword.

~§~

"No!" Aramis screamed once again as he awoke. The pain piercing his stomach felt as though he was stabbed in reality. The medic doubled over with his arms pressing into his belly, groaning out in pain. "Oh God, make the pain stop," he choked.

"'Mis, please, tell me what to do!" Porthos begged. "Is there anything that will help wit' the pain?"

"Doctor Molyneux talked about giving Athos valerian tea to help ease his pain," d'Artagnan interjected. "I'll go see if he has more; I'll be right back."

"Lean back into me, 'Mis." Porthos suggested to his hurting friend. "Maybe if you sit up, your belly won't hurt as much."

"No, Porth's," Aramis protested. "No. . . it feels better. . . when I- I'm on m-my side. Let me l-lay d-down again. . . p-please." Aramis begged, shaking so hard he could hardly speak.

"I'm not so sure 'at's a good idea," Porthos grumbled.

"Please. . . I n-need to l-lay down. . . it hurts!" Aramis hissed.

"Alright, but if you start havin' problems again, I'm comin' back here. . . whether you like it or not."

Aramis quietly nodded. He gasped in pain as Porthos moved out from behind him then turned to gently lay the medic flat on the bed. "God. . .oh God. . . it hurts."

Violent tremors shook through Aramis' body, causing his hands to shake uncontrollably as he tried pulling the blanket around himself.

Porthos pulled up the blanket and tucked it around the medic's shoulders. "Go to sleep, 'Mis," he leaned over and softly kissed his friend on the forehead. The large Musketeer squeezed Aramis' shoulder gently, letting him know he was not suffering alone. "I wish I could trade places wit you, somehow take away your pain. I would do it in a heartbeat, if I could. I hope you know 'at."

Aramis nodded as he slowly rolled onto his side; he curled himself into a ball and drew his legs up parallel with his waist. The medic grabbed a fist full of blanket to channel the pain from inside his belly then closed his eyes. He gratefully slipped into the awaiting grip of darkness where, at last, he felt no more pain.