Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged worried glances. Anxiously they watched as the medic appeared to slip deeper into a fevered slumber as his head tossed from side to side, caught in the grips of an unknown dream.
"His fever burns real hot, d'Artagnan." Porthos shook his head grimly. "I think it migh' be time to go ask for help."
"I think you're right. I'll go see if Doctor Molyneux is available." D'Artagnan left the room to fetch the doctor, stopping just outside the door where he leaned against the wall. He took off his mask and gulped in the fresh air as though he had been under water.
He wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes and leaned over at the waist as he was overcome with dizziness. "God please, I can't get sick too; Porthos needs my help in there! I can't leave him alone to take care of all three of us."
Waiting until the dizziness passed, d'Artagnan put his mask back on before making his way to the infirmary.
~§~
D'Artagnan entered the infirmary and instantly regretted coming back to this place. Though he had stopped by the sickroom before and was surprised then at the severity of the illness, it was nothing compared to the appalling scene he was now looking at. The infirmary was overrun, with every bed full; extra cots filled the aisles and every row with the sick and dying Musketeers.
"Merciful God," d'Artagnan gasped. The Gascon had to fight the urge to run from the room as his stomach rolled and threatened to rebel. He breathed deeply, reminding himself that he came here to get help; as he looked around, he feared they wouldn't be able to spare anyone. How could he ask the doctor to leave all these sick men to care for one; no matter who that one was?
"D'Artagnan, I assume you came here to ask for help, yes?" M. Molyneux inquired.
"I, um, y-yes. . ." d'Artagnan stumbled over his words. He really didn't want to burden the poor doctor any further.
"As you can plainly see, we are overrun with cases and I have my hands quite full. What is the problem, is it Athos? Has he awakened?" Molyneux inquired.
"No, there is no change with Athos. It's actually Aramis I'm seeking help for." D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably as a Musketeer vomited a great deal of liquid into a bowl near where the Gascon stood.
"What is wrong with our dear medic, my boy?" The doctor continued with his ministrations of the sick Musketeer while speaking with the Gascon.
"Doctor, Aramis' fever is spiking," d'Artagnan said, his voice laced with worry. "I think he's becoming delirious—he's mumbling and talking in his sleep."
"Yes, you need to reduce the fever," the doctor absently stated the obvious. "Have you and Porthos been using the cold compresses as you did with Athos?"
"Yes, doctor, and so far, nothing is working, not even the tea. He just keeps getting worse."
"Doctor, excuse me," Cécile interrupted. "I would like to assist them with Aramis, if I may? I know you are busy in here with so many sick men, but perhaps I can be of help to Aramis."
"Yes, of course, Cécile," Molyneux nodded. "It seems to have settled down in here somewhat. Doctor Senne and I can manage for a while. Please, do what you can for our young medic; these Musketeers need the talent and skill that only he can offer."
"Thank you, doctor, you're very kind," d'Artagnan said. He smiled and sighed, feeling grateful for the compliment paid to his friend.
"Are you alright, young man?" Molyneux noted the weary sound to d'Artagnan's voice. "Are you starting to feel ill?"
"I'm just tired, doctor." D'Artagnan brushed off the question. "I hate to ask, but. . . but what are the casualties so far?
"Well, the good news is that I believe we have reached the climax of this illness. I've been studying the various combinations of herbs to administer as medicine and I think I have finally found what works the best. All new cases who have been given this special mix of herbs appear to be recovering within twenty-four to forty-eight hours." The doctor sighed with relief. "Many of the men you see in here have already begun showing signs of improvement, though further study of our other treatments is still required."
"That is good news, doctor!" D'Artagnan knew Molyneux was hesitating on the remainder of information he really wanted to know, however. "And the bad news. . .?"
"And the bad news is that we have six dead Musketeers." Molyneux sighed, his shoulders slumping.
"Six?" d'Artagnan repeated with shock. "Last time I was in here there were two. . . and now there are four more gone?" The Gascon wobbled on his feet, but the physician reached out to steady him until he regained his footing.
"I am sorry, d'Artagnan, for your loss." Molyneux apologized after delivering such terrible news. "Please, take Cécile and do everything you can to make sure Aramis and Athos get well again, do you hear me young man?"
"Yes, and thank you." D'Artagnan turned and guided Cécile away from the infirmary, her hand resting in the crook of his arm.
"D'Artagnan?" Cécile stopped outside the infirmary with hesitation. "How is Aramis, is it bad?"
"Cécile, I don't know, honestly." d'Artagnan sighed wearily. "I mean, between Athos, and now Aramis, we're doing everything we can, yet it never seems to be enough. We have fevers and vomiting and coughing. . . and more vomiting and coughing. As if that isn't enough, Aramis is now delirious and I don't know what to do anymore!"
"D'Artagnan, you're tired." Cécile squeezed the Gascon's hand. "I see how worried you are—and how utterly exhausted. I pray this godforsaken illness will be over soon! Please, d'Artagnan, hang on just a little while longer; you and Porthos are so deserving of time off and rest. Come on, let's go." Cécile turned toward the room, dreading what she might find.
Later:
Cécile was seated in the chair beside Aramis' bed, holding his hand tightly in hers as she sponged his fevered face, neck and chest.
New beads of sweat popped up to replace those only just wiped away. Fevered tremors racked his slender frame causing him to moan in pain.
"Shh. . ." Cécile once again replaced the cold compress on his neck and chest. She laid her hand flat, as though to calm his chest heaving beneath her cool hand. "You're going to be okay, Aramis, just sleep."
Aramis grimaced and tossed his head side-to-side as bad memories haunted his fevered dreams. "Isabelle, don't go. . ."
Cécile glanced at d'Artagnan beside her, but he shook his head and shrugged. They both turned their attention back to the medic as more delirious babbling spilled from his mouth.
"We can try again. . . we can have a new baby. . ."
Aramis stared out the window, searching for the bandits hiding among the trees. The queen came in to put extra reserves of ammunition in the pouch at his hip.
"That nun downstairs. . . my arrival was a disturbance," the queen braved.
"You did not disturb anything" Aramis lied.
". . . I'm not a fool. . ." the queen pressed for answers.
"I knew her once. . . we were to marry. She fell pregnant and the marriage was arranged. I was happy. I was in love and so was she. . ."
The queen smiled.
"But then she lost the child. . . her father took her away and put her in here. . ."
"I could love you again. . . I could learn to be happy. . ."
"What is he talking about?" Cécile asked d'Artagnan.
"There was a nun at the convent Athos and Aramis took refuge in during a mission a while ago. Apparently, Aramis and a nun living there knew each other. I don't really know the details." D'Artagnan felt uncomfortable and quickly dismissed the question.
"I see," she nodded her understanding. "Poor, dear Aramis. It sounds as though he really loved her."
~§~
The words from Aramis' mouth spilled out from his fevered dream and overflowed from a heart still aching with unresolved pain.
Cécile's own heart ached as she watched Aramis' face crease with pain; he called out for his past love interests—now forever lost—asking them to come and comfort him.
"Anne. . ." Aramis began mumbling again in his sleep.
"I know this is wrong. . . I shouldn't be doing this. . . but it feels so good."
"What are they building?" The queen asked as she decided to just get up after being kept awake by the incessant noise outside.
"A battering ram, perhaps. . ."
The queen watched Aramis, his hands raked absently through his hair. Isabelle's death had reawakened many sad memories he long ago buried.
"I too fell pregnant once, it was perfect. . ."
"She was right about me. . . she was right to stay away from me."
"No, Aramis. You are brave and honorable and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you."
The queen's hand was on his shirt, at long last, they came together in a passionate kiss.
She moved his rifle, then stood; they move from the hallway to her bedroom.
"The baby. . . my son. . . I can never tell him I am his father. . . I must watch him grow up calling another man papa."
~§~
"Oh God, Aramis," d'Artagnan uttered in a low voice as his wide eyes connected in horror with Porthos.
"The queen. . ." Cécile gasped as she figured out the secret Aramis unwillingly and unknowingly revealed to fresh ears.
"We only recently learned of these secrets ourselves," Porthos said, his voice low and deliberate. "You understand the serious, and potentially deadly, ramifications these secrets carry with them, do you not?"
Cécile nodded briskly.
"Aramis' secret could cost him his life—and the queen's. This secret must never, and I say again, never be revealed to anyone," Porthos whispered gruffly, his face deadly serious.
"Porthos and d'Artagnan," Cécile nervously looked to each man. "I know you don't know me very well and you have no reason to trust me. But know this, I understand each of you better than you realize, just from being around you and nursing you to health at the château. I know your brotherhood and your bond with each other is very strong—and I respect that about you."
The two Musketeers traded glances, but remained quiet.
"You can trust, I will never reveal any secrets told by Aramis today. He has no control over what he is saying and I am rather embarrassed to be made privy to his inner and most personal secrets. As a matter of fact, it is best that Aramis not be informed by anyone in this room what he has said while fevered. . . for his own peace of mind."
"That's for sure," d'Artagnan huffed in agreement.
"He would probably be horrified to learn that I know of his past secrets. So please, gentlemen, Aramis does not need to learn what he has revealed while fevered; I also will never speak of the secrets that I have learned. You have my word of honor on that promise."
"Alright, I believe you then." Porthos said resolutely.
"I do too," d'Artagnan agreed. "Not a word to anyone—from any of us."
Hours Later:
"Gentlemen, his fever has broken!" Cécile announced with excitement.
"Aramis? Can you hear me?" D'Artagnan took the medic's hand in his own and squeezed gently.
Aramis groaned as he fought to escape the haze of consciousness. His eyelids were heavy, he felt so tired and weak; he simply ached all over. His stomach muscles screamed in agony with every movement and his throat felt ragged and raw.
"'Mis, come on now," Porthos encouraged. "Wake up! Your lit'le nap was more than long enough."
"Hmm. . ." Aramis heard the voices of his friends beckoning and calling him back. He pried his eyes open, blinking against the brightness invading his blurry vision. Deciding the darkness was more agreeable, he let his eyelids slide closed again. No, I prefer the darkness where it's peaceful and void of pain.
"Oh no, you don't!" Porthos growled. "I said your lit'le nap was long enough, 'Mis!" The large Musketeer lightly smacked Aramis on the cheek.
Aramis' eyes popped open at Porthos' smack. Why is Porthos so angry? Was he that worried about me?
Sensing the questions and confusion on the medic's face, Cécile spoke up with the hope it would grab his attention; it would be rather unexpected.
"Aramis, it's Cécile." The nurse spoke softly as she took the medic's hand in hers. "Wake up for us, please."
"Cécile?" Aramis opened his eyes and abruptly pulled his hand from her grip. "No, don't touch me! Please, stay away; I don't want you to get sick."
"Aramis, really?" Cécile frowned under her mask. "I have been around dozens of sick men already in the infirmary. I have held their hands as they vomited on the floor around my feet. I have held them as they cried out in pain; and I have held some hands that will never be held again. Don't you tell me to stay away, Aramis!"
Aramis listened to the scolding without saying a word.
"Besides, you have to get better; you owe me a kiss." Cécile quipped, trying to lighten the somber mood.
Porthos burst into laughter. "Well, I guess she told you, eh?" Porthos clapped d'Artagnan on the back in celebration and relief.
D'Artagnan winced at the well-meaning clap to his shoulder. He wanted to celebrate and laugh with Porthos, but he was fighting to control his rebelling stomach. He certainly did not want to spoil this happy moment for Aramis.
"It seems I have no choice but to recover," Aramis yawned. "I am in debt to my nurse and to my brothers; and, yes, I still owe everyone a drink." The medic managed a weak smile.
"I told ya I was goin' to hold ya to that," Porthos feigned a growl. "I mean it."
Aramis' smile grew a little wider with Porthos' teasing but sleep was quickly overwhelming his exhausted body. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to consume him with a smile still on his lips.
Later:
"I wasn't too much trouble, was I?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan. The young Gascon was slumped in his chair beside the medic's bed, fighting to stay awake. He sat with his long legs crossed and his booted feet propped up on the bed next to Aramis.
"You were no more trouble than could be expected," d'Artagnan mumbled weakly. "Perhaps you were a little. . . uncooperative."
"I would add a lit'le stubborn too," Porthos nodded. "But you know wha' they say, healers often make the worst patients." The large Musketeer smiled but it quickly faded as he watched Aramis' eyes turn toward the unconscious Athos lying unattended and alone.
"How long has it been Porthos?" Aramis asked in a whisper.
"Almost a week now."
"A week?" Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "God be merciful, if he doesn't wake up soon. . ."
Aramis was interrupted as d'Artagnan suddenly pulled his legs from the bed and doubled over in his chair. The Gascon tore the mask from his face in a hurry as he vomited over his boots, retching again and again until his rebelling stomach was finally empty.
"'Mis. . ." d'Artagnan muttered before collapsing forward onto the bed into blissful darkness.
A/N:
Dream scenes were taken from season 1 episode 9 'Knight Takes Queen.'