~~~~1631~~~~
Just as the long summer day began to darken, the men gave up their pursuit and began to set up camp, in an admittedly pleasant and convenient little clearing. Crouching in the shelter of a fallen log not a bowshot away, Aramis and d'Artagnan suspected a ruse, designed to flush them out—but the camp continued to go up, and they had to conclude that they were, in fact, free to slip away into the night.
Which was most distinctly not the plan. The plan was to lure the men farther away from where the rest of the regiment were meeting the Bishop of Vannes, but there had been delays, and evidently the two Musketeers were not a tempting enough morsel. Aramis was trying not to take it personally.
D'Artagnan leaned so close to Aramis's ear his breath tickled. "Rejoin the others, or shelter here and see if they'll take up the chase in the morning?" He turned his head so that Aramis could whisper his answer just as closely.
"Stay." Aramis knew the answer was unusually short, even under present conditions, and rather breathless, and resigned himself to d'Artagnan's inevitable next question.
"How's the arm?"
Ever since the second scuffle with their pursuers-cum-quarry, when they had exchanged a few shots across a lightly-wooded section of the road, Aramis had kept his right arm tucked against his body; there had not been a good time or place to stop until the other men did.
When Aramis didn't answer right away, d'Artagnan turned to look at him, and Aramis said reluctantly, "It's... not my arm."
"Wh—" Aramis watched d'Artagnan work it out. His arm. Carried close to his body. Across his stomach. "Aramis. No."
"It's not bad."
"Not bad?" d'Artagnan repeated in a furious whisper. He took Aramis firmly by the upper arms and said, "Sit."
Aramis held onto d'Artagnan's wrist as he accepted help moving from kneeling to sitting, with his back propped up against the log.
D'Artagnan kept up a whispered diatribe: "What is Porthos going to do to you when he finds out you ignored getting gut-shot? What's he going to do to me for letting you?" Once Aramis was settled, d'Artagnan yanked off his gloves and shoved them in the back of his belt. "And Athos is going to drag us both to Hell and back. Twice. He'll never let you out of his sight again, and I'll be cleaning muskets for the rest of my life."
Aramis drew his hand out of his jacket. His arm and shoulder protested the motion, after a couple of hours clamped tightly in one position, but he ignored that twinge and instead tried to see how much blood was on his hand and shirt-cuff. His night vision wasn't quite was it used to be, but there didn't seem to be much. He hadn't felt a rush of blood when he moved his hand, either. Good signs—and there was one more thing he knew that d'Artagnan didn't.
"I can feel it," he explained. "The ball. It's not deep. Might be bloody when we take it out, but it's not dangerous, not really."
D'Artagnan paused long enough that he might be counting to ten the way Athos had recommended. "Let's see it, then." He reached for the buckle of Aramis's weapons belt, but Aramis stopped him.
"I'll do it," he said. "Hurts less."
D'Artagnan was definitely counting to ten now.
Before he could think about it too much, Aramis gritted his teeth and pulled on his belt, and he felt it slip free just as the forest floor began to slide beneath him. He didn't think he passed out, but suddenly his head was resting on the log behind him and he had the vague sense though not the actual memory of having been called an idiot.
D'Artagnan went to work unwinding the sash from around Aramis' waist, moving quickly but also managing not to jar Aramis too much as he went. Aramis concentrated on taking slow, even breaths as d'Artagnan tucked a handkerchief inside his coat and then retied the sash higher, over the wound, and tight. He lost another moment or two, then felt d'Artagnan's hand warm on the back of his neck.
"Aramis?"
"I'm alright," he breathed. "I'm alright."
A worried silence.
Aramis licked his lips and tried to gather his thoughts. "The ball is like a cork in a bottle, do you see? Stops it from bleeding. Safer in than out, for the moment."
D'Artagnan took his hand from Aramis's neck and put it to the ties on his doublet. Aramis shook his head—the last thing d'Artagnan needed was to be a flash of white linen in the dark forest. D'Artagnan sighed and settled next to him, and a line of warmth slowly spread from shoulder to knee where they touched.
"The second they break camp, I'm going for help," d'Artagnan muttered. It sounded halfway between a promise and a threat.
Aramis rested his head on the fallen log, closed his eyes, and dreamed.
~~~~1621~~~~
Just as the long summer day began to darken, the Musketeer regiment was overwhelmed, split, and pinned down by a wave of Huguenots mixed with English allies. About a dozen Musketeers, the vanguard of the vanguard, slipped through the Huguenots' tightening line and sped south like so many dark arrows. Cut off from their fellows by three or four times as many soldiers, they were not running away, but fetching help: there was regular infantry, and even cavalry, agonizingly close, but it would be full dark before the free Musketeers reached them to sound the alarm. Help would come, that was certain—but not till morning.
In the mean time, both forces settled into a watchful wait. The nearly-full moon rose and hung low and white in the sky, casting its half-light over a rippling terrain dotted with dark copses. The Musketeers had the high ground, thanks to Treville's quick thinking, and it was all that kept them safe. Neither side would be lighting fires or shifting position tonight.
To Aramis, who lay on his belly on the top of the rise on sentry duty, the moonlight was good as dawn or dusk. He kept a merciless reckoning of every movement he saw, and when Marsac came to take his place, he pointed them out one by one.
"I don't know if that's a larger group or a sentry post," he finished, speaking quietly. "I saw men of different sizes, but not at the same time. They might have just changed the guard."
"Depends on when," Marsac said, also quiet. "Their watches are probably the same length as—"
He stopped when Aramis held up a hand for silence.
"There," Aramis whispered, quivering like a hound with a scent. "There, look, it's definitely another man. I think they have cover of some kind down there, maybe a fallen log?"
"I don't see anything."
Aramis leaned on his weight on one elbow so he could point, and Marsac came up on his knees for a better look. He followed the line of Aramis's leather-clad arm and hand, barely visible in the darkness, but couldn't make out more than a slightly different shade of blackness in the distance.
"Still nothing," he said.
Aramis made to rise to his knees, as well, but just as he moved, a spark flared in the shadowy copse and a crack! split the night. He dropped reflexively to the ground and stayed there, listening for the sound of movement or reloading. Behind and below them, he heard Treville order the rest of the men not to return fire. And then, from his left, came a thready gasp.
"Marsac?" He turned his head so his other cheek was in the dirt and he could see Marsac, lying in much the same position, his face contorted in a grimace. "Don't tell me that bastard got you."
"I don't—ah—I don't think it's bad. Graze, maybe."
Aramis slid closer. "Where are you hit?"
"Left side."
"I'll get help." But Aramis didn't move; he couldn't quite bring himself to leave his friend there alone, exposed.
"There's nothing wrong with my legs," Marsac pointed out as Aramis hesitated. "Help me up. I can make it back to camp." He rolled onto his back, stifling a groan.
"Give me your hand," Aramis whispered. Both of Marsac's arms were locked around his body, clutching his wounded side. Aramis wormed a hand into one of Marsac's, and slowly, Marsac let his arm relax until Aramis could change their grip to wrist-on-wrist.
"Ready?"
Marsac nodded.
Aramis pushed himself up off the ground, pulling Marsac with him and settling that arm across his shoulders in one smooth movement. Marsac made a strangled noise, but they were stumbling down the rise, and supported by Aramis he could at least make his feet follow one after the other. It wasn't long before they reached the main body of the Musketeer encampment, and Aramis kept his hold on Marsac as they both sank to their knees.
Aramis heard a flurry of quiet voices above their heads—"What happened?" "Get Treville." "Here, my bedroll is right here."—but he stayed focused on Marsac, who looked deathly pale in the moonlight. Marsac dragged his arm from Aramis's shoulders and, before Aramis could stop him, started to undo his weapons belt with one hand. Pulling it tighter to free the buckle made him gasp and sag to one side, and he might have tipped over except that Aramis still held him up.
"Let us do that, you idiot," Aramis said.
Marsac shook his head against Aramis's shoulder as his weapons belt fell to the ground. "Hurts less... do it myself."
"If you say so." Aramis nudged the belt and its various accouterments to the side, and someone laid out the promised bedroll. "Come on, lie down." With an arm around Marsac's shoulders, Aramis helped him lie back slowly, and as soon as he was settled, started unbuttoning his doublet. There was a hole in it, a darker patch against the dark leather, just to the side of the buttons. Too close to the center. Not good. Please let it be a graze, he prayed. I won't even make fun of him. Please let it be a graze.
Aramis heard Treville approaching, telling their replacement sentries to get up to the rise and stay down, then he came and knelt on Marsac's other side. "That bloody shot actually hit him?" he whispered furiously.
"Afraid so," Marsac mumbled. Treville took his hand, and he went on, "Sorry, captain. I was stupid, I showed myself..."
Treville shook his head. "Shh. It's alright, Marsac. You'll find I try not to yell at my men while they're still bleeding."
Aramis, now pulling Marsac's shirt out of his breeches, couldn't help making a skeptical noise.
"I said I try," Treville reminded him, bristling slightly. "I'm not a saint."
Marsac's blood was a black splotch in the moonlight, which suddenly turned crimson as Vernier leaned over them with a lantern. It was mostly shuttered, but one half-open door threw a small square of light.
"I know you said no fires..." he began, but stopped when Treville only waved him closer.
"Aramis," Treville said, "is there an exit wound?"
Aramis's stomach dropped, and he shook his head as he was forced to admit, "I didn't look, I'm sorry."
Treville didn't say anything, just ran a hand under Marsac's back as best he could, leaning across him to do it on the other side, as well, and his hands came away clean. Marsac groaned at being jostled. "Still in there," Treville said, to himself more than anything. He used the hem of Marsac's shirt to wipe away some of the blood, and Marsac pushed at him weakly.
"No, no," Aramis said, catching Marsac's wrist. "It's the captain, he's trying to help." Marsac didn't reply, or even seem to hear him.
Treville shifted and straddled Marsac's legs, pinning them tightly between his knees. "Hold him down, " Treville said. Aramis knew what this meant: he crossed Marsac's arms on his chest and leaned on his forearms, hushing Marsac when he protested at the movement. Now he and Treville held Marsac down quite effectively. It was a good thing, too: when Treville pressed along Marsac's side, feeling for the ball, fresh blood trickled from the wound and Aramis had to use his whole weight to keep Marsac's shoulders on the ground as he twisted. Treville only hitched one knee in even tighter, intent on what he was feeling. Aramis dropped his head to his chest and prayed.
"Ah," said Treville. "There it is." Aramis opened his eyes and saw that his questing fingers had come to rest several inches from the entry wound.
"I can feel it," Marsac whispered. "Get it out, please get it out."
"Can we, captain?" Aramis wanted to know.
"No."
"Please, it's cold—" Marsac looked up at Aramis with wide, frightened eyes.
"Captain—"
"No."
"But—"
"Aramis."
Aramis had not been under Treville's command for long, but he knew finality when he heard it. He looked down so Treville wouldn't see his mutinous expression, and doing so, he saw Marsac's face, lined with pain, eyes screwed shut now. Aramis forgot about his anger. He let go one of Marsac's arms and stroked his hair. "Hey," he said. "It's alright, it's not bad. Let's trust the captain on this." He glanced up and saw Treville accept a handful of linen from Vernier, looking like a mix of proper bandages and sacrificed shirt-tails. "Marsac? Look at me."
Marsac's eyes rolled open and met Aramis'.
"I've got you."
Aramis could barely hear the reply: "I know." Marsac's eyes drifted closed again.
They managed to pass a wide bandage under Marsac's lower back without having to sit him up, and Aramis tied it tightly across a pad of shirt-tails placed over the entry wound. The regiment piled Marsac with so many blankets he looked like he was in a woolly nest, and when he finally slept, Treville gestured to Aramis to come walk with him. Aramis stood reluctantly, but there were others sitting with Marsac, and he found he could use a stretch. He also thought he knew what Treville wanted to talk about; tonight had not been his first brush with insubordination.
When they were halfway down the line, after reassuring a few other men that Marsac was not too badly wounded and resting, Treville finally spoke. "Did you see the shot go off?"
"Uh." Aramis scrambled to catch up to the unexpected question. "Yes, I was looking right at it."
"If I were a betting man, I would bet you only saw a spark, not slow match."
"How did you..." Aramis put himself back in the moment, saw the sudden spark go off, and heard once more the timbre of the shot—too light for a musket. "The sound. It was a pistol."
"What would I say to any Musketeer who fired a pistol at this distance?"
Aramis knew very well, and he quoted from memory, "'Save your shot, or by God, you'll be holding targets on the practice range until Easter.'"
Treville made an amused noise at hearing his own words repeated back to him. "When there's not enough power behind a ball—one fired uphill, or from too far away—"
"Or both."
"—or both," Treville agreed, "sometimes instead of going straight through a man, it skates along these muscles." He touched his own side, just where he'd found the ball in Marsac. "Not often, but I've seen it happen."
"That's why you thought you'd feel it."
Treville nodded.
"He wanted it out."
"Of course he did."
"It will get infected if you leave it in?" Aramis said hesitantly. He still wasn't sure how far he could push Treville.
"We won't do him any favors removing it ourselves, in the dark. The ball is like a cork in a bottle—a bottle we're not going to open." He looked at Aramis until he got a nod of assent, then went on. "He'll be happier to have it done tomorrow by a surgeon in a well-lit tent, after the cavalry come dig us out. For now, we know it won't kill him to put him on a horse in the morning. Aramis?"
"Yes?"
"Aramis?"
~~~~1631~~~
"Aramis?"
It was the same voice—that's why he didn't realize he was awake at first. The voice had followed him out of his dream...
"Aramis?"
Something was tapping his face. "Go away," he said, but it sounded more like "nnnph."
The tapping was replaced with the touch of cool metal on his lower lip, and the pleasant burn of brandy. For that, Aramis opened his eyes. He found Athos kneeling in front of him, capping a flask, and Treville on his other side. He blinked a few times, and Porthos and d'Artagnan came into focus, standing behind Treville and looking worried.
"Welcome back," Treville said.
"Didn't go anywhere," Aramis said thickly. But hadn't he? A makeshift camp on a dark, lonely rise? And why were people always hitting him about the face? He swatted at his attacker without opening his eyes—when had he closed them again?—but he regretted the movement when pain flared in his stomach, which made him double over, which hurt even more. Hands braced him on both sides.
"Easy, easy," came Treville's voice in his ear. "And I'll stop hitting you if you stay awake."
Aramis allowed himself a small groan as Treville and Athos helped him lean back against the fallen log again.
"I'm not going to yell at you," Treville said. "At least, not yet."
"We'll all take turns later," Athos promised. "D'Artagnan said you think the ball is still in there?"
Aramis nodded without lifting his head from the log. "I felt it. Not deep. Porthos can get it with a knife. Barely even bleeding. It's like..." he trailed off, blinking.
D'Artagnan's voice came from over Treville's shoulder: "Like a cork in a bottle?"
"That's the one."
Treville was looking at Aramis with an odd expression, like pity or pain. He touched the sash tied high around Aramis's waist. "Bandages are dry, at least," he said. "Let's get him back to camp."
"My horse will carry double," Athos said.
"I can ride," Aramis protested.
There was a derisive snort from up in Porthos's direction, and Athos informed him, "No, you can't. We didn't bring you a horse."
Aramis muttered something impugning his friends' mathematical acumen, the end of which was lost in a gasp as they counted to three and levered him to his feet. There were hands on his arms, on his back, holding him up, voices telling him to just breathe, as he rested his head on the nearest shoulder—d'Artagnan's, judging by the height. After a moment he looked up.
Aramis blinked. D'Artagnan's eyes weren't blue... that was someone from his dream, the dream he couldn't quite remember, or maybe he was thinking of Athos. He blinked again, and d'Artagnan's face resolved, still looking intently at him.
"Hey. We've got you," d'Artagnan said with a smile, though his eyes were worried.
Aramis lowered his spinning head again, closed his eyes, and nodded against D'Artagnan's shoulder. "I know."
Notes: This fic grew out of two things: (1) The fact that in the series, the pistols are all flintlocks and the muskets are still matchlocks, which appears to be historically accurate—what a deep research hole that was! And (2), an anatomy professor told me years ago that the abdominal transversalis fascia has been known to turn aside relatively slow-moving bullets or bullet fragments. I managed to track down one reference—in the Jan 4, 1913 edition of The Lancet, courtesy of Dr. J.F. Baldwin—so I considered it fair game. :-)