A follow-up to Chapter 8. This one's for Deana—she's given me so many hours of happy reading, how could I tease her by leaving Aramis the way I did? Also, there is an Easter egg in this story! DM me with it and I'll write an h/c ficlet to a prompt of your choice. :-D
~~~~1631~~~~
Aramis was feeling better. The ride to the Musketeer camp had not been pleasant; it wasn't far from the wood where he and d'Artagnan had spent the previous night, but a horse's walk was perfectly designed to pull on his musket wound with each step, so he had wrapped his good arm around Athos, laid his head on his friend's back, and tried not to make pathetic noises. Every now and then he'd felt Porthos or d'Artagnan brush his knee with theirs, they were riding so close on either side of him.
He didn't even want to think about dismounting.
Actually, he didn't really remember dismounting, which he suspected was for the best.
But now he had been wrapped in blankets, propped up near the fire against a couple of saddles, and plied with watered wine and leftover porridge until Porthos judged him to have regained a little color. The lead ball embedded in his side was a constant, hot ache, but not too bad if he didn't move, and Aramis was torn between impatience to get it out and the relief he felt just to be resting quietly, warm and clear-headed and safe.
Porthos was sitting tailor-style nearby, putting a razor's edge on the small, curved knife from Aramis' roll of surgeon's tools.
"Leave me some steel on it, please," Aramis teased.
"What, this?" Porthos held up the narrow blade and waggled it between thumb and forefinger. "Nah, I was going to keep this as a fillet knife. Figured I'd have a go at you with the chisel."
"Ha, ha."
Porthos tested the edge with his thumb. "We could probably commandeer a tent if we wanted," he said.
Aramis looked around, considering. The nights were pleasant, so the Musketeers had slept in their bedrolls and the only tents that were up belonged to the Bishop and his small retinue. They had their own fire, where a servant knelt making breakfast, and Aramis could see the Bishop sitting on a camp stool in front of his tent, talking amiably with Athos and Treville.
"Out here is fine," he said. "It'll be quick enough. And the light's better." Aramis began to shed his blankets, slowly.
When his friends first guided him towards the fire, they had leaned him up against Porthos to unwind the sash-bandage and remove his long coat so they could make sure Aramis wasn't actively bleeding at the moment. Aramis hadn't gotten a good look at the bloodstain then, but now he made a face at it. The stain wasn't large, but it was dark and crusted, and he knew no laundress in the world could save the shirt.
Porthos, following both his glance and his train of thought, said, "The price we pay for the life we lead, eh?"
"Indeed." Aramis rubbed the bloody spot between his fingers; it crunched. "Farewell, brave garment. "
"From what I understand," Porthos said, returning his whetstone to a belt pouch, "even if we turn it into bandages, it'll be resurrected as a shirt on Judgement Day."
"Unless it's resurrected as a field of flax," Aramis pointed out.
"We should ask the Bishop." Porthos tucked the knife into its loop in the leather kit, next to the chisel.
"Oh, definitely," Aramis agreed. "I'm sure he loves to entertain a bit of heresy over breakfast." He pulled his braces from his shoulders with a groan and undid the top buttons of his breeches so Porthos could help him out of the much-abused shirt. Looking down, Aramis saw a familiar red and ragged-looking hole, smeared with a little fresh blood and flecked with dry, and around his right side—
Porthos whistled. "That is the King, Queen, and Cardinal of bruises, my friend."
—a swollen purple splotch spread from hip to ribs. Tentatively, Aramis touched where he remembered feeling the ball the day before, but it was gone—where could it have gone?—no, there it was, and relief vied with regret as pain rippled out from his pressing fingers.
Porthos's hand encircled his wrist. "Don't poke it," he grumbled, "you've gone bloody white again."
"You said it wasn't bad," came d'Artagnan's voice.
Aramis looked up and saw that d'Artagnan and Athos had joined them. "It's not," he insisted, "as these things go."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.
Athos stepped over to Aramis' far side and crouched beside him, offering his flask. Aramis drank gratefully as d'Artagnan moved the saddles out of the way and put a blanket down in their place, and then he and Athos supported Aramis as he lay down; it was better than doing it himself, but not by much. Lying back on the woolen blanket, Aramis looked up at them and said, just this side of complaining, "I look forward to not being shot anymore. It is very tedious."
"Two minutes," Porthos promised. There were rustling and clinking and pouring sounds as he laid out what he would need, and then Aramis felt the blanket being folded and tucked under his side so that he would bleed onto the ground instead of onto the wool. Aramis felt himself start to sweat. He was no stranger to the pain of having a musket ball cut out, and he wasn't afraid, exactly, but he didn't look forward to it either. Aramis reached up to grasp his left shoulder with his right hand, as he had asked his own patients to do many times, and Athos's hand settled on top of his. Lightly, for now.
Porthos took a moment to educate d'Artagnan on the finer points of running your knife through a flame—near the wood or the wick where it was hottest, mind, not just anywhere up in the orange bits—then Aramis heard a cork being pulled and smelled his own aqua vita. He felt Athos take his left hand, too, and squeeze gently to remind Aramis what he should do any moment now.
Porthos's hand, warm and calloused, on his side.
Porthos saying, "Deep breath."
He obeyed.
"Let it out."
Halfway through the exhale came the sting, and Aramis closed his hand tightly on Athos'. God, how he hated the feeling of a knife scraping on a musket ball. Porthos was saying something, another lesson for d'Artagnan, by his tone, but Aramis couldn't quite make out the words as the ball shifted inside him. Then came a dull prod and Aramis knew what the lesson was: if you can't get it with the knife alone, use your fingers.
The fire in his side flexed, widened, and sent off bursts like fireworks that traveled up his chest and down his legs, and he felt himself make a low, distressed sound. Athos's hand pressed on his shoulder, just enough. And then—
"Got it."
There was the release of a pressure he hadn't even noticed, like the feeling of a joint being set, and he gasped. From somewhere down by his knees he heard D'Artagnan saying, "It's alright, it's out, it's out."
Aramis blinked up at the clear blue sky and focused on catching his breath. Porthos wiped his side with a cloth, which hurt, then pressed it against the incision, which also hurt—but something about the quality of the silence made Aramis shift his gaze over to Porthos, who was frowning. He didn't trust his voice yet, so he asked the question with his eyebrows instead.
Porthos lifted a red-streaked hand to show Aramis a clump of something slick and black. "It's not bleeding much fresh, but I got a load of this old stuff out with the ball, and it looks like there's plenty more still in there."
Aramis' eyes wanted to close, so he let them. He hurt. He was tired. And he didn't want to tell Porthos to do what he should probably tell Porthos to do.
"Aramis?" That was Athos—not worried, just chiding him. "Stay awake."
"What is it?"
And that was Treville.
Don't tell me that bloody shot actually hit him.
Afraid so. Sorry, captain...
Under the voices of the past, Aramis heard Porthos explain the successful extraction and the discovery of how much blood had accumulated around the ball.
"Alright," Treville said. "Get out what you can without cutting him any more."
Aramis heard Treville kneel at his head. He opened his eyes and saw Treville's face above him, upside down—just like Marsac had seen Aramis all those years ago. "Like old times, eh, captain?"
"No Huguenots," Treville pointed out. So the past had been on his mind, as well.
Aramis closed his eyes again. And no Marsac.
Porthos must have given some signal, because the hands on his shoulders and legs tightened all at once. "Ready?"
In answer, Aramis took a deep breath. As he let it out, Porthos began to drag the edge of his hand along the ball's path, gathering the old blood under Aramis' skin and pressing it towards the incision where, like the ball, it could spill out instead of festering inside him. It was the thing to do, but Mother of God, this hurt, and unlike the relatively quick removal of the ball, it went ruthlessly on and on. Aramis tried to channel the pain into squeezing Athos' hand and digging his nails into his own shoulder, but it soon overwhelmed him and he tried to curl up around his wounded side. Strong hands, and possibly a couple of knees, held him down.
And then the pressure was gone, but not the pain. Aramis' whole stomach and chest were seized with it, and he could only take small, ragged breaths. He felt like he was drowning.
But Aramis had learned to control his breathing as a boy practicing marksmanship, long before he'd begun getting shot and stabbed with such distressing regularity, so although it wasn't easy, he forced each breath to come a little deeper, a little slower. Athos and Porthos held his hands, Treville was cradling his head, the hand on his knee was d'Artagnan, as they waited for him to master himself. They'd all had moments like this—well, maybe not D'Artagnan, but he would. Aramis drew calm from the warmth of their touch, and breathed the tension out of his body.
"That's it," said Porthos.
Aramis knew what they would want to see, so he opened his eyes, and four worried faces looked back at him. He attempted a reassuring smile and said, "I'm alright. It was just a—"
"Shh," said two or three voices.
"—strange sensation," Aramis finished.
Athos hmphed at the understatement.
"Sorry about that," Porthos said to Aramis, his eyes saying how much he had not enjoyed the process. "But it was probably a good idea."
Aramis turned his head and looked down. There was Porthos' neat, straight incision in his side, trickling a thin red line, and below it, beginning to slump into the dirt, was a fist-sized mound of old, congealing blood. He made a noise at once disgusted and impressed.
"Yeah," said Porthos. With a scrap of bandage, he corralled the unappealing mass and deposited it out of the way. "You alright for me to clean these up, or do you want a minute? The truth, now."
"Go ahead," Aramis told him. "I'm fine."
Skeptical looks again. Why didn't anyone trust him?
Porthos took his tankard from where it had been warming by the fire and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, wiped the blood from his hands and then moved on to cleaning the blood, old and new, from Aramis—who, to prove his state of relative health, looked up and asked Treville, "When are we planning to leave, captain?"
"The Bishop's in no hurry, now that last night's trouble has moved on. You'll probably be ready to set out before he is."
Athos raised an eyebrow at Treville. "Aramis isn't riding, is he?"
"Of course not. I already asked, and the Bishop would be happy to have you join him in the cart, Aramis."
"I can r—"
"Consider it an order."
Aramis closed his mouth. After ten years, he knew that tone well, and if he was honest with himself, it had only been a token protest.
Porthos chuckled. "You can ask the Bishop about your shirt."
"Ask him about Vannes," Athos advised. "If our breakfast chat was anything to go by, he'll detail its virtues from here to Paris and you can get some sleep while he talks."
"Weren't we in Vannes once?" Aramis asked Porthos, who was wringing his bloody handkerchief onto the ground. "Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? The exact year is escaping me, possibly overshadowed in my memory by a very charming girl called Rosalie..."
"You were there for six weeks in twenty-eight," Treville informed him. "Now save your breath, you're not fooling anyone. And you are riding in the cart."
Aramis sighed, carefully.
Porthos held up the small glass bottle where Aramis could see it, and Aramis nodded.
"Breathe," Porthos reminded him. "And keep breathing." He poured a thin steam of spirits over the entry wound, catching the excess in a bit of fresh folded cloth. The burn felt bone-deep, and Aramis groaned—but he kept breathing. Porthos cleaned the incision, too, then unfolded the wet cloth and draped it over Aramis' side so it covered both wounds. "Last thing," he promised Aramis, "then I'll stop pestering you."
Athos counted to three, then he and Porthos lifted Aramis' shoulders off the ground until Treville could get a knee behind him and hold him up. Aramis watched Pothos pass the end of a bandage to Athos, who passed it back to him under Aramis' back. When Porthos pulled the bandage tight, it squeezed a fresh trickle of burning spirits into the wounds and Aramis started. Treville's hold on him tightened. "Easy," Treville said. "Almost there."
Aramis let his head rest in the crook of Treville's arm, and closed his eyes.
Three or four passes of the bandage later, Treville lowered Aramis to the ground again, where the back of his head met not the wool blanket but something softer, like a folded shirt or scarf. Aramis felt someone fuss with the bandage for a moment, and then a wave of warmth as a blanket settled over his bare torso and was tucked carefully around his sides. It was only slightly less wonderful than the knowledge that his wounds would be left alone for a bit. They hurt, but not so terribly, now; he'd definitely fallen asleep with worse.
"Wake me when it's time," Aramis murmured. He meant to prove that he was falling asleep rather than passing out, but he barely heard or understood himself speaking and feared he hadn't made his point.
"We will. Get some rest till then, alright?" Porthos' voice, and Porthos' hand on his shoulder. Should have known Porthos would understand...
Aramis dreamed.
~~~~1621~~~~
Marsac was feeling better—at least, that's what he claimed. Aramis heard the real, unspoken request under his words, which was to get the hell out of the infirmary tent, so he promised Saint-Simon he'd look after his friend, and they walked out together.
"You don't have to do that," Marsac said, nodding to where Aramis kept a firm grip on his elbow.
"Five sou says Saint-Simon is watching us," Aramis said. "He didn't want to let you leave. If you fall, it's back to the infirmary and Jouffret's snoring, but if you don't want my help..."
"I take it back," Marsac said, putting his hand over Aramis'. "Do not, under any circumstances, let go of me. Jouffret must be part wild boar, I've never heard a noise like that from a human throat before."
Marsac began the walk trying not to limp, but as they crossed the yard, the hitch in his step became more and more pronounced, and he really was leaning his weight into Aramis, who put the other hand on his arm, as well.
"Almost there," he said.
"I'm fine," Marsac panted.
But when Marsac ducked beneath the canvas flap to get into the tent, his knees buckled and he continued down to the ground until he caught himself with one knee and his other hand.
"Whoa, whoa," Aramis said, trying to slow his descent.
"...fine...," came a weak protest.
"Shut up." Aramis was kneeling, too, with one arm around Marsac's waist and the other still on his elbow. He listened until Marsac's breathing evened out, then said, in a milder tone, "Did you tear anything?"
"Don't think so."
"Into bed, then, come on. One, two, three—"
The advantage of a small tent was that the cot was practically at Marsac's back; with a little forethought and a shallow lunge, Aramis could probably have directed his initial fall there. But all Marsac had to do was half stand, with Aramis' help, and then sit again when he felt the edge of the cot nudge the back of his knee. He hung his head and pressed a hand to his wounded side.
"Are you sure you didn't tear something?" Aramis reached for Marsac's wrist, wanting to see for himself, but he stopped when he saw blood dripping from his own fingers. "What...?" Aramis looked down and there was a dark patch spreading across his doublet. He looked back at Marsac, who stared at him blankly, then something wet and hot rolled down his face into his eyes, and when he tried to protest, This never happened, his mouth filled with blood, too—
~~~~1631~~~~
"Aramis?"
His side still hurt. There was a hand on his shoulder. Not shaking, just resting. D'Artagnan.
Unlike some Musketeers, Aramis was not prone to waking violently, even from bad dreams. He'd told d'Artagnan early on, so their new companion would know that he didn't risk a black eye every time he roused Aramis for his watch, and d'Artagnan had laughed and said, I'll be sure to thank the widows and spinsters of Paris.
Aramis could feel phantom blood on his face. It itched.
"Aramis?"
"Mmph." Aramis squinted up at d'Artagnan; the sun had moved almost overhead. "How long was I asleep?"
"About an hour and a half. They're not quite done with the tents, but we thought you'd rather not be the absolute last thing on the cart."
Meaning he wouldn't care to have everyone already mounted up, with nothing to do but watch him make his painful way down to the road. "Thank you," Aramis said. He freed one hand from the blanket and held it up. D'Artagnan clasped it, then added a hand on Aramis' back as he pulled him up to sitting. The motion woke the fire in his side, and Aramis let out a long, slow breath. D'Artagnan squeezed his shoulder lightly in sympathy and waited.
When Aramis looked up, he couldn't quite read d'Artagnan's expression. "What?"
D'Artganan shrugged one shoulder. "You feel warm."
"Hm." Aramis touched his cheek, but of course he couldn't tell. A fever might explain the strange dream, though... "A little warm, or very warm?" He rubbed his forehead to banish the lingering feeling of blood on his face.
D'Artagnan touched Aramis' shoulder again, with the backs of his fingers. "A little, I suppose."
"It happens. Better warm than cold at this stage, in my experience." Aramis spotted a fresh, folded shirt resting on d'Artagnan's knee and nodded toward it. "Not too warm for that, at any rate."
D'Artagnan took the hint. He shook the shirt out and helped Aramis find the sleeves, then lifted the loose garment over his head for him and tugged it into place. Aramis fastened the ties to close the shirt's deep neck and smiled. "A clean shirt always makes me feel like a new man." D'Artagnan didn't smile back, though, and Aramis sighed. He knew he had frightened his friend, though he would never say as much.
"D'Artagnan," he said seriously, and waited until the younger man met his eyes. "I will be fine."
After a moment, d'Artagnan nodded.
"I'll admit it's been a bit of a rough morning," Aramis went on, "but we'll be in Paris before dark, Treville will tell me to take whatever time I need, I'll rest for a couple of days, and by Monday I'll be game for everything except wrestling Porthos."
D'Artagnan didn't look convinced. "Will you truly rest?"
Aramis held up his right hand. "On my honor, I will spend the remainder of the week reading in bed."
"Sitting up," d'Artagnan pointed out.
"Against pillows," Aramis countered.
"Alright." D'Artagnan finally smiled before adding with a sly eyebrow, "Alone?"
"Yes, alone! I'll thrash you up and down the courtyard for that."
"I look forward to it." D'Artagnan rose to one knee. "Shall we?"
They clasped each other's elbows, and d'Artagnan counted to three and stood up, pulling Aramis up with him. It hurt, of course, but Aramis was pleasantly surprised when his head stayed clear. He even stood under his own power for a moment while d'Artagnan picked up the blankets Aramis had been sleeping on and under, shook them out, and tucked them under his arm. Aramis stopped d'Artagnan from pulling his good arm across his shoulders, though.
"I think you're a bit tall for that to be comfortable at the moment. I'll just... hang on to you, if you don't mind." He hooked his hand over d'Artagnan's near shoulder and gestured toward the road, with a flourish to make up for the lack of a bow.
As they walked, slowly, Aramis said, "You should learn to do that, you know. Get at a musket ball with a knife."
"Isn't it just like doing anything else with a knife? Mind the divot there."
"Well, Porthos makes it look easy. He says it's just like picking a lock." Aramis sidestepped the treacherous shadow with a wince. "But the dexterity isn't the hard part, it's more a matter of..."
"Digging around inside your friends while they writhe in pain?" d'Artagnan offered.
"I wasn't going to put it like that."
"No, thank you," d'Artagnan said. "How about we all try not to get shot?"
"We've joined the wrong profession for that, my friend." Aramis patted d'Artagnan's shoulder. "We'll at least get you started picking locks."
As they drew closer to the road, Aramis saw that Athos and Porthos had claimed the rear-guard position, so that only a few of the Bishop's mounted retainers would ride between them and the cart; it was the closest they could get to Aramis and still reasonably claim to be guarding the train and not just keeping an eye on their wounded friend. Athos held the reins of d'Artagnan's horse, and Aramis' was tied to Porthos' saddle. Porthos raised a hand in greeting when he saw them coming, and Athos nodded. Aramis went to touch the brim of his hat and remembered he wasn't wearing it.
"In the cart already," d'Artagnan said. "With your coat and weapons."
"Ah, thank you." They were almost at the road, and d'Artagnan pointed to a spot where the downward grade seemed most forgiving. He went first and helped Aramis down by the hand, as if the musketeer were a lady alighting from her carriage.
Climbing up into cart proved a bigger challenge, and by the time Aramis was settled in a nest of what must have been every blanket in the regiment, he knew he'd gone pale again and feared he felt a spot of wetness on the bandages. It would be just his luck to bleed on two shirts in one day.
"Wave if you need anything."
"I will."
D'Artganan vaulted lightly over the side of the cart, young show-off that he was, and went to join the others. No sooner had Aramis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the cart than there came a general bustle: the Bishop had arrived.
The cart rocked as he took a place on the other side of the cart. "Monsieur—Aramis, is it?—Monsieur Aramis, are you badly hurt? I was so relieved to see you walking with your friend just now. It cannot be too bad, surely?"
The man actually seemed anxious to know, so Aramis opened his eyes, summoned a reassuring smile, and said, "It is hardly more than a scratch, Your Excellency. Your concern is too kind."
"On the contrary, I cannot thank you enough for your brave service in my defense. I know it is your duty as a soldier, but a duty well done is a commendable thing indeed, I've always thought. You would be welcome as my guest in Vannes any time—well, any time after my business in Paris in concluded, God grant it be expedient. I can't stand the place, never could, and it will be uninhabitable in a matter of weeks. My little city on the water, on the other hand, is an absolute jewel in the summer. Tell me, Monsieur Aramis, have you ever been to Vannes?"
Aramis let his eyes close again. Maybe this time he would dream of Rosalie...