For those of you worried about when I'm going to focus more time on Athos and Porthos... just wait (there's lots!).

Thank you all for sticking with this story... we're about to hit some bumps.

Chapter 18

Aramis sat before the fireplace and poked at the wood that burned. It was small and surrounded with smooth stones. A short wooden mantle supported several small statues of horses, deer, and a bear. The flames were large enough to heat the room, but it hadn't helped. He had draped a blanket over his shoulders and continued to shiver as a chill crept up his spine, moving like the expansive branches of a tree. It had started in his lower back, moved upward and around his ribs, shoulders, and finally rested snugly at the base of his neck as though its final move would be to strangle him.

The blackness of night kept the trees hidden and the drapes that hung on either side of the windows above the beds fluttered as the heat of the flames intensified. D'Artagnan snored softly. Unaware, he had kicked off his blankets and slept with his head turned slightly toward the wall. He looked peaceful.

The wood crackled, snapped, and broke apart. Coals fell through the grate and glowed amongst the charcoal. Aramis added another log. His head hurt, his vision blurred, and his muscles felt heavy. It had been years since he had suffered an illness. A mild stomach upset, a cold, and perhaps a slight fever, but this felt different. He lacked the achy joints, muscle stiffness, and fever that normally accompanied an illness. Instead, the sudden onset had him mentally taxed as he thought about his symptoms and the ailments associated with them. He focused on what he wasn't suffering from: abdominal cramping, vomiting, severe headaches, or sweating.

Everything about this felt like poison, but unlike anything he had ever seen or heard of before.

Aramis stood, adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, and shivered against the unnatural chill that cursed him. It had started an hour after he had slipped into bed. With a sudden awakening, a sharp pain across his back that felt like a whip and the raw coldness that followed. He braced his hand against the mantle and watched the flames. He then looked for his bag. It was his lifeline, not just for himself but for those he helped, friends, brothers, and strangers. It was filled with herbs, needles, blades of varying sizes, trocars for draining abscesses and cysts. He even had an unused cautery plate set that had been given to him by a barber who had sworn to the healing powers of cauterizing wounds.

Aramis thought about those he had stitched up, those who had suffered illness and injury, those who trusted him to do his best. Porthos, more than anyone else, had experienced Aramis' skill as a healer. Whether it was an axe to Porthos' shoulder, a cut to his brow, or an unfortunate run-in with an ox, Aramis was there with thread and needle to make sure the blood stopped and Porthos could fight another day. Perhaps it was his size, his strength, or his sheer will, but he was the easiest to target and the easiest to spot amongst a crowd. Perhaps, Aramis smiled, Porthos received more stitches because he fought so hard to protect those he thought of as brothers. Aramis reflected on the illness Treville suffered after returning from a trip with King Louis after riding days in the bitter cold, with little to no rest, and a fever that wouldn't stop. Treville had tried to fight through it, forcing himself to lead his men despite the symptoms that plagued him, but when he finally collapsed on the second landing, he had hesitantly agreed and listened to Aramis and rested, sipped his tea, broth, and slept while leaving the regiment in Athos' capable hands. Aramis thought about the bullet wound to d'Artagnan's side after he had been shot by Athos, and the fleeting fear that they had made a terrible mistake in their plans to trap Milady de Winter and Richelieu. He even thought about the time Athos had fallen through the ice of Lake Loire while hunting down a thief believed to be in possession of messages from the king's mother.

Illnesses and injuries were a part of life, and everyone was bound to experience something at some point in time. Aramis had treated men on the battlefields with winter fever, sniffles on the home front, and even a few cases of inflamed bowels. Every one of those illnesses had accompanied a list of symptoms that led to a diagnosis.

What scared him was the fact he couldn't think of anything with the symptoms he was feeling.

Not one.

He returned to his chair, tucked his arms close to his chest and folded himself forward, and felt the heat of the flames against his face. He was freezing and the tremors of his muscles continued from his hands to his arms, and now along his shoulders.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

He knew it when his hands started shaking. Uncontrollable tremors that caused him to hitch his breath and groan quietly as those same muscles cramped and grew taunt. It was mild at first, and then suddenly so severe and he could see the muscles of his arms grow tight as though he were battling a mighty foe.

"I need my bag," Aramis said with a groan. He hitched his breath, cursed himself for waiting so long, and then held his breath to ride out the pain. He reached for the pitcher of water on the table next to his chair. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor; water splashed and slipped between the floorboards.

D'Artagnan jumped, pushed himself upright, and glanced at Aramis. "What?" He asked, rubbed his face, and looked more closely at him. D'Artagnan pushed himself off the bed. His blouse fluttered around his hips and the laces of his braies dangled toward his shins. "What's the matter?" He ran his fingers through his hair and wiped the sleep out of his eyes.

Aramis winced, hitched his breath again, and exhaled slowly. "My… bag…" he said, and then gripped the armrest of his chair and tightened his fingers around the curve of the wood. His face twisted as the pain intensified.

D'Artagnan grabbed the bag, opened it, and then knelt before Aramis. "What's happening? What do you need?"

"I…" Aramis hissed, clenched his jaw, and then forced himself to swallow. "I think… I think I've been poisoned." He squeezed his eyes closed and groaned slowly in the back of his throat.

D'Artagnan frowned, rubbed his eyes, and immediately looked through the supplies. "With what? How do we treat it? What do you need?" He gently grasped Aramis' arm and winced when he felt the tightness of muscles. "What can I do?" He pulled up the sleeve of Aramis' blouse and winced when he watched his friend's muscles contract and then slowly relax. "Is this happening all over your body?"

Aramis exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and brought a shaking hand to his nose and pinched the bridge. "Arms… shoulders… back."

"Was it the food? The wine?" D'Artagnan looked toward the door and then looked at Aramis. "Could it have been the wine?"

"I… I don't know." Aramis sighed, pushed himself back against the seat as his muscles slowly relaxed. "I'm freezing… my vision is blurry… I feel dizzy." He suddenly leaned forward as his muscles spasmed again. This time, the tremors were more severe, and he tucked his arms close to his chest. "Dear heavens… this is painful!" His face twisted, and he pursed his lips into a fine line.

"I'm going to find that woman," d'Artagnan said. "If it's poison, there might be an antidote."

"We…" Aramis said, "don't know… if it was her… it could have been the food." He rubbed his face and then clutched at the armrest of his chair as the pain shot across his shoulders and down his chest.

"What about mustard seed and —" d'Artagnan snapped his fingers while pulling at a memory, "and caster oil?" He paused when Aramis shook his head.

"It's been too long… this wasn't fast acting." He took several deep breaths and leaned to his right. "It took time to take effect…" He took several deep breaths and then rubbed his brow.

"There has to be something." D'Artagnan stood, grabbed his weapons belt, and tightened it around his waist. "Aramis," he said and squatted before him and placed his hand on the back of Aramis' shoulder and said, "I won't be long — I'm going to see if there is anything in the kitchens that might tell us what we need to know. What kind of poison could do this?"

Aramis swallowed, groaned at the back of his throat, and muttered, "Look… for something unfamiliar," he hissed and then suddenly relaxed. "I've treated poisons before… I'm not familiar with this." He looked d'Artagnan in the eyes. "You'd best hurry."

D'Artagnan grabbed the hilt of his weapon and strode toward the door. He clinched his jaw, looked once more at Aramis, and then left the room.