I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story so far! At least, if you're still reading, thank you so much. We're almost halfway through and so much more to come. Thank you everyone for your feedback, I do love reading it!

On with the show...

Chapter 27

Aramis was weakening. He could feel his body betray his intentions as they rode to Nevers. He could feel d'Artagnan's eyes upon him. Aramis wiped his brow once again. He wasn't feverish, just exhausted, and his overtaxed muscles worked hard to keep him upright. They had stopped briefly to rest the horses, but as the day wore on, Aramis knew he could not travel the entire distance… not today. The poison, whatever combination it had been, had nearly killed him, and while he rode he could feel the devastation his body had endured. It was going to take time, rest, good food, and brothers to get him healthy. He wasn't a fool, and he knew pushing himself would only delay his recovery, but just like the rest of them, his desire to override his body's needs were strong.

Aramis coughed, spat, and then wiped his lips. He adjusted his seat in the saddle and felt his lower back tighten and his thighs burn. Eventually, his muscles would start to cramp. He knew enough about the body, how far it could be pushed, and how long it would take before the battle finally ended. He knew it was just a matter of time before his body simply stopped functioning and would take the necessary actions to care for itself. With a forced half-smile and reluctant nod, he looked at d'Artagnan.

"We need to stop," Aramis said. He rubbed his brow, licked his lips, and listened when several birds fluttered in the branches of the trees that canopied them.

D'Artagnan slowed his horse to ride alongside Aramis. With a look of concern, but a confident voice, he said, "Are the pains and chills returning?"

Aramis shook his head. "No… I'm just exhausted…" he winced in acknowledgment of his weakness, "I don't want to fall out of the saddle."

D'Artagnan nodded with a look of concern. "There's a place up ahead."

Aramis scratched his jaw and then rubbed his neck. His pale features, and the dark circles beneath his eyes had grown severely darker since the beginning of their travels, and the shaking of his hands had become more noticeable. He urged his mount forward and followed d'Artagnan, who took a slight turn to his left. The horses walked between the trees, stepped over several branches and a composting log, and then stepped onto the pebbles and stones that lined the edges of the beach. Water ran along the river and slapped the sides of the banks. Sparrows chirped and fluttered their wings while an eagle swooped, caught a fish, and flew upward and then slowly disappeared into the distance across the river.

"There's a downed tree over there," d'Artagnan said and motioned with his chin in the direction. "Go. I'll see to your horse."

Aramis swallowed. He slowly and painfully dismounted. He paused, leaned against the saddle and allowed his legs to adjust before he dropped his horse's reins and walked toward the river's edge and took a much-needed seat on the tree trunk that had been stripped of its bark after years of submersion. The top portion remained below water, and water rolled against the broken branches and hollowed out form. Its size caused the water to dam against it. Broken branches, tangled weeds, and moss lay scattered across the beach. Aramis rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face. He couldn't remember being this tired. While the sharp pains had faded, he was left with sore muscles that continued to remind him of his over exertion and near fateful end. He still suffered a slight headache but brushed it aside when he yawned. He covered his mouth, cleared his throat, and then spat.

Aramis looked up when he heard d'Artagnan place their saddles, bedrolls, and the supplies next to the tree trunk and immediately untie Aramis' bedroll.

"It won't take much to get a fire going," d'Artagnan said. "There's plenty of dried wood and the fish are jumping," he looked up with a reassuring smile, "we'll have plenty to eat tonight." He extended Aramis' bedroll and then propped his saddle near the head, and then started searching for large boulders to contain the fire.

Aramis took a comfortable seat on the bedroll and leaned back. He raised his knees, rested his hands on his chest, and looked at the sky. He could see dark clouds collecting in the distance. Different shades of gray rolled and intertwined together and reminding him of smoke from a house fire. It plumed outward, lights and darks swirled together as it slowly approached.

"Looks like rain," Aramis said, and blinked slowly. He yawned again and then exhaled slowly.

D'Artagnan looked up when he squatted near the circle of boulders. He placed his elbows on his knees and nodded. "We need it," he said. The following spring the water would be higher, the tree would disappear beneath its embrace, and the grass and weeds would once again come to life. "I remember one summer," he said and placed a handful of dried leaves, stems, and twigs into the center of the pit, and then placed a larger, dry piece of wood atop, "we didn't get any rain for nearly two months. My father and I tried irrigating — using water from the nearby river — but it was too low." He sighed and scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We lost all our crops that year. And then suddenly we got rain." He smiled fondly. "It rained for days… My father told me to replant… I told him it was too late in the season, and he said to do it anyway." D'Artagnan looked at the clouds in the distance and watched them expand and darken. "He saved our farm that year." There was a pain in his voice, a longing with a hint of grief. He took a deep breath, reached for his flint and steel, and struck both until it sparked and the kindling ignited. "It's never too late," he said and watched the flames grow and expand and he felt the heat that followed. "It's never too late to try again…" He looked at Aramis and shrugged. "My father taught me that." He rubbed his jaw, stared at the flames, and then stoked the fire. He secured the stones around the pit and stood.

"Your father was a very wise man," Aramis said, and then shifted to his right side, his head nestled on the curve of his arm, and peacefully closed his eyes.

D'Artagnan stood, looked at Aramis, and then at the water when it captured the light of the fading sun. He grabbed a long sapling and sharpened the end. He looked at the horses that were hobbled and pulled at the grass along the edge of the lake, and then he dressed down to his braies. The heat over the course of the months had warmed the sand, and it was hot as it slipped between his toes. He walked slowly, carefully treading on slippery stones, cautious of sharp edges and unexpected sticks. He avoided quick movements to not startle the fish and water moved past his ankles, calves, and eventually his thighs.

The water was clear and cool against his legs and, standing still, he could see the fish swimming beneath the surface. D'Artagnan tightened his hold on the spear, swallowed, and holding his breath, he pierced the surface. The fish jerked and wiggled while pulled from the water. D'Artagnan removed the spear from its side, snapped its neck, and then tossed it to shore. He looked once more at Aramis, allowed himself a moment to dwell on the past couple days, and closed in eyes in thanks that his friend had survived.