Shots ring out through the forest and Aramis freezes at the sound. With his arm still outstretched and musket in hand, he sees Porthos' limp body fall into the snow, still and unmoving. Everything blurs around him. Nothing matters to him anymore as he stares in abject horror at his fallen brother. Anger flares up in his mind and he directs his glare at the man currently shouting in pain on the ground, hands holding the wound on his calf from Porthos' dagger.
He takes notice of the dissident's dead comrades, coming to the conclusion that Athos and D'Artagnan must have shot them and immediately sprints to the leader while scooping up his sword along the way. Athos and D'Artagnan urgently race to Porthos' side, moving him away from the enemy.
The bandit grips his leg in pain with one hand while desperately attempting to reach his dropped musket with the other. Aramis steps on the outstretched hand then kicks the pistol away with the other. He punts him in the face, receiving a large groan from the man as he lands flat on his back.
"Stop, please! Don't kill me!" the man exclaims, raising a shaky hand up; the tough demeanor from earlier having diminished and replaced with weakness.
The marksman's expression is dark, a raging fire of ire shines in his eyes from the deep hatred for this bandit. He stalks around the man like a predator surrounding its prey, approaching him slowly before pulling the dagger out of the bandit's calf in one swift move, bringing about a howling scream that pierces the silent forest. The man pants heavily and cranes his head up to Aramis, his eyes silently beseeching for clemency.
"Please! Have mercy!" the dissident pleads, eyes on the verge of tears. "I didn't mean any harm," he laughs nervously, attempting to redeem his actions in hopes of being granted redemption.
"Mercy? You ask me for mercy?" Aramis scoffs with raised brows as he presses his boot onto the man's injury which elicits another loud cry of pain. He directs his sword to the edge of the man's neck.
"I've killed many men in my time as a Musketeer. So many that I've lost count, but it's all to protect France. I don't kill unless it's necessary," Aramis guides his rapier to the man's chest, mere inches away from his heart.
"But you? Oh you're a special one, mon cher. You have crossed a threshold that you'll wish you didn't," he moves his boot from the injured leg onto the man's chest and leans down enough that his breath blows past the bandit's face with the previously used bloody dagger in hand and pressed to his cheek.
"No one hurts my brothers and receives impunity," he snarls deeply, pushing the main gauche until it draws blood and a whimper comes from the man's throat.
"No. One," he emphasizes the two words with a deadly, loud growl. He gets up from his crouched position and towers over his enemy. The man has his bloody hands up in surrender, copiously pleading Aramis to spare his life.
"Begging to me won't help," the marksman states as he lifts his sword - point down - above the man's chest. "You may beg for mercy from God, but you'll certainly not get any from me."
A half-choked cry is heard before the rapier pierces through the man's heart. His body goes lax and a bloom of red seeps and spreads into the snow. Aramis stares stone-faced at the bandit's lifeless body, whose eyes are fixed wide with fear and mouth agape. He has nothing more to say to the dead man. No prayers. Nothing.
He extracts his sword from the man's chest and spins on his heels, quickly running towards his brothers.
----------
Athos has half of Porthos' body resting in his lap with arms wrapped around him tightly, doing his best to keep the shivering musketeer warm along with two of their blue cloaks draped over his brother's body. Aramis kneels down to check on Porthos' condition. His complexion has turned pale and his lips are colouring into a dim shade of blue. "Is... is he. . ." Aramis stutters, hoping his fears aren't true.
"He's still conscious, but I fear not for much longer," Athos' voice quivers as he starts to feel the coldness breach through his doublet.
Aramis lets out a breath of relief, a heavy weight having been lifted off his shoulders knowing that his brother is alive. He looks to Porthos, now noticing the consistent puffs of smoke billowing through his chattering teeth as he takes quick heavy breaths. Aramis scans his eyes down to Porthos' thigh to see Athos' scarf tied around it just above the wound. He pulls off his blue sash and ties it on top of the injury to protect it from contracting an infection. D'Artagnan is tethering the large musketeer's horse to his own, taking many glances of concern while he works.
"We need to get him somewhere safe quick so I can tend to his wounds," Aramis exclaims, darting a glance between his comrades as he adds his cloak onto Porthos.
"There's a village named Rambouillet up ahead," Athos remarks, tilting his head north. "It's not far."
The medic nods as they slowly lift their brother. It takes all three men to get Porthos safely onto the saddle without inflicting anymore pain.
"It 'ursss..." Porthos mumbles as they ride for Rambouillet. Aramis clasps Porthos' body even closer to his own and whispers reassuringly.
"I know, Porthos. We're almost there. Just hang on for a little longer, alright?" The large musketeer grunts weakly in response before his chin slowly droops to his chest as he mutters something inaudible.
Aramis' breath hitches at his brother's body going slack causing his heart to beat in rhythm with the steed's gallop. "Stay with me. Don't you dare give out on me now!" he calls out, heeling his horse in desperation to move even faster, hoping it's not too late.
At the Mercure Relays du Château in Rambouillet:
Aramis is nearly shouting at the frightened innkeeper to provide them with a room quickly as they haul Porthos through the tavern of the inn. She nods briskly, complying with his demands without any complaints as she has no means to anger him any further after observing the state his friend is in. The woman ushers the Musketeers to a vacant room as murmurs are heard amongst the occupants in the bar whose eyes follow the men rushing to the quarter.
They gently lie Porthos onto the bed, taking added caution for his leg and making sure it's stretched out straight. Blankets are wrapped around his chest and the hearth is lit by the bedside to provide him extra warmth. Porthos' head tosses and turns, moaning in pain as he mutters indecipherable words to no one in particular. The marksman let his shoulders droop from the relief of the musketeer's consciousness after the devastating scare that almost made him breathless earlier. He pats Porthos' chest gently, whispering reassuring words to his ear.
"It's okay, Porthos. You're safe now. We'll take care of you."
His heart wrenches into knots at the agonizing sight of his brother. The large musketeer's face is contorted in pain with knit brows, jaws tense, and sweat gleaming across his forehead. His fists are clenched together tightly from the mix of burning pain extending from his thigh and the cold shivering of his body. Aramis places a hand onto his cheek and it's shockingly warm causing him to frown with worry as a fever means an infection will be present - or most likely follow.
The medic composes himself and suppresses all his cluttered amalgamation of angry thoughts and emotions. So much is running through his mind. So many things he wants to say. But allowing his feelings to fester will interfere with his concentration in tending Porthos, who's life is still in danger.
"He has a fever and it's likely that the wound is infected," he says, trying to sound calm as his heart pounds with fear. "D'Artagnan, please get my kit, clean cloths, a bowl of water, and bandages," Aramis commands as he removes his doublet and sheds his belt of weapons.
The Gascon scurries to Aramis' satchel and hands him the kit. As he heads for the door to retrieve clean towels, a few light knocks are heard. The innkeeper and another woman stand at the entrance carrying a bowl of water, pile of cloths, bandages, blankets, and a bottle of brandy.
"We've brought some medical supplies for you, monsieurs," the woman says with a gentle smile as she hands them over to Athos and D'Artagnan.
"Thank you very much, mademoiselles...?" the lieutenant inquires.
"Elizabeth," the innkeeper replies. "And this is Eleanor," pointing to the younger woman. "Please don't be afraid to ask if you need any assistance," she offers.
"Thanks again. We appreciate the concern, Mademoiselle Elizabeth and Eleanor," Athos responds with a gracious nod.
The brothers help undress Porthos, taking off his boots and doublet before re-covering his upper body with extra blankets. Aramis turns his attention to the gash above the large musketeer's brow first, scrubbing away the dried blood with a warm, wet cloth and sighing in relief to see that the cut does not require stitches. He applies a dressing and bandages the wound before the Gascon wets a towel and sets it onto Porthos' forehead to abate the heat of the fever.
Athos helps Aramis untie the scarf and sash around Porthos' thigh, its original colours now indecipherable. The lieutenant frowns from the loss of his scarf as he holds it up, gazing at it for a brisk moment of grief before tossing it aside. D'Artagnan couldn't help but giggle at the amusing disappointment on Athos' face in which he receives a menacing glare for.
The medic carefully cuts at the fabric of his trousers - seeing it as a lost cause at this point - around the wound and pulls the piece away where blood still sticks to it. He breathes in sharply at the state of Porthos' thigh. The point of entry of the ball is caked in dark red blotches of dried and wet blood as little traces of red still seep from the wound. It's difficult for him to see the hole and assess what condition it's in. A twisted pang of deep fear gnaws at him at what he may - or may not - find.
"We'll need to clean the wound first before I can get a closer look at it," he defines when a bottle of brandy is promptly nudged against his arm by Athos, who seems to have already taken a few sips from the flask. The medic rolls his eyes at the lieutenant's constant thirst for alcohol and he tilts his chin to his two brothers. "Hold Porthos secure. This is going to sting."
Athos places a hand over each of the man's shoulders as D'Artagnan holds down his calfs.
"Are you ready, Porthos?"
Still semi-conscious, he gives a delayed grunt and nods with eyes closed tightly.
Aramis dips his head in preparation and places a towel between Porthos' teeth, using it as a gag to suppress the scream, before he pours the liquid over the lesion.
A muffled cry of agony echoes throughout the room as strong hands keep him in place when his shoulders lurch forward, trying to fight Athos' grip while his knees instinctively try to bend up, causing his heels to dig into the bed. Wrinkles form on the bed sheets, fissuring wildly from his fingers which grip the fabric tightly. The scream subsides as Porthos' body goes lax, causing the young Gascon to tense up and gasp in fear.
A check of his eye confirms the medic's equal worry. "It's alright. He merely passed out," he assures with a raised hand and D'Artagnan lets out a deep breath as he relaxes his shoulders.
"It's best that he's out. He never handles it well when awake," the lieutenant comments, removing the towel from the musketeer's mouth.
Aramis retrieves a damp towel and works on cleaning away the dried layer of blood with the help of the brandy. His tanned skin starts coming into a clearer view underneath and the medic lets his expression relax a little when a glimpse of the head of the circular ball is revealed. The visibility of the ball is an indication that it didn't lodge itself deep inside meaning no internal surgery is required for it to be removed. The skin surrounding the hill of the ball isn't doing so well as the edges are jagged and red, along with a ring of swelling.
"How bad is it?" the Gascon inquires, craning over to get a glance at the wound.
"There's no exit wound and the ball is still in there. Luckily, we can see it, but I will need to make a small incision to be able to extract it," the medic explains. "That needs to be done first before I can relieve the swelling and stitch it up," he finishes, rifling through his kit for a slicing tool, a pair of forceps, and a retractor.
"I'll go retrieve a poultice from Elizabeth while you work," Athos gets up from his lean and vacates the room.
Once the patient has been prepared, Aramis shuts his eyes and concentrates, taking in deep breaths to stop the trembling in his hands. Precision is key. He can't afford to mess up this procedure as any wrong move could lodge the ball even deeper in. After taking one, last long breath, he opens his eyes and hovers over Porthos' thigh, carefully making a small incision perpendicular to the ball - just enough to insert the retractor between the skin and the bullet. Keeping his movements slow, he sticks the retractor into the created gap and pushes it in until he can feel the hook of the tool reach the edge of the ball. With a small twist of his wrist, he adjusts the hook so the sharp end touches the bottom of the circular sphere and gently pulls up until a third of the ball is visible.
After delicately maneuvering the retractor out, he huffs a sigh of relief from the completion of step one. He wipes his forearm across his sweaty forehead and takes a few more calming breaths before proceeding with the next step.
D'Artagnan - who is currently the medic's little assistant - hands him the forceps as he did earlier with the retractor. Aramis focuses on positioning the instrument around the ball, digging the tool against his skin to try and clamp as much of the sphere as possible. Once satisfied with his grip, he pulls back at an incredibly slow speed, revealing the bullet little by little and re-adjusting his hold every so often to keep his hold firm. As the circular object is withdrawing from its crater, a squelching sound is made from the rubbing contact with the skin, causing the young musketeer to grit his teeth at the unpleasant noise.
Aramis gives a large sigh from the successful procedure and twists the forcep left and right in his hand, squinting to examine the ball. Finding no signs of the sphere having broken, he throws the ball onto the ground with a light thud before leaning in to get a clearer look at the small pit in the thigh, making sure nothing has been missed.
D'Artagnan is on the edge of his seat as a tense silence ensues when the medic doesn't utter a word during his period of observation. Aramis moves away and backs into his chair, prompting the young musketeer to ask for a status report. "He's fine. All that's left is for me to stitch up the wound," Aramis replies and the Gascon lets his stiff body sag from hearing the spoken words.
Not a moment later, Athos walks in with a poultice in hand. He gives Aramis a nudge and passes it over. Aramis gives a nod of thanks then applies the poultice onto the wound and bandages it nicely before sitting back down again. He stares at Porthos' still body as the emotions and thoughts that he had subdued before the ministration process begin to resurface.
"He'll be fine. He's been through worse and has always pulled through," Athos assures in a calm voice, squeezing his shoulder gently.
The medic remains quiet, his mind once again ruminating. One side of his mind is concerned for Porthos' well-being, despite knowing that Athos is right and he'll trudge his way through the injury like he always does, but the other side is brimming with an amalgamation of anger and fear. The terror originates from almost losing Porthos; an experience that scared him beyond anything he's ever faced, but his ire derives from the fact that Porthos had put himself in the line of sacrifice even against such slim odds, willing to trade his life for theirs.
"We know what you're thinking, Aramis," comes the voice of the young Gascon behind him.
"It scared us all," the lieutenant adds.
Aramis doesn't respond, still watching Porthos through emotional eyes. "There could have been another way..." the medic mutters in dismay. He averts his head as memories of the way Porthos looked unable to continue on as his life swings on the edge of death flashed through his mind. He blinks a few times to shake away the haunting images.
Athos gestures to D'Artagnan, tilting his head towards the door. The young Gascon nods in understanding and takes a last glance at Porthos before quietly exiting the room with Athos to give Aramis some space and leave him to his personal thoughts.
----------
Aramis watches the wax drip down the length of the candlestick as the flame continues to burn brightly, just like his ire.
"You almost got yourself killed out there," he mumbles, keeping his gaze on the candle.
Thoughts of frustration and anger race through his mind as he unknowingly fiddles roughly with the hem of his shirt. He's infuriated with Porthos for gambling his own life like that, risking himself on the slimmest chance of success. It's by God's miracle that the plan worked. Without God and luck on their side, the plan could have diverged in so many directions. All the possibilities resulting in failure lists itself in his mind: Their muskets could have misfired. Their reflexes may not have been quick enough compared to the enemy. The man could have noticed Porthos' intentions and pulled the trigger immediately. Porthos could have missed his target. The only course that is certain with these likelihoods is they all end with Porthos' death.
He lets out a small growl. "How could you do something like that? Doesn't your life matter?" he asks in vexation - knowing no reply will come - as he works on wiping him down with a damp cloth.
He knows the large musketeer has always put the safety of his brother's lives before his own and the three of them would gladly do the same. But what he witnessed today has been the closest brush with death. He felt as if he couldn't breath when he saw the way his brother swayed on his knees, life draining away as a timer counted down to his death.
If the man had successfully killed Porthos, he'd be hitting two birds with one stone.
Life would have no meaning to him anymore.
Not if Porthos is gone...
Fun Fact: The Mercure Relays du Château is a hotel that is still in service today. Its origin dates back to the 16th century.