ix.

Aramis was alone when he woke. The physician had probably gone to eat, or speak with the captain or… Aramis didn't really care. He was alone, that was all that mattered, and the silence of the room was disturbing. He was restless. He looked to the door where his brothers had left, letting out a long breath through his nose as he ran a hand through his hair to push it back off his face.

Aramis needed them to understand the depth of hurt they'd caused. He could never reciprocate what they had done, it was not in his nature, but not giving them the satisfaction of grovelling, or being able to clear their chests, would tear at them longer than travelling any road to redemption ever would.

It was a bitter reaction, he knew, but in time it would fade away and everything would return to normal between them all, so he felt justified in partaking in a little selfish indulgence in the meantime.

This also meant Aramis could avoid looking into their shameful faces. As angry as he was, he did not want to hear their hurt voices, it would tear him apart and make him grant leniency much more swiftly than they deserved.

Aramis thought it odd how giving forgiveness had become a form of punishment. They must truly feel bad, wretched even, for doing what they did, which in a way made Aramis feel better. Caring now that they had hurt him, meant they'd cared in the first place.

He wondered what he had done to make them act the way they had? Why had they not seen him needing help? Why hadn't they rushed to his side the moment they saw him dragging his sword, or barely able to stand? They obviously cared, but why didn't they help?

He pushed the blanket off his chest, drew in a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes and pushed up. Sitting upright caused the congestion in his lungs to shift and he coughed forcefully, aggravating the wound on his back and causing a loud groan to escape through his gritted teeth. After a taking a few moments to let the muscles of his back settle, and to gather strength, he moved his legs off the side of the bed and for the first time in almost two days he put his feet on the floor.

Bent over with his fingers tangled in his hair to massage his head, he tested his ability to breathe deeply without coughing, succeeding in three breaths before he was forced to expel thick, wet mucus from his lungs.

Several days indeed, he thought to himself. Aramis had swallowed so much water during his unfortunate trip down the Seine, he was lucky he hadn't caught pneumonia, so a little cough wasn't too much to put up with. As long as he knew his life was no longer in danger, he felt he should get up and make himself both useful and presentable to the world again.

Since he was capable of taking at least three breaths before being forced to cough, he rationalized he was fit to stand. On his feet he swayed, but only a little, which he could deal with so he went to his dresser, pulled out a clean shirt and proceeded to the washbasin. After a quick trim of his beard and cold water splashed on his face, he sat down to put on his boots.

A fit of coughing slowed his progress, wherein he had to lean on the table to brace himself in order to catch his breath. But he was still breathing and he hadn't yet collapsed so, undeterred from his mission, he got up and proceeded out the door.

The trip through the courtyard was slower than he'd expected, and his head swam with nearly every forward motion his body took, but he was determined to make it to the table so he reached deep down and pulled out the last remaining strength he had and arrived at the table just short of collapsing.

"It is no wonder we thought you invincible."

With his eyes closed, Aramis rested his forehead in the palm of a hand spread across his forehead. "Athos," he said. "Please don't yell."

"My voice is quite calm," he said, and Aramis felt someone sit down next to him on the bench, followed by the awareness of several other people surrounding him.

"What are you doing up?"

Aramis opened his eyes and looked at d'Artagnan. "Making use of the day," he said.

"But not your brain," said Porthos. "We should get you back to bed before you fall over."

Before Aramis could protest, Porthos' strong arms were reaching beneath his and lifting him upward. His ability to fight back was negligible and he found himself on his feet must faster than he wanted. "I'm fine," he said.

"Oh no you're not," said Porthos, draping one of his arms around his neck. "We're not falling for that again."

"To your room," said d'Artagnan.

"Where you'll stay until the physician has properly cleared you," added Athos.

Aramis had only his words in which to protest, his strength sapped merely by placing one foot in front of the other as he was nearly dragged across the courtyard and down into the bunkhouse. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"What we should have done the last time you walked up to that table," replied Porthos. "We're taking care of you, so stop fussing."

"I am not so far gone I cannot be up and about," replied Aramis, but his words were ignored.

In his room, Porthos put him on the bed, but at least he allowed Aramis to remain sitting. Once settled, his lungs protested the previous activity by rattling with every breath he took. Aramis coughed up what he could, bracing his torso to help abate the pain. He felt lightheaded afterward and leaned against the wall. His three brothers stood before him, looking at him with concern and a degree of disappointment.

"What are you trying to prove?" asked Athos.

"I'm not trying to prove anything," replied Aramis. "I just don't need to stay in bed, I can be useful. As far as I know I'm going to be fine so, I don't see the point in not being productive."

"And it's that behaviour that makes us think you're fine, when indeed you are not," said Athos. "You fight through harm, and illness and injury like it's a mere inconvenience. How are we supposed to know when you truly need our help?"

"You just never seem to want it, and sometimes act like you don't even need it," said d'Artagnan. "But we've always been there to give it without question. "

Damn, thought Aramis. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. He ran a hand down his face, the makings of forgiveness building in his chest. "Perhaps I could learn to be a little less private," he said. "Maybe not be so gallant in the face of my own possible mortal danger."

The remark elicited a quiet laugh from Porthos, which was Aramis' intention, so he smiled back.

"And maybe we could be a little more forceful when you say you're fine," said d'Artagnan.

There was nothing about his brothers' demeanours that he could be angry about. And now that he was staring, he realized it wasn't disappointment in their faces, but sadness. How could he stay mad at them?

Aramis nodded, grateful for the sentiments. "Thank you," he said. "But really, was that so hard?"

Porthos sat beside him on the bed, leaned forward and looked back at him over his shoulder. His eyes were pleading, even a little wet. "More than you would think," he said. "You're an easy man to love, my friend. But you're set in your ways. You'd fight tooth and nail to defend what you stand for. I just know that it takes near a catastrophe to stop you, so when ya do fall… I know the world's about to crumble and that's not easy to face."

"You're our storm gauge, Aramis," added Athos. "So if you stumble or stagger, we wonder what chances the rest of us have."

"When you're ill, or injured, it's easier to pretend you're not and look the other way," said d'Artagnan. "Otherwise, it's too devastating. It's like being shown we're not invincible either."

"Those are kind words," said Aramis. "But you must not think of me that way."

"We know that now," said Athos. "Because losing you through other means would be just as devastating."

"And from now on," said d'Artagnan. "We'll try and think much less of you."

"And I will try not to be so brave and courageous," replied Aramis

Finis.