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Porthos enters the infirmary, pulling his hat off as if it were a church. It feels like one, these days - too quiet, something big pressing down on them from above, a looming power that doesn’t seem to hear their prayers.
“How is ‘e doin’ today?” Porthos asks Athos, seated beside the sole occupied bed, the figure in it still and seemingly asleep.
Athos casts a somber glance across the patient and rises from his chair, looking older than his thirty years.
“He’s taken some soup. And I think his headaches are less severe. Or maybe he’s not telling us.”
Porthos nods. He should take this as good news. Any change, as little as it is, is good news at this point. But it’s not good enough.
Athos puts a comforting hand on Porthos’ shoulder.
“This kind of injury takes a lot of time to heal,” he says. “We know this. Aramis knows this. Give him time.”
Not trusting his voice to be steady, Porthos only nods again.
“D’Artagnan will be here in two hours.” Athos reaches for his weapons belt and slings it around his hips. “And he says he can stay the night. Go home then. You need sleep.”
Porthos chuffs. “No more than you, my friend.”
One corner of Athos’ mouth curls into the fragment of a smirk. Weapons belt fastened, he shrugs into his leather jacket and grabs his hat.
“I’ve received word from Sister Marie,” he says.
A small warm spark springs up in Porthos’ heart. The Sister, a friend of the Musketeers and an accomplished healer, has saved one of their own before, and perhaps she can do it again.
“Does she think she can help Aramis?”
Athos pushes his hat onto his thick curls and pulls it low into his forehead.
“She says she wants to try. She wants us to bring Aramis to the convent. Let him recover there, in her care. I think it makes sense.”
Immediately, Porthos bristles at the thought of taking Aramis away from the garrison. Away from his and his brothers’ care and protection. You don’t separate the Inseparables. You don’t break that bond. It’s never led to anything good.
But if there’s anyone he is willing to trust with Aramis, it’s Sister Marie. She’s worked miracles before. And Aramis is in need of a miracle. And what better place to recover for a man of faith like Aramis, than the sacred halls of a convent where his body and soul can heal in peace? Athos is right: it makes sense.
“‘S a good idea, Athos. We should organize transport as soon as possible. Maybe Treville will grant us leave to accompany ‘im. Stay for a few days till he's settled.”
“I’ll talk to Treville. I’m certain he will.”
With a last pat on Porthos’ shoulder, Athos walks out the door.
Porthos rubs his hands across his face and finally approaches the bed to sink into the chair Athos just vacated. As he does, he sees Aramis stir. His bandaged head rolls to Porthos’ side, and he makes a noise of distress. It sounds like pain. A string of spittle drools from the corner of his mouth. Porthos uses a towel from the bedside table to gently wipe it away.
“Hey, Aramis,” he says softly, in a voice he would use for a sick child. “How are ye doin’ today? Care to open yer eyes for me? There ya go.”
The injured Musketeer pulls sluggish eyelids apart and looks at Porthos, the purple bruises under his eyes turning his gaze into a dark pit. At least he’s lucid now. There’s clear recognition there in his eyes, one pupil still larger than the other, unlike on that first day when he’d regained consciousness and looked at them emptily, like a blind man. The shock still runs deep through Porthos at the memory.
They’d known it was more than just the regular concussion. When Aramis had taken a bad fall during a fight and smacked his head against a balustrade, hard, they’d all heard the crack of bone. In the days to come, their primary worry had been if he’d pull through; if he’d wake up at all. And somehow, they’d all hoped that if he woke, it would be with a dramatic complaint and a feeble joke, as he usually did after getting conked on the head.
But they had not expected an Aramis who did not recognize them, who could not talk and whose left arm and leg lay still at his side, unmoving.
He’s improved, since then. He still has trouble speaking, slurring his words and hating that he does, so he mostly remains silent. The left side of his face isn’t drooping anymore, and feeding him has become easier, although he still cannot do it himself - or simply doesn’t want to eat, as Porthos suspects. He also suspects that Aramis understands every word that is spoken in the infirmary, even when he pretends to be asleep. Aramis’ eyes, so dim on those first few days, have regained their clarity, even if the vibrant spark in them remains missing.
They look at him now, those eyes, pools of bottomless black. No joy. Only darkness.
“Not talkin’ today, are we?” Porthos comments, anger mixing into his despair. “Well, we’ll see if Sister Marie can change that. An’ she usually doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Aramis throws him a dark look.
“Ah, so you overheard us, did you?”
The bandaged head turns away again, to the wall. With his right hand, Aramis makes a weak pushing gesture in Portho’s direction. Go away.
“M not goin’ anywhere,” Porthos says stubbornly. “Not until you get up an’ make me.”
Still looking at the wall, Aramis huffs, and it sounds dangerously like a sob.
Immediately, Porthos feels terrible. Even if Aramis wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stand. Although Doctor Lemay claims that Aramis’ reflexes are returning, his left leg and arm are still paralyzed, and no amount of massaging seems to make a difference so far.
At first, Aramis had fought. He’d willed himself out of the semi-conscious stupor of the first days and fought for every little improvement: to hold his own cup, to push himself up in bed, to make himself understood as his speech had begun to return. And Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos had cheered him on every step of the way.
But as time passed, and as progress slowed to a near-halt, Aramis’ mood turned black, and they’re all at a loss what to do.
“C’mon, you’ll like it at the convent,” Porthos tries. “You love Sister Marie! And the nuns will be excited to have… you know. They all love you.”
“M’nah go’hn.” Garbled and forlorn.
Porthos puts his hands on his knees and leans forward.
“Oh yes, you are, an’ I’m personally gonna make sure you do!”
“Cahn-n may me.”
“Watch me try.”
A heavy moment of silence drops. Porthos stares holes into the too-thin, defiant bundle of misery who’s turned away from him, awkwardly lying on his paralyzed side.
Aramis. Majestic, athletic, dazzling Aramis who makes every woman’s (and man’s) head turn when he walks into a room, has turned into a ghost of himself, and it breaks every fiber in Porthos’ heart to see him this way.
“Aramis?”, he says, gently now. “Please?”
And then he sees the thin shoulders begin to tremble. On instinct, he scoots from his chair onto the bed and rolls Aramis into his arms. He hugs his friend tight, and Aramis stiffens at first, but then he relents and, crying silently, he clings to Porthos with his good arm while his left–
“Aramis! See that?”
Porthos carefully sits back a bit, still holding his brother upright, and points at Aramis’ left hand. It’s clutching the rosary they’ve wrapped around his wrist. Holding the rosary.
“When did that happen?” Porthos asks, elated.
Aramis opens and closes his hand, clumsily and weakly. The muscles hold little power, and he still cannot lift his arm when he tries. But he’s moving his hand.
“Dun- … dunno,” he stammers, remarkably less enthusiastic than Porthos. “N-not much… ‘f anythin’.”
“Oh, it’s something.” Porthos smiles and smacks a kiss into Aramis’ dark curls. He knows they haven’t won yet. He knows his best friend has a long way ahead of him, and whether it’ll lead him back to being a Musketeer is a question that has no answer at this point. But Sister Marie has a plan at the convent for him, and he’s moving a limb that has been a dead weight for weeks, and his brother may have some fight still left in him after all.
“It’s everything, Aramis. It’s hope.”