Summary: "To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve."

Author's Notes: Even since the Cardinal used the opening lines of "Salve, Regina" when speaking to Anne, I have wanted to incorporate it somehow.

Also, look! I can whump someone other than Porthos!

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

Aramis was the stitcher, their make-shift surgeon. And now he was hurt. The uncertainty must have shown all over his face.

"Porthos will take care of it," reassured Athos, sitting down at the table with a bottle. D'Artagnan continued to frown, trying to imagine a thin needle in those big fingers.

"He is quite capable," responded Athos.

"Why not you?" Athos made no indication he'd heard the question and stared at his wine for a long time. Perhaps this was one of those things Athos would never speak about.

"I am no stranger to injuries and hurt," began Athos quietly. "And if there is no other option? To save a life? I can stitch a wound. But with blood-slicked fingers, I am not so steady as I once was. Not since Thomas." He reached for the bottle abruptly. "I have know Porthos many years and I can promise you, this will not be the last time he surprises you."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan entered the room at the barracks. Porthos looked up briefly, but turned back to his work. The young Musketeer found a seat and watched quietly.

Powerful hands that d'Artagnan had seen knock men senseless with a single blow were transformed. Gentle and unhurried. He wasn't as fast or as neat as Aramis, but he steadily and carefully drew the slice closed, even as Aramis slept. He waited to speak until it seemed Porthos was nearly finished.

"Did Aramis show you how?"

"Nah," said Porthos stiffly. "Plenty of learnin' about wounds where I grew up."

D'Artagnan tried to hide his wince and thought fast.

"Did you instruct Aramis, then?" he asked quickly. To his relief, the frown vanished from Porthos' face.

"Aramis knew fine needlework by the time I joined the Musketeers, but we're always lookin' to add to what we know. Better medicines and the like."

Aramis stirred restlessly as Porthos tied off the last stitch. Porthos shushed him and began murmuring softly.

Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae;
vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve.

It had the even cadence of well-worn verse. It took d'Artagnan longer than it should have to recognize it. Latin. Porthos was praying.

Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae.
Ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes
in hac lacrimarum valle.

Porthos took a damp cloth and smoothed it over Aramis' face, his fingers brushing back unruly hair.

Eia ergo, advocata nostra,
illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte.
Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui,
nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.

Porthos shifted and wiped the blood and sweat from Aramis' leg, his rumbling voice never ceasing.

O clemens, o pia, o dulcis Virgo Maria.

D'Artagnan watched in awe as Aramis stilled, sleeping soundly once again.

Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix.
Ut digni efficamur promissionibus Christi.

As he worked, Porthos repeated the prayer and d'Artagnan listened closely, barely daring to breathe. There was such reverence in the way Porthos cared for Aramis. It wasn't merely the sacred words. Porthos did this as he did everything that was important: earnestly and unwaveringly.

Porthos pulled out a small pot and carefully daubed the contents over the sutures. D'Artagnan caught the scent of something fresh and floral. The big man fell quiet as he wrapped clean bandages around Aramis' leg.

"The medicine," asked d'Artagnan, breaking the silence. "What is it?"

"Calendula oil," said Porthos. "Good for stoppin' bleeding and taking out the fever. Made from a flower. Aramis calls it Mary's Gold. They use 'em in church, sometimes."

"Thus the prayer?" Porthos' eyes were sharp and guarded, but he must have seen d'Artagnan's honest curiosity.

"Seemed appropriate," he answered roughly. "And it always calms Aramis down."

"It did," concurred d'Artagnan. "I'll remember."

"I'd prefer if you never had a need to." D'Artagnan watched Porthos finish fastening the bandage and sit down wearily next to Aramis, a hand resting lightly on his chest.

"Do you believe in God?" The question rose out of him, unbidden and unplanned. Porthos looked at him hard, but didn't seem surprised.

"I don't know," he said finally. "My life, things I've seen..." Porthos shook his head. "Hard to imagine the lovin' God that Aramis talks about. But the Blessed Mother? Who don't want to believe she tries to look out for us, eh?" Porthos' eyes were suddenly sad and distant.

D'Artagnan cursed himself, for it was not his intention to cause Porthos pain, but he didn't know what his intention had been.

"Don't matter," stated Porthos, lifting his shoulders slightly, as though shedding a weight. "Aramis has faith." Porthos looked at d'Artagnan with a warm, unfaltering gaze. "And I have faith in Aramis."

D'Artagnan nodded, swallowed past the lump in his throat and stood to leave. He rested a hand on Porthos' shoulder as he passed.

"It's a lovely prayer, Porthos."

"It is," agreed Porthos quietly, his hand never leaving the sleeping man's chest. "Aramis taught it to me."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this, our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

Pray for us, O holy Mother of God.
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.