Note: Apologies for leaving you on the cliffhanger! I usually like to resolve them as quickly as possible, but I was really wrestling over whether to change the ending...

I recommend having a listen to Radical Face's "The Gilded Hand" for the complete desolate headspace experience. Enjoy! ;)

Chapter Three - The Gilded Hand

And you know
Somewhere in there you know
There will be a price to pay
Until all this goes away

The first thing Aramis did when he woke was sit bolt upright and retch over the side of his bed. Only then did he realise it wasn't his bed, and when he lay back he jumped at seeing Treville standing at the foot of it.

"You've rendered yourself unfit for duty. You're on leave until further notice." The Captain seemed as if he were only just holding on to a simmering rage. "The offence usually warrants punishment… but from what I hear you've done enough of that to yourself already."

An icy hand gripped Aramis' heart. Athos must have told him everything.

But the young musketeer didn't care about himself… not right now.

"Porthos?" His throat felt dry and full of dust. "Is he alright?"

"He lives. No thanks to you. But he hasn't yet woken… He was stabbed here." Treville pointed to the juncture between neck and shoulder. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll know more when the physician is done with him."

Aramis swallowed heavily. He felt like being sick again. Such an injury could be fatal…

"Furthermore, the bandits got away. d'Artagnan managed to shoot one after your untimely collapse, but the rest took flight once Porthos was down."

Tears pricked at Aramis' eyes, he stared down at the thin sheet covering his battered body. This was all his fault. Porthos might die because of him.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" Treville growled.

Aramis opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat...

"No? Well count yourself lucky. It's only due to your past record that I haven't stripped you of your commission yet - and note I said 'yet' - this is far from over. Right now you're a danger to yourself and everybody around you. Whatever this is…" He waved a hand at Aramis' bruised and battered body. "Get over it."

Self consciously, Aramis pulled the sheets a little higher. Treville's words were harsh, but he knew he deserved them.

"I'm sorry…" His voice sounded so small and lost.

"And so you should be. But I'm not the one you should be apologising to."

Aramis made a move to swing his legs out of bed. Treville was right. He had to go… he had to tell them…

But the Captain raised a hand. "Stop there, you're not leaving this room until a physician has seen you. I'll let Athos and d'Artagnan know you're awake… but whether they will want to come and visit you, I don't know."

The young musketeer gave a slight nod and lay back. He wouldn't blame them for not coming. He was furious with himself… How had it come to this? That first punch he threw at a thief seemed like the stone that started an avalanche. Now here he was buried and struggling to breathe beneath the weight of his own mindless actions.

Treville slammed the door on his way out.

Aramis flinched.

He could almost laugh despite the circumstances… The thing he had feared - losing his commission - meant nothing now. It paled in the face of losing Porthos. That dressing down from Treville, and being forcibly put on leave, would have devastated Aramis on any other day. But Porthos' life hung in the balance, and it was his own doing…

It wasn't long before Aramis' thoughts were interrupted by Athos bursting in. His eyes held a cold fury that almost scared the young musketeer.

Athos stalked over to the bed and viciously threw back the sheets. "You call this stopping do you?"

His bruises and scars were there for the world to see.

"I know those were not caused in the line of duty. Don't even think of lying to me." There was a savage edge to Athos' voice that was quite unnerving.

"I'm sorry…" Aramis looked away, he couldn't bear to look at Athos.

Suddenly Athos lunged forwards and took the young musketeer by the jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.

"You're sorry? And you think that makes it alright?" Aramis noticed it was Athos' hands covered in dried blood this time… Porthos' blood. "Do you know what you've done? They could have killed us all! I was on my knees, trying to stop Porthos bleeding out, and you were out cold. We're just lucky d'Artagnan hit his mark and the rest of those men were cowards… If they had stood and fought we would likely be dead. How could you let this happen?! I cannot fathom the stupidity… the carelessness…"

Athos backed away and tailed off, choosing to stalk around the room instead.

"I didn't mean for any of this…"

Athos cut Aramis off. "Then why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling alright? Why did you go on the mission? Hell, why didn't you just stop in bed?"

"... I had to carry on. 'All is well', remember?" There was a glint of defiance in Aramis' eye.

"Oh, don't you dare put this on me. I'm not the one who went out each night brawling and getting beaten half to death!"

"You're the one who told me to hide it all away!" A spark of anger suddenly took Aramis' heart.

"To save us both from the hangman! If anyone ever suspected that child was yours…"

Aramis' voice turned quiet. "I bet you're glad my child's dead, aren't you?"

That stopped Athos in his tracks.

When he spoke again, all anger was gone. "I could never rejoice in the loss of a child... But I will not deny it makes life easier. Look at you Aramis. Could you honestly tell me you would watch your son grow from a boy, to a man, and then become king, without betraying the slightest emotion? I would have to haunt your every step to keep our necks safe. Hell, the whole of France would be thrown into chaos if it were discovered an illegitimate bastard sat on the throne. You're grieving a child you never knew, and would never be able to know. It will pass…"

"Still, he was my child... and I grieve for her as well. I cannot stop my heart from feeling, Athos."

"You don't need to stop it, you just need to tame it… but you've never been any good at that have you?" Athos sighed.

A knock at the door silenced them both.

For an agonising moment they wondered if somebody had overheard…

Athos opened the door slowly. A small, balding man stood there.

"Ah, come in… How is Porthos?" Athos stepped aside to let the man enter.

"Still breathing when I left, but the rest is up to him now… I understand there is another needing treatment?" The man's eyes wandered to Aramis.

"Aramis, this is Matthieu, the physician. You're going to cooperate with him fully." Athos gave him a pointed look and settled against the wall with folded arms.

Matthieu set his bag down on a table in the corner and moved to the side of the bed. "Where are you hurt?"

Aramis ignored the question. "Was Porthos' wound deep? Did you stitch or cauterise it? Any sign of infection?"

"Aramis, answer him." Athos' voice was a warning.

"I'm not avoiding anything. I just want to know about Porthos." He turned pleading eyes on the physician.

The man gave a tight smile. "It was deep, but not fatally so. I've stitched the wound and there is no sign of infection, but he did lose a lot of blood… Still, he is strong. I have hope. Now, where are you hurt?"

"My arm…"

"And the rest of it." Athos interjected.

Aramis glowered up at him. "The rest is just bruises, I don't need treatment."

"Why am I not inclined to believe you? Matthieu, check him over." Aramis opened his mouth to protest, but Athos spoke over him. "You are in no position to argue."

Aramis sat there blankly while Matthieu did his work. The only sign of pain he gave was the subtle clench of his jaw, or a tightening of his frame. The real pain he felt was in his heart once again… The physician declared Aramis had two cracked ribs, and he cleaned an angry looking wound before turning his attention to the young musketeer's arm. This time a quiet moan was drawn from between his lips.

"Well, it is broken… I will have to set it properly. I'm surprised you've been up and about with an injury like this."

"Laudanum…" Aramis whispered and looked away.

"I'm sorry?" The elderly physician hadn't quite heard.

"I took laudanum… I think it's why I…" The young musketeer cleared his throat and licked his dry lips. He was ashamed by the admission. "... I think it's why I passed out."

It's why I failed. It's why I let Porthos get injured. It's why Porthos might die…

Though he stared at a spot on the floor, Aramis could still feel the glare from Athos burning through his skin. Or maybe that was the shame.

"Ah… How long ago was your last dose?"

"I took some before we rode out this morning." His voice was dull and matter of fact.

Matthieu looked to the air, he seemed to be doing some mental calculations. "And how often have you been taking it?"

"Fairly regularly…"

"Hmm… well, I can offer you a little pain relief, but it may not have much of an effect. Those who take laudanum fairly regularly seem to build up a resistance."

Aramis gave a weak nod while the physician went to dig through his bag. The young musketeer wordlessly drank what was offered.

"Sit, please." Matthieu pulled out a chair at the table.

Aramis eyed it warily. He knew this was going to hurt like nothing else, and it wasn't the hurt he wanted. Cuts and bruises released the pain that he kept bottled up. But this was just damage… no, he was being healed. The physician had come to heal him, and it was going to hurt.

The young musketeer sucked in a deep breath. He hadn't meant for it to go this far, or get this bad. He felt like he had fallen into a hole he couldn't climb out of…

"Monsieur Aramis?"

He was staring. He should move. The sooner this was done, the sooner he could see Porthos.

So moving stiffly, Aramis got to his feet and sat down, placing his arm gingerly on the table.

"Will you hold him?" Matthieu looked up at Athos.

The older musketeer pushed away from the wall and started to take off his belt. Aramis flinched at the gentle thud of Athos' boots against the floorboards as he approached. A sick feeling took him then... the belt was held out just in front of the young musketeer's face. He swallowed heavily before taking it between his teeth. And in that moment he seemed to lose control. Athos hands took hold and pinned him down. He was trapped. Aramis' heart hammered against his chest, his breath shot through his nostrils like a hard ridden horse. He wanted to back away… he wanted to escape. Athos' grip tightened in response to Aramis' suddenly rigid frame.

Athos' lips were just by Aramis' ear.

"Remember… you brought this on yourself." He whispered.

And then the physician moved in…

~oOo~

When Aramis next circled around consciousness it was dark outside. A few candles lit his room, but he was alone. His throat felt raw from screaming, and his arm pulsed with an angry ache… Aramis looked down to find it had been splinted and placed in a sling. Somebody had also put his shirt back on. For a moment Aramis lay there, heaving in breath after breath, and that set his ribs aching… he could feel them now. The young musketeer pushed himself up awkwardly with one arm and cast his eyes about the room. Flickering candlelight revealed his clothes and weapons in a corner. Aramis stumbled over and started fishing through his pockets, desperate to get his hands on that little bottle… Relief flooded through him as his fingers brushed against the cold tincture. Aramis drew it out and swallowed a mouthful. He sat there on the hard floor with his eyes closed for a moment. Taking in a deep breath he let it out slowly and felt the pain melt away...

Then startling suddenly, Aramis was struck with a thought - Porthos. He had to see Porthos.

The young musketeer shoved the laudanum back into his pocket and shucked the coat over his shoulders, leaving his injured arm inside. He tumbled out of the room so fast it left his head spinning. Thankfully Serge was wandering the hallways and pointed Aramis in the right direction. If he wasn't in such a hurry he might have noticed the sorrowful demeanour of the old man… But only when he reached the door of Porthos' room did he stop. Aramis paused with his hand on the door handle. Suddenly he didn't want to go in… He didn't want to see Porthos injured and unconscious. Porthos grinned brightly and laughed loudly. He wasn't meant to ail in bed... Then Aramis remembered how he had ended up there. The young musketeer steeled himself and pushed the door open.

Porthos looked terrible. Bandages wrapped around his shoulder and neck. They were spotted with blood, and in the flickering candlelight Porthos' face was far too pale… The clean sheets covering his body were barely creased. Aramis suppressed a whimper. He looked already laid out for his funeral. The slight, faltering rise and fall of Porthos' chest gave the only sign of life.

At the side of the bed sat Athos. He was bent forwards, leaning on the sheets, head in his hands.

"He's worse…" Athos spoke without looking up at Aramis. "d'Artagnan just left to fetch Matthieu…"

"No…" Aramis rushed towards the bed.

"He started bleeding again… we managed to slow it down, but I need to get more bandages." Athos sounded wrecked. He got to his feet and scrubbed a hand through his wild hair. Aramis noted the dark shadows beneath his eyes… "I'll be back as quick as I can."

The sound of the door shutting seemed to echo around the room.

Aramis took the chair Athos vacated. He reached out for Porthos' hand. It was so cold…

"I'm sorry…" His voice wavered. "I'm so sorry Porthos. Please wake up, please… I can't…"

Despite the candles, darkness seemed to close in around him.

"You have to wake up. We need you… I need you." Aramis felt his eyes well, he wiped away the tears. "You've always been there for me. I wouldn't have survived after Savoy without you… and look how I repay you. I'm sorry Porthos... I don't know how this happened. I don't know how I became this…"

Aramis clutched at his shirt with a vicious fist. A sliver of self loathing crawled into his heart.

"I wish I knew... I wish I knew how to undo it all. I've fallen so far, I can't see the light any more. I just wanted to hurt, Porthos… I know it doesn't make any sense. I wanted to hurt, and I hurt so many people beside myself." His voice turned quiet. "I hurt you."

The young musketeer swiped a tired hand over his face before taking Porthos' hand once again. He squeezed it... he would have given anything to feel Porthos' fingers respond. But they were still.

"I would never hurt you. I would never have put any of your lives at risk, and now…" Aramis broke off with a dry sob. A crack ran through his heart, and it broke apart. "Treville was right. I'm a danger to everyone around me… I'm reckless… careless… you don't need me. You're better off without me... If there was any justice in the world I would be lying where you are. I deserved this, not you."

Aramis sat back and covered his eyes with his hand, letting his face crumple, letting the tears run. He struggled to speak through shuddered breaths.

"I wanted to hurt. I wanted to feel the pain I wasn't allowed to… and now, this hurt, what I've done… I wish I couldn't feel anything. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing…"

His hand seemed to reach into his pocket without his knowing it. Aramis pulled out the tincture that would take all feeling away, and he put the bottle to his lips. Then he seemed to realise he had given in to it, and it was giving in to it that had put Porthos at death's door. Anger took the remains of Aramis' heart. He threw the laudanum at the wall with a growl. The bottle shattered and sprayed glass across the room, there was precious little liquid left in it… Tiredness took Aramis then. It settled over him like a blanket. He lay his head down on the bed and came to rest his hand on Porthos' arm. It was nice, just drifting... and then all feeling went away. Aramis' last thought was that he might have taken too much. Had he meant to take too much? Oh well, it didn't matter, they wouldn't mind… they were better off without him.

~oOo~

Something struck Aramis in the face.

"Aramis!"

A voice came from far away…

"Don't you do this to me!"

The blow came again. Was he in a tavern? Was he being beaten?

Aramis was shaken roughly and his eyes slid open. The world was nothing but a blur of shapes, everything ran into everything else, the light and the dark became one another… His eyes shut again.

The young musketeer felt himself being half carried and half dragged along the ground. The air turned suddenly cold, Aramis shuddered involuntarily, and then he felt the ground come up to meet him. Or had he fallen to hit the ground? Hands grabbed at him, pulling him this way and that. Weakly he tried to push them away. He was tired… he just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn't they leave him alone?

"No… Aramis... you can't do this… you don't get to run away."

He wasn't running anywhere. He was just-

Aramis' thoughts suddenly stalled as fingers pried open his mouth. They thrust to the back of his throat until he gagged and coughed. The next thing Aramis knew, he was retching and bringing up whatever remained in his stomach… Those infuriating hands were holding him up. As he trembled and shuddered, spitting the last of it away, they drew him closer.

Aramis lay there for endless moments, heaving in breath after breath. Eventually he blinked his wet eyes open and the world gradually righted itself. He realised he was lying in Athos' arms, and they were both sitting in the dirt of the garrison courtyard. The older musketeer was talking… his voice seemed thick with grief, as if he had been crying too.

"... you can't leave me… not both of you… Don't leave me here alone..."

Aramis gave a quiet cough. "I'm here..."

The arms around him tightened.

"I'm here." He said again, a little more strongly. Aramis managed to twist around to look up at Athos' face. Tears were making tracks down his cheeks. The young musketeer reached out with a trembling hand and wiped them away with his thumb. "Athos… Don't cry. Please… I'm here."

Athos took in a harsh breath. "You can't give in. Porthos needs us both… and if… if…" His voice faltered, unable to say the words he feared. "We have to keep going... for each other." Athos shook Aramis slightly. "Don't you understand? You're my brother. I need you."

It was quite disconcerting to see Athos so ruined and open. He usually kept everything inside, bottled up tightly where nobody could see. The strain of Porthos' injury had crumbled away his defences, and it seemed the possibility of losing Aramis as well had brought them down entirely. Guilt dug its claws into Aramis once again. He had done this to Athos, just as he had hurt Porthos. Why did he keep destroying his friends?

"I'm sorry." Aramis whispered.

"As am I…"

The young musketeer frowned, what could Athos possibly be apologising for?

He seemed to read the confusion on Aramis' face. "Maybe if I had been more understanding this might never have happened… I should have let you grieve in your own way."

"No… you were right." Aramis smiled sadly. "I have a wild, untamed heart. It leads me to my destruction, and it would have taken you too. You were just trying to save me from myself, and I couldn't see it."

And oh how clearly you could see with hindsight...

Athos sighed out a heavy breath. "Can you walk?

They had to get back to Porthos. It didn't need to be said… and then guilt clutched at Aramis' heart once again. He was taking precious time away from Porthos. What if he stopped breathing while they were out here? Aramis would never forgive himself.

"Let me up." He said, tightly.

Athos didn't so much let him up, as haul him up. Aramis wavered a moment, adjusting to being upright. He wanted to push Athos' hands away, he wanted to run inside and find Porthos. But with his first shaky step Aramis realised he needed those hands, and he wasn't going to be running anywhere…

Back inside Athos deposited Aramis in the chair beside the bed, and he went to work on Porthos. The bandages he delicately pulled away were sodden and red beneath… Aramis took in a harsh breath and Athos carried on, as if this were a routine he was getting used to. He moved Porthos like a broken marionette. Head and limbs lolling, lifelessly... Aramis wanted to help, but with one trembling hand he was useless.

The physician came and did what he could. But he warned them to prepare for the worst…

They were left standing vigil around the bed. d'Artagnan positioned himself at the foot, while Aramis and Athos faced each other, one sitting, one standing. Their eyes kept wandering, from Porthos, to each other, and back. d'Artagnan kept up a quiet litany of words, he spoke of everything and nothing, from his life back in Gascony to the fraught nature of his relationship with Constance. He seemed to think the sound of his voice might guide Porthos back to the land of the living. Aramis wasn't so sure. Eventually d'Artagnan went to fetch some water and clean bandages. He left a quiet in his wake that wasn't entirely peaceful...

Silence hung so heavy in the room Aramis felt he might choke on it. Something needed to be said. He just didn't know what...

"Do you think…" Aramis' voice was rough, he gave a quiet cough and tried again. "Do you think he can hear us?"

Athos looked down at Porthos with a frown. "I don't know… but it would be better to speak to him now, before he goes somewhere he can't hear us."

"He won't." Aramis bristled at the insinuation Porthos was going to die. "He can't leave us… I won't let him." The young musketeer clasped Porthos' hand as if simply holding him would keep him there.

Athos scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Aramis… even you can't keep the dying from their fate."

"He's not dying." Aramis spoke forcefully, and settled his gaze on Porthos' faltering chest. A spike of fear assailed him every time a breath took too long to come. "Keep breathing, Porthos… just keep breathing."

If fate had anything to do with it… if there was any justice in the world… Aramis would be the one dying. He had brought this on himself. Deep down he knew there would be a price to pay, but why did Porthos have to pay it? Why did Aramis have to watch as everyone around him fell away? He was the survivor. Always the survivor. Maybe fate did have something to do with it. Maybe he was just destined to have everything and everyone taken away from him… Twenty brothers killed at Savoy, Marsac, Isabelle two times over, his unnamed child… and Anne, though had he ever really had her to begin with? He wouldn't add Porthos to the list, he wouldn't.

"Porthos, you're going to wake up. And I promise you I'll do better… I'm not going to be so selfish, so reckless… I'm not going to pretend everything's fine when it's not. But you have to wake up… because everything's not fine. It won't be without you…"

Athos cleared his throat and knelt down to take Porthos' other hand. "I promise I'll do better as well… I won't lose myself in a bottle. I'll talk to you instead of withdrawing, so you have to wake up… You keep us both grounded in a way we can't manage alone."

The eyes of the two men met over Porthos' still form. A sort of understanding passed between them. They were both so different, yet so alike. They both carried burdens they wouldn't share… They both housed a darkness they occasionally got lost in. And they both needed Porthos to balance between them. That understanding too easily turned to hurt. Sometimes looking at each other was like looking in a cracked mirror and seeing the void of your own soul staring back. Porthos was their candle against the dark, and here it was, on the verge of flickering out...

"I'll keep you… to that…" The voice was weary and so quiet it could barely be heard.

But to Aramis it was like the loud ringing of a bell in a quiet churchyard.

Their eyes snapped to Porthos' face to find him watching from beneath half lidded eyes. A sheen of sweat lay on his brow and he still looked deathly pale, but there he was, awake at last!

"Porthos…" Aramis gripped his hand tightly and was rewarded by a slight squeeze in return.

Athos clutched Porthos' other hand and brought it to his lips. Aramis was sure his eyes were shining.

"You look… terrible." A voice so fragile shouldn't belong to Porthos.

But Aramis was overjoyed to hear it. A relieved smile broke across his face. "Oh God, Porthos… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

Porthos' brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "You didn't shoot me… did you?"

"No… no… I didn't, but it was my job to protect you, I failed… I-"

"Then… it's not your fault." Even diminished as it was Porthos' voice could still cut across Aramis.

"But it is, I collapsed… I took…"

"I forgive you." This time it was Porthos gripping Aramis' hand. His eyes seemed to hold a determination that Aramis couldn't argue against.

"My friend… I don't deserve you." Aramis spoke quietly. Being forgiven seemed to lift a little weight from his shoulders. He thought he would never get to hear those words from Porthos' lips…

A faint smile slid across Porthos' face. "But what would you do without me?"

"Curl up and die." Aramis's tone was sombre, recalling his friend's earlier words at the garrison.

He very nearly did…

Porthos eyes closed, and his breath eased into the steady regular rhythm of sleep.

Athos huffed a relieved breath. "Maybe you can keep the dying from death after all…"

Aramis detected a slight hint of amusement beneath his words.

But if that were true there would be fewer graves in the garrison cemetery.

"I'll see about getting some broth made now he's woken." Athos got to his feet and stretched out his tired muscles. A rare, warm smile graced his face. "He's back Aramis... we got him back."

And he was never going to lose Porthos again.

~oOo~

The morning came, bright and cold. Aramis thought he would be greeting it with sorrow, he couldn't be more relieved that wasn't the case. They managed to get some broth into Porthos, and the rest of the day was whiled away at his bedside. Aramis almost feared his friend would disappear if he so much as turned his back. But eventually Porthos insisted they both leave to get some rest. He promised them he wasn't going anywhere. Still, Aramis had to be near enough pried away from his chair…

Athos helped Aramis home with a gentle hand at his elbow guiding the way. The young musketeer was still quite shaky, his broken arm felt heavy and his feet even more so. They walked in silence, too tired to even attempt conversation, and too emotionally drained to know what to say. Athos left Aramis at the door with a companionable squeeze of the shoulder.

Pushing his way inside it was hard not to feel the crushing weight of the sorrow his home held before. But Aramis fought back against it. They were alive, all of them. He had been forgiven. He was going to do better… he wanted to do better. He didn't want to hurt any more. It led to nothing good.

Aramis dropped his weapons and gingerly wound his way out of his jacket. The young musketeer slumped down in his chair with a wince and came to lean his head on his good arm atop the table. A fierce ache was creeping through his body to set his arm alight. He was slipping… Ghosts crept from their places in the shadowed corners to pull insistently at Aramis... he tried to brush them away.

And then he pushed himself up with sigh, the sigh became a pained hiss, and the hiss cut off abruptly as his eyes focussed on the bottle at the end of the table. He had left a tincture of laudanum there.

Aramis didn't want to hurt. It would take the pain away… it would take everything away. Something in him wanted it. The young musketeer rubbed his fingers together feeling dried blood and dirt crumble between them. It was deeply ingrained. He wasn't clean.

He took in a deep breath and tried to remember his promise. Perhaps he should go back… perhaps he should tell Porthos… he wasn't right, he wasn't well. Everything was not fine.

But he sat and stared, fixated on the bottle.

He knew what would happen… One sip and everything would feel right again, but it would just be a thin veneer layering the cracks. Still, in those moments of numbness it wouldn't just feel right, to him it would be right...

No. He had a promise to keep.

Still he sat and stared. An alabaster statue to regret, guilt, shame and more.

The bottle stared back.

There was no pretending this time…

All was not well.

Dirt we find beneath our nails
Can't be scrubbed from our tired hands
Never clean
We're never clean

~oOo~

Note: Thank you to everybody who has followed, favourited and reviewed! :D

There might be a sequel... by which I mean I've started writing it, but I can't make any promises on when it'll be done. Other fic and real life are stealing my time (just keep your eye out for "The Crooked Kind"!)