The walk back to Aramis' room was spent in silence, and everyone looked at Treville and Serge when they reentered.

With a sigh, Serge handed the bottle to the doctor. "It-it fell over on the shelf, and…poured into the honey."

The doctor didn't know whether to yell at him or try to comfort him. He read the label before nodding. "This and the honey need to be disposed of."

Treville took it from him. "I'll do it myself." With that, he left the room again.

Serge headed over to the bed, looking devastated. When Athos stood to give him his spot, he sat down and reached for Aramis' hand. "I am so, so sorry, son," he said, his voice trembling. "I remember gettin' rid of the lemongrass a long time ago...there must've been another bottle that I didn't realize I still had. Can you ever forgive me?"

Aramis smiled slightly. He looked pale and exhausted and was still breathing too fast, but he managed to say, "Not your fault…accident." His voice was soft and hoarse.

Serge shook his head with a sigh and lowered his eyes to their joined hands, placing his other one on top. "What about the rest of you?" he suddenly asked. "Porthos? Athos? Can you ever forgive me?"

Both of the others were slightly surprised at the question. While they were both shocked and angry that lemongrass had still been in the kitchen, the sight of the elderly, limping Serge cut a pathetic-looking figure—especially when saddened—and it was never easy to be mad at him.

"Yes," said Athos. "As Aramis said, it was an accident."

"If Aramis forgave you, how can we not?" said Porthos.

Serge smiled slightly with relief, before sighing again. He looked up to see that Aramis was blinking tiredly. "Go to sleep," he said, patting his hand.

Aramis closed his eyes.

Serge gently let go of his hand and stood, before heading away from the bed.

The doctor took hold of his arm. "I'm leaving you this bottle," he said, giving him the arsenicum album. "The dosage is written on it. If this ever happens again, give it to him immediately. I'll have the apothecary send over a few more bottles…he should always carry it with him, as well as his friends."

Serge nodded, taking the bottle and gripping it like a lifeline. "Thank you." With that, he turned to look at the dozing Aramis one more time before limping out of the room.

The doctor turned towards the bed, and found Athos standing behind him.

"Is there anything that we need to do for Aramis?" the musketeer asked.

The doctor shook his head. "The medicine countered the effects of the lemongrass…it just sometimes takes a while for the victim to get back to normal. He should be fine tomorrow, as long as he continues to rest. The only other treatment is to make him drink a lot of water, to help flush the lemongrass out of his system."

Athos nodded and went back to the bed.

The doctor eventually left, and four more bottles of the medicine arrived less than a half-hour later; one each for Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and Treville.

Aramis slept for most of the day, his breathing still a little labored and wheezy, but as time passed, it continued to improve.

Serge cleaned every part of the kitchen that might've been contaminated by the lemongrass, including throwing out other things that were below it or beside it on the shelf. The sense of relief that he felt when he finished was nearly overwhelming, and he sat down with another glass of wine to steady his still-frazzled nerves.

Lemongrass had always been something that he liked to add to certain recipes because of its resemblance to a lemon flavor, and he remembered the day that Aramis had joined the musketeers and told him that it was dangerous for him to eat it. He'd immediately thrown it away, and to think that all these years there had been another bottle...a hidden danger.

With a sigh, Serge stood to prepare supper for the garrison, and made a vow to himself that he would never touch lemongrass again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aramis ate soup that night; his throat still felt tight as the swelling receded slowly...likely because of the time it had taken for the doctor to arrive and administer the medicine. Liquids went down much easier.

Athos and Porthos refused to leave his side, and Aramis wasn't surprised. He could see how shaken they were; it was visible to him even on Athos' face. He watched as they ate their own food, sitting on either side of the bed, facing him. Rather, he watched as they tried to eat.

"I'm sorry."

Athos and Porthos looked at him, both of them frowning. "For what?" Athos asked.

"Frightening you," Aramis told them. "Watching me unable to breathe..." He shook his head. "It must've been terrifying."

Porthos lowered his head. "I thought you were about to die in my arms, Aramis! If the doctor hadn't arrived in time, you would've!"

Aramis put one hand on his arm and his other hand on Athos'. "I'm all right, now."

Porthos sighed, before looking at him again. "What about you? We were scared to death, how can you be calm now?"

Aramis tightened the grips on their arms. "That whole time that I couldn't breathe...I felt you holding me, Porthos, refusing to let go...and I felt your strong grip on my hand, Athos...that's what lent me the strength to remain calmer than I would've otherwise been."

Porthos felt tears sting his eyes and he had to forcefully blink them back.

Athos smiled slightly. "We're glad to have provided you whatever comfort we could. There's just one thing you can do in return."

"Yes?"

"Never frighten us like that again?"

Aramis smiled slightly. "Believe me, I have no intention of it...not a very heroic way to die, is it?" He looked at Porthos, who was obviously still struggling with his emotions. Tightening his grip, he shook his friend's arm to get his attention.

Porthos looked up at him, before suddenly leaning forward and grabbing him in a gentle hug.

Aramis gladly hugged him back.

Porthos didn't let go. "Have to feel you breathin'," he said, raggedly. "To...to chase away the memory..."

Aramis closed his eyes at that, unable to imagine the horror that Porthos had felt as he'd held him in his arms while he'd been unable to breathe. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizin'," Porthos told him.

Aramis obeyed, resting against his friend quietly. He tried to breathe as deeply as he could, letting Porthos see it, hear it, and feel it.

Athos watched silently.

Aramis didn't move, giving Porthos the time that he needed. He could feel his friend's heart beating against his ear, eventually slowing as Porthos calmed down. It was soothing, and the tired Aramis dozed off.

When Aramis started to go limp, Porthos just held him tighter. He looked over at Athos with a sigh.

"He's fine, Porthos," Athos whispered.

"But he wasn't," Porthos whispered back. "He was dying."

Athos nodded, having no reply.

Aramis slept well that night, considering that his breathing remained noisy. He woke once while Athos was watching over him and drank some water, keeping quiet while Porthos slept in a chair.

"Keep breathin', Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed, holding his friend tightly.

Aramis tried, but eventually, he couldn't get any air past his throat. Looking up at Porthos, Aramis fisted a hand in his doublet, wishing that he had another way to say goodbye...

"No, Aramis," said Porthos. "Don't you die on me!"

A sudden hand on his shoulder woke Porthos, and his eyes shot open as he looked around, startled. He saw Aramis sitting up in his bed, watching him with a worried expression while Athos stood beside him.

"I was dreamin'," Porthos said. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and shook his head.

"I won't ask what about," Aramis answered. "Since it was obvious."

Porthos sighed before putting his hands down and looking at him. "I'm fine. It was a dream and you're alive. Don't worry about me." He stood up and walked the two steps to the bed before taking hold of Aramis and making him lie down again. "Go back to sleep."

Aramis gave him a slight smile, knowing that Porthos was burying his feelings for his sake. The only thing to do was to go along with it, to avoid getting Porthos more upset than he was already.

Porthos sat down in his chair and watched his friend fall back to sleep. The noisy breathing was oddly soothing, in a way, for it assured him that Aramis was still breathing, and it lulled Porthos back to sleep himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Aramis woke to find his breathing unhindered and he wanted to get up and have breakfast with the rest of the garrison. Athos and Porthos wanted to keep him in bed and tried to change his mind.

"You can't possibly feel fine after what happened yesterday," Porthos argued.

"But I am," Aramis told him. "My breathing is normal."

"You look tired," said Athos.

"So do you," said Aramis.

Athos couldn't argue that; both he and Porthos hadn't slept easily when they weren't watching over Aramis.

"But we didn't almost suffocate yesterday!" Porthos told him.

"My dear friends," Aramis said, understanding their concern. "I feel well enough to be out of bed. I just want to have a normal day and forget what happened."

They couldn't blame him for that, and let him get up.

The rest of the musketeers were relieved to see him, but no one as much as Serge, who had tears in his eyes again as he served their breakfast.

Aramis stood from his seat and gave the old soldier a hug. "Trouble yourself no longer," he said. "I'm fine and the incident is behind us."

Serge hugged him back tightly. "I'll try," he said.

Aramis patted him on the back before pulling away and looking at the food. "I'm starving," he said.

Serge smiled, which had been Aramis' goal. "Eat up, there's more where that came from!"

Aramis chuckled and sat down.

Treville didn't let Aramis participate in any duties, so Porthos retrieved a pile of pistols from the armory and put them on the table, and they left Aramis contentedly cleaning them as they once against began to train the recruits.

Porthos and Athos both couldn't help but remember what had happened yesterday at nearly the exact same time, and turned to look at the table.

Treville noticed and followed their gaze, spotting Aramis sitting on the bench leaning against the post at his back. His boots were up on the table crossed at the ankles as he fiddled with the pistol on his lap, and a chill shot down Treville's spine at the thought that the young musketeer had nearly died the day before.

Aramis knew that they were watching him but he pretended to be unaware, trying to look healthy and happy as he cleaned the pistol. The incident had shaken him terribly but he'd decided to show strength to his friends out of sympathy for their own experience, especially Porthos.

Suddenly, the sound of swordplay filled the air and Aramis looked up to watch his fellow musketeers train the recruits. It was the same thing he'd been watching the day before when he'd suddenly lost the ability to breathe, and as he returned his attention to the dirty pistol, he thanked God for the second chance at life.

THE END