A/N: Thank you guest Laureleaf for your review of the last episode! There's definitely more dragons in this one. ;)

Chapter 1

The clash of steel pealed throughout the garrison yard as d'Artagnan pressed his attack on Athos. He thought he was finally driving the musketeer back, but Athos's parries weren't strenuous and his expression was almost…bored. Then the musketeer smoothly sidestepped him and d'Artagnan couldn't twist in time to stop Athos's blade from lightly thwacking the back of his shoulder blades. D'Artagnan dropped his shoulders with a sigh.

"You go in too hard and fast," Athos critiqued. "When you should be holding back in favor of precision."

D'Artagnan gave his rapier a frustrated swish through the air. So Athos had been telling him—repeatedly.

Off to the side, Aramis, Porthos, and the musketeers' three dragons were watching the sparring with apparent amusement. Some days d'Artagnan felt they were truly taking an interest in helping him grow as a soldier, and other days it felt like they were keeping him around mostly for entertainment. The dichotomy was oddly comforting though—it gave d'Artagnan a sense of, well, family.

If only he wasn't the "pup" of the bunch, as Porthos had taken to calling him.

D'Artagnan turned to face Athos again, ready to go another round, but they were interrupted by one of the stable boys walking over, a small wooden box in his hands.

"Someone left this for Athos," he said.

Athos lowered his sword. "Who?"

"It was a woman. She didn't give her name."

"A woman?" Aramis repeated, rounding the table to take the box. "Athos, have you found a mistress you've been keeping from us?"

Athos shot him a bland look.

"A secret admirer, then," Aramis theorized as he examined the box with interest. From where d'Artagnan stood, he could see it looked hand painted with ornate etchings around the rim. Aramis paused and scrunched his brows at the swordsman. "Strange choice though."

"Enough," Athos said with the barest hint of annoyance and gestured to d'Artagnan with his rapier to resume their practicing.

"Don't you want to see what's in the box?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No."

"Well, I do," Aramis said. He lifted the latch and opened the lid, then let out an abrupt yelp and dropped it.

D'Artagnan frowned at him in confusion, but then movement under the table drew his attention and Porthos jumped up from the bench he was sitting at with a shout.

"Whoa!"

Something the size of a large hand skittered out into the open—a black scorpion with red markings on its back.

The dragons reared up with a series of hisses at the creature. D'Artagnan scrambled back as it darted his way, but then Athos swooped in and stabbed the point of his sword straight through the scorpion's middle, pinning it to the ground. It jerked in response, writhing in place and flailing its stinger back and forth. Athos left his sword impaled in the dirt and whirled toward Aramis, who was hunched over and clutching his hand to his chest.

Porthos rushed over and grabbed his arm. "Did it sting ya?"

Aramis nodded stiffly and carefully extended his hand, revealing a hideous puncture wound in the meaty juncture of his thumb and forefinger. The flesh was already puffy and purple and Aramis's breaths were coming in and out harshly.

"Etienne!" Athos shouted across the yard. "Get the royal physician, now!"

The other musketeer that'd been passing by didn't bother asking why and immediately ran off. Athos and Porthos hemmed Aramis in and began ushering him toward the infirmary. D'Artagnan cast a wary look at the still twitching scorpion before hurrying to follow.

"How bad is it?" he asked as he sheathed his sword.

Aramis was bent double in obvious pain and didn't answer.

Porthos guided him to sit on one of the infirmary beds. "I don't know. I've never seen a thing like that before. Athos?"

"Nor I."

D'Artagnan flicked a worried look at the swordsman. That box had been meant for him.

The lines of Athos's face were grim as he stared at Aramis struggling to contain his grunts of pain. "I'll inform the captain," he said and swept out of the infirmary.

Porthos grimaced at his retreating back but softened his expression at Aramis. "Let's get yer belt off."

He moved his fingers to undo the buckle and remove the weapons. He then untied Aramis's blue sash and helped him out of his doublet. Aramis hissed air through his teeth as the sleeve brushed over his hand. He was sweating profusely now, his pallor ashen.

"What should we do?" Porthos asked desperately.

Aramis just shook his head. D'Artagnan didn't know if that meant the Musketeers' field medic didn't know himself…or there wasn't anything they could do.

Several minutes later, Athos returned with Captain Treville, and all four of them stood around helplessly while they waited for the physician.

The man who finally arrived with Etienne wore a black frock and carried a leather satchel.

"Doctor Lemay," Treville greeted.

"Your musketeer was unable to tell me what ailment I am needed for," the physician replied, casting his gaze over them curiously.

"Aramis was stung by a scorpion," Athos supplied.

"A scorpion? Those aren't typical for this region."

"It looks like a targeted attack," Athos said tightly.

Doctor Lemay moved forward to take a look at his patient, the others stepping back to give him room. His mouth immediately turned down at the state of the marksman's hand. "Do you have the specimen?" he asked Treville.

"Outside."

The physician turned and quickly followed the captain out to get a look, leaving the others in suspended silence save for Aramis's strained breathing. When they returned, the doctor's face was carefully businesslike.

"Well?" Porthos demanded.

"Venom is tricky," Lemay hedged, making his way toward Aramis. "I will attempt to bleed some of it from your arm, but I must be honest and say I can't guarantee its effectiveness."

Aramis's jaw ticked but he attempted to roll up of his sleeve. Porthos quickly moved in to do it for him, then helped him lie back on the bed. Doctor Lemay opened his satchel and pulled out a scalpel and metal bowl.

D'Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest and watched squeamishly as the physician extended Aramis's arm out from the bed and made a long cut across the width of his forearm between his wrist and elbow. It wasn't the sight of blood that didn't sit well with d'Artagnan, but the methodical way in which the doctor wielded the scalpel and how Aramis simply tensed up and bore it with a clenched jaw.

Lemay held the bowl under Aramis's arm to catch the drainage with one hand and used his other to inspect the wound from the stinger. "I can make a poultice for the swelling."

"Will that be enough?" Athos asked.

"Again, I can't say for sure. I'll have to consult my books, see if there's anything about this particular kind of venom."

D'Artagnan pressed his lips into a thin line, not feeling all that comforted by the doctor's lack of prognosis. He didn't know much about scorpions, but he'd seen an adder kill a man and knew venom was not a trifle injury.

"If the venom doesn't kill me, the blood loss might," Aramis finally gritted out.

D'Artagnan had to admit there was quite a bit gathering in the bowl.

Lemay tsked him but nevertheless reached for a towel and pressed it over the wound to staunch the flow. He beckoned Porthos over. "Hold this. I'm going to make the poultice."

Porthos took the doctor's place applying pressure to the cut while Lemay went to one of the infirmary shelves and began pulling items off. D'Artagnan watched helplessly, hating his inability to do anything. By the looks on Athos's and the captain's faces, he imagined they were feeling the same.

When Lemay had wrapped Aramis's hand in the poultice and linen and bandaged his forearm as well, he stepped back with a sigh. "I'm afraid that's all I can do at this time. I will return to the palace and consult the library on this creature. Hopefully I will find a treatment."

"Thank you," Captain Treville said, and the physician left.

"This is my fault," Athos spoke up once he was gone.

"It isn't," Aramis protested with a wheeze.

"That box was left for me," Athos argued. "It should be me lying there."

Aramis let out a pained scoff. "Perhaps we should talk about how this is the second time someone's targeted you, and in a rather elaborate way, for that matter."

D'Artagnan frowned. It was true; his first meeting with the musketeer was because the man had been framed for highway robbery and murder. And now someone had sent Athos a venomous scorpion? Someone either really had a grudge or too much of a flare for dramatics.

"We will be talking about that," Treville interrupted. "But right now we're going to focus on this immediate situation."

"Not much you can do," Aramis pointed out ruefully, then bit back an agonized groan.

The captain ignored the comment. "Athos." Cocking his head, Treville made his way toward the door, Athos following.

D'Artagnan hesitated for a moment before trailing after them. He needed to be doing something, needed to help find out who had done this and bring them to justice.

Athos walked over to where the ornate box was lying in the dirt and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, then set it on the table. "There's nothing in it."

"Aside from the scorpion," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"No note?" Treville asked. "No clue as to who sent it?"

"None."

Athos's gaze shifted to where the scorpion was still skewered to the ground with his sword. It seemed mostly dead, though d'Artagnan saw one of its spindly legs give a twitch and he suppressed an unnerved shudder.

"Savron," Athos called.

The dragons had given the pinned creature a wide berth but Athos's silverback walked closer at his rider's command. Athos wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and paused, giving his dragon a meaningful look. Savron's belly began to glow with fulvous veins. Athos yanked his blade out of the scorpion and Savron belched a short stream of fire out to envelope it, burning it to a crisp.

D'Artagnan hoped it wouldn't keep twitching after that. And he hoped things weren't as dire as they appeared to be…

.o.0.o.

Milady lingered between some merchant stalls outside the garrison wall, pretending to browse. She had the hood of her velvet cloak pulled up over her head to conceal her face and the fact that she had an ear turned to the news that was beginning to spread like wild fire—a musketeer had been poisoned.

The shocked murmurs rippled from peasant to peasant in the wake of the stable boy's urgent gossip.

It was a ghastly creature, some kind of demon spawn.

The royal physician had been called.

Milady waited with bated breath for the name she yearned to hear.

Aramis.

She froze in dismay. Aramis, not Athos. How could that bumbling oaf of a stable boy have given the box to the wrong musketeer? Her fingers clenched around a clay bottle with almost enough force to break it.

She quickly took a breath to calm herself. No, this would work out fine. Athos may not suffer this day as she'd intended, but him having to watch someone he cared about die slowly and in absolute agony would be just as tortuous. Milady could always find another way to end him later.

Smirking in satisfaction despite the unforeseen turn of events, she set the ware back on the cart and slipped away down the street.

.o.0.o.

Athos stood at the foot of the infirmary bed, watching Aramis twitch and moan in the throes of fever, which had set in not even an hour after he'd been stung. He was in pain, too, they could tell, but he'd refused to take the laudanum they had on hand, wanting to be lucid when Doctor Lemay returned.

Porthos sat in a chair by his side and dabbed a wet cloth over his brow, but that only seemed to cause him more discomfort as he kept twisting away with pained whimpers. D'Artagnan paced the length of the infirmary along the shelves and cupboards opposite the line of beds.

It was two hours before Doctor Lemay returned, entering the infirmary with the captain.

Porthos leaned over Aramis and prodded his shoulder gently. "Aramis, the doc's back."

Aramis shuddered but prized his eyelids open and rolled glassy eyes toward them.

"How is he?" Lemay asked.

"Fever set in. An' he won't take somethin' fer the pain," Porthos replied.

Lemay pursed his lips. "The venom has likely increased the sensitivity of pain receptors. Laudanum may be less effective because of it."

"What about somethin' stronger?"

"Actually, I was going to offer…" He broke off and started over. "I've identified the creature," he announced, though his tone was grave. "It is a rare and very deadly scorpion from Africa, known as the widow-maker."

Athos tensed.

"But you said if you could identify it, then you could identify the medicine, yeah?" Porthos said.

Lemay's expression pinched with regret. "There is no anti-venom. And the creature's sting is always fatal."

Athos felt like all the air got sucked out of his lungs and the room. Only years of tightly controlled composure kept him from swaying where he stood.

Lemay strode across the room to Aramis and bent over to pick up his arm. He unwound the bandage and removed the poultice, and an earth-shattering hush descended over the room. Red streaks were branching out from the wound and up Aramis's arm in a root-like lattice that was burrowing ever deeper.

Aramis turned his head away from the sight. "How long?" he asked hoarsely.

Lemay laid his arm back on the mattress. "A day, give or take." He hesitated. "The accounts of the deaths are…unpleasant. Which brings me back to…" Lemay faltered but then drew his shoulders back. "At this point all I can offer is to make the passing easier."

"What?" Porthos blurted.

"You can't be serious," d'Artagnan exclaimed.

Even Athos found the suggestion a dishonorable affront. But looking at Aramis's waxen pallor, face pinched in growing agony and unshed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, how could he demand his brother endure such a gruesome death? Athos would rather it be him. It should have been him.

"There might be something that can help," Treville interjected tentatively.

All eyes snapped to him.

"In my early years campaigning, I visited a village in northeast France where a medicine woman used a special flower to treat a ghastly infection that should have killed the soldier afflicted. Instead he was healed the very next day."

"You mean witchcraft," Lemay said disapprovingly.

"She was not a witch, though she did admit the flower could cure any ill, like magic. The people in the foothills of the Jura called it the elixir of heaven."

"I have not heard of this miraculous cure before," Lemay went on doubtfully.

Even Athos was skeptical; surely something like that would be well-sought after.

Treville's shoulders dropped a fraction. "It only grows high in the Jura, in one of the mountain valleys, according to the medicine woman. Not many dare its wild terrain to retrieve it."

Because wild dragons of immense size and ferocity roamed the Jura mountain range.

"I'll go," Athos immediately said.

Porthos surged to his feet. "Me too."

D'Artagnan stepped closer and gave a staunch nod in clear indication of solidarity.

"Well," Lemay said, looking slightly ruffled. "All I can say then is Godspeed."

They would need it. By dragon flight, it would take them six to eight hours to reach the Jura from Paris. Lemay had said Aramis only had a day or so, and they had already spent several hours standing around.

As the others filed out of the infirmary to hurriedly prepare for the journey, Athos stole a moment with Aramis alone, kneeling down beside the bed and placing a hand over his brother's racing heart.

"Wait for us," he urged.

Aramis weakly lifted his uninjured hand to cover Athos's and managed a small nod.

Athos drew in a fortifying breath, and then forced himself to pull away and stride out of the infirmary.

Outside, he found d'Artagnan already saddling Savron for him with deft efficiency. He must have been getting in some practice at Bonacieux's. Porthos was loading saddlebags onto Vrita's back. Closer to the infirmary, Rhaego fidgeted restlessly, casting uncertain glances between the building and his companions as though he didn't know what to do without his rider. Athos didn't even bother suggesting d'Artagnan try riding him—and neither did the young Gascon. Their task was too urgent to afford wasting precious time dealing with the unruly dragon.

Treville came out from the armory with three acimite swords and altitude cloaks and handed them out. "The plant is a white, star-shaped flower. Other than that, my memory can't serve."

Athos nodded as he traded his rapier for the special blade that would offer better defense against wild dragons. Throwing the thick riding cloak over his shoulders, he swung up onto Savron's back and clipped on his anchor line.

Porthos and d'Artagnan climbed onto Vrita.

"Be careful," Treville warned. "And Godspeed."

Without further ado, the two dragons leaped into the air with a flap of their wings. Rhaego watched them go but didn't follow, to Athos's relief. As the garrison grew smaller and receded from view, he silently bid their brother to hang on until they returned.