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Aramis was known throughout the Musketeer garrison as the best shot in service to the King, and Porthos and D’Artagnan had spent the previous day extolling this virtue to the recruits they were training in shooting, the former even going so far as to call Aramis the best marksman in all of France. So the next morning, when this same marksman failed to hit the bullseye dead center on the first shot as promised, spirits in Treville’s garrison were a bit dampened, to say the least.
Aramis did, calmly and surely, take up his musket again and deliver a second shot that struck the center, but subsequent shots in his demonstration proved that his aim that day was a bit wanting of such a bold title. It was when a shot missed the center ring entirely that Porthos set aside his chagrin and studied his friend worriedly, noticing immediately the pallor of his cheeks and the minute tremors which shook his fingers.
“Aramis?”
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Aramis said, dragging a hand across his brow and swaying a bit. He rested the butt of his musket in the dirt, but Porthos knew it must be an attempt at balancing himself. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather this morning.”
“Why don’t you go have a seat in the shade?” Porthos waved in the direction of the stables and the trees nearby, hoping that his voice was level enough not to convey his concern to the recruits. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Aramis tipped his hat and took his leave without another word, which made worry snake down Porthos’s spine. D’Artagnan cast a worried look after the man as he left; even Aramis’s retreating footsteps seemed lethargic and uneven.
“He must really be feeling bad,” D’Artagnan said lowly as the recruits loaded their muskets for another round, and all Porthos could do was nod. He helped D’Artagnan set up the targets for the next drill and made sure the young man was alright and understood what the training schedule was, before giving the Gascon a nod. D’Artagnan sent Aramis his well wishes, and Porthos set off in the direction of the stables that Treville would likely have him mucking out for the next month as punishment for leaving D’Artagnan alone to supervise the recruit’s target practice, but a month’s worth of horse dung was the least of Porthos’s worries at the present moment.
Porthos found Aramis tucked away on a bench in the shade near the stables, listing sideways into a wall. His head rested heavily against the stone, his hat pulled over his eyes and squashed against the wall. He did not react when Porthos removed the hat to get a better look at his color, which had not improved a bit since Aramis had left the practice yards.
“What’s the matter?” Porthos said, setting the hat aside carefully and kneeling in the dust in front of him. “You look awful.”
Aramis’s eyes were shut tight, his mouth turned down. “As I’ve said I…” He blew out a shaky breath. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“Yeah, that I can tell.” Porthos patted his knee. “But what else is bothering you?” He noticed the sheen of sweat on Aramis’s face, and brushed his fingers across the man’s forehead, finding the pale skin to be unhealthily cool and clammy. Aramis trembled with shivers, and so Porthos shrugged out of his jacket and tucked it around Aramis’s shoulders. He was growing disturbed at how Aramis’s eyes had remained resolutely shut through it all. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Aramis shook his head woozily. “Not yet.”
“Aramis,” Porthos said sharply, “there is no way you’re going back on duty like this.”
“No, I mean, not yet,” Aramis repeated. His eyelids fluttered. “No moving yet.”
“Oh,” Porthos said, his heart rate calming, feeling a bit guilty. He noticed the way Aramis was swaying slightly, even seated. “Do you feel dizzy?”
“Mm.”
“Like you might faint?”
Aramis hummed again. “Possibly.”
Porthos glimpsed the harsh and almost convulsive way Aramis was swallowing, and revised his line of questioning. “Or do you feel like you might throw up?” Aramis said nothing and merely, if at all possible, grew even paler. “Aramis? Am I in jeopardy?”
After a long moment of silence, Aramis’s eyes opened to slits. “Don’t think so…” he said in a weak voice, the smile he tried for emerging as more of a grimace. “But I hope you aren’t particularly attached to those boots just in case.”
“I’ll have you know they’re new,” Porthos said, wagging a finger, “so you better be truthful with me.”
Aramis shut his eyes again, and tipped his body back against the wall. “In that case it’s probably best we don’t try to head for my rooms right now.” Somehow, despite his eyes not being open, Porthos’s worried glare captured his attention, and he added, “It’ll pass.”
Porthos rolled his eyes and sighed. “Should’ve known you weren’t well the moment you missed that first shot.”
“Missed?” Aramis affixed Porthos with a deeply offended look, pressing a hand dramatically to his heart. He swallowed again, and shivered. “I did not miss.”
“You glanced the center ring,” Porthos reminded him gently. “For you, that’s a miss.”