CHAPTER EIGHT
Shortly after leaving port, Aramis became ill. It began as a minor stomachache, but quickly progressed. He gripped the worn wooden frame of his bed and vomited into a bucket. Mel hovered around him like a distraught mother, but there was nothing he could do.
“Perhaps,” Aramis choked, “I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
Mel shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, my Lord.”
Aramis laid back on his bed. His lips were chapped and felt like they were burning with fire, while his mouth was dry and tasted of the vile acids of his stomach. He was light headed from the heaving. His vision swam before him and he thought for a moment that he might pass out. He held onto consciousness, however, and looked to his friend. Mel had a worried look on his face.
“I need some fresh air
