The annoying sound of a nearby rooster drilled its way into Athos' subconscious, "go 'way," he grumbled.
He threw an arm over his eyes as the morning sunlight streamed through the window causing him to wince. His throbbing head felt thick and heavy after losing himself to too many bottles of wine the night before.
"God," Athos moaned as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He buried his face in his hands, propping himself upright with his elbows planted on his knees. He soon slipped back into slumber still sitting in the upright position.
Athos was jolted awake when Aramis and Porthos burst into the room, expecting to find their leader dressed and ready to leave. Instead, they found him looking like death warmed over.
"What's wrong, Athos?" Porthos said, exchanging a worried glance with Aramis.
"Go 'way, leave me 'lone," Athos mumbled. He didn't move-except for the circular motion of his fingers as he tried to massage away the pain in his temples.
"Have a few too many last night?" Aramis joked, trying to lighten the mood in the room.
The poor attempt at humor elicited an angry 'if-looks-could-kill' stare from Athos—an unspoken warning to both Musketeers to think twice before uttering any further comments about his condition.
Walking to the bed, Aramis placed a hand on Athos' forehead to check his temperature, only to have his hand rudely slapped away. "I'm not sick!" Athos growled.
"Then stop acting like it," Aramis retorted, losing his patience. "Get dressed; we're going to be late." Aramis stood firm with crossed arms, staring down at the pathetic sight in front of him.
"You two go on without me," Athos said. "No sense you being late on account of me." The musketeer had made no attempt to get up but still sat resting with his face buried in his hands.
"We're not goin' anywhere, brother." Porthos stepped forward to stand by Aramis, "not without you. So, you might as well get up…we ain't goin' nowhere 'til, you do."
Athos sighed, "damn the both of you. . . stubborn, thick-headed. . ."
"We're stubborn and thick-headed? Aramis repeated, astonished. "Porthos and I put together, combined with our young Gascon, d'Artagnan, pale in comparison to the stubbornness of you, dear brother." With eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side, Aramis almost dared Athos to deny the claim.
Athos sighed, but said nothing more. He was not in the mood for an argument right now and felt it best to let the matter drop. In certain cases, it is more honorable to concede in an argument rather than appear a fool. Athos knew Aramis was right-but he wasn't going to admit it.
Athos dropped to his knees in front of the bucket of water and placed his hands on the edge. He took in a long and deep breath, exhaling before dunking his head into the ice cold liquid. The shock of the cold water made Athos gasp and, forgetting that he was under water—upside down—caused him to choke. He raised his head up gasping, gurgling, and sputtering with water spraying out from both his nose and mouth.
Aramis was at his side instantly, putting one arm around his chest and another on his back for support, holding him upright. "It's okay," he consoled, "I've got you." He pounded on Athos' back, helping the man clear the water from his lungs as he gasped for air. "Just breathe slowly," he instructed.
"Breathe in and out, slowly," Aramis coached Athos until he could get his breathing under control. Finally when the choking slowed and turned into just an occasional cough, Aramis noticed his friend turning green. "Are you going to be sick?" he asked. "Porthos, find something. . . quick!"
Porthos frantically looked around the room, finding an empty bowl on the table. He got the bowl under Athos just as a rainbow mix of water and wine gushed out, splashing over the edge. Athos gagged and heaved until nothing was left to bring up. His stomach muscles ached after violently retching last night's indulgence. The humiliating ordeal left him weak and with his head pounding even worse than before.
Aramis gently wiped around Athos' mouth and chin with a towel. He took a cup of water offered by Porthos and held it to the sick man's lips, "take a small sip," he instructed. "Rinse, now spit," he waited for Athos to finish before wiping at his mouth once again.
Taking the towel, Aramis rubbed it through Athos' still-dripping wet hair, carefully pushing the wet locks away from the face and out of his friend's eyes. He then patted dry the water running down his neck, chest, and back. He watched with concern as pain flashed across Athos' face, causing him to grimace. "What's wrong?" Aramis asked. "Is your head hurting?"
Athos nods his head, "it feels like someone is pummeling my brain." He closed his eyes, taking in several deep calming breaths before opening them again, slowly. Athos looked up at Porthos watching him, "what are you doing just standing there?" he said, with the hint of a smile. "Help me get dressed so we can go," he told him, scanning the room for his boots. "Where the hell did I leave my boots?"
Aramis appeared with both boots in hand, "you looking for these?" he smiled. The smile soon disappeared from Aramis' face when he noticed Athos squinting with pain at the light coming through the window. This is not good, Aramis thought quietly.
"We need to stop by my apartment before heading to the garrison," Aramis said. "I have some feverfew I can give you, it'll help take care of that killer headache," he told Athos. "Also, you need to get something to eat—an empty belly isn't going to help you any." Aramis turned to Porthos, "help me get him up on the bed." Both men raised Athos up by the arms, easily lifting him onto the edge of the bed, so Aramis could slip on the boots.
Porthos brought Athos' doublet and began helping his friend get dressed. The challenge of getting Athos' arms into the sleeves proved more difficult than the larger man had the patience for. "Stand up, will ya," Porthos said, sounding a tad more irritated than he intended. He pulled the sick man clumsily to his feet, "let's get this buttoned up so we can go eat. I'm starving, and if you make me miss breakfast you'll have more than just a headache," he winked.
Aramis had Athos' belt, weapons and sword ready, assisting his friend as needed. "I think that's everything," he said, taking one last look around.
Tired from the exertion, Athos' face now glistened in a sheen of sweat, his unruly hair plastered to his forehead. "Where the hell is my hat?" he growled.
Porthos smiled, handing over the hat, "thought you might need this."
Athos roughly grabbed the hat from the larger man's hand, "hmf," he snorted. Jamming the hat down on his head, Athos pulled it low over his eyes, "let's get this over with."
The trio stopped by Aramis' room to pick up the medicine. They proceeded on, deciding to eat at the garrison, arriving just as the other Musketeers had finished cleaning up after breakfast.
Porthos shook his head, punching his fist in his other hand repeatedly. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at Athos, "remember what I said I'd do if I missed breakfast?"
"Go get some breakfast, gentlemen," the captain ordered, tersely. "You have exactly fifteen minutes to be back in the yard for muster.
"I'm not hungry," Athos muttered under his breath.
Seeing the condition of his lieutenant, Captain Tréville shook his head in disappointment. "That was not a request, Athos," he said in a commanding tone. "You have fifteen minutes till muster," he repeated his orders.
"Let's go, no time to waste." Aramis pulled Athos by the arm in quick retreat. "I told you," he whispered, "you need to eat. I'll make this feverfew with some tea and you'll feel a lot better. Now, don't argue with me," he scolded.
"I think the captain's upset wit' us for being late," Porthos said. "No need to give 'im any more reason to be angry, we cannot be late again." Porthos walked ahead, grumbling to himself. "I hate not havin' enough time to chew my food and enjoy it."
D'Artagnan was surprised to witness the unusual scene taking place between his three brothers and the captain. He followed behind his friends to the kitchen, waiting until they were out of the captain's sight, before inquiring why they were late. "What is going on?" he asked Aramis.
Aramis shook his head, "long story," he said. "He'll be alright once he gets something to eat," motioning with his head in the direction of Athos.
D'Artagnan took a good look at his mentor then turned back to Aramis, his eyes conveying a silent message of understanding. The young Gascon instantly knew why Athos was late, given the lieutenant's disheveled, pale and sickly appearance.
Porthos shook his head in quiet warning to d'Artagnan, just as the younger man was about to open his mouth to question Athos. The Gascon scowled, Why would Athos show up late and so hungover? Especially before an important mission! This is not like him at all.
As if reading d'Artagnan's mind, Porthos whispered a warning to the younger man, "if you value your health, let the matter drop. Don't ask questions."
Disappointed, d'Artagnan decided to drop the subject-for now. Instead, he filled the latecomers in on the morning chore list and soldier gossip while they ate breakfast.
Their fifteen minutes nearly up, the men quickly made their way to the courtyard, taking their position in formation.
Captain Tréville stood on the balcony as he observed the company of Musketeers standing at attention before him. He drummed his fingers on the railing, quietly gathering his thoughts before beginning his disciplinary speech.
"We are currently preparing for a very important mission tomorrow. At all times, but especially now, I fully expect the King's Musketeers to be professional. I expect my Musketeers to always strive to be the best that they can be, to always be in excellent shape, ready to do their duty as soldiers. As your captain, I expect my men to be here on time for duty. If you are not present for duty, I expect a valid explanation for your absence." The captain paused, watching three of his best Musketeers fidget slightly, knowing full well they were the reason for this lecture.
"Eight of you men have already been assigned the details of the mission tomorrow and should know exactly what is expected of you. I want both groups in my office for final briefings, at your assigned time. Am I clear?" the captain waited for acknowledgement from the company before continuing.
"Most of you have received your assignments and chores for the day, so get started immediately. Dismissed," the captain ordered brusquely.
The Musketeers left formation quietly, each not wanting to test the captain's temper. Some of the men shook their heads, quietly muttering to themselves, while others glared at the three men who caused the harsh rebuke.
"Athos," the captain called from the balcony, "in my office now."
Athos swallowed hard. He knew his superior held him to higher standards, expecting him as lieutenant to be an example to the men. However, yesterday was the anniversary of his brother's death. He revealed to no one his personal secret, but deep inside he was hurting—grieving—making the day especially hard to deal with. Athos just couldn't help himself; he did the only thing he knew how to drown the grief. Yesterday, he needed an escape from the pain, and today? Well, today, he just didn't give a damn.
Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan exchanged worried looks of concern for their friend. They each watched with heavy hearts as their brother and leader quietly went up the stairs to the captain's office. The door was closed, shutting out prying eyes and ears.