This story is tag to 3.09 and was written in response to a request from pmilly who wanted to see the effects of d'Artagnan's injuries in that episode. Warnings for spoilers for 3.09 and a minor reference to 3.10.
My thanks to AZGirl for her fantastic beta skills; all remaining mistakes are mine. There are 8 chapters in total and will be posted daily, except for Saturday, because real life continues to be busy.
Hope you enjoy!
The feeling was sharp and intense, sparking a fire in his back and side that seemed to radiate down into his fingertips. He couldn't contain the gasp of pain that resulted, his eyes squeezing closed for only a heartbeat before blessed adrenaline flooded his veins, giving him the strength to stand and fight back. Unfortunately, he'd lost the element of surprise. Weakened by the blood that insisted on leaving his body along the path that the sword had cut, his temporary advantage over Grimaud was lost in mere moments as he was struck on the back of the head, making the last of his strength desert him.
The men had ruthlessly bound his hands, caring little for the way in which they jostled his wound. During their journey to the Duke of Lorraine's estate, d'Artagnan was certain that he'd lost time, the world fading in and out intermittently until he was jerked from his horse and dragged inside the grand house.
The knowledge of his failure to protect the Dauphin was almost worse than the physical pain that now encompassed his entire right side; he let his head hang low, unsure if he could lift it if he tried. The men dragging him along let him fall jarringly to his knees, reawakening the throbbing in his back and side. He was pleased when he was able to contain his sounds of pain, refusing to give his captors any more satisfaction at his expense. As if sensing the Gascon's stubbornness, his two guards cruelly pressed down against both shoulders, and he found himself biting his lower lip in order to remain silent.
The only good thing about his current predicament was that he was now reunited with Porthos and Treville, and their presence sent renewed energy through his limbs as he waited and watched, readying himself for the fight that he knew was coming. Seconds later, the room was in an uproar, and he armed himself as swiftly as possible before entering the fray to fight alongside his brothers. The skirmish was short but intense, and its ending was one that none of them could accept – they'd saved the Dauphin but Treville was dead. How could they possibly call the day a victory with such a horrific outcome?
Dazed, d'Artagnan listened as Aramis pronounced the Regent dead, and he could clearly see the grief and rage shining in Athos' eyes, the older man probably closer to Treville than any of them. The marksman must have recognized something dangerous in the Captain's stance as well as he settled Treville's head gently on the ground. The Gascon watched as Aramis scrambled to his feet to go and console the older man – or was it to hold him back? d'Artagnan's mind couldn't decide, his thoughts slowing as the adrenaline leaked from his body, replaced by an overwhelming weariness that had him slipping sideways, barely bracing himself on his left arm as he sat next to Treville's still form.
The world was once again shifting in and out of focus, but instead of fighting it, d'Artagnan found himself welcoming it, especially the numbness that seemed to flow over his body and mind. He found himself idly wondering why he'd been fighting so hard to begin with, since the blackness that hovered on the edges of his vision seemed a far better place than the one he currently occupied. With each blink of his eyes, it took a second longer before he was able to again raise his lids, the effort becoming greater each time they closed. Finally, the action became too much and d'Artagnan released a shuddering sigh, the blackness that had been beckoning becoming too hard to resist as his body slumped sideways to the ground.
As awareness fled, he momentarily registered the feeling of gravel beneath his cheek, the feel of the body lying next to him, and the concerned cry of his friends. Fleetingly he wondered if he was dead too, and then the darkness descended.
Aramis blamed himself, although he was certain that similar thoughts of self-recrimination were currently running through Athos' head as well. Neither of them had noticed – it was a bitter pill to swallow. The marksman prided himself on his ability to always be in tune with the others, sensing when one of his friends was hiding something and ferreting it out. Sometimes the clues were conveyed by the awkwardness of a stance, or the intentionally casual way in which one of the men braced their ribs. Other times Aramis had to be extra attentive, noting the wince that flashed momentarily across one of the men's features, belying that all was not well and that the medic in him was needed.
Though it might be a boastful thing to say, Aramis was proud of his ability to know when one of his friends was hiding an injury; except this time, he'd had no idea until d'Artagnan had collapsed next to Treville. The young man's proximity to the still body definitely made things worse, and Aramis' initial thought was that the Gascon was dead as well. In a panic, he'd raced to d'Artagnan's side and fallen to his knees, while his trembling hand had searched for a heartbeat, all the while silently praying that God had been merciful and limited their loss to just one man.
A somewhat hysterical giggle bubbled forth from his lips, and Aramis clamped his mouth closed to stop the horrible sound. Just one man. It was a woefully inadequate statement for the loss they'd suffered that day, and would change not only their lives but possibly their country's future. Treville had been named Regent after the King's death, and his absence would leave a wound that would be difficult to recover from. But compared to the thought of losing two, Aramis would happily accept the loss of just one man that day.
His brain finally registered the heartbeat beneath his fingers, and he released a shaky breath in relief, dropping his head for a moment before he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. Raising his face, he met Athos' fearful expression above him, the older man clearly afraid that the Gascon had left them. "Is he?" the Captain managed.
"He's alive," Aramis answered, turning back to the young man to figure out why he'd fallen unconscious. Together, the two Musketeers rolled d'Artagnan gently onto his back, and the reason for the Gascon's collapse was immediately obvious in the late-day sun. The marksman reached forward to touch the large patch of wet leather beneath his friend's arm, unsurprised when he pulled his fingers away to find them covered in red.
Without having to ask, Athos immediately began to help the medic gain access to the wound that had been hidden from them earlier, unfastening d'Artagnan's doublet and pulling it away from the young man's shoulder and side. The amount of blood soaking the shirt underneath was staggering, and the older man wondered for a moment how the Gascon had remained functional for so long after losing such a large volume. Aramis' nimble fingers were already examining the wound, having rolled the young man back onto his side and frowning at the odd location.
"Shot?" Athos asked, needing the conversation to distract himself from the multitude of worries that now ran rampant in his brain.
Aramis gave a short shake of his head as he replied, "No, stabbed. Strange angle, though; it suggests that someone was standing above him when it happened." While the situation was curious, they had more urgent matters to attend to, namely stopping the flow of blood from the young man's body before he bled out.
As if sensing his thoughts, Athos said, "We need to get him back to Paris."
Aramis frowned at the suggestion, calculating the distance and how much blood d'Artagnan had likely already lost. Reaching a decision, he countered, "No, he won't make it. Let's get him inside so I can stop the bleeding."
Athos' expression turned dark as he hissed, "Are you mad? Their master has just been murdered, and you expect that we'll be allowed back inside so that we can tend to d'Artagnan?"
The medic looked up, noting the uncertain expressions on the Duke's remaining militiamen, and then let his gaze return to the Gascon's pale face. In the few minutes since the young man's collapse, his breathing had slowed and grown even more shallow, and Aramis was confident that time was quickly running out. Matching Athos' vehemence he said, "It's either that or we'll be burying two friends. Is that what you want?"
The Captain physically recoiled at his friend's harsh words, and for a moment, Aramis felt guilty for having been so cruel, but there would be time for apologies later. Right now they had only one priority, and that was saving the life of the Gascon who lay dying at their feet. It was apparent that Athos now understood the gravity of their situation, and he offered a slight dip of his head before turning away.
Aramis was momentarily confused as the Captain walked away, until his eyes landed on Athos' destination – the commander of the militiamen. Athos' bearing was straight and tall as he exchanged a few, brief words with the other man, before the two shook hands and retreated from one another. Moments later Athos was back at Aramis' side, bending forward to lift d'Artagnan shoulders. As the medic followed suit, lifting the Gascon's legs so they could carry the young man into the house, he asked, "What did you do?"
Athos gave a shake of his head and continued walking, and Aramis had to bite his tongue against the desire to push the older man for an answer, recognizing that whatever had been said was not meant for the ears of those who still stood around them. Whatever conversation Athos had had must have worked, because they were allowed to enter the house uncontested, making their way to a sitting room on the main floor where they laid d'Artagnan down on a settee.
Assuming Athos would again work his magic, Aramis immediately pulled a chair over to his patient's side, taking a seat before using his dagger to cut through the sodden cloth of d'Artagnan's shirt. "See if you can get some supplies – you know what I need." Athos gave a nod before exiting the room. It was true, the older man reflected – he did know what was needed. It was a testament to the dangerous and often violent lives they led that they'd all been subjected to Aramis' medical prowess at one time or another, just as the medic had been treated by them. As a result, they all had some level of skill with patching up various wounds, as well as dealing with the aftermath, which could often be worse than the injury itself.
Athos quickly located a servant and ordered the required items be brought to them at once. He caught the questioning look the man threw to the militia's commander, who only nodded in return, giving his approval for assistance to be provided. With the supplies being organized, he returned to the sitting room where he found that Aramis had somehow gotten d'Artagnan free from both his doublet and shirt, and propped him up on his left side, facing the back of the settee. Though he should have been happy with the progress made during his absence, Athos found his breath catching in his chest instead as it became far more obvious how the Gascon was struggling for each breath.
Fortunately, he had no time to voice his concerns as servants entered the room only moments later, obviously having anticipated the need for the items he'd requested and having them already close at hand. A large bucket of cool water was placed near Aramis, while a bowl of hot water was deposited on a nearby table. A pile of clean linens followed, along with a bottle of brandy and two bottles of wine. Lastly, a small package was presented to Aramis and he could only assume that it held a needle and thread. He murmured a soft "thank you" as he stood and placed the item on the table, turning next to the linen that had been left.
Wetting several pieces, he motioned to Athos with one hand as he said, "Start cleaning some of this blood away." The older man nodded and took the wet cloths from the medic's hand, wiping away the red that covered the Gascon's shoulder blade, flank and arm. As the older man washed away the evidence of the young man's injury, Aramis took a moment to divest himself of his doublet, before rolling up both sleeves and washing his hands in the bucket of water. Next, he unrolled the leather packet he'd been given, revealing a needle and thread. The former item was doused in brandy, before he threaded it neatly in preparation to sew his friend's skin closed.
By then, Athos had finished washing away the blood that had covered the young man's upper body, and Aramis bent over to have a proper look at the wound. Pressing against the young man's back caused fresh blood to dribble forth, and he muttered to himself in annoyance, "There's no way to tell just how far the blade pierced."
"Is that important?" Athos asked, expecting the medic to simply stitch the wound closed without worrying what might be underneath.
Aramis' fist clenched in frustration as he said, "Shoulder wounds can be troubling." Athos nodded in understanding, having seen many men hurt in a similar way. As if reading his friend's thoughts, the medic shook his head as he went on. "No, you don't understand. Most times a shoulder wound is a blessing, missing any vital organs. However, if placed just right, a lead ball or blade in the wrong spot can sever critical muscles and make it impossible for a man to use his arm again. From what I can see here, the sword entered from above and scraped along d'Artagnan's shoulder blade, before continuing downwards and stopping somewhere underneath his arm, most likely deflected by a rib." He turned his gaze up toward Athos, letting his friend see the true depth of his concern. "It is what's underneath the skin that I can't fix and what worries me now."
Athos could see the fear in the medic's eyes, and as much as his friend's words terrified him, he was confident that they could deal with anything as long as the young man survived. With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he placed a comforting hand on the marksman's shoulder as he said, "Aramis, he will die if you do not close the wound. Give him at least that chance, and we will deal with whatever comes next later."
Aramis' countenance seemed to lighten at the older man's command, and he gave a dip of his chin in agreement, his hands already reaching for the strong spirits with which to clean the wound. Athos retreated a couple steps as the other man worked, wondering how it was that the weight that had only moments before rested on the medic's shoulders had now somehow transferred to his own.
There were no guarantees that the Gascon would recover the use of his arm, and his career as a soldier would be over if that happened. In that sense, it might be kinder to allow him to die - as a Musketeer, a brother, a husband, and a hero of France, killed in the protection of the Dauphin. But as much as Athos wanted that legacy for his friend, he could not bear to see the young man go, so he selfishly ordered Aramis to save d'Artagnan's life, praying that his friend would not hate him for it later if the worst came to pass.
To be continued...
