Disclaimer: Just having a little fun with The Musketeers. No harm intended.
Come, Quick!
By: Vanessa Sgroi
"Aramis!" Porthos' shout reverberated throughout the garrison. "Aramis, come quick! It's Athos!"
Hearing his name called with such fervor, Aramis tore up the stairs and bolted for Athos' quarters. D'artagnan was close on his heels. They reached their destination in record time.
"What? What is it?" huffed Aramis, breath bellowing from his sprint. His eyes pinned Porthos in place.
"Somethin's wrong with 'im," Porthos gravely intoned. His hand reached for the door, and he pushed it fully open. "See for yourself."
Aramis strode quickly into the room expecting to find his brother-in-arms beaten and bloody, or run through with a sword or main gauche, or even poisoned from an excess of nearly-undrinkable wine. What he found instead was Athos standing, hale and hardy, in the middle of his room.
His clean room.
Clean as in spotless.
Aramis stopped abruptly and looked around, his gaze traveling from one end to the other, from ceiling to floor. He pulled in a deep breath. The room had clearly been freshly scrubbed, swept, and aired. There were even clean linens on the bed. His gaze slid back to Athos and locked in place. He studied his friend. Athos himself was neatly groomed—hair combed, beard trimmed. His leather shone with polished care.
Aramis stalked toward Athos who had yet to move. "Who are you and what have you done with Athos?"
Athos rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. "Can a man not bathe and clean his quarters without kicking up such a display of unnecessary interest?"
"See! 'e's in the grip of a fever, 'e is! He bathed AND he cleaned his quarters! No man does either of those things for enjoyment."
"Porthos is right." Aramis ghosted a hand over Athos' forehead. "This is unlike you. This is unlike any of us."
Athos looked around the room. "I beg to differ. We all bathe semi-regularly and presumably keep neat quarters as required in the regiment's book of rules and conduct."
"Aye," muttered Porthos, "but this is a bit…excessive. Serge could serve us a meal off these floors!"
"Not to mention you did it all in one day!" d'Artagnan added.
Aramis nodded. "I agree. It is all a bit odd." He reached again for Athos.
"Touch my forehead again; you may well lose your hand." The glint in Athos' eye, however, belied the threat.
"A bit sensitive now, are we?" Aramis mused cheekily.
"It occurs to me that it might do you all some good to follow in my footsteps," Athos murmured, eyeing his brethren.
"Not me," declared d'Artagnan. "I bathed just yesterday…"
"You mean you fell in the stream yesterday…" rebutted Aramis.
"It counts!"
Porthos shook his head in disgust. "Told you somethin' was wrong with 'im," he muttered. "'sides, lil' Melisande is due at the garrison this afternoon. She'll clean and collect laundry. 'Tis how she supports her family."
"Indeed. But now she will have once less room to clean then." Athos straightened his pauldron and adjusted his leather jacket. "Well, now that that is all settled, I was thinking of availing myself to some of Serge's sweet porridge." He headed toward the door. "I take it you're all of a mind to join me?" He paused, turning back. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to eat off the floor in here? I do believe I can attest to its cleanliness."
Athos left his quarters, trailed by his fellow musketeers.
Porthos was the last to turn away and follow the group but not before giving the room a final once-over then shaking his head. "I still say somethin's not right."
FIN