Life's not the breath you take,
the breathing in and out,
that gets you through the day,
ain't what it's all about.
You just might miss the point,
trying to win the race.
Life's not the breaths you take,
but the moments that take your breath away.
The Breath You Take
George Strait
Prologue:
Never had there been such a formidable array in the courtyard of the Château de Chamarande. A wagon containing Aramis and Athos, under the protection of a dozen highly armed King's Musketeers as escorts, prepared to depart on the journey home to Paris. Any bandit or raider foolish enough to attempt attack would be killed on sight.
Porthos and d'Artagnan rode together behind the wagon where they could keep an eye on their brothers riding inside. Taking up the rear of the escort was Captain Tréville.
While waiting, Porthos turned in his saddle to take one final look at the château. Memories were still vivid and raw in Porthos' mind of his first arrival here with the desperately wounded d'Artagnan and Aramis.
Porthos remembered the indescribable fear he felt for his bleeding and unconscious friends when he pulled them from the horses; when he didn't even know if they would survive. The raw memories sent cold shivers down his spine.
He experienced that same gripping fear for a hurt brother a second time around. He shuddered as he remembered riding up to the château with the severely wounded Athos held tightly in his arms, after spending a stormy night in the forest of Torfou.
During their stay at the château, Porthos watched helplessly as his brothers suffered from their near-fatal wounds. He sat with his brothers, comforting them and holding their hands when they hurt, as the lone brother who managed to escape serious injury.
Porthos had never felt so afraid his brothers might die, leaving him all alone to pick up the pieces. How would he ever survive on his own? Never had Porthos felt such fear; and never had he prayed so hard for healing.
As Musketeers, they had their fair share of close calls over the years. They had flirted with danger and courted death many times; yet nothing compared to how closely Athos courted death at the château.
Facing death of one of their own brought the four Musketeers—the four brothers—closer than ever before. The experience made their bond stronger.
One simply cannot go through the experience of helplessly watching a brother struggling to live just one minute—one hour longer—and not be forever changed.
It was an experience the Musketeers would carry with them for the rest of their lives.
ONE STEP FORWARD. . .
"I never want to see this place again," Porthos muttered. His hands shook as he held onto the reins with a tight grip.
"Porthos?" d'Artagnan asked with concern. "Are you okay?" The young Gascon's brow creased with worry as he watched the trembling Musketeer next to him. Porthos' face was pale, sweat beading on his brow as he stared into the distance.
The mansion disappeared as images of the last few weeks flashed through Porthos' mind. He stared through the mansion, as though staring into an open portal. In his mind's eye he was seeing Aramis' bloody head; d'Artagnan's bloody back; Athos' infected shoulder. . .
"Porthos!" Aramis called from the wagon. Like d'Artagnan, he was watching his brother Musketeer, taking notice of the anxious behavior and the shivers trembling through his large frame. He worried for Porthos as he stared at the château, his eyes wide. . . yet distant.
"Porthos, answer me!" Aramis used his voice to loosen the grip of the haunting memories. "Don't look at the château, Porthos. Turn around and look at us—we're right here."
The large Musketeer turned slowly in his saddle to face his brothers. "I got to get away from 'ere, 'Mis." Porthos's eyes began to mist, blurring his vision. He wiped away the tears, feeling both angry and ashamed. He didn't want his brothers to see him react like this.
"Listen to me, Porthos." Aramis moved to the back of the wagon for better eye contact. "We are leaving here together—all of us—alive. We are alive and we're going home. We made it, Porthos."
Porthos snorted lightly, but said nothing.
"Just forget about what happened here," Aramis continued. "Let's all just focus on going home where Athos can finish healing; he's not out of the woods yet. Forget about this place, Porthos."
"How do I forget?" Porthos questioned the outrageous suggestion. "How do any of us forget about this place?"
"How?" Aramis repeated. "We don't look back; we look ahead to home. Look at who is in front of you and beside you, Porthos. Your brothers are here. We are with you, and we're going home."
The Road Home:
Finally, the wagon escort proceeded slowly through the ornate iron gates of the Château de Chamarande, down the long private road leading away from the mansion, toward the road connecting to Paris.
The Musketeer escort sat waiting long enough Athos fell asleep. Perhaps it was for the best that the patient was unaware they were finally leaving the château where he nearly lost his life.
Aramis recalled his dream in which Athos departed the château in a very different manner—in a very different wagon—and he couldn't help but tremble.
The memories of the vivid nightmare sent cold chills down his spine and he closed his eyes against the memories. He scrubbed a hand over his face, "pull it together, Aramis." He opened his eyes to stare out the back of the wagon, still shivering from the chilling memory.
I told Porthos to forget about what happened here. I told him that we were all leaving the château together—alive. We are all alive. So why can't I get the image of Athos leaving in a funeral carriage out of my mind?
Aramis shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the sticky web of memories. He looked down at his sleeping friend. "You don't know how close we came to losing you, Athos."
"You don't know how frightened I was when I thought you wouldn't make it." Aramis took Athos' hand while softly stroking his friend's hair. "In my dream, you died. I was there to see you take your last breath. God, I couldn't handle it—I fell apart. I couldn't handle your death."
"I didn't die, Aramis," Athos whispered. "It was just a bad dream; I'm still here."
Aramis squeezed the hand in his own, still afraid to believe he was real. "No, you didn't die, thank God. At the château, I couldn't tell the difference between reality and a twisted nightmare," he paused.
"When you were so sick, I started believing my dream was a premonition of what was to come. I was afraid every time you gasped for breath it would be your last." A tear spilled from his eye and rolled down his cheek.
"No tears, remember?" Athos softly squeezed the hand still holding his. "Do you feel that? I'm here, Aramis. I don't plan. . ."
BAM!
Athos' words were cut off with a sharp gasp of pain as the wagon hit a large bump, causing the wounded man to bounce from the litter bearing his wounded body. "Oh, God. . ." He scrunched his eyes tightly closed as the wagon bounced over smaller bumps on the road.
"Athos, you're alright." Aramis squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I've got you. Breathe through the bumps—slow, easy breaths." The medic breathed aloud, coaching Athos, helping him fall into a calm and relaxed rhythm.
Athos' face visibly relaxed as they drove over a long stretch of smoother road. He kept his eyes closed, allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep by the gentle motion of the wagon.
Sleep didn't last long as the wagon hit another bump jarring Athos awake with a gasp. "Aramis, this isn't going to work," he hissed. "I'd rather walk to Paris than ride in here."
Aramis chuckled, trying to keep the mood light. "That's a long walk, brother. I don't think you would get far before you were trying to catch a ride with the next carriage to come along."
"That depends on who was in the carriage," he smiled. Athos blew out a long breath then slowly breathed deeply through his nose. Breathe in and breathe out. . .
Bam!
"Damn!" Athos cried out, gritting his teeth. "Stop the wagon, dammit. I want out of here now," he demanded.
"You are not going anywhere, Athos. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to endure this. We hoped putting the litter on top of these boxes and crates would help lighten the jarring but, obviously, it's not working. Maybe I can find something to help cushion the litter. . ."
Aramis' voice trailed as he began looking around the wagon for something to help cushion the bumps. "Ah, our cloaks might work!" He stood up to reach for the cloaks just as the wagon hit another bump.
Aramis was sent sprawling over the torso of Athos, his head bumping into the opposite wall of the wagon. "Curse this damn road," Aramis growled.
"Damn!" Athos let out a howl of pain as Aramis sprawled over his body. The wounded Musketeer panted, his chest heaving, as he bore the unwelcome weight of his friend. "Ar'mis. . . please. . . get off," he gasped.
"I'm trying. . ."
"Aramis?" Porthos and d'Artagnan called out. Both Musketeers had seen Aramis get knocked off his feet and sent sprawling over Athos. He had landed head first in a heap and was finding it difficult to correct.
"I'm fine," Aramis yelled to his friends outside, his voice muffled. "But I can't get up, dammit! Every time I try, we hit another bump. Hold on, Athos."
Bam!
The wagon hit another bump, sending Aramis further into the corner in a twisted heap. "Help, Porthos!" The Musketeer cried out, raising his free arm to signal his friends outside.
The unfortunate Musketeer had his left arm and his head trapped underneath the weight of his own body in a twisted pile, making it impossible to pull free.
"Stop the wagon!" Porthos called, breaking out of formation to get the captain's attention. "We need to stop the wagon for a moment!"
"What is going on, Porthos?" Captain Tréville asked with concern, thinking the worst.
"It's Aramis," the large Musketeer answered, hesitating. "He's. . . stuck."
"What do you mean, he's stuck?" Tréville rode up to the wagon to investigate the situation. He had to stifle a snicker when he saw Aramis nearly upside down with his head buried somewhere underneath his tangled body. Had it not been for the pale and pained look of Athos, he might have thought the situation amusing.
Athos groaned from the pain of having Aramis' weight across his sore body and was becoming agitated that he was unable to free himself. "Can't move. . ." Athos moaned.
"Athos, hold on," d'Artagnan soothed. "We're going to get Aramis off of you in a minute."
Porthos and d'Artagnan climbed into the wagon to help pull Aramis from his tight predicament; taking care they didn't hurt Athos in the process.
"Ah, 'Mis, that's quite a spo' you got yourself into there, eh," Porthos said as they pulled him free. "You okay? Thought ya might 'ave hurt your gourd.
"I'm fine," Aramis growled, not amused. His immediate concern was for Athos as he observed his sickly pallor. "Hand me that waterskin, d'Artagnan."
"Is he going to be okay?" d'Artagnan asked. "He doesn't look so good."
Aramis answered with a shrug as he held the waterskin to Athos' lips. "Drink, mon ami."
Athos took a sip, and then another at Aramis' urging. "Don't want. . . to be in the wagon anymore," Athos whispered.
"You have to be in the wagon, son." Captain Tréville interjected from outside the wagon. "You are in no condition to ride; you wouldn't be able to sit upright in the saddle. I know it's uncomfortable but we have no other choice."
"Can we at least give him a moment to rest, Captain?" D'Artagnan didn't like the pale appearance of his friend in the least.
After suffering from his terrible wounds and illness at the château, Athos was finally on the road to recovery. To have all of that undone with one wagon ride—it just sickened d'Artagnan to the core of his being.
"No, we do not have time, gentlemen. We have a long journey ahead and we must be moving on. We are on the edge of Torfou—the sooner we get through this stretch of forest, the better."
The captain motioned for d'Artagnan and Porthos to return to their horses. "Take care of Athos and make him comfortable as best you can, Aramis." Tréville instructed before returning to his place in formation.
"Damn!" Aramis cursed to himself. "I forgot to ask Porthos and d'Artagnan to help me put the cloaks underneath your litter for cushioning." Aramis rubbed at his temple, feeling a headache starting at his temples.
Athos managed a small smile. "Remember what I was saying about that headache?" he asked in a whisper. "Where's the feverfew I gave you? Take some now before the headache gets worse. You made me chew it raw. . . now it's your turn."
"Thanks a lot, doctor Athos," Aramis quipped. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around, mon ami."
"You took a header into the side of the wagon with that bump. Don't think I didn't notice you hit your head—just what you didn't need. This wagon was not intended to carry two patients." Athos chuckled, immediately regretting it.
Athos couldn't help wincing in pain as his sides flared at the slight laugh. "Damn," he muttered softly.
"Where does it hurt?" Aramis sidestepped the headache issue but Athos was having nothing of it.
"I am not answering until you take the feverfew as directed," Athos drawled. Though he was sick, Athos' words carried a tone of authority.
"Fine, you win." Aramis lowered his head to hide the smile spreading across his face. He absently rubbed at his temples, which were now starting to throb. "I'll take the feverfew—if it makes you happy."
Athos smiled, watching Aramis with tired eyes.
Aramis popped a couple of feverfew leaves in his mouth and quickly chewed. He took a swallow of water to wash it down but not before the sharp bitter taste exploded on his taste buds, causing him to wince and frown. "Ach, that's awful!"
"Now you know how I felt. . ." Athos softly gasped as the wagon lurched forward, restarting the journey north to Paris. The slower pace lulled Athos to sleep as he let his tired eyes slide closed.
Sleep while you can, my friend. I have a bad feeling we're in for a rough road ahead.
