This heat, this stifling air.
Paris on a particularly sultry summer day?
But no, the light.
Something was wrong with the light.

Torches.
They needed more torches. They had to find Grimaud.
To question him.
To kill him.
He had to die.

Athos swallowed thickly and continued to clean his pistol.
"We need more torches," he muttered.

Aramis and D'Artagnan looked up. Aramis' eyes narrowed worriedly as he eyed his captain. Slowly he got up, removed his gloves that had hitherto protected him from the cold night air in the caves, closing the small distance to Athos like he would approach a wounded animal.

Already back in Paris he had had such a guess: how Athos had subconsciously held his arm, how he had always spared it since Grimauds attack in St. Antoine. Athos had several times put up his neutral mask, averted his eyes when he noticed his friends watching him. But over than all this: his silence.

Aramis knew his brother: Athos had always been a taciturn person, ever since he had joined the regiment. He employed no more words than necessary and above all kept his own feelings in check: love, pain, sadness - as if too many words, too many pronounced thoughts would aggravate suffering, awaken the ghosts of the past and the ghosts of the present again and again until they could no longer be put to sleep through work, adventure or alcohol.

Aramis, on the other hand, carried his heart on his tongue. And unfortunately often enough in the pants. He preferred to live, talk, shoot and love, with danger. His intuition rarely led him wrong: Athos was injured, Aramis knew that.

But he also knew that his quiet friend feared nothing more than the loss of control. Nothing more than his own helplessness.

"Athos?"
"Athos." Aramis voice had taken on an insistent undertone.
But only when he addressed him a second time did the Musketeers captain react.

Grimaud. Grimaud was here, lurking behind him like a demonic shadow.
His hands already stretched out for him.

"Athos! It's me, Aramis."
The healing marksman crouched down at a distance beside Athos. Even from this distance he heard the heavy breaths, saw the beads of sweat on his brothers forehead, which he had already noticed earlier this evening. He cautiously lowered his hand, which he had previously stretched out towards his brother. The wild glance in Athos´ eyes gave way to realization, he swallowed and tiredly lowered his head.

Aramis took it as the permission to move closer:
"May I?" he asked, and as Athos nodded slightly, he placed his cool left hand on the back of his brothers neck.

The body emanated heat, and Aramis´ trained hands felt both the irregular heartbeat and the slight trembling that took hold of Athos body again and again. He knelt in front of him, took his face in both hands, looked deep into his eyes, making sure Athos would really hear him, would really understand.

Slowly and clearly, he chose his next words:
"Athos, your body is burning up with fever."

Athos held his gaze, but Aramis could see the powerlessness lurking in the corner of his eye.
"Let me help you. Please let me examine your arm now."

Again this swallowing. Since hours his throat had felt as dry as the desert.
Where was this ale?
Athos tried to collect his meandering thoughts. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
A wordless approval. Or a proverbial surrender?

Aramis gestured to his brothers for help, and Porthos and D'Artagnan came to their feet immediately. He took the pistol from Athos´ lap and he and Porthos helped their Captain down the stairs, closer to the light and onto the narrow bed.
The later sat down heavily and placed his burning forehead to the cool bedpost.

No sound escaped his lips as Aramis raised the dark shirt and peeled off the bloody bandage Athos had put on himself just two days ago, before Constance arrived in his office with a water bowl to help him cleanse his colorful bruised face. No one had noticed the deep cuts he had sustained in his fight with Grimaud.

Why did Athos hide them?
He did not know it himself.
Show no sign of weakness, no powerlessness. Never loose control.
Head over heart. Always.

Behind his back the musketeers and Elodie exchanged terrified glances. He felt Aramis hand on his aching arm, a soothing touch, and Athos felt shame in his heart for the suffering he was inflicting on his friends.

Elodie spoke first: "I´ll bring you hot water and brandy."
Porthos followed Elodie silently.
"Thanks," Aramis replied.

"D'Artagnan," he turned to the younger man standing at his side: "in my saddlebags is a clean needle and bandages."
D'Artagnan nodded and left, Athos and Aramis were alone in the cave.
No words were needed, not at this point.

Athos´ heavy breathing was the only sound as the medic occupied himself by removing his jacket and doublet and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

When D'Artagnan came back with the medical supplies, he took Aramis aside.
"Why did not he say anything?" He asked urgently.
Pain was written on the face of the younger Musketeer.

But Aramis cut him off. His voice took on a sharp edge as he took D'Artagnan by the arm and looked him straight in the eye.
"No word to him now. He suffers enough, do not make it any harder."

D'Artagnan stared at him, startled. He had seen Athos´ suffering, the ghosts in his eyes before. He had heard him talk about his past in delirium and had sworn to his friend, he would not talk to anyone about it.
But this felt different. This felt like betrayal.

"He is badly injured and does not say a word. He risks himself and everyone else. Is his life no worth anything to him?" hissed D´Artagnan sharply.

Aramis swallowed, his eyes softening.
"Every man carries his demons in his own way," he whispered.
"Athos fears nothing more than helplessness. To no longer be master of his senses. It does not help to accuse him now. He already feels bad enough."
D'Artagnan frowned, but finally nodded and helped Elodie with the steaming water bowl.

Aramis set about preparing needle and thread and washing his hands in brandy when a small, strong hand rested on his shoulder.
"Are you experienced in these things, Monsieur?"
Tereses dark eyes looked up at him. Aramis smiled.
"Yes, Madame, more than I would like."

Brandy bottle ready at hand he turned to the bed. But Terese did not let go of his arm.
"Well. But it's easier if the patient does not move, does not feel the pain, right?"

A conspiratorial tone underlined Tereses words.

Aramis smiled, his eyes focussed the elderly woman.
"Yes sure."

She held out a bottle of dark brown liquid.
"Then make sure he drinks that."

Aramis was astonished. He took the bottle from her hand, carefully pulled out the cork and smelled it.
"That's a mix of ..." Terese began, but Aramis interrupted her:
"Bloodroot, Pitchweed Bark and Rowanberry. Pickled and grated in Laudanum."

Terese nodded her approval.
"I see you are a master of your craft and a man full of hidden abilities."
Aramis smiled.

"My teacher used a similar recipe, he deserves the praise."

He locked eyes with the older woman. Then he asked quietly:
"Father Bernard?"

Tereses face showed no recognition, contrary to Aramis expectations.
"Helpful ideas find a way into the world on various paths," she replied mysteriously.

Athos forehead was still resting on the bedpost. When Aramis approached he sensed, that his brother clinged to consciousness with one last effort. The musketeer crouched down in front of Athos and laid a gentle hand on his knee. Athos opened his eyes, but for a moment he seemed to be far away. His gaze took a while to return Aramis´ worried look. He exhaled.
"Have you started?"

Aramis smiled. "Not yet."
He reached out the cup of herbal tincture to Athos.

"Here, drink this first." Athos stared motionless at the outstretched cup.
"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.
Aramis exchanged a quick glance with Terese.

"A potion from Terese. She says it …," Aramis paused, then continued in a firm voice "will help with the fever."

Athos looked around the room, all faces trying to stay neutral. His gaze went inward, for a brief second Aramis thought he would refuse the medicine. But then Athos closed his eyes obediently and reached for the cup.
"Down with it," Aramis said, and Athos let Aramis guide his hand and help him empty the cup.

Aramis handed the cup back to Terese, still crouching in front of Athos as he wiped his mouth with his good hand.
"Bah, devilsbrew," he grunted.
Aramis passed him a sip of water to wash down the taste. Everyone turned silent.

Athos eyes narrowed and he looked at Aramis vigilantly.
"And now? Go on with it. What are you waiting for?"

And the room started spinning around him.
Aramis face close to his was minder a blur and he felt his eyelids grow heavy.
The last thing he felt were Aramis strong arms, as he toppled over.

"Thereon," Aramis said practically, lowering their leader on to his right side.

"This potion works fast," he said appreciatively to Terese while placing two examining fingers to Athos´ throat to register a fast but steady heartbeat.
"D'Artagnan, Porthos, make yourself ready to hold him down. He has to lie very quiet now."

D'Artagnan and Porthos took their positions at the head and foot of the bed, and even Terese sat down next to Porthos to Athos legs to intervene if necessary. Elodie handed brandy, needle and thread.

There was pain on Athos´ face during the bloody procedure, but he kept his eyes tightly shut and no sound escaped his lips as Aramis´ skilled needle stabbed his flesh again and again. Porthos and D'Artagnan exchanged astonished looks.

"This potion is a miracle," said Porthos appreciatively after a while.
"A gift," Aramis replied, not once taking his eyes off his needlework.

Terese smiled.

"Leave the suture on open air for a while." Terese propounded, as Aramis had finished the last neat stitch and set about wrapping the wound with the prepared bandages.
"He'll sleep all night, and exposed to the air it will heal better."

Aramis's eyes narrowed at the new idea, but he trusted Terese and only covered Athos´ back with a light cloth. Then he felt his captains forehead with the back of his hand.
"His fever is harsh."
A cool cloth was passed to Aramis, which he laid carefully over the forehead of their captain.
"He still has a long night to go."

They had taken turns to sit by Athos´ bedside, cooling his glowing forehead with cold cloths. Aramis felt as if he had not closed an eye, but at some point he must have dozed off. As the first morning-birds could be heard, Aramis tiredly opened his eyes.

A hand lay motionless on his boot, which he had discarded unconformably on the bed. Athos lay on his back and for the first time in hours, he seemed completely still. After the effect of the potion had subsided, their leader had been restless, tossing and turning around in the grip of pain and fever. No comforting touch, no calming words had been able to enter his feverish mind.
Again and again he had murmured in his dreams, sometimes full of terror, sometimes full of longing.
"Grimaud. Silvie."

Aramis could not imagine what terror Athos had to live through in his fever dreams.

But now, in first day light, his friend was lying there, completely motionless, and only a wee movement of his chest indicated that there was still life in him. That life returned to an exhausted mind and a strangled body.

Aramis carefully removed his friend's hand from his leg, leaned forward and gently placed a palm on the now dry forehead.

Relieved, he found it only slightly warm. The fever had broken during the night. But Aramis knew from experience, that the body needed time to heal, that Athos would probably keep sleeping for hours.

He got up, stretched, and looked around the room, where only Elodie lay huddled in a corner on a pile of blankets and slept.
Porthos and D'Artagnan seemed to have found another place to sleep for the night. Aramis gave his friend one last look, then hurried up the stairs to greet the morning.

At the cave-entrance he found them, the rough soldiers, each wrapped in a blanket and asleep leaning against the wall in half-upright position. Aramis smiled at this sight, but there was melancholy in his eyes as he saw his battle-hardened friends sleeping like this.

How many war-nights had his brothers searched for some peace and quiet in this posture, while around them always new victims where demanded by war?

He had not been there for them.
Pain shot into Aramis heart, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh morning air, then walked a few steps from the cave entrance under the trees to relieve both his heart and his bladder.

When he came back a little later, to his astonishment, Elodie exited the cave. Her eyes tired and serious. But when she looked at the faces of the three newly awakened musketeers, she smiled.

"He is still very weak," she explained.
With a grateful smile, Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan descended the stairs to greet their captain.

Aramis was the first to enter the small chamber, and found Athos sitting on the edge of the bed. The older musketeer gratefully smiled one of his rare smiles. His breathing was still laboured, but his eyes were clear and he greeted each of his comrades warmly.

So the four musketeers sat together in silence, united in brotherhood. But Aramis, with his heart on his tongue, could not resist telling Athos:
"You had us worried, my old friend. You had bad dreams. About Grimaud."

Athos lowered his gaze. He vaguely remembered the fever dreams that had hunted him.
But here and now, with his friends, they seemed to be far away. He felt calm and relaxed.
Maybe it was the potion that Aramis had infused him with yesterday. Or…

"You also dreamed of Silvie," added Aramis.

Yes, the dreams of Silvie. Was she gone? Or did she come back to him? It did not matter.
Because dreaming about Silvie, seeing her, touching her, sensing her, had been good.
Athos smiled.