A veil of white dust blurred his sight and the rattling of tiny pebbles briefly broke the silence of the small room when Porthos took off his pauldron with careful moves. He groaned and winced when he slipped his left arm through the sleeve of his heavy jacket. Another cloud of white dust danced in the air before falling in a shower of tiny pieces of wood and stone. Porthos bit his cheek to silence a scream when the thick leather caught something which seemed to be embedded at the back of his armpit, in a place he couldn't easily reach. A flash of white light blinded him and he squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table where a basin and a jug of water waited for him. When he opened his eyes again, taking in a few shallow breaths, he stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror hanging above the table. His skin was almost grey, he had dark circles under his eyes, a thin layer of sweat shone on the sides of his nose, and, mixed with the dust, created small grey rivulets which disappeared into his moustache.

He closed his eyes again and managed to take off his jacket which fell onto the tiles with a thud making him flinch. Now in shirtsleeves, he tried to calm his breathing and slow down his heartbeat. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at the mirror again. He nodded slightly, as if trying to convince himself that he could do what he was about to do. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his left arm and let his eyes slip towards the place where his shirt was sticky with dried blood and where a piece of wood protruded grotesquely out of the dirty fabric. He shuddered at the sight and fought back the bile rising in his throat.

It was no more than a big splinter - well, very big- but he would have to dislodge it, clean the wound and probably stitch it. He sighed and pulled on a tool from under the table with his foot. He landed heavily on it and regretted it instantly as it jostled the piece of wood.

He tried to stay immobile and closed his eyes again to fight the dizziness which managed to make him lose consciousness. He let his mind drift back to the moment when Aramis had announced that the King was dying, in Athos' office. The heat of the battle against Grimaud's men had made him ignore his pain, his sore body and the bruises he had acquired thanks to a whole house tumbling down on him, but a few hours later, everything came back and he had to brace himself on the window sill, his back towards the other men, to try not to collapse. Luckily their minds were entirely occupied by the future of France. He managed to turn towards Aramis when he confessed what the King had said. He felt the tension increasing in the room and a rising anger towards his best friend building in his entrails.

He tried to analyse this feeling. He realised that it was an anger born from fear, a suffocating fear he had experienced when he and d'Artagnan had realised that they were about to die, a fear for Aramis when he had read this odd expression in his eyes. Once the King was dead, what would he do? There were no obstacles left between him and the Queen, except that their relationship was forbidden, but his stupid brother would follow his instincts once again. Then there was Athos. Athos' anger against Tréville was palpable and it hurt. Seeing him leave the room with his back straight in spite of his wounds, his walk steady and stiff, had broken his heart. It was as if everything around him was tumbling down like it had been blown up by Grimaud's powder. What if, after failing to kill them, he had managed to kill their friendship, their bond, their strength?

He tried to silence these thoughts but his throat felt tight and his jaws hurt as he pressed them together in an attempt to fight his anxiety and his pain. He felt more alone than ever. He supposed that d'Artagnan was in the tender care of his beloved wife, probably enjoying a warm bath. Athos had probably joined Sylvie, the only person who was able to endure his anger and his bad moods and Aramis … Porthos shivered at the thought. He was ready to bet his precious sword and his golden ring that the foolish man had managed to meet the Queen. He imagined him staring at her with his dark velvety eyes -a stare he had worked hard to achieve testing it for years on every skirt which had crossed his path- and comforting her with gentle touches and a rumbling voice. Porthos snorted bitterly, he wasn't jealous well, not really. Envious, perhaps, yes, probably envious, but today he needed a presence, it was not the right evening to be alone. Even if he wasn't quite alone, a piece of wood frame sticking out of his left side was a very noticeable presence.

He stood up again to watch himself in the mirror, plunged a sponge in the basin and began to soak his shirt, contorting himself to reach his wound, a move which hurt his whole back which was probably covered in lovely shades of blue and grey.

Bloody water trickled from his side, down his legs and created a puddle at his feet, the cool liquid making him shiver. Gradually, the stiff fabric which had adhered to his skin began to soften. He rinsed the sponge with great difficulty because the sole move of wringing it made the pain even more searing.

It's just a piece of wood, not an axe. You have seen worse than that, like a crossbow bolt. He snorted.

Worse, indeed, but he wasn't alone. He always had his friends to help him or he had perhaps managed to cope under the influence of humors, caused by yellow bile in his bloodstream, Aramis had explained that this was the theory of the mysterious ancient physicians. It was most probably the mere urgency of the situation which had given him strength.

Maybe he should have said something to Aramis before he left. No, it wasn't the time. The future of France was more important than his sorry state.

He took in a deep shaky breath and began to peel off the soaked fabric of his shirt from the wound. A sound outside made him stop and he listened carefully, but his ears were buzzing and he resumed his work thinking that it was his imagination or just the wood creaking like it usually did at dusk, when the air cooled down and a warm steam rose from the heated earth.

When he managed to pull away the damp material, the pain suffocated him and he had to sit down again, closing his eyes and gripping his side beneath the wound. He tried to forget the pain by creating his own, clawing at the sensitive flesh of his side and biting his cheek until he tasted blood on his tongue.

He didn't hear the rusty hinges of his door creaking as someone carefully opened it. He didn't hear the muffled exclamation or the soft steps on his floor as the newcomer quietly approached him.

"Good grief ..." Athos muttered.

Porthos sighed and closed his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Athos chided. "Porthos, you didn't have to hide it."

"You … had … more important … things to ..." Porthos whispered, his voice weak and broken.

"More important than my best friends' welfare, you mean?"

Athos' tone sounded harsh to Porthos' ears and he lowered his head, then, with a brisk move of his head which made his vision cloud, he looked up again at Athos in the mirror's reflection. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Athos took off his own jacket and went to lay it on the bed. His grimace of pain didn't go unnoticed by Porthos. Deep cuts and dark bruises marred the Captain's face, his moves were stiff and obviously hurt him. When he came back behind his stool, Porthos dared to speak.

"Look at you, Athos. Your face …"

"I could return the compliment my friend." Athos smiled sadly as he began to carefully remove the rest of Porthos' shirt, wincing at the sight of the sharp piece of wood and the dirty jagged flesh around it.

"I noticed that your arm is …"

"I still can perfectly use the other one." Athos interrupted drily. "My God, Porthos, why didn't you tell us?" He repeated with a frustrated tone in his voice.

"For the same reasons that you didn't tell us and … mmmh … because I didn't know …"

"How …?"

"Don't know … mmh … It hurts." Porthos moaned bending forwards, his breathing fast and shallow.

Athos gently squeezed his uninjured shoulder and ran his thumb back and forth over the sweaty skin.

"We need Aramis."

"He has other matters to attend to." Porthos groaned bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose, that now that the King is dy…"

"Porthos, stop being childish, please. I sent him to Le Louvre. I wanted the Queen to know and to be prepared. He was the best placed to fulfill this mission."

"I don't doubt it." Porthos huffed.

"Porthos, stop it, this is an order." Athos snapped angrily. "Sorry, Porthos." He added quickly when he saw his friend's eyes shine in the flickering light of the candle.

"Do it." Porthos mumbled.

"Do what?"

"Remove this ... thing … from my body."

"Porthos, you know … I can't…"

"Yes, you can." Porthos straightened with difficulty, grimacing, sweating and stared at Athos in the mirror. He felt his Captain's fingers tremble on his shoulder. "Aramis always says that … infection settles quickly ... if there are foreign objects in the flesh."

Athos stepped back and swayed slightly.

"I'm sorry, Porthos, I can't."

Athos ran a hand through his already matted curls then lifted it in a gesture of apology. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't leave Porthos in this state, he couldn't take care of him, he couldn't stay with him and do nothing. He suddenly felt stupid and incapable. He was about to retrieve his jacket, flee the room and run to the palace to bring Aramis back to the garrison, turning his back to someone he loved for the second time in one day and it made him sick.

Something else stopped him, something else made him blush and feel ashamed of this panic which had briefly suffocated him. It was Porthos' eyes in the mirror. He stared at him with so much trust and hope, his dark irises wet with unshed tears of pain -and probably something else- his ashen skin, his grimaces and clenched jaw.

"Athos, please, do it." Porthos begged. "I can't reach it, you must do it."

Athos slowly approached him again, laid his hand on his friend's head and nodded, swallowing his saliva with difficulty.

"I … I will hurt you … I'm not …"

"The more you wait, the more it will hurt. Do it … oh, morbleu, it hurts!" Porthos shouted gripping more tightly the flesh of his side beneath the armpit.

Athos pulled himself together, rolled his sleeves above his elbows and began to clean his hands in the basin.

"Armagnac." Porthos murmured.

"What?"

A gasp made Athos turn around. He had left the door open and hadn't heard the sound of footsteps.