Aramis shook the boy, gently at first, more forcefully then, trying to wake him up, but nothing happened. D'Artagnan was the palest they'd even seen him, his bloody hands hanging limply at the sides. The wound had been bound, but the shirt that they'd covered it with was blood red. It was a truly heartbreaking sight.
"We need to get him out of here, right now."
Porthos took the boy in his arms and they went to the carriage, to ask for directions. They knew the way to the nearest village but feared it would be too far, it would take too long. That D'Artagnan wouldn't last the ride there – there had to be something closer. There had to. The people from the carriage were very kind and told them about a farm, not far from where they were, even let them borrow the carriage to and the driver to get there faster and more comfortably.
"That poor boy got that grievous wound defending us." The woman said. "This is the least we can do. Just send it back when you get there, we'll be waiting here in the shade. But... you take those men with you."
She was talking about the two bandits they managed to stop, of course. Athos and Aramis tied them to the seat in the outer part of the back of the carriage. They didn't seem too angry, which was strange- they were eerily calm. Almost smiling. Without giving it much thought, the musketeers got in and gently placed their injured friend inside the carriage, lying down.
"He should have said something if he wasn't feeling good, he put everything at risk." Athos said, although he couldn't really be angry at the Gascon, hard as he tried. Not when he looked like that, as if he were half dead already.
"I should have noticed." Aramis countered. "I saw him waver before, I just thought he was tired."
"Placing blame is not going to help him right now. The most important thing for the moment is that he lives." Porthos sentenced from his place next to the driver, not enjoying the conversation. That would get them nowhere, it was better to focus and try to be productive.
They had a priority right now. They had to save their boy.
As they quickly rode towards the farm, they noticed that D'Artagnan's wound was still bleeding and so both Athos and Aramis set out the bind it more tightly and put pressure on it. If that trickle kept up, he would bleed out in mere hours. The force of it awoke the young man.
The first thing he felt was a sharp pain in his stomach that woke him up. And then he realised, slowly but surely, that the world didn't make sense – at all. It was only pain and blurred lines, and a strange pale ceiling that kept moving. And pain, pain everywhere and a sensation of incredible cold that he couldn't shake off, just leaking through his blood and covering everything and he was nauseous and confused and didn't understand where he was or what was happening... He heard a small noise, like someone coughing and never realised it was him doing it.
And then his stomach jumped and there was blood on his mouth and someone put him on his side so he wouldn't choke on it. He faintly registered seeing the blood fall, an intense red, to the floor. And he couldn't do anything. He was helpless, like a child, being moved and gently taken care of. He tried to move, maybe say something, ask what was happening, but all he managed to do was faintly raise one hand. His limbs felt like lead and his mouth tasted like blood. He was bouncing and felt like he was going to fall off wherever he was laying. And then, someone took his hand.
"It will be fine, D'Artagnan. We've got you."
He wanted to say something – wanted to understand, why he hurt so badly, why everything was upside down, where was his father? He didn't recognise this place and everything was spinning and he just wished it would stop.
"We've got you." The familiar sooothed him a bit, and he closed his eyes again.
He felt that, wherever he was and whatever was happening, he was safe. Protected.
Athos and Aramis felt simply scared, because it was obvious that their friend was not just badly wounded, he was getting worse, fast. Fading right before their eyes. Aramis looked at the bloody hand he was still holding, and his eyes were bright. He wanted to blame the powder from before – he couldn't let emotions get the best of him. Still, it was hard. D'Artagnan had looked in their direction with pleading unfocused eyes, and Aramis saw the brave boy they've met not so long ago, proud, daring, and it just broke his heart because he knew there was a chance that he wouldn't survive this.
"You keep fighting." He whispered. "We still need you."
After what seemed an eternity, they finally reached the farm that was desserted. Hoping the owners wouldn't mind too much, they got in and placed D'Artagnan in the main bed, careful not to jostle him too much.
"Porthos, could you bring those criminals back to Paris? Take the horses after you leave the carriage with the its owners, and please apologize for the blood stains." Athos said, trying to organise everything, while Aramis looked for supplies.
"I will. And I will make sure those two tell where their friends went to, oh, I will. You take care of our wounded soldier. I want to see him up by the time I get back."
"Of course."
Aramis did the best he could with D'Artagnan's injury (realised with dread that the stab wound hadn't stopped bleeding and dressed it again, amongst other things) and cleaned the boy's sweaty face with a rag and some clean water.
Now they could only wait and hope for the best.
Porthos had a bad feeling about it, all of it. From the attack to the carriage, to the strange powder, to the bandits running and the faces of those men... something was not right.
Somewhere in Paris, the two bandits smiled as they were given away to the competents authorities. Because they were a team, a unit, and of course, they would never talk. They knew that already people were coming for them. They knew that when they did, they could tell their partners were those damned musketeers were at. They knew that they would pay for killing Bertrand and imprisoning them.
Those musketeers would pay, for his fallen brother and all of those they'd killed before. They had a big storm coming and they wouldn't even know.
Athos was angry. He was angry at himself for not being able to protect D'Artagnan or stop those men, he was angry at the boy for not saying he was sick, he was angry at those criminals for stabbing this young courageous boy and just leaving him to die on the grass, angry at Treville for giving them that assignment... And yet, all that anger was drowned out by a great melancholy, that weighed down on him. A feeling of loss, of grief.
Again.
He sat on a wooden chair next to D'Artagnan's bed, hoping he could do something else to improve this, something else to ease their young friend's pain. Part of him just wanted to go out and get those bandits, each and every one of them and see them pay. But no, that would have to wait. Right now, that boy needed all the comfort he could get. He was muttering things in an uneasy sleep, something along the lines of I'm sorry, a panicky mention or two of his father and lots of incoherent mumbling and a final, almost inaudible plea of please, forgive me.
Athos wiped away the tears that escaped the closed eyes with a heavy heart.
"You're forgiven, son. Stop suffering."
It was going to be a very long night.
A/N: So that was chapter two! Hope you enjoyed ;) Crying in their sleep is a vice of mine and since I set this in early season one I figured poor D'Art would still be shaken up about his father's death. Anyways, THANK YOU so much for all the feedback on chapter one, hope you're still enjoying the story!Reviews make my day ;)
Edit: Fixed some of the mistakes, hoping it's better. English is not first language so there will be mistakes, sorry :(
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