Dear all, thank you so much for the lovely comments. This story certainly seems to have caught your curiosity and thank you to all those who are now following or who have 'favourited'. The situation for Athos does not improve in this chapter and time marches on.
THE SECOND HOUR
Rotating swiftly, Athos was unnerved even further at the sight of more than twenty other musketeers watching his every move with unveiled fascination. Feeling threatened by their presence and sheer number, his rapier was immediately in his hand as he sliced repeatedly through the air in warning. The spectators backed up, all unwilling to engage in a bout with him when he was in such a strange mood; they knew instinctively that it would have little to do with practice and that he would present to them a very real danger.
"You men," Tréville bellowed so that his voice carried across the yard, "leave now. Go about your business. There is no need for alarm."
Unconvinced and muttering under their breaths, the men slowly departed, disappointed that they would not bear witness to the outcome. They had never seen the like; one of the Captain's Inseparables had gone mad and they were desperate to know what would happen next, although all would have admitted they would not want to run the risk of antagonising the regiment's best swordsman any further by remaining, given his present inexplicable state of mind.
As the men departed, it was Porthos who moved to grab his sword from where he had lain it on the table whilst he ate. Reluctant as he was to fight Athos in case he hurt him or worse, he would not hold back from doing so if it proved necessary in protecting his brothers and the Captain.
"No," Aramis insisted, resting a hand lightly on the back of the blade to persuade Porthos to desist. He sensed rather than saw Porthos lower the weapon as he kept his eyes on Athos who stood, chest heaving as if he had just ceased some strenuous activity and his eyes wild in panic.
Extending his hands again so that the agitated musketeer could see them at all times, Aramis took tentative, slow steps in his direction.
"Athos, my friend, I mean you no harm. I am unarmed; my weapons are over there on the table." He saw Athos cast a fleeting glance to the table concerned before shuffling back a step or two, endeavouring to maintain the distance between them. Aramis surreptitiously closed the gap again. "We are friends and have been so for years. I would never do anything to hurt or betray you, you must remember that. If we have been slow to act on your concerns, I am truly sorry. That is our fault. Let us make amends. We will do as you say. We stand with you in this; we would never betray the King or France and we most certainly are not in league with Beauvais. Please, believe me."
Athos seemed to be listening, weighing up Aramis' words but then he screwed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head as if to erase some dizziness even as he swayed dangerously. He dropped the rapier which clattered uselessly to the ground as he pushed the palms of his hands against his brow in a vain attempt to ward off the increasing pain and gave a long, low groan.
"What is it? Do you have a headache?" Aramis asked quietly, catching his friend's elbow to steady him. Athos nodded and groaned again. "How long have you had it?"
"I don't know," he swallowed hard.
"Did you wake up with it this morning?"
Athos shook his head.
"Did it develop when you were riding?"
"It was when we saw Paris," Athos answered eventually.
Aramis made a quick calculation in his head. "Some two hours ago then." With Athos standing there, temporarily distracted and his eyes closed to the pain, he took the advantage of glancing back over his shoulder to the others before adding, "That would be about the time you thought Beauvais was in pursuit."
"I wish he had been drinking," Tréville muttered to Porthos quietly.
The big man pulled a face. "So do I. I know how to deal with that but I don't reckon to knowin' what's goin' on 'ere."
"Do you think there is a link?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.
"Quite possibly." Aramis reached out a hand cautiously to touch Athos' forehead, wondering how his action might be received but there was no response. "There is no fever at least."
"We have to defend the garrison," Athos said abruptly.
"Of course we do," Aramis humoured him, concerned that the confusion and anxiety did not seem to have fully abated. "Thanks to your warning, the Captain can - and will - increase the guard. We will be ready to face anything."
"That's right," Tréville said, clearing his throat as he prepared to exacerbate the lie. "The guard will be increased within the next thirty minutes, including the perimeter as you suggested, and I will write an additional warning to His Majesty so that I can include it with the documents you brought back with you. I will have someone go to the palace within the hour."
Athos seemed to relax and Tréville drew Porthos aside to instruct him to find someone to go to the palace and request that the King's physician attend upon them at the garrison with all haste. Senior in years, the man was very experienced and knowledgeble and the Captain hoped that he would be able to throw some light upon the situation which was far from normal. The manner in which they were talking to Athos - as though he were some highly-strung colt that would bolt at a moment's notice – was completely unnatural, as was the fact that he had not even noticed, for he would not have tolerated their apparent condescension at any other time.
"d'Artagnan, are you absolutely sure that Athos did not suffer a head injury at any point?" Tréville asked, desperate to find some logical reason for Athos' irrationality.
"Totally sure," the young musketeer affirmed. "We were together at all times. Despite what he is claiming, we never came under any sort of threat; everyone at the Comte's chateau was courteous and welcoming. He never drank to excess and never had anything remotely like an accident. I mean, he didn't stand up suddenly and bang his head or anything. I just don't understand it."
"An' I certainly don't like it," Porthos said. "I'll go an' send someone now."
He had not even taken a step when he saw Athos shrug off the hold that Aramis had kept to steady him.
"Athos?" Aramis called as his friend stumbled away from him. He only managed a few steps to the side wall of the stable. Supporting himself with a hand against the wood, he bent and, without any warning, was suddenly violently sick.
"What next?" Tréville said to no-one in particular as he watched Aramis move to help his stricken brother.
"I'm goin' to get that physician myself," Porthos announced grimly and strode away.
"Come, my friend," Aramis said softly, a hand lightly rubbing comforting circles between the sick man's shoulders. "You are not well and need rest; let me help you." Totally perplexed by what was happening, he could feel the uncontrollable trembling course through Athos' slender frame as he retched repeatedly.
Eventually, Athos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened as best he could but he held one arm protectively across his stomach as though in discomfort.
"I'm cold," he moaned.
"Then we will get you warm," Aramis reassured him as he took his arm and tried to lead him back in the direction of the garrison infirmary but the sick musketeer's legs buckled with the effort and he would have hit the ground were it not for the swift intervention of d'Artagnan.
Together, he and Aramis held Athos up and supported him as they made their way excruciatingly slowly across the yard and into the infirmary with Tréville leading the way, issuing a string of instructions to Serge, who had chosen just that moment to appear from the kitchens to clear the table abandoned by the four brothers-in-arms. It was another ten minutes before they had settled Athos in one of the cots. Despite his repeated complaints of being cold, they thought it better to divest him of his leather doublet, breeches and boots as they tried to make him comfortable.
Prompted by Aramis, he rinsed his mouth and obeyed the next instruction to sip at more water before he lay down and they piled three blankets on him but still it did not seem enough as he began to shiver visibly.
"And you still have no idea what's wrong with him?" Tréville asked again.
"None whatsoever," Aramis replied. "Give me a broken bone to set, a bullet to dig out and a knife wound to sew and I can do something, but this disorder of the mind leaves me helpless. My first thought would have been a severe concussion."
"But d'Artagnan here is adamant that he could not have sustained a head injury," Tréville added.
"I know, even though the prolonged confusion and sickness would suggest otherwise."
"I have never seen such delusional confusion though," the Captain interrupted.
"Neither have I and seeing Athos like it, well," D'Artagnan shrugged an apology at his subsequent admission, "I found it frightening. It was so unlike him."
"I agree," Aramis continued, "but this uncontrollable shivering is something new. With the blankets that we have wrapped around him, I would have expected him to warm up by now and maybe even break into a sweat but there is no sign of any change."
"Should I ask Serge to heat up a stone?" offered d'Artagnan, eager to do something. A hot stone, wrapped and put in the bed at Athos' feet would surely provide some comfort for the ailing musketeer.
"We lose nothing by trying," Aramis said and offered him his best smile of encouragement. It faded as soon as the young man had gone to fulfil the task and the door had swung shut behind him. The remaining men approached the bedside and whilst Aramis perched on the edge, the Captain stood behind him as they looked down upon their patient.
Always pale, Athos' skin had now taken on an even whiter, almost translucent quality, tinged with grey. His eyes were closed and he seemed oblivious to their presence, caught as he was in his own nightmarish misery. Lying on his side, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his stomach suggesting some kind of abdominal cramp, his teeth chattered loudly and his shivering had become so extreme, that Aramis could feel the movement of the shaking cot where he was sitting.
Aramis laid a hand on Athos' forehead to gauge his temperature again and then tucked the blankets tighter around him.
"Do you still feel sick?" he asked quietly.
There was no hesitation as Athos shook his head briefly, the nausea having passed, but his eyes remained closed and he let out a long, low moan at the movement.
Aramis moved his hand down to Athos' shoulder. "And does your head still hurt?"
Athos looked up at him, his green eyes heavy-lidded with barely concealed pain. "Everywhere," his voice was little more than an agonised whisper.
"Everywhere?" Aramis was baffled by the strange answer.
"Everywhere hurts. My head, neck, shoulders; all my limbs." Unable to suppress it, he groaned again, only this time more loudly. "They all hurt," and his body trembled with intense chills.
Puzzled, Aramis rose and stretched to ease a feigned stiffness in his back as he moved to join Tréville. Together, they watched Athos burrow down beneath the blankets but nothing could subdue the violent shivering that wracked his lean body.
"He seems to be developing more symptoms all the time," Aramis said uneasily.
"And we are still none the wiser," Tréville agreed. "Could it be a kind of ague?" he wondered, clutching at any possibility in the hope of finding some sort of answer.
"The aches and shivering would suggest it. It could even account for the vomiting but not the confusion, not the troubled mind. That is not any ague that I have seen."
They were still standing, lost in thought when d'Artagnan re-entered the room, lightly tossing a bundle of cloth from one hand to the other. "Hot," he announced needlessly. "Is it best by his feet?" he asked in deference to Aramis' greater expertise.
"No," Aramis decided, moving towards the bed and pulling back the blankets. "Let us try it at his back," and he watched as d'Artagnan placed the wrapped stone closely behind Athos without actually touching him for the heat could be felt emanating from the thin material as the blankets were replaced.
There was no response to indicate that Athos was aware of their having done anything to ease his suffering. He remained curled on his right side, his face pained and his eyes shut as his teeth continued to chatter noisily through his ragged breathing. Gently, Aramis laid a hand on his brow and stroked back the dark, unruly hair from his friend's white face.
"Still no hint of fever as yet," he confirmed.
D'Artagnan folded his arms, hands caught tightly beneath his armpits as he surveyed his sick mentor with a sense of overwhelming helplessness. "I hope Porthos returns soon with that physician."
A/N
Ague – a Middle English word, from Anglo-French, from Medieval Latin (febris) acuta: literally 'sharp fever'. It was a term given to all sorts of fevers and chills up to and including the time of Shakespeare at the very least. (As Aramis and Tréville discuss possibilities, there had to be something to which they could relate. Influenza – as the chills and joint aches might suggest – was not really identified as such until the terrible outbreak at the close of WWI and documents suggest it was not commonly referred to by that name until the 1930s. Consequently, I had to use the ague!)
Symptoms for 'whatever it is' generally seemed to follow a certain order in the sources I read, with slight variations or lack of clarity; some overlapped. Vomiting was only mentioned in one source and that nauseous state seemed to be swiftly over.
So, Athos' problems to date include: acute anxiety, headache, dizziness, vomiting, stomach ache, a near state of collapse, suffering from extreme cold/chills and aching in his limbs/extremities. Don't think I've missed anything!
The chapter headings relating to time are crucial as the onset of the various symptoms are very swift but all will be revealed later!
