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The sun was setting by the time that Athos had pushed to his feet, pulling the Gascon up with him as the two left Aramis in Porthos' care while they dealt with the remains of the marksman's horse. Although the Gascon was far less experienced at soldiering, he knew well from his years on the farm that dead animals needed to be disposed of to ward off threats of animal attacks and disease. It was apparent from Aramis' wounds that the first had already transpired but the men would do everything in their power to prevent another occurrence.
By the time they were done, both men had doffed their doublets and were sweating with exertion, welcoming the cooler night air as it danced across their skin to wick the moisture away. The task of burying the horse's remains had been a gruesome one and d'Artagnan's stomach rolled uncomfortably as he followed Athos back to their camp, carrying Aramis' recovered saddlebag and bridle, while Athos held the remaining tack. As Porthos and Aramis came into sight, the Gascon forgot his own discomfort as he sped up his stride, passing by Athos whose lips turned up slightly at the young man's need to check on his patient; it was obvious that Aramis had made a good choice when deciding to tutor the boy.
Porthos had shifted positions somewhat, now sitting down with his back against a tree, the marksman's head and shoulders cradled carefully in his lap, one hand wrapped around Aramis' right hand. For a moment, teasing words rose to d'Artagnan's lips at the sight before he was reminded of the marksman's precarious situation as he took in Aramis' flushed skin and laboured breaths. Dropping the items he held to one side, he knelt beside the injured man, touching a hand to the marksman's forehead and confirming that his fever still burned hotly. Methodically, he began to unwind the wrappings from Aramis' arm, revealing puffy and discolored skin that was warm to the touch.
Prodding at it gently, d'Artagnan was pleased to see little discharge from the puncture wounds, suggesting that the poultice was at least working, if not as quickly as they might like. Aramis moaned softly at the Gascon's attentions but a few murmured words from Porthos had him stilling again, the larger man already guessing at d'Artagnan's intentions. "You'll clean it again?"
The Gascon nodded as he placed the unbandaged arm gently on the injured man's chest. "With hot water and then another poultice. Afterwards, we should try and get him to drink again. The fever will leave him parched."
Porthos sat, stroking Aramis' brow while d'Artagnan prepared what he needed, Athos providing what assistance he could but largely leaving things in the young man's hands. When he was ready, the Gascon met the larger man's gaze with a determined one of his own. "Hold him tightly; this will hurt."
At Porthos' nod, d'Artagnan pulled Aramis' arm away from his body and covered it with a cloth soaked in hot water. The marksman jerked as the sensation registered and the larger man bent over him to whisper words of comfort. As the Gascon's ministrations continued, Aramis' sounds of pain grew more pronounced until Porthos looked up and ordered, "Stop. Let him get his bearings and then you can finish."
d'Artagnan looked at his patient, only marginally surprised to see the man's eyes open if not completely focused. Aramis was blinking heavily and it was obvious that he was struggling against the throb of his arm. After a minute, he rolled his head toward the Gascon, eyes drifting to his aching arm. "How's it look?" he breathed out.
d'Artagnan forced an encouraging smile onto his face as he replied, "Better. The bites are infected but I think the poultice is working. I need to clean them again before I bind it." The Gascon waited to hear some words of guidance from his teacher but the marksman just looked away, seemingly satisfied that he was being well cared for.
The young man hesitated then, uncertain about whether or not to continue until Porthos leaned closer to the marksman, "You alright for d'Artagnan to finish now?" Aramis gave an uncoordinated nod, his eyes slipping closed in exhaustion. Porthos glanced knowingly at the Gascon and d'Artagnan returned to his task, ignoring the occasional soft whimpers that emerged from their injured friend.
When he'd finished, he swiped a sleeve across his brow, removing the moisture that had formed there while he'd been tending to Aramis' arm. Catching Porthos' eye he asked, "Can you keep him awake a while longer?"
The large man nodded, "Pass me a damp cloth for his face." Before d'Artagnan could move, Athos was handing Porthos the requested item and the large man dragged it across the marksman's forehead and cheeks.
With a smile of thanks to his mentor, the Gascon made up another batch of tea and, while it steeped, mixed and crushed the herbs he needed for a fresh poultice. He bandaged Aramis' arm by the light of their campfire, the sun having set and leaving the area around them in darkness. Replacing the marksman's arm on his chest when he'd finished, d'Artagnan scooted up to his friend's head, the dreaded draught held in one hand. "Aramis, I know you're tired and in pain, but I need you to drink more of this tea."
The marksman's eyes fluttered open and he peered fuzzily at the young man, forcing a faint smile to his face, "Taught you too well."
d'Artagnan grinned as he replied, bringing the cup to his friend's lips, "I'm just a very good student. Now, drink up."
With Porthos continuing to hold their injured friend up, Aramis managed to finish the drink, eyes slipping closed as soon as he was done. The Gascon placed the cup on the ground beside him, pulling the blanket higher to cover the injured man's shoulders before placing a hand on his friend's brow, frowning at the continued heat he felt there. Rocking back onto his heels, d'Artagnan sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face in frustration. The marksman's condition was still poor and he worried that his skills would not be sufficient to keep the man alive long enough to return to Paris.
"It's alright, whelp," Porthos interrupted his thoughts, accurately reading the young man's expression. "You're doin' good and Aramis is a fighter; he'll be alright, you'll see."
d'Artagnan wished he could feel as confident as the larger man, but a plethora of what ifs swirled through his brain without end. What if the fever got worse? What if there were complications from the broken leg? What if they'd arrived too late and Aramis was too weak to recover? Seeing the look of hope on Porthos' face, the Gascon gave a shaky nod in reply, unwilling to dampen his friend's spirits by sharing his melancholy thoughts.
Standing, he repacked his medical bag and made his way to Athos' side, the older man having taken up residence a few feet away from the fire, ostensibly to save his night vision. Sitting down wearily beside his friend, d'Artagnan was unaware that another sigh escaped him. "How is he?" Athos asked, glancing at the Gascon for a moment before returning to the focus of his work.
The young man's eyes drifted downwards to Athos' hands and watched as they moved in a circular pattern, pushing a damp cloth over and across the blood and dirt that coated Aramis' saddle. The act was a minor one, but it represented Athos' complete faith in the marksman's recovery; the realization brought a ghost of a smile to the Gascon's lips. Clearing his throat, he replied, "Not much change, although I think the poultice is beginning to work. We'll need to keep an eye on him through the night and make sure his fever doesn't get any worse."
Athos hummed in agreement, "And how are you doing?"
The question caught the young man by surprise and his head shot up to look at his mentor, but Athos' focus was still on the stained and dirty saddle across his lap. "I'm fine," the Gascon stammered. "It's Aramis who's hurt."
Folding the cloth he held in half to reveal a cleaner side, Athos poured a small amount of water on it before returning to his task. "I find that dealing with an injured brother is often as difficult for the caregiver as it is on the one receiving care. Do you not agree?"
Athos' perceptive words had cut straight to the heart of the matter and revealed what scared d'Artagnan most. His mind raced as he struggled to come up with a reply, the silence stretching between them. Finally, the young man swallowed thickly and said, "I don't want to fail him…or any of you."
The older man looked up at that and caught the Gascon's gaze, his blue eyes fierce with determination as he stated with confidence, "You won't. The fact that you worry so will ensure that you do everything in your power to help him heal."
Once more the young man wondered how his friend could read him so well and, as much as he wanted to tear his eyes away from the older man's piercing stare, he couldn't do it. Several long seconds passed and d'Artagnan realized that Athos' words were not meant to simply offer encouragement – they were a statement of his unwavering belief, and that knowledge imbued the young man with new confidence. The Gascon nodded, his concerns still present, but no longer overwhelming him into doubting his skills. He'd teased Aramis that he was a good student, but it was also the truth. d'Artagnan had recognized the importance of the critical skills he was learning and had put all of his effort into mastering what he was being taught, preparing for the day when one of his brother's lives might depend on him. That day had arrived and the young man was determined that his first critical test would not be his last.
As if sensing the change in his protégé, Athos gave a return nod as he said, "Get yourself and Porthos something to eat. When you're finished, get some sleep. I'll wake you in a few hours for the second watch."
Still lacking an appetite, d'Artagnan forced himself to get food for himself and the larger man, remembering his earlier thoughts about keeping his friend's strength up; obviously, it was time for them both to heed that advice. Settling down at Aramis' side, the Gascon took his first bite as he watched Porthos do the same, both their eyes firmly pinned to the even rise and fall of the injured man's chest as he slept.
"d'Artagnan!" The urgency of the tone that uttered the cry had Aramis struggling to open heavy lids. Before he'd managed to accomplish the task, he felt his pillow shifting and it took him several seconds to comprehend what was happening.
A voice spoke close to his ear, "Stay still, Aramis; I've got you."
Who had him, the marksman wondered, doing his best to wade through the thick molasses that seemed to have taken up residence in his skull, making coherent thought next to impossible. "What?" he managed, finally partially opening his eyes to blink heavily against the shadows that surrounded him. He felt something around his chest tighten and looked down, surprised to find someone's arm around him. Lifting his head, he repeated his earlier question, still trying to understand what was happening, "What?"
"No need to worry; just stay calm," the voice said. This time, Aramis was able to recognize the deep timbre as belonging to Porthos and a look upwards revealed the man's worried face, eyes darting unceasingly at their surroundings. His observation of Porthos was interrupted by a sound on his other side and he turned his head to see a bundle break away from the ground and coalesce into a man. d'Artagnan, he thought muzzily, cursing his weakened state and the draught he'd consumed for his inability to think clearly. As he watched, the Gascon moved swiftly away, the man's sword flashing momentarily as it caught the light of the campfire that still burned.
"What?" he asked for a third time, frustrated that he'd been unable to get a response to his question and that he'd been unable to express himself more clearly.
"Hush now, Aramis," Porthos answered lowly and Aramis' head swivelled again as he struggled to identify the source of everyone's attention. Then it reached him, the low growl that had woken him the previous night, the sound a precursor to attack, and he swallowed with difficulty against the fear that suddenly gripped him. As though sensing his anxiety, Porthos' arm squeezed against him briefly, reminding him that he was under the larger man's protection and his friend wouldn't let anything happen to him.
Trying to relax as the tension in his muscles amped up the throb in his leg, Aramis swept his gaze around the encampment, trying in vain to see the approaching threat. He could make out d'Artagnan's form several feet in front of him, pistol raised and ready to fire. A few feet to the Gascon's left, Athos had adopted a similar pose as he prepared to defend against the impending attack. Behind him, he could feel Porthos stiffen and looked upwards once more before trying to turn to look behind him, matching the direction of the larger man's gaze. As he began to shift, Porthos' arm tightened to keep him still and Aramis huffed as he realized the helplessness of his situation; he would have no ability to defend himself and would need to rely on the skill and fortitude of his brothers. Drawing a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and shuddered as he prayed for his waking nightmare to end.