Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter and I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks also to AZGirl for her wonderful beta skills.
"Come," Athos called when the knock at his door sounded. He was at Aramis' side again, helping the man to purge helplessly, even though he had nothing left in his stomach but bile. It had been that way for several hours now, and Athos been unable to even get the ill man to take water, a fact that was ratcheting his concern ever higher with each passing minute. He didn't even spare a glance at the newcomer who walked through his door, merely inclining his head towards Porthos to indicate that the man should check on his other sick friend who still lay on the pallet on the floor.
Instead, the man approached and stood waiting patiently at Athos' side until the marksman stopped heaving, and the older man laid him gently back onto the mattress. "How is he?" a voice asked softly, and the Musketeer was surprised when he turned his head and found Treville standing there, his face a mix of concern and compassion as he observed Aramis' obviously poor state.
The question forced Athos to put into words his deepest fears, and acknowledge that his friend was growing worse and not better. He pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache that had stubbornly taken up residence there and refused to leave, the pain spiking each time Aramis whimpered at his stomach's agonizing rebellion.
Dropping his hand to his lap, the Musketeer looked back at his commanding officer, his expression more vulnerable than the Captain could remember in quite some time. It unnerved Treville to see his lieutenant so openly afraid and he drew a deep breath, resolving to at least try to offer some support and comfort to the man. "I've asked the physician come to look him over," he said, understanding that Aramis' condition was beyond Athos' knowledge to deal with. "I assume you'd prefer to care for him here?" The Musketeer gave a nod as his shoulders slumped in relief at the idea of getting some proper help.
The Captain seemed to sense Athos' feelings and he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing it for a moment before moving away to check on Porthos. He was surprised when his lieutenant spoke. "He's been resting comfortably for a couple hours now, and I think he may be past the worst of it." Treville nodded in acknowledgement, doing a quick of check of the large man to confirm what Athos had said. Returning to the bed, he noted his lieutenant's haggard features, his face framed by an untidy mop of hair which had no doubt been tugged at several times as Athos struggled to aid his ailing friend.
"Athos," Treville kept his voice low and the tone gentle, approaching the solider as one might deal with an overtired child. "You're clearly exhausted and you need a break. Go lay down while I sit with him."
The Musketeer looked torn, his body crying out for the relief of a few minutes' rest while his heart and mind raced with worry at what might happen if he slept. "Athos," the Captain tried again, able to clearly read the doubts that kept the man sitting at Aramis' bedside. "You'll still be here if he needs you, but you won't be much help if you push yourself any longer. Please." It was the last word which undid him; Athos nodded mutely as he rose, swaying for a moment as his body reminded him again of the many hours that he'd spent awake and slumped in the chair.
Treville waited until the weary man had grabbed a blanket for himself and curled up on the ground next to Porthos, his sense of responsibility guiding him to his other friend's side. Athos' breathing evened out into sleep almost at once as the Captain took the chair at Aramis' side. Treville's hand automatically moved to touch the ill man's warm, dry skin, his frown deepening at the result. He'd looked in on many of the sick men at the garrison, but he could honestly admit that none of them had looked quite as poorly as Aramis, the normally vibrant marksman appearing just one step away from death. He knew without a doubt that he would need to do everything within his power to prevent the man's passing, not just for Athos' and Porthos' sakes, but to safeguard the future of the young man he'd sent away that morning.
The rhythmic sway of his horse had d'Artagnan's eyes threatening to close by lunchtime, and he grudgingly admitted to himself that he had to stop or risk injury from falling off his mount. Finding a spot that was somewhat shaded, while also keeping him from the prying eyes of anyone else riding by, he settled his back against the warm, broad trunk of a tree as his horse grazed several feet away.
He picked uninterestedly at a piece of bread, knowing that it would have to be eaten first before it hardened into something even more unpalatable. He really didn't feel hungry, and yet a small portion of his mind reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the previous night; regardless of his interest, his body required fuel in order to keep going. Chewing the bite tiredly, he chased it down with a large swallow of water, the liquid far more appealing than the dry food.
Managing one more unappetizing piece, he rewrapped the remainder and put it aside, taking another generous drink before placing the water skin next to his discarded meal. His mind was still buzzing with the previous night's events, but his body begged for a few moments' rest. Despite his ongoing worry, his eyelids drifted closed and he dropped off to sleep.
"I knew you were trouble from the moment you set foot in the garrison," Athos declared, the look of contempt obvious in his normally handsome features which were now formed into a mask of hatred. "I'll never understand why the others thought we should waste our time on you."
The words made d'Artagnan's head reel, unable to comprehend why his best friend would say such spiteful things. "Athos," he began, but was interrupted almost at once.
"No, you are a selfish whelp who thinks only of his own needs and causes harm to his friends as a result," Athos spat, pausing for a moment as he seemed to reconsider. "Or perhaps you never felt the bonds of friendship at all, and merely pretended to care so you might get close to us and have an opportunity to attack from within."
"What?" the Gascon's head was spinning, the older man's accusations coming fast and furious, and making it difficult to follow the seemingly disjointed train of thoughts that were spewing forth. Never would d'Artagnan have believed his mentor capable of such ideas, having assumed that he'd made his fealty to his brothers clear and beyond contention. To hear such allegations being directed at him made his head swim dizzyingly, leaving him no opportunity for coherent thought, and no ability to formulate a defense.
"I should have known better than to allow another to ingratiate himself," Athos said, his volume falling somewhat as he poked a finger harshly at the young man's chest, forcing the Gascon to take a step backwards as the other man crowded into his personal space. "This is as much my fault as yours," he continued, his voice filled with regret as he momentarily lowered his eyes and shook his head. "God has given me too many opportunities to learn my lesson, but I failed once again, and this time Aramis has forfeited his life for my ignorance."
Aramis was dead? The words echoed in d'Artagnan's head as he racked his brain for some memory of the marksman's passing. There was nothing and Athos had turned away from him, slowly striding away in clear dismissal. The Gascon opened his mouth in protest, but another's voice interrupted before he could do more than draw breath to speak.
"You killed my best friend." Porthos' voice boomed like thunder, the certainty of his tone making d'Artagnan cringe. "He extended his hand in friendship and was never anything other than steadfast towards you - this is how you repay him?" The man's words had steadily gained in volume and Porthos was fairly shouting by the end, d'Artagnan cringing away from the venom that dripped from the Musketeer's statement. The large man was moving forward now, and the Gascon was again forced to step back as Porthos menaced him with his physical presence. "You had nothing when you came to Paris, and without us you'd still have nothing, just a farm boy from Gascony turned orphan."
d'Artagnan winced at his former friend's declaration, the man having picked his words well and choosing those that remained at the heart of the young man's deepest fears and darkest nightmares. It was true that he'd had nothing; nothing but the support and guidance of three of the King's finest. With their unwavering faith, tutelage, and ultimately their friendship, d'Artagnan had gained the skills necessary to win his commission and create a new future for himself in Paris.
Incredibly, all it had taken was one foolish mistake, made carelessly, but without malice, to bring everything crashing down around him. The realization made his breath catch in his chest, and as he raised bleary eyes to first Porthos' and then Athos' gaze, he saw only disdain, all shreds of their previous bonds erased with Aramis' passing. He felt his legs grow weak and he slipped to the ground, landing jarringly on his knees as the tears began to fall. He watched the large, fat drops stain his breeches with their moisture, but could not seem to lift his head, mesmerized by the sight of each tears' landing. Drawing a ragged breath, he felt someone pushing his shoulder, but he resolutely ignored it and the force repeated, harder this time, calling for his attention.
Slumped on the ground against the tree where he'd fallen asleep, d'Artagnan startled awake, shocked to see his horse standing beside him and nudging his shoulder with its head as if to remind him that it was time to go. Groggily, he pushed the animal's soft muzzle away, the horse quietly nickering in protest, but taking several steps to the side regardless. He scrubbed angrily at his face as he tried to brush off the remnants of his dream – nightmare, he automatically corrected. Obviously his worries had followed him into sleep, conjuring his worst fears and bringing them to life. Taking a shuddering breath, he tried to convince himself that his friends would never behave in such a manner. Not only that, but when he'd left, Aramis still lived, and d'Artagnan knew the others would not let the marksman slip easily away.
Pushing to his feet, he braced himself momentarily against the tree, bending over carefully to pick up his provisions so he could pack them away again. He took a deep drink from his water skin before repacking it, the cool liquid refreshing him a little and helping to further chase away the last traces of his dream. With a slightly shaky hand, he gripped the saddle and pulled himself up, taking a second to take several deep breaths before guiding his horse back to the road.
For a moment, he considered turning around, his need to know Aramis' fate warring with his duty to fulfill his mission, but he knew that returning now was not an option. Athos would not thank him, and he would only find himself in more trouble with Treville. So, with a heavy heart, he turned his horse towards his destination and nudged the animal into a canter.
The hours passed slowly and Athos was warmed to find Treville still at Aramis' side when he woke. His body felt old and worn, the effects of the previous night stubbornly hanging on despite the few hours' rest he'd managed. He rolled carefully onto his back from his side, cradling his sore arm against his chest as he breathed through the pain. The wound hadn't been serious, but getting shot hurt regardless, and he'd denied himself any sort of relief in favour of keeping a clear head so he could care for his brothers.
Even while d'Artagnan had stayed, he could not trust the boy enough to allow himself a modicum of relief, the fact that his friends were once more suffering due to the young man's actions echoing relentlessly through his aching skull. He allowed himself a full minute to feel sorry for himself before pushing up gingerly, pleased to find that Porthos was already awake and sitting at the table with a blanket around his shoulders.
He caught the larger man's eye as he stood, Porthos giving a slight dip of his head in acknowledgement, and then he moved to the bed, his gaze roving over the marksman's body to assess his friend's condition. Athos was unhappy about what he saw, Aramis still pale and incredibly still, his breaths coming in quick, shallow pants that made it appear that the man was in pain. Without thought, he leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of hair out of the man's face, and took a small measure of comfort in the fact that the marksman's skin was warm to the touch. "The physician believes he'll recover," Treville said, noting his lieutenant's uncharacteristic display of affection.
Athos looked up sharply at the Captain's words, having no memory of anyone else being in the room. "You were exhausted, Athos," Treville answered the unspoken question, considering that the man in front of him would have benefitted from a few more hours' sleep. The Musketeer gave a small nod, but remained quiet and the Captain rose from his chair, taking a moment to stretch stiff muscles as he prepared to leave. "I have to return to the garrison and check on the others." The comment was met by another distracted nod from his lieutenant. "I'll keep you off duty for as long as possible. Send word to update me later."
Athos was already moving to take Treville's vacated seat, and the Captain placed a hand on the Musketeer's shoulder to get his attention. "I want to hear how everyone is doing," he emphasized, his eyes dipping momentarily to Athos' stained sleeve.
At his commanding officer's words, Athos' gaze drifted to Porthos and he saw the guilt etched in his friend's features, filing the information away to deal with later as he replied, "I'll ensure you're updated accordingly."
Treville offered in a thin smile in return, moving toward the door where he paused, "I'll have Serge bring you something later."
Athos held the Captain's eye momentarily as he answered, "Thank you." Treville understood that the man was not referring to the food, but to the fact that he'd come himself to check on them and had stayed to care for Aramis while Athos slept. He dipped his chin in reply and left, wondering what he would find upon his return to the garrison.
At the table, Porthos remained hunched in his seat, his stomach muscles sore and his head still pounding, but no longer tired enough to lose himself to sleep. He'd been up for nearly an hour, which had been enough time for him to get the story from Treville about what had happened to himself and Aramis. What was unclear, though, was the cause of Athos' wrecked sleeve, the fabric heavily stained with red and hanging loose where the material had been torn apart.
He had a vague memory of discharging his pistol, and hoped that his fractured thoughts were wrong and that he hadn't actually shot one of his closest friends. With effort, he pushed himself to his feet, shuffling to the bed where he lowered himself down at its edge, still too unsteady to stay standing for any length of time. "Captain told me what happened," he began, his voice hoarse and raw after hours of sickness.
Athos' attention remained on the marksman, his body still as he stared at the comforting rise and fall of the ill man's chest. "I'm sure it was an accident," Porthos offered, hoping to draw the man into conversation. "His heart was in the right place, Athos," he persisted, not any happier with the situation, but aware that Aramis would not want the four of them to return to the discord they'd just recently overcome.
The older man dropped his head and closed his eyes, remembering the expression of torment on d'Artagnan's face when he'd realized what he'd done. It had been painfully clear that his actions had been unintentional, but the effects were no less terrible to deal with. The thought of losing two of his closest friends, although it seemed that only one was still in peril, had struck too close to home. It wasn't as though they hadn't faced the possibility of death before, but this instance seemed so senseless. There was no mission and no honour in it, and Athos could not accept that a foolish mistake might still take someone he loved from him.
Scrubbing a hand across his face as weariness began to creep up on him once more, Porthos spoke. "Treville sent the boy on a mission." He was gratified to see a flicker of interest pass across the older man's face as he raised his head and opened his eyes. "Said it was to let tempers cool, though I'm bettin' d'Artagnan doesn't see it that way."
Athos closed his eyes again, picturing the young man's contrite expression, the guilt of what he'd done oozing from every pore, and he had no doubt that Porthos was accurate in his assessment. The Gascon would be punishing himself more than anyone else possibly could, and Athos knew that his own censure of the young man had fueled the flames of remorse that now consumed him. Despite that knowledge he could find no forgiveness in his heart while Aramis lay so close to death, and he couldn't offer Porthos the comfort he sought by acquiescing to his need to reconcile with the Gascon upon his return.
"He acted thoughtlessly and must face the consequences." The large man drew breath to protest, but Athos cut him off as he bluntly stated, "How can you be so quick to forgive when Aramis' fate is still uncertain?" The words were intentionally cruel and meant to end the conversation, a goal that Athos achieved exceedingly well as Porthos clamped his mouth shut, his own guilt rising again in his chest as his eyes returned to the stained linen on the older man's shoulder.
Clearing his throat and then wincing as the action renewed the soreness there, Porthos asked, "Did I shoot you?"
Athos had known that his wound would have to be addressed, but had hoped to have more time before discussing it. Forcing himself to speak evenly he replied, "It was not your fault."
"Athos," the larger man interjected quietly. "I could have killed you."
Fixing his gaze on his friend, the older man repeated, "It was not your fault." At the continued look of disbelief on Porthos' face, he pressed on. "Serge explained that confusion is a common side-effect and you acted to protect us. You cannot accept responsibility for something that was out of your control."
Porthos looked unconvinced, but he gave a small tilt of his head in acceptance, if not agreement, of his friend's words. He looked back at the marksman's sleeping form and softly asked, "What now?"
Finding his volatile emotions again threatening to take hold, Athos forced down a sigh of frustration as he answered, "Now, we wait."