Chapter 9
Athos floats in a dreamscape of black trees, pistol shots and the bite of snow against skin. Memories waver over a battlefield, warping it into alternating scenes. Faces fade in and out of a backdrop of pain. His father's, stern and aristocratic, studying his broken arm (arm?) in disapproval and lecturing him on the humbug of climbing trees; Treville's, light blue eyes boring into him as he orders him to the infirmary, furious that his lieutenant has led a mission carrying an untreated wound; the beautiful, seductive face of his wife, Anne, her lips reverently kissing a recently acquired scar.
Voices invade his dreams, one deep and gruff, the other kind and coaxing, accompanied by the touch of hands, and he floats closer to the surface. A third, female voice rings in the background. They want him to do something.
…'thos… wake up…
He tries. He really tries, but everything is heavy - limbs, head, eyelids - and all he can do is let them maneuver him in a different position and stay there. There is something he needs to ask, something concerning the rhythmic thrum of pain in his jaw, but when he attempts to open his mouth, the voices become urgent and he feels hands under his chin and on his head, blocking his movement. Panic flares at the back of his mind.
...don't… still… closed…
Athos pries his eyelids open, ordering his arms to lift, dead weight or not, and swat at whoever is holding his head in a vice, but his wrists are caught in a firm grip. In front of him, Porthos flickers in and out of focus, cinching his arms. Beside him, Aramis, strangely distorted and talking, his hands cupping Athos' face. Athos doesn't quite catch what he says, but they are his brothers, he's certain they mean him no harm, so he lets himself drift back into the haze that is tugging at him.
...drink…
But the voices keep nagging. He is aware of fingertips against his lips, parting them. Something cool and sweet trickles into his mouth, past his teeth and is absorbed by his parched tongue before he can even remember how to swallow.
...drink…
He does. More liquid is gently being forced past his lips. Swallowing sends a muted, fiery spike through his face and neck, but his thirst trumps the pain. Through heavy eyelids, he thinks he sees a woman (Anne? Sister Marie? Who is Sister Marie?) smile at him, and he is content in the feeling of doing something right. The sweet coolness on his tongue yields to tepid bitterness and a sharp herbal scent. Whatever they're dripping into his mouth stings and pools in his split gums where his teeth are missing. He's missing teeth?
Athos hears a low moan and realises belatedly that it's come from his own throat. The voices comfort him now. A different herbal taste appears in his mouth, thick and painless. Then his eyes drift completely closed.
The dreamscape awaits.
XXX
Rousing Athos enough while keeping him under the numbing spell of the laudanum is not an easy feat to achieve. Their first attempt nearly ends in a catastrophe when Athos, unaware of his surroundings or their instructions, attempts to speak and Aramis has to clamp his hands around his jaw, fearing the broken bone will shift again. Athos begins to fight him, but thank God Porthos is there to grab his confused brother's hands and calm him down.
Whatever the big musketeer has done in the last few hours, it has brought him to his senses, and Aramis is relieved. Caring for Athos has been draining, and the sudden appearance of Caval's man has brought on a moral dilemma he doesn't want to shoulder on his own. He most certainly doesn't want to fight Porthos over what's right or wrong - a question, which, in his experience, rarely has a simple answer. Unlike Porthos, he is capable of quickly overruling his instincts by adhering to a higher law - that of Christ and the Bible. Compassion is one of the New Testament's cardinal demands, and Aramis has been living it as a healer, even if he is in permanent conflict with it as a soldier. Although his first impulse was to drive his main gauche through the henchman's heart, he knows it is not his decision to make. The man is a criminal. If he survives, he will be sentenced and hanged. He will pay for his crimes, including the terrible injuries he's inflicted upon Athos. God will judge him. God. Not Aramis.
Reappeared from his hiatus, still looking grim but steady, Porthos had come up to him and spat out a proclamation. "Alrigh'. We'll do it your way. We'll keep 'im alive an' hand 'im over to the proper authorities. But I'm not touchin' him again, an' you will leave the nursin' to Sister Marie an' the other nuns. We take care of Athos. Not of 'im."
They'd sealed the deal with a handshake.
And now Aramis is infinitely glad to have his brother by his side as they perform the Sisyphos task of spoon-feeding a semi-conscious Athos honeyed water and medicine. Thankfully, their injured brother is no longer fighting them, and after a few futile attempts and water everywhere, but not in Athos' mouth, they have devised a working method that hinges on propping him up at the right angle and smuggling spoonfuls of water past his lips. It's slow going, and Aramis doubts they're getting enough into him to quench his thirst, but it's a start.
Experimenting with the dosage, Sister Marie has found the correct amount of laudanum to keep Athos in a sedated state without compromising his ability to swallow. They have even been able to administer some of the cleansing mixture that will hopefully avert infection. The infusion of salvia, yarrow, garlic leaves and St. John's wort is bitter, but in spite of pulling a grimace, Athos has made no attempt at spitting it out.
Curious, Aramis has caught Sister Marie lifting Athos' eyelids and shining a candle into his eyes. When he asks, she explains to him that, for whatever reason, patients with head wounds sometimes develop unequally large pupils, signifying deterioration or lasting damage. As long as Athos' stay the same size, contracting in the same measure when the light hits them, they shouldn't have to worry about his concussion.
Aramis, Porthos, Sister Marie and the Mother Superior have taken turns at watching over him, and another full night has passed, the sun risen again, with all of them falling into a routine and cautious optimism beginning to replace the fear curling in Aramis' stomach ever since Athos was injured. This morning, Sister Marie successfully added broth to Athos' diet, and there is no trace of a fever when Aramis checks his brow.
There had been a period of worry during the night when Athos had become increasingly restless, fidgeting in his bed, a deepening frown on his forehead. When he'd suddenly stilled and Aramis had looked him over to find the sheet under him wet, they'd realised that, too drugged to control or communicate his body's basic needs, he'd lost his bladder, and they'd swiftly cleaned him up, hoping the proud musketeer would not remember the embarrassing instance. On the bright side, it meant that Athos was processing sufficient amounts of fluids.
After that, Aramis, with the regular aid of a wide-necked bottle and a gentle massage of Athos' lower belly, had spared him from further accidents - a trick he should've thought off much earlier, taught to him by an experienced military nurse.
Although he doesn't let it on to Porthos, Aramis is keeping a wary eye on what's happening in the small chamber across the hall. The nuns have established a roster, one of them staying with the still-alive, still unconscious henchman at all times. Sister Marie checks on him at regular intervals. As per Porthos' instructions, they've secured his wrists to the bed frame, and the nuns stay well out of his reach. When he's not with Athos or catching an eyeful of sleep, Porthos stands guard in front of the infirmary, his scowl fixed on the robber's cell door, as if the severely injured man could suddenly escape his bed, break through the locked door and make another attempt at killing Athos. Inwardly, Aramis smiles at Porthos' exaggerated protectiveness. He knows his big brother feels partially responsible for Athos' injury, and he suspects this is his way of making up for it.
Late in the afternoon, Aramis is finishing a bowl of stew in the convent's warm, tidy and comfortable kitchen when the Mother Superior appears, looking upset. She has been on watch with Athos, and her allotted time has not yet passed. Aramis drops his spoon, instantly alarmed.
"What is it? Athos?"
She nods, wringing her gnarly hands. "He's shivering. Would you please come? I'm afraid he's developing a fever. I've already sent for Sister Marie."
Oh no.
To Aramis' despair, her assumption is correct. When he arrives at the infirmary, Athos is restless and shuddering, his skin covered in goose flesh, an unnatural blush blooming on his cheeks. Sister Marie is already at his side, her fingers on Athos' wrist, feeling his pulse.
"Elevated," she states before Aramis can even ask. "He's growing warmer by the minute."
Instinctively, Aramis places one hand on Athos' forehead, the other on his good cheek. His skin is dry and hot.
"Infection?" he asks, unable to conceal a slight tremble in his voice.
Sister Marie frowns. "Possibly. I can't be sure. We can't look into his mouth, and the swelling I can feel doesn't seem much worse than earlier. It could be infection, of course. It could also be an ague that he caught out in the cold. Although he's not coughing, and there's no sign of a running nose."
Aramis' mind is racing, running through the various possibilities, all of them equally frightful. "Could it be his teeth? He lost two of them from the blow, and there could be remnants festering in his gums."
"It's a possibility, but I don't think so," the nun answers. "When I first examined him and when we had him on the table I didn't feel or see any remnants, and I was thorough. I'm fairly certain they were knocked out completely, including the roots. But, of course, I could have overlooked something." In spite of the arising crisis, she sounds pensive, not nervous.
"What do we do?" Aramis still has his hands on Athos, shivering and shifting under his touch.
"Everything we can do," the Sister replies resolutely. She reaches for a glass bottle on the nightstand. "Cool him down. Keep him calm. Fight his fever. Rinse his mouth. Make him drink. Hope. Pray. Wait."
For a devastating moment, hopelessness threatens to overwhelm Aramis. Infection is a killer. What's happening to Athos now is exactly what they'd been most afraid of. All of their efforts - the long agonizing ride to the convent, the horrifying procedure, the gruelling spoon-feeding - seem moot now.
"Is this a consequence of what we did? Of setting the break?" Doubt creeps into his question, and thinly veiled reproach.
Sister Marie halts in her movements, uncorked bottle in hand. She takes a moment to think and from her open expression Aramis can tell that she isn't offended, only self-critical, mentally going through every step of the treatment they've applied so far, questioning every decision involved.
"I don't have an answer for you," she finally says, sounding sincere. "All I can tell you is that infection - if that is what we're dealing with - is a common occurrence with this kind of injury, and it may just as well have happened without our course of treatment. We will never know."
Aramis' voice shakes in earnest now. "Be honest - is there a chance of survival?"
She looks at him, golden specks in her eyes reflecting the candlelight. "There is always a chance." And then, with a sudden spark of defiance, she adds :"We will give him one."
Drawing hope from her resolve, Aramis rubs his eyes and runs his hands over his face. Along with his tiredness, he wipes away his resignation. He looks at Athos. Fever chills are running through the sick musketeer in earnest now. Only the bandage is keeping his locked teeth from chattering. Without the laudanum Aramis is sure a pair of fever-glazed, bright eyes would be staring at him now, truculent and stubborn.
We can do this, he tells himself, remembering Porthos' reaffirming words to d'Artagnan. Athos can do this. We're musketeers. We don't just give up.
"I need to let Porthos know. He's outside, getting firewood."
"And so you shall. Help me prop him up and rouse him first." She shows him the bottle she's uncorked. "This is a febrifuge - willow bark, elderberry, peppermint and meadowsweet. Once we have that in him, we'll start with the cold compresses, and I have an idea how to rinse his mouth."
Together, they pull Athos into an elevated position, his body less compliant now, muscles spasming with every shudder. Gently, Aramis cups his good cheek, his thumb stroking the unbandaged patch under his eye. "You need to wake up a little now, my friend," he tells him and moves his hand to pinch Athos' earlobe. The musketeer stirs. "Wake up. We need you to fight."
It is a call to arms, Aramis realises. The beginning of a battle, and losing is not an option.
