Sorry I'm a little late but I wanted to post the last chapter AND the prologue. As usual, this work has not been beta'd. Let me know if you find any mistakes. If you don't find any you're not watching hard enough.
Thanks for sticking to the story. Thanks for reading and commenting and favouriting (is that even a word?).
Chapter Nine
We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.
-
Voltaire
After having been briefed (more or less truthfully), the King had insisted about the story of the Duke's son and his drilled animals to be withheld from the public. There had been merely the public announcement that no more threats were to be expected.
It took a few days but not long before the streets filled once more with folk going after their own business.
Children playing hide and seek while mangy dogs were fighting ambitiously over left over bones, women tattling to their neighbors while their little ones were chewing on wooden pegs that kept falling down and men gloating loudly over whatever it was that their wives had strictly told them not to do in the first place.
In the grand scheme of things: same old, same old.
But if there was one thing one could count on then it was the fact that secrets would not stay secrets.
So while Paris' heartbeat slowly regained its lively stroke the wildest rumors had begun circulating.
A Musketeer, strong as a bears, had wrestled with four beasts at the same time, they said. He had ripped their hearts out with his hands and had hung them from the chandeliers, they said. His only weapon had been a fork from the King's collection of cutlery, they said. Strangely enough, the last statement was more common within the walls of The Court where a little girl called Marie produced a marvelous piece of gleaming silver fork every time she had to retell the story.
Meanwhile, the reason for all the dramatic hero talk was just being snatched at by his own horseafter returning from a two day mission while trying to unsaddle squeakedin surprise und stumbled backwards over a water fill bucket. The inevitable happened and the young red head fell on his butt, the water spewing all over his breeches.
Capaut merely shook his head, sighed and ignored the mumbled apologies of his youngest team member. Gaëtan might be a clumsy fellow but he was still their clumsy fellow. And he was a hero.
He left the stables and walked out into the courtyard, where he had to evade two flying knifes as well as the almost somersault of a young Musketeer who was being leveraged over another man's shoulder in a bold element of hand-to-hand combat. Today's training was in full progress and he looked up, fully expecting the Captain to oversee the tumultuous sessions but to his surprise, the Captain's usual lookout was void and the door to his office was closed, indicating that he was either out and about or in his office, entertaining visitors.
His glance wandered towards the infirmary and something heavy lodged in his stomach. He had avoided these rooms of the garrison during the last days, knowing quiet well, that within its wall the world had not yet righted itself. The young man's cries day and night like whiplashes against their collective backs. Hushed whispersaccompanied by stolenglances towards the ever lit window, the coming and going of the King's personal physician, who had looked graver and graver with every single visit and Capaut didn't want to ask for news, feeling like he would jinx their Status Quo. D'Artagnan was still alive, after all. And as long as he was, there was hope.
The window was dark.
"Capaut?" Someone was touching his shoulder and he turned to see Gaëtan looking at him expectantly, following his gaze. "Are you well?"
"Of course!" he answered gruffly, taking in Gaëtan's sodden figure. There were puddles forming under his shoes where the water from the bucket was dripping from his breeches. "Go. Change! You'll catch your death in that cold. I'll take care of the documents."
Gaëtan nodded and with one last considerate glance at him strode off, waddling awkwardly from either a sore butt or the uncomfortable sensation of having his clothes clinging wetly to his skin. Capaut waited another minute before he started walking towards the stairs and climbed up, waiting in front of the office door another minute before finding the courage to knock. He waited for what felt like an eternity until he heard a curtly bellowed "Come in!" and opened the door.
"You're back." Treville stated the obvious,sitting behind his table, one hand wrapped around a glass. On a chair in the front sat – with his back to Capaut – Athos, with his head low and his unusually shaggy hair hiding his features. When Capaut didn't reply immediately Athos turned to him questioningly, one eyebrow raised.
"We are, Captain," Capaut said, feeling like he had walked into an intense argument that wasn't necessarily carried with words. "The documents, Captain. Mission was successful. Nothing remarkable to report."
Usually, this would have been the Captain's part to insist on a full report, no matter how dull. Instead, he nodded distractedly, his grey eyes still on Athos while he didn't even spare any further glance at Capaut. "Thank you, Capaut. Dismissed."
Capaut quickly closed the door behind him and left the two somber men in their misery. Unsure whether he wanted to know the reason behind their mood he went back into the courtyard, realizing that their horses were already properly attended to and of his four-member team, two were already hunched on a bench, a bowl of delicious smelling stew in front of them, shoveling it inside their mouths like they hadn't eaten for days.
"We've been gone for two days," Capaut scoffed and rolled his eyes. "And we've had plenty food."
Serge, who was just coming out of the kitchen, put yet another bowl on the table.
Grateful, Capaut sat down and started stirring his food, calling out to their chef before the old man could disappear in his kitchen.
"Serge!" The old man turned, watching him expectantly until Capaut dipped his head towards in the direction of the infirmary. "How does he fare?"
Serge shrugged and heaved a sigh before he answered. Capaut regretted his question already. Next to him, his comrades had halted, spoons dripping hot soup on the table.
"No change, 'm afraid." Serge mumbled gruffly. "The physician recommended bloodletting, followed by the a priest, just in case..." He lowered his voice "Aramis and Athos voiced their… concerns on that matter… or both matters. Loudly! T'was'nt not a nice conversation. Got kicked out of the infirmary, them both." Serge shook his head.
"Kicked out? They can't get kicked out of the infirmary," Capaut declared, bemused.
"What do I know? A've just seen Aramis storm outta here and run off like the devil was on his heels. Then Athos disappeared in the Captain's office. Has been sitting there since morning."
"Who's with the lad now?"
"Porthos and the physician, I suppose," Serge answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Now eat! I di'n't cook to have it go cold."
"Thanks." Absentmindedly, Capaut returned to his meal, still hot and delicious, but he was having a hard time enjoying it. It felt like a bad omen to have the four Inseparables separated, now of all times.
Quickly and without much gusto, he finished his meal and stood, intent on keeping at least Porthos company, as long as the others were unaccounted for. But the calling of his name stopped him and as he turned a familiar woman was standing slightly forlorn under the archway leading into the Rue de Bac.
"Madame Bonacieux," he greeted her in surprise, knowing that his intention was getting revised on the fly.
The room was silent, not even the crackling of a fire. It had burned down to a sorry wasteland of ailing embers. The warmth – Aramis had pointed out – not exactly beneficial for the feverish Gascon, so they had decided to let it burn low, just enough to keep the chill out.
Porthos sat shivering on a chair next to his youngest friend, head leaning heavy against his arm, which was resting next to the d'Artagnan's healing thigh. To everyone's surprise, the washing and redressing of the wound had shown improvements and after three days Aramis felt confident to stitch the several gaping wounds up without having to fear that he'd have to reopen them at a later point.
But the damage had been done and the infection had run amok within the young man's body, causing him to shake and twitch until his joints and hands were stiff and his lips and tongue were bleeding from the constant shattering of his teeth. All they could do was trying to stop him from harming himself even further as they soothed him with murmured words of consolation and cold cloths to cool his ever burning limbs. Arm and legs. Torso and neck. Forcing liquids between his cracked lips. At first, spoonful by spoonful, then drip by drip.
They had taken turns, had done everything humanly possible to counteract the infection but nothing had made any impact, at least not when it came to the fire in his veins. d'Artagnan kept burning, slowly slipping away from them. Growing quieter and weaker by the hour. Hadn't regained consciousness for two days now.
No more movement. No restless searching of his eyes behind closed lids, no shaking. Just a random twitching motion of his fingers every once in a while and the slow raising and falling of his chest. Stubbornly clinging to what was left of his maltreated body functions.
Porthos' hand was firmly wrapped around d'Artagnan's fingers, while on the other side one arm was protruding over the edge of the table, a small rivulet of thick, red blood slowly cleaving its path along his dark skin to "draw the poisonous source of the illness out" as the physician had claimed. The bloody trail ended in a strangely twisted loop on his little finger from where it was dripping soundly on a large plate.
"That will do for now," the physician, a haggard old man with thin white hair that let gleam through the mole covered scalp noted and bent d'Artagnan's arm, pressing a thick bandage against the small cut in the crook of his arm.
Porthos looked up but did not react otherwise. Just made sure of the rising and falling of d'Artagnan's chest, willing it to go on.
"Will it 'elp?" He finally asked, still not looking at the old man.
"This will be God's decision to make," The old man replied in a tone that was both antagonistic and cordial.
Porthos bit his tongue to keep from lashing out at the man, who was after all only just doing his job. Even though Aramis would possibly disagree. But Aramis wasn't here.
Porthos uttered an unintelligible reply, clasping d'Artagnan's finger once more and felt his heart constrict at the lack of reaction.
"The priest should be here soon," the physician announced with barely concealed reluctance and Porthos couldn't hold it against him, considering how Athos and Aramis had reacted a few hours before. Couldn't even object.
Accompanied by clattering and shuffling noises the physician packed away his instruments and after another quick glance at his patient, which Porthos rather felt than actually saw, he left the infirmary, leaving Porthos behind with the grave foreboding that his service wouldn't be needed anymore.
Feeling cold and alone and utterly helpless Porthos once more let his head sink, his forehead touching the hot, dry skin of d'Artagnan's arm. But the sensation of it felt too wrong so he looked up again, his eyes falling on the smudges of blood, that now marred the young man's right arm. Suddenly restless, he got up and went about to clean the arm properly, feeling his tension dissuade slightly as he restarted wiping down d'Artagnan's body with clean, lukewarm water, taking extra time to clean his face and get the most filth and grime out of his hair. It was a strangely soothing procession and Porthos didn't even realize when the door opened and someone entered, watching his careful ministration.
"How is he?"
Porthos jumped and almost let the washing pan fall as he looked up.
"Constance!" He exclaimed. "What ya're doing 'ere?" Immediately realizing how silly the question was. "No need ta answer that. Sorry, I'll just…" He quickly finished drying d'Artagnan up, before covering him once more with a light blanket, making sure that the wound on his thigh as well as the fresh cut in his arm was out of view. Constance, though, didn't move, didn't evade her eyes. Just watched in silent reverie his doings.
"'e's…" Porthos began, feeling unexpectedly out of place as Constance's grim expression chilled the room even further.
Constance didn't seem fazed by his failure of a reply. Her eyes were glued on d'Artagnan and without blinking she declared placidly. "I need a minute."
She seemed steadfast in her demeanor, strong and iron-willed and Porthos could only nod. With one last look at d'Artagnan and Constance he left them, knowing that right now he was needed somewhere else anyway.
The big man all but stormed through the door, walked past him looking neither left nor right and Capaut watched him stalk off with a steady gait. He waited until he had vanished behind the archway before he positioned himself once more leaning against the entry to the infirmary. The soft murmur of a voice rang behind the sturdy wood and he sank on a rickety chair to keep guard. He let his head rest against the wall and smiled as he heard Constance's voice rise in indignation.
He still couldn't understand what she was saying but it was pretty clear for the way her voice broke and rose, broke and rose, that d'Artagnan was getting the dressing down of his life. Pity, he wasn't awake to appreciate it.
He felt a nameless sadness well up inside of him, constricting his throat, as he could clearly hear Constance's wobbly threat that she would "kill you if you don't fight hard enough. You stupid idiot!" The harsh words managed to lift his feelings and Capaut knew, the Gascon wouldn't dare dying as long as it was Constance who'd take the brunt of his immediate demise. Too much of a Gentleman, that idiot.
The silence was deafening.
Treville's finger held onto his glass, swirling it in constant circles. Fascinated, he watched the golden liquid create little waves crashing against the smooth walls of the tumbler before shaking himself out of his strained focus when there was a knock on the door.
He threw a quick look at Athos who found his knees to be much more noteworthy as he had for the last hour.
Treville hadn't made much effort to talk to his second in command when he had furiously ordered him into his office after having to restrain him from killing the physician with his bare hands and leaving a trail of destruction within the compounds of the garrison. Treville didn't doubt one second that blood would have been drawn if a sword had been within the former comte's reach.
Words wouldn't do much good here. The usual flowery phrases would be more the proverbial nails in d'Artagnan's coffin. Not that Treville already wanted to start thinking about d'Artagnan's coffin.
No, there were no words to be given, no comfort to be provided.
There was just the ticking of the clock. And said clock was obnoxiously imperturbable.
"In!" Treville bellowed, remembering the knock on the door.
Capaut. Of course. Treville had sent Capaut's team off to collect a few documents from … ack. He couldn't even remember, where he had sent them. Something to do with a trade opportunity for horses of high breeding quality that the King had been drooling about for weeks now.
It couldn't have been more trivial and Treville sighed inwardly.
"You're back," he stated unnecessarily. Capaut hesitated, questions and discomfort written all over his face. When he didn't reply, Athos threw him a glance, nudging him to keep talking.
"We are, Captain." Capaut swallowed and took a step towards the table to put a thick leather wrapper on the surface. "The documents, Captain. Mission was successful. Nothing remarkable to report."
The seasoned Musketeer could have told him that they had been attacked by dragons and Treville would have nodded absentmindedly, glad that he didn't have to rise from his stupor to take care of pressing matters, lacking the energy to even think beyond today's outcome.
Because he knew the Status Quo couldn't last much longer. By tomorrow d'Artagnan would round a corner, one way or another. There was only so much a body could endure.
"Thank you, Capaut. You may go."
The door closed and Athos lowered his head once more, the glass in front of him untouched.
"The boy…"
"Not a boy!" Athos interrupted him gruffly.
"d'Artagnan…"
"With all due respect, Sir. I don't want to hear it," Athos retorted in a sharp voice that just didn't want to harmonize with his slumped poise and Treville dipped his head in acknowledgment. If his role was to be reduced to being there, then be it so. He could do that.
His attention once more wandered to his tumbler and its content, mentally preparing himself to not just losing one man, but a whole team.
Some days, being the Captain sucked.
It had taken almost half an hour, three churches and bypassing three carriage accidents surrounded by lamenting owners and bystanders barricading the narrow streets to find Aramis. It wasn't one that the marksman usually sought when he needed time to think or pray or whatever it was that he could only do in a church. Porthos never really understood what it was that churches had to offer that couldn't also be found in the solitude of his own four walls. Churches were cold and dark and creepy. Guilt and melancholy were dripping from the walls like fresh paint. Footsteps reverberated through the hall. The way hushed words could be heard in every corner and even if you were still enough to hear your own heart beating there was a constant murmur in the air, like someone (God?) was listening and trying to talk to you but you never got to understand what it was. Be it advice, accusation or comfort – it didn't matter. In the end, Porthos knew, everything you did or did not was your own doing – or wrong-doing.
The heavy door leading into St-Germain-l'Auxerroiswas hanging in rusty hinges and made a blood curling screeching sound as he opened it to reveal the interior, which didn't much differ from any other church that Porthos had been in. The atrium made way for a long nave leading to the choir. Archways to the left and the right separated the rows and rows of seating from the side aisles.
The church was neither as peculiar and pretentious as Notre Dame nor as beautiful or uplifting as Sainte-Chapelle but it did yield a certain beauty in its straightforward structure and sturdy frame.
The occasional penitent was sitting on the uncomfortable looking benches, head bowed and hands clasped tight in his or her lap. Except for the one man sitting in one of the first rows, who had his eyes turned upwards to the large cross overshadowing the whole interior like an admonitory finger.
Porthos sighed with relief and made his way to the front, flinching with every echoing step he made which in his perception caused the whole church to tremble.
He took a seat next to his friend and followed his gaze, waiting, while Aramis ignored him, purposefully looking ahead with just the infinitesimal blink of recognition. Seconds were turning into long minutes, train of thoughts into whole monologues and nervously Porthos began to fidget as his backside started to cramp.
It earned him an annoyed side glance from Aramis and he rolled his eyes.
"These benches should be marked as torture devices," he hissed. "The Bastille should be provided with those. Them perps will sing like birds."
He could have sworn the corners of Aramis mouth were twitching. But that might have been his imagination. Or just a tickle of facial hair.
"How did you find me?"
"By searchin' for ya."
Someone shushed them from behind and they returned to their silent contemplation. Which Porthos was really bad at. It took only one of Aramis' Lord's Prayers before he wheezed impetuously.
"What'yar doing 'ere?"
Aramis scoffed. "What do you think I'm doing?"
"Looks like 'iding ta me."
"I'm not…" Aramis hissed and lowered his voice quickly. "I'm not hiding. I'm praying."
Porthos arched his eyebrows. "And ya think that's going ta 'elp anyone?"
"It helps me." Aramis replied with a heavy sigh. "At least it used to. You're not helping."
"Not doing anything 'ere." Porthos put up his in a rebutting gesture. "Just waiting for you to be done praying."
Aramis looked at him blankly. "One's never done praying. Praying isn't …a chore. It's not doing your laundry until all is clean."
"That 'splains a lot," Porthos smirked. "as I'm doin' neither."
Aramis pulled a grimace but Porthos could see the humor show through.
"Look, I'm-" … "I wanted to-" They both began at the same time.
"Messieurs!" A loud voice rattled indignantly and both men ducked their heads.
"Churches aren't made for talkin'," Porthos stated, dismissing all effort to lower his voice.
Aramis threw him a glance that was probably supposed to deliver a rebuke but instead it quickly contorted into a pained expression.
"Sometimes that's the whole point, Porthos." Aramis crossed himself, leaning back and turned his attention to his hands. "Who's with d'Artagnan?"
"Constance," said Porthos, adding a lopsided smile to the answer. "Probably give him a 'ard time for all the mess 'e's in."
"He'll never wake up if her wrath is the only thing awaiting him," Aramis huffed but he, too, managed a little smile.
"Look, Aramis," Porthos eventually pointed out, voice loud and not allowing any disruption. "If it takes God to listen to what I have ta say..."
"And everyone else in this church, but never mind us," someone from behind them mumbled crossly and the two Musketeers turned in their seats, shushing him simultaneously with a vexed "Shut up!"
"I'm sorry I yelled at ya down in the tunnels. I didn't mean it like tha'."
"We've had that talk already," Aramis chipped in wearily.
"Yea – no. I know. But I can see 'ow much ya blame yourself for what 'appened. Even worse tha' Athos and - seriously - this is nonsense. Knowledge doesn't make ya liable for whatever 'appens to d'Artagnan. The pup is strong and 'e will fight the odds. And that's what I know."
"I just… there's nothing I can do except praying… it gives me something to put my faith in."
"I don' trus' in God, Aramis! 'e tends ta make decisions I 'aven't consented to," Porthos interrupted slightly bitter. "I trust in you and Athos and d'Artagnan. I trust in us."
Aramis looked around, as if trying to make out whether someone was actively listening on their little talk but they were alone, the others having left in favor of reclusion somewhere else.
"Profanity in a church, my friend," he hissed, but his eyes twinkled with mirth. "I'm going to get kicked out here as well if you don't guard your tongue."
"As well? Ya got kicked out of a church? When? Where?"
" Long story."
"Is there a woman involved?" Porthos grinned cheekily and he got rewarded with a grin.
"Three, actually."
Porthos laughed, loud. A belly-heavy roar that ruptured like an avalanche of boulders and Aramis gave in with a few self-consciously snorted puffs.
Their high spirits ebbed away and all that was left was the dread digging holes in their stomachs. Without having to share another word they stood and meandered through the narrow benches towards the side aisle, where two monks crossed their path, glaring at them. They left the church through a smaller door at the side, leading them outdoors into a narrow alley where it smelled of fresh baked bread and horse dung. Between the rooftops over their heads a bright blue winter sky was visible and the fresh air cleared their heads. Their steps and their hearts lighter the closer they got to the garrison.
The moroseness of his mind was starting to feel like an old, undesirable acquaintance and lethargy and indifference were slowly taking over as he couldn't even remember what it was exactly what had pushed him over the edge.
Was it the fact that the doctor had advised for a priest to be called or the blood-letting – which in his mind was just pure torture on top of everything? Aramis seemed to have concluded likewise and the result was a match of shouted accusations towards… he couldn't even remember. At one point, he'd probably have to apologize to pretty much everyone present.
But right now, Athos had no intention to give in to the world expecting him to function.
Torn between anger and gratefulness he risked a look at Treville sitting opposite of the table, deep in his own thoughts while staring at his glass. Gratefulness won.
The captain wore his responsibility with pride and transcendence and Athos' anger dissipated at the sight the man was offering, sitting upright in his chair and his thoughts miles and miles away, his face a mask of integrity and composure. Where Athos was a rock, Treville was their mountain. Nothing could break that man and with a pang of guilt, Athos realized that for Treville d'Artagnan wouldn't be the first loss he'd suffer in his duty to France and monarchy. Probably not even the second or third. And by God it would not be the last. And yet, he endured fate's slaps in his face and kept going, his motivation his sense of duty and his responsibility towards his Musketeers.
Athos' stomach cramped and he tried to remember when he'd last eaten. It must have been the day before that. No wonder the room was starting to sway around him.
He swallowed and sat a little straighter, ignoring the pinch in his healing side. The small movement didn't escape Treville and their eyes met.
"Captain, I feel the need to apolo…"
"With all due respect, Athos," Treville interrupted him brusquely but his eyes softening. "I don't want to hear it."
The older man took the glass and swallowed the remaining content, glass meeting wood with a grounding thump and his eyes swiveling back to Athos. "Go!"
Athos felt his lips tremble almost involuntarily then widening into a miniscule smile, the small surge of recognition fueling him more than any other substance possibly could. He nodded, heaved himself out of his chair as if having aged three decades in the span of a few hours and left the office.
Madame Bonacieux had stopped yelling at some point and silence had settled behind the closed door. Capaut had knocked, stuck his head through the door. His gaze fell on the young man's chest rising and falling in steady dependability while she had taken position near the window with her back to him.
He had asked her if she needed anything but she did not respond, either ignoring him in favor of her not wanting to be seen crying or because she just plain did not hear him, lost in her own pain. Reluctantly, Capaut retreated to his look-out where he could watch the courtyard.
The training was still in full swing, the area bustling with musketeers with yelled profanities and laughter even though it all felt constructed and forced. A poor reflection of normalcy but familiar enough to lull him into a sense of peace until Athos eventually appeared on the top of the stair. The swordsman let his gaze roam over the training in a similar fashion to the way Treville usually did. Until his eyes fell on two more figures that had appeared under the archway, as if listening to an internal clock that only the three could hear. They even started moving in sync, their paths meeting at the foot of the stairs where they proceeded in tandem towards Capaut's position at the entrance of the infirmary. Uttering with one voice "No priest!" as they passed him by.
When the doors closed behind them Capaut felt his heart unclench and a soft smile fleetingly cross his lips. Things had begun to right itself and he could concentrate on showing Gaëtan how NOT to throw a knife unless he wanted his foot to be skewered to the floor, all the while making sure that no priest would even come close to the infirmary.
The day slowly trickled into the afternoon, the courtyard soon lying in deep shadows lowering the temperature drastically as heavy clouds rolled in promising snow. When the first snowflake touched the frosted over window pane they lit the room with candles – more than strictly necessary but they felt the need to chase off as many shadows as possible - and gathered around d'Artagnan, seeking the closeness like moths a light. Lethargy settled within the four walls and the shuffling of sporadic feet on the floor, the rustling of Constance's dress and the crackling of the small fire the only sounds. d'Artagnan's labored breathing had turned into a tiny whisper of air between his opened lips only audible when they lowered close to his face.
Capaut had arranged for some food, which lay mostly discarded on a table. Only Porthos kept nibbling on a piece of bread that just would not grow smaller.
It was already deep into night – midnight heralding itself with twelve distant chimes – when Constance leaned closer to d'Artagnan, distractedly nuzzling his hair and kissing his forehead.
"I think… no, I'm sure his fever has come down," she announced quietly, her fingers resting against d'Artagnan's forehead and causing Porthos and Athos to raise their heads in guarded hope.
Aramis looked at his three friends, violently ignoring the little voice in his head telling him how it probably would end. Before death set in, there was sometimes a short period of drastic improvement before the body shut down, the organs ceasing their functions one by one. Sometimes, patients woke up almost lucid, asking for something to eat or drink or asking for their loved ones. Their eyes would be clear and their speech would be vibrant and crisp. A miracle. And then the tides would turn, inexorable. It would be quickly, peacefully. No dramatic battle, not even a word of goodbye. Just the clandestine untangling of body and spirit between one breath and the next.
With a pang he realized that where there once had been faith and hope a bitterness had nested in his judgment. Where once had been confidence doubt and pessimism had spread and he wasn't quite sure how to handle it lest he completely lost himself in that vicious circle.
In the end, Aramis didn't have it in his heart to tell his friends about his misgivings because contrary to his feelings, experience had taught him that where the Inseparables were concerned, experience didn't count.
So he didn't say anything but stepped closer and checked the young man's temperature himself. Constance was right, the fever had definitely broken but his pallor was still ashen. There was no movement behind the eyelids and only a sluggish reaction to the light when he slid them open to examine the pupils. He slipped his fingers between d'Artagnan's and squeezed, almost forcefully so to encourage a reaction but there was none.
"d'Artagnan? Can you hear us?" He murmured, his mouth close to his young friend's ear. "We're here. Come back to us."
"As if the little whelp ever listens," Porthos snorted.
From the corner of his eyes he could see Athos flinch at Porthos' words followed by a somber "Don't call him that. He might kick your ass, wounded leg notwithstanding."
"I'd like to see that…" Porthos joked and sobered quickly.
"My dear Porthos," Aramis added meaningfully. "We all would like to see that,"
Midnight sneaked off, leaving the three men and one woman restlessly wandering the room and talking quietly, dozing in between and never leaving their eyes of d'Artagnan until their collective weariness lulled them into exhausted sleep in the wee morning hours.
It was Athos who startled awake first.
Within the stables, the horses were fidgeting, impatiently waiting to be fed and tended to as the stable boys shuffled sleepily across the courtyard, cursing the snow that had fallen and which they no doubt would have to shovel before the sun had risen.
Groggily rubbing the bridge of his nose Athos looked around, his brain only slowly picking up where it had left him before he had dozed off.
Suddenly wide awake, he sat up in the chair, taking in his sleeping companions. Constance and Aramis leaning against each other with her head on his shoulder. Porthos, the piece of bread still in his hand, sitting on the floor, back resting against d'Artagnan's table.
d'Artagnan had not moved an inch and there was a moment of shock when Athos couldn't detect whether he was breathing or not. Until d'Artagnan's head rolled to the side and his eyes – dark and hollow in sunken sockets – blinked repeatedly.
"d'Artagnan," Athos whispered nonplussed. "You're awake."
The young man tried to wet his parched lips before answering "Contrary to everyone else, it seems." The voice more a croak than actual words. "Wha' happ'n'd?"
Quietly, Athos got up and moved closer, his hand finding the younger man's arm. The skin felt warm, not hot. d'Artagnan's eyes glistened not with a fever but with confusion and fatigue.
"You woke." Athos couldn't help the way his voice shook slightly and he quickly wiped his eyes, removing the traitorous wetness that threatened to fall.
"'course I did," d'Artagnan smiled sheepishly, his eyes growing smaller.
"Don't sleep!" Athos ordered quietly, becoming aware of movement behind him. A moment later, Aramis appeared at his side, going through the same procedures as before. Hand to the forehead, pupil's reaction and one look at the wound. The medic, usually vibrant and eloquent when busying himself with a patient did not speak which bothered Athos more than the way d'Artagnan's eyes kept falling shut.
"What's going on?" A sleepy voice from where Porthos was still sprawled on the floor on the foot of the table. The large man rose and his face broke into a large grin in answer to d'Artagnan's unfocussed gaze.
"You will drink first, then you can rest, understood?" Athos instructed again and tried to read the medic's expression but Aramis face never lost its stony concentration.
D'Artagnan murmured his understanding, his eyes following each of Aramis' movements und the Spaniard finally met his gaze.
"You really scared us," Aramis said, a crooked smile slowly spreading on his face. "Do not ever do that again!"
"S'rry."
Athos shook his head, groaning faintly. "Don't be. Just get better!"
"Do my best," d'Artagnan mumbled. "Gottado some ass-kickin'. Wounded leg notwithstanding." It took a while for it to sink in but it was Porthos who broke the stunned atmosphere as his chuckles finally woke Constance.
Ruefully, they suffered through her half-hearted rant of not having been woken before they finally managed to get some more water into the boy, who fell asleep in between two sips, water trickling from his mouth over his stubbled chin, which Athos wiped away with his thumb. A wave of peace washed over him, like a warming bonfire from his insides and for the first time in days – weeks even – he could breathe easily as the boy's health continued to improve hour by hour.
d'Artagnan slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling now with revived energy and once the evening crept in, he woke up again asking for water - and his breeches.
Athos' heart was soaring in delight despite feeling vulnerable given the overwhelming rush of relief and gratitude towards whoever was watching over the boy, who – one day – would be the death of him.