Blood Loss (Chapter 3 of 3)

Athos woke with a gasp. How he had gotten any sleep at all was unfathomable. His heart was pounding as if he had been in a fight and he drew in air in erratic pants. And yet he was still in bed, having done nothing to warrant such exhaustion.

"Slow your breathing if you can," Aramis said.

Marvellous. Next he would instruct Athos to breathe with him like a governess nursing a sickly child.

But Aramis did no such thing, instead occupying himself at the small table next to the fireplace on the far side of the room. It was a simple room, illuminated by candles and dancing firelight. The furniture was sparse and non-descript, but at least the place seemed clean. There was a pile of discarded clothes and sheets next to the door, stained dark with what Athos assumed was blood. He spotted Porthos, slumped over in a chair and fast asleep.

"We wore him out," Aramis said with a smile.

"He sutured my wound," Athos said slowly, remembering.

"Yes." Aramis looked over at Porthos with great fondness. "He saved you. I'm sorry for the pain I caused."

"But—"

"Shh. I'd rather you remembered it like that. Porthos would never hurt you."

"Oh…" Athos grappled with that. He wasn't sure if Aramis was taking credit for something he hadn't done or if he was leaving the credit to Porthos while absolving him of the guilt he'd surely feel.

"Can you swallow?" Aramis asked, apropos of nothing.

Athos frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"When the body is… in great pain, men often can't. I didn't dare to give you anything to drink earlier, but you must be thirsty."

Athos hadn't thought about that before, but now that Aramis mentioned it, he did indeed notice that his throat was very dry. "I assume so."

Aramis held out a bowl. "The innkeeper gave us some broth."

"Give her my thanks." Athos attempted to sit up in bed, but hissed through his teeth when pain flared in his leg.

"Let me help." In an instant, Aramis' hands were on his shoulders. "Hold your leg."

Athos did, surprised by the sheer amount of bandages under his braies. His leg was thick and clumsy in his hands, almost a foreign object to him.

With Aramis pulling and Athos pushing with his uninjured leg, they manoeuvred him into a sitting position against the wall. Athos tried to heed Aramis' earlier advice and slow down his breathing, attempting to manage the pain as best he could. Aramis waited patiently, perched on a low stool. Thankfully, he kept his silence.

Athos gestured for the bowl and Aramis handed it to him. Athos tried to hold it, tried to close his hands around it, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Only Aramis' quick reaction prevented the broth from spilling. Athos stared at his arms, lying limp on the blanket.

"May I?" Aramis gestured at the bowl, then at Athos.

Athos averted his eyes, overcome by embarrassment, but did not decline. Aramis made no comment. He simply tipped the bowl against Athos' lips and let him drink. Small sips. Slowly, very slowly. Athos focused on swallowing, not wanting to look at Aramis. Even that simple action tired him. Everything was so laborious, so exhausting that night.

"Some wine?"

Athos' eyes snapped up. "I don't need wine."

Aramis smiled. "Just a little, to get your strength back."

Athos pressed his lips together and shook his head. He knew Aramis' stance on his drinking very well and he would not give him that excuse to look down on him. Not that night.

"I mean it," Aramis said. "You need some fluids now and this will fortify you."

The wine smelled nice, rich and heavy. And Athos wanted… anything to keep up his strength, anything to not be so weak any more. Aramis let him drain the whole cup, once again in small, small sips.

"Why are you doing this?" Athos asked when Aramis set the cup aside.

Aramis looked surprised. "I do nothing out of the ordinary, my friend."

"Don't call me that. I'm not your friend."

Aramis frowned. "Why not?"

Athos looked away, looked at Porthos, looked at all their bloody shirts. "I have nothing to offer you."

For a while, Porthos' gentle snores were the only sound in the room. As the silence lingered, Athos' awkwardness grew.

"Does he never wake up?" he asked, directing his irritation elsewhere.

Aramis chuckled. "Rarely. It worried him when he was looking after me. It would worry him now if he knew."

Athos had nothing to say to that. Again, they sat in silence. Athos felt sleepy, but knew that lying back down would require Aramis' aid. He had no desire to ask for it.

"I was nothing," Aramis said. "Back then, I couldn't eat, I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. I could only scream. I truly had nothing to offer."

"You were still a musketeer."

"Was that what you saw?" Aramis let the question hang between them. "And when you first saw me I was… much improved. Is that what you see now? A musketeer? I know you see me when I fumble."

"I saw you in the forest."

"I know. You always do, Athos."

"You're still a musketeer. You have that commission."

"For how much longer? You must wonder. When will Tréville take it from me?"

"He wouldn't."

"And why not? It's been half a year now and I'm hardly back to normal. And without my commission, what would I be?"

"Your experience, your status… you have many things."

"My status lies in my commission," Aramis said. "And my experience… is that what you want from me, Athos?"

"I do believe it is what mended my leg today."

"We'll leave the mending to God. I was merely a tool. It's not that, Athos. It's not about the clothes you wear or the things you know. Look at Porthos. There's barely enough material left in his shirts to patch them together and he doesn't wear that pauldron and yet… It's about who you are inside. It's about your kindness."

Athos bit down firmly on the inside of his lip. He did not appreciate the course of this conversation.

"And again, I have nothing to offer in that regard," he said, keeping his voice tightly controlled. Kindness had not been part of his upbringing and he thought it unlikely that he would add it to his arsenal any time soon. Kindness was weakness and there was no space in life for that. Kindness was also too close to love and he knew what happened to those he loved.

"With respect," Aramis said. "I disagree."

If anything was tedious about being an ordinary soldier, it was the way in which people felt free to disagree with him. Athos had never come across that before, had never had his every statement questioned. Surely, he could at least be trusted to know his own mind.

Aramis put aside the crockery and washed his hands in a bowl by the fireplace.

"I would like to look at your bandages before you go back to sleep," he said, his voice bearing no trace of their disagreement. "If you can lift your knee a little, we might not have to get you onto your stomach again."

Carefully breathing through the pain, Athos managed that much. He gritted his teeth while Aramis probed the bandages, pressing at various points, then slipping his finger underneath.

"They aren't too tight?" Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head, not entirely trusting his voice.

"Can you move your toes?"

Athos obediently wriggled his toes. It was painful, but then again there was very little that wasn't.

"I'm glad," Aramis said and smiled at him.

"I won't die then?" Athos asked pointedly.

Aramis stared at him and Athos met his gaze. He would not pretend he didn't know what they had said.

"Very well." Aramis nodded. "I won't make promises. Wounds get infected, fevers kill, bodies weaken. Your life's in God's hands. But for now, the sutures hold and there seems no lasting damage to your leg."

To get him lying flat again was a protracted and agonising affair. By the end of it, Athos was reduced to panting again, pain threatening to overwhelm him. His vision darkened at the edges once more.

"Let me elevate your legs," Aramis said. Athos barely registered the additional hurt.

"I promise, it helps," Aramis assured him as he bedded his legs on what seemed to be a pile of pillows and clothes.

As odd as the position was, gradually Athos could feel his vision clear. His breathing and pulse eventually settled into a more ordinary rhythm.

"Why both legs?" he asked.

"It's not so much about the injury," Aramis said. "Simply makes it easier for your heart. Imagine having to carry water up the stairs all the time. Much easier to have it flow down to where it's needed."

Athos wasn't sure how he felt about having his body described as a bathtub, but decided to let it rest for the moment.

"You know a lot about wounds," he said instead.

Aramis shrugged. "I've seen a lot of wounds in my time."

"It seems more than a casual acquaintance."

Aramis looked at him. "We are soldiers. We all need to know how to stitch a wound."

"You guided Porthos."

Aramis glanced over at the man still snoring in the corner. "I couldn't ask for better hands."

"Nor he for a better teacher."

Aramis lowered his eyes. "You observe a lot."

"You are a physician."

Aramis huffed out a laugh. "I'm not."

"You were. Before…"

"I'm nothing but a soldier." Aramis held out his hands, the tremor barely perceptible now. "Always have been, even when these were still sure. I'm no learned man, Athos."

"But a skilled one."

Aramis stared at the hands that lay in his lap again. Athos gave him his time. When Aramis looked up, he was smiling broadly.

"Exceptionally so, yes."

"It is your kindness," Athos observed.

"Yes," Aramis confirmed after a brief reflection. "I think it is. And… thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving me… this."

"This?"

"The chance to… to see it again, to…" Aramis breathed in deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "I was the regiment's medic, once. And I thought that… that I had lost that. And maybe I have. Maybe my hands will never… But I can still do this, I can… I know enough to be of use."

"You doubted?" Athos asked.

"We all do." Aramis looked him firmly in the eye. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he did truly doubt. His skills as a medic, his place among the musketeers, maybe even his place in the world at large. There was no use for injured soldiers, Athos knew that. He'd spent his life driving past crippled beggars in his carriage and had brushed their grimy hands from his boots. Their fate had gained a new poignancy now, being a soldier himself and seeing what soldiering did. He knew that if this wound crippled him, he'd have options, but he also recognised that men like Porthos and Aramis did not.

"Sleep now," Aramis said, spreading another blanket over Athos. Athos wondered how they ever did. How could they find rest, knowing what they did? Did they go into fights hoping that at least death would be swift? That they wouldn't linger in anguish? That they wouldn't end up… like Aramis?

"You think too much." The ghost of a hand lingered on his hair. "We're here. I'll keep watch over you both."

Maybe that was it. The kindness. The friendship. Being there and keeping watch. Knowing that someone was there.

"Don't put weight on that leg. I've got you."

He certainly did. Athos wasn't standing so much as he was draped over Porthos. His back leaned against Porthos' broad chest and his fellow recruit had closed his arms securely around Athos' midriff.

Athos freely acknowledged that he was utterly unable to stand on his own, but he would much prefer to be tortured than to have help with this particular matter. In front of him, a chamber pot stood on a stool, waiting to be filled. An impossible feat.

"It's fine," Porthos assured him. "I've done this for Aramis plenty."

There was an affirmative noise from Aramis who busied himself with something on the table. Athos could imagine the truth in that, given Aramis' lengthy malaise. He could also imagine the embarrassment it held.

"You'll do it for me one day," Porthos continued. "We all do. It's just one of those things."

One of those things, not being able to take a piss on his own.

"I'm not looking," Porthos said, tightening his hold.

Athos sighed. It shouldn't matter, but it did. He looked over at Aramis and found him still bent low over the table.

"You shouldn't be upright for so long," Aramis warned.

Yes. Athos had noticed that himself. He focussed on the task at hand. Tried to ignore Porthos' warm presence. Tried to ignore Aramis trying hard to look busy. Tried to ignore that he was doing this in front of his companions. Tried to… do it.

"I can't."

"It's fine, Athos." Porthos said. "Just relax."

"No, I mean… I genuinely can't. There's nothing there."

Aramis' head shot up though he remained studiously turned away.

"When did you last relieve yourself?"

Athos fully expected his head to burn as his face blushed, but nothing happened. Maybe his body was more comfortable around them than his mind. He swallowed heavily.

"Around midday."

Aramis hummed thoughtfully. "You need to drink more." He waved a hand in their direction. "Abandon that mission for now."

Aramis tactfully waited until Porthos had settled Athos back onto the bed before staring at him intently, undoubtedly noticing things about him that Athos didn't know himself.

"Your body is not releasing any liquids because you've lost a lot of blood," he said. He poured water into a cup and Porthos helped Athos drink from it.

"What does that matter," Athos said.

"It matters quite a bit."

"It wasn't even a serious injury."

"Athos!" Porthos cried, sounding oddly outraged at the simple observation.

"It very nearly killed you," Aramis said.

Athos huffed. He had had… certain thoughts the night before, but in the light of day they seemed quite ridiculous.

Aramis moved the still-empty chamber pot and sat down. "Have you ever been injured before?" he asked.

"Of course." Athos remembered grazed knees as a child, welts from his father's punishments, then later the cuts and bruises that came with clumsy sword practice.

"Seriously injured?"

Athos avoided looking at them. "I know a serious injury when I see it."

"Then why did you not tell us about this?" Porthos' voice was uncharacteristically sharp.

Athos would not let himself be the accused here. Surely, he had been uncomfortable enough throughout all of this. "And trigger the next panic for the sake of one small nick? I think not."

"There wouldn't have been any panic if you hadn't tried to die on us!" Porthos shouted.

Aramis held up a hand to stop him.

"I don't think you understand," he said.

"I think I understand very well," Athos said. "Better than some jumped-up field medic, for sure."

"How dare—"

"Porthos." Aramis' voice cut off Porthos' protest like a knife.

"You saved his life and he…"

"It's not common knowledge." Aramis remained composed. "I assume you think of serious injuries as those to the head, the heart, lungs or stomach?"

"Of course." Athos was unsure where this was leading. He did not consider himself an appropriate judge of what knowledge was commonly held, but certainly this was a basic understanding of medicine that everyone shared.

"And rightly so," Aramis confirmed. "But others can be just as deadly."

"Spare me the dramatics," Athos said. "It was my leg. Men have legs amputated and stay alive."

"After their wounds are sutured, cauterised, and bound."

"Look at this!" Porthos shoved dirty, blood-stained linens at Athos until Aramis pushed his arm away.

"Blood loss kills," Aramis said. "We don't know how or why, but we know that it does."

"Of course it does. Everybody knows—" Porthos interjected.

"Not everyone has been in battle." Aramis tone softened as he turned from Porthos to Athos. "Most think it's healthy to bleed. Learned men and surgeons and all."

Athos nodded. He'd always had exquisite medical attention and all their physicians had stressed the benefits of bloodletting for a wide range of maladies. Bleeding did not only cleanse wounds, it also restored balance to the body.

"I disagree," Aramis said. Athos smirked. Of course. A soldier who by his own admission had no medical training at all knew better than the scholars.

"I've seen it so often," Aramis continued. "Men with seemingly minor wounds. Their heart beating, their breathing unimpaired… then a little later they are dead in a sea of blood."

It was difficult to not be affected by the evident pain in his voice.

"How was I to know?" Athos said briskly. He hated his own incompetence and ignorance of the basic facts of soldiering.

"You weren't. You are learning these things. But we would have known if you had told us."

"I am no needy child and perfectly capable of looking after myself." Athos did not appreciate the insinuation of feebleness.

"Let us help."

Help. They helped so much and yet he was so weak, so incredibly inadequate. Athos: the noble prick who had never been hurt, who knew nothing of the basic truths of soldiering. Athos who couldn't handle the first injury he received, who hadn't even realised that this would be a regular feature of his life now. He looked up at these men, saw the scars on their faces and knew there were so many more, painting patterns on their skin. Each the memory of a wound, of potential death… He shook himself. These thoughts lead nowhere. Nowhere good.

"You were somewhat preoccupied," Athos said, trying to sound superior rather than vulnerable. To sound like he didn't need help with absolutely everything.

"There is no higher priority than your life, my friend."

"What would you have done then, in the forest?" Athos asked, venom in his voice. "Would you have cried on me? Screamed that blood back into my leg? You were afraid before you ever knew of my injury. I didn't dare to ask for a halt."

"Don't talk to him like that," Porthos thundered, but Athos imagined the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. Maybe he remembered the fox. The fox that could have been an innocent child. Porthos knew he was right. Athos rounded on him instead of Aramis who still looked rather serene.

"If it wasn't for your misguided attempts to prove he was well, none of this would have happened. You make me complicit in your lies and then lay the blame on me when they collapse around you. This behaviour is despicable."

Almost as despicable as Athos being even weaker than Aramis. Weaker than a man who hadn't been fit for duty for half a year, whose mind was addled… but still a man who could and did help him.

"Enough." Aramis' command cut across any reply Porthos wanted to make. "I would much rather have spent the night in that forest than watch you fall from your horse, insensible to the world."

"Like you could have."

"That was not your choice to make." Aramis said. "I can do many things for the life and health of a friend."

"I do not need to listen to this from a man who shoots a fox because he cannot distinguish the animal from his demons."

"Then listen to it from your commander."

"You have not earned that term." Athos sneered. He would only take so much military hierarchy from a man who clearly wasn't fit for it. It was not in his nature to bow to his inferiors.

"Tréville has."

Captain Tréville. Athos' imperious thoughts ground to a halt.

"He will have a thing or two to say when he hears that you needlessly endangered your life and nearly lost it in the process."

He would indeed have something to say and Athos knew what. He'd been told, had been warned that very first day… Captain Tréville had been willing to accept him as a recruit and to conceal his identity, under the condition that he would not use the regiment as a way to suicide. The threat of a burial in shame held little meaning to him now, but the threat of exclusion, the loss of the only stability, the only purpose he had in life…

"I see you understand." Aramis' voice was even, but his eyes were sharp, boring into Athos', seeing things that Athos would prefer to keep hidden. They looked at each other for a long time, barely registering Porthos fidgeting in the background.

"He does not take a threat to the lives of his men lightly, no matter where that threat comes from." The meaning in those words cut deep. No matter where that threat came from. No matter if it came from a man's own hand. Athos stared at Aramis. He understood, then, that he wasn't the only one facing that struggle.

"You need to let us know," Porthos said, with more kindness than Athos deserved. "You endanger everyone when you hide an injury."

When you try to do well… when you try to help, to protect… when you try to be more than you really are…

"Like Aramis," Athos said thoughtfully.

Porthos' brows drew together. "What? No. Aramis is—"

"Exactly like that." Aramis smiled. "You're right. I made the same mistake."

"You did nothing wrong," Porthos said, squeezing his shoulder.

Aramis put his own hand above Porthos'. The tenderness was unbearable. "I did," he said. "I wasn't well. From the ambush onwards, there was a growing panic in my mind and I could not fulfil my duty."

"You did admirably, given the circumstances," Athos said.

"I didn't ask if either one of you had been injured, I neglected to check. I let my need to reach the inn cloud my judgement." Aramis huffed out a humourless laugh. "I never even managed to reload my pistols."

"You weren't alone," Porthos insisted.

Aramis looked up at him. "No, but I needed to tell you so you were aware of my limitations. You couldn't have guessed that I was unable to defend myself."

"I saw that you couldn't reload." Suddenly, Athos was painfully aware of his failure to act upon what he saw. "I should have spoken out."

Aramis smiled at him. "You shouldn't be forced to make guesses about my well-being. If you do, you're bound to get it wrong. I need to tell you, reliably so."

"We all do."

"Even when we think it's a minor injury."

Athos lowered his eyes. "Even when our weakness is embarrassing."

"Never that, my friend." Aramis reached out a hand for him, but Athos didn't take it. Instead he plucked idly at the thick bandages around his leg.

"This is our life then," he said. "Blood loss and injury."

"It won't remain your only one," Aramis said. Athos smiled ruefully at that. It certainly wouldn't. He'd seen Aramis bathe. The longest-serving among their trio sported a veritable labyrinth of scars.

"But we're here for that," Porthos added.

Aramis looked over his shoulder at him. "I wanted to keep this light and tell him he'd still be as handsome as ever. Scarred buttocks and all."

Porthos chuckled. "You can be here for ogling those. But we're both here for taking care of him."

"And of you," Aramis said softly. "You carry a lot of weight."

"Broad shoulders," Porthos said with a shrug, but Athos could tell that the words affected him. For all the kindness he gave, he seemed unused to receiving it. Athos sympathised.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I would be honoured to face future misfortune with you."

Porthos grinned and gave Aramis' shoulder another squeeze. There was a slight glint of moisture in his eyes. Athos gave silent thanks for the lack of liquids Aramis had diagnosed him with. Those two were utterly unbearable.

"As much as I wanted to be alone for all eternity," Aramis said with a wink. "Porthos here sticks to you like a rash."

"That had not escaped my attention," Athos said archly.

Porthos shook his head. "You can't do that, be all alone. You need someone to look out for you."

"To suture your wounds," Athos added.

"To hold you and feed you and sit with you. To pick up the pieces when you break," Aramis supplied.

"You're not broken."

Athos watched Aramis carefully when Porthos said that. Saw the moment he closed his eyes, saw the way he leaned into Porthos' touch. Finally, Aramis looked up again, looked straight at Athos. There was understanding, the shared knowledge that they were broken, but that they were also here and determined to stay. But there was also a silent agreement that Porthos was not privy to. The agreement that when they teetered at the brink, they would give each other the assistance they needed to stay.