Thank you for the great reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!
They rode through the night, the fog gradually lifting with the first rays of dawn. Both men were exhausted and barely upright in the saddle. d'Artagnan had started out in the lead, guiding them back to the road and then continuing along it, the area around them too firmly entrenched in hazy mist to risk travelling elsewhere. Besides, they reasoned, the bandits would give chase eventually – that was a certainty – and since they knew the Musketeers' end goal, there was little value to taking anything other than the quickest, most direct route to their destination.
Several hours later, when it became clear that Aramis was flagging, barely able to keep his seat and in danger of falling, d'Artagnan slowed his horse enough for the other man to pull into the lead so the Gascon could keep watch over his friend. He did not feel any better than the Spaniard, but had at least had a bit of sleep after his beating and currently seemed to be the stronger of the two. As d'Artagnan cast a critical eye over his friend, he wondered at the fact that, even after his mistreatment, Aramis seemed to be feeling worse than him. The thought brought a spike of fear to his chest, making him consider that perhaps he'd missed something important and he began to actively look for anywhere they might stop so he could properly examine the man.
The shelter they found, if it could even be called that, was the remnants of a handful of hovels. As d'Artagnan eyed the buildings dubiously, he guessed that a number of small families had made an attempt at one point to farm the land around them, but the hard-packed, rocky ground had resisted their efforts, eventually forcing the people to move on or starve. The French countryside was dotted with far more of these abandoned dwellings than he would like to admit and, normally, he wouldn't give them more than a passing glance; now, they represented brief salvation, allowing them to rest their horses and him the opportunity to check on his friend.
The Gascon pulled momentarily into the lead, nudging Aramis' horse in the direction of the buildings and the well-trained mount obeyed without protest. More worrying than the obedience of Aramis' horse was the man himself and, as d'Artagnan leaned closer, he could see that the Spaniard's eyes were practically closed, his face painted with a fine sheen of sweat. "Aramis," d'Artagnan called, still leaning close to his friend, and he watched as the man managed to partially open his eyes, the effort the act took apparent in the Spaniard's dazed expression. d'Artagnan pointed ahead of them as they neared the first small house, "We're going to stop here for a while and let the horses rest. I need to look at your wound, too."
Aramis seemed confused and then lifted a hand, moving it to clumsily touch his side before letting it flop to his lap. The weak and uncoordinated movement made d'Artagnan's worry ratchet another notch higher and he felt the urgent need to be off the horse and inside so he could properly tend to his friend. Stopping in front of the first building, the Gascon tried to make eye contact with Aramis, but the man's eyes were nearly closed once more. "Aramis," he prompted, waiting for the man's attention, "I'm going to check inside. Wait here." The Spaniard gave a jerky nod and d'Artagnan slipped carefully out of the saddle, pushing through the doorway of the building to examine it.
The inside reflected the same state of disrepair as the outside of the house, but the roof was still intact and the building was dry and cool. Against one wall sat a fireplace, its chimney undamaged, and d'Artagnan took a moment to confirm that it hadn't collapsed and could safely be used. Heading back outside, he considered the Spaniard, still sitting atop his horse and apparently lacking either the interest or strength to dismount. Grimacing, d'Artagnan wondered how he could help the man down, holding his injured arm close to his chest with the opposite hand. He'd been able to move it a little hours before, but as the swelling in the joint blossomed, he all but lost feeling in his hand and forearm, a fact that worried him immensely but was overshadowed by his concern for the Spaniard.
"Aramis," d'Artagnan called, standing at his horse's side, his hand now on Aramis' thigh. Aramis seemed to blink himself to awareness, the sensation of the Gascon's touch on his leg helping to rouse him from his fugue. He turned his head and looked down, brow furrowing slightly, a sure sign of his continued disorientation. "I need you to get down now. Can you manage it by yourself?" d'Artagnan bit his lip as his friend seemed to consider the question and then began making motions to dismount. Swinging his leg over the horse's head as was his habit, Aramis wobbled for a moment before regaining his balance and then slid down, swaying a little as his feet touched the ground, d'Artagnan's hand on his shoulder steadying him. "Let's get you inside and then I'll see to the horses," the Gascon instructed, guiding the man through the doorway with a hand on the Spaniard's bicep.
He settled Aramis close to the fireplace, intending to make a fire, hoping that they could spare an hour or two to rest before heading out again. d'Artagnan recognized the danger in stopping but at this point, feared they had little recourse, either resting now while they were still capable of movement, or falling off their horses later and risking greater injury. Satisfied that Aramis was as comfortable as he could be, sitting on the ground with a wall at his back, d'Artagnan trudged back outside, grabbing their blankets and the saddle bag with Aramis' medical supplies and dropping them at his friend's side, before making another trip back to collect a water skin, food and their weapons.
All of the activity had him gritting his teeth against the fire that was searing through his shoulder and d'Artagnan knew that he would need to tend to it as well once he'd taken care of the Spaniard. Sitting down awkwardly on his haunches, d'Artagnan placed a hand on Aramis' leg to get his attention once more. "Aramis, I need to check your wound. Can you remove your cloak and doublet for me?" The sharpshooter again seemed dazed and moved slowly, but he complied with d'Artagnan's request, clumsy fingers undoing first the ties that held his cloak and then moving to remove his doublet.
d'Artagnan watched with sympathy as the garments' removal brought forth a groan of pain and he wished again for the use of both arms so he could properly help his friend. The Gascon reached a hand forward to tug Aramis' shirt up and drew a sharp breath at the sight of the red-splotched bandage. "I think you've pulled some of the stiches," he said, catching the Spaniard's eye.
"Hmm," Aramis hummed, becoming more aware, his attention sharpening as d'Artagnan slipped a knife under the linen that wrapped around his friend's waist and sliced through it with one stroke. The bandage over the wound slipped free, the blood underneath still damp. d'Artagnan used a portion of the bandage to wipe around the wound and Aramis' pain spiked, pulling a gasp from his throat as he looked down at his side. "Oh," he groaned, "I was afraid of that."
d'Artagnan's head shot up, overjoyed that Aramis had finally spoken, his early quietness almost eerie in its unnaturalness for the outgoing Spaniard. Then, the man's words registered and the Gascon's joy turned to anger, "Did you know that you were bleeding?"
Aramis gave a slight shrug, "I wasn't certain but I knew something was wrong."
"Then why didn't you say something?" d'Artagnan spluttered. "We could have taken care of this hours ago."
Aramis gave him a look that was part compassion and part incredulity and d'Artagnan paused for a moment as he considered his own words. There had been no opportunity to stop earlier and the Gascon understood this, as had Aramis, and that was the real reason his friend had remained silent. Their immediate priority had been to remove themselves from danger and it wouldn't have mattered how grave the injury – had they stopped to tend a wound, they risked capture or worse. It was a less than ideal situation, but the decision they'd made to travel for as long and far as possible had been the correct one, regardless of the consequences.
d'Artagnan dropped his head wearily, acknowledging the naivety of his words and his misplaced anger. "d'Artagnan, it's alright. There's no need to feel guilty for doing what we had to do. We're relatively safe for the moment," he paused, waiting for a nod of agreement from the Gascon, "so let's tend to our injuries and rest before we have to move again."
The young man ducked his head in understanding, the exhaustion of the last few days along with the pain of his numerous injuries beginning to wear on him. Breathing deeply, he asked, "Will you be able to clean it and re-do the stitches? I've brought in all of the supplies, but…" he trailed off, looking ruefully at his left shoulder.
"Is it out of joint again?" Aramis asked, his tone conveying nothing but sympathy.
"Yeah," d'Artagnan confirmed. "I landed badly when I fell off my horse and Pritchard didn't seem to think it important enough to put back."
Aramis' brow furrowed at the bandit's name. "Clearly you have information that should be shared. Tell me what you learned while I take care of this," he motioned to his side. "Your story will help distract me from the pain." Aramis' last words were accompanied by a ghost of a smile but d'Artagnan was only too familiar with the pain of having a needle pulled through one's skin, and knew that his friend was only half-joking.
As Aramis cleaned, sewed and, with the Gascon's help, placed a fresh bandage around his middle, d'Artagnan relayed Pritchard's origins based on the man's accent and his desire to secure the package that Aramis carried. The medic repacked his medical supplies as the young man wrapped up his tale and he looked thoughtfully at his friend. "Why did they beat you?"
d'Artagnan's head dropped momentarily in embarrassment that the Spaniard had been a witness to what had happened, "They were trying to get me to tell them the name of the ship we're meeting."
Aramis' contemplated the young man's words, "That means we'll have some anonymity once we reach Le Havre but also that they will be desperate to catch up with us before we arrive there."
d'Artagnan nodded sullenly in agreement, recognizing that they would have to be back on their horses sooner rather than later and already dreading the reawakening of his various aches, which had now quieted to a dull but manageable roar. Glancing at the cold fireplace, Aramis seemed to come to a decision and he turned back to the Gascon. "We'll rest here for two hours and then head out again. There's no use starting a fire since it will just waste the limited time we have available. Let me have a look at your injuries and then we'll take care of the horses."
"It's just my shoulder that's the worst of it," d'Artagnan began, stopping at the glare he received from his friend.
"d'Artagnan, if I'm not mistaken, those men took a hot blade to your flesh. Besides the obvious pain associated with such an injury, burns are notoriously susceptible to infection. They need to be cleaned and bandaged on a regular basis. Now, do you need help with your doublet?" Aramis' no-nonsense tone left little room for argument and d'Artagnan simply nodded his need for assistance before allowing the man to help him unlace and remove his outer layers of clothing.
Aramis hissed in sympathy when the burns and then his swollen shoulder were revealed. d'Artagnan bore the medic's poking and prodding of the joint stoically, fixing his gaze at a point over the man's shoulder. "We have to bring the swelling down before I can put your arm back into place." The young man was unsurprised at this news and gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement. Aramis reached next for a clean cloth and the water skin, meticulously cleaning each of the burns and covering them with linen. "I'm sorry," Aramis said as he finished, "I don't have anything with me for the burns but we should be able to buy something when we reach Le Havre."
"It's fine," d'Artagnan replied, grateful that the man was done, his ministrations making the pain spike uncomfortably.
Aramis wet another cloth and placed it across the Gascon's misshapen shoulder, causing the young man to shiver at the chill. "We need to keep swapping those out for cold ones in order to reduce the swelling." He pushed to his feet, using the wall behind him to steady himself, d'Artagnan looking up at him questioningly. "I'll go see to the horses while you have a bite to eat and then try to rest. I'll wake you in an hour and we can trade."
d'Artagnan looked ready to argue but then realized the logic of Aramis' suggestion and reached for the bag that contained their food, pulling out an unappetizing chunk of salted meat. He had little appetite but recognized the necessity of fueling his tired body so he forced himself to have a few bites before washing them down with a healthy portion of water. By the time that Aramis had returned, d'Artagnan had wrapped himself into one of the blankets and his cloak and was snoring softly. Aramis sat down next to the young man, replacing the cloth that had warmed with the heat of the swollen joint, and then settled down to wait for his turn to sleep, his body reminding him that he was far from healthy himself and the lack of sleep they'd both endured only weakened them further.
Waking up was incredibly unpleasant, the move from blissful sleep to agonizing pain accompanied by a heartfelt moan and he felt a cool hand on his cheek moments later, opening his pain-dulled eyes to see Madame Fontaine standing above him. Wordlessly, she helped him sit up a bit and pressed a cup to his lips, Porthos managing to take it from her partway through and finish the bitter drink, longing for the relief the draught offered against the ache that seemed to be holding his arm in its vicelike grip.
"Thanks," he breathed out when he'd finished drinking, handing the cup back and leaning against his pillows, waiting for the pain to ease. He let his eyes drift closed for only a few seconds before they snapped open once more and he found the healer still standing at his side, apparently expecting his question. "Athos?"
The woman gave a short nod as she began to explain, "Still fighting. His breathing is still labored and the fever burns fiercely. I have something back at my house that may help but I wanted to wait until you were awake to sit with him before I left." Porthos began making motions to sit up immediately and Fontaine pressed him back into the mattress with a hand. "Why don't you wait a minute for that pain draught to take effect?"
The Musketeer nodded and let his body relax. "Will he be alright?" he asked.
Fontaine read the need in the man's eyes but she would not give anyone false hope. "He strikes me as a strong man and a fighter. I believe that with our help it is within his power to recover."
The answer was not as reassuring as Porthos would have liked but he would accept it for now. "Help me up?" He raised his good arm and Fontaine gripped his hand, helping to pull him to a seated position with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. He took a few moments to adjust to the new elevation, the rush of blood to his broken limb sharpening the pain there once more, making him cradle the arm close to his chest as he breathed through the throb.
Fontaine stepped back and allowed him the room needed to stand and watched as Porthos walked to the chair where the healer had spent the majority of the night, settling down into it, his hand already reaching to test the heat of the man's fever. "He's still really hot," he said, turning back to the woman.
She gave a small nod and a shrug, as if to say I told you so. "If you're alright to sit with him for a while, I'll ask Jérôme to bring you up some breakfast and then I'll go home to get some rest and collect the herbs I need." At Porthos' nod, she continued, "I'll be back this afternoon but don't hesitate to send for me sooner if his condition worsens."
"Thank you," Porthos said, trying to convey all the appreciation he had for the woman's help.
She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and smiled before heading out through the door, leaving the large Musketeer to tend to his friend. Sadly, there was little he could do other than try to keep the man cool, and he diligently wiped at Athos' sweat-covered face and chest until Nicolas arrived a short while later with a tray of food. The boy placed the meal on the table next to where Porthos sat and retreated once more, sensing the sombre mood in the room. When the Musketeer finally looked at the tray, a smile touched his lips as he discovered the small cup of broth that had been included for his sick friend.
Porthos took the opportunity to eat, his stomach feeling surprisingly empty, and then he turned his attention to Athos, placing a cooled cloth on his neck in an effort to wake the man. "Athos, I need you to open your eyes for me." The older Musketeer moved his head as if trying to get away from the damp cloth, but Porthos persisted, wetting it again and replacing it as he coaxed his friend to wake. "I need you awake, just for a few minutes, Athos. Let me see those bright, blue eyes of yours."
Athos became aware of a voice calling his name and struggled to place it. His body felt heavy and hot and he felt perpetually short of air, his chest rising and falling more quickly than usual as he tried to draw a deeper breath. He wanted to listen to the voice, but the pull of sleep was so appealing, offering him an escape from his overheated body which made all of him ache and his eyes seem to burn. He heard a low moan and then felt the sound resonate in his chest, realizing belatedly that it came from him. With a supreme effort, he managed to open his eyes, blearily making out the outline of someone at his side.
"That's the way, Athos. Good to have you back," Porthos encouraged, moving the cloth to wipe at the moisture at his hairline.
Athos frowned at his friend's words, wondering exactly where he'd been. Before he had time to think further, a cup was placed at his lips and he found himself drinking automatically, trusting the disembodied voice beside him, still too disoriented to recognize the man at his bedside. "That's good, Athos, real good," Porthos praised him as he pulled the empty cup away. "How are you feelin'?"
Athos inhaled, preparing to speak but instead of words he let out only a series of sharp coughs, the strength of which had him wincing in pain as his overtaxed stomach muscles and raw throat suffered with each bark that was forced from his chest. Porthos clapped him firmly on the back as he coughed, even though Athos was not completely aware of his friend's actions. When the fit had ended, he raised a trembling hand to his chest, swallowing gingerly against the feeling of something having clawed its way up from his lungs and along his tender throat.
Porthos observantly caught the motion and reached for a cup of water, lifting it to Athos' lips and again the man trustingly drank, the cool liquid helping to soothe his ravaged insides. "Better?" the large man asked, watching as Athos seemed to shrink into himself as he sank back into the mound of pillows that supported him. The older Musketeer blinked fuzzily at him as Porthos placed the cup on the table and then gently wiped away the tears that had leaked from Athos' eyes. "P'thos." The word was badly slurred and no more than a quiet whisper but it was enough to bring a smile to the larger man's face.
"Yeah, Athos, it's me. How are you feelin'?" Porthos repeated his earlier question, hoping his friend was aware enough to answer.
Swallowing first, Athos breathed out, "awful."
"You're pretty sick right now but don't worry, Madame Fontaine's been takin' good care of you," Porthos assured.
"Where?" Athos asked, already having forgotten the information the healer had shared with him during the night.
"We're at an inn on the way to Le Havre," Porthos explained. The answer brought a frown to Athos' face and the large Musketeer wondered if his friend would be able to recall the events that had led to their current circumstances.
"Mission?" Athos finally queried, unable to remember the details of the last few days.
"Aye, but it'll have to wait a couple days until you're better," Porthos stated, prepared to physically keep the man in bed if needed, but it was obvious that Athos was not yet well enough to argue. Instead, his eyes began to close and Porthos let them, happy that he'd managed to get some food into his friend even though it was nothing more than a cup of thin broth. Eventually, he would need something far more substantial to recover, but first the illness that gripped him would need to be defeated. Leaning back in his chair, Porthos prepared to watch over his friend until Fontaine rejoined them.