Not sure how this chapter ended up so long, but it's the lengthiest one so far in this story and includes another look at present day events. Enjoy!
Athos observed Porthos who had Aramis wrapped carefully in his arms, ensuring that the marksman was safely ensconced in front of him where he could feel the reassuring thump of the medic's heart against his own chest as the injured man leaned up against him. The older Musketeer felt a pang of envy at Porthos' position, wanting the same assurances that their friend was doing well, but unable to ask the large man to switch places with him. He knew the depth of the bond that existed between the two men and, while it in no way diminished the one between himself and Aramis, he understood that Porthos needed the physical reminder that Aramis was alive.
Against his own back was the body of the Gascon. The young man had held himself rather stiffly at first, keeping a separation between the two of them, but as time had passed, d'Artagnan had begun to slump forward, resting some of his weight on the Musketeer. The sensation had initially been an uncomfortable one for Athos. Not one for displays of physical affection, he'd found the touch of the young man's body disquieting and had turned introspectively into himself to wonder why. This was, after all, not the first time that he'd shared his mount with an injured comrade, and he'd never been bothered by the proximity of a brother in need before, but the Gascon's presence was different.
True, d'Artagnan wasn't their brother-in-arms and it was entirely possible that he might never attain that position, but Athos was certain that he possessed enough compassion for his fellow man that the boy's status should not influence his reaction. They hadn't been in each other's company for very long, only a few months, and yet, during that time, they'd experienced some fairly intense events which typically drew men toward one another rather than apart, so the duration of their acquaintance shouldn't matter either. Perhaps it was the fact that the young man had drawn Aramis into trouble by requesting that the Captain send the two of them on a mission. This explanation seemed the most plausible out of all the reasons he'd considered, but even it felt false to him, and as he searched his heart, he felt no malice toward the boy for doing what he'd thought best in order to help a friend.
It surprised him to realize that d'Artagnan had acted out of friendship toward Aramis, a label that he hadn't yet come to terms with when considering his own relationship with the Gascon. Would Aramis, or even Porthos agree and reciprocate in calling the young man their friend? If Porthos' reaction was anything to go by, Athos sensed the answer was no, the larger man seeming more angry than relieved at the discovery of the two men by the stream. Then what was it that made him ill at ease about the warm body that was even now weighing more heavily upon his back?
Pushing the question aside he glanced again at Porthos and Aramis, the two of them riding a few feet ahead of him. The large man was bending forward somewhat, apparently saying something to his friend, suggesting that Aramis was awake or at least partially aware. The sight reminded him of the times when he and his brother, Thomas, had shared a horse, Athos sitting behind his younger sibling so the boy wouldn't fall. They'd ridden in that fashion multiple times as Thomas had been learning how to ride, Athos considering it both his duty as the older brother and his pleasure to teach the young man and keep him safe. On other occasions, he'd held Thomas when the boy was too weary to stay in the saddle, and it was not unusual for the boy to fall asleep in his arms, an act, Athos thought, that represented the absolute trust that Thomas had in his older brother.
The memory jarred him from his reflections as he recognized the similarity between his past and the current situation, the Gascon behind him reminding him far too closely of his younger brother. The realization made Athos' adrenaline surge as he told himself that no one could take Thomas' place, least of all d'Artagnan who he hardly knew. He was alright with the idea of maintaining a cordial relationship with the boy, training with him on occasion and offering advice in order to improve his skills, but anything more was firmly out of the question. If anyone was to be as close to him as his lost family, Porthos and Aramis deserved that place and had, in fact, become as close as any brothers born of the same blood; to consider that d'Artagnan could usurp their or Thomas' place in his heart was absurd.
A moan from behind him had Athos quashing his thoughts, still shaken by the possibilities that his mind had conjured. He held his breath for a moment, listening intently as he waited to see if the sound would be repeated and, several seconds later, it was. Turning his head, Athos said, "d'Artagnan, are you alright?" There was no answer although the young man seemed to melt further into the Musketeer. Holding his reins in one hand, Athos reached around to give the young man's uninjured leg a squeeze as he tried again, "d'Artagnan, are you awake?" Still there was no response and the older man urged his horse into a faster pace, pulling alongside Porthos.
Looking over at his friend, Athos asked, "Can you tell if d'Artagnan's alright?"
Porthos looked over, his eyes narrowing in concern as he took in the limp form of the Gascon, his chest and face pressed into Athos' back, his cheeks flushed with fever. Reaching a hand over, the larger man felt the heat coming off the young man's brow and shook his head, "I'd guess that wound's infected. He didn't look too good earlier and he just seems to be getting worse."
Athos gave a nod of understanding, looking at the road ahead of them and calculating the remaining distance to Paris. As if sensing the older man's thoughts, Porthos spoke, "It's still another four hours but I think we need to keep going. The garrison's the best place to see to their wounds."
The older man had already come to the same conclusion as he spurred his horse to move a little faster, "Then we'd best make haste before their conditions deteriorate any further."
Ultimately, Athos ended up stopping to switch places with the insensate Gascon, too concerned that the young man would fall off the horse as they urged the animals to move faster. The heat that rolled off the young man drove them to set a quick pace and they managed to cut their travel time down to just over three hours instead of the estimated four. When they passed through the garrison gates, there was a moment of indecision as Athos considered whether to take d'Artagnan to the Bonacieux residence, but he knew that Aramis would be upset if they couldn't confirm the Gascon's health when he awoke.
Treville had obviously been awaiting their return and was in the courtyard by the time they'd come to a stop, the stable boy already waiting to take their horses. With a motion of his hand, the Captain had two additional men at his side to help with their injured. Peering up at Athos, he questioned, "What happened?"
"I'm not yet certain of all the details but they were attacked and lost everything they had." The older man glanced in Aramis' direction before turning his attention back to his commander. "Aramis was shot and d'Artagnan has a deep cut along his thigh."
Treville nodded, the preliminary report enough to satisfy his curiosity, "You're taking them to the infirmary?"
Athos hesitated, the indecision so unlike the man that the Captain's eyebrow rose in concern. Seeing the expression on Treville's face, the older man replied, "I think Aramis would be more comfortable in his own room. Besides, there's not much a physician can do for him now."
"Alright," the Captain agreed slowly, trusting his lieutenant's judgement. He stayed quiet and watched as Athos lowered the unconscious Gascon to the two waiting Musketeers, dismounting afterwards and ordering the men to take the young man to the infirmary to have his leg tended. Then, the older man turned and moved to Porthos' side, taking Aramis' weight as the large man lowered their injured friend into his arms. The stable boy moved off with the two horses and Treville remained in the courtyard, observing Porthos and Athos moving in one direction with their friend while the other two Musketeers made for the infirmary with their burden. It was unexpected to say the least, the Captain having anticipated that the four would remain together; perhaps he'd underestimated the growing bonds between the foursome.
Aramis had been stripped down to his braies and settled between the cool sheets of his bed after his brothers had tenderly washed the dirt and blood from his body. He'd roused briefly when the wet cloths had touched his skin but was still weak and somewhat disoriented, the heat from his cauterized wounds indicating a brewing infection. Porthos had wiped both spots carefully and gratefully taken the honey that Athos had fetched from Serge, covering both patches of red skin to ease the pain and hopefully stave off infection. Clean linen had then been applied loosely around the man's waist before he was plied with broth and a pain draught to help him sleep.
Athos and Porthos now sat at the Spaniard's side, each having taken a chair next to the bed and watching the sleeping man as if he might otherwise disappear again. The large man leaned back in his chair, his own weariness asserting itself as he scrubbed his hands across his face and exhaled loudly. The room was quiet, almost too much so, he and Athos having tended to their friend in near silence, while both had been lost in their own thoughts. Now that the initial rush of caring for Aramis had ended, Porthos found his mind drifting to the Gascon, feeling oddly unsettled by the boy's absence. Seeing the sullen expression on Athos' face, he said, "Maybe one of us should check on the boy."
The older man gave a low hum in reply but made no attempt to move, his eyes firmly on Aramis' face which was finally relaxed in sleep. "Not sure if we should be mad at him for what he did or grateful that he had the good sense to cauterize the wounds and find water," Porthos stated, hoping to draw Athos into conversation.
Athos' hand drifted to the bridge of his nose, his fingers resting there for a moment, indicating the headache that he suffered. Dropping the hand to his lap seconds later he said, "I find myself somewhat confused by recent events as well."
Porthos snorted, the reply typical of the older man's penchant for understatement. "Either way, Aramis will wanna know he's alright."
The older man gave a weary nod and rose, raising a hand to stay Porthos' movement, "I'll go. I should probably try to get more information from him anyway so I can report to the Captain."
Porthos tucked his chair in closer to Aramis' bed before lifting his feet up to rest them on the end of the mattress while Athos left to check on the Gascon. Athos was surprised to find the infirmary empty except for the one bed occupied by the young man. It was apparent that he'd been cared for, his face and hands having been washed and his dirty clothes removed. Carefully, Athos lifted the edge of the blanket that covered the boy, seeing the thick wad of bandages that encompassed his thigh beneath his braies. A sound from behind made him startle, dropping the blanket and turning toward the door to see the garrison physician entering. The man joined him at d'Artagnan's side, explaining as he did so, "I cleaned and stitched the cut but it's already infected. The wound will need to be washed and re-bandaged regularly and he'll need plenty to drink."
Having given his instructions the physician turned away, collecting his bag and loading it with an assortment of supplies. Athos observed the man's actions and asked, "Where are you going?"
The man continued to pack as he replied, "There was an attack on a village about a day's ride from Paris. The Captain just received word and offered my assistance with the injured since they don't have a doctor. I should be back in a few days."
Athos' brow furrowed as he looked back at the young man on the bed, "What of d'Artagnan?"
Now it was the doctor's turn to frown but he recovered quickly as he realized his mistake in assuming this man would care for his patient, "I'll ask the Captain to have someone check in on him several times each day. Would be best if he had someone with him on a more regular basis, of course, but needs must." He turned his back on the older Musketeer to finish gathering his things, his mind working through the mental checklist of the supplies he'd need.
Athos turned back to the young man, noting the sheen of sweat that covered his face and the pinched expression he wore, suggesting a level of discomfort that not even sleep could remove. The physician was leaving and yet the man had indicated that d'Artagnan needed a higher level of care than he was likely to receive if left in the infirmary. The situation presented a quandary and while Athos knew the answer, he was hesitant to accept it. "Athos," Aramis' smooth voice drawled in his head, "we cannot turn our backs on someone in need." The older man closed his eyes for a moment, frustration welling at the sound of his conscience which had taken on the medic's voice. "Athos, there is no decision here. You already know what you must do so stop acting so childishly and do it."
Opening his eyes, he gritted his teeth for a moment before turning to speak with the physician, "Doctor, can I assume that it's safe to move him?" The man looked confused for a moment but nodded. "Then I'll make arrangements to have him taken to another room where he can be tended." The doctor seemed pleased if his relieved smile was anything to go by and Athos wondered what Porthos would think of his decision.
Porthos was surprised when a cot was brought into Aramis' room, the men carrying it closely followed by Athos who carried blankets and a pillow in his arms. The large man raised a questioning eyebrow at him and Athos sighed but waited until the men departed before depositing the items on the bed as he started to prepare it for its occupant. "The physician is leaving and will be gone for several days," he explained as he shook the blanket out. "d'Artagnan's wound is infected and Treville has us off duty. It makes no sense to spare additional resources to care for the boy when we are already caring for Aramis." Athos plumped the pillow and placed it at the head of the cot.
Behind him Porthos was considering Athos' words, not wholly unhappy with the decision to move the Gascon into the room, but somewhat surprised at the fact that the older man had been the one to suggest it. Before he had an opportunity to say anything, the door was pushed open again and d'Artagnan was brought in, hanging limply between two Musketeers. Porthos followed them over to the cot, noting the paleness of the young man's features and how his face was screwed up with pain, a low moan coming from him as he was placed on the bed. Athos gave the men a nod of thanks, flipping the blanket over d'Artagnan's still body and pulling it up to his chest.
Athos and Porthos stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the young man, the latter leaning closer to his friend to whisper, "He looks bad." The older man dipped his head in reply, thinking the same and wondering how it came to be that the more minor of the two wounds had become the graver of the two. As Athos reached for a chair and positioned it next to the boy's bed, Porthos said, "You stayin' up for a while?" Again, the older man gave quiet nod. Sighing, the large man stated, "I'll go get us somethin' to eat and then we can take turns watchin' over them." Athos' lips quirked slightly at the resignation in his friend's voice, both of them knowing that they would end up staying in the room until their friend was better; no, until both men were better, he corrected himself, realizing that he'd made them both responsible for the boy's welfare when he'd removed him from the infirmary.
The first night and day following their return was the worst, the Gascon sweating with the heat of his fever but shivering as though he were buried in snow, his body unable to either regulate its temperature or comprehend the mixed messages his brain was receiving. Throughout it all, Athos and Porthos resolutely poured water down his throat, their fingers rubbing gently along his gullet to make him swallow, and bathed him repeatedly in cool water. The wound on his leg began to seep less noxious smelling pus and d'Artagnan settled into a more restful sleep, marked by less tossing and turning, and the mumbled words that had been evident during the worst of his delirium.
Aramis was unaware of most everything that had transpired, his body exhausted, dehydrated and weakened by the amount of blood he'd lost; his first twenty-four hours were marked by short periods of wakefulness when he was urged to consume broth or something for his pain, before falling back asleep. As d'Artagnan's body began to cool on the eve of their second night, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. His tongue licked at dry and cracked lips, his body reminding him that he'd consumed far too little liquid in comparison to what he'd sweated out. His entire body ached but the majority of the pain centred on his right leg, his thigh practically pulsing with each beat of his heart. Unable to stop himself, he moaned lowly at the sensation, gaining the attention of the large Musketeer currently seated beside his cot.
"Finally awake?" a voice asked, and the Gascon rolled his head to the side to identify its owner.
"P'thos?" he slurred.
Porthos smiled at being recognized as he poured water into a cup and then raised the boy's head so he could drink. d'Artagnan fairly gulped at the liquid and the Musketeer pulled it away after only a few swallows, earning him a groan of displeasure. "You can have more in a bit; let's take it slow and make sure it stays down first."
Peering up at the larger man, the Gascon breathed out, "What happened?"
The smile from earlier slipped and Porthos' expression grew serious as he glanced toward Aramis' bed and then back at the young man, "You and Aramis were attacked on your way to the abbey. As near as we can tell, you patched Aramis up and walked several hours until you found water, which is where Athos and I found you. We got back last night and you've been pretty sick because your wound got infected." d'Artagnan's hand moved to touch his thigh but the large man caught it with a shake of his head. "Best leave that alone for now."
The Gascon gave a small nod as he looked around at what he could see of the room, "Aramis?"
The smile from before returned, even more broadly as Porthos stated, "He's doing well; mostly just tired but he should be fine."
"Good," d'Artagnan whispered.
"We've been wonderin', Athos and I," Porthos began, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "Why did you cauterize his wounds and not yours?"
The Gascon's tongue wet his dry lips again and the Musketeer helped him take another drink before he replied, "The men who attacked us took all of our supplies. I did the best I could to bandage his wounds with fabric from my shirt but it wasn't enough. By the time we stopped that first night, he'd lost so much blood." d'Artagnan paused as he looked off into the distance, obviously remembering the amount of red that had stained Aramis' clothes. "Cauterizing was all I could think of so he would survive long enough for help to arrive. He passed out the second time…" he trailed off, thinking to himself thank God. Taking a steadying breath he finished, "I knew I couldn't stay awake to take care of him if I cauterized my wound so I bound it as tightly as I could and hoped it would be enough."
The boy's expression was a mixture of guilt and remorse, clearly feeling badly about the situation in which they'd found themselves and he now rolled his head away, unable to meet Porthos' gaze. For his part, the large man was still uncertain about how he felt about the young man, his actions having nearly cost Aramis his life but also, ironically, saving it.
He was spared from having to comment by a voice from across the room, Aramis apparently awake and needing to offer his input. "d'Artagnan," he called and the boy turned his head toward the medic, still unable to see him through the larger man's bulk. Porthos moved aside, looking toward Aramis as the marksman met the young man's eyes. "Thank you. You saved my life and cauterizing my wounds was ingenious under the circumstances."
The Gascon seemed to blush at the Spaniard's words and he began to shake his head. "No, d'Artagnan, you will hear me out without argument. What happened was not your fault and whether I want to admit it or not, I needed to get away from the garrison for a while." Aramis paused as he gathered his thoughts, "After Marsac, things were difficult and I had thought myself once again unworthy of living when so many others had died. This mission reminded me that I still have a purpose to fulfill and brothers who would miss me if I were gone." Porthos smiled fondly at the man's comment, agreeing wholeheartedly that he could not imagine his life without the marksman at his side.
"d'Artagnan, you may not be one of us by name, but you have proven you deserve a place at our sides and I would be honored to one day call you brother," Aramis finished, satisfied that he'd had his chance to speak.
The room fell silent as Porthos raised an eyebrow at Aramis, the medic returning his gaze steadily and giving a slow, firm nod. The large man's expression shifted to one of acceptance, willing to allow the marksman his opinion about the young man even though he might not share it.
The Gascon for his part was stunned speechless as he looked from one man to the other, but neither gave any further indication of their thoughts and he finally gave a small dip of his head and then turned away. His energy was deserting him and he gladly allowed his eyes to close, welcoming the excuse to leave the awkwardness of the moment behind. He could hear quiet footfalls and then the murmuring of voices and guessed that Porthos had moved to the medic's side so they could converse. As he began to drift toward sleep he realized with a pleasant jolt that Aramis' words had warmed him and that, incredibly, he felt the same way toward the man whose life he'd managed to save.
Present day:
It had been hours since Athos' departure and Aramis could no longer contain his anxious pacing, moving fretfully across the front room of the farmhouse they'd commandeered for their purposes. The longer it took for him to return, the longer it would take before they could hand their charge over to their reinforcements, delaying them further from searching for d'Artagnan. As he crossed the room once again, he recalled his first mission after Marsac's death - the first time he'd realized that the young man was becoming as dear to him as his other brothers-in-arms.
In the days that had followed their rescue, Aramis had learned the full details of d'Artagnan's sacrifice. How the boy had protected him from their attackers after he'd been shot, an occurrence that he admitted later was completely his fault as he'd been too distracted to remain alert to their surroundings; the many miles they'd crossed with d'Artagnan bearing the brunt of his weight, all the while also burdened by his own wound and guilt over the marksman's injury; how the young man had put aside his own welfare, choosing to leave his wound open, rather than risk passing out, so that he could stay aware and tend to the medic. His actions were those of a Musketeer and Aramis had been confident that the young man would one day earn his commission and join their brotherhood.
Of course, he'd forgotten in that moment about the dangers that accompanied the life of a soldier, a fact that was glaringly obvious now that the young man had been taken from them. None of them had willingly left d'Artagnan behind, but their duty bound them to protect the Queen's cousin; it was a treasonous thought, but Aramis would have much rather stayed at his brother's side, leaving the lady's fate to chance. Instead, he'd been forced to his horse, staying protectively between the woman and the bandits, watching as d'Artagnan battled valiantly against overwhelming odds to buy them the time they needed to make good their escape. Even as they'd turned and ridden away, he could hear the sounds of battle as steel clashed against steel. They'd disappeared from sight, leaving d'Artagnan's destiny in his hands, praying that the man would survive long enough for them to be reunited.
Once they'd found their current refuge, paying the farmer and his wife handsomely for permission to stay, Porthos had travelled back to where they'd been ambushed, bringing back the young man's sword and confirming the lack of a body. The news had nearly made them weep with relief, the only logical explanation being that their attackers had taken d'Artagnan, allowing them hope that they could still rescue the boy. He had little doubt, however, about the Gascon's treatment, recalling well the instances of his own imprisonment by their enemies; fortunately, he also understood the young man's strength and knew that d'Artagnan would do everything within his power to stay alive until they came for him.
It was well past midnight when Aramis' keen eyes spotted approaching riders, moving his harquebus immediately into place on the window ledge as he hissed Porthos' name, the large man sitting a few feet away asleep in a chair. He came awake immediately, smoothly rising from his seat and coming to Aramis' side, a pistol ready in his hand as he sidled up to the other side of the window. He stayed pressed against the wall, lest he present himself as a target for some eager sharpshooter as he asked, "Can you tell who it is?"
Aramis gave a short shake of his head, eyes continually scanning their surroundings while waiting for the horses to come nearer so he could discern their details. Releasing a huff of air, he breathed out a single word as the faint light of the moon illuminated a familiar face, "Athos."
Next to him, Porthos relaxed as well, moving toward the door and waiting for Aramis' signal to open it. Moments later, he unbarred the door, pulling it open to allow Athos and six others entrance into the dimly lit interior. Athos gave both men a quick nod in greeting, silently conveying his relief at their continued wellbeing, the two friends' expressions matching his own.
"The Lady is asleep in a back room," Aramis explained, already beginning to gather his belongings in preparation to depart.
Athos stepped forward, placing a hand on the marksman's arm to stay his movements. Aramis stopped and looked up from what he was doing, his eyes asking an unspoken question. "Aramis, we'll wait here until morning," the older Musketeer stated.
The medic looked aghast, glancing toward Porthos who wore a similarly resigned expression to Athos. "It's too dark for us to track them," Athos explained, clearly just as distraught as his friends at having to leave d'Artagnan in his captors' hands.
"Athos," Aramis breathed out, the word both a plea and a question to which the older man simply shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The marksman gave a nod of acknowledgement, setting down his things and sitting in a chair as he deflated. d'Artagnan, their brother, would need to survive a few more hours until they could rescue him.