A/N: Well, it looks like this could be the penultimate chapter. While I still have a fair amount more to write about, I don't want to draw out this story more than I need to. There will be more notes in the next chapter.
Thanks as always to my reviewers: pallysdeeks, criminally charmed, Tidia, elbcw, Helensg, Debbie, and Issai.
Until next time ~
ON BROTHERHOOD
14
WAY DOWN WE GO
It takes a surprising amount of force for d'Artagnan to finally open his eyes. For days, or so it feels, he has drifted on the brink of consciousness; occasionally, light shines through his eyelids, he feels cold droughts, or he hears voices. He finds it difficult to identify them, but the fixed picture of Athos's face just before he fell remains in his peaceful view and he rests happily in the knowledge that he is surrounded by brothers. How many days has it been since his escape? Surely enough. Enough that the musketeers must have fought off Fouquet and his men, defended the garrison from hostile forces. Everything seems numb and quiet and beautiful.
When his eyes at long last blink open, the sudden light blinds him for a second. He can hear the crackling of the fire and slowly rotates his head to look at it. His neck is stiff but not unbearably painful. Unaccustomed to the light, however gentle, he shuts his eyes again and blinks them slowly, testing his vision and awareness. Then, when he is satisfied, he turns again in the direction of the voices.
"What I am trying to say, dear Porthos, is that if you were perhaps not so ... boisterous in your victories, there is a small possibility that you might actually get away with your demonic cheating."
"Shut up, Aramis, the fight's half the fun! Besides, last time I took your advice on card games, I ended up with a stab wound."
"A stab wound the size of my smallest toenail."
"But a stab wound nonetheless. If you'd have just let me - "
"Enough." A new voice. Quiet but clear.
"You've wounded me. And here I thought we were brothers."
An indignant sniff. All of a sudden the person in the bed next to him rolls over and d'Artagnan finds himself staring into a warm pair of eyes. Aramis. There is a bandage wrapped around his forehead, but he looks to be in reasonable health.
"Aramis," he croaks. "Did you - "
"D'Artagnan!"
There is a rush of movement from beyond his field of vision and then Athos and Porthos appear in front of him. "You're awake!"
"How do you feel?"
"Water?"
"No," he tries to say, "I - did you - Fouquet - "
A cup is pressed against his lips and his mouth fills with cool liquid. He swallows quickly as more and more comes. As the cup is withdrawn, Porthos says with some satisfaction, "Rotting in the Bastille. The rest of them were hanged but the King still thinks he has information."
"The Bastille?"
"Not enough security in the Chatelet, apparently." Porthos grimaces. "Better than he deserves, the bastard. But he won't be going anywhere."
Aramis has not emerged from his bed. D'Artagnan wonders if this has something to do with the bandage. "What happened to your head?"
"Don't ask," Aramis grins.
"I'm asking."
"I ... ah, I took a trip down a flight of stairs. Certainly not my fault."
Porthos laughs, a deep chuckle. "A women pushed him down when he tried to seduce her."
D'Artagnan snorts.
"That was not what happened!" Aramis exclaims, scandalised. "Well, it was more complicated than that, anyhow."
"Enough, Aramis," Athos says gently. "He needs rest." He seems to be looking very intently into d'Artagnan's eyes. "How do you feel? You've had a low fever for a few days, aside from your obvious injuries."
Injuries ... d'Artagnan is suddenly very tired. He cannot quite remember any injuries. His whole body seems to ache: the pain is not focused on one area.
"I'm fine," he says absently, and falls asleep.
After a little deliberation they all agreed not to tell d'Artagnan in his weakened state about the battle. His road to recovery will be a long and likely difficult one, and it seems wise not to upset him so early on. Aramis is told that Porthos half carried Athos back to the garrison, having pulled him onto the back of his own horse ten minutes into the ride home. (This is not, apparently, how Athos himself remembers it.) He is told that they half fell into the infirmary to find d'Artagnan, and found him still unconscious with a hot, damp forehead and an only slightly furious Constance sat beside him.
Aramis was carried in and placed in the bed beside d'Artagnan to recover. He slept for several hours, was confused and upset when he awoke - of this period he remembers little - and slept fitfully for several more. Lemay told him to stay in bed for three days, an order which in normal circumstances he would completely ignore. However, d'Artagnan is here and Aramis does not wish to leave his side. He has a pounding headache, besides.
Just as his forced recovery period is drawing to a close, Aramis rolls over and looks into the Gascon's brown eyes for the first time in what feels like years. There is an unnerving silence in them, a hollow sort of pain that was never there before, an absence of the usual compassion the burns so brightly. He wonders if d'Artagnan will ever be the same. Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to the poor boy during his imprisonment. Fouquet, his captor, has been infuriatingly vague. Porthos keeps threatening to go in there with his knife and see what he can do, and Aramis has half a mind to allow him to.
Eventually, he has been forced to accept that he needs to give his injured shoulder to recover, and as soon as Treville heard about it he imposed upon Aramis a further three-week recovery period. It is excessive, for a flesh wound, but Aramis damaged it further by continuing to fight and train, and now it aches dully whenever he tries to use a sword.
"He didn't quite seem himself," remarks Porthos worriedly.
"Of course he doesn't," says Aramis. "He's been unconscious for days and as soon as he woke up you poured a pain draught down his throat."
"Aramis is right," says Athos, who has barely spoken more than a few words at a time since they returned from the battle. Porthos told Aramis while the lieutenant slept that Athos had suffered some sort of break when the enemy surrendered. He did not give many details, but said that the man was panicked and delirious after receiving a cut to the back, and that he recovered shortly after.
"Someone should tell Lemay. The lad's well out of the woods now."
"Constance will be horrified. The first time she leaves in three days and he wakes up while she's gone."
It feels like a blessing to all of them. Their fear for d'Artagnan has dulled with time; while it remains strong, it is a persistent nagging in their stomachs now, rather than the sharp pangs of dread they felt before. His awakening is surely a benevolent sign from the heavens, for it is nearly impossible now that he will succumb to his injuries and exhaustion. He takes more and more broth every day, and his breaths are much stronger. Lemay is delighted with his progress.
Aramis just wishes that there was something he could do.
She had taken to visiting the grave every day, just to be near him. Her husband would despair; she would go out to fetch some bread and return hours later, the bread soaked through with rain, her skirt filthy with mud from the fresh earth. She would, of course, have to wash her skirt, and they would have no bread with the somewhat watery soup she made, and she would look at d'Artagnan's empty space and the excess soup she made by accident and her eyes would fill with tears and she would have to excuse herself.
It was on one such occasion, when she was staring blankly at the simple wooden cross stuck into the wet mud, that Treville approached her from behind. "Constance," he said. "Did no one think to tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
He led her away, back into the city, towards the garrison ... into the infirmary, where a young man lay on the bed. A young man who was unmistakeable as her lodger and friend.
She has not left his side since - not until today, when Lemay, the surgeon, took her by the arm and forcibly pulled her from the warmth of the infirmary into the cold air outside.
The marketplace is as cheerful and bustling as ever. A child shoves her aside and she stumbles, watching and hiding a smile as the crook of a butcher's wife waddles, screeching, after. She has a little coin in her purse and passes it to the kindly baker in exchange for a sweet pastry. Constance has eaten only broth and a little bread for days, and the different flavours seem miraculous to her slightly starved senses.
It seems strange to her that for the rest of the world, life has carried on as though nothing at all has happened. The smiling baker has no idea at all that she has lost and gained everything in the space of a few days, that she is nursing the man she loves back to health -
The man she loves.
Because d'Artagnan is not just her lodger. Not any more. Now that she has lost him, and by some miracle he has returned to her ... they can never marry - she knows that for sure - but he is her best friend and if they cannot be lovers then they can, at least have that. They can share a bond that nothing can break, if only for a short while before he gets himself killed again. Of course, she detests his lack of regard for his own wellbeing, but such reckless daring is as large a part of his personality as his fierce loyalty and Constance cannot help but love him for it.
Before she knows it, she has taken herself home. The house looms above her threateningly, and she hesitates, but it has started to snow again and she needs to get in out of the cold. Taking a deep breath, she steps inside.
The house is - well, it's a mess. The floor is dirty and covered in water tramped in from outside. Random samples of fabric are strewn uselessly across shelves and even on the floor. When she moves into the kitchen, a plate lies shattered and unswept at her feet. Used dishes are piled up next to the window, and the table is covered in breadcrumbs. How long has she been gone? Three days? Three days, for such dreadful mess to accumulate? It must have been longer.
Constance hurries up to the bedroom. Jacques does not seem to be home, and, however cowardly she feels, she is grateful for it. There is a bag in the cupboard and she starts shoving clean dresses into it so that she can maintain some semblance of normality. Her current one is grubby and she changes out of it quickly, before scrambling into a tidier blue one. She bites her lip against the cold. As she moves to leave she catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror and recoils. That won't do.
Her hair has lost its curl and moved back into a flat, lifeless frizz. Her face is pale and grubby. With a sigh, she fetched a cold bucket of water and sets to work splashing her face and dampening her tangled hair. Gasping at the chill (a thin lop layer of the water was frozen), she drags a comb through her hair and plaits it back, away from her face, and dabs a little lavender water behind her ears. She doesn't want to spend too much time away from d'Artagnan, so it will have to do. Nodding at her more acceptable appearance in the mirror, Constance picks up her bag and, opening a window to try and reduce the stale smell of the house, makes her way back downstairs. Perhaps she will return tomorrow to tidy up properly. After all, she will have to face her husband sooner or later.
As fate would have it, the door swings open just as she is approaching it, and her disheveled husband strides through. Immediately, he grabs her wrist. She drops the bag.
"Constance!" he hisses. "Where in God's name have you been?"
"D'Artagnan's alive," she says quickly. His breath smells too strongly of cheap wine.
"And what? You've moved out and taken him as your lover? Get inside!"
Constance struggles out of his grip. "I've been nursing him! The doctor has other patients and he needs constant help! Let me - let me go!"
She starts to leave through the still open door. Icy wind is blowing into the house and she shivers in spite of herself. "Constance, if you leave this house, I'll - "
"What will you do, Jacques? Beat me?"
"If you step out of that door, you won't step in again - "
"Jacques - "
"I mean it, Constance!"
He is weak and foolish with alcohol, but he'll keep his word. He is too proud a man not to. Very slowly, she comes back into the hallway.
"I thought so."
Constance picks up her dropped bag, kisses her husband on the cheek, and walks out the door.