Thanks to everyone who's been reading, reviewing, following and favoriting, and to AZGirl for her ongoing help. Last chapter will be up tomorrow!
The half-hour ride took nearly twice as long, Porthos slowing each time d'Artagnan was overtaken by cramps. Although there was little to be done, he rubbed calming circles along the boy's back and held him close, ensuring the young man didn't fall from the horse. Athos was allowed to ride alone, but Aramis stayed at their rear where he could keep a watchful eye over all his patients. It was a somewhat shaky Athos who dismounted when they reached the inn to bang on the establishment's door. He was rewarded a minute later when a man in a nightshirt appeared, initially unhappy at having his sleep disturbed but turning more hospitable when he recognized the distinctive pauldrons on his guests' shoulders.
They were given a room with one large bed, some extra blankets, and a fire that glowed brightly in the fireplace, making the entire space warm and welcoming. Aramis immediately requested that hot water be brought, and set about brewing the medicinal draught that would relieve d'Artagnan's pain. While it steeped, he sewed Athos' wounds closed and bandaged Porthos' arm, all the while keeping an eye on the Gascon who was curled into himself on top of the bed.
"Will he be alright?" Porthos asked as his arm was being wrapped, looking over anxiously at the young man.
Aramis spared a glance before replying, noting Athos' stubbornness in sitting on the bed at the young man's hip. "Should be," he finally replied. "Poisons are tricky. Hopefully the new Marquis wasn't lying to us or he'll be very unhappy with our next visit."
Porthos couldn't agree more with the medic's sentiment, especially as he observed the intense expression on Athos' face. All of them were worried about the Gascon, but the older man had been different since the execution, even the news that d'Artagnan was alive not bringing him back to his old self. Porthos understood that it was likely due to guilt, even though he'd challenge anyone to convince him of Athos' wrongdoing. In his mind, the older man had acted honorably by highlighting Lenoir's bravery, and it was not Athos' fault that those words had been misconstrued. Now that d'Artagnan was back with them, he was confident that they'd be able to convince the former comte of the same, but knowing the man's stubbornness and penchant for self-deprecation, it could be a while before he'd be persuaded.
"There," Aramis looked at his handiwork with satisfaction, "that should hold it. We'll need to clean it and change the bandage daily until the skin closes."
Giving a smile of thanks, Porthos rolled his shirtsleeve back down, watching as the medic tested the temperature of the tea he'd been steeping before bringing it over to the bed. At his approach, Athos reached for the cup, stating, "I'll help him drink it."
With a nod, Aramis let his friend take the cup, sitting at the head of the bed to speak to the young man, "d'Artagnan, we have something that will make you feel better."
The Gascon let out a long groan as he pressed his hands into his stomach, willing the pain away. His friends waited impatiently until the cramp passed, and then Aramis helped d'Artagnan roll onto his back, supporting his head while Athos helped him drink. Between swallows, the Gascon protested, "Can do it myself."
The familiar comment made all of them smile and Aramis teased, "We know you can, but humour us; it makes us feel useful."
Porthos snorted softly as he sat in a chair on the bed's other side, glad to see the reappearance of the young man's stubborn streak.
After another swallow, d'Artagnan pushed at the cup with one hand as he blearily looked at his friends. "You alright?" he asked, his eyes refusing to focus well enough to provide him with the answer.
Porthos gave a soft huff as he reached out a hand to squeeze the nape of the Gascon's neck, "Everyone's fine, d'Artagnan. It's you we're all worried about."
The Gascon's lips turned up in a smile as he seemed to sag further into the mattress, his friend's words assuaging the concern that had kept him tense. Noting how the young man's eyelids were beginning to droop, Aramis intervened, "Ah, ah, we can't let you sleep yet. You need to finish your medicine first."
d'Artagnan gave a half-lidded grimace as he slurred, "Tastes bad."
The medic's gaze softened as he replied, "I know it does, but it's necessary." Before the cup could be brought back to the Gascon's lips, he was gripped by another round of cramping, squeezing his eyes closed as he rode out the pain. Athos looked just as pained as his protégé, and he unconsciously reached a hand forward, inserting into d'Artagnan's clammy grip where it was clasped tightly. Afterwards, they waited several seconds for the Gascon's breathing to slow before Aramis again supported the boy's head, d'Artagnan's eyes opening as he saw the cup being presented. Athos tipped it to the young man's mouth with one hand, while his other remained in d'Artagnan's, neither of them ready to lose the comfort provided by the touch.
They'd had to endure two more rounds of cramps before the Gascon had managed to finish the draught, and he was barely managing to keep his eyes open by then. Aramis knew they needed to let him rest since his sleep was likely to be continually disturbed by his contracting stomach muscles until the cure took effect. He looked down towards the young man's feet, which were still bound by dirty bandages and marred by blotches of red. It was an easy decision to leave them for now, allowing d'Artagnan some respite and tending to the cuts once the boy was released from the poison's effects.
Shifting his gaze across the bed to Porthos, he saw that the man had leaned back in his chair and relaxed. As the larger man motioned with his head towards Athos, Aramis turned to see the older man beside him staring tiredly at the Gascon, his free arm clamped around himself and stabilizing his injured side. Clearing his throat softly the medic suggested, "Athos, why don't you take the other side of the bed. I think d'Artagnan would feel better having someone close, and given your wounds, it should be you."
Aramis and Porthos had no doubt that Athos understood the real reason behind the marksman's suggestion but for once, he didn't care to argue. He needed to stay close to the boy just as badly as d'Artagnan needed his comfort and, given everything that had transpired, it was the least he could do. Gently withdrawing his hand from the Gascon's he began to bend forward to pull off his boots, only to be stopped partway by Aramis who gave a shake of his head, "Your side won't appreciate that." The marksman grabbed hold of his friend's footwear and took them off. Rising, he leaned in close to Athos' ear, whispering, "Do you want something for the pain?"
The older man gave a shake of his head, and the medic stared hard at his friend before shifting away, allowing Athos to stand and walk around the end of the bed to the other side. He laid down carefully on the mattress, not wanting to jostle d'Artagnan, and moved within inches of the young man. As he settled, the Gascon's belly clenched painfully and he reached his hand forward unseeingly, Athos taking it immediately as they rode out the pain. With nothing else to do, Aramis rose wearily and stretched his sore back muscles. Catching the motion, Porthos whispered, "Why don't you get some sleep, too."
Seeing the exhaustion that painted Porthos' features, the marksman countered, "How about you rest first. I'll need to care for d'Artagnan's feet in a couple hours when he's feeling better and we can swap then." With a pointed look that said, "You'd better," Porthos gave a dip of his chin in agreement. It took less than a minute for him to reposition his chair against the wall and fall asleep with his head back and his arms crossed.
Aramis crossed the room to sit in another chair, relieved that they were all together again, but wondering if their nightmare was truly over.
Little by little, the medicine d'Artagnan had consumed began to take effect, and he dozed for longer periods of time in between bouts of cramping. Eventually, he no longer woke, his brow merely wrinkling at the pain that his mind unconsciously registered. Athos had succumbed to his exhaustion as well, initially waking each time the ache in the Gascon's midsection swelled, but remaining asleep as the intensity of the cramps diminished. As much as Aramis hated to disturb the young man's rest, he could no longer put off tending to the boy's feet. Normally, he would have seen to them at once, but he'd been loathe to do anything to add to d'Artagnan's earlier pain.
Moving slowly about the room, the medic gathered the supplies he'd need before gently unwrapping the filthy bandages that covered the cuts. It was a testament to the pain-filled hours the Gascon had endured that he didn't so much as flinch as the last of the linen was pulled away. Aramis bit his lip against the curse that sprang to his lips. The right foot didn't look too bad considering, but the left was reddened and weepy. Given all the activity, neither cut had scabbed over and infection was a serious concern. Swallowing a sigh, Aramis dipped a cloth into warm water and began cleaning the right one first, using gentle, even swipes to remove the blood and grime until the cut was clear of all foreign matter.
Glancing toward the Gascon's face, he saw the young man still deeply asleep, Aramis' careful ministrations not even registering. Taking a moment, the medic swapped out the dirty water and cloth for clean ones before seating himself again and carefully taking hold of d'Artagnan's left foot. His first pass of the cloth had the young man twitching, and Aramis marginally tightened his hold. The next wipe made the Gascon's brow furrow, while the third made the young man groan. The medic rinsed the cloth and brought it even nearer to the ugly cut, causing d'Artagnan's leg to jerk as he attempted to escape the pain.
Looking up, Aramis could see the young man's eyes were now open. Dropping the soiled cloth back into the bowl of water, he stood and moved to the head of the bed, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "d'Artagnan," he spoke softly. "Are you with me?"
The Gascon's head rolled on the pillow until he was looking up at the marksman's face, "Aramis?"
The medic smiled, "Yes, we rescued you, remember?" He waited for d'Artagnan's slight nod before continuing. "I need to finish cleaning your feet and stitching the cuts. Do you want something for the pain before I continue?"
The Gascon bit his lip as he evaluated the throbbing of his soles. The right one didn't feel too bad but the left one was on fire. Remembering the agony he'd felt when the knife had sliced across his feet, he gave another nod. "Alright," Aramis smiled, grateful that the young man wasn't determined to try and tough things out. He crossed to the table where he'd readied a pain draught, bringing the cup back with him and helping the Gascon drink. Staying seated on the edge of the bed afterwards, the medic tried engaging the boy in conversation as he waited for the medicine to take effect. "How long ago did they do this to you?"
d'Artagnan's eyes were unfocused as he gazed up at the ceiling, recalling how he'd been tied to the grist mill in the barn. "Yesterday morning," he replied.
"It's a good thing you had something to cover them with," Aramis commented, thinking back to the dirty bandages he'd removed.
"Gave me supplies afterwards," the Gascon explained, his eyes still fixed upwards. "Didn't want to me to die too quickly," he huffed mirthlessly, the action prompting him to cough weakly.
"I see," the medic answered as he frowned, his mind recalling the Marquis' dead body but feeling no remorse at what they'd had to do. Lightening his tone, Aramis said, "I'm going to clean your left foot now, and then I'll add some of my needlework." d'Artagnan didn't reply, his eyelids growing heavy with the powerful draught he'd been given. "Try and sleep if you can."
As the Gascon's eyes closed and remained that way, the medic moved back to his previous spot, wringing the cloth out and applying it to the young man's left sole. It took longer than Aramis would have liked, but he needed to be sure that every speck of dirt was gone. Despite the pain relief he'd provided, d'Artagnan had been pulled back to awareness with the burn of the wine he'd poured over the cuts. It was at that point that Athos had become aware of the boy's distress, and had comforted him and kept him still while Aramis had finished. As bad as the alcohol had been, the stitches had been worse, and d'Artagnan had panted and moaned his way through them with his fingers clenched around Athos' hand.
The older man had thrown an accusatory look at the medic after a particularly violent jerk of d'Artagnan's foot, but Aramis had merely glared back at his friend as if to ask, "Do you really think I'm hurting him on purpose?" Athos' expression turned conciliatory and Aramis gave a small dip of his chin in understanding, both of them on edge by the amount of pain being caused. As the medic placed the next stitch, he forced himself not to grimace in empathy, knowing fully the agony he was causing. There was a reason that cutting one's feet was a favoured form of torture and, sadly, it was a more than effective motivator for anyone unlucky enough to experience it.
As he tied off the last stitch and cut the thread, he raised an arm to his face and wiped the sweat from his brow onto his shirtsleeve. He'd willingly taken on the role of medic for their group, but that didn't mean it was easy for him to tend to his friends' injuries. Placing his needle and thread on the small stool beside him, he leaned back in his chair, his face tilting upwards to catch Athos staring at him once more, but this time his expression was full of compassion. Aramis summoned a tired smile and gave a half-hearted shrug to let his friend know that he was alright. The older man looked unconvinced as he whispered, "Why don't you get some rest now?"
The medic shook his head as he replied, "Still need to bandage these. Besides, you need the sleep more than I do."
"He's right," a low voice agreed from the other side of the bed and Aramis looked over, surprised to see Porthos awake. The larger man shrugged nonchalantly, "You said you'd wake me when you were done anyway; so I'm awake."
Aramis barely managed to stop from rolling his eyes, simply giving a brief nod of acquiescence, "Alright, I get the message." Facing Athos, he said, "Go to sleep now. Your wound isn't serious but you're still at risk of infection. Besides," his gaze turned to the Gascon, "I expect you'll have your hands full with that one for the next few days." He didn't wait to see if Athos would do as he'd been told, and turned his focus to efficiently bandaging d'Artagnan's feet. By the time he looked up from his task, the former comte's soft snores had joined his protégé's.
"Come on, then," Porthos spoke from behind him, "let's get you settled too."
Aramis didn't offer any words of protest and let himself be guided out of the chair and over to the pallet that Porthos had prepared on the floor. Smiling at his friend's thoughtfulness, the marksman gave the man a nod of thanks. Porthos grinned easily in reply and returned to his chair, this time leaving it upright to watch over his friends. Minutes later, Aramis' snores had joined the others' and Porthos scrubbed a hand through his curls, his earlier smile fading as he worried over the health of his brothers.