Thank you for all the reviews on the last chapter and to the guests who took time to comment, but to whom I can't reply personally. Hopefully no one has fallen over the cliff waiting for this next chapter.
d'Artagnan's focus began to waver after his friend's heartfelt plea and his awareness narrowed to the overwhelming cold that encompassed him. It had been easier to ignore before, the ocean's frigid waters more of an annoyance as they'd first dampened his clothes, but the icy liquid had quickly and insidiously wormed its way inside to touch more and more of his skin, the coldness seeping into his core and making him shiver until he thought he would shake apart with the force of his muscles' contractions. To make matters worse, the caress of the salty water had made the raw skin of his burns alight with renewed agony and his breaths sped up briefly until the frigid water dulled the fiery sensation.
He remembered Athos moving to sit with him to hold his head out of the water, the warmth of his mentor's hand making the chill of his body all the more evident. The older man had eventually settled down, positioning his knee underneath the young man's head as a makeshift pillow, his hand shifting to d'Artagnan's neck and the Gascon wondered idly if he was concerned by the sluggish heartbeat he likely found there as the water's temperature slowed its pace.
He'd vaguely recalled some of what Aramis had told him about the cold but couldn't muster enough energy to care, oddly calmed by the fact that he would not die alone. Perhaps he would not even be aware when he drowned, the frigid waters doing the job first; it would be a more pleasant end, he decided and he considered closing his eyes and drifting off, feeling incredibly tired and detached from limbs that had long since turned numb from the cold. Without conscious thought, he let his eyes close, unaware of the curse that Athos let loose and of the panicked hand at his cheek, begging with him to stay awake. There was a note of terror in the man's voice that cut through the fugue that enveloped him and gave him the strength to lift heavy lids, blinking blearily at the man who now leaned over him, desperately waiting to see his dark eyes.
"Thank God," Athos breathed out, having watched as the young man had gone from uncontrollable shivering to a deathly stillness that had him praying to a deity he no longer believed in to spare the young man's life. He'd been sitting with the Gascon for nearly 10 minutes and was shocked at how quickly his condition was deteriorating, dealing with the icy water as well as he held the boy's head up.
In the short time he'd been siting there, his body had succumbed to frequent shuddering as well, and the water had continued to rise, now beginning to lap at the Gascon's chest and Athos was confident that if he were not there to help the boy, his face would be submerged under water in minutes. The realization shook Athos to his core, the memories of his own drowning rising unbidden, filling his mind with images of black water, the panic that had gripped him as he'd been unable to reach the surface, and the unyielding pain as he'd breathed liquid instead of air. It had been a terrible experience and one that he was determined would not be shared by the young man.
After pleading with d'Artagnan to hold on, Aramis had gone in search of anything they could use to shift the heavy timbre while Porthos had scurried topside to look for help from those on land. Neither one had returned and each second that passed ratcheted the fear in Athos' gut higher, the thought of sitting by and watching his protégé drown making his heart clench painfully. "d'Artagnan," he said, hoping to keep the young man awake with conversation, "you must keep your eyes open for me." He watched as the Gascon struggled to comply, the likelihood that his mind was aware enough to comprehend his words low.
Once again, d'Artagnan surprised the older man as he spoke, his words badly slurred and almost too quiet to hear, "M'wake."
The stubbornness that forced the young man to respond brought a rare smile to Athos' face as he answered, "Yes, you are." He swallowed, watching as the boy's lids grew heavy, threatening to close again. "d'Artagnan, I must apologize. Earlier, at the inn…" he trailed off, searching for the right words before realizing that they no longer mattered, the young man's life measured in minutes and the most important thing now was for him to explain regardless of how he accomplished the task. "I was wrong. I should have accepted your apology when you offered it. You just caught me by surprise and then I wasn't sure if I could forgive you, but I do."
He saw a ghost of a smile on the Gascon's face, the chilled muscles making it nearly impossible for him to accomplish the feat but Athos could see it. "S'alright," he whispered and Athos knew he'd been forgiven, the young man seemingly amused by the stream of sentences that had poured from his lips in such an uncharacteristic fashion.
Now, as he looked down at the boy who'd come to mean so much to him, his eyes clouded with tears and he saw the smile on the boy's face falter, belying a greater awareness than he'd thought possible at this point. "Don't cry." He pulled another shuddering breath, even those coming all too infrequently as his body began to shut down. "Doesn't hurt." The young man's eyes slipped closed and Athos' fingers pressed desperately to his neck, searching for the beat that represented his continued life, taking a quivering breath when he found one.
"Athos, I've found an axe," Aramis' voice made the older man startle badly as the Spaniard slogged through the ever increasing amount of water that surrounded them. Athos gave a shaky nod and Aramis moved immediately to where the beam had crashed through the wall, attacking the wood so they could release the timbre from its position atop the young man.
With the first strike of the axe, Aramis bent over nearly double, one hand flying to his side, confirming his earlier suspicion that he'd added cracked or broken ribs to the wound on his flank. It took several long moments for him to realize that someone was speaking to him, and he forced himself upright to throw an annoyed look at his friend. "Aramis, are you alright?" Athos' face was full of worry, not just for him but for the young man whose life hinged on their ability to pull the beam free.
With a grin that Aramis was sure looked more like a grimace, he replied, "Fine, just my side." He lifted the axe and swung again, a yelp escaping him as he folded once more. This time he had to release his grip on the axe, leaning a hand heavily on the wall as the pain threatened to topple him. Raising his face, now covered in a cold sweat, he turned in anguish to his friend, "I can't do it."
Athos gave a quick nod as he ordered, "Come, trade places with me." The Spaniard walked over shakily, cursing as he kneeled in the freezing water and took over the older man's duty of keeping the Gascon's head up. Athos struggled to his feet, his legs numb after sitting for so long and having lost the feeling below his knees due to the frigid temperature. Regardless, he pushed himself to walk forward, shuffling more than anything else since it was the best he could manage. He pulled the axe free from where Aramis had left it and applied every ounce of his frustration and anger to the wood that trapped his friend. The hole widened, slowly but surely, even though Athos was trembling with a combination of fatigue and exertion after only a few strikes.
The sound of splashing made him pause and look up, seeing Porthos' anguished face appear, his chest heaving after having run to return to them, "We're on our own; no one's willing to board a sinkin' ship." Athos merely nodded tiredly and lifted the axe over his head, putting as much of his strength behind the swing as he could, knowing that time was running out. Porthos watched the older man working at the wall, chafing at the fact that his legendary strength could not be applied to the task while his one arm was broken. Further away, Aramis knelt pale-faced, one hand holding his side while the other had taken up residence over the Gascon's throat, monitoring the weak heartbeat that continued to fade.
He was about to ask how d'Artagnan was doing when the world tilted once more, the ship settling further into the water and shifting further to one side. In that moment, several things happened at once as the men were jarred, Porthos staggering against the wall and catching himself with his broken arm, pulling a grunt of pain from his lips. Athos was thrown away from the opposite wall, losing his grip on the axe and falling to his backside in the water. Aramis was pulled away from d'Artagnan and the water rose by several inches, covering the boy's face and hiding it from view.
"No!" Aramis yelled, the first to recover and find their friend now fully underwater. His hands scrambled in the dark liquid, fingers twining into the boy's hair, pulling upwards, but it wasn't enough – the water was too high.
"Help me," Athos roared, having lifted himself out of the water and standing back at the beam, already bending down to encircle it in his arms and tug it free with sheer willpower if necessary. Porthos moved forward to help and they tugged at the timbre, shocked when it moved away easily, the water having risen sufficiently to not only free it from the wall where it had been trapped, but to buoy the wood off of their friend. "Aramis, pull him up," the older man shouted as he and Porthos pushed the offensive piece of wood further away.
With a quick tug, d'Artagnan came free, Aramis pulling the young man's head and shoulders onto his knees, numb fingers already searching for a pulse. He pressed down harder, still not finding the reassuring thrum he'd been searching for and after several seconds, looked up at his friends in horror, "There's no heartbeat."
Athos was already moving toward him, wading through the knee-deep water to get to his friends. With two heaves, he pulled the Gascon first to a seated position and then onto one shoulder, Aramis already rising while Porthos turned to lead them out. It seemed that the ocean was unwilling to give up its prize and the waters continued to rise quickly, swirling around their legs and hiding numerous obstacles in their path, the men stumbling frequently as they made their way to the top deck.
Climbing up through the hatches to move from one deck to the next was nearly Athos' undoing, his barely-healed lungs struggling for air as he pushed his body beyond its limits, his injured leg threatening to fold as he carried the boy on his shoulders to safety. By the time they'd reached the hatch that would lead them topside, Athos could barely lift his feet onto the rungs and it was only Aramis' assistance from below that gave him the extra push he needed to reach the top. As he shakily stepped onto the deck, Porthos reached out to steady him, leading him another step away so that Aramis could follow and Athos wanted nothing more than to release his burden and drop, letting his exhausted body have the rest it was craving. But Aramis' last words echoed unrelentingly in his brain, pushing him onward – there's no heartbeat!
He had no idea how they would save the boy, or if it was even possible, but Athos had no doubt that they would do everything in their power to see the young man breathing once more, just as soon as they'd left the sinking ship behind. On the top deck, the older Musketeer could see how badly the ship was listing, the horizon tilting away from them at an odd angle. "Come on!" Porthos shouted at him and Athos didn't even have enough energy to nod, and just forced himself into motion once more, vaguely aware of Aramis at his other side, pulling him along.
The gangplank that connected the vessel to the dock was gone, having been dislodged at some point by the ship's death throws and they now faced a five foot gap across churning waters, a single misstep promising them a fate that ended in the ocean, likely to be crushed by the hull of the ship as it rocked against the dock. The three traded panicked looks as they saw the gap that separated them from safety and Porthos took the lead, not waiting for one of the others to come up with a plan.
"I'll jump across first. Aramis, I want you to follow me. We'll have a better chance of catching and bracing them if there's two of us." Porthos turned to Athos, noting how the man's pale face was still firmly locked on the dock, seemingly too far away for them to reach. "Athos, we'll both be on the other side and we'll catch you. Take a running start and then jump – you'll be fine. Can you do this?" The intensity of the large Musketeer's gaze cut through Athos' fugue and he nodded sharply, impatient now for them to all be on solid ground.
Porthos gave a return nod, captured Aramis' eye for a moment and then turned and gracefully leapt across the five foot divide. He landed well and moments later had turned and was ready to help Aramis if the man should stumble when he jumped. The Spaniard's leap was nowhere near as smooth, the ship's constant motion making it difficult to keep one's balance, but he landed with both feet firmly planted on the dock. Both men turned to Athos who was eyeing them warily, watching the motion of the vessel as he timed his jump, calculating when the ship would be closest to the dock, providing him with the best chance of success. Taking two long strides, he pushed off the deck and barreled into his friends, the two men catching him and d'Artagnan, immediately moving them further away from the water to a safer location.
As soon as they'd arrived at a spot they all deemed safe, Aramis reached for d'Artagnan and the three worked together to lay the Gascon on the ground, the medic's fingers immediately seeking a heartbeat. Several seconds passed and there was still nothing, the absence of a pulse easily read in the anguished expression on Aramis' face. "Help me roll him," Porthos ordered, not willing to waste any time and seeing the sense of panic on the medic's face that indicated he had no idea of what to do next. The two men moved quickly to comply, rolling the Gascon to his side and Porthos repeated his earlier actions that he'd used with Athos, hoping that the blows to the back might produce the same result.
Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos could see Athos' torment as he waited for a miracle to occur, while Aramis knelt on his other side praying wordlessly for divine intervention to save the young man; Porthos tuned them both out, unable to bear the sight of how much hope they were putting into his feeble attempts to bring the Gascon back to life. The gasp when it came shocked them all, but it jolted Aramis back into medic mode, Porthos moving back slightly to allow his friend better access, grateful that the young man's life no longer depended on him. A minute passed and d'Artagnan continued to breath, painful inhales peppered with weak coughs as his lungs tried to remember how they worked.
The three friends sat in a loose circle around the boy, all of them wet and shivering and completely worn out by the events they'd endured, having no further reserves to draw upon after a week filled with worry, cold and wet conditions, little sleep and half-healed wounds. The only thing keeping them from collapsing completely, their unwavering focus on the young man who shakily drew breath in front of them, each man keeping a hand on some part of the Gascon's body to assure themselves that he was still alive.
The harbourmaster had eventually made his way through the throng of curious onlookers that had come to watch the final throws of the sinking ship, eager eyes shifting frequently to the four bedraggled men on the dock. He came bearing news of a cart and with his assistance, the men loaded the Gascon into the back, his head and shoulders cradled in Athos' lap, one hand resting on the oddly misshapen left shoulder that had been previously injured. The other two had clambered in to sit on either side and they'd been taken back to the inn, receiving assistance to make their way to their rooms and automatically settling in the one that Athos and d'Artagnan were to have shared. When the men helping them moved to lay the Gascon on the bed, Aramis stopped them and had them place his body on the rug in front of the fireplace instead, wanting to dry the boy off before moving him to lay between the warm sheets.
One look at Athos and Aramis had Porthos issuing orders, sending for a physician and directing the innkeeper to stoke up the fire, bring hot water and extra blankets, followed eventually by food and wine. Athos stood with a forlorn expression, leaving no doubt of his feelings of complete desolation as he stared at their youngest, while Aramis looked so weary that Porthos was surprised the man was still standing. The large man was just as exhausted as his friends but there was still work to be done and neither of the other two seemed inclined to move.
Wordlessly, he moved to Athos first, remembering well the way his entire body had been racked with coughs, fighting for every wisp of air that made it into his heaving lungs – he could not watch that happen again. He began fumbling with the clasps on Athos' doublet, gratified when his presence seemed to rouse the older man and he took over the task, giving a small nod of understanding that let him know he was aware of what needed to be done and was capable of completing it on his own.
Porthos came to Aramis next, the Spaniard swaying gently where he stood and the larger man guided him over to a chair, setting him down in it gently, mindful of his friend's injured side. As with Athos, the action prompted Aramis into movement and he was soon undressed down to his braies, shivering as the air around them touched his still damp skin. Before Porthos could do anything more, a knock at the door announced the arrival of both the innkeeper and the physician, the former dropping extra blankets on one of the beds and moving to stoke the fire, as the doctor glanced around the room quickly and then headed directly for the spot where d'Artagnan lay insensate.
Porthos threw a look of regret toward the Gascon, having been unable to undress the young man without help from his friends who were themselves in need of dry clothes. The result was that d'Artagnan was still fully clothed, the moisture soaking into the rug beneath him. The physician seemed unperturbed and accepted Athos' assistance when the older man moved to his side, the two of them stripping the boy carefully before drying him with one of the fresh blankets, finally working together to move him onto the bed so he could be properly tended.
Athos scrubbed a hand across his face as he got his first proper look at the Gascon's damaged body, his chest bearing several angry burn marks, the left shoulder badly distorted, and his torso and face marred by a multitude of bruises. The combined effect was nearly overwhelming and the older man clenched his hands tightly, feeling his fingernails digging into his palms, focusing on the sensation to ground him. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of movement as Aramis assisted Porthos in divesting himself of his wet clothes, draping the items across the backs of chairs and in front of the fireplace so they could dry. When the two had finished, Aramis appeared at Athos' side, Porthos hanging back a bit to allow the physician to work, knowing that they would all require his attention before the day was out.
The doctor straightened from his cursory examination, pinning the three men with a hard gaze. "This man was tortured," he stated, daring any of them to disagree.
Aramis nodded sadly but it was Porthos who answered, "Aye, he was captured while fulfilling his duty as a King's Musketeer."
The physician held the larger man's gaze for a moment before giving a short nod and turning back to his patient. Aramis threw Porthos a look that begged him to take Athos away, and the large man moved forward, firmly gripping his friend's arm and tugging him toward the fireplace, speaking lowly as he did so. "They're gonna be a while, Athos. No reason for you to get sick again while we wait."
Once Athos was moving in the right direction, Porthos snagged one of the blankets from the other bed and brought it over to where his friend waited, and the two sank to the floor, the chairs filled with their wet clothes, and they leaned against the wall, bundled together under the blanket while the doctor and Aramis worked.