Chapter 29
Athos had had no time to consider the consequences of his actions. It was a simple choice between allowing the bomb to explode inside the palace or, risking his life to save the King – not really a choice at all. Deep inside, he could tell himself he had been saving the King of France, but really his first thoughts were of Aramis, Porthos and, of course, Treville. When he had seen the Captain walking towards him, his only thought had been to get the bomb as far away as possible from those who had cared for him.
For an instant, he felt as though he was suspended in mid-air. He still gripped the table, though his assistance was no longer required. In fact, his survival cried out for just the opposite – now he needed to create as much distance as he could between himself and the deadly creation. Not for a second did he doubt his instinct, and not once did he consider what would happen if in the next few minutes no bomb exploded, making him guilty of the inexcusable destruction of the Queen's birthday cake.
The table began its final descent to the ground, several feet below. Athos groaned as he bounced off a particularly large carving which adorned the edge of an inconsiderately placed window frame. Somewhere amidst the chaos inside his head, he was aware his subconscious was yelling something about those uncomfortable protrusions, but it was not until his shoulder encountered a second one, and extremely painfully, that he perceived their use. Falling through the air, the killer confection a mere inch below him, he grabbed at the next gargoyle with both hands. His body jolted, and he felt both shoulders scream in complaint as his descent came to an abrupt halt. His sockets held, and for a moment he hung there, suspended as though time itself had frozen.
Then a sudden roaring filled his ears, and the object he clung onto with such desperation began rising into the air – with Athos still attached. Flames shot past him, and he felt as though he were being burnt to a cinder. Perhaps this is what hell feels like, he thought. Without warning, he began to drop with increasing rapidity, notwithstanding the fact he was clutching at a rather heavy stone gargoyle at the time. Athos closed his eyes – so was this the end? So be it, at least it had been an honourable end. Perhaps at this final moment he had not disgraced the name of de la Fère, perhaps he had done something to make his father proud. A sudden excruciating pain – then nothing.
Milady had watched Athos and the cake disappear out of the window, but she did not wait around to discover what happened next. She possessed a heightened sense of self-protection and was acutely aware that staying in the ballroom was a very bad idea, and that she might be of use to others should she stay, did not register on her conscience at all. She was mindful of the many secret passages within the Louvre – many sources of information could be uncovered lurking between the walls and rooms of so great a political hub. As she hurried down the stairs within one such corridor, she pushed open a heavy wooden door to find herself in a lower storeroom. The room held casks of ale and such like, nothing of interest. Without pausing, she hurried up a short flight of stairs, to find herself in the quiet of the palace grounds.
Only now they were no longer quiet. Screams echoed from the floors above and, as she stared skyward, she was aware of flames shooting out from the ballroom window several floors above. But that was not what interested her. She grabbed a sconce from the wall and rushed to the spot where man and cake must have landed. No one had yet considered attending the scene, and she drew in a deep shuddering breath as she spotted a dark blot on the ground within the beam of her small flame. The surrounding area was littered with blobs of gold and white, small crumbs, all that remained of the magnificent cake. She forced the sconce into the ground and knelt beside the still form.
Athos was lying on his back, his position relaxed, as if he had simply laid down and gone to sleep. She paused, frozen for a moment, not knowing what to do. She had waited for this moment, fantasised about it, but now she felt helpless – this was not the sense of euphoria she had so often imagined. Reaching out, she touched his brow. Still warm, but then he had ceased to breathe but minutes ago. Her own breath, still warm and alive, hitched in her throat, and a small sob escaped. Tentatively, she brushed the hair back from his face and looked over the broken form. Large shards of glass stuck out from his legs and torso at horrific angles, the light from her torch reflecting upon them, making it seem as though small fires burnt upon him, dancing in the darkness. The hand at her side felt warm and wet and, as she lifted it to her face, she realised his blood was running freely over her fingers. It dripped from their tips to the white snow that still lay in the shadow of the walls, pooling beneath the dark head of curls, as his life's blood ebbed away into the cold ground.
'Oh, Athos, why? Who in that room was worth risking your life for? Who will think any better of you?' She lowered her head to his, and her tears fell freely upon his now cooling skin. A sudden cry from the doorway made her jump. As figures approached, she bent hurriedly, and for the last time kissed her husband upon the lips. They were still warm and soft, and a moan of pain escaped her own mouth, as she forced herself to stand and leave him lying alone on the frozen ground. She had no time left to debate her feelings, for she could not be found here beside the corpse. Turning into the night, she did what she did best. She fled, leaving others to face the reality of the moment.
Closest to the blast when it came, Aramis lay covering the prostrate form of the Queen, his ears ringing, and sounds of screaming and shouting coming to him as though from a great distance. He shook his head, in a vain attempt to clear his muddled senses, dust and debris falling from his hair. It was then he remembered who lay beneath him, and when he saw red drops of blood upon the pale skin his heart jarred within his chest.
'Your Majesty, are you well?' He wiped the blood from her face, but could not see any cuts or lesions upon her skin. As she began to moan, her eyes fluttered for a moment before opening very slowly. 'Your Majesty, are you injured?' the marksman enquired again. She looked alarmed, but then a small smile spread upon her face and she spoke:
'No Aramis, but I must admit breathing is somewhat difficult with you lying on top of me.' The Musketeer rolled off his Queen and apologised profusely,
'My apologies, Your Highness, I did not mean to presume. You are bleeding, where are you hurt?' The Queen frowned for a moment and brushed at her cheek with her fingers. Just then, another small drop of blood appeared upon her cheek, making the dust run down her chin in a rivulet of red. Concerned, she lifted her hand to the Musketeer's forehead.
'It is not I who is injured, it is you. Your head is bleeding, do you not feel it?' Aramis touched his forehead and suddenly realised that it hurt – not a deliberating pain, just the stinging of a deep cut. Reassured he would live, he smiled at the Queen in return.
'It is nothing Your Majesty, just a small scratch. As long as you are not injured, all is well. Allow me to help you stand, we must get you to safety.' She nodded her head, and then panic filled her features.
'Where is Louis? Where is my husband?' Aramis looked through the clouds of dust and smoke to where he had last seen the King. As he helped the Queen to her feet, he tried his hardest not to smile, aware that Porthos was also assisting His Majesty to stand, though his charge appeared a little less grateful.
'Get off me, you great oaf! Where is my wife? What on earth happened? What did that fool of a man do now? And where is my cake?' Aramis and the Queen stared open-mouthed as Porthos, for want of any idea of how he should placate the furious monarch, proceeded to swipe at something adhering to his hair. He placed it on his lips and looked thoughtful, before nodding his head wisely. 'I believe the cake is all over the room Your Majesty. And as to that fool, I think he just saved both your life, and the lives of everyone else attending the party.' Porthos offered the monarch his best glower. The King, not yet quite himself, reverted to his usual childlike ways.
'He has ruined my party! Where is the Cardinal?' He pushed past Porthos and, on seeing his wife, rushed to her side, relieved to see that she was unhurt. At that point, Treville appeared out of the melee, where people were still screaming and scrabbling for the door. When the tall frame was jarred yet again, as the ornate doors hit their frame, the chaos died down for a moment, and those attempting to flee the terror looked on in horror, as yet more death loomed in their midst. A man stood in the yawning gap waving a pistol, though he seemed to be doing it with a somewhat grim smile upon his face. The frozen masses turned in unison and began to run in the opposite direction, just as the sound of gunfire erupted. When no one screamed, they all turned for a fraction of a second, not knowing now which direction afforded them the safest route. The stranger lay face down upon the floor with a smug Rochefort standing over the body, a smoking pistol in one hand, whilst comforting the sobbing Donna Maria with the other.
To say the whole situation was bizarre, was putting it mildly. As always, it was Treville who bought order to the moment, and began to establish some perspective. He emerged from the clouds of smoke and dust like a grey spectre. Wasting no time, he yelled at the staggering Red Guards, who were brushing themselves down, and knocking small grass fragments from their skin.
'You, get water, douse those drapes now!' The two guards looked shocked for a second before exiting the room and following the Captain's instructions. 'Leclerc, Royer, take the King and Queen to safety, I will locate the First Minister.' Without hesitation, the two Musketeers did his bidding.
Treville turned to Aramis and Porthos. 'What are you two waiting for? Athos, quickly!' Needing no further encouragement, they ran from the room, leaving Treville to smooth their way.
The King, still pouting and angry, stamped his foot. 'Excellent! It is about time that man was locked up, he is a liability. You should have heeded my warning, Treville.' Then, looking around as though he had suddenly realised he had lost something, he cried, 'You must find the Cardinal… I need him.' He then allowed himself and the Queen to be led from the room although, as he was ushered through the doorway, he was still complaining about the unfairness of it all. Glancing at the Queen, Treville saw that she looked pale, and was certain that she was in shock.
He gazed at the scene around him. The curtains were now a black smoking mass, but at least the flames had been extinguished. There was a body slumped against the wall and, from the remnants of the clothing, Treville recognised it as that of the small baker, whose nervous demeanour had now been explained by the unexpected demise of his creation. The Captain decided to risk a closer look out of the huge hole that now adorned the palace wall, the scene he witnessed below as disturbing as any inside the room. He saw that Aramis and Porthos were just arriving at the spot where Athos had fallen, and the cry that issued as if from his marksman's soul, told him all he needed to know.
'Dammit,' he muttered to himself, 'Why did he have to jump? Couldn't he have simply pushed it through the window? No, of course not, not Athos.' He recalled the look upon the young man's face as he had turned to see Treville walking toward him. Had it been an apology? Did he know what he intended to do? 'Dammit,' he said again, and strode amidst the carnage. There was much to be done.
'Treville…' A croaky voice, dry and broken, reached the Captain's ears. Even in such a state, he recognised the tone. Turning quickly, he followed the sound to a particularly large piece of masonry, underneath which lay the Cardinal. He was bleeding from a nasty cut to the head, but the larger part of the brickwork had missed much of his body, and he was trapped mainly by his clothing.
Treville cleared away as much of the rumble as he could, and helped the First Minister into a sitting position. 'Are you injured? Is anything broken?' Treville asked urgently. The man shook his head, tentatively lifting his hand to his bleeding temple.
'Only a bang to the head, it will heal. What happened? Was it really the cake?' Richelieu looked incredulous, and Treville nodded, frowning. The Captain halted a dazed looking servant and indicated that he needed water. Glad of something to do, the young footman scurried away. As he handed him the cup, Treville thanked the boy, whose eyes, the Captain could see, were wide with fear as he turned to help the injured guests. Treville held the cup for Richelieu to drink; at least the First Minister did not tend to fuss and moan.
'Thank you. Your man… he threw the cake out of the window?' Richelieu asked the question and Treville sunk his head, giving only a slight nod. Looking up, he answered the Cardinal.
'Yes. I don't know how he worked it out, but he knew.'
'Perhaps he was in on it all along?' Richelieu sneered, but watched the Musketeer for any sign of acknowledgment. This time the Captain was not going to let the accusation go. Amongst others, Athos had given his life for this idiot.
'What, and then pushed it out of the window, killing himself in the process? What exactly would that achieve? And where was the King's brother whilst all of this was happening? I don't see the weasel anywhere about, do you?' Richelieu looked stricken.
'The King, where is the King?' Treville almost felt for the man, who, for once, looked genuinely concerned. He placed his hand upon Richelieu's shoulder to prevent him from rising.
'Both he and the Queen are unhurt, though it has not stopped him complaining.' He raised a brow and looked at the First Minister, gauging his reaction. Richelieu nodded and small grin appeared for a second, before he resumed his usual arrogant expression.
'I must go to him. He will be asking for me.'
'He was,' Treville agreed. 'Good luck. Oh, and do not fill his head with conspiracies involving Athos. He saved all of our lives.' The look he gave the First Minister told the man he brooked no argument and, if he did not comply, he would have to deal with a very angry Musketeer Captain. Not that Richelieu was afraid of the man, but he knew when to pick his battles and, to be honest, he did not think Athos had been involved. He had witnessed first-hand how he had instructed the King and Queen to be guarded before he had plunged from the room with the bomb.
Aramis and Porthos ran along the corridors, ignoring shouts from guards and Musketeers alike, though they did note that Gaston no longer lay slumped where they had left him. Dashing out into the freezing night, their boots crunched on the remains of the frozen snow as they searched for the spot where Athos had fallen. It wasn't too difficult – several Guards had beaten them to it, and were pointing their weapons at the inert body. Aramis' heart sank. He must live.
'Get away from 'im,'Porthos growled, barrelling into the group of men. They looked at the two Musketeers as though they were mad.
'He blew us all up,' one of them retaliated.
'You bloody fool, he saved all our lives, and that of the King and Queen!' A furious Porthos pushed the mouthy guard out of the way, just as another one sneered:
'Well it didn't do 'im any good did it? At least it will save a court hearing.' He sniggered, but only for a second, until Porthos' large fist collided with his face.
'Get 'im out of here before I kill 'im,' the big man snarled, fists at the ready. The guards obediently supported their bleeding colleague and backed away.
'You Musketeers, you are all mad.' Porthos watched them retreat, but it was the anguished cry from Aramis that made him turn his attention back to Athos.
'Nooo. Why?' Aramis sunk his head upon Athos' chest and cried like a baby. Porthos didn't know how to react.
'Are you sure?' He grabbed a sconce from out of the ground – an odd place to find one, but he shrugged it off, holding it aloft. He knelt next to a distraught Aramis and stroked Athos' forehead, it was cold, and his hand came away wet and sticky. It was then that he noticed the pool of blood beneath the pale face. In the light from the flame, Athos looked so young – long lashes gently resting on too pale skin. Porthos closed his eyes and his hand slid from Athos' face onto his neck, clutching it as though he were holding it for one last time. Something was wrong, he frowned and moved his fingers to gain a better position.
'Aramis, he has a pulse.' The medic sat up abruptly. Wiping his eyes he pulled off his gloves.
'Merde, I am a fool.' He placed his fingers over his friend's throat and looked at Porthos in wonderment. 'He lives, my God, he lives!' He began feeling over Athos' body, trying to decide if it was safe to move him. He muttered in horror as his search was hampered by the shards of glass that covered the still form.
'Aramis, we must move him. He will freeze to death lying in this snow. He is bleeding out whilst we sit here and consider his other injuries.' Aramis looked glazed, and Porthos wondered if his friend had not sustained some form of concussion from the bomb, for he did not seem as aware of the situation as normal. Finally, the marksman nodded, and looked to Porthos to take control. No, definitely not himself, thought Porthos. He made to lift Athos into his arms.
'The glass.' Aramis reached out and stopped Porthos from lifting the inert figure. 'He is covered in glass.' Aramis' voice cracked and he looked lost. Porthos rested his hand upon his friend's arm.
'It will be fine, I will lift him carefully.' He gently pushed Aramis' hand away and began to lift Athos into his arms. 'Get the horses, we need to get him back to the garrison. Go Aramis!' Porthos was not used to giving the orders, he was always happy to follow Aramis' lead, or more recently Athos'. He was happy to share his views, or to complain if he did not agree, but to take the lead in an emergency such as this, was odd. He glanced over at Aramis once more, and watched as he ran ahead to organise transport back to the garrison.
Aramis had brought back their horses, deciding they did not have time for a cart. As Porthos lifted the body up onto his own mount, he could not help but remember the last time they did this. It had not been so long ago, and the memory was still fresh, but at least that time they believed he would live. This time he was not so sure. Perhaps Athos had used up all of his lives, or perhaps he had ended it in his own way. It was still a fear that haunted Porthos, though he did not share his concern with his religious friend. Aramis would not wish to believe Athos still entertained the notion of his own end. He climbed up behind the trembling body and held it as close as he could, afraid that his large arms would press the vicious glass daggers further into his friend's body. Athos' head fell back onto Porthos' shoulder, and he could feel the warm blood upon his cheek. He still bled – not good, not good at all.
The atrocity inside the ballroom was not as bad as Treville had initially expected. Most of the blood he had witnessed had resulted from flying glass and broken chandeliers. Apart from the baker, a footman and an elderly baron – whose heart he suspected had given out – there were no other fatalities. Unless, of course, you included the madman, who had burst in and been shot by Rochefort. Treville needed to give that some thought, but later. He was not happy with the event, though, as yet, he was not sure why. Most of the guests had now been led away; the King's physician, after ensuring His Majesty was well, had attended the guests and prioritised those who needed stitches or could be released to their accommodation. The room was now empty.
Shocked servants were attempting to clean up what they could, but it was clear that their hearts were not in it. Treville would have sent them to rest, or at least take a stiff drink, but he knew their lot was not the lot of his Musketeers, and he suspected they dared not shirk from their tasks, no matter how shocked or terrified they might be. Sighing, he turned to leave the room. He must check on the King before Richelieu had the opportunity to spew more lies and innuendo into the monarch's ears.
As the Musketeer Captain walked down the corridor, he was not aware that his demeanour was not quite as commanding as normal. If it had been, he doubted the Red Guard Captain would have approached him with his complaint.
'Treville, your men are a disgrace. One of them has just broken one of my men's nose. He was only guarding the corpse of that renegade of yours. You need to give them a flogging more often. You are too soft.' Treville looked at the man, and could almost see the scene erupting over Athos' body.
'I would say your man got off lightly. If it was Porthos, I am surprised he did not kill him.' Flambeaux's face flamed red but, just as he was about to speak, one of his men hurried up to him and whispered in his ear. Flambeaux looked livid and glared at Treville.
'Well, we will see just what transpires. It seems the mad bomber still lives, though probably not for long.' He turned on his heel, not waiting for the shocked Captain to reply. Treville began to move – for once the King could wait and he, Treville, would face the consequences.
When Louis saw the Cardinal enter his chamber, his eyes brimmed over with tears. 'My dear Richelieu, you live. I was so afraid you had perished.' He clutched the surprised cleric in an embrace, and then held him at arm's length so that he could look at him. 'Tell me, do you think it was Gaston? Did my brother just try to kill me?' He looked to the Cardinal, hoping he would discount his fears.
'It seems your brother was not in the room when the bomb exploded. Nobody had seen him, and his whereabouts are unknown. Other than that, we have no information.' Louis looked like a small boy who had just been bitten by his new puppy. Then he lifted his chin, as though he had just remembered that he was the King.
'Then find him, Cardinal. Find him, and bring him to me.' Louis then turned, retreating into his bedroom, slamming the door as he went, and Richelieu found himself bowing to an empty space. The man considered he had got off lightly and, without lingering, stalked from the room – there was much to do.
When Aramis and Porthos reached the garrison, the guard had been doubled, and the men were on high alert. Though they had not received any firm information, they had heard the blast, and rumour was already spreading throughout the city. Whilst Porthos leapt down, gently lowering his cargo into his waiting arms, Aramis explained to the curious men what had happened. He sent a small contingent to check on Treville to see if he needed assistance, before hurrying into the infirmary. Porthos noted the response, and was relieved to see Aramis more himself than he had been earlier.
The big man carried the silent Athos into the infirmary and placed him on a bed. Both Musketeers looked down at the still form, as though not sure where to begin, but Aramis quickly kicked into his medic persona.
'Lift him up, I need to see that head wound.' Porthos pulled Athos toward him and held him as close as he dared, all the time mindful of the glass. One or two slivers had been jolted from the body by the movements of the horse, and blood now ran freely from several holes in the velvet coat. If only he had worn his own clothes, he may have been better armed, Porthos mused, looking over the torn and bloodied finery.
'It is a nasty cut. Odd it is not on the back of his head but at the side near the base of his skull. I will need to cut away some of this mop of hair, but I doubt he will even notice.' He eyed Porthos, his expression revealing the lack of confidence in his claim. Would Athos even awake to find out what had befallen him? If he did, Aramis would rejoice in any admonishment the swordsman might make as to the shoring of his locks. Calmly, sensing panic in Aramis' voice, Porthos spoke:
'What do you want me to do?' Aramis shook his head and looked at Porthos' gentle smile. Taking a deep breath Aramis replied:
'We need another pair of hands.' He jumped when a third voice entered the quiet conversation, but it was with joy not fear. 'Captain!' Treville gave a tenuous smile and walked up to the bed.
'How is he?' he asked, his voice low, as though Athos was only sleeping. Aramis looked serious, but Porthos was again reassured when the man began to list Athos' injuries in a clear and concise voice.
'He has a bad gash on the head, from which he has lost a great deal of blood. I need to stitch it together, as it still seeps. However, with Porthos holding him, I cannot hold the skin closed at the same time.' Again that slight hint of panic. Treville laid his hand upon the medic's shoulder.
'I can do that. What else ails him?' As he stripped off his doublet and washed his hands, Aramis talked.
'I do not know for definite. We had no time to assess him properly, he was freezing in the snow. There are dozens of glass shards embedded in his legs and torso, presumably resulting from the leap from the window. How bad or how deep, I do not know.' Porthos leant away from Athos to allow the Captain to take a look for himself. Treville frowned and looked at the big Musketeer. Porthos shrugged his shoulders and nodded slightly at Aramis, the expression on his face indicating the concern caused by his friend's behaviour.'Are you hurt Aramis? The Captain asked, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder once more. Aramis looked at his superior as though the contact had hurt, and Treville withdrew his hand. 'Are you injured?' This time Aramis managed to shake his head, though the effort made him screw up his eyes.
'My head hurts and my hearing is poor. There is a ringing that I cannot shake, which I assume is from the bomb blast. A goodnight's sleep and I will be fine. But there is too much to do.' Treville understood and guessed that even if he ordered his Musketeer to stand down whilst a doctor was fetched, he would refuse to comply.
'Very well, I will assist you with stitching Athos' head, then Porthos and I will assess his other injuries whilst you make yourself a pain draught and rest for a while.' He raised his hand as Aramis made to object. 'If you do not comply, I will have you escorted to your room and a doctor will be fetched for Athos. Do I make myself clear?' Aramis paled, but nodded his understanding. 'Then let us get on with it.' Treville declared.
Aramis poured what could never have been called a good brandy over Athos skull. It would suit their purpose well, though he could almost hear Athos' disdain at the waste. Sewing the wound was never going to be easy, skin around the skull was not loose, and trying to keep the edges together was almost impossible. More than once, Treville's fingers slipped in the blood still oozing from the wound; it was long and deep, leaving both men fearing what other damage had been done within his skull. At last, both men elicited a long sigh of relief as the wound was closed. Treville wiped the sweat that ran down his face and fetched them each a glass of water, while Porthos lay Athos down upon the cot.
Aramis felt the pale forehead, noticing how his skin had changed to grey, whilst his lips now held a bluish tinge. 'His skin is clammy, he has lost too much blood. We need a light solution of salt water, it may help replace some to the blood loss.' Treville moved. 'I will deal with that.' As he left the room, Porthos spoke severely to Aramis.
'Take that pain potion. You heard what Treville said. I can…' He glanced down at the too quiet figure. 'I can remove the glass.'
'Don't let any of it break off,' Aramis instructed, his face filled with concern.
'I won't. Now look to yourself. I'll call you if I am unsure.' Aramis nodded and disappeared to gather the necessary herbs. Athos would need some anyway, when he awoke, so it would be a good job done. He could hear the ominous sound of the glass as it clattered into the bowl, along with the angry mutterings of Porthos as he slowly removed one slither after another. He also noted the ripping of fabric as the velvet jacket was cut away from the larger pieces, ensuring that the big Musketeer could remove the shards intact.
Porthos poured the brandy over Athos' wounds. 'Some of these are big,' he mumbled. 'This one is as big as a dagger.' He looked up at Aramis, who was once more by his side. The medic held the wound open as best he could, so that they could be sure the embedded section came out in one piece. As the glass came clear, so the blood began to flow freely.
'Hold this down on the wound. We need to close it before he loses more blood. I do not like the colour of his complexion, his body cannot cope with losing anymore, and there are still several more pieces such as this to remove.' There was a slight break in his voice, and Porthos looked at the medic with concern.
'Did you take the bloody medicine?' he growled. Aramis looked guilty and took a few steps back, reaching for a ladle by the stove. He spooned a foul-smelling liquid into a beaker and drank it down, wrinkling his nose as he did so.
'Serves ya right,' said Porthos, trying to lighten the moment. 'It's about time you made something that didn't taste like it had been festering at the bottom of a well for too long.' Aramis managed to grin at his friend's remark then, nodding his head in thanks, returned to the task in hand.
'It might taste foul, but it will help my aching head. Now let us remove this glass.' Treville arrived back with the saline solution as well as a heavily-laden tray from the refectory.
'Serge says you must eat, or he will come over here and spoon-feed you himself. And you should know that he was brandishing a very large knife as he delivered his warning! The two men smiled and thanked their Captain. One-by-one, each of the shards was carefully removed, and when they had at last finished, it was already nearing midnight. Athos was covered in stitches, but the worst of the wounds were now closed, and he was no longer losing blood. By the time they had completed their task, dark bruises were appearing on the man's pale skin, mostly around his shoulders.
'Hold him up again, gently, I want to see his back.' As Porthos lifted Athos into his arms once more he heard the medic hiss sharply. Leaning over, Treville and Porthos peered into the candlelight, trying to see what had elicited the response. Athos' shoulders were covered in a dark bruise, with a deep mark now evident, along the back of his right shoulder in particular. Aramis followed the line of the mark with his finger and continued up into Athos' hair. 'I think the head wound and this bruise were made before he hit the ground. He must have collided with a balcony, or one of the stone figureheads, on his way down. If he was unconscious when he hit the floor, it might explain the lack of other problems, though we will not know for sure until he awakes.' Treville nodded his head.
As if Athos had heard them, he began to moan. Porthos hurriedly laid him back upon the bed and all three men stood still. Beads of sweat had appeared upon the patient's forehead, and he began to move his hand as if to ward off some unseen attacker. Aramis noticed he did not lift his left arm, only his right, and worried there might be a good reason for that. Athos was becoming agitated, and the medic knelt beside the thrashing figure. 'Hold him down, or he will rip out his stitches.' Treville held his legs whilst Porthos gently held down his shoulders, only making the distress worse. 'He thinks he is being attacked,' Aramis chided. 'Athos, it is I, Aramis, you are well, my friend. You are safe in the infirmary at the garrison. We all live, Porthos, Treville and the King.' He stroked Athos' head and placed a damp cloth against the clammy, sweating skin.
'It may not be a bad thing if we could wake him. I need him to drink the saltwater – we must replace the lost fluid.' Gently, he began to pat Athos' cheek. 'Wake up, mon ami, we need you to come back to us. Wake up!' Athos stopped thrashing and moaned and, to Aramis' horror, he saw red spreading through the sheet they had laid over his body when they had finished the last lot of stitching.
'No no,' Aramis cried as he lifted the sheet. Sure enough, one of the lesions had been torn open, and the edges of the flesh were red and tender where the stitching had pulled apart. Aramis looked at Athos and gasped as he saw green eyes looking back at him, dazed and in pain. 'Athos, can you hear me?' The swordsman looked confused and the only sound he managed was a strained moan. Once again, he tried to move his right hand, but the left lay motionless upon the bed. He flinched and cried out, as if a sudden pain had registered in his brain. Aramis ran to his side and gently felt his way along the immobile arm. The forearm felt whole and the elbow… as he lifted the arm to bend the limb Athos lurched once more. Aramis continued to hold the arm.
'It is his shoulder!' Treville shouted. 'It was not obvious because of the blood and bruising, but I think it is dislocated, or even broken.' Aramis looked aggrieved that he had not noticed earlier. Tenderly, he felt around the area Treville had indicated, as Porthos tried to hold the struggling man down.
'Yes, it is dislocated.' Aramis looked at Porthos, his expression apologetic.
'What now? Like this?' The big Musketeer looked horrified.
'Better now. The more he struggles the more pain he is in. The blood loss is making him confused. All he feels is pain, from… everywhere. This is one agony we can take away. We will hold him still, you move the arm.'
'No,' ordered Treville. 'Porthos, you hold him still, I will relocate the arm.' He knew the big man would make a better job of keeping Athos still, and he could see from the look in Porthos' eyes he did not want to bring more pain to his friend. Porthos stood behind Athos and held him in a vice-like grip, aware of the bruises and cuts that adorned his friend's body. Athos merely groaned, and a single word was all that he managed to whisper:
'Nooo.' Before he could add anything more, Treville swiftly lifted the arm and pulled it outward before letting it settle into its correct position once more. Either Athos did not have the energy to scream, or he had more command over his pain than anyone else Treville had ever met, but he did not make a sound other than a sharp hiss, his eyes screwed shut.
'I am sorry, son, but there was no other way,' Treville whispered, laying his hand on the damaged shoulder.
'S…aright...' Athos moaned. 'Thirsty…' He opened his eyes and looked into the dark ones of Aramis.
'Here just in time,' the medic grinned. 'We made this just for you.' Athos frowned, though the effort must have hurt his head, because he winced. Aramis was glad to see he was now able to lift his left hand, even if that, too, elicited a small moan. Athos took a sip of the salty water and spat it straight out. 'Oh no, mon ami, you need to drink it. It needs to replace the blood you have lost. Drink!' Despite his fragile condition, Athos managed to look stubborn.
'Drink it!' Treville ordered. Both Porthos and Aramis looked round in surprise; though the Captain had not raised his voice, the order was clear. Athos looked at the Captain, as though saddened by his demand, but he nonetheless drank the liquid Aramis held to his lips. Having downed half of the liquid, he moved his head away and gagged slightly. Aramis nodded, it had been enough for now.
'What about this?' Porthos indicated the pad he had placed over the torn wound. Aramis moaned and Treville raised his eyes to heaven. When were they going to get a little luck? Athos watched the reaction of the three men and stuttering, asked a question:
'What… is… wrong…?' The attempt left him breathless, and Aramis was aware that his friend's heart was beating rapidly – another symptom of the excessive blood loss.
'I am sorry, my friend. When you awoke, you panicked, and pulled out some of your stitches. I will need to put them back.' Athos looked pained, but nodded. When Aramis produced the remains of the brandy once more, the patient managed a small sound. 'Don't even think about it. No alcohol for you until you have drunk all of that salt water.' In reply, a quiet humph, was all Aramis heard, but it made him smile. Athos was not out of the woods yet, however. There was still the risk of infection and the head injury to worry about, but at least he had not lost his sense of humour. He poured the brandy over the wound, almost forgetting that last time he had done so, Athos had been unconscious. When the wounded man cried out, his body bucking at the stinging liquid as it bit into the tender wound, it took the medic by surprise. 'Once more, I apologise. This is not going to be pleasant.'
While Aramis tried to pull together the way-too-tender flesh, Porthos sat close to Athos and whispered in his ear, laying his arm over his chest to hold him steady. Tears trickled from the swordsman's eyes as he squeezed them shut, but he made no sound. All the while, Treville kept his hands firmly on Athos' shoulders, preventing him flinching at every agonising prick of the needle. When Aramis had finished, he swallowed heavily, his eyes watering with the intensity of the moment. Athos offered him the smallest smile, before his eyes rolled back and he went limp in Porthos' arms. All three men reached for Athos throat, but Aramis was quickest.
'It is alright. He still breathes, though why he couldn't have succumbed earlier I do not know.' His voice feigned anger, but they all knew he was just relieved Athos still lived.
'What now?' Treville asked.
'Now we wait. I doubt he will pass a comfortable night. He must have severe concussion, at best. He is in tremendous pain, which will probably get worse before it gets better, and then we have to hope he does not contract an infection, or fever. It will be a long night.' Aramis looked totally overwhelmed as he finished stating his prognosis.
The sun will be up shortly, gentlemen, the night is almost over. I will take the first watch as I will need to attend the King later in the morning. Luckily, he is not an early riser, and I will catch a few hours before he is ready. For now, the both of you WILL sleep and that is an order. Yes, Aramis, I will wake you if he needs you. Now find a bed and SLEEP.'
The two Musketeers literally fell onto the empty cots, and were asleep before their bodies had even had time to relax. Treville smiled at his exhausted men, before taking a chair beside Athos' bed.
He wiped the man's face with a cloth. His skin was not warm, but it still had an unhealthy pallor and felt clammy to his fingers. 'Come on, son, rest now. But make sure you come back to us when you are ready – and let that be soon.' He ran his hand through his hair and contemplated the young man before him. In a matter of weeks, Athos had burst into their presence, albeit reluctantly, and since then he and somehow managed to become an integral part of their lives. However, he still worried that Athos attracted trouble, even if it were not of his own making. More worrying still, was how he reacted to that threat; he was a man who appeared to relish the idea of death almost as much as he refused to give in to it. What demons the boy fought to make him so unpredictable Treville could not guess, but Aramis had assured him there had been no sign of self-destruction during their mission and, for now, he had to believe him.
Still, he had not missed how Porthos and Aramis fussed and handled him like a delicate piece of china, or how he himself had reacted when he had realised Athos still lived; something about this man got under your skin, despite his own efforts to avoid such an occurrence. More interesting still, Treville had been totally aware of Athos shouting the orders as he burst into the ballroom, and both Aramis and Porthos reacting immediately, without question. The three of them showed great promise. As a trio, they were a force to be reckoned with, though at what cost to Treville's sanity he dreaded to think. He allowed himself a smile as he gazed at his three heroes, though how he was going to convince the King, he did not know. His reverie was broken as Athos' eyes flew open. He looked rather green and the desperation in his eyes had Treville grabbing for the bucket which stood upon the floor. As the patient leant over the edge of the bed and retched, Treville held him gently and rubbed his back. Yes, what was left of the night would be long indeed.
