A/N: Sorry, dear readers! I lost all my steam, and work was crazy these past few weeks. But I said I'd finish Whumptober (in November, ha ha), and I will! It took me forever to wrap this two-parter up, and I wrote this second chapter in fits and starts. In consequence, it feels choppy to me, but I really just want to be done with it now. Seems that not having a deadline hanging over my head makes writing HARDER?!

No. 26 "If You Thought The Head Trauma Was Bad"

Prompt: #26 blindness

Athos had always been a good rider, but now he realized how much of that ability was based on seeing. As his horse, tied to d'Artagnan's, trotted along at what should be a comfortable pace, he had difficulties staying in the saddle. With his eyes bandaged, he had no inkling in which direction they were heading, what kind of ground they were navigating, if they were approaching an ascent or descent, and he was at the complete mercy of his animal's whims. A few minutes into the ride, he'd given up on holding the reins and had been clinging to the pommel instead, his legs soon hurting from clenching them around the horse's sides.

They'd discussed letting him ride together with one of them, but Athos had insisted on using his own mount. His dignity was taking enough of a hit already, and he hated being a burden. At least he had d'Artagnan as his navigator. The best rider of all of them and gifted with horses, he was doing what he could to help Athos, guiding the black Friesian with a calm hand and warning Athos about changes in territory or speed.

Nevertheless, when they reached the garrison, Athos was drenched in sweat and sore all over. Under the bandage, his eyes were sticky and stung incessantly, and he could tell they were swelling shut. The cuts on his face were burning and he felt a little seasick. Although he couldn't see anything, he could hear the noises of the garrison dying down as they rode into the courtyard. Sparring matches ended abruptly, conversations stopped, and Athos felt curious and concerned eyes on him..

"Come on, slide off that saddle." Porthos clapped him on the thigh. "I'll give you a hand."

Awkwardly, groping for his brother's arms and shoulders, Athos dismounted and heard d'Artagnan and Aramis ward off fellow-soldiers who'd approached to find out what had happened.

"He's injured, and we're taking care of him," Aramis' voice rang out. "He's not in any danger. Go back to your posts and give him some space."

A background of disconcerted murmurs followed Athos as Porthos led him across the yard, and Athos couldn't remember ever feeling this exposed and helpless. Porthos had hooked him under, and yet he almost tripped on a protruding cobblestone. Jaw clenched, he forced himself not to stick his arm out to feel for obstacles. He didn't want to look like a fool.

Inside the infirmary, Porthos deposited him on a chair and, with a squeeze of his arm, left to report to Treville. Athos was grateful for the cool quiet of the room and for the lack of an audience. He'd always hated the infirmary, but today it felt like a sanctuary. Exhausted, he let his head sink, fingering the bandage around his smarting eyes. His face hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

"Here, drink this."

Aramis pressed a cup into his hand, and the familiar scent of Sister Marie's calming draught rose into his nose. Gratefully, Athos drank it up in a few large gulps.

"D'Artagnan is fetching Doctor Lemay. Until he arrives, let's make you a little more comfortable, shall we?"

Athos nodded in surrender. The mixture of herbs and alcohol was quickly taking effect, numbing pain and fear and embarrassment to something he could deal with. It made him quietly compliant, and he let Aramis unbuckle his weapons belt, strip him of his jacket and, very carefully, peel the makeshift bandage from his eyes. But he tensed when he heard Aramis suck in a breath.

"That bad?"

"No, it's just…" Athos felt Aramis' breath cool on his face when the medic inspected his injuries. "It's very swollen, but that was to be expected. It will look a lot less dramatic once the swelling goes down. Sit back and try to relax."

Aramis' stool screeched across the floorboards when he got up and moved away. Athos heard him bustle about the room, pouring water, mixing medicines, gathering supplies, and he allowed himself to feel comforted by the familiar noises and smells. He'd witnessed Aramis work miracles within the walls of this room. Maybe there was one left for him.

D'Artagnan returned with Lemay surprisingly quickly. The physician was clearly out of breath when he leaned over Athos to examine him - the impetuous Gascon must have hustled him along at a merciless pace. Even before the doctor addressed Athos, he had identified the man by his clean, mildly perfumed smell and the jingling of the instruments in his medical bag.

"I'm going to be as gentle as I can, Lieutenant," Lemay said in his schooled, caring voice. "But I'm afraid it's going to be uncomfortable."

Athos nodded but felt himself breaking into a sweat.

Once more, his eyelids were forced apart. Once more, pain stabbed into his eyes and tears welled, unstoppable. Once more, he couldn't suppress a gasp and wanted nothing but to bat at the fingers that were causing him such torment. And, once more, firm, brotherly hands held him through the procedure.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of the ordeal.

Lemay ordered a treatment that found Athos squirming on his back on a table, Porthos pressing his shoulders down and Aramis' palms firmly cupping his cheeks while an infusion of eyebright was poured into his eyes, streamed down his face and pooled at his neck, all of it, all of it, becoming so unbearable that he pleaded with them to stop until they did.

By the time they had him in a bed, his eyes thickly bandaged, he had to fight through a haze of exhaustion and disorientation to focus on the voices in the darkness.

"...Euphrasia twice a day. Summon me at once at any sign of inflammation."

"We will. Thank you, doctor."

Athos heard light footsteps retreat and a door being shut. To his right and left, leather creaked and weapons jangled on belts, and he felt the presence of a brother on either side.

"Aramis?" he asked into the swath of stinging black.

"What is it?"

"I didn't... catch what Lemay said," Athos admitted, swallowing. "About my eyes. Did he say if…?" He stopped, letting the silence finish the question for him.

"He said he cannot say if there will be any lasting damage." Aramis' voice was gentle and accompanied by a warm hand settling on Athos' arm. "We will have to wait until you've healed. For now, it's important that we ward off infection. We'll know more in a few days."

Porthos grunted. "You'll be fine. I know you will."

D'Artagnan, who, judging by the nervous pacing, had to be on his left, didn't say anything, but Athos could physically feel the anxiety emanating from the Gascon.

"For now," Aramis continued, "try to get some rest. Porthos and d'Artagnan have to report for duty, but I'll be here." The hand remained on his arm, an anchor in the dark. "Just rest."

Athos had survived a lot of injuries in his life, but few of them had been as debilitating as this one. Although Aramis had assured him that all remaining glass had been washed out of his eyes, he could have sworn he was wrong: the constant scraping sensation drove him crazy and rendered sleep impossible. Rinsing them with Lemay's prescribed infusion of eyebright- as harrowing as the procedure itself was - brought a few minutes of treacherous relief until the sandy feeling returned with a vengeance. And distraction was difficult. The darkness encasing Athos highlighted every sensation and made him feel helpless and claustrophobic.

To make matters worse, the day after their return, his eyes had swollen entirely shut and started to weep sickly fluid. An urgently summoned Lemay had diagnosed infection. He'd added a solution of milk, honey and cooked onion to Athos' treatment that Aramis applied with determination and diligence, accompanied by upbeat remarks. Porthos and d'Artagnan did their best to cheer him up with banter and reports from their day at the garrison, but their kind voices and helping hands did little to dispel Athos' mounting fear and frustration.

The nights were the worst. Although one of them - usually Aramis - slept on a cot right next to him in case he needed assistance, the silence that befell the garrison became oppressive. Once Aramis' deep, even breaths announced that he'd fallen asleep, the pitch black behind Athos' eyelids became an abyss, and he tumbled into it, blind.

Blind.

What if the infection took his eyesight? And even if not - what if he was left with his vision compromised? Whenever Armis cleaned and re-bandaged his eyes, everything still looked blurry, Aramis a mere blotch in front of him. What if things didn't improve? He needed keen eyesight to remain a musketeer. If he could no longer see well enough to shoot, to fight, to read, he would have to surrender his commission. What would become of him then?

While he had no doubt that his brothers would stick by him, even take care of him, the thought was unbearable. Useless, helpless, dependent - it would be the opposite of who he was and not a life worth living. Not for him.

"Athos?"

A hand found him in the darkness.

"What's wrong, Athos? Can't sleep?" Aramis' palm felt rough as he touched Athos in his by now familiar sequence - forehead, neck, wrist - checking for fever or pain.

"How did you know I was awake?" Athos asked back. He'd been perfectly still.

"I could hear you thinking."

"That is ridiculous." Athos huffed, no longer bothering to turn his head in his friend's direction. He'd given up on that useless habit two days ago.

"Not when your thoughts are this loud," Aramis said, and Athos could hear the medic's soft smirk in his voice.

"If that is the case," Athos replied, "I will make an effort to think quieter thoughts. I wouldn't want to disrupt your beauty sleep any further."

Aramis chuckled, and his cot squeaked as he settled back down.

"That is very gracious of you."

More squeaking ensued and the flutter of a blanket being rearranged as Aramis made himself comfortable a mere arm's length from Athos. Silence descended once more, and Athos waited for Aramis' breaths to even out and confirm that he'd gone back to sleep.

Instead, softly, the marksman's voice penetrated the darkness again.

"You're allowed to be afraid, you know?"

Athos' heart skipped a beat. His throat suddenly tightened.

Damn you, Aramis.

He was their best marksman for a reason, always hitting the bull's eye.

Athos swallowed but couldn't answer. He felt tears rise and, for the first time, he was glad about the bandage covering his eyes.

"You're not alone, brother," Aramis added, and the certainty in his voice almost broke Athos. "And whatever happens, you never will be."

Fighting for control, Athos didn't move, didn't say anything for a few dozen more aching heartbeats. He just lay there, breathing raggedly and infinitely grateful that Aramis had the presence of mind not to touch him now. Eventually, he released a shaky exhale and nodded.

"I know."

Dear god, he sounded like glass.

"Now get some sleep," Aramis said, putting sternness behind his words. "I'll be here if there's anything you need."

And with that pledge, they both fell silent again, and, after a while, even Athos went to sleep.

There wasn't a grand moment of truth. Not a momentous unwrapping of his eyes to find his sight suddenly and miraculously restored. Like any severe injury, this one took its time to heal, in stages, and at every stage there was no telling if further improvement would show itself. They were all relieved when the infection faded. The swelling went down, the leakage stopped, the stinging lessened. Every time Aramis changed his bandages, his vision improved just a little. Aramis went from a shapeless blur to a silhouette, to a body and a face whose details slowly, slowly swam a bit more into focus. The light didn't hurt as much. Blinking was no longer agony. Finally, the bandages stayed off, and Athos moved back into his own quarters, one hand still on a brother's shoulder to guide him through a blotchy, unreliable world, but grateful for his regained freedom.

Every day, he returned to the infirmary for treatment. Every day, Aramis played down the nervousness in his ever-same question: "Any improvement?" And every day, Athos looked around the room, seeing sharper edges, more nuances and, looking back at Aramis, familiar details reappeared: the scars and the stubble, the fine lines around his eyes and the well-tended tips of his moustache.

"Yes," Athos said, and nodded while Aramis' trepidation merged into joy.

There were milestones that he took. Losing the bandages was the first. Recognizing friends when someone called his name and he turned around, seeing them approach, was another. No longer feeling for the holes in his weapons belt, but actually seeing what he was doing as he dressed, tied strings, closed clasps and buckles was a step as little and as big as the memorable day when, hands trembling, he opened a book and the blurry scrawl morphed back into letters that he could read.

The damage did not heal completely in the end. When he looked at the bright sky, he saw tiny specks swimming across his vision that hadn't been there before - scars, Aramis explained - but he got used to them, and they didn't bother him in his daily life. Reading was more difficult by candlelight now, and Aramis predicted he'd need spectacles at some point in the future, but his long-distance vision had returned as sharp as ever.

Treville put it to a test. He had to. When rumours spread - fueled by the Red Guard - that one of the finest soldiers in the regiment was no longer fit for duty, the captain had set up a series of challenges for Athos to prove them wrong. Athos mastered an obstacle course on horseback without difficulty, demonstrated his swordsmanship in a duel that was over in a few dizzying strikes and - the trickiest test of them all - had to shoot at and hit targets from an increasing distance. While his marksmanship had never been as perfect as Aramis', it was good enough: His friends whooped as another tin cup became airborne when the ball fired from Athos' pistol sent it flying.

Afterwards, his fellow musketeers welcomed him back with friendly slaps to his pauldron and words of camaraderie, and Treville stepped in front of Athos with a proud smile to quickly pull him in for an embrace.

When he stayed behind to clean up with the other three, collecting bullet-riddled targets, sweeping up hay that had been strewn about and polishing weapons, Athos let his gaze roam over the garrison grounds, taking in every detail, every pebble and chip of wood, every glint of steel and dust moat floating in the slanting light of the evening sun. Then, he looked at his brothers. He saw d'Artagnan laugh and throw a handful of straw at Porthos, accompanied by some teasing joke. Porthos shook himself, grunting, and cast the young Gascon a sinister scowl before giving him a shove that was never meant seriously. Sitting at the table, an arquebus in his lap, fingers blackened by gun oil, Aramis rolled his eyes at the two but did not suppress a grin.

Athos saw grown men acting like boys, shedding the worry and seriousness of the last few weeks like dead weight. He saw their hands that had guided him, helped him dress, helped him orientate himself in a suddenly blackened world, now slapping each other across the back, cracking silly jokes. He saw their eyes that had been his eyes when he couldn't see, now shining with joy, three different shades of brown, three different souls looking out of them at the world, Aramis' gentle ones now settling on him.

"Is everything all right, Athos?"

Seeing worry return to his friend's gaze, Athos nodded quickly and decided that it was his turn to smile.

"Yes," he said, and sat down next to Aramis to clean his own pistol. "Yes. Everything is all right indeed."