A/N: Mountain Cat mentioned a cave-in prompt. This is a building-in. Hope it suffices.
As always, stay safe and thanks for reading!
oOo
108. FRATERNITY
Athos, Porthos and Aramis:
Soldiers are expendable.
Commodities.
Cannon fodder and body guards; there to do the bidding of the Crown, for the good of the King.
And, for the people, if the King's reputation is to remain intact.
They fight to the death and then bury their dead.
They are invisible, save for the regalia that binds them. A splash of colour on a flag. An emblem.
It is the same with The King's Musketeers, bound by the Fleur de lys and their oath.
They too are invisible, save for the blue cloaks that unite them.
And the love they have for each other, which marks them apart.
For theirs is a brotherhood; they are brothers in arms, sworn by oath to put aside personal feelings to protect their King; their one purpose.
But for the Musketeers, there is more.
Within the confines of their regiment they have their own fellowship. Their own solidarity. Their own esprit de corps.
They are a fraternity, from the Latin; frater – brother. Unrelated and/or of a different class.
Within that fraternity lives the true spirit of friendship, equally bound by respect, love and devotion; They are The Inseparables.
There is another Latin word that singles them out.
Vigilia. Vigil – to keep watch.
It is something they are familiar with.
oOo
The Infirmary:
It is the early hours of the morning.
All is still.
The Garrison sleeps, save for the appointed guards on the walls that surround the compound in defence against incursion.
In the Infirmary, two members of The Inseparables sit quietly; Porthos and Aramis. Keeping vigil over their third, Athos.
"Did he move?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Quite sure, Porthos."
Porthos sighs, and rubs a hand over his face.
His eyes felt gritty, his skin dry. He aches from the bulk of him being confined to the wooden chair. Men his size weren't meant to sit on wooden chairs. He made a mental note to bring a larger chair in here, just for him. Loath betide anyone else who sat in it, mind. At least not when he was there.
Vigils were never comfortable. When had they ever been comfortable? But still, a larger chair might help when it came time to stand, and actually move. He would feel this vigil for several days.
"You're rambling," Aramis said, a smile on his lips that didn't quite meet his eyes, the tension there evident.
"Never said a word," Porthos grunted, shifting one cheek of his backside off the hard wooden surface and stretching a leg, his knee cracking.
"You didn't need to," Aramis replied, softly.
"'Ow long has it been now?" Porthos muttered.
"Six hours," Aramis replied immediately, not having to think about it.
Notre Dame was beautiful but she was a demanding mistress, signally the turn of the hour with a tuneful bell. It could be comforting in the confines of these walls, when one looks for the positive signs of life lingering. One more hour passed! But, equally, hope can wane as they wait for such signs and see no change.
As was the case here.
The Musketeer fraternity look after their own.
Them against the world, when needs be. When those who ought to care let them down.
Then, they are a tight unit. Especially these three.
Tonight is such a night. One of hope and fear.
oOo
They had spent the afternoon digging Athos and two others out of a collapsed building.
One, Thierry, could not be helped, dead beneath the rubble of stone and timbers. The other two, Giles and Athos, had been unaware of the efforts of their brothers to pull them free.
Giles, though, had enough space to breathe, the rubble shifted around him. Athos, his legs trapped beneath the frame of an old window, his torso twisted towards Giles, had bloody, scraped fingers and ragged fingernails and Porthos had growled at Aramis at the sight.
Aramis, though, had beamed a proud smile at him and nodded. It is evidence that Athos had done his duty by his brother, Giles. When Porthos realised what Aramis was trying to convey through that smile and shining eyes, he had to turn his head away.
It took all afternoon, working in shifts to make their surrounding secure before they could move the rubble.
Both men remained unaware, though Aramis had wiped their faces and ensured they would not choke on the dust by loosely covering their heads with a canopy, made from a sheet that someone brought from a nearby house. It was an accident, waiting to happen, the woman said as she handed the sheet over. The man they were chasing knew that. He also knew his way through it safely, she added. He was long gone, but the neighbours knew him. They would help the Musketeers find him.
Porthos worked like a ox, heaving timbers and guiding their placement, while Aramis tended to cuts and searched for injuries as much as he can, beneath the canopy. Giles's arm was at an awkward angle. Aramis glanced constantly between them, waiting for a sign of them returning to consciousness, and equally willing them not to. Not yet. Not until they were safe in the Infirmary, a doctor by their side.
He got his wish.
They eventually pulled them both out and they were carefully loaded onto a cart to bring them home. There was muted rejoicing.
Relief that they are not dead, at least.
But it was getting dark by then, and the night ahead would be long.
oOo
After the doctor has left, promising to return in the morning, or earlier, should they need him, they are left to watch over their brother, their friend, who dug his colleague out as best he could, at the cost of a further collapse that pinned him down.
His legs are not broken, but they are bruised, his knee dislocated.
His ribs are cracked, and a cut on his scalp is responsible for the mess his hair was in, before Aramis carefully washed it. His hands are swathed in bandages, as are his ribs and his head.
There is no sign of the dust now. All washed away. Though his pallor is as pale as it was in the rubble, and his breathing as ragged.
Giles woke an hour ago, settled in the outer room, though he does not sleep, his eyes on them, as they sit by Athos's bed.
He keeps his own vigil, aware now of Athos's selfless act. Vaguely remembering his firm command to stay awake. Feeling each stone gently shifted until he could see daylight.
And then hearing the rumble at the further collapse, seeing the window frame fall from the wall toward Athos.
And then silence.
Until he knew no more.
He will keep his own vigil until Athos wakes.
oOo
Porthos has paced until his cramped muscles have eased.
Aramis has kept his peace, grateful for the company, however wearying.
Giles has finally fallen asleep, but only because Aramis facilitates it, with an innocuous, though powerful potion that the man swallowed in all innocence. As far as Aramis and Porthos are concerned, Giles has kept faith with Athos.
All for one.
It is nights like this when their motto rings true, for all within the Garrison are aware of their watch. The Captain keeps his own vigil in his office, the light has burned all night. Aramis has climbed his stairs on two occasions to report, though there is little to tell. Treville will join them at dawn, before muster. Hopefully, there will be news, though Athos is making them work at this vigil.
oOo
Athos wakes with the dawn light. Quietly and without fuss.
He raises his hand to see the dirt that remains beneath his damaged nails, and the bandages around his fingers and hand. Frowing, he remembers his frantic dig. He raises the other one and sighs. It is similarly bandaged.
He reaches up and feels the bandage round his head and then, the one around his ribs.
He turns his head to see Giles in the room beyond, awake now and watching, a smile on his face.
He looks at Aramis and then Porthos, one standing, one crouching beside him; the toll on them evident in their faces.
"Thank you," he says, his voice ragged, though steady.
Porthos and Aramis reach out and gently lay their hands on him.
Words are not needed.
They are a fraternity. He is their beloved brother. They do not need his thanks.
Just his presence.
oOo
Thanks for reading! More soon.
