Despite their exhaustion, sleep would not be forthcoming. Athos had spent the night coughing, and struggling for each breath. His exhaustion grew worse, his fever increased, and he curled in on himself as trembling muscles racked his bones. Porthos remained behind him, kept Athos' chest elevated as episodes of coughing continued. They could hear the fluid in his lungs as he breathed, the wet moisture that hindered each gasp. Stomach muscles protested with each spasm, sweat soaked dark hair clung to his scalp, and perspiration dripped from his forehead and into his eyes. Athos clutched the blanket as involuntary tremors forced overtaxed muscles to shake and quiver.
Porthos held strong, did his best to keep the blankets from falling to the wayside. He pressed his palm to Athos' forehead, and felt the heat. Aramis mixed herbs, brewed teas that Athos wouldn't drink, and applied hot and cold treatments to his chest. It was never ending. The night hours grew long as the moon slowly started to descend and the early morning light peered over the horizon line. The red sky dawned with bright oranges and pinks and hints of white as long puffed clouds appeared.
D'Artagnan had skinned the deer, cleaned it, and utilized a large cauldron for cooking. He had taken the majority of venison and poured wine, dumped honey, added fresh herbs and vegetables that grew wild. He added salt, and finally covered the pot and rested it near the flames to cook. It had kept him busy, but he stood back, and watched Porthos and Aramis try to save Athos' life.
D'Artagnan rubbed his face, listened to Aramis' frustration as to what to do, and Porthos' words of encouragement. The room was warm, the smoke had cleared, and the fire continued to blaze. They used the wood that had been cut years ago, but stored in a makeshift lean-to by the abandoned barn and corrals. The horses had been cared for, released onto a pasture and they grazed on grass and drank from the stream that flowed in a crooked pattern through the field and around the established fruit trees that hinted at blooms and produce for a fall harvest.
Porthos looked out the windows through the haze of dust, mud, and smoke ash. The dull light found its way through, highlighting the floor and causing the dust particles to dance. The branch had stopped hitting the window early in the morning when the winds had died down. The rain had stopped, and the darkened clouds had cleared.
Porthos listened as the lid to the cauldron was removed, and once again d'Artagnan basted and stirred the meat. The aroma penetrated the air and their stomaches grumbled. The onions, herbs, wine and meat marinated together and Porthos felt his mouth water. He looked up and met Aramis' eyes and sighed.
"I don't know what else to do." Aramis sighed, sat on the floor, and leaned against the seat of the settee. He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his dry eyes, and manipulated his skin until his eyes watered. He rested his hands on raised his knees and he looked toward Porthos.
Porthos bowed his head. Exhaustion hung in dark circles beneath his eyes, and the shaking of his hands as he moved them from the back of his neck to Athos' shoulder.
There was a moment of silence in the room. D'Artagnan, with his back to them, watched the flames of the fire. He grasped the mantle with his right hand and tightened his fist around the smooth wood and bowed his head. Guilt had a way of manifesting in ways he didn't understand. He couldn't turn around, couldn't face the fact that he was the one who left Athos alone, that he was too slow to return to the room before Auch had secured the doors, too slow and too weak to break the doors down sooner… he'd been too damn slow, and comfortable, without thinking of the consequences of his actions. His shoulder still pained him, but he refused to acknowledge it, and refused to yield to it.
"This is my fault," d'Artagnon said. He didn't turn, but instead continued to look at the flames of the fire.
Aramis shook his head. "How so?"
"I shouldn't have left him."
Porthos huffed. "Bullshit," he said, and cleared his throat. He looked at Aramis and met his eyes. "We didn't see the door — didn't notice the step outside."
"Auch wanted revenge for his own failures," Aramis said, and rubbed the nail of his right thumb. "He lived to kill… some men are just born wicked."
Porthos cocked his left eyebrow and nodded.
D'Artagnan exhaled slowly, turned, and frowned when he spotted movement outside the window. "Stay here," he said. He grabbed his pistol from the mantle and left the room.
Aramis stood, grabbed his weapon, and looked toward Porthos who shifted from behind Athos and stood. Porthos nodded toward Aramis and took up a position by the door.
More soon!