Treville was hit with warmth as he entered the room, and he looked toward Aramis and Porthos as they lowered their weapons. Treville grasped Aramis' arm, gently squeezed and met his eyes with a reasuring nod. He then looked toward Porthos, and Treville clasped a cupped hand to his shoulder and nodded. Both bore fading bruising on their faces, and like d'Artagnan, they looked exhausted, disheveled, and morose.
"How bad?" Treville looked toward Athos' who lay on his left side facing the fire. Damp hair clung to his scalp, and he was covered with a thin blanket.
Aramis shook his head. "I've done all I know how." He shrugged, ran his fingers through his hair, and crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed the backs of his arms. His usually finely trimmed mustache was overgrown, as was with his beard. He coughed to clear his throat, and shifted his feet. He looked up. "I don't think he has enough strength left to fight."
Treville removed his cloak and tossed it toward the trunk. "Winter fever?" He raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?" He scratched the back of his head and looked toward d'Artagnan who looked away.
Aramis nodded. "His injuries are clear — no signs of infection — but he took a beating yesterday that may have further weakened his lungs."
Treville unbuckled his weapons belt, and walked toward Athos. "The body outside?" He placed his weapons against the armrest of the settee.
There was a moment of silence, before Porthos said, "Lyle Auch."
Treville paused, turned toward Porthos, and pulled his brows together. "Remy said —"
"He wasn't." Porthos looked away with an embarrassed shake of his head.
"It was my mistake," Aramis said, "I should've checked the body." He shook his head and cleared his throat to say something, but was suddenly stopped when Porthos spoke.
"Aramis was seeing to Athos — we all thought Auch was dead."
Treville met Porthos eyes, and nodded. He turned back toward Athos, knelt, and pressed his hand to Athos' forehead. "How long's he been with fever?" He turned and watched Aramis walked toward him.
"Started last night," Aramis said, "with the coughing." He knelt in front of Athos, slipped his arm under his head, and shoulders and lifted him to a seated position. Athos' head rolled toward Aramis' chest. "He seems to breathe easier when he's sitting up." Aramis shifted behind him.
The graveled sounds of Athos' breathing caused Treville to rest his elbow on his raised knee and he rubbed his mouth. "He's too weak to travel."
"He's too weak to cough — he stopped early this morning." Armis rested back on his haunches, placed his right hand on Athos' forehead and his left across Athos' chest.
Traville frowned and looked questionably at Aramis and said, "Cold chills?"
Aramis shook his head and lowered his lips into a frown. "Muscle tremmors — I think from exhaustion, but no chills."
Traville cocked and eyebrow and nodded. "There's gagweed growing in the—" he said, and paused when Aramis shook his head.
"He refuses fluids." Aramis nodded toward the cup on the floor that was filled with tea.
"How strong is it?" Treville asked, and met Aramis' eyes.
"Strong enough to make him sick and cough up what he need to, but he won't drink."
Treville raised his eyebrows, inhaled deeply, and flexed his jaw muscles. "He won't disobey an order." He grasped the cup, sniffed at the tea, and curled his nose. "I hate this tea," he muttered, and placed his hand beneath Athos' chin. "Athos!" he said sharply. "Athos!" He turned toward Porthos and tilted his head. "Stand behind me, make sure he can see you when he arouses."
Porthos walked from behind the settee. He placed a hand behind his neck and rubbed at the knotted tension as the base of his skull. He stepped behind Treville and looked toward d'Artagnan who had returned to stand beside the fireplace.
D'Artagnon added another log to the fire and turned to watch. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands beneath his armpits.
"Athos!" Treville yelled again, and shifted to both knees. "Your men are down, Athos! Auch is alive! Your duty is to protect them!" He paused a moment, glanced upward and met Aramis' eyes. "You're men are down, Athos!"
Athos struggled to raise his right knee, and he leaned back against Aramis who shifted to accommodate the pressure. Athos opened closed lids and saw Porthos surrounded by the light shining in through the window. He struggled to shift his gaze toward Treville, and swallowed.
"Drink!" Treville said, and pressed the cup to Athos' lips. "It's an order!"
Athos opened his eyes a bit wider, parted his lips, and swallowed. He looked toward Treville, frowned, and took another drink. He raised his left hand, felt someone grasp his wrist. and press it toward his chest. The bitter brew wet his mouth and his Adam's apple bobbled as he struggled with each swallow. He tried to turn his head away, but the tight grip to his jaw forced him to submit.
"D'Artagnan," Treville looked up, "prepare more tea. Porthos," he turned and looked over his shoulder, "There're blankets on the packhorse as well as a few supplies — bring the packsaddle in — Athos can rest against it. Then the rest of you can get some rest."
Porthos nodded, looked to d'Artagnan and Aramis and left the room.
Treville handed the empty cup to d'Artagnan who refilled it with the tea Aramis had made, and watched Treville repeat the process until Athos pulled his head away and tea dribbled down his chin. He shifted uncomfortably to his right, swallowed, and felt his mouth water. He raised his left knee, and tried to pull his left hand free of Aramis' grip.
Treville removed his doublet, tossed it to the side, and motioned toward the bucket. "He's going to be sick," he said, and took the bucket from d'Artagnan. He helped Aramis lean Athos to his right as a severe bout of coughing started. Overtaxed muscles flexed, trembled, and grew taunt as he coughed and vomited into the leather bucket. His back ridged, his lungs burned, and he grasped Treville's forearm as the tremors continued.
D'Artagnan looked away, and watched Porthos enter the room, arms full of supplies still attached to the packsaddle.
"I need a wet rag," Aramis said, and looked up toward Porthos who grabbed the wooden bowl they had used the night before, rinsed the damp rag and handed it to Aramis who took it and wiped Athos' mouth. Aramis caught his breath when he looked at the blood on the cloth.
"This isn't winter fever," Treville said. He shook his head and looked toward his men. "But it will turn into it if we can't get him to expel what he needs to."
Athos paused in his coughing, groaned, leaned against Aramis and gasped for breath. The gurgling was worse, the frantic wheezing now accompanied by shortened intakes of air. He never felt Aramis press a hand to his forehead, or wipe the sweat from his face. Suddenly, Athos pushed himself forward and coughed again, this time the deep, moisture filled cough was combined with short painful gags and finally a heavy cough that brought up thick bloodly mucus.
Treville rubbed Athos' back, and grasped his bicep. He pursed his lips, looked toward Aramis and nodded.
Athos spit into the bucket, felt his mouth wiped, and lay back with a groan. His breathing was more relaxed, less hindered, and more clear.
Athos blinked several times before he closed his eyes and slipped into an exhausted sleep. Aramis adjusted his arm beneath Athos' neck, and gripped the front of his shirt by his left shoulder.
Treville lifted the sweat-damped shirt, pressed an ear to Athos' chest and listened. Treville looked at Aramis and nodded.
"Let's get him changed into some dry clothes, set up that packsaddle so he can rest and you all," he looked to each of them, "can tell me what happened."