Okay, I lied. Most were short, this one is a bit longer.
Until tomorrow...
"So, Monsieur —" Aramis paused and looked at the young man in question.
"Alexandre, Monsieur Aramis, but most call me Alex."
"Who is injured and what kind of injury?" Aramis asked. He rubbed his face and looked toward the stables in the distance. He inhaled the fragrance of the lilacs, and caught glimpses of the flowers that had bloomed, and the finely trimmed hedges that surrounded the chateau's perimeter.
"I do not know, Monsieur. He asked for you and because I was the only one who knew what you looked like, Monsieur Bechet sent me."
"And Monsieur Bechet —"
"The count's lead groom," Alex continued his hasty steps toward the stables, "the man rode in — it looks like he's come a great distance — Bechet thought it might be one of the king's guests, but the man isn't dressed…" he shrugged, "at least compared to the rest of them."
Aramis nodded. "You mean pretentious?" He tugged at the corners of his mustache.
The young man chuckled. "Yes, Monsieur."
Aramis quirked his eyebrows. He squinted into the night as they drew closer to the stables. The flames of a single lantern hung from a post near the entry, and he could see Bechet standing next to a gray gelding and holding a slumped figure in the saddle. Aramis felt his heartbeat quicken, his palms grew sweaty, and his breathing hitched. He paused a moment and then sprinted toward the stables, leaving Alex behind and struggling to catch up. "Athos?"
Bechet turned and watched Aramis run toward him. The gray gelding sidestepped and shied, and Bechet grabbed the reins to steady him. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, to call you away, but…" He tightend his grip on the reins and gentled the horse.
"Athos?" Aramis pressed his right hand to Athos' shoulder and then pressed his left to his neck. "Mercy he's cold."
"He just rode in, Monsieur, and asked for you."
"Athos, can you hear me, brother?" Aramis patted his cheek. "Hey," he smiled, and patted his cheek again, "Athos, look at me… look at me."
Athos groaned, tightened his hold on the gray's mane, and the reins. He pressed his forehead to the horse's neck and said, "I can't get down."
Aramis paused a moment, cupped his hand to the back of Athos' head, and gripped his left arm. "Then let us help you." He pulled the drenched cloak from Athos' back and handed it to Alex, and looked toward Bechet. "Help me get him down… carefully, I don't know if he's injured." He tightened his grip on Athos' left shoulder, slipped his hand around his back, and slowly started to pull him from the saddle, while Bechet slipped Athos' feet from the stirrups.
Athos tightened his hold until he heard Aramis' reassurances. Athos gasped when he felt the hand to his back increased in strength. He hitched his breath, and tightened his grasp on the gelding's mane. "Wait," he said, "please wait." He exhaled slowly and fought through the cold, the pain, and his exhaustion.
"Athos," Aramis said, "where are you injured?"
There was another long pause when Athos finally said, "Everywhere."
Unexpectedly, the gelding sidestepped to his right and Athos slipped from the saddle, but was caught by Aramis, who pulled his arm over his shoulders. Athos hitched another breath, leaned against Aramis, and slowly got his feet underneath him.
"Can you walk?" Aramis asked, adjusting his hold across Athos' back.
Athos nodded, swallowed, and tightened his fists. His shoulders protested at the movements of the slow and tedious walk to the chateau. Abused muscles continued to tremble against the cold and exhaustion. Bruised skin and tissues pleaded for mercy. And lungs, no matter how much air they received, just couldn't get enough.
Aramis bore most of Athos' weight, but felt him push himself as they slowly crossed the grounds. The massive white building grew closer with each step. Aramis paused, shifted Athos' arm over his shoulder and adjusted his arm around Athos' back. He apologized when Athos gasped.
The steps were the most difficult: one grunt, gasp, and wheeze after another. Aramis exhaled in relief when they entered the building. He could hear the bows against the strings as the music echoed through the halls. The deep tones of the cellos, the tenors of the base violins and the sweet melody of high-pitched strings that blended into a composition that reflected the composer's perceptions of love, life, and drama.
Aramis paused at the door that led to the inner courtyard. He met Treville's eyes and nodded. The captain exited the room without causing alarm and then slipped Athos' right arm over his shoulders.
Treville swallowed his emotion. There would be time for questions later. "My apartment," he motioned with his chin toward the end of the hall. "He's freezing."
Athos abandoned his attempts at walking and instead allowed his feet to be dragged. The patterns on the floor melded together. The lantern flames flickered across the tile and cast shadows along the walls. The scent of perfumes, lilacs, leather, and freshly baked bread permeated the halls. Athos hitched his breath when he was shifted, heard an apology, and again was carried forward.
"Where was he?" Treville asked and tightened his hold on Athos' wrist.
"Rode in on Emone's gray gelding," Aramis said. He paused in front of the door that Treville opened, and he motioned toward the chair by the fireplace. "We need to get a fire going."
Treville and Aramis lowered Athos to the chair, and then Treville quickly worked to start a fire. He glanced toward Aramis, who pulled a heavy blanket from the bed and tossed it over Athos' shoulders and then knelt on the floor before him.
"Athos?" Aramis cupped his neck and forced his head up. "Look at me, brother." He curled his lips into a smile when half-hooded glazed green eyes peered at him. "I never thought I'd see you again." He raised to his knees and kissed Athos' forehead.
Athos glanced toward the fire, tightened his stiff fingers around the blanket, and leaned forward. He groaned in the back of his throat, fought the cold that had not been resolved and had been reintroduced during his long hours in the saddle. The storm had left him wet and the icy winds had stolen his strength. The ride had been longer than expected. He didn't realize how long he had been in the water after he'd fallen or how far he traveled in the rapids. Although his body told him otherwise as bruises continued to manifest, and battered ribs and bones reminded him of the turbulent waters, boulders, and trees.
Treville squatted next to Aramis. "How is he?" He placed his right hand on Athos' shoulder and squeezed. "Look at me, son?" he said and nodded when Athos turned toward him.
Athos pulled his arms closer to his chest and wrapped his hands in the fabric of the blankets. His body shook and the longer he sat, the worse it became.
Aramis rested on his haunches and clutched his hand around Athos' fingers. "We need to get him warmed — he's exhausted, and who knows what he looks like beneath those clothes." He stood suddenly, glanced toward the bed, the bed warmer, and the windows. "Don't let him fall from that chair," he said. He walked around the room and pulled the heavy drapes closed. "Is there wine in here?"
Treville turned on the ball of his foot and shook his head. "No. Why?"
"I could warm some wine for him to drink… I'd rather it be broth, but the meals of late have been…" he shrugged and raised his eyebrows, "a bit on the experimental side." He walked toward Athos and squatted again in front of him. He checked the temperature of his own hand, and then carefully slipped it beneath the blanket and the collar of Athos' doublet until his palm rested on his bare shoulder. "It's a miracle he survived — he's too cold." He met Treville's eyes. "Find some wine or some brandy and something we can warm it in — and find Porthos and d'Artagnan." He forced Athos upward and shoved the blanket from his shoulders and then unbuttoned his doublet.
Treville stood and left the room.
"You, my friend," Aramis said, as he unhooked the weapons belt, and pulled it from Athos' waist, "are going to have quite the story to tell when you're coherent enough to share it." He patted Athos' cheek and then continued to unbutton his doublet.
Athos nodded and moved his hands in an attempt to help.
"How long were you on horseback?" Aramis asked and gently pulled the doublet from Athos' shoulders. He placed it on the back of the chair and then noticed he wore two blouses. Aramis chuckled, and then carefully pulled the top layer off and tossed the fabric aside.
"Yesterday…" Athos said. He winced when he shifted wrong and shivered against the chill in the room.
"Two days?" Aramis shook his head. He squatted again and then lifted the hem of Athos' blouse up to expose his ribs. Aramis inhaled through clenched teeth and parted lips. "Damn," he said, and carefully placed his hand along Athos' left side and apologized when he flinched from the touch. "I have seen less color variations on a Ruben's painting."
"He has a very dramatic style," Athos said. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward again. "I can't get warm."
"I know," Aramis said, and rubbed the backs of Athos' arms, along his shoulders, and back, "we're working on it… I promise you." Aramis turned suddenly when the apartment door opened and Porthos and d'Artagnan entered. Both stopped suddenly, mouths ajar, foreheads furrowed and wrinkled. D'Artagnan pushed past Porthos, breath caught in his throat, and he walked toward the chair and knelt beside Aramis.
"When? How? Did someone find him and bring him in?," d'Artagnan asked and grasped Athos' forearm. "He's freezing, Aramis — we should move him closer to the fire?" He rubbed Athos' back and then pulled the blanket toward his shoulders.
Porthos bowed at the waist, braced his hands above his knees, and inhaled deeply. He paused a moment, caught his breath in his throat, and slowly exhaled. He turned his head to the left when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright, son?" Treville asked. He shifted the bottle of spirits and the small pot he carried to his left arm and watched Porthos push himself upright.
"Yeah," Porthos said with a nod, and a smile. "I am now."
Treville nodded, squeezed Porthos' arm above his elbow, and walked toward the fireplace. "The cook has informed me this is the best medicine for warming a man from the inside out," he said, and uncorked the bottle of spirits. He sniffed, exhaled through puckered lips, and dumped the brandy into the pot to warm. "He informed me that adding butter was essential." He looked inside the pot as the butter surfaced and slowly melted beneath the heat.
"Is he Irish?" Athos asked obscurely, causing confused looks to pass between the others.
"I don't think so," Treville answered puzzled. "Why?"
"Wonderful people, the Irish," Athos said wearily.
Aramis decided to humor him and shrugged. "I'm sure they are," he said, patted Athos shoulder, while Athos grabbed the edges of the blanket and worked to get it over his shoulders. He heard the clip of a chair, and looked up to see Porthos as he placed it next to him, and took a seat.
"Welcome back," Porthos said. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and his hands hung toward the floor. He reached for Athos' shoulder and squeezed. "We thought you were dead."
"There were moments when I thought I might be," Athos said, and clasped Porthos' wrist. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and shivered against the chill. He grabbed the armrest of the chair as exhaustion threatened his vision and for a moment he focused on breathing. His lungs still burned, and he silently wondered if the irritation was permanent. He rubbed his brow with his left hand.
"Athos?" Aramis said, "Athos," he waited until he was met with green eyes. "I want to check those ribs."
Athos nodded, used the armrest to push himself back, and shivered when the chill of the air hit his skin. Aramis again lifted his blouse. Black, purple, and blue bruising extended from Athos' left side, across his abdomen, chest, and up to his shoulders.
Porthos whistled at the sight, d'Artagnan winced and shook his head, while Treville tightened his jaw muscles.
Aramis pursed his lips, pressed his palm to Athos' left side, which appeared more heavily bruised than his right, and carefully maneuvered his fingers across ribs. He apologized when Athos inhaled sharply and held his breath.
"Alright," Aramis said, and then looked toward Porthos. "Can I check your back?" He looked at Athos, who exhaled, and slowly leaned forward. Again, Aramis pulled his blouse upward and listened to Athos' breathing as more bruising mottled his back and disappeared below the waist of his britches.
Athos hung his head, hugged his arms to his chest, and shivered as fingers probed and prodded. "Stop," he said, and inhaled "Stop." He grabbed the edge of the chair with his right hand. "Please, just stop." He shifted uncomfortably, and while he felt the heat of the fire against his skin, it wasn't enough. Even his teeth felt cold.
"Athos, you've got several bruised ribs — possibly cracked if not broken, your spine looks swollen — how you arrived here is beyond my comprehension. I've never seen bruising this dark before, nor this much on one man," Aramis said, and sat back on his heels. "Are you passing blood? Feeling any cramping or stomach pains? Have you coughed up blood? Any bleeding from your nose or ears?"
Athos met his eyes, shook his head, and cupped his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "You talk too much, Aramis…" he said, and shifted again as his back protested at his current position. He ignored d'Artagnan's snicker and Porthos' nod of agreement. "I haven't slept in two days… I feel as though I have been trampled by a herd of wild horses and left to freeze in the middle of a snowstorm. Had it not been for Eadan and her grandchildren, I would have perished, but I'm here now, and the only thing I'm even close to doing at the moment is passing out — I do not have the patience, nor the fortitude to be examined. I'm cold and in pain — conditions I've grown uncomfortably familiar with these past days." He rubbed his temple, closed his eyes, and breathed quietly through his nose. "I'm sorry," he said, and cupped his forehead in his hand while he leaned forward. "In my haste to return, I did not realize the ride would be so long." He felt Porthos rub his shoulder.
"Drink this," Treville said, and handed a cup of warmed brandy to Athos, who took it with both hands.
Athos wrapped his hands around it, felt the warmth penetrate, and brought it closer to his face. He could smell the heat of the brandy. The melted butter now swirled in oily circles on the surface.
"The apologies are mine," Aramis said. "I sometimes overlook the most basic of needs."
Athos chuckled, placed his hand on Aramis' neck, and nodded. "But well intended." He released his hand, rested his elbow on his knee, and he sipped at the brandy.
The warmth felt good against his throat and the butter coated his mouth. He watched Aramis stand and toss more wood onto the fire. Treville grabbed the bedwarmer that hung from the wall. He added some hot coals into the pan and covered it with a vented lid. He then slipped it between the sheets and moved it from the pillows to the footboard. When he was done, he dumped the hot coals back into the fire and rehung the warmer. Athos swallowed and felt the warmth of the alcohol warm his chest. He coughed as the heat penetrated his lungs.
D'Artagnan removed the cup from his hand, while Porthos and Aramis pulled him to his feet and shuffled him toward the bed. His britches were removed, and he heard Porthos chuckle at the double layers of braies. He was covered with the warm blankets and he shifted into a comfortable position onto his right side, dug his head into the pillow, and immediately slipped into an exhausted sleep.
Aramis grabbed the blanket from the chair and tossed it over the bed. He turned toward Treville, who had poured them each a cup of warmed brandy and raised his hand in toast.
"Drink up," Treville said, and tilted his head toward the bed, "that one there is going to be a bear for the next few days."
"But he's our bear," Porthos said, and took a sip of his brandy. He grabbed the back of d'Artagnan's neck and squeezed.
Aramis looked back toward the bed. "He shouldn't be here," he shook his head, clutched at the cross around his neck, and closed his eyes. He felt Porthos grab his shoulder, squeeze, and shake him gently.
"Don't question it," Porthos said, "just be grateful for it."
D'Artagnan nodded, rubbed his red eyes, and felt Aramis grab his neck and kiss his forehead. "We owe this, Eadan and her grandchildren a debt of gratitude, whoever they are… although," he added thoughtfully, "Eadan is an Irish name. Perhaps that's what he meant about the Irish?"
Treville took a seat in the vacant chair, sipped at his brandy, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the fire against his skin, and he could hear the applause in the background as the musicians ended their performance. He leaned forward and looked toward his men.
Porthos and Aramis sat on the floor and leaned against the bed. D'Artagnan poured another round of drinks from a port of wine and then sat in a chair near the head of the bed. They spoke quietly, their actions lighter, faces brighter, and demeanor changed for the better.
Porthos chuckled, smiled, and took a drink of his wine. He rested his elbow on his raised right knee and slapped d'Artagnan's leg. Aramis chuckled, rested his head against the bedding, and looked toward the ceiling. He said something that caused d'Artagnan to choke on his wine. He slapped his chest and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Treville nodded once, placed his empty glass on the table next to the chair, and quietly left the room. They weren't his sons, not by blood, but he couldn't think of them any other way. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth as he walked down the hall as the guests slowly left the inner courtyard.
Grandchildren.
It had never been a concept he had considered, but as he considered it now, he couldn't help but think he'd make a fine grandfather with many stories to share.