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Omar stood near the fireplace in his parlor and looked out the window as the afternoon sun cast rays toward the floor and across the opposite wall. "The king," he said, and poured wine into his goblet, "needs me at his meeting or as a member of his council?" He turned toward Athos, who sat in the chair across from him.
Athos sighed, rested his elbows on spread knees, his hands dangled toward the floor, and looked toward d'Artagnan as Aramis wrapped his arm and then Porthos, who slipped into his doublet and buckled his weapons belt around his waist. Dark circles hung beneath their eyes, their cheeks were gaunt, and their shirts were dirty and sweat stained.
Athos rubbed his brow and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "The king has requested your membership," he said, and met the baron's eyes.
"Unless he needs me for a specific purpose, there is no need for me to be at the king's side. There are others he can call upon to provide such a service… those with more fortitude than I." He shifted, and watched Felix enter the room with a serving dish of bread, jellies, and dried fruit.
Felix nodded, placed the plate on the side table below the picture window that overlooked the pastures. "Should I ready some baths —"
"No," Athos said. He tucked his head, and with his elbows still on his knees ran his fingers through his dirty hair. "If the baron is unwilling to accompany us… we'll be departing shortly."
Aramis shook his head, stepped toward Athos, and squatted next to his chair. "It wouldn't hurt," he said. He grabbed Athos' arm as he stood, pulled him off to the side, and said, "to stay a day," he turned toward d'Artagnan, "to recover our health." He rubbed his eye, looked toward his hand, and stepped closer to Athos. "None of us are fit to ride in our condition," he met Athos' eyes, "the only reason d'Artagnan is on his feet is to not disappoint you — Porthos is exhausted, and you…" he shook his head, "are in no shape to travel — not the distance we need to, and not without rest and nourishment." He exhaled, looked at Porthos, who nodded, and continued. "I have to see to this cut," he looked at his hand, "I know you want to depart…"
Athos swallowed, looked at d'Artagnan who pressed the palm of his hand onto the table and stood next to a chair. Aramis' hands shook. His features were pallid, and eyelids rimmed red. Even Porthos, who stood next to the sideboard, looked ready to drop.
"We need rest, food, and I need to see to everyone's injuries," Aramis said, "Felix saved our lives…" he looked at the Felix who clutched his hands and nodded, "Tomas and Evan are dead and we'll return to Paris with news for our king — but we must recover our strength, brother."
"The rooms, Monsieur," Felix said, "lock from the inside." He swallowed when Athos turned hardened eyes toward him. "There are fresh bandages and herbs in the study — you're welcome to them. I'll prepare a hardy meal." He turned suddenly, met the eyes of the baron, and left the room.
"I did not know what they had planned," Omar said. He stood near the unlit fireplace and looked to the window and the pastures in the distance. "Had I known… I never would have allowed this to happen." He sat in his chair, slumped his shoulders forward, and rubbed his face. "I thought Tomas and Evan were…" He turned and watched d'Artagnan gingerly take a seat. "Had I known what they were…" He sighed. "Perhaps I would have been better prepared to see through their deception."
Omar ran his hand along the armrest of his chair. His curled fingers scraped the fabric and his nails snagged at loose threads. "It's easy to take advantage of those perceived as weak," He said, and then looked toward the carvings and violins. "My mind settled when I met my wife." He looked up and met Athos' eyes. "She helped me focus… helped me see what I couldn't see in myself." He folded his fingers together and circled his thumbs. "What has happened to you," he turned his head and looked toward Athos and the others, "I am as much to blame."
"The child?" Athos said and looked toward Omar.
Omar nodded, cleared his throat, and swallowed. "Pom," he said and rubbed his face. "Pom Sartre…" he paused a moment to collect his breath, "he was seven… his father has worked for me since he was a boy." He rubbed his face again and looked toward the dark ash and burned remains of the last fire. "Pom wanted to be a musician," Omar chuckled, and then wiped his cheek, "he loved the violins."
Aramis grasped Athos' upper left arm and squeezed. "One night, brother, then we'll depart." He met Athos' eyes and nodded. Aramis left the room, turned right, and headed for the kitchen.
Athos rubbed his eyes and the back of his head, and he looked toward the baron. He then looked toward Porthos, who nodded and relaxed his shoulders. Athos rubbed his eyes again and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need some air," he said. He turned suddenly and left the room.
Porthos walked toward d'Artagnan and knelt before him. He shook his head, placed his fingers below d'Artagnan's chin and lifted his head to expose the damaged tissue. Porthos shook his head, and then patted the right side of d'Artagnan's cheek.
"Looks worse than it is," d'Artagnan said. He tried to clear his throat, but winced.
"I think if Aramis wasn't the marksman he is — we'd be buryin' you." Porthos pushed himself to his feet and looked to the door as Aramis entered with a bowl of steaming water, an armload of bandages, and a bottle of salve.
Aramis placed the supplies on the table and knelt before d'Artagnan. "You first," he said, and then looked at Porthos, "then you."
Porthos shook his head. "I'll see to your hand next… it's been bleedin' an' needs tendin' — then you can see to me."
Aramis nodded. He pushed the sleeves of d'Artagnan's blouse and doublet away from his bloody and bruised wrists. "Athos?"
"He needed some air," Porthos said, and then watched the baron stand and walk toward them.
"I'll fetch you some clothing," Omar left the room before anyone could protest.
Aramis washed the blood from d'Artagnan's wrists, covered the wounds with a sweet smelling salve that burned briefly, and then calmed his inflamed skin. Aramis wrapped each wrist and then turned to d'Artagnan's neck. The rope had torn his skin on each side of his jaw and the bruising wrapped around his neck the width of a palm. It wouldn't scar, but it would haunt him the rest of his life. Aramis carefully cleaned the injury, applied the salve, and left it uncovered to dry. "Were you hurt anywhere else?"
D'Artagnan shook his head and winced. "No," he said with a graveled voice and shrugged. His voice was getting worse.
"Can you swallow without pain?" Aramis asked with a frown. He rested his elbow on his knee and met d'Artagnan's eyes.
"Yes," d'Artagnan said and grabbed Aramis' shoulder. "I think we should go."
Aramis sighed and shook his head. "We'll never make it — not in our condition. We need food and we need rest." He turned to his right when Omar returned with an armload of linen blouses ranging in colors from dark gray to white.
Omar grabbed the top blouse, a light gray with a crocheted collar. "This was my son Phillip's," he said and handed it to Porthos. "It will fit you." He paused a moment, looked at the bloody bandage around Aramis' hand. "When I was younger," he said, "I would have hanged them… I would have let them rot in the sun for what they did." He placed the blouses on the sideboard and walked to the kitchen. "Felix is a good man," he paused at the door, "don't let his size fool you… he has more heart than all of us put together." He stepped from the room and turned right.
Aramis moistened his lips and looked toward d'Artagnan. He shook his head in disbelief and stood. He reached for a blouse. It was white with ornate buttons and lace around the collar. "It's a bit dressy for a musketeer," Aramis said, "but it's clean." He looked up when Omar entered the room with a glass bottle and placed it before him.
"Gorzałka," Omar said, "your hand will need cleaning." He reached across the table and grabbed four small glasses that had rested next to a bulbous vase. He poured the liquor into each glass and then replaced the gorzałka on the table. "Don't sip it," he said, and downed the shot. He inhaled deeply and breathed slowly through his mouth. "It burns."
Porthos grabbed a chair for Aramis and guided him to sit. He handed him a glass and motioned for him to drink. "This is going to hurt," Porthos said, knelt and gently grasped Aramis' forearm. He pulled back the bandage and winced when red, swollen skin stared back at him. The jagged cut along his palm gaped and oozed. Porthos looked up and met Aramis' eyes. "You should 'ave said somethin'."
"Said what?" Aramis shrugged, "That my hand's infected and I need clean bandages — even if I had, what good what it have done?"
Porthos nodded. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," Aramis said. He winced when he tried to move his fingers. He looked at the glass in his left hand and downed the fiery liquid. Aramis inhaled sharply through puckered lips and then exhaled slowly. "What is that?" He could feel the burn down his throat, past his chest, and into his gut. His fingers and toes suddenly warmed.
"Polish," Omar said, and poured himself another cup. He looked toward d'Artagnan who looked at the glass. "Drink it," he said, "it will dull what pains you."
Porthos cupped the back of Aramis' right hand and reached for the water. He turned when Omar shook his head.
"I'll fetch some fresh water," he said, and grabbed the bowl. "Use the Gorzałka."
Aramis cocked an eyebrow.
Porthos exhaled, stood, and poured some liquid onto a cloth. He turned back toward Aramis, knelt, and slowly began wiping blood and signs of infection from the wound. He listened as Aramis hissed, and bit at his bent index finger as the pain increased.
"I'm sorry," Porthos said, and winced when Aramis shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Stop," Aramis said and tried to pull his hand away. He inhaled deeply and held his breath. "I need a moment… please, Porthos." His hand burned as though it had been lit on fire. The deep cut stared angrily at him: red, inflamed, and seeping.
Porthos nodded. He watched Aramis hold his hand closer to his chest and breathe several times to collect himself. "I'm sorry, brother."
"I still have my fingers," Aramis said, and tried to smile but failed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded as he lowered his hand back for Porthos to continue.
Omar placed the bowl with warm water on a stool next to Porthos and a fresh cloth already submerged below the surface. "Give me something to do," he said, "I must help."
Porthos wrung the cloth, and then carefully laid it over Aramis' hand. He held it in place and allowed the heat and moisture to loosen the dried blood and puss. "He'll need something to grasp," Porthos said, "somethin' we can put in 'is hand to keep 'is fingers in place when I bandage it."
Omar frowned, nodded, and then walked out of the room.
"Could just use a rolled bandage," Aramis said, and winced when Porthos removed the cloth, rinsed it, and then wrung water from it and cleaned the tissue. Aramis winced, shifted uncomfortably in his seat again, and pinched at his thigh with his other hand.
"He needed somethin' to do an' I don't feel like managin' 'im an' you." Porthos dabbed around the edges of the cut skin and looked up toward Aramis. "May need to cut some of that tissue away — won't heal right with the edges as frayed as they are."
Aramis looked at the injury. The long cut flayed open, and the edges were jagged from the torn and popped stitches. He nodded, held his hand steady, and motioned toward the bottle of gorzałka. "Pour me another, d'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan stood, poured him another shot, and watched him down it in one gulp.
Aramis hissed, breathed slowly, and watched Porthos cut away the dead tissue. Ever so carefully he worked, and when he finished, he cleaned the wound and applied pressure to stem the flow of blood. Relieved that it ran free of infection, Porthos adjusted his grip on Aramis' arm, then cleaned his wrist and removed the dead tissue. He grabbed the jar that contained the salve; a mixture of honey, cayenne, and comfrey. Aramis hissed when the salve was applied. He exhaled slowly as Porthos carefully wrapped the wound to his hand and his wrist.
"How does it feel?" Porthos asked.
Aramis raised his eyebrows and said, "Like I grabbed the hot end of a branding iron." He glanced toward Omar as he entered the room and held a roll of stockings.
Porthos chuckled, took the item, and placed it into Aramis' palm and then wrapped it into place. "You won't be impressin' any ladies with this —"
"But when it heals," Aramis said, and watched fingers disappear beneath the wrappings. His hand looked like a rounded club. "I will be — and we all know how the ladies love the scars."
D'Artagnan chuckled and then coughed when his throat protested. He raised his hand and shook his head. "I'm fine." He picked up the small glass and eyed the liquid. He inhaled deeply, counted to three, and downed it in one gulp. D'Artagnan paused a moment, felt the heat travel down his throat and reach his gut. He exhaled slowly through puckered lips, his eyes watered, and his nose curled. D'Artagnan nodded, suppressed a grin, and said, "It does burn." His voice was clearer, and he smiled when Porthos reached back and slapped his leg.
Porthos motioned for Aramis' other hand and made quick work of cleaning his left wrist and applied salve and wrapped a bandage around it.
Aramis stood, grasped Porthos' shoulder, and nodded in thanks.
Omar grabbed the dirty bowl of water and left the room, only to return with clean water and placed it back onto the stool. "Please," he said, and looked at Aramis who was attempting to clean Porthos' wrists with one hand, "allow me."
Aramis looked toward Porthos, who nodded. Omar awkwardly knelt in front of Porthos, as bad knees cracked and strained. He wrung the water from the cloth. Despite his twisted fingers, he tenderly grasped the back of Porthos' hand and gently cleaned his wrists. Porthos watched as tears silently ran down Omar's face while he wiped away blood, cut away torn tissue, and whispered apologies.
D'Artagnan looked toward Aramis, who flexed his jaw muscles and watched the tender ministrations of a man, who was just as devastated as the rest of them. The bruises on Porthos' wrists expanded beyond the width of the shackles. The dark blues, blacks, and purples would turn to shades of greens and yellows in the days to come. Omar applied the salve and looked up when Porthos hissed.
"I'm sorry," Omar said, and paused in his ministrations.
Porthos shook his head and watched Omar continue until he completed with wrapping bandages around his wrists.
"I'm truly sorry," Omar said, and struggled to stand, but nodded in thanks when Porthos gripped his upper arm and helped him.