The "site" that shall not be named, had turned into a nightmare to deal with. If you're reading this, wonderful! This is chapter 16. For some reason the "site" coding is having issues and once again screwing up my chapters by posting the wrong ones (which I'm not sure how or why it's doing it). It's also decided to delete my stories from my author's page. For those of you who follow me and notified me of the issue, Pally, MountainCat, and Jeanniphil, thank you! I've deleted it twice and re-uploaded it twice... In the meantime, I'm switching my stories over to AO3 and I'm building up my webpage. I hope to have that done this week. I may need to postpone the next episode until I get it squared around. There isn't a point in posting here if my stories can't be seen, they screw up the chapters, and make it difficult for you the readers.
In the meantime, hang tight and I hope to have some news for you soon!
Aramis shifted uncomfortably on the chair and watched d'Artagnan toss and turn as the fever raged. Sweat collected and soaked the neckline of his blouse, beneath his arms, and down his back. He lay back, slightly elevated to ease his coughing, and clutched at the edges of the blankets. Sweat soaked hair clung to his scalp and looked dark against his unnaturally pale completion.
Porthos and Aramis had moved him from his tent and into Athos' hoping to give him a more comfortable space that would provide warmth and a shorter distance to the medical tent. In the 12 hours since the move, his condition had worsened. His coughing deepened and the fever grew more intense, as did his agitation.
Aramis had managed to get him to drink some tea during bouts of awareness, but those moments had deteriorated, becoming less and less frequent as the hours continued. Aramis hung his head, looked at the ground between his knees, and listened to the men outside as they prepared for the day ahead. Wood would be chopped, fires stoked, and men would change shifts as they carefully watched the Spanish encampment across the battlefield, partially hidden behind a wall of stone and trees. He looked up when Athos entered. An icy breeze entered the tent and caused the lantern flames to flicker and dance before returning to their quiet illumination.
"How is he?" Athos asked. He looked at d'Artagnan, clenched his jaw, and then looked at Aramis, who shook his head.
"I don't know what else to do," Aramis said. He slapped his hands on his thighs and rubbed them for a moment. "I've tried all of my known remedies — nothing has worked." He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and exhaled slowly. "I don't know what to do."
Athos ran his hand over his face and exhaled slowly. "What about the physicians?"
Aramis shook his head. "I've already asked them," he huffed in disappointment, "one even recommended bleeding him." He looked at Athos in disbelief. "Absolute insanity."
"It's common practice."
"It's nonsense," Aramis quipped. "I've seen the effects of bleeding and from what I've seen," he paused and looked at d'Artagnan as he shifted and tugged at the blanket, "it only makes the patients worse — not better."
"If you could do something," Athos said, "what would it be?" He crossed his arms over his chest.
"I'd have Constance here," Aramis said, and exhaled slowly. "He'd pull through for her."
"He'll pull through," Athos said.
"Athos," Aramis said with a long sigh. "He's in a bad way… I can't say that he will."
"He's strong," Athos said, and looked at the exit. "What teas do you need?"
"Athos," Aramis frowned, "this is going to need more than teas —"
"Then what?"
Aramis shrugged and scratched behind his right ear. "Maybe hot and cold compresses — I've heard of that being done —"
"What else?"
"Steam," Aramis said. "It may help clear his lungs."
Athos nodded and then quickly left the tent.
Aramis rubbed his face and then cupped his chin with his right elbow on his knee and looked at d'Artagnan as his torment continued. Aramis quickly jumped to his feet when d'Artagnan lurched forward and started coughing. Aramis held him steady, rubbed his back, and helped him hold a cloth over his mouth as he expelled mucus.
D'Artagnan groaned as he lay back. His chest felt heavy, tight, and his breathing was shallow. He gripped the edge of the blanket, tightened his hand around it, and tried to pull it toward his chest as the chills suddenly racked his body.
Aramis pulled the blanket up and then dipped a cloth into the basin next to the bed, wrung it out, and then gently placed it over d'Artagnan's forehead. Aramis turned as the canvas flap was pulled open, and Isabeau Fontaine entered with an enormous cauldron of cold water. Walnut soon followed her with a cauldron that steamed. He held the base and the side with the use of a heavy towel to prevent the heat from burning his hands.
"Athos asked that we bring some ice cold and steaming water for your friend," Isabeau said. She placed it on the ground next to the bed and then carefully shifted her skirts and took a seat near d'Artagnan's hip. "I'm well versed with winter fever." She turned and looked at Walnut, who placed his steaming pot next to the cold one. "Walnut and my son, Amis, seemed to suffer at least once a year." She placed her hand on d'Artagnan's forehead, felt the heat, and then turned to Walnut and said, "Fetch me my spice bags — eucalyptus and lavender."
Walnut nodded, quickly turned, and then left.
Isabeau dipped a cloth into the steaming water and then pulled back the blanket. "When we first moved here, there wasn't a physician around. I had to learn how to care for my children." She pushed up d'Artagnan's shirt, exposed his chest, and then carefully reached for the hot cloth and wrung it out before gently applying it to d'Artagnan' chest. She covered him with his blanket.
"Athos asked you to help?"
Isabeau smiled and nodded. "It's the least I can do," she said. "After Walnut nearly choked him to death, and he allowed us to remain here with the other refugees," she shrugged, dipped another cloth into the icy cold pot, "I'm willing to help where I can."
"You've been helping in the medical tents?"
Isabeau nodded. "Myself and both of my daughters, Emily and Mary — it's good for them to learn how to care for the wounded and the sick. They'll have families of their own one day. These are skills they will only develop and improve on as they learn." She pulled back the blanket, removed the warm towel, and replaced it with the cold one.
D'Artagnan hissed, opened his eyes, and felt his chest suddenly tighten and then relax.
"The cold is always the worse part of this," Isabeau chuckled. "My son would hold his breath — he turned blue on several occasions."
Aramis smiled and then watched as Walnut reentered the tent with another steaming pot and he carried two small canvas bags that were looped around his index finger.
"Where do you want this, Isabeau?"
Aramis stood, pushed back his chair, and watched Isabeau stand and clean off a section of the small table next to the bed and point toward it.
"Here," she said and watched Walnut put the pot down and hand her the bags. Isabeau removed several stems of eucalyptus and then dumped a handful of lavender flowers into the pot. Immediately, the scent filled the air and brought with it a sense of calm.
Aramis rolled his eyes in frustration with himself. It was a simpler version of the oils that the king's physician was using, but instead of using a flame to heat the oil, Isabeau was using the plants themselves and water. In his haste to find treatments, an obvious one had slipped past him. He watched Isabeau return to her seat next to d'Artagnan's hip and repeat the process with the hot towel.
"You look tired, Aramis," Isabeau said. "Get some rest. D'Artagnan will be fine with Walnut and me for a while. There is no point in you both being sick — not when it can be helped."
Aramis looked at the exit and then he glanced at d'Artagnan, who had closed his eyes and relaxed beneath the heat of the towel, despite his fever. "I'll return shortly."
"Take your time," Isabeau encouraged in the strong tone of a mother and wife. "We will see to him."