Chapter 17
The winds shifted and caused the branches of the trees to slap the side of the chateau. The rain had stopped, and a few puffed clouds drifted across the sky. Winter, it appeared, surrendered to spring's arrival as the sun's bright afternoon rays warmed the grounds.
Ninon turned from the window when she heard Athos groan, a subtle sound in the back of his throat that would not have been detectable except for the silence in the room. He weakly grasped at his side, parted his lips, and squeezed his eyes closed. He fought the seizing pain that coursed through him. Athos held his breath and then forced his fingers to clutch at the blanket.
"Isabeau," Ninon said and grabbed the skirts of her dress as she walked to the bed.
Startled, Isabeau jumped and then reached for her glass that tumbled from her hand. "Yes," she said. "What is it?" She tiredly glanced from Ninon to the bed.
"Something's wrong," Ninon said and took a seat near Athos' hip. "Athos?" She said. She reached for his hand and suddenly fell backward when he reactively pushed her away.
Isabeau grabbed Ninon before she fell to the floor. "I'll get Aramis," she said and rushed from the room.
"Athos?" Ninon said again and retook her seat.
Startled, Athos' hands shook, and he looked at her with wide eyes and a look of fear and mistrust.
Tentatively, Ninon reached for his arm. "Everything is alright," she said and noticed the sweat that beaded across his brow and fell in narrow paths down his temple.
His hair clung to his head, sweat dampened the sheets, the blankets, and his bandages. His breathing became harsh as though his lungs were simply too tired to expand. The fever that held steady through most of the night and the morning hours had suddenly worsened.
"Athos, it's me," Ninon said.
Athos trembled. He looked around the room, confusion in his eyes, and stared into the dark corners. He squinted, blinked, and then looked at her. "My sword?" he mumbled and tried to push himself upward. He fell back onto his right side with a cry of pain and slowly shifted his feet against the mattress. "My sword," he said again and clutched at the blanket above the wound.
"Athos, there's no need for your sword," Ninon said. She pressed her hand to his shoulder and felt him become still, like stone, beneath her touch. "Athos?"
The door pushed open and Aramis entered while pulling his shoulder straps into place. His blouse ballooned around his waist, and he quickly rolled up his sleeves. His hair was disheveled, his mustache and beard a week overgrown, but the dark circles that had decorated his eyes were gone.
"What's happened?" Aramis asked, and helped Ninon to her feet and took her place on the bed. "Athos?" He said and pressed his hand to the back of his shoulder.
"I think it's the fever… it happened so suddenly." Ninon moved toward the door and then suddenly stepped back when Porthos entered. His blouse fluttered loose around his waist and the sleeves billowed.
"My sword," Athos said again.
Aramis shook his head, pulled back the blanket low enough to expose Athos' back, and winced at the sight of blood. "Brother, the only thing you need is to stop bleeding and weeks of rest." He turned and looked at Ninon. "Find some dry sheets, blankets, and see about a pot of cold water — maybe some braies, and a blouse too."
Ninon turned and left the room. Porthos watched her go, rubbed his face, and then moved to the other side of the bed. He flexed his hands, felt scabs tighten, and the muscle of his thigh protest when he applied too much weight. He watched Aramis stop Athos from trying to sit up.
"Is it jus' a fever… or is it more?" Porthos asked.
Aramis checked the bandages on Athos' side, his arm, and then pressed his hand to his neck and forehead. "Aside from everything else, you mean?" He grasped Athos' arm below his wrist to keep him from moving, as his agitation grew worse.
"Lean 'im against me," Porthos said. "I can keep 'im still while you see to 'is injuries." He took a seat on the bed, shifted himself to the headboard, and then gently grasped Athos' arms as Aramis pushed him back. "He's burnin' up." Porthos braced his right arm around Athos' shoulders, below his chin, and held him steady as Aramis checked the wounds.
Athos rolled his head to his right shoulder, away from Porthos, and tried weakly to grasp at the wounds to his side as Aramis removed the bandages. He looked into the shadows, squinted with glazed eyes. He suddenly stilled and stared at something only he could see. His breathing hitched, and he held his breath for several moments. Worlds collided, the past and the present. Athos knew Aramis and Porthos were close, but in his fevered mind he watched Grimaud repeatedly pull the blade from Billy's chest. A smile crept across his face, his eyes glowed and his lips turned red as he smiled. A scream echoed, and Athos tensed again and struggled within his confines. He tried to pull away from what held him. He muttered for his sword as his breathing quickened. He didn't want to die, not like this, not surrounded in darkness, by those who hated him.
"Hold him steady," Aramis said as he pulled the bandage from the wounds. Fresh blood followed the fabric and slowly appeared on the wounds.
"I'm tryin' to," Porthos said with a frown and tightened his grip. He placed his left hand on Athos' brow, pressed him to his shoulder, and watched Aramis gently apply more salve to the wounds. "Athos, stop."
"These look good," Aramis said. He looked up, frowned, and then turned in the direction where Athos stared. "What do you see, brother?" He leaned forward, pressed his palm to Athos' neck and cheek, and looked at Porthos when he didn't respond.
Porthos clinched his jaw and suddenly tightened his hold when Athos' body twitched. Not severely, but enough to cause him to tighten his fists and pull his arms to his chest as he fought for air. He pushed his head against Porthos' shoulder, hitched his breath, and rubbed the heel of his left foot along the bed. Athos then shifted his head toward Porthos' neck as muscles contracted involuntarily. He groaned as abdominal muscles clenched and held tight and then parted his lips to gasp for air.
Porthos held tight, pressed the side of his face against Athos' head, and said, "Breathe, Athos… just breathe."
"He's having a fit," Aramis said. "It's the fever." He grabbed the cloth and dipped it into the washbasin, and then gently wiped at Athos' face. "It's mild," he said, and exhaled slowly. "I've seen them much worse."
Athos was slow to relax, but when he did, his hands went lax, and his arms fell to his sides. He blinked slowly several times and looked Aramis in the eyes.
"Athos?" Aramis said, and again cupped the right side of his head. "Are you with us, brother?"
Athos' eyes closed and went still.
"Are you alright?" Aramis asked and looked at Porthos.
"As long as 'e is, I will be."
Aramis looked Porthos in the eyes, understood his meaning, and nodded. He turned as the door opened. Isabeau, Ninon, and Ruth entered the room. Each carried a stack of supplies: a basin of cold water and fresh cloths, fresh sheets, pillows, a dry blanket, braies and a gray-toned blouse suitable to sleep in.
"Should I see if Walnut can lift him again?" Isabeau asked as she dusted the front of her skirts. "To change the bedding?" She watched Aramis apply more salve to the wounds and then carefully re-wrap them. She winced at the bruising that extended up Athos' rib cage and disappeared beneath the blanket and sheets that gathered at his hips. Bruising appeared above and below the bandages on his wrists, and along his left cheek and temple.
Aramis nodded. "Yes," he said, "that would be helpful."
