Chapter 19
D'Artagnan entered the room first and watched Marc turn in his seat, pull off his spectacles, and close the book he had been reading. He had been leaning next to the lantern that glowed and cast light across the pages. The room was quiet except for the subtle crackling of flames as the fire danced, shifted, and fluttered near the tips. Athos remained still, his head turned slightly to his left shoulder toward the fire. The blouse he wore was open at the collar and covered his injuries both on his arms and at his side. The blanket had been pulled down to his waist and had gathered in the relaxed fist of his right hand.
Marc took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and sighed in disapointment. "There's not been any change." He held up the book for a moment and shrugged. "I had hoped Monsieur Marlowe would have at least ignited a groan or a chuckle, but alas," he sighed, "he did not." He stood, stretched his back, and cupped the book's spine at his hip.
D'Artagnan winced and then turned and looked at Porthos as he entered the room and then immediately stoked the fire. "Levi is once again eating," he said. "You should grab a bite, while there is some left, an' before Madame Ruth needs to expand the waistband of 'is britches."
Marc clapped d'Artagnan's shoulder, looked toward the bed, and nodded. "Let us know if things change… the men are feeling his loss."
D'Artagnan nodded, watched Marc leave and close the door behind him. He took a seat in the chair next to the bed and rested his elbows on his knees as he looked at Athos; the subtle rise and fall of his chest; the faint flicker of his pulse on his neck; and the bandage that peeked near the cuff of the blouse. The fever continued. It had fluctuated during the hours, sometimes rising, then suddenly falling, as though the fire inside his body needed fuel to burn.
"How old was Billy?" d'Artagnan asked. He twiddled his thumbs, and then pushed back the cuticles as he looked at Porthos, who stood by the fire and glanced out the window.
"Old enough," Porthos said and turned to look at him. "Older than I was when I fought my first battle."
D'Artagnan nodded. "He just seemed so young."
Porthos rubbed his face and crossed his arms over his chest. "His grandmother protected him… maybe too much."
They were quiet for a long while. Porthos grabbed a chair and sat on the other side of the bed. He kicked his feet onto the mattress, rested his elbows on the armrest of the chair, and eventually fell asleep with his chin on his chest. He snored softly as the flames of the fire continued to burn.
D'Artagnan watched the evening sun fade and then the moon's light cast a bright glow through the window. Clouds continued to pass by, stars shined, and the night sky morphed from nearly black to gray as the winds shifted the clouds and caused the branches of the trees to sway. The rain had stopped; the ground had absorbed some of the water and blood that had spilled just days before. He stood, walked to the window, and looked out. The night fires continued to burn. The men had organized their tents beyond the canal, but close enough to the chateau to wait for news of their brothers and captain. Alexander, Mathias, and Germaine walked their horses through the camp to see to their morning duties. General Thorell's men had camped beyond the Musketeer Regiment. Each company was well organized and devoted. The Spanish had abandoned their position and moved east.
D'Artagnan had to admire the general. He was forward, understanding, but also very formal with his men and his responsibilities as a man in command. In many ways, d'Artagnan glanced at Athos, Thorell reminded him of his captain. Perhaps older, wiser, and in some ways, more casual in the presence of colleagues. He frowned and watched Athos' right hand clutch at the blanket.
"Athos?" d'Artagnan said and then glanced at Porthos, who remained asleep. He stepped toward the bed and took a seat in the chair and clasped Athos' arm above his elbow. "Athos? Can you hear me, brother?"
The room was warm, dark, except for the fire and orange flames that danced along the walls and cast shadows in the corners of the room. It glowed behind Porthos, outlining the frame of a sleeping giant of a man, both in spirit and in size.
Athos gasped for a tentative breath, winced, and then forced himself to breathe through his nose. Exhaustion still cursed him. It made his limbs heavy, his head foggy, and his eyes dry. Pain radiated from his side and his back, throbbing pains that refused to surrender, even in sleep. The pain intensified as he shifted, and he immediately stilled, and then slowly pressed his hand to his side. He struggled to breathe and frantically pushed himself up and slouched forward. He pressed his arm and hand to his side and clutched the at the blouse of the person sitting across from him.
D'Artagnan cupped his hand behind Athos' neck and then shifted him slightly to his left and slapped Porthos' leg. "Porthos?"
Porthos groaned, rubbed his eyes, and frowned. He looked at Athos. "Is 'e 'avin' trouble breathin'?" He stood and said, "I'll find Aramis." He was out the door before d'Artagnan could say anything more.
D'Artagnan shifted, clenched his jaw, and felt Athos lean forward and press his forehead against his shoulder. He could hear him struggle to breathe, and subtle groans and hitches of gasped breaths as he dealt with the pain. Athos' continued to clutch at d'Artagnan's blouse, and he kept his left arm and hand pressed to his side.
"Breathe… just breathe," d'Artagnan said, and then, as encouragement, he took a slow breath in and exhaled through his mouth. He clenched his jaw and frowned when he felt the trembling of Athos' muscles.
Aramis entered the room at a rushed pace and a look of frantic concern. His pant straps hung past his hips, the skirts of his blouse billowed around him, and he rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, an all too familiar routine. "What happened?" He asked as he walked to the other side of the bed, took a seat, and carefully grasped Athos' left arm. "Let me look, brother," he said, and increased his grip.
"He woke up suddenly — I thought he was in pain, but I don't think he can breathe right." D'Artagnan shifted his hand out of the way and watched Aramis lift Athos' blouse. "He's breathing… but it's not normal."
Aramis winced as he pulled up the hem of Athos' blouse and looked at the bruising. He gently applied his hand above the wounds and pulled away when Athos flinched like a startled colt. The bruising had darkened and mottled along his side, around his back, and had moved up his chest.
Athos lifted his head, glanced at Aramis with glassy eyes, and then slowly blinked. He wheezed and then tried to place his left arm back against his side, apply careful pressure, and try to ease the pain.
"Porthos," Aramis said, and looked at him. "Get some water — see if you can get him to drink — he needs fluids, and ask Madame Ruth for more pillows." He heard footsteps across the floor and the door open and close as he carefully untied and then unwrapped the bandages. More bruising was exposed, and Aramis frowned when he noticed the swelling around the broken rib, and along the ribcage. The wounds were clean and healing. Even the long cut to Athos' side was a healthy pink.
Aramis pressed his hand to Athos' side. D'Artagnan increased his hold when Athos flinched and muttered something. Athos squeezed his eyes shut, bit his lower lip, and grasped a handful of d'Artagnan's blouse as prying fingers examined his side. He tried to hold back the painful groan, but he couldn't as he bowed his head.
D'Artagnan grasped the back of Athos' neck, felt the heat radiate, and the dampness of his hair through his fingers. "He's feverish again."
"This is too much for him," Aramis said as he continued to examine the tissue. He suddenly hissed, felt Athos flinch, pull away, and groan in pain. "His broken rib is out of place." He clenched his jaw and looked up as Porthos entered the room. He carried a stack of pillows and a fresh pitcher of water.
"Ruth put 'oney in it," he said and rested it on the credenza next to the bed. "How's 'e doin'?" He placed the pillows on the trunk across the room and then turned and stood at the foot of the bed.
"His rib is out of socket," d'Artagnan said as he tightened his hold when Aramis shifted on the bed into a better position behind Athos.
Porthos winced.
"I missed it… I thought it was just broken," Aramis said and rubbed his chin and then rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "I'm going to need your help," he looked at Porthos, who clenched his jaw and nodded.
It took all three of them. Athos remained seated, leaning against d'Artagnan, who increased his hold while Porthos placed firm hands along Athos' ribcage. Aramis sat at Athos' side and positioned his hands along his back, felt the slight protrusion, and placed the heel of his right hand atop it. He cupped a hand on Athos' shoulder between his neck and arm, looked at d'Artagnan and Porthos, and took a deep breath. He didn't want to count to three, knowing Athos was listening. He may not have been fully coherent, but he understood enough of what was happening around him. Enough to know what occurred on the countdown.
Aramis took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the risks. A broken rib was bad enough, and shifting it could cause a punctured lung, but leaving the joint out of place was not an option. He opened his eyes, and then with a quick push of the heel of his hand, he shifted the rib back into place.
Athos parted his lips to cry out, but no sound came forth. He pressed the side of his head to d'Artagnan's shoulder, closed his eyes tightly, and grimaced. The pain had caused his entire chest to inflame. The shifting of the broken bone, the grinding of joints being reunited, and the prodding of already tender flesh had exhausted him even more. Beads of sweat fell down his brow, across his temple, and collect on the curve of his eyelashes. He couldn't move, he didn't have the energy or the strength. Athos felt the bed shift. Bandages were re-wrapped around his waist, and his blouse was pulled down. He didn't notice Porthos retrieve the pillows, or Aramis pile them behind him. He never heard their words of concern, or felt Porthos gently lay him back against the comfort of the pillows that elevated him. Someone pressed a cup to his lips; the sweetened water felt good against his tongue, and he instinctively swallowed before turning his head to the left. Athos closed his eyes and continued his struggle to breathe.
Porthos took the cup away, looked at Aramis who pulled up Athos' blouse and pressed his ear to his chest, both on the right and left sides.
"Winter fever?" d'Artagnan asked. He crossed his arms over his chest as he sat in the chair opposite the bed and rested the heels of his boots on the front legs of the chair.
Aramis shook his head. While seated on the edge of the bed, he turned toward the fire, planted both feet on the floor, rubbed his face and then rubbed more severely at his eyes before he took a deep breath. "His right lung sounds strong… his left is weak." He glanced at d'Artagnan as Porthos walked to the window and looked out. "It sounds like only a portion of it is…" he struggled to describe the sound, but he raised his hands, touched his fingers, and then pulled them apart, "as though there is no… expansion or," he shrugged, "only a partial expansion."
"Can you fix it?" Porthos said, and turned from the window.
Aramis grimaced and rubbed his jaw. "I've only seen the procedure attempted once… and the patient died." He rubbed his face in exhaustion, frustration, and defeat. "I've only heard about it with open wounds to the heart. Athos doesn't have that." He rubbed his temple and then lowered his forearm to his leg. "I think it would be best to wait… and," he took a deep breath through his nose and then exhaled, "hope it will heal on its own. Perhaps removing the pressure of the rib will help enough."
Athos shifted, moved his hand to his side, and moved his right foot beneath the blankets. He stilled, and then the raspy sound of his breathing continued.
"Are you sure it's not winter fever?" D'Artagnan asked again.
Aramis looked up and said with conviction. "Yes."
D'Artagnan nodded once and said nothing more.
"This could take days," Aramis said. He leaned forward, laced his fingers together and hunched his back.
"For him to heal?" Porthos said. "Or to die?"
Aramis looked at Porthos and said, "You should go get some rest… one of you can relieve me in the morning."
"I want an answer — you said the wound to 'is side wasn't life threatenin' — an' now?"
Aramis shrugged. "I don't know, Porthos. I've done all I know how… the rest is up to him."
Porthos clenched his jaw, looked at Athos, and then ran a hand over his face and head. He looked once more out the window and then walked to the fireplace to stoke it. "I'll have one the men bring in more wood," he said and dusted his hands on his thighs. "I'll take over at sunrise." He left the room and didn't look back before closing the door.
D'Artagnan rubbed his thighs as he stood. He grasped Athos' arm above his wrist and gently squeezed before he too left the room, leaving Aramis alone with the sounds of the fire burning behind him, and the struggling sounds of Athos' breathing.
