Chapter 7

The cleaning of the wound had not been the most pleasant of experiences for any of those involved. The shriek that had seen the recruits rushing to the training field had been the first cut. Despite the pain remedy and Porthos' strong arms, Athos could not prevent himself from reacting to the incision into the inflamed and putrid flesh; it almost rendered him senseless, but each new bite of the knife cruelly brought him back to reality.

'I am truly sorry, mon ami, but there is no other choice, it is that or maggots.' Athos glared as best he could, and Aramis gave an encouraging smile. 'I thought not.'

Porthos' large hands rested gently on his friend's shoulders, ready to hold him steady for the medic's ministrations. 'Just close your eyes and go to sleep, make it easy,' the big man pleaded. Despite his size and bluster, Porthos felt his brother's suffering deeply, his regular complaining and rebukes merely manifestations of his genuine concern – even if Athos ignored them completely.

Gently, the infected flesh was cut away, the cries gradually becoming weaker, reduced finally to moans, which were somehow even more pitiful than the hideous screams. The air in the infirmary was warm, yet Athos still shivered, and inaudible mumbles emanated from the feverish Musketeer as Aramis readied a bottle of alcohol to pour over the now raw wound. It had been a deep cut, which was probably why it had poisoned so quickly, and Athos' overuse of his hand during the day had certainly not helped.

'You had better get ready,' Aramis warned Porthos, who had relaxed his grip in the last few minutes. He eyed the bottle in Aramis' hand and frowned.

'It's gonna hurt,' Porthos acknowledged. Both men had previously been subjected to having wounds cleaned with such methods, and could easily imagine the short shock of pain about to be visited on the delirious Athos.

With a deep breath, Aramis poured the liquid over the lesion. It was still red and inflamed but there was no further sign of weeping or decayed areas. As the alcohol touched the hot skin, Athos' eyes flew open and his body went rigid. A low and piercing cry echoed forth, and both men administering to him winced at his reaction. However, it was obviously the last straw, as the swordsman's eyes rolled back in his head and he finally went limp in Porthos' arms.

'Thank God, at least I can now sew the wound closed without fear of causing more distress,' the medic sighed.

Gently, Porthos laid the unconscious man down upon the bed and stretched his cramped shoulders.

'It's bloody 'ot in 'ere, Lord knows 'ow 'e can be shivering.' Porthos scowled, his mumbled complaint yet again covering his deeper concern. Aramis broke off the thread and, sitting upright for the first time in almost an hour, gave a long groan as he let the knots in his body work themselves loose.

Athos had begun to move about in the bed, his dark brows knitted in a mixture of pain and whatever it was that tormented his current dreams.

'You'd think 'e'd enough to deal with without them plaguing 'im now,' Porthos grumbled, pacing the infirmary floor. Luckily, there were no other inmates at the moment; they had been lucky this summer that, despite the heat, there had been no serious outbreaks of disease and no dangerous missions to cause any of the regiment any undue injuries.

The two men were deep in their own thoughts, though if they could have read each other's minds they would have realised they were both worrying over the same outcome, but neither of them could bear to vocalise their fears.

Shadows crept across the floor of the infirmary, and muffled sounds of booted feet and the occasional laugh reached Porthos' ears. The recruits had obviously completed their training for the day and were settling down for a rest and food. Funnily enough, the big man did not feel hungry; his tired shoulders had in turn given rise to the beginnings of a headache, and he yawned loudly. Aramis had already fallen asleep in a chair, so exhausted was he from the strain of the procedure, and Athos continued to thrash and moan, the sheets becoming soaked with sweat as the heat continued to radiate from his body.

Porthos sat beside the bed. He felt he should talk to his friend, try to calm him, but the words failed to come. What could he say? Nothing he had ever said to the man when he had been awake had helped, none of his remonstrations, or suggestions had made a difference – most of the time they only elicited a glare or the slightest quirk of a brow, Athos indicating his preference for the big man to mind his own business. But Porthos knew the swordsman understood the reason behind his constant moaning, he knew Athos accepted the interference was well meant.

Porthos took hold of the swollen hand now swathed in bandages – the hand that wielded a sword better than any man he had ever seen. He remembered the first time he had observed Athos fight, and how he had sat in awe of his grace and skill. What if he could not use the hand again? The very thought caused his stomach to clench in an icy grip as the fear of such a consequence hammered in his head.

'You're a bloody fool Athos,' Porthos grumbled out loud. 'Why didn't you say? Why could you simply not 'ave shown Aramis the cut? You know better. You of all people know the danger of infection, and you bloody 'ate it in 'ere.' He glared at the infirmary as though it was somehow the fault of the building that his friend lay once again within its walls in an insensible state.

Evening had come and gone, and Athos appeared to have fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. Porthos had let Aramis rest, as he may well be needed later. He yawned and leant back in his chair, settling his booted feet upon the edge of a vacant bed. As the light began to fade, with no candles lit within the rapidly cooling infirmary Porthos felt his eyes begin to droop. He struggled to stay awake – someone needed to keep an eye on Athos. He may seem asleep now, but it would not be the first time the stubborn fool had tried to leave his bed and had made matters worse. However, once the power of sleep begins to settle in your limbs, and your eyes become so heavy it is painful to keep them open, a man is powerless to resist, and soon Porthos was snoring loudly beside the settled medic.

ooOoo

Treville had been thrashing out rough plans for the King's latest bright idea. Luckily, the regiment was running at full capacity, and there were no events that called for any major commitments from his men elsewhere, so at least he would have enough soldiers to handle whatever the King had in mind. The candle had burnt low, and his stomach told him it was time to put down his pen and eat. He thought about the men in the infirmary as he exited his office.

'Verdan! Run and ask Serge to send a tray of food over to the infirmary, I will take supper with Aramis and Porthos.' The young, recently commissioned Musketeer rushed off to deliver the message as Treville strode over to the low building. As he drew closer he noted no light shone from within. However, he thought little of it and gently opened the door, not wishing to disturb Athos if he were sleeping. It was silent in the gloom, a chill had crept upon the evening and the Captain could not help but shiver. It was not just the cold inside the low structure, or the fact that no light shone at all – something else made him feel uneasy. His eyes gradually became accustomed to the light and, as he reached Athos' bed, the reason for his disquiet became apparent. Both Porthos and Aramis were asleep in their chairs, both exhausted by the trauma of helping their brother. Treville shivered again and moved to light a lamp near the table where Athos slept.

The swordsman was lying still, and something about the quiet repose made the soldier stiffen. He felt his breath hitch, and he instinctively reached out his hand to feel the pulse at Athos' neck. For a horrible moment he felt nothing, and it was at this point that Aramis finally roused from his long sleep. He saw the Captain's face in the light of the lamp and the fingers placed at Athos' throat and panicked.

'What is wrong?' He leapt from his chair, shaking off the confusion that accompanies the sudden arousal from a premature sleep.

'What's up?' Porthos yelled, his feet banging upon the floor as they slipped from the opposite bed.

'No!' Aramis almost screamed, drawing the worst conclusion. He pulled Treville out of the way and placed his own hands at his friend's throat. Athos made no movement at all.

'Calm yourself, he is breathing,' came Treville's reassuring voice. 'But it seems weak,' he added, not so confidently.

'How long have I slept?' Aramis asked of anyone who listened, the guilt on his face almost a palpable sensation.

'You were asleep soon after you finished stitchin' 'im up, you needed the rest. It is my fault I should 'ave stayed awake,' Porthos moaned, coming to stand at Aramis' side. ''Ow is 'e?'

'I do not like his breathing, it is too even, too deep,' Aramis complained. 'He is soaked. Help me change his shirt and sheets.' The medic almost choked on his words, so overcome was he concerning the neglect of his patient. As they removed his shirt, Aramis moaned; the tracery of infection was now near Athos' shoulder, his whole arm swollen, making the bend where his elbow should have been almost unrecognisable.

Between them, all three men saw Athos cleansed and laid gently back in a clean bed, leaving his shirt off in an attempt to keep him cool.

''E's quiet,' Porthos observed, looking at Aramis with unease.

'Too quiet, said Aramis. 'Usually he is thrashing – either because of the infection or because of the torment he experiences whenever he sleeps. Moving him like that must have been excruciating, yet he did not even flinch.' Aramis' face was drawn and full of doubt.

'Surely then this peaceful sleep is good for him?' asked Treville, grasping at the positive outcome of such a state, needing to hear some good news. Aramis only shrugged.

'I fear it is time for a greater skill than I possess. Can we call Lemay? He is a good man and he does not judge. Athos liked him.' For some reason, this last fact seemed important. Athos was not a man who liked to expose any sign of weakness to another, but he had received treatment from Lemay when he had been blown up during the Queen's fated birthday party, and had voiced his respect for the young physician.

'I will send for him,' Treville offered, glad of the excuse to do something positive.

Porthos and Aramis sat in silence. It was Aramis who broke the stalemate.

'I should not have slept so long, I should have watched him more closely.' He drew his hand through his dark locks, his handsome face full of anguish.

'You 'ad earned your sleep, it is me who should 'ave stayed awake and watched 'im,' growled an angry Porthos. 'I thought 'im losing 'is 'and was the worst thing that could 'appen, but…' He did not finish his sentence but noted the look of horror on the medic's face and looked sheepish. He did not like the silent Athos. He wished he would thrash and moan, at least that way he would seem more alive. Like this, he was far too close to a corpse for his liking.

Porthos had voiced the spectre that had hung in the room ever since they had seen the extent of Athos' injury, and yet still they refused to discuss the possibility they dreaded. 'How could this have happened? It has only been hours since he was thrashing Du Bois with his usual finesse. How could he have been reduced to this so quickly, and for no reason that was worth such a sacrifice? God! Why did I have to push him? Why could I just not simply jolly him out of it? He clearly did not wish to discuss her, this really is my fault.'

'It is not your fault,' Porthos shouted. 'You did what we thought was for the best. That bloody woman is a devil, whether she is present or not. If I ever see 'er again I will kill 'er, and dispose of 'er body so 'e will never know.' Porthos was in a rage of frustration, and if Milady had appeared at that moment, Aramis did not doubt that the giant would have removed one element of Athos' suffering forever.

Athos was in a world of fire and ice. One minute he was freezing, and the next he was consumed by the roaring of flames, burning and blistering his skin as he howled in agony. Gradually, the cold and heat began to fade; everything began to fade. Thomas floated away, Anne became a quiet voice at the end of a long, long corridor. He was floating, in water perhaps, but he was not afraid, he did not feel the suffocating fear he had experienced since his tortuous entrapment in the tunnel. This was dark and soft, as though he were floating on his back in a dark pool. Thick liquid seemed to support his tired frame; there was no pain, no dreams, just quiet, peace, and freedom from guilt and judgement. It was a wonderful existence, at first. He waited for the bliss to end, but it did not, it stretched out before him, luxurious and relaxing. He allowed his eyes to close and his body to fall back into the supporting arms of velvet obscurity, hoping he could stay there forever. If he thought he could hear voices he let them be, they were not important, not relevant anymore, he blanked them from his mind and slept, settling into a long and peaceful oblivion.

When he could hold the thought in no longer, Porthos finally asked: 'Do you think 'e will lose the 'and?' He looked toward the medic like a child who wants a parent to tell him everything will be alright – and how Aramis wished he could tell the Musketeer what he wanted so desperately to hear.

Aramis shook his head. 'I do not know, mon ami. I hoped the infection would slow, but there appears to have been a worsening of his condition, and I am too much of a coward to unwrap the bandages and look. Lemay will be here soon; he will decide what to do.' Porthos eyed the medic with concern; it was not like Aramis to sound so desolate, or to avoid what needed to be done.

'You can't let guilt decide your 'and, it is not your fault. If anything we 'ave both neglected 'im. 'E needs you, 'e trusts you, I trust you. Do what you know you 'ave to, you will feel better for it, whatever 'appens.'

Aramis smiled at the serious Musketeer and nodded, then took Athos' hand and began to gently unwrap the bandage, every layer raising the beating of his heart. As the bindings came off, so the hand was gradually exposed. It was still red, the tracery close to the wound almost purple in colour. As the two men saw the yellow fluid seeping between the stitches, Porthos grimaced.

'Mon dieu,' Aramis growled in exasperation. 'Not again.' He reached for the small pincers and one by one he began to cut open the carefully placed stitches. As the wound was revealed, it was slightly better than they had expected. Some of the flesh showed areas of pus, but not the whole wound. Aramis dabbed at inflamed edges with a cloth soaked in a diluted alcohol solution, but Athos never made a move.

'All the times I've willed 'im into unconsciousness, now I just want to 'ear 'im scream,' Porthos said, his voice catching in his throat.

As the two men stared down at the inert form, the door opened, and two men entered.

'Doctor, it is good to see you,' Aramis greeted Lemay warmly.

'Aramis, Porthos, it is good to see you too. I only wish it was for a more agreeable reason.' He looked down at Athos and frowned.

'This does seem horribly familiar. May I?' He asked for permission – he had still not forgotten examining Athos without having first asked and the swordsman nearly strangling him.

'Please go ahead,' replied Aramis. 'I almost wish he were capable of complaining, but there is no response at all.' Lemay gave a nod of understanding and approached the bed.

Gingerly, he lifted the hand and looked at the exposed wound, the cut stitches still visible in the inflamed flesh. He frowned and looked toward the medic. 'You have cleaned the wound well, Treville told me how it appeared when it was first exposed. But I see the infection is still prevalent.' As Porthos held the lamp for him to see, he examined the wound closely. Letting the swollen limb rest upon the table, he gently pressed and felt along Athos' arm, always vigilant for any sign of discomfort from the unconscious Musketeer.

'Tell me again what happened,' Lemay requested.

Aramis shook his head. 'We were drinking, I was trying to encourage him to unburden himself of recent worries, but I pushed him too far. He was holding a bottle and he simply broke the neck.' The medic fidgeted a little before continuing. 'Unfortunately, an unexpected drama ensued and I was distracted, he had his glove on after that and I gave it no more thought. Then today he was involved in assessing the new recruits and was sparring with them for most of the day.' His eyes flicked to the Captain, but he tried to cover the action with his hand.

'How many did he work with?' the doctor asked. This time it was Treville's turn to look uncomfortable.

'There were fifteen of them. As far as I can make out, he was working with them from breakfast until we arrived back at the garrison well after lunch.' He held his head up and straightened his shoulders, but the two Musketeers knew he felt bad about the situation he had set in motion.

Lemay eyed the three men and guessed there was much that had been left unsaid, but he gave a small smile and looked thoughtful.

'He did not use this hand I imagine?'

Aramis shook his head. 'He is proficient with his left hand as well, which is partly why we did not notice earlier, as he used it last night to, er, deal with our little problem.'

'And I suppose he said nothing of this injury?' The question was rhetorical, and the men treated it accordingly –having worked with Athos before, Lemay had come to know the young man's reticence to admit injury or pain.

After some internal debate, the doctor appeared to have reached some form of conclusion, and he turned to wash his hands. 'Well doctor, what is your opinion?' Treville asked the question the other two men dared not.

Lemay sighed heavily. 'It is very early to say what we may expect. I believe what we are seeing here is something I have read about, called heavy sleeping. It has been noted that when the body is placed under such trauma, it may put itself into a prolonged sleeping state in order to allow itself time to heal. At the moment, Athos feels no pain, and it is unlikely he is aware of anything, either sensation or noise. As for the infection, it may slow its rate if the body is inert and in such a still condition, but it is severe and has already taken hold, so only time will tell.' He looked to the three men hanging upon his every word. 'I am sorry I cannot promise more.'

'What about 'is 'and?' Porthos asked, his voice solemn, the dread clear from both his tone and his facial expression.

Lemay frowned. 'It very much depends upon the wound. Should the infection worsen and we have to cut away more flesh, then there will be a risk to the tendons and inner workings of his hand, which may affect his ability to move his fingers when he recovers. There again, if gangrene were to set in…' He eyed the three men with as much sympathy as a man could express. 'Believe me, I know what I am saying, and how it is the worst thing you wish to hear. But there is hope. The wound is now clean and I suggest you leave it open, and bathe it in a tincture of salt water and herbs every hour. At least whilst he is in this state it will not cause him any further pain.'

'What about food and drink? He cannot stay in that condition without water.' Aramis sounded desperate and his face was bleak.

Lemay shrugged. 'I am afraid I do not know of a way to introduce fluid into the body whilst it is in such a state.' He thought for a moment then gave a small smile. 'It is possible that if we introduce a trickle of water he may be able to swallow – I just do not know.'

'Should we try now doctor, whilst you are still here?' Treville asked, and Aramis seconded the suggestion.

'Very well, let us try. We will need him to be sitting, which may prevent the water from going down the back of his throat, but I dare not risk pouring it straight into his mouth.' He looked around the infirmary for inspiration. The room was in semi-darkness, but he alighted on the clean rags the infirmarian kept ready to dress wounds. 'That might do. Soak a rag in clean cold water, and we will drip the liquid into his throat.' Aramis hurried to the pile of linen and filled a bowl with cold water. He handed the rag to Lemay whilst he held the bowl.

Porthos took his position behind the unconscious Athos whilst Treville held the lamp aloft. Lemay soaked the rag, held it to Athos' face and, parting his lips, wrung the cloth out into his mouth. Most of the liquid ran down his chin and settled amongst the dark hair on his chest but, bit by bit, the moisture gradually made its way down his throat – or so they hoped. At first nothing happened. Then, as they each stared intently at the sleeping figure, there was the slightest movement of his Adam's apple; not easily noted, but three pairs of eyes were watching it intently.

'He swallowed it!' Aramis exclaimed with joy.

Lemay grinned. 'Yes, I believe he did, but it will not have been a great deal so you will have to do it often. I suggest perhaps you do it upon the hour, after you have dealt with the wound. Just make sure your hands are perfectly clean. I recommend you boil the rags and the water; we cannot risk introducing any other form of infection. It has been suggested that unhealthy water introduced into the system can be deadly, especially to one so weak.'

They repeated the process several times more, then Lemay straightened up. 'I have done what I can. Let him rest for the remainder of the night and begin the process once more at first light. I will try and come again tomorrow afternoon, but if he worsens or you are concerned then send for me and I will come.'

'Thank you,' came the joint response from Porthos and Aramis.

'I will see you out, Doctor,' Treville offered. He walked out of the infirmary into the darkness, somewhat surprised that it was so late. 'Tell me Lemay, what are his chances?' There was a sound of hopelessness in his voice that left the doctor full of remorse, for he knew he could say little that would help.

'I was being honest, Captain, I really do not know. He is young and strong, but Athos has always had a darkness which can undermine all of that, he does not always fight the way he should. However, if all goes well and the herbs and treatment do what I hope, he should make a full recovery. As to the hand, it has suffered much interference, but I have not seen any sign of internal damage, so time and rest should see it right, God willing.' He took his leave and Treville stood to watch him go. He was a good man, and the Captain knew of no one who could have done better.

As he re-entered the infirmary, Aramis and Porthos were preparing for their night's vigil. 'Stay with him, you are excused from any other duty tomorrow,' said the Captain. 'Just keep me informed.' He was about to leave when Aramis stopped him.

'What did he say?' The medic knew Treville would have spoken to the doctor out of the hearing of the two worried Musketeers.

Treville hung his head, and when he looked up at the expectant man, he sighed but his voice was gruff, and it was obvious he was attempting to remain distanced from the enormity of the question. 'He said he had done what he could, now it is up to God and Athos.'

'Then we 'ad better pray,' said Porthos from behind the two men, 'Cos only one of 'em might be interested.'