I decided to cheat and not follow the prompt order. This is for "poison", and it will be followed by a second part, for the prompt "fever".
It was hot.
It was very, seriously, damningly hot. And it wasn't even noon yet.
d'Artagnan, straight as a street lantern, blinked as a drop of perspiration managed to climb the mound of his brow and slide down into his left eye. Porthos stood as if the heat had dried him and turned him into a sculpture made of clay. Aramis might be slightly swaying like an aspen tree. Athos had taken off his gloves. It was hot.
The king and the queen stopped long enough before them to offer a downward twist of the lips and a sympathetic glance, respectively, before moving on.
To their utter amazement, five minutes later, when the Royals and the courtiers had disappeared inside and Athos caught Tréville's eye across the lawn, the captain gave a grave nod to indicate they were relieved of duty, and almost momentarily, a servant approached them with a silver tray in his hand, a decanter and four cups expertly balanced.
Athos raised an eyebrow at the man.
"Her Majesty's orders," the servant explained briefly.
"Bless her," Porthos muttered, immediately reaching for the decanter; d'Artagnan's shoulders sagged, raising a mildly-shaking hand to wipe his brow, and Aramis, propping himself against the nearby table, smiled so disproportionately warm and glowingly that Athos had to throw him a sharp glare.
The wine was cool and refreshing, and the Musketeers' love and respect for their queen, if possible, grew. Soon, Captain Tréville had marched across the lawn to join them, and his first words, accompanied by a tough look at d'Artagnan, were directed at Aramis.
"I am assuming d'Artagnan here has yet to acquaint himself with the fine hat-makers of Paris," he said in displeasure. "Take him to Saint-Germain, make sure he buys a hat? Only fools go around bare-headed in this heat, let alone stand guard. Athos, Porthos," he turned to his other men, "you're coming to the garrison with me. We must set up the guard detail for the banquet this afternoon."
"Do I really have to?" d'Artagnan muttered as soon as the captain and the others were out of earshot. Fanning himself with his own hat, Aramis looked at him amusedly.
"We do as we are told, mon ami, unless you prefer facing the captain's wrath. I, for one, certainly do not. Come," he said, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the back of his neck, "I know the best place we can get you a hat." He grinned as they began to walk. "It's been a while since I last paid a visit to Madame Thévénot's."
d'Artagnan sighed,resigned to his fate, and fell into step with him, on his way to buying his first hat.
Not one hour later, he was slumped against the shade of a wall in a deserted back alley, trying not to fall.
One shoulder pressed into the hard, blessedly cool masonry, d'Artagnan scrunched his eyes against the pounding in his head, doing his best to simply stand upright, willing his legs to not fail him now. The air he breathed felt like a dry, almost solid vapour, if such a thing were possible; he could feel it clotting and piling up inside his lungs, and he feared if he breathed like this any longer, his chest would fill up and he would have no more space in his ribcage to draw any more breath. Aramis's weight on his other shoulder was pulling him down, threatening to sap the last of his own strength - but he could not go on now; he needed rest. Just a few moments of rest and then he would...
The jagged surface of the wall chafed hard against his skin and his eyes flew open, something between a silent sob and a whimper escaping him. Immensely glad that there was no one around to witness that, he forced himself upright once again; adjusted Aramis's arm on his shoulder, securing his hold on the man's waist, and pushed himself off.
They had to get to the garrison.
He had to get to the garrison.
He wasn't sure if Aramis was breathing anymore.
"Captain!"
"What is it?" Tréville snapped as he turned sharply to look out of the window. The Musketeer Boutin, on guard duty at the gate, braced himself on the sill and poked his head inside.
"Aramis and d'Artagnan - they've taken ill as well!"
"Where are they?"
"Here - the men are bringing them in." Boutin looked over his shoulder in the courtyard to affirm that indeed, both men, just at the verge of consciousness, were being helped into the infirmary.
"Dear God," Tréville muttered, rubbing a hand down his face before marching towards the infirmary door to greet them, "this is no coincidence!" Athos and Porthos were already in beds, being presided over by Dr. Lemay.
"D'Artagnan," Tréville breathed, seeing that he was the more aware of his two men and immediately taking his arm, "what has happened?"
"I don't... know," the Gascon panted, unable to draw in enough air or see straight, so badly was his head aching. "We had... just bought the hat.. the heat.. it's -"
"Alright, don't worry yourself," Tréville cut him off, leading him to the nearest bed. "Dr. Lemay is here. You'll be fine."
He proceeded to remove the man's doublet even as Boutin helped him to sit up on the bed. d'Artganan, pliant and sweating heavily, feebly gestured towards the general direction of the room.
"Aramis..."
"He's being looked after. Lie back. Lemay?"
"Divest him of his garments, Captain, and give him water. It appears that they are suffering from the same thing that ails your other two men. Cold water and more cloths," he instructed at the other Musketeer helping him with Aramis.
"And you still have no idea what it is?"
"As I have said, heat exhaustion would be my first thought, but I do not believe that is what we're facing here. It is too much of a coincidence that all four of them have begun displaying the same symptoms at the same time. Our priority," he said, laying a hand on Aramis's brow and frowning, "is to bring their body temperatures down. In this heat, that presents the biggest danger." He walked over to take the basin provided by the Musketeer Laurent with a nod of thanks.
d'Artagnan, whose eyes had fallen close, opened them, and listlessly turned his head on the pillow, his gaze wandering until it stopped on the bed opposite his own.
"Is that... who is-"
"It is Athos," Tréville supplied, laying a wet cloth over the Gascon's wrist, "they, too, have fallen ill soon after we returned from the palace. Easy, lad," he pressed on d'Artagnan's shoulder when he instinctively moved as if to get up. "This makes no sense," the captain muttered under his breath, taking another cloth to lay it on d'Artagnan's brow.
"You're thinking... the wine- aargh!" With a sharp groan d'Artagnan sat up and doubled over, one hand flying to his chest, his breathing turning erratic. Lemay immediately scrambled over, sneaking his hand to lay it over d'Artagnan's heart and waiting for a few moments, listening. Then he put his other hand on d'Artagnan's back and gently began to push him once more on his back. Alarmed, Tréville aided him from the other side, waiting for instruction. d'Artagnan's eyes were wide. Lemay leaned over him, his hand still on the Gascon's chest.
"D'Artagnan, I need you to listen to me. You must control your breathing; your heart is beating too fast. You must take slow, long breaths. Follow my example." Shifting his hand to grab d'Artagnan's wrist and keep his fingers on the pulse, he guided the frightened Gascon to calm down his breathing.
The wine...
Could it be the wine?
"What's... goin' on there?"
The captain looked up to see Porthos looking groggily around, face pinched in discomfort.
"It's Aramis and d'Artagnan. They, too, are ailing, Porthos."
"Wha'?"
Like d'Artagnan, Porthos too moved as if to get up, but he, too, failed, groaning as he fell back. His hand flew to his forehead and Tréville could see even from the distance that he was swallowing profusely to keep sickness down.
"Please stay in bed, Porthos," Doctor Lemay called over, "You are all reacting to something I am beginning to suspect more and more that is poison. Without a sample of the original substance, I cannot hazard a guess as to what it is, so we must try to counter these symptoms as swiftly as we can. I'll need your full cooperation on this. I trust you will comply?"
Porthos brought his hand down and looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. You c'n count on me."
"Very good." Looking down, he was satisfied with d'Artagnan's progress. "Please stay with him, Captain." Then he moved quickly back to Aramis's side.
"The wine..."
This time it was Athos who spoke, his voice a hoarse, painful whisper. Unlike Aramis, who already supported the dangerous flush of fever on his cheeks, Athos was as pale as a sheet, and when he spoke, it was apparent that he had difficulty taking in full breaths.
"All four of us," he continued as Tréville approached and drew the cover up over his shoulders when he saw his lieutenant shivering, the blue eyes nevertheless insistent, "the banquet... they took.. us out."
Tréville nodded, having reached the same conclusion. "I'll double the guard and let the king know what has happened. Rest, Athos." He pressed a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder, and helped him to some water before walking over to check on Aramis.
Lemay had already laid a cloth upon the marksman's brow, and like d'Artagnan, Aramis seemed to be breathing very fast and very shallowly, although his eyes were resolutely closed. Lemay appeared concerned.
"I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down quickly. He is burning fiercely."
"What do you need?"
"Nothing more than what we already have here," Lemay returned, calm and professional despite the deep crease on his brow. He picked a vial from his large kit and put a few drops into a cup of wine. He looked up at Tréville before bending over to help Aramis with the medicine. "If there is somewhere you need to be, Captain, I am well-equipped here. Be assured, I will do everything in my power to help your men."
Tréville nodded, grateful for Lemay's calmness in the face of this crisis. But he was not naive. Looking around the room to take in each of his men - d'Artagnan still slightly panting with one hand on his chest; Athos turned on his side and clutching at the covers as he shivered fiercely; Porthos sat up on the bed with his head bowed low and arms folded around his stomach - he feared, deeply, that if Lemay could not identify the poison, then he could not cure what it was doing to his men.
The captain was frightened, although not a single hair, nor any crease on his brow betrayed it. But if he would allow himself one small breach of sentimentality, he would pull his captaincy around him and order his Inseparables to not even think about dying when he was gone.
Les Inseparables. It suddenly occurred to Tréville, as if whispered in his ear by a malevolent spirit from afar, that if one of them died, the others would follow him just so he wouldn't be alone.
But what a ridiculous thought that was, and how unlike Tréville! He firmly shook himself. This was no time for sentimentality.
Someone had poisoned his men - the best of his men. Someone clearly intended to make a move against the king or the queen. Or someone attending the banquet this afternoon as a guest. There was no time to lose.
Making sure that Lemay had everything he needed and ordering Boutin and Laurent to assist him in whatever he may need, the captain stalked out into the courtyard, ordered Jacques to bring his horse and rode hard to the Louvre.
"Good God, Tréville - who could have done that?! Are you saying someone just walked into the palace kitchens, disguised himself as a servant and poisoned my Musketeers? What if it was me or the queen they poisoned?! What kind of security are you calling this?!"
Perhaps, this once, the king actually had a point there, Tréville acceded. He stood silent and still, waiting for the storm to pass, and only too thankful that the snake, Rochefort, at least, was nowhere in sight.
Not that it mattered. The moment he heard of it, he'd take full advantage of it - the rat.
After pacing up and down two more times, Louis stopped, glaring daggers at the captain.
"How will this culprit be caught? Am I safe in my own palace, Tréville? Is it safe for me to hold a banquet in my own garden, without having to worry about myself or my queen getting killed?"
"The only people who can identify the culprit are my men, sire, who, at the moment, are fighting for their lives. I have doubled the security for the banquet, and all food and drink to be served will be tested twice. However..."
"What?" the king asked grouchily, crossing his arms.
"I would still recommend your majesty to postpone the engagement until those responsible are caught."
Louis's face hardened. "Out of the question," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "No. I will not hide. Find Rochefort and ask him to supply your Musketeers with the Red Guard. If any of my guests so much as sneezes wrong, Tréville, I will hold you responsible." Fear danced in his eyes behind the mask of anger. "You are dismissed."
The captain bowed and turned sharply on his heel, leaving the hall in long, furious strides.
He understood Louis. He understood his fear. He admitted that, indeed, it could very well have been the king or the queen who had been poisoned, but the fact remained that Musketeers were responsible for the safety of the king and the queen - not that of the palace. Musketeers did not stand guard at the Louvre's numerous gates, or inspect the kitchens or servants' quarters. Musketeers were the last circle of defence.
Out of all days, this day, when the best of his men - His Musketeers when there was something to be proud, Tréville's Musketeers if otherwise - had been targeted, the captain really could have done with a touch of understanding. One glance of sympathy, one small question after the men's well-being. But that was unreasonable.
This was Louis. In all fairness; understanding and sympathy, Tréville knew, would come later, after the fear and the anger passed.
Clamping down hard on his emotions and steeling himself, he walked past the guards before Rochefort's apartments without so much as slowing his stride, and entered unannounced, mildly satisfied when Rochefort looked up in irritation, not bothering to dignify the man's snarky remark with a reply. The sooner he could get over with this day, the sooner he could get back.
As he began to relay to Rochefort all that had passed, he only prayed that he would not return to the garrison to find that he had seen the last of his men.