Firstly: thank you all for the reviews and follows! I'm working my way through these prompts - slowly, but surely.
Secondly: This was supposed to be for 'fever', continuing on from 'poison'. It still is, only it merged with another prompt, 'caregiver', which is good because this story just grew a third head. So take this one -and the next- as you please for those two prompts. (And sorry for my generally awful editing - I am a hopeless case.)
The deeper hours of the night found Captain Tréville in the garrison infirmary, working diligently to keep his men alive.
Dunk the cloth in water, wring, apply on forehead. Hush. Move. Take cloth. Rinse, wring, re-apply. Easy. D'Artagnan - come on, son. Easy now. Move. How is he?
A shake of the head. Push hair back, feel the brow. Burning. Burning - all of them - they are burning and it feels like there's a limit, an invisible line, one that shouldn't be crossed and it's a race to keep this raging fever below that line and it has fully consumed Tréville; this mad rush, this desperate toiling. He's lost track of time, aware only of his wet hands and hot, clammy skin under his touch.
Keep fighting, Aramis.
Keep fighting.
Athos's erratic breathing has him frightfully glance in his lieutenant's direction every few moments.
Porthos, at the opposite end, is breathing so heavily and labourously that it's as if his chest is being crushed under a pile of rocks.
Fight.
All of you. I order you to fight.
"Captain."
He looked up to find a hand on his arm and the Musketeer Boutin watching him with worried eyes.
"I've brought in some stew. Take a break for a moment, sir. I'll take over."
"What's the time?" Tréville asked.
"Nearing two o'clock. Take a break, Captain," Boutin repeated, eyes dark, "You need it."
He was right. Yet Tréville could not leave - not when his Inseperables were in this state. Wiping his hands on a towel left on the nightstand, he looked up to glance around the infirmary, taking it in as if seeing it for the first time.
The room glowed bright with the light of dozens of candles scattered around. The air weaving in and out of the room, blessedly light in sharp contrast to the heat of the day, was playfully teasing the flames, dancing with the ghosting shadows on the walls. The quiet sounds of a subdued crowd filtered in from the courtyard - most of the men were awake, awaiting news of their friends and comrades. The captain felt as if it had been not hours, but days.
"Captain?"
Instead of looking at Boutin, he looked down at Aramis's face, and made up his mind.
"I'll stay. Thank you, Boutin." He reached again for the cloth he'd left in the water, and wrung it to wipe Aramis's brow.
He would not leave.
Not until each one of them awoke.
/
"Father..."
"Easy, lad. Your father's not here."
"No - he died. He died - they killed him, Captain - "
"For God's sake, Lemay - he's shivering like a leaf! Easy, d'Artagnan -"
"Four drops of the concoction in half a glass of water, Captain; like the last time. It is time for another dose."
"Are you certain this concoction of yours is doing anything to bring their fevers down?!"
"I am certain. If you would please?"
Once the crisis is over, the captain would recall the utter professionalism Lemay possessed with much gratitude and not a little amount of respect.
"Captain."
"Laurent?"
"It is Athos, sir - he's not doing so good."
He hurried to his lieutenant's side, the Musketeer Laurent retreating to d'Artagnan's in his place. Athos was breathing in such rapid, shallow pants, it was a wonder any air found its way into his lungs. Restless fingers twitched upon the sheets as the captain leaned over him; his lieutenant was murmuring, but no words could be made out.
"Athos?"
Fevered dreams.
God knew what haunted him now - his brother? his wife? Now he seemed to be pleading, whispering broken please's to ghosts from his past; now he seemed angry, trying to launch himself from the bed and Tréville had to hold him down. Quick - a new bucket of water. Cool cloth on the brow, on the wrists, on the chest. Make him drink. Give him the drugged wine. No - this isn't working - this isn't enough.
Crisis upon crisis: three beds down, Lemay let out a half-surprised, half-frustrated cry before shouting for Laurent and throwing himself over Aramis, who had begun to twitch uncontrollably on the bed. I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down. Failure, as Captain Tréville watched in horror from where he was leaning over at the foot of the bed, pressing down one horribly shaking leg. Dear God - Dear God - Aramis -
The fit eased after what felt like a lifetime, and stillness came like settling mud after a flood.
Stunned, the captain stepped back from the bed to allow room for Lemay, who had immediately begun taking care of his patient.
Without realizing it, he walked out, finding himself miraculously outside, in the courtyard.
He took a deep breath.Two breaths. Three – Good God –
"Captain?"
He opened his eyes.
Musketeers were looking at him with anxious faces, waiting for him to speak, worried if he was about to announce a death.
"They are fighting," he announced, brisk and loud enough. Just the act of addressing his men straightened the captain's sagged shoulders back again. He turned to the nearest men. "Duval, Berger - I need you to go to the palace. We need ice. Doctor Lemay is having trouble keeping their fevers down. Bring as much as you can - do not return without it. I will deal with the accounting once this is over."
With sharp nods, the two Musketeers turned on their heels and were gone.
"Anything we can do, Captain?"
Pray. Pray for them.
The captain shook his head and returned inside.
/
There she was. Glowing. Not the shimmering cloth of her dress, nor the invaluable pieces of jewellery adorning her hands, her ears, her neck - no, she was glowing; irresistible. He took one step towards her. Her countenance changed, her features hardening into a deep frown.
"Who are you?" she asked, a note of fear sharpening her tone, "What is this man doing here? Guards?"
"It is I, your majesty -"
"Guards!" she called again, angry, "How dare you come into my apartments like this?"
"Majesty -"
Hands descended on his shoulders. A moment of surprise arrested him, then he tried to shake them off, struggling to free himself from their restraint - what was this? Who did these men think they were - they had no right. No right to stop him; he was a King's Musketeer, he was - he was Aramis. He told them so - threatened to cut off their arms if they didn't let go but they didn't budge. He couldn't move. Fury slowly gave way to fear: the more he couldn't move, the more frantic he became; darkness had begun to close in from all sides and his heart began to thump!-thump!-thump!, louder and louder as he watched her walk away, spitting curses at the phantom hands. She was walking away. She was fading into the distance but he had to talk to her, reach her before she disappeared completely -
"Your majesty!"
But no; down, down, down he was sinking, succumbing to a void sucking him in with greed. A black despair began to pour itself into his heart, choking, drowning, weighing him down until one sharp cry pierced the darkness, and his soul, like a fired musket ball.
The wailing cry of a child.
The baby he'd seen only twice.
He opened his mouth to scream; scream until there was no air in his lungs but there was no sound, and he fell, fell...
...until there was nothing.