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Is it prayers answered?
Is it divine pity, bestowed upon an unchanging scene of collective misery?
Or is it forgiveness?
The tide takes its time to turn, so long, so very long, none of them will be able to recall a point where breathing has become easier again, either for Athos, or for them all. All they'll be able to say is that Athos did not die after all.
They didn't discover a new remedy that helped ease his cough.
They didn't recite new prayers that the Lord has never heard before.
They sat, and waited, and Athos did not die.
And that was all.
/
"Here, just a couple more. It's nearly finished."
"What have you done?"
Porthos's brow creased as he retreated the cup from Athos's lips and looked at him in puzzlement. Perhaps he'd caught the breathy whispers wrong.
"What... have you done?"
"I don' understand. What do you mean what have I done?"
"Was it... Aramis?" An indignant cough kicked hard at the precious breath he'd found.
"Easy - don't tire yourself out, eh? There'll be time to talk."
"I want.. to know."
The fever wasn't any worse. In fact, Athos was only a bit warm; Porthos wouldn't even say he was fevered anymore. Confusion, however, seemed to linger; out of habit, he reached aside to wring out a cloth and put it to Athos's forehead. He was too used to the action now, to the sensation, to the effect - and its lack there-of. He watched closely as the green eyes, seeming twice their natural size within the shrunken, wilted face, moved restlessly from side to side. He grabbed Athos's fingers to get his attention and leaned in close.
"What is it, brother? What is it that you wanna know?"
"Who saved me."
"Who saved you? We..."
Who had saved him?
Porthos shook his head.
"God spared you, Athos. Thank God, He spared you to us."
"Why would he?"
"I don' know, brother. I don' know, but I'm grateful He did. I'm grateful."
"Why would he..."
"Ssh.. don' worry 'bout it now.. There'll be time later, when you're better. Rest."
"Rest..."
"Aye. It's easier now, hm? Easier than before? You're better now."
"Hmm-" Affirmation turned into a moan, the face hidden behind a thin arm in a re-discovered attempt at self-preservation, and Porthos sighed, letting go of Athos - just letting go.
He'd been spared.
He would stay.
He would stay.
Porthos could now let his brother's hands go.
/
The sharp cry from the bed did not elicit the sudden response from Aramis as it would have done just a week ago. They had gotten used to them - all of them had gotten used to them.
Still, he halted at the door, one hand on the handle, to look over his shoulder at Athos's twisted form, face caught in a grimace, breath arrested in the grip of pain, hands fisted around the sheets as he fought to regain control. Frowning, Aramis walked to him and reached out to help him lie back down.
Easy. Slow breaths.
He would have uttered these words, except he knew they would spark unnecessary ire. Biting his lip, he reached for his friend's shoulders to -
Athos lashed at him with a growl, only for it to be cut short when his elbow buckled beneath him and he fell, awkwardly, flat on his face on the mattress.
Aramis took a deliberate step back, almost reverently, allowing him space.
Athos groaned.
Groaned and swallowed over and over, and Aramis averted his gaze so he could pretend not to have seen the frustrated tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
He had pulled muscles in his abdomen from weeks of violent coughing. He needed several pillows beneath his head so he could hope to be granted some ease from the incessant bouts. He ached. His entire body ached without a moment's pause and comfort became a distant dream; comfort, lack of pain, the state of being he'd thought was granted to all. He longed for it and he cursed all who had it when he could not - life - what right did life had to go on when he was laid aside-
How strange.
How so very strange to observe, to witness in himself this unfamiliar, this utterly foreign will to survive, to live, to continue being a part of life.
Childish.
His frustration, his anger, his unjust reactions ever since that indeterminable point where he'd begun to feel better - if only he had the energy, he'd be fascinated.
"Drink the cinquefoil when you can. It helps."
Retreating footsteps, and he was left alone again.
/
Afterwards, they began to come less and less. Athos appreciated it as much as he'd appreciated their constant presence during the past few weeks; somehow, at some point, their very state of being - the straight lines of Porthos's posture when he'd sit on that low stool, the spring in d'Artagnan's step as he'd move about the room, the deliberate control, that calculated cool of Aramis's demeanour - they had all begun to rub on his nerves. He did not want to be unjust to them. They only deserved much more than he could ever give in gratitude.
They welcomed him with beaming smiles and gentle embraces when he finally fostered the strength one morning to don his uniform and walk from his rooms in Rue Férou to the garrison in Vieux-Colombier. He'd been winded; he'd slowed his walk with each step that brought him closer to the arched gate in an attempt to catch his breath and not appear as weak and shaky as he felt. He'd managed it. When he walked in through the courtyard after an entire month's absence, he was several shades too pale and one too many sizes down, but Musketeers leapt to their feet and ran to greet him from all around, taking turns in shaking his hand, patting him on the back, inquiring after his health, eager to fill him in on all that had transpired since he'd been laid down.
"Oi - enough," Porthos growled, stepping deliberately beside Athos to prevent yet another well-wisher from harassing him, "'e's not goin' anywhere. Let 'im breathe, alrigh'?"
Let him breathe.
The phrase caught him by surprise. Without knowing what he was doing, he closed his eyes, and drew a large inhale.
It ended on a slight hitch, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered such a short while ago.
"Alrigh'?"
He opened his eyes and nodded, finding himself suddenly unable to meet Porthos's concern. His throat closed. He sneaked his hand over Porthos's wrist and squeezed, helpless to prevent the impertinent rush of wetness to his eyes; Porthos pulled him by the scruff of his neck and held him, tight, for a few long seconds, just until his edges stopped quivering and he felt grounded again.
d'Artagnan and Aramis were grinning like idiots.
Athos gave Porthos a light shove, rolling his eyes, then gruffly reached to fist a hand around the leather of d'Artagnan's uniform and pulled the boy to himself, only to hold him close for a moment and plant a kiss to the side of his head.
The very picture of composure he was again; Athos, as he always was. Stoic in expression, economical in movement - except, this time, for the emotion he deliberately displayed. The emotion he tried to relay, only for the eyes and the hearts of these three men, even as he knew he could never fully express-
- but somehow, miraculously, they seemed to understand, and it seemed to be enough.
He let go of d'Artagnan and looked into Aramis's eyes.
"Thank you," he said quietly, brimming with gratitude, and much love.
Words mattered to Aramis.
And he mattered to Athos.
The marksman spoke equally gravely. "You're welcome."
"If you gentlemen are all quite done."
Laughter as the lingering crowd parted and Captain Tréville surged forward, eyes sparkling, one hand reached out. "Athos."
"Captain." He grasped the offered hand and Tréville shook it firmly.
"It's good to have you back."
A pat on the arm, a sharp, searching look from top to toe; a curl of the lips that indicated very clearly what he thought of what he'd seen, then, with a twirl on his heel and a voice that echoed all the way to the rooftops, he barked: "Right! Mount-up was five minutes ago! What are you waiting for - personal invitations? To your posts - now!"
Big grins and rolling eyes and salutations to the four Inseperables as Musketeers departed to do as they were told.
Life.
It had all the right to go on without Athos. But for the first time in years, he felt that he did not want to be without it.
He sat on their bench in the shade, perfectly content, and spent the morning watching his brothers spar.
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