Happy New Year, everyone. Here's the final part to this section - some good old-fashioned h/c to hopefully warm us after the chill of 'Azkaban'. It was a pure pleasure to write.
Part III
"Brother, we're here."
Leave.
"Athos, look at us-"
Leave. Leave - he tried to push away the hands, but his efforts were ineffectual. Go away. Leave me be - leave.
"Brother, please.. Please Athos, look at me I beg you-"
"Leave me alone, damn you!"
There - that had silenced them. His furious cry was only an unheard whisper but Athos did not know it - he could not take the torment. He could not tolerate their specters - just like they'd ousted him from the regiment, their midst, their memories, it hurt too much to be put into words. To be betrayed by them.
Why had they left him behind?
"We're gettin' you out of here. We're gettin' you home, Athos, alrigh', an' we're gettin' you fixed, back on yer feet, an' then we'll talk all we want, hm? You stay with us now. Stay with us." The feel of lips pressed to his brow was utterly unexpected, a pleasant warmth on his skin, and Athos's throat closed, tears stinging his eyes. Why did they torment him so, with the promise of beautiful things, of their companionship, their presence and support, their warmth and camaraderie? Why would they not leave him be?
A hand pushed the hair back from his brow, the lips on his forehead moved to the top of his cheekbone; strong arms pulled him into warmth even as a calloused thumb gently wiped his tears. Athos closed his eyes, still weeping silently.
Leave me be, I beg of you.
Leave me.
He came awake in terror, jostling wildly, dark shapes wobbling around him. Hands caught his flailing one in a grip, startling him even more: he looked around - Aramis-
"Shh, be easy. I know this is uncomfortable, but we'll reach Paris in just a few hours. Can you endure it?"
Endure-?
...He spoke so softly...
Athos's gaze darted to the hand gripping his, feeling its warmth and weight. The ground shook once more beneath him, sending lances of pain all through his body; it pierced through the fog around his senses and he finally recognized the sky above him, an infinite expanse of inky blue spread out in all its glory, spattered with thousands of little stars, winking down at him. It was breathtaking, it was dazzling.
The thought came many long moments later.
Could it be real?
More hands pressed down on his shoulders, d'Artagnan's face, shadowed and upside down, leaned over him in worry. "Athos?"
So his head was cushioned in the Gascon's lap, his hands steadying him against the rocking of the cart.
Dear God...
This was real.
A moan tore from Athos's throat as if from a wounded animal. Aramis drew a sharp breath; d'Artagnan yelled for Porthos to stop; the cart came to a clambering halt and the three men crowded around their friend, hearts at their throats, trying to rouse him, desperate to reassure themselves that he hadn't died.
Athos wasn't dead.
He was undone.
Tréville was at the garrison gates when the small train arrived two hours past midnight, approaching the wagon with brisk steps even before Porthos brought it to a full halt. The harsh torchlight by the walls did little to penetrate the cloak of darkness draped over the courtyard. With an agility unexpected from a man of his age, the Minister pulled himself up and, sparing a questing glance at Aramis, reached to pull back the blanket covering Athos. When his eyes adjusted and he could make out the figure lying prone under his hands, his breath caught.
"Mon Dieu..."
"Doctor Duchamps is here?" d'Artagnan asked harshly, jumping down.
"Waiting, in the infirmary. Quickly."
"I've got 'im-"
Within minutes, they were in the much better-lit infirmary, crowding around the bed, shrugging off doublets, fetching water and cloths, tending to the fire. Every line uttered, every question posed and answer given was curt, as if being demanded words was an offence, gestures jerky and impatient as everything paled in comparison to the sheer importance of the man in the bed. The doctor was bent over his charge, intent on his work, but behind him, the Minister and the three Musketeers, close to one another yet still standing apart, were each drawn as tight as strings, barely imposed self-restraint manifesting itself in the form of a hunched back and a thumbnail being gnawed on, a heaving chest and tightly clenched fists, or a stiff jaw and a tremor in the digits. The ache to be physically close to Athos, the need to simply touch him and reassure themselves of his return, was almost a bodily pain.
Even as questions and answers, worries and fears brew, nothing broke the strained silence until the doctor raised his head and requested they lift the ailing man, so that he could inspect his back and listen to his lungs.
All three men moved at once. D'Artagnan, farthest from the bed, forcibly halted his step, and after a momentary loss, tucked his hands tightly in his armpits as if wary of what they might do if he didn't. Porthos was already by the bed in two strides and Aramis was at the doctor's shoulder, his anxiety so pronounced that it seemed to render him stiff.
From the corner of the small room, Tréville watched.
Out of the way as to not impede the men's work and swathed in shadows by the wall, like a specter looking in from the outside but with a heart secretly racing in his chest, he observed Athos, his right-hand man for years, his dear friend, if not young enough to be like a son, nevertheless loved as one. Held carefully to Porthos's chest now, however, was a foreign, skeletal figure, with his head hanging low and clumps of matted hair falling over his shoulders in stiff locks; bare-chested, even in the dimness Tréville could see the marks and scars littering the arms. The sight of ribs protruding from under bruised skin was ghastly, as the long, wild beard that had taken over the lower part of the face, almost reaching the center of his chest. The eyes were closed, eyelashes fanned out over cheekbones that jutted up with offending angles- try as he might, Tréville could not find Athos. This was not him.
Then his gaze caught Aramis's hand as the marksman reached for his friend, and Tréville watched, mesmerized, the tenderness of touch that Aramis could offer even as the rest of him looked like he might shatter at the slightest contact.
He had seen enough. Even though one part of him ached to remain and find some way to help care for the man, the Minister sharply turned on his heel and left the room, unobserved.
It was half an hour later that the infirmary door opened again and the Minister looked up to see the doctor coming out, looking deep in thought as he pulled the door close. Stopping his pacing, Tréville hastily approached him.
"How fares he?" he demanded.
"He is weak," the man returned, looking at Tréville pointedly from above his spectacles. "He hasn't had sustenance in a long while; what kind of water he drank," –an angry shake of the head– "only God knows. He runs a fever. I have treated his wounds - with the help of Monsieur Aramis - and now, he sleeps."
Tréville set his jaw. "Was he tortured?"
"If you mean physical abuse, then yes, for he bears the marks. But left alone in a cell to die of hunger and thirst? That is beyond torture. That is inhumane." The quiet fury of the royal physician was but a faint hint of what the Minister felt.
"How will you treat him?"
"Rigorously, Minister. With medicine, plenty of rest and sustenance, we will gradually rebuild the Captain's strength. I have left medicine and instructed Monsieur Aramis on its use; he should have an undisturbed night now."
"Then you do envision a full recovery."
The Minister, tall and imposing in his regal blue robes, put the question in the form of a command. The physician, unintimidated, met the gaze unflinchingly.
"The next few days are crucial, Monsieur. The Captain's health remains precarious: that fever must not be allowed to rise. We would see the results of the treatment in several days, but until then, we must be vigilant."
"Worry not. My men will not allow him to slip away, not after all the trouble they went to find him. Thank you, Monsieur - I'll send one of my men to fetch you should we need your services again. Good night."
The doctor watched the Minister's abrupt departure with thoughtful eyes, and without taking offence. Despite the seriousness of the Captain's condition, the care and worry he had witnessed in the garrison ever since he had arrived had awakened a respect even in his calloused heart.
For the next three days, Tréville spent much more time in the garrison than he did in the Louvre. He addressed the regiment during muster, informing them of Athos's rescue and the state of his health; drew rosters and assigned missions, and more than once, carried trays of food and drink to his three Musketeers, who were rarely seen outside the confines of the infirmary. Each morning, he found a smile for them as he entered the room; an encouraging pat on the back, an understanding squeeze of the shoulder, an order cushioned in the form of an offer to take over sitting with Athos as they sought their rest. The late November days were bright and clear, but in the infirmary, the atmosphere was growing more and more oppressive and sombre each passing hour: the attention of the three men narrowed and narrowed until they were only and fully focused on one anticipated twitch of the hand, one flick of the closed eyelids, or a single breath leaving the parted lips more strongly than before - the slightest sign of a return to the waking world from Athos, so that, Tréville hoped, the world would tilt obligingly back into its axis, and life, as they'd once known it, would carry on in its presumed course.
But Athos barely showed any sign of being with the living, and the Minister more than once caught himself lost in the minute movement of his chest as it rose and fell, the only real reassurance that he wasn't yet lost.
Once, as the other three were dozing, he walked to the bed and carefully placed a hand over Athos's heart, waiting until he felt it flutter faintly beneath his palm. It was erratic, but Tréville still felt a warmth spreading through him as if from his hand; he removed it, only to pick up Athos's limp one and press a fatherly kiss over the scraped knuckles, allowing himself a moment of silent gratitude for the man's return.
Later that day, as he took his leave to return to the palace, he would make a detour at the Notre-Dame and give alms.
"Carefully."
"The water's boiling, there's more if you need it. What else?"
"Scissors," said Porthos, glowering at Athos's beard and hair.
"I'll find one."
"Upper left drawer. The blue jar over the shelf as well, if you would, while you're there."
"Alright."
"Let's work on him part by part; I don't want him catching a chill." Controlled as it always was, Aramis's voice was unusually quiet. He dipped a washcloth in a basin, rubbed it with soap and wrung it out, then reached to uncover Athos's arm. He grasped the edge of the blanket, but stopped suddenly without peeling it back; a tremor shook his hand and his fingers clenched reflexively around the wool. There was a moment of silence; then Aramis abruptly let go, rose and left the room.
Some time later, Tréville found him in the stables, sat on a bale of hay with hands thrust into his hair, tugging compulsively. The Minister could not see his face, but Aramis's frame was shaking with shivers; Tréville approached to stand beside him and laid a hand over the exposed neck, letting its weight gradually settle there. Not a word was spoken.
For several minutes, aside from the occasional shifting of a horse, the shuffle of a hoof on the ground or a snort, the only sound that was heard in the stables was the harsh, ragged breathing of the marksman. Gradually Aramis composed himself; wiped a hand down his face and pushed to his feet. Tréville looked over him assessingly.
"Are you good?"
Aramis gave a curt nod. Tréville gently took hold of his arm. "Come. Athos would not want us far. Even if he would never say it."
"I fear what he would say to us now," Aramis murmured, "I fear for him."
The unexpected openness shocked the Minister. He frowned, releasing the arm.
"You have found him, Aramis - you have brought him home."
"And I will thank God every day for that. But he may yet die, or he may never recover. The truth of this, Tréville- we have failed. We failed him."
If this were any other time, the Minister would confront the man with a brisk retort, not one to mince his words or coddle his soldiers, but he bit his lip and checked himself. "I'll put this down to exhaustion and not to a loss of your reasoning. We are Musketeers, Aramis – we don't fail as long as we don't give up. You didn't. Now is the time to see things through, not to fall into despair and let it all be for nothing." He paused, making an attempt to soften his tone. "Athos needs us now. He will need all of us whilst he recovers. Besides," he smiled, "this is Athos. Have you ever known a more resilient man?"
Aramis did not reply, but a dip of his head as he turned to walk out singalled to Tréville that he had been heard. He watched the man with concerned eyes as they walked out into the courtyard. The past few months had put a terrible strain on the remaining Inseperables, and Tréville knew that it wasn't only Athos who needed support right now. No matter, he thought firmly, pushing the door open and allowing Aramis to pass before him. He could not pause the war even if he were the minister for it, but he would ensure that his men had the time to find their footing again. They were simply too valuable – and too deeply cared for – for anything else.
When Tréville and Aramis re-entered the infirmary, they found it quiet, Porthos and d'Artagnan working on their individual tasks. Athos was laid propped up on pillows, his head gently turned to one side, whilst Porthos sat beside him, sleeves rolled, washing out a pair of scissors. There were clumps of hair near his feet on the floor.
d'Artagnan was on the other side, one of Athos's arms draped over his bent leg, carefully wrapping a strip of linen around the wrist. The skin was badly bruised, the dried blood over the abrasions cleaned away. The Gascon's back was to the door and he was bent low over his task, but if anyone could see his face, they would observe the pain there and the moisture in his eyes.
Soon after Aramis and Tréville's exit, Porthos had looked over to find him on his feet, hands on his hips, trying desperately to compose himself. He had risen and pulled the Gascon into a fierce embrace, and the two friends had held each other silently for long moments, sharing the overwhelming confusion of grief, fear, and the relief of finally being in the same room with Athos again.
The four men worked that night away to make their friend more comfortable, rarely needing to exchange words, but no longer avoiding each other's eyes. The journey to healing would be long and arduous, but they had finally begun, and that was all that mattered.