I Think I've Broken Something
Prompts: #12 broken bones, #10 internal bleeding
(sequel to the previous chapter)
"Porthos! PORTHOS!"
"Aramis, don't! WAIT!"
Athos lunges at Aramis who wants to dive right back into the still-sliding, still-shifting mountain of rubble. The marksman looks wild; shock has driven all colour from his usually tan face, and he strains madly against Athos' arms slung around his waist.
"Let me g- PORTHOS!"
"Wait!" Athos insists, taking an elbow in the ribs but not releasing his desperate friend. "Wait till it settles. We can't help him if we get buried as well! Aramis!"
D'Artagnan has sprung to Athos' aid. He, too, looks horrified, but he has his wits about him enough to help Athos wrestle the marksman into submission. Somehow, seeing Aramis like this makes it all so much worse: Their medic and sharp-shooter, calm and collected in the most dire circumstances, screaming and out of his mind from fear.
"No, NOOO! We have to help him! We have to get in there! We- For Heaven's sake - let me GO!"
Aramis strains against his brother's grasp with inhuman strength. Athos has never seen him like this. But he understands why. They've all defied the odds many times, but this time-
No one could survive this. Not even Porthos.
They hold Aramis down until the cacophony of collapse dies down and the air clears enough to see. By then, the marksman has settled down enough to stop fighting. When Athos and d'Artagnan pull him to his feet, he stares at the scene of destruction in blank horror: Not one single wall has remained upright. The house has been reduced to a giant, jagged corpse of brick and wood.
And there's no sign of Porthos.
"Porthos!"
They all storm to the place where the front door must have been.
"Porthos, can you hear us?!"
Hands dig into the rubble. They all shout their friend's name. Athos has the hollow feeling of summoning a ghost, but he keeps digging. The debris isn't piled quite as high at the front, but it's still high enough for them to have to climb on top, and Athos cannot shake the feeling of walking over a grave.
"Spread out a little," he instructs the others. "Form a line! Watch your step!"
Aramis is still frantic, but he listens, and d'Artagnan nods at Athos, thankful for his guidance. Proceeding in a somewhat more organized fashion calms all of them down a little. They have a purpose now: this is a mission, and Porthos is their objective. It helps.
The minutes tick by. Soon, Athos feels sweat running down his back. His arms ache and his bruised leg begins to tremble. He's breathing hard, blood pumping in his ears, but his eyes are fixed on any new opening in the rubble, his ears pricked for any noise beyond their digging.
It's taking too long. Even if he's alive, he's running out of air.
Athos sees the same thought written on Aramis' sweat-streaked and bruised face. The tension must be unbearable for him: It was on Aramis' hunch that they went in and searched the house. If Porthos dies here, he will never get past his feelings of guilt. They will lose two brothers, not just one.
"I think I've found something!"
D'Artagnan's shout has him look up and stumble over to the Gascon, heart racing. Aramis beats him to the spot.
Their youngest is hectically pulling broken floorboards out of an opening he's managed to widen.
"What?"
"There! Look!"
A braided piece of cloth peeks out from under a larger chunk of wall.
A bandana.
"Porthos!" They all resume their shouting and get on their knees to dig with renewed urgency. There's no reply to their shouts, and it's a bad sign, but if Athos has learned one thing since joining the Musketeers it is that giving up is not an option.
"Careful," Athos admonishes. "Slow down! It's unstable! We can't risk that whole pile sliding again! Move as little as possible!"
It takes forever to clear enough rubble away, and then a desperate, six-handed heave to get the chunk of wall lifted and pushed aside. And then-
Porthos.
He's on his side, one arm protectively over his head, and he's completely still. Blood and dust cake what Athos can see of his face. His eyes are closed.
Aramis has pulled his glove off and crouches down to check's Porthos' pulse. His hand is shaking, and Athos sees him willing his fingers to still.
It can't be. It-
"He's alive."
Athos exhales. D'Artagnan clutches his forehead in disbelief, and Aramis turns into a different person. The panic leaves his eyes. His hands stop shaking. He gently repostitions Porthos' arm to examine his head.
"He has a head wound," he states. "But I can't feel any fractures in his skull."
"That's good, isn't it?" D'Artagnan asks hopefully.
"Yes."
Aramis sounds neutral. Focused. Efficiently, he runs his hands over the rest of Porthos' body.
"Broken arm," he reports, frowning. "Several Ribs. Broken leg." The frown deepens.
Athos knows what he's thinking. "Internal injuries?"
"Possibly," Aramis replies. "It's not for me to tell."
Tenderly, the marksman brushes his hand over Porthos' dark head. In Aramis' eyes, Athos sees a curious blend of acceptance, faith and determination.
"Let's get his arm and leg splinted, and then let's get him home."
And that is what they do. What they're good at: d'Artagnan commandeers a cart from God knows where, and Athos assists Aramis like a second pair of hands, quietly handing him bandages, water and whatever else he needs to settle Porthos' unconscious body in the back of the cart. There is a flurry of hopeful excitement when Aramis cleans the big man's head wound with alcohol and they hear him moan and roll his head. It's just a moment, and he goes limp and still again, but Athos takes it as a good sign and Aramis' animated nod at him confirms the impression.
Back at the garrison, hope takes a serious hit when Treville summons Lemay who, after palpating Porthos' abdomen, speaks of internal injuries and how all they can do is hope and wait. So that, too, is what they do, what they're good at: Aramis praying with a rosary in one hand and Porthos' uninjured one in the other; Athos sitting quiet, sleepless vigil and d'Artagnan pacing the room and wearing down his boots while Treville makes sure that Serge keeps them fed and their fellow musketeers take over they posts while they wait.
Three days pass. Hope ebbs and surges. Porthos' breath slows and steadies again. A fever comes and burns and retreats. Aramis runs himself ragged and d'Artagnan continues pacing while Athos hides his feelings under his hat. They're so good at all of this, but that doesn't mean it gets any easier.
It fits that Porthos wakes up on the fourth day, at breakfast. Serge has brought a tray laden with bread and cheese and a jug of ale, a few apples and a jar of honey. Athos eyes the tray wearily while d'Artagnan digs in, in need of fuel for his pacing, and Aramis dutifully reaches for the bread.
"Yer leavin' some o' that fer me, righ'?"
It's slurred and barely above a whisper, and it sounds like something that's been dragged behind a horse.
But it's Porthos, and he's awake.
Oh, they know how to do this part best: The gentle, injury-sparing hugs, the tired smiles, the cheek-kisses and the teasing jokes. The light driving out the darkness. The brotherhood righting itself.
The Inseparables.
It's not just a name, Athos thinks as he watches Aramis fuss happily and d'Artagnan recounts the rescue in exaggerated detail. It's a promise. And Porthos has kept it.