No.21 I Don't Feel So Well

prompt: 21 infection

The fever swept through the garrison like a wildfire, and, like a fire, they fought it with their bare hands and as much water as they could carry. An endless string of buckets was passed into the infirmary by those who had recovered or not fallen ill. Inside, the carers poured the water into bowls, jugs and kettles. Helping hands coaxed mouthfuls past cracked lips and cooled feverish brows. They washed their sick comrades and laundered sweat-drenched sheets. Heated, the water was used to clean medical instruments or soothe congested lungs with hot steam.

And still, the fever burned through the men.

Doctor Lemay had never washed his hands as much as in the last two weeks. His skin was raw from soap and water, but he'd learned that cleanliness was beneficial during any kind of epidemic, and so far he'd been among the few not having succumbed to the fever yet. Drying his hands on a towel, he let his gaze sweep over the twenty beds they'd crammed into the infirmary. Eighteen of them were occupied on this day, and Lemay had a feeling the worst wasn't over yet.

No one knew what or who had brought this particularly vicious form of an ague to Paris, but it had infested the city within days. Lemay had reacted quickly, advising the King and his family to leave for their country retreat and not come back until the fever had burnt itself out, and, to his astonishment, the King had listened. Following his hippocratic oath, Lemay had stayed behind to help the afflicted - and found himself in charge of the garrison infirmary when the fever finally swept through the King's own regiment.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

D'Artagnan had appeared beside him on shaky legs. Young and strong, his body had fought the invader fiercely and quickly: His fever had broken this very morning, and the rash that had come with it was already fading.

"You can go back to bed, young man," Doctor Lemay told him sternly. "You're barely past the worst, and you're no use to me fainting onto these floorboards."

As expected, the musketeer opened his mouth to protest: "But I can-"

"You can shut up and lie back down," Constance Bonacieux's voice cut him off.

The young woman had been a godsend. Capable, healthy and unafraid, she'd reported for nursing duty as soon as the first musketeers had fallen ill, and she'd been invaluable in their care ever since. Friends with several of the soldiers, she seemed to feel particularly attracted to the young musketeer from Lupiac. When his fever had spiked two days ago, she'd barely left his side, and now that he was recovering, Lemay watched the two of them exchanging passionate glances across the infirmary in spite of the misery surrounding them. The fact that Constance was a married woman appeared to be of minor importance.

"Honestly, Constance," d'Artagnan insisted. "I'm fine. Fine enough to help the men-"

"Bed." Constance threw him a glare that brooked no argument. "Now."

Sighing, d'Artagnan rolled his eyes and wobbled back to his cot where he plopped down with an audible sigh.

Lemay couldn't suppress a smile. Moments like these were a welcome ray of sunshine in otherwise dark days. They'd lost two musketeers to the fever so far, and at least four of the men in the infirmary were fighting a battle Lemay wasn't sure they'd win.

Athos was sitting with one of them, gently washing the man's face and arms while murmuring encouragement to the half-delirious man. The taciturn lieutenant remained a mystery to Lemay, looking at the world from underneath the brim of his hat with cool reserve, but displaying an unexpected amount of compassion for his fellow-soldiers now. Athos had been among the first to catch the disease, and it had hit him badly enough to still look pale and a little lost in his clothes two weeks later, and yet he'd barely allowed himself any rest. His reputation as a ruthless swordsman preceded him as well as his men's admiration, and Lemay had witnessed his natural leadership at work when he'd reorganized the infirmary with Aramis as soon as he could stand without assistance.

True to their nickname, the Inseparables, he also never strayed far from the bed in the quietest corner of the room where Porthos was sleeping. The big streetfighter had been felled by the fever like a tree, and he'd only turned the corner yesterday. Athos and Aramis had tirelessly cooled him down and dribbled water and medicine into his mouth while also taking care of d'Artagnan and the rest of their comrades. Hardened men, none of them had been ashamed to hide their fear of losing their brother. Lemay had watched them pray, and one of them had always held Porthos' hand as if they could physically anchor him to this world. They'd fought, fought hard, and they had won.

Not all of these men would be so lucky. Aramis was kneeling by an older musketeer's bed this very moment, giving him the Last Rites. His dark head sunken in prayer, one hand on the dying man's forehead, his soldier's uniform was clashing strikingly with his clerical behaviour. The man was a contradiction in himself. A gifted marksman, he was also a man of faith and a gifted healer. He took life with one hand and saved it with the other. Aramis also had the reputation of being a womanizer, and judging by his dashing appearance and easy charm, Lemay easily believed it.

However, women had played no role in the last two weeks for this man who'd rolled up his sleeves and run himself ragged helping Lemay run the infirmary. He'd nursed Athos through his fever, then Porthos and d'Artagnan while never neglecting his duties for the other patients. His personal arsenal of herbal remedies had proven helpful, his medical knowledge surprising, and Lemay could not remember seeing him sleep.

Lemay's heart sank when he saw Aramis stop in his prayers, cross himself and gently pull the blanket up over the man's face. The solemn words "Go with God" drifted to his ears, and the men in the other beds fell silent. One of them started crying, and d'Artagnan went to take the man in his arms.

Aramis stood up and walked over to Lemay.

"Gilbert," he said somberly, pointing his chin at the deceased. "He was in the regiment for more than fifteen years. Treville will be devastated."

Constance joined them, looking sad but composed.

"We should give them a few minutes and then move him," she suggested firmly. "We'll need the bed."

Lemay nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"I'll wash him and gather his things," Aramis said, but Lemay frowned when he saw him swaying on his feet.

Constance had noticed as well.

"Aramis?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

The marksman nodded, suppressing a shudder.

"I don't think you are," Lemay disagreed and grabbed Aramis by the shoulders. He could feel the man's body heat through the fabric of his shirt.

"Oh, Aramis…" Constance touched his forehead and pulled her hand back, wincing. "Why didn't you say something?"

The marksman looked back at her from glazed eyes and shook his head.

"I thought I was only tired. I didn't notice…"

As if pulled by an invisible string, Athos had appeared at Aramis' side. He gave his brother one taxing look, then sighed.

"You, my friend, belong in bed."

He made it sound light, but Lemay saw worry flickering behind the cool veneer. Like the other three, Aramis was a healthy man in his late twenties, never one to stay down for long when ill, but this fever picked its victims according to its own rules. They had a few long days and nights ahead of them until they'd know if Aramis as well would come out on the other side.

For a moment, it looked as if their new patient was going to put up a fight.

"I-..." he started, then broke off when his legs wobbled underneath him. Swiftly, Athos grabbed him around the waist and Constance slipped his arm across her shoulders.

"I'm afraid you're right," the marksman continued, bravado flagging. "I'm sorry."

Lemay wasn't sure what the musketeer was apologizing for. Falling ill? No longer being able to care for his patients? For worrying his brothers?

These men, the doctor thought in wonder as he watched Aramis being led to a bed and helped into it with tender gestures and uplifting words. They killed without scruple on the battlefield. They knew no fear, and one would think them callous and unfeeling. But here, within the walls of the infirmary, he'd seen the men underneath the armour. He'd seen compassion, care, bravery and love. He'd understood why they didn't speak of themselves as soldiers. Brothers. These men were brothers.