A/N: Hello Dear Readers! I hope you are all keeping safe in these turbulent times. UK Lockdown is easing this week, so some are daring to hope. I've used the time to write, among other things, so here we go with another multi-fic story, which is set to test our favourites quite considerably.
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ANOTHER LIFE
Set during Series 2, sometime between Episode 15 "The Return" and Episode 16 "Through a Glass Darkly." It's complicated.
CHAPTER ONE
The Incident:
It had been a sweltering few weeks in Paris. The Garrison yard was dry and dusty, the walls reflecting the bright overhead sunlight into even the furthest corners.
"He's late," Serge grumbled, as he pressed the four bottles of wine precariously to his chest.
"Don't worry," Porthos said, happily divesting him of them before a calamity occurred. "These will do until he gets 'ere."
They were due a consignment of ale from a brewery on the south of the river, but it was late and Serge was running out of patience. The men had been training all morning and were now making headway into his wine stocks. Everyone knew wine did not quench a tired man's thirst, but who was he to tell them that?
"I could send d'Artagnan to look for them?" Porthos said. "Provide an escort?"
Serge huffed.
"Save your escorts for the King," he grunted. "It's not the best ale I could find, but you lot have been drinkin' my regular supply as fast as I'm storin' it, and it's all I could get at short notice. Paris is dryin' up. If it doesn't come soon, he can find another customer."
"I'm sure he'll 'ave plenty of customers," Porthos replied. "And Ale's ale, Serge." Truth be told, he would drink a flagon of the Seine at the moment. It was dusty and hot, and Treville had not seen fit to cut their training short.
Serge huffed again and turned away to return to the shade of his kitchen, when the rumble of metal on cobbles announced the arrival of a wagon. Hopefully, a heavily ladened one. Sure enough, a large wagon appeared to slow outside, before the guard on the wall waved him through, having had strict instructions not to impede its progress.
Porthos made his way over to their usual table and deposited the bottles in front of Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan.
They all watched as the cart turned into the archway.
The team of four draught horses were skittish as the driver manoeuvred the through the archway and into the yard. He jumped down and wiped his hands on his apron. Catching sight of the four Musketeers sitting at the table he walked over, pulling out a parchment and unfolding it.
"Ten barrels of ale," he said, studying his tally sheet. "Where do you want them?"
Aramis looked at Porthos and Athos, who both shrugged.
"I'll get Serge," d'Artagnan sighed, holding out his hand for the man's papers and heading off in the direction of the mess.
Aramis uncorked one of the bottles of wine and poured a cup, handing it to the man, who took it gratefully and downed it in one.
"Tough morning?" he asked, ruefully, as the man put the empty cup back on the table.
"And a long one," the man replied. "My man called off sick. I'm on my own and breaking in the new team. They've taken a bit of handling. Fortunately, you're my last call of the day.
Taking pity on the man, who looked exhausted after no doubt loading the barrels of ale onto the bed of the wagon and now facing the prospect of unloading them, Athos and Porthos nodded to each other and offered to help, calling on three of the Musketeers not currently engaged in training to help.
The driver indicated two broad planks of timber in the wagon and he and Porthos pulled them out and reared them a little apart from each other onto the back of the cart to roll the barrels down. Athos and the other three Musketeers were now helping with the task, all of them jumping into the wagon to begin to turn the barrels onto their sides in order to roll them off, two men to one barrel.
Serge had emerged from his domain and now stood with d'Artagnan, studying the tally sheets and confirming the number of barrels with Porthos. He and Aramis were now together at the rear of the wagon waiting for the first barrel to roll off.
Tally correct, Serge withdrew and they all soon got into a steady rhythm, with d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos at the rear of the wagon, easing the barrels down the timber; the momentum doing most of the work.
It was hot work, but between them, the job was finished with only one barrel remaining. Two of the men dropped down from the back of the wagon in readiness. It would just remain for all the barrels to be rolled over to where Serge wanted them stored and the job would be done.
On the wagon, Athos slapped his remaining companion on the shoulder and turned to the driver holding the team, to indicate they were finished. He shifted his weight to push the final barrel to the planks at the rear of the cart. As he did so, there was a loud retort from beyond the compound. Target practise had commenced outside the main walls of the compound and the subsequent noise reverberated around the outer walls. The horses started forward, as the driver dug in his heels in an attempt to settle them. As the cart shifted forward, Athos shoved his companion to the back of the cart, but had no time to follow as the horses suddenly shifted forward again.
Standing between the planks at the rear, Aramis grabbed the the man's arm and pulled him clear, just as the two planks fell down, landing heavily in the dirt. This only added to the horse's panic and the driver struggled to contain them. d'Artagnan ran to the front of the cart and grabbed the reins to add strength to the driver's hold. Outside, and oblivious to what was happening in the yard, a further round of musket shot echoed around the compound. One of the team suddenly lurched up, jostling its companions and Athos's feet were suddenly swept from under him. The remaining barrel began to roll as the cart shuddered. His training meant he automatically rolled, momentum taking him ahead of the wayward barrel, which was now wallowing, but the cart shifted again under the horse's panic and he dropped swiftly off the end of the cart at his friend' feet; smacking his head on the hard earth with a loud thud.
Horrified, Porthos saw the final barrel start its roll to the rear. With Athos unconscious at their feet, Porthos braced himself and brought the barrel to a halt, leaning into it to stop its fall from the back of the cart and onto the limp body of his friend.
The cart started to roll back further and would have rolled over him, had not two of the Musketeers taken charge and grabbed the bridles of the leading two horses, Aramis bellowing at the driver to let them help. Porthos braced his shoulder against the lone barrel to keep it in place.
After what seemed like hours but was only minutes, the wagon shuddered to a halt.
Aramis dropped to his knees.
The courtyard was in chaos. Amid the dust that billowed around the wagon, one man was limping and two men were on the ground; one Musketeer sitting up in a daze, holding his knee and Athos, on his side, unmoving. Word of the incident had been called down to the Musketeers on musket training and they rushed back into the yard to help, though there was little they could do.
Into the chaos, a rider came through the Garrison archway, pulling up short at the chaotic scene before him.
"What the hell is going on!" Treville barked, as he quickly dismounted and strode toward the now-still wagon. "Unhitch those horses, now!" he shouted at d'Artagnan and the driver, as he turned his eyes on Porthos and Aramis, crouched over Athos. "And someone send for the King's Physician!"
d'Artagnan helped to unhitch the horses from the cart and they were led to the stables to calm them. Amid the dust and barrels, Athos was conveyed to the Infirmary, along with two others who had suffered minor injuries.
Serge limped over to the driver, standing forlornly at the stable doors, hat in his twisting hands.
"Come with me," he said, softly, leading him away to his kitchen.
oOo
A little while later:
Dr Lemay strode hurriedly into the Infirmary, making his way straight to the room at the back, where his examinations were usually undertaken.
At his entrance, four men looked up.
"Thank you for coming so promptly," Treville said, stepping aside as the doctor approached the table, where Athos was laid out.
Aramis and Porthos had managed to remove his jacket and shirt, revealing extensive bruising at the base of his throat, extending toward his shoulder. Athos's face and hair were covered in dust and Porthos held a bowl of water in his hands, about to clean him up in preparation for the doctor. Water boiled on the nearby fire, tended by d'Artagnan, and Aramis had placed his own supplies on the cupboard top, as an aid for Lemay.
Aramis quickly explained what had happened, as Lemay rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the bowl of water Porthos held, nodding his thanks absent-mindedly.
"This bone is damaged," Lemay said, immediately, pointing to the bone that ran along the area of Athos's collar to his shoulder. "I cannot tell if it is broken. It may just be cracked."
"What does that mean?" Treville asked, bluntly.
"It will heal," he said, "but it is a painful injury. I have seen it before in those who take a fall. They put their arms out to save themselves and this bone does not always escape injury,"
Porthos grimaced. It did look very bruised and swollen.
Lemay then worked his way down Athos's arm.
"The elbow is swollen for the same reason. It is hard to tell if anything is broken within," he added, running his hands around the joint. "It's a complicated joint. I have seen it in cadavers."
Porthos looked across at Aramis, who shrugged, non-committally, before turning his attention back to watch as Lemay continued. The doctor worked his way down Athos's body, feeling hips and legs, before running his fingers over Athos's head, feeling a large lump above his ear.
"And then, there is the head injury. That is the uncertain," he finished, straightening. "All in all," he added, "I believe he has escaped lightly."
"Lucky that last barrel didn't fall on him, then," Porthos grunted, glaring at the Doctors bowed head.
"True," the physician replied, missing the glare and oblivious to Porthos's sarcasm.
"Is there anything we can do?" Treville asked, knowing that it was a waiting game with head injuries.
Lemay watched thoughtfully as Porthos gently swept a cloth over his friend's face and throat, carefully avoiding the bruised shoulder.
"Strap his arm and make him comfortable," he replied. "That's all for the moment."
Aramis looked at Porthos.
"We can do that," he said, with purpose, as Porthos nodded, setting the bowl aside.
"Otherwise, there is nothing more to be done until he wakes. Then we will see," Lemay added.
The doctor washed his hands again and rolled his sleeves down.
"Call for me when he wakes," he added, as Treville saw him out.
"That as quick," d'Artagnan grumbled, when they were alone.
"Fairly straightforward," Aramis sighed, picking up the bowl and walking across to the window to tip it outside.
"Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan said, looking from Porthos to Aramis.
"'Course he will," Porthos replied, quickly, retrieving Athos's jacket and shirt from the corner where they had hurriedly dropped them and placing them on a nearby chair.
"The good doctor wouldn't have left if he was worried," Aramis added, with more confidence than he felt.
To be continued ...
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A/N: I have slightly overlooked the fact that the good Captain was relieved of his command prior to "The Return," but as this story is set between that episode and the next one, I hope you forgive my adjustment. Things were getting very complicated at the Palace during those two episodes and I wanted to keep this story as straightforward as possible.
Thanks for reading!