CHAPTER TWO:
Having seen Dr Lemay off, Treville made his way to Serge's kitchen and spoke briefly to the still-distraught brewery driver, who had yet to return to his establishment.
"Told 'im it wasn't 'is fault," Serge said, as Treville sat down heavily at the table, eyeing the man cautiously.
"No," the Captain replied, rubbing his hand over his face before addressing the man. "You were not to know about our training times, Monsieur. Though, in future, it would be expedient if you always attend with a partner. I understand circumstances were beyond your control today and I thank you for your diligence in completing your order, but this is a hard lesson to be learned.
He stood and nodded to Serge and the driver stood too, still looking conrite;
"Thank you, Captain," the man said. "If there is anything I can do ...?"
"Just what I said," Treville replied, gruffly. He had thought hard on it and though not ideal, he was ready to give the man the benefit of the doubt, this time. "Perhaps," he added, "Not such an inexperienced team next time. My Musketeers will assist you with your horses, when you are ready to leave."
Turning, he strode from the room, leaving the humbled but grateful driver behind him. When he returned to the Infirmary, Athos had been settled in the room at the end of the Infirmary, his shoulder strapped tightly.
"Any of the others injured?" he asked of Aramis, aware that he had seen at least two of his soldiers nursing hurts when he had arrived to the chaos that had greeted him at noon.
"Just minor injuries, Captain. "Bruises, mostly. Nothing to keep them here."
Treville nodded his thanks, walking over to look down at Athos.
"You know where I am," he said quietly after a few moments, before turning and pinning Aramis with a steel-grey gaze.
Aramis nodded.
"Report before lock down, Aramis. Keep me informed," Treville added, nodding to them as he left them to their vigil.
oOo
There was not much they could do for the rest of the day, but wait for Athos to regain his senses. d'Artagnan sat with him, as he could be persuaded to do nothing else. Aramis and Porthos had some duties to perform, but hurried back to the Infirmary at dusk.
"How is he?" Aramis said, before he was half way through the door, closely followed by Porthos, carrying a laden tray.
"Hasn't moved," d'Artagnan replied, not taking his eyes from his mentor.
"Well, staring at him won't wake him," Aramis said, gently, his hand coming to rest on d'Artagnan's elbow and gently easing him up. "Have you eaten?" he asked, knowing he had not as Serge had intercepted them on their arrival and said he had taken a tray of food but had retrieved it untouched. Porthos had collected the tray, thrust into his hands by a worried Serge and he now placed it on the table.
"Won't do 'im any good if you don't eat," Porthos said now. "An' he would tell you the same."
d'Artagnan looked at them as if he had just seen them.
"Not hungry," he finally said, turning back. "He's so pale," he added.
"Always has been," Aramis replied, with false brightness. "Athos and the sun have a distant relationship."
d'Artagnan glared at him.
Aramis put up both hands.
"Sorry. That was crass."
"Well, look," Porthos said, pulling up a chair. "We're all off duty now. So I reckon we settle down and wait for Athos to grace us with 'is presence."
Truth be told, d'Artagnan was grateful for his friend's return. Treville had stopped by three times, but he had been no comfort. Serge had offered words of wisdom, based on his knowledge of head injuries, but d'Artagnan could tell by the look in the old man's eyes that they were mere platitudes.
Later, Porthos lit the candles, while Aramis bent over Athos, a gentle hand tracing the side of his face. His soft words were only for Athos and it was soon after that d'Artagnan realised how hungry he was, though whether he could swallow anything was another matter. Porthos shifted over and let him ease himself quietly past, making his way to the table, where he prodded a piece of meat without his usual youthful relish.
"Don't prod it," Porthos said behind him. "It's already a day old. It's dead already."
That brought a small smile to d'Artagnan's lips and he turned to look at Porthos gratefully.
"He will be alright?" he asked, his voice small.
Porthos pursed his lips. The lad needed the truth.
"No way of guessin'" he said. "But if I know Athos, this ain't the way he'll depart this life."
"Though we once thought alcohol would do for him," Aramis said quietly.
"True," Porthos replied. "But drinkin' it. Not fallin' off a brewery wagon."
d'Artagnan frowned and swallowed hard, turning back to the table and grabbing a crust.
"It's a fond dream that Musketeers wish to die in their beds," Aramis interjected from across the room. "But of old age, not falls from beer wagons. Failing that," he added, turning to smile at them, "Some grand battle or other, rapier cutting through enemy flesh, musket blazing."
"What he said," Porthos said, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "Have a little faith."
The candles burned bright and shadows fell. The three ate what they could and then settled on chairs. In the corner, Athos's uniform lay folded up on a remaining chair, a reminder of the soldier who now lay still on the cot.
Heavy footsteps announced the approach of their Captain, recognised before he showed his face. The door opened quietly and he slipped inside.
"Anything?" he asked, looking down at his second in command.
It was left to Aramis to reply.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "Our brother seems reluctant for our company."
Treville grunted.
"I've rearranged the rota. Stay here if you wish. I will expect you all at muster in two days. I can't offer more at the moment. The King is hunting tomorrow and wants his Musketeers in attendance. The Garrison will be quiet."
"And you?" Aramis asked.
"Overseeing the King's departure," Treville replied reluctantly. "I will return thereafter. Send word if anything ..."
"Of course,"Aramis interrupted, saving Treville from finishing his sentence.
Treville nodded.
"'Ave you eaten, Captain?" Porthos said then, waving his hand at the tray, where remnants of food remained.
"Yes, thank you. Serge … insisted. He was in no mood for an argument."
"Good man," Aramis murmured.
"That he is," Treville replied, as he pulled out a chair and sat.
The night wore slowly on.
In the distance, Notre Dame eventually tolled the hour of three. It was a signal for Treville to depart. He would only get a few hours sleep and would need his wits to deal with the King in the morning. Louis was always a handful when he was excited. Hopefully, once he had overseen the King's departure on his hunting trip, with the Musketeers escort, he could return.
"Good night, Gentlemen," he murmured, taking one last look at Athos. Pressing his lips together in a tight line, he turned and left.
Church bells tolled throughout the rest of the night, both distant and nearby. The shadows lengthened as the candles burned down. The three talked quietly, or fell into lengthy silences; all at some point, thinking on the same lines;
"That is the uncertain," Lemay had said.
It was proving to be so, as Athos did not wake.
"He will need a sling for the arm when he wakes," Aramis said, busying himself around the room, as dawn approached.
"I'll get one of the laundresses to make one," Porthos replied, watching him. They had done that before. Injuries were a constant companion in the Garrison.
"He won't be wielding a sword for a few weeks," d'Artagnan said. "Or riding."
"He has two arms,"Aramis replied, with a yawn, well aware of Athos's determination to overcome such obstacles.
"An' he don't need two arms for ridin'" Porthos added.
They all shared a look, three hopeful friends, trusting to fate.
oOo
The breaking dawn saw Porthos flinging open the shutters, glad the night was over, but worried for the day ahead. Aramis gently shook d'Artagnan. Just an hour ago, sleep had claimed him, but it would not do to remain asleep upon a wooden chair.
"Need to keep 'im busy today," Porthos said quietly, as Aramis shook him again.
"I agree," Aramis replied, softly.
d'Artagnan started to sit upright, groaning at the stiffness already in his neck.
"Come on," Porthos suddenly said, squeezing his shoulder. "Up and about. Things to do."
"Athos?" d'Artagan replied, groggily.
"No change," Porthos said. "So we can leave Aramis here, while we go and clean up. Let Serge know what we'll need. See the Laundresses and set them on makin' a sling for 'is arm. And reportin' to the Captain."
That was all he could think of for the moment, but it was enough to get d'Artagnan up and moving, leaving Aramis to a vigil.
Alone and tired as he was, Aramis fussed with the sheet and carefully shifted the pillow beneath Athos's head, frowning at the bruise now forming at his temple.
"At least you look comfortable, my friend," he sighed, laying a hand gently on the top of his tousled head.
Straightening, he eased the cricks out of his back and retreated to his cupboard, where he crouched to reach for a few small bottles.
"You will be needing these, when you wake up," he said to himself, reaching up to place them on the cupboard top.
The next ten minutes were spent quietly preparing a pain easing concoction that he would leave by the bed, in readiness. Wiping his hands on a cloth, he dropped it next to his mixing bowl, before picking it up and turning around.
Green eyes stared at him, and he almost dropped the bowl.
Delighted to see his friend awake, he almost laughed before carrying the bowl across to the side table.
As the familiar voice spoke, though, Aramis froze, the breath catching in his lungs;
"Where is this place?"
Aramis carefully placed the bowl on the table and tried desperately to gather his thoughts.
"The Garrison," he finally managed.
"Garrison?"
"The Musketeer's Garrison," Aramis said, slowly. "Our home."
Silence.
The next murmured words made Aramis curl his hand into a fist;
"Musketeers. I have heard of you, of course, but I have never met one of you."
At that, he introduced himself, managing to hold out his free hand, though his voice was tinged with pain and the hand shook.
Aramis took it, hardly able to meet the unfocussed green gaze that had fallen upon him;
"Aramis," he whispered, in reply.
The next question was equally hard to answer.
"Where are we?"
Aramis swallowed, dryly.
"Paris," he said, softly.
oOo
Emerging into sunlight, Aramis closed the outer door of the Infirmary and came to a standstill. Across the yard, Porthos and d'Artagnan were seated, waiting for news of their brother.
Treville too, returned from the palace and in his office now, expected an update on the condition of his Lieutenant. Yesterday, he had given the brewery driver leave to return to his business. It had been an accident. It had not occurred to anyone to let the man know that musket practise would take place shortly after his arrival. During the night, he had penned a missive to the brewery, confirming what he had told the driver, that, should he return again, he should not enter without a mate beside him to assist in unloading and holding the team of horses steady. The man, distraught at what had happened, had been reluctant to leave, give him his due, but could not argue with Treville's assessment.
Seeing their eyes on him, Aramis bade his feet move, and stumbled toward them.
"How is he?" Porthos asked warily, reaching for the flagon of wine when he saw the odd look on Aramis's face.
Aramis did not respond. He merely stood before them, with a blank look on his face.
"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked, reaching up to touch his forearm.
"Awake," Aramis managed.
d'Artagnan jumped to his feet, but Aramis held up his hand.
"He is not Athos," Aramis blurted out.
Porthos's hand froze in the action of pouring the wine, the liquid spilling over the brim of the cup. Suddenly realising what he was doing, he slammed the flagon down and shook his hand to the side of him, the droplets soaking immediately into the dry earth.
"Say what?" he growled, a deep frown on his face.
Aramis looked down and locked eyes with him.
"The man in there …," he said, turning his head to look back at the Infirmary, "Is not Athos."
Porthos rose slowly to his feet, his wet hand forgotten.
"What are you talkin' about, Aramis?" he said, his voice low in his confusion. "If he ain't Athos, then who is he?"
Aramis leaned over and picked up the cup that Porthos had filled for himself and drank it straight back.
"That man," replied Aramis, raising his cup and motioning at the Infirmary, "Is the Comte de la Fere."
To be continued ...