CHAPTER FOUR:
Later:
Aramis shook Athos awake.
It was the fourth time that night.
Each time, as the green eyes opened and looked at him, he hoped it was his friend and brother looking back, but the Comte merely thanked him and, after swallowing further medication, slipped back into sleep.
There was no recognition behind the gaze, just polite gratitude.
"You should rest," d'Artagnan said, having watched Aramis continue thus throughout the night.
"I cannot," Aramis replied. "If he wakes and is confused ..."
"I'm here. Or don't you trust me?" d'Artagnan replied.
Aramis looked up sharply.
"Of course I trust you," he replied, before sighing and turning away, walking over to the window to stare up at the moon.
d'Artagnan came to stand by his side.
"You're no use to him exhausted," he said, softly. "Isn't that what you tell me?"
Aramis dipped his head, before looking up at him.
"When did you grow up?" he smiled.
"When my father died," d'Artagnan replied. "When I realised what I had lost."
Aramis reached up and squeezed his shoulder, turning his attention back to the moon.
"And realised what I had gained," d'Artagnan added, bumping his shoulder.
Aramis still didn't move, but his eyes were shining when he next looked at the young man at his side.
"You don't have to go far," d'Artagnan said. "Just the next room. I'll wake you if anything happens."
Aramis finally nodded, as he turned and leant his back to the windowsill;
"Then I leave him in your capable hands," he said softly.
They both stood looking at their injured friend from across the room. A shaft of moonlight had fallen on the bottom of the bed. d'Artagnan left Aramis's side and went to perch himself in its soft light. Aramis swallowed around the lump in his throat as he reached up and dropped his braces from his shoulders, pulling his shirt out, before padding from the room and dropping onto one of the cots in the next room.
d'Artagnan turned his head to watch him go, and rose quietly to place a wedge under the door to hold it open, so that Athos would be in plain sight, should Aramis seek him out. He then returned to his place.
Aramis settled on the cot and looked back into the room. The moonlight had softened d'Artagnan's appearance, giving him a ghost-like quality. Aramis lay on his side, his eyes on d'Artagnan. A few moments later, he was asleep.
Some time later, d'Artagnan looked over his shoulder to check that Aramis was still asleep, and saw Porthos standing silently in the doorway.
d'Artagnan turned on the cot to look at him, but did not speak, or beckon him in.
Porthos was standing in shadows, very still, though his eyes were visible.
It was the look in his eyes that cut d'Artagnan to the quick and made him look away.
Porthos left as quietly as he had come.
oOo
"Thank you," the Comte said, the next morning, as Aramis tended him once more.
He had been dimly aware of Aramis and the younger Musketeer in the darkened room during the night and was grateful for their attention.
Catching himself being watched, Aramis explained that the medicine he was preparing was potent and should be restricted.
"Are all Musketeers trained thus?" the Comte whispered. "You seem to know what you are doing with that."
Aramis bit his bottom lip, his back to his friend. How to explain that laudanum had been no friend to Athos in the past? Instead he breezed through an explanation that all Musketeers had an amount of medical training, by necessity.
His patient hummed, though not convincingly, as Aramis held the medicine cup to his lips. Seeing the medic's hand shaking, and how flustered he was, the Comte gave him a quizzical look, and then smiled.
"It seems," he said, softly, wrapping his hand around the one holding the cup, "That you may not have met a Comte before?"
Aramis, still stunned by circumstances, recovered slightly.
"There are plenty at Court," he replied, gently, before smiling. "Though not, perhaps, like you."
"Like me?"
Aramis coughed. He needed to clear his throat; to dislodge his heart from it.
"Personable," he replied, for want of a word; looking down at their still-clasped hands.
"Ah," his friend (once-friend?) smiled, releasing his hand, when Aramis just wanted him to leave it there, until some recognition flickered in his brother's eyes.
But none did.
The man let go and raised his hand to his head.
"I am somewhat dizzy," he murmured.
This, Aramis could deal with. Reaching out, he took hold of the Comte's hand and guided it down.
"You have a concussion," he said, as he examined the lump on his head. "You should rest." (And awake as Athos once more, he thought, though did not voice.)
"I think you are right," the Comte acquiesced. "Though it is all I have been doing."
The reply was unexpected. Aramis was acutely aware that Athos would have shaken him off impatiently and strode from the room. His friend had readily taken the laudanum, another unexpected result, and had drunk the potion down without complaint.
"The laudanum will help you sleep," Aramis replied. "It is for the best. We can talk later, when you are feeling better."
"You are quite safe here," Aramis added, settling his friend and pulling the sheet up over him. How he longed to be less formal. This was his dear friend, but he was totally out of his depth and the man before him requiring care, was a stranger.
"Where is Valois?" Athos suddenly asked.
"Who?" Aramis asked, his mind racing.
"My valet," the Comte murmured. "He always travels with me. I have not seen him."
"I will try and find out," Aramis replied quickly.
"Thank you. I am ..."
Suddenly, the Comte stopped in mid sentence.
"What is it?" Aramis said.
Athos was pulling at the neck of his shirt, his hand on the bruised skin above the damaged collarbone.
"This scar," he said, his fingers running over a wide white stripe below the bruise. "How did I get this scar?"
Aramis held his breath. Athos did not carry as many scars as he or Porthos, but he was not unmarked after the years he had spent with them.
"It is an old one," Aramis replied quickly, his mouth dry. "No doubt you forgot it."
Athos gave him such a look that he had to look away.
"It is possible," Aramis ventured, "Given your head injury.
How would they explain the soldier's body he had, far removed from that of a provincial Comte?
The world would soon tilt for the Comte, and they were his only tether. They would have to tread carefully. Lying though, was indeed becoming the norm.
For the moment, and in his weakened state, Athos seemed satisfied but it brought home to Aramis that they would need to get a story together if they were to get through this. The "Comte" had found himself in Paris, injured, and in the Garrison of the King's Musketeers. Now that he was gathering his senses, he would want to know what had happened. If they were to keep the man calm and in his bed, it would have to be explained.
For the moment though, Aramis was lost for words and now had to go. He had to find his brothers and his Captain, to begin to make sense of this. So he helped the "stranger" to lay down and he pulled the sheet over him, before he turned and stumbled on weak legs from the room.
As he opened the door, he heard three words that brought tears to his eyes;
"Thank you, Musketeer."
Slipping through and closing the door, he leaned his forehead against the rough wood.
"Aramis," he whispered. "My name is Aramis."
oOo
Olivier lay staring at the ceiling, unable to order his thoughts.
Once, when he was twelve years old, he had fallen out of a tree in the orchard and knocked himself out. His father had got him moving the next day, saying that sickness was a weakness and Olivier had stumbled through the next few days, being quietly sick in the bushes.
The Musketeer - Armand? seemed unwilling to leave him and the young man too had been present since he arrived. He sighed. Perhaps he would allow himself this luxury. To be cared for, by soldiers, no less, was something difficult to comprehend. He looked to his right to the table, where the bowl sat, ready, should he need it. His head pounded and he closed his eyes. The Musketeer - Albert? had placed a pillow beneath his arm to support it and the ache was tolerable, if he did not move too much.
Outside, he heard the sounds of the Garrison coming to life. These were battle hardened men, but he felt safer, somehow, than he had ever felt.
Closing his eyes, he had a sudden thought;
Aramis. His name is Aramis.
He let sleep take him.
To be continued ...