Happy New Year to you all. May 2020 be generous to you and peaceful.

Thank you for reading and commenting upon the last chapter.

CHAPTER 42

It was a labour of love undertaken willingly and without hesitation. When Aramis and Porthos were left alone with their stricken brother, their work began.

Athos lay on his back, quiet and unmoving as Aramis cleaned the right side of his face, beard and hair.

Porthos reached for another cloth.

"You wash and I'll dry 'im," he said softly.

Aramis merely nodded his thanks as he stripped back the sheet to begin washing his friend's lower torso and legs, one small area at a time. He and Porthos worked on grimly, their silence broken only by muted words as Aramis asked Porthos to move a lifeless limb. From Athos himself, there was no response.

Aramis dare not communicate his fears to Porthos but his mind was racing. Extensive blood loss and the raging fever were dangerous enough in themselves but the blood-letting and purging to 'stabilise' Athos' humours could have devastating consequences in the man's already weakened state. Aramis did not approve of either medical practice but he knew there were many who still held with such methods.

He was further disturbed by the range of herbal remedies that had been given for he had no way of knowing how much and in what strength the medicines had been administered. What had they managed to get Athos to swallow before he finally lost all consciousness? Perhaps he had had subsequent periods of awareness even if he had not been lucid and Aramis was worried that the lay brothers had poured more concoctions down his throat in a desperate but misguided bid to help.

He continued to work as quickly as he could for he knew he needed to look at the wound and although he was filled with dread as to what he might find when he removed the dressing, at least it was something with which he felt he would be more familiar given his own experience in the field.

"Can you turn him on his right?" he asked.

Porthos nodded and easily rolled Athos on his side, watching his brother all the time for any sign of reaction. Surely the movement would elicit something - but there was nothing still.

Taking a deep breath, Porthos held him steady as Aramis gently washed the skin.

Eventually, their work completed, Porthos gave a wry grin. "He smells a whole lot sweeter now."

"He'll smell sweeter still when we get this dressing off and remove the garlic paste Bartholomew applied," Aramis said, beginning to worry at the soiled bandage with a pair of scissors. It, too, bore the stains of body waste and blood but it held a dressing in place which, as it soon became evident, was stuck to the wound itself.

Aramis leaned on the bed, both arms straight, and hung his head as he breathed heavily. Was nothing going to go in their favour – or Athos'?

Porthos let out a curse and railed against Bartholomew and his colleagues for incompetence.

"If the wound has wept, it could just have easily done so for me had I stitched it," Aramis said.

Porthos' fury erupted. "Why are you makin' excuses for them? What 'ave they done to help Athos? They seem to have done ev'rythin' wrong."

Aramis shook his head. "They have made mistakes, yes, but had they not done anything at all, not been here to take him in, he would have bled out and been dead before that first night was through. I know you are angry with them; I am too but showing that anger and apportioning blame is not going to get us anywhere, and it certainly is not helping Athos. There will come a time when I will address with Bartholomew what he has done, perhaps even show him the error of his ways so that he does not do the same to another but right now, I am only concerned with Athos."

"You are too forgiving," Porthos countered.

"No!" Aramis was adamant. "Not right now. I have said nothing of forgiveness, not yet and if Athos …" His voice trailed off.

"He's not goin' back in that room," Porthos declared.

"What?"

"That room. 'E's not goin' back into it."

Aramis was confused. "I don't …"

"You ordered that room to be cleaned," Porthos interrupted. "But he's not goin' back into that room. He's not dying!" Dark eyes suddenly misted with unshed tears and he dipped his head to conceal the obvious show of emotion but not before his friend had already seen it.

"Porthos, look at me!" Aramis ordered and refused to continue until Porthos complied. "I had thought to give Athos some privacy, a space where we could sit with him without interruption, but he will not go back into that room, I promise."

The big Musketeer sniffed and nodded his approval even as Aramis soaked a fresh cloth in cold water and applied it to the dressing to wet it. He alternated between carefully peeling the dressing back and wetting it again, rivulets of excess water running down the reddened skin of Athos' hip and dampening the sheet on which he lay.

Eventually the wound lay exposed and the Musketeer brothers stared at it in dismay. Porthos knew the standard of Aramis' stitchwork from personal experience; it was neat and minimalised the resultant scarring. This effort, although holding the wound together, was made up of large, irregular stitching that was guaranteed to leave a permanently ugly reminder of events.

More worrying was the angry, red flesh and signs of a messy discharge. How much of this could be explained by the smelly garlic poultice remained to be seen but there was definite infection beneath it, the cause of which could have been dirt in the wound from the ride, a thread of ripped clothing or, heaven forbid, from the soiled bed in which they had found Athos.

"It's going to be a long night," Aramis said, trying to eradicate the resignation from his tone.

D'Artagnan appeared in the opening between two hanging blankets and smothered a yawn. "What can I do? And don't tell me to go back to bed. I've been tossing and turning and listening to you talking quietly."

"Sorry," Aramis gave him a wan smile. "It would help if you went to the lay brothers and asked if they have any honey, as much as possible. I'm going to have to take out these stitches and start again."

The young man grinned, relieved at being allowed to do something at last. "I'm on my way," and he disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Aramis crouched down, peered at and then gently touched the inflamed skin before covering one of Athos' limp hands with his own. "I will make you more comfortable, my friend, and then I need you to do something for me," he said softly to the unconscious Musketeer. "I need you to wake up so that you can drink some water and then you can scold me all you like for hurting you. I would even be satisfied with one of your most ferocious glares."