Greetings, everyone. Thank you for the responses to yesterday's chapter. Slightly longer chapter tonight as I did not want to rush it. I have read this one carefully and hope no errors have slipped through.

So, is Athos waking up?

CHAPTER 46

I

"Athos?" Aramis tried again as he saw rolling eye movement beneath his friend's closed lids. "Can you hear me? Grip my hand if you can hear me!" He took Athos' nearest hand in his and repeated the instruction.

The wait was a torture in itself but then he was rewarded as, barely perceptibly, the fingers twitched and curled weakly about his.

"That's it," he encouraged and, as both he and Porthos watched, Athos' unfocused eyes opened a little.

"Hello!" Aramis greeted with a broad, silly grin. "It's about time you came back to us."

Even as he spoke, Athos blinked hard and his brow creased into a frown. No sound emerged as his lips formed a word; Aramis' name.

"Yes, it's me. Porthos is here too. We've found you and we're taking you home. Paris should be in view within an hour," Aramis explained as Porthos, at the mention of his name, shifted position so that he might be seen by his stricken brother.

For Athos, in his fevered state, there was only confusion and his face crumpled as he emitted a low keening sound. Shaking his head, he managed to whisper some disjointed, monosyllabic words, finishing with what might have been a sob but was nothing more than a croak. He was too dehydrated to shed a tear.

"No, no," Aramis corrected him urgently, hoping that he guessed correctly at what had initiated the distress, although Porthos was obviously puzzled. "We're here; we're real. This is my hand holding yours. Feel it," and he squeezed his brother's hand gently with the one hand whilst he stroked a burning cheek with the other. "This is me, I promise you. We're going home," he reiterated desperately.

He could not know if his words provided the much-needed comfort as Athos' eyes slid shut and his head rolled sideways.

"Aramis?" Porthos panicked.

"He's lost consciousness again," Aramis said, feeling the feeble pulse in Athos' wrist.

Porthos breathed out heavily. "What was that all about? I couldn't hear what 'e was tryin' to say."

"If I understood him correctly, he saw us and did not believe we were real. I think he believed he was hallucinating."

"Someone's goin' to pay for this," Porthos growled, venting his anger and helplessness.

"Someone will," Aramis vowed, although neither was in a position to say who they were going to hold responsible, how they were going to locate them and what might happen once those offenders were apprehended, but if the vague threat afforded them some consolation miles from Paris, they were satisfied.

"It's a good sign that 'e woke up though, isn't it?" Porthos asked, his eyes filled with hope and longing.

"Yes," Aramis lied. He was not going to dash Porthos' optimism by citing the countless times he had tended someone in the aftermath of battle, where they had woken and appeared lucid, only to fall insensible again and linger on for days in that state before breathing their last.

"'E just wasn't with it long enough to get 'is thoughts together," Porthos continued, more for his own benefit that anyone else's. He smiled down at his brother. "There are no more dyin' rooms, Athos," he declared.

Aramis reached across and laid a hand on the big man's shoulder. "No more dying rooms," he repeated. "Whatever happens, Porthos, he is not alone. We've found him and we're taking him home. We are together as we should be." He could not disguise the catch in his voice.

II

Tréville could not settle to his work.

He had returned from the palace with the King's physician, another new man of mature years whose name he had already forgotten. Louis persisted of late in selecting old men who tended him and the court briefly before retiring because of their own ill-health or having the temerity to actually die during their employment. The Captain knew nothing of this man's experience and reputation and could only hope that he had some understanding of battle wounds and resultant fevers. True, it was not a war situation, but Athos had had to battle for his life against one or more assailants.

The only solace was that Louis must have some confidence in the man to allow him to treat the royal person. No doubt the Cardinal would also have had a hand in checking the man's credentials to ensure that he was suitable.

Tréville had left the man in the infirmary with d'Artagnan. The Gascon was frantic with worry and it was clear that he needed a productive distraction so he had been tasked with aiding the physician, ensuring that everything was made ready, laying a fire in the hearth, setting out spare linens and liaising with Serge for buckets of cold and hot water, as well as procuring refreshments for their guest.

Once Aramis and Porthos returned with the injured Musketeer, there would be very little time for pleasantries.

From his office, Tréville had listened to the sounds of the garrison below his open window and whenever there was a lull or any change, he was out of the room and on his balcony, expecting to see the cart being driven through the archway and into the yard.

Restless, he went to the infirmary and searched hard for anything remiss, but d'Artagnan and the physician – what was the damned man's name? – had everything in order and they, too, sat in restless anticipation.

Next, he skirted the men training in the yard, watching their every move and picking them up on the slightest error, admonishing them when he thought they were being lackadaisical.

Then he realised that he was being unreasonable and muttered an apology unheard by anyone as he turned on his heel, went to go back to the infirmary, thought better of it and decided to invade Serge's kitchen instead. The men stopped and observed his departure but bore no resentment at his hard words for they knew him well and understood that their Captain was consumed by worry – and when he worried, so did they.

Word had spread after d'Artagnan's arrival and they knew that a desperately injured Musketeer was being brought home. It could not fail to affect them all. They did not know why Athos had been sent on a mission on his own, but it was enough that he had gone, and they had seen first-hand the impact upon his brothers and the Captain. The task was serious therefore and many had speculated on a link between his absence and the preparations for the forthcoming exodus to Versailles with its increased security.

Quickly banished from the kitchen by a short-tempered Serge, Tréville was now back at his desk and reading the document in front of him for the third time. Its content was making very little sense because of his lack of concentration.

At the sound of swift footsteps coming up the stairs and along the balcony outside the office, he looked up and was suddenly aware of the late-afternoon shadows lengthening in the room. Where had the time gone?

A brusque knock on the door was simultaneous with its opening and Claude, a seasoned Musketeer, stood at the threshold.

"Incoming," he announced and was gone again.

That one word was all Tréville needed. It was the sign that the guards on the gate had seen returning Musketeers appear on the road that led to the garrison. His chair scraped back, sounding loud upon the wooden floor as he leaped to his feet and hurried out of the room.

He took the stairs two at a time and had reached the hard-packed earth as the cart emerged through the gateway and came to a halt. In an instant, he took in the scene before him. Porthos, grim-faced, was jumping down from his seat and striding to the rear of the cart where Aramis moved. Other men were untethering the soldiers' horses and leading them away to give ease of access to the cart.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and Tréville took a deep breath as he stepped forward to the cart, his legs leaden as he feared what he would find.

Had Athos survived the journey?