Greetings! Thank you to all readers and reviewers for the last chapter.

So, what about that wretched fever?

CHAPTER 48

Aramis' assumption that they were likely to face a long night proved to be an understatement. Twice more the soldiers of the garrison, all volunteers through the late night hours, fed the fire in the kitchen to keep the water hot, restocked the wood basket in the infirmary to keep the room warm, emptied and then refilled the bath so that the Inseparables could concentrate upon tending their own.

Tréville was never far away, ensuring that tasks were done to make life easier for Aramis and his brothers, but he soon realised that his supervision was unnecessary for the men – his men - carried out their work with quiet efficiency. He wished that they would make more noise, that a spoken word, the thud of an empty wooden bucket on the floor, the latch of the door or even a cough would penetrate Athos' awareness and that he would finally begin to stir.

So he remained unobtrusively in the background, not wanting to intrude as he perched on a table where Aramis had laid out spare dressings and bandages to use after each bath. He watched and he waited, unable to drag himself away from the activity and knowing that he could never rest whilst the battle against Athos' fever – perhaps for life itself - played out in the infirmary. Aramis and Porthos had easily slipped into a care regimen, knowing intuitively what each was about to do. Their words were reserved only for Athos as they maintained a low commentary, explaining to their insensible brother what they were doing for and to him, constantly reassuring him, anxious not to cause him any additional discomfort as they manhandled him yet again into and out of the bath. Aramis soaked him gently with the tepid water and Porthos dried him with a tenderness that had Tréville's breath catching. Few were privileged to see this side of the powerfully built Musketeer with his big hands and strength that could fell an opponent with one well-directed blow.

The Captain turned his attention to d'Artagnan. It had been a surprise when the established trio had quickly assimilated him within their tight-knit group, especially after his accusation against Athos as murderer, but his subsequent efforts to set aside his bereavement to assist the others in proving Athos' innocence had stood him in good stead and earned their undying gratitude and respect.

It was still early days in their relationship but he was responding to their combined tutelage and there was no doubting his growing fondness and admiration for Athos as his mentor, eager to please him at every turn as the vastly superior swordsman honed the Gascon's existing skills with the weapon.

Now, though, the boy looked lost, fearful at the sight of the man whom he held in such high esteem brought so low. Athos had been silent and still for far too long so that even Tréville found it unsettling. He was used to the younger man's economy of movement and words but the apparent hovering between this world and the next proved too much and he longed to see a disgruntled roll of the eyes, hear a frustrated sigh and witness the casual stance as Athos leaned against a wall with arms folded across his chest, listening to some valuable information.

D'Artagnan had helped after the first bath but now he seemed withdrawn, afraid to make physical contact with Athos and content to leave the care to Porthos and Aramis. Perhaps, like Tréville, he thought his presence would be intrusive so, frowning, he busied himself with maintaining the fire to dry dampened sheets, disposing of soiled dressings, plumping the pillows and smoothing the coverlet before Athos was replaced in the cot.

It was nearly midnight and they were trying to motivate themselves for the fast-approaching fourth bath when the change came.

The men had fallen silent. Tréville remained in his place in the shadows, Porthos was fighting the sleep that tried to claim him whilst Aramis sat, hands clasped together, head bowed, and eyes closed in prayer. It was d'Artagnan, slightly removed from the tableau around the bed, who noticed it first and edged forward to check if his eyes were deceiving him.

"Aramis!" His urgent whisper alerted all three men. "Is Athos sweating?"

Immediately, Aramis was on his feet and bending over his stricken brother as Porthos snapped awake and moved a candle closer.

There was no doubting it. A sheen of sweat coated Athos' skin, his hairline was damp, and more moisture gathered at his throat. His breathing, which before had been shallow and silent, was now more pronounced and audible as if panting. Grasping a limp hand in one of his, Aramis found it clammy. He laid the back of his other hand against Athos' brow first, then his cheek and neck.

"The fever's breaking," he gasped.

Now they were galvanised into renewed action as they spent the next hours sponging him down.

"Do you want to change his bed?" d'Artagnan asked at one point, grimacing in distaste as his hand came into contact with the sodden sheet.

Aramis shook his head. "Not much point when he's sweating like this. We'll wait until the fever's completely broken."

"An' you thought 'e hadn't got the fluid in 'im to sweat!" Porthos quipped, remembering what Aramis had said to the physician in the late afternoon.

"Well, even I can make mistakes," Aramis dared to joke, such was his relief that the terrible fever was at last breaking.

As the first fingers of dawn began to lighten the Paris sky, the mood within the infirmary was ebullient despite their exhaustion.

All four of them, Tréville included, had been involved and now, with the detritus of the night's struggle nowhere to be seen and the bath removed to its proper place in the garrison's bath house, they could at last relax. The fever had broken completely, and they had cleaned Athos for what they hoped was the last time.

With the bed changed, he was resting, his sleep natural and breathing pattern returned to normal. Aramis seemed to distrust the evidence of his own eyes and periodically laid a hand on Athos' brow to reassure himself that the temperature was as it should be and had not threatened to spike again. He redressed the wound, applying more honey and dared to believe that even that did not seem to be so angry. His final task had been to rebind the arms where the lay brothers had practised their blood-letting skills.

"And now we leave him to sleep and heal," Aramis announced with a smile and a lighter heart, flopping down onto the nearest chair.