Chapter Thirteen

Having been appraised, Treville joined them when Doctor Lemay had taken his leave.

"Thank you, Captain, for sending for the doctor. He's a good physician," Aramis said, as they all took their seats in the small room.

Porthos was tucking Athos in, making sure his arms were tight to his sides once more to ensure his shoulders were comfortable, even though he was still unconscious. Meanwhile, d'Artagnan carefully placed a pillow under Athos's knee and ankle.

"Like this?" he asked Aramis, who gave him a warm smile.

"Just like that," Aramis replied, his voice fond.

d'Artagnan smiled and took his place next to Athos. After a while he tentatively reached out and picked up his hand.

"Do you think his finger will heal?" he asked, looking at his other hand.

"We've all 'ad broken fingers, lad," Porthos replied, "It's the least of 'is worries."

"He's strong," Treville said. "He's had worse."

d'Artagnan didn't want to ask what could possibly be worse than this, and so he held his peace.

When Serge came in with a flagon of wine a little while later, followed by his lad, bearing food, they were all engaged in telling tales of skirmishes and injuries. Being the oldest, some of Treville's tales were truly horrifying, but d'Artagnan suspected he was embellishing some of his stories just to turn his stomach, which seemed to be working, until Aramis gently brought them back by standing and leaning over Athos, talking quietly to him and pushing his hair from his forehead.

After that, their vigil became more serious as reality settled and the night drew on.

oOo

Treville quietly left at dawn to take care of duty, leaving two of his men asleep on their chairs, the other determinedly awake, watching over his still-senseless brother.

"How long will you wait, until you call Lemay back?" Treville had said, hand on the door handle.

Aramis scratched his head and sighed.

"I have no idea," he said. "It's not something I want to contemplate."

Treville nodded.

"You'll know," the Captain answered. "And if you don't, I'll tell you."

Aramis nodded, as Treville pulled open the door.

"Make sure you get some rest, Aramis," he said, and then he was gone.

oOo

Later:

The table was littered with trays of uneaten food.

It had been a long night.

Athos had developed a fever during the morning, the hair that Aramis pushed back from his forehead becoming more damp by the hour. This though, was something they could deal with. The interminable silence and waiting was what drove them to distraction.

So, when Athos started to thrash, Aramis was ready.

"Hold his arms! Don't let him raise them."

d'Artagnan and Porthos slipped to each side of the bed and did as they were bid. d'Artagnan wrapped his hands around Athos's upper arm, clamping it to his body.

"Get your hands off me, dammit!" Athos yelled, with such force that d'Artagnan lifted his hands up.

"He doesn't mean you," Porthos said from his side of the bed as he tightened his own grip. "Take hold."

d'Artagnan quickly resumed his position, as Athos emitted a low groan.

"Water," he murmured.

d'Artagnan looked up at Porthos and then at the water jug standing on the bedside table, to Porthos's left.

"Again," Aramis said behind them, as he dropped a cloth into a basin of cold water, before wringing it out and crossing toward them, looking d'Artagnan in the eye, "He doesn't mean you."

"But," d'Artagnan argued, "How do you know he's not thirsty?"

Aramis folded the cloth and dropped it on Athos's forehead, holding it firmly in place with one hand. He reached out and peeled one of his friend's eyelids back.

"Because he is not with us," he replied, tersely.

Even in his current state, Athos was strong, fuelled by the heat in his blood and images in his mind.

When the fever finally abated a few hours later, and their friend gradually went lax, they all had a better insight into what had happened in that barn. Quietly, exhausted and a little lost for words, they changed the bedding and retreated to the table.

They were beginning to wonder aloud when they should call Lemay back. Athos had not woken but he seemed to have settled and exhaustion crept slowly over them.

At some point before noon, d'Artagnan and Porthos had slept a little, waking to insist that Aramis take to a spare bed in the other room. They had been politely refused. As usual, Aramis would work himself to the point of collapse before he finally took their insistence, under threat of force, seriously and slept.

Once he laid his head down, with Porthos standing over him, he did fall asleep almost instantly. d'Artagnan took the opportunity to slip out and see to their horses and fetch ale. They would eat the food when their appetite returned.

oOo

Aramis woke with a jolt some time later and, disorientated, looked around.

Remembering where he was, he stretched and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Porthos had left the door ajar, and he could see Athos, still lying motionless in his bed. Porthos had left him a bowl of water, piece of soap and a towel, and Aramis smiled as he saw the items. Standing, he pulled his shirt free and lifted it over his shoulders, throwing it behind him onto the bed. Dipping his hands into the water, he splashed his face and then soaped his hands, before scrubbing at his face.

As he towelled his face, he heard movement and looked up. Porthos was in the doorway.

"Thought I 'eard you. Sleep alright?"

Aramis tossed the towel aside and reached for his shirt.

"Remarkably, yes," he said. "Thank you. I sometimes don't realise how tired I am."

"Exhausted, more like," Porthos replied, giving him a look that brooked no argument.

"Exhausted," Aramis agreed, looking past him toward the smaller room.

"Still out," he said.

"Yeah. Hasn't moved," Porthos replied. "Now you're up, I'm goin' for fresh sheets."

"Good idea," Aramis murmured, not taking his eyes from Athos.

"He won't wake just because you're starin' at 'im," Porthos said. "You know what a stubborn bugger he is."

"He is a challenge," Aramis agreed, looking down at the shirt he was holding in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time and shucking it back on. Smoothing it down, he wrinkled his nose.

Porthos laughed, softly.

"I'll see if I can find you a clean one," he chuckled.

"That will require negotiation with the Laundresses," Aramis offered, looking doubtfully at his friend. The women were a formidable team.

"I'll just tell them it's for 'im," Porthos joked.

"That would work. But he does need a shirt," Aramis replied. "For when he wakes."

He suddenly looked a little bereft, and Porthos put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You go and sit with 'im," he instructed. "I won't be long."

Aramis turned and picked up a basket filled with strips of bandages Lemay had left and walked into the room, taking his place on the chair once more. Watching Athos breathing while he continued to quietly wind the strips into rolls was oddly soothing and for a precious few moments, he forgot his surroundings, lost in his task.

Outside, the sound of the Garrison in full flow filtered through the window. The clash of steel on steel could soon be heard, together with the unmistakable sound of Treville's voice, barking orders.

Life went on, Aramis thought, even though in this room, it had stopped.

Looking down, he saw that he had completed his task. Three rolls of bandages now lay neatly in the basket, without any conscious effort on his part. Outside, horses were being moved around in the yard, and the rumble of wagon wheels filtered through. Aramis placed the basket on the bedside table and crossed to the window, watching the activity from the silence in the room. He could see d'Artagnan talking to Jacques in the stable doorway and Treville now in close conversation with Serge, the latter nodding as Treville ran his finger down a page in the old man's supply book.

Little by little, he realised the atmosphere in the room had shifted.

He felt himself being watched.

Allowing himself a soft smile, he slowly turned around and saw Athos was looking at him; his forehead crinkled in confusion.

"Well, you took your time," Aramis said softly, leaning back on the window sill. Taking a deep breath, he crossed his arms, the chill around his heart easing at last.

Athos remained silent for a long moment, before his forehead eased and he took an unsteady breath.

"So did you."

Aramis's head jerked up, but the expression on Athos's face belied the bluntness of his words, and stole the sharp response from Aramis's lips.

For Athos never took them for granted. He never quite expected to be saved. Even when they had saved him from execution, his response had been a mere quip. Though his eyes always said more.

As they did now.

They had all learned to read him. If he was ill, or hurt, it was best to catch him in the early part of it, as he was not patient with himself. Infinitely patient with others, he fell short by his own standards with regard to himself, they knew now.

He did not suffer fools gladly, and they did like to play the fool.

He would allow himself to be wound-up for so long, but would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms when he had had enough, and usually, if they knew what was good for them, they complied.

However, Athos's guard usually came down once he realised he was in the care of his brothers. After an initial trade-off at least.

So now, they had him for a short while. They could tease and cajole, care for him and love him, be grateful for his return to them and gently bring him back. Then, when the time was right, the signal given, they would retreat, and let him be.

Aramis walked quickly to the bed and reached out, taking Athos's hand, which was given freely.

This was his favourite time with Athos.

The worry of the last few days melted away, as he very carefully brought his hand up and placed a kiss on his abraded knuckles.

Athos tightened his fingers into a gentle squeeze and they let the silence fall around them.

Finally, Aramis straightened and gently lowered his hand.

"You look terrible," he said, softly.

His bruised eye had remained partially closed, the lid swollen.

Athos gave him a semblance of a smile, given his various swellings and bruises.

"I imagine I do," he replied, quietly, still watching.

"Can I get you anything?" Aramis brightened, the atmosphere a little heavy for him.

"I have it all," Athos replied, a smile in his eyes.

Aramis reached out and smoothed the sheet.

"The others will be here soon."

"I know," Athos murmured. They would not be far away. They never were.

"Athos ..."

"Rest easy, Aramis," Athos interrupted, firmly. "All is as it should be."

Athos did not allow soul searching. He knew how destructive that was, and would seek to save his friends from it, even it he could not save himself.

Aramis searched his face but found nothing that contradicted his assertion.

It would be time to eat soon. They would help him; the abused muscles of his shoulders would scream in protest. And then they would settle him for the day.

The window of opportunity was closing now. Soon, their help would be politely refused, the boundaries remarked.

They had tonight though, safe in their brotherhood. Tonight they would eat and drink and tell stories. They may, if lucky, make their dear friend laugh. A rare treat.

As Aramis tucked the blanket a little closer around him, Athos shivered.

"Cold?"

"Someone just walked over my grave," Athos murmured.

"It wasn't me," Aramis smiled. "I wouldn't dare."

To be continued ...