Aramis cautiously looked down through the brush covering the cave entrance, seeing a group of mounted men, hoods covering their faces, entering the clearing below. They spread out, searching intently all the way to the edges of the open area. The way they were searching gave him hope that they had seen no leftover tracks after the rain, that they were simply searching everything that came across their path in hopes of picking up a trail.
The masks intrigued him. The fact that they were disguising themselves at all could mean that they might be men the Musketeers would know, or maybe could give away who had hired and sent them. He supposed it was possible that they just didn't want anyone to describe them to the authorites if they were caught. But he didn't think this group was out on their own tracking down Musketeers. No, there was money and purpose behind the continued pursuit of them. He continued to have a niggling feeling that wouldn't go away that this was somehow personal.
It seemed like forever that they combed through the clearing. The crouch that Aramis was in to avoid being possibly seen was not doing the wound any good. Off and on stabs of what felt like fire had begun shooting through his side, causing him to stifle gasps from the pain. He could also feel a dampness gradually spreading wider, knowing he was bleeding again. He knew by now that he wasn't fooling d'Artagnan about his condition, but he didn't want to give his Gascon brother a reason to ask about it again. He also didn't want d'Artagnan straining his own wounded shoulder any more than he had to. He knew d'Artagnan was in more pain than he was letting on, too.
What he yearned for and needed was to lie down and give his body more rest than it had recently had, but with their pursuers in the area, that was out of the question.
It was as the hooded men filed out of the clearing and he could finally take a deep breath of relief, that he could feel an overwhelming feeling of dizziness come over him. Looking once more through the brush to ascertain that the men had indeed left, he slowly began to rise to his feet. He got about halfway, before everything faded to black and he slowly crumpled to the ground. As he fell, he vaguely heard his brother's alarmed voice calling his name. Then, he heard nothing at all.
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Athos and Porthos continued to be frustrated. The old comte had insisted that they stay for supper and then overnight, as he said he wouldn't have his return letter for Louis finished until morning.
"We can't lollygaggle around here in luxury while our brothers could be lying wounded and alone," Porthos said to Athos in a furious undertone, when they had closed the door to the elderly nobleman's study behind them. "The old man just wants company. Because he's lonely, he's risking two lives!" not even voicing the 'what if' of their brothers having possibly already lost their lives.
Athos, just as upset as Porthos but far better at concealing it, responded in the same barely-heard tone. "Porthos, I understand, believe me I do. But we would be defying the King were we to take off before we were given the return letter and dismissed by the comte. It is our duty, mon ami, much as we may wish we were elsewhere right now. Aramis and d'Artagnan know that, and would do the same."
"Duty won't have their backs, Athos. And duty won't bring them back if those hooded men kill them or take them off somewhere as captives."
Athos just gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, feeling the same way but knowing nothing else could be done at the moment. He just hoped his brothers had extricated themselves from the attackers and were holed up somewhere safe and in one piece.
Athos and Porthos, in more congenial circumstances, would have enjoyed the lavish supper they were served that evening: beef cooked to tender perfection, lamb in garlic, eggs cut in half and stuffed with peas, oranges or artichokes, a compote for dessert, and a botte le well-aged wine from the comte's extensive cellar. But under the circumstances, they barely noticed what they ate or the opulent surroundings in which they sat. The comte seemed hardly to notice, pleased with having company, and rattling on happily all through dinner. If he had been expecting leisurely conversation based on his comments instead of short replies, he never showed it.
When supper was finally over, the Musketeers politely refused to spend the rest of the evening enjoying the contents of the comte's wine cellar in his study, excusing themselves by saying (hoping it would be a hint to the garrulous comte) that they needed to make an early start back in the morning.
Next morning, getting up and ready early, they found that the comte was already up to see them off. His servants had come to escort them to breakfast, and the comte had given them his finished letter promptly when they had all finished.
"You have brightened the past day for me with your presence," he told them. "I only have one son who almost never visits any more unless he wants an advance on the quarterly funds that I give him. I rarely have visitors. This was a treat to entertain both of you as my guests. Thank you for your patience in indulging me. It has truly been a pleasure. I hope your search for your friends is a successful one. "
The two Musketeers gave him genuine smiles at this. They could hear the heartfelt sentiment in the elderly man's words to them.
Athos took the letter. As they turned to leave, the comte surprised them again with his next words.
"I do not know what has happened in your past, nor will I pry, but I have observed, Athos, that you have an aristocratic manner. well-spoken and knowledgeable. I believe you to be as high-born as myself. May you someday find the peace of heart you are searching for," and turned, walking away when had he finished speaking, obviously not expecting any reply.
Athos and Porthos just looked silently at each other before heading out the massive front entrance to their horses, held in readiness at the bottom of the steps by two of the comte's grooms. The man could read them far better than they had realized. Their respect at his parting words now made the enforced time spent there a little more bearable.
Mounting, they immediately headed off at a gallop in the direction from which they had come, hoping their growing unease would prove unfounded.
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D'Artagnan, when he saw his brother sag silently to his knees and then to the ground, nearly shouted out his name, before at the last moments limiting himself to a quiet call. They believed the men had completely gone, but they still needed to be cautious. Racing the few steps to his brother's side, he gently turned him over, swearing to himself when he saw the blood-drenched doublet.
"I knew it!" he said softly. "Oh, Aramis! Why did you hide this from me?"
As carefully as possible, he eased his brother out of his opened doublet, then his shirt, trying not to disturb the wound any more than possible. It was low on his right side, still sluggishly bleeding.
He didn't want to move Aramis any more but he needed to see if there was an exit wound. Taking him gently by the shoulders, he eased him up and partly over. But even that small of a movement caused an anguished moan from the marksman, whose eys still remained closed. D'Artagnan's shoulder also protested vehemently and painfully at what the Gascon had just forced it to do, but he just tried to ignore it for now. His brother needed him.
When he saw that there was no exit wound, d'Artagnan's shoulders sagged. 'The bullet is still in there,' he said the himself, fear pulling at his heart at the possibility of blood poisoning from having been left in for so long now.
He told himself, 'That bullet has to come out now. You've never removed a bullet 're not a medic. But our medic needs me to be one for him now.'
Taking a deep breath, acknowledging a little fear at the prospect before him, he slowly pulled his main gauche from its sheath, and laid it in the small fire they had made earlier.
Then,he used a small piece he tore from the bottom of his shirt to wipe away as much of the blood as he could, not having any water to use. The cloth was as much as he could do to prepare.
Pulling the glowing red knife from the fire, he turned back to Aramis, only to see his brother's eyes open watching him. When he saw the knife, his eyes widened, but he slowly nodded in resignation.
Aramis could see that d'Artagnan was very apprehensive about what he was about to do. He himself felt that it was too late, but his compassion caused him to say, "You will do fine, d'Artagnan. You've watched me do this more than once. I trust you, mon ami." His voice was so weary and soft, d'Artagnan still hesitated, not wanting to hurt him more.
Aramis slowly lifted a hand to lay on his brother's arm. "Just do it...for me. I trust you," he said again, as his hand fell back to the dirt and his his eyes closed.
D'Artagnan hurriedly laid an ear against his brother's chest, listening for a heartbeat. It startled him when Aramis' voice sounded again. "I'm still here," with the barest hint of humor in his words.
D'Artagnan drew a shuddering breath of relief before finally bringing the knife down to the edges of the wound. He took yet another swift breath before inserting the knife as carefully and gently as possible into the ragged opening, but no amount of carefulness could prevent the cry that came from the wounded man. D'Artagnan froze, hesitant to continue.
Then, he heard Aramis' voice reassuring him. "You're ... doing fine," he whispered, in beween little gasps of breath as he found some inner strength to calm his breathing. D'Artagnan marvelled at that. 'It should be me reassuring him,' thought the Gascon,as he readied the knife once more above the wound.
"U...use your ...fingers," Aramis' voice came again, instructing him. "Easier... to feel wh... where...it is."
'That's why we trust him with our lives,' d'Artagnan thought, as he no sooner switched to his fingers in the wound before he felt the metal of the bullet.
It seemed to be trapped by something,he thought, and he tried several times before finally pulling it free. Aramis' body spasmed several times in spite of his attempting to keep still, as the maneuvering at last resulted in a slightly mangled blood-covered bullet finally leaving his body.
Once the operation succeeded, Aramis seemed to collapse, his head rolling to one side and his body stilling. D'Artagnan once again checked his heart, relieved to hear the slightly unsteady thump.
He realized he still had work to do. Tearing more of his shirt into strips, he bound the wound securely, before leaning back with his hand laying on Aramis' shoulder and taking a shuddering breath of there was no sign of the hooded men having returned. Grateful that the clearing was empty and no sounds of horses or men came to him, he returned to Aramis' side, again checked his heartbeat, then lay down beside him, his hand still laying on his brother's chest. Within moments, he was fast asleep, exhausted both physically and emotionally from the day's events.
The cave's occupants at last could rest in the silence surrounding them.
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Aramis and d'Artagnan were sound asleep when their brothers rode quietly into the clearing a couple of hours later. They had picked up the trail of the hooded men back at the ambush site,and had followed them. Looking around the clearing, everything looked peaceful and quiet. They could see that the men they had been following had searched the clearing by the hoofprints, but no sign of their brothers was to be found. Sighing, they decided to continue tracking the group of riders once more.
After another quick look around to make sure none of group had split up as they had moved out, they left the clearing, totally unaware of their hidden, sleeping brothers some distance above them in the cave on the hill.