CHAPTER 26

By the time Aramis made sure the ten stallions were securely staked out along with Roger, Flip and Fidget, Porthos had a small fire going, the bedrolls laid out, Athos installed on top of one, a pot of water warming on the fire and food stuffs piled to one side. Before joining his brothers, Aramis grabbed his own saddlebags, which contained the medical supplies he would require to patch up Athos.

As he waked over to their little camp, Porthos, who had been stroking the fire, stood. "I'll go hunt some fresh meat for dinner." With that, he headed off into the woods leaving Aramis and Athos alone.

Aramis tested the pot of water warming on the fire and then moved it further from the embers as it was sufficiently warm to remove dirt, but not so hot as to remove skin. "While I make ready my supplies, I need you to strip, please."

Athos remained still, not moving a muscle to comply with Aramis' request.

"Come now. Don't be shy. This isn't the first time I have stitched you up."

If anything, Athos seemed to hunker down more, even though the only things that moved were his eyes, which swept over Aramis disdainfully before settling on the horizon.

"I could call Porthos back to assist you in undressing if you'd like." Aramis paused as he spread out a few items on the bedroll next to Athos. "But I doubt either one of you would enjoy the experience."

The eyes darted from the horizon to glare at him, then turned themselves once more to the distance.

With a large sigh, Aramis said, "Athos…" but he was cut off by a swift, single question.

"Why?"

The marksman, who'd been squatting, dropped fully to the ground and draped his long arms over his knees. "Why what?" When Athos didn't speak, Aramis said, "Why am I insisting you take your clothes off so I can examine your wounds? Well, it is simply easier that way," he mildly joked, suspecting that wasn't Athos' real question.

Athos' eyes dropped from the horizon to study the ground near his feet. While they were hooded, Aramis could see enough to know Athos was seriously troubled by something.

"I have a feeling, I haven't answered the right question. So, I will ask once more. Why what?" This time Aramis did not make any jokes, but went silent, waiting for Athos to speak up of his own volition.

For a long few moments, the only sound was the water bubbling in the stream beside them. Finally, Athos raised his unsettled green eyes and studied Aramis. "Why did you and Porthos come to rescue me when it was expressly against Roudon's orders. You didn't need to worry. I would have died before I revealed anything about France to the Spaniards."

Aramis could barely prevent incredulousness from creeping into his voice. "You think we came to rescue you because we were afraid you'd betray France?" He shook his head slowly with disbelief. "Did it ever occur to you, we rescued you because you are our friend? And that's what friends do? Have you not heard us say one for all and all for one?"

Athos adverted his eyes once more, this time to stare at the grass. "You went against direct orders…"

"...from an idiot, as would have you if it had been Porthos or me in the same situation. Or at least I hope you would."

That got Athos' attention and he raised he eyes once more to look at the marksman. "Of course, I would. You can trust me to always have yours and Porthos' backs."

"Then why can't you trust us to have your back, Athos?" Aramis asked bluntly, but not unkindly. When he got no answer, he continued. "Someone has hurt you in the past. Broken your trust. And because of that, you figure the rest of humanity will treat you the same. But Porthos and I are your friends and that means something, at least in our eyes. We won't betray you or leave you behind. You, my friend, are stuck with us."

Speaking in a slow, pain-tinged voice that was only partly attributable to his wounds, Athos said, "Trust is a weapon. And it has been used against me. I have found the best defense against it is... indifference."

Aramis felt sad for the man sitting next to him with such a deep-set fear of intimacy. It spoke of a man who had been betrayed not once, but many times. Aramis knew the taciturn man was not comfortable enough to talk over his trust issues openly with him, but Aramis hoped over time that would change.

"I'm sorry. Whatever hurt you in the past, I can't change. But I can listen. If that helps." Aramis paused to allow the swordsman to talk, but as he suspected, the man remained silent. "When you are ready. But I can promise you that Porthos and I will always have your back. Oh, I'm sure in the course of our friendship we will infuriate you at times, but I also hope we will make you feel happiness and lighten your heart."

"I am not sure I am deserving of that," Athos muttered under his breath.

"I'm not God and so I won't presume to decide what you deserve, though from what I have seen, under that cool exterior you present to the world beats the heart of a kind and compassionate man. What I offer you is an unwavering, until death do us part, friendship, which given how often we get into trouble might be sooner then we wish. You aren't my blood brother, but you are a brother of my heart, and I will carry that to my grave."

Silence settled over the area again but if Aramis hoped that Athos might chose to open up to him some more, he was going to be disappointed. He watched as Athos withdrew into himself once more. But that was alright. Aramis felt he had placed his cards on the table. Maybe one day Athos would feel comfortable enough to lay down one of his own cards. But for now, it was time to move on.

"Alright, if you wouldn't mine removing your shirt, we can get to the business of cleaning up your wounds."

Reluctantly giving in, Athos struggled out of his billowy shirt. "I think you enjoy poking holes in my flesh with that needle of yours," he declared when his head was free of the garment.

"If you would avoid getting sliced open, there would be no need for my wonderful needlework," Aramis parried.

"I shall endeavor to remember that sage piece of advice next time the enemy is trying to skewer me."

Aramis grew quiet as he examined the wounds on Athos' upper body. "The cuts on your sides, old and new, are not deep. They require no stitching. The bullet wound on your right arm passed through cleanly, however, I'd like to make a poultice for it. I suspect an infection is brewing. I won't stitch it now, but maybe tomorrow. You're using it too much and it is not going to heal that way. Of course, if you will let me put it in a sling for a few days..."

"Not happening."

"…then stitching it is. The slice on your left bicep also needs a stitch or two to keep it closed. Your hand please."

Like a naughty child about to be slapped for a misdeed, Athos reluctantly held out his hand and Aramis gently began to examine it.

"This is nasty, ragged. What was it made with?" he inquired as he examined the wound.

"A stick," Athos replied succinctly.

"Amazing it was able to pierce the hand like that. He must have used some force."

With a little rueful grin, Athos explained, "He had whittled the end into a point. Still, it was…unpleasant when he drove it through my palm."

"How much movement do you have in your fingers?" Though Aramis was doing his best to keep his voice even, he was worried about damage to the tendons in the hand, a devastating injury for an expert swordsman like Athos.

Grimacing, Athos slowly and painfully showed Aramis he could move each of his digits. By the time he was done, a light sweat shone on his contorted face and he was slightly panting.

Compassionately, Aramis place a comforting hand on Athos' forearm. "My friend, you are truly blessed by God to have such a horrible injury with no damage to your dexterity. I believe you will retain full use of your hand if we stave off any infection, and you force yourself, no matter how painful, to keep stretching your fingers."

At the mention of being blessed, Athos' face clouded over and Aramis realized he had inadvertently hit another one of Athos' sore spots, God. He and Athos in their short acquaintance had already had numerous conversations on the subject. Aramis was a firm believer in the Almighty and His power and His mercy. Athos firmly believed he was destined for the depths of hell. For what, Aramis and Porthos weren't sure, but they were sure Athos considered himself dammed.

Wisely, Aramis decided now was not the time or the place for a theological discussion, so he shelved his lecture and went about slathering the swordsman's hand and arms with a poultice and then binding them with clean cloths. When he was finished, he rocked back on his heels and studied Athos' torso, which was covered in a multitude of colorful bruises. Fearing broken ribs, he knew he had to explore the bruised areas.

"I'm sorry. This isn't going to be pleasant, but I need to check if any of your ribs are broken."

"I don't think so," Athos offered helpfully, not at all eager to have the medic touching his abused torso.

"Well, if you are wrong it could end your life if a rib punctures your lung. As your doctor, I can't let that happen on my watch."

"You are not really a doctor," Athos felt obliged to point out.

"Closest you are going to find to one out here in the great wilderness. Now hold still. This is probably going to hurt."

Aramis placed one hand on each side of Athos ribcage, starting at the top, and slowly made his way down towards his hips, testing each rib as his hand passed over it. Athos had bowed his head, letting his hair, which had grown long again, fall to either side of his face shielding it from view.

"You need a haircut, my friend," Aramis said conversationally as he examined Athos' ribs. "Scruffy is sexy, or so the women tell me. You, however, are way past that point."

About a third of the way down his torso, Athos began to shake and make unidentifiable muffled noises. When Aramis was nearly done, he felt drops of moistures hitting his hand.

"I know. I'm sorry, Athos. I don't mean to hurt you," Aramis said sympathetically. Finally, he reached the last rib and let out his breath which he hadn't realized he was holding. "We're done my friend. You were right. Miraculously, none are broken.

Even though the ordeal was over, Athos kept his head bowed and was still shaking slightly. Concerned, Aramis requested, "Athos, look at me." When the swordsman wouldn't comply, he reached over and, placing a few fingers under the Athos' chin, forced the man to raise his head. When his face came into view, Aramis was expecting to see it contorted in pain. What he did see surprised him.