Athos marched, not to d'Artagnan's room, but to his own.
With his brothers' help he lowered the boy onto the bed as carefully as they could manage. Still it was not enough and d'Artagnan cried out, the first true cry since the start of his ordeal.
Aramis shed his cloak and hat swiftly, rolling up his shirtsleeves, his body moving with battle-trained swiftness.
They had prepared the room earlier: A fire was banked in the grate, warming a cauldron of salt water; Several clean towels lay ready, next to Aramis' surgeon's tools and bandaging; The bed was laid out with extra layers of covers so that dirtied ones could easily be removed, the cot itself dragged from the corner so that the three could move about it and their patient with ease.
Knowing he was useless when it came to doctoring, Porthos settled himself at the top of the bed, cradling d'Artagnan's head in his hands and smoothing the boy's hair. He helped to raise him as Aramis administered a tonic of laudanum, pinching d'Artagnan's nose to force the boy to take the bitter concoction. He coughed and swallowed, retching at the taste, but the tonic acted swiftly, sinking the lad into stupor.
First the Spaniard cleaned off the blood and sweat with a soft, wet towel, ignoring d'Artagnan's weak cries as the saltwater seeped into the cuts. Athos held the boy's ankles as he squirmed, hardening his heart.
Unable to free himself from their assaults and his mind succumbing to the dizzying effects of the laudanum, d'Artagnan fell to soft weeping.
Porthos shot his brothers a look of consternation, his hard-lined face gentled with worry. Athos gave the man a sternly encouraging nod before returning to his duties.
After the wounds were cleaned and exposed, Aramis began to close those that needed it. Athos acted as nursemaid, handing Aramis cloth or needle as he asked for it, or holding down the boy if a particularly deep cut required greater attention. Though the birch twigs had been cleaned, some flecks of wood had entered the cuts, requiring Aramis' deft work with a pair of tweezers to extract. D'Artagnan moaned and sobbed at those times, hushed by Porthos' soothing nonsense words and gentle hands.
Finally the worst of the cuts were sewn, and Aramis gave the whole lot another clean with the salted water before applying a generous layer of salve. D'Artagnan's hands and feet were wrapped in bandaging but the rest were left exposed. The fire would have to be enough to keep the boy warm tonight - he could bear nothing the rest upon his back.
When they were finished, d'Artagnan fell into restless oblivion. The sun was setting outside and none had eaten that day, but by unspoken consensus the three remained on watch over their brother. Athos sank into a chair beside d'Artagnan's head, one hand – now clean of the boy's blood – raised to cradle his own mouth in deep self-contemplation.
"It wasn't your fault," Aramis said softly from his place upon the floor at d'Artagnan's side. His eyes were darkly weary, filled with sadness that Athos was certain mirrored his own. He could not bring himself to reply, however, knowing his words would be poorly chosen and unjustly directed toward his companions.
A knock disturbed the brooding silence. Porthos crossed to the door, his bulk blocking d'Artagnan from the visitor's sight.
Antionne stood in the corridor, his hat in his hands. Upon seeing the boy's woeful expression, Porthos stepped aside to allow admittance.
"Tonight's duties have been posted," the Lieutennant said, his eyes staying on d'Artagnan for but a moment before swiftly looking away. He could not meet their eyes, turning his hat nervously about the brim as he spoke.
"Surely the captain has not ordered Charles to—" Aramis began, his indignant rage building swift as a forest fire.
Antionne shook his head. "I believe he would be that cruel did he think our brothers would allow him without revolt," he said, startling them with his candour. "However, you three sirs are all on duty tonight."
Aramis hissed his rage but caught himself before he spoke. Despite all they felt for the man, it was unseemly to speak ill of Henri before his son. Porthos ground his teeth together, stomping about the room in a short burst of furious energy. Athos simply sat, one hand carding softly through d'Artagnan's hair.
"If I might beg your favour," Antionne said in the frosted silence. "Might I be permitted to take your place here, at our brother's side until your return?"
Athos broke a smile at that. Charles was not the only remarkable young member of the Musketeers.
"He needs salve applying every hour," Aramis said by way of agreement. "Do not let him move, but if he wakes offer him some honeyed milk. The laudanum should last until the midnight bells at least, but should he need it give him no more than a spoon's full."
Antionne nodded, dutifully absorbing the medic's instruction. "I shall watch over him. Upon my honour I shall see he comes to no further harm."