Real quick, I want to say thanks to the guests who've left reviews, I can't follow the footprints you left behind, but I sincerely appreciate your taking time to leave a review! To Sarah - I did not purposely *borrow* from Mulan and having only seen the movie once, long ago, I can't figure it out. I'd love to know what line it was! And dg101 - hope you enjoy the rest of the story too.
"You can at least curse, you know," Aramis advised, as he shoved his hair back out of his eyes yet again with the crook of an elbow. "This is going to take awhile."
A week – it had been a whole week before Athos' concentration had slipped. Fortunately he had not injured anyone, though it had been a close run thing when the sting of the slash had snapped him back to his senses and instinct had brought his own rapier up for the killing blow. He had pulled back only a hairsbreadth from murdering the youthful Musketeer.
Athos knew himself to be his own worst enemy. He was still drinking far too heavily; today it had fogged his mind and dulled his senses.
"Here, maybe this'll keep that mop outta the way." Porthos stripped the kerchief off his own head and Aramis straightened from where he was bent over Athos, sewing up a long, shallow cut by the light of half a dozen candles.
Porthos ran his fingers through the thick hair, drawing it back from the high forehead and affixed the kerchief, tying it off beneath the curling wave at the back.
"That does help, thanks. Can you find something to wipe my hands on? They're getting too slippery to hold the needle and I need the wound cleaned again. Dunk whatever you find in the boiling water."
"He's a devotee of that Hildegard von somethin'-or-other woman. Boils everything," Porthos observed as he looked around the room.
"Hildegard von Bingen," Aramis clarified.
"Towels in the cupboard," Athos directed, from between clenched teeth. "Never heard of her."
"Not unusual. I met her whilst studying at the abbey. Which is to say, I studied her writings on medicine. She lived and wrote a few centuries before us."
Porthos found the towels, whistled appreciatively at their luxurious thickness, and plunged one in the large kettle of steaming water on the floor close to Aramis' feet.
"Cooking implements by the fire in the other room. What does boiling have to do with anything?" It hurt like a thousand bloody thorn pricks getting stitched up like this, but it was not so painful as to be debilitating and watching Porthos bungle about slamming doors and drawers open and closed while he tried to make shift for what Aramis wanted was no end amusing.
"Oh, good idea." Porthos disappeared out the door of the bed chamber.
"He's worried; it makes him clumsy. She wrote that it changed the infection rate in wounds. I've seen similar results, so I make use of it."
"You are a pair of duennas, clucking over me like this is a death sentence when it's barely a scratch."
"A scratch that turned into a tear that's now going to take an hour to be stitched because you refused to stop when I told you to. Instead of a clean cut, you've torn an assortment of jagged edges that must be put back together like puzzle pieces. And in case you hadn't noticed, you're bleeding copiously. If you'd let me stitch it straight away back at the garrison, it would have been clean and neat and done with. Now it's going to look like hen peckings."
Aramis had cleaned away the sweat and blood and grime that had mixed with the salve, and didn't mind the further cleansing of the profusely bleeding wound, but not sewing it up immediately had increased the risk of infection tenfold.
He was pulling out every trick he knew to keep that from happening. "Bring a bottle as well," he hollered for Porthos' benefit, "don't care what it is, so long as it's alcohol."
Porthos reappeared with a long-handled toasting fork in one hand and a bottle in the other. He set down the bottle, fished the towel from the kettle, let it hang at the end of the fork for a few moments, then jerked if off and wrung it between his hands before handing it over to Aramis.
Athos thought it still had to be plenty hot, but the big man hardly seemed to notice.
Aramis wiped his hands and handed the towel back to Porthos, who dunked it again, and this time, rather than wring it out, lifted and squeezed it only lightly before applying it to the wound.
This drew a hissing curse from their patient, though Athos remained still as a statue as Aramis took a second towel, soaked it with the bottle of Bordeaux Athos had brought from Pinon and pressed it against the wound as Porthos lifted away the first bloody towel.
"That hurts."
"Then act like a human for God's sake! Curse, rail, yell. Porthos cries like a baby. I have to knock him out to sew him up. He'd probably enjoy the opportunity to be on the proffering end of insentience."
Porthos's grinning face appeared in Athos' line of vision, since Aramis smacked him every time he moved. "Want I should knock ya out?"
"Thank you, I'll pass."
Aramis kept the wine soaked towel pressed to the cut until the blood began to seep instead of weep. "Was this by way of punishment?" he asked suddenly. He had seen no overt signs of religiosity in the comte, nor were there physical signs of abuse, though not all who practiced the art of self-flagellation took it as far as scarring themselves.
"Punishment?" Athos echoed. "Are you asking…" he did not finish the sentence, though his eyes flicked to Aramis. "Never mind. Whatever you're asking the answer is no. This was by way stupidity."
"What happened?" Aramis had not been in the courtyard to witness the incident. He'd been called from the armory to see to the wound, though Athos had allowed him only to salve and bandage it before returning to his lessons.
"Arrogance."
"Strangely, despite your circumstances, despite the fact you ooze an aristocratic poise from your very pores, you are the least arrogant male I know. Try again." Aramis, stitching away, did not see the complete and utter surprise on Athos' face.
Porthos did, and casually turned away so as not to discomfit their new sword master. For despite that oozing aristocratic poise, Athos was a man who'd had his self-confidence knocked galley west. He displayed little emotion beyond a bit of guarded response to humor, and that, Porthos had observed, was mostly to be seen in the eyes. The man was a closed book; the Musketeer thought it could be a long time before anyone cracked his covers and stretched his spine enough to make him readable.
His chilly demeanor was mocked nightly in the mess hall, particularly by the crowd who still thought themselves far superior to the man they deemed an itinerant sword master. It had taken every ounce of control on Porthos' part, and a good deal of kicking under the table from Aramis, to keep his temper in check. It angered him further that Tréville, who usually nipped anything like it in the bud, let it go on.
It was not his business, as Aramis also kept reminding him, but Porthos was not minded to stay out of it much longer. He did not leave his friends to suffer alone, though he had never run up against anyone as reserved as the Comte de la Fère.
He swirled the bloody towel in the hot water with the fork before fishing it up to wring out again.
On the bed, Athos cleared his throat, as though some obstruction had temporarily blocked his airway. "It was arrogance," he repeated without inflection, "I let my mind wander and thus let my guard down."
"Personally, I think it was less about arrogance and more about being hung over." Aramis set the last stitch with a grateful huff and turned to rinse his hands again. "Though I suppose there could be some arrogance in thinking your sword play in that condition is as good as ever. It's not, you know. I've watched you when you have a clear head – you're brilliant. And your mind does not wander. Hand me that salve," he said to Porthos, "and the bandages, please."
Porthos gave him a dry towel first, then handed over the required items.
"Brilliant," Athos repeated.
"Brilliant," Aramis said again, matching the inflectionless tone. There were times that tone irritated him so intensely he wanted to grab this new friend and shake him until words and emotions flowed out of him naturally. Because he was certain there was a wealth of both behind the inscrutable blue gaze and the nearly seamless lips.
"Have you even pulled out your parrying dagger? When you're sober you could beat any one of us, and probably a host of us together, with one hand tied behind your back." He smoothed the salve on, careful of his neat handiwork, and laid a piece of linen over it, the salve acting as a sticking plaster as well as sealant for the wound. "But we'll call it carelessness then, and have done."
Athos refused to rise to the bait this time. "That smell …" he began, only to trail off, one hand reaching for the locket he wore inside his shirt. Except the fine cotton lawn shirt had been used to staunch the wound in the immediacy of the moment and now lay atop the pile of dirty clothes awaiting the laundress's tender ministrations. Questing fingers met the chain, but the locket, Athos realized, was under him, lying on his side as he was, and Aramis was watching with open interest. He dropped his hand to the bed.
"You're likely smelling violets." Aramis, long a student of human nature, saw the eyes go opaque and knew this would not be a moment of revelation, though he could guess at the contents of the locket. Tréville had mentioned a dead wife – Athos was young to be a widower, but it would certainly explain the missing pieces of his soul if he'd lost a beloved wife at such a tender age. "The salve is a compound of violets and heartsease mixed with olive oil and set with tallow to give it substance. Also courtesy of Madame Hildegard."
Strange that none of them were old, yet neither were they young anymore. Physical age had little do with the age of the soul, Aramis reflected silently. "Can you sit up a little?" he requested.
"Move, and I will sit up so you don't have to bob and weave." Athos swung his feet to the floor, wincing as the stitches pulled uncomfortably. "Porthos," he began, but the Musketeer was already holding a shirt.
"Thought you might want this when Aramis is done with you." Porthos has collected a clean shirt from the cupboard where he'd found the towels. "There's food in the other room too. Serge sent over supper."
Athos stopped the swinging locket and lifted both arms so Aramis could wrap the linen bandage around the wound and tie it off.
Aramis sat back on his heels when he'd finished and Athos allowed Porthos to drop the shirt over his head. The healer leaned forward again when this was accomplished, placing his hands carefully and lightly on Athos' knees.
Aramis could feel the recoil, but did not move his hands. Like breaking a horse, his brother would have said, the more you touch them, the quicker they get used to it. He tapped a knee when the blue gaze remained fastened to the hand wrapped around the locket and waited until it came up to meet his own.
Athos had opacity down to a science, one saw only what he wanted you to see.
Aramis refused to let it freeze him out. "I don't know how familiar you are with medicine, or the cause and effect of a wound like this. The body cannot make up for the blood you've lost on its own, it needs your help, which means you need to eat and sleep like a normal person for a few days at least. Since, by all appearances, that concept is foreign to you, you're right, Porthos and I are going to be like a couple of old duenna's. Fussing and clucking over you until you are so sick and tired of us, you'll eat and sleep just to get rid of us. Or," he moved his hands to his own knees and rose, slowly, keeping their gazes locked so Athos' head came up, "you can eat with us now and I can drug your wine and put you to sleep with or without your consent." He offered a hand up, just managing to hide his surprise when it was accepted and Athos rose as well, though with a bit less than his usual fluidity.
"No messing about with swords for several days either," Aramis admonished.
"If they're not practicing every day, your Musketeers will regress," Athos replied evenly.
"Then we'll have Porthos drill them. Better yet, you can pair us off and critique, but only from a convenient bench. You are not allowed to be on your feet all day."
"What's the difference between standing and lying down?"
"If you haven't leant that difference yet," Aramis, the lady-killer, grinned suggestively, "all I can say is – it comes to all of us eventually."
Rather than the not-quite-a-smile inane humor occasionally triggered, the hand went again, without volition, to the locket. Aramis stifled his sigh and turned the comte toward the doorway. "Come and eat so I can drug you."
Dinner, because Aramis made it so, was a riotous affair after that, with Aramis and Porthos playing one-upmanship as they shared their most ridiculous pranks.
Athos drank steadily, never thinking that the liquor laced with drugs would put him into a sleep so deep it would likely reawaken the nightmares he had only just managed to chain up in his subconscious.
What neither Athos, nor Aramis had considered, was the effect of the combination. In the midst of the hilarity, Athos told them he'd had a wife.
tbc
A/N: In case you're interested, there was a real Hildegard von Bingen who lived in the 12th Century. She was a German abbess and medieval mystic who composed music and wrote books on all manner of things, including health and nutrition and medicine. Below is the recipe for her salve that Aramis uses in this chapter.
Hildegard salve
Enough fresh violets or heartsease to produce 4 tbsp. of juice
1 tbsp. cold pressed olive oil
1 ¾ oz. sheep's tallow or lard