A/N: Thank you for the reviews and follows! That made my morning. :) You are wonderful humans. Thanks to Issai for all of her help making this actually readable. The mistakes remain all mine.
D'Artagnan knew he was awake because he was in pain. His eyes were still scrunched closed and his head burrowed in the crook of his arm beneath the blanket, but he could not pretend anymore that he was on the edge of sleep. The dull ache was bad but manageable, but now a sharp fire was beginning to bore into his skull behind his eyes – piercing his mind like a thin stiletto.
He needed help. He needed Aramis and one of his bitter teas that dulled the pain. He needed Athos and a cold cloth over his eyes. He needed Porthos and the big man's strong grip to steady him against the pounding in his head. He knew all he had to do was call out, but despite his injuries, he still had his pride. He was at least going to make it out of his bedroll on his own.
D'Artagnan slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting the blanket fall away as he cradled his head in his hands. The voices of his friends talking softly nearby were muffled whispers beneath the cold breath of the wind rustling through the trees. He turned his head toward them, forcing his half-lidded eyes to focus. The small campfire between them flickered weakly against the misty morning, providing little cheer and no warmth to combat the chill in the air. Colored leaves were scattered around the camp, glistening with frost and dampening the sounds of the forest. The stillness was unnatural, the low laugh of Porthos out of place. The sharp pain in his head was intensifying, vibrating in his skull with a shrill whining note pushing out all of his thoughts. D'Artagnan squinted against the pain, biting his lip so as not to cry out. This was wrong. He'd had head injuries before but never like this, never one that threatened to split his head in two. Fear clenched D'Artagnan's stomach and his hands started to tremble. What was happening to him?
An unexplainable urgency to rise suddenly tugged at him, prickling his skin with a sense of danger and foreboding. Using the sword by his side as a prop, he forced himself to stand on unsteady feet. His head swam and images dissolved around him. He closed his eyes lest he lose his balance completely and tried to draw long breaths past the throbbing fire in his head. As he fought to regain his equilibrium he heard it - the unmistakable whisper of steel against steel as a dozen blades were pulled from their frogs. Despite the pain, D'Artagnan forced his eyes open and scanned the campsite. There, just at the edge of the clearing, a force of bloody and battered men were silently emerging from the woods, rapiers already drawn. The mercenaries had caught up with them in the night. Aramis and Porthos were caught up in their conversation; Athos's eyes were to the fire, lost in thought. They were defenseless and unaware as the attackers raised their weapons to strike. With a cry of born of fear, rage and pain, D'Artagnan swept up his blade and charged, heading for the nearest attacker and hoping his cry was enough to alert his friends to the danger.
Athos raised his head in alarm, trying to get to his feet, but his wounded leg betrayed him and he only managed to get to a knee. The clang of swords and frantic shouts rose around him but D'Artagnan could only focus on the enemy moving swiftly toward Athos. The attacker reached him first, a hand grabbing a fist of Athos's dark hair and pulling back his head. He raised a dagger to slice across Athos's exposed neck, a mocking smiling curling on his lips as he knew D'Artagnan would be too late. Athos called out D'Artagnan's name, reaching toward him. The mercenary's blade trailed a red line across Athos's throat and Athos's face dissolved into a mask of shock and horror. Rage and terror boiled in D'Artagnan and he raised his sword above his head to strike at the attacker whose hands were bathed in Athos's blood.
As his sword fell, a large, powerful hand caught his wrist, stopping the motion of his downward stroke and using his own momentum to pull him further forward and off balance. With a cry of pain and surprise D'Artagnan fell, torso and legs tangling with Athos's body to land in a heap. D'Artagnan struck his head on the ground, his vision swimming but he had no choice but to rise. He struggled to gain purchase, but someone pulled his rapier from his hand while somehow he was rolled over onto his back. Someone straddled his chest, attempting to restrain his hands and pin his arms to the ground above his head. He fought as another pair of hands grabbed the sides of his head, preventing him from continuing to thrash. D'Artagnan breathed heavily against the throbbing ache in his skull and felt his energy flagging as he tried weakly to break free of the men pinning him down. As fatigue of the struggle began to wear at his strength, D'Artagnan was aware of the piercing, fiery pain in his head subsiding, and the noise of the battle receding. Someone was calling his name.
"D'Artagnan!" he heard again. The commanding voice familiar, demanding, urgent and completely impossible.
With great effort D'Artagnan opened his eyes to find Athos's face above him, full of worry and anger. D'Artagnan blinked at him. It couldn't be. Athos was dead. His mind was playing tricks. "No, no, no" he felt himself saying, attempting to shake his head but the hands holding his temples forbade it. He struggled again but Athos – the man sitting on him – easily kept him pinned. Confusion flooded D'Artagnan's mind. He panted in pain and fear, not sure what was happening. "You can't . . ." he stammered, "You're not. . . . you're dead! He cut your throat . . .!" D'Artagnan's voice cracked and he felt hot tears filling his eyes.
"I'm right here," Athos answered, tense but calm, "Right here. Just breathe. Calm down," Athos himself was breathing heavily but kept his gaze steady, his eyes locked on D'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan met the icy gray stare, confused but feeling the panic quelling. He took several deep breaths as Athos did the same, both of them slowly relaxing. D'Artagnan felt fear and rage dissipating, replaced with an overwhelming sense of relief. Athos was not dead. Somehow he had survived. D'Artagnan couldn't help but let a small sob pass his lips as tears leaked from his eyes and slid down the side of his face. Athos's gaze suddenly turned soft and D'Artagnan could see the worry in his eyes as he gazed down at him.
"Hey, it's alright," Athos breathed, "You're alright." D'Artagnan felt Athos release his arms, and then Athos's calloused hand was on his cheek, "I've got you. We're both fine. We're fine." The hands holding his head released him and D'Artagnan was able to give Athos a slight nod, bringing his own hand up to grip his friend's forearm and taking strength from the solid, steady body beneath his grip. D'Artagnan tried to smile at the relief of his friend being whole and well, but he couldn't reconcile it with the horror he had seen of Athos having his throat cut.
"I . . . I'm not . . ." D'Artagnan was too overwhelmed to speak, and whimpered instead against the conflicting images playing in his mind, tears still falling freely down his cheeks. Suddenly the pressure on his chest released as Athos moved off of him, rolling to sit heavily on the ground beside him. D'Artagnan kept a hold of Athos's arm, not willing to relinquish the confirmation that his friend lived. Athos shifted his arm to return the clasp, his gaze not wavering from D'Artagnan's. Someone lifted his head and something soft was placed beneath it. Cool fingers stroked the hair back from his face and someone whispered soft sounds of comfort beside him. A damp cloth gently wiped the sweat and tears from his face, and D'Artagnan found himself finally calm enough to close his eyes and give in to the comfort being offered. Someone put a blanket over him, and then a reassuring hand settled on his leg. Athos still held his arm. Supported by his friends, D'Artagnan shifted his head slightly to the left and opened his eyes again, Aramis's worried face coming into focus above him. Worry or not, the marksman still had a soft smile ready for him as he placed a cold hand again to D'Artagnan's brow.
"Back with us?" Aramis asked softly. D'Artagnan gave a slight nod, not trusting his voice yet. That earned him another smile from the marksman and another question, "Anything else hurting besides your head?" he asked.
D'Artagnan took a moment to consider. Nothing else was hurting beyond the discomfort of the cold ground. "No," he answered softly, hoping his answer sounded more steady than he felt.
"I'm going to check for any new injuries," Aramis said as he shifted his hands to gently prod at D'Artagnan's head. D'Artagnan didn't mind the gentle hands running through his hair – it was soothing and was something else to bring him back to some semblance of a normal state. D'Artagnan winced when Aramis came in contact with the bump from yesterday's skirmish and he felt Athos's grip tighten in response, as well as the hand on his leg. Porthos, D'Artagnan thought, and let a thin smile slide across his face. Everyone really was alright. Apparently satisfied that there were no new wounds to be concerned with, Aramis released his hands from D'Artagnan's head but left one hand to press reassuringly on his chest while he reached for something beside him.
"I'd like you to take some of this," Aramis said holding up a smile vial, "It will help the pain and anxiousness, but I warn you, it will be bitter. I'll give you some water after to wash it down," Aramis raised an eyebrow, waiting for permission from D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan was well aware of Aramis's unpleasant concoctions but the seriousness of his tone left him unnerved. D'Artagnan felt the best course of action was to simply comply. He closed his eyes and let his head roll slightly in what he hoped was a nod. The marksman placed a hand beneath D'Artagnan's head and raised him up as he tipped a small amount of the dark, bitter liquid onto his tongue. D'Artagnan wanted to gag and spit, but almost immediately a water skin was pressed to his lips and he drank heartily, happy to wash down the foul-tasting medicine and to soothe his dry throat. Aramis gently laid his head back on the folded blanket.
"Can ya tell us what happened?" Porthos's voice was a comforting sound and he felt the warm grip tighten on his leg.
"The mercenaries . . . from yesterday", D'Artagnan said slowly, still puzzling it out himself, "They found us. They slipped out from the woods while you were talking, you didn't see," D'Artagnan started to get agitated at the memory and he felt Athos shift his grip to clasp his hand, pulling it to his chest. "I called out a warning, but Athos . . . " D'Artagnan switched his gaze back to his mentor, "You didn't see him. He was right behind you. You called my name, but I was too late," D'Artagnan felt tears rising again as he relived the memory, "He slit your throat," D'Artagnan pressed his lips together, fighting the sob that was trying to rise up in his chest.
Athos shifted closer, putting his other hand to D'Artagnan's chest. "I'm fine, D'Artagnan," Athos's voice was full of reassurance, "There was no attack. No one was hurt. We killed those men yesterday."
"No!" D'Artagnan struggled to sit up, "No! They were there! I saw them!" Athos's calm face slipped into a look of distress and confusion. He shifted his eyes from D'Artagnan to Aramis as if beseeching the marksman to provide some relief for his friend. It was Porthos, however, who answered.
"Easy, there. Easy. We believe you," Porthos said sincerely, "But that head of yours. It took a hard hit yesterday. Remember that?" D'Artagnan's gaze softened as Porthos moved his hand from his leg and reached out to him instead. D'Artagnan gripped the warm hand in his and let Porthos help pull him to a sitting position. Athos shifted his grip on his other side and drew the blanket up around D'Artagnan's shoulders. He felt Athos's hand at his back, steadying there in case he felt dizzy or weak.
"You're hurt," D'Artagnan said, acknowledging Porthos's bandaged arm.
"From yesterday," Porthos replied, "Remember? Aramis patched me up when we stopped here for the night."
"I remember," D'Artagnan said quietly, sorting through the memories of the ambush.
"And remember your head? You could barely see straight when you got off your horse," D'Artagnan had to acknowledge that too. The ride after the battle had been fuzzy, but stopping he remembered. Along with the horrible throbbing pain in his head. He had been weak and dazed still. Doing little more than take care of the horses before he had to sit down.
"Well, you know how head wounds can be," Porthos continued with a reassuring hand to his shoulder, "Nightmares, bad sleep, even hallucinations," Porthos smiled at him, "You were restless all night. I woke ya twice at least. Aramis before that. You saw those attackers, I'm sure. I've wrestled the dead. We all 'ave." Porthos's words were meant to bring comfort, but still, something was not sitting right with D'Artagnan.
"I know," he replied, "I know, but . . . but this was different. It was so intense, so real. I could hear them and see them," D'Artagnan looked around at the concerned faces of his friends, "I know I wasn't dreaming. I was awake. And I know it couldn't have been real because . . ." he trailed off, not able to say anything about having witnessed Athos being slaughtered, "So what's wrong with me?" D'Artagnan turned pleading eyes to Aramis, "What's happening?"
"Nothing that some rest in a warm bed won't fix," Aramis smiled reassuringly, "You're exhausted, in pain, your head is concussed – your mind does not know what end is what. The medicine I gave you will help, just trust us, alright?" D'Artagnan bit his lip. He wanted to say more but his friends looked so worried and Aramis's eyes were full of exhaustion behind the comforting smile he had tried to give him. D'Artagnan had to admit that his head was feeling slightly better, the pain reduced to a steady, dull throbbing and not the piercing fire that had shot through him before. His body was relaxing too, whatever Aramis had given him was settling into his limbs as well.
"Alright," D'Artagnan reluctantly agreed, not wanting to further worry his friends, "I'm sorry for scaring everyone." His reply was met with smiles and reassurances.
"You stay put, please," Aramis said, "We'll get the camp sorted and get ready to ride. I'll get you something to eat." D'Artagnan sincerely doubted his stomach could handle it, but he did not want to cause anyone more worry. His friends made their way back toward the horses, Aramis momentarily reappearing with bread and cheese.
As the pain receded and his body relaxed, D'Artagnan began to reconcile himself to the facts. The head wound was severe, and he had seen things that weren't there. He just hoped that Aramis was right and that after some rest he would get better. The thought of living through another episode like this was terrifying but if this was a permanent condition? D'Artagnan did not think he could live with that.