A/N: Thanks for all of the encouragement! It's about to get more weird . . . hang in there! One more chapter after this. Thanks to Issai for her kind and critical eye. The mistakes all belong to me, the musketeers don't . . .
Athos had tried to push their pace after the slow start to their morning, but it was clear after only a few hours of riding that none of them were up to it. Their wounds troubled them and the chill, damp air left their bodies cold, cramped and exhausted. A short stop in the afternoon had left them far from rested as their muscles protested the motion of dismounting and then rebelled as they attempted to set a small camp fire to accompany their meal. The short break became longer as D'Artagnan slipped into a fitful sleep slumped against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos seemed untroubled by the boy's presence, remaining stiff and still as he tried to force himself to take full breaths past his painful ribs.
D'Artagnan's mind had remained quiet, no sign of anymore waking dreams. The medicine Aramis had given him was potent in its undiluted state, dulling the senses along with the pain. The effects kept D'Artagnan sitting on his horse, but his body was lethargic and his mind in a fog. It was better than the pain he would be suffering without it, but none of them were comfortable with the idea of keeping D'Artagnan in that state for long. At their meal stop, Aramis had used the medicine again, but this time brewing it with tea, knowing it would be less effective, but also would cause less confusion for D'Artagnan. He had dosed himself as well, tamping down the pain in his side to a dull ache and allowing his muscles to relax slightly despite the stiffness from the cold day. They roused D'Artagnan and remounted, none of them relishing another night of open camping and hoping to make it to a village with an Inn, or at least a barn, where they could spend the night indoors.
They rode silently through the well-worn forest track, their usual conversation stilled by weariness and the mental effort to keep themselves moving forward. The late fall sun never grew strong enough to truly push the chill from Aramis's bones and he rode now with his blue cloak pulled about him trying to keep the shivering at bay. At some point Porthos had noticed his discomfort and pulled up his horse alongside him in order to drape his own cloak around Aramis's shoulders. The two men said nothing, but Aramis gave Porthos a gracious tip of the head and Porthos merely clapped him on the shoulder before dropping back to his position at rear guard.
In the late afternoon they finally emerged from the forest as the path they were following widened and then joined to a muddy road through the winter-brown fields of Picardie. Athos had hoped they'd make it as far as Soissons that night, but it was clear they would fall far short of that. They pulled up their horses at the next crossroads, dismounting to take care of their personal needs while Athos considered which route to take.
Aramis slipped a green glass bottle from his saddle, popping the cork and taking a long swallow, the spicy pinot noir sending some comfort and warmth into his chest and limbs. He moved beside Athos, who was lost in thought, and with a slight nudge to his arm to get his attention, passed the bottle to him. Athos gave him a questioning glance, and Aramis knew full well that he was wondering where the wine had come from.
"I saved one," Aramis offered with an innocent shrug.
Athos shook his head but accepted the bottle nonetheless, tipping it upwards to take a deep drink.
"You always have the remedy for what ails me," Athos said, giving Aramis one of his rare smiles as he returned the bottle.
Aramis returned the smile with a nod of his head, as his eyes scanned the edge of the road for the return of Porthos and D'Artagnan. "What do you think?" Aramis asked as he gazed into the distance.
"Night will fall soon, no sense pushing on much further. We are not up to our usual pace," Athos answered, his tone neutral. Aramis knew him well enough to know he was not angry with their slow progress, only taking it in as a fact to be cataloged and mentally adapting his plan to fit their circumstances. It was one of the things Aramis admired in him as a leader. He had no issue putting their care and comfort to the forefront of his decisions, Athos just took that on as part of his duty. Aramis felt a chill pull through his body and pulled the doubled cloaks tighter around his frame. The gesture did not go unnoticed by his friend.
"How do you fare?" Athos asked. Aramis turned to his friend to find a serious look in Athos's steely grey eyes that brooked no patience for anything less than the truth.
"The wound troubles me a little, but not overly so," Aramis answered honestly, "but it is this cold, damp day that brings me misery," Aramis blew a sigh through pursed lips and turned pleading brown eyes to Athos, "Find me a fire, a hot meal and a warm bed, mon ami, and I will be forever in your debt."
Athos snorted and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly in a soft smile, "You say that enough it will take more than forever to pay it off," he quipped, reaching to take the bottle again from Aramis's hands.
Aramis watched Athos's gaze drift passed him and turned his head to see Porthos and D'Artagnan making their way back to the horses. Porthos moved stiffly, an arm wrapped around his torso as he instinctively protected his sore ribs, while his swollen face looked worse from the bruising that had settled in over the day. D'Artagnan moved slowly too, head hanging as he picked his way through the field and back to the roadway. The boy had been unusually quiet and Aramis wondered if the pain in his head was becoming overwhelming again.
"Well?" Porthos's question was just shy of a grunt.
"We'll head north," Athos replied, "It's out of our way, but Vervins is close and I'm tired of my horse."
Porthos replied with what might have been "good" and took the bottle of wine from Athos, taking a long swig before handing it back. He moved to his horse without further conversation, checking the tack and clearly signaling he was done lingering here.
Aramis reached out a hand toward Athos, a gesture for the return of the wine bottle. Athos looked slightly offended, but Aramis nodded toward D'Artagnan, who was standing by his horse, motionless and gazing out across the field. Athos handed it over and Aramis, who stepped quietly up to the young Gascon's side.
"How's your head," Aramis asked, offering the young musketeer the bottle of wine.
"Hurts," D'Artagnan replied, ignoring the bottle and keeping his gaze out toward the empty fields, "Do you think that she's alright?" D'Artagnan questioned.
"Who?" Aramis asked, watching D'Artagnan's eyes track something in the distance. Aramis turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with D'Artagnan, his sharp eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of life.
"I don't think that's safe," D'Artagnan said, concern tingeing his voice, "She could fall."
Aramis looked again, seeing no movement short of the wind rocking the tops of the pines at the edge of the field. Aramis shifted his gaze back to D'Artagnan, noticing the lines of worry etched along his brow as he struggled to see. His body tensed and he took a step forward, raising an arm and calling out "Hey!" toward whomever it was he thought he saw.
Aramis put a hand to D'Artagnan's arm, stopping his forward motion. D'Artagnan looked back at him in surprise.
"Aramis, she needs our help," he was breathless and urgent, "She's up too high. I don't think she can get down."
"She's fine," Aramis said calmly, hoping to pull D'Artagnan's focus away from whatever he thought he was seeing, "Don't worry. Everyone's alright," he repeated, stepping closer to D'Artagnan and meeting his worried gaze with as much calm and reassurance as he can muster.
"No! She's going to fall!" D'Artagnan shouted, trying to pull himself free from Aramis's grasp, "What's wrong with you? Let me go!" D'Artagnan's shouts had brought Athos and Porthos to them, Porthos reaching out a hand to steady his young friend.
"Easy, easy," the big man said, not sure what was going on but certain that he didn't want a repeat of this morning, "Let Aramis help you."
"No! It's not that," D'Artagnan's face twisted into a visage of frustration and pain, "It's her . . . She. . . ahhh. . . " D'Artagnan trailed off as he scrunched up his face in agony, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead and wincing in pain. He doubled over and might have fallen had not Porthos gotten a hold of him beneath his arms. Athos and Porthos shared a look of concern with Aramis, everyone uncertain about what was happening and what to do.
"D'Artagnan," Aramis's voice was authoritative but kind, attempting to grab the young musketeer's focus. He passed the wine bottle back to Athos and took up D'Artagnan's head in his hands, gently trying to raise his face so he could see his eyes. "D'Artagnan, what is it?" he probed.
"Like a knife," D'Artagnan gasped, "a red-hot knife slicing through my head." His breaths were ragged and he continued to press desperately at his forehead.
"Let me help you," Aramis said, but got no real response as the pain seemed to overwhelm his young friend. "Porthos, can you get him to the ground?" Porthos nodded, and despite the pain in his ribs, took a knee and brought D'Artagnan gently down with him, letting the boy lean into him as he sat heavily. "Athos, get me a damp cloth, and bring the water skin too," Aramis continued. Athos was off without another word, favoring his wounded leg as he made his way to his horse.
Aramis winced from the throb of his own wound as he squatted before D'Artagnan. He reached forward and pushed D'Artagnan's head back so it rested against Porthos's shoulder. Aramis slipped his hands between D'Artagnan's arms to take his head again in his hands, lacing his fingers carefully around the back of D'Artagnan's head and letting his thumbs rest on the boy's temples. Careful to avoid the contusion on his skull, Aramis applied gentle, steady pressure to D'Artagnan's head, pressing more firmly with his thumbs into his temples. D'Artagnan whimpered, but let his own hands drop, one of them finding Porthos's strong grip to hold on to against the pain.
"Sssshhh," Aramis soothed, "Try to relax. Take steady breaths." Aramis continued to firmly grip D'Artagnan's head, pressing even more deeply at his temples and making small circular motions with the pads of his thumbs. In a few minutes D'Artagnan's gasping breaths slowed down, and he began to breathe more deeply and regularly. Aramis slowly let up on his grip around D'Artagnan's skull, finally letting one hand slip behind the boy's head to gently cup the back of his skull while reaching for the damp cloth Athos had brought to him.
"Keep your eyes closed," Aramis told D'Artagnan, and then placed the folded cloth over his eyes, lightly pressing his hand over it. D'Artagnan let out a long, shuddering sigh and Aramis felt the weight of his head fall more firmly into his supporting hand. Aramis held that position for a few minutes until the ache in his side became unbearable.
"Athos," Aramis breathed, nodding toward the now still Gascon. Athos understood immediately, squatting down beside Aramis and helping him to gently lay D'Artagnan's head against Porthos's shoulder. Porthos let go of D'Artagnan's hand and snaked up his arm to take the cloth and keep it pressed firmly against D'artagnan's forehead. As soon as he knew D'Artagnan was secure, Aramis fell back with a wince of pain, wrapping an arm protectively around his side and rolling down onto his back. Athos was there to soften his landing and he gave his brother a moment to catch his breath against the pain.
"I should look at that," Athos told him, still maintaining a tight, supportive grip on the marksman's arm.
"Merciful God no, not right now," Aramis panted, "I'm freezing enough as it is." With a hand from Athos, Aramis struggled to a sitting position and managed to slip his hand under his shirt and doublet to feel the bandage. "The bandage is dry, no stitches pulled," he pronounced, working his hand back out from under his clothes. "It'll be fine enough until we get somewhere warm and dry."
"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Athos prodded, reluctantly shifting his attention from the wounded marksman.
"Yes, right enough," D'Artagnan breathed, reaching up to take the cloth from beneath Porthos's restraining hand. Porthos released it and D'Artagnan wiped it over his face before forcing his eyes half open to glance up at Athos. "My head is pounding, but it's not as bad as before," he cast his gaze to Aramis, "Thank you."
"No worries, mon ami," Aramis smiled at him, "Just a trick I picked up to better handle Athos on his more miserable mornings." Athos glared at him, but the marksman could see the smile behind his friend's eyes.
"Are you up to riding," Athos asked the boy.
"I can manage," D'Artagnan replied, "What about Aramis?"
"I could lose both legs and still be able to sit my horse," the marksman supplied with a cocky smile.
"Let's not put that to the test," Athos stated, pushing himself up to his knees and then using his good leg to get the rest of the way up. "Mount up. We'll find someplace warmer to spend the night," he said, offering Aramis a hand to his feet. Aramis gratefully took it, and then the two of them guided first D'Artagnan, then Porthos back to a standing position.
"Go on with ya," Porthos said, shooing them toward the horses, "The state we're in, we'd lose a battle to a goat boy if he found us out here." The reference to the goat herder made D'Artagnan stop in his tracks and turn back.
"The girl!" he exclaimed, searching frantically across the landscape, a hand over his eyes to shade them from the lowering sun. Athos glanced back at Aramis, a question in his face. Aramis just gave him a shake of the head, telling him there was no girl.
"I can't see her," D'Artagnan said, worry creasing his face.
"She must have run home," Athos said succinctly, "Come. As Porthos so eloquently pointed out, we are quite vulnerable at the moment."
D'Artagnan paused another moment, then shrugged his shoulders and made his way back to his horse. Aramis was waiting with more of the foul medicine, this time swirled into the last of the wine. D'Artagnan drank it without question and then Porthos was there to give him and Athos both a leg up, before hauling himself up into his own saddle. They set off at a slow walk again, this time following Athos on the northern track toward the sleepy village of Vervins.
The orange ball of the sun was settling into the arms of the distant mountains when the four weary riders made their way into Vervins. It was a quiet town but large enough for an Inn, a welcome sight to Aramis who had taken to shivering again once he was back on his horse. The cold and damp had settled in his bones. He considered he could be getting sick, or worse, that his wound was infected. But he didn't feel fevered. His side ached with a hot, dull throb but that was hardly unusual given the strain he had put on his body. He found the cold far more overwhelming. He just wanted to be warm again.
They pulled up rein outside of the modest tavern, each sitting a moment to figure out how best to get off their horses. With groans and winces they all made it to the ground. Athos passed his reins to Porthos and staggered inside to arrange for lodgings for themselves and the horses. Aramis noted his limp was more pronounced. His stoic friend of course would say nothing, but Aramis knew his leg must be troubling him after the day's long ride.
Wearily they started removing their weapons and gear from the animals. Athos reemerged from the Inn, followed by a teenage boy who began to help with the horses. Aramis spared a glance to D'Artagnan who was leaning heavily against one of the hitching posts, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. Aramis had been concerned that another crippling headache would overcome the young musketeer and it looked like one was blooming. Worry spread across the marksman's face as he considered D'Artagnan's symptoms. Blows to the head were tricky, but this blinding pain and the waking dreams were nothing any of them had experienced before. But they all knew of soldiers who had never been the same after a severe head wound. Some forgot who they were, or their personalities turned to something dark and unrecognizable, and some just lost their wits and ended their days in a befuddled cloud. There was little more Aramis knew to do for a head injury than what he had already tried and experience suggested few physicians would have any better ideas either.
"Aramis," Porthos rumbled beside him, startling him from his dark thoughts, "get yourself and D'Artagnan inside and warmed up. It's makin' me colder just looking at you."
Before Aramis could respond, a strangled cry pulled everyone's attention to D'Artagnan. He was leaning against the hitching post, eyes wide and staring out into the night, one arm outstretched as if reaching for something just outside his grasp. Even in the rapidly dwindling light, Aramis could see D'Artagnan's face was racked with pain, as tears tracked down his cheeks.
"Father!" D'Artagnan cried out, the sound more of a heart-wrenching sob that just a mere word as it echoed through the empty streets. The musketeers rushed to D'Artagnan's side as the boy collapsed to his knees crying out again and reaching to something only he could see.
Athos was at his side first, skittering down beside his protégé with a painful grunt.
"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan, stop it!" Athos had him by the shoulders, grasping him tightly and holding him upright, "There is nothing there, D'Artagnan. Nothing is there." Athos's voice was stern and commanding, the voice of a leader who expected to be obeyed.
D'Artagnan whimpered and pushed ineffectively at Athos's arms, trying to free himself from the swordsman's grip, "It's my father," D'Artagnan called out in desperation, "He's right there," D'Artagnan's eyes all but begged Athos to let him go, "He's right there, Athos," he pleaded, "Let me go!"
"Your father is dead!" Athos's voice was loud and angry, "He can't be there, D'Artagnan. He's dead! Your mind is playing tricks on you. Stop this!" Athos was practically shaking the boy and D'Artagnan cried out and drew his head down into his hands in obvious pain.
"Enough Athos, enough!" Aramis's voice was hard with worry, but Athos glared up at him. Aramis expected to see rage in his eyes, but instead he saw fear - Athos was terrified of what was happening to D'Artagnan. Aramis painfully knelt beside his friend, softening his voice and putting a hand to Athos's shoulder, "You are hurting him. Please," he pleaded, "Stop."
Athos locked eyes with Aramis, but kept his iron grip on D'Artagnan who was all but collapsed and in obvious agony. It was Porthos who intervened then, leaning down to place his hands on Athos's shoulders, whispering in Athos's ear.
"Leave him go," Porthos said softly, "Give him to Aramis," he patted Athos on the back, encouraging him, "C'mon Athos," his quiet voice demanded, "Let 'im go."
Athos suddenly deflated before their eyes, loosening his grip on D'Artagnan who slid to the ground, curling in on himself as he pressed his hands against his head. Athos let Porthos help him stand and the big man placed an arm around his shoulders and a hand around his arm. Aramis reached out to gently grip D'Artagnan by the shoulder and shared a look with Porthos - I've got this one, you take care of that one they silently communicated. Porthos led Athos back toward the stables, while Aramis hunched over D'Artagnan.
"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?" He asked. The boy gave him no response, just lay curled on his side his head cradled in his own hands, "Alright," Aramis soothed, keeping ahold of D'Artagnan in case either his words or his physical presence was somehow registering, "It's alright. I've got you. You'll be fine."
Aramis knew he needed help to get D'Artagnan to his feet, and if he was being honest, he wasn't sure he could get himself up at this point with the way that the wound on his side was aching. Luckily the innkeeper had made his way to the threshold when the shouting started and the stable boy was still standing beside Aramis's mount, his mouth slack at the scene he had just witnessed. Help was at hand.