AN – I had a request to include what had happened to Athos, so this is a slight interlude, before I tie up the loose ends.
Athos was not a man who accepted comfort easily. His breeding had taught him to be stoic in the face of adversity and set a good example to those he led. His training as a soldier conditioned him to ensure that his men were well cared for before he would admit to any infirmity of his own. His character meant that he resisted the least thing which smacked of coddling and that small, mocking voice inside his head which named him monster paradoxically both for not preventing the death of his brother and condemning the woman he loved to death made him feel undeserving of the least part of human kindness.
When he met Aramis and Porthos they had quite simply driven a coach and horses through all those defences. It had started with a hand on his arm that did not seem to notice when he flinched from the touch, a firm pat on the back which ignored the way he stood stock still, marvelling at the ghost of warmth on his back that was simple human contact. Then it had become deft hands caring in injury or illness, gentle, mocking humour, keeping him from getting lost inside himself and the steady comfort of their presence, on the battlefield, in the tavern, after nightmares. And now d'Artagnan's warm brown eyes had the strength to see right into his soul.
"It's bad isn't it?" d'Artagnan tipped his head on one side as Athos hesitated.
"It's nothing," Athos assured him. "A few cuts and bruises."
"You'll forgive us if, based on past experience, we don't take your assessment at face value." Aramis spoke from the doorway.
"If you want to be fit for duty those cuts are gonna need tending," Porthos added. "No telling what kind of muck was in that water."
Reluctant to entrust him to his own Spartan quarters they brought him to Aramis' more comfortable lodgings, putting fresh linens on the bed and setting a fire in the grate. D'Artagnan was dispatched to Athos' rooms to fetch clean clothes. Aramis arranged for the large bath tub to be filled with steaming water. Porthos went to the tavern to purchase a pot of Athos' favourite beef bourguignon and a stack of bottles of the best red wine the three friends could afford.
"Don't you dare say it," Porthos warned, as Athos looked around at their endeavours. "This ain't your choice. You don't get to decide how much care about you."
"Nonetheless, I am grateful," Now that the public need to hold himself together was past Athos was visibly beginning to flag. He sank wearily into a chair and didn't move.
"You want to take those things off?" Aramis nodded at his uniform.
Athos roused himself sufficiently to remove his weapons, handing them off to a waiting Aramis, and then raised a hand and begin to laboriously undo the buttons on his jacket.
"Shouldn't we be helping him?" d'Artagnan hissed, even as he took a step forward.
"Not yet," Porthos commanded quietly, putting up a hand against his chest to hold him in place.
With grim determination Athos slowly released one button after another only to pause with a scowl when he got to the belt tightly cinched around his waist. Ignoring that for a moment, he toed off his boots, leaving little puddles of mud coloured water on the floor, before scowling at the sodden woollen stockings below as if they had offended him in some manner.
"Ribs?" Aramis asked solicitously, when it was clear Athos was not going to reach down.
"So, it would seem." Athos sighed, very carefully.
"At least it's not as bad as last time," Aramis allowed, kneeling down to carefully peel off the wet stockings. "You're still talking."
"And breathing." Portho added darkly.
"When did you stop breathing?" d'Artagnan demanded.
"Porthos exaggerates, I was merely winded." Athos attempted to reassure.
"Falling off a cliff tends to do that to a man." Aramis observed dryly. "Can you move your toes?"
Athos looked down impassively as Aramis revealed the damage to his feet. His toes were bleeding from being stubbed on hidden rocks and the flesh was wrinkled and white in places from being too long in the cold water. With a supreme effort of will he made his toes twitch slightly.
"I don't believe you fell off a cliff." D'Artagnan was sure they were teasing him.
"Of course, I didn't fall," Athos sounded positively affronted at the insult to his poise and balance, as any fine swordsman would. "I was pushed."
"Jacket next," Armais decided.
His nimble fingers reached out and undid Athos' belt and the remainder of his buttons as he continued in a conversational tone. "To be fair it wasn't as bad as the time Porthos fell off his horse on that bridge in Beziers."
"I didn't fall either," Porthos protested as he came around Athos' other side and the two of them worked in perfect tandem to ease Athos' jacket carefully off his shoulders with the minimum of discomfort. Even so Athos' pale features went even paler. "It was my horse that fell. And, since I landed in the water at least I didn't break nothing."
"Indeed," Athos hissed softly through his teeth, as the jacket came off. "But you had .. neglected to advise .. us that you .. couldn't swim."
"You can't swim?" d'Artagnan, who had been swimming in the river on his father's farm since he could walk, could not disguise his surprise.
"I couldn't swim then," Porthos pointed out. "I can now."
"Because he almost drowned," Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos' stiff posture. "I don't suppose you can raise your arms?"
"Unlikely." Athos agreed.
"So what happened to you?" d'Artagnan demanded of Porthos.
"Aramis punched me." Porthos scowled.
"You left out the part where I firstly heroically leapt into the turbulent maelstrom to save you," Aramis murmured as he carefully cut away Athos shirt with a surgeon's precision. "And then secondly where you said you thought learning to swim was "a bit poncy."
"Really Aramis? Turbulent maelstrom?" In the shocked silence that followed the removal of his shirt to reveal the myriad of dark red cuts and deep bruises spread all across his back, Athos raised a weary brow. "I seem to recall it was a millpond and a rather stagnant one at that."
"Maelstrom, Millpond." Aramis swallowed hard as he surveyed the extent of the damage to the man he loved like a brother. "The two bodies of water are not that dissimilar. I still got wet."
"At least me and Athos were doing our duty," Porthos pointed out as he helped Athos to his feet. "How many times have we had to patch you up because you were running from an irate husband?"
"I see your irate husband," Aramis helped Athos out of his breeches with careful hands. "And raise you more bar fights after you were caught cheating at cards than Athos has had bottles of good Bordeaux."
"Which vintage?" Porthos challenged.
"Er .. Gentlemen." Athos standing in his small clothes abruptly went a distinct shade of green.
"D'Artagnan!"
The young Gascon scrambled to provide a suitable receptacle for what was clearly a most pressing need. Flustered he snatched up the nearest likely object and just managed to get in in position in time. The resulting thin bile merely confirmed Aramis' suspicions that Athos had not been eating properly.
D'Artagnan watched as Aramis slid a gentle hand through Athos hair and let it rest on the nape of his neck as the man continued to retch. He heard the soft murmur of Porthos' voice offering what comfort he could. He could see the tremors running through Athos' body, the goose bumps standing up on his skin, and felt impossibly relieved when he was finally done.
"Is that my hat?" Aramis frowned at him.
"Ah," d'Artagnan grimaced at the ruined receptacle. "Sorry."
Aramis spared his ruined hat a single glance. He remembered his pride when he had purchased it with its fine feather. It had far cost more than a simple head covering had any right to cost. On any other day its loss would have been a grievous blow. But he found he could not bring himself to care about fashion and frippery just now. Not with Athos still so pale and hurting.
"Do not concern yourself. It died for a noble cause," He mustered a game smile. "I would, however, take it as a kindness if you would dispose of it outside."
By the time d'Artagnan returned Athos had been helped out of his small clothes and settled in the warmth and steam of the bathtub. Porthos had fetched some soap and was gently massaging it through Athos hair grumbling softly as he washed the dried in mud out of his hair.
"What's that in the water?" d'Artagnan wondered.
"Comfry," Aramis supplied, as he set out his sewing kit. "It helps the bruises. Athos, I need you to stay awake, just a little longer."
"Maybe more than just a little," Porthos frowned, Athos hair to reveal a good sized goose egg with a small cut in the centre. "Look what I found."
"And you didn't think to mention this?" Aramis scowled at Athos.
"It slipped my mind," Athos admitted.
"You forgot you hit your head on a rock?" d'Artagnan paled. "Athos, you could have been killed!"
"But as you see I was not," Athos reasoned. "Although, I am sorely in need of a drink."
"Is that wise?" d'Artagnan looked to Aramis.
"Definitely ain't a good idea to try and stand in his way," Porthos advised. "That always ends badly."
"He's going to need something whilst I work on his back," Aramis said grimly. "Porthos can't knock him out. Not with that goose egg on his head."
"I take it this is going to be uncomfortable." Athos interjected.
"Remember, that time I had to put your shoulder back in?" Aramis looked grim.
D'Artagnan paled. He remembered seeing a labourer on his father's farm whose shoulder had been pulled out of its joint by a runaway horse. The local Blacksmith had been called in to wrench the joint back into place and the usually God fearing man had gone utterly white and screamed out a string of curses before passing out stone cold.
"Treville has brandy," Porthos reminded them.
"So, he does," Aramais agreed. "D'Artagnan, would you mind?"
"You want me to go to the Capatain and ask to borrow his brandy?" d'Artagan gulped.
"The good stuff, mind," Porthos added. "Not the cheap stuff he gives to visitors he don't like to get rid of 'em."
"You want to go and ask Treville to borrow his best brandy?" d'Artagnan needed to be quite sure.
"Not exactly borrow," Aramis eyed him. "After all, we can hardly give it back after Athos has drunk it all, which he most likely will."
D'Artagnan decided that Aramis really wasn't helping matters at all. He had only just become a Musketeer and here he was being asked to walk into the lions' den and brave Treville's not inconsiderable wrath. But Aramis was already rinsing out Athos' wounds with wine and Porthos had set to trimming his beard. He was the only one not helping.
"Alright," He gathered his courage and squared his shoulders. He would do this for Athos. "I'll be right back."
"You couldn't just have told him that Treville would give the shirt off his own back to help any man in the regiment?" Athos eyed his friends reprovingly as soon as the door closed behind the young man.
"Better he's not here for this," Aramis dug out his small case and extracted a pair of tweezers. "Treville will know to keep him busy for a while."
"You already borrowed the brandy." Athos realised.
"I rather feared we'd have need of it," Aramis fetched the bottle, meeting Athos' eyes. "Drink deep my friend. I have to ensure all the cuts are free of dirt and stones. This might take quite a while."
D'Artagnan hovered at the door to Treville's office. The man himself was frowning slightly as he made his way through a pile of documents. He was fairly sure that the Captain would accede to Aramis request. He just wished he did not have to be the one doing the asking.
"Something I can do for you, d'Artagnan?" Too late he realised Treville had been watching for some time.
"Um, Aramis sent me to ask," d'Artagnan hated himself a little for hiding behind the seasoned solider. "If he might have some brandy to help ease Athos' pain."
"Did he indeed?" Treville's expression was unreadable.
"Yes sir," Remembering everything Athos had done for him he stiffened his spine. "The Armagnac, if you would be so kind?"
"Spoken like a true Gascon." Treville allowed.
Treville's respect for the youngster, already growing, rose another notch. That he was prepared to face the wrath of the Captain of the King's Musketeers to help his friend spoke volumes. He had initially watched d'Artagnan's near hero worship of Athos with a degree of concern, but he had swiftly realised that the young Gascon did not follow his Lieutenant blindly. Nor was he afraid to stand up to him.
But it was clear that d'Artagnan craved the steady support and guidance that Athos offered as easily as breathing. He had always been a consummate leader of men. But something about the boy's clear need, perhaps an orphan's recent loss of his father, had forced Athos out of that self-imposed exile that only a rare few had been privileged to breech.
That Aramis and Porthos had also readily accepted d'Artagnan into what had seemed like an inviolate triumvirate said a lot for the younger man.
"Come in," Treville invited. "Let me see what I can find. How is Athos?"
"Stubborn," d'Artagnan spoke with feeling. Then he sighed softly and admitted rather more quietly. "Hurting."
"Aramis is the best in the regiment at tending to wounds," Treville reminded the young man. "He's in good hands."
"If only all wrongs were so easily corrected," d'Artagnan murmured, recalling Athos' own words. He looked at Treville, his courage bolstered by his knowledge of the Captain's respect and affection for his Lieutenant. "His physical wounds may heal but how do we address the scars he carries on his heart?"
"Having the courage to try is a good beginning." Treville looked seriously at him. "I find the best way with Athos is to ensure he is frequently reminded of his worth."
"How can he not see what sort of man he is?"
"Too many people have presumed upon his sense of duty for their own gain. Or taken his love and loyalty and trampled it into the dust. Trust me Athos has good reason to be wary. You have been good for him."
"I owe Athos everything," d'Artagnan was solemn. "I would never do anything to betray his trust or give him the least reason to doubt my loyalty to him."
"Good, because Porthos would doubtless wish to inflict some painful retribution, Aramis would plot some devious revenge and I would turn a blind eye to both."
Treville was smiling and d'Artagnan assumed he was joking. At least he hoped so. Although, he knew if he ever did anything to hurt Athos his friends would never forgive him. He was just glad that wasn't something he would ever need to worry about.
"Something else on your mind?" Treville raised a brow.
"Not really," d'Artagnan made a face. "It's just .. they said .. and I was wondering. Did Athos really fall off a cliff?"
"Is that what they told you?" Treville smiled at the young man's naivety. "Of course, he didn't."
D'Artagnan shook his head. He should have realised it was just a tall tale. He was already mentally plotting his revenge against his friends when Treville spoke again.
"He was pushed."
AN – I once cut my hand on a glass bottle as a child. The stitches barely hurt at all. Digging around in the cuts to ensure there were no pieces of glass inside – excruciating!
And yes, there might be a hint in here towards a future story - final chapter of this coming soon.