"Constance." Whispered D'artagnan.
Athos took a step back and gestured for Constance to replace him at D'artagnan's side. She approached, wiping her tear streaked face with her hand as she did. D'artagnan reached out his hand towards her and she grasped it with both of hers and gently kissed his knuckles.
"You shouldn't be here for this," he whispered eyes watering for both his own pain and seeing the woman he loved in distress.
"I'm staying." She sniffed as she carded her fingers through D'artagnan's sweat drenched hair.
The Gascon's face became one of desperation, "Please Constance, no. I love you and don't want to put you through this."
"No, I will stay right here with you. This is where I belong and I am never going to forget that again. I promise."
D'artagnan's face twisted in pain and his back arched as he fought through another wave of intense pain. Constance looked around desperately trying to find something that would help as his grip tightened on her hand and all she could do was tighten her own grip, trying to ground her lover to her and not let him slip away.
Just then Lemay stood up from his place crouched by the fire, "It's almost ready. Someone give him something to bite down on, I can't help him as much if he bites his tongue." He moved over to the bed and began poisoning his tools and poultices on the small table alongside the bed.
"I will need some of you to hold him down and another to return the blades to fire to reheat them."
Constance kissed D'artagnan's forehead and stepped back to clear enough space for the doctor and Musketeers to work. Athos removed one of his belts and placed it between the younger man's teeth while Porthos and Aramis placed themselves on either side of the bed at D'artagnan's shoulders.
Two more Musketeers entered the room crowding the small space even more. One stood at the foot of the bed his hands on his comrade's ankles, while the other, the Musketeer who had offered one of his daggers to the doctor, stood at the fire with a gloved hand on the hilt of one of the blades.
"Ready?" asked Lemay as he placed a reassuring hand on his patient's arm.
D'artagnan took as deep of a breath his body would allow to calm himself and nodded to Lemay. The doctor then turned to the Musketeer by the fire and gestured him to bring the first blade.
The doctor looked around at the Musketeers holding their friend, making eye contact with each of them to be sure that everyone was prepared for what was about to happen.
A sickening hiss could be heard as heated metal met torn flesh. The sound preceded the even more gut wrenching sound of D'artagnan as a scream tore from his throat.
Constance clamped her hands over her ears and buried her face in Captain Treville's chest and wept. He hugged her tightly, as if to shield her from the whole ordeal be sheer force of will alone.
Lemay turned the blade over and moved it down the wound slightly and pressed it to the Gascon's skin once more. Another scream of agony ripped from D'artagnan as instinct took over and he began twisting and thrashing in an attempt to flee his abuser, but his companions stood firm and held him in place.
Even when the smell of burnt flesh assaulted their senses nearly making them wretch, they held fast.
Lemay handed the first blade back to the awaiting Musketeer to return it to the flames and bring the other. He repeated this process several times until the entirety of the wound was cauterized. D'artagnan's screams began raw breathy gasps as his voice gave out and stopped all together as he lost consciousness.
Fear gripped everyone as the sound stopped. The silence seemed to stretch out infinitely as the others looked on. Lemay held his breath and leaned forward to place an ear on the young man's chest.
A sigh of relief escaped the doctor as he heard the faint flutter of a heartbeat. As he stood up he was met with the questioning faces of three Musketeers.
"He still lives. I don't know when he will regain consciousness, but the worst of the ordeal if over. He is strong of that I am certain."
Constance nearly fainted at Lemay's words and would have fallen if Treville hadn't guided her gently to the ground against the wall.
The Musketeer that had been holding onto D'artagnan's ankles suddenly ran out of the room, shoving past his comrades before emptying the contents of his stomach on the ground just outside of the crowded room.
Lemay began cleaning the raw flesh gently with a cool wet cloth and began to instruct Aramis on how to keep the wound clean and administer the salve. Athos was wiping the sweat from D'artagnan's face when two glassy orbs met his.
"Hey." Said Porthos softly as he too took notice.
"Is it over?" D'artagnan's voice was quiet and hoarse and though awake he looked worse than he did before the procedure.
"Yes, it's over. Now rest," answered Athos. Concern was clearly etched in his face as he noticed that the younger man did not even react to the ministrations of Lemay and Aramis, even as they gently rubbed a thick, sticky mixture onto the wound.
As if waiting on permission the Gascon let his eyes close and succumbed to the darkness. Athos and Porthos looked to each other, neither wanted to admit their fear of those being the last words they would hear from their youngest member.
"Be careful to ensure that the bandages stay moist or they might stick to the wound and replace them often to keep any infection from taking root." Lemay said to Aramis as he applied the last of the salve and covered the area with clean bandages.
Aramis who had been watching and listening intently straightened his back and nodded, "Thank you Monsieur Lemay. We are forever indebted to you."
"Don't thank me just yet, he still has a ways to go. If he makes it through the night it will be a promising sign," replied Lemay dousing his bloodied hands into the bucket of water to clean them.
"I'll leave the instructions on how to make the salve, as well as some medicines for the pain. He will require looking after for a while. I will stop by each morning to check his condition and if anything should happen, you need only send for me."
It was Athos's turn to be grateful, "Thank you."
With a final look towards the distraught Constance and then to the sleeping D'artagnan, "He seems to be well looked after," he said and left the room.