4. Faire face

(Rise up)

Athos was still breathing, and for now that was enough. Or at least Aramis tried to tell himself that. The prayers for thanks would not come; the desperate pleading for mercy now subsided to leave nothing but silence.

Athos was still breathing, but everything else had gone to hell though.

Athos was stiff as a board. At least he was lying flat on his back now — Aramis tried to banish the image of his friend arching off the bed like a tightly strung bow from his mind. It was painful to even remember the torment; he did not dare imagine the agony it had caused Athos. The spasm had subsided after minutes —although it had felt much longer — but Athos still lay unmoving and his muscles were still bunched in tight contraction. His entire body seemed hard.

Athos was a hard man. He usually carried pain silently, stoically doing his duty with little regard for his own comfort. He did not ignore injuries if they had any chance of hampering him; as dutiful with reporting them and having them seen to as with everything else he did. However, once it was confirmed that there was no danger or that there was nothing more to be done, Athos carried on without complaint. More than once Athos had quietly sat through Aramis suturing a major wound without as much as gasping for breath.

The look in Athos' eyes now haunted him all the more because of it.

It had been a beautiful morning. The sun was shining and despite the slight chill in the air, it had promised to be a wonderful day. More importantly, the latter part of the night had been relatively calm, with Athos being granted an hour or more between spasms, allowing him to sleep relatively soundly. Upon waking, Athos had even spoken to him and appeared well rested.

Aramis had spent hours in prayer and contemplation, asking the Lord to bestow his strength and mercy upon Athos. He himself had received a sense of peace and the reassurance that life was still worth living, that it had so much to offer. Athos might not be able to see its beauty right now, but Aramis loved life with a passion.

In the hour before dawn, as Athos slept peacefully, Aramis had vowed to share that love, to infect his dear friend with it. There was so much to be loved about life and he would not watch Athos close himself off to it, not now when he needed it most. He would show him that he was loved and he would show him that that love made life worth living.

That love was stronger than tetanus.

A fiery sunrise had heralded a beautiful morning. Aramis had breathed the fresh air deeply as he pushed open the window. The sunlight was soft and golden, flooding into the room and spreading happiness in its path. Aramis had delighted in God's creation and the small marvels that He granted them every day. Even when the previous night had seen such pain and despair, the new morning brought new hope and a deep satisfaction that Aramis was only too eager to share.

Porthos' cry had brought him back to their bitter reality, a reality that seemed to consist only of pain. He had turned on his heel and looked straight into Athos' eyes.

Athos was seldom surprised or shocked; he was always composed, rarely showing emotion on his face. When Aramis turned, Athos' eyes were wide and full of abject terror. Fear seemed to radiate from him.

Aramis could not blame him.

It had been agony, pure and utter agony. And they had been powerless to bring Athos any relief. They stood there and watched him in his torture. Athos' eyes only left Aramis when his spine had arched so far backwards that he was yet again left to stare at the wall behind. When his spine uncurled, his glance returned and the fear had turned to horror.

So when Athos' eyes finally closed, Aramis found he was glad. Finally, Athos was granted some reprieve, his abused body falling into unconsciousness.

That conviction lasted for only a few moments.

"He's still awake," Porthos whispered. "Listen."

Athos' breathing had settled into a rhythm, a very regular and tightly controlled rhythm that they knew all too well. This was Athos evening out his breathing the way he always did when pain or emotion threatened to overcome him. He had tried to teach Aramis, years ago when the memory of Savoy had still loomed large. In the end, Aramis had found other ways to master his own demons, but it had worked for Athos. There he was now, mastering the demons of tetanus when his tortured body seemed unable to grant him the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

Aramis leaned backwards slightly until his head rested against Porthos' shoulder. Porthos draped his arm around him, his warmth a small comfort. They watched and listened for a few minutes that felt like an age with all the agony they held.

"Do you think I can touch him?" Porthos asked.

"Don't!" Aramis hissed, then softened his voice when Porthos squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. "He's too tense, it will only agitate him."

"Later," Porthos said. "I can try later."

The pain was obvious in his voice. Porthos always did something; he never took no for an answer. Every time Aramis had sent him away in the aftermath of Savoy, he had come back; every time Athos had closed himself off in reminiscence of his troublesome past, Porthos had coaxed him into opening up again.

They stood in silence and watched their friend in his torment. The rigidity in Athos' muscles did not seem to decrease in the slightest. His breathing, as carefully controlled as it was, hitched occasionally. Each time, Aramis anxiously waited for the next intake of air.

"How long can anyone suffer like this?" Aramis asked.

Porthos shushed him, his breath hot against Aramis' ear.

"He is strong," he whispered.

Aramis let himself relax into the embrace for a moment, daring to believe that Athos' strength would truly carry him through. The hope was fleeting. There was a loud noise outside and they watched a shudder pass through Athos, tears running down his face.

"I wish there was something I could do," Aramis said. "How can we just..."

"There's nothing?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head, not wanting to give voice to his reply.

"Some wine to take the edge off," Porthos suggested.

Aramis sighed.

"I'm afraid his heart would give out before we could get enough wine into him," he answered. "It's not very good pain relief, especially not with Athos."

"Some ice maybe," Porthos proposed. "It's good for injuries..."

"Might help with the fever," Aramis allowed. "But it's no use for tight muscles. And unless the garrison has a deep cellar I know nothing about or you can petition the Lord to make the Seine freeze over, I don't think we'd get enough of it anyways."

"Aren't there any medicines to take the pain away?"

"None that I know of, not for that amount of pain."

"What use are all your books and those snooty doctors if they can't even take away the pain?" Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed.

"It's like the physician said," he answered. "Pain is God-given and who are we to overrule his judgement on how much pain a man deserves..."

"Rubbish."

"Sacrilege," Aramis reminded him more out of obligation than any real ire.

"Athos doesn't deserve this," Porthos insisted and there was no way Aramis could deny that. Nobody deserved this, least of all a man as good and noble as Athos.

"I wish there was a way to give him the rest he deserves," Aramis said. "My herbs had no effect at all."

Porthos drew in a breath as if to contradict him, but then released it slowly. They both knew it was the truth.

They watched Athos, not daring to even approach the bed. His muscles remained tightly clenched, his eyes closed. He was suffering and they were doing nothing.

"There is one thing," Aramis said eventually. "Though I have never used it. It's called Laudanum or...

"Tincture of opium," Porthos said. "I've heard of it. Before, you know, before I joined the infantry."

"It's said to be powerful."

"It's said to be deadly."

"The Turks eat it, I've read," said Aramis, leaning back against Porthos. "And I would like to give him relief if I can."

"I know you would," Porthos said soothingly, rubbing gentle circles on Aramis' shoulder.

"I don't even know where to find it."

"I do," Porthos said with a sigh. "Or at least I know people who do."

"He wouldn't want you to get yourself into trouble."

Porthos huffed out a breath in something that could almost qualify as a laugh.

"I have been in trouble ever since I met you lot."

It was almost too much to hope for.

"Are you sure?" Aramis asked.

He felt Porthos shift uneasily behind him and for the space of a few heartbeats he thought he might refuse.

"For Athos," Porthos said softly.

Aramis could not claim to truly understand Porthos' past or the ties that still bound him to the slums of Paris, but he knew that every excursion back into his previous life was wrought with emotional turmoil and potential danger.

Before he could question Porthos' resolve or his own conviction that laudanum might help, there was a sharp knock at the door. They both stared at Athos in fearful anticipation.

Lord, grant him mercy.

A violent shiver passed through Athos, making him thrash on the narrow bed, but no spasm followed. Maybe even his hostile body was finally exhausted.

While Aramis looked at his friend, wishing he could take his pain upon himself, Porthos had opened the door, ready to round on whoever dared to intrude. Aramis only dragged his eyes away from Athos when he heard Tréville's voice.

"Speak softly, captain," Porthos warned urgently, closing the door behind him.

"Is he asleep?" Tréville asked, his voice low now.

"No such luck, captain," Aramis answered and stepped aside, allowing their captain to see Athos.

Tréville sucked in a sharp breath and visibly flinched when he laid eyes upon his soldier.

"Ventre-saint-gris," he cursed, softly but with gusto. He made to move towards the bed, but Porthos stopped him.

"He cannot bear to be touched at the moment," he said, a low growl of warning.

"Of course," Tréville said, ignoring Porthos' insubordination, and sat heavily on the chair by the bedside. Aramis and Porthos stood on either side of him, surveying the damage done to their friend.

Athos' eyes and lips had closed, but his face was still caught in a grimace of pain, and his body remained stiff. Sweat glistened on his brow, and with his shirt in disarray and the blanket fallen to the side, he was barely decent. Athos would have been mortified to be presented to his captain in this condition. Athos probably was mortified.

"Diable! How did he come to be in such a state?" Tréville asked, reaching out his hands, but clutched his own knees instead.

"He suffered two severe tetanic spasms," Aramis said, clipping his words as if he was reporting on a mission. He found comfort in the familiar style. "A number of smaller ones during the night. They are triggered by noise and light. Each causes painful contortions. He's been in this state since the last one, a half hour ago."

Half an hour of suffering and they had done nothing.

Tréville rubbed a hand across his beard before he answered. He sounded more tired than the early hour warranted.

"How do we proceed?" he asked, looking at Aramis.

For a commanding officer, Tréville gave them great freedom and valued their input very much. Aramis usually appreciated that, but now he would have liked a clear order rather than a question.

"I don't know," he admitted. He didn't need Tréville's questioning glance to know that his answer was woefully inadequate.

"I understand there is no cure," Tréville said.

"None," Aramis confirmed.

"You have consulted Paré?" Tréville asked, gesturing towards his bookcase in the corner.

"Yes, captain. He recommends rest without agitation and hot baths for relaxation if possible. However, he writes that the outcome in most cases is..." Aramis paused, conscious that Athos was, in all likelihood, listening. "...is unfavourable."

"Athos is not most cases," Porthos muttered under his breath.

"Agreed," Tréville said and Aramis watched him swallow heavily as he looked back at Athos. "I know you're doing everything to support him. Be assured of my assistance as well."

"Your rooms..."

"Are at your disposal. I will not have him moved in this state. Serge and Jacques are to see to your needs above all else. I shall give the order."

A shout echoed across the courtyard. The noise made Athos shudder.

"Complete silence in the garrison," Tréville said. "I will not have anyone hurt Athos further."

"Thank you, captain."

The shivers travelled through Athos' body and made him moan in pain.

"Sangdieu! Is there nothing to be done for the unfortunate man?" Tréville asked, as agitated as a man could be in a whisper.

"My usual droughts had no effect and the physician offered no alternatives," Aramis said. "I dare not give him that much alcohol."

Tréville nodded his understanding. Aramis often wondered just how much he knew of Athos' troubles.

"Aramis has an idea," Porthos prompted. Aramis glared at him as Tréville looked up with renewed hope in his eyes.

"I have heard of a remedy from the orient, one that has been used to free men from pain," Aramis said cautiously.

"Tears of the poppy," Tréville said to Aramis' astonishment. "I once served with a surgeon who used it to great effect. It is a rare commodity these days."

"Porthos thinks he can procure it."

Tréville stared at Porthos for several long moments, face unreadable. Aramis almost expected him to forbid Porthos to go after the laudanum. Then Tréville looked back at Athos, shook his head slowly and got up.

"Do what you must," he said heavily, then removed a well-filled purse from his belt and held it out to Porthos. "Bring Athos some relief if you can."

He strode briskly towards the door, then stopped and took a deep breath before opening it, visibly bracing himself. Not even the captain was unaffected by Athos' plight.

Aramis paced back and forth across the room before standing behind Treville's desk, putting his hands on the polished wood and trying to think while staring at the scattered maps and half-finished letters.

How do we proceed? He wished he knew.

Porthos gingerly put the captain's coin purse onto the desk and extracted several silver francs from it, storing them in various places in his clothing.

"No need to tempt anyone," he said, patting his pockets. "I should probably go. The sooner we get the stuff, the sooner we can help Athos."

Aramis stiffened. Don't go, he wanted to shout, don't leave me alone with him.

He knew Porthos was right, of course he was. He should go now and give them the means to alleviate Athos' suffering. It was important, but something in Aramis' mind disagreed. Some insistent voice reminded him that he would be alone with Athos, that he would be the only one present if he died, that he would once again be the only survivor, reporting to Tréville that yet again a friend had died on his watch. He could not bear to be that person again.

One of Porthos' large hands covered his where his fingers had curled into tight claws gripping the edge of the table. He looked up. Porthos was smiling.

"Let's clean him up a bit first, make him presentable, you know," he said. "Won't find anybody up and ready for business at this time of day."

Aramis went and retrieved a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. The early risers were assembled already and looked at him expecting an explanation. Aramis could not oblige their unspoken request, feeling out of place among them. Once again, he was more of a ghost than a comrade to them.

When he returned to Tréville's rooms, Porthos was already bent low over the bed. He was as gentle as ever, saying soft, reassuring words to Athos as he undressed him. It was difficult work, as Athos' muscles were still inflexible, the limbs barely bending under Porthos' touch.

Athos' eyes were open, the haunted look replaced by a profound sadness that seemed more familiar to Aramis. Porthos kept up a litany of encouragements and comforts as he worked.

Aramis felt like he was intruding upon a private moment between the two of them. There was such intimacy in Porthos' words and in his touch; Aramis could never hope to match that. He had words for flirtation and light-hearted banter, but not for this.

He was about to retreat into a corner when Porthos handed him a wet rag, gesturing towards Athos' face.

"Give me a hand here, will you? He'll want to look a bit less of a scoundrel."

Aramis wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that he was inadequate for such a task, but Porthos cut off any complaints.

"Say a little prayer. You know I never remember much of mine," he encouraged.

Aramis had no words of his own, none that would be a comfort in this situation, but he did recall a psalm that seemed strangely fitting. He recited it while he wiped Athos' face and his neck. There was a peace and quiet in those old words that made it all more bearable, even if only a little.

"Praise the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy."

He had memorised these verses long ago and had recited them to Athos on many occasions. Never had they felt as fitting as today. The Lord was forgiving; He would redeem Athos in the end and not punish him endlessly. There would be forgiveness, redemption, benefits, and even healing in the end.

He repeated the psalm as he washed Athos' pale face and gently brushed his hair from his forehead. He hoped Athos would forgive him his religiosity. It felt like a shelter to Aramis, a little warmth in this harsh reality.

Steadfast love and mercy. Maybe they could give him that if nothing else. Athos was loved, much more so than he realised. They all loved him as a brother. It wasn't much, but for now it was all they had to offer. With God's aid it might just be enough.

Right on cue, the door opened by a fraction and a very sheepish looking d'Artagnan poked his head into the room. Steadfast love it was, then.

"Good morning, I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave, I just couldn't— I wanted to be here, Athos, I'm sorry, I'm back now," he said in a rushed whisper. The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth with very little interference from his brain. He stared at them more wide-eyed than looking into a dim room warranted.

Aramis was shielding Athos' face with his body, not moving from where he was crouched next to his friend. It was a feeble attempt to spare Athos' dignity. D'Artagnan would see soon enough; he'd ask for information and Aramis would give him that. Very soon, they would all know just how desperately ill Athos really was. But for one more moment, Aramis could shield them both.

Porthos drew the blanket up over Athos' body before walking to the door and dragging d'Artagnan in by the scruff of his neck. He gave the boy a one-armed hug that became somewhat awkward and lopsided as d'Artagnan was carrying a large wooden tray full of food and drink. Porthos relieved him of it and set it down onto Tréville's desk, pushing aside the inkwell.

They would have to tidy the desk. If anything fell... Aramis did not want to imagine what the clatter would do to Athos. And the door... the sun had not moved to that side of the building yet, but once it did opening the door would expose Athos to yet more pain. Maybe they could put blankets in front of the door to keep the light from getting in. They had to be careful.

D'Artagnan pulled himself up to his full height and Aramis rose to his feet. He was still mindful of keeping his body between the boy and Athos. He wasn't sure which one he was protecting.

"I apologise for my behaviour," d'Artagnan said, a lot more collected now. "It was unacceptable and cowardly to run off like that. I was not raised to abandon a friend in need and I know you would never do something like that. I have failed you — and Athos."

He sounded like he had rehearsed the words over and over again during the night. Looking at him more closely, Aramis saw that the boy had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was mussed as if he had run his hand through it repeatedly.

Now to find the words to reassure and comfort him, when all Aramis really wanted to say that he had been right to run, that there must be a separate circle of hell for the sort of torture they had witnessed. D'Artagnan was still staring at him, his brow furrowed and a plea for forgiveness written clearly upon his face. Once again, Aramis floundered.

"D'Artagnan..."

It was Athos' tense whisper that came to his rescue.

Praise the Lord, oh my soul...

Aramis stepped aside. Athos had actually managed to turn his head ever so slightly so that his pale eyes were now looking past Aramis and straight at d'Artagnan. There was their Athos, covering up his hurried breathing and his painfully clenched teeth with sheer determination.

The smile that spread on d'Artagnan's face was like a bright sunrise. Aramis was afraid that it would prove to be just as painful to Athos when the boy flew past him and knelt next to the bed, but mercifully d'Artagnan kept his hands to himself.

"Athos..." he whispered, and there was a world of love and adoration in that name. "I was so afraid, I was so afraid you wouldn't... and Tréville said you were so poorly and I was afraid... you always say I shouldn't let my heart rule my head and I did and I'm so sorry. I shouldn't, but I just... I was so afraid, Athos... can you forgive me?"

Athos' lips twitched in something that might have become a smile, had the effort not made him shudder.

"There is... nothing... to forgive," he said between shaky breaths.

"All night I was... I was so scared you might have died," d'Artagnan said, his voice high and sounding so much younger than usual. He was an elite soldier now, but underneath the uniform, there was still a fatherless boy.

"I'm..." Athos paused. If he said he was fine, Aramis might have to strangle him with his bare hands. "...still here," Athos concluded. That he was, though for how much longer only God knew.

"Tréville said it's bad..." d'Artagnan said, his voice very quiet and unsteady.

Athos looked up, past d'Artagnan and straight at Aramis, his request clear. He did not have the strength to find the words to comfort d'Artagnan, and while Aramis was not sure that he did, he knew he had to try. He owed it to both of them.

He put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and pulled him to a chair. The boy followed without resistance and listened quietly to Aramis' explanation. He sat through it all with little interruption, only asking for clarification a few times, unaware that he was simultaneously eating the breakfast Porthos put into his hands.

Porthos quietly slipped out in the middle of it all, having grabbed a piece of bread for himself. On the way out, he gently brushed a finger across Athos' hand. Aramis appreciated his willingness to go and search for the laudanum, even when he was clearly reluctant to do so.

Once d'Artagnan had been brought up to speed, he still looked shocked, but also somewhat relieved. Whatever threatening scenarios his brain had conjured during the night, knowing the reality, however ghastly, seemed to calm him. Then again, he had yet to see a spasm.

Together they sat Athos up and slowly fed him some weak gruel, followed by water. That he was eating and drinking only a few hours after the second tetanic spasm gave Aramis some hope.

D'Artagnan was just as gentle as Porthos, though he was obviously insecure and jittery. Aramis could not blame him for it. He was supposed to be the medic among them, but even he was anxious around Athos. It was like balancing on a knife's edge. They had to touch him to provide care, had to speak to him to provide comfort, but the things that were supposed to aid Athos might also trigger his next spasm at any time.

Porthos returned just after noon, clutching a tiny glass bottle.

"How did it go?" Aramis asked, taking it from him. Porthos shook his head wearily.

"I've got it now," he said.

Aramis held the bottle up against the dim light that the heavy shutters let into the room. He could not see much. It was such a small thing, but he was excited for the promises that bottle held.

"How is he?" Porthos asked under his breath.

"Much the same," Aramis said, casting a quick look at Athos and d'Artagnan. "He has been restless, some spasms..."

Porthos' eyes widened.

"Nothing major," Aramis hastened to add. "Just small ones, shudders more than anything."

It was curious how quickly he had gotten used to Athos' pain. What would have been cause for great trepidation a day or two ago was now a minor incident.

He uncorked a bottle and sniffed. The scent of alcohol was overpowering, but there was also something else, something Aramis could not place.

"Are you sure it is real?" he asked.

Porthos nodded solemnly. "One part of opium dissolved in nine parts of spirit."

Aramis knew that Porthos would not give him anything for Athos if he weren't absolutely certain of its origin. Not only did he trust Porthos with his life, he trusted him with Athos' as well.

"Be careful," Porthos warned. "Only a small spoonful. The apothecary said that a roquille is enough to kill a man."

Aramis took a small pewter spoon from his medical kit. A half dozen spoons to a roquille. One should do no harm, but would hopefully ease Athos' suffering. He would even be able to repeat the dose if necessary.

He stood bent over Tréville's desk, the spoon in one hand, the bottle of laudanum in the other, and raised his eyes heavenwards, asking God to guide his hand. He had no knowledge to rely on here, only faith.

"Athos," he said softly, taking a seat next to the bed. Pale eyes flickered open and Aramis was taken aback by the sheer agony that was reflected in them. Athos had barely spoken and had said no word about the pain he was in. It was time they gave him some respite.

"I have a medicine here, laudanum, to take the edge off," Aramis explained.

"Praised be laudanum," Athos replied hoarsely. Something like amusement flickered across his face. It took Aramis a moment to understand.

"Now is hardly the time for lessons in Latin conjugation," he answered with a smirk. "I will praise or laudare it as soon as it works."

"Laudabo," Athos corrected.

Aramis carefully dropped the reddish-brown liquid onto the spoon. Athos swallowed it dutifully, but instantly his eyes closed and his face twitched. Aramis held his breath, hoping the reaction would pass before it developed into a full spasm.

A few heartbeats later, Athos opened his eyes again, to Aramis' great relief.

"It's... bitter," Athos said and Aramis almost laughed out loud.

"If that is your only complaint, consider me pleased," he replied, softly brushing a finger along Athos' jaw.

D'Artagnan had watched them closely and was now smiling broadly.

"You're going to be fine now, Athos," he said. "The laudanum is going to take the pain away."

He leaned back against the nightstand, resting a hand on the bed next to Athos' head, as close as he could get without actually touching him.

Steadfast love and mercy.

Steadfast love was certainly in the room, and Aramis held high hopes for mercy as well. God in his mercy had given them the means to combat even this dreadful disease.

They were all in good spirits now. Porthos was even able to talk d'Artagnan into a game of cards; heeding Athos' whispered warning to not play for money. Finally, they were able to do something. Porthos had been right, they were musketeers, they didn't just pray for their victories, they worked for them. And finally, they had been given a suitable weapon in this fight.

As the bells of Saint-Sulpice chimed one o'clock, Aramis asked Athos how he was feeling. He got no response, even though Athos was awake and looking at him.

"Has there been any improvement?" Aramis tried again.

"None," Athos said tersely.

Aramis had not expected that, but maybe the dosage had been too small. He gave Athos another spoon of laudanum and they resumed their wait. Another half hour later, Aramis barely even had to ask, recognising the haunted look in Athos' eyes. A small spasm gripped Athos just a few minutes later, but he still insisted on taking the next dosage, exhausted as he was.

Aramis alternated between flipping through Paré's medical accounts and fervent prayer. He prayed for deliverance, for the laudanum to finally have some effect.

"Can I try it?" d'Artagnan asked when Aramis administered the fourth dose.

"Are you in pain?" Aramis asked sharply.

"No, but I thought we could see if it does anything to me," d'Artagnan said. "You know, see if I still feel pain afterwards."

Aramis had to allow that the plan wasn't a bad one.

"Seems a fair test," Porthos said. "It won't harm him, will it?"

"If it's truly laudanum, it shouldn't," Aramis replied.

"It is laudanum," Porthos said with certainty.

So d'Artagnan swallowed laudanum as well and cursed fluently at its bitter taste, rinsing his mouth profusely.

"That is vile!" he proclaimed much to Porthos' amusement.

They all watched him carefully. After only a few minutes, d'Artagnan was sagging against Tréville's nightstand.

"'m fine, jus' tired," he said when asked, his words slurred and barely intelligible.

Soon d'Artagnan had fallen asleep right there on the floor. Porthos pulled a blanket over him.

"Your dosage... seems accurate," Athos said, managing to give his hoarse whisper a measure of his usual wryness.

Aramis gave him one more dose of laudanum, hoping that the accumulated effect would bring Athos the desired respite. He did not dare to give him more.

Athos gagged on the last dose, struggling to swallow the bitter liquid, causing him to cough, which in turn caused his muscles to spasm. D'Artagnan woke with a start, staring blearily at Athos convulsing on the bed.

It was only a small spasm; nothing compared to the one Aramis himself had caused this morning, but it was enough to make d'Artagnan cry. The boy was still sitting on the floor, groggy from his drugged sleep and flabbergasted by what he was witnessing. Porthos kneeled behind him and held him close.

With Porthos' guidance, d'Artagnan was able to gently finagle his fingers into Athos' fist a few minutes after the spasm had passed. Several more minutes passed before Athos was able to look at him.

"I'm so sorry I left you," d'Artagnan said, his voice wobbling considerably. "I had no idea. I — I should have stayed. I shouldn't have left you to face this. I won't leave you again, I swear I won't."

It was obvious that Athos had no strength to reply verbally, but it was all in his eyes, his love for d'Artagnan and his happiness to have him by his side. With a monumental effort, Athos tightened his fingers, giving d'Artagnan's hand a reassuring squeeze.

The effect of the small movement was immediate. D'Artagnan smiled his slow sunrise of a smile. Athos convulsed on the bed, even that small too much for his poisoned body.

But Athos was still breathing, and that was good. Aramis had to hold on to that bit of good, he had to focus on that little shred of something positive to keep the darkness at bay.

Translations & Explanations

Dosage of laudanum and its utter inability to induce sleep in tetanus patients is taken from a report on several cases presented in: Russel, J. (1860). Clinical lecture on opium: its use and abuse. British Medical Journal. No. 158, pp. 334-336. The amount has been translated into pre-revolutionary French liquid measures and adjusted to the lack of pipettes (to my astonishment those were not invented for another 200 years). Opium was known in Europe at the time, but this is set well before its big time of widespread use. Laudanum is still available now; it's a controlled drug. It also now has some quality standards, with unfortunately wasn't the case back then, making dosage and responses a lot more flexible.

Faire face — "Rise up", "Face up to something" is the motto of the Armée de l'Air, the French Air Force.

Ventre-saint-gris — Holy Friday / Holy Spirit (origin uncertain, heavily altered to avoid blasphemy), used only once in the novel, by Tréville, but too beautiful to ignore

Diable! — "Devil" (3rd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 19 times)

Paré — Ambroise Paré (1510 – 1590) was a French barber surgeon who served in that role for kings Henry II, Francis II, Charles IX and Henry III. He is considered one of the fathers of surgery and modern forensic pathology and a pioneer in surgical techniques and battlefield medicine, especially in the treatment of wounds. He also authored multiple books.

Sangdieu — "blood of God" (8th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 7 times)

Psalm 103:2-4 — "Praise the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy"

Roquille — Ancien régime liquid volume measurement, equivalent to approximately 29.75ml

Laudare/laudabo — Latin "to praise", the second is the first-person singular future active indicative, so the translation of Aramis' "I will praise". Athos' tendency to correct everyone's Latin is book canon.