8. Au-delà du possible

(Beyond what is possible)

Athos was eerily quiet.

He did not cough any more, not when they were giving him water or as he struggled for breath; his body too weak for such a simple defence.

There was so little, so little of everything.

For several days they'd had no success in feeding Athos and he barely took enough water to subsist. His breathing was shallow and laboured. He had not spoken at all since that dreadful day when his breathing had stopped altogether. There seemed to be hardly any lucid moments left for Athos. What little energy remained to him was turned inwards waging fierce war against an invisible, but no less vicious foe.

It might be a losing battle, but at least it was still a fighting retreat. And as they had learned to expect from Athos, it was a meticulously ordered one.

There was nothing remotely dignified about Athos' situation, but even terrified and in excruciating pain, Athos maintained a serenity that betrayed little of the desperation he must feel.

Aramis had seen plenty of men die, in the field, on the table, and a lucky few on their actual deathbed. Death was ugly. He was used to seeing grown men scream and cry for their mothers, their lovers and friends. He had heard them beg for the coup de grâce. Athos' calm and quiet in the face of death however... Aramis had only ever seen that once before

He chose to interpret it as a sign that Athos had found some peace at last.

He refused to see it as a sign that Athos had given up.

They kept Athos alive—somehow, barely—according to whatever incomprehensible divine plan was being played out here. They were nought but pieces on a chessboard and God had seen fit to make Athos their king. A king in check, but somehow avoiding capture move after move, avoiding that final checkmate.

And so Athos stayed alive.

But Porthos; loyal, practical Porthos whose unwavering support and faith went beyond anything Aramis would have regarded possible—Porthos was struggling. His smiles were rare and though he was still as gentle as ever with Athos, doing what little he could for his friend, his face was grim.

This was Porthos' home, the place he belonged, and they were his family. Porthos fought as fiercely as Athos, but though he kept repeating, "Athos is strong", Athos' suffering physically pained him.

It pained them all.

They were all in this together though.

They had started to take turns going outside for a breath of fresh air, retrieving supplies as required. Mostly, those were much-needed breaks from the claustrophobic room to gather their senses. As much as they all wanted to stay close to Athos, they had to acknowledge their own needs. Aramis knew that he could not bear to see Porthos or d'Artagnan hurt any more than necessary, and suspected they felt the same. Tetanus had no set timeline and it would no longer do for them to completely neglect themselves.

Even though Aramis was reluctant to settle into a routine, seeing it as an acknowledgement that this situation had now become normal, they had finally established a system that allowed each of them to sleep for six hours—uninterrupted, if they were lucky— at night and go out for part of the day. They had set a schedule of overlapping six-hour watches, ensuring there were always two of them in the room with Athos while the third enjoyed three hours off duty.

They never lasted long on their excursions. Porthos had tried his hand at cards one night and returned after an hour, claiming that even if he won the Louvre itself, it would be no fun without Athos' disapproving glare and exasperated sigh to come home to.

Porthos was out now, leaving d'Artagnan and Aramis to hold down the fort. Aramis sat by Athos' bedside, perched on a chair, watching his friend. Athos lay motionless. Only his eyes roved back and forth ceaselessly.

It was the only sign of life in him.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, diffuse and warm. It should have been a kind light, but the way in which it exposed Athos' weakness made it cruel. Athos' face had lost all colour and his skin looked oddly waxen. His muscles remained locked in a constant contraction even between spasms. He had always been slim, but now he seemed to consist only of skin stretched over bones and bone-hard muscles. His beard had grown long and unruly, the dark thicket a sharp contrast to the pallor of his skin.

It pained Aramis to see Athos like this, but he found himself unable to look away.

Those pale, unseeing eyes haunted him.

When they finally closed, he sat back and sighed, then immediately tensed again. Shuddering he focussed on the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Athos' chest.

"I know," d'Artagnan said, stepping behind him and resting his hands on Aramis' shoulders. "Whenever he closes his eyes, I can't help but wonder when I'll see them again... or if at all..."

Aramis nodded heavily, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He felt guilty for wanting those eyes to close, to stop... haunting him.

"It's selfish, but I miss his eyes as soon as they are gone," d'Artagnan continued. Aramis agreed whole-heartedly. As much as he could not bear Athos' gaze, he couldn't be without it either.

"It's a war within him," Aramis replied. "We must be patient."

He knew it was futile. To tell d'Artagnan to be patient was pointless unless you were Constance or Athos.

"I wonder..." d'Artagnan started. Aramis' heart clenched at how that sentence was bound to continue.

"It's no surrender," he said with finality.

"Not yet," d'Artagnan said. "But maybe..." His hands clenched on Aramis' shoulders before he started anew. "I wonder what happens afterwards, when it's over? You say it's like a war within him, so is he going to be the same by the end of it, or is his body like a country ravaged by war?"

Aramis shook his head vehemently, happy to be the bearer of good news for once.

"No politique de la terre brûlée," he answered. "Once the poison burns itself out, tetanus beats a retreat and leaves no trace behind. Recovery is complete."

"Good," d'Artagnan said simply.

"It's rare," Aramis cautioned.

"I know," d'Artagnan answered. "But it gives him something to look forward to." He paused. "Athos... he'd hate it, see it as weakness. So it's good, you know? Good that he has a chance to be normal again."

"It's a slim chance," Aramis said softly, hoping Athos couldn't hear him. "Don't put your hopes in it."

"I know," d'Artagnan said again, giving Aramis' shoulder a squeeze. "But he's got us. And we've got each other."

They did.

They were working together; they were in this battle together.

If there was one thing they did not have too little of, it was love.

D'Artagnan had started to drag himself away from Athos' side even when he was on watch, unable to sit still any longer, unable to keep doing nothing. He was sitting at Tréville's desk, whittling away at a small piece of wood, when Porthos returned.

"What did you get up to?" Aramis asked, carefully marking his place in the book he was reading before he looked up.

"Nothing much," Porthos answered, handing d'Artagnan an apple.

"Are you bleeding?" d'Artagnan asked, narrowing his eyes.

Aramis was on his feet and at the desk in an instant.

A small amount of dried blood underneath Porthos' nose, the beginnings of a bruise.

"What did you get up to?" Aramis repeated his earlier question, reaching out to touch his friend's face.

Porthos shrugged and turned away from him.

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

Nothing he couldn't handle. Of course not. Never. Porthos could handle himself in—a bar fight, an attempted robbery, whatever this had been. Still, he shouldn't have to handle things alone.

"Just let me—"

"No," Porthos interrupted him. "Don't worry."

He sounded tired. Aramis wanted to banish that tiredness, wanted his jovial, insurmountable Porthos back, but...

"Just a silly little thing," Porthos said, dabbing at the blood with his handkerchief. He turned his back on them, settling onto his bedroll to sleep through the rest of his time off-duty.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "A silly little thing" he mouthed. Aramis shrugged.

"You should have seen the other guy," he murmured under his breath.

At least that made d'Artagnan smile. It was also true, more likely than not. No matter how gentle he was around his friends, Porthos was still a man of incredible strength. That force, once unleashed, was a sight to behold, and so were the effects it had on any opponent's body.

Porthos relieved d'Artagnan an hour later and Aramis decided to let the matter rest. Who was he to judge what a man did to find some relief? They all had their own coping strategies.

For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

They did not even know what triggered this latest full-body spasm. They were so careful now. No noise, no light, no touch, and still Athos' body convulsed.

In an instant, Aramis and Porthos were on their feet and d'Artagnan was scrambling to free himself from his bedroll as they watched Athos' muscles tighten once more. Within moments, Athos was arching off the bed again.

So sudden and violent was that spasm that Aramis' mind went immediately back to that dreadful day when Athos stopped breathing. Just like that day, the spasm kept curving Athos' spine further and further backwards, with all the force of the breaking wheel. Just like that spasm, this one never ended, it only worsened.

It was painful to watch Athos' already emaciated body be tortured even further. The war for Athos life had culminated in yet another brutal battle.

And Aramis could see where this was leading.

Athos would not survive.

This was the end.

He couldn't survive another episode of choking.

"No!" Porthos roared beside him, the sound barely louder than the rush of blood in Aramis' ears.

Porthos covered the few feet to the bed in a single stride, ready to help, but Aramis hesitated.

Surely death was better than this.

Surely...

Aramis followed suit.

They did not leave a brother unaided in a fight, no matter how desperate the odds. As much as he would not blame Athos should he give in eventually, Aramis could not leave him to his fate.

For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power and of love.

Porthos leaned over the bed, trying to hold down Athos' jerking body and Aramis joined him. Athos would not lose this battle yet, not while they could still help him fight.

They had to keep him from arching so far back that he choked again. They had to keep his throat from closing up on him again. They had to keep him on the bed. They had to keep Athos alive.

They had to...

They had to...

Aramis had been so sure that he had made his peace with Athos' death if that was to be the way this ended. Since that evening with Jean-Jacques, he had prayed for peace, for understanding and healing. He had prayed and prayed and prayed, and he had thought he'd accepted that healing might happen in this life or the next, had almost welcomed death only to see an end to the torture... but now he pushed his friend's body down onto the bed with all his force, desperate to delay what seemed inevitable.

While Athos had no choice in facing this foe, maybe not even a choice in succumbing to it, Aramis had made his choice. This fight was not yet over. Next to Aramis, Porthos' jaw was set as he tried desperately to keep Athos still, tears running down his face as he did so.

Was it God's will that Athos should die?

Or was it His will that they possessed the strength to deny death this victory?

Both of them had their hands on Athos' body, each holding down one of his arms, keeping his upper body still. Trying to. Trying everything to keep his shoulders on the bed, trying to somehow keep him from choking. Athos' muscles were tight as drums under Aramis' hands, hard and unforgiving. There was so much life left in his tortured body, and they had an obligation to keep it that way. They were soldiers, trained to fight; they were brothers, devoted to fight for each other.

For God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of power.

Athos still had them.

They could do this.

They had to.

Porthos' fingers slipped on sweat-slicked skin. He renewed his efforts, using more force. Behind them, Athos' lower body thrashed in the violent grip of the spasm. Aramis was struggling to keep his grip. Beside him, he could feel Porthos shake with sobs, devastated to be using his strength against his friend.

And suddenly, a crack, like a musket.

Next to Aramis, Porthos fell, stumbling backwards and dropping heavily onto the floor.

Aramis looked up, for the moment distracted from his struggle with Athos. Porthos had no obvious injuries, although the incident had left him slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Aramis followed his glance and released his grip on Athos' body as quickly as if he had been burned.

Reality was no less horrifying than his initial thoughts. Porthos was uninjured, but Athos...

Athos was not.

Athos' right arm stuck out at an odd angle, obviously broken. Still his muscles strained, contorting his limbs into even more grotesque and wholly unnatural shapes, but he did not seem to register the added pain. His back arched, his head was pulled backwards, and his arm was bent ever more violently, not only at the elbow, but at the fresh break as well.

Aramis flinched backwards, unable to touch Athos, unable to hold him, unable to help him, unable to do anything but watch the dreadful illness continue its relentless torture.

D'Artagnan vomited.

Aramis couldn't blame him. Even to an experienced soldier's eyes, this was a disgusting tableau of violence.

Porthos was on his knees, shocked, staring helplessly at Athos. Aramis stood next to him, threading his fingers into Porthos' curls. He cradled Porthos' head in his arms, drawing Porthos' face against his stomach, allowing him to avert his eyes.

If he couldn't save Athos then at least he was going to help Porthos. If this was to be the end, then he would be there for Porthos like his friend had been there for him throughout all their years together.

D'Artagnan slung his arm across Aramis' shoulders, his other hand resting on Porthos' shoulder. Together they stood and watched.

If this was to be the end, at least they were in it together.

God had not given them a spirit of fear, but of love.

Aramis felt tears running down his face and did not stop them.

He did not cry out of fear for what would be.

He cried out of love.

It was gruesome. The sheer violence of the spasm was only enhanced by their inability to intervene. The three of them stared, horrified and well aware of their utter lack of power. Elite soldiers outwitted and overpowered by a seemingly innocuous scratch.

A seemingly almighty foe.

It was a cold thought, its icy tendrils reaching into Aramis' heart as deep as that night in the snowy forest all those years ago.

He was shaking.

Aramis felt warm and alive only where he was touching Porthos and d'Artagnan. Porthos' body pressed up against his leg. D'Artagnan stood behind the two of them, his ragged breathing shuddering against Aramis' back.

They were so close; one soul in three bodies, all equally horrified by what was unfolding in front of them, but also all equally determined to see this through together. There was warmth in that. There was life.

Though one may be overpowered, two can withstand. And a threefold cord is not easily broken.

Aramis clung to them and they to him. That threefold cord, their bond, their friendship, seemed to be the only tangible remnant of what life used to be before they were all plunged into this fight for Athos' life.

They stood like that for endless minutes.

By the end of it, when the spasms subsided enough to let Athos' maltreated body drop back onto the bed, it was—to Aramis' surprise—still a fight. There was life left in Athos. He was still breathing, though whether that was a blessing or a curse, Aramis could not tell.

They remained where they were, an unmoving triptych to friendship.

They had been through this so often, they all knew their roles; they knew what to do after a spasm. They should go, they should move, they should check on Athos and take care of him as best they could. Only they didn't and it took Aramis a while to figure out why.

Porthos—

Porthos was still on his knees, bowed, unmoving.

It was always Porthos who approached Athos first; Porthos who recovered the fastest, who lead the charge, who was already working to ease Athos' suffering before the rest of them had fully recovered their wits. Their strange routine depended entirely on Porthos.

Aramis let go of Porthos, but his friend did not move. His head snapped forwards, but not up to glance at Athos. Instead he stared down at his hands. His hands were in front of him, lifeless, as if detached from his body, spread wide, palms up. Porthos stared at them like they were foreign objects.

Aramis looked down at him, then over to Athos, and finally back at d'Artagnan. Two of his friends needed him desperately and he didn't know whom to attend to first.

D'Artagnan was pale and gnawing ferociously on his lower lip, but he met Aramis' glance without hesitation. In an instant, d'Artagnan had made the decision for him, nodding gravely at Aramis as he squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, pushing him down towards Porthos even as he himself fixed his gaze on Athos. D'Artagnan was a born commander, Aramis realised, understanding—maybe for the first time— why Athos kept insisting that the boy had it in him to be the greatest of them all.

Aramis dropped to his knees beside Porthos and tried to meet his eye. Porthos would not look up. He still stared unblinkingly at his hands.

Aramis knew what he saw there.

As soldiers they were seldom afforded the luxury of Pontius Pilate. The blood on their hands was more than an abstract concept, a mere allusion to perceived guilt. The blood they washed from their hands was the kind that remained visible for days, under every fingernail and in every pore. Aramis had washed it from Porthos' hands before, as Porthos had done for him. But he had also seen this kind of blood on his own hands, the kind that neither soap nor boiling water could banish.

"Porthos..." Aramis said softly, for once at a loss for words.

Porthos did not respond, merely continued to stare at his hands in disgust. Aramis said nothing more, only sat there with him, his hand grasping his friend's shoulder. It took several long minutes before the tension in Porthos' body lessened and he let himself be dragged against Aramis' body, burying his face in Aramis' shoulder.

Aramis let him cry.

He rubbed slow, soothing circles on Porthos' heaving back and waited. Tears soaked into his shirt, as well as into his beard. Slowly, Porthos' sobs quietened and he looked up, his eyes red and swollen.

"You with me?" Aramis asked quietly, cupping Porthos' wet cheek.

"Talk to me, Porthos," Aramis encouraged.

"I..." Porthos started, then swallowed heavily. "Athos..."

"You were just trying to help."

Porthos shuddered. His voice was unnaturally small and timid when he spoke again.

"I... I broke him."

Aramis tightened his embrace. Figuratively speaking, there had been little left to break in Athos. What his wife hadn't managed to break, the horror of tetanus had squashed quite thoroughly. But Porthos was not one for metaphors. And in the literal sense of the word there was little doubt that he had indeed broken Athos. The painful evidence was there for all to see.

"You tried to keep him from choking," Aramis said in his most soothing tone. "You held him down, we both did."

He wasn't as good at this as Porthos. He never really had to be. They always had Porthos for these sort of conversations.

Porthos looked at him with even more profound sadness in his eyes.

"But you didn't break his arm."

Porthos twisted out of Aramis embrace and sat staring at his hands again.

"I'm a monster," he said.

Porthos who was kind and caring, who was a giant in battle, but gentle as a lamb towards his friends; Porthos was many things, but never a monster.

"You are not," Aramis replied. "Never, Porthos, don't even think..."

"You said it yourself," Porthos interrupted him. "We both held him. You didn't break his arm."

Aramis shook his head. "That doesn't mean..."

Porthos flexed his arms. "Too big, too strong," he said tonelessly. "I used too much force. I should have known better."

"You are always so careful," Aramis countered. "You are so gentle with him."

It was easily done for a man of Porthos' strength. A little too much force, putting too much pressure on a single bone... there was no malice in it, simply stupendous strength pitted against brittle bone. It was no surprise that Porthos could break arms like other people broke noses.

Porthos looked him straight in the eye. "I broke him, Aramis," he said, his voice low but steady. "On top of all this, I took his sword arm away from him. I might as well have killed him."

The words hung between them. Aramis swallowed heavily before he could think of any reply. He could not accept this, he wouldn't.

"You nursed him, you took care of him. Without you he wouldn't be alive today," he said eventually. "He would have choked; he would have succumbed to dehydration. Without you, he would have died a dozen times over!"

Porthos cut him off with a shake of his head and a raised hand.

"Please," he said, gesturing over to the bed where d'Artagnan was bent over Athos.

Aramis looked at him, looked at the dejection in his friend's face, and he understood. Porthos asked him to do what he thought he couldn't do himself, to go and take care of Athos. Giving Porthos' shoulder a firm squeeze and pressing a soft kiss to his head, Aramis rose to his feet. They were not done here.

Athos lay motionless, his muscles still hard, but no longer contracted in spasm. His lower body was covered with a thin linen sheet, but his arms and chest were bare. D'Artagnan had probably cut the shirt off him. It wouldn't be the first one. Athos' body was so pale and fragile on the white sheets. He looked small and vulnerable, but he was breathing.

Aramis had to remind himself that that was a good thing, at the very least for Porthos' sake. Porthos would never have forgiven himself if Athos died now.

D'Artagnan was sitting next to Athos, gently stroking his wild hair. When Aramis stood behind him, d'Artagnan attempted a smile, but it was a weak and timid thing.

"Has he woken at all?" Aramis asked, looking at d'Artagnan rather than Athos' and his mangled arm.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Not that I noticed," he said.

Aramis nodded. It had become difficult to tell whether Athos was asleep, unconscious, or awake. At the moment he hoped it was not the latter, for what had been as much as for what he knew had to follow.

Aramis steeled himself before he looked at Athos' right arm on the far side of the bed and gently traced the bone with his fingers.

"Politique de la terre brûlée," d'Artagnan said softly, following his assessment attentively.

The age-old strategy of retreating military forces—when all was lost, ensure that nothing was to be gained for the victor, burn the farms, destroy the crops, demolish the bridges... make sure that what you can't take won't benefit anyone else. Aramis took a closer look at Athos' arm, the latest battleground in this remorseless war. Was Athos to be la terre brûlée? Nothing left of the Athos they knew? A swordsman without his right hand, a crippled musketeer, a brilliant mind in a body that would not do his bidding... Aramis had wished for tetanus' retreat for so long, but if that was to be the manner of its retreat...

It looked a clean break of Athos' upper arm and the skin remained unbroken, though after the spasm the bone did not align any more. If they could fix that; if they could keep the arm immobilised; if he did not somehow develop an infection... maybe this break could heal, maybe not all was lost.

"Not yet," he said to d'Artagnan.

The younger man's eyes lit up immediately. Aramis regretted having to curtail that joy.

"We might be able to fix this," he cautioned. "We might..."

D'Artagnan nodded eagerly. Aramis felt some shadow of his relief. Broken bones were dangerous, prone to infection and ended up crippling too many men, but he could handle broken bones. He had seen them before, he would see them again, and he knew what to do. Broken bones were easy compared to tetanus.

"I'll need to get some supplies," Aramis said. "Splints and bandages," he clarified when d'Artagnan looked alarmed. "And I will need your help."

He watched thoughts and emotions flicker across d'Artagnan's face in rapid succession. As much as all this had rattled him, he was still perceptive and a quick thinker. He knew that Porthos would usually be assisting Aramis.

"Is Porthos alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis sighed, but tried to keep his voice low and neutral.

"He's blaming himself for breaking Athos' arm," he said.

"He didn't..."

"I have already told him that he is not to blame, that he was only trying to help," Aramis cut off d'Artagnan's interjection. "Give him some time." He looked at d'Artagnan beseechingly. "This has been hard on him as well."

Harder than Aramis had realised.

It was easy to take Porthos for granted. Loyal, steadfast Porthos, always there with a smile, always there to forgive.

"No, I mean he really didn't," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis smiled a little at the boy's persistence.

"You are kind, but—"

"No, really, listen," d'Artagnan insisted. "Just look at it."

Aramis did, again. Clearly broken.

"He didn't break it," d'Artagnan implored. "Look where the break is. Porthos never touched that bone."

Suddenly it dawned on Aramis.

"He had one hand on his chest and one on his lower arm," d'Artagnan elaborated. "He didn't push down too hard. Maybe it's the spasm that did it, I don't know, but it sure as hell wasn't Porthos."

Usually Aramis would have admonished him for his language, but he let it go. He was too delighted by these findings, too happy to be able to absolve Porthos of this guilt.

Porthos looked distinctly out of his depth when Aramis coaxed him into coming over to the bed. When he laid eyes upon the fracture, Aramis thought Porthos was going to be sick. Aramis explained d'Artagnan's observation and Porthos nodded, but he remained absent-minded and close-lipped.

"I shouldn't have..." Porthos murmured.

"If you hadn't, who knows what would have happened," d'Artagnan said reasonably. "He's not dead, now is he?"

"Not yet," Porthos whispered tonelessly. It wasn't the reaction Aramis had hoped for, but at least Porthos was at Athos' side now.

Reducing a fracture in a tetanus patient who cannot bear to be touched was no easy feat. It was a painful procedure at the best of times, and Aramis disliked performing it without anything to take the edge off, but they had no other options. As he had explained to d'Artagnan, it was impossible to leave the arm like this unless they wanted to guarantee that Athos remained crippled for life. However long that might be.

Aramis showed d'Artagnan how to hold the upper fragment of bone in place and went to work, first pulling, and then rotating the lower piece back into place. Athos' eyes flew open at that and Aramis quickly focussed on his work again, unable to witness the agony he was putting into those eyes. Once length and alignment had been corrected, Aramis flexed Athos' elbow and applied pressure to his upper arm. It felt like the pieces of bone had slotted back into place, but he could only pray that he was right about that. He already considered it a miracle that all this manhandling and the intense pain had not resulted in yet another severe spasm.

Aramis splinted the arm and wrapped it tightly in bandages, allowing the bones to rest safely and protect them as they mended. A cast, while preferable, was hardly practical under the circumstances, as the starch solution took a good three days to dry. There were no guarantees that Athos would be alive in three days time, and any intervening spasms would render the cast useless. Splints it was then, splints and some fervent prayer that they would prove strong enough.

Rest was of the essence now if Athos was to have any chance of a complete recovery. And if he didn't have that, then what did he have left?

They went about their business as usual; spasms, and care, and so much waiting, but even that routine felt all wrong and different. With Porthos so clearly affected by recent events, any remaining trace of optimism had vanished.

Porthos remained downcast. Aramis noticed that he only left the room when prompted and barely slept, but there was little he could do about that. It was heart wrenching to see Porthos be so timid around Athos all of a sudden. He was hesitant to touch him and only resumed giving him water after a desperate outburst from d'Artagnan who feared that Athos would die of thirst because of his inability to make him drink.

Every minute of their ceaseless duty felt like they were performing the last rites for their dear friend and there were times Aramis was tempted to send for a priest. He only refrained from it because he knew that the ceremony held little meaning for Athos and if his friend could still speak, he would only agree to go through with it to humour Aramis.

Still unsure that anyone would listen, but unable to do much else, Aramis prayed for healing one way or another. Given all that they had witnessed of Athos' illness, he almost meant it when he didn't stress healing in this life over healing in the next.

Whether Athos was asleep or unconscious, or simply too weak to show any sign of life beyond his laboured breaths, they could not tell. Even glimpses of his roving eyes had become rare. It had been three weeks since Athos had fallen ill and his state had only deteriorated. How much longer that could continue, none of them knew.

They focussed on each breath.

Whenever one did not follow immediately on the heels of the other, Aramis panicked though he knew it was a selfish desire to insist that his friend stay alive despite everything.

Breathing too seemed to be something that Athos only did to humour him.

Translations & Explanations

Au delà du possible —"Beyond what is possible", motto of the 13th Parachute Dragoon Regiment of the French army. One of the oldest regiments not only in this fic, but also in the French army, founded only about 54 years after the Musketeers, still in Ancien Régime France. Originally a cavalry regiment, the list of battles they were involved in reads like an abridged version of European history.

Coup de grâce —"blow of mercy", the deathblow delivered to end the suffering of a severely wounded person or animal.

Politique de la terre brûlée — "scorched earth policy", a well-known military strategy since ancient times. Some famous more recent examples are Hitler's Nero Decree in 1945, Sherman's March to the Sea in 1864, and the Russian retreat from Napoleon in 1812 (for all of you War&Peace fans out there).

2 Timothy 1:7 — "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind" Aramis repeats this several times, abbreviated in different ways. First mentioned in the previous chapter as Jean-Jacques' farewell to Aramis.

Broken bones — No external forces needed, tetanus spasms do actually break bones. The muscle contractions get so bad they break bones, including necks and backs. What happens here is somewhat similar to breaking your arm in an arm-wrestling match. Another little fun fact: Plaster casts were not invented until the 19th century when a bunch of military surgeons discovered that very useful application. In the 16th century the remedy for broken bones was lots of rest, just how useful casts (made of egg white, flour, and animal fat, or a starch solution) actually were was not yet known.

Aramis crying — As you have probably all realised by now, I was a fan of Dumas' books long before the BBC series, and there are certain parts of book canon that I'm really attached to, this being one of them. There is a fair bit of crying in Dumas' books, but never by Aramis. I have been told off by my Beta for posting any book spoilers, but let's just say I decided to only make Aramis cry when one of his friends is dead or dying. Just a little thing that I'm personally quite attached to and that seemed to fit reasonably well within the BBC canon.

Ecclesiastes 4:12 — "Though one may be overpowered, two can withstand. And a threefold cord is not easily broken."