NOTE: Happy, healthy, harmonious New Year to one and all.
CHAPTER 9
A different voice broke into the confusion that was Athos' mind, telling him to get up and move.
"Don't make me stick my cold hand on your chest again," Aramis threatened, standing over the kneeling man.
Athos knew that voice, associating it with trust, forgiveness, brotherhood. A voice he should heed. Trying to fight off the cold induced stupor, he shook his head, then noticed the hand being held out to him. Raising his eyes, he peered upward into the face staring down at him.
"Odd time to be praying," Aramis said with a hint of mischief in his voice, despite the seriousness of the situation.
Athos wanted to come up with a retort, but everything he did seemed to take a thousand years to accomplish. Finally, he got the semblance of a scowl on his face, which almost made Aramis smile.
Waving his outstretched hand to catch the swordsman's attention, which was drifting away, Aramis suggested, "Let's finish getting the firewood together, shall we."
Like he was moving underwater, Athos slowly grasped Aramis' hand and used it to leverage himself to his feet. As if he were a child, Aramis led him over to a piece of driftwood and instructed him to pick it up. Sluggishly, like an ancient man, he bent over and gathered up the indicated piece of wood. Getting into a rhythm, he shuffled around, bending, lifting, bending, lifting, until his arms were full. When Aramis also had all he could hold, they walked back to the pine shelter and began crafting a fire in the rectangular pit.
Once the wood was arranged, the two stood back and stared at the pile as they contemplated how to light it. "Well, I guess we do this the old fashion way," Aramis declared with a sigh, until his eyes wandered over to glance at Athos. "Wait. You still have your weapons belt on!"
Athos' eyes strayed down to the item in question. "I tossed off my sword...before the horse fell...to avoid injury."
"Smart. I simply unbuckled my belt and let it go. Your flint?" Aramis queried. "Hopefully, it didn't get lost in the river."
Reaching for the pouch on his belt where he stored his flint, Athos attempted to open it with his frozen fingers. It took a try or two before he got it. Clumsily wrapping his fingers around the grey rock, he withdrew it, then promptly dropped it in the snow and cursed.
"I've always said you have quite a vocabulary of cuss words for a Comte," Aramis teased as he squatted and began digging in the snow for the flint. Being heavier, the flint had fallen through the snow to the ground.
Athos simply stood there and watched him as if he had no idea what to do, which tremendously worried the medic musketeer. Cold could kill, and Athos was displaying all the signs of advanced hypothermia; pallor, slurred speech, shallow breathing and confusion. Aramis knew he wasn't much better off, for he'd stopped shivering, a dangerous sign in and of itself. They needed a fire and needed it fast.
At last, his questing fingers felt a shape under the snow and he prayed it was the one he was searching for and not some stray rock. His fingers were too stiff to pick it up alone, so he got a handful of dirt and snow with it, but when he got to it, it was the flint.
Sighing with relief, he edged over to the pit and squatted in front of the piece of moss he'd gathered to use as tinder. Awkwardly, he struck the flint and it took nearly eight repetitions to get a spark that set the dried moss to smoking. Leaning over, he blew ever so carefully on it until a bright orange flame sprouted and began licking at the wood. For a moment, the flame made him think of the orange again. He sat there, staring at the fire as it grew and spread over the pit. The dancing flames were mesmerizing and the little warmth already being generated felt wonderful.
Aramis had no idea how long he was lost in his own world again, this cold being a sneaky and deceitful enemy. It was a shiver that brought him back to realty, one that was hard and long and broke the spell of the fire. He discovered he was sitting in the snow in front of the pit and judging by how well the fire was burning and the ring of melted snow around the outside of the rock pit, he'd been in his trance for a while.
As his mind began to sluggishly process things again he thought of Athos. Where was he? His eyes darted about the campsite and discovered a figure, curled up in a ball, a few yards from the fire. It appeared that Athos had once again succumbed to the siren song of the cold and collapsed where he stood.
Rising and hurrying over to where his friend lay, Aramis dropped to his knee and began shaking the swordsman to rouse him. That had no effect on the man and with trepidation, Aramis stripped off his glove again and felt for a pulse. It was hard given the cold, but he did detect the beat of Athos' heart. Gathering the man in his arms and holding him tight against his chest, he prayed for forgiveness for having, once again, left him.
Though they were about the same height, Athos was a little lighter than he, so Aramis was able to rise with his arms firmly wrapped around the man's chest and drag him over to the pine-lined lean-to. He propped the unconscious man against his torso as they sat as close to the fire as possible. Clumsily, Aramis tried to rub Athos' cold, wooden, unresponsive limbs. He felt the wet leather of the pants and the doublet and knew the garments underneath were just as wet and were sapping the life out of Athos, as were his own sodden clothes. But they couldn't simply strip down and sit in front of the fire. It wouldn't be warm enough and they would freeze, the same as if they stayed in the wet garments.
At that point, he remembered the odd formation of fallen rocks he'd wanted to explore with a torch. Carefully laying his unresponsive brother on his side next to the fire, Aramis choose a suitable limb from the pile of wood they had not yet burned and made it into a torch. Even though the man was not conscious, Aramis assured his brother he would not be gone long.
Torch in hand, he made his way the short distance to the rocks, bent over and shoved the torch in the opening, praying no animal was sheltered within. When nothing untoward happened, he got closer and peered into the rocky hole. It had been a cave of sorts, once, before the rocks had shifted. As he waved the torch about, he could see a few items such as two pallets, which had served as a bed and some scattered crockery, mostly broken. Some person, or persons, had obviously been living here for a while. His mind began to wonder why, but before it could take him off into a mode where he once again fell into a stupor and let time pass him by, he shook his head to focus on the task at hand.
His eyes roamed the small dim cave again, finally lit upon something useful inside, something that made his heart lift. Something that proved God was listening to his prayers. Two blankets.
It was a struggle, but with the help of another long branch, he was able to drag them close enough to the opening to seize them with his hand. They were old, but still in good condition, which made him wonder how long it had been since the previous occupants had been here. He also snagged two metal cups and a small pot which he thought might come in handy.
Snuffing out the torch, he carried his booty back to the camp. He noted Athos hadn't moved at all while he was gone, which was not a surprise. The cold was killing both of them, but now God had given them weapons to fight back.
It was a struggle to get the unresponsive Athos out of his wet clothes, especially given the fact his own hands were incredibly stiff from the cold. But the medic-musketeer succeeded, and if the truth be told, it wasn't the first time he'd undressed the man when he was unconscious. A couple of times Athos had been injured in a battle and had to be stripped for him to tend his wounds. Then there were the dark days, when Athos had drunk himself into a stupor and his brothers had to see he got safely home. Many a night Aramis had removed Athos' outer clothing before placing him into his bed to sleep off his indulgences. Those days, thank God, for the most part had passed, for Aramis had had serious doubts whether the swordsman would survive, or had wanted to survive.
He wrapped Athos in one of the blankets and laid him on his right side in the shelter, on the insolating pine boughs. The fire pit was close enough that it was getting a little bit warmer inside the lean-to than it was outside. Once he had Athos settled, he took the man's clothes and spread them on the far side of the fire to dry.
He also took a minute to walk back into the woods and pick some mint he'd seen when they were gathering the firewood. It was nearly dead but would be useful. Once back at the fire, he put snow in the scavenged pot and set it on the side of the fire to melt and warm. While that was happening, he stripped naked, wrapped himself in the second blanket, then added his own clothes to the far side of the fire to dry.
When the water was hot, he dropped in a hand full of the mint leaves he'd crushed and let it steep. When he judged it was done, he poured a measured amount into each tin mug and brought them into the shelter. Placing them to the side, he sat on the boughs, then arranged it so Athos' back was cradled against his chest allowing his own body heat to help warm the man. It also gave him the ability to dribble some of the warm mint tincture between the frozen man's lips.
They sat this way for over an hour, Aramis judged, before he felt a stirring in Athos. Gently, he reached around and lightly tapped the swordsman on the cheek and began to speak to him, encouraging him to wake up. Groggily, Athos began to squirm in his embrace and Aramis offered soothing words of encouragement. Aramis was thrilled that Athos was reviving, though he knew they still had a long way to go to escape this winter nightmare.
