Evening, dear all. I have written much of this in a hurry as I desperately wanted to upload something for you all today. I have done two checks but am sorry if some errors have slipped through. Athos worsens in this chapter and the others are beside themselves with worry. Thank you for all the wonderful responses.

THE NINTH HOUR

The battle had begun in earnest and the men really did not know how best to fight it. Spirits were flagging as they became consumed with worry and fear; conscious, more than ever before, of the reality of the potentially fatal outcome when they were witness to Athos' rapid deterioration, they tried desperately to encourage themselves and each other.

Initially, d'Artagnan took it upon himself to keep Athos awake, sitting beside the cot engrossed in a very one-sided conversation as he regaled him with the minutiae of garrison life – as if the sick musketeer were unfamiliar with such a thing. Serge's complaints about washing blankets, sweat-soaked sheets and having to furnish them all with an alternative meat-free diet were repeated verbatim. He told him in detail the finer points of Gabon's instructions and the history that lay behind the tomes for he was sure that Athos would find that fascinating, given his usual interest in such subjects. As time wore on and d'Artagnan exhausted his supply of tales, Aramis was sure that he began to invent incidents about their colleagues, including one Delacroix, with whom Athos had an ongoing rancorous relationship.

Listening carefully, Aramis could not help but wonder if d'Artagnan were not mentioning the other musketeer deliberately in the hope of eliciting some sort of response from Athos. The disappointment in the young man was clear when Athos continued to ignore him. It was not their sick brother's fault as he tossed fitfully in his bed, eyes semi-closed and absorbed with murmuring to someone unseen of things unknown to anyone else but him.

"The boy has determination," Gabon observed to Tréville as d'Artagnan launched into a flagging tale of the problems the stable boy had been having with brushing knots out of horses' manes – another subject of total invention, or so Aramis thought.

Tréville gave a wan smile. "He will do anything for Athos."

Gabon looked around the room to where the other two busied themselves with preparing fresh sheets to change the cot for a second time and another container of warmed water to begin the whole process once more of washing Athos down. "I rather get the impression that they all will do anything for this young man – yourself included. I cannot think of too many leaders who would have put themselves in this position."

"I was given to understand that I had no choice," Tréville said softly, no trace of resentment in his tone as he referred to the isolation Gabon had inflicted upon all of them.

Gabon spread wide his hands in acceptance. "Granted we are here to minimise risk of spreading infection to the garrison but you had the chance to remove yourself into the other room, yet you did not. I am intrigued. These men are special?"

It was a definite question rather than a mere statement and Tréville could almost hear Gabon's unspoken words. "To you?"

The Captain thought carefully before he answered. "My regiment is unique. They are the King's men; commissions are greatly sought after and hard won. Each man has a talent and some a veritable gift." He eyed the four musketeers in the room and dropped his voice even lower, not wanting them to hear what he was about to admit. "These men take that uniqueness to a higher level. As their commanding officer, I am not supposed to have favourites but yes, this quartet is special. They are not without their faults, each and every one of them; they have their moods and their problems. They make their mistakes and many is the time when their antics drive me to distraction but, when it comes to their work as musketeers, their abilities are second to none; their loyalty to the regiment, me, their King and country cannot be questioned. Each of them has a value to this regiment that is beyond measure; put them together as a unit and they are beyond comparison. I am not sure whether it is the reason for their compatibility or the result of it but between them is a bond of comradeship and brotherhood that is rare."

A heavy silence descended upon them and Gabon weighed what he had heard.

"So if Athos were to die of this disease ...?" He left the question unfinished.

Tréville looked at him sharply. "I dare not even begin to think what it would do to them. Yes, they would mourn, pick up the pieces of their lives and work as they have always done but it would never be the same; I do not believe that somehow they would ever be the same. A huge part of them would be missing."

"And what of you if he did not survive?"

The question was too pointed, too personal. Tréville cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable. "I have lost men before; many good ones. It is one of the less than pleasant events that comes with the responsibility of being a captain."

"That is not what I asked."

"They are all soldiers. They know from the moment they join the regiment that they could lose their lives. If they are not ready to make that sacrifice, then there is no point in being the King's man," Tréville said matter-of-factly.

"Is that a rehearsed answer, Captain? The reason you readily give yourself? It may be more acceptable on a field of battle but what about when it is a potentially deadly disease following a routine task and happens to one of these four?" Gabon pressed.

Tréville's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to do, Gabon? Seeing if I am holding up under the pressure of being confined within these four walls?"

"Not at all, Captain. I apologise for angering you but I have spent many hours now watching the interaction in this room and it is not just between your men and their sick comrade; it involves you just as much and I am fascinated for I have never seen the like."

"You think I am too involved? That I should stand back and not care about what happens to my men, any of them?" Tréville hissed, not sure where the conversation was really going.

"Of course not. It is refreshing; human. There are too many military leaders who do not appear to have any thought or care for their men; they lead through intransigence and terror. You strike me as one who has the loyalty of these men and the rest of the garrison because they see you as being fair and loyal to them. You lead, guide, teach and care for them – a father-figure, no less." He eyed Tréville shrewdly. "It is therefore no surprise that you would feel any loss like a father. After all, you have taken an active part in the tending of this young man."

"Because it is demanding and exhausting. The more help there is, the easier it will be for all of us, not least Athos himself," Tréville reasoned.

Gabon raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You demand too much of me. What do you want me to say, Gabon? That, like d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos, I cannot even begin to think on the possibility of Athos dying and refuse to consider it? That I see that eventuality as being the biggest waste of life and talent that I expect I shall ever witness? Do I fear his dying before this night is out? Absolutely! Would I mourn his passing more than almost everybody I have known and lost? Undoubtedly! There, Gabon, I have said it. Are you satisfied?"

A silence shrouded them now like a pall and was only broken by the disturbance at the bedside.

D'Artagnan jumped to his feet, his stool falling over with a thud as he threw up his hands despairingly. "You must not go to sleep, Athos. How many more times do we have to tell you?" A catch in his voice betrayed the overwhelming emotion he was feeling and it was Aramis who took him by the arm and led him to the next cot where he sat him down, laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke soothingly to him.

"Looks like it's you and me now then, Athos," Porthos announced loudly, interweaving his fingers and stretching out his arms so that a business-like bone-cracking was heard.

"What are you going to do?" Aramis asked as Porthos pulled back the bedding to expose Athos in all his nakedness.

They had all sent for at least one change of clothing when Gabon had suggested it and now, Porthos grabbed and shook out one of his own shirts. He wasted no time in sitting Athos up to drape the shirt over his head and work the limp arms through the sleeves. With one arm around Athos' waist, he manoeuvred his legs over the side of the bed, the bare feet dangling uselessly above the boards.

"Porthos?" Aramis' eyes widened in alarm as Porthos shifted Athos to the edge of the cot so that his feet now made contact with the floor.

"Me and Athos here are going for a little walk, aren't we?" He did not seem surprised when Athos did not answer, his head having lolled forward onto his chest.

"You can't …" Aramis began, stepping forward with a sense of urgency.

"Can't what?" Porthos snapped as he pulled Athos' right arm around his neck and hauled him to his feet. "We have to keep him awake. D'Artagnan's had his go and now it's my turn so we are going to have a walk. Now you an' I know we're only goin' round an' round the table but him and me, we're goin' to pretend it's the meadow outside Paris an' we're headin' down to the river. Isn't that right, Athos?"

Athos was mumbling but there was no evidence that he was directly responding to Porthos.

"Maybe you can help by pullin' my shirt down on him properly; save his blushes," Porthos insisted and waited as Aramis re-arranged the shirt that, voluminous on Porthos' big frame, swamped the shorter, leaner musketeer. If the situation had not been so serious, it would have raised a laugh in its preposterousness. "Come on now, Athos. Best foot forward."

To Aramis' surprise, Athos stumbled forward a few paces beside Porthos, his head rolling and his left arm limp at his side. It was clear to everyone present that it was only Porthos keeping him upright; if he chose to relinquish his hold, Athos would collapse to the floor like a stuffing-less rag doll.

As they walked – or rather, Porthos walked and largely carried Athos at his side – the big musketeer kept up a running commentary on the sky, clouds, the smell of the pasture's long grass, birds and buzzing insects, the racing river water and the colours of the wild flowers along its banks.

They managed several circuits of the table but before then Athos had ceased any shuffling he had briefly succeeded in achieving. His eyes were closed, the long lashes edged in droplets that could have been either tears or the sweat that poured from him. Aramis intervened and stood in their way so that they could not circumnavigate the table again.

"Porthos, let him rest," he said softly and took a sharp intake of breath as he saw Porthos' eyes well up.

"He has to stay awake," Porthos explained, his voice surprisingly small for a man of his build and pained.

"Look at him, Porthos," Aramis urged, holding and supporting Athos' head in his hands. "He is barely conscious. We have to get him back into bed and bathe him. He would be disgusted with himself if he knew how badly he smelt right now." Gabon's books had spoken of the sweat smelling foully and there was no denying the stench that now rolled off Athos, especially after his enforced exercise. "Then we'll change the bed again and perhaps he will be a little more comfortable."

Porthos seemed to think about this for a moment and, suddenly reaching down, he swept Athos up in his arms and carried the limp figure with ease back to the bed. He knew, from the dead weight he carried, the looseness of the limbs and the way the head fell back over his arm, that Athos' tentative hold on wakefulness had all but gone. Swiftly, he removed his shirt from the still form and threw it in a damp heap across the room before sitting on the cot, his back to the wall as Athos lay in a semi-seated position against his chest.

Aramis began the slow process of wiping down the figure and drying him as he went but it was soon apparent that as fast as he did this, another film of sweat coated Athos' body again.

"I didn't reckon anyone was capable of makin' the heat that's comin' off him now. He's wettin' the shirt I'm wearin'," Porthos said, his worried eyes fixed on Aramis over Athos' head. Admittedly uncomfortable, he was careful not to sound as though he were complaining.

Aramis had settled on the edge of the cot facing them. "Give him to me for a while; perhaps you could wipe down his back, try to cool him that way. We have neglected that part of him," and he held out his arms in readiness to receive his sick friend as Porthos leaned Athos forward and into his embrace. Athos' head rested on his shoulder and he tried to ignore both the sweat-soaked hair against his cheek and the frightening level of heat that emanated from the swordsman.

Porthos worked in silence and then a frown creased his brow. He stopped. "What the …..?"

"What is it? What's the matter?" Aramis demanded.

Porthos checked the smooth skin of his friend's back again. "He's got a rash and it's all down his back."

Aramis held Athos steady and tried to peer round to see what Porthos had noticed. There was no difficulty; the rash was widespread. Laying Athos back against Porthos, Aramis began closely inspecting other parts of the musketeer's body with a sense of urgency that drew the other men into a ring around the bed.

"If you didn't have so much dark chest hair, my friend, we might have noticed this before," Aramis grumbled. He looked in turn at the men around him. "It's on his neck, chest and going down his arms but his legs are clear. You never mentioned a rash." This last comment he directed towards Gabon.

The physician inched closer, keen to peruse the rash, and speaking as he did so. "There was no significant reference to a rash in the English sweating sickness. A couple of brief mentions were all it seemed to warrant. It was either witnessed so infrequently or many people died before it was able to manifest itself."

"So what does it mean?" d'Artagnan asked as he looked at Athos lying against Porthos, his head turning from side to side repeatedly and his features contorted in some unseen discomfort, his breathing more of a rasp.

"I do not know for certain," Gabon admitted, "but I fear that the time may be running out for your friend."