Dear all,

Okay, this chapter ran away a little from the plan and me! As the strain in caring for Athos begins to take its toll on all of them, the conversation at the end started me on a slightly different path so I have chosen deliberately to conclude it where I have for now.

Many thanks for all the wonderful comments and to all you lovely people who have followed and made the story a favourite. It is, as ever, a joy and such encouragement to hear from you and know that so many of you deem the story worthy of reading. Thank you!

THE TENTH HOUR

Towards the end of the tenth hour – eleven since Athos had first displayed any symptoms – the crisis hit.

Initially, as the time crept towards what the group had designated the first marker – twelve hours – they had been lulled into a false sense of security when Athos did not appear to develop anything beyond the rash which, because it had not featured prominently in any of the written eye-witness descriptions, meant that the musketeers had begun to convince themselves that Gabon had unfortunately misdiagnosed the illness, as severe as it was.

They decided that it could not be the English sweating sickness because of the appearance of the rash and therefore Athos was no longer at risk of dying. He had survived long after many others were known to have died and almost reached the twelve-hour hurdle and so they dared to hope that he was consequently safe.

Gabon had described what the final stage of symptoms involved and, when they had feared the worst, they had each tried to imagine what it would be like, dreading its onset. Nothing, then, could have prepared them for what it was like in reality, when they had to accept that the illness had not fully worked its course and eventually unleashed its final force.

Porthos was beside himself with guilt, convinced that his insistence on taking Athos for a 'walk' in a vain attempt to keep him awake had accelerated the process and no amount of reassuring him otherwise would ease his tortured soul. As far as he was concerned, he had condemned his brother to an unmitigated nightmare. Gabon asserted that the development of symptoms was inevitable, for that was the way of the sweating sickness. Tréville tried his best to keep up Porthos' spirits by re-affirming what the physician was claiming but feared that his encouragement was falling on deaf ears, for the big musketeer sat on a chair a little distance from the bed, categorically refused to take any more of an active role in the nursing and simply watched his weakening brother with eyes filled with abject misery. Aramis was faring no better at rousing him from his depression but then he was, as a result of Porthos' irrational decision, focused solely on trying to help Athos as best he could. D'Artagnan, meanwhile, sat mutely, his face a mask of burgeoning horror and helplessness.

Earlier, Porthos had cradled Athos as if he were a delicate child whilst d'Artagnan and Aramis changed the sheets for a third time. They used many of the pillows that Tréville had gathered, piling them up behind Athos when they settled him once more so that he was almost sitting upright as he reclined against them. Porthos had deposited on another bed a number of clean sheets that he had found in readiness but was visibly crestfallen when Aramis declared that they would not use them in the near future; Athos had deteriorated so dramatically and rapidly that any further movement of him needed to be minimal and only if necessary.

He was restless, his head moving fitfully and his hands constantly teasing at the sheet that was pulled up to his waist. Eyes closed and unaware of the minute watch kept by the men around him, he murmured continually, distressed by whatever it was that haunted him. Aramis leaned forward and tried several times to ascertain what was bothering him but he only garnered snatched words that, on their own, revealed nothing.

"Of what does he speak?" Tréville asked at one point as he stood, arms folded, looking down on the soldier.

"I don't know," Aramis answered sadly, "for I can only understand odd words but I think he repeats himself over and over again. There are two names in particular that he keeps mentioning: Thomas and Anne."

"I believe Thomas was his late brother," Tréville offered, "but I know nothing of an Anne."

"He has spoken very occasionally of a woman in his past but you know what he is like about keeping that part of his life secret and most definitely history. Perhaps it is her."

At Aramis' words, d'Artagnan turned pale as he remembered the wife Athos had told him about in the aftermath of the fire at his manor in Pinon. The young Gascon had promised never to reveal what had transpired on that occasion to either Porthos or Aramis, and although he hated keeping anything that he considered important from them, his oath to Athos was far more precious. Was Anne his wife whom he confessed to having condemned to death and who had somehow been resurrected to threaten the life of the former Comte? Why did he think of her now? D'Artagnan hoped that Aramis would not look in his direction, for although he attempted to school his features, he did not think he was being successful and he feared the marksman asking too many pointed questions as a consequence.

"He also keeps asking 'What have you done?' so I can only imagine that something terrible occurred. Look at him now."

Tréville hooked his foot around a stool leg and dragged it closer, settling on it beside Athos as he and Aramis endeavoured to identify what the sick musketeer was saying.

Athos' face crumpled and, to their great consternation, tears began to trickle from beneath closed lids and down his cheeks as his voice broke. "No, no! What have you done? How could you?" and he finished with an agonised groan as if the very sound was being forcibly wrenched from him.

Aramis took Athos' right hand between his own and gave it a gentle squeeze in a desperate bid to let his brother know of his continued presence; it was some time since they had resolved that they could not hold him in their arms again for he was far too hot and struggled weakly in their clasp.

"Sssh, my friend. Do not alarm yourself so. These are nothing but bad memories and we need you to concentrate on getting well again; we are all with you – d'Artagnan, Porthos, the Captain, the physician and me. We will not leave you alone. Be calm and try to rest," Aramis said softly, more from the need to feel that he was doing something and hoping, rather than believing, that Athos could hear him.

The words had no effect and Athos grew increasingly agitated. Now Tréville reached out a hand and laid it on the ailing man's head. Hair was plastered around Athos' face but it was the intense heat coming off him in waves that had Tréville's eyes widening in surprise. The officer moved his hand to cup the reddened cheek, the only colour in a face that was almost as white as the pillow against which it lay.

"You surely don't want me to issue you with an order," Tréville chided soothingly, "but I will if you want me to." He adopted a tone of mock brusqueness. "I cannot have one of my best men lying abed all hours when there is work to be done. I need you fit for duty as soon as possible so it would be a good idea if you settled to some genuine rest as Aramis suggests. Listen well to him; he usually gives you good advice if you would but heed it for once in your life. So, stop upsetting yourself," and, without thinking, he wiped the nearest tear away with his thumb.

He glanced towards Aramis and saw immediately that the marksman had been witness to the gesture when he smiled in appreciative understanding.

"He only ever listens to you," Aramis said, nodding towards Athos who had grown still and seemed quieter at the sound of the officer's voice.

Trévillle raised an eyebrow. "That's as maybe, but I just wish he'd try listening a bit more than he does."

The remark elicited a light chuckle from Aramis who wrung out a cloth and laid it across Athos' forehead again.

The scene was warming and imbued with a rough tenderness that only men comfortable in themselves, their brotherhood and tough situations could acknowledge and demonstrate, but Gabon was mesmerised as he watched and listened.

Had there been a timepiece in the room, they would have studied the slow, inexorable movement of the hands marking the passage of the minutes leading towards the hours as they sat in silence …. waiting …. hoping and, in the case of Aramis, praying. Eyes closed, head bowed and hand resting lightly on Athos' arm, his lips moved in rapid, quiet Latin as he beseeched his God to take pity upon his sick brother and spare him a premature and horrible end.

Unable to endure the tension any longer, d'Artagnan leaped up and fled from the room. He controlled himself enough that he did not slam the door behind him but softly drew it shut before he collapsed onto the bench that had been placed outside the door by some well-meaning comrades. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that he should not stray far nor talk to anyone and he was relieved by the instruction for his heart was too charged to speak. It was only a matter of minutes before he heard the door open and close quietly again and he expected that either Porthos or Aramis had followed him. The wooden bench creaked as the other person lowered himself onto it and seemed content to just sit in the eerie silence that had descended upon the garrison in the late evening.

"He would not want to see you like this."

The voice, deep and mellow, belonged to Tréville. Startled and embarrassed by his emotional display, d'Artagnan sniffed loudly and wiped hastily at his eyes with the heel of a hand.

"I know," he admitted eventually when he trusted himself to speak. "That's why I came out here, in case he was ….was still aware of what was going on around him."

They fell silent, Tréville content to just sit and wait until d'Artagnan was ready to say more – many was the time when such a tactic had worked with Athos – and the young man appreciated the officer's steadying presence and patient air.

"I can't stand to see him brought so low, made so helpless like this," d'Artagnan confessed. "He seems to sleep the least of us, is always busy about something or off by himself. This enforced confinement, this terrible illness that may kill him is all wrong."

"You have never had occasion to see him injured or ill," Tréville commented.

D'Artagnan gave a wry smile, "Only drunk."

Tréville laughed softly. "Even in his cups, he has the capability still to be standing when many another man would be felled by the alcohol." He became serious and looked at the young musketeer carefully. "You are right, there is something awry when a man such as Athos can fall victim so drastically to an illness but, perhaps, it is harder for us who watch and wait and are angry in our helplessness. By dint of our occupation, we are men of action and it does not sit well with us when we are told there is nothing that could or should be done in any specific eventuality. At least that would give us some semblance of control, even if the situation is futile but here, with him so sick, there is nothing worse than standing by, powerless to do anything effective, as he slips away from us. It is natural to want to assist him but he must do this on his own."

"Does he want to though?" d'Artagnan whispered his greatest fear. "Does he want to survive? Some dark thoughts burden him now in his delirium. Can he fight them enough?" The newest musketeer turned troubled eyes upon the seasoned soldier who was his commanding officer and he found himself suddenly desperately wanting to share the terrible secret he had borne for Athos over several months.

"He is torn by the guilt of having his wife executed. He knew it was his duty even though he loved her with every fibre of his being. Somehow she has escaped her sentence and has returned after five years to make his life hell and has tried to kill him."

He imagined blurting out the whole sorry tale, knowing that it would do much to explain the reticence and guilt of his brother. Tréville would know what to do, how to help, what to say to Athos to ease his pain. The Captain would make the decision to reveal all to Porthos and Aramis so there would no longer be the need to guard what one said. The old adage claimed that a trouble shared was a trouble halved; it had not worked when Athos had drunkenly and brokenly confided in him for he had not known how to react or what to say to support his new friend but perhaps, if Tréville were privy to what had transpired, he would know exactly what to do and Athos' nightmarish burden would ease and the path of self-destruction that he seemed determined to follow at times would be closed to him for good. Supposing, though, there was no time for that redemption and, in his barely conscious state, Athos gave up the struggle?

D'Artagnan remained silent.

"I have known Athos for the best part of five years," Tréville began. "He came to the regiment a much troubled man but, over time, he has found his place. I think he really feels that he belongs now. He still has bad days when, for whatever reason, his only solace is in a good bottle of claret or more but he is a damned good soldier and perhaps, occasionally, he realises it. One thing I do know and that is that he has an inner strength that goes beyond that of others. Whatever his personal demons may be, they would have destroyed many a man but he has fought them and survived to face another day. He has good friends at his side in you, Porthos and Aramis, and you are all good reason enough for him to want to continue living."

"But if this illness should prove too strong even for him?" d'Artagnan persisted.

Tréville hesitated. "Then we must face what comes for there is no changing it on our part. We will find the strength in our memories of the good times we have had with him and we will stand strong together."

D'Artagnan suddenly realised that Tréville had ceased to talk of the Inseparables alone and had included himself.

The young man frowned, sure that he should be taking comfort from the words but finding their intensity frightening instead.

"Do you think he will live?" he asked at last. He fixed dark, sad eyes upon the officer.

"I honestly do not know," Tréville admitted, a catch in his voice. "I have to tell myself repeatedly that he will survive and believe it, for I am not ready to lose one of the best soldiers this regiment has ever seen and I am certainly not prepared to see him put in the ground before me."