Many thanks to all who continue to read, comment, follow and/or favourite this story. Here is the chapter I wrote on planes over the past week, having had a wonderful but all-too brief sojourn in the Ozark Mountains in Missouri; I met some wonderfully talented and friendly people there. The whole week was a joy (once I'd got to the hotel at Heathrow - I was staying there for the third year in a row and got lost yet again - spectacularly this time. Then I got to the airport the next morning to find my flight was cancelled so was worried I'd miss the Chicago connection but they got me on an earlier flight - which was already delayed!) I do have some adventures - most far more pleasurable than others! The return yesterday was uneventful but I am blaming any typos on jetlag!
Anyway, the crisis continues as this chapter covers about four hours and the wonderful Serge decides to say his piece -only it's Treville who has to do the listening this time!
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
After the stuffy atmosphere of the infirmary, the cool air of the late September evening was refreshing and Tréville and d'Artagnan sat in the shadows, unaware of the passing of time as they talked softly. The garrison was eerily quiet and Tréville knew that there would be a general unease following Athos' emerging illness.
Francois Didier was currently on guard and he had visibly moved away from the pair, keen to maintain a safe distance from them in the absence of any firm details as to what ailed the musketeer. He had inquired after Athos' health but Tréville had only responded with a circumspect comment and to confirm that the swordsman still lived, although he refrained from divulging just how dire the situation was.
The door opened and Gabon appeared, his manner uncomfortable as he spoke.
"It is probably best that you both come inside now," he said quietly. "He is worse."
It was a euphemism for the fact that he firmly believed Athos to be dying.
D'Artagnan leaped to his feet. "No! No!" he cried out in disbelief as he ran back into the infirmary.
Tréville pushed himself reluctantly to his feet, suddenly very weary and acutely aware of how old he was feeling. The two men faced each other.
"What is happening?" Tréville wanted to know.
"He struggles for breath and the pain around his heart is evident now; he clutches repeatedly at his chest," Gabon answered, careful to keep his tone even.
"Do you think he will live?" Tréville asked, conscious that he was repeating d'Artagnan's earlier question. It was odd, he admitted ruefully to himself, that he sought his own desperate reassurance, even as the young musketeer had done.
"I am not a gambling man," Gabon began. "I have neither the wherewithal nor the inclination to risk all on the turn of a card but even if I were, I would not indulge myself in stakes such as these. I fear that I would lose and most heavily," the physician concluded.
Tréville nodded at the words, not wanting to accept the man's voicing of his own fears. When the physician re-entered the infirmary, the musketeer Captain remained outside, unwilling to confront what might amount to being the final battle and so he sank tiredly onto the bench once more.
"How's our boy farin'?" asked a low voice from the darkness, startling him initially although he recognised its owner even before the old cook emerged from the shadows.
Tréville leaned back against the wall. "You shouldn't be anywhere near me."
"The same way you shouldn't have been anywhere near the boy if it's catchin'? Serge huffed as he deliberately sat down on the bench beside the Captain. "I see you took a lot of notice of that."
"If I recall correctly, I didn't have much choice in the matter," Tréville countered as he slid along to the far end of the bench.
"An' I'm makin' my choice then. I'm sittin' here in the fresh air of the late evenin' an' talkin' with my commandin' officer. What could be so wrong in that?" the old soldier declared, but he compromised and, in his turn, slid to the other end of the bench, widening the physical gulf between them.
In the darkness, Tréville gave a smile at the other man's dogged determination to defy what common sense dictated.
"And if it is catching, you'll be at risk of spreading it to the other men," he reasoned, secretly glad that the older man was prepared to jeopardise his own well-being to give the officer some much-needed, unspoken support and comradeship. "If you do that, I may have to court martial you."
The old man snorted in amusement. "If I do that, you won't get the chance because I'll probably 'ave given up the ghost by then an' if it's that catchin', you're in line to get it before me so you'll be dead an' buried first and won't be able to do it anyway."
The sound of their soft, shared laughter broke the night.
"So I'm sittin' here at the far end of the bench an' I'm not plannin' on stoppin' too long but I'm thinkin' you haven't answered my question yet. That makes me a little worried. How's the boy?" Serge repeated.
The officer sighed. "He's battling, Serge, and I honestly do not know if he is going to win."
The old man lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "That serious then?"
"Injuries and wounds I can accept – albeit reluctantly – but this …" His voice trailed off. There was some comfort to be had in confiding in the old soldier with whom he had served so many years, even before he had been given the King's mandate to form the Musketeers. He realised that he had been attempting to offer encouragement to the other friends of the stricken man and that he desperately sought his own solace in light of what the physician had said.
"I'm not sure I'm ready to let him go like this," he admitted.
"There's nothing you nor I can do about it," the old man said sagely. "Only God can see His way to sparin' the boy."
Tréville felt the cold hand of fear grip at his stomach. Over the years, he could count on one hand the number of times Serge had made reference to the Almighty, putting a situation into His hands, and it was usually in the bleakest of circumstances.
"The boy's got fight though, I'll give him that," Serge continued.
In the darkness, Tréville shook his head but the old soldier had seen the movement in the weak candlelight that filtered through the infirmary window.
"I don't think he's got the physical strength to fight much longer," he explained. "I've never seen anything like this, Serge. It's fast and vicious and goes through many stages. I try to hang onto the knowledge that he's lived longer than a lot of others who have succumbed to this but it's going to be about noon tomorrow before we will know whether or not he will really survive it."
"Another twelve hours then," Serge calculated.
"That's about it. Each minute he lives should give us more hope but, according to Gabon, he's at the crisis stage now and there's a part of me that does not want to witness his struggle."
"Never thought I'd see the day when you turned your back on a skirmish," Serge commented challengingly.
Tréville bristled. "I wouldn't call this a skirmish." A definite edge had crept into his voice. "I know when to enter the fray and when to order a calculated retreat."
"An' are you goin' to leave this boy fightin' on his own just so you can retreat an' save face by not watchin' when things get ugly?" Serge retaliated, all softness gone from his own tone.
"Serge, I don't think you understand what …"
"Oh I think I understand plenty," the older man interrupted, only his advanced years and the longevity of their odd friendship giving him the courage and the right to speak his mind so plainly, thereby ignoring the rank of the other man. "How long have I known you? I've seen you as the green recruit an' lost count of all the mistakes I've seen you make along the way. I've been there to bind some of the hurts you've picked up an' I've stood back an' watched you become the damned fine officer you are now."
"I wouldn't …" Tréville began, embarrassed by what the cook had said.
"Well I would," Serge cut him off again, "an' I know all these men follow you because they love you an' respect you, but I know that behind that gruff front you're so fond of putting' on, that you'd do anythin' for the men of the regiment, especially those four," and he jerked his head in the direction of the infirmary's interior where the greatest battle of all was being fought.
When Tréville made to speak again, Serge quickly silenced him with a raised hand. The officer did not even regard this as disrespectful as he found himself once again the raw, young soldier on the receiving end of the seasoned veteran's words of wisdom.
"You've got a softness for those four, an' you can pretend all you want that it's otherwise but I've seen it an' I know it an' for that sick boy most of all. You've expended more time an' energy on him than you 'ave many others an' I don't believe that you're ready to give up on that particular investment. I'm not criticisin'; you an' me can both see he's worth it in the long run. So, you might not be able to do too much about what's eatin' away at him now, but you need to go back in that room for whatever's happenin'.
"He doesn't need me; his brothers are with him," Tréville managed to interject.
"I wouldn't expect them to be anywhere else," Serge agreed, "but that boy worships the ground you walk on for the chances you've given him an' more besides so you should be in there with him, not hidin' out here."
If Serge had been anyone else, the comment would have been both unforgivable and unacceptable but Tréville knew that the old man was well-meaning – and correct! With a sigh, he got to his feet, eying the door to the infirmary with an uncharacteristic nervousness and then down at the old soldier.
"That's told me," he smiled weakly. "I'm on my way."
"You just tell that boy that we're all thinkin' and prayin' for him out here; everyone's worried about him. You remember to tell him."
Tréville nodded. "I'll tell him."
"That's alright then," said the cook as he stood with a groan at the creaking of old bones long past their days of soldiering. Seconds later, he had melted back into the darkness.
Inhaling deeply as he sought to steel himself for what lay ahead, Tréville opened the infirmary door and went back inside, concerned about what he would find.
It was not good.
Aramis had settled into his customary position sitting on the edge of the cot at Athos' right hip. Porthos remained on his chair but he had edged it a little closer to his sick brother whilst d'Artagnan knelt anxiously by the bed, holding one of Athos' hands in his own in a forlorn bid to communicate his presence and support.
Gabon remained at a discreet distance, ever watchful but knowing that there was little he could do to alleviate the sick musketeer's suffering.
It was the sound that Athos was making that was the most disturbing. With eyes closed, face sheened in sweat, soaked curls adhering to his forehead and cheeks, he was panting for breath. They were rapid, shallow and rasping gasps as he struggled to fill his failing lungs. It was strange to see him sitting upright, buttressed by a plethora of pillows but they did little to ease his predicament.
Periodically his features contorted and his restless, free hand scrabbled desperately at his chest, shocking evidence of the pain he was experiencing in the vicinity of his heart – and there was nothing they could do.
Quietly, methodically, Aramis soaked a cloth repeatedly in cold water and gently dabbed at Athos' face.
"Easy, my friend," he said softly, acutely aware that Athos was completely oblivious to his presence.
Carefully, he took hold of the hand that clutched at Athos' chest, squeezed it tightly as a measure of reassurance and laid his own hand over the rapidly beating heart.
"It's very erratic," he commented sombrely to the others, not wishing to alarm them any further by elaborating upon the fact that, at times, it felt as if the heart would burst, the palpitations were so strong.
D'Artagnan sat wide-eyed and helpless; Porthos' misery began to metamorphose into an impotent, silent rage; Aramis commenced his prayers anew whilst Tréville frowned and willed the regiment's finest swordsman to fight for his life.
Gabon sat on the periphery, a redundant outsider and casual observer who had become so immersed in the fascinating relationship between the five men that he too longed for a positive outcome to the situation.
Time crept on inexorably. The thirteenth hour began and although the noisy, tortuous breathing continued, at least Athos still breathed.
Drenched in sweat, he sat propped against the pillows, the fevered rosiness in his cheeks fading to a blanched sickliness – but still he breathed.
Exhausted and too weak to move of his own volition, the only way his friends could ascertain that the pain in his chest still plagued him was from the pinched tightness of his brows and the lines around his eyes – but still he breathed.
Aramis continued bathing his face, neck, chest, arms and hands in cool water, patting him dry and maintaining his one-sided conversation as he hoped and prayed that he could provide some relief with the familiarity of touch and the sound of his voice. The rough, calloused hands of the musketeer were imbued with a brotherly tenderness that never waned as time moved on.
In the early hours of the morning, the only sounds in the room were of Athos' belaboured breathing for the gathered men had at last fallen silent. They lacked the words to encourage each other anymore, drained as they were by the strain and terrified that each muted, bubbling breath might be the last. Even Aramis' prayers were no longer audible, although his companions noted that his lips moved as he mentally intoned each word.
Aramis had not meant to fall asleep but his sick brother had failed to give a visible response or reaction to any of their ministrations or voices for several hours, heralding bitter disappointment amongst those who watched over him and sorely taxing their own reserves of strength. It was not surprising, therefore, that Aramis had given in to exhaustion, although he later adamantly swore that he could not have been asleep for long but it was enough that his head drooped where he sat and his own breathing had become deep and regular when a shaking hand rested upon his shoulder, abruptly bringing him awake.
He looked up into Tréville's face and saw there an unreadable expression. Glancing round at the other three men, he saw that they had all finally given in to the demands of their bodies and fallen asleep and he felt a deep-seated guilt that none of them had managed to stay awake to tend to any need that Athos might have. Whether the Captain had succeeded in remaining awake was immaterial for that same guilt escalated and nearly choked Aramis when Tréville spoke, an ill-concealed catch in the older man's voice betraying his overwhelming emotion.
"He has grown quiet," the Captain ground out.
Swivelling his head quickly, Aramis looked to the ailing musketeer, suddenly aware that the sound of the awful rasping breaths that had pervaded the infirmary for over four hours was no more.
Athos remained sitting, propped up against the bank of pillows, sweat-soaked hair falling in untidy clumps about his face. His skin, devoid of any sign of the sun even in the height of summer, had adopted the most unearthly pallor. Lids were shut tight on the gimlet green eyes that had the power to wither and intimidate a felon or opponent at close quarters; instead, long, dark lashes fanned out above finely sculptured cheekbones. The listless hands now rested, motionless, in his lap, adding to the unnatural aura of stillness that surrounded him; it was as if his soul had already departed and all that remained in the infirmary was an empty shell of the man who had once been the unparalleled swordsman in the King's regiment of musketeers.
"Athos!" he called quietly, urgently even as his hand felt for a beat in the heart that had struggled for so long. "Athos!" the name was louder, more plaintiff as the others rudely awakened at his tone, their faces a haunting image of unadulterated terror at what might have happened.
"He's not …?" Porthos left the question unfinished as, wide-eyed, he edged forward on the chair, his hands clinging to the seat itself.
"No!" d'Artagnan gasped in disbelief as he dropped to the floor beside the bed and looked frantically, firstly at Athos and then at Aramis who cupped the sick man's cheek in his hand and then gently stroked the pale face before he laid his head against the chest, once more listening and feeling for any sign that his brother still lived.
All eyes were on him and the wait for his proclamation interminable but initially he could not speak, could not find the words. All he could do was plant a kiss on the clammy but cooling forehead and try to control the juddering sobs that threatened to be his undoing.
Eventually he turned teary eyes on the fearful men who watched him and gave them a relieved but tentative smile.
"Thanks be to God," he whispered. "Athos is sleeping."
A/N Did toy with the idea of ending the chapter three paragraphs earlier but thought you would not appreciate that!