Chapter Sixteen - Bedridden

Porthos (with Aramis).

Author's note: This is the sequel to the very first story - 'Stabbed.'

Porthos opened his eyes slowly, only to have his fear realised. He was alone. The clean walls of the infirmary and the various bandages and cloths his only company. He rolled onto his back carefully. It had not taken him long to realise that slow movements were his friend.

When they had first brought him into the infirmary there had been a tension in the air. Despite his half-conscious state he was aware of his brothers worry for him. Aramis, his expression set, had calmly ordered the others around. The medic had even shooed Treville out of the way at one point. Porthos had found the move amusing, although he had lacked the energy at the time to show it. The Captain had willingly deferred to Aramis' knowledge at that moment.

There had been talk of too much blood loss, and that he did not look well. Porthos had wanted to reassure them that he would be fine but could not. He had slipped away into the darkness hearing d'Artagnan calling his name as he went.

The first time he had woken after that he had found Athos sat by the bed watching him. Their leader had spent a few minutes talking to him but Porthos could not remember what the man had talked about. He recalled being helped to drink before the darkness won out again.

The next time he had woken fully. D'Artagnan was there. The young man had explained that he had lost a lot of blood before Aramis had been able to stitch the wound. They had been very worried about him, but that he looked a lot better than he had. Porthos was told by the smiling man that he was going to be fine, it would take a while and he had to remain bed bound but he would be alright.

Treville had visited him, telling him that Aramis had been told to go and rest a few hours before. The medic had initially headed for the bed next to Porthos, but the Captain had ordered him out of the room.

Porthos had managed a chuckle at the idea of a complaining Aramis reluctantly leaving his patient.

And now, now he was alone. There was no longer a need to keep an eye on him. He was nearly recovered.

Nearly.

That was Porthos' main problem, he was so close to being able to get up but they would not allow him. He had been helped to stand a few times in order to deal with his ablutions. The first time was very uncomfortable but the most recent time d'Artagnan was barely holding him up.

Aramis and the doctor that had visited a couple of times had intimated that he would be able to return to very light duties in the next couple of days; provided he behaved until then. Any strain on his leg and he would be confined to the bed for further days of rest.

Swords clashed in the yard. A couple of cadets were sparring. Porthos could hear them teasing each other, trying to get the other to make a careless mistake. It made him smile, thinking of doing similar things in his early days. Trying and always failing to distract Athos mid-fight. Using a few dirty tactics on Aramis had meant he won one of their battles but had also left the marksman struggling to breathe for a few minutes. Athos had berated them both that time, Porthos for his underhand moves and Aramis for not anticipating them. And then there were the times when two of them would gang up on the other. Those fights were generally only stopped by Treville shouting at them.

The cadets clashed swords again. Porthos listened intently for a few seconds before frowning. Was he hearing correctly? He hoped not.

The door to the infirmary opened, Aramis appeared holding a tray of food, a narrow glass at one side of the tray held a flower.

'I thought you might like something, other than the walls to look at,' said Aramis with a smirk.

'A flower? I ain't one of your ladies,' replied Porthos, as he watched Aramis put the flower on the table beside the bed.

'I think I've spent more time at your bedside than I have with any of them the last few days.'

Porthos shook his head before noticing what else was on the tray.

'This,' said Aramis, handing Porthos the well-thumbed book, 'is a good read, it should keep you out of trouble for the next couple of days...then and only then, we'll get you up and moving about a bit.'

Porthos smiled, 'that is music to my ears my friend…'

'What?' asked Aramis after a few seconds.

Porthos realised he had become distracted by the clashing swords again.

'Them two out there, who is it?'

Aramis frowned before crossing to peer out of the window. He turned back to Porthos who had managed to push himself up to sit.

'Luc and Marc,' said Aramis, the confusion at the question obvious.

'When I am up and about, those two are going to be getting some extra lessons,' said Porthos with a nod to himself.

'Why? They seem competent enough.'

Porthos shook his head, 'I've been lying here for days now, and I've listened to a few sparring sessions. And those two...I know when they are sparring. They use the same moves each time, it's like they've rehearsed it. They'll get a big bloody shook in the real world if they carry on like that. Using the same moves over and over again.'

Aramis laughed, 'even from your sick bed you're plotting against others. The poor lads have only been at it for a few weeks.'

Porthos raised his hand to stop Aramis, 'I know, and I want them better than that...can't be having any more men getting injured.'

'You were fighting four men at once, alone, after a hard day of tracking them. I think you can be forgiven for being injured.'

'Even so, I want them better than they currently are,' concluded Porthos.

Aramis smiled before he spoke again, 'all the more reason to listen to your doctor, and me, and stay off that leg for the next two days...then you can rain hellfire down on those two unsuspecting lads.'

Porthos grinned back, 'I intend to.'

The next two days would fly by, Porthos decided, as he plotted and planned how he was going to deal with the two cadets. Satisfied Porthos picked up the book Aramis had lent him and settled down to complete his recovery.

The End.