Chapter Four – Blackened be the Helme (Pt. 2)
Aramis hounded him day and night, or at least attempted to after Athos finally snapped at him under the pestering that he swallow his pride and see D'Artagnan. After that argument he knew some small measure of peace, until Porthos dragged him from his misery with one ominous look. He didn't know what to expect when the larger man had told him D'Artagnan was sick. Sick? How could the boy be sick? It had only been three days ago that they tore that bullet from his chest and since that day Aramis had given him the impression that the boy was recovering. When they reached D'Artagnan's room the strength in his legs almost gave out. He didn't know how but the boy looked worse than when he did after his surgery.
D'Artagnan was flushed and restless. One second he shivered from the cold and the next he was trying to escape the blankets that had been piled on top of him. His eyes were glassy and twitching from one side of the room to the other, unseeing beyond the haze of his fever. And he was mumbling Athos' name. Over and over.
"He's delirious," Aramis said, looking up from the boy's bedside with a drawn countenance. "And that's not the worst of it."
Athos drew closer to the bed when Aramis beckoned him and Porthos. He pulled the blankets down and pulled D'Artagnan's shirt aside. Athos couldn't help but wince at the sight of the infected wound. This had developed over the course of three days? The day his skin was sewn back together the skin looked worse for wear from the damage that had been done to it, but back then it had only looked red and pink from the pulling and dried blood. Now, it looked rather gruesome. The red skin had darkened a deeper shade and between the flaps of skin that had been pulled together was the evidence of the infection itself. Yellow pus. It was mostly trapped beneath the thin layer of newly forming skin, but some of it seeped loose and gave off a horrible stench.
"Infection," Athos growled. "Have you sent for the surgeon?"
"Hours ago."
Athos tightened his grip on the sword at his side, seconds away from flying from the room on a rampage. "That bloody bastard," he seethed. "Well, where the hell is he?!"
"Attending to my other patients," the physician said, entering the room and pushing past them all without a glance. "Monsieur D'Artagnan is not the only man who needs aide in this camp. Now, if you could please move aside, gentlemen?"
Athos bristled at the man's superiority upon entering the room, but kept his mouth shut. The physician poked and prodded at the infected wound and didn't bother to hide his cynicism about D'Artagnan's chances. In the end it didn't take much between the three of them to make a convincing argument. There were, after all, three soldiers with swords in the room against one surly but unarmed physician. And what mattered most was cleaning the infection out, not a battle of wits that cost precious time.
Athos just wished they had a drop of wine somewhere in the camp to give the poor boy.
Aramis leaned down and whispered to D'Artagnan in calm and soothing tones as the physician behind him was again running his instruments over a candle flame. "D'Artagnan," he said. "We need to clean out your bullet wound. It's infected. Do you understand?"
D'Artagnan turned towards the voice but still wore a look of incomprehension.
Aramis squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "It's going to hurt but it needs to be done."
"More pain," the boy asked, small and quiet.
"Yes, but it needs to be done or you will die."
"But I already am. Aren't I in hell, for what I did?"
"What-no! No, you're-" Aramis looked up for guidance, but he got nothing from Athos. "D'Artagnan, you're with us. You're going to be fine-"
"I didn't mean to-I didn't know-I'm sorry-"
Aramis stopped the jumbled litany with soft shushing sounds. "You have nothing to be sorry for-"
"If you're quite finished," The surgeon loudly interrupted. "I don't have all day. And neither does Monsieur D'Artagnan."
Porthos mumbled something vulgar and rolled his eyes as the three of them reluctantly took up their familiar positions. Draining the wound was no easier than prying the bullet loose. All it gave them was more fuel for nightmares and sleepless nights. Hours later, after the sun had gone down, leaving the entire camp in a thick blanket of snowy darkness, Athos sat with his head in his hands, alone by the boy's bedside. D'Artagnan slept, but not peacefully. Who would expect him to after having a chest wound reopened, drained, and invaded with a cloth soaked in alcohol?
They were lucky the surgeons kept small bottles of them hidden in the supply trunks. It was foresight that smart men, (much as Athos was loathe to admit it) such as the one who treated D'Artagnan, risked against direct orders from superiors. It was due to insubordination that D'Artagnan was given another chance to live. And it was the physician's lack of sympathy that got them through it, even when they thought it was over and done with. Just when Athos thought the surgeon would put the blasted cloth aside and start re-stitching the wound back together he saw the man re-soaking it with the last of the alcohol he had.
"There won't be enough of this if the infection returns," was the excuse he got for another round of necessary pain.
It had been necessary, even if the words D'Artagnan spoke during it would haunt him for the rest of his days. After all, it wasn't as if it were an unjust punishment for what he had done. Athos had made another grave mistake by distancing himself from the boy, and now he not only had his own actions to suffer the repercussions from but D'Artagnan's own needless suffering too. He hadn't thought his absence would affect the boy that much…
D'Artagnan shifted in his bed, listless and in pain. Athos sat forward and laid a cool cloth on his forehead as the physician had instructed. "Quiet, boy."
Exhaustion, even from that small amount of movement alone, pulled the young musketeer back from the realm of consciousness. It was a long night Athos spent by his side, changing the wet cloths for cooler ones, applying them to the boy's forehead, his chest, and under his arms-though he still contended the necessity of the physician's instructions on that last bit. The fever raged on through the night and only by morning did it seem to have gone down the slightest bit, but that hadn't satisfied the physician when he came the next day. Still as cynical as ever, he refused the calls of Aramis and Porthos when D'Artagnan's fever worsened again later in the day.
They had looked at the wound themselves (this time much loosely stitched back together) and found no traces of the infection they had to clean out the previous day, and only then did Aramis seem to lose his faith in the outcome. Why else would the fever return if it hadn't already gone too deep for them to remedy? Athos knew better. No, he didn't think he knew better. He did know better. Fevers were an unpredictable thing and often gave a false impression. After all the pain they put D'Artagnan through yesterday this fever would wither and die.
D'Artagnan would recover.
It was a shame that no one shared his sentiments like they had for the previous few days. Aramis was vocal about his disagreement, but Porthos was silent. After Aramis was done talking Athos literally kicked both men out of the room and bolted it behind them. It was a childish notion, but it was a crucial hour they were playing with. And Athos would not allow his faith to be shaken so easily. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep but he jerked awake to the sounds of D'Artagnan restless from another bout of fever-induced dreams. Athos would not call them nightmares. They were only dreams. Only dreams.
"Athos," D'Artagnan cried. "Athos? He's not dead. He's not dead! You're lying-please let me see-"
Athos tried to hold D'Artagnan down by his shoulders to keep him from reopening the wound. "I'm right here, you foolish boy-"
But he continued to struggle. "Let me see-! Father, let me see him! Please…father? Help me-"
"You're all right," Athos whispered. "Calm down-"
"No," the boy moaned. "Forgive me! I didn't know-I'm sorry-I'm a terrible friend!"
Athos grabbed D'Artagnan sharply and held him still. "Hush, boy! You're nothing of the kind. Now, rest. Quiet."
Exhaustion, it seemed, was a good ally to have after all. D'Artagnan was simply too tired to continue his protests and fell victim once more to his body's needs. In the wake of that round Athos was left with frayed nerves. He readjusted the blankets around the boy and rose to pace the length of the room.
What was the source of all those horrible words? Was it the fever? Or was it something he had said. He hoped to God he never gave D'Artagnan that impression that he wasn't good enough-and that thought stopped him short. What was he doing? That boy was worth a hundred of himself. D'Artagnan didn't deserve friends like Athos, not if Athos was the cause of all those dark and terrible twisted dreams that continued to plague them both. He'd never meant it. None of it. It was all in efforts to keep the boy from stealing what had been stolen from him before. No, D'Artagnan was not the stealing kind. He was more noble, respectful, and good-natured than her. But did that make Athos an open door? Did that make his heart free for the taking?
A soft noise behind him caused Athos to turn.
His eyes narrowed at the sight and Athos approached the quivering little shadow by the fireplace with caution, ready to stomp on it should it turn out to be a rat. But he had no need to use the heel of his boot, at least not yet. With furrowed brows he reached down and picked the weak creature up by the scruff of its neck and in better light saw that it was a small gold and brown kitten. It made a soft meow with eyes half-closed. The more Athos looked at it the more it looked back at him. He wasn't entirely sure what to do with it at first. It could have been mad with disease, not just hungry and in desperate need of warmth. It could be waiting for him to show it kindness before it pulled its claws out and did the real damage.
But, he realized, with the thing's tail between its legs it couldn't be thinking up any diabolical plan any time soon. So Athos set the creature down on his arm and just held it to see what its next move would be. Under his hand it started purring and the quivering lessened. The kitten shook and burrowed deeper into the offered warmth, poking its head up to look around. Just as Athos was beginning to wonder where the thing came from it sprung out of his arms and onto the bed, going right up to D'Artagnan's face.
"You little-! Get away from there!"
The kitten turned and hissed as his hand approached.
Athos would have thrown the miserable creature out into the snow if it hadn't gone over to gently lick the side of D'Artagnan's face and settle into a purring ball near his head. The kitten looked up with a dark look that dared Athos to try and move him. Athos stood, not entirely convinced that the creature was not a threat, but then it began to nuzzle D'Artagnan's cheek. The boy muttered in his sleep and turned towards the comfort.
"Ajax…"
Athos stilled and watched as the kitten's ears perked up and meowed softly in reply. Cautiously, he sat back down in his chair by the boy's bedside and regarded the scrawny little kitten that was sticking its tongue in and out as if it were thirsty. When it caught sight of the cup of water on the bedside table it rose and started over to it but Athos reached it first. The kitten backed up and made a low sound in its throat, preparing to return to the pillow near the boy's head. But Athos held the cup out and tilted it so the water was easily accessible. The kitten eyed him and approached with caution and ears folding back and forth, as if indecisive about Athos' intentions. But eventually its needs won out and it lapped at the liquid with fervor.
Athos looked over to D'Artagnan again, to see any further sign of him waking but nothing had changed. He sighed and looked back to see if the kitten had finished. He found it poking its nose around his hand, then proceeding to rub its mouth, or rather the side of its mouth, against his hand, purring louder. Knowing what the creature was up to, he pulled away and put the cup back.
"Enough of that," he warned. The last thing he needed was a feline following him around like a shadow after marking its territory. The mere idea of being followed seemed so absurd to him.
The kitten stared at him before settling back into his claimed spot by D'Artagnan's head, curling itself into a ball and going right to sleep. Athos watched over the two the rest of the night, begrudgingly admitting that it was some small comfort to not have to face the night alone with the boy anymore.
When that morning failed to bring any reprieve from the fever, Treville successfully extricated his surgeon from his other duties to check on D'Artagnan's condition. It irritated, and borderline angered, Athos that the man hadn't come when they called. He was ready to drag the man down to D'Artagnan's room himself when they received word, not ten minutes after sending someone to Treville with news of the boy's condition, of what was being done. While they waited outside the room, on the captain's express threats no less, Athos paced to relieve the rising tension in his chest.
Nothing helped. He'd been a ball of tension since yesterday, since the day before that, oh hell-from the moment the boy took that bullet for him. He was tired of waiting. He was tired of the looks. He was tired of hearing no hope. So when the physician came out of the room, just as cold as ever, it wasn't really that much of a surprise what happened next.
"He's lost too much blood to fight off the infection. If he's not dead by midnight he will be by morning. There's nothing more I can do-"
Grabbing the surgeon around the neck and shoving him against a wall wasn't supposed to be satisfying. Wasn't it the squirming and the visible fear that lesser people than him enjoyed? Did he enjoy the feel of this heartless man at his mercy? A small part of him whispered yes and grew stronger by the second, bursting into a monster of insensibility with that one little admission.
"Like hell there isn't you worthless coward!-" he seethed, inches from the surgeon's face. He barely finished his knife-like insult before he felt hands on him. He expected them to belong to Porthos but was slightly surprised to find that they belonged to Monsieur de Treville.
"Athos! Let him go-now," Treville shouted, pulling him free with nothing short of brute strength.
Though a good part of him raged at the injustice of being denied what the lesser part wanted, his better half gasped in relief. And when he was the one shoved up against the opposite wall, at the mercy of his captain's hands, he came back to himself and realized what he had done. That traitorous energy still hummed throughout his body. Perhaps the shaking came from the after-effects of his own anger. Perhaps it came from a different source he was unwilling to acknowledge.
"What do you want to hear," the physician shouted. It took both Aramis and Porthos to hold the man back but Athos didn't have eyes for his friends, just the fiend that dared speak to him as if he were a simple-minded idiot. "Do you want me to tell you that he'll live? That he'll wake tomorrow with no lasting effect from a wound that by all means of mercy in this world should have killed him?"
"You speak of mercy as if it's something you know! Mercy is more than letting men die or easing their pain. It's giving those dying men another chance to breathe. It's giving them the slightest bit of hope-"
"I am trying to do you and this company a mercy by giving you no hope! That boy is going to die but you and your companions are too cruel to let him!"
"If that's your understanding of mercy then you may as well have pulled the trigger yourself!"
"At least under my hand it would have saved him this agony of living!"
Before he could even attempt to lunge at the devil Treville pushed him down the hallway. "Enough," he roared. "Athos, take a walk! Now."
Athos obeyed only for the sake of what decorum he had left to salvage for himself and stalked the edges of the camps for the security of what privacy one could still have on the battlefield. He sat for a long time, glaring at the snow and turning his hate on the bare trees. Guardsmen gave him a wide berth and didn't even say a single word to each other about Athos' presence. He supposed his clenched fists and crossed arms said enough. It said something of the understanding he had with Aramis and Porthos that neither came looking for him. And he was grateful for it. His moods seldom rose to such violent outbursts, but when they did he usually had the least bit of control to lock himself away before he dealt any person or thing any permanent kind of damage.
Usually.
Athos hadn't felt such a loss of control in a long time.
Instances like this once made him believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the lonely road he had chosen for himself was the right one. He was fortunate to still have Porthos and Aramis by his side, and that should have given him some kind of hope over the years, but after what happened a week ago…
Had it only been a week?
Athos rubbed at his tired face and tried harder to ignore the cold settling into his body. Perhaps…no, he had known with certainty from the very beginning that allowing D'Artagnan to enter into their lives so easily had been a bad idea. That was the truth he had believed, and now it only proved to add further fuel to that initial reluctance. Look at where all that bother and care left them all-stripped bare and raw and just…deserted with no normalcy to fall back on anymore.
He hated that boy.
Porthos found Aramis with an old book in his hands that wasn't his bible. It was a book he'd seen many times before, and even stolen on one occasion early on in their friendship when the young priest wasn't entirely forthcoming with its identity. He fully expected a lecture when he had been caught, but all he received was a withering glare and answers to all the questions he had been pestering his new friend with for weeks. The truth wasn't all that comforting, and Porthos would be a liar if he didn't admit that it was more than a little horrifying.
Reading the words that he would hear one day at the end of his life chilled him for weeks afterwards, and in the crux of a summer heat wave, too! That day in particular was one of the days he cursed his noble upbringing and the lessons he's been forced to endure as a boy. Knowledge, he thought, wasn't always a comfort. And it certainly wasn't one now. "I never meant it," he said to Aramis. "When I said that he'd be dead by sundown. The lad has a good head on his shoulders. "
"And a better heart," Aramis replied, still fingering the worn binding of the book. "Though it fails him now."
Porthos shivered from the wind that came in so easily through the shoddy windows and wondered how his thinner friend could stand their rooms. "If I hadn't said it we never would have gotten him through the front door."
Aramis smirked. "Or past Athos."
"That's what I meant. He has a good soul."
"Too good for us. Scarred, flawed, stained with other men's blood. It ages you."
Porthos looked down again and noticed the wooden beads of a rosary peeking out from Aramis' long white fingers. "What were you praying for?"
The former priest shrugged. "What any man foolishly hopes for; a miracle."
He scoffed without meaning to. "Is there such a thing?"
Aramis shook his head. "I honestly don't know. Why do we dream if not for the possibility that they may one day be real?"
"Torture," he guessed, spitting a foul taste out of his mouth.
"…perhaps."
"And you still hope?"
Finally, Aramis turned to him, looking far older than his years. "Do you?"
"God help me but I do," Porthos sighed. "Milady was bad but this…He cares for that boy. If D'Artagnan dies it's going to kill him, Aramis."
"Maybe it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Maybe Athos' reluctance about D'Artagnan wasn't all that unfounded in the first place."
"It was always a matter of time with any of us. And look, here we are after…what's the count again?"
Aramis raised an eyebrow. "You can still keep track?"
"No, I left that bookkeeping up to you."
"Too many," he said with a sad smile.
Porthos shifted his weight and crossed to sit next to Aramis. "You're much calmer about this than I thought you'd be."
"Am I? You seem so yourself."
It was Porthos' turn to shake his head. Funny how it could suddenly feel so heavy. "I'm not."
When Aramis spoke, Porthos finally heard the one thing he thought he heard upon first entering the room. He thought he had been mistaken before, but now he was dead certain. Aramis had been weeping. "Then how can anyone be?"