Chapter Five – Blackened be the Helme (Pt. 3)

When Athos returned to the infirmary that night with bloody knuckles and a sore hand Treville was waiting for him, seated calmly by D'Artagnan's bedside. "What did he say," Treville asked, quietly and without turning his head.

Perhaps Athos should have expected this, and maybe some small part of him did and remained silent to ensure he would return after what happened this morning. Though the memory was only a few hours old, his blood boiled as if he were still standing in that moment, next to a man that D'Artagnan had been forced to answer to. The words still rung in his ears like knives on glass…danger seeking, pride-driven, little shit. He got what he deserves for getting those two boys killed.

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

"Go on. Regale us with more about the Captain's beloved pet. He weaseled his way into our ranks because his father was a good friend of Treville's and I'll be eager for the day he gets thrown out so we don't have to protect a helpless country-bred idiot whose ego outweighs his worth. Maybe he'll finally do those sick men he lies next to a favor and die so Essarts doesn't have to put up with his insubordination any longer-"

That was as far as the young Sergeant got before Athos grabbed him and punched him squarely across the face. The young man went down like a sack of flour with a dull thud, and though Athos had prepared himself for the immediate retaliation (as was expected from the loyalty young recruits held for their superior officers) he was not surprised to find none of the recruits move to their sergeant's aide. He hadn't feared for D'Artagnan's reputation among his peers. Those who were true enough would know better than to believe such filth. And the lack of reaction proved that the boy was, in fact, adjusting to the life he had chosen for himself.

So why did he do it? In the hours following the incident that he spent brooding over his actions he supposed he did it more for the loyalty D'Artagnan had always unquestioningly shown him. But some nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that wasn't all of it. Athos looked up at the ceiling and stayed within the doorway to get a better sense for what mood his captain was in. "He? Who would you be speaking of, Monsieur?"

Treville turned to Athos and glared. "The boy you struck. When I sent you out this morning I did not do so with the intent to see you transfer that anger onto someone else-"

"That boy was slandering D'Artagnan's name and reputation among his own ranks," Athos hissed, stepping forward into the room. "With the knowledge that he couldn't defend himself! That is not behavior befitting an officer, let alone a leader of young men who dream one day of being one themselves."

"If that is true," Treville replied, calmly. "Then Sergeant Ancel will be properly punished for it. Now, will you kindly tell me what he said to warrant such a thrashing from you, Athos?"

It more than irked him to repeat that vile speech but he did, verbatim.

Treville's expression darkened and he did not speak for a few moments. "I will speak with Monsieur des Essarts. Do you trust me to ensure he will be properly dealt with?"

"…yes, Monsieur," Athos answered, somewhat satisfied.

"And next time I can trust you will leave the disciplining of these men to their proper superiors, Essarts and myself, yes?"

Athos nodded.

"Good," Treville said, rising and crossing to him. "And you also realize that you must bear punishment in this as well? We're not commanding a group of orderless vigilantes in this endeavor out here and I will be damned if we are reduced to such an unacceptable disgrace. We fight in and for the name of His Majesty and France, not Providence. We leave that business to the Cardinal."

Athos hid a wince and strove to remain impassive. "Yes, Monsieur. I do realize that. And I would apologize for my actions only in usurping your authority."

Treville's eyes narrowed in a cold but familiar calculating way. "…accepted."

Athos eyed what was quickly becoming his seat by D'Artagnan's bedside that others only shared or borrowed. Nothing had changed. That was not surprising. It was tiring. Tiring and exhausting. But what awaited him was his just sentence.

"I'm surprised you only hit him once for that," Treville whispered.

"Sometimes temptations alone are enough retribution," Athos replied, moving to take up his dreaded and maddening seat yet again.

Treville grasped his shoulder and stopped him to lean close. "You would do well to remember that, because that is why I count you among my best, Athos."

Athos didn't look as Treville released him and left the room. His eyes never strayed from D'Artagnan's still and pale body. Nothing had really changed. Had he hoped it would if he beat the words from some poor man's lips? Athos sighed and crossed to his familiar spot and sank down into it, feeling at least ten years older. He didn't hate D'Artagnan. He would never admit it out loud, but hate wasn't the right word. Another, more treacherous and devious word, was the culprit.

When Aramis entered the room a few hours later into the night, Athos was still weary under the weight of that unspoken realization. He didn't even let his friend get two paces into the room. "Go away," he droned.

"Athos, please," Aramis started. "All I want is for you to listen."

"Speak then. I won't stop you."

"But will you listen?"

"No."

Aramis sighed, and Athos hoped the priest would tire of pestering him and finally leave him be. But footsteps approached, accompanied unfortunately by his insufferable friend. Aramis took his hand and turned it towards the light to inspect the broken inflamed skin. Without a word Aramis retrieved a fresh cloth and some clean water and set about cleaning the bloody knuckles. "What did you do? And to whom?"

"You're a bad liar, Aramis."

"Was he worth it?"

"I'd do it again if that boy dared to show his face to me."

"You have to know men are talking about it," Aramis commented. "About you."

"Let them," Athos scoffed. "I care not for their regards to me. What do they say of the boy?"

"They hope he lives. Many of the older men know of him by name, but most only learned of him by what he did, for you…It was a noble sacrifice-"

"Aramis," Athos warned.

"How much longer do you truly think he has, Athos?"

Athos refused to look at Aramis and pulled his hand away roughly. "A lifetime."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"His fever won't break."

"It will."

"He's doesn't even know we're here!"

"He knows I'm here," Athos growled. "He knows you're here. He knows that damn cat is here. That's why he's not dead. And unless you want to be intimately more acquainted with its doorstep I suggest you either get yourself and that damned book out of my sight or watch me burn it and prepare yourself for a duel."

For a moment it appeared as if he had finally won, but Aramis picked his head back up. "You don't think Treville's surgeon might have been right about at least one thing? About the fact that we may be…torturing D'Artagnan this way? If his body is too weak-"

Now, Athos did grace Aramis with his eyes, but they were hard and cold. "Don't sit there and tell me that D'Artagnan wouldn't fight for you until his dying breath if your positions were switched!"

To his credit, Aramis remained calm and accepted the accusation. "I have no doubt that he would, but Athos he's young. He hasn't lived through half the things we have."

"And that makes him less deserving of all the years you think he'll never have?"

Aramis shook his head but remained silent.

Athos looked at him and noted all the features of exhaustion that were probably a dull mirror of his own. It deflated the brunt of his anger, but it didn't extinguish his curiosity. "Was it your lack of faith that made you quit the Jesuits?"

Aramis looked up, and though it surprised Athos to see the man glare at him, he couldn't help but feel satisfied by it. Rarely had he been privy to the darker side of their saintly friend, and though he never pried-for that was Porthos' occupation-he had always wondered. It wasn't a direct answer, but it was something. "No," the former priest said. "But every man who has faith knows doubt."

Aramis left him alone after that. For how long he would remain alone, Athos did not know. As the night wore on, D'Artagnan's fever continued. And the delirium still lauded its hold over him.

"Athos…Athos…Athos," the boy continuously mumbled.

"I'm right here," he answered, grabbing for the boy's cold hand. "D'Artagnan?" He didn't know how many times he called the boy's name. All he wanted was one look, one gesture that he was still with him and would remain with him until the fever passed. But he received nothing. A sharp spike of fear raced through him and brought that unspeakable possibility to the surface again. He'd denied it for so long that to finally listen to its pleadings made everything too real for him to accept. So Athos latched onto the boy's face and turned it towards him, desperation possessing his limbs.

"Look at me," he said. "Where is all that youth and strength you threw in our faces when we first met? Hm? You danced circles around us as if we were old men. Do it again. I need you to do it again. Show them wrong and prove me right. Don't you dare make a liar out of me! If you do…I swear to all that is holy that hell will seem like heaven after I'm through with you."

It was a stupid thing to say, but Athos was beyond caring for the weight of stupid words. Without them, all he had was the unknown between him and the boy. With them he could at least pretend that he was heard. Was it pretending? Was that what he had been reduced to in the course of one week? D'Artagnan shivered and his eyes fluttered. He tried to move but a soft sound stuck in his throat drew Athos back and chilled him with the thought that this could be the last time that he…

"Don't," he whispered to his young friend, his dear friend.

Please.

"Will you blame me for his death?"

Treville looked up from his desk in the pre-dawn hours and found Theo, his physician, standing at the door. Treville sighed and pushed back from the mounds of reports to have a good look at the man. The captain was at a loss for understanding how men like Theo did what they did day after day in situations like this, on the battlefield. But the physician was far from invincible, and the stress was starting to show on him. Theo had a penchant for not sleeping or eating which had landed him in trouble with Treville on previous engagements. Now, he suspected no different, but didn't have the strength in him to deliver the proper reprimand.

"That outcome is yet to be seen," Treville replied. "I would not be so hasty to-"

"Jean," Theo said, softly. "He won't live. I've done all I can."

"I know you have, my friend."

"His chances are too small. It's a miracle he's survived this long and if you're looking for some silver lining in all this, then count that. Don't hope for more."

Treville rose and crossed to the door, putting both hands on Theo's shoulders. "Our natures are different. They always have been. You cannot fault me for not giving in to hopelessness."

"And you cannot fault me for having no room for its opposite," Theo replied, swallowing hard. "As much as men like me need it."

"You get the job done quicker than the most knowledgeable surgeons I've met, in France and beyond her borders. Some men find use of hope and some don't. I have never doubted your capability because of your nature."

"It's how I work," the physician shook his head tiredly.

"It's how you work," Treville agreed. "And perhaps your bedside manner would improve with food and rest?"

Theo frowned. "Monsieur-"

"Theo."

"Jean," the physician sighed. "Perhaps."

"Then sit and have an early breakfast with me. You can give me those medical reports you have behind your back as well."

Without a word, and with some eye rolling, Theo handed the reports over and sulked in a chair by the fire, rubbing his hands over his eyes until Treville forcibly shoved a bread roll and some tea under his nose. As time went by the surly physician relaxed, and Treville was pleased to find him napping in his chair as he himself was perusing the sick and casualty lists. Outside the storm was finally starting to abate, and the howling wind was dying down to a whisper.

"For the record," Theo said, with sleep still pulling at him. "I hope I'm wrong."

Athos was good at hiding, and in more ways than one. But where Porthos was willing to let him be until he wanted to return, Aramis was not one for idling. It had taken him more than a few occasions to learn when to leave Athos alone and when to intervene at his own risk. Interfering was not something he liked to do, but when it became a matter of preventing further harm it was a necessary evil that he considered an obligation.

Aramis trekked out in the freshly fallen snow to the edge of camp, leaving knee-deep trails behind in some spots. There was no trail to follow, but he knew from instinct alone where Athos was likely to be, whether he covered his trail or not. A certain book weighed in his pocket, almost dragging his feet down with each closer step he took to his goal. Aramis was anything but a cynic, but at this point he truly feared that D'Artagnan might slip away from them without receiving some last aide they could give his soul. Not that it would have mattered, for in his mind D'Artagnan was nothing but an innocent even at his age. It stood on principle that Aramis was called to do it, for there was no one else within miles who could.

They owed it to D'Artagnan to do whatever could be done. This wasn't something to be taken lightly, because not only did the soul of their dying friend hang in the balance but the sanity of another friend did as well. Denial would consume Athos and would likely banish him to a place neither Aramis nor Porthos could rescue him from this time. If Aramis were honest with himself, that frightened him more than anything.

Aramis looked up toward the tree line and spotted Athos with his back to the rest of the camp. He was a dark immoveable silhouette against the blinding dawn, and for a moment the sight almost made Aramis turn around. But the name was already on his lips before he could. "Athos…"

His friend didn't turn, and Aramis hadn't expected him to. He was looking at the mouth of the valley where D'Artagnan had fallen for him. Though there was nothing of the previous battle to be seen, underneath it all lay a patch of blood that could never be washed away. Aramis took a deep breath and closed the distance between them. Athos still hadn't answered him.