Aramis felt no better for having gotten his angry emotions out into the open. In fact, he felt worse than before. He was in a foul mood, feeling disgusted that his friend's health was needlessly put in jeopardy all because of a frivolous order given by the king.
A heavy silence hung in the air while they busied themselves stitching Athos' right side. Aramis was halfway done when a faint moan escaped from Athos, who was beginning to stir.
"Oh no, he's coming around, Aramis," Captain Tréville said with alarm.
"Damn, I'm not done yet. Just a few more minutes, Athos. . ." Aramis continued sewing, his pace quickening with a renewed sense of urgency.
Athos let another moan escape. He winced away from the needle Aramis was trying to push into the flesh of his sensitive right side.
"Athos, don't move!" Aramis ordered sternly. "I need you to hold still so I can finish. I know it hurts but you must lie still."
Athos continued writhing, forcing Aramis to pause his work. "I wish I had Porthos here. This would be the opportune moment for payback. I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige."
"Excuse me?" The captain was lost to the inside joke.
"The method Athos and I use to prepare Porthos for surgery—we knock him out. Well, Athos does anyway. Porthos swore to get his revenge and return the favor next time Athos needed surgery." Aramis chuckled at the thought.
"I don't believe Athos needs any further injuries at the moment, Aramis. That would not be an advisable way to render him unconscious at this time," the captain frowned.
"You're right, Captain. How much wine do we have left?"Aramis asked, motioning to the flasks.
"We have one and a half—still plenty—but it will take time for the wine to take effect," Tréville reminded.
"I don't. . . need wine." Athos forced, his jaw clenched. "Just g-get it over with, damn you."
"Athos, we have plenty of wine. Why not drink some to help alleviate the pain?" Aramis encouraged.
"No. . . it won't. . . stay d-down. I want nothing. . . to come. . . back up again. Hurts. . ."
"I know the stitching hurts, Athos." Aramis smoothed the sweaty hair from his friend's face. "This is why I wish you would drink some wine to take the edge off."
"No. . . not. . . not your stitching. My sides are b-burning." Athos winced, his breaths shallow and rapid. "What happ'ned?"
"When you vomited, you tore the stitches out of both wounds in your sides. I finished your left side and was halfway done with your right. . ." Aramis paused.
"Mmm. . ." Athos mumbled.
"I was doing well until my patient woke up and started talking to me and questioning me in the middle of surgery. It's rather distracting, I should say," Aramis quipped.
Captain Tréville couldn't help but smile at the comment. He knew the men well enough to recognize when Aramis used humor to lighten a grim predicament; the medic oftentimes masked his fear with humor and lighthearted bantering.
"Just get it. . . over with," Athos panted. Beads of sweat rolled down Athos' face to his throat, leaving his neck glazed with a layer of sweat.
Aramis looked to the captain, who nodded quietly to proceed.
The first push of the needle into the flesh of his side caused Athos to flinch at the touch of pain. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his clenched teeth, though no other sound was uttered. Aramis finished the stitch, eliciting a similar reaction.
"Captain, if you could dampen a cloth to wipe him down and cool his skin it might help. Then, I will need you to hold him down." Aramis shook his head. "I cannot stitch him up like this—he's moving too much."
Athos' eyes flashed an apology—but just as quickly—the look was replaced with hardened and determined eyes. "Finish your work," Athos murmured, resigned.
Captain Tréville bathed a cool damp cloth over Athos' face and neck, removing the glistening sweat. He steeled both hands against the patient's shoulders to prevent further movement. At the next needle prick, Athos glanced at the touch but the bracing weight of the captain's hands kept him in place.
Aramis continued without pause—in and out—pushing and pulling the needle with relentless toil.
Athos' chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he fought to control the pain. With each pull of the thread his breaths became more labored, his chest heaving rapidly. The Musketeer set his jaw against the pain, determined to get through the unintended torture, though it was becoming more difficult to endure.
Aramis' heart bled at the sight of his friend suffering so terribly by his own hands. He wanted to stop, allow his friend a moment to catch his breath, yet he knew the best method was to plow ahead and finish.
Drops of sweat dripped from Aramis' brow, running into his eyes. The medic only took the time to wipe away the sweat with his shirt sleeve as he continued with his work.
Athos' hands shook as he held tightly to the edges of the litter. Soft tremors coursed through his body with every stitch until finally his body gave in to the beckoning darkness, his head lolling to the side.
"Aramis?" Captain Tréville called out anxiously.
Aramis' nervous fingers went to the neck, checking for a pulse. Finding one, he tied off the last stitch and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "He passed out—just as I finally finish up; I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. He is one stubborn, strong-willed. . . "
Aramis took the linen cloth and poured water over it, just to dampen. He sponged the cloth gently over Athos' face and neck, pushing the clumps of sweat-soaked hair away from his face.
"I'm done, you can rest now, Athos. I know it took plenty of determination to endure that kind of pain. I don't know how you did it." Aramis smiled at his friend. "You're much stronger than I—stronger than any man I know."
"Indeed he is, Aramis. While he is sleeping, I will have us get moving again. We need to be on schedule to arrive home before dark." Captain Tréville climbed out of the wagon.
"Captain?" Aramis called out quickly. "Could you tell the driver to avoid holes, bumps, or otherwise anything causing Athos to be jarred or bounced. Any suffering inflicted on Athos could be dangerous. Thank you, also, for your help, Captain."
"You are welcome, Aramis. Yes, I will relay the message but I cannot promise a smooth ride. Some bumps just cannot be avoided—no matter how careful we are." Tréville left to speak with the wagon driver.
Finally, Captain Tréville took his place in front leading his Musketeers and the wagon back home toward Paris.
Porthos, d'Artagnan, and the carriage carrying M. Molyneux and Cécile, sped down the road with purpose, making very good time.
Porthos hoped if they hurried they might catch up to the Musketeer escort. He didn't know how long the wagon sat idle while Aramis performed surgery, but he knew his friend would never rush through a delicate surgery.
"Do you think we can catch up?" d'Artagnan asked wearily, as though reading the large Musketeer's mind.
"I don't know," Porthos answered with a shrug. "Depends on how long they were pulled over for surgery. We've made pretty good time so it's possible we can catch 'em."
They rode in silence for quite some time, each lost to their own thoughts of Aramis caring for the wounded Athos.
D'Artagnan said a silent prayer for his mentor, friend, and brother to make it through yet another crisis testing the man's physical endurance and willingness to live. Despite everything Athos had been through with Milady and his past, and now this mission nearly causing his death, he always seemed able to push forward with resolve and determination to survive.
I don't know that I could go through such torment and suffering and still have the will to live, like Athos. He is much stronger than I—he's stronger than any man I know. d'Artagnan thought to himself.
Porthos had known his friend, Athos, for several years. He knew the stubbornness and grit of Athos' strong will; it was those traits that had pulled him through some very tough times.
But even Athos had a breaking point.
If anyone could help pull Athos through a crisis, it was Aramis; there was no one Porthos trusted more implicitly than him. Yet, he couldn't help but worry for his wounded friend.
D'Artagnan's tired voice jarred Porthos from his thoughts. "Porthos, look it's the wagon up ahead!"
"Eh, why so it is." Porthos laughed heartily. "I knew we would catch 'em!"
"D'Artagnan, ride ahead and let them know we're back here. Ask them to stop so M. Molyneux can ride the remainder of the way in the wagon with Aramis," Porthos instructed.
D'Artagnan nodded then kicked his horse into a run, speeding to catch up to the wagon. Once caught up to the escort, d'Artagnan's yelling captured the attention of the Musketeers guarding the wagon. "Stop the wagon! Stop the wagon, now!"
The wagon slowed to a stop, rousing Aramis who just began to doze inside. "Why are we stopping?" he asked. After seeing d'Artagnan come around the back of the wagon, it thrilled the medic. . . until he noticed the pale and sweaty complexion of the young Musketeer. "D'Artagnan, what's wrong? Is your arm giving you that much pain?"
"It's starting to hurt some, but that is not why I am here. Guess who we have with us, Aramis?"
"Did you bring one of the doctors with you? Where is he?" Aramis stood to look down the road at the approaching wagon and riders.
D'Artagnan began swaying in his saddle, appearing as though he would fall to the ground any moment.
"D'Artagnan, come here before you fall from your horse," Aramis ordered. The young Gascon pulled his horse even with the wagon, not sure what Aramis had in mind.
Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan under the arms and pulled him easily into the wagon. "We need to take a look at that arm before you pass out and then I have two patients to care for."
~§~
"Hey, 'Mis, look who I have 'ere!" Porthos said as M. Molyneux came to stand at the back of the wagon.
"M. Molyneux, my friend!" Aramis got to his feet to greet the physician, eagerly shaking his hand. "It's so good to see you again. Thank you very much for coming—I know you didn't have to do this for us."
"It's good to see you also, mon ami. Once Porthos explained to me what happened to Athos, there was no other option but to come help. I have invested too much time, as did M. Berteau, in doctoring your friend back to health. For this setback to occur after he began recovering so nicely, it is most disturbing."
"Would you care to take a look?" Aramis asked.
"Indeed I would, thank you."
M. Molyneux looked over the sutures temporarily holding the wounds together and was quite impressed. "This is fantastic stitch work, Aramis. For simple basting stitches, this is beautiful work. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, it should hold until we can do his surgery tomorrow."
Molyneux looked at Aramis, "M. Berteau was right about you," he nodded. "I do indeed believe you missed your true calling."
"Thank you, doctor, but I am quite happy as a Musketeer," Aramis smiled. "Would you care to see to d'Artagnan's wounded arm while we ride to the garrison?"
"Indeed, I would. Let's take a look at that arm, shall we?"
Paris, Musketeer Garrison:
"We made the captain's goal of arriving by sundown, but just barely." D'Artagnan yawned long and loud. "I don't think I could have ridden in that wagon much longer. It's no wonder Athos was having such a hard time in here."
"I agree with ya, pup. How are you feeling?" Porthos asked.
"I'm alright," d'Artagnan grimaced. "My arm is sore but I'll live."
"He'll live alright, the pup is tough, Porthos." Aramis squeezed d'Artagnan on the back of his neck gently.
"How's Athos?" Porthos asked, motioning his head toward his friend lying motionless in the wagon.
"He's out cold," Aramis answered, worry underlying his voice. "He only woke once after you caught up to us—mumbling incoherently—because of a deep bump in the road jarring him awake."
"It is better that he remain unconscious until we can repair the torn stitches properly," Molyneux added.
"The last bump we hit was fairly severe." Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face. "He was jarred awake gasping in pain. I was scared to death he would pull his stitches out again but we hit another bump and he's been unconscious since."
"This wagon is hell on wheels for the wounded," d'Artagnan muttered. "Athos never should have been forced to endure this after just beginning to heal."
"Damn this trip!" Porthos growled as he glared at his captain.
"Gentlemen, let's move Athos inside to the infirmary and get him settled there," Captain Tréville ordered.
Porthos climbed into the wagon to push Athos' litter to the open back, readying him to be carried inside. "I'll take the front, if Aramis can get the back." Porthos jumped out to wait until the medic was ready.
Together, the two Musketeers carried the litter bearing their friend and brother inside to the infirmary. They helped transfer Athos from the litter onto an empty bunk where the wounded Musketeer would await surgery in the morning.
"Let us get a good night's sleep tonight," M. Molyneux said to Aramis. "We will do him no good if we are not sharp and alert tomorrow. We must be at our best for his surgery."
"Athos is depending on us to save his life and he deserves our best because he wasn't given any options otherwise." Aramis clenched his jaw in anger. "Tomorrow we will open Athos up just to stitch him closed again." He shook his head with disgust. "It's such an unnecessary setback," he muttered in an icy tone.
"Aramis, don't start this again," the captain warned in a low voice.
"Dammit, Captain." Aramis raked his hands through his hair angrily. "Because of this wagon ride, Athos has suffered one step forward in recovery undone by two steps back in injuries. I don't know how much more his battered body can take before he completely shuts down. I will not make any promises regarding my actions as a King's Musketeer if anything happens to Athos because he was foolishly ordered home too soon."
Aramis stormed from the infirmary to get some fresh air with Porthos and d'Artagnan close on his heels, each worried for what tomorrow might bring.