Great to hear from folks that you enjoyed the boys' reunion in the last chapter. There's one more to go after this one before we reach the end!
Athos gripped the young man in front of him tightly, fearful that if he loosened his grip, the boy might disappear yet again. With d'Artagnan's body pressed against his chest, Athos could feel every tremble and hard-fought breath the Gascon pulled in and the older man unconsciously found himself matching his breathing to the boy's, relief accompanying every successful inhale. It was obvious that the young man was very ill and Athos was astounded at his poor condition, wondering at how the boy had managed to damage himself so completely in a relatively short amount of time.
At least the Gascon had been returned to them – finally – and his brothers would do everything in their power to see him healthy again. Of course, there was the added challenge of his lost memories, leaving them to heal not only the boy's body but his mind as well. It was this latter part that scared Athos the most, having faith in Aramis' abilities to cure the young man's sickness, but having little idea what could be done about his fractured mind. He'd known of a few others who'd suffered similar fates, usually after suffering head wounds, the trauma inflicted too great to recover from. In only one instance did the man recover his memories, while the others had only splintered recollections of their past, having to build their lives anew from that point forward. But what would remain of the d'Artagnan they knew if he couldn't remember his past?
He knew that the young man had suffered some significant losses in his life, but surely these were part of what made him the man they loved; his compassion for others and his selflessness, his resolute honor instilled in him by his father - without these, who would he be? Another round of weak coughs emerged from the boy's chest, and Athos knew that even unconscious the young man continued to suffer.
He tucked d'Artagnan's head more firmly into the crook of his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort into the boy's ear as he gasped for air. Each wheeze make the steel band around Athos' heart tighten and he prayed that the young man was strong enough to survive this latest battle. He was pulled from his melancholy thoughts by the sound of horses approaching, and he spared a quick look behind him, confirming that his friends were nearly upon them.
Aramis immediately pulled up beside him, casting an appraising look at the young man even as his hand reached out to feel the heat of the boy's brow, "Has he woken at all?"
Athos shook his head, "No, but he's struggling for every breath." He moved his eyes to the medic's, the anguish he felt shining brightly in his eyes as he asked, "Will he survive the trip?"
Aramis hated that his friend had posed this question, nothing about illness or injury holding any guarantees, and the most he could offer was an educated guess. "Athos," he spoke softly, "d'Artagnan has always been a fighter. With our help, I believe he can overcome this also."
Athos gave a small nod, "Is there anything we can do for him to make the trip easier?"
Aramis shook his head sadly, "We need to get him back so I can have a proper look at him and there's a poultice I can make to ease his breathing. Unfortunately, I don't have any of the herbs I need with me but I'm hopeful that Madame Trémaux will be able to help. Until then, we keep him warm and make sure he keeps breathing."
Athos unconsciously drew the boy tighter to him, drawing his cloak around the boy more firmly, pulling a small smile from the medic. As they travelled, d'Artagnan's condition remained the same, his breathing still laboured but thankfully no worse, his shivering almost constant as his body fought the fever that raged within him. Athos had refused to allow the boy to ride with anyone else and the three men found themselves possessively clustered around the older Musketeer's horse, all of them feeling especially protective of their youngest member.
It was late afternoon when they spotted the gates of the Trémaux estate and they were grateful to find that normal life had returned, Brigitte obviously having sent for her staff. The men drew up as close to the house as they could, happily handing off the reins to their horses to the stable boy while Athos and Aramis half-carried d'Artagnan inside. The Gascon had roused a little as he'd been moved, and made an effort to walk under his own power, but the demand for more oxygen that the attempt required had him coughing painfully, leaving him hanging limply between the two men once more.
Madame Trémaux met them at the door, the relief evident on her face at the men's return turning quickly to concern when she saw their condition. She led the way upstairs to d'Artagnan's room, uttering commands to her staff as she asked for warm water, food and drink. Aramis and Athos nearly collapsed on the bed with their charge, the effort the trip had required reawakening their own injuries and making them throb painfully. Athos gave a nod of thanks when the Captain brought a chair over to the bed, Athos pushing himself up for the moment it took to move from the mattress to the seat so he was out of Aramis' way.
Aramis, on the other hand, had no intention of moving from the boy's side and was already pushing up the bottom of d'Artagnan's shirt to examine his chest. A harsh inhale had him looking up sharply and making a request for extra pillows to place behind the boy's back, raising him to a more upright position to ease his breathing. Treville and Porthos worked together to fulfill his request as Aramis grew frustrated with the Gascon' ripped and filthy shirt. Deciding it could not be salvaged, he pulled out his knife and slit the garment up the middle, letting the two sides fall open to properly reveal the boy's torso. The bandages wrapped around the young man's ribs suffered the same fate, and within the moments the Gascon's damaged torso was revealed.
There was heavy bruising, but the worst of it was focused on his left side, and Aramis recalled his earlier examination after the boy's escape from prison, grimacing at the fact that the ribs had likely broken as a result of the earlier mistreatment he'd suffered at the hands of the guards. He pressed gently along the young man's flank, confirming that two of the ribs were broken and a third creaked dangerously under his touch, suggesting it was not far behind. Sighing, he sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face while the three men looked at him expectantly.
"Aramis," Porthos prompted.
The medic gave a nod as he spoke, "Two broken ribs and possibly another cracked." He leaned over to listen to the boy's chest for several seconds before continuing. "I'd guess he's been taking shallow breaths since this happened, or possibly even since prison," he said to himself, thinking out loud. "The result is fluid in the lungs and the coughing is his body's attempt to clear them. I'll see if I can find the items I need for a poultice which may help, but I think we should have a physician look at him as well."
Brigitte had watched quietly to that point, but now she moved forward, placing a hand on the young man's brow as she recalled the vibrant boy who'd arrived a week earlier, full of life and nothing like the one who now lay before her. Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm sorry, but the physician in town is dead. I wanted to have him look at Gilles' leg and was told he'd been murdered." A shudder ran through her as she explained, "Someone slit his throat and left him in an alley to die."
The men traded knowing looks, the method of his death as well as the timing too much to be a coincidence, suggesting that he might have been the bounty hunters' source of information. Aramis offered her a smile as he suggested, "Then we should make up the poultice as quickly as possible. Is there an herbalist in town?"
"Yes, a good one actually. I'm certain she'll have everything we need," Brigitte confirmed.
"Then I should go see her at once," Aramis stated, loathe to leave the boy's side but recognizing the necessity; Madame Trémaux shook her head.
"No, you are injured and obviously needed here. You will write down what you need and I will send someone for it," Brigitte countered. Aramis gave her a grateful nod of agreement. "And, while we wait, we will tend to your wounds."
Two servants arrived with the items Brigitte had requested and she sent one of them away with Aramis' list. Meanwhile, Treville and Porthos both stripped out of their shirts, Madame Trémaux giving the latter a put upon look when he hesitated, declaring that she was a married woman and had seen it all before. With a sheepish grin, Porthos accepted her help in removing the garment, allowing her to unbandage and properly clean his shoulder while Aramis tended to the Captain's arm, grinning at Porthos' discomfort.
When he'd finished, Aramis looked to Athos who hadn't moved from his seat, and decided to set Brigitte on him next. "Madame, Athos has injured his ankle and it will need to be wrapped. Despite any protests from him to the contrary, his boot will need to be removed. Would you be so kind as to assist him while I stitch Porthos' shoulder?"
Athos threw him a dirty look, despising the idea of removing the boot from his throbbing ankle, but Aramis knew him too well; he might have been able to resist the medic's attempts to examine his injured limb, but he couldn't say anything to the Captain's sister. Sighing, Athos forced a polite smile as he said, "I would be grateful for your assistance, Madame."
In the end, it was not so much assistance as Brigitte doing all of the work while Athos stoically clamped his jaw shut as the lady tugged at his boot, finally managing to pull it free from the swollen limb. She looked at him sheepishly at the gasp the action pulled from him and he forced another smile as he bit down on the inside of his cheek so no further signs of pain escaped him, the ache increasing as circulation retuned to the now unrestricted ankle. Brigitte put the boot down and pointed at his foot with a questioning look, "Would you like me to wrap it for you?"
Athos was trying to determine how he could politely decline when Aramis appeared beside him. "Thank you for your help, Madame. I'll have a look to confirm nothing's broken and will bind it for him."
Brigitte nodded, moving over to speak with her brother, helping the Captain pull on a clean shirt. Aramis caught Athos' eye, waiting until he was ready, and then manipulated the sore ankle, confirming a bad sprain but fortunately nothing worse. He bandaged it firmly to support the swollen joint, Athos' face covered in a light sheen of sweat by the time he'd finished. "Better?" the medic asked as he helped the older man prop his sore foot on the edge of the bed.
"Much, thank you," Athos replied, his face ashen from Aramis' attentions. "Who do you want to look at your leg?"
Aramis hesitated, eyes darting to Brigitte, his discomfort at removing his breeches in front of the Captain's sister obvious. "Madame, could you please go see if the herbs Aramis requested have arrived?" Athos asked. Brigitte's eyes drifted to Aramis' thigh, understanding that his was the only wound which had not yet been treated. With a demure smile, she nodded and left the room.
Aramis gave his friend an appreciative look as the Captain appeared at his side, guiding him with a hand on his elbow to a chair and then helping him undress so he had access to the stab wound. The medic had been correct in his assessment that it was not an overly serious injury, but it did require proper cleaning and, when Treville had scrubbed it thoroughly, he added a couple of stitches to keep the wound closed. By the time Madame Trémaux reappeared, Aramis was dressed and sitting at the room's small table.
She carried the herbs he'd requested, along with a mortar and pestle which he quickly put to good use, first crushing the ingredients into a coarse powder and then making them into a thick paste with the addition of water. When he'd finished, the linen he'd covered gave off a pungent odour which Aramis assured them would ease the Gascon's breathing. The poultice was applied to the young man's chest, Athos and Porthos helping to hold the boy upright while Aramis wrapped more linen around d'Artagnan's chest to hold it in place.
When they were done, the three seemed at loose ends and Treville interceded, pointing to the food that had been brought earlier. "Eat," he ordered. "We have no idea how long it will take for d'Artagnan to recover and we need to keep up our strength." When he was satisfied that they'd all taken a plate of food, he left them to go speak with his sister, guessing that the men would appreciate an opportunity to be alone with their youngest.
It was difficult to tell whether the poultice was having any effect, but Aramis continued to change it out every few hours regardless, telling himself that it wasn't doing any harm. The Gascon had remained unaware of his surroundings, although it was difficult to tell if he was unconscious or asleep, even his regular fits of wet coughing not enough to rouse him fully. Madame Trémaux had returned to the room later that evening, offering to sit with d'Artagnan so the others could have a break, but she was politely refused, each man resolute in their desire to take care of the boy. With a knowing smile on her lips, Brigitte had retreated, promising herself that she would be back in the morning when the men's fatigue was likely to make them a bit more amenable to sharing the burden of caring for their ailing friend.
Athos had intended to remain at the young man's side throughout the night but a hard glare from Aramis, along with Porthos' strong arms that forced him from the boy's side, convinced him to settle on the makeshift pallet they'd made on the floor since none of them were willing to go too far while the Gascon's health was so fragile. Aramis stayed at d'Artagnan's side until the early morning hours, wiping his fevered brow, pouring water and tea down his throat whenever he was able, and pulling him forward to thump on his back in an effort to loosen the mass that was now clogging the boy's lungs, slowly but surely suffocating him.
When the first streaks of dawn appeared, the medic's eyes were red and burning, his misery compounded by the dull throbbing of his thigh, the wound there tender and aching from his body's lack of proper rest. He looked up at the sound of movement to see Athos rolling from the pallet, removing himself carefully so Porthos would not be disturbed. He brought a blanket with him, clasping it around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill as he hobbled toward the bed and sank down gratefully in one of the chairs that sat there. "How is he?" Athos asked, his eyes taking in the young man's sallow appearance, noting the harsh sounds of his shallow breaths and the sheen of sweat that covered his face and chest.
"He's fighting, Athos," Aramis replied. "It would be better if he were awake so we could encourage him to cough more and to take additional water. He's becoming badly dehydrated and his chest is still heavy with sickness."
As if the young man had heard the medic's words, he began to cough weakly and Aramis again lifted him forward, holding him with one hand while the other smacked firmly against his back. For a moment, the Gascon seemed to be choking and Aramis reached quickly for a cloth which he held to the young man's mouth, encouraging him to spit. Aramis was pleased when the boy followed his instructions, grinning widely while Athos tried to contain his look of disgust at the mass that the medic was holding out to him. "This is a good thing, Athos. He needs to clear his lungs if he's to improve."
Athos nodded absently, his gaze back on d'Artagnan who was laying back against the pillows that held his body nearly upright to ease his breathing. The Gascon's half-lidded eyes stared back at him and Athos couldn't help but reach out a hand toward him, stopping when the young man flinched. Pulling his hand back, Athos swallowed and said, "d'Artagnan, it is good to see you awake." Aramis watched with bated breath for the Gascon's reaction, remembering that it was not just the boy's physical wounds that had to be dealt with. The boy remained quiet but continued to observe Athos. "You are safe. We rescued you from the bounty hunters and have returned to Madame Trémaux's estate. Do you remember any of what happened?"
d'Artagnan continued to stare at the older man, struggling against his fluid-filled lungs and the pain of his broken ribs. When the two men had almost given up on receiving an answer, the Gascon gave a single shaky nod. It brought a small smile to Athos' lips that the boy at least seemed somewhat more aware. "d'Artagnan," Aramis spoke, drawing the young man's attention away from Athos, "do you know who we are?"
The Gascon licked his cracked lips before he breathed out a single word, "Soldiers." His eyes began to drift closed and Aramis hurried to speak again before the boy fell asleep.
"d'Artagnan," he coaxed, causing the young man to drag his heavy lids open again, "do you know us?"
The Gascon stared at him blankly before shaking his head. Aramis could hear Athos' sigh of frustration but kept his gaze firmly locked on the young man in front of him, fearful that any lapse in attention would have the boy slipping back asleep. "I am Aramis and he is Athos," he explained, motioning toward the older man. "Over there is Porthos," he continued, pointing in the third man's direction. "We are your fellow Musketeers."
It was difficult to tell if d'Artagnan understood the medic's words, but his eyes did drift away from Aramis to land on Athos and then Porthos, before returning to rest on the medic's face. "Brothers," he said on an exhale, his voice thin and brittle.
"Yes," Aramis smiled again, risking a hand on the Gascon's arm, the boy's eyes flitting downwards at the touch. "We are your brothers."
Athos could contain himself no longer, envying the contact that Aramis had achieved with his protégé, and his hand reached forward, landing gently on the boy's other arm, causing the Gascon to look over at him. "Do you remember us?" he asked, his heart stuttering madly with trepidation.
d'Artagnan gave another weak shake of his head, "Brigitte said," he paused to catch his breath, "brothers would come."
Athos did his best not to let his disappointment show, but a quick glance at the medic's expression told him he'd failed miserably. He swallowed thickly at the emotion that seemed to be choking him before looking back at the Gascon who was now staring at him with an expression of confusion and curiosity. d'Artagnan had noticed how the older man's – Athos, he corrected – how Athos' face had fallen and something in his chest caught in reaction to the man's despair. He had no idea why he felt this way, but he was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming need to comfort this man, something deep inside telling him that the Musketeer had already suffered too much. Clumsily, he pulled his arm from Athos' grip, causing the older man to start momentarily, before d'Artagnan managed to place his hand on top of Athos'. "S'alright," he wheezed, "don't be sad."
Athos could not speak, astonished at the boy's attempts to comfort him, a man who he had no knowledge of and was a virtual stranger to him. Instead he nodded numbly, reading d'Artagnan's need for some sort of reply, and added his other hand on top of the Gascon's as the boy's eyes began to close again.
"d'Artagnan, I need you to drink before you sleep again," Aramis interjected.
The Gascon's eyes rolled lazily to the medic, his strength clearly deserting him. He parted his lips obediently, something telling him that he could trust this man, and Aramis held a cup to his mouth. It should have bothered him that he needed help with so simple a task, but d'Artagnan had a strange feeling that this had happened before and he swallowed the cool, sweet liquid that the man poured into his mouth, nearly asleep by the time the cup was removed.
Aramis gave Athos a nod of satisfaction at how much water the young man had drank and pushed unsteadily to his feet, his injured leg stiff and protesting the hours he'd spent sitting. Athos watched him stand, unaware that d'Artagnan's eyes had opened a last time at the medic's hiss of pain as he'd stood, bringing a small frown to the young man's face before he finally drifted off.
"How is your leg, Aramis," Athos asked, as his friend limped to the pallet and gingerly lowered himself down.
"About as well as yours, I'd imagine," the medic replied, easing himself back to lie down next to Porthos. He flashed the older man a quick grin as he said, "Save your mother-henning for the boy, Athos, I'll be fine." Tugging a blanket around himself, he snuggled closer to the larger man's warmth and was asleep in moments.
Athos shook his head fondly at the medic's reply, but made a note to check the wound later to confirm that it was healing well, determined not to let his friend place his own health at risk for the sake of the young man's. He turned his attention back to the Gascon who looked so young in sleep and almost fragile, making Athos want to wrap him in wool and hide him away from the world which had recently inflicted such pain upon the young man. If they had not intervened, d'Artagnan would have been taken from them by now, the executioner collecting his reward for the removal of a murderer, except in this instance, the world would have contained one less honorable man instead.
The thought made Athos' heart stutter and, for a moment, his vision blurred with unshed tears, and he swiped angrily at his eyes to wipe them away before they could fall. So caught up was he with his dark thoughts that he hadn't noticed Porthos' arrival at his side, the man placing a warm hand on his shoulder and Athos found himself leaning back into the man's touch, drawing strength from his friend as the stress of the past weeks culminated and threatened to overwhelm him.
Porthos sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and pulled Athos toward him, not allowing the older man to pull away and instead holding him close. He knew how difficult things had been for all of them, but Athos had felt the Gascon's conviction and subsequent absence more keenly than all of them, and his suffering had been an exquisite agony as a result.
Despite his anguish, Athos had remained their stoic leader throughout, but the reality of having d'Artagnan back, and yet having him still lost to them with the absence of his memories, seemed to be more than he could stand, and the result had him sobbing quietly in Porthos' embrace, the larger man simply holding him through his emotional release. Neither man noticed d'Artagnan's eyes partially open to take in the sorrowful scene, a single tear running down his cheek before he returned to sleep.