In the south, Brigadier General Achille d'Étampes de Valençay led his six thousand infantry soldiers over the hills near the village of Carcassonne. The esteemed general met his pledged ally and promised cavalry of one thousand troops- the two armies converging into one- filling the valley just outside the fortress.
Henri II, Duke of Montmorency, Governor of the region of Languedoc, led the troops he successfully raised from loyal subjects of his region and nearby surrounding regions, including that of the village of Carcassonne, forward into the valley. Merging the two armies into one emboldened both leaders, Duke Henri and General de Valençay, with each daring to command a formidable army in battle against the king.
The large army of seven thousand troops headed north toward Toulouse with plans to rendezvous in Bourges with Duke Gaston and Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand as soon as they arrived with their armies from the east. The two armies would join into one rousing force that dared to risk their lives for the higher good of France.
The plan for this combined army was to march toward Duke Gaston's hometown of Orléans, where the duke would certainly be successful in raising more faithful, loyal and unyielding troops. Finally, their massive army would march into Paris; there, they would storm Palais de Louvre and seize King Louis, removing him from power as King of France.
Once Louis was removed, it would free Gaston, as the next in line for the throne, to take his rightful place as the new reigning King of France. King Gaston, this was a title that the younger brother of Louis desired so deeply he could taste it; this lofty goal drew ever closer to becoming reality as he rode toward Lyon.
Nothing was going to stand in the way of Gaston realizing his dream; he had come too far and had long since passed the point of no return. Gaston was going to take his rightful place on the throne as king, or he and his army would die trying.
Château de Blois:
D'Artagnan watched Aramis sleeping as he held Athos' hand close to his heart; the Gascon smiled, though his heart ached. He and his brothers haven't had a 'normal' day since the ill-fated mission to Orléans which brought them through the Forest of Torfou.
Now it seemed every move they made was cursed- doomed to end with someone hurt or sick, or both. D'Artagnan and the Inseparables had been to Hell and back, but what was the limit to a body's suffering? How much pounding could the body stand before the heart gave up and simply quit beating? Keeping his mind focused on Athos, Aramis, and Porthos was the only light the Gascon had found in the darkness of his mind as he was being tortured in the dungeon.
Thinking of his brothers had kept him alive when all he had wanted to do was to die; when all he had wanted was to be free from the pain. If he and Porthos had not survived the dungeon, how would their deaths have affected Athos and Aramis, who were so desperately seeking them, despite being hurt themselves?
What would have happened if they arrived at the château too late and had found their broken, bloody and lifeless bodies tied to the racks? The sickening thought sent a shiver down d'Artagnan's spine, making him feel suddenly lightheaded and dizzy. Maybe I shouldn't be out of bed just yet; I'm not feeling so good.
D'Artagnan began to sway on his feet, unable to find balance, as the room tilted sideways. He tried to grab hold onto something to steady himself but his fingers found only air as he tumbled to the floor. His vision went black before his head hit the hard floor with a smack; he never heard the screams or the running feet as they rushed toward his bleeding form sprawled on the floor.
"D'Artagnan!" Porthos screamed as he lunged to catch the falling Musketeer but was too late. "Oh, bloody hell!" the large man cursed. He rolled his friend over to find blood spurting out from a gash in his forehead.
"Move aside, Porthos." Molyneux gently pushed the large man to the side so the two doctors could examine the patient. "He shouldn't have been out of bed; he wasn't well yet." Doctor Molyneux shook his head.
"I knew this was going to happen," Doctor Berteau muttered. "These stubborn Musketeers will not listen to reason and have to learn everything the hard way! If he had gone back to bed, as I told him earlier, he would not be unconscious now with a bleeding head wound and a probable concussion. When will these young people ever learn?"
"It is the price for being young and stubborn, Doctor Berteau." Molyneux shook his head, frowning as he used a cloth to staunch the heavy bleeding. "Sometimes young people have to make their own mistakes; they have to fall and bloody their knee before they learn that the older and wiser folk were right all along."
"Let's get him up on the cot." Berteau motioned with his head. "Well, that is one thing this young man did right; asking for the extra cot was a good idea and quite convenient."
"Cécile, my dear, will you go with Maria and fetch us some water, bandages, and my medical bag with the surgical kit, please?" Molyneux asked. "Our stubborn young man is going to need stitches to close this nasty wound."
"Yes, Doctor, right away," Cécile nodded. "It's never boring when I'm around these gentlemen; they always keep me plenty busy," the experienced nurse whispered to Maria.
"Is he going to be alright, Doctor?" Porthos asked as he watched the two healers carry the Gascon to his cot.
"Too soon to tell, Porthos." Molyneux continued his pressure on the bleeding wound. "He's young and strong," the doctor paused, "but he's been through so much recently. Even for someone as fit as d'Artagnan, there are limitations to how much suffering a young body can take; we will just have to wait and see."
As he watched his young friend, Porthos' brown eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. The large man swayed unsteadily on his feet then sat heavily on the edge of the bed before he too fell to the floor. The Musketeer leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, as he muttered something unintelligible under his hands.
"Porthos?" Molyneux asked with concern. "Are you alright, what's wrong?"
"Just gettin' the feelin' of déjà vu." Porthos shook his head, looking over at d'Artagnan. "Here I go again, watchin' as all of my brothers suffer from injuries; I'm alone, just like at Chamarande and when they had catarrh…" his voice trailed.
"Porthos, this isn't either of those places," Molyneux assured softly. "These are different injuries. . . and we'll get through this. Besides, you're forgetting that you were wounded also," he reminded. "You're lucky that knife didn't penetrate your liver but glanced off your rib; if it hadn't, you would surely be dead, my friend."
"Lucky?" Porthos whispered softly.
"Yes, lucky," Molyneux replied. "Look, I know you didn't come through this experience unscathed, quite the contrary. You have physical wounds that still need to heal, yes, but it's the emotional wounds—the wounds that I cannot mend—that still leave you broken and bleeding inside. Do not add guilt where guilt does not belong, Porthos. It is not your fault that you are healing, physically anyway, while they are still sick."
"God picked you to be their guardian angel because you are strong and tough, yet still gentle and caring," Cécile said to Porthos as she reentered the room with the supplies. "I think you've more than proven your strength to all of us, as well as to yourself, Porthos." The nurse smiled at the large man, touching his arm reassuringly.
"You really believe 'at?" Porthos asked doubtfully.
"Yes," everyone echoed together.
"Now, instead of moping over there, why don't you come over here and help us take care of your brother?" Molyneux invited with a wave of his hand.
"Wha' can I do?"
"Well, you can keep us supplied with clean water," Cécile suggested. "Or just hold his hand, in case he wakes up."
Porthos appreciated the distraction as the doctors cleaned d'Artagnan's head of the blood before suturing the wound. The large Musketeer soon had a good routine of ladling out clean water into the bowl and then dumping the bloodied water into a bucket, while the nurse swabbed away the blood from the patient.
The doctors finished stitching d'Artagnan's head, closing the cut above his left eye. "Well, he'll be wearing these four stitches above his eyebrow for a while; hopefully he won't have a noticeable scar." Molyneux removed a stray band of hair from the Gascon's forehead.
"Now we will all let d'Artagnan get some much needed rest." Doctor Berteau wiped his hands clean on a towel. "You should get some rest too, Porthos, while your friends sleep."
"Are you sure he's going to be okay?" Porthos asked, frowning at the angry purple and blue lump, crossed with four stitches above d'Artagnan's eye.
"He should be fine so try not to worry," Molyneux replied. "Lie down and get some rest before you end up on the floor like your young friend did."
Porthos growled deep in his throat but obeyed the doctor's orders. He waited for the medical team to leave the room before he got up to pull his cot alongside d'Artagnan so he could keep an eye on the young Gascon.
He glanced over at Aramis still holding the hand of Athos as he slept then looked back at the young Musketeer next to him. He smiled as he took d'Artagnan's limp hand and held it against his chest, just like Aramis did with Athos. "If I am your guardian angel, it's my job to take care of you and watch over you- that's what I'm goin' to do." Porthos squeezed the hand in his as he closed his eyes, finally drifting off to sleep.
Doctor Molyneux poked his head back in the room for one last check; he couldn't hold back the smile as he found Porthos sleeping on the cot right beside the young Gascon, grasping the younger man's hand. "Guardian angel, indeed," the doctor whispered as he left the men to sleep.
The sound of boots running on the marble floor echoed in the large empty castle. As the Musketeers reached a spiral staircase leading downward, the screams got louder. They each pulled out their pistols and ran down the stone steps, following the sound of the screams.
Feeling along the stone walls, the Musketeers crept down the stairs through the darkness. They followed the screams as they grew louder, but without torches to guide them, they had to feel along the walls through the dark hallway.
The hallway seemed to stretch on without end; each new corner led to another long hallway. The screams that had been growing louder were now growing desperate. "Athos… Aramis, where are you?" The voices of their friends cried out into the darkness.
The Musketeers searched, but they couldn't find a way out of the maze; the screams grew weaker and more faint until they stopped altogether. Finally, they found light at the end of a hallway and ran toward the illuminated room.
They entered into a macabre scene. Their breath caught in their throat at the sight of two wooden racks, one holding Porthos and the other holding d'Artagnan. The men looked elongated and out of shape, their limbs lying at unnatural angles. Both of the men's arms were stretched far above their heads with their shoulder sockets torn out of place. The Musketeer's bodies were twisted unnaturally at the hip where their legs hung loosely out of joint
"Oh God, we're too late!" Athos screamed as he checked the pulse on Porthos' neck but finding nothing. "D'Artagnan, wake up!" Aramis howled as he shook the shoulders that melted into his hands, folding inward bonelessly.
Suddenly Porthos' eyes shot open and glared at Athos, full of hate and blame. "You're too late; why didn't you come sooner? We're dead and it's your fault!"
Aramis screeched in horror then jumped back, away from d'Artagnan who sat up, though his arms were still strangely tied to the rack. "It's your fault we're dead…it's your fault we're dead… it's your fault we're dead!"
"No!" Athos screamed as he sat bolt upright on the bed. The sheet caught then covered his face and, with the darkness of the evening, Athos thought certain he was seized in the trappings of the dungeon. He began fighting vehemently against the restraints of the sheet, twisting and bucking in place.
Aramis awoke with a start at the screaming and flailing body beside him on the bed. The medic reached out in the darkness to calm Athos but his touch only caused the writhing Musketeer to recoil; the touch sent the swordsman falling sideways off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.
Athos fought to free himself of the sheet. "Get off of me, get off of me!" he yelled as he thrashed about on the floor. The Musketeer's commands were stopped by a cough that seemed to erupt from his very core; like a thief reaching for his spoils, the cough pulled the very air from his lungs with savage greed.
"I need a damn light in here!" Aramis screamed as he felt his way to the twitching body of Athos on the floor. The medic could hear the gasping and wheezing sounds as the sick Musketeer fought to breathe but with an obvious obstruction in his airway. "I need some help in here!"
Porthos jumped out of bed and followed the screaming sounds to the other side of the room, bumping into unseen chairs and a table along the way. Going to all fours, Porthos used his hands to feel in front of him and found the medic trying to hold Athos still. "'Mis, is that you?" the large Musketeer asked as he felt around for Athos.
"Yeah, it's me," Aramis snapped. "Where the hell is everyone? I need a damn light!" the medic growled. The room glowed bright with light as Doctors Molyneux and Berteau entered the room, holding lanterns in their hands.
Athos twisted in the sheet, caught as an insect in the lair of a spider's web; his face was turning deep red and, even with the dim light of the fire, they could see the beginning tinges of blue forming on his lips.
"Turn him over!" Molyneux ordered. Once the Musketeer was turned to his stomach, the doctor then gave a swift punch to the back with the heels of his hands. Again he pounded Athos' back in attempt to free the phlegm that had lodged in his airway. The doctor pounded again until finally he could see the mucus starting to drip from the sick man's throat. Using his fingers, the doctor swept the mucus free from the throat and mouth then wiped it into his handkerchief.
"I can't tell if he's breathing!" Aramis' panicked voice alarmed the doctors.
Molyneux rolled Athos onto his side then pounded hard on his chest, effectively causing the Musketeer to draw in a startled gasp of air. The doctor pounded on the patient's back again and again to clear his airway. "Spit it up, Athos," he ordered.
Athos coughed and gagged and, with the help of the pounding, he released the knot of phlegm blocking his airway into the proffered handkerchief. The tense body under Molyneux's grip went limp as the Musketeer fell into blissful darkness.
The doctor rolled Athos onto his back; the Musketeer's head lolled limply to the side. Doctor Berteau brought the lantern in closer as Molyneux checked Athos' pulse and breathing. "He passed out… but he is breathing," the doctor sighed.
"Thank God!" Aramis sat back on his haunches and let out a cry of relief, crossing himself.
"That was too close," Porthos let out a strangled breath. "I can't deal wit' dis again," he groaned.
"He's breathing, but I can still hear quite a bit of congestion rattling in his lungs." Doctor Molyneux shook his head after listening with his ear pressed against Athos' chest. "Is there something else that we can do to help clear up his lungs, Doctor?" he asked, looking over at Berteau.
"Well, the rattling in his lungs is to be expected," Doctor Berteau replied. "Lungwort and licorice are the best remedies with the steam for clearing up his congested lungs, but it does take time to work. Bronchitis is very difficult to treat; it does take time to remedy. We must continue our treatments without getting impatient—that goes for all of us."
"I'm tired of being patient," Aramis grumbled. "I'm sure Athos is as well."
"Unfortunately, we don't have much of a say…" Berteau's voice trailed. "What is this blood on the floor?" the doctor asked. He held up the lantern to cast the light more broadly and illuminated the smears of red around where Athos lay.
Aramis quickly lifted the sheet tangled around the Musketeer's left arm; he gasped when he spotted a growing red stain blooming on the bandage covering Athos' left arm. "Oh no…"
"Damn, he must ha' pulled out the stitches when he panicked," Porthos cursed.
"What happened to his arm?" Berteau asked, as he had treated Porthos and d'Artagnan and knew nothing of Athos' injuries.
"He was hit with a 'cats paw' when we rescued Porthos and d'Artgagnan from the dungeon," Aramis replied glumly.
Porthos growled at the mention of the dungeon. "He was tryin' to rescue me when one o' those devils hit Athos on the arm, tryin' to force the main gauche from his hand. I couldn't help 'im 'cause I was still tied to the rack."
"By God's grace, it's a miracle any of you boys walked out of that place alive, judging from the injuries I have seen," Berteau shook his head.
"Let us get Athos moved back up onto the bed, shall we?" Molyneux said as he untangled Athos from the sheet. "We need to get this arm sutured then get him back underneath the steam tent," the doctor instructed. "The sooner we get him back under the tent, breathing the lungwort and licorice vapors, the faster he will begin to heal."
Aramis and Porthos helped Molyneux lift Athos onto the bed. "Cécile, would you and the nurses go get us some more boiling water, lungwort and licorice; and get some more peppermint too," Berteau requested. "I need my sewing kit. . . again."
Doctor Berteau handed Aramis the lanterns as he and Molyneux began unwrapping the bloody bandages; he exposed the torn edges of three deep cuts with the sutures now ripped out and hanging loose. Molyneux pressed the towel hard against the seeping wounds, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped.
At last the nurses returned with the supplies, including a bottle of brandy to sanitize the wound. After gently cleaning the wounds, Doctor Molyneux began the arduous task of sewing the multiple tears closed. "Damn, that cat's paw really did a number on this arm," he muttered to himself. After some time of sewing, the doctor sat up to stretch his back. "My back is starting to ache," he winced at the pain in his muscles.
"Why don't I take over now, hmm?" Doctor Berteau offered. "You have been at this for quite some time now." The older physician smiled as they traded places so he could finish suturing the wounded arm.
"Aramis, if you would, please rinse the wound with the brandy." Doctor Berteau nodded to the medic, after the surgery was finished. He leaned back in his chair while the medic poured brandy over the sutures then carefully dried the arm. The doctor finished up by wrapping the arm with clean bandages. "All done now, my boy," he patted the arm softly with his hand.
"Alright, let's get this steam tent set up so these young men can get back to their beauty rest," Doctor Berteau quipped.
"I'd like to try something different this time," Aramis informed the team of doctors. "Athos had a bad dream just before all this happened," he said, motioning his hand over the twisted sheet and blood on the floor. "He got tangled in the sheet, but then when I reached out to touch him, he fell off the bed."
" 'Mis, what are you goin' to do?" Porthos asked with hesitation.
Aramis took an apprehensive breath; he glanced from one doctor to the other, knowing they would think he was out of his mind. "I want to sit behind Athos and hold him while he sleeps; I don't want him to think he's alone the next time he wakes up in the dark."
"Aramis, you're going to get awfully hot under there," Doctor Molyneux warned. "I would not recommend you stay with him under the tent for a long period of time, it could cause you to overheat."
"I'll take my chances." Aramis resolved, having his mind already made up. "If I get too hot, I'll have Porthos peel back a corner so I can poke my head out," he looked to Porthos for agreement. "As long as my face is cool, I'll be fine."
"I still do not recommend this, but if it will keep Athos from panicking and hurting himself, then I'll agree," Molyneux nodded. "However, if you start feeling too hot, if you feel nauseous or dizzy, then you must get out from under the tent. Do I make myself clear?"
"I'll make sure he complies." Porthos stepped forward with an intimidating glare aimed at Aramis.
Aramis smiled as he clapped the shoulder of the large Musketeer. "Always the mother hen," he remarked affably.
Porthos huffed with displeasure as the two doctors pulled Athos forward so Aramis could maneuver behind the unconscious Musketeer. Being mindful of the injured arm, the medic wiggled behind Athos until he was comfortably positioned; he nodded for the doctors to lay his friend against him. "Alright, cover us up," he said. He wrapped his arms protectively around his friend then nodded to have himself covered.
"Now, remember what I said," Molyneux reminded. "If you get too hot, get out from under there. Are you ready?"
Aramis leaned his body deep into the pillows and pulled Athos closer before nodding his consent. "Alright, Athos, what do you say we move forward with healing rather than backwards, huh? There will be no more of you falling off this bed in a panic," the medic whispered in his unconscious friend's ear.
Aramis squirmed further into the pillows then winced as pain shot through his ribs. "Damn, I really should follow my own advice and lie still for a while." The medic rested his head against Athos' head and sighed. "I can't believe the hell we've been through these last few weeks."
"We'll go and let you boys get some rest," Doctor Berteau told Porthos. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call for us."
"Thank you, doctors," Porthos replied. "Good night."
Aramis watched the silhouette of Porthos as he walked with a lantern toward his cot. "I'm not tired," the medic called out to the shadows. "Why don't you sit next to me so we can talk… unless you want to go to sleep?"
"Nah, I can stay up for a while," Porthos agreed. He leaned back against the pillows in Aramis' former place on the bed, placing the lantern beside the bed on a table. "'Sides, if you get too hot under there and need help, I'll be right 'ere."
"This is eerie…"
"What is eerie?"
"I feel like I'm in a dark cloud with that lantern casting shadows through the steam and the sheet," Aramis paused. "It sounds strange in here too."
"You don't sound strange to me."
"My voice sounds like it's echoing off the sheet."
"Your voice sounds fine to me."
"How you feeling, Porthos?"
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, sure you are," Aramis huffed. The medic quieted for a moment as he mulled over what happened with Athos. "I think Athos was dreaming about… about the two of you in that place."
"At least he wasn't a guest there…" Porthos trailed.
"What did they do to you in there, Porthos?" Aramis broached cautiously.
Porthos drew in a breath of surprise at the question then sat quietly, sinking deep into his own thoughts. He really didn't want to talk about what happened; he didn't even want to think about that wretched pit in the deepest part of hell.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to; I understand if you don't," Aramis whispered. "I don't know why I asked. . . I just wish I could help you deal with it somehow."
"We go' beaten a lot. . . and whipped while hanging from chains or ropes," Porthos remembered, his voice low and distant. "They kept askin' where the letter was but I wouldn't tell 'em, so they whipped me… again and again."
"Aw, Porthos," Aramis whispered softly. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
Porthos opened up about his torture, letting the anger and the pain from the experience roll off his tongue in gory detail. He recalled being chained like an animal to the wall, sitting for hours on the dirty floor in the dark with no food or water. He remembered the fear on d'Artagnan's face every time that cell door opened, knowing more torture and suffering awaited them.
The large Musketeer wiped the tears from his eyes as he let his head droop forward. He slipped back into his own private thoughts, mulling over the horrors of the dungeon and the suffering it caused him and d'Artagnan.
"Porthos?" Aramis called out after a long period of silence. "Porthos, I think I need some air. . . Porthos?" Aramis began to panic as he started feeling dizzy. "Dear God, I think I'm going to die under here," he called out loudly.
Hearing the panic in Aramis' voice finally broke Porthos from his stupor and set him into motion. The large Musketeer rose to throw back a corner of the tent, uncovering Aramis' face; he found the medic slumped against the pillows with his face dripping with sweat. His hair was plastered in clumps against his flushed skin, as his throat and chest glistened with a sheen of sweat.
" 'Mis, bloody hell, why didn't you say somethin' before you got this hot?" Porthos scolded. "You were s'pos'd to say somethin'!"
"I wanted you to finisshh talking 'fore I 'terrupted you," Aramis slurred, his eyes tightly closed. "Getting the nightmaresss of that place off your chest wasss more 'portant."
"More important than you overheatin' and makin' yourself sick?" Porthos admonished. "That's Rubbish!"
Aramis sucked in the fresh air, relishing the cooler temperature outside the tent. Porthos replaced the sheet over Athos, making sure his friend was enclosed completely, while leaving Aramis outside of the sheet.
"I need to get you some water and get you cooled down, 'Mis." Porthos got up to fetch a cloth with a bowl of water; he also retrieved a cup filled with the cold liquid. Returning to Aramis' side, he offered the cup of water then waited until it was emptied before dipping the cloth into the bowl.
He wrung out the excess water then ran the cool, damp cloth over Aramis' face, neck and chest; the medic accepted the treatment gratefully. "The water feels good," The marksman closed his eyes, sighing as the cooling cloth soothed his hot skin.
"You would feel differently 'bout water if you went through wha' I did when they nearly drowned me."
"What?" Aramis' eyes sprang open. "What do you mean, they nearly drowned you?"
"They did somethin' different to d'Artagnan, but we both felt like we were goin' to die from drownin'." Porthos quietly relayed memories of his torture on the waterboarding table, detailing the savagery of the monster who laughed at his horror.
He recalled the terror he felt when he thought he would drown on that table. "I thought I was goin' to die," he said, his voice barely audible. "I almost broke; I almost told 'em where…"
Porthos choked as the dam inside of him finally broke, bringing a flood of emotions pouring out in uncontrollable sobs. Aramis leaned over to wrap his free arm around his brother and cried tears of pain right along with him. The marksman held his largest brother close as the crying man tucked his face into his shoulder, soaking his shirt wet with tears.
Finally, the sobs subsided and the large Musketeer sat up, wiping away the tears with each shoulder. Aramis and Porthos held their breath suddenly, each straining to listen as they heard faint sounds of crying coming from underneath the tent.
The Musketeers exchanged glances, their eyes wide with surprise and sadness, as they realized the source of the crying. Aramis flung back the sheet to find Athos slumped on his side against the pillows, his cheeks wet. The men couldn't tell the tracks of tears from the tracks of sweat as they all joined together in streams down his flushed face.
"Oh no," Aramis whispered. "You heard Porthos, didn't you?"
"I'm sssorry, Porthss," Athos wheezed, clamping his eyes shut to concentrate on his breathing. "I should have been with you," he wheezed again. "I knew something was wrong. . . 'bout that mission… I should have gone with you… maybe I could have helped."
"Wha' kind of fool talk is 'at?" Porthos feigned anger though he was growing more alarmed with the wheezing breathing of his friend. "You were in no condition to come wit' us—and if you had—they would've killed you. I have no doubt 'bout that."
"I should have been there to help," Athos wheezed.
"Then we all should have been there," Aramis lamented, wiping his own tears of guilt from his face. "If I had known Porthos and d'Artagnan were going on that kind of a mission, I never would have taken leave. We are brothers; we're supposed to look out for each other. You both suffered so much. Athos and I weren't there to watch your backs and help you when you needed us most."
"Rubbish," Porthos shook his head. "You both would 'av been captured and tortured righ' along wit' us in 'at godforsaken dungeon. No way would I want you and Athos to go through 'at too."
"In the dungeon. . . I was afraid we had found you too late," Athos wiped at his face. "If we had been… just a few minutes later…" Athos gasped as his throat tightened, his chest feeling like it was being squeezed.
"Athos?" Aramis sat up straight and pulled the sick man until he was more upright; Porthos then threw the sheet back over the duo. The large Musketeer went into the hallway to find Cécile reading at a small table by the light of a lantern. "Cécile, we need help in 'ere. Where's the doctor? Athos is having trouble breathing."
Cécile knocked on Doctor Molyneux's door, waking him with calls for help. "What's wrong, what happened?" The doctor lifted the tent to find Aramis coaching Athos, whose face was turning red from coughing.
"Shhh, it's okay… just breathe with me, Athos," Aramis soothed. The sick Musketeer kept trying to pull away from the arms holding him upright, but the strong arms wouldn't let go. Athos really just wanted to curl into a ball and let the coughing take its course. He was tired of fighting.
He was tired of fighting to breathe; tired of suffocating; tired of fighting the cough; tired of the steam tent. Athos was tired of being tired. Surely his friends would understand that a body has its limits and he long since passed his.
"Canntt do this 'n'more," Athos wheezed. "I'm done fightinn…" the sick Musketeer slurred. He closed his eyes, letting his hands drop limply from Aramis' tight grip; his head fell forward and he was quiet.
"Athos?" Aramis shook his friend, getting no response. "Oh God, Athos!"