"Athos?" Aramis shook his friend but got no response. "Oh God, Athos!" The medic yelled at the limp man in his arms. "Don't you dare, Athos! Don't you dare give up… not like this, dammit!"
"Come on, Athos," Porthos growled. "If I fought to survive in the dungeon, you can fight to survive 'dis, dammit!"
"I know you're tired of being sick; I know you're tired of fighting," Aramis whispered in his friend's ear. "We need you, Athos, and we're not leaving this château without you. You have to fight… even if you don't feel like fighting anymore."
"Athos, aren't we worth fightin' for?" Porthos choked back a sob. "Are you givin' up on us, brother? Wha' hap'nd to 'all for one and one for all,' eh? Have you forgotten 'at?"
Aramis shook Athos' shoulders again. "Come on, Athos, we're not giving up on you! We're not going to let you go that easily; you should know that by now." Getting no response, the medic rolled Athos onto his stomach then pounded hard on his back. "If we have to fight for you, dammit, then that's what we're going to do. . . but you still have to try!" Aramis pounded his fist on Athos' back a second time.
"Watch out, Aramis." Doctor Molyneux pushed the medic aside then pulled Athos across his lap; he pounded steadily on the back to loosen the congestion slowly choking the air from the Musketeer's lungs.
Aramis and Porthos moved to the foot of the bed as they watched the doctor pound life back into Athos' body. The medic couldn't watch anymore but stood with his head bowed, staring at the floor; Porthos squeezed his friend's shoulder in silent support.
Doctor Molyneux looked at the two Musketeers and sadly shook his head. "I don't know if there is anything more I can do."
Aramis dropped down on the edge of the bed beside his unconscious friend. "Dammit…try! Please, don't do this," the medic yelled near Athos' ear. "You're our brother and we love you! We need you with us; what would we do without you?"
"We need you, brother." Porthos blinked back the tears. "Please fight for us… please."
Gasp! Athos inhaled a raspy breath…
"That's it, Athos!" Aramis shouted with excitement as he moved closer to listen. "Try another breath… come on, breathe for us." Aramis prodded as the doctor continued his pounding.
Athos took in a wheezing breath… and another… and another.
The doctor took his handkerchief and wiped away the phlegm that nearly asphyxiated the Musketeer. Satisfied, Molyneux and Aramis gently pulled Athos back to his place against the pillows as he breathed freely, at last, without choking.
"Athos?" Porthos crawled on the bed to sit beside Athos, opposite of the doctor. He grabbed Athos' hand in his own and squeezed it tight. "I've got ya, brother."
Aramis collapsed over his brother as the doctor moved away to make room. Relief flooded through the medic as he rested his head on Athos' forehead, oblivious to his own tears falling freely onto the patient's face. The marksman laughed as he tenderly wiped the tears away with his thumb. "Sorry…"
Athos peeled his eyes open and groaned. "I. . . could have walked… away… walked away from this fight. Why couldn't you… let me go?" The lieutenant closed his eyes and turned his head away; a single tear slipped from the corner of his eyes to drip onto the pillow.
"What?" Aramis and Porthos cried in unison.
"Why couldn't we let you go?" Aramis repeated in shock. "Athos, I know you're tired of being sick but… are we supposed to just let you die? What about us? What about how we would feel, dammit!"
"I wanted. . . wanted it over. Tired. . ." Athos weakly shook his head. His eyes remained closed and his face emotionless.
Aramis cupped Athos by the chin and turned his face toward him. "Look at us, Athos," he ordered. "We are your brothers; how could you ask us to let you die?"
" 'Mis, 'at's enough!" Porthos pulled Aramis up to face him as he shook him by the shoulders. "What is wrong wit' you?"
"Let me go, dammit!" Aramis yanked himself free of Porthos' strong grip and got up to leave, but paused next to Athos. "If you want to die so badly, then go ahead. . . but don't think I'm going to help you." The medic angrily stormed from the room.
"Bloody hell!" Porthos gasped in shock. "Where do you think you're going?" Porthos yelled after Aramis as he stormed from the room.
"Wha'sss goin on?" d'Artagnan slurred from his cot as he awoke to the fighting and yelling in the room.
Cécile emerged from her room at the angry yelling in the hallway. "What is going on?"
"Wait, 'Mis, dammit!" Porthos yelled as he ran after his friend, skipping two stairs at a time to catch up. He chased the medic through the grand entrance and out the double doors into the cool evening air of the courtyard.
Horrified, Cécile followed after the two Musketeers, being careful not to trip on the stone steps in her long nightgown and slippers.
Porthos finally caught up to the medic before he got too far. "Stop, dammit!" he growled as he grabbed Aramis by the shoulder. " 'Mis, where…?" his words were cut off as a fist suddenly connected to his jaw with a smack!
Cécile screamed out in utter disbelief at the uncharacteristically mean display of temper by Aramis; she cried as she was unable to do anything but watch.
Porthos spun slightly at the impact but then charged at Aramis, knocking them both to the ground. The breath in the medic's lungs was forced out in a gush of air as he hit the ground. The large Musketeer pulled back his fist then punched the medic in the face, splitting his lip and knocking his head backward. He pulled the marksman up by the collar and drew back his fist to strike again when Cécile stopped him mid-air.
"Stop it!" Cécile screamed as she grabbed at Porthos' fist. "Stop it, both of you! This isn't helping Athos!" The nurse pushed the two men apart. "What is wrong with you two?"
Porthos roughly let go of Aramis' collar, letting him fall to the gravel in a heap.
"You're supposed to be brothers… and look at you!" Cécile cried. "You're acting like school children," she scolded. "I know you're both under extreme stress- and you're not thinking clearly- but hurting each other will only make your situation worse!"
"The hell it will," Porthos snapped in reply. "If he keeps talkin' to Athos like 'at…"
"Shut up, Porthos!" Cécile interrupted curtly.
Porthos opened his mouth to speak but closed it, his brow furrowed in surprise.
"And just where did you think you going, Aramis?" Cécile shouted as she turned her attention to the medic. "You have no horse and you're hardly dressed; and … and you have no shoes on your feet," the nurse pointed to his feet, exasperated. "How far do you think you would have gotten, hmm? Answer me, Aramis!"
Aramis was taken aback at her angry tirade and when he opened his mouth to reply, it was but a startled squeak.
"Athos did not mean what he said back there, boys," Cécile's tone softened. "As a nurse, I have seen much suffering and pain—as I did at your garrison during the catarrh outbreak. I've seen grown men reduced to little boys again, calling for their mamas with their dying breath," the nurse wiped a tear from her cheek. "I've seen men, after suffering so much pain, begging me to let them die. . . but all I could do was hold their hand." Her voice cracked as she choked back a sob.
Porthos moved to console her but she stopped him short. "No, hear me out," she stepped back out of his reach. "Athos doesn't know what he's saying; it's the illness talking in there. It's desperation talking, and he's begging to be free. He's tired of suffering," she paused, "and he wants to be free of it. Both of you need to stop this fighting right now and get back in there; use this high-strung emotion to help Athos fight to survive!"
At hearing the nurse's appeal, Aramis covered his face with his hands and cried; he was appalled, ashamed of his angry words to Athos.
"Hey, 'Mis, it's alright." Porthos knelt beside Aramis to comfort him. "Don't cry… and don't shut me out, neither." The large Musketeer frowned as the medic resisted his attempt to console him.
"I yelled at Athos and said something I never should have said!" Aramis shook his head in disbelief. "I hit you! Mon Dieu, what have I done?"
" 'Mis, it's alright." Porthos squeezed Aramis' shoulder gently. "I know you didn't mean it. Besides, I hit back, remember?"
"How could I forget?" Aramis rubbed at his sore mouth, wiping away the blood.
"At least I go' a stronger jaw than you," the large Musketeer quipped.
"You also have one hell of a right hook," Aramis paused. "I must have forgotten that when I took a swing at you first."
"Are you boys going to talk outside all night, or are you going to go back inside where it's warm?" Cécile interrupted as a shiver went through her body.
Porthos pulled Aramis so that he was sitting up. "I'm sorry I hit you, brother."
"I'm the one who should be apologizing," Aramis shuddered. "I hit you first and. . . God, what a horrible thing I said to Athos." The medic buried his face between his bent knees as fresh tears slipped from his eyes.
Cécile knelt down beside Aramis then put her arm around his shoulder. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Athos knows you didn't mean it; he wasn't thinking straight either when he said that he wanted to die. I think you're all a bunch of idiots," she laughed.
"Oh, so now we're idiots, are we?" Aramis looked up at Cécile then to Porthos as he smiled.
"Oi, I'm not the idiot runnin' off toward town in my braies. . . with no shoes on my feet," Porthos wisecracked.
"Well," Aramis looked his friend up and down. "You're in your braies too, in case you forgot."
"Yeah, 'cause I had to go chasin' after you, fool," Porthos countered. "How far did you think you'd get wit' those bare feet, eh?"
"To the gate, maybe?" Aramis glanced over his shoulder at the gates and shrugged.
"Boys?" Cécile chimed in. "Can we go back inside, please?" the nurse shivered.
"Aw, Cécile, you shouldn't be out here with only your nightdress on!" Aramis rebuked. He tried to get up but fell back to the ground, gasping in pain.
" 'Mis, what's wrong?" Porthos frowned with alarm. "Don't tell me I hurt your ribs… bloody hell!"
"No, just… just sore… that's all," he blew out a long breath.
"Rubbish! Jus' sore… sure, 'Mis." Porthos mocked as he shook his head.
Porthos and Cécile helped Aramis slowly rise to his feet. The medic drew in hissing breaths through his teeth at the pain; he swayed unsteadily on his feet and nearly toppled over. The large Musketeer sympathetically scooped the medic into his arms and carried him back into the château, to their room upstairs.
Earlier, While Aramis and Porthos Were Outside:
Athos watched as Aramis stormed from the room with Porthos quickly chasing after him. "Ar'mis?" Athos whispered as his eyes watered.
"What… the hell was that about, Athos?" d'Artagnan demanded, more awake now after the scuffle.
"Nothing." Athos shook his head, letting his eyes slide closed.
"I'll tell you what's wrong." Doctor Molyneux glowered as he stood beside the lieutenant's bed, his arms crossed in anger. "Athos didn't think of how his brothers might react to his question of why they didn't let him go. Did you really expect them to let you die?" the doctor asked, exasperated.
Athos remained quiet.
"Athos, I will tell you that your brothers have worried and prayed over you as they have sat beside your bed—forgetting to even eat or sleep. They have kept vigil over you, constantly watching to make sure you still drew breath hour after hour."
Athos listened to the scolding quietly as a tear slipped from his eye then rolled down his temple.
"At the garrison when you were sick, Aramis tore off his mask and exposed himself to catarrh to save your life and, in turn, risked his own," the doctor reminded. "How could you ask someone—who would trade his own life for yours—so callously to let you die? You would have been better off asking Aramis and Porthos to cut out their own hearts—as I'm sure they'd sooner do that—than to sit by and simply watch you die. Now pull yourself together, Athos, and fight this illness."
Athos opened his eyes to join with d'Artagnan in staring in surprise at the normally soft-spoken physician.
"Athos, I know you're tired of fighting and you're tired of suffering, but you have to be strong nonetheless." Molyneux sighed then softened his tone. "If you cannot fight for yourself, then fight for your three brothers who are counting on leaving here with you at their side. You have to think beyond yourself, Athos; you must think of how they would react to your death."
"That's exactly. . . what I did," Athos whispered. "They are the only reason why I didn't walk away."
Doctor Molyneux's brow furrowed at the confession. "What are you…"
"Well, I can tell you," d'Artagnan interrupted. "If Athos died, it would be the worst experience imaginable."
Athos turned his head toward d'Artagnan, looking at him for the first time since they arrived at Château de Blois. He frowned at the bandage around the Gascon's head and the bandages around his shoulder and chest. "D'Arttngnn…" Athos coughed. He turned to his side and curled himself into a ball.
"Doctor Molyneux, the steam and medicine is ready for him, and just in time, it appears." Doctor Berteau entered the room carrying a large pot of water. "Let's get him back under that tent so he can begin his treatment again."
"Wait…" Athos' eyes popped open wide. "Before I go… back under there." He breathed through his nose to stifle a cough. "Could I…" he paused, blushing. "Could I please…?"
"You need to relieve yourself?" Molyneux asked with a large smile. "Don't be embarrassed, Athos; that is utterly terrific!"
"Really now…" Athos cocked his head sideways as his face flushed with embarrassment.
D'Artagnan snickered with amusement from his cot as the two doctors exchanged glances and laughed.
"Athos, it's terrific because it means that your kidneys are beginning to function properly again," Doctor Berteau explained. "This is indeed a very good sign and a step in the right direction toward your healing. You're still weak from blood loss; we need to keep putting the liquids into you then allow nature to take its course—as well it should."
"We'll let you have your privacy." Doctor Molyneux handed the chamber pot to Athos. "I'll go make some hot valerian tea for you," he patted the Musketeer's shoulder. "I'll be right back." The doctors left the room, busying themselves to allow the man some privacy.
D'Artagnan shook his head and smiled. The Gascon tossed his left arm over his eyes as he chuckled to himself, much to Athos' chagrin.
When Athos was finished, a nurse took away the chamber pot as the doctors returned to the room. Molyneux gave the Musketeer a cup of tea as he leaned back against the pillows; he slowly sipped on the tea, savoring it as it soothed his throat. Occasional coughs erupted but he breathed through them as best he could.
"Where did they go?" Athos asked of his friends. "Will they come back?"
"They just went outside to get some air," Doctor Berteau replied. "I saw them out in the courtyard… um, talking things over."
"Don't worry about them, they'll be back." Molyneux assured as he took away the empty cup. Athos' eyes began to droop until at last they slid closed; his breath evened as he fell into a restful sleep. The doctors covered him with the sheet then placed the boiling herbal water at the head of the bed so it could begin emitting its refreshing aroma of medicine and steam.
"Sleep now, Athos," Molyneux whispered. "You need your strength to fight this illness; you're not quite out of the woods yet."
Present Time:
Porthos entered the room carrying Aramis in his arms, much to d'Artagnan's surprise. The large Musketeer lay the medic down on the bed beside Athos while relaying to the doctors what happened outside in the courtyard.
"This is not good, gentlemen," Doctor Berteau scolded. "I thought you boys would be rather tired of your injuries and not so much in a hurry to cause further harm to each other!"
"Well, I've been meaning to check on those ribs anyway." Doctor Molyneux tactfully interrupted. "Aramis, so help me, if you have injured those ribs again after they were healing so nicely; I cannot guarantee what my reaction will be," he grumbled.
"I'm afraid if his ribs are injured again, it's my fault," Porthos admitted softly. "I charged into him and knocked him to the ground."
"You did what?" D'Artagnan gasped, sitting upright on the cot. "What is the matter with you?"
"It doesn't matter now, d'Artagnan." Cécile stepped in to stop the line of questioning. "We already went over this outside."
"Yeah, but…"
"But nothing!" Molyneux snapped as he slammed his medical bag down on the bed. "Each of you has had enough injuries to go around aplenty without you deliberately adding to them with childish fighting. Now, if you cannot get along and allow each other to heal—without bringing further harm to one another—then I will have no choice but to separate you into your own rooms. Is that what you want?"
The Musketeers stared at Doctor Molyneux with wide eyes and mouths open in shock; they each shook their head side-to-side with furious objection to being separated.
"Good, then it's settled." Molyneux stifled a smile; he knew the feigned angry tirade would get their attention and bring the reaction he desired. "Now I think I know what your poor Captain Tréville goes through," he sighed. "How that man hasn't lost all of his hair is beyond me."
"Speaking of Captain Tréville, where is he?" d'Artagnan asked, his memory fuzzy.
"He had to go back to Paris; he said he had business to attend to—don't you remember?" Aramis questioned as Molyneux unraveled the bandages around the medic's ribs.
"Nevermind talking about that right now," Molyneux cut into the conversation. "It's late and I want each of you to get some rest; you can talk in the morning."
"But doctor…" Porthos began but was interrupted by the doctor.
"Lie down on your cot and don't say another word!" Molyneux stopped his ministrations for a moment. "Doctor Berteau and I are going to finish examining and taking care of these ribs for Aramis. I want to hear no more words coming from any of you or I will have you separated, do you understand?"
The doctors grinned as each of the Musketeers opened their mouths to answer but quickly closed them to merely nod.
"Good, now we're getting somewhere." Molyneux smiled at the peace and quiet in the room. "How your captain hasn't turned completely grey…" the doctor muttered to himself.
"Um, doctor, earlier you wondered how he hasn't lost all of his hair," Aramis interjected cautiously. "He can't go grey if he's already lost his hair."
Complete unadulterated laughter broke out in the room. Porthos bent over at the waist, slapping his knee in uncontrollable giggles; d'Aragnan rolled onto his side, clutching at his mid-section as he roared with laughter.
"Sorry, forgot…" Aramis grinned sheepishly as Doctor Berteau tugged on the bandage, eliciting a wince from the medic.
"For elite soldiers, you boys are a stubborn lot," Molyneux chuckled softly.
"Where is that brandy?" Berteau grumbled, "I need a drink."
This only elicited more laughter from the Musketeers. Though they were told to get some rest, the two doctors didn't hamper the momentary merriment in the room. Rather, they enjoyed hearing such laughter coming from these men and neither doctor was willing to put a stop to it. The four Musketeers had certainly experienced a terrible ordeal at the hands of devils; they each had every right to wallow in grief and despair. Yet tonight it was forgotten.
The doctors knew the men weren't out of the woods, as each of them still needed time to heal, but this was a step in the right direction. For a night, they could forget their hurts and the terrors of the past and simply laugh.
If only the Musketeers knew, as they laughed, that a rabble of unruly Spanish soldiers, looking to take advantage of Duke Gaston's defeat and resulting retreat, were now marching westward to raid the presumed-empty Château de Blois. These Spanish soldiers were not going to let anyone or anything get in the way of collecting their due 'spoils of war'.
These soldiers weren't going to return to Spain until they got their recompense from a leader responsible for their defeat in the fight against the King of France. Gaston, Duc d'Orléans, was a leader who turned tail and ran; he was a leader who let his troops down on the battlefield. These angry soldiers planned to raid Château de Blois and strip the duke of all his wealth. . . and they were on their way to do just that.
What a glorious way to exact revenge!