Mist Over
By Tidia
Notes: Thank you so much for those that follow, favorite, review and read. I have a few story ideas that should pop up as I write them and I will be adding to Paris, Texas. All mistakes are my own.
Being the last man to be named a Musketeer there was the expected hazing until another man was made a Musketeer. D'Artagnan accepted it all, especially since he was the youngest Musketeer. Months had passed, and there was no one taking d'Artagnan's place as the newest due to the fickleness of the King. The tricks were becoming old and inconvenient as was the errand running he was asked to do constantly. He sighed, resolute to make the best of the situation.
As usual when he woke up his boots were missing. D'Artagnan had stopped reacting, which usually led for an earlier return to his shoes. Although the same did not apply to the furniture in his room, sometimes piled to one side, other times important pieces, like his bed could be found in the stable or in the yard, moved while he was away on a mission. Again, he made no fuss, hoping the other Musketeers would tire of the game.
In the meantime, he made his way in stocking feet to breakfast. Athos, Aramis and Porthos entered the garrison with Porthos bringing a bag with him. The Gascon suppressed the groan; the larger man was bringing his laundry, which would require d'Artagnan bringing yet another basket to the laundresses. What had begun as coincidence, the young musketeer bringing his laundry at the same time as the others had now become a duty regardless if d'Artagnan had any dirty clothes, which he did not at this time.
"When you're finished come upstairs." Treville called out to the four men at the table from the balcony before disappearing inside his office once more.
No one noticed his lack of boots, but a mission meant they would be returned to him. It would do no good to have him ride out in his stocking feet.
"You are to deliver this message into the hands of the Duke of Orleans and await a response." Treville passed the sealed envelope with its blue ribbons and wax marker to Athos, who quickly tucked it into his doublet.
"When are we expected to return?" Athos shifted his stance closer to Aramis.
"A week. You leave this morning." The Captain dismissed them for their duty.
At the top of the stair were d'Artagnan's boots. No one was surprised to see them. "I will get some provisions from Serge and meet you in the stables."
Porthos frowned at the bag of laundry at the table and d'Artagnan followed the larger man's line of sight. "I'll run it over to the laundresses while Serge gathers the food."
"Thank you, lad."
The Gascon needed to be quick so his brothers would not be waiting. After speaking with Serge he ran to the laundry. The women knew him by first name.
"I hope you are well," he wished Bridgette, the matron.
She knew him well enough to see he was rushed. "Go on, Charles. These will be delivered to the garrison for Monsieur Porthos."
They were recognizing the clothing items of his friends. He wondered if the threesome would be embarrassed if that knowledge came to light. D'Artagnan ran back, picked up the food from Serge, and made it to the stables where Aramis, Porthos and Athos were packing their saddle bags.
Athos handed d'Artagnan his bags. "Take your time. We will leave when you are ready."
(())
Watchfulness was needed on the popular road to Orleans. Thankfully, the few days journey had inns, which they could stay in, sparing d'Artagnan the menial jobs that went to the newest at the campsite.
"I'm to bed." The opportunity to actually rest was infrequent when in Paris, the inn afforded the luxury that Aramis, Athos and Porthos were under the same roof. No traveling through the streets.
"The evening is young as are you, lad. Stay with us." Porthos waved a deck of cards.
"Let the boy go." Aramis bowed his head. "You do not need him to fleece the good citizenship."
"True." Porthos stood up to find a game to join. "And you're giving your attentions to. . ."
Aramis made eye contact with the woman who had caught his attention. "Yvette."
"We will get an early start." Athos put down the wine he seemed to be nursing, extending each glass longer than usual as he limited his drinking.
Perhaps d'Artagnan enjoyed the rest in the bed too much, but he did not hear when Athos entered the room since he was fast asleep.
In the morning conversation was easy amongst the four men, usually with Aramis starting a story, Porthos continuing it on another tangent and Athos giving them a small grin. It made for an amiable ride.
The occasional race to stretch out the horses and quell their competiveness also broke up the journey.
There was a stretch of land before Orleans of wilderness. If travelers left early enough in the morning then the trip through the woods was completed before the sun had set, but any later then it was either camping in the woods or arriving to Orleans in the night.
"If we push then we will reach Orleans by nightfall," Athos said, slowing his horse to a walk so they could all talk.
Aramis coughed. "Warm bed with a lovely woman."
"Be treated to a meal," Porthos added. D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, thinking about a warm supper.
Athos gave a small smile. "And then on our way in the morning with the reply."
(())
The Duke's attention was needed by his people, and he had been unable to create a response to the King until the early afternoon. This was not an ideal situation.
"Another day?" Aramis asked after clearing his throat as they met in Athos's room, the Duke being generous with accommodations.
However, d'Artagnan knew Athos did not like delays. "No, it is only a sacrifice of a night before there are inns where we can stay." They would try to make up the difference by riding harder.
Dusk started to all, Porthos, who had scouted ahead, led them to a clearing surrounded by oaks that would provide some shelter.
"Aramis needs a fire," Athos announced as they dismounted.
The sharpshooter glared, but was done in by the cough.
"I'll collect some firewood."
D'Artagnan returned with some wood. Porthos and Athos would get the fire roaring, the water skins had been left out, which was the cue for the younger man to fill them.
"He has a fever." Porthos frowned. "I thought you were supposed to have a strong constitution," the larger man teased the sharpshooter.
Aramis huffed. "I'll be fine in the morning." The ill man pulled the blanket up further as he rested against his saddle near the fire, which Athos had built up.
"How about something to drink?" D'Artagnan suggested. The medic kept some herbs with him; surely he carried something that would help him to rest.
"Mint and chamomile," Aramis said after a moment.
They made the tea, which the sharpshooter sipped as the steam wisped off into the night sky as the other sat and had the food that had been packed for them in Orleans. Aramis begged off as he coughed more before settling down to a restless sleep that punctuated each of their turns on the watch.
"His fever's rising. Try to keep him cool." Porthos said when he woke d'Artagnan as they switched places so the other man could rest.
D'Artagnan kept changing the cloth on the sharpshooter's forehead, but the fever remained and Aramis mumbled. The young man added more wood to the fire.
Athos did not have to be awakened when his time for watch arrived. The older man squatted by Aramis, pushing away the damp, sweaty strands. "Influenza. I did not realize it had traveled from Venice."
"Will we remain here?" D'Artagnan asked as he lay down.
Athos sighed, his blue eyes catching the firelight as he looked beyond the woods. "We cannot risk it becoming an epidemic. Get some rest, I will tend to Aramis."
Porthos was coughing when the Gascon awoke; d'Artagnan and Athos shared a look leaving the new musketeer to tend to the horses, set some traps for rabbit and try to fish. They had to prepare if another one of them were falling ill.
When d'Artagnan returned, Athos had convinced Porthos to drink some of the tea from earlier while the younger man cleaned up from breakfast. Aramis was still covered by blankets with a cloth on his head.
"Is he better?"
Athos shook his head.
"Fever's got him. He's got a headache, coughing," Porthos answered before Aramis hissed at him.
"And he wants us to be quiet," Athos added.
Porthos started rubbing his head. "It's not a bad idea."
Athos focused on tending to Aramis while d'Artagnan watched over Porthos as he deteriorated with shivering and a rising fever. The younger man was able to check on the traps, which resulted in a few rabbits that could be made for supper.
They ate earlier than usual, and Athos fell asleep as having been up earlier. D'Artagnan promised to wake him, but as he was about to he noticed the redness to his mentor's cheeks and knew Athos was succumbing to the influenza.
(())
Aramis knew he had lost some time. He felt tired, but woke coughing, being helped to sitting and his back being rubbed. He spat the phlegm that rose to his mouth, then secured the tepid tea with his hands drinking as his cloak was wrapped around his shoulders.
"Better?" D'Artagnan asked, sitting cross legged by the sharpshooter, while the ill man took stock of himself.
The headache was still there, along with the cough, sore throat and fatigue, but the fever was gone. He still felt the sickness, but the worse had passed. "How long?"
"Three days. Your fever broke earlier. I was hoping it was a good sign." The young Musketeer rubbed his eyes.
Aramis heard Porthos's heavy breathing through his mouth, the spied Athos curled up on his other side. "You've been tending to us all?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "I didn't get sick. Guess being younger. . ."
The sharpshooter snorted in amusement. "Why don't you rest for a bit? I will watch them after you help me up." Aramis did have his own needs to deal with first.
With a firm grip from the Gascon, he was standing, wavering a bit, but then felt grounded enough to shuffle a few steps away. He returned, exhausted, yet restless. "Rest, d'Artagnan."
"There is firewood, some rabbit stew near the fire." The younger man passed him a water skin. "The horses have been looked after, too."
Aramis lifted one hand. "Peace. You did well." In fact, the older Musketeer was impressed although d'Artagnan was looking a bit ragged.
Stifling a yawn unsuccessfully, the Gascon flopped into a spot nearby and closed his eyes while Aramis checked on Porthos and Athos to make sure they continued their fight.
(())
The fever passed next for Porthos and finally for Athos. Since they had been gone longer than expected, it was decided to pack up the camp and make way to Paris. Aramis warning they were still recuperating and could easily slip into sickness once more so they stayed diligent in taking breaks as needed.
D'Artagnan was still sickness free, which forced him more into the role of setting up camp. As the newest Musketeer, he was left with the menial tasks, as was usual in the regiment, but with three of them still recovering he did much more work.
Finally, they returned at the garrison. Athos dismissed them all. "I will speak to Treville and then we can meet tomorrow."
"A warm bed." Porthos sighed. "I may never leave it."
"I agree. I cannot think about anything else," Aramis added.
D'Artagnan gave a small smile. "Will you share it?"
"Not tonight. Not tonight…"
They were all still sore, a leftover from the influenza.
"Tomorrow then," Athos wished them well.
Report delivered to Treville, who assured Athos his team would be allowed time to recover fully, Athos went to his rooms. Taking off his boots and doublet, he drank from the bottle of wine he acquired as he walked to his abode before he too succumbed to his bed and fell asleep.
It wasn't until early afternoon when Athos ventured to the garrison wondering if the others were waiting for him. However, it was Porthos who met him on the Rue Saint Severin.
"Feeling better?"
"Much," Athos answered. "Aramis? D'Artagnan?"
"Aramis was eating when I left the garrison and the lad was still in his room." Porthos kept a brisk pace, showing his health returning.
The older man slipped in on the opposite side of Aramis, who pushed a covered plate over to the other man. "Eat."
Porthos sat next to the sharpshooter, and they waited for Athos to finish. He glanced up to d'Artagnan's room.
"Athos, the boy was tired…" Aramis seemed to know his answer was not enough. They all stood and made their way to d'Artagnan's door. Porthos knocked. To Athos it was a loud sound, enough to awaken a soldier.
Aramis called out. There was still no answer. Athos's concern grew to the point where a well-placed shoulder opened the door. "D'Artagnan?"
The younger man was laying on top of a blanket, shivering with his cloak thrown over him, bunched up as he moved in his sleep.
"Where's his bed?" Aramis went to his knees, placed a hand on the young Musketeer's forehead.
"I can't believe it is still going on." Porthos went towards the door, figuring the other Musketeers had done this.
"All this time and he hadn't said anything?" Aramis gestured for Athos to help lift d'Artagnan while Porthos got the young man's feet. "It's the influenza. Take him to my room."
Once their charge was fully in Aramis's care, Porthos volunteered to rectify the situation with the new Musketeer's room. "I'll sort this out."
"I'm going with you." Athos joined him, not wanting to be in the medic's way, along with feeling useless against the sickness. "I thought it was just the boots," he admitted guiltily. Athos did not miss the fact d'Artagnan was in his stocking feet frequently.
"No harm letting the others have their fun, but he should have slept in a bed after the week spent with us," Porthos said as he sought out the usual ringleader, Joachim.
"Where's d'Artagnan's bed?" Porthos shoved the long haired man who took a step back in reaction.
"In his room? How the hell would I know?" Joachim started to walk away until Porthos reached out and grabbed the back of his doublet, pulling him back.
"It's not there. We know the game you like to play with the new recruits."
Joachim called out to a tall Musketeer leaning against one of the wooden poles. "Bras, did you not return the Gascon's bed?"
The other Musketeer shrugged his shoulders in response.
"Do you know where the bed is?" Athos frowned. Bras was a good Musketeer, unusually quiet.
Bras shrugged again in response.
"Just move a bed from another room." Joachim snorted. "Did the boy send you?"
Athos was trying to keep a grip on his temper as the long fuse was coming to an abrupt end. "D'Artagnan is ill, probably made worse that he didn't sleep in a bed. It all stops."
Joachim snickered before picking food from his teeth, spitting near Athos's feet. "We've all done our time."
"Not this long." Porthos gave another shove. "He keeps his boots and whatever else you have planned. He's a Musketeer."
"You sure about that?" Joachim challenged with a cocked eyebrow. "He's the patron saint of the laundresses with you three. I'm sure you keep him busy when you camp-cooking, firewood, the horses…." Joachim shook off Porthos's grip. "We'll stop, didn't mean for the boy to get sick, but you three aren't so perfect either."
Athos ignored Porthos's pointed glance towards him. It was never their intention to have d'Artagnan do the menial labor, but when they were newly commissioned and among seasoned Musketeers, they had done the same. However, five years ago there were more Musketeers being commissioned. "Find another bed for his room," Athos ordered Joachim as he turned to return to Aramis's room with Porthos following.
"We need to talk," Porthos said as he caught up to the older man.
As much as Athos hated to communicate, they needed to talk about d'Artagnan.
(())
When d'Artagnan was able to pry his eyes open after much effort he was greeted by a darkened room which added to his lethargy in his limbs. His chest and back were sore, he moved to get comfortable, not too much as he saw Porthos was by his bed.
As his eyes adjusted a little more he saw two beds had been brought in. The damp cloth fell off his forehead as he turned his head. This was not his room.
Last he remembered he fell asleep on the floor, probably explaining his sore back, with the thought to find his bed in the morning. The young Musketeer's head ached too much to continue thinking. Instead he accidently moaned, bringing Porthos's attention to him.
"D'Artagnan, you're awake." Porthos was quickly alert and his voice loud enough to bring the attention of the two other men.
"Have him drink," Aramis stated as he placed a hand on d'Artagnan's forehead. "Fever has gone down."
"How do you feel?" Athos asked crowding into the space as Porthos lifted a cup to his lips, which the young man drank from greedily.
D'Artagnan paused. "Tired. You are all well?"
Aramis nodded. "We are recovered and you will soon be. The worst is over. Sleep some more."
It was a good suggestion. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and fell asleep once more.
The next time he awoke it was daytime and the young Musketeer felt more alert. Looking around the room, only Aramis was there concentrating on the book in his hands. "Where are the others?"
The sharpshooter gave him a warm smile. "Talking to Treville and then returning with some food."
D'Artagnan nodded at the explanation. "How long?"
"This is the morning of the third day. You look better." Aramis helped him to sit up, placed an extra pillow behind his back then helped him to drink a brewed hot tea.
The younger man relaxed against the pillows. "Why am I not in my room?"
"Perhaps because you need a bed to sleep in," the medic questioned as he took the seat beside the bed, waiting for d'Artagnan to answer.
However, the answer was delayed as Porthos and Athos returned with a tray.
"Your bed situation has been rectified," Athos said as way of a greeting.
D'Artganan winced. They were obviously disappointed in him for being unable to tolerate the teasing of the Musketeers. "Oh. That's good."
"The Captain sends regards." Porthos set the tray down on the table.
Thankful for the change in topic, d'Artagnan grasped it. "No one else is ill?" After all Aramis had been concerned they contain the illness.
Athos glanced at the sharpshooter, remained standing." No, although Treville would like you to fully recuperate."
"Can I return to my room?" He knew what to expect with the duration of the influenza along with being surrounded by his own small comforts.
"Yes, now that there is a bed." Athos had not forgotten about that situation. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Why did you not tell us that the other Musketeers were playing tricks on you?"
Twisting a bit to find a bit more comfort against the pillows until d'Artagnan discovered there was no relief to be found. "It was of no concern, and I was informed this always happened to the newest in the regiment."
"Not this long." Porthos growled, passing some bread to Aramis who placed it in d'Artagnan's hands as he added,
"We have also been abusing your state."
D'Artagnan was confused. "You have?"
"The laundry, the duties at camp…made you do a brunt of the work." Porthos crosses his arms over the black leather doublet, closing of any disagreement.
Athos took a seat at the table. "That's going to change."
The look of puzzlement on his face caused Aramis to clarify, "We will share the work equally. Though Porthos is best at cooking."
"And you must think you are best at finding the game?" Porthos teased his friend.
"Well Athos is always saying that my silver tongue has to have some use…" Aramis quipped.
Exhaustion was starting to settle in once more allowing d'Artagnan to sink further into the pillows holding him up. "You may want to send Aramis to talk to Bridgette. She will worry when she sees me less."
"Bridgette?" Aramis's interest was piqued.
D'Artagnan forced a grin as he thought about Bridgette taking the sharpshooter to task. "She's quite familiar with all of your linen. She's the laundress."
"Is Bridgette attractive?"
Athos interrupted the discussion. "No more, d'Artagnan. If you feel you are being taken advantage of then please tell us."
"I will. Now can I go back to my room?" The young Musketeer whined, but Aramis would only release him once he ate some food. The full stomach lulled d'Artagnan back to sleep.
(())
Aramis agreed that d'Artagnan could recover in his room after he had been assured by the tricksters the bed had been returned and the room arranged accordingly.
Porthos opened the door and chuckled before the others entered behind him.
"That's not my bed."
The young Musketeer's mouth was open as the opulent four poster bed, the gold leaf applied as trim was too shiny for the usually nondescript standard garrison room. The size of the bed was larger than the one that it replaced, but thankfully the bed did not look like that of the king or queen.
"It looks like one of the beds from the palace," Aramis stepped around the divan to see if he could recognize the origins.
Porthos still had a grin as he sat on the bed, bounced on it a bit before gesturing for d'Artagnan to sit down. "They wouldn't. Would they?"
Athos frowned, then rubbed a hand over his forehead. "How?"
The sharpshooter vowed he would convince their leader to remain silent. There was no need to reveal this to Treville at his moment. "No matter. It is here now."
"And very comfortable." D'Artagnan lay across the feathered mattress, sinking in slightly.
It was a well-deserved ending.