Good heavens, I didn't mean to be away for over a year! Got a few drafts cooking, but real life is cutting into my fic-writing time... So rude. Thanks to Aini NuFire, whose recent version of this episode reminded me that I wanted to write these scenes. Part 2 coming soon.
The party that rode into the garrison was more than usually tired, filthy, and grim. Porthos was in the lead, followed by Athos riding with the wounded General De Foix, then came Aramis, whose eyes were fixed on De Foix's back as if he could keep him in the saddle by sheer force of will. Behind Aramis rode d'Artagnan with Lucie De Foix, and, bringing up the rear, the Comte de Rochefort. Before the horses had even stopped moving, Porthos swung a leg over his horse's neck and jumped down to help De Foix dismount, and Aramis did the same. Hurried footsteps were already coming down the stairs: Treville, looking worried as he took in the state of them.
Getting De Foix off a horse was a three-man operation: Porthos helped De Foix get his leg over the horse's rump so he could slide sideways, with Athos handing him down to Aramis, who caught him around the chest as best he could. De Foix cried out at the movement and Aramis braced him as he doubled over; if his wounds were not already bleeding from the day's ride, they had started now. Aramis was just glad they could finally stop torturing the poor man, heaving him into and out of the saddle like this. At least here at the garrison he could have a real bed, even if, as Aramis feared, he might never rise from it.
Treville was at the bottom of the stairs now, and as he reached for De Foix he cast a sharp look at Aramis and Porthos, a promise to get the whole story later. But it was impossible to mistake the light in Treville's eyes as he helped De Foix stand up straight, perused his face for a long moment, and said, "Welcome home, General."
As Aramis stripped off his gloves, he could hear the smile in De Foix's voice: "It's been too long, my friend."
The men embraced, but by chance Treville's hand met De Foix's back just where a Spanish musket ball had done the same, three days before. De Foix couldn't hold back a small sound, and Treville pulled his hand away bloody. "Get him inside," he ordered. He passed De Foix carefully to Porthos, but as soon as De Foix went to take a step, his knees gave out again. Porthos quickly caught him across the chest, and held him up, and waited. Aramis put his gloves in the back of his belt and took out his last arguably clean handkerchief, but before he could do more than fold it in half, De Foix straightened. Treville let go of his arm reluctantly so they could make their way up the stairs.
"I've got you," Porthos said, still bearing most of De Foix's weight. "Oi," he muttered to Aramis, over De Foix's bent back. "Quit fussing."
Aramis looked up from where he'd been dabbing at the bullet hole in De Foix's jacket. He caught Porthos' meaning, tucked his handkerchief in his belt, and took hold of De Foix's other elbow—but if this much blood was seeping out, what did the wound underneath look like? As they painstakingly mounted the stairs, he leaned forward to glance inside De Foix's coat. Blood on the front of his shirt marked the exit wound, too, but he couldn't tell if it was fresh: De Foix was wearing the shirt he'd been shot in.
Another step. Another. Aramis knew better than to offer to carry the General outright, but if the man didn't pass out somewhere on the staircase, it would be well past midday before they got to the top...
D'Artagnan and Lucie De Foix were just behind them, and Aramis turned back. "D'Artagnan," he said, "some warm water, please, and send one of the boys for Van Bremen if Treville hasn't already." D'Artagnan nodded and jogged back down to the courtyard, where Treville was in serious conversation with Athos and Rochefort. Lucie continued trailing after her brother as Aramis and Porthos helped him climb, stair by agonizing stair.
When they reached Treville's office, De Foix was shaking like an aspen leaf and the Musketeers' backs and shoulders burned with the effort of half-carrying him in such an awkward position. They shuffled inside, and Aramis and Porthos carried out a brief conversation in glances before making for Treville's desk. Shifting most of De Foix's weight back onto Porthos, Aramis freed one hand and reached for the chair.
Lucie stepped forward. "What? No! He should be in bed."
"We will get him into bed," Aramis promised. "Soon. I need to see about this bleeding first." He turned the chair around and they lowered De Foix gently, sweeping his long coattails out of the way and sitting him sideways. Aramis pulled De Foix's coat aside and confirmed what he had seen on the stairs: the linen at De Foix's back was stiff with three days' worth of on-and-off bleeding and wet through with the newest round. The bloodstain in front glistened, too.
Porthos kept a hand on De Foix's shoulder to make sure he stayed in the chair, while Aramis set his hat on Treville's desk and began to shed his weapons.
"Mademoiselle?" he said.
Lucie met his eyes.
"We're not going to do anything drastic now, but the wounds may be... unpleasant. You don't have to stay," he offered, knowing what the answer would be.
"I'll stay."
"Good." Aramis wrapped the belt around his rapier and dagger and set the bundle next to the desk. "You can help me get his coat off while Porthos raids the captain's brandy."
De Foix, leaning heavily to one side, perked up at the mention of brandy. Porthos saw and grinned, then turned his attention to the large cupboard behind the desk.
Aramis beckoned Lucie closer as he helped De Foix sit up straight, saying, "Hold his shoulders, here, under the coat. I don't want him to fall."
"He wouldn't fall if you'd let him lie down."
"Lucie..." De Foix's voice was barely more than a sigh, but it held plenty of brotherly exasperation.
She still looked mulish, and Aramis, pulling De Foix's good arm back to get the first sleeve off, bit his tongue on a sharp reply. "That's good," he said instead. "Just a moment... Here, you can lean again."
De Foix shifted slowly to press his shoulder against the high back of the chair. Lucie stepped closer so De Foix could rest his head against her hip, and she brushed the hair out of his face. Aramis felt his flare of temper dissipate.
As he slid the coat off De Foix's other arm, he said, "I am sorry, but it's easier to get at both wounds this way." He refrained from saying that he also wasn't sure how bloody he was allowed to get Treville's bed and coverlet; this wasn't the first time the captain's office had been used as a makeshift infirmary, but training injuries were usually more in the way of a turned ankle or knock on the head.
Porthos had found brandy and glasses and now handed De Foix a generous measure, which he took with thanks. Porthos kept a hand nearby in case he needed to catch the glass. Tremors made the golden-brown liquid dance as De Foix drank—but maybe that was Aramis' fault as he dragged the heavy chair out from behind Treville's desk so he could sit facing De Foix's wounded side.
It didn't take much tugging to free De Foix's shirt from his breeches; most of it had been turned into bandages on the road. Aramis knotted it up out of the way, took a small knife from his boot, and carefully worked at cutting through the layers of bandage, wishing he'd grabbed the scissors from his surgeon's kit and trying not to let his apprehension show.
Only minutes after De Foix had been shot, as they paused to regroup in the forest, Aramis had splashed the entry and exit wounds with spirits—even in disguise, having left behind his precious pauldron and box of twisted paper charges, Aramis kept that little bottle close at hand—and, with strips from his and the General's own shirts and a generous swatch of Lucie De Foix's chemise, bound the wounds tightly. There was no time to put real pressure on the bleeding before they had to be on horseback and away, and barely more was afforded even once they crossed the border into France. It had been rash and unnecessary for Rochefort to shoot their Spanish prisoner, but at least it saved Aramis having to argue with Athos for a few minutes to see to De Foix: while the others worked to tie the body over the back of Rochefort's horse, Aramis had gone into his recovered saddlebags for a jar of salve and a few yards of real bandage.
As they rode, it became clear that De Foix was not going to escape a battle with infection. Aramis hadn't been surprised when he grew feverish after a day or so—from the angle of the shot, the ball could well have nicked kidney or bowel as it traveled, and the exit wound was large and ragged, thanks to the soft lead musket ball. They were only round in the air, and as soon as they hit something, they deformed into strange shapes and ripped their way out of a body with a larger geometry than when they went in. Aramis had opted to leave the dressing in place while they traveled, not having the time or supplies to flush out the wound and pack it properly, and worried about De Foix losing too much blood if he went poking around. Now the motion of riding, or maybe that awkward dismount, had done the job for him.
Aramis laid his knife aside and peeled back the bloody linen to reveal a wound just under De Foix's ribs, easily three fingers across, a deep crater with ragged, swollen edges, thick with blood and other fluids but not quite scabbed over. At least it didn't smell of gangrene. A few drops of blood formed around the edges as Aramis watched, and he glanced up at Lucie in time to see her swallow hard and look away, horrified—but, to her credit, she didn't make a sound, or move back. De Foix looked down at the wound, then up at Aramis with a grim expression.
"It looks better than I feared," Aramis said honestly. He continued to unwind the motley assortment of linen. "There's a surgeon coming. He'll have a poultice for that, and better medicines for pain and fever."
"A surgeon?" De Foix said faintly. "All they want to do is cut your limbs off."
"I think you'll like this one, sir. Even Treville lets him come around."
"Hm." De Foix didn't look convinced.
Aramis freed the last of the bandages, then cursed under his breath and balled them up to catch the blood welling from the wound in De Foix's back. He wiped the blood away and tried to get a better look. It didn't seem foul or blackened, just a raised, angry-looking hole, smaller than the other—exactly the size of a musket ball. Aramis pressed gently around the wound, looking for a white flash of pus among the red and finding none. De Foix made small noises, and Aramis murmured apologies but did not stop.
Porthos had just handed De Foix another brandy when d'Artagnan nudged the door open with an elbow, his arms full of jug, basin, and a basket that held neatly wound bandages and a few other odds and ends. "Rochefort is causing some kind of trouble out there," he told them.
"I'm shocked," Porthos said dryly. He relieved d'Artagnan of the basin and basket, and together they set everything on the desk where Aramis could reach.
Aramis gratefully deposited the dirty old linens in the basin and accepted a clean folded bandage from Porthos. "Trouble?" he asked d'Artagnan.
"Whatever they're talking about, Athos and Treville look livid. Do you need my help here, or...?"
Aramis shook his head. "Find out what's going on."
"Right." With an encouraging smile for Lucie De Foix, d'Artagnan went out again.
"Well," Aramis said, "until trouble comes up the stairs, we'll just continue as we were." He looked down to see that the new bandage he held to De Foix's back was soaking through. "Let me get this bleeding stopped so you can lie down. I need to put some pressure on it." He layered a new cloth on top of the first, then scooted his chair closer so he could wrap one arm around De Foix's torso. "Try not to move," he said. "I don't want the other one breaking open." He waited for De Foix's nod before he pressed his palm firmly against the wound. De Foix started and cried out as he fought not to arch away from Aramis.
"Easy, General," Aramis said. "Deep breaths. I know it hurts."
De Foix's knuckles were white where he gripped the chair, and his breath stuttered. Eventually he said tightly, "It's not... so bad."
"You're reassuring me?" Aramis asked with a smile. With his arm around De Foix, Aramis could tell he was still tense and panting—and warm, too warm, but he would worry about that later. "Try to relax," he said.
But De Foix's breath hitched again, sounding strange—"Philippe!" Lucie cried—and his hand fell away from the chair into his lap as his head tipped forward.
"It's alright, it's alright," Aramis said quickly. He could feel the rise and fall of De Foix's chest under his arm, and in fact it was deeper and steadier than it had been moments before. But Lucie had one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
Aramis patted De Foix's chest, and Lucie's eyes flew to his fingers. "I can feel him breathing. He'll be back with us in a minute."
"Happens all the time," Porthos added. "You get wounded, push through the mission, as soon as you're safe it catches up with you a bit. We've all done it." He came around the desk, whirling a handkerchief in his hands. "Aramis did it six weeks ago. Went facedown in his soup."
"Please. Next to the soup," Aramis corrected, and was rewarded with a shaky smile from Lucie De Foix.
Porthos folded his handkerchief in half and laid the damp cloth, cooled by the air, on the back of De Foix's neck.
Aramis' arms were getting tired, one still putting pressure on the wound and the other, with only some help from the chair, keeping the unconscious De Foix upright. Come on, he thought, don't make a liar of me... He was relieved when he felt De Foix's breathing change again. "It's alright, General," he said quietly. "It's Aramis, we're safe at the Musketeer garrison."
De Foix didn't move, but he whispered something as he came around; Aramis only heard it because his ear was inches from De Foix's mouth. It sounded like he said, "...nothing to tell you."
Aramis' heart gave a sympathetic squeeze. He was rather an expert at waking up thinking he was somewhere else, usually somewhere worse, and the signs of De Foix's early treatment at the hands of the Spanish were all over his torso: yellowing bruises in the shape of fists, a scattering of lash-marks, and several long, thin burns.
"We're at the Musketeer garrison," Aramis said again. "In Paris."
De Foix stirred, lifted his head, took a deep, ragged breath. "Yes, of course." He glanced back at Aramis. "Thank you."
The door opened violently—Aramis felt De Foix flinch—and it would have slammed if Treville hadn't kept hold of the handle at the last moment. Trouble had apparently come up the stairs.
Treville's eyes flicked down to the ugly wound in De Foix's stomach, then up at Aramis.
"Alright for now," Aramis reported, "but he needs a surgeon."
"I'm fine," De Foix said at the same time.
"You are not," Lucie objected.
Treville still looked thunderous, prompting Porthos to ask, "Something wrong, Captain?"
"The Comte de Rochefort insists on being escorted to the Palace immediately."
Porthos rolled his eyes. "I'll go if—"
"By all of us," Treville went on, "including me." He looked at Aramis. "And you, too."
Porthos swore under his breath. "He hasn't changed a bit, has he? Do you want me to stall him?" He cracked his knuckles meaningfully.
Treville smiled grimly at the sound. "Athos and d'Artagnan are overseeing a change of horses and anything else they can think of. But the Comte is well within his rights."
Lucie de Foix spoke up. "Show me what to do, Aramis. We'll be alright until the surgeon gets here, if everyone has to go."
Treville turned to her, and his expression softened. "I have no doubt, Mademoiselle De—"
She rolled her eyes. "For goodness' sake, Treville."
"Lucie, then," Treville amended with a smile, causing Aramis and Porthos to exchange a speculative glance. "I know. But I would have liked to stay." Treville looked down at De Foix, then put a hand on his shoulder. "I must beg your pardon, De Foix. I have to deliver Rochefort to the King. When I get back, we'll reminisce."
De Foix didn't open his eyes, but he gave an amused hum and murmured, "The old days..."
Treville squeezed his shoulder gently. "That's right." He stood back, cleared his throat, and said, "Come on, Aramis."
"My cloak's at the cleaners," Aramis said sourly. He hated leaving a patient.
Treville fixed Aramis with a flat, angry stare. "Trust me," he said, "I don't like giving this order any more than you like hearing it." Despite the bitter words, Treville's tone brooked no argument.
Aramis looked away first. "Let me just get a bandage on this." He eased the pressure on De Foix's back slowly. "Porthos, do you have a— Thank you." He accepted another folded square from Porthos, which he laid over the larger wound, and then a long strip. He bound the wounds securely but not tightly, knotting the bandage in front. De Foix was quiet throughout these ministrations, leaning his head against Lucie's hip once more, his eyes closed. Being stoic, or on the verge of passing out again? Aramis was about to ask him if the bandages were too tight when a knock came at the door, and De Foix opened his eyes.
At Treville's "Come!" the door opened to reveal a small man in black with bright eyes, a neat gray beard, and a rucksack over one shoulder.
"Good afternoon," he said with a smile, stepping inside.
Treville clasped hands with the man, saying, "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"I was practically walking past the garrison when your cadet found me. What can I do?" The question was clearly for form's sake; he had taken in the bloody figure in the chair as soon as the door opened.
"General De Foix was shot a few days ago," Treville answered, before indicating that Aramis should continue.
"The ball went cleanly through his side, but the wounds are bleeding again, and he's feverish," Aramis explained, then added, "General De Foix, Mademoiselle De Foix, this is Jean Van Bremen, the surgeon I spoke of. Van Bremen, General De Foix and his sister."
"An honor," said the surgeon. De Foix nodded in return.
"Unfortunately," Treville said, "we have all been summoned to the Palace without delay. Whatever we have is at your disposal. We'll return as soon as we can."
"Of course, of course." Van Bremen set his rucksack on the floor, and though he spoke to Treville, his eyes were on De Foix. "Don't worry, I know where everything is by now."
Aramis wiped his hands on a damp cloth, settled his hat on his head, and picked up his weapons, trying not to let his face betray his feelings. He knew how hard it had been for Treville to order him to the palace, and the captain didn't deserve his resentment.
As they filed out of Treville's office, Aramis looked back over his shoulder to see Van Bremen leaning close to hear De Foix speak, his hand on the wounded man's forehead. Aramis touched his coat over the place his crucifix lay and said a brief prayer for the General—and, glancing down into the courtyard, he also asked God to help him resist punching Rochefort in his sour, scowling face.
To be continued...