Chapter 26

Athos dug a trench with the heel of his right boot as the pain cursed through him. He choked back his groans and sudden gasps when his chest, stomach, arms, and back muscles tremored. They flexed, becoming nearly as hard as stone before slowly relaxing and then suddenly tightening again. Then, the process would start over: he would moan, scrape his heel along the ground, and pull his arms as close to his chest as he could. The ordeal was exhausting. He was used to hard work, spending hours in the saddle, hours on his feet hunting criminals or protecting the royal family, and the daily sparring with recruits and musketeers. But this, this was all of that forced into minutes not days.

Porthos, uncertain of what to do, had simply seated himself behind Athos, cradled his head and shoulders, and clutched his hands to Athos' arms. Cold to the touch, Porthos had built up the fire, placed his doublet over Athos, and held strong.

There had moments when everything stopped and exhaustion claimed him. When Athos stilled, evened out his breathing, and rested. It was then that Porthos allowed himself a moment to breathe, to close his eyes, and gave himself some time to restore himself. But then, he would be suddenly awoken with the movement of sand, dirt, and stones shifting and grinding together. When the pain Athos was feeling, despite his stoicism and efforts to hide it, was just too much to bear.

Porthos leaned forward, rested his forehead on the top of Athos' head, and prayed for Aramis' arrival. To find them and offer them the help they needed. Porthos couldn't do this alone, he wasn't sure what do to, how to help, and what was causing the pains. It wasn't an illness, Porthos was convinced of it. He had been around enough sickness throughout his life to recognize fevers, chills, body aches, and what sometimes followed: vomiting and diarrhea. Athos didn't suffer from any of it, except the chills and the sweating, but Porthos, as he watched muscles quiver and spasm, felt the reasons for both were tied to Athos' exhaustion as his body defied his needs and worked too hard to fight whatever it was that coursed through him.

Porthos thought about poison, but Athos hadn't eaten or had anything to drink. He thought about the fight and perhaps Athos' issue was the head wound and maybe something was happening inside him that couldn't be explained.

"I…" Athos said as the pains once again flared, "I can't see." He said in a rush that was laced with such fear that Porthos tightened his embrace around Athos' shoulders and arm. "I can't… I can't see." He wheezed and groaned in the back of his throat.

Porthos clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes closed, and held his breath. "I've got you, brother," he hissed. "Hang on, Athos… just 'ang on," he said. "You fight this… you fight this an' when Aramis finds us, 'e'll fix it… I know 'e'll fix it." He tried to sound confident, but his voice shook. He felt the uncontrollable spasms as Athos' muscles once again went rigid.

Athos groaned, and then wheezed as his chest struggled to expand, and he raised his knee and suddenly shoved his heel forward, shoving more sand, dirt, and leaves into a pile at the end of his extended leg.

"What… what good am I… if I can't see?"

Porthos closed his eyes, pressed his palm to Athos' forehead, and listened to him hitch his breath and shudder. "I've got you… We'll get through this… I promise you, brother, we'll get through this."

Helplessness was a fear Porthos was unfamiliar with. He was strong, unafraid, and determined on the battlefield and in life. But in this moment… his strength failed him. A beloved friend and brother was suffering before him, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Porthos swallowed, looked toward the flames, and then tilted his head when he heard unfamiliar noises. Faint at first, they grew louder. Horses. Shod hooves struck the ground and voices murmured. Porthos shifted his right foot and shoved rocks and dirt into the fire to extinguish the flames. Hot coals tumbled and fell onto the sand. Voices grew louder. On instinct, Porthos cupped his hand over Athos' mouth and held steady.

"Hush, Athos," Porthos whispered. He felt Athos' pause his movements and then grasp his wrist and hold tight.

Athos, fighting his misery and holding his breath in an effort to stay silent, clutched at Porthos' wrist and waited.

Porthos clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and held steady while Athos' grip on his injured arm intensified.

"I smell smoke," came a low voice from behind the trees.

Another voice mumbled something, and laughter followed.

"Can we go back to Allier?" a man with a high-pitched voice whined. "We've been ridin' for 'ours an' I doubt those fools are daft enough to stay in the area."

Shouts echoed, and several horses galloped toward them.

"The Nageotte family has just been attacked! Monsieur Nagoette is dead, as is his son!" a man shouted, and yanked his mount to a halt. His baritone voice echoed. "They've burned the church and the livery! You've been chasing the wrong men, you fools!" The man twisted in his saddle. "You've left the town unprotected, chasing musketeers while the real villains continue to get away!" The man shifted in his seat and his horse tossed his head and threatened to rear.

"How do you know they were musketeers — musketeers don't run!"

The man with the baritone voice shouted, "They do when there's a horde of fools chasing them! Get back to Allier, all of you, the fires are still burning!"

Several men shouted, a horse squealed, and was followed by the sounds of horses galloping away.

Porthos relaxed his grip and took a deep breath. "Athos?" he patted his cheek.

Athos head slipped to Porthos' right arm; his shallow breathing was matched with the hot coals that struggled to glow with the lack of flames.

"Athos?" Porthos said. He clenched and flexed his left hand several times and then tentatively pressed his fingers to Athos' neck. Porthos sighed in relief, shifted from beneath Athos' shoulders and slowly stood. He peered through the roots, across the river that glimmered in the moon's light, and noticed the clouds that moved slowly across the sky. It would be daylight soon, and the moon was only hours from disappearing all together. He inhaled and exhaled deeply several times to collect himself. He rubbed his left arm and then walked to the horses.

Both animals stood quietly with their hind legs cocked, heads lowered, and ears flickering forward and back. They looked up when Porthos approached. He bridled both, tightened their cinches, and then removed their hobbles. He led them toward the alcove, tied them to a root, and then collected his supplies. Porthos glanced at Athos, who had not moved, and then rubbed his face. It was a three-day ride to Nevers… three days before he would meet Aramis and d'Artagnan. Porthos exhaled, flexed his hand once again and felt the tightness of his muscles and the tendons that protested at the movement. The injury would take time to heal.

Porthos tied his saddlebag and his other supplies to Roger's saddle. He checked the linen that was folded around the gold lace and fabric. Making sure it was secure and well hidden beneath both bedrolls, he tied the leather strings and exhaled. Pink hues appeared on the horizon and committed to a new day. Puffed pillow-shaped clouds scattered across the sky and made promises they wouldn't keep. They had hinted of rain for days and delivered nothing. The dry lands, scorched from the heat of the sun, would once again thrive beneath the moisture of heavy rains if they would only arrive. Porthos looked toward the clouds and winced.

He turned and pushed back the roots of the tree and ducked when he entered the skeletons of the old oaks. Athos once again shifted his heel back and forth along the dirt. Primarily using his right leg, he moved his left and shivered against the chill only he could feel.

"Athos," Porthos said, and grasped his arm as he squatted. "Brother, I need to get you out of 'ere." He shifted behind Athos' shoulders, grimaced, and winced when he slipped his hands beneath Athos' arms and slowly maneuvered him into a seated position.

Athos parted his lips and gasped. His hands shook as he tried to push himself upward, overtaxed muscles quivered and then spasmed, which sent him falling back to the ground. He shifted to his right hip, took a deep breath, and groaned when Porthos lifted him. Porthos slipped an arm behind Athos' back, and pulled his arm over his shoulders. They shuffled through the exposed roots. Athos' boots scuffed the stones and then Porthos, using all his strength, helped Athos into the saddle. Athos leaned forward, threaded his fingers into the horse's mane, and closed his eyes. His headache persisted. Porthos' big horse stood still, felt the added weight shift, and craned his neck to look at Porthos when he grabbed Roger's reins. Porthos pulled Athos' left foot from the stirrup, gripped the pommel, and, using the height of a large boulder, leveraged himself behind the cantle. Porthos took a deep breath, adjusted the reins, and wrapped a powerful arm around Athos' waist and nudged his horse's sides. Athos leaned against him, swallowed several times, and fought through the pain that plagued him.

"Hang on, Athos… just hang on," he said and urged his horse forward. "We'll find Aramis… I promise… we'll find 'im.