Chapter 32

Porthos shifted on the cot, and then slowly swung his legs over the side. Stocking feet hit the dirt floor, and he looked across the room at Athos, whose condition had not improved. Laying quietly on his right side, he had shifted the blankets and tossed them during the night and they now lay gathered near his shoulders and waist. Porthos looked toward Athos' booted feet and silently cursed himself. So consumed with Athos' condition, he had failed in his most basic of needs. Porthos rubbed his face and then raised his arms to his sides when an uncontrollable need to stretch overtook him. He winced, groaned, and fought the stretch as muscles too injured to be further abused protested. His back, shoulders, and neck popped. His arm still ached, and he could feel the tightness of his fingers as the swelling persisted.

Slowly, Porthos stood, took a seat on the stool next to Athos' cot, and then carefully pressed a hand to his neck. A strong pulse met his fingers, and he closed his eyes in thanks. "Athos?"

Athos hitched his breathing and then slowly exhaled. He didn't want to move, fearing the repercussions of such an action. The quieter he lay, the fewer pains coursed through him, and his muscles only threatened to tremor and tighten. It had taken him hours to finally get comfortable after he had awoken during the night. The shaking, and the spasms of his chest, stomach, and back muscles continued. The chill that had cursed him had lessened with the aid of the blankets around his shoulders and the warmth of the fire.

"Don't," Athos said softly, "make me move."

Porthos frowned and twisted his mouth as he pulled at his blouse. Sweat circled his collar and his back where he had slept. He was hot; the room was stuffy, and the hot coals glowed as they yearned for additional fuel. The window to his left allowed the brightness of the early morning sky to illuminate the room. Chickens squawked, and the rooster crowed. Porthos turned and listened when a gate latch squeaked, and the sounds of soft humming drifted throughout the barn. He stood, pulled back the oilskin drape and watched Eve tie the old cow to a post, dump grain into a bin, and then slip a bucket beneath the cow's udder. It was a duty she had done for years, and her movements were as habitual as the cow's.

Milk splattered against the bottom of the bucket, pieces of grain fell from the cow's mouth as she chewed, and Eve continued to hum. Two cats, a ginger tabby, and a long-haired black cat, took their usual positions near Eve's stool and waited until she squirted milk at them from the old cow's teat. She giggled and quickly resumed her milking whiled they licked and cleaned their faces.

Puddles of mud reflected the sky and peppered the yard between the house and the barn. The two bay horses that had greeted Porthos the night before stood tied to the fence while Emry harnessed them. The dog remained on the porch looking out and waited patiently.

Two young women, both beautiful with long, cinnamon colored hair pinned at the top of their heads and curled along the sides of their faces, worked in the garden collecting turnips, carrots, cabbages, and beets and they picked fruit from the apple and pear trees. They giggled and laughed while partaking of their bounty before placing the rest in their baskets.

Porthos turned, looked again at Athos, and sighed. He winced when Athos grimaced, tightened his jaw, clenched his fists around the fabric of the blankets, and then breathed through parted lips. Porthos allowed the oilskin to fall back into place over the door and returned to the cot. He reached between his legs, pulled the stool forward, and took a seat. With his elbows on his knees, he looked at Athos and then gently grasped his shoulder.

"Athos?" Porthos reached for the brewed tea and poured a small amount into the hammered pewter cup from the stoneware pitcher. "Brother?"

Athos blinked several times and then, with a cringe, raised a shaking hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes. The moment he shifted he felt muscles protest. A heavy ache and muscle contractions soon followed. "Is it still dark?" he asked and closed his eyes to control his breathing.

Porthos swallowed painfully, and regrettably said, "No… it's mornin'." He looked out the window above the bed and the early morning light's rays that shifted across the dirt floor.

Athos flexed his jaw and swallowed. He suddenly pressed his head against the pillow and hitched his breath. "It… won't stop." Agony was written across his face, within the crease of his brow, the tightness of his jaw, and the parting of his lips.

Porthos squeezed Athos' shoulder. "Ride it out."

Athos hissed and then moaned in the back of his throat. He felt like he was dying… slowly, unmercifully, and in agony. He wanted to sleep… but couldn't. He wanted to be still… but couldn't. He wanted to breathe normally… but couldn't. Athos squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his hand around the seam of the pillow.

"You…" Athos said, and then suddenly took several, sudden quick intakes of breath, "find Aramis."

Porthos swallowed, looked out the window, and took a long drawn-out breath. Leaving a brother had never been an option, not with Aramis, d'Artagnan, or Athos. The thought caused his stomach to turn. But, as he looked at Athos, watched him struggle to maintain his composure, and fight whatever it was that ran through his veins, Porthos knew Athos no longer had the strength to travel. He stood suddenly, tossed another log onto the fire, and then encouraged the wood to burn. The coals glowed while he used the poker to shift them closer to the wood and then watched the bark suddenly ignited. Porthos pursed his lips, flared his nostrils, and then dusted his thighs when he stood. He then retook his seat as he cleared his throat.

"Only on one condition." Porthos rubbed his jaw, felt the stubble beneath his fingers, and the tightening of his jaw muscles. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave Athos in the condition he was in. Emry and Eve were nice enough people but leaving Athos alone in a barn to fight for his life was nearly unbearable. It made him physically ill thinking about it. Who would keep the fire going? Who would make sure Athos ate and drank? Who would make sure he didn't push himself when he frequently did so? Who would sit beside him as his body continued to betray him and his pain intensified?

Athos forced his lips slightly upward. It was a gallant effort to ease Porthos' discomfort. "Find Aramis, Porthos."

The desperation in Athos' request was enough to cause Porthos to hold his breath. He flared his nostrils once more, swallowed several times, and said, "I'll find 'im… you just promise me you won't give up…" He gripped Athos' shoulder tighter. "Promise me you'll fight this with every last bit of strength you 'ave." He wiped his face with his right hand and reached again for the cup. "I will not leave 'ere only to return an' find you…" he hitched his breath and tightened his jaw, "gone." Porthos closed his eyes. "I couldn't live with myself…"

Athos, with his eyes closed, nodded just enough to let Porthos know he was listening. "I'll fight…" he said. "You find Aramis."

Porthos looked at the cup and the tea. "I'm not leavin' until you drink this — it might help."

Athos choked back a chuckle and then suddenly hissed. "Shit," he muttered. He wiped again at his face and then took in a jagged breath.

Porthos waited for Athos to relax, and then gently, he slipped his right hand beneath Athos' left shoulder, listened to him groan, and then slowly helped him sit upright. Athos shifted his booted feet to the ground and breathed slowly while he battled the discomfort. He continued to clutch at the blanket that had fallen onto his lap. He reached out suddenly and grasped Porthos' arm when he felt him cup the back of his neck.

"Drink this…" Porthos gently placed the cup into Athos' left hand and helped him hold it steady as he brought it to his lips.

Athos sipped slowly. Despite the shaking of his hand, he lowered the cup to his thigh when Porthos shifted. Athos could hear booted feet across the dirt floor of the room. He felt the cup lifted from his hands, heard the pouring of liquid into the confines of pewter, and then it was quickly returned.

"One more, Athos," Porthos said. "Eve said it might help."

Athos nodded and asked, "Will it help my eyes?" He knew the answer before he asked… but there was always hope.

"She said it would 'elp clean your blood, maybe ease the pain a bit."

Athos lifted the cup to his lips and then turned his head in the direction of a soft knock.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Eve said. With a bucket of milk in her left hand, she held back the oilskin cloth with the other. "Would you like me to bring you something to eat? Eggs and," she looked at Athos and then Porthos, "if my daughters have not eaten all the pears, a few of those as well."

Porthos nodded. "Thank you."

Eve looked once more at them both and noticed Porthos' arm. "I have something that will help with the swelling." She slowly lowered the drape and walked back to the house.

Porthos retook his seat on the stool. "How do you feel?"

"Don't… ask me that, Porthos," Athos said. He swallowed, lifted the cup to his lips and sipped again.

Porthos rubbed his face. "I'm going to find Aramis… It should only take me a couple of days. Don't leave 'ere — an' if you get your sight back — stay 'ere until we return. You're in no condition to be out an' those criminals are terrorizin' this community. You don't want you to get caught up in that."

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, still feeling the congestion behind his eyes. "I'll do what I am ordered."

Porthos chuckled, affectionately gripped Athos' shoulder, and squeezed. "Thank you." He stood, looked at Athos' doublet that hung from a nail in the wall and the weapons belt that hung beside it. The hilt of the sword caught his attention, and he winced as he looked at the blade. "I'll be back."

"I know you will." Athos lifted the cup and then frowned when he was unsure of where to place it. He sighed in relief when Porthos took it from him and rested it on the stool next to the bed.

Porthos grasped Athos' hand and guided it to the cup and pitcher. "There's a window above the bed, the fire 'as been stoked — I know you can feel the 'eat — an' your supplies are to your right, hangin' from the wall."

"I'll be fine, Porthos," Athos said. He lowered his hand, gripped the edge of the mattress when the pain circulated once more, but he fought it and tried to disguise it.

Porthos saw through it.

Porthos wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand and then looked out the window. He looked at the clear blue sky, the puffy white clouds that had followed the storm from the night before, and the birds that flew in flocks. He stepped forward, grasped Athos' behind his neck, and gently squeezed.

"Ride hard," Athos said. He placed his hand over Porthos' wrist.

"You know I will," Porthos said. He released his hold, grabbed his doublet and weapons belt, and then walked toward the exit and pulled back the drape. He looked once more at Athos, who remained seated on the cot, shoulders tight, hands clutched to the edge of the bed on either side of his thighs. "Stay strong, brother," he said and then left the room.