Chapter 34

Athos didn't want to move. He sat on the narrow cot, hands clutched to the sides of the bed, elbows tight, and his head bowed. He focused on the repetition of his breathing. Slowly he inhaled and slowly he exhaled. He tried to focus his mind to move past the pain, but it didn't help. The tremors caused him to hitch his breathing and wait for them to pass. The uncontrollable muscle spasms that continued to course through him, his thighs, his back, stomach, chest, and his arms. He felt cold, but sweat from exhaustion continued to bead his brow, dampen the blouse at his collar, back, and beneath his arms. He wanted to sleep, to rest his head, forget about time, and allow his muscles to relax. But every nerve reminded him that time was relentless, and the more he tried to push past it, the longer it lasted, and the more he hurt.

Athos groaned in the back of his throat when sharp pains shot up his back and around his chest like the tentacles of tree roots. He then felt the sudden need to gasp for breath. None of it made sense. The poison that ran through his veins, through every nerve in his body, and along the length of his muscles continued to torment him. He'd never felt anything like it before.

He thought about Aramis and hoped he had a tincture that would resolve the issue, take away his discomfort. But then what? Athos looked up and saw nothing but a dark brown haze and a faint flicker of light. He couldn't tell if the light it was real or not. If it was a part of the blindness or an actual light in the distance. He hitched his breath once more. What good would he be to anyone? What purpose could he possibly serve? What use would anyone have for a blind man… a former Musketeer… a former comte…?

His days as a swordsman were over.

As was his time as a musketeer.

Athos clenched his jaw and fought the feelings of remorse, regret, and loss. He fought the need to bury himself and hide. He fought the need and desire to end it all. Athos didn't want to be a burden to anyone… not to his friends, his brothers. He didn't want to live a life impoverished, unwanted, and useless. Athos closed his eyes tightly, furrowed his brow, and exhaled slowly. He didn't want to live a wasted life… He had always appreciated solitude, but as he sat alone in the room with the sounds of the fire cracking, he knew he could not survive years of it. He needed the sounds of his friends and brothers as they foolishly displayed their talents, told stories better suited for taverns near the docks, or laughed and joked during trainings when life stood still.

Athos had abandoned his old life, only to find a new life amongst brothers who respected him, loved him, and treated him as one of their own. He gripped the edge of the bed tighter and felt the strain of his muscles as his body continued to betray him.

He heard the subtle shifting of fabric, soft padded soles on the ground, and the quiet shifting of items on a hard surface. "Who's there?" he asked. His voice was low, gruff, and unintentionally threatening.

"Eve, Monsieur Athos," she said. Her voice was smooth, delicate, but strong. "I've brought you some soup and fresh tea… It's an old family recipe my mother taught me."

"Thank you, but," he paused and then said, "I'm not hungry."

Eve winced as she pulled a glass bottle from her basket. "Perhaps the tea then? It tastes terrible, but the original recipe called for the eye of a squirrel and the milk of a horse." She forced a smile when Athos grimaced and looked away. "Do not worry, Monsieur, I have made changes to the recipe. It now has nothing but the herbs of the land and sweetened honey from wild hives." She poured some into the cup that had been placed on the stool next to the bed.

Eve pushed back several strands of hair and tucked them behind her ear. She gently grasped Athos' left shoulder. "Drink this," she watched him raise a shaking hand and she gently placed the cup within his grip. She helped him hold it steady as he brought it to his lips and drank. When he finished the cup, she took it from him, and then squeezed his shoulder. "You should lay back, try to get some rest. You will not heal if you don't."

Athos shifted, closed his eyes and thought about moving. He felt vulnerable, awkward, and while Eve stood beside him with a look of concern on her face — a look he couldn't see — Athos felt very much alone in his fight. He wanted to travel with Porthos but knew if he tried, he would only slow them down and potentially hinder his efforts. He gently rubbed his forehead, sleepily closed his eyes, and then gripped the edge of the bed tighter. He swayed slightly to his right and felt Eve slip a hand behind his neck.

"Lay back," she said.

Athos slowly relaxed his hands. He grimaced as stomach muscles protested. He allowed himself to lie back onto the bed. He felt the muscles along his right side stretch along the length of his hip, his back, and his neck, but he felt Eve shift the pillow beneath his head. She then slipped her hands beneath his booted calves and placed them on the bed and then covered him with a blanket.

"What… what did you give me?"

Eve quirked her lips into a gentle smile, adjusted the blanket, and watched his eyes drift close. "Something to help you sleep — you need to rest."

Whatever she had given him caused his muscles to tingle, the shaking of his hands to settle, and the tightness of his chest to relax. Athos slowly breathed, closed his eyes, and then complied with his body's need to sleep.

Eve rubbed her back, looked around the small space, and then tossed another log onto the fire. A red chicken looked at her from the entry. It cocked its head to the right as though inspecting the stranger on the bed, and then slowly waddled into the room. The hen pecked at the ground and ate at the bugs that frequented the room near the entry. It was warm, too warm, but Eve looked at the stranger and then glanced at his doublet and weapons belt that hung from the wall.

She grabbed her basket, chased the chicken from the room, and released the oil skin cloth and allowed it to fall back into place. The old cow looked lazily at her while chewing hay from her stanchion. The draft mare peered at her, and Athos' big black stallion looked over the edge and perked his ears forward when he spotted her.

"How is he?" Emry said and tossed a broken leather strap toward a bucket of leather pieces that needed repair.

"I gave him something to help him sleep."

Emry frowned, scratched his jaw, and turned to watch the branches of an oak tree sway beneath a sudden gust of wind. "I should have sent them on their way last night," he said and then looked at her when Eve made a move to walk past him. "He's a musketeer."

"They needed help, Emry. We couldn't turn them away," she said and looked toward the room. "He wouldn't have made it in his condition. Porthos will be back," she looked at her husband, "and he'll bring his friends."

"What if he doesn't get back in time?" Emry motioned with his chin toward the room. "He could still die — we don't know what kind of poison he was given." He pulled up his britches and then patted the front of his blouse that was already damp with sweat. "I don't have the money to pay those men, Eve. They said they would be back." He shook his head, looked at the ground, and then exhaled sharply. "We worked hard for this place." He looked at Eve when she placed her hand on his collar and gently touched his cheek. "This is our home… what if they do to us what they've done to so many others?"

"No matter what happens —"

"They may kill people, Eve," Emry said, and looked her in the eyes. "Women and children — What of our girls?" He looked toward his daughters.

Eve brushed her hair from her eyes and swept it behind her left ear. "We have children buried here, Emry… I can't leave…" She gently ran a hand over her belly and looked toward the room. "And what happens if we do? What then? Everything we have is here. Maybe the musketeer can help us —"

"Even if he survives — he can't see, Eve. The man cannot see — how is he going to help us?"

"His friends might help —"

"They're not here — not yet."

"Have faith, Emry." Her eyes watered and she looked at her husband desperately.

Emry brushed a strand of hair out Eve's face. He looked at his wife, the desperation in her eyes, the mother of their children, and a woman who trusted too much and worked too hard.

"What did you give him… the musketeer," Emry tilted his head toward the room, "to help him sleep?"

Eve swallowed and pursed her lips. "Belladonna," she said confidently.

Emry stepped back aghast and frowned. "Killing him will not help our situation."

Eve narrowed her eyes. "I've done no such thing, Emry," she said, with a hint of annoyance. She adjusted the basket that hung from her elbow and then watched her daughters finish their chores. "I gave him just a little, enough to force him to sleep. — The burdock root and comfrey will help clean his blood — if it's not too late."

Emry grasped his wife's arm harder than he intended, but looked her in the eyes and said sternly, "It is witchcraft… we are already targeted, Eve! Why?"

Eve swallowed and pulled her arm away with a forceful yank. "After fifteen years of marriage and you still don't trust me?" She stepped back, took a deep breath, and said, "I'll prepare dinner." She tucked her head and walked briskly to the house. "It's herbs, Emry. Just herbs."

"I do trust you," Emry said and watched her go and then looked at the room.

Eve turned and looked at him. "Then let me try and help him."