Chapter 49

Memories wove like dreams, each layer exposed a little more of what Athos had spent years trying to forget. The death of his brother, the crimson blood that had saturated the floor, his lifeless body being carried from the away while his wife awaited her fate and cried out to be heard, understood, and reassured. There were more than two lives destroyed that day. The death of Thomas was the snapping a thread that held the de la Fere estate and family together. Gone were the nightly discussions of the lands, the mines, the horses and the lineage. Gone was the laughter of memories shared that at times brought tears to both brothers' eyes as they reminisced and shared stories from their own perspectives. Gone were the small moments when even disagreements were shared but eventually agreed upon.

Athos drank to forget, not to remember. He wanted the good memories flushed from his mind along with the bad. He had wanted to be numb.

But as he leaned against the tree, surrounded by darkness, and unaware of the surrounding threats, he surrendered to those memories that plagued his mind and ran wild through his heart.

He thought about his mother. She had been a good wife to his father, a caring and loving mother to both he and Thomas. She had been beautiful, forgiving, graceful, and soft. Her dark hair was naturally curly and hung about her shoulders in beautiful spirals. She walked with a slight limp after falling from a horse, and Athos remembered her wrapping her ankle when he was a boy. He remembered her slapping her knees and looking at him with a reassuring smile and then getting to her feet as though the pain was simply a state of mind. She put it behind her, never spoke about it, and never allowed it to hinder her duties to her sons or her husband.

"Athos!" The call of his name caused his heart to pause, the frantic call of his father as he ran across the fields, followed by several of the field workers.

Athos ran from the stables, the sleeves of his blouse swayed with his pump of his arms, and the collar of his blouse threatened to choke him. Thomas followed closely behind, losing a boot, when he tried to keep up. Both boys, ten and eleven, ran toward their mother, who had fallen on the steps of their home.

"I'm all right," she had said, and she raised a shaking hand go her head. Blood marred her fingers from the cut along her brow. "Please, Henri," she said and grasped her husband's arm when he slid to a stop in front of her. "I'm all right. I just mis-stepped."

"Oliver," Henri looked at his son, "ride for the doctor and hurry."

It was a flood of memories and emotions. His mother hadn't been all right, and she had died before Athos could return with the physician. The angry shouts of his father echoed throughout the house, the shattering of glass, the spilling of wine, and the wails of a man who had lost the love of his life.

"Athos!"

The persistent calls, the uncertainty of what to do, and the fear of not knowing what would happen next had cursed him. Athos remembered Thomas just sitting, staring at the door to his mother's room, waiting for her to exit, to help him through his studies, to brush her fingers through his hair. He had tried to hide his tears but failed.

Athos sat on the staircase, watching Thomas, the door, and listening to his father's desperation as he battled grief and anger. Guilt tore through him. He hadn't ridden hard enough; he hadn't run fast enough; he hadn't found the physician soon enough. It was a guilt that would follow him the rest of his life, hanging onto his coattails and tapping his shoulder when life turned brighter, when he dared think his past was behind him.

"Athos!"

The calls remained steady, the desperate pleas that reminded him of a time long ago, but forced him to question the caller. Athos watched the staircase shift, the walls morph, his brother disappear. He heard his name, but fought the confusion. His father had grown angry, bitter, and belligerent. He had locked himself away, finding solace in wine and memories, shutting out his sons and abandoning his duties. Their world changed after their mother died, and for two years, the boys ran the estate to the best of their abilities. And when the time came for Athos to pay the blood tax, he left his brother with the knowledge he would need to keep the lands and the mines operating.

"Athos!"

Athos grunted, raised a shaking hand to his head, and hissed at the pain behind his eyes. The memories faded and were exchanged for the darkness that persisted around him. He was weak, muscles craved and demanded rest, and his heart pounded against his chest.

"Athos," Porthos shouted once more. He slid to a stop near the tree and shoved the end of the torch between two roots to keep it upright. "Hey," he said quietly. "Athos." Porthos squatted before him, gently patted his cheek, and looked at him. Covered in dried mud, blood, and sweat. Porthos turned and watched Aramis quickly grab his bag and then join him.

"Athos?" Aramis said and knelt before him. He looked at Porthos and said, "Get a fire going and grab my bedroll." He shifted into the spot Porthos abandoned and watched Athos blink slowly several times. "Brother, can you see me?"

Athos reached for Aramis' arm and felt along the sleeve of his doublet until he hit the stiff leather of his pauldron. "No," he muttered. He curled his lips into a slight upward smile and said, "I didn't think you'd find me."

Porthos huffed. "Like you once said, brother, you're not shakin' us off that easy," he said and arranged the kindling and then used the torch to light the fire.

Athos closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. He felt Aramis feel around his head, hiss a few times, and then reach into his bag. The familiar sounds of leather, bottles, and medical instruments caused him to wince.

"Are you feeling any pain?" Aramis asked. He poured water into a cup and handed it to Athos, but paused when he realized Athos couldn't see it. "Drink this," he said and grasped Athos' hand and placed the cup within his grasp. "How long has it been since you've had anything to eat or drink?"

Athos held the cup, unsure of which question to answer first, and wondering if his stomach would rebel. He winced, exaggerating the lines around his eyes and his forehead. "I think I'm going to be sick." He rested his head against the tree and shifted his foot back and forth, digging a slight trench in the dirt.

"Do you have a headache?" Aramis asked, and grabbed the ginger he had obtained days earlier.

Athos kept his eyes closed and breathed through his nose. He wanted to lie down, to sleep, to allow his body the rest it craved. "Yes," he said and listened as something was cut and then dropped into the water.

"Sip it, Athos," Aramis said. "It will help with the nausea."

"Is it wine?"

Porthos chuckled and lowered himself to his haunches after laying out Aramis' bedroll. He rested his elbows on his knees, looked at Athos and then looked at Aramis, who frowned and did his best to examine the wound on Athos' temple and forehead.

"You said he was hit with a stool?"Aramis asked and gently cupped Athos chin and turned his head to examine the wounds that were healing.

Porthos nodded, wiped his mouth, and grasped Athos' bicep. "Drink, brother."

Athos swallowed and lifted the cup with a shaking hand. Water spilled over the lip and Aramis held his hand steady as Athos took several sips. The warmth of the ginger warmed his tongue, his throat, and his stomach, but the coolness of the water helped quench his thirst. He lowered the cup, and while he didn't look at them, instead he focused his attention downward as the water and ginger settled.

"We need to move you, Athos," Aramis said. "There's a bedroll ready for you, and you'll be more comfortable… I want to check you for injuries."

Athos rested his head back. "Of course you do."

Aramis looked at Porthos, rolled up his leather medical bag, and then shifted to Athos' right while Porthos moved to Athos' left. Together, they each took an arm and gently pulled Athos to his feet. Muscles shook and trembled and he took a step forward when suddenly his eyes rolled upward and both knees failed and he fell against Porthos.

"I've got him," Porthos said, and half dragged him toward the bedroll.

Aramis grabbed his bag and watched Porthos shove a blanket beneath Athos' head for comfort. "He's a mess," Aramis said. "He's weak, he's lost some weight," he pulled up Athos' blouse and checked his ribs. "Bruising, but I don't think any are broken… his side will need a few stitches"

"What about 'is 'ead?" Porthos asked. He tossed another log onto the fire and then took a seat across from Aramis as he continued his exam.

Aramis sat back on his haunches and wiped at his mouth with a cupped hand. "I don't know," he shrugged. "It's hard to tell in the dark… and I don't know enough… I just don't know enough."

Porthos sighed, grasped Athos' forearm, and said, "Maybe he just needs rest."

Aramis looked at Porthos, and then, in a tone laced with uncertainty, said, "Maybe."