Author's Note: Don't own anything...and also, I am no medical expert, so bear with me if it doesn't seem medically accurate. I was sort of imitating that scene you might end up remembering from episode 7.
Chapter Three
Constance leapt up from the seat she had been in and rushed out to the balcony at the sound of the commotion outside. Her hopes were fulfilled when she saw the Musketeers enter the garrison, but her heart immediately fell in the next moment when she saw D'artagnan in Porthos' arms. She watched him give a terrible sounding cough and then rushed down the steps toward him.
"Someone send for Lemay!" Treville shouted, right at Constance's heels.
Constance stopped short when she saw the state D'artagnan was in, and her face paled. "No…no, no, no…" she tried to speak more, but nothing else came out.
"He'll be alright, Constance," Athos told her, coming over and trying to distract her from the terrible sight as Porthos carried D'artagnan to the infirmary.
Constance hurried in after them, but stayed in the shadows, watching in fear at what she felt was her doing. She could have helped him. But oh, she was too cowardly to stand up to her own husband. Bitter tears found their way down her face, and her heart ached terribly. She could never forgive herself if D'artagnan died.
Porthos gently laid D'artagnan down onto one of the beds and held him by the shoulders as he gave another round of a hacking cough. When he had finally settled, D'artagnan was blinking back tears. It obviously hurt, as he began rubbing at his chest whilst clutching his side.
"You alright, mate?" Porthos asked him softly as he sat on the edge of the bed, his face looking pitifully at his friend.
"No, not really," D'artagnan admitted, which caused Porthos to wince at the admittance. It took a lot for D'artagnan to say he felt terrible.
Athos stood at the foot of the bed and looked at him. "Lemay is coming. He should be able to help change that."
"But for now, I'll see what I can do in the meantime," Aramis said, leaning over to look at the wound after Porthos pulled off D'artagnan's doublet, leaving his stained and open shirt. "I can at least clean the wound and even stitch it if he doesn't get here by then."
"Alright. I trust your stitching over anyone else's, Aramis," D'artagnan said, giving a small grin. The grin turned into a grimace and he once again began to cough. This time, however, he had a hard time stopping. He hunched over, his hand pressed to his mouth as he attempted to catch a breath through the insistent coughing. Aramis was immediately catching his other flailing hand and gripping it whilst he rubbed D'artagnan's back. Porthos was holding onto D'artagnan's left shoulder and leg tightly, trying to help ground him. Athos started to walk over on Aramis' side to give assistance as well. It was hard for them to see their youngest suffering so and to not be able to do much about it.
Finally, at last, D'artagnan gave one last almighty cough and stopped. He pulled his hand away and leaned back. Aramis kept a hand at the back of his neck to support him, and he glanced down at the younger man's hand. His heart nearly stood still when he saw the crimson staining his palm. A little bit of red also seeped from the corner of his mouth.
"Oh no," Porthos muttered, having noticed it too.
"We need Lemay now," Athos said, his voice betraying his worry and fear.
Aramis stood quickly. "No, we don't have time. I have to clean and stitch this quickly, right now, and then I will see what I can do to stop the bleeding from inside."
"Aramis," Porthos said, raising his gaze to look at his friend. "When a man starts to cough up blood…" He trailed off.
"Don't, Porthos," Aramis said, giving him a stern look. "Just don't. There's always a chance."
"D'artagnan's not dying. Not today," Athos stated, matter-of-factly.
"Athos," Aramis turned. "Help Porthos support him. I need to get supplies."
"Be quick," Porthos said.
Aramis hurried off while Athos and Porthos helped D'artagnan stay in a comfortable position between them. He had been keeping his eyes closed since he had stopped coughing, and Athos was a little worried he had fallen asleep. "D'artagnan?" he asked quietly.
D'artagnan moved his head towards him and opened his eyes slightly. "Hm," was all he could get out in reply.
"It's alright, you don't need to talk. Just try to stay awake until Aramis is through with everything," Athos kept his hand at the back of D'artagnan's head, keeping it lifted up slightly, as laying back completely was seeming to be difficult for him. He reached out and wiped away the bit of blood that had dripped down D'artagnan's chin. He had never been so afraid for one of his brothers.
Aramis was soon back, and he hurried over to begin cleaning the wound. D'artagnan hardly stirred until the spirits were poured over it, and he suddenly reacted with a loud cry, arching back and nearly causing Porthos and Athos to lose the feeling in their hands as he gripped them tightly. After a few moments, he actually cracked an eye open and thought he needed to apologize. "Sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize," Porthos said quickly. "Didn't hurt us a bit. You're the one injured."
"I'm just gonna stitch it up now," Aramis said. "It shouldn't take much time. The cut is not that long. Just…too deep." He threaded a needle and prepared to start.
"Tell…tell Cons…" D'artagnan slurred his quiet words, overcome by pain and exhaustion.
"Tell Constance what?" Porthos asked, leaning closer to hear.
"Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I…" D'artagnan stopped and winced as Aramis started the first stitch.
"Tell her yourself. She's right over there by the door," Athos said gently.
"She is?" D'artagnan looked confused. "How did she get away?"
"Get away? From who? Her husband?" Aramis asked.
D'artagnan nodded. "He was abusing her," he mumbled.
Athos turned to see Constance was still standing far back, gazing at them all with unshed tears. He beckoned with his head for her to come over. She hesitated, and then made her way closer, biting her lip. D'artagnan opened his eyes and turned to look at her.
"Cons…Constance," he said hoarsely.
"D'artagnan. I just ran off. He's probably proper mad at me. I'll go home when I feel like he's maybe cooled off a little."
"Don't…don't go back," D'artagnan whispered. "He'll only hurt you again."
"I have no choice," Constance said quietly, looking down. She sniffed and looked back at him. "Oh, D'artagnan. I'm so, so sorry! I should have helped you and ignored him! If only I'd known how bad off you really were –"
"Stop, Constance. I don't want to hear you blame yourself again, please," D'artagnan said, his voice a little stronger as he spoke the words with passion, lifting his head up higher. "I am the one who should say sorry. I failed to be honest with how bad it was. At least, I did think I could handle it. But I was wrong. I didn't let you try."
Constance sighed. "Still," she said.
"Still," D'artagnan echoed, and then added. "I do love you. Just hold on to that…when it…when it gets hard." He seemed to realize just then that he could not keep his head up on his own any longer, and he let it fall back. Athos caught it carefully.
"Lie still," Aramis reprimanded softly. He was finishing the last two stitches.
D'artagnan's breath hitched, and he looked as though he were trying to not cough again.
"Where in the world is Lemay?" Porthos grumbled. "Not that you're doing a bad job, Aramis."
"Thank you, Porthos," Aramis replied. He tied off the last of the thread and then rolled out the bandages he had brought.
As if on cue, the door to the infirmary opened, and in rushed Lemay, with Treville close behind.
"Forgive me," Lemay said, breathless, as he hurried to stand beside Aramis. "I was aiding the king when I was called for. I did not mean to take so long."
"It's alright, I have already cleaned and stitched his wound," Aramis said, gesturing to D'artagnan.
Lemay nodded. "I see. Good work. It looks alright; the bleeding has been stopped. Any signs of infection or fever?" he asked Aramis, as he looked carefully at the wound himself. He assisted Aramis in placing and wrapping the bandages on the wound and around D'artagnan's torso, with the aid of Athos and Porthos lifting him up a little.
"No, thankfully," Aramis replied. "But there is a graver concern we have. D'artagnan's been coughing up blood. We fear something is wrong with his lung, perhaps, with where the dagger wound is."
Lemay's face took on a more serious look as he looked at D'artagnan's pale pallor and bloodied hand while the young man was settled back into his earlier position. "How much blood did he expel?"
"A small amount," Aramis said, wiping some sweat off his brow.
"Alright," Lemay said with a nod. "Then we –"
He was cut off very abruptly by D'artagnan losing his battle with the cough he had been holding back all this time. He bent forward so far that his head almost touched his right knee that he raised up, curling into himself as he struggled between the harsh and painful coughing. His hair almost obscured his face from view, but they could still see the silent tears. Hands were all over him, trying to steady him, but all anyone could do was wait it out, watching in agony as he suffered. Constance was so overwhelmed with terror at the sight of D'artagnan going through such torture, that she turned and fled the room in tears. Treville, who had been silently watching the whole ordeal, rushed after her.
D'artagnan, at last, ceased his coughing, but he slumped limply forward, as if his strings were cut. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Lemay all scrambled to catch and lean the now unconscious Musketeer on his back. Although D'artagnan's head had lolled onto the pillow, Athos kept a hand behind it as if he were afraid to let go. Blood had leaked out of D'artagnan's mouth in a vein-like pattern down his chin and onto his neck.
Aramis jumped forward and reached out a hand to place under D'artagnan's jaw to check if their brother was still with them. He let out a breath of relief and he lowered his head for a moment. Lemay had picked up D'artagnan's wrist to check for signs of life, and looked equally relieved.
"His left lung was undoubtedly pierced and is filling up with blood," Lemay began.
"Tell us something we don't know," Athos said.
Porthos spoke before the physician could continue. "That is the problem. What's the solution?"
"I…" Lemay trailed off, and then met the gazes of the men surrounding the wounded Musketeer. "I have a thought…that should work. In theory," he said, sounding a little uncertain.
"In theory?" Aramis asked, not seeming very happy with the low confidence that Lemay was portraying.
"I'll need to make a second piercing into his lung to drain the blood from it. At least, I am very certain it will do the job. After that…I'm afraid there's not much more I can do for him. I'm sorry," Lemay said.
"We don't need an apology, as he will not be dying on our watch. So just do whatever you think will save him," Aramis told him. "What do you need?"
Lemay nodded. "Alright. I'll need a basin to catch the blood, and I have something to cut with," he grabbed a scalpel. "And I have this tube." He immediately began instructing Aramis where to hold the basin, and then had Athos and Porthos move D'artagnan to where he was closer to the edge of the bed. He also told them to hold the younger man down tightly.
After pulling away D'artagnan's shirt further to reach his left side, Lemay found where he seemed to be certain was the optimal place to make an incision. To no one's surprise, D'artagnan awoke with a gasp, which turned into a cry of intense pain. He fought against Athos and Porthos as they held him down, yanking his head backward and forward, repeatedly. Thankfully, only a pillow was behind his head, and he eventually began to merely moan, choking a little as he tried to breathe with a terribly raspy sound. A few stray tears slipped out of the corners of his closed eyes. Lemay soon inserted the tube, and the blood began to drain out almost straight away into the basin, causing D'artagnan's difficult breathing to finally even out to deep, ragged breaths. Porthos wiped the sweat from D'artagnan's brow, and he, along with the three others in the room, let out a small relieved sigh.
"Well done, Lemay," Aramis praised the physician.
"I only pray it does not worsen or backfire," Lemay said.
"We will make sure that it doesn't," Athos stated, his tone dead set serious.
Lemay nodded. "Then I dare say that he will most certainly make a full recovery, so long as there is no fever or infection that causes any problems."
"Thank you, Lemay," Porthos said. "We are indebted to you."
Lemay left not long after this, after waiting for the tube to fully drain and then removing it and bandaging up the second small wound. Aramis finally took a moment to track down Constance and Treville, knowing they should be informed of D'artagnan's inevitable recovery. He found them near the stables, where Treville stood, consoling a weeping Constance. Aramis slowly approached, catching Treville's questioning eyes.
"He's going to make it," Aramis said. He was sure he saw Treville's shoulders sag in relief, and he gave Aramis a nod. Aramis came a little closer, and cleared his throat. "Constance?" he said softly.
Constance pulled away from Treville and looked at Aramis, who winced at the sight of her red rimmed eyes and still very bruised jaw, which stood out in stark contrast to her beautiful features.
Aramis made sure he had full eye contact with her before speaking again. "D'artagnan is going to be alright," he said.
Constance's eyes widened and she ran straight past Aramis toward the infirmary.
"She blames herself," Treville said.
Aramis sighed. "She is not to blame in any way."
"I believe the only one she might listen to is D'artagnan," Treville replied.
Constance had run into the room where D'artagnan lay, still unconscious, and she observed how Athos finished placing a clean shirt on him with Porthos' aid. Porthos then finished cleaning off the blood from D'artagnan's mouth and neck. Both men looked up when she took a few steps closer.
"Constance," Porthos said first. "He's gonna be alright."
Constance nodded. She almost did not trust herself to get any closer. She gazed at D'artagnan's face. He was not awake, but his brows were furrowed as if he were consciously confused, worried, or in pain. Constance took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping they were right – that he would live after all.
Note: Alright, a little more to this one.