A/N Lots of hurt/comfort this chapter!
Chapter 4
"He'll be fine." Porthos said, hooking an arm around Aramis a little more tightly. "He'll be back in two days. And if he's not, we'll go hunting."
Athos watched Aramis fade a little against Porthos's side, and tried to ignore the building guilt in his chest. "We have guard duty at the palace tomorrow." He said, quietly. "And d'Artagnan will be due back the following day."
Aramis cast him a rather dark look. "And before he gets back," he stepped towards Athos, slipping free of Porthos's arm. "You're going to tell us what's going on."
Athos scanned Aramis's face, but there was no give. "I must speak with d'Artagnan, before I tell you both." He lowered his voice carefully.
"We could ride out," Porthos suggested, coming to hover at Aramis's side again. "Meet 'im on the road."
"A sensible suggestion." Athos agreed, dipping his chin. He stared at the dirt, disturbed by d'Artagnan's new mount. "This is news to be heard away from Paris."
Aramis and Porthos traded grim looks, and then the sharp shooter turned. "Is he in danger?"
"He has been adequately warned." Athos deflected, smoothly.
Aramis's jaw clenched with worry, and Porthos stepped closer still to drape an arm around his shoulders. He cast the empty gate a rather longing look. "You sure we can't go after 'im?"
"No." Athos shook his head, with finality. "We cannot go after him." Although every instinct in him was screaming to do exactly that.
But d'Artagnan had clearly understood the undertone of the meeting upstairs. Athos had recognised his irritation, his concern that he wasn't being told the full story. The hurt, too, that Athos was one of the ones keeping him in the dark.
"He'll be fine." Athos repeated, reminding himself as much as the others.
Two days later, Athos was silently cursing his words.
He was relaxed back against a tree, sharpening his small knife. They were hidden just within the eaves of the last copse of trees, before Paris. The road d'Artagnan should arrive on lay open and empty in front of them, and two hours away to their right, sat the sprawling expanse of their city.
"He's late." Aramis muttered again, still pacing back by the horses, hidden several metres further back beneath the trees.
"We know." Porthos said soothingly. He stood to Athos's right, leaning back against an old oak. His voice was calm, but his eyes gave him away. Athos traded a glance with him, and could read the anxiety there that matched Aramis's. "But only by a couple of hours. Anything might've delayed him."
"When do we follow?" Aramis had come to a stop, the noise of his footsteps through the leaves dying away.
"We'll give him another hour." Athos glanced at the sun, reluctant to tire their horses for no reason, without knowing what news d'Artagnan might bring back with him. "An hour. And then we'll follow."
"And you still won't tell us what this has been about, while we wait?" Aramis's tone was sharp.
"D'Artagnan deserves to hear the tale first."
"Rider."
Athos glanced up sharply from where he'd pretending to doze, at Aramis's low call. He'd climbed into the branches of the oak that Athos was sat below. Several acorns had landed with great accuracy on his hat since then, but Athos had not argued. However Aramis coped with inactivity and concern, was fine.
"Is it 'im?" Porthos appeared, squinting into the distance.
"Tall black horse, could be." There was the sound of a branch snapping, and then Athos rolled to his feet and out of the way. Aramis landed exactly where he'd been sat, a few moments later. "Thank you."
All three of them stepped towards the edge of the forest, watching the rider approach.
"Must have news," Porthos said. "To be riding so quick."
As the horse grew closer, it was easier to see how quickly it was moving. A rapid canter, and- Athos exhaled in quiet relief, a blue cloaked rider.
"Something's wrong."
Athos's heart stuttered in his chest, at the sheer certainty in Aramis's voice. "What?"
"He's not riding like himself." Aramis stepped out of the wood, onto the road, and raised a hand.
The rider, several hundred metres away, did not reciprocate.
And now that he was rapidly drawing closer, Athos could see what had so concerned Aramis. D'Artagnan was one of the finest riders in the regiment, yet today, rolled loosely back and forth in the saddle.
Porthos cursed from behind him, and then Athos gestured. "Fetch one of the horses!" He barked, hurrying out onto the road and raising his hands. "D'Artagnan!" He called, but the rider was nearly limp in place, slumping over the tall stallion's neck.
"Mierda-"
And then Porthos was there, bringing Aramis's pretty mare at a run. It was a clever move.
Beauty had earned her name, she was one of the finest Friesans in the Garrison. And, much like her rider, she was known to enjoy the attentions, if only at a distance, of certain stallions.
She neighed, ears pricked with interest as Porthos kept a hold of her rein.
A hundred feet away, Rogue slowed to a sharp staccato trot, head flicking up more and snorting loudly.
"D'Artagnan," Athos called again, voice calm so as not to spook Rogue.
"Is he conscious?" Porthos asked, squinting against the late morning sun.
"Maybe just." Aramis stepped out, hands stretched out wide. "Woah, steady Rogue," he called. And as he moved forward, he kept up a steady stream of reassurance, and Beauty added her own efforts with a welcoming nicker.
The stallion slowed again, coming to a sharp stop half a dozen steps away. His eyes were wide, rolling fearfully.
"Steady, steady." Aramis hummed a little. "D'Artagnan?" He called softly.
"Here." Came a mumbled answer. "'M here."
Aramis's shoulders dropped slightly from where they'd been sat around his ears. "D'Artagnan, can you calm Rogue?"
There was silence, and then a low mumble, in Gascon. The stallion paid little heed, but Aramis risked another few steps forward.
"Careful." Porthos grumbled, eyeing the stallion distrustfully.
"Can you dismount?" Aramis asked, and at the uncertain silence, braved moving forward to catch Rogue's reins. The tall stallion pinned his ears immediately and snapped, teeth closing viciously an inch from Aramis's fingers, a sharp warning.
"Mierda-" Aramis swore, flinching, and Athos quietly revisited the idea of ensuring Rogue was sent from the regiment.
"Careful." Porthos warned again.
"I'm trying to help." Their sharpshooter snapped at the stallion, who finally paused, and Aramis took his chance, and he had a hand on d'Artagnan. "Dismount, my friend, let me help you-"
They retreated into the trees, Porthos releasing Beauty into Athos's care to help keep d'Artagnan on his feet with a firm arm around his waist. His head was near limp against his chest, but his eyes were open, even if they weren't focusing well. His skin, usually a rich warm colour, was pallid.
"Right shoulder, Aramis." Porthos had evidently spotted the blood trail from the hole in d'Artagnan's jerkin, and Aramis nodded anxiously from where he hovered.
"I know." He tossed Rogue's reins at a blank-faced Athos, and the stallion abruptly fell into line when Beauty squealed a warning. "I'm ever more fond of my own mount, these days." Aramis muttered, and swung his healing pack off Beauty's back. "Thank you, my girl."
He hurried after Porthos to the small campsite they'd half set up, cursing under his breath that they hadn't set up a fire. "Get a fire going." He ordered, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Athos hurriedly tying the horses and disappearing into the wood.
Porthos eased d'Artagnan down gently on the bedroll Aramis tossed out beneath him, but they were both close enough to hear the quiet hiss of pain.
"Easy." Porthos coached, and cupped d'Artagnan's pale face. "Anyone following you?" It was a good question, one Aramis might have forgotten to ask. He itched to begin, but Porthos was right, they needed to know.
"d'Artagnan?" Aramis prompted, squeezing his limp left hand.
D'Artagnan blinked languidly, eyes moving lazily between them, before his gaze became even more distant. He was looking at the trees above their heads, attention no doubt caught by the branches moving gently in the wood.
"D'Artagnan." Porthos became more firm, tapping his jaw gently, but with enough force to gain his attention. "Anyone following?"
D'Artagnan blinked his eyes open with obvious effort, and Aramis agonised over the clear signs of significant blood loss. "No." He mumbled, eventually. "Dead." His left hand fluttered strangely, and his mouth opened, but Aramis hushed him. That was all the information they needed for now.
"Alright, well done." Aramis murmured, and glanced up at a crack of a stick beneath a foot. There was the sound of a horse startling behind them, but Aramis did not bother to look.
Athos reappeared, tossing d'Artagnan a concerned look before kneeling a few steps away, working on the fire.
"Help me strip him." Aramis ordered, focusing, and Porthos nodded grimly. It was a bloodier business than even Aramis expected. "Stay awake, d'Artagnan." He caught the hazy look that was only growing across the younger musketeer's face. "Tell me what happened on your mission."
"Um," d'Artagnan slurred. "S'letters."
They got his cloak and leather jerkin off, but not without difficulty. Porthos had to pull d'Artagnan upwards a little so they could get his left arm free. Aramis slowed when they reached his right, but gave Porthos a warning look, and began the grim task of pulling the blood-stained jerkin and shirt beneath it from his right arm.
D'Artagnan, rather remarkably, did not cry out. He did tip forward into Porthos, forehead landing somewhere in his neck, panting as Aramis shifted his arm very slightly.
"Easy." Porthos rumbled, and held his good shoulder gently. "Nearly there, lad."
Aramis tossed the leather jacket away, and d'Artagnan weakly pulled back from Porthos, though they caught him as he swayed. "No, s't'letters." He managed. "Inner." His left hand shifted again weakly, catching at Porthos's sleeve without strength, and Aramis nodded reassuringly.
"I understand now, my friend. We will ensure the letters are safe." d'Artagnan relaxed a little. "No, lie back." He drew a small knife, and Porthos slid his own folded up cloak beneath d'Artagnan's head gently. "Let's have a look at what you've done to yourself." Aramis managed a lighter tone, and d'Artagnan snorted softly. He sliced the red shirt, once-white, away.
"Through and through?" Porthos asked, and Aramis bit his lip. The musket shot had entered d'Artagnan's shoulder just below his collar bone, and he ran his hands searchingly over it. It must have been a close shot, to have gone so deep. But close enough to go all the way through?
The wound oozed bloody discharge, the ride no doubt stopping it from clotting properly, but Aramis was more worried by how inflamed and red the edges already were. He shifted, reaching gentle fingers along the back of d'Artagnan's shoulder. Damn, he cursed internally. "No." He answered at last, and Porthos exhaled. "Put gentle pressure on it." He drew a clean cloth, wiping the edges cautiously, and gestured. "Keep him still."
Porthos cupped d'Artagnan's cheek again. "Eyes on me." He said, and d'Artagnan smiled faintly. But he looked near swooning, gaze not tracking, and gradually going limp.
Aramis turned, pulling his pack towards him, and the small mug he kept for this purpose. He glanced up briefly, and Athos had a small flame started, though it wouldn't be enough to boil water yet. "Water, too." Aramis added, for there was a small stream.
Athos didn't look up, just tipping his head to the side. A leather bucket, the one they used occasionally for the horse feed, was full at his side.
"Thank you." Aramis spun back toward his patient at a grunt, eyes flashing over the scene. D'Artagnan had lost any colour remaining to him, and his eyes clenched tight with pain. Porthos was leaning gentle pressure against the wound, enough to stop the oozing, he hoped. "Easy." He yanked out the willow bark and after a moment's deliberation, imagining how deeply the ball might be lodged, the poppy seeds. "Athos," the man looked up questioningly. "Boil the water, keep the seeds and root inside, a half cup only."
Athos nodded without question, but Porthos shot him a look. "You doing the surgery 'ere?" His accent was stronger, the only sign of stress in his expression.
"He's heading towards infection already." Aramis brushed d'Artagnan's sweaty hair back from his face, and his eyes flickered open weakly, before closing. "It's two hours back to Paris, and who knows how long the lead ball has already been lodged there."
Porthos grunted, but the twist of his mouth was unhappy. Aramis wasn't particularly pleased either, to be doing delicate surgery in the woods. But needs must. "D'Artagnan," it was Aramis's turn to tap his cheek. "D'Artagnan?"
"Here." D'Artagnan slurred, eyes opening to a slit. "S'letters?"
"We have them." Aramis lied smoothly, though none of them had checked, and leaned forward to catch his attention. "When did you last take the willow bark?" It would not usually matter much, but d'Artagnan was weak from blood loss, and he planned to use the far stronger poppy drink for this too. It would not do to overdose him.
"Didn't." D'Artagnan said, and for some reason his eyes went to Porthos. There was sudden clarity there. "As you said."
"Right." Porthos frowned, trading a confused look with Aramis. But in the end, evidently sensing that comfort was required, he nodded kindly. "You did well, d'Artagnan."
The youngest member of their troop settled immediately, relaxing back at the praise. But the pain around his eyes had gone nowhere, and he was still breathing rapidly.
Aramis hesitated, but in the end snapped one of the willow roots in half. The tea would take a few minutes yet. He pulled out his water skin and dampened it a little, knowing it would make the effects faster. Aramis neatly cut the rougher edges off, and extended the small inch piece he had left. "Chew on it a little, and put it under your tongue."
D'Artagnan frowned at him, but eventually obeyed with continued prompting. He chewed a bit, and Aramis nodded. "Now under your tongue." He glanced at Porthos. "Keep him awake."
"Thought you were givin' 'im poppy?"
"If he swoons before he has it, he could wake in the middle." Aramis shook his head sharply, mind busy planning what he would need. "I don't have time to explain everything." His tone was sharp with anxiety, but he could not hide his impatience.
"You know I didn't mean it like that." Porthos squeezed the back of his neck apologetically, then released him. "Go on." He turned back towards d'Artagnan, smiling reassuringly. It should be good enough to fool d'Artagnan, given the degree of his blood loss. "Got it under your tongue?" He tapped d'Artagnan's cheek gently. "Eyes on me. Guess who we saw at the palace, yesterday."
Aramis picked up his instruments as the light hearted story went on, and hurried them towards the fire. He dropped to his knees, reaching for the pan and settling it into the coals. He dropped his instruments in, and swallowed.
"Aramis." Athos murmured, and Aramis glanced at the cup he indicated. It was beginning to bubble.
"Thank you."
"You need to drink this, d'Artagnan." Aramis knelt beside the wounded Gascon, his instrument tray brought by a glove-wearing Athos and settled close by.
D'Artagnan squinted at him. "Barks working." He mumbled, frowning. "S'fine."
"This is stronger." Aramis promised, trying not to sound impatient. "I need to get the musket ball out, and you don't need to be in pain." In his mind, Aramis could practically hear the ticking of a clock. D'Artagnan's confusion was probably from blood loss, but what if it was from the lead?
"Do as he says, lad." Porthos murmured, and propped d'Artagnan's head up a little so he could drink.
Aramis brought the mug to his lip, but d'Artagnan turned his face.
Abruptly, Aramis recalled the last time d'Artagnan had been wounded in the field. He'd not suffered any particularly grave wounds since being with them, and he'd always accepted the willow bark when it was after. But after being caught by a fairly long knife wound, he'd stubbornly refused the poppy.
Aramis had given in then, letting it go, strange behaviour due to what he assumed was Gascon pride. But looking at d'Artagnan now, how anxiously he was shifting, he wondered if he should have pursued it.
"You need to have it, d'Artagnan." The time pressure of the needed surgery pressed against him, and Aramis swallowed. "Please, my friend. Take a few sips."
D'Artagnan pulled his head away again, and there was growing distress on his face. "No, Aramis," he tried to move, but Porthos pinned him in a moment. "The bark, it's fine-" he hissed a breath, and went still. But not as if he were calmed. More a wild animal, that felt pinned and had nowhere to go.
"Calm down, d'Artagnan," Aramis soothed him, gently smoothing his hair back. "Just take a few sips then, instead of all of it." He'd made a strong mixture, it might be enough.
"It's poppy seed?" D'Artagnan's eyes rolled sideways again at his hum of agreement, as if looking for an escape. Still pinned by Porthos, his left hand came up, plucking helplessly at his jerkin.
"Settle down, lad." Porthos said, shooting Aramis a worried look.
"What's the matter?" Athos appeared, crouching behind Aramis. He reached out to take d'Artagnan's left hand, squeezing gently. "Calm yourself, d'Artagnan." It was gentle, but firm. "Tell us what's wrong."
Aramis bit back a curse, at how slowly it was all happening, but forced himself to wait.
"Not the poppy." D'Artagnan stared at Athos with a desperate expression. His hair was plastered to his face still, sweat beginning to build again. Was it stress, or the fever?
"D'Artagnan-" Athos started, but he was cut off.
"No," d'Artagnan's eyelids flickered, the effort of arguing too much on his battered body. "I'm fine without."
"D'Artagnan," Aramis lowered the mug, and cupped d'Artagnan's face gently. "Look at me."
D'Artagnan, blinking dazedly to perhaps focus his eyes, eventually did.
Aramis leaned down, and lowered his voice. "Do you trust me?"
D'Artagnan gazed at him, but Aramis didn't look away. He was familiar with the look on d'Artagnan's face, as one not truly in the present. Strange, to see it cast without a mirror.
"Yes." D'Artagnan whispered, at last.
"Then trust me with this." Aramis said, softly.
D'Artagnan closed his eyes, and his skin has taken on a sickly hue. The pallor of pain, though his cheeks were beginning to grow pink. It was too slow. Okay." He said, at last, and Aramis brought the mug gently to his lips. "Not too much, though."
"No, not too much." Aramis promised, and tilted it gently. "It's warm, and hopefully not too bitter." He'd seen Athos kindly adding a dollop of honey from their rations. They'd thought to share a good meal with d'Artagnan, before returning to Paris. If only.
D'Artagnan took three sips, before he tried to turn his head.
"One more." Aramis did not relent, relaxing only when it was done. D'Artagnan looked unhappy, but too weak to argue. "Well done, d'Artagnan." He stroked his curling hair back again, accepting the small cloth that Athos passed him, bathing d'Artagnan's warm skin. He was definitely feverish. "Just let yourself relax."
"Not too much." D'Artagnan repeated, but his eyes were beginning to flutter closed already.
"No, I promise." Aramis murmured, and wet the cloth again. He brushed down d'Artagnan's cheek, and the Gascon's eyes closed with the gentle motion. He was still conscious, but only just. He didn't stir as Porthos lowered his head back onto the cloak.
It wouldn't take long, now.
Aramis busied himself with his instruments, making certain all he needed was there. "I'll need the alcohol, to clean it." He glanced at Athos, who nodded silently, and rose to his feet. There was heartache on his face, and he cast d'Artagnan another quick look, before walking towards the horses.
Porthos was watching d'Artagnan with a grim expression. "What's that about, then?" He lowered his voice, though Aramis still cast d'Artagnan an anxious look.
Sometimes the poppy would make people drift off swiftly, but if they were disturbed before it could take true effect, they would wake confused. But d'Artagnan's breathing had only calmed, as had his effort, though he wasn't entirely relaxed yet.
"Can you hear me, d'Artagnan?" Aramis leaned down to ask, but d'Artagnan only moaned a little. "He's nearly there." He sighed. "I don't know. I'd forgotten, until just then," he glanced down again, anxiously. The wound wasn't bleeding anymore, but that would have to change soon. "Do you recall Saint-Denis?"
"No." Porthos frowned. "Should I?"
"He refused the poppy then, too. The knife wound?"
Porthos's expression cleared with understanding.
"I should have noted it more at the time, but," Aramis shook his head. "Well. I just wonder-" he cut himself off, looking up guiltily, as Athos rejoined them. "My thanks." He muttered, and Athos simply nodded.
"Is he asleep?" He asked, reaching out for d'Artagnan's hand, and Aramis felt a flicker of surprise at the rather open gesture, until he saw Athos was feeling for a pulse.
Aramis checked again, and nodded. "I believe so." He hid his worry. Only four small sips, yet d'Artagnan appeared deeply unconscious. While it was good for him not to feel the pain of the surgery, it was a poor sign of his general health.
"How can we 'elp?"
"Hold him down if he wakes." Aramis swallowed. "And stay close."
"We are not going anywhere, my friend." Athos squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
D'Artagnan woke to a strange sawing sensation in his shoulder.
A moment later, the pain hit.
He jerked as someone swore above him, and the light was blinding. He felt dizzy, falling back to earth though he'd hardly made it far.
"-still, you must-"
There was a strange buzzing in his ears, and he was gasping, almost frozen from the throbbing discomfort. "Ah-" he cried out weakly, strangled, and then there was liquid in his mouth.
He choked, but someone rubbed his throat and reflexively he swallowed. He was being pinned to the ground, he was-
"Calm down, d'Artagnan-"
"D'Artagnan, it's us-"
D'Artagnan realised abruptly that his left hand was gripping something made of leather. Oh, he blinked, tried to focus, perhaps he should be trying to push the blurry figure away, instead of holding him close? Before he could much decide, his fingers slipped, grip too weak.
Someone captured his hand before it could hit the ground, and his eyes rolled toward them dizzily. Abruptly, he caught sight of Porthos. "P'thos-" he mumbled, desperate for help. "W's-" he couldn't speak, so instead tried to reach out.
He tried to reach out with his right hand, which apparently was disconnected from his mind, because nothing happened.
Well, nothing except the sharp spike of agony that erupted.
Darkness stole him away, but d'Artagnan didn't have the time to be grateful, before he faded.
"Unconscious, at last." Porthos blew out a breath. "Stubborn as a mule."
Aramis cast d'Artagnan's face another quick glance, then ducked back over his sutures. He was closing the wound internally. It had taken too long to find the musket ball, deep beneath muscle. It was a serious injury.
Until d'Artagnan woke, Aramis would not know whether there was damage to the sensation in his right arm. He had kept his mouth closed on that topic so far. He had no plans to worry the others with that knowledge, unless he had to.
Eventually, eyes nearly aching from the delicate needle work, Aramis leaned back. "Done." He murmured, and someone squeezed his shoulder.
"Drink." A warm mug, coffee, was pressed into his hand.
"We need to get him back to Paris." Aramis stared down at his limp and too pale patient. "I need to bind his arm to his chest, though."
"Drink that first." Athos ordered. "I will fashion a sling, and Porthos is watching d'Artagnan. The horses are ready when we are."
Aramis closed his eyes, swallowing, and nodded. The pressure of the surgery had been a heavy one. But now, his brothers were here.
Rogue disliked being led. He disliked that his rider was now seated on another horse, even if it was the rather pretty mare from home. He disliked the road. He disliked the shadows from the trees. He disliked being so near the lead stallion of their herd.
Rogue disliked that his saddle felt so empty. So quickly, he'd again grown used to the boy that had first occupied it.
Most of all, he missed the soft reassuring words from his soft handed rider.
Rogue tossed his head, speeding up a little with ease, to keep pace with the mare that bore him.
"Steady," Athos cried, as Rogue abruptly accelerated, dancing on the end of his reins like a colt. "Slow up, Aramis," he called, and Aramis immediately did. The trot would be harder on d'Artagnan, but Athos did not intend to remain at the pace for long.
"What's the matter?" Aramis asked, as they came alongside one another, hands wrapped tightly around the still limp d'Artagnan.
Rogue seemed to settle, though he still tossed his head frequently, and Athos exhaled his irritation at the flighty horse. "I do not believe this monster likes being at the back."
"Ah," Aramis shrugged. "You can go ahead, if you wish. I do not believe we are being pursued." He slowed his mare a little, and Porthos had turned in his saddle to watch them from ahead.
"Alright?" He called, his obedient gelding slowing slightly.
"Fine." Athos touched his heels to Midnight, settling back into a steady lope. They made it all of three strides, before Athos was nearly yanked from his saddle. He slowed Midnight abruptly, spinning to find Rogue dancing on the end of the line, resisting the shift into a faster pace.
Did he now want to be at the back? After competing with Midnight for the faster pace for the last hour?
"Silly creature!" Athos snapped. "Make up your mind before I decide to free you now and save myself the trouble!"
The stallion pinned his ears meanly, but refused to change his pace. Athos gave up on a rear guard, and rode three aside with Aramis, to the Paris gates.
Aramis watched Lemay examine the wound, anxiously.
"This is excellent work." The surgeon finally straightened, nodding. "Continue to apply the poultices as you have been," he touched the backs of his fingers to d'Artagnan's forehead, and frowned. "He must be cooler than this. How long has he been feverish?"
"I suspected before the surgery." Aramis admitted, and Athos shot him a sharp look. He'd kept that piece of information to himself too. But now, sprawled out shirtless on the bed, d'Artagnan's fever was obvious. His hair clung to him, and the wound was hot and inflamed. His skin was still far too pale, but his cheeks burned a shade of red rose.
"Has he woken?" Treville asked, this time. He had been busy through the afternoon, on his way to the palace when they'd first arrived back at the Garrison, but he'd been here since his return in the early evening.
And now, twilight was pressing on into true night.
"No." Aramis murmured, and wet the cloth again to bathe d'Artagnan's forehead.
"Not at all?" Lemay frowned. "How long before the surgery was he shot?"
"We don't know." Aramis said, softly. The guilt was growing heavier, with every minute that d'Artagnan spent unconscious. Athos had not spoken in hours.
"Well," Lemay hesitated. "Hopefully by the morning, he'll wake. And the fever will break. Do you need help overnight? I am unable to stay, but I can send for-"
"We will mind him." Aramis interrupted, and Porthos nodded from where he hovered at Lemay's shoulder. "Our thanks, for your care."
"I'll return tomorrow. Send for me sooner, if the wound begins to truly fester."
"Our thanks, doctor." Treville stepped forward smoothly, covering the silence that Aramis could suddenly not quite bring himself to break.
-if the wound begins to truly fester-
"He's burning up." Porthos shifted. "I'll fetch some fresh water."
"And I'll fetch us some food." Athos offered, croakily. Understandable, given they were his first words since their arrival back at the garrison.
"I'll stay." Neither of them seemed surprised.
D'Artagnan's fever worsened around midnight, and Aramis lay cooling wet towels on his chest and head. He woke for brief fragments of time, but only to frown at them in confusion. D'Artagnan could not seem to understand even their most basic questions.
And then he began to mutter, trying to toss and turn, pushing the sheet away with clumsy fingers one moment but shivering the next. Some in French, but most in rapid Gascon.
The hours passed, and Aramis began to truly fear, and sent one of the guards on duty for ice. He must have woken several others because of the panic on Aramis's face. Several musketeers appeared, bringing ice by the bucketload. They paused only to cast their youngest Musketeer grim and frightened looks, set aside the ice, before retreating.
D'Artagnan at last began to cool, and his vitals slowly returned to a somewhat less frightening range. It grew quiet, and d'Artagnan seemed to drop into true sleep.
It was only the four of them in the otherwise empty and silent infirmary, the five other beds neatly made. Aramis nearly suggested a half a dozen times that the others find some rest in one of them, but neither of them looked ready to move from their watch.
Porthos was still in the chair he had claimed earlier, shuffled close enough now that he could wipe D'Artagnan's forehead and left arm with ice-wrapped cloths. Aramis had been focusing more on the poultices, and Porthos had been mainly responsible for keeping d'Artagnan cool.
Athos kept watch. He'd found a third chair and positioned it at the end of the bed; half facing d'Artagnan, half facing the door.
D'Artagnan woke from his nap more restless, but seemed now able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at the time. He had cooled some, certainly from the worst of earlier in the night, but his skin was still hot to the touch.
"You must drink more, my friend." Aramis murmured tiredly, leaning in to cup d'Artagnan's cheek before he could turn his head away. They had been fighting him all night.
But for the first time in hours, D'Artagnan's dark brown eyes suddenly met his, and there was a new spark clarity. "Ar'mis?" He mumbled, and Porthos startled on the other side of the bed. Athos came abruptly to his feet.
"Aye," Aramis sighed in relief, squeezing D'Artagnan's good hand, that rested limply above the sheets. "Are you with us?"
"D'd I go some'ere?" D'Artagnan mumbled, squinting. "S'water, please?"
"Yes, it's just here." Aramis offered immediately, pleased by the interest. He lifted the cup to d'Artagnan's lips as Porthos repositioned and shuffled him a little more upright against the pillows.
D'Artagnan lifted a clumsy hand, but couldn't seem to grip the handle. He held onto Aramis's wrist, instead, and drank thirstily.
Aramis smiled in relief, exchanging a pleased look with the others. But he still made sure to carefully pulled the cup away, once it was half empty. "See how that sits first, my friend." He said, softly. "How do you feel?"
"Thirsty." D'Artagnan complained, and he turned his head. "Did," he frowned, and Aramis leaned in to hear him. "Did he bring the water?"
Aramis frowned, checking d'Artagnan's forehead. It felt a fraction warmer already, though Porthos had only stopped his efforts for a minute or two. D'Artagnan was beginning to look confused as he gazed around the room. "Did he bring," he trailed off into silence, expression growing distressed.
"You can have more soon." Aramis soothed instinctively, squeezing d'Artagnan's hand in the hope that it might ground him. "We're all here." He gave Porthos a quick nod, and they both stood, working to ease d'Artagnan into a more flat and comfortable position.
"But," d'Artagnan struggled a little when they both went to help him lie flat again. "No, wait," he gripped Porthos's wrist. "Where is he?"
"Athos is just there." Aramis gestured, and Athos moved closer to be in the Gascon's eyeline.
"You need to rest, d'Artagnan."
"Didn't you see him, Athos?" D'Artagnan looked increasingly upset. "I thought, I thought he brought the water?" He peered around the infirmary again, head rolling drunkenly. "I, I thought I heard him. Didn't you see him?"
"Treville?" Aramis hazarded a guess, but D'Artagnan just frowned.
"No." He said, unhappily, and gave into Porthos's gentle help. His head eased back against the pillow, now laid out at a less steep angle, and he stared at the ceiling with a strange look on his face. "I thought he brought the water." D'Artagnan rolled his head a little, looking at Aramis with glassy eyes. "It was so hot, I thought it must have been him."
"We are all here." Aramis tried again to reassure him, but D'Artagnan only frowned.
"I thought he was here." He mumbled again, sounding disappointed. "Will you tell him, if he brings more water?"
Aramis exchanged another look with his more conscious friends, but they both looked just as confused. "Who, d'Artagnan?"
"Phèlip."
Aramis frowned at the unfamiliar name.
D'Artagnan went on, ever more slowly, "If he brings the water, I mean," his words were beginning to slur together. "Will you tell him?"
"Tell him what?" It was Athos, sitting on the bed, that got them their answer.
D'Artagnan squinted at him, eyes forming slits, before he sighed. "That I'm sorry." He mumbled, and his eyes closed again. His expression gradually cleared, relaxing, and eventually he seemed to fall at last into true rest.
A/N Hope the hurt/comfort hit the spot! Thanks heaps for reading, next chapter won't be too far away. Any feedback would be super welcome if you wanted to share :)