Chapter Text
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“If the worst happens…”
At Porthos’ stricken expression when he turned from the fire, Athos pulled himself up from his slump on the pillows to stare directly at him. “I am not saying it will but should it, there will be little matter to whether you or he were awake.”
Athos might’ve sighed out his frustration at Porthos’ glare, but in this matter he had immense patience. He feared Aramis’ loss as well, but he’d long accepted there were some aspects of life that were simply outside the bounds of a man’s control. They’d recovered him and treated him to the utmost standard of care possible in their circumstances. Aramis’ body would heal or it would succumb; however, knowing that and being at peace with it were two entirely opposite tasks.
“You must rest, you didn’t take so much as a moment to close your eyes this afternoon. He knows we are here with him: he’s not alone. Take comfort in that.”
D’Artagnan’s head turned slowly between them, before his gaze finally rested on Aramis.
As the tale had continued on and the hours disappeared, Aramis had slept. At first it had been a light-sleep, he’d mumble commentary when his mind was aware enough, even if he kept his eyes closed. That awareness had faded and discomfort and inarticulate noises replaced his rasped words.
By the time Claude had arrived to tend his many injuries he’d been so deeply asleep that even the prodding of his wounds failed to wake him. He hadn’t roused once when they’d stripped the bed linens and his clothing to inspect the bandaging. Corbeau had assured them not to be concerned despite no movement occurring when he dabbed at the draining slashes along his entire back side. Much of the skin was scabbing over; dark burgundy, and black in some places with the rough clusters, but there were many more sections that still weeped the amber fluid they all recognized from healing wounds.
With more poultices and salves applied, and clean bandaging protecting the skin from clinging and catching on the sheets, the doctor had checked the burned skin and puncture wounds. Aramis slept on through the removal of the thick covering at his throat. Porthos had silently cradled the side of his head as they re-wrapped a thinner band of cloth there – still not trusting Aramis to orient himself before he clawed at the imagined binding.
Throughout all of Claude’s ministrations Aramis did not awaken. There were no signs of disturbance or acknowledgment of their presence, not even involuntary movements were made in reaction to the physician's tending. Porthos commented on the temperature of the bare skin each time he assisted in lifting or holding a limb, but there was little to be done.
Rather than force the man from his plainly needed rest Claude had assigned d’Artagnan the task of rationing drips of water infused with herbs via a cloth. Porthos had attempted the administration first. However, on seeing the pale lips move to instinctually chase the drops, he ultimately claimed his hands not dexterous enough to portion the liquid.
None of them made further comment when Claude quietly instructed d’Artagnan to exchange places with Porthos.
It had sobered Athos to watch Porthos falter because there was little Porthos would not endure for his brothers. To witness him rendered unable to bear the task put Aramis’ condition in stark relief. From the moment they’d entered that dark cellar of earth and found him – delirious, but clinging to life – the hope had taken root that all could be well.
Athos still believed it to be true, but laying next to Aramis these past days he’d kept a close watch on him. The wan shade of his complexion, the mottled coloring where gashes interrupted his skin – his body had been traumatized and the evidence was marked on his flesh. While individually none of his injuries were as life-threatening as those received in battle or from firearms, collectively they were much to overcome.
He broke off from his thoughts to address Porthos, or his back as he’d turned to face the fireplace again.
“Come, you need to sleep.”
“M’fine.”
Athos could feel d’Artagnan’s stare land on him even though he didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Instead he pushed himself to sit upright, mindful not to move his left leg – it was still supporting Aramis. He braced his arm on his right leg, and the encouraging tone of voice still held a note of command. “Porthos.”
Porthos’ breath shuddered on the inhale and his forearm shifted where it was braced overhead on the mantle. “I’m not tired.”
D’Artagnan’s disbelief was noticeable even though Athos only observed his expression out of the corner of his eye.
“Then at least take my place.” Athos felt a marginal tinge of guilt at exploiting Porthos’ kind nature, but he knew no other means to tempt the man to obey and get some rest. In another calculated move he dropped his right leg off the edge of the mattress when Porthos glanced over his shoulder.
He quashed any misgiving he might have felt over the manipulation when Porthos deflated with a put upon sigh. Porthos unbent from his contemplation of the fire and sloped over, the weight of his unhappiness apparent in the slow motion of every line of his body. He said nothing when he reached Athos’ side, his dark eyes the only moving aspect of his face when they flicked to observe the motionless figure at Athos’ side. Porthos didn’t take his eyes from Aramis until he’d confirmed – as they all seemed drawn to do – that the there remained a rising and falling motion detectable underneath the linens.
Satisfied that Aramis still breathed, Porthos turned a sour frown on Athos in contrast to the watery appearance of his gaze.
“You’re overwrought,” Athos cautioned. He had worse threats than Porthos’ unhappiness and while he sympathized, he wasn’t about to let the man exhaust himself. “Take my place.”
“Yer supposed to be resting.” Porthos muttered.
Athos ignored the irony of d’Artagnan rolling his eyes in exasperation at Porthos’ stubbornness.
“I’ll sit by the fire,” Athos informed him. He hadn’t left the room since the wound to his abdomen had been uncovered. He’d rarely been up from the bed – between his brothers’ fussing and his own pains – and at best he’d managed a few walks about the room. Outright ordering Porthos to sleep would only result in resistance, but asking for his help would ensure he’d at least lay down. “I’d rather he were undisturbed.”
Porthos’ eyes followed the angle that Athos had inclined his head, to indicate where his left leg still bolstered Aramis’ burned and wounded thigh.
“Right. D’Artagnan?” Porthos glanced to the younger man, gesturing with his palm to indicate the help he wanted.
While Porthos bent to remove his boots, Athos waited until d’Artagnan had his hands lifting the lax weight of Aramis’ leg from his own before he slid from the bed. He squeezed Porthos’ shoulder and moved behind him to retrieve a blanket as they exchanged places. Athos suspected Porthos might have taken longer if the sleep-heavy weight of Aramis’ leg wasn’t waiting for bodily support rather than d’Artagnan’s stretched out hold.
The large yawn that took over Porthos’ features couldn’t be hidden, but neither Athos nor d’Artagnan remarked on it.
Porthos gingerly slid onto the mattress as d’Artagnan continued to hold Aramis’ leg up, the man himself still unresponsive. He nodded at their youngest to let his burden rest on his own leg and tugged the bed linens to cover them. Aramis remained still when he glanced to his left, and he laid against the propped pillows to bring their faces level.
“Oughta wake ‘im for water.” Porthos’ voice was softened, a reflex in response to the unmoving figure next to him.
“We will try again in a bit. Otherwise, there is the cloth,” Athos reminded him.
Porthos didn’t turn, but his frown confirmed he’d heard Athos. “That ain’t enough.”
“We do what we can. Claude wasn’t as concerned with that as he is with monitoring his fever.”
“Which we can do,” d’Artagnan assured him in an attempt to support Athos’ insistence that he take a respite. “You should sleep.”
Porthos smiled in spite of his upset and looked at d’Artagnan with a raised brow. He turned to Athos and smirked. “Gets a commission and he thinks he knows it all, huh?”
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“...his boots smell like runoff from the Seine...and...he cheats.” D’Artagnan paused his litany of unsavory characteristics and turned to look over his shoulder and the chair-back. The volume of his voice was consistent with normal speech, but there was no reaction from Porthos. Or Aramis.
Porthos’ eyes were closed and his fingers remained curled over Aramis’ wrist. With his thumb pressed over the pulse point Porthos appeared to have finally given in to his body’s need for rest. D’Artagnan’s teasing for the past few minutes had yielded no response from either of the men on the bed – neither of which who would have been able to resist the bait if they were feigning sleep.
Athos sipped the wine he’d carried over to share with d’Artagnan while they kept their vigil. He gave in to the younger man’s persuasion and propped his feet on the small chest he’d brought over for Athos to use. Between the blanket and the rest for his feet he was as content as he’d been on the large bed.
“He would’ve challenged that,” d’Artagnan nodded. Whether it was to assure himself or confirm it with Athos didn’t matter: Porthos had finally fallen asleep. The younger man turned to slouch into the chair, folding his arms on his stomach. “Not sure if Aramis would’ve argued or added to the list.”
Athos slid his eyes from the fire, first to d’Artagnan and then a considering gaze that lingered on the occupants of the grand four-poster bed.
“It’s the waiting that upsets him most,” Athos observed, interrupting his thoughts with a distracted sip of wine. “When the list of tasks is done and there is nothing left to attempt.”
“There’s other treatments. Corbeau said – ”
“Other salves, tinctures…” Athos shrugged, “...yes, but for us? There are no actions to take. It wears on him.”
D’Artagnan’s feet dragged as he stretched long legs forward, a soft crunch of the debris tracked near the fireplace. Unpracticed in hiding his emotions, or even attempting to control them, d’Artagnan’s disappointment was obvious. As was the slight accusation in his tone. “You don’t believe Aramis will recover?”
“It is my hope.” Athos said. He could see the dissatisfaction over his response, as plain as every conflicting thought that crossed d’Artagnan’s features before he spoke.
“Do you think Porthos – ”
“We are all afraid to lose him.” Athos said over his question. “We know, as soldiers, the risks of service. The Musketeers are a unique regiment insofar as loyalty...and brotherhood.”
His eyes drifted again to the bed before he drunk deeply from the cup he held. “Friendship? It’s a bargain we make, before we’ve even realized…” Athos thought of his own efficiency, the desire to serve in an aloof capacity in the regiment. How imperceptibly the other two had edged over his self imposed boundaries.
Each of them would give his life in exchange for another – as would any soldier in their company. He’d realized with every night Porthos played at a nearby table into the late hours to accompany him to his quarters, or Aramis had declined a clear invitation or a planned appointment to remain with him, that their bonds were no casual duty or acquaintance. There was no official declaration, no verbal accords, but it was an agreement stronger than any treaty.
“...I have already lost a brother, in many ways they’re closer to me than my own blood,” Athos paused, tilting his drained cup. “I will never be prepared.”
Athos reached for the decanter, refilling his cup before he met d’Artagnan’s eyes again. “There is every chance.”
D’Artaganan waited for him to clarify which way he meant that statement, but the older man only raised his cup to drink. He looked over at the still figures of their brothers, his eyes seeking the rise and fall to signify Aramis remained with them. He could understand Porthos’ disquiet, he’d taken over the duty of providing Aramis water for something to do as much as to comfort the upset man.
Every task was a distraction, an action to trick the mind into feeling your efforts could alter the course of events. That each tiny decision mattered and that every act you set about would be of benefit. Waiting felt impotent, unless you could convince yourself that your vigil was a silent support, that sitting and watching was also an aid. He could understand why Porthos resisted sleeping, so long as there was some service he could undertake there was hope he was helping Aramis.
“It’s so quiet,” d’Artagnan commented. The fire cracked and hissed erratically, but the absence of the constant of Porthos’ narration combined with the hour highlighted the silence.
Athos’ mustache shifted over his quirked lip. “I suppose if your remarks on Porthos’ ‘attributes’ didn’t rouse them, continuing on won’t either…”
“Porthos won’t mind?” D’Artagnan teased, sinking further against the chair cushions. He was relieved for any distraction from dwelling on Aramis’ condition. Other than cool cloths and water, they’d done all they could. He’d rather Athos tell him of better times than brood on the present.
“He’ll grumble, as he does, but this part – he’s unfamiliar with.” Athos admitted.
“Oh?” D’Artagnan had a feeling he was being subtly coerced, as with getting Porthos into bed. A wash of pride flooded him; Athos was tempting him with a part unknown to the others, until he remembered why that might be. “Oh…”
Biting his lip, d’Artagnan flicked his eyes back to the bed. “Is it to do with…” He leaned closer between the two chairs and whispered, “...her?”
“Not entirely. As Porthos told it, they were both aware I’d an unfortunate past affair, I had shared some of my history, but few details. At the time they were unaware of much to do with my standing.”
“Thankfully we haven’t had occasion to relive these events since Bonnaire,” Athos rolled his eyes at the recollection of that mission. “Aramis was content with the discovery.”
His stomach still pulled oddly at him whenever he recalled Porthos’ condition, and Aramis grabbing at him. He’d bitterly drank his regret over his actions and it wasn’t until much later that he’d reflected on how blinded he could be where his past was concerned. His fear had made him cold. Once again he’d allowed his past to interfere with his present and endanger his future.
“Aramis didn’t really crow over it; he wasn’t all that shocked either.” D’Artagnan said.
“He likes to be correct, but he’s not one to genuinely gloat over such. It’s more that he wishes to know the truth.” He smiled at remembering Aramis’ curiosity and speculation, even as he was preparing to stitch up Porthos. Graciousness came later, their friendship enough to accept Athos’ inability to see beyond his own tragedy had compromised his judgment.
“Perhaps one of our greatest strengths is to save each other from our own destruction when we’re blindly charging towards it.”
“Is that what happened?” D’Artagnan asked, emboldened by Athos’ statements.
“Which time?” Athos caught himself, before he let regrets overtake his mood. Their current situation required he keep clear headed, focused on the present and not falling under the weight of past choices. Although, perhaps not entirely in the present – the tale of their past mission was proving a decent distraction for them all.
“I was determined to keep my past my own. Consumed by that, I left Aramis to Porthos,” Athos tamped down the echo that it was similar to Pinon, though the bullet lodged in his shoulder was not as deep as Porthos’ axe wound. He’d briefly considered declining Allain’s offer and sending them on to Le Mans, but he’d prevented that irrational idea from winning.
“There was little chance those bandits would make a second attempt – even though the baron’s guards had been so incompetent.” Athos would never have left them riding, even a few yards back, without him when one was wounded if there were a credible threat of attack. “I’d assumed our truce would benefit from the separation, wounded and with Porthos would be better than him eavesdropping – or worse – asking questions of the baron’s younger brother.”
D’Artagnan’s shoulders moved with his stifled laughter. He could easily imagine Aramis attempting to coax answers from Desmarais, especially when social graces would dictate Athos couldn’t silence him. Then again, Aramis often ignored protocol when he was fixated on his aims. Athos must’ve predicted the direction of his thoughts because he continued on the same path of thinking.
“His ‘curiosity’ can be troublesome at the most peaceable of times.” Athos raised his glass in salute before draining the cup. “I rode ahead with Allain in hopes that I could keep us to the mission. My plan had been to collect the taxes while Desmarais’ doctor examined Aramis.”
“Porthos with him, of course,” D’Artagnan guessed.
“Of course,” Athos admitted. “It was meant to be simple. Aramis would be seen to; Porthos and Aramis would be kept apart while I dealt with the baron. We would have been in Le Mans for supper and had time for an initial investigation of the wine.”
“That didn’t happen?” D’Artagnan prompted, already anticipating the response.
“It did not.”
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