Chapter Text
Foreboding presses cold fingers against Athos’ spine as they approach the heavy wooden doors. A group of musketeers follow behind them, hushed and anticipatory.
The corridors leading there were eerily empty and silent. Now the chanting is loud enough to penetrate though the wood, rising towards some climax from the sound of it. Athos’ heart pounds in time with each chanted syllable.
He twists the handles but the doors refuse to open. Athos looks to either side and sees his panic reflected in Aramis and Porthos' eyes.
“No!” Porthos snarls, shoving at the doors, which shudder under the assault but don’t budge.
Aramis grabs both their arms, eyes sharp as cold steel blades. “Together. On three,”
They set their shoulders against the wood, grouped as close to the centre as they can be. They draw back three steps. “One, two, three!”
They slam into it shoulders-first. Pain blooms in Athos’ shoulder but he pays it no mind. The wood splinters before their combined force, giving way and crashing open against the walls. All three stagger a few feet into the room, which has gone deathly quiet.
The room is crowded with purple-clad figures, but Athos has eyes only for d’Artagnan, at the end of the room, spread out half-naked on an altar and covered in blood. He’d envisioned the worst, but his breath is stolen from his lungs at the sight before him.
His eyes catch the gleam of a dagger raised in the hands of the man standing over him, and it’s as if he’s awakened from a long sleep, risen from a haze which covered everything since he saw the woman he loved falling, noose snapping tight around her neck. Rage boils through him, pulling a roar from deep in his chest. Without conscious thought his musket is in his hand, bucking in his grip, the shot drowning out the thunder of his blood in his ears.
The man falls, a neat hole blooming red over his chest. He lands partially over d’Artagnan before dropping to the floor. An instant later, noise and movement explodes over the gathered crowd.
He’s unaware of crossing the room but he’s there, putting his musket away and stepping up to the altar, boots tracking through the blood spatters on the floor.
Icy fear splashes through Athos as he gets a closer look at him. “D’Artagnan,” he breathes through numb lips.
D’Artagnan doesn’t respond. His eyes are closed, his face still and skin unnaturally pale. Dark red drips to the floor from his arms, originating from raw looking cuts that mar his entire upper body. Symbols have been drawn on his skin with the blood, crude like a child’s finger paintings. It’s everywhere, the rich coppery smell of it so strong that Athos tastes it on his tongue.
Nausea rolls in his stomach. He reaches for d’Artagnan’s neck with trembling fingers, pressing gently under his jaw. His skin feels cold beneath Athos’ hand, and no beat meets his fingertips. Athos’ breath locks in his throat.
Please. Not another good thing ruined, he pleads silently.
He presses harder. Frail as a moth’s wings, d’Artagnan’s pulse flutters under his hand.
For a moment Athos feels faint, his breath stuttering and knees growing weak. Then new strength floods him. D’Artagnan is still alive. A chance has been granted to them.
Porthos appears at his shoulder, looming over both of them and crowding much closer than Athos would normally allow in his concern. “How is he?”
Athos does not answer, eyes searching the clashing mass of purple clad men and musketeers. “Aramis! Aramis!” he shouts. He spots him fighting his way through the crowd that had rushed to intercept the entering musketeers, steadily coming towards them. He busies himself with lifting d’Artagnan’s arms back to the altar, where the cuts would not be stretched open so badly and the blood less encouraged to flow out of the wounds.
The little he has left, Athos thinks, stomach roiling anew. His fingers still carry a tremor, and he tries his best to gentle his touch and not let it cause any further injury to d’Artagnan through clumsy fumbling. As soon as he is finished he seeks out d’Artagnan’s pulse again, resting his hand on his neck lest it disappear when he’s not touching him. Porthos’ hand settles on his shoulder in a tight grip, whether to support Athos or Porthos, or both, he doesn’t know or care. Athos feels at the same time like shaking it off and welcoming it.
He looks again for Aramis, impatience biting at his heels. With a few brutal strikes of his sword Aramis dispatches the last man keeping him from them, and he rushes closer, sheathing his blade. His face pales as he approaches d’Artagnan.
“My God, Athos, is he—”
“He’s alive,” Athos says, “But the blood—It’s—I don’t know how much is his,” he manages, words much less well-thought than usual.
“Let me—” Athos releases his hold on d’Artagnan’s neck at Aramis’ gesture, reluctant to let go but trusting that Aramis would be better help at the moment. Aramis measures his heartbeat, mouth tightening. His brows furrow as he lifts one of d’Artagnan’s eyelids and peers into his eye. He releases it almost instantly, cursing with fervour. “He’s lost much, and they drugged him,” he says, eyes troubled, and starts tapping at d’Artagnan’s cheek, gentle but insistent, speaking words that don’t register in Athos’ mind.
Athos stares at d’Artagnan’s still face, hoping for a frown, a twitch of an eyelid, anything. His eyes drift over the wounds and his fists clench hard at his sides as he envisions d’Artagnan suffering alone, losing hope as the days pass without rescue.
He reaches out unsteadily, throat tight, and smooths back d’Artagnan’s hair where it falls in a tousled mess over his forehead, leaving his hand there. Perhaps it would offer some comfort even though d’Artagnan is not conscious, knowledge that they’re there somehow reaching him through the darkness. Or maybe Athos just doesn’t want to let go.
***
Porthos loans a farmer’s cart and a draught horse from one of the families near the church in short order. They are too eager to help, trying to distance themselves as much as possible from the madness that had been going on right under their noses. Porthos also sends their fastest rider ahead to carry word to the captain and make sure medical supplies are ready when they arrive.
Athos is the one to carry d’Artagnan out. D’Artagnan is a dead weight in his arms, skin cold where his head rests heavily on Athos’ collarbone. Out of the dark underground chamber he looks even worse, pale enough to imitate a corpse and every detail of the gory mess they made of him clearly visible in the light of day. With Aramis’ help Athos loads him onto the cart, mouth a tight line and expression causing everyone but Aramis and Porthos to avert their eyes. Athos doesn’t ask for permission from Aramis before settling beside d’Artagnan, and Aramis voices no objection. As soon as they’re seated Porthos snaps the reins and starts the cart rolling as fast as possible without jostling d’Artagnan too much.
“Athos, I need him upright,” Aramis says, startling him out of his thoughts. He drags his eyes away from d’Artagnan’s face to see Aramis drawing rolls of clean cloth from his pack, which he’d somehow obtained without Athos noticing.
“How?”
“Get behind him, hold him up against your chest. It will kill two birds with one stone, since he will have difficulty keeping himself warm at the moment.” Aramis’s gaze on d’Artagnan is detached, focused on treating his patient, but his face is drawn with a subtle tension that shows only as a distant frown. Athos knows his tells, small as they are. Aramis is concerned.
Athos kneels beside d’Artagnan and lifts him up, employing Aramis’ help to hold him steady while he slides behind him. He pulls d’Artagnan’s back against his chest and leans against the front of the cart, ignoring the hard edge of wood digging into his spine. D’Artagnan’s body is disturbingly lax and heavy against him, neck bent awkwardly and his head resting on his shoulder. His face is turned once again towards Athos’ neck, and his shallow breaths puff ticklishly against his skin. A shiver races through Athos as the cold tip of d’Artagnan’s nose presses against him. “He’s too cold, Aramis.”
“I did say so,” Aramis says, tone sharp. Then he seems to deflate, throwing an apologetic glance at Athos before turning back to his supplies. “I need to clean and dress the wounds before we can focus on warming him up,” He sets to work immediately, pouring some type of alcohol from a bottle over the cuts before wiping them with a clean cloth. At the first trickle of liquid against his skin d’Artagnan twitches, and Athos bends his neck to see his face. He’s disappointed to see that d’Artagnan remains unconscious.
“He feels the sting. The drug must be wearing off,” Aramis says. His hands are careful where they dab the liquid away, never pressing too hard at the injuries. The bleeding has stopped, nothing new welling up where Aramis wipes away the congealing blood.
Aramis instructs Athos to hold d’Artagnan upright long enough for him to bandage his torso, and then he wraps his arms. Lastly he uses the cloth, now damp, to wipe the remaining painted symbols from his face and neck.
“That will have to do until we reach the garrison,” Aramis says, “Athos, you will need to put your arms around him, to keep him warm and also to prevent him from making the wounds bleed again if he moves too much,”
Athos merely nods and rearranges d’Artagnan so that he’s not as upright as before, his head resting just below Athos’, hair brushing his chin. He embraces d’Artagnan, and relaxes fractionally; being able to feel the rhythm of his breathing eases the anxiety that he will slip away when Athos isn’t looking to some degree. Aramis reaches behind him for their cloaks, which he must have obtained along with his medical supplies. He covers both of them up to d’Artagnan’s neck and tucks them in.
Next he brings out a water skin. “We need to get water into him,” he explains, “he will need it to replenish the blood lost,” Aramis tries to give d’Artagnan water, but only a little actually makes it down his throat, the rest dribbling from his mouth. Aramis’ mouth tightens as he dries it off with another cloth before it can reach the cloaks and soak them. “We’ll try again later.”
Porthos drives them onwards to Paris while the sun moves up in the sky, its light dappled by the trees on either side of the road, offering little warmth. Athos’ world shrinks down to the rise and fall of d’Artagnan’s breathing, and the warmth steadily seeping through him from Athos’ embrace. The image of d’Artagnan lying on the altar will haunt him the same as his brother’s dead body and his wife’s execution. For the time being, it’s kept at bay by the steady breathing and the warm, living weight on his chest.
***
“I think I’ll try the water again, we can’t wait too long,” Aramis says, snapping Athos once again out of his daze. He looks around to note that an hour or two has passed the last attempt. Aramis moves closer with the water skin. He crouches over d’Artagnan and presses it to his lips.
Athos takes d’Artagnan’s chin in his hand, intending to open his mouth for Aramis to pour in the water. However, d’Artagnan’s jaw isn’t as slack as the last time they tried, and his mouth does not open with the pressure on his chin. Instead Athos feels his head jerk slightly to the side. He draws his hand back under the cloaks to hold d’Artagnan securely while looking down at his face. His pulse jumps.
A slight frown mars d’Artagnan’s features, and his lips are pressed tightly shut. As Athos watches, his eyebrows furrow further and d’Artagnan groans.
“D’Artagnan?” Aramis leans in, expression intent. “I think he’s waking up,” he puts a hand on his shoulder through the cloaks. “D’Artagnan, are you with us?”
D’Artagnan ‘s eyelids twitch and his eyes fly open, instantly lowering back to half-mast. His eyelids flutter and his brows lower as if he’s trying to squint. After a moment of blinking his gaze fastens on Aramis, where he’s giving d’Artagnan a smile.
“There you are,” Aramis says, relief clear in his voice.
“Aramis,” comes the weary, slurred reply, barely audible and edged with pain. Athos is hit with such relief that he can’t help drawing d’Artagnan tighter against him.
“Athos, ease up on him,” Aramis orders, and he belatedly notes the stiffness in d’Artagnan’s frame. He relaxes his grip, berating himself for causing d’Artagnan pain.
“Athos?” d’Artagnan whispers. As weak as his voice is, his tone is steeped in confusion that hits Athos like a blow to the stomach.
Saying Athos is not the most expressive person would be an understatement, but he thought he made his care for d’Artagnan clear in his own way. Now it sounds to Athos like the last place d’Artagnan expected him to be right now is with him, supporting him. Athos lowers his eyes. “d’Artagnan,” he acknowledges, trying to keep the turmoil out of his tone so as not to stress him further.
“Yes, that it Athos embracing you, my friend,” Aramis says, and Athos looks up to see him giving d’Artagnan another smile. “He is there to keep you warm. Now, it is vital that you drink. You’ve lost more blood than I’m comfortable with,”
D’Artagnan pauses for a moment before he takes the water, drinking only a small amount before he stops, lips sealed tight again and face taking on a green cast.
“We will try some more before long,” Aramis assures him, but Athos can tell he was hoping to give d’Artagnan more. Athos stays silent as Aramis checks the bandages, keeping up a reassuring chatter as he goes. Aramis’ talking tapers off as d’Artagnan once again grows lax against Athos, head falling back to rest against his chest from where he’d tried to hold it up. The smile leaves Aramis’ face as soon as d’Artagnan’s eyes close, and his expression turns pensive.
“Will he be alright?” Athos asks.
Aramis looks up at Athos, as if only just realising he’s still there. He studies d’Artagnan before meeting Athos’ eyes with a small but genuine smile. His voice when he speaks is filled with conviction. “He’s strong in both body and spirit, Athos. He has a good chance,”
Athos nods. If there’s one thing he knows about d’Artagnan it’s that he doesn’t give up. His thoughts drift to d’Artagnan’s evident incredulity at his actions, and he ponders their past interactions, trying to determine whether he’d been any more distant with him than with Aramis and Porthos. Perhaps they merely know his tells better. Or perhaps it was because d’Artagnan has never seen how Aramis usually reacts around any of them when they're badly wounded. Either way, he’ll have to be more mindful of his behaviour.
They travel the next few hours in silence, the sun starting to sink toward the horizon. Porthos is silent up front, looking out for danger and keeping their pace steady. Aramis wakes d’Artagnan three times for water, but each time he doesn’t seem to wake fully, the only indication that he’s not asleep being the pained frown on his face and the fact that he swallows the water willingly. Athos, buoyed by the first time d’Artagnan woke and distracted by his thoughts on his own behaviour, only notices that this seems to be bothering Aramis upon the fourth attempt.
D’Artagnan again drinks without speaking or responding to requests to open his eyes, merely groaning before settling back into silence, the slight frown never leaving his face. Aramis glances over him, frowning heavily. Then, in a rush of movement Aramis puts the water skin to the side and peels back the cloaks, checking the bandages for more bleeding. As the cold air hits him, Athos becomes aware with dawning dread of just how warm it had been with d’Artagnan under the cloaks.
Aramis presses a hand to d’Artagnan’s forehead. Athos meets his eyes over d’Artagnan still form. His insides freeze at the carefully controlled panic he sees there.
“He has a fever, doesn’t he?”