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there are no eyes here
Athos knows this, if nothing else—
There is a twilit world between life and death, a dank and despairing non-space, on one side of which lay quiet, eternal peace, and the other, blinding light and incredible pain. Aramis might call it a place of waiting and judgment, but Athos believes it is where monsters are made of men: those that do make it back to life from here are so riddled with pain and brain fever that they either lay senseless or behave like animals.
(He wonders if his wife had been there, in that split second between him turning away from watching her hang and Remy cutting her down. Wonders if that is what has embittered her so, given her teeth and fire and blood under her fingernails.)
If that is where d’Artagnan is right now—
Athos watches d’Artagnan sleep fitfully, drenched in fever-sweat and the stench of festering infection. His bare chest stutters with every other faltering breath, like d’Artagnan’s body is remembering how to live, over and over again. There are long, angry red score marks stretching across his ribs—deep furrows that can only have come from nails, Aramis’d said. Sure enough, the nails of d’Artagnan’s left hand are jagged and torn, some of them ripped straight from their beds. The thought of d’Artagnan lying there in that hole, clawing at his own chest, flaying his own skin, while his body died piecemeal, is enough to make Athos jittery: he reaches for the wine and takes another long swig.
The warm, disconnected haze that had been hovering over him since he uncorked the first bottle of the evening settles now; it wraps itself around him, tucking around his shoulders and numbing his lips. He gets up and leaves the room, leaves d’Artagnan alone to find his own way back to life, hoping that he will succumb to the void instead.
There are enough monsters on this earth already.
-
After the silence comes the dull roar of astonished, animated chatter. Porthos clutches Aramis’ hand and hisses something at him; d’Artagnan continues to gaze at his lap and pick at the bread on his plate; Athos stares, wondering if he isn’t still in some wine-induced slumber, dreaming impossible dreams. Finally, Boucher walks over with a wide smile and slaps d’Artagnan on the back. “Good to see you up and about again, lad,” he says. “Was just yesterday when we were wondering if you were going to make it at all.”
d’Artagnan flinches at Boucher’s touch, but makes no effort to move away or look up. He nods and says, softly, “Lucky, I guess.”
“To d’Artagnan’s miraculous recovery!” somebody shouts from across the practice yard, raising their cup. de Kock, Athos thinks. Always too simple for his own good.
Most of the soldiers respond enthusiastically, and Athos can see Porthos blinking and looking around, as though astonished. They have spent long enough alone by d’Artagnan’s death bed that it has been easy to forget that the whole garrison was praying for him; they have spent long enough together and alone before that it has been easy to forget that each of them have more than just three brothers. The thought is somehow both sobering and uplifting.
d’Artagnan pushes himself to his feet, still refusing to meet anybody’s gaze. In the glare of the mid-morning sun, he looks almost translucent. “Thanks,” he mutters, tucking the stump of his right arm in the crook of his other elbow. “I should probably—I should—”
“Eat something!” Aramis insists.
d’Artagnan flinches again. He begins to shuffle in the direction of the stairs, pauses, then stumbles. Athos, who’s closest to him, catches him instinctively, and almost recoils at how cold d’Artagnan feels—his skin is chill and dry, like a corpse. He’s panting noisily, his head down as if dizzy, and Porthos appears on his other side and takes his arm to support him. Porthos grinds his jaw briefly, but betrays no further reaction to the touch of d’Artagnan’s skin.
“I’ll bring him some water!” somebody says. Still de Kock.
Athos and Porthos slowly march d’Artagnan up the stairs; even though he is sagging between them, he is able to move mostly on his own power. Treville is waiting for them at the head of the stairs, but he isn’t looking at them; he’s staring at Aramis, in the practice yard.
Aramis smiles at him.
-
They choose a small clearing bordered by woods just a couple dozen leagues outside of Paris.
“Nothing is lost, d’Artagnan,” Porthos tells the lad, pushing the hilt of a rapier into his left hand. “You are still a Musketeer. You are one of us—you can still fight.”
d’Artagnan doesn’t answer, but he does look up quickly at Porthos and adjusts his grip on his sword. Athos takes his own dagger and drags it on the whetstone, but his attention is on d’Artagnan; from the corner of his eye, he can see Aramis watching just as keenly.
d’Artagnan practises some strokes, his hand shaking only slightly and his footwork a lot more sure and precise than when they started training a couple of weeks ago. He has started eating regularly as well, so that his skin doesn’t quite cleave to the shape of his bones anymore. His progress from half-corpse to this has been nothing short of a miracle, and yet Athos is uneasy. He isn’t yet sure that d’Artagnan’s brush with death hasn’t created a monster; he just doesn’t know which.
Porthos is easing the young man into a duel now; there is far less power behind his thrusts than usual and he gives ground easily, allowing d’Artagnan to free his arm and probe his defences. d’Artagnan seems to realise that Porthos is going easy on him, and he growls, cutting his sword more viciously through the air, even finishing with the extravagant flourishes that Athos had tried to train out of him when he’d first joined them as a recruit. Athos finds himself smiling while Porthos laughs out loud, the sound startling. “Now that’s more like it!” he says, grinning.
If d’Artagnan is encouraged or pleased by this, he doesn’t show it; he continues to fight with more and more ferocity, sweat pouring from him, cleaving his shirt to his skin. He overbalances on a particularly violent thrust, and, before Porthos can reach him, falls to the ground, landing on his bandaged stump. He screams, even as all three rush to his side, even as Porthos tries to shush him and Aramis tries to pry his right arm from his chest to have a look.
“No, no,” d’Artagnan sobs, twisting away from them, “they’re inside of me, Athos, Athos—” He clutches at Athos’ shirt, almost senselessly, “they’re crawling inside of me, they want to get out it’s so many of them so many so many so many—”
Porthos looks up. “I can knock him out,” he offers.
d’Artagnan’s nonsensical mumbling comes to an end when he starts to retch; Aramis helps him onto his knees, supporting his chest as he gags and chokes and sputters. He produces nothing for several minutes, not even bile; his eyes are shining with tears as he gags over and over again. Finally something drips from his lips: something black and oily and viscous before he spits out a ball of it. It splatters wetly on the ground.
“Get it out,” d’Artagnan whispers, collapsing back into Aramis’ arms. “Get it out get it out get it out—”
Porthos gapes while Aramis says, “Ssh, d’Artagnan. Not yet.”
Athos turns his attention back to what d’Artagnan had vomited. It isn’t there anymore.
-
A week later, they are returning to Paris after another training session when they are attacked.
There are far too many masked assailants upon them, more crawling out of the surrounding woods like a swarm of angry ants, much more than the four of them are prepared to handle. Athos, having spent his last round, unsheathes his sword and plunges into the maelstrom of clashing steel and showering blood: he slashes and skewers and is so absorbed in swordplay that he doesn’t recognise the cocking sound behind him for what it is until it’s too late.
Somebody pushes him to the ground just as the gun is fired. He hears a muffled grunt, Porthos’ inarticulate cry, and his blood runs cold. No, he thinks. Then, a little traitorously: not again.
Aramis and Porthos dispatch the last of their attackers while Athos sits up and pulls d’Artagnan into his lap, his hands fluttering over his chest. There’s a neat bullet wound just a little to the right of his heart, and a steady, thin stream of blood flows from it. Athos, who knows better than most the hot, violent pulse of blood spraying from such wounds, slides a hand over d’Artagnan’s shirt. His fingers come away cold and red.
d’Artagnan blinks at him in confusion, his breathing steady.
Aramis slides to his knees next to d’Artagnan, unlaces his doublet and almost rips apart his shirt in his haste. Porthos takes one look at d’Artagnan’s chest and curses viciously; Athos gapes at the long, puckering wound that almost splits d’Artagnan into two, held together by coarse thread. “Aramis, what…?”
“No time,” Aramis mutters, dragging his toolkit over and plugging the bullet hole with a square of wet linen. He threads his needle with shaking hands and begins to stitch the hole closed.
“The bullet’s still in there,” d’Artagnan says, faintly, running his fingers along the grotesque sutures on his stomach. “I can feel it.”
“I can’t dig in there,” Aramis says through gritted teeth. The needle slips, sinks into d’Artagnan’s flank; he doesn’t even flinch. “Not again.”
“Aramis!” Porthos roars, grabbing Aramis’ collar; Athos springs to his feet and pulls Porthos aside with considerable effort.
“I did what I had to do to save his life,” Aramis says, still focussed on his work, not looking at them. “To save all of us, because we abandoned—”
“We did not abandon him!” Athos snaps.
“And you haven’t saved him,” Porthos says, viciously. “This isn’t savinghim!”
Aramis does not answer. d’Artagnan rolls his head listlessly on the ground, tears leaking from his eyes. “Please,” he says, “please, they’re inside me, please, please, get them out—”
Athos closes his eyes and turns away.
Finis