d'Artagnan

Day 7

d'Artagnan felt the nausea, the churning in his stomach along with the heavy malaise. As the others had told him, the illness came on fast. He looked at his friend, not willing to give anything away and wanting to keep him safe. At least Athos could have a chance to survive.

The wound on his arm was itching, and he had hoped infection had set in, but it was healing nicely. It was the illness. d'Artagnan knew the best place for him was the tavern, but Athos would soon arrive to follow their trend. He had to have some distance, so he formed a plan to go to one of the abandoned houses. d'Artagnan waited by the well, drinking from it directly, hoping the water would help ease his stomach and the rising heat he felt.

Athos seemed better with Aramis and Porthos near though trapped outside the town. They would be there for him.

"Why don't you check on the priest? There is wine there, and you do not want to risk soberness," d'Artagnan started as Athos stopped in front of him.

"What?" Athos had been caught unaware.

d'Artagnan flicked the water that had spilled on his hand. "You take in no water, just wine," he added in a tone of annoyance.

"To fortify myself as I suggested you do." Athos frowned.

"Bring some bottles so Porthos and Aramis can watch you drink. It will feel like Paris." d'Artagnan's stomach clenched at his unkindness towards his best friend.

"I do not know what game this is, but I am going to take a ride out to our friends without you. When I return, I hope you are in better humor." Athos pivoted, leaving d'Artagnan to stare at his back.

d'Artagnan was alone with his job well done but making him feel broken. His eyes filled at the thought of his friends. He took in a breath to compose himself before leaving to talk to Lucien.

Athos

"Where's d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked when he saw Athos.

"Set to be the martyr," Athos mumbled. He had allowed d'Artagnan to work with the physician so he would feel productive, but it seemed as though his time amongst the diseased had led him to be judgmental. He had warned the boy about that.

"Something amiss?" Aramis asked, throwing rocks towards Adolphe, who returned them in some kind of odd game.

Athos sat down. He took in his friends across the way, the boys still healthy. He thought about the town, Bau, the priest. He was lost so much in his thoughts that he did not hear anyone calling for him.

"Athos?" Porthos had cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Did Adolphe and Dion show you to the water?" Athos stood up, wandering closer to his friends.

"Yes, they have been very hospitable - at a distance of course," Aramis replied. "We also met their father."

"He lives on the other side." Why hadn't this made sense before? He had to talk to d'Artagnan, warn the others.

"Athos? Where are you going? Athos!" Porthos yelled. He tried to come closer but held himself back.

"I will send word," Athos promised as he mounted his horse.

He galloped into town, bringing his horse closer to the tavern and then to the stable. d'Artagnan was inside, sitting down, bent over with a cup of water in his hands.

"Do not drink that!" He slapped the water out of the young man's hands.

"Stay back, Athos." d'Artagnan pushed the chair back grinding along the wood floor.

Athos saw the flush to the Gascon's skin, the way he swallowed. "You've fallen ill."

d'Artagnan bowed his head. "You returned too quickly.I was not to be here."

Athos stepped away from the younger man so sudden was his anger. "You wanted to be alone? Like an animal?" d'Artagnan was going to hide from him to spare him further sorrow. That was the cause of the rudeness.

"There is an abandoned house and Lucien. . ."

The older musketeer sought out the physician, who shook his head as if condoning the younger man's actions but being helpless against them.

Athos put his hands out, forced d'Artagnan to stand. "It's poison, not illness, you fool. You will not die." There had to be a cure or something more to be done. "It's poison. Treat it as such," he called out to the physician.

"Poison?" Lucien mouthed in puzzlement.

"The people who are ill, where is the water they use from?" Athos asked, having made the conclusion.

"The town center," d'Artagnan answered. "The water is poisoned; that is done with farm animals when a neighbor wants to take over the farm. . ."

"If you find out which poison, let me know. For now I will treat them differently, and we will stop using the well." Lucien started to give orders to the other caregivers.

Athos nodded. "I am going to speak to Father Ricard." The Father knew more, knew about the poison.

"I am coming with you." d'Artagnan squared his shoulders, trying to rally even though he looked miserable.

Athos led the younger man outside, guiding him along. He would rather have d'Artagnan with him to assure himself the young man would not fall dead. They entered without knocking, calling out for the priest until he appeared slightly disheveled. "Firmin Bau confessed his sins, didn't he, Father."

The priest made the sign of the cross. "Confession is sacred."

"As is human life," d'Artagnan reminded the priest.

"It is why you only drink wine."

The priest did not confirm, but d'Artagnan's retching seemed a fitting answer, much to Father Ricard's horror. "To Bau's?"

Athos put a hand on d'Artagnan's arm, but he shook it off. "Better to get it out."

"Close up the well!" Athos's ordered as he saw one of the men patrolling the street. "It's poison, not the plague!" The exclamation served as a rallying cry as those not compromised followed d'Artagnan and Athos, mounting horses or going by foot, not knowing where they were being led but following the Musketeers.

When they reached Bau's home, the men guarding it laid down their arms and fled instead of facing the angry crowd. Athos stormed in with d'Artagnan by his side.

"We know you poisoned the well."

They found Bau trying to get out a window with his wife in a corner of the home. The window was out, allowing a breeze in, which barely moved the heavy curtains.

"To get the inn and more," d'Artagnan said, adding grit into his voice to overcome the illness.

Bau stepped forward, his wife behind him. "It would have worked, should have. . ."

"The antidote." Athos put his hand out. There was no patience where his men were involved.

Firmin shook his head. "None. I got it from a peddler with no further information. I did not even think it would work or be that potent."

Athos drew his sword, leveling it at the man to judge if he was telling the truth. Disgustingly enough, Firmin knew nothing, by the man's reaction as his eyes rolled to the back of his head in fear. "Lock him up," Athos ordered one of the townspeople. "I also need someone to retrieve our friends; they are on the outskirts of the town."

A man raised his hand in acknowledgement.

d'Artagnan sagged a bit and vomited with the bile landing on Bau's shoes. "My aim has improved." The young man gagged again, bringing up nothing.

The man holding Bau wrinkled his nose at the sour stench. "I'll have someone send Monsieur Campion to the inn."

Athos gave a grateful nod as he grabbed d'Artagnan by the elbow, guiding him to limit his tripping on the uneven floor as he was unsteady on his feet. When mounted, d'Artagnan swayed a moment but held to his resolve to make it to the inn.

Athos noticed the town coming to life without the weight of the plague. Doors were opened, people milling about more than what Athos had seen previously. There were still those who were ill in the tavern and in their own homes, but there was hope.

A teen ran out to them when they stopped in front of the inn. "I'll take care of the horses, Monsieurs."

d'Artagnan dismounted slowly without the finesse he usually had with his horse. He rested against the mare. "There is a stable hand?"

"Apparently so."

Athos steadied his protégé to escort him inside and up the stairs to the room where Athos forced d'Artagnan to sit while he removed his cape, jacket, and vest. The young man was allowed to remove his pants to leave him in the smalls, but the action left him bowed.

Athos removed his cape and jacket, which allowed Aramis's rosary to be viewed. He bent over d'Artagnan to help him sit back, but the young man grabbed the religious beads.

"They're coming?" d'Artagnan rubbed the jeweled cross, tugging it somewhat.

"I expect you will hear them coming up the stairs at any moment," Athos stated, feeling as though this conversation had more to do with d'Artagnan's mortality.

As if he had conjured the sound there was a slow pattering. The door was ajar, but the halting footsteps were not those of Porthos and Aramis, but the physician.

d'Artagnan released the cross.

"What is there to do?" Athos was direct since his concern was focused on the young musketeer.

"Wine and heat until he sweats it out." Lucien was carrying two bottles of wine, setting them down on the table. "It is the best idea I can offer."

"Thank you, Lucien," d'Artagnan answered with a glare at Athos.

Athos nodded, giving a count's dismissal. He remained quiet until the physician left. "We'll wait for Aramis."

d'Artagnan grinned. "Distrustful of Lucien's advice?" He didn't wait for an answer as the Gascon closed his eyes, but was still awake.

"I trust Aramis." Athos moved to the table, opening a bottle of wine to fill two cups. "Although there may be merit." Athos lifted d'Artagnan's hand so he would take the wine.

By the time they finished the cup, Porthos and Aramis had arrived. Their boots clipped up the stairs until Aramis entered through the door first, with Porthos directly behind him filling the doorway.

"Poison's better than the plague." Aramis stepped in, placing a hand on Athos's shoulder. Athos felt grounded by the weight, the closeness of his friends.

"Not much better." Porthos jutted his chin at d'Artagnan. His hair was lanky, face pinched and pale.

"The physician suggested wine and more wine, and for d'Artagnan to sweat out the poison." The older musketeer rattled the directions that had been left.

Aramis pushed back d'Artagnan's hair, leaving his hand settled on the young man's brow. "I am relieved he did not suggest bloodletting." d'Artagnan opened his eyes to follow the sharpshooter's actions. "You've vomited?" d'Artagnan nodded. "We'll need more blankets. I'll start a fire."

"I'll get 'em." Porthos left the room but could be heard entering the other rooms in the inn, opening armoires. He returned with his hands full of woolen knit.

d'Artagnan was malleable until the third blanket. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face, hovering on his upper lip, which showed the signs of a mustache in the distant future. His eyes were closed, the heat and poison was leaving him weak. He tried batting away the extra weight; instead Athos forced another cup of wine on him.

The young man grimaced. Athos forced the liquid down, unrelenting with the cup against d'Artagnan's lips. "You two will have to bring Bau and the priest to the Baron of Haute Marne."

"Athos, you need help with d'Artagnan." Aramis was insistent.

They did not want to part so soon, which was understandable. There was still the specter of death, and Athos had taken it upon himself to place himself as the barrier between this world and the next. "Is this not the same you would do?"

"It is, but..."

The nobleman had to exude confidence, not the guilt he felt or the need of his friends. "We will still be here, otherwise I cannot ensure that Bau and Father Ricard will remain alive here in Chaumont." Athos was still a musketeer with a duty.

"With good reason." Porthos grumbled. "If we leave now, we can return by midday tomorrow." The strong man pulled Aramis towards him.

Athos knew they would ride hard, rightfully so, showing less care with the criminals.

The rosary was still around Athos's neck, but d'Artagnan needed it more so he hung it on the bed post, recalling the protective saint medals on his bed as a child. With a hand on d'Artagnan's arm so that Athos would be alerted to the young man's restlessness, Athos sought to get some rest, believing the day would be long.

((()))

d'Artagnan

Day 8

A burn worked its way up his throat to his mouth that had him moaning and turning his head to gag. Athos was there with a well-used bucket; the smell emanating from the vessel was a pungent sour smell of grapes. The odor assaulted d'Artagnan and choked the vomit from him.

He was allowed to rest back on the damp pillows. Everything was damp. Athos's shirt was rolled up, his doublet long since gone. With the blankets lifted there was a moment of coolness which he craved, but the blankets returned. "Water," he asked in a long whine he could not control. "Please. Hot. Water," he begged, seeing the clear liquid in his mind.

"Drink," Athos ordered.

Wine returned to his lips. d'Artagnan turned away from the bitterness, yet the cup chased him until he accepted it. He took one sip, sealing his mouth closed to suffer through the heat.

"Just a little more."

The cup was again on his lips with another hand on his forehead so he could not turn away. d'Artagnan wanted to cry, was crying if the wetness on his face was any indication, so he gave in with a whimper. He coughed after a long pull, his mouth sore and thick in its coating.

"Good." The hand on his forehead drifted away along with the cup.

The young man tried to move his arms, lift them to bring in some freshness. "Help," he called out, but the cry was ignored. Another wave of heat accosted him, taking him away until he floated to minimal awareness.

"You've returned."

"Get some rest, Athos and some air."

"It stinks in here. How can you stand it?"

"If it gets rid of the poison. . ."

At some point in his lethargy he realized his friends were talking about him. He had poison burning through him. His body jerked up uncontrolled as his back curved, and hands returned to restrain him.

"It's too much! The fever is dangerous for the mind."

d'Artagnan opened his mouth, releasing a high-pitched keen until he saw white sparks that overloaded his mind.

((()))

d'Artagnan

Day 9

Coolness settled on his forehead, permeating down through his neck to sooth the headache centered between his eyes. d'Artagnan sighed. He licked his cracked lips; his throat and stomach felt the same. There was also a deep thirst. After taking a breath and noting it lacked the smell of wine, vomit and sweat, he asked, "Water?"

"Open your eyes."

It sounded like a fair reward. Clean water as long as he awoke fully. It was a challenge to follow through. His eyes were sticky with heaviness. When he pried them open, there was a bright light suddenly smothered by three concerned faces.

They were aware enough to know they needed to quench his thirst. He wanted to be greedy with the water. It was refreshing, soothing the fire, but the cup wavered in front of him until he swallowed and took a breath.

"How do you feel?" Athos seemed as though he should be asked that question with his bloodshot eyes.

"Tired."

Aramis was seated on the bed. "The poison is out of you."

"Good." There was more d'Artagnan needed to know. "The town?"

"Better. Bau will be hanged, and Father Ricard has been posted to a small village known for its goats." Porthos looked to be suppressing a grin.

"Goats?"

"Goats." Aramis confirmed, leaving d'Artagnan to speculate on the punishment.

"Will we leave soon?" There were no restrictions leading d'Artagnan to desire freedom. He couldn't have Constance, his home in Lupiac was gone, but he was a Musketeer willing with a duty, and he had brothers.

"Once we are confident you can sit on a horse we will leave," Athos promised.

((()))

Athos

Day 11

Trapped too long in the town against their will, Athos too was in a rush to leave, so he did not disagree when d'Artagnan pronounced himself fit enough to ride.

Aramis protested, but understood the need after viewing the decimation of Chaumont. They would recover in time with Jean as their new and welcomed leader.

Jean's sons came to see them off. Adolphe stood closely next to his brother Dion, but Adolphe avoided holding his younger brother's hand, no matter how close the younger boy came to his older sibling. However Laure had her brother Yves's hand gripped.

He would not miss the oppression of the quarantine, but he would miss the quirky children who made it almost bearable had d'Artagnan not fallen ill.

"Keep practicing," d'Artagnan told the young charges.

"I'm going to beat Adolphe," Dion said, no longer in a quiet voice.

Adolphe rolled his eyes in protest with Athos giving the boy a nod of understanding.

"There must be a tale in this," Aramis commented. "Porthos, we will have the nag them for the story."

Porthos raised a brow. "d'Artagnan will divulge it."

d'Artagnan shook his head as Laure released her brother's hand and ran to the young musketeer.

"His future wife," Athos mumbled, but Porthos heard him and laughed heartily.

"The younger ones are always put upon." d'Artagnan extricated himself from Laure's grip, wishing her well.

"Put upon? More like spoiled." Athos would not want it any other way.

Aramis grinned. "They should be amusing company for the ride to Paris."

"You prove my point." d'Artagnan lifted his head in pride, sniffing the air as if he was above their teasing.

"Yes, yes, you are abused and we are waiting for you. You did request that we leave. . ." Athos had mounted his horse, as did the others. There would always be unconditional patience when it came to his brothers to see them through.

The End