Chapter Text
Adversity is the touchstone of friendship – French Proverb
CHAPTER ONE
The Garrison:
It was getting late in the day, and the courtyard was awash with bright sunshine, affording very little shade to the groups of sparring Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos had sought what little comfort they could following their own sparring session, and were now slumped at their usual table, having removed their jackets and poured ale. The clash of swords opposite them indicated that their brothers were still engaged in their swordplay, and they settled in to watch.
Time and again, they watched as Athos parried easily, drawing back as d’Artagnan succumbed to what, in real circumstances, would be a lethal blow. Both men were soaked in perspiration from the heat of the sun and d’Artagnan’s body language now screamed frustration at every failure to best the older man.
d’Artagnan knew what Athos was doing. Each time he was bettered by his mentor, it was accompanied by a whispered insult. He knew why he was doing it. It was working. He was getting really wound up.
Head over heart, that was the lesson; again and again.
It was supposed to make him fight in a more logical way, but it was merely making him angry. At Athos; at himself.
It was hot, and he was tired. He had had enough. Parrying once, twice and then exasperated by another whispered insult, he snapped.
They locked blades once more, and d’Artagnan anchored his feet and threw his body forward and shoved Athos forcefully backwards.
Athos was thrown off balance and slammed into the wooden pillar supporting the overhead balcony. d’Artagnan made a show of holding both hands up, and let his sword and dagger fall to the ground before turning and walking angrily out through the archway.
Aramis and Porthos had been enjoying the show, but now both looked at each other in concern. They rose and walked over to Athos to see what it was he had finally whispered that had so angered their younger brother.
“What was that about?” asked Aramis, turning to face Athos.
His question hung in the air; there was no reply.
Something was wrong.
Athos was standing very still with a look of confusion on his face, both hands held up in supplication. Slowly his hand opened and his sword dropped to the ground. Aramis looked at Porthos, and both took a step forward.
“Athos?”
Athos met Aramis’s eyes and, as a look of puzzlement passed over his face, a trickle of blood spilled over his lips.
Porthos went to grab him.
“No!” cried Aramis, “Don’t touch him!”
Athos’s lips were moving, but no sound came.
Aramis slid his hand behind Athos’s back and quickly pulled it back gasping.
Athos had been impaled on a very large, very ugly nail protruding from the wooden pillar.
oOo
“Don’t move, Athos,” Aramis cried, placing his hand gently on his brother’s chest.
He had to think. If they pulled him forward off the nail, he would probably bleed profusely. At the moment the nail, large as it was, was acting as a plug, the blood already congealing around it. Aramis would have to put his hand between Athos and the post and apply pressure to the wound before they could walk him forward. They would then have to keep the pressure on once he was free or he would lose a lot of blood. They had to move soon though, Athos was standing perfectly still with his head bowed, his breath hissing through his teeth, but he had started to shake. He was going into shock.
Aramis moved into Athos’s line of vision and explained that he had been impaled through his left shoulder; that Porthos has gone to get bandages, and he then quickly told him what they were going to do.
Athos gave the slightest of nods in agreement. Porthos came running back with bandages, and Aramis quickly made them into a pad. After a quick discussion, Porthos bent over and took Athos’s right wrist.
“On the count of three Porthos,” said Aramis.
1 ... 2 ... 3!
Porthos grabbed the front of his doublet, and gently but firmly, pulled Athos towards him. At the same time, Aramis thrust the wad of bandages over the wound. Athos made an awful sound that caught Aramis’s breath. Porthos stepped back, pulling Athos with him. He ducked under his arm and stood up in one motion; Athos draped over his shoulder.
Aramis kept the wad pressed firmly on the wound and they both turned and hurried toward the Infirmary.
To his credit, Athos did not lose consciousness.
Once inside, Porthos gently bent and set him in a chair. Aramis did not want him lying down. He stood behind him still applying pressure to the wound.
Porthos brought a glass of wine and held it to Athos’s lips. He drank gratefully, and held on to the empty cup tightly. Aramis was relieved so see that the blood on his lips was due to him biting his tongue. Porthos then pulled up a chair and sat in front of him. Athos was very pale, his eyes tightly shut. Adrenaline was flowing through his veins and his foot was tapping on the floor, as he swayed forward and back trying to gain some control over his breathing.
Porthos leaned forward and took his friend’s face in his large hands. The kindness was too much. His concentration broken, Athos rested his head against Porthos’s shoulder and quietly fainted.
“S’alright,” Porthos whispered, holding the back of his neck. He shot a look up at Aramis, catching the worried look on his face as the marksman fought to stop the blood.
At that moment, d’Artagnan burst into the room, just as Athos was stirring. He knew what had happened, someone had told him and he had seen the post outside.
“S’alright,” Porthos said again, but this time to d’Artagnan, who crashed down onto a chair behind Aramis.
“I can’t stitch this,” said Aramis in exasperation, several minutes later,
“The wound is not clean, I need to pack it.”
“And then repack it every day” he continued. “Only when it’s clean, can I stitch it.”
“He ain’t gonna like it,” said Porthos.
d’Artagnan stood up and quietly walked away, unable to look any further.
To be continued ...