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No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”
Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”
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“You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions.”
– M. d’Artagnan the elder
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“Grab him!”
Athos and Porthos caught him up, arms acting like a net across his back. It had to be Porthos, given the thickness of arm and hand on the one side, and it was Athos’ scarf, he knew the pattern of that fabric.
He was dizzy, and he’d tried to indicate that before sitting down. He’d moved to sit, well he’d thought about it, but he’d remained on his horse. Had he remained on his horse? D’Artagnan recalled standing, or thinking about it, maybe he’d still been seated on his horse.
He did not faint. He did not swoon.
Except he wasn’t on his feet.
A crack of light, broke across his vision and dark shapes blocked out the lowering sun streaming through the shifting leaves overhead. They were fluttering and rippling, but d’Artagnan didn’t recall when it had turned windy.
“D’Artagnan…” A lilting voice, Aramis’ he thought; he’d certainly be the one to utter his name in so musical a manner. “D’Artagnan...look here please…”
His tongue felt thick, cheeks swollen in and preventing his mouth from opening; the ache reminded him of that after being punched. Had he been punched? Kicked?
He tried to peer at himself but instead felt the mildly nauseating sense that accompanied crossing one’s eyes. Maybe he had. Why couldn’t he speak?
D’Artagnan would have to interrupt if he did. There was a rumbling over his head, and though muffled he knew the others were crowding around him. All three gathered about him and yet he couldn’t make out the features of a single man.
“No, no...not that way…”
Turning his head back to center – his approximation of it anyway – he dropped his chin. Blinking rapidly he still couldn’t clear his vision so he looked back up trying to force his eyes to find one of them.
“Over here, please…”
Gentle and bare fingertips tipped his chin, moving him in their desired angle.
“Watch it, he looks like he’s gonna – ”
That was Porthos?
“Don’t say it.”
Yes, it was Porthos, because that had been Athos.
“D’Artagnan.”
Aramis’ voice encouraged him to focus, using that calm tone of his that dulled all the noise in the chaos. He wanted that, whatever had happened he needed a focal point; that was wise of Aramis. Hands bracketed either side of his face, glove-warmed palms preventing his head from toppling to the side, and his vision narrowed to where it was made to meet Aramis’ eyes, crinkling at their edges.
“Ah, there.”
D’Artagnan returned Aramis’ smile, pleased with himself that he’d succeeded in maintaining concentration.
“Now...how many fingers am I holding up?”
He couldn't see a hand, let alone individual fingers. Aramis enjoyed teasing him, well-meaning and mostly amiable – he’d not be deliberately cruel, not to d’Artagnan. Not to his friends.
Unless they were endangering another one of his friends. Aramis had been unnerving when Porthos had – what had happened with Porthos? His back had hit a wheel or was it a cart? He’d been forced to step back? Had he? What had happened? Had he fallen off his horse? Were they walking, no they’d been running and there was a carriage, and velvet. There had been two coaches.
His leg hurt – why was Aramis rambling about fingers. He should be attending to his leg. Maybe Aramis was unaware of the injury!
D’Artagnan needed to tell him. Aramis was quite talented at tending their minor wounds, he excelled at needlework and he took genuine care – and no small amount of pride – in looking after their health. However, there seemed to be much confusion on the part of his friends and it was understandable that Aramis might’ve overlooked the limb.
“He’s done,” that was Aramis’ caretaking voice.
Athos often told him that he needed to choose one interest and commit. Aramis countered that he’d committed to a variety of options and that one never knew at what point the skill of setting a bone or that connection to this abbé would provide good fortune. D’Artagnan thought he was a fool for wanting to join the clergy; he’d make a poor Richelieu.
Thankfully.
He shuddered in the grasp of the arms supporting him. Aramis. In a cassock. Great robes swamping him and one hand teasing the end of his beard while pouring over papers on a huge mahogany desk, fire cracking to his left. His ribs threatened to splinter from the gusts of air trying to shudder out of him.
“He looks odd.”
Was that Porthos?
“Perhaps he struck his head? Did anyone see?””
That was Aramis again.
The unknown voice floated in, the man’s accented French a strain to d’Artagnan’s clouded mind. His head ached working to decipher the words; words he knew but that confused him for having to translate them as they were spoken.
“It appeared that he bounced against the ground before he slid down the incline.”
“His eyes aren’t tracking.”
Was that Aramis?
“We’ll escort you to the crossroads.”
“Shouldn’t we accompany them to their lodgings?”
“No. We separate.”
“And hope they follow us?”
D’Artagnan lost track of which man was speaking, but had some sympathy for the unknown man. He’d learned slowly to portion his questioning of Athos even if he rarely acted on the wisdom. Other times he’d delay the urge to ask and instead brought his concern or theory to Aramis or Porthos before broaching it with Athos to avoid a barrage of questions. Athos was a man of considerable patience, but even he could be worn thin by too much inquiry – especially when they were under duress.
They had been attacked, hadn’t they? Ambushed. He certainly felt as though he’d been set upon by multiple men.
“Shall we all take shelter?”
“He’ll have to,” stated Aramis.
“You mean us to keep traveling?”
“You’ll be safer on the road,” Athos said crisply to the stranger.
He wasn’t pleased. D’Artagnan found this particular tone meant he didn’t care for his own plan but he didn’t like his options otherwise. The strain on his words made d’Artagnan think he also didn’t care for the newcomer’s interjections.
D’Artagnan wondered a great many things, but all he wanted was to sink further in the strong hold of his friend’s.
He wondered too, if he’d sounded so eagerly wrong footed when asking questions. He’d dearly love to clarify a few events at present. What had preceded this mattered little; he swayed into a larger torso – Porthos, had to be. The man was crowding him a bit, blocking him from potential attack while he was down, definitely Porthos.
He couldn’t rest – what was he thinking? They were being pursued. Or tracked. There was a valid foundation for Athos’ concern. They couldn’t tarry here.
Wherever they were.
Scuffed leather boots made ruts in the wet grass as he attempted to stand and his leg made itself known as a staunch objector to movement. He gave up as much from Athos pressing upon his right shoulder as he did the searing pain that stabbed like a knife dug and dragged along his left calf. Knowing it was Porthos on his other side his mind calmed him that his friend was not pressing a hot iron against his leg.
The fiend behind the agony of his injury was absent.
Another unanswered question: what had been done to his leg.
Whoever caused the wound was of no consequence now.
Not immediately.
Someone said he’d hit his head. That might be true. Pain battered at him whenever he tried to shift his gaze, and his eyes swiveled around without seeing. Shapes and noises were noted by his mind but they wouldn't translate to fully realized images and thoughts.
“D’Artagnan!”
His face wrinkled and he turned it where he guessed Athos’ face was located. There’d been no need to shout. His head ached after all; why did Athos believe that would help.
“Get him up,” Aramis directed them, “...gently…”
D’Artagnan chewed his bottom lip, legs skidding in the mud with his attempts at getting his boots level with the earth. Leaves that were damp and brown, unlike their counterparts dancing overhead, spun while he felt his head swivel across his shoulders.
“He’s favorin’ – ”
“I know, but I can’t risk dressing the leg here.”
Porthos jammed his shoulder further under d’Artagnan’s taking more weight and hefting him in an effort to half-carry his body.
“It’s not fatal,” Aramis’ voice sounded like it was coming from behind him, “but remaining here might prove so…”
They began to lumber forward to whatever direction Aramis had given them.
“Don’t fight, we have you.”
D’Artagnan wanted to drop his head to Athos’ shoulder at the low-spoken assurance. He wanted to squeeze his arms tight across both their shoulders in thanks for their assistance; unfortunately the muscles were capable of little except draping over them.
“Keep his leg straight,” Aramis’ voice floated down now, “lift him from this side.”
“Take his arm, we’ll heave him up.”
Crushed between his friends he could see Aramis’ distinctive boot with its butterfly already slipped through the stirrup. D’Artagnan tilted with their movement, and groped the air for Aramis’ hand. He left his arm extended, expectant, for a touch that never came.
“I think…” Aramis hissed in a breath overhead, “...he may have misinterpreted you, Athos.”
Athos’ glare, even though not directed at him, was palpable. D’Artagnan glared at the mismatched leaves, casting his eyes from the mess he’d added to the mud and where he’d caught Athos’ right boot.
The stranger’s voice drifted over while d’Artagnan continued panting, his fingers scraping over Porthos’ arm in an attempt to keep upright.
“The clothes are no matter, it’s all of our skins I’m concerned for.”
A firm grasp wound around his bicep, squeezing in assurance as he was pulled side-on to the horse in front of him. He was pushed and pulled, losing track of the hands that held and hefted him up to the saddle. Thankfully they’d taken care to keep his burning leg from being agitated and he leaned back when the firm press of a forearm encouraged him.
“Our Florentine friend may take no offense, but I shall be very cross,” Aramis’ warning was in opposition to the soft press of his hand to d’Artagnan’s side, “and I would very much appreciate a warning should you feel the need to do that again.”
“Doubt there’s anything left in there,” Porthos called from somewhere off to their right, patting his corresponding thigh. The hand moved off, and he sensed Porthos remained close, but he didn’t feel a touch to accompany the sound of his glove finding leather. “You take care.”
“Look after that wound,” Athos told Aramis.
That was unnecessary in d’Artagnan’s opinion. Aramis would be fretting over the leg if he were in a position to do so, and d’Artagnan chose to believe that’s why he’d made a fuss over warning him. It was hardly his fault, Aramis surely knew how difficult it was to speak when one was - well, no need to relive unpleasantness.Athos curled his glove around d’Artagnan’s elbow, pinching lightly for his attention,
“We’ll return.”
D’Artagnan wasn’t certain he nodded, or even indicated that he’d heard, but Athos made a motion that he caught in his peripheral vision before the Athos shaped blur moved away. Aramis shifted their combined weight and patted his hand over d’Artagnan’s velvet doublet and d’Artagnan sunk further, taking refuge in his hold and voice.
“Lean back,” Aramis told him, “and remember to warn me, yes?”
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