Double Trouble

Chapter Twelve: The Miracle, Part I

THE MIRACLE, PART I:

The two Musketeers creep stealthily from d'Artagnan's sickroom, closing the door quietly behind them. They walk down the hall arms intertwined around each other's shoulders, still smiling from the success of their young friend's surgery.

Cécile rushes out of Athos's room, "he's awake!" she cried with excitement.

Aramis and Porthos rush into the room to be at their brother's side. They sit down in the two chairs positioned beside the bed where they've been keeping vigil nearly every waking moment since they got permission to stay by Captain Tréville.

The emergency with d'Artagnan has been the only distraction pulling them away from Athos's side since his health declined. Now, with the young Gascon on the mend, Porthos and Aramis can turn their attention back to the brother whose life is hanging in the balance—the scale easily tipped either way.

Aramis and Porthos barely contain their excitement as they see their sick brother finally awake. Athos's green eyes are somewhat glossy, but they're open and focused on his friends.

"Hey, brother Athos," said Aramis softly. "About time you woke up from your nap. You had us worried, mon ami." Aramis placed his hand to the fevered forehead, stroking softly with his thumb. Much too hot, he thought.

Athos's mouth curls up with a faint smile that fades in seconds. Even the act of smiling leaves him exhausted, his eyelids flutter closed. He feels tired, so tired. . . he just wants to sleep.

"No, you don't!" Porthos softly taps the cheek of his friend to waken him. "You've slept long enough, brother. We're here to keep you awake, so just get used to it," he gently teased.

Despite the teasing rebuke from his friends, Athos's heavy eyelids are drooping. He can barely muster the strength to keep his tired eyes from closing; yet through glazed eyes he clearly sees the worry etched on the faces of his friends.

I have to fight—for their sake.

Athos POV

I want to tell my brothers everything is going to be alright. . . but I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I see the worry on their faces; no words are necessary when I can plainly read the fear so obvious in their eyes.

I want to get well again so we can return to the garrison together and get back to work. I just want everything to return to normal again.

The two brothers in front of me are my right and my left hand. They have been there for me-and with me-through thick and thin; through good and bad; through my mood swings and carefree days.

Porthos and Aramis, and d'Artagnan too, were there to pull me from the wretchedness of my despair-when my past haunted me—when all I wanted to do was die.

My brothers accepted me for who I am, despite the demons I carried with me. Porthos and Aramis accepted me as a friend and as a brother; they allowed a special place in their hearts for me without judging me for my past.

I know they are the only reason I didn't drink myself to an early grave.

My brothers were my strength when I was too drunk to give a damn. Many times they were my only support when drunkenness brought me to my knees. I recall the frequent nights they stayed with me, nursing me back to health until I was sober.

The last morning before our mission, I had retched my guts out because of my drunkenness; but both Porthos and Aramis were there to pick me up and clean me up.