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Whether God worked a miracle or Hell spit him back out remains up for debate, in Athos’ opinion.
In any case, as it turned out, his friends hadn’t been too late after all. Having prevented the last two Spaniards from taking Athos’ head off, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan had somehow managed to keep Athos’ guts from spilling out onto the cobblestones, had bandaged him up, and Athos, unconsciously, had contributed to the rescue effort by keeping enough blood inside him until they’d transported him to Lemay’s surgery.
The docteur had cleaned and sewn up the wound and declared that it was all he could do for the wounded Musketeer. Athos’ fate was in God’s hands now (or, the Devil’s, as Athos keeps insisting). Lemay hadn’t been sure if the blade had nicked Athos’ bowels. If it had, Athos was sure to die a slow and agonizing death. If not - well, they would have to wait and pray and hope.
Blood loss had been an additional worry. Athos himself doesn’t remember how pale he’d looked in those first few days after the fight, but his friends - Porthos in particular - aren’t getting tired of telling him that he’d looked so white, “I could see right through yer skin an’ see death grinning underneath”.
And Athos, now propped up in bed, less ghostly in appearance, but still physically incapable of escaping his brothers’ care, rolls his eyes at Porthos’ exaggerations while, secretly, acknowledging them for what they are: an expression of relief.
And it’s easy for him to dismiss the drama of the last ten days. After all, he’d been unconscious for most of it.
He vaguely remembers the night it happened and Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan saving him from those Spaniards at the last second. He remembers Aramis’ hands pressing something against the wound in his belly, remembers the sudden, infernal pain and being too weak to scream. He remembers slivers of sky above him and being jostled about, a big hand - Porthos’, this time - holding his. He remembers d’Artagnan too, holding him down with his strong, young hands, as Lemay worked on him and Athos was thrashing in agony.
Mercy had him pass out then, for the rest of the gruesome procedure, and he has no clear memories after that. Blood loss, a fever and a raging infection had made him drift through a whole week of darkness that little could penetrate - the occasional word of prayer whispered by his ear in Aramis’ supple tenor; d’Artagnan’s pleas to drink; Porthos’ booming baritone fading in and out of his fever dreams.
But although he’d missed most of it, Athos is aware of how close a call it’s been this time. He can see it in his brothers: they look thinner, haunted, and although he’s improving steadily now, sitting up, eating and talking, they don’t seem to want to leave his side.
“How are you, Aramis?” Athos asks his brother who’s just tied a fresh bandage around his arm - that particular wound almost an afterthought compared to the hole in his stomach, but pesky nonetheless.
“Me?” Aramis looks at him in surprise, brows lifted in wonder. “I’m not the one who almost died.”
“No, but you look like you did.”
It is true: Dark circles ring his brother’s eyes and his skin seems to have lost its natural tan. While he’s tied his hair back in a haphazard ponytail today, he otherwise still looks less groomed than his vanity commonly allows.
Aramis sits back and heaves a heavy sigh.
“We almost lost you, you know?” Something burns in the darkness of his eyes.
Feeling guilty, Athos closes his hand around Aramis’ wrist and squeezes.
“But you didn’t.”
“No, but…” Aramis shakes his shaggy head. “We never got this close.”
He shifts his hand to hold Athos’ fingers. There’s an unusual gravitas about him now, all levity cast aside, his eyes darker than Athos has ever seen them.
“You may not remember this, but… you stopped breathing.”
“I did?” Athos is surprised more than shocked. “Then how…?”
He lets the question hang in the air, the ramifications of what his brother said still sinking in.
“D’Artagnan hit you.”
Pulling his hand away, Aramis shakes his head, the impossibility of what he’s describing written in his face. He gets up to start pacing.
“After you’d stopped breathing. He slapped you in the face. Screamed at you. He just didn’t want to let you go. He didn’t want to accept it. Porthos tried to stop him, but it was impossible! And then he started pounding you in the chest.”
The horror of that night is audible in Aramis’ voice. He sounds hoarse, hollow, and Athos is a bit shocked.
“That’s when Porthos got him off of you,” Aramis continues. “And that’s when you started to breathe again.”
Athos doesn’t know what to say. All his jesting that Hell spit him back out - it looks like it was true after all.
“Aramis…”
Athos wants to reach for him, but the Spanish Musketeer keeps pacing.
“I don’t know if that was what brought you back”, he says, dismayed. “Him hitting you. Or his screams. Or my prayers. Or Porthos’ tears.”
He cannot stand still, cannot look Athos in the eyes.
“Whatever it was - don’t ever do this to us again.”
Athos remains silent for a moment. They both know it’s an impossible demand. They’re Musketeers. Soldiers. Death walks with them every day, with each of them, not just Athos. But he also knows that Aramis needs this now, this bit of denial, of reassurance, the belief that he won’t have to bury Athos alongside the dozen brothers he lost in Savoy. D’Artagnan may have lost it for a moment back there, when he pounded the life back into Athos; Porthos may be the easiest to break into tears; but it’s Aramis who cannot take another blow.
Athos knows this.
“I won’t,” he therefore says, and even if he still cannot reach his restless brother with his hands, he at least manages to catch his dark gaze and hold it.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Aramis stands still now. He looks for the truth in Athos’ eyes, finds the good intention in his lie and takes it. It’s got to be enough, for now.
“Good.” Aramis nods, weary and worn. “Good.” He picks up a wad of discarded bandages from Athos’ bedside table and a half-eaten plate of stew. “I’ll hold you to that.”
And then they both go back to healing.