Greetings, everyone!

I have missed being here! 'Behind the scenes', I have been working on lots of different things, including this little story. It was going to be a one-off chapter but then it kept growing so there are several instalments to come. It is, of course, inspired by the strange world we currently inhabit. Perhaps, in decades to come, Covid will no longer hold the fear it does now and there will be an effective vaccine well before then. Back in the 17th century, though, there were plenty of diseases to cause concern that we probably think little of in this day and age and I'm not thinking of the plague, although at the time, it was breaking out in Paris one year in three.

All I will add is that you might want to re-read 'Repercussions' I had to! (lol) I have broken through the barrier at long last and have already added about 12 chapters with more to come. The story will continue when this one is concluded.

CHAPTER 1

Athos was feeling …. What exactly? Under normal circumstances, he was not one to have difficulties in expressing himself, but he was having considerable problems now in articulating the precise nature of what he was experiencing. If he could not understand it himself, how could he be expected to explain it to anyone else? He knew that it was inevitable that questions would be asked and that his most likely interrogator would be Aramis and so, for some reason – again unidentifiable – Athos was endeavouring to avoid him. It seemed the lesser of two evils.

What was the other one then? It was a strange saying. If not talking to Aramis was one evil, then what was the one that was ostensibly worse?

He had no answer for he could not think and, in a mind that was always active, that was a worry in itself. Athos was constantly thinking about something: how to keep himself and his brothers out of the trouble that always managed to find them; how to solve a particular strategic problem for the Captain and many more besides. That was without the darker thoughts that invaded his quieter, more solitary moments. Thoughts of Thomas, Ann, his abandonment of the Pinon estate and his title, the secrets to which he still held fast. The wine might keep them at bay for a while, but they were never silenced, not really.

Now, however, his brain was addled, foggy even. Things that he was deliberately trying to recall were swirling on the periphery of his memory, shadows of information that circled out of reach and left him confused … or even bemused. Which one was it? Or was it even both? He could no longer tell … and it concerned him.

Something was not right.

Athos was … not himself. There, that summed it up nicely. He was not feeling himself.

He did not actually feel ill. At least, that is what he told himself for he did not believe that was the case. It was certainly not in the blinding headache or complaining stomach way that might mark the aftermath of a deliberate excess of alcohol.

The swordsman pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose … again. That was the third time in half an hour. He frowned. When did he start keeping a mental check of the number of times that his nose was running?

He was sitting at the table favoured by his brothers and him. It was positioned at the bottom of the stairs which led up to Captain Tréville's office and, from this vantage point, he looked about him as if the answer to his problem were to be found elsewhere. Perhaps something in the air was aggravating his sense of smell.

But there was nothing untoward in the garrison yard, nothing that might be held responsible for the reaction he was suffering. The odours were the same: sweaty men engaging in some sparring, the next meal being prepared by Serge in the nearby kitchen and the usual scent of horses and rank manure that emanated from the stables opposite him.

Suddenly, he gave an explosive sneeze and, sighing, he pulled out the same handkerchief from the pocket where he had only just stowed it and blew his nose. He looked out at the exercising men to see if anyone had noticed, but they continued in their practice, utterly oblivious. So far, he had rejected all invitations from his brothers to join them and he realised again that it would not be long before their suspicions were aroused.

How could he tell them that he wanted no part in their activities because he was weary? That was it! An all-pervasive exhaustion had seeped into his very bones and that was not right either, for he had slept long and heavily the previous night. As he pondered it now, he recognised another idiosyncrasy. He rarely slept 'long and heavily' unless he was sleep deprived on a mission after several successive nights without rest.

Suddenly he was distracted as Porthos wrestled d'Artagnan to the ground. The young Gascon yelped loudly at the indignity and raised himself on his elbows, breathing hard as he glared up at the big Musketeer towering over him and laughing.

"What did I do wrong that time?" the young man demanded, his audible frustration more to do with his own shortcomings than yet another defeat.

"You let him wrong foot you," Aramis explained as he held out a hand and hauled d'Artagnan to his feet. "Don't you think so, Athos?" he called over.

"My apologies," Athos confessed, "but I was not really paying attention. I am sure that you are correct in your analysis though."

He saw Aramis' brow furrow and his heart sank; he recognised that expression. Any minute now, Aramis would make some excuse, come to the table and the inquisition would begin. But how could he answer?

Sure enough, Aramis said something to the others and sauntered over, throwing himself down on the bench the other side of the table as he reached for the jug and a cup to pour himself a drink. He swallowed one large mouthful and stopped.

He stared at it in disbelief, then across at Athos and finally back to the cup's contents.

"It's water!" he exclaimed.

"It is," Athos affirmed.

"But I expected it to be watered ale or wine. You are drinking water."

"I am," Athos admitted slowly. "I was thirsty."

He was not about to add that he had been drinking water since the previous evening, unbeknown to his friends. His meal had been left largely untouched as he had not been hungry and the wine which they had ordered to accompany their dinner had tasted like vinegar whilst the thought of ale totally disinterested him.

Aramis' eyes narrowed and Athos hoped in vain that the matter would be left to rest. He was not in the mood for the jibes that imbibing water was likely to provoke and he certainly did not want to engage in a searching inquiry as to what was wrong.

There was nothing wrong! But the words jarred in his head, sounding empty even to him as his attempt at self-deception broke down. He could no longer ignore it. Something was most definitely amiss, and he wondered at his inexplicable and unfounded irritation. Aramis was only about to demonstrate his caring heart and concern for the wellbeing that he had for each of his brothers.

Athos concluded that he was being very unreasonable, but he was abruptly conscious that Aramis had said something to him, and he had not heard. He focused on the other man and squinted.

Where Aramis had positioned himself, the sun was directly behind him and Athos found it too bright, painful even, as he faced it. His left eye began to water as a result and he swiped at it, angry with himself at the rebellious behaviour of his body. What was happening to him?

"Did you hear me? I asked you what was wrong," Aramis repeated, his brow furrowing more deeply.

"Nothing!" Athos snapped. "Nothing is wrong." But his insistence sounded futile, false, even to his own ears.

The tickle in his nose heralded another sneeze and he drew out the handkerchief just in time. This was fast becoming annoying.

"Have you caught a cold by any chance?" Aramis asked. His voice, much to Athos' relief, sounded light and, if anything, mildly teasing.

He was undoubtedly correct. It was but the early onset of a common cold after all; an inconvenience, yes, but something that would soon pass.

It was a civil question, worthy of a civil answer but …

"Where have I been to catch a cold?" Athos demanded testily. "You three are all well and I know of no-one else in the garrison who has such an affliction."

It was unfortunate but with so many men living in such close proximity, any ailment could spread quickly through their ranks.

"It is possible to have been in contact with someone else who is unwell, you know," Aramis reminded him as he attempted to assuage the unexpected tension with one of his winning smiles.

Athos sighed and shut his eyes to the bright sun. That gesture might be enough to discourage Aramis from pursuing the subject for it signalled his desire to be left alone as much as anything else.

As a deterrent, it failed miserably.

"How do you feel?" Aramis wanted to know, his demeanour becoming more serious. His words were soft, low, and filled with apprehension.

"Fine!" Athos said curtly, his eyes flying open. He regretted it straight away and dipped his head, anything to alleviate the resultant discomfort. "I am fine," he repeated lamely.

There was silence.

"Athos, look at me," Aramis ordered. "Please," he added softly.

There was no mistaking the concern in his tone now and Athos hated to add to it, so he raised his head and tried to do as his friend asked, but without success. Why was the sun so bright and why did the light hurt so?

"I will ask you again and I want you to give me an honest answer. How are you feeling?"

Athos hesitated, not because he refused to answer or that he was reluctant, but he genuinely did not know what to say. It sounded so ridiculous; a grown man incapable of passing comment upon his current state of health but he was confused and the more he was pressed, the more he grew uncomfortable, fearful even.

He was not one to succumb readily to illness. Ailments could decimate the regiment and he would, more often than not, be one of the few who was left standing. Admittedly, he saw the inside of the garrison's infirmary more often than he would have liked but that was because of injuries received in the line of his work. He was a soldier, and when soldiers fought an enemy, there were unfortunate consequences, but at least he still breathed. There were accidents, too, of course and he could berate himself as much as he liked but they were not always avoidable. Of course, there were also the scrapes and bruises accumulated after a run-in with the men of Cardinal Richelieu's Red Guard but that did not warrant further consideration.

Illness was an unfair enemy that attacked unseen and with little warning. The battle that followed was to recover, the duration of the fight dependent upon the severity of the symptoms and the nature of the assailant.

He had had only one such battle within recent months and that was when he had somehow contracted the sweating sickness. There was absolutely no recollection of what had happened to him over the course of twenty-four hours or more. Not even a vague memory remained of the ruthless and rapid onslaught of the symptoms or how they had ravaged his body. He was mercifully ignorant of his close brush with death but, in quiet conversation with Aramis afterwards, he had learned of the helplessness of his brothers and Captain as they tended him and tried to fight the battle with him.

They and the physician had been isolated with him in the infirmary, desperate to limit the contagion before it infected the rest of the regiment. It must have been terrifying, bearing witness to what was happening to him and knowing that any or all of them within the confined space might be the next to fall. And where Aramis had attempted to hold back some of the more fearful details, he had wormed additional information from Tréville.

The cold hand of fear touched him. Supposing he was sickening for something similar? It did not seem the same, though, as he was too aware of his own deterioration this time.

"Athos!" Aramis prompted him.

He shielded his eyes as he looked at his friend, inwardly cursing himself for leaving his hat in his room. Its brim would have proved useful.

"I am …" he struggled to find the words, "out of sorts today."

He knew that it sounded vague and evasive, but he truly could not think of how else to describe his current state.

Aramis stood and stepped back over his bench.

"Come," he said, inclining his head as he entreated Athos to follow him.

"Where are we going?" Athos looked up at him, appreciating the discovery that his friend's lithe frame temporarily blocked out the sun.

"To the infirmary," Aramis explained.

"But …." Athos began, not actually wanting to move, for the short walk suddenly took on the distance of an ancient Greek marathon and sitting at the table was so much easier.

"It will be quiet there and we can talk freely," Aramis interrupted. "I can also examine you if need be."

"I am sure it will not be necessary," Athos stated, pushing himself sluggishly to his feet. Why was everything such hard work today? He could feel Aramis' eyes on him, watching every lethargic move as he circumnavigated the table to join the marksman and they started out on their slow walk to the infirmary.

"Let me be the judge of that," Aramis said eventually, breaking the silence. "I have never known you so readily concede that you are 'out of sorts', to use your phraseology."

Athos said nothing; he was concentrating too hard on putting one leaden foot in front of the other. What had happened to his energy in the last hour or so?