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Chapter Text

He found himself unaccountably nervous as he stood next to his horse, one of seven men who would be accompanying Treville to his meeting with the Ambassador. Moving the reins he held from his right hand to his left, he rubbed the former hand ineffectually along his breeches in an effort to wipe away the sweat that pooled there. It was not like he was a recruit anymore and he’d been tested time and again, successfully having proven both his skill and his worth to the regiment. Surely he would not have won his commission if that wasn’t the case.

 

Beside him, his horse nickered softly, sensing its owner’s unrest, and d’Artagnan moved his still clammy hand to the animal’s neck, stroking it absently as he murmured a few words to soothe it. In response, the horse turned its head, seeking one of the treats that the Gascon often carried, but he gently pushed the inquisitive nose away and the animal whinnied quietly in protest. He allowed his hand to drop and switched the reins over again, his eyes darting up to the balcony where the Captain’s office was located. Their commanding officer was just leaving final instructions with Vieux who would be stepping in to lead the regiment during Treville’s absence.

 

As he heard the door above open, followed immediately by the hollow echo of the Captain’s boots on the wooden planks, d’Artagnan’s heart sped up and he grimaced inwardly at his body’s foolish reaction. He reminded himself again that he was no longer a raw recruit and, compared to the many of the other men, he could almost be viewed as a seasoned soldier, having proven himself multiple times in the months since he’d gained his pauldron. As if sensing his anxiety, Treville paused two steps from the bottom, casting an appraising eye over the Gascon and d’Artagnan held his breath, wondering what the older man saw when he looked at him.

 

Whatever Treville had been looking for, he seemed to find it as he gave the younger man a small nod which d’Artagnan returned, watching as the Captain took a final look over the assembled men. With a low murmur of thanks to the stable boy, he gathered his reins and pulled himself into the saddle, the Musketeers surrounding him doing the same. With another nod of his head, Treville indicated his readiness to move out and two men took the lead while Treville and d’Artagnan fell in behind, the remaining men closing ranks to both surround and follow them. A small thrill of pride replaced his earlier anxiety and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but sit up a little straighter at the knowledge that he’d been entrusted to stay close to the Captain, thus giving him an important role in protecting the man if they encountered any trouble.

 

The thought was followed by a wince, this one flashing momentarily across his face and he prayed that Treville hadn’t noticed. A quick glance in the Captain’s direction revealed eyes that faced forward and the Gascon let out a soft sigh of relief that he hadn’t been found out. Part of the reason that he now accompanied Treville was that he’d still been recovering from an injury when his three friends were dispatched the week prior to complete another mission. Aramis had been adamant that the Gascon not hinder his recovery by riding too soon and, unfortunately for d’Artagnan, the Captain had agreed. It wasn’t the first time they’d been apart, but it was such an infrequent occurrence now that the young man had almost been ready to protest being left behind, until a look from Athos had made the argument die on his lips.

 

As a result, he found himself surrounded by six of his brothers-in-arms who he knew more in passing than through any real experience working with them. Doubt rose again as he wondered if his spot at the Captain’s side was really due to the man’s faith in his abilities or because he worried over d’Artagnan’s healing injury. Another quick look at the man riding beside him revealed no more information than the last time he’d checked, and the Gascon resolved himself to the fact that he would not have an answer, doing his best to convince himself instead that the tender spot at his right hip didn’t twinge with each movement of the horse beneath him. 

---

Treville caught the surreptitious glances cast in his direction but chose not to acknowledge them, having already reached a conclusion earlier when he’d stepped into the courtyard and taken in d’Artagnan’s appearance. There was no doubt that the young man looked far better than he had almost three weeks prior when he’d ridden in, encircled by Porthos’ arms, barely conscious from blood loss and pain. The inseparables had encountered some difficulties during their mission, a fact that the Captain should have anticipated given the four’s penchant for trouble. He’d shared a look with Athos that communicated so much – their mission had been a success, no one else was seriously hurt, and the man was greatly concerned over the Gascon’s injury.

 

It was enough information that Treville gave a short nod of dismissal, allowing his lieutenant to follow in his friends’ wake since Aramis and Porthos had already dismounted and bustled the half-aware man to his quarters. Athos slid stiffly from his horse and the Captain’s eyes momentarily narrowed as he noted the hunched shoulders and slight limp that spoke of fatigue and some minor injury; hopefully minor, Treville corrected himself, far too familiar with the men’s tendencies to downplay their wounds. He’d given them some time to sort themselves out, taking care of d’Artagnan’s injury and eating and washing away the worst of the dirt and blood from their journey. Treville was unsurprised when Athos presented himself a couple hours later to provide a more detailed report, looking only marginally better than he had when they’d first arrived.

 

The Captain had watched his lieutenant carefully, noting the slight hitch in the man’s step that not even willpower could erase, and he decided not to wait for Athos to try and deceive him, speaking before the other man could. “You’ve hurt your leg.” Athos wore a mild look of annoyance but didn’t dispute his commanding officer’s words, a slight dip of his chin the only acknowledgement Treville received. “Any other injuries of which I should be aware?” the Captain asked, counting on Athos’ sense of duty to encourage him to be truthful.

 

Athos stood silently for several seconds, debating about how to answer and Treville could see the moment when his lieutenant conceded that honesty was the best recourse, taking a deep breath before responding, “Nothing worse than the usual assortment of bruises and scrapes.” At the Captain’s raised eyebrow, Athos added, “I was thrown from my horse and landed badly. Aramis has wrapped my ankle and suggests light duties for a few days.”

 

Satisfied, Treville gave a short nod, “d’Artagnan?”

 

A slow, deep breath preceded Athos’ words and the Captain waited patiently for the man to reply. “He took a ball to the hip. Aramis has removed it and tended the wound.” The former Comte fell silent momentarily and Treville knew the man had more to say. “Based on his level of pain, Aramis believes the bone may have been injured.”

 

Treville had slowly released the breath he’d been holding, recognizing the seriousness of the injury but grateful that it was unlikely to be life threatening. “Aramis expects him to recover?” he confirmed. Athos nodded tiredly even though they both knew that infection was still a very real concern. “I’ll keep you off duty for the next three days. Keep me informed and let me know if you need more time.” The offer was a generous one and Athos gave a lowly-murmured word of thanks before launching into a more detailed description of the events that had led up to their ambush. By the end of their conversation, Treville had determined that the attackers – the few who had managed to get away after his Musketeers had dispatched the others – would be difficult to find, and no follow-up mission would be launched at this time.

 

As the day had worn on, d’Artagnan had in fact taken a fever and it would be four days before the young man’s skin stopped burning. He laid drenched in sweat, unaware of his surroundings, despite being in the company of one of more of his brothers the entire time. When the infection was finally stopped in its tracks, Treville was left with four exhausted Musketeers who needed time to recover, and he kept the three relatively healthy men off rotation for the remainder of the week, until they were satisfied that the Gascon would be alright. Once the young man had begun to eat and drink, he began to regain his strength and it became apparent that, although his injury had been incredibly painful, the bone had thankfully not actually broken. Aramis, however, made the Gascon take things slow since d’Artagnan was still incredibly sore and his level of discomfort only intensified the longer he was on his feet.

 

By the end of the second week, the others had returned to active duty, although Treville had managed to keep them in Paris, allowing them to check on their healing friend each morning and night. But then they were needed on a mission and d’Artagnan had sadly watched as they’d ridden away, Aramis stating in no uncertain terms that the young man would need another week of light duties before he’d be able to manage the jostling associated with riding a horse. The Captain had watched the Gascon clench his fists at his sides at the frustration he’d felt at being left behind but, more importantly, he saw the underlying fear in d’Artagnan’s face – fear that something would happen to his friends while they were apart and he was unable to protect them. It was a far from uncommon reaction in brothers-in-arms although Treville would readily admit that this bond was stronger than most and, for a moment, he almost felt guilty about separating the four.

 

He’d kept the young man busy with duties around the garrison, ensuring that the tasks selected would give the boy plenty of time off his feet in order to avoid aggravating his still-healing wound. As the Gascon’s health improved, his mood diminished and Treville knew that the young man would not allow himself to be coddled much longer. Then the request had come from the King; Treville was needed for a meeting with the Dutch Ambassador who was travelling through northern France. The King had accepted the fact that the politician was an important enough individual to accede to a meeting, but not important enough for his own time to be wasted. Recognizing that the Ambassador would not settle for just anyone, he’d delegated the meeting to Treville, the Captain having played this role in the past with other lower-level dignitaries.

 

The trip necessitated an escort large enough to both ensure Treville’s safety as well as reflecting the level of his importance at his upcoming meeting, the Captain being savvy enough to recognize that the size of a man’s entourage often spoke volumes. Despite the fact that he abhorred such political behaviour, he resigned himself to the trip and turned his focus to planning the upcoming journey, belatedly realizing that he felt somewhat responsible for the Gascon in the inseparables’ absence. A look in the young man’s direction showed d’Artagnan’s still-declining mood and he sighed inwardly as he made the decision to bring the boy along as part of his escort. It took two days to complete their preparations before Treville and the others had departed, leaving Vieux behind to run the garrison in his absence.

 

Their destination would take over a week to reach and the Captain, unbeknownst to d’Artagnan, had already sent word ahead to the inseparables to meet up with them once they’d finished their own mission in Reims. For some unfathomable reason, Treville always felt better when the four of them were at his side, hence his decision to have the others join them instead of returning to Paris. Glancing surreptitiously to his right, he found comfort in his choice, knowing that the young man would only be fully recovered once he was reunited with his brothers. The thought brought a ghost of a smile to his face and he applauded his ability to still anticipate and provide for his men’s needs. 

---

“Yuck,” Aramis slapped his hat against his breeches, vainly trying to remove some of the mud that was caked onto the brim after it fell off his head to land in a rather shallow puddle. Porthos grinned as he watched his friend’s antics, knowing how attached the marksman was to his headwear and how he hated to present himself in anything less than his finest. A few feet away, Athos’ eyes shone with mirth at the sight of Aramis’ disgust, understanding just as well as Porthos how put out the marksman would be over this minor mishap. The man didn’t even have anyone to blame, a strong gust of wind having suddenly appeared and removing everyone’s hats from their heads, but it was only Aramis’ that had landed poorly in the sole patch of damp ground surrounding them.

 

“It’ll never be the same,” the marksman bemoaned the layer of filth on his beautiful hat, the adorning feather drooping under a slick coating of the thick muck that refused to be dislodged. His comment only made Porthos’ grin widen and even Athos had to momentarily look away to hide the smile that sprang to his lips.

 

“Come on then,” Porthos urged, clapping his friend soundly on the back, forcing Aramis to take a quick step forward to regain his balance. With a last, sad look at his dirty hat, Aramis sighed and followed his friends into the tavern where they’d secured rooms for the night. The evening fire had already been stoked and the warmth was a welcome change from the evening chill outside. Although it was spring, the nights were still cool and patches of snow could be found lingering in any spots protected from the sun.

 

Porthos moved directly to a table near the glowing hearth in deference to Aramis’ desire for warmth at this time of year. It had been years since Savoy but the memories still haunted the marksman, becoming somewhat more tangible at this time of year and causing the man to feel constantly chilled. Athos raised a hand as he sat, the barmaid catching his eye and nodding before collecting a bottle of wine and three cups. As she set the items down, Porthos ordered their meal while Aramis continued to look at his hat despondently. Catching the expression on his friend’s face once the barmaid had left, the large man nudged Aramis’ shoulder with his own as he said, “It’s just a hat.”

 

Aramis looked up at the man with a mock look of horror on his face as he countered, “It is not just a hat. This is a fine chapeau and an integral part of my uniform. As a King’s Musketeer, I can’t be seen wearing just any old thing.”

 

“To think nothing of the ladies’ reactions to see our Aramis in anything less than his best,” Athos added, straight-faced, causing Porthos to snort in amusement.

 

Aramis let out an aggrieved sigh and put his hat aside, recognizing that the two men would continue to tease him for as long as he focused on it. Moments later the barmaid returned, bearing bowls of stew and a plate of bread and cheese, which she deftly deposited on the table before retreating. They’d only managed a few bites before a newcomer entered, scanning the large room and clearly looking for someone. Athos lifted his eyes immediately and watched as the man’s gaze landed on their table and he began to move toward them. Quietly the older man murmured, “We have company.”

 

The warning was unnecessary as his two companions had already noticed the approaching man and both kept an eye on him as they pretended to continue eating. When he arrived at their table, the man removed his hat and met Athos’ hard gaze as he announced, “I carry a message for the Musketeer Athos.”

 

“I’m Athos,” he replied, waiting for the man to continue. The messenger reached into his doublet while Porthos’ hand unobtrusively moved to rest on his pistol. When the man’s hand withdrew, he held a roll of parchment, which he held out for Athos to take.

 

The Musketeer took and unrolled it, revealing Treville’s neat script. With a small tilt of Athos’ head, Porthos’ hand moved away from his weapon and Aramis dipped into his purse, offering the messenger several coins for his service. With a nod of thanks, the man retreated and the two friends waited for Athos to speak. “We are to rendezvous with the Captain in Calais where he has a meeting planned in one week’s time.” He raised his eyes to look at Aramis as he said, “d’Artagnan will be with him.”

 

The reaction was milder than he’d anticipated, with the medic wincing slightly but offering no words of protest against the Gascon’s actions. Athos was heartened by the response which told him that, although Aramis wasn’t happy that d’Artagnan had been returned to active duty, he also wasn’t overly worried by the fact. “Who’s he meetin’ with?” Porthos asked before popping a bite of cheese into his mouth.

 

“He doesn’t say,” Athos replied thoughtfully, all of them recognizing that Treville would only be deployed on a mission of some import, his duties typically keeping him close to Paris. None of them commented on the oddity of the situation though and Aramis smiled as he briefly clasped Athos’ shoulder, “At least you’ll get to see that d’Artagnan’s alright.” Athos offered a glare in return but it contained no heat, all three of them looking forward to seeing their fourth and confirming with their own eyes that the young man was well. Despite that, Athos couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the cryptic nature of their orders as he took a drink of his wine. 

---

Their days were long and boring, and d’Artagnan had to work hard at not succumbing to the monotony that often characterized lengthier journeys. Normally he wouldn’t mind so much, having his friends and their stories to entertain him, but with the Captain at his side, things were different. It wasn’t that he didn’t get along with the others in the regiment but he lacked the same comfortable camaraderie that he had with the others. Additionally, Treville seemed determined to keep him close while they travelled, thus limiting his opportunities to interact with the other men and curbing the Gascon’s normal exuberance.

 

The Captain recognized that the young man beside him was chafing at the perceived limits being placed on him, but he was not yet willing to allow the boy a turn on the front or rear guard, trying to limit his vulnerability in case of attack. Although nothing had been said, Treville had noticed the occasional winces when they increased their speed, and the way in which d’Artagnan stiffly dismounted and shuffled around camp at the end of each day. He was confident that there was no new damage to be concerned with, but the residual soreness of his injury would be tiring regardless of the Gascon’s stubborn and stoic nature.

 

As a result, d’Artagnan was feeling somewhat sorry for himself. He didn’t mean to feel ungrateful for the Captain’s consideration of his healing wound, but he couldn’t help the frustration that welled each time the others were rotated through the various positions, while he was left continuously riding next to his commanding officer. Scrubbing a hand across his face and then through his lank hair, he suppressed the sigh that threatened as he brought his eyes up to once again scan his surroundings.

 

They were currently crossing a section of barren land, with trees off in the distance on both sides. The view was uninspiring and as dreary as it had been for the entire time they’d been travelling along this section of road, with the springtime weather bringing clouds that kept the day cool and gray. Absently, d’Artagnan hoped they would not get rain, dreading the thought of being both bored as well as miserably wet and cold. Ahead, he was surprised to see a man slowly tip and fall from his horse to land with a dull thud on the partially-frozen ground beneath their feet. As he turned his head toward the Captain in confusion, he heard the sound of a wasp pass beside his ear and he frowned as his mind tried to process the incongruity of the noise with their surroundings.

 

The loud noise of a harquebus discharging reached his ears and he jerked with the realization that someone had fired a weapon. As his eyes landed on the Captain, he was shocked to see the man jerk in the saddle before slowly beginning to fall to one side. Without thought, d’Artagnan grabbed for Treville’s arm, catching the older man before he swayed from his horse and, with the action, sound returned in a rush, events around him suddenly quickening. Others had noticed as well and were already turning toward their attackers, a handful of men raising from the ground while more poured from the trees at their right.

 

His horse danced nervously beneath him as he scanned the area, trying to determine how to get the Captain to safety, the man having fallen quiet as he grasped his right elbow and barely remained upright in his seat. As the Gascon watched more of his comrades fall under the devastating attack, he reached for Treville’s reins, deciding to make for the safety of the trees on their left, spurring both their horses into a canter. With his attention on the Captain, d’Artagnan failed to notice the approaching rider who was aiming a pistol at them. At the last possible moment, he spotted movement in his peripheral vision and threw himself at his commanding officer, bringing them both tumbling to the ground as the weapon discharged.

Chapter Text

The route they selected to get to their destination was a fairly remote one, leaving little of interest to distract the men from their many hours on horseback. Despite being seasoned soldiers, they were no more immune to boredom than anyone else and had, perhaps, an even lower tolerance for the many monotonous miles they had to cross as their minds ruminated on the Captain’s ambiguous message. Even the weather was unremarkable, a mix of sun and cloud, with temperatures remaining moderate before cooling each evening as they made their camp for the night.

 

“This is the problem with being stealthy,” Aramis expounded as his eyes scanned the vast emptiness that lay before them. “Having to intentionally avoid all the populated areas, leaving us with no choice but to lay exposed to the elements, night after night.”

 

Porthos smirked at his friend’s comment, unwilling to admit that he, too, would have welcomed the opportunity to sleep indoors after spending the last four nights under the stars. It was not just the lack of a bed, since those were often flea-ridden anyway, but the lack of warm food that he missed. Normally, they would enhance their provisions with any fresh meat they could find, but the area they were in had been oddly bereft of wildlife, and the large man was growing tired of their dwindling supply of hard cheese and salted pork. Even Athos’ wine supply was diminishing rapidly, and his friends worried at the thought of having to deal with the man once he ran out.

 

The older man made no comment, aware that neither of his friends was overly happy with his decision to travel quickly and quietly through the area, but he was still unnerved by Treville’s letter. There was nothing specific in their orders that explained his unease, but Athos had been under the Captain’s command long enough that he’d learned to read between the lines. In this case, what was missing from the other man’s message was screaming volumes and Athos would not be able to relax until they reached Treville and the others. As such, he’d been unable to offer an explanation for his decision to follow the less-travelled roads, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for the fact that neither of his companions had questioned him, simply nodding in reply and following his lead. Of course, that wouldn’t keep the two men from expressing their displeasure even though Athos knew there was no real anger behind their words.

 

It was approaching dusk, and they were all tired from another long day in the saddle when Porthos extended an arm to point to a suitable sheltered spot to make camp. Athos simply dipped his chin in agreement and turned his horse toward the section of trees the large man had identified. All of them slipped wearily from their horses, and Athos momentarily wondered if his decision to complete the journey as quickly as possible had been a mistake. As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis gave him a warm smile accompanied by a hand on his upper arm, squeezing it briefly before moving away. Somehow his friends always knew when he was second-guessing himself, and the marksman’s unspoken assurance reconfirmed their support of his decision.

 

Although they fell into their roles easily, it was hard not to be reminded of their missing fourth. When d’Artagnan was with them, he would assist with the horses before collecting water from whatever source was nearby. Now, one man tended the horses, while another gathered wood for a fire, and a third removed supplies from their mounts and brought them closer to where they would eat and sleep. There was comfort in their tasks and they completed them in efficient silence, the quiet helping to soothe Athos’ nerves as his gut continued to twinge at some unknown concern.

 

Soon, they were gathered around the fire, the flames providing warmth to their bodies and hearts as the glow encompassed them before slowly fading away a few feet outside the loose circle they’d created. To Porthos’ chagrin, Aramis had doled out more of the hard meat and cheese which was made only marginally better by Athos sharing his second-last bottle of wine. The gesture drew fond smiles from both men as they savoured the drink, unsurprised since their friend was always generous, despite what others might think.

 

As he stared into the dancing flames, Porthos sipped his wine and asked, “Where do you think they are?”

 

Aramis looked to Athos as he waited for the older man to respond. Looking thoughtful for a moment, Athos recalled the road between Paris and Calais before answering, “I assume they’re within two or three days of Calais, just as we are, although their approach will be from the south.”

 

Porthos hummed in agreement as his face morphed into a large grin. “They’ve got some good taverns in Calais; lots of people passin’ through with heavy purses.”

 

Athos rolled his eyes in mock exasperation as Aramis clapped a hand to the larger man’s shoulder, chuckling at his friend’s comment as he added, “And don’t forget the women. Some say their beauty rivals that of the loveliest Parisian ladies.”

 

Taking a sip of his wine, Athos stated dryly, “I highly doubt that the Captain has ordered us to Calais so that we may indulge in its sights.” The comment served to put a damper on their spirts, which had lightened with their banter, and the three fell silent as Athos inwardly cursed himself for reminding them of their mission - one that was frustratingly vague and leading him to imagine the worst as a result.

 

Breaking the quiet, Porthos tipped his cup and emptied it, letting out a sigh of satisfaction as he said, “Well, I’m gonna get some sleep; need to be well-rested when we get there, just in case there’s a chance to sneak away for a quick card game.”

 

Aramis’ lips turned up in a smile and Athos’ features softened in gratitude for the large man’s ability to break the awkward silence, distracting him momentarily from his worries. With a quick glance at Athos, the marksman asked, “You’ll want the first watch?” Athos gave a small nod, confirming the familiar arrangement that would have him taking the first watch before waking Porthos to take the second, and Aramis taking the third. It was a pattern that accommodated their various quirks, recognizing Athos’ difficulty in falling asleep, Aramis’ need to get a longer portion of uninterrupted sleep, and Porthos’ ability to fall asleep whenever and wherever he could.

 

As the thought flitted through Athos’ mind, he felt a momentary pang of loss as he was reminded of d’Artagnan’s absence. The young man had fit easily into their group and often stayed up with Athos during a portion of his watch, or swapped with one of the others so they could have a longer rest. Aramis must have seen the change in his expression as the thought occurred and he raised a questioning eyebrow at the older man, Athos giving a short shake of his head in reply to let him know it was nothing. The marksman held his gaze for a moment longer, needing to confirm that his friend was alright, before turning away to make himself comfortable on the ground next to the fire.

 

As both men laid down and closed their eyes, Athos took his bottle of wine and sat just outside the light radiating from the fire, wanting to keep his night-vision sharp. It was cooler away from the heat of the flames, but he relished the sensation as the night air calmed some of the fire that seemed to be burning in his belly - a feeling that he recognized as stemming from his unease. Taking a drink directly from the bottle now, he allowed the liquid to slowly swirl around in his mouth before swallowing, taking his time since he knew his last bottle would have to be rationed. He cast his mind back, recalling the words in Treville’s letter, but there was still nothing that he could point to as a cause for concern. It was a simple, unremarkable message and it was in its simplicity that Athos sought an answer.

 

They’d spoken of the Captain’s role once when, as had happened in the past, the man had reiterated his assertion that Athos would be his probable successor. Athos had, as always, restated his complete lack of interest in command, and Treville had smiled softly at his lieutenant’s predictability, confident that Athos would take the position when needed due to his sense of duty. The Captain had told him of the loneliness of command and the drudgery of administration, getting a longing look on his face as he recalled his younger days of missions and adventure. These days, the most dangerous part of Treville’s day was often managing Court intrigues and Louis’ moods, tasks that Athos shuddered to ever contemplate as his own.

 

It was during that conversation that the Captain admitted he would prefer to be away from Paris more often but the King did not approve and, therefore, he would only be allowed on missions away from the city if dispatched by Louis himself. Treville had shaken his head sadly as he’d smiled and then taken a drink of the brandy they were enjoying. Unfortunately, the memory did little to ease Athos’ mind, more certain than before that the mission they were joining was a critical one and the information they’d been provided intentionally vague, protecting the details in case they happened to fall into the wrong hands. The knowledge made Athos’ stomach clench uncomfortably and he took another drink, this time gulping it down in an effort to relax, his worry not only for Treville but for the young Gascon who rode at their Captain’s side. 

---

It had been pure instinct that had propelled him off his horse and into his commanding officer, bringing them both to the ground in the same instant that their attacker loosed his shot. The only thought occupying d’Artagnan’s mind was that he could not let his Captain fall at their enemy’s hands and he would do everything in his power to protect the man who’d ultimately given him the opportunity to earn his commission.

 

All conscious thought fled as he impacted with the hard ground, the landing instantly forcing the air from his lungs and, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Several long seconds seemed to pass as his body recovered from the shock of the fall before his chest finally stuttered into motion and he drew a shallow, ragged breath. As oxygen reached his brain, his mind began to work and he recalled the precariousness of their situation in startling clarity, pushing at the ground with one hand as he tried to untangle himself from Treville. Wide eyes scanned the area around them and he realized that only a few moments had passed. Their horses stood a few feet away, having been startled by the nearness of the shot, while the man who’d attacked them was trying to steer his mount around the two riderless animals that blocked his path.

 

d’Artagnan stumbled to his feet, his right hip protesting and threatening to make his leg buckle beneath him, and he gritted his teeth as he forced his knee to lock. Sparing a glance at Treville, he noted the paleness of the man’s features and he pushed aside the panic that threatened as he positioned himself in front of the injured man. Reaching a hand toward his pistol, his heart skipped a beat as he realized he’d left it in the holster attached to his saddle. His hand automatically moved to unsheathe his sword instead, bringing it to bear just in time as his assailant wove around the horses that stood in his way, and swiped his own blade in a downwards slash. The impact of the strike reverberated down d’Artagnan’s raised arm and he brought his other hand up to stabilize his blade, successfully blocking another hit. Turning clumsily and shifting his position as the rider moved around him, he thwarted another attempt by his opponent to disarm him.

 

As his opponent’s horse danced a few paces away, d’Artagnan took advantage of the momentary lull to look beyond the other man and toward the mass of bodies where the majority of the fighting was centred. There were still a few upright men in Musketeers’ cloaks, the soldiers fighting with precision and economy as they battled overwhelming odds. As he watched, he saw another of his brothers-in-arms fall and he closed his eyes momentarily against the sight before he remembered that even a second of inattention could seal his fate and, most importantly, Treville’s. From what he’d seen, he knew that his only hope lay in defeating his attacker and retreating with the Captain, praying that he could put enough distance between them and the others before the rest of the Musketeers were defeated.

 

Steeling himself to do what was necessary, and yet already loathing the idea of running away, he could almost feel Athos’ approval over the decision to follow his head over his heart, despite his own misgivings to do so. Another glance at the form of his still unmoving Captain sufficiently hardened his heart and he strode forward determinedly, meeting his opponent and reaching a hand up to unbalance the man and unseat him from his horse. He was certain that the move only worked because it was unexpected, but the Gascon wasn’t going to question the result as he pushed against his attacker’s horse to move it out of the way and provide him with access to his foe.

 

The man was already rising to his feet, his expression dark with anger at having been tricked by the young Musketeer. d’Artagnan was unfazed, reaching his left hand behind him to pull his main gauche as he wasted no time in engaging the other man, giving him barely enough time to get into position to defend himself. Over his opponent’s shoulder, he could see another blue cloak fall and knew he was running out of time, and he stepped forward into a strike that he aimed at the other man’s neck. His assailant parried clumsily, brushing the sword away a moment before it would have sliced deeply into his exposed flesh. With a growl, he went on the offensive and launched a series of brutal strikes that had d’Artagnan swiftly stepping backwards.

 

The man’s face broke out in a broad grin at his success and the Gascon realized that even if he wasn’t defeated now, his attacker only had to keep him occupied until the others finished and then come to his aid, at which point there would be nothing d’Artagnan would be able to do. The thought sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his flagging limbs and he stepped forward to meet the next hit, holding his opponent’s sword with his own. At the same time, he brought his left hand around to drive his main gauche into the other man’s soft belly. Pushing his opponent’s still-standing form away from him, he watched as the dying man took a stumbling step back before crumpling to the ground, the shock of his injury causing his legs to fold. He met the man’s eyes for a moment and saw the comprehension there – his attacker knew he would die but it would be a painful few minutes before death claimed him and released him from the agony of his wound.

 

Tearing his eyes away, d’Artagnan turned and found Treville, and he staggered forward on suddenly weak legs, his breaths sawing loudly from his chest. Allowing himself to fall to the ground, he came down on his knees and dropped his dagger, freeing a hand to place at the Captain’s neck as he waited impatiently for the reassuring thrum of a heartbeat. He was rewarded seconds later and dropped his head momentarily in relief before struggling back to his feet to collect the horses. Treville’s had moved away but his own was still waiting patiently for him and he gathered its reins in his hand, intending to mount in order to ride over to where the Captain’s horse stood over a hundred feet away.

 

A cry in the distance brought his attention back to the battle in which the remaining Musketeers were engaged, and he watched in horror as one of the more experienced men, Lenoir, was struck from behind, his attacker’s sword driving deeply into the man’s lower back before being pulled out again. As soon as the steel left his body, Lenoir crumpled to the ground and d’Artagnan’s anger flared at the injustice of what was happening to his brothers-in-arms. The newly wounded Musketeer was the same distance from him as Treville’s horse and he hesitated for a moment in indecision, his desire to help Lenoir warring with his need to get the Captain to safety.

 

With a low growl of frustration, d’Artagnan pulled himself up and kicked his horse into motion, aiming for Treville’s horse who fortunately waited for him to arrive. He barely slowed enough to grab the horse’s reins before turning sharply and heading toward Lenoir, needing to save at least one of his fellow Musketeers. The stop beside Lenoir was abrupt and d’Artagnan rocked out of the saddle immediately, keeping an eye on the men in the midst of the skirmish as he squatted beside his injured comrade. Lenoir’s eyes were glazed with pain but he was alert and watching the Gascon with hope.

 

“Can you move?” the Gascon asked, not really caring for the answer but asking automatically in order to gauge the severity of the man’s wound. At Lenoir’s shaky nod, d’Artagnan gripped the man’s shoulders and pulled him to a seated position, ignoring the pained grunt that resulted. A shout drew his attention and he saw a man separate from the rest of the battle and begin running towards them.

 

Without a second thought, he pushed his shoulder beneath Lenoir’s arm and hoisted the Musketeer to his feet, dragging him the two steps back to his horse and heaving him up and into the saddle. Lenoir’s face was gray with pain but there was no time to worry about that as their newest attacker was quickly closing the distance between them. Pulling himself onto Treville’s horse, d’Artagnan grabbed both sets of reins as well as his pistol, aiming at the approaching man and loosing his shot. He had a moment of satisfaction as his target was hit before turning the two horses back to where he’d left the Captain. Seconds later, he was repeating his earlier manoeuver in order to get Treville onto his horse, seating himself behind the man as he spurred both animals away from danger.

 

He directed the horses to the treeline, hopeful that they could get lost in the forest. If they were exceptionally lucky, it was possible that it would take their assailants some time to realize that their prize - the Captain – was not among the injured or dead, buying them additional time to escape. d’Artagnan refused to think of what might happen if they were unlucky, the daunting task of keeping two injured men alive on his own a crushing weight that sat heavily on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Athos had gone to bed unsatisfied, the small amount of wine he’d allowed himself that night not nearly enough to quell his demons or his misgivings about the coming mission. Nevertheless, he’d dutifully woken Porthos for his watch, and nodded gratefully to his friend when the large man didn’t comment about the fact that he was being woken somewhat later than he should have been. Porthos simply clasped a warm hand around Athos’ bicep, giving it a small squeeze before indicating his bedroll with a toss of his head and ordering the older man to lay down in the still warm blankets to get some sleep.

 

It had taken several minutes before he’d managed to drift into a restless sleep and his mind was aware, at some level, of the switch when Aramis was roused a couple hours before dawn for the last watch. By then, his body was sufficiently exhausted that he fell into a deeper sleep, only to be woken what felt like minutes later by the sound of a pistol shot. His eyes flew open even as he was sitting up, throwing the blanket off him and reaching for his weapons.

 

The sight that greeted him ignited fear in his heart. Aramis was standing slightly behind Porthos, the larger man holding his pistol up while the marksman furiously reloaded his. Athos followed the line of Porthos’ weapon to somewhere beyond the dimly glowing embers of their fire where a set of bright eyes seemed to glow. He struggled to comprehend what type of animal it was even as he groped around for his own pistol, his gaze never moving from the beast.

 

Moments later, the eyes shifted, a low, throaty growl the only warning that preceded the attack as a mass of fur and white teeth launched itself at Aramis. The marksman didn’t even have a chance to comprehend the danger that was approaching, Porthos stepping neatly into the gap and presenting his own body as a target for attack. The large man squeezed the trigger of his pistol a second before he was driven to the ground by the weight of the animal’s body, taking the marksman down with him as he fell.

 

The next minute was a flurry of activity, Porthos’ pained cry spurring his friends into action as Aramis crawled out from underneath his friend’s back to give himself room to come to the man’s aid. Athos had also moved forward, rising without thought and stepping closer to add his pistol to the deadly fight, but unable to take his shot for fear of hitting their friend. On the ground, Porthos rolled from side to side underneath the beast that pinned him, both hands clamped firmly around the jaws that threatened his face. Behind the snarling mouth, the animal’s feet scrabbled for purchase and Porthos let out a grunt of pain as sharp claws shredded the skin over his ribs.

 

With a snarl of his own, Porthos twisted sideways, adjusting his grip and throwing the beast off to land nimbly on its feet, several feet away. Without hesitation, Athos pulled the trigger of his pistol, while at the same moment, Aramis released his dagger in a powerful overhand throw. Their blows landed almost simultaneously, Athos’ ball digging deeply into the body of the beast while Aramis’ main gauche embedded itself into the skull. Their camp fell silent as the animal swayed and then toppled to the ground, the only sound coming from the harsh breaths of the three men. They were still for several seconds until a groan from Porthos had Aramis moving to his friend’s side, while Athos advanced toward their attacker with his sword extended, needing to confirm that the threat had been eliminated.

 

His gaze was met by dull, lifeless eyes, set within a mix of gray and brown fur and behind a long snout. From its head to its bushy, black-tipped tail, the body was over five feet in length, with paws that were larger than Athos’ hands. He frowned down at the unmoving beast, racking his memory until the knowledge he was seeking finally came to the forefront. The animal was a wolf but its presence was confusing, and if his recall could be trusted, wolves would only hunt alone when ill or forced from their packs. A moan from behind broke him from his reverie and he turned quickly to stride to his friends’ sides.

 

Aramis had managed to get Porthos closer to the fire and he was now lying stiffly as the marksman examined his chest. The medic had ripped the remains of Porthos’ shirt away, revealing the damage caused by the animal’s claws. Athos’ eyes were drawn first to the red that smeared his friend’s torso before noting that Aramis’ fingers were already colored with it as well. He took a deep breath as he waited for the medic to speak and, when he did, it was to issue a curt order, “My bag.” Athos moved wordlessly to retrieve the requested item, dropping it on the ground as he knelt on Porthos’ other side. Aramis didn’t speak, simply reaching a hand into the saddlebag, withdrawing several clean cloths that he wiped across Porthos’ chest, revealing the extent of his injuries.

 

Without being asked, the older man rose again, this time bringing over a water skin and his last bottle of wine, placing both items within the medic’s reach. Aramis gave an absent nod of thanks as he wet a cloth and began the painstaking job of cleaning Porthos’ wounds. The large man wore numerous long scratches across both sides of his chest, scoring the skin that covered his ribs, and ending just above the top of his breeches. It was fortunate that the claws hadn’t dug too deeply into Porthos’ flesh, even though the portion along his ribs bled more heavily than the section closer to his waist.

 

Porthos bore the process of having his wounds tended stoically despite the medic’s thoroughness in scrubbing away every speck of dirt. Aramis would normally murmur low words of comfort to soothe his patient as he worked, but he was shaken by the unexpected attack and kept his jaw firmly clamped shut. That Porthos had been hurt was his fault, the larger man having decided to stay up with his friend since Athos had allowed him to sleep longer. If Porthos had gone to bed, he would have been safe from harm instead of bleeding and in pain on the hard ground.

 

Too soon the medic was reaching for the bottle of wine and Athos shifted closer, placing his hands on Porthos’ shoulders as the large man closed his eyes in anticipation of the coming pain. “I’m sorry, brother,” Aramis whispered softly before tipping the bottle over the deeper slashes, Porthos bucking under their hands as he attempted to escape the wine’s fiery burn. Now that the words had begun, Aramis seemed unable to stem their flow and he kept up a stream of nonsense as he emptied the red liquid over his friend’s chest. It wasn’t until the bottle was empty that he noticed his friend had fallen still. Reaching a trembling hand forward, he felt the reassuring thrum of his friend’s heart under his fingers and allowed himself to sigh in relief that Porthos had found some respite from the pain by falling unconscious.

 

Athos’ hand shifted from Porthos’ shoulder to take the empty bottle from Aramis’ fingers and the medic looked up absently at the older man, trying and failing to dredge up a small smile. “How bad?” Athos asked, deeply disturbed by the marksman’s reaction and needing an honest assessment of the injured man’s health.

 

Steadying himself with a deep inhale, Aramis replied, “Bad. Animals’ claws are notoriously dirty, and infection and fever are almost certain. Despite my efforts to clean the wounds, I expect that in a few hours, Porthos will be in a very bad state.” Athos had suspected as much and was just as unsurprised by what came next. “The wounds are relatively shallow and should heal well enough without stitches. I’ll wrap them to contain the worst of the bleeding but it’s better that they stay open to allow any infection to drain. We need to find someplace where he can be properly tended; camping out of doors will be a sure death sentence.”

 

Although he’d expected the request, it didn’t make his choice any less difficult and he hesitated, his desire to see d’Artagnan well warring with his need to see Porthos safe. As Aramis searched his eyes beseechingly, he found his loyalties once more divided as his mind was cast back to his wife’s plaintive pleas when she’d tried to persuade him of her innocence. He’d been torn between the love and devotion of a husband and the loyalty and grief of an older brother, and it was ultimately the latter that won out, leading to his wife’s hanging.

 

But the decision had cost him, just as he knew it would cost him now, faced with choosing between two brothers, one whose fate was unknown and one whose fate was within his ability to change; if only he could see things in such black and white clarity as the marksman obviously did. He’d never envied his brothers until that moment, wishing that he could believe so strongly that focusing on Porthos’ care was the right – the only – choice they could make. With a heavy heart, he closed his eyes and dipped his head in agreement, praying that the price exacted from him would not be as great as last time. 

---

They had managed to put several hours between themselves and their attackers, d’Artagnan stopping only to bind the two men’s wounds and then to tie Lenoir to his horse when it became apparent that he’d be unable to stay mounted otherwise. The strain of their situation was wearing on the Gascon and he scanned their surroundings continually, pushing the horses forward despite the condition of his comrades. Treville’s shoulder still carried the ball that had struck it and soft moans of pain could occasionally be heard when the man was unable to silence them. d’Artagnan had whispered a low apology in the man’s ear after a particularly difficult stretch of terrain had his commanding officer biting his lip and sweating with the excruciating ache. The young man’s respect for the Captain had soared when the man had merely given a minute shake of his head, telling him to keep going, no matter what.

 

Lenoir, too, had gamely done his best not to slow them down. The man’s gray complexion worried d’Artagnan and told a tale of too much blood lost and the agony that ignited with each movement of the horse. Although they’d had to slow their pace when the Musketeer’s condition deteriorated, the Gascon was guiltily grateful when Lenoir finally lost his hold on consciousness and his misery eased.

 

The weight of having two men’s lives in his hands made the Gascon’s shoulders tense until the muscles knotted, causing a spike of pain to climb upwards to the base of his skull where the dull ache throbbed with each beat of his heart. Despite that, he forced himself to display a calm he didn’t feel, pushing aside his doubts and fears and focusing on simply keeping their group moving and alive. Since the two wounded men’s bodies would eventually give out, they would have no choice but to stop soon, but he was determined to put as much distance between them and their attackers while they could reasonably continue.

 

As if reading his mind, Treville’s raspy voice interrupted his thoughts, “We need to find somewhere to stop.” He took several, painful sounding breaths before continuing. ”Somewhere defensible and as soon as possible.”

 

The urgency of the Captain’s request was as much of an admission of weakness as d’Artagnan would ever receive, and he was quick to concur, “Agreed.” He bit down on a sigh of frustration at the fact that he’d not yet found a suitable place for them to rest. “I’ll find a place soon.” Treville gave a shaky nod of his head, allowing his eyes to slip closed against the weariness that plagued him as his shoulder wound continued to seep. He hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint, nor had he criticized any of the Gascon’s decisions, two facts that d’Artagnan was incredibly thankful for even though he’d wished frequently to pass the responsibility for their safety to someone else. Despite that, d’Artagnan knew the man’s condition was growing dire as he took more and more of the Captain’s weight, allowing him to lean heavily against his chest.

 

With the Captain’s words, he was reminded again of his failings, first allowing his commanding officer to get hurt and now doing a poor job of caring for him, not even managing to stop long enough to do anything more than provide a few brief sips of water. He resisted the urge to shake his head at himself, cringing as he imagined Athos’ reaction to how he’d been handling things. He recalled how hard it had been to be left behind, watching as the three men rode out of the garrison to complete their mission, d’Artagnan cursing the persistent pain in his hip that had prevented him for joining them.

 

He winced now as he was reminded of how hotly his healing wound had flared when he’d struck the ground with Treville. At the thought, he had to resist the urge to squirm in his seat, wanting to find a more comfortable position that put less pressure on the sore joint. He didn’t even have a hand to spare, longing to cover the tender site, but was occupied with keeping hold of Treville and both sets of reins.

 

Quelling another sigh, his eyes landed on a secluded spot just through the trees on his right. At its rear, it contained a hill that was really more of a cliff, and a semi-circle of vegetation that would make it difficult for them to be seen until someone was nearly upon them. The latter factor was one that d’Artagnan felt he could use to their advantage and he shifted his hold on the reins, steering his horse toward what would be their temporary camp. When he stopped, Treville showed no signs of awareness. Letting the horses’ leads slip from his hands, the Gascon adjusted his grip on the older man, allowing him to take in the Captain’s damp, pale features. Treville’s eyes were closed and his breaths were short and shallow, reflecting the pain that he would not allow himself to voice but which was no doubt plaguing him.

 

“Captain,” d’Artagnan spoke lowly, next to the injured man’s ear, repeating himself twice more before Treville’s eyes fluttered open.

 

It took several seconds before awareness sparked and the young man’s patience was rewarded when the older man spoke, “You found a place.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” the Gascon confirmed, waiting to see if further comprehension would dawn. Moments later he felt Treville trying to lean forward in order to free d’Artagnan, and the young Musketeer pushed gently against the older man’s back to help him sit up. He waited momentarily to see if the Captain could hold his body up and then eased himself quickly to the ground, turning immediately to help Treville down as well.

 

Although d’Artagnan was unsurprised to have to carry most of his commanding officer’s weight, it was still an unpleasant confirmation of how badly the man was hurt. He manhandled Treville a few feet and then lowered him down at the base of the cliff, allowing him to rest his back against the wall of rocks and dirt. “I’ll be right back,” the Gascon said, uncertain whether the Captain had heard his words, but feeling the need to say something before he returned to the horses to get Lenoir.

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but be amazed that the wounded Musketeer had regained consciousness and did his best to assist when the Gascon pulled him gently from the saddle. His condition appeared to be just as poor as the Captain’s and d’Artagnan bit his lip against his words of surprise when he saw the amount of blood that covered the front of the man’s doublet and breeches. Depositing Lenoir next to Treville, he reached toward the wounded man, intending to examine his wound. “Don’t,” Lenoir gasped softly, a cool hand catching d’Artagnan’s wrist and aborting his actions.

 

The young man couldn’t help the look of annoyance that crossed his face as he replied, “If I don’t tend it, you’ll bleed to death.” He made to reach again for Lenoir’s doublet and was stopped once more.

 

“See to the Captain,” the Musketeer ordered, his eyes darting toward their commander although his head remained resting against the rocks at his back. Recognizing the defiance in the Gascon’s eyes, he explained, “He’s always your first priority…always.”

 

d’Artagnan held the injured man’s gaze for several long seconds, as he considered whether or not to comply, and then looked away, sighing as he nodded his head in assent. When he turned back, Lenoir wore a ghost of a smile, obviously pleased that he’d managed to convince the young man. Not wanting Lenoir to believe that he’d been put off completely, he said, “You’ll get your turn as soon as I’ve tended the Captain’s wound.” Lenoir let out a quiet huff and the Gascon could see the amusement in the man’s face, realizing that the noise had been a laugh, and he offered a smile in reply.

 

Shuffling nearer to the Captain, d’Artagnan undid the doublet’s fastenings and carefully pulled the leather away from the damp, sticky wound. Some of the blood had begun to dry but, as he lifted a section of Treville’s shirt, he saw that too much of it was still fresh, leaking from the wound slowly, but persistently. “How bad?” The question startled the Gascon and he let the cloth fall back in surprise, meeting the Captain’s glazed eyes.

 

Adopting a confident expression, d’Artagnan answered, “You’ll be fine once I get the ball out and stitch it up.”

 

The young man was confused by the slight upturn of Treville’s lips as he replied, “Now I understand why Porthos says you should never play cards.” The Gascon’s expression turned to annoyance, having been mercilessly teased by his brothers for his inability to prevent his emotions from showing on his face.

 

Dismissing the feeling, he asserted instead, “Aramis is a good teacher and I’ve been an attentive student; I promise I’ll take good care of this.”

 

Treville gave a short nod as he replied with sincerity, “I know you will, d’Artagnan, and I feel fortunate to be in your care.” The Gascon was uncertain about how to respond so he simply gave a dip of his chin before rising and gathering the necessary supplies from his saddlebag. In truth, he wasn’t feeling overly confident about his abilities to tend the men’s wounds, even though he’d observed Aramis a number of times and had even helped by sewing up the occasional injury. Of course, those wounds had been caused by steel, and the idea of digging around in Treville’s shoulder to remove a lead ball sent an uncomfortable lurch through his belly.

 

Squelching the feeling, he took a deep inhale and ensured his face showed none of his concern before returning to the Captain’s side. He spoke to the man as he worked, first laying out the items he needed, before moving Treville to lie flat on the ground, wishing desperately for another set of hands as he prepared to dig into the man’s flesh. As if sensing his trepidation, the Captain whispered, “Do it.” With a last steadying breath, the Gascon pressed the tip of his blade into his commander’s shoulder, ignoring the half-supressed cry of pain that Treville was unable to stifle.

 

What d’Artagnan was doing bore no resemblance to surgery, his movements jerky and inexperienced as he dug around in search of the ball. The Captain held as still as he could and the young man pressed him firmly back into the ground with his free hand, all the while praying to find the foreign object before he lost his nerve. The amount of red that bubbled up from the hole he’d expanded was alarming, and he wiped at it in frustration before dropping the wet rag to press against his commander’s trembling body once more. When the tip of his dagger hit something hard, he felt the bile rising in his throat and ruthlessly swallowed against the need to be sick as he prayed that he’d struck the ball and not bone.

 

It took nearly another minute of digging around as he awkwardly alternated between attempts to pluck the object out of his Captain’s shoulder with slick fingers and pressing back against the man’s torso with his elbow to keep him from rising up. He resolutely ignored Treville’s panting, broken breaths as he triumphantly pulled the lead ball out. When the Captain fell still under his hands, d’Artagnan was momentarily stunned by the reaction and he stared at the wounded man for several long seconds while blood dripped from his hand and stained his breeches. Finally, he came to his senses and dropped his dagger, reaching the hand forward to check for a pulse, relieved to find that he hadn’t actually killed his commanding officer. Instead, the man had finally succumbed to the hours of pain and fallen unconscious.

 

He looked down at the innocuous piece of lead in his hand and noted the way his fingers trembled, disgustedly throwing the offensive ball away from him as he stumbled to his feet. His legs felt weak and shaky beneath him and it took far too much effort to stagger over to the trees where he retched until his stomach was empty. Swiping an unsteady hand across his mouth, he wiped away the signs of his sickness before returning to Treville’s side. He caught Lenoir’s eye briefly as he sank down beside the insensate man and was struck by the empathy that seemed to radiate from the injured man, belatedly realizing that the Musketeer had likely been in his position in the past.

 

As quickly as possible, d’Artagnan flushed the wound, first with water and then wine, watching with bated breath as Treville moaned but remained unconscious. His hand was still unsteady when he placed the stitches that pulled the gaping hole closed and he cringed at the thought of Aramis’ disapproval at the sloppy nature of his work. Sadly, there was no time for finesse and every additional moment spent on the Captain’s wound was time taken from tending Lenoir.

 

By the time he’d finished, he felt thoroughly wiped, his reserves non-existent as he pushed against a bent knee to gain his feet. Turning, he gathered his dwindling supplies and crossed the three steps to the Musketeer’s side, the other man watching him through half-lidded eyes. “My turn already?” he rasped, making d’Artagnan cringe at the wrecked quality of the man’s voice. Wordlessly, he uncapped the water skin and brought it to Lenoir’s lips, helping him take a couple of small mouthfuls. As he was setting it down, the injured man spoke again, “Did good.”

 

The words caught the Gascon’s attention and, although he didn’t want to antagonize the man, he couldn’t bring himself to agree. Instead, he said, “I need to take a look at your wound.”

 

Lenoir nodded weakly, reminding the young man as he began, “Remember your promise; no matter what.” d’Artagnan kept his eyes down, focused on his task, recalling his earlier vow to care for the Captain. He had a terrible feeling that he would come to regret his words.

Chapter Text

As Aramis had stated, he’d bandaged the scratches that bisected Porthos’ chest, spending additional time beforehand to make a poultice which he hoped would prevent the anticipated infection. Porthos had woken briefly before falling back asleep, and Athos considered his friend’s form now as he sat next to their small fire, boiling water that would be used to brew a mild pain draught. The attack had occurred several hours earlier and the sun had since risen high into the sky above them and Athos considered it haughtily, the orb seemingly mocking them with its cheerful intensity while down below, he and Aramis worried and fussed.

 

Their intention was to allow their friend to rest until the draught was ready to be consumed, at which point they would have no choice but to draw the man back to awareness so he could drink his medicine and they could depart. In preparation, nearly everything had been repacked. They now waited restlessly for the water to boil, Athos displaying a calm he didn’t feel while Aramis openly paced, needing an outlet for his nervous energy. The medic was visibly shaken by the attack and suffering from more than a smattering of guilt, blaming himself for Porthos’ wounds since he’d received them while preventing the wolf from reaching its intended target.

 

“You blame yourself,” Athos said, no hint of a question in his tone. Aramis gave him a look of disbelief as if surprised that Athos would doubt his culpability. “There is no fault. You of all people should know that Porthos would do the same for any of his brothers.”

 

Aramis pressed his lips together until they all but disappeared into a pale, thin line. Finally releasing a huff of air, he replied, “He shouldn’t have moved in front of me.”

 

“And yet you will never convince him of that,” Athos countered evenly, understanding the larger man’s fiercely loyal nature.

 

“Then he is an idiot,” Aramis stated, his voice rising with his anger, even though they both knew it was not Porthos who he was angry with. Athos waited patiently, recognizing that with enough time, the medic would continue. They sat in silence for several minutes, with Aramis unconsciously wringing his hands before he pulled them apart and spoke, his voice low and broken, “I was too slow.”

 

Athos’ eyebrow lifted questioningly, wondering to what the marksman was referring. Aramis waved a hand in the air distractedly as he explained, “Loading my pistol; it took too long.” The older man let out a silent “ah” in realization but held his words. “And my first shot missed,” the marksman admitted morosely, shame etched in his features.

 

“What happened?” Athos gently prompted, having no idea of what had transpired until he’d been woken by the sound of the pistol’s discharge.

 

“I was distracted,” Aramis confessed. “I allowed myself to be lulled by the fire and my mind drifted…to other things,” he said, unwilling to voice what he’d been thinking of. “When the beast approached, I fumbled my pistol and released my shot before properly aiming.” Athos considered his friend with sympathy, believing without a doubt that Porthos would still not hold his friend at fault, and yet uncertain about how to convince Aramis of the same. “I should know better,” the marksman whispered brokenly, his remorse dripping off each murmured word.

 

“Do you recall the time when you and Porthos rescued me from being beaten to death by those thieves outside Le Chien Noir?” Athos asked. Aramis gave a low snort as he recalled the older man’s drunken state, barely able to stand, let alone defend himself against the four men who’d chosen to take advantage and rob him before leaving his broken body in the alleyway behind the tavern. “I am confident I would be dead if it were not for your intervention that day.”

 

The marksman nodded in agreement, “You wore the bruises for nearly two weeks afterwards, and the dressing down you received from Treville was likely worse than any physical pain you endured.”

 

Athos dipped his head in agreement as he went on, “You are correct that my physical ills were secondary, however it was not the Captain’s censure that was the hardest to bear.” Aramis cocked his head in interest as the older man explained, “I deeply regretted the fact that Porthos was hurt in my defence and that he, in turn, shared in the punishment doled out by Treville.”

 

Aramis thought back on what Athos described, clearly remembering the deep stab wound in Porthos’ upper back which had kept him from his duties for several weeks until it had properly healed. “What else would you have had us do; watch as they beat you to death?” Aramis scoffed.

 

“No, you misunderstand, I am grateful beyond words for your intervention that night,” Athos stated. “However, I blamed myself for drinking so heavily that I would require your assistance and that, in rendering it, Porthos was hurt.”

 

“Nonsense,” Aramis countered, “Porthos didn’t care about his own wound. He wouldn’t even let me tend it until we knew you’d be alright.”

 

“Exactly,” Athos agreed, his cool, blue eyes meeting Aramis’ intently. “I could no more have stopped him from protecting me that night than I could keep you from the ladies’ bedchambers; it simply is.”

 

The marksman had the grace to blush at his friend’s words, but he understood their meaning. Despite his desire to blame himself for the large man’s newest injury, Porthos would never agree that his actions were anything other than necessary, arguing vehemently that his discomfort was a small price to pay for his friend’s continued wellbeing. Aramis let out a defeated sigh as he said, “I couldn’t have stopped him, could I?”

 

Athos shook his head slowly as he replied, “Not even with all the might of the King’s forces behind you.”

 

A ghost of a smile graced Aramis’ lips as his gaze wandered back to their sleeping friend, “I wonder if he knows how we would shatter if he died.”

 

“Of course he does,” Athos softly confirmed. “He feels the same way each time we are hurt in his stead.”

 

Their conversation seemed to have settled Aramis somewhat, but Athos knew the guilt was likely to be a recurring theme throughout the coming days, especially while Porthos’ survival was uncertain. He was distracted from his musings by Aramis’ arrival at his side, the water they’d been heating finally having reached the appropriate temperature. Athos watched as the medic efficiently selected the needed herbs, which were steeped in the boiling water.

 

Aramis sat down next to the older man when he’d finished, the cup having been set aside to cool, and Athos could sense his friend’s need rolling off him in waves. While not an overly tactile person himself, the former comte willingly gave his friends what they needed, just as they did for him, and he leaned sideways until their shoulders were touching, feeling Aramis leaning closer to deepen the contact. “It should have been the four of us on this mission,” the marksman stated, offering a bit of insight into his thoughts.

 

Reminding Aramis of the reason for their missing member, Athos replied, “You honestly believe that d’Artagnan was fit enough to make this journey?”

 

Aramis snorted softly, “No, but that wouldn’t have stopped him.” They sat quietly for nearly a minute before he continued, “Bad things always seem to happen when we’re apart; we’re stronger together.”

Athos was certain that the other man didn’t realize the impact of his words, and he swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth as his heart clenched in fear with the lack of knowledge regarding the young Gascon’s fate. 

---

The day wore on slowly, each hour marked by the moans of pain coming from one or the other of his wounded charges. There was nothing more that he could do for them, having tended both men’s injuries to the best of his ability and pouring the remaining wine down their throats in a useless attempt to ease their discomfort. Rationally, he knew that he should have saved the alcohol to keep the wounds free of infection but he’d been weak, no longer able to listen to their suffering when he had something available to alleviate their misery.

 

Their water supplies were not much better off, with just over one full water skin remaining between them. He’d done his best to encourage both men to drink, but had been largely unsuccessful. His own thirst was becoming harder to ignore but he refused to allow himself more than the occasional, shallow mouthful, which did little more than wet his mouth and remind his body of its need for the life-giving liquid. Despite his own discomfort, he was resolute in his determination to save the majority of the water for his companions, recognizing that their need was greater due to their severe blood loss.

 

As the sun slowly dipped behind the trees and long shadows overtook their space, d’Artagnan roused himself from his position, repeating the rounds he’d established hours earlier, checking first on Treville and then Lenoir before completing a circuit of the area. There had been no signs of pursuit for hours and d’Artagnan prayed that their attackers were ignorant of their escape. It was a lofty hope but with each hour that passed, the young man’s belief that they had ridden away unseen deepened.

 

He paused for a moment at the entrance to their enclave, leaning against one of the trees as his eyes closed with weariness. The day itself had not been overly long, but its stressful events had drained his energy, leaving him tired and sore, with each step reawakening the dull throb in his hip until his leg threatened to collapse. What he wouldn’t do to be with his three friends rather than being responsible for the lives of two others. He’d seen Athos in similar positions in the past and had admired the ease with which the older man had shouldered the responsibility, never letting on that he was worried and instilling those around him with confidence that everything would be alright.

 

He glanced back at his companions and wondered what thoughts ran through their minds. He knew that he’d done his best, but his best was sorely lacking. Although they were moderately safe for now, they would need to be on their way again in the morning. He’d already agonized over the direction to take before resigning himself to continue their journey to Calais. It was possible that their attackers knew their destination, but without other intelligence or support, d’Artagnan felt he had little choice but to push through. From what he remembered of their path, they were somewhat off course, but he was fairly confident that he could navigate the journey successfully. They had been, at most, three days from Calais and the Gascon estimated it would still take them at least that long to complete the trip.

 

The thought had him checking again on his companions, the two men still lying quietly where he’d laid them, both covered by blankets and cloaks since the temperature was beginning to drop and he was hesitant to light a fire which could lead others to them like a beacon. He would need to remain vigilant throughout the night, standing watch over his charges and ensuring that both survived. Morning would see them back on their horses, searching for somewhere to replenish their water as they resumed their journey. He scrubbed at his eyes, realizing that things would get worse before they improved, and he wondered if he possessed the fortitude to keep everyone alive and safe in the coming days. 

---

The temperature continued to drop and no matter how active he was, d’Artagnan felt chilled to the bone, his right hip aching with the intensity of the cold that had penetrated the damaged bone. Several feet away, Lenoir and Treville shivered uncontrollably and the Gascon bit back the cry of frustration that threatened at his inability to do more for the two men. He’d already pulled together every scrap of clothing they possessed and heaped it under and over the two, but to no avail. Worse yet was the fact that neither man was able to properly sleep as a result, the persistent trembling of their bodies ratcheting up the pain of their injuries, leaving them moaning and deepening their suffering.

 

At best guess, it was somewhere around two or three in the morning and d’Artagnan had remained steadfast in his decision to avoid making a fire, fearing that it would attract unwanted attention. He was grateful that neither man had uttered a word of complaint, understanding the need for stealth over comfort. Now, as he observed the men’s near-silent misery, he moved into action, deciding that he could not live with himself if he didn’t risk at least a small collection of flames to warm his companions. He knew that they felt the cold more keenly than he did due to their blood loss and was determined to do whatever he could to make them more comfortable, recognizing that the incessant shivering was further draining their already depleted reserves.

 

The night sky was clear and full of stars, a half-moon lighting his surroundings as d’Artagnan efficiently gathered wood for a small fire, building it as close as possible to the injured men. The first crackling flames warmed not only his hands as he held them close, but his spirit, and reinforced his decision to risk the light and smoke being seen by others. As more wood was steadily consumed and turned into heat, he was relieved to see his companions’ trembling slow until both men’s eyes remained closed and their breathing evened out in much-needed sleep. As they slipped into slumber, d’Artagnan released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, comforted that the two were finally resting.

 

He continued to add small amounts of wood to keep the fire lit, relishing its warmth as he sat at its edge. As his body warmed, he was unaware of the growing sense of calm that permeated his body, making his eyelids heavy until they eventually failed to open and his head dipped slowly forward to rest on his chest. Such was his level of weariness that he stayed in that position as the flames beside him slowly went out and the sky above him lightened with the approaching dawn. The odd quiet that surrounded them once the fire died didn’t register with his sleeping mind, his brain thankful for the reprieve it had finally received. The approach of two men also went unnoticed and they carefully dismounted and began to creep forward, large grins on their faces indicating their satisfaction of having found their quarry.

 

Soldiers would tell stories of how they developed a sixth-sense over time, their ability to perceive imminent danger sharpening as their experience grew. d’Artagnan had always been somewhat doubtful of its existence, but as the two strangers approached, something within prompted him to awake. His eyes sprang open in time to see the nearest man brandishing a sword which swung down towards his neck, leaving him only a split-second to throw himself sideways to the ground in order to avoid the sharp blade. He felt the displaced air as the man’s strike missed and he continued rolling away, one hand already pulling his own sword free as he used his momentum to regain his feet.

 

The time he’d spent sitting had made his muscles stiff and he staggered momentarily before regaining his balance, forcing his right leg to take his weight as his hip protested. Taking two quick steps backwards, he gave himself some distance as he prepared to meet the men’s onslaught. The two were disciplined and they kept far enough apart to make it difficult for d’Artagnan to defend himself, with each one of them timing their strikes so that he was constantly having to shift his attention and his balance to meet a new attack. From the matching grins on the men’s faces, he could tell that he was being toyed with and he tamped down his anger, forcing himself to stay calm and fight economically rather than letting his emotions rule.

 

A slash across his left arm had him biting down on a gasp of pain and he continued the arm’s movement, reaching behind his back to pull his main gauche. With only a second to spare, he brought the same hand back in front to parry another hit while the other man was getting ready to bring his own blade down again to meet d’Artagnan’s sword. Feeling his strength waning and recognizing that he needed to end things quickly, the Gascon changed the grip on his dagger, taking a step forward to put more force behind the blow as he swung the hilt of his main gauche at his opponent’s head.

 

Without even waiting for the man to fall, he turned his attention quickly back to his other attacker, the man’s grin having dropped from his face at the Musketeer’s minor success. The two traded brutal blows, each of which sent tremors through their arms. Despite his best efforts, d’Artagnan was unable to gain any advantage, and received another cut across his left forearm when he was too slow in bringing his blade up to block the blow. Noting that his attacker’s eyes had automatically moved to his right hand when he’d dropped his left, he brought the latter one up quickly, releasing his main gauche to embed itself in the man’s chest. With a grunt of pain, the man dropped to his knees before tipping sideways to lay still on the ground.

 

d’Artagnan stood staring at the dead man, his breath heaving loudly in and out of his chest, and he could feel the sweat dampening the hair at his temples. The fight had exhausted him and he worked hard to contain the tremble of overtaxed muscles. Moments later a shot sounded and the Gascon jerked heavily, shocked by the unexpected sound. His head swivelled in search of the noise and landed on Lenoir’s slumped form, the man’s arm drooping with the weight of the pistol in his hand. Despite the Musketeer’s poor condition, his steely gaze was pinned firmly behind the Gascon and d’Artagnan turned to look behind him, stunned to see his second attacker sprawled on the ground after the wounded man’s shot.

 

He’d forgotten about the man he’d hit with his dagger, thinking him to be unconscious and no longer a threat. If it hadn’t been for Lenoir’s actions, it would be d’Artagnan dead on the ground instead. Licking dry lips and swallowing against his parched throat he rasped out, “Thank you.”

 

Lenoir merely tipped his head as he replied, “Make sure they’re dead.”

 

The Gascon managed a shaky nod in return as he confirmed their attackers’ conditions. Pulling his dagger from the dead man’s chest, he wiped it clean before sheathing it and making his way over to check on the wounded men. Treville’s eyes were open and, while glazed with pain, his gaze was sharp. “Help me up,” he ordered, already raising a hand to the confused young man.

 

“What?” d’Artagnan replied, watching as the Captain continued to try to sit up while Lenoir was pulling supplies from a small satchel in order to reload his pistol.

 

“Help me up,” Treville repeated, pinning d’Artagnan with a hard look to convince him to do as he’d been told.

 

The Gascon’s eyes lifted to Lenoir who spared him a quick glance and gave a nod of his head, “Do as he says.”

 

“But they’re dead,” d’Artagnan said, although he moved to do as he’d been ordered, grasping the Captain’s outstretched hand while leaning forward to place his other hand behind the man’s shoulders. Treville gasped in pain as his torso was lifted off the ground and the Gascon paused, waiting for the injured man to regain his equilibrium.

 

“You have to go,” Lenoir stated, his voice low but urgent. At the look of puzzlement on the young man’s face, he let out of small huff of frustration and explained, “That shot could be heard for miles.” d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed as he listened, “There were only two of them. That means there will be others out there searching and every one of them will be headed here, following the sound of my pistol.”

 

As realization dawned, d’Artagnan gave a dip of his head, “I’ll get the Captain settled and then come back for you.”

 

Lenoir gave a sharp shake of his head, “No. You’ll get the Captain mounted and then get on that other horse and ride away from here as quickly as you can.” He could see the young man drawing breath to protest but he spoke before the Gascon could utter a word, “You gave your word. You take care of him first – always.”

 

d’Artagnan paled as he comprehended what Lenoir was suggesting and his fury rose at the idea of leaving the other man behind. “I won’t leave you.”

 

Lenoir hardened his gaze, recognizing the Gascon’s misplaced sense of loyalty but desperate to make the boy understand, “If you don’t, you condemn us all to certain death.” The young man swallowed thickly and the wounded man knew he’d succeeded. Softening his voice, he urged once more, “Go.”

 

d’Artagnan looked at the other man for several long moments before finally giving a small nod, pulling Treville the rest of the way to his feet and helping him to where the horses were tethered. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

When the pain draught had cooled enough to drink, Aramis had roused Porthos and helped him sit up so that he could drain the cup of its bitter brew. They’d let the large man rest for several minutes afterwards, allowing the medicine to take effect, before forcing him to his feet. Despite his protests that he was fine, both men had noticed Porthos’ pained movements as a result of the slashes that marked his chest and the ache in his muscles from fighting the large beast.

 

They settled the large man onto the marksman’s horse. Athos had been just as willing to share a mount with their injured friend but the haunted look in Aramis’ eyes told him that his offer would be rejected, the medic needing the physical proximity of his friend to remind himself that Porthos was alright. As they’d decided, Athos set a path toward civilization, now seeking people rather than avoiding them as they had been previously.

 

With each hour that passed, Aramis’ jaw seemed to clench more tightly until the older man wondered if his friend’s teeth might crack under the pressure. It was not his fault, of course, since every motion of their horses pulled on Porthos’ tender chest, his abdominal muscles clenching as he stabilized himself, regardless of Aramis’ steady form behind him. As a result, they’d kept a deliberately slow pace and covered only a few miles when Athos decided to stop for a rest, no longer able to bear Porthos’ wan, pain-filled face or Aramis’ worried, guilt-ridden expression.

 

The lack of motion as their horses halted roused the large man somewhat and he tried to sit up straighter, Aramis automatically leaning toward him and tightening his hold to brace the man. “It’s alright, Porthos, we’re going to take a break.”

 

Familiar with his friends’ habits, Porthos knew immediately that he was the cause of their impromptu stop and he began to protest, “Don’t need to; I’m fine.”

 

The medic snorted softly into his friend’s ear, “You are not fine and I want to check your bandages. Besides, the horses need to be rested more frequently when carrying a double load.” Porthos opened his mouth as he prepared to speak and Aramis knew he’d said the wrong thing by drawing attention to the fact that his horse now carried both of them. “And, no, you cannot ride on your own. You’ve worried me enough as it is without adding the constant fear that you’re going to fall off your horse.” It was a low blow, referring to his concern for his friend, but Aramis knew Porthos would accept the reason without further complaint and, seconds later, he was proven correct when he felt the large man slump back more heavily into his hold.

 

“It’s too early for another pain draught but if you need one, we could risk it…” the medic trailed off, knowing it was too soon after the previous one but hating to see Porthos in pain.

 

The large man shook his head firmly, “No, I’m alright; I can handle it.”

 

“You’re sure?” Aramis murmured hesitantly.

 

“I won’t deny that I hurt ‘Mis, but I’m fine for now, really,” Porthos confirmed. He could feel the marksman nodding his head behind him, the man’s curls tickling the side of his face. Before anything more could be said, Athos was beside them, his arms lifted up towards Porthos in order to help him down. Aramis loosened his hold and allowed the injured man to tip sideways so that Athos could help him to the ground.

 

Porthos hunched partially in on himself to minimize the pull on his wounds as the older man guided him carefully to a tree where he was lowered to sit. Athos crouched down beside him, keeping one hand on his shoulder to ground him as he waited for the large man to reopen his eyes once he’d collected himself. A few moments later, he was rewarded by Porthos’ deep brown orbs which flickered momentarily behind Athos before returning to look at the older man. “He’s blamin’ himself, isn’t he?” The tone suggested Porthos wasn’t really asking, but Athos gave a dip of his head regardless. “You try an’ tell him otherwise?” Again the large man was simply seeking confirmation and he received another nod in reply. “Stubborn fool,” he said fondly, closing his eyes as the medic arrived.

 

“I’d say stubborn fool is an apt description,” Aramis stated, looking down at Porthos who was trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. The large man momentarily cracked an eye open but didn’t comment. Settling his bag of medical supplies on the ground as he knelt, the medic glanced at Athos, “Bring me the water skin, will you.”

 

As the older man turned and moved away, Aramis worriedly examined his friend, the man’s face paler than normal and creased with lines of pain. At Porthos’ hairline, he could already see sweat dotting the man’s temple and he swallowed down the fear that surged with the realization that infection was beginning to take hold. Despite his wounds, the injured man had his arms crossed loosely in front of him and Aramis knew it was because he was cold; another indication of fever. Placing a warm hand on his friend’s wrist, he waited until Porthos opened both eyes to look at him before saying, “I need to check my handiwork.”

 

Porthos knew what was in store and he grudgingly unfolded his arms, allowing Aramis to undo his doublet. The marksman bit his lip at the man’s easy acquiescence, since Porthos would normally insist on undoing the fastenings himself, and his lack of protest only reinforced how unwell he was truly feeling. They’d dressed the large man in a new shirt, discarding the old one since it was too shredded and stained with blood to even use for rags. Aramis lifted the garment’s hem to reveal the white linen he’d wrapped around Porthos’ chest and abdomen and nodded gratefully when Athos returned, placing the water skin on the ground before taking the fabric from Aramis’ hand and holding it away from Porthos’ body.

 

Gentle, practiced hands unbound the bandages, lifting the poultices away to poke and prod at the red and inflamed gashes beneath. Aramis was confident that both poultices were still working, but it was too soon for them to have turned the tide against the infection that had begun in the deepest scratches. Porthos allowed the medic’s careful ministrations, grateful when his shirt was lowered and he shivered at the chill that ran through him. When his doublet was once more tightly wrapped around him, he accepted Athos’ help with the water skin and took a long drink. Looking around as the two men settled beside him, he asked, “Where are we?”

 

Athos knew that Porthos had likely already noticed their change in direction and there was no reason to keep the truth from him, “We’ve turned south in search of a town.”

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed as he challenged the older man’s statement, “Captain’s waitin’ for us in Calais.”

 

The older man dipped his chin in agreement as his eyes flicked toward Aramis, “It was strongly suggested that you’d need a roof over your head while you recover.” Porthos’ eyes sought out Aramis’ and he was unsurprised by the defiant expression he saw there. Heading off the potential argument before it could begin, Athos added, “And I agree.”

 

At the older man’s words, Porthos tried to glare at his friends, but the grin that tugged the corners of his lips upward ruined the effect. Sighing carefully so he didn’t aggravate his wounds, he said, “I don’t need motherin’.”

 

“No,” Athos allowed as his eyes sparkled with amusement. “But if you did, it would be Aramis’ role. That green dress he borrowed from Madame Chevreaux brought out the gold flecks in his eyes.” Porthos chuckled at the reminder of the one and only time any of them had had to adopt the guise of a woman in the completion of a mission. To Aramis’ great dismay, he’d been the only one both close enough in size and charming enough to convince the young widow to loan him her clothes. He’d made them promise never to speak of the incident again, going so far as to omit the detail from their report to Treville, but Athos knew his friend wouldn’t mind if he lightened the mood somewhat at the marksman’s expense.

 

“He’s right, you know,” Porthos went on. “I think the lovely widow was half-tempted to let you keep it after she caught sight of you wearing it.”

 

Unable to contain a smile of his own, Aramis said in mock anger, “Perhaps I was mistaken and you really are fine.”

 

“As I’ve told you before, fit and fine and ready to ride,” Porthos agreed, enjoying the distraction that their familiar banter offered.

 

Athos threw Aramis a questioning look to which the medic offered a subtle dip of his chin, indicating his belief that they could continue on. “Since we’re all so fit, I suggest we resume our journey,” the older man said, reaching for the water skin and offering it once more to Porthos. Rising, he raised an eyebrow at the marksman, asking a silent question which was answered with a slight narrowing of the eyes and Athos sighed – Porthos would continue to ride with Aramis. 

---

Riding away from Lenoir was one of the hardest things d’Artagnan had ever had to do. Although he was a young man, he’d faced several situations which had tested him – his mother’s illness and subsequent death, his father’s murder, the loss of his farm, and Constance’s rejection. Since those events, he felt he’d grown stronger and better able to deal with the disappointments that life often held. It was not that he was a pessimistic person, quite the opposite actually, and his brothers had counselled him on several occasions about his perceived naiveté. Each time, he’d smiled and nodded, as if accepting and in agreement with his friends’ observations and advice, despite the fact that he had no intention of changing – at least not in that regard.

 

The challenges he’d experienced had tempered some of his natural exuberance, but had not made him resentful or bitter. Instead, he used the past as a reminder to look for the best in every person and to get the most from every day, since you never knew who might surprise you and tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. His brothers had interpreted his perspective on life as a lack of wisdom and took it upon themselves to help him mature in his views, lest he be taken advantage of. But d’Artagnan knew differently and he didn’t view the world through rose-coloured glasses, making a conscious choice to be positive, especially in the face of adversity, rather than dwelling on those things outside of his control.

 

Leaving Lenoir to an almost certain death nearly broke him. He’d never felt like such a coward, always having prided himself on his willingness to face, head on, every challenge presented to him. But in this he’d had no choice, the Musketeer forcing him to remember the promise he’d made as Treville stood stone-faced, his eyes glazed with pain, determined even as he recognized that he was losing another soldier under his command. d’Artagnan had held Lenoir’s gaze for a long time, willing the man to give way and change his mind, but the Musketeer had remained steadfast in his resolve and he’d had no choice but to honour the man’s wishes.

 

He’d pulled his pistol from its holster, as well as those from the dead men, and dropped them at Lenoir’s feet before muscling the Captain onto his horse, the entire time doing his best not to take out his frustration on the wounded man. He wondered if Treville thought him foolish for giving up his weapon, but the man had said nothing, remaining tight-lipped as he kept his mouth closed against his pain. Rationally, the Gascon knew that it was not a smart move to reduce their ability to protect themselves, but in that moment he wasn’t thinking of his own safety and looking simply for some way of easing his guilt-ridden conscience at leaving a fellow Musketeer behind. Besides, he’d reasoned, Lenoir would be able to buy them some time if he had four pistols instead of one with which to defend against those who were hunting them.

 

They’d been riding for less than an hour, able to move faster with each man on his own horse, although the pace had left Treville practically gray with pain. d’Artagnan had parted his lips once to suggest they slow down but the Captain had given him a hard glare, his jaw clamped firmly closed, and the Gascon swallowed the words he’d been about to utter. When the sound of pistols discharging reached them, the young man jerked inadvertently on his reins, causing his horse to whinny in alarm before settling again as he loosened his grip. He’d thrown a quick look to Treville, who’d obviously heard as well. The Captain’s face was an unreadable mask as he rasped out, “Keep moving.” Incredibly, he’d dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sped up, bent nearly double but holding on relentlessly and the young man had no choice but to follow, casting a last look back from where they’d come.

 

That had been a half-hour ago and he’d left Treville in the lead, his horse instinctively staying on the path which suited d’Artagnan just fine. At the Captain’s rear, he kept his senses extended, listening for any signs of pursuit while his eyes roved constantly. The strain had once more driven a spike into the base of his skull but he was certain his discomfort was nothing compared to the agony that his companion must be dealing with. Besides, compared to the ache in his hip, his head faded into the background and he rubbed his right hand absently over the spot, trying to soothe it.

 

The pace they moved at was unsustainable, a fact that d’Artagnan was painfully aware of, and his mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do next, certain that their pursuers were not far behind them. Ideally, they would have stopped by now, allowing the Captain to rest and, even better, finding somewhere they could stay for several days while the wounded man recovered. As things stood, he would be fortunate if Treville survived and, if the unthinkable happened, d’Artagnan would more than willingly shoulder the blame.

 

The sound of a snapping twig from their rear had the Gascon’s head jerking upwards, and he cast his eyes behind him before looking at Treville to see if the other man had noticed anything out of the ordinary. The Captain was still slumped uncomfortably into himself and it was obvious that he hadn’t registered anything of concern. For several moments, d’Artagnan wondered if he’d imagined the sound and he continued to shift his gaze backwards and forwards until a lucky glint of sunlight on metal confirmed his suspicions; their attackers were nearly upon them.

 

He squeezed his heels into his horse’s ribs and the well-trained animal sped up immediately, bringing him abreast with Treville where he reached over to pull the reins from the man’s hands. The Captain gave a quick look of surprise before simply bending low over the horse’s back, allowing d’Artagnan to move both beasts into a smooth gallop. They wouldn’t be able to stay at that speed for long if they didn’t want to exhaust their mounts, but hopefully they could place some distance between themselves and the riders behind them. The Gascon bit his lip as he hoped he’d taken notice of their pursuers first, rather than the other way around.

 

Seconds later, his hopes were dashed as the sound of pistols chased them, and d’Artagnan hunched forward, trying to present a smaller target. Sparing a quick glance back, he found that the men were now in view and he swallowed thickly at their number. He had the Captain’s pistol, but its sole shot would do little to deter the men behind them; their only option was to flee. He could hear the occasional grunts of pain from Treville as he gamely held on, the sounds intermixed with the pounding of hooves below and behind him as well as the heavy breaths of their steeds. Ahead the trees were thinning and d’Artagnan momentarily considered changing direction in order to stay within the sparse protection offered by the foliage, but he didn’t dare reduce their speed to do so and give the men behind them an advantage.

 

As they burst out of the trees, d'Artagnan squinted against the sudden sunlight. He swiftly scanned the area and his heart dropped as he took in the empty landscape, which offered nowhere to hide. Another glance backwards showed their pursuers steadily gaining and the Gascon let out a muttered oath beneath his breath. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, and his final failure would cost Treville his life. The weight of that knowledge threatened to crush him, squeezing the air from his chest until he was panting in time with the horses.

 

No matter how quickly they were covering the ground, the men at their rear drew steadily closer and would be upon them in a matter of minutes. He could already feel his horse trembling as he pushed it beyond its endurance in a final desperate bid to escape their fate. The ground began to dip downwards and d’Artagnan revelled in the fact that they would be hidden from their pursuers for a short while, but his relief was short-lived as he found himself pulling hard on the reins in order to run parallel to the river they’d almost run into.

 

Treville’s horse was now beside his and the man looked over, well aware of their dire situation and yet, unaccountably, still allowing the young Gascon to take the lead. Fleetingly he wondered if it was because there was nothing more to be done, d’Artagnan’s choices having led them to this outcome, with the Captain now resigned to his death. The thought had him glancing sideways but there was nothing but pain reflected in the older man’s eyes so he pulled his gaze back to the front. The banks of the river were blessedly clear of vegetation, making it easier for them to gallop along its edges but they were beginning to slow and he could feel the poor beast quivering beneath him. The realization pulled another curse from his lips and he looked backwards to confirm what he already knew – they would soon be back within pistol range.

 

Momentarily, he looked at the water, considering the idea of going across it, but the fast-moving waters would quickly overwhelm their horses and leave them floundering. Shifting the reins to his left hand, he reached for the Captain’s pistol which he’d taken after leaving his own for Lenoir. Whoever reached them first would have the misfortune of falling to its shot – it would likely be one of their last acts of defiance but d’Artagnan was determined to take as many of the men with him as possible before he was killed.

 

He clenched the pistol tightly in his right hand, grateful for the glove he wore which kept the sweat of his palm from loosening his grip on the weapon. His head swivelled almost constantly now as he switched between looking forwards and backwards, the men drawing inexorably closer. A shot was loosed from behind and he couldn’t help flinching even though the reaction would have done nothing to save him after the fact if his attacker’s aim was true. Since he felt no new pain, he concluded that the man had missed.

 

A few seconds more and d’Artagnan prepared to turn and line up his own shot, taking it moments later and grinning mirthlessly in satisfaction when one of the riders behind him fell. Rather than savouring his minor victory, he reholstered the weapon, preparing to trade it for his sword as he anticipated engaging whoever moved within reach of his blade. A heartbeat later his world erupted into chaos, his mind registering the sound of another shot just moments before his horse reared and he found himself flung to the ground. He had only a second to register his body’s impact before he was rolling, his arms and legs flailing uselessly as he sought to understand what was happening. The motion was thankfully short-lived but ended abruptly with his entry into the cold water, the sensation making him gasp and allowing the freezing liquid to push its way into his lungs. As he choked, he let out one final curse – surely this was not how things were meant to end.

Chapter Text

When d’Artagnan realized what had happened, anger rushed through him, giving him the strength he needed to claw his way to the surface of the river which now carried him away. As soon as his head broke the surface, his body’s natural instincts took over and he found himself gasping and coughing in equal measure as he tried to draw air. He had no idea how long he struggled before becoming more aware, but as his need for oxygen was fulfilled, he managed to take note of his surroundings, the banks of the river moving past at an ominous speed. The view helped him realize that he was being swept away backwards, and he moved his arms in the water to turn himself around so he could see where he was going.

 

The sight that greeted him momentarily froze the air in his chest and he nearly allowed himself to slip back under the water in his shock – several feet away was Treville. The Captain was clearly struggling but still alive, and d’Artagnan wasted no time in propelling himself forward, using the force of the current to close the gap to his target. “Captain,” he cried as he neared. Treville didn’t seem to hear him and the Gascon wondered if it was because of the rushing water or simply the man’s weakened and disoriented state. At that moment it didn’t matter and d’Artagnan appeared behind his commanding officer as he began to lose his battle against the river’s relentless pull.

 

Reaching a hand forward, he caught Treville and pulled him upwards, encircling the man in his arms. “I’ve got you, Captain,” he said breathlessly, shocked at how much energy the act had taken. The realization prompted him to begin scanning the banks of the river, searching for an easy spot where they could climb out of the water. The further they travelled, the weaker they would become, and d’Artagnan was hyperaware of how Treville had slumped within his grasp, allowing the Gascon to keep them both afloat.

 

The good news was that the water seemed to be slowing, giving d’Artagnan fresh hope that they might still escape its clutches relatively unscathed. That hope slipped through his fingers moments later as he collided with some type of immovable object beneath the water’s surface, the force of the impact momentarily stunning him and loosening his hold on his charge. Treville slipped beneath the water immediately, and it took precious seconds to shake off his surprise and reach into the murky liquid to search for the man. Fortunately, the Captain was still within reach and he tugged the man’s head above water, relieved beyond measure when Treville took a shaky breath.

 

“Thank God,” he thought to himself, lacking sufficient air in his lungs to give the sentiment voice. He tightened his grip on the man, resolute that the Captain would not be torn from his grasp again. It was becoming harder to hold on, his fingers losing sensation, and he was vaguely aware of his chattering teeth. “Need to get out,” he mumbled through numb lips, praying that an opportunity would soon present itself. There! On the opposite bank he’d spotted a gentler slope, which he believed could be managed by the two of them. Holding Treville with his left arm, he reached out with his right, awkwardly steering them in the right direction while the current continued to propel them forward.

 

He almost missed his opportunity but managed to get them into position at the last second, closing the last few feet just in time to be able to pull free from the water’s hold, and drag both their bodies onto dry land. d’Artagnan collapsed next to Treville, knowing that he needed to check on the man but feeling completely spent. He couldn’t recall a time when his limbs had felt as heavy, his eyelids threatening to close as soon as his willpower waned.

 

His first movement was the twitch of the fingers on his right hand and he willed himself to channel more strength into the limb, clumsily pushing himself partially up and over onto his left side to rest on one elbow. The same hand came up to land clumsily on the Captain’s chest, and he managed an idiotic grin at the slight rise and fall he found there. “Alive,” he breathed out, his head dropping to hang tiredly from his neck.

 

He stayed that way for a full minute before his body’s shuddering reminded him that his work was not yet finished. The two of them were laying on the river’s edge and soaked to the bone, completely exposed to anyone who chose to ride by. Both men were shivering violently and d’Artagnan was rapidly losing sensation in his hands and feet. He clumsily pushed his way to his knees before struggling to stand, swaying momentarily as his right leg threatened to fold beneath him. Stumbling several steps brought him to the top of the riverbank and back onto level ground, and he spotted trees off in the distance. There was nothing else, for now at least, and the Gascon wondered if their attackers would chase them down the river or if they’d believe their prey dead.

 

Another full-body shudder pulled a soft moan from between his lips as his muscles contracted painfully. He made his way back to the Captain’s side, confirming once more that the man still breathed, before sitting down beside him. He pulled both boots off and grimaced at the amount of water that poured out, before replacing them and turning his attention to the wounded man. Treville’s eyes were closed and his face was pale, making the young man wonder how much more abuse the man’s body could stand. He repeated the same action with his commander’s boots, despite knowing that it was not enough to really make a difference. When he’d finished, he pushed up shakily to his knees, planting one foot firmly on the ground before pulling the Captain’s body up toward him. Not allowing himself to think about what he was about to attempt, he bent forward, allowing Treville’s body to fall across one shoulder before surging to his feet.

 

The action had his head swimming for several moments and he breathed deeply from the exertion. When he’d steadied, d’Artagnan forced himself to move, trudging slowly up the incline from the river and then across the plateau towards the trees. He had no idea how long it took him to reach the scant protection of the treeline, but he was grateful to finally reach his destination, his muscles trembling from both cold and fatigue. Not allowing himself to stop, he continued onwards until he felt that he’d travelled far enough to avoid being an easy target if their pursuers located their exit point from the water.

 

He managed a controlled fall to his knees and then carefully let Treville slide from his shoulder, continuing to regulate the man’s descent as he positioned the wounded man against the base of a tree. Reaching a shaky hand forward, he confirmed that nothing had changed with the Captain’s condition, and he allowed his eyes to close and his head to fall forward for a few seconds as he tried to catch his breath. Drawing a last, deep inhale, he began to methodically undress his commanding officer, dropping each sodden item of clothing on the ground to be dealt with later. He cringed when he reached the blood and water soaked bandage around Treville’s shoulder and decided to leave it alone since he had nothing with which to replace it.

 

Fervently wishing for a blanket, the Gascon regained his feet and spent several minutes snapping needle-laden boughs from the pine trees surrounding them, bringing his collection back so that he could create a pallet of sorts. When he was satisfied that the Captain would be as protected as possible from the cold ground, he manhandled the injured man’s body onto it, covering him with another layer of the branches he’d gathered. When he’d finished, he rested back on his heels, absently wrapping his arms around his cold body. He was still fully dressed in his wet leathers and would need to undress as soon as possible, but he was determined not to be moving around their impromptu campsite naked.

 

His next goal was the collection of firewood and, after several minutes of foraging, he eyed the fairly healthy pile he’d managed to assemble. It was a risk, he knew, to start a fire, but they wouldn’t last the night without it. Trembling fingers withdrew flint from the pouch at his waist and he sat determinedly as his clumsy hands finally accomplished the task he could normally manage in a tenth of the time. Regardless, when the first sparks took hold, he couldn’t help but grin. Turning his head, he looked toward Treville as if to share the joy of his accomplishment, but the Captain lay incredibly still and d’Artagnan’s face turned sombre, contemplating the challenge of keeping them both alive through the coming night. 

---

They’d continued to stop regularly throughout the day, Porthos deteriorating steadily to the point where Aramis could barely coax his friend to drink. By the time they’d spotted the village, the medic was beside himself with worry and nearly incoherent as anxiety clouded his thoughts. Athos was no less concerned but, as usual, hid his fears under a shroud of confidence, making it appear as though he hadn’t a care in the world, even though his true feelings were the exact opposite. He had been just as shocked by the rapid decline in Porthos’ health and was now equally concerned for the injured man as he was for the absent Gascon.

 

Athos wasted no time in heading directly for the building he correctly identified as an inn, dismounting gracefully, his smooth movements belying the many hours he’d spent in the saddle. His reins were handed off immediately to the boy who appeared and he caught Aramis’ eye as he said, “Wait here while I secure a room.” The medic gave a short nod in reply, understanding that it was best to leave Porthos undisturbed until Athos returned and the two men could take their friend directly inside to a bed.

 

When the stable boy had finished with the older Musketeer’s horse, Aramis handed over the lead for Porthos’ riderless steed, one hand carefully staying wrapped around his friend’s midsection to keep him securely in place. A minute later, Athos was back, and he opened his arms in preparation to receive Porthos’ insensate form. The large man roused briefly as he was helped to the ground, but was of little help as the two men shouldered his weight, moving them inside the inn and up a set of stairs to a cozy room.

 

Aramis had eyes only for the large bed that sat against one wall and aimed for it immediately, eager to get Porthos lying down so he could examine the man’s wounds and hopefully begin some course of treatment that would bolster his fight against the infection that burned in his veins. Athos took a moment to really look at the large man, his face damp with a sheen of sweat, his features lax in unconsciousness. His breaths seemed too quick and shallow and the older man knew this was at least in part due to the fever to which he’d succumbed. He’d felt the heat of it when he’d helped take some of his friend’s weight.

 

The medic immediately moved to remove Porthos’ boots and doublet, so Athos left their sides for a moment to pour water into a basin, before pulling several clean cloths from their saddlebags. Returning to the bed, he placed the water within Aramis’ reach and watched as the marksman cut away the soiled bandages and then removed the poultices that covered the multitude of scratches. Here, in the comfort of an inn with a real bed and clean bedding, the wounds looked far worse than they had by the morning light. Porthos’ face twitched in discomfort as Aramis carefully scrubbed at the infected slices, moaning when the medic reached particularly sensitive areas.

 

Athos bit his lip as he noted how poor their friend’s condition was and he murmured, “I’ve asked for hot water and wine to be brought.” Aramis didn’t reply but continued working. “There’s an herbalist in town if you need more supplies to combat the infection.”

 

Aramis allowed a low snort at the older man’s words, “If things continue progressing this quickly, we’ll need a damn priest.” Athos knew the words were spoken out of fear; fear that the medic would not be skilled enough to help their friend survive; fear that his actions had been too little, too late; fear that Porthos might leave them to muddle through life on their own, a thought which neither man could stomach.

 

“He will recover,” Athos said, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder as the latter man’s hand stilled, dropping his head for a moment as he fought against his despair.

 

“Wounds inflicted by animals are…” the medic trailed off. Prone to infection? Dangerous? A guaranteed death sentence?

 

It didn’t matter how Aramis had intended to finish the thought, since Athos could only see one direction forward. “He will recover because he is Porthos,” he said simply.

 

Silence blanketed them for several long seconds before Aramis gave a small nod and lifted his head, his lips quirking slightly as he replied, “Yes, he is.”

 

A knock at the door prevented further discussion and Athos gave the medic’s shoulder a firm squeeze before moving to answer, opening it wide to allow a man to deposit a bucket of steaming water along with two bottles of wine. Aramis turned his attention back to Porthos’ wounds as Athos and the innkeeper conversed in low tones, only bringing his focus back when the older man came to stand next to him. “I’ve told him that you’ll be down later with a list and he’ll send someone to see the herbalist to purchase anything you need. We’ll also have dinner brought to the room.”

 

Some of the tension in Aramis’ shoulders eased at his friend’s thoughtful arrangements, and he efficiently finished cleaning the gashes on Porthos’ chest before covering them loosely with clean bandages. By that time, the food had arrived and he joined Athos at the small table, digging in to the stew as his body reminded him of how long it had been since he’d eaten a proper meal.

 

“We’ll need to get Porthos to eat something as well,” Aramis commented in between bites.

 

Athos hummed in confirmation, indicating the fireplace with a toss of his head where a small amount of broth sat waiting for the injured man. The realization brought a soft smile to the medic’s lips and he tucked into the remainder of his food with vigour, feeling somewhat guilty at the pleasure he was taking from the simple meal but rationalizing that the days ahead would be challenging and he would need his strength to endure.

 

They ate quietly, their usual banter absent from the meal, with both men caught up in their own thoughts. Aramis was planning to do a second inventory of his bag, reasonably certain he knew what additional supplies were needed, but wanting to make sure before sending someone to the herbalist. Next would come the preparation of a new poultice, and he and Athos would need to take turns sitting with Porthos, tending to his fever and getting him to drink. He was worried about his friend but was doing his utmost to stay confident despite his knowledge of animal wounds.

 

Athos’ mind was elsewhere, concerned about Porthos as well but unable to focus on their current situation while they remained separated from d’Artagnan. He’d kept quiet thus far, not wanting to be mocked and then guilt-tripped by Aramis, but his instincts had been screaming at him ever since they’d received the Captain’s orders. Although he considered himself a logical man, not one prone to impetuous acts nor ruled by emotion, his need to search for the Gascon was steadily shredding his willpower.

 

Now that Porthos was safe, or at least as safe as he could be while still battling injury, his nerves danced, making him twitchy and jumpy, two words that would never normally be associated with the former comte. He literally ached with the need to be back on his horse so he might race to Calais, desperate to assuage the fears that were running rampant and conjuring evermore worrying scenarios the longer he sat.

 

Abruptly, he stood, his need to be in motion overriding his ability to remain still and Aramis looked up sharply as the table was jarred by Athos’ hip as he rose. The medic’s eyes narrowed as he took in his friend’s shallow breaths, his expression a mixture of mild astonishment and guilt. Realization dawned and Aramis slowly shook his head as he spoke, “No.” Athos’ gaze dipped toward the floor as the marksman continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “You can’t be serious.”

 

The older man raised his eyes and Aramis had his answer, making him shake his head once more. “Porthos’ fate is still uncertain and you would leave us?” Aramis hissed incredulously, his face clearly showing his displeasure.

 

Athos cleared his throat as he replied, “I must know that he’s alright.” The medic’s expression held nothing but censure and the older man licked his lips as he searched for the words to adequately convey his feelings. “I cannot explain; since we received Treville’s orders I have been unable to dismiss my concerns that d’Artagnan is in danger and in need of help. Now that you are safe, I must ride to Calais and confirm his condition.”

 

Aramis’ face had softened but Athos knew that the other man was still unhappy with his decision. It was difficult to fault him given Porthos’ precarious state and the older man knew it would cost him to ride away without knowing whether or not he would survive. Despite that, he could no longer ignore the pull to ride after their fourth and could only pray that the two men would forgive him.

 

“Athos,” the marksman’s tone was pleading, asking him to reconsider, but he knew he could not. Swallowing thickly, the older man gave a small shake of his head to indicate his decision.

 

Sighing, Aramis sat back in his chair, considering the man before him. He understood the need to chase after d’Artagnan, having occasionally been in the other man’s shoes. He knew for a fact that if he’d expressed worry for either Porthos or Athos, the others in their foursome would not question his desire to assuage his fears. Then why was this situation different? Was it because Porthos was hurt and it would mean splitting their already meagre forces, leaving him to tend the man alone? No, he’d done so many times in the past, always eagerly taking care of his brothers, seeing it as a privilege rather than a burden.

 

Of course it did bother him that Athos would leave while Porthos was injured and feverish, and for a moment he wondered why the older man wouldn’t stay until their friend was recovering – surely that was not so much to ask. After all, the three of them had been friends for far longer, bleeding and carousing together for many years before the Gascon’s arrival. Certainly the boy had easily slipped into their group, the threesome accommodating a fourth, but shouldn’t their lengthy history engender a greater loyalty to one another, than it seemed to currently? The thought startled him as he realized, with shame, that he’d placed greater importance on Porthos’ life than d’Artagnan’s.

 

It was something he’d never believed himself capable of, having assumed that his bond with the Gascon was as strong as his bond with the others, only to be proved wrong by his traitorous thoughts. It was true that even in their foursome they’d naturally gravitated to a particular person, Aramis often finding himself with Porthos while Athos and d’Artagnan were often paired. There was no logical reason for it, and it wasn’t as though the others couldn’t work together just as well, but the pull that brought them together persisted.

 

Coming to a decision, Aramis bit his lip for a moment before he spoke. “Alright, but I expect you to return as soon as possible,” he raised a hand to forestall any argument, “or send word if you cannot come yourself.” Athos gave a dip of his head in agreement, grateful that he would not need to leave on poor terms. “If I do not hear from you by the time that Porthos is well enough to travel,” his eyes darted to the man’s bed before returning to Athos’ face, refusing to believe that the man would die, “then we will assume you to be engaged in Calais and will follow and meet you there.”

 

Again, Athos’ head bobbed and he murmured softly, “Thank you.”

 

Aramis’ expression remained unhappy and he pushed himself from his seat, turning toward his things as he said, “I’ll make up that list of supplies now.” Athos watched his friend’s retreating back as he set about his task, apologizing to the man in his head for deserting him, and yet unable to see any other path forward.

Chapter Text

d’Artagnan prised open gummy eyes, blinking blearily in an effort to clear the gritty orbs. It was still dark but no longer the full black of night, heralding the approaching dawn, which the Gascon welcomed. The evening hours had been torturous, with nothing to do but lie next to his commanding officer in an effort to share their meagre body heat. He’d diligently kept the fire fed but towards morning, the flames had dwindled as his wood supplies had been consumed, until the fire’s warmth was non-existent.

 

He’d intentionally positioned Treville closest to the fire, laying at the man’s back to cocoon him in an effort to warm the man’s icy body. He, himself, was still chilled and shivered occasionally, the contraction of his muscles reawakening a multitude of aches that centred around his hip. d’Artagnan vaguely remembered his collision with something in the river, but the pain had been muted by the frigidness of the water. Now that his body had warmed somewhat, the blessed numbness had disappeared and he bit his lip against the throb every time he’d needed to move to add more kindling.

 

The Captain had remained quiet throughout the night and the Gascon felt both relieved and concerned by the man’s stillness. While consciousness would bring a great deal of discomfort with it, it would also release some of the young man’s worry at the fact that Treville had yet to awaken. He laid at the man’s side until the sky above him lightened sufficiently to chase away the deep shadows, allowing him to discern enough detail that he trusted himself to move about the camp. His first attempt at standing nearly had him collapsing to the ground as the deep ache in his hip sent tendrils of pain shooting through his leg. He had to hold himself up against the tree at their backs for over a minute before he was relatively confident that it would support his weight.

 

His first steps were awkward and stilted and he limped heavily, favoring his right leg as he moved to the branches where he’d hung their clothes to dry. Looking down, he was shocked at the dark, nearly black bruising that blossomed from his hip and he recalled once more the object that he’d struck while in the water. A quick check of their clothes showed everything to still be damp, the night air too cool to wick the moisture from the fabric, but he pulled his braies and shirt on regardless, shivering against the coldness that touched his skin. He looked around their pitiful camp, once more mourning the loss of almost everything they’d carried, deciding that the first priority was to gather more wood in order to stoke up the fire.

 

When that task was done, and he’d checked again on Treville, he decided to return to the river in order to slake his thirst. The journey also represented his next challenge - that of getting water to the ailing man without the aid of a vessel within which to carry it. His solution was inelegant and, after sating his need for water, he pulled a sleeve free from his shirt, wetting it in the cold river and carrying it back to the wounded man. Kneeling at the man’s side, a hand cupped underneath the sodden fabric to catch the liquid that dripped from it, he called to the officer, “Captain.” A knee was used to nudge at Treville’s uninjured shoulder as he continued his efforts, “Captain, please wake up.”

 

Treville’s eyebrows lifted lazily as he attempted to comply and a soft moan reverberated in his chest. “Captain, open your eyes,” d’Artagnan urged once more, frustrated at the man’s lethargy that kept him firmly in Morpheus’ grip. Another movement of his knee pulled a second groan from the man, “That’s it, Captain, it’s time to wake up and drink some water.” Thinking that Treville’s thirst was likely as strong as his own had been, d’Artagnan shifted his hands, allowing the water to dribble onto the man’s lips. Seconds later, his face widened in a grin as the injured man’s mouth opened, allowing more of the liquid in. “That’s it, Captain,” the Gascon softly praised.

 

Moments later, Treville closed his mouth and his eyelids fluttered, partially opening to focus on the man above him. d’Artagnan waited several moments before speaking, “Good morning, Sir; it’s good to have you awake again.”

 

Treville cleared his throat and then rasped, “Given what I remember of recent events, I’m glad to be able to wake.” The comment was not as reassuring as it could have been, but given what had happened, the Gascon felt it to be a fairly optimistic assessment. Wordlessly, he brought his hands forward again, waiting until the Captain’s lips parted so he could deposit the remaining water into the man’s mouth.

 

The liquid seemed to revive Treville somewhat and he made motions to rise, d’Artagnan moving quickly to place a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from shifting. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sir.” He received a glare from the supine man, leaving no doubt about the Captain’s intentions. Releasing a small sigh, the Gascon acquiesced, “Fine, but let me get your clothes first.”

 

The comment had Treville’s face screwing up in confusion, his good arm fumbling with the vegetation that covered him and discovering his naked state. Crouching next to the Captain with the man’s clothes in his hands, the young man explained, “We were cold and drenched from our impromptu swim in the river. I undressed you and got you settled amongst those boughs so you’d warm up.” He extended a hand with Treville’s shirt, making a gesture that requested permission to help the man dress. With a short nod of his head, the Captain agreed and bore the process of redressing stoically, ignoring his pain and his embarrassment at the process.

 

When they’d finished, d’Artagnan helped Treville sit back down, with a tree at his back, settling down across from him with the smoldering remains of the fire between them. He waited quietly as the Captain took stock, noting the absence of their horses and saddlebags. Licking his lips, he ordered, “Report.”

 

d’Artagnan instinctively straightened as he replied, “We lost both the horses and our supplies when we fell into the river. As far as I can tell, we were carried several miles from that point. I have my sword and main gauche, my flint and some powder, but it’s wet and I lost your pistol when I fell. I have some idea of where we are and believe it will be a two or three day walk to Calais at best, possible speed.”

 

Silence fell over their camp as the Gascon finished, Treville’s face a neutral mask that gave nothing away. In truth, under the surface, the Captain was scared. His shoulder ached abominably and his arm was almost useless, lying still in his lap. He was certain that it had been over a day since they’d last eaten, given the hollow feeling in his stomach, despite the fact that he felt somewhat nauseous from the pain. Best possible speed suggested a timeframe for a hale man, not one who was uncertain if he could even remain standing without support. And what of their attackers? From what d’Artagnan had said, they had precious little with which to defend themselves and that duty fell solely on the Gascon’s shoulders.

 

He narrowed his eyes as he took a proper look at the man sitting across from him. d’Artagnan had tried to adopt a casual posture but it was clear that the young man felt anything but relaxed. From what he could recall, the Gascon had stayed awake to tend to him and Lenoir their first night and it was a good bet that he’d done the same again the previous night. The result had left the young man with dark circles under both eyes and a hunched posture that bespoke of overwhelming weariness. He was reminded of Athos’ words, shared over a glass of brandy one night, “d’Artagnan will put the welfare of all others before himself; it is both one of his most admirable traits and that which does him the greatest harm.” Treville could not help but agree now as he considered what he could recall of the last two days.  

 

The preferred option would be to find a town as quickly as possible where they could get help, but with unknown men pursuing them, that choice was untenable, leading to almost-certain capture and most likely the death of innocents. Instead, they would have no choice but to forge onwards, with d’Artagnan carrying the majority of the load, both literally and figuratively, responsible for their safety and for bearing Treville’s weight since he could not do so on his own. Drawing a deep breath, he said, “We’ll set out at once for Calais.”

 

To his surprise, d’Artagnan only nodded and he realized that the Gascon had already figured out that this was the only reasonable option available to them. In fact, he’d likely been racking his brain for hours, looking for alternatives and finding none, simply waiting for Treville to confirm what he already knew; without assistance, there was no going back, only forward. Reaching his good arm upwards, the Captain indicated his readiness to depart and prepared himself for the pain that movement would bring. 

---

Despite Aramis’ assertions that he was fully capable of caring for Porthos during the night, Athos insisted that the marksman get some sleep, knowing that the medic would have his hands full after he’d left. Once his friend was asleep, the hours seemed to pass by slowly, and Athos ached to soothe his frazzled nerves with more wine, having limited himself to three glasses in order to keep his head clear.

 

As they’d anticipated, Porthos’ condition remained precarious, the injured man sweating and shaking with fever while Athos did what he could with cool water and a damp cloth. He desperately wanted Porthos to wake before he left, but it was not to be as morning brought with it only more delirious ramblings that were too quiet to fully discern. Athos was grateful that Aramis woke on his own, the guilt he was feeling preventing him from disturbing his friend’s slumber.

 

As the marksman stretched stiff muscles and made his way to the bed, he cast an appraising eye over his patient before confirming what he already knew, “No change?”

 

Athos gave a small shake of his head as he answered, “No. I’ve managed to get a little water into him but he’s out of his head with fever.” It was a sorry reflection of their lives that they were all well-practiced in dealing with infection, having tended to one another often enough to at least know the rudimentary basics of caring for each other.

 

Aramis gave a soft sigh as he pulled a hand through his tangled curls, “It was to be expected. Still, I had hoped…” He trailed off but Athos understood anyway, having hoped also that the fresh poultices would have had a greater positive effect on their friend.

 

Dropping the cloth into the washbasin, Athos rose, his back cracking as he straightened. As he reached for his doublet, Aramis stared at him and asked, “You’re still going, then?” The older man offered a silent nod, slipping his arms into the garment without turning around to face his friend. In his heart, Aramis had known that the older man would not change his mind, yet a part of him had prayed that he would stay. Steeling himself and keeping his words intentionally light, he suggested, “Why don’t you get us some breakfast first? No telling how much time I’ll have for food once you’ve gone.” He cringed momentarily at the implication of his statement but Athos didn’t react, simply giving another dip of his chin before leaving the room in search of breakfast.

 

“Smooth, Aramis, very smooth,” he muttered at the closed door. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he took Athos’ recently vacated seat, turning his attention to Porthos instead. The older man’s assessment had been unfortunately accurate and the large man was gripped firmly by fever. His cheeks had a sunken quality about them, puffing out with each breath of air that seemed to move too shallowly through his chest. Beneath pale lids, Porthos’ eyes danced with unknown dreams and his slumber looked far from restful, no doubt adding to his weakened state. “Oh, Porthos,” Aramis breathed out, reaching for the discarded cloth and wringing it out before placing it across the man’s brow. 

---

Athos had descended the stairs and placed their order for breakfast, waiting while the young maid gathered everything and filled a tray. He could have returned upstairs and had their food brought, but Aramis’ words had stung and added to the already deep guilt he felt at leaving his friends behind. He didn’t doubt that the marksman’s gaff was unintentional, just as he didn’t doubt that the words reflected the man’s true feelings. Rationally, Athos knew he should stay at his friends’ sides but, where logic had previously guided him, he was now at the mercy of his fears.

 

He’d been grateful the previous night when Aramis had accepted his explanation even though he’d been less than forthcoming with the full details. In truth, the last time he’d felt so strongly about another’s well-being was the day he’d discovered his brother’s lifeless body. Afterwards, he’d beaten himself up for months for not acting on the feeling sooner, opting to finish his week-long hunt instead of giving in to his irrational fears. When he’d returned and been faced with the facts of Thomas’ death, he’d been inconsolable in his rage. Those around him assumed the anger was directed at his wife but the truth was that he was angry with himself for not returning in time to prevent the two greatest heartaches of his life – Thomas’ murder and the hanging of his beloved Anne.

 

He’d done the bare minimum required before closing up the house and leaving for good, riding as fast and as far as he could in an effort to forget. In Paris, he’d crawled into a bottle and refused to come out, waiting sullenly for the moment when an ill-timed remark or an overly slowed reaction would see the steel of someone’s blade end his miserable existence. Only it hadn’t happened, Treville finding him first and offering him a future in which he could atone for his misdeeds; his only condition had been that Athos curtail his drinking since the King’s Musketeers could not be seen to be drunks.

 

It had been a difficult choice but in the end he had agreed, forgoing his morning bottle of wine for the thrill of ice water into which he’d plunged his head before setting out for the garrison. Treville had given him a long, appraising look, but had ultimately been satisfied with the clarity he’d found in the former comte’s eyes. The Captain had motioned to one of the men practicing in the courtyard, indicating that the two should engage. As Athos neatly disarmed his opponent, he received a nod from Treville, the man waving him upstairs to his office. That first step had been the hardest to take, but anything worth having was worth fighting for, and he would not forget the debt he owed to the man who had salvaged his future.

 

Now, as he prepared to depart, he wondered what Treville would think of his actions; whether the man would understand his need to follow him and the Gascon while Porthos lay in bed, fighting for his life. If the worst were to pass and the large man died, would Aramis ever be able to forgive him for being absent during their friend’s final moments. And what if Porthos lived? Would the gentle man understand why he’d been unable to stay, choosing instead to ride away when he’d been at his most vulnerable? The thoughts swirled in his mind like a maelstrom, ratcheting the headache that plagued him up another notch until he had to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose against the throb.

 

In that moment, his father’s words surfaced in his mind, “It is in the choice between two right options that a man’s character is forged.” He’d hung on his father’s words and the statement had resonated with him, but his father was not yet finished speaking. “But, it is only in hindsight when a man’s choices are proven to be either foolish or sound.” The recollection offered no solace. He had no doubt that his character was about to be sorely tested; as to the outcome, he could only hope that he would not count himself a fool when all was said and done.

Chapter Text

He’d taken Treville down to the river first, taking the opportunity to wash the wound and help the man drink his fill before doing the same. He had no idea when they would next find a water source as he was too experienced to stay alongside the river where they could be easily found. When he’d finished, d’Artagnan had sacrificed his other sleeve to provide a somewhat clean bandage and fashion a makeshift sling to minimize the pull of Treville’s arm on his injured shoulder.

 

Despite the pain of having his bullet wound tended, the Captain seemed more aware as they set off and the young man took advantage to ask the question he’d been struggling with since the attack. “Why do you think we were attacked?”

 

Treville gave the man beside him a sideways glance as he struggled to carry as much of his own weight as possible, his good arm slung over the Gascon’s shoulder. He considered giving the obvious answer; that he was the commanding officer of the Musketeers and, therefore, always a target. But, he sensed that the young man beside him would be unsatisfied, especially if what Athos had said about the boy was true. He could grudgingly admit to himself that d’Artagnan had thus far performed admirably under less than ideal conditions, and he understood the burden of bearing the responsibility for both their lives. As a result, he took time to ponder his response.

 

He’d been wrestling with the same question himself and confessed that even he was surprised with the tenacity shown by their pursuers, having believed the men would give up when they’d initially overwhelmed the Musketeers’ forces. That they were still being hunted suggested something more sinister, and he bit down his own frustration with the King for not having shared anything of consequence that would explain their attackers’ determination to see them dead. Beside him, d’Artagnan’s expression communicated his expectation to be answered and Treville was impressed that the boy was bold enough not to let the issue drop. Darting his tongue out to moisten dry lips, he said, “They do seem to be more persistent…than the run of the mill bandit.” The brief statement had him short of breath and he mentally cursed how much he’d been weakened by his injury.

 

The Gascon didn’t draw attention to the older man’s stuttering speech but pressed on in search of a satisfactory answer, “Why do you think that is?”

 

A look of irritation passed over Treville’s face as his earlier suspicions about d’Artagnan were confirmed, the young man digging further for the true explanation behind the repeated attacks. Letting some of his annoyance color his words, he countered, “Do you not think…killing the Captain of the Musketeers…a significant enough prize?” His last words were breathy and low but the Gascon was nodding slowly, indicating he’d heard.

 

“Your death would be a feather in anyone’s hat,” d’Artagnan allowed, “but the timing would seem somewhat coincidental given our current mission.”

 

“Damn it!” Treville thought to himself, the boy having struck on the crux of the issue. It was too much of a coincidence that they would be assaulted while on their way to Calais, and his finely-tuned soldier’s instincts told him that the two had to be related; yet he could not for the life of him understand how. The Dutch were not powerful in and of themselves, however the power they wielded as a result of their established trade routes garnered them more respect than they might have otherwise warranted.

 

Privately, France was pleased that the Dutch continued to be a thorn in Spain’s side, fighting for independence from the Spanish crown, and it was likely this factor that had encouraged the King to agree to a meeting. However, Louis was not above delegating the task, which he perceived beneath him, to one of his loyal servants, selecting a man with a position of sufficient status to avoid insulting the Ambassador.

 

The circumstances would suggest that Spain would have the most to lose if ties between France and the Dutch strengthened, even though these sorts of arrangements usually required more than a meeting between lower-level delegates, often involving some form of union between members of the royal family. As such, Treville remained mystified by the current level of fervor being displayed by their pursuers. Finally, giving his head a small shake, he said, “It’s not by chance that we’re hunted.” Pausing, he drew a couple of short breaths, “but I don’t know…for the life of me…why it’s so important…that they succeed.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed to accept the Captain’s answer, his arm tightening around the man’s waist as he pulled them both forward. In truth, the information that Treville had shared was less than satisfactory, but it reflected his own ruminations about their situation and had served to confirm that the man at his side wasn’t hiding anything of consequence from him. He normally respected the fact that his commanding officer would be privy to details which he could not always share with his men, but their current situation called for a different set of rules and d’Artagnan was not prepared to die without at least trying to find out what he might be dying for.

 

They continued on in silence, the quiet broken only by the normal sounds of nature surrounding them and their own breathing, made louder and harsher by their exertions. d’Artagnan was determined to travel for as long as possible before taking a break even though his face showed the obvious toll their journey was taking on him. The Gascon felt fortunate that the Captain was too wrapped up in his own misery to take notice of the young man beside him, d’Artagnan’s hip protesting each staggering step they took, the pain of which was growing harder to ignore the longer they walked.

 

He recalled Aramis’ assertions that he must take great care not to overexert himself if the bone was to heal properly, and he knew the medic would be angry with him when he eventually got his hands on him. He could not say with certainty that yesterday’s underwater collision had caused more damage, but the resulting bruising was frightening to behold, and the soreness he was experiencing seemed far greater than anything he’d dealt with during the past week.

 

While he’d initially found his friends’ hovering irritating, he would be thrilled now to be able to submit to their care, listening to Aramis’ worried tsking, seeing the amused and knowing grin on Porthos’ face, and feeling the warmth of Athos’ hand on his arm to distract him from the pain. He’d been looking forward to reuniting with the men following their mission, and had been somewhat annoyed when ordered by Treville to join the mission to Calais, thus extending their time apart. He longed for his friends’ easy camaraderie, something which always managed to relax him. Even more, he missed the strength and comfort that their presence provided, no matter how insurmountable the odds facing them seemed.

 

He was broken from his reverie as he stumbled, the weakness in his right leg getting harder to ignore. Treville gasped as he was jarred with the motion and d’Artagnan adjusted his grip to more firmly support the man. In the time they’d been walking, the Captain’s face had paled, adopting a grayish cast that spoke of intense pain. The man’s breaths came in shallow gasps and his head bobbed between his shoulders, apparently lacking the strength to continuously hold it up. In the moments when he was able to look up, the Gascon could see that Treville’s eyes were barely open, the narrow slits allowing him the barest idea of what lay ahead.

 

With his own energy flagging, d’Artagnan decided to stop for a break, guiding the other man toward a broad tree and placing his Captain at its base. Treville laid his head back and brought his hand up to cradle his injured arm, he eyes squeezed tightly closed against the persistent ache. The Gascon sat down a few feet away, close enough to offer support but far enough away to allow the other man some space while he gathered himself.

 

They stayed that way for several minutes without speaking, Treville’s breathing finally slowing to a more normal pace as he managed to gain some semblance of control over his pain. Opening his eyes, he spotted the young man leaning against a nearby tree, the Gascon’s right hand absently rubbing at his upper thigh. The sight made him frown and wonder if d’Artagnan had reinjured himself, but there was nothing to be done about it now so he didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “How long?”

 

The Gascon squinted up at the sky, noting the position of the sun and calculating the approximate time, “A couple of hours, give or take.”

 

Treville gritted his teeth in frustration at the short amount of time they’d been travelling. A fit man could cover four or five miles every hour but, with his injury, they’d be lucky to cover half that, meaning they were no more than four miles away from where they’d spent the night. The pace was abominably slow and meant their time to reach Calais would be extended, d’Artagnan’s estimate of two or three days stretching out to close to a week. The Captain closed his eyes again at the reality of the numbers, knowing without a doubt that he would not be able to keep going for that amount of time, already feeling the telltale burning in his wound that heralded an infection.

 

But what choice did he have? d’Artagnan would never be persuaded to leave him behind and would die protecting him before he’d accept the idea of saving his own life at the cost of the Captain’s. They could potentially alter their course and seek shelter somewhere along the way, but the idea of placing other innocent lives in danger rankled him. As though reading his thoughts, the Gascon spoke, his voice quiet but firm, “I’ll not leave you behind.”

 

Treville couldn’t help but wonder at the loyalty of his men, promising to do everything in his power to live up to it. Giving a shaky nod, he began to raise a hand, “Then we’d best get going, while I’m still able.” He saw the momentary flash of comprehension on d’Artagnan’s face, before the boy’s expression shuttered and was replaced with the confident look of a soldier. Steeling himself, Treville prepared for the laborious task of moving, sending up a prayer that he would not disappoint the young man before him. 

---

Their morning meal had consisted of warm porridge, a loaf of soft bread flavoured with small pieces of fruit, and numerous furtive glances from Aramis as the marksman waffled between feelings of empathy and betrayal at Athos’ decision to leave. It was the latter that the older man could have done without and which made the food sit uneasily in his belly. He’d wasted no time in his preparations to depart, waiting only as long as it took for Aramis to check on Porthos and to complete his morning ablutions.

 

As he readied to leave, Athos placed a hand on Porthos’ too warm cheek, letting it lay there for a moment before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on the man’s forehead. Turning, he met Aramis’ compassionate gaze and clasped his friend’s hand tightly as the marksman said, “Be safe.” Athos gave a curt nod and left, closing the door behind him and then pausing for a moment as he questioned his decision, but his gut still churned in the same way it had been for days and he pushed himself onward.

 

Being back on his horse provided a welcome outlet for the nervous energy he’d been struggling to contain, even as the guilt at leaving his friends behind blossomed in its place. The day was clear and temperate, neither too hot or too cold and he made good time as he moved further south to meet up with the main road to Calais. He could not be sure that the Captain and the others would have arrived by now but, even if they hadn’t, he hoped that he might cross paths with them at some point on the road leading to the port city.

 

The route he took kept him out of contact with others and he was unsurprised to find himself crossing mile after deserted mile of French countryside. The lack of human interaction didn’t bother him as he knew he’d be poor company right now, his thoughts still conjuring one scenario after another of what, if anything, might have befallen d’Artagnan and the others. No matter how many times he reminded himself that his imagination was running wild, he could not seem to curb its effects for more than a few minutes, his mind wandering to another concerning situation each time his focus wavered.

 

He found himself somewhat relieved when he again adjusted his direction slightly, bringing him closer to his goal of connecting with the main road. There was a longer route he could take, allowing him to bypass the forest ahead of him, but he didn’t want to spare the necessary time and entered instead. His route would be less direct as he made he meandered around the trees in his path but, ultimately, he would save several hours of time.

 

It was cooler underneath the canopy of branches and pine-covered limbs that rose far above his head, and Athos pulled his cloak tighter around himself to ward off the chill. From what he could recall, the journey through the forest would take no more than a couple hours, depositing him on the banks of a river where he could water his horse. His lips twitched slightly in satisfaction when, two hours later, he left the trees behind him and continued forward another hundred metres to the edge of the swift-moving water.

 

He was glad to be able to take a short break after riding steadily since that morning. His horse seemed to share his relief, dropping its head immediately to nibble at the young grass at its feet. Athos removed his water skin from where it hung from the saddle, drinking deeply before moving down the steep slope to the water’s edge. He efficiently refilled the container, dipping his hands in to wash away some of the dirt from his journey before bringing a handful of water to wipe at his face and neck.

 

Not really hungry, but recognizing the need to eat, Athos climbed back up and found a spot a few metres away from his mount, bringing with him a small wrapped parcel of cheese and bread. He chewed slowly, ensuring he ate enough to maintain his energy, before absently swallowing each tasteless bite. When he’d finished, he repacked everything and then led his horse down to the river’s edge, giving the animal ample time to drink before turning away. As he lifted a foot to climb up the incline, the sound of voices drifted toward him and he paused, uncertain why but feeling it was important that he remained unseen. One hand moved to his horse’s neck, keeping the animal calm with his touch so that the beast wouldn’t make any noise that might give away their presence.

 

Listening hard, he was able to distinguish a few random words. “Must have…way. See footprints…leading in…direction. Think…Musketeers?”

 

Athos frowned at the disjointed words, unable to fully comprehend their meaning but concerned that someone was discussing his regiment. Dropping his horse’s lead, he took a couple quiet steps away, dropping low to the ground before removing his hat and carefully climbing upwards until he could see over the lip of the incline. A few metres away stood two men, both holding their horse’s reins as they talked at the top of the river’s steep bank. It was clear that something on the ground had captured their attention and prompted the two to dismount. What was far more concerning, however, was the larger group of riders who waited at the forest’s edge, numbering close to a dozen.

 

As the man closest to him looked around, Athos dropped his head quickly, pushing his cheek into the dirt in an effort to remain hidden from sight. The other man’s gaze passed over him harmlessly and he could hear a short murmured discussion before the sounds faded away, the men having turned from him to mount and then riding toward their companions. The Musketeer risked another look, watching as the riders gathered and entered the forest he’d recently left. He stayed in place for several minutes until he was certain the men had gone before retrieving his hat and horse, and walking to where he’d seen the two conversing.

 

His gaze carefully examined the ground until he found the footprints the men must have been referring to. The indentations were fairly deep as though made by a very large man, even though the size of the boot belied anything more than an average-sized male. The tracks headed toward the trees and Athos moved in the direction they pointed, hoping to find something soon that would explain the riders’ interest in what they’d found. Fortunately, the group ahead of him had left a trail that a blind man could follow, so he had no problem retracing their steps, finding a small clearing where the men had obviously stopped. He took a minute to look around, again searching for something that would indicate what or who the men were pursuing, but the empty woods around him provided no clues.

 

With a soft sigh of frustration, he mounted, nudging his horse forward and continuing to follow in the riders’ wake, quelling the insistent voice of logic in his head that cautioned him against his current actions. The trail he was following continued to meander through the trees and it was nearly an hour later that he heard the first faint sounds of men’s voices, indicating that he’d nearly closed the gap between himself and the group ahead of him. Slowing his pace, he extended his senses, trying to capture enough of what was being said to understand the content of the conversation.

 

“Split up. That….catch….between us.” The words were as mystifying as those he’d overheard earlier but his instincts were screaming at him that these men were up to no good. Repeating in his head the short bit that he’d heard, he tried to make sense of the words, startling suddenly upright when understanding dawned. The group ahead must be trying to approach from multiple sides in order to capture their prey.

 

Although Athos still had no idea who the men were following, he felt an overwhelming need to prevent their success and he immediately tugged at his horse’s reins, moving through the trees to his left so that he could exit the forest and speed ahead unimpeded. The detour took only minutes to accomplish, bringing him back out into the waning daylight as evening began to fall. He spurred his mount to go faster, keeping it cantering for several minutes before turning again to re-enter the forest, hopefully in front of the riders he’d earlier observed.

 

Pausing when he felt that he'd ridden in far enough, he turned his horse to the left again, fairly certain that he’d managed to skirt around the others. Keeping his pace at a trot, he kept his eyes darting between the ground and the trees ahead, hoping to find some indication of the riders’ prey. He was hypersensitive of the sounds around him, needing every advantage to remain undetected by those behind him and to avoid stumbling unaware into the hands of those in front of him.

 

Catching a brief flash of motion in his periphery, he ducked down against his horse’s neck, pulling on his reins as he rode by whatever he’d seen. Turning his horse, he stopped. “Athos,” the voice was entirely unexpected and he took in the speaker’s countenance with shock.

 

d'Artagnan clutched his sword with both hands, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, and his face wore an expression that Athos guessed was likely mirrored on his own face – incredulity, relief and joy at having found one another. Looking beyond the obvious, the older Musketeer noted the weariness and lines of pain that creased the young man’s features, every part of him rumpled and dirty. As the Gascon shifted slightly sideways, Athos could see another man on the ground behind him – Treville. If d’Artagnan looked bad, the Captain appeared ten times worse, his body slumped forward as if lacking the strength to hold himself upright, his eyes dulled with fever and pain.

 

Casting a glance in the direction from which he’d come, Athos made a split-second decision, sliding quickly from his horse and striding to Treville. Throwing a command over his shoulder, he ordered, “d’Artagnan, get in the saddle and I’ll pass the Captain up to you.” The Gascon hesitated a moment and then moved to do as he’d been asked, correctly reading the urgency of his mentor’s tone. Placing a foot in the stirrup, he pulled himself up, swinging his other leg around and biting back a groan as the movement made the ache in his hip flare. Seconds later, Treville was seated in front of him and d’Artagnan firmly held the reins in one hand while supporting the wounded man with the other.

 

Athos was pointing the way out of the trees, “Head that way, as quick as you can. When you’ve cleared the trees, go left. Keep riding for at least an hour and then stop for the night. Leave me some sign of how to find you if you can, but if I haven’t joined you by morning then make your way to the nearest town and send for help.”

 

The Gascon was still reeling from Athos having found them and now the man wanted to send them away. “But, Athos…”

 

The older man didn’t wait to hear the young man’s arguments, locking gazes with him instead and infusing the look with all the determination he could muster. “d’Artagnan, I’ve no idea of the events that brought you to this point but the Captain is injured and there are men approaching through the forest from all sides. If there is any chance that you can make it out of here safely, you must take it. With luck, they won’t figure out that you’ve doubled back.”

 

The Gascon’s knuckles were pale as he clenched the reins in his hand tightly, wanting to disagree with his mentor’s words but hearing Lenoir’s echoing in his mind instead, reminding him of his duty. Gritting his teeth, he gave a short nod, muttering as he nudged the horse into motion, “You’d better be alright.”

 

Athos couldn’t help the faint smile when he heard the Gascon’s words, and he took a moment to watch as they disappeared into the trees before turning in the opposite direction to melt into the greenery.

Chapter Text

It was unsurprising to find Porthos held steadily in the grip of a fever and, for once, Aramis wished that his prediction regarding the wounded man’s future had been proven incorrect. He’d fully anticipated the battle the larger man was currently waging against the infected scratches on his chest and, despite the poultices, Porthos was merely holding his own – barely. The medic had been using a combination of wet cloths and eventually blocks of ice wrapped in towels to keep his friend’s temperature from continuously rising. Regardless, Porthos hadn’t properly woken in hours and vacillated between complete stillness and incoherent muttering.

 

Aramis had stayed by his friend’s side since Athos’ departure, unwilling to risk leaving the man alone, even for the few minutes it would take to go outside and clear his head. Instead, he’d called for the innkeeper at one point and, by using far more coin than he’d wanted, had arranged for a steady supply of meals, wine, water and ice to be brought to the room, as well as ensuring that their horses would continue to receive proper care in the stables.

 

Scrubbing a hand tiredly across his face, he regarded the ill man. Porthos’ skin was unnaturally hot and still shone with sweat despite the fact that he’d taken in very little water; Aramis made a mental note to himself to rectify that as soon as possible. Currently, the large man was in one of his delirious phases, mumbling softly although it was impossible to make out his words. Occasionally, his head would toss on the pillow and his brow would crease with a frown. When his breaths sped up, Aramis would wipe at Porthos’ face or place a hand on the man’s chest, the attention seeming to calm him and slow the rapid inhales and exhales. Porthos would then rest comfortably for a while, lying unnaturally still before the cycle would repeat itself.

 

It had only been that morning when Athos had left and yet Aramis knew he’d likely have another two or three days of Porthos’ illness ahead of him – if he was lucky. If fortune turned against him – well, he’d rather not think about the worst-case scenario since the worst, possible outcome was very, very bad. Closing his eyes for a moment, he pressed his fingers against the gritty orbs, suppressing a sigh at the weariness that was beginning to settle over his body. Rising from his chair, he spent several minutes wandering back and forth across the room, eventually stopping next to the window and opening it a crack to feel the cooler air on his skin, hoping it might help revive him.

 

He had no idea how long he stood there, with his back against the wall next to the window, before his attention was dragged back to Porthos, the larger man’s moaning getting louder as his movements increased. Tiredly, Aramis pushed himself away from the wall and crossed over to the bed, dipping the cloth into a basin of water before wringing it out and tenderly wiping it across the large man’s cheeks and forehead. Another rinse of the cloth was followed by a swipe down Porthos’ neck and upper shoulders, the insensate man finally beginning to still at the touch. “Oh, Porthos,” Aramis breathed out, hating his friend’s weakened state and the worry that was now his constant companion. Wetting the cloth a third time, he folded it and placed it on Porthos’ brow, settling back in his chair to once more watch over the man. 

---

The half-moon and clear sky made it easier to travel once he’d evaded the group who’d been pursuing d’Artagnan and Treville. He’d remained out of sight, using the natural cover provided by the trees to always stay several meters away from the men, adjusting his direction as he caught sight of the trios and pairs they’d divided into while attempting to sneak up on their prey. It was an intricate dance and Athos was well-versed in the movements as he progressed and withdrew, gradually working his way out of the woods and to the forest’s edge where he began to retrace his earlier path.

 

Staying in the shadows cast by the trees, he sped up and alternated between periods of walking and jogging as his eyes and ears constantly scanned for signs of pursuit and indications of d’Artagnan’s passing. He’d directed the young man to provide some markers for him to follow, however they would need to be both subtle enough so as not to be noticed by the riders while also being distinctive enough that Athos would not pass them by without noticing. A ghost of a smile graced the older man’s lips when he spotted the first mark that had been left for him, a small, simple fleur-de-lis which had been carved into one of the trees. Unlike the typical fleur-de-lis, this one was tilted somewhat as though pointing forward and Athos quickened his steps with the knowledge that he was on the right track.

 

Now that he knew what to look for, the markers were easier to spot and allowed him to focus more of his attention behind him, ensuring that he wasn’t caught unaware by the group he’d earlier evaded. His route eventually led him back into the forest, fortunately into a section that was far thinner than what he’d left behind, and he slowed his pace as the trees parted, depositing him into a tiny clearing. No more than three metres away, d’Artagnan came out from behind the tree he’d been using as cover, sheathing his sword in relief.

 

Athos crossed the space between them quickly and, despite not being known for physical demonstrations of affection, he grasped the young man firmly by the upper arms, staring into his face for a moment before pulling him into a firm hug. If d’Artagnan was surprised by his mentor’s actions, he didn’t show it, allowing himself to be willingly held for several seconds before the older man pulled away. The warmth of the embrace lingered on the Gascon’s arms and he felt immediately bereft at the loss of contact, the touch conveying safety and dispelling some of the weight that he’d been carrying since the attack. The truth was that he couldn’t wait to pass the responsibility for their welfare to his friend.

 

One of Athos’ hands remained on d’Artagnan’s arm as he began to look around in search of Treville. “He’s just behind here,” the young man indicated the tree at his back with a toss of his head.

 

With a faint smile and a dip of his chin, Athos released his hold on the Gascon and moved to check on their commanding officer, d’Artagnan staying in place for several seconds as he regrouped. He’d kept himself going first on adrenaline, and then on his duty to care for Treville. Now that there was someone to whom he could abdicate his responsibility, his body felt heavy and unresponsive. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d slept and his eyes burned with fatigue, the feeling seemingly spreading to all his muscles and making him nearly moan at the intense sensation.

 

Even after they’d encountered Athos, the Gascon was still unable to rest, his fear of discovery and need to keep the Captain safe now combined with a new emotion – worry for his mentor. Every minute that passed after they’d separated had seemed to go on forever, and the most d’Artagnan had been able to do was to distract himself with Treville’s care, helping the man to drink and eat a little from Athos’ supplies.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos called. “How long has he been feverish?”

 

The Gascon dropped his head, the infection in the Captain’s shoulder another reminder of his failure at keeping the man safe. Clearing his throat and joining Athos at Treville’s side, he replied, “I noticed it this morning.” He paused for a moment, realizing that they were far past the midnight hour and corrected himself, “Sorry, yesterday morning.”

 

Athos gave a curt nod, continuing his examination of the older man before allowing Treville’s doublet to drop closed and pulling the blanket that covered him up to his chin again. Rising, he addressed the young man, “His wound is becoming badly infected.”

 

Biting his lower lip, the Gascon nodded, “I only had the one bottle of wine for both their wounds. I did my best to keep it clean, but…” He trailed off, recalling the dirty linen he’d had to use to bind the man’s shoulder as well as the time they’d spent in the river – conditions had been less than ideal except as a breeding ground for the illness that had taken hold.

 

Athos raised an eyebrow at the amount of information that had been communicated in so few words, wanting to ask more about what he’d heard but recognizing that they currently had more important tasks that needed their attention. Resolving to save his questions for later, he said, “We should distance ourselves as much as possible in case our trail is discovered.”

 

The idea of travelling immediately after Athos had rejoined them hadn’t even occurred to the Gascon, the young man having expected to finally be able to lay down and get some sleep. Athos’ expression, however, was uncompromising and dejectedly, d’Artagnan nodded, motioning further into the trees with a hand as he replied, “I’ll get the horse.”

 

Athos tilted his chin in acknowledgement, looking back down at Treville and intending to get the man ready when he hurt a soft gasp of pain. His head shot upwards to see d’Artagnan leaning heavily against a tree with one hand, his breaths coming rapidly for several seconds. Narrowing his eyes at the young man, Athos asked, “Are you alright?”

 

Forcing his voice to steady, the Gascon pushed himself away from the tree’s support, “It’s nothing; just caught my foot on a branch.” He walked away then, keeping his gait steady and his steps even as he pushed away the throb of his hip, feeling the older man’s eyes boring into his back until he’d moved far enough away to blend into the shadows. When he was certain that Athos could no longer properly see him, he paused, leaning his shoulder against another broad trunk as his right hand went to his hip, the ache there having intensified with each step he’d taken. He squeezed his eyes closed against the moisture that had appeared and took several deep breaths until he felt able to continue.

 

The yelp he’d let out had surprised him as much as it had Athos, the sudden flash of sharp pain unexpected when he’d turned and his hip had protested the movement. It had taken all of his willpower not to let it show on his face, Lenoir’s words to him again springing forth and reminding him that Treville’s need was far greater than his. They couldn’t possibly continue on forever, he reasoned, and he could keep going for a while longer before his body betrayed him. For now, he would simply need to keep Athos from seeing how much his hip was bothering him.

 

Having decided on a course of action, d’Artagnan collected the horse and led it back to where Athos and the Captain were waiting. From the low murmurs, it appeared that Treville had roused, and d’Artagnan could only hope that his awareness was a positive sign. Holding the horse in place, the Gascon waited as Athos leaned forward to again speak softly with the Captain before lifting his head and saying, “Same arrangement as last time.”

 

The young man gave a dip of his chin and climbed into the saddle, biting the inside of his cheek hard as he worked to maintain a neutral expression. When he was ready, Athos helped Treville up to sit in front of d’Artagnan. With a quick look around, Athos seemed to get his bearings before setting out, the Gascon nudging the horse into motion to follow as he prayed that they stopped somewhere to rest soon. 

---

Athos set as quick a pace as he could manage, cursing the fact that they’d been forced to carry the weight of two men on the back of a single horse. Even a second animal would have made a world of difference, allowing all three men to ride while rotating the heavier, double load between the two mounts. As it was, they could move only as quickly as Athos was able and he was tiring after having spent the entire previous day in the saddle and the majority of the night on his feet. Normally, he and d’Artagnan would have traded off but Treville had been forthcoming where the Gascon hadn’t been, suggesting that the young man wasn’t as healthy as he tried to appear.

 

Familiar with his protégé’s habit of hiding injuries, Athos took the Captain’s words to heart and insisted that he be the one walking, explaining that it would be easier for him to lead from the ground. If d’Artagnan questioned the poor excuse, he didn’t give any indication, simply giving a weary nod and plodding on. When added to the fact that d’Artagnan hadn’t even asked where they were going, it was another worrying sign that the older man filed for later when they had the luxury of stopping and tending to non-life-threatening wounds.

 

Despite Athos’ desire to return to the town he’d departed from the previous day, he still called for breaks every hour, giving Treville and their horse an opportunity to briefly recover before pressing on. It was the only concession he made as his concern grew with each passing hour. The Captain had been listless and in pain when Athos had reunited with the two men, but had still been aware enough of their situation. Now Treville was almost continuously unconscious, he and d’Artagnan barely able to get the barest trickles of water past the man’s parched lips. Athos knew that the Captain’s condition was becoming dire and he wished for Aramis’ presence at his side, not only to care for the injured man but so he might not have to worry and wonder about Porthos as well.

 

Athos knew that the marksman would be surprised by his return, not expecting him back for several more days. Even more astonishing would be the presence of his two companions, one of whom would need every shred of Aramis’ skill to survive another night. The older Musketeer didn’t place any fault on d’Artagnan’s shoulders for Treville’s condition, fully aware of what battlefield medicine entailed. What he did find curious was the boy’s earlier comments about having a sole bottle of wine for both their wounds – who was it that the young man was referring to? Further, the Gascon’s eyes had dulled as he spoke of the challenges in keeping the wound clean, yet Athos knew for a fact that the boy had carried basic medical supplies as was evidenced by the stitches in Treville’s shoulder. Why, then, had the man’s wound been wrapped in what Athos discovered was a torn shirtsleeve?

 

There were too many questions and not enough answers; by the time that night lightened into day, his mind had worried over the situation in too many ways, without providing any satisfactory explanations. He longed to ask the young man to recount the events that he’d missed, but one look at the fatigue in d’Artagnan’s face had him biting his tongue. At midday, their luck improved and Athos intentionally veered towards a farmhouse he’d spotted the prior day. There he negotiated their way to a second horse, which left the old, weathered farmer with nearly half the contents of the former comte’s purse. The Musketeer didn’t bat an eye when he passed the coin over, willing to give almost anything to cut precious hours from their journey.

 

Despite having a fresh mount, it still took well into the evening hours before they arrived at the inn where Athos had left his friends and he dropped wearily from the saddle when the stable boy appeared. The young man seemed to recognize him and eagerly took the reins, leading the horse away before returning for the second one. By then, Athos and d’Artagnan had managed to lower Treville to the ground and the former was shocked at the intense heat that emanated from the ill man. Gamely, d’Artagnan ducked underneath the Captain’s good shoulder while his mentor took the other side and they began their trek inside.

 

Privately, the Gascon was grateful for the officer’s presence since he could use the man’s limp form as a way of hiding his own somewhat unbalanced gait as his right leg was once more forced into movement. Riding had been painful enough as the pressure exerted by his thighs in order to remain seated gave the damaged hip little reprieve. Walking, however, escalated the intensity of what he’d been feeling and he feared that his leg would collapse on him at any moment.

 

When they’d reached the room Athos had rented, the older man kicked at the door with a booted foot, not wanting to let go of Treville and risk the man falling from their grasp. Moments later, they could hear the sound of footsteps and the door swung open, revealing a surprised and somewhat disheveled Aramis. Taking in the picture before him, the medic moved aside seconds later, remarking as he did so, “Well, this is unexpected.”

 

Ignoring the comment, the two Musketeers carried Treville inside, the marksman pushing the door closed after them as he motioned toward the empty side of the bed. Athos understood the unspoken order and dutifully they brought the Captain to the bed, gently laying him down next to Porthos. As he straightened, Athos’ eyes were immediately drawn to the large man’s face, which glistened with sweat. Porthos was clearly unwell and the older man’s eyes darted to the bandages that hid his friend’s wounds from view.

 

He was about to ask about Porthos’ condition when Aramis bustled over, shooing Athos and d’Artagnan out of the way. The older man walked around the edge of the bed, dropping heavily into the chair next to Porthos, the stress and activity of the past two days catching up with him. On the other side of the bed, Aramis was already leaning over his newest patient, having divested Treville of his doublet and discovering the man’s bound shoulder. As he cut the bandage away, he asked, “What happened?”

 

Several seconds passed before Athos prompted the younger man, “d’Artagnan?”

 

The Gascon was standing next to Aramis and seemed startled from his fugue by his mentor, still processing the fact that Porthos occupied the other half of the mattress. “Sorry,” he said, understanding Athos’ meaning when the older man’s eyes drifted to Treville’s injury. “Ah, he was shot,” the Gascon replied unnecessarily, Aramis looking up momentarily to trade concerned glances with Athos across the bed. “I cleaned and stitched it as best I could, but the wound reopened after the river and then infection set in.” He trailed off, his gaze firmly on the Captain’s wan face.

 

When it became clear that the young man was done speaking, Aramis lightened his tone and said, “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll check you over when I’m done with Treville.” d’Artagnan looked up at Athos, who nodded and the young man moved to do as he’d been asked, turning away from the bed. His first step sent a hot, fiery spike through his hip and he struggled to take another, keeping one hand on the wall beside him as he moved.

 

Three steps had him at the end of the mattress and the empty chairs taunted him from across the room. Gritting his teeth in determination, d’Artagnan moved away from the support of the wall, shifting his right leg forward followed by the rest of his weight. Before he could complete the motion, the overtaxed limb buckled and he found himself suddenly dropped to the ground. With a mix of annoyance and concern, Aramis sighed, “That, unfortunately, was not unexpected.”

Chapter Text

d’Artagnan’s collapse may have been expected for Aramis, but Athos was shocked enough to spring from his chair, crossing swiftly to the young man’s side before the stunned Gascon could get his wits about him enough to protest his wellness. One look at his mentor’s expression and d’Artagnan swallowed the words that had been on the tip of his tongue, resigning himself to admitting the truth of his injury since he could see no way of convincing his friends of his good health. “Let me know how he is,” Aramis ordered, his attention focused back on Treville’s infected wound, reasoning that the young man could not be critically hurt if he’d remained on his feet for so long. Additionally, he suspected he already knew the reason for the Gascon’s fall and was simply waiting for Athos to confirm it.

 

Normally, d’Artagnan’s expression would have been sheepish at having been found out, but now it conveyed only pain and exhaustion. When Athos saw how miserably the young man was feeling, he held back his desire to scold the Gascon for hiding his injury. Crouching down beside him, he asked, “Is it your hip?” Like Aramis, the older man had guessed that it was the half-healed hurt that had been aggravated by recent events, and which had caused the boy’s leg to fold.

 

Unconsciously, d’Artagnan’s hand drifted to the throbbing spot, hovering over it briefly before changing his mind and letting it fall onto his upper thigh instead where he squeezed, as though attempting to push the pain away. “Yes,” he replied softly, his attention still on the sore joint.

 

“Come on,” Athos said, reaching for the Gascon’s arm and tugging gently until the young man began to coordinate his efforts with his mentor’s and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. The older man kept a firm grip on d’Artagnan’s upper arm as his protégé balanced the majority of his weight on his left leg. “Do you think you can walk?” Athos queried, his tone still low and even, allowing none of his concern and frustration to bleed through.

 

At the young man’s nod, Athos slipped under d’Artagnan’s right shoulder, guiding him slowly to the nearest chair where he deposited the boy. The Gascon’s breathing was somewhat fast, a normal reaction to the pain he’d been experiencing. Athos moved two steps away to sit in the other chair, patiently watching while the aching abated before he spoke again. “Do you need help with your breeches?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face reddened, and Athos had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes when the boy began to stutter, “There’s no need….I mean, I’m fine…”

 

“d’Artagnan,” the older man interrupted. “Aramis will need to check and, in any event, those will need to be cleaned. May as well take care of two birds with one stone.” As much as the Gascon dreaded revealing his bruised hip, he knew that his friends would not rest until they’d confirmed for themselves that he was well enough.

 

Sighing softly, he gave a small dip of his head as he mumbled, “Yes, please.” Not wanting the young man to feel like he was the centre of attention, Aramis rose from where he’d been tending to Treville, moving about the room with practiced ease as he gathered the supplies needed for a poultice. By the time he’d measured and poured all the ingredients, the Gascon was seated again with his braies unlaced and hanging loosely underneath his right hip.

 

Bringing the bowl of herbs over and placing it into Athos’ hands, the medic directed, “Grind these into a fine powder and then add sufficient water to make a thick paste.” The older man took the items he’d been handed back to the chair that Aramis had vacated, allowing d’Artagnan some semblance of privacy while he was examined.

 

Pressing his fingers gently against the bruised and swollen skin around the Gascon’s hip, the medic asked, “When did it get this bad?” It was easy to see that something had happened to worsen the healing injury, and Aramis hoped the young man would be forthcoming for once.

 

Hesitating for a moment until the marksman looked up, staring at his patient intently with an expression that dared retribution if he was anything less than honest, d’Artagnan sighed and said, “It was after we fell into the river.” Aramis raised an eyebrow at that, and he could see they had Athos’ attention as well, even though the older man diligently continued his task. “I struck something in the water. It didn’t hurt too much at the time, but it’s been feeling steadily worse since then.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed, returning his attention for several seconds to the hip, pushing more firmly until the young man gasped with pain. Withdrawing his hands, the medic went on, “How was it when you left the garrison?”

 

The Gascon seemed uncomfortable answering and looked away as he said, “It was fine.” A quick glance at Athos’ hard stare had him wetting his lips and adding, “It was sore and a bit stiff after a day of riding, but nothing of consequence.” Aramis held d’Artagnan’s gaze for a moment before confirming for himself that he’d heard the truth. “And after the river?”

 

“Bad,” the young man confessed. “Almost as bad as when I first got shot.”

 

The admission was startling and Athos almost commented, but a sideways glance from the medic had him once more holding his words. “Alright, d’Artagnan. You’ve clearly reinjured it, but only time will tell how badly. We’ll use cold compresses to bring the pain and swelling down, and you’ll have to stay off your feet.” He glanced around the room then, wishing they’d gotten one with a second bed.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Athos offered, “I’ll speak to the innkeeper about a second room.”

 

“No,” d’Artagnan quickly interjected. He had no idea yet about what had happened to Porthos and was in no way ready to be separated from his brothers after just having been reunited. “I’ll be fine on the floor.” Aramis and Athos exchanged looks, the former man giving a slight shake of his head.

 

Holding the Gascon’s gaze for a moment, the older man stated, “No. You need to rest in a proper bed so that you’ll be able to make the trip back once Porthos and the Captain have recovered.” The look of deep sadness he received in reply almost had him relenting, but he stood firm, reminding himself that it was in the young man’s best interests.

 

d’Artagnan despised the idea of being in a different room, but he recognized the determination in his friends’ faces and knew they would not be swayed. Resisting the urge to sigh and appear even more like a petulant child, he gave a small nod in defeat. As he dropped his eyes to the ground, he missed the silent communication that passed between the two Musketeers, expressing their regret at the decision, but recognizing it was the most sensible course of action.

 

The older man crossed the room and placed the bowl with its thick, healing paste on the table at Aramis’ elbow, making his way to the door next to go in search of the innkeeper. The medic, in the meantime, reached into his bag and withdrew a small jar, which he opened before scooping out a healthy dollop. Looking meaningfully at the Gascon’s hip he explained, “This will help.” d’Artagnan gave a slight inclination of his head to communicate his acceptance and Aramis leaned forward, gently rubbing the salve into the darkest bruises. “Let this soak in for a half hour and then apply a cold compress for the same amount of time. It will hurt, at first,” Aramis cautioned, looking up to catch the Gascon’s eye as he nodded. d’Artagnan recalled with vivid clarity the deep ache that the cold ignited in his hip and was already dreading its onset.

 

By the time that Athos had returned after successfully securing a second room, d’Artagnan was dressed in one of Aramis’ clean shirts, the medic having found and tended to the two cuts on the young man’s left arm that he’d gained in his last skirmish. As the former comte helped his protégé to his feet, he said, “The other room is two doors down from this one, on the left.”

 

The Gascon remained quiet, silently cursing the fact that he’d not only be in a different room, but it was not even directly beside or across from the one that his friends currently occupied. He hoped that Athos or Aramis might join him when they decided to sleep, or would maybe even consider moving one of the injured men in with him; a glance at Aramis’ serious face told him that was unlikely, it being easier to care for the two together rather than apart.

 

Suppressing another sigh, he allowed himself to be helped down the hall and settled into bed, doing his best not to appear outwardly resentful at being treated like a child. When the door closed behind Athos, leaving d’Artagnan to his own thoughts, he had to swipe angrily at the moisture that pooled in his eyes, shocked at the deep loneliness that filled the room and was his only companion. His body had been desperately craving rest, and his thoughts had been consumed by the idea of sleep for so long that he was stunned to now find himself fully awake.

 

He considered the idea of getting up and returning to the other room, seeking the comforting presence of his brothers, but then dismissed the idea in the belief that the men would only be annoyed with him, and he’d once more find himself escorted back to bed. Finally permitting the sigh he’d been withholding earlier to escape, he looked around the room, his eyes landing on his doublet and weapons, and contemplated using his time to clean them. Realizing he had nothing with which to complete the task, he swiftly dismissed the idea. Athos had provided a small basin of cold water and a cloth next to the bed so that he could numb his hip, but there was little else in the room.

 

Another long exhale of breath brought forth a new thought and he began to push himself up so he could get out of bed, intending to find Athos so he could properly report. Surely, the experienced soldier would see the validity of his reasoning and appreciate his desire to fulfill his duty. Before he could more than position himself at the side of the mattress, his bare feet touching the floor, the door opened. He startled as it unexpectedly swung inwards, seeing his mentor framed in its outline.

 

As Athos stepped inside and closed the door behind him, he threw the Gascon an inquiring look, moving toward him as he said, “Surely you weren’t planning on incurring Aramis’ wrath at discovering you out of bed?”

 

d’Artagnan felt his face flushing as he replied, “No.” There was no believable excuse he could offer so he simply pulled his legs back onto the bed, wincing as the movement jarred his hip.

 

Athos’ face was impassive as he stared down at the young man from beside the bed, not having missed the brief flash of pain, “There’s a reason Aramis told you to rest.”

 

d’Artagnan’s expression changed to one of annoyance, but he didn’t refute the older man’s statement. Stepping away for a moment, Athos returned with a chair from the other side of the room, settling into it as the Gascon narrowed his eyes. “There’s no need to stay; I’ll stay in bed like a good patient.”

 

Athos had to quell the urge to roll his eyes as he leaned back, “I was hoping you could tell me how you came to be alone with the Captain and how he was injured.”

 

“Oh,” the young man said, the quickly spoken word accompanied by a few coughs that escaped before he could stop himself. Without being asked, Athos stood and poured a cup of water from the pitcher that sat unnoticed on the table, handing it to the grateful Gascon who took a few short sips. Clearing his throat as he took a moment to compose his thoughts, he then proceeded to describe the attack, his rescue of both Treville and Lenoir, and the two days that he and the Captain had spent on the run.

 

He intentionally left out the details about his own struggles, and glossed over the part when he’d been forced to leave his wounded brother-in-arms behind, certain that the other man would understand regardless. When he’d finished, Athos sat quietly, clearly deep in thought about everything he’d just heard. d’Artagnan did his best not to fidget as he waited for some sort of reply, expecting his mentor to be critical of how poorly he’d handled things. After a long minute of silent contemplation, Athos suddenly stood, giving the Gascon a short nod as he turned to leave. d’Artagnan couldn’t help himself as he blurted, “I’m sorry.”

 

The older man turned to face him, a confused expression on his face. “There’s nothing for which to apologize. Your report was complete and concise; exactly as I’d expect.” Preparing again to leave, he ordered, “Get some rest.”

 

With that, he was gone, and d’Artagnan found himself once more alone. He’d expected to feel better after sharing his story with the older man, but found his worries from earlier only exacerbated, his mentor not giving him any indication of his endorsement or censure. He was aware of his need for approval from the older man and, despite his attempts to resist, had been hoping to receive some words of comfort that would help to assuage the guilt he carried about everything that had transpired.

 

Instead, Athos had sat thoughtfully, his features blank and giving away nothing. It was worse than if he’d condemned the Gascon’s actions – at least then d’Artagnan would have known the other man’s thoughts. This transitional space, representing neither endorsement nor disapproval, offered no refuge, leaving him feeling unbalanced in a way he hadn’t felt since before the receipt of his commission. He didn’t know whether he should be seeking the man’s forgiveness or feeling at peace with the knowledge that he’d behaved appropriately, selecting the only possible path from a slew of impossible choices. Athos’ sanction would have meant more than d’Artagnan could describe, and his lack of reaction was the worst response of all.

 

Throwing back the covers, he found himself again sitting at the edge of the mattress in preparation to stand, intending to track down his mentor and confront him. He paused there for a moment when he realized he had no idea of what he would say. Biting his lower lip, he considered his options. He could approach the other man and ask point-blank whether Athos agreed with the way he’d handled things. In his mind he could already imagine the older Musketeer’s expression hardening, his jaw firmly closed as he refused to comment, his eyes conveying disappointment that the Gascon didn’t already know the answer to his question. Next, the look morphed into displeasure as Athos resigned himself to escorting the young man back to his room, blaming the boy’s youth as the reason for his immaturity and apparent inability to follow orders. d’Artagnan could not bear to read that in his mentor’s eyes and his plan to seek the man out evaporated in a heartbeat.

 

He huffed in frustration at his situation, surprised when the sharp exhale of air resulted in several, short coughs. With difficulty, he situated himself in the bed, wishing he could lay on his side and tuck into a ball, but his injured hip prevented it. Instead, he found himself tugging the blanket up tightly around his shoulders until he felt a small measure of comfort from the cocoon he’d managed to create. Closing his eyes, he decided to try falling asleep again, lying still for only a few moments before his chest spasmed again, forcing another set of irritating coughs from his chest. Suppressing the urge to cough, he sighed - apparently his entire body was conspiring against him and his desire to rest.

---

Athos had been shaken by d’Artagnan’s description of what he’d had to endure, and it was all he could do to remain composed and make his way from the room before his emotions got the better of him. He’d thought himself prepared to hear the tale but, for some reason, hearing about the young man in harm’s way always got past his carefully constructed defenses.

 

The information the Gascon had shared had obviously been censored, and Athos wondered if the boy had done so intentionally to protect him from the full horror of what he’d had to endure. d’Artagnan hated to be pitied and the older man would not put it past him to selectively leave out certain facts to avoid the dreaded response. Despite that, Athos had heard enough to appreciate the Gascon’s courage and quick thinking, which had kept both himself and their Captain alive.  

 

While he knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, part of him felt the invisible pull of guilt’s hand at not having been at the young man’s side when he and the others had been attacked. Combined with his recent abandonment of his other two friends, the two sets of circumstances weighed heavily, and Athos wondered at the fact that the others were still willing to call him friend. As a result, it was a sombre Musketeer who made his way downstairs and made arrangements for a message to be carried to Paris, informing the King of the attack and requesting additional men to accompany them on their return journey home.

 

When he’d finished, he dragged himself back upstairs, taking a moment to draw a deep breath before entering the room that held the injured men. When he’d left, Aramis had been in the process of applying a poultice to Treville’s wound, and he found himself eager to return, needing to get a proper update on the status of both ailing men. Pushing the door open, he followed it inside, surprised to find the medic seated at the table with his feet propped on the edge of the table, one hand clasped loosely around a glass. With a quick glance at the sleeping men, Athos trudged over quietly to take the other chair, pouring wine into Aramis’ empty glass before filling another for himself.

 

The medic took a sip and then spoke softly, seeing the unspoken question on his friend’s face, “Porthos is unchanged although one of the infected scratches seems to be improving. I’m hopeful that with time and continued care, he’ll be fine.” He paused, licking his lips uncertainly, eyes darting for a moment to his glass but leaving it untouched. “The Captain is very weak. I fear that the delay in treating his wound, and the time he went without food and water, will make his recovery….difficult.”

 

It was no less than Athos had expected, and he gave a slight dip of his chin in acknowledgement. Treville’s injury placed the former comte into a challenging situation, their small group now having to care for two – no three, he corrected himself – men who were hurt. In addition, the possibility of having to repel further attacks was very real, and they would be hampered both by the ailing men and the number of innocents surrounding them at the inn. Despite the poor condition of the Musketeers, it would be prudent to be away from this place as quickly as possible. Taking a drink from his glass, Athos tentatively extended the idea, “If they had to, could they travel?”

 

Aramis’ face immediately turned surprised, and he stared at the man across from him for several long seconds before his expression turned to comprehension. Cautiously, he offered, “If they had to.” Athos seemed happy with the answer, but the medic pressed on before the older man could get too comfortable with the idea, “But it would be dangerous. The pain of the journey would further weaken them and I strongly recommend against it unless absolutely necessary.” His tone had softened towards the end of his statement and Athos recognized the words for what they were – an invitation to explain.

 

Clearing his throat, the older man replied, “Treville and those accompanying him were attacked on their way to Calais.” Aramis had already figured that out and assumed the threat to be gone as he prepared to counter. Before he could say anything, Athos continued, “They proceeded to hunt the Captain, and it was only through d’Artagnan’s cunning that they managed to evade their pursuers.” He paused to take a drink as the marksman did the same, Aramis’ mind processing what he was hearing. “I laid what false trails I could but it won’t keep them away forever. If they’re as determined as I believe them to be then Treville won’t be safe until we’re back at the garrison.”

 

Aramis took in the magnitude of what he’d been told, unconsciously draining the last of his wine. As Captain of the Musketeers, it was not unusual for the man to be a target; what was unusual was the persistence of this group of men who had apparently slaughtered a significant number of their brothers-in-arms in pursuit of their objective. He’d been relieved when Athos had appeared with both men at his side, but realized now how incredibly lucky they’d been to ever be reunited with the two. Obviously the older man’s instincts to pursue Treville had been correct, and Aramis sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the man had been unconvinced to stay at the inn. Reaching a conclusion, Aramis asked, “Do you think we’ll be safe for the night?”

 

The older man had asked himself the same question, wondering if they should have left immediately, but rejecting the idea since they were all dead on their feet. Slowly, Athos gave a nod which Aramis mirrored as he suggested, “You should get some sleep. I know you didn’t get any last night and you won’t be any good if you go another without rest. I’ll watch over them,” he indicated toward the bed with a hand, “and doze in between.”

 

Athos considered his friend’s suggestion and thought about disagreeing, but he knew the marksman was right – he could not continue on without at least a few hours of sleep. With a dip of his chin, he agreed, “I’ll arrange for a wagon and provisions in the morning, while you get them ready to depart.”

 

Thus decided, Athos threw back the remainder of his wine, thinking absently that he should try to eat something, but deciding he was too tired to bother. Snagging an extra blanket, he toed off his boots, carefully stifling the sigh of relief that threatened as his sore feet were freed. Musketeers were not made for walking the number of miles he’d had to cover over the last twenty-four hours, he thought to himself. Settling on the floor, he pushed aside the many doubts that plagued him over his previous days’ actions and the journey they were about to embark upon.

Chapter Text

Aramis had watched as Athos had quickly dropped off to sleep. He would have welcomed the chance for some respite from his patients, but had recognized that the older man’s need was greater. Athos had never said anything about how difficult his time away from the inn had been, but the marksman’s shrewd eyes could tell in every slow movement of his friend’s body and the crinkled lines of pain around his eyes.

 

He’d been glad when Athos had indulged in some wine with him, hoping that the alcohol would soften some of the sharp edges of his discomfort, allowing him a proper rest before they set out again the following day. For his part, Aramis had alternated between resting in the chair next to the bed, wiping down the ill men’s bodies as he worked tirelessly to keep their fevers from rising too high, and wandering aimlessly around the room when he could no longer sleep or sit still. The long night reminded him of others he’d spent away at some siege or another, the ever-present adrenaline in his veins preventing him from fully relaxing as he waited for attack from an unseen enemy.

 

He was slowly pacing between the bed and the window, having long ago counted the seven steps there and the same number back. His movements were completed unconsciously, although part of his mind was always attuned to any changes in his charges’ breathing. It was this part of his brain that alerted him to Porthos’ change in awareness, and had him swiftly turning on his heel so he could return to the man’s side. Sitting on the edge of the chair in which he’d spent too many hours, he leaned forward expectantly, almost holding his breath as he waited to see if the large man would truly awake.

 

It took well over a minute, but Porthos steadily climbed his way back to consciousness, his eyes at first barely parting and then drifting closed as his breathing increased. Aramis placed a careful hand on his friend’s shoulder, avoiding the bandages that crisscrossed the broad chest. “Porthos,” he called lowly, doing his best to coax his friend to come back to him but not wanting to disturb the others. It had been well over a day since the medic had last seen his friend’s dark eyes, and he prayed fervently that he would see them now.

 

Removing his hand, he took the cloth that hung from the side of the basin, wetting it again before bringing it to the large man’s face, pulling it across his brow and both cheeks. The coolness had the desired effect as Porthos moaned softly, trying once more to tug open his heavy eyelids. “That’s it, my friend,” Aramis encouraged the man, repeating his earlier actions with the damp cloth. This time, Porthos’ right hand twitched as if wanting to swipe at the offensive material, and the medic’s lips quirked in amusement as he dropped a hand to clasp his friend’s. “I’ll stop if you open your eyes,” the marksman promised, watching as Porthos finally managed to pry his lids open and blink languidly up at him.

 

“There you are,” Aramis breathed out, unable to hide his joy at having his friend wake.

 

“Wh’?” Porthos attempted to speak, but nothing but a wisp of air passed through his dry lips.

 

Already prepared for this eventuality, the medic swapped the cloth for a cup of water, shifting his hold so that he could lift the large man’s head and help him drink. It was only a few drops but Porthos smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Thanks,” he murmured as his eyes began to close.

 

“No, no,” Aramis quickly scolded. “You’ve been asleep for too long for me to just let you drift off again.” One hand tapped at the ill man’s cheek to reinforce his words. Porthos’ brow furrowed slightly as he reopened his eyes. “Much better,” Aramis said approvingly, replacing the cup on the small side table. “How are you feeling?”

 

Porthos’ head turned slightly towards him as he focused on his friend. “Tired,” he finally answered, his lids threatening to drop once more.

 

Aramis’ expression softened as he gave a slight nod, “You’ve been very sick. Do you think you could manage some broth if I help?”

 

Porthos seemed incredibly uninterested in the idea of drinking anything more, but something in Aramis’ face had him giving a small nod. “Good,” the medic replied, his face brightening with a grin. He rose to gather the broth which he’d kept warming by the fire, surprised to find Athos standing nearly behind him with the cup in his hands.

 

At Aramis’ raised eyebrow, the older man merely shrugged and said, “I was done sleeping.”

 

The marksman didn’t contradict him, instead reaching to take the broth from Athos’ hands and place it onto the table as he gestured toward their reclining friend, “Help me raise him up, will you?”

 

As the older man held Porthos up, Aramis placed a couple of pillows behind their friend’s back, leaving him upright enough that he could drink without choking. The medic then held the cup of broth to the large man’s lips while Athos sat on the mattress next to Porthos’ legs, one hand resting on his friend’s shin.

 

After several swallows of the broth, Porthos shook his head that he’d had enough and the medic pulled it away, not wanting to risk making the injured man sick. With a flick of his eyes towards Treville, Porthos asked, “When did that happen?”

 

Aramis ducked his head for a moment, letting Athos know that this was his story to tell. The older man understood the unspoken message and explained, “After we got you settled, I went in search of the Captain. I’d expected to find them on the road to Calais, but instead discovered him and d’Artagnan being hunted by nearly a dozen men. We managed to evade them and make our way back here last night.” Although the words were delivered evenly and without inflection, Athos was privately waiting for Porthos’ anger at the fact that Athos had left the two of them behind.

 

Several long seconds passed before Porthos’ eyes searched the room and then he opened his mouth to ask, “d’Artagnan?”

 

“In another room,” Aramis replied. “He’s hurt his hip again and I wanted him resting in a proper bed.”

 

Porthos gave a slow nod as he examined first Athos and then Aramis. Given that they were all safe, the men’s postures were unaccountably stiff. Even in his weakened state, his mind still clouded by the fever he could feel burning within him, he sensed something amiss. Lifting his right hand to reach for the cup of water, he found it inexplicably weighed down and, when he looked, he saw that Aramis had grasped it in his own. At the same time, the medic had anticipated his need and had brought the cup of water to his mouth. Porthos drank several swallows, relishing the feel of the cool liquid as it chased away the parched sensation in his mouth and throat. “What else?” he queried.

 

“No one else survived the attack in which the Captain was hurt, and it’s a good bet they won’t allow their prize to escape so easily,” Aramis replied, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone.

 

Athos dipped his chin in agreement as he added, “I’ve sent a message to the King, asking for reinforcements, but I think it prudent to depart soonest and meet them on the road.”

 

Porthos had no memory of the past two days, but he trusted his friends with his life and if they said it was time to leave, then he would do everything in his power to help. “Alright,” he said as his muscles stiffened in preparation for movement.

 

“No,” Aramis scolded, a hand pressed to one shoulder to stop him. Porthos had barely managed to move, but it had been enough to ignite sensitive nerve-endings and the large man immediately fell back into the mattress, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Long moments later, he took a shuddering breath as he blinked away the moisture in his eyes. “You were hurt, remember?” Aramis reminded him, his hand still on the large man’s shoulder.

 

“Right,” Porthos breathed out shakily. “Forgot about that.”

 

Aramis rolled his eyes as the statement; only Porthos could forget being attacked and injured by a wolf. “A couple of the scratches are infected.”

 

The large man gave a small nod, acknowledging that he was aware of the fever that still gripped him. The medic squeezed Porthos’ upper arm gently as he watched the man’s lids grow heavy with fatigue. Trading a quick glance with Athos he said, “Rest, Porthos. We’ll wake you when it’s time to go.” As expected, the injured man didn’t respond, his lids simply slipping closed the rest of the way as he fell asleep.

 

With a motion of his head toward the other side of the room, Aramis rose and followed Athos to the window. “His waking is a good sign,” the medic started, knowing that the older man was looking for some assurances regarding their friend. “It’s also normal for him to be tired, and he’ll be weak as long as he’s fighting the infection.” Scrubbing a hand across his face, his own weariness showing, he continued, “Why don’t you go see to the provisions and our travel arrangements while I prepare fresh poultices. Then we can fetch d’Artagnan and have some breakfast before we set out.”

 

Athos dipped his chin in agreement, “I’ll bring d’Artagnan back with me when I’m done downstairs.” With that, he was gone and Aramis set about preparing his patients as best he could for their journey. 

---

d’Artagnan was miserable. He’d spent the night dozing in between fits of coughing, and even his exhaustion couldn’t overcome the ache in his hip, preventing him from falling into a deep sleep. Part of it, he knew, had been his inability to find a comfortable position, his preference to lay partially on his stomach and side impossible due to his injury. Despite that, the few times he’d been able to ignore the incessant throb, it had been his chest that had traitorously seized, pushing from him coughs that threatened to expel his lungs – or so he felt, anyway.

 

He recognized that he was exaggerating his level of misery, feeling sorry for himself because he could. Normally, he’d be stoic and downplay the extent of his injuries, not wanting his friends to worry or believe him to be needy and weak. But now he was all alone, his friends in another room altogether, caring for two others who were far worse off than he was. As a result, he felt he deserved a little self-pity, allowing himself the occasional moans of discomfort when his dry throat was forced to expel more air or when his sore hip was jarred, reawakening the ache that seemed to radiate down to his toes. Right now, there was no one around from whom to hide his pain.

 

The reminder that he was alone just made things worse, the Gascon always hating the endless nights that seemed to accompany any sort of illness. He thought back to his younger days and recalled his mother sitting at his side when he was sick, always seeming to know what her son needed and helping him through the endless hours when he felt too awful to sleep. He imagined now that he could feel her cool hands on his brow, her fingers gliding gently through his hair. Sometimes she would hum while she sat with him, the lilting sound of her voice carrying him off to blissful sleep, even if only for an hour or two. If he listened hard, he could hear it now, a low murmur of sound that comforted him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” the voice morphed, sounding less like his mother humming a soothing melody and more like someone calling him. “d’Artagnan,” the voice repeated, and he struggled to focus on it and understand the words.

 

“d’Artagnan, wake up,” Athos spoke again, concerned at the dark bruising underneath the young man’s eyes and the overly warm skin beneath his hand. He’d hoped that a proper night’s rest would rejuvenate the Gascon but, instead, he looked even worse than when Athos had left him the previous evening. He observed the difficulty with which d’Artagnan opened his eyes, blinking several times as he tried to get his bearings. “Are you with me now?” Athos asked as he removed his hand.

 

The Gascon looked up to find his mentor sitting beside him on the bed, a look of mild concern on his face. Blinking again, he wondered when the man had entered the room since he couldn’t recall having fallen asleep. “d’Artagnan?” Athos said again, the worried expression deepening as he’d waited for the young man to respond. The look brought a fleeting rush of warmth to the young man’s belly until he remembered the previous night’s conversation, and Athos’ dispassionate response to his report.

 

Shuttering his own expression the Gascon answered, “’M fine.” Athos gave him a mild look of disbelief that had d’Artagnan pushing slowly upwards until he was seated with the wall at his back. “I’m fine,” he repeated, this time consciously enunciating each word even though he would never admit it took some effort to do so.

 

“Did you sleep well?” Athos asked, trying to understand what was going on with his protégé.

 

Mustering a smile, the Gascon replied, “Like a baby.” It was not a lie. His mother had told him numerous times how fussy he’d been as a babe, often refusing to settle at night, leaving the poor woman battling to keep her eyes open during the day following too few hours of sleep. Athos was still staring at him unnervingly so d’Artagnan decided that a distraction was in order. Shifting, he motioned to the older man, indicating his need to rise. Grudgingly, Athos rose and allowed the young man to flip the covers off his legs, offering an arm to help him stand.

 

d’Artagnan hesitated for a moment before deciding that falling flat on his face would be contrary to his objective of convincing the other man that he was fine and, with his mentor’s help, he gained his feet. He stood for several seconds, testing his balance as he allowed progressively more of his weight to fall onto his right leg. It was painful, but he was fairly certain the limb wouldn’t collapse, so he let go of Athos’ arm and began to limp toward the chair where his clothes had been draped.

 

Settling down on the chair, he was surprised to find that his breeches and doublet were both clean. He looked inquisitively at Athos who gave a small nod, confirming that it had been his doing. With a genuine smile, d’Artagnan returned the nod, turning his attention to getting dressed as he asked, “How are the Captain and Porthos?”

 

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he waited, Athos replied, “Porthos seems to be improving and was awake earlier. The Captain’s condition is unchanged.” He could see the momentary tensing of d’Artagnan’s shoulders at the news and wondered what was going on in the young man’s head. Frowning at the reaction, he said, “d’Artagnan, from what you’ve told me, there was nothing more you could have done and the Captain owes you his life.”

 

The Gascon bent over as he tugged on his boots, afraid to look up lest Athos see the sorrow and defeat in his eyes. When he could no longer pretend to be adjusting his breeches or his footwear, he sat up, letting out a long, slow exhale. “It wasn’t enough,” he admitted lowly, smothering a low cough with one arm.

 

“What wasn’t enough?” Athos asked, still confused.

 

“I don’t have your gift for strategy, or Aramis’ ability to heal,” d’Artagnan replied, the frustration clear in his tone. “I don’t even have Porthos’ strength and couldn’t stop Treville from getting hurt in the first place.” He seemed to wilt in his chair as the older man pushed away from the wall, seating himself across from the young man.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he said, waiting for the Gascon to meet his gaze and lifting the boy’s chin up with one hand when he refused. “No one asked you to be me or Aramis or Porthos and, from where I stand, you did a fine job just being yourself.” When the young man remained quiet, Athos continued, his hand moving to sit at the crux of d’Artagnan’s shoulder and neck. “You tended the Captain’s wound, evaded your pursuers for two days, rescued him from the river, and kept him alive until I could find you. Thanks to you, he’s lying in a bed down the hall and will hopefully recover.”

 

With a broken voice, d’Artagnan whispered, “But what if he dies?”

 

Squeezing the boy’s neck softly, Athos countered, “And what if he lives? At least we know has a chance that he would not have had if it had not been for you.”

 

The Gascon wasn’t wholly convinced, but he was willing to consider the older man’s words and gave a shaky nod. Athos held his gaze a moment longer before releasing his hold, recognizing that the young man would need more time to let go of his guilt, but that the time needed was not currently available to them. Standing, he said, “We’re leaving shortly to begin the trip back to Paris. First, we’ll have breakfast in the other room.” He extended his hand and d’Artagnan took it without hesitation, allowing himself to be pulled up before releasing his grip and making his way stiffly towards the door, snagging his weapons belt on his way out.

 

Athos followed behind, matching the young man’s slow gait and allowing the full extent of his worry to show now that the Gascon couldn’t see him. d’Artagnan limped heavily, favoring his right leg, and the older man knew that whatever ground they’d gained during the night would quickly be lost once they departed. Athos could still feel the warmth of the young man’s skin on his hand as he’d pushed the hair away from his protégé’s face and gripped the nape of his neck. As they neared the other room, Athos watched the Gascon’s thin frame sway as he was racked by coughs, and the older man added that to his growing list of concerns. He could ask d’Artagnan about his concerns directly, but doubted that he’d receive an honest answer. Instead, he would speak to Aramis privately about what he’d observed, and the two of them would keep a close eye on the boy. It seemed that they were destined to have three patients for a while longer.

Chapter Text

Aramis had been unimpressed by what he’d seen when d’Artagnan had entered the room, his initial joy at seeing the young man replaced by concern over the weariness that was etched into every feature, making the Gascon look far older than he truly was. He moved slowly but with purpose, and kept his gaze averted as if sensing the medic’s mood. Meeting Athos’ eye, he caught the older man’s subtle head shake, understanding that they would speak of this later. Swallowing down his words of protest, Aramis had affixed a pleasant smile and proceeded to check the boy’s hip, rubbing more of the medicinal salve into the tender bruising.

 

Breakfast tested his resolve again as he watched d’Artagnan nibble on a small piece of bread after managing only half a bowl of thin porridge. From what he’d gleaned from Athos the previous night, the Gascon had been without food since the attack and Aramis had expected the boy to be ravenous, especially after a good night’s sleep, but it seemed that the latter had eluded him as well if the dark hollows around his eyes were any indication. As if this hadn’t been sufficiently worrisome, partway through the meal, the Gascon barked out a series of coughs that had Aramis’ eyes widening and pleading with Athos to be allowed to say something, but the older man gave another firm shake of his head before finishing his own food.

 

If there had been any doubt that d’Artagnan wasn’t feeling well, it was fully laid to rest when they departed and the young man was ordered to sit at the front of the wagon rather than riding on his own. Normally, the idea of being forced off his mount would have been enough for the Gascon to offer a litany of protests about his good health, but the fact that he’d climbed up without a word and didn’t even offer to drive the cart sent Aramis’ doctoring instincts into overdrive.

 

And so the day had progressed, with the medic sitting next to the unusually quiet young man, d’Artagnan refraining from speaking unless spoken to in order to avoid the bouts of coughing that were coming with greater frequency. The only benefit of their arrangement was that Aramis was able to keep a close eye on the Gascon, feeling the unnatural warmth that emanated from his skin despite the occasional shivers that afflicted the boy.

 

Behind him, on a pallet of straw and blankets, laid their two passengers, both blessedly sleeping their way through the majority of their journey. Every soldier was familiar with the discomfort of travelling in such a fashion, the rough wheels of the cart jostling its passengers with every bump of the road, often making the trip an agonizing affair for those unfortunate enough to have been hurt. Aramis had dosed Porthos with a strong draught to aid with the pain which had the side-effect of making its consumer sleepy.

 

If the uncomfortable ride roused Treville, the medic would provide more of the same to the injured man. He’d hoped that d’Artagnan would accept his offer and take some as well, since the rough bouncing of the wagon would make the boy’s hip ache, but the young man had refused, adopting a thin smile as he’d explained that he had little desire to fall asleep and end up on the ground as a result. Aramis had elicited a promise from him to ask for a draught if the pain became too much to bear, but he held little hope that the Gascon would actually follow through. Instead, he gritted his teeth as d’Artagnan did his best to supress his sounds of pain.

 

At the medic’s insistence, they stopped often, and it was difficult to miss how hard it was for the young man to climb down from the wagon each time they paused for a break, even with his or Athos’ assistance. Aramis wanted nothing more than to bundle the boy into the back of the cart where he could rest more comfortably, but the Captain was too weak to fight off whatever illness had obviously taken hold of the Gascon.

 

The only bright spot on that first day was Porthos’ continued improvement, the infection in his wounds gradually clearing and his fever lowering proportionately. By that night, he was able to eat some solid food, and Aramis was cautiously optimistic that their friend had once more overcome the odds against him. Having Porthos on the road to recovery significantly lifted all of their spirits, even d’Artagnan offering a genuine smile of delight when the large man felt well enough to tease him about the fact that he’d managed to reinjure his hip. The Gascon’s grin had faltered until Porthos had gently nudged his shoulder against the boy’s, leaning closer to softly praise the young man’s fortitude and ingenuity at having kept both himself and the Captain alive. The look of embarrassed pleasure that flashed across d’Artagnan’s face at the sincere compliment let Athos know that the young man was well on his way to releasing his guilt.

 

Although the Gascon continued to cough sporadically throughout the days and nights, the bouts eventually eased, as did the pain in his hip. By the time they entered the garrison gates four days later, surrounded by a half-dozen Musketeers who they’d encountered during the morning of their third day, d’Artagnan was once again well on his way to recovering and Aramis was satisfied that he’d suffered nothing more than a bad cold; it was only the Captain who continued to cause them all to worry.

 

Their commanding officer had actually rallied on their second day, managing several periods of wakefulness when Aramis had plied him with as much food and drink as he could manage. The amount of actual food he’d taken in was small, but the fact that he was eating again was an incredibly positive sign. Then, on their third night, Treville’s fever had spiked and despite their best efforts, they’d been unable to properly wake him since. He spent the remainder of their journey incredibly still, and Porthos took it upon himself to pull the older man into his lap in an attempt to keep Treville from being bounced around too much in the back of the cart.

 

For a full night and day, the Captain alternated between sweating, when he’d struggle unknowingly against the blankets that covered him, and shivering, Porthos being able to do little more than murmur words of nonsensical comfort until the man calmed. Aramis had applied every shred of his significant medical prowess without success, the men managing to get small amounts of water and broth down the man’s throat, but unable to do little else. The medic had happily admitted that he was eager to hand over responsibility for Treville’s care to a proper physician, and he released a long sigh of relief when they passed through the garrison gates just before the evening meal.

 

Athos had sent a man ahead to prepare for their arrival, and several men were waiting for them, clambering up onto the wagon as soon as it had stopped to take the Captain to his room. Aramis pulled his hat from his head, dragging a hand through the matted curls as he watched the men carry Treville upstairs to be seen by the waiting doctor. He was surprised when a hand grasped his wrist and his eyes fell downwards to see Porthos standing beside his horse, waiting for the weary marksman to dismount. “Come on, then,” the large man coaxed, understanding fully how much his friend had been drained by having to care for his three injured comrades.

 

As Porthos stepped back, Aramis flung his leg over the front of his horse, allowing gravity to bring him to the ground as he slid from the saddle. Replacing his hat on his head, he managed only a single step toward the stairs that led to Treville’s room before Porthos’ hand was back, this time on his upper arm. “No, you’ve done enough for now and you need some rest too.”

 

While he’d been distracted by Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan had appeared at his other side, the older man lending his support to the larger man’s statement, “Porthos is right. You’ve gone above and beyond and I daresay that if you don’t get some sleep soon, you’ll embarrass yourself by keeling over.” The words were said with an undercurrent of warmth and the medic knew that his friends only spoke out of their concern for him.

 

“Besides,” d’Artagnan adopted a cheeky grin, “I’m unlikely to eat properly if left to my own devices so it’s best if you accompany me to the kitchen.”

 

Aramis tried to fight the smile that was threatening but gave in, shaking his head slowly in mock exasperation as he raised his hands in supplication and said, “Alright, you win.”

 

“Good,” Athos stated, knowing that after a good night’s sleep, the medic would be back at the Captain’s side. “However, I recommend a slight adjustment to d’Artagnan’s proposal. Porthos and I will collect dinner from Serge while the two of you find some clean clothes and we’ll head to my apartments. I believe the regiment can do without us for one more night.” That Athos was willing to be away while Treville was ill spoke volumes about how strongly he believed all of them to be in need of food and rest.

 

With a quick nod, the foursome split into pairs to accomplish their assigned tasks. Athos made one detour while Serge was packing food for them, slipping up to the Captain’s quarters to speak with the physician, confirming that the man’s condition was critical but stable. Several minutes later found three of the four men gathered around their usual table, waiting for Aramis to return. Footsteps above alerted them to the marksman’s approach, the man holding up a bundle of clothes as he explained, “I stopped by Porthos’ room for a couple things.” The large man could only grin at his friend’s thoughtfulness, already looking forward to changing into something clean.

 

As Aramis was alighting from the stairs, they heard riders approaching and turned their attention to the main gates. Five Red Guards appeared, halting in front of the group as one of the men scanned the Musketeers, his gaze landing on the Gascon. “You are the Musketeer d’Artagnan?” he asked, although the question seemed a mere formality.

 

“Yes, I’m d’Artagnan,” the Gascon confirmed, a puzzled look on his face. “What’s this all about?”

 

The Red Guard took a moment to look over the other men before he explained, “You are under arrest.”

 

Athos was already stepping forward, positioning his body in front of the young man in a protective stance, “On what charge?”

 

The mounted soldier ignored the former Comte’s steely glare and replied evenly, “Cowardice.”

 

Porthos and Aramis began to speak immediately in the Gascon’s defense; of the many things the boy could be accused of, cowardice was not one of them. Athos raised a hand, indicating to the others to be silent while he dealt with the accusation. “And the circumstances of this supposed act of cowardice?” Contempt dripped from the older man’s words and made the Red Guard fidget momentarily in his seat.

 

Clearing his throat, the man explained, “d’Artagnan is accused of leaving the Musketeer Lenoir behind, allowing him to die in enemy hands so that he could escape unharmed.”

 

This time it was the Gascon who spoke, his words coming slowly as he tried to make sense of what was happening, “No, that’s not what happened.” His stricken face turned to his mentor, needing the older man above all to understand how difficult it had been to leave his brother-in-arms behind. “He ordered me to leave him. We’d been pursued and they found us, and he knew he was dying and made me promise…” He trailed off, recognizing the confusion in Athos’ face at the rush of disjointed words he’d spoken. “Athos,” he whispered.

 

The older man turned back to the Red Guard, his quick mind having put together the pieces and realized what was happening, “Who makes this claim?”

 

“The Marquis de Saint-Sorlin,” the Guard replied, having noted the slight shift in Athos’ demeanor and now sensing the man’s comprehension. Leaning forward slightly, he extended a hand toward the Musketeer which held a bound piece of parchment. Athos took the offered paper, pulling a glove off with his teeth so he could read the scroll. His eyes quickly scanned the information it contained, and he withheld a sigh as he handed it back to the Red Guard.

 

Noting the determination in the soldiers’ expressions, Athos turned to face d’Artagnan fully, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder as he said, “d’Artagnan, I must speak to the King to have these charges dismissed, but in the meantime, it would be best to comply.”

 

“Since when do we go along with Red Guard scum?” Porthos spluttered, hiding none of his disdain for the Cardinal’s regiment.

 

Athos didn’t miss the shift of the soldiers’ hands to their pistols at the offensive comment. Sending the large man a scathing look, he hissed, “When my own report contributed to the misunderstanding that has led to these charges.” He turned his gaze back to the Guards as he increased his volume, “Despite the fact that they are false.”

 

“Athos,” Aramis countered from his other side, “are you certain this is the most prudent course of action?” His expression left little doubt as to his concerns for the Gascon’s welfare.

 

Choosing to ignore the marksman’s question, Athos returned his attention to the young man who was still looking to him for direction. “Listen to me, d’Artagnan, you did nothing wrong.” He paused a moment until the young man gave a short nod, “Someone has obviously misconstrued the information I sent to the King and has used it to cast doubt on your intentions. Go with these men and I will leave to seek an audience with the King immediately. At worst, you’ll be back in your own bed by morning.”

 

Athos refused to look away as he saw the various emotions pass across d’Artagnan’s face, shifting from fear to resignation and finally acceptance, his faith in his mentor enough to push aside his own doubts.

 

Without a word, the Gascon removed his weapons and handed them to the older man. He caught each of his friend’s gazes in turn, seeking strength and support from them before stepping forward and out of their protective circle. The Red Guard who’d been the spokesperson nodded to two others who dismounted and came forward warily, but the Musketeers made no move to intervene. A minute later, d’Artagnan’s hands had been bound in front of him, with two longer lengths of rope attached and held by the soldiers who were back in their seats. As the riders turned and began to move away, d’Artagnan held his head up high, refusing to leave under a pall of embarrassment and shame. The Red Guard in front of them gave a minor tilt of his head, grudgingly acknowledging the cooperation he’d been given before falling in behind the others.

 

“Well, now what’re we gonna do?” Porthos asked as the riders disappeared.

 

Placing d’Artagnan’s weapons on the table behind him, Athos began walking toward the stables, his answer thrown back over the determined set of his shoulders, “I don’t know about you, but I have a promise to keep.” It took only a moment before Aramis and Porthos were in motion, moving quickly to catch up to their friend so that they could ride for the palace and clear their youngest’s name. 

---

It was well past mid-morning by the time the King was willing to grant Athos an audience. By then, Porthos and Aramis had both succumbed to their exhaustion, the two falling asleep on a settee, Aramis’ head resting on the larger man’s shoulder while Porthos’ head rested on his friend’s. Athos had allowed them several hours sleep before waking them and ordering them back to the garrison. The hour was well past midnight and it was clear that Louis had retired, but Athos wanted to stay so that he could see the monarch as soon as he was awake and willing to hear his case. Aramis had argued with the older man, pointing out that the royal was a notoriously late riser, but Athos refused to leave, unwilling to return to the comfort of his rooms while d’Artagnan spent the night in prison.

 

The marksman finally relented after a quiet word from Porthos, the larger man recognizing the guilt in Athos’ eyes and understanding that it would be impossible to get the man to leave. They promised to be back first thing in the morning with news of Treville, and Athos had bid them a distracted good night, a part of him relieved to be alone with his thoughts which immediately turned to the message he’d sent. He tormented himself throughout the long night, pacing around the room where he’d been asked to wait as he tried to recall the exact words he’d written.

 

He prided himself on his ability to be articulate and concise, and had been shocked that his letter had been misconstrued so badly as to result in the Gascon’s arrest. He recalled having described the attack and requesting men to be despatched to help, but the part about Lenoir had been brief, more of a footnote than anything. He’d mentioned the man’s presence in the immediate aftermath of the attack and had stated that the Musketeer had died courageously, defending the others’ retreat as they enacted their escape. The irony was that he’d intentionally mentioned Lenoir’s bravery so that it would be known, regardless of whether they managed to reach Paris or not. That his act of goodwill had created the exact opposite of what he’d intended made Athos’ jaw clench until his teeth hurt and his head ached.

 

Although d’Artagnan had glossed over the details of the event, Athos had been able to read between the lines, assuming that Lenoir, as the more experienced soldier, would have ordered the Gascon to leave him behind, reminding the boy of his duty to keep the Captain safe. It was what he would have done in that same situation, and he could not fathom that another of his brothers-in-arms would have chosen any differently in his place. No doubt, d’Artagnan would have been horrified by the suggestion and would have argued against it before eventually capitulating, recognizing the validity of Lenoir’s order. The Gascon wouldn’t have accepted it easily, though, and Athos knew with unwavering certainty that his protégé was carrying renewed guilt at leaving the man behind. Those feelings could be dealt with later, Athos thought, once he ensured that the boy was released.

 

He was roused at this point from his musings, startled by the entrance of one of the palace servants, the man indicating that the King was ready to see him now. Athos had hurriedly straightened his doublet and run his hands through his hair to settle the stray locks, hoping he looked more the part of experienced soldier than tired and desperate friend. Presenting himself before the monarch, he bent low as he murmured a respectful greeting, “Your Majesty.”

 

At the King’s wave, he stood. “Athos, I’ve been anxiously awaiting news. How is Captain Treville faring?”

 

The question caught the former comte off-guard, having assumed that Louis would know the reason for his presence, and he took a moment to clear his throat as his mind caught up. “Majesty, the Captain is in Dr. Lemay’s most capable care and, since I have heard nothing to contrary, I can only assume that he is doing well.” At the King’s frown, Athos quickly rushed on, “I’m here today on another matter, Sire, the arrest of the Musketeer d’Artagnan.”

 

The King’s expression turned sorrowful as he popped a handful of grapes into his mouth, not bothering to swallow them before he spoke, “Yes, quite awful that, but the Marquis was quite insistent that I act.”

 

“About that, Sire, I fear that my message may have been misleading. I can assure you that d’Artagnan did nothing wrong and he is most certainly no coward,” Athos explained.

 

Uncaring that the Musketeer had more to say, Louis countered, “Your message wasn’t misleading at all; on the contrary, it provided a complete picture of how d’Artagnan left poor Lenoir to fend for himself while he made the decision to flee. I suppose we can only be grateful that he decided to bring Treville along with him.”

 

Swallowing down his frustration at the royal’s naiveté, Athos tried again, “With respect, Majesty, I’m confident that d’Artagnan did not willingly leave Lenoir behind, but that he was forced to do so in order to save the Captain’s life. In all the time I’ve known him, d’Artagnan has never placed himself ahead of another.”

 

The King’s features reflected his irritation at the suggestion that he’d misunderstood any part of the letter he’d received. Lowering his voice as he was apt to do when annoyed, he asked, “Do you have any proof of your claims?”

 

“Majesty, I am confident that d’Artagnan will tell you the same if he’s given the opportunity and Captain Treville will undoubtedly concur with his explanation of these events,” Athos replied.

 

Drawing himself up to stand, Louis looked down imperiously at the Musketeer, “The Marquis has been a dear and loyal friend to us since we were just a lad and I will not make a grieving family wait for justice.” Swinging the tails of his doublet behind him as he retook his seat and crossed his legs, he continued, “d’Artagnan will appear in court tomorrow, and will have his chance to plead his case.

 

“With respect Majesty, what of Captain Treville’s recollection?” Athos prompted, hoping the man in front of him would not be so stubborn as to move ahead with a trial without the statement of the only other witness.

 

With a haughty sniff, Louis answered, “Fine, the trial will take place two days from now – that’s the best I can do. As for Treville, if he recovers in time to tell us what happened, I will consider dismissing the charges. Until then, my hands are tied.”

 

Another imperious wave of the King’s hand dismissed the Musketeer and Athos bowed stiffly before retreating, dreading the fact that he was returning to the garrison with less than stellar news. As he pulled himself onto his horse, he prayed that there would be better news awaiting him in the Captain’s quarters.

Chapter Text

They were all familiar with the conditions in the Chatelet, having escorted and interrogated numerous prisoners there over the years. The lower levels of the building were renowned for their dungeons, in which countless prisoners had screamed their ways to their deaths. It was also more dismally dark and rundown than the Bastille, housing more of the lower-level, common criminals. This distinction was a grim joke amongst the city’s soldiers, and they’d all remarked at some time or another about their lack of status, which would have them rotting in the Chatelet if ever they committed a crime. Not only did that mean that they could look forward to abysmal conditions, but also that the likelihood of being jailed with others they’d arrested was high, increasing the risk involved with incarceration.

 

All of these things ran through d’Artagnan’s mind as he was escorted through the streets, the exhaustion of their return trip to Paris making his steps clumsy and uneven. For some reason the Red Guards accompanying him didn’t try to make the journey any more difficult than it needed to be, keeping their pace slow enough that it wasn’t too much of a struggle to keep up.

 

Every step that drew them closer ate away at his resolve, and by the time the large wooden gates had closed behind him, he was seriously contemplating the error of having allowed himself to be arrested. As the coarse rope was unwound from his wrists, he had only a moment to view the reddened skin underneath before it was covered again, heavy, iron shackles taking their place. They were both better and worse, allowing him some freedom of movement with the short chain that connected them, but overly heavy and rough, the crude metal rubbing painfully against his tender skin. As the final pin was placed, securing the second shackle, he swallowed hard at the fear that welled, the restraints signifying not only his lost freedom but his inability to properly protect himself should the need arise.

 

The sun was setting by the time that he was led inside, stepping down into the damp, dark prison, his way lit only by the occasional torches that dotted the stone walls. His initial escorts had left once he’d been handed over to the prison authorities, and his newest companions were far rougher than his previous ones, pushing him in the direction they wanted him to go and kicking at his heels if he moved too slowly. Despite the treatment he was receiving, d’Artagnan kept his mouth firmly closed, buoyed by his faith in Athos’ ability to have the charges dismissed.

 

The further they walked through the interior of the prison, the more he hoped that he was being taken to a cell where he’d be alone, saving him from having to remain on his guard throughout the night against an unprovoked attack. His hopes were soon dashed as he was pushed against the wall, one man pinning him in place while the other fumbled with the lock, pulling the heavy barred door open for its newest occupant. There was only one other in the room and d’Artagnan felt a small thrill of relief, knowing he could defend himself against one man if the need arose. Plus, he thought to himself, the other prisoner had no idea who he was and, in prison, ambiguity was a man’s best protection.

 

The Gascon shifted further inside and toward one of the side walls where he could keep an eye on his companion. As he positioned himself, the door was closed and locked again, the jailor shouting out, his words echoing strangely as they bounced off the stone walls, “Got ourselves a Musketeer!” Cheers and jeering erupted all around, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but flinch at the sound. “Sleep well, Musketeer!” The statement was accompanied by the guards’ laughter, and d’Artagnan could tell the men were leaving as the sound receded.

 

Across from him, his cellmate was now staring with renewed interest and d’Artagnan allowed a small sigh to escape, lowering himself to the ground as he slid down the stone wall at his back. Pulling his feet towards him, he leaned forward with his arms across his bent knees, returning the other man’s gaze with a hard stare of his own while silently pleading for Athos to work quickly and set him free. 

---

It was the harsh clang of metal on metal that woke him from his light doze. Given the damp chill that permeated the prison, he was shocked that he’d nodded off at all, having doubted his ability to sleep with the danger his companion posed. When he’d visited the Chatelet in the past, his business had been completed so quickly that the cold had never had a chance to seep into his bones; this time was different. Although he’d been allowed to keep all of the clothes on his back, the linen shirt and leather doublet that covered him provided little protection from the continuous dampness that permeated his cell, making his breaths visible in the cool air that surrounded him.

 

He’d considered staying upright and moving, but the ache in his hip, intensified by the chill, had made it a less than ideal solution. Additionally, he wanted to hide his infirmity from his cellmate for as long as possible, knowing that prisoners often took advantage of others’ perceived weaknesses. As a result, he’d remained sitting on the ground, his hands eventually tucked underneath his armpits in a pathetic effort to retain some semblance of warmth.

 

As he awoke, his head snapped sharply upwards to see the sneering face of his companion on the other side of the cell. His breathing hitched as adrenaline hit his veins, and he couldn’t suppress a round of loud coughs. When he’d finished, he wiped a sleeve across his mouth to remove the spittle that had collected on his lips as he’d coughed, doing his best to glare back at his cellmate and prevent the man from getting the idea that the Musketeer was an easy target for attack.

 

Keeping his eyes on his fellow prisoner, he caught movement in his periphery as the jailor pushed two bowls of food through the lower bars of the cell. Keeping his gaze firmly on the other man, d’Artagnan pulled one bowl towards himself, pushing the other slowly toward his cellmate with a foot before withdrawing again. The prisoner wasted no time in reaching for the food, shoveling it into his mouth by the handful as the Gascon winced in disgust. Sparing a look down at his own meal, d’Artagnan took in the grayish, lumpy mass that he assumed was supposed to be porridge. A quick sniff at the contents had him setting the food down and pushing it away from him.

 

“Ya best eat that if ya know what’s good for ya,” a voice advised from across the room.

 

Surprised, d’Artagnan met the other man’s gaze, looking repulsed by the suggestion. “No, thanks,” he managed, “I’ll wait until I’m out of here to eat.”

 

Scooping up another handful of runny mush, the prisoner spoke again, “Think you’ll be gettin’ outta here, do ya?” He snorted to himself, “That’s what they all say at first.” The Gascon frowned but didn’t comment, which the other man took as an invitation to continue. “Let me guess, you’re innocent.”

 

Leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, d’Artagnan replied, “It is possible, you know.”

 

The statement garnered another snort of derision as the man put down his empty bowl, his eyes flickering towards d’Artagnan’s. Catching the man’s hungry look, the Gascon pushed it over with his foot. Grabbing it greedily, the man continued, “Chatelet’s filled with innocent men; least until they’re hung.”

 

His expression turning more annoyed than wary, d’Artagnan countered, “I have friends who will get me out.”

 

The young man’s words drew a loud guffaw from his cellmate as he scoffed, “Friends? We all ‘ave friends and it didn’t do us any good.” He took another mouthful of food as he contemplated the man sitting across from him. “Musketeer; thought you ‘ad a motto. All for one and one for all?”

 

Stiffly, d’Artagnan gave a short nod, “Yes, that’s how I know my friends will have me freed.”

 

“Funny how you ended up the one behind bars and none of them did,” the prisoner said. “Maybe it’s more all for none,” he snickered at his joke, the Gascon’s lips thinning at the statement as his anger rose.

 

“Obviously you have no understanding of honour,” d’Artagnan retorted, feeling the need to defend both his friends and the regiment.

 

The other man looked up from his food, placing the bowl down beside him as he countered, “Don’t seem to me that Musketeers are any more honorable; otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

 

Before he could stop himself, d’Artagnan had pushed to his feet, crossing the space between them and wrapping his hands around his cellmate’s shirt collar. The other man moved quickly, having anticipated the young man’s attack, and he brought the recently emptied bowl upwards to crash against the Gascon’s temple. The impact caused d’Artagnan to let go as he reeled sideways, suddenly dizzy. The other man sprang to his feet to press his advantage, applying his booted feet to the young man’s side, and managing to land several solid kicks before his prey rolled away.

 

d’Artagnan’s head was still swimming from the initial blow, but instinct had him rolling and clambering to his feet, recognizing that he had to fight back if he wanted to survive the day. With a roar of outrage that would have made Porthos proud, he launched himself at the other man, his momentum allowing him to push the prisoner against the wall. Holding the length of the chain in his hands, d’Artagnan pushed the links that joined his shackles against his cellmate’s throat, watching as the man thrashed and tried to get free. As the fight slowly went out of him, the Gascon leaned closer, whispering harshly in the other man’s ear, “Come near me again and I’ll kill you.”

 

With that, he released his hold and stepped back, the prisoner automatically doubling over as he gasped for breath. d’Artagnan made his way back to what had become his spot, placing his feet carefully as the ground continued to sway beneath him. Sinking down, he rested his head in his hands, his elbows propped up on bent knees. He didn’t dare close his eyes, but kept his gaze on his cellmate as the man also retreated to his side of the room, glaring daggers the entire time. “Great,” d’Artagnan thought to himself as he coughed carefully against sore ribs, wishing his hands were free so he could wrap an arm around his torso. 

---

Athos was worried. Aramis and Porthos had promised to return and join him in the morning, and their absence suggested that something bad had happened which prevented them from doing so. The two options uppermost in the older man’s mind included Porthos’ health taking a turn for the worse and the Captain’s continued deterioration; either would have kept the medic at the garrison and at the men’s sides. When he rode through the gates, he was relieved to see Porthos at their usual table, the man obviously waiting for him as he stood and moved forward immediately upon Athos’ arrival. Porthos was still paler than normal and moving slowly, but it was a far cry from the weak and feverish body Athos had left behind when he’d gone in search of d’Artagnan.

 

Stopping in front of his friend, Athos raised a questioning eyebrow. “Captain’s not doing any better and Aramis has been with the doctor all morning,” Porthos explained at once, understanding his friend’s need to be brought up to speed. His expression turning sheepish, the large man added, “He wouldn’t let me go back on my own ‘cause I had a bit of a dizzy spell earlier.” Athos’ second eyebrow joined the first and Porthos shook his head, “It’s nothing. I ate and rested for a bit and feel fine now, but you know what Aramis is like. Figured it wouldn’t do to add to his stress by makin’ him worry about me, too.”

 

Athos fully understood what the marksman was like, especially when it came to the health of his friends. At that point, the man was worse than a mother hen watching over her ducklings and it was easiest to acquiesce to the medic’s orders than argue against them. “How is Treville?” the older man asked as he dismounted, gratefully handing his horse’s reins to the stable boy.

 

Porthos’ face was sombre, “His fever is still really high and they haven’t been able to wake him at all. Aramis won’t say so, but I know he’s really worried.” The news wasn’t unexpected, but given d’Artagnan’s current situation, it was one of the worst things that could have happened. As if sensing the older man’s thoughts, Porthos asked, “What about d’Artagnan? Should we go get him now?”

 

Walking slowly towards the stairs that led to the Captain’s room, Athos gave a short shake of his head, “The King is unwilling to release d’Artagnan until a witness can corroborate his story.”

 

Following him up the stairs, Porthos clarified, “So he’s got to stay locked up until Treville can clear him? Not ideal, but the boy’s tough enough to manage a day or two,” the large man said, a soft smile of pride on his face.

 

As they reached the top of the stairs, Athos moved to one side, feeling the need to explain, “Not exactly. d’Artagnan will be tried in court in two days’ time. If Treville is well enough to offer his testimony by then, the King will consider dropping the charges. Otherwise, d’Artagnan will be bound by the court’s decision. If his sentence is carried out before the Captain wakes…” he trailed off. Both men knew that the penalty for cowardice was death and the sentence would be carried out swiftly following its pronouncement.

 

“But that’s not fair,” Porthos spluttered on the Gascon’s behalf.

 

Drawing a deep breath, Athos concurred, “I fear fairness has little to do with this. Lenoir’s family is represented by the Marquis who seems to have history with Louis. As a result, the King seems especially motivated to settle this matter quickly.”

 

Porthos scrubbed a hand across his beard, “Great, another political intrigue that could cost an innocent man his life.”

 

The older man didn’t feel the need to comment, agreeing fully with his friend’s words. Instead, he turned to enter the Captain’s room as he said, “Let us hope that Treville will be good enough to grace us with his presence before it comes to that.”

 

The two men moved through the front room which Treville used as his office and through another doorway to the back where the Captain slept. Aramis was seated at a small table while the physician was checking on his patient. A glance at the wounded man showed how ill the man was, his face nearly blending in with the white linen of his pillow and glowing with a sheen of sweat. Every few moments, small puffs of air would pass through the man’s lips and it was easy to see that even this small action was stressing Treville’s weak body.

 

At the Musketeers’ entrance, the medic gave his friends a tired smile, pleased to see them and anticipating Athos’ good news. When the older man’s expression remained sombre, Aramis’ smile faded as he asked, “d’Artagnan?”

 

“Still a guest of his Majesty’s prison,” Porthos huffed, not bothering to hide his frustration with the situation.

 

Aramis switched his gaze to Athos who dipped his chin in agreement, confirming the larger man’s statement. “What happened?” the medic pressed.

 

“Politics happened,” Porthos snorted in derision as he settled himself down on another chair.

 

“I fear that d’Artagnan’s accuser is a powerful man who has strong ties to the King. As such, there is an ardent desire to deal with things swiftly and, without the Captain’s testimony, his Majesty will not be convinced,” Athos explained.

 

Aramis dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing them across his weary features as he tried not to let his despondency show. After several seconds he looked back up again, licking his lips as he searched for the right words, “The Captain’s condition is grave.” Watching carefully for Athos’ reaction he went on, “I cannot guarantee anything.”

 

Taking pity on his friend, the older man spoke, “Aramis, I know. We’ve nursed each other through various injuries often enough for me to realize that each man recovers on his own time.” Or not, he thought to himself, unwilling to voice that option. While he’d prayed that Treville’s condition would have been much improved under the physician’s care, part of him had expected exactly what he now found, and he’d been racking his brain for some way of clearing the Gascon that didn’t rely on the ailing man’s presence.

 

“Athos,” Porthos called, and the older man looked up to find both friends looking at him with concern. Apparently he’d drifted off for a moment without realizing it.

 

Taking a steadying breath, Athos tried not to let his friends see his concern as he said, “I’m going to go check on d’Artagnan. He must be wondering why we haven’t come for him yet.”

 

Knowing that the older man had likely gone without sleep the night before, Aramis spoke up at once, “Athos, you must rest first.”

 

Athos gave him a hard look in return, unwilling to even consider sleeping until he’d spoken with d’Artagnan. Seeing the flinty look in his friend’s eye, Aramis tried another tact, “At least take Porthos with you and promise me you’ll rest when you get back – nothing less than four hours.”

 

Glancing at the large man, he saw that his friend was already getting ready to stand. It was a reasonable compromise and Athos was tired, every muscle in his body crying out for respite. “Alright,” he agreed, running his hand through his hair before replacing his hat on his head in preparation to leave. “You’ll stay here?” he asked, unnecessarily, even though they all knew that they’d feel better with Aramis at the Captain’s side. The medic gave a short nod, indicating he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

 

Athos turned and exited the room, Porthos rising to follow, pausing for a moment as Aramis spoke his name, “Porthos, keep an eye on him.” The unspoken “don’t let him do anything stupid” was understood and the large man merely nodded and left.

 

Dr. Lemay rose from the Captain’s side and took Porthos’ recently vacated chair, the physician looking just as tired as Aramis felt. With a sigh, he confirmed what he’d heard, “You need the Captain to wake by tomorrow so that he may give testimony.”

 

Aramis dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Glancing for a moment at the recumbent man, the doctor shook his head slowly, “I do not know that he will wake in time.” Or at all remained unspoken although both men were familiar enough with such wounds to understand Treville’s odds. “What will you do then?” the physician asked, curious about the men who he understood to be like brothers.

 

With a sad smile, Aramis replied, “Whatever we must.”

 

Lemay didn’t press further, guessing he was likely better off not knowing, but he had no doubt of Aramis’ commitment to what he’d just said. Without another word, the doctor returned to his charge, rinsing and then wiping a damp cloth across the sick man’s brow.

Chapter Text

The hours following breakfast had passed just as slowly as the night had, although d’Artagnan now had the additional pain in his head and ribs to help keep him company. His cellmate had stayed on his side since their earlier fray, a fact that the Gascon was immensely grateful for. The prisoner’s name was Calvet according to the guard who’d ordered him to stay back when delivering lunch, an offering which was just as repugnant as the morning meal had been. Despite the insistent growling of d’Artagnan’s stomach, he’d decided against eating it, mindful of the mild nausea he felt as a result of the earlier scuffle.

 

To his chagrin, Calvet had managed to land several blows on his ribs as well as one that ratcheted up the pain in his hip, forcing d’Artagnan to remain on the cold ground rather than showing how badly he’d been hurt. He had no doubt that his cellmate would take advantage of his weakened state, and he had no choice now but to grit his teeth and bear the remaining hours until his release. He’d been surprised when the midday meal had arrived, thinking he’d be free by then, the realization reawakening his earlier fears at being imprisoned.

 

He knew that Athos would not dally in his endeavors to see him released, and he spent the next hour considering the various reasons for the delay, using them to distract himself from not only his worries but his physical discomfort as well. The most likely explanation was Louis’ well-known propensity to stay in his bedchambers, not deigning to see anyone until well into the afternoon; at least d’Artagnan hoped the reason for his extended stay was that innocuous.

 

He looked up immediately upon hearing footsteps, unable to quell the hope that sprang forth when the jailer appeared, flanked by Athos and Porthos. Breaking into a broad grin, he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, limping the few steps to the door in expectation of its opening. When it didn’t and the jailer moved away, leaving Athos and Porthos standing on the other side of the locked door, fresh concern welled, fanning the queasiness in the pit of his belly. “Athos, Porthos,” he said tentatively, his grin slipping as he greeted his friends. “What’s going on?”

 

The men wore matching expressions of trepidation and d’Artagnan swallowed thickly as he asked, “You’re not here to release me, are you?”

 

Looking immensely uncomfortable, Porthos shook his head regretfully, “No, there’s been a complication.”

 

"A complication," the Gascon slowly repeated, waiting for the men to elaborate.

 

Looking d’Artagnan squarely in the eye, Athos explained, “There has been some doubt cast on your motivations, and the King feels he must pursue this path of inquiry unless another can provide testimony to the contrary.”

 

The Gascon thought for a moment, mulling over the meaning of his mentor’s words until comprehension struck, “You mean until the Captain can corroborate my version of events.” Athos gave a short nod. “Since I’m still here, I assume that the Captain is not yet well enough to do so.” This time it was Porthos who tipped his head, confirming the young man’s statement.

 

Almost afraid to ask, but needing to know what his future held, d’Artagnan continued, “So I just need to be patient, and wait until the Captain has recovered enough to present himself to the King.” He straightened his shoulders in determination, casting a quick glance towards his cellmate before returning his gaze to his friends, “I can do that.”

 

Again, Porthos looked distinctly uncomfortable, his expression now a mix of anxiety and anger, “’Fraid it’s not that simple. King’s set your trial for two days from now.”

 

d’Artagnan wore a look of incomprehension so Athos elaborated, “You’ll be sentenced in two days’ time.” He paused to let out a weary sigh, “The penalty for cowardice is death.”

 

The Gascon’s face blanched. He knew the accusation against him was serious, but had never considered the punishment to be quite so final. At most, he’d expected to have to spend some time in prison, but the crown apparently took their soldiers’ actions very seriously, wanting to send a strong message to anyone who might consider running away a viable alternative to death in battle. His breath left him in a whoosh as he absorbed the news, and he had to prop himself up with one hand as the resulting exhale had him coughing. When he’d recovered, he looked up to see the concerned faces of his friends. It was clear that they longed to find a way to get through the bars that separated them, and d’Artagnan forced himself to straighten further, despite the pain in his ribs, determined not to increase their worry.

 

“I’m fine,” he said, the well-worn phrase slipping out almost automatically, bringing a ghost of a smile to Porthos’ lips.

 

“Course you are,” muttered the large man, unwilling to point out the fallacy of the Gascon’s statement. Letting his eyes drift meaningfully to the right where Calvet sat watching them, he asked, “How was your night?”

 

Forcing himself to adopt a neutral expression, d’Artagnan replied, “Fine.” At Athos’ pointed look, the young man’s hand came up to gently touch the side of his head, realizing now that the skin had been broken and he’d bled. Relenting, he added, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

 

“Of course not,” Athos murmured before raising his voice so that the other prisoner could hear. “However, any damage to you will be repaid by us tenfold.”

 

The Gascon rolled his eyes at the comment but couldn’t help the flush of warmth he felt at his mentor’s words. There wasn’t much the men could do to protect him while he was locked up, but that hadn’t stopped Athos from threatening anyone who might try to hurt him. “I can take care of myself, Athos,” he said softly, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

 

At the answering quirk of Athos’ lips, d’Artagnan knew the other man understood, but he replied anyway, “I would expect no less of a King’s Musketeer.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head shyly for a moment before looking up again and giving a short nod. Clearing his throat he asked, “How is Treville?”

 

Porthos and Athos exchanged a quick look and d’Artagnan knew the news would not be good. “He’s holding his own. He has both Aramis and Dr. Lemay at his side and is receiving the best possible care.”

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but flinch slightly at the comment, reminded again of how little he’d been able to do for his commanding officer. If only they hadn’t lost their supplies, and fallen into the river, and… Stop, he thought to himself angrily. What was done, was done, and there was nothing he could do to change the past. He would simply need to hope that the man would recover; whether or not that happened in time to save him from execution was another story altogether.

 

Suddenly curious, the Gascon asked, “What has made the King question my account of events?”

 

Athos adopted a somewhat annoyed expression as he answered, “It seems that Lenoir was affiliated with the Marquis de Saint-Sorlin, who in turn has strong ties to the King.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, wanting to voice the question that had plagued him since his arrest but afraid to hear the answer. As if sensing it, Athos said, “There is no fault in how you handled things and the Captain will confirm it as soon as he’s able to do so.” The Gascon held his mentor’s gaze for several long seconds as if trying to decide whether or not to believe the man before finally giving a small nod.

 

“Time to go,” another’s voice broke into their conversation as the jailer inserted himself. Athos gave the man a scathing look of derision but didn’t dispute his order.

 

“We will return to check on you tonight,” the older man promised before turning away, the jailer following him.

 

Porthos hung back a second longer, his hand reaching under his cloak and withdrawing a small, wrapped parcel which he passed to the Gascon through the bars. d’Artagnan took it quickly, turning his body to keep Calvet from seeing, and giving the larger man a quick smile of thanks. “Take care of yourself,” Porthos ordered before hurrying to catch up to the other men.

 

Moving slowly to lessen the limp he could no longer disguise, the Gascon returned to his previous position, keeping the bundle he’d been given pressed against his stomach as he waited for the other man to nod off so he could eat. 

---

He would later reflect on the fact that he’d been duped. Admittedly, he should have been more careful, his own experience lacking in the fine art of deception while the other man had had who knew how long to hone his skills. It was a costly mistake, one he couldn’t undo, and now he was paying for it. Stifling a groan, he tried to shift, but his leg was restrained in such a manner as to make movement nearly impossible, his wardens uncaring if he was unable to reach the meagre offerings they brought or if he soiled himself as a result of not being able to reach the bucket that had been provided for that purpose.

 

The only positive to this new arrangement was that he’d hurt the other man, enough that he was wary and would think twice about attacking again. When he’d been jumped by Calvet, the prisoner incensed by the food he’d received from Porthos and intent on taking it for himself, d’Artagnan had fought like a wild thing. Gone was the form that Athos had instilled or the purposeful strikes that Porthos’ tutelage had encouraged. Fighting for one’s life was not an elegant affair, and the Gascon had no doubt that he’d been fighting for his; a loss would have left him too weakened to fend off any subsequent attacks and only encouraged the other man to try again.

 

They’d had to be separated by the jailers, three men finally summoned to see what was happening after hearing the raucous cheering of the prisoners around them. It was ironic really, since none of the cells offered a view into the others, intermittently staggered along the dim hallway and their doors edged with stone walls on either side; but the sounds of violence had been enough. It had begun with a few tenuous calls from the cells closest to them but, like a flock of birds, their cries had been taken up by others until the whole area echoed with their shouts.

 

When he’d been roughly pulled off of Calvet and tossed aside, falling heavily against the stone wall before sliding down to the ground, he’d had his hands pressed tightly around the man’s neck. He’d had no intention of killing the prisoner but was determined to use his waning energy to scare him enough so that he would be left alone. Apparently, his jailers had taken umbrage to his approach and decided to teach him a lesson before dragging him by one leg and shackling his ankle to a ring in the wall. He’d been too stunned to prevent them from succeeding, and the verbal insults he’d hurled at them afterwards had only gained him some parting blows from one of the men’s wooden clubs. Through tear-filled eyes – such was the pain of the strikes – he caught Calvet sneering at him and wished he could get free to wipe the look from the man’s face.

 

That had been hours ago, and the stiffness that had settled into his bones rivaled the discomfort of his still-empty belly, having managed only a couple small bites before his cellmate had attacked. Privately, he cursed the man again for having fooled him into believing that he’d fallen asleep. While it would not have been his first choice, he knew that he would survive the physical discomfort; it was the shame of appearing before his friends, cowed and beaten, that frightened him the most. Athos had promised that they would return and d’Artagnan anticipated their arrival shortly, the evening meal having been deposited and eaten by Calvet, while the Gascon had been unable to even reach the bowl of watery stew.

 

With effort, d’Artagnan shifted again, this time managing to adjust his position slightly to take more of the pressure off his aching hip, which no longer gave him any respite. The length of chain that held him was no more than four feet long, attached firmly to his ankle by another iron shackle, this one clamped so tightly around his boot that he could feel the bruises forming even through the leather. It barely allowed him to stretch his sore leg out in front of him as he sat with his back pressed firmly against the damp stone, its chill seeping into every part of him. He’d begun shivering intermittently some time ago and his coughing was more persistent, making him wish for a drink of water from the bucket that also sat out of reach. As he waited, he prayed for Treville’s speedy recovery and his release, his misery deepening with each passing minute.

 

When Athos finally arrived, the Gascon was deep inside his own head, trying to distract himself from the physical world. It was the Musketeer’s booming voice that alerted him to the man’s presence, and he looked up in time to catch the look of rage on his mentor’s face as he ordered the jailer to unlatch the door. He couldn’t stifle a small smile as the man obeyed; there were few who could resist the force that was Athos. Drawing a breath to greet his friend, he launched into a coughing fit instead and, when he was finished, both Athos and Aramis were beside him, the latter man looking at him with concern.

 

With a nod from the medic, Athos retreated back to the door, already berating the jailer. d’Artagnan didn’t catch what was being said as Aramis crouched beside him, one hand on his shoulder to steady him, his eyes full of worry as he asked, “d’Artagnan, where does it hurt?”

 

The question was so typically Aramis that the young man couldn’t hold back the faint smile, his reaction only making the lines of worry on the marksman’s brow deepen. Deciding that he couldn’t be the cause of his friend’s concern, the Gascon opted for his usual reply, “I’m fine, Aramis.” The hoarseness of his throat belied his words and the medic looked around until he’d spotted the water bucket, picking it up and deliberately placing it within the young man’s reach. Filling the ladle half-full with water, he offered it to d’Artagnan who took it and drank greedily before handing it back. “Thanks.”

 

“You can thank me by being honest with me,” Aramis scolded without any heat. “Now, where does it hurt?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes flicked towards Calvet before returning to the medic and replying softly, “It’s mostly my hip. The rest is just bruises; nothing I can’t deal with.”

 

Aramis was certain that the young man was downplaying his injuries, but decided not to press the issue while the boy was still in peril. Reaching a hand forward, he met d’Artagnan’s gaze and was surprised to receive a short shake of the head. “There’s nothing to be done about it, Aramis.” At the medic’s disappointed expression, he went on, “Once I’m out of here, I’ll do whatever you say.” The Gascon wanted desperately to allow the marksman’s mothering, the attention not as unwelcome as he often made it out to be since he knew it stemmed from genuine caring and affection. But while he was behind bars, he needed to keep his defenses up, and permitting the medic’s touch would break them down, leaving him vulnerable in a way he could not yet allow.

 

It seemed that Aramis was able to read d’Artagnan’s thoughts as he withdrew his hand without complaint, his face breaking out into a soft smile as he asked, “Is there anything else you need.” The Gascon’s gaze flickered meaningfully toward the other bucket and the marksman gave a small dip of his chin, indicating his intention to reposition it within reach as well.

 

“How is the Captain?” the young man asked, knowing that the few hours that had passed had likely brought little change, but needing to hear the answer regardless.

 

“Treville is strong. I am confident he will recover,” Aramis hedged, unwilling to dash the young man’s hopes.

 

d’Artagnan understood what had been unsaid, but didn’t call his friend on it, simply giving a nod of his head.

 

“How is he?” Athos questioned as he returned from his dressing down of the jailer, crouching down next to Aramis.

 

“According to him, he’s fine,” the marksman answered, earning an annoyed look from the Gascon. Sighing, Aramis relented, “He’s fine enough for now.”

 

Athos heard the unspoken subtext that meant d’Artagnan was hurt, but nothing of immediate concern, and nothing within their ability to remedy while he languished in the Chatelet. With a look of regret, the older man addressed the Gascon, “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan, I was unable to convince them to release your leg.”

 

Shrugging as if it was of no consequence, the young man dredged up a smile for his mentor, “It’s alright, Athos. Aramis has arranged things so I can manage.”

 

The medic looked uncomfortable as the older man looked in his direction, giving a quick shake of his head to indicate it was nothing. After all, he’d only provided d’Artagnan with the basics by moving the water within reach, something that he would do also with the other bucket before they left. That the young man thought so highly of something so little disturbed him.

 

Not pursuing the matter any further, Athos turned his attention back to the Gascon, “I’ll be back again tomorrow to check on you. I’m uncertain as to what sort of access we’ll be allowed. The jailers are beginning to lose patience with our visits.”

 

Again, d’Artagnan read between the lines, understanding that the Musketeers had been pressing their luck and had to tread carefully before they were barred from the prison altogether. He tried to adopt a look of confidence as he replied, “Don’t rush on my account; I’ll be here waiting whenever you’re able to stop by.” The comment was accompanied by a rueful grin that made the older man grimace as he was reminded of his failure to have the boy set free.

 

In eerie parallel to Athos’ earlier words, d’Artagnan reached a hand out to his friend, grimacing in frustration when he couldn’t quite reach due to the chain that held his wrists together, “It’s not your fault, Athos. I could have made a different decision; whatever results from this is my responsibility alone.”

 

Placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, Athos squeezed gently as he said, “You are a Musketeer and therefore never alone.” With a last squeeze, he rose, waiting for Aramis to do the same.

 

The medic gave a last sorrowful smile at leaving the young man behind, teasing him as he stood, “Behave yourself. I don’t want to find any more damage once you’re released.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and the marksman turned away, spying the waste bucket and gingerly pushing it closer with a foot until he was confident the young man would be able to reach it. With a last look around, he gave a small wave of his hand and then followed Athos out, the jailer already waiting to lock the door behind them.

 

Athos paused to look through the barred door, needing to remind the Gascon of his promise, “Tomorrow.”

 

The young man gave a dip of his chin in acknowledgement, and watched as his friends disappeared from view, leaving him feely oddly bereft after the men’s departure. Blaming it on his still empty stomach, he reached for the water, taking a long drink to distract himself from the lack of food as he settled in for another long night.

Chapter Text

Athos’ predication sadly came to fruition, and the Musketeers were barred from returning to the Chatelet due to complaints about them harassing the guards. d’Artagnan had waited fitfully through the following day and night for his friends to come visit, and when it became evident that they would not be coming, he withdrew even deeper into himself. Despite Athos’ assurances that he was not alone, the Gascon couldn’t help but feel that he was, his mind unable to stop thinking about the last time he’d seen Lenoir.

 

The memories had followed him into sleep during the few hours he’d managed, torturing him unendingly without respite. By the time that the next day arrived, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure of anything, most especially his innocence, as he stared at the guards who’d come to escort him to court. He couldn’t stifle the sigh of relief he felt at having his leg released but was unable to enjoy it for long as the two men grabbed him roughly by the arms and dragged him to his feet. He would have tried to protest their hold, but the truth was that he needed their support, having difficulty walking after so many hours of inactivity. Forcing his right leg to move, he managed an oddly unbalanced gait, the occasional cough making its way through his lips as the increased exertion strained his lungs. Having access to the water bucket had helped soothe the coughs that came with increasing frequency, but did little for his empty stomach, leaving him feeling incredibly weak.

 

They entered the building where court had convened through a side entrance, which deposited them into a small antechamber. There, d’Artagnan was given a minute to splash some water on his face, smoothing his fingers through his greasy hair before tugging at his doublet to straighten it. He had no idea how he looked but was determined to maintain what dignity he could as he faced his accuser. The Gascon didn’t see any familiar faces until he was pushed into the courtroom, his guards escorting him to the front where he continued to be flanked by the two men. He’d caught a glimpse of Porthos’ tall frame as he’d been escorted hurriedly through the others who’d gathered, and now threw a quick look over his shoulder to see Athos and Aramis standing beside the larger man.

 

“Eyes forward,” one of the guards beside him hissed, reinforcing his words with a shove to the shoulder. Obeying the order, d’Artagnan faced the front of the room, leaning against the railing in front of him, his eyes wandering to where the King and two other men sat on an elevated dais. To the left of the royal was a man dressed somberly in black, but on his right was another who stood out just as much as the King, wearing a fine white linen shirt, embroidered heavily with intricate lace at the wrists and neck. Covering it was a deep blue doublet that was just as exquisite, adorned with ribbons and more lace, the entire ensemble marking the man as someone of import. As the Gascon took in the details of the man’s finery, Louis leaned closer to him, the two exchanging a few words before the man on the King’s left stood.

 

Reading from a piece of parchment, the man announced, “This court has been convened to hear the charges against the Musketeer d’Artagnan, who is accused of cowardice, thereby condemning a fellow Musketeer to his death at the hands of the enemy.” Shifting his gaze from the paper to the Gascon, he asked, “How do you respond to these charges?”

 

The Gascon drew a breath to reply, but was caught off guard by a deep, racking cough. When the strong spasms had stopped, he heard a voice from behind him call out, “Innocent.”

 

Swivelling his head to look behind him, he saw Athos’ eyes fixed firmly on the front, waiting for a reaction to his statement. Apparently the judge was willing to accept the plea, regardless of the fact that it hadn’t come from d’Artagnan. As he retook his seat he reached for another piece of parchment. “This letter describes how the Musketeer chose to flee, leaving his wounded comrade behind to face his death. The law is clear in this respect. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

 

d’Artagnan hadn’t given much thought to how he could explain his actions but it seemed that Athos had, the older man now moving closer as he addressed the King and those joining him, “I was the one who wrote that letter to the King, informing him of Lenoir’s courageous actions in the face of an enemy force. As he’d been ordered by both his commanding officer and Lenoir, the more senior Musketeer, d’Artagnan used the opportunity to get Captain Treville to safety. His life would have no doubt been forfeited if the two had stayed at Lenoir’s side. I’m confident that you’ll agree with me that it took great courage, not cowardice, to find the strength to push onward, knowing of Lenoir’s sacrifice.”

 

The Gascon looked at Athos with an expression of disbelief, stunned at how his mentor had been able to describe what had happened in a way that sounded almost honorable. d’Artagnan was grateful for the man’s intervention although he still could not convince himself that Athos’ retelling of events was strictly accurate. Before he could pursue the line of thought further, the man on the other side of the King rose, the judge automatically deferring to him.

 

The man was tall, the Gascon noted, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw, above which rested two steely blue eyes that conveyed the exact opposite of Athos’ warm orbs. Despite his gray hair and lined face, he radiated strength, and when he spoke, it was obvious he expected to be listened to. His voice, low and cultured, told those present of the love of a father for his son, and the anguish he’d endured when informed of his son’s death. He’d been assured by His Majesty of his son’s bravery, the conduct no less than expected from the son of a Marquis. His courage, however, had offered little comfort and he now sought justice, for himself and his son, while reminding all the King’s soldiers of their duty to be brave in the face of adversity.

 

When he’d finished, he’d sat down, the judge looking sideways at the King, waiting to see if he had anything to add. When the royal remained silent, he stood and addressed the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, it is the decision of this court that you are guilty of cowardice, which resulted in the death of the Musketeer Lenoir. The punishment for this is death and your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

 

The uproar from those assembled quickly swelled, Athos pushing forward at the same time while Porthos and Aramis were moving in behind him, all three desperate to convince the court of its mistake. The guards on either side of d’Artagnan closed ranks, their hands returning to hold his upper arms in bruising grips that made the young man flinch in pain. Several long seconds passed in chaos before a loud voice erupted from the front of the room, the King standing as people quieted and turned their attention once more to the front. “The decision of this court is final.” Turning his gaze on the Gascon, he continued, “d’Artagnan, after having distinguished yourself admirably in Captain Treville’s defense, thereby earning your commission, I am disappointed that you would now place your welfare above that of your brother-in-arms. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

 

The Gascon was reeling, not having believed that things would end this way, especially with the shame that would forever be attached to his name as a result. His eyes skittered to Athos’ face and then to Porthos and Aramis still several steps behind them. He wanted to protest his innocence and fight for his life, but the words escaped him and he could only think, “I’m responsible for this.”

 

Seeing the desolation in his eyes, Athos intervened, once more speaking up before the young man could, “Your Majesty, d’Artagnan has served with honor and courage since before he received his commission. He has been, and always will be, your loyal servant. I am confident that Captain Treville will confirm this. If you would only consider waiting another day?” The older Musketeer knew that his tone was pleading, but he could not allow the young man beside him to be executed over a misunderstanding.

 

The King appeared conflicted and he looked to the Marquis who stood at his right side. Neither man spoke, but the latter man’s expression hardened and Athos saw Louis’ face harden in turn. Before the man spoke, Athos knew what the answer would be. “Athos, I hold Captain Treville in the utmost regard but Dr. Lemay tells me his fate is still uncertain.” d’Artagnan threw Athos a questioning look but the man ignored him, giving the Gascon his answer. Turning again to face the King, he caught the royal’s last words, “…will be carried out at once.”

 

More guards surged towards them, preventing any of the Musketeers from interfering as d’Artagnan was hauled from the room in the same manner by which he’d entered. He caught only glimpses of his friend’s anguished faces before he had to look away, unable to bear the despair in their eyes. He was surprised to find himself back in the same small anteroom which he’d entered earlier, the guards surrounding them as they waited. Confused, d’Artagnan asked, “What’s going on?”

 

He received a swift blow to his stomach, the pain making him hunch forward as much as the men holding him would allow, his breath coming in short gasps interspersed with coughs. Before he could recover fully, he felt the atmosphere in the room shift and he forced himself to straighten, clamping his jaw shut against the residual coughs that wanted to escape. The Marquis had entered the room followed by another tall man, this one dressed in clothing that was just as expensive but more practical in nature. The similarity of their features had the Gascon concluding that this was another of the man’s sons.

 

With two confident steps, the Marquis was standing in front of the disgraced Musketeer, staring at him for several long moments in silence. When d’Artagnan could no longer bear the quiet, the Gascon licked his lips and spoke, “I’m sorry about your son. It’s true that he died a hero; his sacrifice allowed me to get our Captain to safety.” Not seeing any sort of reaction from the man, he tried again, “I wanted to do more for him but I had limited supplies and Lenoir – your son – he refused to let me focus on him, making me promise to care for the Captain. He was a brave man.”

 

The Marquis continued to examine the young man before finally lifting a hand to grasp the Musketeer’s face, fingers digging cruelly into his cheeks as he said, “My son was a brave man and deserved better. You’ll pay for your actions but not before I have satisfaction.”

 

Before d’Artagnan could protest, the Marquis dropped his hand and turned, but that was all he saw. A moment later a black hood was dropped over his head, the rough cloth secured around his neck with something. The Gascon bucked against the sudden darkness, his panicked breaths coming quickly and making the cloth around his mouth contract and expand. Seconds later, something hard struck his head and he briefly registered the intense flash of pain before a different kind of darkness descended.

 

The Marquis’ son looked on dispassionately as the Musketeer sagged into unconsciousness, nodding to the two who were holding him. The guards released their hold, letting the Gascon drop to the ground, and then turned their attention to efficiently undressing him, leaving him in nothing but his braies. A mirthless smile found its way onto the nobleman’s face as he watched the men work. 

---

Once d’Artagnan had been herded from the crowded room, there had been little more that Athos and the others could do. The older Musketeer had attempted to approach the King once more but the temperamental royal had rebuked his efforts, and Athos had had no choice but to withdraw. By the time he joined his friends outside, the majority of those who’d been inside had already dispersed and headed for the square where the executions of notoriety took place, anticipating some welcome afternoon entertainment.

 

He looked questioningly at the two Musketeers, having come to the unspoken agreement earlier that they would orchestrate an escape before letting the young man hang. In reply, Aramis wrung his hands anxiously as he said, “They haven’t come out yet.”

 

Fear beginning to rise in his chest, Athos suggested, “Perhaps another exit?”

 

“No,” Porthos shook his head vehemently, “this is the one they always use.”

 

Baffled, the men split up again to search both inside and out, but there was no sign of the Gascon or his accusers. Forcing a calm they didn’t feel, they departed for the square, praying that they would not find the young man there. Their hopes were dashed as they entered the densely packed courtyard, d’Artagnan already in place with a hood on his head. His hands were still bound in front of him, and he was being restrained by two guards, flailing violently in their grasp in his bid for freedom.

 

The sight gave Athos momentary pause, but his thoughts were soon diverted when he noticed the absence of a firing squad, or even a scaffold and noose. Instead, his heart skipped a beat at the sunlight that reflected dully from the executioner’s sharp axe, the guards already moving their prisoner into position. When it became clear that the young man would not cooperate, one of the guards struck him in the head, taking the fight out of their prisoner and dropping him to his knees. Placing the body so his shoulders rested on the massive wooden block, they stepped back, the executioner raising his axe in preparation for a killing strike.

 

As soon as Athos’ brain had comprehended what he was seeing, he was like a man possessed, fighting his way through the throng of people that separated him from his protégé. He was unaware of Porthos and Aramis fighting alongside him, his entire focus on the drama that was unfolding on the raised platform. Even as the massive blade was lifted, Athos knew he would be too late and a cry of anguish burst from his chest a split-second before the axe descended and separated its victim from his head.

 

In that instant, the breath disappeared from Athos’ chest and he stumbled, his legs suddenly unable to hold him. Those around him pushed him away in disgust, thinking him to be drunk or worse. Seconds later, a set of strong hands steadied him, stopping his forward motion and pulling him close. He fought against the movement, still struggling to get to the platform where the limp body lay surrounded by an expanding pool of blood. The arms that held him only tightened and he found his face crushed against a broad chest, unable to move, with another’s body pressing against his back. He was sobbing now, although completely unaware of what was happening, the image of the horrific execution he’d witnessed replaying over and over in his mind.

 

Around them, cheers had erupted as the crowd revelled in the blood that had been spilled. The shouts and cries of the spectators swelled and reached an overwhelming crescendo before gradually dimming to a dull roar as people began to gossip about what they’d witnessed and slowly make their way home. Athos’ breath came in gasps as tears poured down his face, soaking into the supple leather of Porthos’ doublet against his cheek. He had not broken down so completely since the death of his beloved brother Thomas, and the despair he felt now seemed almost identical to what he’d experienced then.

 

The large man’s arms encircled him, Porthos’ chin resting on the top of his head as moisture pooled in his eyes and trickled down to dampen the older man’s hair. Behind him, Aramis clung tightly to Athos’ back and Porthos’ arms, letting out his own sorrow through tightly closed eyes as his emotions overwhelmed him. Around them, people departed in groups of twos and threes, but the trio were oblivious to everything except their grief.

 

They stood there, holding on to each other for several minutes, focused inwardly as the trembling in Athos’ body slowly subsided, but still they did not release him. The feeling of loss they shared was deep and had gouged holes in their hearts. Letting go meant having to face the world again, something that none of them was ready for. Each man carried his own personal regrets for the part he’d played, Aramis cursing his inability to cure Treville while Porthos lamented the fact he’d been hurt and the time that had been lost as a result.

 

While each of them would try to shoulder an equal portion of the blame, Athos knew that the responsibility was his since it was his letter that had been the catalyst for d’Artagnan’s arrest. Without that, nothing else would have mattered and the young man would still be safe, standing at their sides, vibrant and alive. The reminder of the young man’s death fanned the emptiness in Athos’ soul and he succumbed to another round of sobs, this time crying quietly in stark contrast to the desperation of his earlier tears.

 

Porthos and Aramis merely tightened their holds, standing silently rather than trying to speak, knowing that their platitudes were worthless in the face of such grief. The embrace continued as the second wave of sorrow passed over their brotherhood which had been forever changed. A loud cry of laughter brought Porthos’ head up sharply, his eyes searching immediately for the source of the sound. Gathered around the platform was a small group of boys, their ringleader edging forward, his right arm raised to release something held in his hand. Rage surged through the large Musketeer as he released his hold, thundering towards the children who planned to disrespect the body of their deceased friend.

 

“Get away from ‘ere,” he growled, his booming voice cutting across the space. Athos and Aramis looked on, first in confusion at Porthos’ sudden absence and then in anger. That the young man’s body had not yet been removed was the ultimate insult and Athos began to move forward woodenly. The boys scattered at Porthos’ shout and he turned to watch them go, stepping forward as Athos approached and once more catching him in his arms and preventing the older man from going to the lifeless body. Leaning close to his friend’s ear, Porthos whispered, “Let me.”

 

It took a moment to decide but then Athos nodded numbly, Porthos giving him another quick squeeze before releasing him and allowing Aramis to move into the empty space. The two men watched as the large Musketeer climbed the stairs onto the platform, pausing by the body to examine it for a moment before pulling his cloak free and tenderly wrapping the young man in its folds. His hold was just as gentle when he scooped the covered form into his arms and descended the stairs, the two men falling in behind him as they exited the courtyard. It was time to bring their friend home.

Chapter Text

They’d brought d’Artagnan’s body home to the garrison, their fellow brothers-in-arms taking his still form from Porthos’ arms when they’d arrived. Normally, the large man would have been unwilling to give up his precious cargo but he was still recovering from his wounds and was in danger of dropping his bundle if it wasn’t taken from him. He and Aramis watched as the Musketeers carried the Gascon’s lifeless form to his room where he would be laid on the bed so that his friends could prepare him for burial. Despite the sentence that had led to his death, none of the regiment seemed inclined to believe the charges against the boy, and they fully anticipated laying d’Artagnan to rest amongst his other fallen brothers.

 

Rather than heading to the young man’s room, Porthos and Aramis turned and followed Athos, who’d headed straight out through the garrison gates as soon as the boy’s headless body had disappeared from view. Although d’Artagnan would eventually need to be tended to, tonight was for the living and they intended to stay close to Athos, making sure he didn’t do anything stupid as a result of his grief. The older man made straight for his apartments, and the two friends let out a sigh of relief at the fact that he hadn’t gone to a tavern instead. It was not that they’d been saved from a night of drinking, but that they would do so alone, mourning in private without the eyes of strangers upon them.

 

When they entered Athos’ rooms, Aramis closed and barred the door behind them while Porthos proceeded further, helping the older man remove his weapons, boots and doublet. This night was about comfort, not only emotional but physical, and the large man removed his own items next before leading Athos to the bed where the two positioned themselves along one side, with the wall at their backs. Aramis collected several bottles of wine and one of brandy, handing them to Porthos before returning to the cupboard for glasses. He took his place on the bed on Athos’ other side, flanking the older man between them with their shoulders and legs touching, the warmth of their bodies a reminder that although their brother was dead, they were not.

 

Porthos pulled a cork from one of the bottles with his teeth, spitting it across the room before pouring them all a healthy measure of wine. Athos tossed his back without tasting it, Porthos drinking his almost as quickly, while Aramis chose to sip at a more sedate pace. They finished the first two bottles in silence, but then the words began to flow, their tongues loosened by the alcohol running through their veins. At first, it was stories of how they’d met, the three recalling with fondness the Gascon’s determination and brashness when he’d challenged Athos at the garrison. Soon they moved on to reminisce about their training of the young man, each man’s tone reflecting their pride at the boy’s ability to absorb and implement their lessons.

 

Lastly, came their memories of d’Artagnan’s bravery. They’d often mistaken those acts for impetuousness but recognized later that the young man acted out of loyalty and love for his friends; as much as they begged him to be more careful, there was nothing he wouldn’t do when his brothers-in-arms were in danger. And that was the crux of it – how could such a man be accused of cowardice, when such an act went against his very nature? The thought left a bitter taste in all their mouths, and the mood immediately turned more sombre, with everyone falling quiet once again.

 

In an effort break the silence, Porthos raised his glass in a toast as he remarked, “He died well.”

 

“No, he didn’t,” Athos countered, a look of sorrowful disappointment on his face. “He struggled like an old woman. That’s no way for a Musketeer to go.” He took a long swallow of his drink as if needing to wash the taste of the words from his mouth.

 

Aramis perked up at the claim, recognizing the statement as more than the drunken ramblings of a grieving friend. As much as it pained him to admit it, Athos was right in his assertion, and d’Artagnan had not taken his execution well. Not that any man would, he reasoned, but the panic that the boy had demonstrated at the end had just seemed so unlike the Gascon that it made him wonder if there was anything to Athos’ observation.

 

They had considered it a foregone conclusion that the man who’d been executed had been their friend, but what if it hadn’t been? He could check, of course, and confirm that the body back at the garrison was indeed their young friend. While many would think there would be no way to know, the marksman knew better, having tended the boy’s wounds on numerous occasions. As such, he was almost as familiar with the patchwork of scars on the young man’s body as he was with his own. He sat up straighter as the idea took hold, a part of him wanting to leave immediately to check the body that waited. A glance at his friends, both of whom were far more inebriated, had him stopping and leaning back in his original position.

 

Leaving now would require an explanation that he was not yet willing to provide, the thought of giving his friends false hope too painful to bear. It would have to wait until the morning, when the three of them returned together; tonight, they could not be apart. Porthos was pouring from a fresh bottle, brandy this time, and the marksman pulled his glass away to prevent his friend from filling it. At the large man’s questioning look, he shrugged and said, “One of us has to be sober enough to hold your heads out of the chamber pot.” The answer seemed to satisfy Porthos and he moved to fill his own glass instead, Aramis resting his head against the wall as he waited for morning to arrive, praying that he wasn’t simply deluding himself. 

---

The hour before dawn seemed to be the longest and Aramis blamed it on his need to return to the garrison to confirm the identity of their young friend. As the night had worn on, he’d stopped drinking altogether, and watched as first one and then the other of his friends had succumbed to the alcohol they’d consumed, laying them out on Athos’ bed and ensuring they were resting comfortably. He’d left the bed at that point, taking a seat in a chair where he cleaned and polished his pistol, and then did it all over again, the familiar motions soothing him and, for a short time, distracting him from his thoughts. But even the comforting act could not calm him forever and he found himself pacing, quietly moving about the room in a repetitive circuit in an effort to provide an outlet to his nervous energy.

 

He’d done his best to quell the hope that the body waiting for them was not d’Artagnan’s, but the more he thought about it, the more his mind conjured examples of behaviours that were incongruous with what he knew of the Gascon. Athos had highlighted the first one, the fact that the unfortunate man had fought against being executed in the first place. Not that this would have been an unusual reaction for someone facing their end, but it flew in the face of what he knew of their friend, fully anticipating that d’Artagnan would be outwardly calm, facing his death with quiet dignity.

 

Next, had been the way in which he’d attempted to free himself from the guards’ holds, the movements so unlike the quick and energetic motions that Aramis had witnessed a hundred times before, and which had surprised countless opponents, giving the young man the upper hand against them. In his mind’s eye he could see the uncoordinated movements of the condemned man, and they reminded him more of a poor game of tug-of-war than the actions of a trained, disciplined soldier. Lastly, what had happened to the head? It would normally only be taken if being put on display, and Aramis was certain that was not the case in this instance.

 

He recalled Porthos’ hesitation and how the large man had stared at the headless body before covering it in his cloak. Although he knew the momentary delay could be explained by grief, there was something in his friend’s expression that gave him pause. His tired brain had sensed something, but he could not pull the reason from the confusion of his weary mind, and he scrubbed his face in frustration as he completed another circuit of the room. He longed to ask Porthos about that moment, but feared what he might discover. Worse yet, the large man would want to know why he was asking, and Aramis was as loathe to lie to his friend as to tell him the truth of his suspicions.

 

The fact that he had to keep his thoughts to himself made it so much harder to wait for the men to wake. Several times since his friends had fallen asleep, he’d considered returning to the garrison on his own, but he doubted his ability to deal with things if his suspicions proved unfounded, needing the others’ strength to keep him from falling apart. Therefore, he waited, not patiently by any means, but with a small ember of hope in his heart that he prayed would not be snuffed out.

 

When Athos showed the first signs of waking, Aramis raised a surprised eyebrow having assumed that Porthos would be the first to join him. He knew for a fact that the older man had consumed the most alcohol by far but, he supposed, his body was also the most acclimated out of all of them. He stilled his almost frantic pacing, forcing himself to adopt a calm he didn’t feel as he watched to see if Athos would in fact wake, or simply roll over and go back to sleep. When it became obvious that it would be former, he couldn’t help the faint smile that graced his face.

 

The marksman observed Athos as he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling for several long moments before doing anything else. Aramis could almost see the instant when the older man recalled the previous day’s events, his eyes dulling with sorrow. Then, with a strength born of willpower alone, Athos forced himself upright, orienting himself to the room and taking note of Porthos’ position at his side. Aramis came over, extending a hand to his friend and helping him from the bed, releasing his grip when Athos made for the window.

 

The marksman couldn’t help but roll his eyes and then cringe as Athos used his tried and true method of dealing with hangovers, dunking his head into the freezing water for far longer than Aramis thought strictly necessary. When he emerged, his hair hanging in sodden strings around his face, his eyes were clearer and more aware, and he lifted himself stiffly to his feet and went about his morning ablutions. Although Aramis ached to speak with him and break the silence, he remained respectfully quiet and allowed his friend the space he obviously desired.

 

After he’d pulled on his boots and a clean shirt, Athos joined him at the table where Aramis was now seated, trying to hide his eagerness to get going. The older man glanced in the direction of his bed where Porthos was still fast asleep before remarking, “Perhaps we should wake him so that we can head out.” Swallowing thickly, he continued, his voice softer than before, “There is much to do today.”

 

Aramis’ face morphed momentarily to puzzlement until he comprehended the meaning behind his friend’s words. He’d been thinking that they would discover that the body was not d’Artagnan’s and, as such, was not dreading the day ahead. Truthfully, he’d been so convinced of this outcome that he’d forgotten what awaited them if that was not the case. Athos was expecting that they would wash and dress the Gascon’s body in preparation for burial, in addition to digging the young man’s grave. No wonder he looked for all the world as though he’d lost his best friend – he had. The marksman was not nearly as affected, because he hadn’t yet accepted the young man’s death.

 

Feeling somewhat awkward, he cleared his throat and replied, “Of course. Why don’t you wake him and I’ll get us something to eat.” Aramis knew that his friend would be uninterested in food, but looking at the man, he could not in good conscience allow him to go without, even if it was only a few bites.

 

Athos looked like he might disagree but then sighed and tiredly nodded his head, pushing himself to his feet so he could make his way back to the bed. With no small amount of concern, Aramis left and made his way to a nearby café, purchasing a large container of porridge, a small pot of honey with which to sweeten it, and a loaf of bread. By the time he was back, he was pleased to find both men seated at the table, waiting for his return.

 

Depositing the items, he took the bowls that Porthos passed him and filled each one in turn before taking his own seat. Athos stared with lacklustre eyes at the offering but, at Aramis’ meaningful look, he took up his spoon and began to eat. After a few bites, Porthos broke the silence, asking the question they’d all been avoiding, “Who’s gonna tell Constance?”

 

Aramis saw Athos’ eyes close in pain, the thought of reliving d’Artagnan’s death by informing the boy’s sometime lover clearly distressing. The marksman was quick to intervene, letting his hand ghost briefly over the older man’s wrist as he suggested, “Perhaps we should wait until we’ve had a chance to prepare his body.”

 

Porthos caught the marksman’s action and glanced over at the older man, giving a solemn nod in reply. While the body was bound to look bad, with the skin and clothes still covered in dried blood, special measures would need to be taken before Constance was allowed to view it so she might be spared the horror of seeing a headless corpse. Managing to open his eyes, Athos looked down at his bowl of porridge, the texture suddenly making his stomach turn, and he abruptly pushed it away. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, both agreeing that now was not the time press the man to eat, no matter how much wine remained in his belly.

 

The two friends finished their own food quickly, eating more from need than actual enjoyment. When they were done, they collected their things and began the trek back to the garrison. In stark contrast to their moods, the sun shone brightly against an azure blue sky, and people passed them with smiles on their faces, oblivious to the dark cloud that hovered above the Musketeers. Unaware that he was doing so, Aramis set a quick pace and had to be told to slow down, Porthos grabbing his arm and indicating Athos several steps behind them.

 

With a whispered apology, the marksman purposefully slowed his steps, matching the older man’s rather than having the other two match his own. Despite that, they arrived too quickly and Athos hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, torn between fulfilling his responsibilities to his protégé and crawling back into a bottle until he was drunk enough to forget. As though reading his thoughts, Porthos guided the older man over to the table and pushed him to sit, turning to Aramis to say, “Why don’t you check on the Captain first?”

 

Aramis was hesitant to do so, his ability to temper his impatience about confirming the body’s identity almost at an end. One look at the stricken expression on Athos’ face had him changing his mind, his friend obviously needing time to compose himself before being able to face what awaited them in d’Artagnan’s room. “Alright,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone even. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 

He ascended the stairs quickly, throwing a glance down at his friends to see Athos holding his head in his hands, Porthos’ larger hand splayed across the nape of his neck. Focusing forward, he gave a cursory knock on the Captain’s door, pushing it open and following it in. He could hear low voices from the back room and his curious feet guided him forward. Removing his hat as he stepped into Treville’s bedroom, he felt a grin tugging at his lips as he greeted the men. “Dr. Lemay,” he said before turning slightly, “Captain. It is a pleasure to see you looking so well.”

 

From his bed, Treville met his gaze with tired eyes, his words somewhat breathless as he replied, “Aramis, I understand you’re partly responsible for my improved health.” At the marksman’s humble dip of his chin, the officer continued, “Where are Athos and the others?”

 

The medic’s earlier expression of joy faded as he looked to the physician, the man giving a slight shake of his head to indicate the Captain’s lack of knowledge about what had transpired. Noting Treville’s fragile appearance, he reached a decision and, replacing his hat on his head, he replied, “Waiting for me downstairs, Captain. I just wanted to check on you before attending to some things. Shall I send Athos up when we’re finished?”

 

It was a reflection of Treville’s poor health that the man didn’t notice the omission of himself and Porthos, but most especially d’Artagnan, even though Aramis had little doubt that the boy was the one who the Captain really wanted to see. At the commanding officer’s nod, Aramis said, “I will pass along your message. Now, I’ll let you get some rest and be back to check on you later.” With a tip of his hat toward Lemay, he exited, hoping that Treville would forgive his subterfuge while the Gascon’s fate remained unknown – at least in his mind.

 

At Aramis’ return, Porthos asked, “Still sleeping?”

 

“No, actually, he’s doing better,” the medic replied. “However, I felt it best to let him gather some strength before he hears about d’Artagnan.”

 

Neither man disagreed and he looked upwards towards the young man’s room before returning his gaze to Athos, not missing the brief look of bitterness that appeared at the knowledge that their friend might still be alive if Treville had woken a day earlier. Several seconds passed before Porthos spoke, “Ready?”

 

The older man’s expression suggested that he would never be ready but he stood nonetheless, allowing Aramis to lead the way while Porthos fell in behind. Athos was grateful to his friends for taking over, feeling as though he was walking through a nightmare in which his mind and body was firmly detached from everything that was taking place around him. He was numb now but he knew the sensation would not last, and he already dreaded the waves of sorrow that would follow once his duty had been done.

 

From past experience, he recognized that until d’Artagnan had been buried he could continue, at least at some level, to function. Once that task was completed and he’d honored his friend one last time, there would be nothing but despair and wine to take its place. Part of him looked forward to the detachment that drinking would bring, longing to spring forward in time so he might be spared the tasks that would need to be accomplished first.

 

Too soon, Athos found himself standing in front of the door to d’Artagnan’s room, and Aramis looked to him, his hand hesitantly reaching for the handle. The older man caught the marksman’s wrist and held it for a moment before saying, “Let me.” Aramis let his hand drop away and Athos opened the door, standing in the entrance for several long seconds before taking a step inside.

 

They’d known what to expect, but the sight still shocked them. The body of their friend was laid out on the bed, Porthos’ blue cloak still wrapped around it. The lack of a head resting on the pillow was a gruesome reminder of what they’d witnessed and made their breakfast stir uncomfortably in their stomachs. No one seemed motivated to move beyond the doorway until they registered the sound of approaching feet, which prompted Porthos to close the door and forced the other two men further into the room.

 

Athos sunk down onto the side of the bed, his hand reaching for the Gascon’s but then hovering in indecision above the still form before finally letting it drop to his lap. Aramis and Porthos stood behind him, each casting their eyes over the body, unconsciously looking for any signs that it did not belong to their friend. Finally, Aramis spoke up, wanting to make things as easy as possible while also needing to test his theory. “Porthos, would you please bring some water and clean cloths so we can bathe him? Athos, I believe he kept his clean clothes along with a rather fine shirt you gave him in his chest.”

 

As the two men moved to do as Aramis had asked, the medic leaned forward to unfasten the boy’s doublet, needing access to his shoulder. He’d had too many hours to consider his approach, and had decided the easiest way to confirm his suspicions would be to check for the healed bullet wound that sat high on d’Artagnan’s left shoulder. The injury had occurred less than six months ago and had pierced the young man’s back, the shooter too cowardly to wait until his opponent faced him. As a result, the scarring was somewhat unique, leaving a small entry on the Gascon’s back while the larger, messier scar marred his front.

 

His fingers fumbled with the garment’s clasps in his nervousness, and he had to consciously force his fingers to slow, manipulating the fastenings apart. Not bothering to remove the outer garment, he simply pushed the stiff leather back, inwardly grimacing at the amount of blood that covered it. Underneath, the linen was also dyed red but Aramis didn’t spare it more than a passing glance, pushing the material away to reveal blessedly unmarred skin. His breath caught in his throat as he turned the body away from him, confirming that the back was also free from any recent wounds. Needing to be certain before saying anything, he moved lower and repeated his checks on the freshly injured right hip, finding it as free of scars as the shoulder.

 

Standing, he turned to face Athos who waited for him with d’Artagnan’s shirt in his hands, the older man wearing a confused expression at seeing the large grin on the medic’s face. Porthos arrived before he could say a word, just as puzzled by the look of joy on the marksman’s face, “What the devil? Aramis, are you alright?”

 

“Better than alright, my friend. This is not d’Artagnan,” he announced, expecting the two to mirror his expression. When they just stared at him, he faltered, “Truly, this is not him.” He stepped closer to Athos, gripping his upper arms as he tried to get the men to understand what he was telling them, “Athos, d’Artagnan was not executed yesterday. This,” he waved a hand at the body, “is not him. Do you know what that means?”

 

Porthos dropped the bucket of water he was carrying, letting it thud heavily on the floor as liquid sloshed over the sides. “Dammit, he’s still alive,” he said in disbelief, his face splitting into a wide grin moments later. “He’s still alive.”

 

Athos still stood silently, his features hardening and when he spoke, there was no warmth in his voice, only the promise of pain for whoever had orchestrated d’Artagnan’s supposed execution. Dropping the shirt he held carelessly on top of the trunk, he looked at one man and then the other, determination shining in his eyes, “We must speak with Treville.” Without a backward glance, he stormed from the room, Aramis and Porthos striding after them, the latter slamming the door firmly on the imposter who’d made them believe their friend was dead.

Chapter Text

The hood was hot and made breathing difficult, and d’Artagnan found himself frequently needing to focus on his inhales, intentionally slowing them when panic took over. Those instances inevitably ended in fits of coughing, leaving him again struggling for air against the thick fabric sack that covered his face and seemed to stick to his nose and mouth. The men accompanying him cared little for his discomfort, often laughing when his fear made his limbs flail weakly as he tried to release himself.

 

His misery was further deepened by being in the back of a cart, having been tossed there by his captors like a piece of rubbish. Fortunately he’d been unconscious at the time, but he could now feel the multiple aches in his right shoulder and side from landing on them; his only respite had been the fact that the men had allowed him to roll to his back, and later to his left side, when his breathing had become too laboured. He had no idea where he was being taken, but guessed that it was somewhere outside of Paris, the frequent deep ruts that jarred him and painted his body with new bruises indicative of the country roads.

 

He could have wept with relief when they stopped, no longer caring where he was, just praying that the hood would finally be removed from his head. Two sets of hands hauled him to his feet and he stumbled in the direction in which he was being pulled. When he was released to fall to the ground, he couldn’t hold back the yelp as he struck, curling into himself and panting heavily against the pain. Moments later, he felt someone’s hands fumbling with the ties that held the sack fast around his neck, and he gulped great mouthfuls of fresh air when it was roughly pulled from his head, coughing moments later as his lungs protested.

 

Squinting, his eyes sensitive even in the waning light, he got his first look at his new prison. The courtyard they were in looked large and well-maintained, surrounded by a high stone wall along two sides. The wagon had stopped close to a fountain that was a centrepiece for the space, and further on he could see a large house with a set of double doors leading into it. Several other buildings were scattered around, all in good repair, but he had no more time to take them in as his view was obstructed by a shadow.

 

Looking upwards, he recognized the man from earlier who he’d believed to be the Marquis’ son. Licking his desert dry lips he croaked, “Why have you taken me?”

 

A mirthless smile broke the man’s face as he replied, “My father told you; he wants satisfaction for my brother’s death and seeing you executed would have been decidedly unsatisfying.”

 

He’d been right – this man was one of Lenoir’s brothers although d’Artagnan couldn’t believe that the honorable Musketeer would have approved of his family’s actions. Swallowing with difficulty, the Gascon countered, “Then you have made a grave error in judgement. My friends will be searching for me.”

 

The man standing above him threw his head back in a genuine laugh, leaving the young man confused for several seconds until he’d finished. When he’d composed himself again, his captor leaned forward as he whispered, “That’s where you’re wrong, Musketeer. A man was executed in your place and your friends will do nothing since they believe you dead.”

 

The man’s words shocked him; his one last shred of hope had been that the others would, even now, be looking for him after he’d disappeared from the trial. That another had been killed in his place sickened him and he struggled to his knees, retching, his stomach seizing painfully but bringing up nothing but a bit of watery bile. When he’d finished, he remained kneeling, looking up at the man who now wore an amused expression. “Who died in my place?”

 

The man’s grin widened as he explained, “I understand you didn’t like your cellmate very much, although he was more than happy to let us help him escape. Shame things didn’t work out exactly as he’d hoped.” Seeing the Musketeer’s stricken expression, he said, “You should be thanking me for getting rid of him for you.”

 

It was true that there had been no love lost between himself and Calvet, but that didn’t mean that d’Artagnan had wished the man dead. That his former cellmate been fooled into going along with the Marquis’ plans made his belly roil uncomfortably again. Forcing the feeling down, the Gascon spoke with more conviction than he actually felt, “You may have fooled others into believing I’m dead, but my brothers will come for me.”

 

The man sneered at him, his features hardening as he said, “No, we’ve taken your brothers away from you just as you took mine from me. The only thing awaiting you is a few days of pain followed by death and then eternity in an unmarked grave.” Turning on his heel, he motioned to the men surrounding the Musketeer with one hand, and the Gascon found himself again being hauled to his feet. He vaguely noted that he’d been re-dressed, grateful that he would not have to face his fate clothed only in his braies. Sadly, the men hadn’t provided boots and his bare feet were now scraped against the hard ground as he struggled to get his legs under him, determined that he wouldn’t be dragged to wherever he was being taken.

 

It was difficult for him to walk with any degree of coordination, his right leg threatening to buckle at any moment, and he felt no guilt for allowing the men at his sides to carry the majority of his weight, reasoning that he would need to save his flagging strength for an escape attempt. When he’d managed to raise his head to see where he was being taken, he noticed the absence of the Marquis’ son, the man obviously having left his men to deal with him.

 

He was dragged to a smaller building, set off to one side, one of his captors opening the door while he was pushed roughly through the opening. Had he been healthy, he might have been able to catch himself, but in his weakened state and with his hands still shackled, the best he could do was brace himself for the impact with the hard ground. He’d managed to turn his body slightly, landing more on his left side, unable to bear the idea of landing again on his right. He partially broke his fall with his outstretched hands, the jarring landing sending a fresh surge of pain through his tender right shoulder and ribs.

 

Momentarily overcome by the shock of pain, he curled over his knees, pressing his forehead into the dirt floor as he rode out the pain, finally being able to think clearly enough to realize that his current position was only making his ribs hurt worse. Pushing himself shakily upwards with his hands, he drew a slightly deeper breath, only to begin coughing again, the throbbing in his flank surging once more. The bout brought tears to his eyes and, when his lungs had finished their protest, he swiped angrily at the moisture that remained.

 

Letting his gaze roam over the space, he half-crawled to the nearest wall, collapsing against it in a seated position while he caught his breath, a few last, soft coughs making their way through his parted lips. Allowing his head to rest on the wood behind him, he took a proper look around, noting the one small window that was too narrow to allow even his slight frame to pass. He was surprised to see a thin pile of hay in one corner along with a threadbare blanket, and he surmised that his captors didn’t want him dead quite yet. His conclusion was confirmed seconds later when the door to his prison was opened, one man standing guard at the entrance while another deposited a bowl and a bucket just inside the door.

 

Once both men had retreated and locked him in once more, he dragged his aching body over to the items they’d left, finding a thin stew, a chunk of bread, and fresh water. He couldn’t honestly say he was hungry, but he’d also not eaten anything in days and would need what energy he could summon for whatever lay ahead. Leaning against the wall next to the food, he picked up the bowl, ignoring the tremble in his hands, and slowly began to eat. His stomach wasn’t happy about the reintroduction of food after so much time without, but he was fairly certain he would keep it down. To discourage his belly from revolting, he sat quietly while breathing evenly, his eyes closed as he focused on not being sick.

 

As his body relaxed and his stomach settled, he became aware of the multitude of other areas that were making him uncomfortable. His head ached dully, no doubt in part thanks to Calvet’s earlier blow as well as the more recent one that had rendered him unconscious following his trial. Also clambering for attention was his right side, both his shoulder and ribs feeling tender and bruised from a combination of falls and previous hits. But it was his hip that worried him the most, the sharp, unrelenting pain that emanated from that spot making it feel as though his leg would fall off. Of all his injuries, it was this last one that concerned him the most, limiting his ability to move quickly, if at all, and hampering any plans he might make to escape.

 

Normally, he wouldn’t worry too much about freeing himself when in this condition, content to wait for his brothers to save him since he could always be confident that they would do so. This time, however, due to the Marquis’ deviousness, his friends would be grieving rather than searching, and his fate was entirely in his own hands. The latter thought didn’t scare him as much as the former one and he imagined what his friends must now be going through. He’d witnessed a few executions in his day, the method of choice in Lupiac being hangings. His friends had told him stories of worse things, however, and he recalled Athos’ stoic form in front of the firing line and wondered which of the many possibilities had been selected for him.

 

The nobleman’s words confused him, since it would be obvious as soon as his friends collected his body that another man had died in his place. The incongruity had him wondering if the Marquis’ son had lied in order to break his spirit, meaning that his friends would be looking for him after all. It was possible and, for all their sakes, d’Artagnan hoped that was the case. The thought of his brothers grieving over a body that was not even his made his stomach lurch, and he had to swallow several times before it settled again.

 

There was no way his friends would be fooled otherwise, and he knew without a doubt that they would come for him if they knew him to be alive. An old memory tugged insistently at the back of his mind and he let his thoughts drift, encouraging the long-forgotten story to come to the forefront. It had been when he'd been very young, a group of men including his uncle gathering at their house for some sort of celebration. He’d long since been sent to bed, but his natural curiosity had him sneaking back to the front room where the men sat, sharing stories as they enjoyed their drinks in the warm glow from the fire. One of his father’s friends related a gruesome tale of a criminal’s beheading, commenting that the dull thud of the severed head sounded very much like a melon striking the ground. The head had later been placed on display as a warning to others, and the man’s family received only a headless corpse to bury.

 

d’Artagnan had been horrified by the idea and had immediately slunk back to his bed where he’d buried his head beneath the covers. Try as he might, he’d been unable to rid himself of the image that his six-year old mind had conjured and he suffered vivid nightmares for the following weeks until he’d finally confessed what he’d overheard. Instead of the expected punishment, his parents had gathered him up in their arms, cocooning him in their warmth while he’d cried. The nightmares gradually went away after that, but his father had never allowed him to witness such an execution, painfully aware of how shaken he’d been by the story when just a child.

 

The Gascon opened his eyes now to find that it was nearly dark, the dirty window allowing a few last rays from the setting sun through. What if the Marquis had convinced the King to have him beheaded? He gasped as the thought formed, his breaths speeding in response and making his ribs ache. His mind raced at the possibility that his friends had witnessed such a ghastly death, and he clamped a hand over his mouth as he grappled with the idea. If it were true, his brothers might be unaware that he still lived and there would be no rescue, only black, cloying grief overwhelming everything else. He couldn’t contain the hiccupping sob that resulted, or the coughs that followed, placing his left hand on his ribs to brace them through the bout.

                                                                   

When his breathing had calmed, he wrapped his arms around himself, seeking any form of comfort to chase away the desolation that seemed to have settled around his soul. His eyes momentarily flickered towards the hay and the blanket, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall once more and closed his eyes, praying for sleep to take him away from the horror that his life had become. 

---

The cold and persistent coughing had kept him awake for most of the night, those times in between when he’d drifted off not allowing him any form of proper rest as he dozed from one period of wakefulness to the next. He was grateful when his prison began to lighten, heralding the new day. He had no clue what lay in store for him, but the anticipation was surely worse than the actual experience. Although still not feeling hungry, he ate the crust of bread that had been left the night before, getting it down with several healthy swallows of water. Afterwards, he settled back into his previous position, having nothing more to do until someone came for him.

 

Fortunately he didn’t have long to wait and the door was soon being opened, allowing more of the sunlight in and making his eyes sting. The same two men from the night before came in and grabbed him by the arms, dragging him to his feet to escort him outside. Inwardly, d’Artagnan was glad of the assistance, as rough as it was, his hip still pulsing with pain and making his leg weak. He was presented to the Marquis and his son, the two men once again dressed in expensive clothing although nothing as extravagant as the previous day. The gray-haired noble stepped forward as he examined the Gascon, before remarking to those assembled, “Doesn’t look much like a Musketeer, does he?” The comment elicited soft laughter as it was meant to, even though the Marquis himself didn’t do anything more than turn up his lips.

 

Indicating his son, the Marquis spoke again, “You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my son and he will be responsible for you from this point forward. Though I was heartened by yesterday’s verdict, I have yet to hear you admit your cowardice. Therefore, I present you with a choice; admit what you did and your death will be quick and merciful, or proclaim your innocence and be punished until you speak the truth. What do you choose?”

 

d’Artagnan had believed that the men were simply looking to exact their revenge by applying their own form of punishment before killing him, but it seemed they were looking for more, and what they wanted was beyond the young man’s ability to give. While he freely admitted his part in Lenoir’s demise, he was no coward and refused to admit to being one in order to make his death easier. Raising his chin defiantly, he spoke in a low, dangerous tone, “I left your son behind at his request in order to save the life of my Captain. It nearly killed me to do so but I am not a coward.”

 

The Marquis’ eyes glinted with delight, clearly happy that the Musketeer had not chosen the easier path. “Very well, then. Cédric, I leave him in your capable hands and will return at sunset to see what progress has been made.” The man turned on his heel and walked toward the house, leaving d’Artagnan and his captors alone in the courtyard.

 

The young noble began to move away, the two men dragging d’Artagnan forward again, and he was pleased to find some of the stiffness in his hip dissipating with the motion. They walked to the other side of the expansive space and entered a building that housed a large grinding stone at its centre. Attached on one side to a horizontal wooden shaft was a donkey, the animal waiting patiently until it was nudged into motion, its movement powering the gear mechanism that would grind the grist into flour. d’Artagnan was familiar with the concept, even though the mill he’d seen in Lupiac had been powered by a waterwheel instead of a mule.

 

Before he had time to wonder at the mechanism ahead of him, he found himself being dropped backwards to the ground, the two men now pushing their weight against his body so he was unable to move. The impact with the packed dirt forced the air from his chest, and it was several seconds before he became aware of Cédric standing at his feet, a wicked-looking blade held casually in one hand.

 

Motioning towards the gristmill, he commented, “This mill typically provides enough flour for our entire household, leaving us with enough extra that we can take some to the market in town. Of course, that was before our other donkey died. I’ve suggested to my father that we have one of the horses take its place, but he can’t fathom the idea of using such an expensive animal for this type of labour.” Pinning his gaze on the Musketeer, his face broke into a smile as he explained, “Imagine how pleased he was when I suggested a solution for our problem.” The noble pointed the blade toward d’Artagnan, making it clear that he would be taking the place of the missing beast.

 

The Gascon drew as deep a breath as he could, steeling himself for what was to come. The idea of walking for hours on end, attached to a harness in order to turn the heavy grinding stone, was a far from pleasant one, but it could have been much worse. As the thought crossed his mind, Cédric stepped forward, crouching at d’Artagnan’s feet. The nobleman moved so quickly that the Musketeer didn’t even register what had happened until moments later when the pain of the split skin on his soles made itself known. d’Artagnan gasped at the sharp sensation, not wanting to give his captor the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. From the look on Cédric’s face, no sound was needed, and the young noble knew exactly what sort of pain he’d just inflicted.

 

“Hook him up,” he said before walking away as he carelessly wiped the bloodied knife on a handkerchief.

 

The men lifted d’Artagnan to his feet and he had to clamp his jaws together against the sharp pain, the weight on his feet igniting the nerves there. He was swiftly maneuvered into position, his chained wrists attached to a hook on the wooden shaft. One of the men struck the donkey’s flank and the animal moved slowly into motion, forcing the Gascon to hurriedly step forward or risk being dragged along by his arms. Each footfall was excruciating and nausea churned in his belly at the onslaught of pain, his head hanging between his shoulders as he tried to distance his mind. At the side of the barn, his guards relaxed onto a low bench as they watched the Musketeer slowly come apart.

Chapter Text

The combination of dirt and blood had created a reddish-brown mud that seeped in between the split skin of his soles, pressing against the tender flesh within. At first, the cuts had burned, each step increasing the heat until the Gascon thought he’d keel over from the agony. He’d lost his battle against his queasy stomach several times as his brain struggled to comprehend the sensations that overwhelmed his nerve endings. His captors had been apathetic to his misery, simply getting up to kick dirt over the meagre piles of sickness that were thankfully not directly in his path, but off to his right side instead.

 

Slowly, the pain had plateaued, and he found his mind disconnecting from his physical self, his feet plodding forward without conscious thought. A part of him was aware that his body was failing him, his mouth completely without moisture and his muscles lacking fuel to sustain them, but still he walked. His motion continued through the headache that clamped a vice around his skull, past the tight feeling in his chest that kept him permanently light-headed, and persisted despite the spike that resided in his hip. It was only when his right leg collapsed that he found himself suddenly dangling by his arms and dragged around the well-worn groove in the ground on his knees until the donkey stopped. He didn’t even have the energy to spare to lift his head, allowing it to hang limply between his arms, waiting to see if his guards would release him or if they’d leave him hanging.

 

“Get up,” one of the men ordered, and d’Artagnan registered that it sounded like the one with dark features, his hair and eyes both looking like similar shades of black. He grunted when something hit his side and was grateful that it was his left and not his right, since the latter was already sore and bruised. “Get up,” the command was repeated, the tone harsher and more demanding. d’Artagnan would have smiled if he’d had the strength, knowing he could no more stand on his own than he could control the rising and setting of the sun. Dangling, he waited with a small measure of detached curiosity, wondering what would happen next.

 

Another blow stung his side, making him flinch as his body swung sideways until his motion was stilled by the bindings on his arms. Numbly, the Gascon began to wonder how long it would take the men to realize that there was no power in the world that could bring him back to his feet. The second man spoke up, and d’Artagnan found himself hoping that he was smarter than his friend, “Don’t think he can stand, Maurice.” Ah, the dark-haired man’s name was Maurice, the Musketeer registered. “Maybe one of us should unhook him while the other fetches Monsieur Lenoir.”

 

A few seconds of silence passed as Maurice considered his friend’s suggestion before giving a nod and striding off. With a soft exhale, the remaining guard stepped forward, muttering to himself as he worked, “Slice a man’s feet and make him walk for hours – what did they think would happen?” d’Artagnan assumed the question was a rhetorical one since he had no strength left for conversation, and he waited as the man worked above him to release his chained arms from the wooden shaft.

 

He was unprepared to catch himself once he’d been freed, and crumpled to the ground as soon as his arms were loose. Another sigh from above followed his ungainly collapse but d’Artagnan didn’t care, relishing in the feeling of being horizontal for the first time in hours. Apparently, his captor found the situation unsatisfactory, and the young man felt his arms grasped moments later before being dragged across the rough ground. The Gascon knew he should care or, better yet, should be taking advantage of the reduced scrutiny to make an escape attempt, but his body simply had nothing left. When his arms were once more carelessly dropped, he moaned softly, grateful that his manacled wrists had at least missed hitting his head when they’d fallen.

 

Pulling his arms inwards, he laid his hands across his chest, mindful of his tender right side. He supposed he should open his eyes and stay aware of his surroundings. When the effort required seemed too great, he simply laid there, boneless, waiting to see what fate had in store for him next. It could have been seconds or minutes later when he heard the sound of approaching voices, his mind fuzzy and sliding in and out of consciousness. With an effort of will, he prised his eyelids open, blinking a couple times to bring the approaching shapes into view.

 

He almost allowed his lids to drop when he recognized the Marquis and his son, the two men followed by Maurice. “Renaud,” the older noble addressed the man who’d released the Musketeer, “I understand that you believe this criminal too weak to continue?” The question was obviously a loaded one and d’Artagnan shifted his gaze to the man, waiting to hear his reply.

 

Renaud straightened as he addressed the Marquis, “Yes, Monseigneur, he collapsed and was unable to stand. Given your orders to keep him alive, I felt it best to release him.”

 

The nobleman scrutinized the man for a moment before giving a short nod, turning his attention to the Gascon. “Musketeer, I gave you a choice earlier. I now offer you the same options. What is your answer?”

 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but huff at the question, the small amount of air he pushed out barely making a sound. If the man knew anything about him at all, he would realize that the Gascon would have continued walking unendingly had his body not deserted him. His collapse was not a demonstration of his desire to voice a different choice, but his physical inability to continue. Determined to prove that to the Marquis, he summoned what moisture he could to his mouth and replied, “Not a coward.” He let his eyes slip closed then, knowing that having them open would not help with whatever the man chose to do to him next.

 

The nobleman seemed unsurprised by the Musketeer’s answer and instructed the men to return the soldier to his prison. Seconds later, d’Artagnan felt hands on his legs and arms as he was lifted, the slight swaying motion as they walked making his belly protest. A minute later, he was deposited on the ground, surprised that the men hadn’t simply dropped him again, and he opened his eyes to mere slits and watched as they retreated from the room. The door closed firmly behind them and he allowed himself a deep groan, curling inwards as he gave into his exhaustion.

---

Athos’ mood was murderous by the time they’d crossed the short distance to Treville’s room. Although Aramis and Porthos had to hurry to keep up with him, neither man seemed inclined to try and slow him, both feeling the urgency to discover what had happened to d’Artagnan. The knock on the Captain’s door was perfunctory at best, and Athos strode quickly inside, presenting himself in front of the healing man with barely concealed anger.

 

If Treville was shocked to see first Athos and then the others appear, he showed no signs, and Aramis wondered momentarily if it was because the Captain had earlier asked to have Athos present himself. The marksman had no more time to pursue the thought as Athos began speaking, “Captain, I am pleased to see you recovering.” He paused only long enough for Treville to acknowledge the comment with a slight dip of his chin before continuing, “Much has happened while you’ve been ill, the most significant of these being d’Artagnan’s arrest and subsequent conviction of cowardice. The sentence was carried out immediately, and we’ve just now discovered that another was executed in his place.” He stopped then, recognizing that even a healthy man would need time to digest what he’d just shared.

 

To his credit, Treville didn’t ask any of the countless questions that were no doubt crowding his mind and, after only a minute to process what he’d been told, asked, “What’s your plan?”

 

“The King needs to hear your testimony in order to clear d’Artagnan’s name. I believe that we,” he glanced at his friends, who stood at his shoulder, confirming that they were united, “have a strong idea of who was behind this deception. If you could ask for his Majesty’s tolerance regarding our dealings with the Marquis de Saint-Sorlin, we would be most grateful.”

 

The request was far from ordinary, especially with the involvement of an important nobleman, but the Captain didn’t bat an eye. “When can I expect you back?”

 

“If all goes well, no more than three days,” Athos replied, hoping that they would not encounter any difficulties in securing their missing friend.

 

Narrowing his eyes for a moment, Treville asked, “Do you need additional men?”

 

The question was a valid one, but as much as they would appreciate the assistance, it was better not to involve anyone else. Louis was likely to be unhappy about their harassment of the Marquis and Athos didn’t want anyone else held culpable for their actions. Giving a firm head shake, he answered, “I believe our number to be sufficient.”

 

Turning his attention to Dr. Lemay, Treville said, “I need you to get me on my feet and keep me that way for at least two hours.”

 

The physician looked from the three Musketeers to the ailing man, disturbed by what he was being asked to do. His first instinct was to deny Treville’s request, but one look at the haunted expressions on the Musketeers’ faces had him reconsidering and offering a tentative nod. “Whatever I do will have consequences,” he warned, but the Captain merely met his eye, his resolve clear. “Very well,” the doctor sighed. “It will take me a little while to brew a draught. While I prepare it, you will rest.” Lemay’s tone left no room for argument and Treville leaned back against his pillows, happy to do as he’d been ordered since weariness was already overtaking him.

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Athos said before turning and exiting, Porthos following after giving Treville a smile and a tip of his hat.

 

Aramis paused for a moment as he addressed Lemay, “Make sure he doesn’t reinjure himself.” The doctor smiled, thinking that his patient was far too stubborn for his own good, but nodded at the medic anyway.

                                                                                                                                                             

When he arrived outside, Aramis spotted his friends already in the courtyard and heading for the stables. He’d meet them there in a few minutes, but first he needed to visit the armory, wanting to prepare himself for whatever resistance they might encounter in their bid to save the Gascon. And, he thought, perhaps a visit to the infirmary for supplies as well. 

---

He woke in stages, first becoming aware of his body’s various hurts, with the pain centred around his feet and hip. The throbbing of each was uncomfortable enough to bring him closer to consciousness and he could feel the hard ground beneath him, pressing against his cheek, shoulder, and hip. Next, the scent of copper reached him and he scrunched his nose against it, belatedly realizing that it was his own blood he was smelling, too much of it outside his body instead of within. The realization had his eyes fluttering open, and it took several seconds for him to comprehend that he could clearly make out the features of his simple prison, letting him know that it was still daytime.

 

His mind drifted back to the morning, recalling how he’d been co-opted into the role of mule. He knew that at some point he’d collapsed and been released, reaffirming his choice to the Marquis, but many of the details before and after eluded him, lost in the haze of pain he’d endured. Shifting his head slightly, he noted the fresh bowl of food beside the door, a small bundle of cloth sitting next to it. The sight was enough to arouse his curiosity, and he pushed against the ground with one hand, pausing as the aches in his body settled again before making it to a sitting position.

 

He shifted sideways, half-crawling and pulling himself along with one hand, until he was close enough to the food to reach it. He’d received another helping of the thin stew and he tugged the bowl closer, beginning to eat. Once more he ate from necessity, and absently considered the bundle of cloth next to the water bucket. He snagged it with a hand as he chewed, unrolling it to reveal several strips of linen which could be used to clean and bind his feet. Momentarily, he considered tossing the cloths aside until he was reminded by Aramis’ voice in his head about the importance of tending to wounds quickly to prevent infection.

 

Grimacing at the thought, he took another bite and reached over once more, this time to pull the water closer. Over the next few minutes, he painstakingly cleaned both cuts, digging deep inside to remove every trace of dirt he could see. The process was excruciating as every dab of the cloth touched raw skin and made the wounds bleed anew. When he was satisfied that he’d done as good a job as possible, he wrapped a strip of linen around each foot, sighing in relief when he was finished. There was still a half-bowl of stew remaining along with another crust of bread, but he didn’t think he’d be able to keep anything else down after the process of cleaning his feet.

 

Instead, he put the bowl aside and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as he considered his options. His body continued to weaken, and his captors had not yet provided any opportunities for escape. He’d tested the solidity of the door and the lock that kept it closed, and determined that it would only open with outside assistance. Further, he had no knowledge of his location, having been unconscious and unable to see for the majority of their trip, leaving him with no idea of what direction to take in order to reach Paris. Of course, that was putting aside the fact that he was now a convicted criminal and likely to be arrested as soon as someone recognized him. The thought was a depressing one and he sighed in frustration, frowning in irritation at the coughs the action prompted.

 

Ever since his ordeal with Treville, he’d felt poorly. At first it had been the added stress he’d placed on his healing injury, but then he’d added to his ills with the river water that had found its way into his lungs, leaving him constantly feeling slightly breathless. His most recent rounds of abuse had only allowed the persistent coughs to tighten their hold, making his bruised ribs and head throb with each bout. With the abuse his feet had suffered, he felt himself nearly at the end of his endurance and tears of frustration welled in his eyes. Without thought, he balled his left hand into a fist and pounded it against the ground, clamping his eyes firmly closed against the injustice of everything he’d suffered.

 

It took several minutes of ragged breathing before some semblance of calm returned, and he opened his eyes with renewed determination. He’d been so far unwilling to break, raging against the attackers who had killed so many of his brothers-in-arms, as well as the men who now held him. He would not allow this to be his legacy – killed to satisfy the needs of a self-important noble who knew nothing of the horrors of battle. Sucking in a deep breath, he swallowed against the tickle in his throat and chest, refusing to allow the coughs that threatened. Somehow, he would survive this; the only thing left to determine was how.

 

Buoyed by his new sense of purpose, he took a long drink of water, focusing on reclaiming some of his lost strength so he could take advantage of the next opportunity to flee. Settling back again, he allowed his body to relax, his mind thinking back over everything he’d seen and heard since his arrival. His musings were disturbed a short while later by the uncomfortable cramping of his stomach. He breathed evenly through the discomfort, his face smoothing again when the feeling quickly abated. The reprieve was short-lived, however, and a minute later, the cramping sensation returned.

 

Frowning, d’Artagnan reached for the water, thinking that dehydration might be the cause of his troubles. He managed half a cup before another cramp struck, this one stronger than the previous ones. Setting the water down beside him, not even aware that it had spilled as his trembling hand struck the cup, he curled over himself, both arms across his belly. When the spasm released, he found himself panting, his mind racing at this newest problem. Over the next several minutes, he was struck by wave after wave of intense cramping, eventually finding himself back on the ground on his side, hugging himself against the pain.

 

Each bout was increasingly stronger and lasted longer than the last, sweat dotting his brow as he struggled through the ache. So complete was his misery that he didn’t notice the opening door, two booted feet stepping inside. “Well, Musketeer,” a voice startled him. He managed to roll his head slightly and open his eyes to find the Marquis staring down at him. “Are you ready to admit your guilt?”

 

Squeezing his eyes closed as another cramp took hold, he couldn’t stop himself from moaning. When it lessened sufficiently for coherent thought, he forced himself to meet his captor’s gaze, the effort it took almost too much. “Told you,” he panted, “not a coward.” It was all he could manage as he was overcome by another spasm, curling more tightly into himself as if he could push the pain away.

 

“An unfortunate lapse in judgement on your part, Musketeer,” the Marquis stated before turning away. “There is a mixture of herbs that could have eased your suffering if you had made the correct choice.”

 

Moments later, the door was slammed closed, and d’Artagnan whimpered with the agony flaring in his middle. As he rode through another wave of cramping, he wondered if he should have given the nobleman what he wanted – right now, anything seemed better than that sharp pain he was experiencing. “No!” his mind screamed at him, reminding him of what was at stake. If he admitted to being a coward, his life would come to an end; he would be robbed of the chance to try and free himself and return to his life in Paris.

 

Paris – his brothers were there, mourning him. The thought made him angry, the strong emotion fueling his resolve as he endured another prolonged cramp. When it released, he breathed raggedly, cursing the coughing that resulted. He needed to at least try and return to them, if for no other reason than to assuage their guilt. He knew Athos too well and understood that his friend would be blaming himself, the resulting remorse driving him to drown himself in drink. Letting out another low, guttural groan, he steeled himself to endure, promising that he would make his attempt tomorrow, before he lost the last of his strength.

Chapter Text

Porthos had no issues waiting for Aramis while he gathered extra powder and shot; he’d been patient as the marksman had detoured to add extra supplies to his medical bag; and he’d been helpful when his friend had arrived in the stable to collect his horse. Athos, on the other hand, had paced, fumed, and worried, and nearly had to be restrained as he attempted to leave on his own in search of the young man. Porthos’ calming hand on his shoulder was the only thing that had held him back. As it was, Aramis still barely had time to get settled on his horse before the older man was guiding his through the garrison gates.

 

They’d gotten lucky with their intelligence and had secured the location of the Marquis’ estate through Dr. Lemay, who’d turned out to be invaluable for more than his medical skill. A colleague, who had tended to the nobleman in the past and happened to currently be in Paris, was willing to give the doctor the information needed by the Musketeers. Although Athos wouldn’t admit it, their delayed departure was necessary since they’d had no idea where they were going until Lemay appeared, shortly before Aramis had.

 

The nobleman lived several hours’ ride outside of Paris, and while they didn’t have any concrete information about the man’s involvement in d’Artagnan’s disappearance, Athos had a feeling. Those feelings had saved both their lives too often in the past for his friends to disregard, and they accompanied him willingly. Besides, who else would have any interest in kidnapping a condemned man?

 

They arrived on the outskirts of the estate late in the afternoon, having stopped in the village to eat and gather what information they could about their destination. The little they’d been able to learn about the Marquis painted a picture of a demanding man, but one who was fair more often than not to those who lived and worked in the area. Athos had remained quiet when the nobleman hadn’t been depicted as a complete tyrant, having hoped to have his conclusion of the man’s evil confirmed, but finding only a father whose loss had driven him to act irrationally. That discovery, along with the man’s strong ties to the King, would not allow them to lay siege to the house and take back their missing friend. Instead, they would need to rely upon negotiation, and a good deal of cunning, so that they didn’t simply find themselves turned away by the noble’s plentiful staff.

 

Normally, Athos’ lead in the situation would have been assumed, his heritage as a comte providing him with the necessary skills to wage a battle of words. Today, he felt oddly insecure about his ability to succeed, and said so to his friends as they remained out of sight of the estate, having stopped and dismounted before a curve in the road that led to the large manor. “We cannot employ force in this matter,” he said as he scrubbed a hand across his face. “The Marquis remains an important and powerful man despite his recent actions. With luck, the King will forgive us our transgression in confronting him once he hears Treville’s testimony of d’Artagnan’s innocence.”

 

The older man’s orders were expected and, although the two friends chafed at the constraints that had been placed on them, they understood the necessity. “And if they use force against us?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos’ eyes were hard as he replied, “Then I would expect you to defend yourself as you would against anyone who attacks a Musketeer. After all, an attack against us constitutes an attack on the King.” Porthos’ lips turned up in a feral grin at the confirmation that they would not be lambs lead to slaughter.

 

“How do you want to handle this?” Aramis asked, on hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword.

 

“Porthos and I will present ourselves and request an audience. Hopefully we can get the man to see reason,” Athos answered. “Aramis, find somewhere to conceal yourself that allows a view of the estate. If you find where d’Artagnan’s being held and have an opportunity to free him, then do so. We’ll regroup after we’ve spoken with the Marquis.”

 

The marksman dipped his chin in agreement, knowing that they might need the advantage this approach would afford. They separated then, Porthos and Athos mounting their horses and heading towards the estate, while Aramis hung back, examining the terrain around him before deciding on a direction and moving off, leading his horse behind him. He cut across and through the trees that grew along the road, finding himself just beyond the point where the road straightened once more. From there, his keen eyes spotted a large oak, and he divested himself of his sword before climbing into its branches.

 

After finding a good spot in which to settle himself, he began to examine the estate, noting the locations of the various buildings and making a guess at the purpose of each. The property was a large one, and people scurried back and forth across the vast courtyard almost continuously. He paused for a moment as he spotted Athos and Porthos, his eyes tracking their progress as they followed a servant to the front doors of the house and then disappeared inside. He returned to watching the activity below, having some of his conclusions about the buildings confirmed based on the comings and goings of the staff.

 

He stifled a yawn, feeling the loss of every hour of sleep from the previous night, and forced himself to pay attention. Besides, he reasoned, his friends would never let him live it down if he were to fall out of the tree because couldn’t stay awake. The thought brought a ghost of a smile to his face even as he absently surveyed the flow of people through the courtyard, his eyes drawn continuously back to one man in particular. Amid the activity below, one man stood out because of his lack of movement. Aramis narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on the man more fully, noting the pistol and sword he carried. Letting his eyes drift to the others, he looked for anyone else who was armed, finding them at the entrance to the courtyard and again near the doors to the house. Everyone else was unarmed.

 

He grinned broadly as he realized the significance of his observation. Why place an armed guard outside of a building unless you didn’t want anyone going in or out? Aramis continued to watch the man and, although he nodded occasionally to others passing by, no one tried to approach, and he never left his post. The building he guarded seemed a likely spot to begin looking for the Gascon. Now that the marksman had a possible target in mind, he began to look at the area from a different perspective, no longer interested in the activities of those below and searching instead for potential access points. It was still possible that Athos might successfully negotiate d’Artagnan’s release, but Aramis felt it unlikely given the elaborate plan the noble had enacted to convince everyone of the young man’s death.

 

His eyes traced the path of the wall that surrounded the estate, spotting a possible access point where the boughs of a large tree nearly met the stone partition. Deciding to climb down so he could verify what he’d seen, he paused when he saw Athos and Porthos exiting the house, now accompanied by three others. As he watched, the men were escorted back to their horses, a few final words exchanged before the Musketeers rode away. He made his way quickly back down to the ground, retracing his earlier path so he could meet up with the others for a status update.

 

Athos and Porthos had beaten him there and were already standing next to their mounts, and Aramis could immediately tell by the rigid set of their shoulders that the conversation had not gone well. Bringing his horse to stand with the others, he turned to them and said, “I take it the Marquis was not in a cooperative mood?”

 

Porthos gave a soft grunt as he confirmed, “Man wouldn’t even admit he has the boy, and threatened to report us to the King for slander if we didn’t drop it.”

 

“And do we believe him?” Aramis asked, now switching his gaze to the older man.

 

“The Marquis is a gifted politician. Fortunately, his son is not nearly as skilled,” Athos replied, indicating his certainty that their missing friend was being held by the men.

 

“Then it’s a good thing that I have such keen observational skills,” Aramis stated proudly with a hint of a smile. His expression turning serious again, he went on, “There’s a small building that’s being guarded and that no one else approaches. I’d bet that’s where they’re keeping him. I also found a place where I think we can get over the wall, and was about to go check it out when I saw you returning.” His words were followed by a large yawn.

 

“We’ll wait until dark to make the attempt,” Athos stated, their strategy now moving to infiltration.

 

Porthos gave a nod of agreement as he eyed the tired marksman, “Point me in the direction of the possible entry point and I’ll go check it out.”

 

“It’s fine, Porthos,” Aramis was interrupted by another yawn, “I can do it.”

 

“No, Aramis, it’s not fine. You’re almost asleep on your feet.” Peering more closely at his friend, Porthos asked, “How much sleep did you get last night?”

 

Offering a sheepish grin, the marksman shrugged as he replied, “I didn’t really. Once I got the idea in my head that d’Artagnan might be alive, I really wasn’t able to rest.”

 

Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation, Porthos traded a look with the older man who interjected, “Porthos is right. You need to get some rest while you can. Tonight, we’ll need your sharp eyes if we’re to pull this off.”

 

Allowing his shoulders to slump a bit, Aramis gave a dip of his chin, “Alright, but I assume we’re not planning to stay out here in the open where anyone can come across us.”

 

Athos gave a shake of his head, “No, we’ll travel further back and find a spot off the road where we can keep an eye on things without being seen ourselves.” Turning to the larger man, he said, “Porthos, go check out that spot and then come and join us. I’ll keep an eye out for you and flag you down if you miss us.”

 

So decided, the men separated once more, this time Aramis riding off with Athos to find a secluded spot where they could rest until the sun set. When they’d found a good location and made themselves and their horses more comfortable, Aramis looked at the lines of concern on Athos’ face and assured him, “Don’t worry, we’ll get him back.”

 

The older man spared a brief glance in the marksman’s direction from where he stood leaning against a tree. He knew that Aramis was trying to make him feel better, but he wasn’t really in the mood for platitudes. Rather than responding, he ordered instead, “Get some rest. I’ll wake you in a few hours.” He turned away then, his gaze returning to the road while Aramis settled behind him. Checking on his friend a couple minutes later showed the marksman snoring softly where he lay at the base of a tree, his arms crossed and his hat protecting his eyes from the afternoon sun.

 

Athos released a long exhale, grateful for a few minutes of solitude to be alone with his thoughts. The last week had been a rollercoaster of emotions, culminating with the overwhelming tide of grief when he believed d’Artagnan had been executed. The sense of loss he’d felt had been staggering, and he’d nearly been physically crippled by its intensity, certain there would be no way to carry on. He knew he should be thankful that his friends had stayed by his side as he drank the previous night, but a part of him had been resentful, wanting to grieve in private.

 

He’d fully expected to spend the day preparing his protégé for burial, exhausting his body with the energy needed to dig the grave, before returning to his rooms that night to once more lose himself in drink. He’d always felt protective over the boy, but hadn’t realized exactly how much that protectiveness had morphed into affection and even love, the young man filling the void that had been left years earlier by the death of his brother.

 

When Aramis had announced that the body did not belong to d’Artagnan, he’d felt like he could breathe again. Suddenly, the world righted itself and the colors returned, erasing the varying hues of gray that were all he’d been able to see since witnessing the execution the day before. Looking back on it now, it scared him to feel so strongly for the young man, and the thought that they might still fail in retrieving him made the fear in his heart blossom.

 

Of course, rescuing d’Artagnan was simply the first step. Athos’ letter had been the impetus for everything that had happened, and he still needed the boy’s forgiveness. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a concern, the Gascon forgiving easily, especially those who were closest to him. But this – this was more than a misunderstanding or an accidental slight. This had nearly led to d’Artagnan’s death, and Athos could see no way the young man could conceivably excuse his mistake, no matter how good the intentions.

 

Breathing deeply, Athos closed his eyes momentarily, trying to put aside the myriad of thoughts that were causing an ache to build behind his eyes. Just a few more hours, he reminded himself. Once the young man was back in their presence, then and only then could he give himself permission to fall apart. Exhaling slowly, he reopened his eyes, scanning the road for any signs of Porthos’ approach. 

---

Evening fell quickly, the last light from the sun disappearing within minutes as it moved below the horizon. The resulting darkness seemed to blanket everything around them, and Aramis thanked God that the moon was reduced to a mere sliver, making it more difficult to move around but also hiding their presence from others. When he’d woken, it was already dusk, and Porthos and Athos were sitting nearby, conversing in low tones. They’d shared a simple meal of cold provisions, unwilling to risk discovery by starting a fire. Now, they were on their way to rescue their friend, or so they hoped.

 

They climbed up the tree and across the thick boughs that hung into the courtyard. The spot had turned out to be ideal, not only allowing relatively easy access, but also letting them drop into an area hidden from view by a large building that backed against the stone wall. Once on the ground, Aramis took a moment to check their surroundings and then lead them stealthily towards the building he’d noted earlier. They kept to the deeper shadows and only had to stop once when two patrolling men had passed by, unaware of the Musketeers’ presence.

 

The guard who had stood outside the small building was gone, and the door was held closed by a strong lock. The men seamlessly traded positions, Porthos moving to the forefront with his lock picks, while Athos and Aramis kept watch, ensuring no one would come upon them unannounced. When the lock slid open, Porthos looked up with a quick grin, his teeth standing out from his dark features. The three closed ranks, all of them eager to enter, but a hard stare from Athos had them pausing.

 

It went without saying that the older man needed to see his protégé alive and well, and Aramis’ skills would be needed if the latter condition wasn’t the case. A short round of silent communication had Porthos ceding his position to allow the other two to enter, taking up guard outside the building instead. Athos and Aramis slipped inside quietly, the space even darker than where they’d just come from. They stood there for several long seconds, allowing their eyes to adjust to the near blackness.

 

From a few feet away, they heard a low moan and they directed their gazes there, finally making out a more solid form in the darkness. Both men’s feet moved of their own accord, as Aramis hissed softly, “d’Artagnan?” They almost tripped over the young man’s body and the medic, having ended up near the boy’s head, let his hand drop gently on its crown. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis spoke again, still unable to tell if they’d found their friend. “Is that you?”

 

Another groan was the only response, and the marksman could hear Athos huffing beside him. “We could be at this all night. Help me carry him closer to the door so we can have a proper look at him.”

 

Aramis wasn’t certain it was a good idea to move the young man but conceded to their need to identify him. They lifted him as carefully as possible, but the boy’s body was trying to curl up into a ball, making it difficult and drawing more sounds of pain. “Shh, it’s alright,” Aramis murmured, his natural empathy wanting to soothe the man, regardless of who he was.

 

They laid the man down on one side of the door, Athos reaching for the handle and opening it to allow the dim light of the moon inside. Porthos ducked his head around in immediately as the boy’s face came into view, and drew a sharp breath as he said, “Christ, what’ve they done to you?”

 

The large man’s reaction was enough for them to know that they’d found their friend, Athos and Aramis now also able to make out the Gascon’s pained features in the weak light. Despite the urgency of their situation, the medic wasn’t willing to risk the young man’s life by making an unseen hurt worse through their actions. He seemed torn, looking at the open door and then back to d’Artagnan, but finally made his decision. “Athos, I need you and Porthos to stand guard outside so I can keep the door open and give him a quick check.”

 

The older man blanched at once, unwilling to leave the boy’s side now that they’d found him. Seeing the hesitation in his friend’s eyes, Aramis softened his tone, “Athos, I must make sure we don’t make any of his injuries worse by moving him.” Porthos placed a hand on the older man’s forearm and gently drew him outside, their bodies positioned so that the door was blocked but not so much that the moonlight couldn’t get through.

 

Aramis began a quick survey of the Gascon’s body, running his hands quickly through the boy’s hair, downwards along both arms and legs, and then palpating his torso. Touching the young man’s right hip had him moaning pitifully, but it was when his hands landed on d’Artagnan’s right flank that the Gascon inhaled sharply before coughing harshly. Placing a calming hand on the boy’s brow, Aramis called again, “d’Artagnan, can you hear me?”

 

The combination of the medic’s cool hand and his voice tugged at the Gascon’s awareness, and his eyes fluttered open, trying to discern his surroundings in the poor light. He breathed out softly, praying that this was not just a cruel hallucination, “Aramis?”

 

Above him, the medic grinned broadly, thrilled that the young man had roused sufficiently to recognize him. “Yes, d’Artagnan, it’s me, and Athos and Porthos are here too.”

 

Several seconds passed in silence before the Gascon spoke again, “Didn’t think you’d come.”

 

Aramis frowned at the odd statement, unaware that outside the older man had heard the words as well. Athos flinched slightly and his gut flared with renewed guilt. Were things so bad that d’Artagnan had actually believed that they wouldn’t come for him?

 

Inside, the marksman was somewhat less perturbed by the comment, passing it off as the ramblings of an injured man. “Of course, we came, d’Artagnan, and we’re going to get you out of here. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

 

There was another long pause before the Gascon replied, “Feet and stomach.”

 

The answer he received was surprising as Aramis had fully expected to have his earlier findings confirmed, highlighting the pain in the young man’s hip and ribs. He began to shift downwards toward the boy’s feet only to feel d’Artagnan jerk as he said, “No, don’t.”

 

The earlier frown from before returned as the medic tried to reason with his recalcitrant patient, “d’Artagnan, I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

 

Sighing carefully to prevent another coughing fit, the Gascon replied, “They cut the bottoms of both my feet.”

 

Aramis stopped himself from reacting although he didn’t miss Porthos’ soft curse from outside. “I see,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “And your stomach?”

 

“Don’t know,” d’Artagnan answered, pausing a moment to curl further into himself, and breathing heavily for several long seconds until the pain passed sufficiently that he could speak. “Think they poisoned me.”

 

Aramis couldn’t stop the expletive that passed his lips, and he squeezed the young man’s arm for a moment as he prepared to rise, “Be right back.”

 

Stepping closer to the door, he found both men already waiting for him, obviously having heard most of what d’Artagnan had shared. His features were grim as he addressed them, “If he’s been poisoned, then I need to know with what. Otherwise, I won’t be able to treat it.”

 

“Surely Dr. Lemay can help him,” Athos began, uneasy about the amount of time they’d already spent at the estate.

 

“No, Athos,” Aramis hissed urgently. “This could be one of a hundred things and, without knowing what he’s been given, his chances of survival are almost non-existent. We must know what they’ve used.”

 

Athos wanted nothing more than to gather the young man in his arms and spirit him away to safety, but the medic’s gaze was unwavering and he could see the fear behind the determination in his friend’s eyes. “Very well, we’ll go speak with the Marquis.” Turning to Porthos, he asked, “Can you carry him?” Now that they’d been reunited, Athos was unwilling to be separated again, even though it was dangerous to bring the boy along.

 

“Course I can,” the large man answered, already making his way past Aramis to collect his charge.

 

Now that Aramis had gotten Athos to acquiesce, he was having second thoughts, and he placed a hand on the older man’s arm as it reached for his pistol, “Athos, are you sure about this?”

 

With a look of determination, the older man replied, “You’re the one who said we need to know, and the Marquis is our most likely source of information.”

 

With a reluctant nod, Aramis released his hold, drawing his own pistol as he moved from the doorway, allowing Porthos to join them. With a quick glance at the two men, Athos led the way back to the imposing house, praying that he was not about to commit another grave blunder.

Chapter Text

The draught Treville had consumed was reminiscent of a drink he’d had as a young lad, the beverage tasting fiercely bitter and tracing a fiery trail down his throat and into his stomach. Its effect had been nearly instantaneous, leaving him with the urge to run, jump, or doing anything that would allow the suddenly boundless energy within him to escape. When the drink had finally worked its way out of his system, he swore never to let it pass his lips again, the feeling of his heart beating so hard it might burst from his chest a terrifying sensation. Lemay’s concoction had the same effect, but now it was forcing a body that was far less than healthy beyond its limits.

 

Treville did his best to hide the trembling in his hands, but it was difficult, the doctor’s draught making him shaky, even more than he had been when he’d first woken. The challenge lay in the overwhelming need to move, countered by the weakness in his limbs that left his body in limbo. The Captain now fully understood the physician’s comment that there would be consequences.

 

They’d travelled to the palace in Lemay’s carriage, the doctor outright refusing to allow his patient to travel any other way. Throughout the ride, the physician continuously threw worried glances in Treville’s direction until the latter finally lost his thin grasp over his patience. At that point, he’d barked at Lemay that he was fine, and to mind his own bloody business. The doctor had wisely averted his eyes at that point and the Captain sighed inwardly, knowing he would need to apologize later when the sensation of fire ants crawling all over his skin had abated.

 

For once, the King deigned to see him immediately and, minutes after their arrival, the Captain and Lemay were bowing before the royal and his wife, the doctor unobtrusively reaching a hand out to steady Treville’s elbow as he straightened. “Your Majesty,” Treville began, pushing aside the compulsion to pace. “I understand there has been a misunderstanding about d’Artagnan’s actions, and I am here to give testimony as to the events that occurred.”

 

The King looked concerned and uncomfortable by the soldier’s appearance but it was his wife who stepped forward, full of empathy for the pale man standing before them, “Captain, we understand that you’ve been quite ill since you were wounded. Should you be out of bed?” The latter question was addressed more to Lemay and Treville quelled the irritation that flared.

 

Smoothly, the doctor took a step forward to respond to the Queen, “Majesty, you are correct that the Captain is still recovering and should not be out of bed. However,” he glanced meaningfully at his patient, conveying his understanding, “this matter cannot wait, and I pray you hear his account of what transpired.”

 

The royal couple traded a glance and the Queen stepped back again, making it clear that she was now deferring to her husband, who still looked somewhat uneasy, “Of course I’ll hear your side of things, Treville, but you know there’s little that can be done now.” The King looked hopefully at the Captain, not relishing the thought of being the one to advise the man of d’Artagnan’s sentencing and execution.

 

“Yes, Sire, I’ve been informed of everything that I missed, but I still feel it important that you hear the truth of the matter,” the Captain replied. At the King’s continued silence, he proceeded to relate how they’d been attacked by overwhelming forces, describing d’Artagnan’s actions in getting both himself and Lenoir away from their aggressors. Next, he recounted how the Gascon had tended both men’s wounds, watched over them throughout the night, and fought off the subsequent attack the following day. Lastly, he described how both he and Lenoir had ordered d’Artagnan to leave the latter man behind, focusing instead on the Captain’s safety, despite d’Artagnan’s clear unwillingness to do so.

 

Throughout, Treville emphasized the young man’s bravery and fortitude, time after time putting his companions’ needs ahead of his own. When he’d finished, the Captain was spent, the draught he’d consumed beginning to wane and a startling weakness taking its place. Surreptitiously, Lemay had moved closer, once more supporting his patient by gripping him under one arm.

 

Partway through the narrative, the King had sat heavily in his chair, stunned to hear that he’d sent an innocent man – no, a hero – to his death. Sensing the change in mood, Treville gathered his remaining strength, knowing he wasn’t yet done, “Sire, through events outside of the Musketeers’ control, another acted to have someone else executed in d’Artagnan’s place. That person is now holding him and enacting their own punishment.”

 

The expression on the royal’s face morphed from shock to anger, outraged that someone had taken it upon themselves to enact such a plan, regardless of the fact that it had prevented the death of an innocent man. Sensing the King’s indignation, Treville pressed on, “Sire, the man responsible is the Marquis de Saint-Sorlin, Lenoir’s father. With your permission, I’ll send men to his estate to collect d’Artagnan and bring him home.” The Captain intentionally omitted the fact that Athos and the others had already left, hoping that he’d secure the King’s consent before they arrived.

 

To say that Louis was stunned would be an understatement. He adored the Marquis and the man had been close to the crown since the King had been just a child. To hear now that the nobleman had fooled him into condemning one of his personal guard was beyond galling. Reading the signs on her husband’s face, the Queen leaned closer as she said, “The Marquis was clearly overcome by his grief; there can be no other explanation for his actions.”

 

The justification seemed reasonable and would allow Louis to take no further action against the man. With a confident nod, he addressed the Captain, “Of course, dispatch men at once, but do not use any force against him or his men. The Marquis is still an honoured friend.”

 

Satisfied that he’d gotten what he’d needed, Treville gave another shaky bow, not resisting the doctor’s support as the man helped him from the room and back to the carriage. He barely managed to climb in and collapse against the seat, his energy utterly depleted. He allowed the doctor to fuss, Lemay unhappy about his pale, clammy skin, but Treville just let it wash over him. All that was important was that he’d accomplished his part; now it was up to Athos and the others to accomplish theirs. 

---

Porthos supported most of the Gascon’s weight since the young man had refused to be carried, having flailed in the larger man’s arms until he’d been set down. Aramis had approached him immediately, trying to reason with him, but d’Artagnan refused. He’d had no control over things for far too long and was determined to walk, no matter the pain. Worried about the Gascon making things worse, Aramis took advantage of the boy’s greater awareness and asked if he had any idea what he’d been given. d’Artagnan had no useful information in that regard but did confirm that the Marquis had offered him something to reduce its effects, lending credence to the medic’s theory that the noble possessed a cure.

 

With that knowledge, they proceeded to make their way across the courtyard and to the main house, none of them noticing the red smudges left on the steps leading to the manor’s front door. They slipped quietly into the dimly lit entryway, pausing to listen as the Gascon merely held onto Porthos’ arm, unable to hear much over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Moments later they were moving again, d’Artagnan clamping his jaw shut to avoid making any sounds of pain which might alert others to their presence.

 

They found the Marquis and his son in the sitting room, enjoying glasses of brandy. Aramis let Athos and Porthos enter first while he hung back to help the young man, having taken the larger man’s place. d’Artagnan gamely did his best to walk on his own, especially as they entered the sitting room, not wanting the noble and his son to see how much they’d hurt him. The reality was far different, however, and every step had d’Artagnan biting the inside of his cheek at the agony in his feet and belly. The pain in his soles had plateaued and he could almost ignore it now, but the cramping in his stomach felt as though he’d soon be turned inside out, with tendrils of fire trying to claw their way out.

 

Understanding that the Gascon was nearly at the end of his endurance, Aramis helped the young man to a settee, positioning the two of them across from the nobles and to one side of the Musketeers. d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod of thanks to the medic as he slumped into the seat, taking several moments to catch his breath before lifting his gaze to his tormentor. As he met the Marquis’ eyes, he was sickened to see a flash of satisfaction in the man’s face, realizing that the nobleman was enjoying his misery. His abdominal muscles contracted again and he pressed his right arm into them, struggling to remain upright despite the intense pain. With effort, he focused and caught the tail end of Athos’ words, “…hand over the remedy for whatever you’ve poisoned him with. Once we have that, we’ll take our leave.”

 

The Marquis’ expression was relaxed and he reclined back in his chair, swirling the amber-colored liquid in his glass before taking a drink. When he spoke, his tone reflected none of his calm outward appearance, his voice cold and hard and completely in control. “Musketeer, you have no jurisdiction here. This estate is private property and this man,” he motioned with one hand, “is a convicted criminal, believed to be dead. I suggest you apologize for your rudeness and leave now, while you’re still able.”

 

d’Artagnan now listened intently, desperately praying that the cramping in his stomach would leave him alone for a few minutes as he watched the contest of wills play out. Athos still looked unperturbed, his face set in a determined but neutral mask, leaving no doubt that he would not be deterred. “Monseigneur, I have been exceedingly patient until now, and, took you at your word earlier that you did not have d’Artagnan in your possession. Clearly that was an error in judgement that I will now correct by taking him with me and returning him to Paris. Given the sentence pronounced by the King, I cannot believe that he would be pleased to find his prisoner dead by your hand.”

 

The noble’s eyes lit up with sudden glee as he pounced on a portion of what Athos had said, “So you admit that this man is guilty and deserving of punishment.”

 

“I acknowledge,” Athos countered, “that the court made a ruling without having heard all of the relevant information, and that is a situation that was corrected earlier today.”

 

“What do you mean?” Cédric interjected, beginning to wonder if their stance was as strong as his father believed.

 

“He means,” growled Porthos, “that Captain Treville provided his testimony to the King in order to clear d’Artagnan’s name.”

 

“You mean he won’t be killed?” the Marquis asked, a note of worry now discernable in his tone.

 

Pinning the man with a harsh stare, Athos dryly replied, “France does not make a habit out of executing innocent men.”

 

Off to the side, d’Artagnan caught his mentor’s words and prayed they were correct, feeling the first stirrings of hope that he might be able to return to his previous life. The thought was quickly erased by another surge of pain through his middle and he couldn’t help but fold nearly in half, Aramis jumping quickly to his aid and catching him before he could fall forward and off the settee. “d’Artagnan,” the medic’s tone conveyed his concern, and he caught Athos’ eye as the older man glanced in their direction.

 

“I grow impatient, Monseigneur, the antidote if you please,” Athos commanded, doing his best to ignore his protégé’s moans.

 

The Marquis looked unwilling to comply, but Cédric seemed to have reached a decision, choosing to preserve their position and secure his future by maintaining the King’s good will, “I can get it for you.” He waited until Athos nodded, giving him permission to move, and as he began to stand, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Several feet from him, his father was rising as well, the older man pulling a small pistol from the seat cushion and aiming it at the injured Musketeer. “Father, no,” Cédric cried, too late to stop the man from firing.

 

Everything seemed to slow in that moment, Athos catching the nobleman’s draw and knowing that Aramis was unaware of what was happening due to his preoccupation with the Gascon. Without thought, he began to move, positioning himself between the Marquis and his protégé. Porthos also understood the nobleman’s intention and shifted his pistol toward the older man, pulling the trigger a split-second after the Marquis had pulled his. A second later, Athos was spun around by the ball’s impact, dropping to his knees facing Aramis and d’Artagnan. Behind him, the Marquis had fallen back into his chair, blood pooling on his chest from Porthos’ shot.

 

At the stain of red on the senior Lenoir’s chest, Cédric’s vision clouded in anger and he drew the weapon his father had insisted he wear, sighting at the large Musketeer who’d killed his parent. A moment later, Aramis lifted his pistol and took aim at the young noble, allowing his ball to fly. The marksman’s shot caught the noble’s right, upper arm, throwing his aim off sufficiently that his ball skimmed across Porthos’ left bicep. Dropping his spent weapon, Aramis reached for his second, aiming at the bleeding noble who stood grasping his arm in pain. Through gritted teeth, the marksman ordered, “Sit down.” Once Cédric had complied, Aramis turned his attention to Porthos.

 

Sensing his friend’s distress, the large man was already speaking, moving towards Athos as he said, “I’m fine, Aramis, just creased me.” Kneeling beside Athos, he rolled the man from his side to his back, looking into two, pain-filled blue orbs. “He’s alive,” he threw over his shoulder to the medic. Turning his attention back to the older man, he asked, “Where did it hit?”

 

Athos lifted his right hand from where it was clamped to his left side, allowing Porthos to see the blood that was welling there. With practiced hands, the large man undid the fastenings on his friend’s doublet, peeling the leather back to see two holes through the side of Athos’ shirt. The wounds would be uncomfortable, but the ball had passed cleanly through the man’s side. With a relieved pat on the older man’s arm, Porthos announced, “You’ll be fine.”

 

Behind him, Aramis let out a relieved sigh and d’Artagnan slipped sideways towards his friend, the energy draining from him now that he knew his mentor would be alright. Helping Athos to his feet, he and Porthos approached Cédric, standing in front of him as the former comte questioned, “Where is the cure?”

 

The noble looked briefly at his father’s lifeless face before meeting the Musketeer’s gaze, “The King will hear of our cooperation?” Athos gave a slow dip of his head. “It’s in my father’s desk - top, right-hand drawer,” he replied, indicating the large piece of furniture with a tilt of his head.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis called, motioning for the two to come over to the settee so he could check the Marquis’ hiding spot. Athos was lowered to sit next to d’Artagnan, his left arm immediately encircling the Gascon’s shoulders, pulling him close under the guise of keeping him upright. Porthos split his attention between Cédric and Aramis, ensuring there would be no further trouble from the nobleman.

 

A few moments of searching had the medic holding up a small bag, which he opened to find a mixture of herbs. Bringing them close, he inhaled carefully, recognizing the scent of several herbs that he himself often used for medicinal purposes. Content that he’d been given a cure and nothing that would further harm the Gascon, he tied the bag closed and slipped it into his doublet before returning to kneel in front of Athos. As he pulled his sash free and wound it around his friend’s middle, Athos addressed the noble, “We’ll be taking our leave now. I trust that there will be no further actions taken against any of us as a result of tonight’s events?”

 

Cédric nodded, already considering his newly inherited role as Marquis which he didn’t want to jeopardize by incurring the King’s wrath. Licking his lips he said, “I will be at court in the coming weeks to advise the King of my father’s passing. I’m certain he’ll be comforted to hear that my father died while on a hunt, since it was one of his favorite pastimes.”

 

Athos’ eyes narrowed at the lie but he, more than many others, understood the deceptions that were part of daily life at court. No doubt, the new Marquis was already planning how to make the best of his good fortune. Giving a slight dip of his chin, he replied, “I’m certain you’re correct.” Aramis was finished binding his wounds and d’Artagnan was curled stiffy into his side. Despite his best efforts to remain silent, Athos could hear the young man’s hitched breaths and occasional groans as the poison continued to torment him.

 

The medic stood and faced Cédric, “We still have time to administer the antidote?”

 

The noble gave a short nod, “The amount he ingested shouldn’t be sufficient to kill him, and the herbs you have will ease his pain within an hour or so.”

 

Satisfied that the young man was not in immediate risk of expiring, Aramis turned back to his patients, trying to decide who should be helped by whom. Taking the decision from his hands, Porthos announced, “I’ll help the boy while you help Athos.” He put his words into action immediately, bending down to gently pull the Gascon from Athos’ hold and then lifting the boy to his feet. d’Artagnan stayed hunched over but didn’t push Porthos away when the large man ducked awkwardly under one shoulder. They began their slow shuffle from the room, Aramis helping Athos to his feet behind them, and then simply staying close in case the older man felt dizzy or light-headed.

 

It was still dark when they exited the house, d’Artagnan now fairly hanging from Porthos as he panted through another round of cramping. The large man was whispering words of comfort into the Gascon’s ear while Athos and Aramis spoke in low tones. Although the d’Artagnan was expected to recover, the men wanted to ease his suffering as soon as possible. It was decided that they would travel back to the nearby village and secure a room for the night, allowing Aramis the opportunity to tend to all his friends and permit all of them to get a few hours’ sleep before dawn. As he caught d’Artagnan’s eye and saw the depth of his misery, he prayed that the young man had enough strength left to endure until they made it back.

Chapter Text

The half-hour ride took nearly twice as long, Porthos slowing each time d’Artagnan was overtaken by cramps. Although there was little to be done, he rubbed calming circles along the boy’s back and held him close, ensuring the young man didn’t fall from the horse. Athos was allowed to ride alone, but Aramis stayed at their rear where he could keep a watchful eye over all his patients. It was a somewhat shaky Athos who dismounted when they reached the inn to bang on the establishment’s door. He was rewarded a minute later when a man in a nightshirt appeared, initially unhappy at having his sleep disturbed but turning more hospitable when he recognized the distinctive pauldrons on his guests’ shoulders.

 

They were given a room with one large bed, some extra blankets, and a fire that glowed brightly in the fireplace, making the entire space warm and welcoming. Aramis immediately requested that hot water be brought, and set about brewing the medicinal draught that would relieve d’Artagnan’s pain. While it steeped, he sewed Athos’ wounds closed and bandaged Porthos’ arm, all the while keeping an eye on the Gascon who was curled into himself on top of the bed.

 

“Will he be alright?” Porthos asked as his arm was being wrapped, looking over anxiously at the young man.

 

Aramis spared a glance before replying, noting Athos’ stubbornness in sitting on the bed at the young man’s hip. “Should be,” he finally replied. “Poisons are tricky. Hopefully the new Marquis wasn’t lying to us or he’ll be very unhappy with our next visit.”

 

Porthos couldn’t agree more with the medic’s sentiment, especially as he observed the intense expression on Athos’ face. All of them were worried about the Gascon, but the older man had been different since the execution, even the news that d’Artagnan was alive not bringing him back to his old self. Porthos understood that it was likely due to guilt, even though he’d challenge anyone to convince him of Athos’ wrongdoing. In his mind, the older man had acted honorably by highlighting Lenoir’s bravery, and it was not Athos’ fault that those words had been misconstrued. Now that d’Artagnan was back with them, he was confident that they’d be able to convince the former comte of the same, but knowing the man’s stubbornness and penchant for self-deprecation, it could be a while before he’d be persuaded.

 

“There,” Aramis looked at his handiwork with satisfaction, “that should hold it. We’ll need to clean it and change the bandage daily until the skin closes.”

 

Giving a smile of thanks, Porthos rolled his shirtsleeve back down, watching as the medic tested the temperature of the tea he’d been steeping before bringing it over to the bed. At his approach, Athos reached for the cup, stating, “I’ll help him drink it.”

 

With a nod, Aramis let his friend take the cup, sitting at the head of the bed to speak to the young man, “d’Artagnan, we have something that will make you feel better.”

 

The Gascon let out a long groan as he pressed his hands into his stomach, willing the pain away. His friends waited impatiently until the cramp passed, and then Aramis helped d’Artagnan roll onto his back, supporting his head while Athos helped him drink. Between swallows, the Gascon protested, “Can do it myself.”

 

The familiar comment made all of them smile and Aramis teased, “We know you can, but humour us; it makes us feel useful.”

 

Porthos snorted softly as he sat in a chair on the bed’s other side, glad to see the reappearance of the young man’s stubborn streak.

 

After another swallow, d’Artagnan pushed at the cup with one hand as he blearily looked at his friends. “You alright?” he asked, his eyes refusing to focus well enough to provide him with the answer.

 

Porthos gave a soft huff as he reached out a hand to squeeze the nape of the Gascon’s neck, “Everyone’s fine, d’Artagnan. It’s you we’re all worried about.”

 

The Gascon’s lips turned up in a smile as he seemed to sag further into the mattress, his friend’s words assuaging the concern that had kept him tense. Noting how the young man’s eyelids were beginning to droop, Aramis intervened, “Ah, ah, we can’t let you sleep yet. You need to finish your medicine first.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a half-lidded grimace as he slurred, “Tastes bad.”

 

The medic’s gaze softened as he replied, “I know it does, but it’s necessary.” Before the cup could be brought back to the Gascon’s lips, he was gripped by another round of cramping, squeezing his eyes closed as he rode out the pain. Athos looked just as pained as his protégé, and he unconsciously reached a hand forward, inserting into d’Artagnan’s clammy grip where it was clasped tightly. Afterwards, they waited several seconds for the Gascon’s breathing to slow before Aramis again supported the boy’s head, d’Artagnan’s eyes opening as he saw the cup being presented. Athos tipped it to the young man’s mouth with one hand, while his other remained in d’Artagnan’s, neither of them ready to lose the comfort provided by the touch.

 

They’d had to endure two more rounds of cramps before the Gascon had managed to finish the draught, and he was barely managing to keep his eyes open by then. Aramis knew they needed to let him rest since his sleep was likely to be continually disturbed by his contracting stomach muscles until the cure took effect. He looked down towards the young man’s feet, which were still bound by dirty bandages and marred by blotches of red. It was an easy decision to leave them for now, allowing d’Artagnan some respite and tending to the cuts once the boy was released from the poison’s effects.

 

Shifting his gaze across the bed to Porthos, he saw that the man had leaned back in his chair and relaxed. As the larger man motioned with his head towards Athos, Aramis turned to see the older man beside him staring tiredly at the Gascon, his free arm clamped around himself and stabilizing his injured side. Clearing his throat softly the medic suggested, “Athos, why don’t you take the other side of the bed. I think d’Artagnan would feel better having someone close, and given your wounds, it should be you.”

 

Aramis and Porthos had no doubt that Athos understood the real reason behind the marksman’s suggestion but for once, he didn’t care to argue. He needed to stay close to the boy just as badly as d’Artagnan needed his comfort and, given everything that had transpired, it was the least he could do. Gently withdrawing his hand from the Gascon’s he began to bend forward to pull off his boots, only to be stopped partway by Aramis who gave a shake of his head, “Your side won’t appreciate that.” The marksman grabbed hold of his friend’s footwear and took them off. Rising, he leaned in close to Athos’ ear, whispering, “Do you want something for the pain?”

 

The older man gave a shake of his head, and the medic stared hard at his friend before shifting away, allowing Athos to stand and walk around the end of the bed to the other side. He laid down carefully on the mattress, not wanting to jostle d’Artagnan, and moved within inches of the young man. As he settled, the Gascon’s belly clenched painfully and he reached his hand forward unseeingly, Athos taking it immediately as they rode out the pain. With nothing else to do, Aramis rose wearily and stretched his sore back muscles. Catching the motion, Porthos whispered, “Why don’t you get some sleep, too.”

 

Seeing the exhaustion that painted Porthos’ features, the marksman countered, “How about you rest first. I’ll need to care for d’Artagnan’s feet in a couple hours when he’s feeling better and we can swap then.” With a pointed look that said, “You’d better,” Porthos gave a dip of his chin in agreement. It took less than a minute for him to reposition his chair against the wall and fall asleep with his head back and his arms crossed.

 

Aramis crossed the room to sit in another chair, relieved that they were all together again, but wondering if their nightmare was truly over. 

---

Little by little, the medicine d’Artagnan had consumed began to take effect, and he dozed for longer periods of time in between bouts of cramping. Eventually, he no longer woke, his brow merely wrinkling at the pain that his mind unconsciously registered. Athos had succumbed to his exhaustion as well, initially waking each time the ache in the Gascon’s midsection swelled, but remaining asleep as the intensity of the cramps diminished. As much as Aramis hated to disturb the young man’s rest, he could no longer put off tending to the boy’s feet. Normally, he would have seen to them at once, but he’d been loathe to do anything to add to d’Artagnan’s earlier pain.

 

Moving slowly about the room, the medic gathered the supplies he’d need before gently unwrapping the filthy bandages that covered the cuts. It was a testament to the pain-filled hours the Gascon had endured that he didn’t so much as flinch as the last of the linen was pulled away. Aramis bit his lip against the curse that sprang to his lips. The right foot didn’t look too bad considering, but the left was reddened and weepy. Given all the activity, neither cut had scabbed over and infection was a serious concern. Swallowing a sigh, Aramis dipped a cloth into warm water and began cleaning the right one first, using gentle, even swipes to remove the blood and grime until the cut was clear of all foreign matter.

 

Glancing toward the Gascon’s face, he saw the young man still deeply asleep, Aramis’ careful ministrations not even registering. Taking a moment, the medic swapped out the dirty water and cloth for clean ones before seating himself again and carefully taking hold of d’Artagnan’s left foot. His first pass of the cloth had the young man twitching, and Aramis marginally tightened his hold. The next wipe made the Gascon’s brow furrow, while the third made the young man groan. The medic rinsed the cloth and brought it even nearer to the ugly cut, causing d’Artagnan’s leg to jerk as he attempted to escape the pain.

 

Looking up, Aramis could see the young man’s eyes were now open. Dropping the soiled cloth back into the bowl of water, he stood and moved to the head of the bed, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “d’Artagnan,” he spoke softly. “Are you with me?”

 

The Gascon’s head rolled on the pillow until he was looking up at the marksman’s face, “Aramis?”

 

The medic smiled, “Yes, we rescued you, remember?” He waited for d’Artagnan’s slight nod before continuing. “I need to finish cleaning your feet and stitching the cuts. Do you want something for the pain before I continue?”

 

The Gascon bit his lip as he evaluated the throbbing of his soles. The right one didn’t feel too bad but the left one was on fire. Remembering the agony he’d felt when the knife had sliced across his feet, he gave another nod. “Alright,” Aramis smiled, grateful that the young man wasn’t determined to try and tough things out. He crossed to the table where he’d readied a pain draught, bringing the cup back with him and helping the Gascon drink. Staying seated on the edge of the bed afterwards, the medic tried engaging the boy in conversation as he waited for the medicine to take effect. “How long ago did they do this to you?”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes were unfocused as he gazed up at the ceiling, recalling how he’d been tied to the grist mill in the barn. “Yesterday morning,” he replied.

 

“It’s a good thing you had something to cover them with,” Aramis commented, thinking back to the dirty bandages he’d removed.

 

“Gave me supplies afterwards,” the Gascon explained, his eyes still fixed upwards. “Didn’t want to me to die too quickly,” he huffed mirthlessly, the action prompting him to cough weakly.

 

“I see,” the medic answered as he frowned, his mind recalling the Marquis’ dead body but feeling no remorse at what they’d had to do. Lightening his tone, Aramis said, “I’m going to clean your left foot now, and then I’ll add some of my needlework.” d’Artagnan didn’t reply, his eyelids growing heavy with the powerful draught he’d been given. “Try and sleep if you can.”

 

As the Gascon’s eyes closed and remained that way, the medic moved back to his previous spot, wringing the cloth out and applying it to the young man’s left sole. It took longer than Aramis would have liked, but he needed to be sure that every speck of dirt was gone. Despite the pain relief he’d provided, d’Artagnan had been pulled back to awareness with the burn of the wine he’d poured over the cuts. It was at that point that Athos had become aware of the boy’s distress, and had comforted him and kept him still while Aramis had finished. As bad as the alcohol had been, the stitches had been worse, and d’Artagnan had panted and moaned his way through them with his fingers clenched around Athos’ hand.

 

The older man had thrown an accusatory look at the medic after a particularly violent jerk of d’Artagnan’s foot, but Aramis had merely glared back at his friend as if to ask, “Do you really think I’m hurting him on purpose?” Athos’ expression turned conciliatory and Aramis gave a small dip of his chin in understanding, both of them on edge by the amount of pain being caused. As the medic placed the next stitch, he forced himself not to grimace in empathy, knowing fully the agony he was causing. There was a reason that cutting one’s feet was a favoured form of torture and, sadly, it was a more than effective motivator for anyone unlucky enough to experience it.

 

As he tied off the last stitch and cut the thread, he raised an arm to his face and wiped the sweat from his brow onto his shirtsleeve. He’d willingly taken on the role of medic for their group, but that didn’t mean it was easy for him to tend to his friends’ injuries. Placing his needle and thread on the small stool beside him, he leaned back in his chair, his face tilting upwards to catch Athos staring at him once more, but this time his expression was full of compassion. Aramis summoned a tired smile and gave a half-hearted shrug to let his friend know that he was alright. The older man looked unconvinced as he whispered, “Why don’t you get some rest now?”

 

The medic shook his head as he replied, “Still need to bandage these. Besides, you need the sleep more than I do.”

 

“He’s right,” a low voice agreed from the other side of the bed and Aramis looked over, surprised to see Porthos awake. The larger man shrugged nonchalantly, “You said you’d wake me when you were done anyway; so I’m awake.”

 

Aramis barely managed to stop from rolling his eyes, simply giving a brief nod of acquiescence, “Alright, I get the message.” Facing Athos, he said, “Go to sleep now. Your wound isn’t serious but you’re still at risk of infection. Besides,” his gaze turned to the Gascon, “I expect you’ll have your hands full with that one for the next few days.” He didn’t wait to see if Athos would do as he’d been told, and turned his focus to efficiently bandaging d’Artagnan’s feet. By the time he looked up from his task, the former comte’s soft snores had joined his protégé’s.

 

“Come on, then,” Porthos spoke from behind him, “let’s get you settled too.”

 

Aramis didn’t offer any words of protest and let himself be guided out of the chair and over to the pallet that Porthos had prepared on the floor. Smiling at his friend’s thoughtfulness, the marksman gave the man a nod of thanks. Porthos grinned easily in reply and returned to his chair, this time leaving it upright to watch over his friends. Minutes later, Aramis’ snores had joined the others’ and Porthos scrubbed a hand through his curls, his earlier smile fading as he worried over the health of his brothers.

Chapter Text

The human body is truly remarkable, able to continue functioning under extreme conditions and for long periods of time, far beyond what some would expect was possible. Of course, there was always a high price to pay afterwards, with most falling ill once removed from the traumatic events that forced them beyond their limits in the first place. Such was the case with d’Artagnan, the young man having been sleep-deprived, in ill-health, and physically abused for far too long. Therefore, it was unsurprising when he’d developed a low-grade fever by the following morning, soft coughs occasionally pushed from his chest, even while asleep. As if that wasn’t enough to make his friends worry, the Gascon also remained asleep throughout the day and the entire following night, rousing only enough to swallow when a cup was tipped to his lips. Unwilling to travel while d’Artagnan was unwell, Porthos arranged for a letter to be carried to Treville, advising him of their delayed return.

 

Aramis was diligent in caring for the young man, ensuring that the boy was woken every two hours to drink. He checked d’Artagnan’s wounds every four hours to confirm that they remained free of infection, being especially vigilant over the worrisome left foot but, for once, they seemed to have gotten lucky. Despite the medic’s positive reports, Athos could not be satisfied, refusing to believe his protégé was alright until he’d properly woken and eaten something of substance. As a result, it was Athos, not d’Artagnan, who caused Aramis the greatest concern as the older man practically made himself sick with anxiety. He was surly when the medic tried to clean and redress his wounds and barely ate, spending long hours sitting or lying next to d’Artagnan and barely interacting with his two worried friends.

 

It was an unwelcome truth, but Porthos and Aramis had experienced this side of Athos in the past, and there was little they could do but wait for the older man’s mood to run its course. On previous occasions, they’d tried to force, plead and even threaten the older man out of his moroseness, but those times had never ended well. Despite his strong love for his brothers, Athos had a deep streak of stubbornness and a vicious temper that would come to the fore when pressed to hard. Based on these experiences, the two men knew that the best they could do was to provide food and be there to listen if Athos should decide to talk; otherwise, their only option was to wait.

 

It was this thin veil of patience that Aramis found most trying and he glanced in Porthos’ direction, envying his friend’s outwardly calm appearance. It may have been the man’s upbringing in the Court of Miracles, the marksman mused, which had imbued Porthos with a greater ability to let go of those things outside of his control. That had never been Aramis’ forte, choosing instead to pursue what he desired with energy and passion, something that he’d grudgingly admit had gotten him into trouble from time to time.

 

As if sensing Aramis’ eyes on him, Porthos looked up and smiled, his hands still above the table where he sat, clasping the half-used deck of cards that he’d been entertaining himself with. The marksman was a few feet away, while Athos sat stock-still next to the bed, lost in whatever thoughts currently tormented him. In a voice slightly louder than a whisper, Porthos said, “He’ll be alright; just need to give him some time to work through things.”

 

Aramis couldn’t help his slightly annoyed expression at his friend’s ability to know exactly what was on his mind. Allowing a soft huff, he replied, “I know that, but what damage will he do to himself in the meantime?”

 

Porthos knew that the medic’s frustration was borne of concern, and he wished he could find a way to ease his friend’s troubled mind, “We’ve seen him do this before and he’s always come around. This time won’t be any different – we got d’Artagnan back.”

 

It was the last comment that drew Aramis’ attention – they’d gotten d’Artagnan back. It seemed like a naïve statement to make, believing that the presence of one man could make a difference, but the marksman knew the truth. If the Gascon had truly been executed, either by the King or by the Marquis, Athos’ despair would have been far deeper – possibly too deep for his friends to be able to pull him free. It was not simply the loss of a friend – no, a brother – but the blame that would weigh on the older man and which he would never forgive himself for if the Gascon had not survived.

 

Giving a sigh and a reluctant nod, Aramis conceded Porthos’ point, “I know. I just hate that he does this to himself. He should be resting instead of brooding at d’Artagnan’s side.”

 

The words brought another smile to Porthos’ lips as he remarked, “No one does brooding quite like Athos.” His eyes flicked towards the older man and was pleased to see a flash of recognition in the former comte’s eyes; he might be silent, but he was not unaware of his surroundings, which Porthos counted as a positive sign.

 

When the next day dawned, Athos was sitting upright in bed, having conceded to the medic’s request that he move from the chair and at least fret in comfort. Had he been less consumed by the condition of the young man resting at his side, he might have argued with Aramis and denied that he was moping about everything that had transpired. After a moment’s thought, he’d concluded that neither of his friends would believe him regardless, knowing him far too well to be fooled by any of his protestations of wellbeing. Instead, he contemplated in silence, worrying at every hitch in d’Artagnan’s breath and every twinge of discomfort that appeared in the lines on his young face.

 

He knew that Aramis and Porthos understood his sense of culpability in what had happened although they refused to agree with his conclusions. Both men, in their own ways, had tried to dissuade him of feelings of guilt, but it was not their forgiveness he needed, but d’Artagnan’s. Until the Gascon awoke so they might speak, Athos could only go through the motions of being alive, ignoring the persistent ache in his flank and the weariness in his limbs.

 

He’d tried to eat the food he’d been offered, but the smell alone had been enough to turn his stomach so he’d pushed it away. Each time he’d closed his eyes, he’d been assaulted by images of d’Artagnan’s severed head, his eyes staring at Athos accusingly as the blood pooled around it. Worst of all was the cloying smell of iron that accompanied the nightmares, seeming so real that he awoke gasping for air, his heart racing and his limbs trembling. It was better to not to sleep. Slowly, hour by hour, his body and mind were falling apart, and he prayed that d’Artagnan woke soon before there was nothing left of him.

 

Porthos and Aramis were still asleep on pallets near the fire and were unaware of the first indications that d’Artagnan was waking. It was a slow process, heralded first by the gentle twitching of fingers. Next, came a deeper breath, which prompted several soft coughs and a furrowing of the young man’s brow. The Gascon was in no hurry, however, and it was over a minute before he slowly stretched, moaning in discomfort as the motion awoke the throbbing in his hip and feet, and the residual pain in his abdomen from the hours of cramping he’d been forced to endure.

 

Given all the time that Athos had spent waiting for the boy to wake, he found himself watching now with a sense of trepidation, the time for their conversation drawing near. Despite his anxiety, the young man’s movements finally began to thaw the fear that had been freezing his heart, and Athos couldn’t help the involuntary shiver that ran through him. Pulling his blanket more tightly around his shoulders, the older man reached a tremulous hand toward d’Artagnan’s, hesitating for a moment before grasping it.

 

On some level, the Gascon must have been aware of the touch, and his fingers curled around Athos’ warm hand, squeezing it weakly. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, the older man tried to withdraw but d’Artagnan tightened his hold, turning his head instinctively in his mentor’s direction. Moments later, Athos found himself looking into the young man’s cloudy brown eyes, blinking languidly after being asleep for so long. “d’Artagnan?” The older man’s voice was barely audible, but the Gascon’s lips turned upwards in a faint smile. Athos couldn’t help himself, his relief at seeing his protégé alive, if not exactly well, dispelling the gloom that had been hanging over him and lightening his expression.

 

Finding himself squeezing d’Artagnan’s hand in return, Athos said, “It is good to see you awake.” His statement was sorely inadequate at expressing his utter relief at the Gascon’s return to consciousness, but the stress of the past days seemed to have taken away his ability for anything resembling eloquent speech.

 

Regardless, the comment made d’Artagnan’s smile widen and he drew a deep breath in preparation to speak, only to find himself curling inwards as he was racked by coughs instead. The fit wasn’t nearly as strong as those he’d been experiencing earlier, but the young man’s body had been weakened and the action pulled on the sore muscles of his midsection. Forcing himself to take shallower breaths, he eventually uncurled and rolled onto his back, his free arm lying across his tender stomach. Athos, in the meantime, had reached for the cup of water next to the bed, ignoring the pull on his wounds as he twisted his torso to reach it.

 

When the older man brought the cup into d’Artagnan’s line of sight, the Gascon struggled to push himself up onto one elbow, pulling his hand free from Athos’ in the process. His hand was shaky as he gripped the cup and brought it to his mouth, but the water it contained was cool and refreshing, and calmed the incessant itch in his throat that made him want to cough. When he’d finished drinking, he handed the empty vessel back to Athos, allowing himself to fall back against the mattress. Turning his head so he could see his friend, he took in the deep bruising beneath both overly bright eyes, finally speaking to ask, “Athos, are you alright?”

 

“Am I alright?” the older man dumbly repeated. “It’s you we’ve all been worried about, d’Artagnan. How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon took several seconds to take stock, noting the dull ache of his hip and the sharper pain in his feet, the left one especially tender. His body felt heavy and generally sore but despite that, he felt better than he had in days. Answering honestly, he replied, “Actually, I feel pretty good, considering.” The last word was spoken with a hint of a smile and Athos felt another band of fear loosen, finding it suddenly easier to take a deep breath.

 

“Good,” Athos breathed out, “that’s very, very good.”

 

The odd comment made d’Artagnan frown and he struggled upwards once more, intending to sit up against the wall at his back, but the moment he planted a foot down with which to push himself upwards, his sole erupted with a sharp pain. The Gascon gasped, curling over with a hand reaching down towards the source of his pain. Athos caught the hand and held it tightly in his own, coaching the young man to breathe through his discomfort. Several long seconds later, Athos could feel d’Artagnan’s grip relaxing as the initial agony ebbed and dulled to a more manageable throb. Blinking against the moisture in his eyes, the young man looked up at his friend as he explained, “Forgot about that.”

 

Athos’ lips thinned, unhappy that the Gascon had caused himself more pain. “Aramis has cleaned and stitched both of your feet, but it will be many days before you can walk without pain.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a nod, having already concluded the same. “And you,” he asked, “how are your wounds?”

 

Athos looked uncomfortable at the question and retracted his hand from the young man’s, using it to once more tug the blanket around his shoulders closer. “I’m fine.”

 

Although Athos was normally a man of few words, his abrupt assertion of his wellbeing seemed out of place and in conflict with his appearance. Shimmying upwards, this time on his side so that his feet didn’t bear his weight, d’Artagnan managed to lean his upper shoulders against the wall. A quick scan of the room found Aramis and Porthos sleeping near the fireplace, removing the option of questioning them about Athos’ condition. Settling back as comfortably as he could, d’Artagnan asked, “Will we be held accountable for the Marquis’ death?” Even though he’d been present in the sitting room, his memory of events was badly fragmented, having missed portions of the evening while doubled over in pain.

 

“No,” Athos answered quickly. “His son seemed to recognize that we were at an impasse of sorts, and as the new Marquis, he was eager to remain in the King’s favour.” At d’Artagnan’s confused expression, he explained further, “He traded his silence about the circumstances of his father’s death in exchange for our silence regarding their treatment of you.” The words seemed to land bitterly on Athos’ tongue and were accompanied by a look of distaste.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head slowly, “I can’t believe that all of this stemmed from my promise to Lenoir. I wonder if he would have told me to do things differently if he’d known.”

 

Athos could see the young man beginning to again question his actions and stepped in to stop the process before it could go too far, “d’Artagnan, you did nothing wrong and neither did Lenoir. He was far more experienced than you and likely knew his wound was grave. The last thing he could offer you was the gift of time so you and the Captain might get away.”

 

The Gascon looked unconvinced as he bit his lower lip for a moment before replying, “But, Athos, what if I could have saved him?”

 

Compassion filling his eyes, Athos softly countered, “d’Artagnan, do you really believe the Captain would have allowed Lenoir’s sacrifice if he believed that to be possible?”

 

The young man’s eyes widened as he stared at his mentor, “You think they both knew that Lenoir was dying?”

 

Athos gave a mild one-sided shrug as he answered, “It would make sense. In all my years, I have never known the Captain to place his life above anyone else’s – I cannot imagine that he would do so in this instance unless that life was already forfeit.”

 

d’Artagnan clenched his hand into a fist, his breathing beginning to quicken with his anger, “Why didn’t they tell me?”

 

Gripping the young man’s fingers and closing his hand around them, Athos replied, “What difference would it have made?”

 

The Gascon was shocked at the question and prepared to argue that it would have made all the difference in the world, but then he caught sight of the empathy in his mentor’s eyes. Athos had not asked the question to be cruel but to point out that his decision would have been the same, or perhaps even harder, d’Artagnan feeling even worse about the thought of letting Lenoir die alone. It had been a terrible choice to make, but the lack of information didn’t change things, and the young man gave a shaky nod at the realization. “There was no way this could have played out any differently, is there?” he asked, the resignation clear in his tone.

 

Athos’ eyes dropped as he pulled his hand back, the guilt of his actions roaring to the forefront. “Not as a result of your choices, no,” he replied, searching for the words that wouldn’t come. Several moments passed in quiet before the older man spoke again, “I should have been more careful in my letter to the King.” d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as his friend continued, “I was worried that we might be overcome by the enemy before reaching Paris, and didn’t want Lenoir’s sacrifice to be overlooked. It was foolish of me, I know, but it seemed to weigh heavily on you and I’d hoped this would help.”

 

Athos stopped again, licking dry lips and he sought the words to go on. “When we saw you executed,” he trailed off, his eyes closing in pain as the image flashed through his mind. Opening his lids, he tried again, “When we thought you’d been executed, I feared I’d lost my opportunity to make things right between us.”

 

This time it was the Gascon’s hand that reached for Athos’, pulling it away from its grip on the blanket and holding it close as he recognized the guilt flickering in his mentor’s eyes. “No, Athos, you aren’t to blame for this. If anyone is, then it’s Lenoir’s family and their ties to the King.”

 

Athos drew in a shaky breath, his eyes glistening with moisture, and d’Artagnan’s anxiety grew at the man’s unusual behaviour. “I thought I’d lost another brother,” he said brokenly, beginning to slip sideways towards the Gascon.

 

d’Artagnan struggled to reposition himself, catching the man in his arms before he could topple the rest of the way to the mattress. As he looped his arms around his friend, he became aware of the heat pouring from the older man, suddenly realizing how boneless his body was. “Athos?” the Gascon called, trying to manoeuver them so that he could see his mentor’s face. “Athos,” he tried once more, but there was still no reply. Turning his head towards the fire, d’Artagnan called again, panic beginning to take hold and making his voice rise, “Aramis!”

 

The medic’s reaction was immediate as he sat up, his eyes searching for the source of the sound before his brain had caught up. From the bed, the Gascon watched as the medic woke, Porthos making motions to do the same. As soon as the marksman’s eyes met his, d’Artagnan spoke, “Aramis, there’s something wrong with Athos.” 

---

Athos would later apologize to his friends for worrying them – and for his stupidity. His neglect of his own basic needs as he’d waited for d’Artagnan to wake had let infection take hold in his wounds, and his weakened state had left him with almost no reserves with which to battle the resulting fever. It had resulted in a tense three days for the friends as they slowly cooled his overheated body and coaxed him to drink, finally managing to build up his strength enough to recover.

 

Through it all, the Gascon had remained at his mentor’s side although, in truth, he’d had little choice, Aramis having restricted him to bed until his feet and hip had begun to heal. He was not even allowed to ride his horse when they’d finally departed for home, although it made him feel better that Athos had been relegated to the wagon as well. Upon their return to the garrison, he’d been promptly bundled back into his bed, barely allowed to place any weight on his injured feet as Aramis and Porthos almost carried him upstairs. He’d wanted to protest and, most importantly, speak to Treville about the status of the charges against him, but the medic had adamantly refused and ordered Athos to stay with the Gascon until he and Porthos returned.

 

It took them nearly an hour but the two men brought food and good news with them. As they ate, d’Artagnan in his bed and the others seated around him, they shared what they’d learned from Treville. First and foremost, Porthos was happy to report that the King had heard the Captain’s testimony and cleared the Gascon of any wrongdoing. Further, in his embarrassment, Louis had agreed with Treville that the Marquis’ actions were untenable and supported the Musketeers’ actions in retrieving d’Artagnan from his estate. Of course, the King had stipulated that these orders were to be carried out with a lack of violence, but Treville was satisfied that the new Marquis would uphold his end of their bargain.

 

Next, Aramis was happy to report on the Captain’s recovery. After many days in Dr. Lemay’s diligent care, Treville was out of danger and back on his feet, even though he’d been ordered to take things slowly for at least another week. Both men then took up the tale, taking turns as they described the letter that Louis had received from the Dutch Ambassador, which stated that he’d been attacked on his way to Calais. Apparently the band of men had been determined to prevent a meeting between the Dutch and French parties, worrying that improved ties between the two would strengthen the former’s resolve to acquire their independence from Spain.

 

The Ambassador had successfully managed to evade his pursuers and had sent a message of warning as soon as it had been safe to do so, not realizing that Treville was already back in Paris by the time the missive had arrived. The King had been suitably outraged, sensing Spain’s involvement, but a meeting with the Spanish Ambassador had provided no further insights. Without proof, Louis had been forced to leave the situation be, lest his accusations further strain the already tenuous ties between his and his wife’s countries.

 

By the time they were finished speaking, they’d all finished their meals and had moved well beyond their first bottle of wine, the alcohol warming them from within. Both Athos and d’Artagnan were flagging, their bodies energy still turned inwards as they repaired themselves, and Aramis and Porthos shared amused smiles as the two injured men tried to stave off sleep. Porthos had escorted Athos home, while Aramis had double-checked on the Gascon, reminding him once more to stay in bed before heading for his own room to rest.

 

The enforced inactivity over the next couple of days was difficult for d’Artagnan, but each attempt at walking had him cringing at the pain in his feet and hip. It would be at least another few days before he could comfortably move around on his own, and his friends did their best to entertain him in the meantime. All of them had been there earlier, but the young man saw no reason for his friends to suffer and had finally convinced Aramis and Porthos to take some time to relax and enjoy themselves, leaving him with Athos at his side. Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to get the older man to go and finally felt the need to ask why his mentor refused to leave. “Athos, you know that I’m alright.” The older man looked up from the book he’d been reading to listen to the young man. “Why do you insist on staying here?”

 

With a thoughtful expression on his face, Athos replied, “When I was a small boy, my father related a tale told to him by another. In truth, I’ve no idea of its origin beyond the fact that the original storyteller was a traveller who’d recently spent time in the Orient.” He glanced at d’Artagnan and saw he had the other man’s full attention. “From what I understand, the belief is that saving another’s life makes one responsible for it.”

 

The statement was not at all what the Gascon had expected to hear, and he looked at his mentor with interest as he asked, “Do you really believe that?”

 

Athos shrugged as he replied, “I save your life; you save mine. In some instances, we forfeit our lives for another.” Although it had not been the older man’s intention, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but react to his friend’s words, the guilt at being alive while Lenoir had sacrificed himself surging forth once more.

Athos saw the flash of despair on the young man’s face, but he wasn’t finished yet. “It is the way we live as Musketeers and as brothers.” Allowing a faint smile to lighten his features, the older man added. ”Of course, I do admit to a certain interest in keeping you safe after having gone to such trouble to keep you alive in the first place.” The Gascon looked uncertain about how to respond and Athos realized that a more sombre tone was required. Holding the young man’s gaze, he stated, “d’Artagnan, this is not a burden. I consider it an honour to be your keeper, just as you are mine. We are, all of us, bound to one another.”

 

While the first part of Athos’ statement made the Gascon feel lighter, it was the latter part that made him flush with pride at the thought that the other man was happy to place his life into d’Artagnan’s hands. Turning his mind next to the others, he realized that under Athos’ definition, they were all each other’s protectors. The insight washed away the last of his guilt over the events with Lenoir and Treville, and he relaxed back into the pillows at his back.

 

With a mischievous glint in his eye, the Gascon asked, “Does that mean Porthos will take care of keeping me well fed by brining my meals? And Aramis will keep me from over-exerting myself by helping with my duties?” His shy smile broadening into a grin, he continued, “And you’ll…” He trailed off at the dangerous narrowing of Athos’ eyes, his grin faltering as he reconsidered his words, “You’ll protect me from boredom by keeping me company?”

 

Athos seemed to consider the young man’s question before his lips quirked into a smile, “That seems reasonable.”

 

The broad grin returned to d’Artagnan’s face as Athos leaned back in his chair, re-opening the book on his lap as he pretended to read. The Gascon didn’t care as he let his eyes close, content to get the sleep his body was demanding while his brother watched over him.

 

End.