Constance is sewing another dress for the baby, humming quietly to herself. Every now and then the baby kicks, her whole stomach moving, and she passes her hand gently over the bulge, enjoying the feeling of the life inside her.

The quiet is broken by the clomping of boots on the wooden stairs. She doesn't move from her chair or look up but smiles to herself. She feels the kiss on the top of her head and leans into him as he puts his arms around her. She murmurs a greeting.

When he doesn't answer she suspects something is wrong. She pushes him away just enough to rise up and look at him. "What happened?"

"The king is planning a state visit to Savoy."

"And you have to accompany him?" she asks.

He merely nods.

"How long?"

"We leave in two days. We shouldn't be gone more than three weeks."

"Everything should be fine then. I have another month to go at least. Don't worry, you won't miss the baby coming." She pulls him into a hug and strokes his back, trying to ease his concern.

She feels him nod into her shoulder, holding her even tighter.

"Hey, careful, you'll squash us!" she teases, and receives a little chuckle in response. "Now let me go. I need to get started on dinner."

"Sit down," he instructs her. "I'll do it."

Constance discovered d'Artagnan's love of the kitchen early on in their friendship and it certainly didn't work against him as their relationship progressed. In the routine they established since their marriage the others joined them often for dinner. While at first her husband's culinary skills were a laughing matter they soon became something for which all were grateful.

Coming into the kitchen later, Constance catches parts of a harsh whispered conversation between Aramis and Athos.

"-can stay here. You don't have to join us."

"While the queen and Louis go to Savoy?"

"You'll be no use if it's anything like last time."

The two break apart when they notice her coming into the room, and she pretends to have heard nothing, putting on her best innocuous smile.

As they sit down to eat one seems very hungry, pushing the food around their plates. The atmosphere is strained. There has been no laughter, no teasing, none of the things that she has come to associate with this family of hers.

"Okay, enough. If Porthos isn't hungry hell has frozen over. What on earth is going on? This isn't just about leaving me and the baby is it?" She moves her eyes from one to the next. They all look down at the table, trying to avoid her eyes. "Come on, what is going on here?" she demands, "you're starting to scare me."

Aramis pushes his plate away from him and leans back in his chair, running his fingers through his messy hair. He is the first to meet her eyes. In an instant of recognition she claps her hands to her mouth. She jumps up and goes over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Of course, she thinks, Savoy.

"I'm so sorry," she starts, "it must be this baby, making me stupid, I completely forgot. Forgive me?"

He takes her hand and kisses it with a flourish. "Of course, madame d'Artagnan, you have nothing to apologize for." Normally this show of formality would make her and the others laugh, but this time the topic is too serious. The others are still studiously examining their plates.

"That's not all though, is it?" she asks. She moves around the table to her husband's chair. He doesn't meet her gaze.

"You never told her?"

"Porthos!" Athos growls out, "how many times have I told you not to get involved in other people's domestic affairs."

Porthos looks suitably abashed but Constance see an opening. Porthos is the most open of them all, the most likely to put his foot in it, but the most outwardly loving and always trying to please. She also knows how to scare him witless.

She returns to her seat and looks straight at him, "So Porthos, care to share? Or would you prefer garrison food for the next three months?" She reaches over to take his plate away.

"Unfair!" He calls out.

"Constance, don't scare the poor man," says d'Artagnan in a voice so quiet that his formidable wife sinks back into her chair. "Something else happened in Savoy, when we were…. um….."

She crosses her arms protectively over her swollen stomach and leans back, waiting for him to go on. Neither of them likes talking of those months in which they were rather separated. It's like a closed book, a part of their lives that they have put aside, forgotten, not allowing it to mar what they have now.

She notices that his hand has moved instinctively to his right side, exactly the spot where a long thin scar marks his torso. She has asked him about it before, but he has always shaken his head, indicating that he doesn't want to talk about it, unlike all those other scars, about which he regales her with tales of bravado and/or stupidity.

"Go on." She instructs.

"If we are going to talk about this I need more wine," declares Athos, pushing his chair back and rising.

"You always need more wine," complains Aramis, "although on this occasion I happen to concur."

"Do we have to do this?" asks Porthos. "Can't we just, you know, play cards or something?"

Constance fixes him with the death stare and he sinks back into his chair.

"We went to Savoy, all of us, just after I became a musketeer." D'Artagnan begins.

"And we would really rather not go back," mutters Athos.

"The king had a letter for his sister, which had to be passed directly into her hands. After seeing me fight he decided to give me the task of delivering it to her, under the cover of an official letter for her husband, and I was to bring back her reply," d'Artagnan begins.

"Of course, we couldn't let him run off on his own. He didn't even know how to tie his own shoe laces back then," chimes in Porthos.

"Or to polish his sword properly for that matter," Aramis adds.

The atmosphere has lightened significantly, enough for d'Artagnan to throw a piece of bread at Aramis' head.

"So I volunteered to go with him, and watch the young musketeer in training," says Athos, raising his cup to his lips and taking a long swig.

"Take two more," Treville orders them, "there's safety in numbers, especially in a mission like this."

"We can take Draynard and Barenz," suggested Athos.

"No you will not," Aramis stormed into Treville's office, "you are not going off to Savoy with those idiots."

"Aramis, calm yourself," says D'artagnan, turning to face him, "we'll be fine."

"No. Those two are not good enough. If you are going to Savoy I am coming with you."

Porthos stands in the door way, looking guilty. "I thought we agreed not to tell him?" Athos complains.

"I'm a bad liar," says Porthos with a shrug of his shoulders, "especially to Aramis."

"What, you thought you'd just disappear off to Savoy without telling me? What kind of idiots are you? You can't even take a splinter out without me, let alone hit a target."

"We're not quite that helpless," protests d'Artagnan, eliciting a black look from Aramis.

"I will not lose more friends to Savoy! If you go, I'm coming with you." He declares, before storming out.

"Well, that went better than expected," mutters Treville. The others just stare at him, before shaking their heads and following their friend.

"It actually went off quite well. We got there, delivered the letters, got the official reply, took the Duchess' secret epistle, and were off on our way again," continues d'Artagnan, "the only problem was that the Duke apparently suspected something. He sent a group of soldiers after us to go and get the letters. He was convinced that we had a missive from a spy."

Their spirits were high as they rode through the forest. Soon enough they would be out of Savoy, away from the bad memories. Even Aramis was beginning to brighten a little. They had relaxed into easy teasing and joking.

They stopped to get water by a small stream, taking a well earned break from sitting on the bottom-numbing saddles. D'Artagnan lay back on the bank of the stream, Porthos leaned against a tree, Athos opened his wineskin and drank deep. Aramis continued to pace, wanting to get moving again. He didn't want to stay in the area any longer than was absolutely necessary.

They got the horses ready and were just about to mount when a twig snapped in the vicinity. In seconds all were alert and ready for battle, hands on swords or pistols. The enemy was upon them in minutes, one of them going straight for the saddle backs to search through the letters. In the midst of a sword fight, d'Artagnan took a moment to feel pleased that the letter from the Duchess was stuffed down his trousers.

The enemy outnumbered them, but that wasn't a problem. Their sword play was masterful, as always, and very soon the numbers evened out. However as he brought down his opponent d'Artagnan suddenly noticed Aramis, standing with his back to a tree. The other man was fixed to the spot, completely rigid, eyes distant. He was locked in a flashback. And an enemy soldier was about to kill him.

Without a second thought the Gascon launched himself towards Aramis, pushing him out of the way. Aramis fell to the ground, followed by d'Artagnan. The enemy's sword found its way through the young musketeer's side, piercing him and entering the ground under him. The solider stopped, finding himself unarmed, his sword sticking out of d'Artagnan's lower torso. Before he was able to pull himself together and withdraw sword, d'Artagnan had used his last moments of adrenalin fuelled energy to grab his pistol and shoot the man through the heart.

At the sound of a shot the others turned. Seeing d'Artagnan and Aramis on the ground they made quick work of their last opponents, before running over the join their friends. Aramis had curled into a ball next to d'Artaganan. The Gascon, meanwhile, lay on his back, stuck to the ground by a sword through his side.

"The sword went through my side but managed to miss anything important. It just left me impaled on the ground," d'Artagnan informs his wife.

"I've seen a lot of injuries in my time, but that was really horrible," Porthos remembers.

"Yes, it was terrible for you," complains d'Artagnan bitterly.

"It was terrible for us watching Porthos throw up his breakfast," says Athos.

"And the resident medic was somewhat indisposed, unfortunately," Aramis mutters, looking down.

"Porthos, get back over here and deal with Aramis!" commands Athos, crouching down in front of his wounded friend.

D'Artagnan's face is horribly pale and beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. His eyes are bright with pain and fear, but he doesn't let out so much as a whimper. Athos is rather impressed.

"Hey, your first wound as a musketeer," Athos tells him, "look at me, d'Artagnan," he wants to stop him from looking at the sword in his side, "it's going to be fine. Okay?"

D'Artagnan doesn't seem able to find the words to answer, but he does nod his head slightly.

Athos puts a hand to his cheek, cups it with almost fatherly affection. He has no idea what to do, how to help, apart from offering whatever comfort he can.

"Stay with me, focus on me," he keeps repeating like a mantra, but all the time listening with half an ear to the other conversation going on next to him.

Porthos has checked Aramis over and found no wounds. He has uncurled the other's lanky body and is trying to sit him up, shake him, bring him back to reality. Aramis has started mumbling and Athos catches snatches of what he says and knows exactly where he is now, and exactly why this was the worst idea they had ever had.

He doesn't want to take his eyes off d'Artagnan for even one second, scared that in that moment he will slip away. And the young man is looking at him, pleading, like he needs the comfort, needs the presence. But Porthos is failing miserably.

"Porthos, swap with me," he commands.

The two exchange places and he hears Porthos begin to speak softly to d'Aragnan, not telling him stupid platitudes like Athos had done, but talking about what they are going to do when they get back to Paris, which inns they will go to, where they will find him some pretty girls. Athos grabs hold of Aramis' shoulders and looks into his eyes. They stare back at him blankly, his lips moving all the time. He hates to do this but knows he has no choice. Otherwise, Aramis will never forgive himself. Athos draws back his hand and slaps his friend across the face.

Porthos and d'Artagnan are both stunned by the act and for a second Athos fear it hasn't worked, was all for nothing. But slowly, Aramis brings a hand to his face, blinks and sees Athos.

"What-" he starts.

"No time for that now. You need to pull yourself together. D'Artagnan is hurt and you are the only one who knows what to do, remember? We can't even get a splinter out without you."

Aramis turns slowly to look at their youngest member and a look of shock spreads over his face.

"No, no, no, no," he repeats, shaking his head, "no, please no, I did this, this is because of me."

"Enough!" shouts Athos, "there will be ample time for self pity later. For now pull yourself together and do what you do best."

Aramis nods and Athos helps him to his feet. The two kneel by d'Artagnan and Athos places a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"'mis," he croaks out, "not your fault."

Aramis smiles wryly at his young friend's attempts to assuage his guilt. He inspects the wound, the angle and considers for a moment what to do. He shakes his head.

"I can't sew him up here. We don't have the supplies and the light is fading. I need somewhere clean and warm."

"But we can't move him around with a sword in his side," says Porthos.

"Ten points for observation," comments Aramis, "we're going to have to take it out. The only problem is the sword is stopping him from losing all his blood." Aramis finally seems to be coming back to himself. "Porthos rip your cloak into strips, long ones. Athos, I need you to support d'Artagnan from behind."

The two do as they are told. Aramis notices that d'Artagnan's eyes are drifting closed.

"Rest, it's better if you're not awake for this. I won't lie, it's going to hurt." The younger man can only nod his head in reply.

Athos maneuvers himself behind the Gascon, causing him to hiss in pain. He supports him at an angle that will allow them to pull out the sword.

Once the strips are ready Porthos hands them to Aramis. "Porthos, I want you to pull out the sword, quickly and in one go. Athos, hold him so he doesn't move. I will wrap the strips around him immediately to try and stop the bleeding. Understand?" the others signal that they do, "then on three."

Aramis is amazed that d'Artagnan doesn't cry out. He struggles a little, but Athos holds him tight, he bites down on his lip, drawing blood, but he doesn't scream. As Porthos draws out the sword, Aramis is ready with the makeshift bandage, wrapping it around his friend's torso with dexterous fingers. By the time he has finished d'Artagnan has given in to the pain and lost consciousness.

"It's holding for now," declares Aramis, "we need to move and find the nearest village outside Savoy."

Athos rides with the unconscious Gascon, holding the reins with one hand, the other making sure that his precious cargo doesn't fall off, and that the bandage remains in place. It feels like hours before they cross the border and are back in France, although in reality it is not, and like an eternity until they reach a village with an inn, where Aramis commandeers a wooden table, a lot of brandy and begins to sew up their wounded friend. His hands shake as he looks at the task in front of him. He has sewn up the others so many times, but this is his first time working on d'Artagnan. Sure, there were some cuts and bruises after the Vadim affair and even after Labarge, but this is something else. A real wound. He needs to sew up the entry and exits points and it will leave a long scar on his back and front.

"What's going on, Aramis?" Porthos asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I…I can't…" he stutters.

"You have to," Porthos says gently, "you're his only chance. We're here with you. We won't leave."

By the time he is finished Aramis is exhausted, emotionally and physically. They take a room at the inn, moving d'Artagnan carefully to a bed and covering him with blankets. He is shivering and feverish, and they all know what that means.

"Sleep Aramis," Athos tells him, pointing at the second bed, "I'll take first watch. You too Porthos"

"No wine, Athos," Aramis instructs him, "and wake me if you need to."

Athos does need to wake them, twice through the night, when d'Artagnan tosses so feverishly that Athos is sure he will tear open the stitches and bleed again. They desperately try to cool him with damp cloths. But when the tossing stops the shivering begins. Unable to keep him still in any other way, Athos lies down next to him on the bed, and this seems to calm the young man.

At first light Aramis sets off to look for help in the village, in the form of herbs, medicines or maybe even a surgeon. While the latter is lacking he returns with herbs which he grinds up and dilutes with water, making a draught to help with the pain.

It is two agonizing days before the fever breaks, and another day of interminable waiting before their young friend opens his eyes again. Porthos has worn a hole in the floorboards from pacing. The others have sent him out to play poker and pick a fight in the drinking room, unable to stand the tension any longer. Athos, knowing that Aramis has regained his control and d'Artagnan appears to be out of danger, has allowed himself a few drinks. He is now slumped on the bed next to d'Artagnan, since whenever he tried to leave the Gascon seemed to become more agitated, snoring loudly. Aramis sits on the vacant chair next to the bed.

The first sound that d'Artagnan becomes aware of is the rhythmic but incredibly annoying deep rumbling of Athos' snores. As he crawls his way out of unconsciousness he begins to feel the pain throbbing in his side, burning from back and front. He also feels a weight on his good side, something pinning him down. Frightened by this realization his eyes spring open and he attempts to move. But Aramis is up and at his side in seconds.

"Don't move, stay still, I don't want you to ruin my pretty needlework."

D'Artagnan looks at him in confusion and then turns to see what his holding him down. He can't help but chuckle when he sees the mound of Athos leaning on him, snoring heavily, although the chuckling hurts and he stops as quickly as he had begun. He sinks back into the pillows and looks at Aramis, who pours water into a cup and brings it to his parched lips, allowing him only tiny sips.

"I am so sorry, d'Artagnan. This was all my fault. You nearly died because I couldn't hold it together. I can never forgive myself for that. And I understand if you cannot either."

"'Mis," he begins, hating how his voice sounds, how weak he feels, "if you hadn't been there who would have sewed me up?"

"If I hadn't been there, you wouldn't have been hurt protecting me!" Aramis shouts back.

D'Artagnan winces at his raised voice and Athos lifts his head from the bed to look at them with bleary eyes. "Shush! Some of us are trying to sleep," he slurs, before collapsing back onto the mattress.

"I'm sorry," says Aramis, hanging his head, "I'm just so ashamed."

D'Artagnan has never seen Aramis like this, stripped bare before him. Not even with Marsac. This is something else. There is no pretence, no confidence, just sadness, and shame. He's so raw, so hurt, like a small child begging for forgiveness. With effort he lifts up his arm, which doesn't seem to do what he wants, and takes Aramis' hand in his own.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Aramis. You are a soldier and a fighter, but more than anything you are a man, and you are my friend. There is nothing to forgive. Tell me, would you not take a bullet for me?"

"Well of course…"

"So why would I not take a sword for you?" he asks. Aramis seems stumped by this.

"Is it because I am young, new, that you feel you have to protect me? If so, then stop. I am one of you now, you need to treat me as such. If you feel you have to look after me, you will all end up getting yourselves killed. And how will I feel then?"

"Kid has a point," murmurs Athos from the bed, "but can you shut up now? My head hurts."

Aramis can't help but laugh.

"You are truly one of us now. You even have the scar to prove it."

At that moment the door crashes open and Porthos comes in, grinning from ear to ear, with a big bag of winnings. His eyes light up to see that the Gascon is conscious. "Glad you're awake, d'Artagnan," he bellows.

"Yes, it is good you are on the mend. The rate Porthos is winning money in this place we will need to leave very soon!" adds Aramis.

"Now that we've established that we are all happy can we please be quiet?" demands Athos. Porthos hits him over the back of his head affectionately. "Oh Athos, anyone would think you don't care."

"Of course not," says Athos drily. "That's why I stayed up for three nights straight and didn't even touch a drop of wine." He raises himself up and looks at d'Artagnan properly. "How are you feeling?" he asks, more quietly.

"Like I've been run through with a sword," d'Artagnan replies.

"Nothing unexpected then, under the circumstances," says Athos, smiling for the first time in days. "Just one thing. It was great to hide the letter, just next time, maybe a somewhere a little less personal. There are things I don't need to see…"

Constance sits in silence once the story is over. Although a part of her understands why they don't like to talk about this, a part of her is angry at them for keeping her outside, in the dark. But when she looks around at them, at her boys, seeing how lost and saddened they are by this memory, she can't stay angry for very long.

"Well you'd better make sure you do better this time, the lot of you, understand? This baby needs a father and three uncles. If you think I plan on doing all the night time feeds you are sorely mistaken."

And with that she rises from the table and busies herself collecting the plates. D'Artagnan rises and goes to her, taking her in his arms, which almost don't reach around her anymore with the big bulge between them.

"And that," he says, placing a kiss on the top of her head, "is why I love you."

Later that night, as she lies in bed, her head on his chest, Constance traces the line of the scar on his torso with her finger. Afterwards she caresses the one made by the bullet Athos fired. As she does so, she chuckles to herself.

"What's funny?" her husband asks.

"Oh, I was just thinking that Aramis and Athos have managed to give you scars. It must be Porthos' turn next."