Title: Last of Them

Fandom: The Musketeers, BBC

Author: gaelicspirit

Characters: d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, Treville - GEN

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line; I like to work quotes in here and there if I can.

Summary: Set post Season 1. It's an unwritten rule of the Musketeers not to delve too deeply into another man's past; it's simply enough to be one of the brotherhood. But when their Captain goes missing, the Musketeers realize the only way to save him is to learn what he's kept hidden for so long. And these men would willingly go through Hell to rescue the man who at one time saved them all.

Author's Note: As I wasn't booed off the stage with my first Musketeer fic attempt, I decided to give it another go. I wrote the bulk of this over one long weekend; it was initially intended to be a one-shot, then became a ridiculously long one-shot, and then grew chapters, each chapter becoming longer than the other. So, if you like your h/c with a heavy dose of plottage, well then, I wrote this for you.

This idea was triggered by a comment TheTetrarch [on AO3] made regarding Captain Treville. However, I'm fairly certain that this end result took a bit of a left turn from the initial prompt. *shifty eyes* I've alternated between d'Artagnan's and Athos' point-of-view as I find them rather like book-ends and infinitely interesting to write.

I feel I must note that I've taken quite a bit of artistic liberty with this story. Though I have read the novels, it's been awhile and I'm completely enjoying the possibilities wrought by the storylines in the BBC show. Therefore, I hope the Dumas' purists out there who choose to read can forgive me for imagining different pasts and personality traits than what may have been captured in the original tale.

That said, I have pulled several names and locations from Dumas' own history to make up for stomping all over his narrative. Hope you enjoy!

"It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live."

Alexander Dumas

Reconnaissance

The rain fell in heavy sheets, sending the already cool night air to frigid and causing d'Artagnan's exhale to dance like a cloud in the lantern light.

It was usually warmer in the Musketeer livery; the bodies of the mounts slotted into the side-by-side stalls insulated with stacks of straw helped ward off the chill of the night. When the large door was shut, he found it almost more inviting to stay in the livery than his own quarters in the garrison. Tonight, however, the large door remained open, specifically so that he could hear the rain.

Tomorrow, it would be a year; it had been raining that night as well.

It had been the rain that had driven him to encourage his father to stop. With no hat to shield him, and his cloak completely drenched through, he'd been breathing the rain, blinking it from his lashes, and feeling it hit the back of his throat as he'd opened his mouth to call out to his father. The chill had settled into his bones; a chill that had never really left him except in small pockets of time when the light from his companions drove out the shadows in his heart.

Thunder rolled through the sky, sounding like a stampede in the clouds, and a flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the barn, causing several of the horses to snort and stomp nervously, including the mare he was currently grooming.

Moving slightly away from her anxious, quivering flank as she shifted to get away from the noise, d'Artagnan laid his hand flat on her neck, murmuring softly to soothe her.

"Easy, now. Easy, mare."

She settled under his hand and he leaned close, pressing his face to her soft neck, breathing in the earthy scent of oats, sweat, and hay. It still grounded him, even a year later, the smell of the horses. It reminded him of home and farm life and his father and a time before. When his path had been laid out for him, expectations set in stone, despite his restlessness, despite his never having felt as though he belonged.

He hated the rain, though it seemed a constant in Paris, particularly in autumn. Since his commission and relocation from the Boniceaux home to the garrison, and without consciously realizing it, he would find himself gravitating toward the livery at the first sound of a storm and stay until it had passed, even when that had meant sleeping in the hay loft or an empty stall. He'd found he could avoid this particular habit if one of the three men – who'd seemingly adopted him into their midst – would haul him along to a tavern, or sequester him into one of their quarters for a game of cards or inebriated conversation.

The sound of rain took him back to that night, to the chill in the air and the shameful thrill of the fight just before the bandits had escaped, leaving him drenched, beaten, and alone with his father dying in his arms. He'd tried to replace that memory with others: the feel of Constance's small, firm waist under his fingers, his nose buried in her perfumed hair; the satisfaction of seeing the Musketeer pauldron fixed to his shoulder; the deep, reassuring rumble of his friends' voices.

But inevitably, if he were alone, as he was tonight, his mind would find its way back to that night and for a moment he'd feel himself break inside once more. His only recourse was to escape to familiarity, to something that had at one time been a constant. Curling his fingers in the coarse, dark hairs of the mare's mane, d'Artagnan rested his forehead against her neck as she shifted her weight to her opposite leg, as if making room for him in the narrow stall.

He was standing thus when he heard the carriage arrive.

Pulling his head up, he stared curiously at the opened door. Carriages were not a typical occurrence in the Musketeer garrison. The men selected a horse when needed and that was all. Watching, d'Artagnan felt his brows lift in surprise as Captain Treville stepped out of the carriage, the rain immediately pelting his hat and running in a small waterfall from the brim down his leather-clad back.

Treville stopped and turned, eyes on the interior of the carriage and d'Artagnan peered closely, trying to see the occupant. He needn't have bothered; he recognized the voice clear enough, even over the rain.

"We have an agreement, then?"

Richelieu wasn't asking, d'Artagnan could clearly hear. His tone was smug, the way he stayed in the shadow of the carriage was smug, even the thin, pale fingers curled at the edge of the door were smug.

"I don't recall agreeing to anything," Treville retorted. "In fact, I remember telling you that you're out of your mind."

Richelieu leaned forward a bit and d'Artagnan felt his lip curl in not-so-secret hatred of the man. He was still sheltered from the rain, but his pale eyes were pinned to Treville in a way that made d'Artagnan's skin crawl.

"You speak as though you have a choice in the matter," Richelieu remarked. "I assure you, it's quite the contrary."

"You are asking me to execute those men," Treville all-but growled.

d'Artagnan felt his shoulders tense, his mind immediately thrown back in memory to the moment Aramis accused Treville of betrayal at Savoy. Treville had been acting on the King's orders at the time, resulting in the massacre of twenty of his Musketeers. This, however, did not appear to be an order from the King.

"I am telling you," Richelieu said, leaning a bit further from the carriage so that the rain slipped down his face, giving it the appearance of being erased, "that if you do not find those men and eliminate them, the King will know the reason why. It is your choice, Treville: the men from Villers-Cotterêts, or your Musketeers."

With that, Richelieu grabbed the edge of the carriage door and slammed it shut with a dull thud and a splash of rainwater. The driver took that as his cue and the carriage pulled away, leaving Treville standing alone in the rain. The image of a man he found to be among the most honorable standing in soaked shadows was one d'Artagnan couldn't hold onto for long.

He shifted, causing the mare to blow through her nose and stomp an impatient hoof. d'Artagnan watched as Treville shook himself and turned toward the livery, rather than the garrison. He knew he should announce himself; he had been eavesdropping, after all.

But he waited. And watched.

Treville stepped into the central aisle, his eyes on the middle distance, water dripping in a rapid, scattered rhythm from the brim of his hat and the end of his beard, falling in dull splats against the straw-muted ground. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other was curled into a tight fist. d'Artagnan couldn't see the man's expression clearly, but he could guess simply by his Captain's stance that it was not a pleasant one.

Just then, Treville looked up, glancing around the stalls. "Who is here?"

Taking a breath, d'Artagnan stepped from the mare's stall, showing himself. "Sir."

"d'Artagnan?" Treville inquired, removing his hat, his face folding into a frown of question. "What are you doing?"

d'Artagnan tried to come up with a lie that would satisfy Treville and found himself drawing a blank. "Sir, it's…raining," he said lamely, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his fingers beneath his biceps.

Treville stared at him another moment, and then to d'Artagnan's surprise he nodded and moved toward the back of the barn where they housed the tack. "Yes, well. It does that from time to time. You may return to your quarters."

d'Artagnan knew that he'd been dismissed and instinctively turned to leave when his conscience stopped him. "Sir," he called out, causing Treville to stop. "Can I help?"

Treville's shoulder's sagged, but he didn't turn around. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know you're being blackmailed."

Treville half-turned at that, narrowing his pale eyes and studying d'Artagnan carefully. "Athos has always said you are clever."

"Athos is a good teacher," d'Artagnan replied.

Treville flexed his hand once more and d'Artagnan recognized that it was his left; the shoulder that LeBarge had broken the day d'Artagnan received his commission clearly still pained their Captain from time to time.

"The Cardinal—"

"Is desperate to win back favor in the King's eye," d'Artagnan interrupted. "And is using you as a footstool in his efforts."

Treville looked down, saying nothing.

"He cannot be allowed to manipulate you, Captain," d'Artagnan pressed, stepping closer to his leader, but not reaching out as he might to Athos, Porthos, or Aramis. The Captain was not quite reachable in that regard. "Let us be your seconds. Let us fight him for you!"

At that, Treville's mouth pulled into a sad, half-smile. "Your loyalty is admirable, d'Artagnan," he said softly. "But misplaced in this instance, I'm afraid." He looked up, meeting d'Artagnan's eyes. "This goes much…deeper than the Cardinal's fall from grace." Taking a slow breath, his gaze slipped to the side. "This is my burden." As he turned away, d'Artagnan heard him whisper, "They are my ghosts."

"Sir—"

"There is nothing you can do tonight, d'Artagnan," Treville broke in. "Things will be clear come morning."

"Sir?"

Treville turned back to face him and lifted his chin, his eyes emptying of expression. "I saw Athos at the Grey Wolf earlier this evening," he said. "Perhaps you should check to see that he's returned."

It had barely been a week since their elaborate ruse had served the explicit purpose of trapping the Cardinal in his lies, but the by-product of revealing Milady de Winter's nefarious manipulations had weighed on Athos in the days since. Despite his mercy toward her offering him forgiveness, d'Artagnan had seen the dark look that settled on his friend's face when left to his own devices too long.

Apparently, so had their Captain.

d'Artagnan nodded and began to head toward the door once more, when he realized that Treville was gathering supplies and a saddle bag from the tack room.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" d'Artagnan blurted.

In the year since he first stumbled into the Musketeer garrison, murder on his mind, Treville had only been away to attend to the King's palatial summons, or on a mission with his fellow Musketeers. He'd never seen the man simply…leave them. He suddenly felt oddly off-balance and exposed.

"I have some things I must attend to."

"You're doing what he's asked you to," d'Artagnan accused. "Why?"

Treville squared his shoulders, addressing d'Artagnan with authority, though he didn't look directly at him. "d'Artagnan, you are a fine soldier and will no doubt one day be an exemplary Musketeer, but I feel I must remind you that these facts do not grant you freedom to question me." At that he did turn to d'Artagnan, but the young Gascon suddenly wished he would look away once more. "I have things I must attend to," he said once more.

"How long will you be gone?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice thin.

Treville shook his head. "I am not certain."

The way he spoke turned d'Artagnan cold; it was almost as if he wasn't sure he would return.

"Captain—" d'Artagnan tried on last time.

"Get some rest, d'Artagnan," Treville said, hardening his voice just enough that d'Artagnan heard the order. He softened his expression as he regarded d'Artagnan. "The rain cannot last much longer."

d'Artagnan frowned, nodding slowly, as he wondered yet again how much his Captain knew that he'd not actually shared with the man. He made his way slowly from the livery, stepping out into the cold rain and getting immediately drenched as he lacked a hat or jacket. He'd nearly made it to his quarters when he surrendered to the inevitable.

He'd not sleep tonight. And he certainly didn't want to be alone.

His first thought turned to Constance, but she was an impossibility. One that would haunt him to the end of his days, of that he was certain. He tucked himself up under the eaves of the first floor overhang and let his eyes roam the quarters that surrounded the courtyard of the garrison.

Treville had said that Athos was at the Grey Wolf. Perhaps Porthos had wandered there himself. He was certain that Aramis was spending his time elsewhere. The past week he'd spent every night elsewhere. Porthos had said Aramis was trying to forget something; he'd behaved similarly in the months after Savoy, but d'Artagnan hadn't been sure what memories his friend needed to escape from. Everything they'd been through had been the product of their own elaborate hoax.

He was healing, Athos was alive, the Cardinal was exposed, and Milady had left Paris. There was nothing else to worry over. Aramis' nighttime proclivities were simply his friend's way of passing the time, d'Artagnan was sure of it.

Pausing for a moment to consider grabbing his cloak, d'Artagnan dismissed the idea as he was already quite thoroughly soaked to the bone. The Grey Wolf was on the Rue Saint-Honoré, two blocks down from the garrison. He began to run, not wanting to draw out the torture of the rain. Forced to balance his hand on the hilt of his sword so that it didn't slap his calf and trip him up, he cut through the deluge, bypassing the occasional carriage and ducking into a doorway here and there to catch a break from the rain.

When he entered the Grey Wolf, the noise level immediately dropped as the few remaining patrons looked up, hands on weapons in unconscious, instinctive gestures, before registering that he was more of a drowned rat than a true threat and turning back to their lascivious interludes, conversations, or games of cards.

Gasping slightly at the lack of having to fight through water to breathe, d'Artagnan pushed his wet hair from his face and looked around. He spotted his friends almost instantly. Athos sat in the corner at a table, his hat resting on the surface next to him, his eyes on an empty glass and a full bottle of wine. Next to him sat Porthos, his fingers expertly shuffling a deck of worn, faded cards, his eyes canted to the side and resting on a very wet Aramis.

d'Artagnan made his way into the room, his gaze sweeping over Aramis. The man looked a wreck, and his eyes were, in a word, destroyed. He was looking directly at d'Artagnan, but it didn't seem as though he registered who was approaching.

"Took you long 'nough," Porthos grumbled, clearly aware of d'Artagnan's arrival, but not taking his eyes from Aramis. "Where ya been?"

d'Artagnan attempted to wipe the water from his face using an equally wet sleeve, stopping just shy of the table. Athos kicked an empty chair out, his only invitation to sit with them.

"And just how was I to know you wanted me here?" d'Artagnan muttered, working to shove the childish, yet ever-present feeling of not-quite belonging down low, into his gut.

"The ruse is over, d'Artagnan," Athos murmured. "You should always assume we want you among us."

d'Artagnan swallowed, coughing slightly and blowing into his cold hands. With an elaborate sigh, Aramis stood, weaving rather alarmingly as he did, his hip and sword hilt crashing against the table and shoving it toward Athos, and stepped closer to d'Artagnan.

"Come," he said, a clumsy hand reaching to tap d'Artagnan on the shoulder and ending up somewhere between his hairline and his eyebrow. "We are both drenched. Let us warm ourselves by the fire. No use it going to no good." Frowning at his tangled syntax, Aramis paused, swaying, and tried once more. "No good it going to no use."

Apparently feeling successful, he turned a lopsided, heart-breaking grin upon d'Artagnan and dropped heavily down on the stone hearth, his legs splayed out in front of him, the fire to his left.

Incredulous, d'Artagnan stared at his friend, oblivious of the water still dripping from his chin.

"Aramis, are you…drunk?"

"Quite a bit, actually," Aramis replied breezily. "I'm taking a page from Athos' book. Is this how it works for you, my friend?" Aramis rolled his head along the stone to stare blearily in Athos' direction. "You simply drink until the world grows soft at the edges and you cannot bring yourself to care anymore?"

"Do you want me to answer that or should I just glare?" Athos replied, his face impassive save his blue eyes, which slid to the side, resting stonily on Aramis.

"Ah, what does it matter anyway?" Aramis sighed, his eyes falling closed, wet lashes laying against purplish smudges, contrasting sharply with the pallor of his skin. "The days slip away and we are left clutching at air."

d'Artagnan looked back at the other men, all thoughts for why he'd sought them out in the first place having evaporated in the wake of Aramis' uncharacteristic display of intoxication.

"What happened to him?" He shivered slightly, crossing his arms over his body, tucking his fingers beneath his arms, thumbs up and out as he sat back in his chair to inch closer to the fire without getting too far away from Athos and Porthos.

"A woman," Porthos spat.

d'Artagnan blinked. "A woman did this to him?"

"Women are at the crux of all men's failures," Athos grumbled, staring once more at his empty glass. "Were it not for them, we would never know defeat."

Frowning, d'Artagnan remembered the image of Milady – Anne, he recalled now – holding Constance hostage, a pistol at her throat. He once again felt the flash of panic, the helplessness that turned his heart to liquid and his stomach to ice. Shivering again, he pulled himself from his memories as Porthos slapped the cards on the table, glaring at Athos.

"Now don't you start," he practically growled. "You made the right choice. You gotta let 'er go." He pushed the bottle toward Athos. "'ave some of that wine."

"Wine is relaxing," Athos declared. "I wish to be tense."

Porthos sighed and it was such a weighted sound that d'Artagnan found himself looking at his friend more closely. Porthos looked tired. In fact, they all did. As if none of them had truly slept over the last week. Watching, d'Artagnan saw Porthos' expression soften as he stared across the table at Aramis' slumped figure. There were lines around his eyes, some d'Artagnan hadn't really registered before.

Porthos had, he knew, earned every one of those lines. Quick to laugh – and the man laughed with his whole body – he was just as quick to glare dangerously, ready to back up every emotion that crossed his scarred face like quicksilver. Seeing him look so worried and weary had d'Artagnan pulling his brows down in a reflective frown, empathy leaving him feeling aged.

"He thinks 'imself in love," Porthos muttered, watching as Aramis slumped still further along the wall. "Every damn time. He gives 'em his heart like it's…paper. And they burn it up."

d'Artagnan looked over at Aramis and noticed, belatedly, that Athos had shifted just enough that his hip was now supporting their inebriated friend's shoulder, one hand resting comfortingly on top of Aramis' wet hair.

"I've never seen him this affected before," d'Artagnan said quietly, trying to suppress yet another shiver. He could feel his clothes beginning to dry, but not quickly enough.

Athos brought his head up and looked so pointedly at d'Artagnan the young Gascon fought the urge to squirm under his gaze.

"It's a pain we've all felt, d'Artagnan," Athos said, using his gruff, no-nonsense voice.

The man would never know how he reminded d'Artagnan of his own father when he spoke like that, the tone adding weight to whatever words he chose. Charles, you must listen closely. d'Artagnan swallowed, eyes on Athos. Charles, you must listen.

"It wraps fingers around your throat and tightens its grip until you want to stop breathing just to make it end," Athos continued solemnly.

d'Artagnan felt his stomach muscles tighten of their own accord, his body working to curl in and find warmth, his heart seeking protection. He said nothing; Athos was right. It was a familiar pain. He felt it even now. He just never realized that Aramis felt it.

"Keepin' it to 'imself," Porthos muttered, tapping blunt fingers on the table top.

"What was that?" d'Artagnan asked, pulling his attention once more to the man across the table from him.

"He always tells me," Porthos shrugged. "No way that Mellendorf woman did this to 'im." Porthos jutted his chin toward Aramis. "Haven't seen 'im like this before, and I've known him for a lot of years."

Something in Porthos' speech seemed to rouse Athos and he straightened his shoulders, looked first at d'Artagnan, then over at Porthos.

"Will you need help taking him to his quarters?" Athos asked, his tone no longer morose. He was now speaking as their Lieutenant.

Porthos merely shook his head in reply.

"Good. See that it's done. Meanwhile," Athos looked at d'Artagnan, "you need to dry off and wait out the storm else we'll be seeing you to the infirmary with a fever."

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan scoffed, suppressing yet another shiver.

"Duly noted," Athos returned with an arched brow. "Still, you will take Aramis' place by the fire once Porthos gets him up. I'll not have two men down during training tomorrow."

In that instant, d'Artagnan was reminded of his encounter with Treville. However, just as he was about to mention it, Porthos pushed away from the table and circled around in great, prowling strides to stand in front of Aramis. It was then d'Artagnan realized that the inebriated marksman wasn't quite as far gone as he'd initially thought.

Reaching out a hand as leverage, Aramis allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Once vertical, he leaned heavily on Porthos, allowing the larger man to pull his arm across his shoulders, and looked over the table, meeting Athos' eyes. d'Artagnan wondered if it were truly drink making Aramis look so weary, or if this was the cumulative result of one too many attempts at female companionship. Could someone like Aramis be felled by a broken heart?

Something passed between Athos and Aramis in their shared look, and d'Artagnan knew from the low growl he heard Porthos utter that the swarthy man had seen it as well. There was something they weren't saying, but it was evident that now was not the time to ask.

"Get some rest, Aramis," Athos ordered. "You'll be right by morning."

Aramis looked down, then allowed Porthos to turn him toward the door.

"I ever tell you 'bout the time I wooed a noblewoman in her carriage just so's I could get one of 'er rings for Flea?" Porthos was saying as the two made their way to the door.

"My dear Porthos," Aramis replied smoothly, not one hint of liquor-slur to his words. "Carriages are where noblewomen are most vulnerable."

"'at's the truth of it," Porthos chuckled as he lead Aramis through the door and into the tapering rain.

d'Artagnan turned back to Athos and saw the man looking pointedly at the hearth Aramis had just vacated. With a sigh boarding dangerously close to petulant, d'Artagnan pushed up from the chair and moved closer to the fire. It did feel marvelous, though he'd never vocally admit as such. He hadn't realized how chilled he'd become, so focused had he been on Aramis.

"You know who the woman is, don't you?" d'Artagnan guessed.

Predictably, Athos didn't react other than to lift an eyebrow in d'Artagnan's general direction.

"Something else happened to him last week," d'Artagnan pressed. "Something more than…what we did."

"Why would you think that you weren't welcome to join us?" Athos asked, effectively redirecting d'Artagnan's attention and causing the young man to look away, eyes catching on the flickering flames licking up from the glowing coals of the fire next to him.

The familiar insecurity, the longing to be part of something, the knowledge that he wasn't where he should be, but not knowing where else to go, slipped under d'Artagnan's skin and sat at home near his heart. He couldn't articulate an answer that would satisfy Athos. He couldn't even come close.

He simply settled on, "We played our roles rather believably well."

"They were just that," Athos assured him, rotating in his chair, the leather of his jacket and creaking with his movement. "Roles."

Though it no longer hurt, d'Artagnan slipped his hand up to his side, fingers running over the scar he could feel beneath his loose, white shirt from where the lead ball fired from Athos' gun had creased his ribs. It was still a bit shocking to think that Athos had shot him, ruse or no.

"I know," he replied, his voice pitched low. "And we did our jobs. I just didn't enjoy the feeling of…," abandonment, betrayal, loss…. He glanced away, then cracked his neck, trying to look anywhere but toward Athos. "Being displaced."

Athos was quiet for several moments and from the corner of his eyes d'Artagnan saw the man roll the wine bottle against the table, holding it by the neck with two fingers. He looked on the verge of saying something, but his enigmatic eyes made it hard for d'Artagnan to gauge if it was to be comfort or correction.

He was a Musketeer now, part of the King's guard. Athos was his Lieutenant, his leader in more ways than simply friendship. He could no longer be accorded the liberties of youth, no matter if he'd grown up outside of Paris, somewhat innocent to the darkness that lay in wait. Each of the men in his new…family…coped with pain in their own way. d'Artagnan knew he would simply have to learn to do the same and not be outwardly affected when he felt that darkness creeping close.

"You lost something," Athos began. "Something significant."

"As have you," d'Artagnan was quick to argue. "Porthos and Aramis as well." Not wanting Athos to feel the need to protect him, d'Artagnan leaned forward, speaking under the noise of the dwindling crowd. "Your home was burned to the ground before my eyes. Your wife was key in a plot to murder you. Do not tell me I am the only one who has lost."

"Nevertheless," Athos canted his head forward, tipping his chin down but keeping his blue eyes pinned to d'Artagnan's dark ones. "It will take a while for the calluses to grow."

"So I can become more like you," d'Artagnan muttered, instinctively shifting toward the fire and away from the all-too knowing look in his friend's eyes.

"So you can become who you are meant to be," Athos corrected, tipping his hand up in a shrug.

d'Artagnan looked away. The tavern was shifting from the evening crowd to the late night crowd, filling with a decidedly different kind of patron. He could no longer hear the rain pelting the tavern roof or the cobblestone outside when someone entered or left the building. He was nearly dry from his trek out into the weather and was finally growing tired enough he thought he could sleep, but there was no way he was going to leave Athos sitting alone at the tavern.

Just then, Athos stood and moved over to nudge d'Artagnan's boots.

"Come. Dawn will arrive soon enough."

Pushing himself to his feet, d'Artagnan followed his friend to the door, stepping out into the rain-soaked streets. He shivered again against the night, his breath once more a cloud against the moonlight. Athos led the way down the Rue Saint-Honoré and d'Artagnan followed, silently, until they reached the archway of the garrison.

"If you won't tell me who the woman is," d'Artagnan said through clenched teeth, attempting to keep them from clacking against each other, "will you at least tell me that he'll develop calluses, too?"

Athos stopped and canted his head. "Would that make you feel better?"

"A bit, yes," d'Artagnan replied. "Just as it would if I knew you meant what you said when you let Milady—Anne—live."

"What did I say?" Athos asked, though his eyes exposed that he knew the answer.

"That you saved yourself."

Athos lifted his chin and looked toward the garrison. "Things take time, d'Artagnan," he replied. "Healing takes the longest."

d'Artagnan looked at the muddy earth beneath his feet, foot prints mingling with hoof prints, small pools of water having collected in the aftermath of the rain. It had been a year. A year without his father, without the guide he'd looked to all of his life. A year where he could have easily wandered, seeking a path to healing, but instead found a brotherhood who caught him and held him.

He'd survived that year because of his brothers. He really should not feel a sense of loss any longer. Nor a sense that he'd betrayed someone who was now just a memory simply because he made a different choice. He really should not feel the occasional shift of balance where his future was concerned.

And yet…he did.

His father was gone, but then, in a way, so was his home. So was Lupiac. So was Gascony. Paris was different; his life was different. Healing should be swift when reminders of the loss were scarce. But he still could not get through a night of storms alone.

"Go get warm or you'll be no good for training tomorrow," Athos ordered, his voice fading as he moved further into the garrison. "And, d'Artagnan?"

The young man lifted his head, surprised to see Athos so far away from him already.

"The next time it storms, find me," Athos instructed, his tone offering no argument. "The livery is cold this time of year."

Charles, you must listen closely.

There were reminders, d'Artagnan allowed, and then there were reminders. And it seemed his friends not only recognized his search for sanctuary on nights like this, but knew exactly why he did so. He nodded his acquiescence to Athos, but the older man had already made his way to his rooms.

By the time d'Artagnan remembered what had happened with Treville, Athos was gone. d'Artagnan looked toward his quarters, wrapping his arms around himself once more. Then, without further hesitation, he turned toward the livery.