Hors de combat

It had felt like a punch. A very hard, very insistent punch. He hadn't even felt the pain until after he'd shot the man who'd shot him.

Shot him.

The pain flooded him then, like liquid fire from his shoulder through his chest, up to his jaw line and down to his knees. He was a body of pain and he couldn't breathe beyond calling for Athos. He felt himself fall forward, momentarily at a loss to control any of his limbs as the fire ate him up from the inside.

"No, no, d'Artagnan, don't," Athos was whispering, urgent, almost frantic.

d'Artagnan blinked, confused, trying to piece together thoughts that had been scattered by the fire. He suddenly saw Porthos leaning over him as well, his larger fingers gripping his jaw, his low rumble beseeching him to stay awake, stay with them.

Only wait, no Porthos wasn't there now…that had been before. On a Paris street after Athos' shot had sent him spinning away in surprise at how very much it hurt.

He blinked again and took a great gasping breath, unaware the he had thrust the fear of God into his friends who looked on anxiously by holding his breath in reaction to the pain.

"Holy shit," d'Artagnan gasped.

There were voices whispering urgently around him, faces bent over him, but it was too dark to make out who was who and his head was spinning with lack of air from the fire inside of him. He couldn't pinpoint one person, one face and there were hands on him, parting his jacket, lifting him slightly and then without warning—

"Ah!" he cried out, unable to stop himself.

Someone had pressed a wad of cloth against his shoulder while another clapped their hand over his mouth.

"Shhh, be still, we have you, just be still."

That was Porthos, he knew. He could suddenly distinguish one from the other, the pain in his shoulder cutting a clear path through the fog of moments before. Athos was next to him, pressing the cloth to his wound, Porthos behind him, keeping him quiet, Treville and Aramis were holding each other up near his feet.

"We need to move," Treville said. "Can you—"

d'Artagnan attempted to speak from behind Porthos' hand, sounding muffled. He reached up with his right hand – oddly unable to move his left – and pushed the big man's hand away.

"I can manage it."

"Wrap it tightly," he heard Aramis instructing. "Keep the arm immobile."

Someone slipped a strap around his wrist and he felt his left arm brought up against his chest, the position holding the wad of cloth in place against the wound on his shoulder. The strap was fastened around his back and pulled tight enough he gasped.

Then he was suddenly sitting up and blood was sloshing around his head and causing his vision to sway and tilt as though the word were slipping sideways. Before he had time to steady himself, someone had lifted him to his feet and there was a hand at his waist and another at his neck while someone stood in front of him, so close he was able to press his forehead against a shoulder and breathe until the world finally calmed the hell down.

Athos. He could smell the leather and sweat with the ever-present trace of wine that was as much a part of his friend as his rapier. The hand at the back of his neck was Athos, too, he now realized, and Porthos steadied him at the waist.

"I've got it," he said, trying to steady his voice, to reassure them.

When Athos stepped away, d'Artagnan almost fell, but Porthos tightened his grip, keeping him balanced. Through clearing eyes, d'Artagnan saw Treville help Aramis to his feet, the bandage at their Captain's head once more stained with blood, Aramis unable to put weight on his wounded leg. In the moonlight, Aramis looked so pale that his dark eyes were like two coals in his handsome face.

"Help Aramis," d'Artagnan said, managing to lock his knees and keep from toppling.

"Don't you collapse on me, lad," Porthos growled, hesitantly releasing him to reach for Aramis.

"I can walk," d'Artagnan returned.

He sounded a bit too petulant for his liking, but really, what was he to do about it? His body had shifted from fire to ice and was now apparently working to disengage his left arm from his body, all pain focused in his shoulder then radiating outward with each heartbeat.

How could anyone sound in control when their body was creating such a ruckus?

"This way," Athos said tightly, weapons up, leading the way.

d'Artagnan kept his eyes on his friend. His leader. Athos always led the way, calm, collected, despite the fact that the world was constantly trying to unseat him or bury him. The only time he'd seen his friend on the edge of control, bordering dangerously on a surrender to chaos, had been when his home had burned down around them. Now d'Artagnan knew who had been the cause of such mayhem within such a disciplined man.

He didn't realize he was weaving as he followed Athos at a slow lope until Treville came up on his right and plucked at his sleeve, keeping him moving in a straighter line, taking him safely with him to the trees. Once within the protective shadows of the thicket, d'Artagnan sagged against a tree and then slid to his knees on the ground next to where Porthos eased Aramis down.

"We have three horses tethered—" Athos started, but was stopped when Porthos caught his attention.

"Look who found 'is way back!" Porthos said, the smile evident under his words.

d'Artagnan closed his eyes, his head canted back against the tree, his shoulder touching Aramis as he caught his breath, relieved that Aramis' horse had found his way back after they'd sent him careening off into the group of men and torches. He really hadn't wanted the animal to get lost.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis was saying to him. d'Artagnan rolled his head along the tree, peering blearily at his friend. "Stay awake."

"I will."

"I can dig that ball out of there when we're able to stop," Aramis promised.

"You'll forgive me if that doesn't sound incredibly enticing," d'Artagnan replied with a grunt of pain as his arm throbbed in response.

Aramis huffed out a strangled laugh. "No, I can't imagine it would."

Porthos was suddenly crouching before them. "All right, here's how it's going to go," he said. "Aramis, you'll ride behind me as you won't be able to stay in the saddle with that leg."

"Very noble of you," Aramis remarked.

d'Artagnan realized he could hear the low keen at the back of Aramis' words. He hid his discomfort well; d'Artagnan was determined to follow suit. Though right now his arm was teetering over the edge of discomfort and staring down the barrel of scream-worthy pain. Despite that, he'd seen these men bear up under worse: Porthos with a blade to his back, having to stand the trip until Aramis could stitch him up, for example.

He could manage this.

"…with me?"

"What?" d'Artagnan blinked as Porthos gripped his chin, bringing his eyes front. "Yes, sorry. Was just thinking about that blade you took to the back."

He hadn't meant to say that. It had simply slipped past his barrier.

"Ah, well, with that trip down memory lane concluded, 'ow 'bout we get you mounted, yeah?" Porthos cupped his right elbow, pulling him to his feet as though he were made of glass. "You'll ride next to me."

d'Artagnan could do nothing but nod as the big man helped him maneuver his foot into the stirrup and then swing across the back of the horse. Pain spiked up through his shoulder and for a minute he saw nothing but white, leaning over the neck of his horse to grasp control. The earthy smell of the animal caught him, held him, and brought him back so that he could once more hear the voices of the men around him, Athos' in particular.

"…hold on, no matter what. Do you understand?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan gasped, blinking toward Athos and hearing his father's voice once more, the gruff, no-nonsense, listen and do as you're told tone jerking him upright.

To prove that he heard what Athos said, he tangled his right hand thoroughly into the long, black mane of his mount, gripping both the coarse hair and the reins tightly. Glancing to his left, he saw Aramis sitting behind Porthos' saddle, his face pinched and pale as the pressure on his wounded leg no doubt threatened to push him over the edge. His hat was pushed back to the crown of his head and his hands were gripping Porthos' weapon's belt.

"We cannot follow the main road," Treville was saying.

d'Artagnan pulled his attention to his Captain, wondering how the man was still upright after such a blow to the head. Treville also looked pale, and slightly blurry, as if the wound from his head had begun to erase the smooth edges of his face and hands, smearing them against the moonlight.

Or, hell, maybe that was just his eyes.

Shaking his head, d'Artagnan brought Treville back into focus just as the man pressed a hand against his head with a wince, continuing, "Argent will see that is covered in search of me."

"The mountain route will take us a week out of our way," Athos replied, his frown intense.

"Obernai," d'Artagnan said, focusing on breathing deeply as his body's latest rebellion had been to turn his stomach sideways in response to the pain that continued to radiate down his arm.

"What was that?" Porthos and Aramis spoke up at once.

"Obernai Pass," d'Artagnan repeated. "Two days to the west, circle around back to Paris."

"The boy is right," Treville said, his voice clearly amazed – either that d'Artagnan knew or that he'd forgotten. "Obernai is just to the west of Villers-Cotterêts. It will take us a couple days, but we have a better hope of evading Argent."

"Well done, lad," Porthos grinned.

"How did you know of the Pass?" Aramis asked, shifting uncomfortably on the horse.

"M'father made me memorize maps of the land," d'Artagnan replied, hearing the words slur and trying to set them right, finding it odd that he wasn't able to force his mouth to obey. He sounded drunk. Felt drunk, actually. Only more…as though he'd attempted to match Athos bottle for bottle and yet was somehow still upright. "Said to pay 'tention. Would need t'know it."

"Good man for it," Athos said, eyeing d'Artagnan warily. "We will take the pass, and stop as soon as we are able to check the wounded."

"Pretty sure that's all 'f us," d'Artagnan muttered.

Without replying, Athos turned and headed west, forcing the others to follow or be left behind. Porthos kept him close, which was good because d'Artagnan felt each hoof beat jar through him. Within a few yards of the woods, he could feel wetness growing under his bandages and shirt, slipping down his side in a warm, sticky trail that very soon began to soak into the waistband of his breeches.

When the shot rang out, d'Artagnan didn't even flinch. Though they'd been riding for half of an hour, he felt as though he'd been waiting for it, expecting it. Their escape had been too easy, despite their wounds.

"Get behind me!" Athos shouted, wheeling his horse about and turning to charge at whoever was tailing them.

Porthos grabbed the bridle of d'Artagnan's horse, pulling the animal up alongside him, and with what could only have been practiced ease, leveraged Aramis from his horse to d'Artagnan's so that the wounded man sat with his hands now at d'Artagnan's weapon's belt.

"Stay with him!" Porthos shouted.

"I will," Aramis and d'Artagnan replied in unison.

They were left standing at the edge of a clearing, the moonlight dying slowly as the bruised hue of dawn began to paint the eastern sky. Treville and Porthos followed Athos forward, weapons drawn, firing into a crowd of five horses. Two shots found their mark, and d'Artagnan gaped as he saw Athos slip from his horse at a run, charging with his sword raised as another man swung his rapier at Athos' head.

Porthos followed suit, grabbing a man and pulling him from his mount before landing a punch solid enough the two men sharing a horse heard it from where they sat. The attacker gained his footing and bent low, charging Porthos with his shoulder down, but d'Artagnan knew the man didn't stand a chance. Porthos plucked him up, lifted him high, and slammed him to the ground as if he were nothing more than a bale of hay. The man didn't rise again.

d'Artagnan shifted his slow-to-focus eyes back to Athos, watching as he fought the other man, swords clashing, metal crashing, voices shouting wordless curses into the early morning air. Athos was a wonder with a sword; d'Artagnan could watch him all day for a week and still find himself learning new moves. It came as no surprise when, even weary and worn as he was, Athos speared his opponent, standing to clean his blade.

"Captain!" Athos called, looking around.

It was then that d'Artagnan realized he'd lost sight of Treville.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis whispered at his ear, standing the hairs on the back of his neck on their ends. "Lay flat and keep the reins tight."

Not bothering to question, d'Artagnan did as instructed, tensing as he waited for the sound of the weapon's discharge. It came mere heartbeats later, their mount dancing with surprise, but d'Artagnan spoke to it in low, soothing words, holding it in check. He glanced up as the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils to see a man in the trees fall to the ground, having been in a perfect sniper position to take one of them out.

"You got him!" d'Artagnan exclaimed softly.

"Always the tone of surprise," Aramis teased him, pulling him back upright in the saddle.

"Where's Treville?"

He saw that Athos and Porthos had caught their horses and were heading back the way they came, toward a twist in the road. Nudging his mount forward, he and Aramis followed until they came across a scene that d'Artagnan knew would not be leaving his memory anytime soon. He felt Aramis stiffen at his back, the marksman's fingers tightening on his weapon's belt.

Treville stood at the apex of the road, his sword at a man's throat. Though he'd never met him, d'Artagnan was certain it could only be Argent. Across from Treville, Armistead stood, a harquebus pointed at Argent. Behind Armistead, just a bit up the road was a man d'Artagnan didn't recognize, using a tree for cover, a musket propped in the bend of a branch, aimed at Armistead's back. And Argent stood with a harquebus pointed at both Treville and Armistead.

No one spoke; it was as if the morning held its breath. Slowly, achingly slowly, d'Artagnan felt his loaded harquebus being pulled from his weapon's belt. Athos and Porthos were motionless; d'Artagnan could practically feel Athos' desperation to save his Captain warring with his commitment to keep his men safe.

"You should never have been allowed to leave Villers-Cotterêts, Jean-Armand," Argent stated, his voice hollow. Dead. He'd already accepted his seat in Hell. "You should have been hung with the others who survived."

"I see you avoided that fate," Treville replied calmly, as if his life was not two heartbeats from ending. "Whose skirts did you hide behind, Argent?"

"Even if you walk away from this moment," Argent sneered, "you will not return to your cushioned life. I have spoken to Richelieu. I have set events into motion that even the flawless Captain of the King's Musketeers cannot overcome."

"Put your weapon down, Argent," Armistead ordered. "Killing my brother will offer you nothing."

Without removing his eyes from Treville, Argent responded, "It will offer me the satisfaction of finishing what I should have years ago."

d'Artagnan felt Aramis exhale at his ear once more, saying nothing. Carefully, slowly, he eased forward, gripping his reins tight, laying low over the neck of his horse as he'd done moments before. He felt Aramis' arm across his back, the marksman's elbow pressing almost painfully into his spine. His shoulder throbbed, the pain ratcheting up and burning the back of his throat. He wanted to close his eyes to fight the surge of nausea, but didn't dare look away from Treville.

"We were wrong, Argent," Treville said calmly, the tip of his sword never leaving the vulnerable underside of Argent's jaw.

"Who do you think will be faster?" Argent mocked. "Your brother or me?"

"Neither," Treville responded and d'Artagnan almost allowed himself to smile at the shadow of doubt that passed through Argent's expression.

Before another word could be said, d'Artagnan felt the kick of Aramis' arm press into his back as the marksman pulled the trigger and he grunted helplessly as pain flashed from his shoulder across his chest, his eye blurring as he saw the man with the musket fall from his place behind the tree, Armistead's back no longer exposed to attack. Argent stepped back in surprise and d'Artagnan felt Aramis slump heavily against him for a moment.

He couldn't push himself up; he was pinned against the neck of his horse by the weight of his friend's weary, wounded body, his eyes glued to his Captain. Treville lowered his sword slightly, as if he expected Argent to concede defeat. It was one of the few times d'Artagnan would ever see his Captain be taken off-guard. Argent took a breath and d'Artagnan knew in that instant he was going to pull both triggers.

Suddenly he couldn't keep up. Everything happened so fast it was as if the world stood still around them. There was no sound, it seemed, saved the blood hammering in his ears. He could feel his shoulder throbbing, blood slipping down his side, soaking his shirt, his breeches, his weapon's belt. He could feel Aramis trembling at his back, unable yet to pull himself upright. He could see Porthos pull his weapon.

Then he saw Athos dart forward in a blur of motion, slamming Treville to the ground just as Argent and Armistead both fired.

With a gusty pull of air, Aramis managed to force himself upright and d'Artagnan heard him swearing in at least three different languages, one hand on d'Artagnan's back as he regained his balance. Sluggishly, he allowed his friend to pull him up off the neck of the horse and he managed to slump more or less in a sitting position as the rising sun painted the macabre scene before him with an incongruous golden light.

Argent lay dead. Porthos was near him, kicking the weapons from his slack hands. Athos was on the ground where he'd fallen with Treville, but the Captain had crawled free of Athos' protection and was holding his brother in his lap, bent over the stained white hair, his hand cupping the older man's cheek.

"I was wrong," Claude du Peyer—d'Artagnan could no longer think of him as the rebellious Armistead—wheezed, blood splattering his lips as he gasped for breath. "And now you are the last."

Treville said nothing; he simply pressed his forehead against Claude's, his bandage slipping slightly with the contact.

"Forgive…me," Claude gasped wetly, his chest heaving. "Brother."

d'Artagnan felt his eyes burn and a strange ache build in his throat as the older man's body slowly relaxed, the air hissing from him with a strangled sound.

"I do," Treville said solemnly, his voice tight with emotion.

Athos stood and moved over to their Captain, silently laying a supportive hand on the man's shoulder. They stood there for several moments, none of them moving, no one speaking, until Treville lifted his head, looking around. He met each of their eyes for a moment, then nodded, grasping Athos' hand and rose to his feet.

"We cannot bury them here," he said.

"There horses aren't far," Porthos informed them. "We could…return them. To Villers-Cotterêts."

Treville looked at the ground. "Yes," he finally nodded. "We cannot risk returning ourselves." He looked toward the east, the sun having finally crested the horizon, the light painting his wounded face and exposing his profound sadness. "Claude was right: I am the last of them, and for that reason, I can never go home."

"Villers-Cotterêts is not your home, Captain," Athos said quietly.

As Porthos mounted and wheeled his horse to round up the others, d'Artagnan slumped in his saddle, his back curling until he could feel Aramis against him.

"Aramis?"

"Mmm?"

"You never told me you spoke Spanish." Rather than outright asking the man if he were all right, d'Artagnan chose to reveal that he already knew the contrary. "And English."

"My dear friend," Aramis grunted, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on his leg. "I believe you'll find I'm full of surprises."

"I don't doubt that," d'Artagnan murmured with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Aramis placed his hands at d'Artagnan's sides, pulling himself into a better seat behind the saddle. "In any case, I—"

d'Artagnan heard him break off, and brought his head up, thinking he'd noticed other attackers. When he saw no immediate threat, he shifted to look to his side and saw Aramis' hand, red with blood from where it had pressed against d'Artagnan's side.

"Say nothing," d'Artagnan hissed. "Not yet."

"When, exactly?" Aramis snapped in reply. "Before or after you pass out from blood loss and we're forced to bury you on the side of the road?"

"Preferably before," d'Artagnan retorted. "But it's not that bad. The bleeding has slowed."

"The ball is still in there," Aramis pointed out.

"Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you."

"Anyone inform you that you're more stubborn than usual when you've been shot?"

d'Artagnan managed to glance over his shoulder, before straightening once more. "As this is only the second time in my life I've been shot, I'll keep that in mind." His exchange with Aramis had begun to send some energy back into d'Artagnan. "In all seriousness…how are you?"

Aramis sighed and d'Artagnan felt for a moment the weight of his friend at his back once more. This time, however, it felt warm, and he pulled comfort from the contact.

"I have never been so tired," Aramis admitted. "But we are Musketeers, are we not?" He nudged d'Artagnan from behind and they both looked toward the bend in the road where Athos, Porthos, and Treville were lifting the bodies and tying them to the backs of their horses. "Regardless of the obstacle, no matter the cost, we rise and then rise again."

d'Artagnan nodded, waiting as Porthos and Athos clapped their hands on the rumps of the horses, sending them back home with their morbid cargo. When the other three were mounted once more, Athos paused at their horse, his blue eyes raking over both as though they were being tested.

"I see your wound has not impaired your steady hand," he said to Aramis.

"Athos, please," Aramis said, shrugging off the gratitude under scoring Athos' tone. "I could have made that shot in my sleep."

Athos gifted him with a rare half smile before sliding his gaze to d'Artagnan. "Are you able to ride a bit further? We need to put some distance between us and Villers-Cotterêts."

"He's—" Aramis started.

"—ready to go," d'Artagnan broke in, nodding once at Athos.

"We will break soon to check your wounds," Athos promised.

d'Artagnan nodded and moved his horse into a canter, the gait much easier on Aramis' wounded leg, and noticed that Porthos pulled his mount up close to them, his dark eyes missing nothing. He was glad for his big friend's proximity. He could feel Aramis still trembling behind him; the pain in his leg no doubt intense.

"If you pass out on me," Aramis suddenly whispered in his ear, "I will not be happy."

"Duly noted," d'Artagnan whispered back.

Treville rode next to Athos, once in a while reaching up to press a hand against his head as if to ward off a bolt of pain, but keeping his seat, his shoulders square. d'Artagnan thought about the stories Porthos and Aramis had shared about why they had been willing to risk everything – their future, their commissions, their lives – to save this man. He knew he felt the same; were it not for Treville calling his name in that ring to fight LeBarge, d'Artagnan had no idea where he'd be.

He'd lost his mother long ago; the most he remembered of her now were the songs she'd sing him in the language of Gascony. He'd been an only child, their family's one hope to continue the d'Artagnan name. His father had been his world, his one connection to a future, despite a persistent ache behind his heart whispering to him that he did not belong.

Charles, you must listen.

His father had constantly found it necessary to bring his attention back to focus as he taught him of France, the monarchies, the ways of a gentlemen. He had learned grains and growing season. He had learned about livestock. And he'd learned his father's idea of honor.

"Easy there, lad."

Unexpectedly, Porthos was pressing a hand to his right shoulder, settling him back straight in the saddle. He blinked, lifting his head and looking around. They'd slowed to a walk. He could feel Aramis' head resting at the base of his neck, his body heavy against him as if in sleep. He hadn't realized he'd also nodded off; he didn't recall closing his eyes.

"Just a bit longer," Porthos promised. "Stay with me, d'Artagnan."

"'m here," d'Artagnan replied, grateful that Porthos kept his hand on his arm, however.

If there was one man who embodied his father's ideal of honor among these three inseparable friends, d'Artagnan would be hard-pressed to choose between Athos and Porthos. Athos was the obvious choice for many, and d'Artagnan would give his life for him, but Porthos – for all his card playing and occasional cheating – had found his path to honor not through birth, but through choice.

He had fought and survived, pulling himself from an orphaned beginning in the Court of Miracles to find a place among the most elite regiment of soldiers in all of France. He loved his brothers fiercely and d'Artagnan had watched him protect even a vile clown of a man with his life because duty called for it. d'Artagnan knew that even when he'd sought to follow Aramis' lead and woo a widow for his purse to enter into the Cardinal's competition, he'd found his heart lost to Madam Alice Clerbeaux, unable, it seemed, to be false when it came to love.

d'Artagnan found honor in that. He looked askance at Porthos, deciding to tell him so.

"Is that right?" Porthos replied, a small smile ghosting his lips. "Don't know that I've heard myself called 'honorable' before."

"My father would've liked you," d'Artagnan declared. "I am fairly certain he would have liked you best."

"What, not Athos?"

d'Artagnan looked forward to where Athos rode next to their Captain. "He was too much like Athos," he replied. "He'd've spend hours arguing a point simply because Athos said it first."

"What of Aramis?" Porthos teased, seeming content to keep d'Artagnan talking.

"He wouldn't approve of the many women," d'Artagnan sighed, feeling rather sad about that fact. Aramis did seem as though he loved rather easily. What had Porthos said about his heart? He gave it away like paper and allowed them to burn it up. "That's what it is, isn't it?" He said suddenly, pain loosening his lips and erasing any thought to discretion with the Captain in earshot. "What the Cardinal thinks he has on you? It's a woman."

He felt Aramis straighten suddenly, and saw Porthos shoot a quick look behind him.

"What are you saying?" Aramis asked him suddenly.

"Been trying to figure out what he could possibly know that would give him the idea he owned you," d'Artagnan muttered, suddenly finding it very difficult to keep his eyes focused on the riders in front of him. He dropped his gaze to his horse's ears, tracking as they darted to pick up the different sounds around them. "Then I remembered Aramis and how…wrecked he was. 'Bout a woman. And I remembered how Aramis once had an affair with the Cardinal's mistress…."

"Too smart for 'is own good, this one," he heard Porthos mutter.

"Women make us do strange things," d'Artagnan continued, feeling himself lean back against Aramis, unaware that his friend's grip had tightened on him considerably. "Not so honorable things. M'father would've been so 'shamed of me…w' Constance." He tried to shrug, but his shoulder throbbed mercilessly, cutting a brief swath of clarity through his musings. "But I loved her. I love her still."

Constance smelled like lavender, he remembered suddenly. He had buried his face in the fire red of her hair and breathed it in, ignoring the voice telling him it was wrong, turning his back on any honor inside that sought to keep him from her arms. Her mouth had felt warm and right and the way her skin had pressed against his had been like the missing half of his heart finally finding a home.

"Porthos?" he mumbled. "D'you smell lavender?"

"Athos!" he heard Porthos suddenly shout and he jerked in surprise, blinking his eyes open.

The horse had stopped and he glanced around, confused. He could hear a river nearby and felt the sun high in the sky, the heat of it warming his bare head. Aramis' arms were circling him from behind and he gasped as he felt the man suddenly press a hand against the blood-soaked bandage. He looked over at Porthos and then realized that Athos and Treville had circled back to them.

"How bad?" Athos was saying.

d'Artagnan blinked at him, uncomprehending. Bad? Had they been ambushed? What was causing such a serious look of concern to fold his friend's normally stoic expression?

"We have to remove the ball," Aramis replied. "We cannot wait any longer; he's lost too much blood."

"There's enough space between us and anyone following from Villers-Cotterêts," Treville said. "We can stop here, near the river."

"I can continue," d'Artagnan said…or at least he attempted to. What he heard instead was a weak, thin moan as Aramis pressed once more against the bandage.

The horse moved again and d'Artagnan heard the river grow a bit louder. Then he saw Athos reach for him, a tense expression on his face, and he felt suddenly like a child, his father scolding him for wandering off again rather than paying attention to the lessons that were to be his future.

Charles, you must listen closely.

Athos' arms were joined by Porthos' and d'Artagnan found himself pulled from the saddle, his legs rather useless when they finally reached the ground. His friends dragged him over to a larger tree with roots spreading like thick fingers across the river bank and down into the water. d'Artagnan let himself lean against a large root, watching with a strange sort of detachment as Porthos eased Aramis from the horse and half-carried his friend over near him.

The horses were unsaddled, the camp assembled in as much time as it took for Aramis to unbuckle the strap that had held d'Artagnan's arm immobile and kept his bandage in place. Licking his dry lips, d'Artagnan stared at the river, not really connecting to the voices and orders flying around him. He saw a pallet being rolled out and wood being gathered, but the river with its lusty rush over the rocks and earth beneath it drew his attention until his thirst was so great it choked him.

"Aiga," he whispered finally, turning heavy-lidded eyes to Aramis. He was so very thirsty.

Aramis frowned at him, continuing to pull his jacket and pauldron from his body, exposing his blood-soaked shirt.

"You foolish, brave boy," Aramis whispered, his words seeming a strange mixture of praise and anger.

d'Artagnan tried once more. "Aiga," he whispered, reaching for Aramis and grasping his shirtfront as the other man had done to him mere hours before. "Béuer."

Aramis shouted over his shoulder at Porthos, saying something about his saddlebag and herbs and d'Artagnan moaned because the man wasn't listening.

Charles you must listen.

"Easy, lad," Porthos was suddenly at his ear and he was being lifted from the solace of the tree and laid out on the pallet, his shirt peeled away and his blood-dampened skin chilling despite the warmth of the sun.

"Aiga," d'Artagnan muttered, fighting to keep his eyes open, beseeching them to listen to him. "Aiga."

And then Treville was there and he had a water skin in his hand and he was lifting d'Artagnan's head and helping him drink and the moisture slid down his throat and across his dry lips and d'Artagnan drank until he felt it fill him from his toes. Closing his eyes he dropped his head back and tried to catch his breath, his muscles finally easing a bit.

"He was thirsty," he heard Treville saying.

"He was calling for water?" Aramis replied. "What language was that?"

He hadn't been speaking French? d'Artagnan frowned, but found he couldn't open his eyes. He hadn't realized….

"Gascony dialect," Treville replied.

"Hang on, you speak the language of Gascony?" Porthos exclaimed. "Uh, Sir."

"It isn't typically something brought up when handing out orders," Treville replied, "but yes. I understand the language quite well."

"Will you be able to help him?" Athos was speaking now. d'Artagnan turned his head, seeking the strength and balance he'd always found when Athos was near.

"As long as I don't have to stand while doing so," Aramis replied. "Start the fire and fetch the wine."

It seemed as though they were planning to eat; d'Artagnan felt himself relax at that thought. If they were eating, then things must not be that bad and the urgency he'd felt from the voices around him had just been—

"AH!" Fire licked through his body as something wet spilled across his shoulder. He opened his eyes as he screamed, staring around in confusion at the four faces peering down at him. "What the hell?" His voice was rough, as if the scream had torn something loose inside of him.

"The skin is inflamed," Aramis said.

d'Artagnan turned his head, tracking the sound of his voice. He saw Aramis lifting a bottle of wine. So that's what it had been. Liquid fire disguised as wine. Something looked wrong, though; Aramis was pale and his hands were shaking. He was wounded; why wasn't he resting? He should be resting.

"'mis?" d'Artagnan croaked, swallowed and tried again. "Aramis? Are you well?"

Aramis huffed slightly, offering him a shaky smile. "No, my friend. I am not."

d'Artagnan frowned as Aramis laid a hand on his chest; he hadn't realized his skin was bare until that moment. Slowly, memory surfaced and for a moment, clarity once more ruled d'Artagnan's weary brain. He felt the pain slipping from the wound in his shoulder down his chest and then bouncing up to wrap his head in a vice of fire. He licked his lips and blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus.

"You will do fine," he said, willing strength he did not feel into his voice. He reached over and clasped the hand Aramis rested on his chest. "I know you will."

Aramis' face seemed to fold a bit and emotion d'Artagnan was unused to seeing swam in his friend's dark eyes. "I pray your faith in me is not misplaced."

"It has never been before," d'Artagnan whispered; beneath his grasp, he felt Aramis' trembling hand begin to steady.

Aramis took a breath and looked up over d'Artagnan's head. "This will be extremely painful," he said, his voice calming as he spoke. "I must dig out the ball, clean the wound, and then apply needlework. The only thing I have to offer him is a small amount of laudanum."

"Then what are you waitin' for?" Porthos interjected from d'Artagnan's right. "Give it to 'im!"

"If I do, we won't have enough to get him home," Aramis confessed.

d'Artagnan felt someone grip his hand, palm-to-palm, and he gripped back, recognizing at once that it was Porthos. A part of him knew the big man was looking as much for grounding as he was offering balance.

"d'Artagnan." Athos spoke from above his head, his calloused hands now resting on either side of his face. "Listen to me."

Charles you must listen.

d'Artagnan stared at his friend, offering no resistance.

"I will not leave you. I will remain at your side as you bear this. If you promise me you will stay."

Athos' eyes held emotion beyond what he'd seen in Aramis', beyond what he'd heard from Porthos. He was asking d'Artagnan to defy any other destiny except the one which he allowed.

Well then, d'Artagnan was damned if he was going to disappoint him.

"I promise," he choked out.

Athos nodded to him, then slipped his leather glove between d'Artagnan's teeth, his hand moving down to the tops of d'Artagnan's shoulders to brace him. Porthos' grip on his free hand tightened and d'Artagnan turned his eyes to Aramis. Aramis nodded once to him, then took hold of a small knife smelling strongly of wine, and d'Artagnan's world went white.

He could hear screaming, but from a distance. His entire body was shivering with heat, melting from flames of pain licking up the length of him. He could feel his muscles contract, twitching and arching, hands pressing him flat as he tried desperately to escape.

The screaming was relentless; it echoed in his head, tore at his throat. He could hear it slipping back through a black tunnel, dragging him along and oh, God it hurt. The pain became a separate thing, a figure in shadow, a beast slashing at him and stabbing him with wicked swords. He wanted to turn from it but each way he sought escape, the shadow was there.

He felt himself sobbing, hot tears painting his face as he fell to his knees in the tunnel, lost and alone and covered in the smell and feel of blood. His blood. His friend's blood. His father's blood.

It was raining in the tunnel and he could smell the mud and the horses and the rank, raw stench of the bandits as he fought them. And then his father was falling, falling, and there was more blood, spilling out into the rain, staining the ground around him a deep, unnatural red.

He pleaded for his father to stay.

Charles you must listen.

He promised, anything. Whatever he wanted if he would simply stay. Then, suddenly, he was alone. And he listened. He listened for anything. Some sound. Some indication that there was light in the tunnel, a way out. The pain wasn't so bad anymore. He could almost stand it.

Then he heard her. Singing. His mother, the folk songs of Gascony, the words that had framed his childhood. A tale of heroism and bravery, of soldiers and brothers, of battles won and lives lost and a destiny he could only dream of as he learned his father's definition of honor.

"What is he saying?"

The voice was familiar – distant, but familiar.

"It's a song," another voice replied. A voice he felt he should respond to. One he knew his father would want him to pay attention to. "An old Gascon folksong. About a young man who leaves home to fight a war, finds his brother, and then brings his body home."

His mother's song. The person speaking knew her song. He wanted to hear her sing more, but she was fading. He repeated the words, hoping to call her back, but she was barely there now. The other voices had replaced the sound of her singing.

"Sounds a bit like his story," said a third.

"Minus the body o'course."

"He is stirring." There. That voice. His father's voice, only…not. Just enough different that he knew if he called to him, his father would not answer. Still, that voice….

"Father," he whispered, feeling his lips form around the word, suddenly finding it foreign.

A hand in his hair, a cool cloth at his cheek, fingers gripping his shoulder. None of them his father; all of them familiar, welcome, needed. He let himself sink into their touch, let it ground him, anchor him. Let it be the light he'd sought in a tunnel of darkness. He reached for the light, needing to feel it on his skin, and gripped the hand that caught his tightly, relaxing in the warmth radiating from that light.

It seemed like much later he was finally able to open his eyes; the light had been so real, he was slightly surprised to find darkness once more surrounding him, broken only by the soothing, flickering light emitted by the fire nearby. Without stirring too much – his body warning him that would be a mistake – he took in his surroundings.

He was lying on a pallet near the fire. His left shoulder, which still throbbed insistently with each beat of his heart, was wrapped tightly in several bandages. To his right, Porthos slumped against the tree, arms crossed over his chest, head canted to the side, asleep. Next to him, Aramis lay stretched out on another pallet, his wounded leg propped up on a saddle, his hat over his face, one hand resting on d'Artagnan's arm as if he couldn't bring himself to be too far away.

On his left, Athos sat staring at the fire, lost in thought, Treville next to him, facing away from the fire, staring out into the dark, keeping watch.

"Rest, Athos," Treville said, startling d'Artagnan. He remembered his voice now, talking about the song. His Captain had known his mother's song…how? "You're no good to anyone if you collapse from weariness."

"When d'Artagnan wakes, I will rest," Athos replied.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to let his friend know he was awake, but was stopped by Treville's voice.

"He is not Thomas, you know."

d'Artagnan froze, his whole body alert, watching, yearning to know the truth about this mysterious, perfect brother whose death changed the course of Athos' life.

"No, he is not," Athos agreed. "Thomas actually had a sense of self-preservation."

"d'Artagnan's stubbornness just might save his life," Treville offered.

Athos bounced his head slightly, as if giving that statement some merit. "She told him the same lie," he said then, and d'Artagnan saw Treville's shoulders…flinch. "The same one she told me."

"d'Artagnan, you mean."

"Yes."

"Did you tell him the whole story?"

"It was never the time."

"Meaning, you didn't want to burden him with your sorrow," Treville translated. When Athos didn't reply, Treville sighed. "Athos, you are one of the finest men I have ever known. You can lead men through Hell and convince them they will defeat the Devil, but it's the one to one where you could use a little work."

Athos straightened, frowning, his eyes never leaving the fire. "Meaning?"

"d'Artagnan trusts you with his life, Athos," Treville stated. "He has fought for you and with you and if you asked him to, he'd die for you. He is desperate to be accepted by you."

"He is a fool if he thinks he's not one of us."

d'Artagnan frowned, a hair's breadth from speaking up when Treville beat him to it. "You keep everyone at arm's length, Athos. Aramis and Porthos, they have found a way to breech your walls, and have the years of experience to fight you at your own game, but d'Artagnan needs to know you listen him. That you…trust him."

Athos said nothing and d'Artagnan once more thought to speak up, but found himself unable to stop watching the unguarded emotion tripping across his friend's face as he stared at the fire.

"Do you remember the day we met?" Treville asked suddenly.

"Like it was yesterday," Athos replied.

"You were so drunk, it's a surprise you remember what city you were in."

"Paris, wasn't it?" Athos replied dryly.

"You were about to duel one of the Red Guard without having a clue who the idiot was," Treville recalled. "I was to arrest you."

"I remember," Athos replied. "You made another choice."

"Even three bottles in, you were a wonder with a sword," Treville allowed. "I knew if I could sober you up, keep you that way – for the most part – I would have a fine soldier on my hands."

Athos said nothing.

"You told me you were coming from burying your brother – neglecting to mention, at the time, that you'd also been forced to order your wife to be hanged."

"It's a lot of information for an introduction," Athos stated.

"Do you remember what you said to me when I asked how your brother died?"

Athos dropped his eyes, his head hanging low. d'Artagnan swallowed, unable to look away from the top of his friend's head.

"You told me he died because he didn't trust you."

"He thought he was protecting me," Athos mumbled toward the ground. "He had no way of knowing how…dangerous…she was. Or," Athos raised his head, "that I already knew of her past. And didn't care."

d'Artagnan caught his breath. Athos had known; Anne had killed Thomas to keep him quiet, not realizing that it hadn't mattered. The unmitigated tragedy of the situation tore at his heart.

"If he'd just trusted me," Athos whispered, "he might still be alive."

"And yet," Treville said softly, almost casually, "you deny d'Artagnan the same."

Athos was quiet for a long time. Long enough that d'Artagnan felt his eyes growing heavy once more. And then he sighed.

"When he wakes," Athos said hesitantly, "perhaps I'll consider a different tactic."

"'e's awake, ya bloody fool," Porthos grumbled quietly from his slouch against the tree.

d'Artagnan saw Athos' head come up sharply, staring first toward Porthos, then meeting d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Been 'wake since you lot started talking," Porthos continued.

"As have we," Aramis called from the depths of his hat.

Athos moved around the fire and offered d'Artagnan some water.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," d'Artagnan choked out, surprised at how frayed his voice sounded. It must have shown in his expression because Athos smiled slightly.

"You're going to be a bit hoarse for a while," he said.

"I heard screaming," d'Artagnan managed, still trying to piece together real from dream.

"Let's just say you have an impressive set of lungs," Aramis replied, his voice sounding hollow as it reverberated against his hat. d'Artagnan felt the hand on his arm tighten slightly.

Athos offered him more water, then sat back. "The ball was in deep," he informed d'Artagnan. "Took Aramis quite a bit of effort to get it out and sew up the wound."

d'Artagnan nodded carefully, still rather hesitant to move.

"We did get the bleeding stopped, though," Athos continued. "If you don't develop an infection, after a good deal of rest—"

"Actual, real, do nothing rest," Aramis chimed in.

"—you should heal."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan said, hoping the men around him knew he included them all in the sentiment.

"Think nothin' of it," Porthos muttered, alleviating his concerns.

"I heard voices," d'Artagnan said suddenly as Athos started to move away.

"Voices?"

d'Artagnan frowned, trying to explain. "My mother's song," he managed to croak out.

"You were talking," Athos explained. "Murmuring the words. Treville understands the Gascony dialect."

"I…spoke in Gascon?" d'Artagnan asked, surprised.

"Yes."

He blinked, absorbing that. He hadn't realized he still knew how to do that. Let alone that Treville understood him.

"Rest," Athos ordered, moving back to his place by the fire. "It'll be morning soon enough."

"You promised to sleep," d'Artagnan reminded him. "I'm awake. So…sleep."

He saw Treville's shoulders shift a bit as though laughing. Athos sighed, then nodded.

"Agreed."

"Nicely done, lad," Porthos mumbled as d'Artagnan felt his lids growing too heavy to keep up.

When he woke next, it was still dark, but he was thirsty and the fire had burned down to glowing coals. Aramis was still asleep, as were Athos and Treville. Porthos sat near him, staring up at the star-studded sky.

"Porthos."

The big man flinched, startled.

"Water?"

"Ah, you're speaking in French again," Porthos commented, helping him drink his fill from the water skin. "That's a relief."

"Didn't actually know I remembered the other. Haven't heard it in years," d'Artagnan admitted. "What else did I say?"

"Lot o'stuff 'bout your father. Called for him a few times."

d'Artagnan frowned. "Sorry about that."

"Why? You loved your father. Stands to reason you'd want him near when you were hurtin'."

He had. He missed him. Quite a bit, actually. In different ways each day that time took him further from the moment the body he held in his arms ceased to be the living being that was Alexandre d'Artagnan and become simply a body.

He missed his laugh, and the feel of his hand at the back of his neck. He missed the earnest look he'd get in his eyes as he explained yet another new thing about the world or their farm. He missed the way he sighed at the end of a long day, the sound telling anyone near that he was a happy man, satisfied with his life.

He missed the way he smelled of tobacco and wine, and how he'd always ask for Armagnac, no matter where they traveled. He missed his presence, his reassurance…but most of all, he missed his voice. It hurt, some days, how he could almost hear it, as if he were simply around a corner, yet still too far away.

"Athos sounds like him," d'Artagnan confessed.

Porthos nodded. "You said he wanted you to listen."

"What?"

"Charles, you must listen," Porthos repeated. "You said it over and over. What were you supposed to listen to?"

d'Artagnan swallowed, feeling tears burn the backs of his eye and close off his throat. He was supposed to listen to everything. Every word. Every thought. He was supposed to care enough to pay attention. And he hadn't. He had always been looking away, his mind on the horizon, he heart shaped into a sword, not a plow.

"Him," he replied, choking back the emotion he knew Porthos could easily see in his eyes.

"Get some rest, lad," Porthos told him, brushing his hair from his eyes. "We'll be on the road in the morning."

d'Artagnan was about to acquiesce when a thought occurred to him.

"Porthos."

The big man turned to regard him.

"I am right, aren't I?"

"You may have to narrow it down a bit."

"About Aramis. What the Cardinal holds over you."

Porthos looked down. "Aye," he whispered. Looking up, he pinned d'Artagnan with a serious expression. "But you must trust me, lad. We cannot tell you the details, not even who the woman is. It's for your own safety."

d'Artagnan lay quietly, studying Porthos' expression, thinking. Who would Aramis have had an affair with that would cause such consternation among his closest friends? Such true fear for his safety that they would allow the Cardinal to believe they'd be willing to assassinate Treville on his say-so? Any of the ladies of court were known to take lovers. There was no reason for scandal. Only the Queen would—

d'Artagnan's thought froze. The Queen. The assassination attempt. The abbey.

His expression must have revealed the direction of his thoughts because Porthos turned to him, gripping his wrist, true fear in his eyes.

"Oh…my God…." d'Artagnan breathed.

"Say nothing," Porthos pleaded earnestly. "You don't know the whole story."

d'Artagnan suddenly realized he didn't need to know.

Aramis loved – completely, for the moment – and he carried the pain that love brought him. This was not something he would have ever gloated about; if he'd slept with the Queen it had not been out of conquest or curiosity, but out of love, need. If anyone understood what it meant to be swept up by love, defying honor and decency for just a moment of connection with the other half of one's heart, it was d'Artagnan.

"There's no need for an explanation," d'Artagnan told Porthos earnestly. "He is my brother, as are you. Your pain is mine, your burdens my burdens. I promise you, no one will ever know."

Porthos visibly relaxed. "Wish it would be that easy to change the Cardinal's mind."

"What evidence does he have?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos looked up. "What?"

"I mean, besides his word, which, let's face it is rather fragile at the moment thanks for his part in trying to kill the Queen," d'Artagnan remarked, "what proof does he have?"

"N-nothing, I 'spect."

"Then just tell him he's wrong," d'Artagnan replied. "I'm certain the Queen will not confess and if he tries to tell the King, he'll look like a fool."

"'at jus' might work," Porthos muttered.

"You are very clever, d'Artagnan," came a sleep-heavy voice from across the fire. "Now go to sleep or I'll lace your water with laudanum."

d'Artagnan smiled at Athos' order, letting himself be lulled back to sleep by focusing on the glowing coals of the fire. The third time he woke, it was finally daylight and the men around him were breaking camp. Without thinking, he tried to roll to his side and sit up, but his arm screamed so loud he bit off a broken cry of pain, drawing Athos to his side immediately.

"Easy," Athos said softly. "You're doing better, but you've a good amount of healing to do."

"So it would seem," d'Artagnan groaned as he let the older man help him carefully to his feet, supporting him. "How's Aramis?"

"His wound is not infected, but he's quite sore, and a bit…surly."

d'Artagnan allowed Athos to help him to the other side of the tree where he could relieve himself, then return to the camp to eat whatever was left from the breakfast the others had laid out. He watched Porthos watch Aramis move about the camp, lurching dangerously on his wounded leg, ready to catch his friend, but never actually touching him.

"I feel your eyes on me, Porthos," Aramis grumbled.

"I jus' want to make sure ya don't end up face down."

"I am fine," Aramis muttered. "I just have a hole in my leg that had to be burned shut, that's all. No reason for you to act like I'll shatter if a strong wind blows through."

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos. "I see what you mean."

"Now, don't you start," Aramis snapped, frowning fiercely at him.

d'Artagnan lifted his free hand in a gesture of surrender and kept quiet.

Aramis continued to mutter under his breath, much to Athos' amusement. "Put you back together, worry over you, and all you do is make sure I don't fall over. Ha! I can keep myself upright without your damn eyes following me around all the damn place…."

When they'd broken camp, Athos gave him a small dose of the laudanum – not enough, Aramis assured, to knock him out, just enough to make riding a horse bearable and keep his needlework intact – and helped him mount his horse, ensuring he had a solid grip with his right hand and that his left was completely immobile before mounting his own horse.

d'Artagnan saw that Aramis was once more behind Porthos' horse, his hands resting comfortably on Porthos' weapons belt, his body canted forward a bit so that he was basically leaning on his friend. Perhaps ensuring that he didn't fall over had finally translated to care in Aramis' mind.

They rode on, stopping to eat, check wounds, and rest the horses. d'Artagnan wasn't able to keep his eyes open for the whole ride and Treville fashioned a rope sling to keep him from falling off his horse when his body simply gave in to exhaustion. The second night on the Pass, d'Artagnan found himself sitting up with Treville, taking the first watch.

"How's the shoulder?"

Treville's question was almost conversational and d'Artagnan had a moment to feel slightly off-balance about carrying on a conversation with his Captain as if he were, well, Porthos. Or Aramis. He didn't really even talk with Athos in such a casual manner, yet Treville was asking and now he'd allowed the silence extend to a point where the man was looking up at him, a bit worried that he hadn't responded.

"It…hurts," he replied honestly. "But Aramis seems to think it's healing well."

"Good," Treville nodded. "Would hate to lose one of my best soldiers."

That he could handle. Musketeer business, being part of the unit. Anything else was simply too…real. He was about to lay back on the pallet Athos had once more spread out for him, leaving Treville to his first watch when his Captain spoke once more.

"The rain," he said quietly. "It reminds you of your father, doesn't it?"

d'Artagnan stared at Treville with surprise.

"That's why you stay in the livery when it storms?"

"Y-yes," d'Artagnan stuttered an answer.

Treville nodded. "For me it was snow."

d'Artagnan nodded, though he didn't truly understand.

"You know enough by now to know my arrival in Paris was under…rather dubious circumstances."

"Yes, sir."

"The one thing my father did for me was to send a letter on my behalf to the previous Captain of the Musketeers, allowing me to train as a recruit. I resolutely resisted. For three days."

"What changed your mind?"

"I was cornered by a vagrant and I was losing the fight. Badly. Two Musketeers showed up and without any reason or reward, saved me."

d'Artagnan nodded more slowly this time.

"I realized that by resisting my father's choice for me, I was damning myself to the same fate as those I'd fought alongside in the uprising." Treville rubbed at his head again, pressing his palm tightly to his temple. "I didn't even know what I'd been fighting for."

"Do you now?" d'Artagnan asked.

Treville glanced at him. "Yes, d'Artagnan. I do. It's the same reason you fight: the man beside you."

d'Artagnan studied his Captain, sensing there was more.

"Each of you men—the whole regiment, but you four in particular—were chosen for this life. I knew the moment I saw each of you that the Musketeers would be better for having you in the ranks."

"What about…," d'Artagnan swallowed, glancing toward a sleeping Porthos, thinking of Belloq and the post in the center of the garrison courtyard. "Those who aren't of nobility?"

Treville glanced to the side, studying him for a moment before looking away. "d'Artagnan," he said finally. "People will tell you who you are your entire life…until you inform them who you are."

d'Artagnan huffed out a small laugh. "You sound like my father."

"From what I've heard, he sounds like he was an honorable man."

d'Artagnan nodded, his smile fading, but the warmth lingering as he finally lay down to rest. He wasn't woken that night for watch, and he managed to avoid a single dream. Aramis carefully shook him awake when dawn brushed the sky, checking the bandage at his shoulder. Though painful to move and sensitive to Aramis' inspecting fingers, the sensation of fire in his limb had abated. Aramis lifted a brow at him as he rewrapped the wound.

"What?" d'Artagnan asked, worried slightly by the enigmatic expression.

"You broke your promise," Aramis replied, one hand dropping to his wounded leg, fingers gripping as if to staunch a shimmer of pain.

"My promise?" d'Artagnan tilted his head, confused.

"To completely avoid injury," Aramis reminded him.

d'Artagnan dropped his eyes, a smirk dancing on his lips. "I am sorry about that."

"See that you avoid it in the future," Aramis scolded him, his mouth relaxing into a genuinely relieved smile.

Once Aramis finished, d'Artagnan found he was able to sit forward without assistance, this time mounting his horse without the help of the medicine, though still requiring his friend's strong arm to support him.

At mid-day, they arrived at the garrison.

d'Artagnan hadn't really paused to think about their reception upon returning home. He'd just wanted a bed and several days off horseback, but the moment they rode into the busy courtyard, all motion ceased. The men in the training area lowered their swords, those at the table stopped chewing, and the few loitering on the balcony outside Treville's office – where d'Artagnan knew Belloq was holding court – turned to stare down at them in shock.

It came as no surprise to the weary men that Belloq was the first to speak. Exiting Treville's office, he stared first at the men in the courtyard, opening his mouth to call them to action when his gaze was caught by the five men on horseback.

"Captain Treville!" he bleated, his voice squeaking a bit at the end of the word.

"Lt. Belloq," Treville returned. "I see you've kept everyone busy in my absence."

"Y-yes, Sir," Belloq replied, descending the stairs and approaching Treville's horse.

d'Artagnan watched him gape as he noticed who was sitting astride a horse next to the Captain. "You! I had thought you to be a deserter."

"After you chained me to a post? What could possibly be my reason?" d'Artagnan remarked, grimacing as his voice still slid out rough and broken from his ordeal.

"Men!" Treville's voice pitched out across the garrison, demanding the attention of the regiment and cutting off any reply Belloq might have generated to d'Artagnan's remark. "No doubt you've heard a number of rumors and speculations in the wake of my absence over the last few days. I want to set your understanding straight now that I've returned."

His pale eyes slid over each man in the garrison. "In the last three days," he continued, "I have been witness to acts of bravery and sacrifice the likes of which are immeasurable and worthy of the highest honor of a Musketeer. I owe my life to the men you see at my side, some of whom have returned with me much worse for the wear."

His gaze fell on Belloq, then shifted up to the group of men. d'Artagnan saw Arnaud and Mathieu standing at the back of the courtyard, each leaning against a post, eyes on the Captain. He saw Bauer's head down, listening, and he caught Grisier's eye, the other man smiling with something that almost looked like…pride.

"They are your brothers, regardless of their past, no matter their bloodline. They fight, they bleed, for each of you. Being a Musketeer is not about nobility. It is not about entitlement. It is about brotherhood," he looked askance at d'Artagnan and smiled. "And honor."

Turning his eyes back to the men, he said quietly. "We have all lost. Individually, we are all the last of something. A family, a way of life, a series of choices. We have all searched for something and found it here, among our brothers. We found our place through skill and effort, sweat and tears. We have all earned our place in the ranks of the King's Musketeers!"

A low ripple of agreement began to build from the back of the men gathered in the courtyard, increasing in passion and intensity until d'Artagnan saw Grisier shove his fist into the air with a cheer. Treville waited until the enthusiasm tapered, then looked askance at Porthos.

"Take these two to the infirmary," he instructed. "Make sure they stay until the surgeon is satisfied they are able to leave."

"But, Sir, your head—" Aramis began to protest.

"I will visit the infirmary myself upon my return," Treville replied. "I have to first speak to the King." He looked at Belloq. "You and Athos are coming with me."

Belloq nodded, his face quite pale. d'Artagnan almost felt sorry for him. Porthos swung his leg forward across his horse's neck, dismounting, then reaching up to help Aramis from the back of the saddle. With Athos gone, d'Artagnan wasn't certain how he would get off his horse without ending up as a puddle of loose limbs and bandages.

"Need some help?"

d'Artagnan looked up to see Grisier standing at his horse's head, one hand on the animal's bridle. He nodded, eyes wary as Arnaud and Mathieu approached from across the courtyard. He saw Porthos pause and he and Aramis turn to carefully regard the men as they reached d'Artagnan's side. Grisier reached up and braced him as he swung his leg across and reached the ground, then quickly drew his arm across his shoulder, balancing him until he was able to find his legs.

"Stabbed?"

"Shot," d'Artagnan replied.

"That'll tear you up," Grisier said, grimacing in sympathy.

Arnaud nodded at d'Artagnan and took Porthos' horse while Mathieu grabbed d'Artagnan's. Grisier helped him into the infirmary where he and Aramis sat on beds facing each other, waiting their turns. Porthos perched on a shelf to the side of the beds, watching with just as much interest as d'Artagnan as Bauer joined Grisier in the room, leaning against the wall, waiting to see what the surgeon's verdict would be.

After examining Aramis' leg, cleaning and redressing the wound, he pronounced him able to return to quarters providing he maintained a schedule of light duty including no riding – of any kind – for two weeks. Porthos chuckled at the surgeon's choice of words.

"Don't know if you've ever willingly gone two days, let 'lone two weeks without…riding," he laughed.

Aramis scowled at him briefly, then his face broke into a sunny grin. "My dear Porthos," he said smoothly, "there are many ways by which a man can partake in riding, some involving only his hands."

Porthos' smile slipped. "Wait, I think I lost part o' this conversation. We talking 'orses or women?"

d'Artagnan grinned as Aramis chuckled. "Have a seat," he said to Porthos, patting the edge of his narrow infirmary bed. "I'll teach you everything there is to know about pleasing a woman."

Porthos shook his head and scowled, crossing his arms over his chest and turned his attention to d'Artagnan as the surgeon removed his bandage at his shoulder. There was much remarking of the damage – though well mended - of his general state of weariness – though understandable – and the fact that he was far too thin for a Musketeer.

"'at'll happen when you're chained up for a day with no food," Porthos interjected, "'fore you run off to play hero." He slid his eyes across to Bauer and Grisier, both of whom glanced away.

"Easy, Porthos," d'Artagnan soothed. "Remember who gave me the key to aid my escape."

"'at's right!" Porthos grinned at Grisier, all sins instantly forgiven. "I forgot 'bout that."

"You did that?" Bauer asked.

Grisier lifted his chin. "I did."

Bauer smiled. "Nicely done."

Grisier caught d'Artagnan's eye as if to say, see, I told you. With a nod in his direction, the other two Musketeers left. The surgeon ordered d'Artagnan to remain overnight for rest and food and then instructed him to limit his activities to light duty for two weeks as well.

"Young d'Artagnan gets to ride, eh?" Porthos teased Aramis.

"He was wounded in the shoulder," Aramis pointed out, his eyebrow arched.

"Guess that leaves out pleasing a woman with just your hands," Porthos grinned wickedly, causing d'Artagnan's face to turn an embarrassing shade of red.

Porthos and Aramis left him to the aid of the surgeon as they cleaned up from the road. By the time they'd returned, d'Artagnan had eaten, had his fill of water, and was lounging near sleep once more. He perked up, though, when he saw Athos enter with them.

"How did the King take the news?" he asked eagerly.

"You mean the news that Treville received word there was a potential uprising in one of the outlying townships and took immediate precautions to eradicate it?" Athos asked.

d'Artagnan's eyebrows were buried beneath his hairline. "Um. Yes?"

"Quite well, actually."

"Any word on…," Aramis glanced at the ground then up once more. "The other matter?"

"From the Cardinal, no." Athos stated. "The Queen is looking well and asked after the health of my friends after our ordeal. I informed her that both you and d'Artagnan had been wounded—"

"You tested her?" Aramis exclaimed.

"Her, the Cardinal, Belloq, anyone who might be party to your hanging…and, subsequently, my own," Athos returned. "She did remarkably well. She showed concern and wished you a speedy recovery."

Aramis sighed, nodded, and his shoulders dropped a bit before he looked up once more. "And the Cardinal?"

"Unable to utter a syllable."

"Told you," d'Artagnan grinned.

"Yes, you're very smart," Athos commented dryly. "Now, I suggest we all rest up, heal up, and return to our training."

"Athos," d'Artagnan called before the other man could leave the small room. "Thank you."

Athos looked puzzled. "For what?"

"For believing me," d'Artagnan replied.

"For leading us," Porthos chimed in.

"For standing by us," Aramis agreed. "Especially in the light of…everything."

Athos looked at Aramis, then let his eyes travel the other two, taking them all in with his words. "You are my brothers," he said solemnly. "That is all we need know."

Aramis' handsome face relaxed into a genuine smile of gratitude.

"Now, you three, rest," Athos ordered. "I believe there's a bottle or two of wine back in my quarters with my name on it."

Too happy to admit he was immeasurably weary, d'Artagnan sank once more on the bed, watching as Aramis placed a hand on Porthos' shoulder to help him limp forward.

"Oh, Porthos. One more thing," Athos said, pausing in the doorway. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a fist-sized metal ball with a long fuse protruding from the top. He tossed it to Porthos who caught it easily. "For next time."

Porthos' boisterous laugh erased any confusion about what d'Artagnan had missed. His friends filed out, telling him they'd see him in the morning, and he lay carefully back on the small bed, letting his body remember what it felt like to relax.

That night, it rained. And d'Artagnan slept until morning.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this; would love to hear from you if you did. If you liked the story, I suggest also checking out the vid "The Inseparables" by the lovely el1ie, on YouTube.

A couple of closing notes:

Villers-Cotterêts in Picardy, France is actually where Dumas hails from.

Alexandre Grisier and Henry Bauer (two of the Musketeer regiment) are names from Dumas' history. Belloq (the arrogant asshole of a Musketeer) was named for Indiana Jones' nemesis, René Belloq, in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Bellamy, in French, actually means "beautiful friend."

A harquebus can also be spelled 'arquebus' but in either spelling it is the smaller, shorter-barreled pistol used when a musket is just not practical. A schiavona is a heavier, broader sword than the rapier. In the show, Porthos carries a sword decidedly larger and heavier-looking than the rapiers wielded by the other three.

In the Gascon dialect, aiga means water and béuer means drink. It's entirely possible that in the 17th century, a Parisian would understand the language from another region in France, but I thought it added a bit of character layers to have d'Artagnan speak a language only Treville understood.

The name Jean-Armand du Peyer, Comte de Treville is pulled from the original story, but Claude, his older rebellious brother, is a complete fabrication for this story. As is Treville's past participation in an uprising against the monarchy. And all of the stories about the reasons the men felt they owed Treville. That, my friends, is why I adore fiction. So many lovely possibilities.

Each chapter title (Reconnaissance, Sortie, Coup de Main, Debellatio, and Hors de Combat) are reference to battle terminology and served a specific purpose for the flow of this story.

I think that's it.