AN: *cracks knuckles* okay, here goes nothing...

I am back! After ten long months of writing anything but this, I have returned to complete this horribly depressing tale of woe.

A few quick housekeeping notes so that the story still makes sense: I have completely rewritten the first two chapters and have now condensed them together so that they make up only the first chapter. I have also slightly modified a portion of the plot throughout the entire story so that d'Artagnan's reaction to Treville's charges is more plausible. I don't actually think that you have to go back and read the whole thing for it to still make sense, as it is mostly addressed in this chapter, but the general nature of the change is that Treville asked d'Artagnan to step back from his mission infiltrating the slavery ring and d'Artagnan went against his orders to continue the mission, which technically mean that anything he did while working with the ring after Treville told him to pull out would not have been sanctioned by the crown and therefore would be mean that d'Artagnan would be punished like any other criminal.

This has not been beta-d yet! So any mistakes that you notice are entirely my own. Feel free to give me as much feedback as possible, constructive or otherwise, as I am always trying to grow as a writer.

I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for waiting so long!

I'd love to hear from you!

D'Artagnan woke with a start, struggling in the dark to even his breathing enough that his body didn't burn with each inhale of cold night air. His eyes darted around the room, sweeping in every detail as he scanned back and forth, absorbing as much as he could while fighting off the vibrant images of Fernand's friendly smile and bright, clean clothes as he peeled d'Artagnan's skin from his body in thin, dainty strips and passed it off to Bernard.

"Use the water. It helps to clean up the mess."

D'Artagnan jumped, sending agony spiking through his body, but he couldn't find the source of Fernand's voice. Placing pressure on his hands, he tried to heave himself upright, but the screaming pain that issued from his arms only led to more suffering as he shrank back into the mattress, making himself appear as small as possible, because then maybe - god how he hoped - Fernand would not be able to find him. He tried to quiet his breathing as his lungs rattled in his chest; his skin burned and prickled and crawled as if he was being watched, and he could feel eyes peering out at him from the darkness of the room, searching and prying and staring into his soul.

The room around him shifted, and it was as if the world was flat - two-dimensional and off-colour. He was dreaming again - he must have been - because the world wasn't like this, d'Artagnan knew that - didn't he? The world around him stared back through a thin veil, somehow there but not real - not how he was sure it was supposed to feel. He pushed his hands into the fabric of his bed, but the texture came back fuzzy and indistinct, fake and true all at once, because maybe he was the problem. Maybe he was no longer whole and coloured and true.

The panic hit him then - full force and blinding - because there was a movement behind the foggy veil that surrounded everything he looked at, and he couldn't tell - couldn't feel - what was truly alive: the world, or him. Eyes loomed over him and he was forced back into his body, the blanket itchier than ever, the night air cold, the anxiety rising fast inside his chest. He pressed himself further down into the bed, ignoring the ever-increasing pain in his back, trying to melt into the fabric until there was nothing left of him.

He pulled away further as the man dropped down into the light that was slipping in from the thin moon outside, and for a moment all d'Artagnan could see was Fernand - waiting with anticipation to play more mind-breaking games - before he blinked and Aramis towered before him. It was worse, in a sense, because at least with Fernand d'Artagnan knew where he stood, but now - with Aramis obviously in the picture and memories from the day before rushing to the forefront of his mind - he didn't know what to expect.

He was still being charged for slaving: if he wasn't dead already, and if he had actually managed to get away from Fernand, he would be hanged as soon as he could stand on his own two feet and walk his way to the gallows.

His time was up, and he was desperate, and why was Aramis smiling at him with such compassion and sympathy and understanding when all the Musketeers knew what he had done? What he had been a part of, even as he tried to bring the organization crumbling to its knees? Unless it was a ploy, to get him comfortable and relaxed before they sank their knives in and carved, carved, carved as he hung - swinging - from the rope that was sure to end his life. But that was crazy - insane! - because this was Aramis he was talking about. Sweet, kind, loving Aramis, who gave and gave and gave until he had nothing left; who always looked out for those he called family; who fought for the people he loved.

But was it really so unbelievable? D'Artagnan wasn't one of them anymore - that had become obvious the moment Treville delivered his death sentence - so what was stopping them from taking him apart piece by piece, just like Fernand?

"-tagnan! D'Artagnan, you're shaking!" Aramis' hands were touching him now and it burned, burned, burned and he just wanted to scream until his voice failed or his lungs tore apart or his throat closed off, and he couldn't breathe - why couldn't he breathe? - but he could feel it now, the trembling in his limbs that vibrated the whole bed underneath him with its strength.

"D'Artagnan, please, you have to calm down. Match your breathing to mine. In, out, in, out. I know it's hard - I've been there too - but as long as you keep breathing, everything will work itself out. In, out, in, out." Aramis' voice, soothing and calm, slipped into the cracks in his defenses, dropping his heart rate with each slowly steadying breath. D'Artagnan sucked in too much air, coughing so violently that tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as his body rebelled against the pain and the panic rose again - violent and unstoppable - until Aramis steady repetition of 'In, out' beat back the rising beast.

Exhausted, he slumped back into the bed, his muscles relaxing as his eyes closed once more. And when he dreamed, he dreamed he was lying on the ground as Bernard poured water onto his face and he became wetter and wetter and wetter, until the water rushed into his mouth and he drowned, his lungs desperate for air, with nothing to help him breathe.

He woke again to the feeling of his skin ripping apart, the muscles in his hand spasming with pain. He surfaced slowly, floating on the edge of consciousness before being pulled from the last vestiges of his nightmares all in a rush. He jerked reflectively, his body rising up from the bed before dropping back down with a thump, a pained gasp hissed through his lips. Aramis hovered over him, a clean cloth and a roll of fabric clutched in his hands. He smiled down at d'Artagnan, his eyes shrouded in worry but his body relaxed, forced into a state of calm: faked impassiveness that d'Artagnan had seen more times than he could count, when Aramis was tending to someone who was dying: dying and didn't know it.

D'Artagnan coughed weakly, the ache all over his body making his eyes sting as he opened his mouth to find out, once and for all, why he wasn't swinging by his neck in the gallows.

"You came back for me." D'Artagnan blinked. That was certainly not what he had meant to say. He tried again. "How did you find me?" But no, that wasn't correct either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep anything else humiliating from spilling out; he didn't need Aramis' pity - not before, and certainly not now.

Aramis' smile stretched into a grin, his face splitting into one of the most beautiful sights that d'Artagnan had ever seen: so at odds with the malicious smirk that had graced Fernand's face.

"Of course we came after you." Aramis paused, and anyone else may not have noticed the small break, but d'Artagnan know that Aramis was skirting around the question. "How much do you remember?"

The corners of d'Artagnan's mouth dipped down into a frown, his brow furrowing. How much did he remember? He could recall thirst and swaying and mumbled words and loud sounds, and pain, ripping through his body - but not much in between, and nothing after; nothing until the night before. He remembered Fernand and Bernard and André, and his father, talking to him in the middle of the night, taunting him as he died right before d'Artagnan's eyes. He remembered his uncle, Henri, and his horse, Jacques, and his pauldron, dropping to the ground, the sound echoing around the garrison. Mostly, he remembered betrayal and the threat of death, and his heart - breaking; spilling onto the ground to mix with his blood.

"Enough; bits and pieces." Aramis grimaced and reached toward d'Artagnan's hand. The wrappings around his mutilated fingernails looked half off, and d'Artagnan assumed that Aramis had been changing the bandages when he had awakened. "What happened?"

Another subtle pause, and then: "The man who took you - Fernand - almost killed you. We were barely in time to save your life. We chased you all the way back to Paris, where I found you bleeding out in the captain's arms." Aramis tried for a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You've already managed to get yourself shot twice. Next time, please dodge the bullets, don't catch them; bullet holes do have a tendency to kill people, you know." It was delivered so conversationally - so bluntly - that d'Artagnan huffed out a laugh, caught off guard.

His laughter bled into pained wheezing seconds later. "No jokes," he gasped out, trying to heave air into his lungs.

Aramis looked abashed, almost guilty. "Sorry."

D'Artagnan stared off to the side, evening his breathing and peering out into the the middle of the garrison, where he could see men; sword-fighting, eating, laughing. It felt like home, like he had never left - and then Aramis touched his hand again, and the pain brought him back, back to the terror and the screaming and the sound of snapping bones. He opened his mouth, to beg Aramis to 'Please, stop!' - but what came out this time was four simple words to the same effect.

"When do I hang?"

Aramis' fingers fumbled, scarping harshly against the faint beginnings of nail growth on d'Artagnan's fingers before his hands dropped away. To d'Artagnan, Aramis looked devastatingly sad, and he couldn't understand why; it was as if he had killed a puppy - slit my poor, sweet dog's throat, Fernand whispered in d'Artagnan's ear - or trampled Aramis' beloved hat.

"Hang?" he questioned faintly.

D'Artagnan gave a jerky nod. It was almost impossible, but he finally managed to mumble out, "Yes, for the slaving." He was aiming for strength, oneness with his fate, but his air of serenity was quickly ruined by another bough of coughing, his lungs like trembling balls of pain in his chest.

Aramis looked at him; concerned, confused. "For the slaving?" he echoed again, and this parroting act was getting old. All d'Artagnan wanted to know was how long he had to live, and - why, damn it! - why he was being cared for if they were just going to kill him anyway.

Rising to hover beside the bed, Aramis stared down at d'Artagnan, who had to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably under the marksman's gaze. "Yes, hang for the slaving." Aramis muttered again, and then he was turning quickly and moving toward the door, trying to escape into the hustle and bustle of the outside noise. "Good question, good question. Stay right there." He opened the door and stepped out into the court yard, sound pouring into the room. Without pausing or looking over his shoulder he called, "I'll be right back," and the door swung shut behind him, slamming into place.

The sound reminded d'Artagnan of the noise made when the floor beneath a prisoner's body dropped away - down, down, down - until the cracking of their breaking necks - his breaking neck - cut through the chattering crowds of people.

"He thinks he's going to hang," Aramis hissed at Porthos.

"An' did ye tell 'im anythin' differently?" Porthos asked back.

Aramis paused. He had been so shocked - and honestly, sadder than he had any right to be - at the idea that d'Artagnan believed they would hang him - him; their light and heart and soul - that he had left the room as quickly as possible; left to find Athos, because God, he needed to talk to the boy before any hope of mending their relationship crumbled at their feet.

It was no surprise when Athos - drunk and in desperate need of a shower - waved Aramis in Porthos' direction and managed to disappear before Aramis could say any more.

Aramis cast his gaze off to the side to avoid Porthos' eyes. "Well, technically, if we're being specific I-"

"Ran screamin' from the room with your tail between your legs?"

"There's no need to word it in such a crude fashion," Aramis sniffed indigently, "but yes, that's the whole of it."

Porthos eyed Aramis, scanning over his body for any signs of stress or fatigue. The marksman's shoulders sagged noticeably, his body seeming to crumble into itself as the humor drained from his face. "When was the last time ya slept?" Porthos murmured quietly, sliding closer to Aramis' side. He steered the man to a nearby bench, Aramis leaning against him, exhaustion sweeping through Aramis' body.

"What day is it?" Aramis questioned back, and Porthos could not tell whether Aramis was serious or trying to lighten the mood with sleep-deprived levity.

"A Tuesday."

Aramis narrowed his eyes questioningly. "Are you certain? Where did Monday go?"

Porthos frowned in Aramis' direction. "Ya can't keep doin' this to yourself. At some point, ya need to sleep."

Aramis waved him off with a flick of his hand. "What need do I have for sleeping?" He asked jokingly, but underneath it all Porthos could see that he believed it, believed that lack of care for himself was a small price to pay for d'Artagnan's recovery. "Besides, Athos sleeps enough for the both of us." Porthos refused to acknowledge that statement with a comment.

"Ya need to sleep, Aramis."

"Name one reason," Aramis retorted indigently, and for a physician, he was one of the worst patients that Porthos had ever met.

It took everything in him not to pray for patience. "Would ya like your reasons alphabetically or by order of importance?"

Aramis' sly retort was stifled by a yawn that cracked his jaw. "If you insist on being by d'Artagnan's side at all time I won't stop ya, but you're going back there to sleep." Porthos looked at him calmly, kindness and concern shining in his eyes, but his voice was firm.

Aramis hesitated, obviously weighing his options. Porthos knew the deal was a fair compromise, and, when Aramis finally gave a jerky nod of assent, he pulled Aramis to his feet and began to usher him toward the infirmary.

"And who's going to tell d'Artagnan about Henri? Or Treville for that matter? He's only going to keep asking more questions." Aramis gazed at him imploringly. "Usually I'd say we leave that one up to Athos, but you know he has no desire to see d'Artagnan."

Porthos scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face. He was exhausted, taxed emotionally, pushed almost to breaking, but he would be strong - for his brothers. "Athos blames 'imself, you know this."

"I know," Aramis murmured. "But he's wrong, and we need him, now more than ever. I need him, you need him, d'Artagnan needs him more than anyone. And what has he done, but drink himself into an early grave and abandon us when we are hurting the most." He paused, bitter, but after a moment his eyes softened. "He's hurting, I know that, and I wish I could take it away, or be there for d'Artagnan in the same way that Athos would be, but I- we can't. I don't think I can handle the pressure of telling him the truth of what has happened. I can barely stomach the thought of showing him the scars that will be on his back."

Porthos heart ached. "I will do it. Tonight, before 'e falls back asleep. You won't 'ave to say anything."

"But will you be okay?" Aramis looked torn.

"I'll have to be."

D'Artagnan struggled to stay awake, eyes drifting open and closed as he waited for Aramis to return. It was a cruel game they were playing, treating him as an equal, healing him and loving him and lying to him. His body settled into a dull roar of pain, background noise to his racing thoughts. He just wanted to know what was happening, wanted everything explained before the feeling of not knowing drove him mad.

And where was Athos? He was the only flaw in an otherwise beautiful plan of deception. If they had actually, truly changed their tune, if Treville had taken back the twisted version of fact that he had shared with the garrison, Athos would be here, watching him and supporting him and taking care of him, just like Aramis and Porthos.

The door creaked open slightly, and d'Artagnan shifted his head as much as he could before the burning sensations in his back became too much for him to handle. He could see Porthos and Aramis approaching from the corner of his eyes, shifting over so that they were more in view, and he hated the way his breath rattled in his chest, the way his body screamed out his weakness even in his breathing.

"'Ow are you feelin'?" Porthos rumbled lowly.

D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows, a silent acknowledgment of the questions stupidity. He froze when he realized what he had done, when he realized that he was treating them as though they were still brothers, but Aramis and Porthos stared at him in what looked, oddly enough, like wonder, and then Porthos was laughing, deep bellyaching laughs that filled the room up with warmth.

"That's the d'Artagnan that I remember. You're right pup, it was a silly question." He sank down into the chair beside d'Artagnan's bed, exchanging a look with Aramis, who moved to the other bed against the wall and settled himself down grudgingly. D'Artagnan was tired of small talk.

"So, what's the answer then, Aramis? When will it happen?" d'Artagnan stared on steadily, the small quiver in his voice unmentioned by all. He would take what was coming to him with courage. He would not shrink from his fate.

"You know you did nothing wrong, right d'Artagnan?" Porthos was the one to answer. "After you left, we found Treville, demanded that he tell us everything, and then set off after you immediately. Treville was wrong and foolish and he meant well, but he lied. You have nothing to hang for."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I- We are trying to say that nothing Treville said shall come to pass. You will not hang. All of your imagined sins are forgotten."

Something small sparked in d'Artagnan's chest, a tiny flicker of light that he had not felt in many days. "I don't understand. You're saying that this, everything that has happened to me in the last few weeks, has been for nothing? That Fernand found me because Treville lied?" d'Artagnan shivered; just thinking the name set his teeth on edge. "And my uncle, who is going to help his village now that I am gone? Not that I was any help to begin with." Everything d'Artagnan longed to say was spilling out before he could stop it. "And you, believing Treville? I thought- I thought- but-." D'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut forcefully, trying to hold back his overflowing emotions. "I was just following orders, just doing what I was told, until- But, Treville was right, in the end. I didn't stop. Didn't step back when I was told too. I had a hand in sending some of those slaves across to the New World. I did… terrible things." D'Artagnan stared off into the distance. "All those lives."

Porthos shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Aramis looked on, miserable. The quiet was broken by d'Artagnan's coughing.

"Maybe it would be better if Treville explained this all to you, before 'e leaves," Porthos said, rising from his seat.

"Leaves? Where is he going?" d'Artagnan was more confused than before. His questions still floated around the room, unanswered.

Aramis adjusted himself on the bed, grabbing d'Artagnan's attention. "You should rest, d'Artagnan, you need the sleep."

"I don't want to sleep, I want to know what is happening. And where is Athos? If you mean what you say about me no longer having a trial, than why is he not here as well?"

The silence that filled the room was uncomfortable, long and loud.

D'Artagnan's eyes sagged closed, and it took all of his remaining strength to force them open again.

"You're tired." Porthos had somehow made it to the door of the infirmary in the time that it took d'Artagnan to blink, and Aramis was under the blankets of the other bed. Noticing that d'Artagnan's eyes were open again, Porthos said, "I will do my best to bring Treville when you next wake up to explain everything to you. For now, just recover your strength."

"But-," d'Artagnan felt suddenly very cold, ignored and dismissed and small, like a child that had stumbled across a conversation that the adults thought they wouldn't understand. "Where is Athos?" His voice was tinier now, sad and lonely and forgotten.

"Everything will make sense in the morning, d'Artagnan; I promise," Aramis said, as Porthos nodded from the other side of the room.

"Exactly, now, both of ya, sleep."

And d'Artagnan was left, confused and concerned and questioning, the curtains draw and Aramis snoring gently beside him.

"Athos." Porthos' words were like a knife cutting through the hazy drunkenness that enveloped Athos' mind. "Stop." He pulled to a halt, one hand coming out to steady himself against the back of the tavern's chair. His empty wine glass hung heavy at his side.

"What can you possibly need from me now, Porthos?" Athos was just so tired. He was misery, loathing, hate - a wave of emotion drowning along with his liver, until he was nothing - numbness.

Sweet, blessed, empty numbness.

Except here was Porthos, again, coaxing or begging or demanding or threatening, wanting desperately for Athos to see the product of his failure - the sum total of his protective ability. One younger brother dead, the other lost in a void of pain and memory and fear, screaming out at night, crying so loudly that Athos could hear d'Artagnan's anguish from where he lay each night in the room next door, awake and waiting, prepared to finish off anyone that would dare try to harm his family.

"'Ow long 'ave you been 'ere for?" Athos did not turn around to see the disapproval in Porthos' eyes.

"Certainly not long enough to have this conversation again." A frustrated sigh bit through the air.

"We wouldn't 'ave to keep meetin' like this if ya just came to see d'Artagnan, or even Aramis."

"I can't."

"Can't, or won't? We need you, Athos. We can't do this without you. I know how you feel, I do, but it isn't your fault."

It was laughable that Porthos thought he understood. There was no one who would be able to understand this: this feeling that gnawed gaping holes through his gut each time he thought of d'Artagnan's mangled body; the dread, the 'what if' that froze him in his sleep in the middle of the night, nightmares of d'Artagnan dead in his arms as he tried to force his body to just wake up; the numb, cold feeling that settled over him like a blanket as he played, over and over again, the never ending reel of mistakes that had gotten them to where they were now.

No, no one would - could - understand.

"You can't possibly comprehend how I feel." It came out quietly, almost too faintly for Porthos to catch.

"And why is that? Because you think that d'Artagnan means more to you than the rest of us? Because you think that somehow you are the only one who is responsible for missing every opportunity to uncover what made him so distant? You think that you love him more than I do? More than Aramis? Can you possibly fathom, Athos, that this is hard for us too?" Athos hunched his shoulders inward, warding off the hard truth of what Porthos was saying, but turned around slowly to face him anyway.

"This is all my fault. I was supposed to protect him, to watch out for him. Ever since fate crossed out paths, I became the person that was gifted with his protection. I failed once with Thomas, and now I've failed again." The wine glass smacked clumsily back onto the table as Porthos' expression softened. Athos adverted his gaze. He didn't need pity; not from Porthos, not from anyone.

"You think this is your fault, Athos, I understand that, but if you just come to see him. He doesn't blame you, he doesn't blame anyone. Even after everything, he's still d'Artagnan. He still needs you."

"No one needs me, not like this." Bitter, self-loathing. A mask of anger to hide his pain.

"Yes, we do." A pause, and then quieter still, "he's been asking for you." Athos looked up, wavered from his resolve. "Please, Athos. Please just- just come back home." Porthos voice cracked slightly at the end, emotion welling out into the open.

It was enticing, tantalizing even, the thought of being welcomed back with open arms, of seeing d'Artagnan smiling or laughing or maybe, possibly, incomprehensibly, content with Athos' presence. Porthos stared at him hopefully.

He thought of d'Artagnan, hopefully as well, pride shinning in his eyes as he put on his pauldron for the first time.

He thought of d'Artagnan, heartbroken, pain cloaking his vision as his pauldron thundered into the dust.

He thought of d'Artagnan, betrayed, starving and bleeding and broken, because Athos was too slow, too weak, too ignorant.

And then he thought of his manor, burning to the ground; of his wife, swinging from a tree; of Thomas, dying in his arms; of Aramis and Porthos and Treville and his troops.

He thought of d'Artagnan.

"No."

It was well into the following afternoon when d'Artagnan awakened again, the loud hacking of his lungs pulling him into consciousness. The first thing he noticed, beside the now familiar screaming of every fiber in his body, was Aramis as he prodded gently at his right shoulder, which was swollen almost double in size. "I set it back in place a few days ago," Aramis said, not even looking up at d'Artagnan. "The swelling was so immense that I had to wait and try to bring it down. We're lucky that I was able to put it back together at all." He gets out a grunt before Aramis continues. "How are you feeling?"

What kind of question was that? How was he feeling? "Did the carriage run me over before or after I was tortured and shot?" Aramis let out a small huff of laughter, but his eyes looked pained.

"Actually, that's something that we wanted to talk to you about now that you're more alert." He eyed the door. "Treville is up in his office if you will permit me to get him?"

"When have I ever managed to stop you from doing anything before?" d'Artagnan questioned sceptically. He moved to shrugs his shoulders, but thought better of it. Somehow his comment seemed to make Aramis even more upset, but he pushed it aside with a smile.

"I'll be back in a moment then. No running off while I'm gone."

"Oh yes, it will be very difficult for me to stay still for such a long amount of time. Do hurry back." This did elicit a small smile from Aramis as he headed out the infirmary door.

The room was quite while he waited, lonely and without distractions, nothing to take d'Artagnan's mind off the pain that he was in. He had so many questions, and all he wanted was for Treville to come back as quickly as possible to answer them. His time with Fernand was a blur, his return with Henri even more disjointed. He felt as though there should be some relief for him, some calm or gratitude or, possibly, even joy, but all he could feel was emptiness. The charges had been dropped, he remembered at least that much from his last conversation with Aramis and Porthos, but beyond that he was lost. Where did he stand in the eyes off his friends? In the ranks of the musketeers?

The door swung open forcefully, jarring him out of his thoughts. Treville stepped into the room, trailed by both Aramis and Porthos. For a moment, d'Artagnan scanned the area behind them, eyes searching out Athos amid the other men in the courtyard, before the door was closed once more.

"D'Artagnan, how are you feeling?" Treville asked. He sounded almost hesitant, guilty, but d'Artagnan brushed the thought aside. Treville had nothing to apologize for. He alone had been the one to take on the mission. He alone had managed to ruin it so miserably. He alone had refused to back down when the danger had increased, when he had been asked to step back and had refused direct orders to cease his investigation. And, when he had climbed the ranks, when he had traded lives and traded souls just for information, that alone was his fault as well.

That alone was his burden to bear, his crimes to pay for, his cross to carry.

"Confused, sir. I don't understand what has been happening recently." Both Aramis and Porthos looked insistently at Treville as he shifted uncomfortably at the foot of the bed. "I heard that you were leaving?"

"Yes, I have decided to resign given recent events."

"But… why?"

Treville squared his shoulders, a man entering the battle field one last time. "I have something to say before we continue. I want it to be known now, that I am deeply, truly sorry for all of the suffering that I have brought upon you, and that I have done - am doing - whatever I can to make it right. That is why I am resigning. For my monumental lapse in judgment, for the trust that I have managed to break with not just you, but all of my men."

"I still don't understand, sir. You did nothing wrong. I sold those slaves. That was on me." D'Artagnan's eyes shifted to scan Porthos face, looking for any trace of hurt, of wariness.

"You were under orders."

"But not after, not-" He broke off and swallowed, throat dry as desert sand. "You told me to stop, to step back, and I didn't. I disobeyed a direct order. Is that not why you charged me with slaving?"

"No." Treville's voice was firm, convicted. "I charged you with slaving in an attempt to get you to leave. The ring was getting suspicion, riled up, and you weren't backing down. That was the only reason I asked you to extract yourself from your cover in the first place. I wanted you safe, and I couldn't see another way to force you to leave."

But why? Why not let him how? d'Artagnan wondered. I would have stopped. Except he wouldn't have, not really. Even he knew that.

"So you saved my life?" d'Artagnan said instead. "You risked everything: the operation, your other undercover musketeers, all of the progress that had been made to bring down the ring, just to save me?"

"But in doing so, I almost got you killed anyway." And wasn't that just the most ironic of circumstance? That no matter where d'Artagnan turned his punishment for his crimes would be waiting for him.

"I still don't understand why this means that you have to step down. You were perfectly justified in charging me, even without the pure motives that you state, sir. You saved my life, and now you want to leave?"

"I made a terrible mistake. I put your life in even more danger than it already was. Even the incident with your uncle was my fault."

But that made no sense. It was Fernand who had taken him. And where was his uncle? Should he not still be here after all of the work that he had done brining d'Artagnan home?

"My Uncle, sir? What of him?"

"There is no delicate way to say this, but your uncle is the cause of the terrible suffering that you endured under Fernand." Off to the side, Aramis eyes darkened. "When I was much younger, before I had even become a Capitan of the Guard, I killed a man. He was no older than you are now, but he was positioned high up in the slaving rings, a son of one of the ring leaders. There were extenuating circumstance, his life or mine, and I did what I had to do. The man's father was named Henri, the same Henri who is your Uncle, and ever since, I have had a target on my back, while I was completely unaware. You were drawn into this through bad luck and circumstance, through my ignorance and determination to bury my head in the sand, even when I could feel that something was not right.

"Your Uncle saw us together one day, and realized that I valued my men more than I valued my life. He saw that you were important to me, that taking you from me would be more of a revenge than ending me himself. He found out that you were a musketeer and though you were family, blood, my blood, meant more to him than yours. He called for you to come to his aid, made up a ruse that would draw you out into the countryside, hoping that you would bring more men with you, and when you did not, he had Fernand play with you like a puppet until he was able to bring you here.

"From what I have managed to gather since he had been in custody, the original plan was that he would take many of my men captive in an attempt to force me out of the city so that he could end me, and you all, with less of a chance of being caught. When that plan failed him, he planned instead to use you as bait to draw out more of my men, and when that failed as well, because no one but Athos, Aramis and Porthos were looking for you, he 'rescued' you himself and brought you back to the city so that he would be able to have direct access to me.

"He brought you into the compound and, when I had taken you into my arms, he saw how distressed I was with your suffering, as though you were a child of my own. Instead of shooting at me like he had intended, he shot you in an attempt to end your life, so that I too would know what it was like to lose a child. A life for a life."

D'Artagnan listened to the tale silently, saying nothing. What was there to say to such a life altering story?

"Athos and Porthos, having chased you all the way back from Fernand's house, hunted down Henri as he tried to flee, capturing him and eventually delivering him to the holding cells in the Bastille, while Aramis set to work trying to save your life. The next day I resigned, and since we have been waiting to see if you would survive through each night. In the meantime, I have been attempting to move up Henri's trial, so that punishment can be meted out as soon as possible." Treville trailed to a stop, nothing left to do but wait for a response from d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan continued to lay in silence, running over the words again and again in his mind, but never really putting all of the pieces together. The three men around the room looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he had to say. The more he thought about it, the more panicked he became, until the breath in his chested rushed in and out too fast for him to gather enough oxygen. Aramis rushed to his bedside, d'Artagnan's distress obvious.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, but Aramis seemed to know instinctively that d'Artagnan wanted Treville to leave as d'Artagnan flicked his eyes helplessly between the two men.

"Capitan, can you please come back later?" Aramis intoned forcefully, leaning down at d'Artagnan's side. "I believe that d'Artagnan needs a few moments to absorb what you have just told him."

D'Artagnan ignored the rest of the conversation, focusing instead on trying to force air back into his burning lungs.

Why was it so hard to breath? Infants did it all the time, so why couldn't he?

His skin tingled, hypersensitive against the coarse fabric of the sheets, and he jumped violently when a hand was rested upon his shoulder, drawing his attention. It was Porthos, talking to him in deep, soothing tones, breathing slowly for him, something for d'Artagnan to match his own uncooperative lungs to.

InOutInOutInOutInOutInOut.

In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He could feel the grounding coolness of a wash cloth as it was dabbed on his brow, relaxing him even more, giving him something to hold onto in the strange, slipping world that he was in.

He pushed every thought of his uncle from his mind, of the news and betrayal and suffering. God, he was just so tired. D'Artagnan breathed in a fresh bought of air, his lungs filling so that his whole torso screamed with the pain of expanding.

"Just rest, d'Artagnan. We're 'ere for you." He heard, distant, like a far off bird in the sky.

"We will never leave you again."

And he believed them, he truly did, until he closed his eyes and the nightmares started.

Athos slipped into the infirmary, closing the door quietly behind him. It was night, the moon casting shadows all around, black images that flickered with the passing of musketeers on night patrol. He had been awake for hours, listening and watching, looking for any sign of a disturbance in the yard, protecting d'Artagnan in the front of his mind. It was illogical, irrational, but every night he took up residence in the room beside the infirmary and waited, knowing that Henri was locked away, but worried none the less.

He was tired, weary, his bones aching from so many sleepless nights and wakeful, alcoholic days. His eyes burned, dry and red, and he had closed them for a moment, a second, before the screaming started. Loud and hoarse and cutting, it bit through the silent cloak of velvet that blanketed Paris, picking up in volume and then dropping off into quiet mumblings before starting up again, over and over. It came through the walls, night after night, calling Athos to go over to d'Artagnan, to check on him and make sure that he was okay. He had, the first few evenings that it had happened, but each time d'Artagnan slept, twitching and flinching and muttering pleas into the emptiness of his room and Athos could do nothing to stop the nightmares that plagued him.

Tonight, somehow, was different. Maybe it was the way that d'Artagnan called out Athos name into the darkness, sad and lost and broken, or the slowly dwindling reserve of Athos convictions, snapping apart for the last time, but Athos could hold off no more. He stood, silent at the foot of the bed, watching d'Artagnan try to fold into himself as he slept, pain contorting his features as he moved his body, shrinking back from imagined blows.

Hesitant, an unseen force trying to hold him back, Athos moved slowly to the side of the bed, each step more weighted as he neared d'Artagnan's head. His voice caught in his throat, and d'Artagnan jerked again, a moan of terror bursting from his lips, rasping off into a hacking cough that made Athos cringe. D'Artagnan's head whipped from one side to the other, and something damp on his cheeks caught the light from the moon outside - shining tear tracks like glittering caverns carved into his skin. His chest rattled, wheezed and "No. Please. Don't go. Please. I'm sorry," tumbled out in a jumble of syllables, repeating like a broken record.

D'Artagnan coughed, throaty and wet, before he froze in place on the bed, still as a ghost. Athos leaned forward, looking to make sure that d'Artagnan was still breathing, still alive. He caught the gentle rise and fall of d'Artagnan's chest beneath the fabric, and relaxing, pulled back slightly. D'Artagnan was fine; it was okay; Athos could go now, if he wanted, but he had as little desire to leave as he had motivation to come, and when another savage cough tore at d'Artagnan's throat, he sank into the chair beside the bed, only planning to stay for a moment.

Athos reached forward, grabbing the towel that rested upon d'Artagnan's brow and soaking it in cold water, placing it back on the Gascon's forehead. As he pulled his hands away, a oddly pitched wheezing sound escaped from d'Artagnan's mouth and his eyes flew open, bright and scared and confused. They flickered around the room, searching out invisible hands or faces or chains, Athos didn't know, and then they alighted on Athos' face - calming, relaxing - before drifting closed again.

That was it, Athos cue to leave. He climbed slowly to his feet, trying to make as little sound as possible so as not to awaken d'Artagnan again. Inching around the chair, Athos moved for the door when he felt eyes upon his back.

"Stay, please."

Athos turned back, his movements controlled, ready to flee at the first sign of distress caused by his presence, but there was nothing but contentment in d'Artagnan's eyes. Athos hovered, neither moving to sit back down nor to leave.

"Could you sing to me? The way you did all those months ago when I was sick?" d'Artagnan asked the question shyly and Athos started, surprised. He had thought that d'Artagnan had been sleeping, distressed, and the best way that he could think of to hold the nightmares at bay was an old trick that he had used on Thomas, a way to get him to sleep when he was hunted by the monsters in his mind. "Please?" d'Artagnan's expression was changing, moving from shy to awkward to embarrassed, but this was something that Athos could do, something that he could give d'Artagnan without any chance of causing him harm.

Athos slid back into the chair, pulling it closer to the edge of the bed. "Yes." Reaching his hand forward, he pushed the matted locks of d'Artagnan's hair from his face, smoothing back his bangs. D'Artagnan's eyes closed again, his breathing evening out as Athos ran his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair and sang to him the song that Athos mother used to sing to him years before.

The night held no more nightmares for d'Artagnan. When he awakened, Athos was gone, and d'Artagnan wondered if he had really been there at all.

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