No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were, As well as if a manor of the friend's, Or of thine own were: Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. - John Donne

Translations: démodé –outmoded déclassé – low class tour de force – exceptional achievement vis vitalis – vital force/ego

No Man is an Island

Tréville stood at the balcony railing watching as he had done often over the last few weeks, fascinated with the brilliant swordsmanship on display below in the courtyard. He still had no love for the Come de la Fère, but Athos was beginning to work his way up in the captain's esteem.

As expected, the king had granted the new commission with crowing delight. And to be fair, Tréville had decided, having acquired the services of the finest swordsman in Europe was something to crow about. He'd left the king eager to share the acquisition of this new musketeer with the cardinal, though Louis had promised not to reveal Athos' heritage. Whether the king would remember their conversation, and his promise, remained to be seen.

While Aramis had reported the gist of their conversation with the comte and the relaying of the captain's condition for employment, Tréville had still been surprised when Athos had reported for duty without the pauldron. Its continued absence over the last week had further raised his growing respect for the man.

Neither had it escaped Tréville's notice that the nobleman did nothing to discourage the inane chatter among the few who had not yet learned to respect his prowess with the rapier. He did not play with them tauntingly, nor challenge them beyond a prod here and there that stretched their skills a little bit more each time they faced him.

Athos often stayed now, too, of an evening, even after dinner, though he kept to the shadows and was never without Aramis or Porthos at his side. Tréville, not one to begrudge another success, especially where it had been earned, had watched the growth of mutual respect among that trio appreciatively.

Aramis had been right; the man had been worth saving. Beneath the rust and tarnish slowly being rubbed off the Comte de la Fère, there was an innate moral compass. It had just needed some adjusting to find true north again.

A communal gasp from the courtyard below recalled Tréville's wandering attention. He glanced down again, just in time to see Athos trip over some unseen obstacle and go down hard on an elbow, jarring loose his sword. Though he rolled instantly from beneath the plunging rapier of his student, it caught in the loose sleeve of his shirt and Athos' own movement gouged a bloody crease across his forearm. He shifted to his feet much more slowly than usual, though not from the scratch on his wrist, Tréville was certain.

Those who were not on duty elsewhere often came to watch these fencing exercises; some even came to learn. There were a few catcalls, and someone called for a halt, but Athos ripped a swathe of material from the bottom of his shirt, tied it around the wound and picked up his sword again. He said something to his opponent too quietly for Tréville to catch, though the watching gallery groaned as one.

The pair shifted and the musketeer captain sighed at the disparaging gloat reflected on Frayne's face. Tréville was not a man overly familiar with guilt since his conscience rarely misled him, but it was his fault this little cadre of musketeers continued their needling. They'd taken their cue from him; he had not immediately put a stop to their taunting as he usually did.

Porthos had confronted him about it angrily but had taken no steps on his own, Tréville suspected at Athos' insistence. The captain had made the decision not to stop him, if Porthos had chosen to step in; the warrior could intimidate with just a look and rightly so. But in a twisted way, at least Tréville supposed it was rather twisted, he was glad Porthos had not. Athos was finding his own way and in the process, revealing hidden depths Tréville would never have imagined only knowing the man by reputation.

The battle below leapt to life again with a furious series of clashing blows and a smartly executed bind by Frayne. Athos caught the parrying dagger, the blades screeching across one another, and pushed back, stumbling again.

At the railing, Tréville straightened, wondering if he should call a halt and in the next instant regretting he had not done so. He was down the stairs before anyone in the stunned audience moved, on his knees beside the downed comte, grasping the still shuddering rapier barehanded.

Frayne had followed the stumble without pulling back, pinning Athos to the ground with a sword thrust that had gone clear through his shoulder.

"Get Aramis!" Tréville snarled at the breathless, still unmoving crowd.

"Don't pull it out." Athos' gloved hand rose in automatic command.

"I know that you stupid, bloody fool," Tréville snapped angrily.

Three feet away, Frayne, who apparently had not been quite as expectant of triumph as he'd appeared, dropped slowly to one knee, spewing his noon meal over the boots of those in the front of the watching ring before toppling in a swoon at their feet.

First blood occasionally took a man that way, better to have it happen here than in a battle situation. But Tréville had no time for the youth. "Get him out of here and get that mess cleaned up! Lancelin, Bastien, something solid in order to move Athos," the captain ordered.

Porthos appeared as if conjured by a magician. "What the hell?"

"Help me up." Athos reached an authoritative hand up, expecting his command to be obeyed.

Porthos ignored him, though he dropped to his knees as well.

This close, Tréville could not miss the fine tremors coursing through the comte's sprawled body. "Why the devil are you even here today?" Aramis had kept him updated on the progress of the drying out. He was well aware they were several days into it already.

The line of the bearded jaw clenched briefly, and not from pain. "Help me up," Athos said again to Porthos, though he could not sustain the effort of holding his hand up. The shock was wearing off quickly.

"No." Porthos was having none of it, though he did grasp the hand before it fell back in the dirt. "You can't move with that thing stickin' out of ya and stop tryin' to sit up." He clamped his other hand on Athos' uninjured shoulder. "You know this couldn't 'ave happened if you'd been wearin' the damn shoulder guard," he hissed.

They had not spoken of this, but it had been understood between them all that Athos had accepted Tréville's decree and would not wear the pauldron until he'd been dry and sober long enough to count.

Tréville, still holding the rapier, shuffled around above Athos' head so Bastien and Lancelin could drop the top they'd stripped off the communal table.

"Bastien, get his feet, Lance, shoulder," Porthos commanded, grabbing a handful of leather. "Ready Cap'in? On three. One – two – three."

They heaved as one; Athos grunted and nearly broke every bone in Porthos' hand. "I changed my mind, get it out now."

"Not gonna happen." Porthos lifted the table, stuck a booted toe under it and transferred Athos' death grip to the table edge. "Slowly this time," he said, casting a quick glance around to gage preparedness, "so everybody gets their feet under 'em."

"Ready," Bastien and Lancelin reported together as Tréville nodded his readiness as well.

"One – two – three."

Athos was not the only one grunting this time. His gloved hand shot to the impaling sword again, intent on yanking it out, and would have if Tréville hadn't reflexively smacked his hand away.

"You want to bleed to death out here in the courtyard?" the captain growled.

"Keep it level, keep it level!" Porthos, the tallest of the lot was attempting to bend at the knees to accommodate the shorter stretcher bearers, while both of them were struggling to hitch up their respective side and end.

Doors banged open, personnel scuttled out of the way and a bucket of water, tipped over by a screaming, backpedaling maid sloshed over their boots as they tromped down the hallway. The double doors to the surgery had been thrown open as well and they deposited Athos and tabletop atop the surgery table.

"Do you need your ears cleaned?" Porthos' diction was perfect again, each word clipped and precise as he sliced through the remainder of Athos' shirt with his dagger. "I was in the room when Aramis told you not to show up here today. Get the brandy," he instructed Tréville, "the cheap stuff Aramis keeps for wound cleansing. Cupboard, right side, second shelf down. Who knows what's on Frayne's sword, he never cleans it. And you," he addressed Athos again, leaning over with a hand on either side of the table top so he was right in his face, "what the hell is wrong with you? You do know we were jokin' about falling on some idot's sword I hope."

Porthos bent to appraise the weapon and the injury from a closer vantage point. "You're gonna need a cadre of vampires at the rate you're losing blood." He straightened. "We can't wait for Aramis. So here's what we're gonna do – Cap'in, grab a fistful o' them bandages and be ready to clamp both sides of the wound, 'specially if it starts spurtin'." He glanced sideways at the other two. "You're gonna have to hold him down 'til he passes out."

Porthos grabbed the comte's chin, though his touch was infinitely gentle, and turned his face away from the proceedings. "Once more on three," he ordered. "One – two—"

There was no three.

The rapier clattered to the floor and Athos convulsed, sweat pouring off him like rain on a hot summer night, but he did not pass out. He could feel the pressure of Tréville's hands at his shoulder, and as though through a thick, soupy fog, hear Porthos cursing. And then there was fire. He was by turns burning hot, then icy cold, like being burned alive in an ice quarry. His heart began to thunder like a herd of wild horses, threatening to burst from his chest. The passage of time ceased, there was only an unending ribbon of pain centered in his shoulder, flowing like liquid fire through his veins.

But he did not pass out.

And then he recognized Aramis' voice thundering, "Merciful Mother of God! Porthos, KNOCK HIM OUT!"

Really, in the scheme of things, the feather light tap on the cheek that whipped his head sideways was less than a rap on the knuckles from one of his long ago tutors. Athos sank gratefully into the void, the echo of Aramis' cursing tirade following him down like a sinker on a fishing line with a bite.