Next Morning:

Captain Tréville walked into the sickroom and watched his men as they slept. Porthos was lying on his back with d'Artagnan's head resting on his broad chest; the large man's arms were wrapped around the Gascon's shoulders, as though they had fallen asleep comforting each other from a bad dream.

Athos leaned against Aramis with his head nestled in the crook of the marksman's neck. The medic awoke, groggy and confused; he couldn't understand why he was so weighed down, unable to move. He sat up straight then turned as he felt the 'weight' slide away.

Athos slumped to the bed, unmoving. "Oh God, Athos!" Aramis sprang to life, turning the Musketeer over in a panic. "Athos, wake up!"

Captain Tréville sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Athos into his arms. "Come on, son, wake up," he tapped the lieutenant's cheek. "Dammit, I shouldn't have let you all sleep through dinner last night, especially not Athos! I should have known better."

"Mmm, not hungry," Athos mumbled, pushing off the captain's hand.

"The hell you aren't hungry," Aramis growled. His heart still pounded in his chest with panic. "You haven't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday—even then, it was only soup."

"If you plan on coming back to work for me as a Musketeer, you need to eat and put some weight back on those bones," the captain directed. "Last time I was at the garrison—and it's been a while, mind you—I didn't have any skeletons under my command," he smiled.

"You need to eat, Athos," Aramis smiled as he fingered loose hair from his friend's eyes. "You're wasting away before our eyes; I'm not going to let you starve yourself to death. You are going to eat a good breakfast, my friend. No more soup for you."

"Well, I could eat a good breakfast," Porthos interjected from where he sat on the edge of the cot.

"I am rather hungry too," d'Artagnan stretched and rubbed his stomach. "How come you didn't wake us last night, Captain?"

"Ach," Tréville shook his head and waved a hand lazily around. "You all were sleeping so soundly, I couldn't wake you; I thought you needed your rest more than dinner. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, at least, not as far as Athos is concerned."

Just then, the steward and the servants arrived with the food and proceeded to set it in a marvelous display at the table. "Breakfast is served; come and eat, gentlemen," the steward invited.

"Come on, Athos, let's go get something to eat," Captain Tréville said as he helped the Musketeer stand up. Aramis stood on the other side of his friend to steady him as he swayed on his feet. Together, the duo escorted the lieutenant as he took his first real steps in healing, sitting down to eat his first solid meal since arriving at the château.

~§~

After breakfast, Aramis walked Athos back to bed. Porthos and d'Artagnan sat on the bed, gathering around their friends. They watched as Aramis tucked the tired and worn Musketeer back under the covers.

"Are we ever going to heal?" d'Artagnan asked. "I mean, are we really ever going to heal?" The Gascon watched Athos lean against the pillows, his face pale and covered with a sheen of sweat.

Athos breathed deeply; he kept his eyes closed while concentrating on keeping his breakfast down. "Dammit, I'm so sick of this, Aramis," the lieutenant said as the medic swabbed his face with a cool cloth.

"I know you are, but it's not going to be for much longer, Athos. You are finally beginning to heal," Aramis encouraged. "At least you don't have to be under the tent anymore, huh? That's a good sign in the right direction, my brother."

"Hmff," Athos grunted before breaking into a bout of coughing.

"What he really needs is to home and be back in his own bed." D'Artagnan smoothed the hair from his friend's forehead with a smile. "Maybe that would help him heal faster."

"Home…" Porthos stared into the distance dreamily. "I never thought I'd be so anxious to get back to work at the garrison."

"I want to go home," d'Artagnan said, his voice laced with sadness. "I miss Constance and her soft voice. I miss her sweet face."

"You'll hear her voice again soon enough, my young brother," Aramis chuckled.

"You don't get it, do you?" The Gascon snapped. "It was the soft voice of Constance I heard, telling me to fight when I no longer had the strength to live back in that damned dungeon. When I was hanging on the ropes and those goons were whipping me, it was her face that kept me going."

"I'm sorry," Aramis apologized as he hung his head. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know you didn't," d'Artagnan whispered softly. "Keeping my mind occupied with thoughts of, not only Constance, but also of you, and Athos, and Porthos, it's the only thing that kept me alive. I couldn't have made it through the dungeon without each of you encouraging me. You were all inside here," the Gascon said, pointing to his head and then to his heart.

"How could Athos and I encourage you when we didn't even know where you were?" Aramis asked, his eyes darting between d'Artagnan and Porthos.

"I understand what he means," Porthos added. "When I was hangin' from the ropes and they were whipping me again and again, I thought of each of you. You all helped me to deal wit' the pain. That pain was worse than bein' shot; I felt like I was burning all over my body."

"True," Aramis agreed. "Being whipped is an intense pain that can be overwhelming.

"The second time they strung me up, they whipped me on my chest, back, stomach, and my neck. I hurt everywhere. It was a hurt you can't imagine, 'Mis," Porthos shook his head. "Every part of my body hurt, but when they splashed 'at salt water on me… I thought I was set on fire."

"I know exactly what you mean," d'Artagnan concurred. "I think I know what it feels like to be burned at the stake after that awful experience," he muttered in a barely audible whisper. "I have never wished for death more; I wished for a sudden death every time that cell door opened. As the torture continued, thinking of you wasn't enough anymore—even Constance wasn't enough. I just wanted to die… I wanted it to be over."

"I also wanted it over," Athos chimed in, much to the surprise of the group who thought he had fallen asleep. "The coughing hurt more severely the longer it continued; it was like a dagger had been thrust into my chest and sadistically twisted until I couldn't breathe. I just wanted to die. I wanted it over; I was tired of suffering."

"But you stayed with us," Aramis whispered with a smile. "You've always been strong."

"I'm not as strong as you think I am," Athos countered. "Quite the contrary, I'm weak…" he paused as his voice broke.

"Weak?" Aramis was astonished. "What are you talking about? Though you didn't have breath, you still fought to live," Aramis nodded proudly. "You are here because you are strong."

"When I saw you and Porthos…" Athos stopped himself short. His face registered the horror at the mistake he just made.

"What do you mean, you 'saw' us, Athos?" Porthos asked, cautiously.

Athos swallowed hard and closed his eyes, saying nothing.

"What did you mean, Athos?" Aramis pressed.

"I… I saw everything," Athos openly admitted. "I saw Doctor Molyneux had me draped over his lap as he pounded on my back. I saw both of you standing there," he pointed to the end of the bed. "You were begging me to fight and ordering me not to give up."

"Bloody hell," Porthos exchanged shocked glances with Aramis.

"Merde," Aramis' face suddenly went pale. He bent over and buried his face in his hands. "Dear God," he shook his head.

"What are you talking about?" d'Artagnan asked in a near-panic. "What did I miss?"

"After you hit your head, Athos stopped breathin' again; he almost died. We thought we lost him, dammit!" Porthos growled.

"Well, it sounds like we practically did!" d'Artagnan replied.

"I could have walked away." Athos' voice was barely above a whisper as he bared his soul. "I got up to leave and made it to that doorway," he motioned with his chin to the door. "But then I stopped."

"What made you stay?" d'Artagnan asked, his eyes welled with tears.

Athos was quiet, his head hung low as he stared at his hands.

"Athos?"

Athos looked up, his eyes brimmed with tears. "What kept me from walking out that door was you three—my brothers. I couldn't leave you behind knowing how much," he paused and took a deep breath, "knowing how much my death would hurt you. All of you were my strength and reason for staying."

Aramis sat with his face still buried; quiet sobs escaped from between the medic's fingers.

Athos sighed heavily then leaned over to rest his head on the marksman's shoulder. Porthos and d'Artagnan pulled the men into a hug, wrapping their long arms the shoulders of their brothers.

The four brothers held onto each other as they released all the built-up emotion—fear, worry, horror, despair. For a moment, they allowed the cleansing tears to wash away the filth of this despicable mission.

Captain Tréville stood at the doorway quietly watching the foursome cling to each other, sobbing and consoling each other-finally allowing themselves to heal. He wiped away the tears from his own eyes and nodded approvingly. The road to recovery would be long and probably tiresome, but the first steps had been taken right here in this room.

The captain smiled at the scene before him. He was proud of these men, and his pride filled his heart to overflowing. He praised his men for facing death squarely in the face with courage; they had fought to survive and, in the end, they had triumphed.

Captain Tréville walked away, proud to be their captain. He commanded many men in his regiment, but these four men would always hold a special place in his heart; it was a place he reserved for very few, but those he especially loved.

Epilogue:

Going Home:

Captain Tréville, and the six men he had brought with him to the château, made preparations to leave just days after the captain found his four men huddled together in the room. The speed of recovery from that moment forward proved promising, as it gave him the confidence that it would be safe to take the extra men and return home to the garrison.

"You four remain here until you are well enough to ride," the captain ordered. "Do not return until you are healthy and run no risk of harming yourselves in any way. Steward Fontaine will not release you until he feels you are fit and ready for travel."

Captain Tréville extended his hand to the steward in gratitude. "Thank you, Steward, for your gracious hospitality and for taking good care of my men. You are the finest of gentlemen; I am honored to have met you. I consider you a friend and, should you ever find yourself in Paris, I extend to you an invitation to visit me at the garrison anytime."

"Thank you, Captain," the steward grasped his hand and shook it firmly. "I hope to take you up on that invitation one day. If you ever come back this way, please stop by," he released the hand. "Château de Blois will always be open to you and your men."

"Farewell, Steward," the captain said, giving him a friendly clap on the back before turning to mount his horse. "I will see you men soon." Tréville nodded to the four remaining Musketeers before he and the six men rode away.

Later, Château de Blois:

"The captain's been gone a few days, how much longer do you think we'll be here?" d'Artagnan asked. "I'm ready to go home."

"Yes, I am ready to go home too," Aramis replied. "The captain wanted us to wait until we're fully healed before heading home, though."

"Rubbish, 'Mis," Porthos grumbled. "All of us were in worse shape than 'is when we came 'ere. I think I can manage ridin' home."

"So could I," d'Artagnan chimed.

"I don't know that I'd want to chance traveling too soon and risk Athos' cough coming back," Aramis shook his head.

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here," Athos growled. "I'm perfectly capable of riding a damn horse. I don't need a nursemaid anymore…" a sudden coughing fit cut off his words.

You don't need a nursemaid. . . sure you don't. Aramis thought sarcastically.

"What were you just saying, my friend?" d'Artagnan stifled a chuckle.

"I think you could use a few more days to rest before you travel anywhere." Aramis held back a smile.

"If you travel like 'at and get sick again," Porthos paused as he raised his eyebrows. "You know, the cap'n will 'av our hides. No, I'm perfectly willin' to wait a bit."

"Good idea," d'Artagnan agreed as he watched Athos closely. "I know no one wants to think of it, but I may as well ask. How do we go back to doing our jobs as Musketeers with the knowledge we have about the queen and the conspiracy?"

"As Musketeers, we do our jobs as is expected of us," Athos replied without emotion. "This changes nothing in regard to our duty to the king."

"Maybe not the king, Athos," d'Artagnan countered angrily. "As far as I'm concerned, it changes my opinion of the queen. Some kind of queen she's turned out to be," he remarked caustically.

Aramis suddenly grabbed d'Artagnan by the shirt collar then slammed him against the wall. "Don't you talk about the queen like that!" the marksman snarled.

"You must be daft, Aramis!" D'Artagnan yanked the medic's hand off of him. "Are you still going to defend her after what she's done? Even after what we've learned about her orchestrating everything?" The Gascon clenched his jaw as he balled his fists at his side.

"I'm sure if she could explain…"

"Explain what?" D'Artagnan exploded angrily. "How does one explain a call for war against the king?"

"Keep your voice down, damn you!" Athos hissed a warning. "We cannot freely talk about what we know," he said as he pointed his finger at the Gascon. "We have to bury this knowledge; we must behave as though that letter was never revealed. We do our jobs as before."

"As before?" D'Artagnan's voice climbed an octave; he raised his hands in the air with disbelief. "Tell me, just how do we do our jobs as before, knowing what we do about the queen? How can you still defend her?" The Gasccon snarled sharply.

"I am not defending what she did…" Aramis started but was cut short.

"Then what the hell is it?" D'Artagnan was incredulous. "It sure sounds like you're defending her to me," he snidely replied.

"She is your queen!" Aramis yelled as he jabbed his finger into the Gascon's chest.

"She is the cause of all this!" D'Artagnan waved his hands up and down his body. "She is the cause of countless deaths and our suffering… and still you defend her!"

Aramis punched d'Artagnan, sending him slamming against the wall then sliding down to the floor. Porthos grabbed Aramis by the collar and pulled his fist back to throw a punch. Athos grabbed the large man by the shoulders to stop the fight; he shoved the big man aside with strength he didn't know he had.

Porthos stumbled, but quickly recovered to shove Aramis against the wall. "I thought we were done hittin' each other, but I guess you'd rather defend the queen than your brothers."

"Let me go, damn you." Aramis struggled against Porthos' strong hold, but he couldn't break free.

"Not until you explain why you're defendin' the person that caused me and our li'l brother to get tortured," Porthos growled.

"The hell I will!" Aramis struggled again, only to have Porthos slam him against the wall once more.

"Stop it!" Athos yelled with a thunderous voice. "That is enough! We are not going to act like this…" he stopped as another coughing fit rumbled from deep inside his chest; the cough doubled him over and took his breath away. Unable to catch his breath, Athos fell to his hands and knees.

"Oh God, let me go!" Aramis yanked free from Porthos' strong grip to slide beside Athos on the floor. "Athos, just breathe slowly… in… and out," he coached. "Come on, catch your breath… in," he breathed, "and out… in… and out." The medic whispered near his friend's ear, pounding in circles on his back, until he saw the Musketeer gaining control of the cough.

"Are you alright now?" Aramis asked, holding back the panic he still felt inside.

Athos nodded, unable to speak. His flushed face formed droplets of sweat across his brow, accenting the thin layer of sweat already glistening on his skin.

"Merde," Aramis crumpled in a heap as he broke down in tears.

Porthos rushed to the medic's side and wrapped his large arms protectively around his shoulders. "It's alright now, 'Mis. We're goin' to get through 'is."

"We can't keep doing this; we can't keep fighting with each other," d'Artagnan said, pulling Aramis and Porthos tightly together. The Gascon rested his head against the medic's shoulder as he released his own frustrated tears.

Athos reached over and took d'Artagnan's hand; he hung his head and wept, without having moved from where he sat.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… I can't… I won't…" Aramis stumbled over his words.

" 'Mis, take a deep breath," Porthos laughed. "You're hard to understand when you're not makin' no sense."

D'Artagnan fell over to the floor in laughter, his bitter tears mixed with fresh tears of laughter.

Porthos gave Aramis a friendly slap on the back. "Aw hell, 'Mis. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing, Porthos, not you." Aramis wiped away his tears and dried his face. "Not any of you. This was all my fault."

"No… no need to place… blame," Athos wheezed.

"Yes there is," Aramis countered. "This started because…" he shook his head with disgust. "I will… never be able to look at the queen the same way ever again," the medic said. His face darkened as a storm raged in his brown eyes.

"Aramis, you don't have to…" d'Artagnan started.

"No," Aramis interrupted. "You were right—all of you were right. How can I forgive the queen after she almost took two of my dearest friends and brothers away from me? How can I forgive her for all of this?" The medic waved his hands around the room in frustration.

"You don't have… have to forgive her." Athos moved next to Aramis and placed his arm around his shoulder. "You just have to do your job as a Musketeer, while burying everything you know about her involvement in this."

"You mean, pretend we know none of this?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Athos sighed in resignation. "Remember, we must never reveal what we know." The lieutenant reiterated the captain's earlier message of warning.

Aramis nodded his understanding.

"So pretend she's innocent," d'Artagnan huffed with disgust. "Of course, we know it's quite the opposite."

"Unfortunately, yes," Athos answered with regret. "We must do our duty as before," he shook his head. "She is our queen; it is our duty to defend her… but nothing more."

"I'll never be able to look at her the same way again," Aramis' steely tone resolved. "How do I hide my anger… my hate?"

"Let it go, 'Mis," Porthos warned. "It'll eat you up inside and destroy you… and she's not worth it. 'Sides, you 'ave your beautiful Cécile, who loves you."

"Wait, where's my friend, Porthos?" Aramis laughed. "Are you giving me advice on love?"

"Whoa, easy now…" Porthos smirked.

Athos smiled as he clapped the shoulders of d'Artagnan and Porthos. He took a deep breath and smiled again as no cough erupted. "When we get back to Paris, we do our jobs as Musketeers."

"We will defend the king and queen, as our duty requires of us," Athos continued. "We will put aside our emotions and keep them buried, permanently. No one must ever know our contempt for them, though they are our king and queen. No one."

Saying Goodbye:

"I'm afraid that it is our turn to say goodbye, gentlemen, as we are leaving for Orléans today," Doctor Molyneux reported sadly. "With the other nurses here, we feel you are in good hands. Your recovery has been steadily improving nicely; we see no reason why we cannot take our leave now and return to our patients at home."

"I'm sorry to see you go," Aramis replied, forcing a smile.

"We have been away from our patients so long, I would be surprised to find that we have any patients to return home to. They have probably all left us for the competition," Molyneux laughed.

"If you boys are ever in Orléans, please stop by," Doctor Berteau said as he shook each of the Musketeer's hands.

"Goodbye, boys," Molyneux shook the hands of the Musketeers. "I will miss each of you. It has been a pleasure taking care of you,; I wish you all godspeed and good health."

"You take care of those lungs, do you hear me, Athos?" Doctor Molyneux ordered.

"Yes, Doctor, and thank you." Athos waved to the physician as he stepped into the carriage.

Aramis and Cécile stepped away for a little privacy as they said their tearful goodbyes. Cécile tried to hold herself together and not cause a scene, but as Aramis touched her face and pulled her chin upward, she fell into his arms and wept.

The marksman pulled her tightly against him; he wrapped his strong arms around her body and held her, rocking her softly while whispering words of comfort in her ear. "You forget that I still have leave due, since I did have to cut my trip short earlier," he soothed.

Cécile clung onto him tightly and continued to cry.

"I have a promise to keep to a lovely lady," Aramis reminded. "I promised her that I would return again and pick up where we left off. I never break a promise but, this one especially, I intend to keep." Aramis kissed Cécile goodbye, tenderly and slowly. It was as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving the two of them alone in the universe.

At last, Aramis planted one final, warm kiss on Cécile's forehead. "I'll see you again soon, I promise."

"You better not break your promise," Cécile said as she boarded the carriage.

"I promise I won't," Aramis whispered. The medic waved as he sadly watched the carriage drive away.

~§~

The Musketeers said their tearful goodbyes to Steward Fontaine and the three nurses, Marta, Adele, and Maria. Without intent, the group had grown rather fond of each other while the boys were guests of the château.

"I shall miss all of you," Steward Fontaine said as he shook the men's hands. "This large château will be so empty and lonely without you here; I wish that you didn't have to go. Godspeed and farewell, gentlemen," he nodded.

The steward and the nurses watched as the Musketeers mounted their horses. The men turned to leave Château de Blois, their second home for the past several weeks, for the final time.

The men waved their hats as they rode through the outer gates and, at last, disappeared from sight.

The four rode back toward home, following the road taking them north to Paris and the garrison. They rode together, side by side, so closely their knees touched; they feared the ride home was nothing more than a dream and was not really happening.

Just a few weeks ago, the Musketeers had never thought they would return home from this mission alive- at least, not all of them. But today, with their horses side by side, the Musketeers rode home alive and together as brothers… as survivors!

fin

A/N:

Thank you ALL so very, very much for your support and your encouragement on this story! I thank each and every one of you who read this story, chapter by chapter, commenting along the way. It was indeed a "bumpy ride," full of torture, hurts, conspiracy, tension… but also affection, caring and brotherly love! I truly am sorry to see this story end; I grew very fond of the characters—and their tearful goodbyes are also my own.

Merci!