A Good Trick

"Which one of you is dripping blood?" Athos inquired, glancing up from where he eyed the telltale trail of splotches marking the dirt.

"Mmm, possibly me." Aramis drew off a gauntlet, running an exploratory hand over the back of his head, fingers coming away bloody. "Or perhaps d'Artagnan." He glanced askance at the crimson trail skirting d'Artagnan's right eye, noting the dark hair was stiff with dried blood. Unlikely the slash across his palm acquired during the provoked duel was bleeding three days later, though if it hadn't been seen to, by now it was likely infected and oozing something besides blood. Aramis had seen the abraded, weeping wrists as well. But he let his assessing gaze move on. "Or maybe it belongs to Porthos." The big man's sleeve was dripping blood like a leaky bucket. "Unless it's yours." Aramis trained his steady gaze on Athos again. Their leader did not appear to be injured, but then, one rarely knew if he was hurt until he was at death's door.

The comte raised an eyebrow. His ears were ringing like an alarm bell and his head hurt as if it had been spun like a top, but there was still a job to be done. "I hope you paid attention when you made your daring escape from the châtelet, we need to send men to clear out that viper's nest before they get wind that Vadim is dead." He eyed d'Artagnan, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, the gold coin glinting where it was clenched between his fingers. "We met five in the tunnels, how many more?"

"Seven, plus the woman."

"We didn't get 'em all?" Porthos swiped, again, at the grit making his eyes burn like fire. "Do we dare leave the body for some'un else to collect? Or will it disappear into thin air if we take our eyes off it?"

"Good point," Athos agreed. "I will stay with the body. Send back a detail. d'Artagnan, report the location of the camp to Tréville. We must check for any further stores of gunpowder."

d'Artagnan's attempt to straighten failed. "I think ... I think," he repeated, voice slurring slightly, "all of the gunpowder was in one place."

"We need to check it anyway, especially if we can collect the two missing perpetrators in the bargain."

"I can find my way back to the camp. Though it's unlikely the two who escaped will return there. Vadim announced I was the infiltrator."

That could explain a great deal of the youngster's condition. Correctly interpreting Aramis' negating scowl, Athos shrugged noncommittally. "We'll see."

"I can go." d'Artagnan pushed off his knees again, though his feet sidestepped without his permission.

Aramis grabbed him by the arm. "Or perhaps you could give Tréville directions and he can send teams that weren't just blown half way to kingdom come," he said conversationally, turning in place to get his bearings. "That way," he pointed to the east, physically turning the new kid, upon whom the cardinal would likely try to lay the blame for this fiasco. At least one wing of the Louvre was in shambles, he knew because half of it had rained down on he and his compatriots, though perhaps it had only felt like it.

The medic had a headache too and no intention of allowing any of the Inseparables to wind up on a mission to disperse Vadim's camp. "You, my youthful companion, are going to bed. You look like you haven't slept in a week. A bath wouldn't go amiss either as you smell like you've been living like the prodigal son - with the swine."

"That's the thanks you get fer a job well done," Porthos cackled. "You smell like you been rollin' in a pig sty. Come on." He fell in on the other side of d'Artagnan. "Let's get you back to the garrison. You can't be turning up at the Bonacieux's lookin' like somp'in the cat drug in. Monsieur already has a very poor opinion of your loyalty to the king."

"I slept." d'Artagnan blinked owlishly. "With one eye open."

"Definitely restorative," Aramis quirked dryly, squinting at the tunnel, wondering if it would be faster to try and thread the maze back through the bowels of the palace.

"No," Porthos said decisively. "If yer thinkin' we're going back through there, think again. Not much energy left in this one. Quicker to take to the streets, might even cadge a mount if necessary. HEY!" he shouted abruptly. "Yeah you!" He'd spotted one of the cardinal's guards prowling inside the mouth of the tunnel. "Hugues, ain't it?" He knew the man from the friendly card games he indulged in occasionally. " The cardinal wants this body disposed of and be quick about it, he don't want it litterin' up the back'a the place any longer than necessary."

The guard scowled, but called over his shoulder for reinforcements.

"Commendations on your quick thinking," Aramis muttered, limping forward in concert with Porthos, who took d'Artagnan's other arm. "Athos, put on your lordly airs and commandeer us horses." Over stretched tendons popped painfully as he turned his head to search for their lieutenant. "Athos?"

The comte, expecting a long wait, had drifted back to lean against the palace wall, propping a booted foot behind him in order to massage a pulled thigh muscle. He glanced up at the faint sound of his name, dropping his foot to the ground. "What?"

"Commandeer us horses," Aramis repeated, eyeing their lieutenant suspiciously. "Are you injured?"

"What?" Athos repeated, shoving off the wall with a reflexive twitch of his shoulders and instantly regretting it. Where had all the Red Guards suddenly swarming the river bank come from?

Aramis, head still turned over his shoulder, caught Athos' gaze. "Can you hear me?"

Athos shrugged. The nullifying effect of battle rush was quickly wearing off. His shoulder hurt, his hip hurt, even his shins hurt. And what little sound penetrated his ringing ears had about as much volume as a whisper. He found, when he put weight on that leg that he'd been attempting to discreetly rub, it did not want to hold him up, but he limped forward anyway.

"Never mind," Aramis raised his voice, "we're all similarly afflicted." He turned to find Porthos had taken most of d'Artagnan's leaning weight. "I'll get us horses. Are you capable of managing both of them?"

"We're good, we'll make it."

Athos had recognized the danger at the last second and shoved Porthos against the wall, shielding the larger man somewhat, though they'd both been slammed to the ground by the force of the funneling explosion. Aramis, two thirds of the way back up the steep stairs behind them had been thrown backwards, away from the falling rubble that had rained down on Athos and Porthos.

d'Artagnan shuffled forward, wincing as the arm he instinctively pulled into his side made contact. "Ohhhhhhh God..."

"What's the matter?" Porthos pulled all of them up short, the sudden stop contorting d'Artagnan's features on another gasp.

"Give us a minute." Athos folded in half as well, though bending only intensified the pressure in his head.

"I'll make it," the youngster replied between gritted teeth. "Just let me go at my own pace."

Aramis, several strides ahead, turned as if to trot back.

Porthos waved him on. "Get horses," he said urgently, keeping a light hold on the youth despite d'Artagnan's attempt to draw away. He kept a handful of Athos' jacket as well, least the man plant himself face first in the shale.

Their medic had a closed carriage waiting when the bedraggled trio finally emerged from the alley between the palace and the out buildings housing the various staff required to serve and maintain the king and queen's retinue and residence. He ushered his companions into the interior, climbed in himself and called out the window, "Our thanks, monsieur, your coachman will be back in no time at all. We'll try not to get any blood on the upholstery."

"Who was that?" Porthos inquired, craning his neck to get a look at the man standing, astonished, in the middle of the street.

"Don't know," Aramis said, pulling the curtains closed, "and don't care. From the looks of him, some rich merchant. His charity on an Easter Sunday might earn him points in the eyes of God."

"Willin' or not."

Aramis leaned across to d'Artagnan as the coach started off. "Do you want to tell us what happened?" He picked up one of the slack hands, turning it carefully to appraise the damage to the thin wrists. The left was far worse than the right and those weeping wounds had a story to tell. Aramis knew the beginning and end; he wanted the middle.

d'Artagnan, slumped against Porthos in the front facing seat, shrugged without opening his eyes. "Vadim figured out ... I was a plant."

"How?"

"How should I know?" d'Artagnan shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, though that only drew Aramis' further attention. "Though it was prob'ly the mistress."

Athos stirred beside Aramis. "Did she show up in that cellar?"

"She hada' be the one ... I had Vadim convinced..."

"You were supposed to be watching her." Athos had tasked Aramis with that job, though there was nothing accusatory in his tone. "How did she get out?"

"I was watching her, I followed her to their hidey hole and went to collect you and Tréville while Porthos kept watch. If your wits have not been addled, you may recall there was no one there when we stormed the place."

"She was there ... last night," d'Artagnan slurred. "Least I think ... she was. 'M timeline may be ... mud..dled."

"Nothin' wrong with your timeline. We missed nabbin' you back by minutes last night. Shoulda thought to look for a trap door sooner; sorry 'bout that."

d'Artagnan had had several opportunities to die over the weekend, one more hardly mattered. He counted himself lucky to be in one piece. His career with the Musketeers had looked to be short indeed, though, as the candle had burnt down, then faltered in the last instant in its own puddle of wax. His heart, nearly beating out of his chest, had unclenched. Only to spasm again as the fuse had sizzled suddenly, flaring to life again with insidious insistence.

"What happened in the cellar, d'Artagnan?" Aramis' mother called it leading, he had learned the art of questioning from her. The medic replaced the abraded wrist carefully in the Gascon's lap and gripped his chin turning his head to investigate the lump behind the left ear. "Is that where you collected the head wound?"

Athos had been right, they should never have let the youth undertake this mission. The ribs he'd cracked jumping out of a second story window less than a month ago, had barely had time to heal. While they hadn't stayed to witness the entire debacle, Aramis had seen enough of the treatment the Red Guards meted out to know they had not been gentle in their pursuit of the youthful duelist.

"Maybe ... I think so. Vadim accused me of bein' the traitor. Next thin'g I knew I was sittin' on ... powder, Vadim waggin' his tongue ... tellin' me I shoulda pa'd more 'tension. Make 'em look the other way."

Vadim stole enough gun powder to start a small war, where is it? What was he planning? Where are his men? If d'Artagnan can bring us the answers, then his life is worth the risk, Tréville had stated with finality. He has to prove himself some time, why not now?

d'Artagnan's vitality and verve snuffed out in trade for a batch of gunpowder - even enough to start a small war - and a few answers, did not seem fair in hindsight. Fortunately it had not come down to that.

"Oh he did that," Athos muttered angrily, poking a finger in his ear. The chirrup inside his head was increasing in volume with every squeak of the rolling carriage wheels. "He had us all fooled." The comte had experience with Aramis' unorthodox methods as well. Leading sometimes worked like a charm, particularly on slightly woozy individuals, and occasionally on 'guests' thinking to hide information during interrogation. "Treville's intelligence said there was enough gunpowder to start a small war Was there?"

The youth stood no chance against the trio's expertise. The entire story, as well as the extent of his injuries, would be revealed before they reached the garrison. Not that d'Artagnan was attempting to hide anything.

"Didn' count, but a lot ... dozen ... dozenzzzz."

"Probably no need to find the camp." Porthos had his eyes closed too. The increasing ache in his head was making him slightly nauseous.

"How did you get loose?" Aramis prodded.

"Rim of the barrel ... coarse enough ... cut the rope ... eventually."

"So you were able to free yourself and get out."

"Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Pulled the fuse before it reached the cask but ... door stuck closed. He'd rigged extra ... lines to it ... friction ... lit the fuses ... multiple ... ones. Tried to stamp them out ... too many sparks."

"d'Artagnan," Aramis kept his voice soft and soothing, "how close were you to that blast? How badly are you hurt? Did you damage the same ribs again?"

d'Artagnan opened one eye. "Maybe ... probably," he swallowed convulsively. "Might be broken this time. Something hurts ... a lot ... on that side." And it was worsening with each breath he drew.

"I assume you didn't make it very far from the explosion then." Aramis sat back in his seat. There was no aid he could offer until they reached the garrison.

d'Artagnan's white teeth flashed briefly, whether in a grimace or a smile Aramis could not tell. "Far enough," the youth said, throttling a laugh that might have been a touch of hysteria now that the ordeal was over.

"He didn't get away with his trick, in no small part thanks to you, youngling," Porthos grunted. "I told 'em I knew you'd pull it off." He kicked blindly at Aramis' boot, eliciting a grunt and a return kick. "Not such a bad judge character after all, am I?"

"That wasn't me," the comte replied stoically. He had some complaining ribs as well. One did not slam into a wall of muscle like Porthos without damaging a few parts.

"Sorry, I was aimin' at Aramis."

d'Artagnan was missing some middle parts too. "Wha' ... what was he ... after? ... If not ... king 'n queen?"

"Only the royal jewels." Aramis clenched his burning fist and closed his eyes, leaning back against the luxurious squabs. "It was a good plan. He might have gotten away with it if you hadn't foiled it." He heard d'Artagnan huff.

"Misleading information, in this instance," Athos put in, voice pitched a little too loud though the tone remained inflectionless, "was far better than no information. Enough to put us on his trail after Aramis threw himself on a bomb."

d'Artagnan started, half rising, though he sank back immediately. "A bomb?" came out more as a groan than an exclamation.

"Pfffffft, it was a dud." Aramis would have waved a hand but a ferocious ache had begun to gnaw at his right shoulder. Funny how the effects of battle rush made one invincible in the moment. He wondered, briefly, if documenting the effects might shed some light on the intricate workings of the body, for it affected the mind as much as the physicality of the body.

"Ya didn' know that when you threw yer'self on it." Porthos' tone matched Athos' flawlessly.

"A good trick," Athos remarked, irony evident this time, "both of you managing to stay alive."

"Perhaps God in His mercy spared us for some further purpose. It is Easter after all." Aramis did not raise his voice, though he felt Athos' shoulder twitch in silent rebuff. No need to pursue the comte's unbelief, Athos was entrenched enough to make it both irritating and useless. Besides, the idea of studying the effects of battle rush had roused Aramis' curiosity. Musing on it, he realized it did not appear to have any set period of time. It came in like a tide when necessary, lasting just long enough to accomplish the moment's need and a little bit longer, perhaps enough time to fulfill the primitive need to seek shelter or aid. He might make a beginning by observing his own reactions, along with him companions. The results could be enlightening. He stowed away the thoughts for further cogitation at some later date and returned to the events of the day,

They had all experienced a kind of Easter resurrection, rising from what by all rights should have been their graves, to carry on the fight. His fingers closed around the talisman inside his shirt, shoulder be damned. He needed no other palliative than the memory of her sweet smile.

A good trick, indeed, heavenly Father, he echoed Athos' dry remark thankfully, certain God was chuckling at the duality of Aramis' silent prayer.

The coach jostled to a stop eliciting various sounds of distress as, indeed, the last of the battle rush dissipated, leaving in its wake far more than vicious throbbing headaches if the care with which his companions disembarked the carriage was any indication.

"Our thanks, monsieur," Aramis offered gratefully. "And apologies for disrupting your dinner, good sir."

The coachman grinned. "My pleasure, messieurs, ain't no skin off my nose if the master's dinner gets cold. We'll have as we always have, cabbage and boiled potatoes, while the master dines on roast pork and duck."

Aramis fished for a coin, flipping it up to the man. "Buy yourself and your friends some liquid refreshment then. Your services were much appreciated."

The meaty fist snatched the coin out of midair. "My pleasure."

The coach rolled away, revealing Tréville, naked sword in hand, anger suffusing his features, a troop of Musketeers at his back.

Had the situation been less fraught, the quartet propping one another up might have dissolved into fits of hilarity.

Athos, gauntleted fingers pinched at the top of his left thigh, straightened carefully. "The traitor is dead, sir. We left the cardinal's men mopping up the mess."

Tréville's sword arm dropped as though chopped at the elbow, relief dousing the fire in his eyes not even his hat brim could overshadow. "Join the clean up detail," he ordered over his shoulder. "Should the cardinal inquire, I will be with him shortly. Say nothing of this development." Barking as he executed a faultless about face, "You four, my office now."

Aramis felt d'Artagnan quail on one side, Athos' silent sigh on the other, both were leaning against him, though Athos probably did not realize he'd slumped again.

"Meaning no disrespect, sir." Aramis reached discreetly around behind Athos to poke Porthos. "I'm not sure any of us can make it up the stairs."

Likely the three of them could; d'Artagnan was another matter. The youngster had the hide of a farmer and was tough as nails, but he lacked the years of experience that hardened the body to withstand the kind of physical trauma he had endured over the course of this mission. But that would not stop him from trying. Aramis did not want Porthos volunteering to carry anyone.

The captain turned back, face carefully bland, though the spider-web-thin lines bracketing the impenetrable blue eyes were again showing stark white against the deep tan of the man's face. "Bastien, send for the doctor. We will be in the infirmary. Do you need assistance?" he inquired of the group at large.

In answer, the Inseparables broke ranks, variously hobbling, shuffling, or wobbling in d'Artagnan's case, toward the nearby infirmary door.

The room was large and well lit, the windows, despite the cool of the day, all open. Madam Hildegard valued fresh air almost above all other curatives, claiming a putrid atmosphere killed patients faster than a poisoned sword thrust. Aramis kept the windows open year round and fires burning in the massive stone fireplaces at either end when necessary to keep the place warm.

No more had the door closed behind Tréville than he slumped back against it as if boneless. "God in heaven, I thought you all dead. We heard at least a dozen more explosions as we continued on to Notre Dame, though in the coach. Her Majesty insisted, once we realized the attack was centered at the Louvre." A rare grin split the man's face, lighting a beam of pleasure that warmed the icy blue eyes to a shade of gentian. He removed his hat, tossing it on a cabinet of medicinals before crossing to d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan, destined to spend the rest of the day startling like a deer, stepped back involuntarily as Tréville was suddenly standing in front of him, hand extended.

"You should have earned your pauldron today." Tréville's sword-callused handshake was as warm and sincere as the thoughts he expressed. "You've certainly proven you have the heart of a Musketeer, young man. Unfortunately Richelieu is already attempting to lay the blame for the apparent attacks on their majesties directly upon our heads, making it unlikely I'll be able to wrangle a commission. These things are best accomplished when the king is in a generous mood. However, should there be a glimpse of leniency in Louis' attitude, I will ask." Without missing a beat, he admonished, "The rest of you can keep your treasonous thoughts to yourself. Allow d'Artagnan time to form his own impressions."

d'Artagnan already had, though he kept his own treasonous thoughts buttoned up. He had been angrier than a Spanish bull at Athos, thinking the man had killed his father, but the mockery of a trial he'd witnessed in the king's audience chamber had shocked him to his toes "I was glad to do it, sir. And thank you for your efforts on my behalf." He would have offered a bow but he was not steady enough on his feet.

"Best let Aramis see to what he can until the doctor arrives." Tréville clasped d'Artagnan's shoulder briefly. "And maybe sit down before you fall down."

d'Artagnan gratefully did as he was told.

"What was Vadim's purpose?"

"The Royal vault, though he took only the small things. Likely he knew he would unable to sell the crown of Charlemagne." Athos had propped both hands on one of Aramis' exam tables, attempting to keep his head from sinking between his shoulders. "I suppose we should have taken the bag; we'll be blamed for that too, if anything's missing."

"It would certainly have been the smarter choice." Tréville took a moment to assess each of them in turn now that his simmering boil had subsided to a manageable level, the cardinal had drawn all of his guards to himself, leaving the Musketeers to deal with the mad man. "I will do what I can to deflect any allegations. You're certain Vadim is dead?"

"Yes, and at least five of his disillusioned followers are dead. It might be feasible to keep those bodies until d'Artagnan can take a look at them. Two, that we know of, remain at large. If he can provide descriptions of the missing two, it will make our job easier." As always, Athos' report was brief and concise.

"I will relay this news as well to the cardinal. d'Artagnan, as soon as you are capable, we need those descriptions. I will have the bodies delivered to the morgue."

"There is a maze of tunnels beneath the Louvre," Athos added.

"Yes, there are. No wonder you were gone so long."

Aramis' chin tilted thoughtfully. "You were going to look for our bodies."

"The king and queen returned to Richelieu's residence at the conclusion of the service. We were told the destruction at the Louvre was devastating. d'Artagnan missing, possibly dead already, Aramis throwing himself on a bomb, the three of you haring off in the direction of the blasts ... I did not know if I would see any of you alive again."

"Hard ta kill, sir," Porthos said, scratching an itch on the back of his neck. He was probably carrying around a half ton of stone dust inside his clothes.

"It is Easter Sunday." The captain unknowingly repeated Aramis' earlier pronouncement. "Make sure you contribute to the offering boxes next time you're in church. In the meantime, you will be on stand down for the next several days unless required to make an appearance at the palace." Tréville had returned to the door, retrieving his hat on the way. He stooped slightly to open the latch and stepped back. "Ah, here is the doctor. The usual suspects, Lemay, send me the reckoning directly, I suspect you will be too busy to apply to the palace for remuneration." He clapped his hat back on his head. "d'Artagnan, I'd like you to stay the night here. I will send someone to the Bonacieux household."

"Sir -"

Treville paused, glancing over his shoulder. "The cloth merchant thinks you the lowest kind of traitor. Give the truth a night to sink in before confronting him."

"Yes, sir."

The door snicked behind Tréville and Lemay glanced around with the usual shake of his head. "Paris is awash in rumors of an attack on the Louvre, the explosions rocked the city. I suppose you were in the thick of it as usual. To whom should I administer aid first?"

Aramis had already moved to the fireplace at the barracks end of the room. "We're all in need of headache powders I imagine. I can manage to start water heating for your decoction." He knelt creakily, head pounding six to a dozen, and began poking up the low fire. "d'Artagnan, though, was closest to an explosion and looks to have won the award this time around, for most injuries. He was in a duel several days ago and acquired a nice slice across his left hand as well. If it's not in need of amputation, he might require some stitching. And he's probably got some broken ribs as well."

"That's some recitation," Dr. Lemay turned toward the only man in the room he did not know. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir." He stretched out a hand as he approached d'Artagnan slowly, though the Gascon still shied back an involuntary step, tucking his left hand suspiciously away behind himself.

"No amputating," d'Artagnan asserted firmly.

"You must be new if you haven't yet learned Aramis is something of a prankster. May I at least look at it?"

This drew a chuckle from Porthos, who was lifting the water jar to pour into the kettle Aramis had hung on the hook inside the fireplace. And put a rueful smile briefly on the comte's face before Athos slumped over to cross his arms on the table and put his head down.

d'Artagnan huffed a sigh, allowing his hand to be taken and inspected.

"Well, I don't know," the good doctor intoned, forehead creasing as he bent over to take a closer look.

d'Artagnan would have snatched it back if he'd had strength enough to do so.

"Dr. Lemay has a bit of humor in him as well, pay no heed to his posturing. The cut on the hand merely needs cleaning and some stitches." Aramis swung the kettle over the fire, allowing Porthos to give him a hand up, though he grimaced. "Athos can't hear a thing, or very little, and is likely in need of an entire pot of liniment, since he slammed into Porthos' bulk before both of them were picked up and thrown down like a giant's toys by the blast. Porthos was dripping blood from his right sleeve, though it seems to have at least slowed at least, and I ..." Aramis lifted his arm experimentally and groaned, "can hardly move a muscle and might need stitches on the back of my head. I was standing a third of the way down the staircase and woke up at the top. Might have landed on the muzzle of my gun."

"Perhaps you should sit down, monsieur," Lemay advised the marksman. "Porthos, is the arm broken?" He motioned d'Artagnan to sit on the side of the exam table and started with the cut over his eye, swabbing at the blood and grime in an attempt to better assess the wound itself. "You missed this one, Aramis."

"Nope, can't be broke, it still works." Porthos shimmied out of his coat and rolled up his bloody sleeve to inspect a jagged gash across his forearm. "Hmmph, didn't even know it was cut. Didn't hurt 'til I saw it either." He clamped a big hand around it,

Aramis grabbed a towel, wrapping it quickly around the arm, rolling the edges of the jagged cut together as a swaying Porthos removed his hand. "Funny how the mind works."

"I don' feel s'good."

"Have a seat next to d'Artagnan, the two of you can commiserate while we stitch you up, 'cause yes, that's going to need stitches," he said. The big Musketeer was fine being bathed in someone else's blood, but let him prick his own finger and he passed out.

"You sure you want us to share a table? M'heads already spinnin', no tellin' if I'll stay upright once you start stitching."

"Let's not attempt the experiment," Lemay advised, glancing at the gaping wound as Porthos lost his hold on the towel. "Make sure you clean that well, Aramis, that looks like something hit you with enough force to implode your skin."

"Wot's implode?"

"Cave in. There's no hole in your jacket?"

"Dunno."

"Well, it looks like either you hit something or something hit you with enough blunt force to split your arm open. You must be very careful with it, keep it dry once it's bandaged and change the bandage twice a day. In fact, come to me in the morning, I want to keep an eye on that. If all is well, Aramis can do the evening change." Lemay returned his attention to his temporarily abandoned patient. "This doesn't need stitches, nor does it appear the broken skin over the nob you've acquired behind your ear needs more than cleaning. Let's get you out of these clothes and see about the ribs. How many fingers?" the doctor inserted smoothly, holding up a hand as he slipped the jacket from the youth's hunched shoulders.

"Three," d'Artagnan muttered, squinting.

Porthos plunked his rear on the table opposite d'Artagnan and the doctor.

"Two, but that's good enough." Dr. Lemay had learned to multitask whenever he was called to the Musketeer garrison, particularly with the trio known as the Inseparables. If one returned injured, they were all injured. "Monsieur Athos, perhaps you ought to lie down until someone can get to you."

"You have to yell for him to hear." Aramis put the bottle of brandy in Porthos' good hand. "Take a swig or two, then pour it over your arm. You'll know when to stop."

"Be careful with alcohol and head trauma, it can mask symptoms, especially dizziness and nausea."

"To late," Porthos had downed half the bottle. Gritting his teeth, he poured the rest of it over his arm until he dropped the empty bottle on a yowl.

Aramis, having pulled Athos up by his coat collar, was maneuvering him toward one of the infirmary beds thinking Lemay's suggestion wise. Best to get him off his feet before he tripped over them and injured himself further. In the process, Aramis realized the comte was bleeding, and from the corner of his mouth. It was almost invisible trickling into his beard.

"Holy Mother of God!" Aramis snatched Athos' chin, keeping a fist twisted in the back of his jacket and yanked his head around. Bleeding from the mouth often presaged internal injuries. "Lemay!"

Athos had the presence of mind, and the strength to jerk his head free. "Owwwwwwww!" He smacked away Aramis' questing fingers. "Leave it alone. It's just my tongue bleeding. There's nothing you can do and it hurts like hell. Leave it alone," he repeated, every word causing agony in his mouth.

"Let me look at it." Aramis was implacable. They were close enough to the bed that Athos sank down on it, holding the side of his face. Very reluctantly, knowing Aramis would not leave him alone until he surrendered, he dropped his hand and tilted his head, allowing Aramis to ease open his jaw and inspect the lacerated tongue.

"I'll get some ice, it might help. Never mind." Aramis, his own jaw clenched, waved off Lemay who had literally dropped what he'd been doing and come at a run. "He's right, there's nothing to be done."

"What?" Lemay demanded.

"He was bleeding from the side of his mouth. I was afraid it might be internal bleeding, but he's only bitten his tongue." Aramis noted ruefully he might start his observations now, since the momentary fright had caused a renewed surge of the battle rush. For that brief window of time nothing had been beyond him, and had he needed it, it would have continued its powerful flow until such time as the crisis was past and safety in sight.

Lemay steered the marksman to the next bed and sat him down. "Your youthful friend is a bit battered, but sounder than he appears. Some sustenance and a decent night's sleep and he's likely to be good as new. Youth, I've found, are more resilient."

Aramis stifled a laugh. Lemay was not much older than the Gascon. "He goes by d'Artagnan if he has not introduced himself."

"Well, no, he has not, but then, introductions did not seem in order. If you were close enough to those explosions to be tossed around like giants toys, you are all lucky to be alive and as sound as you are."

"Must be a day for miracles. I need to get ice from Serge for Athos' jaw."

"Do not get up again." Lemay put a hand on Aramis' shoulder, careful to apply only the lightest of pressure. "I will call someone to run errands and make up the rest of the beds. I think it would be wise to keep you all here tonight."

Not even Athos protested, and Lemay went to the hallway door, pulling if halfway closed behind himself before shouting for assistance. Serge came lumbering from the kitchen, Tréville's search party having been the only men in the garrison, and they'd been reassigned to the Louvre.

The cook emptied out his kitchen staff, sending one running back with the requested ice, another to track down the laundress and the cleaning woman, for Porthos had shortly lost his battle with the creeping nausea, even before Lemay finished with d'Artagnan and began stitching up the arm.

By the time Lemay turned the lamps down to their lowest illumination and instructed Tréville to be sure and wake them every two or three hours, as they were all exhibiting signs of concussion, the new quartet of battered and bruised Inseparables were fast asleep.

Tréville repeated all the instructions, saw the doctor to the door, assured the man he would be sent for if needed and finally closed it behind him. The First Minister had been less than pleased with his brief report; the captain had left the man sputtering about insubordination.

It was early yet, and Tréville had a week's worth of reports that needed reading, but the brusque commander was not ready to quit the quiet room again.

The middle four of the six infirmary beds were occupied, d'Artagan on one side of Athos, Aramis on the other, with Porthos flanking Aramis. Where normally there was a wide aisle between the beds, tonight only a narrow pathway separated them. Tréville snuffed all but one of the lamps, screened both fireplaces and negotiated the small space between Aramis and Athos in order to seat himself at the foot of the bed Athos occupied. Aramis, he knew, would want to be in touching distance despite having temporarily relinquished their care to another.

Tréville planted his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand, a faint smile stretching his pursed lips. He knew the personal habits of three of these men as well as he knew his own. Because he was a good commander, he knew their moods, their individual quirks, and their foibles. It was his job to assess their mission readiness, physically and mentally, on a daily basis. But they had become more than just soldiers under his command, they had become friends.

In his long years in the military, he had learned the value of remaining aloof, of keeping to himself. As commander of a garrison, that rule was imperative. He could not value one life above another, nor show the least hint of favoritism.

He had never found the principal faulty or difficult to follow before accepting command of the Musketeer regiment. These days he found himself drawn into cards games, joining the betting pool, throwing darts in the common room, and occasionally, allowing himself the privilege of caring for his injured men rather than leaving it to others.

If it made the job of sending them out on missions or into battle that much harder, so be it. His men, he knew without conceit, were willing to die for him. It was mutual and made the garrison that much stronger.

And at the heart of it, were these three living legends. He would never have imagined a thief, a marksman and a nobleman could form such a bond as existed between Porthos, Aramis and Athos. Or that the three of them would open that charmed circle to include a hot-headed youth from Gascony.

He still did not indulge in favoritism, but the Inseparables were the battalion's talisman, the leaders the new recruits wanted to emulate, the friends everyone wanted to claim, the unit every other wanted at their side in dire situations. Despite the nickname they'd acquired, there was no exclusivity, their contributions to the garrison, individually and as a unit, were legion and every one of them was generous to a fault with their time and talents. However, they were beloved not because they were saints, but because they were all charming sinners.

Tréville considered himself fortunate to have them under his command, and even more fortunate to count them as friends.

They were a battered lot tonight, though tomorrow they would be up and out as if nothing had happened to them. Lemay had already warned him he would need to be creative with their assignments for the next several days.

Captain Tréville was an old hand at creative commanding; he still had a few good tricks of his own he would employ.

This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story are the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successor and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author, though not much intellect was employed in this one. Sadly, no copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.