Thank you so much for the reviews - I love hearing what you've each enjoyed! Most of you seem to like grouchy Etienne (I'm getting rather fond of him myself; I can't think they didn't have him in the series!) and Fouchard's eagerness to do the right thing, combined with a bad case of hero worship. The General was supposed to be as vile as those we got a glimpse of in Episode 3.1 but I think the Musketeers are rubbing off on him and, as d'Artagnan discovered, he's not so bad if you stand up to him. I'm glad you like how I've portrayed d'Artagnan; I wanted to explore how he changed during the war and grew in confidence. (At Debbie: I hadn't realised I'd pinched a line from Our Girl 2, but thanks for giving me an excuse to watch it again!)

I have absolutely loved writing this story and am so happy to have been able to share it with you all. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 12: Epilogue

When he awoke again, the light was dim and he lay quietly for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of a camp on standby. Horses stamping, men talking around the fire, pots being washed out near the mess tent, weapons being checked and cleaned, wood being chopped... He started to stretch then remembered why that was a bad idea. His soft groan was met with a swift rustle from behind his head, then Porthos' rumbling voice.

"You awake, then, pup?"

Looking across at Porthos, d'Artagnan took in his surroundings for the first time. Instead of the medic's tent, he was lying in his own bed in the tent he shared with Porthos.

Chuckling at d'Artagnan's look of confusion, Porthos swung his injured leg carefully to the ground and reached for a water bottle, leaning over to hand it to his young tent-mate. "Etienne got fed up with all of us makin' 'is tent look untidy and 'ad us moved out. It's only Athos and Jumot still there, and Jumot's likely to get kicked out soon; 'e's only concussed apart from a wound on 'is sword arm they're keeping an eye on. Athos is doing well but 'e'll be there longer an' Etienne wanted 'im kept quiet so 'e could sleep."

d'Artagnan's brow crinkled as he processed this. "Moved us... how? When?"

"Yeah, didn't think you'd remember. You were three-quarters asleep, if that's possible. Proper sleep-walking, you were, even if you did 'ave a man either side steering you."

"What time is it, then?" d'Artagnan was struggling to catch up; he still felt exhausted and it felt like only minutes since he'd returned to the medic's tent after the General's visit.

"About 8 o'clock."

"Eight... in the morning?" Sacre bleu, he'd slept for...

"Twenty hours, give or take," Porthos kindly informed him as if he'd spoken his thought aloud. "Hey, you must be hungry. I'll get you something."

"Hey, no, Porthos! You shouldn't walk on that leg. Besides, I'm not hungry." It was true: he still felt a vaguely sick, and only half awake.

Porthos flapped a hand dismissively. "Course you are. All that charging around yesterday ..." He took the water bottle from d'Artagnan's hand and replaced it with a cup containing some murky-looking liquid.

d'Artagnan sniffed it, suspiciously.

"It's alright, it's just ginger and chamomile, apparently. Julien thought your stomach might be a bit unsettled. O'course it'll be cold by now..." He pursed his lips and whistled, piercingly. A moment later Fouchard poked his head enquiringly around the tent flap, grinning when he saw d'Artagnan was awake.

"Morning, sleepy-head!" he said, cheekily. "How are you feeling?"

d'Artagnan took a cautious sip of the tea and found it tasted just as awful as he'd expected. "I'm fine," he answered, predictably.

Porthos scoffed but let it go. In truth the Gascon looked pretty grim: dark hollows under his eyes, stitches in the bruised skin on his cheek and chin, and bandages on virtually every visible bit of his body. But he was awake, and more or less whole, and that was all that mattered.

"Fouchard, tell Etienne he's awake, would you? And see if Gaspard has any more of that broth for 'im. Thanks."

Fouchard disappeared, then popped his head straight back in. "Nuit's doing fine, d'Artagnan," he reported. "She's rested, the wound is clean and the stitches holding, and she's eaten a good breakfast."

d'Artagnan nodded his heartfelt thanks to the young Musketeer for checking on her, then sagged back into his pillows with a sigh of relief.

"Hey, don't you go back to sleep before you've eaten!" chided Porthos. "Besides, I've got something to say."

d'Artagnan rolled an eye open again, reluctantly.

There was a small silence, during which d'Artagnan struggled to keep his eyelids from drooping. Then Porthos spoke again, gruffly.

"I owe you my life, d'Artagnan. Wanted to say thanks."

d'Artagnan snapped properly awake and looked over at Porthos, who was still sitting on the side of his bed, looking slightly embarrassed. He twitched a smile at his burly friend, wincing only slightly as the movement pulled at the crack on his lower lip. "You're welcome."

"No, really, I..."

"There's no need to thank me, you idiot. It's just what we do!" d'Artagnan interrupted, to save both their blushes.

"No, lad." Porthos was firm now. "It was a lot more than that. What you did – running through the night, and wounded too even if you were too daft to realise it... Etienne reckons your ankle bone is cracked as well as the musket wound. And all that way... I couldn't 'ave done it, injured or not."

d'Artagnan judged it safe to interrupt. "The bone is whole. I've broken an ankle before and I know the difference. And of course you would have done the same for me. You do yourself an injustice if you - "

Porthos clearly wasn't finished. "I would 'ave, course I would – or rather I would've tried. But I couldn't 'ave run that distance so fast. It was my luck that I was relying on you – our quickest Musketeer!"

d'Artagnan was starting to get embarrassed now and anxious to end this uncomfortable discussion. "Like I said, you are welcome."

"You don't get it, do you?" Porthos sounded almost cross now. "I was scared, that night, and don't mind admittin' it, thinking what I'd do if you couldn't get help back to me in time. But then I kept remember who it was I was relyin' on, and I realised I 'ad nothing to worry about. I knew you wouldn't let me die there, on my own."

Porthos' voice was husky now and d'Artagnan looked away, but not before he'd seen the emotion welling in Porthos' eyes. He felt supremely uncomfortable, but sensed Porthos' deep need to speak. It wasn't like him to dwell on things and usually any deep sentiment was quickly laughed off, but when he spoke like this, d'Artagnan listened, no matter how hard it was to receive praise.

"Thing I'm trying to say, young 'un, is that if I had to be there, on that infernal mountainside, there's no one I'd rather rely on than you, and I can't tell you how much that means ... " Porthos' voice finally cracked, and d'Artagnan couldn't help his own throat constricting as he reached over to pat one of Porthos' hands where it rested on his knee.

"I'm just glad we got you safely back, Porthos. It's what brothers do."

It was another 24 hours before Etienne allowed the pair of them to leave their tent. They'd rested and eaten, and entertained a stream of visitors wanting to hear details of the night-time run, Porthos' ride across camp, d'Artagnan's spiking of the cannons, and the fight to protect Athos. They'd heard all about the parts of the battle they'd missed: Moutierre falling over his own feet as ten men crept across the bridge, the others having to jump over him to rush the Spanish guard; Limoge's incredible musket shot at a Spaniard who was leaping to pull Porthos from his horse on his return gallop through the camp. And of course there were plenty of tales of mighty sword fights – all of which predictably grew in intensity and outcome every time they were repeated.

Porthos had explained why he'd gone across the camp instead of across the river - "turn left and then wait at the river" sounding much like "turn left at the river" when you're light-headed from blood loss. d'Artagnan had down-played his battle to protect Athos, but in vain: too many eyes had watched the desperate fighting on the hilltop and all knew just how many men d'Artagnan had downed.

"Ten men, d'Artagnan! Ten men!" Fouchard kept repeating. d'Artagnan had explained, several times, that Athos had been there too, and in any case it was only eight - as one had been shot by his own countryman, and d'Artagnan had spotted the shooter amongst the prisoners when escorting the General to the battle-scene - but to no avail.

Eventually Etienne appeared to check on their recovery and kicked everyone out so they could rest. They both slept deeply, still recovering from the stresses of that night which now felt dreamlike in their memories.

The following morning Fouchard turned up with two pairs of crutches, roughly fashioned from strong hazel branches with the forked tops wrapped in sacking to cushion them. d'Artagnan had more trouble with the crutches than Porthos, being only able to use one because of his wrist, which was still swollen and unwilling to bend, but they made it across to the medic tent without incident. (Well, almost without incident: d'Artagnan had almost toppled into a water butt when he lost his balance but Porthos had caught him by the collar in time to straighten him. It had only taken them two minutes to stop laughing.)

Feeling ridiculously tired from the effort of walking, but much better for all the laughing and horsing around as they got used to the crutches, and lightened by the catcalls and fond jeers from their fellow Musketeers as they wobbled across the grass, they both piled through the tent flap at the same time in their eagerness to see Athos.

Inside, they found him sitting up and looking a lot better than when they'd last seen him. His chest wound was now covered in a smaller bandage; one arm was still bandaged but the cut on his left forearm was uncovered and the stitches had already been removed, and the bruise under his eye had faded a little. He was reading from a small pile of parchments, but looked up with a ready smile when they entered.

"Good to see you up," he greeted them, waving at them to sit on the adjoining cot and, with only a small grimace as the movement pulled on his back, reached for the wine bottle that – predictably – sat beside his bed. Not bothering with cups he simply offered the bottle to each of them, giving d'Artagnan a sharp look when he declined.

"I've only just woken up," d'Artagnan excused himself before Athos could start worrying. Porthos, who was already feeling more rested, had no compunction about accepting the bottle.

"What are we drinkin' to?" he asked, pausing with the bottle almost to his lips.

Athos looked at them both with a small smile. "How about, to brotherhood?"

Porthos hesitated. "That's... the thing is that don't feel quite right with, you know..." he trailed off, looking slightly miserable.

d'Artagnan answered after a moment. "He's not here – but it doesn't mean we can't drink to him. He's still part of us – always will be."

"That's as may be, but 'e wasn't here was 'e? It was you that got me out of there, an' kept Athos safe, an' took those fuses so the lads didn't get hammered by the cannon, an' – "

d'Artagnan interrupted. "That was a mistake."

Porthos and Athos both looked at him, eyebrows raised in unison.

d'Artagnan blinked, realising what he'd said. "No! I don't mean a mistake doing it... I mean, I didn't plan it. It was just luck that I happened to grab that crate."

Athos looked thoughtful as Porthos began to chuckle. "Pup won't have this 'ero worship stuff, will 'e?" he said in a stage whisper to Athos.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Porthos!" said d'Artagnan, exasperated. "I just don't like taking credit for things that were an accident, that's all!"

"Weren't an accident you were there though, was it? You 'ad the guts to stroll into their camp and look for a way to spike their cannon, didn't ya?"

"But that's not what happened! I went that way to avoid a patrol, and I only thought about the cannon when I was hiding beside them..."

Apparently apropos of nothing, and cutting across the argument, Athos suddenly said quietly: "You make your own luck in this life."

The other two both fell silent and turned to him, then looked at each other.

"What?" They spoke in unison.

"Luck," repeated Athos. He looked at d'Artagnan. "It seems to me that you had a great deal of luck that night."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly, remembering that he'd thought, several times during the run, that luck was on his side. "It's true. I still can't believe that patrol didn't catch me in Lillet. What are the chances of falling into the yard of a man whose son was the same age as me, and in the Spanish army..." His hand strayed to his neck, where the wooden cross should have been hanging, and then he sighed and dropped his hand. When he looked up, Athos was watching him sympathetically, so he gave a rueful smile and shrugged.

"And before that, you got away from the patrol when you'd just left me." Porthos shivered, remembering the distant sounds of that skirmish, sitting in his cave listening to the sounds of musket shots and knowing they had to be aimed at d'Artagnan.

"Mon Dieu, yes, when I ended up in the stream and looked up to find a Spanish commander pointing at me, or so I thought..."

Porthos looked at him. "I didn't know about that?"

d'Artagnan shrugged carefully, mindful of the grazes on his back from his two slides down the ravine, which were still healing. "I fetched up against a boulder with the moon behind me. I think he just couldn't see me in the shadow, but I can tell you at the time I was ... " He puffed out his cheeks, trying to think of a nice way of expressing just how scared he'd been at that moment. Porthos squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

"And the fall down the ravine, when your horse was shot. It was a miracle you weren't more badly injured." Athos still couldn't believe how far down he'd slid.

"Mmn."

"And in the Spanish camp? You must have 'ad the luck of the devil, walking around in full view of the campfire and the patrol that followed you in..." Porthos had enjoyed this part of d'Artagnan's adventures most, loving the idea of a Frenchman spiking the Spanish cannon right under their noses.

"I so nearly got caught." d'Artagnan's eyes were dark as he remembered walking straight into the man emerging from his tent.

"I haven't heard that part," prompted Athos, his calm eyes assessing him astutely, picking up on d'Artagnan's change of expression at the talk of his escape from the camp.

"I ran straight into an officer coming out of his tent. Had to kill him," explained d'Artagnan reluctantly. He had hated doing it; it hadn't felt at all the same as killing someone who is trying to kill you. He sighed again and pushed the memory away: if he hadn't done it, Porthos would still be lying in the cave near Aranyonet and Athos would most likely be mourning the loss of both of them. To say nothing of the fate of the rest of the Musketeers, if they'd been taken unaware by a Spanish attack in the morning, cannon or no cannon.

Suddenly aware of a silence in the room he looked up, to find both Porthos and Athos staring at him.

"You killed an officer?" Athos' voice was sharp.

"Ye – es," said d'Artagnan slowly. Had he broken some unwritten law by killing an officer out of combat?

Porthos started laughing. "I should've guessed that was you as well," he chuckled appreciatively.

d'Artagnan stared at him. "What do you mean?" He looked back at Athos, relieved to see a small smile playing at his Captain's lips.

"Apparently," drawled Athos with satisfaction, "the prisoners were full of talk of losing their commanding officer, but no one was clear about how or when he'd been killed. It seemed to be why they were in such chaos when we 'attacked' the camp at dawn."

"Even though our 'attack' was just Athos scouting, d'Artagnan trying to rescue him and me going the wrong way at the river." Porthos was positively chortling now.

"Ah yes, that reminds me. d'Artagnan, I have to deal with the matter of you disobeying my direct order that morning."

d'Artagnan looked down. "I'm sorry Athos. I know you'd told me to get Porthos across the river but I couldn't leave you there when I saw the other patrol approaching. I know it was..."

Athos interrupted him, his words overlapping d'Artagnan's. "It was foolhardy and impulsive, all things that will get you killed at the front. I don't expect to be disobeyed again: orders are orders, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan felt awful. No matter his justification – that he had saved Athos' life by disobeying him – it was still potentially a court-martial offense. More than that, he hated the idea of Athos being disappointed in him. Gritting his teeth he lifted his head to apologise again, only to be forestalled by Athos' raised hand. Startled, he saw that smile playing around Athos' lips again.

"Your punishment, d'Artagnan, is to be confined to your quarters for two days..."

d'Artagnan let out a breath. That was pretty lenient: he could conceivably have been stripped of his commission and dishonourably discharged. His relief was such that he almost missed the rest of Athos' pronouncement.

"...from the time of the offence."

There was another silence while d'Artagnan worked it out. "But that's... that was..."

Porthos laughed again, the deep, comforting belly-laugh that d'Artagnan loved because it meant everything was going to be alright.

"Sums not your strong point, lad?" he teased. d'Artagnan looked from one to the other, and started to laugh himself.

"So, now you've served your punishment, you'd better go and see your biggest fan." Athos' lips were twitching again.

Honestly, the man was recovering from a serious chest wound, he had no business being this... devious, let alone cheerful, thought d'Artagnan, wishing he knew why Porthos was chuckling again.

"Who might that be?" he enquired, cautiously.

"The General, of course! He's been asking after you daily. Apparently he's so impressed with you that he's asked me to transfer you to his regiment," Athos answered, conversationally.

"WHAT?" d'Artagnan's voice rose in horror. "Are you serious? You can't be... you're not going to ... Can he even do that?"

Porthos was wiping tears from his eyes now and d'Artagnan spared a moment to glare at him before turning back to Athos, beseeching him silently.

"Probably not," said Athos, sounding almost disappointed.

d'Artagnan sagged in relief, then glowered at Athos who was enjoying this conversation far too much for his liking. "Athos!" he reproached him.

Athos raised an impassive eyebrow.

"Oh, stop teasing him man!" Porthos had got himself under control now and was starting to feel sorry for the lad. "We're not letting' you go anywhere. Who would do all our heroic rescues then?"

"Well that's good. They don't even have horses in the regular army!" d'Artagnan kept his tone light, and was rewarded with an explosive chuff from Porthos, wounded at the notion of this being d'Artagnan's only regret if transferred from the Musketeers.

Athos scooped up some goblets from the table and waved one suggestively towards d'Artagnan, who took it this time, deciding he didn't care how early it was, he needed a drink after this conversation.

"So what are we drinking to, then?" asked Porthos, grabbing the bottle and filling the goblets.

"To the Musketeers," suggested d'Artagnan.

"To my rescuer." Porthos nudged d'Artagnan who shoved him away, looking embarrassed.

Before Porthos could come up with something worse, d'Artagnan suggested quickly, "How about to luck?" and raised his goblet expectantly.

"To Luck!" Porthos repeated, and added: "May she continue to shine on us all!"

Athos felt an unexpected shiver at Porthos' words. He believed that you make your own luck in this world, and d'Artagnan had survived by skill, quick wit and courage as much as anything. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of being hostage to Fate for their future luck. But he drank with them, and added his own silent vow to do everything he could not to rely on Luck, Fate, God or anything else, but instead to keep them safe by his own efforts.

The solemn moment was broken as the tent flap was pushed aside and the General's Lieutenant poked his head in.

"Ah, there you are, d'Artagnan. The General is here to see you."

"Oh... No, I'm not here – I mean, I shouldn't be ... I'm confined to my tent!" he stuttered, desperately looking to Athos for help.

But Athos was apparently suddenly worn out by the conversation and was lying back on his bed, eyes closed.

"Athos?" asked d'Artagnan, anxiously.

Athos responded with a soft snore, echoed by a louder one from Porthos who had also suddenly fallen asleep, even sitting upright holding a wine goblet.

d'Artagnan scowled at the pair of them then looked back at the Lieutenant who was grinning sympathetically. "Best to get it over with, lad," he advised, standing back and holding the flap open expectantly. "He only wants to congratulate you on your efforts."

And try to recruit me, added d'Artagnan silently. Let's hope he's not too offended when I turn him down. With an enormous sigh, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the doorway. "I shan't forget this!" he hissed at both of them in passing.

As he emerged from the tent, he was sure he heard an explosive snort from Porthos. Rubbing his face he suppressed a fond smile as he squared his shoulders and walked across to where the General was waiting for him.

A final thank you to you for reading. I write to get the stories out of my head, but the knowledge that someone else will read and hopefully enjoy the story is what makes me go back and refine it, and many times the story grows because of comments in reviews.

I have always been in awe of the men and women who put their lives on the line for us, be it in the armed forces or at home in the police, fire or rescue services. It's so easy to take them for granted, but as a teenager I read a lot of war poetry and letters from the front, trying to work out how they found the courage to go out there, day after day, knowing it could be their last. I guess the answer is the one we come to so often in the Musketeers: they do it for each other.

This story was a relatively light-hearted dip into the war period for our Musketeers, to see if I could handle the setting (about which I know so little, and for which I apologise if anything jarred too much). I am now working on a follow-up story to this one which will explore some of the darker aspects of war; and, without breaking with canon, Aramis will have a part to play.

Meanwhile here are the words of the song that inspired the title and the chapter headings. I would encourage you to listen to it (look for "Musketeers Battlescars" on Youtube). Thanks again to BraveMusketeer97, and Paradise Fears, for the inspiration!

Battlescars – Paradise Fears

This is an anthem for the homesick, for the beaten,
The lost, the broke, the defeated.
A song for the heartsick, for the standbys,
Living life in the shadow of a goodbye.

Do you remember when we learned how to fly?
We'd play make-believe; we were young and had time on our side.
You're stuck on the ground,
Got lost, can't be found.
Just remember that you're still alive.

I'll carry you home.
No, you're not alone.
Keep marching on,
This is worth fighting for,
You know we've all got battle scars.
You've had enough

But just don't give up.
Stick to your guns,
You are worth fighting for.
You know we've all got battle scars.
Keep marching on.

This is a call to the soldiers, the fighters,
The young, the innocent, and righteous.
We've got a little room to grow.
Better days are near,
Hope is so much stronger than fear.

So if you jump, kid, don't be scared to fall.
We'll be kings and queens in this dream, all for one, one for all.
You can light up the dark,
There's a fire in your heart,
Burning brighter than ever before.

I'll carry you home.
No, you're not alone.
Keep marching on,
This is worth fighting for, You know we've all got battle scars.
You've had enough,
But just don't give up.
Stick to your guns,
You are worth fighting for.
You know we've all got battle scars.
Keep marching on.

On and on, like we're living on a broken record.
Hope is strong, but misery's a little quicker.
Sit, and we wait, and we drown there,
Thinking, "Why bother playing when it's unfair?"
They say life's a waste, I say they lack belief.
They tell me luck will travel, I tell 'em that's why I've got feet.
Left, right, left, right,
Moving along to the pulse of a heartbeat.
This could be the last chance you have to fly.
Do you like the ground? Want it to pass you by?
Man, you had it all when you were just a kid.
Do you even remember who you were back then?
What do you want in life? Will you be twice as strong?
What would you sacrifice? What are you waiting on?
Don't stop, march on.

I'll carry you home.
No, you're not alone. Keep marching on,
This is worth fighting for,
You know we've all got battle scars.
You've had enough,
But just don't give up.
Stick to your guns,
You are worth fighting for.
You know we've all got battle scars.
Keep marching on.