A/N: Apologies for not posting a chapter last Thursday, and I hope those who celebrated had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Hope you enjoy this last part!

Morning found all four Inseparables in beds, asleep. Aramis had finally succumbed to his fatigue in the early hours approaching dawn. He'd returned to Athos and d'Artagnan's room in time to hear part of their conversation, and then slowly withdrawn before the men registered his presence. That had brought him back to Porthos' side, where he'd retaken his earlier seat.

Porthos had woken just as his friend was about to crash to the floor from his chair and had ordered the man into the bed next to him, completely unwilling to hear any sort of argument. In truth, Aramis hadn't protested particularly hard, but he had mentioned what he'd overheard in the next room. Porthos had been his usual practical self, simply stating, "There's been too many ghosts dredged up lately, if you ask me." There seemed nothing more to say, so Aramis took a moment to remove his boots and breeches before falling into bed and into a deep slumber.

In the next room, Athos had similarly been ordered to bed, the pain from his leg increasing with every waking minute until he was tempted to have the limb removed. d'Artagnan had merely rolled his eyes in response to the exaggerated statement, understanding well the effect that the unrelenting ache of a fresh injury could have on even the most rational of men. If asked later, none of the men would admit it was one of the best sleeps they'd experienced in recent weeks.

Porthos and Aramis were awoken by the sound of hurried knocking on their door, before the slim, wooden barrier was pushed out of the way, revealing the countenance of a worried Musketeer. Porthos' vision was still too blurry to make out the man's features, and he tensed in bed as he racked his brain for the location of his weapons. Next to him, he felt Aramis perceptibly relaxing, and hoped that was a good sign.

"Etienne, it's good to see you," the marksman greeted the newcomer.

Squinting, Porthos almost believed he could recognize the man now that Aramis had identified him. "Aramis, Porthos, it's good to see you both safe," Etienne replied, clearly searching for the Gascon.

"d'Artagnan and Athos are in the next room," the marksman answered the unspoken question as he flipped back the blanket and turned to sit upright on the edge of the bed. Taking a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes, he refocused on their comrade as he asked, "You've just returned?"

Etienne nodded before explaining. "I believed myself to be bringing bad news," he began. "We searched but found no sign of Athos." He grinned broadly. "Now I know why."

Aramis nodded with a matching grin of his own. "He made his way back yesterday afternoon and tracked us down at the tavern." The statement brought a frown to the other man's face.

"About that," Etienne said. "How is it that you came to be here instead?"

Beside Aramis, Porthos had managed to maneuver himself upright, now resting against the wall at the head of the bed. "Turns out the owner of the stable is the brother of the woman who helped Athos. Who knew?" he ended, leaving Etienne's features just as puzzled as before he'd spoken.

Aramis noticed the confusion on the other man's face. "Give us a few minutes to get dressed and we'll be happy to explain everything." Turning his attention to Porthos, he asked, "Do you think you can manage some stairs and then something to eat?"

The medic was certain that his friend paled at the question, but Porthos gamely nodded, wincing as the movement jarred his fragile skull. Returning his gaze to Etienne, Aramis requested, "Please ask for some water to be boiled, and see if we can have food brought to d'Artagnan's room. Nothing too heavy, I think." Etienne gave a nod of acknowledgement before backing out of the room.

Porthos was bent forward, holding his aching head in both hands. His words were mumbled as he chastised his friend, "I could've gone downstairs."

"Yes," Aramis agreed cheekily. "But I'm certain I could not have gotten you back to your bed once you fainted from the pain."

"Passed out," the larger man corrected, his head still bent to his chest.

"Mmm," the marksman agreed with a smile, recalling the conversation they'd had when he'd first been hurt. "I'm going to go check on the others," he said as he pulled on his breeches. "Why don't you lie back down and see if you can bring that throbbing in your head under control."

Wordlessly, Porthos shifted to lay on his side, bringing a frown to the medic's face. Aramis' head was still tender, but ten times better than it had been, and while he craved more sleep, his sense of responsibility for the others prompted him into action. Pulling on his boots, he reached a hand over to Porthos' upper arm, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'll be back shortly with something for the pain," he said softly. The larger man grunted lowly in reply, his eyes clenched tightly closed as he rode out the pain in his skull.

Aramis slipped quietly from the room, entering the next one just as stealthily, although it turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. Both men were awake, and d'Artagnan seemed to be trying to dissuade Athos from rising. The older man had somehow already managed to pull his breeches on, and Aramis cringed in sympathy at the bloodied rip that clearly marked the location of the man's injury. Athos was now struggling to pull on his boots, which seemed an apt time for the medic to interrupt.

Leaning against the doorjamb of the entrance, he loudly cleared his throat, causing both men to look in his direction. "Aramis, thank God you're here," d'Artagnan greeted him. "Please tell Athos that he needs to rest that leg and shouldn't be moving about."

Aramis turned a raised eyebrow to the older man, asking an unspoken question. "I'm fine," Athos tersely replied through gritted teeth. Even from this distance, the medic could make out the sheen of sweat on his friend's face, heralding a much greater level of misery than the older man was admitting to.

"I doubt that," Aramis declared, pushing himself away from the support of the doorway to cross the distance between them. Pulling a chair closer, he positioned himself directly in front of the former comte, one hand moving to the rip in Athos' breeches as soon as he was seated. "Would have been better if you'd kept these off," the medic remarked.

Athos' placed his hand on top of Aramis', hiding the hole in his breeches. Locking gazes with the marksman, he repeated, "I'm fine."

Aramis looked away from his friend, shifting slightly to meet d'Artagnan's concerned expression. The Gascon was far too pale for his liking and lay partially upright, slumped against the pillows at his back. One hand covered the wound in his side, and it was obvious from the lines around his eyes that the pain draught he'd administered earlier had worn off. Despite that, the Gascon seemed resolute about keeping Athos off his leg.

Returning his attention to the older man, Aramis said evenly, "d'Artagnan would appear to disagree with your assessment." He paused, waiting to see the effect of his words. Athos' expression thawed slightly, and Aramis could sense his friend's hesitation about continuing in his goal of rising. "As a matter of fact," the medic went on, "I believe he's concerned for your welfare. Far more than you seem to be right now." Leaning closer, he whispered in the older man's ear, "Additional stress will only set back his recovery."

Pulling back, Aramis waited again, watching as acceptance appeared on Athos' face as he removed his hand from atop the medic's. Aramis gave a slight nod of approval as he explained, "Etienne and the others are back. I've asked him to arrange food and drink and to have it brought up here." He saw Athos draw breath to argue and cut him off before any words of complaint could be uttered. "Porthos isn't in any condition to be traipsing up and down stairs. Since this room is the larger of the two, it makes sense for us to eat here."

Sighing in resignation, Athos gave a nod. "Good," Aramis said, a bright smile appearing on his face. I should have just enough time to check your wounds before the food arrives." Over Athos' shoulder, the medic could see a wide grin on the Gascon's face. "That means you too, d'Artagnan." The grin on the younger man's face faltered, but the medic knew their friend would allow him to do what needed to be done.

Wound checks and eating meals in d'Artagnan and Athos' room became their routine for the next few days. Etienne and the others had departed the same day they'd arrived, escorting their prisoners back to Paris, and promising to inform Treville that the Inseparables would follow several days later. Aramis was certain he was currently the only one of the four who could ride a horse, and it was unlikely, even after several days had passed, that d'Artagnan would be riding anywhere.

After four days of undisturbed rest and proper food, Aramis accepted the stable-owner's offer of a cart, which would allow them to start their trip to Paris. Their horses were tied to the back, while Porthos and Aramis sat up front, and Athos watched over d'Artagnan in the back.

Their progress was slow, and their journey took twice as long as normal, but the medic refused to compromise his friends' health because of their haste to return. As it was, d'Artagnan was barely tolerating the trip, drawing on Athos' strength when the pain became too great.

d'Artagnan moaned lowly, trying to roll to his side to protect his tender midsection from the endless jarring of the wooden planks beneath him.

"Breathe," Athos coached softly, keeping the Gascon in place with one hand, while his other remained entwined in his friend's grip. "Breathe," he commanded again, as d'Artagnan squeezed his hand harder, riding out the fiery pain in his gut.

The young man gasped, and his hand grew lax, signalling that the current spike of pain had temporarily released its hold. Sadly, it would return just as it had every other time before, and Athos knew he would remain at his friend's side to offer whatever comfort he could.

Removing his hand from the Gascon's hold, the former comte wet a cloth and drew it across his friend's face and neck, washing away the sweat that clung to the gaunt features. Though Aramis was satisfied with d'Artagnan's progress, his injuries were still in the early stages of healing, and the Gascon had been battling a low-grade fever for the past couple of days. The medic had been relentless about cleaning the young man's knife wound, and pronounced it free from infection, stating that a fever was to be expected given the severity of the boy's wounds. The statement did little to assuage the fear in Athos' chest.

"Athos," d'Artagnan murmured, bringing the older man from his thoughts. "I'll be fine," he said, making Athos' lips quirk in silent amusement at the young man's mindreading skills.

"Yes, you will be," the former comte agreed, catching d'Artagnan's hand again as the wagon bounced heavily on the rutted road, pulling a grunt of pain from the young man.

From his seat at the front, Porthos looked back, mouthing a silent apology as he met the older man's gaze. Athos gave a curt nod, understanding that his friends had no control over the roughness of their journey. That fact alone had made the older man question Aramis' suggestion to depart, but the medic had assured him – had assured them all – that while uncomfortable, the trip posed no threat to the Gascon's life. Besides, they all worried about overstaying their welcome and longed to return home. Thus, it was agreed.

"Welcome back," Treville called from the balcony above the courtyard, relief flooding him as he observed the return of his four best men. As captain, he couldn't play favorites, but there was no doubt these four men held a special place in his heart. Just knowing they'd returned made the garrison feel different, more right, as if a missing piece had finally been replaced.

A closer look at the men revealed the weariness that seemed to ooze from every pore, and the fact that d'Artagnan, at least, rode in the back not because he wanted to but because he had to. "What are your injuries?" he called as Porthos began to climb carefully from the wagon. In the back, Athos was sitting on the edge of the cart, his body leaning to the left as he appeared to be favoring his right side.

Aramis held the horses' reins as he replied, "A concussion for Porthos..."

He was interrupted a moment later as the large man added, "And Aramis."

Throwing his friend an irritated look, the medic continued. "Athos has a partially healed wound in his leg, and d'Artagnan is dealing with a broken arm and ribs, plus a knife wound to one side." At Treville's raised eyebrow, Aramis nodded, answering the unspoken question about the Gascon's health. 'Yes, he was hurt badly, but would recover.'

"Do you need help to the infirmary?" the captain asked, preparing to call men to assist.

This time it was Athos who answered, the protectiveness over the younger man clear in his tone and the stiff set of his shoulders. "No, we'll manage."

Treville needed a report from the older man, but he doubted he'd get any cooperation from his lieutenant tonight. "I'll have Serge bring by some food…" He paused for a moment as he considered the men below him, Aramis now joining Porthos in the back to help d'Artagnan. "To d'Artagnan's room?" he finished, receiving three nods in reply. Smiling softly, he nodded in return, leaving the men to deal with the Gascon while he arranged for food, drink and medical supplies to be delivered.

Two weeks later…

Athos took another sip of the fine brandy he'd been poured, his appreciation for the quality of the drink apparent in his serene expression.

Treville chuckled softly in amusement. "It's good, isn't it?" he asked, motioning towards the other man's glass with his chin. "It's one of the few indulgences I allow myself, thanks to the influence of an old friend."

Athos' interest was piqued. The captain seldom shared anything personal with the men, and anything connected to his past was a mystery. He quirked an eyebrow in question, leaving the decision to say more, or not, in his leader's hands.

Treville's expression softened into melancholy, and Athos immediately felt bad for his unspoken encouragement to say something more. As though reading his lieutenant's mind, the captain raised a hand and said, "It's fine. Just someone I hadn't thought of in a while, but you should probably know at least part of the story."

Sipping from his own glass, Treville fell into contemplative silence for nearly a minute, Athos sitting patiently as he waited for something more. "I grew up in Gascony as the son of a farmer," he began. "When I left to find my fortunes in Paris, my closest friend stayed behind, having successfully pursued the hand of a beautiful and kind woman. Although I missed him dearly, I had many chances to return, as my early days as a soldier had me often in that area."

Athos kept his face expressionless, trying not to react to what he was hearing. He'd heard rumours about Treville's birthplace, but had never had them confirmed until now.

"They had a child together and spent many happy years together." A fond smile appeared on the captain's face as he confided, "They made me godfather; it was the proudest day of my life." His features shifted again, this time reflecting sorrow rather than joy. "But God took her too soon, and at the age of only seven years, my godson lost his mother." He paused to take a drink, savouring the amber liquid for a moment before swallowing.

"Things were difficult for them," Treville continued. "My friend was devasted and had no idea how to support his young son who was grieving just as much as he was. He threw himself into the day-to-day work that comes with farming, leaving the boy to his own devices." Casting his eyes downwards, he shook his head. "It is the one time I've regretted the life I chose." Raising his eyes to Athos' face, he saw the confusion there, and clarified. "If I'd been around, then perhaps what happened next could have avoided what happened next."

The captain stopped speaking again, and it was apparent that the memory of what transpired still caused him pain. Again, Athos sipped at his drink and allowed the other man the time he needed to compose his thoughts and continue.

Sighing, Treville said, "The boy withdrew from the world and stopped talking for a time. No matter what Alexandre tried, Charles refused to utter a single word. Nothing, not a single sound, until he'd somehow managed to process the trauma of having lost his mother."

The captain had locked gazes with Athos, his expression now full of resolve. "Do you understand, Athos?"

The former comte was at a loss, puzzled at the odd story his commander had chosen to share, yet fully aware of the intensity of the man's stare. Remaining silent, he replayed in his mind what he'd just heard. Treville's friend was a farmer, who lost his wife. They'd had a son named Charles. The boy stopped speaking when his mother had died. The boy was named Charles!

Suddenly, the pieces slipped into place, and his features turned to amazement as he confirmed his conclusion. "You are d'Artagnan's godfather."

Treville nodded slowly, grateful that his lieutenant was sharp enough to comprehend what he'd been told without having to state it directly. Still surprised by the captain's revelations, Athos asked, "But why tell me?"

Holding his brandy glass with both hands, the captain leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk, staring at the amber liquid rather than maintaining eye contact. "d'Artagnan has now twice stopped speaking in response to a trauma he's suffered. As his de-facto commander and friend, I thought it important for you to know."

It was Athos' turn to slowly nod, recognizing the wisdom in the other man's words. Uncertain what to say in response, he swallowed the last of his drink, placing the empty glass on the desk as he rose. "Thank you."

Treville dipped his chin in reply, understanding the dual meaning behind his lieutenant's reply. Tipping his glass, he emptied it and placed it next to Athos' glass, rising and crossing the floor to the door with the other man. As Athos' opened it, he followed the former comte out, both men invariably drawn to the balcony railing that overlooked the courtyard.

"There you are!" d'Artagnan called from below, his neck craned upwards to see the two men. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"I'll be right down," Athos replied with a slight smile.

"Aramis' birthday?" Treville asked knowingly.

"Yes, apparently our delay in celebrating must be corrected tonight, and we're meeting some of the others at the Castle and Rook," Athos explained.

Chuckling, the captain tried not to dwell on the fact that he'd be dealing with a bunch of hungover Musketeers in the morning. "Go on, then. Best not to keep them waiting."

With a nod, Athos left his commander's side, descending the stairs to where the others waited for him. Pausing at the bottom he looked upwards and asked, "Would you like to join us?"

With another soft laugh, Treville shook his head. "No, I'm much too old for this type of celebrating." As the Inseparables turned to move away, he called after them. "Have fun storming the castle!"

As one, the four men turned to give the captain a curious look, but he had no idea where the strange turn of phrase had come from. "Go on, and stay out of trouble," he said instead of trying to explain, waving a hand at them in a shooing gesture.

He watched as they exited the courtyard, mumbling the odd words once more under his breath, "Have fun storming the castle. Must be going daft old man." With that, he turned on his heel to return to his office, comfortable that everything was as it should be.

End.

A/N: The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride": "Have fun storming the castle!"

For those of you who are curious, the story prompts provided by AZGirl are as follows:

1. Focus on d'Artagnan and/or Athos
2. Timing: Spring; Prefer pre-season 2, but I'm OK with pre-2.06 too.
3. D'Artagnan is mute for a portion of the story

4. Athos is presumed dead, and is separated from the others.
5. Aramis's birthday, but the celebration is delayed for reason author chooses.

6. Porthos is run ragged due to events of story.
7. Captain Tréville knew d'Artagnan's father, and is d'Artagnan's godfather.
8. At some point in the story, Athos is called Olivier and d'Artagnan is called Charles.
9. Include a Musketeers adaptation of a scene from the movie version of The Princess Bride. Alternate option: include bits of dialogue from the PB movie in every chapter.

10. The difficult one?... Take your pick, but include one of the following as a character: the ghost of Alexandre d'Artagnan, the ghost of Cardinal Richelieu, the ghost of Athos' brother, Thomas, and/or all of the above.

Bonus prompt: Porthos does a 17th century version of a MacGyverism.

Not sure how well I did, but I gave it my best shot.

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos. Thanks also to everyone who made it this far, and to everyone who reviewed along the way. I'd love to hear your thoughts one last time if you're so inclined.