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Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1
It was a brisk autumn afternoon as Treville rode back to the garrison, though the cool weather was doing nothing to diminish his anger, which was burning like a red-hot wildfire. He had been excited this morning to be summoned to the Palace; he left frustrated and exasperated.

Two days ago, his regiment of musketeers, which had been in existence for three years, had successfully foiled a major conspiracy to assassinate the King. Treville had been very proud of his men. In his mind, it proved once again that the musketeers had earned their right to be the King's premier guards.

His Majesty had called the captain to the Palace and the insidious Cardinal had managed to turn the event from a congratulatory celebration to a lecture on the desultory manner in which the musketeers operated. By the time his Eminence was though poisoning the King's mind, his Majesty had been scolding Treville about his men's lack of discipline. At least the Queen had the decency to appear embarrassed about how the Cardinal had manipulated the situation. However, there was no arguing with the King once he made up his mind, or rather had it made up for him by the Cardinal. Captain Treville had slunk away from the Palace, publicly chastised, tail between his legs, and in a foul mood.

The captain would be the first to admit that there had been some small glitches during the mission, but did the Cardinal have to go out of his way to point out every little mistake made by his musketeers? The answer to that question was a resounding yes, and it had been that way since the musketeers' inception.

There was no love lost between Captain Treville's regiment of musketeers and the Cardinal's Red Guards. Treville, for his part, did try to convince his troops that they shouldn't go looking for trouble with the Red Guards. He was sure, however, that the Cardinal's instructions to his guards were the polar opposite. So inevitably there were clashes between the two fighting forces, some of which were quite public. Eventually, the news of the clashes got back to the King, who condemned the actions, usually finding fault with the musketeers. But with the Red Viper always whispering in his Majesty's ear, why would the captain expect anything else? His musketeers weren't angels by any means, but they also weren't the devils that the Cardinal implied.

As Treville rode back to the garrison, he was in deep thought about his men. His troops were still in need of improvements, but it took time and patience to build a cohesive regiment. The musketeers had started out as a group of elite soldiers chosen from the ranks of the noblemen of France. Mostly second and third sons of the nobility, there were only a few first sons in the musketeers and Treville felt they were merely biding their time until their fathers died and they would take over their respective estates.

When Treville built the musketeers, he was more interested in a recruit's ability to fight than his parentage and he expected and demanded loyalty and dedication to France from all his men. Too many of the noblemen's sons grew bored or didn't like the hard work required and after a few months left the regiment. This caused problems because the captain was looking for stability. When people trained together regularly, they became a better, stable, and more lethal fighting force.

To combat this issue, Treville had started experimenting with taking in other men, mostly from the infantry, who had good fighting skills, but weren't as noble of birth. It was definitely a work in progress with the hardest obstacle to overcome being the concept of rank and entitlement. It was bad enough that the sons of the nobles were always jockeying for position within the regiment. When he added 'commoners' to the mix it had made matters worse, with the nobles banding together and protesting against what they considered the riffraff.

It was taking time, patience, and threats, but slowly the regiment was gelling into a fighting force which got results. Though there was still tension in the ranks, their missions, overall, were a success. He was teaching his men to use their brains, and not simply brute force, to be the victor. Sometimes subtleness and stealth were the best way to win the day.

In the last three years, Treville had also begun breaking the musketeers down into smaller units. This was helping the soldiers get to know each other, and was leading to toleration and increased teamwork. Since they weren't in the midst of a war, the missions they carried out were generally smaller in nature. The musketeers spent half their time delivering missives and the other half guarding the King and Queen, or guests of their Majesties, which Treville supposed was the reason for their existence. But these duties required a different strategy than was followed by a regular army.

When it came to delivering confidential messages, smaller groups of men were much less conspicuous, something that often was required. Most of the time, he was finding that four musketeers were turning out to be the ideal number; small enough to not raise alarm, but large enough to defend themselves against would be assailants. He had formed a number of these four men teams and was finding it to be as much of an art as a science trying to figure out if the groups would click. By now, most of teams were doing quite nicely, though he was still struggling to find homes for some of his men.

One of the hard to place musketeers was the regiment's best close combat fighter. Treville had recruited him from the infantry, and when it came to hand-to-hand combat, Porthos was the man you wanted by your side. He was a big man, broad and tall, and his mere presence was often enough to intimidate people into submission. The warrior also had streets smarts, having grown up in a slum called the Court of Miracles, and could often outwit the so-called highly educated nobles. Porthos' plans were simple, direct and brought results, but because they were devised by a common solider, the other nobles often refused to follow the tactics. They barely even acknowledged that the son a white man and a slave-women was actually one of them, a musketeer.

Captain Treville knew that most of the musketeers couldn't understand, no matter how good Porthos was at fighting, why the captain had brought him into the regiment. But Treville had his reasons and he felt no compulsion to enlighten any of them. As far as the captain was concerned, Porthos had earned his commission honorably, the same as any one of them.

The captain and the King may have accepted Porthos into the Musketeers, but many of the others didn't like his presence. The names they called Porthos to his face, as well behind his back, were highly derisive, yet he merely shrugged them off and did his job. The loyalty that he gave Captain Treville was unwavering and Treville wanted to find the right team for Porthos, one where his fierce loyalty would be put to good use. He was sure if he built a team that accepted Porthos without reservation, and if Porthos accepted them back, it would be an unstoppable combination.

Most of the men of the regiment refused to descend from their ivory towers and acknowledge that Porthos was their equal in soldiering. So Treville had partnered Porthos with one of his most tolerant musketeers, Aramis. Aramis could get along with anyone if he chose to, and neither Porthos' background nor his mixed heritage bothered him in the least. Porthos was a man, same as everyone else, in the marksman's eyes.

The two musketeers were as similar as they were different. Neither were noblemen by birth, though Aramis came from a more respectable family situation than Porthos and at one time had been headed for a profession in the church. However, life events led him down the path of soldiering for which he found he was suited. While Aramis had a reverent love of religion and was devoted to his God, he also took a more secular view on some things, such as women, which he seemed to love as much as he loved the church. And it was a mutual admiration, for the women of the world loved Aramis, especially the married and unattainable ones. Unfortunately, therein lay the problem, as Aramis often found himself in hot water, especially with the not so broadminded husbands.

Whereas Porthos was a great physical fighter, Aramis was hands down the best marksman of the regiment. It was almost magical what the man could do with a firearm. He was also skilled with a sword, more so than Porthos, who used it with much less finesse than Aramis. The marksman danced with his sword, weaving, stabbing, and slicing. Porthos used it more like a club, beating, hacking, and ripping. Between them, however, they quickly dispatched any opponent who opposed them, even with their disparate fighting styles.

Trying to build a foursome, Treville had formed Porthos, Daniel, Anton, and Aramis into a unit, hoping Aramis would be the glue that held them together. Aramis had already accepted Porthos and the two men were fighting well as a team. Anton and Daniel were identical twins, the fourth and fifth sons of a country nobleman. Both were easy-going and were perfectly happy with each other's company, but barely tolerant of everyone else. This had made it a bit hard to place them in a team, because the duo didn't try very hard to be part of any group. Treville knew it wasn't an ideal composition, but he was growing desperate and had few options left.

The four had served together for two months on a variety of missions. They struggled to become a cohesive unit and unfortunately, if one watched the foursome fight, it was apparent it was really two pairs of two, not four acting as a team. Try as he might, the captain was clueless as to how to remedy the situation. As it had turned out, his dilemma was solved for him in a rather horrendous manner.

It was their lack of teamwork, Treville thought, that had attributed to the deaths of Anton and Daniel on their last mission. Three teams of musketeers, twelve men, were guarding a shipment of gold as it traveled to Paris. The caravan had been attacked in the countryside by a large, well organized group of bandits. The twins, in their usual fighting style, got separated from the rest of the group and were slain by the rebels, overcome without backups to protect them. Both Porthos and Aramis took Anton's and Daniel's death hard, feeling they had failed, even though Treville had told them that it was the twins' fault for isolating themselves.

Bonding in sorrow and guilt over that incident, Aramis and Porthos became even tighter, becoming a duo to be reckoned with and yet Treville still felt they would be even more successful and safer with two more partners as part of their group. Eventually, he had managed successfully to add Marsac to the duo. Aramis and Marsac were friends, though Porthos seemed merely to tolerate the man more than anything, which Treville found odd. Porthos usually got along fine with anyone that would get along with him. It made the captain wonder if there was something going on between Marsac and Porthos of which he was unaware. However, as it didn't seem to affect the group's dynamics too much, he let it go. But as for the fourth man to make the trio a quartet, the captain had been unsuccessful in finding anyone.

All these thoughts were running through Treville's mind, distracting him as he rode back to the garrison. So it came as a total shock to both him, and his horse, when a man was pitched out the door of a tavern under the feet of his mount. Being a battle trained steed, the animal did his best not to stomp on the man rolling under his hooves, but the unexpectedness caused the animal to clip the man's right arm with his front hoof, while his left rear foot caught the man in the ribs. Once clear of the horse's hooves, the man continued to roll across the dirt until he smacked into a stone wall, which halted his progress.

"My God," Treville whispered, as he leapt from his horse and hurried over to where the man lay in a crumbled heap, face first, in the dirt. The captain noticed that no one from the tavern seemed the least bit concerned about the poor unfortunate soul's predicament.

Squatting down next to the man, Treville was nearly overcome by the reek of alcohol. With a grimace, he placed two cautious fingers to the man's pulse point on his neck and found a weak, but steady beat. Being as gentle as he could, he rolled the man over on his back and studied the drunk. The man's eyes were firmly shut, either unconscious or passed out from alcohol indulgence. It was obvious by his appearance and body odor he hadn't seen clean water or clothes in a while. Even through the grime, however, it was apparent that the clothes the drunken man was wearing, while filthy, were well made. The weapons belt, still around the man's slim waist, carried what appeared to be a high quality sword.

The two ripped areas on the man's shirt showed exactly where the horse had clipped him and Treville had no doubts the man's arm and ribs had sustained serious damage from the sharp hooves. While Treville had nothing to do with the reason this man had gotten thrown out of the bar, he was the one who ran over him with his horse and he felt a responsibility towards this man's well-being. Perhaps if he had been paying more attention, Treville thought, he might have been able to avoid him. His honor, not to mention common decency, wouldn't let him leave this injured man lying here in the streets and simply ride off.

Looking about, he spotted a young man he recognized and asked him to run back to the garrison and have them send a wagon. As he watched the boy hurry off, Treville glanced around and it seemed a sad commentary that no one else appeared to care. People simply walked by, absorbed in their own lives, not caring about their fellow man. When the wagon arrived, Treville directed his musketeers to load the man onboard and bring him to the garrison's infirmary. As the wagon drew away, Treville turned and headed across the street into the tavern.

Finding the apparent owner of the establishment, the captain asked him about the drunk he had just thrown out his front door. The owner wasn't very helpful, saying the man in question had come in more than once, always sat in a back corner and drank himself into oblivion. The owner went on to say if the man was left alone he never caused a problem and always paid his bill. However, he warned the captain, if the man was provoked, he would fight and it was quite a spectacular sight. It was a brawl, today, with the wrong men that had led to his expulsion from the tavern.

After the captain thanked him, he left, gathered his horse, and rode back to the garrison. Once there, he handed his steed off to the stable boy and headed for the infirmary. Walking inside, he found the stranger, still unconscious, lying on a bunk. Someone had removed the drunk's main gauche and sword and placed them on the floor under the bunk. As Treville stood there gazing down at the stranger, a shadow darkened the doorway, and Treville looked up and smiled. Aramis, the regiment's amateur medic, always seemed to have a sixth sense when someone was injured.

"What do we have here?" Aramis asked, as he strolled into the infirmary.

Honestly, Treville didn't know how to answer that, but his soldier’s sense was telling him this might be the start of something very important.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2
A small, undignified moan escaped his lips as he regained consciousness. When his eyes were half open, he scanned the area about him that he could immediately see without moving his head. The sights around him made no sense, so he decided to make use of the rest his faculties. His sense of touch told him he was in a bed or a bunk of some sort. It wasn't dirt, cobblestones, the floor, or a table top where he had usually woken up since he left the estate. Where he was lying was soft, clean, and rather comfortable all things considered.

His nose detected a slight medicinal aroma and while he was still personally pungent, emitting an alcohol soaked body odor, he thought it was a bit toned down. The normal smells he was used to waking to consisted of vomit, dirt, stale wine, and horse shit when he was tossed into the streets.

Hearing lent nothing useful to the equation at first because it was quiet. But if he strained past the nothingness, he faintly heard sounds of clanking metal, such as a blacksmith? As straining to hear was making his wine soaked head hurt, he gave up. What he didn't hear, he realized, was the normal hustle and bustle of the streets of Paris.

He decided to skip right over taste, as that was the one thing familiar in this whole situation. His mouth tasted like he had spent last night face down, licking the wine-soaked floor of a tavern, which, who knows, maybe he did. It wouldn't have been the first time.

The next step to this whole waking up process was attempting to move and the success of that was going to show the extent of his injuries and how much alcohol remained in his system to offset the pain. As he struggled to prop his chest up, he discovered a new piece of information. To his surprise, his right arm and his torso were wrapped in clean bandages. The agony shooting through his body, unalleviated by the alcohol, told him the linens weren't for show, but that there were real injuries lurking underneath their off-white surfaces.

His ears finally played an important role as they detected a voice, speaking in pleasant tones, addressing him.

"I'd advise not moving, Monsieur. You sustained some serious injuries last night."

Turning his head, his hooded green eyes swiveled trying to locate the source of the sound. Ignoring the advice, he pushed his body upright to lean against the wall along one side of the bed. It hurt like hell and he had a hard time keeping his face schooled to neutrality. Finally, when he got into position, his right arm resting in his lap and his shoulders bracing him against the wall, he focused his attention on the man he finally spotted standing near the bed.

The man standing before him with his arms folded over his leather-clad chest could be described in one word, solider. No other word would fit. Middle-aged, short hair greying at the temples, keen blue eyes, a lean physique that spoke of discipline, and a stance that indicated he was all business. And yet, a small smile graced his lips as he observed that his advice of staying still hadn't been followed.

The two men sized each other up for a moment before the man grabbed a chair, dragged it near to the bed, and straddled it. The tension in the room dropped a few degrees now that they were both seated. It wasn't a tea party, but neither was it a stand-off anymore.

"I am Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers." He politely paused to allow the man on the bed to supply his name next. In silence, the intense green eyes studied him. When it appeared no name would be freely offered, he forced the issue. "And you are?"

The captain almost thought the man was going to remain silent and he wondered if there was some mental or physical ailment keeping the man mute. He studied the face in front of him carefully and noted a scar on the man's upper lip, partially hidden by facial air. Perhaps the man couldn't speak.

Just as the captain was about to ask, the man proved he was capable of speech when he supplied a single word, in a gravelly voice. "Athos."

Another small smile crept across Treville's face for if this was a hostile interrogation, which it was beginning to feel like, then he had scored the first point. "Athos," the captain repeated in acknowledgement.

The flat, cold, green eyes simply stared at him, offering no sign of warmth or friendliness. Other than a small flicker of pain, the face in front of him remained a stone mask.

"Well, Athos, I'm the unfortunate gentleman whose horse collided with you last night."

The captain waited to see what his guest’s response to that news would be and other than a slight narrowing of the eyes, nothing about the man changed. Treville found himself compelled to speak once more to fill the empty void in the room.

"I admit to being somewhat distracted as I rode..."

The cool stone mask continued to stare at him.

"...though you did appear, rather unexpectedly, as you were bodily ejected from the tavern in a most disorderly fashion..."

A slight hint of amusement seemed to flicker through the intense green eyes before they settled back to their stony stare.

"...and my horse was unable to avoid colliding with your person."

The green eyes did a quick check of the bandage on his arm and around his torso before focusing back on the captain.

"If it is any consolation, my horse sustained no injuries from whole incident," Captain Treville drolly added, the hint of a smile playing about his lips.

In return, the slightest hint of amusement graced the stranger's eyes too, though he still remained silent. Treville began wondering again if this man suffered from some malady. The only thing the captain hadn't done yet was apologize, because technically, his horse did run the man over, and he set about righting that lapse in manners.

"I'm truly sorry about this unfortunate incident, Athos," the captain sincerely apologized.

Athos was well aware that his habit of being rather taciturn unnerved people, made them think he was cold, aloof, and arrogant and frankly that didn't bother him. Months ago, he had totally given up caring what people thought of him. And yet, something in the man sitting in front of him, who had offered what Athos believed was a sincere, if somewhat amusing, apology, touched him. Uncharacteristically, he found himself responding to the forthright soldier.

"It was an accident."

Captain Treville felt somewhat relieved that the man had accepted his apology. He also noted that Athos had an odd speech pattern. His words were distinct and spoken in a rather unhurried, yet clipped, manner.

"And I'm glad..." and there was that slight pause, "...your horse wasn't hurt on my behalf." A slight head tilt accompanied Athos' statement. "I will get my things," Athos continued as his eyes scanned the vicinity for the rest of his clothes and hopefully his weapons. "And be out of your way."

"No you won't," a new voice spoke up.

Treville knew the voice, but Athos peered around the captain to see who was approaching the bed. Athos' eyes grew intense again and his stone mask, which had lifted slightly, settled firmly back in place at the stranger's approach.

He eyed the man who could only be described as handsome, even though he wore a ridiculously over the top hat in Athos' opinion. His clothes were well cut, stylish, and worn in a fashion that said the owner knew he cut a dashing figure in them. The man's whole demeanor screamed debonair and there was no doubt in Athos' mind that was exactly what this man wanted people to think.

Athos was going to dismiss him as a fop until his eyes lit on the man's weapons belt, which was sporting a very well cared for arsenal. Studying the man's face, as he stood beside the bed inanely grinning down at him, Athos discovered shrewdly intelligent eyes hidden in the cheerful countenance. This was a man he shouldn't underestimate.

"This is Aramis, one of my musketeers. He patched you up. He is a fairly good field medic," Captain Treville proudly explained to Athos.

"Please captain, you'll make me blush," Aramis simpered though he certainly wasn't blushing, more like preening, at the captain's words of praise. "My needle work is particularly fine. You'll find a sample of it under that bandage on your right arm," Aramis declared with pride as he reached out to tap said covering with his forefinger.

It didn't go unnoticed by either man that Athos recoiled slightly as Aramis reached out his hand and they didn't think it was from fear of the wound being touched. Athos' whole body was giving off a 'don't come near me' vibe. Though his smile never faded, Aramis let his hand casually drop back to his side and watched as Athos relaxed ever so slightly. Like a spooky colt, Aramis was going to have to tread lightly around this man.

"I am sure you do fine work, Monsieur. I thank you. If someone would kindly point me towards the rest of my clothes and weapons I will be on my way."

As Captain Treville listened to Athos' speech, he was convinced that the man in front of him was well educated. He didn't have time to speculate more, because a war was brewing between the two other men.

"You aren't going anywhere," Aramis emphatically stated, as he crossed his arms over his chest.

That cold, hard glare was back on Athos' face and Treville had to admit it was quite intimidating and he was sure that Athos knew that and used it as a weapon. Well, the man was in for a battle of the wills because Aramis was as stubborn as a mule when it came to medical matters.

"I beg to differ, Monsieur, but I am," Athos all but growled, as he started to inch his way towards the edge of the bed.

The captain gave him points for his ability to hide the pain that his movement was causing him. A slight tightening around the eyes and the almost imperceptible ragged breathing were the only clues Treville picked up on that showed the agony the man was experiencing.

"It is you who are mistaken, Monsieur, about your ability to leave," Aramis countered, his eyes gleaming in a dangerous fashion that said he still had trump cards left to play.

"Watch me," Athos snarled, as he placed his feet on the floor and began to rise in an adrenaline-fueled maneuver.

"Do you have a death wish, Athos?" Aramis wasn't grinning anymore, as he sternly stared at the now standing man.

Athos' stone mask wavered and both men saw the naked panic underneath it. Aramis' statement had spooked the man, hitting too close to something.

A bit kindlier, Aramis implored, "Please. Sit. Let me explain."

"Do as he says, Athos," Treville ordered in his commander's voice and was rewarded by seeing Athos instinctively obeying. Here was a man familiar with discipline and the captain wondered if he had served as a soldier.

Slowly and reluctantly, Athos perched on the edge of the bunk. Aramis dragged over another chair so he could sit eye level with the man instead of towering over him in a threatening fashion. He let an easy smile grace his face again. "When the captain's good horse ran you over, his hooves left behind a few mementoes. Your right forearm was split open down to the bones. Very deep, very nasty. Are you right handed?"

Athos gave a wary nod.

Aramis' smile stayed in place and his tone light, but his eyes betrayed his concern. "There was a lot of damage, but the bone wasn't broken. I stitched everything up. It should be good as new given time. But you must let it heal before trying to use it for anything strenuous."

"I'll keep that in mind," Athos stated, as he started to rise again.

Aramis reached out, placed a hand on the other man's shoulder and gently, but firmly kept the man seated. "It's not your arm," Aramis' dark brown eyes captured the lighter green ones, "that will kill you."

It was clear that Athos didn't like being restrained, but Treville was impressed by the control and discipline the man maintained over his body and emotions. Treville wondered again if Athos was a solider. If not, he had the making of a good one.

"The hooves also caught your ribs, on the left side to be precise, breaking four of them, over your lungs. They are severely compromised, and until they mend you are at high risk for one of them puncturing your lungs. That happens and you most likely will meet your maker."

Aramis got the distinct impression, once again, that Athos wasn't all that upset over the idea of death. Trying to lighten the situation, Aramis added, "And though I have just met you, I kind of like you. Besides, if you die on my watch it will tarnish my stellar reputation as a healer."

The cool green eyes stared at Aramis, and the man was hard pressed to figure out what was going on behind them, or if his speech had done any good. The captain, after hearing the dangers of this man leaving, decided to end this debate here and now.

Standing, he used his best glare and commander's voice to address Athos. "You are hereby under arrest, Monsieur Athos, for interfering with the captain of the King's Musketeers as he was executing a mission."

"This is an outrage," Athos blustered, staring at the captain in sheer disbelief.

But Treville ignored him. "You will remain under house arrest, here at the garrison, until such time as the King can hear your case."

"And how long will that be?" Athos demanded of the captain.

Treville folded his arms over his chest. "The King is a busy man, Monsieur Athos. It could take at least" he watched Aramis out of the corner of his eyes discretely hold aloft two fingers, "two we...” Aramis shook his head vigorously, "months" Aramis nodded his head, "before your case will come to trial."

Athos' voice took on an edge of desperation. "I demand you let me go. These charges are ludicrous. And if I die that is on no one’s head but my own."

"But you are wrong, son. I am responsible for causing your injury. I have a responsibility to correct the situation and that means you will stay here and fully heal before I let you out of my sight. Do I make myself clear, Athos?"

The man defiantly sat on the bed glaring at the two musketeers.

"Come on, Athos. This truly is a good place to hang out. Trust me," Aramis wheedled. "And I happen to be a most fun companion. Ask anyone. Especially the ladies." He gave Athos a small wink.

Athos appeared not to be buying into any of this, so Treville laid down his ultimatum. "You are staying here until you heal. It can be here, in the infirmary if you promise to behave, or in my jail. Your call."

"Jail," Athos spat. "For that is the only way to keep me inside these four walls against my will."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3
They moved Athos from the infirmary to the 'jail,' though in reality it wasn't the garrison’s real prison. That would have been a cruel place to put the wounded man, as it was a damp, dark, musty place, only designed as a temporary holding cell. It wasn't the garrison's job to detain prisoners. The King had a sufficient number of genuine prisons about Paris to perform that function.

Athos was actually escorted to a room on the second floor that currently had no occupant. The garrison's carpenter made a few minor adjustments to the door so it could be locked from the outside. The room had a window that overlooked the courtyard below though the captain had it firmly nailed shut. He truly hoped his 'prisoner' wouldn't be stupid enough to break the glass and try to use the window as a point of egress. To shutter it, and leave the man without natural light, seemed overly cruel. Plus, the window offered an excellent view of the garrison's daily life, which might serve as a distraction for the recovering man. After all, Athos wasn't really a prisoner per se, just a man being temporarily detained for his own good.

The space had a bed against one wall, a small table with a pitcher and bowl for washing, a few scattered empty chests, a larger table with chairs surrounding it, and a small stool situated near the bed that could serve as a nightstand. The yellowing plaster on the walls had cracked in places exposing the stonework underneath adding a bit of charm to the otherwise barren walls. There were a few sconces on the wall, as well as a few candlesticks on the tables. There was even a thin curtain that could be drawn over the window. All in all, it was a fairly nice place to be detained.

Scowling, but without physical protest, Athos walked through the doorway to his cell. Once inside, he turned back to face his captors. "This is wrong."

"What is wrong is that you can't see that this is in your best interest," the captain said with a sigh, as they had already had this conversation at least three times. "You will stay here, as my guest, until you have recovered from your injuries."

"Prisoner," Athos disputed, turning his back on the captain and Aramis to stare out the secured window.

"Semantics." Treville rubbed a frustrated hand over his eyes. "It doesn't have to be this way, Athos."

But Treville received no indication that Athos had heard him even though there was no way he could not have, given their physical proximity. Stubborn didn't begin to describe this man and Treville was beginning to realize it. As it seemed there would be no further civil discourse between them, Treville signaled to Aramis, who had remained near the doorway, that it was time to go.

"I'll be back, later today, to check on you," Aramis congenially announced, though he was greeted with the same stony silence that the captain had received. With a glance and a shrug at his captain, the marksman turned to leave with his commander on his heels.

They were nearly out the door, when Athos spoke over his shoulder. "I have a stallion, black. He is stabled on Rue de Bac, at the Red Rooster."

"I'll have him brought here and put in our stable. He will be well cared for, I promise. Anything else?" Treville inquired politely.

Athos slowly turned around and met Captain Treville's eyes. "A sword," he said in that slow drawl he tended to favor when making a point.

"Ah yes. I have that as well as your weapons belt and main gauche safely stored in my office. It shall be returned upon your departure." The captain thought he saw a small look of relief cross Athos' face, which made the captain think the sword was somehow important to the man.

"Thank you," his prisoner replied with a slight aristocratic tilt of his head that didn't go unnoticed by Treville. "I would hate for it to be... misplaced," Athos finished with that odd phraseology he tended to use, which was steeped in formality.

"I shall make sure it is well secured," the captain assured him, silently adding to himself, after I take a good look at it to see why it might have such meaning to you.

Later that day, in the privacy of his office, the captain examined the sword closely. It was a very well-wrought piece, using high quality materials. It was decorative and regal in nature, but not ostentatious, definitely a gentleman's blade.

On the tang, under the hilt, it had been etched, though someone had done their best to eradicate the engraving. Treville squinted as he tried to make out the letters, a name it appeared. It was obvious the writing had been engraved on the blade before the decorative hilt was secured over it. Therefore, some of the letters were under the scrolling hand guard and not easy to reach.

Whoever had been so desperate to erase the name hadn't been able to scratch out the first letter of the last word, which was a highly stylized F. The second letter was only partially intact with the back half of it being curved. Going through the alphabet in his head, Treville grabbed a piece of paper and jotted down c, d, e, g, o, q as being the most likely letters. Next, he dismissed d, g, and q as unlikely candidates for the second letter of a surname leaving c, e, and o in the running. The third and fourth letters of the name on the blade were fairly scratched over, though he was pretty certain the word only contained four letters. Focusing his attention on the writing before the F, he was sure there were two distinct words, both being very short. Given there were two words, not one, de la made the most sense as the prefix. Looking closely, he saw what appeared to be a stray mark at first, until he realized it might be an accent over the second letter. If that was the case then it was an e, making it de la Féxx.

Going on the premise it was a nobleman's surname, he wrote what he knew on a clean piece of paper along with some instructions, then sealed it. Walking out his door carrying the sealed missive, he went onto his porch to scan the courtyard below.

"Etienne. A word," he commanded, motioning for the musketeer to join him on the porch. "Take this letter to the royal tax collector, Charles Aubert. Tell him to let me know when he has an answer. For my eyes only."

With a sharp bob of his head, Etienne accepted the sealed letter then headed down the stairs and to the stable to get his horse.

Treville went back into his office. Charles, the king's accountant, happened to be a longtime friend. He had no doubts that the man, who had access to the tax rolls and a fascination with the nobility, would find him an answer. Treville prayed there were not too many families with a surname that would fit that code or he would be back to square one.

After taking a final look at the blade, he locked it away with the rest of Athos' meager possessions. He couldn't help wondering what the man was hiding and he feared the reason the name had been scratched off the blade was nefarious in nature, such as indicating the blade had been stolen. Was he harboring a thief? It would explain Athos' reluctance to share any information and his great hurry to leave. He'd have to tell Aramis to remain wary and diligent around the man as if he truly were a prisoner.

After everyone left, Athos spent the rest of the day sleeping in his cell. Last night's drinking binge and resultant headache had been greatly amplified by his trampling under the captain's horse's hooves. The only luck he seemed to have these days was bad, though really wasn't that all he deserved after what he had done? If this was God's idea of a joke, he wished the bastard would simply banish him to hell and get it over with. It was what he deserved and he was ready to receive his punishment. Hell couldn't be worse than the traitorous aching heart that still beat in his mortal body.

Unconsciously, he groped for the gold locket that lay around his neck, both happy and sad it was still there. He had thought many times to get rid of it and yet he couldn't and though he knew the reason why, he refused to acknowledge it, even to himself. With a groan, he lay flat on his back and closed his eyes. A solitary tear slipped down his cheek before he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4
The first few days of his being Captain Treville’s house guest passed in a fairly predictable manner. Athos tried the door handle once, the first day of his captivity, and found it locked and therefore never tried again. Apparently, Treville was a man of his word and intended to do exactly what he said, look after him until he was healed.

Food was brought to him twice a day and it was quite good, especially after what he had existed on recently. He was by no means a glutton, but over the course of his stay at the garrison, he did put on a few pounds, which looked good on him, fleshing out the scarecrow frame he had become when he did nothing but drink for months.

Every day, Aramis, the musketeer medic, visited to check on his wounds. Athos couldn't quite decide what to make of the man. Aramis seemed to babble the entire time he was with Athos, as if he was making up for the fact Athos still refused to utter more than a few monosyllabic words. Clearly, it didn't bother Aramis to hold up both ends of the conversation.

The subject matter was as diverse and sometimes as inane as the man spewing it forth. Athos heard a lot about Aramis' latest arduous (amorous ?) liaisons with the opposite sex. It seemed that Aramis was quite the ladies’ man to hear him tell of it. Then there was the politics and intrigue at the Palace, from the Cardinal to the King himself. And of course, the local gossip of the garrison and the town. Just as Athos was convinced Aramis was the biggest libertine, fish-wife gossip on the planet, he would switch to deep discussions on theology, professing his love of the church, God, and all things religious. It made Athos' head hurt sometimes, trying to keep up with his verbalizing.

On the third day of his imprisonment, when Athos spiked a fever, Aramis figured it was being caused by an infection. It would not be all that surprising, considering he was kicked by a horse's dirty hoof. The only thing that was puzzling was none of his wounds looked as if it were infected. But Aramis chalked it up to his inexperience; after all, he wasn't a trained physician. Dr. LeCompte, whom Treville had summoned on the first day, had not been back to see Athos. The Doctor felt the man was not in need of his long term care and he had more important clientele to attend than some bum off the streets.

What didn’t enter Aramis’ mind was Athos might be going through alcohol withdrawal. Aramis was too focused on the fact that Athos had been trampled by Treville’s horse and forgot about the part that the man had been drunk. In Aramis’ defense, it was very difficult to tell that Athos was going through some form of addiction withdrawal because of his injuries. He had a headache, nausea, and vomiting, which Aramis thought was caused by his head hitting either the horse hooves or the stone wall. There was some bruising on Athos’ right temple, which seemed to substantiate his beliefs.

As his temperature rose, so did Athos' agitation. He thrashed, moaned, and incoherently rambled on, often speaking as if others were in the room yet it was only he and Aramis. When he was hallucinating, he maintained a death grip on the locket around his neck. Aramis couldn't understand a single thing the fever-muddled man was saying, as he provided cooling cloths on his head and body.

On the fourth day after the sweating, hallucinations, and fever had started, Aramis realized something more than an infection was going on. He was about to seek out the Doctor again, when Captain Treville returned to the garrison and stopped by to see how his prisoner was doing. The captain had been away for the last few days on a mission and didn't know about Athos' turn for the worse.

When he walked into the room, he found a hysterical Athos, on his feet, screaming and thrashing about and a clearly distressed Aramis attempting to restrain him. Aramis' eyes flew to Treville as he came through the door. "Help," he pleaded.

"What the hell is going on here?" Treville barked, as he hurried across the room to help restrain the wild man. It took time but they eventually got Athos back on the bed, with Treville pinning his upper body down and Aramis his lower.

"Watch his ribs! I don't want them to perforate the lungs,” Aramis warned and the captain did his best to keep his grip on the man's writhing shoulders.

Finally, the thrashing and tremors tapered off and the man fell into a state of unconsciousness. Aramis released his death hold on Athos' legs and slid off the bed to the floor. He sat there for a long time, head bowed, too exhausted to move. Treville stood and stretched his cramped muscles before walking over to the table and pouring Aramis a glass of water. He placed it on the table, and then moved back to where Aramis was slumped, assisted him to his feet, and supported him to the table where he slid onto a chair. Treville moved the glass in front of the fatigued man and gestured for him to drink it.

After downing the glass of water, Aramis carefully set the empty vessel on the table before leaning back in his chair and running a weary hand through his disheveled locks. "This is not an infection."

Dropping into the chair across from Aramis, Treville concurred. "No, it is not." He looked over at the sweat-soaked man, passed out on the bunk. "I'm sorry, Aramis. I should have seen this coming and not left you alone to deal with my mess."

"This is not your mess, captain. This is a man who is hurt, and I am simply not a good enough medic to know what is wrong. I'll go get Dr. LeCompte and he will properly diagnose the patient."

A small smile played around the edges of the captain's mouth. "No need. The patient is simply a drunk going through withdrawal. I'm sorry. I never mentioned what the tavern owner told me.

Treville went on to tell the marksman that Athos had been spending a good deal of his time drunk, or at least that is what the tavern owner had claimed. Based on what he had just witnessed, which he was sure was alcohol withdrawal, he had no reason to doubt the story he had been told. If he coupled that with what he had recently learned from his friend Charles Aubert, he suspected that Athos had been drinking heavily for months, not weeks, poisoning his body. However, Treville kept that part of the story to himself.

"How long has he been like this?" Treville quietly asked, as he refilled Aramis’ water glass.

"Three, four days now," Aramis distractedly said, as he sipped at the new glass of water. "I thought I was handling it, but he is becoming increasingly agitated and violent, though he doesn't appear intent on harming me, only himself."

Treville ran his forefinger across his lips a number of times, lost in thought. "I have seen men go through withdrawal, both alcohol and opiates, when I was with the infantry. Some experienced alcoholics know when the 'sickness,' as they call it, is coming on and take steps to isolate themselves before it gets out of hand."

Treville's eye slid back to the man on the bed who looked very vulnerable. He began to have a feeling in his gut there was truth to the rumors he had been told and if so, he pitied the poor young man on the bed. "I think this might be the first time our friend has ever experienced withdrawal."

Aramis cocked an eyebrow at his captain, as if to ask why he thought that, but Treville wouldn't meet his eye and the marksman knew he wouldn't say anything more on that subject. Respecting his captain's boundaries, Aramis didn't push the matter.

"You say this has been going on for, what, three, four days?" Treville asked, focusing back on Aramis. When the musketeer nodded, Treville said, "Probably one more day of hell. Two at most if it is like what I have seen in the past. I'll get some more people to help."

Aramis reached across the table and laid his hand on the captain's forearm. "I appreciate the offer, but for his sake, I think that is not a good idea. What I have learned about Athos, which I admit isn't much, is one thing. He is an intensely private man who is haunted by some terrible personal demons. His hallucinations are..." Aramis searched for the right word, "...heartbreaking. Honestly, I can't make heads or tails of them, but it is as if someone is taking a knife to his very soul. Something or someone has tremendously wounded this man."

Treville glanced over at the bed again as if trying to verify what Aramis said.

"I think, when this passes, Athos will be...ashamed...at his vulnerability. I think the less people that see him in this state..." Aramis' voice drifted off.

"You can't handle him by yourself," the captain fervently stated. "Not if what I saw when I came in is any indication of his struggles."

"That is the worse he has been. I have an idea, for next time." Meeting his captain's eyes, he added, "If I can't handle him, I will ask for help."

"This is my mess. You shouldn't have to deal with it," Treville responded sincerely.

"This is not about dealing with anything. This is about helping a man who is in need of care. It is the Christian thing to do. And besides, he intrigues me," Aramis tacked on lightly.

Seeing the sincerity in the marksman eyes, Treville gave in. "Ok. For now, but if he gets worse...'

"...you will be the first to know,' Aramis finished the captain's sentence. "Perhaps you could help me change his sweat-soaked sheets and clothes. One can't get well in that filth."

"Certainly, and then I will watch over him while you get a few hours of sleep." Treville held up his hand to block off Aramis' protest. "When was the last time you slept?" The look on Aramis' face said it all. "As I thought. You will do him no good if you are exhausted. Let's change the bed and then you go eat and get some sleep."

Aramis returned way too soon for Treville's liking, but the marksman assured him he was fed, rested, and ready for duty. With a sigh, Treville gave in, but before he left he reissued his warning that he be called if things got worse. The casual wave he got from Aramis, as he crossed the room to check on his patient, was anything but reassuring. Shaking his head, the captain left the room.

For two long days, Aramis stayed by Athos' side, barely eating and only catching snatches of sleep in between Athos' ravings. He cooled the man down with wet rags and encouraged him to drink liquids so as not to become dehydrated. He also changed the sweat soaked linens and shirts without a single complaint.

The next time Athos had a hallucination, instead of trying to restrain the frantic man, Aramis gathered the stranger in his arms, stroked his sweaty hair, and provided comfort for his tortured soul. Bowing his head, the marksman prayed to his God to show His great compassion by raining peace and solace upon Athos' soul. But Aramis didn't understand why his fervent prayers caused Athos, in his more lucid moments, to laugh in a maniacal manner and then mumble something about the damned and fires of hell.

On the sixth day, when Athos opened his clear, green eyes to reveal a man in control of his body and mind once more, Aramis bowed his head and prayed again, thanking God for being merciful and healing this stranger.

When Aramis raised his head, he found those cool green eyes staring at him in puzzlement. "You stayed? The whole time?"

Aramis gave the man a genuine smile. “Of course. You were ill.”

“You owe me nothing,” Athos adamantly ground out.

"I owe you compassion and understanding. Everyone deserves that," Aramis stated simply, a serene smile still gracing his peaceful countenance.

Aramis watched as Athos' eyes grew cold and hard. He could feel the man distancing himself.

"You are wrong," Athos declared viciously, as he rolled over and put his back to Aramis.

Aramis tried to draw Athos out, but after a while, he decided he had never met a more taciturn man. How he managed to keep his face such a mask of neutrality was a mystery. Even his eyes, for the most part, were cold and distant, though every now and then something would flicker in their green depths and it intrigued Aramis. His gut, which was rarely wrong when it came to judging someone's character, said there was much more to this somber man than showed on the surface.

The captain, who regularly checked to ensure Athos was recovering, found the two an interesting dichotomy, who, in a strange way, complemented each other. Athos kept pushing Aramis away, and Aramis in turn hung on tighter. The captain almost wondered if a friendship was developing between the two. Athos had the makings of a soldier, but even as that thought crossed the captain's mind, he quickly banished it. This drunk thief, or whatever he was, had not come to join the musketeers. He was here only because of an accident and would eventually be gone.

Chapter Text

Treville had had no doubts his friend, to whom he had sent the partial name, would come up with an answer for him. Charles Aubert was not of noble birth, at least not the kind one often cared to admit, but eventually he had been granted noble status. The unfortunate result of a liaison, he had been raised under a nobleman's care, treated fairly, and given an excellent education. Growing up, Charles had most everything a natural born noble's son would have except the title and the corresponding respect.

Treville was noblesse militaire, his family made noble by holding military offices, for more than three generations. Treville's forefathers had always been leaders in his Majesties' service, often functioning as the King's top military advisor. The family was cherished for their loyalty, bravery, and selfless service to King and country.

Charles and Treville had met at académie d'équitation in Paris. Charles had a love of all things academic, especially the fine arts such as dancing and music. Treville, equally as intelligent as Charles, found his interest lay in the military arts such as swordsmanship and strategy. The two boys often found themselves ostracized by the sons of the nobler families, the ones who had pure lineages that went back for generations. That is what first bonded the two boys together during their time at the academy. Upon graduation, their friendship continued even though they took different paths in life.

Charles' father, well-liked by the King, called upon this friendship to get his bastard son a position in the royal service. The lad was intelligent, hardworking, good with figures, loyal and discreet. The young Charles was apprenticed to the man in charge of the Treasury under whose tutelage he blossomed. Eventually, Charles was put to work keeping records for the tax collections and it was a job at which he excelled.

Like his forefathers before him, Treville entered the military upon graduation. He had risen quickly through the ranks, not because of his parentage, but because he possessed outstanding fighting skills and a keen mind that was suited for the tactics of the military. The only area, perhaps, in which he was lacking was diplomacy. He understood the game, but he hated the political manipulation and the fawning that was part of the higher levels of court life.

The years had been kind to both men. Treville went on to head up the King's elite guard, the Musketeers. The excellence of Charles’ work did not go unnoticed or unrewarded either. Before he replaced his mentor as head of the Treasury, Charles was made noblesse de chancellerie, a commoner made noble by holding a high office for the king.

This suited Charles quite well and allowed him to keep up his fascination with the nobility of France. Charles' hobby was studying the lineage of every noble family and he knew more about the doings of the elite than anyone in France. He was the gossip monger of the noble set, always in the know yet very discreet with his knowledge. It was this knowledge that Treville was counting upon to solve his mystery name.

It had been easy enough for Charles, with access to the tax rolls and his obsession with the aristocracy, to come up with the rest of the name. There were few choices that fit the letters given and Charles was positive he had the right name, even more so after speaking with Treville.

The captain had ridden to the Palace after receiving a note from Charles saying that the information he sought had been unearthed. Treville met him in the study the man used as part of his day to day work. It was filled from floor to ceiling with tomes and was only a small anteroom to another even large space that housed the knowledge of the realm. It was an endless supply of facts and figures, which delighted Charles, but quite frankly bored Treville, who would have much rather had a room of battle plans and strategies.

"A most interesting task you set upon me, captain," Charles mused. Ever since Treville had been made captain of the Musketeer's Charles had taken to calling him captain, even though the man was well aware of his first name.

"You have a name for me?" Treville bluntly asked, not in the mood to go through a long and flowery speech. He understood that persona was required when Charles spoke in court, but this was between old friends and therefore not necessary.

Charles was quick to pick up on Treville's mood and he dropped his high-court manners. "Why are you interested in this name?"

"I found it on a sword, which belongs to a man I ran over with my horse." Treville couldn't help grinning, as he watched the expression of rapt attention Charles' face.

"This has intrigued me greatly, old friend, as you knew it would. Do go on."

Without further ado, the captain explained what had happened to Charles, who leaned forward to listen with rapt attention. After Treville completed his tale, Charles sat back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers under his chin. "I was fairly confident that my research was correct and upon hearing your tale, I am even more so. The name someone tried so desperately to erase from that blade, I believe, is de la Fére."

Treville squinted as he wracked his brain for any associations he knew with that name.

Charles laughed at his old friend, as he got up and poured them each a glass of wine. "Shall I put you out of your misery before you overtax that poor military brain of yours," Charles joshed, as he handed his friend the wine.

"Academically, I did as well as you did old friend, but it was never my passion to study the nobles as it was yours." He took the glass and took a sip. "Good vintage."

"Perks of the job," he said brightly, as he regained his seat. "People are always trying to bribe me."

Treville took another appreciative sip. "Well if all your bribes are this delicious you are indeed a lucky man."

Chuckling, Charles rolled his eyes. "You would not believe some of the bribes I have been offered over the years. I could amuse you for hours with my tales. However, that's not what brought you here today."

"No, it is not. So what can you tell me of de la Fére?" The captain settled back and waited.

"Comte de la Fére to be exact. Noblesse d'épée or if you prefer, noblesse de race."

"Hereditary. Old school nobility. The ones that can trace their lineage for generations," Treville said, his voice showing a touch of respect.

A frown marred Charles' expression for a few seconds. "The ones that treated us like dirt at the academy, if you recall. Though it is hardly fair to paint an entire sect with the ugly color of a few."
His features mellowed as he continued. "The lands of the Comte de la Fére lie about a day’s ride from Paris. The family has always been extremely loyal to the Kings of France, though unlike some toad-sucking nobles, they didn't often hang about the Palace seeking favor." Even though Charles had a fascination with the nobles, it didn't mean he liked or approved of all of them. "Pinon is the name of the village in the county."

"I've ridden by it a few times. Clean, neat. Come to think of it, I was to the manor house, once, when I was first with the Army. Large place. I was supposed to check that the nobles were keeping ready, if France had to go to war. The Comte de la Fére was one of my stops." Treville's brow furrowed, as he tried to remember the details of his visit. "I was all of twenty, still wet behind the ears. A long time ago. I recall the Comte was rather intimidating, though I was still young and impressionable."

"I don't think you were ever impressionable. But you are right, the Comte de la Fére was intimidating, a man who could win an argument with a mere stare. Honorable, duty-conscious, a tough task master. He was not a man to suffer fools lightly, which probably explained why he didn't spend a lot of time at court," Charles chuckled before turning back into the historian. "He was married and had two sons, Olivier and Thomas."

Now it was Treville's turn to laugh. "Yes. I do recall the boys now that you mention them. They had to be all of eight and five. The older one seemed to have a great interest in me, trailing after me as I inspected the arsenal, hanging on every word I said." His smile faded a little. "At one point his father got tired of his son's fascination and sent him packing. The Comte politely let me know that the military was a fine profession for some, but his son had other duties."

"Yes, that sounds about right. The Comte de la Fére would expect his eldest to learn how to run the estate properly, to be loyal to King and Country, in other words, to perform the duties that were part of his station in life." Charles summarized.

"So you think this may be the Comte's sword," Treville stated, taking another sip of excellent wine.

"The family sword, perhaps, but not the Comte's, or at least not the one you met. He is dead. The Comtesse too."

Treville digested that information before asking, "And the two sons?"

Charles paused, rose, and refilled their glasses before resuming his seat. "You know how I like to follow the exploits of the noble families." Treville gave a quick nod. "Well, something happened and I have to confess I'm not really sure wherein the truth lies. A few months ago, it reached my ears that the younger de la Fére, Thomas, had died, though there seems to be some mystery as to the circumstances. The most persistent rumor is that the elder son, Olivier, had married a woman of questionable breeding and that she killed Thomas. Some say the Comte de la Fére, which at this point was Olivier, had his wife executed. They say that the mansion is empty, closed up, and the staff dismissed. The Comte himself is said to have vanished too."

"Well, my horse and I may have found him," Treville said laconically.

"Or," Charles cautiously offered, "someone that has stolen the sword. The man you described doesn't sound much like what I'd expect from the son of the late Comte de la Fére."

The two men sat in silence as they finished their wine. Treville was rising to go when Charles' hand suddenly reached out and clamped on his forearm, halting him. "I do remember one more thing that might be of use. It is said that Olivier had an injury involving his upper lip. I recall his father once saying, back in the days when I collected taxes, that he hoped the boy's stupidity wouldn't haunt his speech for the rest of his life. I don't remember ever hearing anything more of it, so I suppose whatever it was healed and didn't cause the boy any problems. Still, there might be a scar."

Captain Treville's body involuntarily jerked when Charles had mentioned the scar for he had seen the mark on his prisoner's lip. It was hidden under his facial hair, but was there none-the-less. "I think you have solved the mystery, my friend. This man, the one with the sword, has such a scar on his upper lip."

"Interesting. So you ran over the missing Comte de la Fére with your horse. How novel." Charles had clapped his hands in delight. "Only you, dear captain. Always finding the intrigue."

"It was an accident, I assure you," the captain reminded him. "And the man was totally drunk."

Charles ran a hand over his chin in thoughtful contemplation. "Drunk. Surprising. The old Comte was a strict man, not given to excess. It would be surprising that his heir should be one to lose himself in drink."

Captain Treville rose from his chair. "Thank you, old friend. As always, you have been extremely helpful and generous with your time and talents."

They shook hands and Charles had asked the captain to provide an update on what he discovered. In turn, Treville asked that this conversation be kept between themselves and Charles had readily agreed. With a clap on the back, Treville was on his way back to the garrison and his maybe not so mysterious guest.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6
The third week of his convalescence found Athos growing increasingly restless, which didn't go unnoticed by his caretakers. When Aramis stopped by to check on Athos, he often found the man standing by the window, intently watching what was going on in the courtyard below. Sometimes, when Aramis was in the courtyard and happened to glance up at the window, he would also see the solitary figure observing.

Towards the end of the week, they were sitting at the table in the room while Aramis was changing the bandage on the injured man's right arm. Aramis tried using the life in the garrison's courtyard, which he knew Athos had been watching, as a way to launch a conversation with the reserved man. "So what do you think of our life here in the Musketeers, or at least what you have been observing from your window?" Aramis questioned brightly, as he unwrapped the old bandage to expose the wound.

Athos' body involuntarily twitched when Aramis accurately described what he had been doing. He had been studying the garrison and its inhabitants from his prison window. Originally, he was looking for a way to escape, but later he had become interested in the life these elite soldiers were living.

"I have been watching out the window," he admitted, keeping his tone impassive. "It helps pass the time while I am imprisoned here."

Aramis ignored the latter half of the statement, as he bared Athos' arm and examined the incision. "I hope you are finding us entertaining. This," he pointed at the wound, "is healing nicely. However, I still don't want you using it for anything strenuous for at least another two weeks."

Annoyance invaded the stone mask, followed by a huge sigh of frustration. "It is not broken. Why such caution?" He went to move his arm away, but Aramis swiftly captured his wrist and gave him a stern look. Grudgingly, Athos left his arm lying on the table's top.

Releasing Athos' wrist, Aramis sat back in his chair and studied the man sitting across from him who was eyeing him with dissatisfaction. The medic was startled when Athos point-blank declared, "You're holding something back. I can see it."

Apparently, this stranger in front of him was good at reading people. Aramis always felt he had a fairly decent poker face, yet this man had managed to see past his facade to the truth below. He hadn't told Athos everything about his wound and so he gave him the truth he had been withholding. "It is only by the grace of God you still have that arm. And to be fully forthright, we won't know for sure until it is healed, and you try to start using it again, if there is any permanent damage."

Aramis watched as worry flickered in Athos' eyes, before he abruptly turned his head away to stare out the window, not letting Aramis witness his loss of control.

Aramis kept his voice even as he described what had occurred while Athos was lying unconscious those first hours after Treville brought him to the garrison. "The horse's hoof had slashed through your skin, tendons, and muscle all the way to the bone. It was a horrendous wound, way beyond my skills to treat. So Captain Treville sent for the doctor who tends the grave injuries the musketeers receive in the line of duty. Dr. LeCompte"

Athos' remained facing the window, so Aramis was unable to judge what effect this story was having on the man.

"At first, he simply wanted to amputate your arm and be done with it, but Captain Treville convinced him otherwise. You are very fortunate man. Dr. LeCompte is a gifted surgeon, even if his manner is brusque with certain people."

Aramis sighed at the doctor's shortcomings, before continuing his tale. "The King pays Dr. LeCompte to deal with the more complicated wounds of the Musketeers. The minor, day-to-day injuries, we handle ourselves. I can't say that Dr. LeCompte holds any special place in his heart for us. I'm pretty sure he tends our wounds for the money and more importantly to remain in the King's favor. You see, the good doctor's typical clients are very wealthy and pay well. That certainly doesn't describe the Musketeers. When the Doctor arrived and saw that you were his patient and the extent of the injury, he decided, how shall I put this, to take the easy way out."

"Amputation," Athos growled, as he looked back over at Aramis. "Because I wasn't a rich patron." Athos gave a strange, strangled laugh that Aramis couldn't interpret, though somehow he felt it was meaningful.

"Luckily, Treville convinced him to take a different course of action; hence you still have your arm. But to be honest, as I said earlier, I simply don't know if there will be any lasting damage. Or how much you will be able to use it. Only time will tell."

Athos' eyes narrowed at Aramis' choice of words. "Honestly? Then why did you say this fine needlework," he flicked his eyes at the neat row of stitches lining the underside of his forearm, "was your handiwork?"

A smile lit up Aramis' face. "Because it is. I stitched the wound closed after the doctor finished his internal work."

"Because," the irony was dripping off of Athos' words, "the good doctor didn't want to waste any more of his time on the likes of me."

For a moment, Aramis thought that Athos was agreeing with the doctor that saving him had been a waste of time. The medic hesitated before he truthfully answered, "Yes. You are correct. He didn't want to waste his time. But, I was more than happy to do it. And," he lowered his voice into a confidential whisper, "if I do say so myself you will have a much neater scar because of it."

Athos gave the marksman one of his unreadable looks that Aramis wished he could decipher to get some idea what was going on behind those secretive green eyes. Grabbing a clean cloth and a bottle of alcohol, he soaked the material. "This is going to sting," he declared with the dripping rag poised in the air.

"You know you say that every time?" Athos remarked drolly, as he eyed the alcohol soaked rag. Part of him longed to stick out his tongue and catch the spirits as they dripped wastefully off the rag.

With a sadistic grin, the marksman pressed the cloth against the partially healed wound causing Athos to jerk his arm and hiss in pain.

"See. Was I not correct?" Aramis asked, as he smugly swabbed the incision. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the corners of Athos' lips curl into the tiniest of smiles.

“I wasn't questioning the accuracy of your words. Just the need to repeat them, again."

"My mistake," Aramis chirped, as he swabbed away at the wound. "To atone for my repetitiveness, here's something new. After I bandage this, why don't we go outside for a little stroll. Some fresh air and sunshine. You do have a rather pale complexion you know."

"Outside?" Athos echoed, as if he hadn't heard the word correctly. "Are you going to chain me?" he asked his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Are you chained now?"

"I'm inside now."

"How cruel do you think we are? No. You will not be chained. After all, you have promised not to wander off until you are healed."

"No I haven't."

"Really? I'm sure that is a simply an oversight on your part."

The look Athos gave him said that maybe Aramis needed to reconsider his assumption.

"Why now?" Athos was suspicious of the motives behind this little outing.

"Why not? You seem rested. It is a beautiful day and I have nothing pressing at the moment."

"Except to stand guard over me," Athos remarked drolly.

"My dear boy. Why would I do that?" Aramis stared at him for a minute before adding, "You do know the door isn't locked."

Athos' eyebrows practically launched off his forehead. "What?" He was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice or off his usually impassive face.

"Oh yes. After the first few days, Captain Treville thought better of locking the door. I mean what if there was a fire? You'd be locked in here. Huge safety hazard. And besides you are not a prisoner and have agreed to stay here until you are healed..."

"No, I haven't..."

Aramis cut right over him and kept talking. "...so the captain had the lock removed." Standing, he flung open the door and pointed. "See? No lock."

Athos rose from his chair like a panther and stalked over to the door. "God damn it," he swore under his breath. He'd been thinking he'd been locked in this room for weeks when he could have strolled out at any time. How damn stupid was he? Since he had been sober for the last few weeks, he couldn't even blame it on alcohol.

"Now, shall we go outside? It is warm enough you don't need to worry about a coat, which I guess is a good thing as yours was destroyed beyond repair. Even my talents couldn't save it. We will have to find you another one."

Still dazed and in shock, Athos didn't even process Aramis' babbling. Like an obedient sheep, he meekly followed his shepherd, or watch dog, out the door, down the stairs, and into the sunlit courtyard mentally berating himself the whole time for being so stupid.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

Several days later, as he again sat outside on a bench in the warm sunshine, Athos wondered why he didn't simply get up and walk out the garrison's gate. He had learned a few days ago that he actually hadn't been locked in his room as he had thought. The damn door had been unlocked since the third day of his, 'recovery' was the word Aramis and the captain used, though 'captivity' was the word Athos favored. So, he asked himself, why was he still here?

Honestly, he wasn't really sure of the answer. Aramis kept warning him he needed time for his ribs and arm to heal. Considering his jaded view of his current situation, he wasn't sure healing was why he was staying at the garrison. Admittedly, he would feel guilty if something terrible did happen to him on the captain's or Aramis' watch, and maybe that was a small contributing factor to why he was still here. It was the honorable thing to do since they both had been very nice to him.

Additionally, he was finding the life of a musketeer appealing. He had always been interested in the military, since he was a small boy. Sword fighting, marksmanship, tactics, and the history of warfare were all things his father would allow to be studied, in small doses, by his heir. But he had made it very clear to Athos that it could never be more than a hobby. It was not what he was born to do, not his purpose in life.

However, were he to be brutally honest with himself, maybe he was seeing the musketeers as a means to an end. He knew he didn't deserve to be on the face of this earth. Not after what he had done to his brother, and to his wife. Yet he wasn't able to bring himself to commit suicide, not directly. Instead, for the last six months, he'd gone about it in a more roundabout manner. He'd drink to excess, then pick fights in the hopes someone would kill him.

Unfortunately, he was too good and he ended up winning all his fights. He had taken a few good trouncings over the last few months, but none were a near death experience. Ironically, that happened quite without planning when he was pitched out of a tavern, as he had been many times before. Only this time he ended up under the hooves of a musketeer's horse which should have killed him, except for the intervention of the chivalrous rider who felt the need to save him.

Thinking of the captain, Athos raised his eyes and scouted the porch were the garrison's commander was known to stand and watch his men. The captain had come to visit him quite often in the last weeks, especially considering that the man was leading a garrison of more than one hundred men, besides being at the King's beck and call. Oddly, the captain didn't press him for any more details about who he was, though Athos had the distinct feeling the commander of the musketeers knew something. It made Athos wary and uneasy around the man. The captain in question took that moment to step out on his porch and the two men's eyes briefly met before Athos deliberately looked away.

It didn't surprise the captain to see Athos acknowledge, and yet not acknowledge, his presence. Treville was trying to understand the enigma sitting in his courtyard, but he wasn't having much luck. It seemed Athos was very good at stonewalling and telling only what he wanted you to know. The captain was never sure if he was bullshitting him or not; Athos' ability to school his face into a mask of neutrality was amazing. Yes, there were tiny cracks now and then, and the captain expected when the man was drunk there might be more, but sober he was the rock of Gibraltar.

They had found common ground in their love of all things military and had many interesting conversations talking strategy, past and present. Captain Treville was very impressed with depth of knowledge that Athos displayed, though he had to be careful because any hint of a personal question and the wary man immediately ended the discourse. The more the captain got to know the man he had run over, the stronger his conviction that this man should be a musketeer.

Today, in the courtyard, the musketeers were focusing on personal combat, practicing their hand to hand skills. Athos noted that there was one musketeer who stood hands above the rest of his brethren in this style of fighting. Tall and broad shouldered, he had a scar over his eye, which gave him a rather fierce demeanor. However, the fighter was quick with a smile when he won his bouts, which was every time, though his grin didn't seem to comfort his beaten opponents. In fact, Athos had the distinct impression that many of the musketeers had a problem with this man, Porthos, he had overheard someone call him.

Ever since Athos had been liberated from his self-imposed prison, he had spent a lot of time outside, lurking about the garrison, watching. It hadn't taken him long to figure out there was a strong pecking order in the regiment and he wondered if Treville understood how disastrous that would be in a real battle. In war, you depended on your fellow soldiers to have your back. If they didn't, you might-as-well run yourself through with your own sword, for an army divided against itself cannot survive.

Porthos, in that rank and file order, was low. Even though he was easily the best fighter of any of them, he received no respect from most of the musketeers. But Athos had the distinct feeling that Captain Treville held Porthos in higher regard than most of the other men in his command. There was no doubt that Porthos was the best fighter, but that didn't seem like enough for the captain to rate him so highly. From what Athos had observed of Porthos' other skills, his marksmanship was only decent, but improving under Aramis' tutelage. Athos wasn't sure if the rest of the troops knew, but Aramis was giving personal, private lessons to the mountain man. He had inadvertently stumbled upon them a few days ago when they had been practicing.

As for Porthos' swordsmanship, it was interesting at best. Effective, Athos supposed, in a limited way. But if Porthos was pressed by an experienced swordsman, who could stay out of range of his fists, which he used rather like a main gauche, Porthos would die someday. Athos actually had a nagging desire to give the man a few pointers. For some reason the street fighter interested him and it didn't bother Athos that Porthos was obviously mixed race. However, Athos suspected that was what many of the nobles in the musketeers held against the man. Athos had never thought the color of a person's skin declared their worth. Honor, integrity, and trustworthiness were the marks of a true man and a true warrior.

Athos smirked as another annoying, self-righteous nobleman's son landed in the dust, courtesy of Porthos. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts and the fight that he didn't see Aramis walk up behind him. When the medic dropped a casual hand on his shoulder, it caught Athos totally unaware and triggered his fight instinct. He leapt to his feet, yanking his right arm free from the sling as he spun around and without a second thought grabbed his 'assailant' by the collar and slammed him, hard, against the wall behind him. Aramis let out a groan as he collided with the stones.

Porthos, hearing the sound, quickly spotted his friend being accosted and charged across the yard to his rescue. Grabbing Athos around his middle, he ripped the man off of Aramis, lifted him partially in the air, and tossed him onto the ground. To Porthos' surprise, the man who had been attacking Aramis, executed a neat shoulder roll and was swiftly back on his feet in a semi-crouch fighting position. Bellowing, more for fun than effect, Porthos closed the gap between them again.

Athos knew he couldn't win this fight, but his pride wanted him, at least, to make a decent showing. Narrowing his eyes, he watched for telltale signs and saw Porthos leading a bit with his right shoulder so he dropped to one knee to try to avoid the blow. But Porthos was quick on the uptake, instantly bringing his fists together and driving them downwards on the crouching man's back forcing him all the way onto his hands and knees.

Figuring the street fighter would try to kick him next, Athos made ready and when he saw the boot coming, he rolled back on his haunches, grabbed Porthos' foot, and using his momentum against him, shoved the leg upwards. Porthos stumbled backwards, but his superior sense of balance kept him from tumbling in the dirt. However, it did give Athos enough time to climb back to his feet and back away again.

Athos was trying to project a calm, cool, detached demeanor, which was somewhat spoiled by the fact his right arm was awkwardly pressed against his stomach. Porthos had to give the man credit for not rushing into a new attack, but strategically waiting for his opponent to make the next move. Porthos was happy to oblige, rapidly closing the distance between them once more.

Athos managed to avoid the street fighter's fist heading for his face, but wasn't as lucky with the other hand heading for his ribs. Porthos swung his forearm slamming it into Athos' midriff and the injured man couldn't stifle his groan, as he doubled over in pain. The next fist caught him square on the corner of his face and Athos stumbled sideways before dropping to one knee, then the other, and finally placing one hand in the dirt to avoid falling flat on his face. His head hung low between his hunched shoulders, as his hair fell forward covering his face.

Aramis, finally recovering from his daze, yelled at Porthos, as he leapt forward to grasp the fighter's arm to stop him advancing on the nearly collapsed man. "It's alright Porthos. He wasn't trying to harm me. I startled him."

Porthos halted, turned, and then raked his eyes up and down Aramis' body as if to verify the claim he was indeed unharmed. Aramis smiled at him and gave a nod. "No harm. Not a hair out of place." Porthos gave a nod of acknowledge, reached over and clapped the man on the bicep.

While Porthos' attention was diverted, Athos crawled a few feet so he could use one of the support poles of the balcony, ungracefully, to haul himself to his feet. His breathing was ragged and his injured right arm was wrapped around his aching ribs. However, his eyes remained focused, dark, wary, and dangerous; not those of a defeated man by any means. If the street fighter came after him again, he'd be ready.

But now that Porthos realized it was a misunderstanding, he faced his opponent again and held his hands up, palms flat to show he meant no further ill will. "Sorry. I thought you were attacking him."

Athos stood very still, his intimidating glare still having Porthos in its cross hairs. To diffuse the situation, Aramis broadened his smile and walked between the two men to ensure neither did anything stupid. "No harm done, eh fellows?"

Athos remained still, but Porthos extended his hand in a peace offering, as he took a step towards Athos. "I'm Porthos," he said as he let a smile grace his face.

The street fighter's smile faded when Athos didn't reach out in reciprocation, instead choosing to keep his right arm pressed against his middle.

Aramis sensed this detente was going south and he quickly tried to defuse it. "Your verbal apology will have to suffice, Porthos. Athos is under strict orders not to use his right arm for anything while it heals." The marksman wasn't sure that was the real reason the injured man hadn't met the handshake, but he decided to go with it.

"He used it for fightin'," Porthos pointed out. "And to hassle you."

"A momentary lapse of judgment," Aramis assured Porthos on Athos' behalf who was still dispassionately staring at Porthos.

The street fighter's eyes wandered to the bandage peeking out from under Athos' cuff. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," Athos stated flatly. Had it been five years in the future, the two musketeers would have probably rolled their eyes and sighed, knowing that Athos' definition of fine meant he wasn't about to drop dead in the next five minutes, but he might collapse, bleed, lapse into unconsciousness, or display some equally undesirable medical issue very soon. But since they're were not yet experienced with this meaning of 'fine', they took him at face value.

The three of them stood in awkward silence for a few minutes before Athos stated, "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have had enough fresh air for today." With that, he squared his shoulders, brushed past Aramis and headed for the stairs.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he glanced up them with trepidation as he took a deep breath, which he immediately realized was a stupid mistake as his broken ribs screamed in agony. Groping for the handrail to stay upright, he tried to appear as if he was 'fine' as he hung onto the rail to stop himself from collapsing. Painstakingly, he climbed the stairs, his front teeth sunk into his lower lip to keep from groaning out loud.

Once upstairs and out of the sight of prying eyes, he sagged against the wall and nearly vomited. Damn that man packed a punch and Athos knew that Porthos wasn't even using half his God-given strength. It must be like getting hit by a falling tree when the man wasn't pulling his punches. Remaining somewhat bent over, Athos fumbled his way down the hallway to his room and after closing the door tightly behind him, lowered his aching body carefully onto the bed. He let the fringes of black that had been nibbling at the edge of his consciousness overwhelm him and he sank into their welcoming darkness.

Fifteen minutes later, after what he considered a respectable amount of time, Aramis lightly knocked on Athos' door before silently letting himself into the room. Athos was sound asleep on the bed and lightly snoring. After draping an extra blanket over the prone man, Aramis left, letting the man rest. It was probably the best course of action for the moment. He could check Athos' injuries later tonight when he personally escorted him to dinner.

After departing and shutting the door behind him, Aramis headed downstairs into the courtyard and wandered over to the table where Porthos was pouring a glass of ale. Seeing Aramis approaching, he filled a second cup and slid it across the wooden table in front of where Aramis had sat down. "How is he?"

"Sleeping like a baby," Aramis replied, as he picked up his glass and took a sip.

"He's the one who was trampled by the captain's horse, right?" Porthos confirmed as he took a roll and bite into it.

"Hmmm," Aramis hummed, as he drained his cup. "Four broken ribs and I'm still not sure about how his right arm will heal."

"He fought pretty well," Porthos said, a hint of admiration coloring his voice. "Never gave up. Wonder what he can do when he ain't hurt."

"Well, he isn't a musketeer, so unless you deliberately pick a fight with him...which of course you won't," Aramis hastily inserted after seeing the contemplative gleam in his friend's eye, "we will never know."

"Aye, I suppose not," Porthos reluctantly agreed as finished his roll and downed the last of his ale.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

It was rather quiet about the garrison this afternoon, which didn't surprise Athos as he wandered through the deserted courtyard towards the stable to visit his horse, Roger. At breakfast, he had overheard the men saying their Majesties were going to Norte Dame and the entire garrison, except the ones out on missions, would be lining the route guarding against trouble. There had been some unrest in Paris over the last few weeks, putting the King in one of his 'everyone is trying to kill me moods' which caused him to become even more paranoid. However, for some reason he wouldn't forgo attending the ceremony at the cathedral and had demanded every Musketeer be on duty to guard his royal person. It had been the hot topic of discussion at breakfast.

It seemed like Treville had followed the King's directive and taken everyone except the two musketeers on guard duty at the garrison's gate Athos realized as he walked into the stable. He really wanted to go for a ride, but he knew he couldn't tack up his mount without aid and he had already found out the hard way that Treville had given strict orders to the stable lads not to assist. Apparently, the lads found the captain more intimidating than him because his best scowl didn't get them to budge an inch. So unless he wanted to ride Roger bareback, he was stuck with simply visiting his horse, patting his nose, and commiserating with him. Unlike himself, however, he rather thought Roger was quite content hanging about the stable all day, resting and eating. His owner on the other hand was bored, especially when the garrison was deserted like today.

Athos didn't seek out the company of the musketeers per se, but he did find it interesting to watch them train and he had a secret desire to join them. He had always liked physical training, especially with swords. He had gotten use to hanging about to watch their training.

Also depending on his mood, Athos would wander into the dining area to eat, though he usually tried to time it when it wasn't overly full of musketeers who seemed to have the need to try to engage him in conversation. When they were training they paid him no mind, but when they were eating he was fair game, no matter how much he tried to radiate a 'leave me alone' aura.

Aramis had finally agreed to stop having his meals brought to his room as if he was an invalid, but only on the condition he show up at least twice a day for food. Athos was pretty sure that like the stable lads, the captain had instructed the old cook, Serge he thought was his name, to note whether Athos showed up for the prescribed number of meals. More than once, when he hadn't, he had been called out by Treville and Aramis. His reasonable explanation that he wasn't hungry only caused a tray to show up in his room, carried by Aramis, who apparently had all the time in the world to hang out until Athos consumed the food. To test out this hypothesis, one day Athos took fifty minutes to eat his lunch and as soon as the tray was empty, Aramis left him alone. Another time he dawdled for nearly two hours, and so did Aramis. Except for the annoying social aspect, it was easier simply to make the required twice-a-day appearance in the dining hall to eat than to deal with Aramis and the tray. Plus, Serge was a good cook and the musketeers ate well. If they would just leave him alone, dining could be a pleasant experience.

Wine had been an interesting experiment. At the beginning of his convalescence, there had been a strict no alcohol policy and he had gone through a rather unpleasant and embarrassing withdrawal. Not that it wasn't necessary for he knew the amount of drinking he had done over the last six months was staggering. During the last of those months, he had built up such a high tolerance that it had been taking longer to get into the state of oblivion he desired, where all the painful memories temporarily faded along with his consciousness.

Yesterday, at dinner where Aramis insisted on keeping him company, Athos had reached for the wine carafe. Aramis hadn't tried to stop him, only offered to pour a glass for him since the injured man was still not supposed to be lifting or twisting with his right arm. Being a bit contrary, Athos had picked up the container with his left hand, neatly filled his cup, and then gave Aramis a little head tilt as if to say 'see'. With a small smile of acknowledgement, the marksman had remarked that Athos was quite adept with his left hand and got a brief 'you'd be surprised' comment.

In the last four weeks, Aramis had learned that Athos was a man who treated words as if they were a commodity that would run out if he wasn't frugal. At first the marksman thought perhaps Athos' injuries were weighing heavy upon the man, curtailing his desire for conversation. But as the weeks went on, Aramis came to the conclusion it was part of Athos' basic nature; he was simply a taciturn individual. He didn't speak much and he didn't smile, ever. A small quirking of the corner of the lips, once in a while, but never an honest smile.

Roger gave a snort of recognition, breaking Athos out of his reverie, when he arrived at the animal's stall. The horse shoved his elegant black head over the top of the partition to nudge Athos' shoulder. Opening the stall's door, and resting his forehead against Roger's long, regal face, he took a deep breath, drinking in the animal's horsy smell. Unfortunately, the dust in the air entered his lungs causing him to start coughing.

Unable to stop, tears leaked from his eyes, as he doubled over then dropped to his knees from the agony being inflicted upon his partially healed ribs. It seemed like an eternity before the spasms stopped, though his ribs continued to throb. Still kneeling, he felt Roger's curious lips ruffling through his hair. With a moan, Athos clambered to his feet then leaned heavily on the open stall door. Roger pulled his head back, his dark, liquid eyes calm and collected as they peered at Athos.

The thought that Athos had been toying with, to leave for good while everyone was gone, rapidly fled from his mind. Damn the man, but Aramis was right. He wasn't healed yet. If a simple cough could debilitate him, and he couldn't use his right arm, how was he going to survive outside these gates? Shutting the door, he shuffled over to a hay bale where he sank down on the scratchy surface, hunched over, and buried his face in his hands. Roger, sensing there would be no further attention, cocked his back leg, and drifted off to sleep.

Athos envied his horse's ability to sleep peacefully. Last night, for the first time in weeks, he had been plagued again by nightmares of his dead wife and brother. He had woken in a panic, covered in sweat, with his throat raw as if he had been screaming. Athos had no doubts had there been a convenient source of alcohol in his room, he would have fallen into his old habits to drink until he was in a stupor. The miserable man had spent the remainder of the night reading the book the captain had brought him a few days ago to help pass the time.

He sat slumped over on that hay bale for a long time, his aching ribs draining his strength. It was strange, he noted, how pain could wear a person down. Growing up, he had received some minor injuries, what boy didn't, but nothing like these most recent injuries. It was an eye opening experience and gave him more respect for soldiers who had to continue to fight even when they were hurt.

Eventually, the throbbing decreased and he rose unsteadily from his seat. As he walked by Roger's stall, he noted the beast was mostly asleep and did no more than cock an ear in his direction to acknowledge his presence. Entering into the sunlit courtyard, Athos halted, lightly stretched his cramped limbs, and then tilted his face towards the sun, enjoying the warm caress on his face. After a few seconds, he dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, rotating his shoulders to work out the stiffness. As he twisted his head to the right, his eyes fell upon the garrison's gate, which were closed!

In all the weeks he had been here, he had never seen them shut. Perhaps, since all the musketeers were absent from the area, they had closed the gates? That didn't seem right and he thought back to earlier when he had entered the stable. He was sure they had been wide open.

Purposefully, he walked towards the wooden doors, looking about for the two musketeers that should have been standing guard. As he got close to the structure, he saw no evidence of the missing musketeers, but the ground did appear disturbed. Marks in the dirt seemed to indicate that something, or someone, had been dragged across the soft earth, leaving shallow farrows behind.

The tracks led to a closed door inside the garrison's gateway tunnel and Athos seized the door's handle and turned it sharply as he pushed it open. The room, used for storage, was dark with no windows and he pushed the door open wider to emit some more feeble light. The shafts of illumination spread across the earthen floor revealing two prostate musketeers.

Cautiously, he entered the room, walked over to the nearest man, squatted down, and felt for a pulse. He was relieved to find a steady beat under his questing fingers. Checking the other man, he found the same. Moving his body to the side so his shadow was not blocking the scant light entering the room through the open door, he studied the body nearest to him trying to determine the site of the injury. It didn't take him along to ascertain that both men had received head wounds, most likely from a blunt object, that had rendered them unconscious. Something terribly wrong was going on here.

The musketeers had not been relieved of their weapons by their attackers, which was fortunate for Athos. If something was afoot in the garrison, he wanted to be armed. After shucking off the sling that had been cradling his right arm, he reached down, slipped the musketeer's pistol from his belt and tucked it in the waist band of his own trousers. Seizing the rapier with his left hand, he withdrew it from its scabbard as he stood.

Transferring the sword to his right hand, he closed his fingers around the hilt then went to give it a practice swing. His hand and arm betrayed him as the sword fell from his grasp and landed at his feet. Using the colorful language, he had learned at the taverns near the docks of Le Havre, he picked up the sword with his left hand again and tested its heft. His left handed sword skills were fairly close to those of his dominant hand and he'd have to make do as he had no other choice.

Bending over the unconscious musketeer again, he removed the man's main gauche from its sheath on the man's back using his right hand. Straightening, he tested the limits of what he might be able to do with the blade with his injured arm and discovered it wasn't much. He certainly would not be able to use it as a defense weapon to fend off another blade. He was barely able to keep a grip on its wide pommel and the minute the blade hit a solid object he knew he'd drop it. That made it useless as a clubbing or a blocking device leaving only one option, a throwing weapon. His ability to throw a blade with deadly accuracy was very good, though he had only practiced on non-living targets.

Not being an experienced soldier, he didn't think to take the pistol and main gauche off of the other downed musketeer. When entering into an unknown scenario, a smart soldier arms himself with as much weaponry as possible. But he was only an avid student of military history, not a real-world practitioner, so he naively left the other weapons behind in the storage room.

Back out in the courtyard, he made his second tactical mistake when he didn't open the garrison's gates, which were bolted from the inside. Anyone coming to the rescue from the outside would have to waste precious time getting through those locked barriers. Instead, he focused his attention on scanning the garrison looking for something that would give a clue as to what was going on. He didn't have to wait long for his answer, as two men emerged onto the porch outside of Captain Treville's office.

His third strategic mistake was standing in the open, searching for the enemy. Yes, he easily spotted them, but the reverse was also true, leaving him fully exposed. The two men entering into the shaded porch saw him and hurried towards the stairs. Based on what he'd seen had happened to the two musketeers standing guard, he didn't think they were coming to shake his hand. He had two options, flight or fight, and depending on perspective, this could have been construed as his fourth error, he chose to fight.

He was confident of his skills as a swordsman under normal conditions and had some experience, more than he cared to admit, in brawls over the last six months, so he felt he could best the two men shouting angrily at him and running in his direction. The fact that he was injured probably should have played into the equation along with the realization he had no idea if these were the only two hostiles. But again, those thoughts didn't register in his civilian mind as they would a true solider, and he stood his ground.

Five years from now, if he looked back and analyzed how he fought this battle, he would have to rate his performance as poor. In fact, he would have been highly embarrassed by the number of rookie mistakes he made in this fight. Yes, he possessed a lot of innate talent that eventually would be molded and trained, making him into one of the best soldiers in France. But at the moment he was a green recruit, talented, but raw, and it showed. His saving grace was that his opponents didn't appear to be professional soldiers either.

Neither of the men rushing towards him had a pistol, which was good given how exposed he was, for if they were good shoots he would have been dead twice over. Of course, he did have a pistol, but he temporarily forgot about it, much more accustom to fighting with a sword. In the past, he'd mostly used guns for target practice and hunting, and blades for personal defense. When he had fled his home, he hadn't even brought any pistols with him, only his sword and his main gauche, which were now locked away somewhere for safe keeping, courtesy of the good captain. So the gun tucked in the rear waist band of his pants was overlooked, and he prepared to meet his foes with his sword.

He did think to use the main gauche in his mostly useless right hand and hurled it at the lead man as he descended the lower portion of the staircase. It neatly landed in the man's right thigh, sinking deep into the flesh. The startled man cried out in pain as his leg gave way and he tumbled down the rest of the stairs, landing in a crumbled heap at the bottom.

The second man was forced to leap over his companion, which he did with a growl, sword extended towards the waiting Athos. The fighter was advancing quickly and after the first parry, Athos was forced to retreat a few feet. Coming on guard again, Athos held his sword out straight with the left side of his body facing his opponent. It felt a bit strange fighting left-handed; it had been a while since he had done so, but his opponent gave him no time for contemplation, lunging at him once again. Blocking the blade up and to the right, Athos pressed his own advance, driving the man backwards across the courtyard.

As the duel was occurring inside the garrison, outside, Captain Treville, Aramis, Porthos, Mellin, and Maurice were heading through the streets of Paris towards their home. The King's pilgrimage had been successful and those not on palace guard duty were given leave. Only Treville, Aramis, Porthos, Mellin, and Maurice headed back to the garrison, per the captain's orders. As the group rounded the corner, they got their first glimpse of their home and the five men reined up their mounts in surprise.

Even though the mood had immediately turned tense, Aramis couldn't resist saying, "Hope you brought the key, captain."

The garrison gates were shut tight, a sight rarely ever seen. In fact, Porthos, who was staring at the massive doors, a deep frown marring his face, declared, "I ain't ever seen them shut."

"Only when under attack," Captain Treville muttered. "And since we are all out here, who the hell is in there?"

Kicking their mounts into action, they quickly closed the distance between them and the shut gates. Swinging off his horse, the captain strode up to the tall, double doors to force them open. "They are locked, from the inside," he declared, when they didn't budge under his hands.

"Is that allowed?" Mellin questioned. He was a nice guy, but not the sharpest tool in the shed.

"How do we get in?" Maurice asked, which was a much better question given the situation.

The sound of metal ringing against metal drifted to their ears. "We better get in soon. That's a sword fight," Aramis deduced correctly.

Inside the garrison, the tide had switched and Athos was on the defensive again. But, he'd been studying his opponent as they fought and he now knew his weakness. Spinning around to confuse his opponent, Athos came out of the twirl with a feint to the man's head, and as the man brought his blade up to block, Athos quickly repositioned his blade to slice the man across his stomach followed by a swift thrust from his boot, which sent the man plunging to the ground.

Athos lowered his blade, when it was apparent both of his attackers were down for the count. As he stood in the courtyard, panting, sweat running down his back, he congratulated himself on a job well done. Injured and left-handed, he still had won.

A movement, caught with the corner of his eye, caused him to stare up at the porch again with disbelief. God really did hate him he thought, as six more armed men, stepped onto the porch, the last one carrying a sack and a pistol, which he promptly drew and aimed at Athos. Another string of colorful and creative language was uttered as Athos dove to try to avoid the bullet with his name on it. He didn't have the time to appreciate it at the moment, but if he lived through this and someday reminisced upon it, it surely would strike him as ironic that the bullet grazed the upper portion of his right arm. Other than the blood loss, the wound put him at no real disadvantage since his arm was already injured and not being used. Maybe God did like him, a little.

Outside the garrison, Captain Treville rattled the doors once again trying to determine what would turn out to be a crucial factor. Taking his knuckles, he rapped them horizontally across the two doors, slightly below where the locking mechanism would be on the other side of the barrier. Once he made it all the way across, he gave a curt nod, then checked his next assumption. Not able to reach the top of the massive doors, he instead checked the bottom corners of each door near where the door abutted the stone wall and near the center seam. With another satisfied nod, he rose to his feet and turned to face his men. "The imbeciles have not dropped any of the bars in place. We simply need to break through the latch."

Porthos thought back to his stints of guarding the gate and realized to what the captain was alluding. The double doors had an iron latch onto which a lock was clipped. This held them shut. But the doors also had a massive beam that could be dropped into place, running the width of the doors that would require a mighty battering ram or a bomb to dislodge. In addition, there were metal rods that embedded in the ground and the wall above each gate that also helped secure the door. Neither of these items had been engaged. If they had, the time it took musketeers to get into their own home would have been greatly increased.

The sound of a gunshot tore through the air and at first Aramis thought one of them must have tried to shoot the door open. But quickly, he realized the shot came from within the garrison's walls. "Whatever is going on in there is escalating," and no sooner had he finished his sentence than a second shot sounded from inside the thick walls.

The good thing about getting shot, if there was a good thing, is it reminded Athos that he too had a gun. Awkwardly switching his sword to his right hand, he drew the pistol from behind his back, and praying it was loaded, another rookie mistake, not checking earlier, he aimed it at the third man coming down the stairs. His shot was true, hit the man in the head, and caused him to tumble uncontrollably forward knocking down the two men in front to of him. The three tumbled down the flight of stairs to join their other companion, with the knife in his leg, who hadn't crawled out of the way.

Reversing his grip on the gun in his left hand, he rushed over to the stairs and viciously swung it at the first man that was attempting to rise. The rest of the men that were still on the stairs were too close and Athos had to retreat quickly before he became impaled upon one of their blades. However, of the eight thieves that he was locked inside this garrison with, one was dead with a bullet through his head, one was grounded with a main gauche in his leg, another was disabled with a slice through his gut and the final had been rendered unconscious by the butt of his pistol. The ranks of his enemies had been cut in half.

However, the remaining four, three on the lowest steps of the staircase and one on the ground regaining his feet, looked very dangerous still. In a tactic that he would become known for in the future, he used his bored, aristocratic Comte voice and suggested they were already defeated and should lay down their weapons and peacefully surrender. His demands brought the same results now as they would in the future. Nothing.

Athos sighed, but at least he had done the honorable thing and offered them a chance to surrender and thereby live and they had clearly refused his reasonable offer. The four thieves raised their swords and started to maneuver into position. It was then that Athos realized these four might just accomplish what the horse's hooves and the alcohol hadn't managed. They might just kill him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

"Porthos, stop. We need something to use as a battering ram," Treville declared after the man threw his body weight against the gate unsuccessfully for the fourth time. The five of them scattered, searching the area for a suitable object.

"Over here," Maurice called out, as he motioned for his friends to join him. There was some work being done on a nearby building and there were thick wooden struts stacked on the ground, waiting to be installed.

The beams weren't ideal, but they were better than Porthos' shoulder, so the street fighter and Mellin hoisted one and carried it over to the garrison's locked gate. They didn't need five of them on the beam, so the captain and Aramis stood to the side, as the other three musketeers got a firm grip on the wood.

"On three," Porthos instructed. "One, two, three," and they rushed forward with their ram, firmly smacking it against the doors, which shook but remained solid. It took a bit of coordination to aim the heavy beam and their third attempt went awry and hit one of the longboards that made up the gate squarely, causing it to splinter.

"Do that again. Hit that spot. Enlarge the hole," Aramis directed.

They took a quick break, placing the strut on the dirt. Porthos took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he glanced over at Aramis. "Are you planning on us climbing, one by one, through that little hole like mice?"

"No, put maybe we can get a quick glance inside, see what is going on. What we will be facing when the gates come down," Aramis explained. "Just make the hole a little bigger."

"Says the man standing around watching," the street fighter grumbled, as he motioned for the other two men to heft the beam again. "You heard him, fellows. Pretty boy over there wants to stick his head though a hole, into a place where there is shooting going on, and see what's up."

A bit worriedly, Aramis' eyes sidled toward the captain. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

"It's a good idea. Having situational awareness before we burst in." The captain clapped Aramis on the shoulder and deadpanned, "Besides who'd want to shoot at your pretty face."

"You'd be surprised," Aramis said, as he watched the battering ram make the hole in the gate larger.

After a third hit, the men wielding the beam stepped back to allow Aramis to examine the opening. With visible trepidation, he brought his face close to the gap and peered inside. Scanning the courtyard, he found what he was looking for and quickly backed away from the opening. "Make it bigger. Hurry!" he frantically demanded, as he ran back to his horse and grabbed his musket from its saddle holster.

Responding to the panicked tone in their comrade's voice, they unquestioningly picked up the ram and slammed it on the outer edge of the hole, widening it. Aramis barely waited for them to clear out of the way before he was back to the hole with his gun at his side.

Athos heard a strange banging noise on the edge of his consciousness, but he didn't see how it pertained to his immediate situation so he paid no attention to it. He was facing four armed men, alone, with a single sword in his non-dominant hand so he didn't have a lot of time for extraneous thoughts if he wanted to survive.

His mind was sifting through strategies on how to handle this situation. If the men enclosed him in a circle, he'd be hard pressed to keep an eye on all of them and he didn't think they would politely wait and take turns slashing at him. Putting something at his back was an option, but that left him no way to retreat, which was also a dangerous situation. It seems his best option was constant movement, avoid being trapped like a wild animal and, of course, take them down as quickly as possible.

Letting his eyes scan the four men menacing him, he decided the weakest link was the man on the left. Catching them by surprise, he lunged forward in an attack, sword slashing downward catching the unsuspecting man on his arm causing him to cry out in pain as he dropped his weapon from his now useless hand.

Ducking and spinning, Athos slashed at the next man over, his sword not inflicting any appreciable damage, but his boot, which he viciously planted in the man's groin, had the thief doubling over and groaning in agony. The other two men, now wise to his tactics, drew close, slashing with their swords, one of which lightly grazed him as he rolled out of the way.

Staggering to his feet, Athos wildly glanced around to reestablish his enemies' position. The guy with the slashed arm was out of commission, kneeling in the dirt trying to staunch the blood from his wound. Groin guy was also kneeling in the dirt, but showing signs of recovery. The stray thought that the man had balls of steel, skirted through Athos' mind as he watched the man start to rise. The other two fighters were rapidly closing in on him and Athos raised his sword to meet their attack.

For the next few minutes, the two on one fight danced about the courtyard, Athos keeping a few steps ahead of his attackers. Rarely having an opportunity to attack, he mainly fended off their advances. Athos kept an eye on the third man, knowing at some point he would recover enough to join the fray. Unfortunately, that moment came sooner than he hoped, as a third sword joined the first two in trying to kill him.

Fatigue was settling into his limbs making it harder to parry his opponent's thrusts. His foot slipped and he went down on one knee, which earned him a light slash before he scrambled out of the way. Barely vertical before the swords descended again, he valiantly blocked their advances. His slow burning fuse finally ignited, goading him into action. His strength and stamina were nearly depleted. It was time for one last effort, which would settle this fight one way or another.

With renewed vigor, he went on the offensive, catching his opponents off-guard for they had been smelling blood. Athos' blade whirled with blinding speed, finding its mark more often than not. But anger is a two-edged sword and his maniacal energy was depleting his adrenaline. Imperceptible at first, but slowly becoming visible, his movements became labored and eventually sloppy. As he fended off two of his attacker's blades, it dawned on him he didn't know where the third one was which was a dangerous oversight. A glint in the corner of his eye answered his query and with certainty, he knew he couldn't get out of the way fast enough. His luck had just run out.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

Aramis sighted down the barrel of his musket at the three men fighting a lone man who he thought was Athos. A few years hence, there would be no doubt it in his mind; he would recognize Athos anywhere, anytime and that didn't even take into account the legendary bond that would form between the Inseparables. But at this time, Athos was a man he had only known for a few weeks so Aramis wasn't sure if he was the lone fighter. Besides, why would Athos be involved in a sword fight against four men in the garrison's courtyard? But, if this was Athos, Aramis thought, he had a talent for the sword.

However, as impressive as Athos' swordsmanship was, he was injured and fighting against four, no three, Aramis corrected himself as Athos disabled one of his attackers, armed men. Two weeks ago, Athos barely had the strength to walk across a room. There was no way he had recovered enough by today to survive extended swordplay. The fact that Athos was still standing and fighting was a testament to the man's willpower and determination. Aramis didn't know this about Athos yet, but he would learn over the years that when Athos set out to do something, nothing would thwart him, not even the specter of death. It was a blessing and a curse as Aramis, Porthos, and eventually d'Artagnan would come to learn, and they did their best to protect Athos from his worst enemy, himself.

Blowing gently on the fuse, his target choice was quickly made as Athos was being beaten down by two men as the third was lining up the killing blow. It was awkward trying to shoot through a hole, across the courtyard, at a moving target. But Aramis was known as the best marksman in the regiment for a reason; he was that good. His shot rang true, felling the man before his sword could harm Athos.

Athos heard the gunshot, but he didn't process it at first as he waited for the fatal blow of the sword coming his way. When the seconds ticked by and he didn't feel the pain of his flesh being slashed open, he grew more confused. His confusion seemed to be catching as the two swordsmen across from him backed up a few steps. They were staring at something on the ground and Athos followed their gazes to find their third companion, the one about to slice him open, lying on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead.

The fighting ceased for a moment and his two opponents looked from the dead body on the ground to Athos to see how he had acquired a gun and had used it to kill their friend. Since Athos knew he hadn't shot the man, he used the temporary lull in the battle to scan about the courtyard for the responsible party. He hoped whoever it was was on his side. and that they had been aiming for his opponent and not him and simply missed. The odds were already way too heavily stacked against him. Before he could find any clue as to what was going on, the two remaining thieves attacked him again, and Athos forced his weary body to meet the challenge.

Aramis saw his intended target drop and the fighting cease for a moment. Quickly, moving backwards away from the gate, he shouted, "We have to get in there now or he'll be killed"

The other four men had no idea who 'he' was, but the urgency in Aramis' voice made it apparent that it was crucial to get through this door. Porthos, Maurice, and Mellin tightly gripped their battering ram and, with a war cry, ran at the door. The force of the hit was brutal; it nearly tore the doors off their hinges. The second the doors flew apart, Captain Treville and Aramis barreled through the opening.

Over by the stairs that lead up to the captain's office, the fighting had resumed. When the captain drew close enough to identify the lone fighter, he cried. "Athos?"

Even if Athos had heard the captain call his name over the clanging of the swords, he couldn't divert an ounce of concentration, as he was being pressed back towards the staircase. They were backing him into the proverbial corner and he knew he didn't have the strength to climb the stairs to escape their blades.

Using his hand to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, Athos suddenly realized there were two more blades in the fight, but they were on his side, with their lethal tips facing the enemy. Was he so far gone he was now hallucinating?

"Drop your swords!" the strident voice of Captain Treville rang forth. Two more clicks of pistols being cocked added weight to his declaration as Maurice and Mellin stood behind them, pistols squarely aimed at the villain's heads.

Not wanting to die for their cause, the thieves lowered their swords and handed their weapons meekly to Porthos. Athos continued to hold his blade in the on guard position, as if his brain hadn't bothered to inform his body the battle was over. His arm shook with fatigue, as he tried to hold the sword straight and true.

"It's over, Athos," Aramis softly said, as if he were speaking to a nervous horse. "You can put up your sword."

However, Aramis' words didn't seem to have any effect on the man, so the captain reached over, placed his hand firmly, but gently, on Athos' wrist, and leveraged it downward. "Put the sword down, son," he gruffly commanded and between the pressure on his wrist and Treville's voice, they broke through Athos' trance and he lowered the blade.

Aramis draped his left arm around Athos' shoulder while he used his right to take the sword from the injured man's slack grip and hand it off to Treville. "Come. Let's sit over here at the table for a minute, while you gather your strength and tell us what happened here."

Obediently, Athos let his exhausted body be guided to the wooden table near the base of the stairs. A little firm pressure on his shoulders had Athos sitting on the bench. Aramis sat next to him and empathetically forced him to slide towards the middle of the bench. At a nod from Aramis, Porthos slid onto the bench from the other side, basically sandwiching Athos between them. The medic in him figured that if Athos fainted, either he or Porthos should be able to catch him.

Pouring a glass of water from the metal pitcher on the table, Aramis pushed the cup in front of Athos. Filling a second and third cup, he slid one in front of Porthos and took one in his own hand, raising it to his lips and drinking deeply. Porthos did the same, but Athos merely stared at the vessel. He knew what was being asked of him, but he was simply too tired to comply.

Meanwhile, the captain issued instructions to Maurice and Mellin to take the two standing captives to the garrison's jail to wait questioning. A few more musketeers returned, having decided not to go out and they looked quizzically at the gates hanging at a drunken angle. The captain spotted them and had them take the four injured thieves to the infirmary, instructing one of the garrison's other amateur medics to evaluate their wounds and then assigned a third group to haul the dead bodies off to the morgue.

When everything was under control to his satisfaction, Treville walked back to the wooden table and sat on the bench opposite the two musketeers and the man he had run over with his horse. How had they gotten from that point to this one, he was dying to know.

"Athos?" The captain tried to get the attention of the ragged man sitting across from him.

The captain gave a little head shake to Aramis, indicating he should momentarily stop trying to see what was staining the sleeve on Athos' shirt red. It wasn't life threatening and the captain didn't think Athos had the ability at present to fend of Aramis' administrations, which he was weakly trying to do, and focus enough to tell him what had happened here.

With a bit of a pout that brought a small smile to Treville's face, Aramis stopped trying to examine Athos' wounds and sat back to listen, though the captain felt if Athos should start to sag, Aramis would be there to support him. Letting his eyes roam over the three men sitting opposite him, he got a strange feeling, one which he couldn't describe, but somehow knew was important.

"Can you tell me what happened here, Athos?" The captain's voice was soft, but authoritative and Athos responded to it as he would so often in the future.

Pushing his body more upright, Athos told how he had walked over to the stable to visit Roger, but left out all the parts about thinking of riding off or sitting on the hay bale exhausted. He picked the narrative up again when he left the stable, discovered the gates closed, and saw what he assumed to be thieves sulking out of the captain's office.

"There were eight of them, Athos. Did it ever occur to you that you were greatly outnumbered, especially considering your current state of health?" Aramis butted in to ask the man.

In a trademark pattern that they simply weren't aware of yet, he answered, "No." His tone was flat yet managed to convey an air of not understanding why they even asked such a stupid question.

Again, a ghost of a smile flickered across Captain Treville at the interplay between the two men that they weren't even aware was happening. The idea of Athos becoming a musketeer and teaming up with the two men across from him ran through his mind again. That sixth sense he had about people that had served him so well in his career was niggling at the back of his mind. But this wasn't the time or place to be thinking of such things so he pushed it back down and refocused on the matter at hand.

Suddenly, it was like a light bulb went off in Athos' weary mind and he struggled to turn and get off the bench. He got one leg over the bench, but would have fallen flat on his face if Porthos hadn't furtively placed a hand under his elbow to keep him upright. After a moment Athos walked over to the stairs and, leaning heavily on the rail, he hauled his body to the first landing where he picked up a bag that had gone unnoticed up to this point. Descending in a rather precarious manner, he walked back over to the table, dropped the bag on it, and then stared pointedly at Aramis, who grumbled, but slid over so Athos could sit on the end of the bench.

"That is what they were stealing," Athos declared, as he slumped over the table.

Aramis, reached over to examine Athos again, but the swordsman must have regained some of his strength because he straightened and gave the marksman a scowl that suggested violence if his personal space was invaded.

Aramis backed off with a slight shrug, as Athos pushed the bag towards Treville, who opened it and examined the contents. After checking a few pieces, he hastily shoved everything back into the bag and drew it shut.

"What you have done here today is of great importance to your King and Country, Athos," Treville stated as he rose, hugging the satchel to his chest. "These documents, in the wrong hands, could be disastrous."

Athos looked up at the captain and Treville was again on the receiving end of what would be the bane of his existence for years to come, Athos' unfathomable mask. The soldier had no idea what was running through the mind of the man sitting in front of him. One would think Athos would be pleased at knowing his actions were important, but the man simply looked at him with a mask of neutrality. The only small giveaway in the stone mask was the hooded green eyes. There was something there. Disbelief? Pride?

Treville mentally chided himself. The man was injured and exhausted. What was he thinking? That Athos would prance around like a small boy who received a pat on the arm from his father and a sweet treat from his mother? Of course not.

The captain simply and honestly said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Athos replied, and for the first time since their paths had crossed Treville felt a sincerity in the man.

With a nod of his chin in Aramis' direction, Treville ordered, "Let Aramis help you to your room, get you cleaned up, and see to those injuries."

Athos eyes flicked to the sword he had laid on the table. "That belongs to one of the guards. At the gate. Are they alright?"

"They will be fine. Hell of a headache I imagine, but otherwise ok," Treville informed him.

Athos fell into the peculiar speech pattern that Treville had noticed during the first week, the one he had secretly been calling the 'Comte mode' since he had learned from Charles, Athos' probable heritage. "I am glad to hear that. I was... concerned."

"Your only concern should be getting to bed and resting. Fighting off eight men today. That's quite a feat." Captain Treville took his bag and headed up to his office.

By this time, Aramis and Porthos had risen too.

"Shall we go?" Aramis was smart and didn't offer to support Athos, but simply waved his hand towards where Athos' room was located.

Feeling like three was a crowd, Porthos declared he was going to go look for some food and he'd catch up with Aramis later. Porthos, who had such a generous nature, couldn't figure out this Athos person. Oh, he admired the fighting skills the man seemed to possess and was quite curious to see more. But the man's cold demeanor didn't make sense to him. Treville had just given him high praise and the man had accepted it as if he had been thanked for pouring a glass of wine. Strange. But Athos was Aramis' pet project, not his, so he felt no guilt leaving them.

Athos stumbled when he first started to walk, but quickly found his balance. Aramis hovered, but didn't assist, remembering Athos' warning on personal space violation.

"That was some remarkable swordsmanship you displayed," the marksman stated, as they made their way towards the room in which Athos was residing. Aramis got no reply, but at this point in their relationship he had learned not to expect one so he simply, continued on. "I thought you said you weren't left-handed."

"I'm not."

"Remarkable. So you are as good with your right hand?"

"Better." The one-word answer was said, not as a boast, but a straight fact and Aramis believed him.

They reached the staircase that led to Athos' room and Aramis thought he heard a soft sigh as Athos stood at the bottom stairs, looking upwards.

"It's no shame in asking for help when you need it," Aramis offered, which turned out to be the wrong thing to say as Athos ignored him, gritted his teeth and trudged up the steps. The marksman had the distinct impression that the stubborn man in front of him wouldn't ask for assistance even if it meant hauling his body up the stairs on his hands and knees.

After they got to the top, Athos staggered into the walls, as he made his way down the hallway towards his door. Opening it, he crossed the threshold and made a beeline for his bed upon which he sank with an audible sigh.

Aramis closed the door behind him, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. "Have you ever been told you are stubborn, Athos?"

"Yes." There was a slight pause before he added, "Quite often actually."

Aramis swore he saw a small smirk lurk at the corner of Athos' mouth. He had a feeling that was one of the first honest things the man had said about himself. "Well they were right." Moving towards the bed, he gestured towards Athos' shirt. "That needs to go so I can look at your arm."

Athos didn't fight him when Aramis assisted in getting the shirt over his head when it got stuck. Sitting on the bed next to him, Aramis examined the bullet graze first. "Not bad. No need for stitches. Just needs to be cleaned out. They had guns?" he said conversationally, as he rose to get the medical supplies he kept in the room.

"One. The leader. He wasn't a very good shot. They didn't seem like...professionals."

Aramis thought he heard Athos add, 'thank God' under his breath, but when he turned around the stone mask was in place.

They worked in silence for a while as Aramis cleaned and bandaged the gunshot wound, before moving on to wipe down the slice on his chest along with a few of the shallower nicks and cuts Athos had received. The wound on the forearm from the horse's hooves seemed no worse for wear, neither did the ribs. Athos was sagging from shear exhaustion and was happy, finally, to be able to lie back on his bed and rest, when Aramis was done.

As Aramis was getting ready to leave, promising to bring food later, Athos pushed his tired body up on his good elbow and stopped the man with question. "Aramis. My arm. Will I regain full use of it?" Athos wouldn't admit it out loud, but the fact he couldn't hold a sword in it today had disturbed him.

Aramis stopped, looked at Athos earnestly, and then sighed. "I don't know."

Athos bit down on his lower lip then nodded as if agreeing with something, perhaps his own intuition. "Thank you."

"For what?" Aramis asked out of curiosity.

Those green eyes that Aramis was learning could say so much, focused on him. "Being honest."

From the look and those few words, Aramis knew he had suddenly found a small clue to the real man behind the mask. "I always strive to be honest." The mood in the room was growing a bit intense and he didn't want to make Athos uncomfortable, so he added, "Well except perhaps in the area of women. They actually like to be lied to about certain things, such as their looks and I am more than happy to oblige," he said with a lecherous wink.

His comment had the exact opposite effect than intended, as those green eyes grew dark and hooded. Athos abruptly turned his back on Aramis and softly muttered, "Women are liars and cheats."

Aramis didn't know what had just happened and he knew asking wouldn't bring any explanation so he quietly closed the door and prayed the man would rest peacefully. Later that day, when he had brought the promised food, Athos treated him politely, but coldly. No amount of cajoling would get him to engage in conversation.

That night, Athos' nightmares began in earnest once more, horrible dreams of his wife and his brother, which bolted him awake with their terror. His body was sweaty, hair plastered to his head and his heart racing like the receding tide. Getting out of bed, he stumbled across the darkened room to the window. Wanting the cool night breezes to wash over his tortured soul, he tried to open the window, only to discover it wouldn't budge. Frustrated, he laid his forehead against the cool glass pane. He wanted a drink, badly.

Straightening and turning, his eyes wandered towards the door. It would be so easy to walk out, leave the garrison, and find a tavern in which to drown his sorrow. Yet, he had felt...his mind searched for the right word...proud when the captain had said he had done a great service to King and Country. Today he had felt...worthwhile... something that he hadn't felt in a very long time. And truthfully, he rather liked the feeling.

With a groan, he slid down the wall to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them before laying his muddled head upon them. Confusion swirled in his thoughts. Leave. Stay. Run. Stay. Hide. Stay. Was there any hope that the tiny idea that had dare lodged itself in his mind could actually be brought to fruition? Could his remaining days in this infernal world have meaning again? Too tired to get back into bed, he simply curled up on the floor where he was and drifted back to sleep but this time with a ray of hope in his tortured heart.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11

"Thank you for seeing me your Eminence," Captain Treville said politely, as he was ushered into the Cardinal's study.

Cardinal Richelieu glanced up, his face and his voice betraying his annoyance. "I really wasn't under the impression I had much of a choice. You were quite insistent."

"I get that way when your spies invade my personal space." Treville stood, arms crossed on his chest, staring down at the Cardinal.

The prelate nodded towards the chair on the far side of his desk and Treville accepted the offer and sat. "Now what in heaven's name are you talking about? My spies," Richelieu tried to bluff. "Preposterous."

Treville grimaced as he sat back deeper in the chair. "Really, after all these years are we going to play this game? Your men weren't very good."

The Cardinal smoothed his mustache contemplatively. "What can I say? Good help is hard to find." After a short pause, he continued. "I have been informed that someone broke into your garrison. Why do you think I had anything to do with your little home invasion?"

Treville leaned a little forward in his chair. "Because of what they tried to take, documents pertaining to a certain campaign."

The Cardinal's pupils flared, giving away the fact he knew exactly what the culprits had tried to steal. "And how was it you apprehended these men if all your musketeers were out of the garrison guarding their Majesties."

"Something you conveniently arranged," Treville accused his nemesis.

Richelieu gave a negligent wave of his hand. "I believe it is your musketeers' duty to guard the King, is it not? After the King expressly demanded all his precious musketeers be in attendance, are you telling me you left some behind?"

A smug smile lifted the corners of the captain's mouth. "I never said the attempt was foiled by a musketeer, did I? All my men were attending the King, as directed. Well except for Serge who cooks for the garrison."

An ungentlemanly snort was issued by his Eminence. "Your cook stopped the thieves? What, did he hit them with a pot? Throw day-old rolls at them? Really Treville, you expect me to believe your cook took down eight healthy men."

"I don't believe I mentioned the number of thieves, Cardinal."

Even though the Cardinal realized he had slipped up, he went for the bluff. You didn't get to his station in life without being a good poker player. "I believe you did, when you first arrived," he lied smoothly. "And let's be honest, Treville. I'm not unaware of what happens around Paris, including within your garrison."

Treville didn't roll his eyes, even though he was sorely tempted, from having to listen to this BS.

"As it happens, not more than an hour ago, I was briefed on the incident in the garrison. Eight men as you said, half of whom are dead. Shocking. You couldn't stop a simple robbery without so much blood shed?" Two were already dead. I guess two of the four injured died? Maybe the one slashed across the stomach and the one Athos hit on the head with the pistol? The one with the dagger in his leg and the one slashed in the arm don't seem hurt enough to die.

"Let's just say when an injured man is forced to defend himself against eight armed men things tend to get messy." The words had no sooner left his mouth than he inwardly winced, berating his sloppiness. He wasn't sure what the Cardinal's spies had reported and he may have given away more information than he intended. His nemesis' eyes narrowed and the captain knew he had provided details Richelieu hadn't known. The Cardinal's patronizing tone confirmed it.

"Not a musketeer you say, and injured. Do tell. What was he doing in your garrison? Are you so desperate for funds you are taking in injured boarders to make ends meet, Treville?"

"It seems any additional monies always end up in the Red Guard coffers," Treville pointed out. The Cardinal simply gave him a 'what do you expect' shrug. "But to answer your question," the captain continued, " this man is a recruit, seeking a commission."

The Cardinal made a steeple with his fingers. "How interesting. One man, defeating eight, while injured. Sounds like quite a catch. If he is that good, why is he wasting his time with your musketeers? Seems the Red Guard would be a more befitting place."

Treville rose from his chair and leaned his arms on the Cardinal's desk. "No accounting for taste," he said, which caused the Cardinal to frown. "Look Armand. You and I have dealt with each other for a very long time in the service of France. And we don't see eye to eye on, how shall I say this, methodologies. But sending people to pilfer my office is crossing the line."

The two top dogs glowered at each other for a few seconds before the Cardinal stated, "Fair enough."

With a curt nod, Treville pushed off the desk and quickly strode out of the room. The Cardinal sat in his chair a few minutes, digesting what he had learned; then he too rose from his desk and hurried out of his office, but in a totally different direction than the musketeer. Making his way down into the deeper regions of the castle, he came to an ante-chamber, opened the door, and stepped inside.

"You were sloppy," he called out without preamble, his voice displaying his irritation.

A woman stepped out of the shadows and moved towards him, her attractive face marred by a slight scowl. "It was meticulously planned," she countered, knowing exactly to what he was referring, because she had spotted the captain of the Musketeers departing.

"I don't have the documents in my hand now do I? If this is how your plans work out I should dump you back in the gutter where I found you," he growled in a threatening tone. "I pay for results."

"And you shall have them," she promised, her face and voice not belaying the nervousness she was feeling. She had only been in the employ of the Cardinal for a few months, but she already knew what he was like. And he was right, this had been a disaster, not that she would ever admit that aloud. The puzzling thing was it had been well planned and she didn't know for sure what gone wrong.

Waving his hand in annoyance, the prelate declared, "It is too late now. Four men dead and worse, four left alive to tell tales. And Treville knows what they were after I'm sure. No this is over, except for the cleanup, which I expect you to attend to promptly."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she nodded in concurrence. The men were prisoners, so this wouldn't be an easy task.

Taking a few steps towards her until he was a foot away, he reached out his hand and lightly touched her cheek. "You aren't the only pretty face around," he said menacingly. "I suggest you remember that. I can go back to the streets and find another quite easily." With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, his cloak swirling behind him.

It wasn't quite true, of course, that she would be so easily replaced. She was a thief and gutter rat that somehow pulled off being a lady better than half the stupid noblemen's wives that flitted throughout the Palace. She had an air and sophistication about her that let her blend in easily with society, making her a perfect, and most unexpected, assassin. He still had not been totally successful in ferreting out all her past and he would never fully trust her, but for now, she would do. Should she become a liability, he would deal with her as he did everything, with lethal efficiency.

Back in the chamber, she wondered how her plan had failed. The little she had been able to learn was some non-musketeer had been in the garrison and had somehow defeated eight armed men. It seemed surreal and she vowed she would learn more about this stranger.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12

After recuperating in his rooms for a day, Athos' restlessness got the better of him and he wandered out into the courtyard where the musketeers were training. He was surprised when a few of them gave him companionable nods of greeting. The story of his exploits must have made it around the garrison, which wasn't too surprising. News, both good and bad, as well as gossip seemed to flow equally well about this place.

Leaning against one of the wooden struts near the training area, he watched as the men drilled with their swords. He found his eyes drawn to the novice fighters, and the next thing he knew, he found himself walking towards them. It was because he was cold, simply standing around doing nothing, he told himself. But really, it was more like an itch that needed to be scratched. These men were making such elementary mistakes that could be easily corrected. A few simple words of instruction and they would have better odds of surviving in a real sword fight.

Verbally, he corrected a hand position here, a foot position there, and it wasn't long before he found he was moving on to physically resolving their mistakes. Then someone handed him a padded, blue, practice shirt, which he donned telling himself once again it was to protect against the chill in the air. How he ended up with a rapier in his left hand he had no clue, but he had to admit, it was certainly easier to instruct in this manner.

Over the course of the next week, Athos found he was drawn every day to the training area and as soon as he showed up, everyone wanted his tutelage. It didn't go unnoticed by the captain when he would occasionally stand on the porch and watch the scene below. Treville had barely seen Athos fight against the thieves, but from what Aramis claimed, and what he saw now with his own eyes, he was inclined to agree this man was an excellent swordsman. Aramis' claim of the best in the regiment was an exaggeration he was sure, but for a civilian, Athos was certainly gifted. The captain was content to let him teach because he could see the improvement in his men that was a direct result of Athos' guidance.

Aramis, too, as time permitted, had gotten into the habit of watching Athos work with the men and he was content as well, but from a different perspective. The marksman didn't think Athos was aware of it, but the man had slowly started incorporating his right arm into his movements. First, it was merely for balance and stability. But as the weeks wore on, Aramis saw him use it to unconsciously deflect a blow, then show how to use a main gauche and finally one day to actually fence. One of his students had finally bested him at a maneuver that Athos had been patiently teaching, how to divest an opponent of his sword. The two men had been battling for ten long minutes when it finally clicked and the student sent Athos' sword flying. Of course, Athos continued to use it as a teaching lesson, making a quick diving roll for his weapon, popping back to his feet, weapon in hand and in less than a minute, 'killing' his opponent.

As Athos' sportingly reached down, with his left hand to help the student back on his feet, he quietly intoned, "Head over heart. You were proud that you had disarmed me, which was natural. But in the real world, good fortune can turn to bad in a blink of an eye. You let your heart rule your head and died for it. Remember that in all things you do."

Athos' last few words took on a bitter note, Aramis noticed and he filed that away. Before another musketeer could engage Athos' in mock battle, Aramis walked over, wrapped a companionable arm around his shoulders, and more or less dragged him over to the table at the foot of the stairs.

"Time for a break fellows," he cheerfully called over his shoulder, as he dragged the reluctant swordsman along with him to the table.

Aramis reached across the table, grabbed the pitcher, poured a mug of water, and picked it up. "Quite an accomplishment today," he casually remarked as he turned to face Athos.

"What?" Athos asked, wondering why Aramis was standing there talking, instead of giving him the cup of water he had poured. He was really thirsty after that workout.

Finally, Aramis held out the cup, but as Athos reached for it Aramis withdrew it causing the other man to give him a quizzical stare. Deciding to try manners, Athos formally asked, "May I have the cup of water."

A pleasant smile appeared on Aramis' face. "Of course," he replied, but he didn't hold the cup out to Athos.

"Please," Athos tacked on, trying to remain calm and civil.

"I thought you said you were right-handed," the marksman stated, still keeping the cup out of Athos' reach.

"We have had this conversation before," Athos stated, his voice holding an edge of irritation. "I am, and have always been, right-handed."

"Right handed people, I have observed, typically use their right hand to hold objects when they are eating or drinking."

"Fascinating," Athos replied in a tone that indicated he was anything but fascinated.

Fed up, he began to maneuver around Aramis to pour his own cup of water. But as he started to move, Aramis suddenly held out the cup. Athos eyed the cup, then the man as if they were a poisonous snake about to strike. Cautiously, he stretched out his left hand towards the water. His fingers wrapped around its circumference and to his surprise, he found he was in control of the cup. He had half expected he would have to wrestle it out of Aramis' grasp.

With a contented sigh, he raised it to his parched lips. Its wonderfully cool contents slid down this throat.

"So are you using your left hand to drink that water," Aramis pointed out.

Rather proud that he managed, despite his irritation, to swallow the water in his mouth and not choke on it, Athos lowered the mug and glowered at Aramis. "Is there a point to this inane conversation," he asked sarcastically.

Aramis smiled, then moved around to the far side of the table, poured another glass of water and took a sip before answering. "Of course. What's in your right hand?"

Athos glanced down at his own hand as if to ascertain what was there, even though instinctively he was well aware of what he was holding. "A sword," he answered, not really sure why he was playing this lunatic's game.

"Exactly." Aramis sat back and beamed at Athos, pleased as a child on Christmas morning. However, Athos' face indicated anything but pleasure and Aramis realized he would have to enlighten him further. "When is the last time you used a sword with your right hand?"

"I always fight with my right hand. Except..." Athos suddenly stopped speaking and a look of wonder lit up his face. "...since I got hit by the horse. My God. I just fought with my right arm."

"And how did it feel?" the pseudo-medic inquired.

"It felt good. Natural." The worry that had been eating away at Athos since the accident dissolved and the first genuine smile Aramis had ever seen on the man appeared on his face. He glanced over at Aramis. "Thank you hardly seems sufficient for what you have done."

"Honestly, it wasn't me," Aramis confessed. "It was Dr. LeCompte's skills. I merely was an assistant. However," he cautioned, "you mustn't over tax it. Slow and steady is the best way to strengthen it so it won't give you trouble in the future."

The smile on Athos face faded, as he stared at his right hand holding the sword. Now that he was recovered, he had no reason to be here in the garrison anymore and he found that he was oddly displeased at the thought. For weeks, he had been looking for any reason to leave and now he was looking for one to stay.

Aramis watched Athos' mood flip and he wondered what had caused the sudden sadness that seemed to appear in his eyes. "I would be happy and honored to help you work on skills to strengthen your arm," he offered. "Especially, if you'd help improve my swordsmanship. I'm good, of course, but you are definitely better. And if you'd like, I could give you tips on marksmanship. I did notice that on the man you shot, the bullet wasn't dead center on his forehead."

Pulling himself out of his darkness, Athos deadpanned, "Sorry. Didn't realize neatness counted."

With a laugh, Aramis rose. "Depends on how big the target is, I suppose. If you are too sloppy you may miss totally and then where would you be?" Walking around the table, he came to a halt near Athos. "Let me help you out of that practice coat and we'll go find something to eat. Then, I'll give you a wonderful cream I have to rub into your arm and shoulder which are undoubtedly sore by now."

Athos was about to protest he didn't need any help and that his arm was fine, but when he placed the blade and cup on the table and tried to move his right arm he realized he was wrong. As graciously as he could muster, he accepted Aramis' offer and let him help remove the padded garment.

"You know," Athos pointed out as he ran a hand though his sweaty hair pushing it off his face, "you could have simply told me I was using my right arm without all that rigmarole."

"Where's the fun in that?" Aramis cheerfully said, as he clapped Athos' on the shoulder. "You will find, my friend, that I'm all about the fun."

A strange feeling crept across Athos' chest when Aramis used the word 'friend' and he thought, perhaps, he liked the feeling.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 13

As the weeks passed and Athos began using his right arm to fight, everyone discovered the man had been telling the truth; he was even more gifted with it than with his left. Daily he'd spar with the musketeers, working on improving their sword skills. By way of compensation, Aramis and Porthos had offered to tutor him in their specialties, but Athos had firmly, though politely, declined the invitation without any further explanation.

Aramis decided if he kept asking, eventually Athos would change his mind, if for no other reason than to shut him up. This tactic, of refusing to take no for answer, was serving Aramis well in dealing with the moodiness that was Athos and so far the man hadn't slugged him. Athos had a polite code of honor about him, which seemed to keep his physical violence in check. He would glare, glower, stare, sulk, and shoot metaphorical daggers with his eyes, but so far Athos had not physically hit him, though Aramis wouldn't swear it wasn't coming.

Porthos also couldn't figure out why Athos had turned down his offer to improve his hand-to-hand combat skills, and unlike Aramis, who seemed to simply shrug it off, it bothered him. If it had been some of the other musketeers that had refused his offer, he would have chalked it up to prejudice. He wasn't stupid and knew most people judged and treated him solely based on the color of his skin. But Athos was not one of them. The swordsman treated him the same as he treated everyone, with a cool, polite, indifference.

Porthos sought Aramis' opinion on why Athos would not accept his offer and Aramis merely shrugged and reminded him Athos never accepted anyone's offer of assistance on any matter. Still, like a terrier with a bone, Porthos worried about the matter.

One day, after he and Athos had finished a sparring session, Porthos had enough and decided to confront the reticent man. They were putting their practice blades away when Porthos reached over and tapped Athos on the shoulder, causing the man to turn and look at him with curiosity.

"You are willing to teach me, but won't you accept my offer to improve your hand-to-hand skills. Why?" Porthos demanded, his tone a bit harsher than he really intended.

With his normal reserve, Athos replied. "I thank you for your offer, but it isn't possible."

"Not possible? Why? Because of your injuries?"

Athos shook his head as he moved to place the sword he'd been using in a holder.

"Maybe I'm not good enough to teach you? Is that it?"

Athos heard the tension level rising in Porthos' voice and he turned back to face him again. "You are the best physical combat fighter I have ever seen," he answered sincerely, not understanding why Porthos wouldn't simply leave him alone.

Frustrated, Porthos snapped. "It's because of skin color, isn't it? I'm sick and tired of being judged because I'm of mixed-race and not on my merit. It's wrong."

Athos instantly felt contrite that Porthos should think he was refusing his offer because of that and he hastily set him right. "You are right. People shouldn't judge you on your heritage. It's wrong and I'm sorry if you felt I was doing that. I have nothing but respect for you, Porthos. I see how some of the other's treat you. Nobles, who think they are better. Trust me, nobles are as fallible as everyone else and can be assholes.

That had to be the longest speech that Porthos had heard Athos make and the latter part of it made him smile. But he still didn't have an answer to his question.

Captain Treville, who had overheard the whole conversation, remained out of sight and waited. He, too, wondered why Athos repeatedly turned down the offer to learn from the others.

"So why don't you accept my offer?" Porthos repeated with determination.

Athos seemed to deflate as he rubbed a weary hand over his face, which suddenly appeared very tired. "Because I don't belong here and I have no right to yours or anyone else's time. Your captain, out of some misguided kindness, has let me stay to recuperate. But that doesn't give me the right to impose myself further. I don't deserve compassion, not from anyone." Suddenly, his face grew hard. "I already have been here too long." With that, he rapidly walked away, heading for his room.

Porthos shook his head sadly as he watched Athos stride away, the swordsman's shoulders hunched, as if he was in pain. Porthos' mindset switched from feeling sorry for himself to feeling sorry for Athos. The man obviously had his own demons that haunted him. With a sigh, Porthos left to go clean up before dinner.

Treville left his place of concealment to head back to his office, thinking upon what Athos had said. The man was right, it was time to change his status here at the garrison, but perhaps not in the way Athos expected. Treville wanted him to stay, permanently, and become a musketeer.

Working from what his friend Charles had told him, Treville had made some discrete inquires of his own into the Comte de la Fére and was convinced that he and Athos were one and the same. The only thing left to do was point-blank ask the man if he were the missing Comte.

The captain entered his office, his eyes straying to the cabinet that concealed the sword he was holding for Athos. He had been able to verify some of the other facts Charles had told him. Thomas d'Athos de la Fére had died a little over six months ago, leaving behind an older brother, Olivier, the Comte de la Fére. He'd been able to confirm Olivier had been married. It had taken some more digging and the help of Charles, but he finally found a record of the death of the Comtesse de la Fére. The date on the record indicated she died soon after Thomas. The cause of death was not listed. The captain had also ascertained that the Comte de la Fére had closed up his mansion and disappeared to places unknown.

The captain had not been able to find out much background on Athos, the drunk that had ended up under his horse. He seemed to spring from nowhere. From what he garnered from a few tavern owners, Athos had showed up in Paris about six months ago. The man was said to be polite but indifferent, shunned the company of others, spent most of his time drunk, paid his bills, and was said, when provoked, to have the skills to discourage people from bothering him more than once.

Other than the drunken part, the captain had observed the same traits in Athos during his stay in the garrison. He was a solitary man, always on the outskirts of any social situation. He had an innate politeness and aloofness, which made him appear indifferent. However, the captain wasn't convinced. If you watched closely, you could see that Athos truly cared about the men he was instructing, though he went to great lengths to hide it. He had made no friends in the garrison, though Treville thought that Aramis' over-friendly nature was starting to grow on Athos, or wear him down, and there was the beginning of a friendship blossoming.

The captain also saw traits in Athos he was sure the man never realized he possessed, such as being a natural leader, something the captain could foster if the man became a musketeer. But the captain was certain if he asked Athos today to join the musketeers, the swordsman would politely decline. Treville needed, subtly, to make Athos realize this is where he belonged. Tomorrow, the captain decided, he would start phase one of his campaign by offering Athos a legitimate reason to stay in the garrison... a job.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 14

As was the nature of coincidences, Athos was seeking out Captain Treville at the same time as the captain was seeking him. They met, face to face, on the stairs leading to the captain's office and upon seeing each other, they simultaneously spoke, "I need to speak to you." The awkward silence that follows such an incident lasted until Treville abruptly turned and headed back up the stairs saying, "My office," over his shoulder. The captain would have had a feeling of deja vu, if he knew how many times in the future he would repeat that phrase.

Once inside, he motioned for Athos to take the chair while he perched on the edge of the desk. Athos hesitated a moment, not wanting to sit because it put him at a tactical disadvantage. But Captain Treville technically did out rank him in this setting, so he reluctantly settled into the chair. The captain kept his small smile of victory hidden; he had scored the first point in this unannounced battle.

"I have something I need to speak to you about," Treville stated after Athos had settled.

"As do I," Athos injected. After another awkward pause, Athos added with a head tilt of respect, "But, you first."

"Thank you," Treville responded recognizing it for was it was, a sign of respect, which was good and would hopefully further this cause. He had a feeling if he could win this man's loyalty, he would have it for life. "It has not gone unnoticed that you have been working with my men."

Treville saw Athos' eyes narrow, though the rest of his face remained passive.

"I have noticed great improvements in my men under your tutelage," Treville praised the man. "You have a gift for swordsmanship."

Athos simply gave a small tilt of his head to acknowledge the statement.

"However, what we need to talk about is your stay here." The captain took a breath and was about to continue when he was interrupted.

"You have been more than generous with your hospitality. I will be gone in the morning," Athos injected as he rose to his feet.

"No, you won't, Treville stated firmly, as he folded his arms over his chest. "Sit."

That did get a rise out of Athos, as surprise registered on the man's face before the impassive mask slid back into place and he resumed his seat. "May I inquire as to why?" And while his dictation was polite, there was a dangerous undertone. "I assure you I'm healed enough to leave."

Nodding his head, Treville agreed. "Yes. You have healed well, thank God."

"So why can't I leave?" Athos demanded dropping his polite facade and not beating around the bush anymore.

The captain relaxed his arms, letting them fall to his side, adopting a less severe pose. "Because I want to offer you a job, as an instructor in swordsmanship."

Athos' heart started beating rapidly in his chest thinking, at first, that Treville was offering him a position as a musketeer, something, he would barely admit to himself, had crossed his mind. However, he quickly realized that was not what the captain had said. He had presented him an opportunity to be an instructor, not a musketeer. Honestly, he wasn't sure how to respond.

Treville was fairly astute when it came to reading most people, though he'd admit, so far, Athos had been and remained quite a challenge. However, he thought he saw something flicker across the man's face, but as quickly as it appeared it was gone and Treville wasn't sure he didn't imagination it. Still, Treville wondered if Athos had thought, for a second, that he was being offered a position as a musketeer? While the captain was pretty sure he would be willing to make that offer, he hadn't thought Athos was ready to receive it just yet.

"I have watched you and I feel you could greatly increase my men's skill with a sword. Wouldn't pay much, but it would include room and board. Temporary, say six months?"

Athos tilted his head slightly to the side and gave the captain a curious glance. "Do you think your musketeers will take instructions from the drunk you ran over with your horse?" he asked drily. "Some of your musketeers are quite..." he paused, searching for the right words, "...bound by their social status."

The captain exhaled noisily as he ran a hand over his beard. "Yes, that is a problem. In the regular army most everyone is a commoner. The rank and structure that develops in that environment, to a large part, is based on skill and merit. But here, because I have so many sons of the nobility, the order does tend to be dictated by social status."

Treville pushed off his desk, walked around and dropped into his chair. "This regiment was formed three years ago and I have been battling that problem ever since."

Athos relaxed back in his chair a bit and the captain could see the man was thinking through something. "You have broken your men into smaller teams. A large army has to fight as a united force to achieve victory." Athos halted and thought a bit more before continuing. "But from what I have observed, the musketeer's duties are better suited to a small sized team. And, in a team of four men, you have a better chance that cohesiveness might develop."

Treville was impressed with Athos' intelligence and strategic mindset. It further cemented in his mind this man was the Comte de la Fére, first son of a high ranking noble who had had excellent tutors and had most likely excelled in academics. "So do you accept my offer? You can stay right in the room you are already occupying."

The room grew quiet and Treville sensed Athos was working through something in his head, so the captain remained silent and waited.

"You don't know anything about me," Athos declared, his voice almost accusatory in nature.

"I know you are very good with a sword. I know you saved my valuable documents at great personal risk to yourself. I know you honored your part of the bargain to stay here until you were healed. That's good enough for me," the captain stated with confidence.

"I'm a drunk," Athos stated, flatly.

Treville studied him with cool eyes. "In the last few months I haven't seen that."

"Because I couldn't ..., because I have been ...," the usually articulate man was lost for words. Finally, he settled on, "...ill."

"No, I don't think that was it. What I think is the man who is sitting in front of me is stronger than that and can control his drinking, if he chooses."

The captain sounded so sure of himself that Athos actually laughed. "That would be a bet you'd lose."

The bitter, self-deprecating undertone had crept into Athos' voice again and Treville picked up on it, but let it slide. "What you do on your own time is your business. Don't show up for work drunk and we are good. Deal?"

Athos realized he was at a crossroad. He could turn down this job, go back to wallowing in self-pity, drinking, and hope death came upon him quickly and put him out of his misery. Or he could accept this job, do something honest with his time, and help these musketeers. He could never atone for what he had done; he knew he was damned to hell. But, while he was still here on earth, he could try to do the honorable thing and help his fellow man.

Rising from his chair, he held out his hand. "I accept the position."

Treville rose and met the handshake. "Good." He moved around his desk to the secured trunk where he had stored Athos' weapons, unlocked it, and threw back the lid. "These are yours."

Like a man who was being asked to examine a dead body, Athos reluctantly moved over to the chest and stared at the contents. He worried at his lower lip as he stared into the trunk. Treville pulled out the scabbard and weapons belt first, then the dagger and handed them to Athos who accepted them.

As the captain reached for the sword, Athos spoke. "Would it be a great inconvenience for the sword to remain here while I am in your employ? It is not a blade suitable for...instruction."

Straightening, Treville turned to face Athos. "If you wish, but wouldn't you rather keep it in your room?"

"No." The answer was straightforward and forcefully presented. The captain was learning the beginning of a lesson that would serve him well over the years when dealing with Athos. When the man used that tone, no amount of argument, discussion, debate, or threat would make him change his mind.

"Are you sure?" Treville asked once more. He sensed Athos truly didn't want to take possession of the blade, for reasons he was not going to divulge.

With a nod, Athos curtly answered, "Yes."

"Fine. It will be kept here until you wish to reclaim it." With that, the captain closed the lid of the trunk and secured it.

Walking over to another locked cabinet, he opened it and took out a few coins and handed them to Athos. "I'm sure there are a few items you require."

Reluctantly accepting the coins, Athos stared at them for a few seconds. He didn't need them. He had money, if required. He may have walked away from his heritage, but he still had access to it. However, if he gave the coins back to the captain, it would lead to an awkward conversation. So with a small nod, he closed his fingers over the money in his hand.

"I trust this will be properly deducted from my first pay," Athos said raising his eyes to meet Treville's and indicating this was not a point of negotiation.

"Of course," the captain soothingly answered.

With another one of his non-verbal nods of agreement, Athos pocketed the money. "I will take my leave then, Sir, to prepare for tomorrow's lessons." Like a good soldier, he waited for the captain to release him before turning on his heel and leaving the office.

Athos headed back to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and with a moan, he scrubbed his hands over his face. What had he had gotten himself into? For the last six months, his only ambition was to drink himself into oblivion in an attempt to forget the demons eating at his soul. Now he had a job! He, the Comte de la Fére, was teaching musketeers how to fight. He briefly wondered if any of the nobles would recognize him, though to date, no one had called him out and had he had heard no whispering. Wanting it to stay that way, he decided he needed to slightly alter his appearance, let his hair grow longer and change his style of clothes. Little things, but perhaps enough. After all, who would ever think he'd end up here?

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 15

If he was going to spend the next six months as the sword master at the garrison, he needed to change a few things, like his clothes and the fact he didn't have a sword. Well, that wasn't precisely correct. He did have a sword, the one that he asked Treville to keep locked up. His ancestral sword. It was a well-wrought weapon, finely balanced, beautifully crafted, and in the right hands, deadly, in more ways than one. When he held it in his hands, he was reminded of everything he had been and everything he had lost. If he had to gaze upon that sword every day, confront the sins it reminded him of, he had no doubts it would lead him back to his drunken ways. It was also too fine a piece to be in the hands of a mere teacher and keeping his past a secret was a paramount concern to the Comte. For many reasons that blade had to remain hidden, which meant he needed to obtain a new one.

Like a master of any craft, he was a bit of a snob when it came to his equipment. While he could fight with any blade, to do a proper job he needed one that was well made. It didn't have to be jewel encrusted or wrought with gold, but it did have to be forged to be strong, yet supple, and well-balanced. The spare swords kept around the garrison were adequate for most swordsmen he supposed, but he had found them lacking for his expert skill level. To remedy this issue, he needed a skilled armorer and he knew exactly who to go to in Paris, Monsieur Tricost.

Looking down at his clothes, he crudely snorted, wondering if he would be kicked out of the armorer's shop the moment he crossed the threshold. Athos was sure he didn't appear to be the level of clientele the man was use to receiving. Monsieur Tricost's pieces were sought out as the best in all of Paris and beyond, and his prices matched his quality, which was high. Someone in the state Athos was at the moment wouldn't appear to have the means to purchase any of the famed armorer's wares.

This brought Athos to his next point, he also needed some clothes better suited to his 'new' position in life. He'd never been a clothes horse like many of the nobles he had known growing up, the ones that followed every new trend, every flounce, and every flourish. His clothes had been well-made and stylish because his parents did have a reputation to uphold, but he had never thought much about them and mostly wore what was placed in front of him. When he had left that life behind, he had stuffed a few pieces of his plainest clothes into his saddlebags and ridden off. Thanks to his exploits, those items had seen better days. It would be easier to commission a few new pieces than try to resurrect the others from the dead. His lifestyle in the past months hadn't been kind to them.

After washing up and making himself as presentable as the current state of his wardrobe allowed, he headed to the stables, saddled Roger, checked his saddlebags to assure his hidden supply of coins had not been discovered, and then took to the streets of Paris. He knew where to find Monsieur Tricost's shop, so he headed there first.

The shop was blessedly empty when he arrived, unlike the streets of Paris, which had been teeming with people. His seclusion in the garrison for the last few months had made him forget what life in a busy city was truly like, quite different from his quiet, pastoral home. Monsieur Tricost's establishment was large, had a forge, and all the other accouterments necessary to produce weaponry. There were a few pieces on display and others scattered about the work benches in various stages of development. A few older men were working on various weapons and a gaggle of apprentices scurried about doing their bidding. In the far back corner of the shop, Monsieur Tricost was sitting in a chair working on something on top of a large table.

A rather frigid man appeared in front of Athos, raked him with his disapproving eyes and boorishly questioned, "Are you here to pick up your master's order?" His tone indicated he was dubious, and that perhaps Athos had wandered into the incorrect shop.

Assuming the airs of the first born son of an important noble, which incidentally he was, Athos' stance grew rigid, and his dictation and tone followed suit. "I am here to commission a piece."

"For your master," the clerk declared with an air of finality.

Athos stared down at the shorter man. "For myself."

Now it was the clerk's turn to put on airs and he did a wonderful job. "Perhaps you are not aware this is Monsieur Tricost's establishment. Finest weapons-master in Paris."

"I am well aware of where I am." Athos' tone remained cool, though there was an edge building on it, one that the people who knew him best would recognize as impatience.

"Monsieur Tricost's weapons are the finest made," the haughty clerk informed him.

"Yes. That is why I am here." Athos reminded himself that patience was a virtue and he supposed he did present a sorry picture standing here.

"And," the snotty little clerk added, "very costly."

Patience was a virtue, but he didn't have all day to stand around here trying to convince this fop of a salesclerk that he was serious. Therefore, he decided a small demonstration was in order. He could have easily taken out his coin purse, displayed its contents, and probably gotten the results he desired. But he was aggravated by the man's pretentiousness, so he chose a slightly showier manner to illustrate to the clerk the error of his ways.

Before he had left the garrison, he had buckled on his weapons belt with his dagger, a dagger that happened to be one of Tricost's making. It had been a gift from his grandfather before he had passed away. It was an extremely well made piece with exquisite balance, which his grandfather had taught him how to use, in more ways than one. Athos demonstrated one of those ways now.

Unobtrusively, a few curious eyes of workers scattered about the shop had been following the conversation, including Monsieur Tricost, Athos had noted. He decided to drive his point home, in a manner of speaking. In a fluid motion that spoke of extreme confidence and experience, Athos withdrew his dagger and flung it with great accuracy into the wooden pole behind the weapons master's head.

Silence, brought on by shock, descended upon the shop. The snippy clerk in front of him nearly fainted when he saw the blade vibrating in the wood near his beloved master's head. Finally, a few of the men who had been working the forge thought to move towards Athos and restrain him. Athos offered no resistance as they grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. He wasn't here to start a fight and honestly, he could break free from their hold at any point, so he quietly stood there without resisting.

Athos watched as Tricost rose from the table and walked to the pole to examine the dagger embedded in it. "You'll find it's one of yours. A fine piece. Exquisitely balanced," Athos drawled, as he calmly stood there, captive.

Tricost yanked the blade from the wood and brought it back to his table where he sat and closely examined it. Even without looking for his maker's mark, he knew it was one of his pieces. He didn't recall for whom he had made it, but he did know it had come from his shop. Rising again, headed over to a nearby bench where he grabbed a whet stone and used the object to touch up the edges on the dagger. The screeching of the whet stone against the blade was the only sound as the master took measured strokes to hone the blade. When it was done to his satisfaction, he walked over to where Athos passively stood.

"A good weapon should always be kept in good condition." He flicked his eyes to his workers who released Athos' arms. Holding out the dagger to Athos he inquired, "Did you steal this?"

Athos accepted the blade and gazed at it for a moment. "It was a gift. A long time ago. But it has served me well and I now find myself in need of another, well-wrought blade." Reaching for his coin purse, he tossed it at the clerk, who had enough presence of mind to catch it before it hit the ground. "I assure you, I can pay."

The clerk worked the strings of the leather satchel loose and peered inside. His eyes grew saucer-wide at its contents. "I don't know how he came to have this, but he can certainly afford your exquisite work," he informed his boss.

"The money is mine, honestly come by. I am no thief," Athos assured them with a touch of disdain.

"What type of weapon are you looking for?" Tricost inquired, his curiosity now piqued.

"A sword. Serviceable, not fancy. An honest blade, but one that can take the rigors."

Tricost shifted his weight. "Rigors of what? Are you a soldier?"

"I have been employed to instruct the King's Musketeers. To improve their swordsmanship," Athos explained.

That gave Tricost pause for a few minutes. He knew Captain Treville on a professional level. The man was forthright, honest, and didn't suffer fools lightly. If the captain thought this man standing in front of him was good enough to teach his elite musketeers there must be more to the man than met the eye. Beckoning Athos to follow, he walked across the shop towards an open area to the side.

Perching on a stool, he gestured towards a rack of swords. "If I am to make you a suitable piece it would be useful for me to see your fighting style," he informed Athos. "Michel," he called out and a well-built man came hurrying over. "Please spar with Monsieur..." he left the sentence hanging waiting for a response.

"Athos," he supplied as he walked over and picked up a few blades to test their heft.

Michel went to fetch his own blade, while Athos continued to test and discard swords until he finally found one that met his specifications. Tricost noted with interest that Athos had actually chosen what the sword maker considered the best one of the lot. Not the fanciest, but the one with the best construction and balance.

Athos gave it a few test swishes and thrusts before standing back in a detached pose. Tricost noted the man looked very relaxed and comfortable. This was going to be interesting. Michel was technically one of the best swordsmen he had ever met. The only reason the man was working for him and not doing something more illustrious was he had a drinking problem, and when drunk he got mean and had been in serious trouble more than once. No wealthy noble wanted a man of his character in their house and neither did any of the elite guard units. Even the infantry had enough of his behavior and it was from there that Tricost had rescued him. He knew he could use a man of Michel's talents in his line of work and he could deal with the drunkenness. If the man showed up drunk, Tricost sent him home without pay. Michel always seemed short of funds so he curbed his drinking, at least on the days he came to work.

Athos sized up his opponent and decided this was not going to be a cakewalk. But, he loved sword fighting so he was secretly pleased to test his skills against what he deemed a worthy opponent. The men in the garrison were good, but he sensed this man was probably even better.

He took the stance, front foot pointing towards his opponent, sword tip on high guard. "Rules?"

Michel looked over towards his boss for permission, though his words were directed at Athos. "I prefer to fight 'til first blood."

Tricost gave a negligent wave of his left hand. "Suits me. Someone desiring one of my blades should be worthy of it."

With a smug grin, Michel raised his sword, assuming his stance with confidence oozing out of every pore. His hubristic behavior was driven by the fact he knew he was excellent fighter. In his conceit he wanted everyone around him to know and acknowledge it too.

Athos also was confident in his own abilities, but he preferred to keep it hidden, letting his opponents discover their error as they fought. He knew he was an outstanding swordsman, but he didn't see the need to flaunt his skill.

Their opening thrusts and parries were mundanely exploratory, a simple testing of the waters and after the first few minutes, Athos already knew he would be the victor. Not because Michel was unskilled, far from it, but because he was cocky and Athos could exploit that flaw.

"You have a passing level of skill for a shop worker," Athos lazily drawled, noting the flash of fire in the man's eyes at his insolent comment.

Michel decided to show this parvenu exactly how good his skills were and he launched into a complicated series of maneuvers. Athos met the onslaught, easily countering each stroke without breaking into a sweat.

Tricost could have stopped the duel right then, because he already knew who would prevail, but as a serious weapons-maker, he enjoyed watching a sword fight so he deliberately remained quiet. He noted several opportunities for Athos to draw blood, but the fighter purposely held back, letting the advantage pass. Tricost had a feeling that Athos was enjoying the stimulating workout too.

Athos decided to throw another insult at the man to vex his opponent. "Army wouldn't have you? I guess their standards are higher than I thought." Like last time, Michel's technique grew sloppy, driven by his fury at Athos' taunting words.

Continuing to use Michel's erratic emotions against him, Athos threw another insult on the pile. "Well, at least Monsieur Tricost was kind enough to give you employment and let you practice your meager skills on your betters."

Letting lose with a mighty roar, Michel launched a full out attack on Athos. Blades swirled through the air and the sound of metal clashing against metal rang out. Michel fought with emotion and anger and his swordsmanship suffered. Athos remained cool and collected, his technique flawless. Taking the opening when it presented, Athos swept aside his opponent's blade, lightly slashed the man's shoulder, then launched into a final attack simultaneously knocking his opponent off his feet and sending his sword flying.

Michel lay on his back, panting and defenseless, with Athos' sword pointed at his throat. "Go on," he angrily yelled. "Mark me. What are you waiting for?"

Dropping his sword to a neutral position at his side, Athos stepped backwards and calmly sated, "I already did." His eyes flicked to Michel's red stained shoulder.

The man on the ground looked in disbelief at the stain on his shirt. When had that happened? Infuriated at losing, he rolled to his side and started to climb to his feet. Athos neutrally offered a hand, but Michel blatantly ignored it, getting to his feet under his own power. Glowering at Athos, he stood tall and squared his shoulders in defiance.

"If you learn to fight with your head and not your heart, you'd be a hard man to best," Athos sincerely offered the man as a piece of advice.

Michel continued to scowl at Athos for a few seconds before spitting at his boots and stalking off.

"I fear," Tricost stated, as he rose from his stool, "You have made an enemy here today.''

Athos gave a casual shrug of indifference. Unless the man learned to curb his emotions, he would never be a threat in a sword fight.

"Don't dismiss him too lightly. He is an excellent swordsman and it is only his drinking problem that holds him from back from greater things." Tricost shook his head sadly as he moved across the room.

As he followed Tricost back to his table in the corner of the shop, Athos wondered if this was God's idea of a joke, showing him a washed up, has-been, sword fighter with a drinking problem as a way of reflection.

"A piece of advice. There are many ways to defeat an enemy. Your innate talent will have you victorious, but be careful how you win. Humiliation is an emotion that festers and will make you enemies." Stopping, Tricost turned to see how Athos would react to his counsel and was pleased to see a small head tilt of acknowledged.

With a satisfied grunt, Tricost settled at his table and the two men hammered out the finer points of the sale, finally coming to mutually agreeable terms that included the use of the sword Athos had just fought with until his new blade was ready.

As Athos left the shop, Tricost wondered about the man he had added to his customer list. It was obvious there was much more to the man than met the eye. Athos was an excellent swordsman, probably one of the best he'd ever seen, but that wasn't it. When he spoke, the man was articulate, knew how to dicker, and how to set a deal where both sides felt as if they had profited. Despite his ragged appearance, Tricost was sure Athos was a young noble, down on his luck for some reason, trying to hide or escape from something. They had negotiated an agreeable price for the commissioned piece; fair, but with a reasonable profit for his own coffers. Let the man have his secrets if he wished, for it was of no consequences to the swordmaker.

Ideas were already pushing for attention in is head as to how this blade should be crafted. As a master weapons-maker, he knew his skills in crafting a sword could subtly enhance the wielder's prowess as a fighter. That is exactly what he planned to do, make a blade worthy of the talented man he had just witnessed.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 16

Athos really couldn't blame her, he supposed, though it figured it was a woman that did this to him. His experience with women typically left him scarred, except this time, it was going to be physical more than mental. He wasn't sure if that was an improvement.

Walking somewhat aimlessly through the streets of Paris, he was debating on how to find some new clothes. If his goal was to bury the Comte de la Fére, it wouldn't be wise to go to any establishments that his family used to frequent, including any tailors they might have patronized. With that option not viable, he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. Buying clothes was not something he ever did growing up. His measurements were taken and clothes were made and delivered to his house. The only real involvement he ever had was standing still when he outgrew his old garments and they took new measurements.

First, his mother picked out his clothes, then his valet, and finally his wife. The only way he showed what he liked style-wise was not to wear something. His valet was the only one that truly cared about his clothing preferences. His mother had dressed him in what was proper and his wife in what she liked. Only his valet had paid attention and brought him simpler clothes, without undo ornamentation, which were still befitting his rank, but were more practical, somber, and plain.

He halted his wanderings, stopping on the edge of a crowded market area to gaze around. How did one find a tailor in Paris? After a few minutes of thinking as he stared about the busy market place, he decided his best bet would be to ask the musketeers. Pleased that he had a path forward, he decided to head back to the garrison.

As he turned to go, he heard a frantic cry of 'runaway carriage'. Athos had no time to react as the carriage came careening down the crowded thoroughfare and people hurled themselves out of its path of destruction. The lady in front of him jumped backwards, out of m]harms way, turning as she did and smacking him solidly in the forehead with the object she was carrying.

Athos didn't consider himself as a fragile being, but whatever she was carrying was hard, caught him on the corner of his temple and drove him to his knees. Warm red blood started streaming down his forehead, and his last thought before he passed out was that his last clean shirt was now ruined.

It was rather ironic, though he wouldn't realize this for another five years, that he and his apprentice, d'Artagnan, met the lovely Madame Constance Bonacieux in a similar stressful manner. When he woke, in a strange location, with his head pounding, he tried to recall what he had been drinking and which establishment had tossed him into the street. As he let his half-opened eyes take in his surroundings, he decided something was amiss. This didn't look like a street, or even an inn. It seemed more like a private residence.

"Oh good. You're awake," a somewhat strident female voice declared.

Forcing his eyes open wider, he gazed about for the woman who thought it was good he was conscious. Based on the pounding in his head, he wasn't sure he agreed with her assessment. Finally, he located the source of the voice, as his eyes came to rest on a pretty young woman with reddish hair.

"I was just about to call for the doctor if you didn't wake soon, Monsieur..."

He realized she was addressing him and that he was expected to reply. In fact, he'd say her voice demanded it. "Athos," he croaked out.

There was an awkward pause and he realized that she was expecting something of him. His brain began functioning again, somewhat. "And you are?" As he made his inquiry, he slowly raised his hand towards the spot on his forehead from where the pain seemed to be radiating.

"The woman who knocked you out with a bolt of cloth," she said with a touch of humor in her voice. "Madame Bonacieux and don't touch that," she ordered as she batted his searching hand away from his head. "I still have to stitch it."

Athos was finding it very unsettling lying helplessly on his back, in some unknown location, with some strange woman saying she was going to take a needle and thread to his person. So he did what any sensible man would do and attempted to sit up. While Athos thought this was a good move, obviously, she didn't and she scolded him soundly as he struggled to rise. However, he had been scolded by many a governess growing up; he was quite adept at ignoring them and he used that skill now.

Eventually, he maneuvered until he was sitting upright on what turned out to be a bed and placed his feet over the edge, firmly on the floor. The woman, Madame Bonacieux he reminded his aching brain, had taken a few steps backwards and stood, arms folded across her chest, watching him.

"Are you done," she asked sarcastically. "Or are you going to be really stupid and try to stand?"

Athos had to give the woman credit. He was a master of sarcasm and he recognized the gift in others; she definitely had it. Considering the room was spinning and his stomach was recommending expulsion of its contents, Athos decided that sitting was good enough for the moment. At least it wasn't such a pathetic position as lying flat on his back. Abstractly, he reached for this forehead again and received another swat.

"Don't be touching that with your filthy hand."

Obediently, Athos dropped his hand back into his lap. This woman's voice could cow the Cardinal. "I seem to be having a little difficulty recalling what happened."

Giving a gruff laugh, she moved over to a nearby table, which held a basin of water and a rag. "I conked you rather soundly on the head with my cloth. Though in my defense I was trying not to be trampled by a runway carriage. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Monsieur Athos."

"Not the first time that has happened," he replied with what almost looked like a small grin. "But how could a mere piece of cloth cause such a pain in my head. I am fairly certain I wasn't drunk before this incident."

"Whether you were drunk, I can't say. You don't smell as if you have been drinking, though," she added in her forthright manner as she wrinkled her nose, "you could use a bath."

Taking the wrung out rag, she began to scrub at his face with more vigor then he thought the situation required. Grimacing, he attempted to move his head out of the away. However, a stern glance had him halting his behavior. The woman had his gift of the glare to go with the sarcasm. "I'll take the bath under advisement."

She continued with her scrubbing, occasionally rinsing out the rag and starting anew. The water in the bowl on the table turned bright red and he wondered about the size of the gash. As if tracking his thoughts, or at least his eyes, she said, "Head wounds bleed a lot. I have three older brothers so I know. Oh, and it was the wooden spindle the cloth was wound about that caused this cut."

The rag left off scrubbing his forehead, traveled onto the rest of his face and was heading down his neck. He wasn't sure when or where the damn thing was going to stop, considering her early comment regarding bathing. He grew a bit alarmed when it seemed she was still traveling downwards from his neck and he reached out and halted her progress. "Surely, the wound is clean enough, Madame," he suggested politely.

"I wasn't planning on giving you a bath I assure you. But I'd feel bad if it got infected." Next, she picked up a bottle of alcohol and proceeded to apply it liberally, which caused him to wince involuntarily.

Glancing at her with a solemn expression, he intoned, "I promise not to hold you responsible if it becomes inflamed. You have fulfilled your responsibility, Madame. Now, I will be on my way..."

He started to rise, but she was having no part of that maneuver, pressing down on his shoulders in a manner that would have made Porthos proud. Athos found his progress thwarted, so he remained seated as he tried to reason with her.

"Madame Bonacieux. I am grateful you didn't simply leave me in the streets and walk away." Though, his subconscious supplied, it wouldn't have been the first time. Then another thought crossed his mind. "How did I get here?"

Constance thought the man was eyeing her as if he was debating if somehow she had carried him here. "The butcher's apprentice slung you over his shoulder like a slab of beef and carried you here. He's kind of sweet on me even though I have told him I'm a respectable married woman."

And for the first time, since whole escapade started, Athos realized he hadn't given a thought to the fact she had said "Madame." Where was her husband and what would his opinion be of a bleeding stranger, sitting alone with his wife in a bedroom? Some of his thoughts must have shown in his face because her next statement was designed to allay his fears.

"My husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, is a cloth merchant. He is currently away on business. I was running an errand for him, fetching that cloth from the weaver. I'm a seamstress. And his wife," she tacked on, though that fact had already been established.

Again, he wondered about God's sense of humor that a seamstress would wound him with a bolt of cloth when he was looking for a tailor. Simply ironic.

She held aloft a threaded needle. "So you should have no worries, Monsieur, about me stitching up your head."

"You have done this before, I take it," he stated, as he eyed the needle drawing closer then shifted his gaze towards the table.

She laughed again. "I said I had three older brothers, didn't I? Like all men, they were always getting into scrapes and expecting me to patch them up. Now hold still, this is going to hurt." She halted a moment tracking his eyes to the bottle still on the table, which hadn't been drained by her scrubbing. "Would you like a glass? It might help with the pain."

There weren't enough spirits in that bottle to dampen his pain, not at his tolerance level for alcohol, so he politely declined, though he was annoyed that his face kept giving his thoughts away to this woman.

In order to distract Athos from the pain she knew she was inflicting, Constance kept up a steady stream of conversation, though when she thought about it later, she realized she did most of the talking.

"My husband is a quite a good clothier and a good catch my father told me. As I have always been good with a needle and thread, my father felt it a perfect match."

Athos had the distinct feeling that she didn't necessarily feel that way, but he kept his thoughts to himself as she prattled on about her husband's business, the general state of Paris, and a dozen other topics that flowed through her stream of consciousness. It was exhausting listening to her and he started to zone out. Forcing his mind back in the moment, he realized the room had gone silent.

"I said," Constance repeated her question, "where do you work?"

Without thought, he mumbled, "The garrison."

"You are a musketeer?" Her tone of voice left no doubt in his mind she found this highly unlikely.

"Nothing so grand. I am a simple instructor."

"A teacher," she said, brightly as if this seemed a more likely career choice. "What do you teach?"

Seeing no reason to lie, he said, "I was hired to provide instruction on swordsmanship."

"So you're good with a sword?" she inquired, as she set a few more stitches. Then she giggled. "I'm guessing this might be a bit of an embarrassment, getting conked by a woman with a stick."

"I suppose," Athos drawled, "I will need to come up with a better story to protect my dignity."

"Oi. Men and their dignity. The world with be a better place if men didn't worry so much about their dignity," she philosophized, as she set the last stitch then leaned back and critically analyzed her work.

She beckoned for him to try to stand, and he found he was much more stable than he had been a while ago. She led him to a mirror where he could see her handiwork with his own eyes. She was right; she was very good. The stitches were small and very neat. He'd be surprised if it left a scar.

"Madame Bonacieux, your work lives up to your claims. I am very grateful," he said in his polite tones with a small now.

Constance blushed at the man's sincere compliment. "Least I could do considering it was partially my fault."

"Let me pay you for your troubles," he declared, as he reached for his coin pouch. As he was doing that, his traitorous stomach, which had gotten over its squeamishness, decided it was hungry and let out a loud growl much to Athos' chagrin.

"Put your money away, Monsieur Athos. It would be wrong considering I had a hand in your plight. And you will come into my kitchen and join me in a meal. I have a nice pot of stew on the hearth and fresh bread. I'm quite a good cook too."

As he started to protest, she held up her hand to stop him. "You'll not change my mind. My husband says I'm stubborn as a mule. A fault he is constantly pointing out to me."

Turning on her heel, she walked out of the room fully expecting him to follow, which he did, into the kitchen area. Indicating he should sit at the table, she placed a wine bottle on the table and two glasses then motioned for him to pour it as she went to gather the rest of the meal. Athos examined the wine before pulling the stopper and filling both metal cups. Though he knew it was impolite, he didn't wait and sipped from his cup. He simply needed it to calm his nerves in this strange situation.

After she set a fresh loaf of bread, fruit, cheese and two bowls of heavenly smelling stew on the table, she sat in the chair opposite him. The aroma of the stew wafted to his nostrils and he found his mouth watering. However, his manners kicked in and he politely waited for her to take the first mouthful. His mother and his governess had assured he had the manners of a gentleman, when he chose to use them, which, of late, was not often.

As the food and wine settled in his stomach, the pain in his head decreased, and he started to relax. Madame Bonacieux seemed perfectly happy carrying on a conversation without much assistance from him. When she learned he was new to Paris, one of the few things she dug out of him, she proceeded to tell him how to live in the city, where to avoid, what to watch out for and so on. He let this all wash over him with a bit of amusement. She was a fount of information.

When the food was gone and he had offered once again to pay and was soundly rejected, he rose to take his leave. "I have to continue on my quest to find a tailor, as it seems I have really ruined my last shirt," he said, ruefully, as he stared at the bloodstained garment.

Constance gave him a look as if he were the biggest idiot on the face of the earth and truthfully, around her, he did rather feel that way.

"What part of my husband is a draper and I'm a seamstress didn't you get?"

Athos did recall that conversation, but for some reason really hadn't processed the implications of those words.

"You saw how neat my stitches were on your skin. I assure you my work on cloth is even better."

Before Athos could even begin to form a reply, she was off and running again.

"And if you are worried about cost, I'm sure we can make some are arrangements for timed payments. My husband isn't cheap, but his work is good. We won't cheat you like some of those tailors out there. How the nobility can be so stupid to pay their prices for that shoddy workmanship is beyond me. But who can understand the nobles, right?"

Athos had a pretty good idea what they were like, but he had no intentions of offering up his views nor did he have to as she prattled right on.

"No. It is settled. You will get your clothes made here. From us. Now what is it you need?"

For the first time she stopped long enough for him to answer and he found he didn't have one. He stared at her rather blankly.

With a sigh, she promoted, "What does your wardrobe currently consist of?"

Athos pondered on this question. He had taken next to nothing when he left his estate more than six months ago. Only what he could carry on his horse, in his bags. The few shirts, pants, hoses, and drawers he had packed were ruined or barely serviceable. Also, considering that it was nearing November and winter was on its way, a coat was a necessity.

With a shrug, he apologetically replied, "A coat. Really everything. Most of my, ah, clothing is in disrepair."

Thankfully, for once she didn't press and instead rattled off a list of what he would need and to his ears it seemed both appropriate and reasonably conservative, matching what a man of his 'apparent' income would require.

Next, she started talking about materials, another one-sided conversation, thankfully, in which he didn't need to participate. He was surprised that she spoke of using leather. Growing up, he didn't have much of it except for his riding wear. The more he thought on it the more sense it made. Leather was tough and would hold up to the abuse of being hit by swords, something that would certainly happen to a sword instructor.

This woman really was quite remarkable he decided when they had finally concluded all their business. They had worked out a price, and time table, and like the weapons-maker, she threw in a shirt, drawers, and a pair of trousers she had on hand, that fit him fairly well, until she could get the rest of his order complete. It had been uncomfortable for him, though not her, when she insisted upon measuring every part of his body so she could start on a pattern. He was highly conscious of his lack of cleanliness, especially since she had mentioned it earlier, as she wrapped her strings around him. This wasn't the first time he had been measured; he knew what to expect and he wasn't a prude, but somehow the whole thing left him a bit unsettled.

She did take his coin this time when it was offered as a down-payment for the clothes. Apparently, there was a definite line between business and mercy because of an accident; one you paid for and the other you got on the house. When she finally let him leave, he was dazed though pleased that his clothing problem had been solved, though certainly not in a manner he ever would have anticipated.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 17

The next day at the garrison, after his first official session as the musketeers' new sword master concluded, Athos was sitting at the wooden table at the base of the stairs drinking a glass of ale. The trio of Aramis, Porthos, and Marsac approached from the stables, having returned from some assignment. It was only then that it dawned on Athos that those three usually sat at this table, having basically staked it out as their own territory. Wordless, he drained his mug and rose to go.

"Is our presence so undesirable you feel the need to leave?" Aramis questioned, as he plopped on the bench next to Athos and poured a mug of ale. "I get you wanting to get away from those two," he lazily gestured towards Porthos and Marsac. "They are nothing to write home about and you probably have much better sense than to even be seen in their general vicinity. But surely, you can't find my company unattractive. I know there isn't a lady in all of Paris that wouldn't swoon for a chance to share a seat with me. So your appearing to pass up the golden opportunity to sit and converse with us, well me, what does that say about your moral character?"

Athos stood there for a moment, rather like a startled deer, as he attempted to figure out what Aramis had spewed forth and to provide an appropriate response.

It was Porthos who saved the bedazzled man. "Sit down," he translated for Athos.

Athos sunk back on the bench next to an overly cheerful Aramis who reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "Wise choice," he whispered, as if in confidence.

Athos attempted to give Aramis a stern glare to indicate the familiarity the musketeer was displaying wasn't appreciated, but it appeared to fail miserably. So, Athos gave up and poured another glass of ale, wishing it were something stronger. He had a sneaking suspicion he was going to need it, and he was right. The next thing he knew Aramis' overly touchy right hand was brushing Athos' unruly hair away from his forehead, while Aramis' overly touchy left hand secured his chin so Athos couldn't turn his head away.

"What do we have here?" the medic musketeer asked as his finger poked in an exploratory manner at the wound Athos had been trying to hide under his shaggy hair. "Hmmm, this is very fine needlework. Nearly as good as my own. Fine enough for the Queen's chemise I always like to say."

Marsac rolled his eyes and groaned. "And he does say that. Constantly."

Aramis glanced over at his friend for a moment. "It's the truth," he stated simply.

While Aramis' attention was momentarily diverted, Athos jerked his chin free of the other man's grasp and slid a little further down the bench away from the man.

Aramis didn't seem offended at all by Athos' actions when he turned back towards him. "And how did you say you acquired that?"

"He didn't. Not yet," Porthos helpfully supplied, with a suspiciously evil smirk.

"No he didn't," Marsac chimed in rather obnoxiously.

"I'm sure if you two would be quiet for a moment, you do tend to prattle on, and let our new sword master get in a word edgewise, he will be delighted to enlighten us on how he received such a wound that was magnificently stitched by some extraordinary doctor whose skills almost match mine."

That dazed look appeared on Athos' face again and Porthos felt the need to simplify Aramis' ramblings. "How'd ya get hurt?"

"And who sewed you up?" Marsac added.

Three sets of eyes stared at him, expectantly, and Athos debated how rude it would be to simply get up and walk away. By the standards under which he was raised, it would have been considered terribly impolite and would have earned him a stern lecture from his parents or his tutors. However, with this crew, he might be able to get away with it. One thing was certain, he would never sit at this table again when these three were anywhere in the garrison.

He supposed it wouldn't kill him to be civil to these musketeers, which, in hindsight, turned out to be an incredibly wrong assumption. Next time he would go with his gut and leave. But he stayed and gave them the condensed version of what had occurred to him.

"There was a runaway carriage. The woman in front of me stepped backward to avoid being trampled and hit me in the head."

Three sets of eyes blinked at him then stared some more.

"With what?" Porthos asked, clearly finding the brevity of the explanation unsatisfactory.

Later, if he were to replay this conversation in his mind, he would realize that this was the point where he lost control of the situation.

"A bolt of cloth," Athos replied, then realized that wasn't precisely correct.

But before he could amend his answer, Marsac made a derisive snort. "Cloth did that? Highly unlikely. Sheesh, you gotta be able to come up with a better lie than that."

Keeping his cool, Athos corrected his statement. "To be precise, it was the wooden spindle, upon which the cloth was wrapped that collided with my head."

"Carried by a woman, escaping a runaway carriage," Marsac repeated, obviously not buying into this tale. "Why was this woman running around the streets of Paris, with a bolt of cloth, on a dangerous wooden spindle?"

Athos was beginning to develop a dislike for Marsac, but he kept his temper in check trying to be charitable. After all, it was a strange tale. "As it turns out she was the wife of a draper. On an errand."

"So the draper's wife smacks you with the wooden spindle. Then what?" Porthos asked. He clearly felt there must be more to this tale.

Athos squirmed a little in his seat, not quite the expert at being totally taciturn yet. "I was rendered...unconscious."

"By a woman and her spindle," Marsac clarified, even though there was no need.

Athos wasn't appreciative of Marsac's comments. "Yes," he ground out through clenched teeth as he silently called the musketeer a prick.

Aramis reached over and refilled Athos' mug of ale. Once again, as Athos drank deep of its contents, he wished it were wine, or brandy, or anything with higher alcohol content.

"So who sewed up your wound?" Aramis queried, as shoved a basket of bread at Athos, who ignored it.

After an audible sigh, knowing that his answer was going to be the source of additional hassling, Athos muttered, "The draper's wife."

Silence settled over the table and Athos, wishing he was anywhere but here, drained and refilled his mug and wondered how much ale it would take to become intoxicated. From what he was feeling so far, which was nothing, at least a keg or two.

"I know you are a man of few words, Athos, but surely that sentence wasn't complete. The draper's wife, who accidentally hit you with her spindle of cloth, while trying to escape a runaway carriage, stitched your gash on the streets of Paris." Aramis looked expectantly at Athos to see if he had correctly recapped the tale.

"Yes, well no. She sewed me up at her house," Athos amended, once again wondering why he didn't just get up and leave.

"And how did you get there?" Marsac snidely questioned. "Did the runaway carriage magically stop and carry you to the draper's wife's house?"

Athos ran a hand over his face in frustration as he restrained himself from punching Marsac. "No," he said wearily. "The butcher's apprentice flung me over his shoulder, like a slab of beef I was told, and carried me to the draper's house."

This brought the anticipated laughter from the other three men and all the glowering in the world didn't help, so instead he stared into his cup.

"Does this draper's wife have some prearrangement with the butcher's apprentice to carry her packages for her," Marsac managed to squeeze out between guffaws.

"She said he was a friend," Athos informed the ale in his mug.

When the laughter finally died down, Aramis asked, "Does this draper's wife have a name?"

"Madame Bonacieux."

That brought out more peals of laughter, which seemed to be never ending. It only served to confirm why Athos preferred to be anti-social. Finally, Aramis stopped giggling long enough to let Athos in on the joke.

"Do you know who Madame Bonacieux is?"

"The draper's wife," he replied, then sighed. "But I'm guessing there is more."

"What does Athos' head wound and the captain's braies have in common?" Marsac pondered tapping a finger against the side of his face before pretending to have an 'ah-ha' moment. "Oh yes. They were both stitched by Madame Bonacieux!"

That set off the three musketeers again and while they had a good laugh at his expense, Athos silently lamented his luck with women. Of course, he would get hit in the head by the woman who made the captain's underwear. Oh well, at least the clothes he ordered would be well made if the captain found her handiwork suitable.

With as much dignity as he could muster, which was a fair amount, he rose from the table. "If you gentlemen will excuse me I have a headache. Nothing," he quickly added, as he saw Aramis start to switch to medic mode, "that won't be solved by a short nap." With that, he departed for his room.

Aramis watched him until he disappeared from sight. "I hope we didn't offend him with our laugher."

"He seems a bit moody, he does," Porthos remarked, as he took a piece of bread, sliced it open, and inserted some meat and cheese into its center.

Marsac shook his head in a dismissing fashion. "I don't think I like him. Something about him is off."

"You have to admit, he is one hell of a swordsman," Aramis stated trying to give Athos his due.

Marsac shrugged as he took some grapes and popped a few in his mouth. "I could defeat him," Marsac declared with confidence.

"Ain't like he is a musketeer," Porthos volunteered around a mouthful of sandwich.

"What about those men he defeated who were trying to take the captain's documents? That wasn't impressive?" Aramis countered, wondering why his two friends seemed to have such a negative opinion of Athos.

"Really, Aramis," Marsac scoffed. "They were common thieves he defeated. Not soldiers. Not men who knew how to fight. Hell, they probably stole those weapons and had no clue how even to use them. Serge could have cowed them with his wooden spoon."

Porthos set down the mug he had picked up and grew serious. "The other night I was at the Rooster, the tavern where he met the captain, so to speak. Out of curiosity, I asked around about him. Figured we outta know something about the man."

"You don't trust the captain's judgment?" Aramis was surprised, because Porthos always seemed implicitly to trust their commander.

Of course I do," he adamantly swore. "I was just curious, that's all."

Marsac's eyes burned bright with anticipation. "So what did you learn?"

"He'd been coming around the Rooster for about a month. Always sat alone. Shunned anyone that tried to be friendly, including the barmaids. And you know the girls there."

"Yes," Aramis purred. "He does manage to hire some of the best looking serving wenches."

"Go on," Marsac urged, not wanting to get sidetracked.

"The barkeep said Athos would consume his first bottle of wine like a shot, like he was trying to get drunk as quickly as possible. Then he'd work though more bottles. But, he always paid. Never stiffed the guy."

"Sounds like a fairly ideal customer," Aramis surmised as he toyed with his spoon, twirling it with his fingers.

Porthos gave a slight shrug. "You'd think. Rumor is he has been making his way around different taverns, some of the worst dives, for about six months. Oh, and it's said he wasn't averse to picking a fight when he got morose, which seems to be quite often."

"The captain shouldn't have hired him. He is no more than a common drunk and a mediocre swordsman," Marsac declared with scorn.

Aramis shook his head. "I hardly think the captain would hire him if he was as mediocre as you are making him out to be."

"Why are you defending him?" Porthos asked, with curiosity, but not animosity.

Looking up at the captain's porch, the marksman's slowly replied, "Something about him is intriguing. And I don't believe the captain would hire Athos if he didn't believe him to be a superior swordsman."

"Guilt," Marsac declared with certainty. "The captain is doing Christian charity because he ran over the drunk with his horse. If you ask me it was totally Athos' fault not the captain's, or the poor horse," he smirked.

Aramis refused to buy into Marsac's theory, while Porthos seemed to be on the fence. Porthos really was having a hard time trying to figure out why the captain hired this man. He agreed with Aramis that Treville was not a fool. Yet Marsac made sense too. The street fighter desperately wanted to believe the captain hired Athos for another reason other than guilt.

Aramis could tell be the look on Porthos' face he was working something though his mind. "What?" he prompted the larger man.

"Maybe we should challenge him," he said slowly, as if testing uncharted waters. "See how good he really is."

Marsac immediately pounced on the idea with relish. "Yes! Tomorrow. Let's challenge him to a duel and I know how we'll do it."

Aramis appeared dubious of the idea. "I'm not sure," but Marsac was already up and gone. Aramis turned and looked questioningly at Porthos. "I'm not so sure Captain Treville is going to approve."

"If this Athos is that good then let him prove it. To all of us. In a fair fight.

Aramis drained his mug as he mulled this over. Next to the captain, Marsac was probably the best swordsman in the regiment. Aramis wasn't bad and had improved under Athos' tutelage already. But most days Marsac was a touch better, though no one could match Aramis' skills with a gun. If Athos managed to win whatever sort of challenge Marsac was off setting up, he'd prove to everyone the captain had made the right decision in hiring him as an instructor.

Picking up an apple and carving off a slice, he wondered if there was an ulterior motive in the captain's hiring of Athos. Could Treville be thinking of offering him a position with the musketeers? It would be unusual, as most of their ranks were sons of the gentry or soldiers like himself and Porthos. But still. He predicted tomorrow would be an interesting day.

Back in his room, Athos sat on his bed with his head cradled gingerly in his hands. He hadn't been lying when he said he had a headache, and it was more painful than he had let on. It was stupid, after being knocked unconscious yesterday, to spar as vigorously as he had today. But Captain Treville hired him to do a job, and his honor wouldn't let him do anything but give it his earnest effort.

Unfortunately, now he was suffering for it and that inane conversation with the three musketeers hadn't helped. He wondered how long it would take for the fact that he'd been hit and then sewed up by the captain's seamstress to spread throughout the garrison. Fairly quickly from what he had seen of these men so far. They were worse than fish wives. So much for keeping a low profile. He'd simply have to work on his 'leave me the hell alone' stare and get these musketeers to back off, especially Aramis. Actually, he wasn't sure why he agreed to take this position, or what his ultimate goal was, but he knew one thing, it wasn't to make friends. He didn't deserve to have any measure of happiness in his life.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he felt the overwhelming need for a bottle of wine. The memories of the past had started invading his sleep as well as his waking moments. With resolve, he rose off the bed, grabbed the ratty coat he'd have to wear until the new one from Madame Bonacieux was finished, checked his coin purse, and then headed out the door to find a tavern far from these pesky musketeers.

Closing the door behind him, he vowed he wouldn't get sloshed, only take the edge off his pain. After all, he did have work in the morning and he promised Treville he would never show up drunk.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 18

It had been sheer stupidity on his part, an error in judgment that he would definitely pay for today. When Athos had gone out last night, he had no intention of getting drunk. However, it seemed his tolerance for alcohol had diminished during his recent bout of sobriety and he found he was intoxicated before he knew it. Luckily, when he realized his mistake, he stopped and headed home to sleep it off. He certainly wasn't feeling great this morning, but he was able to function.

The weather was brisk, which felt wonderful on his aching head. He actually eyed the horse trough as he walked by thinking it might feel good to submerge his head in it. However, the thing that held him back was his inability to come up with a good cover story for what would be construed as bizarre behavior. One thing was certain, he was not going to admit he was hung over.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of musketeers in the courtyard this morning for practice and he got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with last night's drinking binge. Keeping his usual cool demeanor, he impassively scanned the crowd of musketeers, trying to fathom their intent. Standing in front of the group was Marsac, and Athos focused his attention on him, figuring he was behind whatever was transpiring here in the garrison's courtyard.

Athos addressed his remarks to the crowd, even though he focused his attention solely on Marsac. "It seems there are a lot of you seeking instruction this morning. Who shall be first to spar?"

The greenest rookie of the group stepped up and Athos acknowledged him with a little head nod before they came on guard. Athos launched a simple attack, keeping up a running dialogue on improvements for his opponent to employ. After a few 'deaths', the musketeer stepped back and immediately, another musketeer took his place. Athos' eyes narrowed as he took up position again. His new opponent was slightly better than the first one, but not by much. Again, he provided advice and pointers as they sparred. Like his last opponent, he 'killed' the musketeer a number of times before he stepped down.

By the time his fifth opponent rotated in without a break, Athos had a feeling he knew the game being played. They were testing him and based on the smug look on Marsac's face, he was behind this challenge. A quick scan about the yard told him there were more than twenty musketeers waiting to take their turns to spar against him. If his first five opponents were a true indication, then each successive challenger would be better than the last. By the tenth bout, Athos was really regretting his lapse of judgement last night. His hangover, while nowhere near as bad as most, was still hampering, especially without being able to rest between opponents.

As this was no longer an instructional session, he stopped trying to teach his opponents anything and simply focused on beating them as quickly as possible to conserve his dwindling energy reserves. Slowly but surely he worked through the pool of musketeers. They were giving him no rest in between, the next fighter stepping up, sword drawn, when the previous one had been vanquished.

Though it was chilly, he was drenched in sweat and he wiped a quick sleeve across his brow to mop up the moisture. Flinging his hair out of his eyes, he peered about for his next opponent. His quick scan showed there were only three musketeers he hadn't fought yet, Porthos, Aramis, and the ringleader, Marsac. He inwardly groaned as Porthos drew his blade.

The street fighter wasn't anywhere near as good as Athos, but that wasn't the issue. It was Porthos' fighting style, which was punctuated with body slams. He didn't fence as much as he brawled with a sword and it was brutal for his opponents if they weren't careful. The man had a very long reach, which he used to his advantage when he fought as he could hit his opponent from a much further distance. Athos had watched Porthos spar a number of times and knew the best way to defeat him was to be fast, nimble, and get inside his guard.

Porthos was one of the musketeers Athos had been truly looking forward to working with because he felt he could vastly improve the man's sword skills, making him even more dangerous. A little polishing and adjustment to Porthos' unique fighting style would make him a formidable fighting machine. However, at this juncture Athos was quite glad he hadn't provided much help to Porthos yet. Considering his rising level of fatigue, Athos was very glad the street fighter still had known flaws that he could exploit to win this match.

Porthos, for being a big man, was flexible and agile, and even though Athos knew this he was caught a bit flat-footed by the man's first attack, which caused Athos to retreat a few feet. In trying to block the muscle-powered swing of Porthos' blade, Athos was left vulnerable to Porthos' fist, which smashed into the side of his face causing him to momentarily be stunned and drop to one knee. The match might have ended then and there, but Athos had the presence of mind to fling his body towards Porthos' lower legs to avoid the blade that was coming in for the 'kill'. The maneuver resulted in a beneficial outcome, namely he didn't die and he managed to cause the giant to lose his balance. As Porthos stumbled and tried to regain his equilibrium, Athos used those few precious moments to scramble to his feet and launch an attack of his own. His efforts brought about a light hit but nothing that remotely resemble a stroke that would be consider disabling enough to end the fight.

Both fighters took a few steps backwards, circled, and studied each other. Athos felt something warm trickling down his cheek and he guessed that Porthos' powerful punch had split open his cheek. He was lucky, he supposed, it wasn't worse. Porthos launched another attack and for the next few minutes, Athos dodged, countered, yet still managed to take a number of punches and slaps from Porthos' extraordinary reach. To add to his bleeding cheek, he was pretty sure he was now sporting a split lip and his tongue did a quick circuit of his lip confirming his hypothesis.

Athos was being savaged by Porthos and he had to bring this match to an end quickly if he wanted to be the victor. There was no way he would survive much more of this sheer brutality. To win, he had to fight fire with fire and use Porthos' own techniques against him. With a savage yell, Athos charged towards his opponent, batted his outstretched sword aside, and then used his foot to place a swift kick into a place that would not have been considered polite in any gentlemanly duel. Athos had seen Porthos employ this particular maneuver on an opponent once and it had been as effective then as it was now.

Porthos moaned in pain and it was echoed by every single one of the musketeers watching the bout. His mind temporarily went blank and Athos used those few precious seconds to whip out his main gauche, which up to this point he hadn't used, and hold it against Porthos' neck.

"Give up. You are dead," Athos declared holding his sharp blade menacingly, yet safely against the downed man's jugular.

"You kicked me in the balls, you bastard," Porthos wheezed out, between gasps of pain.

Athos removed his knife from Porthos' throat and stepped away. "A trick I learned from you."

"Oi," the street fighter replied, as he hunched over as if to protect his privates from any more attacks. "You learned well. I think you kicked them up to my throat."

Athos appeared somewhat embarrassed on the amount of pain he inflicted upon the man and he apologized. "I am sorry...but...it was necessary."

Porthos straightened, with difficulty, tears running down his cheeks. For once, no man in the regiment thought less of the man whom they often treated derisively. One thing all men had in common, no matter what their race, religion or creed, was the painful knowledge of what it felt like to be hit...there. The tears matting Porthos' beard were well understood as the rest of the troop silently commiserated with the musketeer.

Aramis moved closer to his friend's side to show his empathy, not because he could offer the wincing musketeer any sort of relief. There was no treatment for that pain other than time. Porthos gave his friend a weak smile as he limped past him towards the sidelines. That left Aramis and Athos standing in the middle.

"I suppose I'm next," Aramis said as he slowly drew his rapier from its holder. "However, I would like to request that you don't use that particular defense on me." Aramis gestured towards the miserable looking Porthos. "I do have the ladies of Paris to consider. I wouldn't want to be, how shall I put this, out of commission."

Athos gave a little head tilt, which Aramis chose to interpret as concurrence. Raising his blade and placing his free hand on his hip, he announced, "En garde."

With a little smirk that he didn't choose to hide, Athos raised his own sword. In the future, Aramis would become very familiar with what that deliberate, sly smile meant and would be cautious after he'd seen it. Unfortunately, now he didn't know any better.

Treville, who'd been working in his office on the never ending paperwork that came with his job, heard the loud moan of his men, and fearing the worse, had rushed out on his porch to see what was occurring. Looking at the obviously weary Athos and the doubled over Porthos, he deuced they must have had one hell of a sparring match. The captain watched as Aramis stepped up to fight and he leaned on the rail to observe what he thought would be an interesting match. He was fairly certain Athos was the better swordsman, but he thought the romantically inclined musketeer would give him a good run for his money.

Athos was confident he could beat Aramis because, like Porthos, he had seen the musketeer spar and knew his weakness. He had also been looking forward to working with Aramis because he knew he could correct the few flaws in the man's fighting style and make him twice as dangerous. But again, to his advantage that had not occurred yet.

The first thing he would correct is that silly hand on Aramis' hip. It was tactically better to keep that hand free, moving it in front and behind to maintain balance, deflect and occasionally use it like Porthos, to hit. To prove his point, at least in his mind, about Aramis' hand placement, Athos launched into a lightning fast series of thrusts and parries that swiftly had his opponent off kilter. The hand rapidly left Aramis' hip, as he struggled to avoid being hit by Athos' flashing blade.

Regrettably, Athos' stamina ran out before he could land a decisive winning stroke and he started to fall back as Aramis regained his footing. The marksman wasn't tired like his opponent and was using that to his advantage. At one point, both men drew their main gauches and put them into play. Aramis was the first to capitalize on his as he managed to trap Athos' blade and the two men drew nose to nose for a few seconds.

Up close, Aramis could detect the remnants of alcohol on Athos' person. "You're drunk?" he half questioned, half exclaimed with disbelief.

"Drunk, no. Hungover, maybe." Athos broke free of the hold then circled.

Aramis matched him pace for pace. "Unbelievable."

"Same thing I thought to myself, when your friend Marsac set up this little challenge for me today," Athos remarked grimly, before launching into an attack that ended up with the point of his rapier on Aramis' heart. Leaning in, he growled, "I don't really appreciate it."

Stepping back, he lowered his blade to his side and glared over at Marsac. "Are we done?" he sarcastically intoned, deliberately provoking the man. He knew this exhibition was not going to end before they crossed swords. "Or do you feel the need to display your inadequacies with a blade?"

Marsac's face took on a pink tinge at the slight and that smug grin appeared on Athos' face again. 'Good,' Athos thought. Marsac was a man that fought with his emotions. A flaw of which he'd be sure to take advantage. Marsac had been rubbing him wrong since they'd met.

Treville had moved down the stairs and was now standing next to Aramis and the mostly recovered Porthos. Athos looked deceptively cool, calm and collected, even though he was exhausted.

Marsac gave a little theatrical sniff of the air. "Is that cheap wine I smell? Perhaps mixed with the scent of horse shit? I hear you are quite experienced in waking up drunk in the streets."

As much as he'd love to wipe that smug look off Marsac's face, he couldn't rise to the man's baiting, so Athos remained detached and instead fired his first salvo. "I'm sure you will not be able to smell anything soon." With that, he launched into an attack where the final act of the maneuver was to bloody Marsac's nose with his left fist.

Angrily wiping his hand across his bleeding orifice, Marsac hissed, "You fight in the same uncouth manner as that street savage."

There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was referring to Porthos who bristled, but settled when the Aramis laid a soothing hand on his arm. "Don't take offense by it. He is simply trying to rile Athos."

"That street savage has more honor than you, Sir, who hides behind twenty men before he fights." Athos made a rather lazy series of thrusts, more for emphasis than with any expectations of landing a meaningful blow.

Treville was lost as to the meaning of Athos' comment since he had only seen the tail end of Porthos' fight and Aramis'. However, a mutter ran through the rest of the crowd, which only served to infuriate Marsac.

"Common, drunken, son of a street whore," Marsac growled, as he launched an attack.

The next words were lost to the rest of the crowd in the clanging of the metal swords as they met, but Athos clearly heard them.

"What did you do to get the captain to hire your sorry ass? Unspeakable things, perhaps," Marsac mocked as they danced with their deadly blades.

Athos had enough of this fool and decided to give him a lesson in humility. In hindsight, it was probably not a smart idea, but for as cool and collected as he mostly appeared, Athos had a temper that was blistering hot when let lose. In a series of maneuvers designed to demean, debase and denigrate Marsac in front of his peers, Athos used all his skill and savvy to subjugate the man until he was a pitiful pile of human flesh on the ground. The angry swordsman had been very careful not to actually hurt Marsac, other than the bloody nose, but he had thoroughly vanquished him.

For the first time, the captain had second thoughts on whether Athos would make a suitable musketeer. He strode over to where the two men were, one on the ground practically quivering and the other arrogantly standing. As he came close to Athos, he noted the man not only reeked of sweat, but also stale wine. Grappling the man by his bicep, he dragged him a few steps away from the crowd.

His voice was hard with anger as he spat, "Are you drunk?"

Athos blinked at the captain with surprise as he came down off his adrenaline high. "Drunk? No. We had an agreement and I am honoring it. Yes, I was drinking last night and yes, I might be suffering from my indulgence. But, I swear to you I am not drunk," he replied, solemnly.

"Then what is the meaning of this?" He gestured towards Marsac who was being assisted to his feet by Aramis.

Athos' eyes drifted over Treville's shoulder to coolly stare at Marsac whose glare was daring him to speak ill of what happened. Again, Athos decided not to play into Marsac's scheming. Returning his gaze to the captain's steely blue eyes, he gave a slight bow. "I owe you, these men, an apology if I was perceived as being overly ardent with my technique. I only sought to make these men into the best fighting force possible for the King."

Treville shook his head slightly at Athos' speech, for if one listened closely the swordsman hadn't actually apologized. It again occurred to the musketeer captain that Athos was indeed the Comte de la Fere. Try as he might, little traits, such as the ability to use words to one's advantage, kept slipping forth from Athos. If anyone was paying close attention, and managed to look past the clothes, the unruly hair, and some of the behavioral traits, one could see under the veneer lurked more than a common man.

Treville wasn't privy to the fact Marsac had set up this unfair challenge in hopes of putting Athos in his place, nor had the captain heard the cruel comments exchanged during the duel. So when it crossed his mind to spar with Athos personally, to see how good the man really was, he had no idea what an unfair burden he was placing on the swordsman. Yes, the man in front of him appeared tired, if one really looked closely, but he had apparently only dueled three men, nothing compared to what could happen in a real fight. If this level of lassitude was indicative of the man's stamina, then maybe he was making a mistake in thinking Athos would make a fine musketeer.

"Since you seem so eager to cross swords today with my top rank musketeers, what say you and I have a bit of a spar," the captain challenged.

Aramis started to speak to explain to the captain that Athos had already bested more than twenty of them and it really wasn't fair, but Marsac quickly cut him off. "And excellent idea, Captain Treville. You are the best swordsman of us all," he simpered. "Let's see what our new instructor can teach you."

Athos swallowed hard, as he watched Marsac draw him into a web from which he couldn't escape. He was exhausted, desperately trying to hide the trembling in his heavy limbs. He had no doubts of the captain's skills, and any other day would look forward to the challenge. But at the moment, he was too weary in mind and body. An exhausted fighter is a sloppy one and he was afraid he might slip and cause an unintentional injury if his body betrayed him.

His eyes sought out Aramis, the one musketeer he thought might stick up for him. However, he found no quarter there, as the marksman refused to try to interfere again. Apparently, there was no backing out of this challenge with the captain.

Aramis actually was feeling torn. He knew Marsac had orchestrated this whole event, though what his motives were in doing so weren't necessarily clear to Aramis. Athos and Marsac seemed like oil and gunpowder, likely to burst into flames if agitated in the right manner. Marsac burned quick and hot while Athos definitely had a longer burning fuse, but as this duel had demonstrated, the man did have a temper. Marsac and Athos simply had rubbed each other wrong from the first time they had met, though Aramis was always optimistic and thought he could bring them together. But to do that he couldn't alienate his good friend Marsac and it would be interesting to see the captain and Athos spar, so he refused to meet Athos' gaze when he pointedly looked in his direction.

With an inaudible sigh, Athos raised his blade, palm parallel to the ground and waited for Captain Treville to match his pose. Raising his own sword, Treville mirrored him before they did a polite sword tap, and the battle began. Athos had no advantage going into this duel, as he'd never seen the captain fight. Any weaknesses the captain might possess would have to make themselves known as they fought, like in a real battle where one doesn't know the enemy until he is met.

They parried and thrust, lunged and retreated, testing the waters. Both of them scored some insignificant hits, but nothing that could be considered lethal. By this time, Athos had formed an opinion of Captain Treville's prowess with a blade, which was exceptional, but beatable. Somehow, though, it didn't seem sensible for him to defeat the captain as he had all his previous opponents. This wasn't a life or death situation. It didn't seem honorable to disrespect the man in such a fashion. So, as opportunities to end this battle came and went, Athos dismissed them for two main reasons, honor and simple exhaustion; he simply wasn't able to convert the situation into a power play.

At one point, Athos used an intricate parry, riposte combination that caused the captain to stumble and drop to his knees. Treville, prepared for defeat, yet it didn't come as Athos, stepped back, and didn't press home his obvious advantage. It left the captain questioning as to why.

Regaining his feet, he stared at his opponent, taking stock of him. A dark bruise was forming on the left side of Athos face, striped by blood from the cut high on his cheek bone. His split lip was taking on a puffy appearance and his tongue kept darting at the small drops of blood that were occasionally welling from the slice. The captain had served in enough wars, battles, and skirmishes to know what an exhausted soldier looked like, one that was simply being fueled by adrenaline and that was what he saw before him in Athos. The man had to want this fight to be over and yet he hadn't taken the opportunity when it honestly presented itself.

Moving closer, his sword slack at his side, he softly said, "You had me."

Athos dropped his gaze to the dirt, neither confirming or denying the statement.

Captain Treville studied the bowed head of unruly brown hair in front of him. "Why?"

Raising his head, Athos' green eyes wearily met the captain's questioning ones. "You are the captain. It didn't seem. . .proper."

This man's moods simply baffled Treville. A moment ago Athos had deliberately humiliated Marsac in front of a huge number of his peers, and yet when given the chance to honestly best him, he backed away. "I'm not the King, Athos. I can admit defeat graciously in a fair fight, which this was."

"Perhaps, we could do this another day, when I'm not quite so tired, in a more private location," Athos suggested in a tone that was all reasonableness.

"If this is how you fight when you are exhausted, I shudder to think of my chances when you are well rested," Captain Treville stated, a small grin gracing his weathered features.

"I'm sure you will acquit yourself admirably, even though I believe you will lose," Athos replied drily, a slight twinkle in his eyes. "Shall we declare this a draw?"

Reaching over, Treville clapped the other man resoundingly on the shoulder and was a little alarmed to see him sway slightly. "A draw, it is," he announced in a loud voice for all to hear. "Now," he spoke directly to Athos again, "go clean up. You smell worse than a week old army at a siege."

With a slight bow, Athos walked away towards his room. The rest of the musketeers dispersed except Aramis, who walked over to the captain. "You do know he had successfully fought more than twenty duels and won every one."

The look on the captain's face clearly showed he had not realized it had been that many. "No wonder he was exhausted. I was blaming it on the drink, thinking he had only fought with you, Porthos and Marsac before I challenged him."

Aramis shook his head. "He truly is the best swordsman I have ever seen. We can learn a lot from him. He'll really improve the regiment." Aramis dangled the unasked question on a hook before his captain, but the man wouldn't bite. Still, Aramis had a sneaking suspicion the captain had greater plans for Athos than just a weapons instructor. But if the captain wanted to play his cards close to the vest, it was ok with him. He'd try to work a bit of magic on his own with Athos and a good place to start was trying to broker a peace between Athos and Marsac. After all, if they were someday to serve together, side-by-side, it might be nice if they all got along.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 19

For the rest of the winter, as the weather allowed, Athos would be in the garrison's courtyard training the musketeers to refine their swordsmanship. One day he decided to provide some instruction in usage of a sword from horseback and in doing so discovered another area in which he could help improve the musketeers, horsemanship. While most of them had grown up riding, their level of expertise greatly varied. Some of the musketeers, who, like Porthos, had come from the infantry, were the ones requiring the most assistance, since they had less exposure to horses. Athos found it secretly amusing that Porthos, who was always the first to wade into any dangerous situation with confidence, seemed intimated by horses.

Athos' expertise in horsemanship didn't rival that of his swordsmanship, but he was quite accomplished, having been born with a natural seat. Combined with his eye for detail, intrinsic ability to teach, and inherent leadership skills, he had much to offer the regiment. His own stallion, a black Friesian named Roger, was exceptionally well-trained, though he seemed to share some of the same mannerisms as his owner. Roger could be civil around other horses if he chose, but one got the feeling he would be equally happy, if not more so, if they simply went away and left him alone.

As the winter wore on, Athos found his old crutch returning, namely wine. The slide had started on the day that would have been Thomas' twenty-third birthday. The anguish that had been temporarily banished over the months since his accident, invaded his heart and soul again with such force that he turned to his old habits to cope. The bottle of wine he kept in his room to clean off the nicks and cuts that came as part of his job was the first to be consumed. When that wasn't enough to quell his heartache, he had gone out to a tavern, well away from the garrison, to continue to drown his sorrows. The night continued to spiral out of control and did not end well. Morning found him battered, bruised, and face down in an alley with no idea what had transpired.

Sneaking his way back into the garrison, he used one of the stable lads to deliver a message to the captain that pronounced he was ill. After that, he locked himself away in his room for two days and gruffly sent away the people the captain sent to see if he was recovering. On the third day, he emerged from his room to resume his duties. The bruising on the parts of his body that were visible was impressive and Aramis, who saw him in the dining hall, wondered if the rest of his skin was as equally colorful. The salve the medic musketeer offered to help relieve the pain was politely rebuffed, as was his presence.

Over time, Athos' innate personality had become blatantly apparent to the musketeers, namely reserved and aloof. The man was formal and polite, but his overall demeanor could only be described as cool. Rarely did even the hint of a smile grace his lips, and the sorrow weighing down his soul wore on him, making him appear older than his years. He would answer any question put to him if it had to do with what he was teaching, but ask a question of a more personal nature and one would find oneself instantly rebuffed. The walls Athos had built about himself were more fortified than a castle.

All of this, of course, the outgoing Aramis took as a challenge and he tried to drag his friends along into his campaign to befriend Athos. Marsac wanted nothing to do with the aloof swordsman, and try as he might, Aramis couldn't get him past the dislike he harbored towards Athos. Porthos neither liked nor disliked Athos, but tolerated him for the sake of his friendship with Aramis. It seemed to Porthos, if Athos wanted to be left alone, he should be. Athos wasn't a fellow musketeer, he wasn't going to be around forever, and there were better uses for Porthos' time than trying to befriend a man who didn't want to be bothered.

But Aramis remained persistent, though that wasn't the word that flashed through Athos' mind when he saw the man heading towards him as he sat drinking in the dark corner of the tavern. Setting his fiercest scowl upon his face, he glared as Aramis approached the table, but it did absolutely no good. Without invitation, the marksman flopped into the chair next to him.

Aramis noted that Athos had apparently drained two wine bottles dry and was well into his third. Signaling a passing barmaid for a clean mug, Aramis seized the wine bottle and filled the cup he had been handed. "What are we celebrating?" he inquired, as he raised his mug in a toast.

"Your leaving," Athos gruffly proposed, as he downed the contents of his mug, reclaimed his bottle of wine, refilled his glass, and then pointedly left the bottle on his side of the table.

Aramis got the message, but ignored it. "No, I don't think that is happening," he replied serenely as he sipped his wine.

Athos' eyes darkened, he leaned forward, and dropped his right hand out of sight as if to reach for his sword. "I could insist," he growled dangerously.

An easy smile continued to grace Aramis' face. "You could, but you won't," he said with a lot more confidence than he actually felt.

Settling back into his chair, Athos brought his hand back into view to grab his mug and emptied it in one gulp. Securing the wine bottle, he attempted to refill his cup, but sloshed as much on the table as he did in the vessel. "The hell with this," he muttered, as he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. Unsteadily, he placed the wine back on the table, but didn't relinquish his hold on the bottle's neck. "Why won't you leave me alone?" he slurred. "I believe I have clearly indicated my preference."

"I like you," Aramis said in his simple straightforward manner.

Athos contemplated that statement, as he took another swig from the bottle. "You're stupider than I thought."

"Believe it or not," Aramis stated, as he boldly reached across the table and appropriated the wine bottle from Athos' grasp, "you're not the first person to indicate that to me." There was only enough wine left to half fill his glass. Holding the bottle aloft, he gave it a sad shake. "All gone." Placing the bottle on the table, he drained his glass then stood. "Shall we go?" he offered in a tone that bordered more on a command than a suggestion.

Again, Athos' intense green eyes, that changed color with his mood, studied him. Finally, just as Aramis thought he was going to lose this battle, the swordsman sighed and unsteadily rose to his feet.

The tavern was full and the two men had to wind their way from the back corner to get to the exit. At one point, the unsteady Athos blundered into the arm of one of the patrons, who regrettably was an off-duty Red Guard. His actions caused the man's drink to slosh over the edge of his mug and spill. Muttering an apology of sorts, Athos stumbled onwards towards the door.

Angrily, the guard rose and shouted some uncomplimentary comments at the back of the departing Athos. When he got no response, he leapt to his feet and ran after him, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning Athos around. To say the Red Guard was surprised would be an understatement, when a second later, Athos had him pinned to the nearby wall, his main gauche resting snugly against the guard's vulnerable neck.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Athos warned in a low timbre.

Over the years, Aramis would learn to recognize that tone and know it indicated Athos was on the verge of doing something that was probably ill-conceived and intervention from him was appropriate action. But at this moment in time, he was as stunned as the man with the knife at his neck. How had the inebriated Athos, who seemed barely able to walk, managed to pin a man much larger than himself to the wall in such a well-coordinated manner?

After a last little shove to the restrained guard, Athos sheathed his blade, turned, and walked towards the door once more. It would have been impressive if he hadn't careened off the side of the doorway as he tried to pass through it. Stumbling outside into the street, Athos managed to find his equilibrium, thereby avoiding a tumble onto the street.

Hoping to forestall any escalation, Aramis stated, "I'll take it from here, boys. No need to trouble yourselves. Sit down and enjoy your night." With that, he quickly departed the tavern spotting Athos a few yards away heading in the opposite direction from the garrison. Hurrying to catch up to him, he fell in step alongside the man.

"I think you may be a trifle mixed up, my friend. Home is in the other direction."

"I have no home; l am not your friend, and the establishment I seek is in this direction," Athos articulated fairly well for a man who was plastered. Again, Aramis would learn over the years that no matter how drunk Athos was he could still manage to have spots of lucidity, surrounded by sheer stupid drunkenness.

"And what establishment would that be?" Aramis inquired as he reached out a hand to steady Athos was he careened sideways.

"The rust...ust...rusty scup...up...up...per," he drunkenly slurred, his previous articulateness vanishing back into the wine induced haze.

Aramis knew the place and grimaced. Everything about it was horrible. It was the dictionary definition of the word dive. However, before he could voice his disagreement with this idea, the metallic sound of swords being drawn occurred from behind them.

"Halt," a strident voice demanded.

Aramis stopped, slowly turned around, and was pleasantly surprised to see Athos doing the same. What he wasn't happy about was his companion had also drawn his sword. There were six Red Guardsmen facing them, all with their swords held at readiness. Aramis was not liking the odds, even if they had both been sober, which one of them was not.

"No need for violence," Aramis pleasantly suggested to the guard, while he hissed, "put away your sword," at Athos. Neither the Red Guard or Athos seemed to regard his advice as sound, as both continued to hold their swords aloft. With reluctance, Aramis drew his, not that he didn't like a good fight with the Red Guards, but he preferred one where he had at least some hope of surviving in one piece.

It was like the beginning of a horse race where the action goes from nothing to full out in five seconds flat. Aramis still had no clue how Athos did it, but before the marksman had disarmed his first opponent, Athos had already neutralized three of the Red Guards and was closing in on a fourth. Aramis disabled his first opponent and turned to work on his second as he kept an eye on Athos and the other remaining Red Guard.

Athos' opponent appeared as if the last thing he wanted to do was cross swords with the angry, drunken man advancing upon him. In fact, the Guard actually dropped his sword, raised his hands, and the front of his pants grew dark as he wet himself in fear. Athos, seeing the Red Guard had surrendered, slowly walked over to the man who immediately dropped to his knees in the dirt and begged to be spared. Coming to a stop in front of the pitiful man, Athos stared down at him, and then pressed the point of his sword over the man's heart.

Aramis dispatched his opponent, sending his sword flying before backhanding him to the ground. The marksman quickly turned his attention to the drama unfolding with Athos and the sobbing man. He didn't think Athos would harm an obviously cowed man, but then again what did he really know of the man, not to mention he was drunk.

"Athos, he is defeated. You don't need to harm him," Aramis suggested, hoping Athos was rational enough to hear the wisdom of his words.

Time stood still as Athos continued to press the tip of his rapier into the sobbing man's chest. The rest of the Red Guards made no move to help their compatriot, something Aramis would later think upon with scorn. Aramis sheathed his blade and slowly made his way over to where Athos held the man captive.

Aramis was working without an instruction manual, trying to defused the bomb that was Athos. Unlike later in life, he knew very little about this man and what would set him off as opposed to what would make him back down. Then, add the fact that the man was inebriated, making him even more unpredictable, and Aramis was afraid he could cause more harm than good. Still, he had to try.

"Athos, you have defeated him. It would not be honorable to carry this any further."

Aramis hit on the one concept that now and forever would drive Athos' soul, honor.

Making a derisive noise, Athos gradually lowered his sword and the man collapsed into the dirt, still crying. "You are not fit to be in the service of the King. None of you are," he declared sweeping his eyes across the six disarmed men.

"That is why," Aramis said, as he gambled and placed a hand on Athos' arm to urge him to start walking, "they are Red Guards, not Musketeers."

With a last contemptuous glance at the men, Athos let himself be led away. The Red Guards wisely slunk away as Aramis steered Athos towards the garrison. They had only gone a few feet when Athos broke free of Aramis' light grasp, stumbled to the side, and started vomiting.

Noticing the contents of Athos' stomach was all liquid, Aramis constructively suggested, "You really shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. It's not good for you." Athos glared at him before round two of the expulsion began. "Actually, drinking that much whether on an empty stomach or not is not good," Aramis amended.

"Noted," Athos grumbled with a ghost of a smile as he sluggishly straightened.

They slowly began moving in the direction of the garrison again, Aramis letting Athos set the pace.

"Taking down those Red Guards, that was quite impressive," Aramis remarked, as they moved through the darkened streets of Paris.

"I'm good," Athos stated factually without sounding pretentious.

"You are," Aramis amiably agreed. "Maybe you should become a musketeer."

Athos came to a sudden halt, turned, and stared at Aramis. The full moon shed enough light for Aramis clearly to see Athos' face, which was stunned.

"Have you ever given any consideration to the idea?" Aramis gently asked, even though it was clear from the look on Athos' face that the swordsman had entertained the notion. "You seem to be at loose ends at the moment."

"It is a dangerous job. Musketeers die in the line of duty," Athos slowly stated with a level of thoughtfulness Aramis found a touch disconcerting.

"Well not that frequently, I assure you. We are not complete buffoons like the Red Guard," Aramis hastily assured him.

Athos turned and after a slight stumble, started making forward progress once more. "Still, it is an honorable profession and fraught with formidable risks."

Once again, Aramis was amazed at the clarity in which Athos' drunk mind could find truths.

"The risks are high, at times, but proper planning, a level head, and teamwork can greatly increase the odds of being victorious," Aramis fervently declared. "And a bit of prayer to the Almighty doesn't hurt either."

That brought Athos to a halt again as he rounded on Aramis, his face a mask scornfulness. "How can you be so naive as to think God cares?"

"God cares about everyone, even you my drunken friend." Aramis' sincerity shone from every part of his heart and soul like a beacon on a dark night.

Snorting, Athos turned his back on Aramis. "God and I have parted ways," he mumbled, as he began to walk away.

Somehow, having a theological conversation on God, in the middle of the night, in the streets of Paris, with a drunken man didn't seem like a good idea, so Aramis let Athos' statement pass, though someday he would tackle it.

When they entered the garrison, Athos turned to head towards his room and Aramis followed him all the way to the door. Athos opened his door, stepped inside, then gave a stern glare to Aramis making it quite clear he wouldn't tolerate the marksman crossing over the threshold.

Taking the hint, Aramis simply said, "If you have no further need of my assistance, I'll head off to bed. It's quite late."

Presenting the mien of a stoic, it was clear that Athos didn't believe that any assistance had ever been required. Turning, he went into his room and soundly closed the door in Aramis' face.

"I think I'm growing on him," Aramis stated to the night air, as he wandered back to his own rooms.

Athos, once alone, stripped off his weapons, dropped them on the floor and collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed. His head was throbbing, his stomach was aching, and he knew morning would be miserable when it arrived in a few hours. However, before he drifted off in a drunken slumber, the idea of becoming a musketeer once more romped through his alcohol soaked brain. Perhaps it was a solution to his problem. An honorable way to seek release from this torture that was his life.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 20

"Your Eminence," she stated in a formal, yet sultry tone as she genuflected.

The Cardinal glanced up from his paperwork and stared at the top of the dark, bowed head. With a wave, he dismissed his guards and frankly appraised the beauty in front of him as the lady straightened. His piercing eyes undressed her as neatly as his capable hands could have done, had he been in the mood.

She stifled her urge to be direct and forward. Their relationship was still very new, and she had only been in the Cardinal's employ for less than six months. Using her natural talents, she had wormed her way first into his bed, but that was not her ultimate goal. She wanted to be sheltered under his power and prestige and use it to lift her station in life again, the one that had been ripped from her greedy hands by her estranged husband. The Cardinal was a dangerous man and she understood that, but she was an equally formidable woman, one not afraid to get her hands, or anything else, dirty to achieve her goals.

"I don't recall having sent for you, Milady" he drawled in a rather bored and sarcastic tone. "And I don't appreciate whores taking the initiative to make a pleasure call at my place of work.

Her hands suggestively smoothed her garments as both a tease and a way to hide her nervousness. She knew she was dealing with a snake and had to tread extremely cautiously.

"While I enjoy your Eminence's skills in all matters," she purred in a concupiscent fashion, "today I bring you something that might interest your brain more than your body."

Like a jungle cat, Richelieu rose from behind his desk and glided to stand a few feet in front of his mistress. "I see," he nonchalantly murmured, as he ran a finger down the side of her face, neck, and shoulder. "But perhaps I am only interested in you for my more carnal pursuits."

His long, elegant fingers trailed across her more intimate areas and she leaned into his touch to show her pleasure with his ministrations. "I am happy to serve your Eminence in any manner desired," she breathed in his ear.

Suddenly, like an unexpected wind snuffing a candle, the Cardinal withdrew his touch, turned and moved back to sit in his chair looking incredibly bored once again. She nearly stumbled because of his swift departure and she inwardly cursed him for his little games he so enjoyed playing. But she knew this was all part of dealing with him so she masked her irritation, took a few steps forward, and did a bit of a power play of her own. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on the far side of his desk and ensured her assets were properly displayed. With satisfaction, she noted the blue eyes did make a quick trip to where she intended and her smile was a bit less than demure. Two could play that game.

"Would you be interested to know that six of your Eminence's Red Guards were defeated last night by a lone musketeer and a drunken lout," she inquired, sweetly. "I hear they lost in a most humiliating manner, quite the laughingstock of Paris."

The Cardinal sat back in his chair and made a steeple from his index fingers. "And you heard of this how?"

Sensing that they were moving towards more even ground, she straightened up and adopted a more authoritative posture. "I have my sources, ones that I keep explaining will be of great use to you as well as my other unique skills."

Cardinal Richelieu cocked an eyebrow at her, as he silently studied her. There was no denying she was a satisfactory bedroom partner, but he sensed in her qualities that he could use beyond that point. Her chameleon like ability to blend into all sorts of situations, in both high and low society, was very useful for some of his schemes. She was also always very well informed about what was going on in the palace as well as the streets of Paris. Not a stupid man, he knew she was using him to promote herself into society and to upgrade her position and in actuality he had no problems with that concept. Life was a game they all played. However, if she thought in any way she had the upper hand with him, well she was sadly mistaken. Periodically, cruelly, crushing her spirit was his way of reminding her he could make or break her with a flick of his manicured pinky. However, this story she was relaying had piqued his interest though he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of saying that aloud, so he merely waved his bejeweled fingers indicating she might continue speaking.

"It appears the drunken man disarmed three of your Red Guards in the space of a minute and made a fourth surrender and drop to his knees without even a fight. It is said your man wet himself in terror of this drunken swordsman." The Cardinal's eyes narrowed and she knew her insinuations that his men were incompetent had been heard and not appreciated, so she added, "Of course, good help is so hard to find these days."

Dropping his hands onto his desk, he stated, "Indeed it is. You'd think people would try harder to please me."

The veiled threat did not go unnoticed by Milady. "Which is why I felt compelled to bring you this information. I thought you might be interested in pursuing this talented, if drunken, swordsman."

"I can always use a good swordsman. What do you know of this man?" he queried her.

A small frown marred her classic features. "Not a lot, yet. But if your Eminence commands, I could make certain inquires."

Tired and bored with this game, he rose from his desk, walked over, and seized her by her elbow. "Don't toy with me." He started propelling her towards the back exit of his chamber. "Next time, come to me with all the information, not just some teasing suppositions. Oh, and speaking of teasing," he growled, as he cruelly grabbed her and savagely crushed her lips with a dominating kiss, "be in my bed chambers tonight and be ready to show how willing you are to please me and maybe I won't return you to the gutter where I found you." Breaking off, he slapped her on the derrière, before shoving her out the door and closing it firmly.

She stood in the little used hallway that allowed the Cardinal to move secretly about the palace and worked on controlling her anger. She hated the man and the way he operated, but she also knew his protection was invaluable. If her husband, the Comte de la Fère, ever appeared in her life again, she would need the patronage of a powerful man to keep her neck from the noose. For that, she would play the Cardinal's games. Her only other option would be to kill her husband, something she was not sure she was capable of doing, though she would never admit that to anyone.

Using his long legs, Cardinal Richelieu strode across his spacious chamber to his more public entrance in time to see Captain Treville passing by. "Treville," he called out, halting the man in his tracks. "We need to talk." Without waiting to see if the captain compiled, he abruptly spun and headed back into his chambers to his chair behind his desk. Even though he just sat down, the Cardinal managed to convey the appearance that he had been waiting hours for Treville to come and see him.

"Your Eminence," Treville greeted him, as he respectfully removed his hat.

"It has been brought to my attention that your musketeers have been fighting with my Red Guards openly in the streets of our fair city." The Cardinal noted with interest that this news caught the captain unawares. "We simply can't have that happening, can we."

"Perhaps there was a valid reason," the captain suggested, though if the past were an indication of the future, he doubted it. The musketeers and the Red Guards were like oil and water; they didn't mix well.

"Losing one's self to alcohol and then starting a brawl is hardly a valid reason. It is all rather pedestrian, not what we are looking for in our elite guards now is it, Treville?" Richelieu snarkily counseled. "I know you have this ludicrous notion to allow commoners into the ranks of your illustrious band of merry men and for some reason the King has allowed you this folly, but I won't have your drunken louts crossing swords with my Red Guards. What if an innocent civilian were to be hurt? Control your men, captain, or I will be sure to see to it that the King does," he threatened. Treville had no doubt the man could do it. The King was fickle at best and easily swayed by this man.

"I shall look into this matter," Treville managed to grind out politely between his clenched teeth.

"Good, and speaking of men, are yours prepared for their training exercise?"

Treville's frown deepened. "Is it really necessary to conduct a training exercise on Easter? Surely, another week won't hurt. Even the weather appears to be worsening and we might have more snow."

Rising from behind his desk, the Cardinal scoffed at the captain's words. "Are your men so delicate, that snow upsets them?"

"Of course not. But twenty men training so close to Savoy, isn't that likely to be misinterpreted?" Treville questioned, having a feeling there was much more at stake here than he was being led to believe.

"You have your orders Captain Treville. I suggest you go sober up your men and carry them out."

The Cardinal stood nose to nose with the captain, towering over him by several inches. With a curt nod, Treville stepped back, donned his hat, and left the office knowing nothing more could be accomplished here today.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 21

"I'm good to go," Porthos pleaded even though he had all his weight resting on his left foot, looking rather like a stork.

The captain shook his head and said in a tone that brooked no argument, "No. You're injured. You shall remain behind. Go to that bench over there, sit down, shut up, and stay out of the way or I will send you to your room." After he said it, he realized it sounded as if he were scolding a petulant child, which Porthos resembled at the moment. "And use the damn crutch," he tacked on as Porthos, grumbling, limped away.

The twenty-two musketeers being sent on the training exercise were gathering in the garrison's courtyard in preparation for departure. Saddlebags were being filled as the men checked that they had all the necessary supplies. The horses shook their heads and snorted as they jostled each other in the yard, which was quickly getting crowded. Porthos was supposed to be amongst them, but an unfortunate fall from his horse yesterday had severely sprained his ankle and the Doctor's prescription was to stay off it, which, of course, Porthos had immediately disagreed with, declaring he didn't need coddling. The physician had somberly shaken his head and told the captain if he wanted Porthos to be able to walk for the rest of his life, he better stay off that ankle until it healed.

Plopping down on the top of the table, in defiance of being told to sit on the bench and shut up, Porthos' scowled, and it was enough to scare anyone away but Athos. On the table near Porthos was a bottle of wine, which Athos desperately wanted and was willing to brave the lion's den to retrieve. Not really sure why, after he poured a mug for himself, he filled a second cup and offered it to Porthos, who accepted it with a grunt. Settling on the table a foot or so away from the big man, Athos drained his cup, refilled it, and sipped as he watched the twenty-some musketeers' preparations.

"Ain't fair," Porthos grumbled, as his dark eyes longingly watched his fellow musketeers begin to mount.

Athos had no dog in this fight so he didn't offer up an opinion or words of comfort. It wasn't his style. He sat quietly as Aramis and Marsac came over and bid their friend goodbye. Aramis also took the time to say a goodbye to Athos, though Marsac totally ignored him, which didn't bother Athos in the least. He wasn't here to make friends, though he secretly did appreciate Aramis' attempt, even if he responded to the marksman's overtures of friendship in his typical cool, aloof manner.

After the twenty-two musketeers rode out the garrison's arched gateway, Captain Treville walked over to stand by the table. The three men remained silent until the last soldier left the yard. At that point, the captain started to head towards his office, then stopped, and turned to address Porthos.

"I have been meaning to ask, do you know anything about a group of musketeers brawling with the Red Guards two nights ago?"

Porthos thought a second before shaking his head no. "Didn't hear anything, captain. But everyone's been so busy preparing for this exercise. The one I should be goin' on," he tacked on under his breath.

The captain chose to ignore the kvetching and remain focused on his original question. "Well apparently some from our regiment took it upon themselves to start a fight the Cardinal's guards, in a public area, and as you can imagine his Eminence wasn't pleased."

"Them guards are pricks," Porthos blurted out, though he did appear a bit abashed at his word choice.

The captain's blue eyes narrowed, his frown deepened and it appeared as if he disapproved of Porthos' word choice. In actuality, he was pondering if Porthos really knew more than he was letting on and was protecting someone.

"Ah... Asses?" Porthos amended with uncertainty, not sure it was really a much better word even if it was accurate.

"Pompous men without honor, decency, or courage, who lack the moral conviction to remain virtuous in the face of adversity and think no further than personal accolades."

Both men turned and stared at Athos, who had probably just uttered the second longest and most convoluted sentence they had ever heard from the normally taciturn man. Porthos' mouth hung open and Captain Treville had to work very hard to keep his jaw closed.

Athos suppressed an eye roll and with a long-suffering sigh declared, "Asses works."

Porthos continued to stare at Athos for a few seconds then grunted, "Exactly."

"Well, whichever musketeers were involved must have soundly beaten the Red Guards, otherwise I'm sure the Cardinal would have rubbed my nose in the fact his guards came out victorious." There was a slight twinkle in the blue eyes even though he could never publicly condone such behavior.

Without thinking, Athos adamantly declared, "Of course they won."

Once again, the eyes focused on Athos, who arched an eyebrow as he adopted what would later be known as his 'Comte' mode. "You hired me to improve your musketeers' swordsmanship. So of course I would expect them to win." Superiority oozed from his entire being and his voice could only be described as haughty.

The captain took Athos at face value, not yet wise to the fact the man was a skilled orator when he chose, and more than capable of presenting information in a manner that more suited his purposes than perhaps the literal truth.

Shaking his head, Treville stated, "Eventually I will ferret out the culprits."

Rather distractedly, the captain stared out the gate even though none of the musketeers were visible anymore. Athos obliquely watched him, thinking that something more than the mystery brawl was bothering the man. However, their relationship had not yet advanced to the point where Athos would seek to find out what troubled the captain, so he simply let the moment pass.

Eventually, Treville shook free of his reverie and focused his attention on Porthos. "Stay off that ankle, Porthos, and let it heal properly."

"Aye, captain," he replied, even though both men knew the chance of him complying was slim.

"And use the damn crutch," Treville barked, as he started up the stairs to his office.

Athos and Porthos sat on the table in awkward silence after the captain's departure. Aramis was the catalyst for trying to bring together Porthos, Marsac, and Athos. Without him there, serving as the buffer, Athos and Porthos realized they had nothing to say to each other. With one man mumbling something about resting and the other training, they quickly departed from each other's unwelcome company.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 22

The men participating in the training exercise, about a third of the musketeers, had been gone for two days and the garrison seemed exceptionally empty. With the holidays approaching, a large portion of the remaining musketeers were being kept busy watching over the King and his guests as they prepared to celebrate the holy days. Treville seemed to be spending most of his day alone in his office, except for morning muster when he was in the garrison's yard.

Finding some spare time on his hands one afternoon, Athos decided to see if his new blade was complete, which it was, and to pay Madame Bonacieux a visit to see if the spare set of pants he had ordered were finished. He was finding his current occupation was hard on his garments. Since he had been satisfied with the clothing Madame Bonacieux had made for him thus far, he was happy to give her more of his business.

When he arrived at her residence and shop with his new blade securely fastened at his side, she greeted him warmly. She informed him his pants were ready, but asked if he'd try them on before he left to ensure they were correct. Though he would have rather taken his chances and not tried on the pants, he found Madame Bonacieux a tad overwhelming; and the next thing he knew, he was headed for a room in the back part of the residence to try on the pants.

He wasn't even sure why he had started walking in that direction, but when he turned around to forego the fashion show, he spotted her at the doorway, hands on her hips. Her eyes were flashing and her whole demeanor loudly suggested he rethink his decision. In a moment of cowardliness, he slunk back into the spare bedroom and began to strip off his trousers and new sword belt. She was a formidable woman.

Watching Athos skulk away, she allowed a smug smile to settle on her lips. 'Men,' she thought as she walked into the main body of her house. She went over to stoke the fire since even though it was nearly Easter, it was still nippy outside. Her back was to the outside door when she heard it open and close unexpectedly. Spinning around, she found four strange men in her living quarters and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. The men were poorly dressed and she seriously doubted they were here seeking her or her husband's services. Not wishing to antagonize them, she politely asked, "May I be of some assistance, Messieurs?"

One of the men stepped forward with a lewd grin on his face. "We saw you today. Delivering a package. To the Comte Dubois. It looked quite heavy."

Standing up tall to give the appearance she wasn't intimidated by these ruffians, she replied, "I'm a strong and capable woman."

"Pretty too." The man took another step forward and with the fireplace at her back, Constance had nowhere to which to retreat. "I'll bet you charge a pretty penny for your wares." His tone was oily with the suggestion the wares of which he was speaking weren't clothing.

Taking a chance, Constance attempted to move laterally away, but the man reached out and put his hand on the fireplace mantle, his arm effectively blocking her escape route. She could smell his fetid breath and foul body odor.

"And I'm betting the Comte paid you when you delivered his clothes today. So why don't you hand that over to me with any other money you might have lying around your fine establishment and maybe we'll be on our way without troubling you further." Removing his hand from the mantle, he ran his fingers down the side of her face and over her bodice.

Letting out a shriek, she placed both her hands on his chest and attempted to shove him away. She wasn't successful; and the man grabbed her and flung her to the floor. One of the three men still standing by the door yanked her back up and held her tight, with her arms pinned behind her. Constance struggled, but quickly realized it was futile so instead she yelled again, loudly. The first man reached out and backhanded her across the mouth, silencing her.

Before he could lay another finger on her, he suddenly found himself being flung across the room by a man in his braies and shirt, brandishing a sword. "Unless you wish to cause Madame Bonacieux the inconvenience of having to scrub your blood from her floors, I suggest you don't move."

Athos' rapier was drawn and his eyes flicked between the man on the floor, the two over by the door and the last one, who had let go of Constance. The three standing men slowly moved together to face Athos. Apparently, a lone man with a sword standing in his undergarments wasn't very intimidating.

"It would appear you have no regards for whether you all live or die," Athos casually noted as the men began to converge on him.

Stepping towards the man on the floor, he gave a quick flick of his wrist, so the tip of his blade slashed the man's leg. Hopefully, this would keep the man down and out of the fight. Then the Athos spun towards the other three combatants. Athos was the only one in the room with a sword, but that didn't stop the other three men from grabbing nearby objects to defend themselves. Once again Athos found he was facing the dreaded wooden spindle that had injured him last time. With a long-suffering sigh, the swordsman launched an attack.

Constance, who had been flung to the floor when the fight started, crawled out of the way. Not a shrinking violet, she climbed to her feet, grabbed a nearby kettle, and swung it at the head of one of the men attacking Athos. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled as he sank, unconscious, to the floor.

The swordsman didn't have time to thank Constance as he was hard pressed to keep from being beaten down by his remaining to assailants. Fighting with a rapier, in a small enclosed area, was turning into a challenge because of all the obstacles. The bandit holding the spindle managed to bring it down resoundingly on his forearm causing Athos to drop his sword. Only momentarily derailed, Athos ducked low and barreled into the man, knocking him into the man behind him. Like dominos, they all ended up on the floor and the wrestling match commenced. Athos, who had spent a great deal of time observing Porthos' street-fighting tactics, employed them now to his advantage.

It wasn't long before he had the three men defeated. Two were lying on the floor, knocked out, and the other was also on the ground, his knee cap shattered, a good feat considering Athos was in his stocking feet. As he was turning to make sure Madame Bonacieux was safe, a horrifying sight greeted his eyes. The man he had stabbed in the leg had somehow risen and was holding a knife to Constance's neck.

"You have lost, Monsieur. Let her go," Athos tried to reason with the bandit.

"Said the weaponless man standing in his braies. No, I don't think I have lost," the man retorted.

Athos spied what he needed out of the corner of his eye. Holding his hands open in front of him, he took a calculated step to the right, and then stopped. "Let her go. I will gladly give you all the coinage I have with me and I am sure Madame will reconsider her position and provide you with the payment received from the Comte." Taking another step to his right towards the workbench in the room, he played to the man's baser instincts, "In fact, Madame Bonacieux will be so grateful that you spared her life that she will drop to her knees and thank you...properly."

A suggestive cocking of his eyebrow and a touch of a leer sealed the deal as Athos saw the knife waiver from Constance's vulnerable neck.

"Kneel!" Athos commanded with such authority that Constance found herself responding and dropping to her knees as the bandit relaxed his grip. As she sank to her knees, she wondered if Athos had gone from being her champion to helping her attackers.

In less than ten seconds she had her answer as Athos' hand flashed out, seized the scissors on the sewing table, flung and embedded them in the bandit's now exposed neck. A gurgling noise emitted from the bandit's mouth as he collapsed onto the floor and Constance scrambled to get out of the way.

Athos' warrior persona disappeared and was replaced by his aloof, gentlemanly one as he moved across the small space to assist the shaken woman to her feet. Constance clung to Athos for a few minutes as the enormity of the situation she had been through hit her. If he hadn't been here, she would have been robbed, raped, or even worse. Her whole body started to tremble and Athos carefully guided her to a nearby chair and encouraged her to sit. With a grateful mummer, she sank into the chair. Respectfully, Athos moved a few feet away so as not to intrude on her personal space.

Constance let her tears of fright finally cascade down her face, as Athos stoically stood to the side, not quite sure of his role. He hardly knew this woman other than she made fine clothing.

"You must think me silly," she sniffled, as she wiped the tears from her face.

"On the contrary, I think you showed extreme bravery facing those ruffians," he sincerely complimented her. "You swing one mean kettle, Madame."

Their eyes shifted to the bandit she had beaned with the pot, who was still out cold on her floor. "You are not so bad yourself, Monsieur, with those scissors. Quite a trick."

Athos gave an indifferent shrug, though the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. "I was taught using a knife, but there wasn't one handy." An awkward silence settled over the room as they surveyed the four bandits on the floor. "I fear I did spill blood on your floor."

"Well I'm glad it isn't mine or yours," Constance replied. She suddenly realized that she didn't know if that was a true statement. She was fine, but he had been fighting four men and her eyes sought his body and swept it from head to toe.

Athos swiftly grew uncomfortable with the direction of her gaze and a small blush actually formed on his exposed neck. "I am fine, I assure you."

Constance had to question his definition of fine as she could already see some telltale bruises forming on his body, the careful way he was cradling his right forearm, the one that had been whacked by the spindle, and a gash on his thigh that was bleeding on his braies.

Feeling awkward, Athos decided action was called for to restore order. "It would be best if I went and got the guards to arrest these men." Athos started heading for the door, but Constance's voice brought him to a screeching halt.

"Monsieur Athos. Perhaps it would be prudent if you finished dressing first?" she suggested, unable to keep an element of mirth from creeping into her voice.

Constance could almost hear the curses that were running through Athos' mind as he reversed his direction to head back to where he had left his pants, boots and weapons. It was ironic that even though he had a brand new sword, he had been forced to battle with a pair of shears.

"And don't be putting those new pants on over those bloody braies," she called after him and Athos' shoulders flinched as he disappeared from sight.

'Men,' she thought again. But she was glad he had been here. She owed him her life.

When he returned to the room a few minutes later, he was fully clothed, the new pants folded neatly and tucked under his arm. Laying them on the table, he inquired if she had something he could use to secure the prisoners while he went to find the guards. There was no absence of good binding materials in a tailor's shop and he swiftly had three of them trussed up like a Noël goose. The fourth man, who had been impaled by the scissors, was dead. He unceremoniously dragged them into the corner of the room before leaving to hunt down the Red Guards.

While he was gone, Constance kept busy, tidying up the mess to keep her mind occupied. When the Red Guards showed up, they questioned her, though she got the feeling they weren't all that sympathetic to her plight. However, they did haul off the prisoners, and the dead man, and for that she was glad.

As the final Red Guard went to leave the house, he stopped for a moment in front of Athos, who had been leaning unobtrusively against the wall. "I know you," he declared.

Athos had known who the Red Guard was from the moment he has seen the man in the street. But he had no choice. He couldn't go running all over Paris looking for another troop of Red Guards, so he had pulled his hat down low and hoped for the best. It seemed, however, his luck was running out.

"I don't think so, Monsieur. I'm a simple, law abiding citizen who has had no dealings with the Cardinal's fine fighting force." Except, he added, but only in his mind, for kicking your asses in a drunken brawl.

Athos put on his stoic, pious face, trying to bluff his way through. He must have been somewhat convincing as the guard finally shrugged and dragged the prisoner he was carrying away. When they were all outside, Constance closed the door and glanced over at Athos.

"You were lying to that guard, weren't you, Athos."

"What makes you think that, Madame?" he questioned, neither denying or acknowledging her claim.

Walking across the room, she went into a cupboard, withdrew two mugs and a bottle of wine, and brought them over to the table. After she filled both cups, she held one out to him. He gratefully accepted it and forced himself to sip it, not down it in one gulp.

"I have three brothers. I know what men lying to cover up something stupid look like," she declared, as she gulped down her wine in a very unladylike manner.

Figuring he now had permission, he polished off his drink and Constance took his mug and refilled it. "You are an astute woman it appears," he said.

She snorted as she dropped into a chair and cradled her cup. "Not astute enough to stop from getting robbed and almost killed." Her bottom lip began to quiver.

Athos wasn't one to offer comfort, but he did offer advice as he sat down across from her. "Perhaps it would be best if you left the deliveries to your husband. And I'd get a sturdier lock for that door and use it."

"I do lock the door when I'm alone here. But when I'm with a customer..." her voice trailed off.

"Well I am sure this was an unfortunate accident. And," he continued with what passed for a grin on his face, "when the word gets out how brave and fearsome you are, no one will dare bother you again, Madame Bonacieux."

Smiling, Constance reached across the table and clasped his left arm, which was resting on the table holding his cup. She saw him try to hide an involuntary flinch that her instincts said had nothing to do with any pain she was causing by placing her hand on his uninjured arm. "Thank you for saving my life, Monsieur Athos."

Trying not to be rude, he discreetly withdrew his arm from her grasp and dropped it into his lap. "It was my honor and my pleasure. However, I do have one small request?"

She tilted her head at him questioningly.

"Would you and your husband consider storing your bolts of cloth in some other fashion rather than on wooden spindles? First, I get hit in the head with one and next it is used as a weapon to disarm me. I find them too dangerous to be lying about."

The swordsman deadpanned his request so well it gave Constance a fit of the giggles, which were part hilarity and part stress relief. When she was done, she wiped her eyes again. "I shall take that under advisement and present your case to Monsieur Bonacieux upon his return."

Athos gracefully rose from his chair and gave her a little bow. He then reached in his coin purse and placed the money for his new pants on the table before picking them up and tucking them under his arm.

Constance hastily rose and pushed his money towards him. "Please. I couldn't accept your money. Not after what you just did for me. You saved my life!"

Athos stepped away from the table, not retrieving his coins. "As I said, Madame. It was the honorable thing to do. I expect nothing in return for doing what is right."

"Well, you are one of the few, Monsieur Athos. God bless you."

With a little head tilt, he acknowledged her remark even though he secretly knew how wrong she was in her assumption. He was already damned by God to hell and no amount of good deeds on his part could ever atone for his sins.

She saw the melancholy look on his face as he turned and walked away. Standing in her doorway, she watched until he disappeared down the street. He was an honorable man, her gut told her and she knew she wasn't wrong. However, her instincts also told her he was deeply troubled and searching for something, though she suspected even he didn't know for what. One thing she was sure about, she was going to repay her debt to him, someday, somehow.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 23

Even as an outsider, he had been affected by the events of Savoy, as had all the inhabitants of the garrison. How could one not be? Twenty-two vibrant, valiant musketeers rode out the gate and none returned, though that was not precisely correct. One had returned, but he was a ghost of his former self. A shade amongst the living that didn't understand why he was still here. Aramis, the outgoing romantic with an easy smile, a laugh, and a story for every occasion. The man for whom the word "no" didn't seem to exist. The man who would not deny or be denied anything in life. Aramis, the vivacious human being, had ridden proudly out the gate to Savoy. But Aramis, the despondent wraith of the shadow world, had returned though that same gate.

Athos felt sorrow for the events of Savoy, that the musketeers had lost so many of their ranks, but he didn't intrude on their private grief, or offer up meaningless platitudes. He remained on the outer edge, watching silently, showing his support, but not joining in the solidarity of their lamentation for he wasn't one of them.

He silently observed for a month as the rest of the regiment went through their daily routine by rote. They trained, went on missions, and did their duties because that was what was expected of them. And at the beginning of the second month of mourning Treville began to bring in new recruits to fill in the missing ranks.

It was understood by all that the dead musketeers had to be replaced, and in a timely fashion, because the remaining regiment was stretched extremely thin. Even Athos, on occasion, had been pressed into service. He was level-headed, masterful with a sword, and generally accepted since he trained the musketeers to improve their swordsmanship. Because he felt it was the right thing to do, Athos had accepted the assignments, though in his mind it was in no manner a form of commitment to the regiment. Treville, on the other hand, looked upon his willingness to serve in different manner.

Treville and Athos had been doing a dance of avoidance ever since the captain had started enlisting new musketeers. Athos was convinced the captain was going to ask him to join the musketeers, and the swordsman was correct in his assumption. It had been Treville's plan, ever since he first saw Athos fight, eventually to ask the laconic man to seek a commission. But the captain had been taking it slowly because he was sure that Athos would spook and simply disappear if the matter was not broached cautiously.

The tragic events at Savoy were forcing Treville to be more aggressive with his timetable than originally planned. The captain had decided he needed to take a chance and ask Athos to join, if he could ever find time alone with the man. Pinning Athos down to ask him was turning out to be quite a challenge as the swordsman seemed adept at disappearing whenever Treville sought him out. Somehow, a month had managed to slip by and the captain still hadn't been able to put his question to Athos.

Avoidance was a skill at which Athos excelled. As a young boy, he had used it to carve time out for the things he enjoyed that perhaps didn't exactly match up to the rigorous education his parents thought a future Comte required. He had managed to have a few somewhat secret friendships with children on his parents' estate, though his companions weren't necessarily considered proper playmates. As he grew older, those relationships had disintegrated when Athos began to realize that his friends could be punished for their foolishness in hanging out with the future Comte. It was added to the growing list of reasons he was beginning to hate his birthright.

By the time he was in his mid-teens, he understood the unfair world of the caste system and was careful not to get someone in trouble for the sake of a friendship with him. It made for a lonely life, but he had Thomas, his horse, a stray stable mutt or two, and his books to keep him company. Thomas, being three years his junior, became his shadow, his playmate, and his responsibility. His parents always blamed him for any harm that befell Thomas, though keeping his younger sibling safe was a responsibility that Athos never once regretted. It was a role performed with all his heart and soul, until he met Anne.

Anne's arrival brought an exciting, overpowering, new bond that latched onto Athos' heart. Conflicts began to arise, and his brother, for the first time, seemed like a burden. Athos didn't understand why the two people he loved in life more than anything else couldn't reconcile themselves with each other. He loved them both and didn't want to choose sides, but they had made him do so with their inability to live in the same household.

Young, foolish, and in love, Athos sided with his new wife and withdrew from his sibling. But it wasn't only his brother that disapproved of his new found love and receded from his life. The few acquaintances he had, and even the servants who had been more like parents to him than his own had, drew away from him because of her. It appeared he was the only one blind to her faults.

After he lost his brother to his wife's treachery and had been forced to hang her, the few people that still cared about his well-being, he actively shunned. He was convinced that love was a sham that ended in nothing but heart-ache. God, he decided, was a cruel task master and had forsaken him and the feeling was mutual. Athos wanted nothing to do with the divine, mankind, or especially womankind.

Being raised as a gentleman, however, had ingrained certain inalienable habits onto his soul that simply could not be erased. So his aim in life became to keep everyone at arm's length, to treat them coolly, but with courtesy. He would stay out of the affairs of others, for he had no care for the outcome, and always remain aloof, for he had learned very well that closeness brought only heartache and misery. So it was with this philosophy in mind that Athos avoided Treville, sure that if he were to join the musketeers, it would only bring him more sorrow.

The musketeers were a brotherhood, something Athos didn't dare crave. The ideal of protecting his King and his Country did fit in with his views on life and it wasn't hubris to say he had the skills to be a musketeer. Given the fact that he might die honorably in battle also had its appeal.

What he mainly found disturbing was the strong bonds that he saw forged amongst the musketeers who lived, fought, and died together. That was one thing he was positive he didn't want happening. It was simpler to avoid becoming a musketeer than to risk his heart again. Ironically, his greatest fear would become reality and his salvation, but that was years in the future. Now he simply avoided Treville so he didn't have to make a decision. In this area, Athos would freely admit he was a coward.

When the men from Savoy were brought home and buried in the cemetery, Athos had attended out of simple respect for those honorable men who had been slain in such a dishonorable way. Standing in the rear, he watched and listened, but didn't go as far as to pray for the departed souls. Athos and God had long since parted ways and he felt it was hypocritical to pray to a being he felt didn't care.

His eye had been drawn to Aramis, who was standing front and center, being supported by Porthos and Captain Treville. The captain and the marksman appeared to have aged overnight, especially Aramis. The light and soul had gone out of the man, though unlike Athos who had been driven away from God when he faced tragedy, Aramis appeared to have been drawn closer. At every gravesite, he solemnly dropped to his knees, bowed his weary head, and clutched the crucifix around his neck as if it was his lifeline, and in a way, perhaps it was exactly that.

After the dead were put to rest, the listless Aramis returned to the garrison and for more than a month was its specter, a man walking in a nightmare with no idea how to escape. From the rumors Athos heard circulating among the musketeers, Aramis had such terrible nightmares that he had begged the captain to move him to the most isolated room in the garrison. He didn't want what he considered his shameful agony to be witnessed by his brethren. The few times that Athos and Aramis had ended up in each other's vicinity, Aramis had not even seemed to recognize his presence, unlike in the past where Aramis had forced his cheerful presence on Athos, rather like an over-friendly dog. While he hated to admit it and quickly brushed past it every time the thought edged into his brain, Athos actually found he missed Aramis' overtures of friendship.

It was early evening, though still light out, and Athos, done for the day, had slipped out of the depressing garrison to get a meal and some wine. Of course, he drank way more than he ate, as was his norm. Therefore, he was pleasantly buzzed, but by no means falling down, stupid drunk, when he paid his bill and left the establishment.

Aramis too, had escaped the garrison to go pray once more under God's roof. In the last month since Savoy, he had spent more time on his knees than a washer woman. He tried not to let his faith in God slip away because of the unfathomable tragedy. Daily, he sought an answer from the Almighty on why he survived the massacre at Savoy when everyone else lost their lives. Additionally, he begged God to forgive him for allowing Marsac to walk away and become a deserter. The man had saved his life yet he had not reciprocated, letting Marsac leave to find certain death. Though Aramis diligently prayed for forgiveness, deep in his heart he knew he wasn't worthy of it for having miserably failed his fellow man.

Once again this afternoon, he had slipped the leash that was Porthos and had come to the house of God to beg, plead, and grovel for forgiveness. Hours upon hours of prayer had brought no relief to his battered soul and his frustration peaked. As his tortured mind got no comfort from his prayers, heretical thoughts darkened his mind. He knew his covert desire to join his slain brethren was wrong, and would condemn him to hell, but he felt as if he were already there as he tried to live in this world.

It was ironic that fate, God, or whatever one cared to believe in, had Aramis' and Athos' paths cross in a manner that set the stage for the future. Athos was strolling down the street from a tavern when he collided with Aramis, who had suddenly stumbled down the steps of a church. Of all the taverns in Paris Athos could have imbibed in and all the churches Aramis could have been praying in, they managed, independently, to choose ones that brought about the unplanned and unwelcome meeting.

Aramis came flying down the steps of the church as if the devil was chasing him and Athos, trying to avoid the unpleasantness of the Paris' street refuse, lurched into him. Instinctually, they grabbed each other's arms, which kept them from spiraling to the ground. Once they both had regained their equilibrium, they released their holds and awkwardly stared at each other in the waning daylight.

Athos was startled when he glanced at Aramis' face and saw an emotion he was very familiar with... deep-set self-hatred and remorse. It was the same look of anguish that had come close to driving Athos to kiss steel in his darkest moments, when the demons drove him in dangerous directions. It shook his soul to see a man who had been so full of light and goodness driven to such deep darkness. It was incongruous that Athos was able to discern that Aramis shouldn't blame himself for the events that were wrongly driving his soul into darkness and yet Athos would never be able to fathom that he deserved the same mercy.

Talking on personal matters had never been one of Athos' strong points. He could provide directions, orders, commands, and instructions with ease, but one-on-one conversations of an intimate nature had always eluded him and made him break out in a cold sweat. But his sense of honor, which above everything else in his life still drove his actions, wouldn't let him simply walk away from Aramis, a man he felt deserving of respect. So like a fish floundering out of water, Athos awkwardly addressed the despondent musketeer.

"Aramis, you appear...distraught. I know we are not friends. Perhaps you would rather be left alone...but can I be of any...assistance?"

He sounded stupid even to his own ears and he wondered why Aramis was still standing there, watching him, and had not immediately turned and left after his blazingly imbecilic speech. Aramis' eyes were studying him with such depth, Athos felt as if the man was trying to divine his inner most thoughts, and it actually made the swordsman involuntarily shiver.

"You know," the marksman, intoned slowly. "I didn't recognize it before in your eyes, but I do now."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 24

Suddenly, Athos had the urge to bolt, but as if Aramis sensed his very thoughts, the marksman reached out and locked his grip on Athos' arm. "How do you live with it? Every day? Every night? How!" Aramis' voice rose in pitch until he seemed on the verge of screaming.

Before Athos could formulate an answer to a question he wasn't even sure he understood, Aramis started moving through the streets of Paris, dragging him in tow. While the swordsman could have broken free, for reasons unknown even to himself, he didn't do so and simply let Aramis haul him along to wherever the determined man was heading. When Aramis finally released his arm, Athos still obediently trailed alongside the marksman.

Athos was surprised when Aramis made his way down to the banks of the river Seine where it ran behind the buildings of Paris. He watched as Aramis flopped down on the banks of the waterway and beseechingly looked at him to do the same. Grimacing at the rather muddy ground, Athos was glad he had purchased more than one pair of trousers from Madame Bonacieux for he was going to need a clean pair after sitting here. Gingerly, he arranged his compact frame on the ground, unbuckling his sword, and laying it on the far side of his body.

Once he was assured that Athos was seated, Aramis switched his gaze to look down the river at the orange ball of fire about to extinguish itself in the currents of the Seine. "Do you ever have the desire?" Aramis questioned cryptically. "To burn eternally in the pits of fire and brimstone? Damning yourself? Knowing it is wrong yet not knowing how it is not right?"

Even with a totally clear head, Athos would have had trouble following the verbal wanderings of the man sitting beside him. The slight euphoric buzz Athos had when he left the tavern was gone, and was rapidly being replaced by a dull headache as he tried to figure out the discourse he was trapped in. Once again, his social awkwardness in conversations of an intimate nature reared its ugly head. Had this been a discussion of a business or political nature, he could have whipped out an appropriate reply without even breaking a sweat. Had it been a persuasive argument, by this time he would have already had his opponent beaten back against the fence. But this type of touchy-feely confab left him flat-footed and unsure, so he defaulted to his dominant communication style, bluntness.

With an even tone that he had perfected over the years as a Comte, he asked, "Are you questioning if I ever have suicidal thoughts?"

Being the good Catholic that he was, Aramis cringed slightly under Athos brusque speech patterns, but it had been what he was asking. Wordless, he nodded his head to indicate that had been his question.

Of course I have, Athos' mind silently screamed. Every day since I hanged the love of my life from a tree branch in the meadow. In the space of a few heart beats, I lost my brother, my wife, my heart, and my soul. Because it was my duty to uphold the law, my duty to sentence her to death.

Those thoughts were scarcely comforting and did not provide a very stable foundation on which to live the rest of one's life. But those were his deep dark secrets, not to be shared. So Athos did what he did best when backed into a corner and deflected Aramis' question back on the marksman. "Are you having troubling thoughts after Savoy, Aramis?"

Derisively snorting, Aramis muttered, "Troubling thoughts? They haunt my every waking moment and my sleep at night. They drive me to want to simply walk into this river, let the water close over my head and me carry away."

Still drowning in his own inadequacies, Athos decided to stick with the factual to make his point. "You are a very religious man and have a deep faith in your God. You know what you contemplate is incompatible with church doctrine."

Aramis turned his dark eyes on Athos and his voice crept up in pitch. "Unbelievable. A man sits by your side, Athos, and tells you he wants to die, and the most compassionate thing you can come up with to say is that it's against church doctrine? You can't be that cold."

Aramis was startled when a small, sad, smile crept into the corners of Athos' lips. "I am," he starkly replied with a self-imposed truth he had yet to admit aloud. "I separated myself from the rest of mankind a long time ago and I have no intentions of ever seeking it again."

"Bullshit," Aramis exclaimed accusingly, at the pompous statement made by Athos. "You haven't given up on mankind as you claim or you wouldn't be here trying to stop me from flinging myself into the Seine."

The small flicker of confusion that darted across Athos' face was quickly tamped down. "I'm here simply because you dragged me..."

"...Bullshit. You could have easily gone your own way..."

"...and because I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life eight months ago." Whether I wanted you to or not, he silently added. Taking a deep breath, Athos continued, "So if you are having improper thoughts about seeking death, in strict conflict with the teachings of your faith, then I highly advise against it."

"Do you know how that sounds?" Aramis retorted with slight amusement coloring his tone.

"Cold? Pompous? Callous? Pretentious? Heartless?" Athos equitably suggested as he provided the list of synonyms for uncaring.

Aramis shook his head compassionately. "No, my friend. To me it sounds like a man who his desperately trying to hide a secret from everyone, including himself and is failing miserably."

"Why are we talking about me? I came here to allow you to talk about you. You're the one suffering. I see. I know. The events of Savoy have shaken you to your core and every day and every night you ask yourself why your God of mercy allows you to remain walking on the earth while your fellow musketeers rest in the cold, hard ground. You can't find purpose in His divine decision to spare you. And like a wound, it festers on your very soul, the one that is so devoted to God." During his speech, Athos' voice had become low and cold and he was practically hissing the last few words. "And stop calling me your friend."

Athos' intense green eyes, which had been boring into Aramis' face, skittered away at the end of his speech to focus on the river and the swordsman angled his face so it was mostly obscured by his overly long, messy, brown locks. Aramis had the distinct feeling the other man did not want him to witness the emotions that he was being hard pressed to hide.

"You are exactly right and exactly wrong," Aramis stated, as he stared at the side of the face he couldn't see. "You are right. Since Savoy, I do question God's purpose to leave me behind to suffer. But you are wrong in your belief that I'm not your friend."

Turning his eyes once more to the nearly vanquished sun, Aramis continued thoughtfully. "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11."

Aramis let his eyes slide down to the cool water, away from the fiery sun. "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6."

With a sigh that finally spoke of acceptance and understanding, the marksman concluded his bible lesson. "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28."

Angling his body to face Athos' closed off shell, he reached over, trusted in the God he had been trying to deny, took a risk and placed a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You have made me see if I simply put my faith back in God where it has always been and should always be I will be shown the way and my heart will heal, though never forget."

Athos was flabbergasted at the turn in the conversation from suicidal to serene acceptance. He couldn't stop himself turning to stare at Aramis to see if his words matched the truth on his handsome face and he was shocked to see they did. It spoke volumes that Aramis could simply hand over his grief to God and move onward. Athos couldn't fathom what it meant that Aramis could have such faith and he, Athos, could not. Being that he always saw the half-empty glass, the swordsman interpreted it as yet another one of his own fatal character flaws.

"Join the musketeers," Aramis blurted out the very question that Athos had been trying to avoid from Captain Treville. The recoil from Athos had the man leaping to his feet to escape.

"It is growing late. You should get back to the garrison before Porthos grows concerned," Athos mumbled, as he grabbed his sword belt off the ground and hastily buckled it about his trim hips.

Aramis rose too and captured Athos' arm once more, his brown eyes trying to project the sincerity of his words. "I meant it when I said I'm your friend, Athos. That is not something you get to decide. You can try to deny it, but I will warn you I'm most persistent when I put my mind to something."

Athos momentarily let his mask slip, the one that Aramis would learn over time that Athos would go to great lengths to keep in place. For a few raw moments, Athos' pure, unadulterated, wretchedness was etched so deeply on the man's face, Aramis wanted to weep. This man's soul had been tortured as much as Aramis' own. "Let it go, Athos," he pleaded with the outmost sincerity from his generous heart.

The mask dropped quickly into place and once again, Aramis was facing that aloof demeanor. "I can't," the swordsman uttered, as he spun on his heels and walked away.

Sadly, Aramis watched him walk away, a man who looked indifferent on the outside, but inside, Aramis knew, was suffering unimaginable heartache.

"You, my reluctant friend, are the reason God had me survive Savoy. I failed Marsac and for that, I will never be able to forgive myself. But God has forgiven me my moment of weakness and has graciously given me another chance with you. And... I...will...not...fail."

Athos didn't go back to the garrison as he had intended, but instead headed for a low-end tavern where he could drink himself to oblivion. Aramis had crept past his defenses and scratched at the scab that was his calloused heart and it unnerved Athos. Hot, painful, memories of what it had been like to have a friend, a brother, who cared about him, flooded his mind and he needed to drown them the only way he knew how, in wine. He knew as he took a secluded table in the corner and started to drink, he wouldn't be making it back to the garrison tonight and he didn't care. At this point the pain was so raw, so torturous, that he didn't care if he even saw the light of day ever again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 25

Porthos was surprised and pleased when a cheerful Aramis showed up at breakfast the next morning. He had watched Aramis come into the garrison last night and had respected the man's need for privacy when the marksman headed straight to his room and firmly latched the door. Porthos had been expecting the worse come morning and had been shocked to find Aramis was up and about and seemed in good spirits.

Throughout the meal, Aramis seemed more like his old upbeat self, though if you looked closely, there was a new, slightly scuffed patina over his once shiny one. This new patina spoke of a more season man, one who had learned that life's bowl of cherries had pits, but it wasn't the end of the world, just something you dealt with.

"Have you seen Athos this morning?" Aramis questioned Porthos when they were nearly finished with their meal.

"Nope. Whaddya want with him?" Porthos asked, though he really didn't care.

"I like him," Aramis declared in that sincerely positive manner that only he could pull off.

"Don't know why. I mean he's good with a sword, yea, but the rest of him ain't nothing to write home about," Porthos groused, as he finished the last bite of his baguette that he had stuffed with jam.

"He is simply a diamond in the rough, Porthos, like you were before I began to polish you."

The grunt that Porthos let loose with said it all. "I'm good as I am. Don't need no polishing."

Aramis raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you need to change. I'm only smoothing out a few rough edges to make you even more charming."

"Well, I suppose that's ok," Porthos replied moodily, though he was largely faking it, having not taken any real offense at the marksman's comment. "I guess I could use a little polishing. But to make Athos into a human being," he shook his head, "ain't enough time in the world to fix that bloody sod."

"Oh, I think you would be surprised at the compassionate soul that lurks under that crusty facade. He'll make an excellent musketeer."

Porthos rudely snorted again. "We talkin' about the same man? Athos? The sword instructor?"

"Athos, the musketeer, which mark my words, he will be one day," Aramis declared with a certainty that baffled his friend. "With mine and God's help, of course."

"You and God are gonna make Athos into a musketeer? I thought that was the King's job to give out commissions."

"Yes, yes but someone has to prepare Athos to become a musketeer and then make sure the King notices him and offers him a spot in his elite guards. And that is where you and I come in."

"What happened to God? If you are planning to make that drunk into a musketeer, you are going to need God's help for sure. Who's gonna want to go on a mission with Mr. Personality. Sure, he'd be handy to have around in a sword fight, but can you trust him to have your back?"

"I told you. That's why I'm here and not dead in the snowy woods of Savoy. This is God's purpose for me. And l," Aramis declared as he rose from his seat, and turned his fervent brown eyes on his best friend, "am drafting you to help."

Porthos shook his head in disbelief, but he rose and followed after Aramis as he left the dining hall. Aramis was determined to find Athos immediately, and rejected Porthos suggestion to wait until the man reappeared on his own. So they scoured the courtyard once again for signs of the missing man and came up empty-handed.

The first frown of the day marred Aramis' face for a second. "Let's go check his room."

"Now why do you wanna do that? Walk into the lion's den? One thing I do know for sure about our stubborn swordsman is that he's definitely not a morning person." However, Porthos trailed after his friend as he headed for the garrison's sleeping quarters.

As they walked along, the street-fighter relayed a story, which highlighted Athos' pre-lunch mood. "One morning Athos had the recruits working on their forms on the dummies, while he stood in the shadows, quietly observing, and nursing a hang-over. At least that is what we all thought. One of the newest recruits couldn't get it right. I swear the kid never saw anything bigger than a table knife in his life. He kept walking over and peppering Athos with questions. Athos gave the boy pointers, in his usual succinct manner, but honestly, the kid did not comprehend anything Athos told him. The boy got a bit uppity, ya know how those sons of nobles will cop an attitude when they don't get their way. He demanded Athos, I think the quote was drag his drunken ass out of the shade and do what he was being paid good money to do, teach."

They reached the stairs that led to the second floor where Athos' room was located. Porthos chuckled as he remembered what came next.

"I imagine," Aramis said, as they reached the top of the stairs and made a right, "that didn't go over very well."

"You got that right. In that damn, cool, manner he has, Athos removed his hat, drew his sword, and gave the son of a noble a sword lesson he will never forget. The boy was practically blubbering in the sand by the time Athos was done, though to be fair he didn't actually hurt, nick, or even bruise the boy. When he was done, he picked up his hat, shoved it down over his eyes, and stepped into the shade and quietly went back to observing. After that, no one ever dared to ask Athos questions until well after noon."

By the time Porthos had finished his story, they had arrived at Athos' room. In spite of everything Aramis knew about the man and his dislike for the early hours of the day, he knocked soundly on the door anyway. Getting no answer, he 'braved the lion's den', as Porthos so aptly put it, and tested the door knob. Finding it unlocked, he pushed open the door. It only took him a second to scan the room and determine it was empty.

"He didn't come home last night? After he left me?" Aramis pondered out loud, as he stood in the middle of the deserted room.

A look of surprise appeared on Porthos face because he thought Aramis had been alone last night. "You saw him last night?"

"Hmmm. At the river. Well, actually I dragged him there. He saved me from drowning," Aramis distractedly noted as he began to wander around the room looking for a clue to tell him if Athos had been in his room recently. Maybe he had come home last evening, but had left already for the day.

"You almost drowned last night?" Porthos repeated, incredulously. "Where? How?" he demanded striding across the room, grabbing Aramis' arm, and swinging the man around to face him. "And what did that damn Athos have to do with it?"

"He talked me out of it," Aramis replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, before he shook free of Porthos' grasp.

The expression on Porthos face said he didn't believe a word of what Aramis was saying so the marksman placed his hand on the man's shoulder in a comforting gesture as he explained what had occurred on the banks of the river Seine yesterday.

He sighed as he concluded his tale. "So metaphorically he did stop me from drowning, in my own guilt and sorrow." Sadness descended upon the handsome man's face. "I tell you, Porthos. I don't know what I would have done, if I hadn't run into Athos."

"You wouldn't have done anything, Aramis. You are stupid in many ways, but not that stupid," Porthos stoutly declared.

Aramis had to smile at Porthos' incredibly loyal heart that once bestowed on a friend, could give nothing but steadfastness and kindness. That absolute allegiance is what Aramis needed to keep his head on straight and it was also what Aramis believed Athos required. Aramis' gut was telling him that if the three of them became friends, it would be the best thing that ever happened in all of their lives. But, for that to come about, he first had to find Athos, and then convince the swordsman and the street-fighter they could be friends.

"Let's go check the stables to see if his horse is there." With that, he maneuvered around Porthos and headed for the door.

"You didn't mention he had his horse with him last night," Porthos remarked, as they left Athos' quarters to go downstairs.

When they entered the courtyard, they noticed it had more people in it than earlier, but there was still no sign on the missing man. There was a group of musketeers drilling, but Athos was not amongst them. The outside tables and benches were also devoid of his presence.

"Because he didn't have his horse then, but he might have come back, gotten him, and ridden off somewhere to...ah...get away for a while," Aramis reasoned, as they crossed the sunny courtyard and entered the shadow-filled stable.

"And why would he do that?" Porthos questioned, even though he had an inkling of why Athos might feel the need to get away. The tall musketeer was not a stranger to Aramis' personality traits, both the good and the bad.

Aramis didn't immediately answer as he peered about for Jacques, the stable boy. Not seeing him, he started walking down the dirt aisle that ran the length of the stable to Roger's stall. Athos' aristocratic black stallion was in a stall near the end of the stables since Athos wasn't a musketeer. They approached the horse's door and gave a low whistle, but like his owner, the animal remained aloof, staying towards the rear of his area.

As the two men stood there staring at the majestic ebony horse, who was doing his best to ignore them, Aramis grinned sheepishly and admitted he might have pushed Athos a bit too hard last night with his offer of friendship.

Porthos' eye roll and blunt snort, once again summed up the situation quite succinctly. "You, Aramis? Push too hard? Nah. Never."

Aramis didn't miss the sarcasm being aimed at him and as he turned sideways to face Porthos, he adopted a choirboy expression. "Surely you don't fault me for being passionate about my endeavors?"

"Surely, I do," Porthos replied, as he heartily slapped his friend on the shoulder, then used pressure to steer him towards the door of the stable. "You probably came on so strong you terrified the poor man and now he is holed up somewhere avoiding you."

The two men walked back the length of dusty stable into the bright courtyard once more. Coming to a grinding halt, Aramis suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead and let loose with derogatory language, which was aimed solely at himself. "Once again, my dear intelligent friend you have cut to the heart of the matter. I did frighten him and I did cause him to hole up. And if you are Athos, and you want to hide, you do so in a tavern, I fear."

"You ain't gotta fear for Athos in a tavern. They're his second home," Porthos reminded the marksman. It had not gone unnoticed by any of the musketeers that Athos frequented the taverns of Paris.

"I have a bad feeling this time it may be his final resting place," Aramis declared ominously, as he shook his head with frustration. "How could I be that stupid," Aramis muttered, as he took off across the courtyard heading for the steps that led to Captain Treville's office. "I knew what he was like when he arrived. I saw the signs. How could I have forgotten?"

Porthos hadn't been made privy to the conditions that surrounded the first weeks of Athos' internment in the garrison. "I don't know what you are blabbing about, but you have had a lot on your mind recently, Aramis. Don't be so hard on yourself," Porthos admonished, as they mounted the stairs in leaps consisting of two treads at a time.

Rapping on the captain's door, then not waiting for permission to enter, the marksman burst into the office. Treville was seated behind his desk and for the first time since he had returned from Savoy, Aramis truly noted how haggard their leader appeared. He silently berated himself for the second time in so many minutes for being so self-absorbed. Had he been so wrapped up in his own sorrows that he failed to recognize the burden that Savoy had put upon the captain's soul?

Practically sliding to a halt in front of the captain's desk, Aramis demanded, more than requested, "Permission to go search for Athos."

The captain set down the quill pen he had been using and ran a hand over his pallid face. "You seem in lively spirits this morning," he noted with exhaustion, as if Aramis' new found energy had been zapped from his own soul.

"I have come to realize God's purpose for me in surviving Savoy and I must find Athos."

The utter conviction with which Aramis had made his proclamation caused Treville to stare at him. The captain shifted his weary, blue eyes to rest on Porthos who was standing, rather uncomfortably, next to his over-anxious friend. Treville's eyes begged for a better explanation and Porthos sought to provide him with one.

"Aramis believes God spared his life at Savoy so he could help Athos," the street-fighter stated, looking discomfited at the words coming forth from his mouth. "He believes Athos needs to become a musketeer."

Treville waved his hand to indicate the two musketeers should sit down. Despite Aramis' antsy-ness to go search for Athos, he would have a full explanation before he sent two of his musketeers gallivanting around Paris. "Aramis please explain, slowly, and with a bit more detail," the captain commanded, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

Aramis launched into his story once again. By the time he was finished, Treville, wasn't quite sure what Athos had done to restore the marksman's spirits, but he too, was happy to see Aramis nearly back to his old self. The captain wasn't a stupid man, and knew what Aramis had survived would leave scars on the marksman forever, but it appeared that Aramis had found the will and drive to live and that made the captain's heart sing. Though he would carry his own secret scars for the rest of his life, the captain was relieved at least someone had survived the massacre.

"You need to make Athos a musketeer," Aramis eagerly demanded, as if it was something that would occur if the captain simply snapped his fingers

"Don't you think Athos might have a say in whether he wants to be a musketeer? Not that," the captain held up a hand momentarily to forestall Aramis' retort, "it hasn't crossed my mind he would make a good addition to the regiment."

"Athos wants to join and if he doesn't, I shall make him see the error of his ways," Aramis stated confidently, his face aglow with the passion of what he saw as his mission from God.

The captain smiled at the marksman's cockiness, though he personally thought that Aramis might be sorely underestimating the stubbornness that was Athos. He noted that Porthos didn't seem quite as onboard with the idea of the swordsman earning his commission as was Aramis.

"Do you have concerns, Porthos?" Captain Treville hated to put the man on the spot, but he did plan to team Athos with Aramis and Porthos if the swordsman earned his commission. If there was going to be a problem, he wanted to know about it sooner rather than later. Porthos was a very perceptive man, something people often overlooked in the street fighter.

"I need to know I can trust him to have my back, our backs," Porthos explained. "Athos seems like a lone wolf and that bothers me. They don't get the concept of a pack, which makes them dangerous and unpredictable. And he drinks a lot."

"But have you ever seen him drunk while on duty?" Aramis challenged his friend who merely shrugged.

The captain couldn't fault Porthos' analogy or concerns because they were valid. If Athos truly was the Comte de la Fére in hiding, something had driven him to keep his identify a secret. Whatever the cause, the captain didn't want it somehow biting his regiment of musketeers in the ass. Before he allowed Athos become a musketeer, and part of his family, he wanted to know why the man had rejected his own.

"Back to the matter at hand, captain. I fear in my enthusiasm I may have pushed too hard on Athos and driven him to drink," Aramis confessed, humbly.

"It don't take much to do that," Porthos snorted insultingly, earning him a sad glance from his friend.

"He is a man who likes his wine," Aramis cautiously admitted. "But I think he is capable of keeping his drinking in check for the most part. I feel he gets drunk as a mechanism to keep some personal demons at bay, something perhaps, that with the caring friendship of Porthos and myself, we can help him control without alcohol. Offering him support and human companionship so he doesn't need to drive himself into an alcoholic haze."

Treville, once again, felt Aramis might be overly optimistic, but then again he didn't think the musketeer would be able to get past Savoy as quickly as he seemed to be doing. Maybe there was something to be said for Aramis' unwavering faith in his God.

"Fine. Go find him, bring him back, and we'll talk. But remember gentlemen, he is a civilian, not a soldier, and we don't have any authority over him."

Before he had even finished his warning, Aramis bounced from his chair and the captain was sure his last words had not even registered on the marksman. Glancing over at Porthos, he received a short nod to indicate his message had at least been received by one of the musketeers in the room.

After the two left his office, Treville slowly shook his head as he picked up his quill. Heaven help Athos when those two men found him. They were enough to deal with when one was sober. Drunk, or with a hangover, the chance of bloodshed increased exponentially. He hoped he wasn't wrong with his assumption that underneath Athos' battered, gruff exterior lay the heart of a true and loyal soldier.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 26

Porthos and Aramis started their search in the taverns nearest to where Aramis and Athos had been conversing by the Seine. It was amazing how many drinking establishments there were in Paris and how many people, from a distance, looked like their weapons instructor. Porthos yanked quite a few unruly-haired heads that were slumped on table tops upwards only to discover they were not Athos. Each time he was wrong, he'd mumbled a quick 'sorry' as he let the head drop back to the table. Fortunately, they were all too far gone to do anything more than mutter a curse at the man's inelegant technique.

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," Porthos grumbled, as he let another head fall none to gently back on the scarred wooden table. He didn't have much sympathy because the individuals were already passed out, so he doubted he was doing much to increase the headache they would have upon regaining their senses. "Why are we doing this again? Why not wait until he shows up at the garrison?"

Aramis contemplated the question as they headed outside and down the street, to the next place. "I'm not sure. It's just a feeling I have."

"Oh yeah. I forgot your mission from God thing," Porthos replied sarcastically, as they strolled shoulder to shoulder down the darkened streets of Paris.

They came up empty in the next two places as well. But they had a little excitement when a drunken patron spilled his wine down the front of Porthos' shirt at the first dive and in the second, someone vomited on the street-fighter's boots. Aramis was barely able to restrain Porthos from clobbering the two drunken men.

As they were standing in the streets deciding where to head next, Porthos' stomach gave a huge growl of protest, which further degraded his already surly mood. "I'm tired and starving. If he ain't at the next tavern, we are calling this stupid search off. He either finds his own drunken way back to the garrison... or he doesn't...I don't care. I'm done," he declared, as shook his boots in an attempt to remove the foul bile coating them.

"Well I shall ask God to make sure the next tavern we go to is the right one," Aramis replied in that self-possessed manner he displayed when it came to matters with his God.

They came upon a small grungy tavern, which was tucked away into the corner of a larger building. If it hadn't been for the cat, which darted out of the shadows and ran in front of Porthos causing the man to nearly trip, the two musketeers probably would have walked right by the place.

"Isn't this a hidden little dive," Aramis remarked with interest, as he headed for its crooked door.

When Porthos entered the darkened space, he was assaulted by the unsavory odors of sweat, piss, stale beer, and vomit. Surely, no one could stand to drink in this place, he thought as his eyes did a cursory sweep of the smoky joint.

"He's not here," Porthos authoritatively declared, spinning around to head for the doorway.

But Aramis, who was directly behind him, arrested his progress and pushed him forward, deeper into the shabby, grimy space. He pointed his long, elegant index finger at the furthest recess of the room where a lone man was slumped over at a desolate table. "There. That's him."

Squinting through the smoky gloom, he could barely see the table Aramis was referring to let alone distinguish anything about the huddled shape draped over on it. However, before he could voice his dissension, the sharpshooter was winding his way across the dirty, sticky floor to the corner. Peeved and muttering uncomplimentary sentiments under his breath, Porthos grudgingly trailed after his friend.

Aramis and Porthos would come to know, over time, that a drunken Athos was a dangerous force with which to be reckoned. Care and cunning were prerequisites if one didn't want to end up with a nasty bruise, or even worse. But at this point in their relationship, they didn't know better so when Aramis reached out to tap Athos' shoulder, and suddenly found his body pinned against the wall with a dagger to his throat, he was shocked. Porthos immediately reacted with a soldier's instincts, ripping Athos away from Aramis and flinging him to the floor, reminiscent of the earlier scene in the garrison.

After a quick glance to ensure that Aramis was not injured, the street fighter, who was tired, angry, hungry, and frightened at how unexpectedly that knife had made its way to Aramis' throat, took out his pent up frustrations on Athos. Jerking the dazed man off the floor like a rag doll, he proceeded to slam him against the table, which broke under the onslaught, and Athos crashed to the floor once more.

The knife Athos had been holding slipped from his grasp and skittered across the room. Porthos spied it and while Athos lay stunned amongst the broken pieces of wood that once formed a table, the larger man retrieved the blade, hauled the befuddled swordsman up to his feet by his shirt front, and slammed him, hard, against the same wall where the Comte had threatened Aramis.

Pressing the sharp blade to Athos' exposed neck, he growled, "How do you like it, hmmmmm?"

Athos' bitter green eyes glared at the man holding him captive and whispered almost entreatingly, "Go ahead."

Aramis, who was close enough to hear the fervent plea, sent a swift prayer to his God for Athos' troubled soul. "Porthos. Let him go. Please."

Aramis' tone was half-pleading and half-reproachful and swiftly brought Porthos to his senses. With a snarl, he promised, "If you ever threaten him again, I will hurt you."

Before he released the man, Porthos gave Athos a final glare and, unnerved by what he saw in those green eyes, a chill swept up his spine. Athos was disappointed that Porthos hadn't carried out his threat and slit his throat! Porthos' breath hitched in his throat and he abruptly released Athos who slid in a boneless pile on the dirty tavern floor.

"Really, Porthos," Aramis spoke again, angry at the way Porthos was treating the man. "Where is your compassion?"

Still perturbed by what he thought he had seen in Athos' eyes, Porthos stepped backwards. Aramis gave his friend an eye roll before he reached down to try to assist Athos in getting back on his feet.

If Athos thought he felt bad ten minutes ago, he now felt twenty times worse. His ribs were bruised from being slammed into the damn table and a piece of wood had ripped through his pants and punctured his leg. As for his head, he would gladly have paid any price to have it removed from his body to escape the ache, which, he knew, would only grow worse over time.

Then there was Aramis, who in trying to assist him, was only making matters worse. Athos batted the well-meaning man's hands away as they tried to encourage him to rise. The swordsman was quite content to simply slump there against the wall and wait to pass out, which he knew would be occurring soon. He saw no reason to stand, only so he could crash to the ground when he suffered his inevitable blackout.

Aramis, on the other hand, definitely had a different opinion on Athos' current position as he did his best to coax the man if not to his feet, at least into a chair. Begrudgingly, because it seemed he had no real choice, Athos allowed his aching body to be repositioned from the ground to a nearby chair. Athos let his eyes wander the floor looking for the wine bottle he thought had been sitting on the table before its demise. Spotting the glass bottle nestled against the former table's leg Athos leaned forward and made a grab for its green neck. A smirk of triumph lifted the corner of his mouth as he got his fingers wrapped around it. But the smirk quickly faded when he lifted the bottle and discovered it was actually broken and the only thing he was holding was a large shard of the bottle's neck.

In frustration, Athos let it slip from his fingers, and it shattered on the floor. His head dropped to his chest as he cradled it in his empty hands.

Sympathetically looking at the miserable man, Aramis softly said, "It's time to go home."

"No," Athos succinctly replied, remaining hunched over and contemplating whether he had the strength to throw up.

Aramis, intent on having his way, asked, "Can you walk, or shall I ask Porthos to assist you?"

It was very obvious that neither Porthos or Athos felt that was a good idea as both muttered dissenting views on the suggestion. But Aramis was also a force to be reckoned with and when he wanted his way, he usually got it.

"Athos stand up!" he sternly commanded, fed up with Athos' contumacious behavior. When Athos continued to ignore him, he pointedly glanced over at Porthos. "Pick him up."

Porthos eyed the disheveled heap that was slowly slithering off the chair towards the floor and shook his head. "You gotta be joking. That bastard tried to kill you and now you want me to carry his drunken ass back to the garrison? I say we call the Red Guard. That's what he deserves."

"Fine," Aramis said with exasperation. He was dismayed by Porthos' hard attitude, but knew how to get the man to comply with his wishes. "I'll do it myself."

That got the expected reaction out of Porthos, who stepped forward to grab Aramis' arm. Porthos knew the marksman was still suffering the residual effects of being injured at Savoy and his attempting to carry Athos was out of the question. The street fighter wouldn't let Aramis further injure himself over the likes of Athos. Aramis kept his smile hidden when Porthos growled ominously, but moved next to the drunken man.

"Are you going to pass out?" Porthos inquired to the top of the unruly haired head.

"Not soon enough. Perhaps another glass or two of wine will do it," Athos suggested hopefully.

But when Porthos glanced over at Aramis to see what he thought of that idea, because it would be easier to carry an unconscious man, the marksman shook his head in disagreement.

"Yeah, it seems that's not gonna happen," Porthos informed the drunken man, who somehow managed to convey his annoyance, even though he was still slumped over and his face remained obscured.

Porthos was still shaken by what he had seen in the man's eyes and he didn't know how to react. This whole situation suddenly became too much for him. It was not like he and Aramis were bosom buddies with this stranger and no matter what deluded prophesy Aramis thought he was fulfilling, Porthos had serious doubts it was God's decree to help this man. Still, he couldn't deny Aramis, so he persevered.

"Stand up," he gruffly commanded Athos whose answer of 'go to hell', was not well received by the street fighter, whose patience was already worn thin. It was only the gentle hand on Porthos' arm that kept him from retaliating in what would have been an unproductive manner. With disappointment, Porthos glanced over at Aramis, who released his arm and shook his head to indicate that he was not to hit the man. With a sigh, Porthos let his arms fall slack to his side.

Having gotten one of his stubborn friends under control, Aramis focused his attentions on the other. "Athos, my friend, please don't be antagonistic. We are simply trying to help you."

"Don't want help. Want to be left alone. Go to hell," Athos added again, as an afterthought, in case they had missed his request the first time.

"Yes, yes," Aramis tsked, before his voice grew cold. "We have already covered that. Now stand!"

If you asked Athos later, why he gave in, he'd have been hard pressed to provide a good rationale. If you asked him the same question, five years in the future, he would sigh knowingly and say 'Aramis'. Something about Aramis compelled people to do what he requested. The marksman claimed it was a gift from God. His friends claimed it was easier than dealing with his poking, prodding, plotting, pouting, and pissing them off until he did get his way. There was a point where simply doing what Aramis wanted was infinitely less painful than not.

Blindly reaching for a table that wasn't there, Athos was forced to rise to his feet without the aid of any props. It wasn't pretty and he ended up clutching the back of the tall chair he had been sitting in to remain vertical.

"Very good start," Aramis encouraged the swaying man. "Now, let's see you walk towards the door."

Athos took about four staggering steps forward towards the door, before he lost his balance and was forced to take several more stumbling steps sideways, which caused him to unceremoniously crash into the table of a solitary drinker. Aramis groaned as the man's wine spilled, courtesy of the fumbling Athos. Of course the drunken Athos managed to glare belligerently at the man, as if it was his fault that Athos had knocked over the bottle of wine.

The fight that ensued was over in a flash. The first punch, thrown by the opposing team, caught Athos squarely in the side of the face, rendering him immediately unconscious. The drunken swordsman dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the floor. The second punch, and incidentally the last, was thrown by Porthos, and the force of it slammed the attacker into a nearby support beam.

At this point, there was a brief lull in the battle and Aramis used this opportunity to explain to the patron lying on the floor that it was really quite senseless to rise and continue this fight. The suggestion that he and Porthos remove the offending Athos from his presence, leave a few coins for the bottle of wine that had spilled, and be on their way was considered and grudgingly accepted. The posturing street-fighter, who was growling and cracking his knuckles as his dark, dangerous eyes glared at the man on the floor, also served as an incentive.

In the end, the only non-concurrence on the deal came from Porthos who, always itching for a fight, was sure he could win this skirmish with one hand tied behind his back. Athos, had he been conscious, also would have been a dissenter. But since he wasn't, Aramis only had to convince Porthos to comply, which he did, however the street fighter grumbled the whole time as he reached down, flung Athos over his shoulder, and hauled him out of the bar.

Halfway back to the garrison Athos, regrettably, woke up and didn't react well. It took a few seconds for his wine-soaked brain cells to register that he was being carried over a man's shoulder, upside down. Before his brain could even register indignation at the situation, his stomach beat it to the punch and roiled, causing him to vomit repeatedly down the man's back.

Porthos came to a screeching halt and with his eyes, implored Aramis to tell him it wasn't true. But the marksman could only shrug and say, "You were bouncing him around quite a bit. It is partially your fault too."

Turning to face his friend full on, Aramis could see that his comment had not been well-received. "There is no way that ANY of this is my fault!" Porthos roared, the little tolerance he had left for this whole situation rapidly evaporating.

Athos chose that ill-timed moment to start squirming and Porthos clamped down harder on the swordsman's legs to secure his grip. The fact that Athos' thigh had been skewered by a piece of the broken wooden table and his ribs had been abused was only known to one of the two parties involved in the struggle. Athos howled in pain, as his wound was ground into Porthos shoulder. He squirmed even harder trying to escape the pain, which, naturally, caused Porthos to further tightened his hold. The agony burning in Athos' leg became overwhelming and dragged him back into oblivion. As he went limp, and thereby stopped writhing, Porthos relaxed his grip.

"It appears the problem has resolved itself," Aramis simply said, as he began walking again. "Though did I hear Athos cry out in pain?"

God forgive his soul, but Porthos lied. The big man was fairly sure if he said yes, Aramis would insist on them stopping and examining Athos for injuries. That was the last thing Porthos could tolerate at this point. His only goal was to get this drunken sod dumped into bed so he could go clean up, eat, go to sleep and forget this whole miserable night. He wanted nothing more, now or forever, to do with Aramis' charity work in the name of God. If he never saw Athos again after this night, well let's say he wouldn't be heart-broken. The man was a nuisance and trouble to boot.

Once they reached the garrison, Porthos trudged up the stairs to Athos' room, kicked the door open, dumped the man on the bed, and then stomped out the door, slamming it behind him. Aramis stood in the middle of the room, as far as he had gotten, and stared at the still vibrating door.

"That didn't go particularly well," he noted to the unconscious man lying face down on his bunk.

Placing Athos' sword belt, which he had been carrying, on the table, he walked over to the bed where he better situated the man onto his side. That way if he threw up again, he wouldn't asphyxiate. Crossing over to the table, he unbuckled his own weapons paraphernalia before settling into the room's one chair. Propping his feet up on a nearby chest, he let his head droop and his eyes close, confident he would instantly wake if needed.

Four hours later, Aramis was jolted awake by a scream, which came from Athos, who was writhing on the bed. Suffering from them since Savoy, Aramis immediately understood that Athos was in the midst of what must be a terrible nightmare. The marksman couldn't make out the words Athos was mumbling, but they appeared to be of a pleading nature and as he moved closer to the bed, Aramis saw tears sliding down the man's dirty cheeks. This nightmare seemed as fierce as ones that had plagued Athos when he had first arrived.

Gently, he reached out a hand and tentatively placed it on Athos' shoulder, ready to snatch it back instantaneously if it caused more harm than good. But his touch was tolerated, and the man appeared to relax and come out of the nightmare. Bleary green eyes slowly opened and peered up at him in the dim morning light.

"I don't imagine you feel too good at the moment," Aramis said, softly.

The minuscule amount of data Athos could process told him he should be humiliated. "Get out," he croaked.

Trying to allay the man's obvious embarrassment, Aramis started to reassure him, but Athos cut him off. "Leave...me...please."

Sighing, but realizing it was probably for the best, Aramis nodded, gathered up his things and headed for the door. "I could fix something to help with the headache," he offered as he reached for the knob.

But Athos has already turned his back on the door and appeared to have drifted off again. Taking it for what it was, a clear dismissal, Aramis quietly sighed again as he let himself out and silently closed the door behind him. He had his work cut out for him, trying to do what he thought was God's will and prevent this man from destroying himself.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 27

After morning muster, Treville pulled Porthos and Aramis aside, as his eyes scanned the garrison's courtyard once more, still not seeing whom he sought. "Did you find our missing weapon's instructor last night?"

"Yes, we did captain," Aramis affirmed, giving his commander an easy smile.

But it was Porthos' nonverbal reaction to his question that was more interesting. The big man's attitude had definitely changed, and not for the better as a scowl appeared on his face.

"Did you have any issues?" Treville asked, deliberately leaving the question opened ended and he noted that Porthos' scowl deepen.

Aramis noticed the deepening frown on Porthos' face and he draped his arm over the other man's broad shoulders. "Nothing we musketeers couldn't handle," he cheerfully declared, as he unobtrusively smacked the other man on the back of his head to remind him to get with the program.

"No issues," Porthos mumbled, feeling Aramis message loud and clear. "I love hauling a drunken idiot home and have him thank me by vomiting all over my clothes," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Treville asked, cocking his head.

Feeling Aramis' hand starting to move again, mostly likely to deliver another behavioral reminder to the back of his head, Porthos quickly repeated, "No issues."

The captain's quirked eyebrow said he wasn't buying into this charade. "Where is he then?" he demanded, as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Porthos opened his mouth than closed it again. God had made Athos Aramis' pet project, not his, so let him handle the captain. He deliberately moved away from Aramis, folded his arms across his chest too, and rested his gaze on Aramis, waiting for an answer.

"I'm sure he will be along momentarily, but if you'd like, we could go hurry him along."

Though Aramis made the offer, Treville once again found Porthos' reaction much more interesting. The man looked like the last thing he wanted to do was go find Athos.

"Do that. And bring him to my office. All of you," Treville commanded before he raked them once more with his eyes, then walked away.

After the captain was gone, Porthos rounded on Aramis. "You're nuts, you are. Athos is probably not even conscious yet. How ya gonna get him to Treville's office?"

With another one of his disarming smiles Aramis just said, "I can be very persuasive. Come along." As he headed for Athos' room, he noticed Porthos wasn't following. "Come, come. The captain clearly stated all of us."

"I don't want to," Porthos grumbled, even though he followed after Aramis when the marksman started walking again.

They arrived at Athos' door, then hesitated. "I suppose it is polite to knock and not simply barge in," Aramis said as he tentatively raised his knuckles towards the wooden door.

"Not if he has a huge headache," Porthos begged to differ. "Don't think he is gonna like you banging on his door."

"I like to be polite, so I will knock, gently." Aramis lightly rapped his knuckles against the door, but received no answer.

"Now what?" Porthos asked.

"We have knocked, now we enter." With that, the marksman turned the knob, pushed open the door and peered into the room. He was relieved in a way to see Athos was still on the bed where he had left him hours ago. But he was also disturbed the man wasn't awake yet as that was going to make things tougher.

By now, Porthos had also entered the room and the two men stood about four feet away from the bed staring at the unmoving man.

"I say we leave now and fess up to the captain." As Porthos turned to go, he felt Aramis' hand on his bicep and he wasn't the least bit surprised. He knew his friend wouldn't let this go that easily.

"Where's your sense of adventure? No. We simply need to rouse him, make him somewhat presentable, and get him to the captain, as requested."

Porthos doubted there was going to be anything simple in this, but kept that opinion to himself.

Taking a step closer to the bed, Aramis softly called out, "Athos. It's time to get up."

The two musketeers stared expectantly at the prone man, who remained motionless. Aramis tried again, a bit louder, and still the form remained inert.

"Maybe we can poke him with a stick," Porthos offered. He looked around the room as if expecting a stick to magically appear. Then his eye fell on the sword, leaning against the wall by the door. "Or the tip of a sword," he amended, earning him an eye roll from Aramis. "Just a suggestion."

"Your idea is sound, but your implementation strategy is a bit crude." Aramis took a step closer to the bed, reached down and gently shook Athos' shoulder. "You need to wake up. Captain Treville is requesting the pleasure of your company in his office."

"That ain't exactly how I recall the captain phrasing it." Porthos pointed out.

Aramis straightened and looked over at his friend. "You're really not helping."

A small smile crept across Porthos' face. "Not really trying to."

"Do you have any useful suggestions?" Aramis asked, exasperated with his grinning companion.

"Go the hell away and leave me alone."

Aramis stared at Porthos with confusion for a moment. He hadn't even seen the man's lips move. Realization kicked in and both men glanced over at the bed.

"You're awake!" Aramis crowed with way too much cheer and volume for Athos' aching head.

The marksman waited for a minute, as if now, since Athos admitted he was wake, the man would spring from his bed and they would be on their way.

When it became obvious that wasn't going to happen, Aramis spoke again. "Captain Treville has requested the presence of your person in his office...now," he added after a few beats.

The answer he received was succinct and direct, something Aramis was beginning to understand was the basic nature of this man. "No."

Aramis rubbed a hand across his beard, getting a little perturbed by Athos' attitude. Figuring it couldn't hurt he said, "Please."

Athos groaned and began to stir. It had nothing to do with Aramis' please, but rather that Athos was feeling guilty. Captain Treville had been nothing but professional, fair, and courteous in his dealings with him. The swordsman had a lot of admiration and respect for the captain. That and the man was his employer and if he wanted to speak to Athos, it was his duty to obey. Honor still drove Athos' actions and ignoring the captain's summons was not proper.

Slowly, he edged his legs off the side of the bed and used that momentum to sit up, though he quickly doubled over and hung his spinning head over his knees. Another moan escaped his lips, as he wrapped his hands around the back of his neck, almost as if he were looking for some way to detach it from the rest of his body. Inching his way down the bed until he could reach the footboard, he used it to leverage his body to into a semi-vertical stance.

Aramis grinned and shot a satisfied glance at Porthos, indicating that they were making progress. His grin, however, faded when Athos suddenly lunged for the nearby water bucket, dropped to his hands and knees, and began expelling the contents of his stomach in an extremely violent manner. When he finally stopped, he collapsed backwards on his legs and wrapped his arms around his aching middle.

Athos hadn't felt this hungover since the early days of his drinking binges, before he learned the trick of always staying slightly intoxicated so he never crashed this hard. What the hell had he been drinking last night? He knew one sure way for him to feel better fast, and be able to semi-function, was to resort to the hair of the dog. He let his eyes roam his quarters, searching for the bottle of wine, or the several bottles, that he kept on hand to clean his wounds; or at least that is what he told himself. Finally, he spotted a green bottle sitting on top of a tall chest, which in his current condition, seemed one hundred leagues away.

With a grunt, he managed to stand up and wobble in the general direction of the chest. His progress was first impeded by the table, which leapt out in front of him causing him to run into it. Using the table's top for support, he edged around it only to be rudely tripped by a chair and sent sprawling on his hands and knees.

The two musketeers had been silently watching the shipwreck in front of them, not quite sure what Athos' intentions were since he was heading away from the door.

"Are you looking for fresh clothes to don before seeing the captain?" Aramis ventured, as he stared with curiosity at the man who was now sitting hunched over, on the wooden floor, head nearly resting in his lap.

A voice emanating from somewhere under the tangled mass of hair mumbled, "None clean. All dirty." It was on the former Comte's to do list, one of the things he hadn't gotten to yet. Embarrassingly, he still had to remind himself that clean clothes didn't just magically appear anymore in his life. He may not have liked being a Comte at times, but there definitely had been some perks to the position.

Porthos, raised in the Court of Miracles, had been around a lot of drunks in his time and was a lot more observant than people realized. "He's after the wine on that dresser over there."

"Oh. No. I don't think that is a good idea," Aramis empathetically stated, as he watched Athos use the chair to pull himself upright again.

Porthos wasn't quite sure whether Aramis was referring to the wine or Athos attempting to walk again as being the bad idea. To be honest, neither were good choices. Without something to support him, Athos was swaying like a sailor on shore leave.

When he started to list heavily to one side, Aramis rushed forward and grabbed his arm to stabilize him. When his knees began to buckle once more, Aramis yelled for Porthos to assist, rather loudly, and much too close to Athos' throbbing head.

The final straw was when Porthos came over to help, he wrapped his long arm around Athos middle to support him, unintentionally squeezing too hard on the swordsman's upset stomach. Athos' body had enough of this perceived abuse and made its displeasure known by vomiting.

Athos felt the rising tide in his throat and struggled to break free of the musketeers' grasp. However, they misinterpreted his intentions and proceeded to tighten their hold to keep him from escaping. If he could have, Athos would have opened his mouth and told them to let go, but he didn't dare unclench his teeth given the situation. In the end, he lost the battle and threw up, unfortunately, on Porthos' boots, again.

That did finally get them to release him and he took a few stumbling steps before crashing to the floor once more. His aching head collided with the hard floor and he lay there in a daze.

"Why the hell did he throw up on me and not you?" Porthos demanded, as he miserably stared down at his soiled pants and boots. "Twice! Twice me and never you!"

"I'm sure it wasn't intentional," Aramis said, trying to sooth his friend before he looked over at Athos and sighed. "What are we going to do now?"

Porthos was at the end of his rope with this man and wanted nothing more to do with him. In fact, he'd be very happy if Athos disappeared back into whatever hole he crawled out of and Porthos had an idea on how he could make that happen. The captain wanted to see him, then fine, let him see Athos in all his glory.

Striding across the small space with purpose, he scooped up the vacuous man and flung him over his shoulder. Moving with a purpose, he swiftly left the room, headed down the stairs, and entered the courtyard. Aramis hurried along behind him, sputtering at him to take care as Athos' head nearly collided with the door frame. Honestly, did Aramis really think Porthos was all that concerned about the near miss?

When Porthos headed towards the stables, rather than Treville's office, Aramis was puzzled. However, it didn't take long for the marksman to figure out what the street fighter's intentions were and when he did he yelled, "Porthos, no!"

But nothing was going to deter Porthos. He had learned a few tricks in the Court of Miracles when it came to drunks, including a fairly sure-fire-way to sober them up fast. It was this knowledge he employed, when he walked over to the horse trough, which was filled to the brim with chilly water, and dropped Athos into its murky depths.

"He'll drown!" Aramis sprinted the rest of the way across the courtyard, but found Porthos blocking his way when he tried to reach the trough.

"Let him be. He'll surface on his own," Porthos instructed, holding him back.

It was a few tense moments, but Porthos was correct and a sputtering, wet head broke the surface. If looks could kill, Porthos would have been dead on the spot, and Aramis was pretty sure he'd be collateral damage. But it was interesting to note that as Athos climbed out of the trough, his coordination was remarkably better than it had been a few minutes earlier.

Athos had to admit that Porthos' remedy had been rather effective. Though if he were to use it in the future, he thought he'd go with less drama. Maybe only sticking his head in a bucket of nice clean water, he thought as he looked down and saw piece of straw stuck to his clothes. Still, he almost felt human again. He glanced over at Porthos, who was grinning at his bedraggled condition.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Porthos smirked, feeling like he got a little payback for the hell Athos had put him through. He wiped his boots on the nearby hay pile.

The swordsman stared at him from under his dripping hair and almost managed to suppress a smile. "Maybe. Later. A lot later," he conceded.

"All very well and good, but the captain is expecting us. So hurry back and change and then we can go see him," Aramis said, as he made little shooing motions with his hands.

Athos stood there, not moving and giving Aramis a peculiar if not somewhat sheepish look.

Impatiently, Aramis demanded, "Well. What are you waiting for? Surely you don't want to go see the captain in your current state."

Athos gave a sigh, as he used his hand to brush his wet locks out of his eyes. "There is really no choice," he replied cryptically.

"Oh for heaven's sake. He waited this long, the captain can wait a few more minutes while you put on clean, dry clothes."

"It might take more than a few minutes. This was my last set of clean clothes. I have been meaning to get them washed..." His apologetic shrug said it all.

"I ain't lending him none of my clothes," Porthos quickly declared. "Wouldn't fit him and he still stinks. Needs a good scrubbing to get rid of that nastiness."

"Your candor does you credit," Athos drawled drily. Porthos gave him a sharp glance, not sure how to interpret that comment.

"Porthos does have a point," Aramis admitted. "No sense trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

Now it was Athos turn to feel slighted.

"And so off he goes then." Aramis made for the steps that led to Treville's office; Porthos followed, and Athos brought up the rear, his boots squishing with each stride.

There was a polite knock on the door and Captain Treville granted permission to enter. He didn't immediately look up, but finished the sentence he was writing. Placing the quill down, he blew on the newly written missive as he lifted his eyes and stared at the three men standing in front of his desk. Rising, his breath caught in his throat for a moment before he sputtered, "What happened to him?"

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 28

In time the sight of the three men, and later four, standing in front of his desk delivering a story that was unbelievable would become routine for the poor captain. But this was his first time and he stood there with a stunned expression on his face.

It was also the first time the trio, which would become known as the Inseparables, tried a group lie. Unfortunately, it didn't go very well. In a year or two, they would have it down pat, but now they were still rough around the edges.

"He's wet," Aramis calmly replied, as if the matter was now closed and they could move on.

Heroically, Captain Treville managed to stifle his eye roll. "I can see he is wet. I was curious why that is, considering it was not raining outside last I saw."

Two pair of brown and one green pair of eyes rotated to look out the office window, as if to verify the accuracy of the statement. The remaining set of blue eyes was not amused. "Gentlemen, it is not raining outside, I assure you."

With that the three sets of eyes lost their sudden fascination with the weather. Porthos chose to stare at the wall behind the captain's head; Aramis fixed his eyes on the captain, and Athos' gaze was focused on the wooden floor, watching the small puddles of water forming around his boots.

Much to men's chagrin, it seemed the captain wasn't going to move on until he got a satisfactory explanation as to why Athos was soaking wet. In the future, Aramis and Porthos would learn to allow their de facto leader to handle these types of situations. But their teamwork wasn't that advanced yet, so they each blurted out a unique answer.

"He was standing next to a puddle and got splashed."

"Someone tossed a bucket of water out the window as he was walking underneath."

"I accidentally fell in the horse trough."

The room went silent, the only sound being the drip-drip of the water sliding off Athos and plopping in the puddle on the floor.

Aramis decided to take a stab at coordinating the lies into a cohesive unit. "What we meant to say was Athos side-stepped a puddle, which made him move closer to a building, where a washer woman was dumping her bucket of water out of the second story window."

"The horse trough," Porthos urgently whispered.

"...and the water dripped into his eyes, momentarily blinding him and he stumbled into a horse trough," Aramis concluded with a flourish.

Porthos stood there with a big grin plastered on his face; Aramis glowed with smugness at his ability to twist the lies into a bow, and Athos continued his examination of the floor.

"Do I appear stupid to you?" the captain queried in a low, dangerous sounding voice. "A horse trough?"

Aramis and Porthos rearranged their facial expressions into something a bit more somber as they nodded their heads.

Athos slowly raised his wet head, his green eyes focusing on Treville with an eerie intensity. "The horse trough is actually the truth. The rest is a little less than factual."

The captain rose, walked to the front of his desk and then leaned against it to study Athos. "Care to explain?"

"No. Not really," Athos answered truthfully.

"Well humor me anyway," the captain suggested in a tone that indicated it was an order.

Another thing the captain hadn't learned yet about Athos was he tended to abridge the truth. His answers were mostly factual, but often left out a few small details that Athos thought were inconsequential or didn't quite fit with the truth as he saw fit to relay it.

"These two gentlemen came to my room to issue your...request. As I was not quite in a presentable state, I stopped at the horse trough, near the stable, and accidentally fell in."

The bits of straw that were clinging to various parts of the swordsman's body certainly seemed to back up his claim. And the amount of water dripping from his clothing also fit the story he spun. But the accidental part left the captain wondering about its authenticity. Narrowing his eyes, Treville asked point blank, "Are you drunk?"

In a cool, matter-of-fact voice, Athos replied, "I promised not to show up to work drunk." He paused for a moment and then added, "I am not at work. I would never do anything to endanger the regiment." Dispassionately, he stared at Treville and it was impressive except when he was forced to reach up and brush his wet hair from his eyes.

Treville silently debated his course of action and decided it simply wasn't worth the time or aggravation to pursue this matter any further at this point. He actually had a genuine reason for calling these men to his office. Pushing off the desk, he walked around behind it and picked up a sealed letter.

"As you know our ranks are spread thin at the moment. I need this letter delivered to a church, St. Rémy, in Dieppe."

"Not a problem," Aramis declared as he took a step forward.

However, the captain held the letter out of the musketeer's reach. "Not you, Aramis. It is a four or five-day trip one way. I'm sorry, but I don't feel you are recovered enough for that long a mission." The captain's voice was sympathetic, but firm.

"Well surely you don't plan to send Porthos by himself," Aramis huffed, put off by the whole situation though deep down he knew his commander was correct. He wasn't ready for a long mission yet and he would be endangering Porthos if he went on this mission.

"Of course not." Letting his eyes come to rest on Athos, he declared, "I'm asking Athos, as a favor to his King and Country, to accompany Porthos."

Other than an occasional drop of water hitting the floor, the silence was so deafening you could have heard a pin drop.

Finally, Porthos spoke. "A mission? With him? He ain't even a musketeer. No way, captain," he empathetically stated, shaking his head.

"For you, Porthos, it is an order," Captain Treville stated, squaring his shoulders and staring Porthos down.

The big man grumbled, but had no choice except to bend his head in acquiescence. However, he was clearly unhappy with the command.

"Athos," the captain said, turning his blue eyes upon the stunned swordsman. "I can't order you. But you know our situation, how short-handed we are because of the tragedy at Savoy. You are a fine swordsman and while you are not a soldier, I believe you can be an asset to Porthos on this mission. His Majesty needs this missive delivered to St Rémy. It is of vital importance."

Athos' face, for once, was leaking his emotions and the captain was pretty sure the man was about to decline, so he played his ace card. "It is noble and honorable to answer the call of your King."

Treville saw Athos' jaw clench and his eyes narrow, as the man scanned his face, trying to read what truth the captain knew, for he had the distinct feeling there was more to this than met the eye. But Treville was good at the game too, and he schooled his face to appear cool and confident, as if he had already won this battle. Two of the men in the office desperately wanted this mission to happen and the other two definitely did not. But in the end, Athos dipped his head a little in consent.

Turning to face Aramis, Treville ordered, "Get Athos what he requires from supply." After thinking at moment, he looked over at Athos. "Can you shoot a pistol?" He had seen Athos fight with fist and sword, but didn't recall him ever using a gun.

"I'm not as expert a marksman as Monsieur Aramis, but I can usually hit my quarry," Athos wryly replied.

Treville nodded curtly. "Good enough. And take him to armory, get him outfitted." The later part was addressed to Aramis. "Go on then. Porthos, a moment."

Knowing a dismissal when they heard one, Aramis and Athos left the captain's office. When they were gone, the captain found the letter on his disorganized-looking desk and handed it to the scowling Porthos, who took it and tucked it into his doublet.

Compassionately, Treville placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder. "I know you are unhappy with these arrangements and you are going to like this next piece even less. You need to go incognito. The King doesn't want anyone to know he is conversing with the party waiting at St Rémy."

Letting his hand fall back to his side, Treville moved around behind his desk again. "You know if I tried to send you on your own, I'd have Aramis trailing after you, and he is not ready to be out there yet."

Porthos' grudgingly had to agree with his captain.

"Do you dislike Athos that much? I usually find you quite open-minded," the captain asked bluntly.

The street fighter shrugged. "He rubs me wrong."

"Maybe you need to get to know him better. This trip will provide that opportunity." The captain sat in his chair and watched to see what his musketeer would make of his statement.

Porthos was much sharper than most people gave him credit for, though not Treville. He knew his musketeer was extremely intelligent and resourceful. It is what had kept him alive growing up on the streets.

"Are you thinking of keeping him on permanently?" Both men knew Porthos didn't mean as a weapons instructor.

"Perhaps. We need replacements for those we lost. He is the best damn sword fighter in the regiment."

"Aye, I'll give him that," Porthos admitted without equivocation. "But can he be trusted?"

Captain Treville was quiet for a moment as he pondered. "I think he has some issues, but I think you can trust him to have your back."

"We'll see I guess. Other than the fact I'm delivering a secret letter, out of uniform, along with a man who is not even a musketeer...hell, what could go wrong?" Porthos quipped with a little grin.

Aramis led Athos into the armory to look over the stock-pile collection of wheel lock pistols. "Do you have a preference?" he asked the swordsman as he waved at the rack holding the weapons.

Athos ran an experienced eye over the regiment's arsenal, picking up then laying aside a few before he made a choice. "This will do."

The marksman was impressed that the man had chosen one of the better pistols. Not the flashiest, but definitely one of the ones with the highest quality construction. Grabbing a horn of powder and a sack of balls he motioned for Athos to follow him back outside. He walked through the courtyard coming to a halt near the targets they used for practice. Handing Athos the powder and the balls, he commanded, "Load, and shoot. Let's see how good you really are."

Athos cocked an amused eyebrow at the musketeer, as he loaded the gun in a fairly swift and efficient manner.

"Not bad," Aramis commented when Athos had the pistol loaded and ready to fire. "With a little more practice you will almost be good enough to be a musketeer. Now let's see how good your aim is." Stepping aside, he gestured towards the middle target. "That one. As near to the center as possible, please," he instructed, as if Athos wouldn't know the objective of this game.

Deliberately, the swordsman raised the pistol, took his time lining up his shot, and finally squeezed the trigger. The ball hit the target on the outside edge of the bullseye.

Frowning, Aramis declared, "Not bad. But way too slow. It was a good shot as far as accuracy goes, but if you take that long to aim, you, or the person whose back you are defending, will be dead."

Athos knew exactly whose back Aramis was concerned about. While the musketeer had seemed more accepting of Treville's assignment, he knew the marksman wasn't really happy to be left behind and was concerned for his best friend's welfare. What Aramis didn't know yet about Athos was, if the swordsman committed to something, he gave it his all, heedless of the danger to himself.

The Comte decided to help put Aramis' mind at ease. "Is your gun loaded?" Athos asked gesturing to the pistol hanging from Aramis' weapons belt.

"Of course. I'm a musketeer."

Before the last word left Aramis lips, Athos had reached over, pulled the gun off the marksman's belt, spun, and fired it at the target. The ball entered about an inch closer to the center than the first shot.

"Better?" he deadpanned, as he handed the weapon back to Aramis.

Aramis accepted his gun, but before he could say anything, Athos grabbed Aramis' main gauche from behind his back, flung it at the target, and landed it dead center of the bullseye. ''I'm fairly accurate with my left hand too. If you go fetch your main gauche I could demonstrate again."

A stunned Aramis finally found his voice. "I'll take your word for it."

Athos gave him an acknowledging head tilt, one that in later years Aramis would come to recognize as Athos' smug, and pleased with himself nod.

Walking over to the target, Athos retrieved Aramis' blade before the two men headed for the supply room to get the necessary items required for the trip. Though Athos had a set of saddle bags of his own, Aramis grabbed a set from the shelf.

"These are a little bigger than normal bags, and were constructed especially for our use with a few nice features," he explained, as he started placing items in them. "I'll leave room for a spare set of clothes."

Athos took the nearly full saddlebags from Aramis and flung them over his left shoulder. He started to walk around Aramis to head for the stables, but the other man blocked his path.

"Porthos is my best friend. One of the only ones I have left since..." His voice trailed off and Aramis swallowed hard around the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. "I need you to make sure he stays safe on this trip. I can't bear the thought...," and again his voice died off.

Overcoming his reserved nature, Athos put both hands on Aramis slumped shoulders and captured the man's sad eyes with his intense green ones. "I swear I won't let anything happen to him. You have my word."

Aramis realized he believed with one hundred percent of his soul that this man would do exactly what he swore. For a second he felt a strange moment of connection, like he had known this man forever, but when Athos removed his hands from his shoulders, it quickly faded.

Athos was a little rattled himself, not quite understanding why he swore to protect Porthos. A small, recessed part of his brain suggested, perhaps, it was because he was starting to look upon Aramis as a friend. He quickly slammed his mask of neutrality on his face and stepped backwards, away both from Aramis and what he considered a dangerous situation. He didn't need a friend and he didn't want a friend. He was doing this assignment because it was the right thing to do to help out his country. Nothing more, nothing less.

Gruffly, he pushed past Aramis, found the stable lad, instructed him to saddle his horse then headed for his rooms. Aramis practically felt the gates around Athos' emotions slamming shut and silently wondered what had happened to the man to make him so wary. He made a vow when Athos and Porthos returned from this mission; he would learn more about the mysterious man that he was starting to think of as a friend.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 29

She stood, concealed, in the shadows near the gate and watched the two men, neither one dressed as a musketeer, depart. However, she knew the man on the brown horse with black points was in fact the musketeer named Porthos. Anyone as unusual as he didn't go unnoticed in her intelligence gathering. However, it was the man riding the beautiful black horse, an animal she incidentally knew, who made her gasp. The horse was Roger and his rider was none other than the Comte de la Fére, her estranged husband.

It had taken her quite a while to track down the drunken man who had bested the Cardinal's Red Guards a few months back. She had been working on trying to find out who he was in-between other tasks for the Cardinal. It had taken a few bribes of both body and coin to get her the information that the drunken man was a weapons' instructor at the garrison. Judging by the way people had described his talents it all made sense now. It had taken awhile longer to ferret out the name of the man. When she heard it, she had been taken back. Athos. It was part of the surname of her husband, the man's whose brother she killed either as self-defense or murder, depending on whose story you believed. She was shocked to find out they were one and the same.

It was just her luck that her husband, who thought she was dead, was in Paris and working in some capacity for the musketeers, a group of men who were an irritant to her current patron. Melting back deeper into the shadows that concealed her position, she plotted her next move. One thing was certain, she saw no advantage in letting him know she was still alive. As far as he was concerned, she was dead, hung by the neck, on his orders. He hadn't stayed to watch his wife suffocate and die, the one to whom he had promised that nothing would come between them.

He hadn't reckoned with the fact she, like Porthos, had grown up on the streets, and was a survivor. Her deal with Rémy, to cut her down before she died, had been forged before the ink on her death warrant had even dried. No, it was to her advantage to keep her survival secret. She could report to the Cardinal, finally, who the mystery swordsman was, though she didn't plan to report that he also happened to be her husband. With a swish of the dark cloak that was covering her nice dress, she turned and disappeared back into the streets of Paris.

Inside the garrison's gate, Captain Treville and Aramis stood shoulder to shoulder watching Porthos and Athos ride away. It was strange to see Porthos out of uniform. Neither man could remember when that had last occurred. The street fighter was proud of his pauldron and uniform.

"Captain, how dangerous is this assignment really?"

Hearing the worry in Aramis' voice, his leader sought to try to assuage his concerns. "There have been no reports of any unusual activity on the roads to Dieppe. In wanting them out of uniform I think the King is being overly dramatic, as is his nature at times. I think the greatest issue will be the... compatibility of the traveling companions."

"You're testing him, aren't you? To see if he has what it takes to be a musketeer,'' Aramis mildly accused his captain. He turned his head to look at the older man, wanting to gauge his reaction.

"The regiment needs to be brought back up to full strength for everyone's safety," Treville answered carefully, knowing Savoy still haunted Aramis and would for the rest of his life. Eventually, it would scar over, but never go away.

"He is not from the regular Army, or any other unit. And if he is not some noble in disguise, will there be an issue bringing him into the regiment? You know how fickle the King can be about his noble bodyguards. I know you had some issues with Porthos and myself, but at least we had military background. Do you know if Athos does?" Aramis fished around to see what the captain might have learned.

Treville answered cleverly. "He hasn't directly told me anything about his past." Not to say that he didn't know something anyway, but he hadn't lied to Aramis. What he thought he knew about Athos was based on suppositions, not facts, yet. Before he offered Athos a place in the regiment, if he did, he was going to learn the truth of Athos' past from his own lips.

Aramis realized that if the captain did know anything, he wasn't going to divulge it so the marksman respectfully stopped digging. Besides, there were other ways to learn about Athos, like simply asking the man when he and Porthos returned. Though Athos wasn't the world's greatest conversationalist, he was Aramis and could charm anyone!

Once the two riders were out of sight, the two musketeers returned to their duties. The captain went up the wooden staircase to his office, while Aramis wandered a bit aimlessly around the courtyard, finally stopping to watch a few men fence. Already he was missing Porthos. Aramis was friendly with everyone, but friends with few. There was always room for him at everyone's table for he was amicable, witty and pleasant company. However, there was a whole other side to him, that only a few trusted friends ever got to see. One of those men had been Marsac, now gone. Another was Porthos, who was on the road trip. Strangely enough, the third was the obstinate Athos, also on the road trip.

Aramis leaned against a wooden support beam as he pondered his growing relationship with Athos. It was clear that Athos was rebuffing him at every turn, though Aramis wasn't offended in the least, only more intrigued. The marksman felt there must be something tragic in Athos' past, his Savoy so to speak, that was coloring the swordsman's behavior. Aramis was willing to respect the man's privacy, but it didn't mean he wasn't going to stop trying to befriend Athos. As odd as it was, he sensed a bond, like the one he had with Porthos, and felt that God wanted the three of them to become a team. Something about it felt right, a sixth sense, like finding a compatible soul. Now, he only had to hope the two men survived each other's company during the mission. They were still on shaky ground and without Aramis to serve as a mediator, things could get interesting. Aramis offered a quick, silent prayer to his God that the trip be uneventful and both arrived home safely.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 30

Porthos was by no means talkative, but he did enjoy light conversation to help pass the time when riding long distances. He knew from his limited exposure to Athos that he was, by nature, a reserved person. However, he was still amazed by the man's ability to remain silent. Excluding the occasional non-verbal nod, head tilt, shrug, or mmm-hmm, he would swear Athos had spoken less than a dozen times their first day on the road, and when he had, most of the sentences contained less than ten words. It was beginning to drive Porthos nuts. In the past, Porthos had complained that Aramis spoke too much, accusing him of being a chatterbox. But now that he had a taste of the opposite, he decided Aramis' level of conversation was the better of the two extremes.

Porthos didn't feel that Athos' refusal to engage in conversation was a personal slight against him, like some of the musketeers who disapproved of his heritage. The swordsman's behavior towards him was cool and detached, but that was the man's default demeanor with everyone. It did, however, tend to make him a monotonous traveling companion.

After being together on the road for twenty-four hours, if someone asked him what he had learned about his Athos, Porthos would have been hard pressed to come up with much of anything. Considering the two men were barely acquaintances when they left the garrison, one would have thought by now Porthos would have learned something new about the taciturn man who rode beside him, but he really hadn't. After their first night camping, however, he had learned two things. The man couldn't cook and he didn't sleep.

The first night they had been forced to camp outside, as there was no village or inn when they decided to halt for the day. Since Athos probably hadn't set up as many campsites as Porthos, the experienced soldier issued guidance and direction to the other man who accepted it graciously, quickly grasped the concepts, and even added a few improvements of his own, which had Porthos grudgingly impressed.

After their camp had been prepared, they had set about making their evening repast. Porthos learned that Athos was a decent shot, as he rapidly brought down a brace of bunnies for their meal. However, the man only had rudimentary skills and that was being polite, when it came to preparing an animal for consumption. His ability to separate the rabbit from its pelt, and then prepare it for cooking, definitely was subpar. When he was finished skinning the rabbits, for the first time since they left the garrison, Athos had actually initiated a conversation.

"I can't cook these," he declared, holding the somewhat mangled carcasses aloft in his left hand.

"Why? Too good to cook your own food," Porthos jokingly asked, as he placed a pot of water to warm near the newly built fire.

Athos peered from the bunnies, to the fire, to Porthos. "No."

"So, what then? You don't know how to cook over an open fire? That I can teach you. I ain't the best, but my results are tasty enough."

A peculiar, almost apologetic expression appeared on Athos' face. "I understand the...concept...of cooking. However, my execution is always somewhat...lacking."

The street-fighter gave a small chuckle. "We all burn stuff now and then. Ya just gotta be careful," Porthos declared with confidence, as he reached over and took the skinned rabbits from Athos' hands. Giving them a critical going over, he noticed a few patches of fur still attached. "They taste better if you get all the fur off. Tends to burn."

"Everything I cook burns," Athos mumbled, but he nodded his head to indicate he heard Porthos' advice.

Patiently, Porthos gathered the required y-shaped sticks to build a spit along with a relatively straight branch. "The young branches, like from a sapling, make good cross pieces. They don't burn so easily. You can also soak them first."

Athos politely paid attention to Porthos' lesson, nodding his head at the required spots, even though he already knew how to do all he was being shown. As he had tried to articulate earlier, he understood the concept, although whenever he tried to execute, some minor disaster always occurred and the meal was ruined. However, if you needed someone to uncork a bottle of wine, he was your man. There was no bottle, under any circumstances, that he couldn't get open. But cook? Be prepared to starve.

Halfway through the roasting of the rabbits, Porthos, who had been tending them up to that point, turning the spit once and awhile, stood and stretched his long limbs. "Where's the skin from the rabbits?"

Athos pointed to a pile of messy fluff on the ground a few feet away. Porthos lumbered over to the heap and began poking at it. "All these are so tiny," he groused, as he held up a lacerated piece of furry skin. "Looks like the poor creature was mauled by a wild animal. How can you be so good with a sword and yet create this?" He held aloft another small piece of fur that looked like it had been shot, repeatedly, as it was full of holes.

"My dagger...slipped," Athos sheepishly explained. "It seems the knife skills used for fighting, don't translate to skinning dinner."

"Oi, based on this I'd have to agree." With a sigh, Porthos poked through the rest of the pile looking for a larger, intact piece to use for his purpose. When he didn't find one, he straightened and noisily exhaled, again. "I have to go answer the call of nature. Watch the rabbits."

Porthos swore he heard panic in Athos' voice when he spoke. "Will you be...long?" He questioned, as he eyed the rabbits cooking over the flames. "Could you wait until they," Athos gestured towards their meal, "are done?"

"Seriously? It's bad enough you didn't leave me a nice patch of fur to use," Porthos grumbled, before grinning at the embarrassment flushing Athos' cheeks when it dawned on him why the man had wanted a nice, non-holey, piece of fur. "Just watch the rabbits and turn them."

The swordsman really had no choice and reluctantly nodded as the other man lumbered off into the woods. Some people simply had to learn the hard way, Athos supposed. He wondered what trail rations were in their packs for dinner. If history was a predictor of the future, they'd need them tonight.

Porthos returned to the campsite, whistling a happy little tune and suddenly came to a grinding halt, staring in horror. How could all of that happen in such a short amount of time? The fire was out, their dinner lay in ruins on the ground, Athos was cradling his left arm in his lap, and Porthos' bedroll was wet.

From underneath the mass of overly long, brown, wavy hair that was partially obscuring Athos' face, two green eyes apologetically glanced up at him. "Sorry," he muttered, as he dropped his head abashedly to stare at the ruins.

Porthos looked at Athos with astonishment and incredulity. "I wasn't gone that long. What happened?"

"Marauders."

Porthos squatted on the ground to take a closer look at their ruined dinner. "I didn't hear anything," he said distractedly, as he poked at what once were rabbits. Then it dawned on him and he whipped his head around to stare at Athos. "You just made a joke!"

Athos raised his head and the corner of his mouth quirked in what passed as a smile for the stoic man. "Seemed saner then the truth."

Porthos plopped the rest of the way to the ground. "Explain," he demanded, as he arranged his long legs in front of him.

Using his good hand, Athos pushed his hair back revealing his slightly singed face. "I was sitting here cleaning my pistol, diligently watching our dinner, and periodically turning the spit in a most cautious fashion." He paused a moment and then grimaced. "I set the cloth on the ground next to me, the one I was using to clean the gun, so I could give the rabbits another gentle rotation. Unexpectedly, a gust of wind caught the cloth and flung it into the fire. The granules of gunpowder adhering to the material ignited, causing the fire to flare in a dramatic fashion. In my haste to get out of the way of the sudden blaze, I hit the crossbar holding the rabbits and they fell into the roaring fire. I immediately rose to my feet to try to stamp out the flames and in doing so, I accidentally kicked the pot of water onto your bedroll where it spilled. By the time the blaze died down enough for me to attempt to rescue our dinner it was," he pointed to the two blackened bunny carcasses, "too late. I fear they are no longer edible."

Porthos was stunned by the story, the length of time the man had talked, and the state of their dinner, which was ruined. The large man sat there on the hard ground, mouth open like a fish out of water, desperately trying to assimilate the whole tale of woe. "You fear they are no longer edible?" he numbly repeated, staring at the incinerated rabbits. His stomach let out a very plaintive growl.

"Shall I go see if I can catch something else for dinner?" Athos dubiously asked, because darkness had already descended upon them.

"No sense. You aren't going to find any animals in the dark." Shaking his head, Porthos rose from the ground and walked over to where he had left his saddlebags. Rummaging around in them, he pulled out some bread, dried meat, cheese, and two apples. Moving to where Athos was sitting, he handed him his share and said, "Bon appetite."

As Athos reached for the food with his right hand, Porthos' eye noticed the burned left sleeve of the swordsman's shirt. "Are you hurt?" he inquired, gesturing towards Athos' arm guardedly cradled in his lap.

"It's fine," the swordsman replied, as he angled his body, discreetly, so his left arm was obscured from Porthos' prying eyes.

It was too early in their acquaintance for Porthos to know that Athos' declaration that he was fine could mean anything from a paper cut to a severed artery. So he took the man at face value and moved to the far side of the soggy pile of wood that was once a cheerful blaze.

"When I'm done eating, I'll go get some wood to rebuild the fire," Porthos declared, as he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

Athos immediately set down his food without even taking a bite and rose to his feet. "No. I'll do it, and fetch some more water. You shouldn't suffer for my clumsiness."

"We'll do it after we eat," Porthos said, gesturing for Athos to sit.

"No!" Athos immediately replied with a slight edge of desperation in his tone. "I caused this mess and I shall fix it."

Porthos stared at him for a second then shrugged.

Grabbing the empty pot from on top of Porthos' bedroll, Athos started to move off into the darkness. "It may take a while to find enough wood," he warned before disappearing into the trees in the direction of the stream. He was not going to admit he wanted to soak his burned left forearm in the water for a while to try to draw out some of the heat, which made his arm feel like it was on fire.

As Porthos watched Athos disappear into the woods, he felt like he was missing something. However, it was only a momentary feeling, which quickly faded. The man was probably embarrassed and needed a few minutes of alone time. It was a rather spectacular mess he had managed to create in a very short amount of time. If he needed a few minutes to regroup, far be it from Porthos to intrude. With that settled in his mind, he went back to eating his dinner.

True to his word, it was a while before Athos returned with a fresh pot of water and wood to rekindle the fire. In his absence, Porthos had cleaned up the fire pit and readied it for a fresh blaze. It didn't take too long before the fire was rebuilt and they settled on opposite sides of it. Though it was May, the temperature easily dipped into the forties at night and the blaze was comforting.

"Your food is over there." Porthos gestured to the neat little stack a few feet from where Athos sat. The man nodded his thanks, but didn't make an effort to rise and get it.

"Bet you will be sore tomorrow. Have you done much long distance riding?"

Unsurprisingly, Athos's non-verbal shrug was not very informative.

Porthos thought he might be able to get the man to share a little of his past, if he shared first. "Me, I grew up in the Court of Miracles so I didn't learn to ride until I joined the Army. It was quite an experience. I'm not sure who my sergeant felt sorrier for, me or the first horse I learned to ride. We both got our share of bumps and bruises."

Athos listened courteously to Porthos' tale and when it was finished, he gave his approximation of a smile, which was little more than a twitch to the corner of his lips.

Normally, when one person shares their tale on how they came to learn something, polite company picks up the thread and shares their own experience. It is a ritual way of beginning to bond and find common ground upon which to build a relationship. Athos knew what was expected of him, that he should share how he learned to ride, but he remained quiet, letting the sounds of the settling night fill the void of conversation.

His father, mother, governess, and tutors as he grew up had relentlessly badgered him to learn the art of conversation and he had, though most times he chose not to do it. It had been the basis of many arguments with his father, who had expected the future Comte to claim his proper station in the rank and file of the nobility. After all, the de la Fère's were one of the old families, able legitimately to trace their ancestry for centuries. There were expectations society placed upon them and the Comte de la Fére swore his son and heir should do everything demanded of him because of his rank and position.

The Comtesse had been no happier with her eldest's behavior when it came to matters with the opposite sex. When he reached the proper age to start the beginning of the courtship rituals in which all proper noblemen and women indulged, he refused. Many a poor young woman was driven to distraction by his sheer refusal to engage in the art of polite conversation. It had vexed the young women, their mothers, and of course the Comtesse, who felt she had failed in properly raising her eldest. The only person who didn't seem to mind was Athos.

For the son of a strict, old-school Comte, who believed people had set stations in life and should adhere to them, Athos had grown up quite liberal in his views of class structure. As a child, he had been more familiar with the servants than his parents thought proper, and had received many lectures on the subject. He had also made friends among the children of the village and later the tradesman, until his parents put a stop to that in no uncertain terms. His isolation had shaped him into the man that he was to this day

Athos had spent his life avoiding personal conversations and one curious musketeer in the middle of the woods wasn't going to change that pattern. By way of distraction, Athos retrieved his food and ate it in silence as he watched the dancing flames of the fire. When he was done, he announced that he would take the first watch. Porthos didn't argue.

Porthos slept away most of the night. When he momentarily roused while rolling over, he realized Athos hadn't woken him for his shift to keep watch. Sitting up, he spotted Athos sitting against a near-by tree and he fully expected to find the man asleep on the job. But as he got up and drew near, he discovered Athos was fully awake and watching him as he approached. That was when Porthos learned a second thing about his travel mate. He didn't sleep long or soundly.

"You didn't wake me," he stated in an accusatory tone.

Athos merely gave one of his shrugs, with which Porthos was getting infuriatingly familiar, and replied, "I wasn't tired."

"Yeah, well I'm not taking any chances of you suddenly getting tired tomorrow and falling off your horse. So go catch a few hours of sleep," Porthos instructed him, pointing towards his unused bedroll near the fire.

Athos stared at him for a moment and just when Porthos swore the man was going to object, he rose to his feet and walked to his bedroll. After he settled upon it, he looked over at Porthos. "If I fell asleep on my horse, which I won't, I wouldn't fall off Roger."

"Your horse's name is Roger?" Porthos snickered, ignoring the first part of the declaration. "That's kind of odd ain't it?"

"Does your animal have a name?"

"Sure he does. Flip."

"And that is more appropriate than Roger?" Athos stated in his flat monotone accompanied by a glacial glare that his friends, later in their friendship, would dub as his 'Comte' mode.

"Sure is. And it's a great story how my horse got his name." He watched with irritation as the swordsman deliberately rolled on his side placing his back towards Porthos. "Don't you want to hear the story?"

"No."

"Oh yeah? Well I don't want to know how your horse ended up with the dumb name of Roger," Porthos shot back like a petulant child, once again roiled up by his antisocial traveling mate.

"Good."

That ended the conversation as Athos snugged his hat further down over his eyes.

Porthos mumbled grouchily as he settled against the tree trunk to keep watch. The sun was beginning to pink the horizon and he doubted Athos would get more than an hour or two of sleep before they needed to head out if they were to stay on schedule. Served the man right for not awakening him earlier.

Athos wasn't really sleeping, unbeknownst to Porthos, who didn't have the familiarity yet to read Athos' body language. The Comte simply lay there quietly, trying not it aggravate his burned arm or the cut on his thigh from the table leg at the tavern a few nights ago, which had been irritated by the long ride. The wound should have been stitched, but he had no clue the day after he received it he would go on a cross-country trek. It was too late now to do anything but stoically deal with it.

Dawn couldn't come fast enough for the uncomfortable Athos and as soon as the sun rose over the horizon, he sat up, stretched, and then stood. "We need to go if we are to maintain our schedule."

"You could sleep for another hour, if you want," Porthos graciously offered since it had been a mere two hours since Athos laid down.

"No," came the curt, but courteous reply as Athos began to secure his bedroll. "I'm good."

Porthos took the man at his word. They efficiently broke camp and swiftly got back on the road, choosing to break their fast with some dried meat as they rode. Porthos had a feeling it was going to be another long and silent day. Once again, he wished for the garrulous Aramis at his side to break up the monotony. As they rode in silence, Porthos swore he would never make fun of Aramis' prattling again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 31

On the off chance this man did become a musketeer one day, Porthos reluctantly decided he better break a bad habit before it became too ingrained. The street fighter had been observing his traveling companion throughout the day since he didn't have much else to do. Athos had remained mulishly silent so it had been another conversationally challenged day.

As they set up camp that night, he had continued to obliquely watch Athos go about his tasks and he had to admit the man was skilled at deception, but not enough to get past him. As a child who grew up in the streets, Porthos had needed to be heedful of what was occurring around him at all times in order to survive. It had become a fundamental part of his being and had served him well as a soldier and a musketeer.

As they ate their dinner, Porthos casually remarked, "When were done eating, we're gonna look at those wounds of yours."

"To what wounds are you referring?"

Porthos had to admire the ingenious way Athos side-stepped truth. He wondered if the swordsman liked to play cards. With a sigh of contentment, he bit into the tender, juicy drumstick from the fowl Athos had snared and he had cooked. The musketeer wasn't taking any chances by letting the swordsman cook again. His stomach was important to him and he wanted real food, not trail rations because Athos had another cooking accident. He licked at his fingers after he tossed the picked clean bone over his shoulder.

"Two things you need to learn if you are thinking of trying to become a musketeer."

"Which I am not," Athos quickly volleyed.

Porthos gave him a dubious look. "One, don't lie to your brothers. Two, don't hide injuries."

Athos was preparing to submit his rebuttal when Porthos held up a hand to silence him. "The Musketeer Regiment is more than a group of soldiers. The captain hopes to build it into a brotherhood of men, devoted to King, Country and each other. I admit we aren't quite there yet. Some of those noblemen's sons," he made a derogatory noise, "still don't get it, but if the captain has his way they will or they'll be out of the regiment."

Porthos glanced at Athos to see if the man had any reaction to his speech, but as usual, the man's face remained a mask of neutrality. "My point is you need to be able to trust the men you serve with if you want to become a brotherhood. Lying to your brother isn't a good thing."

Athos raised his eyes and gave a little nod to indicate that in principle he agreed with Porthos' statement. However, he wasn't a musketeer and as far as he was concerned it was an academic point.

"Second thing is if you are hurt, you tell someone. We depend on each other and watch each other's backs. It's how you survive when the going gets rough. Hiding an injury is a sure way to get yourself, and the guy standing next to you, hurt or killed. And if I'm that guy standing next to you I'm gonna be real pissed. You may not be a musketeer, but on this mission Treville sent us on, we only have each other to depend on."

The eyebrow quirked just a fraction, but it was enough. "Duly noted."

The two men locked eyes and had a stare down contest, neither backing off. Porthos was about to strangle the stubborn man across from him when Athos sighed, broke eye contact, picked up a piece of meat and began to eat again.

"Fine. After we eat," Athos conceded as he pulled the meat off the bone with his teeth. "But I want it understood, I am doing this under protest."

"Duly noted," Porthos said with a grin as he went back to his own meal.

The corner of Athos' mouth twitched again and Porthos decided maybe the man wasn't quite as comme il faut as he appeared most times.

Not anywhere near as good a medic as Aramis, Porthos knew enough to get by in the field. After examining the burn on Athos' left forearm, he went to his saddle bags and found a salve that would help ease the discomfort and assist in the healing process. Aramis always made sure they carried basic medical supplies and had a rudimentary knowledge of how to employ them. Athos closed his eyes and actually let a little sigh of relief escape his lips as Porthos gently rubbed the soothing lotion on his arm before wrapping it in a bandage.

"Thank you," he said sincerely when Porthos had secured the end of the cloth.

"Well if you had mentioned this last night," he declared, gesturing towards the wrapped wound, "you wouldn't have had to suffer all day." Sitting back on his heels, he gestured with his fingers. "Ok, off with the pants. Let me see the injury on your leg."

"I..."

Porthos' hand shot up making a silencing gesture again. "You are about to break rules number one and two again," he warned. A sly grin tugged at the corner of the street fighter's mouth. "Don't be shy. You ain't got nothing I ain't seen."

That statement did cause Athos to flinch and Porthos couldn't help wondering why, though he wasn't stupid enough to think asking Athos would bring any results.

"Strip. Now. Before we lose the light," he demanded impatiently.

Appearing as though he was headed for his own execution, Athos laboriously rose and removed his boots and pants. Porthos tried to wait patiently without tapping the tips of his boots on the ground in agitation. His attitude abruptly changed when he got his first look at Athos' leg wound and he let out a low whistle. His eyes travelled upward from the red-rimmed gash to Athos' indifferent face.

"That's infected," Porthos stated firmly as he pointed a finger at the wound. "I get that the burn on the arm is from last night, but not that wound."

Athos shifted uncomfortably, though it had nothing to do with the chilly breeze that was rustling the leaves of the tree overhead. "The other night. In the bar. When the table collapsed." He gave a dispassionate shrug. "An unfortunate accident."

"Which wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been drunk." Porthos started digging through the medical supplies once more. "That's another bad habit you gotta break if you want to be a musketeer; losing yourself in drink." He didn't really expect to get an answer, but he asked anyway. "Why do you do it? Drink so much."

To his surprise, Athos answered, though it shed no real light. "It helps."

Porthos held up a bottle that he had taken from his pack. "Well alcohol caused this injury, now it's time to see if it can help heal it. Sit."

Athos lowered his body to the ground, stretching his leg out in front of him.

"This is gonna hurt. A lot. Treville has it specially distilled, really potent, seems to help fight off infections." Glancing at Athos, Porthos saw the man was eyeing the bottle with a mixture of trepidation and awe. "Word to the wise, don't ever try to drink this stuff. Nasty."

Athos' eyes narrowed as if he was contemplating that last statement.

"Feel free to scream when I pour this on. I find it helps." With that, Porthos liberally poured the liquid over the wound, wiped it clean with a cloth, and then doused it once more. To Athos' credit, he didn't let anything more than a hiss escape his lips and Porthos wondered what toll it was taking on the man to remain silent.

"Won't stitch it...tonight. Aramis says once it is infected, it is better to leave it alone to drain. But maybe tomorrow night I will get out the needle and thread," he declared much too cheerfully for Athos' taste.

By the time he had finished wrapping the gash in a clean bandage, Athos' eyes were screwed tightly shut and he was breathing heavily, though he was trying his best to hide it.

"I can make you something for the pain," Porthos offered. "Aramis showed me. An herbal concoction that tastes vile, but will take the edge off."

"No...thank...you," Athos ground out between clenched teeth. "I'm good."

Porthos snorted before gathering up the unused medical supplies and neatly packing them away. "You have a strange sense of good."

While Porthos was tidying up, Athos painfully climbed to his feet, found his pants and maneuvered into them. Sweat was beading on his forehead by the time they were buttoned up and his face was even more pallid than normal.

"How about I take the first watch tonight, hmmmm?" Porthos suggested when he returned to find a rather unsteady Athos.

"Perhaps that would be best," Athos agreed as he wobbled over to his bedroll and gingerly lowered his aching body down upon it. In less than ten minutes, Porthos detected the even sounds of slumber coming from Athos.

After four hours or so, Athos' sleep grew restless and suddenly he bolted awake, his face full of fear. Even though it didn't take him long to get his mask back in place, he felt the heat of a blush rising on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the low-grade fever he had developed. Porthos had seen his panicked awakening and Athos hated appearing vulnerable in front of anyone.

Porthos saw the swordsman's embarrassment and sought to set his mind at ease. "Nightmares. Had a few nasty ones myself. Comes with being a soldier."

Athos eyed him warily. "I'm not a soldier."

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean you ain't seen terrible things." Porthos waited to see if Athos might allow a small chink in his armor and say what caused his nightmare.

But he didn't. Athos pointedly looked away as he started to climb to his feet. "I'll take over the watch."

Athos demeanor left no room for dissension so Porthos didn't argue, merely shrugged and moved over to his own bedroll. "Wake me if you need me," he said jokingly as he rolled to place his back to the fire.

Athos took a drink of water from the canteen to sooth his parched throat brought on by the nightmare and the fever. Settling with his back against a tree trunk, he arranged his leg as best he could to stop the ache. He had a feeling the rest of the night was going to be long.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 32

The air had an underlying tinge of salt, courtesy of the choppy sea that flanked the western side of the port town. White, grey, and black mottled sea going birds dotted the cloudless blue skies, soaring and dipping with the eddies in the air. The maritime sounds of the clanging rigging on the fishing boats that dotted the docks carried on the breeze and could be heard about the town.

The church of St. Rémy wasn't hard to find in Dieppe, with its pointed and domed bell towers majestically rising above the buildings that surrounded it. The stone church itself was impressive with double sets of columns flanking its massive dark wood, twin main doors. There were also twin doors, smaller in size, to either side of the main ones.

Athos and Porthos slowly led their horses down the cobblestone streets through the bustling crowd to avoid attracting the undue attention riding would bring upon them. As they drew near the open space in front of the church, they noted merchants had set up stalls to peddle their wares and were doing a fairly brisk business. Stopping at the edge of the courtyard that was in front of the church, Porthos turned and handed his reins to Athos.

"Stay here with the horses while I deliver the package." He eyed the church that spanned several blocks with trepidation. "Hopefully it won't take too long to find Father Biene."

With a little dip of his chin, Athos accepted the reins as Porthos headed towards the church. The swordsman was perfectly content staying outside as the church and its God held no allure for him as they did for Aramis. Choosing the doors to the left of the main entrance, where a number of patrons disappeared into the massive structure, Porthos purposely strode inside, vanishing from Athos' sight.

As Athos led the horses towards the front of the church so he could study it better, he glanced up at the clock on the church's steeple. Architecture had fascinated him when he was a child, though like most things that didn't have a direct correlation to being a proper Comte, his father had barely tolerated his enthusiasm for the subject. Being able to discuss it at a high level, suitable for impressing people at a social function, was allowable for the Comte-to-be. Studying the principles of design and construction, or wanting to visit structures to observe the resultant products, was considered a waste of time. If you wanted something built, his father had explained, you hired the proper craftsmen. So the young Athos had to satisfy his curiosity through books and clandestine expeditions when he visited a place of interest. More than once he was chastised for disappearing to scout out some architecture when he was supposed to be in attendance at an event with his family.

Athos absentmindedly stroked Roger's velvety, black nose as he gazed upon the front of St. Rémy. Not as impressive as Notre Dame of course, it still was an arresting work of masonry. There was a lot of symmetry in its design, starting with the massive, double main doors. These were flanked by twin arched smaller doors and the two last sections of the facade contained tall, vertical windows. The theme on all the doors and windows was the classic rectangle topped off by an arch, which he had once read was to lead the eye upwards towards heaven.

The uniformity only lasted two-thirds of the way up the structure before the design began to diverge. Athos wondered if the sudden lack of symmetry was done by the design of the architect or by a lack of funds to complete the church properly. Upon further contemplation, he came upon a third option, that it might actually have been because of an influx of money. On the right-hand side of the church, where the symmetry ended, there rose a massive, stone tower, jutting into the sky, dwarfing all the other rooflines. A statement, perhaps, that this church should be favored by the Creator over all the other houses of worship by its sheer ostentatiousness.

Tipping his head backwards, his eyes traced the lofty tower's roof to its peak where five objects, roundish in nature, were mounted upon it. From his position far below, he could not identify what they were supposed to represent and wondered why anyone would waste money putting something where no one but God could properly admire it. But, then again, he mused, perhaps that was the point.

He let his eye wander over to the domed bell tower, situated in the rear center portion of St. Rémy. The bell itself was mounted in a second, smaller domed structure perched on the top of the first domed roof. Arched columns, echoing those from the midsection of the church, surrounded the metallic bell so as to allow the populace clearly to hear the peal. On the very top of the bell-dome there was a final object stretching into the heavens. At least the simple shape of this decoration was identifiable from ground level as a cross, though it also resembled a weather vane, a useful object in a seaport.

While he was ruminating on the church's architecture, Athos had gradually stopped rubbing Roger's head and the black stallion saw fit to nudge him in the shoulder to remind him of his duty. With a quiet chuckle, Athos lightly slapped the horse on its curved, muscular neck for being so imperious. Roger's response was a snort, a hoof stomp, and a vigorous mane shake showing his opinion on the subject. Flip, Porthos' rangy gelding, who had been half dozing in the midday sun, flicked his ears with displeasure and deliberately jostled the other horse to warn him to desist in his disruptive behavior.

A few years hence and this minor altercation between stablemates would have simply been glossed over and chalked up to the eccentricity of a favorite pal. But at present, Roger and Flip had only been together the length of time it took to ride from Paris to Dieppe. Like their owners, they weren't yet familiar with, or tolerant of, each other's quirks.

Roger, similar in nature to Athos, was a moody and somewhat ill-tempered beast at times. The Friesian would abide the presence of other horses and their riders, but one always got the impression the stallion was merely tolerating the situation until it passed. If Roger decided he liked another horse or person, for whatever reason he formulated in his horsy brain, he would be loyal to a fault. Over time, Roger's bond to the rest of the Inseparables and their mounts would strengthen and become a force with which to be reckoned. But at the moment, Flip was simply an annoyance in need of a lesson.

Flip, like Porthos, possessed a mostly forgiving temperament, until he didn't; and when he got riled enough he would strike out. The easygoing Flip would forgive the transgressions of those around him, both man and horse, for a long time. But he did have a few principles and if they were violated, he would deal with the culprit in a swift retaliatory fashion. Flip, too, would become attuned to the varying natures of the three musketeers and their mounts, but he wasn't there yet.

So Roger decided Flip needed a lesson in etiquette and Flip decided Roger was being a pompous ass. The two horses started dancing around and whinnying at each other, which began to attract the attention of the folks nearby, to the dismay of the incognito swordsman. This mission, conducted out of uniform, was supposed to be stealthy in nature and two horses, fighting in the square in front of St. Rémy, negated that principle.

Athos, being a consummate horseman, quickly set about getting the two animals to calm down and behave. However, the disturbance had caught the attention of a man who had been meditatively strolling along street. Hearing the minor commotion, he stopped and glanced around for the source and could scarcely believing his good fortune when he saw who was holding the misbehaving beasts. It was Athos, the swordsman who had humiliated him in Monsieur Tricost's weapons shop in Paris.

Michel, who was employed by Monsieur Tricost, was in Dieppe delivering an order. The renown weapons maker had clientele throughout France, patrons whose pockets were deep and would gladly pay extra to have their orders delivered to their doorsteps. Michel had made a number of these trips to the port town of Dieppe, which was home to many well-off people whose social status demanded they acquire a Tricost blade.

Though he was paid well by Monsieur Tricost to deliver his wares, Dieppe also held another source of income for Michel. Before he began working for the armorer, Michel had lived in Dieppe for a time, after he had been kicked out of the Army. An old acquaintance had let him bunk in his residence and had introduced Michel to some of his rather unsavory friends who supplemented their incomes by providing illegal services. Interestingly, there were strong ties back to the town guards who were as corrupt as the men they were supposed to arrest.

Michel, low on coin, but possessing some desirable skills courtesy of the Army, had been initiated into the illegal underbelly of Dieppe. Since he wasn't a particularly morality-bound man, the tasks he was asked to do didn't bother him as long as he was paid for his troubles. Many times the jobs were a perfect outlet for his explosive, violent nature. However, his excessive drinking, which had gotten him dismissed from the Army, got him in trouble again. It made him unreliable and dangerous and, after a particularly nasty altercation, he decided it was prudent to leave Dieppe for a while as he had no desire to die, or worse.

For whatever reason, after he left Dieppe to head to Paris, Michel decided he would turn over a new leaf in a new city, avoid alcohol, and try to make an honest living. It wasn't easy as his skills consisted mainly of being very good with a blade. Trying to get into any regiment was a nonstarter, so instead he plied his trade in the private market as there were many nobles that retained household guards. For a while, his new life seemed to suit him well and his drinking was kept at bay.

Michel met Monsieur Tricost one day when his employer sought out the famed weapons-maker to commission a piece. Later, when Michel had been sent to the shop to retrieve the finished sword, he and Tricost had fallen into conversation and found they both had a love of weaponry. The unlikely duo became friends and Monsieur Tricost often allowed Michel to try out his products.

But the siren song of drink lulled him back into its embrace and he began to indulge again. Fired from his position, and from his next two jobs because of his drinking habits, Michel found himself headed down the dark road again, as he contemplated using his skills for nefarious purposes. However, fate smiled on him when he came across Monsieur Tricost in the market three days after he had lost yet another position and the man offered him a place in his shop.

The armorer had been impressed by Michel's skill with a blade, which he had seen a few times during their acquaintance. From their conversations, Tricost also knew that Michel was a fairly sharp man, not afraid of hard work, but had a demon called drink riding on his shoulder. However, a person like Michel could be an asset to an armorer, Tricost had thought, if he could get the man to control his drinking. A job offer had been tendered with the conditions that if Michel ever showed up drunk for work, he would immediately be sent home until such time as he could show up for work sober. Tricost was hoping Michel would come to love his job enough to curb his drinking.

Michel entered into the employ of Monsieur Tricost, discovering he had a knack and love of making weapons, even though it was a harsh occupation. The forge was hot and the hours to craft a single piece, long. It was dirty, dangerous at times, and Michel excelled.

For a time he kept his drinking under control, but like many addictions, it crept back into his life. The one part of his job he disliked were the nobles that came into the shop to purchase one of Tricost's fine pieces. It was his employer's practice to ask his customers, if they were buying a sword, to demonstrate their skills using Michel as their opponent. Monsieur Tricost felt the way they fought told him the nature of the blade he should craft and there must have been something to his theory since he was one of the premier armorers in all of France.

Michel enjoyed the sparring, but detested the attitude of the nobles, who treated him as if he was no more than a moving practice dummy, easily dismissed. Most of the time his skill level was far superior to theirs, yet they always made excuses as to how a mere commoner had bested them. Tricost had tried to get Michel to understand he didn't need to 'win' every time he was asked to spar with a customer. The armorer only needed a display of their talents, not an all-out duel. But Michel's competitiveness made it hard for him to curb his natural impulse to win, which did not go over well with the customers.

Over time, Michel grew increasing envious of the rich nobles that came to the shop to purchase weapons. As he drank more, he was forced to take days off work since Tricost would send him home for showing up inebriated. His income took a hit as he wasn't paid when he couldn't work so he started to run low on cash.

During his first visit to Dieppe to deliver a sword for Monsieur Tricost, he had avoided all his old cronies and kept his nose clean. However, during subsequent trips, he began to fall back into his old habits. One time, while in Dieppe and low on cash because Tricost had sent him home a number of times recently for drinking, Michel hooked up with an old pal and turned it into an opportunity to improve his finances. From then on, every time he visited the city he did an odd job or two to supplement his income.

On this particular trip he was once again suffering from an empty coin purse. After he had made his delivery, he swung by an old friend who mentioned there was money to be made in working with the guards delivering men to serve as rowers on ships. His friend hadn't mentioned the registry of these ships that required the men and Michel didn't ask because as long as they paid he didn't care. It was also understood that these rowers weren't going to be volunteers, paid, or ever see their homes again; in other words, they were slaves. However, Michel had no qualms about the conditions of their employment either as long as enough coinage passed into his hands to make it worth his while. Since many of the town guards were part of the ring, he knew they would turn a blind eye. It was rumored that many prisoners in Dieppe mysteriously disappeared from jail, never to be seen again.

As he wandered the streets of Dieppe, he had been debating the best way to fulfill the order for slave-rowers. He decided to fall back on a prior methodology that had served him well. He had an acquaintance that operated a fairly respectable inn, an advantageous locale to troll for victims. A little extra profit crossing his friend's palm always made him conveniently look the other way as Michel procured his victims from the guests staying in the inn.

Michel also knew where to obtain a simple potion that could be mixed with food or drink to render a person unconscious. What was handy about this particular mixture was it took a while to affect the person. The powder could be put into the target's food or wine before it was delivered to the table, thereby keeping the identity of the poisoner more discrete. A while later, after the victims accommodatingly passed out in their rooms, it became a simple matter of carrying them away.

Returning from his ruminating, Michel's eyes narrowed as he surreptitiously studied Athos calming the fractious horses on the other side of the street. He would love to pay Athos back for humiliating him in the sword fight in Monsieur Tricost's shop. Selling the man into slavery was the perfect revenge. However, he had to come up with a plan on how to get the man into the inn so he could drug him and haul him away. Two horses indicated there was another party involved and given that Athos kept glancing at the doors of St. Rémy, it was easy to deduce his companion must be inside the church.

Michel edged through the crowd, being careful to stay out of Athos' sight, and entered the church. Once inside, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to pick out the right man from all that were gathered in the sanctuary. But once again luck was on his side and he spotted a tall man standing off to one side who appeared as if he were waiting for someone. Michel grinned when he realized he had seen the muscular man before in the uniform of a musketeer in Paris, though at the moment he was dressed as a civilian. The man had come to his attention because of his skin color; he was annoyed that the King's elite guard would allow a half-breed in their ranks, but not himself. His intuition said this was the man he sought, the owner of the second horse that Athos was holding in the courtyard. His revenge would be doubly sweet if he could sell both of these men to the slavers.

Striding through the nave as if he were a man on a mission, he accidentally plowed into the waiting musketeer. After both men recovered their balance, Michel began to apologize profusely for his clumsiness. The musketeer was gracious in his acceptance of the apology. Michel, as part of being friendly, asked if Porthos was a visitor to this fair city. Upon learning that he was, Michel helpfully offered that if he needed a place to stay, the Bowhead was an affordable, yet respectable, inn in which to eat, drink, and sleep.

At that point, Porthos' contact, Father Biene, showed up and the musketeer graciously thanked Michel and moved away. With a small nod of his head, Michel headed back outside, still being careful to avoid being spotted by Athos. Taking up a position where he could observe, he waited to see if his plan would work.

Eventually, Porthos came out of the church and headed to where Athos patiently waited with the now serene horses. Michel smiled in delight that he had guessed correctly that the larger man was with the swordsman. Now, would they take the bait? Silently, he watched as the two men conversed, though it appeared it was more of an argument. Finally, they started to lead their horses through the crowded streets. Cautiously, Michel followed the men as they made their way towards the port side of the town. A smile crept on Michel's face, which in turn led to a chortle when it was confirmed they had taken his advice to go to the Bowhead.

Outside the tavern, it appeared another minor disagreement took place before once again, Athos waited with horses while a grouchy looking Porthos went inside the inn. When he returned, the two led their beasts to the stable area. When Michel saw the two men planned to take care of their own horses and not rely on the stable boy, the would-be-kidnapper slipped into the inn, sought out his friend, and told him his plan. Nodding in agreement and happy with the promise of coinage, the innkeeper provided the room number he had assigned to the men. Pouring two glasses of the good brandy he kept in reserve, the innkeeper and Michel saluted each other's good fortune before downing the fiery liquid. Placing the empty glass down on the bar, Michel slipped back out the door and headed off to get the drug that would make this abduction a success.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 33

"The garrison's pockets aren't that deep and it's safer," declared an exasperated Porthos, as he glanced over the top of Flip's back at Athos, who was in the neighboring stall currying his black beast.

"I am not a musketeer. I don't require the garrison's funds. I will pay for my own room."

Athos' utterly calm voice irritated Porthos as much as the man's insistence that he would get his own room.

"It's a good thing you are not a musketeer because you wouldn't survive your first mission. In a strange town you stick together. Watch each other's backs. Contrary to popular belief, we musketeers are not universally loved." The long armed man brushed his horse's forelock as it lay between the gelding's ears. The animal lowered his head, grunting in appreciation.

Athos grunted too, but it was not with pleasure. "I am well aware of the possible dangers. None the less it would still be better if I got my own room."

"Well, that ain't gonna happen," Porthos declared in a tone that clearly signaled the end of the discussion.

Athos, ignoring the blunt command to let the subject drop, walked around Roger's hindquarters so he could glare at Porthos. "I insist," he growled in a low, menacing voice that his friends would later learn meant he was on the edge of losing his temper.

Porthos moved around Flip until he could see Athos better. "Insist all you want, but it won't make any difference." Porthos grinned with amusement as Athos tried to make sense of the fact that he was smiling in the middle of what was a very tense situation. "Wanna know why I'm smiling?" he teased the perplexed swordsman.

Folding his arms across his chest, Athos drawled, "Please. Enlighten me."

With a laugh, Porthos turned away, patted his horse on the rump as he left the stall, and placed the brush he had been using back in the rack. "Because," he said as he strolled up the aisle of the stable towards the door, "there was only one room left. See ya inside." With that, he disappeared leaving a stunned Athos standing and staring at the empty doorway.

"Why the hell didn't you say that sooner?" Athos yelled to an empty stable. A few of the horses turned their heads to gaze in his direction, but they offered no answer to the annoyed man's question.

Muttering under his breath, he returned his grooming tools to the shelf before sinking down on a wooden bench next to it. Resting his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his hands over his face in frustration before cradling his head in his hands. It wasn't that he minded sharing a room with Porthos, well except for the fact that the man snored, but he had learned to tune that out. Athos, however, was afraid he'd wake Porthos, not with his snoring, but with his terrible nightmares.

Since Thomas' murder and the subsequent hanging of his wife by his own command, Athos had been plagued with periodic night terrors. Not nightmares, for he had those nearly every time he closed his eyes and it was the reason he tried to drink himself unconscious many nights. But he also suffered from sporadic, genuine night terrors where he woke up screaming, or worse, uncontrollably sobbing.

For some strange reason, he had never been struck by the night terrors when he slept outdoors, but indoors was another story. He hadn't been the least bit concerned on the way here, camping under the stars every night with Porthos, for he knew that the worst thing that would visit his sleep, the little he managed to get, would be normal run-of-the-mill nightmares. While they were terrifying and left his soul feeling like it had been doused in the fires of hell, he didn't wake up wailing in a disgraceful manner.

What happened tonight, if one of his night terrors came upon him and he woke up frantically shrieking or worse yet crying uncontrollably? What would Porthos think? How he would he explain it? He had no intention of telling anyone, ever, about his sinful, shameful past.

He ran his hand in frustration through his overly long hair, impatiently pushing it out of his face. Athos had wanted to leave immediately after the package had been delivered and that was what he and Porthos had argued about in front of St. Rémy. But Porthos was insistent that it was smarter to wait and leave in the morning when they, and the horses, were properly rested. The swordsman saw the logic and had given in, figuring he would simply get his own room. But that wasn't going to happen. Rising, he slammed his fist into the door of the stall next to the bench and the horse inside let his displeasure be known by a swift quick to his side of the door with his hoof.

Perhaps he could find another inn, or sleep here in the stable, he thought in desperation as he slowly walked down the aisle towards the exit. But he knew Porthos would veto either of those plans. And heaven forbid if he simply left and something happened to Porthos. Aramis and Captain Treville would hunt him to the ends of the earth and he would deserve it, for he had sworn to watch Porthos' back on this trip. Sighing in frustration, he headed for the tavern with no real plan. The only thing he could think to do was drink until he dropped into unconsciousness and hope he stayed that way all night.

So with that as his incredibly poor strategy, he walked into the common room, spotting Porthos sitting at a table with a bottle of wine, two glasses, bread, and hearty looking bowls of stew. With a swiftness that caught his dining companion by surprise, Athos suddenly appeared at the table, downed the first cup of wine in one smooth motion, refilled the glass, emptied it, then dropped into the chair opposite Porthos, already sipping on a replenished third cup.

Porthos stared at him for a moment before bursting out with a "Damn!" that indicated the speaker was both shocked and impressed at the same time.

Those cool green eyes that rarely revealed anything, but what the owner wanted, stared at him from under the brim of his brown hat, which he habitually wore low over his brow. Athos continued to drain his third glass of wine, in a sedate fashion, though it wouldn't be long before the vessel was empty once again.

"If you get drunk, don't be expecting me to carry your sorry ass to bed...again," Porthos resoundingly stated, as he dropped his head and dug into his bowl of stew that was more than halfway gone. "Eat." He gestured to the steaming food sitting untouched in front of Athos. "It's good."

Quirking an eyebrow at the dish in front of him, Athos came to the conclusion his definition of good and Porthos' might vary slightly. But perhaps that was to be expected given the circumstances of his birth and the fact that Porthos had grown up on the streets in the Court of Miracles. The meal in front of him did not suggest 'good' and in fact was making his empty stomach, which was already protesting the abuse of having three glasses of wine dumped in it, a bit queasy.

"Eat," Porthos commanded again, as he raised his dark, curly-haired head and stared across the scarred wooden table at Athos, who had made no appearance of complying. "I ain't kidding."

Deliberately, Athos picked up his glass, drained the last few dregs and refilled it once again from the bottle. The anger raising in those dark orbs glaring at him had the swordsman wondering if he really wanted to go down this path. However, he decided it was better to have Porthos dislike him for his known vice, drinking, then his unknown ones of cowardice and dishonor. Those demons he'd rather keep private and take to hell with him.

"I want and expect nothing of you," Athos replied in his clipped, courtly tone that he could turn off and on at will. "I am capable of taking care of myself, Monsieur." His statement might have held more weight, if he hadn't risen, swayed, and ended up having to make a quick grab for the edge of the table to steady his uncooperative body. Had he thought about it, he would have been surprised that three glasses of wine would leave him this unsteady.

Porthos leaned back in his chair with a slight smirk as he stared up at Athos. "You're doing a great job so far," he quipped sarcastically.

The haughty expression stayed firmly plastered on Athos' face even though the cheap wine sloshing around in his stomach made him feel closer to a drunken bum than a noble from one of France's oldest families. "I shall take this," he swiped the bottle of wine from the table with his free hand, the one not keeping him upright, "and retire to our room for the night."

He took a few authoritative steps away from the table when a thought crossed his mind and he turned back towards Porthos. It was nearly his undoing when his physical body obeyed the command faster than his mind, introducing a whirling component to his equilibrium. The fates were always cruel to him and he found his traitorous body following the laws of gravity and falling in the direction of Porthos.

With the quick reflexes of a natural born fighter, Porthos rose and reached out to steady Athos before the man ended up in a sprawling heap in his lap. Unexpectedly, Porthos found himself staring into Athos' eyes and was surprised to see fear, remorse, and shame. Porthos was a perceptive man and growing up in the Court of Miracles had taught him a lot about human nature. The man he was griping fiercely by the biceps to keep upright was afraid of something and desperately trying to hide it from him.

Athos must have realized he was not the closed book he was striving to appear because he forcibly jerked loose from Porthos' grip and turned his head aside, hiding his face so it would stop screaming his dark secrets to the world. He was surprised when he felt Porthos' hand on him again, this time resting gently, and in a comforting manner, on his shoulder.

"I'm not easily shocked," Porthos said calmly. "And I can be a good listener and a friend."

Athos' shoulders drooped and his head hung low, not from the effects of the alcohol burning through his veins, but rather the self-loathing he carried in the recesses of his soul. "I don't deserve it," he muttered in a low, anguished voice that was so broken, it tugged at Porthos' own soul and made him start to reevaluate his perceptions of the man before him.

"Room number," Athos ground out.

"Twelve, but..."

Before he could say anything else, Athos moved away and disappeared towards the inn's stairs which led to where the rooms were located.

Slowly, Porthos sat back at the table, retrieved his spoon, and began to eat his dinner again. He had been harshly judging Athos since the man arrived at the garrison and he thought with good reason. But now he was wondering if he had been too hasty in not attempting to locate the real man under the facade Athos usually skillfully wove around himself. Porthos had a fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach that said he had just seen a glimpse of the real man that lay beneath the false persona presented to the world, and that there was much more to this man than met the eye.

Finishing up his dinner, he eyed the untouched food across the table and it took a mere moment before he appropriated the dish and was consuming the contents. If nothing else, the Court of Miracles taught him never to waste food. Besides, he was hungry, especially given the rather disastrous meals that they had eaten on the way here, courtesy of Athos. The man hadn't been exaggerating when he said he couldn't cook anything.

When the bowl was wiped clean with the last of the bread, Porthos hailed the barmaid for an ale to wash it all down as Athos had made off with the bottle of wine that was supposed to be for both of them. With a heavy sigh, he wondered in what state he'd find Athos when he reached their room. A game of Lenturlu was being played at a corner table in the common room and the open chair was beckoning him. Convinced that Athos would appreciate having solitude to finish the wine, Porthos leveraged his body out of the chair and casually strolled over and inquired about joining the game. After receiving a nod, he sat down.

Finally, reaching the head of the stairs after careening off the walls a number of times and almost taking a nose dive on the worn wooden treads, Athos halted for a moment to rest. Granted, three glasses of wine on an empty stomach wasn't something to sneeze at, but still, he shouldn't have been this wasted, this fast. As he stood there supporting the wall so it wouldn't fall over, the sloshed swordsman wracked his brain for the room number Porthos has told him earlier. Another random thought popped into his rapidly addling brain; he didn't have the key. If he was lucky the room was only lockable from the inside. However, it was all a moot point if he couldn't recall the room number.

Pushing off the wall with a groan, he wobbled down the long hallway hoping divine intervention or something would strike. The first doors he passed didn't ring any bell so he proceeded on to door number five. As he stood in front of it debating if five was the number Porthos told him, suddenly the door flew opened and he found himself face to face with a worn looking woman in a very revealing dress. Behind the woman was a well-dressed man who eyed Athos with curiosity as the swordsman made a slightly crooked little bow and muttered, "Pardon me. Wrong room."

The woman raked her overly made up eyes up and down his fit body and Athos shuddered involuntarily, feeling like he had been violated. "Maybe you ain't got the wrong room, Sugar," she purred suggestively. "And you brought wine. How thoughtful."

Before he could frame a suitable reply, which started with the word no, the well-dressed man brushed past them into the hallway. As he passed by Athos, he leaned in and stated, "Don't waste your money. She isn't very good. My wife has more talent than her."

The stranger rolled his eyes at the woman who had struck what she considered a seductive pose, her bosom bursting forth from the front of her dress. Having provided his sage advice, the man headed down the hall towards the stairs to the common room leaving Athos and the harlot staring at each other.

"Sour grapes," she murmured. "Ain't my fault you can't get it up," she yelled down the hall at the retreating man, causing him and Athos both to flinch.

The earth chose that moment to lurch, or at least that is what Athos swore as he stumbled in the direction of the woman standing in front of him, who eagerly opened her arms to catch him. Athos had a dilemma. The last thing he wanted was for any part of his body to touch any part of hers. He could use his arms to brace against the door jam on either side of her and that would halt his descent. But that meant releasing the wine bottle clutched in his hand and therein lay the dilemma.

Great swordsmen, or at least the ones that live to fight another day, learn to maneuver to avoid the thrusts of their opponents, who want nothing more than to skewer them. So Athos used his considerable skills to twist awkwardly past her body and stumbled to the floor inside the room without actually doing more than brushing the edge of her dress. He rolled on his shoulder, wine bottle tucked securely against his body, and then sprang to his feet, surprising both him and her.

"Impressive," she exclaimed and Athos actually had to agree with her assessment, especially given his current state of inebriation. "Now, why don't we share that wine before we get down to business."

The thought of having to share his wine quickly loosened his tongue. "I am not here to...seek...companionship. This was all a...mistake."

Giving it one last try, she took a deep breath, causing her white flesh to heave even higher. "Are you sure? Really, I'm quite talented."

Crabbing sideways past her towards the open door, Athos was very careful not to touch any part of her. "I am sure you are quite...skillful in your...services. But, I must...leave."

By now he was out the door into the hallway and he quickly started walking down it. The hallway took a turn to the left and as soon as he rounded the corner, he leaned against the wall for a moment, resting his head against its surface as he took a few shaky breaths. He was relieved when he saw no signs of pursuit from the lady of the night. Out of the blue, the number twelve popped into his head, the room number Porthos had told him earlier.

Quickly pushing off the wall and fumbling his way down the gloomy corridor, he came upon the door with a twelve painted on it. Reaching out a shaking hand and praying, just for this once, God didn't kick him in the teeth, he turned the handle. He nearly sobbed in relief when it rotated. Opening the door, then entering, he found the room empty. Firmly shutting the door behind him, he toasted his victory by taking a long swig from the bottle still safely in his possession. As he lowered it, he let his eyes sweep the room and was relieved to see there were two separate beds. Fighting the lurching earth again, he made a crooked path to the one furthest from the door and dropped heavily upon it.

Another celebratory drink was called for and he eagerly raised the green bottle to his lips once more to drink deeply. Unfortunately, he discovered he had reached the end of his elixir and no matter how hard he wished, the bottle remained empty. With a moan, he lowered the now useless vessel, dropping it onto the floor near his feet. Elbows on his thighs, he braced his head in his hands, lamenting that there was not enough alcohol coursing through his body to render him into oblivion.

Athos sat on the edge of the bed for a long time simply feeling sorry for himself and cursing everything he perceived he had done stupidly in the last year. Not listening to his brother. Hanging his wife. Running away to drink himself to death. Being persuaded to teach a bunch of musketeers swordsmanship. Caring about what other people thought. Agreeing to come on this trip. Not simply riding off when Porthos insisted they spend the night here. The litany went on and on, wrapping around his wine-soaked brain like a python, squeezing until he thought his head would burst like a ripe melon hitting the ground.

Lurching to his feet with a half-assed idea of riding off into the night, he was surprised to find the room spinning and a black curtain rapidly descending over his eyes. He shouldn't be this drunk the last rational brain cell in his head screamed at him. Something more was going on here. Fumbling towards the door, he hit the table in his path, hard, and fell, catching the side of his face on its edge. His last conscious thought was 'that's gonna leave a mark'.

Downstairs, Porthos was not having his usual luck at cards, as he was finding it hard to concentrate. He kept missing out on clues being given off by his opponents, which was not like him. When he lost yet another trick, he decided to cut his losses and head up to bed, as a wave of exhaustion settled over his body. Michel, who had been keeping an eye on the musketeer, was happy to see him finally head for his room. He really wanted the man to pass out with no witnesses to tie his disappearance in any way back to this inn or him.

Porthos wearily pushed open the door to room number twelve, surprised how tired he was feeling after climbing the stairs. After shutting the door behind him, he sought out the location of Athos and saw him crumbled on the floor next to the table. Muttering a string of imaginative curses, he walked over, scooped up Athos and unceremoniously dumped him on one of the beds. Other than a small trickle of blood on the man's right cheek, he seemed unharmed. Porthos was damned if he was gonna take off the man's boots or anything. Let him sleep fully clothed. He deserved it.

Fumbling his way over to the other bed, he sat down hard and stared at his own boots, debating if he had the energy to pull them off. Deciding he would lie down for a moment to gather his strength before he attempted the feat, he stretched out on the bed and his heavy eyelids slammed shut. His brain started to ponder the unusualness of his extreme fatigue, but before he could think it through, the drug did its work and he passed out.

A little while later, Michel stood outside the door of number twelve listening for signs of life. When he heard none, he opened the door cautiously, held the lantern in his hand aloft and scanned the room. A self-satisfied smile spread across his features when he saw both men had been rendered unconscious. After stripping them of their weapons and possessions, he motioned to two men in the hall who entered the room, picked up the two victims, and carried them away. After checking the room to be sure there was nothing left behind to show the two men ever occupied it, Michel shut the door and went back downstairs. He gave their possessions to the innkeeper to dispose of, except Athos' main gauche, which he fancied for himself. Things were finally looking up in his life again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 34

The rest of his senses were already working on analyzing the situation, as he struggled to open his heavy lids. Salt, sap, fish, and the lingering odor of overly ripe humans hung in the air and assaulted his olfactory senses. The cry of gulls, the slap of waves, and the whine of the wind whistling through crevices lingered in his ears. When he was finally able to force his recalcitrant eyes open, they met with dim gloom and it took a few minutes for them to acclimate.

The ache in his head, feeling that it was being ignored, throbbed harder to get its fair share of his attention. He couldn't stifle the groan that slide past his chapped lips and it echoed softly in the murkiness.

A voice drifted in his direction. "You awake?"

Athos tried only to move his eyes to locate the source of the sound, but was forced to turn his head to actually find Porthos. The man was sitting on the floor about ten feet to the right of him. Athos eyes traced the chain leading from the man's bare ankle back to the wall and only then did he realize he too, was similarly secured. A rusty cuff was locked around his left ankle and the iron linked chain was bolted to the stone wall behind him.

"You alright?" Porthos inquired, his deep voice reverberating off the damp stone walls that comprised their prison.

"Other than my head feeling like it was used as a battering ram, I'm good," Athos wryly answered, as he struggled into a seated position.

"You were drunk," Porthos accused, though his voice held no real malice.

The swordsman couldn't deny that fact, but he felt there was more to the story. As he thought back over the events, it dawned on him what he had missed. "Drugged. The wine. I think."

As if to either congratulate him on his correct deduction, or punish him for making it work so hard, his brain throbbed again, causing Athos to drop his head into his hands.

"Hmmm," Porthos agreed as he watched his prison mate. He had already come to the same conclusion on his own. "The food too, not that you ate much of it. You focused on a more liquid diet."

"Is this really the time for a lecture?" the miserable man questioned, as his stomach woke up and added to his wretchedness. Moaning, he scrambled to his knees seconds before the contents of his stomach painted the dirt floor. Being an experienced drunken vomiter, he knew the duration and pain associated with this session was not being driven by pure alcohol. He had not imbibed enough to be this sick. His body was reacting to the drug that was still resident in his system.

Sinking back on his bare heels, he willed his stomach to cease roiling and his head to stop spinning. But it didn't work and he spent the next ten minutes dry-heaving. At the end of the violent event, he wondered if he had hacked up a lung somewhere along the way. His torso was one massive, pulsating, ache.

When his stomach finally settled down, he weakly crawled to the stone wall and propped his back against its damp, cool surface. Closing his eyes due to sheer exhaustion, he carefully leaned his sore head on the wall and took shallow breaths so as not to aggravate any part of his body.

"Done?" Porthos inquired politely, though Athos swore the man didn't sound all that concerned about his well-being.

Athos didn't answer the question, but rather raised one of his own. "The drug didn't make you sick?"

"Threw up once. My stomach's made of iron," Porthos replied, as he gave it a fond pat. "Had to be where I grew up."

"Duly noted," Athos muttered drily. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes and blearily took in their surroundings again. "Any idea where we are?"

Porthos shifted his position on the dirt floor, causing the ponderous chain on his leg to rattle. "Warehouse. Along the docks, I'd say."

Not really expecting an answer, Athos asked anyway. "Why us?"

The large man shrugged. "Musta pissed someone off."

Gathering his strength, Athos began to examine the cuff around his left ankle and quickly determined no amount of tugging was going to have his foot free of its imprisonment. It took a few uncertain moments, but finally he got on his feet and stumbled his way to where the chain was attached to an iron ring on the rough stone wall. Once again, it didn't take long to ascertain that the chain was securely fashioned and was not their route to escape.

Bracing one hand against the vertical surface, he slowly scanned the rest of the space. Maybe twenty by twenty, it held a few old wooden barrels stacked along the opposite wall, and a few more sets of empty iron shackles, but not much else. Narrow slots, high up in the wall where the barrels resided, let in a bit of fresh air and light, enough to dimly illuminate the prison.

His eyes were drawn back to the barrels wondering if there was anything in them to facilitate their escape from this jail. But he didn't have to take a step to know the length of the chain choking his ankle wasn't going to allow him to be able to examine the contents of the wooden containers. Nothing else in the room struck him as useful for freeing them and he let a frustrated sigh escape his lips.

Porthos watched as his prison mate came to the same conclusion as he had; they weren't going anywhere.

Athos' eyes wandered down his legs to his bare feet and then over to Porthos' exposed toes.

"Yea, they took our boots. And jackets. And weapons. Guess our captors were cold." When Athos gave him a strange look, Porthos merely shrugged. "Just saying. Don't suppose you have any brilliant ideas on how get outta here."

Closing his green eyes, Athos rested his head against the slightly chilly wall, which was somewhat soothing to his aching skull. "No," he finally answered.

The waves lapping against some nearby structure lulled Athos into a light sleep, his exhausted body craving the rest. Porthos glanced over at the dozing man and couldn't help wishing he was trapped with a proven musketeer instead of a man he knew so little about. Ever practical however, Porthos knew he could wish all he wanted, but he was imprisoned, here and now, with Athos and he would have to simply make the best of it.

Judging by the movement of the shadows on the floor, a couple of hours had passed before Athos showed signs of stirring. Glancing over at the waking man, Porthos thought he detected a light sheen of sweat on Athos' face, which he thought odd given that the space was actually damp and a bit on the chilly side. He didn't think much more about it because the door opened and four men entered the room.

Coming fully awake, Athos coolly gazed at the newcomers.

"On your feet," the tallest of the four men bellowed, as he gestured with his hand for them to rise.

Athos and Porthos silently deliberated for a moment before climbing to their feet and assuming a defiant position.

"Hold your hands in front of you," was the next command issued. When neither man twitched a muscle to comply, the spokesman for the thugs yelled, "Now!"

It would be a problem that plagued Athos for the rest of his career when he was standing next to Porthos and being threatened. Even though the swordsman had perfected a glare that could cause near-paralysis, he still was the one that got chosen when an example needed to be made. He supposed that his mere stern gaze was found lacking when compared to Porthos' statuesque, well-muscled physique and equally impressive scowl. However, he hadn't learned that wisdom yet, so when he suddenly found the group of men all moving menacingly in his direction, he was totally surprised.

The leader got right in his face and ordered one last time, "Hands in front of your body." As he was speaking, the other three bandits formed a circle about him and when he showed no action to comply with their leader's demand, they began their attack.

Seizing the rusty iron chain, they gave a swift tug, which had the immediate effect of dumping him, hard, on the floor. From there, they kept him pinned down as they pummeled him. Valiantly fighting against the overwhelming odds, Athos quickly realized he couldn't win, so he switched his strategy to trying to minimize the damage being inflicted upon his person. Porthos screamed like a wounded bull and lunged to the end of his chain, but he was too far away to do anything more than verbally abuse the men assaulting Athos. A swift kick to Athos' temple and it was over as he went limp. With what appeared to be practiced ease, they trussed him up like a piece of meat being readied for the spit. When they were done the three men turned expectantly in Porthos' direction.

The lead kidnapper moved to stand a few feet in front of the seething Porthos. "Hands in front of you or I tell them to kill him. Your choice."

Glaring at his captor with a look that could kill, Porthos grudgingly held out his hands allowing the bandit to bind them tightly with the rope. After testing the snugness and finding it suitably secure, the leader grunted in satisfaction.

"Now here's how this works. You will pick up your friend over there and follow us quietly to the wagon. If I see any twitch that even appears like you might be thinking to escape, I kill him and make you sorry you were ever born. Are we clear?"

"Yea. I got it," Porthos growled, unhappiness and frustration oozing out of every pore on his body. He saw no way to escape that wouldn't get one of them killed.

With a jerk of his head, the leader of the kidnappers sent one of his men over to release the chain from Porthos' ankle. With measured deliberateness, the street fighter moved to where Athos lay in a heap on the dirt floor and knelt down next to him. He was no medic and he had no idea how badly hurt the man might be, but it didn't appear any of his limbs were broken; black and blue no doubt, but not fractured. As gently as he could with his hands bound, he scooped the man up and draped him over his shoulder. It must have hurt Athos to be moved because he gave a small whimper.

"Sorry," Porthos muttered to the unconscious man as he rose to his feet and looked expectantly at their captors.

"Follow me," the leader commanded as he headed for the door.

Porthos fell into step behind him with his cargo and the other three men trailed after him. Stepping into the bright sunshine, he squinted as he glanced about to see where they were and determined they were near the sea as he expected. They moved along the quay, with its algae covered stone walls keeping the sea at bay, until they reached a wagon covered with a tarp.

"Throw him in the back, get in yourself and allow my men to bind your feet," the leader demanded, waving the gun he had pulled from his waistband at Porthos.

Again, as humanely as possible, he placed Athos in the back of the wooden vehicle and arranged him on his side thinking it might be easiest for the man to travel that way. While he was arranging Athos' unresponsive form, he debated about trying to escape and then stage a rescue for the swordsman, but he nixed the idea because he decided the kidnapper would make good on his threat to kill Athos. While the street fighter might not particularly like Athos, he wouldn't be responsible for his death.

With a last scowl at his captives, he climbed into the back of the conveyance, lay on his back, and allowed the men to tie him up. When they were done, the men pulled the moldy, smelly, canvas tarp over the back of the wagon and shortly thereafter he felt the wagon lurch as it began to haul them to wherever they were being taken.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 35

They traveled for a long time, clearly having left the city of Dieppe based on the sounds of the wagon wheels on the road. The smell of salt and the faint sound of the sea could still be heard so he figured they were driving along the top of the cliffs that lined the coast. The sun was beating down on the canvas, making it stifling in the back of the cart. He dozed off and on, totally losing track of time.

An eerie feeling crept up the back of Porthos' neck, which he finally traced to a pair of green eyes intently staring at him in the sun-dappled darkness. "You're awake."

"Yes."

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," he glossed over the truth as normal. The green eyes blinked at him then looked away.

"We're in the back of a wagon on a road following the coast I think. No clue how long we have been traveling," Porthos offered, bringing Athos up to speed.

"Mmmm," the trussed up swordsman mumbled as he flexed his limbs to see if he could wiggle out of the ropes securing him. He gave up after a little while when he realized the only thing he was accomplishing was rubbing the skin on his wrists and ankles raw.

Porthos was getting annoyed by the abbreviated answers from his fellow captive. "Anyone ever tell you that you are a great conversationalist?"

The sarcasm hung heavy in the air, but Athos simply looked over at Porthos and deadpanned, "Yes. Once. I believe I was four at the time."

Athos wearily closed his eyes. The jarring of the wagon was making his newly acquired bruises ache, not to mention his head, and he bit down on his lower lip to stifle a moan that was trying to escape.

Finally, the cart came to a creaking halt and two men jumped down from the driver's bench and flung back the tarp covering the two prisoners. Sunshine flooded the bed of the wagon causing Athos and Porthos to squint from the blinding glare. As they slowly worked themselves into a seated position, they peered about and saw the wagon had stopped on top of a bluff overlooking a small pebbly stretch of beach down below. The four kidnappers had all climbed off the wagon by now, menacingly flanking it. The two prisoners warily watched their captors waiting to see what would happen next. A stiff breeze ruffled their unruly hair and dried the sweat on their skin leaving them feeling sticky.

"I'm going to release your feet and then we're going to walk down that track to the beach below," the leader of the group instructed, waving to one of his henchmen to cut the ropes binding their feet. Drawing his gun, the leader made very clear the consequences of deviating from his instructions.

After their feet were freed, Athos and Porthos shimmied to the end of the wagon bed and slid off the end onto the ground. Athos stumbled as his feet hit the earth and Porthos did his best to help stabilize the wobbly man, leaning against him with his broad shoulder since his hands were still secured. Athos flashed him a quick look of gratitude after he regained his balance and the musketeer gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement before stepping away.

The six men made their way down a narrow dirt track that zig-zagged its way down the cliff in a series of switch backs until it reached the beach below. Though the path was graded so as not to be too steep, the small loose pebbles that were scattered about made it difficult for the prisoners to traverse it with their bound hands. Both Athos and Porthos stumbled numerous times with Athos falling painfully to his knees at one point on the rocky surface. His captors had no mercy on his already battered frame and roughly yanked him to his feet by his biceps. By the time they reached the bottom, both of the prisoners were covered in sweat. Athos tossed his head trying to fling his damp hair out of his eyes.

What they had failed to notice, until they got to the beach, was a natural quay made out of boulders jutting into the sea. It was towards this protruding structure that they headed, the kidnappers prodding the men in the back to keep them moving through the thick sand that tugged at their bare feet.

In the distance, a looming object on the sea drew closer and it didn't take long for it to become recognizable as a two-masted sailing vessel.

The lead kidnapper had climbed on the stone pier and gestured out to sea. "Meet your new home, boys."

The moment Porthos caught sight of the galley, he came to an abrupt halt causing Athos, who was trudging along behind him, to careen into his broad back. Porthos' street accent came out in full force as he watched in horror as the vessel drew closer. "Hell no, I ain't gettin' on that."

Whenever the man who grew up in the streets got agitated, his speech patterns regressed to those of his childhood and it was abundantly clear to all present that Porthos was upset. His dark eyes were wide with panic and his nostrils flared as he frantically sucked in air to support his ragged breathing. Athos quickly stepped sideways to avoid another collision as Porthos began to back away from the quay, though Athos had no idea why because there was nowhere to escape.

"I'm afraid that you don't have a choice," the leader contradicted as he leveled his gun on the agitated man.

"Shoot me then," Porthos declared as he continued to back away. "I'd rather die a free man on this damn beach then a slave on a ship."

For all the blustering the lead kidnapper had done, he really couldn't afford to kill either of the men because he wouldn't get paid for dead bodies, at least not by this client. Instead, he leveled the gun at Athos. "Stop or I'll shot him."

Porthos only hesitated for a moment before he began moving again. "He's better off dead than on that slave ship."

Since Athos didn't care all that much if he lived or died, he promptly agreed with Porthos. "Shoot me if you must."

The utterly calm way that Athos made his declaration somehow derailed Porthos' panic attack and he stopped and stared at Athos. "You want him to shoot you?"

The swordsman gave a little shrug. "If it will help."

Shaking his head in disbelief, the kidnapper declared, "You are both nuts."

As the two-masted galley approached the quay, the two captives could see the sails were furled and the thirty sets of oars extruded from each side of the vessel were moving in unison to propel the boat towards the shore. The rear of the sloop slanted upwards and on top of some secondary decking sat a cabin which housed the officers of the ship. The middle section of the galley was lower to the water and it was here that the rowers sat on wooden benches, two men to a row. They were exposed to the elements of wind, sun, and water when waves dashed against the side of the vessel in bad weather. The men at the oars had no place to escape the weather and no doubt it was a miserable existence. The front of the long galley sported a raised platform where one could stand and see over the stout bowsprit, which unlike a traditional sailing ship did not carry the rigging of the headstay. The amount of sail the ship carried was minimal and it was obvious the galley was powered mostly by human-muscle, not wind.

When the boat drew near the stone peninsula, the oars on the portside were drawn backwards, as flat to the hull as possible to allow the vessel to approach the makeshift dock. A man on the foredeck's platform nimbly hopped over to the quay and proceeded to stroll towards the kidnappers in that rolling gait peculiar to men of the sea.

Porthos used that moment of distraction, when everyone's eyes diverted to the man coming down the rocky walk, to turn and bolt. He barely made it fifty feet before he was tackled and brought to the ground by three of the four kidnappers. A three against one wrestling match began in the pebbly sand.

The fourth kidnapper remained idly standing on the quay with Athos, simply observing the battle on the beach. Eventually, he glanced over at the silent swordsman, inquiring, "Are you going to make a run for it too?"

While Athos was contemplating his response, he saw Porthos' escape attempt come to a painful conclusion when one of the kidnappers viciously conked him on the back of his head with the pistol grip of his gun. The street fighter immediately collapsed to the sand and lay still.

Athos' whose head was still aching from his defiant behavior back in the warehouse, decided to pass on being knocked unconscious again. Glancing back over at his captor, he drily replied, "No. I'm good."

Giving a quick nod, the head kidnapper walked up the quay to meet their new guest as the other three kidnappers dragged Porthos by his legs back to the stone pier. Watching in silence, Athos found himself wincing as they manhandled Porthos over the rocks. By the time they were done, Athos was pretty sure that come tomorrow, if they were still alive, Porthos would be sporting a set of bruises that rivaled his own from the earlier beating.

The kidnapper and the man from the boat concluded their business with a handshake and a passing of coins. Waving, the lead kidnapper indicated that Porthos should be hauled to the boat. Without bidding, Athos trailed along behind, pretty sure that not moving was not an option. He came to a halt alongside the rear of the galley where the raised platform resided.

Loading the unconscious Porthos onboard turned into an engineering feat involving a rope and the spar of the rear mast. By the time they unceremoniously dropped the large man on the foredeck, Athos added rope burns around the chest and under the arms to Porthos' list of injuries. A voice addressed him, not one of the kidnappers, and for the first time it dawned on him the language being shouted at him was not French, but Spanish.

As a privileged child, he had many different tutors growing up, including one who taught him the rudiments of Spanish. He was rusty, but he caught enough words and the gestures clearly indicated he was expected to jump on the ship. The galley was a good six feet away from the rocky quay and with his hands secured behind his back there was no way he could make the leap. If he tried, he would surely end up in the water between the hull and the rocks and be quickly crushed or drown. While he wasn't all that keen on life, he didn't think that was really the way he wanted it to end.

"Untie my hands," he pleaded with the kidnapper who was still standing on the quay next to him. "There's no way I can escape and if I break my neck trying to board, they'll probably demand a refund."

Ever the businessman, the kidnapper weighed the options and decided Athos had a good point, so he cut the ropes securing his hands. Athos rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation as he eyed the bobbing ship. The seaman, who had already reboarded, had made it look easy, but Athos wasn't so sure. Taking a few deep breaths, he backed up to the far side of the narrow, stone quay to get as much of a running start as possible.

Timing it on what he hoped was a downward bob of the boat, he ran and launched his body into the air over the gap. He cleared the wooden rail that surrounded the fore deck, but couldn't stick the landing so he ended up doing a crooked shoulder roll that sent him careening off the deck into the aisle between the benches where the rowers sat. The oarsmen in the first few rows appeared relieved that the human catapult had managed not to land in their laps.

Stern looking officers from the galley shouted at him in Spanish as they grabbed him by the arms and manhandled him down the aisle to an empty bench on the starboard side. The slumped over Porthos was already there on the floor and they motioned for Athos to maneuver over him to sit nearest the water. Once he was in place, iron shackles were secured on his ankles. The shackles consisted of a cuff that encircled each ankle, attached to a short length of chain. The two chains were fastened to a larger iron ring, which sported a third length of chain that was attached to a stout ring on the ship's deck. Every rower on the galley was attached in the same manner. At best, they could stand and move a few feet. Not far enough to cause any real mischief.

As soon as Athos was secured, another man walked up with a bucket of sea water and threw it on the unconscious Porthos' face, which had the desired result of reviving him. He woke up with a roar and lunged from the floor for the men in the aisle only to be brought up short by the chains on his ankles.

The officers stayed out of reach, shouting at Porthos in Spanish, which he didn't understand. His only thought was to escape. A snap of the officer's fingers and a man bearing a whip quickly appeared. He began lashing his leather torture instrument on Porthos' body. The enraged man didn't seem to feel the pain as he continued futilely to fight his restraints.

Athos leapt to his feet and shouted at Porthos in French, commanding him to stop fighting. The authority with which Athos made his demands registered on Porthos and he slowly came out of his red rage. Placing his body between the whip and Porthos, Athos grabbed the musketeer by his muscular biceps and forced the man to look at him.

"Porthos! Calm down. This is not the time," he hissed. "Don't throw your life away like this. Live to defeat these bastards later."

Athos didn't know how much of his conversation the officers of the galley heard or understood, but he didn't care if it got the musketeer to stop resisting. When Porthos grudgingly settled, Athos obediently crawled back to his portion of the bench, sat, and calmly gazed at the ship's officer, who gave a curt nod before striding back up the aisle towards the foredeck. The whip wielder moved towards the stern of the boat until he reached the second mast which was mounted slightly north of the center of the galley. He took his place on a raised wooden platform where he could keep an eye on his charges.

A command rang out in Spanish and all the rowers automatically placed their hands on the handles of their oars. A voice from somewhere nearby softly said in French, "Place your hands on the oars and get ready. Or he will be back and we'll get punished."

Studying the men on the bench in front of them, Athos put his hands on the oars and glanced at the street fighter. "It is not right for us to bring punishment down on the others," he entreated Porthos when he saw the whip master turning in their direction.

Though he didn't like it, Porthos knew Athos was right. He wouldn't let others suffer because of him, so he grudgingly placed his hands on the wooden oar handle.

Another command rang out and the rowers all pulled the handles back towards their torsos. Through a combination of watching and listening to the man on the bench in front of them who provided low, whispered instructions in French, Athos and Porthos managed to get in sync with their fellow rowers.

Numbly, the slaves fell into the cadence of the choreographed orchestra that made up their existence. Each oar had to rise, swing, and drop into the water at the same time to provide maximum propulsion for the vessel. A seaman, somewhere up by the bow, called out the rhythm, and though the words were in Spanish, it didn't matter. The beat was clear and Athos and Porthos had no problem keeping their oar in the correct time with the other thirty paddles that equally lined both sides of the boat. Sixty men rowed in time and the ship surged onward, out into the open sea, and so began Porthos' and Athos' lives as slave labor.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 36

Constance decided to make a trip to the garrison as she had finished an order for Captain Treville. It also gave her an excuse to deliver the gift she had made for Athos, a shirt and pair of braies to replace the ones he bled on while saving her. She realized how lucky she had been that Athos had been in her house and able to rescue her from the bandits. She had been meaning to bring the gifts by for a while, but the shop had been busy of late, which was a good thing.

It seemed particularly quiet about the garrison compared to some of her other visits she thought as she walked through the stone archway. Then she remembered the tragedy that had occurred to the regiment, where so many members were lost. It had been the talk of Paris in the circles her husband kept and he had mentioned it in passing to her since the captain was a customer.

She was about to ask the lad standing in the courtyard if the captain was available when her quarry appeared out of the shadows, walked over to the railing on the porch, and surveyed the courtyard. It only took him a moment to find the out of place object in his courtyard.

"Madame Bonacieux," he called out pleasantly as he moved towards the stairs. "What can I do for you?"

The draper's wife nodded toward the package in her arms. "Your order is finished, captain," she answered respectfully.

With a sweep of his hand, he indicated for her to come upstairs.

"It is very kind of you to bring it here. I have been meaning to stop by, however, things have been hectic."

Constance smiled at the man as she held out the package to him. "It was no problem and I have a boon to ask of you anyway."

Treville arched an eyebrow as he accepted the package she held forth, noting the second one which she kept cradled to her bosom.

"Your weapons instructor, Monsieur Athos, would he be available for a moment? I would like to give this to him. A small thank you." She glanced at the remaining package in her arms before shifting her blues eyes back to the captain's face.

"I am sorry, Madame Bonacieux, but Athos is not here. He is out on a mission."

A smile played about the pretty woman's face. "So he did become a musketeer. Good for him. He'll make an excellent addition to your regiment I'm sure."

Now the captain's interest was piqued and he decided he'd like to converse a few moments with this woman to discover what she knew of his weapons instructor. "Please, sit a moment," he requested as he gestured to a chair next to a small table. "Let me offer you a drink for your kindness in bringing me my package."

Constance accepted the offer even if it sounded slightly more like an order than an invitation, but she supposed that came with the territory. Placing her second package on the table, she sat, smoothing her skirt, before folding her hands in her lap.

The captain moved to the cupboard where he kept his liquor and secured two glasses which he filled with a recent addition to his stock, a slightly sweet red wine. "Athos is not a musketeer," he stated as he walked over and handed her a glass before settling in the chair opposite her.

It was interesting to see her face crumble slightly at his words. Obviously, she was somewhat distressed by this turn of events.

"He'd make a good one, you know," she declared in the somewhat forceful manner he had come to associate with this woman. "He was brave and resourceful when he saved my life. Seems like just the type of man you'd need in your fine regiment." Suddenly realizing that perhaps she had forgotten her place, as her husband was always reminding her, she ducked her head. "Forgive me, captain. My husband always says my tongue wags too much."

Letting a small smile grace his ruggedly handsome features, he took a small sip of his wine, before turning his piercing blue eyes upon her. "Your candidness is refreshing compared to what I have to deal with at the Palace, Madame. Athos, as I stated earlier, is not here. As a favor to his King, he graciously agreed to go on a mission, as a civilian, with one of my musketeers. The garrison is understaffed at the moment." Bowing his head, he retreated to his cup and took a sizable drink.

The sadness in his voice and countenance was evident to Constance. "I'm very sorry, Captain Treville. I heard about the tragedy that struck your regiment. It was truly disheartening that so many good men lost their lives."

An awkward silence filled the room and Constance took another sip of wine to cover the uncomfortableness. After a few moments, the captain shook his head and broke free of the reverie that had captured his mind.

Clearing his throat, he asked, "How is it you came to know Monsieur Athos? Did you make clothes for him too?" His eyes flicked to the package resting on the nearby table.

"Yes, though it didn't quite start out that way. I actually met him by knocking him unconscious in the streets of Paris." Noting the small frown that appeared on the captain's face, she hastily added, "There was a runaway carriage."

"I see," he said even though it was quite clear he didn't. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to relay what I'm betting is a fascinating tale."

That was all it took for Constance, never one to mince words, to launch into the two tales of her dealings with Athos.

"And so he fought off the bandits with my shears, he did, but in the process he ruined his braies so I made him a replacement pair and a shirt as a thank you," she concluded.

The captain settled back in his chair as he absorbed her words. Constance was a bit of a student of mankind herself and she noticed small telltale signs in the captain. Being her usual bold self, she confronted him. "You do want him to join the musketeers, don't you, Captain Treville."

He couldn't stop a small chuckle from escaping his lips as he smiled fondly at the woman across from him. "You are quite astute, Madame."

"I have had quite a few dealings with men," she declared before hastily adding, "having grown up with three brothers that is. They were always trying to hide something, but they weren't very good at it. More than once I was required to help them out of a jam."

"I see. To answer your question, yes, I would like Athos to become part of my regiment. However, because I think it is a good idea it doesn't mean it will occur. The King, and Athos himself, also have a say in the matter."

Now it was Constance turn to grow quiet as she contemplated her last encounter with Athos. Treville also was a student of human nature and he knew there was something more the woman in front of him wanted to offer about Athos.

"Madame Bonacieux, you are a woman with uncanny perception I believe, even if it does somewhat vex your husband. However, you may be blunt with me. What is it you'd like to say? I promise, I shall not be shocked or offended."

"I think you would be stupid not to do everything in your power to make Athos a musketeer. It is what your regiment needs, and so does he. A few of your soldiers are my customers and while they may be gentlemen by birth, their behavior is somewhat ... challenging." She blushed a little as she delivered this criticism of the nobility. "I don't know what Athos' background is, but he was nothing but brave and honorable and damn good with a sword, and shears."

"Well we certainly agree on the last point, well the sword part anyway. Athos has bested my most accomplished swordsmen, including myself. But what else do you wish to say, for I feel there is something more."

Constance's face showed a slight uncertainty as she resumed speaking. "There is something about him, captain. A sadness I suppose. I know this is going to sound silly considering I barely know the man, but he remains me of a dog my cousin once had. He was a cruel boy, my cousin, and he beat that dog unmercifully. Yet that dog faithfully returned to my cousin's side, almost as if he felt he deserved the beatings for some reason. Even though my cousin was cruel to the animal, one day, when he was attacked by a bear, that dog launched himself at the attacking beast. There was only one possible outcome of such an attack, and I'm sure that dog knew it, but he did it anyway. Saved my cousin, he did, but the dog died, mauled to death by the bear. That dog remained brave and loyal to the end."

Constance sighed and took another sip of the wine before placing the glass on the table. "What I'm trying to say is I think Athos needs to be a musketeer, to overcome whatever sadness plagues him. Like my cousin's dog, someone has been cruel to him, but I believe underneath it all he will be one of your bravest and most honorable men."

And, the captain added to himself, one that will bear watching to ensure his brave and honorable nature doesn't make him reckless.

"I will be sure to see that Athos receives this package," he patted the bundle on the table as he rose, "upon his return."

Madame Bonacieux stood too, recognizing the conversation was concluding. "Thank you, captain." The way she said it made the captain realize it was not just for giving her his clothing business.

"I will be sure to think long and hard upon your words, Madame. And with God's grace, perhaps all we talked about will come to pass."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 37

It is easy for the terrors of the dream world to slip through the cracks into the physical world during that thin sliver of time when one first wakes each morning. Porthos' first night on the slave galley had ended with him waking, eyes glazed with dismay and limbs flailing, in a full blown panic attack. His nightmares had revolved around him being a slave on a ship, chained to the deck like an animal, and upon waking he discovered his nightmare was reality. Uncontrolled blind terror seized his brain and he began to yank frantically at the rusty metal shackles which secured his ankles to the ship's wooden deck.

It didn't take long for Athos to be roused from his own uneasy slumber by the frenzied behavior of the man chained next to him. Blearily, trying to focus his sleep deprived mind, he watched as Porthos used his considerable strength to try to break free, unfortunately a fool's errand. The iron bands and chains were well forged and strong, as was the mechanism that fastened the shackles to the deck. Not an ounce of wood-rot was anywhere to be seen; nothing was going to pry the fastenings from their berth.

As Porthos' panic level escalated, his mind went numb, not even capable of processing the fact that his unsuccessful straining against the shackles was causing the skin around his ankles to be scraped raw and begin to bleed. The palms of his hands, bearing the callouses of a soldier, fared no better as he gripped the cruel iron links of the chain, trying to break them. Small rivulets of blood began to run from his hands to drip onto the ship's deck.

However, it was the chanting that ripped at Athos' heart. It was the low, guttural sound of a desperate, trapped animal that believes it is about to die. Porthos' repetition of 'no, no, no' was increasing in volume and his noisy actions were beginning to wake the other nearby slaves who started to grumble at the fracas. The situation went from bad to worse when, in the early dawn light, Athos saw the overseer peering about from his post by the main mast to see what was causing the disturbance.

"Porthos! Stop!" Athos commanded the frenzied musketeer, but to no avail.

The street fighter was so deeply rooted into his panic attack that he didn't register anything happening around him in the real world. His mind was locked in the nightmare which had complete and total control of his physical body. With renewed vigor, Porthos jerked harder on the chains and strained with his legs against his restraints. Fresh blood dotted the deck, as it dripped from his bleeding extremities.

With a stifled groan, Athos stiffly rose from the deck and shuffled the few feet allowed by his chain to Porthos' side. Grabbing the man's hands, he tried to make him release his death grip on the chain, but he was easily overpowered by the larger, stronger man. Glancing over Porthos' shoulder, Athos saw the overseer climbing down from his perch by the mast and heading their way with his whip.

With renewed strength, he grasped Porthos' shoulders and tried to shake the man to his senses. "Porthos. You have to stop. Now!"

Growing up as a future Comte, Athos had learned how to issue commands with authority and Porthos, being a soldier, automatically responded, releasing his hold on the iron chains. However, it didn't quite play out the way Athos expected when Porthos used his now free hand to fling the unsuspecting man into the hull of the boat. Athos collided solidly with the wooden slats and slid down into a dazed heap. As soon as his encumbrance was gone, Porthos grabbed the chains again and began his futile tugging.

The overseer's whip whistled through the air announcing his unwelcome presence in a most unpleasant manner. The leather strip bit hard and deep across the exposed back of the manic Porthos. However, the cruel lash of the whip had no effect as the enraged man continued to yank on the chain, trying to free his legs from their imprisonment.

Viciously, the whip descended a second time upon Porthos' unprotected back, leaving a red slash in its wake.

"Stop! He can't help himself " Athos cried out from where he lay in a heap against the bulkhead of the ship. He was desperately willing his uncooperative limbs to move, but they were sluggish in responding. In fact, his mind seemed more interested in simply shutting down, and he had to fight hard to keep the black dots on the edge of his vision from forming into a solid curtain.

As the whip began its downward descent once more, Athos finally got his legs to cooperate and he clumsily launched his body at Porthos, knocking him out of the path of the leather thong. Both men tumbled to the deck, Porthos on the bottom of the pile.

Though the whip missed its intended target, it wasn't discriminatory and instead its wrath rained down upon Athos' exposed back. Athos was barely able to contain his grunt of surprise at the pain, as the leather left a deep mark on his skin. However, he didn't have time to pay attention to that problem, as Porthos was attempting to buck him off like a bull. Wrapping his arms around the broad chest of his companion, Athos attempted to subdue the man, but to no avail.

The whip made its presence known once more upon his skin, but Athos didn't dare let it distract him. Porthos had managed to nearly extract one of his arms from Athos' grasp and the swordsman knew it was only a matter of seconds before he broke totally free. With a softly whispered word of apology, Athos suddenly let go of Porthos' arms, rolled off his back onto his knees and slugged Porthos in the chin.

The ex-Comte had a wicked right hook, which was well placed and sent Porthos reeling to the deck, where he slipped into unconsciousness. The overseer's whip, already on its path towards Porthos' back, instead hit Athos across the chest. The end of the leather flicked across the side of Athos' neck and face leaving a welt behind. Blood slowly welled up and mixed into his scruffy beard.

"Enough!" Athos roared, when he saw the overseer raise his instrument of punishment once more towards the fallen man. "He is subdued."

The overseer halted his motion, letting the leather strap dangle harmlessly at his side, as he considered the situation. While his job was to maintain discipline on the ship, he couldn't afford to injure his charges too much as that would make them unfit for their duty. While the slaves were certainly a disposable commodity, replacing them took time. The large man was indeed subdued, though unconscious was the accurate term. The smaller man, defiantly staring at him as he guarded the downed man, was an entirely different story. His defiance was plainly evident in everything, from his stance, to his eyes, to his voice. The overseer had a feeling this man was going to be trouble.

"Keep him in line or next time I won't be so lenient," the overseer sternly warned Athos, who gave a curt nod to show he understood.

The overseer stared at the shorter man for a moment more, confirming in his mind this man was going to be as much trouble, it not more, than the well-muscled man lying unconscious on the deck. The dark haired man, who was defiantly staring at him with his intense green eyes, wasn't the least bit subservient. The man showed no fear or uncertainty about the situation he found himself in, a slave on a Spanish galley. He would watch this man carefully and if the harsh life onboard this vessel didn't break him, the overseer would do it himself. Most men could be broken, he had found, eventually. And the few that could not, they ended up dead, another form of broken.

The man standing there, protectively, over his inert comrade, was beginning to unnerve him. "Sit. Now." the overseer commanded, harshly.

When Athos hesitated a moment, the overseer brought the whip into play once more, flicking it, albeit lightly, across the man's chest. It stung, but didn't draw blood.

One thing he had learned growing up was knowing when to fight and when to make a strategic retreat. Grudgingly, Athos sat on the bench, the overseer's point having been made and received. With a satisfied nod, the overseer turned and headed back to his post. Now that the conflict was over, the slaves who occupied the nearby benches turned away and settled down to grab a few more minutes of sleep before their harsh day began.

As soon as the overseer left, Athos slid off the bench onto his knees next to Porthos and felt for a pulse. It was strong and steady causing Athos to sigh in relief. Gingerly, he crawled away and carefully propped his whip-scored back against the side of the galley. Adrenaline was still coursing through his body and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Instead, he sat there with a weather eye on Porthos, wondering what he was going to do when the man woke once more. He had to convince the musketeer not to panic when he woke and found he was chained and a slave. Athos well understood the man's reaction, given his heritage, but if they were to have any chance of escaping this hell, they had to remain calm and wait for the right opportunity to strike.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 38

Porthos still had not regained consciousness by the time the sun rose on the horizon and the rowers began to take their positions on the rough wooden benches. Athos slowly rose from the damp wooden floor where he had been attempting to rest and block out the pain radiating from the whip's welts on his back and chest. His muscles were cramped and he tried to stretch them gingerly within the confines of his small space. Eventually maneuvering onto the bench, he attempted to distract his mind by studying the slaves' morning routine as it unfolded around him on the galley.

Like himself, the slaves were rising, stretching and working the kinks brought on by their Spartan sleeping arrangements out of their muscles. Interspersed amongst the rows of benches at regular intervals were buckets that were attached to the hull of the ship by a length of rope. It didn't take long for Athos to ascertain their purpose. Modesty was something quickly lost in these circumstances. The long cords allowed the bucket to be dumped overboard and washed out in the sea, which he supposed helped with sanitation.

Thirty wooden benches, parallel to each other, but perpendicular to the hull, lined the port and starboard side of the galley. Most benches had two men chained to them though occasionally there were benches with single occupants. The row directly in front of him and Porthos sported two men who, if Athos was to judge by their appearance, had been on the ship for some time. The man directly in front of him was scruffy and scrawny and had turned around to watch him with interest.

"Welcome to hell. You are French?" the scarecrow inquired in a voice that was made raspy by long exposure to the sea air.

Athos decided that French was not the man's native language judging by his accent, though the emaciated man was understandable. The swordsman momentarily debated what to reply, but as he had already spoken in French to Porthos, he didn't see the sense in denying his heritage.

Answering in his usual, clipped tone, he replied, "I am."

The scraggly human beanpole nodded, concurring with himself that he had guessed correctly. Gesturing towards Porthos he asked, "Him too?"

"Yes."

After scrutinizing Porthos' inert form some more he shook his head. "You look French. He does not. He looks like a slave."

"I assure you he is every bit as much a Frenchman as I am."

The scarecrow grimaced. "Poor bastard. A free man. Now stuck in this hell. God is indeed cruel."

Athos didn't bother agreeing with the man, even though his feelings on God ran along the same tracks. "This galley. It is Spanish?"

The man didn't answer, but instead began rummaging below his bench until he found the metal cup that was hanging from a nail underneath the wooden structure. Grasping it, he drew it out, then turned and expectantly peered up the aisle. A man with a sloshing bucket of water was slowly making his way down the narrow space. The crew member paused at each bench long enough to roughly grab the cup, plunge it into the bucket filled with brackish water, then shove it back in the direction of its owner.

"Get your cup out," the scarecrow instructed. "His too. We get water three times a day, unless the ship runs short. Get your friend's cup filled too. For when he wakes."

Athos shifted his position so he could peer beneath the bench upon which he sat and it didn't take but a moment to find the two hanging metal mugs. Drawing them out, he peered inside the first one and cringed at their state of cleanliness. However, he had a feeling that this was not the time to be picky so when the man with the bucket drew alongside the bench, he obediently handed over the two cups to be filled.

"If we get rain, we rinse out a piss bucket and store water. Still, always take your water when it's offered. We're surround by it, but it doesn't help."

Athos nodded to indicate he heard the words of wisdom. After safely placing Porthos' cup where it wouldn't get knocked over, he took a tentative sip from his own. When the stale liquid hit his throat, he realized how parched he was and the fact the water was almost hot and slightly musty was easily overlooked. Draining the cup, he hung it back on its hook as he had observed the others around him doing.

Another crew member came down the aisle and handed two hardtacks to each slave, which they greedily accepted and began to devour. Athos stared at the four biscuits in his hand before storing three of them on the deck next to Porthos' water. Taking a tentative bite of the fourth, he wished he had saved some water to choke it down. Part of him wanted to simply add this hardtack to Porthos' pile, though he knew he had to eat to survive. It wasn't that he was overly fussy about what he ate, not since having left the estate, but rather that his stomach was queasy from the motion of the ship and the abuse his body had taken since their capture. He didn't relish the thought of using the piss bucket, as the scarecrow so elegantly put it, to vomit in if his stomach staged a revolt.

His friendly neighbor watched as Athos stored three biscuits under the bench for Porthos. "Rowing is hard work," he offered up as advice. Athos didn't reply, simply nodded his head once again to indicate he heard the council. "Some days it's biscuits. Sometime cheese. Have a bit of meat once in a while. Whatever scraps they can find. Just enough to keep us alive to row."

Athos nodded once more.

"My name is Miguel."

Though he wasn't a particularly social person, he was a proper and polite one. "I'm Athos. That is Porthos."

"Your names sound similar yet you don't look like brothers," Miguel remarked as he ran his eye over the two of them again. "Unless your father had a dalliance. But makes no difference here. We are all in the same boat now."

The scarecrow started cackling in an alarming manner at his own pun, causing his bench mate to reach over and knock him sideways. Immediately, like a dog that has been beaten often, Miguel's demeanor changed and he groveled out an apology to the larger man next to him as he crabbed sideways down the bench, as far away as his chains would permit. "I'm sorry. I forget myself," he muttered by way of apology to the bully.

Grabbing the oar in front in him, Miguel faced forward and sat very still. The man next to him glanced over at Athos, as if daring him to say something. Athos simply stared back at him coolly, with his Comte stare, but remained silent. With a satisfied grunt, the man turned back around and went about finishing his morning meal.

Athos heard a small rustling noise on the floor. Shifting his eyes, he saw Porthos was beginning to stir on the deck. Sliding over on the bench, he watched and waited as the street fighter's eyes fluttered a few times before remaining half-open. Hoping to head off another panic attack, Athos began speaking in a low voice to the semi-conscious man.

"You need to remain calm," he directed in a low but soothing tone.

The dark brown orbs squinted at him in the morning sunlight. Athos offered a hand to assist Porthos to get on the seat. Stiffly, the large man rose from the wooden deck of the boat and maneuvered onto the bench.

Glancing around him, Porthos took in their predicament, which was exactly what he had thought. They were slaves on a ship. As the panic began to rise again in his gut, he registered a firm hand on his arm and he turned his head to look at its owner. Intense green eyes were staring at him and the coolness and calmness in their depths made his fear start to recede.

With the utmost confidence, the swordsman declared, "We will get out of this situation. I promise. We will get back to the garrison." And, as illogical as those statements seemed, Porthos found he believed the man and that was enough to allow him to keep his emotions in check. He gave Athos a brief nod to show he got it.

Bending over, Athos retrieved the cup of water and the three hardtacks and handed them to Porthos. "Bon appetite," he deadpanned as he looked over the hull and out to sea.

Porthos devoured the biscuits and drank the water. When he was finished, Athos showed him where to hang the cup and pointed out the bucket. Since as it was being used for its intended purpose, he didn't have to explain its function. Glancing around, the two men noticed that the majority of the other rowers had finished their morning ablutions and were sitting upright on the benches, hands on their oars.

From the bow area of the galley, words in Spanish rang forth and the few slaves that weren't manning their oars hurriedly grasped them. Athos and Porthos followed suit, placing their hands on the wooden oar in front of them. Another command rang forth and the slaves lifted the paddles from their tethers, shoved them further through the oar locks and positioned them over the tranquil blue sea. The next Spanish command had the oars' grips being pushed as far from the chest as possible, with the blades remaining above the water. A final command was shouted with much vigor and the slaves dipped the paddles in the water and drew them backwards.

For the next few minutes, the man towards the bow of the galley repetitively chanted a single word in Spanish until all sixty oars were in sync. After that point, he occasionally called out a cadence marker. The sounds of the ship took over, the rhythmic splash of the oars in the water, the creaking of the iron oar locks, the twang of the stays against the two masts, and the waves slapping against the hull of the galley. The slaves, however, were silent as they propelled the boat forward.

It didn't take Athos and Porthos long to grasp the ship's routine, which gave a new meaning to the term monotonous. When the slaves were rowing, it appeared the unspoken rule was no talking. Conversation only occurred, and always in hushed tones, while eating and a little while before sleeping.

It was during these brief periods of conversation, that Athos and Porthos began to piece together the puzzle. From what they gathered, the men manning the oars were either slaves, prisoners, or shanghaied, as they had been. The mission of the small galley, as near as Athos was able to ascertain, was to plot the coast line for the Spanish, most likely looking for advantageous areas for invasion should France and Spain go to war. He wondered if they would cross to the other side of the sea and plot Britain's coast too.

Mostly, the small galley hugged the coast line moving slowly north. Occasionally, the ship would set anchor and a small party would go ashore in the dinghy that was kept secured near the stern. What they did on the dry land, Athos was never able to determine, even though he surreptitiously watched over the edge of the hull. Sometimes at night the officers would depart in the dinghy for the shore too, most likely to sleep on solid ground for a change. On those particular nights, things were a little more relaxed on the ship as the few crew left behind to watch the slaves ignored them. After all, each and every man was chained to the deck. What were they going to do?

Miguel, they learned, had been in debtor's prison before he was dragged onboard to serve out his sentence. He was a frail, mousey man who seemed to be bullied by everyone around him, especially his bench mate. Miguel was a man who liked to talk, a lot. Athos and Porthos used this to their advantage to learn as much about their new environment as possible. More than once, when Miguel was prattling on, his bench mate would reach over, smack him, and order him to shut up. While it had the effect of stifling Miguel, it didn't keep him mute for long.

Most of the other rowers around him also treated Miguel cruelly; he served the role of runt of the litter. Because of the length of their chains, the slave's world on the ship consisted of the two men in front of them, the two men behind, and the one on the shared bench. If for some reason one or more of those people didn't like you, your life became hell as there was no way to escape.

After the first day of rowing, Athos' and Porthos' hands were sprouting blisters from the incessant rubbing of the wooden oars against their palms. Though both men had callouses from handling weapons, they weren't in the right place for rowing. Miguel counseled them to rip two strips from their shirts and bind their hands until they grew tougher. The same technique was applied to their ankles, where the shackles rubbed against their skin. Porthos chose to rip the sleeves off his shirt and used them to bind his hands and ankles. Athos, however, was forced to shorten the hem on his shirt as he preferred not exposing anymore of his fair skin to the elements.

Miguel also managed to get a salve from the ship's crew for Athos during the first week when the sun's brutal rays had brunt the man's exposed skin to a crisp. Athos was eternally grateful for the potion, which helped cool the fire that was his skin. Eventually, Athos' skin adjusted and tanned enough that the sun didn't fry him like an egg, though the first few weeks were pure hell for the fair-skinned man. Porthos' naturally darker skin did better and he was only mildly uncomfortable for a day or two.

The scarecrow also translated the commands being shouted at them in Spanish, saving them more than once from the overseer's whip. Athos didn't reveal he could understand some of them already. Eventually, the two men recognized the basic commands, though Miguel would still translate the non-routine communications. In his broken French he also would clue them in on the conversations of the slaves sitting around them.

Physically, their first month at sea was harder on Athos who developed a fever from one of his wounds that became infected. Luckily, the infection eventually cleared up on its own. However, it had left Athos under the weather for more than a few days during that first month. Most days, he gave the majority of his meager meals to Porthos and Miguel, eating only enough to function. His stomach seemed in a constant state of rebellion and the fever robbed him of his energy. He knew and was eternally grateful that on many days, Porthos was shouldering most of the burden of rowing for the pair of them.

Even with the extra rations from Athos, Porthos lived with the gnaw in his stomach of constant hunger, reminding him unpleasantly of his days as a child. Both men rapidly lost weight and soon appeared as gaunt as the rest of their fellow captives. The ship's officers seemed to have the feeding of their slaves down to a science, rather like they were farm animals. The rations were enough to keep the men alive enough to row. However, that didn't mean they weren't all on the edge of hunger, day and night.

The treatment of the captives on the galley upset Porthos and disgusted Athos. If one of the slaves was unable to perform his duty because of sickness, injury, or utter exhaustion, the ship's crew heaved the man over the side into the ocean to drown. It didn't matter if the man was dead or still clinging to a thread of life. If you couldn't work you were of no use, a worn out commodity. The ship was run in what the captain felt was an efficient, no nonsense manner. It was a business, no more no less, and every decision was about the profit margin.

The overseer kept discipline and order on the ship according to his own standards. He used the whip to convey his displeasure and to discourage unwanted behaviors. However, he was somewhat judicious in its application, not wanting to cause an injury that would hamper the slave's ability to row for long. After all, they were of no use if they couldn't perform their function. Still, the whip bit deep, often, and cruelly on many occasions.

Probably because of his ingrained attitude, which even when he was being beaten was slightly regal and indifferent, Athos suffered at the overseer's hand more than most. It was if the two had taken an instance dislike to each other, and in Athos' case it was certainly true. He felt the overseer was a cruel, sadistic human being.

Even though he was a Comte from a prestigious lineage, Athos didn't look down on anyone simply because of their station in life. It was a point about which he and his father often had argued. Athos judged people on their actions and intentions; his father was more bound by the class structure. In Athos' view, the overseer was wrong and needed to be brought to justice, though given his current position as a slave, that seemed like an impossibility. However, it didn't stop him from giving the overseer cool, contemptuous glares which certainly didn't endear him to the man.

Mentally, their captivity was hardest on Porthos, who still had occasional nightmares, waking drenched in a sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature. Whenever one of the terrors would commandeer his sleep, he would feel Athos' firm hand on his arm, grounding him and driving aside his panic. There was an innate calmness and confidence about the man that helped Porthos believe that they would get out of this situation alive.

Porthos was grateful for Athos' calming presence and his respect for the man continued to increase. Behind the fortress that Athos had built to keep everyone at bay, Porthos was discovering there was a man he was coming to respect. Though it had taken a while, he was beginning to see what Aramis must have seen in Athos, a man worth calling friend. Porthos sincerely wanted to get to know the swordsman better, if he could only find a chink in that armor.

Porthos often wondered, while they were rowing monotonously, how Aramis was handling his disappearance. He felt bad for his friend, having to endure another perceived tragedy so soon after Savoy. It helped Porthos remain strong, for he was determined to escape this hell hole, if not for himself then for Aramis, who didn't deserve to lose another brother.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 39

"It has been more than a month, Aramis," Treville said kindly, but firmly. "I'm truly sorry, but I simply can't authorize another search party."

"Then I will go on my own. I'll resign if I have to." Aramis folded his arms over his chest and stared down at the captain who was sitting behind his desk rubbing a weary hand over his face.

Slowly rising, Treville walked around his desk and placed a gentle hand on Aramis' arm. "Son, I know this is hard for you. But we spent two weeks combing Dieppe for them. We know they delivered the documents to the church. But after that, there is absolutely no sign of them."

"But what about the horses? Didn't they show up, here, at the garrison?"

"Yes, unsaddled and a bit worse for wear. Makes me believe that Porthos and Athos were ambushed on their way back here, probably at night while they were camping since the horses weren't tacked up," Treville concluded, removing his hand and moving to lean against his desk.

Aramis wasn't willing to buy into the captain's theory. This was Porthos. He couldn't lose any more brothers. And then there was Athos, a man he had started to consider a friend, even if the friendship was a bit one-sided as yet. He wouldn't give up.

"Then I shall search the road and woods for their camp."

Even as the words left his mouth he knew how ridiculous they sounded. It was impossible to search that much area, looking for a campsite that, knowing Porthos, would have been well concealed. The reality of the situation finally hit him and he deflated like a pig bladder. "How can I lose Porthos? After all that has happened?"

The captain's sympathetic blue eyes watched his soldier, feeling his pain. It seemed very cruel, after Savoy, to have this occur, but he didn't even pretend to understand the cruelty of life. He only knew that soldiering was a dangerous job and this crap happened. He offered no words that would be meaningless platitudes. He simply repeated a variation of his opening statement, "I'm sorry. But we have to move on."

Aramis hung his head like a beaten dog, staring at the floor.

Treville cleared his throat. "I need you on guard duty tomorrow. At the Palace. We are still shorthanded."

Mutely, the marksman nodded his head, before raising his eyes to meet those of the captain. "I won't give up hope. I don't believe they are dead. But I understand your position. If that is all?"

Though he left it as an open ended question, there was no doubt Aramis desperately wanted to leave the captain's office. Treville studied the man for a moment before giving a quick nod of release. Aramis swiftly turned and left the office and to his credit, he gently closed the door behind him. The captain knew Aramis was not happy with the situation, but it couldn't be helped. He had a garrison to operate and a royal family to guard. He simply couldn't allot any musketeers and any more hours to search in what, quite frankly, he believed was a futile effort. Being in charge often meant making tough decisions. He hoped he made the right one in this case.

Aramis left the captain's office and headed out the garrison's gate. His mind might have understood Treville's position, but his heart certainly did not agree. Without thinking, his feet took him to the steps of a church where he often went when he was troubled. Entering the semi-dark structure, he breathed in the calming scent of the incense and candle wax and immediately felt some of his tension dissipate. The church was totally empty as he made his way down the aisle to a pew half way up on the left. Dropping onto the hard wooden bench, he bowed his head before running through some serenity prayers, his lips silently moving along with the words in his mind.

When he was finished with his more structured prayers, he moved on to more of a tête-à-tête with his God. He conducted a fifteen-minute monologue, conveying that while he did trust in his Lord's wisdom, he was sure that God couldn't possibly mean for Porthos to be joining Him in heaven quite this soon. Surely not after Savoy. And there was also the matter of Athos. How could Aramis help the troubled man if Athos weren't alive? Aramis finished his one-way conversation with God by reciting the litany of things for which he was grateful. After closing with a few formal prayers, he made the sign of the cross and murmured amen. Feeling a little better, he rose and left the church, confident his God would bring the missing men back.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 40

For weeks Athos watched Miguel being abused by Raoul, the slave who sat next him on the bench in the galley. The offenses ranged from taking Miguel's food, to punching and shoving him off the bench for transgressions only known to Raoul's twisted mind. Athos was offended by the injustice of Rauol's behavior, for Miguel did nothing to deserve such treatment. The scarecrow-like man was kind and generous to everyone, including Athos and Porthos. Often the swordsman would share his own rations with Miguel, when Raoul absconded with his food.

Athos was not one to suffer bullies, in any walk of life. It has been another point of disagreement between him and his father. When a teenage-aged Athos had intervened in Pinon to stop one of their newest tenants from bullying the smith and his daughter, the Comte de la Fére had not been pleased. The Comte had informed his heir that commoners needed to work out their own issues and that the nobility should only step in if a law was broken. Unless the estate was being directly effected, he, as the heir, was expected to turn a blind-eye to the peasants' squabbles.

As Raoul's abuse of Miguel continued, Athos grew more vexed by it and the swordsman started verbally warning the bully to cease his harassment. Though Athos' command of Spanish was rudimentary, there was no mistaking his tone or the intentions of his words. However, his verbal threats had no effect on Raoul, who continued tormenting Miguel. Finally, one day after Raoul had, once again, taken his seat mate's food and shoved him hard onto the brine soaked floor, Athos had enough and took physical action.

Standing, he seized Raoul's wrist, the one still holding the pilfered hardtack, and gave the larger man a hard glare. "That is not yours," he growled and if Raoul didn't understand his words, Athos' tone and expression clearly conveyed his displeasure.

"It's alright," Miguel hissed from where he had been shoved onto the deck in front of his bench. "I don't mind. I'm used to it. Really."

Athos didn't heed the cowering man on the floor of the boat, nor did he loosen his grip, even as the taller, broader man slowly rose and stood glaring down at him. The hard conditions in which he and Porthos were living, day in and day out, were wearing on Athos, frustrating him because he was helpless to do anything to free them. So the bullying by Raoul irritated the swordsman more than it should have and he decided this was one thing he might be able to stop. Had he been thinking more clearly, he might have realized this wasn't the best battle to take on, but the mental and physical abuse he was suffering as a slave on this Godforsaken galley clouded his judgement.

Porthos, who had been devouring his morning rations, glanced up to see what was happening. The staring contest he observed between the two men was not reassuring. While Porthos didn't particularly like how Miguel was being treated, he didn't think it made sense to try to intervene given their circumstances. Athos, however, seemed to be of another opinion.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Porthos questioned Athos lightly, around a mouthful of dry biscuit.

"Probably not," Athos replied impassively. "But what he is doing is wrong."

Porthos eyed the visibly angry man whose arm Athos' was still holding. "Yeah, well I don't think he sees it that way."

Miguel, who had crawled from the deck where he had been flung, onto the bench, pleaded with Athos. "Please. Stop. The overseer is coming. I'm ok. Let him go."

Miguel's pleas fell on deaf ears as Rauol threw a punch at Athos who let go of the other man's arm and then retaliated with a swift hook of his own. Miguel kept begging them to stop, but it was the overseer's whip crashing across the fighting men's backs that eventually brought the altercation to a halt. Porthos, who had been about to join the fray, resettled in his seat.

"Sit!" the overseer commanded and grudgingly Raoul and Athos complied with his orders.

"He is stealing this man's food," Athos informed the overseer gesturing from Raoul to Miguel.

Without warning, the overseer cracked the tip of the whip across Athos' face. Flinching at the unexpected pain, Athos hand reached up to brush his stinging cheek and his fingertips came back tinged with red.

The overseer shouted something at Athos in Spanish and Miguel translated. "He says, he didn't give you permission to speak."

Turning towards Raoul, the overseer asked what Athos assumed was a question and Raoul rapidly supplied an answer. Based on Raoul's gestures the swordsman didn't need a translation to know Raoul was blaming the fight on him.

Turning back to glare at Athos once more, the overseer spoke to him in broken French, which surprised the swordsman. "Fighting is not allowed. You will be punished."

"Wouldn't it be more appropriate to punish the man who steals food and abuses an innocent man?" Athos questioned his captor.

It was painfully obvious that most of what Athos said was not understood by the overseer, which was probably a good thing.

"I don't think he is buying into your argument," Porthos announced as he watched the overseer's face darken.

Athos quirked an eyebrow at his bench mate as if to say 'really...do you think?'

"Hands in front of you," the man with the whip demanded.

Miguel started rocking on the bench, moaning, and repeating, "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no."

When Athos failed to comply fast enough, the overseer began to raise his whip, which made the swordsman reluctantly hold his hands out in front of him. The overseer motioned to another member of the ship's crew, who had been waiting a few paces away. The sailor, who was holding a piece of rope, walked over to Athos and secured his hands. The crew member then looked over at the overseer, who took a ring of keys off his belt and handed them to the sailor. The man with the keys moved over to where the chain from Athos' shackles was connected to the metal ring on the deck and unlocked it. Athos still had leg irons around his ankles, but he was no longer tethered to the deck.

The sailor shoved Athos between the shoulder blades causing the man to stumble forward. Silently, the overseer turned away and headed towards the front of the galley. Pushing Athos again, the crew member grunted a word at him which Athos did recognize. "Move."

Clumsily, because he had limited movement, Athos stumbled up the aisle that ran alongside the benches of rowers. As he passed, the slaves' eyes followed him until Athos swore every eye on the ship was focused on him.

Back at his bench, Miguel was moaning with more desperation and had switched his chant to "My fault. My fault."

"Where are they taking him?" Porthos questioned the man who was rocking back and forth on the bench in rhythm with his mumblings. When he didn't get an answer, the street fighter reached over and shook Miguel. "What's happening?"

Miguel stopped rocking and mournfully stared over at Porthos. "They are going to flog him."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 41

His mind was finding it hard to believe the situation he found himself facing. He, the Comte de la Fére was being flogged. He supposed he should have been more concerned as he was marched up the aisle towards the main mast of the ship and saw what could only be blood stains soaked into the wooden planks that surround the pole. A set of shackles hung from the mast, higher than a man's head. Another iron ring, like the ones by the benches that secured them to the floor, was strategically located near the base of the mast.

When he got to the mast, the overseer placed his whip in a holder that appeared to be designed for it, before grasping a knife and handing it to the guard. Though the ship was rocking gently from the waves, the man with the knife wielded it with considerable skill, first freeing Athos' wrists and then swiftly cutting his shirt and striping it from his body. Athos dispassionately watched as the soiled garment pooled around his feet.

After handing the knife back to the overseer, who stood to one side watching the proceedings, the sailor shoved Athos face first against the wooden mast. Stepping on a block next to the pole, the guard grabbed Athos' wrists, yanked them above his head and secured them in the cuffs. The swordsman practically had to stand on his toes to keep his arms from being wrenched from their sockets.

Once that was done, the guard stepped off the block, kicked the destroyed shirt to one side and then fastened the shackles around Athos' ankles to the rusty ring embedded in the deck. Thoroughly trussed up, like a pig on a spit, Athos could only turn his head to one side to stare at the overseer who had a small smirk playing about his lips. It was obvious from the man's demeanor he was going to enjoy what he was about to do.

Athos' wary green eyes followed the man as he slowly walked over to the rack where he had previously placed his single thong leather whip. With some deliberation, he slowly lifted another whip aloft, a cat-of-nine tails. The nine flexible strips of leather attached to a sturdy handle were studded with knots and pieces of metal designed to tear the skin from the object being struck. The overseer's smirk turned to a evil grin as he gave the instrument a practice flick, the nine strips of leather making a whistling noise as they snapped in the open air.

Back on the benches, a look of abhorrence crossed Porthos' face when he saw what was about to happen to Athos. However, he was helpless to do anything other than lowly softly intone 'no' as he watched the horror at the mast unfold. Raoul was also watching, but while Porthos appeared horrified, Rauol appeared pleased about the whipping. Porthos was sorely tempted to reach out and smack that expression from Rauol's face, but logic won out and his hands remained, albeit clenched, at his sides. Miguel had turned away from the whole scene and was curled up in a tight ball on the deck, unable to watch what he felt he had caused.

Athos detected a slight smell of stale urine, which he should have taken as an indicator of the level of pain about to be inflicted upon him. Not intending to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing his expression if he was not able to keep it impassive, he turned his face straight to the mast and concentrated on it's rough surface. He heard the nine leather straps whistling through the air before he felt them strike his back, but it took a few seconds for the pain to register in his brain. An involuntary shudder passed through his frame, after the instrument of torture descended upon his flesh three more times in rapid succession. Considerately, if that word could be used given the situation, the overseer made sure the lashes being inflicted by the leather and metal fell between his shoulders and his waist. Athos supposed that was because they wanted him to still be able to sit and row.

After the first few strikes, Athos stopped counting the blows as he saw no sense to it. He had no clue how long the overseer would continue and mentally recording each stroke wasn't going to make it any shorter. Facing the mast turned out to be a wise move as the lashes seemed to endlessly rain on. The iron taste of blood was in his mouth where he had inadvertently bitten down on his lip. However, the smell of blood in his nostrils was from the rivulets running down his tortured back and adding to the previously stained deck below his feet. Idly, he wondered how many had stood here before him and what their ultimate fate had been.

Just as it had taken a while for Athos' brain to register the whipping had commenced, it also took time for him to realize that the whipping had ceased. Panting, he fought to regain mastery of his body. His shoulders were aching from the strain being placed on them by the fact his hands were shackled high above his head. The metal cuffs on his wrists were cutting into his flesh as his knees sagged, dragging his body downwards.

His back stung, but it wasn't pulsating with agonizing pain like he expected. Even though a cat-of-nine tails could be wielded in a manner to rip the flesh from a man's body, the overseer had applied it in a much lighter manner. That made sense, Athos decided after he thought it though. The objective was to instill discipline through fear, but not render the transgressor incapable of rowing. That would have been stupid since the slave's sole purpose on the galley was to propel the ship. Athos gave a small sigh of relief, figuring he had survived the worse of his punishment.

He didn't see the man come up behind him with a bucket, nor did he understand the words being directed at him, so he was caught totally by surprise when the liquid hit his back. A primal scream erupted from his throat as the fluid splashed against the slashes on his abused flesh. It felt like molten lava was flowing over his back and his muscles spasmed with agony. Quickly clamping his mouth shut to prevent any additional shameful sounds from escaping, he fought to control his breathing.

More incomprehensible words of Spanish flowed around him, as he leaned his forehead against the mast and momentarily closed his eyes. He rapidly reopened them when he felt someone grasp his shackled wrists. An oblique glance showed the crew member was back on the raised platform and was unlocking the cuffs. When his wrists were free, his arms dropped limply to his sides, tingling with pins and needles. More words and gestures were directed at him and he realized they wanted to secure his hands with rope again.

Awkwardly, he held them in front of his body so they could be bound. A part of his mind wondered why it was necessary. They were on a boat, in the ocean, with land miles away. Where was he going to go? What was he going to do.? Add the shackles around his ankles, and the amount of damage he could possibly do was minimal at best.

After his hands were secured, the sailor undid the lock that chained his leg irons to the deck, then motioned for him to walk down the aisle towards the stern of the gallery. Athos let his eyes wander to his shirt laying in untidy heap on the deck. It would never serve as a shirt again. Still, he bent and awkwardly scooped it up with tied hands. It could still be used as a rag. He had no possessions on this boat other than the clothes on his body and for some reason he loathed the idea of losing anything more. His dignity, his freedom and his life were gone, but he would be damned if he would lose the shirt too. It was an irrational thought; he knew it, and yet clutching the tattered shirt in his hands as he was marched back to his seat somehow felt like a small victory.

Like his march up the aisle to the mast, Athos felt like every eye in the galley was focused on him and it made him hold his head high, even though his back still was pulsating with pain. They might be able to beat him, but they couldn't break him. When he arrived at his bench, he maneuvered past Porthos to his spot nearest the hull and waited as the sailor fastened his shackles to the iron ring on the deck once more. After giving a little tug to make sure it was secure, the crew member untied Athos' hands and walked away.

The three sets of eyes that studied Athos as he lowered his abused body to sit upon the bench each held a different emotion in them. Raoul's were clearly shining with satisfaction that Athos had been beaten. After the man made sure the swordsman knew he was happy about the flogging, he turned back around to face forward. Miguel's eyes were full of shame because he knew Athos had been punished for trying to defend him. After giving Athos an apologetically sympathetic look, he too turned around to face forward, his shoulder's sagging under the weight of his guilt.

Porthos' eyes were also focused on the wounded man and gave Athos' the most cause for contemplation. Athos thought he detected respect in those dark brown orbs and something else he couldn't quite but his finger on. What Athos was seeing, but could not recognize, was the worry and concern of a friend. Athos had been betrayed so many times in his past that he had lost the ability to believe even in the concept of friendship.

Porthos reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You did good."

Athos flinched, not because Porthos' hand was physically hurting him, but because his words were emotionally hurting him. Athos could hear the underlying tone of respect in the street fighter's voice and part of him craved that praise and part of him rejected it because he knew he wasn't deserving.

Dropping his hand, Porthos watched as emotions flickered through the normally guarded green eyes and it gave him pause. Growing up the way he did, Porthos wasn't a very judgmental person, or at least he didn't think he was. In the streets, you did what you had to, to survive and, as long as you didn't deliberately hurt someone, Porthos had learned to accept a lot of character flaws in a person.

However, from the day he had met Athos, Porthos had judged him harder than most and he wasn't sure why. Maybe, because he sensed this man once had a good life and had thrown it all away. Porthos had had to fight for everything in life, from the basics of food and water, to his position in the infantry and later the musketeers, to respect as a human being. He couldn't understand someone who had all those things already, treating them so lightly and throwing them away. Life was too precious and the man sitting next to him had shown no respect for that, and that Porthos decided, was why he had been judging this man so harshly. But this trip was proving him wrong.

Athos did respect life it seemed, the lives of others, just not his own. Very few men would defend another man, especially a stranger, and take a beating for him as Athos had just done for Miguel. That spoke of character, a character Porthos could relate too. A man Porthos wanted to get to know and call friend. Aramis was right. There was something more to this man who sat beside him than he had realized.

Athos was still clutching the torn shirt in his hands and Porthos glanced down at it. "That's seen better days," the streetfighter said lightly.

Athos continued to stare at the ruined material in his hands. "I didn't want too...thought it might...I don't know..." His voice trailed off as he let go of the shirt and it fell to the deck.

Porthos totally understood why Athos had clung to the shirt. "I grew up with little. It makes you want to hold on to things even past the time when it makes no sense. Makes you feel somehow, better."

Reaching over his head, Porthos pulled off his own shirt and held it out to Athos. "Here. Put this on. My skin is better equipped to handle the sun than yours."

Athos stared at the shirt with trepidation. Accepting it would be the first step towards something he wasn't sure he wanted. Friendship.

"I wouldn't put that on yet," Miguel said over his shoulder. "Not until those cuts dry. It will only stick to them."

"Good point," Porthos remarked as he laid the offering on the bench next to Athos. "Later, then."

Athos eyed the shirt, then Porthos. "Later," the beaten man croaked hoarsely.

The command rang out to take up position with the oars and both men grabbed the wooden shaft. The command to commence was given and they made their first pull of the day. Porthos couldn't help noticing Athos wincing as the movement pulled the skin and muscles on his back.

"Hurts," Porthos stated matter-of-factly.

"Hmmm. Though not as much as I thought."

Porthos could easily see how much the whip's slashes were hurting Athos, which was considerably. But, the street fighter knew he wasn't going to call the man out for his lie; it made no sense. Porthos couldn't stop Athos from having to row so he let it roll.

Miguel chimed into the conversation. "Does them no good to kill us. While we are nothing more than lowly slaves, still they need us to row."

"It actually hurt worse when they threw that liquid on my back," Athos added thoughtfully.

"Yeah, it would. Alcohol and lemon juice. Makes a statement, but doesn't kill the help," Miguel stated grimly.

Later that day, as the sun was preparing to set and the galley had anchored for the night, Porthos, without ceremony, demanded to examine the slashes on Athos' back to see if they were getting infected. The street fighter was coming to understand, in a small way, how to deal with the man with whom he had spent the last six weeks. In some situations, asking simply led to verbal run-arounds, silent stares, or being ignored. So when it mattered, like with injuries, Porthos learned not to ask, but to demand and usually Athos complied.

Using the last of the daylight to appraise the damage done to Athos' back, he decided things were looking fairly good. None were bleeding, none appeared very deep, there was no undue redness to indicate an infection might be in the works. A thin scab was already forming on them. Grunting in satisfaction, he picked his shirt up from where it still lay on the bench and held it out to Athos.

"Need help putting this on?" The look he got back from his seat mate made him grin, and he shoved the shirt at the man. "Yeah, didn't think so."

Athos took the garment and carefully shrugged it over his head. Needless to say it was overly large and hung like a sack on his thinner, less muscular frame.

"When we get back to Paris, you owe me a new one."

That tiny smirk that tilted the corner of Athos lip appeared. "Duly noted. When we get back."

A long look passed between the two men, certainly not one of the in-depth, nonverbal communications they would eventually be known for, but a rudimentary beginning. Both men realized they just had made a vow to each other to do everything in their power to get out of this situation. The first instance of all for one and one for all.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 42

Without suffering another beating, Athos knew he couldn't stop Raoul from bullying Miguel, so he compensated by giving the scarecrow part of his rations and trying to do other small, altruistic acts. Porthos noted what Athos was doing and tried to share some of his own food, but the swordsman always refused his gestures. In the complex world that was Athos' psyche, he was apparently able to give, but not receive, kindness.

Both men had trimmed down and put on muscle from the physical labor of rowing. Porthos had used a portion of Athos' ruined shirt to make a head wrap for both himself and Athos, patterning it after the ones worn by many of the other slaves. It helped keep the hot sun from beating down on the head as well as keeping the hair out of one's face. Even so, many days Athos still felt like the sun was frying his brain, which would later translate into the habit of wearing a hat. In the world that was to be, Aramis wore a hat because it made him look even more dashing. Athos wore one because the hot sun beating down on his exposed head reminded him of being a slave. That, and it was very useful to shade his eyes after a hard night of drinking. Porthos would always favor a kerchief-like arrangement, part in deference to his ancestors and partially because it never got in the way in a fight.

By now, the two men had gotten used to the rhythm of the galley. This particular day, however, there was a general unrest amongst the slaves, which grew even greater as the day progressed and the weather began to deteriorate. Those who had been on the ship the longest kept turning a weather eye towards the horizon. Miguel was amongst those that kept one eye on the horizon and he was more fidgety than normal. Finally, what many had sensed became visible to all. Ominous dark clouds began to dot the sky in the distance and a brisk wind picked up.

Athos noted the crew of the ship, including the captain, emerged on the deck to study the unfolding scenario. A little while later Athos detected that the galley had changed course and appeared to be moving closer to the shore. Angry waves beat against the rocky shore and a quicker cadence was demanded of the rowers, both to combat the roiling waters and propel the galley faster along the coastline. The captain kept emerging from his cabin and checking the position of the ship and the horizon before returning below. It was obvious a storm was brewing and Athos had a gut feeling the captain was looking for a safe haven for his vessel to ride it out.

Over the next hour, Athos rowed harder than he ever had since they were first captured. The sailor who kept the rowers synchronized, kept increasing the tempo of the strokes per minute and even the most experienced rowers were having a hard time maintaining it. The rocking from the waves, which was growing increasingly erratic, also made rowing difficult as the men on the benches were tossed about and had to brace themselves as best they could without the use of their hands, which were occupied maneuvering the oars. More than once, someone lost their balance and was flung to the heaving deck, which had a layer of water on it from the waves crashing over the sides of the galley.

Growing increasingly fatigued, Athos had stopped glancing over the edge of the hull at the passing coastline and instead had locked his eyes on the ring attaching his shackles to the deck. Focusing on an object helped him let his mind go numb in an effort to ignore the physical pain from the incessant rowing. He allowed himself to be lulled into a senseless world where his body performed the repetitive motion of rowing, while his detached mind hid in a dark corner.

Shouting from the raised stern deck broke him from his daze and he lifted his weary head to peer in that direction. The captain was back on the ship's deck, intently studying the coastline. Another man was at his side gesturing wildly towards the murky land. The captain withdrew his gaze from the shore momentarily to shout an order, which had four sailors scurrying from the foredeck towards the stern of the pitching galley.

Athos turned his head to peer over the edge of the hull. The gloom was gathering with the coming storm, but he was still able to see what had apparently excited the captain and his crew. There was a small break in the rocky shoreline, not much, but enough to land a small boat and allow its occupants to escape the angry, storm swept sea.

A call to halt rowing was issued and the slaves drew the oars back into the ship's hull, resting them in their berths. An uneasiness settled over the galley as the ship continued to be tossed about in the sea ever more erratically. Waves were routinely breaking over the hull, soaking the men and adding to the water collecting on the deck of the galley. The holes in the side of the ship's hull and the scuppers on the bottom were hard pressed to keep up with the volume of sea water sloshing over the sides.

A loud crash sounded from the aft portion of the ship and Athos whipped his head around in time to see the galley's dinghy bang once more against the stern as the crew desperately attempted to lower it into the tossing sea. The intentions of the captain and the crew were suddenly obvious. They were abandoning the ship!

Porthos' eyes caught Athos' as they braced themselves on the narrow, wooden bench to avoid being tossed to the deck. "This don't look good."

The captain and most of the rest of the crew had descended from the top deck to the lower one and were making their way to the pitching dinghy, which was now in the water. The last two crew members still on the bow were dropping the sea anchor into the churning ocean.

One other time in heavy weather, the sea anchor had been employed and Miguel, in his helpful fashion, had explained to Athos that it was designed to assist in keeping either the galley's bow or stern facing into the waves. This decreased the chance of the ship being capsized by the rolling action of the waves. It would also help keep the galley in relatively the same place.

Finally getting the sea anchor deployed, the last of the crew ran towards the stern and practically hurled themselves in the dinghy that was wildly bouncing in the waves. Once they were aboard, the small vessel struggled to make its way toward the indentation in the shore. For once propulsion was by two crew members, not slaves. The slaves had all been left on the galley to ride out the storm, or die if the ship sank.

"Well all the rats are gone," Porthos declared with disgust as he watched the dinghy move away.

A flash of lightening lit the sky, followed by the rumbling of thunder. The waves grew in intensity and the galley struggled to keep her nose into the waves, even with the sea anchor deployed.

"We're going to die. We're going to die," Miguel began to wail over and over.

Rauol reached over and knocked the whining man to the deck and for the first time since they had been placed on this damn ship, Athos agreed with Raoul's actions. Miguel's death chant was not helping matters. The scarecrow of a man huddled on the floor and wrapped his arms around one of the seat supports. He still was providing a steady stream of whining, but it was barely audible over the increasing noise of the storm bearing down on them.

Lightening crackled through the skies, growing ever closer and leaving behind a whiff of ozone in its electric wake. More of the slaves began moaning or praying, depending on their inclination. The dinghy had made it to the shore, and the crew had pulled it up as far on the beach as possible before they made their way away from the menacing sea. Soon they were lost from sight in the ever increasing gloom of the storm

Porthos again looked over at Athos, who had stopped watching the deserters now that they were no longer visible. "This isn't how I planned on dyin'."

"And you won't," Athos assured him with confidence.

Incredulousness painted Porthos' face. "You're kidding me, right? Even the captain didn't think his ship could survive this storm." He gestured towards the ominous sea and sky. "Why are you so certain we will?"

"Because God has yet to grant me the death I seek, though I have given Him ample opportunity. Why should this time be any different?" Somehow his words didn't seem to be comforting Porthos. With a sigh he added, "I promise I won't let you."

Of all the opportunities Athos had had on this trip to share something about himself, he chose now to provide this insight, Porthos thought. Great. "So I'm supposed to be comforted by the fact God hasn't killed you yet?"

By way of an answer, Athos gave him one of his non-verbal shrugs that would become one of his trademarks. Porthos stared at him with disbelief, but was distracted as a colossal wave crashed over the side of the galley, momentarily dumping tons of sea water on their heads and causing the water level on the deck of the galley to rise alarmingly. Lightening streaked across the obsidian skies, sonorous thunder rumbled directly overhead, and the frenzied winds howled even louder as the nearly swamped vessel struggled to stay afloat. An eerie hush fell over the galley as she listed heavily to one side, her spars seemingly touching the sea. Then sluggishly and laboriously, she miraculously rolled back to an even keel.

Shaking his salt water soaked hair from his eyes, Athos glanced over at Porthos and the street fighter swore a small smirk lurked under all the swordsman's facial hair. "See. Still here."

Nodding his own soaked curls, he replied, "What the hell. You have survived a lot of misfortunes since I met you. And Aramis ain't here to pray for us. Guess I'll go with your theory that God wants you alive."

The sea anchor was being overwhelmed by the fierceness of the storm and the galley slid broadside into another oncoming wave. The ship rolled at a sickening angle once more as it was struck by a wall of water as solid and as hard as stone. The wooden planking that comprised the hull groaned under the onslaught and the ship yawed at a near impossible angle for recovery. The spars on the mast seemed to dip their ends in the churning sea once more as the galley canted sideways.

The slaves in the ship weren't fairing much better than the vessel. The terrifying roll of the ship onto her starboard side, flung the men from their benches. Unfortunately, the chains on their ankles brought them to a violent, painful, leg-wrenching halt. Athos was in the ill-fated position of being on the starboard side, so when the ship heeled over, he was flung from the bench, striking his head on the hull of the galley. Momentarily dazed, he thought he saw the sea, like a gaping maw, rising up to shallow him. Water washed over him from what felt like every direction and he gasped, trying to breathe in the deluge. He was on the verge of panic when the seas finally parted and he was able to drag in a lungful of oxygen. However, his victory was short lived, as a large object smacked him squarely in the chest, driving his hard earned breath from his body. Blackness played at the edge of his vision as his brain struggled to survive without air. More water washed over him and for a spilt second Athos thought he had misled Porthos and God was preparing to dispatch him to hell after all.

As suddenly as it appeared, the weight on his chest receded along with the water. The battered ship somehow managed to get back on an even keel and the bow swung back into the oncoming waves as the sea anchor did its job. The side to side heaving, which had flung the slaves against the sides of the galley was replaced with a slightly gentler bow to stern rocking motion.

Scrubbing a hand across his soaked face and slicking back his hair, Athos glanced around and discovered what the heavy weight on his chest had been Porthos. The street fighter was lying unconscious on the deck near him. Blood was running down Porthos' face from up in the region of his left temple and it explained why the man was out cold. He must have hit his head on something as the ship was pitching and yawing. While Athos was staring at Porthos, another wave found its way over the sides of the galley and the water level on the deck suddenly rose rapidly, covering Porthos' face.

"No!" Athos screamed into the wind as he scrambled to grab Porthos under his armpits and haul his upper body clear of the bilge water. The man was dead weight and Athos struggled, but got him clear of the water, which slowly began receding again. He maneuvered the unconscious man between his legs and propped his torso up against his own. The rocking of the boat and the tilting of the deck made holding on to Porthos an exhausting challenge, but Athos clung to him for dear life. He'd made a promise to guard this musketeer and see him safely back to the garrison, and Athos was a man of his word.

As if God hadn't punished them enough already, hail began raining from the sky, the icy pellets beating down upon them. Athos shifted his position to shield Porthos' head and torso from the onslaught by using his own body as a shield. The hard, golf ball sized spheres rained down on Athos' semi-healed back and he had to bite on his lower lip to stop from groaning. For a second, he imaged this was what it felt like to be stoned.

As quickly as it started, the hail ceased. Athos stiffly raised his head to peer about and determine how to best roll off of Porthos. With his newly abused and extremely tender back, he feared it was not going to be a pleasant experience. Underneath him on the ship's waterlogged deck, Porthos began to stir. His brown eyes fluttered open and stared up at the swordsman.

"Welcome back. We're still alive...in case you can't tell," Athos deadpanned, his face a mask of seriousness.

"Ah-ha. And why are you huggin' me?" Porthos questioned when he noted Athos' arms were wrapped around his torso.

"Morale support."

Porthos considered that for a moment as Athos dropped his arms and slithered off the larger man. "Yours or mine?"

"Both," Athos succinctly stated. He settled on the deck, knees hugged to his chest, before he let his eyes sag closed for a moment.

Porthos noticed that something seemed to be stuck in Athos' hair. "What's that in your hair?"

Without opening his eyes, Athos absentmindedly ran a hand over the top of his head. "Hail. You slept through it."

"Uh-huh," Porthos grunted. Glancing at the sky he announced, "I think the storm is nearly passed."

The rocking of the galley had lessened, the rain was now more of a light drizzle, and the sky seemed brighter. Athos opened his eyes to confirm Porthos' statement in time to see the final disaster of the storm strike.

A stray bolt of lightning descended from the heavens and stuck the upper portion of galley's second mast, the one near the bow, and it began to tilt. The stays held the mast upright for a few seconds, before they slowly began to unravel. A second lightning strike hit the spars, proving lightening can strike the same place twice. The mast, and the two spars jutting out from it, spilt and toppled downward. The smell of ozone tainted the air. The slaves, chained to the deck underneath the falling mass had nowhere to go, even if they would have had time to react to the disaster descending upon them. The heavy pieces of wood and metal crashed upon the twenty men, brutally crushing the majority of them.

Screams of terror from the dying men filled the air and wrenched the hearts of all who heard and were helpless to assist. Athos added his wail of 'No' to the chaos. He instinctively surged to his feet to go help those suffering only to be drawn up short by the chains he momentarily had forgotten. The jerk on his ankles sent him sprawling partially over the bench front of him.

Luckily, he landed between the two shell-shocked men sitting upon it. Slowly and painfully, Athos struggled to his feet and shuffled back to his own bench, falling heavily on the wooden structure. He couldn't take his eyes off the carnage on the bow of the ship. How many man lay dead or dying under the broken pieces of wood that once were the ship's mast and spars? His memory flashed back to the day he discovered Thomas bleeding out on the floor, as he stood there powerless to stop death from claiming his brother. It was the same now. Men dying in front of him and he could do nothing about it.

The freak lightning strikes that hit the galley marked the end the horrific storm that had wreaked havoc upon the vessel. The wind calmed to a gentle breeze, the sea flattened, and the normal darkness of night crept across the sky. The living sat shell-shocked on their benches, staring at the wreckage in the gathering murkiness. Other than the occasional moan or sob from the bow, a sullen hush had fallen over the ship.

Always a man of few words, Athos was utterly speechless at the turn of events. It was not only the undignified death of the men, chained like animals to the deck and unable to escape, but also his own inability to aid the dying and injured men. He was forced to sit here, listening to their sobs and moans, unable to do a damn thing about it. He could offer up prayers he supposed, but that seemed hypocritical from a man who had long ago lost faith in God. A warm hand crept up to the back of his neck, gently cupping it. A sideways glance showed it belonged to Porthos, but instead of shrugging it off as was his norm, he actually leaned into it a little, accepting the comfort being freely offered.

"Bastards," Porthos growled and there was no mistaking who he meant. "You ok?" he asked as he removed his hand from Athos' neck and turned to look at his face, noting the man's usual mask of indifference had totally slipped away.

When Athos realized his emotions were written all over his face, he immediately began the struggle to realign his features. Considerately, Porthos looked away to give him a moment of privacy.

Slowly, the uninjured slaves that had been spared, curled up on the wooden floor, which was now mostly free of water, except for an occasional lingering puddle, and tried to fall asleep. There was nothing they could do to help their fellows. Exhaustion over took them as they came down from an adrenaline high.

Athos and Porthos followed suit, laying their weary bodies on the deck as they had for countless nights. Just before he drifted off, Porthos muttered, "We will survive."

Athos didn't answer him, knowing it wasn't expected. However, in his mind, he wondered if he had been wrong. Maybe they were going to die on this ship after all.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 43

Though the wind had died down, it was still breezy enough to chill the rain dampened men who huddled on the wet deck trying to sleep. Athos curled his bruised body into the tightest ball he could in an attempt to keep warm, but it didn't help. His thin frame was still wracked by periodic cold-induced shudders.

Porthos' wasn't feeling all that great either as his head ached, though he managed to fall into a restless sleep for a while, the damp cold not bothering him. Even as a child, he had always been able to stay warm, his body putting off heat like a small furnace. After a few hours of uneasy sleep, however, he woke with his muscles feeling cramped. Sitting up, he stretched his back, trying to relieve the kinks that had settled into it. Thankfully, his headache had mostly dissipated, though the cut on his temple was tender when he casually brushed it with his fingertips.

Dropping his hand from his face, he gave a cursory glance at the sky to ensure that there were no signs of clouds or anything to indicate further bad weather. The only thing that met his eyes was a clear sky, with a bright full moon, which cast long shadows on the galley below. With a quiet grunt of satisfaction, he shifted over onto his other side, preparing to go back to sleep. After repositioning his body, he was facing Athos' back and in the silvery moonlight he noted the smaller man was violently shivering.

With concern, he stretched out his hand and placed it on Athos' leg. Porthos hadn't known Athos long enough to learn that the man tended to wake, when disturbed, in a rather unpredictable manner, which often was accompanied by an action of a somewhat violent nature. It was a trait that, unfortunately, only got worse in Athos' future due to the nature of life as a musketeer. Waking Athos was, and would always be, an adventure.

Porthos' light touch on Athos' calf, startled the swordsman and Porthos barely had time to roll out of the way of the swift retaliatory kick aimed in the direction of his head.

"Hey!" he hissed softly, not wanting to wake anyone else. "It's only me."

A groggy Athos pushed his body into a sitting position and seeing it was only Porthos apologetically ducked his head. "Sorry."

Pushing up on his elbow, Porthos replied, "No harm. Ya missed."

When Athos sat up, he exposed even more of his damp body to the light breeze and he wasn't able to control the involuntary shiver that ran through his frame.

Studying the hunched over man in front of him Porthos declared, "You're cold."

"I'm fine."

Porthos was a fast learner. He already had noted from their journey that Athos had an interesting definition of the word 'fine' when it came to his own well-being.

"Yeah? Well ya look cold to me," Porthos drily remarked as Athos continued lightly trembling.

Athos tried to offer up a denial, but his quivering flesh made it a rather pathetic attempt. "It will be fine once I lay back down."

"Uh-huh. In wet clothes, on a wet deck. Sounds real fine to me."

Athos didn't reply, but rather turned his head and stared out to sea.

Porthos studied the back of the man for a moment before speaking. "Thank you. For saving me today. If you haven't held my head out of the water when I was unconscious..." His voice drifted off as he too turned his eyes to the sea and sighed. "After all my Mom did to escape this life... and here I am. Everything she feared."

Athos turned his head to study the profile of the man next to him. "This isn't your life. We will escape," Athos reaffirmed.

The reassurance was offered in a tone that seemed incredibly self-assured given their current situation. But Porthos had noticed that about Athos; he had an air of self-assuredness and confidence even in the most trying of circumstances. Inbred. An almost noble bearing, Porthos thought and he wondered if Athos was the son of a minor nobleman. It would explain his mannerisms, speech, and diverse knowledge from what appeared to be a good education.

Porthos gave Athos a small grin. "I'm glad you have a plan for our escape."

On the outside he may have seemed self-assured, but inside Athos was a mass of uncertainty because he didn't have a plan. Not even the inkling of one. But he wasn't going to tell Porthos that so he remained quiet and still, except for his shivering, which he seemed unable to control.

"Move over here, as close as your chain allows." Porthos patted the deck next to where he was propped up on his elbow.

"Why?"

"Because you can't come up with a brilliant escape plan if you freeze to death."

The wary look Athos gave Porthos said it all and the street fighter wondered what had happened to this man that made him so unwilling to accept the kindness of others. He was determined to break through that barrier in his usual straightforward manner.

"I'm warm. You're cold. It's as simple as that."

After a few more moments of hesitation in which Porthos almost gave up hope, Athos inched closer, slowly positioning his body on the deck, on his side, back to the larger man. However, when he stopped moving, there was still a good three feet separating them.

Porthos gave a low chuckle. "I'm not a bloody fire."

Dropping to his side, Porthos reached out his long arms and drew Athos' smaller frame against his chest. Immediately he felt Athos stiffen in his arms. Gradually though, as Porthos' warmth seeped into the cold man's body, Athos began to relax.

"I don't bite, ya know. Well at least not if I ain't fighting. Then all's fair."

Athos platonically snuggled a little deeper against the wonderful source of heat. "But you do snore," he stated drily.

"You wanna be warm? Deal with it."

"Duly noted," Athos sleepily mumbled, as he drifted off.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 44

The sound of wood scraping against wood woke the men on the ship who had been exhausted after their ordeal with the storm. The slaves slowly rose, some to their feet, some to the benches, but all their eyes eventually were drawn to the bow of the ship and the disaster that was even more horrific in the bright light of day. At least twenty men lay dead or dying under the wreckage of the upper portion of the mast and the spars, which had snapped from the lightning strike and come crashing down upon them.

Towards the stern of the ship, the crew and her captain had returned, climbing aboard from the dinghy. Almost disinterestedly, the captain made his way partially up the port aisle towards the carnage on the bow. He surveyed the scene and one got the impression he was concerned for the welfare of his ship, not the men who lay dead or dying on its deck. Spinning on his heels, he headed for his cabin in the stern of the ship giving orders to his crew as he passed by.

"Clean up the mess and give me a damage report on the ship. I need to know how seaworthy she remains." His orders confirmed exactly where his priorities lay, with the ship not the men.

The overseer and four crew members slowly made their way up the aisle, stopping every now and then to unchain a slave until they had six men. Athos was surprised to find himself amongst the six as he and the overseer didn't get along. By the end of the task they were given to complete, Athos was no longer surprised he had been chosen. It had been another form of punishment, where the overseer once again tried to break the swordsman.

Up close, the death and destruction caused by the storm was even more horrific. Underneath the splintered mast, spars and benches were the remains of the slaves that had been crushed. It looked like the aftermath of a cannon blast, though at this point in his life, Athos hadn't been privy to one yet. However, later, during the war, he would think back on this scene. The deck ran red with blood and it wasn't long before the bare feet of the six slaves were tinged a sickly color.

Under the watchful eye of the overseer, the six slaves were instructed to untangle the mast and spars from the stays. Once that was complete, the six were told to lift the broken pieces of wood off the slaves and throw them into the ocean. The slaves had to work in teams of three to heft the heavy timber and awkwardly maneuver it to the edge of the ship without tripping over anyone or anything.

Splinters embedded themselves in their palms as they lifted and moved the broken wood. Athos would take that pain any day over the mental anguish assaulting his mind from the carnage beneath the wreckage. More than once, the other five slaves were forced to hang their heads over the side of the galley to be sick though Athos resisted stubbornly. He wouldn't give the guards the satisfaction of seeing his weakness, even though the sight and the stench were nearly overpowering. Some of the bodies were so badly mangled it was a challenge to lift and carry them to the edge of the ship where they then would be tossed into the sea.

At one point Athos heard the screams of a slave as he lifted one of the dead bodies and the head snapped off. It rolled across the deck to end up resting against Athos' feet as he stood there in shock, looking down at the lifeless brown eyes staring up at him. He almost added his own scream to the chorus. Dragging his eyes from the skull lying at his feet, he looked over at a few of the ship's crew who had the callousness to be chuckling at sight of the severed head.

Angrily, Athos stalked towards the laughing men, intending to wipe the smiles off their faces with his fist. However, the overseer's whip lashed out, entangling his feet and causing him to fall face first on the deck. His head clipped the edge of a broken bench on the way down, causing stars to dance momentarily in front of his eyes. When his vision cleared, the overseer was standing over him, staring menacingly down at the fallen man.

"You forget your place, slave. Your life, like those of the rest of the slaves on this ship, means nothing to me," he said in his broken French. To emphasize his point, he brought the whip down, hard, on the back of Athos' legs. "If I had my way, I'd kill you now." He let the whip slash again. "But the captain has paid good money for you and needs rowers, so I must restrain myself." This time his booted foot shot out and connected with the side of Athos' ribs. "So get up. Get back to work. And don't make me punish you again."

With his ears still ringing and his head spinning, Athos struggled to his feet, swaying slightly as he fought to remain upright. Even though he was feeling terrible, he still managed to display a haughty look of distain on his face to show the overseer he had not won. It wasn't a particularly brilliant idea as the overseer slammed his fist into Athos' cheek and sent him crashing to the deck once more.

"Get up!" the overseer screamed at the downed man.

Once again, Athos struggled to his feet and stood swaying in front of his tormentor. As much as the overseer really wanted to keep pounding on this insolent man, he was afraid of the captain's ire if he maimed him enough that he couldn't row and so he restrained himself with difficulty.

"Get back to work. Clean up this mess. Toss those dead dogs overboard." With that the overseer moved away, back to a spot where he could observe the entire area.

Forcing his aching and trembling limbs to obey, Athos joined the other five slaves to continue cleaning up the carnage. At one point, he felt a small moment of elation when he lifted a piece of a broken bench and discovered the man underneath was still alive. It was the first survivor they had found after sending ten corpses to their watery grave. The grey-haired man was older, probably one of the oldest Athos had seen on the galley.

Quickly, he dropped to his knees on the deck next to the slave. Anxious brown eyes stared up at Athos and he was forced to bend over and place his ear by the man's lips to hear his raspy whisper. "Praise God you found me."

This wasn't a time for a religious debate on whether God should be praised or not, so Athos tamped down his opinions of the subject and merely noncommittally nodded his head.

"I can't feel my legs and my shoulder hurts," the slave mumbled a bit louder this time.

Athos let his eyes wander down to the man's legs, which were partly covered by some debris. Standing, he carefully lifted the broken pieces of wood off the slave's limbs, tossing them to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw the overseer and two members of the crew moving in his direction.

Ignoring their approach, Athos dropped to his knees again next to the slave. Turning his attention to the injured slave's chest, it appeared the man's left shoulder and arm had been crushed by something. The injuries would heal, given time, Athos thought, though he had grave doubts the man would ever get full use of his arm again.

"What's going on here?" the taller of the two crew members, who had been heading in their direction, demanded as he drew alongside the two men.

Athos glanced over his shoulder. "This man is alive. He needs medical attention."

The sailor burst out laughing. "Of course. Do let me fetch the Doctor," he ground out between his fits of mirth.

Athos angrily scowled before dropping his eyes back to the mangled man lying on the deck. He saw the older man struggling to rise and Athos gently helped him into a sitting position, where the man could cradle his useless left arm in his lap. Beads of sweat dotted the slave's forehead from the pain he was feeling. Athos laid his hand on the slave's back and the man seemed to gain a measure of comfort from the touch of another human.

By now, the overseer had joined the group of men and was staring down at Athos and the injured man with displeasure. "Why hasn't this man been tossed overboard? What is the delay? There is much work to do."

Dropping his hand, Athos managed to spring to his feet and clumsily spin to face the man with the whip, despite the fact his ankles were shackled. "He is alive. He needs help."

The overseer looked past the furious man standing in front of him to the slave sitting on the deck cradling his injured limb. "He is of no use. He is as broken as the mast. Toss him overboard."

"He is alive!" Athos growled as he took a threatening step towards the overseer.

Immediately, the two sailors were at Athos' side restraining him by his arms. The swordsman tried to shake free, but was unable to do so. Determinedly, he tried to lurch forward once more towards the overseer, but again was brought up short.

"You are a monster!" Athos spat in the overseer's face before the crew members wrestled him to his knees on the deck.

The overseer moved towards were Athos was being restrained and stood, towering over him. "You will toss him overboard, like the piece of trash he is."

"No." Athos' stubborn green eyes glared up at the overseer.

Never taking his eyes off of Athos, the overseer called out something in Spanish to another sailor who took off at a run up the deck and returned a few moments later with a pistol. The overseer took the gun from the sailor, checked it was primed and loaded and then aimed it at Athos' head as he knelt helplessly on the deck.

"Toss him overboard with the rest of the trash."

Athos had been seeking a way to redeem himself ever since he had hanged his wife. Maybe God would have some mercy on his soul if he died trying to save another human being. "No," he repeated, his cool green eyes showing no hint of fear.

"You would die for this crippled, useless piece of trash?" The overseer gave a quick flick of his head and the crew member nearest the old man punched him in the face, toppling him to the deck.

As a future Comte, Athos had studied religion, in Latin, as was proper. However, the next words out of his mouth surprised even him, given his feelings regarding religion. "There is neither Jew nor Greek: there is neither bond nor free: there is neither male nor female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus."

Apparently, not everyone at this party was as well versed in Latin as he, for they all stared at him blankly. He supposed he could repeat it in French, though probably not Spanish, but he really didn't think it would make a difference. Instead, he chose to remain mute and simply glare.

The overseer had a dilemma. Because of the freak accident caused by the storm, the galley had lost a third of her rowers. The man stubbornly kneeling on the deck in front of him was able to row and the captain wouldn't take kindly to losing another rower. Yet he couldn't let this mere slave win. He had to be broken into submission without further physical damage. This man had been a thorn in his side since he and his friend had been picked up in Dieppe. Then it suddenly dawned on him, the leverage he needed to make this slave cooperate.

Dropping the pistol back to his side, the overseer turned and began deliberately walking up the aisle. Athos tracked him with his eyes, knowing he was up to something. He couldn't be so lucky that the man had given up, and he was correct. The overseer came to a halt by the bench upon which Porthos sat, raised the gun, and aimed it at the street fighter's head.

Athos' eyes grew wide with horror when it became clearly apparent what the overseer's leverage was to get him to cooperate... Porthos' life. He was willing to die himself, but how could he condemn another man, one who was almost a friend, to death?

The overseer's arm was steady as he held the pistol trained on Porthos and there was no way he could miss from that distance. "Throw him overboard. Now!"

Porthos sat rock steady, as if he too was daring the overseer to make good on his threat. Athos' eyes sought out Porthos and he saw no fear in those dark brown orbs, but he still couldn't condemn the man to death.

The injured slave, who had been watching the scenario unfold from where he had been knocked to the deck, reached out a hand and touched Athos' leg in supplication. "Do as he says. Throw me overboard."

Athos dropped his eyes to stare at the man on the deck.

"He is right. Without use of this arm, I'm useless. They are not going to let me live. They will kill you, your friend and then me. Save yourselves and let me go. I have made my peace with God. I'm ready."

When he saw Athos was still hesitating, he said, "Please. Let my last act on this Earth be one of compassion."

Finally, Athos found his voice, though it was rough and broken. "You are asking me to drop you alive into the sea. To kill you."

"You are a soldier. You have killed before, I can tell."

The old man was half-right. He had killed, though he wasn't a soldier.

"Show mercy. Heed my request. Let me die with dignity."

"How is tossing you overboard to your death, dignified?" Athos' voice clearly indicated his confusion.

"Because I beat them by choosing not to die by their hand."

Athos wasn't sure he understood, but the man was adamant. "Throw me overboard," he half-demanded, half-begged. "Please."

Dragging a hand over his face and through his salt-sticky hair, he dropped his eyes to the deck and struggled as to what to do. The old man was right. No matter what, he was going to die today, either by Athos' hand or that of the overseer. All he had to do was toss the man, who was going to die anyway, overboard and he and Porthos would survive another day to hopefully find a way to escape. And if they did get free, Athos vowed he would see justice brought down upon these despicable Spaniards and all involved in this horror show.

Raising his eyes once more, he looked over at the old slave, who gave him a gentle smile, seeing the answer in his face.

"You are sure?" Athos asked. "This is what you truly want?"

Without hesitation, the slave replied sincerely, "Yes."

With a curt nod, Athos rose to his feet. With as much dignity as possible, he lifted the old slave from the deck and laid him over his shoulder. The man's head rested against his back and the bile that Athos had managed to hold down for so long rose in his throat. Slowly, he made his way to the side of the galley and gently removed the man from his shoulders and laid him over the rail.

For a moment, the two men remained there, Athos struggling to complete the deed that had been demanded of him.

"I'm ready. Do it."

With a strangled cry, Athos slowly tipped the man over the edge and watched as the body splashed into the blue sea and lazily sank out of sight. Suddenly, it was all too much and Athos leaned further over the rail and emptied the contents of his stomach. When he was finished and turned around, the overseer had lowered the gun and was grinning at him from across the deck, satisfied he had managed, in this small way, to break Athos and he was right. Athos dropped his eyes to the deck feeling defeated.

It took them the rest of the morning to clear the bow area of the broken wood and bodies, then wash it down with buckets of water. Athos moved as if in a fog, numbly following the orders shouted at him. The overseer stood to one side, elated that he had finally broken the stubborn man.

When it was finally done, twenty men had met their watery graves and the ranks of the slaves were depleted to forty. Another six were semi-dead in their own right from having to clean up the carnage. Athos was returned to his bench covered in blood, sweat, and other substances not even imaginable. After the crew chained him back in his spot and left, Athos simply stood motionless, an empty shell of a man.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 45

Porthos rose from his seat, shuffled over to the bucket of rainwater that was used for bathing and relocated it near Athos' feet. He wasn't going to offer any meaningless platitudes to the man, as there was nothing he could say that could right the wrongs that had occurred here today. So the street fighter simply rested a sympathetic hand on Athos' shoulder.

Athos was trying to process what he had just endured, as he stared at the bucket by his feet, watching the ripples in the water's surface mimicking the waves in the ocean. Life was harsh. He got that. Men were cruel. He got that too. However, everything that was happening on this ship was simply, inconceivably, wrong.

Porthos handed him a piece of rag, which he absentmindedly took without comment as he dropped his eyes from the sloshing bucket of water to his grimy, blood-stain shirt. With a strangled cry of disgust, he yanked the shirt over his head and tossed it on the deck by his feet. Bending to dip the rag into the water, he began vigorously to scrub at his arms and chest to remove the blood and filth that coated his skin. In reality, he was trying to erase the memories from his mind, which he knew would never happen. The sight of the old man's brown eyes staring up at him, as he sank to his watery death, would forever haunt his nightmares.

Porthos watched silently as Athos attacked his own skin with a vengeance. The musketeer knew the swordsman was trying to scour away the foulness that had been imprinted on his soul from having to deal with the aftermath of the storm. Porthos wished he could wring the overseer's neck for assigning Athos to the cleanup of the dead bodies, an act Porthos was sure was deliberate. The overseer detested Athos and was doing everything in his power to break the man. The musketeer was afraid the sadistic overseer might have finally succeeded as he watched Athos' frantic scrubbing.

Athos was so lost within his own anguished mind that he didn't notice Miguel rise, grab another bucket of water, scoop the gruesome shirt from the deck, and start to scrub it. Miguel did his best to make the shirt as presentable as possible before he draped it carefully over the bench next to Porthos to dry in the afternoon sun. Porthos gave him a wordless nod of thanks.

The silent swordsman continued to cleanse the filth from his skin, scouring the same areas over and over even though they were as clean as they were going to get. When his skin was abraded nearly raw, Athos finally halted. Next he tried to wipe down his pants as much as possible. Had he been able to make them spotless it really wouldn't have mattered. He would always see the blood of the twenty slaves that died that day on the material.

Finally, Athos stopped his efforts and stood there looking dazed, rag dangling from his slack hand. Quietly rising, Porthos got another clean bucket of rain water, scowling fiercely when someone had the audacity to try to stop him from taking it. He understood rainwater's preciousness, but the new slashes on Athos needed tending to avoid infection.

He gently pushed on Athos' shoulders to get him to sit on the wooden bench and the pliant man numbly sank down onto its surface. Straddling the bench, Porthos reached over and slightly angled the unresisting Athos so his back was facing him. Reaching under the seat, he got the last piece of cloth that had been ripped from Athos' shirt and used it to carefully clean the new lash marks on Athos' back. Even though he was very gentle, he felt the swordsman flinch under his ministrations, though the stoic man didn't utter a single sound. When he was done, Porthos rinsed out the rag and tucked it back under the seat, hoping never to need it again. Rising, Porthos removed the filthy rag still being clutched by Athos and tossed it overboard. No amount of rinsing would ever make it clean again.

Porthos stared at the silent man for a moment. The sorrow, anguish, and anger that had been written on Athos' face when he had returned from cleaning up the dead bodies had finally been replaced by his normal mask of neutrality. However, Porthos knew that facade didn't accurately reflect the turmoil going on inside the man. In a few years, he would learn where to look for Athos' indications of distress, the clenching of the jawline, the tightening of the lines around his eyes, but mostly in the chameleon green eyes, where his true emotions often lurked.

While Athos was getting cleaned up, the rowers on the port side of the ship were instructed to man their oars, while the ones on the starboard were told to stand down. The command was obeyed and the oars dipped in the ocean. Slowly, the bow of the ship swung around until it was parallel to the coastline, facing in a southerly direction. Once that was accomplished, the oars were withdrawn back into the galley, placed back in their holders, and the slaves sat quietly on their benches.

"I guess we're heading home,'' Miguel remarked astutely as he watched the captain provide additional instructions to the ship's crew.

Home, of course, was a relative term, depending on where one came from, but Miguel was correct. The captain had decided he had lost too many slave-rowers and the galley had sustained enough damage that he needed to retreat to Spain for repairs and additional slaves. He would be hard pressed to replace twenty slaves from his contacts in France. They could get him a handful, but for such a large number he needed to go back to the Spanish prisons.

Deciding he wanted to return to his native land quickly, the captain ordered the sails to be hoisted on the remaining mast to use wind power instead of manpower. The slaves sat silently as the dingy sails were raised by the crew on the galley. Once the sails were set and the wind caught them, the ship lurched into motion.

For the rest of the day, the galley sailed along the coast of France heading towards Spain. Since they were under sail, the slaves had nothing to do. A few quietly talked amongst themselves, though most remained in their self-made solitude or curled up on the deck to sleep. This was a rare respite from the hard labor they normally performed day in and day out. Of course those that had been on the ship the longest also knew when they weren't rowing their meager rations would be cut too.

Athos watched the coastline slipping by, ignoring any overtures made by Miguel or Porthos to draw him into a conversation. The injustice of what was occurring around him was gnawing at his soul. He wasn't a stupid man. Even though he had grown up as one of the privileged class, he understood what the world was really like outside of his closeted universe. However, it didn't mean he approved or agreed with it.

This very subject had been a bone of contention between him and his father. Athos had wanted to change the way the estate was run; however, his father saw no need to modify what had worked and served the de la Fére's for generations. The changes Athos had wanted to make weren't radical, but were designed to give the tenants of the estate some say, a little more control over their own lives and destinies. His father simply didn't see the need and had pointed out to him, once again, that Thomas, his younger brother, seemed to grasp how the estate should be run better than the heir apparent. Many times when Athos heard that lecture, or when it was simply implied by a comment or a quirk of his father's eyebrow, he had thought about leaving. But his sense of honor and duty to his parents always won out, so Athos stayed, withdrew into himself, and suffered his father's ideals.

The current situation he found himself in would have made his father scowl and provide a lecture on the follies of his ways. Had he stayed on the estate and served in the role that God had intended for him, none of this would have happened. Maybe his father was right, but deep in his heart Athos knew he was not cut out for the role into which he was born. A small part of him felt that dying here, on this galley as a slave, would be far better than dying slowly on the estate as the Comte de la Fére.

But then that stubborn streak that striped his soul kicked in. There was no way he was going to die here! There had to be a way out of this situation and he was determined to find it. Then someday, he would return and ensure this injustice was corrected. Athos glanced over to where the overseer was lounging on his platform, the Lord of the Manor watching over his slaves. A scowl appeared on Athos' face. That man had to be brought to justice, prison or death. At the moment, either option worked for the angry swordsman.

His eyes travelled over to Porthos next, and he remembered the vow he had made that they would escape this hell. He was slowly coming to respect and trust this musketeer who sat beside him, something he'd never planned on happening. Porthos was a man of his word, honorable, straightforward, with a strong sense of self... all things Athos admired in a person. He didn't deserve to die here like a chained dog.

Having given himself an internal pep talk, Athos kicked his brain out of its 'oh poor me' mode and put it to a better use, figuring out how to escape. Training his focus back on the passing shore, he began to formulate a plan. It was risky; it had a few gaping holes, and its chance of success was dubious at best, but it was better than sitting here waiting to die. And die they would. He had no illusion that he, Porthos, or any of the other captives were ever intended to leave this ship alive.

Two days later, as they were anchoring for the night, Athos stared at the coastline as he had been for the past few days. His eyes narrowed and a small frown caused wrinkles to appear on his forehead as he studied the shore. Something about it niggled at his mind. Rising, he shuffled over to the edge of the hull and leaned against it to further scan the land. Suddenly, he realized he knew exactly where they had anchored, which was near where they had been brought onboard. The rocky pier jutted out into the sea about a quarter of a mile off the port bow of the galley.

Moving away from the rail, he dropped onto the deck near where Porthos was sitting, his back resting against the bench. Porthos was surprised that the swordsman chose to sit so close to him that their shoulders were actually touching. Granted, their shackles didn't allow them too much personal freedom, but they didn't require this level of intimacy. Add the fact that Athos was not a tactile person and this closeness seemed very out of place.

Pitching his voice low, Athos asked, "How far can you swim?"

"Not."

Figuring he must have zoned out for a moment and missed the end of Porthos' sentence, Athos clarified, "Not far?"

"Not at all. I can't swim."

Athos' head whipped around to stare at his companion and it would have almost been comical if not for the brief look of dismay that flashed across the swordsman's face.

Porthos felt the need to defend himself. "Not a lot of water in the Court of Miracles. Besides, we were too busy simply trying to stay alive. Didn't have time for recreational sports. If it didn't feed you, clothe you, or keep you breathing, it really wasn't encouraged."

Feeling defeated, Athos let his head sink to his chest. Here was a setback he hadn't counted on, though he supposed it was his own fault. His upbringing was not that of the average Frenchman and especially not the disadvantaged. A huge tactical error on his part. With a muffled sigh, he rose and shuffled over to the ship's rail to stare at the shore line again. So close, yet so far.

Porthos had no idea what was going through Athos' mind, but he had the distinct feeling he had just majorly disappointed the man. "Sorry," he said, somehow feeling like he owed the man an apology.

"No. It is not your fault," Athos replied wearily as he turned away from the rail. "It was presumptuous of me. We all have different life experiences."

"Well, I get the feeling yours are night and day from mine."

A small sad smile lifted the corner of Athos' mouth. "You'd be surprised." He let his eyes wander to rest on the overseer who was sitting on his little deck, lazing about. "It is who we chose to be, not our upbringing, that defines who we truly are."

Porthos rolled his shoulders to relieve the cramp that was forming between his shoulder blades from leaning against the hard bench. "Yeah, look at me. My skin color makes me look right at home amongst these slaves. But it is not who I am or ever will be. My mother didn't sacrifice everything to raise me to end up like this," he bitterly stated as a look of despair crossed his face. "She'd be so ashamed."

"Your mother would be incredibly proud of the man you have become. A member of the King's elite guard. An outstanding fighter who is brave, loyal, and compassionate." As Porthos twitched, looking like he was getting a bit embarrassed, Athos added, "Perhaps a little fidgety."

"Hey," Porthos mockingly growled as he shifted his position once more. "This damn bench is hard."

Benches. Wooden benches. Athos' eyes narrowed as studied the structure that was their home. The benches were composed of wooden planks nailed on top of vertical support pieces. Sturdy, strong and functional, rather like his seat mate.

"If you had to, could you pry this plank up?" Athos inquired, tapping his forefinger on a four-foot section of wood.

"Reckon, I could," Porthos replied slowly after examining the plank in question. "It's only got a couple of nails holding it in place."

"Quietly? Without breaking it? And then lay it on top as if it were still attached?"

"I guess. But we'd have to be careful when we sat, not to knock it off," the musketeer cautioned.

"Noted," Athos acknowledged as he let his eyes wander towards the overseer again. "After the fight, but before I return," he added cryptically before pushing off the rail and moving towards Rauol, who was sitting on his own bench minding his own business for once.

Without warning, Athos moved behind Raoul, tapped him on the shoulder and when the man turned, viciously slugged him in the jaw. The man's head snapped back as he let out a roar of pain. That caught the attention of everyone nearby and in front of his new audience, Athos hauled off and hit the reeling man once again in the face.

"Athos!" Porthos admonished as he rose from his seat to restrain the man, who was cocking his fist to deliver another punch. Pinning the swordsman's arms, he hissed, "What are you doing?"

Raoul used the moment of respite to gather his wits, then launched a counter-attack. Before either man realized, Raoul landed a swift retaliatory hit in Athos' stomach, driving the air from the swordsman's lungs. Squirming loose from Porthos' grip, Athos doubled over as he tried to catch his breath and Raoul used this opportunity to pound his fists on the man's back.

Even as the blows rained down on him, Athos threw his body forward to head butt Rauol, slamming the man backwards over the bench and onto the deck. Athos' shackles brought him up short and he crashed down upon the bench, the wooden plank leaving marks on his ribs that quickly began to bruise. Before either man could rise to their feet, the whip of the overseer rang out along with a command to halt. Porthos, who was about to join the fray, drew up short. Raoul slowly sat up on the deck, and Athos pushed up to straddle the bench and stare defiantly at everyone in his vicinity.

"What is going on?" the overseer demanded.

In rapid Spanish, Raoul fired back an answer, most of which Athos didn't understand, but he didn't need too. It was clear the indignant man was demanding revenge for the unprovoked attack, exactly what Athos intended to occur. To ensure his plan succeeded, Athos rapidly rose from the bench to land another punch on Raoul's body.

The overseer swiftly brought his whip down upon Athos in a series of blows, which caused the swordsman to cover his head with his hands and arms as he scuttled back to his own bench. Once he was there, the blows stopped and he lowered his arms. Hiding a little smile of triumph, he raised his head in time to see the overseer hand his keys to a crew member who pushed past Porthos to unlock the chain that attached Athos' shackles to the deck.

"Get up," the whip-wielder commanded. After Athos had complied, the overseer indicated to the sailor to bring Athos to the mast before collecting his keys, turning, and walking away.

The sailor grabbed Athos by the arm and dragged him into the aisle. As he passed by Porthos, Athos whispered, "The bench."

Porthos watched in silence as Athos shuffled up the aisle to the place of punishment. He wasn't a stupid man and he realized that Athos' had engineered this whole event, but as to why, he had no idea. But he wasn't going to disappoint Athos, so when everyone was focused on the swordsman being hauled off to be beaten, Porthos pried the bench top loose and then carefully reset it.

As Athos approached the platform surrounding the mast to which he would be chained and whipped, he surreptitiously peered out from under his overly long hair at the overseer, who was arrogantly awaiting his arrival with a small smile of anticipation on this lips. There was no doubt this man enjoyed his job immensely. Wanting to lull the man into complacency, Athos adopted a more subservient posture.

The overseer tapped the leather whip impatiently against the side of his thigh as he watched Athos approach the mast. The bowed head on the slave was a nice touch the overseer thought; deference to his superior master. Perhaps this troublesome piece of trash was finally broken and learning his place in life.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than Athos suddenly surged forward up the two steps to the platform and barreled into the overseer. Both men violently crashed to the deck, the overseer being on the bottom of the heap. In horror, the two sailors who had been escorting him rushed forward and swiftly dragged Athos off their boss. It took a minute to subdued him, but once they did the sailors cruelly twisted Athos' arms behind his back and drove him to his knees on the bloodstained deck.

Slowly, the overseer regained his feet, angrily glaring at Athos, who now appeared anything but subdued as he stared defiantly back at him, his green eyes snapping with rebellion. This man was far from broken the overseer realized as he brushed off his shirt. He had a feeling the only way to break this man was to kill him, which, unfortunately, was something that wasn't allowed. However, as the slaves weren't required for rowing at the moment, since they were under sail until they reached Spain and repaired the galley, he could give the man the whipping of his life.

Athos saw the sadistic gleam in the other man's eyes and wondered if he had overplayed his hand, though he didn't know how else he could have accomplished his goal. He'd simply have to bear down and suffer the consequences. He gave no quarter as the men dragged him to his feet and chained his hands, once again, to the mast above his head, stretching him to his limits and making him stand on his toes. Even though the mast had been snapped off by the lightening, there was still enough left to be used as a whipping post.

Before turning his instrument of torture on the man bound to the wooden post, the overseer laid a few lashes on the surprised sailors as he berated them for not securing the prisoner's hands before bringing him to the mast. When he was done with them, the sailors slunk off to the far side of the deck, away from the overseer, in case he decided they were not sufficiently chastised.

"You are going to rue the day you were born, slave," the overseer sneered as he ripped the shirt from Athos back, before laying the first calculated stripe across the exposed skin.

With clinical precision, he methodically lashed Athos, until the man's back was running red with rivulets of blood. The swordsman tried his best to detach his mind from the punishment his body was receiving. He let his thoughts wander to the locket he usually wore, the one that had the pressed forget-me-not incased in it. That link to his tortuous past had been left back in his room in the garrison. He had taken it off while bathing and forgot to put it back on, a surprising omission seeing he had worn it since the day Anne had given it to him. Even after her death, he had continued to wear it around his neck as part of his penance, a reminder of why he deserved to be in hell.

When the leather strips of torture finally stopped pounding down upon him, he braced his body for what came next. When the liquid hit his skin, working its fiery fingers into the open wounds covering his back, he couldn't stop a primeval scream from escaping his chapped lips. Porthos, fretting on the deconstructed bench, flinched and grimaced as if it were his own physical pain. The wail of agony from the man he was fast considering as his friend resonated deeply in his own soul.

At the mast, Athos fought hard to keep the black curtain from descending and dragging him into the depths of unconsciousness. Panting, he struggled to keep awake. Instead of trying to ignore the affliction that was his back, he embraced the pain and used it to stay conscious, reminding himself why he was suffering this indignation.

When beckoned, the two crew members scrambled back on the platform, giving the overseer a wide-berth in case he decided they needed an additional reminder of their failure. They released Athos who was unable to make his legs support him, and he tumbled in a heap on the deck at the base of the broken mast. It was a symbolic scene, the overseer thought smugly. A broken man on a broken boat.

The crew members grabbed Athos under his arms and dragged his limp body down the aisle to his berth. Athos simply let his body be manhandled back to his seat, unable to find the strength to resist or climb to his feet. They unceremoniously dropped him on the floor, then reattached his chain, which didn't need a key to be snapped back into position. Keys were only required to release the locks.

Porthos knelt on the deck next to Athos, being careful not to touch his bloody back. He thought the man was unconsciousness and was surprised when a hand grasped his wrist and pain-filled green eyes forced themselves open to plead with him.

"Do not let me sleep past midnight. Promise me," Athos demanded with such urgency that Porthos found himself agreeing.

"I swear."

With a small, satisfied nod, the green eyes drifted shut. "Good. I don't want to have gone through this for nothing," Athos mumbled as he let his mind shut down.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 46

The galley was silent other than the normal sounds of the night such as the creaking of the stays, the swoosh of the waves against the wooden hull, and the snoring of the slaves. All the ship's crew had retreated to their berths to sleep as the early evening had threatened rain. But the clouds eventually blew away leaving a three quarters moon to shine upon the ship, flooding it with a ghostly blue-white light.

Porthos judged it was nearing the witching hour when he had promised to wake Athos. The man's sleep, if one could call it that, had been restless at best. More than once the street fighter had seen Athos' pain-filled eyes open, as the swordsman attempted to find a comfortable position for his injured body. Porthos wasn't sure the man's mind was any better off than his body, as the few bouts of rest he did achieve were rudely disturbed by bad dreams that left Athos flailing and drenched in sweat.

Gently, Porthos reached over and placed a hand on Athos' bicep to give him a shake. However, his mere touch was enough for the green eyes to fly open in a panic, though it quickly receded when he saw it was the large musketeer. Athos gave him a small nod of acknowledgement and Porthos backed up to give the injured man room to maneuver, though he was ready to lend a stabilizing hand if required. Athos rolled to his knees, then stayed like that for a few minutes, hunched over with his hair concealing his face from Porthos' view. However, if Athos' breathing was any indication, he was sure the countenance he couldn't see was wracked with anguish.

This was their opportunity to escape and Athos wouldn't let his physical pain derail his plan. He knew the whipping had been required to set the events in motion, but he hadn't counted on being beaten quite so cruelly. Stupidity on his part really. It was no secret the overseer didn't like him. However, with resolve he pushed past the waves of pain. With care, he worked his way to his feet remembering at the last moment not to lean too hard on the disconnected bench top.

Moving close to Porthos, so he could whisper in his ear, Athos softly intoned, "We are going to escape. Swim to shore."

The look the larger man gave him said it all, that he must have lost his mind. "I can't swim. Remember."

"You don't need to. The bench top. It will keep you afloat. I will tow you to shore."

Porthos gave him a skeptical frown. "And you can swim? In your condition? Pulling me?"

Athos didn't answer the inquiry, but instead turned away to make sure they weren't being observed or had disturbed anyone. Luck seemed to be on their side as everyone around them was still asleep. He glanced up at the moon, judging its light would be invaluable for keeping them on course. On the negative side, it also increased the chance of being spotted if someone were to glance over the side.

When Porthos realized that his question wasn't going to be answered, something he would learn later in their friendship was Athos' way of avoiding having to lie, he asked the next logical question, hoping this one would be answered.

"We're wearing shackles and are chained to the deck. We gonna bring those planks along for the ride too?"

Athos gave him a look that said he hadn't thought of that particular idea, as he reached into his pants and produced a set of keys.

"Whoa, those are the overseer's. How did you get them?"

"I may have accidentally found them in my hand after I tripped and fell on him."

There had been nothing accidental about the way Athos had launched himself at the overseer and knocked the man to the ground. It had been deliberate and now Porthos knew why. "You let yourself be whipped to steal the keys." Porthos' voice was a mix of awe, disbelief, and a touch of anger.

While Porthos was speaking, Athos had bent over to unlock the shackles around his ankles. There were only a few keys on the ring and it didn't take long to find the right one. As the lock on the right-side shackle softly clicked and opened, a wave of dizziness washed over the swordsman and he nearly collapsed onto the deck. Only Porthos' quick reactions in catching him avoided what would have been a noisy and painful fall. Circumspectly lowering Athos to the deck, Porthos took the keys from his unresisting hands and opened the rest of the locks. When the final one clicked open and the chain slithered unto the deck, he felt truly free for the first time in months, even though in reality they were far from freedom at the moment.

From his spot on the floor, Athos quietly said, "There is a piece of rope. Over by the hull." He gestured towards the spot. Athos had kicked the line there when they were hauling the dead bodies overboard and it had stayed, unobserved, in the corner.

Stealthily, the musketeer retrieved the rope and brought it back to where Athos gingerly had propped his body up using the hull to support his torso. "Tie it. To the bench top. Tight. Use the knot... in the wood."

Carefully removing the plank, Porthos saw the knot Athos was talking about and he was able, with a little pressure, to push it out which left behind a convenient hole. It didn't take him long to secure the rope to the wood. He gave one final tug before looking down at Athos again.

"Lower the plank quietly over the side and whatever you do, don't let go of the rope," Athos warned.

While Porthos cautiously maneuvered the board over the side, Athos struggled slowly to his feet, hanging heavily on the side of the hull for support.

Holding the rope tightly in his right hand, Porthos peered over at Athos. "You can barely stand. How the hell are you going to swim?" he demanded.

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Athos coolly replied, "The ability to stand has nothing to do with the ability to swim."

"Yeah, 'cause swimming is a lot harder."

Athos didn't answer, but merely swung his leg over the side of the galley's hull. "Once I'm in the water, lower yourself in by hanging from the side of the boat by your arms. I will maneuver the board so you can reach it as soon as you are in the ocean."

Porthos gave him a skeptical frown as he noted how far away the coast seemed to be. "That's a long way, Athos."

Reaching over, the swordsman placed a hand on Porthos arm. "I said you wouldn't die a slave on this galley."

"No. I'm gone die as a drowned musketeer in the ocean," he mumbled, but with a small smile to take the sting out of the words.

"Trust me," Athos pleaded earnestly.

Porthos gave a small nod. "God knows why, but I do."

Athos felt a small flicker of warmth in his heart that this man was so willing to trust him. It made him twice as determined to make this hair-brained escape a success. Just before he was ready to slide into the sea, he whispered, "Leave the keys by Miguel. Maybe he will see them upon waking."

With that, he dropped over the side, making the tiniest of splashes as he hit the water. Porthos watched anxiously for the dark, wavy head of hair to break the surface and let out a sigh of relief when it reappeared. Porthos tossed the rope down to the man in the water. Athos gave a small wave to indicate he was fine, even if it was a bold face lie. The salt water was stinging the cuts on his back and it felt like a thousand jellyfish tentacles had wrapped themselves around his torso.

Once, when he was a boy at the beach with his father, a rare occurrence, Athos had been swimming in the ocean when he happened onto a jellyfish. The stringy tentacles had touched his right calf, shooting agony up his leg. His father had seen the accident from nearby and had dragged Athos to shore. Then his father did something Athos thought he'd never see; he had urinated on the welts, and it did cause the horrible pain to recede.

Years later when he thought back upon the incident, he considered that his father might have done the deed strictly to ensure his heir didn't die in such a silly manner. It would have been debasing to admit his eldest died because of a jellyfish. Or perhaps, his father hadn't yet decided that Thomas would make a better heir than he would. After all, Athos had only been eight at the time, and Thomas had been prone to bouts of illness as a young child. Maybe his father was simply protecting the de la Fére blood line.

Treading water waiting for Porthos, Athos mirthlessly laughed. His father should have let him die back then. It couldn't have been any more embarrassing than what Athos did to the family's reputation. His wife killed his brother. He hanged his wife, renounced his heritage and then disappeared. How could death by jellyfish have been any worse?

On the galley, Porthos moved over to where Miguel was sleeping and quietly laid the keys where he thought the scarecrow would see them. He was surprised to hear a soft, "Good luck."

Looking down, he saw Miguel's brown eyes watching him. "You didn't belong here."

"Neither do you," Porthos replied in a whisper.

Giving a small shrug, Miguel answered, "I stole. This is my punishment."

"No man deserves this," the musketeer swore vehemently.

Miguel shrugged. "Go. And may God be with you."

With a nod, Porthos moved to the rail, climbed over, gripped it tightly and lowered his body towards the deep blue sea. Athos swam closer and reached up to tap Porthos' bare foot to let him know he was there. With a small prayer, Porthos dropped into the sea. Athos immediately shoved the board under the falling man's armpit and Porthos hung on to it for dear life when he hit the water. Between the board and Athos grabbing his other arm, the musketeer's head only went below the water for a second.

For a few moments, both men hung on the board and looked up at the galley, half expecting to see a face pop over the side to stare down at them and raise an alarm. But all stayed quiet.

"Put both of your arms on the board and help me by kicking your legs. Can you do that?" Athos inquired.

Porthos gave it a try. His feet splashed in the water and made a noise that sounded like a cannon going off, causing him to cease immediately. After Athos whispered a few instructions to the man and showed him how to keep his feet under the water when he kicked, they tried again. This time the noise was significantly less.

Athos took the rope and tied it around his own waist, grimacing when it brushed one of the lower welts. With determination, he set out for the distance shore and Porthos kicked his legs. They went on in this manner for quite a while until Athos grew weary and came back to hang on the plank. Changing up their technique, side by side they both kicked, holding onto the wood to propel themselves forward. It was slower going, but allowed Athos to rest from towing.

They continued on in this manner, Athos alternating between towing, and kicking with Porthos on the plank. The musketeer could see that Athos' stamina was steadily decreasing. His breaks on their makeshift raft grew more frequent and the rest periods of longer duration. When he tried to get the man to give up towing the makeshift raft and simply have them kick together, Athos had stubbornly shaken his head, declaring they need to get ashore as fast as possible before they were spotted. Towing, even if more exhausting, was faster.

As they drew closer to the shore, Porthos wondered what Athos' plan was, because the coast line seemed to be a never-ending line of grey cliffs. At the bottom there were a few narrow, pebble beaches, but the musketeer had no idea how they were supposed to scale the massive cliffs that towered above them. He might have put the question to Athos, but the smaller man was back swimming again, valiantly towing Porthos once more. With a sigh, Porthos began kicking once more to assist, not caring any longer if his feet broke the surface of the water and splashed. They were close enough to the shore that the sounds of the breaking waves masked any noise he was making with his kicking.

Eventually, Porthos noted that Athos was standing, swaying to be precise, with the waves breaking around him. The musketeer dropped his own feet and discovered he too could stand. When his bare feet hit the pebbly bottom, he smiled. They were on land once more.

An exhausted Athos was having trouble wading to the shore, struggling not to get dragged off his feet each time the waves receded. Porthos trudged through the water as quickly as he could, trying to get to the stumbling man's side. Just before he reached him, the swordsman got swept off his feet by the undertow and disappeared in the surf.

Porthos rushed the last few feet to his location and pulled Athos' upper body out of the water. Athos coughed up some water before his eyes rolled backwards into his head and he passed out. Rather inelegantly slinging the smaller man over his shoulder, Porthos waded the last few yards until he was totally out of the ocean. Standing for a moment at the water's edge, he studied the cliffs in the waning moonlight until he saw what appeared to be a darker cleft in the rock's face. He headed in that direction and as he drew near, he saw it was a shallow cave, perhaps deep enough to hide them from prying eyes.

The niche in the rocks was tall enough for him to remain upright as he carried Athos into its recesses. The sand in the back seemed dry and the walls had no algae clinging to them, which Porthos hoped meant this part of the cave was above the high tide mark. It would be ironic to escape the slave galley only to drown on dry land. Carefully, he lowered Athos on the ground, placing him on his side in case there was still any water in his lungs.

Once relieved of his burden, the musketeer examined the rest of the cave, which took less than thirty seconds and didn't even require him to move. At best it was forty feet deep, fifteen feet wide, and maybe nine feet high. Its floor was rocky sand; its walls were composed of slate grey rocks, and that was it.

Porthos slid down the wall to the ground and rested his back against the wall so he could see out the cave's mouth. It was mild in temperature and even though wet, he wasn't at all chilled. The sun was slowly rising, casting its golden rays over the sea. He really didn't think the ship's crew would waste time looking for them, but as a precaution he kept watch nonetheless.

At one point Athos stirred, but didn't open his eyes. Porthos decided the swordsman had shifted from being unconscious to being asleep, which was something the worn out, injured man desperately required. So Porthos remained on watch and let Athos continue to rest.

When the sun was full up, the musketeer stiffly rose and walked to the edge of the cave and peered into the ever increasing brightness of the day. Scanning the horizon, he could see no sign of the galley anywhere on the ocean. A huge sigh of relief escaped his lips. No one had come searching for them. They were truly free. Taking in a huge lungful of air, Porthos savored his new freedom. Granted, they were far from being out of the woods yet, but they were free and that is all that counted.

Turning around, he headed back into the cave and stared at the sleeping man. Athos had kept his promise and gotten them off the boat, at great personal cost to himself. Porthos eyes traveled down the battered and beaten body lying on the ground in front of him. Never would he ever doubt that this man would have his back. In Porthos' opinion, what Athos did, what he endured to ensure their escape, was the heart of soul of what it meant to be a musketeer.

Porthos moved around the man and lay down towards the rear of the cave, moving a few small pebbles out of his make shift bed as he squirmed around trying to get comfortable. Though not as battered as Athos, he was still exhausted and it only took him a second to drift off to sleep. However, in that spilt second between awake and asleep, he realized how great it felt to be free, something he would never take for granted, ever again. Freedom was too precious a commodity.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 47

Porthos woke to the sound of falling rain, and as he rose to stretch his taut muscles, he peered out the cave's entrance at the sky. It appeared to be a gentle shower, thankfully with no thunder, lightning, or wind. After what happened on the galley, he feared a thunderstorm could push the emotionally abused swordsman over the edge.

It had been horrible what Athos and the other five men had been forced to do, cleaning up the mangled, dead bodies of the slaves after the horrific storm. And if dealing with the dead wasn't enough, that bastardized overseer had forced Athos to condemn a still living man to a watery grave in order to save Porthos. The musketeer was sure that had left an indelible mark on the soul of a man already scarred by other past demons.

Stepping out from the mouth of the cave, Porthos let the drops of rain wash over him and it felt incredibly luxurious on his skin. He hadn't fully bathed in months and being on the ocean day in and day out had left his skin with a permanent salty coating. Stripping to his birthday suit, he relished the tepid water invading every nook and cranny of his grimy body. He laid his clothes on some nearby boulders to let the rain rinse them too.

Glancing back into the cave, he saw Athos curled on his side, still sleeping. From his angle, he could see a small portion of the swordsman's tattered back from where is shirt had hiked up. The fact that the man had survived this long without getting a serious infection was something akin to a miracle. This rain shower would be beneficial for him too, the musketeer decided, as he strode inside to wake the man.

Given all that had happened, it didn't surprise Athos, when he woke, that he felt somewhat disoriented. However, what he really was having a hard time grasping was why the man rousing him was wet and naked. Somewhat dazed, Athos let Porthos assist him into a sitting position, grimacing as all his aches and pains promptly made themselves known.

Once he was upright, Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly. There were two immediate questions on his mind, but he went with the less risqué one first. "You're wet."

"Oi. It's raining out there. Nice and gentle. Warm." Porthos explained.

"And naked," Athos pointed out, tackling the second, tricky observation regarding Porthos' person.

"What?"

Athos quirked an eyebrow and let his eyes flicker from Porthos' face to lower down, for just a moment.

Porthos followed his gaze, then grinned, not the least bit abashed. "Yeah. That. Left my clothes in the rain to wash off. Like me."

Tamping down a small grin of his own, Athos drolly said, "I see."

"And you're next."

Any trace of a smile immediately vanished from the swordsman's face. "No. I don't think so."

"Wrong answer," Porthos declared as he extended a hand toward the sitting man to help him to his feet. "You're filthy, you stink, and those wounds on your back could stand to be washed out."

"They already were. By the ocean. When we swam here." Athos gave him a stare which challenged him to defy his logic.

Porthos snorted, not the least bit cowed. "Not the same. Get up. Don't make me have to carry you over my shoulder again," the musketeer threatened.

Athos was about to respond 'you wouldn't dare', but the look in Porthos' eyes told him he'd be wrong. Muttering under his breath, he grasped Porthos' outstretched hand and allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. Slowly, he made his way to the mouth of the cave, where he gazed at the weather. Porthos gently bumped into the rear of him and forced him to take a few stumbling steps out into the actual rain.

As the warmish water sluiced over his skin, Athos had to agree with Porthos that this did feel really good. Tipping his face skyward, he let the water run over his face and through his salt matted hair.

Frowning slightly, Porthos stepped closer to Athos' back as he lifted his shirt and studied the slashes. For all the bleeding that had occurred, Porthos was surprised that none of the wounds appeared that deep. Certainly none would require needle work and based on his experience, which he admitted was somewhat limited, he'd bet most would heal only leaving a faint white line behind. Given Athos' naturally pale skin, the scars would barely be visible.

Athos turned his head as far as he could to see what Porthos was doing. "Something wrong?"

"Actually no. The wounds aren't deep. If they don't get infected they should heal fine."

"Not surprising really." Shrugging, Athos took a few steps away from Porthos as he stared out at the ocean. "The overseer was a master of his craft. He was able to get his point across without fatally harming the laborers required to propel the galley."

"Slaves," Porthos spat out with disgust.

Athos didn't reply as he continued staring out to sea, wondering what had happened on the ship after they escaped. It wasn't sitting well with his sense of honor that they had snuck off the boat and left everyone else behind. Realistically, he couldn't have taken over the whole ship. Even if he had been able to unlock every single slave, there was no guarantee they would have risen and fought against a crew armed with swords and guns. Many had been broken in both body and soul a long time ago. Still, he felt guilt for those left behind.

He felt Porthos move up behind him and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, being careful to avoid the slashes. "I wonder too," he stated in a contemplative tone.

Athos suppressed the shudder that was trying to invade his frame. It was making him uncomfortable that Porthos seemed to be able to sense his thoughts like a friend and Athos didn't want to go down that path again. He didn't want friends. He didn't want to trust people again. And yet...

Athos was right, Porthos was getting better at reading him. The musketeer definitely felt the tension level rising when he placed his hand on Athos' shoulder in a gesture of friendship. He'd been around Athos enough to surmise that something or someone had abused this man's trust, hurting him so deeply that he shied from the least overture of friendship, like a horse from a snake.

Growing up in the Court of Miracles the street fighter had known people like Athos, people who had been so horribly betrayed by their fellow man that they lost the ability to trust. However, Porthos also knew it didn't have to be that way and he was living proof. He'd been hurt, more times than he cared to admit and yet he had made a few good friends that helped him believe in humanity again. Aramis was one of those men, as was Captain Treville. Both of them had seen past his skin and past the way he was raised, showing him the man he really was and he would be eternally grateful to them.

This man in front of him was no different than he had been, and Porthos wanted to help mend him. Show him people could be trusted. Become his friend. Aramis had been right when he said Athos was a project worth tackling. However, Porthos had a feeling that he and Aramis had their work cut out for them.

Needing to deflect the tension visibly growing in Athos, Porthos smirked, moving between Athos and the sea. "You gonna take your britches off or do I have to do that?"

Athos ' eyes snapped from the sea to Porthos, who was standing naked in front of him, which he had more or less or less forgotten. Over the course of the next five years, the Inseparables would get quite comfortable around each other's nakedness, in a non-sexual manner. When living as closely together as they would, and taking care of each other in sickness and health, it became normal. However, they were no way near that point yet in their relationship and Athos actually blushed at Porthos' comment, which made the musketeer laugh aloud.

"You embarrassed? Trust me, you ain't got nothing I ain't seen."

Athos managed to scowl, even as his face and neck turned even redder.

"If you are that modest, by all means leave your braies on."

The off-handed way Porthos made his statement made it seem like a challenge to Athos and he walked into the trap laid for him. Rising to the bait, he nonchalantly stripped to his skin, somehow seeming noble and regal as he did it. Taking his remaining clothes over to the rocks, he laid them out for the rain to beat down on them.

The damn man was right. It felt incredibly good to allow the clean rain water to wash over every part of him. Walking towards the cliff, he saw a small indentation that was collecting the rain water, rather like a basin. Moving back to his clothes, he ripped a piece of cloth off the leg of his braies, took it over to the basin, and began to scrub his body with the rag.

Porthos averted his eyes, allowing Athos the 'privacy' to bathe, though at one point he did offer to help cleanse the wounds on Athos' back. With only a split second of hesitation, Athos handed over the rag and Porthos gently cleaned the multitude of slashes that crisis-crossed Athos' back.

When Porthos was done, he couldn't resist flicking the rag against Athos' lily white buttocks, which drew a yelp of surprise from the unsuspecting swordsman.

"Good thing you are modest. Expose that bum to the sun and you wouldn't be able to ride for a week," Porthos mocked him.

"Thank you. I'll keep that advice in mind," Athos replied drily, which made Porthos laugh even more.

Porthos found a clam shell that had washed up on the shore and after scouring it clean with sand, he and Athos used it to drink their fill of rain water. A bit of forging amongst the rocks that dotted the waterline found mussels, which Athos had to coax the reluctant Porthos to eat raw since they had no way to make a fire. After swallowing the first one like it was a poison draught, Porthos discovered they weren't all that bad and eagerly went searching on the semi-submerged boulders for more.

The rain had halted by now and Athos was content to sit on a boulder and allow the pale sun that was poking out through the clouds to dry him. Once he was sufficiently dry, he put on his braies even though they were still damp. He really was quite modest and besides, sitting on rocks and in the sand 'au naturel' was really not all that comfortable.

He felt exhaustion creeping over him again as he half-watched Porthos try to find enough shellfish to calm his voracious appetite. Athos had drunk his fill of rainwater and eaten a few mussels and was content. Unbidden, his eyes drooped shut and his head lolled on his chest as he drifted off to sleep leaning against the rock face of the cliff. Porthos found him asleep a little bit later and gently eased him down, onto his side, to give his back a break. The swordsman stirred slightly before drifting back off again from exhaustion. Debating whether to move him out of the sun, or cover him with a shirt, Porthos decided against either as the shadow from the cliff would soon creep over Athos' sleeping form.

A wave of fatigue suddenly hit Porthos too and he settled himself in the sand a few feet from where Athos slumbered. No need to set a watch, Porthos thought as his eyes raked the sheer cliffs behind them. They were trapped with no way in or out that he could see. However, that was a problem for later and Porthos let his eyes drift shut to sleep.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 48

When Porthos woke the next morning, he saw the cave was empty. Rising, he walked through the opening and saw Athos standing at the edge of the sea, intently staring to the south. As he walked up to the man, Athos have him a quick look before turning his attention back to the cliff and the sea.

"The rock quay they used to bring us onboard the galley is on the other side." He gestured the cliff protruding out into the sea. "If we can get around that to the pier, we can take the trail to the top of the cliffs."

Porthos couldn't help looking doubtfully at the waves butting up against the tall cliff. "You sure?"

Athos glanced from the cliff to Porthos, his expression reflecting his extreme confidence. "Yes. I saw the quay from the ship."

Skeptically, Porthos' eyes drifted to the waves again. "I still haven't learned to swim yet."

"Someday you will. But for now, you have to trust me." Athos clapped him on the shoulder in an unusually companionable gesture as he walked past.

"Trust. A good word coming from you," Porthos mumbled under his breath. "I dunno," he said as he trailed after Athos. "I'm kinda gettin' to like raw seafood."

Athos picked up the rope and the plank they had used to escape the ship, before he turned back to face the street fighter. "You'd eat this place high and dry in less than a day."

Porthos couldn't help smiling at Athos. "Was that a joke?"

"Merely a statement of fact," he deadpanned as he brushed past Porthos, but the twinkle in his green eyes was unmistakable.

"Well I'll be damned. You have a sense of humor. Ironic and sarcastic perhaps, but nonetheless a sense of humor."

Athos walked to the edge of the sea and gave Porthos the closest thing he had to smile before turning serious and handing him the plank.

"We'll wade... swim when we must."

"You up to this?" Porthos asked with concern as he watched the waves break viciously against the rocks they needed to skirt around.

In a cool detached tone, Athos replied, "We made it last time, didn't we?"

"Ya know, you have a habit of answering a question with another question," Porthos pointed out. It was an art that Athos had perfected, but Porthos didn't know that yet.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

Athos made a slight humming noise as he fastened the rope around his waist once more. "Ready?"

Porthos gave one last dubious look at the crashing waves. "No, but let's do this anyways."

The two men waded into the water and started walking south along the cliff's edge. Where there was a narrow strip of sand along the grey stone wall, it was fairly easy to walk with the water lapping at their ankles. It wasn't even all the bad when the sea met the cliff's face, but stayed relatively shallow, cresting below their knees. However, it became tricky, as well as exhausting, to trudge through the waist deep water, through the breaking waves with the current that kept trying to sweep them out to sea. Every now and then they were forced to stop to catch their breaths, putting a steadying hand on each other's shoulder and turning their bodies sideways to the waves to decrease the impact as well as the effect of the treacherous undertow.

When the water started rising past Athos' waist and towards his chest, things got uncomfortable. The wounds on his torso, covered in saltwater once more, started stinging. Athos was forced to banish the thought of jellyfish from his mind as he didn't need the distraction.

When it was apparent the water was too deep for walking, Athos looked back over his shoulder. "Time to swim. Don't forget to kick."

Porthos wedged his body on the plank, keeping it parallel to decrease the drag. It wasn't easy to balance and kick, but he did his best. After all, Athos had the harder job, trying to swim, fight the waves, and tow him. Porthos was doing everything in his power to help, not hinder, their journey.

Athos struck out towards the open water first and Porthos grew concerned until he realized the strategy Athos was employing. If he didn't get some distance between them and the rock face of the cliffs, the waves would pound their bodies into the grey granite. Once he was past the waves, Athos adjusted his angle to swim parallel to the shore line.

Suddenly, Porthos felt his body being rapidly drawn out to sea and he began to panic. He tried to angle himself towards the beach and kick harder to assist Athos. However, he was surprised to see Athos was not trying to head back towards the land, but rather was moving in a parallel fashion to the shore. Not understanding, but trusting that the swordsman knew what he was doing, Porthos readjusted his body position to be complementary to Athos' trajectory, then started kicking again.

It took what seemed like an eternity, but was really less than two minutes and suddenly they stopped moving outwards. Wearily, he could see Athos stroking back towards the cliff again. As they rounded the promontory, magically the rock quay appeared in the distance, surrounded by a small beach. With renewed vigor, Athos swam towards the beach and when they reached it, waded into the shallows and stumbled up past the high tide mark before collapsing onto the pebbly sand. Porthos slowly trailed after him, dropping the plank and himself beside Athos on the ground. Silently, he watched as Athos drew in deep breaths and shook with fatigue from their ordeal.

"We have to move," Athos panted in between laborious breaths. "We are too exposed here."

First, Porthos studied their surroundings and then the man on the beach next to him, who was in no condition to move anywhere very far or very fast. "If we move there," he pointed towards the base of the cliff, "we won't be able to be spotted from above because of that overhang. And those large boulders on the beach," he gestured with his hand, "will shield us from any eyes from the sea. We can rest there."

Wearily, Athos nodded his agreement, as he struggled to climb to his feet. Porthos rose with him, lending assistance to steady the weary man. Once they were both vertical, Porthos reached over and untied the rough rope from Athos' waist, letting it drop into the sand.

"Served us well," he said fondly before placing his arm around Athos' shoulders and guiding him up the beach.

Porthos was surprised by how heavily Athos was leaning on him and at one point he wondered if it would be easier to throw him over his shoulder and simply carry him. However, he knew Athos would be mortified by that action, so he merely continued to support his friend as they slowly stumbled towards the overhang and the sheltering rocks in what appeared to be an endless journey. When they finally got there, he lowered Athos to the sand and the man promptly rolled onto his side and passed out. This whole horrible journey, the rowing, the lack of food, the anxiety, and the swim had depleted Athos' reserves and the man had nothing left.

Athos slept for the rest of the day and into the night, though he grew increasingly restless as the night wore on until he finally woke with a scream that took his breath away. Porthos, who had been lightly dozing, immediately gathered the stricken man in his arms trying to soothe away the demons of the night. At first Athos tried to push away, but the musketeer hung on tight, murmuring for him to relax. Gradually, Athos grew calm and actually sank deeper against Porthos' chest. They stayed in that position for a while until Porthos realized that Athos had managed to drop off to sleep again. Gently laying him on the beach, Porthos moved a few feet away and stretched out, intending to go back to sleep. Before he drifted off, he wondered, once more, how Athos could seem so unruffled by day and so restless by night. Would the man ever confide in him? Porthos didn't know it, but he was in for a long wait for it would be another five years before Athos finally laid some his shameful secrets at his brothers' feet.

Morning found Athos back to his normal stoic self and no mention was made of last night's terrors, a pattern that would be followed over many years. When nightmares invaded Athos' slumbers, his brothers would simply watch over him, hold him if he allowed and in the morning would make no mention of what had occurred. And though they grudgingly respected his stubborn need for privacy, they hoped one day he would find the courage to confide in them.

Porthos joined Athos as he stared down the beach at the rock quay, where their nightmare on the galley had begun.

"Ready?" the master of the one-word declaration inquired.

Letting his eyes wander over the rocky, winding path that led from the quay to the top of the cliff, Porthos nodded. With a small shudder, Athos turned his back on the vast ocean and began to make his way up the narrow, winding track. Even though he was trying to be careful, he found it difficult to avoid stumbling over the rocky surface of the trail.

Athos was breathing heavily, as was Porthos, and they were only half way up the path. By mutual consent, when they found a slightly wider section of the trail, they stopped to rest, sitting on some sun warmed boulders. From this section of the path, they could clearly see the ocean once again. Porthos noticed his companion kept scanning it's choppy, blue surface.

When the dark-haired man turned and quirked an eyebrow at him, Porthos asked, "Wondering what happened to the ship?" A quick head jerk showed the musketeer he had surmised correctly. "Aye. Me too. I hope they rose up and tossed those bastards into the sea, especially the captain and your friend the overseer."

Athos didn't offer any commentary, but he silently wondered if the majority of the slaves on the galley had been there too long to even attempt a revolt. Circumstances, such as the conditions on that ship, could break a man's spirit until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a man. The crew was better fed, had weapons and in a fight they would have the upper-hand. Stealth and surprise were the main advantages the rowers had on their side, but would that be enough? He had no idea and a wave of guilt washed over him. Was it right that only he and Porthos escaped? Should he have done more to ensure everyone had a chance, other than simply leaving the keys. His sense of duty and honor were severely tested by what he had, or hadn't, done.

"I know. I wonder too if we were wrong abandoning them," Porthos stated sagely, as if he had been reading Athos' mind. "But maybe we can help them better, being free. If we can tell Treville, he can go to the King."

Both men knew it sounded lame, but neither was willing to acknowledge it.

Athos mumbled, "Let's go," as he rose and made his way up the trail once more.

When they finally reached the top of the cliff, they scanned the desolate area that surrounded them. There was the ocean on one side, trees in the far distance on the other and miles and miles of empty flat land in between. An overgrown, apparently little used path, started where they stood and stretched southwards back towards Dieppe. There was no other real option, but for them to follow the so-called road. With a collective sigh, the two weary men slowly trudged onward towards the city where this whole disaster started.

"Any idea how far it is back to Dieppe?" Porthos mused as they walked down the rutted path made by wagon wheels.

"No."

"That's right. You were unconscious." Porthos paused for a few minutes, thinking over their journey in the wagon and trying to estimate how long it might have taken. "I'd guess four, maybe five hours by wagon."

The swordsman squinted into the distance as if he would be able to see the town, even though they'd been walking less than an hour. "My guess is we didn't get as far north as Le Crotoy. Therefore, I'd say walking, it will take at least a day to get back to Dieppe."

Porthos glanced sideways at his companion, his skepticism written all over his face.

"I believe I qualified it with an 'at least'." Athos pointed out.

"Yeah, well I'm thinkin' that is a bit optimistic," Porthos said with a small frown as he reached over to steady a wobbly Athos, who glowered at him before dropping his pretense.

"You might be correct," Athos replied ruefully. "I am a bit...tired."

Porthos couldn't help snorting at the understatement from the swordsman. The two lapsed into silence as they continued shuffling down the track. The morning slowly passed and the noon-day sun beat down on their heads, making their already miserable bodies feel even worse. Dehydration was stating to set in and while there were miles of water to their right, it did absolutely no good. Both men were forced simply to plod along, putting one foot in front of the other in a mind numbing procession.

At one point Athos tripped over a rock, whether real or imaginary Porthos didn't have a clue, but the swordsman tumbled to the ground. The jarring of unexpectedly hitting the hard earth with his hands and knees made the swordsman yelp in pain. Collapsing fully onto the grass, he lay on his stomach for a few seconds before slowly rolling to his side and forcing his body into a seated position.

Porthos carefully dropped to his knees at Athos' side and laid a steadying hand on the man's arm as he attempted to sit up. It was then that he noticed Athos' skin seemed unusually warm, hotter than would be caused by the sun.

"You're hot," Porthos accused the sitting swordsman.

As was his habit when dealing with a subject he didn't want to discuss, Athos attempted to divert the man's concerns. "It's summer. It's midday. It is hot," he said, providing a weather report as the explanation for his flushed skin.

Rocking back on his heels, the street fighter gazed off into the distance as he spoke. "Captain Treville. He's a smart man, he is. Taught me a lot. Has good advice worth listening too."

Athos was confused by the direction the conversation had taken, but he went along for the ride. "I have no doubts that the captain is an excellent soldier and keen tactician. To be in charge of his Majesty's elite musketeers is not something lightly given."

"Treville is more than just our commander to many of us. He serves as our teacher, our father, and sometimes even our priest because he seems to have a way to get us to confess our sins."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Athos' mouth. In the short time he had known the captain, he had seen evidence of all of which Porthos spoke, and even experienced some of it firsthand.

"So when the captain tells us something, I pay attention. The captain has told us not to hide when we are injured because if we do, we might be jeopardizing the lives of those we are sworn to protect or our brothers-in-arms."

Porthos shifted off his heels to settle on the ground next to Athos. He let his eyes drift across the vast ocean that stretched in front of them. "The regiment, they are like my family, well some of them. They are the only brothers I will ever have. I have sworn to protect France, but in doing so I have also sworn to protect those I serve with too. If I'm hiding an injury, I might cause harm to befall a fellow soldier because I'm not fit enough to do my job. And I expect the same from my brothers. To be able to defend me if the need arises, not that I often need help fighting," he said with a grin. "I'm pretty good."

"All for one and one for all," Athos intoned slowly, as he thought about what Porthos had declared.

"Yeah, I never thought of it like that, but it's exactly right. All for one and one for all. I like that."

"Do you always adhere to your captain's sage advice?" Athos asked with a small quirk of his eyebrow.

"I try to... mostly... well kind of. But I should and you should too."

In a voice that was mostly flat, Athos replied, "I am not a musketeer."

Porthos gave Athos a searching look before replying. "From everything that I've seen, you could... be a musketeer. You're smart, honorable, level-headed and you're the best damn swordsman I've ever seen...even when drunk."

If he hadn't been watching closely, he would have missed the flash of hope that quickly passed through these expressive green eyes before they turned cold and hard again.

"You know nothing of me," Athos growled as he clambered to his feet and began the trek down the road again.

"You're stubborn. You're tenacious. And you desperately try to pretend you don't care," Porthos shouted after the departing man.

The flinch of Athos' shoulders told the street fighter he'd hit the mark. "And you're too damn hard on yourself. Let others past your walls, Athos!"

"When I do, they die," the swordsman muttered darkly.

Porthos couldn't hear what Athos said, but he was willing to bet it wasn't a statement of agreement. Moving more swiftly than he believed he was presently capable of, Porthos rose and caught up with Athos. The swordsman looked over at him and Porthos gave him a huge toothy grin.

"But even with all your flaws, you're kinda growing on me," Porthos declared cheekily which caused Athos to shake his head. "And I think I'm growing on you too."

The fact that Athos didn't respond, Porthos decided was a positive. At least the man didn't say no.

They continued trekking south for three more hours, and as the day wore on Athos' strides grew slower and slower, as did Porthos'. Both men were undernourished, dehydrated, and worn down from their time as slaves. Add the swimming and the beatings and it was a wonder either man was still upright.

Porthos, who had been scanning the lands to their left, noticed they changed from a sea grass to something that looked like it might have once been cultivated. He also spotted what he thought was another track veering off from the one they were traveling. Peering into the distance, he saw a grove of trees and beyond that he thought some sort of structure. Maybe there was a farm. They desperately needed to find a source of water and food if they were going to be able to walk all the way to Dieppe.

It didn't even take an explanation on his part to get Athos to change direction and head down the new path. The man simple followed by rote. The swordsman had descended into some sort of fever-induced, robotic trance, and Porthos had a feeling that only sheer willpower was keeping him walking.

As they approached the grove of trees, Porthos could definitely see there was both a house and a barn-like structure on the far side. As he was examining the layout, Athos wandered to the nearest tree and leaned heavily against it, relieved to be in the shade. The normally observant man didn't even glance over at the structures, but had his head bowed and eyes closed. It was a testament to how poorly he was feeling. However, he wasn't completely incognizant of their situation as his words proved.

"Go. Check it out. Two of us might scare them," he mumbled without raising his head.

"And you think I'm the least scary of the two of us?" Porthos quipped.

Using the tree for a support, Athos slid to the ground, using the trunk as a back rest. "Less scary, no. But better able to walk, yes." He raised his pain-filled, feverish eyes to stare at Porthos. "I'll wait for you here."

Porthos made his way towards the house first, but as he drew near, he knew they'd find nothing. The place was clearly abandoned, as was the barn. Anything of use had long since vanished and he returned empty-handed to the grove of trees, where he found Athos in the same position as when he had left.

The swordsman, whose eyes had been closed, opened them at his approach. "Back already?"

Porthos dropped onto the ground next to him. "Yes. Ransacked. No food, no water, no nothing."

Leaning his head back against the tree trunk, Athos said thoughtfully, "Someone once lived there, ran a farm, there had to be a source of water."

Porthos let his eyes scan the woods that were a short distance behind the house. "Maybe there is a stream back in those woods. If there was a well, I saw no evidence of it."

Unconsciously, Porthos waited for Athos to make a decision on their next move. There was an innate leadership quality about the man, that he would vehemently deny and yet which others yielded to instinctively. After a few minutes of silence, the default mode of the swordsman, he opened his green eyes and began to climb to his feet.

"We press on."

Porthos rose and offered a hand to the still struggling Athos who, graciously and gratefully, accepted the assistance. They made their way back up the track until it joined the larger trail where they turned south once more to head towards Dieppe. For as long as the light lasted, they slowly trudged onwards. As it was a new moon, there was no light and a very deep darkness began to settle over them. Deeming it unwise to try to continue, they moved a short distance off the path towards a stand of trees, to seek shelter. No source of water could be found, but at least the trees offered the illusion of shelter, instead of trying to sleep in the open along the cliffs that lined the shore.

Though they were weaponless except for the two stout windfall tree branches Porthos had picked up and laid near them, they still decided to set a watch. They argued for a few minutes over who should take the first one and Porthos finally conceded that Athos could have it. The large musketeer stretched out on the ground and got as comfortable as possible, then quickly dropped off to sleep.

Athos, gingerly tried to prop his back against a tree trunk, as he had earlier in the day, but his wounds protested so much he switched his position to lean against the tree with most of his weight against his left shoulder, an awkward position at best. After thirty minutes, he grew too uncomfortable and found he was forced to change his stance. For the rest of his watch he found himself constantly changing his position to try to dampen the waves of pain that were washing over his body. Perspiration dotted his brow, as his fever rose and he tried to force his mind to think of other things besides the fact he was very thirsty.

When it was Porthos' turn to take over the watch, he woke the man without any hesitation. The only thing the aching swordsman wanted to do was allow his body to sink into the unconscious oblivion it so desperately sought. Once the musketeer was awake, Athos curled on his side and quickly passed out.

Porthos brushed a hand over Athos' forehead as he lay prone on the ground and the swordsman muttered something unintelligible, probably along the lines of 'leave me alone'. As there was nothing he could do about the fever his traveling companion was developing, Porthos moved a few feet away and settled in for his watch. They desperately needed to reach Dieppe tomorrow and find water, food, and medical assistance. He could not conceive that they could escape the hell that was that galley, only to die on the shore. They would make it to Dieppe, then home to Paris and the garrison.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 49

The next morning, shortly after the sun rose, Porthos woke Athos, who groggily stumbled through a few morning necessities before the two set out walking again. While sleep had revived the musketeer a little, it seemed to have had little restorative effects on the other man. However, once again, Porthos admired the man's tenacity as he soldiered on, mile after mile even though he knew it must be excruciating for the swordsman.

Mid-morning, lady luck took a swing in their direction. It had been clearly apparent to Porthos, that Athos needed a rest break, even though the man was refusing to ask for one. So Porthos swung off the wagon wheel track they had been following and moved off towards the tree line again, seeking shade in which to rest. As the entered the edge of the wooded area, Porthos stopped and cocked his head. Amongst the sounds of the forest, chirping of the bugs, tweeting of the birds, rustling of the leaves, he thought he heard another sound, that of running water.

"Do you hear that?" Porthos asked as he tilted his head trying to determine the direction of the sound.

Athos, whose eyes had only been focused on the ground in front of his feet for the last hour slowly raised his head. "Water," he croaked succinctly.

"Aye. That's what I think too," Porthos concurred as he automatically licked his dry lips. "That way, I think."

He headed off into the forest on a diagonal track with Athos trailing along behind him. It only took a few minutes before the trees opened up and the sight of a sparkling stream met their searching eyes. It was running clear and strong, though it wasn't more than twenty feet in width. Both men hurried to the grassy edge, dropped on their knees and began greedily scooping water into their parched bodies. However, they hadn't yet learned from Aramis, their unofficial medic, to go slowly as they rehydrated. So they learned the hard way, when in less than five minutes they found themselves on their knees in the grass, violently vomiting.

When the episode was over, both men had rinsed out their mouths and sat, side by side, on the stream's bank.

Porthos glanced over at Athos. "This remains between us, right? No need to mention this to any others, like say Aramis."

Athos, who looked the worst for wear, wearily closed his eyes as he carefully collapsed backwards onto the grass. "I can imagine no situation where this would ever come up as a topic of conversation."

The ground, even though grass covered, was painful on his partially healed back and he rolled onto his side to relieve the pressure. He didn't intend too, but he drifted off to sleep.

Porthos glanced over at his companion and between the closed eyes and the even breathing, deduced the man had fallen asleep. The lines of pain were still etched in his face and when he lightly brushed a hand over Athos' forehead, he felt the heat of the fever that had been dogging the man.

Dropping his hand back in his lap, he studied the stream once more, wondering if he could find any fish in it. Aramis had once shown him how to find still alcoves in a river where the fish would congregate and how to scoop them out of the water with one's bare hands. Being a city raised boy, he wasn't nearly as good at it as Aramis, but he had some limited successes.

If he could catch some fish, they'd have food and water to replenish themselves. It would be worth staying here for the day and recuperating before pushing on to Dieppe. Athos definitely needed the rest, as did he, and this seemed like a fairly safe and secluded location.

As he scanned the vicinity, Porthos also spotted some yarrow, which he recalled from his days with his mother, as a plant that could help with fever and healing. She hadn't been in his life for long, but she had taught him much in their brief time together.

He had totally forgotten about the usefulness of yarrow, until he received a cut from a blade when he, Aramis and Marsac had been fighting some bandits. They weren't going to be back at the garrison for a few days, and their location had been remote, with no nearby villages.

Aramis had found some yarrow and made an infusion from it, which he had forced Porthos to drink. The medic-musketeer had also crushed the leaves and laid them on the wound before binding it and the gash had healed cleanly and quickly. One other time, Aramis had wrapped the yarrow leaves in cloth and bathed another musketeer's face, hands and feet to induce the man's fever to sweat itself out. If they stayed here for the rest of the day and night, he could try to get Athos to use the yarrow to aid in his healing.

Silently rising, he waded into the stream and scouted for a likely pool in which he might find some fish. Seeing a little alcove on the opposite edge of the stream, he carefully made his way across to it. The quiet little spot had flashes of silver under the serene water and he stood motionless, letting everything calm down from the disturbance caused by his entering the area. After remaining still for more than five minutes, he was rewarded when the fish started darting about his stationary legs. After patiently waiting, he finally spotted a fish where he thought he could grab it and he plunged his hands into the stream and wrapped his fingers about the squiggly object.

When his hands broke free of the water, his prize was still tightly clasped between them. Chuckling, he tossed the fish far enough up the bank so it couldn't wiggle its way back to the water. It took time for things to settle into calmness after each strike, but eventually he had five nice fish on the shore waiting for him. Judging it was enough, he climbed out of the water, gathered his catch, then carefully waded back across the stream to the spot where Athos still slumbered on his side.

Gathering deadfall for a fire wasn't particularly difficult, nor was finding a few sticks to use as a spit. Making the fire without a flint was more challenging, but eventually he got a spark that he carefully nursed into a blaze. After setting up his makeshift cooking apparatus, and securing the fish upon it, he headed off to gather some yarrow plants.

When he deemed he had harvested enough, he headed back to the campsite, puzzling how to best use the yarrow. There was no issue with binding the leaves to Athos' cuts, though they were getting low on items of clothing to use as bandages. However, they both were still in possession of their braies and pants, so if they had to go without their undergarments, so be it.

Making an infusion was more of a challenge as they didn't have any cups, pots, or vessels. He knew one could carve cups out of wood but they had neither the time or implements with which to accomplish that feat. Maybe if he could find a rock with an indentation, he could make do.

After giving the fish a rotation, he wandered back to the stream again to examine the scattering of rocks. He finally found a large stone that had a natural depression in it that looked like it would hold about a cup of water. Picking it up from the stream's bed, he carried it back to the fire, set it on the edge of the flames, filled it with water and yarrow leaves which he crushed with a second rock, and left to steep for a while.

When the fish were done, he pulled them from the fire and set them aside to cool. As he was doing that he got the strangest feeling he was being watched and glancing over at Athos, he confirmed his suspicions. Cool green eyes were following his moves as he prepped the food.

Stating the obvious he said, "You're awake."

The swordsman gave a curt nod of his head as he endeavored to sit up. "You've been busy."

Porthos simply grunted as he removed the last fish from the coals. "Thought you might be hungry and since you had no hand in prepping it, it will be edible."

A slight head tilt told him the jab was received, but no offense had been taken at the statement of fact.

"How you feelin'?" But before Athos could even begin to frame his reply, Porthos added, "And I'd appreciate the truth."

Silently, Athos studied the man by the fire, thinking back to their earlier conversations on injuries. He'd never had been one to draw attention to himself, preferring to remain in the background, or better yet, if at a social event, elsewhere. His tendency towards being a wallflower, as his father had once put it, had been the subject of many heated discussions, lectures, and arguments between him and his parents. Whether at business meetings with his father, or at social events with his mother, he was always being prodded to step forward. It wasn't as if he shrank from his duty, far from it. He was a natural born leader and when the situation called for it, he took charge, even if he didn't always recognize he was doing so. But, since it wasn't his style to walk into a room and immediately demand to be the center of attention, insisting all eyes focus upon the important heir to the Comte de la Fére, Noblesse d'épée, his parents found his behavior lacking.

Affection was also a concept he tended to shy away from based on his life experiences. As a child, he had learned quickly that affections often weren't genuine and could be wrought with deceit. By the time he was eight, he had come to the conclusion the only reason for his existence, in his parents' eyes, was the continuation of the family blood line. They seemed to have little affection for their elder son otherwise.

The majority of the servants tolerated him because it was their job to do so, not because they bore any affection towards him. There were a few exceptions, but they were few and far between, and Athos swore, when his father got wind of them, he quickly found a reason that they were lacking and dismissed them.

One of his tutors, who had noted his student's keen interest in military strategy, had encouraged it to a degree which Athos' father had found unsuitable, and the teacher had been summarily dismissed. The nanny who coddled the boy, also had been let go and replaced with a strict male valet. The riding instructor, the servants' children that he played with...the list went on. Athos learned the hard way, if he showed the least bit of 'inappropriate' affection towards anyone, they'd disappear from his life. So at an early age he learned to avoid being hurt and kept his heart safe, by distancing himself from people and building walls, which over the years became nearly impenetrable.

So when Porthos asked how he was doing in a manner that indicated he actually cared and was concerned, Athos' immediate reaction was to withdraw behind his walls. Unbidden, the word, "Fine," left his lips and Porthos scowled at him for a moment before looking away.

"I thought," the large musketeer said in a voice tinged with sadness, "after all we have been through..." He shook his head sadly as he brought his disappointed brown eyes back to focus on Athos' face. "You really have a problem trusting people, don't you?" he sagely surmised.

The flinch of Athos' shoulders indicated the nail had been hit squarely on the head. The man, who was amazingly adapt at appearing stoic and impassive, drew his lower lip into his mouth and gnawed on it, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation.

"A man's past is his past and I respect that. I ain't askin' your history. I'm only askin' that you be open enough to tell me how bad your injuries really are. As hard as it seems to be for you to believe, I care about your well-being. Hell, I'm even beginning to think of you as my friend."

"That is a dangerous slope upon which to tread. Things usually don't end well for people who befriend me," Athos felt obliged to warn the musketeer.

"Yeah? Well don't forget, I'm a musketeer. I'm use to dangerous situations. Surely being your friend can't be that hazardous," Porthos replied lightly.

However, the look Athos gave him spoke volumes; the man truly believed he shouldn't have friends. It made the street fighter feel sad for the swordsman. Porthos wondered how a man with the confidence, strong morals, and honorable qualities that Athos possessed could have so little self-esteem.

"Well, I'm the only one who gets to decide who I call friend, friend. So let's try this again. How are you?" He sat back and stared at Athos to show him he fully expected an honest answer.

Swallowing hard, Athos let a few bricks crumble from his walls. "I think I may have a slight fever," he tentatively replied. "As well as a few other aches."

Porthos couldn't help bursting out with laughter, but as soon as he saw Athos starting to close himself off again, he quickly explained. "You, my friend, are the master of the understatement. Slight fever? A few aches?"

Athos found a small grin creeping onto his face. "Je me sens comme de la merde."

"That is probably the first honest assessment you have ever given me."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 50

Clapping his hands, Porthos stood. "Ok. First things first."

Walking over to the fire, he gave his witches brew a little stir with a stick, deeming it done. He paused for a moment trying to figure out how to remove the fire-heated rock so it could cool enough for Athos to ingest. His leather gloves were long gone and other than his pants and braies, he was wearing nothing else.

Looking over at Athos, who still was wearing his shirt, he demanded, "Give me your shirt." When Athos didn't immediately comply, he moved in his direction, waggling his fingers. "Come on. I need it to remove that rock from the fire. Besides, it once was my shirt."

Athos' eyes wandered to Porthos' chest as if to confirm the statement was true, even though he knew it was a fact. His brain simply wasn't firing on all cylinders. It took the swordsman a few more minutes to process the demand for his shirt, before he slowly began to comply, maneuvering the dirty, tattered garment over his head. Once it was off, Athos contemplated the shirt for a moment, for reasons Porthos couldn't fathom, before he handed it over.

As he accepted the garment, Porthos surreptitiously allowed his gaze to sweep over Athos' torso, examining it for any visible damage. Turning back to the fire, he wadded up the shirt and used it to protect his hands as he removed the rock cup and set it aside to cool. When he had completed the task, he tossed the shirt to the side, away from Athos, who appeared somewhat unhappy that the garment had not been promptly returned.

"Yeah. Like I'm gonna let you put that filthy thing back on before it gets washed. We're trying to heal your infections not start new ones."

Athos let out an audible sigh, but didn't argue the point, which Porthos took as progress forward in their slowly building relationship.

"So, here's how this is gonna go. You're gonna drink this nasty tasting brew I made and eat the delicious food I cooked. Then we're gonna head over to the stream and I'm cleaning your wounds. When that is done, I'm covering them with these" he reached over and grabbed a handful of yarrow leaves. "and using your braies, which by the way you will hand over without an argument unless, of course, you want to be wrapped in mine, I'll make bandages to hold the yarrow on your infected wounds."

He paused for moment to see if Athos planned, stupidly, to voice any objections, but the man just sat there quietly. Porthos wonder how much of what he was saying was even being processed by the fevered man.

"Then, you are going to lay down in the shade with a yarrow soaked rag, again courtesy of your braies, on your forehead and sleep for the rest of the day. We will repeat this process again in the evening and the next morning."

"Why are you doing this for me?" Athos blurted out suddenly.

Porthos chose to ignore the end of the sentence, chalking it up to Athos' fever-muddled brain. "Because, whether we get to Dieppe today, tomorrow, or a week from now doesn't make a real big difference, does it. We have been missing for a couple of months. A few more days isn't gonna matter. You have to heal if we're gonna get home."

Athos stared at him, almost in disbelief. Home. He had no home. That word was foreign to him since Thomas' death.

Moving over to test the temperature of the infusion, Porthos said over his shoulder, "We're gonna make our way back to Paris and the garrison, tell Treville what is going on, and have the King put an end to it."

Porthos made it sound so simple, so easy, but the former Comte, who was wise in the ways of the world, knew it wasn't going to happen. Justice, reparation, or perhaps more accurately revenge, would be served, though he highly doubted it would be by the hands of the King. But it would be done by his own hands, if that is what it took to stop that galley. And Porthos was right. To accomplish that, he had to heal from his injuries.

Grasping the cooled rock, Porthos brought it over to Athos and squatted down next to him. "Drink this." He held the awkward vessel out and Athos wrapped his hands around it as best as he could. "You'll probably have to stick your face in it and kinda lap it up. Sorry. No other cups were clean."

Athos gazed into the liquid in the rock's depression. "What is this?"

"Yarrow. It's good for fever and pain."

Absentmindedly he nodded, as he stared at the brew. He did vaguely recall hearing that somewhere in his life's journey. Cautiously, he lowered his head and ungracefully tried to slurp from the rock. He ended up lapping, rather like a dog, a few mouthfuls of the foul brew. Grimacing, he tried to set the bowl aside.

"Uh-ah. Finish it," Porthos instructed, pushing the bowl back towards Athos.

"It is most foul."

"Yep. Told you it was gonna be. But trust me, the fish will taste like heaven, especially considering you had no hand in the preparation." Porthos rose and went over to pick up their dinner.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I," Athos complained as he forced down the rest of the yarrow infusion. "A touch of honey would have been pleasant," he quipped as he set the now empty rock aside.

"Sorry. Didn't have time to go look for a hive while you were slumbering away. Next time." Porthos handed Athos a fire-crisped fish before flopping on the ground next to him.

They ate in silence, tearing away at the fish, which did taste like heaven. Considering they hadn't eaten for days, it was not all that surprising. Athos worked his way through half of the fish he'd been handed, before setting it aside. Porthos, who was already on his third, looked askance.

"Full," Athos said, though it wasn't quite the honest truth. Between the nasty yarrow tea swirling in his stomach and the fever eating at his body, he was a little nauseous and not all that hungry.

Grunting around a mouthful of food, Porthos took Athos' half eaten fish and finished it off. The final fish he set aside for later, hoping maybe he could tempt the injured man to eat it. Athos wouldn't recover his strength if he didn't eat.

"Ok, let's go," Porthos declared as he tossed the last of the bones over his shoulder. One nice thing about this method of rustic camping, no dishes to clean up. Rising to his feet with more of his cat like grace than he had displayed in a while, he held out a hand to Athos.

Not only did the swordsman not take it, but he seemed puzzled as to what was to happen next. Porthos suspected it wasn't because Athos had not been listening, or understanding, but because he didn't want to do it. Well the swordsman might be stubborn, but he had met his match in the street fighter.

"Time for a bath," Porthos growled in a stern tone.

"I think, now that we have eaten, we should push on to Dieppe," Athos countered, as if this were up for debate.

"No."

For his next argument he offered, "I really don't think this is necessary. My wounds are healing fine."

Folding his arms over his chest in annoyance, Porthos huffed, "Fine? Then what about the fever. Hmmmm?"

"A result of the excess sun we have had to endure, without a hat."

"Not buying it. Get up, strip, and get in that stream." The large musketeer placed his hands on his hips, leaned forward and growled, "or I will do it for you and I guarantee it won't be pretty."

Athos actually had the audacity to glare at him for thirty seconds, before giving a very audible sigh of displeasure and rising to his feet. With as much dignity as he could muster, Athos walked to the stream's edge and then disrobed. As soon as he removed his braies, Porthos snatched them and before Athos could protest, the sound of ripping cloth filled the grove. Athos frowned at the sight of his most intimate apparel being rendered into long strips of material.

When Porthos had made his 'bandages', he looked over at Athos who was standing forlornly, and naked, on the banks of the stream, his hands somewhat casually covering his privates. "Get in the stream. Find a deep spot and soak for a bit while I give these a good scrubbing."

"It would have been easier to scrub my undergarments before you tore them into pieces," Athos mumbled as he carefully stepped into the stream to seek out a deep spot. He found one less than twenty feet up stream, where a nice little rock alcove made a deeper pool of water. With a little maneuvering, he was able to submerge most of his injured body. The cool water made him shiver violently at first when it wrapped around his overheated skin, but soon he adjusted and it felt rather good. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against a convenient rock ledge.

Meanwhile, Porthos took the multiple strips of cloth and laundered them as best as he could, refusing to admit the swordsman had been right. It would have been easier to wash the braies before he had torn them up. He kept a weather eye on Athos to ensure the man didn't get up and disappear somewhere, or sink under the water if he dozed off. So far everything was quite peaceful at their little campsite.

Wading ashore, he laid the strips of material over some rocks to dry in the mid-day sun. Glancing back at Athos, who seemed to have wedged himself well enough not to drown, Porthos decided to let him be for a bit while he gathered some boughs to erect a make-shift bed. After he wrapped Athos' wounded torso, he wanted the man to lie down and sleep, but it didn't seem right, after all the trouble to get him clean, that having him sleep on the ground was all that smart. The boughs would offer a little protection and cushion. He didn't have to stray too far as there were a few white pines near the stream, with their soft, feathery branches brushing the grass. It didn't take long to strip the trees of the required boughs, haul them back to the campsite and assemble them into a pallet.

Stretching his sore back muscles after he finished assembling Athos' bedding, he thought he'd enjoy a good soak in the stream too, after he got the swordsman settled. After rolling his shoulders to work out the last kink, he walked back to the stream. Grabbing a piece of the clean braies to use as a scrubbing cloth, he waded into the stream over to where Athos reposed.

"You awake?" he inquired as he looked down at the reclining man.

"I suppose that depends on what horror you have planned for me next," came the droll reply.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get you better."

At that statement, the green eyes opened slowly to regard him. "You are at that." After a brief pause, he inquired, "What now? I have nothing left for you to shred. Well, my pants I suppose, but I do hope you don't intend me to walk into Dieppe naked. My cheeks would get sunburned as you already pointed out."

"Hey, look at you. You have a sense of humor."

Athos remained silent, but gave a small shrug as if to say 'of course'.

"Ok, funny man. Move over here on this rock so I can examine the wounds on your back. And before you ask, yes, it is necessary."

Porthos patted a boulder that was partially submerged. If Athos sat on its flat surface the musketeer could examine the slashes on his back. With minimal grumbling, Athos roused himself, plodded through the water to the grey rock, and perched on its surface with his back facing Porthos. As gently as possible, Porthos scrubbed the skin and the wounds, rinsing away the sweat and grime that had collected on the skin. Overall, he was pleasantly surprised to see they had scabbed over with no sign of infection. But it was also troubling, because the wounds on Athos' back were not the source of his fever.

"These are really healing well," Porthos declared after he rinsed out the rag for the final time.

Athos' head, which had sagged to his chest from the discomfort of having his wounds cleansed, raised slightly. "Please don't tell me there was no need to shred my braies."

Actually, Porthos had been thinking that, but he didn't dare declare it out loud. No, he would still use the bandages to secure the yarrow leaves over the lashes on the swordsman's back. It certainly would hurt a lot less than admitting he hadn't needed to shred Athos' underwear.

"No. I'm bandaging your back. But I'm puzzled as to what is causing your fever. None of these wounds appear infected."

Athos shifted uncomfortably and Porthos had a sudden suspicion "Out with it. What are you hiding now?"

Slowly, like a condemned man, Athos turned slightly and lifted his left leg out of the water and placed his foot on the boulder. Porthos could see a four-inch-long strip of abraded skin on the side of Athos bent calf. It was red, raw and pockets of pus dotted its surface.

"This might have something to do with the fever," Athos said in an off-handed manner that made Porthos want to reach out and smack him.

"Ya think?" the musketeer said sarcastically as he leaned in to get a better view. "How did this occur?"

"Swimming. From the galley to the shore. I bumped into a submerged barnacle covered rock I believe."

Porthos let his mind drift back to their escape. Athos had been exhausted after towing him from the galley to the beach. There had been a lot of submerged rocks they had to work their way through to get ashore. The surf had been rough and the musketeer remembered the weary swordsman getting knocked over quite a few times, unable to keep his balance. A wave of guilt washed over Porthos because he knew the exhaustion had come from Athos having to tow him because he couldn't swim.

He waved towards the angry wound. "You didn't think to mention this?"

"Wasn't much that could be done for it."

"Well now we can. Grit your teeth 'cause I'm gone try to drain that pus and wash it out."

Athos looked a bit alarmed. "With what? You don't have a knife."

Porthos got up, walked over to the stream's edge and searched in the shallows. He picked up and discarded a number of small pieces of rock until he found a piece of shale that seemed suitable. It had fractured, as shale is likely to do, leaving a sharp, thin-edged piece behind.

"Come over here where it is shallower. I don't want you passing out and drowning."

With great reluctance, Athos moved to the shallow water and resettled on another boulder.

"Prop your leg here."

Athos did as requested, gingerly placing his injured leg on the rock. Porthos sat down, back to him, then hooked his right leg over Athos' thigh, effectively pinning the injured man's leg against the rock's surface. Athos had to suppress a shudder that threatened to rip through his body.

Looking back over his shoulder, Porthos apologized. "This is gonna hurt. I have to cut open those sores to let the filth drain. With this rock," he held up the piece of shale, "It ain't gonna be pretty."

"Do it," Athos stoically ground out, even though he was dreading it.

Turning his head to face the injured leg again, Porthos offered, "Do whatever you need to. I won't think less of you for it."

Athos started out heroic and stoic, but the dull rock blade hacking at his swollen, tender flesh was sheer agony and he couldn't muffle the groans escaping his lips. As Porthos proceeded opening, draining, and washing out the wound, he felt Athos' leg start to tremble under his own and the man's breath started coming out in gasps.

Porthos felt Athos lean forward and bury his face into the back of his broad shoulder. He was able to feel the tears as they slipped from the hurting man's eyes and ran in little rivulets down his back. He could feel the tremors of pain racing though Athos every time he dug the dull rock blade into his flesh. If it brought any measure of comfort to Athos, to lean against him, he was happy to oblige. The fact that Athos did not try, verbally or physically, to resist Porthos, spoke volumes of this man's sheer willpower. Porthos wasn't sure he would have borne up as well.

"Maybe we should stop. Rest a bit," Porthos suggested due the high level of stress Athos was exhibiting.

"No," Athos panted. "Continue." Athos knew if the musketeer didn't finish this now, he wasn't sure he could ever bring himself to let Porthos continue later.

Silently, Porthos nodded and went back to work on the wound. After what felt like an eternity to both men, the wound was finally drained clean of all the pus and flushed out with water. Porthos felt Athos sag more heavily against him and at first he attributed it to relief they were finally done. Then, however, he realized the man had passed out.

Carefully, he shifted his position, and like a mother with a sleepy infant child, he gathered the unconscious man in his arms and waded out of the stream. Walking over to where he had constructed the bough pallet, he laid Athos down upon the fragrant surface and rolled him on his side.

Moving away, he gathered the yarrow and his make shift bandages, then went back and carefully bandaged Athos' injured calf. He decided to forego bandaging the wounds on his back because he didn't want to disturb Athos any more than necessary and he felt they were healing quite well on their own.

Sitting back on his heels, he studied the swordsman, thinking about their journey since they left the garrison those many months before on what should have been a cake walk. The respect that he had gained for this man since was just short of amazing. Aramis had been right, under that facade of indifference was a man not only worth knowing, but who Porthos wanted as a friend. When they got back to the Garrison, and they would, he was going to speak to Captain Treville about making this man a musketeer.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 51

The first part of the evening was rough on both men as Athos' fever seemed to rise along with the moon, both climbing higher and higher. Finally, around 2:00 am as the moon began to set, the swordsman's temperature began to fall, and by the time the moon disappeared from the early morning sky, so had Athos' fever. However, the ordeal left both men, the patient and the caretaker, exhausted and they slept well into the afternoon.

By an unspoken mutual agreement, they spent one more day at their makeshift campsite. Porthos managed to wrangle them a few more fish, which he expertly cooked and Athos made an honest attempt to eat, feeling truly hungry. The swordsman made a less than honest effort to drink the yarrow infusion to help with his pain. At one point Porthos thought he might have to resort to pinning Athos to the ground and pouring the liquid down his stubborn throat.

Other than the battle of the wills over the medicine, they spent a quiet afternoon and evening. Athos was by no means a garrulous companion, though he would engage in conversation if the mood struck him. Mostly, Porthos found himself telling stories about his time with the musketeers and in the infantry. Athos, as always, avoided providing any details about his past, though the musketeer was sure that the man didn't spend twenty some years on earth doing nothing. He was, however, very skillful at turning the conversation aside when it drifted into areas he didn't wish to discuss. In fact, his talent for changing the subject was so well honed that Porthos didn't realized how many times the swordsman had done it until that night when he lay down to sleep and was thinking back over the day's events. Still, in an odd sort of way Athos was an agreeable companion, if one gave him a little leeway for his eccentricities.

The night passed in reasonable quiet, other than Athos having what Porthos assumed was a nightmare. The swordsman had started tossing and turning and muttering as he uneasily slept. Eventually, he woke with a stifled moan and when the musketeer felt Athos' eyes on him, he pretended he was asleep, which seemed to be a relief to the other man. Nothing was said of the disturbance in the morning as they ate some leftover fish before heading back towards the track that led to Dieppe.

Food, water, and sleep had restored them somewhat and they made faster progress than they had in the previous days. The terrain was beginning to change as they got closer to the town with the high cliffs that dropped off to the sea gradually becoming shorter with small stretches of rocky beaches. As they approached mid-morning, the ground and sea grew close in height once again and another pebbly stretch of beach came into view. This one was longer than any they had run into so far and there was only a twenty-foot drop from the road to the beach. As the curved land straightened and they could see down the stretch of beach, a large object came into view.

Athos' steps faltered as he squinted at the object in the distance. "My God. It can't be!"

Both men looked at each other in disbelief before turning their gaze, once more, to the object on the beach. With perfect, but uncoordinated precision, they broke into a slow jog down the road. As they drew closer, they unconsciously picked up their speed until they were nearly at a dead run. When they were right above the object on the sand below, the two men came to a grinding halt, panting heavily as they stared downward.

"What the hell happened?" Porthos ground out between panting breaths.

Athos didn't answer him, but instead hurled his body down the slope that led to the ocean. It was still a reasonably steep slope and half-way down he stumbled, fell, and tumbled the last few yards to the beach. Porthos wasn't far behind, though his descent was a bit more controlled. When he safely arrived at the bottom, Porthos reached down and pulled the slightly befuddled man to his feet.

"You're bleeding," Porthos said pointing to the small red trickle emerging from somewhere under Athos' hairline.

Distractedly, the swordsman brushed his fingers over the small gash as he began walking across the beach with Porthos one step behind him. When he was next to it, he stopped and simply stared for a few minutes. The galley, on which they had been slaves, was stranded here on this rocky patch of shore. Even though it was at a highly canted angle, the two men still could not see inside the ship.

Moving down the side of the galley towards the stern, Athos scrambled on top of one of the large boulders and used it as a springboard. Hauling his body over the rail, he dropped onto the slanted deck, adjusting his balance to remain upright. Porthos dropped lightly next to him and once again the two men simply stood and stared in disbelief at the carnage around them.

Some of the seats were empty, and some had the rowers still chained to them, but one thing was common; every single person was dead. As if in a fog, Athos moved up the aisle towards where he and Porthos had been secured and where most of the surrounding seats were empty. It appeared that Miguel had been successful in freeing some of the rowers with the keys they left behind. But based on the wrecked ship and the dead bodies surrounding them, Athos and Porthos had to conclude their escape attempt had not been successful.

Continuing to move up the aisle towards the bow, Porthos spotted a sprawled body and moving closer he realized he recognized it. A small groan escaped his lips, which instantly alerted Athos.

"What?" demanded Athos as he moved alongside the musketeer.

Athos' face hardened as he starred at the body sprawled downward on the wooden deck. He didn't need to see the face to identify the body because he had spent weeks staring at the back of the man on the deck.

"Miguel." He choked back a small sob. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely as moisture damped his eyelashes and he squatted down next to the corpse.

Craning his neck, Porthos stepped around the body to examine something. Suddenly, a huge smile lit up his face and Athos glanced up in surprise. "He did good."

Slowly, Athos rose and stiffly moved to where Porthos was standing and grinning at the deck. You didn't need a roadmap to see what had occurred. The bloody knife in Miguel's outstretched hand and the slit throat of the overseer told the story.

"He killed the bastard," Porthos declared with approval.

Silently, Athos moved passed the lifeless corpse of the overseer, continuing his journey up one side of the shipwrecked galley and then down the other. When he came to a body, he stopped as if to make sure the individual was really dead, even though he knew none could have survived.

When he got back to the stern of the ship, having completed a full circuit, he came to a stop and stood there, arms hanging slackly at his side. His tone when he spoke, was tormented. "What did I do?"

"What are you talking about? You gave them a chance. They chose to revolt. They gave their death meaning."

But the words fell on deaf ears as Athos shuffled away, clambered over the side, and dropped to the beach below with a grunt. Porthos followed him over the railing, landing lightly beside him on the sand. Turning, both men stared wordlessly at the ghost ship, debating what to do.

The decision, however, was taken out of their hands when a voice from behind ordered them to raise their hands and slowly turn around. Silently, Athos and Porthos held their hands aloft enough for whomever was behind them to ascertain they were empty, as they slowly rotated to face the new arrivals.

What greeted their eyes did not look like a welcome home party. In fact, the drawn swords and pistols of the ten men facing them were not in the least bit comforting. The hair on the back of Porthos' neck prickled, though he offered no other outward signs of his distress.

Their captors gestured for them to move away from the shipwrecked galley and the two man complied without resistance. While part of the group of ten herded Athos and Porthos aside, another group boarded the beached boat to look around.

When the boarding party eventually returned, their faces were grim. The men moved to stand in front of two others, who clearly were higher ranking in the group.

"Report," the man who appeared to be in charge demanded of the three men clustered in front of him.

"All personnel onboard are dead. It appears there was some sort of revolt. We found some of the ship's officer's and crew, slain. There were a number of men, deceased, chained to the deck, slave labor I'd guess. However, there were also six empty sets of shackles. We found four bodies that were obviously slaves, but that leaves two unaccounted for."

All eyes immediately lit upon Athos and Porthos and the leader of the group moved in their direction, studying them. Both men were ragged and weathered enough to have come from the ship. His eyes settled on their ankles, noting the marks about them, obviously made by the rubbing of metal shackles. A curt nod to his guards and the two men were unexpectedly shoved to the ground, pinned down by two men each while another secured their hands with rope. Once that was done, they were roughly jerked upwards onto their knees.

"I am Captain LeCompte of the guard at Dieppe. You are under arrest for murder," he declared in an arrogant, pompous tone. "You shall hang for your crimes."

"We didn't kill anyone. We were kidnapped and forced into slavery," Porthos vehemently spat at the captain.

All the guards laughed at his statement and when Porthos began to get belligerent, the captain gave a careless signal to the man behind him who grabbed his hair and yanked his head painfully backwards. The captain took a step forward, drew his hand back and cracked Porthos across the face. Porthos' lower lip spilt open and blood gushed out the gash.

Athos struggled to rise, but the guard next to him knock him sideways onto the sand. "Don't," he warned menacingly. Slowly, Athos maneuvered to sit on his heels once more.

Porthos, who saw and appreciated Athos' show of solidarity, shook his head 'no' when it appeared the swordsman was contemplating resisting further. Giving a subtle nod of his own to indicate the message was received, Athos remained passively sitting on his heels.

Taking a step backwards so he could address both men, he said, "You will await sentencing in Dieppe's jail."

"We didn't kill those men," Porthos stated adamantly again, not that it made any difference.

Athos, who had been silent up to this point, raised his head and stared the captain directly in the eyes. "You are making a mistake."

Athos' Comte tone was fully engaged as he spoke and it took the captain back a step. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the man in front of him for a few seconds. "I see a wrecked ship on my beach. It is full of dead men. I find only two live men. I am certain you came off that ship, judging by your appearance and that you were shackled like the other slaves. Everyone else is dead. You are alive. Where am I wrong?"

Unconsciously, Athos' had straightened his back as he knelt there, somehow almost appearing haughty, if that was possible to do while kneeling. "You have accurately stated the facts. However, you have interpreted them incorrectly.''

With a casual wave of his hand, the captain replied, "That is for someone else to decide. My job is to put you in prison and when asked, by the proper authorities, present what I have observed."

Jerking his chin at his men, the captain moved up the beach towards where they had left their horses on the road above. Unceremoniously, Athos and Porthos were dragged to their feet and shoved in the direction of the horses, not that they were going to be riding. The two men were forced to walk up the path and then follow behind the mounted riders as they made their way back to the Dieppe. The riders took no pity on the worn-down condition of the men, forcing them to move at a good clip. By the time they reached town, both men had stumbled more than once and been dragged down the dirt road by their captors, before the guards would momentarily halt to allow them to regain their footing.

Once they reached town, the street they were led down, on the way to the prison, wound passed St Rémy, where Porthos and Athos had delivered the missive from the King months ago. Call it divine intervention if you were Aramis, luck if you were Porthos, or fate if you were Athos, but the priest to whom the letter had been given was coming out of the massive church doors as the two men shuffled by.

Porthos, spotting the churchman, yelled, "Father Biene!"

The musketeer, given his fatigue, moved at a surprising speed in the direction of the priest, only coming to a halt when the rope tethering him to the guard's horse grew tight. He hit the end of the rope with enough force that the horse actually was yanked sideways. Neither the horse nor the rider were happy with this unexpected development and both let their displeasure be known in the form of a distressed neigh and annoyed shout. All this commotion caught the attention of the priest, who stopped and looked up to see what was happening.

"Father Biene. Remember me? Porthos. From the King's musketeer's. I delivered a letter to you from the King." Porthos continued to try to draw nearer to the man of the church, putting tension on the rope securing him to the fidgety, unhappy horse.

By now, the ruckus had caught the attention of the entire troop of guards, who were forced to come to a halt and deal with the disruption. Father Biene began to walk in the direction of the prison party as Athos moved next to Porthos' side. The captain turned his horse and rode back to the group forming on the street outside the church. He didn't, however, dismount as he looked down on them with obvious distain.

Father Biene stopped a few feet away from Porthos and studied the man before speaking. "Yes. I do know you. And you are correct, you did deliver a letter to me, from the King. But that was months ago."

"I told you I was a musketeer," Porthos declared, sneering up at the captain who sat impassively on his gelding, hands folded over the pommel.

"I didn't hear the good father say you were a musketeer," the captain snidely corrected. "I heard him say you simply delivered a letter to him."

Anger was evident in Porthos answer. "From the King. The letter was from King Louis."

The captain turned in a somewhat bored manner towards the priest. "Are you sure the letter was from the King?"

"Oh yes. It was sealed with the royal seal. And the contents, which I can't divulge you understand, were from his Majesty. I'm sure of it." The churchman's head bobbed up and down as he spoke, reinforcing his statements.

"I see," the captain drawled laconically. "And how do you know these men..." his eyes wandered over Porthos and Athos... "are musketeers?"

That question flustered the priest for a moment and he studied the two bedraggled men standing in front of him. "Well, I mean I assume the King doesn't give his private letters to just anyone to deliver," he replied with hesitation.

"Were they wearing a uniform? Something that indicated that they were one of his Majesty's elite guards?" The manner in which the captain spoke clearly indicated that it was inconceivable that these men could be musketeers.

"Actually, I never saw this man." Father Biene pointed towards Athos.

"He was outside, holding our horses," Porthos explained.

"But this man here," the father pointed towards Porthos, "certainly did come into my church, seek me out and deliver to me a letter from the King."

"It is my understanding that his Majesty's musketeers wear a distinctive pauldron, with the Fleur de lis upon it. So you saw that, on this man?" The captain waved his hand in a rather negligent manner towards Porthos.

Almost apologetically, the father replied, "No. In fact, he was rather plainly garbed. But he seemed like a musketeer."

The sneer was back again. "Seemed like a musketeer? Have you met many musketeers father?" Not giving the priest a chance to reply, the captain continued on. "Let me tell you what is a more likely scenario. These two murderers and thieves came across the real musketeers who were to deliver the missive from his Majesty. No doubt they ambushed and killed the musketeers and took the letter."

"We aren't murderers. And if we did all you claim, why the hell would we deliver the letter?" Porthos rebutted scornfully, as he poked holes in the ridiculous tale.

The captain gave a little shrug. "I have no idea how the mind of a murderer works. Perhaps you planned to rob the church next and were using the letter as a way to gain entry."

Porthos snorted as he pointed out the error in logic. "But we didn't rob or murder anyone in the church now did we."

"You must have been scared off for some reason. Perhaps you planned to come back later."

Athos, who had remained quiet to this point, spoke, his voice full of distain. "This whole lie you are trying to perpetuate is preposterous, captain."

A flick of the captain's eyes had the guard on the horse nearest Athos delivering a sound blow to the side of the prisoner's head with his boot. The swordsman was driven to the ground where he knelt, cradling his head in his hands. Porthos let out a strangled cry and hurried to Athos' side, ready to defend him from any further attack. When the priest also attempted to move towards the injured man, his path was firmly blocked by the guards.

"Stay back good father. These men are extremely dangerous," the captain drawled.

Father Biene looked askance at the captain. "Really? They seem exhausted and beaten, hardly dangerous."

A sympathetic smile appeared on the captain's face. "As a man of the cloth, I know you try to find the good in people, but these men are not deserving of your mercy. What they have done is horrendous. They have murdered innocent men, father. They are being taken to jail to await trial and I have no doubt they will hang for their crimes. Thank God they did not murder you when you first met. You must be truly blessed by God."

By this point in time, Porthos had helped a shaky Athos to his feet so when the captain signaled his guards to move out, they were able to respond to the yanking of the ropes around their wrists. Once again, they were hauled through the streets of Dieppe, away from the church towards the prison.

When Porthos opened his mouth to yell to the priest, Athos softly said, "Don't. It won't do any good."

Frustrated, but hearing the sense in Athos words, Porthos let his speech die before it was even given.

The captain nodded congenially to the priest before turning his horse and following after his men.

Father Biene stood there, simply staring at the prisoners as they were dragged down the street. Eventually, when they were out of sight, he began walking to complete the errand that he had been on before this whole incident. However, as he moved slowly through the streets of Dieppe, he thought back to his first meeting with the man who had delivered the King's missive. It was true, Porthos hadn't been wearing a uniform of any type. But he did truly believe that the man had been who he claimed to be simply by his words and actions. Yes, he hadn't seen the second man, but it made sense that he would have been outside holding the horses. It was not like it was a dangerous situation to deliver a letter, inside a church, to a priest.

Also, this wasn't the first communication he had received from Paris, though he wasn't able to divulge that information to anyone. The ones in the past had also been delivered by musketeers, though, when he thought about it, those men had been in uniform. However, given the increasingly sensitive nature of the letters, perhaps it had been deemed best to deliver them incognito.

Father Biene was conflicted. If those men were really who they claimed they were and innocent of the charges against them, did he not have a duty to help them? However, he was at a loss as to how he could do that. Clearly, the captain was not going to take his word.

Doing what a good priest does, he prayed for God's divine guidance. Suddenly, an idea came into his head. The captain didn't believe him, but perhaps the judge would listen. He'd speak at their trial. When he was done with this errand, he'd send one of his novices to the jail to find out when the men were to be sentenced. He'd go to the trial and speak on their behalf to the judge. Surely, a man of the law would listen and believe him.

Thanking God for a course of action and with a lighter heart that he was doing the right thing, the father serenely went on with his day.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 52

Serene was not the word to describe what happened when they arrived at Dieppe's prison. The two exhausted men were dragged into an imposing stone building and forced down a flight of narrow stairs into a dark, dank space that had been partitioned into a warren of narrow corridors off of which a number of small cells were arranged. Small openings, high up in the walls, let in a minimal amount of light though they really didn't help with the air flow. The smell of mold, sweat, and human excrement was overpowering and both men gagged as they entered the confined space. Some of the cells appeared occupied. However, the light was dim and their eyes had not adjusted yet to the darkness so it was hard for Athos and Porthos to really see anything with clarity.

They were led to a cell near the back of the prison where two of the guards grabbed Athos by his arms, which were still tied, and hauled him into the cell. The swordsman's eyes scanned the chamber and when they lit upon the objects on the floor, the normally impassive man became frenzied. The guards, caught unawares, let Athos slip from their grasp and the swordsman ran back into the corridor before his captors were able to stop him.

Eventually, Athos was viciously knocked to the damp floor by the guards and pummeled into submission with fists and boots before being hauled by his feet back into the cell. Porthos watched helpless as his friend was manhandled across the rough floor. The guards holding him were smart enough to ensure that he was being tightly restrained so he couldn't enter into the fray.

Once back in the cell, Athos was dragged to the far side and it was then that Porthos spotted why the swordsman had reacted so violently. Shackles. Like the ones on the galley. Porthos watched miserably as Athos fought with his meager reserves not to be imprisoned in those tortuous devices, but in the end the guards prevailed and he was secured.

Even after they untied his wrists and let him go, Athos continued to fight against the leg-irons on his ankles, yanking at the chain that connected them to the wall, trying to dislodge it. As blood began to well from where the cruel iron cut into Athos' flesh, Porthos begged him to stop, but the words didn't penetrate the distraught man's mind. Finally, one of the guards stepped behind Athos and clobbered him with the butt of his pistol and the swordsman crumpled in an unconscious heap on the disgusting prison floor.

Silence descended over the area and the man with the pistol looked over at Porthos questioningly. Docilely, Porthos walked into the cell and allowed himself to be chained to the wall near the unmoving Athos. As soon as the guards left, securing the door behind them, Porthos moved to Athos' side, knelt, and reached over with two tentative fingers to check for a pulse. When he found a steady beat, he let out a small sigh of relief. It was an odd reversal of roles they found themselves in; Athos panicking at the shackles and Porthos accepting.

Adjusting his body so he was seated, leaning against the wall, Porthos surveyed their new home and came to the conclusion it wasn't any different from any other prison cell in which he'd been incarcerated. Dim, dirty, and damp. The three 'Ds' of life behind bars. Actually a fourth 'D' popped into his mind, despair, a feeling that washed over him as he closed his weary eyes. They had managed the seemingly impossible and escaped a Spanish slave galley only to end up in a French prison waiting to be hanged. It seemed so unfair.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he stared at the shackles on his feet with horror as a chill crept up his spine. Maybe Athos' panic attack had been fully warranted. Perhaps, the swordsman had connected the dots more quickly than he had. The shackles binding their ankles appeared exactly the same as the ones they had worn, that everyone had worn, on the slave ship. What if the captain of the guards was in league with the captain of the Spanish galley?

Unfortunately, it made sense in many ways. There had been some other French speaking slaves on the galley. The overseer had familiarity with their language even though he had been clearly Spanish. The pier to which they were taken to board the galley was far enough away from Dieppe not to arouse suspicion or be seen by prying eyes, yet close enough to be useful. And last, but not least, the damn shackles about their ankles were exactly the same as the ones on the boat, not surprising if they used the same 'supplier'.

Did Athos come to the same conclusions when he saw the shackles? Considering the hardships the swordsman had faced on the ship and the guilt he was carrying for the death of the other slaves, no wonder Athos fought so hard to escape, even though it was a fool's errand. Porthos glanced over at the unconscious enigma on the floor next to him, wondering how much more, mentally and physically, this man could take before he irreparably shattered.

Noting that Athos was starting to stir, Porthos reached over and gently placed his hand on the man's shoulder. The green eyes fluttered open momentarily, then shut for a period before cracking open again. Porthos felt the tension starting to build in the prone man and he moved his hand, grasping Athos' chin and turning his face towards his own.

"Athos. Relax," he intoned soothingly.

The expressive green eyes, fully open now, were full of desperation as they swept the room before coming to rest on the shackles around his ankles. As soon as Porthos saw where Athos' eyes were focused, he gave the man's chin a little shake and forced him to look back at him.

"We will get out of here," Porthos annunciated slowly and with as much confidence as he could muster.

Athos' green eyes bore into his own brown ones so deeply, Porthos felt like the man was trying to read his very soul. Slowly, he saw the panic start to ebb from Athos' face. When he let go of the man's chin, Athos began to struggle to sit upright. Carefully, Porthos helped him achieve his goal by having him lean against the moldy wall for support. The swordsman was clearly suffering and he hung his head low, chin to his chest.

"Hey. Look at me. Look at me, Athos," Porthos demanded, not wanting Athos to spiral into despair.

Sluggishly, the unruly haired head inched upward before turning in his direction.

Holding up two fingers, the street fighter inquired, "How many fingers do you see?"

Athos stared at them for a moment before he shut his eyes and carefully rested his head against the cool stone wall behind him. His voice was raspy and betrayed his pain. "Three? Four?"

The musketeer's hum said it all. "How's your stomach?

Drily, Athos replied, "It would be best, if I didn't think about it."

"Lean forward. Let me see where he hit your head."

With a groan of pain, he was unable to stifle, Athos sluggishly complied. Porthos gently brushed aside the matted hair, slick with blood, trying to get a better look at the area where the pistol's grip had made contact with Athos' head. However, it was too dark to ascertain much, so he gave up.

"You probably have a concussion," he concluded, not that he really had any doubt.

Athos simply rolled his eyes before shutting them, appearing to doze off.

"Aramis always says you shouldn't let a concussed person sleep without waking them every few hours to check on them."

As Athos slumped down the wall onto his side, Porthos thought the man mumbled something along the lines of 'good luck with that' or perhaps it was 'go to hell'.

Sleeping seemed like a good idea to the musketeer, but first he wanted to explore their new environment as much as possible. Rising to his feet, he walked as far as his chains allowed, which turned out to be most of their little cell. There was hole in the far corner whose purpose was obvious by the odor being emitted from it. Other than that, the place was devoid of almost anything else.

Over by the bars that separated them from freedom, there were a few thin scraps of stray metal. What they were doing there Porthos had no idea, but if he were to guess it looked like they had done some repair work on the cell's door. Perhaps they were remnants from that job.

Squatting, he examined the pile of shavings, picking up a quill thin piece that was about five inches long. Testing it with his fingers, he found it strong, yet with some flexibility. A smile crept across his face at his find and a plan began formulating in his mind. One of the skills he had acquired growing up on the streets was about to come into play and maybe save their lives.

Moving back next to Athos, he settled himself on the ground. Before they tried to escape, he and Athos desperately needed at least a few hours of sleep. Both were so exhausted he doubted they could get more than fifty yards before they collapsed. Carefully, he tucked the shard of metal into his pants pocket before closing his eyes to sleep. It wouldn't do to lose the key to the kingdom.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 53

As Porthos would learn over time, when required, Athos could go from sleep to actively fighting in four seconds flat, a talent that would save them many times in the future. However, today when the swordsman woke in the jail, it was not advantageous. Athos shot into consciousness and immediately began to struggle when he realized he was shackled. Fortunately, Porthos had been awake for a while and when he saw Athos becoming distressed once again, he swiftly moved to his side and held him firmly by the shoulders, immobilizing the thrashing man until he could get him to calm down.

"Athos. Stop!" Porthos commanded in a voice that forced its way past the irrational fear seizing the swordsman's mind.

Slowly, the blind-panic faded from the swordsman's green eyes, though his disheveled, sweat soaked hair attested to the intensity of the frenzy which had gripped him. When he felt Athos wasn't going to thrash needlessly about in the leg irons and risk injuring himself further, Porthos released his grasp on the man's shoulders. As soon as he was free, Athos scrambled to his knees and began heaving. His wild awakening had aggravated his concussion and in turn his tender stomach.

Porthos watched with compassionate sympathy, knowing the dry heaves that were wracking Athos' body must be incredibly painful. Eventually, when they came to a halt, Athos collapsed onto his side, rolling his miserable body into a tight ball. Cautiously, because he wasn't sure if his gesture would be accepted or appreciated, Porthos reached over and gently massaged Athos' neck and head, being careful to avoid the robin's egg on the back of his skull. Athos tensed, then gradually began to relax under Porthos' skillful fingers. Slowly, he unfurled his corkscrewed body as the pounding in his head decreased and his stomach unclenched from its muscle spasms.

After a bit, and with some reluctance, Athos began to maneuver to sit, so Porthos stopped his ministrations to assist. Scooting backwards, Athos used the wall to support his back as he stretched his shackled legs out in front of him on the dirty, stone floor. He glared at the offending leg irons as if he could will them off his ankles by sheer determination. With some amusement, Porthos watched Athos scowl fiercely, but ineffectively, at his shackles. While Athos' legendary glower was very effective at cowing people, it had no effect on inanimate objects.

"Thinkin' this might work better." A small grin crept across the musketeer's face as he reached in his pocket and withdrew the piece of metal. "Not," he added, "that your scowl isn't incredibly scary."

Athos' eyes shifted from the offensive shackles, to the object that Porthos was holding aloft. His scowl changed to a look of puzzlement as he stared uncomprehendingly at the thin metal shaft. Porthos decided to enlighten the confused man.

"I get you ain't thinkin' too straight with that concussion and all so let me help you. I'm gonna open the locks with this."

Apparently trying to figure out this new riddle was too much for Athos' addled brain cells for when the swordsman leaned forward to better examine the object, his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out once more. Swiftly, Porthos reached over and caught the slumping man to ensure he didn't add insult to injury by hitting his head on the floor. He arranged the unconscious man on his side, in what he hoped was a comfortable position, before moving away to stand and stretch his limbs.

The inside of the prison was shrouded in perpetual darkness with only a few torches which were always burning. It made it hard to judge night from day. Porthos glanced upwards at one of the minuscule, slit-like windows near the ceiling. The small rectangle was barely distinguishable from the surrounding dark wall, telling him that night had indeed fallen. Their best chance of escaping undetected would be under the cover of darkness, so he began to put his plan into motion.

Resettling on the stone floor, he drew his shackled feet close to his hands and inserted his newly acquired lock pick into the mechanism. Momentarily closing his eyes, he envisioned in his mind how to open the lock like he was taught as a young lad. After fiddling for a minute, he finally felt his shim connecting with the right spot and a satisfying click sounded as the lock opened. Palming his pick, he shucked the offensive metal shackles off his legs and laid them aside.

Next, he moved over to where Athos was lying and repeated his trick. Picking a lock was more an art than an exact science. Some people had the knack, and others never could master it. Porthos was lucky that he was a natural at it. After removing Athos' leg irons and setting them aside, he rose and moved to the lock on the cell's door. He squeezed his large wrist through the tightly spaced, rusted iron bars, and rotated his hand to insert the metal pick into the lock. He gave a furtive glance around, but it appeared the prison's other occupants were all sound asleep. Wiggling the metal to and fro, he finally heard the muffled click as the lock was sprung.

Tucking his pick into his pocket, he walked over to where Athos lay on the floor, crouched next to him, and gently began to rouse the man. It appeared he must have been on the verge of awakening, because after a few light taps on his bearded cheek, Athos' eyes slowly opened and he gazed about. Porthos half-encouraged, half-lifted the man into a seated position and tapped him once more on the cheek to get Athos to focus on him.

"We're gonna get out of here."

Athos' face displayed his confusion. "How?"

"Walk. Well maybe run. Come on. Stand."

Draping the somewhat befuddled man's right arm over his broad shoulders, Porthos rose bringing Athos along with him. When they were nearly upright, the musketeer placed his left hand on Athos' mid-section to keep the man from toppling over. Things were happening much to quickly for Athos' muddled state and he didn't realize that the shackles were no longer around his ankles.

Porthos urged the unsteady man to try walking and Athos made an attempt, lurching forward like a new born foal. He took a few wobbly steps, though he would have fallen flat on his face if it weren't for Porthos' arms holding him up. Athos stopped moving and shook his head as if to try to clear it before realizing that was an incredibly stupid move as his headache flared. Taking deep breaths, he leaned forward and braced his hands against his thighs. As his eyes wandered down his legs, it finally dawned on him his legs were unfettered. In another stupid move, he whipped his head and torso rapidly upwards to stare at Porthos. Once again it was only because of the musketeer's strong and steady hold on him that he didn't end up on his ass on the floor.

"Whoa. Slowly," Porthos cautioned as he saw Athos reeling. "I'm not carrying your skinny ass out of here."

The normally articulate man was at a loss for words. "How?" he mumbled as his eyes roamed from his bare ankles, to the shackles on the floor nearby, to Porthos' face.

"Childhood talent. Come on. Lean on me. We gotta go."

Keeping an arm firmly wrapped around Athos' middle, he urged the man towards the cell's door. After taking a clandestine glance about, Porthos pushed the cell door open. Athos glanced at him in amazement, but the musketeer declined to comment.

Stealthily, the two prisoners made their way through the dusky corridors to the staircase that led upwards. Once there, Athos motioned for Porthos to release him, which he did reluctantly. The determined swordsman made his way to the top of the stairs, then crept across the ante-chamber towards a door which hopefully led outside. Unlike the prisons in Paris, this one seemed woefully under guarded, not that either of them was complaining since it made their escape easier. When they reached the door, Porthos seized the handle before Athos could, figuring if there was a guard outside, he was in better shape to take him down.

Slowly cracking open the iron door, their luck held as it opened onto a street and there were no guards in sight. After slipping through the door, they quietly pushed it shut behind them and took deep breaths of the night air. While in reality the air was hot, muggy, and tinged with the odor of filth and fish, it was the air of freedom to the two weary men, and they reveled in it.

Athos braced his hands against the outer wall of the prison when a wave of dizziness, brought on by his concussion, exhaustion, and recent activity washed over him, threatening to plunge him into darkness. His knees started to buckle and Porthos was at his side in a flash, helping to keep him upright.

"You ain't gonna make it far."

"What's the plan," Athos grunted between tightly clenched teeth as the black spots clouded his vision.

That was a very good question and if the truth be told, Porthos had neglected to plan that aspect of their escape. Raising his eyes, he was sweeping the skyline searching for divine inspiration when he spied the bell dome and weather vane cross of St Rémy in the pale moonlight.

"We'll go to St Rémy. I'm sure Father Biene will help us. He knows who we are."

Athos wasn't convinced it was a brilliant idea, but his head was pounding too fiercely for him to even begin to have a coherent thought for more than a few seconds, let alone come up with a better plan. So gamely pushing off the wall, he staggered into the street in what he hoped was the general direction of the church. He'd only taken a few steps when he felt Porthos move alongside him and wrap his long arm around his torso to support his wobbly walk. Athos gave a small head dip indicating his appreciation of the act. One of his tutors had taught him that it is the stupid man, not the proud, that refuses to admit when he needs help. Athos was afraid that was a lesson he didn't employ often, but he did now.

The streets were fairly deserted and the two men moved through them as swiftly, quietly, and inconspicuously as their situation allowed, considering Porthos found Athos increasingly relying on his support to stay upright. At the rate he was leaning on him, Porthos figured if the church was more than a few blocks away, he'd be forced to sling the swordsman over his shoulder and carry him. However, the church was looming and when they rounded the next corner the massive doors mercifully came into view.

Like last time, Porthos steered them to the smaller doors to the side of the grand entrance. Using his free hand, he tugged them open and whispered a small prayer of thanks when he discovered they were not locked. Once inside, he moved towards the rear of the inner chamber he had been in last time, where he recalled there was a rather plain wooden door from which the father had emerged. He hoped that led to the part of the church where the brothers resided.

The moonlight shining through the church's windows provided enough ambient lighting for Porthos to locate the door he sought. However, when he tried to open it, he found it was secured from the far side. Guiding the flagging Athos to a nearby prayer bench, he propped the man against it before heading back to the locked door. Ducking his head to one side, he rammed the door twice with his shoulder before changing his tactics to a few swift kicks. After the last mighty kick, the door flew open revealing Father Biene, in his night attire, looking rather stunned.

"Sorry, father," Porthos mumbled apologetically. "I guess I could have tried knocking." A thud from behind him had Porthos whirling around. "Damn," he muttered without thinking when he saw Athos had passed out and collapsed on the floor.

By this time the priest had moved closer as he studied the large man. "I know you. The self-proclaimed musketeer, the one the captain jailed."

A short nod from the musketeer indicated he was correct.

The father peered around the larger man. "Is your friend unwell?"

"Got hit in the head, hard, by a guard, for no reason other than he could." Porthos walked over and scooped the swordsman off the floor. He stood there with Athos in his strong arms looking expectantly at the priest. "We need your help. Shelter. We didn't do what they say we did."

"All the musketeers I have ever met have been honorable men. I see no reason to doubt your word. Come this way, son."

The father turned and headed back through the still open door. After Porthos came through, the good father shut the door and reengaged the lock, which miraculously was still functional.

"God works in mysterious ways," he muttered as he walked past Porthos, leading him to a chamber where he could place the injured man. "Of course, knocking would have been effective too in getting my attention. I tend to be a light sleeper."

"Yeah, sorry about the door and the swearin' father," Porthos apologized again, sheepishly.

A small smile danced in the corners of the priest's mouth. "Trust me. I have heard worse within this sanctuary."

The room he led them to was plain, but functional, with a narrow bed covered in a rough woven, brown blanket. With great care, Porthos placed Athos on the cot, then rolled him on his side thinking it would be better for his back and easier for him to breathe. Father Biene moved alongside the bed, brushed his fingers over Athos' forehead, and murmured a short prayer for healing and sleep. "No one deserves to be treated like an animal," he murmured under his breath. When he was done with his prayers, he led Porthos to a second chamber, much like the first, where the musketeer could rest.

"I am most interested to hear what has befallen you gentlemen, but now, you need to sleep as much as your injured friend. You'll be safe here. God will watch over you."

Porthos wasn't so sure about that, but the father was right, he did desperately need to rest. He thanked the priest, and once the man had left the chamber, he shut the door and stretched his large frame out on the small bed. It was a tight fit, but he was so exhausted he didn't care. In less than a minute, he was sound asleep.

Father Biene pensively headed to his own chamber, but before he lay down, he knelt, bowed his grey head, and prayed to God asking for healing, safety, and guidance for the two fugitives he was now sheltering in his church. He had no doubts these men were fugitives, somehow having escaped from Dieppe's prison. However, his trust and belief in God was absolute, and he knew His divine guidance would lead him through this situation.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 54

Athos woke slowly, and for a few seconds thought he was still dreaming, for he swore he was lying on some sort of bed; not the ground, not the wooden deck of the ship, nor the stone floor of the prison. Forcing his eyelids open, and it felt like they were glued shut, he let his gaze wander about the semi-darkness in which he was shrouded.

Haltingly, the events of last night drifted across his consciousness in incoherent scenes that he was having a hard time stitching together. He knew they had been in prison, escaped, and went to...his eyes peered around again...the church, he finally recalled. The exact events of how they escaped, and how they got here were still fuzzy in his concussed mind.

With a guttural grunt, he pushed his body upright and swung his feet off the edge of the cot to rest on the cool, stone floor. There was enough light from the window for him to see his surroundings and he noted a small table with a pottery wash bowl. Next to it was a chair with what appeared to be clothes on it and footwear on the floor. Realizing he was still attired, he figured the garments must be courtesy of their benefactor... Father Biene... the name popped into his muddled head.

Gingerly, he rose to his feet, lurching a little as he worked on finding his equilibrium. A fragment of memory of being clobbered by the prison guard, flashed across his mind as he waited for the room around him to stabilize. Fervently, he hoped he got a chance to repay the favor someday. If he and Porthos somehow managed to survive this ordeal and make it back to Paris, Athos planned to bring the men who were involved in selling French citizens into slavery to justice. While slavery might be legal, if disgusting, shanghaiing innocent people and selling them to the Spanish was definitely illegal as well as incredibly dishonorable.

Shuffling over to the pile of clothes, he found a clean pair of pants, braies, and shirt. They were roughhewn, but in far better condition than the tatters he wore. Biting his lower lip to stifle a moan, he carefully stripped off his clothes, occasionally needing to grab the chair for support when he moved too fast and his head spun. Availing himself of the water, he washed off as best as he could, paying most attention to those areas visible to the public. At least he could try to look presentable. There wasn't much he could do about his greasy, matted hair, which had been too long before this trip and had only gotten worse. He did spot a piece of leather striping, and he used that to tie it back from his face.

When he was finished with his ablutions, he sat in the chair and pulled on the footwear that had been left for him. All things considered, it wasn't a bad fit, though after having been barefoot for so long it felt strange.

Somewhat clean and reasonably dressed, he walked over to the door of the room, cautiously opened it, and peered around the deserted corridor. Taking a few steps into it, he cocked his head and listened, thinking he heard voices up and to the left. Staying close to the wall, for support as well as stealth, he padded down the semi-dark hallway towards the sounds. Along the way, he passed by other chambers, similar to the one in which he awoke, and figured this must be the brothers' sleeping quarters.

Light spilled into the hallway from an opening on the left and the sound of voices grew louder. Athos paused for a moment to assess the situation. There were a few distinct voices speaking, but one made him sigh in relief, Porthos. The booming voice was jovial and Athos relaxed because the man didn't seem stressed which, hopefully, was a good sign.

Edging around the corner, he peered into the room and discovered it was a dining area with a long wooden table. The smell of food assaulted his senses and his empty stomach and his concussed mind had a disagreement on whether it was a good thing. A quick head count showed twenty brothers and Porthos partaking of a morning meal. When his presence was noticed, silence suddenly descended over the chamber as Porthos and Father Biene rose to their feet.

"Athos!" Porthos' booming voice rang out causing the swordsman to wince from the loud noise reverberating inside his tender skull.

Father Biene eased over to Athos' side and with a gentle touch on the elbow, guided him to an empty spot at the table across from Porthos. As soon as he sat, a plate appeared in front of him containing a roll, butter, cheese, grapes and some sort of fish. The somewhat dazed man looked at the plate wondering if he was expected to consume all of it. His mind and stomach were still warring over the idea of food, one craving it and one threatening to expel anything placed in it.

"Eat, Athos. Best food we've had in months," Porthos informed him.

Considering how they had spent the last three months, it wasn't much of a challenge to be the best food. Athos politely picked up the roll, took a tentative bite, and methodically chewed as he stared down at the overflowing plate.

Father Biene, who had settled on Athos' right, touched the swordsman's arm again. "Porthos is correct in that the food is good. Our parishioners are quite generous at times. However, eat whatever amount suits you. I imagine not every musketeer has such a voracious appetite as your friend, or the garrison would go broke."

Father Biene noted two interesting facts about his new dining companion. The first was he felt the need to correct the father by softly muttering he was not a musketeer. The second item of interest was each time the father had lightly touched him, Athos had recoiled slightly. It also didn't go unnoticed by the priest that the swordsman had surreptitiously slid away from him on the bench. He wondered if it spoke to the cruel manner in which these men had been treated during their captivity.

"Porthos. Would you like to continue telling us of your trials since we last met?" the father encouraged. As the musketeer picked up where he left off, the brothers' focus shifted from the newcomer in the room back to Porthos and Father Biene felt the man beside him relax a notch. When he looked across the table at the musketeer, he saw Porthos acknowledge what he had just done for Athos. Porthos had learned that Athos was never comfortable being the center of attention, even if he would reluctantly step into the role when required.

As Porthos told their tale, in a heavily edited manner, Athos attempted to do some level of justice to the meal in front of him. What he was more interested in was quenching his thirst and he eagerly drained the cup of water in front of him and nodded gratefully when the brother to his left replenished it. The swordsman had a sneaking feeling his fever had returned, which might explain why his calf, which he had sliced open in the ocean, was bothering him once more. Perhaps they hadn't quite knocked out the infection with the yarrow leaves. More likely, the treatment they had been subjected to since they left the grove and the unsanitary conditions in the jail had caused a new infection to take hold.

Father Biene was disturbed by what Porthos was relaying, especially about the corruption in Dieppe, though he had long suspected that the captain of the Guards and some of their town officials were less than scrupulous.

"Will you take these accusations back to Paris, to be presented to the King in hopes of righting the wrongs being perpetrated?" Father Biene questioned the musketeer.

Porthos squirmed and appeared uncomfortable trying to reply to the question. "You can be sure I'll tell Captain Treville everything that is happenin' here. But whether it gets to the King's ear and gets acted upon," he shrugged, "I can't say."

"Isn't your captain trustworthy? One would think he would be of impeccable character as the leader of the King's elite guards."

The undertone of indignation that anyone dare question his captain could be heard in Porthos' answer. "Captain Treville is the bravest, most loyal, and honest man I have ever known. Second to none."

Athos, who had been silent, toying with the food on his plate, though not really consuming it, raised his head and spoke. "From the little time I have known the good captain, I can attest he is exactly as Porthos says. I have no doubts he will give this matter his full attention." Athos paused a moment, thinking about what he knew of their King from being a Comte. "However, whether or not the King will think this is suitable for his attention cannot be said with any certainty."

Father Biene had heard their young King could be fickle, so Athos' answer didn't surprise him. What he did find interesting was this man, who professed not to be a musketeer, seemed very knowledgeable, not to mention well spoken. His speech patterns and word choices spoke of an educated man.

Having offered his insight, Athos dropped his eyes to his plate once more, selected a grape, popped it into his mouth and slowly chewed it, signaling his contribution to the conversation was over.

"You both are welcome to stay with us as long as required to rest and regain your strength. I imagine your plan is to head back to Paris," the priest surmised correctly.

"Got that right. Though we have to figure out how to get horses. God knows what happened to ours. That rat of an innkeeper probably sold them," Porthos groused because he had liked his gelding, Flip. They were well-suited for each other.

A serene smile appeared on the father's face. "I'm sure God does know what happened to your unfortunate animals. But alas, I do not and I'm afraid St Rémy has no livestock at its disposal nor are our coffers that deep." After a brief pause, he added, "And I probably don't want to know how you plan to acquire your transportation."

Grinning slyly, Porthos said, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."

"I will say a little prayer of forgiveness for you."

"Thank you, father," Porthos replied humbly, though Athos didn't seem to be thrilled with the idea.

"We will come back to Dieppe, and when we do, we shall compensate anyone whose property we might...borrow," Athos declared.

Looking over at Athos, the priest questioned, "I thought you said the King might not act upon this situation."

"One way or another, justice will be done," Athos declared in a tone that brooked no argument.

"That sounds like vigilante-justice or revenge and God..." But before Father Biene could finish his thought, a vigorous pounding on wood rang through the church's corridors. Rising, the father said, "it appears we have company this morning."

"I take it this isn't a normal occurrence?"

"No, Porthos. It is not. Some people do come to worship early, but they do so in a much quieter fashion."

The brother, who had scurried off to investigate the banging, returned to the dining area. "It is the captain of the guards, demanding to be let in... immediately," he tagged on in case that fact was not obvious.

"Well, it is a good thing the guards know how to knock, isn't it? Had they simply broken through the door, as others have, I fear we would be worse off."

The father's joshing didn't go unobserved; a few smiles could be seen and tension eased a notch.

"I fear they have come looking for you," he addressed Porthos and Athos.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're right. He knows we have a connection. Do you have any weapons, father?' Porthos questioned anxiously as he rose from the dining table.

"This is a church, not an armory I am afraid. While we are referred to as soldiers of our Lord, our weapons are simply words and prayer."

"Is there another way out of this place? One less noticeable?" Athos glanced around the room. "We must leave, quickly. Our presence here endangers you all."

"We could hide you?" one of the other brothers suggested.

"If you are found... sheltering us, I fear you will suffer untold consequences. It is best we depart," Athos declared firmly.

As much as Father Biene hated to admit it, for he felt these men were being unfairly persecuted, he had to be concerned for the welfare of the church and the brothers.

"Athos is unfortunately correct. I fear there is no place we can hide them within these walls that they might not be found by a determined search."

The father suddenly became a man of action, issuing orders and showing exactly why he was the man in charge.

"I will go greet our visitors and attempt to stall them as long as possible. Brother Timothy, please go about shutting every door. It will take longer if they need to open each one to search. Brother Paul, I believe the hallway could use a thorough scrubbing, with lots of buckets of soapy water, and the rest of you spread out in a most inconvenient manner which one might find hampering if one was trying to conduct a search."

Turning back to face the fugitives, who were on their feet poised to flee, he said, "Brother Jacque will lead you to a door that opens on the side of the church. However, I can't guarantee the captain hasn't stationed guards to watch over it."

"Don't worry father. We can handle a few guards, even without weapons," Porthos stated confidently. "Guards are only a little more challenging than busting down a door."

"I have no doubt of that. Go with God. We shall add your safe wellbeing to our prayers."

Porthos thanked the father then hurried after Athos, who was already following Brother Jacque, who was leading them to the doorway. A few twists and turns later, and they came to a stout wooden door. The brother undid the lock, but when he made to lift the latch, Porthos stayed his hand.

"We'll take it from here. Don't want you getting in the line of fire by mistake. Perhaps it would be best if you went back and joined the bucket brigade."

The brother nodded, appearing rather relieved he wouldn't be called upon to fight. Scurrying away, he was quickly gone from view, leaving the two men alone.

"You ready for this?" Porthos asked Athos, who gave quick nod. "Then let's do it."

Porthos silently lifted the lock, tensed his muscles, then barreled through the door like a charging bull, catching the two guards that had been stationed outside totally by surprise. Running straight for the nearest guard, he dove at the man's legs, below the gun being leveled at him.

Even as he dove, it suddenly dawned on him that if Athos was directly behind him, he was in the direct path of the bullet's trajectory. The gun went off over his head and Porthos prayed he had not just brought about Athos' death.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 55

Athos never thought he'd be happy to have a concussion and the associated dizziness. When Porthos burst through the door, it had been his intention to be right on the man's heels. However, his traitorous body betrayed him, fortunately as it turned out, and he stumbled sideways coming through the door. The bullet, which would have hit him square in the chest, instead lightly grazed his upper arm. Recovering quickly, he saw the second guard aiming his gun and he took a lesson from Porthos' and dove at the man's knees, knocking him over backwards.

Porthos had already managed to disarm his opponent, had seized his pistol, and used it to batter its owner's head. The guard dropped like a rock to the cobblestones. Whipping around, the streetfighter scanned the area to see how Athos was faring. He found the swordsman had somehow ended up underneath the guard he had knocked over. While the gun was out of play, the guard, instead, was reaching behind his back for his main gauche to skewer Athos who was trapped underneath him.

"No you don't." Porthos ran over and lifted the man by the back of his uniform off of Athos. A swift fist to the face had man out cold, the knife dropping from his hand to clatter on the ground. The musketeer deposited him in the street near his friend, then began stripping both guards of their weapons.

As soon as the weight was lifted off of him, Athos rolled to his hands and knees, took a few deep breaths, then pushed to his feet. Porthos handed him one of the guard's weapons belts which he accepted, studying what was dangling from it. Powder and a bag of lead balls were clipped to the belt along with a main gauche. The rapier nestled in its scabbard looked serviceable enough. The guard's pistol was lying on the ground and Athos bent and retrieved it. Soon both men were armed with the guards' stolen paraphernalia.

Peering about, Porthos was the first to spot the guards' horses, which had been tethered nearby, and he smiled. "There's our ride home."

Running to the horses, they untied the reins, threw them over the beasts' heads, and swiftly mounted. Pressing their heels to the geldings' flanks, they took off in a clatter of hooves. When they turned the corner, coming around towards the front of the church, a shout rang out. Urging the horses into a canter, they flew through the streets of Dieppe, twisting and turning in hopes of throwing any pursuers off track. Neither man had had a chance to reload their stolen pistols, nor would they risk it while riding unfamiliar horses at a breakneck speed.

The brothers' prayers must have been working because they reached the outskirts of the city without any immediate sign of their pursuers, and they reined in for a moment to debate their next move.

Porthos turned his horse in a tight circle to face Athos. "It's a stretch before we reach the cover of the forest. Sittin' ducks if they come across us and can shoot straight."

Athos, who'd been studying the landscape while Porthos spoke, concurred, but there was no better alternative. "We ride fast. Keep low."

"Let's do this." Spinning his mount around once more, he urged the animal into a dead gallop, heading for the trees, with Athos right behind.

Pulling up right before the tree line, they entered the forest at a less breakneck pace. Perhaps Father Biene's prayers were continuing to assist, because they melted into the forest undetected and with no sign of pursuit. To rest the horses, which were winded from their sprint, they settled into a fast walk, heading down a path that led deeper into the forest. Eventually, Porthos, who was in the lead and anxious to put more distance between them and Dieppe, urged his mount into a trot, somewhat to Athos' dismay, as the jarring motion of the gait aggravate his headache.

Now that they had a feel for their horses' temperaments and weren't galloping, the men felt secure enough to tuck the reins under their legs, letting the horses move forward without guidance. This gave them the opportunity to reload the pistols stolen from the guards. Their preparations were completed none too soon, for when they rounded a bend in the track they came face to face with a party of guards that did not appear very friendly. They were headed into Dieppe, so they couldn't know what had transpired at the church. However, the guards still appeared very suspicious of the two strange men, on horses bearing the markings of their own troop.

"This don't look good," Porthos muttered as he eyed the men blocking the trail.

Athos felt that might be an understatement of their new situation. His green eyes narrowed as he did a quick sweep of them. "We have two shots before a reload."

"We aren't lookin' for trouble," Porthos called out as he halted his horse. "Just wanna continue our journey, peacefully."

The ringing of steel being drawn from the scabbards and the pistols pointed in their direction negated any hopes of avoiding a conflict.

"I think they have made their intentions known. Shall we work on evening the odds?" Athos calmly asked Porthos.

"Yep."

Porthos quickly drew his gun, aimed it at the nearest guard and neatly put a bullet in the man's chest. Athos' shot followed closely thereafter, also finding its mark. The two men, dead, toppled from their horses to the forest floor. Now it was two to four. While the guards returned fire, their shots went wide.

Shoving the spent pistols onto their pilfered belts, they unsheathed the rapiers that they had taken from the guards outside the church. The battle started on horseback, but quickly moved to the ground as Porthos managed to unseat two of the four guards through sheer brute force. The third drove his horse at Athos, unseating them both, and they went tumbling to the dirt. The fourth man was the only one still mounted, and it made him a dangerous opponent as he circled the men fighting on foot. The man on horseback forced Athos and Porthos to have to defend themselves from above and below.

When another thrust from the man on horseback struck too close to home, Athos took drastic action. Hating that he had to do it, but feeling it was vital for their survival, Athos spun and slashed the circling rider's horse across its chest. The horse reared in pain, dumping his rider into the dirt. Taking advantage of the man's momentary vulnerability, Athos thrust his sword into the man's chest, killing him and bringing the count down to three against two.

Porthos was barely keeping ahead of his two lesser-skilled opponents, because his ordeals of the last months had worn down his stamina and reflexes. One of the guards managed to worm his way inside Porthos' guard, and he drove his dagger into the musketeer's thigh. Bellowing like a wounded bull, Porthos spun and delivered a crushing blow to the guard's head causing the man to drop dead on the spot. Because of the force of the blow, Porthos' leg buckled and he collapsed and blood from his wound began soaking into the dirt.

Athos, hearing Porthos cry out, whirled in his direction in time to see the man topple over. His slight inattention caused another shallow gash on his body, courtesy of his opponent. But Athos didn't notice as his focus was solely on the guard who was about to bring his sword up to stab the downed Porthos. In a desperate move, Athos hurled the main gauche he had been using in his left hand at the guard who was about to kill the injured musketeer. The blade flew true, embedding itself in the man's throat, causing him to make gurgling noises as he fell to the earth.

Switching his attention back to his own opponent, who was ready to stab him in the chest, Athos dropped to the ground to avoid the blade's arc and swung his own sword at the guard's legs. The brutal slash sliced through the guard's skin and muscle until the blade was stopped by the man's leg bones. The force of the blow tore the sword from Athos' hand as he rolled sideways, out of the way of the falling body.

Fate, or Father Biene's prayers, were on their side today. As Athos lay on the forest floor weaponless, waiting to be dispatched to hell, he suddenly realized all the guards were dead. As tempting as it was simply to close his eyes and pass out, he fought the urge, forcing his feeble limbs to obey his commands. Painfully crawling on his hands and knees, he made his way over the rough ground to where Porthos was clutching his bloody right leg.

"How bad?" Athos asked, an edge of distress creeping into his voice. Porthos' pants were soaked and the dirt under the limb was turning damp with blood. The swordsman was afraid the artery was severed and the musketeer was bleeding out.

Without asking, he knelt next to the grimacing soldier, reached over and ripped the pants leg open to expose the stab wound. The blade had been driven deep into the thigh, though as he watched the amount of blood welling around the blade, and noted the position, he thought it might have missed the artery.

"Pull it out!" Porthos begged, his pain filled eyes trying to enforce the plea.

"It needs to be removed, but if we can't staunch the blood flow, you'll bleed out and die."

"Then build a fire."

The swordsman was confused. A fire? Make camp here? In the open? Surrounded by dead bodies? His eyes scanned the scene about him, noting the ground was rapidly becoming drenched in blood and suddenly he blanched when he realized what Porthos was asking.

"No. I can't do that," Athos announced, his composure falling to pieces as he stared with disbelief at the musketeer.

Porthos locked his agony filled brown eyes on the man as if willing him to understand. "I've been on the battlefield. I know what will happen if you don't. It has to be done, Athos."

Athos' medical education was limited to what he had read in books, though he knew cauterization was not uncommon for a wound such as the one in Porthos' thigh. However, he also knew the patient was just as likely to die as survive. He desperately tried to recall a book he had read by Ambroise Pare, an army surgeon, who also served as a physician to various French Kings. As a young adult, he had read the book, not so much because he was interested in the field of medicine, but because it annoyed his father.

The book had spoken of a new method of curing wounds caused by harquebus and firearms, which the young soldier wanna-be thought would be useful knowledge. The Comte de la Fére had thought the book was trash, written by a closet Huguenot, pretending to be a Catholic to stay in the good graces of the King. Of course, since his father didn't want him to, Athos had deliberately read the entire tome, struggling through its concepts, which were often graphic and grisly.

If he recalled correctly, one of Pare's main premises in the document was that there was a better, proven way to treat wounds such as this other than cauterization. The damn drums beating in his skull, courtesy of his concussion, weren't aiding in his struggle to dredge up the words from the old text. Three things, he thought, were required. Odd things. Turpentine. The oil of roses. And finally the last thing came to him, egg yolks. Pare had sworn this was most effective in the treatment of serious battlefield wounds.

Athos stared at Porthos exposed leg again, the dagger still lodged in it. If this didn't qualify as a serious battlefield wound, he didn't know what did.

"Cauterization, of which I assume you are speaking, is a methodology for treating a wound such as yours. However, I believe I have a better, less painful, and safer solution."

"You forget to tell me you were a doctor?" Porthos grunted as waves of pain flared in his wounded leg.

Athos' stoic mask was firmly affixed and he gazed at the injured man calmly. "No. But I read a book."

Porthos stared at Athos incredulously. "You read a book?"

"Books can be very informative. Have you never learned something from reading a book?"

"I can't read. Never learned."

Athos paused for a moment, cursing himself for forgetting his upbringing was very different than the majority of France's citizens. "I shall teach you, later. But for now you will simply have to take my word."

Porthos, as had been the case many times during their journey, was puzzled by the behavior of the man kneeling next to him. The swordsman had no problem being ruthless when the situation called for it, yet he was balking at performing this task. "What are you going to do?"

"First, we are going to move you, carefully, to a more out of the way location. Then I am going to ride back to town, procure the required items, return, and treat your leg." Athos explained, as if they were planning for a nice Sunday picnic.

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Anyone ever tell you, you're nuts. We just escaped from Dieppe and now you want us to go back?"

Athos shook his head slightly. "I am going back, surreptitiously, to get what we need. You are waiting here." After he paused slightly, he added, "I believe I might have been told, once or twice, I can be a little temerarious."

Porthos gave him another strange look. "If that means nuts, they were right. It's too dangerous."

"Not treating this wound properly is dangerous. My going back to Dieppe is an acceptable, calculated risk."

"No," Porthos declared firmly.

The street fighter didn't know the depths of Athos' stubbornness, but he was about to get a taste of it. Athos simply ignored him, stood, and went in search of two horses.

"What are you doing?" Porthos yelled after the departing man.

"Getting the two horses, so we can move you to a better location." As if it just dawned on him, and it probably had since his brain was still fuzzy, he asked, "Can you ride?"

Bristling like a boar, Porthos huffed. "Of course I can." The dubious glare he was treated to said otherwise. "I can," he defended himself. "Rode hurt a lot worse than this."

Athos gave a little shrug but didn't debate the subject anymore. Time would tell if Porthos was correct in his assessment of his abilities. Gathering up the two horses they had taken earlier, which luckily had hung about, he led them over to where Porthos lay.

The dubious expression washed over Athos' face once more. "Are you sure...you can ride?"

"Absolutely. Just help me up."

Dropping the reins to the ground and hoping the horses knew what that signaled, he moved to Porthos' side. It took some effort, but between them they got the large man vertical. Mounting the horse was a whole other matter and by the time they finally got him onboard, both men were cursing a blue streak and Porthos' leg was bleeding more heavily.

Athos began to doubt his plan, though he couldn't see a better alternative. Every idea seemed to have a high probability of an unhappy ending. After a last glance up at the injured musketeer, who was awkwardly perched on the horse trying to find a way to place his leg to cause the least amount of damage and pain, Athos hauled his own tired, aching body on top of his own mount and urged him into a walk.

They had travelled down the road for a few miles when Athos thought he heard the sound of running water. Leading them a few yards into the forest, where they couldn't be easily observed from the road, Athos instructed Porthos to wait while he scouted the area. The swordsman had some doubts how much of what he said had even registered with the nearly comatose man, who was only staying on the horse by sheer iron will. With misgivings, he rode off to search for the source of water.

It didn't take him long to find the small stream that was merrily babbling over its rocky bed. It was a decent distance from the road, somewhat secluded, and would offer a good place to hide the injured Porthos while he rode into town to get the supplies to fix the musketeer's horrific wound. Making his way back to where he had left Porthos, he was relieved to find the man there, on his horse, still awake and alive.

Grabbing the other horse's reins, he led the beast through the trees to the stream's edge, finding a spot he thought best to make camp. The streetfighter was so far gone, he didn't even protest being led on his horse as if he were a child. Getting Porthos off the horse was somewhat easy, but painful, for he literally fell off, and in the process, knocked Athos to the ground. Both men lay still in the grass for a moment trying to catch their breath.

Porthos, who through all his pain, managed to keep his sense of humor muttered, "You were in the way."

"I'll keep that in mind, next time," Athos retorted drily as he rolled to his hands and knees.

After a few more deep breaths, and some concentrated effort to dampen the drummer in his head, Athos rose to his feet. Then, he turned to assist Porthos over to a tree surround by a thick cushion of moss, where he could remain partially upright by leaning against the tree's trunk. Once the man was settled, Athos went back over to the horses, remembering that one had saddlebags. Rummaging through them, he found a few items of interest, including a cup, some provisions, and a flint. Bringing his new found treasures over to where Porthos was propped up, he placed them within reach of the musketeer along with both of the reloaded pistols. The cup he took to the stream, rinsed and filled it, and then added it to the pile.

Straightening, he surveyed the makeshift camp, deciding it was the best he could do at this point. His eyes roamed over the blood-soaked pant leg and he decided it didn't look all that much worse than thirty minutes ago.

"Has the bleeding stopped?" he queried the musketeer.

"Oi. For the moment, I think." Porthos eyed the man standing, observing him, noting his own injuries and the fact he was swaying, slightly, on his feet. "Athos, you're in no condition to go back to Dieppe. Let's just cauterize this and I'll take my chances."

"I won't, not when there is a better way."

The two men entered into a staring contest, iron wills clashing. However, Athos' mobility won the battle; he simply turned and walked away, issuing commands over his shoulder as he left. "Drink, eat, but stay vigilant. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

Once at his horse, he mounted and rode off without another word. Porthos' empty threats and curses faded away as he headed for the road that led back to Dieppe.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 56

The first stop Athos made on his mission to Dieppe was at the site where they had fought the guards on the road in the forest. It appeared no one had stumbled across the massacre yet, and for that he was grateful. The less attention they drew to themselves the better, which meant cleaning up the remains of this battle scene. Before he did that, he performed the distasteful task of searching the deceased guards, for he needed money to buy the medical supplies. If he came up empty handed, he'd have to figure out how to steal what he needed. Luck, or Father Biene's prayers, were still working because he found a few sacks of coins which he believed would be enough to purchase the supplies.

The other thing he did was remove the doublet of one of the guards. He donned it over his dark shirt to help hide the bloodstains from the slashes he received during the fight. Had the shirt he was wearing been lighter in color, the red would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Even though the shirt was dark in color and did a tolerable job hiding the stains, it still had a suspicious number of rents in it which might attract unwanted attention.

Wearing a jacket that identified him as one of the guards was a risk since he didn't know the townspeople's attitude towards their officials. The guard's jacket he shrugged into had one bullet hole near the heart but most of the unlucky man's blood had ended up on the man's shirt, not jacket. If no one studied it too closely, Athos hoped it would pass muster.

It wasn't easy and by the time he got all the dead bodies dragged off the road and into the undergrowth, he could list a half-a-dozen of his body parts that were extremely unhappy with him. However, the unpleasant task was done and hopefully the dead bodies wouldn't be easily spotted by anyone passing by. The last thing he and the injured Porthos needed was any more attention.

Breaking off a low, leafy branch, he swept the ground trying to mix the blood into the dirt so it wasn't quite so visible on the road's surface. As an added touch, he walked his horse back and forth over the area a number of times to further scuff the ground. Surveying his work from atop his horse, he decided it was good enough, so he turned the beast's head towards town and dug in his heels.

Riding swiftly, he did not slow the horse's gait until he neared the outskirts of Dieppe, where he pulled up so as not to attract undue notice. Athos had no idea where to find an apothecary as he steered his horse through the winding streets. When he came across a small market square, he dismounted and led the horse behind him as he examined the wares being offered by each merchant. He didn't expect to find any of the ingredients here, except perhaps the eggs.

He noticed, as he walked through the crowd, people moved aside with apprehension, telling him the guards in this town were probably feared more than respected. Getting into character, he plastered a scowl on his face, glaring at those around him. Finally, he came across an old woman near the far edge of the vendor stalls who was selling eggs. Stopping in front of her cart, he examined the eggs.

The woman, unlike the others he had encountered so far, seemed to have no fear of a guard, and in fact displayed outright distain for his mere presence. "What do you want?" the wizened woman demanded of him.

"Eggs." He did a quick count of how many she had left which was an even dozen. "All you have," he added.

The woman's eyes raked him up and down and her glare grew even more contentious. "They're not free ya know. Even guards gotta pay. I ain't no church charity."

"Of course, Madame. I fully intend to pay," he declared as he reached for the stolen purse to withdrew some coins. "Your price?"

The old woman named an outrageous sum, which made Athos glare at her. His hand swept over the items in question in an elegant gesture. "I am not asking to buy your entire flock of chickens, merely the dozen eggs displayed here."

They haggled some more before a mutually acceptable price was agreed upon and coinage changed hands.

Those dark eagle eyes raked him again and two totally unrelated statements were issued by the merchant. "How are you going to carry them? And there is a musket hole in your jacket. I know cause my son was shot by a guardsman. Killed."

Athos wasn't usually caught flat footed, but he was now as he stood there staring at the merchant woman with his mouth hanging open.

Reaching beneath her cart, she withdrew a small, lidded basket with straw in it. Placing it on the flat surface of her display table, she began gently to nestle the eggs within the cushion of hay, talking the entire time.

"Jacque was a good boy. Only son. Three daughters we had, but only one son. Good boy. Came here with me to sell our eggs and cheese. One day the guards come through, bullying everyone, taking what they want because they could. Times is hard. We need every penny we get to survive. This guard comes over and takes an entire wheel of cheese. My Jacque demands he pay for it and the scum laughs in his face. My son, he has his father's temper, insists on payment, and when the guard tells him to shove off, Jacque rips the cheese out of his hands."

The scowl that had been painted on the tired woman's face faded and was replaced with sorrow as she continued to spin her tale.

"The rest of the guards, seeing their buddy bested by a twelve-year-old boy, start laughing and making rude comments. The guard demands the cheese again and my stubborn boy refuses, clutching it to his chest like a shield. I had been a few stalls away, buying some day-old-bread. Friends of mine, always gave me a good price. I heard the commotion, saw what was happening and hurried back over, yelling for Jacque to give up the cheese."

By now, tears were leaking down her wrinkled cheeks, splashing into the straw where she was carefully packing the eggs. "I saw the guard draw his pistol, aim it at my sweet boy. I threw myself at the guard, I did, but it was too late. The bullet ripped through the cheese Jacque was clutching and into his heart. It was like a bad dream; I watched my precious boy drop the cheese and saw the blood spreading across his coat, a hand-me-down from his father. I'll never forget the look on my son's face. Disbelief. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground. I scrambled on my hands and knees to his side. His last words to me were 'Mama, I love you.'"

The last egg went into the basket and she bowed her head as she rested her hands on top of the basket for a moment. "They were gonna drag me off to jail for knocking over the guard, but in the end they settled for beating me and trashing my stand. Buried him in that coat, neat little round bullet hole and all."

Picking up the basket, she limped from behind the stand to where Athos stood. She gazed into his face. "It is the greatest sorrow to lose someone you love when you feel you could have prevented it. If I only had left Jacque home that day, not gone to buy the stupid bread, taught him to know his place and not challenge the guard..." She let out a long sigh. "I'd not be standing here today with a heart dead from grief."

She handed him the basket, which he numbly accepted, his own heart feeling constricted from hearing her story and the memories of Thomas' death it dug up.

"I can see, Monsieur, that you know the sorrow of which I speak. I don't know who you are, but I know you ain't a guard, and if the condition of your clothes and body are any indication, I'd say you've been on the wrong side of their temper. Be careful, they are dangerous. Every single one of them.''

In an uncharacteristic gesture, he reached out with his free hand and took one of hers. "Nothing I can do will ever bring your son back. But I promise you, these guards will be dealt with."

She studied his sincere green eyes once more before giving a brief nod. "I believe you are a man of your word. I can't imagine how you will do it, but it does my heart good to know there is decency in this world still."

Athos cocked his head slightly as a fleeting grin touched his lips. "Like your son, I have been told I can be stubborn, as well as determined. I have some business to attend to, but one day, I shall return." After giving the woman's hand a gentle squeeze, he let it go.

"The priest in our church advised me that vengeance is in God's hands."

Athos moved to store the container of eggs in the saddlebags. "While that may be true, Madame, I believe I have also heard that God helps those that help themselves. I shall simply offer Him some additional... assistance."

The woman shook her head as she limped back to her stall. "If you hope to pass yourself off as a guard, you better learn to look meaner and keep your mouth shut. You speak more like a nobleman than a guard."

Athos attempted not to let his body twitch at the direct hit and merely replied with a smirk, "Duly noted." As he was preparing to leave he asked if she knew of an apothecary and was directed a few streets over.

"He is honest, he is. Well, for a witch doctor."

Athos thanked her and before leaving, reached into his pocket and removed a second bag of coins that he had taken from the guards. "This belonged to a guard, who now has no need for it. A little restitution, for what was done, though I know nothing can ever erase that hurt from your heart."

She took the bag of coins, gratefully. "They're bad. The whole lot. You did the people of Dieppe a service if you killed any of them."

With a dip of his head, Athos bid the woman farewell and began pulling his horse in the direction that she had indicated would lead to the apothecary. It seemed that not only were the guards involved in shanghaiing people to serve as slaves on Spanish galleys, but many other despicable activities in this town as well. He hoped he could come up with a way to bring them to justice, not only for what they had done to him and Porthos, but also for what they did to this woman and her son. Her story, being helpless as you watched a love one die, hit way too close to home for the swordsman.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 57

As he eased his horse through the streets, he kept a sharp eye out for the guards of the town. Earlier, when he rounded one corner, he nearly ran into a small group. Only a bit of skillful maneuvering, by him and the horse, had averted disaster. Ducking into an alley that thankfully, was not a dead end, he had avoided the posse, which he feared might have been searching for the missing prisoners, i.e. him and Porthos. It was an indication of how addled his wits were that the thought of search parties in the streets of Dieppe had never crossed his mind. The only positive thing he could determine was if they were still looking for them in town, the skirmish with the guards on the road hadn't been detected yet. In a way, that made sense, since the guards had been headed into town. Perhaps they had been on a routine patrol.

After a few more streets of trial and error, Athos finally arrived at the apothecary and tied his horse to the nearby hitching rail. There was no sign of any guards in the vicinity as he slipped in the door, quietly closing it behind him. Glancing around the shop, he didn't immediately spot the proprietor so he began to walk around, reading the labels on the bottles and tins. By sheer luck he came across bottles of rose oil and he picked one up. As he rounded the next shelf, he saw a work bench in the back corner. An older, white-haired man was standing next to it grinding something with a mortar and pestle while he watched Athos.

"Finding everything you need?" he queried.

Walking over to the bench, Athos set the bottle of oil down. "I am also in need of some turpentine. Would your establishment carry it?" he asked politely, unconsciously shifting into his Comte voice.

Leaving his mixture, the man walked over to a shelf, picked up a container and placed it next to the rose oil. "Are you a new physician hired for the guards? The amount of trouble those men get into, having a doctor on staff makes sense. Ex-army surgeon? Second son of nobility? And do you know your coat has a bullet hole in it? Of course it isn't your coat otherwise you'd be dead."

Athos wasn't even sure where to begin after the man's bombardment. His confusion must have shown on his face because the old man laughed at him. "My wife says I see too much and say too much."

"You are...observant," Athos replied drily. As he reached for his coin purse, he stretched one of the gashes on his torso, which made its displeasure known with a burst of sharp pain. "Would you also, by chance, have any yarrow," he asked as he tried to breathe through the pain radiating in his side.

"Yarrow. Yes, I do have some dried." Those all too observant eyes swept his body again and it was all Athos could do to remain calm even though he really wanted to squirm under that all-knowing gaze. "I think I have exactly what you need."

The old man wandered over to his shelves, musing. He picked up and replaced a few tins and bottles before, apparently, finding what he wanted, returning to the workbench, and placing them next to the rose oil and turpentine.

As Athos scanned the labels, the man launched into an explanation. "Yarrow, for those slashes. Also willow bark for the fever and headache and finally ginger will aid with the nausea."

Before Athos could even get a word of denial out, the man prattled on. "Underneath that jacket, which obviously is not yours, your shirt and pants have rents in them that I'd say were made by a blade, or perhaps blades. The yarrow will assist in their healing. A slight flush to your skin indicates a fever, which the willow bark will help reduce. It will also help with the headache, whose signs can be detected in the wincing at noise, the squinting as well as the overall tightness in the face. And I have found that people with concussions, which I am going to go out on a limb and suggest you have, often have upset stomachs, hence the ginger."

Dumbfounded, Athos simply stared slack jawed at the man.

"Did I mention I am observant?" he offered by way of an explanation.

Finally, Athos found his voice. "I believe you did mention that at the outset."

The old man sighed, moved back around the workbench and sat on a stool. "My wife says someday it will be the death of me."

"I suppose some might find your keen powers of observation...unsettling."

"Yeah, that's what the wife says. Keep your mouth shut, Alain. Someone is going to hang you for using witchcraft. Tell me, you are a learned gentleman. Do you believe witches exist?" Alain paused and looked expectantly at Athos, clearly waiting for him to answer.

"I believe people are suspicious and superstitious about things that are unfamiliar even though there usually is a very reasonable explanation," Athos answered carefully.

"You are too young to have met Ambroise Pare. Did you train under one of his students in the army? He taught his technique to many field physicians, I have been told."

Once again, before Athos could put together a coherent thought on the quick change topic wheel, Alain forged on. "Turpentine, rose oil and I'm betting you have already procured the eggs. Must be a pretty horrific wound you are trying to heal. Avoiding the use of cauterization. Smart move. It kills as often as it cures. Pare had a good thing going though it is sad to say most doctors ignore his sage advice. Oh, you need sutures, needles, and bandages too."

He slid off the stool, hobbled over to a shelf, grabbed the previously mentioned items and added them to the growing pile along with a small pot and a bottle of brandy. "Turpentine. Dead giveaway of a Pare-trained doctor. Oh and the brandy is to disinfect the wound not drink, though ingesting some might help both of you through the ordeal."

Leaning against the bench, Alain made another uncanny proclamation. "You're not working for the guards; you are running from them. What did a son of nobility do to piss off Dieppe's guards? Your speech. Dead giveaway. You can read and obviously had access to an extensive library to have read one of Pare's treatises."

Slightly amused as well as bemused, Athos confirmed some of Alain's uncanny observations. "I am well educated, yes, though by no means a physician. My companion and I have had an altercation with the guards, and he did sustain some injuries which must be attended to before we return to Paris."

"Your name?" Alain asked.

"Athos."

"That's not your birth name," the old man declared.

"In part, it is. Now please, what do I owe you?"

The old man named a fair price which Athos agreeably paid. He then gathered up the supplies, nodded politely and headed for door.

"When you are back in Dieppe next time, Athos, under better circumstances, please stop by and see me, after you visit Father Biene. I would love to hear how your tale ends." Alain held up his hand. "The clothes. They were donated to the good father's church by me."

Athos stopped and turned back to face the old man. "Monsieur, though I am not a believer in witchcraft, you make me want to reconsider that decision. Your powers of observation are uncanny."

"It's not witchcraft. I take what I see and connect the pieces. A skill I could teach you, when you come back to visit. It can be learned and a little luck doesn't hurt."

Alain had that expression on his face again, that Athos already had learned meant he expected a positive reply. Athos had a feeling he could learn a lot from this man and his powers of observation, but he had serious doubts he would even make it back to Paris, let alone ever travel here again. So he simply tilted his head slightly, and let Alain and his powers of observation interpret that gesture.

Once outside, he stowed the items in the saddlebags, mounted up, and headed out of town. Twilight was descending, which made it a little easier to slip unnoticed through the streets. Once outside of the town, he put his horse into a canter and hurried up the road. There was enough light for him and the horse to travel safely at this speed and he was anxious to get back to Porthos and start treating the wound.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 58

In the deepening twilight, it was tricky to determine when to leave the road to find where he had left Porthos. Athos always had a fairly good sense of direction but his fatigue and concussion weren't helping. He made a few wrong turns before he finally found the makeshift campsite by the stream.

As he rode into the area, he spotted Porthos, slumped over on the ground and his heart leapt into his throat. He threw himself from his horse, rushed to the still man's side, knelt, and placed two shaking fingers on this neck. When he found a strong pulse, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, dropped back to sit on the ground, drew his knees to his chest and rested his aching head on them. His pulse was pounding in his ears in time with his racing heart. The terror he had felt at the thought of finding this man dead slowly ebbed from his body, but left his mind in a turmoil. Hugging his knees even tighter, he clenched his jaw until his teeth seemed to creak.

How had this happened! Unlocking his hands from his knees, he laced them behind his head, intertwining them in his long, tangled hair. God damn it, he swore under his breath. Not again, never again. He couldn't, wouldn't, let this happen.

Porthos had slowly regained consciousness and had become aware that he was no longer alone. The musketeer hadn't planned to pass out but, when he had accidentally jogged the blade in his thigh, the pain had been too much and he had been sucked under by the black tide. Opening his eyes, he discovered two new things; darkness was descending and Athos had returned. However, the condition that the man was in was unsettling. Hunched over, frantically running his hands through his hair, the man appeared incredibly distraught.

"Athos. What's wrong?" Porthos asked, his voice deep with concern.

Suddenly realizing he was no longer alone, not, technically, that he ever had been, Athos rolled to his knees, rose, and turned his back to Porthos. He had to regain his physical composure even if his mental one was still in turmoil. How could he have been so weak, so stupid as to allow this to happen. When he rode up and for a moment thought that Porthos had died, he had cared! After Thomas, after Anne, after all the crap he'd gone through, he had sworn to himself he would never allow anyone to enter his heart in that manner again. And yet he recognized the familiar feeling when he thought something had happened to Porthos.

Still cursing silently under his breath, he vowed to harden his treacherous heart. He didn't need that pain again, would not suffer it. Solitude. Detachment. Even death. That is what he required. That is what he deserved. Those around him always suffered for his follies, his weakness. He would not drag anyone else down that path again.

Porthos, he had come to learn during their turbulent journey, was too good a man to be caught in the disastrous turmoil that was Athos' life. The swordsman wouldn't allow this man to be destroyed by him, because he dared to call him friend. And there it was...out in the open...he thought of Porthos as a friend. When the hell had that happened? When had those damn tendrils wrapped themselves around his heart? However it had occurred, it had to end here and now. He would not destroy another life.

Athos turned to face the injured man on the ground, his face hardening into an indecipherable mask. He would do everything in his power to get Porthos healed, back to Paris and the garrison. Then, he would leave, sever those damn ties that were starting to bind him to the musketeers. His father was right; he was a weak man. But he would right this wrong before anyone else got killed because of him.

Repositioning his torso so he was leaning against the tree trunk, Porthos watched the strange transformation happening to Athos. A moment ago he would have sworn that Athos had been upset and worried about him, and yet now the swordsman was staring at him with cold indifference. It was if he had somehow mortally offended the man, Porthos silently mused. And in Athos' tortured mind he had. Porthos had dared to become his friend.

"Something wrong, Athos?" he ventured, tentatively.

The reply he got was brusque and, the street fighter felt, not quite truthful. "We are losing the light and that dagger needs to be removed."

"You seemed distressed a moment ago. Did something happen in town?"

No, damn it, Athos thought as he moved away to collect the saddlebags from his horse. It was coming back here, thinking you were dead and realizing I truly cared about what happened to you that is distressing me. But out loud he answered, "No. Nothing."

In the future, Porthos would recognize that Athos was going into one of his self-flagellation spirals and taken action to correct his brother's behavior before it got out of control. But at this point in their brotherhood, they weren't anywhere near that level of understanding, so he let the incident go.

After dropping the bags on the ground near Porthos, the swordsman headed off to gather firewood and some stout branches to make torches. After the fire was blazing and the torches assembled for when he would require them, he paused for a minute, apprehensive about what came next.

Athos was by no means a stranger to wounds, both others' and his own, still, he had been more of an observer than an active participant. While he had read Pare's book, reading and doing were totally different. Then there was the needlework that he was sure was going to be required. When he was ten and his horse had cut its flank on a branch, Athos had assisted the stable master in sewing up the wound, poorly he might add. But this was a whole different realm.

One thing his father had always preached was to take things one step at a time, don't go looking for trouble, and Athos followed that advice now. Step one, wash out the wound. Assisting Porthos to his feet, he moved him to the edge of the stream, then took one of the cloths given to him by Alain at the apothecary to serve as a rag.

Ripping an even larger hole in Porthos' pants leg so he could see what he was doing, he carefully wet the rag in the stream then held it ready. "This is probably going to be...unpleasant," he warned, unnecessarily.

Porthos clamped his teeth tight, then nodded to indicate he was prepared. It took forever, at least in the streetfighter's mind, for Athos to decide the wound was sufficiently cleansed and he was openly panting by the end of the washing session. Unpleasant was the understatement of the day for every time the rag touched his leg, it jiggled the knife, ever so slightly, and sent ripples of fiery pain up and down his leg. Though Athos' face remained calm and dispassionate, inside the swordsman was writhing as much as his patient.

Helping Porthos rise, they limped back over to the tree again, Athos supporting a good portion of Porthos' weight. After he was settled on the ground, Athos knelt next to him then held out the bottle of brandy, which he had retrieved from the saddlebags.

"I'm no doctor, but I think we should use this both externally and internally."

Porthos stuck out his hand and wiggled his fingers. "I think that is excellent medical advice." Seizing the bottle, he downed a few healthy swigs, moaning as it burned a path through his system to his stomach where it settled with a nice warm sensation. Since he hadn't eaten, it left him slightly euphoric.

As he handed the bottle back to Athos, he warned, "Not too much. No food and you're a flyweight compared to me. Don't want my doctor drunk."

Athos contemplatively scrutinized the container in his hand. Porthos was wrong. There wasn't anywhere near enough brandy there to even begin to get him drunk, let alone dull the self-inflicted pain that was a constant in his soul. Raising the bottle to his lips, he took a swig, letting it slide down his throat before lowering it and positioning it over the wound on Porthos' thigh.

"Ready?"

"Can I have another drink first?" Porthos pleaded.

Athos considered the request then denied it, for the moment. "You'll probably need it more later and I didn't have the foresight to get two bottles."

"Poor planning," the other man grumbled.

Athos gave a little half smirk, where the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly to indicate he was amused. "Perhaps. I am going to pull the knife out, pour the brandy over the wound, then apply pressure."

"Sounds wonderfully exciting."

Athos, who had been sitting on his heels, rose to his knees, positioning himself for the task at hand. "Should you feel the need to pass out, do so, but don't fall on me."

"Was that a joke? Did you just make a..."

Porthos' comment was cut off by his screaming as Athos pulled the dagger, carefully, but quickly, from the musketeer's leg then liberally doused the wound with the brandy. Porthos strung together a very graphic string of curses that certainly gave away his heritage as a child of the Court of Miracles.

Athos blocked out Porthos obscenities as he focused on the task at hand, trying to determine when to stop flushing the gash and apply pressure. The amount of blood welling up wasn't as bad as he expected and he hoped that indicated the artery was intact and not even nicked. Grabbing a wad of cloth, he pressed it into the wound and held it firmly in place as Porthos' leg bucked underneath him. Maybe he should have knocked the musketeer out before he did this because he wasn't a very good patient.

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Porthos' arm swung upwards, connecting with the side of Athos' chin and knocking him over. As he lay there in the dirt, gingerly massaging the side of his bruised cheek, Athos decided this wasn't going to work. He was already dubious about his ability to sew the wound closed and he was absolutely sure he wasn't going to be able to do it with Porthos acting like a kicking mule. Really wanting to save the brandy for future disinfecting, he could only think of one other option.

With a stifled groan, Athos got back on his knees next to the writhing patient. "Porthos?" he called out pleasantly to capture the man's attention. When Porthos' head rotated to look at him, he used his formidable right hook to knock the man out. Sitting back on his haunches, he watched as the musketeer went out like a snuffed candle. Massaging his knuckles, he thought, drastic, but necessary. Athos had no idea he had just started a long-term tradition that he and Aramis would use more times than not in the future.

With trepidation, Athos threaded the needle, taking a few stabs at it before he got it done properly. A light sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. He wiped it off with his sleeve, blaming it on being too near the torch and the return of his fever, not admitting a third component, nerves, was also in play.

Biting back a sigh, he stared at the puckering wound, thinking at least it wasn't in a visible location. Not many would ever see the ugly scar he was sure to leave behind with his amateur sewing skills. The objective was to close the wound and stop the bleeding. Neatness per se really didn't count though if Aramis were here he would disagree. The future medic of the tribe took enormous pleasure and pride in his neat needlework.

Delay wasn't making the task any easier. The torches were burning down; Porthos might wake, and he was exhausted and ready to collapse. He had to stop dilly-dallying and get on with it. For what felt like an eternity, Athos clumsily struggled to suture the wound, all the while thinking he should have read a book, or at least a short treatise, on this particular subject.

By the time he tied off the last knot, with a little prayer to a God he didn't believe in that it would hold, his hands were trembling and his body soaked in sweat. For good measure, he poured some more brandy over the wound, as well as in his own mouth. As much as he simply wanted to collapse and sleep, he knew he wasn't quite done yet, for he still had to make and apply the poultice. The pot, supplied by Alain's foresight, or witchcraft as his wife declared, became essential as Athos mixed up the tincture, racking his memory to recall what he had read. It had been ages ago so he wasn't sure if he had the portions right.

His nose wrinkled as he spread the unpleasant smelling concoction over the wound on Porthos' right thigh. The rose oil was unable to combat the astringent smell of the turpentine. The egg yolks simply made it a slimy mess and Athos was relieved when he finally got the last swatch of the bandage wrapped around the leg.

Grabbing the nearly spent torch, he took it down to the stream, jammed it in the ground and proceeded to scrub his hands, arms and, as an afterthought, his face. It was warm enough that he could have stripped and washed up in the stream, but he felt it might be better for him to be around when Porthos regained consciousness, to offer reassurance and stop him from moving and aggravating the new stitches.

When the last of the torches sputtered out, he left them unlit. There was enough ambient light from the campfire and quarter moon for his immediate needs, which consisted of fighting off the exhaustion trying to claim his body and waiting for Porthos to rouse.

Towards dawn, Porthos got more restless and Athos laid a concerned hand on the musketeer's forehead detecting a growing fever. Stoking the fire, he used the willow bark to make a tea in the handy little pot, which he had rinsed and filled in the stream. After it boiled, he set it aside to steep and cool.

As the first rays of the sun struck the horizon, Porthos' eyelids fluttered open and he blearily scanned his surroundings. Without thinking, he tried to straighten his leg, which sent unpleasant shockwaves of pain through his body. His moan caused Athos' to open his own eyes, which had drifted shut.

Athos was too tired even to try to think of what to say, so he simply rose, grabbed the pot of willow bark tea and shoved it at Porthos. "Drink."

Porthos took the little pot, which was sufficiently cooled, and cradled it for a moment before taking tentative sip and pulling a face. "That's nasty."

"Drink," the weary swordsman repeated, gruffly.

After taking a second sip, Porthos declared, "Really nasty."

"It's medicine. It's supposed to be nasty."

"Why is that?"

Athos ran a tired hand over his face then massaged the back of his neck. "I...don't...know."

Without further complaint, Porthos downed the rest of the concoction, then held out the pot for Athos to take. Accepting the vessel, he set it aside, then rose and moved over to the saddlebags, rummaging in the left hand one until he found the food. It wasn't much, hard bread, dried out cheese and a few strips of dried meat, but it was something. Gathering it up, he deposited it on a small piece of cloth next to Porthos, before retrieving the cup from where he had placed it, taking it down to the stream, rinsing and filling it. Adding that to the small meal, he moved a few feet away and dropped back on the ground.

"Eat."

"Anyone ever mention you are not a morning person."

"Yes."

"Or much of a conversationalist."

"Eat."

Porthos picked up a slice of dried meat, bit off a small piece, chewed and swallowed. "Aren't you gonna join me."

"No."

"You already ate?" Porthos asked as he broke off a piece of cheese.

"Yes."

Porthos still wasn't quite cognizant of Athos' particular brand of lying or he would have called him out on his answer. Since Porthos hadn't specified a timeframe, technically, Athos' answer was correct. Athos had eaten some time in his life, just not today, or maybe even yesterday, he really couldn't remember.

Unbidden, Athos' eyes drifted shut again and remained that way until Porthos cleared his throat, loudly, to get his attention, at which point his eyes flew open and he peered about, startled.

"I said, lay down and sleep. You're gonna get all cramped and achy sleeping like that. God knows your personality doesn't need to any additional help in the area of being grouchy."

Athos blinked rather stupidly at the musketeer as he tried to wade through the overly long, convoluted sentence.

Porthos decided rephrase in a more simplistic and direct approach. "Lay down. Sleep."

"They may be searching. I need to keep watch," Athos mumbled, still quite groggy.

"You can't keep watch with your eyes shut."

"Were not shut."

Porthos' snort said it all. "Yeah. Right."

Athos tried to glare stubbornly at the musketeer, but a yawn rather diluted the effect.

Porthos tried to reason with the man. "Athos. I'm rested. I have the four, fully loaded pistols within reach. I can keep watch

"You have a fever."

"As do you. But I'm willing to bet only one of us drank that nasty brew."

Athos knew he was physically incapable of remaining conscious any longer, so he said, "Fine." Dropping to his side and curling into a ball, he passed out.

"New record," Porthos muttered as he adjusted his position to something more comfortable to keep watch.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 59

He was hot, sticky, and someone had obviously stuffed his mouth full of cotton and glued his eyelids closed. Those were Athos' first thoughts upon waking. His second thought was Porthos. Forcing his recalcitrant eyes open, he scanned where he had last seen the man only to find it empty.

Struggling to push himself upright, he wildly peered around the campsite, which was totally empty. Panic took root in the pit of his stomach as he tried to climb to his feet.

"Where ya goin'?" Porthos questioned as he limped into sight from the direction of the stream. "I was getting some water to make some more of that delicious tea."

Athos sank back to the ground. "How long was I asleep?" he questioned as he ran a hand through his sleep tousled hair.

"Two days," the musketeer nonchalantly threw over his shoulder as he set the pot to warm on the fire. He didn't even need to turn around to see the shock on Athos' face. He knew he had just thrown the swordsman for a loop." Yep, been takin' care of you." The musketeer could practically feel the blush that his comment put on Athos' face.

Silence settled over the campsite, while Athos tried to assimilate the fact he had been out for two days. When the potion was warmed, Porthos rose, shuffled over to where Athos still sat in shock, and thrust the cup at him.

"Drink."

Athos made no move to comply.

"Drink or I will pour it down your throat like I have for the last two days. Trust me, you didn't like that very much. I'd take the opportunity to do it yourself."

As if he were accepting poison, Athos took the cup then cradled it in his lap. With a grunt, Porthos moved a few feet away and settled on the ground, stretching his injured leg out in front of him.

Athos' gaze strayed to the bandage. "Your leg?"

As if to prove a point, he gingerly patted it. "Doing great. Been putting that poultice on it with the foul smelling stuff..."

"Turpentine."

"... and no sign of infection, no bleeding and it is healing. Fever's gone too. I'm good to go. Just waiting for you to wake up, sleepyhead."

"You should have woken me up," Athos berated the grinning musketeer.

"Ya, well easier said than done. Besides exhaustion and lack of food, you were running a high fever again. Who's Anne?"

"I have no idea," Athos lied, as he dropped his head to study the infusion in the pot.

"Yeah, well the way you carried on about her makes me think that ain't true. Anyways, drink," Porthos demanded again.

Athos lifted the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. It was disgusting.

"Recognize it? Yarrow. We're out of willow bark, but I found the yarrow in the saddlebags. Smart idea considering our luck of late."

"Was Alain's idea. He was observant, or a witch," Athos muttered under his breath.

Porthos chose to ignore what he thought was the tail end of fever-addled-ramblings. "I shot a few rabbits and made a nice roast. Finish that tea, haul your ass to the stream and bathe; you stink, and then we will have a delicious meal."

Athos sat there dumbfounded. Who had died and left Porthos king.

"Oh. And I'm coming down to the stream to examine all the souvenir slashes you have picked up on this vacation to ensure none are infected, as well as the barnacle bite," he added as an afterthought. "No arguments. I can still take you, even with one leg tied behind my back," he threatened in a joking manner.

"Not with a sword," Athos mumbled as he lifted the pot to his lips and drained it.

"You don't have a sword, now do you. So shut up and get moving."

As he pushed to his feet, he scanned the campsite for the weapons they had taken from the guards and found they were neatly stacked within arm's reach of where he had been lying.

He rolled his eyes at Porthos, who shrugged, grinned, then pointed towards the stream. "Go."

Wandering down to the stream, he stripped, then waded into the stream which was just brisk enough to be refreshing. Moving around he found a deeper spot and sank down, letting the current flow over his entire body up to his neck. Eventually he even ducked his head under the water and scrubbed at his dirty, matted hair, then combed through it with his fingers. He chuckled when he realized its length. His parents would have had a fit to see their first born with such long hair. Peasants and kings had overly long locks, nobles were supposed to be more refined.

After scrubbing his body, he tried to clean his clothes through a combination of beating them on the rocks and scrubbing them in the water. Honestly, he didn't think they looked any better, but they were a little less pungent. Yanking his braies on, he left the stream and headed back to the campsite, carrying the rest of his clothes, wanting them to dry a little before he put them back on.

Porthos, who hadn't made good on his threat to come down to the stream and examine his wounds, did so now. After Athos hung his pants and shirt over some low tree branches, Porthos gestured him over.

"Look, my leg ain't hundred percent healed so don't make me chase you all over the camp. Be a sport, come over here and be still."

For a moment, Athos remained stationary, glaring defiantly at the musketeer.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You have a formidable stare. But that doesn't work on a friend like me. So come here. Please."

Porthos was fairly certain the please had not been the deciding factor, but Athos did reluctantly move in his direction and stood where Porthos could examine his healing wounds.

"Let's start on your back," Porthos declared as he limped behind the man. Grunting, he ran an eye over the marks left by the whip. Most were healing nicely though one or two of the deepest ones were red.

While Porthos was making his inspection, Athos was thinking about 'friend' again, the word that kept popping out of the musketeer's mouth at such inopportune moments. He thought it behooved him to take this opportunity to set the record straight.

"In less than a week, if things go well, we will be back in Paris. You shall return to the garrison and being a musketeer, and I shall be on my way."

"Uh-huh," Porthos mumbled distractedly as he awkwardly bent over to look at the gash on Athos' calf, which he got in the ocean. "Put your foot up here on this log, will ya. Make it easier on me."

With an exasperated sigh, Athos did as requested.

Porthos tapped on the flesh a few inches above the laceration and Athos couldn't keep from wincing. "Yeah. That still don't look so good. Infected. Even after the yarrow. Maybe Aramis will know what to do for it. If not, Captain Treville can call in the doc that helps out."

Determinedly, Athos tried again. "I am not a musketeer and expect no favors from the captain. Perhaps I won't even return to the garrison, but head straight out." In a display of defiance, Athos removed his leg from the log.

Unimpressed, Porthos moved around to examine the front and sides of Athos' torso. "Head straight out where?"

"What?" Athos asked, distracted as Porthos started poking at his ribs to see if any were broken.

"You said you weren't going to the garrison, but will head straight out. Straight out where?" Before Athos could even draw a breath to answer, Porthos went on, "Though it doesn't really matter since you will go to the garrison, no matter what."

"Why do you say that?" Athos asked in an irritated tone because Porthos' fingers were tickling his skin as he felt his ribs. "Stop that," he demanded, slapping Porthos' hands away.

The musketeer grinned, and folded his hands over his broad chest. "Why? You ticklish?"

"No," Athos lied. "There is nothing wrong with my ribs. You could have simply asked me."

"And you would have lied, just like you always do when you are injured. I ain't stupid. I have learned that much about you over the last few months."

Athos had the decency not to argue with the statement, which was an actual fact. The swordsman even flushed a little at being called on the carpet.

"Wanna know why I know you are gonna go to the garrison and see Captain Treville when we get back to Paris?" Porthos challenged Athos.

Athos stared at the larger man for a few moments, before grinding out, "Why?"

Leaning slightly forward, he placed his large hands on Athos' shoulders. "Cause you want the bastards that did this to us, that are terrorizing Dieppe, that are enslaving our citizens, that caused our shipmates to be killed just...as...much...as...I..do."

Porthos gave Athos' shoulders a little shake, then let go. "And to do that we, you and I, need to explain to the captain what is going on and get him to go to the King and stop this."

Porthos began examining the gashes on Athos' torso from the most recent sword fight. "For someone who is the best swordsman I have ever seen, you got hit a lot in that last fight with the guards, and they weren't that great."

"I was distracted," Athos replied offhandedly before challenging, "And what if he doesn't?"

"The captain is a decent, honorable man. He'll listen. But none of that is gonna happen if you don't take care of yourself. Some of these wounds are infected. I say we use some of that turpentine crap on them. Worked wonders on my leg."

That made the swordsman take a step backwards. "No. That is specifically for more... grievous...wounds."

"Says who?"

In his best authoritative, don't challenge me tone, Athos replied. "Ambroise Pare. In his book."

"Well since I can't read, I guess I'll have to take your word for it. Fine," he said as he moved towards where he had placed their dwindling medical supplies. "There is still yarrow left."

After mixing up a paste, he had Athos sit and he applied the herb to the infected wounds before wrapping them. "Well after you are a musketeer, you can teach me to read in-between assignments, and when we are on the road."

Athos' body suddenly jolted and Porthos thought he must have hit sore spot and after a fashion, he had hit a nerve, with his musketeer comment.

"I'm not suited to be a musketeer," Athos growled as he got up and moved away.

Luckily, Porthos had finished, so he didn't have to chase after Athos or beg him to return, because he had a funny feeling it would be useless. Athos had stalked to the far side of the fire, standing in the lengthening shadows.

Rising, Porthos stored away the unused supplies before moving to the area he was using as his outdoor bed. "You are more suited to be a musketeer than half the stupid sons of nobility currently in the regiment. I don't know your background and frankly I don't care. Nor does Treville. We all got things we are ashamed of but the captain can see past that and make you into a better man as a musketeer. Trust me. I know."

The big man lay down and got as comfortable as possible on the hard ground. "Get some sleep. We have a long ride ahead of us to get home."

Athos stood for a long time in the shadows, digesting Porthos' simple words. A part of his traitorous heart wanted to believe in all Porthos said. But then his mind stepped in and reminded him exactly what he had done and why the dream of being a musketeer was unrealistic. He was not worthy

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 60

What should have been a four-day journey was now on its seventh miserable day. One of them was anxious to get back to Paris, the other not so much. Neither man held much hope that any one was expecting them to show up in Paris, not after so long.

Porthos wanted to get to Paris and back to his life as a musketeer, the life for which he had fought so hard. He also suspected that Aramis wouldn't have totally given up hope of his return. After what had occurred at Savoy, Porthos had felt horrible that he had added to the burden on Aramis' soul. He was looking forward to remedying the situation with his return.

Athos' wasn't sure he wanted to return to Paris. He was downright scared of what was happening to him. In unguarded moments, he caught himself wondering if he could have a life with the musketeers. Was it such a bad path to take? He could try to redeem himself by serving his King and Country. And, if he happened to die while serving, perhaps recapture a small portion of his soul? Nothing, of course, could stop him from going to hell for his actions, but it would be nice to die with a little honor rather than as a washed up drunk.

What really scared him and made him want to ride off into the night was the friendship Porthos kept pushing on him. Then, there was also Aramis to consider if he went back to Paris and the garrison. The musketeer had already made it quite clear he considered Athos his friend, no matter how much the swordsman had tried to disillusion the gregarious musketeer. The thought of having two friends, when he was supposed to be in self-exile, was terrifying. Athos was unable to fathom how friends could help him. He was only able to see how he could hurt them. The only thing that kept him from disappearing was the promise he had made to Aramis to ensure Porthos made it back to the musketeers and above all else, he was a man of honor. He would deliver on that vow.

There was also the issue of what was occurring in Dieppe, a vileness he wanted corrected. Athos had no clue whether the captain could get the King to do anything about the situation. But it was Athos' duty, he felt, to make sure the captain was aware of what was occurring in Dieppe. And if no official action was taken, he'd simply go back on his own and right what he could, for he wasn't above taking the law into his own hands if he felt the cause was just.

Both men were having some doubts they would make it back to Paris, as they and the horses were beyond exhausted. Athos had used the last of the coins they had taken from the guard for the medical supplies. Perhaps in hindsight, giving the second bag to the woman in the square whose son had been killed by the guards had not been a smart move, but at the time it felt like the honorable thing to do. However, it left them without means to procure food, lodging or even replace the horses if one dropped dead.

They had decided not to use the main road between Dieppe and Paris for a number of reasons. They weren't sure how ambitiously the captain of the guards at Dieppe might search for them. Porthos and Athos had killed a number of his men, not to mention the captain probably wasn't pleased that they knew about his illegal activities. They would mostly likely lose any fight that occurred with the guards. The last of their bullets had been used shooting game for dinner, so they only had their swords and daggers left. Both men were barely mobile because of fatigue and the leg wound each was sporting. The chances of them winning a sword fight, even given their superior skills, were nil. So they took a lesser known path that wound through the forest and was rarely travelled. This, of course, increased their chances of being set upon by bandits, but they hoped anyone that might think of robbing them would take one look at them and their horses and deem it not worth the effort.

Their injuries were also starting to become a concern. At best guess they were still two days out from Paris and the last of Pare's medicinal poultice had been used the previous night. Today, as they rode, each man had noticed their legs were growing sore and hot to the touch. However, neither man had seen fit to mention it when they stopped for the night, to huddle miserably around the small campfire they had barely managed to scrape together. The days were warm, but the nights were dipping into the lower temperatures and the only protections they had from the weather were the horses' blankets and the fire.

They had seen a colony of rabbits when they stopped for the night and Porthos' cleverly set snare netted the men dinner. They spit and roasted the single bunny and as soon as it was done, eagerly tore into its flesh. They hadn't eaten at all yesterday and the meal, tiny as it was, felt like a feast to the travelers.

Conversation between the men had become non-existence except for a few words; it simply was too exhausting. For the first three days Porthos had been talkative, regaling Athos with tales of his life in the Court of Miracles, things he had never told anyone else. Being as taciturn as the swordsman was, the streetfighter was sure Athos would never share what he was being told, nor judge him for it. It actually made Porthos feel better to have someone to 'confide' in, even if he was dubious this was a two-way friendship. But talking, telling tales of his past, exploits from his days in the infantry and more recently the musketeers, made the leagues pass more quickly and the nights seem shorter and a little less miserable.

Athos, who was never a conversationalist and didn't share any of his own stories, grew even more remote as the days passed. However, he was enjoying listening to Porthos' tales. It exposed him to a whole new world of which he was only vaguely aware, and made him realize how big the gap was between the haves and the have nots. The swordsman found he missed Porthos' stories when on the fourth day of their journey, the man grew quiet, for the mere act of talking was becoming draining.

On the morning of the fifth day of what should have been a four-day journey on a good horse, they passed a few landmarks that Athos recognized, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, he initiated a conversation.

"I believe I know where we are. At this rate, we have at least a two more days before we reach Paris." Athos' voice was gravelly from disuse and dehydration, the normal smooth, cultivated bass timbre gone.

Porthos simply grunted to acknowledge he'd heard as he continued to stare straight ahead.

The near lack of response from Porthos concerned Athos. "Are you going to make it?" he asked bluntly.

The note of honest concern he heard in the swordsman's inquiry spurred him to reassure the man. "I didn't survive a slave galley to die on my way to Paris. I'll make it."

"Good. I'd expect no less."

They were riding, side by side and Porthos slowly twisted his head to look over Athos. "Another joke. Aren't we becoming the comedian."

They dropped back into silence, the only sounds were the shuffling of the horse's feet as they occasionally struck a rock with their tired hooves.

It was a while later when Athos asked his second question, as if he had had to regather his strength to speak again. "Your leg. How is it. By Treville's standard of truth telling."

Porthos let out a dry chuckle, remembering the lecture he'd given Athos on the necessity to own up to one's injuries. "Sore. This damn constant riding ain't helping it." He paused a moment then tacked on, "I think the infection might be back."

Athos nodded as if to say 'as I suspected'.

"And your souvenir of the sea?" he countered, referring to the gash on Athos' calf from the barnacle encrusted rock.

"I read once, that cuts from barnacles tend to fester and take weeks, even months, to heal," Athos supplied in the way of an answer.

"For a man of few words, that was a long way of saying yes."

With a sigh that was loud enough for Porthos to hear, Athos said, "I suppose it was."

That night, after they had more tumbled off their horses than dismounted, and made a small fire, more for comfort than anything else, since they had no food and no energy to even try to hunt, Athos requested to see Porthos' wound.

"Why? You can't do anything. We have no supplies."

Even though he knew what Porthos' said was true, it would make the swordsman feel better to see the wound and see how far the infection has spread.

"Pretend I am Treville. Or Aramis. Humor me."

Porthos stared at him but made no sign he planned to comply.

"Please," Athos asked wearily. "I am too sore and exhausted to get on my knees and beg."

"Another joke," Porthos pointed out. After a few seconds he asked, "Would you? Get on your knees and beg? I'd kinda like to see that, I would."

"Now who is the comic," Athos retorted. The small lift of the corner of his mouth could barely count as a smile, or even a smirk. "Please."

The streetfighter began sliding out of his trousers and unwinding the dingy linen from around his thigh. Athos shuffled closer to examine the wound. He was strangely pleased to see his inexpert stitches had managed to hold. The edges of the wound were turning a bit red, though there was no sign of pus or the telltale angry red lines running down the man's leg.

Athos raised his eyes to look at Porthos, who was awaiting his proclamation. "It's better than I thought," the swordsman answered honestly. "I think you'll make it to Paris," he added as he shuffled a few feet away before gingerly lowering his body to the ground.

A fortuitous neigh from the horses allowed Athos to skillfully turn the conversation away from the request to see his wound that he knew Porthos was going to make. "Though I am not so sure the horses will last. Yours seems to be favoring its left rear hoof and mine can barely keep its head up to see where it is going. I'll check your horse's hoof," he announced as he rose from the ground with more energy than seemed possible and headed off into the darkness to where the horses were tethered so they could graze on the grass.

Once out of Porthos' view, he quickly dropped to the ground, his little burst of energy quickly exhausted. The swordsman lay in the grass for quite a while, having no intention of checking the horse's hoof for there was nothing wrong with it. He had fabricated the story because he didn't want Porthos to insist on seeing his gash, which looked worse than Porthos', showing more signs that an infection had set in.

He was hoping if he waited long enough, Porthos would drift off to sleep and the topic would be closed for the night. As he lay there in the grass, he studied the two horses in the moonlight. Their coats were as dull as their eyes and their bones plainly visible. He had been serious when he'd expressed doubts about them being able to last the rest of the trip to the garrison. If one or both of them died, they would be in deep trouble. Athos couldn't speak for Porthos, but he suspected neither of them would have the reserves to make it to Paris under their own power. Porthos had been right. It would be a damn stupid way to die this close to home.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 61

The next morning found the men waking to the occasional drop of rain splattering on their bodies and it took only a quick glance at the dark clouds in the angry sky to see they would soon be soaked. The subject of Athos' wound was overshadowed by the urgency to get underway and resume their journey. It was going to be miserable riding today no matter what, and they simply wanted to get on their way.

As Athos was mounting, he lost control of the descent of his leg over the horse's bony back and hit his wounded calf on the side of the beast. He ducked his head to hide his face from Porthos and bit his tongue to keep from crying out loud as the excruciating pain shot up his leg. Sweat poured down his spine as he silently fought through the waves of misery radiating through his body. For a moment he feared he was going to faint, as the waves of black dots in front of his eyes began to merge into a solid curtain. But the heavens chose that moment to open up and pour a deluge of icy, cold rain on his head, which shocked him back from the edge of unconsciousness and gave him the strength to ride.

They rode in varying degrees of rain all day long, the horses' hooves making squishing noises as they cupped the muddy track. The wet ground was treacherous, which was an additional burden on the ailing beasts. If either Porthos or Athos thought they could have mustered the strength to walk, they would have dismounted and given their horses a break. But they couldn't and the best thing they could offer was to let the horses set their own pace, no matter how slow. At least they were progressing forward, towards home.

Focused on staring at his horse's mane, and struggling to ignore his pain and stay mounted, Athos almost missed it. Though it had stopped raining about an hour ago, a particularly obnoxious drop of water made its icy way down his back, causing him to raise his head and flex his shoulders to blot it against his shirt. His eyes swept their vicinity and he realized he recognized where they were, nearly to the outskirts of Paris.

"Porthos!" He was forced to repeat the musketeer's name a number of times before he got a response from the man, who appeared to be in a trance.

Ponderously, Porthos turned his head until he was staring at Athos. His lips moved, but the swordsman wasn't sure he actually spoke aloud.

"We are less than a league from the outskirts of Paris!"

Porthos turned his eyes from his riding companion to the path in front of them. "You sure? I still see trees."

"Very sure. These trees will give way soon to a field and then the fields outside of Paris proper."

Porthos unconsciously straightened in his saddle, peering harder up the track as if he could make Paris magically appear. "My God, we made it."

A shudder ran through Athos' frame and he hoped it was because of another errant rain drop and not a bad omen.

As predicted, the trees thinned and finally disappeared, offering the first glance of Paris in the distance. It was already well past midday, approaching evening. The men had to make a decision. Ride on or camp one more night and head out in the morning. They were on the far side of Paris from the garrison and the time it would take them to get there from their current position meant it would be in the early hours of the morning before they arrived. The horses had no reserves so they couldn't increase their plodding pace at all.

"Ride on or stop?" Athos finally spoke the question in both their minds.

"If I get off this horse now, I don't know that I could get back on," Porthos answered honestly.

Athos nodded in agreement. "Me neither. We ride for the garrison."

The sun had set by the time they entered the city limits of Paris. It wasn't a very nice area, one with which Athos wasn't overly familiar, so he let Porthos lead, dropping a few paces behind him. The streetfighter seemed to have a good idea where they were and the best route to get to the musketeer garrison.

It was sudden, unexpected, and only by sheer luck that Athos' leg wasn't crushed when his horse simply stopped and collapsed from underneath him.

As a boy, one of the swordsman's riding instructors had been an ex-soldier with a game leg. The man had been in a skirmish when his horse was shot and the beast had dropped to the ground, crushing the soldier's leg under its body. The man had been lucky to keep his leg, but It was never right again and ended his career in the military. Despite his poorly healed leg, he was still an outstanding rider and made his way in the world by teaching horsemanship to the sons of the nobility.

The instructor had explained to Athos that besides getting shot or stabbed on the battlefield, the next most likely thing to maim a solider was having his horse killed beneath him. The instructor was a prime example of his own theorem so he taught Athos what to do if his horse fell. They had practiced falling from many inanimate objects to learn the technique and Athos proved to be an adept student. Only once had they actually practiced on a live subject. In a cruel fashion, his instructor had wound a rope around the feet of the horse Athos was sitting on at a standstill, and then, without warning, yanked the beast's feet hard enough to make the gelding fall.

Instinct from so much practice took over, and Athos had successfully thrown his body clear of the falling horse. However, it was at that inopportune moment his father had come upon them. Seeing the perceived danger to which the instructor was subjecting his heir, and his horse, he had sacked the man on the spot, and told him he'd get no positive references from the Comte de la Fére. Athos had tried explaining and pleading with his father but to no avail. The riding instructor had been gone within the hour.

It was what that instructor had taught him, all those years ago, that saved Athos now. Muscle memory is a long and powerful thing and when his mind registered what was happening, his muscles took over and got him free of the falling beast. It wasn't graceful; and he hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, but he was alive and uncrushed.

Porthos heard the thud of the horse as it hit the ground and he turned around to see what was going on. The full moon provided enough light for him easily to see the horse lying, unmoving, on the ground.

"Athos?" he called out in alarm, not spotting the man at first.

Athos, who was a few feet away from the downed beast, in the shadows, would have loved to reply. For once he wasn't being recalcitrant. He simply didn't have the breath to answer at the moment.

Porthos, getting no reply, edged his horse closer to the horse lying on its side in the dirt road. At this distance he could see clearly enough to determine that Athos wasn't trapped under the horse, but where was he? Casting his eyes in a wider arc, he finally saw a movement in the shadows. Urging his horse closer, he spotted Athos, hunched over on the ground.

"Christ, Athos. You scared me. Why didn't you answer?"

The swordsman, who finally was able to drag some air into his abused lungs, haltingly answered, "Would...if...could."

"You alright? You don't sound good," Porthos stated as he began to swing down from his horse.

"Don't!" Athos yelped with such urgency that Porthos stopped. "Don't get …off… your horse."

Porthos looked down at him, confused by the order. "Why not?"

Athos struggled to sit up straighter, drawing in a breath as he craned his neck to peer up at Porthos. "Because you might not... be able to get back on."

Porthos was rather lost as to where this conversation was headed, so he focused back on the downed horse. "What happened?" he asked gesturing toward the inert animal.

"He fell... over."

"Tripped?"

Athos pondered that for a moment, looking at the totally lifeless horse. "I think he… dropped dead."

"He served well. Bravely. Fine animal," the streetfighter surmised. "You ok?"

"Winded, bruised… but nothing more," he answered somewhat truthfully. "You need to keep going... to the garrison."

"Not bloody likely. Not without you," Porthos declared as he appeared about to dismount once more.

Using the commanding tone that had been born within him, Athos barked, "Don't!" once more and Porthos halted again.

"Listen to me, Porthos," Athos stated, urgency coloring his tone. "You need to ride to the garrison… and send someone with a horse for me. I can't walk that far."

"Fine. I'll walk, you ride my horse. I ain't leaving you behind."

"Porthos."

The tone Athos used on him was the one the streetfighter would, unfortunately, become more familiar with in the future. It meant that Athos was disappointed in his behavior or logic. "You can't make it to the garrison on foot any more than I can. Your horse is too weary to carry two people. That would be cruel."

Porthos could see the logic, but he didn't like it at all. It wasn't the musketeer's way to leave a man behind, especially a friend.

"If you get off that horse and can't get back on this journey will be for nothing. We will both die here, on the streets of Paris." A small smile lifted the corner of Athos' mouth. "That is hardly a fitting end for our epic journey. I'll lend you Homer's Odyssey, after I teach you to read."

Porthos slowly shook his head, incredibly unhappy with where this was going. "So you want me to ride off, leave you here, go to the garrison, and send back a wagon."

Athos slowly gathered his strength and climbed to his feet. "Send back a horse that I can ride. But yes, you have... the basic concept of the plan."

"The wagon was for the dead horse," Porthos informed him.

Athos managed to cock an eyebrow at him.

"And you," Porthos tacked on with a smirk.

Athos' leg was throbbing as he hobbled over to the downed horse, bent over, and reached under its jaw. "No pulse. He's dead."

"Really wasn't leaning towards him taking a snooze in the middle of the street in Paris," Porthos informed Athos drily.

"Hmmmmm," was the swordsman's only comment. His head bowed, he offered an apology to the brave beast before as he painfully straightened up.

"What are you going to do? While I'm off fetching you a wagon," Porthos queried as Athos hobbled to stand next to him, leaning a hand against his horse's shoulder for support.

"While you get a horse for me and a wagon for the dead horse, I shall wait over in the shadows of that building." Athos thought he could make it that far, though he wasn't absolutely sure. However, he didn't think Porthos would find it acceptable if he declared he was going to sit in the middle of the street, in a bad section of Paris, at night, next to a dead horse.

"I dunno, Athos. This doesn't feel right to me. What if someone comes along and sees the dead horse?"

"It is the middle of the night in a deserted part of town. Who's going to come along? Besides, I will be over there," he gestured to the eaves of a building a few hundred feet away. "In the shadows, quiet as a church mouse."

Porthos' face showed his skepticism of this plan, but he didn't have a better one.

Athos pushed off Porthos' horse and moved a few feet away, as if demonstrating he was fine. "The sooner you go; the sooner you can send a horse back for me. It is still a good hours' ride to the garrison, maybe more given that horse's exhaustion."

"I don't like this," the musketeer growled, "but I don't have a better plan. So you sit over there, quietly, in the shadows and I'll be back with a wagon."

"You'll stay in the garrison and send someone back, with a horse, to get me. Now go."

"No way in hell," Porthos muttered under his breath.

Athos wasn't sure with what part of his previous statement Porthos was disagreeing, probably all of it he thought as the reluctant musketeer turned his horse and shambled away. He stood there in the moonlight, watching Porthos until he could no longer see the man.

When he was finally out of sight, Athos gave a sigh and slumped over. There was no way he was going to make it all the way to the building he had pointed out to Porthos. Instead, he spotted a post that was holding up a small overhang of a roof ten feet to his right. If he could make it that far, he could sit on the ground and prop himself against the post. It was a lot closer to the dead horse than he wanted, and more exposed, but it would have to do. After all, who was going to come along at this time of night?

Chapter Text

HAPTER 62

It was his own fault and Porthos knew it, but he was anxious to get back to the garrison as quickly as possible. The decision to leave Athos behind may have been the right one logically, but emotionally he felt like he had erred. Here was a man whose trust and friendship he was trying to encourage and he had left him, injured and alone. Because of the guilt he was feeling, Porthos kept urging his tired horse to pick up its pace beyond that of its plodding walk.

He wasn't caught totally by surprise when his horse stumbled and collapsed to the ground. Unlike Athos' steed, which abruptly fell over, Porthos' horse sank more like a ship, slowly settling on the ground. He was able to dismount safely, since the event transpired in such a sluggish manner. The horse was alive, but exhausted. Ironically, though he could see the gate of the garrison in the distance as he stood next to the fallen horse, he harbored doubts about his own ability to walk that far. But he was a musketeer, so he gritted his teeth and concentrated simply on putting on foot in front of the other. And technically, he made it.

The guards at the gate straightened and placed their hands near their weapons as a figure emerged out of the darkness, head bowed, barely shuffling, and swaying precariously from side to side as it approached the gate. As the person drew closer, he raised his head and mumbled, "I'm Porthos. Of the King's Musketeers." Then, he dropped to his knees before falling over sideways in the dirt hitting his head on the edge of the gate.

The pounding on his door was so violent that Captain Treville bolted upright in his bed, his heart hammering in his chest. Was the garrison under attack? He sat up in his bed and yelled at whomever was banging to enter. Bernard, who the captain knew was on guard duty, burst into his quarters, slightly winded.

"Sir, Porthos. Porthos is at the gate!"

"What!" Treville exclaimed as he leapt to his feet and scrambled into his pants, shirt, and boots in record time. He almost wondered for a moment if he was dreaming.

"He showed up the gate. Passed out at our feet," Bernard explained between gasps of breath as the captain tugged on his second boot. "Pierre stayed with him.''

The captain began issuing orders at they went out his door and across the porch. "Go get Aramis. Bring him to the infirmary."

Both men hit the bottom of the stairs running, Bernard towards the barracks and Treville towards the gate. He could see Pierre crouched on the ground next to an immobile man. The captain couldn't believe, after all these months, Porthos had returned. He had long ago given up hope that the musketeer was alive, even though he knew Aramis had kept the faith. It seemed the marksman's prayers had been answered.

"How is he?" Treville inquired as he squatted next to the prone man, peering in the darkness to verify it truly was the missing musketeer. A small grin appeared as he studied the man's face. It was Porthos! "Let's get him to the infirmary," Treville instructed and between the two of them, they gently lifted him.

The captain noted that the man didn't feel as heavy as he would have expected, for the Porthos of old was a solid mass of muscle. He wondered what had happened in the time he was gone to have caused the man to be transformed into a scarecrow.

They got him into the infirmary and had just settled him on a cot when Aramis burst through the doorway, still in his nightclothes.

"Where is he?" he demanded, even though all the cots were empty save one.

"Aramis," the captain called out to focus the man, who was in shock. "Over here."

The marksman hurried across the floor, then slowed as he approached the bed, almost as if he didn't dare to believe it was his best friend lying there. Unconsciously, he clutched the crucifix around his neck, the one that his mother had given him when he was a boy. Like Treville, he stared at the face of the man on the cot with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

A huge smile lit his face when he confirmed it was Porthos. "Blessed Father, it's true. It's him," he exclaimed reverently as he reached down and tenderly touched Porthos' cheek. "It's really him."

For a long moment he simply stood there gazing at his best friend and brother, basking in his good fortune. His faith in his God, which had wavered after Savoy, and dipped again after Porthos' disappearance, was instantly renewed, stronger than ever.

"Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it is yours." He beamed at the captain who was standing at his side. "My prayers have been answered."

"And mine," the captain replied, for while he wasn't as religious as Aramis, he did believe in a higher power and this was certainly a blessing. Aramis appeared truly alive for the first time in months, Treville suddenly realized.

"We need to get these clothes off him, see how badly he is injured." Aramis could see the dried blood stains on the streetfighter's pants. Like the captain, he also noted the condition the man was in, which was nothing akin to his normal robust self.

Pierre, who had been standing there, cleared his throat. "Shall I return to the gate, captain? In case any other stragglers appear?"

Though Pierre had meant it as a small joke to relieve tension, the captain's reaction was not what he expected when the man swore and ran an angry hand over his face. Treville was not mad at Pierre, but at himself. Shame and remorse flooded through him. He had sent two men on this mission. Granted only one was a musketeer, but the other shouldn't have been so easily dismissed from his mind. Where was Athos?

He felt Aramis' eyes upon him and when he looked over at the other musketeer, he knew the same shameful thought had similarly crossed the marksman's mind.

"Athos?" Aramis whispered, glancing around the infirmary as if he had somehow overlooked the man.

"Was there anyone else at the gate?" Treville asked Pierre, even though he knew it was a stupid question.

"No," Pierre replied with a touch of apprehension.

"Go wake Guillaume and Mellin. Have them search the streets around the garrison for a second man, Athos, our swordmaster." Treville knew it was a long shot, but it was one he had to explore until Porthos woke and told them if a search was a futile gesture.

Nodding, Pierre hurried from the room. Aramis returned to carefully undressing Porthos with the captain's assistance. Once they got him stripped to the skin, they were able to assess the damage to his body. His overall condition was poor, as they had suspected, with his ribs visible under his dark skin. His torso was covered in small gashes, mostly healed and not of concern. It was the wound on his thigh that drew their attention, as it was showing signs of infection.

Running his fingers gently through Porthos' grimy hair, which was longer than Aramis had ever seen it, he searched for any bumps or contusions that might indicate a head injury. A small sigh of relief escaped his lips when he didn't discover anything other than the small gash form hitting the gate. With the captain's assistance, they maneuvered the unconscious man onto his side so Aramis could inspect his back.

"Look at this." Aramis' finger gently traced a recently healed scar on Porthos' back. "This was caused by a whip. I'm sure of it."

After Aramis had competed his inspection they carefully rolled him onto his back again.

"What happened to you my friend?" Aramis wondered aloud as he brushed his fingers across the streetfighter's forehead. "He's a little warm. Not surprising given the look of the wound on his thigh. I wonder who stitched this wound. It is not bad, overall."

Captain Treville stretched his back as he moved a few feet from the cot. "I'll send someone with hot water. Should I get the physician?"

Aramis glanced at Porthos, then over at his captain. "I don't believe that is necessary yet. The wound needs some basic care, nothing I can't handle. I feel exhaustion and malnutrition are the contributing factors to the rest of his illness."

Nodding, Treville said, "If something changes, let me know immediately." As he turned to go he added, "Oh, and at some point you might want to consider getting dressed. You don't want to shock Porthos when he wakes up."

Puzzled, Aramis looked down at his braies and then grinned. "I was in such a hurry, I forgot to get dressed." Raising his head, he grinned at his captain. "I couldn't believe he was back. I thought I was dreaming."

"As did I," Treville answered, his joy evident in his voice. Then he became very serious once more. "Athos. He wasn't a musketeer, yet he went on this mission out of a sense of a debt owed to us. He would have made a good musketeer."

"He will be a good musketeer. God has answered one of my prayers and He is generous. I shall simply pray a little harder for Athos' safe return. I'm positive under that stoic, if rather moody exterior, there beats a heart that is loyal and true; a man I would be proud to serve with and call friend. God shall deliver Athos back to us."

Treville didn't offer up any comment more than a quick nod. Athos still hadn't confessed his heritage, still hadn't admitted he indeed was the Comte de la Fére. If the swordsman returned, and if he agreed to seek a commission in the musketeers, Treville would have to know the truth of his past. The captain wouldn't hold a man's past against him; he had a lot of musketeers who preferred their past remain that...the past. But he was captain of the regiment and responsible for its safety. If Athos was to be under his command, then he would need to know.

After the captain left the room, the marksman dropped to his knees next to the bunk, grasped Porthos' hand and prayed as unabashed tears of joy ran down his face. His brother had been brought home to him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 63

He was sitting alone, on a street in Paris, by a dead horse, when Athos learned exactly who would come along in the middle of the night. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't good. His ears pricked up at the sound of the jingle of the horses' bits and the creaking of the leather saddles before his eyes could see the four of them. Red Guards.

Athos didn't know much about the Cardinal's Red Guards, nor they him. This was a good thing, for the Athos of the future and the Red Guards were similar to wet gunpowder, unstable and likely to explode unexpectedly. Captain Treville had thought when Athos, Porthos, and Aramis became the Inseparables, that Athos would be the calming influence of the group. At times the captain was right; Athos' natural authority would assert itself and keep his brothers in line. However, at other times, which surprisingly were more often than the captain would have guessed, Athos was the instigator. Treville would also learn that the Comte wasn't above stretching the truth about what had occurred. It would take the captain years to identify what he thought were the two triggers that set Athos off: honor and justice; the man couldn't tolerate it when his sense of either was violated. However, if he were to be honest, Treville also thought sometimes the swordsman picked fights for no other reason than because he enjoyed the thrill of them.

The Red Guards clattered around the corner, spotted the dead horse and came to a halt. The nearby street torch sent shadowy flickers over the scene, giving it a surreal appearance. The leader of the four-man team gestured for one of his men to go examine the beast. Sliding from his saddle, the guard walked over and stared at the animal lying in the street.

"I think he's dead," he announced, after tentatively touching the horse's body.

The leader rolled his eyes and suppressed a sigh. "Well, I didn't really think he was taking a nap," he replied sarcastically, making the other men around him chuckle. His eyes roamed the vicinity. "Where is the rider?"

Athos, who'd been watching all this in silence, almost spoke up and said 'here', for he knew they would spot him soon. However, he decided to keep quiet and let them make the discovery on their own. He could always hope that they might overlook him.

"There! By the post!" One of the mounted guards pointed directly at where Athos was sitting, back against the support pole.

The three men drew their pistols and aimed them at Athos, who was very careful to keep his hands in plain sight and remain motionless

"Is that your dead horse?" the leader asked as he pointed towards the motionless animal, as if Athos might be confused as to which dead horse he was referring.

"I was riding it," Athos drawled, his voice flat and dull.

"You were riding it? Is he not your horse?" the leader sought to clarify.

"As I said, I was riding him."

The guard on the ground had been examining the horse's saddle. He straightened, drew his gun, and moved menacingly towards Athos. "That saddle bears the mark of the guards of Dieppe. I know. I worked there before moving to Paris."

"Interesting." The leader's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he studied Athos. "Did you steal that horse?"

The guard on the ground motioned for Athos to remove his weapons and place them on the ground. After Athos complied, the guard bent over, picked up the pistol and ran a finger over the hand grip. "This is the pistol the town supplies its guards."

"So you are a thief and a murderer," the captain surmised, based on the facts he was being presented.

"It's not what it seems," Athos declared, though technically the guard wasn't totally wrong. He had taken the horse and had killed the guard. But it was in self-defense, if you discounted the fact that they were escaped prisoners. But since they were falsely imprisoned, Athos felt there was a little leeway in the words 'thief' and 'murderer'.

Two more guards dismounted and joined the third standing near Athos, who was still sitting on the ground by the post.

"Secure his hands and get him on his feet. We're taking him to the Chatelet," the leader of the guards ordered his men.

One guard went back to his horse to get a length of rope, while the other two wrestled Athos to his feet. Athos swayed precariously and only stayed upright because of the two guards gripping his arms. The third man came with the rope and made quick work of tying Athos' hands in front of him.

"It's a nice night for a walk," the leader said as he accepted the other end of the rope.

The three guards mounted after collecting the rest of Athos' weapons from the ground where he had placed them.

"Maurice, bring the saddle too," the leader instructed one of the guards as he turned his horse away. "We'll meet you back at the barracks."

Athos let his eyes trail up the rope connecting him to the mounted leader. He knew this was going to end badly since he doubted he could walk more than a few hundred yards before he collapsed. While the guards didn't set a fast pace, simply letting their horses amble towards the prison, it still was too much for the battered Athos. His calf felt like it was being assault with a hot poker and waves of pain radiated up and down his leg. The swordsman actually lasted longer than he thought he'd be able, but eventually he did collapse. The leader saw him fall but continued onward, dragging the man through the streets of Paris.

After a minute or two, the leader stopped and looked with distain at the dead weight behind his horse, which was slowing them down even further. He was tired and wanted to drop this thief off at the prison, then return to the barracks for food and sleep.

"Throw him over your horse," the leader commanded the guard next to him as unwound the rope from his saddle and tossed it to the man. "This is taking too long."

Athos wasn't a huge fan of being unconscious because it left him in the vulnerable position of not being in control. While he didn't find the need to control everyone around him, he did detest not being in control of himself. It was the dilemma he faced every time he got drunk; but getting inebriated was the only way he knew to escape his aching heart. In the future, his brothers would learn to help sooth his soul, but presently he was still a lone wolf.

As they threw him over the front of one of the guard's saddles, not even offering him the courtesy to ride astride, Athos wished for once he was unconscious. It was painful to be hauled about like a sack of grain.

When they arrived at the Chatelet, he was shoved off the horse, thankfully feet first so he could at least attempt to land on them; not that he did, as he still ended up in a crumpled heap in the dirt. The guards, tired, hungry and apparently near the end of their shift, wanted nothing more than to be done with him. They hauled him to his feet and manhandled him into the processing area of the prison where they stopped at a desk, behind which sat a guard who looked totally disenchanted with his job.

"Name," the jailor asked without glancing up, pen poised to record whatever was spoken. When silence was the only thing that met his ears, he lifted his head with annoyance, his face clearly indicating his displeasure. "Name!"

Athos, who had managed to find his equilibrium enough to stand on his own two feet, stared back at the irritated man, but declined to answer his question.

"Is he stupid?" the jailor asked the leader of the guards, who simply shrugged in reply.

The pen scribbled a date and the word 'male' next to number 1426.

"Charge?" he inquired.

"Theft and murder," the leader of the guard supplied.

The jailor raised his head and stared at Athos again, as if assessing his ability to carry out those charges. He must have been satisfied with what he saw, because he lowered his head and scribbled in his book once more. Once done, he waved over two prison guards who took charge of Athos, as the Red Guards stepped out of the way.

"Take the prisoner to cell 46." Looking up at Athos he added, "It's one of our best accommodations."

The Red Guards departed, and Athos' new companions dragged him through the twisted maze of damp, dank corridors. The swordsman was happy he had no plans to mount an escape for he would never figure his way out of this labyrinth. Finally, they came to stop in front of a cell. Athos scanned his new accommodations and saw three other men in it, each one shackled by the ankle in a separate corner of the cell.

As soon as he saw the leg irons, memories of the galley flooded his mind and he ripped his arms from his captors' grasp, turned, and tried to flee. He only made it a few yards before he was brought down by a club to the back of his head. Crumpling to the ground as the black veil drew itself once more across his mind, his last thought was this was another time to welcome unconsciousness, even if it did mean loss of control. At least he wouldn't have to watch them shackle him like a rabid dog.

When he roused later, he struggled to maintain his legendary control when he spied the leg iron around his ankle. A cold sweat broke out on his body and his limbs trembled. Even though intellectually he knew this situation was different, the trauma left on his psyche by his time on the galley irrationally fed his fears. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, willing his pulse to stop racing and his mind to settle.

Eventually, when he felt a little more in control of his traitorous mind and body, he cautiously opened his eyes. The feeling that he was being watched was borne out by the three sets of eyes that were studying him from the other corners of the cell. Hoping his mask of neutrality was back in place, he met the challenge, sweeping each one of his cell mates with his cold green eyes.

He could see some jockeying for position had already taken place in the cell while he was unconscious. There were four empty bowls near the middle of the cell and Athos would have been willing to bet they all had been full not too long ago and that there was one dish per occupant of the cell. Obviously, since he wasn't awake to stake claim to his own, one of his new roommates had pilfered it.

He forced himself to examine carefully the length of chain securing his leg cuff to the floor in an attempt to judge how much freedom of movement he had. Based on his estimate, he would make it to the center of the cell, and assuming his cell mates' chains were of equal length, it meant there was only a very small section of the cell where they could physically interact. Athos deemed that a positive thing since he wouldn't have to worry about them attacking him in his sleep. After all, not everyone in prison was in here by mistake as he was, though to some degree, he thought, maybe this was where he belonged.

It was hard to judge the passage of time in his cell since there were no windows and no timepieces. Whether it was night or day in the outside world he couldn't say. The best he could do was use the delivery of their meals, twice a day, and the rate the torches were replenished, to judge elapsed time.

When the next meal was delivered to their cell, he learned he was incorrect about the lengths of the chains, which actually were too short for any interactions between the prisoners. The middle section of the cell, which aligned with the door, was basically a safe zone. The guards could walk in this narrow area and not have to worry about being attacked by the prisoners chained in the cell. Food was placed in this neutral zone and the prisoners' chains allowed just enough freedom, with an outstretched arm, to reach it. If you had long enough arms, you could reach another's bowl too, which was how Athos had lost his meal while unconscious.

While he didn't have to worry about being mugged by his cell mates, the prison guards were another matter. Athos' position in the cell was in the front left corner, with a stone wall to his back and bars to his left. At first, the guards left him alone, and Athos basically sat in his corner of the cell trying to ignore his wounds and his head, both of which ached. He thought he was holding his own against the infection on his calf, at least for the moment; it wasn't getting any better, but thankfully it was not spreading either. His fever would come and go and he actually started using that as a measure of time, believing it worsened at night and improved during the day. The drummer in his head was a more constant companion, though it, like his fever, would flare at times, while at others it would simply hover at the edge of his consciousness.

He knew the exact event that changed his situation and triggered the abuse and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. One guard, who was accompanying the man delivering the food, began to stare intently at him. Athos kept his head down, hair shading his face, for no other reason than a funny feeling which later, as a musketeer, he would always note, for inevitably it indicated that trouble was brewing.

The guard walked into his cell after the food had been placed in its usual spot on the floor and stood in Athos' quadrant. The swordsman's kept his head bowed, even after the guard demanded he raise it. The baton that was viciously smacked against his injured calf caused him to jerk his head upwards. Unbidden, tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and a string of imaginative curses spilled from his lips.

The guard's eyes narrowed when he was fully able to see Athos' face. "I know you! You and your musketeer buddies were the ones that hurt Henri at the Wren."

"You're mistaken," Athos told him as he surreptitiously wiped the back of his hand over his eyes to blot the tears of pain.

The guard was most empathetic with his reply. "Oh no I'm not. You were there with that half-breed musketeer and that one who is a dandy."

Though he didn't let his face show it, he knew exactly the incident to which the guard was referring. It was before Savoy, when the marksman, who had procured a new coat and a fancy feathered hat, had dragged him and Porthos to the Wren to celebrate. It was one of those times when Athos didn't know how it actually transpired, but he found himself going along with the gregarious Aramis. As he would come to realize later in their friendship, it was often easier to give in to Aramis just to get him to stop pestering you.

That night a fight had broken out at the Wren. To some degree it was triggered by the card game that was going on between Porthos and the Red Guard, where the musketeer was doing extremely well when it came to winning. However, to be honest, the atmosphere in the Wren that night had been explosive and any spark could have set it off. It just happened that the one that triggered it was Porthos' winning once too often. Aramis, who was more experienced than Athos when it came to Red Guard bar fights, had moved closer to his side and suggested Athos be prepared, for all hell was about to break loose.

It erupted like wildfire, fists and swords flashing, the musketeers and Athos against the Red Guards. It had spilled out into the street in front of the tavern, and that had been where the unfortunate event occurred. Athos wasn't even sure which musketeer's sword delivered the slash to the Red Guard's leg that they later learned severed a tendon, leaving the man crippled for life. And while it had been an accident, one of those things every swordsman knew could happen, it infuriated the Red Guards.

It was Athos' bad luck that the guard angrily standing in front of him was there that night and out of all the people, remembered him. The angry man kicked his bowl of food over before hitting Athos a few more time with his baton. Athos covered his head with his arms and drew his knees to his chest trying to protect his body. He didn't have the energy to try to get to his feet and resist.

And so began his torture by the guards. Word of mouth quickly spread through the ranks that musketeer scum was in the prison, the one that had hurt Henri. Athos didn't even try to correct the assumption that he was a musketeer and that, in any case, it may not have been his sword that did the damage. He was guilty by association and knew any denial he made would be a lost cause, so he didn't waste the energy.

His food bowl more often than not ended up spilled on the floor. He refused to even think what was happening with his water. Kicks were hard and swift and he knew a couple of his ribs had been compromised. Heaven help him if he was too near the bars when any guards walked by for they would reach out to hit him through the gaps between the bars. His cell mates watched his torture with disinterest, happy the guards were picking on him, not them.

It was obvious that if the charges against him weren't dropped, which had a snowball's chance in hell of happening, he'd spend the rest of his life in prison. However, it would be short for he was sure the guards would quickly dispatch him to hell. Many times he'd thought about his end and now that he was facing it, it wasn't as comforting as he'd imagined.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 64

Porthos had been out for nearly eighteen hours straight, only waking up for a few minutes before dropping off again, never coherent enough to answer their questions about Athos. There was a gash on his head that might have explained his confusion. Then his fever spiked, and for the next three days Aramis fought to bring it under control. After a terrifying first night, when Porthos grew so hot Aramis thought the bedding might combust, he asked Captain Treville to call the physician.

The doctor, the same one that treated Athos so many months ago, showed up in the infirmary, looking less than pleased at being summoned to the garrison, again, to treat another musketeer. However, he examined Porthos and left a number of draughts that would help the streetfighter's fever decrease over the course of the next few days.

As the physician was packing up to leave, he inquired about Athos, though he didn't remember the swordsman's name, just his injury. He was curious was to how the wound had healed. Aramis informed him that Athos had regained full use of his arm, and in fact was the finest swordsman in the regiment. When the doctor asked if he could see Athos and examine the appendage, Aramis told him the swordsman was missing. The physician shook his head and the marksman got the distinct impression the man was having seconds thoughts about even bothering to heal musketeers. Aramis swore the man muttered 'because they just die anyway', under his breath as he walked out of the infirmary.

Captain Treville was a frequent visitor to the infirmary to see how Porthos was faring. He kept hoping that on one of his visits he would find the musketeer awake and coherent enough to explain what happened to Athos. The search parties Treville sent out had found Porthos' horse, but no sign of anything else. Even if the searchers had managed to end up on the street where Athos' horse had died, which was on the far side of Paris, they wouldn't have found a trace of the man, who'd been taken away by the Red Guards, or the horse, which had been taken away too. The captain couldn't justify sending more search parties after the first ones returned empty handed for he had no clue if there was anybody to even search for; Athos may well have died before reaching Paris. His only logical recourse was to wait for Porthos to recover enough to tell them.

If was nearly a week since his arrival at the garrison before Porthos regained enough of his faculties to have a rational conversation. The first thing he did was struggle to sit up in his bed and scan around him, sure that Athos would be nearby.

"Where's Athos? He got better that fast?" Porthos asked Aramis when he couldn't locate the man.

"No..." the marksman began to reply, but Porthos interrupted him with a look of pure fear on his face.

"He died? No, no, no, he couldn't have died, not after everything we survived." Porthos frantically shouted as he continued to scan the room in disbelief.

The streetfighter was entering into a full blown panic attack and Aramis quickly grabbed him by the shoulders and forced the dismayed man to focus on him. "Porthos. Listen to me. Athos didn't die here. You were the only one we found. We searched, but we didn't find him."

"He's here. In Paris, on Monte Marche, by the gate. I told you that," Porthos declared as he stared at his friend's face.

Aramis slowly shook his head as he let go of Porthos' shoulders and sank down onto the bed next to him. "Mon ami. You told us nothing. You were unconscious when we found you, and since then, incoherent from the fever."

The trepidation and fear on Porthos' features alarmed Aramis and he thought Porthos was going to suffer a relapse. "How long ago did I arrive?"

Aramis hesitated, then answered, "You showed up at the garrison's gate seven days ago."

Porthos sank back on the bed in shock. "A week. He's been out there on his own for a week?"

Excitement showed on Aramis face. "He is alive? Athos made it to Paris with you?"

"Hell yeah." Porthos bolted upright again and tried to rise to his feet, but failed spectacularly, collapsing onto the bed once more.

Captain Treville entered the infirmary just in time to see Porthos rise and fall.

"What is going on here?" he demanded as he strode across the room towards Porthos' bed. "You are in no condition to be trying to get out of bed."

While Porthos sat on the edge of the bed where he had fallen, gathering his strength to try to rise again, Aramis answered the captain's question.

"Porthos says Athos came back to Paris with him."

"Dear God," Treville exclaimed, staring down at Porthos. "We only found you, Porthos."

The streetfighter raised his head to look up at the captain. "His horse dropped dead on Monte Marche. He was hurt, neither one of us could walk that far, nor my horse carry double. I left him there to ride here to get help. And you're telling me that was a week ago? And he hasn't shown up here or been found?"

Porthos tried once again to rise from the bed, but his body hadn't regained enough strength and even though Aramis tried to assist, the injured man was not able to remain upright. As he began to collapse once more, the captain grabbed his other arm and he and Aramis lowered the musketeer back onto his bed.

"Take it easy, Porthos. I will personally ride out there myself to look for Athos. We will find him," the captain swore.

Cradling his head in his hands, Porthos moaned, "I left him there. Alone. Hurt. After all the times he saved me… I left him."

Treville placed a hand on the grieving man's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "You made the right decision, son. Coming to get help."

"But I didn't get help now, did I. I passed out before I could tell anyone. And Athos has been out there," he waved at the windows, pushing Treville's hand off his shoulder, "for seven days. What if he died while I was laid up here?"

Aramis placed his hands on either side of Porthos' face, making the streetfighter look at him. "Trust the captain. He will find Athos." Trying for a little levity he added, "He's probably holed up in a tavern somewhere, drinking it dry."

The captain nodded his head. "We will find him. Now tell me everything, so I can find our missing man."

Aramis helped Porthos settle a bit more comfortably as he told the captain what happened after they had entered the gates of Paris and where he had last seen Athos. The captain nodded his head to indicate he understood, then turned and left the infirmary.

An exhausted Porthos was unable to keep his eyes open, but just before he let sleep claim him, he made Aramis swear to wake him as soon as the captain returned. After Aramis gave his solemn promise, Porthos let his eyes close and he drifted off to sleep. The marksman moved to a nearby chair, sat, closed his eyes and began to pray for Athos' safe return.

Meanwhile, the captain rounded up three other musketeers and headed for the place Porthos had indicated he had left Athos. Even on fresh horses it took more than thirty minutes to reach the area. There was no dead horse in the street where Porthos had indicated, not after seven days, so they spread out to ask anyone they could find in the area if they knew what happened and if they had seen an injured stranger.

They combed the area for hours, then expanded the search, but still had no luck. As it was getting dark, the captain rounded up his men and headed back to the garrison, a cape of disappointment draped on his weary shoulders. He dreaded the thought of telling Porthos they had had no success in locating Athos, for he knew the streetfighter would not take it well.

Once back at the garrison, he handed his reins off to the stable lad and headed into the common room to get a drink before facing Porthos. The other three musketeers accompanied him, eager for food and drink.

"Where were you, Mellin?" one of the men already sitting at a table questioned his friend when he saw him enter the room.

"Looking for our swordmaster, Athos. Apparently, the horse he was riding dropped dead. But we found no sign of him," Mellin replied sadly as he grabbed a roll.

Jean-Paul, who was sitting at another table piped up. "Dead horse you say? I heard the Red Guards talking about a dead horse found in the streets a few days ago."

"What!" Captain Treville exclaimed hurrying over to where Jean-Paul was sitting. He slammed his hands flat on the table top with a loud bang. "What did you hear? Did they make mention of a man?"

"They did, Sir. Said he'd stolen a guard's horse. Probably murdered him. They took him to the Chatelet," Jean-Paul informed his captain.

Straightening, Captain Treville went to the wine bottle and poured himself a glass before wandering over by the fireplace. Could this be Athos they had hauled off? He knew going to the Chatelet at this hour of the night would get him nowhere, but he'd be at the prison's gate at first light. Draining his glass, he set it down and walked back outside to head over to the infirmary to let Porthos and Aramis know what he had learned.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 65

Treville had a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach as he dismounted and looked at the imposing entrance to the Chatelet. If Athos had been in as poor condition as Porthos and had spent the last week in here, he dreaded what he might be told. Treville hated dealing with the guards who worked in the prison, swearing they were even stupider than the Red Guards, which was an amazing feat. The middle-aged, balding jailor manning the desk today was no exception to that rule.

Shaking off his negative thoughts, Treville strode into the ante-room, a man on a mission. He came to a halt in front of the desk and tried to curb his impatience as he waited for his presence to be acknowledged. When the guard behind the desk didn't even bother to glance up, the captain tried a polite, yet loud, clearing of his throat. When that failed to bring results, he slammed the palms of his hands down on a clear section of the desk.

Finally, the jailor grudgingly looked up at Treville, his annoyance clearly written on his face. "What?" he grunted rudely.

Treville kept his temper in check, knowing it wouldn't help the issue. "I'm looking for a prisoner..."

The jailor interrupted the captain before he could finish his sentence. "You've come to the right place. We got lots of them." The guard chuckled at his own witticism.

"Sad statement on the world we live in." It was quite obvious the captain's philosophical observation was not comprehended by the jailor, who stared at him blankly. With a sigh, Treville queried, "I'm looking for a prisoner named Athos."

"Don't remember that name," the jailor declared without making any attempt to even skim the registration tome in front of him.

"Could you, perhaps, check?" The good captain was doing his best to keep his voice level, however, he wasn't sure he was succeeding.

With an exaggerated sigh, the guard gave a cursory scan of the page in front of him.

"He would have been brought in sometime in the last week," Treville added when it looked as if the man was getting ready to stop searching the scribbled pages.

Even with that information, the guard still announced there was no Athos in his prison.

Treville's instincts were telling him not to give up, so he requested to examine the book himself. The jailor's glance indicated he wished Treville would go away, but grudgingly he slid the tome in the captain's direction. Turning the book around to face him, Treville started with the most recent entry and worked his way backwards until he came to a record that simply said 'man'.

"This entry," he said as he turned the book back to face the disinterested guard. He tapped his finger on the spot on the page. "There is no name. Only the word 'man'."

Lazily, the jailor's eyes tracked to where the captain's finger was pointed. "Oh. Him. Brought in at night. Disturbed my nap."

When it didn't appear any more information was forthcoming, Treville asked, "Why is there no name listed?"

"He didn't give one. I asked him several times, politely." Shrugging, the guard continued. "But he didn't say anything. Just stood there like he was dumb. Probably was."

Treville realized he'd neglected to look at the charge written next to the name, though he had seen the name of the guard that brought him in. "What is the charge?"

With a dramatic flourish, the guard glanced at the book then up at Treville. "Stealing and murder," he replied in a sinister tone. "He'll be hanging, he will."

"I need to see this prisoner. Now!" Treville demanded, glaring at the jailor with impatience.

The jailor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, clearly done with this whole encounter. "Not possible. No one here to escort you."

The next thing the guard knew he was yanked out of his chair and slammed against the wall, the captain's forearm pressed tightly to his throat. "Then you take me." The captain's tone of voice indicated it was not a request, but rather a command.

"What if a prisoner arrives while I'm gone," the jailor gasped, unhappy with this turn of events.

"They can wait. I'm sure none will mind a few more minutes of freedom before they are incarcerated." Treville remarked sarcastically as he gave the jailor a shove towards the prison cells. "Lead on."

The two men made their ways through the dark, labyrinth-like corridors deep into the bowels of the prison. Eventually they stopped in front of a cell which held four bedraggled men.

"The man in the front, left corner is Monsieur No Name," the jailor said, gesturing towards the figure sitting on the floor near the bars.

The prisoner's head was bowed and the captain couldn't see the man's face which was hidden by his filthy hair. As Treville drew near, suddenly the man scrambled sideways away from the iron bars, his movements bordering on frantic.

Athos was in the mode in which he had spent most of his time since arriving, neither conscious nor unconscious, but in some twilight zone in between. However, even in his trance-like state he'd learned to move away from the bars when a guard approached if he didn't want to be beaten. And this is what he did, out of self-preservation, as Treville approached the cell. He didn't even look up, simply moved away and stayed hunched over as he huddled against the wall.

"Athos?" the captain called out tentatively, unable to determine if this was his missing man. "Athos?"

In his fog, Athos thought he heard his name, but figured it was just a wisp from another one of the nightmares that plagued his mind.

"Open the door," Treville demanded as he spun around to face the jailor, who was standing behind him.

"You don't want to be going in there. Those men are dangerous."

"Thank you for your concern," Treville replied sarcastically, "But as captain of the musketeers. I think I can handle it."

Treville thought he heard the man whisper 'King's toy soldiers' under his breath as he opened the cell door and stepped aside so the captain could enter.

Athos' mind registered the creaking of the cell door as it opened and he sensed the presence of another drawing nearer. He clamped his knees even closer to his chest and moved his arms to cover his head, minimizing the body parts the baton could hit.

"Athos?" Treville walked closer to the curled up man, trying to see if it truly was the missing swordsman.

He studied what he could see of the man. The hair was the right color even if it was overly long and dirty. As near as he could see, the body of the man on the floor in front of him had similar dimensions as Athos, though it seemed slighter. However, the captain recalled Porthos was somewhat emaciated when he arrived at the garrison. The only way to tell for certain was to see this prisoner's face.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Treville began to crouch down near the man who curled into an even tighter ball. The captain had a distinct feeling the man was trying to protect himself from an anticipated attack of some sort.

"I'd advise against getting near him," the jailor informed from the other side of the prison bars. "I hear the guards have had a lot of trouble with him."

Ignoring the jailor, Treville reached out his hand and placed it on the man's shoulder, but quickly withdrew it as the man violently shuddered. Standing, Treville glared over at the insolent guard. "What have your men been doing to this man?"

"Nothing more than he deserves, I'm sure. He is a prisoner and a murderer at that."

Words and sounds were buzzing through Athos' head, but he really wasn't bothering trying to decipher them. At this point he was simply worn down and past caring what happened to him. His leg ached and his head, while not as painful as it had been, still was muddled most of the time. As for the last time he ate, he wasn't all that sure. Most of the time he hadn't felt like battling to get to his food before one of his cellmates stole it, assuming the guard didn't overturn it before it was even set on the floor.

At first he had wondered if Porthos had made it to the garrison and if he had sent someone to rescue him. But as time passed, Athos had ceased wondering or caring. Even if Porthos had sent someone to where Athos was last seen, would anyone figure out where he had gone? Would they just assume he had wandered off? Would they even care? As his body and mind grew weak and weary, he simply didn't have the energy to care about his fate. So when he felt a hand touch him, he pulled away, figuring it was the precursor to another beating.

Treville stood there wracking his brain on how to get the man on the floor to look up at him, short of grabbing his hair and yanking the bowed head off the drawn up knees. As he was about to reach out again, another thought crossed his mind. He remembered another time he had been trying to get Athos' attention and had barked a command at the swordsman, who had instantly responded. So using his best 'I'm the captain in charge' voice, he barked out, "Athos."

That got him the desired result as the man on the floor in front of him instinctively jerked his head upwards, looking about wildly. That face. He knew that face. Those green eyes blinking at him in confusion. Athos! The captain smiled in relief.

Athos stared at the man in front of him for a while before finally croaking, "Captain?"

Treville crouched again. "Athos," he repeated thankfully as he reached out a hand again.

As much as he tried, Athos couldn't stop himself from flinching away and the captain, seeing his distress, let his hand drop back to his side.

"It's alright, son," the head of the musketeers said softly as he wondered what had been done to this man. "I'll get you out of here. I promise."

"He ain't going nowhere but the noose," the jailor interjected from outside the cell.

Angrily, Treville rose, left the cell, and stood toe to toe with the jailor. "We'll see about that. I warn you, if I find out any of your guards lifted a hand against my man, there will be consequences. The King doesn't like his musketeers mistreated."

"I wouldn't imagine his Majesty would be happy to find out one of his premier soldiers is a thief and a murderer," the jailor returned with a sneer. He stepped around Treville, slammed the cell door shut, locked it and then made his way back to the entrance of the prison, Treville at his heels.

Athos watched the men leave before dropping his head once more. A few minutes later, his muddled mind was wondering if what had just happened was real or imaginary. With a sigh, he let himself drop back into his trance again, too weary to care.

"I will be back, soon, for his release," Treville declared to the jailor when they reached the ante-room with the desk once more. "Make sure nothing more happens to him."

With that, Treville stomped out of the prison, gathered his horse and headed for the palace. He'd find a judge and try to sort out this situation. He didn't want Athos in that cell one minute longer than necessary. The man hadn't looked well.

As he mounted his steed, it dawned on him he didn't know why Athos was thought to be a murderer and thief. It would be hard to defend the man if he didn't have more facts. He needed to talk to Porthos and the guard who had found Athos to get a better picture of what was going on before he sought out a judge. Luckily, he had seen the name of the guard who had brought Athos to the prison and knew of him. He'd start with him first, he decided as he jerked his horse's head around and set off for the Red Guards' barracks.

The sooner he got to the bottom of this, the sooner it could be set right. He knew what shape Porthos had been in when he returned to the garrison. It was hard to imagine that Athos was better off and a week in prison, as opposed to a place where he could have received proper care, wouldn't have helped matters. Based on what he had seen, Treville feared for the man's life if things weren't rectified soon.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 66

Treville talked to the leader of the guards who brought the swordsman to the prison and learned the details of the arrest. Back at the garrison, Porthos provided him with an overview of what had occurred at Dieppe, though the captain had a feeling there was a lot of the tale still to be told. However, he had enough details, and armed with that knowledge, he sought out the judge who had the power to allow the charges against Athos to be dropped.

Treville and the magistrate had met occasionally since they operated in similar circles. However, the captain didn't have a close relationship with the judge as he did with his friend Charles, the tax collector. Treville knew he was going to need to present a good case if he wanted the swordsman freed. He sought, and was granted an appointment with the busy man, though it took almost a day to make it happen.

On the morning of the second day since he had found Athos in the prison, Treville entered the judge's chambers and was waved over to the desk by the man sitting there behind a mountain of papers.

"Paperwork," the judge huffed in an annoyed manner. "The bane of my existence." The grey-haired man looked up at Treville, noting the knowing smile on his face. "Ah, I see you are acquainted with the joys of it too."

"That I am," the captain replied as he stood politely on the far side of the desk, hat tucked under his arm. "I am constantly amazed at the amount of paperwork required to keep my garrison operational. And I'm of the opinion that at night it multiplies on its own."

The judge chuckled. "Reproducing at night. Very good. What brings you to my chambers, Captain Treville?"

"I have come to request that the charges against one of my men be dropped. He is in the Chatelet."

"I see. Let me see if I can locate his paperwork." He reached over and dragged a stack of papers into a small, clear section on the desk. "Name?"

"He didn't provide a name when he was booked, your Honor," Treville replied, dreading the next question the judge was sure to ask.

The man peered up at Treville through his rather dirty spectacles. "And why is that? Was he incapacitated?"

Treville tried not to sigh out loud. He had no idea why Athos had refused to provide his name. He supposed it was not out of character for the man, who was conservative with his speech as well as being stubborn; the latter probably was closer to the truth. Treville decided to see if he could skirt the question. "He was assigned number 1426 if that helps."

The shrewd man stared at him for a moment, letting the captain know he had noticed his question had not been answered, before he dropped his eyes to shuffle through the stack of papers. Eventually, he drew one forth and smoothed it on his desk as he skimmed the contents of the document. Unconsciously he tapped his index finger on the side of his face. "Says here the charges are stealing and murder. Of a guard. Serious accusations, captain."

"Yes they are, but they are not as they seem. If you will permit me to explain." The captain politely waited for permission to continue.

The judge rose, stretched and rolled his neck before indicating for the musketeer to follow him to a set of chairs flanking a small table in the corner of the room, near a window. Sitting, he gestured for the captain to follow suit. Once both men were settled, he instructed, "So tell me why you believe these charges to be inaccurate."

Treville proceeded to explain that Athos had been on a mission, per the King's orders, delivering a missive to Dieppe. He glossed over most of the details of the journey, since he honestly didn't know all that had transpired. Also, he neglected to mention that the journey had been significantly longer than anticipated for he didn't think it would play in his favor.

"My men were expeditiously attempting to return to Paris with vital information. They were out of uniform, per the King's instructions, and the guards in Dieppe misinterpreted the situation, which led to an unfortunate altercation. My men were forced to defend themselves and as a result, regrettably, there were injuries. As their own horses were gone, my men commandeered two of the Dieppe guards' mounts so they could return to Paris and provide the gathered intelligence to the King."

Treville paused trying to determine if the judge was comprehending and, more importantly, buying into the explanation.

"Unusual," the judge murmured, doubt coloring his tone.

"As clandestine missions are by their very nature. But as you are aware, the business of the crown, at times, requires secrecy for the good of the country. My men risked great personal danger carrying out this covert operation. And because of his service to his country, as demanded by his King, Athos has been wrongly incarcerated." Treville, who had leaned forward in his chair, relaxed backwards and played his trump card. "I could get an audience with his Majesty to clarify things if need be."

The judge's fingers tapped a light staccato on the arm of the chair as he mulled over the information presented. It certainly had a skin of reasonableness on it, though he wasn't a stupid man and knew that underneath there was more to this tale. However, he also understood politics and the intrigues involved. And he wasn't sure if Treville was bluffing about an audience with the King, since he was the captain of his Majesty's personal guards.

Without a word, the judge rose from his chair, walked back over to his desk and stood behind it as he rummaged through its contents. Finding the paper he sought, he motioned for Treville to join him as he sat down and picked up a quill.

"The reports I have of the King's regiment of musketeers is that they are loyal, dedicated, trustworthy soldiers. It is said you run a tight ship, captain."

Treville inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the comment.

The judge made a notation on the sheet he had been previously reading. "I'm dropping the charges based on your testimony, captain. Here is the release for your musketeer."

Treville accepted the document with a grateful smile, overlooking the small misstatement by the judge. Athos was not technically a musketeer, but if Treville had his way, the man would be some day. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before the captain took his leave.

With the paper safely tucked inside his doublet, Treville probably rode through the streets of Paris to the Chatelet faster than he should have, but he was anxious to get Athos released. It had been more than two days since he had found Athos in the jail, and the captain wondered if the swordsman had thought he'd been abandoned again.

When he entered the prison, the captain found a different jailor manning the ante-room. Wasting no time on formalities, he marched up to the desk, withdrew the pardon and dropped it in front of the jailor. "That is a release, signed by the Honorable Allade, for the release of prisoner 1426."

The guard looked up at him and frowned as if he smelled something foul. With great deliberativeness, the jailor picked up the paper and began laboriously to read it. The captain's patience was wearing thin and he tried not to drum his fingers against his leg as he waited.

"So one of your toy soldiers got arrested," the guard drawled as he continued to stare at the paper. "I never understood why a man such as yourself would want to lead a group of wanna be soldiers; sons of the nobility that want to play at war. Really, captain, a man of your talents should be leading a real fighting force."

Treville knew the regiment was seen by some as simply ceremonial figures that a vain King liked to have surrounding him, and it irked the captain that he had to fight that prejudice. "My musketeers are the epitome of what a good soldier should be: brave, loyal, willing to face danger and lay their life down for King and Country. I only allow the best of the best to be commissioned in my regiment to serve his Majesty."

"The best," the guard replied sarcastically. "Hard to believe from what I have seen. And now one of your 'best' is in jail. Interesting."

Tightening the reins on his growing temper, Treville ground out, "Let's go get my man, shall we."

The jailor dropped the letter on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "It's pretty late. We don't usually release prisoners this late in the day. Why don't you come back tomorrow? Spending another night in jail will help toughen up your musketeer."

Treville reached over the desk and grabbed the front of the man's shirt bringing their faces inches apart. "You will go get my man now or I will teach you how soft we musketeers are. No matter what your opinion of my regiment, the King is very fond of his soldiers. I don't imagine he would be thrilled to hear your opinion of them, which I might mention when I see him tomorrow."

The jailor went white as a ghost at the implied threat. Treville, seeing his point had been made, released the man, stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. This was the second time in one day he had used his relationship with the King as a threat and he wasn't happy about it. He was his own man and shouldn't need to use his leverage with the King to achieve his goals.

The guard regained his composure as he yanked his jacket back into place. "Wait here. I'll go get him."

"I'll accompany you," Treville insisted.

"You'll wait here. Policy," the jailor snapped with an attitude.

"The other day I was allowed to go and visit Athos," Treville pointed out as he dropped his hands to his side and lightly rested his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

"That was a visit. This is not. You will wait here or your man will spend another night with us. As I believe I already mentioned, it is getting late." The guard stared at Treville as if daring the captain to give him a reason not to fetch Athos.

Treville didn't want this to escalate any further, as the thought of Athos spending another night in jail was intolerable. "Fine," he grudgingly conceded. "But hurry. As you pointed out, it is getting late."

After the man left the area, Treville began to pace as he tried to figure out what was bothering him. Finally, it hit him. The jailor had applied to be a musketeer and had been turned away. Like Porthos, the man had been with the regular army and had applied to the regiment when it was being formed. However, unlike Porthos, his skills and his attitude had both been poor.

Treville recalled when he had explained to the soldier that he wasn't going to be offered a commission, the man had started ranting and raving about the unfairness of it all. The man had gone on to say it was because he wasn't the son of nobility that he was being excluded. The captain had tried to explain, but the man had not listened and stalked away, confirming to Treville that he had made the right call. The captain was sure the jailor had recognized him and his attitude was a result of being denied. He feared Athos was going to get caught up in the backlash.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 67

The jailor headed into the depths of the prison, motioning for two additional guards to join him. He was annoyed that this musketeer was being set free for he was sure the man was guilty. He couldn't imagine now why he had ever wanted to join the musketeers. Toy soldiers. And the captain obviously was no better than his men because he had failed to see talent when it was presented to him. The jailor felt he had been summarily dismissed because he was not the son of nobility and that his outstanding swordsmanship had been overlooked.

By the time he reached the cell in which Athos was being held, the jailor was in an even fouler mood. He unlocked the cell door and motioned for the guards to proceed him. Athos raised his head when he heard the door opening since their last meal of the day had already been delivered. The only reason the door opened off cycle was a dead body being hauled out or a fresh one being brought in. That had happened in the cell across the corridor when a prisoner had died. The guards had come in and casually dragged the corpse from the cell by its feet. Athos thought they could have shown a modicum of respect.

Athos was surprised when the two guards approached him because he didn't think he was dead, though he really wasn't sure at times. Often in his fever-muddled mind he couldn't distinguish reality from hallucination. The guards grabbed him by his biceps, yanked him to his feet and pinned him against the stone wall while the third man, with a set of keys dangling from his hands, glared at him. Athos was unclear as to what he had done to piss the stranger off, but there was no doubt the man was annoyed.

As they were hauling him to his feet, one of the guards hit his injured, infected calf and waves of blinding pain washed over Athos' mind. Concentrating on not passing out, he missed the fact that the angry man had stepped forward and unfastened the leg iron from his ankle. It wasn't until the guards bodily dragged him from his cell that it registered he was no longer shackled.

When he realized he was free of his chains, he tried to shake off the guards and stand on his own. That show of independence was quickly countered by a series of hard punches to his stomach. As he bent over, cradling his aching midsection, a swift kick to his face sent him sprawling to the floor. A trickle of salty blood ran down the side of his face where his cheek had split open from the blow. Dazed, he fought off the black curtain being pulled across his mind.

Before he could react, he was hauled upwards once more and slammed against the iron bars of the cell, the metal rods pressing cruelly into the barely healed welts from the whip on the slave galley. The man with the keys walked up and stood inches in front of him while the two guards assured he was tightly restrained.

"I should kill you now and tell your captain you were found dead in your cell." A sly grin crossed the jailor's face. "Better yet I will have the guards release you." The jailor took a few steps away from Athos and waved for the guards to release his arms. The jailor drew his sword. "Don't you want to walk to your freedom?"

Athos eyed the jailor warily, trying to keep his mind focused because he had a feeling if he made one wrong move he would end up dead. "I'm being released?" he inquired, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes. Some stupid judge has deemed you innocent. Or perhaps your captain simply bribed the man to get him to drop the charges against you."

"My captain?" Athos echoed rather stupidly, not quite following this conversation.

"Come, come. You nobility are all the same. You think yourselves better than us and you use your money to pay your way in and out of situations. Like buying your way into the musketeers, while honest soldiers like myself are ignored." The bitterness in the jailor's voice was plainly evident and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as his anger grew.

Athos had enough sense not to point out that he wasn't a musketeer because he didn't think it would help his situation. He also made sure he kept perfectly still, knowing the madman with the sword was simply waiting for an opportunity to kill him. As much as Athos felt at times that he deserved to die, this wasn't the way he envisioned it happening.

"Up that hallway is your freedom, musketeer. Aren't you going to accept it?" the jailor taunted.

A touch of his detached Comte tone unwittingly crept into Athos voice. "I have the feeling if I were so much as to breathe wrong, you will use your sword to dispatch me to hell."

Raising the tip of the sword and pressing it against Athos' chest, the jailor let out a maniacal laugh. "I don't need you to move to kill you. I'd be doing the honest citizens of France a favor by killing you; one less over-privileged musketeer running about."

Athos felt the tip of the rapier pressing harder against his chest as it drew blood. The swordsman had no idea how to escape this situation. He was barely able to remain upright and his head was fuzzier than a morning after over indulgence. His knees started to buckle and he felt himself slowly sliding downward, the tip of the sword digging a furrow in his skin.

A voice rang out of the gloom. "What the hell is going on here!"

The humming of a sword being drawn forth rang through the air causing the jailor to spin away from Athos, towards the voice. His face was a mask of rage when he saw who was addressing him.

"Captain," he spat. "I told you to wait upstairs."

"So you can kill an innocent, defenseless man?"

"He was trying to escape," the jailor lied. "I was forced to draw my sword to protect myself." The guards immediately grabbed Athos' arms to secure him.

The glare the captain gave the jailor clearly indicated his feelings. "Athos has been pardoned. He is a free man. What you were going to do was murder," the captain angrily replied. "Release him!"

Too late, the captain realized his mistake when the jailor said over his shoulder, "Release him," and Athos crumpled into a heap on the floor. The captain itched to wipe that smug smile off the jailor's face when he said, "As you requested, captain."

After he replaced his sword in its sheath, the jailor waved to the guards and began to head back to the ante-room. "Remove that musketeer scum from my jail," he demanded as he walked away, leaving Treville and Athos alone in the corridor between the cells.

Treville quickly moved over and crouched by Athos, who lay on the ground. The swordsman began to struggle to sit up and the captain reached out a hand to assist.

Raising his eyes to meet those of the captain, Athos stated, "I'm not a musketeer," which caused Treville to chuckle.

"Of all the things you could have said, that is what you choose."

Giving a little shrug, Athos replied, "Accurate, but perhaps upon thought, not my best opening statement. My head is a little muddled."

Treville glanced at the blood trickling down Athos' cheek and he had to force down the anger bubbling up once more at how the swordsman had been treated. He wanted to go back upstairs and drag the jailor here and shackle him in a cell forever. "Do you think you are ready to try standing?"

Athos nodded, then grimaced when the pain flared; not his best move. However, he gritted his teeth and accepted Treville's help as he slowly climbed to his feet. Once he was vertical, he shifted his weight to his good leg and found his equilibrium. He glanced at Treville, pointedly looking at the hands that were supporting him.

"I'm good."

In the future, when Treville heard those words from Athos, or any of the Inseparables, he would know he was in trouble. But he hadn't learned that yet, so he trustingly released Athos' arm. To his credit, the swordsman held his own, until he tried to take his first step. It was Treville's quick reflexes that kept him from falling on his face. Treville grabbed his arm and placed another around Athos' midsection to steady him. However, Athos' inadvertent moan made him shift his second arm higher, under the man's armpits, to steady him.

"What did those bastards do to you?" Treville demanded as he watched Athos trying to tamp down his agony.

"I believe," Athos explained between shallow breaths, "they didn't agree with your recruiting policies."

Treville couldn't stop a small smile from crossing his lips. "Was that a joke, Athos?"

Athos finally managed to straighten up. "No. It was merely a statement of fact. Just like I'm not a musketeer."

Slowly, the two men started to make their way through the twisting corridors, Athos leaning more heavily on Treville the further they progressed. Lances of fire shot up his leg every time he took a step, causing a light sheen of sweat to coat his brow. Finally, they arrived at the main room with the door that led to the outside. The jailor was sitting behind his desk, with two guards flanking him.

Without warning, Athos broke away from Treville and with surprising speed closed the distance between himself and the jailor. The swordsman leaned across the table, bracing himself with his left hand while the fist on this right hand landed a brutal punch on the jailor's chin. The man flipped backwards out of his chair and dropped, unconscious, onto the stone floor. It happened so fast that the two guards were caught totally unaware and did nothing to prevent his fall.

Athos shook out his smarting fist as Treville hurried to his side and urged him out the door before anything else could occur. The captain made a note to himself that Athos did have a temper, as well as a mean right hook, both important points to remember.

Getting to the garrison was another challenge. Treville wanted to send for a wagon and Athos flatly refused, stating he'd rather walk. The swordsman then countered that he would ride, which made the captain snort in amusement. The man could barely stand and the captain was sure he'd fall off the horse before it had gone a hundred feet. The compromise was for Athos to ride tandem with the captain back to the garrison. There was a slight contest of wills over seating position, but the musketeer won that skirmish. It took some maneuvering, and a slightly unhappy horse, but eventually both men were mounted, Athos in front of Treville.

As the captain leaned forward and gathered his reins, he touched Athos' back and felt the heat radiating off the man. Fifteen minutes later, as they made their way toward the garrison, the swordsman's head lolled against the captain's chest. Treville switched his reins into one hand and used the other to ensure the unconscious man stayed in the saddle.

When he reached the garrison, the captain maneuvered Athos from his horse into the arms of two musketeers in the courtyard, who carried the swordsman into the infirmary. When the two musketeers walked through the door with their burden, Aramis, who had been sitting by Porthos' bedside, rose and directed them to place the prone form on the bed he indicated.

As soon as Porthos recognized it was his missing travel mate being carried through the door, he tried to rise, but a firm hand and head shake from Aramis kept him from leaving the bed.

"Let me examine him first, Porthos," Aramis requested, though not unkindly because he knew the streetfighter was anxious.

Treville sent everyone else from the room as Aramis examined his newest patient. The captain assisted Aramis to strip and clean Athos, as he had with Porthos upon his arrival. Both musketeers cringed when they saw the number of marks on Athos' back.

"Oi, he had a rough time of it. But he saved my life," Porthos said softly from his cot when he saw them staring at Athos' scars.

"I'm sure when you are both recovered, you'll tell us the whole tale," Aramis said as he gently laid Athos back on the cot. "This wound on his calf. It's badly infected. Can you tell me what caused it?"

"Barnacles. On a rock. At least that is what he told me." Porthos stared at the wound. "I used yarrow leaves on it. However, every time we thought we had the infection beat, it kept returning."

"Hmmm," Aramis murmured as he examined the wound closer. "Maybe there is debris in it. Rekindling the infection."

"Shall I send for the physician?" Treville asked, as he had for Porthos.

Aramis thought he could handle the physical wounds he saw. What concerned him more though was the mental state of his two patients. Their bodies were a tribute to untold physical stress; what had that done to their mental health? And Athos, who had so little trust in mankind to begin with. Had this pushed him beyond salvation?

Treville was ready to depart the infirmary, having nothing more he could offer in support, but for a moment, he stood by Athos' bedside and gazed at the unconscious man. "I might have implied you were a musketeer," he whispered, "but I never actually said you were. I pray to God that someday, however, I can proudly say you are a member of my regiment."

"Amen to that," Aramis chimed in as Porthos grunted his concurrence too.

The captain headed for the door, then stopped and turned in the entryway, letting his eyes drink in the scene. Both Aramis, and Porthos, who had risen from his bed despite protests, were huddled by Athos' bedside. A strange feeling passed through Treville's mind that he was witnessing the beginning of something extraordinary.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 68

The physical recovery of the two patients under Aramis' care went as well as could be expected, which meant it bordered on the edge of insanity most days. Neither of the patients were particularly cautious when it came to their recuperation. If left to their own devices, they usually did something stupid that endangered the healing process.

One of the major issues was getting them to stay in bed so their wounds could have a chance to heal properly. Aramis had been forced to reopen the wound on Athos' calf in order to check for foreign matter, which he found; shards of the barnacles upon which the man had cut his leg were still embedded in the wound. The medic was relieved he had found the objects for it explained why the swordsman's fever kept returning. It was also a relief that he hadn't caused the stoic man so much pain unnecessarily. As untrusting as Athos was in so many ways, it seemed he implicitly trusted Aramis' medical advice, not that he usually followed it.

Porthos was healing nicely too, though he still had no stamina and his head wound made him prone to becoming lightheaded. More than once the large man had attempted to rise from his bed without aid and it had ended badly. Inactivity was not something the streetfighter handled well.

Aramis was often at his wits' end trying to keep his patients in place. Short of tying them to their respective cots which, given the ordeal they had been through seemed not only unwise but cruel, it seemed nearly impossible. The moment Aramis turned his back on them, they attempted to become more mobile, usually to their detriment.

At the beginning of their convalescence, when they were feeling poorly, it was easy to keep the two men bed-bound. As things seemed to be going splendidly, because Aramis didn't know any better... yet... he grew over confident. On the afternoon of the fourth day since Athos' had been brought to the infirmary, the marksman decided to step out for a few minutes while both men were sleeping. He'd duck out and come back before they would even realize he was gone he thought confidently as he quietly shut the door behind him as he departed.

Athos woke from yet another nap thinking all he did was sleep since he had been brought back to the garrison. Stretching cautiously, he decided he felt a little better. His eyes scanned the infirmary, first flicking to Porthos, who also was looking healthier. Then his eyes lit on the pitcher of water standing on a nearby table. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the burning desire for a drink of that water, his throat as parched as the desert. As the infirmary was empty, other than the slumbering Porthos, Athos had to either wait for Aramis to return or rise and fetch his own glass of water.

Somehow Athos decided that waiting was the less desirable course of action so he attempted to sit up. When he was successfully sitting, he carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed until he could rest his feet on the wooden floor. A few black spots danced in front of his eyes; his ribs ached in protest, and his stomach felt a little queasy, but his injured leg hardly hurt at all and he took that as the sign to go ahead and stand. Had he been a touch more rational, it might have dawned on him that his leg wasn't hurting because he had no weight on it. But that thought didn't cross his mind, so he proceeded.

As he rose to his feet, he began to sway slowly from side to side. In an attempt to regain his balance, he took a lurching step forward, unfortunately using his bad leg, which buckled, causing him to collapse onto the floor. His ribs, which had been mildly aching when he woke, now were screaming in agony from colliding with the floor. Those black dots that were dancing in front of his eyes formed a solid curtain and he passed out.

Porthos heard the thunk and opened his eyes, immediately turning his head in the direction of Athos' bed. He had gotten into the habit of constantly checking on Athos. He still was feeling guilty for having left the man behind, which had led to Athos being jailed and mistreated by the Red Guards. He had vowed he'd never let the swordsman down again and had taken to watching him like a hawk.

It didn't take him long, after noting that Athos' bed was empty, to find the swordsman's collapsed form in a heap near the bed. Panicking, Porthos rose from his own bed to go aid the fallen man. Though he had been recovering in the infirmary for over a week, it was taking his abused system longer than usual to recover, so when he rushed from the bed, he, too, ended up collapsing on the floor a few feet away from Athos. His last thought as he passed out was that Aramis was going to kill him.

Feeling better for having made a quick trip to his room to freshen up and change into a clean set of clothes, Aramis headed back to the infirmary. He strolled through the door whistling a cheerful little tune, which immediately died on his lips when he spotted the two empty beds. The infirmary wasn't large, so it took him less than half a second to find where his two charges lay sprawled on the floor. His emotions were flipping between concern and anger as he rushed to their sides and did a quick check of their vitals, which were normal.

With relief, he sat back on his heels as he stared at the two men. What in earth had possessed them to try to get out of their cots unaided? Didn't they ever listen to him? Had they tried to help each other and ended up in this state? Aramis scanned the room, once more wondering if he had missed some danger from which these men were attempting to escape. The infirmary looked perfectly safe to him. Idiots, he muttered under his breath.

Rising, he strode outside and grabbed Pierre, who was walking by, and got him to assist in getting his two patients back in their beds. Once they were settled, Aramis pulled over a nearby chair and sat equidistance between them, waiting for the men to rouse so he could yell at them.

While they were unconscious, two newly injured musketeers were brought into the infirmary. Neither had life threatening wounds, but their injures did require a moderate level of attention. Aramis inquired if his services were needed, but he was assured by the others they had things in hand.

Aramis wasn't the only one in the regiment with basic medical skills; most of the musketeers knew how to clean and sew wounds in case an injury had to be dealt with in the field. There were also a number of them, such as Aramis, who possessed more advanced skills, like the knowledge of setting bones, digging out bullets, and mixing herbal remedies. Aramis was considered the best at these skills among his brethren. For anything more serious, the captain called in the physician kept on a retainer by the King for his musketeers.

Athos and Porthos woke within minutes of each other, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. Athos woke first, somewhat disturbed by the groaning from across the room caused by a musketeer having a gash in his side cleaned. For a moment it caused Athos to have a flashback to his captivity on the galley and the moaning of the slaves who had been injured by the falling mast after the horrific storm. Panic flooded Athos' mind and his features blanched white, causing Aramis, sitting nearby, to reach over and place a reassuring hand on his shoulders; at least that was Aramis' intent, to offer comfort. However, the touch triggered a second fear in Athos, who had been beaten numerous times over the past few months, and he violently flinched away from Aramis' hand and raised his own as if to defend himself.

"It's me. Aramis. You're safe," Aramis spoke soothingly as he removed his hand, which he perceived was making matters worse. "You're in the garrison. You're safe."

Slowly, the fright washed from Athos' features and his breathing, which had become ragged, steadied.

Aramis saw a hint of embarrassment creeping into Athos' expressive green eyes and he sought to reassure him. "It is natural after the ordeal you have faced to be confused upon waking, disoriented, even frightened. But you are safe, my friend."

Athos bit down on his lower lip as he gave a quick nod to show he heard what Aramis was saying, though whether or not he believed it was dubious.

"When I returned to the infirmary, I found you passed out on the floor. What happened to make you get out of bed?" Aramis posed his inquiry in what he hoped would be perceived as a non-confrontational manner. His anger had fled upon seeing how terrified Athos had been upon waking. It had served to remind him of the trials these two men had been through.

Athos scanned the room again, his gaze lightly resting on the other musketeers in the room. "I was thirsty."

Aramis rose, poured a glass of water and handed it to Athos. "You could have waited. I would have been back soon."

Sipping from the glass gave Athos an excuse not to reply. Slowly, he drained the glass and Aramis refilled it for him once more.

"I could use a glass too, if you're buying," Porthos requested from his cot.

Aramis poured and handed him a glass before asking, "And why were you out of bed?"

"I was helping him," Porthos gestured towards Athos, who was still sipping his water with great concentration to avoid having to speak.

"You didn't succeed," Aramis pointed out as he sat on the chair between their beds once more.

"He had already passed out. I was going over to check if he was alright."

"That worked out well, didn't it?" Aramis sighed. "You both have to realize you have gone through a tremendous physical and mental trauma. It will take time for your bodies to heal. You need to take it slow and ask for help." Pointedly, Aramis looked over at Athos. "There is no shame in letting your friends help you."

Porthos nodded his head, but Athos deliberately avoided looking at the two men who were professing to be his friends. The two musketeers exchanged a knowing glance behind his back, understanding that they still had a ways to go to gain Athos' trust.

"It is too…," Athos' eyes shifted from his glass to the other musketeers on the far side of the infirmary, "…disruptive here. I want to go to my own room." Immediately a look of dismay crossed his face. "I suppose, however, that is not possible," he added, a touch of bitterness coloring his voice. "I'm sure my old room has been put to use housing a new musketeer."

Aramis decided to take a chance and see what kind of reception he received. "I assumed now that you have discovered the full rich life we musketeers lead that you would be eager to join our ranks."

"You assumed wrong," Athos replied, a touch more harshly than he intended. He knew these men were well intentioned, but they didn't understand he wasn't fit for the job, nor did he plan to enlighten them other than to say, "I would not make a good musketeer."

"Then you are wrong on two accounts. You'd make an outstanding musketeer and the captain has not given away your room," Aramis answered. "When you are better, we will discuss your options."

It was unclear to which option Aramis was referring, moving to his old room or becoming a musketeer, and the marksman had done that deliberately. No matter what Athos thought, this conversation was far from finished.

"He's right," Porthos announced, redirecting the conversation. "It is too noisy here to recover. We need some place more private. Less comings and goings."

Aramis thought for a moment, then realized that their analysis was correct. The infirmary did have a lot of activity, especially if you were a private person such as Athos; this location was probably adding to his stress level, which wasn't conducive to healing. However, neither man was well enough to be left to their own devices, as this morning's ill thought out decision to try to walk proved. He, however, had a perfect solution.

"I see and agree with your point, gentlemen," Aramis stated cheerfully.

The Athos of the future would have recognized the tone of voice being used by Aramis. It meant he only appeared to be agreeing with you. In the end you wouldn't get what you requested, but rather what Aramis thought was better for you.

"So I will be permitted to return to my room to recover on my own for a few days, before I take my leave?" Athos skeptically asked as he looked warily at Aramis.

"Not quite. You and Porthos shall be moved to my room where you both can recuperate together, which I assure you will be for more than a few days. And no one is leaving."

Athos looked unhappy about Aramis' plan and Porthos sought to reassure him. "Don't worry. It won't be bad. Aramis has a huge room since he was one of the first ones to move into the garrison. He's got a double bed."

"And," Aramis quickly added when he saw the dismay in Athos' eyes, "the room is large enough to bring in another bed for your use, and we will still have enough room to dance."

The swordsman remained unconvinced, but he supposed it had to be better than being here. He hated the medicinal smell of the infirmary, the unannounced strangers walking through the door, the overall openness of the space, not to mention the lack of privacy. Used to a much more solitary existence, this situation was keeping him on edge, constantly worrying what he might say or do in an unguarded moment. His past life, his secrets, were things he desperately wished to keep hidden. That was unlikely to happen if he stayed here in such a public space. Aramis' quarters, no matter how cramped, would at least offer him a modicum of privacy. There, he'd only have to deal with Aramis and Porthos.

As Athos began to swing his legs off the bed, Aramis placed a restraining hand on his shoulder to halt his progress. "Whoa there. I need an hour or two to get things ready. Stay here. Chat with Porthos and I'll be back shortly."

Aramis headed for the door, but just before reaching it he stopped and turned back to face the two men. "And let me make myself crystal clear. Unless this room spontaneously bursts into flames, under no circumstances are you to attempt to leave those beds. I don't care if the captain orders it himself. Stay put!" Having made his point, he hoped, he headed off to make the necessary arrangements.

Porthos glanced over at Athos, who had tracked Aramis' departure before turning his eyes to stare out the window on the far wall. "How ya feeling?"

The one word reply he received was monotone and was a lie. "Good."

"Ah-huh. I thought we made it past that point. Remember the whole thing about being honest with each other?" Porthos reminded the swordsman.

"That conversation was in regards to injuries sustained in the field. We are not in the field and the state of my health, good or otherwise, is not an endangerment to anyone," Athos replied matter-of-factly.

"I was asking as your friend," Porthos said softly, with a touch of hurt creeping into his tone.

Athos remained silent for so long that Porthos figured their conversation was over and he was about to turn on his side and try to sleep when the man finally spoke.

"We shared a lot of… experiences… over these last months. Those types of…situations… can create a necessary, though artificial bond. Now that we are back in the garrison those things are…unnecessary," Athos awkwardly concluded as he stared out the window.

Sadly, Porthos looked over at the man who refused to meet his gaze. "I thought our friendship was genuine, not born out of necessity."

Athos sighed as he slowly turned his head to look over at the streetfighter. "Forgive me. My words didn't convey what I intended. You are the bravest, most loyal, and compassionate man I have ever met. You have much to offer the regiment and your fellow musketeers. You, Porthos, will become one of this regiment's most important assets, the epitome of what a true musketeer should be. You will go far."

The swordsman took a deep breath before continuing. "I, however, have nothing to offer the regiment nor is it where I belong."

Porthos chuckled grimly. "For a smart man you sure are stupid sometimes."

Athos switched his gaze back to the window, clearly indicating he was done with this topic.

"I get it. I left; you were thrown in jail. I can only imagine what that must have been like. Did you give up hope? I would have. I would have thought that my friend, whom I trusted, abandoned me. How many times during our journey did you save me? You promised you'd get me back to Paris and you did, almost at the cost of your own life. Then the one time I'm supposed to help you, I fail."

"It took both of us, looking out for each other, to get back here," Athos stated slowly. "You didn't fail. Circumstances simply worked against us that night. My horse dying. You passing out. The guards arresting me. I don't hold those events against you."

"Yeah, well if I was you, I would still be mad. It's not the musketeer way to leave a man behind. And as soon as Treville understood what happened, he moved heaven and earth to set you free and bring you home."

Home, Athos thought. What a nice concept, that he could have a home again. He had lost hope in that prison, and it had been an unexpected surprise when Treville rescued him. He knew it couldn't have been easy for the captain to get the charges against him dropped. It made him want to believe he could have a meaningful life again, that he could be of value.

But he expressed none of those feelings, simply replying, "I shall be sure to thank the captain for his efforts."

To hell with what Aramis would do to him when he returned. Porthos worked his way off his bed, wobbled over to Athos' bed and plopped awkwardly upon it, startling the man, who had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard Porthos' approach.

Wrapping his long arms around Athos, Porthos drew the man to his chest, ignoring the physical and verbal protests being offered up. "I'm sorry, Athos."

It took a moment, but eventually, some of the tension left the tightly wound body in his arms and Porthos felt the man relax ever so slightly. Shifting his position, Porthos leaned against the headboard with Athos resting against his chest. His offer of comfort and protection was gradually accepted by the swordsman, who exhaustedly drifted off to sleep. Porthos found his own eyes growing heavy and his head drooped, resting against the dark waves of Athos' head. Maybe, he thought sleepily, he had made a little progress.

When Aramis came back into the room after having made all the necessary arrangements to move the two men to his own quarters, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the scene presenting itself to him. Porthos and Athos were both sound sleep in Athos' bed, the streetfighter's arm draped protectively over the swordsman's torso. It was a scene that spoke of nothing more than pure friendship, one brother guarding another in times of trouble. Aramis could only hope this was a positive sign that the stubborn Athos was beginning to realize that their offer of a place in the musketeers, but more importantly a place in their hearts as a friend and brother, was sincere.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 69

It had taken some time to move the two men from the infirmary to Aramis' quarters as both men stubbornly insisted they could walk there. Aramis had tried to discourage the idea, even offering to move them under the cover of darkness so no one would see them being transported. But he had lost that battle so it had taken more than an hour to go the relatively short distance. Both men could walk only about fifty feet before it became obvious that they were at risk of falling. So the painful journey was made in short increments of walk, rest, walk, rest. When they finally reached the room, which thankfully was on the ground floor, they had immediately passed out and slept the rest of the day.

Over the next few days, their progress had regressed at first before improving again. The medic blamed the short decline on the over-taxation of their depleted reserves by their prideful walk. Serge was doing a wonderful job providing at first rich broths, and then heartier meals to help the two men regain their strength and put on some needed pounds.

Porthos was eager to eat, almost too eager at times, and Aramis had to remain him to go slow and let his staved system readjust. More than once Porthos' overeating had caused him some gastronomical distress. However, his system's robustness soon returned, and his appetite became voracious.

Athos was the other extreme, having to be coaxed, cajoled, and threatened into eating. The swordsman seemed wary that what went down his throat would make an unpleasant return, which had been a problem at first, but soon passed. Eventually his appetite improved, but never quite to the level Aramis wanted.

Both Aramis and Porthos had seen the return of Athos' nightmares, and many nights they turned away to give the man as much privacy as could be offered under the circumstances. At first they had tried to offer comfort to Athos, but that seemed only to make matters worse and embarrass the swordsman. So instead they had given him what privacy they could, hoping he would realize that they were there for him if he wanted.

Their dinner was typically brought to Aramis' room by one of the lads that helped out around the garrison. This night, three steaming bowls of a fragrant stew, a large loaf of crusty bread, a basket of apples, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of wine were dropped off. As the three men gathered about the table to eat, Porthos noticed something was missing.

"There's no butter for the bread," the streetfighter noted in a rather mournful tone.

"Dip it in the stew," Aramis helpfully suggested as he picked up his spoon.

"I really like butter with bread," Porthos declared, sighing as he gazed at the still warm loaf.

"Bread is also good with cheese," Aramis recommended, as he waved his spoon at the yellow wedge.

"I suppose, but it's Thursday. Serge gets fresh butter on Thursdays from that dairy farmer at the market," Porthos reminded Aramis.

Trying to get Porthos to move past the fact there was no butter, Aramis pointedly inhaled the heavenly scent rising from his bowl of stew. "This smells wonderful. I'm starving. Aren't you, Porthos?"

"Of course. I'm always hungry." Porthos gazed dejectedly at the bread once more. "Some days we didn't get nothing to eat."

The streetfighter looked so disappointed that Aramis sighed and offered to fetch some butter.

"You're the best, Aramis," Porthos teased as Aramis rose from his chair

"What I do for my friends. I'll be right back. Athos, no wine before you finish that entire bowl of stew," Aramis instructed, glaring down at the innocent looking swordsman. Athos ripped off a small hunk of bread, dipped it in his stew, and took a bite as if to appease the musketeer.

As soon as the marksman left the room, Athos swallowed the bread in his mouth, dropped the rest of it on the table, pushed his bowl of stew to one side, and reached for the wine bottle. He poured a glass and drank it with great relish. Aramis had been very restrictive about allowing him to drink during his recuperation, refusing for a long time to let him have anything other than water. It was only in the last few days he'd been allowed to have wine, but only if he ate a full meal.

"Nice tactics to get Aramis out of the room," Athos idly remarked, as he swirled the red vintage in his glass before taking another mouthful.

"Hmmmmm," Porthos mumbled around a mouthful of stew. "I wanted butter. I didn't do it so you could swill wine. "

"Perhaps not," Athos agreed as he drained his wine glass.

"Aramis ain't gonna be happy if he catches you drinking without eating," Porthos stated as he began to eat again. "This is really good. You should try it."

Athos refilled his wine glass. "I'm not particularly hungry. Didn't we just eat?"

"That was six hours ago."

Athos arched an eyebrow at his dining companion. "Really? That long ago?" he sarcastically replied.

Porthos was shoveling down his bowl of stew as if the devil was about to come and take it away. Soon he was mopping up the last of the juices with a piece of bread. Athos slid his full, untouched bowl across the table toward Porthos. After a quick glance at the swordsman, who gave him a reassuring nod, he took it and began to gulp it down.

"If Aramis finds out I'm eating your food and you're drinking on an empty stomach he is gonna kill both of us."

"He won't. Not at the rate you're going. You'll have both bowls wiped clean and he'll never know. However, I would leave off the bread if I were you. When Aramis comes back with the butter, he might not be as receptive to making another trip to get more bread." Athos pushed the piece he had dropped on the table towards the man.

Porthos, who had been ripping off another chunk, grunted. "Good point." He dropped the piece of bread back into the basket and picked up Athos' portion instead.

By the time Aramis returned, two empty bowls innocently sat on the table, one in front of each man. Porthos was holding a half-eaten apple and Athos a partially filled wine glass.

Aramis' eyes narrowed and his gaze went from the half empty wine bottle to the cup in Athos' hand. Athos raised his green eyes and appeared to be about to speak when the marksman held up a hand to forestall the fabrication he was about to hear. "Don't even try," he warned as he glared at the empty bowls on the table.

Athos quirked an eyebrow at him as he took a sip from his glass, which infuriated Aramis even more. "Don't you dare tell me you ate that bowl of stew, Athos."

Glancing at the empty bowl in question, Athos wondered if he was allowed to speak yet.

"Do you want to know how I know you didn't eat it?" Aramis queried the man, who was still waiting for permission to speak. "Go ahead, ask me."

Athos' eyes flickered in Porthos' direction and the streetfighter gave him a 'why not' shrug.

"Why?" Athos asked Aramis in his peculiar questioning lilt.

"Because there are no peppers left in the bowl," Aramis declared triumphantly, appearing incredibly pleased with himself.

"I see," Athos said slowly, clearly indicating he didn't.

"I might not know much about you, Athos. But I do know you detest peppers. Refuse to eat them. That stew had peppers. Had you even bothered to attempt to eat it, you would have discovered them and then proceeded to pick every single one out. I see no evidence of peppers, Monsieur," Aramis concluded with a flourish.

"I gave them to Porthos," Athos replied with a perfectly straight face.

Porthos, sitting on the other side of the table from Athos, sunk a little lower in his chair, instinctively knowing the backlash was going to hit him soon.

Aramis folded his arms across his chest as he glared down at Athos, who as always, seemed as cool as a cucumber.

"I did try the stew," Athos finally answered factually, for it was true. He had dipped the corner of his bread in it before forgoing the rest to down three glasses of wine.

"Define tried the stew. Did it involve an eating utensil of any sort... this trying?" Aramis questioned as he plopped down on the empty chair at the table.

As Athos was opening his mouth to reply, the hand of silence rose once more to stifle him.

"And before you offer up your answer, may I point out that all your eating utensils are spotlessly clean. Not a smudge on them. Did you, perhaps, forgo the use of utensils and lift the bowl to your lips and slurp down the contents in that fashion? Your very long beard is immaculate which gives me pause. And yet, your glass is suspiciously damp and the wine bottle nearly empty. Did you forget our simple rule in regards to wine?"

By now, Athos was beginning to look uncomfortable, as he could fathom no way to recover from his act of disobedience.

"Let me refresh your memory. The wine rule was one glass after completion of a full meal," Aramis chided.

The swordsman gave up his pretense and simply scowled, unhappy he got caught.

"And you, Porthos," Aramis scolded as he rounded on the slouching musketeer. "You're not helping matters by eating his food. If you don't quit eating so much, you're going to be as wide as you are tall."

"Never gonna happen," Porthos muttered under his breath. "I got a great constitution."

The glasses of wine on an empty stomach began to effect Athos' judgement and without thinking, he reached past Aramis for the wine bottle to refill his glass.

"You've got to be kidding me," Aramis declared, moving the bottle away from Athos and instead shoving his own untouched bowl of stew under the man's nose. "Eat."

Athos eyed the bowl with utter distain. "It has peppers."

Aramis shoved a fork at him. "Pick them out."

"They tainted the stew," Athos countered.

"Deal with it."

Athos hesitantly picked up the fork and stirred the stew around, then let the utensil clatter back against the edge of the bowl. He sat back in his chair and didn't say a word, but his opinion on consuming that bowl of stew was clear to everyone in the room. Aramis leaned back in his chair as well, and the staring match began, the first of what would become many during their long friendship.

Porthos glanced between the two stubborn men, sighed and took up the role he would come to play, the mediator. With a sigh, he took Aramis' main gauche from where it rested on the nearby chest. Grabbing one of the apples in the basket, he used the finely honed blade to core and quarter the fruit before placing it on an empty plate that was on the table. Next, he ripped off a large piece of bread and generously slathered it with the butter Aramis had so graciously fetched. This was added to the plate with the apple quarters. Finally, using Aramis' blade once more, he sliced off strips of cheese, which he also placed on the plate.

When Porthos was done, he shoved the loaded plate across the table at Athos. "Compromise?"

Athos let his eyes skim the plate before focusing them back on Aramis. Aramis did the same and then nearly in perfect sync, they both gave a curt nod.

"Good," Porthos grunted as he buttered a new piece of bread for his own consumption as a reward for resolving this situation.

Athos picked up the plate, rose from his chair, walked over to the bed he was using in Aramis' room and set the dish on the makeshift nightstand, next to the book he was reading. After arranging himself so he was propped up against the bed's headboard, he picked up the plate and the book from the stand. Placing the dish of food next to him on the mattress, he opened the tome to where he had left off. Rather absentmindedly, he picked up one of the apple quarters and nibbled on it as he read.

"You're both stubborn as mules," Porthos declared as he pushed Aramis' bowl of stew towards the marksman, who was still staring a bit bemused at the man on the bed. "Eat."

Aramis shifted his gaze to the table and began eating his meal. Porthos asked about some of the new musketeers and between mouthfuls, Aramis regaled him with tales. Athos totally ignored them, solely focusing on his book and the other two gave him his space. When Aramis happened to glance his way a while later, he found Athos' chin had dropped to his chest, the book had fallen from his slack hands to the bed, and the swordsman was gently snoring.

Rising, the marksman walked over to the bed and collected the half-finished plate of food. "Oh well," he said as he placed it on the table. "At least he ate something. However, he's not going to regain his health if he doesn't eat."

Heading back to the bed, Aramis arranged the sleeping swordsman in a more comfortable position, one that wouldn't have him waking up with a stiff neck. Athos half-roused as Aramis was moving him, but quickly fell back into his slumber. Moving to the table, Aramis sat across from Porthos and poured himself and the streetfighter the last of the wine.

"On the ship, he used to give away part of his food to me and Miguel. Don't know why. He was working as hard as anyone," Porthos remarked as he picked up his glass and took a drink.

"Atonement. He is running from something in his past," Aramis sagely theorized. "Did he ever tell you what?"

"No and I didn't ask. A man's past..."

"…is his own. I agree." The marksman glanced over at the bed, where Athos was becoming restless. "Still, I wish I had a clue what demons were tormenting him. His nightmares…"

Now it was Porthos' turn to finish the sentence "…are bad. Really bad."

Aramis raised his glass and took another sip. "He's a good man. He'll make a good musketeer."

"Oi, if we can convince him. I'm not so sure that he will agree."

Aramis smiled brightly. "We will simply have to convince him, won't we. I can be quite persuasive."

"You can be a pest, that is what you can be," Porthos declared, though a small smile was tugging on his lips too.

"I should be wounded by your comment, my friend, but I will take into account that you are still recovering from a head wound and overlook it," Aramis munificently offered.

Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis but didn't comment. He looked over at Athos again and wondered if the man would agree to become a musketeer. If he had learned one thing on the journey with Athos, it was never to underestimate the man; he was full of surprises.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 70

After consulting with Aramis to ensure he wouldn't be overtaxing the recovering men, Treville asked Athos and Porthos to explain what had befallen them on their mission. The captain learned much of the story, or as much of it as Porthos was willing to impart, for it was the streetfighter who did all the talking. Every now and then the large musketeer would catch Athos' eye and Treville was sure there was some silent conversation passing between the two men as to whether some part of their journey should be told, or skipped over as too painful or personal.

When Porthos finished, Athos spoke, not to impart any information, but to demand an answer. "Will the King do something about the situation in Dieppe?"

Treville ran a weary hand over his day-stubble, as he debated how to answer Athos' inquiry. His majesty had become known as 'Louis the Just' and there was a good chance he would abhor the slavery situation in Dieppe and demand it be resolved. However, the King was also known to be fickle at times. The captain was hesitant to offer false hope to these men who had suffered greatly.

"I will bring this to the King's attention. But I can't guarantee his Majesty will act upon it," Treville truthfully answered the swordsman, whose intense green eyes felt like they were boring into his very soul.

Athos searched those blue eyes, meeting his unabashedly, then abruptly rose from his chair. "Justice will be done," he declared as he stalked across the room to the window, leaned heavily on the sill, and moodily stared out into the inky darkness.

Treville watched the man standing with his back to him for a few minutes, thinking of the physical scars not visible under that dark colored shirt and speculating on the hidden mental ones. "Vigilantism is never the answer, Athos," he cautioned, wondering if his words would have any impact on the brooding man.

The swordsman didn't turn around, nor did he remark on Treville's comment. Instead he asked another question. "Is the room I was using still available? I'd like to return there tonight."

The captain shifted his gaze to Aramis, who gave a little shrug. The marksman knew Athos was growing restless, finding it taxing being in close quarters with him and Porthos. The swordsman's stamina was improving, and Aramis wasn't as worried about him having any type of major medical setback. Even if he preferred that Athos remain under his watchful eye for another few days, he thought the likelihood of that was small. If he wasn't given permission to leave, he'd simply do it on his own, which might mean leaving the garrison as well. It was far safer to have him under the garrison's roof than on the streets of Paris.

Addressing Athos, but watching Aramis as he spoke, Treville answered, "I'll have it opened and aired tomorrow so it will be ready for your use two days hence." The marksman gave a small smile to indicate he was fine with the response.

Athos slowly turned around to study the captain, trying to judge if he could be persuaded to allow him to leave tonight. The cool blue eyes dispassionately gazing at him gave him his answer. No. With an inaudible sigh, Athos gave a short nod to indicate he accepted the terms of the offer, even if he didn't like them.

After that, the captain took his leave. The mood in the room remained somber, the harsh and brutal tale having stirred the restless ghosts of dark memories. A late evening meal had been delivered and met with no enthusiasm, as even Porthos' normally ravenous appetite was dulled by the lingering trauma. Athos didn't even attempt to eat, simply repetitively pouring glasses of wine and slugging them back like shots of whiskey. Aramis didn't try to stop the self-abusing man, nor try to get him to eat. After hearing what happened to them, and knowing there were worse parts that hadn't been described, the marksman was willing to let the man drown his sorrows for a night.

Athos drank long and steadily, eventually passing out, his head cradled in his arms on the table's top. Aramis and Porthos gently carried him to his bed, laid the drunken man on his side, and tucked a blanket around his frame. Afterwards, the two musketeers moved to the large bed they had been sharing since relocating from the infirmary and arranged themselves for the night.

After blowing out the last candle by the bedside, Aramis lay on his back, arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

"More happened. Than you told Treville." Aramis waited silently to see if Porthos was willing and able to share the burden he was carrying. The marksman wanted to shoulder some of the pain for his brother.

"He scared me at times, Aramis. Like he had a death wish. He certainly has less regard for his own life than for the lives of others."

There was no need for Porthos to say who 'he' was for Aramis knew and his eyes drifted to the drunken man in the bed across the room.

"Athos did what he did of his own accord and for his own reasons, right or wrong. And he'd not thank you for feeling guilty over his choice." Aramis gave the streetfighter's shoulder a compassionate squeeze before letting go.

Porthos exhausted soon drifted off to sleep. Aramis rose to find his beads, taking up residence in a chair and praying upon the round stones, seeking comfort. When he felt calm, he put away his rosary and rejoined Porthos in the bed. Once he was settled, he found the larger man moving closer to him, as if drawn to the calmness the marksman had found. Wrapping his arm over Porthos' chest, Aramis dozed off.

A day later, after hearing of the corruption occurring in Dieppe, Captain Treville sought an audience with the King. As usual, Cardinal Richelieu was on hand to advise the King, but more so to make sure there was nothing of which he was unaware happening in Paris. The captain wished the Cardinal was elsewhere, for the First Minister of France often seemed to take great delight in trying to get the King to do the opposite of what Treville wanted.

Treville laid out a skeleton version of Athos' and Porthos' mission and the trials and tribulations they had endured. The Cardinal, one of the sharpest and most cunning men Treville had ever met, quickly ascertained that the story being relayed had many gaps in it. However, the King overlooked the missing plot points and simply listened with an almost childlike delight, as if he were being told a grand bedtime story.

"I'd advise your Majesty to send troops to Dieppe to rout out those guards involved in selling innocent people into slavery and see that they are brought to justice," Treville requested upon completion of the account.

The Cardinal, stroking his beard in a thoughtful manner, spoke before the King even had a chance to draw a breath. "This sounds like a very dangerous idea, captain, setting Guard against Guard. What will the people of France think when they see officers of the law fighting amongst themselves? It is bad enough in Paris; your Musketeers seem incapable of not provoking my Red Guards. Now we are going to propagate this unseemly behavior elsewhere?"

"The good citizens of Dieppe will think, Cardinal, that their King is fair and just, and holds all men accountable for their actions. A great leader, who is wiping a scourge from France," Treville shot back, trying to keep his voice even and anger in check for he knew this was all part of the game.

Looking skeptical as only he could, Cardinal Richelieu drawled, "Still, I'm not sure we can afford to have that many Red Guards gone from Paris. They are needed here to protect the King."

"A job my regiment of Musketeers is fully capable of carrying out. After all they are his Majesty's elite fighting force," he provocatively reminded the Cardinal.

Rounding on Treville, Richelieu waved a negligent hand, "All very well and good, but aren't they still rather decimated by the unfortunate event at Savoy. They really didn't make a very good showing there, did they captain."

Treville was ready to draw his pistol and shoot this insolent man through his miserable heart. How dare the man bring up Savoy, the shameful secret that would bind them together in hell forever. But keeping his cool, Treville ground out, "My regiment is nearly back to full strength, but thank you for your concern."

"Still, I imagine this will be a rather costly venture, sending all those men to Dieppe," the Cardinal insinuated as he turned back to face the King. "We do have to watch our finances, Sire."

Up to this point, the King had been sitting quietly, enjoying the verbal sparring match between his two top advisors. Contrary to what many thought, Louis wasn't a stupid man and he knew there was no love lost between these two men. But what made them dislike each other also kept them on their toes, so frequently the King simply enjoyed sitting back and letting them have at it.

"It would be a bit unseemly, I suppose, to rush in and arrest every guard in Dieppe. I'm sure the people of the town would not be happy to have their only means of protection arrested," the King said thoughtfully.

Treville started to speak, but the King held up his hand to forestall him. "However, in good conscience I simply can't turn a blind eye to this corruption. So I will allow you, Captain Treville, to send a few men to Dieppe to arrest those responsible and bring them here, to Paris, to be put on trial."

The Cardinal was about to speak, when, once more, the King's hand went up silencing him. "And by a few men, I mean no more than three, captain. After all, I can't be without my personal guards now can I. What if I have the sudden urge to hunt? Or if someone comes to visit. My men in blue must be ready to protect and guard my royal person."

Treville bowed his head slightly to indicate he understood the King's orders to him.

The King's eyes shifted to his First Minister. "What say you, Cardinal? Is my plan feasible and cost effective enough for you?"

The prelate gave his own half bow. "Your plan shows great wisdom, Sire. An example will be made of the men who condone such vile acts. You once again show why you are Louis the Just."

For all his flattery, the Cardinal was quite unhappy with this turn of events. What was going on in Dieppe was not unknown to him. Through back channels, he was actually encouraging what the captain of the guard and his men in Dieppe were doing, especially since he received a generous cut from the sale of each slave. It was expensive to run a country and all means of revenue had to be explored. Damn these musketeers. Once again they were proving to be a thorn in his side.

But these thoughts were kept strictly to himself, and he gave the King another half-bow as he requested permission to leave. "I have a few pressing matters to resolve," the Cardinal explained to the King. Like making sure whoever was brought back from Dieppe to stand trial in no way could implicate him. If there was the slightest chance of him being connected to the events in Dieppe, he would have to arrange for an unfortunate accident. He was fairly certain his involvement was well-hidden, but it never hurt to be cautious. After all, Treville and his musketeers weren't stupid men by any means.

As Cardinal Richelieu was turning to leave, he heard the captain speaking once more. "Your Majesty, I have one additional request of you."

"What now Treville? Are you in need of more funds for your garrison?" the King said in a bored manner. "Who knew having a troop of personal guards would be so expensive."

"No, Sire. The garrison is well stocked and financially sound. However, as the Cardinal pointed out, I'm still in need of a few men to bring the regiment back to its full strength. I have a candidate in mind for your Majesty's approval. The man who accompanied my musketeer on this trip, out of a deep respect and love for his King and Country."

The Cardinal stopped and turned back to face the King and Treville. "Another man off the streets, captain?"

"This particular applicant has been serving as our swordmaster and has greatly improved my men's swordsmanship. In fact, Sire, he is the best man I have ever seen with a sword. Loyal, brave, the kind of man your Majesty wants as part of his elite regiment," Treville informed the King, who smiled, while the Cardinal frowned.

"Don't you have enough street rats in your ranks already? I thought the idea of the musketeers were to be the best of the best. Sons of France," the Cardinal pointed out.

"The idea of the musketeers, Your Eminence, is to be the best of the best, regardless of background," the captain replied haughtily.

"Your man. Is he really that good with a sword?" the King said trying to look serious and failing miserably.

"He is the best in all of France," Treville answered, which caused the Cardinal to snort.

"That is quite a claim, captain," Richelieu drawled sarcastically.

"I will gladly pit him against any man in your Red Guards," Captain Treville confidently replied, though the minute the words left his mouth he regretted having spoken them.

"Maybe we will just do that," the King declared, seizing on the idea which allowed him to see a good fight with a legal reason. "After all, if he is going to guard me, I want to make sure he is worthy. Go now captain. Bring the men responsible for the heinous crimes in Dieppe to my court for justice. Then we'll discuss your new recruit." He paused for a moment before adding, "Perhaps you should send your recruit to apprehend these bad men. Another way to prove his worth to me."

Treville felt like telling the King that Athos had already proven his worth, but he knew the King was losing interest at this point so he simply bowed and took his leave, the Cardinal by his side.

"This new recruit, have I heard of him?" the Cardinal asked as the two men made their way down the hallway.

Treville couldn't resist tweaking the tiger's tail, even though he knew it was both wrong and dangerous. "I doubt it, but you have seen his work. He is the man that halted the robbery at the garrison, single-handedly. Fought, I believe, eight men and handily won."

The Cardinal was a consummate master of his facial expressions, giving away none of the fevered thoughts running through his brain. Could this be the same man Milady had brought to his attention and if the man was truly that good, shouldn't he be on his team, not Treville's?

"I'm sure it was merely luck," the Cardinal said dismissively. "After all, if he were that good I'm sure he would be well known." With that, the Cardinal turned at a juncture in the hallway and headed for his office.

Treville continued to the stable where he retrieved his horse and rode to the garrison. This had not gone quite as anticipated, though he did get what he sought, permission to bring the men of Dieppe to justice. However, he would have preferred to send more than three men on this mission.

He knew, when he got back to the garrison and told Athos, Porthos, and Aramis of the King's decision, immediately he would have three volunteers. Whether or not he should send them was another question, and not one easily answered. First, Athos and Porthos needed more time to recover before they would be fit to go on any sort of mission. Then there was the nagging fact that Athos wasn't technically a musketeer, though Treville had implied to the King that the man sought a commission. Treville wasn't even sure Athos wanted to become a musketeer, nor was he sure he wanted the swordsman in the regiment until he determined if the man really was the Comte de la Fére. A man's past was his past, but still Treville would know who was serving under him.

Besides the physical toll this journey might take on the two men, what about their mental state, going back to the scene where so many horrors had occurred. Would Aramis be the voice of reason, the calm head to guide them through this mission? Would the marksman be able to hold the group together and make sure nothing rash occurred?

And if he didn't send these three, he had a very strong feeling they might just disappear and seek justice themselves anyway. Yes, he could order Aramis and Porthos to stand down, and they might; but Athos was technically a free man. If he took off on his own to seek justice, or more likely revenge, on the crooked captain and his men in Dieppe, Treville doubted the other two would let him go alone.

He wasn't sure if the three realized it yet, but the captain could see the invisible ties that were beginning to bind these three men together. His gut told him that together they would be inseparable and unstoppable if they built upon the foundation being laid. And they would be good for each other, three pieces of an oddly shaped puzzle that fit together perfectly.

However, he knew had his work cut out for him for he had a sneaking suspicion Athos wasn't fully committed to the idea of joining the musketeers, and it would take some persuasion to make him see this was where he belonged. Sighing, the captain kicked his horse into a slow trot, as he recalled the words of advice from his father. One step at a time. He simply had to approach this tangled web slowly, methodically, and maybe he could untangle this knotty mess.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 71

Even though he had been allowed to move back into his old room, Athos was finding it was far from the solitary sanctum he'd had hoped for when he left Aramis' room. It seemed that somehow he saw more of the man than when they were rooming together. And Athos wasn't imagining it. Aramis hadn't been able to make the swordsman stay in his room, but it didn't mean the man was going to escape the medic's diligent and vigilant care.

Every meal time had food showing up at Athos' door, usually with Aramis and Porthos in tow to keep him company as he ate, or more precisely, to ensure he ate. As he got better, Athos was practically dragged by his overly long hair to the mess for every meal, whether he was incline to go or not. The swordsman was discovering his life was still not his own.

To further ensure he ate, Serge had taken to leaving food on the table which was located at the foot of the stairs to Treville's office. The cook discovered that Athos often sat there, watching the regiment practice when he was not yet recovered enough to join them, and later when he needed a rest break because he tended to push his healing body too fast, too soon. Aramis and Porthos often joined him and slowly that table came to be designated as 'theirs'; the others in the garrison rarely perched upon its wooden benches.

Aramis had finally allowed his charges to leave their rooms and get some fresh air. They weren't allowed to actually do more than sit in the sun and observe the coming and goings of the garrison, but it was better than being cooped up inside. Porthos and Athos were sitting at the table enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, idly watching the farrier shoe a new horse. The temperamental dapple grey filly was giving the man grief as he tried to file down the edges of her overgrown hoof.

"Got a bit of a temper she has," Porthos remarked, as the 'she' in question proceeded to swish her tail hard enough to slap it in the face of the blacksmith holding up her left hind foot.

"Women are temperamental and should be avoided at all cost," Athos stated with a touch of bitterness that was not lost on Aramis, who was approaching the table, having just finished some target practice.

"Women are delightful creatures that should be relished and cherished," Aramis countered as he drew near the table.

"You mean ravished," Porthos grunted, as he glanced meaningfully at the marksman.

"My dear fellow, I never ravish a woman. They simply gravitate to my natural charm," Aramis explained with a wistful smile on his face.

"Oi," Porthos said derisively, "Especially the married ones."

Athos glanced over Aramis' shoulder and saw Serge was headed their way carrying a covered basket. An unintentional groan escaped the swordsman lips. "Dear God, not more food."

Aramis followed the direction of Athos' stare and, when his eyes lit upon Serge, he broadly smiled. "Ah, good. Here he is."

"Aramis, I couldn't possible eat. You have been stuffing food in me like I am a prize pig you're trying to fatten up for market," Athos declared, trying to head off another round of 'let's try to make Athos eat.'

The marksman gave the agitated swordsman an amused grin. "As tempting as that is, Serge is here at my request, but not to feed you." Aramis cocked his head to one side as he studied Athos, "Still you do appear undernourished."

"I'm warning you, Aramis," Athos threatened, but he was cut off by the marksman.

"But, Serge is not here to address your malnutrition, but rather another equally pressing issue."

Porthos and Athos traded confused glances with each other, then looked askance at Aramis.

"Your hair!" Aramis announced with a dramatic flourish. "Your hair was grown to biblical proportions and since neither of you are Samson it's time we do something about it."

"He might be Goliath," Athos deadpanned, with a sideways glance in Porthos' direction.

Porthos and Aramis grinned at each other and then at Athos, who coolly sat there as if he was unaware of their gleeful scrutiny.

"He has a sense of humor?" Aramis asked, glancing over at Porthos again, who merely shrugged.

"Catches me off guard too. He's actually quite funny at times, and I don't mean in the head." Porthos paused a beat for effect then added, "Actually, I think he is funny in the head too."

Serge, the older war veteran, didn't have time for these young men's antics. He had a dinner to prepare and couldn't stand around there all day while these young folks traded foolish barbs. "We doing this or not," he demanded, glaring at Aramis.

"If there is any type of food in that basket then we are not doing it," Athos answered seriously, as he eyed the basket the cook had placed on the table. As it was covered with a cloth, the swordsman could not see the contents.

Serge had a unique cackle which rang forth.

"What's so funny?" Porthos asked, thinking he'd missed the joke.

Suddenly, Athos remembered what Aramis had said earlier. "You cut hair?" Athos gasped.

"I sure do," Serge confirmed as he whisked the cloth off the basket revealing a comb, bar of soap, scissors, strap, and a wicked looking small blade. "I ain't just a pretty face. I've been cutting hair since you boys were in swaddling. Someone in the Army's gotta do it or everyone starts looking like wild animals. The soldiers of France are supposed to scare the enemy by their prowess with weapons, not scare them with their looks. Which one of you is first?" he inquired as he picked up the shears, waving them about for emphasis.

Athos examined the pieces of hair that had been stuck on the scissors and had fallen to the table. "Did you use these on a horse?" He rolled the coarse black hair between his fingers before looking over at the cook.

"I did. Your black stallion. Moody beast that one is."

"Rather like his owner," Porthos muttered under his breath.

"His forelock was so long it was irritating his eyes so I took pity on the beast and trimmed it." Serge explained, wiping the shears clean on a piece of cloth from the basket.

In a rare unguarded moment, Athos let his emotions show on his normally impassive face. Sadness over took him, etching itself on all his features. "I miss that horse," he whispered with such anguish it tugged at the heartstrings.

"Not sure why you'd miss that unruly animal," Serge stated as he shook out the cloth before dropping it on the table. "To each his own I guess. But, you'd better go see if you can get that devil to stop terrorizing the stable lads. Took a chuck out of Jacob, he did." Holding the scissors aloft as he snapped them open and shut a few times, he asked, "So who's first?"

"Roger?" Athos exclaimed in a perplexed manner. Why was Serge talking about his beloved missing stallion as if he were still in the garrison's stable?

"Who's Roger?" Serge pointed the scissors at Aramis, growing impatient. "I thought you said these two needed a haircut." Then he glanced over at Athos. "Is Roger a new recruit? So many these days I can't keep them straight."

"Roger was my horse," Athos murmured softy as he turned his head to hide his face from the men at the table, struggling to rein in his emotions.

"That's the name of that black beast? Funny name for a horse if you ask me." Serge dropped the scissors back into his basket as he placed his hands on his hips. "I don't have time for this. I gotta go start dinner or you all are gonna starve tonight. Well except him," Serge pointed to Athos. "Cause he don't eat anyways."

Aramis decided to try to get this cart back on the path. "Porthos, come sit in this chair so Serge can cut your hair and trim your beard."

Porthos did as requested, sitting on the chair near the garrison's cook and barber. With a grunt, Serge picked up the comb and tried to run it through Porthos' tight curls with limited success.

"Your hair is tougher than, what's his name's? Roger's? mane. Still say that's odd name for a horse," Serge muttered as he abandoned the comb, picked up the shears, and began working on Porthos' hair.

"And what's the name of your horse. That big, brown, rangy one?" Serge conversationally inquired of Porthos. "Something better than Roger I hope."

"Flip. His name was Flip. And I miss him too." Porthos gave a sigh but remained still, having already received a warning once from the cook/barber on squirming.

"So when I'm done here, go visit him." Serge lowered his voice, whispering in Porthos' ear. "If you can slip your jailor's leash."

Porthos didn't move his head, but let his eyes wander to the dejected form of Athos, who was huddled miserably on the end of the bench. Thinking Serge's mind must have slipped a little, for his and Athos' horses had been lost in Dieppe, he set out to correct the cook. "Our horses were lost in Dieppe, Serge," he said quietly, trying not to upset Athos any further. It was obvious he had had a deep bond with his lost stallion.

"The black Friesian with the evil temper and the rangy brown with black points? What are you talking about? They're in the stable. The black one has been terrorizing the stable boys since he and the other one showed up riderless at the gate. Least your brown's an easy keeper."

Suddenly it dawned on Aramis that they had made another oversight. "Dear Lord, I never thought to mention that your horses returned on their own about a month after you disappeared. It was one of the reasons we thought you lost for good."

Athos spun around so fast on the bench that he banged his healing ribs into the edge of table, which made him clench his teeth in pain though he still managed to grind out, "Roger is in the stable?" Elation was warring with pain on the swordsman's face as he forgot to cloak his emotions.

"Ain't' that what I been saying? Aramis is right to keep you boys on a short leash. You ain't recovered yet. Still daft in the head," Serge murmured as he began trimming Porthos' beard.

Athos ignored Serge as he tried to catch his breath and stand. Aramis swiftly moved to his side when the swordsman started to sway after he stood. "Easy, Athos," he murmured as he gripped the man's arm. "Breathe slow and steady. Give your ribs a chance to relax. You banged them pretty hard on the table."

A brief nod was all Athos managed to provide as he tried to control his breathing so his ribs wouldn't ache. His mind was struggling between the elation that Roger was still alive and managing the waves of pain radiating from his torso.

Aramis applied some pressure to the swordsman's arm and got him to resettle on the bench. "I'm sorry, mon ami. I didn't think to tell you Roger was safe in the stable."

Serge completed his grooming of Porthos. The streetfighter looked like his old self once more, with a neatly trimmed beard and curls cropped tight to his head. Porthos ran a hand over his neatly shorn locks and grinned.

"Next," Serge called out as Porthos vacated the chair.

"I have to go see Roger," Athos declared as he rose to his feet in a much steadier fashion this time.

"And you can," Aramis promised as he grabbed Athos' bicep and steered him towards the empty chair. "As soon as Serge trims your hair and beard. We can't keep him out here forever. He does have to go cook dinner not…," Aramis held up a hand to forestall Athos' comment," that you care about food. But I can assure you the rest of the garrison does not share your dislike of eating."

"I like to eat," Athos muttered as he allowed himself to be led to the chair. "Just not as often as some," he added, pointedly glancing in Porthos' direction.

Porthos gave the swordsman a scowl that didn't reach his eyes. "When Serge is done making you human again, we'll go to the stable to see our horses." Porthos shook his head in disbelief as he plucked a few grapes from a bowl and rolled them round in his fingers. "Imagine that, making it all the way from Dieppe on their own."

"Yes, and quicker than you two managed," Aramis joshed, then he held his breath and waited. It was the first joke he had made about their experience and he wasn't sure how it would be received.

It grew very quiet around the table; the only sound was the snipping of the scissors which were depositing long strips of Athos' wavy, brown hair on the dirt by his feet. Athos' gaze remained fixed on the stable in the distance, as if he could will Roger to appear. Porthos peered at Aramis, then over at the swordsman.

After popping the grapes in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing, Porthos said, "Yeah, well the horses didn't have to carry anything. I had to drag his sorry ass across half of France."

Athos' green eyes changed their focus from the stable to Porthos and while his voice remained cool, a note of warmth crept into his eyes. "I seem to recall it was I, who carried you, especially in the water."

"Towed, you mean," Porthos returned with a self-deprecating grin. "Like a drowned rat."

Athos shrugged and got a warning from Serge to hold still if he wanted to have two ears attached to his head when this was over.

"Whale might be more appropriate, which reminds me, we need to start working on teaching you to read. I'd like you to have a good foundation before I leave."

"Well then we got nothing to worry about," Porthos stated with confidence. "Cause you ain't going anywhere. You got all the time in the world to teach me to read; what was the name of that book by that home person?"

"The Odyssey. By Homer," Athos supplied, as his eyes drifted towards the stable once more.

However, the fact that Aramis and Porthos found more interesting than the correct title of the book was that Athos hadn't corrected them when they said he would be staying. Could they finally be making headway in convincing the stubborn man that they were his friends and the garrison his new home? When Aramis had called him friend earlier, he hadn't objected like he usually did, though perhaps it was an oversight as he was in pain from cracking his ribs on the table. However, they preferred to believe it was because Athos was thinking of them as friends. And from friends, to brothers-in-arms, to a real musketeer, was not such a large step.

As soon as Serge was finished with him, Athos headed for the stable, looking happier than he had since their return. His reunion with Roger was a joyful one for both parties, the horse seeming as glad to see his owner, as the owner his horse. The swordsman flung open the stall door and rushed in, much to the chagrin of the stable boy, who nearly had heart failure when he saw Athos heading into the stall.

The lad, having no idea who Athos was since he'd been hired after the swordsman's departure, ran up the dirt aisle yelling, "Monsieur! Monsieur! He is a very dangerous animal. Don't enter his stall."

When the boy came to a screeching halt in front of the stall, his mouth dropped open and he stood there flabbergasted. Athos and Roger were standing forehead to forehead as if they were having a private conversation, which the two old friends probably were.

"It's his horse, Roger," Aramis said; he dropped a companionable hand on the immobile lad's shoulder as they watched the reunion occurring in the straw covered box.

Roger raised his head and draped it over Athos' shoulder as the man wrapped his arms around the black stallion's muscular neck. When those dark eyes saw the spectators darkening his doorway, his ears slicked back and he gave a warning snort.

"And I think that is our cue to leave," Aramis declared, steering the boy away from the stall. "How about we go visit Flip. Rangy brown gelding. Showed up the same time as that one."

"Oh him. Oi, he's a few boxes down. Nice fellow he is, not like that one. That black devil took a chunk out of my hide, he did," the lad stated, having regained his senses. "His name is Roger?"

"Don't ask," Porthos recommended as they drew up to Flip's stall.

The gelding recognized his rider too, though their reunion was nowhere near as mystical as the one between Roger and Athos. Aramis six-sense told him there was a story there, between that man and his horse and maybe, one night around the campfire, when they were all musketeers on a mission, Athos would regal them with the tale.

"Perhaps," Aramis theorized as he watched Porthos scratch Flip between his floppy ears, "now that Roger has been reunited with Athos, his attitude will improve."

"I hope so," the boy muttered. "I hate drawing straws to see who is gonna take his chances with that stallion. I gotta get back to work," the boy declared as he hurried away down the aisle.

Aramis leaned against the wall of the stable, arms loosely crossed over his chest. A feeling of contentment settled around him, something he hadn't felt for a very long time. It were as if things had shifted, ever so slightly, to allow the pieces of this puzzle to fall neatly into place. Fingering his mother's crucifix, which he wore under his shirt, he offered a short prayer of thanks to his God. As he held the warm metal cross in his hand, he remembered something else that had slipped his mind regarding another necklace. The one he had found in Athos' room and had stored away safely, fearing the gold locket might be stolen if left unattended in Athos' empty quarters.

He'd have to return the necklace, the locket, to its rightful owner. Aramis had wondered what was inside the piece that seemed worn by age, though he hadn't opened it. That would have felt like a violation of trust, like reading someone's personal correspondence. In his mind, he imagined when he returned the locket to Athos that the swordsman word be as delighted as he had been finding that Roger was still alive.

Aramis wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed, but Athos had been smiling in his horse's stall. And not a smirk, or small twitching of the corner of his lips, but a full smile. It had made the swordsman look younger and momentarily carefree. It made Aramis redefine how old he thought Athos was, for when they first met, he thought the man older than he and Porthos. Now, he wouldn't be surprised to discover that the swordsman was their age, if not a year or so younger. Whatever the heavy burden was that life had placed on Athos it had made him appear worn, and older than his years. Aramis hoped he and Porthos could help lift that yoke and relieve some pressure from this man's soul.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 72

Treville stood on his porch watching the training going on in the yard below. As his eyes roamed over his musketeers he felt a sense of pride. His regiment was coming into its own once more, having risen, like a phoenix, from the ashes that were Savoy. His small teams of men were proving to be the boon he had hoped, allowing the missions of the musketeers to be carried out in a successful fashion. There was only one team that still needed to be formed, officially, for unofficially it already existed in most people's minds. Two members of the three-person team already realized that they were a unit; the third, Treville thought, was still in denial.

As was becoming the norm, find one and the other two would be nearby. Searching the men practicing their hand-to-hand combat, Treville readily spotted Porthos, as the large musketeer easily tossed his opponent aside with a feral grin. He didn't have to look far to find the other two, lounging in the shade. Aramis and Athos were both wearing the padded blue practice vests his Majesty had recently acquired for his troops. Their hair was plastered to their heads attesting to the fact they had given each other a hard work out with their swords. Athos was the superior swordsman, though of all the musketeers, Aramis was the one who could offer him a challenge, more so since Athos had been working on improving the marksman's swordsmanship.

Each man had a rapier slung at his hip, practice blades from the armory whose tips and edges were deliberately kept dull to decrease the number of training accidents. In their hands, each held a cup, from which they were taking sips as they watched Porthos decimate his opponents. The captain was fairly confident that Aramis' glass contained water; About Athos' he wasn't as sure.

Since Athos and Porthos had returned from their fateful mission, the captain had never caught Athos drunk other than that one night, after Porthos had told the tale of their journey. Athos had deliberately drunk himself into a stupor that night, and Aramis and Porthos had let him, understanding his need. Emotions had been raw and close to the surface that night.

The next morning, Treville had seen Aramis hauling a bucket of icy water from the deep well that supplied the garrison, back to his room. Treville had asked if he wanted the water heated, assuming it was for the treatment of the healing men's wounds. Aramis had laughed, sloshing a little water down the front of his shirt and onto his breeches. He had explained that the water wasn't for washing but was an old remedy from Porthos for a hangover. Treville had debated on asking more then decided against it. He was beginning to understand that when it came to the three of them, sometimes the less he knew, the better.

Treville looked at the cup in the swordsman's hand again. If Athos was drinking as heavily as when he first arrived at the garrison, then the man was hiding it well. He'd be sure he made it one of his conditions.

The sword and the drink. Treville felt it was the right time to address these issues. It was obvious that Athos and Porthos had nearly recovered from their ordeal and Treville deemed it was time to assign them and Aramis their first mission as a team. First, however, he had to have a private talk with Athos.

Treating him like one of his musketeers, which he hoped would soon be true, Treville bellowed across the courtyard, "Athos. My office. Now."

All activity in the yard came to a stop and eyes focused on Athos, who calmly placed his cup on the nearby table, stripped off his practice gear and started for the staircase. Aramis and Porthos made as if to follow, but Treville yelled, "Alone," as he turned and went inside his office.

Athos felt all the eyes in the garrison following him as he made his way up the stairs. The musketeers were accepting and including him in their lives on a different level than when he was their swordmaster. Athos didn't quite know what his current role was in the garrison. Yes, he still taught them, improving their swordsmanship. But he would later come to realize that he was being taught things by the others as well; things about being a musketeer.

It was making him uncomfortable that he was in this limbo state and he had kept telling himself he would rectify it soon. He was enjoying his life in the garrison and wasn't in a hurry to change things. So he kept ignoring that nagging feeling in the back of his brain that he was treading in dangerous waters.

When Athos walked into Treville's office and saw the captain standing by a table upon which the Comte de la Fére's sword rested, his heart tightened in his chest. His gut grew queasy and his brain said his stay at the garrison was about to come to an end.

The captain stood by the table, arms crossed on his chest, his steel blue eyes cold and hard. "Is this your sword or did you steal it?" he demanded without preamble.

"It's mine," Athos answered truthfully in his peculiar clipped tones that tended to rise to the surface when he was being formal.

"Then you are the Comte de la Fére?" the captain accused as much as he stated.

Unconsciously, Athos' spine stiffened as he had been taught as he transformed into the man he was born. "I am. How did you determine that, if I may ask?"

Treville glanced down at the blade lying on the table. "The name, not quite scratched out under the handguard and a friend, a tax collector, who has a fascination with the nobility of France."

Athos gave a short nod, but otherwise remained silent.

Treville dropped his arms to his side as he moved behind his desk, putting it between him and the Comte. "Thank you."

Athos quirked an eyebrow at the captain. "For what?"

"For telling me the truth. In my regiment, a man's past is his own. I'll not allow it to help or harm him. Each man is judged on his own merits, by me. It's what I see that allows a man to wear the pauldron of a musketeer and serve with me. But, I will have the truth of a man's past, for myself. You have freely admitted to being the Comte de la Fére and I respect that, though it will neither help nor harm you to gain your commission."

"You assume I seek a commission," Athos accused as he took a step towards the captain's desk.

A small smile pulled at the corner of the captain's lip as he walked around to the front of his desk and leaned against it. He had what he needed from the man; he could now afford to relax his posture. "Is it not what you want?" he asked, tossing the question back in Athos' lap.

"I…," Athos started then stopped, his green eyes moving away to rest on his family's sword on the table. "I… don't…know," he answered honestly, keeping his gaze fixed on the sword.

"Is there any truth in the rumors about the Comte de la Fére?" Treville probed, wandering how far this man would trust him.

"I suppose," Athos drawled as he dragged his eyes from the sword to meet those of the captain, "it depends on which ones you have heard."

"That the Comte de la Fére abandoned his titles and lands, shut down his house, dismissed his servants and disappeared."

Athos gave a little nod, as if to confirm that Treville's statements held a grain of truth.

"It is also said there was an altercation, between brother and wife, that ended badly."

If Treville hadn't been watching closely, he would have missed the tightening of the lines around Athos' eyes, the slight stiffening of his frame and the flicker of panic that flashed through those intense green eyes.

"As you said, a man's past is his own. I would appreciate it if you honored those words," Athos demanded with a formality that showed he was every inch the Comte de la Fére.

Treville inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the request and indicate he would honor it. "As you wish. I trust there is nothing from your past that will interfere with your duties as a musketeer?"

"No. My past is dead and can only haunt me." Athos had no idea when he spoke those words that he was wrong, very wrong. "But you still assume I seek to join the musketeers."

The captain let a smile linger on his face. For all this man appeared confident, Treville could see beneath his façade that Athos' self-esteem was not what one would have expected in a son of nobility, especially of one of the oldest families in France. It had been the captain's experience that most of the Noblesse d'épée were, to state it in the vernacular, stuck up pricks and quite full of themselves. Athos didn't seem to fit the model and he wondered if that had been an issue of contention between Athos and his father.

Treville recalled the little he knew of the elder Comte de la Fére. It was said he was a hard task master, ran a tight ship, and was both respected and feared by his peers. Had Athos rebelled against his father and had the Comte tamed the boy's wayward spirit through harsh means? Was that the origin of Athos' inability to trust people?

Treville shook these thoughts from his head. He was a soldier not a nursemaid. Athos was outstanding with a sword and a natural leader of men, even if the young man standing before him didn't realize it. If Athos joined the ranks of the musketeers and performed his duty diligently, that is all Treville would ask of him. His secrets would remain his own and if the swordsman took them to the grave with him, so be it.

Treville pushed off his desk and took a step forward to stand toe-to-toe with the swordsman. "Athos," he asked in a solemn voice. "Do you seek commission in the King's Musketeers? Are you willing to lay down your life for King and Country?"

For the first time since he had met this young man in front of him, Treville saw incredible indecisiveness in the man. The answer he gave was neither a yes nor a no. "As part of the nobility, it is my duty to serve my King and my Country and to forfeit my life, if necessary, to save the King."

Treville eyes narrowed as he studied the man before him. "I expect my musketeers to be sober. What you do on your own time, I won't stop, but it can't interfere, in any way, with your duty." Treville paused, watching for a reaction, but Athos' face remained unreadable. "Your duty is to protect the King. But it is also to guard your brothers' backs, as well as your own."

Treville could see a few cracks appearing around the edges of Athos' carefully crafted façade as the swordsman internally struggled with the conditions being set forth. It made the captain wonder what terrible demons haunted this man's soul and who had shattered Athos' trust in his fellow man. But he was willing to gamble that the pairing of this troubled man with Aramis and Porthos would keep Athos on the straight and narrow.

"Are we in accord?" the captain demanded, as he watched Athos' composure slip back into place.

"I understand the conditions if I wish to become a musketeer," Athos answered, though he didn't say he agreed, which was not lost on Treville, nor did he say that he wanted a commission. Perhaps it was the best answer Athos could offer.

"Good," the captain said, relaxing his stance as he clapped a friendly hand on Athos' shoulder. He decided he would play this as if Athos had eagerly sought a commission. "Let's get Aramis and Porthos in here and get this started."

The sword caught the captain's eye as he walked past the table towards the door. "Your sword?"

"Perhaps," Athos said slowly as his eyes came to rest on the blade, "you'd be good enough to keep it here for a while longer. It really doesn't… suit me."

Treville picked up the item in question, feeling the well balanced quality of the blade. "This is an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, Athos. Many men in the regiment carry swords such as this so it wouldn't be noticed if that is your concern."

Athos had seen some of the swords in the regiment of which the captain spoke, and his family's blade would not necessarily cause undue attention. But that wasn't the reason he didn't want it at his side. "If I am commissioned someday, I shall seek it back to hang on the wall in my room."

"You could take it now. You have your room back," the captain reminded him.

"Thank you, but… if it is no trouble… I would prefer to wait."

"Certainly." The captain took the sword over to a cabinet and locked it securely inside. "It will be here whenever you are ready for its return."

Something triggered in the captain's mind and he opened another cabinet, removed a tied parcel, and handed it to Athos, who numbly took it.

"Madame Bonacieux delivered those here, for you, while you were gone. A shirt and a pair of braies, if I recall correctly." The captain managed to keep a straight face even if a slight blush touched the side of Athos' neck. "Madame said they were a thank you gift for rescuing her. She told me the tale," Treville added, which greatly relieved Athos, for he really didn't want to explain that escapade to the captain.

Unable to resist, Treville went on to say, "She said if you were in need of any additional garments to come see her, but give her some notice first and she will stow away all her dangerous spindles."

The flush crawled from Athos' neck to his cheeks, though he managed to incline his head politely to show he was listening.

Having tortured the man enough, the captain laughed as he took his leave to fetch the other two musketeers.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 73

As soon as he was gone, Athos dropped the package on a nearby table, walked over, and collapsed against the wall, his knees shaking like a new born colt. What was he doing? Thinking about becoming a musketeer. Was it the right thing? Did a man such as he deserve a chance like this, to find a new place in this world, a home, even friends? All these thoughts swirled through his mind like leaves torn asunder by a hurricane. He heard the stomping of heavy boots pounding up the outer staircase and he struggled to get his trembling limbs under control and his face schooled back to its unreadable state.

The captain entered the room first, moving to stand behind his desk as Aramis and Porthos followed closely on his heels, coming to a halt in front of the wooden barrier. Athos moved from his location by the wall, to stand at their side. Aramis' and Porthos' eyes had raked over him as they had entered the room, though now they were firmly focused on their captain.

"As you know, a while back I told the King our suspicions of what was occurring in Dieppe," Treville started before Porthos interrupted him.

"Weren't no suspicions, were facts," the streetfighter muttered, barely controlled anger evident in his tone.

Understanding the man's anger, which he knew wasn't directed at him, Treville ignored the outburst and continued. "The King shared his counsel with me, which up to this point I have kept to myself."

"We noticed that too," Porthos grumbled, earning him a poke in the ribs from Aramis' elbow and a slight shake of the marksman's head.

"And now are you able to enlighten us, captain, of the King's wishes?" Aramis asked, dragging his rebuking eyes from his brother to his commander.

"The King found the situation in Dieppe unsuitable," Treville began before once more being interrupted by Porthos.

"Unsuitable?" he growled. "It is wrong, disgusting and appalling what is being done to those men!"

Treville was beginning to lose his patience, which could be seen in the darkening of the man's eyes and the tightening of his fingers resting at his side. He wasn't going to tolerate any more of these insolent interruptions.

"The King has ordered me to bring the leaders of the guards, who are selling innocent people into slavery, to Paris to face judgement. While slavery is not illegal, his Majesty will not stand for having his innocent subjects sold like cattle in a market."

It had not gone unnoticed by anyone in the room that the captain didn't say the King was going to stop slavery, which while disgusting, wasn't illegal. Only that he didn't want innocent people being sold. Aramis felt Porthos' indignation rising once more and he reached over and placed a soothing hand on his brother's arm as he turned and discreetly said, "No."

Treville was well aware he was prodding at these men's sore spots. If he was going to send these three on this mission, he had to be confident they could rein each other in and keep each other in control. This mission could not be allowed to dissolve into one of revenge.

"The King has determined that three men shall undertake this mission to bring these men to justice. I had thought to send you three…"

Aramis tightened his hand on Porthos' arm, warning him to remain quiet and not interrupt the captain.

"…but I am unsure if you are able to carry out this mission."

When the captain paused, obviously wanting a response this time, Aramis chose to be the spokesman for the group, not trusting Porthos to remain calm, and unable to anticipate how Athos would react, if he spoke at all. "I can assure you, captain, that Porthos and Athos have recovered and are ready for a mission such as this one to bring the guards of Dieppe to justice."

"Physically they might be fine, but can they mentally handle this assignment?" the captain asked bluntly. "The King doesn't want a massacre at Dieppe. He only wants the top level of this operation brought to Paris for justice. Most likely that will be the captain and his lieutenant, though that will be up to you to determine. However, the King has made it very clear he doesn't want the entire Dieppe regiment of guards dragged back here and thrown in jail. Most were probably just following the orders of their superior."

"And what of the townsmen? What should be done about their involvement?" Athos asked, thinking of the innkeeper, who he was sure was involved in the slavery ring.

"The King feels if you cut off the head of the snake, the body will die. Bring to justice the top level and the rest shall wither away."

Moving out from behind his desk, the captain walked in front of each of them, studying them for a second before moving on. Porthos was not pleased and it showed. Aramis was being the voice of reason. Athos was unreadable; anything could have been going on behind those hooded green eyes.

"I will ask each of you if you are capable of carrying out this mission." The captain moved in front of Porthos. "What say you Porthos?"

"I don't like it, but I know my duty and will do it," the streetfighter answered with brutal honesty. The captain had expected nothing less.

"Aramis, you will be in command. Can you carry out this mission for the King and control your brothers? Stand up to them, even in the face of friendship, if they stray from the right path?" the captain drilled, knowing he was placing a heavy burden on the marksman.

"My brothers' hearts are in the right place. I shall ensure that their actions remain there too," Aramis answered sincerely.

Giving a brief nod at the skillfully crafted answer, which was only somewhat reassuring, the Captain moved to stand in front of the final man.

"Once again, I call upon you, not this time as a civilian, but as a man who has indicated to me a desire to seek a commission in the King's Musketeers." The Captain figured if he bought that out now, Porthos and Aramis would help Athos actually see he should be a musketeer.

Porthos' and Aramis' heads swiveled to stare at Athos in disbelief. This perplexing man had sought out Captain Treville about a place in the musketeers? Neither man had been convinced Athos would take that step on his own, at least not without a lot of prodding on their part.

Treville continued, ignoring the shocked expressions on the other two musketeers' faces. "Perform this mission well and the King will favorably consider commissioning you as a member of his elite guard."

Athos kept his eyebrow in check even though he was dying to quirk it. The words Treville used, he thought, were deliberate. 'Favorably consider'. His commission wasn't a done deal apparently and there was most likely another condition that Treville wasn't ready yet to reveal. And to be honest that didn't bother him, for he was still not sure he should seek a commission. Porthos and Aramis, on the other hand, were already thinking about a design for Athos' pauldron.

"Do you, Athos, freely accept this mission from your King, conducting it in the manner befitting a musketeer even though you are not one? Are you willing to bury any desire for personal revenge? Can you obey the commands of Aramis, as the leader of this mission, even though you are not a soldier?"

His mind was racing through all the conditions the captain was heaping on him if he agreed to this assignment. He had doubts he could live up to the expectations stacked upon him, but he was willing to try, so he answered simply, "Yes."

With a curt nod, Treville moved back behind his desk to sit in his chair as he issued his final orders. "You'll not leave for a week." He held up a hand to forestall the protests already rising to their lips. "I want you well prepared, rested, and provisioned. I want to meet on how you plan on conducting your investigation in Dieppe, which, I assure you, isn't going anywhere."

The three sighed, but nodded their heads in understanding.

"We'll meet back here in two days' time to discuss this more. You are dismissed." Treville reached down and picked up a piece of paper and began to scan its contents. "And Athos, don't forget your package."

"I don't remember getting a gift when I applied to the musketeers," Aramis said facetiously, looking at the package Athos had retrieved from the table.

They filed out of the captain's office, Athos with the shirt and braies clutched against his chest. The three stopped for a moment on the porch overlooking the yard.

Porthos rounded on Athos, almost appearing as if to cuff him in the head. "You asked to become a musketeer? I can't believe it."

Athos wasn't quite sure how he was to take the streetfighter's comment. A part of him thought these men wanted him to join their ranks. Now, doubt nibbled on the edges of his soul.

"What Porthos is trying to say," Aramis smoothed over as he draped an arm over Athos' shoulders, "is we would be thrilled and honored to have you as a musketeer. We're just surprised it took you so long to realize this is where you belong."

"I'm not a musketeer, yet," Athos stated flatly as he slipped out from under Aramis' arm and headed for the stairs, descending them quickly before heading across the courtyard.

Porthos and Aramis launched after him, right on his heels.

"Where are you going?" Porthos demanded as Athos' trajectory put him on a path towards the garrison's gate.

Athos stopped, turned, and glared at them, clearly saying 'I don't report to you' without ever opening his mouth.

"If it will help, feel free to think of Porthos' polite question as having come from me, as the leader of this little venture," Aramis offered up with an easy smile.

"We're not on the mission yet," Athos informed him, crossing his arms awkwardly over his chest with the package and deepening his scowl.

"Yes we are. The moment Treville tells us about a mission, and we accept, the mission has started. Musketeer rules, you know." Aramis kept his congenial smile on his face, even though his dark brown eyes were less amiable, daring Athos to cross him.

Athos had another one of those internal debates with himself that would plaque him throughout this journey. He had agreed to place himself under Aramis' command and here, less than ten minutes later, he was thinking about blowing him off. There was no honor in such behavior so he gave a small nod of contrition.

Dropping his arms to his sides and tucking the package under his left one, Athos explained, "I need to go secure a new sword for this mission. The blades in the garrison are good…"

"But nothing like that sweet sword you had made when you first arrived," Aramis finished Athos' sentence with a note of envy. "But wasn't that a custom piece? You don't have the time to have another one made before we leave." And do you have the funds, Aramis thought, but didn't say it aloud.

"Monsieur Tricost has premade quality blades in his shop and I hope he will be willing to part with one," Athos stated, hoping he would be able to persuade the weapons maker.

"Place your gift in your room and then we will all go, together, to meet this famed weapons maker who is talented enough to make a blade for the best swordsman in France." Aramis smiled and waved Athos off.

"It is not a gift. Well it is a gift I suppose, but from Madame Bonacieux, for helping her. Surely, I told you that tale," Athos declared in frustration to the two grinning hyenas.

"Oh yes. We remember that tale don't we Porthos," Aramis drawled suggestively.

Porthos' schooled his face to become serious. "Oi. I believe it involved dangerous wooden spindles."

The two men burst out laughing as Athos turned and stalked away.

"I shall never live that down," he muttered as he clutched the package to his chest and made his way to his chamber. "And for the record," he said to the four empty walls of his room, "those spindles are bloody dangerous!"

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 74

Athos insisted that they ride to Monsieur Tricost's shop, listing a number of reasons that weren't really reasonable, but Porthos and Aramis nodded as if they whole-heartedly concurred with his illogical logic. Both men knew the real reason was that Athos simply wanted to ride Roger. For a man who gave the appearance of being indifferent to humans, he was quite attached to his horse. The entire way to the shop, the swordsman was surreptitiously patting Roger on the neck and scratching him under his mane. Athos appeared almost happy, or as close as they had ever seen him get to that emotion, as they rode through the streets of Paris.

Arriving at Tricost's shop, they secured their beasts to a post outside before strolling into the building. The same presumptuous clerk from Athos' last visit approached the trio as they came through the door. He quickly sized them up, as if determining if they were worthy to be in his employer's presence.

"King's Musketeer's," he noted seeing the pauldrons on Aramis' and Porthos' shoulders. His voice indicated that their presence was deemed acceptable. Then his eyes came to rest on Athos. "Oh. You again." His voice held a note of distain, for even if this man did have the funds to pay, it didn't mean the clerk thought he belonged in Monsieur Tricost's premiere shop.

Athos ignored the haughty clerk, brusquely walking around him to head towards the table in the back corner of the shop where Monsieur Tricost resided.

A displeased humph escaped the clerk's lips as Athos impolitely brushed past him. The musketeers suppressed a smirk at Athos' implied snub, as they peered at the array of weapons, which they could see were of the highest quality.

Porthos gave a low whistle. "How can he afford this place?" Aramis shrugged in reply.

"I ask myself the very same thing," the clerk remarked snidely. "Yet, Monsieur Tricost seems quite taken with the man.

The man in question had arrived at the table and Tricost raised his head to see who had managed to make it past his clerk to arrive in his presence unannounced.

"Monsieur Athos," Tricost said warmly, as he rose and held out his hand to the swordsman. "I wondered if you would eventually stop by."

Returning the hand shake with a puzzled expression on his face, Athos asked, "It sounds as if you were anticipating my return to your shop. Why?"

Tricost released Athos' hand, but not before noting the calluses of a professional swordsman. "Because, I have something of yours and I expect you have a story for me."

The weapons maker moved from his chair and, using a key from the set dangling on his belt, he opened a locked cabinet and withdrew a cloth-wrapped object. Bringing the parcel over to the table, he unwrapped it to reveal what was being concealed, then laid it with reverence on the wooden surface. Expectantly, he raised his eyes to watch Athos' expression when he saw what was revealed.

"My main gauche," Athos couldn't hide the surprise in his voice or on his face.

"I was sure it was yours," Tricost declared as he retook his seat. "Last time you were here I had a chance to observe it closely as it quivered in that beam next to my head." His eyes flickered to the wooden pole in question, were the dent mark from the blade could be seen. "That, and of course the fact that I crafted it."

By this time, the two musketeers had joined Athos at the table and stared down at the blade nestled in the tan cloth.

"That is yours?" Aramis asked, though it was more a statement of fact than a question, for he had seen Athos with the main gauche many times during practice.

Athos reached out and ran his fingers over the hilt before picking it up to examine it further. "The last time I saw this was at an inn, in Dieppe."

"Dieppe," Tricost echoed knowingly. "Yes, that makes sense. You ran into Michel there, I presume?"

Once again astonishment registered on Athos face as his eyebrows shot skyward.

"Surely you remember Michel, my employee, ex-employee?"

Finally finding his voice, Athos questioned, "He was in Dieppe?"

As Tricost sat in his chair, he motioned to the stools near his table. The other three men drew them up and perched upon them. Stools made sense in a weapons shop were the clientele most likely were wearing swords. It was much easier to perch on a stool with a four-foot piece of steel strapped to your side.

"I have many customers outside of Paris," Tricost said to begin his tale. "Over the years, the quality of my work has spread far and wide amongst the nobility of France. Most of my clients order their first piece here in my shop, in my presence. But unless they plan to stay in Paris for a while, few want to wait for it to be finished, for great craftsmanship takes time. Often, they place an order and then I have it delivered to them. Of course," he smiled indulgently, "I charge a pretty penny for such personalized service."

"I'm sure you do," Aramis said, noting the quality of the work in the shop. "It would appear only the elite can afford your work."

"That, Monsieur, is a true statement." Tricost agreed, readily. "Thought occasionally I make the exception for an outstanding swordsman." The weapons maker's eyes drifted towards Athos, as if he were the exception in question.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a knowing glance. Was this how Athos came to be able to afford a blade from this fine establishment, because of his prowess with a sword?

"I find it hard to believe, Monsieur, what you charged me for my blade was discounted at all because of my skill," Athos replied lightly.

Tricost smiled, but didn't elaborate any further as he picked up the thread of his story. "A number of my employees make deliveries to outlaying cities, Michel being one of them. As he once lived in Dieppe, he always volunteered to make the deliveries to that locale. I figured he was perhaps visiting friends or family on the trips."

"I wonder if any of his friends happen to be the guards in Dieppe," Porthos muttered as he looked over at Athos. The streetfighter could see Athos was thinking along the same lines.

"As you know, Athos, Michel was prone to drinking and regrettably it was getting out of control once more. I sent him home so often for showing up drunk that I wondered how the man was paying his rent. Apparently, he was having financial difficulties, for the Red Guards told me he tried to hold up a merchant, with your blade. Luckily, the merchant yelled at the top of his lungs and a nearby Red Guard came over to intervene."

"Amazing," Aramis replied innocently, as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Indeed, it was a lucky stroke," Tricost heartily agreed.

"I think what Aramis meant was it was amazing that the Red Guard decided to show up at all," Porthos clarified snarkily.

Aramis merely gave a shrug, but his knowing smile said it all. However, a glowering glance from Athos had Aramis' saying, "Monsieur Tricost, do continue."

"Michel fled the scene, leaving the main gauche behind in his haste. The merchant he tried to steal from was an acquaintance of mine, and he recognized Michel from having seen him in my shop. Not a very bright move on Michel's part, to steal from someone who knew him. Made me think Michel must be very desperate indeed. Anyway, the merchant told the Red Guard who Michel was and where he worked. They came here in search of the fugitive and brought me this blade, your blade, Monsieur Athos. I told them the blade was stolen from me, and insisted they leave it here. I thought it was the only way you might ever see it again. So I locked it away and hoped you'd visit me someday so I could return it to its rightful owner. And here you are." After a brief pause he asked, "You were in Dieppe?"

Athos had been rubbing a finger unconsciously along the handle of the main gauche as the weapons maker regaled them with his tale. The swordsman had no intention of relaying the entire saga of what happened to him and Porthos in Dieppe. However, he owed Tricost some part of the tale, for the man had been kind in keeping his blade safe and out of the hands of the Red Guards. Had he not, Athos would have never seen his grandfather's gift again.

"Porthos and I were in Dieppe, on a mission for the King, and we encountered some…trouble. My main gauche, which you now have in your possession, as well as the sword you made for me, were lost."

Tricost thoughtfully nodded his head. "You're a musketeer now. Good. The King needs more men like you to protect him."

Aramis and Porthos wondered if Athos would feel the need to correct the weapons maker and, of course, he did.

"I am not a musketeer, Monsieur. I was on the mission as a…concerned citizen. However, I might someday become a musketeer, which brings me to the reason for visiting your shop."

The musketeers managed to continue looking serious, though inside they were cheering that Athos was willing to admit he wanted to become a member of the regiment, even if it was to a partial stranger.

"As you already know, Monsieur Tricost," Athos continued, "I lost my main gauche. But also, the sword you crafted for me. I suppose there is no hope you have that too?"

"No," Tricost said sadly, as he shook his head. "Fine blade it was. Well suited to your style."

"Your work is the best, Monsieur Tricost." Athos couldn't prevent giving a small sigh. Like any professional he was partial to good tools and he missed the well-crafted blade.

"I find myself on my way back to Dieppe to take care of some unfinished business and I am in need of another blade. As I leave in a week, I was hoping you'd have something about your establishment that I could purchase." Athos looked expectantly at the weapons maker.

Tricost was silent for a moment and when he spoke, he didn't directly answer Athos' inquiry about a blade. "You did not see Michel on your last trip to Dieppe, where you ran into some…trouble?"

Tricost was a fairly observant man. He could see how discreetly Aramis was hovering about Athos and Porthos, as if he was worried about them for some reason. In examining the other two men in question, he could see they had a look about them that spoke of a weariness that hadn't quite been banished and maybe a non-physical haunting too. Factoring in that he knew Athos was an outstanding swordsman and the tall, broad musketeer appeared as if he could get out of any fight in which he'd find himself, Tricost had to conclude what had occurred in Dieppe had been very dangerous and harmful to these brave men.

"I did not see Michel, but that doesn't mean he wasn't present. The fact he had my blade would indicate he had been there," Athos replied slowly, as he thought about what this meant. Had this been about revenge?

"Well considering the fact that Michel, I'm sorry to be blunt, despised you Athos and given what he is like when he is drunk…" Tricost shrugged, "he very well may have been involved in your troubles."

Athos felt the eyes of the two musketeers baring down upon him. "This Michel hated you?" Aramis questioned the swordsman, who glanced down to fiddle with his blade.

Tricost saved Athos from having to answer, though given the man's nature, it was doubtful the swordsman would have enlightened the musketeers. "I like to see my customer's fighting style before I make them a sword. I used Michel for that task. He was the best swordsman I ever saw, until your friend came along. He whipped Michel soundly, and I fear Michel held a grudge against him for that defeat."

"Funny," Porthos said, though his tone sounded anything but humorous. "You never mentioned that to us, Athos. That there was some drunken madman running about Paris, hating your guts."

"We were going to Dieppe. I didn't think it was relevant," Athos replied, looking up from his main gauche and giving Porthos a bland stare.

"For the record, this is in the same category as wounds. You have to tell us when you are hurt or when someone is trying to hurt you, especially if they are running around loose wanting to kill you," Porthos soundly scolded him.

"Duly noted," Athos replied with a head tilt before dropping his eyes to the blade again. Had the grudge Michel had against him been behind this whole episode? Could that even be possible? And if it was, that meant this was his fault. He had caused all that pain and suffering to be brought down upon Porthos. Caused all that worry for Aramis, who had barely recovered from Savoy. Guilt flooded his soul once more.

Aramis, who was getting attuned to the martyrdom complex hiding within the swordsman, simply said to Athos, "We'll talk of this later." And I will try to get you to realize this wasn't your fault, the marksman thought silently.

"So you leave for Dieppe in a week's time?" Tricost confirmed and the two musketeers nodded, while Athos continued to stare at his main gauche.

Stroking his chin, Tricost stared at the ceiling for a moment before saying, "Good enough. Come back in four days and I shall have a new blade waiting for you."

Athos raised his eyes and glanced with gratitude at the weapons maker. "You will make a new blade for me? That quickly?" His tone indicated he didn't believe he was deserving of such treatment.

"Can't have a future musketeer defending the King with a substandard sword, can we. Not the greatest swordsman in France," Tricost said with a genuine smile.

"I'm humbled but I…"

Aramis cut Athos off and finished the sentence himself in a direction he was sure the swordsman was not going to take. "Athos will be honored to come back, five days hence, to pick up his new sword Monsieur Tricost."

"We haven't discussed a price yet," Athos declared, as if he was looking for a reason not to take this generous offer.

"And we shall do that now," Tricost declared, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Negotiations last time with this man had been most stimulating.

The two men went at it and had a lively session until finally a bargain was struck. After Athos and Tricost shook to seal the deal, the trio took their leave of the shop.

"I want you dickering for me the next time I need to buy something," Porthos remarked with admiration as the three mounted to ride back to the garrison. "For a man that don't say much you got a way with words when it comes to striking a deal."

Aramis thought the same thing too, adding it to his small list of known facts about Athos. The more he learned about the swordsman, the more intrigued he was as to this man's past, though given Athos' tight-lipped manner, Aramis wondered if his curiosity would ever be satisfied.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 75

Athos' family had always stored a portion of their wealth with a money lender who resided in Paris. His father had felt it was safer to have their funds diversified in various locations than to have it all kept on the estate. The money lender's was a family run business, long operated by one of the lesser nobles, who had built a fortified storage area for housing other people's wealth.

One thing Athos had done before he left the estate, was to appoint a trustee, who would collect the small taxes owed to the Comte from his people. That trustee had been charged with overseeing the financial well-being of his lands, not because Athos ever planned to return, but because as a land-owner he had some responsibility to his tenants. The trustee had been instructed to use the funds collected to ensure that Pinon, and the businesses of the de la Fére estate, operated smoothly. Athos had also told the trustee to periodically place a small portion of the taxes in the money lender's vault in Paris. Athos had given the man one of the de la Fére seals to act as an agent of the family. Another, in the form of a signet ring, he kept himself so he'd have access to the funds in Paris, if required.

Before they left for Dieppe, Athos needed to obtain some money from this account. He had to pay for the new sword, which admittedly, even after bargaining, was not inexpensive. He also was planning to bring some coinage to Dieppe, to reward a few people for the kindness they had shown to him and Porthos. While he did receive a small wage as the garrison's swordmaster, it wasn't enough to cover these upcoming expenses.

It remained his intention to keep hidden the secrets of his past. Other than Treville, he wasn't planning on enlightening anyone else. It was disgraceful enough in his mind that the captain had learned of his follies; he was determined to keep it from the rest of the musketeers. So this meant Athos had to shake his new watchdogs if he wanted to access his money privately.

Ever since the captain had assigned them the Dieppe mission, it seemed like either Porthos or Aramis was glued to his side. Aramis was particularly clingy, ensuring he didn't overtax himself practicing, making sure he ate regularly, and rested. While Athos had been allowed to return to his own room, he swore Aramis was sleeping on the floor outside his door or had someone watching for the minute the oaken door cracked open. The swordsman never got more than twenty feet from his room before he acquired a shadow.

In his defense, Aramis wasn't really aware he was smothering Athos. He simply felt he was carrying out the captain's orders to make sure that the two injured men were properly healed before they started their new mission to Dieppe. His gut told him, and it wasn't wrong, that this would not be a walk-in-the-park assignment.

Athos and Porthos, much like himself, though he'd never admit it, weren't good about recuperating. Inactivity seemed to make them restless and prone to doing things that weren't conducive to recovery. For example, teaching Porthos to read which, on the surface seemed like a perfect idea. Athos had begun to undertake this task and Aramis had full-heartedly agreed, thinking it was a very peaceful activity.

Athos' approach to teaching Porthos to read was fairly standard. First, he taught the streetfighter his letters, then progressed to sounds, and finally words. However, to keep Porthos interested in the end result, Athos also decided to read a novel to him, in serial fashion, a little each day. Porthos found this most enjoyable, eager to learn what was going to happen next in the story. It was a reward for the pain of trying to learn his letters.

Aramis suggested Athos use the bible to teach Porthos to read, pointing out it contained many adventure stories. As suspected, that idea didn't go over well with Athos, who graciously allowed that if Aramis wanted to read the Bible to Porthos, he was welcome to do so. Athos fell back on his old stand-by, Don Quixote. Though he had told Porthos they would read the Odyssey, he felt that, with it being a poem, it wasn't the best story to use to motivate the streetfighter. Don Quixote was better, the only problem being he didn't have a copy of it. So when Aramis' back was turned, or at least that is what the marksman claimed, Athos set out to obtain the book. This was Paris. The capital of an enlightened France. How hard should that be?

Aramis wasn't sure he'd ever get the true story out of the wounded warrior that limped back into the garrison with the book tucked safely under one arm, while the other was wrapped around his ribs. It appeared that they had been aggravated again, somehow, through the mundane task of purchasing a book. Athos was also sporting a small cut on his cheek; and the flesh about it appeared to be darkening, as if a bruise were forming.

Athos seemed disinclined to provide a coherent explanation, mentioning some random phrases involving a tall shelf, an elderly shop keeper, a barrel, a dog, a doll and a chandelier. The only other fact he added was that at no time did he draw his weapon while purchasing the tome. Athos remained stoic as always, sipping at the glass of wine he had poured while he explained, or rather didn't explain, what had occurred. It was after that exploit that Aramis had decided Athos wasn't to be trusted on his own.

Athos finally did successfully escape the garrison to retrieve his cash without one of his new found friends in tow, a testament to his stealth, which would serve him well as a musketeer. The horse that he borrowed was one of the garrison's extras, often used to pull a cart and Athos now knew why. Even at a walk, the horse's gait was horrible and rough, making him no pleasure to ride. Athos was sure he'd have all manner of bruises on his lower extremities from riding the animal. It was quite clear why he had been given the task to pull wagons and not carry musketeers.

The money lender, though never having met Athos, did recognize and honor the signet ring the swordsman produced. He proceeded to inform Athos that only a month ago funds from the de la Fére estate had been brought to him by a man named Bernard from Pinon. After requesting and receiving the amount of coinage he required, Athos was forced to sign the register, which he did in a neat hand, as the Comte de la Fére. However, he swore the money lender to absolute secrecy on his whereabouts, to which the man amiably agreed, informing the Comte that discretion was part of his business practices.

When Athos rode the miserable beast back through the garrison's gate, Aramis appeared before he even slid to the ground. Nonchalantly carrying his saddlebags over his shoulder, Athos handed the nag off to the stable lad and headed for his rooms, his shadow in tow.

"You ran an errand?" Aramis asked, as he eyed the leather bags Athos was carrying.

"Yes." As usual, Athos didn't offer any further enlightenment.

"I see. The garrison should have everything you need for the mission, unless you needed another book," Aramis suggested, trying to draw the man out.

Athos entered his room and put the bags on the floor near his bed. "We still have a long way to go yet in Don Quixote."

"Or clothes. The garrison's supplies do tend not to meet a gentleman's clothing needs, unless it is related to armor." Aramis wasn't planning on directly asking Athos where he had gone, but it wouldn't stop him from trying to get the man to tell him on his own; well, with a little prodding.

Athos turned to look over at Aramis.

"Or a decent bottle of wine," Aramis babbled, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under Athos' increasing scrutiny.

Folding his arms across his chest, Athos asked point blank, "Do you want to know where I went, Aramis?" Athos was gambling the man would back off if he asked directly.

His gamble was rewarded when Aramis hastily stated, "Of course not. Your business is your own."

"Good."

"Of course, I would have been willing to go with you, if you wanted company or a hand getting around Paris." Aramis offered up one of his charming grins, which had no effect on the man standing in front of him.

"I am not…unfamiliar with Paris."

"Oh, were you born here? Or simply visited often?" Aramis tried to pry open the door that was Athos' life, but it remained firmly closed with the swordsman's refusal to answer his question. "Yes, well how about you take off your shirt and let me have a look at your ribs."

"Why?" came the monosyllabic reply.

"To see if they are healing," Aramis stated matter-of-factly.

"Looking at them from the outside will tell you nothing," Athos countered as he kept his intense gaze on the marksman.

"I can see if the bruising has gotten any worse, indicating a further problem," Aramis suggested, trying to remain calm and reasonable.

"It hasn't."

"Or any better, indicating it is healing properly," the medic ground out between clenched teeth.

"It has."

"Or, perhaps, to see if there are any new injuries that you aren't telling me about," Aramis practically shouted in exasperation at the tight-lipped man.

"There aren't," Athos succinctly answered as he finally turned away and walked across the small room to his table where he picked up the copy of Don Quixote lying there.

"Athos, if we are going to survive this mission the captain is sending us on, we have to build a level of trust between us."

The swordsman turned to face him again, and Aramis swore he saw a fleeting moment of sadness in those expressive green eyes. "I do trust you. To have my back on this mission. It would appear, however, that the trust is not mutual. If you have concerns, I will go to the captain and withdraw from this mission."

Aramis moved closer to stand within an arm's length of the swordsman. "I expressed myself poorly, my friend. I do trust you. I heard the story of what happened to you and Porthos, and even if you won't speak of it, I know the personal sacrifices you made to keep him safe. And for that alone, I trust you with my life too."

Athos glanced away, out the window, obviously uncomfortable with the praise.

"What I was trying to say is I'd like you to feel you can trust me to help with other issues you might be having, like improper feelings of guilt."

Athos' eyes focused back on Aramis and they grew dark and shuttered. "You have no idea of what you speak.

"I know you are thinking it is your fault that you and Porthos got captured and placed on that slave ship. Because of the tenuous fact that the man from Monsieur Tricost's shop, Michel was it, had your main gauche. Yes, it appears the man harbored a grudge against you, and that he was in Dieppe, and that he may have been involved somehow. But how does that make it your fault? Your guilt? You didn't perform the despicable action, he did," Aramis tried to point out logically.

Athos continued to stare at him for a moment after Aramis finished talking, then he turned away to lean both hands heavily upon the table. His shoulder's slumped and he dropped his head low. "I should have left the garrison long ago. Never gotten involved. That was not the plan."

"And what was the plan?" Aramis insisted, moving near to the table where he could see the side of Athos' face. "Was your plan running again? Like I suspect you have been doing for too long?"

"If it keeps people safe, then yes," Athos addressed the table top, not looking up at the marksman.

"I don't know what occurred in your past, but I'm pretty sure that all the evils in this world weren't caused by something you did. I forgive you, and so has God. Now you just need to forgive yourself."

Aramis could see Athos' eyes flicker to his chest and a hand start to rise towards it, then drop and it triggered his memory. "I have been meaning to tell you, the locket you wore, the gold one? I have it safely in my room.

Athos raised his head and peered at Aramis. "You have my locket?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard correctly the first time.

"I do. Safe in a drawer. And I didn't open it."

"Thank you," Athos said gratefully, though Aramis wasn't sure if it was for keeping the locket safe or for not opening it.

Aramis was having a hard time determining by Athos' face and posture if the swordsman was happy to be getting the locket back or if, for some reason, he would have been just as happy if it had been lost. And Aramis wasn't wrong, because conflicted was exactly how Athos felt. On the one hand it would be a blessing to not have to look at the reminder of what he had done to his wife. But on the other hand it was the only thing he had left of her.

"It is almost dinner time. What's say we swing by my room, get the locket and then grab Porthos and go to dinner," Aramis suggested.

For a moment Athos thought about saying he wasn't hungry, for he wasn't and really needed to be alone. But he knew that wouldn't fly with Aramis and he did, underneath it all, want Anne's necklace back. He craved the feeling of the metal reminder around his neck. Many times since he had accidentally left it behind he had reached for the empty space on his chest where it normally rested only for his fingers to return empty.

With a curt nod, he pushed of the table. Aramis, with one of the smiles that came so easily to his face, clasped Athos on the arm and guided him to the door.

"A good meal in that belly and you'll feel right as rain. I hear Serge has outdone himself tonight," Aramis babbled cheerfully as they headed for his room.

Athos was pretty sure food in his stomach was not going to solve his problems. He wasn't sure anything really could.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 76

True to his word, Monsieur Tricost had Athos' new blade done in five days. After the trio went to pick it up, again as a group much to Athos' chagrin, there was nothing holding them back from leaving for Dieppe other than Captain Treville's edict saying they had to wait a week. Both Porthos and Athos began putting pressure on Aramis to go to the captain, declare them fit and let them head out. Porthos wasn't the least bit subtle about his demands to leave. Athos was a bit more refined in his approach, but in either case it was clear they wanted to be on the road. Aramis wasn't opposed to the idea though, as the leader, he understood it was his responsibility to make sure it was a wise course of action and that the other two men were physically sound enough to go on this mission. While he couldn't in all honesty say that Porthos and Athos were one hundred percent, they were doing very well and he actually thought this inactivity was causing increased mental stress on the pair of them. So he decided to approach the captain about pushing up their departure.

Meeting with Treville, alone in his office, Aramis presented his case in what he thought was a logical, dispassionate manner. Treville was secretly pleased and impressed with both Aramis' composure and logic and granted him permission to set out in the morning. Aramis was taking his assigned role as the leader of this mission seriously and that made the captain proud. Often seen as charming and disarming, Treville knew there was a much deeper side to Aramis. However, being an astute judge of character, Treville felt that eventually Athos would become the de facto leader of this trio; the man had a natural talent combined with a keen intelligence. The main thing holding Athos back, the captain would later discover, was the swordsman's insistence that he wasn't fit to lead anyone.

The other two men were ecstatic to hear they were allowed to leave and wanted to set out immediately, but Aramis reined them in, insisting they spend one last night sleeping in real beds and eating good food. Very reluctantly, and only after arguing for a while, did the other two acquiesce. Since they had already packed most things earlier, they spent the rest of the day cleaning and sharpening weapons that were already pristine, simply to pass the time.

At supper that evening, Porthos eagerly packed away Serge's excellent food, and even Athos did credit to the meal, much to Aramis' amazement. The medic was starting to make some conclusions about Athos' eating habits, which he thought depended solely on how the man felt. When Athos was physically and mentally doing well, he ate like most normal people. However, if the swordsman was hurting or stressed, food became secondary, and his drinking increased. Aramis decided he would watch Athos carefully on this trip, seeking proof for his theory.

At first light the three men left the garrison without fanfare, except for the captain who, after they were all mounted, clapped each man on the kneecap, reminding them to be safe. As he watched the three ride out the gate, he had a premonition that he'd be seeing this same scene many, many times. A small smile crept onto his face as he allowed himself to feel pride in what he had accomplished, establishing this regiment, his regiment. Somehow, the trio riding out the gate made him feel like he was finally where he wanted to be with his musketeers, at the beginning of something great.

The trio riding out the gate each had thoughts of their own running through their minds as their horses walked sedately through the early morning fog, which was swirling about their fetlocks. Aramis was feeling the weight of responsibility settling about his shoulders as he passed under the garrison's stone arch. It was now his duty to ensure that this mission was a success, that the villains at Dieppe were brought to justice, that Porthos and Athos got some closure on this trip, if that was possible, and that they all arrived home safely. Heavy indeed was the mantle of command.

Porthos was eager to reach Dieppe and bring the men there to justice, even though he knew it wasn't solving the real issue, which was slavery. His thoughts slipped back to the stories his mother had told him before she died and the ones he had heard around the Court of Miracles. He never imagined he would have first-hand knowledge of how horrible slavery was, and his time on the galley, as a slave himself, still haunted his dreams. It made him appreciate and truly understand why people would jump overboard to drown, rather than stay as a captive. More than once on that boat his thoughts had turned the same way; it would be better to drown as a free man than live as a slave on the ship. He had always appreciated freedom; it meant even more to him now since he had experienced the devastating opposite.

Athos' thoughts as he rode out of the garrison were also troubling. It bothered him that as he rode under that stone arch he felt like he was leaving home, a feeling he never thought he'd have again. And then there were the two men riding by his side, who now felt like friends, another thing he swore he didn't deserve. Finally, as much as he wanted justice served, he couldn't honestly say he was eager to go back to Dieppe; the wounds, both physical and mental, were still too raw in many ways. However, if he wanted to look on the bright side, the experiences had added a new dimension to his nightmares, a change from the ones that typically focused around his wife's hanging. His brain now had a whole new set of horrors with which to haunt him. More than once he had woken up in a sweat, feeling the whip stripping away his flesh or seeing the eyes of the dead slave staring at him as he drifted, dead, to the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes he would jerk awake, his eyes desperately seeking Porthos to reassure himself they actually had escaped.

The trip to Dieppe would take four to five days depending on how hard they pushed the horses. Aramis was inclined to take it slowly, as he felt it would give them some time to continue to bond as a team. The marksman was well aware that Captain Treville hoped they would become a unit, and this trip was an excellent opportunity to see if that could be realized. The first night they stopped to camp they had fallen naturally into a division of tasks, as if they had been setting up campsites together for years. Aramis hunted for game; Athos got the fire going, and Porthos took care of the horses. Next, Athos fetched water, and Aramis cleaned his catch, while Porthos laid out the bedrolls. Finally, while Porthos cooked their evening meal, Aramis would clean weapons and Athos would scout the perimeter of the camp. They cleaned up afterwards as a team and then fetched more wood before settling around the fire for the night. It was all done very smoothly, without fuss and quite efficiently. Subsequent nights followed the same pattern.

Often, after dinner, Aramis and Porthos would converse, swapping tales and, though Athos rarely joined in, he would be listening attentively, often as he absent-mindedly fingered the locket about his neck. They had tried asking about the piece, but the only thing Athos ever said, in a rare unguarded moment, was that there had been a woman, and it had ended badly. While Athos learned a lot about his companions during those days on the road to Dieppe, the reverse wasn't true, and he remained as closed off as ever.

Athos learned that Aramis could talk, incessantly, as they rode along, on subjects wide and varied. He and Porthos often were like a pair of teenage boys in their actions and words, though Athos recognized it for what it was, boredom and stress relief. He found the chatter didn't annoy him as he thought it would, for it kept him from getting lost in his own ruminations. Aramis also quickly learned that the swordsman, if left to his own devices for too long, would tend to brood, so when he saw that particular look, and there was a definite look, taking over, Aramis would engage Athos directly in the conversation. Sometimes it only garnered him a glare; most of the time Athos simply ignored him, and on rare occasions the swordsman would actually join the discussion. Both men knew the reason behind this game and Athos, though he'd never say so, appreciated what Aramis was trying to do; it was something a friend would do.

On the fourth night of their journey, after they had settled about the fire for the night, Aramis once more donned the cloak of command.

"Gentlemen. We arrive in Dieppe tomorrow. I would prefer not to run into trouble the second we ride into town. So now would be an excellent time to fill in some of the gaps in your tale," Aramis prompted his two companions.

An uneasy expression settled on Porthos' face, though Athos, whose face was somewhat obscured by his low pulled hat, seemed unperturbed.

Seeing as neither man seemed inclined to speak, Aramis raked them both with a stern glare before letting out a noisy sigh. "Surely you can't think that I, or the captain for that matter, are unaware of the gaping holes in your recounting of your last journey to Dieppe."

Porthos was looking even more uncomfortable and squirmed on his bedroll, while Athos still maintained his stony façade.

"For the sake of your recovery from the traumatic events that you endured, the captain and I didn't push either of you for the missing details. However, I would have them now, at least the ones that will affect how we are, shall I say, greeted in Dieppe. I will not allow us to walk into a dangerous situation without being as prepared as possible. So who will start?" he asked as he let his gaze drift to Porthos, knowing very well that it was highly unlikely Athos would voluntarily divulge additional details.

"What do you wanna know?" Porthos questioned after an uneasy glance over at Athos, who was still staring at his boots.

"I don't know. How about this. If we were to run across a troop of guards from Dieppe, how likely is it that they won't shoot you on sight?"

"I suppose," Athos drawled, raising his eyes from his boots to glance at Aramis, "it would depend on whether they recognized us. If they did, mostly likely they would shoot first and ask questions later… though I highly doubt there would be a later unless their aim was extremely poor."

Aramis was surprised that it was Athos who had responded and his face must have echoed that thought, for he felt Athos' next statement was aimed directly at addressing his astonishment.

"You are right to ask. As a good leader, you are trying to understand so you can protect your men, us in this case," Athos declared, his tone low and solemn.

Athos looked over at Porthos and gave him a small nod before he dropped his gaze to study his boots once more.

Porthos realized that he had been given permission, by Athos, to tell the aspects of the tale that, by mutual agreement, had been withheld in the previous telling. So he did, laying out the entire tale in all its ugliness. At times, Porthos had to stop and gather himself before he could go on. The whippings that Athos had received were laid bare before Aramis. Athos listened as Porthos told Aramis how the events on the galley had affected him, even if he wasn't the one receiving the beatings. The swordsman was astonished that anyone, especially someone who barely knew him, would care that much about his well-being. The tale of cleaning up after the storm was also told in all of its horrifying details, and Athos found himself trembling as he listened to Porthos' account. What he had done, even though the slave had begged him to do it, made his stomach queasy, and he fought hard not to be sick.

Occasionally, the marksman would let his eyes drift over to Athos, who sat stoically, hat pulled even lower over his face. The marksman could see the telltale tremors that Athos couldn't control as Porthos recounted their journey, and he could almost feel the swordsman suffering in silence. Porthos, on the other hand, seemed to find telling the whole tale to a person he trusted and considered his best friend, cathartic. When he finished, Aramis saw Porthos had put a few demons to rest and now had a new found ability to accept and move forward. Athos, however, looked like he was still tightly clutching his burden. Over the years, Aramis would come to learn that Athos could forgive others, but was never able to forgive himself, even for things that were not his fault.

When Porthos was done, Aramis sat quietly, absorbing the story, then thinking of plans to move them forward. He was again surprised when Athos unexpectedly spoke up.

"Given our run-in with the Dieppe guards, it would be advisable for us to enter town in a stealthy fashion. Our having killed a number of their own I'm sure has left them with a bad impression of us. I fear no matter what we do or say, they will find our motives suspect."

"I believe your assessment is quite accurate. So how to you think we should proceed?" Aramis queried, not feeling the least bit threatened. A good leader was open to all ideas, especially when they were put forth by a man such as Athos, who was, Aramis suspected, an outstanding tactician.

"You two hide the trappings of your position. Then we make for St Rémy and seek out Father Biene. The father seems to have a good understanding of what goes on in his town. After that," the swordsman shrugged, "we determine how to arrest the guilty parties without causing a disruption."

With that, Athos rose, removing his hat and dropping it on his bedroll. Out of habit from when his hair had been longer and constantly in his face, he distractedly ran a hand through it. "I'm going to make one last check of our perimeter. And I'll take the first watch," With that, the swordsman melted off into the darkness.

Aramis turned his soulful brown eyes on Porthos. "You both went through so much…" his voice trailed off not knowing what else to say.

Porthos swallowed hard as he closed his own eyes from a moment. "I didn't think I would survive. I thought I was destined to die on that boat."

Aramis reached over and grasped the back of his friend's neck. "But you did survive. And you are that much stronger for it. We will bring these men to justice," he vowed as he let go of Porthos' neck.

Porthos opened his eyes and stared at Aramis. "I don't want to bring them to justice. I want to kill them."

"That is not what we have been ordered to do," Aramis lightly reminded the musketeer. "We are soldiers. We follow our orders."

Porthos looked away into the night, grimacing. "Oi. I know that. But don't ask me to believe that it is the right thing to do."

Aramis' tone was very matter-of-fact when he spoke. "I won't, but I expect you to carry out our orders as given."

Porthos gave a quick nod.

"Thank you, mon ami." Aramis searched the surrounding darkness for any sign of their third. "What about Athos? Do you think he will be able to follow orders?"

Porthos was silent for a long minute before he answered. "I have not learned as much about the man as one might think with what we have suffered together. I know he has very dark, personal demons that drive him. He cares about others more than he will ever admit, willing to sacrifice his own well-being for theirs. He is not afraid to die, which is scarier than it sounds for, while we are soldiers and none of us are afraid to die, I feel he welcomes the thought. He is very bound by duty and honor and this, Aramis, is how you reach him. Early on he swore he'd get me home to Paris, and he did, sometimes by means which scared the hell out of me. It works, but Aramis, be very careful. Had I known what he would do, to keep his promise to me," Porthos shook his head sadly. "No man has the right to ask that of another."

Aramis thought about that statement as Athos returned from the darkness and settled against the trunk of a nearby tree to keep watch. Porthos stretched out on his bedroll, closed his eyes and prepared to sleep. Aramis rose and walked over to where Athos was sitting, noting it was far enough from the firelight not to affect his night vision. Once more, Aramis acknowledged this mystery man in front of him was born to be a soldier and a musketeer, even if he didn't realize it himself. What Athos did on pure instinct were things that some good soldiers never learned.

Squatting in front of the swordsman, he carefully attempted to employ Porthos' wisdom. "Athos, you know our orders are to bring the men in Dieppe who did this horrific crime back to Paris to stand trial."

Athos' green eyes swept Aramis' face, but the swordsman didn't say anything.

"You have been greatly wronged by these men, you and Porthos both. When you face them again, will you be able to follow your orders?" Aramis bluntly demanded of the swordsman.

Athos stared at the man, damning him for maneuvering him into a corner. He always knew Aramis was much cleverer than he ever let on. For the world, he played a light hearted dandy, who loved women and took life with a casual flair. But underneath that façade lurked a very shrewd man.

"I…" Athos started, then stopped. Finally, he whispered, "I don't know."

Aramis reached over and placed his hands on Athos' shoulders. "It is a fair enough answer and I thank you for it." Letting go, he rocked back on his heels. "Being a musketeer is about protecting the King and the Country. It sometimes means following orders we may not agree with, but do so because that is what we have sworn. It is not easy, and often what you will be called to do will haunt you later. But above all else we are bound by our honor and our duty."

Athos couldn't stop from flinching when his Achilles heel was brought into the light so elegantly. Duty and honor where the code that Athos lived by and what now gave his demons such a strong hold on him. He had done his duty, as was honorable, all his life, until he had met Anne. Then he had broken his personal code, thereby letting lose the demons which had made him suffer ever since. Athos simply couldn't reconcile his actions with his notion of honor nor forgive himself. Aramis, noting his message had been driven home, nodded, rose, and went back to his own bedroll.

Athos sat in the darkness, feeling he had just been maneuvered to the edge of a precipice. He glanced over at the two men, unconcernedly slumbering beside the fire, trusting him to watch their backs, not only as they slept here tonight, but tomorrow and beyond. Somehow, he felt it was now his duty to guard them and keep them safe as he once had done for Thomas, before she came along. He was fighting really hard not to admit it, but he had an uncomfortable feeling he had just gained two more brothers, whether he wanted them or not.

Chapter Text

Chapter 77

In the morning, Aramis and Porthos removed all the trappings that declared they were musketeers and stowed them in their saddle bags. Then, the trio headed on the last leg of their journey to Dieppe, arriving at the town mid-afternoon, which was good, for the streets were teeming with people. Dismounting, they led their horses slowly through the crowds, trying to attract no undue attention. Knowing the church did not have a stable, they found a public livery and put their horses up there before proceeding the rest of the way on foot to St Rémy.

When Aramis saw the church, he stopped and admired its beauty; elegant spires reaching towards the heavens, as if to connect the lowly people of the Earth with their Maker. Whereas Athos, the first time he saw the building, had admired it for its architecture on a practical level, Aramis admired it for the sheer exquisiteness of what it represented, a physical presence of his God.

The other two men had to nudge Aramis along towards the entry way to the church to halt his gawking. They had debated about trying to use the back door they had escaped through, but figured it would be locked and Father Biene would not be appreciative of them destroying more doors in his house of worship. There were a lot of people entering the sanctuary, which puzzled them at first until, based on the way the people were dressed, Aramis deduced a requiem mass was being conducted. Luckily, their clothes were somber enough that they did not look out of place as they joined the mourners.

Inside St Rémy, Aramis got lost once more in the magnificence of the arches and stained glass windows that made colorful mosaics of light on the smooth, time-worn stone floor. As he stood, gazing about him with awe, Porthos and Athos spotted Father Biene up near the alter. However, it seemed inappropriate to disturb him at this point because the mass was beginning. They debated about trying to slip through the door that led to the brothers' private quarters in the church, but there was a group of mourners clustered in that area and to try to enter, especially if the door was secured, would attract too much attention. Grabbing Aramis' elbow, they steered him to a pew in the far corner of the church, in the shadows, where they hoped they could quietly sit out the service.

They slid into the highly polished wooden pew, Athos first, Aramis in the middle, and Porthos on the end, nearest the aisle. Athos and Aramis had removed their hats out of respect for their location, though Athos appeared unhappy about not being able to hide under its brim. Being in a church made him uncomfortable since he and God had parted ways, at least in his mind. Add the fact it was a requiem mass, which brought back the memories of Thomas' death, and he was writhing inside.

His brother's burial had been done as quietly as possible, with a small service conducted by the priest who served Pinon. Athos, though he hadn't wanted to, had attended, hung over, and sitting in the front pew, alone. After the service, his brother's remains had been brought to the house by a few trusted servants who helped install them in the family crypt. And that had ended the life of Thomas d'Athos de la Fére, and the life of Olivier d'Athos de la Fére as well. Though the crypt held the remains of only one brother, in actuality they were both buried in that stone box.

Aramis was not so lost in the beauty of St Rémy, nor in his own comfortableness in the holy setting, that he didn't pick up on the uneasiness of the man on his right. Had there not been a wall blocking the other end of the pew upon which they sat, he was sure Athos would have bolted from the church. While Athos was one of the most skilled people he had ever met at masking his emotions, it didn't mean he didn't have them or that they didn't run deep. The marksman was certain this requiem mass was disturbing Athos on a personal level for some reason. The compassionate part of him wanted to try to console the grieving man, for even if his face did not show it, there were enough cracks in that armor with which Athos shielded himself for Aramis to see a man in mourning. However, he also knew enough of this man by now to know any attempt would not be appreciated, would be shrugged off, and would cause the guarded man to fight against the tentative bond that was forming between them. To say Athos was coming into this friendship like a nervous bride approaching her wedding night was a colossal understatement.

Aramis felt Porthos looking at him, and he turned his head to look at the streetfighter, giving a short head nod. The streetfighter, who also had been looking over at Athos, sensing the swordsman's mood, gave a quick nod of concurrence; nothing would be said of Athos' discomfort.

Instead, Porthos whispered, "That's Father Biene."

Aramis, realizing that he was being given an opening by Porthos, glanced at the grey-haired man at the alter and then over at Athos and inquired, "You believe he will help us?"

Athos didn't want to answer Aramis' question. He wanted to be left the hell alone. If it wouldn't have caused a scene, he would have climbed over the two men who had him trapped in this place and disappeared. For a moment he considered scaling the back of the seat into the pew behind them to escape, but as if God were reading his mind, a set of late mourners slid into the seat; he was trapped.

After taking a few seconds to steady his nerves and breathing, he finally addressed Aramis. "Father Biene sheltered us last time, did not seem surprised that the captain of Dieppe might be corrupt, and helped us escape at a risk to himself and his brothers." After that, Athos fastened his eyes on a faraway spot on the church's wall, indicating the conversation was over.

The service began in earnest with the prayers and musical chanting and Aramis momentarily forgot Athos and let the words wash over him and refresh his soul. No matter what type of service, Aramis always found peace in the trappings of the church. It was often like a second home for the marksman.

Porthos was also paying attention, though more out of respect for the mourners than the passion that Aramis had for religion. There was no doubt that Porthos believed in God, but he had a more practical approach towards the subject, one driven by his upbringing and life as a soldier. The service was a duty to him.

Athos, once the service began, dropped his eyes to the floor by his feet, studying it with intense concentration, though his mind was a thousand leagues away. However, anyone looking at him would think Athos' head bowed in fervent prayer, but they would be far from the truth. Every moment in this church was pure agony for his soul.

Though the mass was no longer than usual, it seemed like an eternity to the three men waiting to see Father Biene. Even Aramis, who loved the rituals of the church, wanted the service to end, feeling rather exposed. Even after the final amen was sung, they still had to wait for the mourners to file out of the church, each one seeming to have the need to talk to the good father, at length, before they departed.

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos had risen and moved to another darken corner of the sanctuary to wait for the father to be alone. Finally, when the church was empty, the good father and a few of his Brethren moved silently about the church, tidying up. Father Biene, who was at the alter, skimming over a passage in the massive bible which rested on the ornate stand, started when he heard his name, for he thought the church empty.

"Father Biene," Porthos low-timbered voice rang out.

The grey-haired man looked up and saw three men standing on the floor before the steps that led up to the raised alter. A smile lit his face when he realized he recognized two of them. "Porthos. Athos," he intoned warmly.

He hurried down the stairs to shake their hands. "You are back. It is very good to see you and I must say you are looking much better than the last time I saw you. What are you…"

"Father Biene. Might we move this conversation to a more…private location?" Athos asked, politely cutting the priest off.

A look of understanding crossed over the father's countenance. "Of course. Come this way."

He ushered the trio over to the door that led to the back portion of St Rémy, where the brothers' quarters were located. Taking a key from a pocket hidden within the folds of his voluminous robe, he opened the lock before beckoning them inside. "Since your last visit, we have decided it is a good idea to keep this door secured. Don't want strangers walking in and disturbing the brothers when they are meditating." Nor guards showing up unexpectedly, he silently added.

Athos, always quick at reading between the lines offered, "We are sorry if our last visit left you in trouble with the captain."

Father Biene gave them a wry grin. "God watches over and protects us. We need not fear."

He led them down the corridors to a small room with a table and accompanying chairs. "We use this space for small theological discussions." He walked over to the table and bade them to sit.

After they settled, Porthos introduced Aramis to the father and the marksman complimented the man of God on his beautiful church.

"I am blessed that God has asked me to serve in such a place. It is not, of course, Notre Dame, but we find it meets our needs, which are few," the father answered congenially. "What brings you back?"

Aramis, as the leader of this mission, explained, "The King has been made aware of the despicable acts going on here in Dieppe and he has authorized us to bring the main culprits to Paris to stand trial. We believe that will most likely be the captain of the Guards and his lieutenant."

The father shook his head mournfully at the naivety of that statement. "I fear the corruption goes much deeper than that."

"No doubt," Aramis agreed. "Yet the King feels, how did he put it, if you cut off the head of the snake the rest will wither and die."

The priest's eyes shifted over to Porthos and Athos and he could see, as much as they were trying to hide it, they didn't necessarily agree with the idea that this was the correct course of action. "I am happy to hear the King took up the cause. What can I do to assist?" he asked, focusing back on Aramis.

"We hope to go about this quietly and would appreciate any information you might be able to provide. Also we would be grateful if you'd let us shelter here for a few days while we investigate. However, if you feel we will pose a risk to you or your church, we will gladly depart," Aramis concluded sincerely.

"You are doing the Lord's work, as well as the King's, by bringing those men to justice. We will be honored to provide whatever help we can," the father freely offered.

For the next few hours, Father Biene told them what happened after Porthos and Athos had escaped the guards' fury. Needless to say the captain of the Guards was not very happy with their getaway, nor with the fact that his men were injured. The captain had enough fear of the church and her power not to accuse the father of aiding and abetting in their flight, but his men had spent many weeks watching St Rémy on the off chance that Athos and Porthos might return, which, ironically, they had. The father hadn't believed he'd ever see either of them again.

The priest then went on to tell them what he knew of the slavery ring in Dieppe, which was mostly speculation. There had been a number of people that had gone missing in the city, stories that he had heard through parishioners, but which had not made an impression on him. However, as he now thought back upon it, perhaps there was a pattern. Many people did have love ones that died in jail, but given the conditions of the place he hadn't thought it out of the ordinary. What had been peculiar, but then again didn't strike him until now, was the number of times the bodies had been buried before the families could see them. If the prisoners had been sold into slavery and had not really died, it made sense.

After the father told what he knew, he sat back quietly in his chair while the three soldiers took over the conversation and discussed what to do next. The dialogue was mainly between Aramis and Porthos, with Athos occasionally interjecting a comment. The priest wondered if the others realized, but with every decision that was made, they looked over to Athos, as if asking for his blessing. The father, a student of human nature, found the behavior of this trio interesting, for though Aramis was leading it, Athos, quiet and in the background, almost seemed to be the one in charge. The father could easily see the bond between Porthos and Aramis, and the growing one they both had with Athos. It was Athos, he felt, that was having a hard time accepting this growing friendship, and it made the priest wonder why.

As they discarded yet another plan, a brother knocked and entered the room, announcing dinner was to be served. Athos, who had yet to offer up a plan, spoke.

"Father Biene, do you believe if you went to the captain and told him we had returned to your church demanding shelter, he would come for us?"

The priest, who had risen to his feet, looked down at the swordsman, who was still seated. "Yes. He would bring a contingent of his guards and arrest you. Of that I am sure. What would happen to you after that I fear would be death."

Athos slowly stood, raking each of his friends with his intense green eyes before focusing on the father. "Then that, Father Biene is exactly what you shall do, your duty as a good citizen of Dieppe. Turn us in."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 78

They modified Athos' plan slightly to make it a bit less suicidal. It was Porthos who came up with the idea by asking a simple question; did the captain worship at St Rémy? When the priest indicated he did, as well as his lieutenant, a smile appeared on Aramis' face, as he tracked where his friend was going. Even Athos gave a curt nod when it occurred to him this was a sound tactic. The only one that remained at a lost in this non-verbal conversation was Father Biene.

"I feel you three have just had an entire conversation that I missed, even though I was standing right here," he said ruefully, shifting his eyes between the three faces.

Aramis, Porthos and, much to his dismay, Athos realized that he was right. Somehow, they all had communicated exactly what they planned to do without ever saying a word.

Cautiously, almost as if he were afraid to confirm they were all thinking the same thing, Aramis enlightened the good father. "Tomorrow is Sunday. Hopefully, the captain and his lieutenant will remain good Catholics and attend your mass here at St Rémy."

Father Biene gave a very loud snort. "While the captain and the lieutenant come here, I'm not sure 'worship' is the right word to use. Not to sound boastful, for our Lord has rules about that, but St Rémy is the most prestigious church in Dieppe. Many people, come here as a statement, one that I fear is more worldly than spiritual."

Aramis nodded, understanding, for in Paris it was the same way. Not everyone who came to church was devout.

The marksman continued, relaying the plan. "Just before your service starts, one of your brothers will come up to you, in front of the congregation, and urgently whisper in your ear. Now you can improvise from this point out as you will. I would suggest, quickly crossing yourself, while worriedly glancing, first at the door that leads to your living areas and then at the ceiling as if seeking divine guidence. Then somewhat reluctantly go about your sermon, occasionally glancing over towards the door as if you fear something horrible might burst through it. After the final blessing and the releasing of the congregation, approach the captain and nervously tell him the two fugitives have returned and are hiding in your quarters, threatening to hurt the good brothers as they did the captain's own guards. Beg for his intervention, but only after the church has been cleared, for you don't want to take a chance on an innocent worshipper getting hurt. When the captain and lieutenant go in the back, we shall apprehend them."

The whole time he was speaking Aramis had been watching his friends out of the corner of his eye and was amazed that they were nodding along; almost as if they had read each other's minds. He felt blessed that God truly seemed to be bringing them together.

"Your plan sounds doable," Father Biene exclaimed, "I suggest we head over to the dining area to eat. While gluttony is a sin, Brother Luke makes a very good stew, with turnips and carrots in a heavenly gravy. Leftovers are unheard of, so we had best go get our share. We can inform the rest of the brothers of our upcoming activities."

The father rose and the rest of them followed him from the room, down to the dining area. The brothers who were already assembled nodded politely to Porthos and Athos, whom they recognized, as well as smiled congenially at Aramis. After they all were seated and the blessing given, the brother at the head of the table ladled up heaping helpings of the stew and passed the bowls around the table.

Father Biene noted that two of his three visitors did justice to their food, and in Porthos case more than justice. Athos, he noted, ate rather distractedly, and when he didn't finish his portion, discreetly gave the rest to the streetfighter.

Aramis also noted the same thing and he wondered if Athos was feeling poorly, perhaps from the five days of riding. However, he also knew the swordsman would not appreciate being called out so he kept his thoughts to himself and would ask later, in a more private setting. He still didn't trust Athos to let him know when he was feeling unwell. He remembered his theory that Athos' eating habits were driven by his mental well-being and he wondered if the man had reservations about their plan. Aramis added that question to the list he would be asking Athos later that evening, even though he knew there was only a 50/50 chance he'd get an answer to anything he asked.

After dinner, Father Biene led them to a sizable room where the three men could bunk together for the night. The grateful look he received from Aramis told the religious man he had made the right choice by not assigning them to separate sleeping quarters. In the few hours he had had to observe Aramis, he could see the man was the shepherd of this group, overseeing the well-being of his small flock. Not, of course, that Athos or Porthos were sheep by any means, but the father did get the impression Aramis felt they needed tending to now and then. He had seen Aramis watching Athos at the dinner table and he could see the medic was not happy one of his flock was not properly taking care of himself. The father would lay odds that a private conversation, in the form of a lecture, was in Athos' near future.

After seeing to it that the men had everything they required for the night, Father Biene went to take his leave. He was puzzled to see Aramis trailing after him.

"I'm sorry, Aramis. Did you require something else?" the priest asked when the soldier followed him into the hallway.

"I was hoping to take a look around your sanctuary," the marksman requested.

"Oh, for tactical reasons," the father said knowingly, as he turned toward the chapel.

Aramis couldn't resist grinning. "You have me confused with Athos, I'm afraid. No, I simply would like to see your beautiful church and spend a few reflective minutes in prayer."

They entered the main chapel where a few candelabras flickered beams of light about the area. Instinctively, Aramis crossed himself and kissed his crucifix as he gazed up at the depiction of Christ on the cross. "He certainly suffered a lot for mankind," Aramis remarked as he gazed upon the carving. "I hope He finds us worthy of His sacrifice."

"I'm sure He does," Father Biene declared in a knowing way that spoke of a very personal relationship with the Almighty. "You appear to be a man of religious convictions."

Aramis wandered over to a pew and sank down upon its wooden surface. He nodded at the priest to join him, and the man did, arranging his robes as he settled.

"I have a deep faith in God that has seen me through many tough situations. I think my parents hoped I would consider a life in the church, and I have to admit I have come close, many times. I feel comfortable within the walls of a church. Safe. Peaceful. And yet, being a soldier also feels right." Grinning ruefully, he added, "And I'm not without my sins."

"We all have our sins, and God forgives us our foolish idiocies."

Aramis chuckled outright this time. "I definitely have had some… follies." The marksman turned serious as he stared at the crucifixion once more. "And I have killed men, many men. Hopefully for the right reasons and yet sometimes, it gives me pause.""

Reaching over, the priest placed a compassionate hand on the troubled man's forearm. "Soldiers have a duty. They carry out the orders they are given, without question, for that is what being a soldier means. Doubting yourself, or questioning God, will lead to nowhere good. Trust in yourself and your God."

"Have confidence in the Lord with all thy heart, and lean not upon thy own prudence," Aramis quoted from the scripture and Father Biene nodded in agreement.

The priest removed his hand from Aramis' arm and the two men sat in reflective meditation for a while before the priest spoke once more. "Are you concerned about tomorrow?"

"It would be foolish not to admit I am. My captain has placed me in charge and it is my responsibility to carry out this mission, return with the prisoners, and my brothers, safely to Paris."

"I have no doubts your captain has complete and utter confidence in your abilities."

Aramis sat silently for a moment and the priest could practically feel him deliberating with himself. "I'm concerned that Athos and Porthos might find this assignment…difficult."

The priest was not stupid and easily discerned what concerned Aramis. "You are afraid they might seek their own vengeance."

Aramis gave a quick nod. "They suffered greatly because of these men we are supposed to bring to Paris for justice. It might be…hard for them… to control their anger. I don't wish to cause them to suffer, but we have our orders."

"Which, as soldiers of the King, you will faithfully carry out. Of this I have no doubt."

The priest sounded so positive that it boosted Aramis' morale.

"I am glad to see Athos has joined the musketeers at last. When he was here last time," Father Biene noted, "he seemed to be indecisive and kept reminding me he wasn't a musketeer."

Aramis frowned. "Well, technically he still isn't. Our captain asked him to come on this mission as a civilian."

"Your captain doesn't feel that Athos has what it takes to be a musketeer?" Father Biene sounded surprised that this would be the case.

"No," Aramis replied ruefully. "I believe it is Athos who doubts himself, not the captain. Athos seems to have some personal demons that haunt him terribly and which color his view of himself darker than needs be."

"I shall pray for him and all of you. I heard you call them your brothers earlier. Are you actually related somehow?"

"No, not through blood unless you consider the blood of the sword. Porthos and I have been friends for a few years, since we joined the musketeers. We seemed to belong together as a team, and he has had my back more times than I can count."

"As you have had his I'm sure," Father Biene interjected.

"True. Then Athos stumbled into our path; a long story for another time. Just suffice it to say he is not the most willing partner of our triad and yet, somehow, it feels right, like he belongs with us, like we all fit together into a single cohesive picture. I think our captain figured it out first and Athos, well he is still struggling with the idea." Aramis grinned cockily. "But I have no doubt we shall win him over."

The two men talked for a few more minutes before the father asked if the musketeer would like some time alone, to pray in private. Aramis eagerly accepted and the priest took his leave, heading back to the private quarters behind the church and towards his room. As he was about to open the door to his chambers, the shadows moved startling him until he saw it was only Athos.

Crossing himself, the father declared, "Athos. You startled me."

Contritely, the swordsman bowed his head for a moment. "My apologies. It was not my intent."

They awkwardly stood there in the semi-darkness for a moment before Father Biene asked, "Would you like to speak with me?"

"Briefly."

The priest almost laughed aloud for it had been his experience, in the little time he had known Athos, that the man was always brief. Opening the door, he gestured for the swordsman to enter into his chambers, where someone already had thoughtfully lit a few candles. Gesturing toward one of the two chairs in the room, he bade Athos to sit. However, the swordsman chose to remain standing.

"What do you wish to speak of?" The father refrained from adding 'my son' as was his habit for his instinct told him it would not be appreciated.

"I have a boon to ask of you."

"I see. And what is it you require?"

Athos dropped three small leather purses on the table that the priest hadn't noticed he was carrying. They made a clinking noise as they plopped on the table's top.

Athos' facial expression remained inscrutable. "When I was last here…in Dieppe, there were a few people that greatly assisted in our endeavors to return to Paris. I would like to repay that debt."

"And these people, they are?" the priest questioned.

"I know the name of only one, Alain. An apothecary near the market square. He was quite…talkative."

After thinking for a moment, Father Biene smiled. "Yes. I know of whom you speak. Drives his wife crazy with his chatter and such. But he is a good, kind, smart man."

"He is that and he provided the medicine for Porthos, at what I fear was a very discounted rate, for I was short of funds at the time." Athos touched one purse on the table. "I'd like him to have this purse of coins in compensation."

"I see. And the next one?" the priest questioned, gesturing towards another small bag.

"For a woman. A merchant. In the market square. I do not know her name. But she sells eggs, amongst other things. And once had a son, now deceased."

The father nodded sadly, also knowing of whom Athos spoke. "Marie. They were once members of this congregation, until the tragedy. I don't think she can forgive God for taking her son."

"I know the feeling," Athos mumbled, so softly that the father wasn't truly sure he heard correctly. More loudly, Athos declared, "Again, she was of great assistance, and I'd like her to have those coins."

"I will see to it," the religious man solemnly promised. "And the third?"

"Is for your church." Somehow, Athos sounded more embarrassed than he had when talking about the other pouches.

"I expect nothing in the way of payment. It is a Christian kindness to help one's fellow man, especially after what was done to you and Porthos. It was not humanity at its best."

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Athos murmured, "I would feel…better… having paid my debts."

"You owe us no debt." Father Biene could see Athos wasn't about to give in so he added, "But the church is always willing to accept donations for its building fund. These places are expensive to keep up. The church, the brothers, the Lord and I thank you."

In the dim light he almost swore that Athos blanched at his simple blessing. "I will leave you to your rest."

As Athos turned to bolt from the room, the priest took a chance and reached out to capture the fleeing man's arm. "I'm a very good listener, if you'd like to talk."

"But I am a very poor story teller." Athos glanced down pointedly at the hand on his arm and the priest let go. With a curt nod, Athos said, "Again. Thank you." Then the swordsman turned swiftly on his heel and departed from the room.

After he was gone, the father closed the door to his room before heading over to where the three bags of coins sat on the small table. Loosening the ties, he peered inside, noting the generous allotment of coins within each one. This type of 'donation' spoke of access to a considerable income and the priest wondered how this man had come by such funds. He was sure asking would bring him no answer, so he simply said a prayer of thanks as he safely stowed the coins away until he could deliver them.

When Athos arrived back in the chambers he was sharing with the musketeers, Aramis rose from the bed where he was sitting and moved towards him.

"Is everything alright? Where did you go?" he questioned Athos, who had walked over to the third, unoccupied bed.

"Checking. For tomorrow."

The answer was curt and uninformative. Aramis knew Athos well enough by now to know he was unlikely to get much more information, no matter how hard he tried. Giving up on that line of questioning, he switched to a new one.

"Your appetite seemed to fail you at dinner tonight. Are you feeling unwell?" Though the marksman figured he'd get no reply to this inquiry either, he tried.

Lying down on the bed, the swordsman purposely turned his back on Aramis. "Tired," he muttered over his shoulder.

Aramis stood there for a moment staring at the stubborn Athos' back, before turning away and sitting on his own cot once more. He could practically feel Porthos grinning at him in the semi-darkness.

"That went well," Porthos pointed out to the scowling marksman.

"I fear our bunk mate is stubborner than that mule Serge uses to fetch supplies from the market," Aramis said loudly enough so Athos would be certain to hear.

Porthos laughed at the jibe before rolling on his side to go to sleep.

Aramis watched to see if his comment would get a rise from the swordsman, but the form didn't twitch a muscle. With a sigh, Aramis lay down himself. Stubborn indeed, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 79

Aramis sat with the Congregation, a few pews away from the worshipping captain and his lieutenant. As the marksman had never been seen by either man, it seemed worth the risk to have him in the audience, giving them a man on the floor if something went wrong. Porthos and Athos lurked in the hallway behind the door leading to the brothers' quarters, waiting to secure the head guard and his henchman once the father lured them through the door after the service.

Porthos glanced over at Athos, who leaned in a casual manner against the wall, though Porthos knew the swordsman was far from relaxed. The two men had spent months together in close contact and Porthos had gotten better at reading between the lines what really was going on behind those hooded green eyes. The streetfighter could sense that, though projecting calm on the outside, Athos was wound tighter than a drum on the inside.

"You good with this?" Porthos suddenly asked as he turned toward the swordsman.

Athos debated how to answer this inquiry, understanding the real, unasked, question behind it. "Captain Treville has made clear what our mission is."

"You didn't answer my question," Porthos pointed out, not letting Athos skirt by with a half-answer.

"And you didn't ask your real question," Athos goaded, wondering if Porthos would ask what he really wanted to know. Had it been a few years later, he wouldn't have wondered. Porthos was a straight shooter who didn't believe in beating around the bush. He called things what they were, a spade for a spade.

Porthos, true to form, bluntly asked, "Are you going to disobey our orders and kill them?"

"Are you?" Athos quickly lobbed the ball back over the net into Porthos' side of the court once more.

"I'm a musketeer. I have my orders from my captain. I will follow them," Porthos declared with a touch of indignation, almost as if he felt Athos was questioning his integrity.

Dipping his head by way of apology, Athos softly explained, "I wasn't doubting your integrity, Porthos."

Pursing his lips, Porthos gave a brief nod to show the apology was accepted. "But, you haven't answered my question. What we went through, the inhumanness of it, the cruelty. If these men had a hand in it, are you content to bring them back to court to meet their justice?"

Athos pushed off the wall, his tension now showing in his stance. "If those men had a hand in the despicable act of selling men into slavery, which I have no doubt they did, I feel the only justice they deserve is on the point of my sword."

Porthos slowly nodded his head, but sensed there was more waiting to be said by this man so he prompted, "But?"

With a sigh, Athos ran his hand through his wavy brown hair, clearly frustrated about what he was going to say. "It is true I am not a musketeer, but I know my duty. I understand and I will honor what we have been told, even if on a personal level I would like nothing better than to slay these men for the despicable beasts they are. I shall return them safely to Paris for trial. However, it doesn't mean in my heart I won't be wishing them dead every step of the way."

Companionably, Porthos clapped the shorter man on the shoulder in lieu of words. On this, they were in total agreement.

After what was a rather short mass for Father Biene, who normally had the habit of rambling, the priest approached the captain and skillfully maneuvered him away from the other parishioners. A consummate actor, the priest in an urgent, frightened manner explained that the two fugitives who had escaped months ago had returned and were hiding in the brothers' quarters. He fearfully begged the captain to do something immediately, before one of the religious community was hurt by these dangerous outlaws.

The captain was more than eager to get his hands on the two prisoners that had escaped and killed his men. He motioned for his lieutenant to join him and he quickly apprised his second of the situation at hand. After a swift debate, with Father Biene on the periphery, begging the two men to do something quickly about the situation, the two soldiers decided to apprehend the escaped prisoners themselves, without sending for reinforcements. After all, they were highly skilled warriors with the element of surprise on their side. What could go wrong?

Aramis was lurking behind a column, watching the good father masterfully maneuver the two men into the trap. Behind the closed door of a storage room, Porthos and Athos tensely waited, having determined by the noises from the sanctuary area that the service was over and, hopefully, it was simply a matter of time before the door would open and their targets would step through it.

The captain and his lieutenant drew their swords as they followed the scurrying father towards the door leading to the back of the church. When they got there, the father opened the door, but before he could go through it, the captain brushed him aside.

"Best let us go first," the captain commanded, and the priest was more than happy to step aside and oblige.

Once they were all inside the corridor, the priest pointed to the right. "They might still be in the dining hall. That is where brother Luke told me they were, eating our food."

The captain and his lieutenant took point, heading down the hallway, swords held ready. They came to a closed door on the left and glanced back at the priest.

"A small storage room. For church artifacts. Kept locked. I have the key here." He patted a pocket on his robe. "I can open it if you'd like to check."

The lieutenant tested the knob and found it was locked, so he shook his head and they moved onward toward the dining hall.

Inside the supply closet, Porthos and Athos let out a quiet sigh of relief. After waiting a few seconds for the footsteps to receded, Porthos silently opened the door and they stepped into the hallway, unobserved, behind the three men. Stealthily, they padded up behind the soldiers, who were carelessly focused only on what was in front of them and not what might be sneaking up from behind them.

Porthos tapped the priest on the shoulder, wordlessly motioning him aside. Pistols drawn, Athos and Porthos stepped up behind the captain and the lieutenant, pressing the muzzles of their guns to the back of the men's heads.

"Stand still and don't resist," Porthos growled. "Unless you want the good brothers to spend the rest of the day cleaning up your splattered remains from the floor."

The two soldiers came to a halt, standing very still. Neither man was a fool and both recognized they had no other option at the moment.

"Drop your swords on the floor." When it appeared the men were hesitating, Porthos shoved his gun harder against the captain's head. "Now. I really don't mind the brothers spending their afternoon wiping up your remains."

Both men let their swords clatter to the ground. By now, Aramis had made his way into the back to where they were standing and while Athos and Porthos kept their guns pressed to their captives' heads, he moved around them, picked up the rapiers and then removed the captain's and the lieutenant's pistols and main gauches.

Once the men were weaponless, Porthos ordered them to follow Aramis down the hall to a room on the left. Once inside, the soldiers found themselves in a small, empty room, with no windows and only the single door.

"If you gentlemen will make yourselves comfortable on the floor," Aramis requested, gesturing for them to move over by the wall.

"They ain't gentlemen," Porthos snarled as the two men slowly obeyed.

"Point taken," Aramis acknowledged.

When they went to sit, the two soldiers turned around and for the first time could see who was holding them at gunpoint.

"So it is you two," the captain sneered as his eyes haughtily swept the two men holding guns pointed at him. "You killed my men and now you are going to kill us too?"

Athos' cold hard eyes bore into the two men though he said nothing, letting Porthos take the lead.

"As much as I'd like to put a bullet in you," Porthos snarled at the two captives, "My orders are to bring you back to Paris to stand trial. A mercy you don't deserve, though I'm sure the King will hang you in the end."

"And by what authority do you do this?" the captain questioned disdainfully.

Aramis and Porthos had gone back to the stable earlier in the day to retrieve their pauldrons, so the streetfighter angled his body slightly to offer the prisoners a better view of his shoulder pad.

"By the King's authority. We are King's Musketeers," Porthos said proudly.

The captain laughed at the statement "You? A musketeer. A half-breed mongrel mutt? What has become of Paris if you are part of the King's elite guard. You weren't even fit to be a slave."

Roaring, Porthos took a step forward, but Athos reached over and restrained him before he could hit the two prisoners. After shoving Porthos away, Athos stepped forward until he was inches from the captain's face. The swordsman's voice was low and dangerous, and it sent chills up the spines of the others in the room.

"I suggest, Monsieur, that you keep your thoughts to yourself. It is a long ride back to Paris, one fraught with dangers. And while these two gentlemen are King's Musketeers, bound by his orders, I am not." A feral smile pulled at the corner of his lips making Athos appear even more threatening. "It would give me extreme pleasure to gut you like the vermin you are and claim we were attacked by bandits on the way back to Paris. I'd happily deliver two dead bodies to the King."

Both of the prisoners were trembling from the sheer intensity of Athos' presence; and the other men in the room were just as startled by his demeanor. They had not realized just how dangerous this man could be. Taking a few steps back, his face molded once more into a mask of inscrutability, Athos silently watched as Aramis and Porthos, who had joined him, tied up the captain and his lieutenant with the rope they had brought along.

"You have nothing on us musketeers. No proof. It's your word against ours; and you aren't even a musketeer," the captain of the guards asserted, throwing the last few words in Athos' direction.

Aramis, who was standing in front of the captain, tightly securing his hands, reached over and condescendingly patted the man on the cheek. "He may not be a musketeer, yet, but Porthos and I are. And we happened to be two of his Majesty's favorite musketeers. He'll listen to us. Now, I suggest you gentlemen rest while you can. I think it will be a very hard trip back to Paris."

With a smile Aramis walked over to where Porthos had joined the father and Athos, and the four of them left the room, securely locking it behind them. The tension radiating off Porthos and Athos was palpable and Aramis placed an arm around each of their shoulders. "It is done."

Father Biene cleared his throat to capture their attention. "Shall we retired to my office for a well-deserved glass of wine? I believe we have earned it today. After we are refreshed, we can head to the Mayor's house."

They had discussed earlier that it would be awkward if the leaders of the town's guards just disappeared, so it had been decided they would go explain to the Mayor of Dieppe, what had transpired. Father Biene assured them the Mayor was an upstanding citizen, at least for a public official, and he highly doubted the man had any involvement with the sordid business the captain of his guard was running.

The time they spent in the priest's study proved beneficial and Aramis could see some of the tension bleeding out of his two friends. Father Biene even got them to go to the dining hall, with the bottle of wine, and eat something before they headed out. A while later they set out into the city of Dieppe heading for the Mayor's office, with the priest in the lead.

Porthos and Aramis were keeping up a running banter between them as they walked through the town. Athos was walking a little to the rear, scanning the midday crowds. Suddenly, he recognized where they were, near the Bowhead tavern where he and Porthos had been abducted. As he scanned the group of men coming out of the tavern's door, he realized he knew one of them. Fate and coincidence are strange bedfellows, but Michel, from Monsieur Tricost shop, was leaving the place. With a low growl, Athos turned to follow the departing man, leaving his friends behind.

It actually took the other three a few minutes before they realized that Athos had left them. Aramis had looked over his shoulder to see if Athos would weigh in on the conversation they were having and only then realized the swordsman was missing.

"Athos!" Aramis exclaimed, stopping and looking about for the missing man.

He now had the attention of the others, who joined him in his visual search of the area, trying to spot Athos in the crowded street.

"Where'd he go?" Porthos asked, with worry coloring his tone.

They spent five minutes back tracking their route, looking for Athos, before a shot rang out. The two musketeers looked at each other in dread, before running towards the sound. They had a feeling in their gut they were about to find their missing third. Father Biene trailed along behind as quickly as his girth allowed, silently praying to God.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 80

Michel was making his way from the Bowhead tavern to meet up with some of his criminal acquaintances at a warehouse near the docks. Two days ago he had been contacted by a Spanish agent, asking if the group Michel represented would be able to provide slaves again as they had in the past. The agent explained that Spain had recently finished building a new ship to replace the one she lost and was in need a new 'crew'. Michel had assured the Spaniard that, for the right price, he could fill every seat on their boat.

After the meeting with the Spaniard, Michel had gone to see the lieutenant of the Dieppe guards to tell him that the Spanish were requesting more slaves. While the captain and his lieutenant ran the slavery ring in Dieppe and were definitely the masterminds behind the whole operation, they used common street thugs, such as Michel and his group, to do the majority of the dirty work. It didn't take much money to keep the low-life thugs satisfied, and it kept the captain and the lieutenant more insulated.

The lieutenant had told Michel they would be in touch, then he had relayed the news that the Spanish were back to his captain, who had been quite pleased. The captain was sorely missing the income that running a slavery ring had provided, and he was happy to be back in business again. He had been getting so desperate for money that he had been considering reaching out to the Spanish himself, to see if there was any other 'service' he could provide for them, for which he would make them pay through the nose, of course. The fact that he now didn't have to do that was cause enough for celebration.

His arrangement of supplying slaves to the Spanish had been going well, was easy, and relatively low risk. Most of the time there were a sufficient number of convicts in his jail to sell to Spain. When his prisoner supply ran low, he'd have his guards arrest more people on trumped up charges to fill his jail cells. The fact that a large number of the prisoners in Dieppe never saw the light of day again was not considered unusual. Everyone knew, because the captain kept woefully reminding them, that the conditions in the Dieppe jail were atrocious, and that many prisoners died of ailments within its damp, rat-infested, disease ridden walls. The city of Dieppe buried all these dead inmates for free to ensure that no sickness escaped into the general populace. The captain was sorry that loved ones couldn't see the bodies, but public safety had to be considered. The captain swore he had made numerous petitions to Paris, to the King himself, for funds to improve the conditions in the jail, but no acknowledgement had ever been received.

If the jail cells couldn't supply enough slaves, the captain, through his lieutenant, would reach out to Michel for additional bodies. He also used Michel as his liaison with the Spaniards, because he didn't want to take a chance of being seen talking with them. It was a way to limit his exposure if something went wrong. The captain was pretty sure when he asked Michel for additional slaves, that the man simply kidnapped visitors to the city, under the assumption that they would be less likely to be missed. After all, the roads were fraught with dangers, and maybe the visitors never even made it to the pleasant seaside town of Dieppe. The captain had used that story more than once when distraught relatives sought him out as the head of the guard, concerned about love ones who had gone missing.

Things had been going very smoothly until that damned galley had washed up on French soil, a few miles up the coast from Dieppe. If that hadn't been bad enough, those two men appeared claiming to be survivors of the wreck as well as musketeers. The captain should have killed them on the spot, but greed had compelled him to bring them back in hopes of reselling them to Spain. And that was the thread that had been pulled, unraveling the tapestry he had woven.

Michel wound his way through the streets with Athos behind him, slowly catching up. When he was but a few feet from his quarry, Athos yelled out for Michel to halt. Unhurriedly, Michel stopped and turned around to see who had hailed him.

His eyes went round with surprise, then narrowed with concern as his brain put all the pieces together. "You!" he bitterly exclaimed. "I can't believe you are still alive. And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I have come to seek justice for your crimes," Athos said evenly as he stood tall, glaring at the man.

"And what crimes would those be?" Michel questioned in a bored manner.

Athos didn't answer the inquiry directly, but instead reached behind his back and drew forth his main gauche, holding it aloft where Michel could see it. "Monsieur Tricost was kind enough to return my missing property to me."

Michel had a hard time suppressing the nervous tremor that ran through his frame. "And what does that have to do with me?"

One-handedly, Athos rotated the blade a number of times before answering. "Monsieur Tricost, your former employer, was given this blade by the Red Guards of Paris, who found it at the scene of the crime where you dropped it. I believe it was mentioned that you were trying to rob someone using it."

Michel scoffed, though his composure was slowly disintegrating. "And how did I get your blade in the first place?"

Athos really wasn't sure how that had happened, but that didn't stop him from bluffing and seeing if he could get Michel to confess. "The last time this blade was in my possession was at the Bowhead, on my previous visit to this fair city. It was lost to me when I was dragged off and sold to the Spanish as a slave. I therefore have to surmise, that you were involved in my kidnapping and were stupid enough to keep my blade." Athos returned the knife to its sheath and drew his gun. "Do I have that about right?"

Michel scowled at him. "You can't prove anything."

"Nor do I have to. I shall simply take you back to Paris, along with the captain of the Dieppe guard and his lieutenant, who I might add, I have already secured. We will let the King decide if you have had any involvement in these sordid affairs."

Michel knew the captain and his second wouldn't hesitate a moment to turn on him and name him as an accomplice, especially if they thought they could somehow use it as a bargaining chip. Michel had no desire to die hanging on the end of a rope so he decided to take a chance and flee. Without warning, he spun around to sprint off, figuring a bullet in the back would be a better than a noose about his neck.

"Stop," Athos commanded, aiming his pistol at the bolting man. When Michel didn't slow down, Athos took aim and though he wanted to shoot to kill, he restrained his urge and aimed for Michel's leg. Squeezing the trigger, he was surprised when nothing happened. A misfire. Damn seaside dampness messing up the powder.

Michel, when he didn't hear the sound of the gun, nor feel the rending of his flesh by a bullet, decided to take a gamble. He stopped, spun around, drew his own gun and fired at Athos. The swordsman saw Michel aiming the pistol at him and attempted to dive to the right. His maneuver was partially successful as the bullet missed his heart and instead tore through his left shoulder, the black shirt he was wearing doing nothing to impede its path. Doing a shoulder roll on his uninjured right side, he bounced to his feet, drawing his blade and struggling to clamp down on the pain ripping through his chest.

Michel, seeing his shot hadn't killed as intended, drew his own blade and faced his opponent. Even though Athos had beaten him last time, he felt he had a better chance now, especially since Athos was wounded. He aggressively rushed at Athos, who had barely gotten to his feet, forcing the swordsman on the defensive and making him give ground.

Struggling, Athos simply tried to survive this first onslaught, allowing Michel to make him retreat backwards. He was trying to remember exactly what was behind him before he found out the hard way by being forced into a wall or some other obstacle. Unable to go on the offensive, he did manage to rotate the direction of the fight so he remained in the clear with room to maneuver.

Michel drew his own main gauche and brought it into play to strengthen his position. Athos would have loved to counter, but his left arm and hand were already slick with blood and feeling numb; he doubted he would be able to retain a grasp on his main gauche. He concentrated instead on turning back Michel's thrusts and lunges which kept coming dangerously close to his person.

Following first the sound of the gun shot and then the clanking of swords, Porthos and Aramis arrived at the scene of the fight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw his companions start to draw their swords. "No. He's mine," he commanded, as he dodged another blow.

Dubiously, the musketeers sheathed their weapons as Father Biene finally caught up with them, slightly out of breath.

"Do you know who that is father?" Aramis asked the priest as he stood next to them, puffing.

"No," the father squeezed out between breaths.

Porthos, who had been studying Athos' opponent, finally remembered why the man looked familiar. "I know him. He was the one in St Rémy who recommended we stay at the Bowhead."

"Bowhead?" Aramis echoed, not understanding the connection.

"Oi. The tavern where we were drugged and dragged off into slavery," Porthos spat, a look of pure disgust on his face.

"And you think he has something to do with that?" Father Biene questioned.

"Well it is kind of suspicious that he recommended the tavern where we were kidnapped and now he is fighting Athos," Porthos reasoned. Then the flaw in his logic hit him. "But Athos didn't see this guy in St Rémy. He was outside holding the horses."

Aramis, who was intently watching the fight, mused, "This man is very skilled with the sword. He is more than holding his own against Athos." Aramis went silent, his nimble mind sorting through all the pieces of this puzzle. "Could this be the Michel of whom Monsieur Tricost spoke? The weapons maker did indicate that Michel had ties to Dieppe and that the man's talent with a blade was nearly equal to that of Athos. And that he wanted Athos dead."

Porthos slowly nodded his head in agreement. "When Monsieur Tricost was telling his tale, Athos and I wondered if Michel could have had an involvement. I guess we now have our answer."

"And it would explain why our obstinate friend, once again, refuses our aid," Aramis said with a frustrated sigh.

The fight was taking a turn for the worse. Athos had tried to switch to the offensive, but found himself unable to keep it up for long. His inability to bring his secondary blade into play against such a skilled opponent, along with the wound in his shoulder, which was slowly sapping his strength, was working against him. He decided the only way he would survive this fight was to make it a mental one and try to force Michel into making a stupid mistake upon which he could capitalize.

Athos began taunting Michel. "So Monsieur Tricost was right. You are nothing more than a gutter born sewer rat with mediocre skills with a blade. How does it feel being a charity case?"

"I'm not anyone's charity case. No one recognizes my genius," Michel snarled as he slightly over extended his lunge in anger.

Athos kept his face unreadable, but inwardly he was pleased. Michel was responding as poorly to his mocking as he had hoped. "Have you ever been successful at anything? The Army wouldn't have you and it has been my experience they are not very choosy in their recruits. What does it say about you that you are not even good enough to serve as cannon fodder?"

Michel recognized the extreme insult for what it was and he roared with anger and over extended his reach once more, giving Athos a chance to score a hit on his torso. Bellowing at the pain and humiliation of being marked, Michel intensified his attack, forcing Athos backwards, knocking the man off his feet and sending his sword flying.

Ignoring the nearly blinding pain in his shoulder caused by hitting the ground, Athos used a trick Porthos had shown him and swept Michel's feet out from under him, causing him to crash to the ground too. Michel's rapier also dropped from his hand as he fell, though he maintained a grip on his main gauche, which he raked across Athos' back as the swordsman grappled with him, trying to get his hand around Michel's neck to choke him.

Realizing he wasn't going to win a wrestling match, Athos gave up trying to choke Michel and began to scramble away to retrieve his sword. Michel made another slash of his blade, lightly scoring Athos' left calf, though he quickly realized his tactical error when Athos used his other foot to slam Michel's face.

The two men were separated, each nursing his wounds for a few seconds before Athos seized his sword and staggered to his feet. Michel was right behind him and soon the two men were squared off once more.

Porthos, when Athos had been knocked to the ground, had started to move forward to join the fight, and only Aramis' hand on his arm had halted him.

Shaking his head, Aramis murmured, "No Porthos. This is his fight. He won't thank or forgive us if we take this away from him."

"So we are going to stand here and let him die?" Porthos demanded, shaking loose from Aramis' grasp.

Aramis actually wasn't sure how to respond to that question. His gut said if they assisted Athos, in a way it would be the same as allowing Michel to kill the swordsman. Athos would feel betrayed and compelled to leave the musketeers before even becoming one. The marksman was also sure if Athos left on his own, he'd be dead within the year. Athos needed the musketeers; he needed Porthos and Aramis to give him a purpose in life, stability, and a reason to live.

"He'll win," Aramis finally answered, hoping his voice sounded more sure than his heart.

"Even with that wound?" Father Biene questioned the two musketeers.

"Those two slashes that Michel scored aren't that concerning," Aramis informed the priest. "Yes, I've no doubt they sting, but they are hardly life threatening."

The father appeared perplexed by Aramis' statement though he kept his own counsel for the moment, figuring his old eyes must be deceiving him.

Both fighters, back on their feet, swords in hands, began circling each other again. Athos was worried about the black dots occasionally dancing in front of his eyes and the fatigue that was creeping over his limbs. He had to end this fight soon, or he feared he would end his life. Michel lunged towards him, and Athos barely knocked his blade aside as he retreated away.

Aramis frowned as he watched the two swordsmen parry and riposte. Something about this fight was bothering him, yet he couldn't put his finger on it. Turning to Porthos, he inquired, "Does something about Athos' swordsmanship seem, well, off to you?"

A small grimace flickered across Porthos' face as Michel forced Athos to retreat once more. "I would have expected Athos to be wiping the dirt with this clown by now."

"There is no denying that Michel, if this is indeed him, is an outstanding swordsman. Monsieur Tricost even told us that," Aramis replied, though he sounded anything but convinced.

"Yeah, but he also said Athos was better," Porthos reminded the marksman as they both winced when Michel's blade lightly scored Athos once more.

Athos was getting desperate for a way to win this fight after Michel's blade caught him again. There was only one gambit he could think to employ, if it were even possible. Michel had figured out by now that Athos was incapable of using his left hand and arm for fighting and so the man had stopped paying any attention to them. If Athos could get his arm to cooperate, it would give him an element of surprise that might just turn the tide of this battle. An idea formed in his mind and he began, covertly, to wipe the blood covered palm of his left hand against his breeches in an attempt to clean off the slippery substance.

Finally, what was bothering Aramis that he hadn't been able to decipher, became apparent as he watched Athos surreptitiously wipe his left hand on his pants. It was a very strange behavior by the swordsman and Aramis watch closely for a few moments to determine if he were really seeing what he thought. "He is not using his left hand to fight. Not at all. Not once since this fight began," Aramis blurted out.

Porthos wanted to smack himself in the head for not seeing the obvious that Aramis just pointed out. Now the question was why and it was Father Biene that had the clue.

"I wasn't sure before, but now I believe your friend must of have suffered some injury before the fight began. His back, which you can see occasionally through the rent in his black shirt caused by the earlier blade strike, appears covered in blood. I also believe that is what is on his left palm, that he seems to be trying to wipe clean." The priest mournfully added, "Perhaps I should have mentioned something earlier but I thought my old eyes were playing tricks on me."

Aramis and Porthos looked at Athos's black shirt, for he wore no jacket, and saw what the priest had seen earlier.

"This is not your fault at all, Father Biene. Shame on me and Aramis for not realizing he wasn't fighting like he normally does." Porthos was mad at himself for being so dense. "We gotta stop this now, Aramis."

As Porthos drew his blade, Athos implemented his desperate plan. Without warning, he launched a furious attack against Michel, driving the man backwards more than a dozen steps. Athos' rapier was flashing through the air almost faster than the eye could track. Before Michel could realize what was happening, Athos made a desperate grab with his left hand for the main gauche sheathed on his back. He felt his fingers close about the hilt and he willed his arm to obey, dragging the blade from behind his back and embedding it in the unsuspecting Michel. While he had been aiming for the man's neck, he had faltered, the blade skimming across Michel's right shoulder instead, before it slithered from Athos' grasp. Still, it was enough of a surprise, causing unexpected pain, that Michel's rapier slipped from his fingers. Athos followed up by knocking the man to the ground with a final swipe of his left arm, before it dropped, woodenly, to his side. It was enough to propel Michel to the ground and Athos followed up by pressing the point of his rapier against the downed man's heart.

In an action that would be prophetic of the future, Athos stood there trembling, eyes cold with hatred. He was staring at Michel, ready to thrust his blade through the man's heart, thereby ending his miserable existence. Michel shook with fear, figuring his life was over. He began to babble and beg for his life, all of which fell on seemingly deaf ears.

Aramis and Porthos rushed to stand on either side of Athos, swords drawn. Father Biene also came forward and stood next to Michel's head as he lay in the dirt, pleading for his life.

"Athos. He is defeated," Aramis said softly. "Move aside and we will tie him up and bring him back to Paris to stand trial as we were ordered."

Athos voice was rough when he spoke. "Our orders were to bring the captain and his lieutenant back to Paris. Not this scum." He pressed the tip of his blade deeper against Michel's chest causing blood to well forth.

"Athos, this isn't right," Aramis half scolded the man. "You know this."

"Porthos. This man was directly responsible for selling us, selling you, into slavery. Tell me he deserves to live," Athos demanded from the streetfighter, though his hard eyes never left his captive.

Porthos was torn, for he agreed that this man should die, and if he was standing where Athos was, he'd want to press the cold steel tip through Michel's heart too. He let his eyes wander over to look at Aramis, whose soft gaze was begging him to do the right thing, for his sake and for Athos.

"Vengeance is mine, sayth the Lord," Father Biene quoted, causing Athos to give a short, sour, laugh.

"God has nothing to do with this, father, He and I parted ways a long time ago," Athos snarled, not angry at the priest, but at the situation he found himself in… desire verses honor.

Father Biene gently said, "God never abandons His children and He will forgive you and won't abandon you, even if you kill this man here today. But you might never forgive yourself if you carry out this wrongful act."

That seemed to give Athos pause for a minute before he muttered, "l've done worse."

For all that Porthos wanted to side with Athos and kill this contemptible human being, in his heart he knew it was wrong. As a musketeer, he was supposed to uphold the law of the land, which meant this man should be brought to trial and then hopefully hanged by the neck until dead. But killing him here, like this, was not what he stood for.

Porthos moved closer to Athos and placed a hand on his right shoulder. "Athos, this is not honorable," he said, though he felt bad for using the swordsman's sense of honor against him.

For the first time since he downed his opponent, Athos took his eyes off of Michel and stared at Porthos, his eyes and face showing the fact he felt betrayed by the streetfighter. "All those people who died…on the galley… Miguel, that man over the side…" The swordsman's voice broke and he swayed slightly causing Porthos to tighten his grip on Athos' shoulder. Meanwhile, just so Michel would not get any ideas, Aramis pointed his own blade at the man's chest, lest he have any notions of trying to escape while they attempted to get Athos to put up his sword.

Going by his gut feeling that Athos had yielded, and would allow it, Porthos reached over with his other hand and reached for Athos' rapier. With surprising swiftness, Athos scored Michel's chest before handing his sword to Porthos, turning, and walking a few feet away.

Taking off his blue sash, Aramis used it as a temporary method to bind Michel's wrists before hauling him to his feet. Father Biene offered his own generous, rough woven belt, and Aramis used it to make a set of shackles for Michel's ankles that allowed him enough limited motion to walk, but not run.

Porthos glanced over at Aramis who nodded, indicating he would deal with the prisoner. The streetfighter bent over and picked up the main gauche lying in the dirt, tucked it in his belt and then headed after Athos. The streetfighter walked over to where Athos stood with his head bowed, leaning against a wall. They stood in silence for a few long minutes before Porthos said, "You did the right thing, you know."

"I suppose," Athos replied bitterly. "But it doesn't feel like it."

"He'll hang. In Paris. With the captain and the lieutenant," Porthos tried to reassure the torn man.

Athos raised his head and stared at Porthos with pain filled green eyes. "And if they don't?"

"Then you and I will hunt them down and kill them ourselves, consequences be damned." Porthos made his declaration with such passion, it made Athos feel better, for he knew the man would stand by his word.

Aramis, who had walked up to them having left Father Biene to hold the prisoner, added, "And I shall also assist in their slaying. You know our motto. All for one and one for all."

Without thinking, Aramis clapped Athos on his left shoulder and two things happened; Athos collapsed to the ground and Aramis' hand came away covered in blood. Holding his red covered hand aloft so Porthos could see it, he resignedly sighed. "It would appear, once again, our brother, has forgotten the rule in regards to mentioning when he is injured."

"Maybe he just didn't have time to tell us," Porthos suggested mildly.

"Hmmmm," Aramis mumbled as he knelt in the dirt next to Athos. "Was that it? You didn't have time? You forgot? Is that what happened?"

Athos' whose eyes were half-closed as he struggled to remain conscious, mumbled, "Shot. Shoulder. Not brother."

Aramis indicated for Porthos to sit the man up so he could pull the swordsman's shirt over his head and Porthos knelt next to Athos, holding him upright. Aramis' breath caught in his throat after he got Athos' shirt off and saw the entry and exit wounds from the bullet, which had coated the swordsman's back and chest with blood.

"That was a very accurate statement, Athos. And for the record, if I want to declare you my brother, I shall. We are at least blood brothers as you are bleeding all over me."

The marksman glanced over at Porthos. "Well this might explain his reluctance to use his left arm to fight."

Athos head was lying against Porthos' broad chest because it was feeling too heavy to hold up. Porthos tenderly supported his friend while Aramis focused on the wound again, before sitting back on his heels.

"It is a nice clean through and through shot and since we did see him move his arm a little, we can surmise that the damage isn't too great to the surrounding muscles. My main concern now is stopping the blood loss and cleaning it so infection doesn't set it. However, I don't think this is a good place to do either of those things."

Athos' eyes drooped closed and his body went slack against Porthos, indicating he had finally passed out.

Working with Porthos, Aramis slipped Athos' shirt back on the unresisting man before rising to his feet. "I fear, Porthos, you will be required to serve as a beast of burden once more for our friend. However, I doubt he will vomit on you this time."

"He better not," Porthos mock-growled as he rose to his feet and gently positioned Athos on his broad shoulder.

Aramis took the tied up Michel from Father Biene's care. "Perhaps it would be best if we visited the Mayor after we secure the prisoner, tend to Athos, and clean up. I wouldn't want to unduly alarm the good official."

"If you can find your way back to St Rémy on your own, I can proceed on to the Mayor and perhaps convince him to come to the church, to hear what is going on," the father suggested.

"Oi, I know the way back," Porthos declared, shifting Athos' weight a bit on his shoulder.

"Good. Aramis, ask for Brother Marcus. He can show you our medical supplies. If you require anything more, send one of the brothers to fetch it for you," the father declared. Then he made a short blessing over Athos' limp head before moving off.

They parted ways, Aramis, Porthos, a shuffling Michel and a prone Athos heading back for St Rémy and Father Biene continuing on towards the Mayor's mansion. What a strange and unexpected journey this had turned out to be.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 81

Halfway back to St Rémy, Athos began to stir on Porthos' shoulder. The more conscious he became, the more his struggles increased until Aramis told Porthos to put the man down before he injured himself further. Gently, the streetfighter slid him down his chest until Athos' booted feet touched the ground. It became immediately apparent that, while regaining awareness, Athos was nowhere near being ready to stand, so Porthos smoothly lowered him to the ground where the swordsman could prop his good shoulder against the wall for support.

Aramis temporarily tied Michel to a post then dropped onto the dirt on the left side of Athos, with Porthos on the right. The three men sat in silence as Athos slowly became more alert. As if it weighed a hundred pounds, Athos struggled to raise his head and peer about him. It took a while for him to process where they were and when he did he glanced over at Aramis.

"Why did we stop here?" he asked, not sure why they were sitting in the dirt.

Aramis gave him a little smirk. "You were squirming so much on your beast of burden, otherwise known as Porthos, that I feared you'd land one of your flailing feet in an unfortunate location. Then, instead of you vomiting on him, he'd vomit on you."

"What are you talking about? I have an iron stomach," Porthos declared, thumping his hand on his abdomen. "Necessary for living on the streets. We never got first choice of anything."

"I was thinking about a hit a little bit further south," Aramis replied, with a flick of his eyes to the area in question.

"Oh. Yeah. No. That wouldn't be good," the streetfighter agreed, getting that uncomfortable look on his face that men tended to get when talking about strikes to that particular region.

"And I do recall," Aramis drawled, "one time when you did have an upset tummy. In fact, I think you set a new record for the amount of vomit that one person could produce."

Porthos thought for a moment, then scowled around Athos at Aramis. "You mean at that tavern? That stew was poisoned.

"I don't recall that I was ill," Aramis reminded his friend, giving him one of his choir boy grins.

"Only because you didn't eat it. You were too busy flirting with the barmaid," Porthos accused the marksman.

The two musketeers continued their back and forth bantering. At first, Athos was annoyed by the incessant chatter, but then he recognized it for what it was, a way for him to regain his strength without embarrassment. Had his head been a little less muddled he would have appreciated the kindness of their act sooner.

Eventually, when he was feeling steadier, Athos attempted to climb to his feet and, like a well-oiled machine, his companions were at his side, bolstering him. Once upright, Athos glanced around, appearing disoriented again, so Porthos nudged the swordsman in the right direction. Aramis was concerned at the apparent effort Athos required to walk slowly towards St Rémy, but he also understood man's pride, so he resigned himself to hovering discreetly at the swordsman's side, ready to catch him if necessary.

Eventually, they arrived at the church. Aramis bandaged Michel's wound then locked him up with the captain and the lieutenant. Porthos and Athos made their way into the back portion of the building where their sleeping chamber was located. Athos didn't so much sit on the bed as collapse upon its surface. Aramis joined them a while later with Brother Marcus and the remaining medical supplies.

When Aramis returned, he saw Porthos had managed to remove Athos' shirt and had him propped up, with the aid of a few pillows, on the cot. Athos was awake, barely. The brother who had been following behind Aramis, placed a bowl of clean water on the table along with a generous supply of fresh cloths. To that pile, Aramis added the rest of the medical supplies he had gathered.

"Would you like me to stay and assist?" the brother asked kindly.

Knowing Athos was an extremely private man and scarcely tolerated Aramis treating his wounds, the marksman thanked the brother for the thoughtful offer, but said he had it in hand.

With Porthos helping support the injured Athos, Aramis spent the next twenty minutes thoroughly cleaning the entrance and exit wounds, assuring that there was no foreign matter in them. After giving them a decent dousing with the supplied alcohol, Aramis allowed Athos two swallows before he took the bottle back and picked up the needle and thread.

"This is a momentous occasion. The first serious bullet wound I stitch up on our new brother," Aramis said solemnly. "I remember the first one I sewed on you, Porthos."

"Yeah. After that skirmish. You had to dig that bullet out of my thigh. And," he added, "it hurt. A lot." Though Porthos complained, there was no malice in the comment.

"It was well embedded, my friend. Almost to the bone. I was simply being thorough."

"You was enjoying poking at me with the needle, because I took down more bandits than you," Porthos declared, a small, satisfied grin appearing on his face. "I was in good form that day."

"You, Porthos, never use good form. You simply smash your way through everything, which for you, works. Me, I have a more artistic fighting style."

Porthos laughed at the marksman's analysis of their respective fighting stances. "Yeah, well with your artistic style, it takes you a little longer to reach my body count."

"And what is your fighting style, Athos?" Aramis asked as began to thread the needle. When Athos elected not to reply, the marksman answered for him. "You are an elegant fighter, dancing about your opponents with your blade singing through the air, letting them, essentially, defeat themselves. You are a gentleman when the stakes are low, permitting your opponents, for a brief moment, to think they could prevail. You cleverly toy with them, like a cat with a mouse. But eventually, when not challenged enough, you grow bored and finish them off so quickly they have no clue what just happened."

Having successfully threaded the needle, Aramis tied a knot in one end as he continued his analysis. "However, when I have seen you fighting greater odds, your style, while still elegant, takes on a new, dangerous edge where you will fight as dirty as Porthos. The end justifying the means."

Glancing at Athos, Porthos saw apprehension in those green eyes as the injured man watched Aramis prepare the needle and tried to hide his nervousness. It didn't matter how brave one was, being conscious while being stitched was never pleasant. So Porthos tried to distract Athos some more. "And how about the first time I stitched up one of your wounds, Aramis?"

Aramis grimaced before lightly touching his side. "How could I forget. I will bear the unsightly scar from your untidy stitches for the rest of my life."

Porthos snorted rudely. "Be grateful I did it. And I got the job done. We can't all have needlework skills like you, Aramis."

Aramis glanced over at Athos as he boasted, "My needlework is the finest in all of Paris. I dare say it would pass the test to be worn by the Queen herself. And you, my friend, will have the honor of having it as a part of you for the rest of your life."

Aramis held the needle poised over the wound. "Are you ready?"

Athos looked away from the needle, before giving a short nod. This wasn't the first time in their short acquaintance that Aramis had stitched him up, but the marksman was right, it was the first honest to God bullet wound.

"You know," Aramis said conversationally as he worked on the entrance wound first, "you now are one step away from becoming a musketeer. We simply need to get back to Paris to seal the deal."

"Why? Porthos asked out of curiosity, not quite tracking where Aramis was going.

"Because he has been shot by a musket. Well, it was more of a pistol, but still, it's the spirit that counts."

Porthos grinned at Aramis, though Athos, who was biting down on his lower lip in an attempted to remain silent, simply gave the marksman an exasperated eye roll.

Aramis finished off the front wound with a careful knot, then rethreaded the needle to work on the larger exit wound. "There is no shame in vocalizing your pain, Athos. We will not think a thing of it." As he began on the back wound, he continued on with his thoughts. "Porthos moans like a wounded boar. And thrashes. The man can't be still. You, however, have impeccable behavior when it comes to being stitched. Porthos could take some lessons from you, my friend."

Now it was Porthos' turn to give Aramis an eyeroll.

Finally, Aramis finished, doused the wounds once more then carefully bandaged them. Athos, who had been silent through the whole procedure finally spoke. "I can ride tomorrow."

"I think not. Best we wait a day or two," Aramis replied, as he helped settle Athos on the bed.

With his good hand, Athos reached up to grip Aramis' arm. "That was not a question. We will ride tomorrow. At first light."

Aramis found those intense green eyes staring at him and he almost felt as if he were being physical beaten, the force of Athos' glare unnerving him by the sheer raw power of it. Not that it surprised the marksman that Athos had a dangerous edge to him, but this was the first time it had been aimed at him and he didn't like it. However, the captain had put him in charge of this mission and if he determined Athos wasn't fit to ride in the morning, they would not be going anywhere.

Gathering his nerve, he quietly stated, "I'll evaluate your condition in the morning to determine if you are ready to make the journey."

A look of surprise flickered through Athos' eyes as he released Aramis' arm. He wasn't used to people standing up to him when he was in his Comte mode, as he thought of it. He might not have liked being a Comte, but he had learned well how to act like one, including being insistent and arrogant. Very rarely had anyone challenged him when he put on that cloak and yet in the last six months, first Captain Treville and now Aramis had stood up to him. His gut said that Porthos would too. His respect for Aramis moved a notch higher.

He backed off, giving Aramis a curt nod of acknowledgement. Aramis almost fell over in shock when Athos acquiesced, but he quickly gathered himself and simply said, "Thank you. Get some rest. I'll bring some broth in a bit and then give you something for the pain."

Athos, whose stomach already on the verge of rebellion growled, "Don't push your luck." With that, he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. It didn't take long for sleep to overcome him.

Aramis finished cleaning up and then he and Porthos walked down the hall towards the eating area.

"Thought he was gonna take you out when you told him he couldn't ride," Porthos remarked as they sat at the table and helped themselves to the food that had been left out.

Plucking an apple out of the bowl, Aramis studied the fruit before giving it a little polish on his sleeve and taking a bite. After he swallowed he said, "I was surprised to see him back down. Frankly, I don't know if I should look at it as a sign of respect or that he was simply humoring me."

Porthos, who had made a sandwich out of cheese and bread, thought for a moment before he replied. "Respect. It was definitely respect. Not saying we won't get back to the room and find him gone, or that tomorrow he will do whatever he pleases anyway, but he definitely respected you for facing him down. It's a good thing."

An odd expression crossed Aramis' face as he lost himself in thought for a moment. Porthos, who had seen Aramis enter into this contemplative mood before, silently waited as he ate his food. Eventually, Aramis would tell him what had him so lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, Aramis ran a hand through his hair, as if clearing his mind. "This is so strange, but somehow I know this is right."

"What's right," Porthos queried around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

"This. You. Me. Athos. Together. This is God's plan," Aramis declared, with such conviction that Porthos stopped eating and simply stared at him. "Tell me you don't feel some sort of connection," the marksman demanded.

Porthos slowly went back to eating as he contemplated the question. He had spent four grueling months, day in and day out with Athos, under conditions that were horrendous. They only had each other to rely on and had formed a bond out of necessity for survival. But was there something more than that? Opening himself to the possibility, he decided that Aramis was correct. There was something right about the three of them, together, as a team. The concept of all for one and one for all took on a whole new meaning and he suddenly knew he would do anything for Aramis and Athos.

Deliberately, he nodded his head. "I'm not sure about the God part; you are much closer to Him than I am. But I have to admit, I do feel that connection. But Aramis, I'm not so sure Athos is sold on the idea of becoming a team, or even a musketeer."

"And that, dear Porthos, is where you are wrong. He is. He just has to let himself realize it. And we will be there to point him in the right direction."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 82

Athos won the battle of the broth and pain medicine that night, adamantly refusing both. However, the next morning the contest between him and Aramis was, at best, a tie. Somehow, Athos had managed to wake before Aramis and Porthos and had gotten dressed. When the two musketeers woke, Athos was impatiently sitting on his bunk, weapons belt strapped on, honing the edge of his main gauche, which Porthos had given back to him last night. It was that deliberate grinding noise that had awakened them, just as Athos intended. Athos had taken round one.

Round two definitely went to Aramis, who made Athos remove his weapons belt and shirt so the medic could inspect the gunshot wounds. The other gashes were merely scratches; ones Athos would not have gotten if he wore a proper leather doublet like the rest of the musketeers. What the marksman wanted to ensure was that the major wound was not infected. The examination, which involved a lot of glaring by both parties, was accomplished in a resentful manner. Athos had finally undressed and Aramis smiled after he scrutinized the bullet wounds; his stitches were holding and he saw no signs of infection. Round two went to Aramis.

The final and decisive round once more went to Athos. Though Aramis had declared that the wounds were looking good, he remained dubious about setting off for Paris that day, concerned about the blood loss Athos had sustained and that the riding might aggravate the wounds. The swordsman had adamantly stated he was fine, though when he stood up and started to sway, he didn't help his cause. More words were exchanged, mostly by Aramis; Athos defended his position with fewer words, but twice as many scowls.

Porthos finally stepped in when it appeared physical violence was imminent and tried to broker a compromise. He sided with Athos; he too agreed they should leave today, but only after a good breakfast, where Athos was required to eat whatever Aramis thought fit. Further conditions included an easy pace, frequent stops, and Athos was not to do any physical labor over the course of the journey other than sit on Roger's back. While glaring by either party would be tolerated, verbal sparring, otherwise known as arguing, was not allowed. Both Aramis and Athos objected and sulked, but eventually agreed to the terms set forth.

After a good breakfast, where Athos reluctantly ate what was placed on his plate, they informed Father Biene they were departing. They profusely thanked him and the Brothers for their hospitality, gathered their horses, as well as mounts for their prisoners, and left the city of Dieppe.

Father Biene stood on the steps of St Rémy watching them ride off before going back inside and offering up prayers for their safety. Few of the citizens of Dieppe would ever know the good works that had been done here over the last few days, other than the town's Mayor, who had come to the church and spoken with the musketeers. It was agreed that the Mayor would simply declare that the captain and lieutenant of the guards had been called to Paris. Let the people think of that what they would, good or bad. The Mayor went on to say he'd have the Bowhead shut down, again with no reason given to the public. Finally, he would promote two new people to lead the guards, men who had no connections to the old captain and his lieutenant. Hopefully, that would put an end to the slavery business in Dieppe.

The six men rode out of Dieppe, onto the road leading towards Paris. Each one of the prisoner's hands were tied together and then to the pommel of their saddles. Similarly, their feet were tied, though not together, but to their stirrups. Aramis had considered for a moment that this was a dangerous situation, because if their horses for some reason fell, the prisoners would fall with them. When he mentioned this concern to Porthos, the streetfighter had grunted and said "Good." The marksman had the feeling that Athos would feel the same, so he let it go. A lead line was placed on each of the prisoner's mounts and held by either Aramis, Athos or Porthos.

They made a strange looking party as they moved down the road. Most people they came across gave them a wide berth, perhaps because they could see the ropes securing the men to their horses. Or maybe it was because of the scowl on Athos' face. Both were pretty daunting sights.

For the entire trip back to Paris, the musketeers swore that Athos barely took his eyes off their three prisoners. They set up watches at night when they camped and even when he wasn't on duty, Aramis and Porthos swore that Athos was still watching from under the brim of his low-slung hat. Their theory was substantiated when they caught the swordsman occasionally napping in his saddle as they rode, a feat aided by his intelligent black stallion. Whenever Athos nodded off, the spirited horse suddenly became as docile as a child's pony, with a smooth gait like that of a rocking chair. It was a neat and useful trick to be able to nap in the saddle and the musketeers envied the fact that Athos had mastered it.

Five days later, six exhausted men rode through the gates of Paris. They made their way to the Chatelet, where the prisoners were deposited. Porthos and Athos sat on their horses as Aramis handed over the captives, leaving it to the guards to untie them from their mounts, while he filled out the paperwork with the warden.

"We did the right thing, not killing them." Porthos' statement, however, sounded more like a question than a fact.

Athos, even in his state of exhaustion, picked up on the streetfighter's dismay. In a gesture of solidarity and understanding, he moved Roger closer and placed a hand on Porthos' knee, a rare move for a man who seemed to eschew human contact. "We wait. Time will have them hanging by their necks."

Suddenly unable to watch any longer, Porthos turned away and started towards the garrison. Athos was only seconds behind him. Aramis saw his two friends ride off out of the corner of his eye and wasn't surprised. While both men were obeying the orders they had been given, he knew it was weighing heavily on their minds.

After the prisoners were safely handed over, Aramis hurried to his horse and rode quickly to catch up with the other two men. Silently, he slid his horse between Roger and Flip, who obligingly moved apart to make room. The three horses, like their riders, were becoming much more tolerant of each others' presence.

As a unit, they rode under the garrison's entrance arch into the courtyard. Captain Treville, who happened to be walking across his porch, stopped and observed as the three came to a halt. Even from where he stood he could see, and almost feel, the exhaustion rolling off the weary travelers. Aramis seemed in the best shape of the lot, sliding off his horse with some semblance of grace, before glancing up and seeing the captain. Porthos' dismount was heavy and clumsy, two words that the captain never associated with the musketeer despite his size. Athos' descent left him on his feet, but the captain was pretty sure if the swordsman loosened his death grip on his horse's breast collar, he'd end up face first in the dirt.

Aramis handed his mount off to one of the stable lads and started to head towards the stairs, but the captain waved him off, moving instead to join them in the courtyard. Deliberately, Treville walked over to stand by Athos and Roger so the swordsman could keep a discreet hand on his horse's tack to remain vertical. Porthos handed his horse off to another lad and came to stand by Athos' free side. The captain had no doubt if Athos were to sag, Porthos would catch him before the swordsman's knees touched the ground. Finally, Aramis joined them, standing a little in front of his peers.

"Your mission was successful?" the captain queried, addressing Aramis as the mission's leader.

"Yes. The captain of the guard and his lieutenant have been placed in the Chatelet along with the man who arranged the abduction of Porthos and Athos."

Treville's eyebrows peaked at that statement. However, as an experienced captain, he knew none of these men were in any condition to give a detailed report, so he tamped down his curiosity until later, after the men had time to rest and recover. Right now he only needed the salient facts. Running a practiced eye over his men, his eyes narrowed and, though he thought he knew the answer, still he asked Aramis, as leader of the expedition, the question. "Injuries."

Aramis' eyes slid over to Athos, who suddenly became immensely interested in the leather reins he was holding in one hand.

"It was a long, tiring, but uneventful trip from Dieppe to Paris. The prisoners gave us no trouble, though we kept them under heavy watch, some of us foregoing sleep to do so." Again his eyes wandered in Athos' direction.

Surprisingly, Athos raised his head and captured the captain's attention. "I was wounded in Dieppe. It is healing. I am fine."

The captain had a hard time keeping his commander's face intact. This man standing in front of him, who was lying like rug, was also the master of understatement. Over the years, the captain would come to realize that the Inseparables' definition of fine was far from the normal one. Treville glanced over to Porthos, who appeared ready to back up anything that Athos said. The captain had no doubt if Athos claimed the Cardinal was walking naked though the stable yard behind him, that Porthos would swear it was true. His gaze came to rest on Aramis, whose eyes begged him to let it be and all would be revealed later.

Since the captain had given command of the mission to Aramis, he felt he owed him the courtesy of deciding what was best for his men. So he simply said, "Go. Get some rest. Tomorrow you can debrief me fully. You three will stand down for the next two days and recover. I'll have some food sent," he shot a quick look to Aramis who nodded, "to Aramis' room. You can eat there, at your leisure."

"Thank you, Sir," Aramis gratefully answered for the group, though he wasn't so sure Athos was in agreement with his decision. The swordsman's eyes had narrowed at the implication that they would recuperate in Aramis' large room once more.

Just to put Athos on notice that he wasn't as inscrutable as he liked to think, especially when worn-out, the captain stared directly at the swordsman and declared, "It is a good thing we left that extra bed in Aramis' quarters, from the last time you were… doing fine."

A quick scowl flit across Athos' face, enough to let the captain know his shot had hit its mark. Waving over a stableboy, the captain told him to take Roger to his stall and rub him down. Athos, to his credit, remained standing under his own power when the lad led the stallion away, which wasn't all that surprising. Over time, the captain would learn each one of these men had a remarkable ability to stay on their feet long after most men would have crumbled. It was one of the things that made them great soldiers and at the same time a danger to themselves for they didn't know when to quit. However, the other thing Treville would learn is they would watch out for each other so possessively that they would always bring each other through any danger, no matter what the cost.

Athos, never one to give up easily, slowly turned and started to walk, a tad unsteadily, towards his room. However, before he had gotten more than a few steps, Aramis and Porthos were at his side, steering him in the direction of Aramis' room instead. There was a brief halt in the progression when the three stopped to exchange some words that the captain couldn't hear. When they started up again the three were heading in the direction of Aramis' room. The captain hid his smirk as he headed for his own office. He had a feeling Athos had met his match in the combined forces of Aramis and Porthos.

Once they were in Aramis' room, Athos gave up all pretense of being fine as he unbuckled his weapons belt, wearily placed it on a chair, dropped his hat on top of the pile and then collapsed, boots and all, upon the single bed he inhabited when in Aramis' room. Porthos moved over to the bed and started to tug off the exhausted swordsman's footwear. With a groan, Athos sat up to assist, figuring it was going to happen one way or the other and would be quicker if he helped. However, as soon as his stocking sock-clad feet were extracted, he dropped back on his good side and closed his eyes. In the space of a few minutes he was asleep.

Porthos dropped the boots on the floor near the chair holding Athos' other belongings before he sat on the edge of the other, double, bed in the room and yanked off his own boots. The leather objects hit the wooden floor with a soft thump. Porthos sighed as he ran a hand through his short, shorn hair.

Aramis retrieved a blanket from a chest and draped it over the sleeping form of Athos. "I'd like to have examined his shoulder, but I suspect waking him wouldn't be a good thing."

Porthos merely grunted in reply as he systematically stretched his muscles, which were sore from riding.

Aramis wrinkled his nose as he moved away from the sleeping Athos towards the middle of the room. "I think a bath is in order."

The streetfighter grinned as he bent over to unkink the tension in his back. "A hot bath would feel real good."

After divesting themselves of all unnecessary items, they headed to the garrison's bath house in their braies. Though bathing was looked upon with suspicion by many, the musketeers had learned that soaking in a tub of hot water did wonders for abused muscles. The bathing room was small, holding the three fair-sized copper tubs, two wooden benches, a rack where towels were left to dry and a generous sized fireplace that could hold multiple large kettles of heated water. The shed was near the garrison's well, and outside along the one wall was a stack of firewood. All things considered, it was fairly progressive for the era.

Porthos and Aramis found Henri, the man who helped out around the garrison, and the three of them stoked the fire, heated water and hauled buckets to fill the tubs. When they were halfway filled with steaming water, Aramis dropped some herbs into each copper tub, which emitted a pleasant smell in the bathing house. After Henri left, the two musketeers striped and gratefully sank into the steaming water. Even though he was a tall man, if he bent his knees, Porthos could fit in the tub fairly well.

When the water finally became tepid, the two men took a bar of lard soap and scrubbed themselves clean. After they climbed out of the tub and took one look and whiff of the braies on the bench, they grabbed towels off the drying rack, dried off, then took other towels to wrap about their trim hips. The towels' cleanliness was somewhat dubious, but they were definitely in better shape than their own undergarments. They made a quick detour to Porthos' chamber to grab some clean clothes before heading back to Aramis' place. When they opened the door, they were surprised to find Henri in the room, placing food on the table. Much more to Aramis' concern, Athos was still asleep.

Henri, noting the direction of Aramis' gaze, softly said, "I knocked, but no one answered so I let myself in. He was sleeping. Didn't wake, hasn't even stirred."

After assuring Henri it was fine, Porthos helped him finish arranging the contents of the basket on the table, while Aramis moved over to hover by Athos' bed. As soon as Henri left, Aramis reached down and put two fingers on the swordsman's neck to check his pulse. The beat was steady, which pleased the medic. Next he brushed a hand over the sleeping man's forehead and found no sign of a fever. Deciding it was nothing more than sheer exhaustion that was causing Athos to sleep so soundly, he let him be. Walking over to his chest, Aramis drew out clean clothes and dressed.

Porthos, who had already donned his clothes, was at the table, eagerly tucking into the food sent up by Serge. Most of it was hearty fair, just what trail-weary men needed to recover. But the cook, who was smarter than most, also had sent up some broth, figuring one or more of them might be sporting an injury, which would be best served by a lighter fare.

Aramis, when he moved over to the table, spotted the broth. He picked up the vessel and placed it near the edge of the fire in his room to keep it warm. He had no idea when Athos would stir, but when he did, the medic would be sure he ingested some of the soup. Returning to the table, he joined Porthos and they enjoyed a pleasant repast, talking quietly in between bites.

When they were done, they wrapped the leftovers in a cloth for later. Even though it was barely evening, the men stretched out on the room's double bed and soon were fast asleep. Darkness over took the area, only relieved by the feeble glow from the fire.

Sometime after the midnight, Aramis woke, unsure of why at first. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noted someone in the vicinity of Athos' bed. It didn't take long for him to see that the bed was empty, so he figured the shape in the darkness was the missing occupant. He was about to rise and see why the swordsman was up when he heard the familiar sounds involving the use of a chamber pot.

After a minute, the shadowy figure dropped back on the bed and rolled towards the wall. Aramis was debating whether to go over and check on him, but before he could decide, the sounds of deep, even breathing drifted from the bed indicating Athos had already fallen back to sleep. Deciding nothing dire was happening, Aramis moved a little closer to Porthos' warm bulk and let his tired body drift back to sleep.

Next morning, Aramis and Porthos rose before Athos and were sitting at the table breaking fast with the leftovers from the previous night. When they heard some stirring from Athos' direction, they glanced over and saw the swordsman slowly stretching his cramped muscles before attempting to sit up. Aramis gracefully rose from his chair and walked over to assist, but a glare, aimed in his direction, had him simply standing by, in case assistance was required. Athos successfully maneuvered his sore, stiff body so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. He scrubbed his two hands over his face, and through his hair before glancing around the room.

When Athos' eyes fell upon Porthos, the streetfighter gave him a big, easy grin. "Welcome back."

Athos didn't offer up a reply, but kept letting his eyes examine the room about him until they came back to rest on Aramis. The marksman could still see the signs of weariness that had etched themselves into this man's face. The medic had no doubts his patient would be asleep again soon. However, before that occurred there were a few things he wanted to accomplish.

"Good morning, sleepy head. Will you come join us at the table to eat or," he quickly inserted, cutting off Athos who, he suspected, was about to protest, "shall I bring you breakfast in bed, like an invalid."

As he intended, his comment goaded the swordsman into attempting to rise. Aramis wanted to see how mobile Athos was this morning, and he was pleased to see him stand without much issue and wander over to a chair at the table. However, the fact that Athos fell, rather than made a controlled descent onto the chairs' surface, spoke of the effort it was taking for him to move. Aramis moved over to the fireplace and took the pot of broth that had been kept warm there all night and brought it over to the table. After placing the warm vessel on the table, he took the spoon from the pot and gave it a quick stir before ladling it into a bowl and pushing it in front of Athos. Porthos ripped off a chunk of slightly stale bread, shoving it across the table towards the swordsman. Aramis completed the simple meal by pouring a cup of water and placing it by Athos' right hand.

"Bon appetite," the marksman declared as sat down once more and began to address his own food.

Athos stared at his food for a few minutes and as the fragrant steam reached his nose, his stomach let out a noisy growl. Picking up the spoon from the table, he tentatively scooped up a mouthful of the broth and tasted it. The warm liquid flowed down his throat, tasting so good that he eagerly spooned up more. When the bowl was nearly finished, he took the bread, soaked it in the remaining broth and eagerly consumed that too. When everything was done, he glanced over at the grapes on the table and Porthos pushed the bowl nearer to him. After plucking a few deep purple grapes off their withered green stems, Athos leaned back in his chair, popping them one at a time into his mouth.

Aramis was inwardly delighted to see Athos eagerly consuming food. If the theory he was developing about the man was correct, it meant that the swordsman was feeling better both physically and mentally.

As Athos looked at his dining companions he noted that they looked surprising clean. A small sniff indicated that he was the offensive one, especially now that his companions had apparently bathed.

The swordsman's small olfactory test didn't go unnoticed by Aramis. "Yes, you are rather pungent. We," he gestured towards Porthos, "have had a very nice, hot soak."

Athos' muscles, which were stiff and sore, were all in favor of the idea of a hot bath. However, he was so exhausted that he seriously doubted he had the strength yet to walk to the bath house, let alone not slip under the water and drown.

Aramis, apparently reading his mind, suggested, "Maybe after a short nap, you'd feel better prepared to handle a bath."

Athos gave the musketeer a quirked eyebrow, which he quickly dropped when Aramis tilted his head sideways and gave him a small grin. "Athos, I don't know why having someone care about your well-being seems to terrify you." Of course Athos didn't answer, nor had Aramis expected he would, so he simply said, "Let me check your wound, then you can rest."

With reluctance, Athos moved back to the bed, sat on the edge and didn't object when Aramis asked him to removed his tunic. With skill, Aramis removed the wrappings covering Athos' shoulder wound, noting from the bandage some minor bleeding must have occurred in the last two days since he'd been able to check it. The first night on the way back, Athos had let him check the injury with only minor persuasion. However, by the end of the journey, Athos' mood had deteriorated, driven by his mental and physical exhaustion, so that he refused to let the medic anywhere near the wound.

Aramis had been torn about what to do, but had backed off, feeling since there was no outward sign of fever, that there probably was no infection. At the time, it hadn't seemed wise to push Athos, who was on edge. However, now he could see that some time since his last check a few of his stitches had been pulled. It didn't surprise him, given the amount of riding they had done. Athos never should have been on that horse for so long after such an injury. But again, it was Athos.

"I'm going to cover this loosely, and let you go back to sleep. When you wake, you'll take a bath, I'll clean the area really well and then set a stitch or two," Aramis informed the injured man, who barely seemed as if he were paying attention because he was fighting so hard to stay awake. The medic really didn't think it wise to try to stitch the wound when the area around it was so filthy. It wasn't going to hurt to wait a bit before caring for it.

Athos gave a nod and after Aramis covered his shoulder in a clean cloth, he promptly lay on his good side, closed his eyes and started to drift off. "Thank you," the drained swordsman mumbled as he shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

Those two words, to Aramis, meant the world, for he felt they were more than a polite gesture by Athos; it was this private man's way of acknowledging their burgeoning friendship.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 83

After Athos was sound asleep, Aramis and Porthos headed over to the captain's office to present their official report on the capture and return of the slavers from Dieppe. The captain, seeing that his two musketeers were still sporting signs of fatigue, bade them to sit while they related their tale. The captain listened quietly for the most part, though occasionally he interjected a question or asked for a clarification, of which Aramis took note, so next time he could provide a better quality report.

When Aramis concluded his report, Treville leaned back in his chair a bit deeper and contemplated both of the men sitting in front of him. Now it was time to ask the difficult questions.

"And Athos. How did he acquit himself on this mission?" the captain probed, steepling his fingers and rubbing them over his lower lip.

Well," Aramis answered without reservation, knowing exactly what the captain was really asking. "He will make a great addition to the regiment. We can show him the ropes, especially if you make us a team." The marksman, who was good at quoting bible verses, added, "Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not easily broken. Ecclesiastes 4:12."

"Porthos, do you agree with Aramis' assessment of Athos?" the captain inquired of the streetfighter, who had been mostly quiet up to this point. Treville wasn't sure if it was Aramis' gregarious personality overshadowing the streetfighter, if Porthos was simply fatigued, or if the man was not as enthusiastic about the new recruit. The latter would be a surprise, because of what he and Athos had endured together.

As always, Porthos was a straight shooter with his thoughts. "Captain, Athos has saved my life at the risk of his own many times since I have known him. He is the best damn swordfighter I have ever seen and the rest of his skills ain't too shabby either. He has a cool head on his shoulders and something about him makes you want to follow him, even into the lion's den. There is no other man I'd rather serve with and call my friend and brother."

The captain sat silently, looking at what he considered two of the finest men in his regiment before asking his next line of even tougher questions. "What about his behavior? It seems he has a disregard for commonsense when it comes to his well-being. That makes him a danger, not only to himself, but to those serving with him."

Porthos gave his captain a cold, hard stare, showing exactly what he thought of that query. "If it weren't for him being willing to sacrifice his own well-being as you put it, I wouldn't be here today." The streetfighter's tone told the captain he had both angered and struck a nerve with the large musketeer by questioning Athos' motives.

"Athos has his demons," Aramis said slowly, trying to diffuse the situation by pulling the captain's attention off the seething Porthos and onto himself. "He can be infuriatingly obstinate, unbelievably taciturn and rather mercurial at times. But for all that, he is the most trustworthy, loyal, dedicated man I have ever met. And one hell of a damn fine swordsman. As Porthos said, there is no other man I'd rather call friend, brother and serve alongside."

Captain Treville regarded them again for another minute before asking, "And his drinking?"

Aramis decided to be truthful with his captain. "He drinks too much for his own good, though I have never seen it affect his duty. He is trying to escape from something with his drinking. Maybe, when he comes to trust us more, he will allow us to help carry some of his burden, perhaps help ease it or lay it to rest, whatever it is."

The captain zeroed in on the word trust. "If he doesn't come to trust you, doesn't that make him a liability to your safety? To the regiment?"

Both Porthos and Aramis shook their heads vehemently. "You misunderstand. Athos does trust us, you, this regiment. It's the secrets of his past that he doesn't trust himself to share with us. But, don't we all have a few of those?"

Aramis paused for a moment, knowing full well he had hit a nerve with the captain, who always claimed a man's past was his past. The captain had built the musketeers into a regiment of men with many talents from many backgrounds, and that diversity was what was making the unit so successful. Aramis was sure Athos' baggage, whatever it was, was no worse than others in the regiment.

"I know this sounds strange, captain," Aramis began again, "but when Porthos, Athos and I fight, as a team, it is like it's what we were born to do. There is something that just feels right. Like this was God's plan."

"Not sure about the God part, but he's right captain. We fit. Complement each other," Porthos added, to ensure the captain knew he was one hundred percent behind Aramis' somewhat strange and mystical comment.

The captain, who before they had left for Dieppe had often observed the three of them sparring as a team against others of the regiment, had to agree. When they fought, the trio almost became as one, each having an eerie sense of what the others were doing, even without being in sight of each other. Treville expected this six-sense would only deepen the more they fought together. It was the reason he wanted them as a unit. He had a feeling these three would be unstoppable, if they didn't do something stupid and get themselves killed along the way.

Treville was an experienced soldier and a good judge of a man's character. If these three formed the tight bond he already saw developing, there is nothing they wouldn't do for each other; no obstacle too big; no challenge too great. It would be both their blessing and their curse. They would go to the ends of the Earth for each other; they would die for each other, which, if an enemy found out, would be a liability that could be used against them.

"Captain, you sound as if you still have doubts about whether you want Athos in the regiment," Aramis bluntly stated, interrupting the captain's reverie.

Captain Treville rose from his chair, moving towards his desk as he spoke. "Have no doubt, I want Athos in my regiment. It is my plan to team him with you two. I don't believe he would be effective working with any others, and if he leaves he will be dead within the year."

Treville stopped at his desk, turned and faced his men, his face showing the seriousness behind his words. "I am putting a large burden on you both. I will speak to Athos about his reckless disregard for his own well-being. But I fear, gentlemen, in the end it will be up to you two to convince him to curb his destructive tendencies."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, one of those silent conversations that unnerved the captain a bit, before they rose as one. Aramis spoke with passion and sincerity. "Captain, we gladly take on this 'burden' as you call it, for it is no burden when it is for a man such as Athos."

Treville regarded them thoughtfully, scrutinizing first one then the other. "I hope you will always feel that way. I think if Athos is betrayed again by someone he considers a friend, it will be the end of him."

Aramis, always the sharp listener for the unsaid, narrowed his eyes upon hearing his captain's statement. "It sounds, captain, as if you know more of Athos' past than we do. Care to share?"

Treville didn't wince, but he was angry at himself for the unintentional slip. His reply to Aramis was blunt and forceful, and contained no answer, "You are dismissed."

As tempted as Aramis was to try to pull more information out of his captain, he knew by the look on the man's face it would be a futile attempt. So with an accepting nod of his head, he and Porthos left the office. They headed for the stairs.

"Wonder what the captain knows about Athos' past he ain't telling us?" Porthos pondered as they walked down the stairs to the courtyard below.

"Our good captain knows something, but I fear we'll have no chance getting it out of him. Better we work on winning Athos' trust and get it from the horse's mouth, if you will."

Porthos' snort said it all. "Have you met the man? Stubborn is his middle name. Or maybe his last name. Hell, it could be his first name."

"Well," Aramis said, throwing his arm over Porthos' shoulder, "I can be very persuasive, cant' I? I won you over didn't I?"

"That you did," Porthos said with a chuckle. "What's say we grab a quick snack before we head back? I'm hungry."

"You are always hungry, my friend," Aramis light-heartedly teased as he removed his hand from Porthos' shoulder and gave his tummy a light smack.

Porthos called him out when Aramis' eye wandered to a pretty woman who was exiting through the garrison's gate. "And you are always a flirt."

"I wonder who she is and what she is doing here?" Aramis pondered, his eyes lingering on her lithe form.

"Don't know. Don't care. None of our business. None of your business," Porthos replied as he grabbed Aramis by the arm and dragged him towards the canteen.

Aramis, reluctantly, let Porthos haul him away, but not before giving a final glance over his shoulder at the woman. "A pretty woman is always my business."

"And it is what always gets you in trouble," Serge announced, overhearing the last comment as the two musketeers entered his domain. "Not to mention it is gonna give you a disease someday. A nasty one at that. I know. I seen it in the Army I did. Eats a man away from the inside. Makes them go crazy it does."

"And on that pleasant note are you still hungry, Porthos?" Aramis teased his friend, who was already scanning about the room looking for food.

"Hungry?" Serge scoffed, his hands tightly fold across his chest. "Breakfast is over. What are you doing here now?"

"We missed breakfast proper, and he's hungry," Aramis succinctly stated, glossing over the fact they had eaten the leftovers from the previous night's dinner less than an hour ago.

"Yeah, I didn't see you two this morning. Figured you slept in seeing the captain has you on the injured list. And where's that other guy? The one who comes in here like a bear with a burr on his butt every morning."

"Athos tends to be a bit moody in the mornings," Aramis said amicably, knowing full well that Serge knew exactly who Athos was, where he was, and probably whether or not he was snoring at this very moment. Serge was one of the most well-informed men in the garrison. Never bite the hand that feeds you seemed to be the musketeers' motto when it came to Serge; so consequently he was always in the know.

"Hung over is what he is most mornings. Makes him like wet powder," Serge, always blunt, stated. "Though he is a proper gentleman when he speaks. Good man, but one with some problems, like the whole lot of you. Don't understand Captain Treville at times, choosing you ruffians to be the King's elite. Speaking of the captain, has he made Athos a musketeer yet?"

Serge's rough words and actions were all for show for the cook loved the regiment. When Serge could no longer serve in the Army as a soldier as he had done his entire life, Captain Treville had given him a new purpose, one Serge took seriously. Even though the regiment was under Treville's command, Serge thought of each of the musketeers as his own. He fed them, offered them unsolicited advice, and cuffed them up-side-the head, usually with a kitchen implement, when they were being stupid. The veteran oversaw their well-being like a mother bear watching over her cubs.

"Captain Treville is working on making him a musketeer. Any day now I imagine," Aramis answered as he walked over to a pitcher and poured a glass of ale. "Speaking of Athos, would you have something we can bring back for him to eat. He is not quite recovered enough to venture down here yet."

"Meaning you are keeping him prisoner in your room again," Serge said frankly. "For his own good?"

"I suppose that is one way to look at it." Aramis gave the cook a wry grin before sipping his ale.

"And I'm really hungry too, Serge. Got anything on the stove?" Porthos asked, trying to sound pathetic and deserving of a snack. "It was a really long ride back from Dieppe. We barely ate for five days!"

Serge had a soft spot for Porthos, understanding from his own childhood what it was like to go hungry. One of seven brothers, Serge always had to fight to get his fair share. He claimed it was one of the things that helped him become a good soldier; he knew how to fight for what he wanted.

"Got some bread. Just came out of the oven. And the farmer's daughter just brought some cheese. Have a bit of smoked ham too.

Porthos' mouth was watering already. He loved smoked ham and never had it much as a child, and fresh bread was an unheard of treat before he became a musketeer..

Aramis' ears pricked up at the mention of the woman. "Was that the lovely creature we saw leaving through the garrison's gate?"

Serge gave Aramis his famous evil eye as he waggled a finger at him. "Don't you be getting no ideas, Aramis. Her father makes the best cheese in all of Paris. I won't have your romantic gallivanting pissing off one of with my best suppliers. Stay away from his daughter!"

Aramis held up his hands in mock horror. "Far be it from me to come between a man and his cheese."

Serge grunted, then moved off to pack another basket for the two musketeers to bring back to Aramis' room. Porthos eagerly watched as the cook put in a whole fresh loaf of bread, a large wedge of cheese, grapes and a huge hunk of smoked ham. When Serge handed him the overstuffed basket, he was tempted to hug the man in gratitude.

The two musketeers headed back to Aramis' room and when they opened the door, they discovered a disheveled, sleepy looking Athos sitting on the edge of the bed, scratching his head.

"You better not be bringing fleas into my fine establishment," Aramis joshed as he entered the room. He placed the pitcher of ale Serge had given them on the table.

In later years, Athos might have returned a snappy retort, but he wasn't quite at that stage in this newly formed friendship, or that awake, so he simply ignored Aramis, which wasn't atypical of his normal behavior either.

"Ready for a bath?" Aramis asked as he walked over to where Athos sat and stood smiling down at him. "After you get cleaned up, I'll attend to that wound."

"And if I stay dirty will you leave it alone?" Athos deadpanned as he stopped scratching his head to glance up at the musketeer.

Aramis chuckled at Athos' comment even though he shook his head. "No such luck my stinky friend. Now strip, wrap that towel around you, and let's go. Porthos, put the food down and come help haul water. I don't want him lifting anything heavy with that left arm yet."

"You weren't worried about me lifting buckets for my bath," Porthos good-naturedly groused as he bit into the sandwich he had made from what Serge had sent in the basket.

"When you are shot, I'll make him haul the buckets. Fair enough?" Aramis asked as he turned to peer at Athos who was still just sitting on the bed. "Do you need help getting undressed?"

"You want me to walk around the garrison unclothed?" Athos voice clearly indicted his disagreement with this idea.

"I am asking you to walk from here, to the bath house, wrapped in a towel. That is not naked." Aramis grabbed one of the towels they had brought back from the bath house last night, which was now dry, and shoved it at Athos. "Undress. Wrap. And let's go."

Athos took the towel and promptly dropped it on the bed as if it were on fire and had burned his fingers. "No."

Exasperated, Aramis struggled to hold his anger in check. "No, you won't take a bath. No, you won't take your clothes off. Or no, you won't wear the towel, because if you want to walk over naked, it's fine with me. Not my ass on the line so to speak."

"I have no disagreement with taking a bath. However, I would prefer to disrobe in the bathhouse." Athos' tones got clipped as his 'Comte' voice rose to the surface. After stating his intentions, he rose from the bed, made his way fairly steadily to the door and disappeared.

"Maybe," Porthos offered, trying to smooth over ruffled feathers, "he doesn't want anyone to see the scars on his back."

Aramis looked stricken at those words. He had forgotten about what had happened to Athos on the slave galley and the physical reminders the man would always carry on his back of those dark days. The anger that he had been beginning to feel instantly melted away.

"Or he's just being stubborn," Porthos said, trying to help Aramis past the guilt he knew the marksman was feeling for his forgetfulness. Shoving the last of his impromptu second breakfast in his mouth, he headed for the door, giving Aramis a grin as he walked by. "He is known to be mule-like at times."

"Yeah, well it's never wise to irritate the man who is going to be sewing on your skin in a little while." Aramis' threat held no malice for he'd never deliberately hurt his brothers; well unless it was for their own good. But he'd never do it simply for his own satisfaction, or merely to make a point.

When they got to the bathing house, Aramis spotted Athos carrying a few logs into the shed from the generous pile stacked along the outside wall. The annoyance that he had just tamped down, rose again as he strode up to the man.

"Didn't I specifically tell you I didn't want you lifting anything heavy with your left arm!" he shouted at the swordsman, who halted in his tracks.

"No. You told him," Athos gestured with his chin towards Porthos. Having made his point in his usual laconic fashion, Athos walked away with the wood.

Porthos moved past the fuming Aramis and did a rather good imitation of a braying mule before walking into the bathhouse. Aramis let out the breath he was holding as he looked skyward and prayed to his God for patience.

When Aramis joined them inside the bathing room, there was a roaring fire going, and a few buckets of water already on the hearth, heating. However, there wasn't enough to fill a tub yet, and Athos stood near one of the empty buckets, no doubt intending to fill it.

Aramis purposely moved until he was standing directly in front of the swordsman. "We seem to have had a misunderstanding that I now will clarify. You, Athos, are not to lift anything heavier than a full cup of water with your left arm for the next two weeks. Is that clear?"

Athos, with his usual bland expression, stared at Aramis for a moment before a small gleam entered his green eyes. "Can I use it to lift a glass of wine instead of water?"

"If the wine weighs the same as the water, yes. Athos, don't push my patience on this. I know you have a hard time believing people care about you or your well-being. I don't know why and I hope someday maybe you will choose to enlighten us. However, I am telling you now, I do care and I won't let you hurt yourself, not when you are around me. If you can't accept that, or handle it, then maybe you really don't belong with us… the musketeers."

The impish gleam that had been displayed in Athos' eyes disappeared and was replaced with an odd mixture of hope and fear. "Noted."

For all the emotions conveyed in that one-word reply, what stood out to Aramis was Athos' sincerity. The swordsman understood what Aramis was saying and to the best of his ability would try to live up to the marksman's request. To show he understood Athos' promise to him, Aramis gave the swordsman a quick nod and a tight smile.

"If you two are done over there, Aramis, come help me haul water." Porthos wanted to get the tone of the room lightened once more. It was one of the things he excelled at, getting his brothers back on an even keel.

When the tub was full of steaming water, Athos stripped in front of his brothers without hesitation, telling himself both of these men knew about his scars and there was nothing of which to be ashamed. Before Aramis allowed him to settle in the tub, he used a clean rag and the bottle of alcohol he had brought along to thoroughly scrub Athos' wounds. When he was satisfied, the marksman allowed Athos to have a couple of swallows before he settled in the steaming waters. Maybe it wasn't one of his best ideas as the warm water, combined with the wine on an empty stomach, lulled the bathing man to sleep. He and Porthos took up watch on either side of the copper tub to ensure Athos didn't slip under the water.

At one point, another musketeer came by, intending to use the other tub, but the glare from Porthos had him scurrying on his way. Already the word was spreading through the garrison not to mess with this trio, whether it pertained to sparring or anything else. They had a dangerous reputation building, one every musketeer was learning not to cross. As time passed, the name 'Inseparable' would get bandied about more and more until it was well-known by all, even outside the garrison's walls.

Eventually, when the waters cooled, Athos began to stir and the other two men helped the overly relaxed man out of the tub, drying him and wrapping a towel around his slim waist as well as draping one over his shoulders so it hung down over his back. He made it back to Aramis' quarters where he dropped like a limp noodle onto the bed once more. Taking the towel from his shoulders, Porthos dried the lethargic swordsman's hair, while Aramis puttered across the room, getting his medical supplies in order. Athos put up with all these personal ministrations without a fuss, or even a raised eyebrow.

"I kind of like him in this state," Porthos joshed, as he vigorously rubbed the towel through Athos' unruly, brown locks.

"Yes, he is rather pliable, isn't he," Aramis agreed as he threaded a needle. "I have a comb around here somewhere. Maybe you could even comb that messy mane of his." Aramis' vanity had him keeping his own hair rather immaculately groomed, or as well as his type of work allowed.

Athos, who felt rather disconnected from this whole scene and relaxed beyond a point he would normally let himself go, still had the where-with-all to mutter, "Don't even think about it."

Aramis walked over to the bed, grinning, as he held the needle aloft. "Why not let Porthos comb your hair, while I stitch your wound. It might be a distraction."

The glower the swordsman gave them wasn't worthy of him and he quickly let it go. "Just do it," he muttered sleepily, then added, "Stitch. Not comb."

It didn't take Aramis long to set a few stitches in each wound and as soon as he was done, Athos dropped off into a deep slumber once more. Not wanting to wake him to get dressed, Aramis simply removed the wet towels and covered the man with two blankets.

"Ya know we're gonna hear about that when he wakes up," Porthos pointed out as Aramis covered the naked Athos with a blanket.

"Probably. But do you want to try to wrestle him into clothes?" Aramis countered, quirking an eyebrow at the streetfighter. Earlier, Porthos had gone and fetched clean clothes for Athos, his old ones best suited for the rag bag.

"Nope. Sleeping naked won't kill him. If he wakes and catches us dressing him, that might kill us."

With a mutual laugh, the two men left Athos to sleep as he was and headed outside to see what was going on in the garrison. They had two days to relax and recover and they didn't intend to spend the whole time cooped up in Aramis' room. Athos would be out for a few hours, so they decided to get some fresh air on their own, catch up on gossip and maybe find if there was a card game going on.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 84

After getting the detailed report from Aramis and Porthos, Captain Treville went to the palace to seek an audience with the King in order to relay the news that the slavers were awaiting his Majesty's pleasure in jail. As usual, the insidious Cardinal was present as the captain explained to the King what had transpired. The Cardinal's sneer, as well as his customary snide remarks, had Treville struggling, as always, to retain his composure.

"We are to take the word of a civilian and two mere musketeers, one of whom has a personal grudge against the slavers we should note, that the three men in the Chatelet are the responsible parties? It seems hard to comprehend that the captain of the Dieppe guard and his lieutenant would be involved in such a hideous scheme. After all, their job is to uphold the law, not break it." The Cardinal's voice was dripping with disbelief.

It was on the tip of Treville's tongue to point out that his Eminence had many times been found to be skating on what might be perceived as the wrong side of the law, but in the end the soldier kept his own council. However, the expression on his face must have been conveying his thoughts more then he intended because Richelieu hastily added, "But that, of course, is exactly what a trial is for, to bring forth the truth."

Treville couldn't stop from snorting slightly, which he tried to cover with a cough. Most of the trials he had been a part of over the years weren't about finding the truth, but finding a handy scapegoat. If the accused happened to be the culprit that was good. If the accused was innocent, then he died anyway because someone had to pay the price of justice. Treville had no idea how personal these mock-trials would become to him and his musketeers in the future.

Before the King could dismiss him, Treville brought up the subject of his new recruit. "Your Majesty should be pleased to note that his regiment of musketeers is nearing full strength once more. I have a new recruit for your consideration. Athos, the one who helped bring the prisoners back from Dieppe. He has proven himself and would be an excellent addition to your Majesty's force."

"And what is the background of this man, other than he apparently can transport prisoners," the King asked in a rather uninterested tone, which told the captain the monarch was growing bored.

Treville evaded the question and tried to play on the King's desire to have the best of everything as his own. "As I have mentioned, Athos is the best swordsman I have ever come across. I doubt he has an equal in all of Paris. He is the type of man that should be in your Majesty's elite guards."

"Yes, he can fight well. You have mentioned that before, Treville, though I do have to wonder if it is a bit of an embellished claim," the Cardinal said dismissively.

Treville purposely let his temper flare for a moment, hoping to gain the upper hand. "I'll put him up against any of your Red Guards any day, Cardinal."

"A civilian dueling with my guards? Hardly seems fitting," the Cardinal scoffed, before realizing he had just handed Treville the opening he sought. The smug smile that flit across the musketeer's face proved he had played into the man's hands.

"Then," Treville addressed his comments to the King, "We'd best commission Athos as a musketeer so it is fitting, Sire."

"Yes, yes," King Louis said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let's make this great swordsman a musketeer by all means. Can't have the best swordsman in France working for someone else now can I?"

The captain, having achieved his goal, bowed deeply and humbly to his King. "As you command your Majesty. I shall bring him around tomorrow for court."

"I'm hungry," the King suddenly announced. With that, he rose, holding a hand out to his Queen. "Shall we go dine, my dear."

Anne gracefully rose, gave a brief nod to Treville, of whom she was quite fond, and a less warm nod to the Cardinal, who she felt had too much influence in the court, then she took her husband's hand and the two left the room. The rest of the entourage trailed after the royal couple until Treville and Richelieu were the only ones in the vast throne room.

"Well played, Treville," the Cardinal grudgingly admitted.

The Cardinal and Treville had an odd relationship. They had both a grudging respect for and a dislike of each other at the same time. Both men had a sworn duty to protect France and her King, though their ideas on how to do that were often polar opposites. Highly intelligent men, they were worthy adversaries for each other. The soldier and the priest had danced in court with each other many times trying to get the upper hand on an issue with the King. But when they were forced to collaborate for the good of France they too, like the Inseparables, were unstoppable.

"You never did say what is the background of this newest musketeer. Noble? Soldier? Another street rat?" The Cardinal's blue eyes lazily watched Treville, though the captain knew there was nothing idle about the priest's curiosity. Richelieu needed to know everything about everybody, so he could manipulate them.

Treville gave the Cardinal an easy smile, like a cat playing with a mouse. "The only thing you need to know, your Eminence, is that he is the best swordsman in France. Be prepared to lose if you decide to pit one of your best Red Guards against him. He will win."

Thoughtfully, the Cardinal stroked his beard. The man in front of him was not prone to hyperbole so he really must believe in the fighting prowess of this Athos. The priest had to assume it was the same man who had foiled the robbery at the garrison, when he was clandestinely trying to retrieve a scroll in the captain's possession through the use of hired thieves; the attempt his female intermediary had botched. Then, this Athos had been instrumental in shutting down the slavery ring in Dieppe, of which, incidentally, the Cardinal was well aware. He had been receiving a cut of his own from the profits, again through an third party that couldn't be traced back to him… he hoped. However, to be safe, he would join forces with Treville urging the King to use his infallible justice to hang the three prisoners swiftly.

"Well, time will tell if this Athos is worthy of the reputation you are building for him." Switching topic, the Cardinal asked, "The trial of the slavers. Is it not four days hence?"

Treville nodded, even as he wondered why the Cardinal had specifically asked. The man of the cloth was always aware of everything that was going on; it is what made him so good at this job, as well as so dangerous if you disagreed with him.

"Your musketeers and this Athos will be required to give testimony. I expect your men to acquit themselves well," the Cardinal challenged, as if he expected them to be less than proficient.

"My men are always professional," Captain Treville retorted, asking God to forgive him for his little white-lie.

Richelieu's snort showed he believed that statement no more than did the captain, but he let it go, choosing instead to leave the room in a swish of red.

The captain let a satisfied smile crown his face as he headed for the stables to get his horse. He had achieved his goal of getting Athos his commission. He was fairly certain Athos wanted to become a musketeer, though the man was and would always be a challenge to understand.

He knew that Aramis and Porthos, in anticipation, had already designed Athos' pauldron. The King had set aside money for each one of his musketeers to receive a custom shoulder piece as part of their ensemble. Unlike the blue cloaks the King insisted all his men wear, the rest of their uniforms were left more open to interpretation. Aramis' uniform tended toward the flashy, while his own was much more stark. Porthos was a mixture of both, more solider-like than Aramis, but with a touch of embellishment. Athos, he suspected, would go with functional, dark, severe, and practical, though of good quality.

Once back in the garrison, he handed his horse off to a stable lad to be cared for and then headed for this office, nodding to the men he passed in the courtyard. He had debated during his entire ride back to the garrison on how to tell Athos he had his commission. He was torn between telling the man alone, or having Porthos and Aramis in attendance in case Athos was still undecided.

He felt like his answer was handed to him when he saw the three men together, over by the pistol targets. Unobserved still, he halted and watched to see what the three were doing. Aramis was holding a blindfold in one hand, Porthos, oddly enough, a melon and Athos, a small blade. On the ground near their feet were what appeared to be three other melons in various states of ruin. He also thought there might be a few melon seeds on each one of them, as if they had been hit with the smashed fruit somehow.

It was Athos who caught sight of Treville out of the corner of his eye and wordlessly conveyed that information to the others, for as one, their eyes turned and settled on him. Somehow, the trio managed to convey total righteousness, even though there was no way what they were up to could have been sensible. Treville wondered, for the first time, but not the last, what kind of monster he was creating with this triad, the Inseparables as they were already being whispered of about the garrison.

Doing what he would always do when baffled by these three in the future, he fell back on the order of command. "You three. My office. Now."

Turning on his heel, he sternly marched off to his office, knowing the other men, after trading glances trying to figure out what they had done, would be right behind him. Once in his office, he let them line up in front of his desk. Athos was in the lead position this time, with Aramis and then Porthos. The captain kept a stern look on his face as he walked in front of them.

"I have just returned from an audience with the King. The prisoners go on trial four days hence. His Majesty hopes his musketeers will acquit themselves well." Treville knew he was lying, for it had been the Cardinal who had voiced the concern, but the captain felt it had more credence coming from the King.

The captain walked over and stood directly in front of Athos, whose eyes were fixed on the far wall. Trying to goad Athos into making his usual statement, Treville repeated, "All of his musketeers, including you."

Athos' eyes flickered from the wall to Treville's face as he opened his mouth to say "I'm not a…" But the gleam in the captain's eyes and the smug smile that appeared on his face had Athos' knees sagging. The swordsman tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.

Aramis and Porthos rushed to Athos' side when it appeared that the man might collapse on the floor. Regrettably, in trying to assist him they pressed on his still healing wound, causing him to flinch and gasp slightly. Apologetically, they led him to a nearby chair, where he sat heavily, bowed his head and cradled it in his hands.

This was one of the few times he had seen Athos lose his composure since they had met, and the captain was beginning to regret his manner of telling the man this news. As Aramis fussed over Athos, ensuring he was well, Porthos straightened, looking Treville straight in the eye.

"Are you saying the King has offered Athos a commission?" Porthos demanded of his superior.

Athos raised his head to look up at the captain, as did Aramis. Instinctually, Aramis and Porthos each placed a hand on Athos making them as a single unit. The silence in the room felt oppressive as the three waited for the captain to speak.

"Athos, the King has offered you a commission in the musketeers. Do you accept this honor and the great responsibility it carries?" the captain asked solemnly.

A flash of disbelief appeared in Athos eyes as he surged from the chair, breaking free of his friends' hold so he could move across the office and lean against the window sill. He rested his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes and letting this moment wash over him. This was it. Time for a decision. If he gave his pledge in this room today, there would be no turning back. His sense of honor and duty would not allow for it. Was he ready to accept being a musketeer? A useful part of society again?

And he knew it was more than that. He wasn't only making a commitment to his King and Country, but to the very men in this room, especially Porthos and Aramis. He knew accepting this commission meant he was now holding their lives in his hands along with his own. He could be cavalier about his own existence, but not theirs; never theirs. There was so much these trusting men didn't know about him and his deeply flawed character and yet they genuinely and openly thought he deserved this honor. Could he live up to their expectations?

Turning, he faced the room and the two pair of brown and one pair of blue eyes that were watching him with hope. My God, these men really wanted him to say yes. It was an overwhelming feeling for a man who felt that for most of his life he had been thought of as incidental. His parents saw him, not as a cherished son, but as a means to ensure their bloodlines. The people of Pinon had seen him as their liege lord, though him or anyone else really didn't matter to them. A landowner was a landowner. His brother had thought of him as someone and look what had happened to him. Then there was his wife, who had let him pretend he was someone, only to show him in the end he was nothing more than a means to an end in her book too. Now these people believed in him and wanted him to believe in himself, that he had worth.

Slowly walking over to stand in front of Captain Treville, he offered him a respectful nod and declared. "I accept."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 85

The actual commissioning by the King was a rather pedestrian event. Captain Treville, Aramis, Porthos and Athos stood at attention in the audience as the King conducted a rather lengthy session, listening to the problems of minor nobles. It was easy to see the King growing bored and impatient with what could only be described as the incessant whining of his nobility. More than once the Queen laid a delicate hand on his arm to stay some unsuitable comment that was about to be issued by his Majesty. The Cardinal seemed to be rather enjoying himself, allowing the nobility of the court to wear on their King; the more they irritated the King the more likely Louis would turn to him, not them, for advice and council, thereby increasing his power.

The session had nearly drawn to a close and still the King had not called Athos forth to commission him. The Cardinal, who was well aware of what was supposed to happen, seemed hell-bent on making sure it didn't occur. Finally, the captain took a risk and stepped forward, catching the Queen's eye. The Queen, in turn, put a restraining hand on Louis' arm then tactfully reminded him that he had to commission his newest musketeer before he left.

With a sigh that was missed by no one in the room, the King acknowledged Treville. "Bring forth the recruit to be commissioned.''

Athos stood rooted to his spot, one of the few times in his life he had felt utterly petrified; a moment, incidentally, his brothers would tease him about for the rest of his life. Treville took a few steps back to where the immobile man was standing, took him by the elbow and propelled him forward.

"Get on your knees, son, before he changes his mind," Treville hissed in his ear.

In a daze, Athos dropped to his knees on the white, cold, marble floor and humbly bowed his head as the King approached. The King spoke some words that barely registered with Athos and then came the chilling touch of steel on his shoulder. He knelt there still stunned when suddenly the warmth of human hands replaced the steel and he was gently drawn to his feet by Aramis on one side and Porthos on the other to face his King.

"Serve me well," King Louis said before turning away to collect his Queen and leave.

As the room began to clear, Athos finally felt like he was back in reality. Porthos tapped him on the arm to get his attention as he held an object out to him. Slowly, Athos took the leather shoulder pad from the streetfighter, turning it over in his hand and inspecting its design. It was simple, yet tasteful, and suited him perfectly.

His eyes roamed from the captain, to Aramis and Porthos who stood in a semi-circle about him. "Thank you," he squeezed out, his voice tight with emotion.

"Aramis and Porthos designed it," Treville told him and Athos bowed his head in respect to his two new…friends.

"So, this is the famous Athos," a nasally voice broke into their private moment.

Treville, stepping to the side, formally announced, "Cardinal Richelieu, this is Athos, of the King's Musketeers."

The Cardinal raked Athos with his eyes, and the new musketeer took an instant dislike to this man of the cloth. Drawing himself up, and donning his Comte cloak, Athos gave the Cardinal a small, token bow, saying "Your Eminence."

Warning bells of his own were going off in the Cardinal's mind. Some research into this musketeer's past was required. This Athos carried an unspoken authority about him that rivaled that of Treville. There was more to this man than met the eye.

"The captain claims you to be the best swordsman in all of France." If the Cardinal was expecting Athos to deny the claim, he was disappointed.

"Whether or not I am the best in all of France remains to be seen, I suppose. But I have not yet met my match here in Paris. Or anywhere else." Athos' reply was smoothly delivered, with a touch of arrogance that spoke of utter confidence, not false bravado.

Cardinal Richelieu was not one to back down from a challenge, especially from a mere musketeer. "Well, I guess the answer indeed remains to be seen." With that, the First Minister of France took his leave.

"He's… troublesome," Athos said sagely to Treville.

Treville gave a bitter laugh. "You don't know the half of it," he said clapping Athos on his good shoulder. "Let's head back and introduce you officially to the rest of the garrison."

As the four men left the room, a pair of eyes followed them from a hidden corner. Troublesome was the right word, not only for the Cardinal, but also for the King's newest musketeer. A hand descended on her bare shoulder and she schooled herself not to jump at its familiar touch.

"Do you know anything of our newest musketeer?" a warm voice rumbled in her ear.

"You'd like me to do some… research on him?" she purred back, not actually answering the question she was asked.

"In your spare time, perhaps." A jeweled finger trailed down her shoulders over her milky white bosom. "But now, I think there is a better way you can serve me."

Turning around, Milady pressed her body against the Cardinal's voluminous robes. "I am here to serve your Eminence, in whatever capacity is required."

The two drifted away.

While they were riding back, Treville decided to make the official announcement at the next morning's muster. He stopped his horse and announced his intention to the three musketeers, telling them to go off and enjoy their evening, but not so much that they wouldn't be fit for duty in the morning. Even though still on the light duty list, especially Athos, Treville expected them to show up for roll call and be assigned tasks.

As he was turning his stallion to leave, he added, "Athos, Madame Bonacieux has requested you make a visit to her shop at your first opportunity."

"Why?" Athos asked, for he didn't recall any outstanding orders he had with the seamstress.

"She didn't say and I didn't ask. Just be careful of the spindles in her shop. I hear they can be dangerous. I need my musketeers healthy enough to carry out their duties." The twinkle in his eyes showed he was joking with his new musketeer and Athos acknowledged the jest with a small tilt of his head.

"Don't worry captain. We'll keep him safe from the sharp objects, both on the battlefield and in Madame Bonacieux's shop," Aramis declared with mock-sincerity.

The captain and his men parted ways, the three musketeers heading over to the seamstress' shop. Luck was on their side for when they knocked on the door the Madame in question answered. Her face lite up when she saw who was on her doorstep.

"You're back. And safe. That is good to see," she said as she ushered them into her house.

Athos removed his hat and tucked it under his left arm, wincing slightly as he jarred his still healing shoulder. "Thank you for your concern, Madame. Captain Treville informed us you wished to see me upon my return. Have you had more troubles with thieves?"

"No more trouble since the one time where you saved my life, Monsieur Athos," Constance said with sincerity.

"I was simply doing my duty," Athos declared unpretentiously.

"Yes, now that he is a real musketeer, that sort of thing is expected of him," Aramis drawled, a lazy grin on his face.

Constance let out a squeal of delight and forgetting herself, quickly moved over and hugged him. "I knew it. I knew the captain would see it someday. A musketeer. A real musketeer. I knew it the first time I saw you with a sword, Monsieur Athos."

The red creeping up the back of Athos' neck was not evident in his cool voice that simply stated, "I thank you for your confidence, Madame Bonacieux." Carefully, though not rudely, he extracted himself from the seamstress' hug.

Now it was Constance turn to blush. "Your pardon, Monsieur. I forget myself. My husband says I have the manners of a fishwife."

Athos simply inclined his head to show that all was forgiven. A glare at his two new friends had them wiping the smirks from their faces and appearing serious once more.

"We, too, are delighted that Athos has come to his senses and joined the musketeers. Though we didn't welcome him into the fold quite so enthusiastically. Perhaps we should hug you too, Athos." Aramis took a step forward, arms stretched wide.

"There are many dangerous objects in Madame Boncieux's shop. Beware you don't become acquainted with them," Athos growled, which halted the advancing marksman in his tracks.

Porthos was simply enjoying watching his two friends, his two brothers, have at each other. This is what he wanted, what he craved, a family.

Turning his attention back to Constance, Athos tried to take his leave. "As you can see, we have safely returned. If you need our services, please don't hesitate to call us. Now we will leave you to your work, which, seeing how fine your skills are, must be bountiful."

"There he goes," Porthos groused, companionably. "The man of few words delivering one of those flowery speeches."

That earned the streetfighter a glare of his own from Athos, but before things deteriorated any further, Constance said, "Wait here. I have something for you."

When she came out of the back room, she held up a dark, leather jacket. "For you, Monsieur Athos. For defending my honor and saving my life. I knew you'd be a musketeer and need this one day."

She all put forced the supple leather jacket into Athos' hands. He couldn't stop himself from rubbing his thumb over the smooth leather, noting the excellent craftsmanship of the garment.

"Madame. I can't accept this…" the swordsman declared as he tried to hand the jacket back to the seamstress, who, like a small child, put her hands behind her back.

"You can and you will," she told him in no uncertain terms and in a voice that brooked no argument.

Athos found himself stroking the fine leather once more. It was exactly what he needed and it suited his style. Simple, functional, discreet.

"Try it on," she urged.

Athos slipped his right arm into the sleeve then struggled to maneuver his left arm into the garment, the injury on his shoulder making him grunt with pain. Aramis quickly stepped over and helped him ease the injured limb into the jacket. The dark leather settled over his shoulders like a glove and Aramis playfully brushed imaginary dust off of the coat.

Porthos, who had momentarily slipped outside, came back in carrying Athos' new pauldron, which he slipped up the swordsman's right arm and buckled into place. Stepping back, he surveyed Athos. "Looks good. Looks right."

Constance pointed to a nearby mirror and as if he were approaching the edge of a cliff, Athos sidled up and took a look at himself. "The coat, it's perfect. How…?"

"I had your measurements now didn't I. And I have made other jackets for the musketeers, so I know what is required," she answered modestly.

"I insist on paying you," Athos avowed as turned away from the mirror to face her.

"Absolutely not. It is a gift. It would be bad luck to pay."

"Bad luck?" Athos echoed.

"Like don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Porthos helpfully added. Then he thought for a moment. "Well that's not exactly right. Just say thank you."

The look on Constance's face told him she wasn't going to back down. "Thank you, Madame," Athos said in his most sincere voice. "I shall wear it with honor."

"Well, we must be on our way, Madame," Aramis said stepping into the awkward silence that was filling the room. "We are celebrating tonight. New musketeer and all."

Constance offered them a glass of wine to celebrate, but they declined, saying they had already taken up enough of her time. Once outside, they walked over to their horses and prepared to mount. Aramis and Porthos easily swung onto their mounts before they noticed Athos was simply leaning against Roger's neck.

Aramis maneuvered Fidget closer to Roger. "Are you alright, Athos?"

The swordsman stood there, his forehead pressed against Roger's warm black neck. He was physically, and now emotionally, exhausted. He felt like he was being carried helplessly downstream on a current he couldn't control; it was not a way he was use to feeling.

"Perhaps," Aramis began, "it would be better if we picked up a nice bottle of wine and celebrated back in my room."

"Oi, I'd like that better," Porthos said, picking on Aramis' train of thought. "I'm still tired and all that standing around in the throne room today while the King dealt with those toady nobles didn't help. A bottle of wine and a good bowl of Serge's stew with my feet propped up sounds just about right."

Once again, the high walls Athos had built around his heart began to lose a few bricks. First, Constance's kindness had battered his fortress and now the simple act of thoughtfulness and understanding being offered up by Porthos and Aramis threatened to knock a few more loose.

"What say you, Athos? Shall we pick up a bottle of wine and head back?" Aramis asked the man standing on the ground.

Not trusting his voice, Athos simply nodded as he marshaled his strength and swung onto Roger's strong back.

As the three set out at a sedate walk towards a favorite wine merchant, Aramis informed Athos that it was the newest musketeer's duty to purchase the wine, enough for a couple of celebrations. Athos nodded good-naturedly at the made up 'rule' as he rode along, occasionally allowing his eye to stray to his new pauldron. He was scared to admit it, but this felt right, very right.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 86

Two days later, the three musketeers stood in a courtroom as the sentence was pronounced on the three prisoners they had brought back from Dieppe. Each of the musketeers was called upon to present evidence and they all did, in a clear, concise, non-emotional manner, even though Aramis knew it was taking a huge toll on his two brethren.

The hanging was set for the next morning, and once again the three musketeers were front and center for the event. Unlike his wife's hanging, Athos didn't turn away this time, but watched as the noose drew tight and the light was extinguished from each man's eyes. Only then did he turn away and head back to the garrison where he threw up the little bit of breakfast Aramis had forced him to eat.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen death, and he wasn't sure why this one had affected him so, maybe because it felt personnel. He wasn't alone as Porthos too looked green about the gills, making Athos suspect his breakfast hadn't stayed down either. The captain, knowing busy hands helped keep minds occupied, assigned the three men to clean all the weapons in the garrison's armory. It would take them the rest of the day, but not be so strenuous as to tax the recovering Athos. Also, it would allow them to talk privately amongst themselves, which the captain thought would be the best therapy of all.

Later that night, when the trio was at dinner, the captain made a point of walking down to see them and compliment them on the thoroughness of the job they had performed in the armory that day. What he saw at that table, eating together, were three men, tired no doubt, but in a good frame of mind. Aramis and Porthos, as always, were grousing with each other and Athos was looking on with a slightly amused and bemused expression. Every now and then the swordsman would offer up a witticism of his own, but mostly he observed from the sidelines. Treville left the canteen that night pleased with what he had brought about.

The next morning, after muster, Treville asked Athos to come to his office and fill out some paperwork required for a new musketeer. There was always paperwork, Treville complained, for everything in the garrison. He admitted he wondered sometimes if he was a soldier or a clerk.

One of the items Athos had to declare was if he died, who should receive his pension. When the musketeer came to that question he paused, having no clue what to put down.

"What happens if I don't list a recipient for my pension?" Athos asked the captain who was behind his desk dealing with some other paperwork.

Treville raised his head and glanced over at the side table, where Athos sat, quill motionless. "I have never been asked that before. I suppose," he mused, "it goes back to the King's treasury."

"And who sees this paperwork?" He wondered about naming someone from Pinon, but then that would tie his identify to the town.

"It is filed with the King's clerk. And I keep a copy."

"So it is a fairly public record," Athos stated flatly.

"Well, I don't know if I'd go that far, but yes, a number of people will read it and know what it says."

Silence settled over the room as Athos stared out the window for a few minute before asking, "Can I list more than one person?"

"Yes," the captain nodded his head. "That is allowed, but you must also list how you want it spilt."

Treville watched as Athos' eyes dropped to the form once more, as if an answer might have magically appeared on the paper. Finally, the quill scratched an answer on the line and Athos moved on.

Later that evening, when he read over the form to make sure it was complete before submitting it, he discovered that Athos had spilt his pension equally between Porthos and Aramis. The captain thought it spoke volumes that Athos was going to great lengths to divorce himself from his past. That triggered another thought in the captain's mind and he rose from his chair, stretched his tired back muscles and went over to the locked cabinet in his room. Finding what he was looking for, he relocked the cabinet and headed outside, down the stairs and past the empty table, to which Porthos, Aramis and Athos had staked their claim, at least in the warmer weather. It was hard to believe nearly a year had passed since he had first run Athos over with his horse.

Climbing the stairs to the section of the garrison where Athos was quartered, on the second floor overlooking the courtyard, he placed the hand holding the object behind his back while rapping on the door with his other one. Athos had since returned to his own room, though it was not unusual to find the trio in each other's quarters. Tonight, when Athos called to come in, and the captain complied, he could see the man was alone, reading.

"Do you always let strangers who come knocking on your door at night in without a question?" Treville asked as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

"If they were strangers, they would be greeted with the muzzle of my gun. However, I recognized your footsteps in the corridor and assumed I had nothing to fear from my captain." Athos gave him a small quirk of his lips that passed as a smile for this man. "Am I wrong in my assumption?"

"No. Or at least I hope not. I am here simply to return your property to you. You indicated, when you became a musketeer, you might like it back." Slowly, Treville held out the sword he had been concealing.

Athos rose and accepted the sheathed blade from the captain. "Did I ever tell you the history of this blade?" he asked as he gestured for the captain to have a seat on the only chair in the room, while he perched on the edge of the bed, the sword resting across his knees.

"It has been in my family for generations, passed down from father to son. I was perhaps ten at the time and I eyed this sword, as it hung on the wall of our drawing room. I always had dreams, not of being a Comte, but a great solider, fighting for justice. So one day, I hauled a chair over to the fireplace, used it to climb onto the mantle and removed the sword from the wall. It was heavier, much heavier, than the practice blades I was allowed to use. I finally managed to climb down with it. Then, I struggled to remove it from the scabbard, which I did. Finally, gripping it with all my might, I lifted that blade in the air. I felt like the greatest warrior on the face of the earth in that brief moment."

Athos rose, placed the sword on a nearby chest, then hunted down a relatively clean glass. Finding one, he filled it from the wine bottle that was sitting on the floor near his bed and offered it to Treville, who accepted it with a murmured thanks. Athos sat back on the bed, tipped the green bottle to his lips and took a long pull.

After he lowered the bottle, he picked up the thread of his tale. "My father walked in and saw me standing there with the family sword. He was already tired of my obsession with the military, to which he felt I paid more attention than the things needed to run an estate. Me, standing there with the sword, well it didn't sit well with him. He ripped it from my hands so quickly that the blade, even though it had dulled over the years, still cut deeply into my palm."

Slowly, the swordsman rotated his hand towards the ceiling, allowing Treville to see the faint scar scoring his palm.

"My mother was upset that I bled on her carpet. She had the maids scrubbing it for days trying to remove the stain. My father simply took the sword and hung it back up. Then he told me I was such a disappointment and he was glad he had another heir, for he had serious doubts I would ever amount to anything."

Athos took another swig from the wine bottle, his eyes never leaving the blade on the chest. Treville began to understand a little of the real man that was beneath the carefully crafted façade. If this story was any indication of what Athos' childhood was like, no wonder the man harbored deep-seated self-doubts. The captain rose from his chair and picked up the sword; then he walked over to where Athos sat on the bed clutching the wine bottle. Without ceremony, he stepped up on the bed and placed the sword on the two hooks in the wall alongside the bed. Stepping back down, he took the bottle away from Athos and placed it on the chest.

"Son, I want you to look at that sword on your wall every day and know your father was wrong. You have amounted to a great deal. By agreeing to become a musketeer, you are protecting the most important person in all of France. You have agreed to lay your life on the line for King and Country and there is no duty or honor greater than that."

Athos raised his disbelieving eyes to stare at his captain.

"Yes, I know you have lost a beloved brother, but I tell you, you have gained two more equally important ones in Aramis and Porthos. Let them in, Athos. Trust them with your emotions as you trust them with your life. I guarantee they will not let you down. You can't go it alone, son."

Lowering his eyes, Athos stared at the scar on his palm, unconsciously stroking it with his thumb.

"And though your father may not have believed in you, I do. You, Athos, are destined for more, so much more than you can see."

When Treville grew quiet, Athos sat, head bowed. Treville walked over, placed a companionable hand on the swordsman's good shoulder and gave a squeeze. More was said with that simple gesture, than all the words in the world. Athos bowed his head even deeper as he felt tears welling in his eyes.

Treville released his grip and moved away. "I'll see you at muster in the morning. Don't be late." With that, the captain took his leave.

Athos sat very still on his bed for a long time, thinking over the past months and the words Treville had left him with. He desperately wanted to believe, but his experience in life, to this point, seemed the exact opposite of what Treville was telling him. He lay back on the bed, and let his eyes wander to the sword placed on his wall. Perhaps, the best he could do was take things one day at a time and try to keep in mind Treville's words, for more than anything he wanted them to be true. A home, brothers, duty and honor. A musketeer. Perhaps his childhood dream had come true after all.

THE END