AN – This almost became two chapters, but there really wasn't a point where I felt comfortable cutting it in two, so here we are. There's a fair bit of angst in this, but it all works out in the end. At one point in this I have gone with the boys' actual ages rather than any other interpretation. You'll hopefully see why.

"Aramis, if you don't stop pacing back and forth I am going to punch you." Porthos gave fair warning.

"I can't help it," Aramis huffed, even as he flopped dramatically into the bench at their usual table in the Garrison courtyard. "I can't stand all this waiting."

"Then find something to pass the time," Porthos advised a little curtly, betraying his own fraying nerves. "We can't put our plan in play until Milady shows her face. And you can't exactly blame her for laying low for a bit."

"What if she's left the city?" d'Artagnan worried.

"Nah," Porthos shook his head. Since they had returned to Paris he had done a little digging of his own, determined to protect Athos to the best of his ability. "The Cardinal ain't just her patron. He's her protector. Before she caught Richelieu's eye she was workin' with the likes of Sarazen. If she steps out from behind the Cardinal's skirts things'll get right ugly for her."

"Who is this Sarazen?" Aramis' interest was piqued.

"A right bad man," Porthos looked troubled. "More's the pity. I wouldn't wish my worst enemy at the mercy at a man like that. Much less anyone Athos ever loved."

"So, if she falls back into his company, Athos will blame himself." Aramis announced, before dropping his forehead to rest on the table and banging it none too gently against the rough wood. "Again."

"I know," Porthos reached over and tousled his hair fondly, ignoring the sharpshooter's indigent look as he lifted his face to scowl at him. "But that, my friend, is what he has us for."

"Where is he anyway?" d'Artagnan asked, looking around.

"He had some business to attend to, he should be back shortly," Aramis smiled, a little knowingly.

"Here he is now." Porthos announced.

"Gentlemen," Athos greeted them, nodding his thanks at Porthos who had poured a fourth cup of wine and nudged it towards him without being asked. "D'Artagnan, I have something that belongs to you."

"Oh?" The Gascon blinked. Then his eyes narrowed as he took in the matching grins on Aramis and Porthos' faces. "Alright, what's going on?"

"You being an idiot for one," Porthos announced, taking a slurp of his wine.

"In future, you might do better to remember our motto," Aramis looked at him over the rim of his cup. "And not try to accomplish absolutely everything by your own efforts."

"All right, now I really don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps this might help." Athos said as he produced something from his pocket and placed it on the table.

"Athos."

Anything else d'Artagnan might have said stuck in his throat as he reached out and touched his father's pocket watch. Something that he had thought he would never, ever, see again.

"Porthos used his contacts to help me discover the merchant who sold it. Aramis used his charms to convince the gentlewoman who had purchased it as an anniversary gift for her husband to agree to sell it back to us. I merely provided the funds, of which I have ample."

"Don't listen to 'im," Porthos scowled at Athos. "It was his idea to track it down. He gave me enough coin to drop into random palms until I had found the answers I needed."

"And it was his courtly manners which gained us access to the gentlewoman's residence," Aramis took up the tale. "Otherwise, I do not think she would have deigned to entertain us, never mind acceded to our request."

It was only as Aramis wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him close that d'Artagnan realised, that he was crying.

"Hey, hey," Suddenly Porthos was on his other side, nudging him gently with his shoulder. "You're supposed to be happy."

"I am, more than you can imagine," d'Artagnan choked out. "Thank you." He raised his head to look at Athos, his face still streaked with tears. "Thank you, thank you, so, so much."

"You're welcome," Athos met his gaze. "You are our brother, d'Artagnan. Now and for always, it is no more than you deserve."

"Even if you do have to shoot him shortly." Aramis put in cheerfully.

"Hey, don't go jokin' about that," Porthos rebuked. "That's just asking for trouble that is."

"Porthos, please," Aramis rolled his eyes. "We've rehearsed it thousands of times. Nothing is going to go wrong."

Standing over d'Artagnan's prone body as his dark red blood seeped into the dust of the market square, those words would come back to haunt Aramis. But there was little time to dwell on it. Grasping Athos by the arm it fell to him to tow the other man through the still crowded evening streets back to the Garrison. As he did so he could feel Athos trembling under his grasp, but whether from fear or fury he wasn't quite sure. As arranged he took Athos to one of the guest rooms where there was less chance of them being overheard.

"He moved," Athos railed as soon as the door was shut. "The dammed fool, he wasn't supposed to move."

Ah, fear and fury then, Aramis realised.

"I know, I know, don't worry the wound wasn't that serious," Aramis soothed. He really didn't think Athos needed to know that a few more inches to the right would have killed him. "It caught his side so it was much shallower than it might have been. Although, his shirt gave less protection than his leathers, so there was some powder burn."

"Did he pass out?" Athos' gaze narrowed.

"You know as well as I do that can come as much from the shock of things as the gravity of the wound, especially with burns," Aramis reminded, even as Athos gave a low, angry growl. "Athos, it doesn't mean anything, in itself. Treville caught him before he could hit his head and Porthos is watching over him, remember?"

Even so, it was a tense wait, with Athos refusing to eat or rest, until the door finally opened and Porthos slipped through, dropping his hat on the table and gratefully accepting the cup of wine Aramis passed him, drinking it down in one, before he wiped his hand across his mouth.

"Is he alright?" Athos demanded. "Where is he now?"

"After we made a show of leavin' him in the square, Milady called a carriage and took him to her lodgings like we hoped. I followed on until he was safely inside. Treville's already said he'll call on him in the morning like we planned."

"Then let us hope he finds him alive." Athos said morosely, as he went to stand by the window.

"Eh, now none of that," Porthos scolded not unkindly. "He will. She has every reason to trust him now he's saved her. Beside's he's too valuable to her to kill. She needs to deliver him to the Cardinal to prove her worth. And the more he goes protesting that it was all a just a mis-understanding the more she will seek to drive a wedge between us."

"One false move and she will kill him without a second thought." Athos observed darkly.

"Quite possibly," Aramis agreed, even as he took Athos by the shoulders and steered over to the bed. Pushing him down he bent to take off his boots. Beside him Porthos was already tugging the soiled shirt Athos had donned to add authenticity to his drunken state over his head. "But don't forget our feisty little Gascon has hitherto proved remarkably difficult to kill."

"Try and get some rest, yeah?" Porthos took his arm and eased him back, until his head was resting on the pillow. Athos was dimly aware of Aramis lifting up his feet and then one or other of them spreading a blanket over him before Porthos' large hand smoothed his hair. "I know you're worried about the lad, but you'll be no good to him if you're still half cut when he gets here."

Despite their best efforts Athos passed a restless night and before he knew it the sun was shining far too brightly through the window and Treville was sitting in a chair by his bedside regarding him with a face so furrowed with anxiety that Athos' chest tightened and his first thought was that something had gone terribly, dreadfully, wrong.

"D'Artagnan?" He tried to sit up.

"Alive and well enough to play his part with admirable outrage," Treville assured him, putting a hand on his chest to push him back down. "You on the other hand look like hell."

"He's barely slept. He hasn't eaten anything at all. It was all I could do to get him to take a little water." Aramis spoke up, from where he was lounging against the wall, totally unmoved by the glare Athos sent in his direction. "Perhaps you might have better luck, Captain?"

"D'Artagnan will be here shortly. By the time he arrives I want you to have eaten whatever Aramis puts before you and at least tried to rest," Treville ordered sternly before his expression softened. "You'll be no good to d'Artagnan if you worry yourself sick son."

"You heard the Captain," Aramis smiled genially, pushing himself off the wall, as soon as Treville had taken his leave. "I'll go fetch you some breakfast."

"Aramis?" Athos waited until his friend turned back around. "Orders or no orders, if you bring me gruel, you'll end up wearing it."

Standing in Treville's office later that morning, Athos supposed he should not have been surprised by d'Artagnan's announcement that the only way the Gascon could secure Milady's trust was to kill him. Anne had used every possible opportunity under the guise of her service to the Cardinal to try and bring about his end. Why should this opportunity be any different? He suddenly felt impossibly weary. He had loved her once. Part of him still did. But maybe this was no more than he deserved.

"Athos," d'Artagnan's voice, no hint of teasing now, brought him out of his reverie. He blinked to see the young man was standing right in front of him, his face creased with concern. When had he moved? "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make light of it. Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Athos rallied. "You are not responsible for her thirst for revenge."

"You do know that we have no intention of letting any harm come to you?" Aramis stepped forward.

"He better 'ad of got his head around that after all this time," Porthos growled. "Although all this plotting to shoot one another is becoming a bad habit."

"Speaking of which?" Athos drawled.

D'Artagnan looked swiftly to his left and right as Aramis and Porthos suddenly advanced upon him.

"You didn't really think you would get away with us not checking your wound did you?" Aramis rocked back on his heels.

To d'Artagnan's immense relief a knock on the door summoned Treville away on some other piece of King's business. Picking up his hat the Captain regarded his four best men, his gaze lingering on Athos.

"Sort out the details among yourselves, just make sure none of you actually dies."

The door had hardly closed behind him before d'Artagnan found himself herded towards the Captain's chair, his jacket being eased off his shoulders and his shirt unbuttoned and pulled over his head, as Aramis deft and careful hands began unwinding the bandage around his torso.

The sound of Athos' breathe hissing through his teeth at the sight of the blood seeping through the bindings meant any protest he might have made died in his throat.

"It has been well tended," Aramis was quick to reassure them all. "There is no sign of infection."

"Shall I fetch some clean bandages?" Porthos offered.

"Better not," d'Artagnan shook his head. "If Milady decides to check the wound, it will only make her suspicious if it looks like it's been cared for. You're supposed to be mad at me, remember?"

"Oh, we're mad alright," Porthos said conversationally, as Aramis carefully redressed the wound. "You weren't supposed to move."

"Although, Porthos, my friend," Aramis looked over his shoulder, as he neatly re-wrapped it as before. "It seems you owe Athos an apology, this is a mastery shot."

"You saying Athos did shoot 'im in the side on purpose?"

"A shot to the arm would have been messy," Aramis reminded him. "There is really no way to accomplish it without some sort of bone or muscle damage, this on the other hand, he will be stiff and sore for a while and have a nice, neat, score mark along his side as a memento. But there will be no permanent damage. Isn't that right, Athos?"

"Athos?" d'Artgnan looked up at his mentor.

"I could not risk your sword arm," Athos told him. "But you weren't supposed to move. A few more inches to the right and I could have killed you."

"And if you had it would have been entirely my own fault," d'Artagnan stood up so he could look Athos in the eye. "You're not responsible if I choose to be an idiot."

"Although, if we could try to avoid that?" Aramis suggested.

Standing up he left d'Artagnan to shrug back into his shirt and jacket, walking over to Treville's cabinet he shuffled the bottles around until he found a decent red. Brandy would not do for this. They needed relatively clear heads if they were to plot Athos' demise. But he imagined he was not the only one of his brothers who felt in need of a drink. Using his knife to extract the cork, he tucked the bottle under his arm as he distributed glasses and filled them to the brim.

"Speaking of being an idiot," Porthos put in, as he leant against the window sill. "You were just supposed to act loyal and misguided, how did you go from that to becoming an apprentice assassin?"

"It's kind of personal." D'Artagnan hedged.

"More personal than murder?" Aramis enquired.

"Before you ask that," D'Artagnan looked away, knowing he was stalling but sincerely not wishing to hurt his best friend. He had spent the last hour or so going back and forth over whether or not his should say anything at all. "You might want to be sure you really want to know the answer."

"Then it concerns Anne and I." Athos was no man's fool.

"Like we hoped she was eager to recruit me to the Cardinal's service. I thought I might be able to use her desire to win me over to bring you some peace," d'Artagnan risked a glance at Athos' expression, his eyes had the same look of pain whenever his wife was discussed but he seemed outwardly calm. "I asked her what really happened between you and her."

"And what she told you has made you uncomfortable." Athos observed.

"I don't know what to think about it. She was probably lying. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No," Athos said as their eyes met. He could see how this knowledge, whatever it was, was eating at the younger man. "Tell me. I'm not going to judge you for anything she said."

"Thomas," d'Artagnan managed. "She told me why she killed him."

"Go on," Athos encouraged him. "Perhaps, after five years she could finally be honest with herself if nothing else."

"She said that Thomas was mad with desire for her. That he tried to force her. That she had no choice but to kill him."

For a long moment Athos said nothing at all. Then in an uncharacteristic show of utter fury he threw his wine glass against the wall so that it shattered and blood red wine dripped down the stone. D'Artagnan flinched, Porthos straightened up, Aramis took a step forward. Athos did not even appear to notice as he bent over and gripped the edges of Treville's desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Once again I must thank God that she did not kill you," Athos surprised him. "For it seems she would stop at nothing to bring you to her side, even the very worst of lies."

"I should not have told you." D'Artagnan visibly sagged.

"No," Athos caught his gaze. "Part of you would always have wondered if I just did not wish to see the truth of it. I cannot blame you. What kind of woman would fabricate such a despicable lie? No doubt she told you that I cared only to preserve my honour. But let me ask you one question?"

"Anything." D'Artagnon vowed sincerely.

"What would you say if I told you Aramis or Porthos had forced a woman?"

"I would not believe it," d'Artagnan spoke without hesitation. Both of his friends enjoyed female company but each were complete gentleman when it came to the care and consideration of the ladies they courted. He could not imagine them taking a woman, any woman against their will. "Any more than I would believe it of you." D'Artagnan felt slightly sick at how Milady had tried to manipulate his feelings. "I can't believe she would stoop to this."

"You have no need to apologise. I have told you so little about Thomas or his character. Yet Anne knew full well that you were the type of man who would not condone any woman being taken against her will. She simply strove to use that to her advantage."

"She was trying to make me feel sorry for her." D'Artagnan spoke bitterly. "And like a child I let her and then came running to you, just like she wanted."

"No," Athos gripped his arm tightly. "I'm grateful you had the courage to share this rather than letting it fester. That was my choice for too long and it did me no good."

"Then perhaps one of these days you could tell me some of the happy stories about you and Thomas," d'Artagnan suggested. "I would very much like to hear about what kind of older brother you were."

"Am I doing so badly as a brother that I need to tell you stories for you to know?" Athos pretended offence.

"I am the youngest of us all," d'Artagnan reminded him. "It's not fair. I need all the ammunition I can get."

"Well, in that case," Athos' lips quirked. "Five years of service together means I already have a multitude of embarrassing stories about Aramis and Porthos."

"Hey!" Porthos protested. "That goes both ways you know."

"Another time, perhaps," Aramis cut in. "We still have a murder to plot."

"You know you have treated me very badly," d'Artagnan threw a mock wounded look at Athos. "As a gentleman I should have the chance to defend my honour."

"You want to slap him across the face with your glove like a dandy and call for pistols at dawn?" Porthos chuckled.

"Can I?" d'Artagnan's face lit up.

"I refuse to get up at dawn," Athos told him. "If you wish to kill me then you must do it after breakfast."

In hindsight it was perhaps naive of them to think it could all be so simple. Not easy, never that, not when they had been required to fight for their lives, Constance had found herself held hostage and Athos had hovered on the brink of executing the only woman he had ever loved. But still they had won, Milady had been banished, the Cardinal warned in no uncertain terms, and each of them were still living against all the odds. It seemed like a victory.

"Athos won't tell you," Aramis advised as they celebrated. "But it's his birthday coming up."

"I'm guessing he's not a great one for parties." D'Artagnan raised a brow.

"No, it's usually all we can do to get him to have a nice meal we us," Porthos agreed. "But we like to try and buy him something special."

"Alright," d'Artagnan nodded. He knew Athos had half-feared that he would judge him for letting Milady go, after everything she had done to Constance. In truth d'Artagnan did not think he could have killed her either. This was his chance to show Athos that their brotherhood was stronger than ever. "I'm in. What did you have in mind?"

And then two things happened.

Firstly the Queen announced her pregnancy and then Athos disappeared.

"He wouldn't have just left," d'Artagnan scowled at the others, as they stood in Athos' empty lodgings, as if daring them to disagree. "Not after everything. He just wouldn't."

"We know," Porthos assured him. He cast a meaningful glance at Aramis who was staring out of the window, looking completely ashen. "He'd never want any of us to worry so badly, 'specially not at a time like this."

"Unless he had no choice," Aramis spoke hollowly. "Perhaps, this is the Cardinal's revenge."

"He wouldn't," d'Artagnan objected. "He knows we would make him pay."

"I should have told you," Aramis' head dropped until his forehead rested on the window pane. "But I knew Athos would be furious with me and rightly so. I had already taken a suicidal risk by remaining behind yesterday."

"The Queen requested your presence," d'Artagnan pointed out. "Even Athos couldn't expect you to disobey a royal command."

"He could expect me to use my wits," Aramis berated himself. "I could have claimed some kind of malady, anything to keep my distance until a less emotionally charged occasion."

"Don't tell me," Porthos stilled, then swore violently. "Aramis, you idiot. Athos will punch you until you beg him to kick you."

"What?" d'Artagnan didn't follow, at least not at first. "Please, don't tell me the Cardinal saw you and the Queen together?"

Aramis nodded miserably. Athos had every right to be angry with him and afraid for his own safety. But instead he had been kindness itself. He had watched Aramis' expression growing tighter and more strained, as they had ridden back to the Garrison through streets filled with revellers celebrating the news of the longed for heir. Making a decision he had taken them to a tavern a cut above their usual establishments. The host was about to turn up his nose at a group of solders, until he heard Athos' cut glass vowels and saw his plentiful coin.

Athos had paid extra for a large, private, room which at least removed Aramis from the thronging crowds all celebrating the news of a child he himself was unable to acknowledge and had the added benefit that that they could not be overheard. But the rich food that he purchased tasted like sawdust in Aramis' mouth.

"You should eat something," Porthos had nudged. "This venison is good."

"Fit for a King?" Aramis had mocked. "No, thank you."

"Aren't you even a little bit pleased? I mean, I know the circumstances aren't ideal but .." d'Artagnan trailed off at the look on Aramis' face.

"Should I be rejoicing in providing such a noble service for all of France?" Aramis scoffed. "By all means let us tell the King. Perhaps, he will conduct me into the Order of St Michael for my part in saving the country from strife and civil war?"

"Aramis, enough," Athos said not unkindly, pressing a glass of wine into his hand. "Let us make a toast."

"I don't want any wine," Aramis sniped, determined to be cruel. "Unlike you, I don't believe that all problems can be solved by losing yourself at the bottom of a bottle."

"You don't wish to raise a glass to the good health and continued welfare of your child?," Athos eyed him levelly. "In the company of your brothers who will give their lives in his service if need be?"

"Oh," Aramis looked suitably ashamed of himself, before offering a bashful smile. "Well, if you will insist on putting it like that."

"He intends to pick us off one by one. Athos' taste for drink is well known. All it would take would be for his body to be discovered in ally somewhere a few hours from now." Aramis said now.

"Stop talkin' like that," Porthos scolded. "We've already had one funeral for Athos. We ain't havin' another any time soon. Now stop feelin' sorry for yourself and let's get out there are start lookin' for him."

Aramis thought his heart might stop when he found the large pool of blood in the alley. Too much blood his brain unhelpfully supplied.

"Maybe it's not his," d'Artagnan said bravely. "He would have fought. He wouldn't have gone willingly."

Just around the corner d'Artagnan stopped dead. Bending down he picked up Athos' hat from the ground, brushing a hand over it with an expression that was a mixture of anger and dismay. Aramis didn't say anything, just placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

"Someone took 'im," Porthos said as he jogged up. "There are boot prints leading to a set of cart tracks over there. Three men and them boots of Athos' with a nick out the sole."

"He's walking wounded then," Aramis brightened a little. There was still the dangers of blood loss and inflection but it was better than the alternative at least. "They wanted a hostage perhaps?"

"That don't seem like the Cardinal's style," Porthos frowned. "None of this really does."

"And Milady is too smart to show her face in Paris again," d'Artagnan considered that. "At least, not until she has secured a new patron, someone who is powerful enough to protect her from us."

"Let's not go around saying that in front of Athos, hmm?" Aramis advised.

"Sarazen had a lot of people workin' for him," Porthos looked worried. "Now that's he's dead some of 'em might be frettin' about how they're going to be making ends meet. I doubt Milady bothered to settle her debts before she left Paris."

"But I was the one who killed Sarazen," d'Artagnan felt sick that he might have caused his mentor's abduction. "Why would they take it out on Athos?"

"He was the one splashing his cash at the Inn yesterday," Porthos sighed. "If anyone had been watching us, hoping for rich pickings ..."

"He might as well have painted a target on his back." Aramis finished.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan sprinted up the stairs to his friend's room. "Where are you? Treville's divided the search areas into sections. We're ready to move out. You're with me."

"I'm just comin.'" Porthos assured him, as he hastily put something in a bag.

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

Porthos momentarily paused in the act of packing a clean pair of braies and a billowing linen shirt, then he turned around to add his soft blue quilted doublet and a pair of soft leather slippers, not looking at the Gascon as he answered.

"Just a few things for Athos."

He turned back just in time to see d'Artagnan's face fall as he took in the loose fitting clothing, which wouldn't aggravate any bruises, the soft linen to sit more comfortably on top of injuries. Meeting his gaze Pothos saw his consternation turn to fury at the image of Athos suffering as he waited for rescue.

"I am going to kill them." D'Artagnan vowed.

"Yeah?," Porthos gave him a dark look. "Get in line."

In hindsight, despite all their searching, it really should not have come as a surprise to receive word that Athos had gone ahead and rescued himself, stumbling into the Garrison courtyard, almost unrecognisable after three days of captivity, wearing a range of mis-matched and ill-fitting clothing, bruised and bloody from a serious beating, but very much alive and well enough to ask after his friends right before he collapsed.

"Athos!"

D'Artagnan burst into the room, Porthos at his shoulder, to find Athos lying still and unmoving on the bed. Aramis was leaning over him dabbing carefully at his numerous injuries with a cloth.

"How bad is it?" Porthos stepped up to the bed.

"It looks worse than it is, he took a bad beating and spent the last of strength fighting his way out and making his way back here. A few of these cuts will need needlework and he'll be sore for a while, but nothing actually seems broken." Aramis reassured.

He looked up to see Porthos reaching out to place his hand gently on Athos forehead and frowning a little.

"He's a mite warm."

"He was head to toe all other filth when he got here," Aramis sighed wiping his hands. "The Lord only knows where they were keeping him. Can you help me turn him over so we can clean up his other side?"

"Course." Porthos nodded.

D'Artagnan remained pressed against the wall, his hands tucked under his armpits, a study in awkwardness, looking anywhere but at Athos as they carefully turned him. It was the first time he had seen his mentor stripped naked. The pale figure on the bed seemed both smaller and younger, more vulnerable without all that noble bearing and insignia of rank. Aramis paused a moment to stroke his hair, before picking up his cloth and continuing his ministrations, sponging off the days of caked on blood and dirt. On his other side Porthos picked up a second cloth and proceeded to help, the two of them working in tandem to care for their brother.

D'Artganan watched silently, pressing his lips together tightly and struggling against his tears, his heart feeling like it was breaking at what he had seen.

"Alright, something's bothering you," Porthos frowned at him, "Out with it."

Given the trust d'Artagnan had in his friend it wasn't especially disturbing that Porthos made this observation at the point of a sword as they traded blows back and forth across the courtyard. Porthos had dragged him outside, insisting that he wasn't doing Athos any good by just watching him sleep and that their fearless leader wouldn't want him to get sloppy. Although, Porthos' determined onslaught did make it slightly more difficult to avoid the question.

"I'm fine."

Porthos immediately put up his sword and led the younger man over to the table they habitually commandeered. Picking up a half empty bottle of wine he gave the contents a sniff and deciding they were tolerably passable poured out two glasses.

"You should know by now that don't work on us," Porthos scolded mildly. "Now are you gonna tell me or am I gonna have to tell Athos?"

"No," d'Artagnan said, a little too quickly. "You don't need to do that."

"Really, because you seem fine when you're around Athos, but the minute you're out of his sight it seems like you're sickening for something. Is your wound bothering you?"

"It's not the wound. Aramis checked it this morning. It's healing well."

"But it is something," Porthos latched onto that. "You know I'm not going to stop going on at you until you tell me."

"Do you think Athos ever misses it?" d'Artagnan said unexpectedly. "His life as the Comte de la Fere, I mean?"

"Strutting in around in lace and brocade?" Porthos chortled. "Having to make polite conversation with all those back stabbing toadies at court?"

"Well, not that part," d'Artagnan admitted, managing a small smile at the image that conjured up, although it wasn't as broad as Porthos had hoped for. And it quickly faded. "No, I mean he could have had a comfortable life. Not always in danger."

Porthos frowned as he shot the Gascon a sideways look. D'Artagnan looked lost in his own thoughts, lines of worry and concern creasing his young brow.

"You ain't worrying about what Sarazen's men did to 'im, are you?" He said kindly. "It was a bad beating, but it didn't do any serious harm. You heard Aramis, he'll be stiff and sore for a while and have a couple of new scars to add to his collection. But he's already on the mend."

"No," d'Artagnan said hollowly. "I'm not worried about that beating."

"Then what?" Porthos nudged him fondly. "You know Treville is already talking about sending us off for a spot of recuperation. We was thinkin' we could all take that trip to Gascony you were wanting to make."

"Was it a mission?" D'Artagnan blurted. "Those scars on his back."

In the manner of soldiers, Aramis and Porthos had little modesty about their bodies. During the hot summer weather d'Artagnan had become accustomed to seeing them in various states of undress, as they trained and camped and bathed or swam in any body of cool, clear, water they could find. Athos had always been rather more reserved, keeping himself covered with the long tails of his shirt. D'Artagnan had always imagined that it was either a product of his upbringing, or perhaps merely a sensible precaution given how easily his milk white skin burned in the sun. A belief that Aramis with his pots of cooling salve for the red patches on Athos' exposed skin and Porthos' jokes about lobsters had heartily endorsed.

"Ah," Porthos managed. "That kinda depends on which scars you mean."

D'Artagnan had felt his knees buckle and the bile rise in his throat as Aramis had gently turned Athos over to reveal his back. Only the fact that he was leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around himself in his worry for his friend, had saved him from embarrassing himself by keeling over. To his utter shock Athos' back was marked, not just the usual kind of wounds and sword cuts which were borne by many a Musketeer, but with numerous round white burn marks, and if that was not bad enough, underneath those lay a series of thin silver lines. Straight, thin, lines, so precisely spaced that it was impossible that they had been some random accident.

No, this had been deliberate and methodical cruelty.

"The burns?" d'Artagnan asked first.

"That was a mission," Porthos acknowledged. "A mad man named DuPont took 'im hostage. Aramis was with him. He made sure Athos had what he needed."

"And," d'Artagnan swallowed hard. He feared he already knew the answer. "The whip marks?"

Porthos bit his lip and looked away as he considered his answer. After a moment he sucked his breath in between his teeth and fixed d'Artagnan with a painfully honest look, his large eyes dark with sorrow as he admitted the truth of it.

"That weren't a mission." He admitted. "That was his father. Athos won't say a word about it, but he had nightmares sometimes when we first knew him and Aramis and I put together the rest from the things he didn't say about his family. Seems like nothing Athos ever did was good enough for Monsieur le Comte."

"His own father did that to him?" d'Artagnan felt physically sick. He knew he had been far from the perfect child, often too hot-headed and impulsive for his own good. But his various childhood punishments had been moderate and always well deserved. The thought of Athos who only ever cared about protecting those he loved and doing what was right being treated such cold, unfeeling, cruelty tore at his heart. "No wonder he believes himself so unworthy of love."

"Aramis thinks he won't talk about it because he's ashamed, like if he had just been a better son his father would never have raised a hand to him."

"That sounds like Athos," d'Artagnan sighed. "But don't you think it would be better if he did talk about it?"

"You're a right one aren't you?" Porthos shook his head, before ruffling d'Artagnan's hair fondly, marvelling yet again how the youngster's good heart always seemed to override his sense of self-preservation. "Course it would. But you know our Athos, he's never one to make things easy on himself."

"Well, as you're so fond of saying," d'Artagnan grinned. "That's what he's got us for."

It was dark by the time Athos finally stirred. Blinking awake the first thing he was aware of was all his various hurts making themselves known. For a moment he felt utterly bereft. So many times in his youth he had lain hurting and alone that sometimes it was hard to suppress those memories. Then he heard Porthos' familiar snoring coming from nearby and his lips quirked in a fond smile.

"Finally," Aramis' face loomed into view in the flickering candlelight. "I thought you were never going to wake up."

"I didn't think my injuries were that grave." Athos frowned.

"He didn't mean it like that," d'Artagnan sounded amused as he came to stand behind Aramis. "He's just been waiting really, really, impatiently."

"Oh?" Athos frowned.

"You don't know what day it is, do you?"

Aramis smiled at him, as he took his arm, helping him to sit up a little, before perching on the bed beside him and fixing him with an expectant look.

"Monday?" Athos guessed.

"Wednesday," Porthos corrected drousily, scrubbing at his face, as he stirred.

"I lost three days?" Athos looked rather startled "Really?"

"Athos, my friend, you're missing the point, here," Aramis pressed gently. "It's Wednesday."

"You already said that, I fail to see …?" He paused. "Oh ."

"Happy Birthday, Athos," Aramis gave him a fond look. "I feared you were going to sleep right through it."

"Does this mean there's wine?" Athos said hopefully.

That broke the tension and set his friends laughing. Shaking his head ruefully Porthos went off to see what he could find in the pantry. Aramis used the interval to check Athos over and satisfy himself that he was on the mend. As Aramis lifted the back of his nightshirt Athos saw the way that d'Artagnan's eyes darkened and his gaze slid away. Presuming his friend was sickened by the ugly scars and what they represented, despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, Athos felt himself tensing under Aramis' hands.

"It's not what you think," Aramis said calmly, pressing one warm hand reassuringly to Athos' shoulder, before smoothing his nightshirt back down. "He's not repulsed."

"What?" D'Artagnan's head snapped back around, his eyes flashing. "Of course, I'm not. How could you think that of me?"

"Athos has always worried that we would judge him for his scars," Aramis said conversationally. "He does not realise that we are so proud of him and his courage for still becoming the good and honourable man that he is despite what he suffered at the hands of a father who should have loved him."

"Aramis." Athos looked mortified.

"Maybe, we should talk about this when Athos is feeling better." D'Artagnan suggested.

"No," Aramis said kindly, but firmly. He knew that he was rather taking advantage of Athos in his weakened state, but he felt it was past time to deal with this. "Porthos and I have ignored this for far too long, in an attempt to spare Athos' feelings. It has taken recent events to make us realise that by not addressing it all we have done is re-enforce his belief that he is un-deserving of love."

"As the Comte de la Fere I think we can agree I have been something of a disappointment." Athos observed tonelessly.

"You pay your taxes, which keeps the Exchequer happy, your Valet ensures that you are kept appraised of anything your tenants need, you service to the King as a Musketeer far outweighs anything you could achieve at court. You are still young enough to marry and produce an heir." Aramis pointed out. "How is any of that a failure?"

"I have told you before, I am done with marriage."

"Ah, but perhaps marriage is not yet done with you," Aramis allowed, as he patted his leg absently.

"I do not look to father a child. I would rather die than turn into the kind of man my father was."

"There's little risk of that. I don't believe that it's obligatory that we follow in our parents example in all things," Aramis pointed out lightly. "And you have always been your own man Athos, a good man and one that I am proud to call brother."

"And me." Porthos put in as he kicked the door open with his boot and put down a tray laden with wine and food.

"And you are already a wonderful father." D'Artagnan assured him.

"Indeed?" Athos gave him a slightly odd look.

"Of course, why would you ever think you would be anything else?" d'Artagnan said firmly, not quite sure why Aramis and Porthos were smirking at him as they were. "What?"

"You said "are," Aramis' grin broadened. "You are a wonderful father. Not would be."

"He did didn't he?" Porthos grinned. "And there we were thinking our little Gascon was all grown up now."

"It just slipped out," d'Artagnan protested, he refused to feel too embarrassed. This was too important for that. "Before my father died, I had begun to feel like I had outgrown the need for guidance and then he was murdered and I realised that I was wrong. I still needed someone to play that role in my life. You're not my father, Athos, but you have helped to shape the man I have become."

"Thomas said much the same thing in his letter if you recall." Aramis reminded him.

"Indeed," Athos gave them a slightly sheepish look. "I know it by rote."

"Then perhaps it's high time you started belivin' it?" Porthos challenged. "You are a good man, we love you and that's all there is to it."

Somehow Treville managed to fix things so their trip to Gascony became an official survey of the King's holdings in the district, which in practice meant they could linger as long as they liked.

"S'right pretty down here," Porthos observed, standing up in his stirrups to get a better look at the surrounding scenery. "I can see why you like it."

"You've never been to Gascony before?" d'Artagnan inquired.

"Naw, it's a long way from Paris."

"And more importantly, peaceful in the main part," Athos said. "LaBarge being the exception."

"We're only about an hour from the Farm now. It's just over that way," d'Artagnan pointed, before his expression darkened. "Or whatever is left of it."

"Are you quite sure you want to do this?" Athos asked him seriously. "It's not too late to change your mind. All the reports say that LaBarge was utterly ruthless. You may discover that all you once loved is nothing but a wisp of memories in a burnt out shell."

"That was very poetic." Aramis complemented him.

"I do have some experience in the matter." Athos allowed with a rueful smile.

The other three exchanged a look of pleased surprise. If Athos could speak of events at le Fere with such equanimity then that was progress indeed.

"Whatever I'm going to find, I need to see if anything can be salvaged," d'Artagnan decided. "I owe my father that much."

"Well, this looks like a good spot to stop for lunch." Aramis declared.

"Really?" d'Artagnan looked a little surprised. "We could easily make it to the farm if we press on."

"No," Athos added his weight to the decision. "Let's stop here. There is something else we need to do before we arrive. You and I can water the horses whilst the others make camp."

Whilst the two of them were at the river they also took the chance to refill their water skins and wash off a little of the dust from the road. Upon their return d'Artagnan stopped dead at the feast which awaited them. A selection of regional delicacies were spread out before him, a bean ragout, cold roast duck, delicate pates, fresh bread, Roquefort and all manner of charcuterie, a basket of apricots, and of course Armagnac.

"Brie?" Athos blinked, as he caught sight of the round, soft cheese. "That's not a Gascon speciality."

"We know," Porthos said cheerfully. "That's your favourite. It's a right special one too. We carried it all the way from Paris so it'll be good and ripe now. Since you've 'ad a bit of a hard time lately we figured you deserved a bit of a treat."

"There a few bottles of Anjou wine too." Aramis added.

"Gentlemen," Athos gave them a distinctly suspicious look. "This was supposed to be d'Artagnan's celebration."

"You missed out on your own birthday," Aramis pointed out unhappily. "Practically slept right through it, and there's no reason we can't celebrate two things at once."

"It's just us and some good food and drink," Porthos said soothingly. "You don't even have to think of it like a party if you don't want to."

"No," Athos said slowly. He looked at d'Aragnan with a proud smile. "We have a great deal to celebrate. By all means let us give thanks for what we have."

They sat, sprawled and lay on the grass, enjoying the warm sunshine, the good food and wine, and the simple pleasure of just being together, without being shot at, held hostage, beaten, or any of the other things that seemed to happen to them on a weekly basis.

"We forgot Athos' present." Aramis looked stricken, as he sat up.

"You forgot it," Porthos grinned. "I've got it in my pocket."

"Some food and drink?" Athos tipped his head at him. "Isn't that what you just said?"

"We just wanted to do something nice for you," d'Artagnan sat up. "We know that your locket was important to you and it's hard to let go of something you once valued, even if it was for a good reason."

"So, we hoped that this might serve to remind you that you are never alone." Aramis continued.

With a soft smile, Porthos held out a small box.

Removing his gloves, Athos carefully opened the box, nestled inside was an oval solid silver disc threaded on a robust silver chain.

"Treville chipped in to help buy the chain," Porthos told him. "But the rest of it was all us."

On one side of the disc a fleur de lys was etched in the centre and around the edge the Musketeer motto "One for all and all for one" was neatly engraved. On the reverse of the disc Athos' name was engraved prominently in the centre and then around the edge, encircling it, was the names of his brothers, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Art.

"D'Art?" Athos raised an amused brow

"D'Artagnan had too many letters," the young man made a face. "It wouldn't fit properly."

"You could have used "Charles." Athos observed.

"Or not." D'Artagnan grinned at him.

"Thank you," Athos said gruffly, gripping the necklace tightly in his palm. "It is a fine gift."

"May I?" Aramis gently took it from him and Athos bowed his head slightly to allow him to place the chain around his neck. When it was settled to Aramis' satisfaction he bent down and pressed his lips gently to Athos' temple. "Many happy returns."

"Happy Birthday, Athos," Porthos reached over and hugged him tightly, slapping him three times on the back. "And many more."

"Happy Birthday," d'Artagnan looked at him, his eyes shining with love. Leaning in to hug him he turned his head and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. Aramis and Porthos grinned broadly as he pulled back and immediately dropped his eyes to the ground, the tips of his ears looking very pink. "So, how old are you exactly?"

"Didn't you know?" Porthos grinned broadly. "I'm the eldest, so I'm the sensible one, Aramis is the problem middle child, and Athos is our sensitive little brother. Why do you think we are always at pains to take such good care of him?"

The startled look on d'Artagnan's face was absolutely priceless.

There was a moment of silence and then the most un-expected thing happened. Athos threw back his head and laughed.

"Finally," Porthos beamed at him. "About time too."

"Long past time if you ask me," Aramis observed, as he topped up Athos' wine. "I beg you do not make us as wait as long again."

"I will do my best." Athos promised. He looked at the others and a moment of silent communication passed between them, before he looked at d'Artagnan. "There is one other matter we wish to take care of before you return home."

"We don't want there to be any doubt about where you belong." Porthos added.

"And you have more than earned this." Aramis smiled.

"Take off your glove and give me your hand." Athos instructed. D'Artagnan followed the order and offered his hand without hesitation.

"As Musketeers you understand that we share a bond of brotherhood. Over and above that, Aramis, Porthos and I have sworn our loyalty to each other in an indivisible bond between the three of us, the oath of a soldier, a brother and a friend that we will each protect and defend one another even unto death."

"We hoped you might care to join with us in that." Aramis offered, placing his hand onto of Athos'.

"No pressure, but we'll take it very personally if you say no," Porthos grinned at him, as he covered Aramis' hand with his own. "And I still say we should swear it in blood."

"That's because you're truly a pirate at heart." Aramis teased.

"Don't you think we have all shed quite enough blood recently?" Athos said dryly.

"I'll go first," Porthos decided. "D'Artagnan, it ain't how old a person is, that makes 'em a proper man. It's what's in your heart. When we first met you were a boy driven by grief and anger, you were arrogant and too hot-headed for your own good. But you have shown us courage, kindness, and a fine sense of justice. You are a fine man and my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"My turn," Aramis decided. "D'Artagnan, you have a sense of the dramatic which rivals my own. I will never forget the way you charged into the Garrison and challenged Athos to a duel. But you are loyal and steadfast. A man who places the welfare of those he loves above his own and who would never abandon his friends. Those are qualities I value rather highly. You are my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"D'Artagnan," Athos squeezed his hand gently. "At first, I was reluctant to accept you into my heart. I focused on the flaws of youth and held back from teaching you what you so obviously needed to learn. Little did I know, that you would be the one showing me how to find my way back to the man, the brother, that I used to be," He used his free hand to reach up and cup d'Artagnan's cheek. "I am so proud to call you my sworn brother. I willingly place my life in your hands."

"Your turn," Aramis nudged kindly, when d'Artagnan seemed quite unable to form any words.

"Um, I thought that I was left all alone in the world," d'Artagnan managed. "First you gave me justice, then you offered me friendship, and a sense of purpose, before I quite realised it we had become comrades," He looked up and offered them all a shy smile. "And then day by day, with each small act of kindness, every skill you taught me, every time you made me laugh, stood by me, tended my wounds, shared your bread, scolded me for being an idiot, trusted me with your secrets, held me in your arms, knocked me on my arse when I deserved it, championed me even when others doubted me, you became my family. You are all my sworn brothers and I willingly place my life in your hands." He gave a lop-sided smile. "For now and always."

They hugged fiercely and if more than one of them needed to wipe away a tear or two there was no one but their brothers to see.

"Well, that's that then," Aramis declared, as they pulled apart. "Anyone want any more wine?"

"Actually," Athos hesitated. "I thought, perhaps, I might try to cut down a little."

AN – Well, I can hardly believe I have actually finished this. It is quite the longest thing I had ever written and has been my constant companion for the last nine months. Huge, huge, thanks to everyone who has joined me on this journey, your thoughts, comments and conversation have been a real joy and often kept me writing when life conspired to make things difficult. I share all your hopes and excitement for season 2 and all the new stories it will inspire everyone to write.

But for now I am going to tidy the house which has been a bit neglected these past couple of days so I could get this finished for all of you. I hope it left you with some happy feels. Wishing everyone good things in 2015.