Hiya everyone, I know I've been away for a REALLY long time but my exams didn't go great (appallingly actually) and so I am overloaded with work and stuff :( School sucks, my teachers aren't being quite as supportive as they used to be (save a few whom I adore), some of my best friends were kicked out and I'm having to be the eternal optimist which is extremely against my nature. I had this chapter pretty much done a month ago but haven't finished it until now (praise quiet moments and super productivity) so it's super long as a treat. I hope you enjoy it since English is the only thing I did really well in (and I mean I OWNED that exam, hello English uni courses!). Unlikely you'll hear anything of me until the far off future but I thought I'd apologise with a chapter I'm quite proud of but it's up to you to decide whether you like it or not obviously. Hope all of you are okay and I can make a smile on your face! x

A Lonely Road

D'Artagnan liked to think of himself as a confident, extroverted young man. He knew his place in the world, the purpose which made him rise in the morning and the dreams he satisfied himself with at night. He'd never had insecurities in his relationships; all his friends back home had grown up alongside him and the enemies he made had never been so whimsical or cruel as to offer friendship when there was none. Life, in that sense, was simple; the rules were clear and opinions were made well-known as was the typical brave and somewhat brash nature of the people of Gascony.

When d'Artagnan first arrived in Paris and begun to learn its ways he had been caught off guard by the cowardice and traitorous nature of the city's poorer people and the sheer amount of politics and false-hood that came with dealing with the rich and powerful. He was confronted by a world of back-stabbers and cut-throats, both literal and figurative, of every gender, age, race and social status. However, where he was well-practiced in brutal honesty and the appreciation of such truthfulness, The Musketeers were well acquainted with the whims and violence of the great city of Paris. They understood every subtle nuance, every concealed expression, every darker subtext and while d'Artagnan could turn away from a man and believe in his sincerity, the others would nod and question and reveal information as though they had been listening to two entirely different conversations and it often left the Gascon floundering.

Misinterpretation was a killer. One slip up, placing trust in the wrong person, and it could endanger your life and any number of other people. The city of Paris held many secrets and with it many dangers and it taught a man to be cold and cynical and suspicious of every man, woman and child he passed; so much so that he doubts the things people tell him, even when he believes there to be a hint of truth.

Of course, not everyone was like that. Many of the young families living in impoverished areas with little food or basic provisions were often the nicest people one could meet and seeing them suffer and still keep smiling brought a tear to d'Artagnan's eye. Porthos was proud of his past that way, his people, the men and women that he had grown up alongside in the slums fighting for scraps, far more worthy of the treasures and happiness that came with the wealth of the nobility whom smiled and drank in merriment under the light of the sun then plotted and scratched at each other in dark corners and behind locked doors.

D'Artagnan believed Athos, Aramis and Porthos to be men of strong moral character; brave, virtuous and loyal, they held honour and honesty in the highest accord and appreciated it beyond simple kindnesses. However, they were also polite and gentlemanly and would bend over backwards to try and spare others unnecessary pain on their account, at least not without good and unselfish reasons. So that was why d'Artagnan could not help but be bothered by their relationship as a four.

The three were well-known throughout Paris, dubbed 'The Inseparables' because of their closeness. It was a trust and friendship born of many years of blood and battle and tears, fighting and surviving alongside one another, bonds forged in iron and concealed in polished leather. Once d'Artagnan had heard the rumours, mere days after his apprenticeship with the three had begun, he had been quite astonished by the tales told of the three and their escapades and the first shadows of doubt had plagued him.

Outwardly, his friendship with the three never wavered; he still trained with Athos, made mischief with Porthos, had long debates with Aramis about whatever amused or interested him and altogether their regular drinking sessions around the taverns of Paris continued unobstructed. However, he began to notice things he had missed: conversations they all shared purely with looks, inside jokes that had Porthos rolling around with laughter and made even Athos smirk and endless references to missions and experiences that would mostly go on like: "You remember when-" laughter "Oh yeah!" More laughter "I can't believe the dead badger trick worked!" "I rather more enjoyed the National Anthem distraction, less messy." Roaring laughter. Conversations so absurd he had no hope of ever interpreting them without very detailed context or a lot more real life experience (and maybe not even then, the dismissal "You really had to be there" came up quite commonly.)

It wasn't to be unexpected; the Three had known one another for years, but to settle into a place among them was so rare and difficult that d'Artagnan was often left feeling lonely, envious of the easy camaraderie and the endless amusement and wonder that they spoke of so regularly. So d'Artagnan questioned things more, asked rather than assumed he was welcome and other than a few odd looks from Porthos and some friendly ribbing from Aramis, life continued much the same.

But the longer it lasted, the heavier the burden became and eventually the small moments that had once been merely a touch of inconvenience or uncertainty were reminders of his isolation and his naivety. Small slips up now felt like disasters and after one such event, when he had accidentally actually slipped over on wet grass while chasing a suspect and ending up coated in mud much to the others' amusement; the pain and embarrassment felt like a crushing weight on his chest, blush heavy on his cheeks and he had barely been able to meet his friends' eyes. That evening, d'Artagnan had forgone his usual nightly adventures with his friends, ignoring the hurt pout Aramis had shot him when he politely declined, and gestured vaguely back toward the Garrison with the weak excuse that he was tired and that they should go on without him. Athos has nodded his acceptance, Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan then over his shoulder toward the tavern as though weighing between choices and Aramis rushed forward to place his hand against d'Artagnan's forehead to check his temperature. After warding off the medic, d'Artagnan bid his friend's goodnight and began walking back to the Garrison, listening to their laughter and conversation fade away as they walked in the opposite direction.

The evening air was cool against his skin as he headed back through the shadows of the city, watching as men and women drifted by a dreamy daze, tired and heart aching with loneliness. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the cobbled path as he took slow, shuffled steps, head tilted low to watch the lines through the flagstones.

Suddenly from the shadows a voice called "You! Boy!"

D'Artagnan turned, ready to protest at the indignity of his address, just in time to see the fist flying at his face before it connected with his nose. The accompanying crack and burst of hot blood made his head reel back and fire, hot and intense, flared across his face. He staggered back, struggling to stay upright, but another blow to his ribs made him fall and hit the ground hard, just managing to stop his head striking the stones. Shakily, d'Artagnan forced himself to put some distance between his attacker and his vulnerable body, rising into a crouch on all fours as he pushed away. He collided with someone's legs and was pushed back into the middle, yelling in outrage when more men descended on him, restraining his arms till he was kneeled before his initial attacker.

Someone's fingers gripped his dark hair, tightening until he could feel strands snapping at his scalp and his head was yanked back, neck protesting at the mistreatment. In the half-light of the evening and the dim glow of the burning oil lamps, the man before him was only vaguely recognisable, the red cloak over his shoulder the most discerning detail. He was about Porthos' age, shorter—obviously, because Porthos was a giant- but well-toned, broad shoulders hidden beneath the fabric of the Red Guard's uniform. The enemy crouched, wiping his knuckles—wet with d'Artagnan's blood—against his shirt, just beside the leather strap of his pauldron. D'Artagnan resisted the urge to spit a goblet of blood in the other man's face, eyes drawn to the puckered scar near the corner of his mouth and up his cheekbone.

"Hello there, Musketeer. I think it's time we showed you 'Inseparables' who's really in charge here."

D'Artagnan lost himself to the darkness after a particularly vicious kick to the head not long after.

He was awoken by the rising sun; heat a blissful, loving kiss against his battered skin. At some point after his painful acquaintance with unconsciousness, his assailants had dragged him into a narrow walkway between the buildings, cobbles wet and slick beneath his skin. His hair was stiff with bodily fluids, stuck to his face with thick, coagulated blood that stung as it peeled away from his cheek. Every limb burned with fire, lacerations and bruises tender, muscles corded taut so that they ached with simple inelasticity. The agony of merely sitting up caused his vision to grey and walls became a constant companion and source of contact as he limped back to headquarters.

The more he walked, the looser he became, till he could walk unassisted by unanimated objects. If he breathed shallowly he could ignore the sharp pain flaring across his ribcage and he prodded his torso experimentally, relieved when nothing shifted under the agonising press of his fingers. Miraculously nothing appeared to be broken, though his skin was a vivid black and blue, skin marred with more purple splotches than tan and the lighter bruising was already yellowing into an olive green. D'Artagnan cursed and fought the urge to sigh in frustration, instead gritting his teeth as the stiff muscles in his legs twinged.

The men had taken every sous that had been in his possession but knew better than to take his sword, though his pauldron had sustained quite a lot of visible damage where the men had kicked him. The Gascon groaned as he brushed at the leather with aching fingers, being gentle against the swelling of the skin against his shoulder and eventually just removed the uniform altogether, sighing in relief when the pressure was removed. There were some bloody tears in his trousers, revealing grazes of varying severity and he felt them stretch and the scabs crack as he managed to manoeuvre himself through the crowds of early morning sellers and beggars filling the streets. Staggering along, he was largely ignored as a drunk late straying from the tavern; though he got some curious looks at the swellings on his face.

When the Garrison loomed into view, it suddenly occurred to him that the others would see him this way. His pride chose that moment to announce its own wounds; facing the men he greatly respected having been so caught up in his own self-pity that he was jumped by the idiots in the Red Guard. The three were mighty, battle-hardened soldiers, comparable to the Knights in the old stories his father use to tell him by the fire every night, brave and honourable and unbeatable. He found himself unable to bear it, could imagine their disappointed looks as they treated him so kindly, all the while thinking: what a foolish little Gascon boy, playing at soldier, has it not learnt anything? The thought was somehow more painful that any of his physical injuries, a suffocating feeling one might compare to a knife being plunged into their chest and d'Artagnan quickly shook off the bad feeling and the idea along with it. He would grin and bear it, let the pain drive him to be a better Musketeer; more worthy of the friendship of his three brothers who spent their days training and being companions and confidants to him.

Resolved in his decision, d'Artagnan crept forward into the entranceway to the yard. Fortunately, it was early enough that the barracks seemed deserted so the Gascon moved with as much stealth as his battered body could muster to his rooms. Every floorboard seemed to creak as loudly as a crack of thunder in the most potent of storms and d'Artagnan barely breathed as he tiptoed slowly toward his door. He breathed a sigh of relief when his bedroom door shut behind him—the action instantly regretted as his bruised ribs protested vehemently—and he walked purposefully to his box of medical supplies—a useful gift from Aramis, bless his soul, on the occasion of his last birthday – before he could sit down and lose the will to move.

Tending his wounds was tedious and agonising; his clothes a nightmare to remove, bandages tangling in a torturously indecipherable knot, the disinfecting alcohol having to be used sparingly despite the savage sting that made him grit his teeth and promise to never ever use again. By the time he had assured himself all his injuries were attended and (relatively) unlikely to cause him any more issues before they healed, the sun had long since risen and outside he could already hear men chatting loudly as they ate their breakfast and went about their daily business. His sheets bore the signs of his trials and d'Artagnan's heart sunk at the thought of stripping them and secretly scrubbing the stains from the greying linen and he held the fabric helplessly in his hands for minutes just considering what tactic he would employ.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

His door rattled loudly on its hinges; wood thudding ominously and dust and saw particulates drifted from the top edge. D'Artagnan jumped violently at the sound, sending another lash of pain through his limbs and pulling on some of his newly made stitches. Only one person knocked so loudly.

"Oi, d'Art!" Porthos yelled through the closed door, voice muffled by the barrier but no less comprehensible and the young man was certain the King of France could hear Porthos' words "You up yet?! It's breakfast! We wanna eat something before patrol!"

D'Artagnan steeled his voice and placed a hand against his thumping heart "Go on without me; I'll catch up!"

There was a loud thump of affirmative before heavy footsteps drifted away and the shadow under his doorframe receded. Rising as swiftly as he dared, d'Artagnan moved over to the mirror on his wall cursing the purpled state of his face. Snatching up some fresh clothes, he changed agonisingly slowly, tortured by the subconscious knowledge of time passing and made sure the shirt was loose enough not to show the bulk of the bandages, nor reveal the bruising up his arms. The swelling had gone down over the worst places, but the Musketeer still dreaded strapping his pauldron across the flesh of his shoulder; made even worse by the knowledge that his prized leathers were scuffed and muddied into a state he could not better until later.

Satisfied that his body was covered, the Gascon focussed his attention to his face. A bowl of water, left by the servants last night for washing had been left on the small table and D'Artagnan hastily dunked his hair inside, the cool water reminding him of the cuts and bruises on his face as he ran his hands through his hair to clean away as much blood as he could. The long locks stuck to his face as he came up, droplets of water running down the back of his neck and soaking into the white collar at his collarbone and he tugged his fingers roughly through the bigger knots until he could run a brush weakly through, arms aching at the strain of holding them up. Using the sheets as a towel he moved over to another chest to acquire the make-up within – a remnant of a mission that d'Artagnan would rather not talk about mostly due to his surprising enjoyment of wearing a woman's disguise – and dabbed some around the worst areas until he looked presentable.

When he finally poked his head out of his door, it was almost the end of breakfast time and men were already beginning their training, the clash and scrape of swords echoing across the yard as the late wakers watched with lazy interest. Navigating the stairs with his limp was an issue that d'Artagnan managed to surpass with a slightly slower method of shorter steps and he found himself scowling as he concentrated on walking evenly, the pressure making pain lance up his thigh to his hip. Glancing around, he found the three men sat around their usual table, empty bowls scattered with the crumbs of their meal.

The realisation that his poor cover up would stand little chance against the inquisitiveness and genuine perceptiveness of the soldiers at that table, he steered himself over to another, dropping down and snatching some bread from a tray as he passed. If the other Musketeers were surprised, they did not mention it, nor did they mention any notice of his injuries and he was soon in the midst of a lengthy debate about a new lady at the court whom the men had been admiring one day past. It was almost enough to distract him from the stares of his three friends two tables away, boring into his back.

Avoiding the three proved incredibly difficult. Over the next few days, he had gone to some extremes to avoid any kind of contact with any of his mentors and made himself as busy as possible. Talking to Treville was out of the question—the man was a force of nature himself and if d'Artagnan couldn't get something past Porthos he most certainly wouldn't fool the wizened Captain-so tagging along on extra patrols under the excuse of solidifying friendships and training to be a more worthy Musketeer was the next best thing. Fortunately it was a quiet week, so Treville wasn't given any indication that something was happening between the four when any unexpected missions cropped up and–perhaps more importantly—d'Artagnan's injuries weren't worsened by any over activity although daily life in the Garrison was more difficult than he liked. The marks on his face began to heal, making slow progress, so d'Artagnan resorted to less and less make-up and avoiding heavy rain showers.

The three had initially been…relaxed… about his sudden disappearance from their lives and his constant excuses. D'Artagnan could not deny the nagging insecurity telling him they were grateful for the distance. They gave him time and space—though d'Artagnan suspected it was mostly at Athos' insistence since he respected privacy unlike the other two—but as the days rolled on and the sun rose and set, they became bolder, more impatient. Aramis would actively sneak around trying to find him, casually asking his whereabouts from other Musketeers under offhand ruses, while Porthos' method was more to suddenly burst into rooms yelling his name at the top of his voice. Athos stuck to the shadows, waiting in d'Artagnan's usual hiding places or standing in the entranceways to passageways that the Gascon could not avoid to reach his destination. The young Musketeer got more creative with his escape techniques—he never could spin a tale like Aramis and Porthos, nor would they fall for it—resorting to rooftops and back alleys, using other Musketeers as distractions, pawns in his chess game, though most commonly he just avoided certain areas for as long as possible. The knowledge that the three were determined to find him caused him untold glee as well as despair whenever he had to follow a particularly difficult route of avoidance.

Eventually d'Artagnan's luck had to run out—or more accurately, Athos' patience wore thin and the three banded together to capture their runaway.

D'Artagnan had retired to his rooms, exhausted with his training and aching everywhere. He removed his leathers and he sighed frustrated as he discovered traces of blood on his shirt, no doubt another cut reopened and shucked it off jarringly. The bruises were now more green, some splashes of livid blue and purple across the worse areas and d'Artagnan winced at the sight of himself, the mortification at the injuries flaring once more.

"What in God's name is that?" a quiet voice spoke out from behind the Gascon, voice heavy with barely suppressed and boiling rage.

D'Artagnan's heart seized in his chest and he span round so quickly he almost fell over, turning to face Athos whom had emerged from seemingly nowhere, stood before the door with a dangerous expression.

Unable to speak, d'Artagnan opened and closed his mouth dumbly as Athos continued "I knew you were avoiding us but not for one moment did I think you were stupid enough to hide something…something like this."

"Athos, I-"

"No." the other man stated slightly coldly, holding up his hand to signal for silence and d'Artagnan saw hurt and betrayal in his eyes "Aramis, d'Artagnan requires your attention."

The wardrobe door creaked open and a solemn Spaniard emerged, all traces of usual humour chased from his pale face to give way to an all too serious expression. His eyes traced down d'Artagnan's body, widening fractionally, something like panic fleetingly crossing and leaving his face. The Gascon didn't even have time to consider how Aramis had gotten into his closet; too shocked and horrified by the anguish on the medic's face.

Aramis raised his hands and took a cautious step forward, as though approaching a petrified deer about to bolt "May I?"

D'Artagnan nodded, allowing Aramis to pull him over to the bed and force him to sit. There was a bang that shook the bed and a scraping sound and suddenly Porthos' face appeared on the other side, rubbing the back of his head.

"Surprise." He grumbled darkly, as he clambered gracelessly to his feet, dusting off his trousers "Seems you got a lot to answer for, d'Art."

Athos continued to glower at him across the room, arms crossed defensively against his chest the way he did when he was worried "What happened?"

It appeared the game was up. There was no point in lying to them; it would only make things worse and d'Artagnan doubted his bruised heart could take it.

"The night I left you early at the tavern," d'Artagnan explained quietly, eyes trained on the floorboards, wincing as Aramis silently pressed at his ribs and his expert fingers darted over his mottled skin "I encountered some Red Guards…I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, my guard was down…it was my fault."

"Bein' attacked unprovoked in the street ain't your fault." Porthos growled back, sadness deep in his eyes and Athos looked over to him with the silent signal to back down.

"Continue, d'Artagnan. Did they say anything?"

The Gascon shrugged helplessly "It's all…hazy. Someone yelled something like 'Boy' at me and I remember being annoyed, I turned and I-I think someone punched me? More people turned up and I remember they were wearing Red Guards' uniforms and the man who yelled at me said something about showing the 'Inseparables' who was in charge…but after that not much, just a lot of pain…and fear."

Aramis' hand settled on his shoulder and d'Artagnan turned to face him, recognising the softness in his eyes "It's alright. You probably had a concussion. Which was incredibly foolish to keep a secret from us because-"

"Aramis."

"Sorry."

Porthos moved round the bed so he was in d'Artagnan's line of sight and perching on the edge of his desk "Do you remember who the man was? Anything about him?"

"He had a scar…" d'Artagnan frowned, tapping his cheek and tracing his finger across his mouth and cheekbone "…here. He was shorter than you, Porthos-maybe my height- but big, built like an ox. About as pretty as one too. I didn't really see any of the others' faces; too busy trying not to get kicked in the face."

Porthos' expression soured, like he'd tasted something bitter and d'Artagnan had the curious urge to laugh at the absurdity of it, memories of Porthos biting into a lemon popping to the forefront of his mind.

"Sounds like Jussac." Porthos growled, fists curling and making the leather of his gloves squeak "So the smug bastard was telling the truth."

"So it seems." Aramis replied distastefully, touching d'Artagnan's face and he watched the Spaniard's darkened expression inquisitively.

Athos' footsteps seemed deafening against the wood as he stepped closer "Then we shall arrange another visit with Jussac come the morrow. He deserves the attention he so obviously desires."

"I'll punch his teeth out. No one messes with my brother and gets away with it."

"You'll have to spare some fun for me. He's my brother too." Aramis added, finally leaning away from d'Artagnan, content in his examination "And we'll see how much he appreciates three cracked ribs."

"Oh, I wasn't planning on stopping at just cracking…"

Athos coughed lightly "Gentlemen, I believe our plans for revenge can wait an evening. We have other matters to discuss."

"Oh yeah!" Porthos' face lit up once more in realisation before he scowled at d'Artagnan "So, what have you got to say for yourself, whelp?"

"I-I'm sorry?"

Aramis made a very disgruntled noise before transforming into a mother scolding her child "Sorry isn't going to cut it, young man. What on earth possessed you to keep this a secret from us? You may have patched yourself up well enough but these injuries are serious. I almost regret teaching you first-aid."

"It would have been worse if you hadn't though." The Gascon replied weakly and he knew instantly it had been the wrong thing to say when the tension between them thickened.

"So what is it then?" Athos demanded, eyes suddenly intense and wild, losing his usual control and stalking forward "Have you some kind of death wish? Or are you just seeking attention? You are not a boy anymore, d'Artagnan, you are a Musketeer!"

Tears pricked at the younger man's eyes, a lump stuck in his throat "I'm sorry, Athos. I should have defended myself better, shouldn't have let them get a hand on m-"

"Mon dieu!"Athos yelled, throwing his hands up hopelessly, disbelievingly looking towards the heavens "Do you honestly think I would blame you for getting hurt? You're lucky they did not kill you, d'Artagnan! There is not a Musketeer in this regiment who could be ambushed by ten men—nay, soldiers!—and be disappointed to walk away with their life!"

"What our dear Athos is trying to say," Aramis reasoned more gently, waiting till the other man met his eye "Is that we are only angry because we were worried for you. Imagine if one of us suddenly refused to talk to you or even be in your presence? And now we find out you almost were murdered in the street and you saw more reason in hiding than trusting us."

Porthos nodded his agreement "Aye, and we would have come sooner but lately you've been growing more distant. We thought we'd done something to upset you. Well…we thought Aramis had done something to upset you."

Aramis turned looking scandalised and d'Artagnan could not help the smile that crept across his cheeks and curled up the corners of his mouth. He solemned and swallowed.

"I do trust you all…with my life, I swear it."

"Then why, d'Artagnan?" Athos pleaded in a tone d'Artagnan had never heard from him before and judging from the others' expressions neither had they "Why did you keep this from us?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you. I-I just…you three have taught me so much in my months here and you have shared your lives and secrets with me. But I…sometimes I feel I have missed so much, that I understand so little."

Aramis touched his arm reassuringly "You are young, d'Artagnan. I'm sorry if we've made you feel isolated; our time together has been full of memories that have built our relationship. But we have time to make memories with you... as we have already."

D'Artagnan nodded silently, feeling the blush on his cheeks and Porthos laughed and ruffled his long hair.

"Ya don't give yerself enough credit, lad." Porthos laughed deeply, though his touch was more gentle than d'Artagnan remembered "You've learnt a lot 'bout us these past months; more than most do in years. Heck, we hadn't known as much about each other's pasts until you came along. I can hardly imagine life 'ere without ya now. Ya know us better than you think ya do."

"Although heaven knows why you want to know anything about Porthos of all people." Aramis mock-shivered, glitter of mischief in his eyes "One can know too much about a person and Porthos is one of those people you learn too much of all too quickly."

Porthos punched him on the shoulder with an accompanying sound and Aramis let out a breathy 'ow' as he leaned further away, careful to keep his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder but stay out of Porthos' reach. D'Artagnan looked up once more, still smiling; but his smile faded as his gaze set upon Athos, still stood listlessly in the middle of the floor, head bowed and face turned away.

"Athos?" he murmured nervously and the antics of his brothers abruptly stop to clue in on the room's other occupant.

Athos took a deep breath and straightened "You know I am not a man of many words, d'Artagnan. Nor am I in any stretch of the imagination, a good communicator."

"Understatement of the century." Aramis muttered under his breath and the Gascon's eyes didn't leave Athos' face as he elbowed the Spaniard sharply in the ribcage and momentarily revelled in the satisfaction of another strangled yelp. He fought the overwhelming urge to shush the older man.

"In fact, until recently I was regarded as not much of a man at all." Athos continued sadly "A bitter drunk, a brilliant swordsman, a brave Musketeer. But, in a mysterious sense, not a man. For a long time, I believed it myself."

The others waited with baited breath for him to continue, drawn into the sad loneliness of his tone.

"When you first arrived and became our…apprentice, I had my doubts. Not because of your youth or your personality or your talent…but because you were determined to choose me as your role model."

"Athos, I-"

Athos turned to him sternly, finally meeting his eye and there was a twinge of desperation in his voice "Let me finish, d'Artagnan. Or I fear I might never have the courage nor the sobriety to utter it so honestly again."

The Gascon nodded, feeling Porthos' grip tighten on his arm.

"I have been relied upon before, d'Artagnan, for a great many things. I have not always been successful, but my lessons were learnt and the consequences reversible. But I realised when Thomas died the reality of the responsibility I had for him and I thought….perhaps if I had been a better man, a better brother, he would not have died so young at my own wife's hand, as a result of my poor decision and my misplaced trust."

Athos breathed out shakily, sounding choked "I promised myself that I would never allow someone to place me on such a pedestal as he did. To never influence someone into becoming who they believe they want to be."

D'Artagnan could feel the tension in Aramis' and Porthos' postures as they stared, entranced, at Athos and he wished he could decipher their own thoughts.

"When you first came here, I cannot lie that I thought you mad for placing such faith and trust in me. I was so certain I would fail another again, another Thomas, another brother; that I was constantly concerned for you." He paused, looking conflicted and confused as though astounded by his own revelation "But somehow, the boy I trained in the yard outside grew into the man you are today. The same stubborn and daring and perhaps, foolhardy boy but now a brave and honourable Musketeer in the King's Guard. And I don't think I have ever met someone more worthy to wear our uniform as you do, d'Artagnan."

Warmth flooded the younger man's chest, slightly bitter sweet with the wetness in Athos' eyes but the pride bloomed and ran hot in his Gascon veins nonetheless.

Porthos' fingers once again sought d'Artagnan's dark hair as he grinned widely, own voice more liquid with emotion "Even if yer still look like ya mum dressed ya."

"Not anymore," d'Artagnan laughed softly, reaching under his bed to retrieve the battered remains of his pauldron he'd been trying for days to repair.

The other three looked sickened by its wear; knowing its significance and Porthos took the material gently from d'Artagnan's hand as though the object were sacred, fingers pressed against the fleur-de-lis to trace it's intricate broguing.

"This is wrong, this is."

Aramis spoke sternly in agreement "It is sinful to desecrate a man's badge of honour, most of all a Musketeer's uniform. Jussac shall pay for this, I swear it."

"This is the least'a what he'll pay for." Porthos growled darkly passing the pauldron back to the safety of d'Artagnan's care so he could curl his fists "I'll rip him limb from limb for thinking he could lay his hand on d'Artagnan and get away with it."

"The cooler head will prevail in due course, brother." Athos advised, calm once again established with only the last vestiges of self-consciousness in his paralinguistics "Now is not the time to act rashly. Fear not, d'Artagnan, I know a man whom will repair your leathers as a favour with no cost to your person. Jussac will know justice this time tomorrow but first we shall inform Treville."

When Aramis saw Porthos' disapproving expression he nudged the man with an indisputably evil grin plastered on his face "Think of it this way, dear Porthos. Now we have more time to plan our revenge to be sure we are as efficient and merciless with our punishment as possible. I already have some ideas and this allows me to obtain certain...tools. I would appreciate your own input."

An even more frightening expression bloomed on the other Musketeer's face and d'Artagnan glanced between the two nervously, uncomfortable with how enthusiastically Porthos was chuckling and nodding his head.

"He messed with one of us, he gets all of us. Won't know what hit 'im."

The corner of Athos' mouth turned up "He should have at least some memory of whose forces befell him, otherwise the lesson will not have been learnt."

"Ah, but Athos then we might get the joy of reteaching it."

D'Artagnan smiled fondly and shook his head "I worry about you three sometimes."

"You should be more worried about what Treville will say when we explain what has occurred," Athos stated with a wry smile "He will not be nearly so forgiving as we for the secrets you have kept. It is after all his duty to send Musketeers on missions and to send one into danger without knowing his disadvantages means he is more likely to have to live with whatever consequences follow."

"Alas, the trials of a good leader." Aramis said emphatically, hand on his heart "I do not envy the responsibility. The only benefit of leadership is the assigning of punishment. What punishment do you think befits this crime?"

Porthos laughed as the four rose and headed for the door "One month cleaning the stables at least. Probably a lot of grunt work. D'Artagnan 'ere's the King's Champion and the newest Musketeer. An example must be set for the little'uns."

"What about you three breaking into my room?" The Gascon argued "That's against Treville's rules and you're some of the most experienced Musketeers in the Garrison."

Athos raised an eyebrow as they stepped outside "I knew nothing about that. I found Aramis and Porthos breaking into your room and attempted to stop them."

"Technically Porthos picked the lock."

"It was your idea, you traitor!"

"That's a bold accusation, Porthos. What evidence have you against me? Where is your witness?"

Porthos looked very put out as he shoved Aramis aside "Anyway, lying to Treville is worse. If I slip it in there he'll be too caught up 'bout d'Artagnan to even consider me."

"Doubtful. The Captain is not one to forget such things." Athos supplied simply, heading up the stairs to Treville's office.

Porthos scowled again "Yer the one meant to be lookin' out for us. Keepin' us out of trouble.

"An impossible task." The older Musketeer replied calmly, expression serene "A fact The Captain has long accepted. Besides which, I am not your Keeper."

D'Artagnan frowned, brows furrowing and nose wrinkling "You kinda are."

Athos just sighed exasperatedly, reaching Treville's door and looking back at his brothers"Shall we face the music and deal with the consequences later?"

"Yes," Aramis nodded enthusiastically and at the curious looks from his companions he grinned wider "For once I'm the only one of us not in trouble. I'm going to enjoy this."

The entire Garrison was kept up by the sound of Treville's ranting. Needless to say there were four hands attending the horses rather than two.