Athos finds himself happy and content as he and his friends enjoy a day of calm and recover from the aftermath of battle.

Athos POV

I seem to have gone from never having written before to not being able to stop! This is just a little interlude for the boys where they enjoy some down time together and recover in the wake of D'Artagnan's first real battle experience.

Nothing too graphic, but some of the battle stuff may be a trigger.

Don't own the boys...sigh!

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos deep booming laugh and D'Artagnan's - one could only describe it as a giggle (though Athos knew the boy would vociferously object to such a term) echoed across the meadow. With the soft, crisp air of a beautiful, mild April day in his nostrils, a sense of contentment, which had been so rare and elusive in his life, filled Athos. He felt peace at this moment.

Porthos had just finished recounting to D'Artagnan (much to Aramis chagrin) an hilarious tale of one of his friend's most embarrassing encounters - as he attempted to escape from the amorous advances of a very rich, very old, very portly, surprisingly strong, and extremely persistent Dowager. Said escape involved an unpleasant encounter with the contents of a chamber pot, followed by some extremely aggressive swans, and a final undignified tumble down a hill to land in a pile of manure. To say nothing of the ruin of a very fine hat! D'Artagnan had tears streaming down his cheeks, almost unseating himself from his horse as the story reached its crescendo. It was so good to hear him laugh again.

The four friends remained at a leisurely pace, their horses enjoying the meander as much as the riders. Morning sunlight dancing on the wild flowers by the path. It was so good to bask in the presence of his friends, to enjoy the peace and warmth of the day. It would do them all good, especially the boy. So different from the noise, the screams, the fear and agony of just a few weeks ago.

As they rounded a small copse a pond glittered before them. Without a word spoken they all broke into a canter. The horses had barely stopped before his three friends were off their mounts, stripped to their braies and diving into the chilly water. Athos lowered himself down carefully, the movement pulling at the jagged, still fresh scar in his side. He noticed D'Artagnan watching him with a worried expression. Athos gave him a small reassuring smile, and was pleased to see Porthos - clearly having witnessed the interaction, dunking the gascon below the water. The boy came up spluttering and scowling at the guffawing Porthos then, with a quick mischievous glance at Aramis, D'Artagnan elicited the other man's help and they both dived on the larger man bringing him under the water.

Athos rejoiced at the sight of his brothers' healthy, happy and alive. Rejoiced too that he was around to see it, and wasn't that a positive change for him after so many years of, if not courting death, at least not resisting it should it call.

This day was so different to the one 3 weeks ago which was bloody, brutal, and fierce. It had been D'Artagnan's first experience of true battle. Oh he had fought, dealt with bandits, ambushes, attacks on the King. But this was an actual battlefield. Canon fire, chaos and carnage - as the initial waves of attack swamped their forces, before reinforcements arrived to turn the tide in their favour. Porthos and Aramis had been swept away from them - fighting to the right flank. Athos was determined to keep D'Artagnan in sight as they defended on the left of the field, fighting side by side. So they were together when the ground shook with the explosion of the canon, and when the ridge they were standing on gave way, and when they fell. The little Athos knew of what happened after was pieced together from hazy moments of consciousness, and what he had been able to glean from D'Artagnan in the days after.

Athos remembered the fall. The pain as he bounced off boulders, tree stumps and debris. He' s not sure what sliced into his side, a sharp rock, a section of branch, a discarded sword? The next thing he remembered was D'Artagnan's blurry and worried face leaning over him, pleadingly whispering his name.

"Oh thank God" he heard the boy breathe as he opened his eyes.

The Gascon had a nasty gash running the length of his cheek. Athos was vaguely aware that they seemed to be surrounded by bushes and trees. D'Artagnan had apparently dragged him into the nearby woods after they fell.

" There are at least a dozen enemy soldiers nearby" he hissed. " We need to go now! Can you move?"

Athos will forever say that gave a manly sound of agreement, but it might have actually been a whimper, as D'Artagnan pulled him to his feet. He was aware of a bandage at his waist, clearly D'Artagnan had been busy while he was out, Much of what happened next is vague at best, as his consciousness drifted. He was aware of the boy dragging him as he tried unsuccessfully to get his legs to support his own weight. Next thing he remembered he was being cast to the ground and the sounds of swords as D'Artagnan engaged what might have been around 5 or 6 enemy soldiers. The boy was fierce, bellowing a battle cry that Porthos would have been proud of. He was a blur of limbs, cutting down the attackers with viciousness and ferocity. Hacking away at the final soldier until Athos had had to yell for him to stop. D'Artagnan turned to Athos, his enemies blood dripping from his face, arms and sword. Adrenalin still pumping through his body, breathing fast, ready to keep fighting. A look of fury, that it broke Athos heart to see, on the face of the once innocent young man. It was a warrior's face. Then suddenly it was gone. His knees gave out and he landed on all fours, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the muddy forest floor. Horror replacing his earlier rage as he looked at the bodies around him and realised that he had ended their lives. He had had no choice, he had defended himself and Athos. But as he looked he noticed that at least 3 of them seemed to be younger than him. Boyish, pimpled faces twisted in death. All of a sudden their Gascon boy had become as battle weary as the rest of the inseparables. And Athos wanted to weep at the sight.

He must have passed out again, because when next he became aware of his surroundings he realised that D'Artagnan had managed to somehow get him back up the hill to the field of battle. The skirmish was over. The enemy had retreated and those left lay dead or dying on the grass. D'Artagnan half dragged, half carried Athos to the command tent, where surgeons awaited. There is nothing quite like the horrific sounds of the wounded post battle - the screams of the maimed and dying. The pungent odours of blood and death. Athos wished he could spare the boy such memories. But he was a soldier, and this was the brutal reality of the life he had chosen.

Athos remembered D'Artagnan' s mumbled reassurances as he passed him into the care of one of the musketeers whom he knew to be skilled at needle work. Not as good as Aramis, but capable nonetheless . It was then they realised there was no sign of Aramis or Porthos.

Note: I should have the second and final chapter up in the next few days.

Reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.