10. Qui ose gagne

(Who dares wins)

There was nothing easy about Athos' recovery. The fever that had all but vanished was rekindled with renewed vigour, weakening him further. It was draining his strength almost as quickly as he regained it now that the tetanus poison had finally burned itself out.

And then there was the cough. He had been too weak to cough for such a long time, but as he regained the ability, it returned with a vengeance. According to Aramis, his inability to cough or gag for so many days had likely made him breathe in particles of water and wine. The liquid had been left to fester in his lungs causing an inflammation that resulted in the cough.

The cough in turn triggered spasms.

Not the frightening full-body spasms—fortunately those seemed to be a thing of the past—but a return of the rigid muscles and bared teeth of earlier days. It was something he wished to avoid, but since he could not supress his cough, Athos lived in a permanent cycle of pain and difficulty breathing.

It was enough to kill a man.

But Athos stayed alive.

He was still in severe pain and weaker than he cared to admit, but he lived. For some reason, that gave him previously unknown joy. To have come so close to the death he had so often courted, or at least been none to desperate to avoid, had served to focus his thoughts.

He had been lost for too long. He had been tormented by Aramis and the queen and the consequences that would have for all of them. He had been distressed over his wife's reappearance and her wreaking havoc here in Paris, his Paris, his safe space, his new life far away from Pinon and the heartbreak that place held.

I made her what she is. Her murders are on my hands.

It is you who should be on your knees.

In the end, she had brought him to his knees, had nearly brought him to his death.

And yet...

She had not done so purposefully, couldn't have. She did not hold that power over him. It had been chance or Fate—if such an entity existed—that brought him tetanus.

He had been at the mercy of his thoughts as much as at the mercy of the poison for weeks, weeks spent with no other distraction from the pain than his thoughts. And yet, she had hardly featured.

Maybe her grip on him was finally loosening.

The people on his mind were not ones that wished him death and despair. His friends were his priority now. He was alive for them and because of them, and he would continue to live his life in that knowledge.

The three of them had remained close for all these weeks and they were still supporting him now that his strength gradually returned. He needed help with everything: washing, eating, even relieving himself. They were there to provide it gladly, with smiles on their faces.

Athos had sought to free himself of servants and support as part of his self-imposed penance, but nothing had taught him humility so well as to be aided by his brothers. Such were the riches of a lowly soldier. Riches that his wife would never know, nor know to appreciate if she did encounter them.

Athos had much time to sit and observe as he still lacked the energy to do much else. His prolonged illness had taken its toll, not just on his own body, but also on the minds of his friends.

Athos saw it in the way d'Artagnan would sit quietly for hours on end and cast him worried glances whenever he felt unobserved, as if he were afraid Athos had died while he wasn't looking

Athos saw it in the way Porthos, usually adept at taking care of all his physical needs, shied away from touching or looking at his right arm. He was evidently still blaming himself for the break. It did not matter how many times d'Artagnan explained that it had merely been the force of the spasm, how often Aramis assured him that the bone was knitting together nicely, or how much Athos himself disregarded the injury. Porthos refused to absolve himself of his guilt.

Even Tréville seemed uneasy and uncharacteristically apologetic around Athos. But the one who truly worried him was Aramis. Aramis, who lived his religion fully and fervently, had not opened his bible once during all those days of sitting and waiting. And while he would occasionally finger his rosary in the depth of night, Athos had not witnessed a single prayer of thanks from Aramis. Aramis probably found it difficult to give thanks considering what had happened before Athos' illness.

Athos knew he needed to talk to them individually. More than that, he wanted to. He was not one for an overt show of emotion or ebullient thanks, but he wanted to ease the burdens they carried for his sake.

It had become easier to catch them on their own. With Athos' health steadily improving, it was unnecessary for two or all three of his friends to keep their bedside vigil. Tréville had ordered them to return to duty, albeit with the concession that he only expected two of them to report each morning and assigned them solely to comparatively local and risk-free duties. Tréville was doing them a favour. The captain had probably realised that keeping them all inside for well over a month was doing none of them any favours. They still spent the nights together, eschewing the comfort of their beds for the hard floor in Tréville's office and what warmth could be found in their camaraderie.

Despite Athos' protests that he was no longer likely to die at a moment's notice, whoever was not on duty during the day, sat with him. There was always one of them keeping him company and keeping a watchful eye on him—just in case.

Despite his protests, Athos appreciated it.

Eventually, Athos felt strong enough to tackle the anxiety that surrounded his friends. He approached D'Artagnan first. Out of the four, d'Artagnan would probably be easiest to talk to. The boy still had a tendency to take Athos' word as law.

They lounged in companionable silence after their shared lunch, the empty bowls and cups piled onto the nightstand. Athos sat up in bed, his back cushioned with several downy pillows, a luxury he did not usually permit himself.

D'Artagnan had tipped one of Tréville's chairs onto its hind legs, balancing with his feet on the edge of the bed. His toes peeked out of socks that were in desperate need of darning. He was devouring an apple, completely oblivious of the sorry state of his clothing. Athos considered commenting on it to lighten the mood, but thought better of it. Constance had likely been in charge of mending d'Artagnan's things ever since he had arrived in Paris.

No need to bring up painful memories.

"I will sodomize and face-fuck you," Athos said conversationally.

The effect was immediate and entirely expected. D'Artagnan jerked out of his post-lunch haze, sending the apple core flying across the room and making the chair teeter precariously, threatening to fall backwards. Throwing all four limbs about wildly, d'Artagnan managed to regain his balance, bringing the chair crashing down onto all four legs.

"Diable," he cursed with gusto. "You... what?"

Athos permitted himself a brief smirk before answering, in his best impression of a bored schoolmaster.

"Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."

D'Artagnan stared at him, flabbergasted.

"The translation from the Latin that you asked me for some weeks ago," Athos explained. "I am satisfied that you are mature enough to hear it now."

"The Latin," d'Artagnan croaked, still completely flummoxed.

"Aramis regaled a certain gentleman at the gates with it, presumably the relation of some female acquaintance," Athos elaborated.

"I will sodomize and..." d'Artagnan repeated, voice toneless.

"...face-fuck you," Athos completed. "Carmen 16, a rather notorious poem by the Roman Catullus."

"A Latin poem about... really?"

"The line holds a wider meaning, although Aramis undoubtedly chose it for the insult it contains."

"What else could it mean?" d'Artagnan asked, interest piqued.

"It has to be seen in context," Athos said. "Catullus' work consisted mainly of romantic love poems, quite saccharine, effeminate one might say."

D'Artagnan snorted. "Doesn't sound like it."

"This particular poem is Catullus' protest, his defence against being regarded as weak and soft."

"And he does that by... well, things?"

"He tries to explain that a man should not be judged by his words alone," Athos explained. "In fact, it is evident that Catullus held both himself and his friends to quite high standards of virtue and fidelity, despite appearances.

"A bit like Aramis then."

"Indeed." Athos nodded. "Ovid—you will have heard of him—follows a similar line of argument, declaring vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea."

"My life is..."

"Moral, or virtuous."

"My muse is... happy."

"Playful, humorous, or gay," Athos corrected.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"So even when Aramis is a bit, you know... libertine," d'Artagnan said. "It doesn't make him any less of a good person."

"Correct," Athos confirmed. "Or applied more broadly, no one thing that a man does, defines him in his entirety."

A lesson he himself should have learned earlier, but maybe he could spare his young protégé that pain.

"Hmm," d'Artagnan made eventually. "But there are things that are so bad that they completely destroy a man's character."

"Yes," Athos allowed. "Though they rarely occur in isolation. One misstep does not put your character in doubt."

He let those words linger, knowing that his eager pupil would think on them.

D'Artagnan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, scrutinising the wall.

"I did a bad thing," he said at length, not looking at Athos. "I ran away, that first day when you were ill. I couldn't watch; I didn't want to see you... die."

D'Artagnan exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "I was a coward."

Athos nodded slowly. The lengthy introduction had paid off; d'Artagnan had confessed what plagued him. It had not been difficult to guess, but Athos had wanted to hear it from him directly.

"You are not a coward."

"I am," d'Artagnan said, abruptly turning his eyes onto Athos. "I was scared and I let my fear get in the way of my duty. You're my friend. You needed me and I abandoned you."

"So one crude verse makes the poet immoral?"

"It's not... I still ran."

"You came back. You faced your fears and tended to me, even when... at times... Porthos and Aramis could not."

"I should never have left in the first place!" D'Artagnan leapt from his chair, almost shouting now.

"You knew what I was facing. Nobody can blame you for not wanting to see it," Athos said calmly.

"I deserted. On the eve of battle," d'Artagnan said through gritted teeth. "What a fine musketeer I've proven to be."

"It is not cowardice, nor despicable, to know our limits," Athos said.

D'Artagnan let out a huff.

"Easy for you to say," he said. "You're a hero."

Athos smiled, looking fondly at the disgruntled young man in front of him. To call him a hero after all he had seen... he wished he could be half the man he was in d'Artagnan's eyes.

"You have seen me run from my demons many times."

D'Artagnan shook his head violently and made to protest, but Athos cut across him.

"We both know that's true. We all have our limits. To know them is wisdom, not cowardice. And to decide knowingly to face your fears, that, mon ami, is courage."

They sat in silence for several minutes while d'Artagnan mulled that over. Athos watched him closely, watched him frown and clench his fists, bite his tongue and tear at his hair. Eventually, the tension seemed to leave d'Artagnan's body and he looked up.

"Thank you, Athos," he said simply.

Athos smiled at him.

"You have great potential, mon ami," he said. "But do not try to do it all alone."

D'Artagnan grinned.

"You'll have to stick around and remind me," he said.

He slid over onto the bed, leaned forward, but then hesitated awkwardly, evidently not entirely sure what he actually wanted to do or could do without endangering Athos' health.

Athos grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him forwards until they were close enough that he could press a kiss onto d'Artagnan's forehead.

"I will," he murmured. Then he added more loudly "And I'll remind you of the need to improve your lousy footwork."

"It's not lousy!"

"Not if you focus on it," Athos allowed. "But that is a rare occurrence indeed."

With that, the tension between them was broken and the clouds that had hung low over them with past month dispersed. The rest of the afternoon passed with amicable banter and plans for new training routines. By the time the other two returned from their duties, d'Artagnan was wholly himself again, albeit somewhat more enlightened about Roman poetry.

After the success of that talk, Athos was ready to face Porthos the next day. Porthos always carried his heart on his sleeve, so it was obvious what ailed him. Nevertheless, the matter needed to be addressed.

Porthos sat with a book on his lap, a frown of intense concentration on his face, his finger carefully following the words as he was reading to Athos. Athos still found it difficult to hold a book for long periods of time and he figured that Porthos would appreciate the opportunity to practice.

Porthos had taught himself to read before he joined the musketeers and was able to decipher orders or maps without difficulty, but longer, more difficult texts remained a challenge to him. One that he was more than willing to face, ever eager to learn and to better himself. Athos admired his determination.

Reaching the end of the chapter, Porthos looked up expectantly. They discussed each section of their reading, their very different backgrounds creating stimulating debate. Porthos possessed a sharp mind and a range of experience that would have put many a nobleman to shame. Athos greatly enjoyed their mental sparring, particularly now that he lacked the strength for more physical forms of competition.

Alas, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

With his left hand, Athos reached over to the side of the nightstand where a small protruding nail had become the temporary home of Porthos' treasured amulet of Saint Jude, visible only to Athos. He detached it carefully and looked at the saint's image. He sighed and transferred it to his right hand.

Time to force the issue.

Athos' right arm was still bandaged tightly and Aramis had fashioned him a sling for it, so he could not move it forward very far.

"Thank you," he said, holding out the small figure for Porthos as best he could. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness in lending me this, but now that I'm better, I want to return it to its rightful owner."

When Porthos made no move to reach for the pendant, Athos added,

"I know how much it means to you, mon ami."

Porthos still looked dubious, but quickly snatched his treasure from Athos' hand, holding it very carefully.

"When...?" Athos asked.

Porthos swallowed heavily.

"When... when I..." He waved vaguely in the direction of Athos' arm and continued in a hoarse whisper. "When I broke your arm."

"You know that's not true," Athos said. "I do not hold you responsible for that, and neither do Aramis and d'Artagnan. My own muscles broke that bone, not yours."

Porthos did not seem to be listening. He enclosed Saint Jude in his fist and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

"I used too much force," he muttered.

"No, Porthos—"

"And your sword arm as well," Porthos said, sliding from his seat to kneel next to the bed, looking up at Athos with such hurt in his eyes.

Athos reached out for him with his uninjured hand.

"You said that back then," he said. "You gave me hope with that."

"Hope?"

"I was weak then, weak and in so much pain. It was almost too much to bear," Athos explained. "But there you were, worried about my sword arm. Such things still mattered to you; to you I was still a swordsman even when I could barely muster the strength to draw breath. Nobody worries about the sword arm of a corpse, and to you I was always more than that."

Athos smiled. "That, mon ami, gave me hope."

"I would never..." Porthos shuddered at the thought.

"I know."

For a while all that could be heard was the distant noise of sword fighting. Life in the garrison was slowly returning to normal after the month-long silence.

"It was bound to happen," Porthos said. "I was always the brawn. When I signed up for the infantry the officers looked at me like I was a horse at market, checked my teeth, pinched my legs, made me lift my arms. 'Fine specimen' they said and that was that. They would have taken me without a brain."

Athos let him continue without interruption. Porthos rarely spoke of his time in the infantry. They knew he had joined near the end of the first Huguenot rebellion and had seen action at Montpellier, but what Porthos had experienced before joining the musketeers remained largely unknown to them.

"But with Tréville... it was different. I wasn't a musketeer just because of these." He lifted his arms limply. "But now... now it's... it was bound to go wrong one day..." He looked at his hands, Saint Jude cradled in the palm of his right. "A lost cause."

"Never that," Athos said, sitting up and closing his friend's hand around the small figure of the saint. "You may see him as your patron saint, but you are no lost cause."

"I tried..." Porthos' eyes were far away, seeing things far beyond the dim light of the room.

"And you succeeded," Athos said with certainty. "If you were as weak as I am now, I would still want you by my side."

"Really?"

"I could wish for no one better."

Porthos remained unconvinced, so Athos continued.

"I value your strength; it has served us all well and saved my life multiple times," he said. "But I value your compassion, your caring nature, and your common sense much more."

A smile flickered across Porthos' face, but then he shook his head.

"If I injure you, then who is safe?" he asked. "I tried to escape it, but I'm still what people believe me to be — a thug."

"That is not true," Athos said.

"Even when I—"

"I trust d'Artagnan's assessment," Athos assured him once more. "You don't hurt anyone without cause; you'd rather take the pain yourself. Whatever you did, you did it out of love."

Porthos shuffled uncomfortably on his knees.

"I wasn't thinking," he said. "I was reacting to what I saw and I couldn't... I lost control, Athos."

"You didn't," Athos replied, his frustration with Porthos' insistence growing. "You have done nothing wrong."

"You don't," Porthos said, completely ignoring Athos. "Through all your illness you never lost control."

Athos almost laughed out loud. He had indeed clung desperately to some remnant of control, but had also gotten to the stage of having none, not even over something as trivial as his breathing.

"You have seen the opposite to be true," Athos said. "At Ninon's trial... during that duel with the Duke of Savoy. You watched me almost murder that man."

Porthos frowned at the memory.

"You did that out of love for Aramis."

Athos inclined his head, holding eye contact with Porthos.

"My point, exactly."

When Porthos made to protest again, Athos held up a hand to stop him.

"You give us that same love," he said. "You are not defined by what you were given, Porthos, but by what you have made of it."

He reached out and closed Porthos' hand around the pendant once more.

"Saint Jude has served you well, mon ami. Thank you for lending him to me."

If Athos had had to pick just one reason why it was good to still be alive, Porthos' shy smile would have been sufficient.

The following morning the four of them had breakfast together and then Porthos and d'Artagnan went to accompany the king on a hunt. Porthos complained about how it really should be Aramis on duty that day, what with being the best shot and all. D'Artagnan teased him for having grown soft over the past month and wanting to avoid the slight chill in the autumn air. Their lively banter could be heard until they left the courtyard of the garrison.

"I assume it's my turn today," Aramis said into the ensuing silence, leaning casually against the heavy cast-iron screen they had dragged in front of the door.

"To have the talk," he clarified when Athos looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "It's difficult not to notice that d'Artagnan and Porthos have both cast off their heavy yokes over these past two days. I take it as a sign of healing that you are back to your old ways."

Athos smirked.

"By all means."

He had contemplated several approaches to opening the dialogue with Aramis, but his friend had taken matters into his own hands. Athos waited patiently as Aramis made no sound.

Saint Sulpice chimed the hour.

As soon as the last bell had faded away, Aramis rounded on Athos. He stalked closer with the swiftness of a feral cat.

"Never do that to me again," he hissed.

Athos looked him in the eye, unblinking. His relationship with Aramis had been troubled even before his illness and Athos had wondered what his reaction might be. The weight of Aramis' treason had fractured something between them, but Aramis had stayed. Stayed and played nursemaid to Athos for a full month, only to watch him nearly die—the only man who knew his secret. If Aramis preferred a confrontational approach, Athos would oblige.

"My death would have meant one less person to know — hardly a bad thing," he said coolly.

Aramis' eyes widened and he seemed genuinely taken aback, as if the thought had never crossed his mind.

"How dare you..." he whispered. "How dare you suggest that I—"

He balled his fist and came closer.

"Pardieu, I would punch you in the face for that," he said, his voice trembling. "If it wasn't for the fact that I actually want you to survive!"

He shouted the last few words, making Athos shiver.

They were both breathing heavily, the only sound in the room.

"I apologise," Athos said. "My words were thoughtless and I apologise for what I have done to you. I can't begin to imagine the burden you have carried." He locked eyes with Aramis, trying to give his words the weight they were meant to have. "I can't promise to never die on you again, but I shall give it my very best."

Aramis dropped heavily onto the chair, only breaking eye contact with Athos when he buried his face in his hands. Aramis' elbows were resting on his knees and he was bent low, kneading his temple.

Athos let him.

He loved Aramis dearly. Their often-tumultuous friendship did nothing to change that. Aramis was right. Athos had clearly overstepped the line here. That was not the way to treat a dear friend who had worked tirelessly to ensure his survival.

Eventually, Aramis looked up, red crescent marks printed on his face.

"It's not that," he said softly. "I know I have no right to keep you in this life."

Athos was taken aback.

Aramis had fought for his life. He had done everything to heal him, to alleviate his pain, to make the whole ordeal bearable somehow. He had kept Athos alive, had given him hope when all seemed lost. He had given him a reason to hold on for as long as he did. Aramis had...

"You have the only right," Athos said, his voice breaking.

Aramis smiled, but only for a moment. It was clear that there was something more, but Athos did not dare to guess at it.

"It's not what I meant," he said. "Dying... I don't want you to die, of course not, but it's somehow part of being a musketeer." He shrugged. "What's more, I'm putting your head on the line. Dismemberment for me if the king ever finds out, and you, you get to chose between decapitation and the firing squad, if you're lucky.

He gave a humourless chuckle. His eyes were wide and full of despair, so at odds with his usual joyous nature.

"It will not come to that," Athos said, reaching out for his friend. "Nobody will ever know. We have not come through all of this just to die at the hands of Jean Guillaume."

"Life and death," Aramis said. "That's not for us to decide."

Silence fell as Aramis buried his face in his hands once more.

Athos looked at him with sympathy. It was easy to see Aramis as nought but the carefree libertine, but he was so much more than that. He was a budding poet and philosopher, an excellent medic and aspiring priest, but most of all; Aramis was a loyal friend and a loyal soldier. Aramis had been a soldier longer than the rest of them. He had been one of the now almost mythical figures of the first musketeers back in 1622, and had seen more combat than Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan put together. It was easy to forget that, too. Aramis made it easy.

Being so close to death and reduced to naught but quiet observation for so long had given Athos a new appreciation for his friends.

"When I told you to not do that again..." Aramis said eventually. He sounded tired. "I didn't mean dying. I—"

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

"All of this, it made me... I doubted—I couldn't believe in God."

Aramis did not look up. He seemed hesitant, shrinking back into his seat, withdrawing from Athos as if he expected punishment.

Athos had no such intentions. He was truly no stranger to losing faith when circumstances were dire. Nevertheless, it pained him to see his friend in that same state, to see him question that which had given him purpose and strength throughout his life.

"You told me once that it doesn't matter what I believe," Athos said, trying to put all of his love and whatever shredded remnants of faith he still had into his words. "Because He believes in you."

Slowly, Aramis let his hands slide down his face until they covered his mouth. His eyes, red and swollen, lingered on Athos. For once he looked open and vulnerable, unwilling or unable to hide the matters he wrestled with in his heart and mind.

Athos held his gaze. He hoped that God, or Porthos' Saint Jude, or whoever else might intervene on his behalf, would help him express how much Aramis and all he had suffered and done for him truly meant.

He did not know how long they sat like this, but eventually Aramis brushed back his hair and sighed. He straightened up slowly and stood, lips forming words that would not come. He dithered, clearly wanting to leave, but not knowing how.

Athos simply nodded his head, briefly closing his eyes.

Still hesitant, looking anywhere but at Athos, Aramis made to round the cast-iron screen to head for the door.

"Aramis," Athos said and waited for him to turn around. "Life is fleeting, remember that."

Aramis huffed, the mask of composure sliding firmly into place once more. But Athos knew he didn't have to tell him to remember that when he was playing with his own life and those of others.

"Remember to enjoy it fully," he said instead.

Aramis blinked his eyes and then put on his hat.

He left the room without another word, the door clicking closed behind him. Athos could hear him stop outside, lean heavily against the door and slide down against it.

Athos waited.

For a long time, he heard nothing from beyond the door. Eventually, Aramis sighed heavily, got to his feet, and left.

Athos was strangely disappointed, but chided himself for the childish notion. Aramis was his own man after all. He had no right to keep him. Athos used the time alone to work on his drills. They were nothing but gentle exercises, meant to help him regain some strength and flexibility, but d'Artagnan called them his drills. For all his teasing, d'Artagnan was always eager to help him, taking great pride in the small progress Athos made

Aramis returned at noon, bearing a tray of food and drink. When Athos made to continue their previous conversation, eager to set things right between them, Aramis cut him off swiftly. They proceeded to have lunch as if nothing had happened, chatting about the latest recruits and speculating on the outcome of the royal hunt.

The tension between them remained. Athos was glad to be able to find respite in sleep after their meal. He was still unable to eat much and was easily exhausted, so his need to sleep was not out of the ordinary.

When Athos woke, Aramis had settled comfortably into a chair, bible on his knees and rosary in his hands. Athos smiled at the sight.

Aramis kept his head bowed, the beads slowly gliding through his fingers as he prayed silently. Once he was done, Aramis looked up. Noticing that Athos was awake, he carefully slid the rosary into his pocket.

"Turns out, I'm hardly the first to experience doubts," he said, smiling sheepishly.

"Nor the last I dare say," Athos replied.

"Who are we to know the ways of the Lord," Aramis said, but there was no reproach in his words.

Athos smiled.

A few more days passed and Athos continued to gain strength. The milestones he reached might seem inconsequential for any grown man, but his friends greeted each one with great enthusiasm. He was starting to eat more and, with somebody to steady him, he managed to walk from the bed to the desk.

On one rainy afternoon, he sat in Tréville's chair, a pillow cushioning his back and a blanket covering his legs. Despite Athos' protests, claiming he looked like his own grandfather, Porthos insisted on these small comforts.

Porthos sat across the desk from him, grinning broadly as he moved one of his chess pieces across the board they had set up. Athos was out to prove that his mind had not suffered any lasting damage. Porthos might be a talented chess player, quite possibly an exceptionally talented one, but Athos was still the tactician among them.

Their battles went on for hours, boring the other two out of their minds, so they made good use of any time they had to themselves.

There was a gentle tapping on the door. Even now that Athos was feeling better and much less sensitive to noise, nobody wanted to risk causing another spasm.

"Come in," Athos called.

Tréville entered, greeting them warmly.

"Remind me to discuss any future battle plans with you, Porthos," he remarked after a glance at the chessboard. "He's got you in a bind there, Athos."

Athos bristled at his words.

"I like to make him think so," he said haughtily.

"Could you leave us alone for a moment?" Tréville asked, turning to Porthos.

Porthos looked inquiringly at Athos, only getting up when he was certain Athos wanted him to leave.

"Captain." Porthos nodded to Tréville, then turned to Athos. "I shall faire Charlemagne."

"You were not winning," Athos shouted after him.

Porthos laughed as he left the room.

Tréville chuckled.

He sat in Porthos' vacated chair, a visitor in his own office.

"How are you?" he asked, casting a scrutinising glance at Athos.

"Improving," Athos said. "I should be ready to report for duty before too long."

Tréville shook his head. "It has been years since I have cared so little about a musketeer returning to duty."

"You shall have your office back at least," Athos said.

Tréville waved him off. "Stay. I can be accommodated elsewhere."

He paused, still looking at Athos critically.

"This has not been easy for you," he said. "Certainly not physically, but also mentally..."

He left the sentence open.

Athos knew why. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

"I am content," he said and looked at Tréville. "More so than before. An illness like that has a way of focussing the mind. I'm better than I have been since I joined the regiment."

"I'm glad," Tréville said. "You probably don't remember, but when you were... when things were looking bad... I told you..."

He scrubbed a hand over his beard.

"I remember," Athos said. "You needn't worry. I buried my longing for death the day I received my commission."

Tréville nodded, still regarding Athos critically.

"Back then I threatened you," he said. "I saw a troubled young man and told him he'd be buried with dishonour if there was the slightest hint of suicide about his death."

He shook his head.

Athos huffed out a short laugh.

"With all due respect, Captain, no threat of yours could have kept me alive at that point," he said. Tréville seemed surprised.

"I was too far gone," Athos continued. "I came to Paris to court death, but it was not your threat that kept me from seeking it out. It was seeing the love Porthos showed Aramis, and your utter devotion to the regiment."

Tréville nodded slowly. "You joined not long after Savoy," he said, remembering.

"I was not mistaken," Athos said, cutting short any reminiscence about Savoy. He did not want to know more about Tréville's role in that. "We follow your command gladly because we know you love us, every single one of us."

Tréville remained silent for a while, his gaze boring into Athos. Athos shifted uncomfortably, wondering what Tréville was looking for.

"You inspire great loyalty yourself," Tréville said thoughtfully.

Athos smiled, thinking of his friends. Five years ago, he had admired the way in which Porthos cared for a slowly recovering Aramis. Now he was the recipient of the same selfless care from all three of them.

"I had nothing to live for when I arrived," Athos said. "You gave me something, a purpose; you gave me France. But they, they gave me something more tangible. They gave me love, a home. They made France mean so much to me."

He paused, struggling to accurately summarise his feelings.

"They have given me a new lease on life," he finally said, smiling. "I owe you my second life and them my third — I shall live it in service to them, to the regiment, and to France."

Tréville regarded him closely and nodded without uttering another word.

As his body recovered a little more with each passing day, Athos grew increasingly restless. He had spoken to those closest to him, but was also eager to thank the rest of the regiment. He had briefly seen a few of them when they came in to retrieve something from the armoury, and each one of them had been delighted to see him improving, especially once he had been able to get out of bed.

He had yet to step foot outside, though.

When he finally did so, it was on a dreary, overcast day. Bright light still caused him pain, so Aramis insisted on making this as easy for him as possible. Athos had walked the length of the room multiple times without assistance and was confident in his ability to make it outside on his own volition.

All three of his friends hovered close by, but Athos managed to walk without faltering. He leaned heavily against the bannister outside, catching his breath as he blinked into the light.

The whole regiment was assembled in the courtyard. Young Etienne and his friends stood with Bernard who beamed up at Athos with the pride of a father looking at his first-born. Tréville himself was leaning against a pillar, smiling broadly. Jacques the stable boy grinned from ear to ear, and even Serge had emerged from the kitchen.

The men were hesitant to cheer; conscious of the effect noise had had on him for so long.

He thanked them for their consideration, for their help, and he smiled when his words were answered with cries of One for all, and all for one!

He knew he was not perfect by any means, but he realised that he was liked, even loved, nonetheless. It was not the fierce and jealous love that his wife had shown him. Where she was fire, all consuming, the love of these men was the air he breathed.

He breathed it deeply.

He was home. He was loved. And he was thankful for it. It seemed more than any man had a right to expect from life.

He had been outside for less than five minutes, but his legs were shaking like those of a young colt. He was aware that his friends had come closer, concerned, watching him closely; once again ready to catch him should he fall.

They all smiled at him and Porthos had tears in his eyes.

"I believe it is necessary to have longed for death," Athos said quietly. "In order to know how good it is to be alive."

Thanks

Thank you to everyone who has followed this story over the past seven months. Whether or not you have commented before, please let me know how you liked it. Your input has been a great source of motivation and inspiration for me. Many thought-provoking discussions have started around the themes of this fic. I have also been fortunate to get to know a few members of this—still pretty new to me—fandom a little better. It has been a real joy. While the series has ended and this fic has now come to an end as well, I hope to stay in touch over our shared enthusiasm for these timeless characters. I have already started my next project, a 16-chapter pre-series fic called Praise and Glory: Porthos' Tale, so if you would like to see more of my writing, please head on over. I promise it's worth it. For anything else, please send me a message on here or on tumblr, I'm very diligent in answering and always happy to talk.

Special thanks to Meysun for (unwittingly) providing the initial idea for this fic and subsequently giving me much background information on both medical and cultural matters. Most of all, many, many thanks to the incredible Marigold Faucet, my magnificent beta reader, who has helped me improve my writing so much and continues to be a terrific sounding board for all of my crazy ideas, while also keeping me in line grammatically and frequently reminding me that sentences of the length of the present one are completely and utterly inacceptable, which I'm sure readers will sincerely appreciate as even I acknowledge that the length of this word snake is reaching levels that I was never expecting to find outside of the insanity that is the German language.

Translations & Explanations

Qui ose gagne — "who dares, wins" a very well known motto to round this fic off. It is the motto of the 1st Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment of the French Army, as well as many other elite special forces throughout the world, usually ones that can trace their origins back to the British Special Air Service during WW2. This motto is often attributed to David Stirling, founder of the SAS, and looking at his modus operandi, that seems entirely credible. The SAS folks I work with like misquoting it as "who cares who wins".

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo — I will sodomize you and face-fuck you, first line of Carmen 16, one of the poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (ca. 84 BC – ca. 54 BC), a response to criticism that the poet was soft and feminine because of his romantic love poems

Diable — "Devil" (3rd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 19 times)

Pardieu — "By God" (2nd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 38 times)

Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea — My life is moral though my muse is gay, Ovid, Tristia 2.354, also commenting on the matter that a poet's work is not necessarily an accurate reflection of his morals.

Saint Jude — One of the twelve apostles of Jesus, patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. According to Howard Charles in an Instagram post in 2014, the pendant Porthos carries around his neck is of Saint Jude.

Montpellier — The siege of Montpellier was a major event in the suppression of the Huguenot rebellion in 1622. Although it eventually ended in the king entering Montpellier, the royal army suffered many losses and the later part of the siege was plagued with hunger and sickness. I'm currently writing about it for my new fic Praise and Glory: Porthos' Tale.

Jean Guillaume — The executioner of Paris at the time, one in a whole dynasty of members of the Guillaume family to hold that post, though their fame would be eclipsed by the Sanson family a century later.

First Musketeers — The "Musketeers of the military household of the King of France" were founded by Louis XIII in 1622, the year in which Aramis received a scar after being hit by a musket ball at the Île de Ré (historically, the naval battle of Saint-Martin-de-Ré)

"I do not believe in God." – "It doesn't matter, he believes in you." — Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Christo

Faire Charlemagne — "make Charlemagne" means to stop playing when you are winning, leaving your opponent no chance to win back his losses, derives from Charlemagne's refusal to give up any of his conquests in his lifetime

It is necessary to have longed for death... in order to know how good it is to be alive. — Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Christo

References

(Yes, I'm actually going there... there is surprisingly little tetanus in fanfic or even in literature as a whole. So if anybody else is interested in writing it, these are my key sources. May you find them as helpful as I did!)

Amare, A., Melkamu, Y. and Mekonnen, D., 2012. Tetanus in adults: Clinical presentation, treatment and predictors of mortality in a tertiary hospital in Ethiopia. Journal of the neurological sciences, 317(1), pp.62-65.

Brickell, D., 1849. Case of Traumatic Tetanus. The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, 40(6), pp.122-123.

Chandler, J., 1822. Case of Tetanus Which Terminated in Recovery. The New England Journal of Medicine, Surgery and Collateral Branches of Science, 11(3), pp.243-246.

Creech Jr, O., Glover, A. and Ochsner, A., 1957. Tetanus: evaluation of treatment at Charity Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana. Annals of surgery, 146(3), p.369.

Drew, A.L., 1954. Tetanus: Historical Review of Treatment. Neurology, 4(6), pp.449-469.

Holmes, W.H., 1940. Bacillary and Rickettsial Infections. Acute and Chronic. A Textbook. The Macmillan Company: New York.

Hsu, S.S. and Groleau, G., 2001. Tetanus in the emergency department: a current review. The Journal of emergency medicine, 20(4), pp.357-365.

Lawrence, J.R. and Sando, M.J.W., 1959. Treatment of severe tetanus. British medical journal, 2(5143), p.113.

Malone, J.W., 1843. Case of Traumatic Tetanus: In Which the Sulphate of Quinia Was Succesfully Used. Provincial medical journal and retrospect of the medical sciences, 7(170), p.246.

Manring, M.M., Hawk, A., Calhoun, J.H. and Andersen, R.C., 2009. Treatment of war wounds: a historical review. Clinical Orthopaedics and Related Research®, 467(8), pp.2168-2191.

O'Shaughnessy, W.B., 1843. On the preparations of the Indian Hemp, or Gunjah: Cannabis Indica. Provincial Medical Journal and Retrospect of the Medical Sciences, 5(123), p.363.

Prioreschi, P., 1996. A History of Medicine: Roman Medicine (Vol. 3). Edwin Mellen Press.

Ringer, T., 1852. Case Of Traumatic Tetanus Successfully Treated By Opium. The Lancet, 59(1493), pp.355-356.

Russel, J. (1860). Clinical lecture on opium: its use and abuse. British Medical Journal. No. 158, pp. 334-336.

Sang, J., 1828. Case Of Traumatic Tetanus, Successfully Treated. The Lancet, 10(265), pp.826-827.

Semple, D., 1899. The treatment of tetanus by the intracerebral injection of antitoxin. The British Medical Journal, 1(1984), pp. 10-12.

Stilwell, C., 1855. Seven Cases of Tetanus. The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, 53(10), pp.206-208.

Thwaites, C.L., Yen, L.M., Loan, H.T., Thuy, T.T.D., Thwaites, G.E., Stepniewska, K., Soni, N., White, N.J. and Farrar, J.J., 2006. Magnesium sulphate for treatment of severe tetanus: a randomised controlled trial. The Lancet, 368(9545), pp.1436-1443.

West, R., 1936. Intravenous curarine in the treatment of tetanus. The Lancet, 227(5862), pp.12-16.