A/N - Happy New Year, mes amis!

Thank you all for taking the time to leave reviews. You have no idea how much it warms my heart to hear from people. A special thank you to those guest reviewers that I can't reply to personally. Your kindness has carried me through this story. My thanks ever and always to Issai who makes all the wrong things go right, inspires me, and encourages me. This story is dedicated to her. I don't own the Musketeers, but I do own all of the errors I've made along the way.

Aramis had wanted to see to Porthos's chest himself, but with two able-bodied and capable Musketeers also in the room all he was allowed to do was clean the cuts and assess the severity. There were only two and while one was deeper than the other, they were not nearly as bad as Aramis had feared.

D'Artagnan volunteered to do the stitching, and Aramis and Athos exchanged a knowing glance when Porthos sat docilely on his bed and allowed the Gascon to proceed. Before his ordeal, he would have needed to be restrained or unconscious but now the only sign of his discomfort was the bottle of wine he was quietly finishing off and the distant look in his eyes. This might be easier for all of them in the long run, but to see such a marked change in Porthos was a testament to how deeply his injuries ran. Tonight was a beginning to healing, not an end.

In all honesty, Aramis was grateful for the intervention of the others. His hand injury, while not serious, was painful and the battering his still healing ribs had received had literally taken the breath from him. He knew they weren't broken or even cracked, but bruised ribs were still enough to cause pain each time his lungs filled.

"Are you sure I shouldn't send for Farhad?" Athos asked again, threaded needle in his hand.

"It's five quick stitches," Aramis was adamant that the healer was unnecessary. The cut was short and shallow and had it not been in a place that was frequently moved, it might not need stitching at all. The coarse thread would keep the flesh in place so it would not be easily reopened. Although as Athos placed the first stitch, Aramis immediately second guessed himself. Damn that hurt. It took everything in his power not to jerk his hand away.

Athos was not particularly adept at stitching, but once committed, he didn't hesitant and he made quick work of the suturing. Aramis was grateful when Athos passed him the bottle of wine after liberally dosing the wound in alcohol. He took several long swallows as Athos carefully bandaged his palm. The fingers weren't wrapped, so Aramis could still load his pistols, but use the hand would be limited for at least the next week. Athos retreated after that, in search of more wine, and Aramis was grateful for a chance to quietly regain his composure.

Aramis caught his breath as he sat at the edge of the bed, watching D'Artagnan finish with Porthos. The Gascon was gaining proficiency in his needlework, an unfortunate necessity given the life they all lead. Aramis with the steady hands and iron will of a marksman was by far the best at sewing but the others all had been forced to learn as injury was not infrequent in the life of a Musketeer. Porthos for his part was showing signs of discomfort as the Gascon was not yet quick. Ultimately D'Artagnan looked just as relieved to be finished as Porthos was. Aramis gave the young musketeer a nudge and the Gascon stood so Aramis could take the stool he had positioned next to the bed.

"This is well done," Aramis praised as he examined the needlework. Porthos gave a disbelieving grunt and Aramis chuckled, "I'd have him over Athos if I had the choice."

"I'd rather we didn't have to do it all," D'Artagnan said, rinsing the blood from his hands in a basin of water.

"Indeed," Aramis scratched at the bandage on his wrist again. They all had too many scars already, "This needs a salve and a bandage," he said with a nod toward Porthos.

"I'll get it," after tending to Porthos, D'Artagnan was well-acquainted with the stock in the infirmary. Aramis gave the young musketeer a thankful dip of the head as D'Artagnan left the room.

"The whelp's gettin' more useful," Porthos observed, "Something's changed."

"These last few weeks were hard," Aramis replied thoughtfully, "I think we all changed."

"I'm sorry," Porthos's voice was quiet but he looked Aramis in the eye "I'm sorry for all of it."

"I know you are," Aramis put a hand to Porthos's shoulder, "But you do not have to be. You have done nothing except try to survive."

"It's hard. I don't know that I always wanted to," Now that he was talking, Porthos's honesty was brutal, "I have my doubts even now. What she did was . . . unbearable," Porthos clenched his jaw on the word.

"But you did bear it," Aramis was thoughtful, "Bore more than anyone should have to endure. Your strength puts me to shame. I couldn't . . . after Savoy, I . . ." Aramis struggled to find the words, "You are right. I am weak and I could not bear what had happened. If not for you and Athos . . ." Aramis trailed to silence and he cleared his throat, resuming his comment with a stronger voice, "If not for you and Athos I would still be there, trapped beneath the weight of that day."

Porthos snorted, "You think I survived without you?" He gave an ironic laugh. "You were there, all three of you," Porthos tapped the side of his head, "In here. Talking all the time. Telling me to eat. Telling me to breathe. Telling me to live." Porthos put a hand to Aramis's bandaged wrist, "I was never alone."

"I think it's time we found out all that happened," Aramis said softly.

"Yeah," Porthos said, "Including what is under this bandage." He raised a brow and gave Aramis a determined look, "I know that you did something. I want to know what."

Aramis sighed. He had explained it all to Athos once. He was uncomfortable with what he had allowed himself to do for the sake of Porthos. He did not want his friend to take on more misplaced guilt for what Aramis now bore, nor did he himself want to relive the story of their search for Porthos. He was not ready to confront his own role - his fear, his lack of faith, his battering a man to death, his forced seduction of Celeste, the mark he had carved and sewn in his own skin. There was too much darkness.

"Aramis, I have to know," Porthos seemed to read his mind. He slightly tightened his grip on the marksman's wrist, "I don't want secrets between us. They'll only lead to trouble."

Aramis let out a deep exhale. This was not just his story, it was all of theirs, Porthos's too, and he had no right to keep it back no matter how shameful he might feel about his own part in it. Aramis gave in. "We will need a lot more wine," Aramis said.

"I think that's not a problem," Porthos replied, giving a nod toward the door. Athos had found three more bottles and D'Artagnan was on his heels with the pot of salve in one hand and a wrapped bundle that must have come from the kitchen.

While D'Artagnan finished with Porthos's wound and Athos sorted the wine and food, Aramis tugged the knot from the wrapping around his wrist. The bandage fell away to reveal the neat row of stitching he had placed there himself just over a week ago. No longer angry and red, the flesh around the sutures was pink and new. It itched but the pain had long faded. It was a testament to the power of healing that the body could seal and mend itself and that pain was only temporary. The scar was a reminder that what had been broken could be made whole again.

Aramis picked up his knife to pop through the stitches, but Athos's hand closed over his own.

"I can do that," Athos's eye held determination and Aramis knew it wasn't worth the argument. Besides, Athos was right. No need to do this on his own. He handed the knife to Athos and accepted in exchange a cup of wine. Porthos gave a low whistle as he peered over where Athos sat with Aramis's arm in his lap.

"What happened?" Porthos asked.

"Did it to myself," Aramis answered. He watched confusion flush across Porthos and D'Artagnan's faces.

"Why would you do that?" D'Artagnan's brow wrinkled with worry

"Because I'd do anything for a brother," Aramis said. Athos gave a tug and as the silk thread pulled free of his healed flesh, Aramis felt the last of his self-doubt falling away.

"I think we should start at the beginning," Athos suggested as he returned Aramis his dagger. He gave Porthos a pointed look, "Maybe the part where you had been late to muster enough times that Treville was ready to have your hide by the time Aramis and I got back to the garrison?" Porthos cleared his throat, a flush rising to his face. There was much they would reveal to each other, and the night would hold laughter along with sorrow, but by the end of the evening each story would become their story - another part of the legend of Les Inseparables.

Athos was glad he had petitioned Captain Treville for two more weeks duty at Le Havre. The routine of the garrison had a gone a long way toward helping all of them regain their footing while they could enjoy a relative peace with no intrigue from the Cardinal or run-ins with the Red Guard to interrupt their recovery.

With his hand bandaged, it made sense to not force Aramis to rein a horse just yet, and Porthos had a way to go before his body was ready for the long ride back. Captain Demont was more than content to let Aramis and Athos take a lead in training in the garrison and to let D'Artagnan join the ranks. The young swordsman was far superior to the Le Havre recruits and more than held his own against the veteran soldiers. But Athos was responsible for D'Artagnan's development and had no qualms about putting the Gascon back on the tough training regime he had originally set for him.

Besides his men needing more time to heal, Athos had business he needed to conduct in Le Havre. Having been instrumental to dismantling the Varade's businesses and turning the assets over to the Governor, Athos was able to request assistance on some affairs related to his estate at Pinon. While he would have been happy to never call upon his title of Comte de la Fere , in this case it was necessary. It would take some days for the papers he submitted to be approved, but as they were in Le Havre for another fortnight it was not extra trouble to have it done.

Returning to the garrison from the city magistrate's office, Athos was pleasantly surprised to see Porthos standing on the walkway outside of their rooms looking down at the yard, much as Captain Treville would. He watching D'Artagnan spar with Corporal Durand. D'Artagnan was easily a match for the lad, but Athos nodded approvingly at the coaching D'Artagnan was offering.

"He'll be the finest of us all," Athos said, coming up the stairs to lean on the railing alongside Porthos.

"He's got a long way to go before he's near good as you," Porthos replied, eyes focused on the match before him.

"Not as long as you might think," Athos quipped, "He was virtually a force of one when we flushed out the warehouse where they were holding you."

"I'm lucky then the whelp is on our side," Porthos gave a smile.

"Are you ready to join him?" Athos asked, "It's past time you were back to training."

Porthos shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "Tomorrow, I think," he replied

"You said that yesterday," Athos chided gently, "It's time you re-joined the Musketeers."

"I'm out of our rooms at least," Porthos said sighing, "Sitting here is about all I can do though."

"I doubt that," Athos said, his voice serious, "You did not coddle me when you would drag me, hungover, out of my rooms to muster and I will do no less for you. Tomorrow you start training. Think on it now as it will be an ugly sight if the three of us have to drag you into this yard."

Porthos grunted. "Would take more than three of ya," he spat.

"I accept the challenge," Athos deadpanned, yet his eyes twinkled.

Porthos spent a restless night and rose early, although not so early that D'Artagnan was not already up and out of their rooms. He dressed slowly, careful of the still tender cuts across his chest, the healing lines across his back, the stiffness of unused muscles.

Somewhere Aramis had found him a padded jacket for sparring, and a sword belt that could go around his waist. He slipped on the new boots, pulling the soft, supple leather up over his knee. They were finely crafted, the leather tooled with a fleur-de-lis border along the edge of the folded cuff. Silver rivets were studded along the outer seams, running the length of the boot, and a wide buckle tightened the boot around the ankle. They laced at the inside, below the turned cuff. The boots were the best he had ever owned and Porthos was well aware that Aramis had paid dearly for them.

Porthos geared up, testing the balance of the main gauche and schiavona that had come from the armory. They were fine, serviceable weapons, but not his. Porthos sheathed them into their hangers, then picked up his gloves. He felt far from ready, but he made his way down to the yard nonetheless. He would rather he do this on his own terms now than have to deal with Athos prodding him.

The morning routine in Le Havre was not unlike that of their garrison in Paris. Stable boys already at work in the stalls, inviting smells coming from the kitchens, a rather disheveled young recruit hauling a bucket of water toward the Captain's quarters, and in the center of the yard D'Artagnan going through his practice exercises, sword glinting in the sunlight. Porthos watched the young Musketeer move gracefully through each motion, fluid and focused in a way the Gascon rarely was at any other time. He had received plenty of ribbing from the men when he first started his "dancing" as Serge called it, but Athos had put a stop to it quickly enough by threatening the entire company with joining D'Artagnan if they could not respect the practice of a fine swordsman. Porthos knew the boy's father had taught him these drills, but he had not asked where his father had trained or much about his history as a swordsman.

Porthos felt a wave of guilt wash over him. They had all befriended D'Artagnan quickly but what he had risked for Porthos by going alone to the Court of Miracles, the wounds he had to bear, the care he had taken to ease Porthos's suffering – it was overwhelming to realize the depth of D'Artagnan's commitment to them. And Porthos had never bothered to even once ask after his family. He was ashamed to have been so selfish. Which was why when D'Artagnan paused in his routine and asked Porthos if he would like to join him, Porthos surprised them both and said yes.

D'Artagnan slowly taught him one cycle. Porthos worked with the sword and main gauche, getting used to their feel as he learned the pattern. He felt lazy muscles stretch and found the taughtness in his back ease. He registered small tugs of pain as the healing skin on his body was forced to shift. He felt the slight throb of the healing brand beat in time with his heart. It was awkward at first but as he settled into the rhythm of the patterns, it became comfortable.

Neither of them noticed Athos and Aramis watching from the balcony, nor saw their features relax as a peace, a rightness, descended on them that neither had felt in weeks.

"I never thought to see that happen," Aramis said with a smile, "He looks good, though. Seems to be moving well."

"Porthos is a better swordsman than he allows himself to believe," Athos said with appreciation."

"Perhaps we should let them continue?" Aramis offered.

"I'd rather go down there and kick their asses," Athos's tone was deadly serious but he flashed Aramis one of his crooked half grins.

"I was hoping you'd say that," came Aramis's impish reply as the two Musketeers made their way down the stairs to join their comrades in training.

After three days slowly working through their usual drills and spars together, Porthos was beginning to feel more like himself. On the fourth day, Athos asked him to work with three of Demont's men on hand-to-hand. He was reluctant at first, not ready to have to interact with the other soldiers or to leave the comfortable circle the four of them together had created. But Athos was insistent and Porthos knew his Lieutenant was right — while fear may have gripped him at first, it was just not in Porthos's nature to give up. He was more than a survivor, he had thrived in dark places since he was four years old. He cloaked himself in bravado and sauntered into the yard, displaying an ease that did not correspond to the fear twisting his gut. It wasn't the anticipated questions or the unwanted sympathy that bothered him most, but that someone might challenge his fitness, his worth.

Porthos's jaw dropped when he saw the three recruits he had been assigned. Athos could not have found three smaller, scrawnier men if he had tried. They were in their shirtsleeves and breeches, unarmed, elbows and legs pointing in all kinds of awkward directions. One of them was trying to hook a leg around the other and take him down to the ground, with complete and total failure at every attempt. The third was looking on and giving the worst possible advice to his sparring comrades. Athos stood with arms crossed, hat low, leaning on balustrade and silently observing.

"Are you joking?" Porthos asked as he came to stand beside his Lieutenant.

"There is nothing funny about that," Athos said with a tilt of his head toward the recruits, "They will be dead on their first mission."

"You think I can fix that?" Porthos asked even though he knew Athos's mind was already made up.

"I don't think they are that bad," Athos's voice was light, "I think Bertrand shows promise."

"Bertrand?" Porthos didn't know the men yet.

"The skinny one," Athos said. Porthos rolled his eyes, they were all skinny.

As the Musketeers watched, the one trying to take down the other finally got his legs so tangled with his sparring partner that they fell over in a heap, taking down the third with them as he failed to scurry out of the way in time.

"You'd best get to it before they hurt themselves," Athos said and without a glance to Porthos he pushed himself from his leaning post and crossed the yard to join D'Artagnan in swordplay.

Porthos sighed. Whatever Athos had up his sleeve by giving him this duty, the Lieutenant was right that these hapless men were doomed as soldiers if their combat skills did not improve. Porthos owed it to them to give them the best opportunity to survive. Just as Captain Treville had fostered his sword work as a recruit when all he had ever done was raise a club, he could not in good conscience let these men down.

"Oi!" Porthos called out, his big voice booming across the courtyard, "What exactly do you three think you are doing rolling around down there?" He strode over to them, confident in his fighting skills if not in anything else, he hoped that would be enough to get him through the morning.

He started with the take-down that Bertrand had been attempting. The others, Marc and Henri, watched as Porthos smiled, put a hand to the small man's shoulder and unceremoniously kicked the recruit's leg out from under him, toppling him to the ground. "Let's start with that," he said, placing his hands on his hips and giving them all a stern look. They stared back wide-eyed. Porthos shook his head. He had his work cut out for him.

Other than demonstrating a move, Porthos attempted at first to do all of the coaching from the side, shouting out instructions that the three recruits tried valiantly to incorporate. But with no real experience to draw from and no natural ability, they made little progress. Eventually Porthos had to get in there and adjust a hold or shift someone's weight. It became obvious that he needed to get into the mix to demonstrate moves and to give more effective corrections. As the day warmed Porthos quickly started to overheat in the padded practice armor. While it was necessary for sword work, for hand to hand all it did for Porthos was hamper his movement and make him uncomfortable.

Exasperated with having explained something to Henri for the third time, Porthos unbuckled the padded vest and tossed it to the ground. "Like this," he growled, getting into a low crouch and raising his fists. "Now come at me," Porthos gestured, tapping at his abdomen, "Try to get right in here."

Henri crouched low, shifted left then right, and then swung out his right fist, aiming for the Porthos's gut. Porthos blocked the punch but smiled. "That was much better. Try again, but this time try to fake with your left before you punch with your right."

Practice started to go better and Porthos got more involved, his reservations falling away as he concentrated on working with the three men. Time moved quickly and they were all surprised when the cook rang the bell for lunch. Porthos picked up his gloves and padding from the dusty yard and made his way to where Athos, Aramis and D'Artagnan were stripping off their gear. All of them were down to shirts and breeches, necks unlaced and sleeves rolled up.

Aramis finished off a dipper of water then refilled it from the bucket on the table and passed it to Porthos. "Who won?" Aramis asked as he pushed his sweaty dark curls from his forehead.

"Well I wouldn't want any of 'em in a bar fight," Porthos said, "But Henri and Marc could take on some of the Red Guard."

"That's not saying much," D'Artagnan said before taking his turn at the water.

"That's an improvement though," Porthos responded, "I wouldn't have bet on them against your grandmother at the start of the morning."

"It happens my grandmother had a mean right hook," D'Artagnan said indignantly.

"Too bad you didn't inherit it," Aramis teased.

"Her punto reverso was probably better than yours though," Athos contributed with a shrug. Aramis gasped in mock offense and D'Artagnan looked shocked. Athos almost never engaged in their bickering.

"I am wounded," Aramis said, "And I demand satisfaction. Pistols at 10 paces. Porthos is my second."

"After lunch," Porthos grumbled, "You can shoot him them."

They shared a quick meal outside with the rest of the garrison and Porthos was introduced to the men that Athos and D'Artagnan had been riding with while he recuperated. They were friendly enough and to Porthos's surprise, after a few polite inquiries about his health they mostly wanted to know about Athos. A week of riding with the man and he had both awed and terrified them. It was not the first time the taciturn swordsman had wooed a gaggle of young soldiers under his sway, but Porthos never could figure out what the attraction was. Athos did little to welcome such attention and was hardly the sort to seek new friends and yet the men under his command flocked to him like a rooster in a hen house.

The afternoon saw the four soldiers joining Porthos and his original three trainees and the fighter lost himself in overseeing the semi-controlled brawl that sprawled across the practice yard. His injuries became nothing more than afterthoughts, his worries faded as he concentrated on something else, his spirits lifted as he tossed one man after another into the dust of the yard. But the end of the afternoon Porthos was tired, but his restless mind finally seemed to have found some ease.

Dirty, dusty and sweaty the four Musketeers gathered again around the water bucket. Porthos noticed Aramis give him a once over then the marksman shared a friendly grin.

"What?" Porthos questioned.

"You are a mess," Aramis said, sitting beside him on a bench, "But you look happy." Porthos considered the statement. Aramis was right – for the first time in weeks, he felt more than peace or contentment, sparring today had brought him true joy. He smiled and clapped a hand to Aramis's shoulder, acknowledging the moment without needing to say another word. Athos came over with wine for each of them and both accepted gratefully.

"Things went well?" the swordsman never was one for too many words.

Porthos nodded his head, "Yeah, it went well," he replied and they both knew they weren't discussing the recruits. The fond look Athos gave him was enough to break the hardest heart and Porthos basked in one of those rare moments of unfettered warmth that the swordsman gave only to them. "Thank you," Porthos said gruffly, overwhelmed at all he was feeling.

"You won't thank me tomorrow. You'll be sore," Athos deadpanned, then unceremoniously walked away to get more wine. Porthos shook his head and smiled to himself. The man was predictable if nothing else.

"Lieutenant Athos!" the call came from across the yard. Porthos and Aramis stood as Athos joined Captain Demont outside his office. A moment later Athos turned to them and gave a nod. It seemed their presence was required with the Captain. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and put down the apple he was about to eat. Aramis turned to Porthos and pulled his open shirt up over his shoulder.

"You'd best tidy up a bit," he said slyly.

"How are you not dirty," Porthos asked as he quickly unrolled his sleeves and and shook out his shirt.

"It's a talent," Aramis said with a wink and made his way to join D'Artagnan.

Porthos tucked in his shirt and pulled at the laces. As he straightened himself up he realized that his open shirt had shown his scars - all of them. No one had asked. No one had hesitated to spar with him. No one had questioned his presence in the yard. But more importantly, Porthos himself for those last few hours, had not spared one thought for the mark on his chest. Something shifted in his heart then. He had his life back. Hope, joy, friendship, his place in the Musketeers – all of it had seemed so impossible and now as he stood sweaty and sore in the practice yard he realized he had had it all along.

He looked fondly to where his three comrades stood waiting for him and found his heart full, a feeling so strong it washed over him physically. He swayed on his feet putting a hand to the table to steady himself. Aramis immediately started to walk back to him but Porthos raised a hand, signaling he was fine. And he was. He straightened up and walked quickly to join his friends, a broad smile ready to greet them.

They filed into Captain Demont's office and Aramis shot a questioning look to Porthos. Porthos gave a light shrug. The pair were used to standing in front of their commanding officer with some transgression or another to explain away, but this time, they had in all honesty not been up to any trouble. Captain Demont cleared his throat and looked up from a stack of papers in his hand. His lips were tight and his expression hard. He did not have good news.

"I have had word from Saint-Pierre," the Captain said, shifting his gaze to Porthos, "I am sorry. There is no sign of Celeste Varade." Porthos stood stock still, not trusting himself to speak or even breathe. He felt a stab of fear twist in his gut, only to be replaced with a burning hot anger. He had not turned his thoughts to her in all this time but he knew instantly he wanted her dead. Beside him Aramis and Athos had also gone rigid. He didn't know exactly what they were thinking, but he knew they were as angry as he.

"How can that be!" D'Artagnan's angry outburst broke the silent tension. The young Gascon could not find the self control the other men did. "It is an island – where could she have gone! When is the next ship? We can take a squadron and — "

"Peace, D'Artagnan. Enough." Athos's voice cut through the young Musketeer's anger and drove him to silence. "I'm sure Captain Demond's men are more than capable." D'Artagnan looked like he was about to continue, but Athos put a hand to his arm and that was enough to still him. "Is there more we can do?" Athos asked the Captain, his tone reasonable.

"The island garrison is on patrol. They will continue to inspect incoming ships. The girl's father has been questioned and released. He swears he has not seen her in five years." There was some grumbling from Aramis at that, but a steely glance from the Captain quieted the marksman. "It is possible she never made landfall at Saint-Pierre. She knew she would be subject to arrest by the crown and it is possible that she had her ship leave her on one of the other islands, or even at the Spanish colonies. We cannot know for sure," Captain Demont stood and stepped around his desk to stand in front of Porthos, "We will not stop looking, you have my word as commander here. We will find her and justice will be served."

Porthos kept his jaw clenched but he nodded his acknowledgement to the Captain. The man had been more than generous, and now had given his word to continue to help them. Porthos was grateful, but it did not ease his rage. Still, Captain Demont was not the subject of his anger. "Thank you," he said gruffly.

Demont gave Porthos a clap on the shoulder then returned to his desk. He shuffled through some papers in a gesture reminiscent of Captain Treville before pulling one from the pile. "Treville has sent word that he is ready for your return as scheduled, if you are all fit to travel." He handed the letter to Athos.

"Thanks to your hospitality, we are," Athos replied with a nod.

"In all honesty, I'll be sad to see you leave," Demont said, "You are a credit to Treville and his Musketeers. You are welcome here any time." The men nodded their thanks and Athos stepped forward to offer Demont his hand. Demont took it and offered his compliments to Athos for leading the Varade mission and taking charge of training. He praised Aramis for his talents both as a medic and a marksman and thanked D'Artagnan for his interrogation skills. Despite the disappointment about not finding Celeste Varade, Captain Demont had shown them every possible courtesy and done more for them than was required of his duty. None of the men would soon forget it. As they were leaving his office, Demont called Athos back, handing him a packet of sealed papers and giving him some final orders. Most likely they were communiques for Treville and others in Paris.

D'Artagnan left to make arrangements with the stable boys for their departure three days from now while Porthos and Aramis waited for their Lieutenant in the yard. Aramis was unusually quiet, standing with hands on his hips and looking out toward the sea, no cheery words or jokes to lighten the mood. Porthos felt undone by their conversation with Demont. Learning that Celeste Varade would get away with the tortures she had inflicted on him, the damage she had done to Aramis, the cruelty she had laid on so many people – it was hard to stomach it.

"Treville needs to give us more time," Aramis said coldly, still gazing at the sea, "She has much to answer for."

Porthos knew Aramis too well to take that statement as simple observation. It was an offer. If Porthos wanted to seek justice, Aramis would follow, no matter the orders. Porthos would be lying to himself if he said he was not sorely tempted, but something held him back. As angry and hurt as he was, he couldn't set his course forward toward revenge. He had found hope today, and joy. He had a full life that was his to live and to turn his back on that now seemed wrong.

"She will," Porthos said, standing next to Aramis and following his gaze toward the water, "We will find her. But right now, I just want to go home." Aramis cocked his head and looked at Porthos, asking him again with his gaze. Porthos shrugged and sighed. He couldn't bear putting another thought of her in his mind. It was a black well he had only just climbed out of and he didn't have the strength to face it again. Not now. Aramis gave him a fond smile.

"When you are ready, mon ami," Aramis promised, a darkness shining in his usually bright eyes.

"You will be the first to know," Porthos confirmed.

They stood quietly together lost in their own thoughts until D'Artagnan came to fetch them to supper.

D'Artagnan had to admit he was drunk. He hadn't planned to be as it was Porthos who the center of the celebration of their last night in Le Havre, but now as he tried, and failed, to open another bottle of wine he knew he was seriously impaired.

"Give that 'ere," Porthos gestured at him and D'Artagnan brought him the bottle, sitting heavily on the stool at the foot of Porthos's bed. The big man guffawed as the stool toppled and D'Artagnan fell in a heap.

"It's okay," he called out, holding up the bottle, "The wine is safe." Porthos's big hand snatched it from him and another hand reached out and pulled him to a sitting position.

"Perhaps you'd better lie down," Aramis suggested.

"I was lying down," D'Artagnan sighed.

"As you were then," Aramis said with a smile and let go of D'Artagnan's hand. He slumped backwards but caught himself on his elbows. From this position, things seemed to spin less. He could clearly see Porthos on the bed, sitting bare chested in only his braes, the newly opened bottle in one hand and his main gauche in the other. Why he needed that D'Artagnan wasn't sure, but a moment later it was flying across the room to embed itself in the wall behind Athos.

Athos sat on D'Artagnan's bed, his own bottle of wine in his hand. His back was against the wall, legs extended out in front of him, head back and eyes closed. The swordsman didn't even flinch at thwack of the blade landing inches from his head.

"This is why I drink alone," Athos muttered, raising the bottle to his lips. With his left hand he pulled the dagger from the wall and in one fluid motion flung it back toward Porthos. It landed just past the fighter's right ear causing the fighter to burst out laughing.

"That was a great hit," he said, "Should have you out with us next time Aramis and me are doing tricks at the tavern."

"I was aiming for the other side," Athos said dryly. Porthos stopped laughing and D'Artagnan couldn't tell if Athos was telling the truth or sharing a rare jest with them. Porthos reached to pull the dagger from the wall again but Aramis intervened.

"Stop it the both of you," the marksman chided from his spot on the stool that D'Artagnan had unceremoniously vacated, "You are scaring our guests." D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder toward the common room they shared where the two men seated at the table didn't seem disturbed by the events in the bedroom. They were busy with their pots and jars and doing whatever it was one did to prepare for these things.

"They're fine," D'Artagnan said waving a had at Aramis, "They can't even hear us."

"I'm sure they can," Athos replied giving D'Artagnan one of those looks that he was supposed to interpret as telling him to settle down. He chose to ignore it, instead wrestling with Aramis for the last of the brandy that the marksman had brought to their impromptu party.

"If you may please, we are ready to begin," one of the men called out. The Musketeers stilled. It was time.

"Can you do it in here?" Aramis asked, rising from the stool and moving to stand in the doorway. "I think it might be best if my friend was convenient to his bed – just in case he does not fare as well as we might hope." D'Artagnan couldn't see past Aramis but the men must have agreed as Aramis shifted back into the room to allow them through the door.

It took a bit of rearranging, but eventually Porthos was reclining on his back on the bed with Aramis seated on the floor beside him. D'Artagnan sat on the end of the bed by Porthos's fee and Athos had pushed himself up to sit forward on the edge of the other bed, arms leaning on his knees, eyes clear and focused on the scene before him. D'Artagnan dragged a hand over his face. He really did wonder how Athos managed to look so sober after so much alcohol.

"Are you ready?" the older of the two men asked. He was sitting on the stool at Porthos's bedside and had rolled out his equipment along the edge of the bed. The younger man stood behind him, holding a jar and and a pile of rags. A basin of water was at the man's feet, within easy reach of both him and Aramis. Porthos for his part looked uncertain and he licked his lips nervously.

"It will be fine," D'Artagnan said, patting the big man on the leg. "You saw the woman in the market. If she can do it, you can."

"You have endured far worse, mon ami," Aramis added, "And we are here if it gets too much."

Porthos looked at his friends and gave them a nod, "I'm ready," he said, his voice confident, "Just tell me again it won't hurt."

"You will feel it," the older man said picking up a long, thin needle and a tiny mallet and showing Porthos the tools of his craft, "But your friend is correct that as a soldier you will have encountered far worse. The lashes marking your chest tell me that." That statement sobered them all. While their gathering to this point had been light-hearted, they were here for serious business.

"It's fine," Porthos said, "I'm fine." Aramis reached out and took up Porthos's hand. D'Artagnan thought back to three weeks ago when the three of them had sat round Porthos's bedside and wondered what they would do to reach him. They had come so far and Porthos was so much stronger than he had realized but never did he think then that a man so afraid of needles and suturing would willing allow this happen. D'Artagnan put his hand again on Porthos's leg and gave him a reassuring squeeze. He would not let go until it was done.

The older man took one of the cloths from his apprentice and dipped it in the water basin, then gently passed the damp cloth over Porthos's chest. Porthos said nothing but D'Artagnan felt him tense as the cloth brushed across the brand. It took a lot of courage for Porthos to do this and D'Artagnan felt a surge of pride for his friend.

"Before I start, you should know it will not cover this completely," the old man said, "But it will change what people see."

"That's good," Porthos said, "I want people to see a Musketeer. Not that." The old man took the jar from his assistant and dipped the needle in the ink.

"Wait," Athos's voice was soft but held a note of command. He stood and leaned across Porthos's bed and pulled the main gauche from the wall where it was still stuck. He wiped it on his pants leg then drew a small line across his palm. Blood welled and then he made a fist and held his hand over the jar. As D'Artagnan watched the blood drop from Athos's hand, Aramis stood and took the dagger. He choose a finger in deference to his injured palm and sliced a line across his thumb. Athos let Aramis take his place over the jar and then reached out a hand to D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan let the swordsmen help him to his feet. He swayed a little from the alcohol in his system but Athos steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. Not trusting his own steadiness, D'Artagnan held out his hand to Athos, looking up to his friend with a plea in his eyes. Athos cupped D'Artagnan's open hand in his own and dragged the knife to make a thin line across his palm. The sting of the blade went a ways toward clearing D'Artagnan's alcoholic daze. D'Artagnan held his fisted hand over the jar and squeezed, his blood dropping to mingle with that of Athos and Aramis. He caught Porthos's gaze and looked at him fiercely, fondly, and defiantly. He thought of Athos's words from that terrible night. Porthos was his, was theirs – just as he himself belonged to each of them. As his blood fell into the pot of ink, mixing with that of his friends he knew this to be an oath. An oath of protection and a bond of brotherhood with these Musketeers.

"Let me see it," Aramis said again, pulling at the laces of Porthos's shirt.

"Get off," Porthos slapped at him, "You've seen it already."

"You may as well let him," D'Artagnan said, bringing up Porthos and Aramis's horses, "He's going to be impossible if you don't."

"He's right," Aramis said with a cocky grin, "I'm going to be impossible." Porthos let out a harrumph and rolled his eyes, but Aramis was unrelenting, giving Porthos his most plaintive glance.

"Fine," Porthos said, tugging at the laces of his shirt and pulling open his doublet and shirt, "But this is the last time." Aramis ignored him and pushed open Porthos's shirt.

Emblazoned on Porthos's chest in white ink was a fleur-de-lis pierced by three crossed swords, one for each of them. The tattoo covered the brand and incorporated the scars from the two slashes Porthos had cut into his own skin. The old man had shown a steady hand and an artful eye as he did the work. The idea of the tattoo had come from D'Artagnan, the suggestion of the fleur-de-lis had come from Athos but it was Porthos who had asked the artist to incorporate the three swords. It was a bold and beautiful mark befitting the warrior that Porthos was.

The mark covered the brand completely, but as the ink faded over time the brand would be more noticable if someone really took a good look. It gave Porthos a measure of security as most people would not look past the tattoo unless they knew to and outside of the four of them no one in Paris would have cause. Aramis laid a hand gently over the brand thinking of it as a sign of their protection, sealed by the blood they had mixed with the ink, placed over the heart of his dearest brother.

"All for one," Aramis said quietly to Porthos.

"Yeah," Porthos said, giving Aramis a warm smile.

"I have a salve for that," Aramis said, removing his hand and shifting to sort through his saddle bags. "Will keep it from itching as it heals."

"Probably make me smell like a roast," Porthos grumbled, checking his tack.

"It's peppermint," Aramis said defensively, "Here," he offered the small pot to Porthos, "Just put that on a few times a day." Porthos took the small jar and popped off the lid. He took a sniff and made an approving face then dabbed a finger into the salve and softly smoothed some over the tattoo before putting away the pot and relacing his shirt.

D'Artagnan brought up the other two horses and the three men stood together waiting for Athos. He was at the gate in conversation with a well-dressed man who had come to the garrison looking for him. They had been talking for a while and Aramis had kept one eye toward his Lieutenant in case the visit represented some kind of trouble but nothing had seemed amiss.

Athos accepted a packet of papers from the man and then passed him a small pouch, most likely coins. Aramis wondered what Athos was up to, but didn't have much time to speculate as Athos concluded his business with a handshake and crossed the yard back toward where the three of them were waiting. Aramis noticed the curious looks on D'Artagnan's and Porthos's faces and knew that they too did not know what Athos was about. Not that the swordsman would be particularly forthcoming about his affairs with any of them anyway.

"This is for you," Athos said, standing before the big fighter and handing him the packet of papers. Porthos looked at the bundle and then raised a brow to Athos asking what they were.

"I bought the brand," Athos said simply.

"You did what?" Aramis was confused.

"The brand, that mark, I bought it," Athos explained. Aramis looked at Porthos and D'Artagnan and they looked equally confused. Aramis tilted his head and looked expectantly at Athos asking for more information. Athos sighed and pulled his hat from his head, ran a hand through his hair and then resettled the hat. The three men waited.

"The mark, the upside down 'Y', was owned by the Varade estate," Athos was speaking deliberately, clearly not wanting to have to go through this a second time, "Anything bearing that mark – the wine barrels we confiscated, the livestock . . . anything," Athos said deliberately, "was property of that estate. When the estate became forfeit to the crown, the goods confiscated, the mark also transferred. I contacted the magistrate and I purchased it." Aramis felt his jaw drop as the pieces started to click into place. If anyone saw the mark and questioned Porthos they could not claim him as a runaway slave. He had an owner.

"Well I do not solely own it," Athos clarified, "It is owned by the estate of the Comte de la Fere. And his heirs."

"His heirs?" D'Artagnan said breathlessly.

"The three of you," Athos said, "That's what is in those papers. They've been filed with the magistrate here and will be registered in Paris upon our return."

Aramis felt a lump rise in his throat even as Porthos reached out and pulled Athos close, giving the swordsman a hearty thump on the back. Athos put an arm around the fighter's neck and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. He pulled back and readjusted his hat, pulling it low over his eyes.

"Ready?" Athos said but he didn't wait for an answer as he swung up into his saddle. Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan exchanged a look. They were going to have to talk about this but it seemed that Athos had just officially made them all a family. D'Artagnan laughed and gave Porthos a clap on the back, then the three men mounted up.

Aramis adjusted his hat and took up his reins, following his brothers out of the gate. This experience had changed them all. New scars, new marks, new signs of the pain they had endured and the brotherhood they shared. Aramis smiled. He would follow these men anywhere, but right now, he was happy to be following them home to Paris.

-FIN-

And here we are at the end . . . or is it? Let me know if you are interested in a sequel as I do have a few ideas running around in my head.

I have said it throughout but I'll say it one more time, thank you to this wonderful warm friendly fandom for welcoming my first terrible story so long ago and for being so supportive as I worked my way through my first long fic - in fact, it is the longest thing I've ever written and I am honored you choose to read it all the way to this part.