Thanks to all who reviewed and favourited the last chapter. I can't tell how much I appreciated it.

So here is the final chapter of this little interlude.

Still don't own them mores the pity!

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Chapter 2

The next three days consisted of only fevered dreams for Athos. He remembered begging D'Artagnan to search for Aramis and Porthos before he would allow himself to be stitched. The boy hadn't wanted to leave his side while he was tended to, but Athos had insisted. And with D'Artagnan's own desire to find his friends at war with his wish to remain, eventually he acceded to his mentor's command.

Athos had passed out during the stitching - his worry over his missing comrades following him into unconsciousness, as his body succumbed to fever and infection. The few memories he has of those days were of the terrible images conjured up by his fevered mind, images of his brothers slaughtered. When his awareness returned his first sight was the exhausted and haunted face of D'Artagnan. The boy looked so bleak that Athos had been terrified that their two friends had perished. Thankfully the boy quickly informed him they were recovering in another room. Athos had expected some of the usual humour and banter that they often engaged in when one of their comrades had been hurt, but was now on the road to recovery. A way of covering up their fear, and comforting the wounded. It was a rehearsed and practiced response, a way to banish worry and trauma. But instead the boy's brown eyes had welled up, and he leaned his head on Athos arm and wept. In a move that had surprised himself, and one which if called to account for he would blame on his own pain and exhaustion, Athos reached over and buried his other hand in the boy's hair.

It took a few days for the Gascon to reveal all that had happened after he had left Athos to the surgeon. It was clear the boy was carrying a great weight over this time, and Athos had been determined to get him to speak of it. Any gaps in the story were filled in by Porthos.

D'Artagnan had scoured through the dead on the battlefield. Terrified of seeing the broken bodies of Aramis and Porthos. Forced to look on the horror of violent death. The ground he walked over a sickening mix of blood, mud and viscera. After what seemed like hours he still had not found them. He had been sure they must be dead. Why else would they not have come searching for him and Athos. If they were wounded, why had the stretcher bearers not yet discovered them? He found them in some caves on the other side of the hill. The bodies of eight enemy soldiers leading him there. Porthos was propped up in a dark corner of the cave, legs stretched out in front of him, red stained bandage covering his right thigh. His arms wrapped around Aramis motionless upper body, which was draped across him. D'Artagnan had been terrified to move, not wanting to know that his brothers were gone. He must have made some sort of broken noise, because Porthos opened his eyes and like lightening had his musket pointed at the boy. Both gave huge sighs of relief, and Porthos dropped the weapon spluttering a laugh, before his face sagged and he simply asked "Athos?"

D'Artagnan had quickly explained he was safe, then asked his own "Aramis?"

Aramis had taken a bad knock to the head, but had managed to stay conscious long enough to drag Porthos into the cave and stop him from bleeding to death, before passing out. Porthos reassured the Gascon that he had managed to rouse Aramis a few times, but he couldn't carry him on his wounded leg, so he was resting until they were found. Or until the pain subsided enough for him to chance his bad leg carrying them both anyway.

Athos had enjoyed his own joyful reunion with Porthos and Aramis shortly after he awoke. They had stayed with him as much as possible during his fever, but once it had broken Treville had insisted they rest and allow their own injuries time to heal, which was the only reason they had not been with the boy to witness Athos initial return to consciousness. Athos had no real time alone with D'Artagnan again over the next few days. Aramis and Porthos hovering round him and ensuring he recovered. Also the boy seemed to withdraw from them all. He was quiet and the dark smudges under his eyes grew. The rye humour, life and exuberance which were so much a part of his character, were no longer in evidence. Eventually, with the assistance, not to mention sneakiness of Aramis and Porthos, he contrived to get some time alone with his protege.

Athos was not a talker! Sharing feelings? - He would rather ride naked through a field of thorn bushes! He had considered getting Aramis to do it - using all the force of his considerable charm to draw the boy out. Or Porthos. He didn't have the flowery language of his friend, but somehow the man's distinctive combination of warmth and caring, alongside a back slapping, bear hugging energy, encouraged others to open up to him. But somehow he knew it was him the boy needed to speak to.

Athos remembers little of his faltering attempts to get the Gascon to talk, he only knows that whatever he said momentarily caused D'Artagnan to think Athos was dying. And lo and behold if that wasn't actually the right approach! The boy falteringly told him how he had felt searching the dead for Aramis and Porthos. His terror that Athos would also succumb to his injuries and he would be left alone. The way, if he smells anything that reminds him of the aftermath of the battle he will throw up. How he hasn't slept in days, because when he closes his eyes all he can see are the staring eyes of the last boy he killed in the woods. How he doesn't think he will ever sleep again and is terrified that he doesn't have the stomach to be a soldier and maybe he should just be a farmer after all. It all comes out in a rush, and then ...he sinks to his knees and weeps. For the second time in a week Athos finds himself pushing his hands through D'Artagnan's dark hair, as he kneels beside him, and wraps his arms around the sobbing boy. And surprisingly Athos doesn't wish it was Aramis or Porthos providing the comfort, instead he counts it a privilege that this remarkable, strong and caring young man can find comfort in a seemingly cold and distant former Compte. Gradually D'Artagnan had stopped crying and Athos had shared his own first battle experience. The vivid memories of that day still with him, joined by the recollections of all the battles since. He explains that the only thing that allows him to keep going is to remember why he fights. Originally he had become a soldier to forget, possibly even to die. But then he had met Aramis and Porthos, and Treville, and later D'Artagnan, and he knows now that he fights for them. To defend his brothers. Just as D'Artagnan had fought so hard to defend him. They sat together side by side till the sun disappeared behind the horizon, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. Till Athos felt the boy's head land on his shoulder as he finally slept. Athos sat on, sipping his wine, not wishing to disturb him.

Now Athos lay on the grass, the April sunlight warming his face, listening to the splashes and laughter from his friends in the water. Once again the surprising feeling of peace and contentment surrounded him. He glanced up and saw D'Artagnan's huge bright smile, as he put his bare foot in Porthos cupped hands, and the bigger man thrust his arms upwards, propelling the boy into the air. D'Artagnan flipped backwards into the water, breaking the surface, again laughing. This, thought Athos, this, is why we fight. And with that he let the joyous sound of his brothers lull him to sleep.

The End

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