Treville's leg ached.

It was dull, like an old bruise that someone insisted on pressing, but continuous. Enough that while Aramis shared his story, Treville was forced to rise, compelled to move and work the muscles loose. He felt time ticking away their three hours, d'Artagnan's misery filling the small alcove with a suffocating pressure that made him catch his breath every so often, rubbing his hand over his head to bring himself back to the present.

"You give me too much credit," he said finally after several beats of silence followed the close of Aramis' story. "I didn't know anything about d'Artagnan's past when I sent him along with you. Not more than any of you knew."

"You knew somethin'," Porthos argued, his eyes on the tapering storm and rubble-strewn courtyard. "You always know somethin'."

"At any rate," Aramis sighed, checking the cloth at d'Artagnan's side, "it worked."

"Do you still have the nightmares?" Athos asked quietly, and there was something in his tone that drew Treville's eyes. He wasn't asking out of mere curiosity; he was seeking the solace of a survivor.

"Not as much anymore," Aramis said, his voice tight as he brushed the maggots from d'Artagnan's damaged skin to one of their cups. Treville made a note not to drink from that cup anytime soon. "There was a time that the panic would take me—even without the dreams—but Porthos found a way to anchor me."

"Weren't nothin'," Porthos muttered, shifting his grip on the two weapons in his hands as the rain finally stopped. "Just needed some reminding is all."

"How is he?" Treville asked, stepping closer to where Aramis was hovering over d'Artagnan's inert form.

The fevered murmurs and calls for Constance had tapered over an hour ago; Treville had let himself hope that meant the worst had passed.

"The wound looks cleaner," Aramis said, the frown in his voice enough to dash any hopes that they would be able to ride out of here soon. "His fever is still high."

"What now?" Athos asked, moving closer.

Aramis retrieved the half-empty bottle of brandy. "I clean it again."

"Keep 'im quiet," Porthos said, readying one of the pistols. "I hear something."

Treville grabbed the third arquebus and the nearest main gauche. "Porthos and I will patrol the courtyard," he said over his shoulder to Athos and Aramis. "You two take care of our Gascon. We are riding out of this damned place together, or not at all."

Athos scowled, but Treville took that to be a good sign. An angry Athos was one he knew how to manage. It was the despondent, too-deep-into-his-cups Athos that cared not for his role in the world that threw Treville off his game.

"You're wounded, Captain," Athos protested. "Let me—"

"Stop." Treville commanded, drawing himself up. "They need you, Athos. Plus I know you're working on a right nasty headache." He frowned, deciding against mentioning his role in that particular injury. He tested his weight on his leg. "I've been mended nicely."

Porthos waited patiently for their exchange to complete. Nodding at Aramis, Treville spared one last look at the lad who'd saved his life—and challenged him to be a Captain in deeds, if not in words—and stepped out into the wet, debris-filled courtyard. It was quiet save the soft scrabble over loose rock behind them as Aramis and Athos tried to work on d'Artagnan.

Dawn had scraped the edge of the horizon, pushing the last of the storm clouds west and south, but the usual sound of birds that greeted the sun were vacant from the morning. Every soldier's instinct had Treville on alert, the still-present ache and twinge in his leg at every step pushed to the back of his mind. Adjusting his grip on the weapons he'd selected, he exchanged a nod with Porthos and the two parted, Porthos heading toward the far wall where d'Artagnan had taken the brunt of the explosion to shield Treville.

He reached the majority of the rubble, seeing blood from either the criminal or Andreas saturate the ground near the edge of the shattered stone. Climbing carefully and as quietly as possible, Treville perched at the top of the pile and peered from behind a still-standing block to see the river crossing.

As Porthos had predicted, Laroche and his men were already crossing, several of them having breached the iron gate. He could see Laroche—still in his leather vest, tattoos visible—at the head of the line of men, staring with narrowed eyes at the entrance now blocked by the fallen tree. Treville followed the man's line of sight to the other entrances, but exhaled in relief when he realized, as Laroche seemed to, that they'd been too-well sealed to be used as a quick entrance.

The only easy way in, it seemed, was over the destroyed wall where Treville now perched.

He glanced back across the courtyard to where Porthos was similarly peering over the edge of the wall, and could tell from the big man's posture he had realized the same thing. Thinking quickly, Treville was about to signal Porthos to join him and protect their weak flank when a ragged, pain-soaked cry echoed from inside the alcove where Aramis and Athos tended d'Artagnan.

Treville winced, knowing the men were doing their best to save the young Gascon and keep him quiet. Laroche, however, smiled. He held up a hand in a similar signal to that Treville had seen his men respond to before and eight immediately dismounted, leaving the two traitorous Red Guard next to Laroche.

There wasn't time for strategy. Looking over his shoulder, Treville whistled sharply, calling Porthos' attention to him. Looking back he saw that the eight men had separated, four heading directly toward Treville, four others untying something from their saddle bags.

Breathless, Porthos joined him, peering over the rock at the approaching men.

"Ah, now it's a party," he breathed, a wild grin lighting his features.

Treville arched a brow. "I don't see how this is a party."

Porthos readied both arquebuses and held them at the ready, turning the manic grin on his former Captain. "You need to get outta your office more, Captain," he said, standing and drawing the immediate attention of the four men climbing through the rubble.

As Treville watched, Porthos leveled his weapons, pulling the triggers simultaneously, and felled two of the men before dropping back level with his Captain.

"That's two down," he said, turning to put his back against the stone so that he could reload. "See? Party."

Treville narrowed his eyes, then swept his weapon over the edge to fire and topple a third, sending the fourth scurrying back toward Laroche and the other men.

"Remind me to gracefully decline an invitation from you," Treville teased, reloading his weapon.

"You see that lot?" Porthos asked, craning his neck to peer over the edge of the rubble without exposing his position further.

"Can't tell what they're up to," Treville nodded. "Need a closer look."

"Watch yourself," Porthos warned, nodding that he had his weapons loaded and shifted so that he could see over the edge of the wall from a covered vantage point.

Treville moved carefully over the rocks, keeping himself from stepping into the crevasses created by the explosion. Shoving the main gauche into his belt, he used his free hand to pull himself up and peer through the break in the wall nearest the heavy wooden door.

What he saw sent chills through him.

Without caution or prudence, Treville jumped from his perch to the floor of the courtyard, his wounded leg rebelling and collapsing beneath him for a moment. Having apparently seen his former Captain's fear, Porthos was by his side in an instant and hauling him to his feet.

"Captain, what—"

"Go!" Treville bellowed. "Get back, now!"

Not bothering to question further, Porthos kept a firm grip on Treville's arm and ran back toward their alcove, dragging the man with him. Treville kept up as much as he could, but his leg was throbbing, the muscles quaking miserably. They reached the break in the low wall of rubble and Treville saw that Aramis had just finished stitching d'Artagnan's side and was preparing to wrap the wound.

"Get to the corner!" Treville ordered, drawing both Aramis' and Athos' shocked eyes. "They have gunpowder at the door!"

Athos needed no further encouragement. Rising quickly, he and Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan beneath the shoulders, dragging him to the furthest corner of the alcove and together, the four men curled up, Porthos and Treville's backs providing the outermost protection. No sooner had they covered their heads than the abbey was rocked once more.

This time, however, Treville felt a marked difference in the size of the blast. Very little debris rained down on them. He tried to remember how many barrels he'd seen the men stack up by the tree, but it couldn't have been many based on the fact that they were all still very much intact.

Pushing away from his men—for they were his men—Treville raked his eyes over each, noting with equal parts worry and relief that d'Artagnan's were open and staring back at him.

"Aramis, bandage him as best you're able," he said, clearing his throat. He met d'Artagnan's eyes and saw clarity there—realization without fear. It humbled him. "Stay with him. You're the final defense." He looked over at Athos, who was already reaching for the remaining swords. "Athos, you're with me. Porthos, take the breach."

"Yes, Captain," came three voices in unison. Treville nodded and stood, turning and grabbing the main gauche from his belt.

His mind immediately began to calculate their strategy. Laroche, two Red Guard, and five remaining zealots—the best way to stay alive was a full-on attack. With limited forces. And even fewer weapons.

Porthos handed Aramis one of the arquebuses he'd held, then pulled from his weapons belt the head scarf Treville had seen d'Artagnan tie around the wrist of a dead man. Whipping it into a twisted rope, Porthos picked up several of the larger rocks from the floor of the alcove, tucking them into the sling at the end, then swung it in a loose arch around his shoulder.

"Ready when you are, Captain," he said, the maniacal grin back in place.

"Porthos, if we make it out of this," Treville said, eyeing the make-shift weapon, "remind me to get you another sword."

"Don't need nothin' save Balizarde," Porthos said, patting his large schinova with his elbow. "This 'ere's just for the sassy ones."

"They're breaking through!" Athos warned, scrambling over the rock toward the courtyard without a backward glance.

The three soldiers moved as one, Porthos heading immediately toward the wall broken by the first explosion, Athos staying at Treville's side as the made for the broken wooden door. The first men through met their end by pistol fire, but there was no time to reload. Treville dropped his arequebus and pulled his sword, matching Athos in fervor, if not skill.

They seemed to come at them from all angles, swarming the breach and overpowering Porthos, only to be pushed back as the big man roared with denial, swinging his head-scarf club like a sling-shot worthy of David in the Bible stories and slamming the stones against the head of the man who dared approach.

Treville found himself facing the man he remembered tying him to the pole earlier and lunged, locking swords at the hilt. The man growled with effort and knocked his main gauche to the side, then shoved Treville against the wall, their sword hilts the only thing keeping Treville's throat from being slashed through to his spine. He wasn't a match for the other man, weary from lack of sleep, muscles trembling from wounds. It was only a matter of time before he was overpowered and he could tell by the glint in his opponent's eyes that the man knew it.

"You were never going to leave this place alive," the man informed him. "You have nothing left."

Treville scrambled with his free hand, trying to reach where his dagger was tucked into his belt. The other man was pressed too close, all he could feel was—

"You're wrong," Treville gasped, the sword pressing closer, the pressure of their crossed blades starting to cut off his air. He twisted his hand, assured by his attacker's expression of victory that he hadn't realized his mistake. Treville tried to say something else, but the sword at his throat prevented it.

"What was that?"

Another twist of his wrist and Treville felt the other man's dagger slice deeply into his gut from its position in his weapon's belt. With a rough jerk, Treville tugged the blade sideways and immediately felt the pressure on his throat ease.

"I have your knife," Treville coughed out as the man staggered back, dropping his sword and helplessly tried to keep his intestines inside.

Stepping around the dying man, Treville grabbed his main gauche from where it had fallen and tried to find his men in the melee. The sounds of battle were thick in the air: men cursing, grunting with effort, crying out in pain. The clink of swords, the shuffle of feet, the smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder and dirt.

He couldn't find Athos; Porthos was fighting two at once. He stalked toward the big man and sliced his blade across the back of one of Porthos' attackers, earning him a nod of thanks as Porthos turned his attention to one assailant.

"Athos!" Treville shouted, turning in a circle, blood dripping from his sword, his body trembling and thrumming from a mix of exhaustion and adrenalin.

He could see two men in Red Guard uniforms rushing toward the alcove where Aramis and d'Artagnan were holed up. He'd lost count of the number of Laroche's men they'd dispatched, but he couldn't find Laroche himself. Another man rushed him, catching him off guard and sending him to the ground. Treville swiped his sword sideways, trying to knock his attacker off balance, but he was worn down and weary from his wounds and battle.

The man slapped his sword from his hand, stepping on his opposite wrist to pin it to the ground before removing his main gauche. Reaching down and grabbing Treville by his shirtfront, he yanked him roughly to his feet, turning him and pressing the point of a dagger at his jugular, the two of them facing the alcove.

"STOP!" The man behind him shouted. "I have your Captain!"

Treville saw Porthos stagger back from the man he was fighting, both of them breathing hard, both lowering their weapons. One other man was across the courtyard, standing in a mirror image of Treville, with Athos at his back, a dagger at the man's throat. The two Red Guard were in the alcove, their backs to Treville. His pulse spiked when he realized he couldn't see Laroche.

"Surrender now, or he dies!"

"I die anyway," Treville countered, dismayed to hear how rough his voice sounded.

"Don't listen!" The man shouted, an edge of desperation to his voice. "Some of you may still live through this."

"I was a sacrifice to begin with," Treville shouted, seeing Athos start to lower his knife. "Do not lose your lives over mine."

He shot a glance toward Porthos who was standing, hands raised at the point of a sword, eyes darting to the side as he searched the recesses of the alcove for any sight of Aramis or d'Artagnan. At his feet, Treville could see his discarded head scarf.

"Porthos," he called, gasping roughly when the knife pressed sharply into his neck. He could feel it draw blood, but ignored it. This was it. This was how he defined himself: as a victim or a Captain. "Take him."

The man holding Porthos at sword point shot a look over his shoulder at the man who held Treville captive. It was his last mistake. Porthos took advantage of the split-second of time, grabbed the head scarf from the ground, snapped it around the sword and ripped it from the man's hands. At the same moment, Treville slammed his elbow into his captor's side, twisting into his grip and knocking the knife away. In moments, he had knocked the man to the ground and was on him, dagger at the man's throat.

"I have a hundred reasons to kill you," Treville snarled. "And only one to allow you to still breathe."

"Cowardice," the man spat.

"Honor," Treville retorted and slammed the hilt of his dagger against the side of the man's head, rendering him unconscious.

He climbed to his feet and saw that Porthos had his opponent on his stomach, hands tied securely with his head scarf and Athos was walking toward the alcove, blood dripping from his dagger.

"Laroche!" Treville shouted. "Show yourself."

The two Red Guard—one Treville now recalled was Lyon—parted, revealing the scene within the alcove. Treville, Porthos, and Athos staggered to a halt. Lyon and his companion were weaponless. Aramis was sprawled on his back on the ground, blood running from a deep cut across his forehead, his eyes dark and dangerous, and Laroche was holding the point of a sword at the downed medic's throat.

And standing against the wall, chest bared and bandaged wound stained with a fresh spot of blood, a wheel lock pistol held at the back of Laroche's head, was d'Artagnan.

"Which do you think will be faster," Laroche mused, his voice eerily calm, "my blade or his pistol?"

"You're defeated, Laroche," Treville said, keeping his voice steady.

"I hardly think so," Laroche replied, a smile tipping the corner of his thin mouth. "I can quite easily dispatch your Musketeer."

"You kill Aramis, d'Artagnan kills you," Treville replied.

"The boy is barely on his feet," Laroche scoffed. "A sneeze would blow him over."

"They what stays your hand?" Aramis challenged from the ground.

"Aramis," Porthos hissed.

"Why not kill me?" Aramis pressed.

Treville saw Athos drawing closer to one of the Red Guard, an empty arquebus in his hand, turned around with the grip out like a club.

"You were to be the one that returns," Laroche revealed. "You have found favor with the Queen. Your death would bring Rochefort happiness…and that is counterproductive to my plans."

"So we are at an impasse, is that it?" Treville asked, taking a step closer. He heard movement behind him, but didn't take his eyes from Laroche. "Your plan requires sacrifice, Laroche. Who…besides all of your men will die to appease the magic?"

Laroche leaned slightly forward, the tip of his sword pressing into Aramis' neck. Aramis, to his credit, didn't so much as breathe in; he simply held fast, staring back at the man who had turned their lives into chaos.

"Not all of them." The voice wavered slightly and Treville felt his back tense in instinctive reaction when he felt a blade press against his spine. It was the man he'd spared just minutes before. "You should have killed me."

"You're right," Treville agreed, darting his eyes from Athos to Porthos, trying to think how they could use this distraction to their advantage to save the others.

"So, now," the blade lifted as the man prepared to strike. "I'll kill you."

When the sound of the pistol blast echoed through the eerily quiet courtyard, Treville startled, flinching forward and grabbing at his belly in instinctive reaction. Exchanging a confused look with Porthos, Treville turned quickly to see his assailant lying dead on the ground behind him, the sword he was going to use to kill Treville still gripped in his hand.

"No, he won't."

"Bauer!" Athos called, surprise and relief battling for control of his voice.

Treville looked up to see Bauer standing in the shattered entry to the courtyard, two other Musketeers flanking him, both with pistols raised. Treville felt his legs tremble with in reaction to this sight; he very much wanted to sink to the ground and stay there for the remainder of the day.

"No matter!" Laroche shouted, reminding Treville that the danger had not yet passed. "I can still take a sacrifice."

"You already have," Treville returned. "You just won't accept it."

Bauer, Mathieu, and a sour-faced man named DuFour crossed the threshold, walked passed Treville, and smoothly and quietly took the two Red Guards into custody. Lyon and his companion went quietly, allowing themselves to be removed from the alcove and sat under guard in the rubble behind Porthos. With access to Laroche exposed, Athos took a step forward.

"Drop your sword, Laroche," he said, his voice a command.

"I will not."

"You are defeated," Athos pressed.

At this, Laroche shot a look over his shoulder toward Athos. "I am not!"

Aramis didn't hesitate. The moment the mad man's attention wavered, he reached forward and slapped the tip of the blade to the side, away from his throat. Porthos lunged forward, wrapping strong arms around the man and slamming them both to the ground. Treville advanced, kicking Laroche's sword out of reach.

"He must pay!" Laroche screamed as Porthos wrestled him upright, twisting his arms behind him. "He must pay!"

Treville knelt next to Aramis, bracing the younger man with a strong hand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, Captain," Aramis replied, wincing and dabbing at the painful-looking cut at his forehead. "I'll live."

"d'Artagnan," Athos' low voice called their attention.

Treville turned, carefully helping Aramis to his feet as they both stared at the young Gascon. d'Artagnan's eyes were wide, his breathing rapid, his face pale, but he had yet to lower the cocked pistol. It was aimed at no one, would do no harm, but he seemed unable to relax.

"At ease," Athos soothed, reaching carefully for the young man's wounded wrist. "You did well."

The moment Athos touched d'Artagnan's arm, the pistol in his grip began to waver, but his white-knuckled grip didn't yet release.

"Give me the weapon, d'Artagnan," Athos said carefully. "You can stand down."

d'Artagnan finally slid his gaze toward his mentor; the look in his eyes was crippling. "Athos?"

Athos nodded. "You did well," he repeated.

d'Artagnan released the pistol, finally lowering his arm. He looked over at Aramis blinking as though coming back to the present, then back to Athos. With alarming suddenness, his knees seemed to vanish, sending him to the ground. Athos' quick grasp was the only thing that kept him from slamming against the stone ground. Aramis rushed over, his slim, sure hands checking the Gascon's pulse, then exhaling in relief when he found it.

"Help me with him," Aramis asked and Porthos stepped forward to aid Athos in doing so.

Treville turned to Bauer and the other two Musketeers who now held the Red Guard, Laroche, and the man Porthos had over-powered under their guard.

"How did you find us?" he demanded.

Bauer, eyes on where Aramis was crouched over the wounded d'Artagnan, replied, "Rochefort confined the Musketeers to the garrison, so, naturally, every man was out in Paris trying to get word on the progress of the rescue he had supposedly sent."

Porthos huffed from where he was crouched next to Aramis. "That lot right there," he gestured toward Lyon and his companion. "They're your bloody rescue."

"Oh, fantastic," Treville replied, his brow arched with sarcasm. "My thanks for your efforts, men."

"We were just doing what we could to survive!" One of them men spoke up.

"Shut up, Lyon," Athos and Porthos snapped in unison.

Bauer stepped closer to the alcove, lines of worry drawing his mouth into a frown as he caught sight of d'Artagnan.

"Through completely unprofessional and subversive means," he said, purposefully not looking at Treville, "we learned that Rochefort had some previous dealings with Laroche and that he knew where the man was headed—and it wasn't Soissons. So, we decided…to hell with Rochefort's orders. The risk of court martial was worth your lives."

Athos stood and regarded Bauer, his blue eyes steady, a small smile relaxing the tension on his face. "It's far better to walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light."

"Exactly."

"We are in your debt," Treville stepped forward, registering that every man not in custody was now staring toward the alcove where Aramis was crouched over d'Artagnan.

"You would have done the same thing," Bauer paused, and glanced his way, "Captain."

"Aramis?" Porthos finally questioned. "'ow is 'e?"

"Not great," Aramis sighed, sitting back on his heels and wiping the blood from his eyebrow with the heel of his hand. "But…better than before. His fever isn't as high and I've been able to stop the bleeding. For now."

Treville exhaled and saw Athos' shoulders sag just a bit.

"What the hell happened to him?" Mathieu asked, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

"It might be easier to tell you what didn't," Treville muttered, allowing himself to sink to the ground, his trembling leg no longer able to hold him upright.

"Can he travel?" Athos asked.

Aramis looked over at his friend and Treville saw their matching head wounds gave the weariness in their eyes a mirroring effect. "Are you asking as his friend or his Lieutenant?"

Athos looked down, the answer he was looking for caught in that cryptic response. He glanced over at Treville.

"What are your orders, Captain?"

Treville swallowed. Six sets of eyes rested on him. Taking a steadying breath, he reached for the nearest wall to help him gain his feet once more—because no one in their right mind gave orders from the ground—and grit his teeth when his leg threatened to collapse. Porthos stepped close, offering his shoulder and Treville took it gratefully. He looked down to where d'Artagnan lay, eyes closed in a bruised face, a clean bandage wrapped around his narrow waist and hiding the horrific wound beneath.

"I would not be standing—well, almost standing," he nodded once at Porthos, "with you today if it weren't for the actions of that young man from Gascon. With little to no thought to his own safety, he kept me…more than alive. He kept me present."

Treville pulled his brows close, wrestling with the decision he'd been asked to make, knowing he couldn't allow it to fall on the shoulders of anyone else present.

"That said, we must return to Paris," he declared. "We cannot wait longer; the Musketeers are at risk."

"And d'Artagnan?" Bauer asked, looking pained at the thought of losing the young Musketeer. His expression gave Treville a sense of Grisier's fate without him having to ask.

"He will ride with one of us," Aramis declared. "I have herbs enough to keep his pain somewhat manageable and treat the fever. If we can keep the wound from bleeding further…and keep the infection at bay…."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The men who stood near him had seen enough battle wounds to know the other side of if. Bauer shook himself slightly and ordered Mathieu and DuFour to take the prisoners outside to the waiting horses. Porthos forced Aramis to sit for a moment so he could clean up his cut. Athos knelt next to the restless d'Artagnan, his words indiscernible, his tone comforting.

Treville sank down on the nearest boulder, the world suddenly spinning around him, but at a distance, as though a bubble of air encased him. He registered movement, voices, activity and progress, but he couldn't seem to order his body to move, respond. He had lost track of how long it had been since he'd slept. Or eaten.

There was only so long the body could move forward on will alone.

As if he'd voiced his weakness aloud, Aramis suddenly appeared before him, his face less bloody, but the cut above his eye looking like an accusation of misery. He was speaking, but it took Treville a moment to focus on his words.

"…food and water. Captain?"

"Sorry, what? I must have—"

"Bauer and Mathieu brought food and water," Aramis repeated. "Before we leave, you're eating a meal."

"Aramis, I—"

"As your only physician on hand, I am fully capable of pulling rank on you, Captain." Aramis tipped his chin and lifted a brow. "Stay here; I'll bring you some food."

Aramis started to move away, but Treville rested a hand on his arm, staying him. "Aramis."

The other man looked back. There was story caught in his eyes, one that Treville wasn't able to fully grasp in that moment, but instinctively he knew he was part of. Aramis waited, watching Treville closely.

"Will he make it? Back to Paris?"

Tell me I haven't killed him with this order…tell me I haven't destroyed the three of you with this decision.

Aramis settled back on his heels, glancing toward the alcove. "He's strong," he said quietly. Looking back at Treville he continued, recalling the argument they had given him the previous night, "He's stubborn. And he doesn't know how to quit."

Aramis left. Food arrived. Treville ate.

The violent morning folded into a strangely quiet afternoon. When Treville stood, helping Aramis and Athos carry their saddles and supplies to the horses vacated by the dead they were leaving behind in the abbey—Rochefort could send Red Guard back to clean it up, they'd decided—he found it difficult to grasp all that had transpired in such a short time.

Laroche was silent and sullen, his eyes vacant, his body bowed. Bauer had tied him and the other prisoners tightly, securing them to their horses, and their horses together. Porthos carried the still-unconscious d'Artagnan from the abbey. The young Gascon had been dressed in his filthy shirt once more as some measure of protection against the elements, his leathers declared too problematic to put him back into. Porthos paused at the saddled horses to make sure the others were situated.

Mathieu aided Treville in mounting his horse, not saying a word when a groan slipped out as the muscles in his wounded leg were forced to stretch to accommodate the girth of horse and saddle. Athos mounted, then turned, reaching for d'Artagnan. Aramis and Porthos flanked either side of his horse, helping to adjust the young Gascon on Athos' saddle while Athos sat behind.

"Let me, Athos," Bauer offered. "You're wounded and tired. I can hold him—"

"It's fine," Athos cut the offer off with a firm, but kind decline. "He'll ride with me."

Bauer visibly swallowed his protest and waited until both Porthos and Aramis had also mounted before leading their battered party back across the river and toward the shortest route to Paris. The sky remained clear, no return of the storms that had plagued their trip.

They rode in single file, DuFour leading with two prisoners, Bauer following with two more, then Mathieu and the rest of the party. Athos and d'Artagnan rode just behind Treville and in front of Aramis with Porthos covering their flank. After riding quietly for nearly an hour, Treville heard a low, familiar voice.

"Athos?"

"I'm here," Athos replied, his tone steady in response to d'Artagnan's waver.

"Are we…," d'Artagnan paused and Treville could practically feel the young man's wheels turning. "We are going back to Paris?"

"We are."

"All of us?"

"Plus a few," Athos told him, his tone an obvious attempt to put the young man at ease. "Seems our friend Bauer is about as fond of orders as you are. He brought Mathieu and DuFour."

"Aramis, he's…?"

There was a pause. Athos voice, when next he spoke, was tight with emotion. "Aramis is well, d'Artagnan. You stopped Laroche."

"I remember holding the pistol…," d'Artagnan paused and Treville could hear a tight hiss of pain.

"d'Artagnan?"

"'m okay," the young man replied through his teeth. "Just hurts sometimes."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"I remember that Treville shot you," d'Artagnan replied, causing Treville to wince. "And…that we were back in the abbey, but…it's all tangled, really."

Athos was quiet for a bit and Treville twisted around to see that he was helping the young Gascon drink from one of the water skins. The youngest Musketeer was pale beneath his bruises, blood still caking his hairline where their cool cloths hadn't washed it away. He leaned back against Athos, not even the faintest attempt to keep himself upright, one arm wrapped around his middle as though to hold himself together.

Treville was grateful no one insisted they ride faster than a walk; it would tear the lad up. As twilight fell, he assessed they were still several hours from Paris. He whistled to DuFour, bringing his men within earshot.

"We must split up," he declared. "Porthos, you ride with Bauer, Mathieu, and DuFour to take the prisoners to the Châtelet. The rest of us will make camp here and join you in the morning."

For a full minute, no one moved. Then Porthos cleared his throat.

"All due respect, Captain," he started, "but I'm not leaving them." He nodded toward Aramis, Athos, and d'Artagnan. "Even if that means we camp 'ere with this lot."

Treville didn't miss the way Aramis' shoulders seemed to release tension at that declaration. He glanced over at Bauer. "Can you get them back without a fourth?"

Bauer lifted his chin. "Absolutely." He pulled his dagger from its home on his belt and turned it so that the blade glinted off the dying light of the sun. "If they give us any trouble we can always cut them up a bit."

Lyon drew back, and Treville found himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"Directly to the Châtelet," he said. "Then return to the garrison. We will join you there first thing and face the King together."

"Yes, Sir," their rescuers replied in unison.

Bauer looked over at Athos. "Take care," he said, his eyes drifting over d'Artagnan.

"We will," Athos promised, then saluted as Bauer turned and kicked their party into a canter toward Paris.

Setting up camp at dusk was simple. Getting d'Artagnan from the horse without tearing his stitches was not. Aramis was forced to sew the lad back up, but was able to report that the lingering fever was not from a resurgence of the infection. As d'Artagnan lay against one of their saddles and the others prepared a meal from the food Bauer and Mathieu left them, he grew more aware of his surroundings.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan called suddenly, drawing four sets of eyes. "Did you…were there…bugs on me?"

Aramis paused, turned, and rested his forearm on his bent knee. "Bugs?"

"I was dreaming," d'Artagnan confessed, his voice a slash of sound in the night, firelight reflecting in his dark eyes as he started into the middle distance. "I dreamed that I was being…eaten."

Treville glanced at Aramis and noted that no one hurried to bail him out of this one.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis said finally, "do you trust me?"

This caused the young man to look up, startled. "Implicitly."

"Do you trust that I would do everything in my power to save your life?"

"I do, Aramis."

Aramis nodded. "Let's…leave it at that for now, shall we?"

d'Artagnan frowned, but nodded, his gaze slipping back to the fire. They ate and Treville was pleased to see d'Artagnan take the food Athos offered, though he consumed it much more slowly. As they rested, Aramis examined Treville's wound through the tear in his breeches.

"It's healing nicely," Aramis declared, "if you could resist pushing the torn muscles before they've recovered."

"I did that," d'Artagnan spoke up suddenly. Treville thought he'd slipped back into sleep and the suddenness of the lad's low voice startled him. "I wanted…," the Gascon paused and chuckled softly. "I remember thinking I wanted to live long enough to tell you."

Aramis smiled at him. "You did well, d'Artagnan."

"You remembered the pirates," Porthos spoke up, now that d'Artagnan was talking beyond incoherent pleas and mutterings of pain.

Treville lifted a brow and mouthed pirates toward Aramis, who closed his eyes briefly, waving him off in a don't ask gesture.

d'Artagnan smiled. "I was hoping you'd see that."

"And you kept Thomas' neck scarf," Athos said quietly.

"And my cross," Aramis chimed in.

d'Artagnan was quiet a moment and Treville looked to make sure the lad was still conscious.

"I knew when Rochefort ordered me on this mission," d'Artagnan said, his wounded lips barely moving, his eyes on the fire, "that it was because of what happened with Marmion. Because I'd allowed Louis to…be frightened for his life."

No one spoke, their silence signaling agreement.

"I knew I might not be coming back and…I couldn't leave without…a piece of each of you. Something that I could keep with me when…when the world fell apart around me."

"Like the soldier," Aramis interjected, drawing d'Artagnan's eyes.

"What?"

"The tin soldier," Aramis continued. "You kept it after you left Lupiac, after your father died, to keep you grounded when you were afraid."

d'Artagnan blinked at him in amazement. "How did you…?"

"The boy, back on the road to Calais," Aramis told him. "That barn fire, remember?"

d'Artagnan nodded and Treville saw him reach almost instinctively for the cross that still hung around his neck.

"You said you lost the trinket you used to keep, but the Innkeeper's boy told me you'd given him that tin soldier because he'd been afraid of the lightning."

d'Artagnan nodded again and a small smile pulled at the corner of his damaged mouth. "I didn't…you never said." He was quiet a moment. "Is that why you let me keep the cross?"

Aramis lifted a shoulder. "That and," he plucked his gold cross from the folds of his shirt with a grin, "mine is prettier."

Porthos chuckled and the others smiled in response.

"You kept your head, lad," Porthos complimented him. "Remembering the pirate, leaving a trail, keeping our Captain in one piece. You made us proud."

d'Artagnan's smile lit his eyes and caused something in Treville's chest to catch painfully, capturing his breath and burning his eyes.

"Rest," Athos ordered. "We need you on your feet when we face the King."

At Athos' words, d'Artagnan's eyes began to droop and soon his face was lax in sleep, transforming him and making him appear years younger than Treville knew him to be.

"I'm the only one who should face the King," he said to his men. "I may not be your Captain in title, but as d'Artagnan reminded me…I am your leader. You are here because of me."

"Captain, no disrespect meant," Aramis held up a hand, "but…I'm here because of both of you. d'Artagnan…he helped restore my faith."

"He saved my sanity," Athos chimed in quietly, eyes on the fire.

"And my life," Porthos added. "We'd ride through fire for you, Captain, but…," he tipped his head toward the Gascon sleeping across from him, "we'd burn the world down for that one."

-ANV-

The morning had been subdued. Muscles ached, heads throbbed, wounds made themselves known.

d'Artagnan's fever had made a reappearance once during the night, abating to a more manageable temperature by morning, leaving the lad weak and wrung out but able to at least rise to his feet and stand on his own. Aramis helped him clean up and between him and Athos, they helped d'Artagnan into his leathers and pauldron—both of which had been rescued from Laroche's horse—for their ride into Paris.

As they didn't have an extra horse, he rode with Athos once more, though this time he sat behind the saddle, holding onto Athos. They'd only been riding an hour when Treville saw d'Artagnan slump forward against Athos' back, the older man anchoring him close by holding onto his arms. Porthos and Aramis closed ranks, the three men riding side-by-side, a visual representation of their oft-used nickname: inseparable.

Treville followed, finding himself amazed and honored that he had once been their Captain.

When they reached Paris, he breathed a sigh of relief. The city welcomed him with open arms, the familiarity of the dirt and chaos like coming home. He saw his men react the same—with the exception of d'Artagnan.

There was no place quite like Paris.

They started to enter the garrison when Magliore ran out to them, grabbing Athos' horse by the bridle and halting their movement.

"You must ride to the palace," he said. "Rochefort has Bauer, Mathieu, and DuFour at the Châtelet. He's waiting your arrival."

Athos nodded, his jaw tense. "Let us deposit d'Artagnan at the infirmary—"

"d'Artagnan, too," Magliore interrupted, though he did spare a glance as the miserable figure d'Artagnan painted. "He wants all of you. He's threatening to disband the Musketeers if you don't arrive by tonight."

"Disband the—" Treville sputtered. "On whose authority? Rochefort cannot—"

"By order of the King," Magliore told him, pulling a folded missive from his jacket and handing it to Treville.

Scanning the letter quickly, Treville raised tragic eyes to Athos. "We…we must report immediately to the King."

Aramis reached over, pressing a hand against d'Artagnan's shoulder. "d'Artagnan," he called. "I need you to open your eyes."

As though he'd simply been waiting for the command, d'Artagnan blinked his eyes open and sat up slowly, pain tattooed in the lines of his young face.

"Are we home?"

"Not quite," Athos said, twisting slightly in the saddle, his hand still anchoring d'Artagnan to him. "We must stand before the King. Then you can rest."

d'Artagnan straightened further, then gasped as the motion pulled at his wound. He closed his eyes and wavered for a moment, then sat up fully, pulling away from Athos.

"I can do it."

Aramis nodded at him. "We will be by your side, d'Artagnan," he said. "All of us."

d'Artagnan nodded, resting his hands on the back of Athos' saddle and holding himself upright as they rode toward the palace, each lost in their own thoughts of what if.

Porthos and Aramis dismounted. Porthos reached up a hand to balance Treville as he put weight on his wounded leg and Aramis helped d'Artagnan slide from the horse, holding him on his feet until Athos dismounted.

They stood five abreast for a moment before heading into the palace and Treville was struck by the story of their appearance: soldiers, fighters, wounded, bloody, bandaged, upright, determined, survivors. The King may not realize it, may not recognize it, but the five men walking into his throne room were the very definition of brotherhood.

"Do you have this?" Athos said quietly to d'Artagnan who nodded in response, though Treville saw that it was necessary for Aramis and Athos to walk in unison, their shoulders pressing tightly against d'Artagnan to keep him from wavering.

Louis and Anne were seated on their thrones, waiting their arrival. As the five men approached, Treville saw twin expressions of horror replaced by repulsion and fear on one side, and sympathy and worry on the other. They paused the respectable distance and Treville heard d'Artagnan gasp as he bent in a bow, Athos' hand on his arm helping him rise before they stood at attention.

Constance Boniceaux stood at the Queen's left, her eyes riveted to d'Artagnan, tears swimming at the sight of his battered body. Rochefort stood at the King's right, chin lifted, and expression cool.

"Treville," Louis spoke, his lips working in that way he had where he was visibly struggling to say the Kingly thing rather than what his nature bade him say. "I hope you are able to account for your actions over the past week."

Had it really been a week?

"Yes, Your Majesty," Treville replied, thinking furiously. Where to begin? With the orders? The murders? Marmion?

"I've been informed that the villain Laroche is in custody," Louis continued.

"He is, Your Majesty."

"And that this whole dark business of…of traitors in our ranks is subdued?"

Treville slid his eyes to Rochefort, noting the challenge issued in the other man's bearing. "I hope so, You Majesty."

"Then kindly explain why Musketeers explicitly defied orders and left the garrison! Left Paris!" Louis was agitated, but it was forced, as though someone had told him this was unacceptable, not because he had decided so himself.

"They were—" Treville started, truly having no idea where to begin.

"May I speak, Your Majesty?"

All eyes turned in surprise to see d'Artagnan step forward, his thin frame wavering slightly for a moment before regaining his balance.

"d'Artagnan," Louis lifted his chin, tapping one hand on the arm of his throne twice in a nervous gesture. "You look half-dead."

"Yes, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan nodded, unable, it seemed, to bow and stay on his feet at the same time. "I believe, however, I may have the answer you're looking for."

Rochefort stepped forward and leaned in as though to whisper something to the King, but Louis waved him away. "Go ahead. But make it quick. It pains me to look at you."

d'Artagnan licked his wounded lips. "Not long ago, Your Majesty," he began, "you and I were…caught in unfortunate circumstances."

"Yes, well," Louis looked askance at Anne, who, Treville noted, hadn't taken her eyes off of them since they entered the chamber. "We agreed never to speak of that."

"During that…that time we do not speak of, Sire," d'Artagnan continued, his hand snaking around his side as a brace, "you helped me save a man's life."

"And then he was killed later," Louis shrugged, looking at his nails. "I hope this is going somewhere, d'Artagnan. I don't enjoy being reminded of unpleasantness."

Moving forward, on his feet by sheer stubbornness alone, d'Artagnan continued. "Before he was killed, you showed that man what it truly meant to be a King. You showed him that it wasn't about…declarations and laws and fancy ceremonies, but about people. About the people under your rule. You showed him your compassion and heart and you…you saved him, Sire."

Treville swallowed, listening to d'Artagnan paint a picture of a man who was a myth. He willed the lad to stay on his feet long enough to complete the spell he'd started to weave, watching as Louis sank back against his throne, listening to d'Artagnan's low, pain-soaked voice tell him all the things he wasn't, but truly wanted to be.

"That man gave his life for you, Sire. Willingly."

"What of it?" Louis challenged.

"Last week," d'Artagnan continued, swaying suddenly and causing both Athos and Aramis to instinctively step forward before he caught himself and brought his head up once more. "Last week, you were forced to make impossible choices. Your actions saved the lives of your wife and son."

"That's true," Louis reached for Anne's hand and squeezed it lightly, a smile tipping the edges of his mouth. "They are alive because of me."

"Your actions once more illustrated what it meant to be a King," d'Artagnan said. "Because of you, when their brothers were in danger, these men did not hesitate to emulate you. They rode out to save their brothers from…from a fate…w-worse than death, because they knew that their K-King would do the s-same."

Treville stiffened as d'Artagnan's words stuttered. Tension radiated from Athos in waves.

"d'Artagnan are you quite all right?" Louis asked, leaning forward. "You appear…in very poor health."

"I'm fine, Your Majesty. Tired," he admitted. "But…concerned about my fellow Musketeers."

"Sire," the Queen said, leaning a bit to the side, her blue eyes beseeching her husband. "These men have saved your life—and the life of your son—multiple times. I believe they deserve clemency."

Louis brought Anne's hand up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles before releasing her hand. "Once again, you are as right as you are beautiful." He stood suddenly, tugging down the edge of his jacket. Treville caught his breath. "Release the Musketeers from the Châtelet and reinstate them as my honor guard."

"Your Majesty—" Rochefort immediately stepped forward in protest.

"I've made my decision, Rochefort. Let's put this behind us."

Treville deflated slightly as his Captaincy was not mentioned, but, he realized he had quite a bit of repair work to do there. At least the Musketeers were not disbanded—and had been returned to their usual duties. Louis turned and the Musketeers—save d'Artagnan, who merely tipped his head—bowed as he exited, Rochefort close at his heels. Anne stood, calling Constance to her and whispering something in her ear before following her husband from the room.

The moment the royals and Rochefort had left, Treville heard d'Artagnan utter a low, pained groan, his knees buckling. He slipped downward, Athos and Aramis moving as one to catch him. Constance was next to them as they lowered him to the ground, knowing better than to ask the usual what happened to him questions.

"We need to transport him to the physician," she stated, d'Artagnan's dirty, blood-stained head resting in her billowing white skirts.

"We will ready a wagon," Aramis declared.

"No," Constance shook her head. "The Queen is sending her carriage around. I can get you to the carriage, but I can't," she looked up at Athos, the tears that had been held prisoner in her eyes spilling down her cheeks, "I can't come with you."

"Constance," d'Artagnan whispered. Her tears fell on his face as she looked down. "Please…."

Treville felt his brows pull close, remembering the lad uttering those same words over and over through the long night before.

"Don't cry," he continued, blinking his eyes open to look directly into hers.

"You stupid, stubborn man," she choked out. "You're going to get yourself killed, you know that?"

"I'm still here," he said, reaching up and stroking her chin, wiping a tear from the edge of her jaw. "I'm still here." He closed his eyes, his hand falling to his chest.

Constance swallowed a sob, then looked once more at Athos. "How bad?"

Athos looked at Aramis.

"We need to get him to a physician," Aramis replied. "Please thank A—the Queen—for the use of her carriage. It means everything."

Something kind and knowing settled in Constance's eyes as she looked at Aramis. "I will," she whispered. She leaned over, pressing her lips gently against d'Artagnan's wounded mouth. "You stay with me," she whispered, then kissed his closed eyes and his mouth once more before two men stepped into the throne room, nodding that the carriage was ready.

"I'll go make sure Bauer and the others are sent back to the garrison," she stated, wiping her eyes as Porthos lifted d'Artagnan from her lap. "Please…tell him I'll…see him soon?"

Athos took her hand, kissing her knuckles with a sincere nod before following Porthos and Aramis to the carriage. Treville lingered a moment, staring at Constance as she watched the battered body of the man she loved carried away.

"He is a good soldier, Constance," he said to her, trying to find the right words that would convey d'Artagnan's bravery. "He fought with honor."

She turned to look at him, her chin lifted, her small hands fisted at her sides, her blue eyes fierce. "He has a good leader."

Something in her bearing told him she didn't mean Athos.

The ride to the infirmary was tense and silent, broken only by d'Artagnan's low gasps as the wheels rattled over the uneven Paris streets. Treville watched him closely, noting that he seemed to fade in and out, eyes open but unfocused, body shivering with pain if not fever. The garrison was opened for them and Treville felt a rush of gratitude and relief when the men—his men—stood waiting to carry d'Artagnan to where the physician waited.

Treville sat on a rough-hewn bench outside the closed door of the infirmary, Porthos and Athos leaning against the post across from him. Aramis was inside with the physician, no doubt explaining the lengths he went to keep the young man alive. The day bled into evening and darkness climbed over the garrison walls to saturate the air around them.

No one spoke. It was as though all their words had been used up. Or were waiting. Bauer, Mathieu, and DuFour returned and joined the other three outside the infirmary. Treville noted with listless eyes that the other Musketeers milled around the courtyard, moving to and from the livery and the armory. No one trained, no one left.

Hours later, Aramis stepped outside, looking around in surprise at the number of men waiting. He looked drawn, exhausted, barely on his feet, but not shattered. His dark eyes found Athos' in the lantern light and he offered the older man a small smile.

"It was close," Aramis said, "but he's going to be fine."

The exhale of relief was pervasive.

"Can we see 'im?" Porthos asked immediately.

Aramis nodded, but didn't step aside quite yet. "He's weak. The blood loss more than the infection took its toll, but the fever did enough damage. It's going to be days yet before he can be on his feet, longer still until he can be on active duty."

"'e's not gonna like that," Porthos grinned ruefully.

"But he will live," Athos reasserted, seeming to need the words once more.

"He will live," Aramis nodded, his smile tired, but relieved. "Go on in, Athos."

Porthos seemed content to allow Athos his time and reached for Aramis to enfold him in a bear-like hug before pushing him down to the bench next to Treville.

"I could sleep for a week," Aramis confessed, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow.

"You deserve too, keeping our Gascon alive," Bauer replied. "Burying one brother is going to be hard enough."

And there it was, Treville's suspicions confirmed.

"Grisier?" he asked, his voice rough from lack of use.

"He was able to warn us of your capture before…," Bauer's voice caught and he cleared his throat, pushing away from the wall. He turned and nodded at Aramis, then broadened his gaze to encompass the other two. "Welcome back."

Bauer's departure paged the way for others and soon Treville, Aramis, and Porthos sat quietly, side-by-side on the bench outside the infirmary, all reluctant to leave. In a moment, Athos opened the door and sought Treville with his eyes.

"He's asking for you."

Pushing shakily to his feet, Treville moved toward the opened door, sensing Porthos and Aramis at his back. d'Artagnan looked pale against the sheets of the infirmary bed, but the blood had finally been cleaned from his face and hair. His wrists were bandaged, as was the cut below his eye. A sheet had been pulled up to his mid-chest, but Treville suspected the bulge at his side was another thick bandage over the problematic wound.

"Captain," d'Artagnan greeted, his voice like crushed glass.

"d'Artagnan," Treville nodded. He wanted to say something light, reassuring. You gave us quite a scare…. You'll be on your feet in no time…. But he could only stare and wait.

He had nothing left.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan rasped. "You should…should have been our Captain…again. After that."

Treville smiled softly. "As a wise person recently told me," he said, laying a hand on d'Artagnan's bare shoulder, "I may not be your Captain, but I am still your leader."

d'Artagnan blinked slow in an obvious struggle to stay conscious.

"And as your leader, I am telling you to rest. I need men out there who are not afraid to knock over some towers." He lowered his chin to catch d'Artagnan's eyes, letting his smile light his expression.

"Yes, Sir," d'Artagnan whispered, his eyes slipping closed.

The men filed out, leaving the physician sitting with d'Artagnan, and paused at the courtyard before separating to their quarters.

"What's this story about the tower, then?" Porthos asked.

Treville chuckled. "I wondered how long it would take you to ask."

-ANV-

Three days after their return and the subsequent reinstatement of the Musketeers, the regiment stood next to another grave, only this time it wasn't a ruse to trap a corrupt Cardinal and his assassin. And this time, Treville wasn't standing in full uniform, hat in hand, speaking words over the body. Without an official Captain of the Musketeers, it fell to the men to decide who addressed Grisier's sacrifice. Each decided that the only appropriate voice was Bauer's.

Bauer stood in Treville's place, staring down at the grave, gathering his thoughts. The men gave him leeway, all standing at attention, hats covering their hearts—save those, like d'Artagnan, who didn't have one—and waited. Treville allowed his eyes to wander the group of men who had come to mean everything to him over the last several years. Oh no

Athos' bullet graze was mending; all that remained was a bruise that was starting to fade to a greenish yellow. Aramis had more stitches to add to his collection, but he was moving easier, the bruised and torn muscles from his fall beginning to recover. Porthos was the only one of their group to slip through this one relatively unscathed. A full night's sleep and he was back in fighting form.

Treville had the physician examine his cauterized wound and was told there was nothing else he could do but rest; the wound had been repaired nicely, as Aramis declared. He had slept, but memories and restlessness plagued him, drawing him from his bed each night. He'd found himself at the infirmary, sitting next to the healing d'Artagnan, wondering what had driven the newest Musketeer to put himself in such danger, to endure such pain….

d'Artagnan's wrists and bruised face were healing, but the wound on his side would take watching. The physician had monitored the lad for infection when his fever hadn't abated that first day, but by the second his fever broke and everyone breathed a collective sigh a relief. The blood loss, however, had drained d'Artagnan's energy, causing him to sleep for long stretches of time and tire quickly. The physician commended Aramis' use of maggots to halt and clean the infection—though, when d'Artagnan learned the truth of it, Treville thought the lad was going to lose his lunch or strike Aramis.

Or both.

It would take some time, but Treville was certain d'Artagnan would be back to his hot-headed self in short order, ready to tear recklessly across Porthos' Ceiling of Paris or stand endless hours at parade rest guarding the King.

As it was, he stood, pale and quiet, next to Athos and behind Bauer, staring down at the grave where Grisier's body now lay, equal parts regret and anger lingering in his dark eyes.

"Grisier loved being a Musketeer," Bauer finally began. "You all knew that. He told us pretty much every day. Twice on Sundays." A smattering of appreciative laughter rippled through the ranks. "His brothers—all of us—were everything to him. He didn't…he wasn't a Musketeer because he loved King and country. To Grisier, that was more the recruiting line."

Bauer smiled softly, not lifting his eyes from the box where his friend's body lay. "For him, it was about the man next to him. It was about me, and…Mathieu. Athos, Porthos. It was about d'Artagnan and DuFour." He glanced up. "Even you, Magliore."

More quiet laughter and Treville found himself nodding.

"Grisier died exactly as he lived: in defense of his brothers." Bauer kept his eyes up, scanning the crowd of men as he spoke. "The mission was important, but no more than the life of the man next to him. And I feel that loss today. I feel the empty space at my side. And as I stand here, I find myself wondering how long I will feel that emptiness. I find myself wondering…who will step into his place; make me the man next to them?"

There was a stretched silence as the men contemplated his words.

"I will."

Treville's head jerked up at the voice—that unmistakable, husky voice that had pulled him from the dark, steadied him, and humbled him. d'Artagnan stepped forward, one arm wrapped around his side, bruises still visible, and smiled slightly at Bauer.

"I'll be the man next to you."

"As will I," Athos echoed, stepping forward next to d'Artagnan.

"And me," said Porthos.

Aramis simply stepped forward, followed by Mathieu and others until the entire regiment had closed ranks, standing in a tight circle around Grisier's grave, shoulder to shoulder.

Bauer smiled, his eyes bright with emotion.

"Damn," he said softly. "I wish Grisier could have seen this. He'd have gotten a kick out of it."

"Maybe he can," Aramis offered, reaching over to clap a hand on Bauer's shoulder. He then bent, gathering a handful of dirt, and tossed it on the box lid, the clumps landing with a resounding thump. "Goodbye, brother," Aramis said to the grave. "We'll see you."

He turned then, placing his hat back on his head, and walked resolutely from the soldier's cemetery. Treville saw him pause briefly next to another grave, glance down, then moving on. He suspected he knew whose grave had given Aramis pause, and sighed, turning back to the latest funeral.

The other men followed Aramis' example until it was just Bauer and Treville. He stepped forward with a shovel and waited until Bauer nodded, then proceeded to fill in the grave of the man who'd served bravely under him, as was his tradition.

"Thank you, Sir," Bauer offered when he'd finished.

"It's my duty," Treville replied, replacing his hat and nodding at Bauer.

They walked in companionable silence until they reached the armory and Bauer stepped inside, holding Grisier's sword and readying it to rejoin the ranks of the weapons. Treville continued on toward the infirmary, glancing in to see that d'Artagnan was no longer there. Without saying a word, the physician pointed to the south wing of the garrison where Treville knew d'Artagnan's quarters to be.

As though pulled by the strange gravity of grief, Treville made his way to d'Artagnan's quarters, pausing outside the door and listening as d'Artagnan argued with the three other men inside that he didn't need to rest after having been on his feet a total of three hours. Porthos, Treville noted, was no one to be trifled with when worried. He effectively silenced d'Artagnan by telling him he'd had to carry the lad—unconscious and bleeding—twice in the last week. He didn't aim to do it again for some time.

Treville knocked on the door and took his hat off when Aramis opened it. Stepping inside, he drew the sword he'd kept sheathed during the funeral.

"My sword!" d'Artagnan exclaimed from where he sat stretched out on the bed, his leathers having been removed, one hand resting on his bandaged side. "I thought it was lost with Laroche!"

"It was returned with the rest of the…materials the Red Guard recovered during their sweep of the abbey," Treville informed him, handing it to the young Musketeer.

"Thank you, Sir," d'Artagnan said quietly, eyes on the hilt of the sword. "It was my father's—the only thing of his I still have. I planned on getting it back when we escaped, but…."

"Yes, well, best laid plans and all," Treville offered them a smile.

"So Rochefort did send men back," Aramis commented, leaning back on his chair, feet up at the foot of d'Artagnan's bed. "I wondered if he'd just leave them buried in the rubble."

"There may have been some insinuation that more incriminating papers were stashed on Laroche's troops," Treville admitted.

"Is that so?" Athos smiled, leaning forward and collecting the sword from d'Artagnan's hand. Treville noted that the lad didn't argue and instead slumped a bit to the side, leaning against the pillows at the head of the bed. "Any thoughts as to what those letters contained?"

"I doubt that we'll ever know." Treville shrugged. "Laroche has been written off as a mad man and while there is no denying that fact, his insanity was sparked by circumstance. Of which Rochefort played a part, but you won't get that information to the King now."

"If anyone asked me," d'Artagnan said, rubbing at his face and gingerly avoiding the bruises around his eye and cheekbone, "I'd say Rochefort threw his cards in with the Spanish."

"A spy, eh?" Porthos mused. "Wouldn't put it passed 'im."

"At any rate, Rochefort's back on top as far as the King is concerned," Treville said with a sigh. "Louis isn't letting anyone have an audience with him—not even the Queen herself. He's sequestered himself in his private chambers as a precaution."

"Seems Laroche's scare tactics worked after all," d'Artagnan sighed. "I really thought…." He tapered, looking away, his words dying in his throat.

"Did you mean what you said?" Porthos asked. "In that throne room the other day? All that about the King's actions being…inspiring."

d'Artagnan shrugged. "I wanted it to be true," he confessed. "I wanted his deeds to be the true definition of his character, not just his words. But…in reality, the King is scared, and has been scared…maybe all of his life. When he's tested, he doesn't stand and fight. He runs. And hides."

"All the more reason to protect him," Athos said quietly.

d'Artagnan looked over at him curiously, waiting.

"We protect the King not because he is brave and honorable, a man we can trust to stand beside us and defend us," Athos said. "That's why we have each other. We protect the King because he cannot protect himself."

"Our deeds," Aramis agreed quietly. "Not just our words."

d'Artagnan's nod was echoed by the others in the room. Treville saw the weariness in the young man's frame and settled his hat once more.

"I'll take my leave," he said. "I just wanted to return your sword…and to thank you, d'Artagnan. You showed true courage. Were I still your Captain, your actions would mean a great deal to me. As your friend…it means more."

"You will always be my Captain," d'Artagnan replied, and Treville once more saw nods of agreement ripple through the room.

He smiled and stepped from the room before emotion threatened to take his voice from him. As he paused just outside the closed door he heard Athos ordering d'Artagnan to rest, threatening not to allow Constance access to the garrison the following day if he did not. Treville smiled as quiet rapidly descended over the room.

Moving slowly across the open courtyard of the garrison, Treville paused at the base of the stairs that led up to his—to the Captain's—office. He'd been avoiding it for weeks since Louis decided he wasn't fit to be Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers. It had simply been too painful. He started to head toward the livery once more, finding solace in hard labor, but paused.

Words of his man swam through his head.

"Louis is…my King, but he's not my leader. You are. So bloody act like it."

"You are our Captain. You just have to remember that."

"You will always be my Captain."

As Aramis said, deeds, not words, were the true measure of a man. Despite what poison Rochefort spilled into the King's ear, Treville knew his deeds would win out. If not with the King, then with his men.

He gripped the rail and climbed the stairs.

-ANV-

a/n: Athos' quote, "It's far better to walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light," is a paraphrased quote by Helen Keller. Most of the repurposed quotes throughout the story are movie/TV quotes that I pepper within their dialog (and cookies to you if you recognize them), but this one I wanted to call out as it is attributed to a specific individual.

Thank you for indulging me once again in our world of swashbuckling heroes. I hope you enjoyed, and if so, I look forward to sharing more stories with you in the future.

Supernatural Fanfic friends: I am writing an 'original' SPN story (i.e., not an episode tag or missing scene) called "The Cave." It's a one or two shot at best, but...for those of you who have told me you followed me for SPN (but hopefully enjoy stories from other fandoms as well, else...why would you be here), I wanted you to know.