Before they could depart the chateau, news had arrived from the General's camp, stating that any who were severely wounded be diverted directly to Paris. de Champs had been advised of the doctor's presence and trusted the physician to identify those who would need more time to recover, thereby sparing them the detour to the General's location.

Since there would be no opportunity to speak with de Champs personally, Athos penned a letter in which he commended LaRue's actions as they'd been related to him by Porthos. He ended his message with a recommendation that the Musketeer take temporary command of the regiment while he and the others recovered in Paris. Unknown to LaRue, Athos had already decided to speak to Treville about promoting the man so that he could eventually take charge of his own regiment of infantrymen.

Despite the directness of their route, travelling by wagon was still an arduous process, and as the men began to regain some of their strength, they railed against the need to stay in the cart versus riding alongside it. Only the fact that Aramis was physically unable to ride, owing to his leg wound and his broken rib, kept Porthos and Athos in check; both men knew the medic would happily follow through on his threat to report them to Treville if they tried to take to their horses, thereby extending their time off-duty.

d'Artagnan's presence in the wagon was a foregone conclusion who, with his eyes wrapped, couldn't have ridden even if he'd been physically well enough to do so. It was another reason that Aramis refused to let either of their friends ride, recognizing the benefit to the Gascon's mood when all of them were near. It was clear that the young man was still deeply troubled about the possibility of being permanently blind, even though Pernet had done his best to assure the Musketeer before they'd departed.

"Now, d'Artagnan, you must keep your eyes bandaged for a full week," the doctor advised as he finished wrapping fresh linen around the young man's face. "I know that it will be tempting to remove this early," he said as he lightly tapped the bandage at the Musketeer's temple, "but you must promise me that you'll resist."

Pernet's gaze shifted to Aramis, seeking a similar promise, the medic nodding as d'Artagnan replied. "I promise, Doctor. Besides, I'm fairly certain that my friends will be watching me to make sure I follow your orders." The last part was said with a faint smile that made Aramis' lips quirk in return.

"You're right about that, d'Artagnan. I know how you get once you start feeling better, so I'll be making sure those bandages don't come off even a few hours early," Aramis confirmed, although he was fairly certain that the Gascon wouldn't try anything that might compromise his chances of regaining his sight.

Athos and Porthos had joined them at that point, and with a final check from Pernet, the men had slowly made their way to the courtyard, Porthos assisting Aramis, while Athos guided d'Artagnan. It was fortunate that the doctor had had the foresight to provide pain draughts for all the men, since their first two days were especially uncomfortable as the hard wheels of the wagon seemed to find every rut and rock in the road. When Paris finally came into sight on their fifth day of travel, the recovering men were just as grateful as those accompanying them to get a glimpse of home.

As expected, Athos took only a few minutes to don fresh clothes before heading to the palace to report to Treville. Aramis' look of disapproval followed the older man as he mounted his horse and rode out of the garrison. Porthos, at the marksman's request, got the other two wounded men settled into their rooms, both sufficiently recovered that they no longer needed the additional care available in the infirmary.

That left Aramis alone with d'Artagnan, and the medic helped the Gascon from the wagon, having made it clear earlier that the young man would not want assistance from anyone else in the regiment. As a result, those who'd guarded them during their journey had quietly dispersed, looking forward to a couple days of respite before having to return to the front.

"Alright, d'Artagnan, we're at the edge of the wagon," Aramis said as he guided the young man. "Sit down here and then you can just slide off the back."

"My legs are fine, you know," the Gascon replied, even though he was already doing as his friend had asked.

Aramis rolled his eyes despite being privately pleased that some of his friend's independent nature was reasserting itself. "Humor me, then. My leg won't bear it if I try to jump down."

They slipped from the back of the cart together, the marksman wincing as his stiff leg took his weight. Keeping his hand on d'Artagnan's arm under the pretense of needing the support, Aramis limped forward, chatting conversationally while inserting helpful tidbits of information to allow the young man to move safely. They reached the room that the Gascon now shared with his wife, and Aramis remarked on some of the homey touches Constance had added since their departure as he guided d'Artagnan to the bed. Claiming weariness, the medic then settled comfortably into a chair, continuing to chatter about nothing of consequence until his friend had drifted off to sleep.

As the marksman had expected, Athos had spoken to Constance while at the palace and advised her of her husband's injuries. As anticipated, the woman had immediately asked the Queen for permission to leave, and returned to the garrison to be at d'Artagnan's side. When the young man had woken, his new bride had reaffirmed her love and her intention to remain at her husband's side, lifting some of the pall that had remained over d'Artagnan as the men had made their way home.

Aramis had left at that point, following Athos out the door, the older man having accompanied Constance back. "It seems we were correct," the marksman remarked once they'd pulled the door closed behind them. Athos gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, secretly relieved that what he'd said to d'Artagnan hadn't proven to be false.

The next days passed in comfortable routine, each of the recovering men ordered to rest as much possible, with the small allowance that Athos would need to spend a limited amount of time each day attending to matters related to his command. Aramis and Porthos had no such obligations and spent their free time either at d'Artagnan's side, or providing tutelage to the recruits in their areas of expertise. As such, it was rare for the young man to ever be alone, a fact that was beginning to grate on the Gascon's nerves, so when Constance was unexpectedly called back to the palace, he told her not to worry since one of the others would be by soon.

When the door closed behind his wife, d'Artagnan breathed out a sigh of relief. He desperately needed some time to himself and away from his well-meaning friends. The deadline for removing the bandages from his eyes loomed in the morning, and he couldn't help but feel the anxiety building in his chest as the appointed time drew closer. While his friends and Constance had all assured him of their fidelity and support, the Gascon couldn't help but want to prepare himself, in case the worst came to pass. Despite Pernet's warnings, he needed to know if he was blind, and the only way to do that was to remove the wrappings from his eyes.

Now that he was finally alone, his searching fingers roved around the linen that had stayed in place since the doctor had applied it before their departure from the chateau. When he found the end of the bandage he worked it loose, and began to unwind it from around his head. The last bit of it fell free and dropped into his lap, and he let his hands follow, deathly scared of what was to come.

Now that he'd gotten his wish and the opportunity to test his sight, he found himself paralyzed with fear at the possibility that he wouldn't be able to see. As his anxiety increased, he could feel his heartrate climbing. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he forced his breaths to slow, inhaling deeply and then allowing a long, measured exhale. It took several minutes, but eventually his heart calmed and he allowed his hands to relax, feeling their clamminess.

With one last steadying breath, he opened his eyes. He managed only a second before he had to snap them closed, as they stung and teared after being wrapped for so long. Bringing a trembling hand upwards, he covered his eyes and tried again, this time opening his lids to mere slits. It still hurt, but he could keep them open, and he blinked several times as he tried to adjust. Gradually, he was able to lift his lids higher and then moved his hand aside, his eyes fixed and staring straight ahead.

It was almost overwhelming, and he could feel fresh tears springing to his eyes, the moisture now trickling down his cheeks with every blink. He didn't care, though, and made no move to stem the tide, needing the cathartic release that only crying could offer. It wasn't until the sound of boots reached his ears that he lifted a hand to his face, swiping at the evidence of his release. He'd just finished and let his hand drop to his lap when the door opened, followed by the voices of his friends. Porthos barked out a loud guffaw, the sound of which was followed closely by Aramis' laughter, the men obviously sharing something of amusement.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos greeted, as he led the trio's way into the bedroom. "You won't believe what Aramis just told me." The men managed only a few steps into the room when they stopped, realizing that the young man was sitting up in bed with his eyes unwrapped and open.

Aramis was the first to recover and take another step forward, Athos catching him by the arm a moment later to halt his progress. With a quick flash of annoyance at the older man, the medic returned his attention to the Gascon as he said, "You removed your bandages." When the young man remained silent, the marksman added, "They weren't to come off until tomorrow morning."

d'Artagnan gave a minute nod as he softly replied, "I know." Closing his eyes and allowing his head to drop forward, he said, "I had to know."

The three friends looked at each other nervously, each man wondering if the young man's dejected demeanor meant that he still couldn't see. Licking his lips, Porthos queried, "And – what's the verdict?"

The Gascon lifted his face to them and blinked. Athos moved forward, his gaze locked onto his protégé's. "You can see," he breathed out. d'Artagnan no longer looked past or through him, but was focused instead on his face. The look was unmistakable, and Athos was certain the young man's sight had returned. "You can see," he repeated, this time louder, drawing the attention of the other two.

Aramis and Porthos stepped forward at once, again flanking the older man as they asked, almost in tandem, "Is he right? Can you see?"

A wide smile split d'Artagnan's face as he looked from one blurry face to the next, the message clear – his sight had returned. For the first time since he'd been injured the Gascon laughed, the others joining him almost at once, the sound echoing through the room and washing away the last of their fears.

There was no glory in war. There was only savagery and brutality, fueled by the raw need to survive, beating down the enemy before they could strike you down first. It left a man heaving for air, covered in blood, and staring numbly at a battleground littered with bodies. The fortunate ones were dead; the unfortunate would be dragged off the field and tended in the makeshift infirmary, held down by comrades-in-arms as lead balls were dug out of muscle, and holes caused by steel and shrapnel were doused with strong alcohol before being swiftly stitched closed. After the battle ended, it was eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the pained cries of the wounded.

Men walked amongst the bodies, first, to search for the living, next, to recover usable weapons, and lastly, if there was time, to remove the dead before doing it all again the next day. Soldiers eventually became desensitized to the sights and sounds; it was the only way they could retain even the slimmest grasp on reality rather than going mad with the cruelty they witnessed every day. That men could treat others in this fashion was unfathomable, until you'd experienced the thrill of adrenaline when running onto the field of battle, or the sheer terror of having to fight for your life against opponents who were just as willing to die for their cause as you were.

There was no rational thought in battle - only instinct. Planning and logic was left to those absent from the battlefield, pouring over maps and developing strategy far away from the dirt and blood and death. Those men could callously speak of attacks and ambushes, the men they commanded nothing more than a list of numbers that represented the strength of their forces; they knew nothing of the soldiers' names and faces, only tallies of victories and defeats.

A manic giggle sprang forth from the man's lips as he surveyed the scene around him, too reminiscent of what he'd experienced every day since his regiment had been despatched. A part of his brain recognized that his reaction was wrong, and he should be worried about his inability to stop, but there was nothing right about any of what surrounded him. He could feel the wet stickiness that coated his hands and face, dimly recalling the spray of blood from his opponents as he'd snuffed out their lives. Each move had been ferocious in its intensity, meant to kill or incapacitate as efficiently as possible, without thought for technique or the elegance he'd previously associated with his swordwork. War was a ruthless affair, and the Gascon wondered how he could ever have looked forward to being in its midst.

"d'Artagnan," Athos' hand clamped down firmly on the young man's arm. He'd heard the sound of laughter bubbling forth from the Gascon's lips and recognized its wrongness. The touch would hopefully ground his friend, and the older man moved his hand upwards, ignoring the red that painted the boy's cheek. Cupping it in his hand, Athos almost pulled back when he felt the coolness of the young man's skin as he tried again. "d'Artagnan, come back to me." He turned the Gascon's head slightly, forcing the young man to face him.

Another hand landed on the spot where Athos' had so recently rested, as Porthos squeezed their youngest's arm. "d'Artagnan, you alright?" the larger man's deep baritone questioned as he added his concern to the Captain's.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis' voice came from behind the Gascon, the marksman placing his palm against the young man's upper back. In this position, the medic leaned forward slightly over the boy's shoulder, even as his mind registered the feeling of the staccato beats beneath his hand. d'Artagnan's heart was racing and his breathing matched its frenetic pace, and Aramis couldn't help but move his hand higher until it cupped the nape of his friend's neck.

"d'Artagnan, are you with us?" Athos asked, leaning in closer while the other two did the same, the Gascon almost disappearing within their midst.

The return to the battlefield had been nerve-racking and exciting, d'Artagnan eager to show that he was fully healed after too many months spent convalescing. After his sight had begun to return, he'd thought things would be simple, but fate had had other plans for him. His vision improved almost daily, until the blurriness and headaches had all but disappeared. If that had been his only infirmity, he'd have been returned to active duty long ago, but his shoulder muscles had been badly damaged, the combination of lead and steel ripping into his flesh leaving an indelible impression behind.

The first sign of concern had been the tingling and numbness in his fingers and hand, the sensation often spreading upwards until his entire arm felt as though covered by ants. Thankfully, the periods of intense discomfort were sporadic, but their continued presence warned of underlying damage that would need to be addressed. Next came the ongoing weakness in the limb, and despite d'Artagnan's diligent efforts, he could barely grasp a cup let alone a pistol. When Constance had disclosed the young man's secret, the three men had rallied around him, refusing to give up.

They'd begun to do whatever they could within their power to keep the young man's spirits up as he struggled to recover. For Aramis, that meant consultation with other physicians, and Treville ensured that this included the King's own doctor whenever the Minister could arrange it. Porthos spent hours at the young man's side, working with him to stretch and strengthen the healing muscles, never allowing his friend to shirk the exercises that the doctors prescribed. Athos had less time to dedicate to the Gascon's recovery, his duties as commander of the regiment occupying much of his day, but the nights were his own and he spent his evenings with d'Artagnan, atypically becoming responsible for keeping up the boy's morale and ensuring that he didn't give up.

Constance was there as much as her duties at the palace allowed, providing food, support, and a foundation that meant that d'Artagnan would never be alone, regardless of his uncertain future. That knowledge alone buoyed the young man and gave him the desire to keep trying, regardless of the many setbacks he faced. Their concerted efforts had paid off, and four months after d'Artagnan's initial injury, he travelled back to the frontlines to fight alongside his friends.

Today's battle had been his first since he'd been wounded, and the sights and sounds had been as terrifying as he remembered. Despite that, he'd pushed aside his fears, reminding himself that he should be grateful that he was alive to experience them. When their line had advanced, he'd easily fallen into his old role, attacking any enemy who was unlucky enough to end up in his path. When it had ended, he'd stood looking upon the devastation in shock, recalling his more innocent days when he'd been excited by the thought of going to war.

The sights and smells around him made his stomach clench and his heart race. Some part of his mind realized he was panicking, but once his body had started, it seemed like he was out of control and he couldn't stop it from happening. If only his friends were near, they would know what to do, and their absence made his breaths saw harshly in and out of his chest until he felt lightheaded.

"d'Artagnan," the voice sounded far away and he wished it would come again so he could use it to find his way back. Seconds later he heard it once more and felt the warmth of something on his cheek. The sensation appeared on his arm and back next, and he was certain someone was speaking to him, although he couldn't discern the words. Suddenly, there was a face directly in front of him, and he couldn't have looked away no matter how badly he wanted to.

"d'Artagnan, are you with us?" the face asked, and his brain supplied a name – Athos. As if waking from a dream, his vision sharpened, and Athos' concerned expression was all he could see. At his side he could feel Porthos' large hand, the strength there both steadying and comforting at the same time. Behind him was Aramis' warm presence, his curls tickling the Gascon's face as he leaned over the young man's shoulder.

Releasing a shaky breath, he forced himself to inhale slowly, feeling his galloping heart slow to a trot as he came back to himself. Another cleansing breath and he felt capable of speech. "I'm here," he whispered, seeing the immediate relief on his mentor's face even though he believed that he'd spoken too lowly to be heard.

Next to him Porthos was squeezing his arm, his gruff voice rumbling in the young man's ear, "'Bout time." The words were teasing but they were spoken with an unmistakably sombre tone, and d'Artagnan began to realize that he'd scared his friends.

From his other side, Aramis chimed in, "Let's get back to camp. I need to have a proper look at you."

d'Artagnan turned his head to face the marksman, a confused expression on his face as he said, "But, I'm fine."

"d'Artagnan," Athos waited until the young man was facing forwards again. "You were not yourself for several minutes." Pausing, he chose he words carefully, well aware that the Gascon had had his fill of others mothering him. "You scared us."

The young man momentarily ducked his head in embarrassment, his mentor's words confirming what he'd suspected. Looking up, he repositioned himself, bringing Aramis forward until the three men stood in a tight semi-circle in front of him. With a hand on Aramis' and Porthos' arms, he held each man's gaze in turn as he explained. "You're right – I wasn't fine. I was scared and excited, and probably a hundred other things, but most of all I was overwhelmed. I'd forgotten what it can be like out here," he gestured for a moment with one hand toward the battlefield. "When we left, I couldn't see it and was wrapped up in my own misery and despair. When my sight returned, I thought only of my desire to do my duty and once more fight at your sides. My memory pushed away all of this, and now I can't help but be reminded of what we endured at Peguero's hand."

He dropped his gaze for several seconds as he collected his thoughts, needing his friends to understand. "War is ugly, and brutal, and completely without glory, and I pray that none of our children will ever have to experience it. But what Pegeuro did was worse than anything that happens on any battlefield."

"d'Artagnan, I'm sorry," Aramis began, but the young man interrupted the apology.

"No, Aramis, no more apologies. What happened wasn't your fault; it was that Spanish bastard's," the Gascon interjected. "When the war first began, I could not wait to see what it was like. Now that I've had some experience with it, I know how foolish that was. I understand now that men distinguish themselves not through glorious acts of bravery, but through acts of honor. That's what Peguero taught me." He looked earnestly at all of his friends, "There is no glory in war, only honorable men, and I have the privilege of having three of the most honorable at my side."

For several long moments, the Musketeers stared at one another, before collectively moving closer, their arms coming up to embrace the men at their sides. As they stood there, holding on to those who were among the dearest in the world to them, d'Artagnan's words echoed in their heads, "There is no glory – only honor."

End.

A/N: Thank you for such a warm response to this story. I'm grateful for every favorite and every review, which helped me to experience this story from the reader's perspective. Much appreciation also to AZGirl, whose amazing beta skills smoothed out the rough edges; I have no doubt that she helped me improve this tale with her wonderful suggestions. Until next time!