Yeah... sorry about all the angst. Musketeer-style therapeutic interventions much needed now. At Debbie: I agree Patrice was a wimp, but that would be me in such a situation – a gibbering wreck! I thought the musketeers couldn't all be as stoic as our boys, which made it all the harder for d'Artagnan as he felt he had to "carry" Patrice.

Final chapter now; I'm late posting tonight as I've been madly baking cakes since I got home from work, for a fund-raising cafe for our Scout group this weekend. More baking tomorrow, before and after work! Meanwhile, I hope this hits the spot for all you lovely people who have been reading what my mind conjured up over the last few weeks - thank you!

Chapter Sixteen: Better Days are Near

Paris, 1636

Porthos' eyes were closed and his lips were moving, as if muttering to himself. d'Artagnan's head was bowed, his fingers were knotted in his hair. The 'yes' shimmered in the air.

Why was 'more than once' so much worse than 'once'? Constance wondered to herself, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. Any rape, no matter what the circumstances, was vile, just vile, just... She yanked on the thread, ripping a hole in her skirt, and realised she was crying. Athos' hand covered hers again and she grabbed on to it with a desperate grip as if he was anchoring her.

Aramis came to the rescue again. Lovely Aramis! When he spoke, she relaxed, every time, trusting in him as if he were a teacher or a priest and had all the answers.

"It was days, wasn't it, in Douai, before you managed to tell me all of this. You said then that it was the hardest part – not the fact of being raped, but the way it happened. The way they all watched, and encouraged each other, and joked and laughed while it was happening." His expression was grim, so at odds with his gentle voice, but she welcomed the visible signs of his anger and disgust at what had happened. This was not something any of them could just accept, even if d'Artagnan had seemed calmer once he'd finally begun to talk.

"They gave us water and sometimes food to stop us from dying, because they wanted to go on ... using us ... not because they cared whether we lived."

There. There it was. It was not the cruelty, the beatings, being chained, begging for water, or even the rape, that had nearly broken him, but that helplessness in the face of complete and utter indifference to his fate as a human being.

"And yet that is what saved you." Athos again, each word measured and dropped carefully into the silence. "They wanted you alive. No matter the reason why. You survived until we finally tracked you, because of their – perversions." Only the last word betrayed his true feelings about the contemptible nature of the vileness of the treatment d'Artagnan had faced.

There was another long silence, in which d'Artagnan's fingers tightened in his hair until she thought he would rip it out by the roots, and his heaving shoulders betrayed his tumultuous emotions. She itched to go to him but even as she thought about rising, she could feel Athos at her side, wordlessly urging her to be patient until they were sure that everything had at last been spoken aloud.

"I think you're right," remarked Porthos slowly, "but it strikes me there's another reason you survived."

All eyes turned his way except d'Artagnan's, but his shoulders settled a little as he drew a shaky breath and listened. "You said this Bautista bastard liked it when you struggled, didn't ya? You fought 'im cos that's just what you do. You never give up without a fight, right? But 'e happened to like it that way, or 'e'd 've got bored an' tossed you, wouldn't 'e?"

Constance drew in a sharp breath at that matter-of-fact analysis but Athos' hand tightened on hers, warning her to be silent.

After a moment d'Artagnan raised his head and ran a hand down his face to compose himself. She could see the immense effort he made to speak normally. "I probably wouldn't have put it quite like that, my friend, but – it did cross my mind at the time. They got tired of Patrice quite quickly and concentrated on me. I think I – no. No, I did know why. I just didn't want to think about it."

They all nodded. By struggling, he'd kept their interest and kept focus from Patrice, protecting him. But at the same time, as he'd said earlier, he was giving them what they wanted. Gratifying them, and that had hurt him – both physically, by making his own ordeal more violent – but also psychologically.

"I sometimes felt I was just - playing a role. Being ... complicit ... by giving them what they wanted." His voice was just a whisper now.

"Could you have acted differently?" Athos again, calm and measured. "You said you hated the idea of giving him pleasure, but you didn't do it for him. You did it for you."

d'Artagnan's own words, voiced back to him, gave him pause. His face creased as he thought, emotions flitting across his features too fast for her to interpret. Then a nod, uncertain at first, then more sure. "You're right. Both of you" – looking at Porthos as well, giving him a fleeting smile – "I didn't fight them – him – on purpose. Patrice told me not to resist so it would be over quicker. But I never could just let it happen."

"There, see! Ya didn't give 'em what they wanted; they took it. Just 'appened your stubborn Gascon nature 'elped to keep you alive long enough for us to find you."

A longer, wry smile lightened his expression. "You make it sound so simple."

"That's cos it is. You survived, that's all I care about." And d'Artagnan disappeared under another bear-hug from Porthos.

This time, the tangle of hugs broke the tension properly, and when d'Artagnan finally extracted himself, looking ruffled, he came over to Constance and sat beside her, wincing gamely as she enveloped him in a bear-hug of her own. Over her head, he exchanged a long look with Athos who simply clasped his shoulder tightly for a moment, then patted him before releasing his hold.

Porthos and Aramis meanwhile had retrieved goblets, fished out bits of hay, rinsed the dregs and replenished everyone's drinks. Passing them around helped to restore a tiny semblance of normality to the scene and everyone drank deeply, even Constance. Looking at the stable window she wondered whether to mention that dawn had already broken, but decided against it. She wasn't sure if they were finished here yet, much as she hoped this was everything now. She really didn't think she could cope with any more just now.

Sure enough, d'Artagnan had something else to say. He fiddled with his goblet and she smiled to herself, thinking she would never have to worry about deception in their marriage; he transmitted his every thought and intention openly, at least amongst friends.

"I know it's been hard to hear but I'm glad you know everything now... Athos, Porthos, thank you for not giving up, when you were searching for me. I should have... I didn't realise how hard it must have been for you both. And Aramis, for helping me afterwards; you rescued me, mon ami. And today, all of you, thank you for helping me to talk." His voice cracked and he stopped, swallowing with emotion, his dark eyes glistening.

A gentle smile playing about his lips, Athos lifted his goblet in silent salute, Porthos and Aramis joining him with gusto, to his obvious embarrassment. Looking around for a way to break the mood, knowing these loyal friends would not stir until sure he was finished, he suddenly spotted what Constance had already noticed – daylight starting to creep through the windows. "We've talked the whole night!" he exclaimed, surging to his feet in consternation. "Jacques will be here in a minute!"

The others stood more circumspectly, gathering cups and bottles and restoring order to the empty stall they'd been occupying.

"Have we got time for a nap before muster?" Porthos asked Aramis in what was probably supposed to be a private aside. His face fell when he saw Athos looking at him reprovingly, but cheered up when Aramis patted him on the back and whispered that there would at least be time for a really good breakfast.

d'Artagnan turned to Constance with a smile, happy to see the two getting on so well again, but he stopped when he saw the serious expression on her face. "What is it?"

"Oh, it can wait."

He caught her by the hand so she had to stop, and regarded her seriously. "Tell me." Simple words, simply spoken. She could not refuse him, not after the way he'd bared his soul to them all.

With trepidation, she chose her words, speaking quietly and hoping not to sound too accusatory. "Why did you turn from me last night?

His mind was still buzzing with the emotions stirred by the hours of talking, and he had to dig through rapidly back through the last twenty-four hours for anything she could be referring to... Oh.

He dipped his head to hers, lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, my love. It was when you – when you put your hand on the back of my neck, to pull me... closer."

She caught her breath in dismay. "But I often do that!"

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of stray hair from her forehead. "I know, and it's not normally a problem. I think, after Borel, when everything was fresh in my mind again, I think it just reminded me, for a moment, and I – um – I ..."

"Lost the moment?" suggested Aramis helpfully.

d'Artagnan glared at him, and he got the message and moved out of earshot, fanning his face exaggeratedly with one hand as if he'd been burned by the ferocity of d'Artagnan's reaction.

Constance was nodding, saving him from further embarrassment, but she had another question. "So would you rather I didn't..."

"No! No, don't change anything."

He was looking a bit hot, as Porthos observed loudly to Athos, who dug him in the ribs to shut him up.

None of them were exactly moving away, noticed d'Artagnan with irritation. He turned his back on the smirking trio. "It's fine – I will be fine. It just took me by surprise yesterday, that's all."

She arched a brow at him. "It's not yesterday anymore though, is it?"

He looked momentarily blank then realised that she was right: the new day had started. "No, you're right."

"Of course I am."

It was a moment before he realised: she was flirting with him, her lips quirking in a teasing smile.

He couldn't remember the last time she'd done that. In fact had she at all, since he'd returned? Maybe he just hadn't noticed: he'd been so wrapped up in his own head... "You are a wise woman; that's why I married you."

The gentle smile disappeared and her other eyebrow shot up as he heard a sharp intake of breath from Aramis. Merde. He'd forgotten how to do this. "One of the reasons," he amended hastily. Both her brows stayed resolutely up.

He tried again, even knowing full well that he was breaking Aramis' rule about not digging when you're already in a hole. "Along with your incomparable beauty, of course. And your wit and humour, and – ow!"

He bent double, wrapping one arm around his stomach where she'd just wacked him. "You hit well, too, for a woman," he croaked, hair flopping over his dark eyes as he looked up with a slightly desperate expression.

"Ooo!" Even Porthos knew he shouldn't have added the last three words.

"Out, everyone!" Athos interjected, rescuing d'Artagnan before it all got out of hand.

In the courtyard, the cobbles were damp from the overnight dew, and the air was fresh. Porthos sniffed appreciatively before remembering something and turning to where d'Artagnan was walking side by side with Constance, their hands not quite touching.

"Are my jokes really that awful?" he asked, sounding plaintive.

Everyone looked confused for a moment then d'Artagnan remembered telling them how, during his captivity, he'd longed for the trio to be with him, wishing Porthos had been there to crack some of his jokes. Had he called them awful? He tried to think back. "I believe the word I used was comforting," he told Porthos with a sense of relief.

"To be precise, 'comfortingly awful' was what you said." Aramis burst out laughing at Porthos' hurt look and draped his arm around his oldest friend's neck. "We love your jokes, Porthos. Even the one about the barmaid who wraps her – "

"Aramis!" warned Athos, flicking his eyes in Constance's direction.

"After what I've just heard, I hardly think the barmaid joke is going to upset me," she chided.

d'Artagnan's eyes widened in alarm. "You know it?"

She patted him gently on the cheek as she swept past. "I know everything, my love!"

Halfway across the courtyard she turned to wait for him and tucked her arm into his, careful to avoid his tender elbow. The others walked slightly ahead and he watched their antics fondly as Aramis and Porthos jostled for position, competing to be first through the mess room door, Athos holding back and shaking his head at their childishness.

"I'm so glad you've told me everything now, my love," she told him as they followed the others into the warmth of the mess room, the blazing fire welcome after the chill of the early morning courtyard.

"Oh, don't worry Constance," called Porthos – who surely had the longest ears of any Musketeer, thought d'Artagnan as he pulled out a chair for Constance. "There are plenty more stories to tell you, and Aramis. We're only half-way through the war, after all. We haven' told you about that battle when Athos tried to rescue d'Artagnan and nearly got 'em both killed, or when Athos went an' lost a vital informant to the Spanish, and we 'ad to rescue the bloke from under their Spanish noses, or when Athos ..."

"Porthos!" Athos's glare would have felled a lesser man. Hastily, Aramis greeted a sleepy-looking Serge exuberantly and diverted Athos by asking him to chose between porridge and eggs for breakfast, eyes pleading with Athos not to create a scene. Harrumphing, Athos sat down and reached for a cup of wine. Aramis gave Porthos a 'phew' look, and Porthos burst out laughing.

Serge stomped around, muttering about "officers getting above themselves, disturbing him so early", but Constance knew he didn't mean it. He saw everything, Serge did, and she knew he'd been acutely aware of the tensions that had been brewing since their return. He brought out the best cheese and the first batch of bread, to keep them going while he prepared the porridge, and she could hear the love in every thump of a plate and muttered curse from the kitchen.

It was a surprisingly light-hearted breakfast. Aramis was on great form, teasing Serge, ribbing Athos and getting Porthos to agree to do one of their old blindfold shooting displays. Porthos, who hated losing sleep and had been staring grumpily into his empty porridge bowl, perked up immensely at the thought of all the fun they could have taking bets on their double act, especially as few punters would remember them after so many years away.

d'Artagnan sat quietly watching with Constance leaning on his shoulder, her eyes drooping periodically. Eventually she drifted off, a delicate snore interrupting the intense discussion between Aramis and Porthos about the best kind of bottle to use for their display. Athos, who had eaten a little but mostly sat watching their antics with a kind of wonder at the sight he thought he might never see again, smiled at the sight of her drooling slightly as she snuggled deeper into d'Artagnan's shoulder. Clearing his throat he announced gruffly that he'd forgotten to put any of them on the rota for today so there was no point in waiting around for muster, since they had no duties.

None of them were fooled. For one thing – far from forgetting – he'd not actually had time to do the rotas. However Porthos was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth and he rose immediately, announcing that he and Aramis would get some shooting practice in on the training grounds before the recruits got there. Aramis tried a weak protest but Porthos was having none of it, and caught Aramis by the elbow to march him out. d'Artagnan chuckled, pretty sure that Aramis' objection was only token. This woke Constance, and over her apologies d'Artagnan told her firmly that it was time they both got some sleep.

As they rose, however, Athos caught d'Artagnan by the arm and asked him to wait a moment.

Constance put two fingers on d'Artagnan's jaw to turn his head towards her, kissing him gently on the lips before whispering something in his ear and turning away.

d'Artagnan sat down again, still watching her, then turned to Athos, his own smile dying as he saw Athos' serious expression. "What is it?"

Athos didn't answer straight away, but looked directly into d'Artagnan's eyes until he shifted uncomfortably under the silent scrutiny. "Will you tell me the truth?"

d'Artagnan looked surprised, and slightly hurt. "Of course – always."

"At Roncesvalle, with Lieutenant Colombe. Was that –?"

"Don't." d'Artagnan cut him off fiercely. Athos just looked at him. "I mean it, Athos. That was nearly two years ago. It's over, forgotten – just leave it."

Athos stared at him, assessingly, then spoke so quietly that d'Artagnan could barely hear him over the racket – no other word for it – coming from the kitchen as Serge sang to himself and bashed another batch of bread dough into shape. "Forgotten? You think I will ever forget what happened?"

"Maybe not, but – "

"Then tell me. Please."

d'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat at the soft plea in Athos' voice, but he stood up, decisively, and spoke with quiet finality. "Not today, my friend. We're all tired, and I really have no more energy for talking."

Athos rose too, and the two men stood silently, eyes locked in some unspoken exchange, oblivious to Aramis bouncing back into the mess room to retrieve his forgotten hat, Porthos looming behind him in the doorway, and Constance still waiting at the threshold, watching them with puzzlement clear on her face.

"What's going on?" Aramis whispered to Constance, who shrugged, but Porthos cleared his throat then called over their heads.

"Athos, would you like me to do muster this morning?"

Athos looked over sharply, then smiled ruefully, knowing full well that Porthos was attempting to divert him. Looking back at d'Artagnan he nodded, seeing d'Artagnan relax, then leaned in and spoke one word quietly. "Soon." Then he headed for the door, thanking Porthos and promising that he would find Jumot and ask him to do muster so he could get some sleep himself.

d'Artagnan followed him, standing aside as the first group of bleary-eyed musketeers started filtering in for their own breakfasts.

Aramis sent him a quizzical look as he asked slowly: "Something I've missed?"

"Not really..."

"Yes." Porthos cut across d'Artagnan decisively. "There's a lot more 'bout the war we haven' shared. But not today, my friend." He wrapped his arm around Aramis' shoulders and steered him out into the courtyard. "Today, we remember the good times. You 'n me, couple of empty bottles, maybe a full one too, an' a couple o' stones the right size... we've got some trainin' to do, mon ami."

"Come on then, husband. You and I have a lot of catching up to do." Constance was still waiting patiently as he hesitated in the doorway watching more musketeers wander sleepily into the mess room.

"Constance, I've really had enough talking for one day," he said, looking apprehensive. She reached through the doorway to catch him by the neck of his shirt, pulling him firmly towards her, amidst appreciative hoots from the musketeers already settling for breakfast. As she took him by the hand and led him across the courtyard, he was already laughing even before she clarified things for him.

"Who said anything about talking?"

fin

A/N: I have absolutely loved writing and sharing this story! As the boys have hinted, there is more to come from the second half of the war: how did d'Artagnan cope when he returned after recuperating in Douai, and why he didn't tell the others anything of what had happened to him? And what did happen at Roncesvalles...? I already have some ideas sketched out but if there's anything you'd like to see, please let me know and I'll work it in if I can. (At Helensg – you don't need to ask!) Finally, many, many thanks to you all for being out there as readers. Knowing someone is reading the scenarios I've had in my head is what makes me work and re-work the story until it's as good as I can manage. Hasta pronto, à bientôt, and see you soon!