The attack that Athos had been dreading comes at dawn two days after the skirmish and not wholly unexpected. The evening patrol had warned the Captain that there had been activity in the Spanish-held areas to the north, an unusual amount of wagons arriving at the camp that they'd raided nine days earlier. The Musketeers were all anxious and tense and at the very first sound of horses approaching Athos put Henri and Lacroix in their saddles with orders to ride like the hounds of hell were on their heels and bring help. The two young men are exceptionally skilled horsemen but it would be hours before the Musketeers would actually know if they'd survived the ride almost directly through the invading Spanish forces.

The first assault comes swiftly and brutally, and in the fighting Athos goes down with a slash across his chest while trying to shield an injured comrade and is carried to the infirmary where only George remains to tend to the wounded. A dozen men have already been brought in and George is terrified; he's quickly proven to be a skilled medic but he's not the bravest soul at the best of times, which is why Claude is in the thick of the battle and he's been left behind. When Hubert and Laurent bring their seriously wounded Captain into the infirmary the medic-in-training decides he has only one choice; d'Artagnan.

"Listen to me," George tells the unsteady and confused d'Artagnan, holding him up by his shoulders. "Athos is bleeding to death, there are two men unconscious and burning with fever, another dozen or so doused with laudanum that can't defend themselves and I can't do this alone!" he shouts frantically in d'Artagnan's face, and he lets go of the Gascon and hands him his breeches. "You must help me!"

The older man sounds frenzied and terrified and if there was any part of d'Artagnan that was prepared to resist, the fact that it's Athos is enough to send a shot of adrenaline coursing through his sluggish blood.

Automatically, d'Artagnan struggles into his clothes, his trembling fingers not nimble enough to do up his laces but he manages to get his sword belt around his waist and that will have to do. He is too unsteady to try and put on his boots so he leaves them and takes a few halting steps in his stockinged feet towards Athos who is lying on the surgery table, bathed in blood. George has removed his leather armour and doublet and the young medic rips open the Captain's shirt to get to the wound. At that moment d'Artagnan's stomach rebels; he's not sure if it's from the ugly wound on Athos' chest or just the continuation of the painful cycle of eating, vomiting and sleeping that has become his miserable existence but he fights the convulsions threatening to empty the tiny bit of liquid he's consumed and with shaking hands he takes a clean, wet rag from George and starts wiping the blood away from the wound so the trainee medic can get a better look.

"It needs to be stitched at once; I'm going to pour spirits over it to clean it and he will probably wake, can you keep him still?" George asks urgently.

"No," d'Artagnan says, ashamed, "but I can pour the spirits and clean the wound if you can hold him."

George hands d'Artagnan the flask and with shaking hands he pours the liquid over his Captain's chest. The sharp sting of the alcohol rouses Athos and his eyes fly open and he jerks upwards, instinctively trying to get away from the pain. George is holding him down with his hands on the Captain's shoulders and d'Artagnan regretfully pours more of the burning liquid over the wound, startled when blue-green eyes lock with his and Athos says his name.

"D'Artagnan…?" his Captain asks in wonder.

D'Artagnan feels a tear escape and roll down his cheek at the look on his mentor's face; it's a tear of shame, and he knows he'll have to deal that that later, after Athos has been tended to.

"Captain, this is going to hurt," d'Artagnan says hoarsely, cleaning the wound for the final time. Athos doesn't flinch, doesn't move a muscle and he allows the Gascon to continue to clean the wound and wipe away the blood. George examines the slash for any bits of cloth and then grabs a threaded needle and begins the painstaking task of closing the gaping wound on Athos' chest. D'Artagnan is trembling from weakness and his head is assaulted by vertigo, but he grabs Athos hand in his own bloody one and holds on for dear life.

Outside they can hear the battle raging, pistols, muskets, sword on sword by thankfully no cannons. D'Artagnan hadn't been aware of anything when it had begun, he realises, and he'd only been roused from his stupor when George had forced him awake. Had he become so useless that the deafening sounds of a furious battle being fought hadn't stirred him from his slumber? In truth though he feels weaker than a newborn colt, his legs barely keeping him upright, but when Athos squeezes his hand feebly he momentarily closes his eyes and tries to ground himself, taking strength from the man who lies before him and d'Artagnan suddenly feels purpose again.

When George is done he is clearly exhausted, and he stumbles back, leaving d'Artagnan alone with Athos while he tries to catch his breath. D'Artagnan, still clinging to Athos' hand, begins to hear a buzzing in his ears and he gasps, nearly tumbling forward onto his injured Captain.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos commands weakly and at once the Gascon rights himself, blinking away the dizziness slowly and carefully. George returns and they quickly bandage Athos, who no longer has a full hold on consciousness, and the Captain's eyes slip shut and his face goes lax. Fearful, d'Artagnan checks that his Captain is still breathing and has a steady pulse before he lets out the breath he's been holding.

"George," d'Artagnan says, gently removing his hand from Athos', carelessly wiping the blood from his hand on his white shirt. "I need you to load my pistols and bring them to me," he tells the medic urgently. "Move that barrel, so that it's about two yards directly in front of the opening to the tent and help me to sit on it!"

George's first reaction is utter confusion but d'Artagnan barks out his name again and the young man springs into action. He loads d'Artagnan's pistols and brings his own as well, and he helps the trembling Gascon sit on the barrel next to Athos and in front of the tent opening.

"Take your sword and pistols and position yourself near the injured. Like you said, they can't defend themselves, George, it's up to us, alright?" he tells the older man and George nods and moves another barrel near the injured Musketeers and sits, sword in his scabbard, pistols in his hands.

D'Artagnan is absolutely terrified; not for himself, but for Athos and the regiment. If his Captain dies he will be a ship adrift, a part of him will slip away with the man he calls brother, but it's the regiment that will suffer most. Aramis and Porthos are brave and capable leaders but Athos is the heart of the Musketeers, d'Artagnan can't imagine them fighting this war without his strong, solid presence. Every part of him is screaming to close his eyes and just shut everything out, something he's ashamed to admit he's been doing even in his lucid moments. Every spoon of soup fed to him was like a knife in his heart, every time the dreaded jug appeared a sword in his gut. Add in the humiliating bed baths, the frustrated anger from Aramis, Athos' quiet disappointment, the heartbreaking cajoling from Porthos, the shame is almost too much to bear. He has never in his life felt such a debilitating physical weakness and accepting help from his friends, his equals, has left his self-esteem in tatters.

There's no time to wallow though because the tent flap goes up and d'Artagnan freezes. His vision is blurry and he can't get to his feet but he raises his pistols in trembling hands. George cries out for him to shoot and d'Artagnan instinctively fires one shot, felling the Spanish soldier as he comes at d'Artagnan with his sword.

"George, reload!" d'Artagnan hisses as the medic appears at his side and takes the spent pistol from d'Artagnan's hand, replacing it with his own which hadn't been fired. The medic doesn't have time to reload though when they both need to fire again as two more men follow their comrade into the tent, both falling dead from the unexpected resistance they'd found in the infirmary. D'Artagnan has one shot left when another shadow appears in the entry and he nearly weeps with relief when he realises that it's not another enemy soldier, it's Aramis.

George nearly tackles the older man, rambling on about Athos' condition and insisting that it was d'Artagnan who'd saved the day, telling Aramis how he'd positioned himself fearlessly in front of the entrance even though he was unable to stand. All of this is a noisy blur in his brain and d'Artagnan feels a loud dissonance of sounds in his head and he gasps, dropping his unfired pistol and tumbling forward.

He hits the ground with a thump, his wounds screaming in pain, and Aramis and George are lifting him carefully, sitting him back on the barrel, Aramis patting gently at his cheeks.

"Come on, boy, you've just saved your Captain, open your eyes and take your praise!" Aramis says sternly.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan says at once, head popping up, eyes open, blinking rapidly against the dizziness.

"Of course you are!" Aramis insists. "George, reload those pistols. Reinforcements have arrived but we're not out of danger yet. The wounded are too many to count, are we equipped to deal with them, lad?"

George looks fearful but he nods. "Yes sir, we are."

"Athos?"

"Cleaned and stitched, it was ghastly but D'Artagnan assisted and we got it done," the young medic says, a tiny bit of pride inching into his voice.

"His stitching is neater than yours," d'Artagnan says honestly. A fierce wave of nausea steals his breath and Aramis rushes forward with a bowl. There's nothing to come out, the liquid in the bowl is just crimson spit, the blood a result of irritation and not internal bleeding Aramis assures him. But d'Artagnan's had enough, he's done, he can't keep himself upright even a minute longer and he asks Aramis, embarrassed, if he can finally lie down.

"Of course you can, lad," Aramis says soothingly, pulling him to his feet and leading him to a cot ad helping him sit. "The two of you have done an exemplary job keeping your comrades safe and saving your Captain's life, you've made the whole regiment proud."

"Ugh, the last time you said I'd made you proud I was later stabbed with a poisoned sword," d'Artagnan says, trying for humour but his words are slurring, "keep your praise to yourself, brother," he finishes weakly.

Aramis laughs; it's the first time d'Artagnan has heard that sound in days and it warms him inside. A few Musketeers have entered the infirmary and are dragging away the dead Spanish soldiers, clearing the way for more wounded to be brought in. Outside, d'Artagnan is relieved to hear less gunfire and more French voices shouting orders so he assumes the reinforcements Aramis mentioned have indeed arrived to relieve the overwhelmed Musketeers.

"Aramis, you should move Athos, settle him somewhere closer to me so that I can look after him," d'Artagnan says, exhausted and in pain but determined.

Aramis nods. "Soon. You get some rest, I will be needing your help soon, can I count on you, lad?"

"Yes, I promise," he replies and he feels a tiny flare of hope that he will be able to keep that promise. Although he's asked Aramis to help him to a bed, d'Artagnan does not lie down. If he does, he will once again fall into a restless slumber, filled with nightmares fuelled by self-pity so he remains as he is seated, his feet freezing without the protection of his boots, his shirt damp with Athos' blood. He shivers in the coldness of the tent and the pain in his side is becoming more persistent with each passing moment. Just as he is considering collapsing onto the cot and sliding off to sleep, he hears his name called weakly; Athos!

D'Artagnan struggles to rise, and struggle is an understatement since every movement he makes is agony on his wounds. But he gets to his feet and stumbles the short distance to the surgery table, where Athos is now moving restlessly and calling his name.

"D'Artagnan, where are you?" his Captain asks weakly and another tear appears and runs down the Gascon's cheek and he brushes it away quickly. He's never seen Athos in such a state and it frightens him to the core.

"Right here, Captain," he says soothingly, one hand cupping the older man's cheek.

Athos is searching his gaze as if he's looking for something hidden or false. "Are you alright, lad?" he asks hoarsely.

D'Artagnan has no words, he is too stunned by the question. His Captain, his brother, is gravely injured and inquiring about d'Artagnan's health. He feels a rush of shame that leaves his knees weak and he swallows a few times before he can speak. "I'm better, Captain," d'Artagnan manages to reply, his hand moving from Athos' pinched features to his dishevelled hair and he pushes it away from his face neatly like the older man has done for him so many times.

"Thank you," Athos says, his voice no more than a whisper. "You saved my life, you and George."

More tears sting his eyes but d'Artagnan doesn't try to stop them. He's done nothing more than what Athos or Aramis or Porthos have done for him on more than one occasion, there is no need for gratitude, they are brothers, family, he'd lay down his life at that very moment if he had to for any of them, no questions asked and simply based on those facts alone.

"Don't ever thank me, Captain, such things should never be said among brothers," d'Artagnan tells him, his voice cracking with emotion. "Just rest, I'll be here."

Athos smiles, something that is rare at the best of times, d'Artagnan notes and it makes his heart stutter. "I know, lad, I know."

When the Captain's eyes slip shut d'Artagnan feels a horrible moment of fear until he sees the steady rise and fall of the older man's chest and his rigid body relaxes slightly. D'Artagnan gently pulls back his shaking hand and steadies himself on the surgery table. He doesn't want to leave Athos but he can no longer stand. He's freezing and exhausted and his stockinged feet are squelching in the Captain's spilled blood. He looks around the infirmary for someone who isn't occupied with the wounded and he sees Jacques, a bleeding cut on the man's arm, but mostly whole and he calls out for him. The older Musketeer looks at d'Artagnan like he's seen a ghost and he hurries over to him, one hand going under the Gascon's elbow to steady him.

"Dear God, d'Artagnan, are you alright?" he asked, shocked.

D'Artagnan simply nods, his throat convulsing as he fights a bout of nausea. "Jacques, we need to move Athos somewhere that I can look after him," he says finally when he finds his voice. "Can you find someone to help us please?"

"Of course. Listen, you go rest, I'll have him moved beside you, alright?" the other man says, his expression still clearly shocked at finding d'Artagnan on his feet. D'Artagnan nods and turns to cover the few feet between the surgery table and his cot but to his horror, he finds himself falling. Fortunately Jacques manages to catch him around the middle before he hit the ground.

"Easy, brother, I've got you," the Musketeer says and he helps d'Artagnan to his cot. "I'll get help to move the Captain, we'll need a stretcher though so we don't injure him any further."

"Fine, just do it, he'll need someone to watch over him," d'Artagnan says, rolling off his socks, and tossing them aside, disgusted. He takes a clean cloth from the stool beside his cot and pours some water from the pitcher over the fabric and does his best to clean the smudges of blood from his feet. It's a difficult task since he is trembling and when he leans forward he pulls at the wounds in his side and he feels sharp stabs of pain. But when he's done he feels like he's accomplished something monumental and as he falls back on the cot to wait for Jacques to move Athos, it's the first time in what seems like a long while that he doesn't want to slip into oblivion and he feels hopeful.

The Musketeers mourn fifteen dead, a number that for a regiment of their size and their deep sense of brotherhood is equal to a hundred for any other company. Among the dead is Marcel and Aramis has purposely not mentioned this to d'Artagnan, who is finally showing some physical improvement although the young man's emotional state is still quite volatile, especially with Athos so grievously injured.

Lacroix and Henri had proven themselves worthy of their commissions with their bravery. If not for their courage and fortitude reinforcements from General DuBois camp would not have arrived in a timely manner and the Musketeers would surely be mourning many more dead and suffered a substantially higher number of injuries. Late in the evening, when the defeated Spaniards had finally made their retreat and the French injured had been tended to, both young Musketeers had visited their Captain in the infirmary and Athos, despite his pain and exhaustion, had taken the time to bestow his praise upon them before falling back into a restless slumber. If d'Artagnan was surprised to be on the receiving end of an awkward embrace and a string of incoherent words from Lacroix, who'd been elated to find the Gascon lucid and sitting beside his Captain, he was careful not to show it.

D'Artagnan for the most part seemed to be vastly improved one day after the attack although it worried Aramis that he still could barely keep anything in his stomach. Tomorrow Aramis is planning on introducing a bit of bread, maybe a tiny bit of stew instead of the broth they'd been feeding him but the medic acknowledges that it will be a while before the lad would be his old self again. He was simply too battered both physically and mentally to do anything more than take baby steps forward.

Porthos had found a broken chair and he'd modified it with a few nails and some extra boards so that d'Artagnan could sit comfortably beside Athos and not spend all his time lying in the cot or sitting on one the stools or barrels that made up the furniture in the infirmary. Athos had spent a very restless night, not just from the pain but plagued with nightmares of the battle and the loss of his men, mumbling and crying out until either Aramis or Porthos would calm him with their whispered words and gentle touches. More than once he'd called out for d'Artagnan who'd spent an equally restless night fighting his own demons; what Aramis called the 'tail-end' of the poison as well as the pain of the healing wounds in his side and chest that pulled and ached as the torn flesh mended itself. But the sound of Athos' voice had woken the Gascon each time he'd called his name, and even as he suffered his own ails, he'd insisted that his brothers help him up so that he too could take his turn assisting in Athos' care and his presence alone had soothed his Captain back into his uneasy slumber. Today, Athos was resting more comfortably with the help of a hefty dose of Aramis' special draught and Porthos had helped d'Artagnan take a few steps outside of the tent for the first time since he'd been injured. Aramis was careful to hide his dismay when Porthos ended up carrying d'Artagnan back into the infirmary but the lad didn't seem overly upset by it; in fact, as soon as he was lying down again he and Porthos were making plans to try again later in the day.

With Athos incapacitated and Porthos doing his best to see to both Athos and d'Artagnan an exhausted Aramis was overseeing the care of the injured as well as making all regimental decisions. The dead had been buried early in the day, with prayers said by Aramis and a heartfelt speech about bravery given by Porthos and the graves were marked carefully in the event that their families would want to move their loved ones to their own churchyards where they could be mourned properly. The burials had been sombre and painful, most of the men unabashedly shedding tears over the loss of their brothers in this senseless war. At the midday meal Aramis had led a prayer and a toast in the mess tent to all their lost and injured comrades and his words of wisdom and faith had managed to soothe even the hardest hit by grief. Sometimes Aramis wonders if it's a gift or a curse, this deep sense of faith that's kept him going all these years, because there are moments he too wants to rail at God and the heavens above for the injustices of their world, but there's always that nagging voice in his head telling him that it's not his place to question the Almighty, no matter how angry or disappointed he might be.

Late into the evening, when most of the lamps in the infirmary have been doused and the seriously injured sedated into healing sleep, Aramis sits beside d'Artagnan, who is dozing in his make-shift arm chair beside Athos and he reaches out to wake the boy, with the intention of moving him to bed. D'Artagnan startles awake and Aramis watches as a string of emotions pass his impossibly young face; physical pain, grief, and fear when his gaze flitters to their sleeping Captain.

"I heard about Marcel," d'Artagnan says his voice heavy with sadness and his thin shoulders slumped. "He was my friend, a good friend, the first I've had the misfortune to lose in the God-forsaken war. I don't know if I'm strong enough to suffer losses like these, brother, everything is a muddled mess in my head and I worry I won't have the strength to…to be who I was."

Aramis feels his heart skip a beat and his stomach clench; this is the boy he's see face down Death as if the Grim Reaper was nothing more than a pansy-arsed courtier holding a dinner fork and his words shake the medic.

"D'Artagnan, need I remind you of what you've accomplished in the past ten days alone? You blew up a wagon full of powder and survived to brag about it! You then rode miles with a ball lodged in your chest, fought a man twice your bulk while seriously injured to save your brothers and lived through yet another serious injury and a massive dose of poison, I'd say it's time to give yourself a break. You will heal, and you will get your strength and your confidence back and you will live through this miserable war and go back to Paris to make a dozen dark-haired babies with our beloved Constance who will then torture you, brother, as you have tortured the rest of us with your antics!"

When he's done with his speech, Aramis feels winded and d'Artagnan is looking a bit shocked, but the younger man's mouth twists ever so slightly into a ghost of a smile.

"A dozen brother?" d'Artagnan says, his face morphed into a mock expression of pain.

"At least, you need to be taught a lesson," Aramis says with a relieved grin, his heart lightening.

"You know, after the duel, when I was barely able to stand but the pain had yet to hit, I remembered something," d'Artagnan says wistfully.

"What?"

"That night we rode out to find Porthos, after we rescued Constance from that maggot Rochefort, we made camp for a few hours to rest, we were simply too exhausted to continue," d'Artagnan explains carefully. "And Constance and I, well it was probably highly inappropriate with Athos and Treville present but we didn't care, and Constance and I spend those few hours sharing a bedroll, just resting, mind you, and talking, and I was simply grateful that she was alive and quite emotional to be honest," the lad admits shyly. "Anyway, that night, the sky was full of stars, and Constance was finally free and in my arms and even though we were all in danger – you still in the Chatelet, Porthos' fate unknown, the rest of us outlaws being hunted by the Red Guard, and the Queen in the gravest danger of all – but in that one moment everything faded away and Constance made me promise that no matter how bad things might get, no matter how much danger we would find ourselves in, that I would always remember that night, those few precious moments that we'd held each other close with nothing and no one standing between us for the first time since the day we'd met, and that I would draw strength from that night, from her embrace, from her love and I would do my best to prevail to honour that moment."

The day has been long and hard but the first tears that Aramis sheds are in that moment that the boy speaks of his wife, of their love and their commitment to each other and the medic unabashedly lets the tears roll silently down his face as d'Artagnan continues, but they aren't tears of sorrow, they are tears of hope; hope that they will get past these difficult moments intact, all of them, their bond as their strength, their loyalty their talisman, their love for each other their holy grail. The boy is exhausted by the time he finishes telling his tale and Aramis gently helps him to bed, covering him and fussing over him like something fragile and delicate though he knows full well the lad is made of iron and steel.

Porthos' quiet footsteps shake him out of his thoughts and Aramis quickly checks Athos for fever before passing the figurative torch to his brother.

"Their all yours, my friend, I think I need a few hours sleep, it's been a helluva day," he says succinctly, taking a few steps back from their sleeping brothers.

"It's been a helluva war, Aramis," Porthos says with a hint of a grin, and a squeeze of the medic's shoulder, "but we'll be ok, together, we'll be fine."

Epilogue

The letters that d'Artagnan had sent to Treville while recuperating after the raid as well as the news of the attack on their camp are the catalyst for orders arriving from Paris that move two additional Companies of soldiers north to the Musketeers' position. General DuBois, it's been rumoured, has also been berated by Minister Treville for leaving the King's own regiment as a buffer between his cowardly self and the enemy, a decision that the Minister said 'could only have been taken by an idiot who didn't know his arse from his elbow'. With his tail firmly between his legs, the General has no choice but to comply and along with the additional soldiers, supplies arrive as well as a long overdue chair and writing desk for Athos' use. D'Artagnan feigns innocence but Porthos knows it was the boy who'd requested the coveted furniture from Treville in one his long letters to Paris during his extended convalescence.

Winter has settled in for the duration and the Musketeers are almost as miserable as they'd been in the summer heat, but spirits are high as news of victories further north buoy their confidence. There are skirmishes almost daily now but with addition of two Companies not weighted down by injuries, the French hold their own while they wait for the order to march northward and deeper into the thick of the fighting.

Athos' recovery had been relatively quick but he is still plagued by moments of weakness since he'd suffered an infection and a few frightening days of fever. D'Artagnan's recovery though has been arduous and extremely painful for Porthos to watch. The boy is still weak, thin, and struggles to eat but he is determined and the light is back in his eyes, that glint that Porthos feared had faded for good has reappeared as has his smile. There had been moments where the big man had been worried that the lad would just give up and die but after the attack on their camp and Athos' injury something miraculous had occurred and the boy had suddenly decided that he wanted to live. To say that Porthos and the others were relieved by his change of attitude would be a massive understatement; they were elated and thankful and did everything in their power to help him recover. With Athos himself though still on the mend and busy with regimental business and Aramis exhausted by tending to the many injuries that lingered, Porthos had made it his personal mission to restore the young Gascon to his former healthy self. That meant endless hours of force feeding him like a petulant child and even more hours spent sparring – half that time spent picking the lad up from the ground, but never mind – and long nights in their shared tent listening to d'Artagnan fight the urge to be sick, something that Aramis explained would take a long while to fade since his stomach had become used to expelling whatever he consumed, a lingering effect of the cruel poison that had nearly stolen the boy away from them.

For the first time in weeks the four of them are gathered in Athos' tent discussing the events of the day, something that had been a nightly occurrence before everything had gone to hell. This evening it's Porthos lying on the Captains cot in just his breeches and shirtsleeves and d'Artagnan is fussing over his friend, his expression worried and taut.

"I'm just tired, you idiot boy, get your bony hands off me," he complains as d'Artagnan checks him for fever or any hidden injuries. Porthos though, truly is exhausted and doesn't complain when the boy covers him with Athos' blanket.

"Let him fuss, Porthos, you deserve your rest, Lord knows you've taken on the lion's share of caring for these two," Aramis says wryly, indicating his two recovering brothers.

"That's true, brother, if not for you neither of us would be fit to stand on our feet, as of right now you're on leave…of your duties only of course, because I can't send you back to Paris at such a crucial moment, but I can give you a few days of doing nothing but sleeping, eating and drinking if that's any consolation," Athos tells him with a ghost of a smile.

"No thanks, he'll just end up swooning like a maiden in distress if I leave him alone for more than five minutes," Porthos says, poking his finger at the indignant d'Artagnan, "and you," he says, indicating Athos, "will probably fall of your horse and break something and leave him," he continues, pointing at Aramis, "back to running the regiment, and making us pray again, at every muster and at every meal."

That last quip brings a round of laughter from all of them, a sound that hasn't filled their ears in a very long time. Athos looks much healthier, Porthos notes gratefully and d'Artagnan, well at least he's trying. Aramis, who normally has the constitution of a bull is weary but thankfully well, and Porthos knows his own malaise will pass with a good night's sleep. They are at war, and away from Paris and Constance and Treville, and of course their beloved Queen, Porthos adds to himself with a quick glance at Aramis, but they're together and they're mostly whole and Porthos has been taught to count his blessings.

It's with that thought and the sound of his brothers' laughter that Porthos allows himself to relax and put aside his worries and fears for the moment, and feel hopeful that soon this blasted war will be over and they will return to the Garrison where they belong and all will be as it was and as it should be. With that hope in his heart, Porthos sighs and slides contented into a much deserved peaceful and dreamless sleep.

The End

NOTES: Thanks you all for reading, reviewing and being patient while I cleaned up this mess of a story! I'm sure I will go back and edit the entire thing again at some point but there will be no plot changes or any glaring edits, just a few tweaks here and there where I've made spelling or grammatical errors or mistakes in the timeline. In the meanwhile I've begun an unrelated story that takes place before 'Through a glass darkly', before d'Artagnan's epic declaration and offer to sacrifice himself, so it'll be mostly the lads getting into trouble and whumped and all that. I probably won't post it though until I finish or at least mostly finish posting my Spies!au at AO3, which is called 'Lonely winds will call my name' and is the first if a two-part series in that verse. I can't post it here due to explicit sexual content (Constagnan) but you can find it under the same pen-name at the Ao3 archive. Thanks again!