A/N:There's a few people who have requested a sequel to my first musketeers story "Now you're here, I can see your light" as there might have been a little too much hurt and too little comfort (You might have to read that one first). I'm not sure it's properly balanced now but I did my best. I'm not much of a comforter. I'd make a terrible nurse. I'd rather kick the villains ass. Also, this has been written for the February challenge of the Fete des Mousquetaires with the theme "Fear".

This story is un-beta'd. I tried to keep the mistakes to a minimum but you know like it is... the wood and the trees and all the other disturbances. And English is not my native language. So I'm prone to stupid mistakes. If you find any, please don't hesitate to beat me round the head with it.

Usual disclaimers: Story is not mine. Someone else reaps the benefits they definitely deserve.

Warning: Blood and tension. So the usual.

Darkness Ahead and Darkness Behind

~o~O~o~

You're always going to be afraid, even if you learn to hide it. Fear is like a companion. A constant companion, always there. But that's okay, because fear can bring us together.

The Twelfth Doctor – Clara ("Listen)

~o~O~o~

Athos is looking down on his hands and finds them shaking, convinced that they will never stop. The hems of his sleeves are dark with blood he hadn't managed to scrub away. They are in the middle of war and clean clothes are scarce so that should be the least of his worries. Strangely enough, he cannot stop looking at it and feels the urge to rip them off. Which he won't do. Clothes are scarce, clean or otherwise. Period.

Taking a deep breath, he forces his eyes away from the marks of his failure and let's them roam over the darkness around him. Sitting on a large boulder at the end of the camp he's got his musket in his lap and one hand on his sword's handle. The possibility of another attack is highly unlikely, not since the Spanish had retreated yesterday with their tails between their legs after having been defeated with the help of an exploding ammunition storage and the arrival of reinforcement.

Until late in the evening, Athos had been sitting in consultation with the Duke of Savoy and other Generals of surrounding French regiments and when finally he had managed to escape from the confinement of a tent - too crowded with unwashed bodies and stupid minds - his feet had carried him to this place, a few paces away from their camp. His head is pounding viciously, whether due to the heavy blow he had suffered only 24 hours ago or because of the never-ending discussions concerning politics he isn't sure. Probably a combination of both.

He knows he should have taken a detour to the infirmary tent, letting doctor Simon have a look at his concussed head but the pain isn't strong enough to justify swallowing his anger and guilt. A painful knot of something unspeakable has lodged itself into his belly ever since he'd given d'Artagnan into the capable hands of the doctor, refusing to yield and giving him a hard time forming a clear thought. Oh, how he wishes to have a nice bottle of wine as company but alcohol is scarce, too.

Instead, his memories are the only company strong enough to endure his bad mood. Memories he would rather forget than to have them clinging at him like the nasty body odor of cold sweat.

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pictures that keep running through his minds but it's useless. His exhausted mind unable to fend off the images of his latest failure…

~o~O~o~

"Walking? If you want me to I can dance," the young man mumbles, his eyes staring into the night sky above him with the burning embers being mirrored in their depths. A soft sigh escapes his lips and Athos' almost panics when d'Artagnan's chest stills for a moment, his features going slack and his eyelids closing slowly.

"d'Artagnan!" Athos bellows and the young man's eyes snap open. "Don't you dare close your eyes! That's an order. You hear me?" Athos doesn't care that he sounds demanding and angry. d'Artagnan may bloody well know that he's very unhappy right now and won't allow a moment of weakness. Not when there's more at stake than the success of a mission.

The Gascon blinks owlishly but stays awake.

"Hold on, we're getting you out of here but it will take a while," Athos rambles on. "Porthos is coming and he's bringing help. Until then I need to stop the bleeding." He doesn't wait for an answer but takes off his doublet – which is a pretty tedious affair in the tight space – and scrunches it up into a ball, carefully putting it around the object that is obscenely sticking out of the young man's shoulder.

d'Artagnan nods jerkily and grits his teeth when a the movement jars his battered body.

"Remind me…" he whispers and looks straight at Athos. "…not to do that again."

He pinches his eyes shut and moans when Athos presses the cloth harder against the wound.

His battered body tenses in reaction to the added pain, then slumps down. Another surge of panic rises in Athos when it takes him a few seconds to find a pulse under the clammy skin of his young friend. But it's there. Small and stuttering but stubborn enough to appease Athos' greatest fear.

"Athos!" The captain can hear Porthos calling and see the big man's feet through their only exit hole coming closer. A second later, a round face is visible. "I've drummed up 'oever was available. It's not much but it should do. We 'ave to start with the surroundin' area. O' else it might just bury you when we shift it some'ow wrong..." He trails off, his eyes fixed on d'Artagnan. "'ow are ya both doin' ?"

For a moment, Athos considers lying just to keep the grave responsibility off the large man's shoulder but it probably will not bode well for d'Artagnan. His fingers press against his protégé's skin, letting the thump-thump of the unsteady pulse anchor him. With a piercing glare at Porthos, he utters instead: "Hurry!"

~o~O~o~

The crunching of pebbles behind him brings him back into the here and now. Swallowing quickly, he rubs his face in an unconscious attempt to wipe the remains of the horrendous memories off his visage and straightens his spine to at least make a semblance of vigilance.

"If ya so desperat'ly wan'ta undertake guard duty ya promotion was a waste."

Athos does not immediately acknowledge the comment and instead stares into the distance as Porthos sits down next to him with a grunt, his wounded arm pressed against his side protectively. "Most able men have already left to troop up in Pinerole," Athos finally states the obvious. "Who do you think should undertake that duty now with half of the remaining forces half-dead and the other half busy with keeping the former alive and stowing the equipment?"

They settle into a silence that is neither comfortable nor the reverse. It's a moment of combined misery which both men need as much as they suffer from it. Their muteness is stretching into a dark hole of guilt, caught in painful reflections of recent happenings.

"How is he?" Athos finally asks, his voice raspy and only a little shaky. A question that has been lying on his tongue ever since he'd known of Porthos' presence.

He expects his friend to be disgruntled with his behavior but the cutting accusation still pains him deeply when Porthos answers brusquely. "Why don't you just go to him? See for yourself?"

And there it is. The metaphorical bomb that is being dropped in Athos' lap. The worst thing is that he deserves it. He knows that which that doesn't make it easier. Letting his head sink, he hides behind his hands and rubs against the gritty sensation in his eyes.

"I'm on guard duty."

"Ya're hiding, that's what ya're doing," Porthos accuses.

Another short silence and Athos nods. "You're not wrong, I suppose."

"Course I'm not wrong," Porthos grumbles. "But ya're not doing ya'self any good if ya're 'iding."

"I'm not hiding." Well, maybe he is but he most definitely will not tell Porthos.

"Of course not," Porthos says pointedly. "But in any case, you've been relieved 'alf an 'our ago by Gerôme. Ya've probably missed 'is official and very loud announcement that ya're free to leave ya position." In the close distance Athos can hear a meek "Ay!" from the young soldier, whose outline is silhouetted against the dark blue sky a few paces away. Athos throws a sideways glance at Porthos, who is shrugging his shoulders, faring a sheepish grin that lightens the mood. A little. He eventually seems to feel sympathy for his captain and friend and adds: "Doctor Simon says, d'Artagnan injuries are grave but apart from the possibility of infection 'e 'as a good chance of…" He trails of, realizing how little comfort he is giving. So he changes tactic and determinedly announces. "d'Artagnan is strong. Too stubborn for 'is own good, ya know that. 'e'll be fine, and be it only to fight the odds."

"He shouldn't have to fight the odds in the first place."

"Maybe not, but 'e does it anyway. That's what 'e does. What makes 'im d'Artagnan." Athos can hear the smirk in the other man's words and can't help but feel a little more at ease, the squeezing pressure against his chest slightly lessening.

This time the following silence is comfortable enough that Athos concentrates on taking a deep breath, attempting to calm his nerves. He closes his eyes and for the first time feels like there is a weight slowly retreating from his shoulders and the shaking of his fingers – though not gone completely – has receded enough that he can wiggle them slowly to get rid of their coldness.

"I'll pay him a visit," Athos announces, intentionally not offering a specific time. Still something else comes to his mind. "Who is watching our… guest?"

Porthos tone immediately gets colder as he replies with barely suppressed hostility: "Martin is with 'im."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. Don' think so. 'e's doin' the silent act."

Athos nods, not having expected anything else. "I'll pay him a visit. Make sure he's at least getting some water."

"Athos!" Porthos cries indignantly and a one-sided smile devilishly pulls on Athos' lips when he hears the disgust in his brother-in-arm's voice.

"Don't worry," he replies as he feels the anger rise again. Not the anger at himself but the fury at the enemy who had dared trying to sabotage what was left of d'Artagnan's meager chances. "Not before I've properly spit in the peace offering, my dear friend."

Amused, Porthos snickers. "I like the way ya think. Oh and Athos," he calls back at Athos' retreating back who turns around, trying to find the round face of his friend in the mesmerizing shining of the moon's light. "Make sure doctor Simon 'as a look at ya 'ead. 't might he tough but we can't afford to 'ave you corrupted. Be it by untreated concussion or by wrongly placed guilt, if ya know what I mean."

Athos does not reply but he knows how deeply Porthos is affected by d'Artagnan's precarious condition. Though being resilient and raucous to the eye, Porthos' welfare has always been directly dependent on the well-being of the people he is calling his friends. And now, with his best friend's absence and d'Artagnan's life hanging on a thread he's doing everything in his power to make sure that everything that can be done, will be done. Even if it merely comprises a cooling cloth against a concussed head.

With new-found energy Athos stalks back into the camp which is mostly quiet and dark except for a few sleepless souls who are gathered around a fire that has a large cauldron of water boiling hanging over it. The two men nod in his direction as Athos passes them and he nods back. His heartbeat speeds up when he nears his destination and his determined steps falter when the medical tent comes into view. Through the gaps he can see the inside is brightly illuminated, meaning the doctor is probably in the middle of some important medical procedure. He really, really shouldn't disturb the man in his concentration, Athos thinks and almost bites in his own tongue at the realization that he's doing it again. Letting fear take the reigns. His body refuses to obey when he has every intention of pushing aside the flimsy blanket that covers the entrance of the infirmary. His head keeps pounding in the rhythm of his heartbeat, his hands are starting to sweat and before he knows it he once more gives into his inability to do the right thing. He can't go in like this. Not when he feels like he is about to shatter in a million pieces at the prospect of seeing the young Gascon fighting yet another battle and there's literally nothing Athos' can do but stand aside and let fate take its course.

His hand – already grasping the tent flap – sinks down again.

d'Artagnan is in there – his friend and brother – and he is out here, too afraid to face the young man in one of his darkest hours. Just when his presence is needed the most to comfort or calm or encourage he is too much of a coward to function properly.

Athos had always thought himself to be unflappable. Facing battle, war and injuries without an inkling of fear. Facing death on a daily basis - that he is used to and getting killed is part of his expectations. It's an inevitable future that he will cross his path with, sooner or later. He has come to terms with that, has always been fearless even. But the death of one his brothers is not something he is able to envision or accept as it is something he would have to live with in the aftermath. It's another burden of loss he fears. And what could possibly be more selfish than breaking apart by another man's tragedy?

So he denies it. D'Artagnan would live! And he would say he'd known it all along. And everything would be back to normal.

However, as long as this is only a mere hope, not a fact, he is unwilling to challenge fate by giving in to his misery.

Turning on his heels, he stomps into another direction. One that would bring him if not personal amends at least release of some aggression.

~o~O~o~

It's hours later that they manage to get him free. Athos's eyes are closed by now and his utmost concentration is focused on the constant beating against his fingertips which he's counting in an unconscious need to measure the duration of lifetime left in the still body of d'Artagnan.

Two heartbeats, three, four… five hundred. The dutiful rising and falling of the bloody chest and the soft intake of air between the young man's slightly parted lips is almost hypnotizing as he sits next to him. As if d'Artagnan might steal away secretly if Athos takes his eyes off him.

"Careful now!" someone yells. "We might only 'ave this one chance to get this thing off'em. Don't let it fall back!"

Through a thick fog of concussion, pain and exhaustion Athos realizes that one of the large wooden frames that had mostly been responsible for their inability to get the wounded man to safety was vibrating and shifting against their tiny hiding hole and he pushes against it with his free hand, the other one never losing contact with d'Artagnan. The beams are creaking with indignation at being moved and then Athos can see the sky, which is beginning to get lighter in the east. The frame is pulled aside accompanied by the yells and grunts of the hard-working men and with a tremendous crash it falls against the opposite wall of the trench, engulfing them in a cloud of dust and dirt. After spending the whole night in his current position, the surge of fresh air feels invigorating and Athos blinks his eyes in an attempt to take in their situation more clearly. A surprising number of helpers have gathered and most look ready to fall where they stand.

"Athos?!" He almost jumps when he realizes Porthos is kneeling next to him. He hadn't even taken notice of his closeness until the large man's hand falls warm and grounding against his left shoulder. "A'right. Let 'im go now."

"He's not…" Athos says, almost too horrified to finish the thought but quickly realizes that's not what Porthos was trying to suggest. So he clamps his mouth shut and wills away the light-headedness and nausea that seems to lull his ability to think lucid thoughts.

"No, No, 'e's not," Porthos quickly corrects anyway. "But doctor Simon needs to examine 'im and you need to get up. Come on!" Porthos grabs his hand and helps him standing up. It takes a few steps to gather his wits and get the blood flow going but the fresh air manages to clear his head a little until he feels collected enough to order most of the helpers away to catch up on sleep or relieve those on guard duty.

It feels good to give orders as it brings the illusion of control. Around him, the tired faces are looking at him and nod in confirmation, their bent postures and drooping eyes speaking volumes. He would have to remember to express justified appreciation to his men once the situation was settled and d'Artagnan was in capable hands of their doctor, who hadn't hesitated and had already rushed to the Gascon's side.

"We need to move him before I can do anything about the wound in his shoulder. If I take out the embedded object without my surgical instruments at hands he might bleed to death within minutes."

"Leave it to the doctor to lift the spirits..." Porthos mumbles, his expression strangely blank, and Athos throws him a frustrated look.

"Was he awake at all?" doctor Simon asks without looking up while carefully prodding the Gascon's ribs.

"Yes. Awake and lucid," Athos answers, giving his voice as much strength as possible. "But he lost consciousness shortly after and did not regain it since. He mentioned his knee hurting..." He adds almost as an afterthought but the doctor shakes his head.

"Later. Stretcher first." With a grunt the doctor heaves himself back on one knee, then his feet. "I need my instruments. Quickly!"

Athos nods, glad to have someone to think straight for the moment and once more he is ridiculously glad for having the doctor at his side. At the beginning, doctor Simon had been a disturbingly restrained young man. Barely in his thirties and both inexperienced and overwhelmed. Athos had seriously doubted the man's ability to lace his own doublet when under the stress and danger of ongoing battle. Nothing of his appearance spoke of being strong enough to work reliably in the middle of war, neither physically nor mentally. But the man has turned out a surprise. Reliable, competent and passionate when it comes to the proper care of the poor souls that are unlucky enough to require his attention, he always has done what he had to with a seemingly never-ending drive. His devotion to his patients bordering on complete submission and if no one reminds him of sleeping or eating, he would have collapsed long ago.

If now he is able to save d'Artagnan Athos might have to give him a raise.

The thought almost makes him laugh out loud and he can feel the unwelcome bubble of hysteria in his chest which he wills down with another deep breath and an iron will.

Nodding at Porthos, the dark man interprets correctly and immediately leaves in search of a stretcher. It's going to take a few minutes and Athos knows, every seconds counts. Seconds that d'Artagnan might not have. He squats down, now with the luxury of enough space to move and addresses the Gascon, not expecting an answer.

„d'Artagnan?" D'Artagnan lies unmoving, still in the same position he had found him. His face looks ashen and on his right temple the hair is plastered against the skin from a wound that has already stopped bleeding. Athos didn't even know it was there. How much else is there that has not yet been found? His hand carefully searches for d'Artagnan's and he clasps tight around the cold fingers. „I want you to listen closely, you damn idiot! If your damn heroism kills you, I will kick your scrawny ass to Paris and back. And just wait till your wife gets her fingers on you..."

Oh God, how is he going to explain this to Constance?

„At first she'll kick your ass and then she'll kick mine. And then she's going to kick some Spanish ass and wins this God forsaken war on her own."

In this moment, something steers his concentration towards the hand he is holding and his heart is beating with combined hope and trepidation as d'Artagnan's hand twitches and only a second later a soft groan can be heard.

"d'Artagnan? Can you hear me?"

It looks like d'Artagnan is losing his fight with consciousness but Athos isn't going to give up that easily.

"d'Artagnan. I want you to open your eyes for me. And don't you dare disobeying. I have a bone to pick with you."

"Athos, ..." d'Artagnan whispers and Athos crouches lower to hear him better. "...you really should be working on your motivational speech."

Athos rasps, half in laughter, half in despair, and when d'Artagnan's eyelids flutter open, he manages a smile.

"In your case, any more motivation would result in you flying to the moon, my friend."

"Must be pretty up there." d'Artagnan returns a crooked smile, quickly being wiped away by a pained moan. "Athos, I..."

"No, I don't want to hear it," Athos interrupts and is painfully aware of the way d'Artagnan's breath seems to come in staccato-like wheezes, the dirt-streaked wrinkles around his eyes are pinched and there's lines in his face that haven't been there before. More gently, he adds: "I want you to get up and dance, you idiot!"

"Gimme a second…" d'Artagnan huffs and his eyes are on the verge of closing again when they suddenly widen and he gasps, looking at something behind Athos.

Next to him, the doctor utters a tight warning. "Captain…!"

Caught off guard, Athos whirls around and recognizes a stranger leaning against the earthy trench wall, one hand stretched out in front of him with a musket directed at them and according to his red uniform probably a lost Spaniard. He must've been buried somewhere close by, probably hidden under the rubble, Athos concludes silently and musters the man whose clothes are torn and his left leg is slightly singed. Under the ragged slacks the skin is dirt and blood-streaked while his fingers are blackened with soot. He probably had to dig himself out of what he had feared to be his grave. Not exactly a nice way to wake up. However his hands are steady and calm while he points the weapon at d'Artagnan.

"The battle is over," Athos states, taking two tiny steps to the side and doing his best to shield d'Artagnan whose position on the ground is tactically as unfavorable as possible. "You have no right to claim a life after the battle is over. That's not what a soldier does."

The man merely lifts his eyebrow and snorts. "The battle over? The battle will be over only when the Spanish emerge victoriously", he hisses with a heavy accent and a mad twitch in his wide-eyed expression. "It's not like you can court martial me for revenging my men. The ones your man …" he spits out, never taking his eyes of d'Artagnan. "… has to pay for with his life. He killed them all, so many of them, that coward."

"Revenge has no place in war and there's no disgrace in getting resourceful when fighting for the greater good," Athos says in his a tone that implies nothing but complete serenity.

Behind his back, d'Artagnan swallows, his eyes getting remarkably bright as he lets the information sink in. He had known exactly what he was doing when he had set fire to the tiny fuse and it had wreaked havoc beyond everything he had imagined. With a single act he had possibly killed more men than he had fought with his sword during the last months and all of a sudden this knowledge starts to spread faster in his consciousness than the fire of that tiny flame.

"There is no greater good in war. It's about killing or being killed," the Spaniard screams all of a sudden, spit flying everywhere and it's the first sign that he's not as calm and collected as he's trying to appear. Athos tries hard not to flinch but all he can think about is this one little ball that might still end what they were this close from saving. From the corner of his eyes he can see the doctor shaking his head in utter disbelief and time slows noticeably as the musket sways in the Spaniard's hand. A grubby finger curls around the trigger, the barrel pointing in Athos' direction who can only hope to be covering d'Artagnan enough to stop the ball before it can do even more damage.

That's when Porthos large frame seems to fall right from the sky and pulls the man down so they both topple into the dirt, cussing and grunting. The shot still goes off but the ball is buried harmlessly a few feet away in the earth. Athos does not hesitate to run towards the two fighting men and with a single kick manages to take out the Spaniard, who goes limp.

Staring down at him for a moment he let's the fire in his blood ebb away and helps Porthos – who's cradling his injured arm with a pain-filled grimace – back on his feet.

"Any further injuries?" The doctor wants to know, his eyes still fearful but determined.

"No," Athos answers after Porthos shakes his head in fierce anger. He turns around, facing their hurt companion. "d'Artagnan?" But the young Gascon does not answer. His eyes are closed and a bright streak runs over his cheek where a single tear has wound its way downwards.

"Oh, d'Artagnan!"

~o~O~o~

Giving shelter to a prisoner isn't exactly an uncommon approach. But why exactly he kept him in the camp and did not immediately send him off to Pinerole to be held with the other prisoners Athos isn't sure. Especially since the man is neither a high-ranking officer nor does he have anything of importance to offer that might come in handy in future military efforts. Just one more person to feed and water after he had tried to kill one of their own. Which is why Athos isn't even sure why he had let the man live in the first place.

Martin, a young, ambitious recruit who had been with them for a little more than two months had been ordered to watch him and is patiently sitting in front of the tent, watching the darkness intently with his hand on his sword and musket in his lap.

"Captain!" Martin greets him in surprise when Athos is only a few yards away and jumps to his feet. The moon shines bright enough that his oval face glows with mild confusion.

Nodding at the surprised man, Athos storms into the tent and notes with fierce delight that their prisoner jumps in surprise and his eyes widen in fear at the grim expression of his visitor's countenance. Alas, the satisfaction doesn't last and after a few fleeting moments Athos can't remember why he's come here at all when he really should be somewhere else.

"Why?" He let's himself sit astride on a chair and waits for an answer he doesn't expect, staring at the man in the meager light of a few candles.

The man ignores the question and defiantly looks up at him. "What do you want?"

"As I said, I want to know why? Why taking the risk and kill a man who's already down? In the middle of enemy territory of all places? Are you that eager to die?"

His opponent stares at him. "Why don't you just kill me?" His bored voice cannot belie the fearful twinkle in his eyes and Athos can easily see through the façade of bravado and insolence. The man is afraid and his hatred shimmers though like the sun through a full glass of bright red wine.

"I am a man of honor. I don't murder people."

The man bursts out laughing. It's a hacking, unpleasant sound, more like a broken mill wheel than something a human person should be able to utter and Athos is doing his best to ignore the urge to stop it with a well-aimed knock to the man's nose. "You are a soldier. What else do we do than kill people?"

"We are no soldiers," Athos replies, keeping his voice level and strong. "We are the King's musketeers."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" The Spanish soldier contradicts his own words when he nervously starts fidgeting on his ass. "You carry a sword and a musket. Your hands are as bloody as mine at the end of the day." His eyes wander to the bloodied rags hanging loosely around Athos' wrists, who merely stares back at him and waits, trying not to nestle with the sleeves. For once, he enjoys the distaste and fear in the other man's eyes and it feels good to have the upper hand. It gives him a sense of composure and a way to channel his feeling into a direction he can control.

"Our hands might be bloody but we don't wash them clean with the cowardly revenge on another man's victory."

"Victory...", the man snorts and grimaces as a wave of emotion rushes over him. Athos isn't overly surprised to see it's pain. A pain strong enough that it borders on madness. "Big words for a man who is keeping a man prisoner who lost most of his regiment today. Most of his friends." The man's voice is close to breaking.

For a moment Athos' expression is unreadable. "I am sorry," he expresses earnestly, surprising himself with these words. The man in front of him could be him. A last man standing. Someone who had lost his comrades, friends and brothers in a war that is about as personal as rain on your birthday. Fair or not, the reason for his tragedy is d'Artagnan's actions. One man's victory is another man's downfall. Ultimately, Athos is still glad that it has been d'Artagnan's victory. "I am sorry for the loss of your brothers in arms and … friends. In a world better than ours no war would be needed to resolve the quarrels of men in higher positions." It's a message close to treachery but no matter how distinct his sense of duty is: Athos is not an uncaring monster. "But I am not sorry that it was our side that won this battle. Right and fair."

The Spaniard pierces him with a penetrating glare. "You must be really proud of your musketeer," he almost hisses the last words, then turns his head to the side, signaling unambiguously that his part in this conversation is over.

Athos doesn't give away any emotion when he pictures d'Artagnan cutting his way through hordes of enemy, dancing in accordance with his sword and there it is: a deep feeling of pride and affection. He remembers the caring, sympathetic, impulsive Gascon who risks his life over and over for his friends and France and principles. Who believes in giving and taking equally and who wouldn't think twice about the question where his right place were if their roles were reversed.

"Yes!" Athos replies and stands up. "I am."

Without another word, he leaves the tent and in passing orders Martin to bring their prisoner water and bread before steering towards the infirmary. His order is being confirmed with a feisty "Ai, Captain..." and Athos all but runs the short distance back to the center of the camp.

It's still very early in the morning and as the moon progressively vanishes behind a cloud front that is slowly crawling their way, bringing the potential of moderate temperatures and maybe even rain. A lethargy is hanging over the camp owed to the early hours as well as the fact that it's mostly deserted by now since Athos has sent most of his men away with a partnering regiment to set up their camp a days distance away from here. The few men left were mostly stuck in the infirmary tent or were assigned with packing the equipment as well as guard duties. When he passes the camp fire he now finds it to be deserted. Even the cauldron with the boiling water is gone.

In this moment, a familiar voice is calling for him. Familiar enough that the snotty undertone causes the hair in Athos' neck to rise and his eyes to close to avoid rolling out of his head. "Captain, a word, please!"

"Now what," he mumbles under his breath and for a moment considers acting like he had not heard his name but he halts in his steps. "Your Grace!" In turning, Athos greets the Duke of Savoy with clenched teeth, which only seems to amuse the man who doesn't even have the decency to look fatigued.

"Sorry, it's late and I am aware that you would rather be anywhere but here," the Duke says in a snarky tone, that jars the walls of Athos' patience.

"What can I do for you?" Athos replies after an appropriately quick bow that is carried out in the most careless manner Athos dares to perform.

"Oh, I have no intention to delay your route any further but I want to inform you that we will be leaving this post tomorrow... well … today. We will set out after breaking the fast."

"What about the men not yet fit to be moved?" Athos asks quizzically. "The injured and otherwise impaired. What does doctor Simon have to say about the risk of moving on?"

The duke waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I already spoke to doctor Simon. He has been informed."

"Informed and agreeing to your assessment?" Athos digs deeper, not caring that the animosity he feels towards this man is oozing out of his demeanor like heat from a fire. "Or forbidden to object?"

The duke doesn't answer but the harsh glance he's thowing him gives Athos all the answers he needs.

"Your Grace, may I …" Athos begins between clenched teeth but before he even finishes his interjection.

"No, Captain. You may not. Recreation has no need for a Doctor. It's the battle field where the blood flows."

"Sir, I have half a dozen men in that tent who need a doctor at their side. d'Artagnan… "

His words are rudely cut off by the Duke's angry shouts. "What your musketeer did was hurried and uncalled for. Do you have any idea how much ammunition has been destroyed with his foolish stunt?"

"Hurried?" Athos counters, still calm and collected while his insides are simmering in a sea of lava. "If the reinforcement had not been too late, his stunt would not have been necessary."

"Be careful what you're suggesting."

"I'm not suggesting, I'm stating facts," Athos adds, furious but not giving away even the slightest hint of emotion in his stony face. "My men's health… be it physical or emotional… are my responsibility and with all due respect…"

"That is exactly what is missing these days. Respect, Captain." The duke actually points a finger at Athos' chest. "And if you know what's good for you and your rank…" He comes even closer and his voice is getting dangerously calm. "…think twice before you put your subordinates above all. They are subordinates for a reason and therefore beneath me. And you - as long as you are still in charge. So act like it."

Without another word the duke rushes past him into the direction of the infirmary tent and leaves a fuming Athos behind, who does not dare moving yet as his sword hand might betray his sense of reason.

His mind is reeling and for a full minute, his rage colors his focus with a reddish hue and absently he wonders if someone looking into his eyes could possibly see the blood steadily rising in his eyes like a glass slowly being filled with blood-red liquid. Leaving behind d'Artagnan and other good men to suffer from their injuries without the proper medical care they deserve or risking an open feud with a powerful man who might make his as well as his men's life a living hell? How could he possibly make a decision under these circumstances? Somebody give him a sword and a dozen Spaniards he could fight and he would be the glorious champion but he was powerless against big names and noblesse. It was an absurdity beyond comprehension and Athos is feeling completely caught between his Captaincy and his role as a trusted friend and loyal musketeer.

"What a nice conversation to 'ave at fou' in the morning."

Startled, Athos turns his head towards the voice and sees Porthos standing only a few feet away, almost hidden in the shadows of two adjoining tents looking disheveled and only half-dressed in his slacks and a hastily put on shirt that leaves him bare-chested.

"Porthos, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Athos murmurs angrily, feeling strangely exposed knowing that Porthos overheard everything.

"That's what I tried to do after I got kicked out of the infirmary. Then someone decided to 'ave a loud dispute next to my tent."

Athos sighs. "I was... on my way to d'Artagnan," he states without exactly knowing why he feels the need to explain.

"About damn time," Porthos grumbles and fumbles with his shirt to button it up. "Now, since I'm awake…"

That's when a distant yell makes the two men look up in confusion. From somewhere in the darkness beyond the tent lines a frantic voice is calling out for Athos and after looking at each other they run off, Athos in the lead. They find Martin a few yards outside of the camp, reeling on unsteady legs in a more or less straight line and when he stumbles Athos is there to catch him before he can hit the ground.

"Sorry, Captain…" Martin splutters but waves off Porthos attempts to keep him from getting back on his. "I'm okay."

"What happened, Martin?" Porthos urges but Athos has already gotten to the correct conclusion.

"The prisoner?"

"Sorry…" Martin moans, pressing his hand against a heavily bleeding wound on his temple. "Took me by surprise. Bashed the pitcher over my head and ran off. Probably gone by now…"

"No, he has nowhere to go," Athos concludes in a panicked whisper, the now familiar feeling of biting fear threatening to overwhelm him. He turns around; uttering d'Artagnan's name under his breath and leaves Porthos and Martin behind, dimly aware of Porthos' confused cry of "Athos, what's wrong?"

He doesn't stop, just concentrates on skipping over the countless ropes that keep the tents standing and flying over the dark holes in the rocky ground, knowing that he could break his leg or arm or neck if it comes to a fall especially considering how little he can see. Athos' breath is coming in hard, stuttering puffs when he finally storms into the infirmary tent, cursing himself for not even knowing where exactly d'Artagnan is being accommodated. Most of the individual cots – about twenty in total - have been separated by simple screens to offer some privacy. ten at each side. Three burning lanterns are hanging above the middle row to offer a little light and as Athos races along the narrow aisle he can see some but not all cots being occupied by sleeping men in several degrees of incapacitation.

It's quiet except for the snoring of some of the sleepers and Athos already embraces the growing hope that his imminent suspicion is unnecessary and d'Artagnan is safe and that the prisoner values life and freedom more than his desire for vengeance.

But no such luck.

At the end of the tent he comes to a halt in front of the last cot where d'Artagnan is lying. The runaway prisoner is standing at the head end of the bed – stark and stiff – and presses a scalpel against the unprotected skin of the Gascon's throat. Behind him, the doctor is sprawled out on the ground but Athos can't see any obvious injury.

The metal shimmers softly in the orange light of the candles while d'Artagnan is blissfully ignorant of the danger. Athos can only hope it stays this way for he knows any unexpected movement on his part might have disastrous consequences. His gaze travels over his friend's unmoving body and takes in the white bandages around his shoulder and chest. White linen is holding a thick padding pressed against his temple where Athos had found the large gash. Over the last 24 hours the gathered cuts and bruises have taken on the most colorful shades whereas the young man's pale face seems almost translucent. Athos knows that has to be attributed to the loss of blood but still the sight shakes him to the core.

And now, fate has thrown yet another obstacles into d'Artagnan's path and there is nothing Athos can do.

"Don't do this," he voices tightly and his hand, which had automatically reached for his sword hanging at his belt, now rises in a placating gesture.

The Spaniard looks up, eyes shining with a disturbing hint of amusement. "Why should I not, musketeer? Tell me one reason not to do this." He looks back at d'Artagnan, almost curious in his intensity. His steady hand is clenching the sharp instrument. "It's easy. Just one slash and my late friends will be celebrating with me wherever they are. One less Frenchmen for our country to worry about."

The blade presses harder against unprotected skin and even from the distance Athos can see a fine line of blood trickling downwards. If Athos had less to panic about he would have been deeply disturbed about the lack of d'Artagnan's reaction to the added pain but right now he is frozen on the spot because of the one slash that wouldn't take more than a muscle twitch and the blink of an eye.

"You won't get away with that," Athos growls the very moment that the flap this side of the tent is forcefully being pushed aside to reveal the duke striding in like he owns the place and hollering loudly like he's out on the battle field not in the infirmary tent.

"Doctor, for your own good I hope you …"

Somewhere in the back of Athos' mind he wonders whether anyone ever sleeps these days but at the same time is just grateful for the distraction as it gives him the opportunity to act.

There's a surprised yelp – rather undignified as Athos maliciously notes – coming from the duke. Startled, the Spaniard directs his attention to the disturbance and – much to Athos' satisfaction – punches him pinpoint on the nose which sends the duke reeling. The resulting crack sounds like music in Athos' ears. He couldn't have hoped for a better distraction and jumps forwards, tackling the prisoner while trying to avoid the scalpel. They're hitting the tent wall and the fabric gives way until both man find themselves outside, having tumbled underneath the flimsy barricade. It's still dark but in the distance the sky takes on a lighter shade. Morning is cautiously arriving and the light is enough for Athos to see Porthos coming closer, supporting the injured Martin.

Yelling "Athos!" the large man let's go of the swaying musketeer and comes running. Athos jumps to his feet and draws his sword in one fluid motion while the prisoner does the same with the scalpel still in his hands.

"You shouldn't have done this," Athos states, a cold smile appearing on his lips and the prisoner wavers, his eyes searching back and forth, finding Porthos who has taken position behind him and thereby effectively cutting off his escape route.

"I should have done this much, much sooner…" Angry words and spittle are whizzing past Athos and he dodges the Spaniard who is wielding the scalpel like a knife. At the same time, Athos turns around, letting his sword brush slightly against the attacker's thigh. The man growls in pain but his movements are uncoordinated and even sloppy, controlled by raw anger. Another livid shout and another charge and Athos makes quick process, eager to end this whole mockery. Pretending to take a step back he suddenly lunges, swinging his sword upwards into the man's unprotected stomach. A choking sound and the man collapses, only held upright by the blade which is now protruding from his back.

"You…" The Spanish soldiers sounds surprised and almost offended. "You can't…" A surge of blood gushes over Athos shoulder. Disgusted, he pushes the man way who falls hard, pressing his hands pointlessly against the deadly wound. Their eyes meet and in the wide-eyed expression, Athos recognizes an almost absurd consternation.

"You said… man of honor…" The dying man rattles reproachfully and Athos slowly shakes his head.

"Yes, Honor. Not mercy," Athos states coldly and with that brings his sword down, meeting the Spaniards heart and ending his misery.

For a moment, Athos merely stares down at the dead man before he pulls out the sword with a sickening sound.

His heart is beating painfully in his chest while the fire in his veins slowly abates. His knees feel wobbly and not for the first time his exhaustion threatens to claim his senses.

"Athos, are you well," Porthos wants to know startling Athos out of his reverie. When their eyes meet the big man almost recoils at the raw emotion of guilt in Athos' face. "d'Artagnan?" Porthos whispers, terrified, and Athos realizes what Porthos must be thinking.

"No, he's …" Unsure how to reply as he has no profound knowledge about the Gascon's condition he instead just hurries back into the tent, Porthos at his heels.

~o~O~o~

The day turns out to be another long one. Very long. And it surprises no one when Athos falls asleep sitting next to d'Artagnan's bed on a hard, wooden chair with his head resting in an uncomfortable angle on the linen covers.

He's sleeping through the rantings of the duke, who's not tiring of complaining because he's unable to move as planned due to his eyes being swollen shut. Not that anyone else complains.

He's sleeping through the infernal dressing down of one the other patients by Doctor Simon, as the soldier manages to tear open a freshly stitched wound in the back of his thigh, when the poor lad stumbles over his own shoes after having been forbidden to get up in the first place.

And he sleeps through Porthos grumbling orders that…"NO ONE wake the Captain if ya don't want ma boot on ya backside, understood?"

This is how the day proceeds as uneventful as the night was turbulent. It's just another hot day of summer and the air in the tent is stuffy and thick with the smell of sickness, blood and bodily odors. Four of the men are allowed to leave the tent this day with only a handful remaining, d'Artagnan among them.

By the time the sun has come up the duke has withdrawn back to his own tent, holding himself above the common soldier and the publicity of the infirmary. There are general heaving sighs of relief when the unpleasant contemporary leaves the tent, pressing bloody bandages against his swollen nose with the doctor's instruction to rest and cool.

All the while Athos doesn't move, doesn't even flinch or give any indication of being alive at all. Porthos can't help it and at some point makes sure Athos' breathing is deep and even. After reassuring himself, he positions himself back at the entrance, a silent watcher standing vigil over his two companions.

Worries wrinkle the tanned skin over his nose and he's deep in thought, trying to let the doctor's words assuage his gnawing fear: that d'Artagnan is strong and given time, he would wake up. But it's been almost 36 hours now and Porthos knows rest is one thing. d'Artagnan also needs fluids and food for his body to empower the healing but the numerous attempts of waking him have failed. By now, Porthos knows the doctor well enough to read between the reassuring words and cheerful manner and recognizes the signs of alarm. Because the doctor is alarmed. Porthos can see it in the way he keeps showing up quietly, checking the Gascon's pulse, eye movement and temperature.

While he knows the doctor is doing the best he can, a part of him would have preferred Aramis to be in his place instead. Then again, he's glad Aramis isn't here to witness all the atrocities of war.

Over the last few months Porthos had tried to keep the hurt and anger at bay, knowing Aramis had not made his decision lightly and most of all not because he wanted to be parted with his friends but closer to his God, aspiring an intrinsic peace that the Inseparables had no prospect of giving. His head knew that. His heart, though, had no intention to be so reasonable. And watching d'Artagnan's silent battle with his grueling wounds makes his heart even less willing to ignore the feeling of betrayal.

To make things worse, the first signs of infection are visible on the sweaty brows and the angry red flesh around the wound in d'Artagnan's shoulder. They expect it, already bracing themselves for the infection to set in and they know d'Artagnan still has a long way to travel before he will be over the worst. But for that they would at least need the young man awake and fighting, not asleep and unaware. The possibility that d'Artagnan would never wake up is stuck in Porthos head, painting a worst-case scenario that Porthos is unwilling to linger on.

So he's waiting stubbornly, not abandoning his post. When the first shadows are creeping up between the tents and the sun starts taking on the color of ripe apples he can feel his eyelids growing heavy with fatigue and his mind keeps slipping into the grey area between wakefulness and slumber. A mild vertigo grips him when he almost tumbles from his chair and he straightens up, confused about what it was that has him alerted him so suddenly.

He hears Athos' voice gently calling their friend's name and remembers.

~o~O~o~

After having slept through the turmoil of the day like a stone it is in fact the silent twitch of a finger that has Athos jump to attention.

"d'Artagnan?" He asks, even before he's being completely awake and after a quick sweep over his surroundings, the gentle, almost rhythmic, tapping of d'Artagnans fingers on the cot catches his gaze. Their skin is dirty and cracked and after a few moments they start to curl abruptly, forming a tight fist until the knuckles turn white. A soft moan sneaks through the parted lips of the Gascon and echoes in the tense atmosphere.

Athos leans closer and watches his face as d'Artagnan's lids – not yet open – are starting to flutter and his eyes are moving quickly from one side to the other.

"d'Artagnan, can you hear me?" Athos asks, considering to send Porthos away to get the doctor but he's too captured by the young man's fight for awareness that he just holds his breath and waits. Meanwhile, Porthos rounds the cot and takes his place on the other side. His hands clasps around d'Artagnan's forearm and at the grounding touch the young man blinks his unseeing eyes that show no glimmer of recognition as they're staring up against the tent roof. Worried, Porthos' and Athos' eyes meet when d'Artagnan does not show any signs of awareness.

"I'll go get the doctor," Porthos decides urgently and seems to vanish so quickly that for a moment Athos is uncertain the big man had been there in the first place.

"d'Artagnan?" Athos tries again, leaning even closer, until he all but whispers in the young man's ear. "Come on, lad. You are as safe as can be and I want you to find your way back to us. Wake up now."

There, a sharp intake of breath that is being followed by the quick blinking of eyes and another soft moan that almost sounds like a complain. It brings a smile to Athos' face. "Good boy," he says, carefully stroking over d'Artagnan's scruffy hair.

It's heart-breaking to watch him gather his wits but Athos can't help but being fascinated by it. He takes in every detail of his friend's difficult rise to consciousness. The grinding of the teeth, the hitching of breath and the tears pooling in the corner of his eyes as the body sends waves of pain through his maltreated body. Athos wishes for nothing more than to switch places with his young friend and when he's feeling his very own tears leaving theirs tingling marks on his cheeks he unconsciously wipes them away.

Finally, d'Artagnan manages to croak a hoarse "Athos," which sounds painful and like he hasn't used his voice in ages.

"I'm here," Athos smiles and d'Artagnan's head rolls to the side until their foreheads almost meet.

"Good," d'Artagnan answers, voice already stronger and the ghost of a smile appears on his lips. "Good," he repeats and Athos know it will be well.

~o~O~o~

When the hubbub of the day abates it's like she's turning into another person. Gone are the determination, the motivation and the joy of having a purpose. She is turning into a woman without a meaning. And she hates it.

Standing at the window, she looks out into the dark garrison, wondering how the absence of light can change a place so drastically that it's barely recognizable. She misses the eager scraping of hooves in the dirt, the joyful ringing of sword meeting sword and the loud cries and calls of the young men teasing and badmouthing each other. The dull thud of blade hitting the wooden target circles. The ongoing life that makes the garrison her home. During the long nights it's just an empty stage, mocking her with the ever present reality of him being gone. Leaving her back alone.

There is a coldness in the room behind her that has nothing to do with the temperature, which is warm enough to leave the windows wide open. The four walls she should be sharing with her husband are closing in on her. He should be here. His hands should be on her skin, his lips brushing against her ear to whisper beautiful nonsense. Instead, he's far away and all she has left are her memories and the painful hope to see him again one day.

In the center of the courtyard in the darkest area – the very place she had stood all those months ago with her husband close by her side – fireflies are dancing like the corporal personification of their last night together.

She looks at her hands, finds them shaking and wonders.

End

Okay, I know. I hate endings. I want them to be bridges for new beginnings. This is probably why my endings usually have potential for a sequel. And then another one. And so one. Well, there's still some challenges I might be able to use, ay?