Set early in season one.
Warning: Rated T for injury and violence.
Notes: I'm not a doctor, so stuff regarding the injuries and their treatment may be wrong.
Thanks: To AZGirl for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Musketeers.
"Aren't you afraid it'll hurt?"
"Of course I am."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because I refuse to be enslaved by pain."
D'Artagnan wondered if he could ever travel without constantly counting on being ambushed ever again. It seemed to be quite a common occurrence for Musketeers to fight off assassins, spies or bandits. He was thinking about what they were doing today to require such attention while attempting to keep his eyes on both assailants who were trying to run him through for some reason.
The Musketeers were outnumbered at least three to one, but that never bothered his older comrades. To their credit they managed to lessen the numbers of their enemies in less than two seconds. D'Artagnan tried to stay on his horse as long as possible, but he was soon overpowered. He didn't let his enemies get hold of him though, jumping sideways and engaging them in fair combat.
Two to one wasn't very fair, but the young Gascon believed his skills and training would help end the fight quickly, which turn out to be more difficult that he had thought. D'Artagnan was fast and agile and effectively parried all of their attacks, but he couldn't get past their defence. Whoever these guys were, they were well trained, and he was tiring fast.
He felt more than saw the sword coming at him from behind and ducked, thanking his instincts for keeping his head on his shoulders a little longer. He spun around and tried to keep all of his attackers in front of him, but he knew he couldn't last much longer. A quick glance towards his friend was enough to know they were too occupied to help him.
He abandoned all efforts to attack. He had no chance to be successful. Parrying quickly with both his sword and dagger he just fought to survive. A few seconds later, one sharp twist of the bandit's blade yanked his dagger out of his hand.
This is bad, this is so bad! D'Artagnan could think of nothing else as he frantically tried to keep all of his enemies at bay. With his dagger gone, he had no other defence against the sword flying at him than his left arm.
It had seemed like a good idea to sacrifice one arm and save himself from being impaled. He wasn't so sure when the sword dug deep into his forearm. He could feel the blade slide on his bone and it made him feel sick. With a pained cry he drew his arm protectively to his body, but he didn't let the injury to slow him down. He would be dead otherwise.
Were you raised to die young?
Aramis' voice ran through his head while he kept stepping back to avoid the enemies' swords. He parried faster than ever before in his life, not knowing where he got strength for that. He could not think; he could not breathe. He just dodged the attacks one after another, not counting, and desperately trying to survive another second.
Were you raised to die young?
It never occurred to him how true those words might prove to be. He could no longer feel his body; it moved on its own. His only thought was that this wasn't a way he'd imagine himself dying. He'd thought it might be some heroic way, saving the king, or one of his brothers, but not in some trivial attack of bandits, being overpowered and unable to protect himself. In his peripheral vision, he saw another man approaching with his sword raised and knew this was the end.
Were you raised to die young?!
His last thought was for his brothers. He hated to disappoint them like this.
Then a shot rang out, and time went still.
It took d'Artagnan a moment to realize the fourth assailant had dropped dead and the others hand turned back around to face more imminent threats. The young man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He tightly gripped his now burning left arm and drew it closer to his trembling body. He could hear the fight going on, but didn't have enough strength to raise his head. He just fought to get precious air back into his lungs.
He had no idea how much time had passed before he felt hands on his shoulders and looked up into worried face of Athos. The Musketeer was eyeing him as if checking to make sure the boy wouldn't drop dead into his arms any second. His expression calmed when he noticed his young friend was breathing and holding himself more or less upright.
"Are you alright?" Athos asked softly.
D'Artagnan nodded. He felt drained and still a little out of breath, but being alive was enough for him now. "Well," he added, pointing to his left arm, which throbbed painfully. "Apart from the obvious."
Athos frowned as he looked at the wound, which was deep and bleeding profusely, soaking the Gascon's shirt with red.
"I'll get my bag," said Aramis, who appeared out of nowhere and was gone in the next moment. D'Artagnan looked around, seeing that all bandits had been taken care of, and Porthos was calming their horses. The young man looked down again. He had seen his share of death already, but suddenly he didn't feel comfortable being surrounded by the dead bodies. Maybe it was because they reminded him how close he had been to becoming one of them.
Athos noticed his discomfort and took him firmly by his arms.
"Come on; can you stand?" He asked softly, but he didn't wait for the answer and helped the Gascon to his feet. D'Artagnan was surprised that apart from being shaky, and a little weak in the knees, he could hold his own weight. He was led away from the battlefield and sat down by a large tree at the edge of the woods. He gladly leaned into the support as weariness from the fight was making his whole body feel heavy. Athos left his hand on his shoulder, offering comfort, and d'Artagnan rested. He didn't even notice his eyes were closed until another pair of hands touched his left arm.
"Let's have a look at this," said Aramis with a soft smile meant to calm his patient. He gently took the injured arm and ripped open a sleeve of the shirt to have a better access. D'Artagnan let out a loud groan. The medic stopped and looked at the young men in worry, when he realized the protest came more from an annoyance than pain.
"How many spare shirts do you think I have?" the Gascon grumbled, scowling at his ruined clothes.
Aramis tried not to laugh, but Porthos, who came to see if he could be of any help, had no such qualms. Laughing, he sat down next to the injured boy, gripping his other arm in comfort.
"I'm afraid it was beyond saving anyway."
"Your arm is another story though," the medic said as he smiled. He took a wet cloth and cleaned the injured limb of all the blood. "That can be saved quite easily."
"You want to do it here?" asked Athos.
"He's losing blood fast; I need to stop it," answered Aramis, all trace of humor gone. "The wound is long and deep; bandaging it won't be enough. If I remember right, there is no inn or village nearby, so here is as good place as any. When I'm done, he'll be able to ride."
But he was still lucky, thought Aramis. Had the injury been any worse, the lad could actually be in danger of losing his arm. He took a better look at the angle of the wound and frowned.
"You used your arm to defend yourself." It wasn't a question.
The Gascon nodded. "It seemed like a good plan at the time." Suddenly he was afraid the others would not approve of his action, but he really had no other choice. "Better my arm than my neck."
"Not the best choice, but good enough," agreed Athos, and d'Artagnan relaxed. He valued his friends' approval above anything, especially Athos'. When he thought about the battle again, he wondered why he was at the centre of the bandit's attention.
"Momentary advantage," said Athos when d'Artagnan asked what they thought about it. "It's not a bad strategy. If you think you can't defeat your enemy outright, you just occupy most of their numbers and concentrate the rest of your forces on taking out just one of them, or a small group. And then another, until you defeat them all."
D'Artagnan thought about it, not liking what the obvious outcome was. "So they chose me because I'm the weakest," he voiced his thoughts. He knew he was no match to his brothers. They were seasoned soldiers and he had only been a farmer boy up until a few months ago, but he still strove to improve. Incidents like this reminded him he still had a long way to go.
"No," replied Athos, stopping his thoughts. "They chose you because you're the youngest, and not yet a Musketeer. They mistook your young age for inexperience, and that was their last mistake. I'm still impressed how you managed to hold them off."
"That's true," added Porthos. "I've never seen anyone parry so fast."
"Now I know you're not serious." D'Artagnan couldn't stop the smile creeping on his face. He knew Porthos exaggerated, but his friends' kind words still filled the Gascon with pride. He was sure Athos meant every word he said. Praise from him really warmed the young man's heart.
"I meant anyone as young as you are," the streetfighter chuckled, and ducked when the Gascon tried to smack him.
"Hey, don't move," muttered Aramis, still cleaning his arm.
D'Artagnan stilled and allowed his friend to continue. When he was satisfied with the area around the wound, Aramis carefully started to clean the wound itself. D'Artagnan gasped sharply at the first touch and couldn't help but flinch.
"Hey, hey!" Porthos took him by his shoulders to hold him in place, while Athos gripped the nape of his neck in comfort.
"It's alright," said d'Artagnan who took a calming breath. Feeling embarrassed, he mumbled, "You just took me by a surprise, that's all."
"D'Artagnan," said Athos, waiting until the other man looked into his eyes. "There is no shame in pain. We've all been there."
"It's just a cut on my arm," objected the Gascon, feeling self-conscious.
"It's not just a scratch, d'Artagnan," replied Aramis. "It's a very deep gash. Bone deep, probably."
"It is," the younger man sighed and leaned his head back. He was starting to feel really tired. "I could feel the sword sliding along the bone."
All of his friends frowned in sympathy.
"That had to be painful," Aramis murmured. "I'll be quick about this, my friend, but I won't lie to you. It's gonna hurt. If you need Porthos to hold you down..."
"No," the Gascon replied determinedly.
Athos and Porthos still kept their hands at his shoulders, if not to hold him down, then at least to offer comfort, and he was grateful. It took all his will to relax his arm and not try to escape the pain, even as his eyes closed tightly and teeth clenched. He was breathing hard as he tried not to cry out, but still couldn't contain it when Aramis poured what little wine they had on his wound. White hot pain surged through him and for a second he couldn't see anything, until it slowly abated into more manageable level.
"Here." Aramis offered him the bottle, which still had a little remaining inside. "I won't need it anymore."
D'Artagnan took it gladly, draining it in a few gulps. He had a few moments to rest until Aramis came back with a threaded a needle.
Suddenly, d'Artagnan flinched and stared at the needle as if it was the barrel of a pistol.
"Hey, hey," Porthos tried to calm him down, his hands on the young man's shoulders to keep him in place. They were all surprised at the fear in their young brother's eyes. At first Porthos thought the Gascon was going to fight him, but D'Artagnan forced his body to relax.
"It's okay," he mumbled. "I'm fine."
Not that his friends believed him. Aramis realized it was the first time he had seen their young friend hurt this bad. Sure, d'Artagnan had ended up pretty badly beaten after that adventure with Vadim, but hadn't need stitches. He could understand the fear of being stitched for the first time.
"Your first time getting stitched?" He asked kindly. "Don't be ashamed for being afraid, believe me that everybody hates this. Those who say they don't mind are just better at hiding it." He winked at the young man.
He was confused when the Gascon simply shook his head.
"It's not the first time," he mumbled.
Aramis' voice softened. "A bad experience then?" he asked.
"You could say that," answered d'Artagnan with a wince.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Porthos' question surprised the younger man. His eyes widened in shock for a moment before he steeled his expression and firmly shook his head. He already felt ashamed enough with his actions today; he didn't need to add to it.
"It's okay," said Aramis with a smile on his face, guessing what stopped the younger man. "It could serve as a good distraction. Or do you want one of us to tell an embarrassing story first? For example the one about Porthos learning to swim?"
"I think that is a story for another time," replied Porthos hastily. "And the lad has heard enough stories from us. Now it's time for him to tell something."
"Porthos is right," added Athos. "Besides, it's always good to know a brother's needs. No matter what bothers you, d'Artagnan, you can tell us."
The younger man looked into his mentor's eyes and saw only love there. These men already accepted him with all his faults and trusted him with their lives as well as their pasts. He could only do the same.
"Alright," he began, but was interrupted when Aramis gently took his left arm in his hands, turning it slightly to get a better access.
"Go on," the medic said. "Don't mind me."
D'Artagnan still waited a second for his friend to begin, and gasped loudly when the needle pierced his skin. He stayed still though, and pushed off Porthos' hands when the big Musketeer tried to hold him down.
"I'm okay," the Gascon said, holding himself together this time, though his breath came out harsh as Aramis continued to place stitches. "Just please, I don't feel comfortable being restrained." he looked at Porthos with silent plea in his eyes.
The large Musketeer held his hands up in surrender and settled with squeezing the young man's leg in support. Athos still left his hand on his shoulder to offer comfort, and d'Artagnan found himself slightly relaxing despite the pain.
"So what happened?" Athos prompted.
"I was a child back then," began the Gascon. "Around five or six, I'm not exactly sure."
The others looked up in surprise.
"What did you do to get so hurt so badly?" asked Porthos.
"Obviously something I shouldn't have," chuckled d'Artagnan. "I don't remember exactly what happened, only that I played in the meadow while it was mowed, and someone cut me in the leg with a scythe."
"A scythe?" Aramis marveled. "You were lucky not to lose your leg."
"So I was told," agreed d'Artagnan, his voice strained when he again fought a wave of pain. "We had a good surgeon near Lupiac, and he got to me quickly. I even managed to avoid infection, so I recovered quite rapidly considering the situation. But the surgery itself was something horrible."
"That's to be expected at such a young age," Aramis reassured him. "I bet this is nothing compared to that experience," he said.
The Gascon started to chuckle, but it ended with a pained gasp. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to calm his breathing. "I wouldn't say it was nothing exactly, but I know what you mean." There was a moment of silence. "I still remember the surgery," continued d'Artagnan, his shyness washed away by the pain. "My father held me down and I begged him to stop the pain. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't help me. I was- ah!" he cried out as the pain grew worse.
Porthos made another move to keep d'Artagnan in place, but he held himself back. Now he could understand why their young friend didn't like to be restrained. He was lucky if this was the only mental wound he got after such terrible experience.
"Porthos, I need your help," called Aramis.
D'Artagnan was panting, finding it hard to get enough air in his lungs. He looked down and saw the big Musketeer holding the split edges of his skin together so the medic could sew his flesh. It was making him feel sick. Suddenly there was a hand on his cheek, gently moving his head away.
"Don't look that way," said Athos firmly, yet kindly. D'Artagnan looked into his mentor's eyes instead and took comfort in it, while he forced his body to calm down despite the pain.
"So, what happened then?" asked Athos, trying to keep his protégé's mind off of the actual surgery. "You developed a fear of needles?" It would make sense, and explained the young man's initial reaction to the stitching.
"That would be an understatement," replied the Gascon, his voice breathless. "I couldn't even watch my mother sewing clothes without feeling sick."
The older Musketeer paused, frowning in confusion.
"But you watched me stitch Porthos," stated Aramis, obviously coming to the same conclusion. "On the mission with Bonnaire. You seemed perfectly fine with it."
"Because I got rid of that fear," replied d'Artagnan as if it was nothing. He got three curious looks in return.
"And how exactly did you do that?" asked Athos, amused. When he first met the young Gascon, he learnt that stubborn and determined were d'Artagnan's middle names. It still surprised him sometimes how far it really went.
"When I was twelve," the Gascon said, continuing with his tale, "I cut myself while chopping wood. It was not too bad, I didn't even mind my father cleaning the wound, but it was still bleeding and he said it needed stitches. I..." he hesitated, not knowing what to say. "My reaction was so bad he promised me not to send for the surgeon and applied pressure on the wound for what felt like hours until the bleeding stopped. I was ashamed by my reaction," d'Artagnan sighed.
"There was no shame in it," Athos said.
"My father told me the same thing," countered the Gascon, "but I just couldn't live with it. I wasn't afraid of the pain, although I must say it's nothing I'd like to feel again," he noted with a pained grimace. He noticed though the pain eased a little now as Aramis was nearly finished.
"As I said," the medic assured him, "everybody hates this."
"So what were you afraid of?" asked Porthos, when the young man went silent.
"Not sure," d'Artagnan shrugged. "I suppose it was the feeling of helplessness. Having someone deliberately hurt me and not being able to stop it." As he was speaking, his breathing quickened as the feeling of being trapped and hurt slowly filled him. Athos gently squeezed the back of his neck and d'Artagnan let himself be comforted by the touch.
"My father advised me to talk to the doctor," he continued, trying to focus on here and now. "He thought the man would have some experience in that matter. He was a good man, the doctor, but he didn't know how to help me. So I asked him if I could just watch him work. I hoped that, with a little time, I could just get used to it. After some trouble at first, I did."
The others didn't ask him about the trouble, they could imagine enough and didn't need to know the rest. It still impressed them how determined the Gascon could be when he decided to reach his goal. Athos was sure this particular trait will help the young man win his commission one day.
"So now you have no problem watching a surgery," Aramis deduced. D'Artagnan nodded.
"And being stitched?" asked the medic.
"I wouldn't say I had no problem, but it seems I'm alright with it." He actually smiled. "I haven't been hurt badly enough to require stitches since then. I wasn't sure how well I'd fare, until today."
Aramis returned the smile. "I must say, you make an almost exemplary patient. All done," he said as he tied the last stitch and lightly patted the other man's hand before he reached for bandages. d'Artagnan was still breathing hard, but he relished the feeling of the pain slowly abating. For a moment he watched as his friend bandaged his arm, but then he leaned back to the support of the tree and closed his eyes. He felt totally spent. He was offered a water skin and accepted it gladly. He didn't realize how parched he felt until that moment.
Athos was again filled with pride. It occurred to him that their young friend just fought a great battle with himself – and won. It made his heart heavy when he heard what horrors d'Artagnan had gone through. He was no stranger to the darker side of life that came with being a soldier, but d'Artagnan wasn't a soldier yet. It just made him wonder what kind of trouble the lad would find in his new life.
"So do you think," the swordsman asked just to be sure, "you will be okay now if something happens?"
"Yeah," the Gascon assured him. "Just don't restrain me if you don't have to," he added. The others answered him with a pat on his shoulder.
A thought crossed d'Artagnan's mind, and for a while, he contemplated if he should voice it or not.
"Is this the reason," he hesitantly asked as he looked at Porthos, "why you have to be unconscious when stitched?"
The streetfighter sighed and looked away. His other two friends' faces suddenly grew somber. It occurred to d'Artagnan that he had unintentionally crossed a line.
"I'm sorry," he apologized hastily. "I didn't mean to..."
"It's alright," Aramis interrupted. He sighed, as if looking for words. "I suppose that if you watched some surgeries, you know that people can react in different ways. Some may get violent in spite of themselves."
Porthos cleared his throat. "I... hurt Aramis once." He looked down in shame.
The medic squeezed his friend's arm in comfort, though his words were still to the Gascon. "I assure you he had hurt himself much more. It's not that he couldn't take the pain, or that he'd do it intentionally. If he feels himself being hurt, he reacts, that's all."
"I understand," d'Artagnan slowly nodded. "But couldn't you just hold him down?"
"Try to hold down Porthos," said Aramis with mirth in his eyes.
"I see," d'Artagnan said and laughed. "It's good to know." He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the fatigue that was slowly filling him. "You know it's nothing to be ashamed of," he assured Porthos, when he noticed his friend still looked uncomfortable.
"Like being afraid of needles?" countered the big Musketeer.
"Fair enough," the Gascon chuckled. "Now I understand what you meant by knowing a brother's needs. Anything I should know about Athos?"
"No, no," the medic assured him. "Athos can take stitching as stoically as anything else. Sometimes I think he wouldn't notice if his arm was cut off."
The only answer from Athos was a stony expression while his friends laughed.
"We should prepare to leave," the swordsman interrupted. They all started rise, but Aramis prevented d'Artagnan from doing so.
"Don't even think about it."
The Gascon glared at his friend, wanting to argue, but he really had no strength left in him. He gave up arguing and leaned back against the tree, feeling spent.
"I'm tired," he mumbled, expressing the understatement of the century.
"Rest now," Aramis told him and squeezed his shoulder. "We will take care of the rest. Your body needs to recover from the pain and the stitching," he said, answering the young man's silent question. "Besides, you've lost a lot of blood. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to make you feel weak for the next few days."
"You sure he'll be able to ride?" asked Athos, not willing to risk the young man's health.
"Try me!" challenged him d'Artagnan, pleased that the words sounded stronger that he felt.
"Yes," nodded Aramis, ignoring the strong-willed Gascon. He was sure the lad would claim being fit to ride even on his death bed. "If he has time to regain his strength, and we keep to a slower pace. As for you," he looked back at their youngest friend, "don't try to use the arm in any way until I say so, understood?"
D'Artagnan just nodded, his eyes already closed.
The next time he opened them, he found himself lying down under the large tree. He moved his uninjured arm and realized he had been covered, probably by one of his brother's cloaks. He smiled when Aramis came into his view.
"Welcome back. How do you feel?"
D'Artagnan took some time to consider the question. His left arm still throbbed painfully, but it was dull. His head hurt and his whole body felt weak and sore, but not overly so. He actually felt quite comfortable lying down.
"Better, I think," he said, starting to sit up. Aramis helped him and propped him up against the tree. A water skin was placed in his hand, which he accepted gratefully.
"How long was I asleep?"
"Only about an hour," answered the medic. "There is still enough daylight, if you feel strong enough for riding."
The Gascon nodded. He had needed a few seconds to adjust to the upright position, but now he felt much better. He offered back the water skin, but the medic gestured for him to keep it.
"Save it for later. I want you to drink as much as possible. Your body needs the fluids."
Aramis then took out more bandages and made a sling, securing the injured arm and keeping it immobile.
"That should help to reduce the swelling and allow the arm to rest and heal. It will also be more comfortable like this when you're riding. Come on, let's get you up."
Aramis helped his brother stand on somewhat shaky legs. After a few deep steadying breaths, they slowly made their way to the horses. Athos and Porthos were already waiting there, getting everything ready. They both smiled at their youngest.
"Good to see you on your feet, lad," said Porthos, patting the Gascon on his back, careful not to hurt him.
"How do you feel?" asked Athos.
"Much better. Do you think I can ride on my own?" The question was aimed at all his brothers. D'Artagnan knew how they could be over-protective when one of them was hurt or in danger, but he felt strong enough to ride on his own horse. He had been coddled enough today.
All of them looked at their medic, valuing his opinion on matters such as this. Aramis had been waiting for this question since the Gascon had woken up, so he already thought about the possibility.
"I don't see why not, but there are two conditions. First, you take it easy and let us help if you need it. Second, if you start feeling even a little worse you tell us immediately."
Aramis' firm tone left no room for argument, so d'Artagnan didn't even try. The conditions were reasonable, he still wasn't very stable on his feet, and the last thing he wanted was making everything worse by falling off of his horse. Besides, had that happened, his brothers would never stop watching him like hawks, so he did do something stupid and got hurt. That was all the motivation he needed, so he agreed without complaint.
"And don't use that arm while riding," added Aramis.
"You know you already said that," the Gascon pointed out with an annoyed frown on his face that got Porthos chuckling.
"I just felt a need to repeat it. Just in case you didn't hear me the first time. Or in case you had different perspective of what not using the arm in any way means."
The only reaction the Gascon gave him was a raised eyebrow. The medic chuckled. "Precaution. I have enough experience with these two. I feel a need to repeat myself since I once caught Porthos running around with a concussion, when I explicitly told him to stay in bed."
"I felt better already," Porthos said, sounding offended. It was obvious this wasn't the first time they had had this argument, or so d'Artagnan thought.
"And if I remember correctly," added Athos, "he saved you life then, didn't he?"
"And Athos was once trying to walk with a broken leg," continued Aramis as if he didn't hear his friends.
"That was because of an emergency," countered the swordsman, although his voice was calm as always. "I don't have to explain that."
"So you understand why I'm a little suspicious." The medic said, still addressing their youngest and ignoring the other two. "You'd make me very happy if you continued to be a good patient as you had been up until now. You can spare me a lecture and yourself a lot of trouble."
The stressed tone and glare he received was all the Gascon needed to realize a lecture from the medic was the last thing he wanted. The impression was quickly ruined though when Porthos patted his shoulder and grinned.
"Don't listen to him. He ain't any better than us. I remember him leaving for a mission once while being so sick he could barely stand."
Aramis frowned. "Overstatement. Besides, I'm the medic here. I know how much I can take."
Porthos just laughed. D'Artagnan could well imagine what had happened.
"I once heard that doctors are the worst patients," he innocently pointed out to the medic.
"Whoever said that was a genius," agreed the big Musketeer.
Aramis mumbled something unintelligible and turned to his horse, cutting off the conversation.
"You think we offended him?" asked Porthos in feigned surprise, but Athos stopped him.
"We should get going."
The streetfighter seemed a little disappointed that their banter had been cut short so suddenly, but he nodded and mounted his horse. Athos then moved to their youngest, who still looked pale and tired despite the cheerful smile on his face. The Gascon moved to mount his horse, but a strong grip on his arm stopped him.
"Are you sure about this?" Athos asked quietly.
D'Artagnan knew what his mentor was asking. Shortly after he became a part of their little group, Athos made sure he understood what their brotherhood was about. The swordsman taught him that being a Musketeer was not only about duty and honor. Trust was essential. All Musketeers had to trust each other with their lives, but for the Inseparables, it meant much more.
The gesture Athos had made meant he could count on them. When he looked into his mentor's eyes though, he realized it said more. It said they trusted him too. Trusted that he could take care of himself. The Gascon felt deeply touched, and promised not to let his brothers down. He thought again about what had happened today and realized, even though his own personal fears and unpleasant experiences had been brought out in the open, he didn't feel embarrassed or vulnerable. It was because his brothers were there with him, who he could trust with anything.
D'Artagnan gripped his mentor's hand with gratitude and a silent promise. He would be alright, and if not, he trusted his brothers to catch him when he fell.
Athos returned his gesture with a smile and helped his little brother to mount.
"Let's go home."