Title: Broken Strength

By: Tidia

Disclaimer: No profit is being made by the characterizations used by BBC, The Musketeers

Notes: This was inspired by Richefic's Pride of Gascony, and took a life of its own. I hope you enjoy. I stretched the medical knowledge of the time. Spoilers for 1.10. I will be working on another installment of Paris, Texas. #Boston Strong

As spring came to Paris the days lengthened and the warmed bringing with them a hope for the future. It was one such afternoon where d'Artagnan, in a playful mood, snatched Porthos's baguette.

"Give that back," Porthos ordered as d'Artagnan placed some distance between them.

"Now you've done it," Aramis announced with a laugh as Porthos began to give chase.

They ran through the garrison, d'Artagnan made sure he kept a firm grip on the baguette as he leaped over the horse trough. The other musketeers enjoyed the excitement, rooting for either d'Artagnan or Porthos or both.

d'Artagnan made it to the stable. He looked back to see Porthos was gaining so he did not notice a foot thrust into his path until it was too late. He didn't fall because he was grasped by the back of the neck, and propelled face first into the wooden column with a resounding thump.

The young musketeer saw stars, stunned as an arm turned him, pinned him to the same beam, bringing stars to his eyes. "What?"

"Thank you, Raymond," Porthos jogged to them, not noticing that anything was amiss. "But where is my baguette?"

d'Artagnan dropped the baguette on impact with the beam. "Right there. You can still eat it." Raymond's hold was unforgiving, but d'Artagnan believed it was best to play on and quell the anxiety he felt.

"Apologize," Raymond commanded.

"Dear Porthos, I am sorry that I single handedly absconded with your bread." He added a smile. He tried to seek out Athos or Aramis, finding them walking toward the situation.

Porthos tapped his face. "You owe me." He cocked his head. "Thank you for your help, Raymond. You can release him."

d'Artagnan felt a moment of relief as the grip lessened only to have Raymond pull, then push him back towards the column with his shoulder hitting the ragged nail that stuck out as a hook. The Gascon yelped. "Let go." d'Artagnan squirmed.

"That did not sound sincere, boy. We're all your betters. You should beg for forgiveness."

He did not know Raymond well, but he had always been cordial. They were part of the same brotherhood. He could not understand the malicious intent. "I apologized. Remove your hand, Raymond."

Abruptly, he was released. d'Artagnan pulled himself from the nail, his hand going to the wound and feeling the dampness. The young man felt his anxiety replaced by anger. He bent down, picked up the discarded baguette, and hurled it towards Raymond's retreating back.

Raymond turned around with his musket at the ready.

"Raymond, walk away. This is madness. Have you lost your senses?" Athos stepped in closer to Raymond. "Porthos, take care of d'Artagnan."

The older musketeer shook his head, the musket remained pointed at d'Artagnan. "Don't move. The boy will get his comeuppance. He's long overdue."

It was a well-timed dance. d'Artagnan had moved his hand to his belt, released the blade and let it fly with intent as Raymond fired the musket. Neither of them moved fast enough to avoid the charging weapons. The musket shot impacted with d'Artagnan's shoulder, sending him stumbling to the ground.

Porthos reached him first, placing a hand over the wound. "Aramis! Athos!"

He was still conscious, but could not make out what had happened to Raymond. He was lifted by Porthos, put on his feet and steered away from the stable. "Is he dead? Tell me."

"Think of yourself," Porthos answered, always the pragmatist. d'Artagnan's feet barely touched the stairs. The larger man opened the door to d'Artagnan's room with a limited shift to the wounded man, then gently sat him on the bed.

The Gascon's shoulder burned as if on fire. He tried to remove his shirt, but was fumbling with one hand.

Porthos huffed and ripped the shirt, wadding it up and holding it to the wound.

d'Artagnan placed his hand on top. "I'm fine. Please bring back news of Raymond."

Porthos frowned. "Stay here. Aramis is coming."

He nodded, then closed his eyes after Porthos had left, letting his shirt falter from the wound as he leaned against the wall. He should have never allowed his temper to get the best of him. Obviously there was something wrong with Raymond. He was acting completely out of character. However, it was not an excuse for his lack of control.

In what seemed to be in the distance, he heard footsteps. Aramis entered, dragging the little table over to the bed for his kit. "Raymond lives. He's being tended to."

Porthos and Athos came in just as loudly, depositing buckets of water and bandages they would need for d'Artagnan. The injured musketeer watched this with feigned interest, allowing himself to be manhandled to laying on the bed.

"What's this?" Aramis noticed the blood on the wall, then moved d'Artagnan to see the wound on his back. "What did this? It's deep and sliced."

"He got caught on the nail," Porthos provided the explanation as d'Artagnan remained passive and silent in his thoughts.

"I'll clean and stitch that first." Aramis announced, cleaning it with water before liberally pouring spirits that stung.

d'Artagnan's silence must have worried them as they reassured him. "All is well. You'll be fine."

He didn't know at what point he lost consciousness, because he had felt the needle to stich up the injury on his back. However, when next he woke it was to disjointed thoughts and misunderstandings as the heat attacked him.

"We've told you. He's not dead. He lives."

d'Artagnan thought he recognized Athos's voice near him as a damp cloth was brushed on his forehead.

"The wound is infected. Do you understand? I have to remove the stitches and cauterize it." It was Aramis. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan lifted an arm, only to gag with the pain that radiated from the sudden movement. He tried to curl in on himself, to smother the pain, but hands kept him restrained "I, I," he stuttered as he attempted to move away from the sweltering heat and pain while trying to work past the dryness in his throat.

"Hold him. The wound in the front first. Let me cut the stitches and I will need the hot water and wine," Aramis ordered the others.

"I think I may be ill."Porthos coughed.

"If I don't remove the infection, then it will poison him. This is the best way."

d'Artagnan felt more heat and he tried to squirm away as there was an intense pressure applied, but hands held him tightly, locking him in place.

When he opened his eyes it was to see the red hot cautery iron coming towards him. It had a wooden handle, a long stem with a square iron block meant to sear his skin. He couldn't help the quickening of his breathing.

Athos still had a hold on him, but bent down to block d'Artagnan's view. "We must." He kept up the eye contact. "Be quick, Aramis."

d'Artagnan was not prepared for the iron to touch his skin. He bucked, felt Porthos's large hand come over his forehead to hold him in place. It may have been only a moment, yet the sensation lingered, throbbed enough to make him feel sick.

"Aramis, give him a moment," Athos said as he took the damp cloth and wiped d'Artagnan's face.

Porthos crossed his arms. "You better live, that's all I'm saying. I should have caught on that something was wrong with Raymond."

"Of course he will-youth and strength are in his favor." Aramis smiled. It was one that d'Artagnan could not return. "This next one won't be as bad. I promise."

There was no fight left in him as they positioned him onto his stomach. He lay looking at the dank sheet, unblinking and yet not focusing. Raymond's face kept morphing to Athos's firing at him, reminiscent of the time with Milady, but all changed in its intent. He was lost. He had killed a musketeer, and he was paying for it in a burning hell as he felt a hot iron sear his skin. "Please stop," he whispered before the blackness fully engulfed him.

((()))

d'Artagnan's first coherent thought centered on the coolness on his skin. The feeling of comfort was brief as the ache in his shoulder vibrated through him. He took a forced breath, then moved his limbs. He knew in his subconscious that he needed to be careful, but he wasn't and gasped in pain.

"He's awake," Porthos announced.

There was a scrape of chairs against the wood floor.

Aramis's grin this time was reassuring, although the sharpshooter looked tired and spent. "This isn't hell. You're alive."

d'Artagnan frowned as his memory returned. "And Raymond? Is he dead?"

"He lives," Athos replied evenly.

There was another pressing thought. He had raised his blade against a comrade. Surely, there were repercussions. "Am I still a musketeer?"

Athos rubbed a hand through his hair. "Yes, why would you think otherwise?"

d'Artagnan struggled to move. "I struck another musketeer."

Aramis helped him to sit up while Porthos adjusted the pillows. "You defended yourself."

Still the movement exhausted him, and his hand went to his shoulder that was bound to his side. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Why did this happen?"

Aramis sat down on the narrow bed, bringing a cup to his lips to force him to drink. "Raymond's been in many battles, and he recently lost his wife. Sometimes the mind cannot comprehend the accumulation of all that loss."

d'Artagnan did not realize the parchedness in his throat until he swallowed the watered wine. He took a few more sips until he had his full, then shook his head when Aramis wanted him to drink more.

"He's mute, lost in his own world," Aramis explained further.

"What will happen?" He relaxed into the pillows, the heaviness of exhaustion forcing him to close his eyes along with the guilt.

"Treville has not decided. He wanted to wait to see if you would live," Athos stated.

Porthos seemed to have given this consideration. "Flogging, removed from service, time in the Bastille. . ."

The young musketeer opened his eyes. "No. I don't want that. Does he have to be punished?" d'Artagnan looked towards Athos. Someone had to understand that this was his fault.

The older musketeer frowned, glanced at Aramis. "I can talk to Treville. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know, but he should remain a musketeer." d'Artagnan could not take that away from Raymond.

"That may not be possible. He may not heal, and then no one would trust him."

Aramis had remained seated on the bed. "He could become a friar. A life in prayer."

The young man nodded, then looked away from these men who had stayed with him through his ordeal. He felt he could not be the musketeer they could depend on. "I don't believe I am fit to serve."

"What does that mean?" Porthos asked sharply.

He tried to make a fist, but only felt only weakness. "My shoulder does not feel like I will be able to hold a sword or musket."

"The strength will return," Aramis replied.

d'Artagnan shook his head. He had to make them understand he was a liability. "I do not have the temperament. You have said that I am hot headed and reckless."

Athos stepped back, raked a hand over his mouth, but it did nothing to remove the heat from his words. "You want to give up your commission? Is that what I am supposed to understand?"

He could not meet the eyes of his friends. He picked at the sheet that covered his lower body. "Yes."

"And what will you do?" Porthos had narrowed his eyes in a menacing glare.

d'Artagnan licked his lips, the dryness returning. "Return to Gascony, farm."

"The farm is gone," Aramis added softly, patting the young man's leg.

"I can rebuild it." He thought of better times with his family, his father alive at the farm. "I should have handled that situation better. I know you are disappointed in my actions."

Porthos interrupted. "I believe I owe you an apology. I should have guessed there was something amiss with Raymond."

"You couldn't have known what would happen." It was easy to give the large man absolution and forgiveness. He should have guessed that Porthos would feel guilty. "This was my doing."

"You handled the situation better than I would have," Porthos added. "Athos would have bored him while this one," he pointed to Aramis, "would have given him a homily that would have done the Pope proud."

d'Artagnan could not find the levity. Porthos's attempt at humor had not lifted the pall the young musketeer had created.

Aramis shook his head. "You grow tired. We will talk about this later after you have rested and eaten a meal." He got up, going to the door and Athos followed while Porthos remained in the room.

"You better think long and hard about this foolishness," Athos said over his shoulder before slamming the door shut.

((()))

Aramis was waiting for Athos outside; the older man stretched his arms on the railing overlooking the courtyard. He kept his voice low. "Is what he says true? About his injury?"

"I don't know that." Aramis leaned against the railing with his back. "It could be, what with the infection. His sword work may never be the same. But, then again that may not be the case at all." Aramis sighed. "His soul is wounded, Athos."

"Damn Raymond." Athos growled.

Aramis placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "By the grace of God, Athos." They all had moments where their minds could break. There was a time after Savoy when he believed his wits would falter. "Are you going to Treville?"

"Not about his wish to resign." With that Athos stood straight, threw back his shoulders. It was a stance that he took when he had a plan. "Make sure he stays in his room."

It wouldn't be too difficult to keep the younger man in bed. He would be weak for some time from the fever, wound and lack of food. Aramis went to find some broth and bread for the patient. It had been four days where d'Artagnan fought for his life. Aramis had watched the fever consume the Gascon at first, then had to make the heart wrenching decision to cauterize the wounds. It was lifesaving, as he saw the wound change into something red and angry spidering from the original site. But harrowing as he had been unable to give d'Artagnan a tincture of poppy for the pain, too afraid the young man would be lulled to a never-ending sleep.

When he returned with food, d'Artagnan was feigning to sleep with pain lines etched around his eyes and mouth in a grimace. "Did he drink?" Aramis asked Porthos who had pulled up a chair by the bed.

"Some. I was telling him about what he missed."

"Not much," Aramis wanted to maintain the lie. The truth was Porthos had prayed with him for d'Artagnan, and Athos's heavy mood had scared him. "I brought some broth."

d'Artagnan opened his eyes. This quiet young man was unnerving. He missed the spirited young musketeer. "Can you put it in a cup? I think I can manage that with one hand."

It was slow, but eventually he drank the broth and picked at some of the bread. Aramis was about to offer d'Artagnan brandy for the pain, but Athos's arrival stopped that when he handed d'Artagnan his sword.

"We've got work to do."

Aramis frowned. "It is too early, Athos. He needs to rest. He is still warm from the fever."

Athos shook his head. "Too much time thinking is not helping. Just unbind the wounded arm for a moment. It will help him rest dreamless." They had heard d'Artagnan's nightmares in his fevered state about being shot by Athos, believing he had killed Raymond and his guilt over his father's death. Athos did not want to witness that again. Exhaustion was always the best medicine for pain free sleep, better than any tincture or spirits.

d'Artagnan had not said anything, had not accepted the sword with his free hand. He seemed to be weighing his options.

"Pick it up," Athos commanded.

The young man then took the blade with his good arm. It looked awkward, but Athos did not give him time to think about it as he tapped the blade, causing d'Artagnan to react by bringing the sword up. It was light parrying of no consequence; it caused the Gascon to think about something else.

"Now the other arm." Athos nodded at Aramis who untied the binding. He would give Athos the leeway he wanted, knowing that Athos had a plan to help the Gascon.

d'Artagnan tried to pick up the sword, but immediately dropped it with a hiss. "I can't."

Athos nodded. "Perhaps next time."

Aramis bound the arm against d'Artagnan's torso. This battle of wills could only end with Athos's plan being successful.

(())

Athos was relentless. He came by once to twice a day when able over the next few days as d'Artagnan recuperated. In the evenings, he stayed away from the taverns, retiring to spend time with the young man and two comrades. He made sure there was plenty of wine.

Treville had agreed to stay away from the newest musketeer once he was informed that d'Artagnan was doing well. Athos passed along the captain's pride in d'Artagnan's decision to show mercy to Raymond.

The young man's reaction was lackluster; he waved away the praise as undeserved.

d'Artagnan was sitting in a chair in the early afternoon, seemingly waiting for Athos's arrival. He was losing the waning hollowness and his skin color was returning to normal. There was still weakness, but the young man was pacing more in his room and seeking to go out in the sun. Athos would not release him until he knew for sure that d'Artagnan would remain a musketeer.

"Back again?" The sword was on the table, the arm unwrapped even though it still pained him, the lines around his eyes a giveaway. Aramis insisted it be bound at night.

Athos raised his brows at the hint of sarcasm. "We are making progress."

This time d'Artagnan stood, working with his good arm first, then switching to his wounded side. Sweat broke out on his brow.

"The strength is returning," Athos said, impressed with his protégé.

d'Artagnan smiled and pressed forward, the first time he took an offensive position. Athos could see the young man was tiring.

Aramis entered with Porthos bearing food. Aramis tsked. "He's had enough, Athos."

Athos gestured for them to stop. The Gascon returned to his chair and drank deeply from the cup that was on the table. Athos took the seat opposite his friend. "In a few more days you should return to duty."

d'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. "My shoulder. . ."

"Improves," Aramis stated. "The infection is gone. This swordplay with Athos is helping."

"Raymond has gone to the abbey." Porthos set the bowls he had piled on top of each other on the table. Porthos noticed the silence. "What? He should know. Raymond has moved on and he can too."

Athos took a drink from the bottle of wine on table as he digested the simplicity of Porthos's statement. "It wasn't your fault. This is not your guilt to carry. If Raymond would speak, then he would beg you for forgiveness."

d'Artagnan bowed his head as if studying the stew. "What if. . .never mind."

"What if you turn out like him? Is there that fear? Turn on your brothers?" Aramis placed his hand on the young man's good shoulder.

The Gascon looked up. "Yes."

"You will not." Athos slammed his hand on the table. "You are not Raymond," there was heat in his voice. "You will persevere, survive. That is in your nature. Not this despondency you have cloaked about yourself. We trust you."

"And you have us," Porthos said as though a brotherhood bound by friendship was the always the answer.

"Our wisdom, sparkling wit will keep you sane in the worst of times." Aramis spoke from experience, of Savoy and the destruction he had witnessed along with the aftermath that revisited him from time to time. He had withstood it with the help of his friends.

There was a wry grin on d'Artagnan's face. "You did not tell Treville about my decision."

Aramis shrugged his shoulders. "What gave it away? The fact we have held you hostage in your room?"

Athos ignored Aramis's quip. "It was said in a moment of blind foolishness."

Porthos had started eating, dipping the bread inside the bowl. "You had just woken up. You didn't make sense."

d'Artagnan pursed his lips, seemingly keeping his emotions inside, but Athos could see the gratitude as well as the others. "Thank you." His hand went to his shoulder.

The truth was they all lived with pain, and Athos knew that d'Artagnan, like himself, like Aramis and Porthos would always find it made them stronger.