Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. They belong to Alexandre Dumas.

Author's Note: Another class, another bit of inspiration, and another story. I hope you enjoy!

Porthos had the great fortune of never having been severely injured. With each fight, he gave only a passing thought to his safety. He was rather more worried about his reputation and how the outcome of each new battle would affect it.

Once, Athos commented on Porthos' attitude, which bordered on carelessness. Aramis had replied that Porthos need not fear death, for the reason that "he is larger and stronger than it is."

D'Artagnan, in getting to know his friends, asked him, "Do you ever fear that you might not win a battle?" more out of curiosity than anything.

Porthos scoffed at him. "I would rather die than loose." And this statement effectively put an end to the conversation.

Aramis was less fortunate than Porthos; he had been severally wounded a few times as a musketeer, but none of those wounds proved fatal. As a priest, Aramis was not willing to take great risks. As a musketeer, it was required of him, and at times these two principles collided with each other.

"I must admit, I do not quite like the idea of death," Aramis confided in Porthos and Athos one evening.

"Well, then perhaps it is not in your best interest to be a musketeer," said Porthos, teasingly.

"I would not mind dying among such honourable men as yourselves," Aramis continued, "but what troubles me is that I might die in a state of sin, and not having fulfilled my vocation."

"We will all die with some sin," Athos told him.

"Do you know what is wrong with you, Aramis?" Porthos asked.

Aramis looked surprised. "What?"

"You see death as an enemy, but I think you need to be a bit more open minded. Death can be a good thing. We will all die—therefore, it is also a necessary thing to learn to like. Religion has corrupted you into seeing everything in a dismal light."

Aramis pursed his lips and his cheeks coloured red, with anger. "Not all of us value our reputations over our lives," he said, his voice low and sharp. The words had just as much of an effect on the others as if he had yelled them.

Now it was Porthos' turn to look angry, but unlike his companion he could not think of a single thing to say in response.

Finally, grudgingly, Aramis muttered, "I apologise. Every man is allowed his own opinion." Porthos opened his mouth, but Aramis interrupted him with, "We should leave it at that."

They did.

Athos, having been severally wounded on the Rue Férou in a fight against the Cardinal's Guards, found himself spirited away from the dark streets of Paris into his house, not far from the scene of the fight, by Aramis and Porthos. The two consulted with the physician who dressed Athos' wound and told the two friends that the wound was very serious.

Athos, only half aware of the proceedings, pain and blood loss distracting him, heard a worried Aramis ask, "Could he…die?"

"The wound is serious," the physician repeated, for emphasis. "It has penetrated the chest through the shoulder. I think he shall live, but he must rest so that the wound will not reopen. I would advise him to keep his shoulder from being aggravated."

Aramis bit his lip, Porthos wrung his hands, and Athos stifled a groan. The pain was almost overwhelming, and just for a moment Athos fancied dying in his thoughts; "It would be so easy, there would be no pain and none of the earthly troubles that plague me now, and surely will continue to plague me in the future."

Then the voices of his friends came back to him.

"Is he awake?" Porthos asked, his voice unusually quiet.

"Yes," Aramis replied, also in hushed tones. He leaned over and touched Athos on his good shoulder. "Athos?"

Athos became more aware of his surroundings, and found his heart touched by the two friends standing over his bed, keeping watch.

"I shall live," he said, in a tone that sounded more as though he were making a choice rather than ironically commenting on his health. Porthos and Aramis either did not notice this, or they ignored it. Either way, they were visibly relieved to see that their friend was talking at all.

Athos, upon seeing his friends surrounding him, had realised that he still had much to live for. He did not fear death, and some times he would even welcome it. Now, however, he was still young and he had his friends. Soon he would gain another in d'Artagnan.

"I will welcome you one day," Athos thought, of death, "but for the moment I am content with living."

Many times, d'Artagnan had been told that he would be killed. And each time, with his trademark Gascon defiance and a witty remark at the ready, d'Artagnan would face his opponent, sword raised, and welcome the coming battle.

In fact, d'Artagnan's life had been threatened so many times that it ceased to amaze him, although it amazed anyone he met who was not in some sort of armed service.

"You ought to be careful," Aramis had advised him. "You're going to get yourself killed."

D'Artagnan had taken this comment with much surprise, and the slightest bit of confusion. He stared at Aramis incredulously. "Is there not a better way to die than to die fighting for one's king, as a musketeer?" This question was understandable. D'Artagnan was still young, and still at the beginning of his career.

Aramis, who had been a musketeer longer, frowned. "You should not be so careless," he repeated. "Do not seek out danger simply for the glory of dying as a musketeer."

"The danger comes with the uniform," d'Artagnan pointed out. "You are in just as much danger as I, and not because we have actively sought it out. Personally, I am honoured that we are considered talented enough to take on such danger for the benefit of others."

"Do you not fear dying then?" Aramis asked, regarding his younger friend shrewdly.

"I do not," d'Artagnan answered with a smile. "It would be useless for me to fear death, as it is inevitable. I can only defy death until I meet an opponent greater than myself, who will deliver death to me. I hope that I shall die in honour, though. I should not like to simply hand myself over like a prisoner. Death will have to conquer me if it truly wants to have me."

D'Artagnan would tell each of his friends these same words in turn. Aramis did not seem in accordance with d'Artagnan's way of living, but he could not find anything to say against it other than that, again, d'Artagnan had better be more careful.

Porthos, unlike Aramis, had nothing but praise for this opinion. "My dear d'Artagnan, that is the best thing I have ever heard you say. Truly befitting of an honourable man and a musketeer!"

Athos had smiled. "That is quite the way of looking at things. It suits you."

"Do you not agree?" d'Artagnan asked, worried that Athos would think him foolish and perhaps think less of him.

"I personally do not see things that way," Athos said, "but I find you all the better a person because you do. It is a very good way to look at things."

Thus, fuelled by two of his friends' praises (and perhaps by a small feeling of defiance when it came to Aramis), as well as by his great energy in whatever undertaking he chose, d'Artagnan lived fervently by the words he had spoken to his friends until the day he was finally captured by death.

Fittingly, d'Artagnan died still a musketeer.