A/N Written as an entry for the Fêtes des Mousquetaires competition with the prompt 'Brotherhood'. For rules, deadline and judging details, please go to the Forum section of this site under 'Musketeers.'

I went to bed in a happy mood last Thursday and awoke the next day to this idea which refused to go away. WARNING – a serious tissue alert may well be in order if I was anything to go by in the writing of it and if I've achieved what I set out to do. In that event, please forgive me!

No Goodbyes

In the early evening, the sound for which Treville had been waiting and fearing eventually materialised. In the eerie, shocked silence that had descended upon the garrison, he heard the horses enter the yard below and knew immediately the identity of the riders; they were, after all, the last group to be expected back after their specific, brief mission had taken them beyond the city walls for the previous forty-eight hours. He could imagine the tired but light-hearted banter between the three comrades as they dismounted, relieved at a job well done and eagerly anticipating a night's relaxation in the company of their fourth brother, detained in Paris by other regimental responsibilities. A stab of pain constricted his chest with the knowledge that their joviality was to be short-lived; that the news he had to impart to them would shatter the rest of their lives.

Perhaps he should have been standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet them as they arrived but he had not left this room for several hours now and he doubted that his legs would have the strength to carry him very far. Serge had been asked to watch for them, to tell them that they needed to go up to the Captain's office immediately, that Minister Treville was there and wishing to speak with them. That summons alone would be enough to warn them that something was wrong, seriously wrong.

Treville raised the limp hand to his lips and kissed the back of it in a private, symbolic farewell before setting it back down gently on the coverlet. The relinquishing of that hand, which he had steadfastly held since they had returned to the garrison in the aftermath of the accident, signalled a letting go of the younger man himself, a reality that Treville had fought to deny with every fibre of his being. By fiercely gripping that same hand, he had thought to hold the musketeer here amongst the living, to imbue some of his own strength into the desperately injured man and to hold at bay the inevitable.

He had been present at the palace when it happened, watched it unfolding in a crazy, slow-motion dream, had heard the disbelieving cry rent the air before he realised that it had been torn from his own throat and, seconds later, had broken into a run that took him to the crumpled, bleeding form lying in the dust. He had known in an instant what the outcome would be but his gruff exterior dismissed it, tried to submerge his rising dread by assuming control of the panicking royals and their courtiers and issuing a string of commands, his thoughts for the fallen man always at the fore.

Treville had continued to fire instructions as he rode into the garrison yard ahead of the cart bearing its precious cargo and interrupting the sparring sessions that were filling the space. Onlookers were distracted and moved forward to surround the cart in muted disbelief whilst still more men streamed from the mess room or their quarters as the sense of unease spread like wild fire. Willing hands reached for the injured man, lifting him out of the cart and carrying him with an unexpected tenderness. Each of them failed to be unmoved by the agonised cries that escaped him with every step up the stairs and along the balcony to the office where they lay him on the cot in the corner, stepping back only to allow the approach of the Minister and the King's own physician who had been hastily despatched from the palace. The soldiers disappeared in deferential silence, closing the door behind them but Treville knew, without looking, that they would have gathered en masse in the yard below and that nothing would induce them to disperse as they waited for news.

He had stood watching as the physician completed a cursory examination of the patient before straightening up and shaking his head. Drawing the Minister aside, he delivered his grim announcement. Treville tried to assimilate what he was being told and wanted nothing more than to denounce these terrible untruths: that there was nothing to be done, the internal injuries were far too severe; it was only a matter of time but that a preparation of laudanum would at least help to make him comfortable.

Suddenly unable to breathe, Treville had stumbled out of the office and leaned back against the door post, gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air as he struggled to calm his rapidly beating heart. It had been such a stupid accident, one that should never have happened and could so easily have been avoided. It was utterly unthinkable that the incident could have such catastrophic consequences; it had the potential to crush the musketeer brotherhood for the foreseeable future and, without doubt, would tear out the hearts of three men in particular.

"Minister?" a voice croaked from below. He recognised it as belonging to Serge, the old cook.

Treville moved to the balustrade and looked down at the sea of expectant faces turned to him, the light of hope still evident in their eyes. His own vision blurred for he understood only too well how quickly his next words would extinguish that optimism, for himself as well as them. As soon as he spoke that fearful diagnosis aloud, there could be no more pretence, no more anticipation for a different conclusion.

He cleared his throat. "The physician is giving the Captain something to ease the pain; he can do no more." A deafening clap of thunder roared its disbelief at the pronouncement and the first drops of rain began to fall as the men absorbed the Minister's words.

Serge's wrinkled face contorted in grief. "I'd best go for a priest then." Head bowed, he walked towards the garrison exit, his feet leaden as if he moved with the weight of the world on his back. Treville was about to call out, to say that their Captain, not known for his spirituality, would possibly not welcome the offer of the last rites but he hesitated. Who knew what the dying man would request? It was far better to have a cleric on hand rather than seek one when time was more pressing.

The men visibly began to fold in on themselves. Some sat at the outdoor tables, oblivious to the rain that fell harder, whilst others sought refuge in doorways and the stables, arms round shoulders as brother consoled brother in the face of such devastating news. There were those who were obviously already succumbing to a mind-numbing shock and still more knelt in the yard, heads bowed in prayer as dust was rapidly transformed into a cloying, grey mud and Treville knew that he had been right; none was prepared to move from his horrified, silent vigil.

Re-entering the office, he had placed a hard-backed chair beside the cot and reluctantly lowered himself onto it. He would have given anything not to be there, to witness the life slowly ebbing away but he knew, deep down, that he could not be anywhere else for this went far beyond any duty and responsibility. This was a friend, a colleague, a young man whom he had nurtured and trained to be a leader and he could not abandon him to a slow, lonely, unbearable death when his closest brothers were ignorant of the unfolding tragedy. That would be the mark of a coward and that was one accusation that would never be levelled at the Minister. He studied the stricken man's left hand as fingers scrabbled helplessly at the coverlet in a vain attempt to ride the surge of agony until the laudanum began to take effect.

"Sssshhhhhh," he had said softly, taking the hand in both of his and rubbing a thumb over the calloused skin and so he had become committed to his own, painful watch for however long was necessary.

Now he heard the booted footsteps clattering up the stairs and he rose, pulling absent-mindedly on his doublet to straighten it, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the hardest thing he had ever had to do – telling these men that they were too late.

It was he who had coined the nickname by which they had become known, The Inseparables, and had frequently seen them clasp hands as they had muttered their oath, "All for one and one for all". Yes, the musketeer regiment had been a brotherhood since its inception but these four men had taken that bond of love, camaraderie and interdependency to an exalted level which had ensured them a legendary – and sometimes infamous – reputation, even as they served King and country. They were four disparate individuals who had become one, knowing each other's skills and moods so well, they functioned instinctively and evolved into a formidable force. Now, that bond was broken; one had died so senselessly and it would be as if a limb had been severed. How would the others ever recover?

The three barrelled through the door and skidded to a halt as they looked past Treville to the frighteningly still form laid out on the cot.

It was d'Artagnan who reacted first, surprisingly backing away until the wall stopped his retreat. His legs buckled and he slid down to the floor, his mouth opening to release an animal-like howl. Porthos stumbled another few paces, almost reaching the bedside before he sank to his knees, his arm outstretched but failing to make contact with his dead brother. He rocked slowly, eyes wide as a low keening emanated from him. Aramis was the one who dropped on the cot and gathered up his brother in his arms, holding him close and resting his chin on the tousled head.

"He's still warm!" he groaned as the realisation hit him that, had they not been delayed by the sudden turn in the weather, they would have reached the garrison in time for their own farewells. His features crumpled as hot, silent tears coursed down his cheeks.

Treville escaped onto the balcony and leaned against the balustrade, head bowed and eyes closed as he tried to ignore the outpouring of grief that filled the room behind him. Allowing them some privacy, it was over half an hour before he returned and went to the cupboard where Athos had maintained his tradition of keeping a bottle of brandy and pewter goblets. Having poured four drinks – one for himself – he wondered how and if he dared disturb the men.

They were quieter, calm almost in the aftermath of their tidal wave of anguish and they had repositioned themselves, all sitting on the cot. It was Porthos who now held Athos with a tenderness that belied his size, stroking his brother's face and absent-mindedly dropping kisses onto the unruly curls. Aramis slid an arm round a shaking d'Artagnan and the two clung together in mute desperation as they watched the musketeer, known for his strength and brute force, cradling the man who had been so much more than a mere comrade for so long.

Treville took a long, shuddering breath as he witnessed their torment, thankful that his own tears were already spent and relieved that, in death, Athos' features had relaxed and he looked as one would in a peaceful sleep. Nothing remained to suggest the suffering he had endured, unless Aramis were to lift the shirt to reveal the black bruising that spread across his torso from groin to chest; the harrowing evidence of the internal bleeding that resulted from his horrific injuries.

The Minister handed them each a goblet and the four raised them in a silent toast to the one who had fallen, draining the fiery liquid in one go so that Treville swiftly moved to refill them before sitting astride the wooden chair, arms resting along its back. He waited then for he realised their questions would come and he would answer them in all honesty; he would not spare any details for they would want to know everything in lieu of their absence.

It was Porthos who broke the silence. "How'd it happen?"

"It was so stupid!" Treville began. "A storm was brewing all morning but the King was determined to show off his new hunting hounds and insisted people gather in the field beyond the gardens. Athos' horse had thrown a shoe before he left the garrison and the blacksmith was busy so, in order not to be late, Athos took another mount, a young skittish thing. He had nearly reached us when there was an almighty thunderclap. The dogs started barking furiously and straining at their leashes. One hound pulled free from its handler and ran into the path of Athos' mount, careering between its hooves. Nervous as it already was, it reared up repeatedly in a frenzy. He fought to control it but suddenly it slipped and went over; he was caught beneath it. We think the cantle did the damage." He paused as he saw them striving to digest his narrative.

"You tellin' me that he survived her, Rochefort and a war with Spain to get killed by a bloody dog?" Porthos spat.

Put as bluntly as that, it sounded so ridiculous, so unfair, but Treville could only nod his agreement.

"I'm going to get that dog and ring its neck," the big man declared viciously.

"It's already been put down on the King's orders. The horse was shot too; it broke a hind leg," Treville explained, all too aware that the gestures were futile and changed nothing.

"Were you with him?" d'Artagnan whispered, his haunted look ageing him by years.

Treville nodded again. "I never left him."

"Did he …?" d'Artagnan broke off, unable to ask whether Athos suffered.

"The King's physician gave him laudanum; it tempered some of the pain."

"Was he conscious? Did he say anything?" Aramis choked out.

And so Treville told them of all that had transpired in that room from late morning onwards and how their brother had drifted in and out of consciousness, refusing to take too much laudanum for fear of dulling his senses. Known for his brevity of words, Athos had suddenly wanted to talk, understanding that he had little time, and Treville repeated them now verbatim, fully aware of the importance each utterance was to those who remained behind.

….

"Are they back?" Athos asked. His voice, usually so strong and commanding, was little more than a whisper, his words punctuated by ragged, pain-filled gasps.

"No," Treville answered softly, praying inwardly that the brothers would imminently ride into the yard to be with the young man once more before he breathed his last.

"Good."

Treville thought he must have misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"No goodbyes. Don't like goodbyes."

"They would want to be with you. It will be worse for them, knowing that they weren't here."

Athos shook his head carefully. "No. Don't want them to ... see me like this. Must have good memories." He closed his eyes and Treville wondered if he had slipped into unconsciousness but then they suddenly opened again. "Hasn't all been good though, has it? Anne, Thomas, Pinon? I am ... such a disappointment." His distress was tangible and Treville gripped his hand and leaned in closer.

"You listen to me now. Forget those early years; focus on your time in the regiment. Think of all you have done and achieved: master swordsman; fine strategist; skilled soldier; diplomat; loyal to crown and country; respected and well-loved as a musketeer and as the regiment's captain. You have never been and never could be a disappointment to me or the men who follow you. What of the bonds you forged with Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan? They would never be disappointed by you."

A wan smile spread across Athos' face as he thought of the three men whom he loved so dearly. "They saved me," he sighed. "Porthos and Aramis. When I first came to Paris, I feared the future. I was too much ... of a coward – wanted others to end it for me. They changed that."

The pauses in their conversation grew longer as the afternoon wore on and Athos' reserves of strength waned but he did surprise Treville by asking to see the priest and receiving the last rites.

"For Aramis' sake," he explained afterwards. "It'll help him." The Minister thought that was only half the truth for, once shriven, Athos seemed to find a new peace and his increasingly random comments grew more positive.

At one point, his otherwise restless gaze settled on the window and the torrential rain that fell. "S'raining."

"It has been for some time," Treville explained before adding seriously, "Paris is weeping for one of her sons."

The comment amused Athos for a moment but then he grew wistful. "I would've liked to have seen the sun once more."

Treville took a sharp intake of breath and battled to control his own rapidly disintegrating emotions.

"Thank you," Athos muttered suddenly some time later.

"For what?"

A rasping note that had not been there before now sounded in the dying man's inhalations. "For believing in me all those years ago, for giving me a chance, for teaching me ….. so much …. about being a good soldier, being a good man and …. about myself."

Treville busied himself by soaking a cloth in a bowl of cold water and dabbing at the pale, sweating face before him as he fought to compose himself. "I merely nurtured what I knew to be there in a man who was already good but didn't see it. You have spent too long putting yourself down, son. I have never known another so honourable and with such integrity." His voice caught and his eyes filled so that he turned his attention to wetting another cloth and holding it to Athos' parched lips in order that he might suck slowly at the moisture.

"Are they here?" Athos asked again. Having been so adamant that he did not want his closest friends to be with him, he now seemed anxious regarding their whereabouts and Treville hated giving his answer.

"Not yet but they should not be much longer. They are expected back at any time."

Athos thought hard. "I need you... to tell them ... something ... for me. You will ... tell them?" he insisted.

"Of course I will. What is it?" Treville encouraged him, trying to ignore the chilling realisation that coursed through him. Time was running out. He listened as Athos slowly, painfully delivered a heartfelt message for each of the absent brothers and he understood that he would have to find the strength to pass on those words but how to convey the same depth of feeling? That sense of love, gratefulness and appreciation for the relationship they had all shared? Athos knew they would grieve for him but he extolled them to look after each other and to the future, to go on and live for him even though it was without him. He begged forgiveness that he had not waited for them.

"Being ... a good Captain," he wheezed. "Lead by example ... not delegating this one. Going first, being the scout. I'll be watching them but tell them … tell them if they get … into too much trouble, I'll haunt them." He tried to laugh but he broke off to give a harsh, protracted, rattling cough that produced red speckled spittle on his lips. Treville gently wiped his mouth and waited as he struggled to inhale.

"Can't breathe," Athos gasped. "Need ... to sit ... up."

Treville glanced round the room. "There are no spare pillows. You'll have to make do with me." Sitting on the cot, he slid an arm under Athos' shoulders, raised him up and eased him against his chest, his arms holding him close.

"Could have had ... worse," Athos quipped hoarsely.

"That's enough of your cheek," Treville chided gently in response but was relieved that the move had served some purpose, albeit temporarily, as the ugly, noisy rasping settled into rapid yet shallow intakes of breath.

"Cold," Athos complained softly when he at last found the energy to speak.

Treville caught up the far edge of the coverlet and folded it back on itself, wrapping it around the failing man as he tried to make him as comfortable as possible. "Is that better?" he asked and felt Athos' head nod against his shoulder.

Another lengthy pause ensued until Athos tilted his head back a little to look up through heavy lidded eyes at the Minister. "Wanted a … good death. Quick … in battle," he murmured. "Not like ... this."

"I know," Treville agreed. "There is nothing right or fair about this and I'm sorry."

"Not … your fault," Athos reminded him and, grimacing, shifted uneasily in the older man's arms.

Treville did not miss it. "Do you want something more for the pain?"

Athos appeared to hesitate, his brow furrowing as he thought about the offer. "No," he said resolutely. "No point." Was this a hint that it would not have the time to take effect in masking a little more of the pain or was it because Athos needed that pain to know that he was still rooted in the world?

Since the accident, he had given vent to almost the full range of his emotions when strength and breath allowed but now, even that veneer of stoicism was stripped away and his vulnerability was being laid bare.

His next words were frantic and brutally honest, borne on a tone of despair and regret. "I don't want to go." The long fingers of one hand suddenly reached for Treville's shirt, twisting in the linen neckline and gripping it as tightly as he could in a vain attempt to anchor himself amongst the living.

"And we don't want you to go; it's too soon," Treville whispered, not trusting his own voice to give it any more volume. In his mind, though, he was praying for release as he listened to Athos struggling for each breath, desperate to draw air into failing lungs in a noisy rasping. "Dear Lord, take this boy home. Don't let him suffer any more; leave him some dignity."

"I'm scared." The admission was pitiful and almost the undoing of Treville as he watched a lone tear trickle down the cheek of the young man he held. He wiped at the moisture with a gentle finger.

"I know, son. I would not have believed you if you had said otherwise. It's acceptable to be scared; I would be too. No-one would think any less of you for it. It's the unknown after all."

"I will … be … waiting for them." The voice was softer now.

"I'll tell them." Treville rushed on as the green eyes, dull with pain, fought to remain open. "I've never understood why you should think yourself so unworthy but you must know now that you are loved, so very much; by your brothers and," here he hesitated," by me. It has been an honour to serve with you, to teach you and see you develop but there's something more than that. You know how lonely command can be. It has been a privilege to count you as a friend." Treville stopped, his voice breaking at last.

A smile twitched at the corners of Athos' mouth. "For me too." His words were little more than a breathy whisper now. His eyes fluttered open, his gaze fully on the man who held him. "They'll be here soon."

Treville smiled back and nodded.

"It's time," and Athos struggled to take a deeper breath. "So tired," he murmured.

"Close your eyes then. You can rest now, son; you deserve it. I'm with you and will watch over you. It's time to let go; you can stop fighting." Reluctantly, Treville was giving him permission to leave.

Athos gave a long, satisfied sigh as his eyes slid closed and his head relaxed against Treville's chest. The older man stroked his cheek in a tender gesture and listened as the pauses extended between the breaths. Even these were quietly fading away until there was a final exhalation. It was as if Treville held his own breath for several moments as he waited to hear more but there was nothing. The young musketeer captain was gone.

….

Treville ended his narration and sat patiently waiting as another deluge of grief threatened to overwhelm the three men; he had expected that his words would have just such an effect and he wrestled to be the first to compose himself. Given his rank and experience, he had been the bearer of bad news on more occasions than he cared to remember but none had ever compared with this and he had had to steel himself to the task for it was, simply, too tragic, too personal and too profoundly devastating to the men who sat before him.

"I have made some tentative arrangements," Treville said eventually, "subject to your approval of course." He waited until he had their attention. "I … informed the men first and then sent a message to the palace. The King insists that there is a funeral service in a side chapel of the Cathedral in the morning."

"Athos'd hate that," Aramis announced grimly. "It should be about what he would want."

"I agree," Treville admitted, "but the King is devastated and wants to make amends in some way. He feels that the Captain of his musketeers should have the appropriate ceremony."

"He should be devastated. It was 'is blasted dog that caused this in the first place." The bitterness in Porthos' voice was tangible. "No amount of ceremony is ever goin' to make that right."

"That's as may be but he has given his directive. The funeral cortege will leave here tomorrow at ten in the morning, full military honours. Both the King and Queen will be in attendance," the Minister went on.

"Great, so how many of us are going to be on guard detail for them?" Porthos demanded.

"None," was the simple reply. "His Majesty fully understands that the regiment will want to be together, both in the procession and at the cathedral so he is using the Red Guards on this occasion."

Porthos grunted a reluctant approval.

"And then we bring him home," Treville stated. "There will be no other onlookers, just the regiment. We'll say our own formal goodbyes then as he is laid to rest in our cemetery. He …needs to be prepared though." There was a questioning note in his voice despite knowing what the response would be.

"We will wash him and dress him," Aramis declared. "We let him down by not being here when he needed us most." When Treville made to object, Aramis raised a hand to stop him. "I know you said he didn't want us to see him like it but I, for one, will never forgive myself for not being with him and I have to live with that. This is the last thing I will be able to do for him and no-one is taking that away from me." The others nodded in agreement and it was clear they would brook no argument.

"I will go back to the palace for a while so that you may have some privacy in your task. I need to make sure the service for tomorrow is fitting. The King has asked me to deliver the eulogy and I need to gather my thoughts. However, should you wish to contribute ….," Treville's voice trailed off.

Porthos shook his head adamantly. "We'll say what we want as we get 'im ready and sit with him through the night." Again the others concurred.

"It's as I thought. Will you lay him out in here?" Treville looked around the room.

"Yes," was d'Artagnan's immediate answer. "This was his space, his living area and even before, when it was yours, he seemed to spend a lot of time here."

Treville managed a warm smile as various occasions immediately sprung to mind when he was Captain and Athos, with or without the others, stood the other side of the desk. Sometimes the young man would offer hesitant yet well-judged counsel or he would be strongly arguing a point; he'd be listening carefully, weighing up the advantages of a strategic move, or simply accepting instructions for a mission; he would be trying to conceal a raging hangover or, with an air of infuriating calm, be on the receiving end of a Treville tirade when he and the others had engaged in some mischief, usually at the expense of the Cardinal's Red Guards.

"The men will wish to pay their respects later and then, I expect, you will want to mount the vigil through the night," Treville said. "I will return to spend the night here at the garrison. To me, it is right and fitting and, at some point, I would like to come back in here."

Even as he finished speaking, a look passed between the three and each nodded. It was uncanny how they had learned to communicate so much with a mere glance. This time, it was d'Artagnan who acted as the spokesman.

"You are welcome to join us in the vigil. We don't know how to thank you for being there with him so that he wasn't alone; it cannot have been easy."

Treville nodded, humbled by their invitation to join them at such an important yet poignant time and unable to express just how difficult and emotionally draining the preceding hours had been for him. "I would like that very much," his voice was hoarse. "Thank you."

Plans made, Treville stood and was about to leave them to their task when Porthos suddenly covered one of Athos' hands with his own.

"All for one ...," he declared. Without hesitation, d'Artagnan leaned forward from his position on the cot and did likewise, closely followed by Aramis. In unison, three pairs of dark eyes settled on Treville and waited expectantly.

Touched by this additional inclusion, he cleared his throat and stepped forward to place his right hand on that of Aramis. Four hands united with a lost comrade in one final symbol of brotherhood.

"And one for all," four voices chorused.