A/N: Thanks to Sarah, Debbie and Goblin Queen for your reviews, I'm glad you like my new 'baby'. Also my huge thanks to all of you who favor or follow this story, your support means a lot. I really appreciate the reception this story got from the very start. THANKS!

One little thing: This will be a rather short one, seven chaps at all, and I'll be updating every Sunday, if even possible. Enjoy!

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*Two*

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Athos was spent.

Watching his little brother squirm and buckle in pain, hearing his groans and pained whimpers, had almost killed him. To see and hear d'Artagnan suffer and be unable to do anything about it, but instead be one of those who were holding him down, forcing him to endure the pain, was the last thing he ever wanted to do. Of course, the Gascon had been injured before, but he had always been coherent enough to keep still on his own when Aramis had been tending to him. But this today had been a new experience; his concern had been taken to a new dimension.

The swordsman had struggled against the nausea rising in his throat while he watched Dr. Lemay thoroughly cleaning the whip-marks. Most of them had started to bleed again, sluggishly but nevertheless… He had been shocked to discover how deep some of them were, as if someone had tried to rip his brother's skin off. Lemay had been forced to stitch a few of them, but worse, some of them were beyond stitching, looking so bad that the physician had decided to cauterise them to get the infection out. And although d'Artagnan's screams had been muffled by the pillow, they had almost torn his heart apart…

But what really made him feel sick, was that he had had time to count them, all of them. Twenty-four. Twenty-four deep lashes, crisscrossing the boy's back. They would surely leave visible scars and he desperately wanted to know why. Why someone had done this to his little brother…

Swallowing thickly, Athos looked up to see how his brothers were doing.

Porthos had adopted his former expression of being ready to kill someone. His former hard grip on the boy's hips had loosened and now his hands were resting gently on d'Artagnan's thighs, refusing to pin him down any longer, but also yet unable to let go completely.

Aramis, who had had a hard time assisting Lemay and causing their youngest even more pain, was now rubbing an ointment onto the fresh scars, his hands as gentle as possible. The medic still was breathing heavily and every now and then a slight shiver wracked his body.

It was only then that the former 'comte' realised that his hands were trembling and that he was panting. Closing his eyes, he tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders once more, to ground himself, to reassure himself that d'Artagnan was still there. He couldn't lose him, he couldn't lose another brother. It would kill him.

*14AAA41*

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Captain Treville, who had never left the sickroom, but had been forced to watch, not willing to disturb, was deeply concerned. His men looked utterly spent, each one of them. He had never before seen his three best in such a state, so deeply exhausted in a mental way. As if they had suffered along with their youngest, with the boy that had so easily found his way into their hearts. After years of being a trio of inseparables, they had finally become a quartet. He had almost thought that could never happen, but d'Artagnan had simply fit in, as naturally as the fourth wheel on a cart. Watching Athos, Aramis, and Porthos' haggard expressions, the anger and worry edged on their faces, he realised, much to his own horror, that the loss of the boy would most probably kill them. Not immediately, of course, but in time.

Slowly stepping closer to Dr. Lemay, who was cleaning his instruments, he took a deep breath before asking the only important question.

"Will he make it?"

"Captain Treville," the physician acknowledged his presence.

"Dr. Lemay, tell me!" the Captain demanded, too weary to bother with niceties. "Will d'Artagnan survive?"

"Of course he will," the doctor answered, sounding slightly annoyed. "I've treated him in time, the infections have been cleaned out and although he has a fever and has lost some blood, there's no reason to believe he could die. I believe that the fever will vanish sometime by late tomorrow, and his wounds willheal. D'Artagnan is young and strong, he'll recover soon."

With a relieved sigh, Treville allowed himself to drop into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands.

"He needs to rest for the next few days," Lemay continued, "…and he shouldn't move too much. And of course he can't wear his clothes since the wounds can't be bandaged properly. Any linen would only stick to those healing welts and reopen them when removed," Lemay continued. "He should stay here at least for the rest of the week."

"I don't know if his majesty would appreciate that," Treville replied somewhat ironically.

"Well, if he holds his musketeers in any regard then he won't object," the doctor stated.

The Captain merely huffed. "Right now I'm not sure about that," he mumbled to himself.

"What?" Lemay didn't understand.

"Nothing," Treville hurried to reply. Then he straightened. "Thank you for your help, Doctor. I know you're a busy man."

"There's nothing to thank me for, I'd always help the musketeers", Lemay responded. Packing his things back into his bag, he grabbed another tin with ointment and handed it Treville.

"Use this to cover the wounds as often as necessary. It will help with the healing and most probably lessen the scarring. Let d'Artagnan sleep as long as he can and if he awakes, try to make him drink. And give him some of this..." He took a little vial out of his bag. "It will help with the pain. But no more than ten drops every six hours." He grabbed his bag and was ready to leave. "I'll be back tomorrow to look at him."

"Thank you, Doctor," Treville said, rising to escort him to the door.

"Ah… by the way," Lemay stopped at the door and turned, eyeing the three men sitting on the bed, "…maybe you should try to make them rest, they look ready to collapse."

When the Captain nodded, Lemay moved to open the door, but the handle already moved on its own. Then the door opened and Constance came into view.

*14AAA41*

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"Dr. Lemay, good to see you. The queen sent me to fetch you, Marie seems to have tripped over something and cannot walk. And Danielle told me where to you went, so I…" stopping midsentence, Constance frowned at the sight before her.

Captain Treville, standing to her right at the table, looking weary, and three men that she knew all too well, sitting on the bed, all three with concerned expressions on their faces and watching a fourth who lay absolutely still. She took a step closer and saw Porthos, touching the lying man's legs, Aramis, sitting at his side, blocking his torso from her view and clinging to his rosary, and Athos, seated at the headboard, absently stroking through the man's dark hair. Hair, that she immediately recognised.

"D'Artagnan!"

Taking a faltering step, she wasn't surprised when she felt Treville grip her arm, steadying her. Shooting him a brief glance of gratitude, she quickly regained her composure and slowly moved closer to the bed. When Aramis turned his head to face her, she swallowed at the look of sorrow and exhaustion in his eyes. But it was the figure on the bed that attracted her attention and the sight of d'Artagnan's back made her knees buckle. Treville, who had followed her, quickly grabbed her under both arms and held her upright.

"What's happened?" she managed to ask after what seemed an eternity, expecting the Captain to tell her.

But it was Athos who answered her question, his voice sounding hollow and somehow guilty. "We don't know. He passed out before he could tell us."

"But he's been…"

"…whipped," Porthos ended her sentence. "Yes. But none of us knows when or why."

"He has obviously been punished for something during his captivity," Aramis fell in. "Sometime between yesterday and the time we found him and the king in the forest. Since no one tended to his wounds, they have become infected- that's why he's feverish now. And he's clearly beyond exhausted, which explains his continued unconsciousness."

"But I saw him at the church," she stated. "He smiled at me and seemed to be fine, albeit a bit bruised."

"The pup's way too good in hiding his injuries," Porthos grumbled. "One of the things he shouldn't have adopted from Athos."

The swordsman looked ready to protest, but simply resigned to nod wearily, an ironic smile tugging at his lips. It wasn't as if the other two didn't share this rather noxious behaviour.

"How could this happen?" she asked again, carefully touching one of d'Artagnan's arms.

"We never should have agreed to the king's wish," Athos murmured. "I knew it wouldn't end well. I never should have allowed…"

"You could do absolutely nothing against it!" Porthos almost shouted, noticing that Athos was already blaming himself again. "None of us could've guessed what would happen, that they would be kidnapped. None of us could've forbidden the king from going to the tavern like an ordinary man, we couldn't deny him his wish, let alone his order."

"But I should have found a way to talk him out…"

"Stop it!" Constance said. "Both of you!"

Stroking back d'Artagnan's hair, she took a deep breath. "You're not to blame," she murmured, concentrating on the man she still loved, although she couldn't admit it.

She felt the heat of his skin, saw the rapid, strained movement of his breaths and she ached with the sight of his shredded back. But he wasn't hers and it wasn't her task to care for him. She had duties to fulfil and put her trust in the fact that his brothers would look after him. However, there was one thing left that she could do…

*14AAA41*

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When Constance looked up again, Athos met her gaze, astonished by the expression of determination she wore. Somehow he knew deep inside that she would go and talk to the queen, that she would find a way to show her anger about d'Artagnan's condition. Studying her, he recognised that she must know what had happened just hours ago, that she knew how badly the king had thanked d'Artagnan for his protection, and how upset she was about it. His insight made his stomach clench with worry.

Putting his hand over hers, he shook his head. "Don't," he murmured. "It's not worth it."

With an irritated snort she pulled her hand away and straightened to full health. "It's absolutely worth it," she objected. "Look at him and dare repeat that this-" She pointed angrily at the Gascon's back, "…isn't worth mentioning. He got hurt because he did his duty, because he protected the king from his own silly idea."

Several sharp inhales followed her statement, her just speaking out loud what all of the musketeer thought, but her words too close to the border of treason.

"Constance," Aramis hissed.

"We still don't know what happened, Constance," Athos admonished her, for once using her first name, abandoning courtesy. "D'Artagnan's prone to be reckless, to get himself into trouble, maybe…"

"No!" she cut him off. "He was on duty; he was the only one left to protect the king. He would never, never put him at risk, no matter the cost."

She now was clearly angry with him, that much Athos could read in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he immediately apologised. "But be that as may, d'Artagnan would never forgive me if I allowed you to place yourself in danger. Especially since he's expected to make a full recovery. So please, just let it be."

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't let it go. I witnessed her majesty's reaction when Captain Treville told her about the king's disappearance and I hated the injustice of it. But this, this is more than I can stand and regarding how the king treated him, and all of you, for his own stupidity, I cannot let the matter drop."

With a sigh Athos closed his eyes. He understood her, her anger, her desperate need to fight for d'Artagnan, for his reputation, his honour. But it wasn't her fight, was it?

"But I promise to be careful," she finally said, looking him in the eyes. And then she turned and left the room without looking back.

"Well…that was weird," Porthos stated. "Has she just gone to scold the king and queen? For our honour?"

"No," Aramis answered tiredly. "She's gone to fight for the one she loves. And maybe his friends as well…"

"Sometimes, she's almost too brave for her own good," Athos said. "Just like d'Artagnan."

"Madame Bonacieux is indeed an extraordinary woman," Treville added matter-of-factly, before he went over to the door. "I'll make sure that you get something to eat and drink, before I head back to the garrison. You three are off duty till the end of the week."

*14AAA41*

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When d'Artagnan finally regained consciousness, it was to the half-loud voices of his brothers and the smell of stew.

Slowly peeling his eyes open, he barely managed to stifle the pained groan that threatened to escape from his mouth when he tried to move. Breathing carefully until the pain subsided, he concentrated on finding out about his surroundings first.

He was lying in a bed, with really white, almost pure linens, his head resting on a pillow as soft as he had never felt before. In his line of vision there was a window, directed towards… the palace garden, apparently. So he had to still be in the Louvre, maybe in one of the guest quarters. From the corner of his eye, he could just about see one of his brothers, Athos, sitting at what must be a table, absent-mindedly stirring his spoon in his bowl.

Taking stock of his condition, he felt his back hurt, worse than ever since he had been whipped in the morning, but somehow he knew that had to be a good sign. Someone had taken care of him.

Trying to remember how he had ended up right here, he recalled the summoning from the king, the scolding and that he had finally collapsed in the corridor. Well, not really surprising considering the fact that he had, once again, ignored his injury far too long.

Obviously…

Taking a careful, deep breath, he tried to find the bravery to try moving again. Agonizingly slowly, he moved his right arm until it lay right in front of his eyes. Gathering his strength, he then lifted his head while simultaneously trying to push himself up. Only to hiss and hold his breath when the very attempt to do so made the pain in his back flare.

"D'Artagnan!"

His noises had obviously alarmed his brothers, hearing Athos call his name only confirmed it. Letting his head drop again, he let the groan escape his mouth while waiting for the three of them to reach him. It didn't take long till there was a hand at his neck, checking for his pulse, another cupping his cheek, and a third one gently tapping his arm.

"D'Artagnan?"

This time, Athos' voice was full of concern, so the Gascon forced his eyes open again, only to find his mentor's intense, green eyes staring at him.

"Hello," he croaked.

"Hello," the swordsman replied, a small, relieved smile in his face. "It's good to see you awake. You had us all worried."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"How do you feel?" Aramis' face appeared directly beside Athos'.

"Like someone's been trying to peel my skin off," he admitted frankly, too tired and exhausted, and in far too much pain to mince words. "It really hurts…"

"Wait…" Aramis disappeared from his vision. "Dr. Lemay's left something for you."

"Do you think you can drink something?" Athos asked.

"Not as long as I'm lying here like this," he complained. Once more trying to push himself onto his left side, he bit his lips to stifle the scream.

"Let us help," Porthos deep voice suggested from behind him.

"Mmh-hm…"

"I'll put your left arm under your body," Porthos informed him. "And then Athos and I will turn you over – slowly."

Signalising his assent with a barely visible nod, d'Artagnan readied himself for the surely coming pain. But thanks to the gentle help of his friends, it remained bearable.

When he was finally lying on his left side, Athos nudged his lips with a cup. The swordsman supported his head and helped him to drink. Emptying the cup left him a bit breathless and he closed his eyes to regain some of his strength.

"What happened?"

Athos's silent question startled him and he opened his eyes again. Seeing all of his brothers look at him, he sighed.

"I protected the king," he simply said, letting his eyes slid close.

"But…" Porthos started to inquire.

"Not now, Porthos," he heard Athos interrupt him.

Then he felt his mentor's hand at his cheek. "D'Artagnan, stay awake. You need to drink more, you're a bit feverish. Another cup, maybe two, then you can go back to sleep."

Fighting his leaden eyelids, he struggled to face the worried man in front of him.

"Promise?" he slurred.

"Yes. I promise. Come on then, drink this."

Again, it was Athos who held his head and helped him drink, slowly and with much patience. He managed another two cups of water, the last one tasting just a bit odd. Furrowing his brows, he thought about asking why, but his question was anticipated by Aramis.

"It's laudanum, it's against the pain. And it will most likely make you sleep during the rest of the day. But don't worry, it'll only do you good."

"Mmh…" Concentrating on breathing, he patiently waited for the pain to diminish. He felt his brothers touch him, easily recognising their different ways to make him comfortable.

Porthos, whose hands were warm and steady, resting at his hip.

Aramis, nimble fingers stroking his arms.

And Athos, his calloused hand carding through his hair, pushing the errant strands away.

"Stay?" he asked, suddenly feeling scared, remembering the time he had been on his own, with the lone responsibility for the king's life. A burden, almost too heavy to carry alone.

"Of course. We'll be here when you awake," Athos promised.

"We would never leave you," Porthos added.

"Never," Aramis confirmed.

"Good," he mumbled, fumbling for someone's hand to hold onto. He found Athos'. "I'd never doubt that…" he murmured sleepily, just before Morpheus took him.