Alexandre Dumas and the BBC own the Musketeers, I'm just borrowing them.

Chapter Four

"You pathetic Musketeer pup. You're not worthy to walk the same streets as the mighty Red Guards. We'll teach you not to strut around this city like you own it, you arrogant wretch." D'Artagnan barely registered the taunts and slander the guards threw at him. His entire being was consumed by the pain radiating from his very core. Everything hurt. He had tried to defend himself, he really had, but there were just too many. He had already been cut and stabbed by two men's swords. Another had fired his musket into the young Gascon's thigh when had tried to escape from their clutches. One man had his arm pulled behind his back and d'Artagnan heard himself gasp as the limb popped from its socket. He was determined not to scream for these men but, even if he had wanted to, the youngest Musketeer doubted he could have taken a large enough breath to muster such a sound. Ropes wound around his wrists behind his back. Where had these drunk guards found ropes? More men were attacking him from in front and from both sides. Punches and kicks rained down from all angles and he could tell he would be a variable artwork of black and blue bruises in the morning. 'That's if you live that long,' a small voice said from the back of his head.

Porthos refreshed the towel in his hand before replacing it on the fevered brow of the young man lying in front of him. Treville and Athos had left for the palace over an hour ago to seek an audience with the King. Upon hearing the identity of his youngest recruit's attackers, their Captain had decided to try and speak to the King without the Cardinal present.

"It's best that we go now to seek an audience," the Musketeers' Captain had stated. "If we arrive unannounced Richelieu may not have time to attend the meeting, or at the very least, he won't be able to invent some ridiculous excuse for the actions of his men." With that the captain and his lieutenant had left the garrison.

In the hour that had passed, d'Artagnan's fever had steadily risen. It was not yet high enough to be a huge concern to Aramis, but it was enough to give the boy some restless dreams. Either Porthos or Aramis had made sure to remain at his side at all times in case he became too restless and risked aggravating his injuries.

Aramis had his hands fisted in his hair as he paced. While the fever wasn't too high, he still wanted to know what was causing it so he could attempt to cut it off before it got any worse. He strode forward to the bed and lifted the sheet before gently feeling around the wounds again.

"I know you turn into a complete mother hen whenever one of us is injured but this is ridiculous." Porthos' rumbling voice startled the medic for a moment. They had mostly sat in a companionable silence while watching over their brother. "That's the third time you've checked on those wounds since Athos left." Aramis let the larger man's implied question hang in the air for a moment before sighing.

"His fever is beginning to bother me. I don't know what's causing it, which means there's not much I can do to except let it run its course. I was nearly hoping one of his injuries would start to show signs of infection. I'd have a clear target then, something I can combat, but they're all fine."

As if on cue, a rattling cough came from d'Artagnan, seeming to work its way out from deep in his chest. The young man tried to curl up on himself to cushion the pain the hacking brought to his ribs but Porthos moved to hold him still as Aramis' eyes lit up.

"That's it!" He exclaimed quietly. "Stupid, stupid. How did I miss that?" Porthos' eyes followed Aramis as the Spaniard turned to the cupboard of medical supplies on the back wall and pulled out a jar of ointment.

"Do you feel like explaining or am I just going to guess what important discovery you've made?" Aramis looked up, a surprised expression on his face as though he had actually forgotten that the other man was still there.

"It was damp and near freezing last night and, as a result, our dear d'Artagnan has gone and caught himself a cold. That explains he coughs and fever."

Porthos looked at the young man in the bed, unconvinced of Aramis' deduction. "A cold? A common little bug has him burning with fever? I find that hard to believe."

"Ordinarily, I'm sure it would barely even register to him that he was sick but in his weakened condition, d'Artagnan's body doesn't have the strength to fight even a common cold."

"So what do we do?" Porthos couldn't stand seeing his little brother in such a defenceless state and was struggling with the inability to be of assistance. He wasn't a healer like Aramis. He couldn't sew wounds as neatly and he couldn't easily remember what combinations of herbs should be used to treat any ailment. Aramis could see the look of longing on Porthos' face and knew the man needed something he could do to help.

"I'm going to put this on his chest to help him breathe easier," Aramis said, raising the jar in his hand. "But the best thing to do is keep him cool like you have been. When he wakes up I'll give him something for the fever and if we can get him to eat something that will help as well." He looked apologetically to Porthos before continuing. "Other than that, all we can really do is wait."

Treville was as angered by the attack on his newest soldier as his three best men were, though he did not speak his thoughts out loud. He had been the reason the young man was out so late at night and in the vicinity of the Red Guards' lodgings. The musketeer captain could not help but feel guilty. Part of him knew that there was little he could have done but there was a voice in his mind that insisted he should have waited up to see the young man arrive back from his errand. That if he had done so, he would have noticed that d'Artagnan was taking far longer than he should have. The rational part of his mind, however, was insisting that he shouldn't have had to worry about the young man and that the blame lay solely with the Cardinal and his sorry excuses for soldiers.

As Treville and Athos neared the King's chambers, Treville eyed the other man carefully. "I don't need to tell you to watch your tongue and allow me to do the speaking, do I?" he questioned.

"Of course not, Sir," Athos replied without a moment's hesitation. "Although, that is the reason it was I who accompanied you, and not Porthos or Aramis."

"Of course." Their conversation was silenced as a guard opened the doors and the two musketeers strode forward to address their King.