There you go, a slightly longer chapter today, because its Sunday ;) Once more, I can't thank enough to all of you reading this and taking the time to offer me your thoughts and opinions.

As was very well suggested by one of the reviewers, I've changed the rating of this story from K+ to T. I had completely forgotten about the foul language used by some of the bad guys, and I apologize for that.

Tomorrow, the last part will be posted :))) I hope you guys continue to enjoy this story as much as I did in writing it!

~§~

The telling resonance of a pistol going off brought Athos back to his senses, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air as if it had never left since the explosion.

He was lying on the dusty floor, his face pressed against a pair of discarded braies, still wet from blood and urine. He wrinkled his nose at the offending smell even as his eyes worked to focus on what was going on. If his head had ached before, it was positively ferocious now, throbbing in misery with each beat of his heart.

A smoking pistol was thrown to the floor and Athos followed the sound. Even through vision that had gone annoyingly blurry, he could see no spread of blood coming from beneath the two men who had been struggling on the floor. It was impossible to see which, if any, had been hit until one of them scrambled away, sitting dazzled on the floor. With a pang of worry, Athos realized that it was the wrong one.

The villain, Gerard, had a look of trapped animal about and was surely as dangerous as one. Porthos had remained on the floor, his face devoid of color, a streak of red going from his breast to his left shoulder.

Even a barely acquaintance as theirs had been, Athos had firmly believed Porthos to be a reliable ally in the present situation. He could perfectly recall the power of the man's fists when they had fought earlier that day. It had been only by chance - and a few dirty tricks - that he had managed to come out of it relatively unscathed. Now, with the only other able man inside the room out of commission, Athos realized that it fell to him to assure the safety all the innocent lives inside it. How in Heaven he was going to succeed in doing that when his eyes refused to focus and with his head splitting in half when he raised it more than a few inches from the ground, Athos had no idea.

He had, of course, completely forgotten about the medic.

Having earlier discarded the young man as useful in a fight, he was more than a little surprised when said man sprang into action. Athos had never seen anyone move that fast. In fact, he was fairly sure he was hallucinating the whole matter.

Throwing his elbow sideways, to land a vicious blow to the face of the man who had been holding a knife to his throat, the medic jumped off the bed and, with an agility that Athos had only witnessed before in country fairs' acrobats and jugglers, rolled above Porthos and the man holding the gun to land inches from Athos' face.

Still stunned by the elegant move, Athos had little room to react as the young man, noticing his opened eyes, winked at him before pulling Athos' rapier from its sheath. "If I may?" he asked with a gentle bow. The naked worry Athos had caught in his gaze was well-hidden from his carefree tone.

The man who had shot Porthos spat on the floor, two teeth rattling against the hard boards. He pulled himself to his feet with a groan, unsheathing his own sword as he went. "Ya spoilin' for an early grave, are ya boy?" he growled, letting out a bitter laugh.

"I am already dead, Monsieur," the young man told him with a mocking bow, bring the sword to his face in salute. "I bid you to join me, before you can cause any more harm."

Athos struggled to his feet, only to discover that the ground had turned to water and he could find no leverage to stand. That boy was signing his death sentence and he could not just stand – lie - there and watch.

Swords clashed with a shower of sparks, and Athos forced himself to look. It was easy, with his blurry vision that robbed him any details in the fighters' faces, to replace the younger man with the face of his brother. It would be anything but easy to watch his brother being killed a second time.

The physician, however, seemed to have a few more tricks up his sleeve, other than his acrobatics. With an elegance that spoke of vast experience and skill, he parried the other man in a succession of fast movements that left Athos feeling dizzy.

An experienced and accomplished swordsman himself, Athos could see that, although the young man's mastery of the sword wasn't perfect - one seldom was, outside of the private tutoring that only nobility could afford - he was certainly skillful.

Two things became very clear, very quickly. That the young man was no ordinary medic and the fight would not last long.

As if waiting for him to reach this very conclusion, Athos heard a grunt of pain as the young man's rapier - his rapier, incidentally - pierced the villain's side. Hardly a killing blow, but enough to render the man powerless.

"Yield!" the young man's voice was commanding, as steely and sharp as the blade in his hands. "And you may yet live, Monsieur."

Athos could almost laugh at the extreme politeness, so out of place in the events that had just unfolded. Movement behind the medic's back, however, robbed all reasons for laughter from his lips.

The other man, the one who had started the whole situation, was on the move, feverish eyes filled with nothing but contempt as he pulled a dagger from his boot, ready to throw it into the unsuspecting medic's back.

His pistol, Athos noted, was still by his side, unfired. Cursing the uselessness of his eyesight that would never allow him to make the shot without hitting the young man himself, Athos took a leap of faith. "Here!" he shouted, throwing his pistol in the air.

It was an impossible shot. It should have been an impossible shot. And yet...

The young man's eyes locked with Athos', understanding where the threat was to be found, from his look alone. The pistol sailed through the air and landed perfectly in his hand. Any other man would've grabbed the weapon, looked behind, aimed and fired. Any other man would have died because of his tardiness, for by that time the dagger would already be thrown and would have certainly hit its mark.

The young man didn't waste his time turning back and aiming at his target. He just fired over his shoulder.

Numb fingers dropped the dagger as the man on the bed looked ahead, eyes already frozen in death, his mouth opened in the most complete expression of surprise. From the center of his forehead, a thin trail of blood dribbled, cutting a path down his face until it fell across his unseeing eyes, like bloody tears.

~§~

Treville had sent the other men racing up the stairs to the sick rooms as soon as he had heard the first shot, resigning himself to follow at a slower pace.

Having failed to find the faces of the attackers amongst the dead, Treville had first looked towards the entry arch leading to the streets of Paris, imagining that if able to do so, the criminals would have made their escape as fast as they could.

He had taken upon himself to personally go into the street and ask the numerous bystanders if there had been any sight of men running out of the garrison.

It was easy to tell, from the look of pure horror in the people's faces, that he must have presented a frightful vision. An apparition of blood, soot and anger, like a demon dragged from Hell below.

No one had seen a soul escape the smoldering garrison.

There were a number of Red Guards watching from the outside, not even bothering to hide their smirks as Treville locked eyes with them. It was plain to see that they were not there to help, but it enraged him that they would so carelessly and openly enjoy the suffering of fellow soldiers.

Looking closely, however, Treville thought to see something more behind their amusement. If he didn't know better about the animosity between Musketeers and the Cardinal's men, the Captain could almost swear there was anxiety and worry there as well. For whom, he wondered, for it would certainly not be directed at his men.

Pushing the matter aside to deal with later, he hobbled back inside. If the attackers weren't amongst the dead and they had not escaped, there was only one place where they could possibly be. The garrison.

Gathering every able men he could along the way, Treville made his way back, already planing to search the garrison's grounds from top to bottom. Those rats would not be able to hide for long. He was back at the yard when they heard the first shot, a few seconds apart from a second. "The sick rooms!" he called out, his men already racing towards the source of the noise.

As the Captain made his way painfully slowly up the stairs, his leg shooting daggers every time he failed to keep it in the air, his mind raced with the grim possibilities that would greet him once he reached the source of the shots.

One of the men he had sent ahead, Doujons, came racing back, a wide smile playing on his face. Treville frowned. What reason could this man possibly have to be smiling? Was he in his cups?

"He's got them, Cap'ain!" the man announced with a toothy grin. "Aramis got them both!"

Treville was sure he had heard it wrong. Certainly his ears were playing tricks on him, or maybe Doujons was confused. Had it been one of the new recruits bringing him the news, Treville would have not believed at all. But Doujons was an experienced Musketeer, one who knew Aramis well enough to not mistake him for any other.

Walking past the excited Musketeer, Treville looked at the sick room. The place was in shambles, despite the effort that had clearly been made to sort out a few beds and clear most of the debris. Even so, it was hard to get inside for he had to do it at an odd angle that did his broken leg no favors.

There were at least four beds occupied with injured men and at the end of the wall, he could see one man with a broken nose and his hands tied in front of him, sitting next to another who was clearly dead. Treville easily recognized them as two of the attackers. The third one, he was relieved to see, was lying in one of the beds, his leg covered in neat stitches, even if the skin was already beginning to turn black. He would not be long for this world, that one. Treville couldn't find it in himself to pity the man.

The face he found himself looking for had his back turned to the door. The mass of unruly dark curls, however, was quite easy to recognize.

Aramis was kneeling by the side of a bed. The contrite position, however, had less to do with prayer than it had with easier access to the wounded man lying there.

Porthos' skin was ashen, beads of sweat peppering his face and torso, his teeth grinding against the pain. His right arm lay motionless by his side and there were angry-looking bruises all over his chest. There was a large gash on his left shoulder, burned at the edges and sluggishly bleeding. Athos, he could see, was leaning against the wall, close to the other two men, looking like he was standing guard, despite his closed eyes and the pain etched on his face.

"What in the devil's name happened here?" Treville broke the silence, causing the three to notice his presence for the first time.

Aramis looked up, giving him a shy smile before resuming his work, pushing a clean square of linen against the wound. Athos was the one who held his gaze. "Tempers were raised," he said emotionlessly. "Guns were fired. Intruders were dutifully subdued," he went on, exchanging a look with the medic. "We prevailed, more or less unscathed."

Treville shook his head, knowing that a more - much more - detailed report would be provided, once things had quieted down some. Athos was right, though. For now, all he needed to know was that they had prevailed. "How is everyone faring? René?"

The man in question looked up at him, the sadness Treville had grown used to see in his eyes now tempered with tiredness and something else. Something that he wanted to believe to be a sense of purpose. "Some better than others, Sir. It is mostly minor injuries that will eventually heal. Adrian and Mortier have the more serious burns, and Benoit will not be able to use his arm for a while. Those two," he said pointing to the man who had been in the infirmary since before the explosion, and the one whose leg had been in shambles, "I do not know their names, but one doesn't seem able to wake up and the other... I fear doctor Cerveaux will be forced to chop off his leg when he arrives," he whispered, trying to keep his words from the man in question. He wiped a trembling hand over his forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. It was impossible to tell how much of the red stain was his and how much belonged to others. "He is beyond my skills, I'm afraid."

Treville looked at the man he had pointed out. He had seen wounds like that before. There was nothing even a physician could do for him now that decay had settle in his leg. "Either way, he's bound for the gallows, so I wouldn't concern myself too much with his fate," the Captain said bitterly. "What about you, Porthos?"

"Fit as a fiddle, Cap'ain," the man said, even though he grimaced with pain as Aramis pressed harder on his wound. "Just sorry I wasn' the one that put them two out of their misery," he added with an angry growl.

"The gallows?" Athos asked from his spot, his eyes having closed back again at some point, even though he was still clearly following the conversation.

It took Treville an extra second to realize what Athos was asking about, the events of the day slowly taking their toll. It was clear, however, that none of the men in front of him had any idea of the cause behind all the evil that had come to pass that day. "I found that man, along with those two," he pointed at the dead man and his bounded companion, "tampering with the gunpowder in the armory. Put a ball in one of them, but the whole thing went off before I could warn anyone," the Captain said, coming as close as he could to admitting that he felt guilty for not having been faster.

"So, that's where the gunshot wound came from!" Aramis said, looking at the dead man against the wall. Seeing the Captain's intrigued look, he explained himself. "He panicked when I went to treat his wound...it's what set all of this off, really."

Reading the guilt in the Musketeer's voice, Treville's eyes turned to steel. "What set this off," he corrected, "was the deceit and treachery of two men who have already paid for their crimes and a third who will soon wish he hadn't survived. Are we clear?"

Aramis dejectedly nodded, averting his eyes. Treville's hopes that something might have changed in the young man withered at this reaction.

"Do we know of their reasons, Captain?" Athos asked. His mind, it would seem, never lost focus.

"Not yet, but I'm sure we'll have some answers soon," Treville said, looking pointedly at the only surviving attacker. The man would rue the day he had decided to murder his Musketeers. He turn on his crutch, intended to do just that, when his good leg betrayed him.

Strong hands found his arms before the Captain could make an undignified landing on the floor and he looked up, finding an amused Aramis holding him up. He could not recall the last time he had seen mirth in that boy's eyes.

"Perhaps that is something that can be dealt with," Aramis whispered, pushing him to sit one of the beds, "after we take care of that leg, Sir."

Treville looked in annoyance between the smirking Musketeers and his broken leg, seemingly affronted by their joint lack of respect for his wishes. "Porthos needs your attention more urgently than me," he pointed out.

"Porthos will need some convincing before I can get anywhere near him with a needle," Aramis whispered, only to add in a more conversational tone, "besides, I see no bone peeking out. Setting your leg and splinting it should be a matter of a few minutes."

"Very well, then," Treville conceded less than graciously. It was not his first time with a broken bone. He knew what was coming better than most. "Let's be done with this."

As Aramis set about realigning the bones of his leg, Treville found himself using words that would have brought shame even to seasoned sailors.

~§~

Doctor Cerveaux vehemently refused to enter the garrison after he learned that an attempt had been made against it. He defended his position with the notion that his knowledge was much too precious for him to risk his life in such a dangerous place. There had been, after all, an explosion there. Who was to say that more would not follow?

"Besides," he went on, all but dismissing the man in front of him. "That fellow of yours that seems to never want to leave the sick room, what's-his-name, can very well deal with a few scrapes and bruises."

Du Dijon held on tightly to the hilt of his rapier, the only thing at the moment stopping him from shoving a fist into the impossibly obnoxious man's face. That, and the fact that the Captain would not appreciate the trouble such an action would cause, on top of everything else. "Is that your final word, Monsieur?"

A door, slamming shut in his face, was an answer that left little room for doubt.

There were other doctors in the city. Du Dijon was sure he would be able to convince at least one of them to come.

~§~

A few hours of sleep had done wonders for Porthos' mood. He couldn't say the same about the aches and soreness that had taken command of his whole body in the interim, but he could truthfully declare that he no longer felt like a trampled piece of horse-shit. Just a non-trampled one.

Porthos moved slowly, pushing himself up against the head of the bed. His bandaged left arm was throbbing like a drum from Hell, his head was killing him and he felt like his mouth was stuffed with wool. Those last two ailments, he knew, he had no else to blame for but himself. And maybe that accursed medic, René.

He remembered all-too-well what had happened. For all that he ached, Porthos was well aware that he shouldn't be feeling anything at all. He should be dead.

When the pistol had gone off, he was sure that blast would be the last thing he would ever hear on this earth, but he found himself taking a shaky breath, followed by another, and another until he was finally convinced that he still lived. He suspected that being dead wouldn't hurt that much.

There had been a blur of movement above him and suddenly there were swords clashing somewhere above his head.

It took him more than a few moments to realize that the person dueling his shooter was none other than René. He feared for the boy's safety, until he reminded himself that, despite everything, this was an experienced soldier, probably more skilled with a sword than Porthos himself. The fight was over in less than a minute, but there had been no time to feel relief as he heard Athos' warning shout.

He'd tried to move, tried to figure out where was the danger coming from to help René, but before he could do either, his eyes caught a sight that he would never forget.

René, the gentle medic who refused to be acknowledged as the Musketeer Aramis, had put the pistol that had suddenly materialized in his hands, over his shoulder and fired without aiming. He hadn't even as much as looked at the target, moving like he was just playing, shooting bottles for fun. The thud of a body hitting the wall told him that the shot had been no play and the ball had found its target.

Porthos found himself smiling, knowing that there was at least one of the rumors he could now believe. That man was the best marksman he had ever seen in his life!

After that, there had been too many hands touching him, too much movement being imposed upon his battered body and he lost track of events until he had woken up to find the Captain staring down at him with a frown.

Words had been exchanged, he was sure of it, even if his brain didn't see fit to remember a single one of them. He remembered the Captain cursing a blue streak, the sound of a bone snapping and then René was standing above him again, holding a string of silk and a needle.

"Tha' better not be for me," Porthos said, turning to get out of the bed before the other man could trap him. With both arms out of commission and his ribs not taking too lightly to the rotating movement, he could do nothing more than yelp in pain and lie back down.

"Your shoulder won't stop bleeding otherwise," René explained, sitting by his side. "I can give you something to bite on, if you think it will help," he offered.

Porthos stared daggers. "You poke tha' thin' in me and I swear I'll cut off yer balls and feed'em to the pigs!"

René had raised an eyebrow, more amused at the threat than actually scared. Porthos figured he didn't look like much of a threat then, lying helpless as a kitten on that bed. The feeling only served to boost his anger.

Forgetting the pain, he had swung his right arm wide, aiming for the medic's jaw. His attack, however well-aimed, was sluggish, making it all too easy for the medic to dodge his fist.

Porthos growled in frustration, because now he had to contend with an arm that flared in agony at the movement and the smirking face of the man he had failed to hit. But then again, he had been amazed at the medic's speed just a few moments before. Was it that surprising that René had so easily avoided him?

"That is no way to treat the man trying to help you," a voice scolded from somewhere beyond his field of vision.

"Come closer and th'pigs will be havin' a feast!" he spat. Why was it so hard for these two to understand that his arm didn't need any bloody stitches in it?

Porthos could face a pistol with a smile on his face and, even though he was still learning, swords and daggers were only as lethal as the person wielding them. He had no fear of either.

Needles, on the other hand, gave him the chills. The idea of tiny pricks, going in and out of his skin like he was nothing but a pair of old breeches...he could not. He would not! And there was nothing that these two could do to convince him otherwise.

The thing was, he knew there were only two ways to stop a bleeding wound, and being roasted like a pig wasn't at the top of Porthos' favorite things either. Stitching would have to do, even if he was just too stubborn to admit defeat.

A bottle of brandy appeared in his line of sight, the liquid inside the color of honey. "It will numb you."

Porthos followed the hand holding the bottle and looked into Athos' blue eyes. He was offering him a way out without losing his honor. Realizing that there was really not much else that he could do, Porthos took the bottle and, snapping the cork out with his teeth, drank his fill.

"Good," Athos voiced, disappearing from his line of sight once more. "Because my counter-offer was a fist."

Porthos had drunk almost all of the bottle before René had even started the first stitch. He was laughing at the medic by the fifth. Before René's needle had reached a dozen, Porthos was profoundly apologizing for having threatened their privates with pigs. Although, by then, his speech had been so slurred that he was sure neither man had understood a single word.

That had been hours ago. Or the day before. Looking at the feeble light coming from the slits of partially-cleared window, it was impossible to tell if it was sunset or sunrise he was seeing.

Gazing around himself, Porthos could see that something close to order had been established, at least in the sick room. Most of the rubble had been cleared away and the wounded were now sleeping on clean beds, instead of ripped mattresses with straw coming out and shards of wood sticking in. The door had been completely cleared, even if the frame remained broken.

Everything was so quiet and peaceful that he could feel himself sliding back into slumber. The sound of dragging feet made him keep his eyes open a little longer.

René had been sitting by one the beds in the far corner, and Porthos had missed his presence until the man moved to the next bed. Even from this distance, he seemed dead on his feet.

"René," he called out, finding that his voice was too raspy to properly carry. "René!"

The man in question looked up, a smile upon his face when he spotted Porthos awake.

"Porthos! How are you feeling?"

Despite the cheerfulness of his voice, the energy didn't seem to reach the rest of his body. The wound on his head had scabbard already, the blood cleaned at the some point. There were dark shadows under the man's eyes and an unsteadiness to his gait that Porthos found unsettling. "Wher's Doctor Cerveaux?" he asked, noticing for the first time that the medic was the only one up.

René shrugged, rolling his head around his neck when the movement induced some dormant pain. "Too frightened of the ceiling falling on his head to come, I was told," he offered. "A Doctor Ballot... Bayoug...some name I forget at the moment; he came for a while last night, mostly to nod at what had already been done, before he went home," he added with a tired smile.

Porthos threw a quick glance at the ceiling, briefly wondering how well-founded were the doctor's fears before his gaze landed on the stain marking the far wall, dried blood turning black as it waited to be cleaned. "Th' bastards who did this?"

"Taken to the Châtelet, the one still alive," René answered with a hard look. "The other one didn't make it through the night."

He made no mention of the man he'd shot dead, and Porthos wasn't about to bring up the matter. "When was th' last time ya've rested?" he asked, instead

The medic stared at him, looking confused by the question before shrugging once more and dismissing it entirely. He sat on the edge of Porthos' bed, a sigh escaping his lips. "Your shoulder is healing well," he said, moving to peek under the bandage. "No signs of infection."

"Y'er exhausted," Porthos stated, grabbing the man's arm with the hand that was hanging from a sling. The flesh beneath his grip was shaking. "Let some'ne else stan' watch for a bit."

René snorted at that, letting his head hang low, a cascade of dark curls hiding his face. "Because that worked so well the last time I did it," he muttered, more to himself than in answer to Porthos' plea. When he looked up, his eyes had taken on that distant look that, despite the short amount of time spent in his presence, Porthos had come to recognize and hate. "Besides, there is no one else," he pointed out, his nod indicating the room filled with men in several states of unconsciousness.

Seeing that the man was too stubborn and too burdened by whatever memories haunted his mind, Porthos decided to change tactics. He could see that René was dead on his feet and that it was now only a matter of location as to where he would collapse: this bed or the floor. "M'ribs ain' lettin' me breath properly," he said shyly. "Is there somethin'...?" he continued, letting it hang in the air.

Back when he was living at the Court, he had seen too many children affected by lung conditions that compromised their breathing. More than once, he had watched their mothers and healers rub an ointment on their chests that eased the condition in a matter of hours. He was sure there had to be something of the likes of that in the garrison's sick quarters.

"Of course," René nodded, jumping to his feet like someone had stuck a needle in his behind. "I have just the thing," he offered before shuffling away.

Porthos hated himself for forcing the exhausted man to move an inch more, but he told himself that it was for a good cause. That ointment, that he had seen used so many times, had the unfortunate side effect of putting to sleep anyone who stood close enough to breath it, a fact that Porthos was more than willing to use to his advantage.

"I thought his name was Aramis," a voice said from the bed next to his, making Porthos look away from René's weary footsteps. Athos was lying on his side, staring at him with eyes slightly glazed over.

"'tis," Porthos said. "He don' like it much. Prefers René."

"René," Athos said, seemingly testing the name on his tongue, "is wasting himself in here. He would make a fine Musketeer."

Porthos snorted, thinking the other man was joking. Then he remembered that Athos had only arrived at the garrison the previous day. It felt like a whole year had gone by. "'e is a Musketeer. A fine'ne too, from wha' I hear tell."

"He's not very good at taking care of himself," the other man added after a while.

For some reason, those words set Porthos' teeth on edge. Athos had known René for little more than a day, owed his life to him, same as the rest of them, and yet, there he was, laying judgment on the boy and finding him lacking.

"Now, listen 'ere-" Porthos started, only to have the other man raise his hands in a peaceful gesture.

"I meant only to say that he pushes himself too much," he explained. "I have not seen him stop once since yesterday. One can only guess when he last took to the sheets before that," he offered, turning onto his other side, effectively ending the conversation.

Porthos nodded even though the other man could no longer see him. He wholeheartedly agreed. "'s time we correct tha'," he whispered with a wink.

Just then, the object of their conspiracy walked back in, a pot in his hands. He stumbled over the foot of one of the beds, almost losing his grip on the pot and cursing, as if the fault was on the piece of furniture.

"Here it is," René announced, placing the strong-smelling stuff next to Porthos. "Can you do it yourself or do..?"

Porthos gestured to his arms, one heavily bandaged and the other in a sling. He could tell that the other man was well-aware of the ointment's side effects, from his reluctance and the way he kept the pot as far away from his nose as he could. Porthos let out a raspy cough, for show.

Sighing, René sat once more on the edge of the bed, spreading a good portion of the ointment carefully on Porthos' bruised chest. The smells of forest and rain filled the room heavily.