Title: War Scars
Fandom: Musketeers
Author: gaelicspirit
Rating: PG-13
Characters: d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, cameos and OCs – GEN

Disclaimer/Warning: Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again.


"Never think that war, no matter how necessary, no matter how justified, is not a crime." – Hemingway

Chapter 8: The Man Beside You (Athos)

The Hell of war wasn't limited to the blood and pain, the cannon fire and ravaged countryside, the displaced people and disintegrated families.

Hell was wrapping up with a thin blanket on the cold ground, the only protection against the elements a canvas tent and meager fire. It was being away from loved ones and unable to write home about the misery because it would only increase their worry. It was trying to remember, day after day, why they were there, why they fought, who and what they fought for.

After more than three years of war, Athos was used to part of that—the living conditions, at least. But one thing he was never going to get used to was seeing his men in pain. Seeing his men die. Seeing lines of sorrow etched on faces and voices trapped too deep for tears.

Seeing scars form across hearts too soft to survive without such protection.

They had engaged the Spanish on open battlefields and in the streets of French towns. They'd fought with a full battalion behind them and in desperate skirmishes inside what amounted to nothing more than shallow ditches and make-shift caves. They'd frozen and burned, they'd been hungry and thirsty, wept from exhaustion and slept for days.

And it didn't appear to be ending any time soon.

Porthos had settled into a comfortable personality—as long as he was never too far from d'Artagnan. It took several weeks of healing after the barricades at Le Mans, but d'Artagnan finally seemed to be back to his old self—or as close a version of it as they would ever get again. The loss of Bauer had rocked the young Gascon more than Athos had realized it would.

Bauer had been Athos' eyes on the battlefield, keeping watch over d'Artagnan when Porthos was otherwise engaged. He'd been in that role since the young Gascon was wounded back at their first skirmish—and losing him in the Battle of Le Mans had caused a pall to sink over the men, d'Artagnan in particular. Athos alone bore the weight of the knowledge that Bauer had in fact survived as part of his mantel as Captain, but there were times he was sorely tempted to ease the burden of loss from d'Artagnan's bearing.

Once d'Artagnan had healed enough to rejoin the battalion, Athos made sure to keep his men close on the battlefield—and off. Athos often found himself watching Porthos and d'Artagnan from across the camp, noting the easy way they moved around each other, how their smiles were only truly genuine when in each other's company. He remembered when that had been Aramis with himself and Porthos, the three of them truly inseparable.

Finding Aramis only to leave him once more had been harder than he imagined it would be.

There were others, as well. Despite the wall Athos instinctively erected around his heart, some friendships had developed. Jon-Luc had a medic's eye and healer's heart—Athos couldn't help but wonder what Aramis would have thought of the young man's enthusiastic approach to patching up the men and keeping them in one piece. George, ever silent, had somehow managed to become Athos' pseudo squire. He kept his horse cared for, his armor at the ready, and was never more than an arm's reach away during battle.

Bastien, the young Parisian who had almost killed d'Artagnan three years ago, had managed to work his way into the unit they almost unconsciously built in the wake of what was commonly thought to be an insane General's direction. Athos noted that d'Artagnan was good at training the younger man, keeping him honed and sharp and practically invaluable. It was good for Bastien to refine his fighting skills, and seemed to give d'Artagnan somewhere to channel his seemingly endless energy.

Athos sat with Porthos against the crumbling wall of a burned-out village, the last they'd overtaken to make camp, mending the leather latigo of his saddle and watching as d'Artagnan sparred with Bastien in the clearing. George was close by as always, running swords against a whetstone, and Porthos was angled on the wall so that he could soak up the last vestiges of the day's sun.

"Keep your guard up," d'Artagnan instructed as the clang of metal on metal paused. "You're vulnerable here and here."

Athos watched d'Artagnan feint and turn, recognizing the move as one he'd shown him years ago. Bastien twisted, trying to anticipate, to keep up, and Athos saw the flaw in his move about three beats before d'Artagnan's sword was at the younger man's throat.

"Head over heart," Athos whispered low enough only Porthos could hear him.

"Head," d'Artagnan said to Bastien, gently knocking the edge of his sword hilt against the younger man's forehead, "over heart. Keep your mind in the battle, don't let your ego take over."

Porthos chuckled and bumped Athos' leg with the back of his hand. "Learned from the best, that one."

George tapped Athos' shoulder with the tip of his sword, showing he was done. Athos nodded his thanks and watched as George moved to join the younger men, picking up a spare practice sword so that it was now two against one.

"Don't look quite fair," Porthos squinted an eye at the trio, an easy smile on his face.

d'Artagnan blocked two blows, turned and twisted the sword from Bastien's grip in a move Athos was certain he'd seen Porthos execute more than a few times. Catching the loose sword, d'Artagnan squared off with the two younger soldiers.

"Which way do you mean?" Athos teased.

Porthos chuckled, his breath puffing out in small cloud bursts. It was nearing the last snow of the year—March was rolling steadily forward—and the men were gearing up to take Carcassonne back from the Spanish. It's what all their battles seemed to be: give and take, charge and retreat, never a massive push to remove the Spanish from their land, their country. They were waiting on their King to do that.

Meanwhile, they simply tried not to die.

"'e's back to wearing just the shoulder plates," Porthos said as Athos tossed the repaired latigo on top of his saddle, taking for granted that George would assemble the gear when it was time to ride out. "Since Le Mans I can't even get 'im to shield 'is chest, let alone full armor."

Athos nodded; it was an old argument between Porthos and d'Artagnan. Porthos was right, of course. It was better protection than just the chainmail and leather, but Athos noted d'Artagnan was fairly agile without the armor and, despite a rather impressive collection of scars he'd amassed over the last several years, he was still here. So, he didn't make it an order.

"You'll have to work on your argument, apparently," Athos said to his old friend as they watched the three younger men drop their swords, grins lighting their faces.

"What d'you know about this place, Carcassonne?" Porthos asked, stretching one leg out to get comfortable. Since his wound at Le Harve, Athos noticed Porthos stiffened up much more quickly. "Supposed to be impenetrable, yeah?"

"The Spanish clearly proved that wrong," Athos replied.

Porthos tilted his head up, squinting against the late afternoon sun. "So, basically, we're 'eading into battle outnumbered, out gunned, and without any idea of what we're up against."

Athos nodded.

"Must be Tuesday," Porthos sighed, leaning back against the crumbling wall and closing his eyes. "Wake me up when it's time to try and avoid death once more, will you?"

"Of course."

Orders were handed out like propaganda leaflets—seemingly on a whim, though Athos had to believe there was purpose behind them. Perhaps not the purpose of keeping his men safe, but someone's purpose none-the-less. They were to march toward Carcassone in the morning with orders to take back the city for King and country.

He wished he could believe their struggle was justified, their loss for a cause, but with each battle, each death, it grew more difficult.

That night he wandered the camp, ears perked toward conversation that might indicate the mood of the men. Conversations centered around those left at home—women, mostly, but some children, some parents—mingled with bitter grumblings concerning their mad General and slid into musings of possible victories and memories of those lost. He paused just outside the campfire in front of Porthos and d'Artagnan's tent, standing unseen in the shadows, watching as Porthos and d'Artagnan listened to Bastien talk of his life in the Court of Miracles, George silently staring into the flames at his side.

"I got used to things like hunger and cold—enough so that it felt almost wrong to be warm and have a full belly. But I never got used to the way people looked at me," he shoved a stick into the fire, sending embers up to be eaten by the dark. "Talked to me. As if the fact that they had a home and hearth somehow made them better than me." He shrugged, not meeting anyone's eyes. "We all bleed the same."

"'at's when you prove them wrong," Porthos said quietly. "You rise up. Every time they push you down, you rise up. Every time they spit on you, step on you, you rise up."

"Is that what you did?" Bastien asked, leaning his forward, his elbows on his knees. George mimicked his friend's posture and their eyes glowed in the firelight as they watched Porthos.

"I did," Porthos nodded. "And I proved myself worthy of being a Musketeer—without nobility or a name to back me up. Captain Treville saw the man, not the title, and 'at's all what mattered to 'im."

"And the others," Bastien glanced at d'Artagnan, whose back was to Athos, "they accepted you?"

At this Porthos smiled. "The ones who mattered did," he replied. "The ones who didn't…," he looked up at Bastien, "don't matter."

They were quiet for a bit and Athos almost moved to join them when Bastien spoke up again.

"This place tomorrow," he started, clearing his throat before continuing, "I don't like it."

"Carcassone?" d'Artagnan replied, his low voice carrying a questioning lilt. "Why?"

Bastien shook his head and straightened up so that his face was caught in the shadow of George's body. "I just got a bad feeling," he replied. "Like…some of us won't make it out of there."

"It's a battle," Porthos shrugged, the stiff leather of his doublet creaking. "Like all the rest."

This time George shook his head, but as per usual stayed silent. Athos found himself wondering from time to time if the young man had been silent since birth, or had been struck dumb by events in his life. It had never occurred to him to simply ask; it was enough that George was a loyal friend and a capable solider. Athos didn't really need to know more.

"George is right," Bastien sighed, as though his quiet companion had said something profound. "It doesn't feel like the rest. It's an impenetrable, walled city that the Spanish only captured when the men inside were weakened by plague."

"Bastien," d'Artagnan softly reprimanded. "Athos would not lead us to our doom. He would not lead us into any battle without good cause. Trust him."

Athos felt a swelling of pride and gratitude blossom in his chest only to be immediately tempered by the crushing weight of responsibility his young protégé's words elicited.

Bastien looked over at the Gascon. "Do you?"

d'Artagnan turned his head to meet the young Parisian's gaze and Athos saw the firelight dance off of his friend's profile. "With my life. As I have since the day we met."

Bastien was quiet a moment. "You mean," he hedged, "after you tried to kill him."

d'Artagnan looked surprised, then his face relaxed into a smile and he chuckled. "Naturally, after that."

Porthos grinned and launched into a recounting of their insane plan to corner Cardinal Richelieu and his consort at the time, Milady De Winter. Athos was fairly certain the story would come round to illustrating the level of trust they'd had in one another to ensure their survival, but living through it once had been enough—he didn't need to hear it again. It made him think of Anne—a different Anne at the end than his men had known. One who'd been damaged, in pain, mostly due to his actions. One who'd loved him, despite all her treachery and betrayal…and his lack of faith.

He never let himself think of her long over these last years of war; there was a hole inside of him where his love for her had once resided. Nothing in war or friendships or brotherhood would fill that hole; it was best he ignore it and continue forward. He moved quietly away from his friends and the campfire, thinking about the next morning and how he was going to keep his men alive.

When the first gasp of morning lit the frost-covered grasses surrounding the quiet camp, Athos was no closer to a solution than he'd been the night before. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to make the men believe in themselves—in each other—once more before heading into this next fray.

By the time Athos reached the front of their makeshift parade grounds, his men were armed, standing at attention, looking resolute and ready. Athos stood at the front of the assembly, scanning the men—there were only a few dozen of them with him now, the rest ordered to follow the General to the south of the city—their weapons, the flags of their King. It reminded him of their first march up that fateful hill, how scared they'd been, how proud he'd felt.

Bauer had been standing on the front lines next to Porthos and d'Artagnan back then. As had Mathieu, DuFour, Magliore. All were gone now. Chewed up by war, or left behind by choice.

Now, instead of the danger that came with untested nervousness, Athos saw eyes that had witnessed too much death. A strange sort of carelessness in the men's bearing, a sense that whatever happened mattered not as their lives were expendable. Athos pinned his gaze on his friends, the men who had fought beside him, protected him, and protected each other.

Only George looked back at him. Porthos and d'Artagnan stared somewhere into the middle distance. Bastien was looking down the line of men as though saying goodbye.

"You men," Athos suddenly spoke, causing a few of them to startle with surprise. "Look to your left. Your right." He met Porthos' eyes and felt his mouth soften in an answering smile, seeing recognition in his friend's expression. "Those men you see there, they are your brothers."

He looked at d'Artagnan, watching as the young man brought his chin up and nodded, encouraging him on.

"When you fight, you do not simply protect France, your home, your country. You protect your brother!"

Instead of a war cry, this time his speech was met with silence, the only sound that of fifty armed men, breathing in sync with their Captain. It wasn't working this time; they had survived too many defeats, too much loss. It wasn't enough to rally them to King and country; their brothers were dying every day.

It wasn't enough.

"Listen up, you lot," Porthos said suddenly, his voice echoing off of the armor surrounding him. "Today, I don't fight for some bloke up in 'is tent all safe and clean, passing out orders like they was sweets. I don't fight for my country or even for Paris."

He half turned, his dark eyes taking in the men around him. He grabbed the back of d'Artagnan's neck in a gentle grip. "I fight for 'im." He pointed to George next to him. "I fight for 'im." He released d'Artagnan and pointed to Athos. "I fight for 'im! For the man next to me." He faced Athos once more. "What say you to that?"

The men murmured, armor shifting looking at each other, then back up at Athos.

"If I go down," Athos shouted. "You follow him," he pointed to Porthos. "If he goes down, you follow—"

"Me," d'Artagnan yelled. "We'll follow you, Captain. To the end!"

And at this, the men took up the rally cry Athos knew they needed. The march to Carcassone was a cold one, the snow finally deciding to fall. By the time they reached the walled city, the men were chilled and tired; tension was high as they surveyed their destination from the safety of the forest.

"No way we can attack that straight on," d'Artagnan muttered at Athos' side, quiet enough only the Captain could hear. "What were the General's orders?"

"To attack it straight on," Athos replied bitterly.

He knew a direct attack would be disastrous, but if the primary objective was to take back the city, there were other ways to do so. He just had to figure out how. And keep his men alive in the process.

"I 'ave a plan," Porthos spoke up suddenly from Athos' right.

Athos and d'Artagnan turned their heads in unison to look at him in surprise and not a little disbelief. Porthos met their eyes, then tilted his head in concession.

"I 'ave…part of a plan," he amended. "Got the idea from something we did back during my days in the Court." He reached behind Athos and grabbed Bastien by the scruff of the neck. "You know those tunnels that run from the Court to the sewers?"

Bastien nodded, confused, then Athos saw him glance toward the walled city as realization dawned. At the mention of the sewers, Athos thought of Aramis and wondered if Porthos had in some way inspired their friend's recklessly brave sojourn into the burning city back at Le Mans.

"I say we go in under the wall," Porthos released Bastien and looked at Athos, "real quiet like."

"It could work," Athos nodded.

"'course it'll work," Porthos chuffed. "We get in, find the General, cut off the 'ead of the snake, city's ours."

"Something tells me it won't be that easy," d'Artagnan muttered darkly.

Athos had to agree, but the plan was better than fifty men attacking the north wall without a cannon or hope of survival.

"We'll wait until dark," he said, then turned to pass the orders down the line of men.

By his estimation that gave them two hours. He spent the time breaking the men up into four groups, putting Porthos in charge of one and d'Artagnan another. He kept George with him and made sure Bastien was close to d'Artagnan. As the sun began to slip beneath the edges of the tree line, throwing elongated shadows across the plain between his men and the city, Athos focused his breathing, calming his suddenly racing heart.

This wasn't a true battle…it wasn't even a skirmish. They were attacking the city like bandits, looking only for a way to achieve their goal and get out alive. It wasn't very soldierly of them…and yet it was the first time he'd felt like they could actually accomplish something they'd been ordered to do in the nearly four years since the war began.

"We use the night as our shield," Athos said quietly to the men in his group, the first ones to head down. "We go in quietly and we hit them hard. Do not stop moving. Look only for the blade that will kill you and the color of the uniform before you. Understand?"

The men nodded. With that, Athos waved them forward, leading them toward the towering walls and finding the one of the sewer drains they would use to enter the city. The gate was clogged with moss, clumps of vegetation, and other elements Athos would rather not consider. The men were able to pull the bars free from the crumbling stone and, after a few moments of crawling through the stench of waste and garbage, they were inside.

Porthos' plan was solid…to a point. They were able to take the Spanish soldiers guarding the wall by surprise. Athos didn't stop to think of how many men they killed making their way further into the city. Where the plan faltered was in finding the Spanish General and forcing surrender of the city.

Once they were into the streets of Carcassone, Hell was redefined yet again.

Athos had kept Porthos and d'Artagnan's group in his sights for as long as possible, but the streets separated them. Instinctively, they headed toward the city center and the capital, and just as instinctively, the Spanish soldiers protected both with extreme prejudice. Athos followed his own orders, killing whoever came toward him, looking only at the blade, the uniform, not at the man.

The Spanish clearly didn't care for the integrity of their conquered city—a fact Athos realized with the first cannon blast. When the stone wall to his left began to crumble, he had only minutes to dodge out of the way of falling rock. As the dust cleared, he found himself facing off with three Spanish soldiers, his own men lost in the melee of the fighting. Crouching quickly, Athos grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and raised both, ready for their attack.

They were swift and sure, not coming at him in turns, but rushing as a trio of death. A blow landed on his left arm, turning his hand numb and causing him to drop the sword. Another sliced across his back, taking him to a knee, though the cut of the blade was blocked by chainmail. As he lifted his sword to block one blow, he saw another blade glinting in the light from the moon that had risen high above the city, its bright fullness a beacon for their attack. The blade came down fast and with his sword blocking another attacker, Athos knew he wouldn't be able to stop it. This was his time.

Except that it wasn't.

Like a bird of prey descending from the rooftops, George fell upon the soldier, knocking the blade from his hands. Athos shoved the sword he was blocking back with his full might, causing his attacker to stumble. He pressed his advantage, hoping George was able to hold his own with the man he'd dropped on top of like an anvil, and continued his attack.

It didn't take him long to dispatch the soldier and he turned, raising his sword toward another who approached carrying a torch, his eyes shifting between this new threat and the odd image of George perched on the back of the third Spanish soldier, his rapier at the man's throat, his dark eyes alight with determination as they reflected in the firelight from the torch.

"I believe he's asking you to surrender," Athos said.

The soldier responded in Spanish, and while Athos didn't understand a word, he got the general gist.

"He chooses to die instead," Athos said to George, not flinching as George drew his blade across the man's throat and dropped down to gracefully land on his feet when the man crumbled beneath him.

The two men turned to face the Spanish soldier holding the torch, their blood-smeared blades held before them. The Spaniard paused a moment longer, then turned and ran the other direction. Athos glanced at George and saw the younger man grin in response—just before another cannon blast shook through the now-deserted street around them. This time, the walls didn't as much as collapse as explode. Athos had a moment register the stone shooting like shrapnel toward him and then George was there, flinging his body against Athos' as the crumbling wall took them both down.

It took Athos a moment to catch his breath—and to realize that the weight on top of him wasn't a piece of the wall, but that of his soldier and personal, silent shadow. He pushed to his elbow, rolling the young man off of him and cradling his head in the process.

"George," Athos called, wincing at the amount of blood he saw covering the side of the young Parisian's face, turning to paste as it mixed with the dirt and dust from the broken building wall.

The young man blinked at him, the white of one eye stained red with blood, his mouth gaping open in a desperate bid for air.

"I have you." Athos reassured him.

George's lips moved, his body trembling in Athos' grip. Athos leaned forward, his ear to the boy's mouth, listening as the word, "Captain," slipped out on a shaking exhale. Athos felt his own breath hitch. He pulled his head up, looking at George's face in time to see the dark eyes slip closed.

"George." Athos tried to make it a summons, though even he heard the plea.

But George was dead weight against him; Athos felt the sticky smear of blood on the back of his head where his hand cradled it. He leaned forward, his ear to the young man's chest, listening, hoping. He placed his fingers over the slack mouth, feeling for breath. It took him much too long to connect the silence next to him with what it was: death.

"No," Athos breathed. "No, George, you can't…."

Athos gathered the lad to him, and realized then that more than the back of his head was covered in blood. The explosion had peppered the young man's back with bits of stone and metal, impaling him in places too numerous to count. His body had taken the brunt of the impact leaving Athos with no more than an aching head and ringing ears.

Athos sat in shock, holding George's body to him, tears burning his eyes. He was no stranger to death, to killing. But this was too close, too real. One of his men. A boy, really. Who'd saved him without a thought toward his own safety. He felt a growl build low in his throat, shaking through him as he gently laid George on the ground, smoothing his bloody hair away from his slack features.

A soldier came around the corner and Athos lifted a sword, ready to run the man through.

"Captain!" The man shouted and Athos blinked, belatedly recognizing one of the men from Porthos' group. "We've located the Spanish General!"

"Where?" Athos rasped, pushing unsteadily to his feet. The man grasped his elbow, balancing him.

"At the citadel, center square," the man said, pointing in the general direction of the center of the city. "Just as you thought."

"Our men?"

"All over," the soldier shook his head.

Athos bent forward and coughed roughly, trying to rid his lungs of the dust that now coated everything. He grabbed the soldier's arm for balance, then gestured toward George's body.

"Do not leave him here," he ordered. "When we leave, he leaves with us. Understood?"

The soldier was staring with stricken eyes down at George. "Yessir."

Athos staggered forward, the ringing in his ears abating but the headache raging fiercer than ever, following a path from his temple to his jaw. He reached up to rub at it, distractedly, and was surprised to find his hand come away wet, the pain from a cut across his forehead suddenly making itself known. Rounding the corner of a ruined building, he saw his men rushing stairs toward the capital, joined by more French soldiers in fresher, cleaner uniforms. He realized it had to have been their own General's men finally breaching the wall from the south.

Bodies were scattered across the city square—both French and Spanish. He bent and grabbed a discarded sword and made his way forward, no longer caring about taking the city—their General was handling that portion of the effort. He needed to find his men.

The moonlight worked with the chaos to mask faces and mangle bodies so that every dark-haired body was d'Artagnan, was Porthos. He heard more fighting to the south and headed that direction at a staggering run, his eyes never pausing, his mind skipping through images both real and imagined.

It felt like hours later, though he knew it was only minutes—battle had a way of warping time—when he came upon a street filled with soldiers doing their level best to end each other. Peering through the dust and smoke, he saw Porthos just beyond him, his schianova glinting off of the moonlight, his thick curls dusted with dirt and blood.

He searched for d'Artagnan—knowing they wouldn't be far apart—and saw him off to the right, just where the street widened into a crossroad. He was fighting with two swords, blood on his face and uniform—though from this distance it was unclear if it was his or his enemy's—his expression a mask of battle fury and rage that Athos had only seen a handful of other times.

Seeing his friends in the fight sent a surge of strength back into Athos. With a cry on his lips, he surged forward, sword swinging, body in constant motion as he headed toward Porthos. Someone crashed into him from behind and he turned, slashing, stabbing, killing, surviving. He was knocked to his back by a vicious blow, is vision spinning a moment as dizziness threatened to claim him, but swept his sword in a violent arc and sent his attacker back and away.

On his feet once more, Athos realized he'd maneuvered his way closer to d'Artagnan, who was now battling a large Spanish soldier on what looked to be a dias in the center of the city. The young Gascon had lost one his swords and Athos could see he was visibly tiring.

And if he could see it, the big Spaniard was definitely pressing that advantage. He looked around for Porthos, seeing the man wiping blood from his large, curved blade.

"Porthos!" he shouted, watching as the big man's head came up, his eyes finding Athos immediately.

Athos pointed his sword toward d'Artagnan, but then gasped and turned as another man attacked him from the side. He fought off this newest threat and continued to make his way toward d'Artagnan, seeing Porthos doing the same from the side, sweeping his sword at anyone who came at him. Athos made his way wearily up a flight of stairs to the dias, watching in detached horror as the big Spaniard knocked d'Artagnan's sword from his rubbery grip and, with a mighty sweep, seemed to slice the Gascon from back to front along his right side, blood immediately blossoming on his leather uniform

d'Artagnan's shout of pain seemed to split the night as he hit the ground, hard.

"No!" Athos roared, surging forward, knowing instinctively that he was not going to be fast enough. There were too many stairs, too much distance. He saw Porthos running forward, but he was further away than Athos.

The big Spaniard lifted his sword, the tip poised over d'Artagnan's body, the Gascon laying dazed and defenseless. Athos reached forward as he ran, his heart screaming as his head prepared for the sight of his friend's death.

And then without warning, Bastien was there. On the dias. Between d'Artagnan and the Spaniard's sword.

The blade drove through the young Parisian's chest with vicious force, slamming him to the ground, his breath leaving him in a rough cry. Porthos reached the scene seconds before Athos, his schianova stabbing into the Spaniard's neck and killing him instantly, practically separating his head from his shoulders as he fell to the side.

"No," Athos repeated, this time a breathless prayer.

He was on his knees next to d'Artagnan and Bastien with no memory have having fallen there. Porthos turned from the body of the Spaniard, a sound wrenched from him that was balanced on a knife's edge between rage and pain. The battle below them waged on, but they were elevated on the dias, a wall of an oddly protective circle of bodies between them and the rest of the carnage.

A sound of agony was wrung from d'Artagnan as he pushed upright, but Athos could tell by his face it wasn't from the pain of his wound. He struggled to a seated position and tugged at Bastien, trying to pull the younger man to him. The sword was pinning the young Parisian to the stone, keeping him in place. Porthos staggered forward, tugging the blade free and Athos watched, devastated, as d'Artagnan gathered Bastien close to him, whispering something Athos couldn't understand.

He recognized the lilt, however. It was the language of Gascony. And it sounded like a prayer.

"He's gone, d'Artagnan," Athos rasped, staring with blurring vision at how Bastien's skin appeared almost translucent in the moonlight, a thin line of blood trickling from his parted lips, his chest still. "He's gone."

Porthos' knees buckled and he sank down next to Athos, the two men staring in weary shock as d'Artagnan mourned his—no, their—friend. Athos was surprised. He couldn't recall seeing d'Artagnan this distraught over the loss of their fellow Musketeers—even Bauer—and he'd known those men since he'd first arrived in Paris all those years ago.

"No…," d'Artagnan gasped, pressing his forehead to Bastien's pale temple. "I told you to go…to stay away…."

And then Athos realized: d'Artagnan was mourning them—all of them. Losing Bastien made losing the rest of them real, made the whole point of this wicked war pointless and empty. As the battle for Carcassone faded around them, Athos leaned forward, his shoulders sagging. His heart was weighted, a stone in his chest, filling it up and making it impossible to breathe.

He remembered this feeling; he had felt this pain when Anne hung, when Thomas died.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos said softly, his tone so gentle that Athos looked up.

The moon shone down on them, d'Artagnan's dark head bent forward, his body curved around Bastien's. But even with that, Athos could see the darkening stain of blood on d'Artagnan's side. Wordlessly, he reached forward, thinking to take Bastien from d'Artagnan's arms so that they could care for his wound.

Out of nowhere it seemed, d'Artagnan drew his dagger and held it out, threateningly, toward Athos.

"Back off," d'Artagnan growled, the words devoid of everything save pain, the kind that stemmed from a crushed heart.

Athos drew his hands back, shocked, and exchanged a look with Porthos. They waited a moment until d'Artagnan's arm began to shake and he was forced to lower the dagger.

"Come on, lad," Porthos said quietly. "Let us 'elp."

At that, d'Artagnan raised red-rimmed eyes, simply looking at them, and Athos felt something inside of him break. It was so harsh and loud he would swear Porthos could hear it. d'Artagnan held Bastien tighter, his eyes pinned to his two oldest friends. Athos heard the shouts of victory—one of very few for this battalion—overtake the noise of battle and pulled in a slow breath.

"I told him…to s-stay back," d'Artagnan whispered, his voice raspy and weak. "I t-told him to stay safe."

"He was a soldier, d'Artagnan," Athos replied.

d'Artagnan huffed slightly, bowing his head. "What does that matter?" He shook his head and Athos saw a shudder race across his shoulders. "There is no honor in death."

Porthos shifted closer and, wary of the dagger still in d'Artagnan's hand, reached out to place a comforting hand on his young friend's shoulder.

"'e was protecting you," Porthos said, "like a true Musketeer."

d'Artagnan looked up at that and Athos saw tears pooling in his dark eyes, spilling down to draw tracks in the dirt and blood on his face.

"He never got the chance…," d'Artagnan started, but his eyelids fluttered, his head lolling back slightly. Athos felt is gut clench, wanting to reach out and offer some kind of aid, some kind of comfort, but holding himself still as d'Artagnan fought this one last battle next to Bastien. The young Gascon blinked his eyes wide once last time, shaking his head. "He never…."

Athos watched as d'Artagnan's eyes rolled back, a slick, hot pain radiating across his chest as his friend's body went slack and collapse against the stone. The dagger fell from slack fingers and d'Artagnan's hold on Bastien finally released. Porthos beat Athos to the Gascon's side by a breath and they were checking his pulse—rapid, thready—and his breathing—ragged, shallow—before seeking out the blood-soaked slash at his side.

"This is bad, Athos," Porthos declared.

Athos looked over his shoulder through the burned-out, gutted city. Small fires and torches lit the streets and alleyways. Here and there, pockets of French soldiers were marching prisoners of war toward the main entrance to the walled city, the scattering crack of musket fire punctuating the night with executions of those who'd clearly rather not be taken prisoner.

"Can you lift him?" Athos asked, feeling his own body echoing the hollow aches from having a wall nearly fall on him moments ago. He felt Porthos' eyes on him as he tracked the eerie dance of medics and battlefield merchants flowing into the city to see to the bodies.

"I lift 'im, who's carrying you?"

"I'm fine," Athos protested, looking back over at d'Artagnan, not fully aware of the way he swayed forward until Porthos caught his shoulder. "I'll…be fine," he amended.

The ringing in his ears had never fully abated and with the focus off of battle, every cut, every bruise, every cracked bone was standing up and demanding an accounting.

"You just stick close to me, yeah?" Porthos ordered.

Athos nodded mutely, watching as Porthos bent and scooped d'Artagnan's lanky frame into his arms, the dark head hanging loose over Porthos' arm, his feet swinging freely. Athos pressed his hand to Bastien's still chest.

"We can't leave him, Porthos."

"We'll come back for 'im," Porthos declared, moving down the stairs and toward the city gate.

Athos thought of the soldier he'd left guarding George's body, wondering if that man still lived. How many of his men were now lost? Swallowing hard, he grasped a discarded sword, and lay it on Bastien's chest, then folded his arms across the hilt. With a last glance—heartbreak and gratitude warring within him—Athos pushed unsteadily to his feet and followed Porthos down the stairs.

The world seemed distant, as if there was a bubble of silence wrapped around him. He felt himself stagger more than a few times, focusing his full attention on Porthos' back. He simply had to stay close, get out of the city, away from the smoke and the dust and the cries of the dying.

Breathe. That's all he really needed to do. Breathe.

Porthos stopped just outside the gate, d'Artagnan's left arm swinging loose, the metal of his blood-smeared chainmail glinting in the moonlight. Athos stood, swaying, staring at his young friend, thinking how Porthos made him look frail when he was actually dangerous.

"You with me, Athos?" Porthos' voice broke into his reverie.

Athos tried to nod, but the muscles holding his head to his shoulders seized up and he simply blinked.

"C'mon," Porthos growled. "'m getting you two out of 'ere."

"We left them, Porthos," Athos said quietly. "George…the wall crushed him and not me…and…Bastien…. We left them."

Porthos' breath shook slightly with his exhale. "We're comin' back for them," he reminded Athos. "Just as soon as I get you safe."

Athos followed obediently when Porthos began to walk again. The din around them changed from battle cries to pained screams the closer they drew to the make-shift medic's tent. Athos could smell the blood long before they reached the glowing lanterns of the tent. Porthos paused, shifting d'Artagnan's weight in his arms and causing the young Gascon to groan in pain, though he didn't fully rouse.

The sight before them was a thing of nightmares: cots and pallets where strewn about the tent, bloody bodies—most missing limbs—lying atop them. The screams threatened to curl Athos in on himself and the smell….

He staggered to the side, leaning forward and retching, the pain in his head spiking as he did so.

"Oi! Jon-Luc!" Porthos shouted.

Athos straightened and saw the Porthos had laid d'Artagnan down on a blood-stained cot that had been recently vacated by a man who wouldn't be returning to Paris. The young medic seemed to appear from nowhere and bent over d'Artagnan, parting the sodden doublet.

"Here," Jon-Luc thrust surprisingly clean bandages into Porthos' hands. "Wrap the wound tightly." He shifted to Athos and began prodding his aching head. "You've quite a gash here, Captain," Jon-Luc remarked, his voice gentling from the hurried, clipped tones he'd used with Porthos. "I'm surprised you're still on your feet."

"A wall," Athos started, then swallowed hard as a wave of dizziness threatened him, "fell on me. George…," he didn't miss Jon-Luc's flinch when he said the young man's name, "stopped it from…from crushing me."

"Where is George?" Jon-Luc asked, dropping his hands away from Athos' wound, his face paling.

"In the city," Athos answered truthfully.

Porthos turned and rested his hands on Jon-Luc's narrow shoulders. "We will go back for them, I promise you that."

"Them?" Jon-Luc rasped.

"Bastien also fell…both saving the lives of the men you see 'ere," Porthos reported, never taking his eyes from Jon-Luc's stricken face. "They were brave, to the end."

"They…," Jon-Luc replied in a strangled voice, "they always were."

For a moment, no one moved, then Jon-Luc turned suddenly, grabbing several packets and shoving them into a satchel. He hung the satchel around Athos' neck, then turned to Porthos.

"Take them back to the camp," he ordered. "If d'Artagnan stays here, he's as good as dead," he thrust a thumb back over his shoulder, "with these butchers at work. Athos is concussed and needs the herbs I put in that satchel." He shifted to square off with Porthos. "You will do much better treating them on your own than anything I can offer here."

Porthos squared his chin and looked back at Athos. "Can you make it back to camp?"

"I will follow your lead," Athos replied.

Porthos nodded once, then picked d'Artagnan up once more, the younger man gasping in pain and muttering incoherently.

"Give him the same herbs you give Athos," Jon-Luc instructed. "Clean and stitch the wound, and let him rest."

"You listen," Porthos practically growled, catching the young medic's attention. "You come back to us, you 'ear? You get back to camp, I'll get you 'ome."

Jon-Luc offered a smile and Athos thought it was the saddest thing he'd ever seen. "I don't have a home anymore." He swallowed roughly, his eyes pooling with tears. "Everyone who matters to me is standing right here, or," he winced, blinking the tears away, "still in the city. I'm good where I am."

Athos felt his heart pang once more, but turned and followed Porthos as the big man led him the long way back through the forest to their camp. The trees were silent, the path seeming to part for them, moonlight tilting along the skyline to show them the way.

Athos was aware of Porthos' shortened breath as he bore the weight of his friend, his steps heavy and lumbering through the undergrowth. He was aware of d'Artagnan's unconscious mutterings, curses and pleas, and the occasional whimper of pain when Porthos shifted his grip. He was aware of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears like a betrayal.

It was eerily quiet when they reached his tent. Porthos lay d'Artagnan on one of the two cots and immediately left to collect water. Athos sat heavily in the camp chair next to the cot, resting a trembling hand on d'Artagnan's filthy hair.

d'Artagnan stirred under his touch, flinching away, his hands moving as though to reach for a weapon. "What…?"

"You're safe," Athos said to him, unsure why that reassurance was the first he thought of. "d'Artagnan, be calm," he entreated as the younger man tried to push himself upright. "You've bled too much to—"

"Where are we?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Porthos entered the tent, water and more bandages in his hands. d'Artagnan looked at him, his expression at once terrified and confused.

"What happened to the city?"

"We took the city," Porthos informed him, setting his supplies down and reaching for the stained armor at d'Artagnan's shoulders. "You were wounded."

"What of our men?" d'Artagnan demanded, hissing as Porthos pulled the blood-soaked doublet away from his side.

Porthos shot a look toward Athos, but Athos couldn't seem to make his mouth obey him. Words of reassurance, promises for peace, were crowding at the base of his throat, choking him with their emptiness. He wasn't able to set a single one free.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos said quietly, resting a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "Bastien is gone."

"Gone?" d'Artagnan repeated, and Athos watched as memory caught up to the wounded man, washing over him like a tidal wave of pain. His face paled, his chin trembled, and Porthos had no problem pushing him back down on the cot.

As Athos watched with a sort of numb detachment, Porthos cleaned d'Artagnan's wound, rolling the young man to his side when he had to reach the skin along the back of his ribs, while d'Artagnan lay with eyes open and distant, the only sound he made an occasional, aborted bleat of pain. Tears slipped the corners of his eyes and soaked his hair, but Athos didn't hear one sound of grief.

"This'll 'urt," Porthos warned as he readied the needle and thread.

"Always does," d'Artagnan managed through bloodless lips. "You just never know 'cause you're always unconscious."

Porthos looked up at Athos, something like his old self shining in his eyes. "Is that so?"

d'Artagnan didn't reply, but Athos saw him grip the edges of the cot tight enough his knuckles turned white when Porthos began the laborious process of sewing his skin back together. His breath hammered in and out with such fervor Athos was afraid he'd pass out from lack of oxygen before the pain got to him. He leaned forward and rested his hand once more on top of d'Artagnan's head, the younger man pressing into his touch, searching for relief.

"Drink this," Porthos instructed and Athos couldn't help the worry that surfaced when d'Artagnan complied without protest.

The moment Porthos turned his attention to Athos, d'Artagnan closed his eyes and Athos saw him sink into the folds of the cot in an uneasy sleep. Porthos tended his wound—prompting Athos to commend him on his new skills as a field surgeon. The dark look he received in return encouraged him to not make that comparison again.

"Rest," Porthos instructed. "I'll head back to the city for our men."

"Sleep first," Athos said as he stretched his aching body on the other cot. "You're practically swaying on your feet."

"The men—"

"Will still be there in a few hours," Athos interrupted. "Don't ask me to make it an order, Porthos. Sleep."

To his immense relief, Porthos obeyed, stretching out on a pallet on the floor across the tent, but they were both jerked awake soon after by d'Artagnan's shout. The only thing that kept the younger man on the cot as he fought an unseen force in his dreams was the pain from his wound. Athos made it over to the side of his cot before Porthos and was able to settle him before he did himself too much damage.

"Aramis was like this for days after Savoy," Porthos said quietly from his bedroll on the ground. "Sometimes during the day it would suck the air from 'is lungs and 'is eyes would just…'e'd be back there, back in that woods again."

Athos nodded, a comforting hand on d'Artagnan's forearm, the younger man's loose grip on his wrist like a lifeline. "I remember." He didn't bother to point out that this was the first time Porthos had mentioned Aramis without prompting in almost three years.

"Suppose everyone's got their breaking point."

Athos sighed, looking at d'Artagnan's pain-lined face. "He's not broken, Porthos."

"Ain't never seen 'im like 'e was back in that city," Porthos countered. "Pulled a knife on you."

"He's not broken," Athos said again, softer, his hand tightening on d'Artagnan's arm.

Porthos slept another hour before taking a small wagon back to Carcassone. Athos woke many hours later to d'Artagnan leveraging himself to his feet with a pained groan, a hand wrapped around his middle, staggering to the entry of the tent at the sound of men and horses approaching. Athos joined the young Gascon, dropping a blanket around his narrow shoulders as they watched the men file back into camp.

Next to Porthos on the seat of the wagon was an exhausted Jon-Luc. Porthos pulled the wagon to a stop next to Athos' tent and waited as Athos and d'Artagnan made their way slowly to the wagon bed. Porthos had covered both bodies, but Athos could tell who was who by the tufts of hair he could see peeking out.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked his friend, peering up at Porthos.

Porthos simply shook his head, a haunted, hollow look in his eyes. "This war's over for them," he said. "It's the only peace I 'ave in bringing 'em back."

Athos moved closer to the front of the wagon, reaching up to put a hand on Porthos' leg. "Are you all right?" he repeated

Porthos looked down at him, then craned his neck to look back at where d'Artagnan stood staring at the bodies in the back of the wagon, the blanket Athos had given him clutched around his bare torso, the white bandage around his middle standing out in stark contrast to his dusky skin.

"No," he answered. "But…if we get out of this war…I will be."

They buried Bastien and George in a soldier's grave outside of camp. With Carcassone taken, the General was on the move again before Athos' headaches had fully abated or d'Artagnan's wound was completely healed. Porthos never left the Gascon's side as they marched, camped, and readied for battle once more.

d'Artagnan was so quiet during those days Athos worried he'd wouldn't be able to reengage. His nights were peppered with disorienting nightmares that only Porthos seemed able to pull him out of, his days were melancholy as he gazed around himself with distant eyes, as though he was seeing something not quite there.

When they engaged in the first battle since the loss of Bastien and George, Athos was anxious. Porthos' promises that d'Artagnan would do what needed done didn't exactly reassure him. He didn't want his men to have to charge into battle, barely healed, haunted by years of war and loss, and do what needed done.

He was weary of sending sword against cannon in an open field.

They met the Spanish somewhere outside Avion, in the middle of a field that meant nothing but death and destruction to the French army if they weren't able to equally engage the enemy. With his men covered in the dirt from cannon fire, sheltered in a crater left behind by the latest explosion, Athos made his way to the rear line, confronting their General.

As usual, his argument fell on deaf ears.

"You will hold the line at all cost, Captain. We have to take the field."

"Our cannon are useless," Athos shouted. "Where is the powder we were promised?"

The General looked irritated. "The supply wagon did not arrive. You will have to advance without artillery support."

Again, Athos couldn't help but think, his fingers curling into fists at his side. "There won't be a man left alive."

The General arched a brow at him. "You are soldiers, the King's own regiment," he reminded Athos. "Now, go out there and die for him."

Athos inwardly winced, remembering how he'd made a similar justification for sacrifice weeks prior. "That is your strategy? To watch good men slaughtered?" Athos returned, incredulous at the number of times this man could allow such destruction.

"Return to your men, Captain," the General ordered imperiously, "or I will have you court-martialed."

With a snarl, Athos turned and headed back to the field, finding Porthos and d'Artagnan huddled in a crater, biding their time.

"The only way out of here is to take out that cannon," Athos informed them, trying to steady his breathing.

Porthos nodded, pulling the hammer back on his pistol. "We need a plan."

d'Artagnan grunted as he arched his neck to look over the edge of the trench they were hiding in and found his target. "Attack."

"What?"

In that moment, Athos realized he had worried needlessly that the effect of war and loss would temper d'Artagnan's fire. What he should have worried about was how high the flames would surge when the odds tilted out of their favor and all hope seemed lost.

d'Artagnan caught Athos' eye, pulled his sword, and ran into the fray with a roar on his lips. "Attack!"

"'ey!" Porthos shouted as he reached uselessly for d'Artagnan's disappearing leg.

"I hate it when he does that," Athos muttered, but didn't miss the echoing grin on Porthos' face as they flung themselves away from the relative safety of the crater and followed d'Artagnan into the melee and chaos of battle, as he knew they would until they day they died.


a/n: Thank you for reading. The last portion of this chapter pulled quotes from S3 E1. Epilogue is next!