It had been an extremely long, frigid, tedious day of guard duty as the Palace readied itself for the King's party that night. The three musketeers were given permission to head back to the garrison, grab a meal, change into their best uniforms and return in time for the arrival of the guests. Happy for the short reprieve, they hurried to the stable and retrieved their horses. The ride back to the garrison through the bitter cold was unpleasant and they were happy when they got to the courtyard. They swung off their horses and handed them over to the stable lad who promised to give the beasts a quick meal.

The musketeers, themselves, were starving and decided to go directly to the dining hall hoping Athos was already there and waiting for them. He had recovered to the point that he could make it down for meals, when he chose to, which wasn't always every meal. But perhaps tonight he would surprise them and be sitting at a table.

They entered the mess hall, stomping to get the snow off their boots. Warm air engulfed them and wonderful smells assaulted their senses. Though food was growing scarce in Paris, Serge always managed to come up with delicious fare to keep his men properly fed and able to carry out their duties.

The room was about half full of musketeers making it easy for the three to quickly determine that their fourth was not here. They decided to eat before chasing down the missing Athos. Loading up their plates, the three found a table near the fire and settled to partake of their meal. As they were eating, Charles and Henri, two other musketeers, passed by on their way outside.

"See you fellows back at the Palace tonight?" Henri called out, stopping at the side of their table.

"But of course," Aramis replied with an easy smile as he looked up from his meal. D'Artagnan and Porthos grunted and nodded their heads but didn't stop eating. Where those two put all the food they managed to consume was still a mystery to their fellow musketeers.

"I can't believe Athos is ready to be back on active duty already. You are one hell of a physician, Aramis. Next time I'm injured I want you patching me up," Charles sincerely complimented the medic musketeer.

"Thank you Charles, but Athos is certainly not ready for duty yet. What makes you think he is?" Aramis' tone was light, but his brothers, who knew him best, heard his worried undertones. It caused them to stop eating and raise their heads to listen.

A puzzled expression crossed Charles' face as he glanced over at Henri. "Wasn't that Athos in the stable, earlier today?" he hesitantly questioned the man standing next to him.

"Yes," Henri confirmed. "He was in Roger's stall. In fact, I saw him a couple of times during the afternoon. He was carrying sacks into the barn."

"Really," Aramis said cocking an eyebrow at Porthos and D'Artagnan. "Any idea what was in the sacks?" That comment was addressed to Henri.

The musketeer shook his head. "No. But I saw four. Not sure if there were anymore. I was going to offer to help, since I know he was recovering and all. But I wasn't sure if he was still annoyed at me because I couldn't find him the other day and Treville had to bring him lunch." Henri gave an apologetic shrug. "Was sorry to have to bother the Captain, but I didn't know what to do when I couldn't find him."

"From what I heard," Charles rejoined the conversation, "Treville found him collapsed in the hallway and had to help him to his room. Come to think of it, Athos really must have made an amazing recovery if he is ready to stand guard at the Palace tonight."

Porthos', who had been getting more agitated as the conversation progressed, slammed his fist on the table causing the crockery to rattle. "He is not ready! And after I get done with him, he really won't be."

The rest of the musketeers in the dining room glanced over at their table to see what was going on. Aramis gave them cheerful smile and said, "Sorry. He thought he saw a bug." A few people shook their head in disbelief but everyone turned away and went back to their meals.

Henri and Charles exchanged uneasy glances, unnerved by Porthos' outburst. "Ah, I hope we didn't say anything...ah...wrong."

It was hard to tell if Charles and Henri were more afraid of Porthos or what Athos might do if he found out they tattled on his activities.

"Well, we best get going. Busy night and all," Henri said edging away from the table. Charles gave him a little shove to move faster and they quickly headed out the door away from the three Inseparables, all of whom wore stormy expressions.

"What the hell is he up to now!" Porthos growled, though he managed to keep his temper in check enough not to bang the table again.

"I don't know," D'Artagnan said thoughtfully, "but I think a trip to the stables is in order. See if those sacks are there and what's in them."

Porthos rose from the table. "Got that right."

All three left the mess hall and headed across the courtyard to the stables. It was still bitter out and the wind had picked up. It was hard to tell if it had started to snow again or if it was the snow already on the ground being blown about. When they got to the barn, they were happy to enter its relative warmth.

Walking down the hard packed dirt aisle, they headed for Roger's stall and found the black stallion contentedly munching on his hay. He flicked an ear at them and gave a small snort of recognition though the dark amber eyes sought out the one man that was missing.

D'Artagnan walked up to the beast and rubbed his velvety nose over the half door of the stall. "Sorry boy. Athos isn't with us. You're missing him, aren't you?" Reaching higher, he scratched under the stallion's long, lush, black forelock. Roger gave the equivalent of a horse sigh and leaned into the administrations.

Porthos peered into the stall and spotted the sacks that Henri and Charles had mentioned in the rear corner. In total, he counted six of them. D'Artagnan stopped rubbing Roger's head and moved out of the way, as Porthos entered the stall, pushed the horse aside and examined the sacks. Roger wasn't happy with the musketeer poking about his stall, especially since it stopped him from having his head rubbed. But he was too well-mannered to do more than snort and stomp his left rear foot. He had spent enough time in the presence of these men, along with his owner, to realize they were part of his herd and therefore deserved respect. If they were strangers, well then maybe his foot stomp would have been a swift kick.

Untying the knot securing the top of one of the sacks, Porthos peered inside, but it was too dark to see what was in the bag. Cautiously, he reached inside and wrapped his hand around an object and drew it forth. When the item was free of the bag, he stared at it in disbelief.

The two musketeers behind him couldn't see what he had drawn out of the bag and were wondering why he was standing there, frozen. "What is it?" D'Artagnan demanded with impatience.

Slowly, Porthos turned around and held the object aloft. "It's a doll."

The expressions on the other two musketeer's faces now matched his own. Total bewilderment.

"I don't even know what to make of this," Porthos said, holding the doll with two fingers as if it were a lit bomb.

"Are all the bags filled with dolls?" D'Artagnan questioned as he entered the stall and helped Porthos drag the sacks into the aisle where the light was brighter.

Two of the containers held toys, two confectionary items, and the last two childrens sized haberdashery such as socks, hats, scarves, and mittens. After thoroughly examining all six sacks, they replaced all the items, except one doll, and then dragged the bags back into the rear of Roger's stall. The doll Porthos tucked inside his doublet so he could confront Athos with it.

Porthos was fuming as they left the stable and headed for the injured musketeer's quarters. "He's up to something. He won't ask for our help. And he will probably get himself killed doing whatever the hell it is!"

"At least we know what he has been doing these last few weeks, when he disappeared. He must have been gathering up all those items. Maybe that is why someone attacked him the other night. Maybe he was carrying a sack through the city and someone thought to rob him," D'Artagnan suggested as they walked through the snow towards Athos' room.

Porthos snorted skeptically. "They must have been pretty desperate to ambush a musketeer."

"But if they thought it might be food, given the conditions in Paris," Aramis shrugged, "they may have felt it was worth the risk."

Porthos didn't even knock when they arrived at Athos' door, but rather burst through it, strode across the room, and dragged the sleeping man upright by the front of his shirt.

"Porthos! Be careful! You'll hurt him," Aramis admonished his angry brother.

With a grunt, Porthos dropped Athos' back onto the bed.

Athos involuntarily cried out in pain as his injured shoulder was wrenched and his ribs were stressed by the unexpected movement. The sudden change in elevation also caused the pounding in his head to intensify. He winced as he covered his eyes, with his hand, ashamed at the few unbidden tears that slid down his face.

It was like a fog bank lifted and suddenly Porthos realized he had caused his brother pain with his rough actions. "I'm sorry, Athos." Porthos reached down to comfort his injured friend.

"Don't touch me," Athos ground out through clenched teeth as he tried to scoot away from Porthos.

Ashamed, Porthos stepped back and hung his head. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

D'Artagnan walked over to the contrite man and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Porthos. You let your concern get the better of you. As Athos says, you thought with your heart, not your head."

Athos, suddenly, bolted upright, stumbled from the bed, and fell hard, on the floor, on his knees. Pitifully crawling a few feet across the wood, he lunged for the bucket near the end of his bed and hung his head over it in misery. Even though it was mostly dry heaves, each jerk of his body made his head swim and his stomach, shoulder, and ribs ache. When the spasms abated, he crawled a few more feet to the nearby wall, propped his back against it, pulled his knees into his stomach and buried his head on his chest.

His wretchedness knew no bounds as he hunched against the wall in utter misery. How was he supposed to do what was required when the damn effects of this concussion were still debilitating him? The headache was ever present and he was tired of fighting its painful throbbing. The dizziness still caught him unaware at times, suddenly appearing out of the blue for reasons he couldn't fathom. And the nausea, which he thought had passed, apparently was making an encore appearance. Last, but not least, was the infernal exhaustion, which made even the simplest of tasks a marathon. Carrying the sacks to the stable had nearly done him in today. How was he going to accomplish the rest of his journey?

The distress in Athos' voice as he despondently whispered, "How can I do this?" tore up his brothers' hearts. They had rarely seen their de facto leader so dispirited. But, as always, his sense of duty and honor overrode his common sense and he vowed he would complete this task, no matter what it cost him.

D'Artagnan moved across the room and squatted in front of the morose musketeer. "You know, Athos, whatever it is, you don't have to go it alone. We are your brothers. We share your happiness and your sorrow. We don't judge the sins of your past, for we all have them. In your darkest hour, we will always be there for you, no matter what. Surely, there is nothing on heaven and earth the four of us can't accomplish, if we support each other."

Athos slowly raised his head, his pain-wrought eyes sought D'Artagnan's face as if to check the validity of his words. His voice was tumultuous and self-deprecating as he whispered, "Can you make this throbbing in my head cease? The nausea disappear? The spinning of the room?"

D'Artagnan glanced up at Aramis, who had moved to stand next to him, for advice.

"And," Athos added, his voice lightening a bit, "as much as I enjoy your company, two of each of you is a bit more than I can take."

Aramis gestured to the Gascon to assist him in getting Athos over to the bed. "It's too cold in here to be sitting on the floor."

Reaching down, the two musketeers gently assisted Athos to his feet and steadied him as he moved back over to the bed. They lowered the weakened man onto the edge of the mattress where he sat a bit unsteadily. Porthos remained hovering in the background, unsure how Athos would react if he lent aid.

Aramis could easily sense Porthos' uneasiness and he knew it was up to him to rebuild the bridge between his two best friends, both of whom could be as stubborn as mules. "Athos, your wound is bleeding. I need you to hold steady while I re-stitch it."

"You said it didn't need stitching," Athos accused his friend.

"Yes, but that was before your little escapades in the stables," Aramis retorted briskly as he turned and walked away to locate the medical kit he kept in Athos' room.

The swordsman raised his head and stared at Aramis' back as he walked across the room. How had they found out about what he had been doing earlier in the day? The garrison had been all but deserted with everyone out on guard duty. Based on Aramis' comment, however, he must have been mistaken about being unobserved. Never one to show his cards until he had to, Athos remained quiet to see where this conversation would go next.

Finding what he sought, Aramis brought the kit over to the table in the room and unrolled it to examine the contents. "Porthos, I believe you had something to show Athos?"

Silently, Porthos reached inside his doublet as he walked over to where Athos was perched on the bed. He withdrew the doll and held it out to the former Comte who took it without comment.

Aramis glanced over at Athos, who was sitting there staring at the doll with an unreadable expression on his face. "I know you aren't fond of flesh and blood women, but a doll? Really, Athos?"

The swordsman's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what Aramis was insinuating.

"Now," Aramis roguishly continued as he held aloft a threaded needle, "if Porthos had found that doll in the whelp's saddle bags I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

"Hey," D'Artagnan protested. "I don't play with dolls."

"Of course you don't," Aramis replied in a tone that indicated the exact opposite.

"It's alright, pup," Porthos said with an insincere pat on the boy's shoulder. "We won't tell Treville. Wouldn't want the good Captain thinking he was mistaken to allow you to get your commission."

Athos continued to sit on the bed studying the doll he had draped across his knees. With a tentative finger, he touched the fancy stitching on the doll's pink, frilly dress. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary," he remarked absentmindedly.

Gesturing for the still slightly miffed D'Artagnan to move a small side table closer to the bed, Aramis placed the supplies he required on top of it. "Porthos, would you be so kind as to assist Athos in removing his shirt."

The street fighter and the swordsman eyed each other with awkward trepidation, neither one totally past their previous altercation.

This simply had to stop, Aramis thought. Reaching over, he removed the doll from Athos' lap and set her on the table. "Gentlemen, we don't have all night. We are expected back at the Palace soon to stand guard over the King's ill-advised party. I don't know about you, but Captain Treville is irritated enough about this stupid soirée. I don't think it would be wise of us to test his patience by failing to appear on time."

Neither musketeer moved, causing Aramis to sigh noisily. "Porthos, do you plan in any way, shape, or form to cause Athos anymore pain than will normally occur in removing his shirt?"

"Of course not! I'm truly sorry, Athos. About earlier. The pup was right, I was thinking with my heart, not my head," the repentant Porthos replied sincerely. "But, brother of the heart, it frustrates me that after five years you still don't trust us!"

Athos' green eyes appeared confused as his gaze swept over all this comrades. "I trust you, all of you. You always have my back."

"You trust us with your life, but not your heart. I know you have been hurt, Athos, by people who have been your friends and family. And if I could, I would make each and every one of them pay for what they have done to you."

Aramis and D'Artagnan smiled at Porthos' passion and sincerity, for they all felt the same way.

Athos' expression remained mostly cautious, though there was a glint of hope in his eyes giving clues to the internal conflict going on in his soul. The swordsman truly wanted to believe that he had found trustworthy people deserving of his unconditional love, but a part of him still remained skeptical. His friends only had been made privy to a small glimpse of his former life. His dear companions had no clue of the depth of the damage done to his psyche and the resultant baggage. Athos had grave doubts he could ever overcome portions of his past. They would haunt and tear at his soul until he was sent to hell as his final punishment.

"And I will never betray you, my brother. You have my solemn promise," Porthos vowed dropping on his knees in front of Athos. "As God is my witness, never." Slowly, the guileless warrior extended his hand. "Never," he ferociously growled. "And I will kill anyone who does."

Athos studied Porthos' face looking for any minute trace of falseness. Reaching across, Athos bridged the gap and took hold of the offered hand. With care, Porthos drew Athos into an embrace.

"I will try my best," Athos whispered in his brother's ear, "to trust with both my head and my heart. But I fear I may fail."

"And if you do," Porthos gruffly replied, "I'll be here to remind you of my love."

"We all will," Aramis injected as he placed one hand on Athos' shoulder and the other on Porthos. "In the eyes of God, I swear I will never break your trust."

"Nor I," D'Artagnan added as he two clasped his brother's shoulders. "All for one."

"And one for all," they replied.

"Now that we have that resolved, while I stitch your wound, again, how about you tell us the tale of why the Comte de la Fère has toys hidden in his noble steed's stall."


Author's Note: So, do we now know what the Comte de la Fère is up to? Chapter 1 has always held the answer to the mystery. I hope you will hang around for the last three chapters and continue to leave your interesting commentaries.