"Unlock the door!"

The young nun nervously squeezes past Porthos, and it takes her three attempts to fit the heavy key into the lock and turn it. Two other nuns, one of them with blood stains on her apron, are flanking the door, looking frightened. From inside, they can hear an angry man's voice and the sound of shattering glass.

Porthos pushes the door open, pistol cocked, and senses d'Artagnan following in his wake. Caval's henchman is fully awake, hunched over on the simple bed, straining against the ropes that secure him to the bed frame. A blood stain is soaking through the bandage around his middle, and he is staring at them through greasy strands of reddish hair.

"Cut me loose, you bloody bastards!" he growls. On the floor, beside the nightstand, shards of a drinking glass and an earthenware jug swim in a puddle of water.

"Not gonna happen." Porthos reaches the man first and pushes the barrel of his pistol against his stomach, right into the spot of the injury. The man falls back, spewing curses.

"D'Artagnan, tighten the ropes!"

D'Artagnan follows Porthos' command with dark glee. The robber yowls as he first loosens the ropes, then reties them firmer than ever, the man's wrists completely immobilized against both sides of the wooden bed frame without any room to even wriggle.

"Wait until my brother gets his hands on you," he gasps, curling up around his wound as much as possible.

"What do we care about your brother?" Finished, d'Artagnan trains his pistol back on the prisoner.

"Because Henri is going to kill you." A cackle, truncated by a noise of pain.

Porthos' eyebrows climb to his hairline. "Henri? Henri Caval? 'E's your brother?"

"Yes. You thought you killed him? You didn't. He wasn't even in that wood! And he's going to come and get me and send all of you to hell. Smash your arrogant musketeer faces. Like I did with your pretty little lieutenant. Not so pretty any more, is he?"

With a howl of rage, d'Artagnan has his pistol against the man's forehead before Porthos can stop him.

"No, d'Artagnan! Don't!"

Panting, his finger on the trigger, the young musketeer is staring at the man's leering face.

"He has to PAY, Porthos! He HAS to!"

"Yeah," Porthos agrees, carefully extending his big hand and placing it gently on d'Artagnan's outstretched gun arm. "Yes, an' 'e will. But not 'ere. In court. In prison. On the gallows hill in Paris. That's where 'e'll pay."

It pains Porthos to know this is exactly what Caval's brother is counting on. He knows they're musketeers. The King's own regiment. They have a lot of freedom in their choices, but killing an uncondemned suspect without cause isn't one of them. More than that; it's against the law they have sworn to protect.

"What difference does it make?" D'Artagnan all but screams. The death-defying grin on Caval's brother's face is fueling his anger, and he's shaking. "Let's put him down here and now. No one will know! No one but you and me. We will say it was self-defense!"

His hand still lightly on d'Artagnan's arm, Porthos wishes Aramis were here. Their medic is the best at talking any of them down and out of a red mist of rage. But Aramis' swarthy face is not appearing among the pale and frightened ones of the nuns hovering in the wide-open door. Apparently, Aramis has opted to stay with Athos after his seizure and trusts Porthos that he can manage the situation on his own.

"An' we'll both know it ain't true", he tries. "It'll be murder. We don' kill a man when 'e's down, not even a swine like 'im. Athos never would."

"Athos is DYING," d'Artagnan screams, pressing their prisoner's head into the pillow with the muzzle of his pistol. The man's provocative grin is slowly beginning to dissolve.

"'E's not," Porthos soothes, his hand now gently closing around d'Artagnan's arm. "Not if we can help it. An' even if 'e were, Athos wouldn't want this. 'E wouldn't want you to carry this. It'll haunt you. Both of us."

Sniffing, d'Artagnan casts a sideways glance at Porthos. His brown eyes, blackened by rage, brush his, a trace of insecurity creeping into them.

"You can go," he says, softer. "You don't have to be here. I won't put this on your conscience."

"I'm stayin'." Porthos doesn't budge. "You either put that guilt on both our shoulders. Or you put that pistol down."

The Gascon wavers. Breathlessly blinking at him, Caval's brother doesn't dare to move a muscle. They all know this is the moment that will decide about his life or death.

And then d'Artagnan pulls the trigger. The pistol's boom echoes from the thick walls, and Porthos closes his eyes in sorrow.

A painful whimper makes him open them again with a start. Instead of looking at the remains of a human skull, its bloody contents splattered all over the bed and the wall behind it, the scrunched-up looking, intact face of the highwayman is peeking up at him. A thin line of blood trickles from his left ear and into the blackened, smoldering hole in the pillow beside his head.

Satisfied, face settled into an expression of endless repulsion, d'Artagnan blows the smoke from his pistol and walks out the door.

Porthos' hasn't sighed this deeply in years.

XXX

With Robert Caval awake (Porthos' has quickly convinced him to give up his name, and, sadly, it hasn't even left much bruising), they've installed a roster of keeping watch over their still-bellicose prisoner. The nuns are grateful. They care for the rude and odious man, quietly and efficiently, but in palpable fear, alleviated only by the musketeers' strong presence. Since Aramis cannot leave Athos' side, it is up to Porthos and d'Artagnan to swap posts every few hours, watchful eyes on their prisoner as the other one sleeps or eats or helps care for Athos. It is a gruelling course of action, wearing them down to their bones, but now that d'Artagnan has purged his hatred, contentedly registering that Robert Caval is newly deaf in his right ear, they both stoop to the task, telling themselves that they're doing this for Athos. For their lieutenant who is still alive, still waging war with that fever in the room across the hall. They tell themselves that they're keeping Robert Caval safely stored away for the day when Athos wakes up, rises from his sick bed and stops the man's heart with one of his piercing, merciless stares. It helps.

In the infirmary, the fight for Athos' life continues. A second seizure occurs when, at the fall of night, Athos' fever spikes again in spite of all their efforts. It is not nearly as severe as the first one - he stiffens and twitches without any of the violent convulsions they've seen before, but it lasts longer and his lips take on a bluish tint. When it has passed, colour quickly returns to Athos' lips and the fever seems to retreat an inch, still burning through him, but no longer threatening to turn the musketeer into ashes. As morning approaches, they find they no longer need to replace the compresses as often, and Athos becomes responsive enough to swallow water and medicine, even if his eyes remain shut.

Aramis has checked Athos' pupils and takes reassurance from the fact that they constrict and dilate evenly. It is a good sign, as he's learned from Sister Marie, and yet Aramis is deeply worried. Seizures can cause irreversible damage. He's seen it before, survivors diminished in body and mind, dragging around paralyzed limbs, slurring their words, their thinking dimmed to the capacity of small children.

Aramis cannot bear the thought of anything like that happening to Athos. He cannot imagine less light in those sharp green eyes, recoils at the idea of the musketeer lieutenant's wit and brilliance being reduced to infantility. If Athos wakes as a shadow of himself, matted and crippled… no. It's an impossible thought.

When he is alone with Athos, he prays. One hand on Athos' chest, feverish heartbeat hammering against his palm, the other hand closed around the crucifix on his necklace, he shuts his eyes and recites prayers of protection, pleas for mercy and - when he's too tired to remember the lines - the Lord's prayer, like a mantra, repeated over and over in the hush of the candlelit room. Faith has always been a steadfast presence in his life, even during times when he wanted to walk away from it. His belief in God is strong, but doubt creeps into these dark hours of fear for his friend's life, doubt mainly in himself. In his ability to understand God's plan and what part he is to play in it. In his healer's gift, so terribly insufficient at this point, so inadequate.

"Please, Lord, guide me," he tells the walls of the infirmary, eyes closed. "Advise me what to do. Help me help my friend."

"Don't you think that is exactly what he's been doing for the last three days?"

Instinctively lifting his hand from Athos' chest, Aramis opens his eyes to find the Mother Superior pulling up a stool next to him. Her intelligent, calm eyes wander over Athos' half-exposed body, his skin glimmering in the candlelight, before they settle on Aramis. Crinkled kindness flows from her gaze.

"I don't know, Mother." A wavering sigh passes from his lips. He bows his head and runs his hands through his hair, sticky and in need of a wash. "All I feel is helpless. Powerless."

"Do not be so hard on yourself," the Mother says firmly. "Or on our Lord. The both of you have kept Monsieur Athos alive, and in hope of a healthy future. Considering his condition, that is a small miracle in itself."

As Athos shifts and sticks his foot out over the edge of the bed, the Mother Superior gently lifts it back onto the mattress and repositions the compress behind his knee.

Voice muffled, chin still on his chest, Aramis sighs again. "We need a bigger miracle, Mother. We need this fever to relent. We need him to wake up. And soon. And with the seizures… I don't know if he… he may not be…"

Exhaustion catches in his throat. He is too worn out to bring up any tears. Lead sloshes through his veins instead of blood. The stone floor is clinging to his feet. Eyes dry and burning, he catches his crucifix pendant between his fingers. Tries to draw strength from what it symbolizes and from the memory of who gave it to him.

A bony hand alights on his arm. A mug with warm tea, conjured out of thin air, it seems, is pushed between his hands.

"Miracles do not come easily," the old nun reminds him, one hand still helpfully cupped around Aramis' larger, shaky ones and the mug in his unsteady grasp. " They are hard work, and you have been working harder than any of us. Our Lord sees you. He helps the ones who help themselves."

Tea spills as Aramis sits up abruptly. "Then why is he helping Caval's brother? Why is he letting a man with a fatal wound live while Athos… Why?!"

There it is. The ultimate question that has kept Aramis from taking his vows. Neither celebacy nor obedience, burdensome as they are, could prevent him from devoting his life to God. But the injustice of it all, of everything he's seen, of what is happening here, and his inability to see God's plan - that is why, once again, he's sitting here, and the prayers are increasingly difficult to come.

"I could try to find an answer for you." The gnarly fingers of the Mother Superior push against the bottom of his mug, lifting it in an invitation to finally drink from it. "I could tell you that God may want Caval to face the judgement of a court. To learn humbleness in prison. To receive his chance at absolution from a priest. Forgiveness from you."

Aramis flinches in protest.

"But God, I'm afraid, has never been one for straight-forward answers," the old nun continues. "It is the questions we grow on, I find. How they make us feel. What they make us do. In your case," she nods at Aramis, "they have made you a musketeer. And now they are making you a better healer."

Thoughts swirl in Aramis' head. Words of wisdom are being delivered to him, by a woman who has loved God and struggled with his mysterious ways much longer than he has. Tired and raw, they don't quite fix what has come undone in him, but they provide solace that neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan can give.

"And," she adds with a fond, mothering look at Athos, "God made this a stubborn one. I could tell when you came with her Majesty. The way he fought. You both did, but you were afraid for the queen. Him - the lad is made of rock and steel. And a good heart tucked safely away underneath it." She dips a cloth into a bowl of water and leans in to run it over the unbandaged, sweaty parts of Athos' face.

A smile tugs at the corners of Aramis' mouth. "Don't let Athos hear what you just said when he wakes up. He's not only stubborn, he is also insists he doesn't have a heart. "

As if in confirmation, Athos rolls his head towards them, brow creased in a frown, but he does not wake.

"Would you like us to pray for him together?" The Mother Superior's soft question sounds noncommittal.

"Yes," he answers, and he reaches for the hand she is offering him. "Yes. I would like that very much."