AN/ Sorry for the delay - I was meaning to post yesterday but was ill so didn't manage. Anyway... lots of brotherly love and comfort to be had here. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

Chapter Twelve

The following morning, order had been restored throughout. Those Spaniards still living were kept locked under guard in the food hall, the dead had been moved downstairs until they could be dealt with, and the musketeers had set a perimeter.

In a room decorated liberally and expensively, Porthos and Aramis cared for their brother, and tried to deal with the new wave of guilt that flowed over them, alongside the shock and relief about finding their brother alive after all this time. Lying in a four-poster bed, d'Artagnan had slept soundly through the night, although Aramis expected this was more to do with ill-health and exhaustion rather than comfort.

Between them, Aramis and Porthos had washed d'Artagnan, noting every jutting bone, the pale and sallow skin, and the bruises and scratches that mottled his body. There were also scars showing previous signs of injury that hadn't been treated properly. Aramis had also noted some tenderness around both of d'Artagnan's shoulders.

The damaged leg, which was his biggest concern, was not something that could immediately be fixed or, Aramis dreaded to think, would probably never be wholly fixed. With the bones fused incorrectly, it had to be causing an inordinate amount of pain, but short of re-breaking them right there and then, there was no quick fix, and so he bound it tightly and placed a warm compress on it in the hope of relieving the pain.

After washing and treating d'Artagnan as well as they could, and cutting his ragged and knotty hair back to just above his shoulders, they dressed him in loose trousers and a shirt located in one of drawers of the room they now occupied, and settling him onto the bed.

Throughout all of this, he had barely stirred, and certainly not lucidly so.

Aramis had managed to get a bit of broth down his throat, but it was a difficult manoeuvre.

But as morning arrived, d'Artagnan began to stir on his own account. Instantly both Porthos and Aramis were at his side.

"Come on d'Art," called Porthos. "Come on back to us." There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

Gently but firmly, Aramis took a hold of d'Artagnan's hand in his.

"Wake up d'Artagnan," Aramis pleaded.

Slowly but surely, d'Artagnan's eyes opened and he blinked hazily. It was clear that he found the brightness of the room disorientating as he slammed his eyes back shut, and Porthos moved to quickly shut the curtains.

"It's alright d'Artagnan," Aramis coaxed. "It's not a bright now."

D'Artagnan once more opened his eyes and Aramis saw that there were tears there. He tried to speak but his voice was hoarse and it came out as a barely distinguishable croak.

"We're here, we have you," Aramis reassured. "You're alive and… you're alive and we have you. You're going back to Paris. You're safe now. You're safe."

D'Artagnan tried to lever himself up, but was too weak to manage it. Porthos guiding him to sit upright in the bed, and then wrapped him in his huge arms in a hug that the older musketeer was reluctant to stop. For his part, d'Artagnan merely let himself be held. His eyes were almost as large as saucepans, as if he were a child seeing snow for the first time.

Once levered upright, the tickle that had been stuck in his throat for weeks let itself be known and he found himself giving out a hacking cough that left him trembling. The persistent throbbing soreness had set in months ago and refused to abate… it had been lingering for so long that d'Artagnan couldn't recall what it felt like to not feel it. The cold too… and the hard stone beneath him, pressing into his jutting bones with no relief.

Wrapped in the arms of Porthos – Porthos – he tried to take in the sudden changes… he was settled on something soft, he was warm for the first time in months, and while the pain was still ever-present, he was touching someone… or rather, someone was holding him… not cruelly, not tightly, but firmly. Porthos was warm, his presence reassuring, just the feeling of inundated human interaction was enough to overwhelm him.

When the coughing had subsided and the wheezing had quietened, though not completely disappeared, he opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn't get the words to tumble off his tongue. His throat felt dry and he'd spent so long being resolutely silent under torture, or without any human conversation at all, that he seemed to have forgotten how to work his voice. He croaked an odd sounding sigh, and Porthos pulled back a little, though didn't remove his hand from d'Artagnan's shoulder. Aramis had also settled on the bed, on the opposite side.

"Don't try to talk just yet," Aramis said, appearing to understand d'Artagnan's dilemma. "Can you drink a little broth for me?"

D'Artagnan, whose eyes were still opened frightfully wide, nodded ever so slightly. His newly brushed hair fell into his face, and Porthos pushed it out of the way while Aramis gently guided a cup of warm broth into d'Artagnan's hands. The Gascon's hands shook, and Aramis found himself supporting the cup as d'Artagnan made to drink. He managed about three or four swallows before his face morphed into a sickly colour that had Aramis removing the cup and pushing a bowl into d'Artagnan's lap where he promptly threw up what he'd just tried to eat.

Porthos looked at Aramis with a startled and moderately frightened expression.

"It's okay," Aramis soothed, speaking to d'Artagnan, but offering an explanation to Porthos as he removed the bowl. "You're just unused to having food in your stomach. It may take a while to grow accustomed to it again."

D'Artagnan nodded and seemed to sink back into the pillows, despite Porthos' supporting hand. It was clear that he was incredibly weak and the dark shadows under his eyes told of his exhaustion levels.

D'Artagnan tried to speak again, and this time succeeded.

"Thank you," the words came out in a jagged croak that sounded as if d'Artagnan had been gargling glass, and it had all three men wincing at its sound.

"I'm sorry it took us so long to find you," said Aramis quietly.

"I'm so sorry d'Art," added Porthos, still not yet releasing the lad from his grip. "We're so sorry…"

"It's okay," d'Artagnan croaked out. There were tears in his eyes as he finally, truly realised that his brothers were here. "It's okay."

Porthos pulled him into a tight hug, which Aramis joined, and the three men remained together until d'Artagnan gasping sobs finally dissipated, and they felt his body sag as he fell asleep.

Carefully, Porthos lowered d'Artagnan back into the bed and pulled the covers up to keep him warm, as his skin still felt cold to touch.

"We'll need to let him sleep whenever he can, but also start getting him used to food a drink," said Aramis. "We'll start with only a spoonful or two of broth and odd sips of water until his body starts to re-adjust. He won't be travelling until that wheezing has subsided and he can stomach at least a small meal."

"We're to hold the keep, but we'll be expected back to the Front sooner rather than later," Porthos said. "Athos… oh God… Athos doesn't know. He still thinks…"

Aramis appeared startled by the mention of Athos' name as he suddenly realised that his friend still believed d'Artagnan to be dead.

"I'll speak with Etienne," Aramis said. "It's my hope that d'Artagnan will revive, physically at least, rather quickly."

Porthos nodded.

"Will you stay with him awhile?" Aramis asked. "I'll go update the others and then get a few hours kip before relieving you."

"Sleep as long as you need," Porthos said.

"You're going to have to let go of him eventually," Aramis said softly, noting that Porthos still rested a hand on d'Artagnan's arm.

"Not just yet though," Porthos replied.

Aramis huffed a sigh and then dipped his head in submission to Porthos' whims before stepping out of the room, leaving Porthos to guard over their sleeping brother.