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Chapter Twenty One

Marcel pushed at the food in his bowl and tried to swallow the spoonful he had shoveled in. He wondered again why he was so bothered by the fact none of the men had returned yet. It wasn't like they were going to allow him to stay once they came back anyway. The thing was, he'd seen the type of men who came out of that tavern and what they did to people.

Serge gathered up the various bits left from supper and watched as the boy sat off to one side and played with his stew. It wasn't like him to knock back food and he wondered what was going on. Most of the men had moved off, although a couple still sat at various spots, cleaning weapons or talking quietly. The garrison had a strange feel to it over the last few days, since Treville had ridden out and not come back. They'd all seen or heard about the dispatch rider who'd come with something urgent for Denier, but the man had remained tight-lipped. It didn't bode well for their comrades and the tension had risen a notch or two. Perhaps the lad was simply picking up on that, Serge reasoned to himself.

After finishing his work, he looked across to see Marcel still sitting where he had parked himself, against a far wall. With nothing needing his attention and time on his hands, he wandered over to where the boy sat. The light from the wall sconces flickered in the faint breeze and it looked as though the boy was trying to keep himself hidden in the shadows.

"Something bothering you, me boy?"

Marcel looked up, startled out of his reverie. He stared up at the face of the old man and wondered what to say. He wasn't used to anybody caring what he thought. For that matter, he wasn't used to old people. Where he came from, most people didn't live that long. He had wondered about the old man who fed the troops and managed the needs of the garrison, but had never been confident enough to ask. He'd just assumed he was a musketeer who got too old to ride his horse.

"Not like a strapping young lad like you to leave food in his bowl."

Marcel looked down to see that he still had cold stew sitting in the bottom of the bowl and he gulped in surprise. Never in his life had he experienced the luxury of being too full to leave food uneaten. He hastily scooped the remains into his mouth and swallowed. Once the men came back, he would probably be turned out on his ear and with no more coin forthcoming either, he had no idea where his next meal would come from.

Serge knew his knees would not withstand him sitting down on the ground next to the boy so tried a different tactic.

"Can you give me a hand with taking these things back? My back isn't what it used to be."

Marcel scrambled to his feet and followed Serge over to where he had trays and bowls stacked on a table. Before they could gather up anything, both of them heard horses coming towards the garrison. Marcel ran towards the gate and was disappointed to see two men riding straight past. He clung to the wall and stared down the alleyway, as if expecting to see more riders coming back. Darkness had long since closed in and he suddenly remembered that Serge was waiting for him.

The older man watched as the boy trudged back towards him. He smiled to himself as he'd seen the way the lad watched Porthos whenever he was around. The fact they had a common background was not lost on the older man. He'd been there when Porthos had first arrived at the garrison and while there were some who thought he didn't have what it took to become a musketeer, he wasn't so sure. He saw tenacity and determination. He saw a heart that matched the man's size. He saw a man who grasped hold of a second chance and gave it all he had. He had been among those who had cheered loudest the day he earned his commission.

Musketeering was a young man's game and Serge had long passed the time when he could keep up with them. His body may not be there, but his heart still was and he was just as concerned as Marcel. It was not like Treville to just leave the way he had and the fact the men who had all left under escort of red guards had not returned, was not sitting well with any of them.

He silently handed a tray of dirty bowls to the lad and pointed towards the scullery door. He slowly gathered up the rest of the things and followed after him, but not before turning to take one last look at the gate. As he walked into the scullery, he saw Marcel sitting on a stool chewing on an apple. The deep furrow on his forehead betrayed his thoughts and Serge simply began washing up. After fifteen minutes of silence from the end of the bench, he finally stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands on a cloth and sat down.

"All right then. Young ones like you aren't built to carry the whole world on your shoulders."

Marcel stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language.

"I just meant, you look like you are carrying a heavy weight over there. Maybe you could do with someone to help."

The boy frowned in confusion. What was it about this place where people seemed to confuse him on a daily basis? Finally he decided he had nothing left to lose.

"Do you know about the place that lives in here?" He pointed to his chest and chewed on his bottom lip. "Your consh … con … the bit that tells you when you messed something up?"

Serge nodded slowly and smiled. "You mean your conscience? Yeah, I know about that place."

Marcel swallowed and tried to find the right words. "The nun once told me it hurts here when you got something wrong."

"And yours hurts?" Serge turned serious again.

Marcel nodded miserably.

"How do you make it stop hurting?"

"Well, s'far as I know, you have to do something to fix what you did wrong. If you can."

Marcel stared at him as tears threatened in his eyes. "What if you can't?"

"Well … I guess you can try and tell someone you are sorry."

"What if they don't believe you?"

Serge leaned across the table and tapped the wood in front of the boy. "If you are really sorry, they'll know."

Marcel leaned his chin on his fist and tried to pull himself together. "If they don't believe me … they'll make me leave."

And finally, there was the crux of the problem. Serge had been around long enough to know that orphaned children did not always survive on the streets of his city.

"If it helps, I have been here a long time. Someone once told me this was a place for second chances. Where people get to start over. I've seen it happen for others, so I don't see why it can't be for you."

For the first time all night, he noticed a glint of hope in the boy's face. He stood up and went back to cleaning up, leaving the lad to chew over his words.

It was some time later that they both heard it. A commotion in the outer yard had Marcel on his feet and running for the door. Serge followed after him, albeit at a much slower pace.

A small crowd had already gathered in the courtyard and Marcel pushed his way along the edge of it. He stared as five men rode slowly into the enclosed yard, led by their captain. Treville slid down from his horse and was greeted by Denier and several other men. The group was quickly surrounded by concerned friends and helping hands reached out for the clearly exhausted riders. D'Artagnan watched as Athos climbed down unassisted from his horse and he rushed to make it to his side. The ache in his body reminded him that he was far from well and he grasped at the horse's stirrup to steady himself. Athos pushed closer to him and he felt an arm around his shoulder, keeping him from swaying. It struck him as wrong because it was Athos who needed tending, not him. That idea very quickly got trampled on as Aramis appeared in front of them and began issuing instructions.

Marcel watched as the men made their way across the practice yard, towards the living quarters and he quickly scrambled to lead a horse into the stable. Perhaps if he could show them how good a job he did taking care of their horses, he might get a chance to begin to make amends.

With unspoken agreement, Aramis and Athos steered d'Artagnan towards his quarters as Porthos hurried ahead to find the things he knew from experience that Aramis would want. Treville had disappeared somewhere, presumably to debrief Denier and catch up on anything he needed to know of from their time away.

It wasn't long before Aramis had finished grinding out a pain draught and had it steeping beside him while he began to check over his first patient. It was clear to all of them that d'Artagnan was in pain and had been for some time. Athos felt his anger rising that the foolish boy had not said anything, although he had a nagging suspicion about why that was. He leaned against the wall and watched as Aramis inspected the stitches on d'Artagnan's forehead. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and decided to leave the bandage off. The stitches would come out in another day or so and the bruising was turning yellow. The eyelid had almost returned to a normal size and he was happy with how it was progressing.

His shoulder was another story altogether. As he gently manipulated the joint to check for motion and tightness, he caught the sudden intake of a sharp breath and knew he had hit a nerve. Without speaking, he reached over for the cup and handed it over. D'Artagnan didn't even bother asking how strong it was before downing the entire cup. That concerned him even more, because usually he got challenged before any of them would drink anything he mixed if they thought he was trying to knock them out.

The bruising was also turning yellow across d'Artagnan's back, but the swelling that had begun to subside, had increased again. Aramis frowned as he considered the strain the joint had taken over the last couple of days, both in the saddle and in helping to restrain Athos. He could only guess the pain level and hoped the draught began its job quickly.

Lastly, he unwound the bandage around d'Artagnan's waist and began redressing the wound. It was still red and sticky and he smeared it with salve before wrapping a fresh bandage over it. He could see the exhaustion in his friend's eyes and he was grateful they had pushed to return to the garrison instead of camping on the road.

"You need to sleep. You are healing well, but you need rest."

He noted that d'Artagnan looked across to where Athos was still standing and he smiled.

"Oh, don't worry; he's next on my list!"

Secure in the knowledge that Athos could not be in better hands, d'Artagnan finally allowed his body to give up the fight and he sagged back onto the pillow. He felt Athos sit down on the bed near him and he listened as Aramis began to gently smear salve across his throat. Since that first one, he had not bothered trying to put a bandage over the wound. He had seen the fear in his friend's face as he tore the bandage off and had no wish to cause that reaction again.

D'Artagnan was almost dozing off when he was jolted awake. Something had slammed onto the floor and he had no idea what it was. He tried to sit up, but felt a hand on his chest holding him back. He settled for looking across the room to where Porthos was standing. His friend looked fit to explode and he suddenly realised what the noise was that awoke him. Porthos had kicked his wooden trunk across the room. What he couldn't fathom, was why.

His head was feeling fuzzy and he tried to focus on what Porthos was ranting about. As his vision focused he sucked in a breath. Porthos had his rolled up travel cloak in one hand and had obviously been stowing it in the trunk. It was what was in his other hand that had his friend so riled up.

D'Artagnan felt Athos grip his shoulder and he turned to look up towards his face. The fury on his friend's face was unmistakable and he frowned, trying to make sense of it all.

"So it's true! She threatened you too!" Athos stared at the letters Porthos held in his hand. He felt sick to his stomach at the newest proof of his wife's despicable acts.

"What do you mean, too?" d'Artagnan felt his mind churning slowly and it was not making sense.

Porthos carried the letters over towards Athos and he took hold of them as though they were poisonous. He began to spread them out and d'Artagnan tried to roll onto his side to see what he was doing. He wanted to reach out and set them on fire to spare Athos the torment, but his body was too slow to respond.

Athos flicked through them all before he turned to look at his young friend. "I do not know how many more times I will have to say this, but I am so sorry she did this to you. Please forgive me for allowing her to drag you into her twisted game too."

"S'not your fault." The draught was almost pulling him back under, but d'Artagnan forced his eyes open again.

"It is my fault! If I had not been afraid of what she may do, I could have found out much sooner that she was threatening you as well as me. We could have dealt with her together instead of being divided. I should have known what to expect from her.

D'Artagnan frowned in confusion as his brain was almost ready to shut down for the night. "She was threatening you too? With what?"

Athos reached out a hand to lay it alongside d'Artagnan's face. "She threatened to take you."

"M'not going anywhere."

The battle against sleep was quickly being lost and he felt his eyes closing against his will. He needed Athos to stop worrying and feeling guilty.

"Would do it all again … if I had to."

Athos choked back an angry retort as he watched d'Artagnan finally slide into a drug-induced sleep. Instead he leaned over and pulled the blanket back over his friend.

"I pray you never have to make that kind of choice again."