Final chapter!

Thanks so much to everyone who's read, favorited, followed, and especially REVIEWED! To those I can't thank (guests, etc.), your comments have been welcome as well, and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to join in my little escapade!

Finally an ending… more notes after it finishes. PLEASE do tell me what you think here! Did I do the boys proud?

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D'Artagnan was grateful for the ministrations of the King's physician, catching his breath a few times while his side was cleaned and wrapped, and biting his lip way too hard when his shoulder was manipulated. Dressings, pain draughts, and sleep were prescribed, in large quantities, but though d'Artagnan wanted nothing more than to fall into a heavy slumber and forget all about the last two weeks, he felt more than a little uncomfortable sleeping in the palace, so the draughts were sent on to the garrison, and after nodding agreement to all the physician's instructions close to an hour later, he made his way out of the private rooms and toward one of the exits, weary to the boneboth physically and mentally.

He was nearly out of the palace when he heard Rochefort calling to him. "So, being romantic can be a good thing after all," the Comte observed.

D'Artagnan turned around and saw Rochefort standing a few feet away. The Gascon said nothing. Though things had turned out as well as could be expected, the "romantic" label still stung him, as he knew it had been used by a king judging his every move, and doubting his loyalty.

Rochefort approached him. "I'm told you succeeded in foiling Baudin by feigning agreement with his machinations, and that you kept the musketeers in the dark about it all."

"More or less," d'Artagnan replied shortly.

"Trying to protect them from any consequences in case things didn't go to plan," the Comte guessed.

"They can protect themselves," d'Artagnan answered.

"In either case, it worked," Rochefort acknowledged, although the tone made d'Artagnan uncomfortable. Something about this man would always make him feel ill at ease. "But now you've alienated your closest friends."

D'Artagnan almost visibly flinched. "I did what needed to be done. I don't regret it."

"Perhaps," Rochefort considered, with a small tilt of his head. "I'm sure the King and Queen are grateful."

"It was my duty," d'Artagnan said. "Now if you'll excuse me." He offered a small nod, then turned and walked away.

"D'Artagnan," called Rochefort. When the musketeer stopped again, he continued, "The infiltration of the Red Guards happened because of some bad decisions that will not be repeated. The regiment will be thoroughly investigated and cleared of any... bad blood. If you find that you can't continue being a musketeer after everything you did to achieve your victory, you may find the Red Guard an honorable group of men to join. I'm sure we could find room for you among our ranks."

D'Artagnan's already almost unbearably aching head nearly exploded at the offer, and he felt his stomach turn sickeningly as a flush rushed from his head to his toes. Rochefort was right in one way: staying a musketeer was going to be difficult at best, impossible at worst. But he would never, ever consider accepting a commission with the Red Guards. Still, it begged the question: what was to become of him now?

"I'll take my chances," he replied over his shoulder. Then he walked away.

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Stepping outside, standing at the top of the long staircase, d'Artagnan took in and let out a wistful breath. It was over, he thought, gratefully. It was really over. No more looking over his shoulder all the time, no more watching everything he said to make sure he wasn't giving anything away, no more fighting with himself about having to keep Athos, Aramis, and Porthos in the dark lest he put them, and himself, in danger.

And no more brotherhood with the Inseparables. That was the one thing he couldn't change about everything that they had gone through, he knew. Yes, he had had noble intentions: protect the King, protect the Dauphin, stop Baudin, protect the musketeers. But he had lied to his brothers, he had pushed them away from him, and worst of all, he had allowed Porthos to get hurt in the blast at the barn. Everything he had done had been the exact opposite of what was expected of him as a musketeer, as a man of honor, as a trusted brother. Athos was right: he had shamed his father's name, and that of the musketeers. He had no place among them now.

Looking out, he saw Aramis and Porthos standing near their horses, not far from the bottom of the stairs, and he sighed as he realized he would have to pass them in order to reach his own animal. Perhaps he could just slip away quietly, stay in his quarters until he felt well enough to travel, take meals when he saw the others were gone, then humbly resign his commission to Captain Tréville and depart. Where he would go, he did not know. But he couldn't stay on as a musketeer, not doing what he had done. The shame of it made him sick just to think about. He had followed through on his plan to stop Baudin, regardless of the cost; he would do the same now.

Descending the stairs, d'Artagnan walked purposefully toward his horse, his gaze averted from Aramis and Porthos as he came within earshot. He knew they had questions. He knew they would wonder about why he had been willing to save the Dauphin, when he was so aligned to Baudin and his plot. But he couldn't talk to them now. If he spoke, if he looked them in the eye, he knew would break down, and there would be even more shame upon him. So he passed them, unspeaking, although he knew their eyes were upon him, and sped up his steps when he thought he could do so without appearing like a frightened child.

"You stupid, stupid boy."

The words struck him from behind, and d'Artagnan's body physically reacted. His feet refused to take him another single step, and his head instantly dropped. His chest constricted, making it harder to breathe, and he felt the back of his eyes sting with sudden, shame-filled tears. He was used to harsh words from Athos; he had sometimes taken them almost as a sign of affection after a time, and he knew when to hear the words themselves, and when to look for the true emotion behind them. But when they came from gentle Aramis, the words were a knife to the heart, and worse. He immediately felt a wound open, and he bled.

"Porthos and Athos discovered the truth under the chapel in Anet. Tréville told us the rest when we returned with the Dauphin. Why did you run away with Baudin yesterday? Why did you not tell us?"

D'Artagnan felt like he was suffocating. "I—I had to—" he stuttered, gulping for air as emotion rocketed up from his gut and threatened to spill from his eyes, out through his voice.

"Do you not remember our motto? All for one?" Aramis persisted. "Of us all, I thought you would be the one with the most faith in the solidarity of musketeers."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes. He knew Aramis was right. He owed them some explanation. But what could he say? He stayed unmoving, unseeing, as he opened his eyes and stammered a reply. "When Baudin's men pulled me away from you that night… I felt so—so… sick. Everything hurt…" the lad said through difficult, heaving breaths. "I—I couldn't think clearly. But I thought—I thought if we were together… we could foil his plans and draw him back to Paris, and then…" He burned with shame now. He remembered sitting in that room in Vassy, in so much pain and wishing for nothing more than to be reunited with his brothers. His weakness in the house that night with Baudin had led to the loss of his friends, and to all the anguish that followed. Then everything came tumbling out, his speech halting in his devastation. "But I couldn't—I couldn't tell you because there was always someone in earshot. Baudin had people watching all the time. And he said he would—kill you, and I couldn't take the chance. So I thought if—if I tried to stop him on my own and failed, then I would have been the only one the King condemned, not all of—all of—" The words were getting stuck in his throat. He could feel himself choking, losing the battle against his emotions. "And you—you would all be safe. But Porthos got hurt—and—and I lied so you would stay away, but—"

Suddenly a gloved hand clasped him by the scruff of his neck, and d'Artagnan gasped as he felt himself being pulled until he was nestled in the crook of the sharpshooter's neck. "One for all," Aramis whispered, understanding now what they had been missing. His grip on the young man tightened, as though seeking to confirm he was truly there. "We were thinking all for one, but you were acting as one for all," he realized, stunned at how obvious it now seemed. "You stayed loyal to us, and to the King, even when we could not comprehend what you were doing." D'Artagnan nodded, overwhelmed and unable to speak. He could feel the rise and fall of the marksman's chest against him, the warmth of his breath in his hair. Aramis stayed quiet for a moment, as though absorbing the knowledge. Then he murmured softly, "You are our brother, d'Artagnan. And through God's great goodness, we are yours. I promise you, we will do our best to always be worthy of such a gift. And we will never be pushed away. Even when things look their worst."

D'Artagnan's knees felt weak. He was sure he was trembling. It had been such a long, long journey back to Paris, and he had almost begun to live with the constant ache in his heart over the necessary loss of the three men whom he loved so much. Now, with Aramis's declaration of devotion, he was filling, overflowing, with relief, and he felt a degree of gratitude and thankfulness that he was sure he could never express adequately.

The tiniest sob escaped him, and suddenly the hand grasping his neck loosened and an arm encircled his back, gently rubbing, consoling, reassuring. "Oh, petit frère," murmured Aramis as the lad's dam finally burst and he wept openly. "The things you have done to yourself in the name of brotherhood."

"I am sorry," d'Artagnan managed through the now easily flowing tears. "I am sorry, Aramis. I am sorry, Porthos."

"Y' don't need to be," came the gruff but soothing voice of Porthos. D'Artagnan felt the big man's hand on his good shoulder. "It takes time to get used to being watched over. Sometimes it doesn't seem real. I guess we're still learnin' that, too."

"But you knew, Porthos," Aramis said in practically a whisper. "You knew."

"Yeah. I can read him like a book, this one," the big musketeer said, offering a shrug and a smile. "It works both ways, d'Artagnan," he added gently. "We're here for you, too, yeah?"

D'Artagnan managed a small nod, but didn't move from the comfort of his friends' touch, and so he missed the fond look that passed between his two companions, whose own eyes were now glassy with emotion. Despite all his arguments to the contrary, d'Artagnan was still just a boy in many ways; his display here was a testament to that, and they found it endearing in a way they had never expected to.

As though suddenly aware of being vulnerable in front of the others, the Gascon pulled himself together and drew himself up, snuffled his breathing clear, and swiped his face clean quickly with one hand. He looked into the eyes of Porthos and Aramis and found acceptance there. His heart lightened, and he understood what joy felt like. Then he asked, "The Dauphin?"

"He's fine," Aramis assured him with a smile that offered pride in the young man's actions. "Everyone is safe and unharmed."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"Except, perhaps, those whom you fought," Aramis added.

"Yeah," Porthos added with a chuckle. "You gave 'em quite a run for their money."

"How did you know to go to the stream?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Some of Baudin's men met us on the road while we were trying to catch up with you yesterday," Aramis explained. "They tried to stop us from finding you again. But we weren't having any of that, and after we fought, Joubert talked. Thanks to Porthos's fine powers of persuasion."

Porthos smiled, cheekiness mixed with something a little more dangerous dancing in his eyes. "I'm charming like that," he said.

Aramis picked the story back up. "Since we already knew you were only pretending to work with Baudin, we suspected you'd try to stop the plot to kidnap the Dauphin on your own, and we decided to come to your assistance."

"I thought the Red Guards would help me," d'Artagnan admitted, still shaking. "Turns out they were in on it."

"You did well," Aramis praised him. "And no matter how wonderful the King's physician is, you know I'll be looking you over myself later when we get back to the garrison."

D'Artagnan's relief at knowing he could accept the comfort of his friend's caring attention pushed away any instinct he had to avoid medical poking and prodding. "Thank you," he said, softly.

The trio stayed quietly, soothingly, in each other's company for a moment, and then d'Artagnan asked, "Where's Athos?"

"He's still with Tréville and the King," Porthos answered. "There's a lot to be worked out now, apparently."

"Ah—they appear to be done," Aramis put in suddenly, nodding toward something behind them.

D'Artagnan turned to see that Athos had left the palace, and was looking out toward the trio on the grass. D'Artagnan took hesitant, halting steps toward the stairs as Athos began his descent, Aramis and Porthos protectively following a few steps behind. The Gascon stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Athos stood at the top of the final landing and looked down at him sternly. There was silence between them for what seemed like an eternity. Then at last, Athos spoke.

"You led with your heart," he said, his voice steady, his eyes piercing.

D'Artagnan gave the tiniest uncomfortable nod of acknowledgement.

"In spite of every lesson I have tried to teach you," his mentor accused: "the countless times I've warned you that your hot-blooded Gascon temper could be the death of you."

D'Artagnan dropped his gaze. He could not deny the truth of it.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said strongly.

It was a command. No matter the hurt or the distance between them, the young man was always drawn to obey Athos's voice. He raised his head and looked at him, trying to stem the trembling he could feel in his body. D'Artagnan waited. Waited while his mind spun with a thousand thoughts at once. He knew he deserved whatever Athos had to say to him now, knew that although Porthos and Aramis had welcomed him back into the fold, it would be a different story with Athos. He had seen the hurt in the man's eyes, heard the pain in his voice when he had tried to convince d'Artagnan not to follow Baudin and told him he had shamed the musketeers. It would be impossible for d'Artagnan to avoid Athos when they were both in the garrison. Perhaps he would have to give up being a musketeer, the thing he wanted more than anything in the world, after all. Despite the forgiveness of Aramis and Porthos, he knew he could not bear to be in Athos's presence, but shunned. He would just have to work out where to go, how to live, perhaps he could stay that long. A week, maybe two at the most. And then—

"Your skill as a musketeer will save your life. But it is your heart that will one day make you the greatest of us all." D'Artagnan felt lightheaded at the hope the words conveyed. And he could not stop himself from releasing a small cry of joy when Athos held open his arms and said, "I have grievously wronged you. Please, brother. Allow me to apologize."

With a gasp, d'Artagnan bounded up the stairs to meet Athos and was enveloped in a firm, unrelenting embrace. Unashamed of his outburst, for as a Gascon he was prone to strong emotion, both fiery and loving, d'Artagnan stayed greedily in his friend's arms, and wept. "Athos, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said, trying over and over again to seek the forgiveness already given for his deceptions.

Taken aback by the young man's earnestness, it took a moment for Athos to find his voice, and he simply reveled in at last being united with the young man whom he loved. "Quiet now, boy," he murmured eventually, when his heart dislodged from his throat and fell back into his chest, beating fit to burst; "it is I who needs forgiveness. I should never have doubted that you are at heart a musketeer, and a loyal brother."

"I tried… I tried…" d'Artagnan stuttered, certain that he was blubbering but not caring. "I did remember what you taught me. One for all… one for all… I couldn't live with myself if you—if you paid for my failure—"

Athos ran his hand along the young man's hair, stroking it and soothing d'Artagnan as the lad released all the tension, fear, and heartache of their journey home. "We suffered nothing," he said softly. "You paid the price for us all. You are the finest of brothers, d'Artagnan. Every lesson has been learned and taken to heart. Even though we… I… refused to recognize it. You bring honor to your father's name, and to that of the musketeers."

Porthos and Aramis, grinning widely at the bottom of the stairs, waited patiently until d'Artagnan had cried his fill, and when Athos relaxed his hold on the lad and the pair came to meet them, Porthos smiled even more broadly and said, "This calls for a drink."

"Perhaps later," Aramis countered, having seen and inspected the draughts being sent to the garrison, and noting the lines of pain and exhaustion on the Gascon's drawn but relieved face. Taking d'Artagnan's other arm, for Athos had not yet released him, and guiding him toward the horses, he said, "Right now, I believe sleep is what our young friend needs most. Am I right?" he asked the lad in question.

"I am quite tired," d'Artagnan admitted, earning raised eyebrows from his friends, who never heard him say anything that even resembled an admission of being at less than peak condition. "But if Porthos wants to go to the tavern—"

"Porthos," said Athos over the young man's objection, "shall go and procure us the finest wine he can find in my quarters, and then bring it to your room at the garrison. And we shall drink together, as brothers, when you are well. In the meantime, we will stay with you until you are fit to return to duty, as I believe not one of us could bear to be without your company a minute longer."

His eyes shining as his heart overflowed, d'Artagnan laughed shakily and accepted the compromise. Porthos noted with a mischievous grin that the finest wine they were likely to find in Athos's rooms was bottled last week, while Aramis and Athos debated how often to allow d'Artagnan out of his quarters for the next seven days, which was the length of time the medic decided would be needed for the Gascon's recovery. Athos recommended once a day, for a meal in the garrison yard. Aramis thought that was too often, as their youngest would find a way to get into trouble even on that short jaunt.

"What if we tie him to the bench?" Athos suggested thoughtfully.

"Now that might work," Aramis pondered.

D'Artagnan laughed, delighted in spite of being the object of their joking. "Do I get any say in this?"

"None," Aramis replied happily.

And the deliberation continued. Growing more and more tired, and looking forward to that first sleep knowing Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were truly by his side, d'Artagnan let all the banter wash over him, grateful beyond words at being able to be part of this brotherhood again. He let their laughter and their reassuring touches bring him home.

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Final note! This story brought itself to a conclusion while I still had two scenes waiting in the wings… They couldn't be fit into this story without changing it, but they do add some depth to it. Shall I do a "deleted scenes" story? Just two chapters long, but important companions. Let me know what you think! If you'd like to see them, I'm happy to do it! But please let me know what you think of this as it stands on its own! Cheers!