A/N: This one is a bit shorter in length, but I thought worked better on its own rather than trying to force it to mesh with the next chapter.

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Chapter Thirty-five: Misconstrued

The uneasiness that had followed Athos throughout the past several days had never let up. At first, he thought it was due to continuing the mission without his brothers and with men who were untested in his eyes. But ever since he and the militiamen had finished the mission, and those not remaining behind had ridden away from Berville, Athos continued to grow ever more certain his continued uneasiness had something to do with d'Artagnan.

He'd dismissed the remaining militiamen at the main road to Saint Sulpice, and continued the rest of the way towards the inn at a fast pace, anxious to make sure d'Artagnan was still alive and continuing to recover. Logic told him Porthos and Aramis would've sent a messenger to him had things deteriorated to the point where…where he didn't want to complete that thought. Yet, everything else inside him said something was or had gone wrong.

When he finally arrived, Athos quickly dismounted, tossed his horse's reins towards the stable boy without really looking, and started jogging towards the main building. Without paying heed to anyone or anything except the route to his end destination, Athos charged up the stairs and down the hall towards his room.

Not bothering with knocking, he entered the room, only to find it completely empty and both beds neatly made, the smell of lavender permeating the space from the stems left lying on the pillows. His attention was immediately drawn to the area between what should've been d'Artagnan's bed and the nearest wall. When he stepped closer, Athos saw a barely-there yet telltale, reddish-brown stain that no amount of scrubbing had been able to get out.

Almost before he could truly comprehend what the evidence was telling him, his legs suddenly felt weak and his knees had hit the floor next to the still-drying spot on the floor. His stomach lurched, his heart had started beating too fast, and he wasn't able to hear for the loud buzzing in his ears.

Dead…

D'Artagnan is…is…

…dead.

No. It can't be.

God, please…

…No.

With the rest of his body going out of control, Athos had barely noticed when his lungs had decided to join in. Breathing had suddenly become optional, but he couldn't seem to care, because d'Artagnan—

Something large and bulky abruptly moved in front of him, blocking the sight of the spot on the wooden floor. At first he couldn't comprehend what it was, and tried to moving in order to see around it, but he was not able to do so. There were multiple, distorted sounds he couldn't comprehend while weights landed on his shoulders, holding him place.

He heard more distorted sounds before he was hit in the stomach, which caused him to cough and then take a ragged breath. It was as if breathing had once again become second nature. He managed another breath, and then another… Minutes, weeks, years, eons went by before his lungs no longer felt as if they wanted to burst.

With his lungs working again, and the buzzing in his ears starting to recede, Athos's eyes started to focus. The bulk in front of him had taken a familiar, and welcome, shape: Porthos.

Once the sight of his friend before him had sharpened, he realized Porthos's lips were moving. And when he realized that, the distorted sounds instantly became clear.

"…hear me, Athos! He's not dead! D'Artagnan's not dead; I swear to God! Athos?"

"Porthos. D'Artagnan..."

"He's alive!"

That couldn't be right. The room… The stain…

"Athos, look at me." He did his best to comply as Porthos continued to speak. "He's alive and in the room across the hall. You understand?"

"But…"

Dazedly, Athos watched as Porthos straightened before his right arm was grabbed and he was pulled to his feet.

Porthos turned him towards the door and started to drag him out of the room. "Come on. You ain't going to believe me until I prove it to you."

Before he could protest in any way, Porthos was dragging him to the open doorway opposite their room. Porthos was the first to enter the chamber, but when he passed through the opening and saw d'Artagnan alive, and apparently sleeping on the only bed in the room, his knees once again lost their ability to hold him up due to the sheer relief spreading like wildfire throughout his body.

Porthos caught him before his knees could once again hit the floor. He heard Aramis exclaim his name before another set of hands latched onto him and he was suddenly sinking into the only chair in the room.

Athos leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, dropping his head and trying to get his breathing back to normal once again. A hand dropped onto the back of his neck and squeezed, while another came to a rest on his shoulder. Unable to deny himself the comfort his friends were offering him, Athos stayed still and stared at d'Artagnan's sleeping form while Porthos explained what had just happened to Aramis.

Aramis left the hand on his shoulder in place while he crouched down next to him.

"D'Artagnan was attacked. But—" Athos's whole body tensed up at his friend's words, and the fingers of Aramis's hand pressed firmly into his shoulder, providing grounding he sorely needed. "But, as you can see, he is alive. He acquired a dagger cut to his torso and killed a man, but he is fine."

Athos closed his eyes and released a breath as he lowered his head to rest on his arms. D'Artagnan was alive. Alive! He couldn't remember ever being more thankful to God, except when Thomas was born and his mother had told him he was a big brother.

"Athos, did you hear what I said?"

He straightened up enough to look Aramis in the eyes. "Yes, Aramis, I heard you."

As soon as he had said those words, questions began to flood his mind, but it all boiled to down to the one he asked.

"What in the hell happened?!"

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To be continued

Next time: Chapter Thirty-six: Seeing Ghosts

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A/N: Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.

Thanks for reading!