Oh my we're down to the last three chapters! Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews. What fun it has been reading them!

I did have one comment about paper cartridges... here's a quick bit of history from Wikipedia: Paper cartridges have been in use for nearly as long as hand-held firearms, with a number of sources dating their use back to the late 14th century. Historians note their use by soldiers of Christian I in 1586, while the Dresden museum has evidence dating their use to 1591, and Capo Bianco writes in 1597 that paper cartridges had long been in use by Neapolitan soldiers. Their use became widespread by the 17th century. The first army to officially use paper cartridges is presumed to be "piechota wybraniecka" of Poland under the rule of Stephen Báthory. (Thanks to MountainCat for finding this for me!)

The most common applications of paper cartridges were in muzzleloading firearms. While these may be loaded with loose powder and balls or bullets, a paper cartridge combines a pre-measured amount of powder with the ball in a sealed unit. This eliminated the operation of measuring the powder during loading.

And, you can see this in use in several episodes of the Musketeers, but it's mentioned in The Exiles (S1E6) after the ambush when the Musketeers and Treville are searching the grounds. (This is a clear sign that I need a life other than working, writing, and chasing my dog around the house after he snatches the toilet paper roll!)

On with the show!

D'Artagnan coughed and felt the pain of overwhelmed lungs protest to his inhales and exhales. He lay on his cot, right arm draped over his forehead, and the guilt of illness continued to consume him. He never got sick. Even when he was a boy, he spent his summers running through the fields, chasing lambs, horses, cattle, and rabbits, but he never failed to miss a day due to illness. The winters were just as busy. As soon as he was old enough, he was milking goats, collecting eggs, repairing fences, and digging wells. While others suffered the fate of summer colds, or winter sickness, d'Artagnan had picked up where they had left off to complete their jobs, and others.

To say he had never been laid-up would be wrong. He'd broken his arm as a boy after falling from a tree trying to rescue his father's cat, Smudge, who looked as if he had rubbed up against a well-used fireplace and charcoal had left its mark along his sides and right eye. While d'Artagnan had fallen, Smudge had watched, and then quickly escaped the tree when d'Artagnan's father had run from the house toward his son, who lay in the grass beneath the tree in a state of fright while holding his broken arm.

As a boy, he had been a terrible patient. Impatient, and believing himself invincible, he was back to climbing trees and rescuing Smudge while ignoring the pain of his arm. It healed fine, but every time he saw a cat with smudge marks along its sides and face, he couldn't help but reminisce about the event.

While d'Artagnan lay in bed, he cursed himself for not being more careful, for ignoring the signs of illness when they began. He was failing his men, his friends, and his captain. Slowly, he shifted his position. Sweat collected along his neck, chest, and arms. He knew he was feverish, but Aramis had said it was a good thing. The body was simply trying to remove what ailed him. D'Artagnan was hard pressed to believe him. Despite that, he pushed himself up and rested bare feet on the canvas flooring. He could hear the activities outside, the horses, the men, and the sounds that followed as weapons were cleaned, horses saddled, and the voices of those who tried to sound confident at a time of insecurities. He ran his hand over his face, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked toward the canvas flap that was suddenly opened.

Athos cocked an eyebrow and grabbed the short stool that d'Artagnan kept beside his bunk and took a seat. He cocked his head to the left and shook his head. "You look terrible."

D'Artagnan huffed and rubbed his forehead. "I feel like the bottom of Gentry's shoe… covered in shit and buried in mud."

Athos turned when Aramis entered with a serving tray of hot soup and tea and placed it on the small stand next to the bunk. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, "How are the lungs feeling?"

D'Artagnan shrugged, coughed, and then wiped his mouth on a piece of cloth. "Sore," he said and rubbed his face again.

Aramis glanced at Athos and nodded. "It's to be expected." He grabbed the cup of tea and handed it to d'Artagnan. "Drink this — it will help." He looked at Athos. "He needs to rest."

Athos nodded. "You're off duty until your fit —"

"Athos."

"I can't have you trying to lead your men while you're ill, d'Artagnan. I need men on the battlefield who fight," Athos raised his eyebrows and with a look of resolve said, "not give away their location by trying to cough up a lung."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and coughed again. "I can do something."

"Sleep and heal," Athos said. He gently clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder and looked to Aramis. "We need to speak."

Aramis took a deep breath and nodded. He watched Athos leave the tent and then looked at d'Artagnan, who shifted back into bed and with a groan, and covered his eyes with his arm again.

"I need to get Constance the letters I've written."

"How many have you written?" Aramis took a seat on the stool and rubbed his thighs.

"One each day since I left." D'Artagnan lowered his arm to his chest and stared at the canvas above him. It was dark, but he knew daylight was only a few hours away. "I promised her."

"Where are they?" Aramis watched d'Artagnan point to his saddlebags.

The bags were full, and Aramis dumped the stack of letters from the bag and onto his lap. He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "I doubt Athos will want to send all of these to Paris — perhaps just a few?"

"No… I want them all to go. I made a promise to her."

Aramis shook his head and then hitched his breath when a small black pouch fell to the ground. "What's this?" He picked it up, was slightly surprised by the weight, and handed it to d'Artagnan, who sat up and took it.

He hadn't emptied his saddlebags when he arrived. The fighting had begun soon after, and he had only grabbed what he needed and when he needed it. He had only started shoving the letters in the bag when he had no place left to put them. D'Artagnan slipped his feet back to the ground and carefully opened the pouch to reveal a locket. His heart suddenly felt too large for his chest and the familiar burning sensation that ran through each of his veins. A smile crept to his face, and he slowly opened it to reveal a roughly painted portrait of Constance and a few strands of her hair that had been carefully braided and rolled into a perfect circle.

"I'll see if Athos can get the letters home to her," Aramis said. He grasped d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed. "Get some rest… I have a feeling you're going to be needed in the days to come."

"This was her mother's," D'Artagnan said. "She doesn't have a lot of things left of her parents… she won't even bring out the things she does have." He shrugged, trying to understand her reasoning, but knowing he had failed. "She said that there wasn't a point while we're living at the garrison." He looked at her portrait, the careful but rough display of artistry that had captured her likeness. He carefully ran his finger over the image and then pulled the braid from the confines. D'Artagnan looked up and nodded in appreciation. "Thank you — for seeing about the letters." He squeezed his callused hand over the locket and carefully sniffed at her hair. He closed his eyes for a moment and captured memories of lavender, cinnamon, and cloves.

"You'll see her again," Aramis said as he stood. He placed the saddlebags next to the bunk and clutched at the stack of letters.

D'Artagnan looked up and nodded. "I know."

Aramis quirked a subtle smile and pulled back the flap of the tent, and left.

D'Artagnan looked at the portrait again and then carefully rolled her hair back into the shape of the oval and tucked it inside. It clicked softly when he closed it. With a callused thumb, he ran his hand over the engraved gold and then gently kissed it. He grabbed the cup of tea, drank it down, and then followed it with the soup.

Whatever it took.

He would see her again.

Of that, he was sure.