My sincere thanks to all of you who left comments on the last chapter - very much appreciated. Here is Part II, where the Dementors are back in full force - if you're not confident in your Patronus charm, please proceed with caution. (Translation: This is not a cheerful read.)

And since it's me who's writing, this story of course grew a third head, so there will be a Part III somewhere down the line.

Part II

Laughter followed him to his dreams.

There was raucous merrymaking at the garrison, where guffaws roared and cutlery clanked, wine and ale flowing as a group of Musketeers crowded around Aramis and Porthos, who, at their bench at the foot of the stairs, were entertaining their audience with a wild tale, while d'Artagnan, next to them, sat with his face buried in his hands. Aramis was shaking his head from side to side while Porthos regaled the men with the details of how an elderly Dame at court had been madly taken with d'Artagnan. Even Athos felt his lips quirk, despite his sympathy for his protége: it would take months for the teasing to die down.

He slid in on the end of the bench and reached for a cup, seeking to pour himself wine. The Musketeer next to him threw him an annoyed look as he reached for the bottle, as if he was being a nuisance. Frowning, Athos put the bottle down and looked at the man inquiringly, but the Musketeer's attention was once again on Porthos, as if Athos had ceased to exist. Something peculiar pricked at him about this. Bothered, Athos glanced around.

The scene was playing out smoothly. And yet..

Something was wrong. As if... as if he were falling out.

Another uproar of laughter and then many good-humoured jibes; d'Artagnan was on his feet, protesting vehemently, gesticulating with his long arms. The merriment exploded into an outright racket, even Captain Tréville coming down from his office, his steps heavy, but smiling genially. Fun and camaraderie: this was Athos's home, the garrison - but...

...was Athos really there?

His mouth suddenly dry, he looked at the faces of the people around him, one by one. Not one of them looked back at him. No one bothered to.

It wasn't that he wasn't there. He was - but he was unwanted.

The realization struck him with the force of a cannonball, driving the breath out of his lungs: he was no longer welcome here, in the garrison, the regiment, the King's Musketeers. His presence was merely being tolerated. He found himself on his feet, instinctively seeking out Aramis: there his friend was, laughing so hard he had to hold on to Porthos not to fall; Porthos, tousling a scowling d'Artagnan's hair, seemed utterly blind to Athos's presence there. Athos's head whipped around - Captain Tréville? As if he'd heard Athos's thoughts, the Captain's eyes met Athos's across the table, their gazes clashing like blades. Unlike the others, Tréville clearly saw him - but his expression hardened, his eyes turning forbidding upon meeting Athos's. If he'd had any doubt -or hope- left, Athos felt it shrivel and die like a leaf at the sight.

They'd quit of him.

He no longer had a place here.

He felt the ground vanish beneath his feet; despair reached to grab him with eager arms and, helpless, Athos could only let it.

It was a dream.

Curled onto himself in the corner, he pressed his elbows into his stomach in a vain attempt to ease the hunger pains, breathing heavily. A dream. The pain was disconnected from him; his body and thoughts in two separate realms. Foolish. They would never leave him- the thought alone was treacherous. All for one. It was who they were.

They would come.

Unable to stifle a gasp, he curled in even more onto himself and wondered, just fleetingly, what they would find when they finally did.

Athos...

He felt warm.

Athos!

It was a soft voice -well-known- but faint, as if calling from a great distance. Warm.

Opening his eyes sluggishly and righting himself, Athos distantly noted, with some alarm, how wildly his heart was beating. He looked towards the door, eyes resting on the handle as a stab of fear gripped him. Of what, he did not know.

Footsteps.

Approaching footfalls, and then- "ATHOS!" Porthos' voice boomed, "Athos, where are you?!"

Smiling, -as if all was right with the world- Athos climbed to his feet, pausing only to dust his breeches at the knees. "Here."

The footsteps quickened and finally-

"There you are!" Porthos exclaimed in relief, appearing at the opening on the cell door, "Searched 'alf the country for 'im, only to find 'im waitin' there like nothin's happened," he was muttering the next moment, accompanied by the sounds of the lock being picked. "Comfortable, aye?"

Athos's smile grew at the overflowing fondness in his friend's voice. "Can't quite say that, my friend," he confessed, not noticing his own awful rasp. He glanced at the chains on his wrists with a feeling of sorrow that surprised even him.

"'old on.. Tricky, this lock. Oi, d'Artagnan! Try an' find the keys, yeah?"

"You've found him?! Aramis, over here!"

More footsteps and the sounds of Porthos protesting as he was pushed out of the way; Aramis's face, grim with worry, appeared behind the bars, only to be replaced quickly by d'Artagnan, who took in Athos's appearance with one look and his face broke into a massive grin. "Athos."

"You took your time." Athos was finding it very hard to suppress his smile now, relief warming the blood in his veins like wine.

"Our apologies," Aramis returned solemnly, brow creased with such concern -and guilt- that Athos felt compelled to reassure him.

"I'll accept them all readily once you take these off, my friend," he said softly, gesturing at the chains.

"Hang on. D'Artagnan's gone to find the keys, we'll be with you shortly."

Thank God.

Athos allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, sinking back against the wall as the relief slowly became overwhelming. Thank God... They were here. Thank God.

"Aramis," he murmured without opening his eyes, "How long has it been?"

He wasn't sure why it mattered, but he needed some kind of closure to put this endless stretch of time behind him and move on with his life. He had lost his thread such a long time ago.

He opened his eyes when Aramis made no answer. "Aramis?"

He squinted at the door, the entire cell swimming in a maddeningly dim light. The outline of Aramis's face had vanished from the opening, leaving a black void behind. "Aramis?"

No one answered.

Something cold snuck its way into Athos's chest. "Porthos?"

But there were no more sounds of Porthos working on the lock - there were no sounds at all.

Phantom fingers grabbed Athos's heart in a fist and squeezed, freezing the breath in his lungs; he tried to call out, but when he managed it, it was as small as a scared child's. "...d'Artagnan?"

The silence seemed only to laugh.

They weren't there.

They were gone.

Shame and crushing disappointment drove him to his knees, and Athos knew, right then, that he'd been well and truly abandoned.

From then on, he learned not to trust his eyes.

Still his heart leaped when he woke - or dreamed? - to find Aramis sitting in the opposite corner, his head bowed in prayer; to see d'Artagnan, with arms crossed and one foot planted back on the wall, watching silently, or Porthos, the only one of his friends who smiled, though with such intolerable pity that it made Athos avert his eyes. Every time, he called to them -just in case- but they never answered him. Sometimes they lingered, torturing him with their silence, and sometimes, they became so painfully real that despite himself, Athos got swept away, finding a destructive comfort in their false presence.

Once, d'Artagnan even talked.

"You shouldn't have done that."

What?

"You shouldn't have given yourself up - not like that. Look at where you are."

Child! Athos thought.

"We would never have been separated if you didn't! This would never have happened!"

...Child, we would all have been decimated if I hadn't given up.

"And this is any better? This, Athos, is better than having died? Together?"

"Don't mock me, d'Artagnan. There were no choices there. I took the only way out."

"We would have fought our way out! We would have done as we'd always done, Athos, fought together! You should have listened to me!"

Athos felt an abrupt urge to laugh. "You speak no reason." The Spaniards' numbers had nearly tripled theirs. "It is a good thing I left Porthos in charge."

d'Artagnan snorted. "A lot of good your reason is doing to you. Look at where you are."

"I am well aware of it, thank you," Athos returned coldly.

"You do know you will die here, all alone? We will never know how you died-how long it took you to die. We won't have your remains to bury; you won't have a grave among our fallen brothers. Athos- here, you will rot."

"Watch what you are saying," Athos warned dangerously, his hand, quite unconsciously, moving as if in preparation to reach for his sword. "You do not seem to hear what comes out of your mouth."

"Deny the truth of it, then. Because the truth is, Athos, you should have never given yourself up."

"Do you want truth? Have it your way: you would not be alive to speak such folly had I not surrendered to Salinas. Or do you deny it, d'Artagnan?"

An ugly smile curled d'Artagnan mouth, eyes flashing with a mixture of triumph and pity.

"Revel in your martyrdom, then. Revel in all the good it did to you. I just hope that in the end, you'll find that it was worth it."

So did Athos. But d'Artagnan was the last person he would admit that in surrendering, he had acted less with his reason than with his heart.

He woke up and cursed. It was morning again.

He had woken up.

Again.

For what?

For only more of this, mounds of time being piled upon him with grinding consistency, again and again until he could no longer draw breath under its weight, and slowly expire, alone, without a soul in the world knowing or caring for his passing. Without the slightest mark of a life lived, bar around the neck of his resurrected wife, who would curse him to the end of her days. Was it vain that it hurt? This stabbing pain at the thought that he would not be - was not - remembered?... He remembered. He remembered them as if they'd been together just yesterday (how many yesterdays now?); had the memories of a lifetime with them (but would not think of them by their names, only collectively, as the three of them). He remembered, but it was all hollow now. Empty. Lost.

He'd been dropped.

Bitterness welled inside him - why? Why had he dared get attached? How had he allowed himself to get entangled in those men's lives, tied up with such intricate bonds, become part of such a web of connections, each pulsing with warmth and acceptance and camaraderie, and God forgive him, brotherhood and love?

Hadn't he learned that he wasn't meant for brotherhood,or love?

He'd made the same mistake twice.

It was right that he should die here alone... where he could not fail for a third time.

A/N: Hope to see you back in Part III, titled 'Chocolate'. ;)