A/N: Thanks pallysd'Artagnan, 29Pieces, LadyWallace, and SnidgetHex for your reviews!

Chapter 4

Aramis dropped to his knees beside Athos and yanked a glove off so he could check for a pulse. He sucked in a sharp breath when he found one; his brother was alive. But Aramis was sickened by his condition.

He drew his dagger and cut the rope that held Athos's left wrist suspended against the wall, lowering the limp arm to the ground before doing the same to the other. A brief glance showed the skin was completely abraded, and removing the ropes would be painful, but that wasn't his main concern at the moment. Aramis tapped Athos's face, trying to rouse him. He was rewarded with a low groan and slight lolling of his head, but Athos didn't fully rouse.

"Aramis…" D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and horrified.

"We'll need a litter," Aramis said. He glanced over his shoulder toward the tunnel Porthos had pursued the culprit down. Hopefully it wouldn't lead too far outside the perimeter for the dragons to provide backup.

D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and hastened back up the stairs to get help. Aramis turned his attention back to Athos, cataloging the myriad of wounds that'd been inflicted on him. They needed to get him back to the garrison.

Aramis picked up a lax wrist and began to work the coarse rope off, trying not to grate against the raw flesh further.

Athos moaned, his eyelids fluttering sluggishly.

"Athos, can you hear me?"

Clouded eyes slitted open to stare at him. "She said you were dead," he rasped.

"She tried, but musketeers don't die easily," Aramis replied. "Are any bones broken? Any hurts I can't see?"

"No," Athos mumbled. "But…"

"What?"

"She…poisoned me with something," Athos gritted out. "I can't move my legs."

Aramis's eyes widened in alarm and he turned to grip Athos's knee, eliciting a stifled grunt. "Sorry," he apologized when he realized there was a cut there too. "You can feel your legs?"

"Yes." Athos tried to shift but just ended up slumping. "I just can't move them. They're tingling now though. They weren't before."

Aramis filed that away; Lemay would have to be consulted on this, as Aramis wasn't an expert on poisons. "We're getting you out of here," he said instead.

Athos turned his bleary gaze toward his, earnestness shining through the misery and pain. "I thought you were dead," he whispered.

Aramis tried to find a place he could give a reassuring squeeze without causing harm. He settled for resting his hand on the back of Athos's neck. "We're all still here."

Athos nodded and closed his eyes as sounds from the stairs preceded the return of d'Artagnan with Treville and some others with a stretcher. Athos couldn't suppress a wince as they transferred him onto it.

Just when Aramis was beginning to worry about Porthos, the larger musketeer returned.

"The woman behind this is dead," he reported.

Treville just nodded. "I'll send Cornet to retrieve the body."

"No need. I shot her an' she went into the river."

Aramis was glad, but he saw Athos's expression twist with an odd assortment of grief. Kneeling beside the stretcher, he placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "Who was she?"

Athos swallowed hard. "My wife."

They all exchanged bewildered looks at that. Athos had only recently revealed to them that his wife had been a murderer and executed for her crimes…how could she have been behind this?

Treville, who probably didn't know the story, looked like he wanted answers, but Athos was in dire need of a physician, so the captain gave the order to get Athos up and return to the garrison. He sent someone to run ahead and fetch Lemay to meet them there. Porthos and d'Artagnan took up the handles of the stretcher, leaving Aramis free to walk alongside it and monitor Athos's condition. It was a long walk to the garrison, and Athos kept his face averted as much as he could through the journey. Aramis couldn't imagine what was going through his mind.

Lemay was already there when they arrived and ushered them into the infirmary where they transferred Athos to one of the beds. Then Aramis helped the doctor tend to the various knife cuts on Athos's chest and legs. A few had beginning signs of infection, but the slashes weren't particularly deep, which made cleaning them out easy. Several required stitches, though there was a ragged hole in his shoulder that was too mangled for that. There was also a small puncture wound on his lower back where the paralyzing agent had been administered.

Lemay examined the area closely, mouth pursed in a considering moue. "The effects should wear off once the swelling around the nerve tissues here has come down."

"Then it's not permanent?" Athos asked stiffly.

"I don't believe so. How's the tingling in your legs?"

"Bothersome."

"Let me know if the sensation changes." Lemay straightened and moved away to mix up some medicines.

Aramis lingered. The procedure of having each of the wounds cleaned and stitched had obviously left Athos exhausted, and they hadn't even broached the mental wounds he may have received having been tortured by his wife. Now wasn't the time though. Athos had closed his eyes and turned his head away, and Aramis decided to grant him the privacy he wanted.

He walked over to the other side of the room where Porthos and d'Artagnan were watching worriedly.

"Will he be all right?" d'Artagnan asked in a low voice.

"He'll live," Aramis replied, because that was all he could really say with surety. He narrowed his gaze on a patch of blood on Porthos's sleeve. "Take your coat off."

Porthos glanced at his arm, then started to shrug out of his coat. "It's jus' a graze."

"She shot at you?" Aramis asked quietly.

Porthos nodded wordlessly. "I had no choice."

"Of course you didn't," d'Artagnan exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to keep his voice down.

Porthos shook his head as he pulled his shirt off. "Still…" His gaze drifted over to Athos.

"He'll understand," Aramis said as he wet a cloth and began to clean the graze.

They didn't say anything else as Aramis applied some salve and bandaged the arm.

Treville came in just as Porthos was getting dressed again.

"I'd like some answers," he began. "But I can understand how delicate this matter is. So I'll leave it to you to fill in the blanks. Just keep me informed."

The three of them nodded, though they wouldn't be getting those answers tonight.

Aramis excused himself to go check on Rhaego and found Constance sitting on the ground in his pen, the dragon's head resting in her lap as she stroked his forehead.

"How is he?" Aramis asked.

"We washed out his nose as much as we could," she replied. "Unfortunately, any salve would just irritate it more. He hasn't been up to eating. Won't imagine his taste buds will be right for a few days."

Aramis sank down on the opposite side and laid a hand on his dragon's neck. Rhaego blinked up at him dolefully.

"How's Athos?" Constance asked next.

"Physically, he's a mess but will recover. Mentally though?" Aramis sighed. "I'm not sure. The woman who tortured him was his wife."

Constance gaped at him in stupefaction.

"How are you feeling?" he changed the subject.

"I have a headache," she admitted. "I told Father I'd meet him at home, but I couldn't bring myself to leave Rhaego like this."

"We both appreciate that," Aramis said with warm sincerity. "But you should go home and rest now."

Constance nodded and gently lifted Rhaego's head from her lap. The dragon swung his head toward Aramis and nuzzled his face into the marksman's hip.

"Stop by the infirmary and have d'Artagnan take you home," Aramis added. "Otherwise he won't get some sleep either."

Constance shared a conspiratorial half smile with him and left. Aramis knew he should seek out his own bed at some point too, but he didn't bother moving. Not until a little while later when Savron poked his head into the den, having been unsaddled and released from duty. Aramis smiled as the older dragon settled in to keep Rhaego company throughout the night. He gave his dragon a fond pat and then finally went to get some much-needed rest himself.

.o.0.o.

Athos woke yet again to grogginess and pain. For a split second, he thought he was in that cellar awaiting more torment.

"Easy," someone soothed.

He prized his eyelids open to Aramis's blurry face. Just as it solidified, Aramis moved away, returning a moment later with a cup. A hand slid behind Athos's head and lifted it, the rim of the cup pressing to his lips. The bitter taste of herbs splashed across his tongue and almost made him spit it back out.

"It's for the pain," Aramis said as if reading his mind. "I'll give you some wine to chase it down."

The bribe was unfair but Athos complied, forcing himself to swallow the tonic. When he was done, the cup was removed, and then another replaced it, followed by the sweet taste of wine. Aramis only let him have a few sips of it though.

"How are your legs?"

Athos shifted his gaze downward and tried to move the heavy lumps under the blankets. They jerked slightly, but the effort felt weak.

"Good," Aramis said brightly.

Athos squinted as he tried to discern whether it was false or genuine cheer. He caught sight of Porthos and d'Artagnan over Aramis's shoulder, watching anxiously. Though his vision was still slightly hazy, Athos could make out some bruises and cuts on their faces. He looked back at Aramis and noticed the same, and they weren't quite the kind received in a fight.

"She said you were dead," he said hoarsely. "She had reason to believe it was true." He watched his friends exchange a silent look at the question phrased as a statement. "What happened?" Athos pressed, pushing himself upright.

Aramis chastised him under his breath, even as he reached out to help Athos sit back against the pillows. "She did try to kill us," he admitted. "Sent her men to blow up the church where…" He trailed off with a grimace.

It took Athos an extra moment to understand what he'd left off. "The wedding." He snapped a horrified look at d'Artagnan. "Constance?"

"She's fine," d'Artagnan quickly assured him. "We all got a little banged up, but we're all alive."

Athos closed his eyes under a swell of renewed grief. To think he had, even if only slightly, begrudged d'Artagnan's and Constance's wedding, and now because of his wife—because of him—they had almost been killed.

"We would've found you sooner," Porthos picked up. "Rhaego tracked you, but I guess yer…um, the person behind this knew about his trackin' skills an' left some cayenne pepper to wreck his sense of smell."

Athos's eyes shot open at that and he stared in astonishment. Anne had been more conniving than he had ever given her credit for. "Aramis…" he started, knowing no apology would ever be enough.

Aramis looked uncomfortable as he glanced at the others before looking back at Athos. "You mentioned your wife did this…" he began hesitantly. "But you told us she was dead."

Athos closed his eyes again. Of course they deserved an explanation, but it had been hard enough to bare his soul that night in Pinon; to highlight his shame again, in full detail…

"I thought she was dead," he said, voice rough. "The magistrate had taken her away to be hanged, but apparently fate intervened. She said the Cardinal took pity on her."

"The Cardinal?" Aramis repeated in disbelief.

Athos nodded, his throat constricting. "She's been working for him."

There was silence for a moment, and Athos didn't bother opening his eyes to see just what expressions were in his brothers' eyes.

"It matters little now," Aramis finally said.

Porthos cleared his throat. "Athos, I'm sorry. I didn't know who she was when I shot her."

"She shot at you too," Aramis said under his breath.

Athos finally looked at them again. In truth, he didn't know how he felt. He'd lived with the grief of her death hanging over him for so many years, and now it was fresh because she'd died a second time.

But she wasn't innocent. She was a murderer. She'd tried to kill his brothers, his family. Again.

"Can you forgive me?" Porthos asked softly.

Athos swallowed around the spiky lump in his throat. "There's nothing to forgive. Rather I should be asking you for forgiveness. My wife caused you so much pain and grief on my account."

"It wasn't your fault," d'Artagnan insisted. "You can't blame yourself for her actions."

"You didn't know," Aramis added.

Athos clenched his jaw and didn't say anything. He could tell they were in earnest, but he wasn't sure he believed it to be true. His soul had carried the burden of his brother's death, of Anne's, but now it felt even more crushing with the knowledge of what had been wrought all these years later.

.o.0.o.

A week after the events at the church, d'Artagnan tracked down Athos at a tavern. The man's wounds were healing and he'd regained the use of his legs—thank God. But he'd been using that mobility to avoid everyone. The rest of them had agreed to give him space in the beginning, let him come to terms with what happened. But he'd completely ignored the missive d'Artagnan had sent him two days ago, and so he decided it was time for a face-to-face confrontation.

As predicted, Athos was seated in the back of the tavern, nursing an entire bottle of wine, though it was early afternoon. D'Artagnan strode across the room and slid into the chair across from him.

"I'm getting married in a couple of hours," he said without preamble. "And you still haven't said you're coming."

"I don't think you want me there," Athos replied dourly.

"I doubt someone's going to blow up the church again."

Athos shot him an unamused glare. "You should hate me for what Anne did. She nearly killed Constance."

D'Artagnan huffed out an impatient sigh. "We've been over this; that wasn't your doing. Constance doesn't hate you and neither do I."

"I hate myself," he muttered. "For what I made her."

"You didn't make her into anything," d'Artagnan said. "She made her choices."

Athos opened his mouth, probably to protest some more, but d'Artagnan cut him off.

"Shut up and come stand at my side as I get married."

Athos arched a brow at him.

"Bring that wine if you want," d'Artagnan went on. "It's a celebration, after all."

He waited, gaze staunch as he dared Athos to defy him in this. As the seconds ticked by, his heart clenched with the fear that his brother truly would turn him away.

But then Athos picked up the cork and stuck it back in the bottle. "Very well."

D'Artagnan grinned and rose from his seat. Slinging his arm over Athos's shoulder, the two of them walked out of the tavern together. With their brotherhood intact and his bride waiting for him, d'Artagnan felt ready to face anything the world threw at them next.

A/N: I'm calling this the end of season 1 of this verse. Next up, season 2. XD

NEXT TIME

The musketeers are sent to deal with a wild dragon attacking villages, but they find something more sinister at work—something that puts their own dragons at risk.