It took longer for the door to open after the knock than it should have done. The three inseparables crowded into d'Artagnan's room with little decorum, allowing the door to be shut quickly behind them.
"You did not need to come," their friend said. "I am… it was not so bad."
"Mon ami, you are a poor liar," Aramis said, stepping forward and gripping the boy about the nape, his eyes softly boring into d'Artagnan's own.
D'Artagnan's eyes were red and swollen, and his body sagged with fatigue. "Truly, it was nothing so serious," he protested weakly, then looked away. "I wouldn't be affected by such a child's punishment," he said bitterly.
"It's a crying bloody shame," Porthos rumbled.
Athos said nothing. He had been denied in his quest to comfort Charles in the immediate aftermath of his whipping by the loathsome Jussac, who had sent the boy on his duties without allowing him even a short reprieve. Seeing his young brother walk stiffly, yet with his head still held up in pride, had cut Athos' heart to the quick.
"Come, lie on the bed and let me see you wounds," Aramis was saying, attempting to lead d'Artagnan toward his cot.
"Aramis, please," the boy said, standing his ground with a shake of his head. His cheeks were flushed with mortification.
"We've seen your red arse before, whelp, or had you forgotten?" Porthos said with a strained chuckle. "Let doctor Aramis look before he has a fit."
"You should listen to your brothers, petit Gascon," Aramis said with a smile, "I can be quite insistent, you know."
With a huff, and still muttering objections, d'Artagnan allowed himself to be manhandled to the bed. He refused help with his breeches however, easing them and his smalls down with a grimace that prompted murmurs of compassion from the pair. When he turned to lay on the bed, exposing his rear to them for the first time since his punishment, Aramis could not help the muted sound of pain that escaped him. Porthos turned away, fists clenched and teeth bared.
The boy lay upon the bed, his folded arms upon the pillow, chin cradled atop them.
"I must clean some of these before I apply the salve," Aramis said. He spoke in the disconnected, business-like tone that Athos well recognised as his attempt to distance himself from wounds in his brothers, which would otherwise prompt a more distressed response and render him incapable of performing his duty. He rinsed out a cloth in d'Artagnan's washbowl and began to dab at the cuts.
Despite himself, d'Artagnan gave a hiss and squirmed upon the bed, bravely fighting to stay still. He looked up in surprise when firm but gentle hands rested upon his shoulders, staring into Athos' reassuring blue eyes as the man knelt beside him.
Athos gave him a gentle smile and a nod, conveying to the boy as best he could how proud he was of him.
"When this is all over, I am going to put my sword through d'Melliuor's throat," Aramis said in conversational tones as he worked. D'Artagnan's backside was a mess of angry welts, deep enough in many places to have broken the skin, where the birch branches had overlapped. What Jussac lacked in care he had evidently made up for in force.
"Get in line," Porthos rumbled.
D'Artagnan was sweating, despite the room being cool. Athos broke his gaze briefly to direct Porthos toward the fireplace with a nod. He smoothed away some stands of hair from the boy's brow, his hand remaining upon d'Artagnan's cheek when he was done.
"I didn't cry," d'Artagnan mumbled, his eyes hooded with weariness. "He wanted me to, but I didn't make a sound."
"Of course you didn't," Athos said with a proud smile. "You are a Musketeer."
D'Artagnan's face fell. "You mean, a cadet," he said, his voice heavy with bitter self-reproach. "…I didn't mean to lie, Athos, I promise you."
"The rules d'Melliuor adheres to are archaic," Athos said firmly. "There have been dozens of young recruits in the past few decades. They are a guideline, nothing more. When Treville returns you shall be reinstated."
The revelation of their brother's age had come as no small shock to Athos, however. Though he knew the boy was young, it had not occurred to him that he could be so young as to be not only Athos' brother, but also his son. If he did not know better that d'Artagnan was too honourable to lie about such matters, he would have been angry with the boy. Charles would not have even considered the need for deception in regards to his age, no matter whether he was not yet twenty, or even twenty-five, he would have been striving to prove himself equal to his peers. The distance between nineteen and twenty-one was not so great as his own perceived distance between himself and his fellow inseparables.
"We just have to get that far," Aramis said calmly. He lay down the cloth and began with the salve, dabbing it as gently as he could against the broken flesh.
D'Artagnan whined and caught his lip between his teeth against the sting. He buried his head into his arms.
Athos placed a hand upon the boy's hair, stroking his locks as he met eyes with Porthos. They were in agreement, d'Melliuor would die by their hands when this was over – unpleasantly if they had their way.
"We must continue with our mission with the utmost care," he said, opting for the comfort of duty. "Treville's life is in danger every moment until his return to Paris, from the Spaniards should he be exposed, and our own forces until his name is cleared. For our part, we must continue the search for the true spy, without prompting any suspicion from them. Our failure to capture Treville as ordered may even draw them to contact us."
"Not if we are known to them," Aramis pointed out. "If so they will likely guess our failure stemmed from our filial bonds with the captain, not any sympathy with Spain."
"The spy is likely a Musketeer or a Red Guard," Porthos pointed out what the four already knew. "Either way, Aramis is right."
"We can only do our best," Athos said with a sigh. "In any rate d'Melliuor has given us an excuse to be poking around the garrison."
"I can check the dormitories," d'Artagnan said, lifting his head. He wiped his sweating brow upon his arms, resting it there as he stared at the pillow below. "Jussac has me cleaning them each morning and emptying the fireplaces."
Athos tried to stop himself from painfully clenching the boy's hair. Mucking the stables out that afternoon had damaged his own pride a little, but putting d'Artagnan to work like a common servant was a disgrace.
"We shall see this as the opportunity it is," he said through gritted teeth. "Jussac and d'Melliuor are the only ones whose honour suffers for this." He said it firmly, daring them to object.
"We must take care," Aramis prompted. He sat back, his task done, wiping his hands upon a cloth. "D'Melliuor likely blames us all for his previous disgrace. His father cannot protect us this time, not if Henri acts within the bounds of his office."
"Meaning we don't do any stupid shit that gives him an excuse to hurt us," Porthos rumbled. He looked at d'Artagnan, his eyes softening with care. "—to hurt you, whelp."
D'Artagnan nodded, taking a steady breath as he carefully drew his smalls up over his injuries. He knelt up upon the bed, resting his hands upon his knees to steady himself.
"I promise I'll do nothing to provoke d'Melliuor," he said, fixing all three with a solemn smile. "But please, do not worry about me. The punishment is unpleasant, I admit, but I won't die from a whipping. Exposing the traitor must be our main priority, regardless of what it costs me."
The three musketeers looked at their younger brother in stunned silence. Then Athos strode forwards, sitting heavily on the cot beside the boy before snatching him up into a tight embrace. His hand roughly grasped the back of d'Artagnan's head, pressing his brow to his shoulder as the other gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly.
"And d'Melliuor thinks you too young," Aramis chuckled. "Well said, petit Musketeer."
Porthos slapped the boy's back heartily. "We'll get the bugger," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "and when we do we'll swing on his bloody legs when he dances in hemp."
Athos said nothing, but hugged the boy tighter as he felt his shoulder grow damp with the boy's tears.