It was not until long past midnight when Athos returned to his chambers. Both Porthos and Aramis had been assigned a double watch shift, Athos saved from the same only because there were no more walls to guard. Still, he would only be granted a few hours' reprieve until his next duty began the hour before dawn. The captain seemed eager to keep the men from their friend at all costs.
"How fares our patient?" he asked, treading softly so as not to wake the boy.
"He slept most of the time," Antionne said, his relief at the reprieve clear. "He woke a little while ago and took some milk… and some more laudanum."
Athos saw even in the dim light of the fire that Antionne's face was pale and drawn. Clearly d'Artagnan's awakening had not been pleasant. A few extra cloths – soiled with fresh blood – lay upon the nightstand, but the boy's back was clean and covered with a fresh layer of salve.
"You have my deepest thanks," he said sincerely.
Antionne appeared startled at his words, looking away with a wince. "I did only what any decent man would," he said, his tone saying far more than the words did.
Athos shed his boots and gloves, bending to bank the fire. He crossed over to d'Artagnan's side opposite to Antionne and crouched beside the boy, his hand resting upon Charles' head as he surveyed him. D'Artagnan slept soundly, his breathing steady, but his eyelids grey and sunken.
Athos looked up when Antionne cleared his throat.
The young d'Melliuor sat in his chair, his body stiff with disquiet. His brow was furrowed, the gaze troubled as it stayed upon the cuts to d'Artagnan's back, the skin about them flushed and bruised.
"The captain… monsieur de'Treville, I mean… he is innocent, isn't he?"
Athos regarded the boy for some time, seeing the tense anxiety that he fought hard to control. Antionne was clearly struggling with a deep and unsettling truth.
Such a thing could only be met with the same.
"Yes, lad, he is."
Antionne's eyes closed and he breathed out deeply through his nose. "I knew he was," he said dully. "Is there truly a Spanish agent within our ranks, or was that just a lie to discredit the Captain?"
The Captain. Athos could not help smiling inwardly at that. Barely a Musketeer more than half a year and the lad was already as loyal as a priest to God.
Time to test that loyalty.
"We believe there is such a man."
Antionne looked up at him, the pain and desperation in his eyes almost too great for Athos to stand, so alike as it was to d'Artagnan's. "You are looking for this man, Porthos, Aramis, and yourself?"
"Yes."
"…and d'Artagnan?"
"D'Artagnan also."
Antionne looked down at their fellow Musketeer. His hand twitched as if he wished to reach out and give the man comfort, but he kept it firmly clasped upon his lap.
Athos strolled slowly around the bed until he was beside the young lieutenant, resting his hip against the nightstand as he stared down at him, arms folded over his chest. He said nothing, but waited for the tension to build, knowing that the boy was desperate to speak.
Antionne could only keep his gaze for a short while before it dropped to his hands. In them he held a small, tin box, in which one might keep tobacco or snuff.
"During the…" he began, but paused before collecting himself once more, "…during the penance…" Antionne bit his lip hard before thrusting his hand out toward Athos, offering the tin to him.
"Whilst he was… distracted, I made an impression of my father's keys," he said, in a wavering, but emotionless voice. "One is to the Captain's quarters, the second to a chest in which he keeps his private papers."
Athos looked down at the tin but did not take it.
"You believe your own father a traitor?" he asked, his voice hard. Despite his own hatred for the man, Athos had not seriously considered Henri d'Melliuor a candidate for their investigation. Henri appeared no more likely to betray France than Richelieu, no matter how personally despised they both were. However, the confession was clearly a deep wrench for the younger d'Melliuor, not lightly made. The chance that he could be setting Athos up for a trap with his father was a slim one, but such a deadly doubt could not be ignored, no matter its unlikelihood.
"My grandfather has made no secret that he intends on his death to gift the bulk of his fortune away from my father's reach," Antionne said, his hand still outstretched, eyes averted. His voice was numbed of emotion, a defence against the betrayal of his own blood and the shattering of one of the Lord's most holy commandments.
"—I believe that my father would do anything to maintain the life that he has always known – that he believes is his right, no matter the hurt he may do others." Antionne turned his gaze back to d'Artagnan, his eyes filled with a terrible sadness that could not have been feigned.
Athos took the box. He opened the clasp and saw the neat wax impressions within, good enough for a smith to make a usable copy.
"You are a courageous young man, Antionne d'Melliuor," he said, resting the box carefully upon his nightstand. "Whether your suspicions prove false or not, to voice them at all was righteously done."
Antionne gave no reply save a grimace.
They watched d'Artagnan for a while, the boy's chest rising and falling in a pain-stunted manner, and his brows knit despite the laudanum.
His forehead was beaded with sweat. Antionne took a clean, damp cloth and leant across to dab at it, leaving the cool cloth to lay upon his brother's nape.
"D'Artagnan is the brave one, not I," he said with a gentle weariness. "I never understood until now the distance between our worth. Before entering into the Musketeers I had never experienced physical chastisement first hand. After my introduction to the marquis, and witnessing today's travesty, I have only the most profound respect for monsieur d'Artagnan. I… do not know how he bore it, only that I could not have done so myself."
Athos placed a hand upon Antionne's shoulder. "Courage comes in all forms," he said softly. "You and he are no different."
"I should have spoken of my suspicions earlier," Antionne said, suddenly animated. He shook off the hand, spitting bitter venom. "I should have stood up to my father when he first cast such wicked judgements. I should have refused this absurd, shameful promotion that I neither deserve, nor thrive in. I am a coward, monsieur, do not attempt to so irrationally defend my honour."
Had Antionne been looking up at Athos at that moment he would have seen the narrowing of the man's eyes and feared for his skin. As it was, when he spoke, Athos' word alone was enough to cause the young Musketeer to flinch.
"Stand."
Unnerved by the cold authority in his tone, Antionne did not immediately respond. He looked up, cringing when he saw the deathly look upon the elder Musketeer's face.
Athos gave him no further time to act, taking a firm grip upon the boy's arm and yanking him from his chair. He took the seat without delay, pulling Antionne over his knees and immediately striking him firmly upon his backside.
He did not speak through the first ten blows, his hand falling rapidly and without pause to the tune of the boy's muffled exclamations of both distress and dismay.
"You shall not speak to me or any other of your brothers in such a tone again, do you understand, sir?"
"Y—yes, monsieur!" Antionne yelped.
Athos laid down another ten powerful swats, holding nothing back.
"You shall not ever speak of yourself in such terms again."
"Y—yes, I mean no, monsieur, I shall not!"
Ten more memorable swats, five atop one another on each cheek, his breeches and braies giving Antionne no protection at all against the fiery sting. He was mightily glad that d'Artagnan seemed oblivious to this display, blessing the laudanum its fine work in preserving his dignity.
"You are a young man, without the experience of your elders. You are as infallible as any other, and as such you shall face both judgement and reprieve."
Antionne gulped, his head hanging low. Shame, not from his position but for his outburst, brought tears to his eyes.
"Yes, monsieur," he chocked and then gave a muffled yelp of surprise as he was swung back to his feet, held before Athos by both arms as the Musketeer gave him the benefit of his hardest stare.
"You are a fine young man, Antionne – despite your earlier failings, for which you have done much to change yourself for the better. You shall be a great leader one day, as shall d'Artagnan."
Athos paused, and he let his face soften. "Do not judge yourself so harshly upon the standards of others," he said, not unkindly, "Not everyone's opinion holds value."
"Yes, monsieur," Antionne said, his head bowed with humility. He was surprised once more to find himself suddenly caught in an embrace, Athos standing before him, pressing the boy against himself unselfconsciously. Antionne returned the hold like a starved man reaching for a banquet, a few tears falling before he gathered himself and pulled away.
"If you find yourself wishing to test your courage, seek out Gaspard and repeat what you said to me," Athos said with a twitch of his lips.
Antionne gave a shy smile, swiping surreptitiously at his cheeks. "I may do so, sir, should I ever feel myself forgetting your lesson," he promised with a rueful chuckle. "You have my thanks."
"I would rather have your friendship," Athos said, holding out a hand.
"You have it," Antionne replied, taking the hand in a solid grip.
Antionne took his leave then, shutting the door with care behind him.
Athos added another log to the fire, stoking it in silence before turning to the bed.
"You can stop pretending now, young whelp."
D'Artagnan gave muffled sound of surprise but kept his head buried within his arms.
"You knew?"
"I had a younger brother who would try the same trick, usually in the morning when schoolwork beckoned," Athos replied, humour in his voice. "I found a slipper dissuaded him quickly enough... Fear not, though, in this case your actions were merciful."
D'Artagnan shifted in discomfort, more from the conversation he had been privy to than the state of his back. Still Athos came close, placing the bottle of laudanum within easy reach upon the nightstand. He urged the boy to take a few bites of wine-softened bread, followed by some honeyed milk kept cool upon his windowsill. With some further coaxing, Athos managed to raise d'Artagnan's torso up enough that he could slip beneath it, his legs a substitute for the pillow now propped behind his back. D'Artagnan remained stoic throughout, biting back his whimpers and any thought of objections as Athos took his place. The fact that he was still naked had not escaped his pain-hazed attention, but he could not bear even the thought of clothing himself.
"I heard what Antionne said… about his father," d'Artagnan muttered as he shifted himself about the get comfortable, he winced and shuddered at the pain, his skin clammy with new sweat.
"We'll talk about that tomorrow, when Aramis and Porthos return," Athos said calmly. When the boy shivered once more he asked: "Think you could bear a sheet?"
D'Artagnan thought for a moment but then gave a begrudging sigh and a nod. Nevertheless, he gave a low cry as Athos spread the thinnest of coverlets over his body, his arms wrapping about the man's torso reflexively as he buried his face in Athos' stomach.
"—thos," he chocked.
Athos stroked a soothing hand down the lad's hair, pausing at the nape to toss aside the now-dry cloth, his thumb instead rubbing small circles there. Aramis might skin him tomorrow for letting the covers interfere with the wounds but it was better than the boy freezing to death.
"I'm here, lad," he murmured soothingly.
"It hurts, 'thos."
"I know. You're safe here, brother."
D'Artagnan was quiet a while, his chest heaving with unshed misery, tears only barely at bay.
"I'm sorry I didn't check the roster," he mumbled into the cloth of Athos' shirt.
"I know, lad."
"I broke my promise to you."
In the darkness of the room, with no man to see him, Athos couldn't help but smile.
"You made a mistake, lad. Remember what I said to Antionne?"
"Before or after you spanked him?" D'Artagnan's voice was watery but held a spark of mischief in it; a great relief after the past weeks' troubles had driven away his good humour.
Athos reached down and lightly pinched the boy's cheek.
"Brat," he muttered fondly. "I said: "You are as infallible as any other, and as such you shall face both judgement and reprieve." …You would do well to heed the same lesson."
"Always, Athos."
As brave as he attempted to sound, d'Artagnan still wavered on the edge of the precipice. Happily, Athos knew what to say to let the boy fall into the rift below, where cleansing absolution awaited.
"I am proud of you, my dear brother."
D'Artagnan stiffened, his breath catching and then bubbling up in a long, chocking sob. Another followed, then another, and another. He clutched at Athos, heedless of his injured hands; nothing against the desire to be close to his brother. He gasped; fat, heavy tears flowing unchecked from his eyes, his nose running as he wailed into Athos' lap, his voice muffled by the fabric – though he would not have cared if the whole garrison had heard him. He sobbed out all his pain and self-reproach; the disappointment he felt in himself and the careless oversight which had led him here, and the desperate impotence of his position. He cried for Athos, who had been forced to harm him thanks to that failing, and for his friends, forced to witness it. He cried for the unfairness of it, of the pain and the humiliation. He cried in frustration that he was the weakness in their armour that d'Melliuor could use to hurt his brothers. Finally, he cried knowing that it was only because the three men loved him so dearly that the weakness existed at all, and that, despite all he suffered, he would not forfeit that love even faced with all the whips and curses in the world.