There was no answer later that evening when Aramis knocked upon d'Artagnan's door.
"Charles, I'm coming in," he whispered, loud enough that the boy would hear, and stepped inside.
The fire was out, the room cold. D'Artagnan lay upon his cot, facing the wall, yet still clothed in shirt and braies. He was awake but did not turn, even after Aramis had closed the door.
"Charles, you are in the dark," Aramis ventured.
D'Artagnan barked a laugh, the bitterness of the sound startling the Spaniard.
"I'm sure you appreciate the irony of that statement."
Armani's paused and then blanched as realisation hit him.
"You heard us. How?"
"The kitchen fireplace backs on to the one in the lower dining hall. If you stand in the grate you can hear the words echo."
Alarming as this statement was for the implications to their secrecy, the worse was the knowledge that the three inseparables had been caught in deceiving their friend.
"We did not wish to see you hurt..." he began.
"I am not a child, Aramis!"
The tears plain within the boy's speech betrayed him. He had looked up during that hot, snarling statement, and what Aramis could make out in the dark was pure anguish.
"No," he solemnly agreed. "You are our dearest friend."
"Hah!" d'Artagnan leapt up, though the move left him wincing. "Your friend perhaps, but not your equal. Clearly I am to be coddled, you certainly don't have the decency to treat me with respect."
Aramis stayed silent, letting those awful, rage-filled words hang in the heavy air. After a moment the fullness of d'Artagnan's rage left him and he deflated, sinking back within himself as his mind caught up with his mouth.
"When you are healed, we shall revisit those words, young Gascony," Aramis said with dark promise. "You are angry, and rightfully so, but I am no more your whipping boy than you are d'Melliuor's."
D'Artagnan's face showed the pain and disgrace he felt, gaping in mortification at his brother. "Aramis... I am so sorry," he said, voice hushed with self-reproach.
"You certainly shall be," Aramis said, forcing lightness into his tone. "For now I have come with fresh salve. You can begin your atonement by allowing me to apply it without fuss."
D'Artagnan flushed but hung his head, chastised into obedience. He allowed Aramis to draw him to the bed, laying over the man's lap with only a brief protest.
"Can't I simply lay down..."
"Of course you may lay down... over my lap, Charles."
Suppressing a mortified groan, d'Artagnan lay over Aramis' knees, shifting obligingly as his braies were drawn below his bottom to his lower thighs.
Aramis hissed through his teeth. The boy's backside was bruised in uniform lines from its peak to upper thighs. The crease of his undercurve was the worst affected; at least five or six strokes had landed in the same place if Aramis were any judge of the single red and purple welt there.
"For God's sake, 'Mis, are you done looking?" d'Artagnan whined.
Aramis couldn't bring himself to swat the boy for his cheek. Instead he reached down and pinched the tender flesh behind his ear, making him yip and wriggle.
"Enough, brat, and let me work." He took up the salve; first dabbing it upon the welts and then working it in as gently as he was able.
D'Artagnan sucked in his breath and buried his head into his arms. His fingers were twisted into the covers, gripping so tightly he was like to rip them apart. Aramis allowed his free hand to linger near the boy's scalp, long fingers working into his silky hair and rubbing a steadying rhythm that distracted from the likely hideous ache in his rear.
"Your efforts are no less diminished by their success or failure," he said quietly. "We have never asked any less from you than what we are sure is within your scope, and yet you always give us far, far more. A finished masterpiece has a thousand incomplete canvasses in the master's past."
"No one died from not finishing a painting, 'Mis," d'Artagnan grumbled. He was muffled by the covers, but his voice was hoarse from unshed tears.
"You have not met many court painters, I see," Aramis chuckled, both hands still soothing the lad. "My point is that whatever setbacks we face, your achievements still stand. We three are constantly astounded by your courage and your fortitude. We have been powerless to help you these past weeks. Can you truly blame us for wishing to protect you in whatever small way we can?"
D'Artagnan huffed and sniffled something that sounded like it could have been: "Don't need protecting."
Aramis smiled fondly, patting the boy's bottom softley. "Mon frère, that is simply not your choice to make."
Treatment complete, Aramis rested his hand upon d'Artagnan's hot flesh, still rubbing circles into his neck. Slowly the tension leaked from the boy, along with telltale sounds of tears. Aramis murmured gentling words, letting the lad release his miserable frustration.
When Charles had wept his last, he settled into a stupour, on the edge of sleep. Aramis shifted back, the boy still upon his lap, until his back met the wall. He pulled a thin sheet over d'Artagnan, firmly shushing his muffled protests, and watched the boy until he fell into deep sleep.