Author's note: Would you guys believe I nearly forgot to post? Couldn't do that to you, though, so I have dragged myself out of bed and here I sit coding away for you all. Enjoy. :D

Interlude, part 3

Athos marched straight to the table without pausing. "d'Artagnan, may I speak with you?" d'Artagnan looked up curiously, and he added, "Not here, please."

d'Artagnan stood obediently, following him out of the garrison. Athos led the way to his rooms in silence, aware that Aramis and Porthos were trailing half a street behind them, taking care not to catch up to them.

"Do you want them?" he murmured when they reached his rooms.

d'Artagnan shrugged. "As you like."

"d'Artagnan…"

"It doesn't matter, Athos. Whatever's easier for you." Studying him, he added, "Easier if they're not here, I think."

Athos nodded, gesturing him in and looking down the street. Porthos was leaning against a wall, watching them openly; Athos held his gaze for a moment before turning away, closing the door behind himself.

d'Artagnan was standing by the table, idly tracing the grain of the wood. Athos watched him for a moment, thinking. "What does it tell you?"

d'Artagnan looked up, fingers still moving. "Nothing I didn't know already. What can I do for you, Athos?"

Athos hadn't quite thought this far ahead; he hadn't even been sure d'Artagnan would listen to him. "I want to – apologise," he said haltingly.

"You don't need – "

"Let me speak," he said, more harshly than he meant to. d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, leaning one hip against the table and folding his arms across his chest. Athos closed his eyes briefly, trying to pick up the thread of his thoughts.

"You think that I object to this, the shields, the depth of your knowledge, because I desire privacy," he said finally.

"Yes," d'Artagnan said slowly.

"It was never me I worried for." He could see the moment d'Artagnan understood, but he went on anyway. "Aramis' grief hurt you, badly. My demons are dark and many and they're not for you to have to fight."

d'Artagnan was shaking his head. "If the choice is between feeling your pain, and never feeling your joy – that's not a choice, Athos. Your demons don't hurt me. I'll carry them with pride, if you'll let me."

"There's little joy in my life."

"There's plenty of joy, you just don't see it," d'Artagnan contradicted him. "Tell me to and I will never deliberately sense anything from you again. But I'm not afraid of anything you might feel."

"Aramis hurt you."

"Yes. And then I adjusted, and now he doesn't hurt me anymore. If you hurt me, I'll back away. But I'd rather take the risk."

"You're a fool," Athos said half-heartedly.

"You're not the first person to say it," d'Artagnan agreed cheerfully. "But I'm a fool who knows my own mind."

"How much of your mind is your own?"

"Enough to make this decision. And you know what I've decided. The rest is in your hands."

Athos sighed. "You'll withdraw at the first sign of trouble?"

"Or at your request. Of course. I've no wish to hurt myself, Athos."

"Then do what helps you."

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan asked, but he already looked happier. Athos nodded and d'Artagnan grinned. "Athos, thank you."

"How much of your mind is your own?" he asked curiously.

"More or less all of it. I don't retain the sense memories, just the information." Athos shook his head, and d'Artagnan smiled apologetically. "I don't remember the feeling of Aramis' grief; I only remember that he was grieving. I don't keep the feeling once it's gone, not consciously." He glanced away, towards the window. "Porthos is about to come bursting in."

"Where did he take you?"

"Court of Miracles. Flea's got an empath living there, she's helping me form better shields."

"Good," Athos murmured. d'Artagnan glanced towards the window again, and he sighed in mock annoyance. "Go and tell him I haven't killed you, for goodness sake. I'll see you in the morning, before your patrol."

d'Artagnan bowed slightly, grinning, and let himself out of the room. Athos crossed to the window, watching as Porthos grinned and tugged the boy into a hug; Aramis ruffled his hair, laughing at the obviously fake indignation. d'Artagnan pouted, straightening his hair and slapping Porthos' hand away when he tried to help.

Athos smiled faintly, watching them for a moment more before turning away.

No Musketeer Athos had ever met really enjoyed protecting the royal hunt. It was usually a lot of either standing around doing nothing while Louis 'rested', or crashing around on horseback trying to stay in position while Louis enthusiastically 'hunted'. Today was little different. d'Artagnan riding on Louis' left – the young king had kept his promise to keep an eye on d'Artagnan, often singling him out at events like this one. Porthos and Aramis a little further out, watching the flanks; two Musketeers Athos didn't know well, new recruits, behind them and flanking Louis' manservant or valet or whatever the hell the man was, and he himself at the back, watching the trail behind them. Other Musketeers were scattered through the woods, making sure no one got too close, guarding the little encampment where the Queen, Rochefort and several other courtiers were waiting. With any luck the hunt would be finished soon; Louis had been out here for several hours now, which meant he'd probably get bored soon.

A rabbit bolted, directly under one of the recruit's horses. It danced sidewards and he shouted, trying to calm it. Spooked, the valet's horse pulled away, and the extra movement unsettled the recruit's animal too much; it lost its' footing, coming down hard, rolling across the recruit as it struggled to stand.

Athos caught the valet's reins, calming his horse. Swinging out of his saddle, he passed his own reins to the valet and slipped between the horses, making for the head of the column. Aramis and Porthos passed him, heading for the two young recruits. Athos stepped out of their way, hurrying to reach Louis and d'Artagnan. Unexpected death always hit the younger Musketeer hard, and he wouldn't have been shielding, alert for any danger to the King.

Louis and d'Artagnan were both off their horses, d'Artagnan bodily preventing Louis from going back. Athos shot a quick look at him; d'Artagnan was pale, but he looked far better than Athos had been expecting. "Your Majesty," he said, turning his attention to Louis.

"What on earth is going on?" Louis demanded, trying to see past him.

"A rabbit spooked the horses and one of the Musketeers has been thrown, your Majesty. Aramis and Porthos are checking on him now." He glanced at d'Artagnan, who shook his head very slightly. "I'm afraid it didn't look good, though."

"Oh dear," Louis murmured.

"If you'll allow it, Your Majesty, d'Artagnan and I will escort you back to the pavilion while Aramis and Porthos work."

"Yes, I suppose there won't be much to hunt now anyway," Louis said with a sigh. "What is his name?"

"Pardon?"

"The injured Musketeer. What is his name?"

"Marcus," d'Artagnan offered quietly. "He apprenticed to the Musketeers eight weeks ago, from Tarbes."

Louis nodded, glancing around. "The horses?"

Athos let d'Artagnan find his and Louis', taking Porthos' for himself. He put d'Artagnan in front of Louis, leading the way back to the pavilion, and he followed at the rear. d'Artagnan chose a path that lead them wide around the others, too far to even get a look.

They picked up a couple of extra Musketeers on the way through the trees; Athos sent two back to help Aramis and had the rest go around to call in the others. He wanted everyone out of the trees and into the clearing.

Louis went to join Anne and the Cardinal; he halted after a moment, looking back. "Come along, d'Artagnan."

"Yes, your Majesty," d'Artagnan said obediently, following him towards the pavilion.

Athos busied himself dealing with the Musketeers, sending one to arrange a cart and the others to begin striking the camp. Twenty minutes or so later, when the only thing left to do was strike the main pavilion, there was a noise in the trees and Porthos appeared, carrying a body in Musketeer blue.

The cart was ready and Athos went to help lay Marcus in it. Aramis was hovering behind Porthos, twitching but carefully not touching; he glanced up as Athos joined them. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

"In the pavilion."

"How is he?"

Athos carefully tucked in the edge of the cape – Aramis', he noticed. "Surprisingly unaffected."

"That doesn't seem right," Porthos murmured. "He won't have been shielding."

"I haven't had a chance to ask him." He caught Aramis' eye, tilting his head questioningly. Sudden deaths, or injuries he couldn't help with, often left him jumpy, even when he hadn't touched the victim.

"I'm all right," Aramis assured him, but he was still being careful not come too close to the cart.

Louis approached; Anne was with him, and Aramis moved quickly to block her view. "Your Majesties."

"Your Majesty, with your permission, we need to take him back to the garrison. There's no need for you to return, we have enough Musketeers for the hunt to continue if you'd prefer."

"No, no," Louis said with a sigh. "We can't continue now."

"Did he have family?" Anne asked.

Athos glanced at Porthos, who shook his head. d'Artagnan spoke up from behind Anne, skirting around her to join Aramis. "Mother and two brothers, one older, one younger."

"I will arrange with Captain Treville that some form of compensation be paid to them," Anne said.

"You're very kind," Aramis said. Athos, across the cart from them, could see the grip he had on d'Artagnan's arm.

"Porthos, make sure their Majesties are comfortable. We'll ride as soon as they're ready, I'll leave a couple of men to finish packing up."

"Of course," Porthos agreed, bowing stiffly. "This way, please."

Aramis waited until they were out of earshot to turn to d'Artagnan. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him. Aramis studied him and d'Artagnan sighed, tipping his head in an obvious invitation. Aramis took it, peeling off a glove and pressing a hand to his neck.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan repeated.

"You are fine," Aramis murmured. "How is – forgive me, d'Artagnan, but how is that possible? You weren't shielding."

"No," d'Artagnan agreed. "But we're surrounded by Musketeers." Aramis shook his head, and d'Artagnan frowned. "I've been working with them."

"Yes. To get to know them."

"And now I know them. I can – there's a feeling, when they're all together. Like the difference between the noise a crowd makes and the sound of one person. The more Musketeers, the easier it is to muffle myself in it."

"You're building shields on the brotherhood," Aramis breathed.

"Not shields; support. There are so many of them, Marcus was one voice in a crowd. It didn't hurt so much. It's not as good as shielding on people I know well, but it helps."

Athos shook his head. When those two started getting mystical, he was usually left behind. "You're sure you're well?"

"Perfectly," d'Artagnan assured him, and then sighed. "I'll drive the cart, if it'll make you stop worrying. But I'm fine." He glanced at Aramis. "You didn't try…"

"No point," Aramis said with a sigh. "It was too late the moment the horse went down. He landed very badly."

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan murmured.

"You're sorry? I'm not the one it affects – yes, all right, doesn't affect – that way."

"Not that way," d'Artagnan agreed. "But it does affect you, doesn't it? You're not far from empathy."

"Far enough. You couldn't pay me to be an empath."

d'Artagnan started to object, but Athos shook his head, catching Porthos' signal from across the clearing. Aramis subsided, and Athos nodded. "Good. Paris awaits. Let's go."

Porthos wasn't usually the last one to the garrison in the mornings, but this morning Athos was heading up the stairs and the others were sitting at the table. He dropped to sit next to d'Artagnan, frowning as he realised Aramis was speaking.

"What?"

"Sssh," d'Artagnan murmured, listening intently.

Porthos frowned, listening, but whatever Aramis was saying it wasn't French or Spanish. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't pin down why, and before he could figure it out Aramis finished with a flourish.

"Better," d'Artagnan told him.

"Better? What was wrong there?"

d'Artagnan only grinned, turning to Porthos. "Morning."

"Good morning," Porthos answered. "What's going on?"

"Aramis is learning to pray."

"Anything Aramis doesn't already know about praying isn't worth learning."

d'Artagnan smiled. "He's learning to pray in Gascon."

"Why?"

"It helps me."

"Helps you," Porthos agreed. "Aramis isn't – the same."

"Aramis is sitting right here," Aramis pointed out. Porthos made a face at him, looking back at d'Artagnan.

"It might not help him," d'Artagnan agreed. "Or it might. But it might help me."

Porthos looked pleadingly at Aramis, who grinned cheerfully at him. "LaBarge upset d'Artagnan so much that he couldn't concentrate to pray. If I could have led him, it might have helped."

"All right," Porthos said slowly, "but how is this going to help you? You don't have his problems."

"Hey," d'Artagnan protested.

"Truth hurts," Porthos said, and ducked the slap without looking at him.

"I don't have his problems," Aramis agreed, and jerked in a way that suggested d'Artagnan had kicked him.

"Will you both stop calling it that," d'Artagnan hissed, turning to Porthos with a scowl. "He doesn't, but he does have a sense for injuries, you know that, and it's hard for him to ignore it sometimes. This might help."

"Or I may have simply learned another way to express my love for God," Aramis added, spreading his arms wide.

"Why d'you need to learn Gascon at all? If the point is praying, why can't you just pray?"

"The point isn't praying," d'Artagnan said. Shaking his head, he started over. "For me, the point is the ritual. Something I know so well I don't have to think about it. For Aramis, the point is distraction. Something to block whatever he's trying not to think about. That's what he's doing when he touches you while he's recovering. Something else to concentrate on."

Aramis nodded at Porthos' look. "I can pray in Latin or French or Spanish without thinking about it. Gascon shares many similarities with French, but it's not the same. I'll have to concentrate carefully on what I'm saying. And, of course, it will help d'Artagnan when he needs it."

"It wouldn't hurt us all to learn," Athos said, easing down to sit next to Aramis. "It may be important sometime."

"I'm terrible at languages," Porthos said doubtfully.

"He really is, I've heard him attempt Spanish," Aramis agreed.

"Oi!"

"My friend, I had no idea what you were saying, and I'm quite sure the barmaid didn't either."

"I got what I wanted, didn't I?"

"Oh, I hadn't realised you wanted a slap across the face."

"You, hush," Porthos ordered. "Come on, d'Artagnan, what's the first line?"

d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis. "Salve Regina?"

"Why not, they're all about as hard as each other."

d'Artagnan reeled it off in about twenty heartbeats, grinning at the disgruntled look on Aramis' face, and then turned to Porthos and Athos. "Here. First line."