Thank you kindly, dear reviewers, it has been great to hear from you.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta Marigoldfaucet and my French language&culture consultant Meysun.

2. Droit devant

(Straight ahead)

"I didn't hurt him, I swear I didn't, my sword just glanced off his doublet... I think... there's no cut is there? Aramis? I didn't mean to hurt you, Athos, I didn't, I swear!"

D'Artagnan's voice sounded close to hysteria as he wriggled out of Porthos' grasp and dropped to his knees beside Athos. At least that was what Athos assumed he did. He was still unable to turn his head, staring straight at Aramis who was looking down at him with grim determination.

A hand appeared at the edge of his vision and Athos wanted to escape from it, but did not have the energy to move. Porthos vanished from behind Aramis, there was a soft thud and the hand disappeared before it could touch Athos.

"Let him be, mon ami," Porthos said softly. "Give Aramis some space to do his work."

"He's not dead, is he?" d'Artagnan asked timidly. "I didn't kill him, tell me I didn't kill him..."

Athos watched Aramis look up and smile slightly, shaking his head, and then he heard Porthos' voice again, gentle and calming as if he was speaking to a spooked horse.

"He's alive, d'Artagnan. Just let Aramis see to him. We know you didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes accidents happen. It'll be alright."

He continued to talk tenderly to their young friend and Athos knew that it should be him doing the talking. He should be taking care of d'Artagnan; the boy was his responsibility. Instead he lay there on the ground, curled around his cramping stomach and unable to even open his mouth. A fine example he was setting.

Athos tried to calm himself, feeling high-strung and on edge. He needed to calm himself. He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to slowly expand his lungs until he met resistance from his cramped up muscles. He tried again, and again, taking in a little more air each time, willing his body to relax. Slowly, very slowly, the tightness in his abdomen abated a little. He still felt sore, but he no longer felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. His limbs slackened a little, though his muscles still ached.

"He moved! He moved his hand!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "He's going to be fine, right Aramis? He's fine."

"Give him a bit of time," Porthos reprimanded. "He must be winded. You put up a good fight."

"I won," d'Artagnan stated, his Gascon stubbornness be blessed, but quickly his voice grew worried once more. "Why is there blood on his teeth? I didn't hurt his lungs, did I? Did he break a rib? Aramis?

Athos knew he needed to focus on d'Artagnan now. He was scaring the boy and that was certainly not part of his remit. When he opened his eyes, Aramis was looking at him fondly. A gentle hand traced Athos' jaw and he realised that it was still tightly clenched, felt the muscles bunch under Aramis' touch. He must be a gruesome sight, his mouth stretched wide, and undoubtedly smeared with blood. No wonder the boy was afraid.

"I doubt it," Aramis said. "I think he merely bit his tongue when he fell."

D'Artagnan breathed an audible sigh of relief, but Athos had noticed the tightly controlled tone in Aramis' soft voice. From the way in which Aramis glanced sideways, Porthos had noticed it as well. Aramis was no physician, but he usually had excellent instincts where their wellbeing was concerned.

Athos disliked being the reason his friend sounded so concerned. Aramis had seen enough despair.

"I'm going to touch your body, Athos," Aramis said. "Just to see if anything is broken or bleeding. I'll be gentle about it."

He always was. His hands were soft, too soft for a musketeer, but Athos had seen those hands do many things and knew there was steel behind the velvet touch. As Athos felt those hands ghost over his body from the head down, he tried to slacken his jaw. He was still very conscious of his breathing, and with every breath he tried to relax a little more. Too much time had passed; he had made them worry for way too long already.

Athos breathed the same way he would to focus his thoughts before a fight. In. Out. Relax. He had to loosen his jaw. He experimentally moved his tongue. It felt sluggish and too large in his parched mouth, but it moved.

"Nothing broken and no wounds, not that I can tell," Aramis said, concluding his brief examination. "I need to check you over properly though."

He shook his head and there was something in his eyes, some sadness that Athos could not place.

"I'm fine," Athos said, his voice raspy, but audible.

They all stared at him. Then d'Artagnan grinned, while a slow smile stretched across Porthos' face. Yet Aramis was still looking grim.

"You, mon cher, are very far from fine," he said.

"Any chance we can move him inside?" Porthos asked softly, his eyes roving across the courtyard. Athos could see them, their fellow musketeers, crowding around the four men on the ground. Accidents happened, and minor injuries were nothing unusual, but to see one of their comrades down for so long certainly was.

Athos closed his eyes and tried to focus. His first instinct was that he could not possibly walk, but he knew that was not an option. He needed to get to his rooms and sleep off this strange fever.

"Help me up," he said and wished it sounded more like a command than a plea.

"Slowly," Aramis cautioned when d'Artagnan pounced instantly. "Sit him up first."

Athos was hard-pressed to avoid a grunt of pain when d'Artagnan pushed him upright by his shoulders. It took him a while to even out his breathing again, as he sat there in the mud with d'Artagnan's arm slung across his shoulders. He was glad he still did not feel up to turning his head. He could picture the look of concern in those large eyes and had no need to see it, to be reminded that his weakness had put it there.

"You alright?"

Athos made a small sound that he hoped sounded more affirmative to them than it did to his own ears. Apparently it did, as they started to manoeuvre him upright. He would have fallen down immediately, had Porthos and d'Artagnan not been there to support him. Shivers ran through him and he fought hard to keep his stomach from clenching again, but ultimately succeeded. He stood up with his back as straight as ever, though he was still breathing heavily.

He started to walk and was reminded of a small foal, his legs stiff and unwieldy. His friends hovered at his elbows, ready to catch him should he falter. He was sweating heavily after only two steps and felt himself waver. He gritted his teeth. He had to make it back to his rooms to sleep this off away from prying eyes.

"Aramis!" Tréville's loud voice made Athos flinch. "End this madness. Bring him to my rooms."

"Yes, captain," Aramis answered, completely obedient. As much as Athos wanted to resist, he was starting to realise that he was in no state to walk back to Rue Férou. On top of that, this was an order and Tréville's rooms were closest.

There he could sit down for a while to recover.

"What do you need?" Tréville asked.

Athos heard Aramis sigh.

"A physician."

Athos wanted to protest. He knew he was in the best hands with Aramis. It was only a light fever anyways, no cause to trouble a physician, no reason to waste money on some charlatan when Aramis was right here. He was about to voice his protest when his legs buckled and he found himself in Porthos' arms. His friend dragged rather than guided him up the stairs.

Resistance was futile.

By the time the physician, a hawkish man of advanced years, had arrived, they had put him onto Tréville's bed. It was an insubordination Athos did not approve of, but lacked the luxury to protest at present.

"Why was I called to this man's bedside?" the physician asked with an authoritative air. Athos felt his eyes rove over his prone body.

"He collapsed in training, Monsieur," Aramis said. "He never lost consciousness, and there is no injury evident, but he has a slight fever. There is also a stiffness to his limbs, his abdominal muscles cramped tightly when he fell and..." He seemed hesitant to continue. "...his jaw locked for several minutes."

The physician breathed in sharply through his teeth.

Porthos offered the old man a chair he had dragged over from the desk, and the physician sat without even glancing at the musketeer. There was none of Aramis' gentleness in his hands as he grasped Athos' arms, feeling the tight muscles there and making him flinch. Then he gave Athos' thighs a squeeze and put a firm hand on his stomach. The others had helped Athos out of his leathers, which he welcomed because of the heat he felt, but now he wished for what small protection his clothing could provide. He felt like a horse at the market, prodded and poked to assess his health and his worth. It was a quick, perfunctory examination, concluded with a sharp prod of Athos' jaw that sent pain shooting through his body.

The physician got up quickly, wiping his hands on a pristine handkerchief.

"This man needs a priest, not a surgeon," he said, turning towards Aramis.

"What?" d'Artagnan gasped.

"He only has a slight fever," Porthos growled.

"A deathly infection has taken hold of his body. It progresses quickly. He would do well to say his adieus and make his confessions," the physician said, taking a step towards the door.

"How can you be sure?" Aramis asked, his voice tightly controlled and his mouth set. Athos realised then that Aramis knew what was ailing him and what the prognosis was, had known even down in the courtyard. He felt sadness, not for his own fate, but because he caused his friend such pain.

The physician regarded the questioner critically, but eventually took pity on the three men surrounding him.

"My bag," he commanded, holding out his hand. Porthos was quick to retrieve the doctor's heavy leather bag and after a brief search the man withdrew a thin metal spatula.

"Open your mouth," the physician said to Athos, sitting down once more. Athos considered disobeying, but his eyes fell on Aramis and he knew his friend needed confirmation. He struggled to pry his teeth apart, but did so at last.

"I shall touch the back of his throat," the physician explained. "The natural bodily reaction would be for the patient to gag and try to expel the object."

Athos did not focus on the man; he was watching his friends who stood behind him. They all nodded their understanding, although they looked sceptical. They should no have to worry. If gagging was all that was required of him, Athos was sure to perform to everyone's full satisfaction.

The cold metal slipped past his lips and was pushed across his tongue. Athos tensed slightly in anticipation of the uncomfortable feeling as the spatula came in contact with the back of his throat.

His teeth clamped down viciously on the thin instrument with an audible snap. He felt the physician give a sharp pull, but the man was unable to retrieve his instrument. His teeth would not yield, the muscles of his yaw clenching once more.

"Tetanus," the physician said, getting up once more. "The tetanus infection has taken hold of your comrade. My sympathies, messieurs, this will be a most unpleasant death."

"No!" d'Artagnan shouted and dropped to his knees beside the bed, clutching Athos' shoulder.

Athos was acutely aware of how surreal the situation was. There he was, lying in his commanding officer's bed with a piece of metal sticking out between his lips, unable to even open his mouth.

"He is not going to die," Porthos growled, towering over the physician.

"What can we do for him?" Aramis asked.

"Send for a priest, monsieur," the physician said, not without feeling. "Ensure the last rites are administered, so his soul may go on its journey in peace."

"Never!" Aramis hissed, all control gone from his voice. "We are soldiers, we fight! We will fight for his body before calling a priest for his soul. What can we do for him?"

The doctor did not chide him for his outburst; in fact he looked sympathetic. He shook his head slowly before he replied.

"The illness affects his muscles. The rigidity of his body will only increase. The spasms you have seen were only the beginning, they will become more frequent and severe, contracting his muscles to bursting," he explained and even though Athos knew it was his fate he described, he felt no apprehension at the pronouncement.

"Can that kill a man?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Death occurs when the spasms set into the muscles of his chest," the physician replied. "Eventually they will stop his breathing and his heart. All you can do is to make him comfortable until then."

"Warm baths to relax his muscles," Aramis mused, worrying his beard between his fingers.

"I advise against any agitation," the physician cautioned. "The slightest excitement can result in a fatal contraction of the muscles."

"What can we do then?"

The physician looked at Athos who still lay there like a fool with his jaws clenched tight around the spatula, then back to Aramis.

"Try to keep the fever low and strive to make him drink, water and some fortifying wine. Some food as well, as there is no telling how long this disease might take to run its course, but only broth and a weak gruel. Anything more substantial might make him gag and that may prove instantly fatal in his weakened state. He will increasingly struggle to swallow, but you must persist. When you can no longer make him take food and drink, death will be imminent."

Athos knew that it was his death they were talking about. He heard d'Artagnan shift uneasily and Porthos sniffle suspiciously, and he was loath to cause them pain, but felt no trepidation for himself.

"What about relieving the pain?" Aramis asked.

"We bear the pain that the Lord sees fit to assign to us," the physician replied with genuine surprise in his voice. "Surely you do not suggest shirking the burden of our worldly existence so callously. Ever since Adam's fall from grace, pain has been at the very core of human life. A fervent prayer will be all the pain relief your comrade requires."

Athos watched Aramis grind his teeth in frustration. His religious beliefs frequently clashed with his daily life, but usually seemed to unite with his efforts as a medic. It was difficult to watch him struggle to reconcile the two now. When Aramis spoke again, he had obviously decided to drop the matter for the time being.

"I have heard of tetanus after amputations or in burn victims, but Athos has no injury. How could this have happened?"

"This pestilence is powerful," the physician replied. "It enters the body through the smallest wound, a cut or a scratch may have been sufficient."

"I see." Aramis nodded his understanding before coming to sit next to Athos on the edge of the bed, smiling at him. He gently wriggled the spatula and was able to remove it as Athos' jaw had slackened somewhat. Athos was thankful for it. He swallowed awkwardly, trying to ignore the pain in his throat.

"Have you taken an injury recently?" Aramis asked.

"No," Athos answered with conviction.

"Mind if I check?"

"By all means."

Aramis very gently helped him out of his shirt and began to meticulously search his upper body for any sign of a wound, soft fingers ghosting over every inch of skin.

"What is this?" he asked, hand resting on Athos' right shoulder.

Athos turned his head very slowly, fighting his own muscles to look at what had caught his friend's attention.

"There's a thin red line running up from your armpit, looks like a recently healed cut," Aramis explained.

"That was nothing," Athos said, remembering. "Shallow cut, tip of a sword caught me. It hardly even bled."

"When was that?"

"Two weeks ago, in the fight with... with Sarazin's men."

It would be so typical of Anne to get her revenge in such a way. An insignificant wound, the bite of a snake to poison him. Aramis apparently shared his suspicions.

"Sangdieu!" he cursed. "Is there any way tetanus can be used as a poison, to purposefully infect a person?"

"Tetanus may take weeks to show its true nature," the physician replied thoughtfully. "But I have never heard of such an accusation. It is unknown what causes the disease, though it occurs most commonly in farmers and stablemen, so some suggest it may be born in the soil."

There had been dirt... the streets of Paris were always dirty... dirt and straw and horse dung if Athos remembered correctly. Poisoned by the dirt of Paris. It would be a fitting end for him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Aramis asked. "Why do you always have to try and hide?"

"It was a small wound, I washed it thoroughly," Athos answered. "You had other concerns at the time."

Aramis breathed out sharply through his teeth, catching the meaning behind these words. His fingers probed along the healed cut.

"No sign of infection," he concluded. "What can be done to draw the poison from his body?"

"As with any poison, I recommend bleeding the patient thoroughly," the physician said. "But really that would be..."

"...most unwise," Aramis interrupted. "I dare not weaken him further."

"But Monsieur, we see many most excellent results through bloodletting, it is a well-documented practice, used since antiquity for a variety of afflictions..."

"What else?" Aramis asked. It spoke of his desperation to learn more about the disease and its treatment that he wasn't more vocal about his disdain for bloodletting.

"With an infection, the prudent physician would open the wound and cauterise it to burn away any unhealthy matter."

Athos watched Aramis turn his eyes to the heavens, undoubtedly in a silent prayer for patience.

"You recommended to avoid any agitation, advice that seems prudent, but can hardly be followed if I attack him with hot blades," he said, his voice tight with ill-concealed annoyance. "The wound has healed completely with no sign of infection."

"And yet the tetanus has entered his body," the physician replied. "It would be folly not to eliminate it where we can."

"Your guess seems to be as good as mine regarding the manner of that elimination," Aramis shot back, getting to his feet.

"I have studied the medical sciences at the university and healed more men than some jumped up battlefield medic ever will," the physician replied with indignation.

"And I have seen more men die than you ever will," Aramis said, his voice icy. "And I swear by all that is holy that Athos won't be one of them."

They glared at each other, learned physician and self-taught medic.

"I think your services are no longer required here," Porthos said before matters could get out of control. He was resting one hand heavily on the physician's shoulder, offering him his bag with the other. He steered the man through the door, closing it behind him and leaning against the solid wood.

"What a stuck-up prick," he said and Athos huffed out a small laugh. Three sets of eyes stared at him.

"Is he correct?" Athos asked, looking at Aramis.

Aramis combed his fingers through his hair before he took a deep breath and replied.

"There can be no doubt about the diagnosis, but he is as clueless as you and I about the treatment."

"Your prognosis?"

Aramis swallowed heavily, but met Athos' eyes without hesitation.

"I refuse to let you die."

"Fair enough."

Silence fell. Aramis was pacing up and down, from Tréville's desk to the armoury and back. D'Artagnan was still sitting on the floor, and Athos tried to give him a reassuring glance. The young man smiled.

"You're not going to die, Athos," he whispered, then, in a vain attempt to lighten the mood, he added in a louder voice "So since I won, are you finally going to translate that Latin thing for me?"

Since Aramis did not react, he looked questioningly at Porthos. Porthos barked out a short laugh that made Athos wince.

"Don't look at me, mate. They won't tell me either."

"Not for your innocent ears," Aramis said distractedly, running a hand through his hair again.

"I'm not that innocent," d'Artagnan pointed out. While that might be true, Athos doubted he was entirely ready to hear that Aramis had threatened to sodomize and face-fuck the man, even if he had cited a Roman poet to do so. The finer points of the meaning of Catullus' lines would probably be lost on the boy.

Silence fell again, except for Aramis' steps that seemed to beat a steady rhythm against Athos' skull.

Eventually, Porthos sighed.

"Can't you do something, Aramis?"

"This is beyond my skill to treat," Aramis said dejectedly.

"What're we going to do now?"

Aramis did not even stop in his pacing and did not seem inclined to answer, so Athos mustered his strength. He knew that waiting was the worst part of any battle. His friends would be relieved to have something to do.

"Check with Tréville that arrangements have been made to assign other musketeers to the king's garden party," he said, trying to make it sound commanding despite lying prone in bed, unable to rise on his own. "Thank him for giving me use of his chambers for the time being."

He had to pause to regain his breath. Porthos and d'Artagnan were looking at him, grateful for the direction given, and even Aramis stood still.

"If Tréville wishes an update, I'm afraid I'll have to ask him to come to me. Send my apologies for that," he added. "Say nothing to him of my condition, nor to anyone else."

Athos did not want one of them to have to go through the trouble of retelling what they had learned.

"Of course," Porthos said, and d'Artagnan nodded eagerly.

"And finally," Athos concluded after another pause. "Go and get me some wine. There's a crate of Tokay d'Alsace in my rooms."

All three stared at him, scandalised.

"You can't mean to..." Porthos said.

"Athos, you're sick," d'Artagnan found necessary to point out. "Aramis, tell him he can't drink!"

"You heard the physician," Athos said, trying to muster his usual authority. "I won't be able to swallow for much longer. While I can, I'd like to drink something of exceptional quality."

He hoped he did not have to add that he disagreed with the physician on the matter of pain relief. His words hung between them.

"You need your strength," Aramis finally said. "Do not hurt your body further with drink."

"I was always going to end this way," Athos said. "In a bottle."

"No!" d'Artagnan said and punched the floor. "Don't say that!"

"You've gotten much better," Porthos reasoned.

Aramis stalked over with three long strides and leaned over Athos.

"You're not going to drink yourself to death on my watch."

Athos gave the slight indication of a nod that his stiff neck allowed. If it was important to his friend, he would oblige.

At least his request had spurred Aramis into action.

"Porthos, you go and talk to Tréville. Ask him about the physician's fee as well," he said. "D'Artagnan, go down to the kitchen and ask Serge for some warm water and some cloths — Athos, you need to clean up a bit. Bring food as well; it must be past midday now. Soup for Athos. And before he goes and gets it himself, au nom du ciel, get him a cup of wine." He turned to Athos with a thunderous look that reminded him of his strictest childhood tutors. "One cup! I'll stay here and make sure you don't do anything stupid."

Porthos chuckled at that and Athos tried to force his mouth into a smirk. Now that was a change from the usual. D'Artagnan and Porthos filed out and Athos flinched involuntarily when the beam of light from the door hit his eyes. The now customary shockwave ran through his body once more, making him shiver.

"I had no right to refuse you the last rites," Aramis said, as soon as the others had left the room. "I may refuse to let you die, but I should not refuse your soul salvation. I'll call for the priest if you want."

"I do not fear hellfire and damnation," Athos said truthfully. He had already lived through his personal hell; a hell without Anne would be preferable. Aramis bristled at his words.

"Do not say that, mon cher," he replied, sitting on the chair at the bedside. "You are an honourable man, and God will not forsake you."

Athos made no reply. The matter was important to Aramis and it served no purpose to hurt his friend by questioning his beliefs. He was glad Aramis had that unshakeable faith to aid him through the difficult times.

"So, Aureli pathice," Athos said after a long silence, attempting to lighten the mood by quoting the next words of Aramis' earlier sordid Roman poetry. Bottom Aurelius seemed a fair description of the man that had crossed him.

Aramis gave a small huff of amusement. "Your knowledge of Latin is broader than I give you credit for."

"I was a bored adolescent with access to an extensive library. Including the full works of Catullus."

Aramis chuckled. "Just how you learned the correct conjugation of irrumare..."

"Be careful, mon ami," Athos said eventually. "The man you regaled with such poetry..."

"He is no danger," Aramis was quick to assure him. "In all honesty, he may be right," he added after a long pause. "No man of honour would act the way I do."

There was guilt in his words, a rarity with joyous Aramis. Athos took as deep a breath as his condition allowed. He was still livid with his friend for his liaison with the queen, but if he were to die here, Aramis would lose the only confessor he could ever have for that guilt.

Athos felt his strength drain quickly during their conversation, halting though it had been. He knew he had to find the right words quickly.

"Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea," he said, translating when Aramis clearly did not comprehend. "My life is moral though my muse is gay. Ovid's Tristia. Catullus 16 was not merely a filthy threat, it is a defence against allegations that he was soft and immoral because of the saccharine verses he wrote."

Aramis made to interrupt him, but Athos stopped him with a glance. He was tiring fast.

"You cannot know the character of a man by his poems on the page or by his deeds in the bedroom," he continued. "You are a good man, mon cher ami."

Sitting up in bed had been painful, washing himself a struggle, and by the time d'Artagnan had brought him a bowl of soup, Athos had wanted nothing more than sleep. He refused their help, his strength to keep up some semblance of control. Every spoon that he brought to his mouth was a fight against the stiffness of his arms, swallowing an unnatural effort.

He woke abruptly and once again his muscles cramped, his shoulders and stomach clenching tightly. It was as painful as it had been in the courtyard, but less surprising.

They did not speak much as the afternoon slowly turned into evening. Nobody dared to interrupt them; such were Tréville's orders. Tréville himself had accompanied the king to the party, but he had sent his regards and promised to visit Athos upon his return to the garrison that night.

Aramis had stopped pacing and sat on a chair. He alternated between praying silently and thumbing through a book that he had retrieved earlier. To Athos he seemed much too serious, withdrawing deep within himself, leaving no trace of the vivacious young libertine. He hated that he was doing this to him. If he was to die, he'd rather not put such strain upon his friends.

Porthos alone remained cheerful, making the room feel less like a death chamber. Every now and again, he would try to start a conversation, and a few times he had gone to fetch a bottle of water, once even returning with an apple for d'Artagnan. He had tried to get the boy interested in a round of piquet, but d'Artagnan barely raised his head, so Porthos perched on Tréville's desk, shuffling and reshuffling his deck of cards.

D'Artagnan was still sitting on the floor, although he had moved to the foot of the bed, leaning his shoulder against the cast-iron screen that divided the room. He was uncharacteristically quiet, the inquisitive youth all but forgotten, as he sat for hours with his knees drawn tight to his chest.

Athos wished he could say or do something to ease his pain. It seemed unfair on the boy to keep him here, sitting and waiting for death, possibly for days or even weeks to come. But every time Athos had suggested he go outside, d'Artagnan had refused ardently. The boy was nothing if not loyal, even to his own detriment.

The room was slowly disappearing in darkness, as none of them had thought to light a candle. The sounds of the garrison faded away outside the door. It was just the four of them now.

"I've seen this before," d'Artagnan said, still facing his knees.

"What?" Aramis prompted.

"Tetanus." The boy's voice was unusually high. "One of my father's horses... her legs were all stiff and her back... they called it lockjaw."

Athos saw the dark shape of Porthos slide off the desk and join d'Artagnan on the ground.

"So what did your father do? How did he treat her?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan took a shaky breath.

"He shot her," he whispered. "Said it was a mercy..."

Two gasps and soft curses broke the heavy silence that followed. To Athos, the words came as no surprise, but rather as a welcome confirmation that he had been right to allow his thoughts to stray in such directions.

"My pistol, please," he said calmly.

They all turned abruptly to face him, had probably not realised he was awake enough to listen.

"You heard him," Athos said. "Show me the same mercy you'd grant a horse."

More gawking followed, but still no answer.

"I won't ask you to do it," he clarified. "My pistol, if you would, please."

More silence followed. He knew he was hurting them, but better one short sharp pain than weeks of agony watching him waste away slowly with no hope of recovery. He had no right to torture them so. It was the only logical conclusion to end this now.

"That's sin, Athos," Aramis finally said, his voice toneless. "You wouldn't... you wouldn't even be buried with the others."

Athos was convinced that one more sin really wouldn't make a jot of a difference in the great big tally of his wrongdoings, but he acquiesced for the sake of his friends. He mused about going out on the streets. The way trouble always found him, it shouldn't take him too long until he came across a welcome blade or bullet, but in the end he had to admit that he was too weak to do even that.

"You can't!" d'Artagnan cried and there were definitely tears in his voice as he rose to his feet. "You can't just give up like we don't matter at all. You can't do that to us!"

Athos wanted to explain to him the logic behind his words, but the young Gascon never gave him a chance to do so. Instead he stormed out of the room, throwing the door shut with a bang so loud the whole room seemed to shake.

Translations & Explanations

A note about the titles... The title of this fic "Sans Peur et Sans Reproche" translates as "Without fear and beyond reproach" a descriptor first given to the Chevalier de Bayard, a French knight and hero who probably loomed very large in the 17th century. Bayard is also described as "the good knight" and was a model of chivalry. His last words are recorded as "There is no need to pity me. I die as a man of honour ought, doing my duty". Athos' character and moral standards remind me of Bayard. The phrase is also one of the mottos of the Alpine Rangers, an elite regiment of the French army.

The chapter titles are all mottos of French military regiments. Chapter 1 was the motto of the 2nd Infantry Regiment of the Foreign Legion (my pen name also comes from the Foreign Legion), and the title of Chapter 2 is the motto of the 35th Parachute Artillery Regiment.

Sangdieu Blood of God (8th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 7 times)

Tokay d'Alsace Antiquated name for pinot gris wine from the French region of Alsace

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo I will sodomize you and face-fuck you — first line of Carmen 16 one of the poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (ca. 84 BC – ca. 54 BC), a response to criticism that the poet was soft and feminine because of his romantic love poems

Au nom du ciel In the name of heaven (5th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 14 times)

Aureli pathice Bottom Aurelius, refers to one of Catullus' friends (and critics), Marcus Aurelius Cotta Maximus Messalinus, a first-century consul

Vita verecunda est, musa iocosa mea My life is moral though my muse is gay, Ovid (Tristia 2.354) also commenting on the matter that a poet's work is not necessarily an accurate reflection of his morals.

Mon cher ami My dear friend (used 9 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires" for one of the four to refer to another, once by Porthos, twice by Athos, thrice each by d'Artagnan and Aramis)

Piquet French trick-taking card game for two players, invented in the early 16th-century, particular popularity documented during 30 years war (1618-1648)