Welcome back, cherished readers!

Just to respond to some concerns: This is a ten chapter story. It is completely plotted out and is guaranteed to be completed. While I attempt to update every 7-10 days, this is not always possible due to work and family commitments. I won't publish anything I'm not happy with, as I believe you deserve quality writing, so my wonderful beta Marigold Faucet and I whittle away at a chapter until it's good. The latter part of the current one was completely deleted and rewritten.

There isn't much to be done about my work deadlines or the need to respond to my students' requests in a timely manner. Please understand that these things have to take priority over fanfiction. But if you want to help me produce more frequent updates on this story, please give me some feedback. Hearing about what you liked, what you felt, and what questions & headcanons you had while reading does wonders for my fic writing motivation and helps me shape the way I write subsequent chapters. For example, there's much more Porthos in this chapter due to the demands of certain reviewers. I hope you enjoy it!

3. Le devoir d'excellence

(Devoted to excellence)

Pain.

For a while, a white-hot flash of pain was all that Athos' brain registered. What had previously been a shockwave running through his body could now only be described as something akin to lightning.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind d'Artagnan didn't register in his ears, but in his muscles instead, swiftly spreading to every fibre of his being. It started in his face. His skin was pulled backwards violently, his eyes opening wide because of the stretch. His teeth were once again bared in a satanic grin.

Aramis was crossing himself.

The pain shot down Athos' neck, making the muscles contract. His chin lifted on its own accord as his neck arched backwards further and further until only the back of his head was touching the pillow. His shoulders were next, drawn back and up towards his ears, muscles bunching. His arms followed, caught in a severe cramp, his fingers forced into tight fists.

Athos' body was hard as stone, but he was still awake and acutely aware of his situation. His eyes were staring back at the wall to the armoury now, watching the dance of the shadows the candle cast onto it, though his mind struggled to process the image.

He could not see his friends any more, pain erasing all other thoughts.

It could have happened in a heartbeat or an hour, but the lightening had touched every last part of his body. All of his thoughts were focussed on the muscles that were tensed to bursting, pulling his body into painful contortion. His back was bent as well, his weight resting on shoulders and buttocks. His legs were straight against the rough fabric of Tréville's blanket.

He was no stranger to pain, none of them were. As musketeers they were employed on dangerous missions and fought on the front lines of many battles. It was their duty to shed blood for king and country. Athos had taken bullets and blades, had been beaten and whipped, and injured in most ways imaginable, but it all paled in comparison.

This was the worst pain of his life.

His stomach clenched and Athos wished he could throw up, could do something to combat that feeling. The thought flitted across his brain without much impact. He had no power over his stomach, it did what it would and it would not alleviate the nausea. He was not in command here; he could not even make this basest of decisions.

He couldn't move to get away from the pain, to try and relieve himself of this agony. He couldn't close his eyes and escape into his mind, the place that usually held torment so much worse than reality.

His own body held him hostage.

He gave in then, letting the violent spasms shake him. The fist of some invisible giant seemed to bend his neck further and further backwards until he was sure his spine would snap. The lightening was everywhere, fire, pain in every fibre of every muscle. He was burning alive.

He was usually able to focus on something else, masking his pain with honour and duty and manners. He hardly ever faltered, his mask slipping very rarely indeed. There was always greater torment in his mind to annihilate that in his body. Others had tried to torture him over the years and found him quite unresponsive. None had been as successful as his own mind in causing him anguish.

Not until tetanus struck.

It took an age for Athos to notice anything other than the pain. First, he realised that he was unable to get as much air as he needed, as his lungs could not fully inflate against the rigidity of his chest. He forced down the natural panic that thought triggered and concentrated on evening out his breathing, slowly transitioning from hurried gasps to something resembling a rhythm.

Tremors raced through his body. It was a most uncomfortable sensation, especially since his muscles were still screaming with the pain of being contracted so tightly. But he took it as a positive sign — if he was shaking, the tension must be easing. After a while, his eyelids slipped shut, letting him hide in merciful darkness away from the candlelight was torturing him.

His limbs were still rigid, but the spasm in his back was subsiding, his spine uncurling a little, allowing him to drop back to the mattress. Eventually, his jaw slackened slightly, his teeth no longer grinding together. Mercifully, he felt his lips close.

He lay there for a while, trying in vain to distract himself from the pain by focussing on his breathing. He was usually able to calm himself. Discipline was his one asset.

At some point, he became aware of soft voices. Aramis and Porthos were still there. They were whispering, and even though he could not make out any of their words, he was touched by their loyalty. They had stayed; they had witnessed all of this. With a great effort, Athos opened his eyes again.

"Hullo there, you with us again?" Porthos asked softly, smiling at him. He was and had been with them that whole time, but Athos saw no reason to tell his friend that he had been conscious throughout the whole ordeal. He was resurfacing from that sea of intense pain now. He was exhausted.

In lieu of an answer, Athos slowly blinked his eyes, before looking back at Porthos.

"Good," his friend said, grinning more broadly. "Was a bit worried for you there."

Athos let his eyes fall shut again, too spent to maintain the effort of keeping them open. There was no hope for sleep though. His entire body was still on edge, his muscles hard even now that the cramp had passed. He forced his eyes open again when Porthos continued.

"You got a right thrashing there, mon cher. I know you don't like to be touched, but think you can bear just a little? Swear I'll be careful."

Athos slowly blinked his eyes again in confirmation. He was not keen on the idea, but he was loath to worry his friends further. Porthos lifted his hand to within Athos' field of vision.

"I'll just touch your hand and we'll see how that goes, right?"

Athos involuntarily held his breath when Porthos' hand dipped to where his left lay clenched on the bed. He fully expected a new wave of pain to crush him at the sensation and would have pulled away if he had the strength.

Porthos was so gentle.

Those who did not know Porthos often assumed him to be rough and violent. Those who had seen him fight knew him to possess great strength. Only a very few were privy to the kind and caring nature behind the rough exterior.

At first, only one finger came to rest upon Athos' knuckles, the touch so soft even his over-excitable muscles did not twitch. Athos closed his eyes again, but the image of Porthos' serene smile stayed with him. He concentrated all his feeling on that single point of contact between them, the slight pressure of Porthos' thumb the only thing he allowed himself to register. Not the pain, not the exhaustion, not the awareness of his quickly approaching death, nor the knowledge of the dreadful manner in which it would occur. He only focussed on that single finger.

Athos could not have told how long they sat like this, but eventually Porthos began to very slowly worm his fingers between Athos' hand and the bed. He did it so slowly, so carefully, that the increased touch never became uncomfortable.

Later, Porthos began to brush his thumb across the back of Athos' hand in long, deliberate strokes. The feeling was so intense it occupied Athos' whole mind at first; the slow movement, the warmth of his friend's presence, it became all-encompassing.

Porthos settled into a steady rhythm and eventually Athos began to relax, to even enjoy the contact between them. Somewhere in the background he could hear Aramis move across the room very quietly. Earlier, the wave of pain had overwhelmed him and swept him away. Now he felt like he was clinging to a rock, a tenuous hold, but a hold nonetheless.

He opened his eyes again when he heard the soft rustle of clothes next to the bed. Aramis was standing next to Porthos now. He was smiling, but his eyes were tired and wary, clearly visible even in the flickering candlelight.

"You look exhausted, mon cher," Aramis said and grimaced. Athos wanted to apologise for what they had seen, but could not find the strength to form the words.

"It's alright," Porthos reassured him, continuing the soft stroking. "It's gone now."

"I would like you to drink something," Aramis said and Athos noticed that he was carrying a cup. "Some warm water and a few herbs... they should help you sleep and may loosen your muscles a little."

Drinking.

Drinking sounded impossibly difficult to Athos. He would have to raise his head, open his mouth and swallow the drink. What might seem a simple task for an infant was a daunting obstacle to him. When you can no longer make him take food and drink, death will be imminent. The physician's words came back to him unbidden. Maybe this was the end. Not killed by the drink, but by a lack thereof. The irony was not lost on him.

"I'll help you," Porthos said, keeping that grounding touch on Athos' hand. "We'll do it together."

Athos raised his eyes to look at them, his friends, kneeling by his bedside. Helping him, doing it together. They were still here.

You can't just give up like we don't matter at all.

Athos forced his eyes wide open and saw the fear cloud their faces. They needn't have worried. He was only trying to gather his strength. His hand twitched in Porthos' and he could hear his friend shush him gently. Athos battled with a tongue that felt large and unwieldy in his parched mouth. His breath came in short, hard gasps, but eventually he managed to grind out a word.

"D'Artagnan."

"Don't worry about him now," Aramis said, his brow furrowed. "He'll be fine."

"Go... after... him," Athos said with great effort. D'Artagnan was not here and it had been his words that sent him running. He felt useless for not being able to follow the boy himself.

"You are a bit more important just now," Aramis said.

"He knows how to take care of himself," Porthos added.

Athos knew that, he knew d'Artagnan was more than capable of walking around the city at night. He just wished they were all here, all three of his friends. D'Artagnan had already become an integral part of their circle, though he had arrived in Paris less than a year ago.

"He'll be back once he's cooled down a bit," Porthos said. "He'll come crawling back in the morning. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"Let's get you through the night first," Aramis murmured.

They warned him of every touch and that made it bearable for him. They were gentle, so very gentle, manoeuvring him into a position to drink, Porthos supporting his head while Aramis tipped the cup against his lips. Athos' jaw quivered from the effort it took to hold the water in his mouth, but the warm liquid was thoroughly welcome, soothing the pain instantly and alleviating the dryness. Swallowing proved difficult, his stiff muscles protesting the movement. Soon water was dripping down his chin, gently wiped away by Aramis, but Athos managed to swallow most of it. Aramis smiled at him.

Death was not yet imminent.

He did not feel entirely refreshed, but certainly better than he had by the time Porthos eased him back down onto the bed, and then Aramis wiped his brow with a wet cloth, both of them so gentle with him. Athos still marvelled at them being here.

"We'll need to clean you up a bit," Aramis said and Athos averted his eyes when he realised what that entailed. They shouldn't have to do this.

It was Porthos, always practical and steadfast, who stripped him, cleaned his body of the aftermath of the spasm, and dressed him in a fresh set of clothes. Aramis stripped the bed —Tréville's bed— and deposited the soiled linens on the ground. Both of them moved efficiently, tending to their unusual duties with the same accuracy they displayed in combat, but gently, ever so gently.

There hadn't been many gentle people in his life. He had learned early to remember his station. A comte did not cry, a comte did not show emotion, and a comte certainly didn't crave a mother's touch. Later there had been women, of course, but what gentleness they displayed had been reserved for his purse. Anne had been gentle. He had lost himself in her touch and her care, had loved her. And they all knew where that had lead.

It had taken two hardened soldiers to show him true gentleness.

They were his friends and he loved them dearly, the two of them, as well as d'Artagnan who had barged into their lives and into their hearts with a rapier in his hand and the threat of death on his lips. He reminded Athos of himself.

He had come to Paris to die; D'Artagnan had come to Paris to kill. Revenge, honour, they all seemed such abstract concepts to Athos now. What was real was the love his friends showed him.

Athos closed his eyes again, unable to watch Porthos work to restore what little dignity he had left. There was nothing he could have done to prevent this; he knew Aramis would tell him as much. It was the illness that had taken charge of his body, making his body bow to its wishes. He knew he did not have the choice to disobey, but watching Porthos wipe away the evidence of his weakness was more than he could bear.

Porthos continued to narrate each of his touches in a soft voice. Athos' muscles still quivered, but he did not go into spasm. Everything was too much, the light of the candles, the soft splash of the water as Aramis refilled the basin on the nightstand, the touch of the cloth on his skin, but he knew he was safe with them.

Athos had never expected to find himself so reluctant to die again. The life he had wanted to live had ended abruptly all those years ago. He had not expected to find a new one, least of all one that he wanted to hold onto so desperately.

No matter how much he clung to it, it sounded like he was fighting a losing battle. It had certainly felt like it when he was caught in the tetanic spasm, his own body out to kill him.

He needed to put his affairs in order.

Aramis and Porthos drew up chairs and seemed ready to settle in for a night's watch at his bedside. They too must be exhausted.

"On Rue de Condé," Athos said, his voice reasonably steady. "Ask for Antoine Dreumont, the notaire."

"What would we want with a notaire?" Porthos asked. Athos looked at him and was glad. As little as he cared for the station he had been born into, at least it would be able to do some good for his friends.

"I leave... no heir," Athos said quietly. Aramis cleared his throat.

"Monsieur Dreumont... holds my... testament," Athos continued.

"You are not going to–" Porthos started, but Athos kept talking. He had little strength and did not know when the next spasm would take him. The last spasm, quite possibly.

"You will be... taken care of," Athos finished. He had no wish to explain himself any further, knowing they would protest his decisions. Tréville knew and would see to it that his last will was executed.

"We have no use for your money," Aramis said, putting a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Not without you to watch us squander it on women and wine."

"We want you to take care of us," Porthos added, once again taking Athos' hand into his own. "Not some piece of paper."

"I cannot make... that promise," Athos said, trying to force his lips into a smile. He would do anything for them, anything within his power, but he was not sure that his life was his to give any more.

"You are not going to die," Porthos said with conviction. In the flickering light of the candle, Athos could clearly see the tears streaming from his eyes. "Stop saying your adieus. You survived that spasm. We aren't going to let this kill you."

Athos wanted to comfort him, but could not bring himself to nurture false hopes.

"How long?" he asked, turning his eyes onto Aramis. The fingers on his shoulder tightened slightly and he could see Aramis swallow heavily.

"Some weeks," he answered. "Two with some luck, three, four maybe, there are... few accounts."

Few accounts of how long tetanus would take to kill him; few accounts of how long he would make his friends suffer only to console them with some worthless coin at the end.

"The spasms?" Athos asked, knowing that Aramis had used the afternoon to read up on this treacherous disease.

"Increasing in severity and frequency," Aramis answered. There were no tears in his voice, kept carefully free of emotion.

"Death?" Athos asked.

"Occurs if the constrictions of the chest stop the heart or interrupt breathing," Aramis answered, his tone that of a soldier reporting to his superior.

"Cure?" Athos asked.

Aramis' breath hitched.

"Hot baths may bring some relief, valerian for..."

"Cure?" Athos asked again hoping to make his soft whisper sound sharp.

Aramis sighed and ran his free hand through his hair before he answered.

"None."

"Thank you, Aramis," Athos said. He appreciated his honesty. While demanding it had hurt his friend, he knew that the truth had to be spoken to be accepted. Lies would only hurt them further.

Porthos was weeping openly. Aramis put a hand on his knee. They sat in silence for several minutes.

"Tell d'Artagnan..." Athos said.

"Peste! We'll tell him nothing," Porthos interrupted, struggling to control the volume of his voice. "You are going to live, Athos!"

"Porthos," Aramis said. "We can only pray for a miracle."

"We are musketeers," Porthos responded, drawing in a deep breath. "We don't just pray, we work for our miracles."

"There is little hope..."

"There is some," Porthos insisted. "Not all knowledge is in your books."

"Porthos, we are not giving up, but we have to be realistic..."

"It is realistic. When I was in the infantry... you get knocked about a bit..." Porthos started, then stopped himself to clear his throat.

You get used as cannon fodder in the infantry would have been more accurate. Foot soldiers always encountered the heaviest casualties and bore the brunt of battle.

"It happened sometimes, after a battle. When men were wounded, sometimes they'd get... this... The surgeon told us it meant death, and it did, but not for all. I met a man who survived it once. He was fine. If an infantryman on the battlefield can survive..." Porthos could not suppress a sob any longer. "You are strong, Athos, you are going to live."

Porthos' thumb started to rub slow circles on Athos' hand once more. Aramis let go of Athos and pulled Porthos into a rough embrace

"And we'll be there every step of the way," Aramis said, his voice wavering.

Porthos leaned his head against his friend's shoulder, his heavy breathing the only indication of the fight with his emotions.

"You are not going to die," he reiterated, like a prayer that would reach fulfilment with sufficient repetition. "Not like this, Athos."

Athos did not mind. The Comte de la Fère, who might have cared about the manner of his death, had died many years ago. Athos the musketeer did not mind. He had enlisted with the musketeers clutching some last shred of dignity and the hope of a swift death for king and country. It was the natural order of things; some were born high and fell far. If he could salvage some last remnant of duty and honour, it was more than he deserved.

He had cheated death so many times over the years, had survived because of his skill or that of his comrades, because of the loyalty of his friend, the skill of a medic, or maybe merely because of the cruel whims of a deity who delighted in his downfall. The manner of his death might seem cruel, but he had accepted long ago that he did not deserve a glorious death on the battlefield. No matter how many charges he led, death did not find him.

He did not mind that death had caught up with him at last. He had no wish to die any more, but he had little reason to complain about the time he had been given. It had been borrowed time, but that borrowed time had been the happiest he had ever known.

For the sake of his friends, Athos did mind.

He watched them now, the two men embracing at his bedside, united in their pain. The candles were burning low, darkness settling over the captain's chambers. Porthos' head was still nestled against Aramis; Aramis' arm was drawn tightly across Porthos' shoulders. Porthos' thumb was still tracing small circles across the back of Athos' hand, keeping that connection between them alive.

Athos knew he would not face his end alone. His thoughts kept circling around them. The thought of their friendship was the only thing strong enough to break through the haze of pain.

We'll do it together.

With that in mind, he did not protest when Porthos spoon-fed him a bowl of soup. It took some effort to open his mouth wide enough and his back did not take kindly to being sat up, but it worked. His throat ached, but Athos swallowed again and again until the small bowl was drained.

The look upon their faces was worth the pain.

They smiled at him and he knew they were all thinking about the physician's words. As long as he was eating, there was some hope for him. Porthos in particular was glowing with pride, a look usually reserved for d'Artagnan's successes in combat.

Aramis had prepared another herbal draught for him and even though it tasted abysmally and had no noticeable effect, Athos took it gladly. Aramis might claim that he knew nothing of the illness, and that not even his books offered much insight into the successful treatment of tetanus, but Athos knew that whatever Aramis gave him came from a place of love. At the very least it would do him no more harm.

"There's a good boy," Aramis praised when Athos had drained the cup. He sometimes treated them like his young nephews when they were injured. Under ordinary circumstances, the infantilising treatment would have exasperated Athos, but now he relished it.

"Let's try and get some sleep," Porthos said with a yawn as he gently lowered Athos back down onto the pillow. "Been a long day."

Athos' eyes had slipped shut a while ago. He was weary to the bone. The previous morning seemed an age away.

He slept fitfully that night. His exhaustion won out over the pain, but the poison in his body would not let him sleep for long. He woke frequently, and whenever he did, his muscles were cramping. Nothing too severe, nothing he couldn't handle, nothing compared to earlier, but it still hurt dreadfully.

Athos just wanted to sleep.

The first time he woke, his breath hitched with the sudden onslaught of pain. His body was fighting him and all he could do was lie there and take the beating. Then his eyes fell upon hands holding a rosary.

"Hey handsome," Aramis said. Athos heard soft snores in the background indicating that Porthos was there as well. Sleep claimed him before he could make a reply.

The second time he woke, it was Porthos on the chair next to the bed. He gently wiped Athos' brow with a wet cloth. The cool touch was a welcome counterpoint to the fire racing through his muscles.

They were still here.

Every time Athos fell asleep, it was with thoughts of friendship and family. Every time he woke, it was to the sight of one of them sitting beside him. He was not alone in this fight. His brothers had his back.

They were smiling whenever he woke and slowly their optimism seeped into Athos. They were in this together, inseparable as always, and when they were together they were all but unbeatable.

And we'll be there every step of the way.

He did not know for how long he slept, or how often he woke, but Aramis and Porthos trading places in their night watch seemed to indicate the passage of time. The cramps were getting less severe, not lasting as long. He was gaining strength, only a little, but enough to keep him going, to make him not dread the next time he woke, but appreciate the fact that he got to sleep and recover in between.

When he woke once more, the light in the room had changed. Aramis was sitting next to him once more. Seeing Athos open his eyes, he slipped the rosary into his pocket and smiled brightly.

"Good morning, mon cher," Aramis said.

"Morning?" Athos asked in a hoarse whisper.

"And you know what that means," Aramis said, very gently brushing Athos' hair from his forehead. "Means you made it through the night."

They had nursed him through the first night.

They always said the first night after an injury was the crucial one. Get them through the first night and the wounded had some chance of recovery. Here he was, waking to a new dawn, the soft sunlight just about visible through the cracks in the heavy wooden shutters.

A mere day ago, he had been going through his sword routine before walking to the garrison, a strong man in his prime. Now he was content to merely be. He was still here and they were still here, witnessing him at his lowest and nursing him through it.

"I'm sorry," Athos said.

"No Athos... you are the answer to my prayers," Aramis told him, brushing a hand across his hair affectionately. "And it's a beautiful morning."

For a moment Athos believed him. As Aramis busied himself with the window, Athos was eager to see that new day that lay beyond. Paris was waking around them and Athos was waking to a dawn he had doubted he would live to see. When Aramis threw open the shutters and golden sunlight flooded the room, he told Athos that it was a beautiful day that had been gifted to him. And for a moment Athos believed him.

Then the lightening struck him once more.

As the pain spread from his eyes, the inexorable wave overpowering him once more, Athos felt panic rise in his chest. He knew what was coming and it terrified him. It was easier to go into battle the first time when you had no notion of the horrors that awaited you. It was easier when it was only hearsay.

But Athos knew.

All his skill, all his experience amounted to nothing here. He felt as if he were a piece of driftwood, caught in the strong current and thrown upon the sharp rocks of an unforgiving shore by wave upon wave of pain. He was powerless. He had nothing left to give, his defences were down and he could do nothing but let himself be tossed into that abyss once more.

There was so much pain.

You can't just give up like we don't matter at all.

The invisible giant squeezed his body into gruesome contortions and there was nothing he could do but let it happen. As his body arched off the bed once more it was all he could do not to scream.

He was going to be strong for them.

Translations & Explanations

A short note on tetanus: Symptoms, treatment and prognosis are based on a thorough review of medical literature through the ages. Tetanus is a very complex disease that is still not fully understood and once symptoms occur is still not curable. However, it is 100% vaccine preventable, which currently makes it a rare disease in most developed countries. Tetanus remains a very potent killer in the developing world where vaccine availability is a problem.

I have fortunately never seen a tetanus case in a human, only in lambs, so what I'm writing about is not based on any personal experience. My descriptions are based on pictures and videos (I would not encourage you to google them), as well as a pile of medical research papers. For this particular topic my regular university library wasn't quite large enough to satisfy my need for research. This fic was made possible with the kind assistance of the medical and medical history divisions of the British Library in London.

While I strive for accuracy, please be aware that this remains a work of historical fiction. I'm not a medical professional and while I make my fics as realistic as possible and definitely keep them within their time setting, I'm also trying to make them good stories.

In the 17th century, they had very limited options indeed with this particular disease, so I'm not belittling Aramis' expertise in the least. There is evidence in literature that people struggled fruitlessly for millennia to treat tetanus or to at least alleviate the suffering. The best estimate I could find for the 17th century was a 90% fatality rate for generalised tetanus (which is what Athos is suffering from). Modern intensive care units enable doctors to administer adequate pain relief and sedation, as well as using artificial respiration and nutrition to keep patients alive. Unfortunately, the same isn't true for 17th century France.

Tetanus is caused by a bacterium that naturally occurs in the soil around the world and can enter the body through the tiniest wound. The official data from the UK National Health Service states that about 1 in 7 to 1 in 10 tetanus cases in the country is fatal. Learning more about it doesn't really make you very confident. Last summer, quite early on in my research for this fic, I went to the doctor's and got myself a tetanus booster shot. Tetanus is a dreadful disease. In the words of my oldest source for this fic, straight from the 1st century: "An inhuman calamity!"

Le devoir d'excellence — "Devoted to Excellence" is the motto of the Franco-German Brigade, a bi-national military cooperation established in 1989 as part of the Eurocorps, an intergovernmental military corps stationed in Strasbourg, Alsace, France. I'm from down that way originally, so they are special to me.

Rue de Condé — Road in the 6th arrondissement of Paris

Notaire — "Notary"

Peste — "plague" (7th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 9 times), fun fact for those who have made it all the way to the end: the plague was present in Paris from 1622 to 1632, the last plague epidemic in Paris was not until 1668. Especially for somebody with Porthos' background, the plague was a very real threat.