9. Debout les Morts

(The dead, get up!)

Athos' finger twitched.

It woke him, which meant that he had actually been asleep for once. An uncommon indulgence. How humble he had become to now appreciate something as simple as sleep, how exhausted from staying alive.

He would have smiled at that, but knew that motion was currently beyond him. His muscles had not been his to command for some time now. Weeks? Months? D'Artagnan had mentioned three weeks, but whether that had been yesterday or a week ago, Athos couldn't tell.

But three weeks. Three weeks were a long time to be unable to muster the energy for anything but staying alive. A long time to be lying prone in a bed that wasn't his, a long time to find little, if any, relief in sleep. Sleep had become a rare commodity. The twitching however was not and he knew what it heralded.

His finger twitched again.

Just a finger, the smallest finger on his left hand, seemingly so insignificant. It always started small, merely a twitch, barely noticeable. He had learned to notice. It started small and then it grew, from a twitch to a spasm within a few heartbeats. He had learned to anticipate it.

There was no point in bracing himself for the inevitable; he had learned that by now. It would come and it would sweep him away, as unchangeable as the tide. Resistance was futile, but at least his body was too weak to allow him to cry out in pain. A small mercy, but mercy all the same.

His friends knew he was suffering. They always did, even when he attempted to hide it.

His finger twitched a third time.

Athos wished the spasm would finally start. He had always detested the wait before a fight. Once the strategic manoeuvring was over, he had no patience for delays. The dithering reminded him of his father, of the endless hours spent deliberating over some minor decision or another. Life as a musketeer was much more suitable to his preferences. No hesitation. If there was to be bloodshed, it was as well to simply get on with it. Athos felt the same about his present situation. He knew what was coming and he longed for it to be over sooner rather than later.

Maybe it would be over for good.

Maybe this would be the spasm that brought death.

Maybe he had finally earned rest.

Release from pain. An end to his suffering, to his thoughts, to him... Death.

No.

Not like this.

He couldn't do that to them.

He wouldn't.

He wanted to live. For them. With them.

They were always there, in the room with him, around him, supporting him, washing him, dressing him, feeding him... doing everything for him. He was past embarrassment now, past questioning whether a man should ever be so helpless, so completely at the mercy of another.

They cared and they were there for him in his time of need. Athos treasured that.

Their voices followed him into the rare moments of sleep and the more frequent times when he was barely conscious, desperately clinging to some shreds of himself, some piece of wreckage of what was left of his body. Their voices were like a thread binding him to reality, a lifeline giving him a way back when the waves of pain crashed over him and threatened to drown him entirely.

They were so kind, so gentle, calling him mon cher and mon ami when really they must have been fed up with caring for him after all this time.

Then they called him by his name, his real name, not the one the Lord and the law knew him by, but the one he had chosen himself. A name that fit him better than his Christian name and title ever had.

Athos

He had chosen it for simplicity, had decided to be called by the part of his name that was least familiar to those in his previous life. Something that was devoid of any grandeur, something more becoming of a simple soldier.

Athos

He had chosen it as a name to die under. A name to be put on the unadorned cross of a humble soldier, to be forgotten in some neglected corner of a cemetery, or better yet, a name to be scattered by the wind in some remote battlefield.

Athos

The word was gentle on their lips. They made it sound like an endearment, something precious and cherished. They called him by his name, called him back time and time again when he was about to be swept out to sea.

His finger twitched again.

It was a strange twitch, somehow not painful, not normal. Tetanus never toyed with him for that long. It was an honest disease if nothing else, utterly predictable, once you got used to its excesses. He appreciated torturers like that.

This protracted twitching was unusual. Athos started to marvel at the change in approach and what it might mean. Experimentally, he attempted to move the twitching finger. Lifting a single finger had never seemed like such an extraordinary task before. The connection between his brain and his muscles was as slow as everything else about him..

But eventually the signal reached its destination.

For the first time in weeks Athos voluntarily moved a muscle. Lifting a finger had never felt like such an accomplishment before.

To his astonishment, the rigidity that had plagued his body for so long was greatly diminished. What remained was a profound soreness, a bone-deep tiredness. It felt like his finger was in the borehole of a heavy musket and he was lifting all that additional weight every time he strained the small muscle.

Lifting a musket on one finger was a show of strength that Porthos delighted in, particularly around new recruits that he wanted to startle with his physical prowess. Usually, Athos had little time for such amusements, convinced he had nothing to prove to anyone. As long as his physical strength was sufficient to fulfil his duties, he was content. Now even such a minor achievement was a source of delight for him.

If he was able to move his finger, maybe he could also force his eyes into submission. Athos wanted to open his eyes, to see his friends. The only time his eyes were open was when a spasm gripped him, but then he had no ability to truly see.

Everything was slow, sluggish. He could feel the thought translate into a muscle movement bit by bit. Slowly, so slowly, his eyelids lifted and a sliver of light passed under his lashes.

The light hurt his brain, and Athos held his breath, fearing the inevitable consequence. But the light did not trigger a spasm. That too was different, and pleasantly so.

It took his eyes a while to focus, to convey a sharp image to his brain. The wooden beams of the ceiling were bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning. Athos lay there for a moment, taking it all in, but what he truly wanted to see was not within his field of vision yet.

Turning his head should never be something he needed to gather all his strength for, but it was.

In the end, it was worth the effort.

He could finally see them.

His friends, his brothers, the family that chose him and made him feel welcome and wanted in their midst. All three of them were there, asleep and exhausted by their constant care for him.

Aramis was hunched over in a chair, with Porthos and d'Artagnan on their bedrolls a little further away. The boy had tucked his gangly limbs up close to his body, blankets tangled in a haphazard mess. Porthos was curled around him, not touching him, but still shielding him, protective of his friends even in his sleep.

Athos just lay there and looked at them, drinking in the familiar sight of their bodies, their faces, their kindness. Their continuous presence was keeping him alive. Their devotion had replaced his own faltering strength when he could go no further.

He might not deserve their love, but he was happy to accept that which was so freely given.

Moving a finger, opening his eyes, and turning his head had tired Athos considerably. He wanted to stay awake, to look at his brothers, to fully be there with them after all those long days of clinging tenuously to the ropes they threw him. With the little light that found its way into the room brightening steadily, Athos knew the calm would not last. Aramis at least was an early riser and while sheer exhaustion might have made him fall asleep during his watch, he would wake soon.

Athos tried to focus on his breathing, tried to regiment it, to force it into a regular rhythm. His lungs burned and his ribs protested the slightest movement, but he knew that it would help. It always did. Controlling his breathing calmed him and allowed him to be a better musketeer, a better friend and leader when his dark thoughts threatened to overtake him. He had told them as much, but his friends could not fathom that it also provided some pain relief to him. He could quietly breathe through Aramis stitching his wounds, through torture and the early days of the tetanus infection. Now he attempted to regain that level of control over his own body, just for a moment, long enough to watch them wake.

He found he could swallow, even though his throat felt tight and like it had been scraped raw. This small movement, like all the others before, was incredibly taxing, the muscles in his throat fluttering with exhaustion.

He wanted this. He wanted to show them something positive, to grant them a tiny spark of hope in the midst of all this misery he had heaped upon them.

Aramis started to stir, always the first to wake. He moved his arms, and then groaned softly as he stretched his neck and shoulders. Athos knew it would be mere moments before Aramis opened his eyes. It took several attempts for Athos to find his voice and when he did it was unnaturally deep and raspy.

"Good morning."

His words sparked confusion. Aramis' eyes snapped open and he jerked violently, toppling off his chair with none of his usual grace. Athos noted that even as he was falling, Aramis' hand instinctively darted to his hip where his pistol would usually be. The noise woke the others. Porthos stood in an instant, wide awake and ready to do whatever was needed while d'Artagnan still battled with his blankets, neither one of them sure what had just happened.

Aramis caught himself.

"He spoke."

Three pairs of eyes were on Athos in an instant. Seeing him awake, they quietly approached him, expressions flickering between delight and wariness.

"Athos!"

He had chosen that name for death, as something to mark his grave, something sufficiently different to apply to his new lifestyle. The name was barely familiar enough for his body to be located should anybody ever come looking for it.

He had never been so glad to hear that name from their lips. He had never been so glad to still be alive — for them.

D'Artagnan came to a sliding halt on the floor, kneeling next to the bed, his face filling most of Athos' limited field of vision. He was tousle-haired with the weave of his blanket imprinted on his cheek, but he was smiling as brightly as if the king had just declared him captain of the Musketeers.

"Can you hear me, Athos? Did you really just speak? Does your throat hurt? I bet it hurts, your voice sounded really hoarse just now. I can't believe you actually spoke! Are you feeling better? Do you think it's over?"

Athos let the questions wash over him. As usual, few thoughts interfered with the words that tumbled from d'Artagnan's mouth, and Athos would have smiled at the boy's familiar eagerness if he had had the energy to spare. Since he didn't, he simply looked at him, hoping that his eyes could convey his love for d'Artagnan as clearly as he could read the answer in his eyes.

Aramis appeared next, pushing d'Artagnan aside a little as he knelt as well, making sure that Athos could see him.

"Athos, mon cher..."

Aramis put a world of feeling into those few syllables, speaking of a deep hurt and despair that Athos never wanted him to suffer. He extended a hand and Athos could feel it ghosting ever so gently over his hair.

Athos was suddenly acutely aware of the disgusting mess his hair was bound to be after all of those weeks, but Aramis didn't seem to mind.

"It's good to hear your voice again..." Aramis said. "To see your eyes."

Athos noticed that his words were carefully chosen not to state any more than what was actually in front of him. Not displaying any sentimentality, not raising anybody's hopes by declaring "it's good to have you back" when that was a tenuous assumption at best. He appreciated Aramis' honesty.

Athos' eyelids flickered and he barely had the strength to keep them open. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, but he had to... Porthos... He tried to speak, but could not form the word. Only a barely audible "oh" escaped him.

Of course d'Artagnan had heard it.

"Is the pain bad? Do you need something? Porthos can give you some water. Maybe some warmed wine for your throat? We could..."

"Porthos, come here," Aramis interrupted. Athos saw movement, but his eyes were losing focus as consciousness threatened to slip from his grasp. He forced his eyes open with supreme effort. There he was, a third dark head behind the others, finally showing Athos his face, the sadness in his eyes at odds with his smile.

Porthos.

All three of his brothers were here. With him

Athos let his eyelids slide shut, what little strength he had possessed now utterly spent.

They were well.

They were together.

If this were to be the end of his strength, some desperate last stand from his tortured body, then at least he would pass with that thought on his mind.

If this was the end, he could die content.

But he didn't.

He woke again and they were still there.

He hadn't doubted it, but it was comforting nonetheless.

"Welcome back, mon ami."

"It's past noon. You had a good long sleep, mon cher."

"Can you take some wine? Bound to make you feel better."

Hands on his shoulders, touching him so softly, and he didn't resist, just let them manoeuvre his body into position. They were so kind, so gentle with him, so careful, but he knew their careful touches spoke of fear. He understood it. They had seen what a loud word, a simple touch, could do to him.

Athos remembered and he was afraid too.

He had lost consciousness repeatedly and many memories were shrouded in a haze of pain, but he still remembered.

He remembered his utter helplessness, his embarrassment at being unable to see to his most intimate needs, his vain attempts to mask his agony. He remembered his muscles contracting, his spine bending, his breath stopping. He remembered the fear in their faces, the tears in their eyes. He remembered his friends embracing when they had lost all hope. But most of all he remembered their gentle touches, their kind words, their very presence illuminating the deep pit of hell his life had become.

He tasted sweet, spiced wine, the liquid warmed to soothe his aching throat, and swallowed dutifully.

He wanted to drown the memories of his sickness in wine, or better yet, in bottle after bottle of the cheapest and strongest liquor he could find. He longed for the alcohol burning away all recollection of the past few weeks until nothing was left, nothing at all.

He wanted to drown the memories of sickness and weakness, but he knew he never could. Drowning those memories would mean erasing the weeks of care and friendship and love that his brothers had shown him.

He had no desire to do that.

"Slow down, don't exhaust yourself."

The cup was taken from his lip and Athos coughed slightly as a stray drop of wine impeded his breathing. His lungs burned in response and he was reminded of his aching ribs.

"Got your thirst for wine back, that's got to be a good sign," d'Artagnan said, the familiar sparkle of laughter finally returning to his voice.

Athos would do anything in his power to keep it there.

"Do you feel a bit more rested?" d'Artagnan continued. "There hasn't been a spasm since yesterday and your muscles feel a bit looser"

Athos attempted to answer in the affirmative, but Aramis stopped him before he could utter a syllable.

"Shhh, mon ami, preserve your strength. Just blink your eyes."

Athos did. Yes.

"Do you want to sleep some more?"

Athos blinked twice. No.

"Can you bear to be touched? — Just a little."

Athos considered. Yes.

"Should I wash your face?"

Yes.

A wet cloth brushed gently over his brow, across his beard, then down his neck and over his shoulders, as far as d'Artagnan could reach without undressing him. Athos felt his muscles flutter a little, agitated by the touch, the sensation strangely amplified. But mostly the touch was welcome, refreshing. It made Athos feel slightly more human, more like himself.

"Better?"

Yes.

The interrogation gave Athos something to focus on. The sound of d'Artagnan's voice calmed him. Being able to interact with his friend was a great relief. Athos closed his eyes, relaxing, just breathing for a moment.

"You still with us?"

A hand brushed the palm of his left and lingered there. Athos focussed on moving his fingers to return the gesture.

"He squeezed my fingers! Aramis, he moved, I swear he did!"

"I saw it."

Aramis' voice was full of fondness. Athos was certain that he had seen that the tiny movement did not equate to a squeeze at all, but he appreciated Aramis' generosity. He opened his eyes again and found it easier than before. Aramis and d'Artagnan were perched on the edge of the bed with Porthos standing behind them. All were careful to remain visible to Athos.

He loved them.

He loved them. The sentiment hit him with great force, making his heart swell until it felt close to bursting. A pleasant warmth spread through his body. Athos desperately wanted to express this, to show them just how much he appreciated them. He concentrated all his energy on moving his fingers again, giving d'Artagnan's hand a proper squeeze this time. It was a feeble attempt to take that emotion and pour it into hope, into some semblance of happiness for his friends. No words, no amount of strength would ever be enough to adequately express all he felt, but he could give them this carefree moment of joy.

"Thank you."

Athos' voice was a rough whisper, but their eyes told him that they had heard. Maybe they even understood the many things he lacked the words and strength to express.

D'Artagnan leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Athos' knuckles.

"Don't think you can have him all to yourself," Aramis chided mildly.

Athos felt a different hand in his and made sure to squeeze it too.

"Thank you," he repeated.

Aramis shook his head. "No, mon cher, thank you."

If Athos hadn't known better, he could have sworn that there were tears glittering in the corner of Aramis' eye.

There was no mistaking the water running down Porthos' face when d'Artagnan nudged him forward to take Athos' hand as well. Porthos seemed more hesitant than the others, perhaps afraid they were exhausting Athos with this continued activity.

"Thank you," Athos repeated a third time as he squeezed Porthos' fingers. He felt Porthos' hand shake in his as his friend was wrecked by sobs, crying harder than Athos had ever seen.

"Porthos..." d'Artagnan soothed, draping an arm around Porthos' shoulders. Aramis rested a hand upon his arm, just above Athos' hand. They held him, held his hand, tried to show him some comfort, some closeness.

Still Porthos cried.

His left hand went to his neck, clutching the leather thong that Athos knew to be the home of the little silver figure of Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, Porthos' most prized possession and never far from his ever-gracious heart.

Athos wanted to help, wanted to comfort him. Porthos had helped him so much, had comforted him so often over the years. Porthos always seemed to know what to do, always understood what each of them needed. He seemed to feel more acutely that the rest of them put together. Sometimes Athos wished he could be a bit more like Porthos. Instead he lay there, confined to holding Porthos' hand and watching his friends do the comforting. Athos suspected that the best thing he could do for Porthos' wellbeing was to keep breathing, to stay alive.

He could do that.

He had been doing that for so long.

And somehow he was glad that he did, was glad that he had survived.

It was a novel feeling, but a good one.

He had survived.

For them.

"Athos, I..." Porthos' voice wavered and broke. He had calmed himself a little, though his face was still tear-streaked. There was something in his voice, something sad, something desperate...

Athos tried to grip his friend's hand more tightly.

"Sit," he whispered.

It took both d'Artagnan and Aramis to make a reluctant Porthos perch at the very edge of the bed. Both of them kept their hands on his body, lending silent support for what exactly Athos could not fathom.

Porthos dropped his face into his hand and vigorously rubbed his eyes. They were red and swollen when he looked up again. His thumb came to rest on Athos' fingers, and he heaved a big sigh before he spoke again.

"Athos, I... I understand if you... if you never want to see me again. I understand and I... before I go, I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry... If there's anything I can... I'm so sorry, Athos... I'm so sorry I broke your arm..."

His solid frame shook with renewed sobs as he withdrew his hand from Athos' grasp and made to grip his pendant again.

"You didn't," d'Artagnan said, but Porthos didn't appear to hear.

Athos did. He had heard those words before, had heard that same argument between them.

He remembered.

His arm... He didn't recall the actual incident or the acute pain that it had undoubtedly caused, but he had a clear image of the aftermath in his mind. He remembered the foreign sound of Aramis crying, and he remembered d'Artagnan tending to him, whispering into his ear that his arm would heal, that Aramis would see to it, that he would be all right.

Athos flexed the fingers on his right hand.

He felt the pressure of tightly stretched bandages and wooden splints against his arm. The movement of his fingers was slow and cumbersome. The arm was sore, but no more so than his left

A broken bone hardly seemed relevant.

But Athos knew better than to discount it.

He levelled his gaze at Aramis.

"Will I lose my arm?"

He had seen many a barber surgeon who was quick to chop off a broken limb rather than risk the infection and crippling disability it could cause.

Aramis met his eyes without hesitation.

"No," he said with absolute conviction. "We were able to set the bone quickly and it does not seem to have shifted since. There was no external wound and there has been no sign of infection. Barring... a disaster you'll keep your arm."

"Good."

Athos wished he could say more, could find the words to express his emotions, but even if he had had the strength, he wasn't sure he had ever had the tongue for that.

"See, Athos isn't angry," d'Artagnan said. "The bone will heal, it'll be fine..."

He used the same tone he had when he calmed a skittish horse, his hands never leaving Porthos, maintaining that link between them.

"... his sword arm," Porthos choked out.

Porthos blamed himself for what had happened, Athos realised. No matter what was still to come, Athos would not allow it. He refused to let Porthos carry that burden. To bear such undeserved guilt.

"I'll have... to practice... with my left," Athos said, pausing frequently for breath. "D'Artagnan... might finally... have a chance."

Aramis smiled broadly at that, and even Porthos' mouth twitched slightly.

"I beat you already!" d'Artagnan protested.

"Hardly counts... when your opponent... is half dead."

Aramis chuckled at that and d'Artagnan gave an amused snort, but Porthos' tears returned with a vengeance.

"Porthos, mon cher, it's not your fault, it's not..."

Neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan's calming words made a difference. Athos did not understand what had happened to trigger that renewed surge of emotion. While Porthos was the most sensitive when it came to his brothers and those he felt kinship towards, he was also the least self-depreciating. He lived entirely in the present, accepting the past and never worrying about the future, so such a distressing display of guilt was highly uncharacteristic for him.

Porthos had taught Athos that tears were neither shameful nor necessarily a cause for concern, but he still found such intense crying worrisome. Fortunately, d'Artagnan and Aramis were more adept at handling emotions and, hugging Porthos between them, they eventually managed to calm him down once more. Aramis offered him his handkerchief, which Porthos took gratefully.

Athos tried to reach out for him when he looked up. Porthos must have spotted the feeble movement, as he took Athos' hand in his and very gently brushed his thumb across his fingers. Athos was reminded of the very beginning of his illness when Porthos had been the first to touch him, to offer him what comfort he could. It was his privilege to return the favour now.

"I was afraid I'd lose you," Porthos said, looking at Athos.

Even if Athos had not realised that that was still a very real possibility, Aramis' uncomfortable shuffle would have told him all he needed to know.

"He's getting better now," d'Artagnan said. "You'll see. He'll be fine."

Porthos turned his head, looking at each of his friends in turn.

"I was afraid, I'd lose all of you."

His voice was steady now, but toneless. His shoulders slumped, making him look smaller, somehow diminished.

The sentence hung heavily between them.

The silence stretched, as nobody seemed to know what to say.

"It's not... I don't blame you at all," Porthos continued. "You've both got a life beyond this—beyond us, and that's good. You've got... people..."

He trailed off, but when nobody spoke, both Aramis and d'Artagnan looking distinctly confused, he continued.

"You've got Constance," Porthos said, turning to d'Artagnan.

"I haven't," d'Artagnan protested. "She—"

"She'll be glad to have you back, and she's got your back regardless," Aramis interrupted him, apparently realising where this was going.

Porthos nodded, then continued, looking at Aramis.

"And you've got... you've got a whole life out there..." Athos couldn't help but remember just how true that was. "Your Madame Mercredi for starters."

Aramis shook his head.

"Oh Porthos, it's not..." he started, then changed track. "If that's what you think, then why did you send me to see—her?"

Porthos was more collected now, but there were still tears in his eyes when he answered.

"You couldn't stay here. You needed to sort yourself out and you couldn't do that here with us. You needed comfort and I couldn't give you that." He sighed. "I wasn't sure you'd come back."

"I would never!" Aramis protested vehemently, then, after a moment's pause, continued more calmly. "I came back."

Porthos smiled at him fondly, then said very quietly.

"It's all right, Aramis. You've seen too much death already."

Of course, Athos thought. Aramis had witnessed twenty of his friends die, had been powerless to save them. It was only natural that Aramis wouldn't want to see another die. Athos suddenly felt guilty for making him relive that trauma.

"It's not that," Aramis said. "Hasn't been for a long time. I just wasn't sure you'd want me around if I... if I failed as a medic."

Aramis too. The full magnitude of what the past weeks had meant for these men he treasured as brothers was slowly becoming apparent to Athos. Porthos and Aramis had been fast friends when he joined the musketeers. Their duo had taken time to transform into a trio. And yet both Porthos and Aramis had doubted their friendship and its continued existence without him.

Porthos looked at Aramis with an aching softness in his eyes.

"You didn't, mon cher," he said, gently cupping Aramis' chin in his hand. "Never."

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment. Athos was so enamoured by this little scene, he almost did not notice d'Artagnan's deep frown.

"And you," Athos said, straining to extend his hand towards d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan twitched and blushed a little, caught.

"I'd have had the regiment," he said, shrugging. "Apprentice musketeer and all."

"We're your friends, too."

"Ah, sure," d'Artagnan said, fidgeting and unsure. "But you've... you've known each other forever and I'm just... it's fine, really."

"You're bloody important, too," Porthos said, hugging d'Artagnan who smiled timidly.

"Nobody's going anywhere," Aramis added, reaching across to put a hand on d'Artagnan's knee.

Athos was confused. He had never contributed more to their friendship than acerbic remarks and bottles of wine. While d'Artagnan might see him as a hero, even he was learning how truly broken Athos really was, and the other two had certainly seen him at his lowest. To hear them fear for their brotherhood in the event of his death... it was not something Athos had expected.

"Gentlemen," he said slowly. "I'm honoured."

They looked at him and whatever it was they saw there, it was evident that they loved it.

"But... one for all... doesn't mean," he paused, as much to catch his breath as to gather his thoughts. "...That I bind you."

Athos was tiring quickly and knew he had very little time to express his thoughts.

"I'm just... one man... You are brothers... all of you... and while... we're strongest... together," he paused again, his breath catching audibly in his throat. "Separation... is not... the end."

There was fervent shaking of heads all around.

"No Athos..."

"You can't..."

"Please Athos, you're not..."

"Stay strong," Athos continued, not heeding their protests. "Stay... together..."

D'Artagnan made a small, pitiful noise and Porthos appeared to be crying again, but Athos found it difficult to tell for certain. His eyelids drooped and he struggled to harness sufficient strength for these last words, his tortured body exhausted from his long speech.

"I'll stay, too..."

Translations & Explanations

Debout les morts — "the dead get up" once again the English translation feels clumsy so let me tell the story behind it. It's the motto of the 3rd Marine Infantry Regiment of the French army, one of the "Grand Four" regiments that were once stationed at the primary military ports ready to embark and be employed around the world at a moment's notice. In early 1915, after a particularly violent German counter-attack close to Verdun, a certain Jacques Péricard galvanised the exhausted and practically surrounded troops with that cry. The men rallied, but it was the last time many of these "dead" would get up.

Mon cher — "My dear" (used by one of the four to refer to another 78 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", 19 times by Aramis)

Mon ami — "My friend" (used by one of the four to refer to another 22 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", most often Athos to d'Artagnan)