A/N: I really am sorry for all that I put young d'Artagnan through.

Disgraced: Part 3

D'Artagnan had managed to put up a brave face in front of his friends. They were feeling terrible and he did not need to add to their guilt, however misplaced it was.

But he was far from okay. His stomach was churning at the thought of the rapidly approaching noon and his inevitable punishment. He was to be dealt thirty lashes.

Thirty lashes!

He stood facing the door, his shirt off at Gerard's order, his hands clenched into tight fists. He could hear the murmuring crowd outside, and he held his head high. No matter how bad it was, he would go through with as much grace as he could. He had never been a particularly religious man, but right now he prayed fervently that the ordeal not strip him of his dignity as brutally as it had stripped him of his clothes.

The door opened at the stroke of noon and the executioner who had specially been called to handle the punishment beckoned him forward. D'Artagnan took one last long breathe before steeling himself. He walked out with his head held high.

The bright sunlight after the dark room blinded him for a moment and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He looked at the number of people gathered, shocked. There were several musketeers present along with a full assembly of the guards. It looked like anyone who wasn't on a mission had made their way to the ground. His eyes sought out the familiar faces of his friends, half hoping that they hadn't come: he didn't want them to see him disgraced in such a way, but he didn't want to be alone in a sea of strangers either; he did not see them until he was standing on the small platform which had been put up in the middle.

They were standing right in the front, and d'Artagnan met their eyes as his hands were lifted and tied to the two poles. Aramis and Porthos looked away, but Athos held his gaze, as if not affording himself the luxury of turning away from a friend's pain.

D'Artagnan took solace from the surety that Athos's eyes on him provided.

"Begin!"

The loud order was preceded swiftly by the first lash. For a blessed moment, d'Artagnan did not feel anything.

And then there was pain.

A hot sizzling wave of pain which left him gasping and brought tears to his eyes.

"One," the executioner called out.

D'Artagnan steeled himself, remembering his promise. He grit his teeth and blinked away the tears, raising his head. However, he couldn't stop his back muscles from tensing as the whip came down a second time with a terrible crack.

He kept himself focused on Athos's face, and when after the next few lashes the pain became too much and he had to close his eyes, he pictured him in his mind's eye. He wanted to scream, to curse, to weep and beg for the pain to stop.

But he didn't do all that. Not as long as Athos was watching.

He wrapped the rope tying his hands to the poles a few times around his arm so that all his weight wouldn't fall on his wrists if his legs gave out and he counted.

There were murmurs first, which turned into whispers which turned into voices. Voices full of scorn, disgust and in some cases amazement. D'Artagnan tuned it all out as he focused on breathing. The whip came down a few more times and his legs gave out.

His back was on fire, his head bowed, his feet refused to remain upright, his arms were burning from the strain and tears were flowing freely from his eyes; but he did not scream. Not a single sound passed his lips.

He did not know how long it was before the last lash fell on his back. Time had slowed down until all he was aware of was pain and more pain.

Gerard was talking and he could make out some words about this being a warning, about proper behavior and the fate of those who neglected their duties. He was aware that it was over and suddenly the ropes tying his arms and holding him up were cut off.

He would have slumped like a puppet without strings had two strong arms not caught him. He tried to fight them off, remembering his resolution to not show weakness.

"Hush hush son, it's me. It's okay. We've got you." Athos's soothing voice stilled his protests and he tilted his head towards it.

"Thos?" he mumbled, the name a request for help and a longing for warmth and safety all at once.

Athos must have understood for there was a cloak being draped over his shoulders and strong arms around his waist carrying his weight.

"Where are you taking him?" a harsh voice filtered through d'Artagnan's clouded senses and he subconsciously turned away seeking the comfort of a warm shoulder instead.

"Step away Gerard." Porthos's quite growl must have held enough promise of violence that Gerard moved away without any further protest. Porthos remained in the lead, parting the crowd and keeping the spectators at an arm's length while Athos and Aramis followed in his wake, carrying d'Artagnan between them.

It was by unspoken agreement that the four of them made their way to Aramis's quarters at the barracks where they gently lay d'Artagnan face down on the bed.

Aramis started collecting the supplies required to clean and dress his wounds. He looked at the other two who seemed at a complete loss, standing and staring at the young man on the bed. "Athos, get me a pail of clean water from the well downstairs. Porthos, open that cupboard and find me some bandages."

His brusque commands had the two men springing into action, while d'Artagnan mumbled incoherently. Aramis set about grinding a few herbs into a paste that would help the cuts to heal. He focused on the task at hand, not thinking about how he would give anything to not be patching up the young Gascon right now. Athos, Porthos and himself sustaining injuries in battle, he could handle. But when d'Artagnan was dealt his share of wounds and pain and Aramis had to take care of him, he found his hands shaking. There was something so incredibly innocent and pure about the young man that he couldn't help the overwhelming urge to protect him from the cruelties of the world. And yet he himself had caused him to come to harm.

Aramis closed his eyes, blinking away the tears. He knew that d'Artagnan would forgive them, he probably already had. But he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself. Causing the young man so much undeserved pain and disgrace was a sin he was going to do penance for for a long time to come.

"Here, where do you need the water?" Athos asked, having arrived with a bucket almost full to the brink. Aramis gestured for him to put it down near the bed and took the rolls of bandage Porthos offered. He got the bowl he had been mixing the salve in too and set both things down on the small table beside the bed.

Aramis lifted the cloak that Athos had draped over d'Artagnan's shoulders to preserve some of his dignity and all three of them gasped at the sight of his back. It was bloody with angry red cuts and welts. There were several deep gashes which were bleeding freely where the whip must have landed more than once on the same spot, completely tearing away the skin. Aramis couldn't stop the tears from streaking down his face or the choked sob which escaped.

He looked up when Porthos grasped his shoulder. "Pull yourself together, friend," he said, roughly. "He needs our help right now, not our tears."

Aramis nodded. "Athos, I am going to wash these cuts with some saline water. It will sting and he will try to move so I need you to hold him still."

Athos looked stricken at causing the injured man even more pain, but nodded resolutely. Aramis took a cloth and dipped it in the bucket he had added salt to before rubbing it over the shallower cuts. D'Artagnan gasped and his back would have arched but Athos held him down with a firm hand.

"I'm sorry lad, I'm sorry," he whispered softly, combing a hand through the younger man's hair who completely relaxed into his touch. "It's going to be okay, I've got you."

Aramis continued to wash his back but apart from a few gasps when the wet cloth hit the deeper cuts, d'Artagnan did not protest again. The Gascon's trust in him brought Athos to his knees. He had done nothing but put d'Artagnan's life in danger from the first moment he had dueled with him in the courtyard to getting him whipped mercilessly for no fault of his own. And yet one word from him and the boy gave up any struggle completely.

"Never met anyone like him." Porthos said, quietly. "I don't think I could have gone through that like he did."

Aramis nodded in agreement. "I would have been a weeping wreck halfway through. Anyone would have at least let out a scream, but him…" he trailed off, opting to concentrate on putting thread into needle to sew some of the deeper gashes shut.

Athos sighed. "He is indeed one of a kind," he said, brushing away a few strands of stray hair that had fallen over the young man's closed eyes. He paused when he noticed a small smile on the young man's face, and he shook his head in fond amusement. "Stubborn as a mule, he probably thought he looked really tough."

He was rewarded by a petulant pout and a barely audible, "I'm not a mule, you're a mule." Athos continued combing through his hair, smiling affectionately.

"He's conscious?" Aramis asked, surprised. He looked at where the needle was piercing the skin every time he put in another stich and shuddered. The Gascon apparently had a very high pain threshold. That, or he was too far gone to care.

"Barely," Athos replied, "Like I said, stubborn as a mule."

Aramis smiled softly, though the haunted look did not completely disappear from his eyes and Porthos chuckled.

They worked in silence after that, the only sound in the room being Athos's soothing humming and the occasional sharp intake of air from d'Artagnan. It wasn't until the last cut was bandaged that Aramis helped the young man sit up and fed him some water. D'Artagnan blanched at the thought of eating something, but took the sleeping draught Aramis offered without complaint.

It was a very careful Athos who lowered him back on the bed facedown again, shifting the pillows so that he did not pull the stiches by turning over in his sleep. He remained seated on the floor beside the bed having discovered that his moving away caused d'Artagnan to start mumbling in his sleep and drifted off to sleep himself.

XXX

"The next person who says 'I'm sorry' or any variation of the aforementioned statement henceforth would be buying the next round of beer."

"That was awfully formal." Athos said, grinning.

"I've been taught that it pays to be polite." D'Artagnan replied cheekily, glancing at Aramis who raised his glass to him.

A week later, all four of them were at the tavern, drinking to d'Artagnan's recovery. There had been a short ceremony before they had set out when Athos had presented a written permission to 'go out with his most esteemed friends and get completely and utterly wasted.' It was signed by Captain Treville. D'Artagnan still hadn't managed to find out what the three of them had done to get him to sign that very useful piece of paper, which had a lot of future potential.

But he had had enough of the apologetic faces and the heartfelt speeches. He had written off the whole ordeal as a thing of the past which he would rather not linger on but every contrite look was reminding him of it.

"Well in that case," Porthos said, holding out a hand to signal the barkeeper for more drinks, "have I told you how completely and utterly sorry I am for what happened?"

D'Artagnan groaned and let his head hit the table while all three of them chuckled.

A/N: Thoughts? I promise the next 'drabble' would be of the light humorous variety. :)