NOTE: Let me get this up before I get involved in the holiday prep and forget! Safe and happy holiday season to all.

CHAPTER 2

"Please don't tell me we've lost Athos already. The Captain won't be pleased," Aramis sighed when he reached the table where only d'Artagnan and Porthos were sitting. When the other two men glanced up at him, confused, Aramis told them of Treville's concern that Athos was going to lose himself in drink. "We are to do everything in our power to exhaust him to the point he can't go drinking."

"Maybe this won't be so hard. Athos is already over there, challenging Henri and Pierre," d'Artagnan pointed out, gesturing with his chin to the side of the courtyard where Athos was engaged in fighting off the two other Musketeers, both of whom, in their own right, were accomplished swordsmen.

"He didn't start out easy did he," Aramis noted as he poured a glass of water and gratefully chugged it down. Taking an apple next, he declared, "Fortify yourselves, for we have a long afternoon ahead of us. One, I fear, based on Athos' surly mood, that will add to our collection of cuts and bruises. I don't think he will be going easy on anyone."

And a long afternoon it was as Athos appeared to be in one hundred percent agreement with Treville's plan. The swordsman fought dual after dual, one on one, many on one, refusing to rest more than a few minutes between bouts. His body was dripping sweat and his wavy hair plastered to his head. When his breathing at one point became noticeably labored and his footwork stumbling, Aramis forced the swordsman to take a break before he accidently hurt someone or got hurt himself. The Captain had said exhaustion, not execution.

During his enforced rest period, his brothers made sure there was no wine available, but plenty of water. The water was drunk without any comment, but all food was refused. If Athos knew what they were up to, he didn't say. In fact, other than saying 'yield' and 'next' he hadn't spoken at all since they left the Captain's office.

Athos was intensity personified. During a later match against d'Artagnan, his protégée and near equal, an awed hush fell over the spectators as they watched a legend and a soon to be legend cross swords. There was no quarter given; rapiers and main gauches flashing faster than the eye could track. Meticulous footwork and exquisite balance, followed by brawling and backhands to the face. Both Musketeers were throwing everything they knew about fighting into this dual and finally the inevitable happened. Faster than anyone could follow, Athos made d'Artagnan's blade fly through the air while he pressed his own main gauche to the younger man's neck.

"Yield," the swordsman barked scraping the blade slightly against the Gascon's throat as if he were shaving it.

"I yield," d'Artagnan quietly said, staring at his mentor's eyes which still held the fury of battle within them. The young musketeer was a little frightened, almost feeling as if Athos had lost his grip on reality.

After a few very tense moments, Athos removed his blade from the younger musketeer's throat, shoving him away with his forearm before sheathing his dagger behind his back. Athos' eyes swept the area to see who would be next, but after that display, none were willing to step forward.

"No one?" Athos growled, his tone as dangerous as his fighting. "Fine." He sheathed his sword and flicked the hair out of his eyes with a quick head shake. As he started to stalk away, he found his path blocked by Porthos.

"Where are you going?" the solid mass of a man inquired.

"Because," Aramis added as he stepped up next to the streetfighter, "if it isn't to take a bath I'd rethink your decision."

D'Artagnan joined the group so they now formed a semi-circle around Athos.

Drawing his sword, he demanded, "Let's do this," and launched into an attack that had the other three Musketeers stepping back and swiftly drawing their own blades, surprised at his fury.

"He does know we are not the bad guys," Aramis questioned Porthos as he avoided another slash of Athos' blade.

"I'm not sure he knows who he is," d'Artagnan chimed in, having seen that odd look in his brother's eyes a few minutes earlier.

The swordsman pressed them harder and harder, not giving an inch. By unspoken agreement, the three Musketeers began pushing back against Athos, driving him step by step backwards. Stumbling, Athos was driven to his knees, then knocked on his back, though he quickly rolled and struggled to his feet, breathing like a spent horse.

"Fight me, damn it," he yelled as he launched a new attack on his brothers, who easily avoid his erratic swing. Overbalanced, Athos dropped to his knees once more, and stayed there, head bowed, trembling and panting.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan put up their swords. "Enough, Athos," the marksman quietly said to the kneeling form on the ground of the courtyard.

His rapier fell from his numb fingers to the dirt, as Athos remained hunched over, shaking with what appeared to be fatigue. Then, without warning, he sprang to his feet and launched his body at Aramis, catching him in his middle. Both men went sprawling in the sand, with Athos landing on top. Porthos took three strides and grabbed Athos by the back of his shirt and the waist of his pants, hauling him off of the marksman and dragging him to his feet. Wrapping one of his powerful arms around the swordsman's middle, Porthos tried to subdue Athos. However, the man wasn't done fighting yet; d'Artagnan stepped over to assist Porthos and finally, they subdued their brother.

Slowly, Aramis climbed to his feet and walked over to where Athos was being restrained by his brothers. The green eyes narrowed, tracking him as he came close. "We're going to my room now, and you're going to let me clean the gashes you have acquired," Aramis spoke softly, so no one but the Inseparables could hear. "This has gone on long enough. I'll not stand by and watch you hurt someone, or yourself." Reaching up a hand, he lightly held Athos' bearded chin. "I understand what you are trying to do, but we will find another way that doesn't involve drink or hurting yourself." Letting go, he stepped backwards, nodding to Porthos and d'Artagnan to release their hold and Athos.

Treville, watching silently from his balcony, held his breath as he waited to see how his Lieutenant would respond. This had gotten a lot worse than he anticipated.

Athos stood very still after being released, staring into Aramis' brown eyes as if trying to gauge some truth in them. Finally, like a wobbly colt, he took a first step forward and unobtrusively, Porthos was at his side, lending a steadying hand. D'Artagnan gathered Athos' sword and trailed after the swordsman and the streetfighter as they made their way to Aramis' quarters.

With a sigh of relief, Captain Treville watched them walk away before catching the eye of a stable lad and instructing him tell Serge to send food to Aramis' rooms.

Once inside Aramis' generous suite, Athos dropped wearily into a chair and slumped over Aramis' table, head resting on his folded forearms. Knowing Athos needed some time before he started fussing over him, Aramis sent d'Artagnan to get some buckets of water and set them by the fire to warm. Then he had Porthos and the lad strip so he could examine their wounds from the mission. None were particularly bad, and after the water was warmer, he washed off their wounds and put salves on the worse ones. As it was a warm night, both men didn't bother to put their dirty shirts back on and simply rested in their braies.

Porthos then waved Aramis towards the bucket, had him strip and returned the favor of checking out his gashes, which, like theirs, were not life threatening. There came a knock on the door and d'Artagnan opened it to find a stable lad with a basket full of food. Thanking the boy, he took the basket and placed it on a nearby trunk, since Athos was still sprawled across the table.

"Ok, Athos. Your turn." It took a moment for the man to respond and Aramis wondered if the swordsman had fallen asleep. However, a low moan told him his friend was still awake.

Sluggishly, Athos propped his head up on his fists and elbows and resignedly looked over at Aramis. "I don't suppose telling you I'm fine would work."

Aramis laughed as he walked across the room towards the table. "That hasn't worked since you gave up your nobility to become a musketeer and I learned you had no clue what the word 'fine' really means." It was interesting that he thought he saw Athos wince when he mentioned his past life as a Comte. "Strip please, or if you are too tired I'm sure Porthos would be happy to help."

"Not bloody-likely," Porthos replied around a mouthful of food. "I'm nice and clean. And I'm eating." He and d'Artagnan had practically attacked the basket of food the moment the stable boy left.

"I don't require any assistance." Athos straightened, then rose from his chair, surreptitiously using the table to maintain his balance for a passing moment as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Unfortunately, he didn't think it was going to be enough to keep his nightmares at bay.

Aramis gestured to the remaining bucket of water by the fire and Athos moved across the room, stripping off his shirt before plunking down on the edge of a chest. Grabbing a rag, he unenthusiastically swiped at his skin.

"Give me that," Aramis demanded, practically ripping the rag from the swordsman's fingers. "You are going to be here all night and these vultures will have eaten all the food by then."

The other two musketeers had moved the food to the now vacant table and were plowing through it with great abandon.

"Wine?" Athos asked, his voice holding a slight edge of desperation to it that he hated himself for. He felt Aramis, who was scrubbing at a small slash on his lower back, momentarily stop. Then, as the rag began wiping down his side again, Athos closed his eyes and let his head droop. "I had thought to sleep through exhaustion. Or maybe unconsciousness," he whispered with a catch in his voice. The rag was removed and another, containing a stinging disinfectant, was applied to his shallow wounds. "But now...I…need…wine."

"No," Aramis declared softly as he continued to administer to Athos' cuts. "We'll get you through this without a wine induced stupor."

Aramis patted him lightly on the back, rose, walked over to his chest and withdrew a clean shirt. Moving back to where Athos sat, he offered up the shirt. Athos raised his head and accepted the item with a small nod of thanks. Though the room was certainly warm enough to remain topless as d'Artagnan and Porthos had chosen to do, he knew Athos preferred to wear a shirt, especially in public. Porthos had once confided to the marksman that Athos was uncomfortable with the faint scars that lined his back from being whipped, even if the scars were honorably earned. The scars were really quite faint against the swordsman's normally pale skin tones, only becoming more obvious when he tanned. But Aramis understood how physical scars had mental components, so he happily offered up his clean shirt to his brother.

Athos stood and pulled the soft shirt over his head, fleetly registering it was one of Aramis' good shirts for special occasions. Like a sleepwalker, he shuffled across the room, over to one of the two double beds in Aramis' quarters and sat on the edge. Aramis always had one of the largest rooms in the garrison, which in the long run turned out to be good, as it gave a large enough space for the four Musketeers to bunk down together when required. Long ago the regiment had learned that these four men tended to push the limits, get hurt, and refuse to recover in the garrison's infirmary. So, Aramis, as part of the Inseparables, was never begrudged the spacious accommodations.

Aramis ambled over to the table and took up residence in one of the two empty chairs. "Athos. Come eat."

The swordsman glanced over at the table of food, then gave a minute shake of his head before settling back on the bed, using the whitewashed wall behind it to lean against. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on top. He didn't close his eyes, but stared unseeingly at a spot further down the bed's blanket.

Putting a small plate of food aside, in case Athos changed his mind, Aramis began to wolf down his own dinner. Again, he had learned not to press Athos to eat unless he was truly forced to for the swordsman's health. It was another battle where the fallout wasn't worth it. Most of the time, with a few reminders, Athos remembered that his body required sustenance to survive.

In the end, the exercise and exhaustion won out for Athos lay down and fell asleep, snoozing soundly through the night. Aramis eventually crawled into the double bed next to him, while Porthos and d'Artagnan shared the other bed in the room. The night passed peacefully for all.