Hi everyone, I'm ahead of myself so thought I'd post the next chapter early, as a get-well-soon present to Debbie and anyone else with the dreaded flu. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: Stuck In the Shadows ...

Roncesvalles, autumn 1634

The imposing black warhorse picked its way slowly down the slope, its rider scanning the countryside constantly, one hand resting on his pistol. It was early still, and the muted birdsong was almost lost in the breeze stirring the low bushes bordering the track they followed.

At the foot of the hill the pair stopped and the rider surveyed the flat land ahead, his eyes squinting against the sun. The breeze ruffled his long hair and his horse shifted under him, stamping a foot nervously and tossing her head.

The smell was overpowering.

The rider gentled his mount automatically, long fingers soothing her neck, not taking his eyes off the battlefield in front of them. The ground was scuffed and scarred, as if mighty feet had trodden its surface, and belongings were scattered everywhere. Not weapons – those had been gathered and taken away – but scraps of shirt; a strip of stained bandaging; over there a brown hat; one boot, lying on its side, the remains of a bloodied foot still inside. A water bottle. The broken hilt of a sword. The body of a horse, stripped of saddle and bridle. A large patch of disturbed ground away to his left, where the buzz of insects was loudest.

Stained earth everywhere. Flies settling and rising in waves from each patch of sullied ground.

The rider sighed, and took up the reins again, picking a pathway around the edges of the battlefield, resisting the urge to turn and head away. Anywhere but here. Knowing this scene of hellish desolation was in his future for many long months to come.

The pair found a new track the other side of the carnage, ground trampled into submission. It led towards another hill and they followed it steadily, not rushing now, hearing the sounds of men – living men – mingling in a rising murmur as they reached the crest and looked down on another familiar scene.

Tents: rows of them, acres of canvas, arranged in squares around larger command tents. Wide central pathways teeming with men – hundreds of men even at this early hour, heading towards the latrines, or the mess tents, or returning from guard duty. Unhurried movements, no sense of urgency. There would be no fighting today.

Another sigh, then a squaring of the shoulders as the rider urged his mount to quicken the pace down the last slope towards the camp. He might have very mixed feelings about being back, but he was hungry, and had been riding since first light. And he needed to know that his brothers were still alive.

"Halt!"

A sharp command from one of the pair of guards blocking the track where it turned into the camp.

"State your name and business."

"d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers." His voice felt husky from days of travelling alone, talking only to his mare. He didn't bother stating his business, thinking the name of the Musketeers enough to gain him entry. The regiment had long since joined with other regiments from the regular army, and the men shared a reasonably harmonious camp. There was little time for rivalries in the middle of a bloody war.

This particular guard seemed to have different ideas.

"Your business?"

"I'm returning to camp, to my regiment."

"Password."

"I don't know the password. I've been on ... on a mission, to Paris, for several weeks. Listen, if you could just..."

Twin barrels from two arquebuses, the long-barrelled but portable matchlock guns used in battle, swung his way, attracting attention from another group of guards talking to a tall officer standing a few metres inside the gateway.

"Get off your horse!" The guard's voice made it clear he wasn't messing about.

"Look, I have letters for Captain Athos of the King's Musketeers..."

"Dismount!"

d'Artagnan was beginning to lose his composure now. He had been travelling hard for days, on his own, with very little sleep. It was hard enough coming back to the front without this idiot of a guard standing officiously in his way pointing a gun at him. A loaded gun, d'Artagnan noticed as he saw the guard blowing carefully on the fuse under the hammer. He swallowed his irritation and slid carefully off Nuit, keeping his hands well away from his own weapons.

"If you could send someone to find Athos, or any Musketeer for that matter, they will vouch for me."

"Hand over the letters." The officer had joined them and it was his voice now snapping out the orders. He stood with his hand out, expectantly. He was well-groomed with perfect diction, perfect skin, and well-maintained beard that probably hid a receding chin thought d'Artagnan uncharitably. Typical second-son noble, quickly promoted during war but with no experience of running a regiment.

"Sorry, but I can't hand over you private letters addressed to my Captain. If you could just send someone – "

"Who the hell do you think you are?" The lieutenant took a step forward, his guards instantly readjusting their positions to keep d'Artagnan in the line of fire.

"I'm sub-lieutenant d'Artagnan, of the King's Musketeers. And you are...?" d'Artagnan kept his voice steady but inside he was beginning to boil.

"Well, d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers – " the sneer obvious in the way he spat the words out – "I am Lieutenant Colombe of the Régiment de Picardie, Second Battalion, and you do not have the authority to question my orders!" The last words were punctuated by a pointing finger that ended up jabbing d'Artagnan on the chest.

d'Artagnan thrust his chin forward, eyes blazing as he met the cold challenge in the man's eyes. He was just pulling in a breath ready to explode when someone shouted his name from within the camp.

"d'Artagnan?" A tone of disbelief, but loud enough to pull d'Artagnan back from the brink as he was deciding whether to insult this jobs-worth Lieutenant or thump him and to hell with the consequences. Then a second shout, more sure this time, and full of joy. "d'Artagnan! Oh, mon Dieu, it is you!"

There was the sound of running footsteps and grumbles from men pushed aside as someone raced towards the camp entrance. d'Artagnan dragged his eyes reluctantly from the lieutenant who also turned, irritated at the interruption - just in time to scuttle to one side as a young Musketeer literally hurled himself through the air.

d'Artagnan had a split second to brace himself before the well-known figure of Fouchard, a recruit around his own age who had become a good friend over the last two years, landed on him, instantly wrapping arms and legs around d'Artagnan's torso on a strangling hug. d'Artagnan staggered backwards under his momentum, half laughing, half choking, as Fouchard thumped him enthusiastically on the back then suddenly let him go, apologising madly. "Merde, d'Artagnan, I forgot – are you all healed up now? Did I hurt you? Why didn't you tell us you were coming? Porthos is going to be furious to have missed you but Athos is here – come on!"

And without pausing for breath, and apparently oblivious to the triple glares aimed his way from the lieutenant and the guards, Fouchard grabbed d'Artagnan's reins with one hand, slung his free arm around his friend's shoulders, and swept him off into camp.

"Sir?"

"Is it urgent, Fouchard?" The weariness in Athos' voice was obvious, even muffled by canvas.

Fouchard was literally bouncing with excitement as he waited outside Athos' tent. "Um, not strictly urgent, Sir, but you definitely want to see this."

There was an audible sigh from within, the sound of creaking as he rose from his chair, a rustle of parchment, and then a heartbeat before a hand pushed the tent flap to one side. And there he was, his beard overgrown, face covered in stubble and fading bruises in equal measure, unruly hair where he'd been shoving a hand through it in frustration. Eyes pinched and tired and a posture that screamed lack of sleep to d'Artagnan, taking all this in the split second before Athos' face lit up in recognition.

"Jesus!" he breathed. d'Artagnan grinned, opening his mouth to make the obvious joke, and Athos groaned, held up a warning hand with a glare, then starting to laugh at himself. "Must be a record," he murmured, pulling d'Artagnan in for a firm hug, "ten seconds and we're already arguing."

Looking over d'Artagnan's shoulder he saw Fouchard still standing there, beaming from ear to ear with pleasure at the sight of his Captain smiling. A real, genuine smile.

"Fouchard? Could you – "

"On my way, Sir."

d'Artagnan drew back from Athos and looked at him. Athos shrugged. "It's catching."

d'Artagnan started to laugh as he pushed into the tent, plonking himself down uninvited on Athos' bed. "Feels like I've never been away."

"Not to me. To us."

d'Artagnan looked up, sobering so quickly that Athos wondered if his laughter had been a front, covering – what: nervousness?

"What have I missed? You're both unhurt? Have we lost anyone?" The questions started tumbling out, fast and urgent until Athos held a hand up.

"We're both fine. We've had some good results, as you can tell from where we're based now."

d'Artagnan nodded. "You're twenty miles further south than when I left."

Athos made a wry face. "Another twenty miles of prime Spanish dust under our belts."

d'Artagnan heard the bitterness in his tone. "Who did we lose?"

"Corbière. Valois. Plourde. All on the battlefield. We got Masson back here but he died soon after. Perrault and Tailler are still receiving treatment."

d'Artagnan was silent for a while, hands clenched on his lap, fingers twisting as he pictured each man Athos had named. Some of them had been close friends, others he hadn't know so long, but they were all good men. And they were Musketeers, under Athos' command. Every death, every injury, hit their Captain hardest of all.

"How are things within the camp?"

"Oh, probably the same as when you left. We have our moments and the Generals are all imbeciles, of course, but the men get on well enough."

"Do you know a Lieutenant Colombe? Picardy regiment?"

Athos considered. "I can't say I've come across him. Why?"

d'Artagnan shrugged. "He was a bit unhelpful at the gate, that's all. Fouchard came along at the right moment and rescued me just before I lost my temper."

Athos' head shot up and he fixed d'Artagnan with a steely look. "What happened?"

d'Artagnan was beginning to wish he'd never mentioned the man, but before he could explain further, they both heard the unmistakeable sounds of a short-tempered Porthos approaching the tent.

"I've just got back an' I am hungry, tired an' filthy, Fouchard, so unless you've got a damn good reason for draggin' me over here you'd better make yourself scarce or you'll find yourself on latrine duty for the next month, an' I can promise you ..."

Athos & d'Artagnan exchanged glances as they heard Fouchard, sounding remarkably unperturbed, interrupt him. "Just go in, Porthos. You'll see." His words were accompanied by a soft slap of leather, as if he'd had given Porthos a gentle shove, but sure enough the tent flap was thrust aside and Porthos' silhouette filled the entrance. Squinting against the light, d'Artagnan couldn't make out Porthos' expression but, he gathered, nor could Porthos see much in the tent's dim interior.

"Athos, what the hell do you want?" It seemed Porthos was happy to turn his foul mood on Athos. Sighing, and thinking he seemed to do a lot of that these days, Athos rose from the chair and stepped to one side so Porthos could see to the back of the tent where d'Artagnan was just rising from the bed.

For a moment there was a silence in the tent, broken only by a small snigger from Fouchard who was lurking in the tent doorway. Then an explosion of noise and movement as Porthos lurched forwards, practically knocking Athos to the ground as he hurtled past him and fell upon d'Artagnan, bellowing his name and wrapping what felt like a lot more than two arms around him. With no time to prepare himself d'Artagnan collapsed under the weight of the greeting and there was a flurry of legs and arms as the pair toppled onto Athos' bed – and onwards to the ground, as the flimsy wood cracked under the strain of Porthos' enthusiasm.

Athos stood surveying the ruins of his bed, where d'Artagnan could be seen struggling to wriggle out from under Porthos, half laughing but face screwed up in – pain? Athos shot forward, grabbed a hand and hauled the Gascon out like a cork from a bottle, leaving Porthos to roll to his feet.

"You alright?" Athos enquired as he dusted the Gascon down and glared at Porthos who was clambering to his feet, holding a couple of struts from the bed with a slightly bewildered expression on his face.

"Yes, fine, now I can breathe. Honestly," d'Artagnan added, seeing the familiar scepticism on Athos' face.

"Fouchard?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Next time warn him?"

Pause, then a sheepish "Sorry, Sir" from Fouchard.

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan and gave him a more circumspect, but equally heartfelt, hug, then pulled back, holding him by the shoulders to scrutinise him carefully. d'Artagnan ducked his head and cuffed him lightly, looking embarrassed, and Porthos laughed out loud. He was back! Really back, not just here in body but in spirit too; their fiery, impulsive, cheeky, irrepressible, lucky charm of a Gascon was back properly, the sparkle in his eyes and the fire in his belly. Porthos laughed again, relief spreading through his taut muscles like the warmth from a campfire shared with friends.

He started firing questions out. "When did you get back? Why didn't Tréville tell us you were coming back? How are you doing – are you fit? Did you see Constance? God, I've missed you!"

d'Artagnan was laughing, hugging Porthos and mouthing 'help!' over his shoulder to Athos.

"Put him down, Porthos," said Athos obligingly, not looking half as stern as his words implied.

Reluctantly Porthos let go of him and looked around for somewhere to sit. "Ah, Athos... sorry 'bout your bed."

"Hmm." Athos stuck his head out of the tent flap and found Fouchard close by, talking to a soldier from the supply corps. "Fouchard!"

Fouchard patted the soldier on the back and loped back to Athos. "Sir?"

"I'm going to need a new bed," Athos informed him drily.

"Already on it Sir. Fallard will get you a replacement and I've asked him to find you something to sit on in the meantime. Food's on its way too, and could you tell d'Artagnan I'll go and see to Nuit now, unless you need me for anything else?"

"When did Fouchard get so efficient?" d'Artagnan whispered to Porthos as Athos thanked the young musketeer and dismissed him.

Porthos chuckled. "Ah, 'e's a good lad, that one. Bin lookin' after Athos while you were away."

Athos' sceptical look at the idea that he might need looking after sent both Porthos and d'Artagnan into a fit of laughter and Fouchard, as he headed off to the horse lines to make sure d'Artagnan's horse was groomed, watered and fed after her long journey, felt his heart lift at the sound. This camp needed cheering up, and it seemed d'Artagnan's arrival back might just be doing it.

An hour later the trio were crammed around the small map table in Athos' tent, perched on two crates and an empty powder-keg, finishing a sparse lunch of bread and cheese – no change there, then – washed down with the watered-down camp mead that passed for alcohol these days.

They'd consciously kept the talk neutral over their meal, with Athos updating d'Artagnan on the regiment's news, and Porthos on the camp's gossip. Now the attention turned to d'Artagnan.

"So how was Paris?"

"Mm, it was... busy. Full of refugees. The Queen has set aside an area near the docks where they can settle, and she organises food supplies for them every week. Lots of empty dwellings, more whorehouses, all the best wine seems to have been locked away. You'd hate it, Athos."

A wry smile from Athos. He was virtually tee-total in the war, enjoying only an occasional bottle of decent wine when a supply wagon came in.

"Oh, that reminds me." d'Artagnan dug in his saddlebag and produced a bottle of best brandy for each of them. "Gift from Tréville." Another rummage and he came up with a round of mountain cheese for Athos and a jar of honey for Porthos. "From Constance."

"How is the lovely lady?"

The question he'd been dreading. "She looks well."

Two pairs of eyes swung his way. "'Looks'?" queried Porthos.

d'Artagnan dragged in a long breath. He didn't want to withhold anything from his friends but he'd hoped for a bit more time before being grilled. "I ... didn't meet her."

"What? Why ever not? I thought you'd – ow!" This last directed at Athos who had clearly nudged, prodded or stood on some bit of Porthos to shut him up.

"Let him tell it his own way."

d'Artagnan managed a fleeting smile of thanks at Athos, but inside he was panicking.

In the peaceful surroundings of Douai, he'd managed to tell Aramis everything about his capture and ill-treatment at the hands of the Spanish, and felt stronger as a result. But he'd been dreading coming back to the front. He knew his mind was still full of doubts and fears, and the last thing he wanted was to divulge this to Athos and Porthos. They had enough worries keeping everyone safe, without worrying about him all over again. He just wanted to get back to how he was before; back to being a Musketeer – not a victim to be fussed over and protected. So in his room at the inn in Paris as he prepared to travel back, he had decided not to tell the others about his treatment in the hands of the Spanish, and to make sure they didn't know how much everything still played on his mind.

However he'd forgotten how persistent his brothers could be, and how intuitive. Of course they would need reassurance that he was back to his old self, and that was exactly what he couldn't give them, because at the moment it was still all an act. He had hoped that if he behaved the way everyone expected, sooner or later it would become reality again, not just a conscious front. But in the meantime, his brothers were watching him and waiting for answers.

He hadn't realised how long the silence had lasted until Porthos tutted and snatched his feet up out of the way before Athos could stamp on him again. "No point sitting 'ere all night, Athos! Now listen, lad, we both know full well what a state you were in when Athos sent you north, so don't mess about. Just tell us. We'll understand, you know we will."

d'Artagnan bit his lip, looking from one to the other. He was confident they would understand, but the problem was he didn't want them to know. Not now, while they still faced the battlefield virtually daily, and had to rely on each other's strength of mind as well as body.

If they knew what he'd been through – and what he still went through every night, and all too often during the day whenever he stopped work and had time to think – they would never leave him alone. He would be a liability: the weak link, the one they had to protect.

And he couldn't bear that. Not only because it would distract them, thus putting them at risk if they felt that had to look out for him. But it would also mean he was forever trapped in his memories, seeing them reflected in his friends' eyes every time they looked at him, or asked how he was feeling or whether he had slept, because he was damaged now, or would be, in their eyes.

He didn't want to be that person! He wanted to be d'Artagnan again; the strong, fearless, reckless youth he'd always been – until three months ago.

And so began the lonely lies.

Oh, he told them some of the truth: plenty of it, in fact. About how he'd been in such a state when he'd made it back to Paris that Nuit had led him to the garrison before he'd realised; that he couldn't bring himself to go in; that he'd waited in the street outside until he'd seen Tréville arrive from the Palace to take morning muster. How Tréville had found a quiet inn for him to stay in, and an experienced physician to talk to.

He told them how he'd seen Constance from afar, several times, and spent hours with Tréville before he left for the front again, catching up with all the news from the garrison which he in turn shared with them. Constance was keeping them all fed on what little she could find in the market plus what they could grow on the training ground behind the garrison; Serge was grumbling more than ever. He passed on Tréville's assessment of the new recruits and which ones would shortly be ready for their commissions. d'Artagnan described Tréville (looking fit and purposeful, and coping better with the palace than he'd expected) and Constance (looking vibrant and confident, with cadets following her everywhere helping with her errands) and Paris (flooded with refugees and short on food), and the doctor who'd treated him (lots of talking) and his recovery (mostly just resting, walking, riding outside Paris when he could).

All of that was true. He just missed out the most important part – about spending weeks with Aramis, talking everything through. And about the fact that he still felt hollow with fears and nightmares, because then he'd have had to explain everything, and he just wasn't ready to do that. Not here. Not when they had to fight alongside each other, depend on each other, every day.

He must have been convincing, because Porthos was soon chortling away at the garrison tales Tréville had passed on, and Athos had opened his bottle of brandy, and they drank toasts to each others' health, and for another hour the war didn't exist inside this cosy tent.

But eventually Athos' keen eyes noticed how exhausted d'Artagnan looked, and he put the cork back in the brandy bottle and sent d'Artagnan to get some rest before the evening meal and muster. Porthos gave him a quick tour of the Musketeers' camp and then appropriated a cot from another tent – d'Artagnan didn't ask where the bed's previous owner was – and set it up in his own tent. It was a squeeze, but both men were used to stepping around each other and keeping their belongings organised in the tiny space, and both slept better for hearing the other's snoring, though neither would admit it.

d'Artagnan lay dutifully on his bed for several hours, listening to the sounds of camp going on outside the tent, wondering if he would ever feel at home here again.

Then he rose, washed the travel dust from his face and hair, and found Porthos as he headed for the mess tent. When he'd last been in camp he'd been incapable of even entering the tent, let alone eating there, but today he reminded himself sternly that he was 'being d'Artagnan', and made it inside.

They entered to a flurry of greetings from other Musketeers and army soldiers as they gathered their food and found a place to sit. So many came over to ask if he'd recovered or enquire after news from Paris that eventually Porthos had to growl at them to leave him alone so he could eat in peace.

Muster was uneventful. d'Artagnan spent most of it trying to put faces to the names of the new musketeers who'd arrived in his absence, as Athos called out the roster for the night's duties. Afterwards Porthos accompanied Athos to a briefing meeting so d'Artagnan was left to join the off-duty Musketeers around the camp fire. Trying to remember how to banter; trying to fit in.

On the way back through camp the two Musketeer officers walked shoulder to shoulder, both lost in thought, until eventually Porthos broke the silence. "Do you think...?" he started.

"Yes."

Porthos looked at him. "Even I didn't know what I was going to ask!" he protested.

"You were going to ask if d'Artagnan's hiding something."

He was probably right, mused Porthos, although there had been a hundred other questions in his mind. Was d'Artagnan better? Why hadn't he wanted to see Constance? Had he asked Tréville for news of Aramis? Could he really be so improved after just a bit of talking with a doctor? Would he be safe on the battlefield again...?

All of which could be summed up as d'Artagnan not being straight with them. So although they were both incredibly relieved to see him back, they both knew they would need to keep a close eye on him. Without him knowing, of course.