... of the Person I'm Supposed To Be

Porthos wasn't sure what woke him. He lay quietly, listening for a moment then turned over, burrowing under his favourite blanket, the one Constance had insisted on mending for him before they set off ... more than two years ago, he realised. It was hard to believe. Sometimes it felt like only a few weeks; other times he could barely remember what 'normal' life was like.

He loved soldiering: it was in his blood, what he did best. But this war was ... well, it had gone on too long. Already. And they'd nearly lost d'Artagnan, in the worst possible way. He was back now, and Porthos would do anything in his power to keep him safe. But somehow he wondered whether that would be enough.

Realising his thoughts had pushed him into full wakefulness, he opened his eyes again, wondering how long it was until dawn. He looked over at d'Artagnan, lying on his back, one arm across his eyes. Chest rising regularly, and yet... "You awake?"

A beat, then a small sigh. "Yes."

"Thought you'd be more tired after your journey."

Another pause, then d'Artagnan's quiet voice. "I seem to have forgotten how to sleep." The admission was wry, but betrayed his weariness.

Porthos hesitated. "Bad dreams?"

The next pause lasted so long Porthos wondered if d'Artagnan had gone drifted off. Or didn't want to answer. Eventually he couldn't bear the suspense any longer. "Sorry – I didn' mean to pry."

d'Artagnan stirred then sat up, rolling his neck and shoulders. "It's okay. I just... I did a lot of talking while I was away and I... well, I just wanted to leave it all behind." He shivered, and pulled his blanket around his shoulders, wrapping his arms around his knees to keep warm.

"Doesn' work like that though, does it?" Porthos replied sympathetically, also sitting up.

"No ... but I'm afraid if I keep talking about everything it'll just – stay with me."

Porthos thought for a moment. He knew what d'Artagnan was saying – there were plenty of memories of his own that he'd rather forget – but you can't just will the memories to go away, and they always found ways of bugging you. Like in dreams.

"Right. 'ow about this: I don't ask questions, but you tell me if things crop up that bother you. Like a dream, or just, you know, havin' a bad day."

d'Artagnan looked over at him properly, and heaved out a long breath. He knew it made sense. He just wasn't sure he could do it.

"Whelp?"

d'Artagnan scowled. "Don't call me that."

Porthos just laughed. "So you are still in there!"

Glaring, then starting to laugh himself, d'Artagnan felt something shift inside him, like a tiny crack in a piece of ice.

Maybe he could do this after all.

Neither of them had slept much after that, but d'Artagnan was used to it by now and felt reasonably alert in the morning. Emerging from their tent at dawn into a fresh-smelling, dew-covered camp, he stretched cautiously, feeling the stiffness in his legs and back from the long ride south, and the pull of newly healed scars. He clasped his fingers behind his head, arcing his back as far as he dared then twisting his body from side to side, pushing his limits a tad more each time until he felt warmth creep into his cold muscles.

Opening his eyes he saw Porthos watching him intently from the doorway of the tent. He stopped his stretches, feeling self-conscious, and Porthos apologised. "Just wonderin' when you'll be fit to fight. Will you spar with me this morning?"

He hesitated and Porthos chuckled. "I'll go easy on you."

d'Artagnan gave a wry smile but nodded. "Just don't chuck me on my back."

Instantly Porthos' face sobered. "Ain't it healed yet? You should go to Etienne – 'e'll be up now."

d'Artagnan looked around, trying to remember where the latrine trenches were, then caught a whiff and orientated himself. "I'm fine. It's healed, just tender still. Don't fuss."

Porthos chewed a lip, watching d'Artagnan walk away from him, then sighed and followed slowly.

Muster was short that morning, there being no scheduled fighting on which to brief the men, so Porthos organised training for everyone who was fit. d'Artagnan stood waiting his turn, enjoying the banter and jeering from the other watchers, but when Porthos called him over to spar with Mathis, one of the older Musketeers, he felt an unaccustomed nervousness.

He walked up to Mathis, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his shirt, and as he took his stance he realised his legs felt shaky. He settled, trying to focus on Mathis and watch his eyes for a clue as to his first move, but it felt wrong. He'd never had to consciously tell himself what to do before. He was aware of the hubbub gradually dying down as those around stopped to watch.

Mathis made his first lunge, but d'Artagnan's feet felt heavy and he barely moved quickly enough to avoid the blade, twisting his body to the side and feeling a tweak of pain from a strained muscle in his back as he scrambled back into position. His rapier felt far too weighty in his hand and sweat stung his eyes. This was ridiculous! He hadn't struck a blow yet –

Mathis lunged again, and this time d'Artagnan got his blade up in time to parry the blow, but the force of it rocked him backwards and again he had to move his feet quickly to avoid tripping. Mathis looked more hesitant now, so d'Artagnan tried a couple of lunges of his own, but each strike took conscious effort and Mathis parried easily, then reposted with a series of movements that drove d'Artagnan back so fast that he really did trip, landing on his rear heavily and completely open to a killing blow if it had been a real fight. There was an audible gasp from the watchers and d'Artagnan shut his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose, his mouth tight with tension.

Porthos wandered over, trying to look casual as if it was common place for d'Artagnan – the best swordsman in the unit after Athos – to land in the dirt after barely two minutes of sparring. Mathis was holding out a hand to haul him up and d'Artagnan accepted it, thanking him gruffly and planting his unsteady feet wide, leaning on his blade for a moment as if he'd just fought a major battle. Was he really this unfit? He fought against a surge of panic. What if he couldn't do this anymore? He couldn't remember ever feeling this useless. His body wasn't responding; his rapier felt alien in his hand, he couldn't remember how to move his feet. How could he fight in this state?

Suddenly there was a stir amongst the silent onlookers, and a shuffling of feet. d'Artagnan looked up and saw Athos making his way through the throng. He stopped at the edge and had a quiet word with Porthos, then enquired, casually, of no-one in particular: "Is practice over?"

There was a general scramble to find sparring partners and resume training, and soon there were only a handful of watchers, those who had already sparred. Athos flicked his calm gaze over them and in a moment they had all found other matches to watch, were looking for water bottles or had spotted a nick in their swords that urgently needed attention.

Athos nodded to Mathis, who took up position again. Reluctantly d'Artagnan mirrored his stance and the sparring began again. d'Artagnan didn't think he was any better than the first time, but at least he didn't actually fall over. Mathis' sword found his weaknesses time and again, until d'Artagnan was cursing in exasperation. After a few minutes of this Athos stepped forward and both men put up their swords instantly, each feeling relief for different reasons. Mathis had sparred many times with d'Artagnan before and had never seen him fight as badly, which was unnerving, and d'Artagnan just wanted to disappear somewhere away from the watching eyes.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who found he couldn't meet his mentor's gaze. He felt like a complete failure. Athos had been nothing but kind and caring, sending him away to Paris to recuperate and making it clear he would have as much time as he needed to recover, but he was a soldier – a Musketeer. The regiment needed him and he would be useless in a fight if he couldn't even spar! Worse than useless – a liability. He –

Athos' hand on his shoulder interrupted the dark spiral of his thoughts. "Have you had much time to practice your forms?"

d'Artagnan looked up in spite of himself, and saw nothing but understanding in the calm greeny-blue eyes. He swallowed. "Only... only in the last few days before I returned."

Athos nodded as if he'd expected as much. "And not on the journey back here. No wonder you are finding it hard." He paused, tipping his head slightly on one side, a half smile crinkling his eyes. "With me?"

d'Artagnan blinked. Athos did his exercises daily, he knew – he'd seen him many times in the early dawn, behind his tent – but never with the other men. Captaincy carried its own conventions and particularly here in the combined army it was frowned upon by the other officers if any of them were too familiar with their men. Athos had never had any trouble maintaining discipline, but he'd had to change his leadership style to fit with the more rigid formality of the regular French army. It was unusual for him even to observe training, let alone join in.

Athos didn't seem to expect an answer but took up position next to d'Artagnan, settling into the first stance, regulating his breathing, then waited.

After a moment's hesitation d'Artagnan mirrored his position, spreading his feet and settling his weight over his knees, then raised his rapier ready. On his other side he was aware of Mathis doing the same, but there was no further time for thought as Athos began the first movements.

At first d'Artagnan struggled to keep up, feeling his muscles stretch on the deepest lunges and his newly-healed scars pulling on his arms, chest and back. When he'd done the exercises on his own, in the privacy of the yard behind Le Cochon Volant Inn in Paris, he hadn't pushed himself too far, wary of damaging his newly healed skin. Here he was aware of all the eyes watching, and found himself trying harder, pushing deeper into the lunges, whipping his blade faster through the air.

By the time they finished the final form, d'Artagnan was sweating properly – not fear sweat now but honest hard work sweat. As he straightened and looked up, he was surprised to find that every single one of the Musketeers – including Porthos – had joined them, forming disciplined ranks and all now straightening from the last figures. To his right, Athos was also looking up and down the lines, another smile teasing his lips. Nodding quietly to himself, he stepped out of the line and faced his men. "Never neglect your forms. They are just as important as sparring practice or a sharp blade. Let's go again."

This time he watched them, occasionally walking up to someone and correcting their feet placement, or offering a word of advice or critique. As he passed behind d'Artagnan he simply said 'better', and d'Artagnan found himself grinning.

Once they'd completed the rotation a second time, Athos called for a water break and chatted briefly with Porthos before wandering off again. d'Artagnan sat in the shade of a tree, drinking the chilled water gratefully and vowing never to get this unfit again.

The rest of training went smoothly. d'Artagnan managed a creditable bout against Francois before Porthos told him to he'd done enough for his first session, and sent him for an early noon meal.

At that morning's muster Athos had assigned d'Artagnan to horse duty in the afternoon. Athos knew d'Artagnan was not only an excellent horseman but also found it restful to spend time with them, especially after he'd been rescued and before he'd been sent back to Paris to recuperate.

Assigning him this particular duty on his first full day back was Athos' way of looking after him, and d'Artagnan was extremely grateful. He had found the morning tiring and the mealtime stressful as he'd stiffened after the morning's exertions; he was trying to be positive but couldn't help mentally questioning his place in the regiment.

He was soon joined by Fouchard, and he wondered if it was coincidence or whether Athos was making sure to pair him with people he felt comfortable with.

For a while the pair worked in easy silence, grooming each horse thoroughly and examining them for any cuts, bruising or muscle strains. Fouchard was less experienced with horses and occasionally asked d'Artagnan's advice on a cracked hoof or tender swelling, and after an hour or two d'Artagnan was beginning to feel almost normal. Until Fouchard asked him what it was like to be captured.

d'Artagnan immediately felt panic rising as he tried to come up with an answer. He didn't want to think about his time in Spanish hands, let alone talk about it, but he couldn't lie either – not when Fouchard was looking at him with wide eyes, clearly anxious to hear his answer.

d'Artagnan knew the thought of being captured preyed on many of the regiment's minds, especially since his patrol – of which he'd been the only survivor – had disappeared several months ago. He knew Fouchard was looking for reassurance – but he couldn't give it.

Seconds passed as d'Artagnan remained frozen, discarding one answer after another. Eventually he realised that after such a long pause no answer could be convincing. He resolved to try honesty, but it was painfully hard to speak. "I... I... I'm so-sorry," he blurted out. "I... I j-just ... c-c-can't t-talk about it."

Without looking at Fouchard, d'Artagnan gathered up an armful of horse blankets and saddle cloths, muttering that they were filthy, and shot off down the path to the river.

When Athos checked on the horse lines a short while later he was surprised to find Fouchard working alone. He stopped alongside the young Musketeer, who was currently inspecting the stitching on each bridle to see if any needed repairing. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

Fouchard jumped and dropped the bridle, stammering an apology as Athos stooped to pick it up.

"What happened?" he pressed quietly, hanging the bridle on the nearest tree.

"Oh... it was my fault. I asked him to tell me about when he was captured... I didn't mean to upset him but he – have you ever heard him stammer?"

Athos blinked. "Stammer?"

"Yes! He didn't answer for ages and then he couldn't get his words out. He looked so – distressed."

"Where is he?"

"He went to the river with the horse blankets. I wasn't sure if I should go after him. Captain, I'm so sorry..." He trailed off, looking miserable.

Athos took pity on him. "He'll have needed a moment to himself. I'll see how he's getting on."

At the river he found d'Artagnan on his knees on a patch of gravel, scrubbing vigorously at the last of the saddle cloths, and a row of around 20 sodden blankets drying on trees and bushes. Athos paused, reluctant to startle him, until d'Artagnan looked up, perhaps sensing his presence, then carried on scrubbing. "These blankets were filthy. No wonder we've got horses with saddle-sores and –"

"You're right. I will ensure they get washed more often," Athos agreed placidly.

d'Artagnan rinsed the last cloth out and shook it before rising and spread it out to dry with the others. Then he turned to face Athos and sighed. "I suppose Fouchard told you?"

Athos nodded, waiting.

"I just – I c-can't... it's hard for me to t-talk about what ha-happened, Athos."

Athos cocked his head on one side, wondering if d'Artagnan had any idea that he was stammering and whether he should ask about it. The next second he had his answer.

"Dammit! I c-can't even speak ... merde!" d'Artagnan kicked viciously at a clump of reeds.

Athos hesitated, then started to strip off his doublet, then his shirt. When he saw he'd got d'Artagnan's attention he told him: "You haven't swum since you got back, and I'm sweaty – keep me company?"

d'Artagnan just looked at him, knowing full well what his Captain was doing, not knowing whether to be offended or touched by the gesture, but Athos simply went on undressing methodically and in the end d'Artagnan gave up thinking and simply followed suit. Athos waited, impassively, trying not to look too obviously at the Gascon's body. This was the first time he'd seen him unclothed since dragging him from the hell-hole they'd found him in.

d'Artagnan was still much too thin, but no longer looked like a skeleton draped in someone else's skin. The sword wound curling across his back, sustained in that terrifying battle far too soon after they'd rescued him, was still a vivid pink colour but it was clearly healing well, as were the other smaller wounds marring the skin around his back and sides. His fingers were scarred where – they guessed – he'd tried to claw his way out of his underground prison but the cuts had scabbed over and mostly healed well. However his forearms were still wrapped in bandages from the elbow to the wrist.

Athos frowned. He'd seen those wounds too, when Etienne first treated him: a mass of intersecting cuts, deep enough to need stitches, clearly made by a knife. Deliberately. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he watched d'Artagnan fold his clothes and turn towards the river. Those cuts should be healing as well as the ones on the lad's back, so why were they still covered? Vowing to get Etienne to check him over at the first opportunity, Athos picked his way across the gravel and followed d'Artagnan into the fast-flowing river.

Ooof! Athos couldn't help but gasp at the icy temperature as the water reached his thighs. d'Artagnan was already in and swimming. Dammit! He took a breath and dived under the water, shooting straight back up to grab a shocked breath as the cold seized his lungs. The current was strong and for a moment he regretted his impulse, but it was way too late to back out, and he was already chilled to the bone, so he ducked under the water again and began a steady crawl, trying to catch up to d'Artagnan who had already turned at the far bank and was making his way back, his expression set as he worked his way against the current with a strong, regular stroke.

Two widths later they were both panting with the effort of working against the current to avoid being swept too far from their entry point, but Athos felt considerably warmer and d'Artagnan was looking calmer. After five minutes Athos decided he'd had enough and battled his way back to the slope where he could haul himself out and flop, puffing more than he'd like, on the gravel bank, shivering as he watched d'Artagnan power backwards and forwards across the river for another few minutes before he finally joined Athos on the bank.

There was a long companionable silence as both men slowly warmed up in the pale autumn sun. Athos particularly was enjoying the rare moment of relaxation. Eventually he said lazily: "It's years since I swam in a river. Actually, I haven't done it since I was a child. It's good exercise... and I can see why you find it helpful." He cranked open one eye and checked d'Artagnan's reaction, relieved to see the Gascon smiling his agreement.

"It's ... I find it calming."

"And cold."

d'Artagnan laughed, a sound Athos didn't realise he'd missed until he heard it. For the hundredth time he wondered what, in d'Artagnan's captivity, had rendered him so broken in spirit that he had barely raised a smile since he returned, and couldn't speak of his experiences. He wished he could help the young Gascon more but knew better than to force him to speak. If he could just keep the lad safe until he felt comfortable enough to trust them with the details...

"I don't notice it any more... Athos, thank you."

"For?"

"You know. Being here with me now, when you have a whole regiment of men to look after."

Athos wished he could convince d'Artagnan of his importance – not just to him, but to the whole unit. Somehow he'd become a bit of a mascot to the regiment, with his youthful enthusiasm and complete lack of vanity. "I was sweaty and needed cooling down. I should do it more often. In fact I might introduce it as a compulsory warm up before training."

d'Artagnan snorted at the thought of Athos telling the Musketeers – many of whom had never learned to swim – to climb voluntarily into the icy river every morning. "I'm sorry I can't talk about what ha-happened." He stopped in frustration as the stammer threatened to show itself again.

"What stops you?" Athos was careful to sound only mildly interested as he sat up and idly tossed a pebble into the water.

d'Artagnan sat up as well, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his bare knees. "I don't know exactly. It's as if my brain is stopping me from t-talking about it now I'm back. Maybe ... I think it's j-just b-b-better if I d-don't think about it h-here. It's just too c-cl-close to reality."

Athos nodded, considering. "That makes sense."

"It does?" d'Artagnan sounded almost surprised.

"Mm. I have heard before of the barriers the mind can erect, as a way of protection." He paused, looking at the strain on d'Artagnan's face as he tried to compose himself. "You talked about everything to the doctor in Paris, didn't you? So I suggest we draw a line under everything and move on. If you want to talk at any time you know we will listen." A shaky nod from d'Artagnan. "If you could stop worrying about being asked, would that help?"

"Yes!"

Athos nodded. "I'll have a word with a few of the men." d'Artagnan looked as if he wanted to hug Athos, but remembered himself just in time and converted his movement into an ungainly lurch to his feet instead. Athos' mouth twitched as he too rose and they dressed, gathered up the blankets and headed back to camp.

Over the next few days d'Artagnan began to settle back into life in camp. The regiment had been at pains to make him feel welcome, bantering with him by day and encouraging him to join them around the camp fire in the evenings, and he'd started to feel that maybe, just maybe, he could do this. If he could pretend hard enough that he was the d'Artagnan of before, then maybe he could be that d'Artagnan again.

He'd been fortunate to return during a brief period of calm on the battlefront. There was a massive Spanish encampment around two leagues away, and although both sides were aware of the other, neither seemed overly keen to engage when such huge numbers of men were involved. An all-out battle would leave hundreds, maybe even tens of hundreds dead on both sides. So instead the commanding officers on both sides were engaged in something like a game of chess, as they each manoeuvred their forces, reinforcing one camp or another, hoping to spook their opposite number into retreating or ordering a move that would leave them exposed in another area.

This lull was giving d'Artagnan the time he desperately needed to rebuild his strength and fitness. Each time he ate a meal in the mess-room, or completed his exercises without feeling he would black out, was a real achievement. Athos had banned him from sparring until he could complete eight consecutive repetitions of the swordsman forms without stopping. Since each set of exercises took around five minutes, this was a challenge that few Musketeers would contemplate, although d'Artagnan had done it daily whilst training under Athos' supervision when he first joined the regiment.

After four days of exercises, combined with daily swims in the river and plenty of work around the camp, d'Artagnan was a lot fitter and Athos finally gave him the nod to begin sparring again. Guérin, the fair-haired musketeer who had been there when they'd found him in the Spanish oubliette, and who had taken d'Artagnan under his wing when he returned from Paris, was quick to pair up with him, and the two settled into their stances with a feeling of familiar anticipation.

He didn't overstretch himself, this time. Although aware of a few people watching, he was content to make good, steady strokes, but nothing fancy: it was enough just to be sparring. Guérin seemed to recognise what he needed, and for a long while the two men worked hard, playing to each others' strengths, the old familiar patterns of steel whistling through the air helping to settle d'Artagnan to a state of calm intensity that he hadn't felt for weeks.

Then a yelp of pain from a pair to his right snagged his attention, just as he swept his sword round to parry a strong stroke from Guérin. His tiny falter meant he mis-timed his defence, and instead of sword meeting sword, Guérin's blade bit into his leather-clad forearm.

Pain shot up his arm and his sword dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the hard ground as he doubled over, clapping his left hand to his right arm and hugging it to him.

"Merde! d'Artagnan, I'm sorry, did I get you?" Guérin dropped his own blade carelessly to the ground and grabbed at d'Artagnan's shoulder, pushing him upright so he could look.

"It's fine. No harm done." d'Artagnan tried to keep his voice steady, without much success. He cast a wary eye around, finding – to his relief – most eyes were on one of the newer recruits who was lying on the ground, blood seeping from a nick on his cheek, while his sparring partner tried to mop it with a handkerchief. He looked back at Guérin, seeing only concern and chagrin in his friend's eyes.

"Honestly, it's fine. Just give me a minute, will you?" He stooped to pick up his sword, then cursed as he realised two things: his fingers were still numb; and blood was oozing out from under his shirt cuff.

"Oh, morbleu! Dammit, I've cut you – d'Artagnan, I'm so sorry!" Guérin turned as if to call out for help but stopped as d'Artagnan's left hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

"Don't! Please... I'll just wash it off. It's nothing. Please!" he added, seeing Guérin hesitate. "I don't want a fuss!"

He managed to grab hold of his sword at the third attempt, and fixed Guérin with a look of desperate intensity.

Guérin sighed. "Alright, but I'm coming with you and if it needs stitches I'm getting a medic. No arguments!"

d'Artagnan turned and headed quickly away from the sparring area before anyone else noticed that he was bleeding, and thanking the Lord that neither Athos or Porthos was around for they would not have been fooled.

Guérin gathered a bucket of fresh water and followed d'Artagnan into his tent. The Gascon had already shed his leather and was rolling up his sleeve as Guérin entered. Underneath, he was surprised to see a bandage protecting d'Artagnan's forearm – now stained bright red with fresh blood.

"Are the cuts not healed yet?" he asked. He remembered only too well how badly hurt the Musketeer had been when they pulled him out of the oubliette in which he'd been left to die.

d'Artagnan sat, slowly unwinding the bandage, his jaw clenched. "They were healed. The blade must have just – damn," he finished, softly. As he peeled away the last turn of bandage, they could both see the wound across his forearm. Guérin crouched in front of him to get a better look.

"It's not a new cut," he noted, puzzled.

"No. It's one of the... old ones. I think the force of the blow split the skin – opened up the scar." d'Artagnan was staring at his arm with an odd expression, thought Guérin – somewhere between horror and fascination.

"Is that why you keep them covered then – to protect the skin?" Guérin could see d'Artagnan's left arm was similarly bandaged.

"Yes. Ara – um ... I was told the skin would be fragile for a while. And besides – " He faltered again, and stopped. Guérin pulled off his neck scarf, wetted it in the bucket and began cleaning the wound. "Besides?" he prompted, turning d'Artagnan's hand so the light fell better on the arm.

"I can't b-bear to look at them." It was nothing but a whisper of air, hiding a chasm of emotion.

"Why not? They're just scars, same as any other."

There was a long pause, then finally d'Artagnan admitted quietly: "Whenever I see them – I see the knife that made them, and the hand that held it..."

Guérin stopped cleaning the wound and looked up, seeing something like grief, and dread, etched on the Gascon's face. "Oh, d'Artagnan!" He felt helpless, not knowing what to say.

d'Artagnan grimaced and looked away from his friend's scrutiny. "Sorry. I shouldn't have... It's fine. Does it need stitching?"

Guérin blinked, shook himself, and answered mechanically as he wrapped his scarf around the wound to hold the bleeding. It would need stitching, if only to hold it together against the constant movement and aggravation from the leathers they had to wear to protect themselves.

d'Artagnan drew in a long, ragged breath then sighed as he accepted the inevitable. More time off, more fuss. More questions. He stood, thanking Guérin and pulled his shirt down over wound and scarf.

"Wait! I'm coming with you."

"You don't – "

"I want to. Anything to get out of sparring, eh?"

It was Etienne on duty, but to d'Artagnan's surprise he didn't ask any questions, merely looked long and hard at the new wound, then un-bandaged the other arm so he could compare the scars. Guérin noticed that d'Artagnan kept his gaze averted whenever he could.

It didn't take Etienne long to put a few stitches into the wound and bandage it firmly. As d'Artagnan rose to leave, Etienne handed him a pot of salve to rub into the scar to help it heal, and told him to come daily to have it checked. He paused then, cocking his head on one side. "No sparring until I say so, young man. Those scars are still fragile." It was an order, not a suggestion, and d'Artagnan nodded meekly before escaping out into the weak sunlight with a sense of relief.

The next morning Guérin was waiting outside d'Artagnan's tent when Porthos emerged. Guérin had gone straight to Porthos after leaving d'Artagnan in his tent to recuperate, the day before, and explained what had happened. Porthos had not been overly concerned: accidents happened daily in sparring, and by the time they'd met over the evening meal d'Artagnan had been upbeat and managing to joke about his lack of practice.

"How's d'Artagnan this morning?" asked Guérin.

"Yeah, he's okay. Think the arm's more sore than he admits." Porthos said the last part more loudly than necessary, knowing d'Artagnan would be able to hear him through the thin canvas. Sure enough there was a loud snort from within.

Grinning, Guérin pushed his way in and found d'Artagnan unwrapping the bandage from his right arm. "Hey, let me help."

d'Artagnan couldn't be bothered to protest until the bandage was off, when he saw Guérin reaching for the pot of salve Etienne had given him to rub in. "I'll do that!" He tried to take the salve but Guérin held it firmly out of reach. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you some new memories."

d'Artagnan just stared at him.

Guérin smiled, taking d'Artagnan's wrist and turning his arm so it lay across the Gascon's knees. "You said whenever you see the scars you see the knife that made them. So I decided we need to give you something else to see. My hands – or Porthos', whoever you want, but friends' hands, helping your skin to heal."

As he spoke, he scooped a dollop of salve from the pot and began to smooth it along the lines of the scars either side of the newly stitched wound. He could feel d'Artagnan's muscles tensing under his fingers, but kept working the ointment gently into the skin, trying to keep his movements regular and calming, and after a while it seemed to work. d'Artagnan's breathing steadied and he let out a sigh, so Guérin dared to look up.

d'Artagnan's eyes were fixed on Guérin's fingers as they traced along the lines of the scars. His eyes were pinched, his expression unreadable, but he didn't shift his gaze even when Porthos re-entered the tent, bringing in a gust of damp air. He plonked onto his bed and sat quietly watching as Guérin finished by dabbing a tiny amount of salve gently along the new line of stitches, leaving the ointment to sink in, then re-bandaged the arm with the nimble hands of a practiced soldier, and started to unwrap the bandages on the other arm to work on those scars.

Eventually he finished and d'Artagnan stirred. "I'm not sure Etienne's going to be too pleased when he realises you've used half the salve already."

Guérin laughed and stood up, handing the salve to Porthos. "Don't take no for an answer," he told the lieutenant bossily. "We're making new memories." He pushed out of the tent and Porthos blinked after him, then looked back to d'Artagnan as he pulled his shirt sleeves down.

Squinting at him in the gloomy tent interior, Porthos could see raw emotion in the lad's face, his jaw working as he swallowed. He wasn't totally sure what was happening, or what to do, but then he shrugged and did what he always did – led with his heart. Crossing to sit next to d'Artagnan he wrapped an arm firmly around the Gascon's shoulders and pulled him close, feeling optimistic. In spite of the set-back of his new wound, d'Artagnan seemed to be easier around the other Musketeers now and he was sure it wouldn't be long before he felt fully part of the regiment again.

But then a crisis threatened the camp; and with it came a new threat to d'Artagnan's fragile confidence.

A/N: thanks to everyone for your reviews, follows and favourites! I really appreciate your comments and support for this story. You've probably worked out by now that it's d'Artagnan-centric (as if I'd write anything else!) as he struggles to come to terms with the events we learned of in Battlescars Part 2. But both Porthos and Athos have plenty of moments, I promise, and Aramis is always in their thoughts even if he's not present for most of this one. Hope you enjoy x