In response to a wild plea to update soon, and because I had a free afternoon so it is ready, here is the next chapter early, to brighten your Tuesday after a dreary, murky day.

Warning: some ribald army language here and some mild blasphemy, because it was needed. You'll see; it's not a happy chapter ...

Chapter Six: This Monster Inside of Me

There hadn't been much supper left by the time d'Artagnan got to the mess tent, but he'd scrounged what he could and then headed for his tent, determined to get a few hours' sleep before morning guard duty. As he passed the Musketeer's campfire however, several men called him over, encouraging him to sit with them. At first he declined, pleading tiredness, but then an all-too-familiar voice spoke out of the darkness on the other side of the fire.

"Perhaps our little Gascon is missing his home too much to join us."

d'Artagnan stopped in his tracks. What the hell was Colombe doing at the Musketeer campfire? Since the food-poisoning incident men from different regiments had mingled far more, and Athos along with several of the other regiments' captains, had encouraged the socialising. It seemed to be good for morale and was helping on the battlefield as the individual regiments began to work better together, so it was not unusual now for men from different regiments to mingle in the evenings at campfires other than their own. But he'd never seen Colombe do it before, even in his own part of camp. He was far too precious about his rank to consort with common soldiers, surely?

The lieutenant's words had not gone down too well around the fire, with several men stopping their own conversations to stare. Dammit! He was too tired to deal with this now. But if he just walked off Colombe would no doubt take it as an insult, and from the looks a couple of Musketeers were giving the prat, it could end in trouble. He tried to think how to answer without causing offense but Fouchard, bless him, got there first.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant Colombe, d'Artagnan was sent home to Paris to recuperate not so long ago. He's just tired, that's all."

d'Artagnan smiled at Fouchard, grateful for his support, and turned again to take his leave. Again that hateful voice stopped him.

"Surely Gascony is your home, Musketeer, not Paris?"

d'Artagnan grimaced. Why the hell did the man take such an interest in him? He had absolutely no desire to reveal his family history to the bloody man! Again Fouchard rescued him, or tried to.

"His home is Paris now. His wife lives at the Garrison."

d'Artagnan winced inwardly, hoping Colombe would not pursue that line of conversation. His marital status was no-one's business but his own. He decided the only thing to do would be to sit down and try to redirect the chat. He called across the fire to Reynard to pass the mead around. "How was your day, Fouchard?" he asked loudly.

"I sparred with Porthos and he only knocked me over three times," Fouchard announced with an element of pride, to hoots around the fire as the older musketeers teased him, one ruffling his hair and another snatching the mead away before it reached him, saying it was too strong for a mere boy. Fouchard took the banter in good part, being used to it: he was a few months older than d'Artagnan but the latter's close association with the Captain and Porthos, combined with his reckless bravery in battle and skill with the sword, had long protected him from ridicule, so Fouchard was definitely the adopted 'baby' of the regiment.

As the laughter died down, d'Artagnan heard the smarmy voice of his nemesis again. "No wonder he wants to get to bed then. She must have worn him out during his 'recuperation'..."

Amidst some slightly uncomfortable laughter from his soldiers, he carried on, rising to wander around the men gathered by the fire. "Or maybe she didn't put out for him? What do you think, Fouchard, you little sycophant? Do you reckon she did? Or maybe he couldn't manage it. War can be quite emasculating, apparently. Perhaps he's heading off to think about her, in the privacy of his tent. Maybe he's going to have a feel of his little prick and imagine he's rocking her..."

He had reached d'Artagnan now and stood behind where he sat, patting him on the shoulder then squeezing the back of his neck in an over-familiar way...

While he was speaking there was growing uproar around the campfire as some Picardy men laughed, whilst the Musketeers – and other Picardies - protested loudly. Fouchard was on his feet, shouting that Colombe was out of order, and Guérin was restraining him, shushing him and calling for calm.

Through the rising hubbub, d'Artagnan doesn't hear the words. He is not bothered by what Colombe said.

He only hears the sounds: the mocking tones, the bursts of laughter directed his way, and he is back there.

He's back there, with his hands tied, literally and figuratively, knowing what is coming, knowing he is powerless to stop it, knowing it will keep happening; he is just a plaything at the mercy of a bully, and any second now he is going to be grabbed and flung to the ground and someone will stand on his neck so he can't move, can't resist, can't speak, and there's nothing he can do –

Then a hand grabs him by the neck, and his body reacts without thought: adrenaline floods his muscles, exploding his body upwards, and he twists in the same instant and smashes his fist with all the power he can muster into the face of his tormentor because this time, this time he is not going to let it happen. He sees the face shatter under his blow, sees the man flying backwards, blood spurting from his lip –

A flying tackle knocks him to the ground; hands hold him down; there's someone punching him and roaring at him and someone else yelling 'stop it' in Fouchard's voice and all he can do is lie on his side, cheek pressed into the dirt, and stare at the man he sees in every nightmare ...

And slowly he realises what he's done.

He's not looking at the face of Bautista.

It's Colombe laying on his back in the dirt, a few feet away. Clutching a bloody mouth and screaming blue murder.

And d'Artagnan comes back to himself, looking around and seeing only Frenchmen, most of them shouting and gesticulating, but not so much at him now. He's nearly forgotten, squashed under one of Colombe's men who is kneeling on his back, swearing at the Musketeers who are trying to pull him off. d'Artagnan doesn't really care about that, though his back hurts and his face is throbbing.

All he can think of is that it wasn't him. It wasn't Bautista. That bastard is still out there. And this one is here, in his face again, lunging forward on his knees and glaring from inches away, bloody spit flying from his mouth as he hisses "You'll pay for this, musketeer!" and d'Artagnan manages to gasp out an apology. He can't think what else to say, just that he's sorry, he didn't mean to hit him, repeating himself over and over...

The weight comes off his back and hands pull him upright. Someone has him by the shoulders and is shaking him: Porthos. d'Artagnan lets out a sob that he hopes goes unheard in the hubbub, and leans on Porthos' chest, hearing the reassuring thump of his heartbeat under his bruised cheek. And he keeps his eyes closed because he's tired, he's so tired, and he doesn't want to think about what might come next.

What comes is Athos, in his shirtsleeves, fetched from his late-night report-writing by a nearly hysterical Fouchard. And Colombe, on his feet now, calling the shots, accusing d'Artagnan of insubordination, of attacking him without provocation, the blood on his face and the puffy lip ample evidence to support his claims. No matter that the Musketeers around the fire protest vigorously and condemn him for insulting d'Artagnan, no matter that most of Colombe's own men are keen to back up the Musketeers when they think their lieutenant isn't looking.

Athos sorts through the chaotic babble of voices, and hears one truth, and his stomach hits his boots.

He looks to where Porthos is still basically holding d'Artagnan up, talking to him quietly and dabbing at the blood welling from a cut under his eye where two of Colombe's men were over-enthusiastic in the defence of their officer. Surrounded by angry, gesticulating men and loud voices, Porthos and d'Artagnan present a tiny tableau of stillness and Athos, for a moment, can only look, knowing that what he has to do will shake their world.

The babble is growing and counter-accusations are flying, and a couple of other captains have appeared, attracted by the shouting, and Athos knows he cannot delay, or anger will spill into violence from which it would be hard to recover.

"Enough."

Those surrounding him back off a pace, others notice him for the first time, and within seconds he has every man's eyes on him. Keeping a tight lid on everything that is bubbling inside him, Athos takes two steps to the centre of the throng and touches d'Artagnan on the shoulder.

d'Artagnan straightens and turns, feeling a chill on his chest where Porthos' warmth has been, and meets Athos' eyes.

Athos searches his face, seeing the dark eyes boiling with some emotion he cannot identify, noting the cut under the eye, the bruising on his jaw. The tight line of his lips as he holds himself stiffly. Waiting.

Athos could cry, knowing the answer to his question even before he asks it. Hating to have to ask. But doing it anyway, because he has to, because he's a Captain and he has to follow the rules of the bloody army, instead of the conventions of the Musketeer regiment. It's out of his hands. He pulls in a long, slow breath while everyone watches and holds theirs.

"d'Artagnan, did you strike Lieutenant Colombe?"

d'Artagnan's eyes do not leave Athos' as he lifts his chin, and answers calmly: "Yes, Sir." A murmur ripples around the circle of watchers.

Athos steps in closer, so close that d'Artagnan can feel the heat from his skin, and speaks for his ears only. "Give me a reason not to do this."

It's a command but it's also a plea; d'Artagnan can see in Athos' eyes his desperate need to know why.

But he can't tell him what happened.

How can he? He doesn't know, himself: only that he hadn't been here, in that moment, he'd been back there where there were no rules or regulations, only pain and torment, and some sick bastard amusing himself with d'Artagnan's body while his men watched and laughed.

How can he explain it – now, here, to Athos, with everyone watching and listening avidly?

Or ever, actually: how can he ever explain?

He's trapped here. He came back of his own volition when he could have asked to remain in Paris; Tréville had offered but he couldn't imagine doing anything other than fighting the war alongside his brothers. So he can't complain. He knew what he was coming back to; he just hadn't known how hard it would be to cope. But he doesn't have a choice. Like every other man here, he has to live by the army rules. Keep going. Support your fellow men. Don't make a fuss. Don't complain. Do nothing to distract from the task at hand. Win. Survive.

Don't strike an officer.

"I can't." He can give no reason; there is no reason not to do what d'Artagnan knows Athos will have to do. Whatever the provocation, you can't strike an officer. He's an officer himself, only a sub-lieutenant, but even if he'd been of the same rank, it wouldn't matter. It's up there with desertion; if they let it happen once the edifice of command would fall apart. The army cannot run without discipline. There is no way out of this. He waits, his eyes locked on Athos', trying to tell him he's sorry, that it's okay, that he understands.

Athos goes on staring at him for far longer than is comfortable. There is a hushed silence around them as every holds their breath, but he says nothing. There is nothing he can say, or do, and he knows it, and it is killing him, because it's bloody Ann all over again, only this time, thank God, the punishment is not hanging. Although, he thinks – finally taking a step back and releasing d'Artagnan's arm where he's been gripping it fiercely – it almost might be that final, for how can they survive this?

He takes a deep breath before raising his voice slightly, his eyes still on d'Artagnan. "Sub-Lieutenant d'Artagnan, you have committed the offence of striking a superior officer. I therefore sentence you to ten lashes. Sentence to be carried out in the morning."

There is a flurry of gasps and protests around the onlookers and Porthos steps forwards, fists clenched at his sides. His expression is unreadable by Athos but he can guess at the man's emotions since they will likely mirror his own: shock, disbelief, distaste, anger, disappointment...

Athos is desperate to stop Porthos from saying anything in this highly charged public situation but it is d'Artagnan who speaks, his voice carrying clearly over the others. "Will I return to my quarters, Sir?"

His tone is quietly accepting, and respectful, and does much to calm the anger around the campfire, and Athos could have hugged him. "Yes. Porthos, could you...?"

Porthos' nostrils flare his disapproval and disgust at what Athos is asking him to do, but he looks from one to the other, then nods and gestures for d'Artagnan to move. There is no way he's going to undermine d'Artagnan who is dealing with the situation with such dignity. The pair walk side by side, not talking, certainly not in the manner of a prisoner being escorted, but he can't escape the knowledge that in effect that is what he is doing: escorting d'Artagnan as if he is not to be trusted.

Lieutenant Colombe has stood quietly to the side during this, one hand pressing a bloody handkerchief to his lips so it's hard to see his expression. But as Athos watches his two closest friends walk away, Colombe approaches him. "He had it coming, that one. Given me nothing but grief from the moment he arrived."

Athos wants nothing more than to punch the man himself. Instead, exercising the iron control that everyone thinks comes naturally but which actually takes, often, far more energy than he can possibly spare, he steps away without comment and heads back towards his tent, his emotions in such turmoil that he thinks he might throw up before he gets there.

Surprisingly it is Fouchard who comes to Athos' rescue – Fouchard, who has looked up to d'Artagnan from the moment he joined the Musketeers, and who is probably his staunchest supporter outside of the Inséparables. Fouchard who stared at Athos in utter disbelief as he announced the sentence, but who is now standing in the doorway of his tent, asking if Athos needs anything.

Athos has made it to his bed, thumping down heavily and staring at his unfinished correspondence, wondering how the evening could have gone so horribly wrong in such a short space of time. Looking up at the sound of Fouchard's hesitant question, he shakes his head slowly, then – expecting Fouchard to go immediately – drops his head into his hands. He is surprised therefore to hear the sound of liquid being poured into a cup. Half expecting to see Porthos, he looks up to find Fouchard thrusting the cup his way with a determined hand that only trembles slightly.

He takes it, without real thought, and stared into it. He is aware of Fouchard stepping away, and the rustling as the youngster straightens the mess on his map table, then starts to shake out his doublet. He sighs, and places the cup of precious wine onto the crate beside his bed. It would be wrong to drink, tonight. He can't explain why but the thought of alcohol turns his stomach.

"Why don't you say what's on your mind, Fouchard? Then maybe I can have some peace."

Fouchard expertly ignores the grumpy tone of Athos' words and turns earnest eyes on his Captain. "Colombe's goaded him from the start, Sir. He just pushes and pushes. He's a bully."

"This is not news."

"I know but tonight, Sir, it was horrible, the things he was saying, about Constance and d'Artagnan not being able to – to – perform... "

The lad was blushing now and Athos shut his eyes wearily for a second. He is almost too tired to respond, but he wants Fouchard to understand. Needs him to. He doesn't question whether, in fact, it is someone else he needs to convince.

"There are no mitigating circumstances for an act of insubordination such as d'Artagnan displayed. We're part of the combined army here and we have to follow their regulations. It's not our way in the Musketeers, never has been, but..."

He trails off, simply too overwhelmed to carry on speaking. He cannot believe this is happening: that in the morning he will have to flog his own protégé, the young man he thinks of as a brother, as dear to him as anyone in his world; a man who has fought beside him, put up with all his failings, supported him, hugged him and looked up to him from the beginning ...

He turns his head just in time to empty the contents of his stomach on the ground by his bed. Then he simply stares at the mess and wonders how on earth any of them are ever going to get past this.

He's forgotten Fouchard so he jumps when a cloth appears in his view, followed by a cup of water. He takes both, and raises bleak eyes to the earnest young man before him. "Get some sleep, Fouchard."

Fouchard nods and turns to go.

"And thank you."

In the tent he shares with Porthos, d'Artagnan sits on his bed in much the same pose as Athos: elbows propped on knees, head in hands. Porthos paces up and down the tiny space, bumping into the beds and the canvas at every stride, cursing and filling the air with angry energy. "What were you thinking? What goes on in that head of yours, for pity's sake?" He slumps onto his bed and glares at the Gascon. "I know he's a bastard, I know he riles you – but to hit him?! You know, you must know the consequences. Why the hell did you do it?"

"I was tired and I wasn't..."

"Tired? That's it? That's your excuse, you're tired? Mon Dieu! If we all used that as an excuse we'd have ripped each other to shreds by now. Fuck's sake!"

Porthos' language was often colourful but rarely crude and d'Artagnan knows it is a measure of his deep distress. Suddenly aware how much this will affect his old friend, he straightens and looks at him properly, shocked to see tears in Porthos' eyes.

He moves without conscious thought to sit beside Porthos. "I'm sorry, mon ami. So sorry..." Tentatively he puts an arm around the burly Musketeer and instantly feels Porthos lean into him.

"Why?"

The simplicity of the question takes his breath away, but still he can't answer. It is wrapped up in everything that happened to him when he was captured, and everything that is wrong in his head: his doubts that he will ever be the same, that he will ever fight as well as he had before; his fears that he will let his brothers down and that he will be a drain on the regiment; in the way it is hard to think, sometimes, over the cacophony of doubts and flashbacks in his head. All he can do is shake his head in despair. "It doesn't matter. I hit him and I shouldn't have. That's all that –"

"It does bloody matter! It matters to me!" Porthos sits up straight, pushing d'Artagnan away in his anger.

d'Artagnan lets out a long, shaky breath. Porthos is right, but it doesn't change anything. It just means there will be an even bigger chasm between them, as d'Artagnan struggles with everything on his own, and Porthos grows angrier at being shut out. He knows d'Artagnan isn't right and he hates not being allowed to help, and d'Artagnan mourns the extra distance this will put between them.

Porthos is still glaring at him furiously, but d'Artagnan knows he cannot begin to explain everything. Not tonight, and probably not here. Because he would very likely unravel, if he did try; and Porthos would never look at him the same way. Certainly not here, on the front: he would always be the 'damaged one'. The weak link, to be protected. And d'Artagnan couldn't bear that.

So he rises and moves back to his bed, and he lies down, and he turns his back on his old friend and protector, and shuts him out. Again. And after a long moment in which d'Artagnan can feel Porthos staring at him, he hears Porthos rise and leave the tent.

Porthos goes to Athos and finds him staring at the reports on his table. He looks up as Porthos walks in, and his expression is so bleak that Porthos forgets all about being angry with him. Instead he picks up the cup of wine Fouchard poured for Athos and drains it. Athos doesn't protest: he wants to drink enough to blot all this out, but he only has one bottle and knows that won't be enough, not by a country mile, so he has not yet taken a sip.

Athos breaks the silence. "I couldn't – I can't just... " He stops, waving a hand helplessly.

Porthos shakes his head but he's not disagreeing: it's disbelief at the situation.

"How is he?"

Porthos sighs. "He just said it didn't matter why. And he was sorry."

"Christ!" Athos picks up the wine goblet and then puts it down again, his hand shaking. Porthos hesitates, then puts a hand over Athos' and pulls him in. Athos resists at first, then visibly gives in and allows Porthos to hug him. The two men sit in silence for a long time, neither able to articulate what they are feeling, nor to find a way out.

Eventually Athos pulls back and tells Porthos he should get some sleep. He is sending Porthos back to d'Artagnan, tacitly asking him to look after him.

Which hurts Athos, because he can no longer do that himself. d'Artagnan has made him choose between his captain's rank and duty to the army – in effect, to Tréville, who appointed him – and his love for the man he's thought of as his younger brother for the last four years. His anger at the situation is as palpable as his pain, but he cannot express either. He can no longer be both friend and leader to his closest soul-mates. He can only be Captain Athos now.

Author's Note: According to Wikipedia, flogging in the French army persisted until the French revolution (being banned much earlier than in Britain, where it was legal until 1948). I look forward to hearing your thoughts!