Final chapter! plus a small epilogue to follow shortly.

Chapter 21: The Things I said I'd be

Five days was nowhere near long enough to recover from his injuries at Candanchú, but he'd had little choice but to be in the saddle almost constantly since sending d'Artagnan to recuperate in Spinau, now that the regiment had been split with half their number joining the northern forces and the other half tasked with patrolling the border. Moving camp daily in the hunt for any stray Spanish forces while the bulk of the southern army pushed the main forces back across the border, the remaining Musketeers ranged far and wide in small groups during the day, and at night made rendezvous at pre-arranged sites. Well used to masking any weakness with activity, and a good enough horseman to ride using mostly body weight and legs to guide Roger, Athos thought he had able to hide the extent of his debilitation from most of his men.

Porthos, of course, was a different matter, and Athos was aware of his old friend watching him like a hawk. Athos had lost count of the number of times he'd found his horse fed, groomed and ready for him when he'd headed over to the horse lines, or had emerged blinking from his frost-rimmed blankets in the morning to see a cup of steaming mead standing ready to warm his hands. His pistol had developed a habit of cleaning itself and his sword didn't even need sharpening as somehow he never got close enough to the action to wield it.

No one mentioned why this was happening. He never caught them talking, or watching him – that was Porthos' job alone. He knew Athos would tolerate such molly-coddling from no one else and, in his typical way, was shielding the men from the tongue-lashing they would certainly suffer if Athos caught them sheltering him.

What Porthos couldn't do for him was sleep. Athos put its lack down to the uncertainty of their position, poised between two battlefronts, waiting for the order to move, missing half their number and with no permanent base. To himself he admitted that part of it was worry for d'Artagnan, having last seen him looking translucent with blood loss, barely able to speak or even draw breath without curling up in pain. Even though his fever had broken before they parted, Athos knew he had a long recovery ahead of him and the look of loss in his eyes as they'd ridden off had nearly unhinged him, but he knew Porthos felt the same concern and there was no shame in it. What he wouldn't acknowledge, as a reason for his sleeplessness, was the depth of his exhaustion, as the strain of holding his proud, independent men together in the middle of a vast, autocratic and unyielding army was momentarily lifted from him. And overlaying that bone-deep fatigue was the constant pain from his slowly-healing injuries. His forearm throbbed incessantly as the bone began to knit, his chest ached abominably and when he lay down at night he could find no position in which his whole upper body did not feel as if it were on fire. Exhaustion, pain and worry combined to sap his strength and leave him feeling weak, frustrated and irritable.

He'd welcomed the distraction of the newly commissioned musketeers when they caught up with the regiment a week after leaving Candanchú. The newcomers were wide-eyed with awe at being within spitting distance of a real battlefront and in the close proximity of some of the heroes of the Garrison. They outdid themselves trying to impress with their sword skills and fell over their feet to volunteer for the smallest duty, and Athos relished their ignorance of recent events.

They were mostly well-drilled and competent soldiers, but utterly without battle-sense, and needed constant supervision as they adjusted to camp life on the frontline. He and Porthos had their work cut out to knock them into shape in the short time before they would be needed at the front, and though he relished the diversion, it only added to his worries. After he'd reduced one poor lad to tears by bawling him out for walking around camp without his pistol Porthos had lost patience with him completely, and confiscated his saddle so that he would be forced to rest.

Athos winced as he remembered stalking around the camp in an icy rage, demanding his saddle back. In the end one of the newcomers had caved in and pointed, white-faced, to where Porthos had wedged it into the branches of a tree some twenty feet above his head. He'd turned to find Porthos leaning on a tree-trunk, arms crossed, telling him smugly that when he was fit enough to get it down himself, he would be fit enough to ride. There had been a hushed, expectant silence as everyone awaited his reaction, but he'd surprised many of them – including himself – by seeing the funny side and starting to laugh, a sound many of those watching had never heard before. He'd spent the next two days in their makeshift camp obediently resting and even reading a little before Porthos relented and returned his saddle, and he had to admit he felt better for it.

It was after this incident that he had taken the opportunity of their proximity to Spinau to visit d'Artagnan, and he'd returned to camp that evening looking more relaxed than Porthos had seen him in weeks. Porthos still made sure he did no chores or heavy work around the camp, but he knew Athos had turned a corner and when the orders finally caught up with them to head north both men were aware of a sense of relief. The period of marking time was nearly over. All they had to do was collect d'Artagnan and hope he was fit to travel north with them.

Athos had pulled rank shamelessly over Porthos who was equally anxious to see d'Artagnan, and left him supervising the departure of the new musketeers to join the remains of the southern army before the rest headed north. Arranging to meet them on the Toulouse road at midday, Athos headed off alone down the track towards the tiny village of Spinau in contemplative mood.

He hadn't yet recovered full strength, but it would take them the best part of a week to reach the rest of the regiment in Lorraine and he found himself looking forward to the journey, knowing that for a few days at least the most they would have to worry about was finding food and somewhere to camp each night. He felt slightly guilty at leaving Porthos to supervise the breaking of camp, but much as he loved his brothers he was at heart a solitary man, and one of the many things he missed about life in Paris was the ability to lose himself in the city when he craved solitude. So close to the border everything was done in company, even their morning ablutions, and the solo ride to check on d'Artagnan's progress last time had been a real luxury.

His pulse quickened at the thought of seeing the younger Musketeer again. He'd missed him terribly, not just in the last couple of weeks but for months, it seemed. The Gascon had been uncharacteristically subdued since his return from convalescence in Paris, but in the last week before Candanchú they'd seen sparks of the old d'Artagnan and, in spite of the barriers between them and everything that was still unspoken, he felt more optimistic that they could recapture their old relationship. Which was one he needed and longed for. It was a very lonely existence, being a captain in wartime, and he ached for the uncomplicated companionship of those few here, like Porthos and d'Artagnan, who had known him before as simply Athos.

Lost in thought, it took him a moment to take in the unexpected scene as he crested the hill. But when he saw the white-shirted figure kneeling in the centre of the square, he was off his horse in an instant. In his peripheral vision he was aware of the Spanish soldiers – five, he thought – searching the river meadows off to his right, and others foraging in the houses around the square. But he had eyes only for the man with his arms bound behind him and a pistol buried in his windswept dark-hair.

He wasn't aware of racing forwards at a crouch to get a better angle, or of loading his pistol, or of calculating the distance or the wind direction, although he did all of these things. All he was aware of was the defiance evident in d'Artagnan's slender frame and the blazing challenge in his eyes, even from this distance, as he looked up into the face of the man about to execute him. And when that man stepped closer to d'Artagnan and wrapped a fist in his shirt, jamming the pistol under his chin, Athos didn't stop to consider the risk he was taking – the risk that he might miss and hit d'Artagnan, or that even if his shot was true the impact might cause the soldier's finger to tighten on his trigger and d'Artagnan would die with him. He certainly didn't think about what might happen afterwards, to him or d'Artagnan, when the other soldiers reacted to his shot. All he knew, as he breathed out and squeezed the trigger oh so gently, was that he could not stand by and watch d'Artagnan die.

He knew, as soon as he fired, that it was a great shot. But when both figures jerked and crashed to the ground he found his legs giving way in the sudden and complete fear that he had, after all, killed d'Artagnan instead of saving him, for why else would he be sprawled now on his back under the body of his would-be executioner, a dark stain coating his face?

Athos' lurching fear drove him to his knees in despair in spite of his military training, and that probably saved his life as an answering shot from another soldier in the square whistled over his head. He watched his fingers deftly reloading his pistol with fascination, feeling like an observer as he took careful aim and shot the man down before the other could finish reloading.

Slowly, so slowly, he rose to his feet again, watching in a daze as the other four soldiers appeared from various houses they'd been looting, shouting and firing randomly at shadows, it seemed. There were answering shouts from the meadow, and then a sudden roar as a bunch of newcomers raced up the track from another direction and burst into the square.

Athos carried on walking down the track into the square on wooden legs, a mere observer of the chaotic scene as the newcomers – many bare-chested and, bizarrely, apparently coated in blood – laid into the Spanish intruders with knives and fists, displaying more gusto than skill, but it was enough to terrify the weary soldiers and they were quickly overwhelmed.

He was bellowing instructions even before he'd reached the village square, automatically taking command. Without pausing, or taking his eyes off where d'Artagnan lay unmoving, half under the Spaniard who'd held the pistol to his head, he got the villagers tying up their captives and sent some to search the river meadow where he'd seen other soldiers as he arrived, all the time wondering what he'd walked into. The village men obeyed him easily even amongst the confusion, his uniform and air of weary authority overcoming any objections they might have had. Someone ran to the church and found the priest opening the doors cautiously at the sound of friendly voices. And as Athos' steps slowed, unable to take in the sight of the Spanish soldier draped across d'Artagnan's blood-stained body, Ninette was suddenly there, flinging herself to the ground next to them, yanking frantically at the man lying on top of d'Artagnan and calling for someone to help her.

Athos was mere feet away but could not bring himself to step closer as he watched willing hands haul the Spaniard's body away. The hole in the man's head was testimony to the quality of Athos' shot but he could not have been less interested. All he cared about was d'Artagnan, still lying motionless– no, wait. His head had rolled to the side... Was he alive?

He wasn't aware of moving; he was simply there, ripping off the belt binding d'Artagnan's arms, grabbing the cloth from Ninette's hands to swab the blood from his face as the deep brown eyes flickered open. He blinked slowly, looking confused, then his focus seemed to sharpen. "Athos?"

Athos let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and raised a shaky smile. "Yes. Christ, d'Artagnan, you bloody scared me!"

"What...?" d'Artagnan flailed arms and legs as he tried to get up.

"Steady!" Athos put out a hand to restrain him but Ninette sat back on her heels and told Athos to help d'Artagnan to sit up.

"Most of the blood is not his," she told him when he hesitated. "The ball clipped his jaw but nothing's broken. He was probably knocked out when the Spaniard fell on him."

d'Artagnan put a hand to his chin and winced when he touched a raw patch oozing blood. "I didn't think he would shoot, Athos. He was at Candanchú."

Athos couldn't see the link between these statements, but had no time to enquire as d'Artagnan's awareness was rushing back, and with it a flood of questions.

"Celeste? Is she okay?"

Ninette nodded, squeezing his arm. "She's fine; she's with Geraint."

"Did she –?"

"No, I was holding her. She didn't see the shot."

d'Artagnan nodded but still looked anxiously around. "Norbert? Where is he? Is he safe?"

"He's fine! d'Artagnan, we're all fine. It's okay, no one was hurt."

There was a sudden squeal and the small boy Athos remembered from his last visit raced up and hurled himself onto d'Artagnan's back, nearly knocking him over. "I heard your signal, d'Artagnan! I remembered what to do and I warned 'em and they barricaded the chapel doors, an' then I crawled along the ditch, an' I got the men, and we whopped 'em, didn't we? It was exciting! Father Pierre says I'm a hero! Why are you covered in blood? Did you get shot? Why is Captain Athos here?"

His words were tumbling out so fast that it had taken him a while to notice the state d'Artagnan was in, but Ninette stepped in quickly, urging him to get off d'Artagnan's back. "It's not his blood, don't worry. Now why don't you go and take your sister in to Celeste. But stay out of d'Artagnan's room, please."

He ran off to round up Suzette who was being kept distracted from the turmoil by having a ride on Geraint's shoulders. "Right, let's get you cleaned up." Ninette raised an eyebrow and Athos found himself hurrying to obey her unspoken command, helping her pull the wobbly Gascon to his feet.

"Are you sure he's okay?" Athos asked doubtfully, watching d'Artagnan swallow convulsively. Ninette was probing his jaw carefully and Athos could see the deep gouge and blackened skin where he'd been hit by the musket ball. He'd been so lucky! Another fraction of an inch and he'd have a broken jaw, or a ball buried in his brain...

He was surprised to find her reassuring hand on his arm. "He was knocked out earlier, as well, so he's a bit whoozy, but he'll be fine," Ninette told him calmly.

Athos nodded, and helped her steer him into her cottage. d'Artagnan might be 'fine' but he was unsteady on his feet, and Athos could see blood congealing on his temple from a gash that looked puffy and bruised. "What happened?"

They seated d'Artagnan by the fire and Ninette fetched water and cloths while he explained the events of the last hour as best he could. He got to the part where he was on his knees, and stopped to look at Athos. "Was that you? You shot him?"

Athos nodded, his eyes pained as he remembered the moment he'd had to take the chance of that – literally – long shot.

"I didn't see you... How are you even here?"

"I was riding in to get you. Saw it all happening. There wasn't time to get closer." He shook his head as if shaking the memories away. "How the hell do you get yourself into these bloody situations?"

d'Artagnan ignored his outburst expertly. "Coming to get me? You've got the orders then?"

"Yes, we're meeting Porthos and the others at the crossroads. I wasn't expecting ... quite this welcome."

"Right." d'Artagnan ducked his head away from Ninette's probing fingers and stood up. "I'll get my weapons..." He looked around vaguely as if trying to remember where they were.

"Do you have another shirt?" Athos sounded amused and d'Artagnan looked down at himself, realising for the first time just how much blood had coated his bare chest and ripped shirt.

"This isn't mine – "

"Some of it is. Take your time. I'll get Nuit saddled up."

"Norbert can show you where her tack is, and my weapons are out the back, under the log pile. I'll get the rest of my stuff from my room – "

"Wait! I almost forgot." Ninette looked mortified. "Athos, there's a body in there."

"A ...?"

"The man they wanted me to treat. He died within a few minutes of getting here. What shall we do with him?"

"And the two you shot outside, and the prisoners," d'Artagnan reminded him.

"I'll send some of my men down to collect the prisoners and take them to Oloron-Sainte-Marie. They can catch us up on the road. As for the dead men – perhaps they could be buried here? Or somewhere nearby, if you don't want them in your own cemetery? Or I could arrange for someone to collect the bodies ..."

"No, we'll bury them. I'd like to think they would do the same for our soldiers who fall on their land."

Athos followed d'Artagnan as he went to his room, seeing him hesitate as he took in the sight of the still body on what had been his bed.

"Are you up to this?"

d'Artagnan considered. "I'm not looking forward to the ride. But I can't wait to be back with everyone. I'll be okay."

Athos looked worried. It wasn't like d'Artagnan to admit to any weakness, and he'd just been knocked out, shot in the face and come within seconds of death.

"Hey, I just took down a Spanish patrol virtually single-handed. You need me back, Athos!"

Athos began to laugh, relief loosening his emotions so he found the expression of mock outrage on d'Artagnan's face funnier than his actual words. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind. Why don't you dig your weapons out from the – er, log pile while I get your horse? You can explain to me later why you were keeping them there."

He disappeared before d'Artagnan could begin to frame an explanation.

It was half an hour before they could get away. Everyone except those guarding the prisoners in the communal barn gathered in the square to wave them off. d'Artagnan found several people stuffing gifts of food into his saddlebags, and was much in demand for hugs and kisses from the village women. Norbert was in tears until d'Artagnan bent down and reminded him that he was a hero, and promised to come back to visit as soon as the war was over. The final farewell was from Ninette, who pressed a cloth-wrapped round of goat's cheese into his hands, in spite of his protests, and gave him a long hug before kissing him on the cheek and stepping back, fussing over her children while she regained her composure.

The solemnity of the moment was broken when someone suddenly remembered the roasting pig, swore, and set off a stampede towards the field where the spit had been set up, amidst laughter and encouragement from those left behind.

Athos brought Nuit over to the bench and helped d'Artagnan mount up from the wrong side so he wasn't putting weight on his left leg, a process he found frustratingly difficult after so long out of the saddle.

They rode out to a chorus of farewells and heartfelt thanks. d'Artagnan looked back wistfully just before they crested the hill to see Geraint standing next to Ninette, putting an arm around her shoulders as she waved.

A small smile played across d'Artagnan's lips as he turned, to find Athos watching him closely.

"That was a fond farewell," he commented. It wasn't quite a question.

"Mm," agreed d'Artagnan thoughtfully. "We had a, a near-miss I suppose you could call it." He glanced over. Athos was looking as inscrutable as always but d'Artagnan knew him better and realised he needed to clarify. "Nothing happened, she just didn't realise I was married. That reminds me, do you know where ... Oh." He stopped as Athos fished inside his doublet and leaned across to pass d'Artagnan his wedding band. "Thank you."

"Who stopped it? This near-miss?"

"I did." d'Artagnan answered without hesitating. "I almost forgot myself for a moment, but thankfully it was just a moment."

Athos nodded, then squeezed d'Artagnan unexpectedly on the shoulder. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes explaining that one to Constance otherwise."

"d'Artagnan! D'ARTAGNAN!" The bellow that greeted them as they reached the crossroads left no one within half a mile in any doubt that Porthos was pleased to see him. There was a general surge towards them as musketeers scrambled to their feet, calling greetings and retrieving horses and weapons. Porthos of course practically yanked d'Artagnan off his horse to hug him, before spotting his bloodied forehead and chin and quickly stepping back in concern. "What 'appened?"

"We'll explain en route; we've lost time already," Athos cut in. "Chanteux, take five men; there is a small Spanish patrol back there, ready for transportation to Oloron if you don't mind. We'll camp about three hours from here so you should be able to catch up to us by dark."

In fact Athos called a halt in less than three hours. After the first excitement of seeing everyone, catching up with their news and explaining how he'd come by his latest injuries, d'Artagnan had fallen silent very quickly. Porthos stayed close beside him as the teasing about glory-hunting finally dried up, and he could see the effort d'Artagnan was making to stay upright. Athos was keeping the pace slow but even so it was clear from the sheen of sweat coating d'Artagnan's still gaunt features that he was in a lot of pain.

"d'Artagnan?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan responded automatically, earning himself a derisory snort.

"I was merely offering you water. You're sweating a lot." Athos' comment was pitched low but d'Artagnan could hear the concern clearly.

He swiped a hand down his face, wincing as his gloved fingers brushed the gash on his chin, and took the proffered water bottle, drinking long of the sweet, cool liquid before handing it back with grateful thanks.

"Hmm," was Athos' only comment.

d'Artagnan glanced across to where his Captain rode easily alongside him on the broad cart track, keeping to a steady walk. "It's been a while since I was in the saddle, that's all," he said uncomfortably. He was only too aware the musketeers had delayed their departure north long past the time most of those injured at Candanchú had needed to recover, and he knew he was responsible for their agonisingly slow pace now.

"Rubbish!" retorted Athos, and d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, wondering if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud or whether Athos was reading his mind. Neither, it turned out, as Athos began listing the signs of pain that suggested he was a lot more than just saddle-sore. Squinting against the light (headache), wincing every time Nuit stumbled or broke into a jog in her impatience (painful ribs) and constant shifting in the saddle to try to ease the stretching of his left thigh were the prime give-aways, apparently.

"It is taking more effort to ride than I expected," admitted d'Artagnan reluctantly in classic understatement. In fact, he was struggling to keep quiet. He didn't know if the bones in his ribs had knitted yet, but each movement of his body to fit with the rhythm of Nuit's pace was agonising. He had tried both relaxing into her movement and stiffening his body against it, but nothing helped. He supposed it was simply that the muscles and ligaments around the wound were still newly healed and being stretched to their limits by the motion of being on horseback. It felt as if his whole side was on fire now and he wasn't sure how much longer he could cope. He hadn't resorted to biting his lip yet, but he was employing every mind-trick his brothers had ever taught him to control the pain.

There was a shout from ahead and his hand automatically shot to his sword-hilt, causing a further spike of discomfort that he could not muffle. Before he could gather himself Athos laid a restraining hand on his arm. "It's only Porthos."

d'Artagnan hadn't even noticed Porthos leaving his side. He was a complete liability to them, he thought in despair, as Athos nudged Roger into a canter towards where Porthos waited at a junction up ahead.

By the time he and the rest of the musketeers had caught up with them – Guérin taking Athos' place alongside him as invalid-escort – a decision had clearly been made and Athos was issuing instructions to follow Porthos to the camp spot he'd found, leaving two musketeers waiting at the crossroads until the prisoner escorts caught them up.

In a clearing not far from the Toulouse road, d'Artagnan stayed mounted as the others started dismounting and moving around each other easily in well-rehearsed roles. Two set about clearing the ground of brush and making a space for a fire while another couple set up a horse-line and took care of everyone's mounts, untacking and rubbing them down. Others fetched water and firewood and Porthos got the fire going, one of his favourite tasks. d'Artagnan leaned more and more heavily on the pommel of his saddle and contemplated the distance to the ground, wondering how he was going to dismount.

There was a polite cough from his right and he found Guérin holding Nuit's reins and Athos at his side, one hand stretched up ready to guide him down. "In your own time," he said, not quite sarcastically.

d'Artagnan tried to smile and knew it probably looked more like a grimace. "I'm not sure..." he started, wearily.

"Perhaps you'd rather sleep in the saddle?" enquired Guérin, deadpan.

"Want some help?" Porthos was there, dusting leaf-mould from his hands and reaching up to catch d'Artagnan's shoulders as he sagged.

They half carried him towards the young fire and helped him to sit. Athos fetched blankets from various saddlebags and Guérin handed him a cup of wine. d'Artagnan knew he should be thanking them but found he could not muster the energy to speak. He was desperate to ease the strain on his ribs but there was nothing to lean on in the clearing without moving away from the fire. He put the cup down and placed his hands either side of him to take his weight, but hissed as that position pulled on his shoulder. He wondered if anyone would mind if he just lay down in the middle of everything and slept.

"Lean back." A familiar voice preceded the sudden solid warmth at his back and he looked around to find Porthos settling down directly behind him, stretching his legs out either side of d'Artagnan's own and wrapping his arms gently around his chest so that his back rested on Porthos' chest as if he were a chair-back. "We can prop each other up. 'Bout time some of the youngsters learned what hard work is," Porthos chuckled softly, oblivious to the amused looks he was getting from the other musketeers. He was usually the last to sit down, not the first, when there was work to do.

d'Artagnan wanted to protest that he didn't need propping up but he was just too tired to argue, so he leaned into Porthos and sighed with relief. He was back. Not quite in one piece, yet, but after a good night's sleep, or two – three at most, he told himself – he would be back to normal; part of this team of men he held so dear, doing what he did best: fighting and protecting his brothers.

Speaking of which ... he pushed Porthos' arms away and sat upright. "Athos?"

Athos was there in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"No – nothing wrong. But I've been wanting to ask; at Candanchú, after the cannon blew, I wasn't really with it but I remember seeing someone standing over me. At least I think I did..."

Athos nodded. "He got past me. I thought he was going to kill you." That thought seemed all-too-familiar, and he took a moment to marvel at the Gascon's bad luck. Or was it good luck, since each time he somehow survived?

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes - why?" He didn't miss the look of utter relief that crossed d'Artagnan's features, and a sudden thought struck him. "Was that the captain whose name you remembered from your captivity?"

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "Not Ortega, no. I wasn't sure... thought perhaps I'd dreamt it but I thought I recognised him." He shut his eyes against the assessing look Athos was giving him. He was not ready to explain the overwhelming relief he felt at the confirmation that Bautista was dead by Athos' hand. It should have felt anticlimactic, but it didn't; somehow there was a comforting sense of rightness about it. His tormentor was dead, and he would never know the irony of the identity of the Frenchman who had dealt him the fatal blow.

The scent of roasted fish reached his nostrils and he opened one eye, surprised to realise he'd dozed off. Around him the men moved in familiar routines and he watching lazily as Guérin and Duval cleaned a small heap of river trout while San Marle stripped bark from sticks and threaded a fish onto each, and Reynard turned them slowly over the embers. The others graduated towards the fire, spreading their bedrolls and pouring wine. d'Artagnan suddenly remembered the food he'd been given by the villagers, and struggled upright again.

"Now what?" Porthos rumbled from behind him, sounding exasperated.

d'Artagnan explained and felt Porthos chuckling. "Athos didn't forget, lad. It's all in hand."

He looked around and sure enough found Athos carefully portioning out meat pies, fresh bread and goat's cheese. Before long everyone was holding a plate with the best meal any of them had seen for a long time, and a contented silence fell around the fire as they ate their fill.

"It's Christmas Eve," d'Artagnan remembered.

"Indeed." Athos raised a goblet and proposed a toast to the villagers of Spinau who had provided the bulk of their feast. Amid the enthusiastic cheers of the men, he caught d'Artagnan raising his own cup in Athos' direction, and knew instantly what d'Artagnan was doing: thanking him for being there at the right moment that afternoon. He gave a small nod back, and drank deeply from his own cup to camouflage the emotion that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. They'd come so close to losing d'Artagnan, more times over than he could remember, yet here he was amongst them again.

And it was time he properly acknowledged the Gascon's return to the Musketeers. He caught Guérin's eye, and the blonde-haired Musketeer grinned, rummaged in his saddlebag and pulled out something wrapped in sack-cloth. Athos set down his goblet and took the package, turning away from d'Artagnan slightly as he undid the string and loosened the covering.

d'Artagnan had eaten well and his eyes were already heavy with sleep when he noticed a change in the hum of voices around the fire as conversations suddenly died and an expectant hush fell over their small gathering. He looked up to find Athos coming towards him with an odd expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" He glanced rapidly around the fire, his senses immediately on high alert as he tried to work out what was going on. But he saw no alarm on anyone's faces, only smiles and anticipation. He looked back at Athos, now standing in front of him.

"We thought it was time you had this." He held out the package and d'Artagnan took it hesitantly, feeling something flat and firm wrapped up in the cloth. He looked back at his mentor, seeing an unaccustomed shyness in his eyes.

"What ...?"

"Just open it!" Porthos hissed in his ear impatiently.

Slowly, aware of everyone's eyes on him, he freed it from the cloth and stared at what lay in his hands: a gleaming leather pauldron in smooth new leather so dark that it looked almost black in the light of the campfire. In its centre was a burnished fleur-de-lis but that wasn't what caught d'Artagnan's attention; it was the double-groove carved below the fleur-de-lis, denoting a sub-lieutenant's rank, that made his breath hitch and his eyes burn hot.

He swallowed, running his fingers tentatively over the leather, tracing the lines etched into the leather reverently. Someone coughed, and someone else whispered something that was abruptly cut off as if he'd been elbowed in the ribs. d'Artagnan felt a smile spread across his face for the first time in hours. "Why? I mean, why now?" He looked up, meeting Athos' calm clear gaze effortlessly.

"It was meant to be weeks ago. That's what I was discussing with the General the night before Candanchú, before you interrupted us by dragging Colombe into my tent. It was his idea."

d'Artagnan stared at him. "General Faucille?" he asked, stupidly.

"How many Generals with any sense of honour do we know?"

d'Artagnan considered this, then waggled his head. "Good point."

"D'ya like it?" Porthos reached around from behind him, plucking the pauldron from his hands and turning it to the firelight to admire it.

"It's beautiful but... Are you sure?" He looked back up at Athos, who sighed, and came to sit next to them.

"What do you want, a fanfare?"

"Michaud does a good bugle imitation," Porthos added helpfully over d'Artagnan's shoulder, grinning as both d'Artagnan and Athos turned to give him an incredulous look.

"The General felt you were wasted in the ranks, and I tended to agree with him."

"Should'a done it in front of everyone but you buggered that up when you got y'self blown up," Porthos added.

Athos smiled his thanks as Guérin brought his cup over and handed it to him.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "I'm glad it's here, with just us." He held the pauldron out to Athos and waited expectantly.

"I wasn't sure if you would mind giving up your old one. I know it has meaning for you."

d'Artagnan glanced down at his right shoulder. "I will keep it." His mouth twitched as he remembered the sun beating down on the parade ground at the Louvre the morning he defeated Labarge and won his commission from the King. "But ..." He hesitated, not wanting to express out loud how he felt about the raw edge where the marks denoting his officer status had been cut off a few weeks ago.

"That's why we wanted to give you a new one." Porthos' breath was warm on his cheek as he answered what d'Artagnan couldn't articulate.

d'Artagnan felt suddenly overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and planning that had produced such a beautiful pauldron in the middle of the war. "Who made it?"

Guérin reached over and started removing his old pauldron. "Marcel did most of the leatherwork and we found a craftsman in Arette to do the metalwork." He pulled off the old, battered-looking pauldron and Athos buckled on the new one. It felt stiff on his shoulder, but fitted perfectly.

Behind him Porthos chuckled and patted d'Artagnan's arm. "Looks good."

d'Artagnan nodded, his smile growing wider. "I love it." He caught Athos' eye again. "Thank you," he almost whispered.

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement, drained his cup and set it down, watching Porthos talk quietly into d'Artagnan's ear. The Gascon nodded sleepily as Porthos shifted to allow him to lie down and within moments he was asleep.

A log settled amidst a flurry of crackles, and glowing sparks drifted up into the darkening sky. Athos watched them rise and felt a warmth settle into his body that, he knew, had little to do with the fire's embers or the food they'd just enjoyed. It was mostly from his contentment at heading north again, in the company of a small band of trusted Musketeers, no longer swamped by the infantry regiments of the southern army. And sheer relief that he was taking both Porthos and d'Artagnan with him.

He'd lost a lot of men in the last few years, but it could have been far worse, thanks in no small part to these two. Porthos was all heart: steadfast, indomitable, and relentless in his drive to keep everyone around him safe. And d'Artagnan? He was all fire; blazing a trail that others followed without hesitation. He'd caught a glimpse of it again that afternoon, that fire that burned deep inside him, blazing defiance from his eyes even as he stared into the face of the Spaniard holding a pistol to his throat.

Athos drew in a long breath and tipped his head back, seeing the evening star shimmer in the fire's updraught. He felt an unaccustomed smile tugging at his lips as he felt the cares and worries of the last few years dropping away from his shoulders. The King's Musketeers were on the road again, and it felt good.