Chapter Six – Out of the Crucible

In the past, sleepless nights for Porthos meant one thing, the ire of a woman. As the years went on the reasons expanded. Exhaustion. Injury. Hunger. An empty change purse. Tree roots sticking in his back on a night spent outdoors. Now he had a new addition to that list.

Friendship.

For years he had known worry and concern for Athos and Aramis, but it wasn't until D'Artagnan that he felt such a strong sense of responsibility. He had been so eager to take the boy under their wings, to have some vigor, some real spirit amongst them again that he essentially glossed over a very important factor. D'Artagnan, despite all his efforts to appear otherwise, was still a young boy.

Porthos enjoyed the times D'Artagnan would silently look to him, Aramis, and even Athos for a lead, for advice, for a kind word, for anything. Porthos hadn't had the luxury of having brothers growing up. Being the only man other than his father in a household of women had certainly given him a different outlook on things, but it was thanks to Athos that he knew something of what having brothers would have been like. Cousins they were by blood, but by all else they were what each other never had.

Aramis reminded him of the downsides of having brothers, sensible ones who put duty ahead of fun. Porthos smirked to himself at how long that lasted before Aramis came to his senses and saw reason. There were countless memories that they all held dear in their hearts, as badges of their trust and loyalty to what they had built with one another. It seemed wrong somehow that there were so few with D'Artagnan.

Because he wanted more.

He wanted another chance.

He wanted more time.

Porthos had long abandoned the chair by the bedside of a friend he didn't want to say goodbye to. He had no doubt the sight of that pale shivering boy would haunt him for the rest of his days, so what was the use in committing more sadness to memory? He didn't look up from the fire when Monsieur de Treville entered the room and not even when his captain came to lean beside him against the mantle. When Treville sighed and put his head in his hand Porthos did look up, and for the first time he saw how old the man looked.

What had happened to the days they had their captain running after them, sword in hand, for discipline? What had happened to the times when they inwardly shook in their boots under the mere glares of their superior, when the lack of words was punishment enough? Seeing him so openly listless and lost like this made that other man seem false somehow. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.

"I received a letter from Bertrand only a few days ago," Treville whispered. "I don't know how many letters I've written to these parents, telling them their sons died honorably. Some consider it an honor to receive such a letter, even if they can't have a body returned to them to bury. A letter for Bertrand's only son would be nothing short of an insult. He'd probably saddle his horse and ride day and night until he could hear the words from my own lips."

Porthos didn't know what to say, though he would have agreed with the latter part from only what he had heard of D'Artagnan's father in stories.

Treville sighed and straightened himself before crossing to D'Artagnan's bedside. Porthos remained stubborn, and kept his back turned. It was childish, but didn't grief make children out of them all? Did men ever grow out of being children? Of fearing their own emotional capacity and mortality? Life was too fragile.

And short.

"Porthos…"

He turned when his captain called, expecting to find hard-set resignation, but instead he found stunned disbelief.

"Find my surgeon," the captain said, waving his arm dismissive and quick.

Porthos frowned. "Monsieur?"

"Find him, now. The boy's fever broke."

Porthos could hardly believe his ears. He crossed the room in two strides and bent down to bear witness of it himself. Sure enough the boy was drenched in sweat, almost as if someone had come along and poured a bucket of water over him. And his color had vastly improved. Treville snatched a cloth from the beside and soaked it in cool water before he started bathing D'Artagnan's face and neck clean. As he did, D'Artagnan started to stir, moaning in protest under the smallest of movements he tried to make on his own.

Porthos couldn't stop shaking his head because until this point it had all seemed for naught that the boy would even regain consciousness. "But that's…"

And then something wonderful happened. D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the ceiling above him. The improbability of it all made this moment feel like a sucker-punch to the gut of hope. The boy was coming back to them. "He is waking up," Porthos gasped.

"D'Artagnan," Treville addressed, leaning down.

The boy looked at them both, and like a slow-rising dawn his eyes started to shine with lucidity. "Wht? Hve-I dne smthng?"

Porthos did the only thing he could do, laugh. And if tears came to his eyes it was only because he was overjoyed with relief and not from preparation for the other grim alternative. "You certainly have, lad!"

Porthos attempted to embrace D'Artagnan, but Treville held him back under the real threat of further bodily injury, even from a harmless show of affection and worry. Instead, Treville took the man by the shoulders and steered him toward the door. Porthos allowed it and came back to himself once he was out in the hallway. "I need to find-"

"Go," Treville ordered, pointing in direction of the rest of the camp. "The surgeon first, Athos and Aramis after."

The man, thankfully, needed no second bidding. Once Porthos was gone, and quicker than Treville had ever seen him, the captain returned to D'Artagnan's bedside and resumed his task of cleaning the sickness away from the boy he had feared to lose. He wondered if that made him less fit for his position, to think of D'Artagnan above his other recruits in these precious moments of reborn hope, because in truth D'Artagnan had been the only one haunting his thoughts for the past week.

He could have easily adopted this position with any of the other boys who had died and suffered wounds just as bad over the years. And God knew he'd been tempted to so many times. In the past he used duty as a shield to move on, or to hide like a coward from the lesser part of himself. What allowed him to take this privilege now was the obligation he felt in his heart for the son of a dear friend and brother in all things but blood. Treville had feared what the death of Bertrand's son would do to the poor man should it ever come to pass. It was why he had been reluctant to admit the boy into the guard at first, let alone his coming introduction into the musketeers.

This past week had brought those fears to fruition and settled a heavy weight on his chest that refused to leave, until a few moments ago.

"Mnsur," the boy croaked, descending into a coughing fit.

Treville set the warm cloth aside and reached for a glass of clean water. He tilted the boy's head up and put the glass to his lips with firm instructions. "Drink this, slowly."

Once the boy was done his voice was still raspy from disuse, but it was much clearer. "Thank you," D'Artagnan sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

D'Artagnan took a few breaths and took stock of himself with a creased forehead of incomprehension. "Better, I think. Have I been sick?"

"You nearly died. Twice at that. You haven't been lucid since the surgery."

"What happened?"

The captain sighed and rung out the wet cloth in the bowl. "Well, you did something incredibly foolish and stupidly brave for someone your age. Surely you remember taking that bullet for Athos?"

D'Artagnan was silent for a while, leaning back in thought. And then the memory came back to the boy and he looked around the room in astonishment, turning to Treville with disbelief, as if asking him if he wasn't dreaming. "I did," D'Artagnan breathed. "I didn't think…"

"No," Treville admonished, quietly with a soft slap to the cheek. "You didn't think."

"But where-" The boy stopped short and a faint look of confusion and disgust crossed his tired and worn face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm…damp all over," he admitted in an embarrassed whisper.

Treville smiled. "That's because your fever broke. Some didn't think it ever would. Let's get you into some dry clothes."

"But-" D'Artagnan started to protest.

Ah, youth. Treville was sorely tempted to roll his eyes at the clear indication that D'Artagnan was quickly returning to his proud and brave self. It reminded him so much of Bertrand in that moment that he wanted to do the same thing he had done to the boy's father under similar circumstances; smack him upside the head for his stupidity. Rank be damned, he was determined to ignore his station for a little while longer-even if he had to make momentary use of it to silence those notions of superiority.

Treville raised an eyebrow and leveled a strong but withering gaze on the boy that brokered no argument. "Need I give you an order so soon after you return from the dead to obey my wishes?"

"No, sir," the boy sheepishly replied. "I just don't have the energy to do it myself."

"And do you think me a stranger to the sick after all my years? I may have no children of my own to attest to, but I did not earn this rank from paperwork alone. Besides, your father gave me plenty of practice in our youth. And I myself have been in your condition too many times to count so put away that pride of yours, boy. You'll need a lot of patience in the coming days. You won't spring back from this like you would a cold."

D'Artagnan promptly shut himself up after that and let the captain help change him out of his old dirty clothes.

His thanks, joy, and relief all lay in the steadiness and support his hands gave to the weak body beneath him. If his eyes hadn't told him differently, Treville would have thought it was a small child he was holding, uncoordinated with newfound life. Was this what Bertrand had spoken of when D'Artagnan was born? The sudden and inevitable terror of fatherhood? When you started caring for another smaller life? It stopped him short more than a couple of times, but he was still as headstrong as he'd been on such matters when he was young, even when faced with temptations along the way of another life away from blood and duty, as Bertrand had been. He never regretted his decisions to turn away from those opportunities, not until recently.

It was a painstaking task he had undertaken but they made it through, slowing and stopping when moving became too painful and when D'Artagnan needed to catch his breath. Unsurprisingly, D'Artagnan was worn out once everything was changed. The boy barely had enough strength to lift an arm, let alone change into a dry set of clothes on his own. And that gave Treville more confidence that he had made the right decision in not pulling an attendant aside from his duties to help them. The less time the boy spent in damp clothes after an infection and a mending bullet wound the better. And that was the deciding thought that settled in his mind before he tossed the old clothes into the fire to burn.

Better that no one else get sick by the merest touch of them, he thought.

Treville had just replaced the blankets when Aramis and Porthos burst into the room. Somehow he had enough time to hold up a hand and cast a warning look to calm them both. It was expected after all; Porthos had never done well with giving news, good or ill. Treville left D'Artagnan's bedside and let the two men approach, sighing and wondering to himself when he would stop feeling like a surrogate father of three…rather four overgrown boys.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis asked, grabbing the boy's hand as if it were a fragile lifeline.

D'Artagnan struggled to stay awake, but he smiled when he saw Aramis and Porthos leaning over his bed to see him. "Aramis. Porthos…What's wrong?"

"We thought…" Aramis faltered, as if something were stuck in his throat that he couldn't swallow past. "No, it doesn't matter. You're getting better. It's more than what anyone dared hope for."

"And it's about damn time," Porthos grumbled, swiping at his eyes and pretending no one was looking. "You're lucky to be alive, lad."

"Don't feel lucky," D'Artagnan mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

"It's alright. Rest. You'll feel better when you wake up again."

"Where's…Athos…?"

Before Treville could inquire the same thing, the man in question entered the room without looking at anyone other than D'Artagnan, crossing over in long strides and coming up short. He knelt down when Aramis moved and grasped the boy's hand as reverently as Aramis had done. "I'm right here," he said, softly.

Treville narrowed his eyes as he looked on from the sideline. D'Artagnan was too weak to reply, but the relief and happiness evident on his face was enough. The gentleness Athos showed the boy surprised him. Open concern? No cynical words laced with displeasure? An intimate closeness he had only seen before when Porthos or Aramis lay in D'Artagnan's position? All of this from Athos? Their Athos? Even when Aramis or Porthos had been sick or injured, Athos had never acted so personally attentive. Athos had been the one shouting for a physician, not taking cares and pains into his own hands.

Treville suspected Athos cared for D'Artagnan, but he had chalked it up to his imagination under the fact that the boy had been lodging with his new friends for only a few months time. Some small part of him had hoped for a change, that the boy would help temper Athos and properly ground all of them where he felt he could not-even as their superior. And in this tender moment, he had proved himself right. It was no miracle that Treville was witnessing, but he saw the beginnings of trust and love start to come back to his men-his boys-because he had practically raised them and fostered them in the corps when they had no one else to look up to at D'Artagnan's age. And it comforted him deeper than any previous instance he could recall from memory.

When D'Artagnan had fallen asleep again Treville forcibly removed Aramis and Porthos from the room for morning duties and pulled Athos aside to give him the punishment he'd been ruminating over for his offenses the previous day. "You'll stay here with the boy until he's on his feet. You're relieved of all duties otherwise. No more running away."

Athos didn't have anything to say in reply, so he yielded with a nod of his head and downcast eyes. Before Treville left he indulged an affectionate show of his own, by tilting Athos' head up with his finger like he had done when he was D'Artagnan's age. The man looked up in surprise at the rare show of affection, and didn't shy away like he used to after a certain age. He held Treville's gaze with thinly disguised caution and a number of other things that showed his captain just how close to the brink he had been, again.

"You fought for him, Athos," Treville said. "Don't abandon him again."

Aramis and Porthos hadn't stayed away for long. Before Athos could return with his effects from where he'd been lodging he heard Aramis talking to the boy in the other room. He dropped his things and allowed himself a moment to breathe in the cold stone hallway of the old fort they had rebuilt. A chill went right through him, but it took Athos a second to realize it hadn't come from the cold. It came from the overwhelming amount of relief that D'Artagnan would indeed live. Maybe it was a little premature, but the fact that the fever broke, that he hadn't died of blood loss, that the bullet hadn't broken through and done more damage said a great deal of things about D'Artagnan that couldn't be said of many men.

"The fever is gone. D'Artagnan's waking!"

Athos closed his eyes and could still feel the thrill of that moment. Hours had passed between now and then, but it didn't feel so long. Aramis had begged him to give up, for D'Artagnan's sake and for his own. And the worst part of it all was that he had listened to him. The practical and cynical part of himself had finally started to take over and the words had been on the edge of his cold lips when Porthos interrupted them.

"What," Aramis whispered.

Porthos came and shook the former priest out of his stupor. Then he went to take Athos into his arms, but Athos held a hand out to stop him. "Go on," he said.

"But, Athos-"

"Go, Porthos," he whispered.

Reluctantly, the two had left him alone with hopes and threats that Athos would follow them shortly. And he would. As soon as he regained the strength in his legs. When they had gone he moved in front of the tree he was leaning against and tried to take a breath before he fell to his knees. He trembled. He clenched his eyes shut. He closed his hands into fists of stone. It was too much all at once. But it was truth, wasn't it? He gasped as a strong gust of wind suddenly whipped at his face and blew his cloak wide open. Not a second later he was on his feet. Running.

Athos peeked into the room and spied Aramis sitting on the edge of D'Artagnan's bed with a bowl of what looked like some kind of meat-rich stew.

It was fortunate that they had continued their way digging the roads out. Waiting on the other side was a wagon of desperately needed supplies and reinforcements they had expected over a week ago. It was no feast to celebrate, but it was enough to satisfy the men and properly feed the sick. It was a much needed and awaited blessing. And they were lucky they got to it first. With La Rochelle besieged and deprived as it was, it wouldn't have surprised many to come across a band of desperate rebels seeking out the same needs. But unconfirmed rumors of sickness had spread, and many thought it wouldn't be long before a surrender was issued. Hell, the sooner they could leave this place the better.

Athos frowned when he saw D'Artagnan turn aside and make a face, because it wasn't one of pain.

"What's wrong," Aramis asked. "Are you feeling sick?"

"This is humiliating," the boy whispered.

Athos resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. Typical. The boy had just cheated death and he was worried about appearing anything but strong and dependable as if nothing had happened. Aramis and Porthos knew how much of a pain in the ass Athos could be when he was injured or sick and God help them all whenever Porthos caught a cold, but D'Artagnan at the mercy of his own weaknesses was something else entirely. And Athos didn't like it one bit.

So he pushed the door open with a lazy hand and fixed the boy with a strong look that was meant to dispel any of those stupid notions of foolish insecurity. "Would you rather spill it all over your clothes trying to do it yourself," Athos said with a healthy dose of sarcasm that dripped down like melting snow. "Relax, boy. We don't think any less of you for it. We've all suffered something similar."

Aramis cleared his throat and flashed Athos a warning glance before returning his attentions to D'Artagnan. "Athos is right. Frankly, I'm amazed you're strong enough to be sitting up."

The boy winced as he tried to reposition himself, but he didn't manage any change and had to stop, huffing in annoyance. And fatigue. "I've never been this weak before."

Athos dropped his things and before the boy could protest he slipped his hands under D'Artagnan's arms and pulled him up into a better position against the pillows. When D'Artagnan looked up at him in surprise Athos just cleared his throat and went to make up the spare bed a few feet away.

"It will pass," Aramis soothed. "Just as I keep telling you. Now, stop worrying about it and finish your stew. You won't regain your strength otherwise. Being hungry is a good sign."

It wasn't without a small pout in his defense that D'Artagnan gave in and finished the rest of his stew. There was no further argument to be had on the matter because the boy couldn't afford to lean on his pride anymore. He needed to rebuild strength in his blood and gain some desperately needed weight. It was worse looking at him while he slept, and D'Artagnan slept most of the day and night. When he was awake they practically had to shovel food into his mouth before he fell asleep again. Sometimes they had to wake him, but that wasn't often, only when the physician dared to enter the room with an attendant and poke and prod the boy endlessly.

Athos smirked under the satisfaction that the man never came by himself and never looked Athos in the eye.

The man was by no means skittish. Hell, the physician was more than a few years Athos' senior and had seen horrors a hundred times over that one man could never possibly see in one lifetime otherwise. But maybe it wasn't Athos at all that bothered the man. What Athos hoped was the issue was that the surgeon would never make another mistake like he almost had with D'Artagnan again. Cynicism and practicality dictated field surgeons to consolidate in battles and wars. And oftentimes that meant letting men die needlessly. Just as that man was ready to let D'Artagnan die, by saving him Athos didn't want to know who had to die in the boy's place. If that meant that he would have to answer for those poor souls when it was his own time to die, then he would do it with his head held high.

Because, though he was loath to admit it, he wasn't ready to go back to what they had before D'Artagnan had barreled into their lives-into Athos quite literally.

When the boy woke later in the afternoon, Porthos took his turn at helping D'Artagnan eat. There were no complaints, but Athos suspected the reason why was because he sat in the room with them. He suffered Porthos' endless tales along with D'Artagnan, even as minutes turned into hours. He hadn't denied Aramis his time and efforts, so he couldn't very well stop Porthos. But if he had to hear about that Parisian tavern wench, Marsella, one more bloody time…

He and D'Artagnan breathed sighs of relief when Porthos left them. As evening came and D'Artagnan dozed, Athos prepared for yet another night of lost sleep. Although the nightmares came less when he was by the boy's side, he still couldn't find it in him to sleep. He was tired and exhausted, but it did not come for him. D'Artagnan seemed to have no trouble whatsoever and Athos found himself slightly jealous.

Just as he had laid down and closed his eyes, he heard rustling from the boy's bed. He looked over and saw D'Artagnan tossing his head to the side and mumbling. Athos would have ignored it and chalked it up to a passing dream had he not heard him moan and speak again, this time more clearly. "'m sorry-sorry!"

Athos tossed his blanket aside and crossed to sit on the edge of the boy's bed in two strides. He grabbed hold of D'Artagnan's arm and went to speak in his ear to wake him. But under that one touch the boy snapped awake with a gasp, latching onto Athos' arm with a strength he hadn't seen since the fever broke. D'Artagnan looked around the room and at him in confusion, like he'd forgotten where he was and how he'd gotten there.

"You were dreaming," Athos prompted.

Recognition came back to the boy but he was silent, finding the crackling fire more interesting than who was sitting right next to him. It irked Athos a little, but he allowed the boy some time to collect himself. When nearly fifteen minutes passed though, Athos' patience was worn out.

"It was nothing," D'Artagnan interrupted. "Just a dream."

Athos narrowed his eyes but D'Artagnan met them head on. "Nothing?"

"You look terrible," the boy rasped with a soft smile. "You should get some sleep, Athos."

"Sleep," Athos scoffed. "You're the one recovering from your own stupidity. If anyone needs it more than this whole camp it's you."

"Perhaps," the boy replied. "But if you're looking for an apology, you won't get it."

Anger flared in him when D'Artagnan said those bold words. "What you did was foolish. Would you deny that to me?"

"Would you call every man in our camp the same?"

Athos pursed his lips together and pointed a finger in D'Artagnan's face in warning. "Don't get smart with me, boy. I have no patience for needless and selfish ideals of heroism."

"It's what we do-" D'Artagnan started to say, knocking Athos' hand aside.

"No, it's what you do and it nearly got you killed!"

D'Artagnan sighed and leaned back into a more comfortable position. "Can you tell me that you wouldn't have done the same for Aramis or Porthos?"

Athos held his tongue, knowing the truth of the answer but he refused to give in and cede the point.

"Then I do not regret what I did for you in the very least," D'Artagnan continued, stronger but with telling cracks in his voice. "If I have to suffer this in place of a lifetime without any of you in it then I will make the same choice as I did again and again. Perhaps that makes me a selfish person, and if that's true then I will own it. I am far from perfect, and for that reason I'm glad to be so."

This was not how Athos had worked this conversation out in his head. Not at all. It wasn't that D'Artagnan's words weren't truthful, but the boy had driven them to a place Athos had been hell-bent on avoiding from the start. Damn him. And now, with his curiosity set loose, he couldn't help but ask the one question that had burned itself into his mind the moment he heard that gunshot and laid eyes on all of that blood.

"What could you possibly see in me that's worth saving," he asked, quiet and unassuming.

"Being a Count doesn't make a man great," D'Artagnan answered, equally quiet and even more unsettling. "And you're living proof of it."

Athos shook his head and wanted to bite his tongue, but it was already gone from his sight. "Men like me aren't without their flaws, D'Artagnan." Don't make me into something I'm not. I'm not perfect and I know I can never be, no matter how much I may want to for your sake.

The boy smiled before finally letting his eyes close and surrendering his want to stay awake. "Great men are nothing without them, Athos."

Warmth burst in his chest when he heard those words. It was such a shock that his immediate thoughts were those of escape, of running, disbelief, and dismissal. It had been so long since he felt it that he couldn't place it at first. Part of him didn't want to, and the other part grasped at it like a drowning man at sea. His hands shook again and he hurriedly balled them into fists and crossed his arms in front of himself to hide them.

For once, he was happy the boy was asleep.