Warnings: The last section begins in italics and may be a little disturbing or shocking.

Chapter Seven – Out of the Crucible (Pt. 2)

For the hundredth time that day Aramis smacked D'Artagnan's hand away, without looking and with his nose still in his book. "Don't scratch," Aramis repeated calmly.

"But it's itchy," D'Artagnan exclaimed.

"We've been over this. Do you want to give yourself another infection?"

"No-"

"Then don't scratch."

"This is bloody torture," D'Artagnan seethed, digging his hands into the blankets covering him.

"Good," Athos snarked from the other corner where he was cleaning his sword. "Maybe after this you'll learn not to jump in front of bullets anymore."

D'Artagnan returned his glare with equal fire, and maybe a little bit of a growl before he thumped his head back onto the sad pillow cushioning his head. The sensation truly was maddening, and what made it worse was that there was nothing around that could remedy it. He bit his tongue over a lot of things over the past week or so since he woke, but this was the last straw. And things didn't get any better when the physician came in moments later with news about his condition.

"You, young man," the physician addressed. "Are looking at weeks of bed rest-"

D'Artagnan head shot straight up from the pillows in surprise. He tried to ignore the sudden burst of pain in his chest, but couldn't hide the wince. "Weeks?!"

"And at least a month and a half of recovery until I believe you will be fit to return to duty."

"Thank God for that," Aramis muttered to himself.

"This is ridiculous," D'Artagnan persisted. "What am I supposed to do? Lie here like some invalid when I'm perfectly capable of holding a musket?"

"No," Treville interrupted, entering with his personal attendant and a happy Porthos trailing behind. "All four of you officially have a month's reprieve. We've just replenished our ranks and I'm sending the lot of you home tomorrow for some rest before I recall you back. If and only if a physician deems you fit for duty, D'Artagnan, you may return with your friends at that time. If not then you will stay in Paris until you are well. Am I understood?"

"Yes, monsieur," D'Artagnan replied, lying back in defeat. He knew an order when he heard one, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

The thought of going back to Paris was a bittersweet one. On one hand it was something of a second home-at least that's what it was after spending so much time in the misery of a harsh winter in La Rochelle-and on the other hand it was a reminder of all the times he spent wondering what and where his place was with his new friends. It was clear that things had changed since then, but had they really changed all that much? He couldn't be entirely sure. A part of him said yes, but another part still hesitated at the thought. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had been taking turns staying with him. They never left him alone, not for a moment if it could helped. And while D'Artagnan was touched at the care, which spoke to how bad things had truly been when he was under, it was starting to drive him mad.

It was why he took advantage of Aramis and Porthos being called away later in the day to help the regiment pack for their trip home in the morning. Athos wanted to wait for either one to come back before going out to fetch their supper, but D'Artagnan urged him to go out since he was starving. It was a bit of a half-truth, for he wasn't truly starving, but he would be the longer they chose to wait for Aramis or Porthos to return. It was with a frown, a lot of reluctance, and repeated promises on Athos part that he wouldn't be long and that D'Artagnan was not to even think about doing something foolish in his absence.

"This is me you're talking about, Athos," D'Artagnan joked, unable to resist.

"Of that I am well aware," Athos warned. "I repeat, do not do anything stupid nor even think of doing something stupid until I return to give you the only answer either will merit."

"And what answer would that be?-"

"A resounding no. Am I clear, boy?"

D'Artagnan laid back and folded his hands on top of the thin bed covers. "Very, Athos. Go on. I wouldn't be able to get too far in your absence anyway."

Athos glared at him before he finally left the room. Once the coast was clear, D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief. Finally! He was alone for the first time since before he'd been shot. His hand played with the hem of his shirt before he worked up the nerve to draw it aside and peer at the mess below that and the fresh bandages. He hadn't gotten a good look at it, and in truth hadn't wanted one until now.

When he pulled the bandages away he saw what everyone had been cringing about, and he couldn't blame them. The skin was a healthy pink now, but just the thought of it being an angry red and filled with pus had him shivering in disgust and a little bit of fear. He couldn't remember everything, only bits and pieces. He remembered a great deal of pain. He remembered feeling cold. He heard people talking to him, not what they said but the sound of talking and words blending together as one incoherent sound. The inescapable smell of blood. It was everywhere, when he was awake, when he supposed he was dreaming no matter what level of consciousness he was in he couldn't escape that awful smell. Sometimes he thought it was his own. Other times he knew it wasn't his.

"Tried to visit you earlier," Marc said from the doorway. "But your bodyguards don't change shift too often."

D'Artagnan smiled, sighing inwardly at his short reprieve, and welcomed his friend over. "Sorry about that. Come in! I'm glad to see a different face."

Marc sat down in the chair next to his bed, pushing his curly brown locks out of his pale face. "I can imagine," he said, grimacing once he caught sight of D'Artagnan's wound. "That doesn't look too nice."

"Compared to what it was days ago you'd be surprised."

Marc smiled tightly. "We heard you'll be leaving soon. You'll be missed here."

"Thank you, Marc," he replied, sitting up a little straighter once he replaced the bandages again. "But I think I'll miss you all more."

Marc smirked. "Sure you will, Gascon. How long are you out for?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "A month…or longer."

"Well, let's hope for one month for the sanity of your friends," Marc said, fidgeting with his fingers. "Listen, none of us think badly of you because of Vincent and Jacques. I know it weighs on you so don't deny it. It wouldn't make them happy to know you were bearing guilt over it. I can only speak for myself but I'm just happy it wasn't you. You're too good of a friend to lose, D'Artagnan."

A big lump formed in his throat. "So are you, Marc. I just wish-"

"Don't. You heard what I said."

"It doesn't make it any easier," he argued.

"I know, but time will if you let it. We've all lost someone, if not on this field then on another one. It never gets old, not even with the older officers."

Ajax interrupted them by meowing and pawing at Marc's legs. Marc laughed as he picked the kitten up and scratched him behind the ears. Ajax purred. "There's the little runt! We wondered where he wandered off to."

D'Artagnan frowned. "He hasn't left since I've been here I think."

"That makes sense. Vincent would want you to have him anyway."

"…are you sure?"

Marc nodded. "After all the trouble you two went through to keep him a secret? I would think so. Besides, I think he could do with a change of scenery. What do you think?"

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement. The battlefield was no place for such a little thing like Ajax, and Vincent and he had often talked of smuggling the kitten back to Paris when they went on leave. The only trouble was neither of them had worked out how to keep him on a soldier's salary, the long hours of guard duty, and when they would have to return to the field for months at a time. Planchet came to mind, but D'Artagnan wondered if the servant had enough patience for the kitten after dealing with his four masters in one day. D'Artagnan had been hoping Vincent would find someone to care for the kitten, but that clearly wasn't an option anymore.

With Marc's encouragement, however, he decided the best course of action would be to at least take him back to Paris in the mean time and figure something out later. They conspired late into the evening until Athos returned with their supper. Ajax leapt out of Marc's hands and meowed at Athos the second he smelled the meat. Marc leaned down, lightly embraced D'Artagnan, and squeezed his shoulder before he left. On his way out the door he winked when Athos wasn't looking, and D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile in reply.

Athos handed him a bowl of chicken soup that had more meat in it than broth, but D'Artagnan didn't say anything. He was just happy Athos was finally letting him eat on his own. Ajax stopped meowing and just sat at Athos' feet imploringly staring up at him. Athos ignored it for the first few minutes into their meal but eventually sighed and picked out a big piece of white meat and handed it down to the little creature. Ajax all but jumped on his hand to take his first bite and D'Artagnan had to hide his smile behind his bowl when Athos glanced up at him.

"Don't get any funny ideas about keeping him," Athos warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it," D'Artagnan innocently replied.

While Ajax was happily tearing away at his dinner on the floor, D'Artagnan felt eyes on him again, but when he looked up Athos looked away.

"Did Aramis and Porthos go hunting today," D'Artagnan asked.

In reply, Athos held up the bowl to confirm D'Artagnan's assumption behind the question. "We'll have better cooked food once we return home."

"I'll feel much better when we get back…to Paris, too," he stumbled. He felt his face flush but he bit the inside of his lip and stared down at what was left of his meal. Was it too much to hope that Athos hadn't noticed that stupid slip of tongue?

Athos let go of his spoon in the tin bowl with a soft clink. "D'Artagnan."

The young man sighed and barely restrained himself from shaking his head at himself. But when he looked up all further thoughts of berating himself went out the door. To his recollection, Athos had never looked at him the way he was right now. It was…softer than what D'Artagnan had learned was normal for the man. It was perplexing and more than a little startling for certain, but not more than what came out of the man's mouth next. "It's your home too, I hope?"

"I…would like it to be," he ventured, completely honest and bare for rejection.

But there was none. "Then it is," Athos said, returning to his unfinished supper. "For as long as you want it."

D'Artagnan was struck with how simple a matter it was. Months ago he wouldn't have dared be so open and bold with Athos, for all he had when he had first met the man was impatience and something short of derision. Yes, he'd been young and more foolish back then. He still was young and foolish in Athos' eyes. But there was a big part of him that couldn't help it. Something about Athos made him act brave and stupid, made him want to draw the man out a little bit and…help him.

It struck him as odd, that Athos would need helping somehow, but his gut kept pulling him there because of a sharp familiarity. He'd had a friend who kept things to himself before, to his own ruin. And if D'Artagnan was honest it frightened him that there could be the mere possibility it could happen again.

That kind of pain couldn't be erased.

That kind of pain couldn't be forgotten.

And years later it still hurt as much as it did the day he first received it.

"Jacques…"

Athos woke, not sure at first that he heard it.

"Vincent…"

And then he heard it again.

"-Vincent," D'Artagnan was shouting. "-Vincent!"

Athos staggered to his feet, cursing the blankets that were wrapped around his legs, and crossed to the boy's bedside. He tried calling D'Artagnan's name and grabbing his arm or shoulder like he did the last time, expecting the boy to wake but he didn't. Athos didn't want to shake the boy and cause him more pain from the wound, but it appeared as if he had no other choice. So he did. When the boy woke this time it was not sudden, but slow, as if he were still afraid he was dreaming. And even when he was finally fully awake Athos got the distinct impression that the boy wished he was still sleeping. D'Artagnan didn't look at him and stared at the ceiling with a stony face. Athos would have said something but the abundance of unshed tears banished them from his mind. When the first few fell, and they were big ones, neither said a word.

But they kept coming. He tried covering his face, then he switched to angrily scrubbing them away but Athos caught his hands and tried to make him stop. The boy struggled as best he could, but didn't have the strength he used to. Instead he did the only thing he had the power left to do, and that was to turn his head away from Athos to hide it in the pillows. Only Athos didn't let him. He hauled the boy up by force, turned his head into his own shoulder, and kept it there with a firm but gentle hand.

D'Artagnan tried to push away but Athos kept him still and didn't say a single word, not even when the muffled sobs started coming out. "It's my fault-It's my fault," he repeated.

Athos just held him tighter against him. "No, it's not."

It was a long time in which that monotonous litany continued between them. And each time Athos gave the same answer as before because he could think of nothing else to stop that unseen pain. It was only when D'Artagnan's agonized words finally changed that Athos' patience snapped.

"I shouldn't be here," the boy kept saying. "I shouldn't be here. It's not right-"

Athos grabbed him by the chin and forced D'Artagnan to look him in the eyes. "Stop it!"

"They're not here-"

"No, but you are-and it's going to stay that way for a long time or God as my witness you'll know more about me than you ever wanted to know. Do we understand one another?"

D'Artagnan paused but eventually nodded and let Athos hold him again, more gentle than before. He rested his head on top of the boy's and whispered reassurances in his ear. "They'll fade in time."

"What if I don't want them to?"

"Then you'll go mad before we can get you on your feet again."

"Mad," D'Artagnan whispered, trembling worse than before. "What if I already am?"

"Madness isn't a question when it comes. It disguises itself as truth. If you question it then it's not real, only a shadow in the distance."

"What if it's closer than you think-than what I think?"

"Let them go, D'Artagnan." The boy tensed up like a rock, but he would say it however many times he needed to until he decided to listen to reason. "Let the dead have their peace. Don't keep them here."

D'Artagnan didn't say another word that night, and predictably fell asleep in Athos' arms. The older musketeer didn't mind because to finally feel the boy breathing against him with sure breaths of sleep, not ragged gasps for life, was a comfort. Maybe it was the constant aching in his back from that sorry mattress of his own that made him do it, but when he laid D'Artagnan down he turned on his side and squeezed onto the small bed next to him. The boy turned his head towards him even though he couldn't rest on his side just yet, but Athos huffed all the same as he pulled the blanket up over them both.

Strangely, that night he slept better than he had in weeks.

The next day Porthos came to help D'Artagnan dress before dawn. Complaints were on the boy's lips, layer after layer that was forced upon him, but he stayed silent and endured it when Athos cleared his throat from the doorway. With the wagon secured for their trip home there was nothing left to do but wait until they were finished. And when they were D'Artagnan looked worn out again, but leave it to the boy to not leave well enough alone and make things easy on them all.

"Just to the doorway," D'Artagnan pleaded. "Please?"

Athos frowned. "Absolutely not-we do not have time for-"

"Can you even stand," Aramis asked.

"I'm sitting up and I feel fine," D'Artagnan said. "I've been sitting and lying down all week and longer than that when I was sick. All I want is just to walk to the door if I can."

"If you can," Athos asked.

D'Artagnan glared at him and willed the man to understand. Surprisingly, Athos sighed and wordlessly extended his hand to help him up. Truth be told he was slightly curious himself to see how D'Artagnan would fare. Aramis grabbed D'Artagnan's other arm and together they hauled the boy to his feet. D'Artagnan cringed and bit back a moan, but did manage to stay on his feet, for all of two seconds before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

Aramis was just as quick to react as Athos when D'Artagnan started to fall, but Athos was quicker to sweep the boy up into his arms. "Little idiot," he groused.

He let Porthos cover D'Artagnan with a blanket before he led them down the hall to the waiting company at the gates. Along the way the boy regained consciousness and had the nerve to start complaining about the indecency of being carried. Athos didn't even look down at him when he spoke. "What part of dodging death by a thin margin three times still doesn't get through that thick skull of yours?"

"Three," D'Artagnan asked, still trying to catch his breath.

"Bullet. Blood Loss. Infection," Athos ground out. "The least you can do is keep your mouth shut and make this easier on m-us!"

The cold wind was just as unforgiving as ever and he couldn't help but shiver when a gust made its way down his neck. Porthos took charge of D'Artagnan while Athos climbed into the wagon and stowed a pistol next to him. Then Porthos handed D'Artagnan back to Athos and got them both settled and covered under several blankets for the long trip home. It would be a cold one, but with the boy's back to his chest and the blankets covering them both, he doubted either of them would want for warmth. The wagon jerked to a start and Athos fought against gravity to keep them both steady. The roads wouldn't likely be as smooth a ride as he had hoped for, but he just hoped they wouldn't slide off the road if they encountered any ice.

When the fort disappeared from sight in the distance, and they hadn't hit too many more bumps, Athos leaned back against the wooden boards of the wagon and closed his eyes in hopes for some small snatches of rest. Seconds later he jerked awake at the sensation of something moving against his backside. He was loathe to disturb the tucked blankets around them both that kept the cold at bay, but in the end he didn't have to. The culprit wedged his way out and meowed at them both as he clawed his way up.

"Damn little stowaway," Athos cursed.

D'Artagnan smiled. "You can hardly blame him. He's got no one else but us now. Besides, I'm sure Planchet wouldn't mind him keeping the mice away. And he's already here. You can't just toss him out in the snow to freeze."

Athos frowned, annoyed that his earlier warning had gone unheeded. How the boy had managed it, Athos had no idea. But the more he thought on it, and though the idea of the little runt becoming the very definition of a little snowball was enticing-

"Athos," D'Artagnan warned.

-He couldn't say no to the boy, not after everything that had happened, so Athos sighed and gave up. "He'd best live up to his namesake, then."

Ajax yawned and climbed up to D'Artagnan's shoulder where he found a comfortable position to perch and look out the wagon while he dozed, purring warmth and security.

The ride was a silent affair as the day wore on, even when D'Artagnan could plainly see Aramis and Porthos riding horseback alongside them. His own horse and Athos' were tethered to the back of the wagon and trotted along at a leisurely pace. He looked around at the other sleeping men lying in the wagon with them either sick with fever or recovering from sword or bullet injuries themselves. It hadn't dawned on him until that moment just how lucky he had been. There was only another wagon of sick and injured returning to Paris and that had been all of the sick and injured from that surprise attack.

Many more, he had later learned, had perished and were buried where they were found out in the woods. Though D'Artagnan understood the necessity of it, he still wished those men and even Vincent and Jacque didn't have to be laid to rest so far from home. Had he perished instead of them, he didn't think his soul could ever find peace being so far from home either. He just prayed it wouldn't be that way for either of his friends. And thinking on them brought him back to himself. Two wagons of sick and injured, barely five or six assigned to each one, and no one with a chest wound besides himself. The others had broken limbs, lacerations, and head wounds, all trivial compared to his. No one even came to mind he had come across who had lived with the kind of injury D'Artagnan wore. Miracles like that just didn't happen, or at the very least, not often enough.

Not to his memory.

Not to Monsieur de Treville's, as the captain had told him.

Certainly not to his father's-

Oh Lord…

D'Artagnan gasped.

How was he going to explain this to his parents?

"What's wrong? Are you cold?"

D'Artagnan glanced back at Athos. "No…Athos, you need to promise me something. It's important."

"If it is within my power and I don't deem it stupid."

"It's not for me. Whatever you do, whatever pains you have to suffer for it…Don't tell my parents about this!"

"That's a promise I think we can easily make," Athos replied, laying back again.

D'Artagnan frowned, expecting more of an argument. "Why is that?"

"Because," Porthos answered, bending his head down to be seen. "None of us would want to be in the same room as your father if the stories we've heard of his exploits from Monsieur de Treville are true."

"If we're lucky," Aramis said, turning backwards in his seat. "He'll only have eyes for the captain if it ever comes to light."

"Either way," D'Artagnan said with a smirk. "Better not to risk it."

"Agreed," Porthos said. "But that's dependent on your recovery, lad. You'll have to do your part, else all our necks will lie in wait."

"Do us all a favor and a mercy, D'Artagnan," Aramis said. "Rest."

D'Artagnan sighed and leaned back against Athos again. "It's all I ever do these days."

Ajax sneezed.

"Oh, not you too," D'Artagnan groaned.

"Will you both be quiet before I toss you out on your backsides in the snow," Athos droned.

"You wouldn't," D'Artagnan scoffed.

"The same can't be said of your furry little friend. Now, hush."

"You promised!"

"I did, but I have also been known to break them when called to do so. Which would you rather bear witness of?"

Later that evening, when they were all housed in a warm bedroom at a comfortable inn and had a warm meal and good wine in their stomachs, D'Artagnan turned to Athos in the dark and whispered to him, knowing he wasn't asleep. "I didn't do it for honor or bravery. I trust you know the real reason why?"

Athos opened his eyes and spared a glance at Aramis and Porthos both in the midst of an unconscious snoring competition. "Nevertheless. What good are we to each other dead? Considering all the grief you put m-us through I think you owe something in return."

"Like what?"

"A promise, no matter the situation, the circumstances, or the enemy. If I think that head of yours is going to make you run headlong into a fool's venture then when I say you'll stay put and not risk your damned neck."

D'Artagnan deadpanned. "You're joking."

Athos simply stared back, dead serious. "I don't joke."

"W-Then you're not serious-?"

"This is not a discussion, boy-"

"I can't control my own instincts when they're telling me to-

"To what," Athos hissed. "Pull stupid life-threatening stunts that no normal man could possibly live through, even with blessings from God himself?! You're too damned lucky for your own damned good! You could have died!"

"Well, I didn't," D'Artagnan shot back. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm tired of everyone treating me like-…I lived. And that's the end of it. I know I'm far from normal, but I will be in time, even if I'm not a patient person."

Athos was silent for a while before he spoke again. "I want your word, boy."

D'Artagnan growled. "If that's what you want then you're not getting it without not a two-way bargain. If I think you're about to do something stupid then I reserve the right to call you on the same. It's only fair."

"Who said anything about being fair?"

"I did. Just now. And I won't agree to it otherwise."

"You…are in no position to bargain," Athos hissed, leaning forward in the dark. "Let alone add clauses to a promise that has nothing to do with-"

"Athos," was all D'Artagnan said with a straight face.

The older man sighed and turned his back, pulling the blanket higher up on his shoulder. "…Fine."

"We have an agreement, then?"

"Yes, you stupid boy, that we do. And wipe that smirk off your face," Athos threatened.

"How can you tell I am?"

"I can hear it. So get rid of it."

"Or what?"

"Or else."

D'Artagnan tried his best, but couldn't manage it in the end, even when he bid Athos a soft "Good night."

Late into the night he passed down the dark and dank corridor he knew so well. Firelight from the other rooms of the fort danced across the hallway in varying degrees of misleading brightness and warmth. He was silent as a cat, like a ghost, stepping with an unearthly care, reluctant to disturb the sick, the dying, and the dead. But every room was empty. When he reached the room at the end of the hall he looked in and it was dimmer than the rest.

He gripped the handle of a dagger behind his back.

And he cautiously approached.

One foot in front of the other.

Something wasn't supposed to be there.

Someone.

Someone with his back to him by the fire.

Athos circled around…

And stopped as shock and fear paralyzed every inch of his body.

The boy sat there with a gaping hole in his chest.

White with death.

Abandoned-Unseeing-Gaunt with the early stages of decay-

Athos woke with his heart in his throat and the sore feeling of that very same organ threatening to break through his chest. Hastily, he grabbed the empty chamber pot next to his bed and spent the next ten minutes trying not to vomit. When he could take a breath without feeling nausea threatening to take him over he braced his hands on his knees and eyed his boots and cloak near the window, debating with himself on whether to give in. It should have shocked him how simple the decision was, but the aftereffects from the dream were still fresh. And he was still shaking with nervous energy that needed to be set loose.

On his way out, hat in hand and sword strapped to his side, he paused at D'Artagnan's door. On impulse he pushed the door in and peeked in the dark room, easily spying the still figure sprawled on the bed with covers kicked off at the bottom edge. Though D'Artagnan's back was mostly facing the doorway, Athos could still see that his rhythmic peaceful slumber went undisturbed. He fell against the doorway and sighed, noting that most of that unruly dark hair obscured those features he wanted to see, just to prove to his morbid imagination that his dreams were false.

It was enough.

It was only a dream.

So he left before his feet could refuse him, thinking one thought over and over the farther from home he walked.

Damn that boy.

A/N: Little changes here and there, but that's the new version of Lionheart for you. There will also be a small filler or one-shot bridging Lionheart and True Faith. Not sure when it will come about or what the title will be, but it's a comin'. Will involve Ajax and a LOT of mother-henning by everyone. And now I can thankfully put some more work into getting True Faith, Lionheart's sequel, reposted and more importantly finished. Thank you to those who read and reviewed, past and present. I hope it's just as good as before, if not better.