Three days passed in a blur for the Musketeers, the mood in the room deteriorating with d'Artagnan's worsening health, his breathing becoming incredibly even more labored. As the efficacy of his lungs decreased, the Musketeers became increasingly more fearful of the dusky blue that colored his cracked and parted lips, a visual reminder of how badly the boy was struggling. The young man fell into long periods of stillness, punctuated only by his body's weak attempts to remove the fluid from his lungs, and the bouts of delirium that seemed to be appearing more frequently as his fever rose. The inseparables had become permanent fixtures in the room, afraid to be away for more than a few minutes at a time in case the Gascon's next harsh inhale was his last.
In desperation, Aramis had been convinced to leave the boy's side just once, travelling into town with one of the lady's servants who guided him to the former physician's office to search through the man's herbs and medicines in an effort to find something that would save their friend's life. The result was a draught that the medic poured down the young man's throat with steadfast determination, having located a satchel of fine powder upon reviewing the physician's personal notes.
d'Artagnan was not the only one causing Treville to worry as he watched Aramis' health decline along with his patient's, his appetite off due to a mild infection that had set into his wound along with the worry he held for the Gascon. Athos and Porthos did their best to bully and plead with the medic, coaxing him to eat and forcing him away from the boy's side to sleep, but it was too little for him to properly recover and he continued to feel tired and weak as his body battled a low-grade fever.
"Aramis," a low voice called, a warm hand on his shoulder, "drink this." A cup appeared in front of his face and the medic blinked as he tried to focus his bleary eyes. When he accomplished the task, he followed the hand that held the cup, tracing a path along the arm to which it was attached to find the Captain watching him, a look of compassion mixed with concern etched on his face.
Aramis took the cup, ignoring the tremble in his hand as he gave Treville a ghost of a smile before drinking the bitter tea, which he knew would help his body fight the infection in his leg. When he'd drained the cup, the Captain removed it from his hand and Porthos was at his other side, gently pulling him upright and helping him to move the few feet to the pallet where he could lay down.
Normally the medic would have protested, but when the Captain was involved, he knew he had little option, Athos' hard but worried stare reinforcing Treville's unspoken orders. When he was comfortably settled on the pallet, the two men carefully removed the medic's breeches, gaining access to his injured leg. While Porthos gripped Aramis' hand in his own, the Captain methodically cleaned the wound, covering it in a salve of Aramis' own making before wrapping it in clean linen.
Athos watched the proceedings from his spot at the Gascon's side, trusting that the two men would properly care for the Spaniard while he continued to do what little he could for their youngest. d'Artagnan's condition was too dire for him to be left alone and one of their number was always at his side, ready to help him clear his throat and lungs when he began to choke, and coaxing him to continue his fight against the illness that gripped him, lest he decide to give up and slip away from them.
Athos saw Aramis make an aborted effort to stand when the Captain was done, and Porthos' weight shifted, his grip on the medic's arm changing from comfort to restraint, preventing him from leaving and compelling him to rest. Aramis' put-upon sigh brought a hint of a smile to Athos' face, pleased that the man was finally resting, albeit unwillingly.
Porthos settled down beside Aramis, keeping a hand on his friend's chest while sitting back against the wall, content to watch over his brother and ensure the man didn't try to get up again too soon. The Captain nodded in satisfaction and withdrew from the room and, within minutes, Athos could hear that both men's breaths had deepened into sleep. Dragging his eyes back to the Gascon, Athos let his gaze linger on the ill boy's face, unaware when his eyelids began to droop, eventually closing as he succumbed to his weariness as well.
When d'Artagnan's eyes opened, he was surrounded by stillness, and he languished in the quiet, not attempting any movement and keeping his breathing steady, the threat of another coughing fit always lurking and erupting with every ill-timed movement or hitched breath. It took him several minutes to become sufficiently aware to realize that he was not alone in the room, and the men who had been his constant companions, even through his fevered dreams, were still unwaveringly at his side. The fact that he had not been left alone, even when he had not been aware enough to know any differently, warmed his heart and he took the opportunity to properly look at the men who had rallied around him.
Through half-lidded eyes, d'Artagnan observed the man next to him; Athos, the one who'd been sad, and d'Artagnan felt an unexpected pang of guilt at the memory of inadvertently causing the man pain. He continued to stare at the man, noting how his brow furrowed with worry while his eyes seemed almost bruised, darkened by too many days of insufficient rest. The face seemed to waver and blur and d'Artagnan could picture the man speaking to him, his hat perched jauntily, piercing blue eyes gazing out from underneath, "I'm not the man you're looking for."
The thought brought a frown to d'Artagnan's face and he continued to watch the older man, allowing his mind to drift freely rather than trying to grasp the threads of memory that seemed to be beckoning, yet always remained elusively out of his reach.
"You don't have to do this. It's Musketeer business." Athos' face was both serious and filled with compassion, offering him the chance to back out of the duel with the Red Guard who waited for him.
"So you are alive," Athos said, more statement than question as they met up in the tunnels in search of Vadim.
"You are a Musketeer in all but name. All you lack is the King's commission." The words were meant to reassure and, surprisingly, they did, inspiring a confidence in the young man's chest that had previously been absent.
"Get down on your knees, before he changes his mind." It was an order yet the tone was infused with pride and perhaps a measure of humour, and he'd found himself obeying without a moment's hesitation, trusting the man who'd spoken implicitly.
"Accuracy is difficult after three bottles of wine." Athos tried for levity but his words were filled with worry and guilt, d'Artagnan moving instinctively to assure the man that he wasn't at fault.
The words were confusing and interspersed with different backdrops and people, but the one constant was Athos' face, his expressions changing but the strength of his gaze never wavering, drawing the Gascon close with its intensity, promising safety and belonging.
Startled at the realization that these could be fragments of his lost memories, he swallowed carefully against the urge to cough, letting his eyes drift across the room to where Porthos slept sitting upright against the wall, Aramis lying next to him.
"Now that's the way to make an entrance," Aramis' eyes sparkled with amusement at the Gascon's declaration.
"Now for God's sake, put up your sword," Porthos' eyes were dark as he leaned heavily on his blade, pressing it against the two that already held the Gascon's in place, preventing him from continuing his attack against Athos.
"What for this time?" Aramis asked pleasantly, cheek still stinging from Constance's slap as she vented her ire at having been deceived about d'Artagnan's duel and subsequent imprisonment.
"The Captain is the finest man I've ever met and when it comes down to it, I'd rather be on his side than Marsac's," Porthos stated, vehement in his defense of the man regardless of Aramis' accusations.
"Porthos, my friend, I think it's time to go fishing for a patroness," Aramis smiled broadly as he raised his glass. Porthos' glass met his in a toast as he replied, "Needs must."
The recollections were scattered but unmistakably of these men – his brothers. The ones who had saved him, more than once from what he'd been told, and who now encircled him with unwavering devotion and support, caring for him regardless of his inability to remember them, and he knew in his heart that he would do the same – had done the same - for them.
The insight startled him and disturbed the careful control he'd maintained over his breathing, the deeper inhale he inadvertently took enough to catch in his throat and make him cough. Once he'd started, he couldn't stop, the air seemingly disappearing from his lungs while the ache in his chest drove tears from his eyes as he helplessly struggled to breathe. He had no idea how long he battled for air but, as he managed first one and then another uncertain inhale, the sound of soft words penetrated the haze of fear and pain that held him and he focused on the low, soothing timbre of the man's voice as he laboured to catch his breath.
As his desperate gasps settled, he became aware of the tears that squeezed out from underneath closed lids and the warmth of the body who steadied his own, again inciting feelings of security and love. When he felt strong enough, he unsteadily raised his head from where it rested on Athos' shoulder, meeting the other man's troubled gaze as the Musketeer continued to steady him with hands on both biceps.
"d'Artagnan," Athos spoke tremulously, "are you alright?"
The Gascon wavered for a moment, and Athos eased him back against the pillows where he slumped, exhausted from the coughing fit. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open but forced his lids to rise as he looked at the older man and wheezed, "Athos."
The Musketeer was uncertain about the meaning of the boy's words and watched as the barest smile appeared on d'Artagnan's face before he repeated, "Athos." His eyes closed but the smile remained as he settled back into sleep, the older man still observing him in wonder, attempting to understand what had just happened.
His attention was diverted from the Gascon by sounds from the other side of the room where Porthos had risen and was now helping a shaky Aramis to his feet, pulling the medic's arm over one shoulder and ensuring that the man's injured leg wasn't unnecessarily jarred. He helped Aramis to the chair that sat next to d'Artagnan's bed, the Spaniard leaning forward immediately to place a hand on the young man's brow, a smile ghosting on his lips as he met his friends' eyes. "He seems cooler."
Athos released a breath he wasn't even aware he'd been holding, the tension that bled from him making him slump in his seat, making him appear somehow smaller than the larger-than-life personality that the man normally conveyed. Behind Aramis, Porthos let a similar sigh escape, giving his head a small shake as he grinned, "'Bout bloody time."
Athos gave a nod in agreement with the larger man's assessment before shifting his gaze back to the medic, "Does this mean he'll be alright?"
He caught the hesitancy in Aramis' expression, knowing well that the man did not want to offer false platitudes and that nothing was certain in the lives they led. "It's a positive sign, Athos," Aramis finally replied and Athos knew it would have to be enough for now.
The Gascon's condition continued to improve, the bouts of coughing becoming increasingly more frequent as his awareness returned, increasing his pain until he practically wept with every bone-jarring jag. The Musketeers ached with sympathy for the young man's suffering but Aramis was resolute in his assertion that the coughing had to continue, the risk of a relapse too great if the young man's lungs did not clear. The intensity and accompanying pain of the boy's fits had him exhausted and his periods of wakefulness were punctuated by the gasping breaths he heaved following each round of coughs before he fell back asleep, only for the vicious cycle to repeat the next time his chest seized and forced the air from his lungs.
Throughout it all, the three men were there to help him, steadying a pillow against his chest to ease the pain of his broken ribs and overtaxed muscles, wiping the sweat from his face and plying him with water and broth. He was still not particularly lucid during these times, his fatigue overwhelming him, but some part of his mind recognized their presence and was soothed by it.
When d'Artagnan next opened his gummy eyes, a new face was at his side, the Captain smiling at seeing him awake. He pitched his voice lowly, not wanting to disturb any of the men who were finally resting, as he brought a cup to the young man's lips and ordered him to drink. The water was cool and refreshing and d'Artagnan was certain he'd never tasted anything as sweet. The look of bliss on his face must have given him away and he saw Treville's smile widen as a result. "It's good to see you feeling better, d'Artagnan," the Captain stated, putting the empty cup on the bedside table as he noted the Gascon's clearer eyes, no longer bright with fever.
d'Artagnan swallowed in preparation to speak, but the Captain rested his hand lightly against his chest, giving his head a small shake, "Don't try to talk. It'll likely start another coughing fit and I'd guess you'd like to avoid that for as long as possible."
The Gascon offered a small smile and a nod, indicating his agreement, but was not so easily put off. "Others?" he said, shocked at how weak his voice sounded and how the act of speaking caused his throat to feel as though he'd swallowed crushed glass.
Seeing d'Artagnan's wince, Treville refilled the water cup and helped him have another drink before replying. "They're fine, but exhausted. Finally managed to get them to rest," he said as he motioned to the other side of the room where the three were tangled together on the floor. The sight brought a grin to the Gascon's lips and Treville looked at him in open curiosity, the boy's reaction surprising him. "d'Artagnan," he began, the young man bringing his gaze back, "do you remember them?"
Again, d'Artagnan took a moment to swallow, preparing himself for the pain of speaking and considering his answer carefully so he could reply with an economy of words. "Remembered some," he breathed out, pausing to carefully inhale. "Still confusing," he whispered, eyes drifting to the three men, "my brothers." Treville nodded, placing his hand on the Gascon's arm and giving it a squeeze, letting him know that he'd understood.
"It may take some time but I'm certain the rest will come back to you," the Captain stated, confident now that he would soon have his four best men back. "Of course, you'll have to put up with three very overprotective brothers while you're recovering," Treville teased with a hint of humour. "And perhaps one slightly concerned Captain," he allowed, a heartbeat later.
d'Artagnan's grin simply widened at the man's words and Treville could see him collecting himself to speak again, "Was ready to die," he stated, the words quiet but clear and leaving no room for misinterpretation, bringing a shadow to the Captain's face. The Gascon gave his head a small shake at Treville's expression, "Family saved me."
d'Artagnan's eyes drifted to the end of the bed where Athos now stood, Porthos and Aramis moving to join him as the older man interpreted the Gascon's words. "You are our brother and we saved you, just as you have saved us in the past." The confusion on Treville's face dropped away as d'Artagnan tilted is head at Athos' words. "You remember," Athos cast the words on an exhale, almost fearing to voice them, lest they be proven false. Once more, d'Artagnan smiled, his eyes reflecting his mentor's feelings at the joy of having his memories return.
The statement brought Aramis and Porthos closer, both men needing their own confirmation of Athos' statement, "Is that right, lad, do you remember?" Porthos asked, the hesitant tone so unlike the normally outgoing and confident man.
"Some," d'Artagnan replied, lifting a hand to the base of his throat as if trying to quell the fire that seemed to burn there. Noticing his discomfort, Treville brought the water cup forward again, helping the young man take several sips before pulling it away.
The Musketeers' eyes moved to Aramis, seeking further validation that the Gascon would recover. "This is a very good sign," the medic stated, hand reaching for d'Artagnan's brow, intent on checking his patient.
d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the familiar behaviour, his reaction not missed by anyone and providing further proof that his memories were returning. "As I said, d'Artagnan, overprotective brothers," Treville reminded him, the fondness obvious in his tone.
The Captains word's pulled laughter from his friends and the Gascon gave a small shrug, for now, happy to bask in the attention and care he was receiving, truly unable to think of any place he'd rather be than surrounded by the comfort of his brothers.
The Captain left the following day, no longer able to be away from his duties at the garrison. He left with an order to remain at his sister's house until the four were healthy enough to ride and with a promise that he would ensure that the news of d'Artagnan's innocence was shared as widely as possible, removing the threat of others trying to capture and bring him to justice for his crime.
d'Artagnan continued to improve, as did the others, and three days after Treville had departed, Aramis pronounced the young man fit to travel. The news was both welcome and terrifying at the same time, the Gascon eager to return to some sort of normalcy but still wary of being accused once more of the Ambassador's death. His friends reassured him as best as they could but all three knew that only time would ease his remaining fears.
The sun was shining the morning of their departure, and Athos and Porthos had gone ahead to pack their supplies while Aramis helped d'Artagnan get dressed. The Gascon was still terribly weak and struggled to catch his breath after the most minor exertions, but the medic was satisfied that he was healing and would recover. When they finally arrived outside, d'Artagnan leaning heavily on Aramis' shoulder, their friends and the horses stood waiting for them in the courtyard. The young man's eyes drifted past them, remembering the spot where Gilles had fallen after he'd been shot before drifting back to see the man standing whole and hale next to Brigitte and the two Musketeers.
He began to shuffle forward, Aramis moving with him until they were standing in front of their hosts. With a trembling hand, d'Artagnan gripped Gilles' arm, speaking lowly so he didn't aggravate his sore chest and throat, "Thank you."
Gilles had an embarrassed grin on his face as he returned the boy's hold, "If you ever get tired of being a Musketeer, come back here and I'll put you to work with the horses. You've got a natural talent with them."
d'Artagnan offered a small nod along with a shy grin before releasing the man and turning his gaze to Treville's sister. Brigitte was looking at him fondly, the smile on her face at odds with the moisture in her eyes. Before he could speak, she stepped forward, encircling him in a gentle hug as she whispered in his ear, "Take care of yourself and know that you will always have your family looking out for you."
When she released him, he grinned at her, "Thank you for everything. I will never be able to express how much I appreciate all that you've done for me."
Her smile broadened as she huffed, "Nonsense, I was simply doing a favour for my brother and for the honorable men he leads. Now, you'd best be on your way." She lifted a hand to swipe at the tears that threatened, throwing him a last fond look before she and Gilles walked away.
Athos stepped into the space they'd vacated, a somewhat serious expression on his face. "d'Artagnan, a Musketeer should never be without his weapons and it was careless of you to misplace yours."
The Gascon's face clouded in confusion, having been told the story of how his weapons had been used to implicate him in the Ambassador's death. "What?" he began, only to stop as Athos lifted his hands which held a belt, sword and dagger. "You found them?" he breathed out, recognizing them instinctively as belonging to him.
Athos' lips quirked affectionately as he explained, "The Captain ensured their recovery once your name had been cleared and brought them along. No doubt, he realized as well as us how much trouble you're able to find and that you should not face it unarmed."
d'Artagnan's face reflected the joy he felt at having his possessions returned and he reached out to take the dagger from Athos' hand, eyeing it closely as his thumb traced its engraved surface. "Thank you," he breathed, Athos giving a small nod in return. The blade had brought him luck, both good and bad, and despite the fact that it had convicted him of treason, d'Artagnan was glad of its return, his mind conjuring the memory of the day he'd received it and he couldn't help but grin broadly. Looking at each of his friends in turn, he said, "Let's go home."
End
A/N: As always, I'm sad to reach the end of another story and am grateful for the support of readers along the way. Thank you to those who chose to review, follow and favorite this story and I look forward to being back with another one soon.