Part Three - My Brother's Keeper

Eleven

The Queen departed midday and would likely be to Paris by the time early evening set in. Athos anticipated an angry Treville would arrive with a contingent of Musketeers by the middle of the following day. He knew his duty required that he travel with the Queen but she had insisted that he, D'Artagnan and Porthos stay with Aramis until he was fit to travel. If the other musketeers had issue with their Lieutenant remaining behind they did not show it. There were many pairings and partnerships within the regiment but none more respected than that of Les Inseparables. Edouard was competent and capable of leading the regiment back to Paris and it was he who had stepped up to offer the Queen his personal protection when it looked like Athos would protest her command.

In truth Athos had not put up much of a fight and he knew Treville would not accept his decision. Love and duty. Athos had given up love for duty when he joined the musketeers. The scales had slowly tipped over the years and Athos knew that the only reason he could do his duty was with the love of these men who rode by his side. They had defied orders before, or skirted around the edges of them at the least, but never had Athos been so derelict. Despite what Porthos thought, Athos knew it was love, not duty, that had given him the strength to pull the trigger yesterday and now love was forcing him to continue to make choices that duty could not. He would stay at Aramis's side until the musketeer was bundled onto a cart to be brought home to recover or bundled into a grave to make his final rest.

The sun was setting when Athos found himself again in his spot against the wall, this time a bottle of wine by his side courtesy of the supplies the Queen had left them. Porthos had taken up his post again on the other side of Aramis, this time cleaning Aramis's pistols. Constance had returned them, handing them over with great reverence to Porthos as she said her farewells. Porthos's own blades were lined up beside Aramis's ready to be polished and sharpened again once he was done with the pistols. No matter that he had already done it hours earlier. D'Artagnan was collapsed in a heap of carriage pillows, a brocade blanket draped around his shoulders. His exhaustion was born from the same worry that had set Porthos to meticulously tending their weapons and had put a bottle of wine in Athos's hands. Athos had ignored Porthos's glare when he first popped the cork and they had settled into an uncomfortable silence as they waited for Aramis to regain consciousness.

D'Artagnan had continued his role as nursemaid. Porthos, steady in almost all things, found himself trembling at the thought of his broad fingers damaging the delicate sutures. He was afraid he'd do more harm than good so instead hovered by D'Artagnan's side, fighting the urge to be sick as he handed him cloths and bandages. Athos remained a silent sentinel, vigilant to the marksman's every breath despite his casual posture against the wall. In truth he watched over all of them because despite what Porthos might now think of him, Athos worried over each of them more than for himself.

The marksman had not moved since his ordeal of the afternoon and while the exhaustion was expected, his stillness was unnatural. He had had very little water or other nourishment now since he was wounded and they all feared he would continue to slip away from them without sustenance to help his healing body. D'Artagnan planned to rouse him this evening if he did not wake on his own. So when something changed in Aramis's breathing and a soft groan broke the silence it was with relief, not worry, that Athos scrambled to the marksman's side.

"Aramis," Athos said, lightly patting his cheek, "Aramis, wake up," Athos called again. Porthos laid the weapons aside and shifted closer, a hand to Aramis's shoulder. The marksman's eyes fluttered beneath his lids and he moaned again. Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance silently agreeing that pushing him to wake was the best course of action.

"Aramis," Athos's voice assumed an air of command as he called to the marksman again. He laid his palm along Aramis's cheek and instead of patting him again, grabbed his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Aramis reacted to the pain, scrunching his eyes tighter and trying to shift away. Athos and Porthos exchanged a hopeful glance and Athos tried again while Porthos fished under the blankets for Aramis's hand and began to rub the back of the marksman's hand with his thumb.

"Stop," the word was all breath. The eyes blinking up at them were open but unfocused and confusion and annoyance both played across Aramis's face.

"Here," Porthos handed Athos a damp cloth and Athos shifted his hold around Aramis's ear to cup the back of his head while he gently wiped the marksman's face. That brought a sigh that was more of relief then pain and when Aramis's eyes opened again he seemed more present than he had been before.

"How do you feel?" Athos asked softly as he set the cloth aside. Aramis flicked his eyes between Athos and Porthos as if trying to figure out how to respond to what was being asked of him. He shook his head "no" which Athos interpreted as "not good."

"See if he'll take some wine," D'Artagnan had joined them from his palette on the floor and handed a cup to Athos. Athos took it and D'Artagnan shifted to raise Aramis up against his thigh while Athos put the cup to his lips. It took a few sips for Aramis to coordinate swallowing but they managed to get quite a bit down before the marksman shifted his head away and whispered 'enough.'

"Better?" Athos asked, still not sure how aware Aramis was of his surroundings or situation, "Do you know where you are?" Aramis again flicked his eyes toward Porthos and then up at D'Artagnan, confusion playing across his face.

"Do you know who I am?" Porthos's voice was soft but the worry evident. Aramis nodded his head and pulled his hand from Porthos's grasp, tapping weakly at the big man's chest.

"Richelieu," he said weakly. Porthos's eyes widened in shock. Aramis's however twinkled as he let out three stuttered breaths.

"He's laughing at you," D'Artagnan said through a broad smile. Athos too grinned and Porthos sat back on his heels as his fear gave way to relief.

Porthos held the marksman's hand against his chest, "When you get better I'm going to kill you," Porthos's voice was warm, his eyes damp with tears. Aramis closed his eyes as a content smile smoothed out his features.

"Aramis," Athos put a hand on his sternum tapping gently, "No sleeping yet. You have to eat." Aramis wrinkled his nose and shook his head 'no.' Athos ignored his protest and moved to the hearth. He spooned some of the rich broth from the rabbit stew into a cup and took a heel of bread left behind by the queen. He settled by Aramis again, ripping off some of the bread and thoroughly soaking it in the stew.

"Here," Athos insisted, tapping Aramis's cheek insistently until the marksman opened his eyes again, the annoyance returning to his gaze. "Eat this, and then you can sleep." Aramis narrowed his gaze, lips tightly closed.

"Don't be stubborn," D'Artagnan said shifting the marksman up a little bit more. Aramis winced at the motion, his hand flopping across his torso to lay lightly over the wound at his side. "I know, it hurts. Eat something and we'll get you settled again." Aramis took a pained breath and nodded, not resisting the softened bread when Athos put it to his lips.

It was a slow process as even chewing and swallowing seemed to tire the marksman. At some point Porthos released Aramis's hand and went outside, looking for more firewood although there was plenty stacked already beside the hearth. It did not seem to register with Aramis but D'Artagnan and Athos exchanged a glance at his departure.

After the bread and stew they got a few sips of wine into him as well until Aramis's face almost begged them to stop. His eyes narrowed in pain and a light sheen of sweat covered his face. Aramis caught up Athos's wrist as he shifted to set aside the wine cup.

"Hurts," he breathed, looking up at Athos with fear and pain in his gaze.

"There is comfrey and mustard seed, I can make a poultice," D'Artagnan said to Athos quietly. Aramis shook his head his breathing getting more labored.

"Laudanum," Aramis said, "please." He was clearly more distressed than when he had first awoke as the pain from his wounds manifested as he had grown more alert.

"Do we have any?" Athos asked.

"The Queen left medicines," D'Artagnan said as he carefully shifted Aramis back to the ground, "I'll check." Athos settled Aramis's hands by his sides and reached over him to dampen another cloth in the bowl of water Porthos had had by his side. He stroked it over Aramis's face hoping to offer some comfort.

"The Queen?" Aramis was confused.

"She stopped here on the way to the palace," Athos was careful to keep his tone neutral. He did not trust his own emotions on the subject let alone what Aramis might read into them.

"Dangerous," Aramis said, worry now adding to his agitation.

"It's fine," Athos said tightly, "She was not here long."

"I'm sorry," Aramis's eyes filled with tears. "I never —-. You . . . I didn't want you . . " Aramis's breathing was becoming more rapid and a soft moan escaped between the words.

"Sssh," Athos hushed the marksman's words and again wiped the damp cloth across his face. He knew Aramis well enough to know that his worry was not just for the Queen. "I am fine as well." It was a lie and despite Aramis's obvious distress it was clear the marksman knew it too.

"I ask . . . too much of you . . ." Aramis panted, "This is not . . . your fault. It is . . . mine." Athos knew he was no longer talking about the Queen's visit. Aramis's hands twitched again and he laid one hand on his chest, over the hole Athos had put there. "I did this." Aramis's words had surprising strength. "I chose my life for hers. I chose this death. . ." Aramis choked on a pained sob and Athos clutched his hand tightly.

"You ain't dyin'," Porthos's voice sounded unexpectedly from above them. Athos looked up startled, having had no idea when the big man had returned. The look he gave Athos was inscrutable as he kneeled beside Aramis and put a large hand on the marksman's head, "You ain't dyin'," he repeated as he stroked his thumb over Aramis's forehead.

"I did this," Aramis whispered up to Porthos. "I made Athos do it," Aramis started to breathe more unevenly as the pain and stress caught up with him.

"Aramis, stop this," Porthos's voice held fear as well as anger, "Settle down."

"He can't bear this," Aramis pleaded to Porthos even as he clutched tightly at Athos's hand, "You have . . . to help him. Promise me. . . .For the love you bear me, please . . ." Athos could not look at Porthos, at either of them, and ducked his head to hide his face behind the brim of his hat. Something inside of him was breaking.

"Here," D'Artagnan interrupted. He had a cup with a small amount of wine, "It's just a few drops, it should help him sleep again." D'Artagnan slipped his hand behind Aramis's head and lifted it enough so that he could sip from the cup. The marksman did not resist but wine leaked from the sides of the cup and trickled down his chin as he struggled to control the pain.

D'Artagnan gently laid Aramis's head back on the palette of blankets, but let his hand linger as it threaded through Aramis's dark curls. "Relax. Let that work," D'Artagnan said softly. Porthos rested a hand lightly on Aramis's shoulder. The marksman closed his eyes and took several deep, shuddering breaths as the grip of pain relinquished his body and tension began to drain from his face.

"I'm sorry," Aramis fought to open his eyes. Tears tracked down his cheek. "No one should be asked to sacrifice a brother," the words were slurred and soft. Aramis fidgeted his hand from Athos's grasp only to press it gently against the swordsman's heart, "I'm sorry mon ami, I'm so sorry."

"Ssssh," D'Artagnan quieted the marksman, continuing to stroke his hair. "Sleep, Aramis." Aramis's breathing continued to even out and his eyes closed. His hand slipped from Athos's chest as he finally gave in to the blessed oblivion that laudanum could bring.

Twelve

They sat silently around Aramis as he drifted into a deep and still sleep, each lost in their own thoughts. Sometimes men dying would have a burst of energy like that toward the end - having something important to say before they let go completely. Or it was a sign of recovery that his strength was improving enough to be lucid and able to eat and communicate. Only the dawn would tell them which path Aramis was upon and they were not men who were particularly good at waiting patiently.

Athos eventually retreated to his spot against the wall, Porthos took up Aramis's pistols for another cleaning, and D'Artagnan organized something for them to eat. They were tired, they were on edge, and they all felt as if the ground we crumbling beneath them.

Sometime in the small hours of the night, Porthos appeared beside Athos and slid down the wall to sit beside him. An uncorked bottle of wine was in his hand and he passed it to the swordsman. They sat silently together, shoulder to shoulder, passing the bottle between them and watching the firelight flicker over their sleeping companions.

"I'm tryin' not to be angry," Porthos said as they reached the bottom of the bottle, "but you gotta say somethin' besides you didn't have a choice," Porthos cocked his head and finally looked at Athos, "We all got choices."

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He owed Porthos an answer, so did Aramis for that matter, but revealing Aramis's secret put everyone in danger. The situation was impossible to resolve.

"What's going on with the Queen then?" Porthos tried to change the subject, "Why's she so interested in Aramis?" Athos gave an ironic chuckle. Porthos had the answers to his own questions except it was unfathomable even to him that Aramis would have been so foolish to be involved with the Queen. Athos couldn't tell the story, but he considered what truths he could share. What he thought Aramis himself would not deny if confronted by one of his brothers. He thought back to their conversation on the ride to Fontainebleau.

"Aramis believes he has a calling," Athos explained quietly, "A higher duty than that even sworn by the Musketeers to be the Queen's protector and I believe that her majesty has accepted this."

"A calling?" Porthos was uncertain, "Like from God?"

"Like from God," Athos confirmed.

"And you believe this?" Porthos's skepticism was evident.

"What I believe is not important," Athos said, turning his head to look at his friend, "It is what Aramis believes."

Porthos considered this. Aramis's deep faith juxtaposed against his career as a soldier had confounded all of them at one time or another. Eventually they just accepted that their marksman would pray over the men they killed and didn't need to understand why. He never asked that they share his faith and they never asked that he leave it behind.

"I could see him thinkin' that," Porthos said, an ironic smile playing at his lips. "What I can't see is you actin' on it." Porthos raised his eyebrows, signaling that he expected more from Athos than just Aramis's part in this.

"Any other decision I made in that moment would have put the Queen's life in danger," Athos said carefully, "And Aramis would never have forgiven himself for it if something had happened to her."

"You mean never forgiven you," Porthos said with a snort.

"You think I'm worried about myself?" Athos was stunned, "My worth as a man was forfeit the minute I put a noose around my wife's neck," Athos gave a disgusted laugh and polished off the last of the wine. "Aramis would never forgive himself if he failed in protecting her. If it had been the Queen shot instead of him what do you think he would have done? He puts her life above his own - above yours and mine for that matter. How do you see our tender-hearted Aramis faring with the death of the Queen on his head?" Athos was getting angry, his tone bitter, "No. Better he died at my hand then die consumed by guilt and despair. No one should have to bear what my black soul does. Aramis least of all."

Athos set the empty bottle down and pushed himself up from the floor. He wanted nothing more than to find two more bottles and drink himself into a stupor. But he dared not leave this room, dared not break his promise to see Aramis through to the end of this journey. If he left now, he'd never be able to face his own cowardice.

Porthos rose too and next thing Athos knew he was being pushed back into the wall, big hands forcing his shoulders back. Athos didn't fight, he knew he deserved Porthos's rage for what he had done to their brother.

"Enough!" Porthos' voice was a harsh whisper as he gave Athos a shake, "You think I'm supposed to say Aramis is worth more than you?" Porthos's lips curled in a snarl, "You think choosing between you somehow makes this better? I couldn't do that."

The arms that had pinned Athos to the wall now pulled him close. Porthos said nothing, but the embrace said everything. Athos stood encircled in a love he knew he no longer deserved but nonetheless desperately needed. Porthos's big heart had found room for him but Athos was not sure his own heart would ever be the same. Despite the warmth of Porthos's embrace Athos felt cold inside.

Porthos released him and walked away, taking up a blanket from the floor and wrapping it around his shoulders. To his left Athos saw D'Artagnan settle back down to his nest of pillows from where they had woken him. Athos didn't know at what point D'Artagnan had begun listening but it didn't matter any more. He had said all he could on the matter and it would have to be enough for everyone. The only one undisturbed was Aramis who lay as still and unmoving on the floor as he had all night.

Thirteen

The horses were what saved them. A shrill whinny that could only have been from Aramis's broody mare pierced through the foggy slumber that Athos had fallen into. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes in the low morning light the horse whined again, joined this time by the snorts and stamps of her stable mates. Something was wrong.

Athos rose, slipping his sword belt around his hips, even as Porthos was sitting up to reach for one of the swords still carefully laid out where he had been obsessively cleaning them. D'Artagnan was struggling to free himself from a pile of blankets when the first man burst through the door.

Porthos grabbed his main gauche from the floor and threw it with enough force to pierce the man's throat and the intruder went down in a heap. But two more men clamored over the body in the threshold and moved to tackle Porthos. Athos advanced quickly to get between their attackers and Aramis as another two pushed through the door and rushed toward him. A fifth slipped past where his partners grappled with Porthos and raised a sword over D'Artagnan. Athos spared a quick glance to see their youngest, though on his knees, was far from defenseless. With a deft tug he pulled the blanket his attacker was standing on and the man went down hard, D'Artagnan flinging himself on top of him.

It was mayhem in the small room as the three musketeers, not fully armed, fought against half a dozen untrained but determined men and tried to keep them from their fourth, still unconscious on the floor. D'Artagnan was able to defeat his man only to have one of the men entangled with Porthos disengage and attack him instead. Athos was doing alright fending off two men, but could not go on the offensive lest the men flank him and get to Aramis on the ground.

Porthos finally subdued the man he had been wrestling with a chokehold and he pushed the inert body off of him just as Athos dispatched one of the men attacking him with a long slice to the midsection. The other man roared and lunged at Athos forcing him to take one half step back. His foot caught up on something and Athos fell backwards, tripping over Aramis's legs. His sword slipped from his hand as he hit the floor and he scrambled to reach it even as his attacker raised a sword over his head. To his left he heard a crash as D'Artagnan slammed his man into the stack of crates left behind by the Queen. Thoroughly engaged with wrestling the man into submission, D'Artagnan did not see the sixth man striding in from the doorway wielding a pistol at his exposed back. Porthos didn't see it either as he had gotten a hand around one of his pistols and was now aiming it at the man raising his sword over a prone and defenseless Athos.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos called out as he managed to shift backwards and avoid his attacker's first swing. Porthos whipped his head around to find the threat to D'Artagnan even as the swordsman over Athos raised his weapon for a killing blow. Porthos had a split second to chose and in that moment he caught Athos's eye. They knew each other so well. As sure that Aramis had been that Athos would take the shot, Athos knew Porthos would save D'Artagnan. Athos's eyes begged it and Porthos could not deny him any more than he could deny Aramis. With a mournful cry Porthos swung the gun around toward the man behind D'Artagnan and two shots rang out as steel crashed down toward Athos's head.

The gunshots were deafening in the small stone room and sound seemed to be sucked from the air after that. Athos's eyes widened as the attacker's blade fell in a wide unwieldy arc, his body crumpling to the ground. Blood was already soaking the back of the man's white shirt. Athos looked up in horror, but D'Artagnan was fine, having pinned his opponent to the wall. The man with the gun was dead on the floor, clearly shot by Porthos. Athos twisted to his left to find Aramis leaning on an elbow, one of his elegant pistols smoking in his trembling hand.

Athos pushed himself off of Aramis's legs even as Porthos shifted to take the spent pistol from the marksman's hand. Aramis looked somewhat relieved when Porthos helped to ease him back down to the floor. Leaving Aramis to Porthos's care, Athos went to where D'Artagnan had forced the remaining man to his knees.

"Who are you?" Athos demanded. The man was older with a shock of white hair pulled back over leathery features. He was strong and broad shouldered, a laborer or farmer by the look of him. It was no wonder D'Artagnan was challenged in hand to hand despite the man's years.

"You bastards killed my sons," the man nearly spat. His eyes were full of fire and despair. Athos realized why he looked familiar - his features and build were similar to that of Matthieu and Javier, the brothers who had orchestrated the attack on the Queen.

"Your sons were traitors to the crown," Athos said, "And better they died at my hand than at the end of the hangman's noose."

"They were good boys!" the man shouted, "You had no right!"

"I had every right," Athos growled, "When they raised arms against the Queen and her musketeers." Athos glared at the man but he continued to shout insisting that Athos would pay for his crimes.

"Get him out of here," Athos said to D'Artagnan, "Tie him to the fence post. We'll hand him over to Treville." D'Artagnan nodded and dragged the screaming man from the room. Athos shook his head. An entire family destroyed for the sake of what? Money? Politics? And Aramis nearly dead for it too. His stomach churned with the uselessness of it all as he made his way to kneel beside Porthos, raising an inquiring eye.

"He's alright," Porthos said as he checked the stitching at Aramis's side, "Nothing pulled." Athos let out a relieved sigh and ran a hand through his hair. They'd gotten lucky. He gave Aramis's shoulder a light squeeze.

"You joined us just in time," Athos said fondly as he pulled the blankets back over Aramis's chest.

"Hard to sleep through that," Aramis said with a weak smile.

Athos had an urge to return to his spot by the wall, but the aftermath of the fight had left five dead bodies and blood all over the floor. Athos shifted to stand over the body of the man who had nearly killed him and realized it could just as easily been his corpse being dragged from the room. It was nothing Athos wanted to dwell on.

With Porthos's help, they made quick work of clearing the room. Porthos found a tarpaulin to cover the corpses with until they had time to dig graves. They spread it over the men and then found stones to weigh down the large cloth. They worked in silence but not the angry tension of the previous day. Returning to the chapel, they were pleasantly surprised to see Aramis's eyes open, head turned toward the doorway. He had been waiting for them. Athos and Porthos shared a smile as they moved to squat beside Aramis.

"How are you feeling?" Athos asked.

"Hungry," Aramis said with a sigh.

"I can help with that," Athos replied pushing himself to his feet to get the last of the bread and broth from the pot. Not a task that he needed help with so Athos was surprised that Porthos followed him. Athos was oddly relieved to see Porthos looking troubled rather than angry.

"What?" Athos said looking him up and down, "Are you injured? Your leg?" He asked referring to the healing wound from the crossbow bolt that had embedded itself in his thigh during their last mission.

"I'm fine," Porthos said, swallowing thickly, "D'Artagnan can look at it later. I just . . . I'm sorry." Athos met his worried gaze with confusion. He did not know what Porthos was apologizing for. Porthos cleared his throat and continued, "I had a choice. I couldn't save you both. . . " his voice trailed off unable to complete the thought. Athos put a hand to Porthos's shoulder.

"No, mon ami, you did not," Athos smiled fondly at his brother, "I asked you to save D'Artagnan. You knew it. I saw it in your eyes. You had no choice." Porthos bit his lip as a tear tracked down his cheek. Athos pulled the big man closer in a half embrace. "This is brotherhood, Porthos," he whispered, "this is one for all." Athos kissed the side of Porthos's head then released him, moving to Aramis with the cup of broth and bread just as D'Artagnan returned with a fresh bucket of water.

Porthos lingered by the hearth as D'Artagnan got Aramis to a more upright position and Athos began to help Aramis to eat. The marksman had more energy than the previous night, insisting Athos hand him the broth soaked bread rather then feeding him like a helpless babe. Porthos joined them eventually, bottle of wine already open and a cup poured for Aramis.

Athos felt the emptiness in his chest diminishing, a warmth building inside him that he had thought might be lost to him forever. He listened with a smile as his brothers recounted their parts in the melee they had just survived but it was Aramis's light laughter that gave spark to the hope filling his heart. Their marksman was going to be fine.

"Hey," Porthos said, "You were unconscious for most of the fight," he said to Aramis, "How did you know who to shoot when you picked up the gun?"

"Easy," Aramis breathed as he rested against D'Artagnan's knee, exhaustion creeping into his voice, "I knew what choice you and Athos would make." Aramis closed his eyes, a faint smile on his lips as he started to drift back to sleep.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look, not an apology, but forgiveness. Forgiveness for having to pay the deep price that their brotherhood demanded. A price they knew they might have to pay again but for them both was more than worth it.

-FIN-

A/N: It's really touching to have such enthusiasm for this fic! A special thank you to the guest reviewers and those who favorite and follow that I can't reply to directly. It means so much to me as a writer to hear from each of you. My thanks always to Issai for her careful eye as a beta-reader. She makes everything so much better.

To the guest reviewer who asked for some Athos whump . . .sorry I couldn't accommodate you this time, but poor Athos was suffering enough! I will say that my entry for the March fete des mousequetaires contest is likely to make you very happy. It will posted by the end of the month.