A/N: Written for the "Fête des Mousquetaires" forum challenge 'Brotherhood'. Please visit the Forum section under 'Musketeers' for rules and judging details.
After reading quite a lot of musketeer stories on this site, I decided to write and post a first story of my own. The above mentioned challenge seemed to be a rather good opportunity to take a first step with this one shot. For I'm no native english speaker and my schooldays experienced quite a time ago, I beforehand apologize for any weird expressions or grammar mistakes. And don't mind of the commas, in German it is, at least for me, much easier do decide where to use one and where not. ;)
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Of annoying little-, and protective older brothers
The young Gascon thoughtfully walked through the Parisian streets. He had stayed at the garrison during the day as so often the last weeks, training with the three musketeers called The Inseparables, watching them interact with each other and talking without words. Whilst Aramis and Porthos had acted as usual, teasing him, coaching him and showing him that they appreciated his presence, Athos had been very aloof, ignoring him and everyone else, except the two and Treville. He barely had spoken a word since their return from LeHavre, where they had handled over Bonnaire to the Spanish, his last sentence in front of the tavern still ringing in his ears: 'If only all wrongs were so easily corrected.' Considering what he had learned in that fatal night in front of the burning manor, he really well could guess, what was bothering the former Comte. The man, everyone else knew as one of the King's best musketeers, was devoured by guilt, hate, love and despair, blaming himself for the events that happened five years ago. Although he didn't know the swordsman as well as he'd have liked, he could sense that this honourable musketeer not was able to forgive himself, even if he wasn't to blame either for his little brother's death or his wife's actions. Something he could understand quite well, were those feelings yet resembling his own when he thought about his father's death. Well, maybe not quite... for he, at least in his mind, knew that it wasn't his fault. His heart still sometimes disagreed with his mind though, but after all he'd been able to forgive himself. Most times at least...
Just this morning, Athos had shown up rather late for morning muster, visibly hung-over and barely able to stand straight. The naturalness of how his brothers had stood at his side, supporting him silently, or how they'd turned any attention from him to them, had been impressing and made him envious. After having lost his own family, he desperately wished himself being a part of this kind of brotherhood. Sometimes he felt the beginning of it, one of the three inviting him for lunch or to spar with him, and other times he simply didn't know if they really cared, especially in those moments when their attention was turned to themselves so as today.
With a half-loud sigh the Gascon stopped at a fountain, pulling up the bucket and splashing some of the water in his still heated face. When Aramis and Porthos had been called by captain Treville, Athos had remained seated at their usual table, gripping a bottle of wine and being totally unresponsive. The Spaniard and his burly friend had exchanged worried glances before leaving the garrison, sent off to guard duty at the palace for the afternoon, unable to object a direct order. They would return soon after sundown, but that still would mean they'd be gone more than eight hours. He had seen their concern though, and because he knew some things about Athos' past the others didn't, he had wondered if he could help. So he had tried to watch the remaining musketeer whilst sparring with some others. Although Athos still didn't take notice, at least he had stayed where he was, drinking slowly. But then, just after dinnertime, Athos had disappeared when he had gone to look after his horse, and that was why he now was pacing the still rather unknown streets. He almost could feel the imminent danger lurking in the shadows, just as he had merely a week ago, when he had saved the former Comte from being burned alive.
Considering the condition Athos had been in this morning and his behaviour during the last days, d'Artagnan decided to try his luck in each tavern on his way. He already had learned that the man he was looking for, tended to drown his sorrows in alcohol, today's morning a significant example. So he rose from the fountain's rim and resumed his search, directing his steps to the more seedy parts of the city. Something, an odd feeling maybe, was telling him his prey would be hiding in a rather shabby establishment, avoiding any people who might recognize him.
The sun just had started to set over Paris, when the Gascon's search finally had been successful. He nearly had overseen Athos, slumped in a chair in the farthest corner of the dim and dirty tavern. In front of him on the greasy table laid two empty bottles, a third one, already half-empty too, was grabbed securely by his hands. Unsure how to approach the already rather drunken man, but tending to not leave him alone, he first had stopped near the door, waiting and watching. After an hour of silent guard, seeing Athos drinking through the third bottle and starting with his fourth, he rethought his decision, moving nearer to the table. When he not was noticed, let alone sent away, he gingerly placed himself on an empty chair at the same table Athos was claiming. Getting no reaction, d'Artagnan grasped his table companion's abandoned cup and, after ordering another bottle of the cheap wine, poured himself a drink. But not before he had gulped down the half of it and had placed it back on the table with an audible thud, he got a reaction.
Athos slowly lifted his head, staring at him with his famous scowling look that immediately made him feeling uneasy. Suddenly he wondered if his decision to join the grumpy musketeer was truly a wise one. And yet...his feeling had told him to do so, so he put his best innocent face on, offering his opposite a sheepish smile.
"Go away," the elder man grumbled, barely audible but surprisingly clear in pronunciation.
"No," he retorted, lifting his cup and emptying it in one gulp.
"I don't need company," the other explained. "I don't want it," he immediately corrected himself, piercing him with his angry stare.
Squirming inwardly the younger remained seated. "I'll stay anyway. It's a nice, little tavern and the wine's cheap."
Slightly stunned Athos tilted his head, surveying him more intensely. Then his eyes narrowed, "Bugger off, d'Artagnan."
"Make me," he defied him, pouring himself another cup of wine. He was slightly intimidated by the swordsman's behaviour, but it wouldn't stop him from his self-imposed task. If Athos' brother couldn't look after him, he'd do.
Athos got ready to rise, glaring at him, but when he kept eye contact and made no sign to move, the elder slumped back into his chair, sighing loudly. "I won't talk," he stated flatly.
"Well enough for me," the Gascon said. "I'm surely capable to talk for both of us, at least there's no dissent."
Looking ready to comment that, the swordsman opened his mouth, but instead speaking he just shook his head and took another big gulp from his bottle. Allowing oneself a little smile, the younger raised his cup to him and emptied it again.
Rising an eyebrow Athos watched him drink. "I won't carry you home to Bonacieux's."
d'Artagnans grin got broader. "But I will accompany you back to your apartment," he promised, emphasizing the 'accompany' and smiling even more, seeing the irritated look on his mentor's face.
Silence lasted shortly, whilst they looked at each other, then Athos realized. "They sent you," he declared.
"Don't know whom you're talking about," d'Artagnan said, his face an expression of pure innocence, easy enough for him for neither Aramis nor Porthos explicitly had told him to follow Athos.
That didn't mean Athos believed him for a single second. Somehow his nerve-racking younger brothers had coaxed the whelp into following him and watching him in their stead.
"I don't need a nursemaid."
"Good. For I know for sure I'm none. I'm just a man who wants to have some drinks with a friend."
"What makes you think you could get that at my table?"
At first feeling slightly offended, the Gascon decided not to answer the question, somehow sure that it wasn't meant as it was said. Instead he switched to a little bit of teasing.
"For that you declared you wouldn't talk, you've said quite a lot right now. So if you'd like to have conversation, I suggest we find another, quieter place. I'm feeling rather distracted by all that noise." He tilted his head to the rest of the crowded and noisy tavern. Waiting for the elder man to answer, he paused shortly. He nearly missed the brief head-shaking, before Athos lifted his bottle again without answering. "Well, so you still prefer drinking in silence. Just as well, at least I will get my drinks this way. " Raising his cup to his opposite again and seeing the expression of annoyance being replaced by the hint of a smile, he couldn't help but grin. Maybe he after all had been right.
During the next hour d'Artagnan maintained a constant flow of words, talking about nothing and everything, only interrupted by occasional sips of wine. Athos, who slowly but surely got annoyed again by the younger man's presence, wished him desperately to disappear and leave him be. No longer able to blend out the Gascon's voice and slightly feeling disturbed, he pondered about gagging his opposite to have it silent again. He only had wanted to drown his memories, to drink himself into oblivion as he had the last three days, but that irritating pup, sitting across him, and his chatter thwarted that. Anyone else, even the Captain, had recognized his desperate, dark mood and left him alone, but the outrageous, stubborn Gascon farm-boy occupying his table, seemed to have not. And yet he just wanted to forget what happened in this fatal night: the resurrection of his murderous wife and, with that, the memory of Thomas' death and his feelings of guilt.
Swallowing thickly Athos lifted his bottle and emptied the rest of its content in one gulp. Bumping the useless vessel on the wooden surface, he casted another glance over to the would-be musketeer. His young friend caught his glimpse and stopped talking, seemingly waiting for him to speak. The eagerly expression on his face had him swallowing again, forcing him to look away, suddenly even more being reminded of his younger brother. Thomas also had had this eager look when they had been riding out together, waiting for him to show him another interesting place, or teaching him how to swim... Loosing himself once more in his memories, he had to fight the tears threatening to escape under his closed lids.
Thomas also had been capable to be annoying, driving him nuts with his cackling, and following him wherever he went, even if shooed away, just as d'Artagnan today had acted. And as Aramis or Porthos normally did... Most times he got into these foul moods, haunted by dark memories, one of them had been with him. Unobtrusive and unseen, but always watching his back, bringing him back home. Yes, he definitely favoured their kind of guarding him... Of all his younger brothers those two were the least tedious. The Gascon just had proved that he would be a very straining and irritating little brother. But... when have I started to think of the pup as a brother?
Lifting his head in search for more wine, he met eyes with d'Artagnan. When the younger didn't say a word, but simply pushed his nearly full bottle into his hand, he couldn't stop the hint of gratefulness sweeping over his face. Putting it to his mouth, he gulped down half of the content before setting it back down onto the table. Then resting his head on his folded arms for a while, he forced his muzzled brain to concentrate on something else, pushing the depressing memories to the back of his mind. Obviously there would be no Lethe tonight, no rest from the ever-present guilt... tonight, there was an annoying little brother keeping him grounded in reality.
Inhaling deeply he let the air out in a long, quiet sigh. Then he pushed back his chair and rose, swaying only slightly, and looked expectantly at his opposite. "I'm leaving."
Perking up his eyebrows, but forgoing to comment the unexpected turn, the Gascon also stood up. "You want company?" he made sure.
The only answer he got was a slight tilt of Athos' head, before the man headed straight for the door. With a relieved smile the young man followed him out, somehow proud that he had accomplished to stop Athos from drinking himself into another stupor.
They walked together in companionable silence, d'Artagnan always near at Athos's side, watching him stagger slightly and ready to prevent him from falling. Whilst they had been in the tavern darkness had settled, making the stars sparkle brightly on the clear sky and the air feel chilly. Turning the corner, no more than two streets away from the musketeer's lodgings, they nearly stumbled upon a group of Red Guards. Meeting them when he was on his own always was challenging for the young Gascon. After the events during his first days in Paris, when he'd killed this Gaudet, he every time felt very uneasy in their presence. Normally he simply would have passed by, trusting in his luck to escape unknown, but tonight he was in the company of a yet drunken, but still dangerous musketeer, what made the task nearly impossible.
As the men came nearer, he could hear them whispering and laughing, pointing at the slightly wobbly Athos, who had some difficulties to walk straight. d'Artagnan started to pray silently, that they simply would walk on, but his hope was destroyed when his companion suddenly stopped dead and straightened to full height, glaring arrogantly at the nearing men. Yeah, a dangerous musketeer indeed, and definitely one with suicidal tendencies...
At first the group just went along, ignoring the ex-Comte's defiant manners, and d'Artagnan silently thanked God. But then one of the men noticed the pauldron sitting on his friend's right upper arm and turned on his heels, making the others stop, too.
"Look what we've got there, a drunken musketeer and his puppy. Are you old enough yet to walk around the streets during the night?" he questioned sarcastically, addressing the Gascon.
"Well... it seems that the musketeers run out of men if they are gathering children," another added, leaving no time for an answer.
"No... I guess this cute, little boy is the drunkard's new toy. Eventually we know they aren't real man at all," a third insulted.
A semi-loud growl sounded from Athos's throat, his hand moving to the hilt of his rapier.
"Musketeer scum. They never could be a patch on Red Guards," the Red Guards continued.
"Even the four of you blighters never would match one musketeer," Athos' voice was ice-cold and deadly calm, his pronunciation not the tiniest bit slurring.
The retort was immediate and as offending as expected.
"Drunken wimp!"
"You miserable idea of a soldier!"
"You really believe you alone could withstand against the four of us?"
The Red Guards yelled even more insults, crossing the street and forming a line in front of the musketeer, now ignoring d'Artagnan completely.
"Come on then you awful drunkard," one of them called out. "Or are you just good with words but not with your sword?" They drew out their swords all as one, the sizzling noise sounding loud through the silent alley, making the Gascon feel jittery.
On Athos' face appeared a dangerous smile, his eyes dark with anger. Sword still in its scabbard he tilted his head a little bit sideways, his face showing such a superior, self-assured and menacing expression, that even the would-be musketeer felt frightened.
But the Red Guards were dumb enough not to recognize, that they were entering the lion's den. "You're a coward though, aren't you?" one of them goaded Athos. "You may have a wicked tongue, but you surely have no guts at all."
"One lonely musketeer is nearly a bit embarrassing, but for once I'll overlook that," the next stated.
"He isn't alone." The Gascon stepped close to his brother -when did I start to think of him as a brother? He silently asked himself- and drew his sword.
"That's not your fight, d'Artagnan," Athos hissed through his teeth, trying to push him away. "You're no musketeer."
Sensing the concealed concern behind the harsh words, the younger overheard the painful statement and simply smiled. "It is now, for they insulted you. I may not be a musketeer yet, but I always will defend their honour," he paused briefly, casting his mentor an intense look, "and I won't abandon you."
Remembering the night, the boy at his side had saved his life, Athos resigned to simply nod, slightly surprised by the unexpected feeling of pride rising in his chest. The Gascon might be annoying and stubborn, hot-headed and blunt, but he also was absolutely loyal and steadfast. He wouldn't leave him even if he'd sent him away, just as a brother would do. An annoying little brother... So he accepted his support and slowly drew his own sword readying himself for the oncoming attack, the dangerous smile reappearing on his face.
Immediately the battle started, one of the Red Guards engaging d'Artagnan, the sheer force of his hits compelling him some steps backwards, whilst the other three attacked Athos, making it a three-against-one-fight.
Although the swordsman was very skilled, more than any of their adversaries and even in his drunken state, he struggled with keeping his opponents at bay. He desperately wanted to get nearer to his little brother again, a task that shifted his focus from his own fight to the other one, occurring on the other side of the road. That turned out to be disastrous, for he briefly was distracted when two more guards appeared on the scene.
"I know you," one of the newcomers blurted out, pointing with his sword on d'Artagnan. "You're the damn little bastard that killed Gaudet!" Lunging for him, he took over the fight from his companion. "I'll have your head for that, boy. Gaudet was my friend," he declared when his and the Gascon's sword met.
"As he was mine," the other one added, also drawing his blade and forcing d'Artagnan to part his attention, now fighting two men simultaneously. Meanwhile the ousted Red Guard stepped aside, resigning to simply watch and wait.
Swallowing thickly the Gascon forced an ironic smile on his face. Now was happening what he'd waited for since his father's murderer had run into his blade that fateful evening, Gaudet's friends were seeking revenge. It only wondered him that it had lasted that long to run across one of them. So, tonight he even had found two...
"Your friend was lees of society, not worthy to be called human, a creature killing people in cold blood just for fun. And he was a coward, attacking me from behind and running into my sword like cattle to be killed. He definitely deserved to die, though I would have preferred to see him hang." Not daring to avert his eyes from the two men fighting him, he yet could imagine Athos rolling his eyes at his hot-headed statement.
"You fucking little bugger!" the one, who first had recognized him, again lunged for him, slicing his thigh superficially and making him hiss in pain. Doubling his efforts he managed to make one of his foes stumble sideways, before landing a hit on the dominant arm of the other, making him drop his sword.
"Damn prick," the man uttered under his pain, pressing his hand against the wound. "But this isn't over. I've told you I'd have your head, but maybe instead my friend will..."
Athos had watched the escalation from the corner of an eye and noticed that the third man was launching to get back into the fight by sneaking up to his little brother's unguarded site.
"d'Artagnan, on your left," he shouted, protecting the boy from getting stabbed whilst he himself nearly missed a lunge for his stomach.
He barely managed to bring his right arm between his body and the nearing blade, too late to completely avoid being hit. The sword gashed him at the upper part of his forearm, near the elbow, eliciting a groan of pain from him and making his hand go numb. Unceremoniously letting his main gauche drop to the floor, the musketeer quickly switched his sword to his left. His unexpected move confused his adversaries, so he took advantage and easily dispatched one of them, slashing his thigh and making him fall with a cry. The next man followed seconds later, neatly stabbed in his dominant shoulder and forced to loosen the grip on his blade.
"You should wrap that," he told the two profusely bleeding men laconically before turning to face the last of the trio, eager to take him down and two assist his younger brother, who still was fighting against two.
His last opponent lunged at him with reinforced anger, briefly forcing him backwards, but he managed to take over and change from defence to attack, driving the stunned Red Guard across the road, nearer to the other proceeding fight.
Being warned by Athos the Gascon barely escaped the thrust aimed at his chest, the blade slicing the side of his doublet and scratching his skin, making him hiss with pain. Pulling himself together and gathering his remaining strength, he once again fought two men concurrently. But although d'Artagnan possessed natural skills and none of the Red Guards really matched any of the Inseparables, he had been training with, he soon found himself in a precarious situation. The two men fought as a well-trained team, knowing each other's moves and tics just as the musketeers did, and they definitely wanted to kill him. Despite all his efforts he found himself driven backwards, nearly stumbling over a step in the pavement. Somehow he quickly had to bring this fight to an end, else he'd he most probably would die tonight.
The drunken musketeer always had kept an eye on his younger brother, watching him struggle but still successfully keeping his foes at bay. Regarding to the heavy bleeding wound on his right arm, he felt his strength wane and found himself lacking of his usual jauntiness. Besides, his remaining opponent had proved himself a rather good swordsman, not truly matching his own skills but dangerous enough to make it quite challenging.
Just as the situation got worse again, Athos forced some steps back, whilst seeing d'Artagnan compelled with his back against a wall and grimacing in pain as he got hit twice in a second, he caught a glimpse of familiar blue, running towards him from round the corner.
"Athos, d'Artagnan," two voices shouted in unison and in the blink of an eye Aramis and Porthos joined the battle.
They dashed past their elder brother, knowing that he would be able to defend himself at last, and engaged d'Artagnans foes in hard and rapid swordfights, disarming them in less than a minute. Grateful the Gascon let his sword clatter to the ground and bent over, hands resting on his thighs and panting heavily.
Merely seconds later Athos disarmed his remaining man and the angry look of his face had him turning and running away. The uninjured Red Guards gathered their wounded companions and also hurried away, looks full of hatred, fury and humiliation on their faces, but not daring to attack again. The reputation of The Inseparables was well known in the Cardinal's regiment, and none of them would fancy to successfully fighting the famous trio, when complete.
Porthos and Aramis stepped nearer to the still gasping would-be musketeer, the latter surveying him carefully and gripping his shoulder. "Are you alright, lad?" he asked.
Slowly straightening the Gascon nodded. "I'm fine, just a few scratches."
Eyes narrowing Aramis examined the slightly bleeding gashes then nodded. "You may be right, but nevertheless I should look after them. At least they must be cleaned and bandaged."
"What's about Athos?" the younger retorted, drawing the medic's attention to the approximating swordsman. Despite his own issues he very well had noticed, how barely his mentor had escaped death, being hit whilst warning him.
"I'm fine," the ex-Comte declared, although he was cradling his right arm against his chest, gripping it tightly with his left and swaying slightly, now that the adrenaline was leaving his system.
Aramis just snorted, already grabbing his brother's scarf. "You're sleeve is soaked with blood and it's even dripping to the ground, not to mention your lack of steadiness and the paleness of your skin. Surely you're not fine."
"I'm drunk," the scolded blunted, as if that could explain his condition.
"Yeah, ya definitely are. Why else ya would be that stupid and take six men in a duel, hmm..?" Porthos grumbled, well knowing that his brother tended to pick fights, when he was in his 'special' mood. And surely it hadn't been the pup's idea to confront the Red Guards. Their youngest' eyes still were wide with relief about the weathered danger, whilst he intensely was watching his mentor.
"Four..." Athos corrected him.
"Hah..?"
"In the beginning there were just four of them," the swordsman declared.
Looking confused Porthos stared at him first before looking over to d'Artagnan, who nodded, having regained some of his composure. "He's right. The other two appeared while we were fighting the first group. They recognized me."
His answer turned Aramis' attention to him. "Recognized you?"
"Hmm-mh... From the night at the old convent. Where I killed Gaudet..."
Shaking his head, Porthos again shot his elder brother an angry look. "So four also's stupid enough, 'ow could ya challenge them when in the company of the whelp? Ya know what 'appened that night..."
Athos resigned to annoyed silence, allowing the Spaniard to wrap his still bleeding wound and facing d'Artagnan. The young man seemed to be slightly offended by Porthos' words.
"You're alright?" he made sure, concern and gratefulness mixed in his voice. When he received a small nod and a beaming, proud smile, he couldn't help but quirk his lips into his sort of smile, too.
"Well gentlemen, then I suggest we take you right home now," Aramis interrupted the silence, "so I can stitch that wound before you bleed out." Turning his head to Porthos, he nodded towards Athos. "Porthos, support him, I don't want him fainting in the middle of the street."
"Don't you dare!" the swordsman growled, moving a step away. "I can walk on my own." Putting his words into practice and proving the validity of his statement he turned and walked off in a rather quick, but yet straight pace.
Porthos and Aramis exchanged amused looks, while d'Artagnan seemed confused. Then Porthos headed after the disappearing form of his older brother, leaving Aramis to comfort the young man.
"I guess, he might be able to make it," the medic said in a light tone. "However, if not, Porthos will catch him. He's quite practised with it." Seeing his younger friend's blankly expression, he continued, "It's not the first time Athos' got injured in a nasty duel, normally he just appears at my door, bleeding on my floor. Sometimes we've been able to help him out in time, sometimes not, sometimes Porthos actually had to carry him home. But I'm also quite sure this won't be the last time..." He shrugged and gently pushed the Gascon in motion. "Someday you'll get used to it."
The first half of the night had passed, whilst Aramis had tended to his injured brothers. Athos had stayed silent the whole time and fallen asleep shortly after the stitching of his wound, referring to the amount of consumed alcohol, the not even marginal blood loss and his exhaustion from the fight. d'Artagnan also had remained quiet, his eyes glued on his slightly snoring mentor, tolerating Aramis' care and occasionally hissing through his teeth when he'd felt the brandy burning in his wounds. Twice the medic had tried to make him rest, but the whelp stubbornly had refused to lie down. So the Spaniard had left him his will, making himself and Porthos comfortable on the floor, using the extra blankets and pillows stored in Athos' cupboard, whilst the youngest remained seated in a chair near the bed.
Watching Athos sleep, the Gascon thought about what just had happened, feeling confused, surprised and grateful. He never had expected Athos, or the others, to risk their life for him, not after falsely accusing the swordsman and, above all, not after such a short period of time. He couldn't imagine that the honourable musketeer, whom he tried to become equal to, could care for him as much as he did. So when the wounded man started to moan and move slightly, he gingerly touched his uninjured arm, wanting to make sure his brother truly would be well again.
"Athos?" he whispered.
Slowly forcing his eyes open, groaning because of the throbbing in his head and arm, Athos blinked multiple times to clear his vision.
"Ooh... thank god... I'm so relieved... I really was scared... why did you do that?... you could have been dead because of me... I'd never forgive myself... I surely have been unnerving... I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
"d'Artagnan, stop!" the elder man croaked. "You're babbling. And your voice is making my headache worse." He wearily lifted his left arm to cover his eyes, for the light of the few candles was bright enough to aggravate his head, too.
"Sorry..." the younger whispered, becoming mute and making Athos grateful for the quietness.
But the comfortable silence didn't last, for the Gascon soon felt the need to talk again. "I'm sorry you got hurt because of me. I never meant you to protect me; lastly, I'm not even a musketeer. Why..."
"It's what older brothers do," Athos interrupted him, silencing him effectively, at least for another little while.
The younger sat there, stunned, his eyes wandering from the lying man to the two on the floor, who had been awakened by his chatter, too. When he saw them both nod, he deterrent shook his head. "But I don't understand. We know each other just a few months; I'm not even a musketeer. So why..."
"d'Artagnan, please..." Sighing Athos pulled his arm away, squinting at the still surprised pup sitting at his bedside. "Don't do that again."
"What?" His opposite's expression was one of pure ignorance.
"You know what I mean. Your chatter is simply annoying..."
The two musketeers on the floor started to smirk about Athos' lamentation, their grin even broadening when they heard d'Artagnans answer.
"But that's just what little brother's do," the youth said, after realizing his wish truly had become reality, a broad smile appearing on his face, making the men on the floor nod keenly.
Taking a deep breath Athos closed his eyes again, allowing him a faint smile. One thing was sure: The young Gascon perfectly fitted into their weird family. And whatever they'd earned with adopting this hot-headed, stubborn boy into their brotherhood, they'd never get bored again.