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Jean-Armand de Tréville, Captain of the King's Musketeers, glanced at the paperwork on his desk and sighed. The soft pitter-patter of the rain and the rumbling of thunder above him didn't do his concentration any good, the steady sounds calming and relaxing to his mind. Perhaps it was better to take to bed early and start anew the next day.
Decision made, the captain rose from his chair and turned down all but one of the lanterns. But before he went to rest, he quietly walked through the garrison, checking with the guards and heading towards the infirmary. Something he did most days, his men were his responsibility after all, but on this day he had a little extra motivation.
The Inseparables had found trouble on their way back from their latest mission, which had led to their youngest getting shot in the shoulder. The ongoing rain had made the ride back a miserable trip for all four men, Aramis had all but thrown them into hot baths upon their return. Still, it seemed Alexandre's son had been afflicted the most. The pain, blood loss and wetness had kept him in bed without any protest since in addition to his infected wound, he had picked up a cold and mild fever.
As Tréville neared the infirmary, he could hear voices shouting and quickened his pace. Had there been complications? He opened the door to see three of his finest men mildly panicking while their fourth tossed and twitched on the bed.
Aramis held d'Artagnan's head and frantically looked for something while Athos and Porthos gently kept the young man down. „I can't find anything!“
D'Artagnan mumbled something into his pillow as he frowned and tried to turn to his side.
„What is the matter here?“
Athos turned to his captain, pale and with strained eyes. „D'Artagnan started talking strangely, Aramis thinks he must have hit his head but there's no lump or injury.“
„Strangely how?“, Tréville asked, stepping closer. Problems with speech after a head injury were not uncommon, but could become a permanent issue if not treated.
„His words are neither French nor Spanish, even though it sounds like both. Aramis can't understand anything he says“, Porthos offered, keeping a watchful eye on his friends.
D'Artagnan chose that moment to call out softly. „Father, please! Don't leave me, please stay! Father!“
Tréville's heart ached for the poor lad, Alexandre's death had had such a heavy impact on his life.
The other men reacted quite differently, Aramis nearly tore his hair out in his frustration. „I don't know how to help him! I've never treated a concussion so bad a patient scrambled his language like this!“
Athos cupped the young man's cheek, helpless to do anything else. „How did we not notice until now?“
The captain frowned. The words had been quite clear, even if the lad spoke them into his pillow, what...? Ah, of course, he had reverted to his mother tongue. „Let me.“ He more or less pushed Porthos away and settled close to d'Artagnan's head. With a calming hand on the young man's uninjured shoulder, Tréville gently spoke to him in Gascon: „None of that, Charles. Come on, wake up now for your Uncle Jean.“ Even mostly asleep, the words reached the lad and prompted a soft response harking back to his childhood days.
„Uncle Jean, you're here?“
„Yes, Charles, and so are your brothers. They worry for you, please wake up now.“
The young man fought stubbornly to wake up further and finally opened his eyes. His smile was pained, but the other musketeers were glad to see it. „D'Artagnan, can you understand me?“, Athos asked carefully and got a confused look in return.
„Of course I understand you“, the lad said in French, much to their relief.
„Captain, what...how?“ Tréville smirked. „The lad and I share a birth place, he was speaking Gascon and I answered.“ Understanding dawned on the three faces.
„So you knew who I am?“ The captain found d'Artagnan's eyes locked on him, the question unexpected but not unwelcome. He had thought the lad had long forgotten the musketeer who had come to stay with him and his father for a while after his mother's death. Especially since he had never given a sign that he had recognised Tréville.
„I make it a habit to learn more about my men than just their names and skills. But I knew the moment I saw you in the courtyard and you looked back with Alexandre's face. I just thought you didn’t remember.“
„How could I forget? But you never said anything and I didn't want to seem like I was trying to get by on sympathies. I wanted to prove worthy of being a musketeer.“
„Is it only me or did we miss something?“, Porthos whispered to his brothers.
D'Artagnan gently smiled at the trio before he turned melancholy. „I was six years old when my mother died. My father took care of me as best he could, but he was devastated by her death and we almost lost the farm. Fortunately, he wrote to his old friend who promptly turned up to help out with anything.“
„Including wrangling this one off horseback and into bed, rascal that he was“, Tréville said fondly and ruffled d'Artagnan's hair to only mild protest. „Sir.“
„Pardon me, rascal that he is.“
„Sir!“
„In private, I'm not averse to you calling me what you used to, Charles.“
The young man beamed shyly. „As you wish, Uncle Jean.“