"The past is never where you think you left it." (Katherine Anne Porter)

The origin of this story goes back to the very first Saturday story on the FB Page The Musketeers BBC UK.

I decided to join this in order to write the short story called "A malicious plan" as a small birthday present for a friend who is writing fanfics herself.

After I posted the short story on FB, I was asked by a reader to continue it.

I don't know how, but in the ending I teamed up with Emb36 to take some ideas of this short story and we changed it in a complete fanfiction.

So, some elements may be known to the one or other reader.

I want to say a special thanks to Emb36, because without you, I would have never even imagined or decided to write an ff and post it.

Thank you for your encouragement and friendship :-)

During these past 4 months we put in a lot of time and passion in this story.

Please be kind with us, because it is our first fanfiction.

Enjoy!

This story is written by Emb36 and me (Kirasum). It is nearly finished (the Epilogue is still missing) and we will try to post it regularly at least one time per week.

We will post this story on fanfic net and AO3.

Our special and warm thanks go out to our dear beta-readers and good angels (Beth & Helensg) and to our medical consultant for several questions (nurse13)

without their help, their proofreading and love for the characters this story would have never been possible.

All possible left mistakes are ours not theirs!

Please note our first language isn't English and it is our very first ff.

Even if it is an Athos centric ff all Musketeers will appear and members of the Court as well.

Summary:

The Musketeers have to deal with King Louis' trade summit, Captain Tréville is in a bad mood and something is amiss with Athos. The Inséperables will be caught in a storm of violence and emotions as tragedy strikes. This story is set in s2, between ep 3 & 4. It's an Athos centric ff written by two authors, further notes see in ch1.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors of this story.

The authors are in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1

Friday evening, 10pm (30th May 1631)

Athos' room

"Where did you meet Rochefort for the first time?"

D'Artagnan looked with curiosity at Athos, who was sitting next to the fireplace. A fire was heating the room, drawing dark dancing shadows on his profile. He had his arms around his chest, curled forward as if the fire wasn't enough to warm him.

The small room was neither well nor massively furnished. A narrow bed allowed the owner to look straight at the sky night and day there was a small nightstand, a table and a few rickety chairs, just enough for the three, now four Inséparables. On the far wall opposite to the bed, an even more rickety table was used by Athos as a dressing table, or at least it should have been used, as the man wasn't as preoccupied by his appearance as his elegant friend Aramis. Above this table were three shelves one of which supported a few richly bound books. They looked almost misplaced here, as was the beautifully crafted sword hanging above the bed. The binding of the books made of beautiful coloured and gold stamped leather shone in the dimness of the room when the orange light of the fire landed on it. If the rest of the room was dusty from floor to ceiling, these books were well-maintained and carefully aligned. No bookends but an old and heavy gilded hour-glass to steady the last book of the line. This shelf and its content made the rest of the room even more sad and gloomy. On the other shelves were a few candles, six neatly folded towels, a few pots, cups and bottles, and two candlesticks. There was a large dark wooden trunk in a corner where Athos had likely stored a few clothes and other useful belongings. Its lid was half-open which allowed the sight of a sleeve of a shirt hastily put in it, and the worn wool of a thick dark blue blanket. D'Artagnan had time to observe the room while he waited for a possible answer, discovering all the details he never had noticed before and this observation made him sad.

The room looked like his owner and the owner looked like the room. How the young man would have been happy to make both more cheerful! He briefly thought that Constance could be a wonderful fairy in this place: cleaning, tidying up, removing the heavy brown curtains, adding a few lovely things like flowers or cushions … He was drawn from his daydreaming by a loud noise. Maybe a shutter. Or something falling somewhere in the garrison because of the strong winds.

Outside, the thunder was rolling constantly. Athos had to admit that he was very glad to finally be inside his quarters. It had been raining throughout most of the exhausting day and he and d'Artagnan had gathered in his quarters to rest. It had been a boring day with stable duty and exercise.

Athos, as usual did not speak at once. He stayed quiet and stared at the roaring flames of the fire. He felt miserable, his head was aching and his face was much too hot. He started to remove his scarf from his neck, that also kept his chest warm and threw it into the farthest corner of his room, where it landed in a heap under his bed. Next he got rid of his leather gloves which he had worn all day, his hands felt much too warm in them. With his bare chest not covered anymore, he felt slightly better, but still very vulnerable. His scarf had been a safety net for six years, protecting his broken heart.

Poor piece of fabric! It had suffered a lot in the last five years. It had began its life as the soft but solid scarf of a country nobleman which had been given to him by his mother as a birthday present. Athos only wore it occasionally when he visited his farms or to ride in autumn or winter when the winds were too strong and cold. Anne even used it once to tie her long wavy hair as she was lounging in the grass near the pond after they had decided to have a picnic on a very hot day in July. They had been married for a month at the time …

Athos shook his head to chase the memory away.

Then, the scarf had literally been a part of himself. When he'd joined the Musketeers, abandoning everything of his past, the scarf had remained, as did the books, together with his grandfather's hourglass and his father's sword.

Then the scarf had been badly stained during fights: blood, sweat, grass. Some of them were now indelebile and the colour of the fabric had faded.

Recently, the poor object had been used as a glove by d'Artagnan. Athos, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, had been about to laugh at the young man's odd action. It was so instinctive, almost childish but so brave that Athos had felt his awe of his young brother increase even more. Of course he didn't say it out loud, but he sent him a meaningful look which only Aramis witnessed as d'Artagnan was still frozen by the short tournament-like fight.

When the young Gascon had given it back, the scarf looked more like a cobweb or a net than a scarf so when everything had calmed down, when he had been sure that Porthos' wound was healing properly and he had checked about Aramis' doubts, he had decided to have it repaired. He could have asked Constance, but he would have had to explain the why, the where and the how, and it would have her worried about d'Artagnan. So, taking advantage of their last visit to Le Louvre, where they all had been scolded by the King in front of Rochefort, Athos had asked an old washerwoman who was always so nice to him, if she knew about a good seamstress except Madame Bonacieux. After listening dutifully to the King's irritating babbling, he had let the others go back to the garrison and he'd headed to the domestics' quarters where he knew he could find her.

He had been warmly welcomed by the nearly blind woman. She had even offered to repair the scarf but he had declined. The elderly domestic, with her almost white eyes and her crooked and trembling fingers, couldn't do it and she looked already so tired so she recommended him to a widow who had a small shop on the other bank of the Seine, opposite to Le Louvre, not far from Saint-Sulpice.

He had worn his torn scarf for two more days then he had visited the small shop. The narrow alley where it was situated was dark, the sun obviously barely managing to warm the uneven cobbles at midday. He briefly wondered how a seamstress could work without daylight. It was late this afternoon and the streets were empty. As he turned the corner of the alley, he saw someone hurrying, undoubtedly, to be home before nightfall.

The fifty-something woman welcomed him with a small but nice smile. Ten minutes later, and with the promise that the scarf would be repaired within three days, he left the shop, a hand on his neck where the warm fabric of the scarf was already badly missed and this wet wind wouldn't stop. Athos grunted and headed back to the garrison, head bowed, looking at the slippery cobbles under the lowered brim of his hat, careful not to fall on unidentified waste.

Damn, I don't need a cold right now.

A few days later, in his dark room, and in spite of the young man's presence, old memories came back from the time when he had not met d'Artagnan yet. Six years ago he had come to Paris both to flee his conscience and from his wife who had killed his brother.

Why, why couldn't she just leave him alone. Yesterday, as he returned from the palace to the garrison he had seen her. She was flirting with the King laughing about one of his odd jokes and he could do nothing about it. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest at the thought of her. He felt ashamed, even now, after all those years her beauty agitated him, even worse, aroused him. He thought he would have been over that by now but the other day had proved him wrong, after seeing her, he had felt like a teenager, driven by his senses, incomprehensibly aroused at the mere thought of her green iris', of the wafts of jasmine in each of her movements, at the sparkles of fire in her thick hair.

Not trusting his body, the growing heat in his lower belly and the uncomfortable pressure even lower, he had tried to rush away as fast as possible but instead of returning to the garrison, he had ended up in his favourite inn. Before he knew it, he had ordered a bottle of wine and if it hadn't been for Porthos who had come looking for him, he probably would have stayed there the whole night. He shook himself, why on earth had he had these sudden erotic feelings for her. He had wanted to kiss her deep red lips, touch her perfect pearly white body, pull off the beautiful silky blue dress she was wearing. His desire for her had left him in trouble much too often … Athos sighed out loud. Haunted by his past and these memories, he had wanted to flee his pain … and he somehow ended up with lots of bottles of wine and a commission as a Musketeer. But that was another story to tell.

A knock at the door brought Athos back to the present. D'Artagnan turned his head as Aramis and Porthos entered the room. Their leather uniforms were soaked through and through with water.

"Come in and help yourself to a glass of wine", Athos told his best friends and brothers, but noticed that every single word he spoke felt like the stab of a knife in his throat.

I am really getting ill. Damn. Maybe another glass of wine can help me to settle my throat.

Aramis grinned: "That sounds fair enough for me."

After removing his dripping coat, leaving a wet trail from the threshold to the fireplace where he hung it to dry, he settled next to d'Artagnan, touching briefly the young man's shoulder. He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles in a very casual but elegant posture. Athos threw him a sceptical glance. How could that man seem so … so … so not like him …! Easy smile, elegance, levity, or at least an appearance of levity.

"What have you two been up to", asked Porthos, who, after removing his jacket and just letting it carelessly drop in a soaked heap next to the door, was looking for a blanket.

He found one and settled in the only chair that was still empty. One foot on a rung in order to form a human ball of warmth under his blanket and the other on a low stool Athos had procured him to rest his leg when he had been hurt several days before.

"I've just asked Athos when and where he met Rochefort for the first time, but I am still waiting for an answer."

"Woah, you really want to go there?"

Porthos looked into d'Artagnan's brown eyes. Aramis closed his eyes and prayed to God. Unconsciously he touched the crucifix that the Queen had given him months ago. This question would bring up bad memories especially as Athos had suffered under Rochefort. He wasn't sure if that evening was the right time to tell their youngest member. The thunder rolled again in the distance and a lightning brightened the room.

Aramis could see that Athos' face had an unnatural reddish colour tonight. He wasn't sure if it was from the rain and a possibility of a cold that his brother was developing or from the past the name Rochefort brought vivid memories again, or the fact that Milady was back in Paris. Maybe a little of all these three things combined. Somehow he expected Athos to stay quiet and ignore the question, but on the contrary, Athos started to talk. If anyone could reach Athos, it was the young Gascon. Athos filled his empty glass with a new bottle of wine and started to talk very quietly, in a low and even tone of voice. His eyes fixed on something in the darkness of the room, in the darkness of his memory:

"Rochefort wanted to become a Musketeer and several years ago he came to Treville and asked for a commission. He overestimated himself and thought that being a Comte would make him a Musketeer at once."

Why on earth am I talking? My voice sounds dreadful.

He made a pause and breathed in deeply, because his lungs were missing oxygen. Even breathing seemed to be hard tonight and the dull pain in his throat increased. He took another gulp of his red wine.

"So, Rochefort was standing in the courtyard of the garrison and shouted out loud that he wanted to see the Captain", Aramis added. "Treville came out of his office and stepped on the balcony and stared into the courtyard. He was curious who was calling and looking for him, but as soon as he found out about the nobleman he went back inside without talking to him."

Porthos added: "The fool thought he could come and join the regiment that easily."

"He was far too impulsive and arrogant and Tréville did not want to have men like him in his regiment," Athos continued, his voice thick with a mix of emotion and anger and now staring at the fire in the hearth as if he could see the scene he was describing in its glowing blazes. "He thought himself a hero due to the fact that he had helped Queen Anne to come to Paris several years back. So Rochefort left again and decided to join the Red Guards. That was the first time we three saw him."

"And somehow we all knew that he meant trouble, right Athos?" Aramis added.

"What kind of trouble?"

D'Artagnan was now eager to learn more about the man who had appeared several weeks ago. He had escaped from the Spanish imprisonment. D'Artagnan had seen the look Athos and Porthos had shared in the field as they stumbled over him. It had been a meaningful look and he had noticed the obvious disdain in Athos' expression. Disdain confirmed by his further actions towards the blond Comte that had led Athos to punch Rochefort in his face. Porthos who just had finished his first glass of wine wanted to change the subject. He knew that Athos would be even more moody, if he had to retell and re-vive the past again.

Hadn't last night already been enough?

He wanted to move on to a lighter topic for tonight. He could hear and see the growing anxiety in his friend's voice, moves and looks. And something else he couldn't really point out.

"Oh this wine is luscious. Where is it from?"

Athos ignored Porthos' question and stared again into the fire. His headache was bothering him even more and he felt slightly lightheaded. Should he really tell the young Gascon about his suffering? His humiliation? Athos decided not to bother d'Artagnan with that.

"Well, Rochefort started his career at the Red Guards. After he had no chance to become a Musketeer. He was angry about it. As a nobleman he thought himself very handsome and loveable. People started mocking him because he had the attitude of a peacock. As men couldn't stand his vanity, he sought the company of women whom he thought would be an appreciative audience. He quickly became insufferable and women became anxious about his behavior. He pushed them brutally around and thought they were his possession so we had to help them more than once. "

Athos summarized the most important facts. For he had no strength left to tell more tonight.

"And as the gentlemen we are, of course, we helped them!" Aramis helped.

He realized very quickly at the dark glance in Athos' eyes that he did not want to tell the whole truth that evening and something else was going on in his brother's mind. He didn't seem to be as focused as usually. He was speaking slowly and way too silent. D'Artagnan was too tired to register that look at this moment.

"So, we found out very quickly that Rochefort was an ignorant person who denied that he was not ready to serve the King." Porthos added with a bright smile on his lips.

"That's all?" D'Artagnan stared at his brothers.

"Let's say that it is the beginning of another tale, but we are all tired and we should call it a night for today."

With these words Athos made clear that he did not want to talk any longer about it. His green eyes wandered back to the fireplace. His headache had increased in the last few minutes, and his vision was slightly blurred. He felt suddenly dizzy, but tried to breath even, to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling. He was familiar with these betrayals of his body when he had consumed too much cheap wine in a shabby tavern. It couldn't be the reason. Not now, not this time. No, he really had caught a cold.

D'Artagnan had seen the hurt in those green eyes and hadn't wanted to push the confession any further. So he stood up, said goodnight to his friends and headed for his own quarters. As he made his way to the door, d'Artagnan couldn't help but look back at his mentor before leaving ... Staring at this noble profile, he could see the orange light of the roaring fire reflecting in the odd wetness in his eyes ... Athos' face seemed to shine with an abnormal brightness, much too red, a few of his silky curls were plastered on his forehead.

D'Artagnan suddenly worried, made a move towards him, but didn't know if his presence would be welcomed ... The floor creaked lightly under his boot and Athos' body seemed suddenly seized by a shudder. His hands tightened on the armrests and a tremor ran through his long elegant fingers.

Oh God, that hurts ...

As d'Artagnan retreated to the door, Athos lowered his head and put it in his trembling hands, elbows on his knees. The curtain of his hair hiding his anxious face to the view of his young friend. The latter chose to quietly leave the room and he silently closed the door ...

The last thing d'Artagnan heard before he left, was Aramis getting up and checking on Athos.

"Athos, what is it? You look like you are not feeling well. Please, allow me to check on you."

Athos lifted his head for a short moment. It took him all the strength he had left, after suddenly feeling hot and cold at the same moment. He wasn't sure what was going on. One moment he felt fine, the other moment he felt dreadful. His head felt like it wanted to burst, he couldn't see clearly, and, again, he was sure that it wasn't caused by the glass of wine he had tonight. Those headaches felt differently. His throat felt like fire. The long speech had even worsened the pain and even his precious wine had tasted odd and swallowing had become harder due to the increasing pain in his throat.

Maybe some cold water will help to ease the pain.

He was ripped out of his thoughts as his heart suddenly started to pound furiously and his wish for more air let him open his mouth and he started to breath in heavily. With his last willpower he forced himself to sound as bored and neutral as possible.

"Aramis, it's nothing. I am fine." He paused to breath in deeply. "Just a long day! You know that!"

He tried to look in Aramis direction but the light of the candle burning next to Aramis, was much too bright and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Aramis looked doubtfully at his friend. Athos' definition of "fine" had never been the same as anybody else's definition.

"I know you, my friend. And you look anything but fine, right now. Please let me at least check if you have a fever."

Athos wanted to get up and draw back from Aramis' hand trying to touch his forehead. But he felt too weak and lightheaded to get up. He hated to be touched there and he hated to feel vulnerable and that he could not control it. He had felt bad all day long. But he had tried to hide that from Aramis and the others. He was glad that they had stayed at the garrison that day. To evade Aramis' concerned look Athos tried to think of something else. He thought back fourteen hours ago, and reflected how his day had started. Soon he was carried away by the review of his miserable day.

To be continued ...