True Faith

Summary: A tragedy befalls D'Artagnan and all those around him, making Athos re-examine what D'Artagnan truly means to him after what happened on the battlefield months prior. Sequel to 'Lionheart.' D'Artagnan/Athos centric with healthy doses of our other boys for general audiences. Non-slash.

A/N: This was originally an answer to the dictionary challenge posted a couple of years ago. While I had planned on sticking to those guidelines, and they did send me in interesting directions, I think for this repost I may have to abandon that. These chapters have simply been exploding in revisions so what I may do instead is split up one larger chapter into smaller chapters for easier reading. The very first word that got me onto the idea for this story was 'neither.' Somehow this plot bunny came out of nowhere and years later it's still nagging me to get it finished. So, fingers crossed this will be the nudge to get'er done! As before I've put the English translations alongside the Spanish dialogue in the beginning between (parentheses). I have absolutely no idea about correct traditional/provincial Spanish spoken back in the early 1600s, and I am also in no way fluent either-I just studied three years in high school…and used Google translate. So please forgive any errors and bear with me because I do strive for accuracy no matter what. There will be lots of new material this time around, and as stated in my profile do NOT feel obligated to leave a review. Just read and enjoy.

Warnings: Let's see…character angst, little bit of blood and violence mostly accompanied by our boys' trade-mark penchant for action and getting themselves into trouble on a daily basis, mentions of suicide by a minor character later on in the story, references to violence and blood from the prequel 'Lionheart.' For now that's about it, but if anything else comes up it will be with a clear warning at the top of the page.

Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

Chapter One - Neither here nor there (Pt. 1)

Dust fell through the cracks like embers from a fire, lit from the bright room above. D'Artagnan shut his eyes on instinct and flinched away from the hole until it passed. He grabbed onto a support beam for balance when the sharp tug in his gut warned him he was about to fall. The barrel of wine under his boots creaked but righted itself with a soft snap-thud on the dirty floor. He listened, but heard no pause in the conversation from the table above him. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief and resume his previous position, ears and eyes trained to the spaces between the floorboards of the tavern and the table situated above him.

"Usted es paranoico, amigo mío. Esto es Francia, ¿recuerdas? Todos se preocupan por el vino y las mujeres, no desconocidos." (You're paranoid, my friend. This is France, remember? All they care for is wine and women, not strangers.)

"Hablamos español, tonto. Eso es suficiente para guardias como ellos." (We speak Spanish, fool. That is enough for guards like them.)

"Relájese. Están borrachos. Que no se acordará de nuestras caras, ni nuestra lengua." (Relax. They're drunk. They won't remember our faces, let alone our tongues.)

D'Artagnan smirked in the near-darkness. There weren't many people up in the north of France who even knew a single word of Spanish, but having lived and grown up in Gascony, in the south, had its advantages. Though his father had taught him much, he learned more from sneaking into taverns just like this one on their trips further south to visit his father's relatives. D'Artagnan was not fluent, but he knew enough to make good assumptions and pick out important words-

"Mañana por la noche. Doce y cuarenta y cinco de la tarde. Al suroeste del puente." (Tomorrow night. Quarter to one. Southwest bridge.)

-Just like those.

"Estos mosquetes holandés mejor que hacer el grado. Echo de menos los de Prusia ya. No tomar semanas para hacer!" (These Dutch muskets had better measure up. I miss the ones from Prussia already. Those didn't take weeks to make!)

"Que trabajan. Y vienen más barato. ¿Qué más quieres?" (They work. And they come cheaper. What else do you want?)

"Vino de verdad! Y tal vez una chica bonita." (Real wine! And perhaps a pretty girl.)

"No olvide que usted salve al final del día, traidor!" (Just don't forget who you hail to at the end of the day, traitor!)

"Siempre amados míos España. Ahora y para siempre!" (Always my beloved Spain. Now and forever!)

Once the men went up to their rooms, scraping the chairs back, with a more sober care than anyone else at the hour, D'Artagnan hopped off the barrel and slipped out of the cellar. On his way to the stables he stuck to the shadows and surveyed his surroundings as discreetly as he could, making sure he wasn't followed or seen. He entered from the back and found his horse exactly where he had hidden her hours prior. She nickered softly and nudged her head at his when he went to stroke her in apology for the long wait.

"Mission accomplished, girl," he whispered with a grin. He pulled an apple out of his pocket and she seemed to forgive him in exchange for the treat.

Not long afterwards he was wrapped up in his cloak against the rain on his way home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning him that a downpour wasn't far away. As it was, he was drenched by the time it came anyway, so when he finally walked through the door of his shared apartments with his friends he wouldn't have been surprised if they had actually said he looked like a drowned cat. But his three friends restrained themselves well. Even Porthos hadn't spoken a word for his own anxiousness.

"Well," Athos prompted.

D'Artagnan swept the room with tired eyes, noting that the fire had yet to be tended to, there were dry and empty bottles of wine and glasses on the table, there was an absence of food, and lastly a trio of wary but hopeful faces. He smiled to himself first, relishing the fact that for once they were hanging on his every word, then physically let his trade-mark smirk loose.* "Tomorrow night," he said.

Porthos laughed, then bellowed for Planchet to bring them another bottle of wine. Aramis clapped his hands together with a sigh of relief and muttered a prayer of thanks. Athos sat back with a look of relief and nodded at D'Artagnan in appreciation.

D'Artagnan genuinely smiled at the silent praise, even though exhaustion hung from his frame like heavy armor. Planchet bustled in and out, quicker than D'Artagnan had ever seen him, and soon all four men were tucking into their late meal with fervor. It was not a feast, but they partook of more than what they usually did due to the occasion.

"They think they're clever," D'Artagnan said, after hungrily downing a mouthful of roasted potatoes. "Waiting so late into the night. But they'll soon regret it."

"Four weeks of tracking ghost shipments, different departure points, even different couriers and carts," Athos groused. "They don't think they're clever, they know they are, which will be to our advantage."

"Do you think our original plan will still work," Aramis asked, still holding his wine glass aloft.

"Of course it should," Porthos boasted. "We spent days planning for this little rendezvous. Surely we haven't forgotten anything? Anyone?" Porthos counted the four of them at the table to emphasize his point and grinned when he finished with himself. "No, I don't think we have."

D'Artagnan chuckled to himself, nearly choking on some small-grown carrots while Athos rolled his eyes.

"The Cardinal," Aramis pointed out. "Won't take too kindly to being left out of the loop, I'm sure."

"We don't report to the Cardinal," Athos stated. "And neither does Monsieur de Treville."

Aramis leant forward for emphasis. "No, but the King looks to the Cardinal for advice against the Spanish. This business with land claims in Italy is wearing nerves thin and all it will take for another war is one false step from either side. They are looking for an issue, however small, just like we are."

"So why aren't we at war with them already," D'Artagnan quipped.

"Because we have no proof of their involvement-"

D'Artagnan smirked. "Until now-"

Aramis sighed. "Yes, but my point is-"

Porthos scoffed. "Last I checked this was still France and we are still Frenchmen. If anyone should be declaring war it should be us four! We're the ones who have been deprived of our comforts these past insufferable weeks. It's been so long since we've been to a tavern that I've forgotten what women look like!"

"Weren't you there last night," Athos drawled.

The grin on Porthos' face disappeared.

Aramis scowled at being interrupted but pressed on when Athos nodded for him to continue. "As I was saying, we need to be careful. Knowing where they'll meet, when they'll meet, and how many of them there may be will mean nothing if we cannot, without a shadow of a doubt, prove that the Spanish are interfering and personally funding the Protestants in the south."

Porthos leaned back in his chair and tipped his weight on the back two legs with an ominous creak. "What more proof do you need other than the devil himself?"

Athos frowned. "If they talk. If they admit to the truth. Aramis is right. That won't be likely even if we can manage to capture them without difficulty."

"Isn't that what we have gaolers for?** Extracting the truth from lying bastards like them?"

Aramis massaged the side of his head where he felt a headache blooming, courtesy of Porthos' whining. "The proof that we need, that the king and the Cardinal needs, is physical evidence of their patronage, not just transcribed confessions driven out by torture. This is a matter of national importance and one that shouldn't be taken lightly-by now Louis could have declared war on Philip and been done with it, but he has chosen to place his trust in Monsieur de Treville, and us, to find out the truth of the matter. Failure is not an option."

Athos dropped his fork onto his plate with a soft clang. "Hard to avoid that if there's nothing to find."

D'Artagnan slowly put his cup back down on the table, staring distantly but focused on the far wall and a brilliant and sudden memory. "What about their arms," he said aloud.

His friends turned to him with identical expectant expressions, but D'Artagnan didn't notice. In his mind he could clearly see the kingly sword he had admired all evening from the dark cellar. And seeing it now brought back a very important piece of information.

"If these men are as smart as we know them to be," D'Artagnan suggested. "Then they will bear no mark of their country nor their king, but their arms-their weapons would be an exception, especially if they were a gift. How else would you come by a sword crafted by a Spanish master smith? Or one with a Spanish inscription on the hilt? 'Felipe mi soberano eterno. me guía a través del secreto al cielo por encima.' 'Philip, my sovereign eternal, guide me through secrecy to heaven above.' One of them is a nobleman." He looked up to see surprise and disbelief replacing the looks from earlier. Self-consciously he wondered if he hadn't butchered the translation and looked to Aramis for reassurance. "Right?"

Aramis chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You know more than you let on, D'Artagnan. I didn't know you knew the language."

"My father had frequent dealings with Spainards," D'Artagnan shrugged. "Some of them make good wine."

Athos looked at the boy with narrowed eyes, but D'Artagnan ignored him for his wine instead.

"If one of them is in fact a nobleman that would be proof enough alone depending on who he is. This could actually be enough," Aramis mused.

"It would be for the Cardinal," Athos agreed.

"Remind us why we keep you around, boy," Porthos asked, grinning again and waving his glass around with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn't, however, spill a single drop in his exaggerations.

D'Artagnan hid his blush from Aramis' praise and responded to Porthos with a straight face. "Besides doing your dirty work so your lace stays unruffled, saving your backside, and making you feel young again? I'm not so sure."

"Bah," Porthos exclaimed, banging the chair back into its proper place with all four legs on the floor. "The boy's learning too much from you, Aramis. He's insulting us backwards now!"

"Us," Aramis inquired with raised eyebrows. "Last I checked nothing in my wardrobe included lace!"

Porthos went to reply but the sound of the chair breaking beneath him drowned out whatever retort he may have come up with, and of the three of them Aramis failed the worst at hiding his laughter.

Later that night when everyone had retired to bed D'Artagnan lay on top of the covers in his room waiting and listening. Porthos was usually the first one to fall asleep, but the real test came when Aramis would finally follow. The irregular hours he kept due to prayers, writing, and the like meant a different time nearly every night. But tonight he fell into slumber early, tired from an early guard shift and waiting up all night for news on their planned escapade tomorrow. And, like clockwork, as soon as his soft snoring joined in the normal noises of their apartments another door further down the hall opened and shut.

D'Artagnan held his breath and froze.

The shadow under his door only paused once on his way to the staircase. The floorboards creaked, but too slight for any light sleeper to hear, then continued on. Once it was gone D'Artagnan let out the breath he'd been holding and thumped his head back onto his pillow with a firm decision in mind. It was against his better judgment that he refused to spend another night in the dark. He leapt up out of bed and watched for confirmation from his window as Athos shrugged on his cloak in the street and started walking north.

Knowing that there was no time to waste, D'Artagnan grabbed his boots and snuck down the stairs as fast as he dared. Not too long later he was darting out into the street himself and tailing Athos at a discreet distance, struggling into his own cloak and hat. His boots echoed on the cobblestones, no matter how quietly he tread, but he had learned through past exploits to time them just right so his friend would only think they were the echoes of his own footsteps he might be hearing. Only once did D'Artagnan have to duck behind a corner for fear of being discovered.

When he resumed his journey moments later he grew more confident with each step that Athos hadn't noticed him. D'Artagnan's mind was awhirl with theories and reasons for his friend's odd behavior but nothing in his mind seemed to jump out as a plausible explanation. A woman was completely out of the question. There was plenty of alcohol stocked in the kitchen. And there was no work that needed to be done before tomorrow. Aramis had seen to all the preparations. D'Artagnan was no expert on Athos' moods, but he had thought he knew their ebbs and flows quite well until the last few months. Something had changed in Athos and D'Artagnan had a hunch as to what it might be, but he couldn't be sure.

Either way he was going to get to the bottom of it with the least amount of trouble possible-if he could help it. A few squares further into the city proved difficult for him to get proper cover, but he hadn't worried about it until after another turn when Athos suddenly disappeared. Shocked, D'Artagnan looked about in every dark direction, down every possible street and regrettably found them all deserted in the quiet of the night. He tried retracing his steps and checking locked doors, but he wound up empty-handed.

"Damn it," he muttered.

He would have turned back right then if it hadn't been for a soft shuffling he heard between two houses to his left. Cautiously he inched his way into the darkness, ignoring his instinct to grab his sword, and stopped to listen more closely. After a few tense seconds he decided that it must have been his imagination in its attempts to not admit defeat and return home. And he would have sensibly done just that if it hadn't been for one thing. Within the blink of an eye he found himself shoved up, face-first, against a brick wall with the hand closest to his sword restrained in a tight vice-like grip behind his back. And then there was the sharp object, likely a short dagger or knife, pressed to the back of his neck that gave him no room for escape.

"Move just an inch and you're a dead man," hissed a cold voice next to his ear. "What business have you as my shadow, rogue?"

With his hat still askew on his head he could get no visual confirmation of his attacker behind him, nor could he judge by the voice due to the adrenaline that was rushing through his ears-among other bodily parts he would love to be using at the moment. But something familiar in the voice stilled his rampant thoughts and eager limbs, something that pushed his sincerest hopes and fervent fears to the surface. D'Artagnan unclenched his teeth and took an uncertain breath before quietly venturing forward. "Athos…?"

The grip on his hand loosened just a little in surprise. "D'Artagnan?"

Next thing he knew his hat was knocked aside. D'Artagnan turned around to look and was released instantly. A string of colorful curses followed and when he finally had the chance to look at his infuriated friend he could see that his situation had not improved. Athos glared at D'Artagnan in such a manner that instantly made him feel like a nosy child caught in the act. Though the younger of the two would have loved to speak his mind he held his tongue and continued the staring match that they started. Neither man dared to be the first to break the heavy silence, and when it appeared as if they both might stand there all night Athos set his jaw and turned his back to him, not in any mood to talk reasonably. D'Artagnan frowned and stooped to pick up his hat, ignoring the tight pain in his wrist, and opened his mouth to speak. But Athos beat him to it.

"What the damn hell are you doing following me, boy?"

D'Artagnan frowned but held his ground. "Call it a fool's intuition but something tells me you're not out here looking for our smuggling villains."

"Fool indeed," Athos growled, spinning around. "You listen to me-what I choose to do, whatever time of day or night is none of your concern. Go home."

D'Artagnan crossed his arms. "And if I choose not to?"

In D'Artagnan's knowledge of the man there were five levels of glares, each with varying degrees of meaning and intensity. The first was a spark of annoyance with begrudging acceptance. The second was a clearer disproval with more than a hint of distrust. If the intensity of the third wasn't obvious enough the firm eyebrows made it so. And the fourth only added to the hot fire with the addition of stern immovable lips.

The worst that D'Artagnan had yet to fully see was a strange combination of all the above, and a sixth sense of just knowing that the man was too angry for anything other than action, usually with a sword. He had only seen this once, when he took a bullet for Athos in a skirmish and was stupid enough to fail to take the blackguard who had done it down with him. His memory of that day was still rather hazy but what he did remember was the murderous look and posture Athos had adopted within the span of a split-second. The sight, though slightly vague still chilled him to this day. And he had never found out what happened to the man who had shot him.

He still bore an ugly scar in the middle of his chest from that fateful day. And more often than not he would find Athos staring at his shirt rather than at his face in passing conversation. D'Artagnan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Athos cared for him despite his gruff and dispassionate manner at times…well, that was nearly all the time minus the rare few moments when he let this cement wall of a guard down. But not speaking that affection or, more recently, showing it seemed almost the same as not feeling it or having it at all, which made things very confusing every now and then between them. And D'Artagnan was never one for questions that didn't have answers.

So, when Athos glared at him again, saying with his eyes, 'Leave me alone and go away, if you know what's good for you,' D'Artagnan gave him the only answer he thought something like that deserved, a fixed and determined stance that said 'Make me.'

"Then wander around in the dark for all I care," Athos hissed, leaning in close. "Just stay the hell away from me." The older musketeer whipped around and started off down a street that D'Artagnan knew to lead in the opposite direction of their apartments.

"Athos," D'Artagnan called out as he went after him. "Please, the only reason I followed you was to help."

Athos stopped short. "Help what?"

"Well," D'Artagnan sputtered, for lack of better and more intelligent words he had prepared for this exact moment. "…you! What do you think?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I know you're not sleeping…and I thought-"

Athos took a step towards him, but D'Artagnan didn't back down. "What does it matter to you what hours I keep?"

"It's not-"

"Help me," Athos mocked, leaning down over D'Artagnan and letting his burning temper loose. "What makes you think that an insolent and immature little boy like you, not even twenty years of age nor a full-fledged musketeer, can do anything other than be a careless nuisance in these kind of matters? For your information, as if it wasn't clear already, I don't need help and if I do you won't be the first one to hear of it. Save us both the trouble and go back to bed where you belong. And don't ever follow me around like some damn street cat again because I am not your keeper!"

Stunned would have been the appropriate feeling that kept D'Artagnan's feet stuck to the ground where he stood, helplessly watching as Athos stormed away in a fury.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Why hadn't he said the things he wanted to?

The things he should have said-where had they gone?

What were friends if they couldn't stand up to one another?

And why did he feel as if he never had a chance in the first place?

The next morning, Athos was up with the sun swiping and swinging through his morning practice routine with anger left over from the previous night. He could have killed the boy had the little idiot not revealed himself when he did. And that truth ate at him since that fateful moment in which he let his anger dictate his actions. It made him all the angrier that he hadn't paid more attention to more than a few things last night. But what other excuse did he have than to blame the one thing he'd been trying to ignore for the past year or more?

He stopped for a break with sweat dripping down his face and snatched the water that Planchet had left for him before sunrise. As he rested, his mind teetered between the nightmares he'd been having and the careless words he'd said in the early hours of the morning to a good friend. A dear friend. A friend who was too good for him. Reflecting on them now did nothing to relieve the guilt he felt, but the other part of him that felt justified was louder. People who wore their hearts on their sleeves had always irked Athos in some fashion. It was as if they were asking for trouble, paying no mind to their own needs for self-preservation and protection from the pain this horrible world could inflict. And though that was the very definition of D'Artagnan's character, there was also another part of Athos that couldn't stand the thought of being without it. The boy, in all respects, was the very thing he once was and had no chances of ever being again. But he had accepted that about himself a long time ago. It was the boy he was more worried about…Athos sighed and rubbed his bleary eyes that stung in exhaustion.

Worry!

That would surely be the death of him before long. And why? A certain young Gascon farm boy soon turned musketeer and…whatever the boy was to him, he was presently late. Without thinking Athos started towards the house and climbed the stairs to D'Artagnan's bedroom, bent on giving the boy a piece of his mind for his tardiness-for it had been he who had asked for Athos as a sparring partner, he who had suggested early in the mornings when they were both awake and limber, he who had always been on time and often early.

When Athos opened the door, however, he stopped in his tracks and the ire melted off him like it was a cold block of ice at the mercy of a hot summer's day. With languid arms half-hugging half-resting his messy head of dark hair on the top corner of his pillow, the boy lay sprawled into a curled ball on his bed. Fast asleep. Athos nearly groaned in defeat, leaning against the doorjamb as he took in the tranquil scene before him. He was slightly tempted to knock the boy over onto the floor for his troubles, but ultimately decided against it. He just looked too…vulnerable when he was asleep.

Yes, Athos thought to himself. That was it. It was too easy of a thing to do.

Small shivers disturbed D'Artagnan's sleep. That little show of weakness instantly made Athos feel ten times worse over what he said to him the night before, when he had left him in the cold night to walk back alone and bear those hurtful words that he never meant. And though he could do nothing to rectify the matter now, he could at least start the day off better than his temper had originally planned for them both. So he crossed the distance to the bed, silent as a mouse, and pulled the kicked-off covers back up and over D'Artagnan's small frame. He stopped halfway at seeing the livid bruise on the boy's wrist and, as if sensing the scrutiny, D'Artagnan stirred under the new source of warmth, stretching out and burrowing into it. Athos stilled, suddenly afraid that the boy would wake, but a second later when D'Artagnan sighed and settled back down Athos straightened in relief and decided to make for a quick exit while he still could-

"Good morning, Athos," Aramis whispered with a smug smile on his face.

Surprise made his face color in a sudden and fierce embarrassment, but he continued on out the door as he planned, stopping for only a moment to whisper in Aramis' ear while he closed the door quietly behind him. "Speak a word of this and you'll regret it, I promise you."

"If I were no good at keeping secrets," Aramis calmly replied. "Then I suppose I ought to be considering a different occupation besides the church. Come, Planchet has breakfast ready."

As the morning wore on they all took advantage of their free time before their meeting with Monsieur de Treville at noon to rest. D'Artagnan slept the longest of all of them and was still tired by the time they were readying themselves to leave. In the stables Athos found him struggling with a strap from the saddle for his horse. Wordlessly he reached over and straightened it the right way with a gentle air that made the fight in the boy's eyes fade. Afterwards he turned and nodded to the boy before tending to his own horse. D'Artagnan muttered a 'thank you,' to which Athos paid no attention. Though it wasn't anything close to the proper apology his young friend deserved of him in his mind it was a start. On the ride to Treville's offices, he fell back and let Aramis and Porthos take the lead. Aramis glanced surreptitiously behind to see the reason why, but when Athos caught his eye he understood and set about the task of keeping Porthos occupied.

Athos looked over to D'Artagnan who had been ignoring him for the past few blocks, and was at a loss for how to exactly broach the tricky subject without drawing too much attention or allowing for either of their tempers to flare up again. This time, D'Artagnan beat him to the punch of conversation. "You're right. What you decide to do on your own time is your business and I apologize for intruding upon it," the boy said. "If it matters, I didn't do it out of anything else other than concern for you. Aramis and Porthos know your moods much better than I do, but when a friend of mine is struggling with something I can't in good conscience stand aside and watch. I'm not one to give up on a friend easily, if ever, and especially when they push me away. It's why I tend to overstep my bounds so often. I do try not to, but you make it difficult sometimes, Athos."

D'Artagnan finally turned his face and Athos was taken aback at the open honesty. It was clean of any bitterness or deserved anger from the previous night, which made him wonder at how such a thing was possible. Athos debated with himself about the things that needed to be said and what he wanted to say, and in the end he could do nothing but sigh and answer with the finality he and the boy were both used to, but with a gentler delivery than usual. "Try harder next time."

D'Artagnan nodded once and the two didn't say another word to each other until they reached the hotel.

A/N: Different chapter breaks for the reposts because of all the new material to follow. Reposting will only take time in quick editting, but I'm currently in the middle of writing the last leg of the story so lots more to come.