Author's Note: Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and who have stayed with this story from the beginning. This is the final chapter, and I find it's a bit longer than the others. There were a lot of loose ends to tie up and I wanted all of the boys to have a bit of spotlight and say what needed saying. They had a lot to say. I do plan to continue writing in this fandom, so watch for more in the future. Please read and review. I'd really appreciate it.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 10

Warmth and Brotherhood

The Musketeers

Madame Boucher had wept. She had hurried across the field to see d'Artagnan while her son and Athos tried to stop her. Seeing him in that state wasn't something Porthos would have wished for her. She hovered as they moved the unconscious young man to the wagon. She rode with her son, but her attention was on every word she could hear Aramis utter in the back of the wagon. Aramis mostly worked in silence, but on occasion, if you listened you could hear his entreaties to d'Artagan to awake or to "hold on" or to "stay with me" and on occasion those entreaties sounded desperate.

Porthos spoke loudly to her distracting her from what little she could hear with stories that had her laughing despite her worry.

Once back at d'Artagnan's farm, Aramis had left Porthos to make vague promises about letting her know how he was and to bring her to see him when he was up for visitors. Her son bustled her home amidst her promises that she would return soon and bring d'Artagnan his favorite foods.

He and Athos had waited by the door to d'Artagnan's room fetching things, holding things whenever Aramis asked, but he'd kicked them out soon enough and sequestered himself away with the injured youth.

Now, as Porthos waited for Aramis to let them know how the boy was, he took a moment to study Athos. The man was distraught. That was easy to see. He looked down. He looked around the room, but his gaze never fell on anything for more than a few moments. Porthos sighed. The man was both a mystery and as obvious as a shining jewel in a pigpen.

He moved toward Athos who stood staring at the door to d'Artagnan's room and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We got to him in time."

Athos didn't bother to look at Porthos. "He was hung." He spoke in a whisper. "That will stay with him. Even should he recover…"

Athos paused and Porthos could see him swallowing rapidly as though trying to force something down so he could continue. "Should he recover, this will not disappear."

Porthos's eyes narrowed. "This ain't your fault, you know that, right?" When Athos didn't reply, Porthos sighed. "Athos, we came here to 'elp. We're helpin'. If we 'adn't come at all, 'e'd be dead now."

To his surprise, Athos paled at the words and put a hand out to catch the wall. His head hung down, his eyes closed and he drew in deep breath after deep breath.

"Oi, what's wrong?" Porthos asked.

"It was close, Porthos. He nearly died. We were very nearly too late, and the boy would have paid for that with his life."

Porthos watched Athos. He looked haunted. His eyes were wide and he kept turning his gaze back to the door behind which Armis was treating d'Artagnan. Athos had always been the most serious of the Inseparables. His mood was always in need of lightening, and there were times his melancholy threatened to steal him away as fast as a child from the court of miracles could pick a pocket. This was different.

Porthos's eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend. Athos was shaken. He was almost as shaken as he had been when the two of them had ridden to Savoy five years ago to find Aramis against all orders and any hint of sweet reason. Porthos's desperation had been mirrored in Athos's eyes then, and Athos had grown more and more frantic. They'd never spoken of it, but Porthos was an observer. A childhood like his lent itself to that. He'd observed Athos over the years, and while an injury to any soldier in the regiment caused concern, an injury to Aramis or to himself, would transform Athos into an avenging angel, one who wouldn't rest until those over whom he worried were safe and mended and those responsible were punished.

When, Porthos wondered, had Athos begun to include d'Artagnan among people for whom he would become that avenging angel?

Before he could say a word, Aramis appeared. Athos stood and he and Porthos both rounded on the Musketeer.

"How is he?"

"Will he be all right?

They spoke over each other. Aramis held up a hand. "He'll be fine. He has a nasty bump on the head, so I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days. He's strained some of the muscles in his back and stomach in the…while…" He sighed and rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "There may be a more delicate way to say it, but I am too tired to think of it. He strained himself while he hung from that tree. I don't think anything's torn, but there are some serious strains. Also, bruises, scrapes…and of course, he is dreadfully malnourished and dehydrated. Also, the rope was tight." He gestured to his own throat to indicate where he meant. "He's bruised, a bit hoarse, but there shouldn't be any lasting affects." He turned to Porthos with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You saved him, my friend. If you hadn't gotten beneath him…"

"Yeah, and if you hadn't shot that rope! What a shot!" Porthos laughed with relief.

"You're both right. Aramis, it was a hell of a shot, which, Porthos, wouldn't have been in time to save him had you not gotten beneath him." Athos spoke softly, his eyes were closed and small tremors wracked his body.

Aramis glanced at Porthos who shrugged. "Are you all right, Athos?" Aramis asked.

"I'm fine. Is he awake? May I see him?"

Aramis nodded. "He's bone weary, but I think you can speak to him."

Athos nodded and headed for d'Artagnan's room.

Aramis and Porthos watched him go, and once he was gone from view, Aramis turned to Porthos. "What's going on?"

Porthos shrugged. "He's in a mood. Must be blaming himself for something."

"For what? We saved d'Artagnan." Aramis insisted.

"He went on about him having hung, that this won't go away. I don't know what's got into him." Porthos changed the subject. "Is d'Artagnan really all right?"

Aramis nodded. "His injuries will heal. As for being all right, well, I don't know about that."

"What? Why?"

"He's been through a lot. He's got a lot to put behind him. Not the least of which being that his entire town was willing, perhaps anxious, to see him hang." Aramis shook his head and made a quick sign of the cross. "After his father's death, what might that do to him?"

Porthos considered that. Aramis was right. The boy likely had a lot to consider and most of it would require a recovery period. To be so utterly abandoned shortly after losing so much…the big Musketeer shook his head. It took less than what d'Artagnan had endured to send some men to the Court of Miracles…and others to the Bastille.

"They've been in there awhile." Porthos said at last as he took a seat.

"Yes," Aramis agreed, sitting beside him. "But then d'Artagnan has little choice."

"Should we go in?" Porthos asked.

Aramis considered this. "I think we should leave them alone." He glanced at Porthos with a smile playing on his lips.

Porthos smiled back. "Yeah, they're good for each other." Porthos realized the truth of that as he said it.

The Musketeers

Athos stepped through the doorway to D'Artagnan's room surprised, despite what Aramis said, to find D'Artagnan awake if not entirely alert.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said the name softly. If d'Artagnan didn't respond, he'd leave the boy to rest.

"Athos," d'Artagnan croaked.

Athos reached for the pitcher of water by the bedside table and poured a cup for d'Artagnan, helping him hold it steady as he took the smallest of sips.

"How are you?" Athos asked then cursed himself silently for the stupidity of the question.

D'Artagnan nodded, but wouldn't look him in the eye.

Athos tried again. He had to keep the boy focused on what was here and what was real and not let him lose himself in dark memories. Dark memories could only lead to madness. "D'Artagnan, how are you?"

"I honestly don't know." He looked up into Athos's face. "I…am having a little trouble believing that it's over. That I'm here. That I've lived past dawn. I…" he broke off and rubbed at his neck. Athos followed the hands and couldn't help but stare at the bruising. "I'm alive, and I really don't know how I should feel about that."

His answer disturbed Athos more than he could say. Understandable though it was, Athos would have expected some mention of being relived or happy to be alive…but then again, Athos probably wouldn't have described living through this nightmare in terms any different from the ones d'Artagnan had used.

"You are alive. That 's enough for now. You can work out how you feel about it later." Athos wanted to say more. He wanted to share with the boy the joy he felt at seeing him alive and breathing and not in a jail cell. Too much time alone staring into the bottom of a wine glass had apparently rendered him unable to speak such things aloud, or perhaps it had merely been too long since he'd felt that kind of joy.

To his surprise, d'Artagnan attempted a small smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was an attempt, and for some reason Athos found a bit more joy in that.

"I need to thank you. You and Aramis and Porthos…"

Athos held out a hand to forestall any more such talk. "You don't need to thank us. We could hardly have done any differently."

"You came. I sent word to you little daring to believe you would even arrive in time to see me hang, and instead you saved my life. I'm grateful." D'Artagnan looked away, embarrassed by something though Athos could not see what that might be.

"What is it?" he asked as he sat on a chair that stood by the bedside.

"I…don't…" he cleared his throat. "I tried to kill you, when we met, and you so readily put that aside." He turned to look Athos in the eye, and the Musketeer could see confusion, admiration, and a fierce determination to…to what?

Athos sighed. "I have been where you are. I lost my family. Everyone. I was as alone as you are."

"And now?" D'Artagnan prompted.

Athos could see the need to know, the desire to be told that there was a way out of this pain.

"And now," Athos replied, "Now, I'm not." He moved his head slightly to indicate the other room where they both could hear that Aramis and Porthos were talking quietly, and, in a gesture he would have halted if he'd given it any thought at all, he reached out a hand to rest it lightly on the youth's shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he considered this. He really, truly considered it. With a slight nod, and a smile that came a bit closer to his eyes, d'Artagnan held out his hand. "Thank you, Athos. I am grateful."

As Athos took his hand, he realized d'Artagnan was talking about more than saving him from hanging

The Musketeers

That evening, after much wine and talk, the Musketeers retired to their rooms. Exhaustion claimed all of them quickly. It had been an indescribably tiring ride from Paris, and things had only gotten more out of control after their arrival in Lupiac.

Porthos, unlike his friends, was a light sleeper. Life in the Court had taught him the talent of sleeping wherever he found a place or the time, but it had also left him most likely to wake with the slightest noise. Bad things happened to sound sleepers.

It took him several moments to determine where he was and what had wakened him. Aramis was asleep on the bed, while he'd insisted on taking the small, nearby sofa. The soft, reassuring sound of Aramis's breathing quieted his racing heart and made him listen more intently to identify what had disturbed him.

There, a slight patter of rain against the roof. It was drizzling. Relieved it was nothing serious, he settled down to go back to sleep. It was then he heard another sound. It was faint. Distant. It was the sort of sound someone makes when they are trying to make no sound at all. Pacing. It was a soft patter of bare feet and creaky floorboards. He listened for a moment or two, not sure what to do. It was, of course, d'Artagnan. Aramis was asleep a few feet from him and he knew Athos's tread well enough to identify it blindfolded, which he'd done on more than one occasion. D'Artagnan shouldn't be out of bed. He was still recovering.

His sleepy brain flashed through the thoughts again and again trying to make a connection it knew must be there. D'Artagnan. Pacing. Likely ill or hurting. Drizzling…

Damn.

Porthos eased himself from the sofa and crept toward the door. He opened it and moved with the skill and stealth of a seasoned soldier toward d'Artagnan's room. He knocked softly as he opened the door not wanting to startle the boy too badly.

"D'Artagnan?" He whispered as he peered around the door into the room. D'Artagnan stood frozen like a startled deer, his eyes wide and staring at Porthos. The boy's arms were wrapped around himself as though he were literally trying to hold himself together. Porthos held up his hands. "I heard you. Did you need something? Are you all right?" He knew the boy wasn't, but he had to give him a chance to admit it and to accept his silent offer of help.

"I'm fi…" He stopped mid-word and cleared his throat. "I'm…not myself." A clap of thunder and flash of lightning underscored the words and made him jump, his head turning toward the window where they could both see the light drizzle had become a deluge.

Porthos took his admission of not being himself as a good sign. He closed the door behind him and crossed the room to stand by the boy's side. Without explaining himself, he helped d'Artagnan get back to bed. Once he was settled, Porthos looked him in the eye. Instead of his usual amusement, he let d'Artagnan see his concern. "Madame Bucher told us…'ow your mother died."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise. "She did?"

"Yeah, and, well, we…or Athos really…put that together with what we know of the night your father died…d'Artagnan, it's all right. Don't be embarrassed about this. It's early days yet. You never had time to mourn properly, and with what you've been through…"

"You sound like Aramis," d'Artagnan admitted, his gaze falling to his lap.

"Well, we've known each other a long time." Porthos frowned. A thought had occurred to him and he had to ask. "D'Artagnan, you were in prison for weeks. They weren't dry weeks. How did you deal with storms while locked in that cell?"

D'Artagnan didn't answer right away. He glanced up at Porthos through the curtain of his hair for a moment, and then he dropped his gaze again before answering. His reply was so soft that Porthos missed it.

Porthos shook his head with a smile. "You know I didn't hear that."

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "I screamed."

He hated storms after that. He would hide under tables, chairs, in barns, and he would scream. Oh, he would scream.

Madame Boucher's words rang through his head, and hearing d'Artagnan's soft, embarrassed echo of them stole the remains of the smile from his face and made his heart skip a beat. The words, the tone—all so matter-of-fact—belied the emotion Porthos knew they hid.

"Why…" Porthos had to clear his throat to continue. "Why aren't you screamin' now?"

"In that cell," d'Artagnan confessed, not yet looking at Porthos. "I didn't care who heard. I didn't care if I screamed until I passed out. Here…" he looked up now. "You have all done so much for me. You saved me. You are all exhausted because of it. I couldn't repay that by burdening you with my…weakness."

That last word, imbued with bitterness and self-loathing, conveyed more meaning than d'Artagnan had intended. Porthos shook his head, his expression softened, and he reached out a hand placing it gently on d'Artagnan's shoulder. He shook his head sadly as he spoke.

"You can't think that way, lad. It ain't weakness to feel loss. You just have a…" he searched for a word knowing Aramis or Athos would know just what to say. He sighed. "You just have a more vivid reminder of your loss than most." He leaned forward. "All of us have things we can't bear. We all avoid them in some way." He thought of Aramis and his reactions to snow in March. He thought of Athos and his penchant for wine nearly every evening, but somehow more so in the spring when flowers were beginning to bloom. He thought of himself and how he had avoided the Court of Miracles since turning his back on his former way of life.

"You need to find a way to cope until you can watch rain fall again without bein' reminded of what you've lost."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I…had barely controlled it before my father was murdered. I had learned to get through a storm but not how to keep the memories from tormenting me."

"What did you do before your father died?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "He'd talk to me. Distract me from my thoughts." He flinched as the thunder and lightning came again. His body trembling for a moment or two as he suppressed the urge to scream.

Porthos smiled. "Well, if that's the case, I think you'll find I'm quite the talker!" Porthos smiled and launched into story after story of his escapades in Paris. He told d'Artagnan of his first days as a recruit, of the first time he cheated a man at cards and got away with it, of the time he'd come to the aid of a young woman accosted by robbers, and of the first and only time he'd bested Athos with a sword and how 'it was more luck than skill, but don't tell Athos that…'

If the rain fell more furiously, Porthos spoke louder. If the lightning flashed, Porthos reached out a hand to turn d'Artagnan's head away from the window. If the thunder crashed loud enough to wake the dead, he'd put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeeze, all without missing a beat in any of his tales.

Eventually, the lateness of the hour, the drone of the storm, and the exhaustion he'd fought against lulled d'Artagnan into a light slumber. Porthos continued to speak, though in a softer tone hoping d'Artagnan would find the rest he so desperately needed. Only when the drizzle had stopped entirely, sometime near dawn, and only after checking to be sure d'Artagnan was soundly sleeping, did Porthos, stand, stretch, and head back to his room.

He'd barely settled beneath his blanket before he, too, was asleep.

The Musketeers

Cardinal Richelieu moves swiftly through the courtyard towards his office. There was much to do before he met with the King this evening. His mind raced through his own plans and how he could best keep them from the monarch. What the King didn't know would fill a cathedral, and the Cardinal added to that almost daily.

He entered his office, leaving his two guards at the door. Once inside, he was more than shocked at what he saw. He was long-practiced, however, in keeping surprise off his face.

"Should you not be in Lupiac with Lemeiux?" He put the question to the man who leaned against the front of his desk as though he had every right to be there.

"Lemeiux will fail. He's not good at what he does."

"And you are here to tell me how good at it you are." It was not a question, and a knowing smile passed over the Cardinal's face.

The man smiled in return. "I can collect taxes and more in Lupiac and cow the people into obeying every whim."

"Lemieux makes sure the Crown gets its cut," the Cardinal reminded him.

"You mean your cut. Lemieux fumbled with that man you had Gaudet kill. He has a son who knows all about it."

The Cardinal knew of the young Gascon farm boy come to Paris bent on revenge, but he thought the matter over.

"Lemieux has taken steps to remove the boy from this life, but he will not be able to stem the tide of ill feelings. He banks too much on the good will of those he steals from. He likes that they think he's doing what is 'right and proper' while he robs them blind and they thank him for it." The man spat on the floor to indicate what he thought of things that were 'right and proper' and the Cardinal glared at him.

The Cardinal gestured at the damp spot on the floor. "This is not a barnyard." He crossed the room and walked around his desk. Satisfied when the intruder swiveled to keep him in his sight, the Cardinal continued to glare at the man. "I have no one else to send, so Lupiac is yours if you can continue sending the money as Lemieux has, but I warn you that I will see you dead if you cross me."

The man laughed at the Cardinal and moved toward the door. He spoke barely keeping his own distrust of the Cardinal in check. "Just see that you don't cross me."

The Cardinal waited a beat and when the man was nearly at the door, he spoke. "You'd do well to remember that it was I who saved you from hanging some time ago. I can put you back in the noose if I see no value in our association, LeBarge."

LeBarge snarled, but left the Cardinal without another word.

The Musketeers

It was some days before d'Artagnan could be said to be healing. The Musketeers had to consider getting back to Paris. They had a ten-day ride ahead of them, and though he was an understanding captain, Treville could only be so tolerant of their long absence. Aramis suggested Athos and Porthos ride on without him so that he could remain behind to care for D'Artagnan until he was well on his way to recovery.

Athos knew it was the best solution, but he wasn't sure how much time he could buy for Aramis. Again, Treville's patience was not unlimited.

The solution presented itself from an unexpected source several days after d'Artagnan's failed hanging.

The Lambert brothers arrived with Madame Boucher. The Lamberts, all three, set to work around the home and farm while Madame Boucher, bearing pots full of prepared food, as well as bags full of preserved food, got to work in the kitchen.

As she puttered around putting pots on to simmer and stocking the pantry, she explained to the Musketeers that she would be staying until d'Artagnan was well. D'Artagnan had risen from bed and joined her insisting that he would be fine on his own, but Athos could see his heart wasn't in the argument. The Musketeer couldn't blame him. After what he'd been through, it was natural enough to wish for a time to be cared for, even cosseted.

Madame Boucher didn't bother arguing. She went about her business in the kitchen putting things away and preparing food to be cooked, agreeing with anything d'Artagnan said, but doing as she pleased regardless.

Finally, realizing she was paying no attention to him, d'Artagnan addressed the other question. "What about the Lamberts? Why have they come?"

Marcel had come in by that time and heard the question. "We have to atone for what we did somehow. We believed the worst of you. Yes, we were led to believe it, but we should have realized you wouldn't behave that way." He smiled as one does at a memory. "Your father went on and on about honor. You'd never have disregarded his teaching so thoroughly."

"So…you plan to work on my farm? What about yours."

"We'll work long enough for you to get back on your feet. You'll need help to keep things going without both you and your father." He shrugged. "As I said, we have much to set right."

D'Artagnan was reluctant to accept any help at all, but Athos could see that he saw the sense in this. Finally, he drew himself up and held out his hand. "Thank you."

That evening, they had a feast. A celebration of sorts grew and grew, and, before anyone had realized it, most of the townspeople had arrived, some bearing covered dishes, cakes, breads, or bottles of wine. Some had come with tables and chairs and some had come bearing lanterns, or preserved food, knowing that d'Artagnan had spent a month imprisoned and likely had little available for the coming months before the farm began to yield it's bounty.

Athos, as was his wont, had little to say. The Lamberts had given him and the other Musketeers a wide berth, wary of their reactions to them being in d'Artagnan's house.

After the feasting, the crowd continued to drink and tell tales of the days past. They hooted with delight describing how the Musketeers had ridden to d'Artagnan's rescue. Porthos's leap from his saddle, Aramis's amazingly accurate shot, and Athos's dueling two men at once were told again and again.

D'Artagnan took it all in having seen none of it. He began to put it all together…connect it to what he'd heard and felt while he'd hung from the rope.

Athos was watching when the boy paled and rubbed a hand across the bruises at his throat. He saw d'Artagnan rise and excuse himself and make his way on shaky legs to the door. Athos discreetly followed.

Outside, d'Artagnan was doubled over. He took deep breaths one arm across his own stomach, and one hand clutching at a post.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos asked softly.

D'Artagnan didn't answer right away. He took two or three steadying breaths, and stood, turning to face the Musketeer.

"Are you well?" Athos asked concern plain on a face that usually gave away nothing he didn't intend it to.

"I…it was warm in there. I needed a breath."

Athos nodded and stepped a bit closer. His hand moved to d'Artagnan's collar and he peered at the bruises. "I am sorry you had to suffer that." His voice was soft and infused with sorrow.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "You had nothing to do with that. You saved me. You, Porthos, and Aramis." He shook his head again. "I had no idea what you went through. Porthos could have been killed leaping from his horse like that."

"A Musketeer learns how to fall properly, but his strength is a marvel." Athos admitted.

"Aramis's shot…that's unnaturally accurate. How did he manage to sever a rope moving at that speed?"

"Ah, that I grant you is hard to explain. Aramis's aim has always been truly remarkable, even miraculous."

"And you…those men were huge, and skilled. You killed them so easily."

"No," Athos shook his head this time. "Never easily. Killing is never an easy thing. Regardless of how the tales make it sound, killing is a last resort. As for my skill with a blade, I must confess I am rather good with a sword."

"Good?" Porthos voice, tinged with incredulity, called from behind them. "Don't let 'im fool you. 'e's the best in the regiment."

"Yes," Aramis agreed. "Almost as good as I am with a musket. A bit better than you are at hand to hand combat."

"Oi!" Porthos yelled, cuffing Aramis lightly on the back of the head.

Athos's eyes danced in delight at his friends' antics, though he fell short of actually smiling. He turned his attention back to d'Artagnan. "The party, it was too much for you." He said it softly, but they all heard it.

"I must confess to being more than a bit overwhelmed," d'Artagnan said as he leaned against the post he'd held to a moment before.

"There's no shame in that." Porthos looked grave.

"None at all," Aramis agreed.

"You've had much to endure of late. It will take some time to adjust," Athos added.

"It is only thanks to all of you…"

"None of that!" Porthos shouted.

"Yes, no thanks necessary." Aramis turned to Porthos. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "…we are getting rather good at these last minute rescues."

Athos smiled this time. "I would prefer, Aramis, that in future we make it a bit less last minute."

The Musketeers

The celebration went on and on. It seemed that every few minutes another neighbor was stopping by with gifts of food or wine. Others were offering to help with the farming, chores and repairs around the house, and anything else d'Artagnan might not feel up to completing on his own.

D'Artagnan thanked them all, pleaded with them to stay and sample Madame Boucber's food or indeed any of the other dishes donated to the cause by the other women of Lupiac. He spoke to Monsieur Tremblay, who had apologized profusely, almost in tears, at having sided with Lemieux against d'Artagnan. He invoked Alexandre and swore he'd make it up to d'Artagnan somehow. D'Artagnan had smiled at him, thanked him sincerely, and led him to the buffet table pleading with him to eat his fill. He did much the same for the rest of the guests, whether they apologized or not.

He sampled whatever treats the various guests pressed upon him, praising the culinary expertise of each. He toasted to his father, to his freedom, to his Musketeer friends, and to Madame Boucher's skill in the kitchen whenever someone raised a glass and looked in his direction. He listened to tale after tale, including tales of the "old days" when his father had been young, when he had been young, and retellings of the Musketeers' prowess in the short hours they'd been in Lupiac before proving d'Artagnan's innocence.

Athos watched it all, and more than once suggested to his young friend that perhaps it was time for a rest. He acquiesced each time d'Artagnan demurred, but warned his friend, that he couldn't keep up this pace all day and all night. It was only because the boy seemed in need of such a celebration that Athos let it continue.

As Athos watched, d'Artagnan, in the midst of a conversation with Monsieur Tremblay and Madame Boucher, put a hand to his head. He started to rise from his chair, faltered, righted himself, and finally stood taking a shaky step towards the kitchen. Athos followed.

In the kitchen, d'Artagnan leaned heavily on the table a hand once again massaging his temples while the arm supporting him on the tabletop trembled almost unnoticeably. Almost.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said softly.

The Gascon turned to face him trying to hide his momentary infirmity. "Athos, can I get you something," he said as he stood away from the table and endeavored to appear carefree and healthy.

Athos shook his head. "D'Artagnan, I think you've done enough hosting for the day. Come. I'll help you to your room." To Athos's surprise, d'Artagnan actually took a step backwards.

"No, I'm fine," he insisted.

Athos frowned. "You most certainly are not fine. Come." He stepped closer and put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Athos, please…" he looked away. "Yes, you're right, but please let me make my way to my room without your help. The guests…I don't want them…I mean…I can't…" He gave up and looked down, embarrassed.

Athos understood even without the help of complete sentences. These people were his friends. They had known him all his life, and had recently abandoned him. He did not want to appear weak in their eyes.

"A discreet withdrawal, then," Athos said. He opened the door and led d'Artagnan out. Then he watched as the boy joined in a conversation here, excused himself to check on drinks there, joined in the laughter at some joke one of the Lamberts had made, and, inside of a quarter of an hour had made his way to his room.

Athos waited a moment or two before following. He stopped on his way for a quiet word with Porthos. The large Musketeer had already guessed something was happening.

"He all right?" Porthos nodded his head in the direction of d'Artagnan's room.

Athos nodded. "A bit worse for wear, but he's agreed to rest. Keep the guests distracted. I don't want him trying to come back out here to be polite to people who would have watched him hang."

Porthos frowned and his eyes glinted with a complex array of emotions. Athos knew he should have been more discreet. Porthos didn't need a reminder of what these people had done. In his eyes, only Madame Boucher had any right to be here celebrating. He knew Porthos well enough to know he tolerated the others present only because they were literally not important in his eyes. They were beneath his notice because of how they'd behaved towards d'Artagnan. He would do as Athos asked now for d'Artagnan's sake.

With a curt nod, Porthos turned and put a big grin on his face as he mingled with the villagers and kept them distracted from the fact that d'Artagnan was missing.

Athos retreated to d'Artagnan's room. When he entered, he saw the young man sitting on his bed. His head hung down. His eyes were closed. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands dangled as though he had no strength in them. Athos sighed.

"Let's get you settled," Athos suggested as he moved closer to the Gascon's bedside.

"I'm fi…"

"Don't say it. Let me help you." Athos said softly.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes in surprised and nodded in agreement.

Athos turned his attention to d'Artagnan's boots. Pulling those off, he reached up and loosened the fastenings on his shirt, carefully easing it off his shoulders. He next examined the bandage across d'Artangnan's back, sitting down beside him and reaching to unwrap the linen.

"Can we leave it for now?" D'Artagnan asked, and there was such exhaustion in his voice that Athos immediately agreed.

He drew back the blankets and carefully assisted d'Artagnan in climbing into the bed before sitting again. "Aramis will have something to say about this. You're still wearing your trousers and your bandage does need changing."

D'Artagnan offered a tired smile. "He can swear at me later. I just need to lie down for a moment."

The admission worried Athos, but he didn't run off to fetch Aramis just yet. Like d'Artagnan, he needed to be still for a moment. Cut off from the celebrants in the other room, the house seemed peaceful. Athos could believe that d'Artagnan could heal here.

"I admire your capacity for forgiveness, d'Artagnan," Athos admitted surprising even himself.

D'Artagnan looked at his friend. "I follow your example."

"Mine?" Athos eyes widened ever so slightly and the admission. When had he ever been forgiving, especially in this boy's sight? He believed himself to be one of the least forgiving men in Paris.

D'Artagnan nodded. "When we met, I pushed you to fight me. I said some horrible things to provoke you, and you tried repeatedly to turn me away, to reason with me. We both know you're the better swordsman. You could have injured me, killed me…a lesser man would have. You could easily have at least humiliated me, disarmed me, made me appear to be what I was…a farm boy from Lupiac out of his depth. You would not. You would have refused to engage me in battle, and, had I not forced the issue, you would have walked away. I saw it as arrogance then, but later I realized. You did not rise to the bait. You forgave me for what I'd done even while I was doing it, and later you even swore to come to my aid if I should need it. It…you…you inspired me. You are an honorable man. It's not just something you think about from time to time or something you use when it is to your advantage. It's who you are. It is as basic to you as breathing. It's in the way you carry yourself, and in the way you deal with those around you, be they higher rank or lower." He smiled then, remembering something.

"Aramis and Porthos spoke of you as we tried to find evidence to clear your name. Their words were forthright and sincere, but I've found their words didn't do justice to you. You are an honorable man, a forgiving man, an honest man. You are the sort of man my father meant when he told me about honor, duty, responsibility…You are the sort of man I…" he looked away for a moment, seized by shyness or embarrassment. Athos waited patiently for him to continue. D'Artagnan cleared his throat, still hoarse especially after such a long speech and he looked Athos in the eye. "You are the sort of man I should like to become."

Athos was silent. His surprise at d'Artagnan's speech, his effusiveness, could not be more complete. How this Gascon youth could see so much in their brief encounter…and yet, to Athos's way of thinking, he was so wrong. "You don't want to be like me, boy." He saw immediately that d'Artagnan took this as rejection. He put a hand out to stop d'Artagnan turning away and he explained. "I have too many regrets. I have done too much…wrong…in my life. It weighs on my soul, boy, and it's too much to allow me to stand as anyone's role model. Don't emulate me, d'Artagnan. If you are to become anything more than you are, you decide what that is and make it so."

D'Artagnan thought about that and nodded, but Athos couldn't be sure if he truly understood. Since he had no intention of explaining the wrongs he'd committed in his life, he'd have to leave it for now.

Athos stood. "You should be resting. I'll leave you…"

"No…" d'Artagnan cut himself short as though realizing what he was saying and embarrassment colored his features. "I…I mean…I'm sorry…forgive me. You should get back to Aramis and Porthos." He made a move as though to turn away and face the wall.

Athos stopped him. "What is it? Are you in pain? Shall I get Aramis?" Athos was half rising from the bedside.

"No…I…it's just…" d'Artagnan let out a long breath in frustration. "That cell, I was alone…so much of the time. They gave me food, water once a day, but I wasn't allowed visitors. Madame Boucher came once when they decided to hang me. They permitted that as my last request, but she stayed only a few minutes before they ended the visit."

Rage surged through Athos at the thought of this. "You had no contact with anyone other than the man who brought food and water…once a day?" Athos was incredulous.

"S-sometimes less," d'Artagnan admitted. "The point is," he rushed to continue before Athos could vent his anger, "I was alone so m-much of the time. I…I don't want to…" d'Artagnan managed to look away. Shame colored his face and tension rippled across his shoulders and arms, pulling at his injuries.

Athos had been a soldier for years. Before that, he'd been a Comte. He understood the need for solitude after the press of people making demands or requests or even just after a long campaign or mission where privacy was at a premium. That someone could be alone so much of the time and crave the company of others wasn't a difficult concept for him.

With a concentrated effort, Athos released his anger. It wasn't directed at the boy and was no good for him right now anyway. It was Lemieux who was behind this. He was at fault. Athos glanced around the room. It was modestly furnished as most local farmhouses were, but there was a sturdy, comfortable looking chair by the window. He crossed to it and brought it to d'Artagnan's bedside. Settling himself down, he looked at d'Artagnan. "I have nowhere to be." He smiled then, a small thing, barely a quirk of the lips, but d'Artagnan glowed.

They both sat back and talked, d'Artagnan asking what the Musketeers had been doing since the last time they'd seen each other…before they received his urgent missive. Athos, all to happy to oblige, told him of their days, the boring ones and the less humdrum moments alike. In short order, the boy drifted to sleep. Athos, not really willing to leave him alone, even in sleep, after the heartfelt admission that he'd been isolated for so long, settled back in the chair and allowed himself the luxury of watching the lad sleep.

The Musketeers

Aramis had seen Porthos having a quiet word with Athos, and made his way to his friend's side. "Is everything all right?" He had just enough residual anxiety over the boy's injuries to ask.

Porthos nodded. "The boy's fine. Just a bit too much…" he gestured to the crowd… "…attention and 'e's feelin' a bit 'emmed in. Athos went to be sure e's gettin' some rest."

Aramis nodded. "We'll have to keep everyone from noticing. This is an old fashioned knees-up. The locals should remember the celebration and not d'Artagnan's absence."

Porthos nodded, and together they did just that. They kept the wine flowing, the food available, and encouraged everyone to enjoy themselves. When people began to drift away, looking for someone from whom to take their leave, Aramis stepped into the breech thanking them for coming, for contributing food, drink, chairs, tables or merely their own delightful presence to the festivities while promising to extend their farewells to d'Artagnan.

When everyone had left, he and Porthos helped Madame Boucher tidy up. The woman had meant it when she'd said she'd be staying so, once she'd retired to her room, and the Lamberts had left insisting they'd be back in the morning to see what d'Artagnan wanted done around the property, Aramis and Porthos slipped away to d'Artagnan's room.

Peeking around the door, Aramis saw d'Artagnan soundly sleeping and slightly propped up in bed, and Athos, an arm resting on the young man's shoulder as he contemplated the sleeping form.

Aramis cleared his throat as he stepped inside making room for Porthos to follow. "How is he?" Aramis spoke softly.

Athos replied in kind. "He's well. Fatigued mostly. His bandage needs changing, but his exhaustion claimed him before I could do it."

"Hmmm," Aramis responded, knowing Athos well enough to know when he was stretching the truth. He crossed to the bed and put a hand to d'Artganan's head. The skin was cool. "He seems well. I'll let him sleep and change it when he wakes."

He turned to Athos then tossed a questioning glance at Porthos. The larger man nodded knowing, as they each always seemed to know, what the other was asking.

Aramis nodded in return and looked at Athos. "We'll need to head back soon."

Athos sighed. "I know."

"Treville is a kind and understanding soul, but if he gives us much more time, people will start to talk. I mean, after all, we know we're his favorites. No point rubbing it in everyone else's face."

Athos waited, and Aramis plunged on ahead. "Porthos and I think d'Artagnan would do well in Paris. He'd be a fine soldier…even a Musketeer."

Athos nodded. "And?"

"And…" he looked to Porthos who shrugged not sure what Athos was asking. He looked back at Athos. "We wondered where you stood on the matter."

Athos looked at Aramis, then Porthos, and finally back at d'Artagnan. Aramis saw a level of tenderness in the gaze that he'd last seen on his friend when Porthos had been seriously injured. Athos looked up at Aramis. "I stand with d'Artagnan. His future is of his making. It is where he stands on the matter that you should wonder." He rose then and stretched as though he'd been in that chair a long while. Then he moved to the bedside, placed a tender hand on d'Artagnan's head as though gauging the temperature for himself, then moving it down to the boy's cheek in silent affection. After a moment, Athos turned and walked from the room without saying another word.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, and Aramis shrugged, taking up the chair Athos had vacated and waiting for d'Artagnan to wake so he could tend to his bandages. Porthos settled on the floor beside him to keep him company.

The Musketeers

The next morning, the Musketeers rose early, and leaving Madame Boucher to watch a still sleeping d'Artagnan, the trio headed to Lupiac's town center.

"You plannin' on explainin' what we're about?" Porthos asked. He'd follow Athos anywhere, but he did like to know where they were going.

Athos took a deep breath and explained himself. He told his friends what d'Artagnan had told him. He explained about the forced isolation, the feeding schedule, the fact that he had only been permitted to speak to Madame Boucher for a few moments in all the weeks he'd been held. Porthos felt his own anger growing with each word. He could see Aramis was likewise affected. Athos, having had the night to stew over the details, was in a different place. No longer merely anger, he had passed through enraged and had now achieved a calm he only carried with him when his anger had cooled and a plan for vengeance had emerged. It wasn't a look he'd seen often. Twice that he could recall Athos had worn this expression, his anger both hardened and tempered by friendship and affection. Once had been when he'd learned how Marsac had abandoned Aramis to die alone in the woods. Porthos had often been pleased the other man had not returned, for if Athos had seen him, the deserter would have been destroyed, not merely killed, but utterly obliterated. The second time had been shortly after that.

It had been shortly after receiving his commission. Porthos had been late returning from a two-day leave. Aramis and Athos, knowing how seriously he took his commission had come looking for him. They'd found him. He'd been drugged and beaten, tied up in a basement in a small hovel of a home just outside of the Court of Miracles. Aramis had put him back together. Athos had taken it upon himself to discover who had done this. Porthos had seen nothing, being both drunk and drugged at the time, but somehow Athos had put it all together. The men responsible had been beaten and removed from Paris. Word of their appearance in a local jail somewhere in La Fere had kept Porthos and Aramis guessing how Athos had convinced the Comte de la Fere to assist him in his vengeance. Athos refused to speak of it. The men had served two years and been cut loose on the proviso that they leave France and never return. Porthos learned they'd been friends of his in the Court, angered that he'd moved on and found a way to make something of himself and believing Porthos thought himself better than they were.

Porthos glanced at Aramis when the tale was done, and Aramis moved his horse to block Athos. "What are you planning, my friend?"

Athos seethed. "Move aside."

Aramis put up a hand. "Now, don't think for a moment that I won't help. I'm as upset as you are. I need to know. What are you planning?"

"I need a word with Lemieux."

Porthos snorted.

Aramis ignored that. "A word?"

Athos sat up straighter on the horse's back. "Yes, a word."

Aramis stepped aside and moved to flank his commanding officer.

Porthos chuckled. "This word…is it spelled with a sword and punctuated with a fist? If so, I've got a few of my own to share."

Athos actually smiled, and Porthos grinned at the sight rare as it was.

"A word is all I require." He shrugged for a moment, considering. "A threat may be included," Athos admitted.

They stopped their horses in front of the offices where d'Artagnan had been held. They moved swiftly through the building to the cell that had held d'Artagnan for so long. Athos cracked open the door to the cell and peered inside. Aramis nudged him and he and Porthos followed. Porthos almost laughed at the sight that met him. Lemieux, wide eyed, cowered in the corner, sporting several bruises he'd not had when the Musketeers had departed. Porthos imagined that a few of the people who'd learned the extent of the man's crimes had stopped by to explain their irritation to the man.

Athos glared, and Lemieux almost cowered, but he seemed to remember himself. Getting to his feet, he stared at the Musketeers. "I demand my rights…"

"You are in a position to demand nothing," Athos told him.

Porthos quietly shut the door behind him satisfied when the click of locking it made Lemieux jump.

Lemieux stepped backwards, hands held out in front of him. "Leave me alone!"

Athos nodded. "That I will do." He stepped closer backing Lemieux further into the cell until his back hit the wall. "I have been up all night drafting a report to my commanding officer and to the King explaining your crimes, the murders, the theft, the forged orders claiming you had the authority of the Crown behind you, and I gave my recommendations as to your punishment. I have a special place as one of the King's favorites at the moment, and he will listen. I have recommended isolation. Extended isolation."

Lemieux shook his head. "I will appeal…"

"There's no authority higher than the King," Athos reminded him.

"I'll find others…the King must have other favorites."

Athos smiled. "He does." He gestured to Aramis who stepped forward, tipping his hat. Then to Porthos, who grinned and slammed his fist into his open palm.

"Isolation…that's….not so bad…" Lemiuex insisted with a dash of bravado so obviously false that Porthos laughed outright.

"You misunderstand. There is a cell in the Chatelet, so deep below ground they call it the pit. The men who have gone down there never see daylight. They live in the light of a torch or two, quite alone. Their food is lowered down in buckets. Their jailers never say a word to them. Your isolation will be complete and total." Athos smiled. "I leave you to contemplate the luxury of your current surroundings. Try to remember them. It will seem like paradise in a few months." Athos turned on his heel and marched from the cell.

Aramis smiled and clapped his hands together. "And I was afraid he had something drastic in mind," he said as he followed Athos out.

Porthos took a step closer to the man. He grinned at him silently until the man shook just imagining what Porthos planned. Then Porthos took half a step back and spat in Lemieux's eye. With a laugh, he left the man to himself and followed his friends.

"That went well," he said to Aramis and Athos. They left in companionable silence and returned to d'Artagnan's farm.

The Musketeers

The Musketeers had gathered their supplies, which Madame Boucher had augmented with her own cooking, and had saddled their horses. D'Artagnan had come out to see them off and leaned more heavily than he'd have liked to admit on a fence post as they fastened the last of the saddlebags.

Porthos stepped up to the lad a grin on his face. "Glad you're on your feet, so to speak."

D'Artagnan returned the grin. "I wouldn't be if you hadn't come. Thank you, Porthos."

Porthos shook his head. "Told you before. No reason for thanks. I couldn't have stood by and let them kill you for something you didn't do…or for something you did do, for that matter. You're a good lad." It seemed he wanted to say more, but he gave up and finished with, "Don't be a stranger."

Aramis spoke to Madame Boucher and described how he expected d'Artagnan's recovery to go. He told her what to do in case he worsened, but he didn't expect any such thing. Then the Musketeer turned to d'Artagnan, who was shaking Porthos's hand. "Ah, my lad! I must say a part of me envies you this lovely place. The peace of it…" he inhaled deeply taking in the soothing smells of a clear if chilly day. "…It's a tonic!"

D'Artagnan laughed. "It won't smell as good in a month or so once we've laid the manure."

Aramis's smile froze on his face. "I'm glad to miss it!" He said cheerily as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "I'm also glad to leave you in such good hands." He made a vague gesture to Madame Boucher and the Lamberts, who were milling about nearby. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Don't fail to call on us if ever again you find yourself in need of a sword, a musket, or brute strength." The smile shifted into a genuine, less boastful one. "Or…just a few good friends!"

D'Artagnan nodded, and seemed more than a little surprised when Aramis gave him a hearty, friendly hug. "Thank you, Aramis," he said as he returned it perhaps a bit tighter than he would have had the previous weeks not been the trauma they were.

Aramis shook his head. "No thanks are necessary. No other outcome was acceptable."

Athos had spoken briefly with the Lamberts. He appreciated their stepping forward to help d'Artagnan, but he wanted to be sure they understood the consequences of letting the boy down. Noting the paleness of their features after he'd said his piece, he congratulated himself on his fine communication skills. He turned finally to d'Artagnan who'd only just become disentangled from Aramis.

"You look better than you have since we arrived," Athos admitted.

"I feel much more myself," d'Artagnan replied. "Thank you, Athos. No one else will accept my gratitude. I do hope you will."

Athos gauged the man's words and nodded. "If you feel you must extend it, then I will accept it. I'm glad you called on us, though how you could think we'd come all this way merely to watch as you died I'll never understand."

D'Artagnan looked down and spoke softly. "I honestly could foresee no other outcome. I thought…my father…I thought it better to leave this world, to see him again, to see my mother once more…than to hope in vain for a reprieve that would see me…well…with no real direction, and no real family."

Athos shook his head. "You have all of that and more. Remember, d'Artagnan, a man may go in any direction he chooses, but the easiest path to see is the one to which your own dreams lead you."

D'Artagnan looked up in surprise.

Athos gave him a half smile. "You've told me a lot about your father's dreams for this land, for Lupiac, even for you, but you've said precious little about your own. Once you've examined them, you won't feel as though you have no direction."

D'Artagnan nodded and offered his hand. Athos shook it and turned to his horse and mounted.

The trio of Musketeers doffed their hats and waved to d'Artagnan, who waved in return, as did Madame Boucher, and, after a while, the Lamberts.

After they'd ridden a short distance, Athos glanced back to see the others had returned to their chores leaving a thoughtful d'Artagnan staring at the receding Musketeers.

The Musketeers

It was a fine day in March. Athos watched as Porthos and Aramis put some of their newest recruits through their paces. The trio had just returned from a mission, and though Athos knew he should be reporting to the Captain, they'd decided to delay so that they could make a point.

The fledgling Musketeers weren't bad, but they had been assuming they could join the Inseparables merely by sitting at their table at meals, standing nearby and attempting to add their own opinions to their conversations, and joining in whenever they found the trio at a tavern.

The Inseparables were having none of it. Other Musketeers tried to warn the young men that the Inseparables were a trio and not in the habit of expanding that count. The young tend not to listen to their elders.

Once Aramis and Porthos had somewhat humiliated the new recruits, they joined Athos and they made their way to Captain Treville's office.

Athos knocked and heard the Captain give permission to enter. He was therefore somewhat surprised to find that the Captain wasn't alone. Treville stood in front of his desk and was shaking the hand of a very familiar young man.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, his shock apparent.

"Athos." D'Artagnan turned to the others. "Aramis, Porthos." D'Artagnan waited, anxiety painting his features.

Athos turned to Treville. His question was written on his face.

Treville addressed all three of his inseparables. "D'Artagnan has asked for the opportunity to join us. I told him he would be most welcome if someone were to agree to vouch for him formally. After all, a letter of introduction is the usual way a thing like this begins. Now, do any of you know where our young Gascon might get such a letter?"

Treville raised an eyebrow. An instant later, each of the Inseparables produced a letter from his pocket. Each had been written some time ago and had obviously been carried around waiting for such an opportunity. Treville took each letter having obviously known the trio would produce them and wrote the date on the top of each placing them in a neat stack on his desk. "Fine. It's all in order. D'Artagnan, welcome to Paris. Your training will be hard and will begin today. Dismissed."

D'Artagnan smiled his thanks and left the office.

Treville looked to the Inseparables. "I know you're here to report on the mission you've just completed. It's a shame you missed me. I should be back in my office in an hour."

The trio smiled and took their leave racing out of the office to catch up with their newest recruit.

Athos paused before leaving. "Captain, I will cover any expenses for his training. No need to trouble him about that."

Treville nodded. "I'll be sure to make a note of it," he said as he placed a fourth, slightly less rumpled recommendation letter to the pile on the desk.

Athos grinned at the sight.

D'Artagnan had just reached the bottom of the stairs when Aramis and Porthos ran after him calling his name. Athos followed at a slightly more dignified pace.

"When did you get back to Paris?" Porthos asked.

"What about your farm?" Aramis added.

"Today. The Lamberts are looking after it. I've made a deal with them. We'll share the profits and they'll continue to look after the hired hands." D'Artagnan smiled, slightly unsure even after what had happened in the office. "I'm pleased to see you all."

"As we are pleased to see you," Athos said.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and walked towards his horse, which he'd left tied just inside the stables. He reached into the saddlebags and removed three wine bottles and presented one to each of the Musketeers.

"Gifts are not necessary, d'Artagnan," Athos began, but d'Artagnan shook his head and smiled.

"These are." He waited as they each examined their bottle.

"D'Artagnan…" Aramis read. He looked up at the boy, surprise on his face. "Are these your father's?" He tried to hand the bottle back. "We cannot take them from you!"

D'Artagnan smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness in it. "You must, or you won't be able to compare them."

"Compare 'em to what?" Porthos asked.

"These." D'Artagnan removed three more bottles from the bag and presented those as well.

"These are the same…" Porthos started.

"No. Read the year," d'Artagnan suggested.

"This is your own vintage. The first is the one you bottled expecting he would be correcting you this summer." Athos said, a knowing smile tweaking the corners of his mouth.

D'Artagnan smiled. "Yes, and to my shock, I actually did it. My last try with him by my side, and I got it right. I consulted my notes before leaving Lupiac, and I was able to compare them to my father's…both his notes and his last bottles. They're almost identical." He turned thoughtful and quiet. "If he had lived, he might have been proud of me."

Athos took a step closer and slipping a bottle under his arm, he placed his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders. "D'Artagnan, I spoke to Madame Boucher. I have heard you speak of your father, and I have also spoken to someone in whose interpretations of the bible and God's word I have utmost confidence myself." He gestured toward Aramis, surprising not only d'Artagnan, but also Porthos and Aramis. "I am sure of two things. One, he was already proud of you. Two, though he is gone, he is prouder still." He paused a moment to let d'Artagnan take that in. "Now, on to more practical matters. Have you procured a place to stay?"

"Madame Bonacieux…" d'Artagnan began.

"Ah, the fair Constance…" Aramis interrupted, a mischievous smile upon his face.

Porthos smacked him on the back of the head. "She's married."

Aramis blinked. "And?"

Athos put an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder's leading him away. "Ignore them. Come. Let us begin your training, D'Artagnan. You have much to learn, which, as it turns out, is good since we have much to teach."

The Musketeers

D'Artagnan smiled as he allowed Athos to lead him across the courtyard. During his long ride to Paris he'd come to realize a few things. He'd initially been wracked with indecision and anxiety and had indeed come close to turning around and heading for home more than once.

What hope could he have, he'd thought, to become a Musketeer? He was a farmer from Lupiac as unfamiliar with Paris life as a Comte would be with farming. Yet, he had pushed on, unable to turn back, though he vowed each night that he would the next morning.

His return to the Garrison had taken away his indecision. Seeing the familiar place had chased away some of his doubt. He'd recalled his father teaching him to wield a sword, and he recalled his words on honor and he knew that somehow, his father had always known he wouldn't stay on the farm forever. Indeed, Alexandre d'Artagnan himself might not have stayed on the farm had he not fallen in love and fathered a child. He'd never shown any sign of regret, and d'Artagnan believed his father was content in his choices and in the life he'd built for himself and his son, but one particularly lonely night on his trip to Paris, d'Artagnan recalled a conversation they'd had when he was 15 years old.

They'd been doing hard labor digging up an old tree. The tree had been struck by lightning and burned. They'd chopped it down most of the day, and were trying to remove the root when his father had suggested a short break. Breathing heavily, yet somehow looking well and fit at the same time, he'd wiped his brow with a handkerchief and looked his son in the eye.

"Charles," he said, "A man may choose any route home. The short and direct path or the long and meandering." He'd laughed then, and d'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment at the memory, overcome with the desire never to forget the sound of that laugh. "Sometimes, both routes end up in the same place, and sometimes they can take you to vastly different destinations."

D'Artagnan hadn't understood what he was saying. He had questioned him, but his father had said he'd know what he meant one day. He often claimed the future would make things clearer, but d'Artagnan wondered how long he'd need to wait. He was certain that he was no wiser, that things were no clearer, than they had been all those years ago.

Even so, he thought he knew now what his father must have meant. He'd pondered the words along with what Athos had told him about following his own dreams and he would find direction. Once he'd considered that, his father's words made sense. Athos had said he was young and could change his mind, and he thought it was a fine suggestion. If he did become a Musketeer, he might choose one day to retire on his little farm in Lupiac.

He might choose instead to remain in Paris, remain a soldier. He could see himself doing either of those things, or indeed, if he decided in a year's time that soldiering was not for him, he could return all the sooner.

His life as he'd known it had crumbled to ashes in a matter of a few days, but somehow, now, after all he'd been through, he saw possibilities. He might never have considered them had his father not been killed, and so they were bittersweet at best, but, from the ashes of his life, he'd found a chance to build another.

He stood now across from Athos in the courtyard. They each raised their swords in salute and in moments, the sound of sword-on-sword, punctuated with shouts of encouragement from Aramis and Porthos rang through the early morning.

Finis