A/N: Thank you for the lovely comments and encouragement. It means a lot and it keeps me writing. So does the Fetes de Mousquetaires monthly contest on the forums. The prompts are great and I hope more people get inspired to give it a try.

D'Artagnan did not remember how he had found himself at the Ponte de la Tournelle, but he stood now at the foot of the bridge, breathing heavily, drenched from the rain. The skies had dried at some point and now a cold moon tried to break through streaks of clouds. His mind felt battered, hanging on to shreds of memories – Athos pale and lifeless in his arms, the cloud of blood washing away with the rain water, his father clutching his hand as his life seeped from him. D'Artagnan took in a ragged breath and pushed all of that from his thoughts. He focused instead on one face – du Bellay. Athos's words about honor were washed away with his blood. D'Artagnan, with no code, no brotherhood, would be the instrument of brutal justice in the murder of his friend. This was honor. He steadied his breathing, felt the slight shake in his taught limbs cease. A deadly calm overtook him. There was no fear now of losing his own life as without his father, without his mentor, and without the promise of brotherhood the Musketeers had offered, there was nothing precious about himself to save. D'Artagnan pushed his wet hair from his face and strode forward across the bridge, death walking with him under the struggling moonlight.

As small as the Île Saint-Louis was, D'Artagnan was uncertain of where to go next. The grand townhouses and hôtels particulier, each with their gates and courtyards were a different Paris than the gritty streets he was learning to navigate. He knew du Bellay was here, but he was unsure how to find him. While lights burned in many of the windows and the sound of music or laughter lifted on the breeze, few were out in the streets with night wearing late and the weather still threatening. He walked along the broad avenue and read the placards on the gates with no luck. He felt his temper rising with his frustration. How was he going to find du Bellay? He rounded a corner and came upon a coachman depositing a Lord and his lady at the gates of a stately maison. Finally someone he could ask. In a few moments he had directions and made his way across the small island city to the Hôtel Beauvais.

The gates were open at the grand chateau and lanterns were lit behind the fluttering silk curtains in the long windows of the second floor. D'Artagnan walked confidently to the entrance, his approach immediately noted by liveried footmen who beckoned to someone inside. Just as D'Artagnan started up the marble steps, the majordome opened the door and stood in the threshold. He took in D'Artagnan's rough and bedraggled appearance with a keen eye, but his words were nothing short of polite.

"May I be of assistance to you, Monsieur?" he asked.

"I'm looking for Henri du Bellay," D'Artagnan said calmly, although he felt his blood beginning to rise, "Where is he?"

"May I ask your business, Monsieur?" the majordome countered.

D'Artagnan smiled warmly, "I'm here with a message from Athos of the King's Musketeers," he said with a slight bow of respect, "I have been instructed to deliver it personally." D'Artagnan waited for the butler to make up his mind, confident that his charm and feigned sincerity would win the man over. He was not disappointed.

"A moment, please, Monsieur . . . " the majordome paused, looking expectantly at the young man.

"D'Artagnan," he supplied the answer with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan," the butler gave a small nod, "one moment as I announce you to the Comte." The man turned on his heel and walked back into the house. The smile immediately dropped from D'Artagnan's face and he stepped back into the courtyard. This would be the fight that du Bellay had so craved. D'Artagnan had watched him in the duel, knew his tells, knew his weaknesses. He was good, but D'Artagnan had no doubt he could best him. He slipped on his gloves and made minor adjustments to his sword belt. D'Artagnan forgot about being cold, wet and tired. The heat of anticipated battle was rising and he began to pace the courtyard like a wild cat looking to find prey. The minutes seemed interminable, but then the door was open and the young Comte was striding out to meet him, flanked by one of the men from earlier in the day. Only du Bellay was armed, a sword on his hip, hastily slipped on over a silk jerkin.

"What is this interruption," du Bellay asked with great show, "Has the coward Athos sent his stable boy to plead for me not to take revenge?" The man beside him laughed.

D'Artagnan met du Bellay in the center of the courtyard, standing just a foot apart.

"Athos is dead by your hand," D'Artagnan said quietly, "and I am here to demand justice," he punctuated his words by shoving du Bellay in the chest. Du Bellay stepped back a pace and his man gasped at the insult and the assault. Even in the ruddy lantern light, D'Artagnan could see du Bellay's face turn crimson with anger, but he motioned for the other man to stand down.

"I had no part in Athos's death," du Bellay snarled, "but I am not surprised to hear of it. He was a coward and had no honor," he drew his sword at this, "and you, stable boy, are about to join him." D'Artagnan drew his rapier as well, no further words needed now as du Bellay was going to so easily oblige him in his quest for a duel. The two men circled each other, assessing speed and reflex, beginning with what is often a dance of feints and parries to test the other's skills. But now that he faced Athos's killer, D'Artagnan let the last of his patience drain away. Anguish and anger roiled inside him and he lunged at du Bellay with a roar. Du Bellay was caught off guard by the fierceness of the attack and skittered backwards as D'Artagnan rained down overhand cuts and slices. Du Bellay held his composure enough to parry the wild attacks, but the viciousness he saw in his attacker's eyes was terrifying. This whelp truly wished to kill him. Du Bellay offered his own roar in return and the two men spun and whirled together in a clatter of swords and daggers.

D'Artagnan's attacks were passionate but undisciplined, leaving himself vulnerable in many of his passes. Du Bellay was frightened but skilled. He mounted a strong defense and took advantage of D'Artagnan's mistakes. D'Artagnan overreached a thrust and du Bellay managed a shallow cut across the upper arm. On the next pass, an ill-timed overhead cut left D'Artagnan open to a slice across the ribs. Most of the blow raked his leather doublet, but enough bit into the soft flesh at his side. Both strikes were to D'Artagnan's sword arm, and now a slow ache was growing each time he pressed further with his blade. The pain only served to fuel D'Artagnan's anger, and it was as if a veil descended over his eyes, blocking out everyone and everything around him save for his opponent. Another wide swing and D'Artagnan felt fire sear along his left arm. With a cry of rage and pain he hurled himself at du Bellay. He tucked under the nobleman's high thrust and barreled into him with his shoulder. They fell to the cobblestone with a clatter, du Bellay's sword shaken from his grip by the force of the impact. As he scrambled for it, D'Artagnan rolled them both over, so du Bellay was on his back, D'Artagnan straddling him. He had his sword pressed to the soft flesh beneath du Bellay's chin. This battle was over and justice would be served. Both men were panting, but D'Artagnan paused to find the man's eyes.

"This is for Athos," he said between breaths, "for the most honorable man I have ever known."

"Wait!" du Bellay cried, "I yield! I yield!" his eyes were desperate. D'Artagnan pulled back his lips in a cruel smile.

"You yield?" He laughed coldly, "Did you think to offer that chance to Athos when you shot him dead in the streets?" D'Artagnan laid his main gauche across du Bellay's neck and tossed his sword to the side. This death would be intimate.

"I did not shoot him, "du Bellay pleaded, "Please! I swear this on my honor! Please . . ." D'Artagnan heard the stifled sob in the man's throat but he was past caring. This was for Athos, for honor, for the torn brotherhood that this man had destroyed. He leaned in to press the dagger to du Bellay's neck, imprinting on his mind the terror and desperation on the man's face. D'Artagnan knew he would hang for this, but the image of du Bellay's face he would take to his grave.

"D'Artagnan!" the familiar voice penetrated the fog of D'Artagnan's emotions. "D'Artagnan," it called again, urgent and desperate enough to cause him to waiver in delivering the killing stroke.

"D'Artagnan, put up your blade," confused, D'Artagnan looked up to see Aramis standing in front of him, D'Artagnan's rapier in his hand holding du Bellay's companion at bay, "This man did not kill Athos."

"He did," D'Artagnan spat, tears welling in his eyes, "He did. I was there!" He turned his rage back to the man held beneath his dagger.

"No!" Aramis said firmly, then softened his features and his voice, "No. You are wrong. I bound Athos's wounds myself. Porthos has taken him to the Garrison. He lives," Aramis stepped closer to D'Artagnan, his voice low and despairing, "Look at me," Aramis demanded. D'Artagnan bit his lip and looked up at his friend. "Athos is alive. You must trust me."

D'Artagnan choked back a small sob, his hand beginning to tremble as he looked at Aramis in abject confusion. He had held Athos in his arms, watched the blood run from his body, but here was Aramis saying he was alive.

"D'Artagnan, stop," Aramis's voice was calm and reassuring, now that he knew he had D'Artagnan's attention. He held out an empty hand. "Give me your blade," he said again, a slight tone of command sliding into his soft voice, "This is not our way," he continued quietly, "Vengeance is not justice."

Vengeance is not justice. D'Artagnan's mind spun around the words. He thought he was serving justice but if Athos was not dead . . . Aramis would not lie to him. He looked up again to his friend, his breathing starting to come in ragged gasps, his body beginning to tremble. If Athos was not dead, he had no right to kill this man. He had no right to kill any man. His father had taught him that. With a small cry he dropped his dagger and rolled to his side to sit beside du Bellay. The stunned young Comte pushed himself away from D'Artagnan, and shakily got to his feet. Aramis smoothly bent and retrieved D'Artagnan's dagger and slipped it into his belt. Then he picked up du Bellay's sword. He held both swords casually, but he placed himself between du Bellay and D'Artagnan, the only armed man now in the courtyard.

"He is insane!" du Bellay shouted.

"He is grieving," Aramis answered simply, "And with good cause. His friend was shot this evening."

"Not by me!" du Bellay continued to shout, "I had nothing to do with it. This stable boy came here, called me out of my apartments, set on me with a sword!" du Bellay was sputtering he was so mad, "I will have the red guards down upon him and he will rot in the Chatelet until he is hanged for attacking me!"

"You may not have shot Athos," Aramis continued, his quiet tone demanding du Bellay work to listen, "but one of your company did."

"No. That is not possible," du Bellay was dismissive, "They have too much honor to shoot that cowardly bastard. You have no proof to this." Aramis clenched his jaw and shook his head. No one was listening well today. He slipped D'Artagnan's sword into his belt and drew a pistol from his holster. He flipped it in his hand so that he held it by the muzzle and extended the handle to du Bellay.

"Here," he offered, "This was dropped in the street beside my bleeding companion." Du Bellay snatched the pistol, and looked at it. It was balanced and clean, fine etchings and scroll work decorating the barrels.

"This could belong to anyone," du Bellay scoffed.

"It could," Aramis replied with a cold smile, "but the initials on the barrel say otherwise. M.D.B. – Marcus du Bellay I believe is your younger brother?"

Du Bellay's face fell as he recognized the pistol. He looked up and locked his gaze on the other man in the courtyard. His younger brother stared back at him, chin lifted defiantly.

"He made a fool of you," his voice was pitched high and he spoke through a clenched jaw, "Our family's honor demanded he pay." He raised himself up to stand with his shoulders back, "I did my duty as your brother. I took revenge on the man who hurt our family. I don't regret it."

"Your brother has just admitted to attacking a King's Musketeer in the street, with no provocation, Aramis smiled coldly at du Bellay, "The penalty for that is likely to be hanging."

"And what of your man?" du Bellay gestured toward D'Artagnan now on his feet behind Aramis. "He attacked a noble for no cause. If my brother is to hang, that one will be by his side."

Aramis took a step toward du Bellay and shifted the man's rapier in his grasp so that he was now holding the blade. He offered the hilt to the young Comte as he quietly suggested the next course of action, "Take your weapons, and your younger brother," he said in low tones pitched for only the Comte to hear, "and leave Paris tomorrow." The Comte glared at him with a defiant eye, but Aramis raised a brow and continued, "Because if you do not, your entire household will be at risk. The Musketeers are beloved of the King, and Athos is one of his favorites. Do not test his majesty's loyalties. Comtes are not rare at court but a Musketeer like Athos is a jewel in his crown." Aramis gave the Comte a small smile, his upturned lips hiding the lie in his words. He knew full well that if word of this got to the King, Cardinal Richelieu would not hesitate to insist that Athos and D'Artagnan both be hanged. But he was banking on du Bellay not to know that. "I'm offering you a way out for both you and your brother. I suggest you take it."

Du Bellay hesitated only a moment. He grabbed the offered sword from Aramis and simply turned on his heel and stalked to his brother. He shoved the pistol into Marcus's hands and pushed past him and back into the house. Marcus looked stunned, not certain of what had happened, but not prepared to do anything without his older brother. He meekly followed him back inside. It was only after the door closed and the courtyard was lit only by moonlight that Aramis turned to face D'Artagnan.

The young man stood with hunched shoulders and bowed head. He was unmoving except for his breathing, which shook his frame with each shuddering inhale. His arms hung limply at his sides, damp hair plastered to his face. D'Artagnan looked utterly defeated, and terribly vulnerable. He seemed unaware of the empty courtyard or that Aramis had now turned his attention toward him. Aramis watched him for a moment, feeling love and worry rise. While he could not say he knew exactly how D'Artagnan was feeling, he did know how body and mind collapsed on itself after the thralls of a rage loosened their bonds. Blood trickled unabated and unnoticed down D'Artagnan's left hand, a sign that the wound on his arm needed tending. The soldier knew that D'Artagnan needed to be handled gently. With the same care one might take approaching a frightened child, Aramis stepped to D'Artagnan's side.

"Let's get you out of here," he said softly, slipping his left hand around D'Artagnan's arm and his right hand to the small of his back. D'Artagnan raised his head and looked at Aramis, raw grief and weariness spilling unfiltered from his gaze. Aramis's soft eyes held no judgement or chastisement, only concern and caring. He raised a brow in inquiry and D'Artagnan nodded his head. Yes, he'd let Aramis lead him. There were not many options for shelter and sanctuary on the Île Saint-Louise but Aramis knew of one quiet place where they would not be turned away.

The island was small and after only a few minutes Aramis and D'Artagnan were inside the vestibule of the Catholic church. Aramis paused at the entrance to dip his fingers in the basin of holy water and cross himself in a silent prayer to God for healing for both Athos and D'Artagnan. Aramis led D'Artagnan down the center aisle and to the small Mary chapel at the right of the main altar. Aramis was not sure how the priests would feel, but he thought this was the perfect place to tend to D'Artagnan's wounds – both of the body and of the soul.

He sat the young man down on one of the chairs in the chapel and brought another around so that he could sit across from him. Watching D'Artagnan's face for signs of distress or protest, he took the boy's left arm in his hands and gently pushed up the torn shirt sleeve. The gash along the forearm was deep and needed to be properly cleaned and dressed soon, but for now, Aramis was just concerned with stopping the bleeding and getting his friend home. He had nothing on him to use for a bandage, but stood and looked around the chapel, leaving a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder just to keep a bond of human contact a moment longer. He spied a stack of linen cloths on the altar table, placed there to carefully clean the communion vessels. Aramis knew it was wrong to tamper with the rituals of holy mass, but he hoped in this case God would make an exception. He gave D'Artagnan's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and moved to retrieve some of the neatly folded linen from the pile of cloths. He crossed himself as he returned, asking God's forgiveness for the transgression, but smiling as he realized this one was probably low on an already long list. He also picked up a glass container of water – this was not holy water but simply used to clean the vessels used in the communion service. He had no guilt borrowing it.

He sat again in front of D'Artagnan and took his arm once more into his lap. He dampened the linen cloth and gently started to clean the wound. This time, D'Artagnan winced, but he did not pull away. Aramis glanced up and was heartened to meet D'Artagnan's gaze. His eyes were full of sadness, and questions, but he seemed to be present now. D'Artagnan cleared his throat as if to speak, but hesitated. Aramis gave him a reassuring smile.

"This is not too bad," he said, nodding toward D'Artagnan's wound. Aramis set aside the damp, bloody cloth and placed a fresh folded linen along the gash, pressing gently to get the bleeding to stop. "We'll get it bandaged up, and then we'll head home," D'Artagnan nodded his acquiescence. "You'll be fine," Aramis continued, "And so will Athos." At the mention of Athos's name, D'Artagnan's eyes flicked away, but he still said nothing. "The shot went through the shoulder," Aramis continued, as he took out his dagger and began to cut long strips from the alter cloths. "In and out with minimal damage, missed everything important" Aramis smiled, "That man has the luck of a cat sometimes." Aramis began to wind the cloth strips around D'Artagnan's arm, tying them over the folded linen. A clean and effective bandage.

"I thought he was dead," D'Artagnan said, quietly, "I heard the shot, saw him fall, and he was lying there, blood washing away with the rain. It was just . . . just like . . ." he trailed off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to keep from sobbing.

"Like your father?" Aramis offered softly.

"Yes," D'Artagnan breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, "Like my father. For a moment I saw . . . I know it couldn't have been real . . . but I saw his face. Athos's face, my father's face," tears began to fall from D'Artagnan's eyes, "Both of them, together. Both dead," he sniffed and raked a hand across his eyes, "How can this be?" D'Artagnan looked to Aramis with fear and pleading in his eyes.

Aramis put a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder, "Your mind was overwhelmed," he answered carefully, "When you saw Athos in the street, it brought back visions . . . echoes perhaps, of seeing your father there. For a moment, you were in both places at once, seeing both deaths. It's a terrifying thing."

"It was so real," D'Artagnan said, struggling to regain his composure. Somehow the fact that Aramis understood what he was saying, wasn't questioning his sanity, gave him comfort, "Will this keep happening?"

"For a while, perhaps," Aramis said, a dim sadness dampening his bright eyes, "But in time it gets better. With friends it gets bearable," he smiled companionably at D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan smiled thinly back, then realization dawned. "This has happened to you," he said, not a question, but a soft statement to his older friend.

Aramis found a wry smile, "Yes. It has happened to me, it does still sometimes. It is not an uncommon thing for soldiers to experience," he replied. Aramis considered how much to say, but he did not want to frighten the boy with the depths his own nightmares took him too. Not yet anyway. Like the others, he too felt that D'Artagnan was already becoming one of their brotherhood, not just a Musketeer, but an Inseparable as their other comrades liked to joke. He was sure that in time he would let D'Artagnan know everything, but now was not that moment. He chose his words with kindness as he continued, "All of us suffer of it in some form of another. Ghosts that come back at different times. Why do you think Athos drinks?" he said with a small laugh, "Or why Porthos hates to spend evenings alone even if it means losing all of his coin in a tavern?" Aramis won a smile from D'Artagnan at that, "Each of us has demons, each of us fights them. You are no exception. We all wish we could take that pain away from the other. No one can do that, but we can at least be there to help ride out the storm. That is part of our bond, part of what makes us brothers. Of what makes you," Aramis squeezed D'Artagnan's arm for emphasis, "our brother too."

D'Artagnan felt his face flush with warmth as Aramis included him among his companions. The tug of their bond was strong, and even though it was only a months old, if felt like his father, like family. D'Artagnan swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He had more to say. "I would have killed him," he said, fixing a steady gaze on Aramis, "Du Bellay, I was about to kill him."

"I know," Aramis said quietly.

"If you hadn't been there, I would have," D'Artagnan felt like he was offering a confession.

"One of us will always be there," Aramis replied.

"You can't know that," D'Artagnan said, fear rising in his heart. "I almost killed an innocent man. I am no better than the coward I thought I was fighting," D'Artagnan dropped his head in shame. Aramis shifted in his chair, leaning his hands on his knees, searching for the right words to comfort his friend.

"Musketeers are never without a brother at their side," Aramis began, "even physically separated, you know you are not alone." The Gascon looked up then, a desire for hope or reassurance, something to hold on to clear on his features. Aramis realized that until only a few months ago, it was D'Artagnan's father who would have been his anchor, his moral compass through early manhood. He considered for the first time how alone D'Artagnan must feel and remembered his own journey from his life with his mother to Paris, and eventually the Garrison and what was to become his family. Aramis had been just as lost, as had Athos and Porthos – no home to return to, no father to guide any of them. It finally became clear to Aramis how D'Artagnan had so quickly become part of their threesome. Unlike most of the regiment, many who were second sons of nobles or merchants, D'Artagnan, like them, was truly alone. All of them recognized this and it fueled their easy acceptance of him.

"All for one, D'Artagnan," Aramis said, "means we are all here," Aramis reached and put a hand over D'Artagnan's heart, "all the time. We live by a code and our faithfulness to it is our faithfulness to each other. We fight injustice, stand for the innocent, uphold the law, and serve the King. We do not break from this, for that would break our brotherhood," Aramis straightened up, sitting back in his chair. D'Artagnan did the same, unconsciously matching Aramis's posture as he let his words land. He had not wanted to hear this earlier this evening, now he was hanging on to Aramis's words like a life line across a roiling river.

"One for all," Aramis said, "is that I will fight to the death for my brother. I will offer up my life for his. I will sit with him through the darkest night of his soul, and I will carry him home safely from battle . . . or from a tavern," Aramis gave D'Artagnan a sly smile and a wink. He was rewarded with a small chuckle from his young friend, who had already been party to several tavern escapades. Smiling still, Aramis continued, "And, I will not throw away my life lightly, for then I leave my brother alone." D'Artagnan took in a deep breath and bit his lip, understanding beginning to dawn on him, "D'Artagnan, we do not seek vengeance as we uphold the law. We do not subscribe to any idea of honor other than what we hold honorable among ourselves."

D'Artagnan nodded his head, letting Aramis's words fall into the open places in his heart, "I endangered us, all of us, by acting without honor – by putting my need for revenge above the law of the King," D'Artagnan said simply, "I let you all down if I am killed or imprisoned because then I cannot be there when I am needed. But," D'Artagnan's breath hitched as he struggled to give voice to the unspeakable, "If Athos had died, if du Bellay had done it . . . could you have let him live?"

Aramis pursed his lips, searching his heart for an honest answer. "I'm not sure," he said finally, softly, "But I think, I hope, if I had du Bellay beneath my knife, I'd remember my brothers. So far, that has not failed me and so far, we have never found reason to set aside our code, our rules, for any cause. I pray though that it is never put to the test."

D'Artagnan inhaled and nodded. He thought about his father, how the lessons he had taught him about honor, respect, loyalty and courage were now part of him, the code perhaps of his own life. His father was still with him in those words, just as the Musketeers would be with him even if he were standing alone. D'Artagnan stood, taking a deep breath and moving a few steps away from Aramis, looking toward the altarpiece at the end of the chapel. This feeling of not being alone, of belonging, of having noble words to live in his heart gave him a peace that he had not known for a long time. A warmth descended on him, and he could imagine his father smiling, could almost see him, just there, from the corner of his eye. He took in another breath and turned back to Aramis, grounded again in his own strength despite how tired he was feeling.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said quietly, stepping toward his friend and offering his hand. Aramis took it and stood, but instead of letting go, pulled D'Artagnan to him. One hand clasped between their breasts, Aramis reached the other over D'Artagnan's shoulder and held him lightly in a brotherly embrace. He waited a moment, and then D'Artagnan's arm was around his shoulders and they stood quietly together. After a moment, Aramis thumped D'Artagnan's back and dropped his hand.

"Let's get back," he said, an arm still looped over D'Artagnan's shoulders, "I need to finish cleaning you up," he gave D'Artagnan's shoulder a little squeeze, "And I have to stop Porthos from making a complete mess of Athos's stitches. And I have stop Athos from getting even more worried about you. Otherwise I'll be having this entire conversation all over again, only Athos will be the one sitting on du Bellay," he added with a smile. D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile back.

"One for all seems to mean you are pretty busy," D'Artagnan teased.

"Yes, my friend," Aramis replied, shaking his head and affecting a pained expression, "Yes, indeed. But I wouldn't have it any other way." Aramis gave D'Artagnan a nod and they left the church, making their way back to the garrison under the light of a friendly moon.

- FIN -