A/N: Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to read and review my last story, and apologies for not responding to all of the reviews on the last chapter of that fic. Between the Holidays and real life, time has been at a premium, but please know that I read every comment and am grateful for the feedback. Please accept this short tale, which wouldn't leave me alone until it had been written, as an apology for my lack of replies.

Set between seasons 1 and 2, and proofread by the awesome AZGirl; all remaining mistakes are mine.

He stared at his right hand as it trembled. Closing it angrily into a fist, he attempted to stop the traitorous shaking, his other hand unconsciously clenching as well. Closing his eyes tightly, he rocked, seeking some comfort from the slight, repetitive motion. With each shift of his body, he could feel his back momentarily rub against the cold stone behind him, and with his next movement, he pushed harder against it, relishing the scrape of the rock against his skin through his shirt.

His arms were now wrapped tightly around his knees, his hands still fisted, while his face was tucked tightly into his chest and partially hidden by his legs. Though his eyes were closed, flashes of dark red exploded behind his lids, pulling a low, miserable moan from his chest. The wind picked up and prickled the sweat that covered his skin, making him involuntarily shudder at the sudden chill. But his mind registered none of what was happening around him or to his rocking form, his mind firmly gripped by memory.

"Release her!" His voice was loud as thunder as he pointed his pistol unerringly at the man threatening Constance. His heart pounded angrily in his chest as his brain conjured all the terrible ways in which their standoff could end.

That he would arrive as her saviour seemed like fate's way of mocking him, given everything that had transpired between them. Now, their relationship was complicated. The realization made d'Artagnan huff, a smile almost appearing on his face. He had no idea what they were to one another, even though Constance had made it clear that she would stand by her husband's side, while continuing to forsake him. The thought shouldn't have made him angry. It was a woman's duty to stand by her betrothed, and their brief but passionate affair had been adultery, no matter how right it had felt. Despite that knowledge, he could not help but feel betrayed – by Constance, by his treacherous heart that had allowed him to love another's wife, and by the circumstances that had made it impossible for them to be together.

Constance whimpered as the sharp blade pressed further into the delicate skin of her throat, a thin line of red appearing and winding its way slowly into the torn collar of her dress. The sight of it was so wrong that d'Artagnan's stomach momentarily lurched, and he swallowed thickly to push his nausea away. "I said, release her," he repeated, his aim still unwavering despite the duration of their impasse.

It had been pure chance that he'd taken the quieter street on his way to meet the others at the tavern. It was not the most direct route, but the days were quickly turning cooler and d'Artagnan had wanted to savour the feeling of the warm sun on his face, before it was replaced by the shorter, darker days of winter. That desire had motivated his decision to take his time in joining his friends, and had led his feet down the nearly empty street before him.

He'd only managed a few steps down its length when his ears had been assaulted by a pained, cut off cry, which spoke of desperation and pain. His feet had propelled him towards the only other people on the street, until he was close enough to recognize a man forcing himself upon a woman. The two bodies were pressed against the front of a building, with the woman's slighter form all but hidden behind the man's larger one.

He'd yelled at the man to move away from his obviously unwilling partner. The man had obliged, to a point, shifting their stances and placing himself behind the woman, a wicked looking blade appearing almost at once at her throat. d'Artagnan's heart had stuttered at the sight of the man's victim - Constance. Her hair was in disarray from the fight she'd clearly put up, but it was the tear tracks on her face, and the ripped front of her dress, that nearly took the Gascon's breath away. Luckily, her modesty was still intact, her frock torn and hanging off one shoulder, but still covering the majority of her slim form. In that moment, d'Artagnan saw red as he'd ordered the man to release his former lover, but his demands had thus far fallen on deaf ears.

Another sharp cry was pulled from Constance's throat as the vile man pulled on her hair, the fingers of his left hand entwined in her locks. The position further exposed her neck, and d'Artagnan swallowed once more as another trickle of blood wound its way downwards toward her bosom. Through gritted teeth, the Gascon tried one last time, taking two steps forward to punctuate his words as he spoke. "Let her go."

There was only a split-second to act as Constance's attacker telegraphed his next move. It was the slightest shift in weight and the spark of bloodlust in the man's eyes that had d'Artagnan adjusting his aim and pulling the trigger. Constance's body had protected the bulk of the man, leaving only the arm holding the knife exposed to d'Artagnan's pistol. The Gascon took the shot, praying that it would jar his target enough to pull the blade from Constance's throat, instead of slicing deeply into it.

Reality seemed to morph and jump, even as the sound of the pistol echoed around them. Constance cried out and dropped to the ground; d'Artagnan could already imagine the river of red that must be flowing from her throat. Her attacker's sound of pain and surprise followed a moment later, as he jerked backwards and away from Constance. d'Artagnan's mind registered both occurrences as he threw down his pistol and lunged towards the lady's attacker. His steps only continued to speed up as he closed the space between them, leaping over Constance's crumpled form before tackling the man to the ground.

His momentum carried them several feet away, the two grappling and rolling around on the ground until d'Artagnan gained the upper hand. With the other man pinned firmly beneath him, and his vision obscured by rage, he pummeled the man with his fists, unaware of the sobs that escaped his parted lips.

"d'Artagnan, stop!" Suddenly, he was being dragged upwards, and he staggered slightly as his balance shifted and he struggled to find his feet. Porthos stood to his left, gripping his arm tightly, while his expression telegraphed a mix of pity and surprise. The look confused d'Artagnan and he let his gaze swing to his right, finding an equally sombre-looking Athos attached to his other arm. Slowly, the world seemed to settle into place around him, and he became aware of his breath heaving in and out of his chest. Sound returned next, and with it, he became aware of someone speaking; he forced himself to focus on the words.

"Are you with us, d'Artagnan?" Athos' voice was low and steady, and the Gascon found himself nodding in response. "Good," the older man said, although his tone suggested that things were anything but good.

"You'll take care of him, Porthos?" Athos was speaking again, and d'Artagnan's head turned in the larger man's direction, shocked again by the pitying look he found there.

Slowly releasing the Gascon's arm, as if afraid to do so, Porthos replied, "Yeah, don't worry about 'im. I'll deal with it." The odd statement sparked interest in the Gascon's dazed brain, and he looked downwards for the first time, curious about what his friends might be discussing. The sight that met his eyes sickened him.

Constance's attacker lay limp and bleeding, his face almost unrecognizable due to the damage he'd inflicted. It was clear from the laboured breaths that the man's nose was broken, and given the blood that ran freely from his mouth, several teeth were likely missing as well. Once more, d'Artagnan found the world swaying around him and he staggered, taking a half-step as he tried to regain his balance.

"Whoa," Porthos said as his hands encircled the young man's bicep again, throwing a questioning glance at Athos. The older man waited a moment and then nodded, giving his permission for Porthos to release his hold as d'Artagnan steadied.

Athos managed to get the Gascon to shuffle a couple steps away before he stopped dead, his eyes searching once more. "Constance," he asked, panic evident in his tone as the events from before asserted themselves at the forefront of his mind.

"She's fine, d'Artagnan," Athos replied. Gently, he placed the fingers of his right hand on either side of his friend's jaw and turned the young man's head in the direction of the person he sought.

Several feet from their position, Constance stood with Aramis at her side. The Musketeer's cloak had been draped around her, hiding the damage to her dress, and the marksman had one arm protectively around her shoulders, holding her close. "Constance," d'Artagnan breathed out, taking one step towards her before halting at the look on his former lover's face. She'd winced when he'd made to move towards her, fear once again marring her delicate features and stealing the breath from d'Artagnan's chest.

"Aramis will take care of her," Athos murmured softly, pushing his friend in the opposite direction, while leaving the carnage of her attack behind.

d'Artagnan shivered again, another brush of cold air against his body bringing him from his memories. Opening his eyes and lifting his face, he blinked against the water that trailed down his face. How had he not noticed that it had begun to rain? His shirt was now plastered to his skin, providing little protection against the elements that battered him. Despite registering his body's discomfort, d'Artagnan had no motivation to move, and he simply wrapped his arms more firmly around his bent knees.

Constance's attack had been hours ago, and Athos had assured him that she was doing well. Aramis had escorted her home and plied her with tea and brandy, while tending to the cut to her neck. It was a minor wound, he'd been told, not even requiring stitches. d'Artagnan had nodded numbly at his mentor's words, taking comfort in them while knowing that he had no other recourse. The expression on Constance's face had clearly telegraphed her discomfort, and there was no way he could seek her out to confirm her condition for himself.

Instead, he'd soaked up Athos' words and sat patiently while the older man had cleaned his hands, the skin over his knuckles bruised and split from his vicious attack. When he'd finished, Athos had carefully wrapped both of the Gascon's hands in clean white linen, placing each bound hand gently on d'Artagnan's lap when he was done. Through it all, the Gascon had remained silent, and Athos eventually left wearing a concerned look on his face. d'Artagnan had summoned a faint smile as he'd said, "Thank you, Athos. I'm fine now." With those words, the older man had taken his leave, and d'Artagnan had begun his descent into his own personal perdition.

Within minutes, he'd left his room to wander aimlessly through the quiet streets, which had emptied as the evening lengthened. He'd had no particular destination in mind, but hadn't been surprised to find himself back at the scene of Constance's attack. Stumbling, he'd made his way towards a low stone wall where he'd slid to the ground, finding comfort in the darkness that now surrounded him.

As he'd walked, he'd replayed every event in his short life that had led him to this moment, and with every memory, he grew more certain that he was filled with darkness and destined for Hell. First, there had been his selfishness during his first birthday after his mother's passing. As a young boy of eight years, he'd been unable to understand why he hadn't received his favorite meal and been doted upon as had been the norm during his mother's life. Instead, his father had barely managed to wish him a happy birthday before heading for the pasture where he'd remained until nightfall.

When his father had finally returned, long after the sun had set, he'd angrily demanded his dinner and an explanation. But the grieving man's thoughts had been consumed solely by the similarities between his son's and his dead wife's dark brown eyes. Rather than the birthday meal he'd thought he deserved, d'Artagnan had received a loud and lengthy lecture about his selfishness, and the young boy had fallen asleep that night to the sound of his father's sobbing.

As the years passed, there had numerous times when the younger d'Artagnan had lost his temper or done things that had upset his father, but none had been as terrible as the night he'd let the older man be killed. While his father had spun a tale describing the noble journey they were taking, his young son had simply been desperate for adventure, for the chance to get away from the boredom that a life of farming entailed. He'd never shared his views with the elder d'Artagnan, but Charles had always believed he was destined for greater things than the life of a farmer. Some people, he'd thought derisively, were incapable of anything more, but that description didn't apply to him.

When they'd been attacked at the inn, his blood had sung. He'd believed himself to be unbeatable, and his conviction had lent strength to his sword arm as he'd defeated his opponent. Chasing the man outside into the storm, he'd been ready to announce his victory to his father only to discover that, while he'd been revelling in his fight, the elder man had already lost and was soaking the ground with his blood. The staggering truth had washed over d'Artagnan, bringing him to his knees. Again, he'd allowed the darkness to prevail, and it had cost him his father's life. He'd wept that night until no tears remained, allowing the darkness in him to surge forth once more when the morning dawned and he'd vowed to avenge his father's death.

Every critical decision he'd made in his life had been fueled by his own selfish needs, leading him towards darkness and away from the light. The realization was impossible to refute now that it had become so apparent to him as a result of this latest incident. Constance hadn't been grateful for his intervention – she'd been afraid. And the looks on the faces of his friends told a similar story – they had believed he would have killed Constance's attacker, and truthfully, d'Artagnan was certain they were right.

Twining his fingers into his hair, he tugged at the sodden locks as he rested his forehead on his knees. Another broken sob escaped his chest, but he was unaware of the tears that trickled from his eyes, the moisture mixing with the rain water.

"d'Artagnan." The Gascon jumped at the feeling of someone's hand on his shoulder, his head coming up at once to see who had snuck up on him. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he exhaled in relief at the sight of the man standing beside him.

"Athos," he breathed out. "What are you doing here?"

Raising a questioning eyebrow, the older man replied, "I think I could ask the same of you." d'Artagnan shrugged as he let his arms drop from his head to rest on his knees, idly watching the water that dripped from his fingertips. "Not the best place for a conversation, I think. Why don't we go back to the garrison?" Athos offered, groaning silently to himself when the Gascon shook his head.

Sighing softly, Athos situated himself next to his protégé, doing his best to block out the uncomfortable dual sensations of sitting on the wet, cold ground. "Why did you leave?" he asked, needing more information if he was to help the younger man. After several moments of silence, Athos knocked his shoulder gently against his friend's in an attempt to encourage a response.

Inhaling deeply, d'Artagnan replied, "I had to go." Athos remained quiet, hoping the young man would continue. After several seconds, his patience was rewarded. "I couldn't stay – not after what I'd done."

Athos' brow furrowed in confusion, understanding that d'Artagnan had been upset earlier, but not comprehending why that would prompt him to leave. "I don't understand," he began, wondering if there was something more that they'd missed. "Did something more happen before we arrived?"

The Gascon gave the older man a look filled with remorse and disbelief, clearly doubting his mentor's words. "I nearly killed him," he choked out, his throat threatening to close on the painful statement.

"You didn't…" Athos started, but was interrupted by before he could say more.

"I would have," d'Artagnan professed, his voice now louder and filled with anguish. Taking a moment to inhale a shaky breath, he tried again, softer this time. "I would have if you hadn't stopped me."

Athos cleared his throat, uncertain how he should handle the distraught man. "Had any one of us come upon the situation, I'm certain we would have responded similarly."

d'Artagnan was looking down now, once more shaking his head. "No," he said brokenly, refusing to believe his friend. "There's a darkness inside me, and I need to leave before anyone else gets hurt."

The desolation in the Gascon's statement pulled the breath from Athos' chest. He'd known that the younger man was upset, but hadn't realized the depths of his despair, nor the cause. "Are you saying that you're out here, in the rain, because of what you did to that…" He paused for a moment as he searched for a derisive enough term for the man who'd attacked Constance. Unable to find one, he finally spat out the word, infusing it with as much disgust as he could, "that man?" At d'Artagnan's slight nod into his bent knees, Athos said, "Believe me, he received nothing more than what he deserved. Constance will tell you so herself if you ask her."

A muffled sob came from d'Artagnan's curled position, and Athos watched as the young man shook his head again. "Can't, she's scared of me."

It took Athos a moment to comprehend what he'd heard, and then he immediately opened his mouth to refute his friend's claim, only to stop himself as he recalled the frightened expression on Constance's face. She'd been shocked by d'Artagnan's fury, and scared for him, worrying about his future as a Musketeer if he had killed her attacker. The distinction was a seemingly minor point, but an important one, and Athos realized he needed the Gascon to comprehend it. Pulling off one glove, he placed his hand on the nape of his friend's neck, cringing at the cold skin that met his touch. "d'Artagnan, Constance was not afraid of you, but for you. For what might happen to you if you had killed that man."

The Gascon remained in his curled position, not offering any reaction to the older man's words. "Please believe me when I tell you that she was grateful for your intervention," the older man continued. "No one blames you for what happened – for what you did." Sighing, the older man admitted, "Every one of us knows the experience of being caught up in the moment. What happened, while unusual, isn't unheard of. The key is to be able to control it."

d'Artagnan's fingers twined together tightly as he said, "I couldn't control it, Athos." Shaking his head in misery as his eyes welled with angry tears, the Gascon bit out, "I couldn't control it. Until you and Porthos pulled me off him, I didn't even realize what I was doing. How can I be trusted around anyone when I can't even trust myself to be in control of my actions?"

Athos eyes closed for a moment as he recognized that he would need to rehash some of his own painful past to help his young friend see that he still had a bright future ahead of him. Focusing his gaze on his friend's slumped form, he said, "All of us have darkness in us, d'Artagnan. It is not something we often speak of, but it exists in all of us. Besides, you have already proven that you are a good man and will not be consumed by it." When the Gascon remained silent and in his hunched position, Athos resigned himself to continue. "You already know of my past, and know that I am less than proud of what I've done." d'Artagnan looked up at that with a questioning expression on his face.

The older man offered a bitter smile in reply. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm referring to. My history with…" Anne, his mind offered, but he dismissed the name, still finding it too painful to say out loud. "My history with my wife has been thoroughly discussed these last few months." d'Artagnan nodded, recalling vividly the betrayals that had come to light, culminating with Constance's kidnapping and near death at Milady's hands. "Do you not think that a man who sentences his own wife to hang has darkness within him?" Though phrased as a question, Athos' tone belied his words, indicating his belief in the statement he'd made.

d'Artagnan found his hand searching for Athos' free one, gripping the older man's gloved fingers between his own half-frozen digits. "Athos, you had no choice; she killed your brother. Your actions were those of an honorable man."

The older man offered a sad smile, noting idly that the Gascon had removed the wrappings from his hands at some point, leaving the cuts open to the cold, wet evening air. Giving the hand in his a slight squeeze, he asked, "Weren't your actions also those of an honorable man?"

d'Artagnan visibly flinched away from him, but Athos kept hold of his friend, not allowing the young man to move away. "I almost killed a man today," he replied, his words tinged with shame and regret.

"Yet, Constance would say that you saved her today," Athos countered, noting that he'd finally managed to unbalance the Gascon enough that he might be reasoned with. Pressing his advantage, he asked, "Were your actions today for your benefit?"

"What?" d'Artagnan asked, caught off guard by the odd question.

"Were your actions today for your benefit?" the older man repeated.

"No," the Gascon replied tentatively. "Although I felt a certain, fleeting sense of satisfaction at hurting that man."

"And so you should," Athos declared. "Did you know that the attack on Constance was the fourth of its kind in as many days?" d'Artagnan shook his head slightly to indicate he had not. "The Red Guards have been looking for him before he added another murder to his list." At the Gascon's widening eyes, the older man continued, "Yes, he didn't just force himself onto women. Once he'd finished, he took great pleasure in killing them as well. You saved Constance's life today, and ensured that that animal will never hurt anyone again."

d'Artagnan swallowed with difficulty, still unconvinced, but beginning to feel somewhat better about the day's events. "But I've killed so many since coming to Paris," he said as the faces of the men he'd fought flashed through his mind.

Fleetingly, Athos wondered what the Gascon would think if he knew how many the Inseparables had killed between them, certain that he'd be aghast at the number; but that was a conversation for another day. "I'd like to believe that I'm fully aware of those who have lost their life at your hands," the older man stated, receiving a nod from his friend. "And, I am unaware of any you've killed for your own gain or pleasure. Are you suggesting that you've enjoyed hurting those unlucky enough to find themselves in the path of your pistol or across from your sword?"

"Well…" d'Artagnan began uncertainly, but Athos interrupted.

"Then why have you dispatched them so effectively and without remorse?" the older man probed, pushing the Gascon to reach the same conclusion that he and the others had already come to terms with.

"They were breaking the law," d'Artagnan stated, annoyance blossoming in his chest at Athos' persistent questions.

"Exactly," Athos agreed. "They needed to be brought to justice, and you were the means through which that was achieved. d'Artagnan," he locked gazes with the younger man, emphasizing the seriousness of his words with the intensity of his stare. "We are the light, but it is only when we harness the darkness within ourselves that we are able to do what we must to deliver justice."

The Gascon bit his lip as he processed his friend's words, his entire being feeling lighter than it had in hours. "What if the darkness takes control?" he asked, still vividly recalling his inability to stop himself from hurting the man who'd threatened Constance.

"That's our job," a deep voice said from above, and d'Artagnan jerked as he looked upwards to find Porthos and Aramis standing there. He squinted in surprise at the men through the slackening rain, having been completely unaware of their approach.

Next to Porthos, Aramis was nodding in agreement with his friend's words. "Exactly. We're always stronger together, and when one of us falters…"

"The others light the way," Porthos finished grinning.

"Is it really that easy?" d'Artagnan asked, wanting desperately to believe his friends.

Porthos snorted as he replied, "There's nothin' easy about it. Have you ever tried to get in Aramis' way when there's a woman involved?"

"Or to stop Athos from doing something stupid when he's been drinking?" Aramis countered with a smile. The older man rolled his eyes at the ribbing, even as he welcomed the familiar banter. Next to him, d'Artagnan was examining what he'd learned about these men since they'd met, recalling Porthos' outrage when dealing with Bonnaire, Aramis' commitment to protect Agnes and her baby, and Athos' defense of Ninon De Larroque. There were many other examples, but each highlighted the fierce determination these men possessed to delivering justice, and in each instance, they'd been tempered by the others in their group. Perhaps it was possible to harness the darkness after all.

Adopting a slightly cheeky grin, d'Artagnan said, "And don't forget how fierce Porthos is when there's food to be had."

"Oy, that's not fair," the large man protested, but the wide smile on his face contradicted his words.

The Gascon shivered mightily as his grin widened, while Aramis' eyes narrowed in concern. Noting the shift in the marksman's expression, Athos said, "There's also Aramis' fervour in taking care of anyone who's sick or injured." He raised his hand to Porthos, offering a nod of gratitude when the large man pulled him to his feet. "Something I believe you'll be experiencing firsthand."

Aramis took the older man's words as an invitation to shift into medic mode as he stepped forward and gripped d'Artagnan's forearms, hauling him up to stand. Wordlessly, he pulled off the cloak that was draped across one arm and wrapped it around the Gascon's shivering frame. "For future reference, it's never a good idea to go out without the proper attire."

"Or without tellin' your friends where you're going," Porthos muttered, letting d'Artagnan know just how worried they had been when he'd disappeared. The large man wrapped one arm around the young man, pulling him forward, as Athos and Aramis flanked the Gascon on the other side. "Have I ever told you about the time when Athos picked a fight with five men after he'd been drinkin'?"

The Gascon grinned, relishing the warmth of his friends' presence while idly listening to Porthos' baritone, the man's voice flowing over and around him while his feet numbly moved forward. He wasn't following the story in the least, but he was finally certain of one thing – these men were the light, and with them around, he would never again find himself swallowed by the darkness.

End.

A/N: Written for this month's Fête des Mousquetaires challenge theme, which is "Light". For information about how to participate, as a writer or to vote, please see the forum page on this site under Musketeers.

Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined!