Why? Why?

This sole, imperative word… this one vital question, this one thought pounded in Philippe's head as he stared at up at the magnificence of the full moon.

It was a cloudless night, clear as crystal with a soft chill in the air. The staccato of crickets outside only accentuating the quiet. The village just beyond the walled chateau had long since retired, as had most of the residents of the chateau itself… 3 former musketeers and 2 trusted Jesuit healers.

But the youngest remained awake.

Philippe held his arms out on the windowsill to support himself, but that didn't stop his trembling. His eyes were misty as he thought of… everything.

All his life he was an orphan, lacking a past or any relevant identity. Peronnet and the father… they'd been kind to him. Maybe even fond of him, he'd like to think. But it wasn't the same.

So many days in prison, when Lord knows there was nothing better to think about, he'd allowed himself to imagine what his family may have been like. Had his mother been tall and fair like him or short and stout? Where did his golden hair come from? His blue eyes… he remembered the first day he realized that Peronnet and the priest had dark eyes and all of a sudden he thought himself very terrible and strange. Did his blue eyes come from his father? Had he been a gentle man? A brave one? Strong? Kind like Athos? Gruff like the priest?

And then, sitting at the table with strangers who'd rescued him, all of his hopes had been dashed. He'd had no loving father from who's arms he'd been snatched. His mother thought him dead. And his brother…

His brother…

Philippe's lip trembled but his eyes never left the moon. He'd waited too long to see it in its full splendor.

His head spun. To know his father had just… just discarded him. Like some dirty piece of cloth… To know his own brother, his own twin, had done worse than that…

He had no family, no friends, and the men that had saved him… well, they seemed kind enough…

But even in prison, he'd never felt so alone.

Philippe drew in a shaky breath as a breeze sent a sudden chill through him. The moon was... was just so beautiful. But he felt himself tear inside as he thought of all the moons he'd missed.

Everything he'd missed.

He shifted to lean on the windowsill.

Here he was in a warm house but at what cost? So many men continued to languish in that wretched prison. His guardians... he let out a strangled noise, his guardians, murdered all because he was some dirty secret.

He felt something wet fall onto his wrist and glanced down at a tear.

And Philippe realized that tears were streaming down his face. And let out a bitter laugh. So he hadn't cried himself dry in prison, then.

Gazing at the moon, Philippe wept for his lost guardians. He wept for his mother, taken from him in a terrible way. What must a mothers kisses feel like?

He wept for every cold of stifling night spent in the horrors of the Bastille- every sickening headache, every piece of rotten fruit on which he had subsisted, every horrible insult from the jailers. He remembered, only a year or so into his imprisonment, when he'd been the sickest he'd ever been. He could not even feel the mask around his head. He wept for the men who languished in prison still. He wept for the bruises he himself still carried and the many scars he would bear forever.

Tais-toi Garçon!

He brought the cane down on him again, with all his force. Philippe had long since given up on fighting back, but that didn't stop his shaking.

Philippe looked down at his wrist, the faint scar encircling it.

The whip bore down again and again on his torso, curled up on the grimy floor, and this time the jailer was so drunk he could barely think to aim. Philippe held his hands up before his masked face, barely able to see through the eye holes to try and block the blows.

He screamed as the whip curled itself around his wrist. The scream echoed in the mask. Pain seared through him He felt that his arm was on fire

He wept for the brother that hated him. He wept for the men that had rescued him, and for their kindness. He wept because he was free to look at the moon, and because even on the darkest, blackest, loneliest night at the Bastille, he had not felt as afraid as he did now.

The boy, for he really was no more, cried his broken heart out.

"Philippe?"

The boy whipped around, startled, and faced Athos. The older man stood there, with a soft puzzled look on his face framed by his thinning hair.

Philippe swallowed "I…"

"Are you alright?"

The boy hastily reached to mop the tears from his face but knew it was useless. Athos had already seen and besides, his pale face was surely red by now.

"I uh… I couldn't sleep." He crossed his arms before him.

"Not surprising" Athos said simply, moving forward to lean out the window himself. Philippe stared and joined him, wondering if he would say something more.

For a while, neither did. They stared together up at the moon in deep silence, lost in thought.

"Beautiful evening" Athos commented.

Philippe licked his lips. "Yes."

"I don't think I've seen such a full moon In a long while"

Philippe's throat tightened. "Nor have I." It came out as a whisper.

Silence reigned again.

"Athos?"

"Mmm?" The man turned to him, eyebrows raised

"I…" Philippe swallowed, "I… can't sleep"

"Yes" Athos paused, and added gently, kindly, "you've said that."

"I…" Philippe groaned. "I… don't… I'm having trouble understanding all of this. All of… any of it."

Athos shrugged. "That's no surprise, Philippe. It's your first night of real freedom and you're not fully healed."

He eyed a spot on the younger man's nightshirt that barely concealed a particularly bad scar. It made him sick to hear Philippe's whimpers of pain when they'd cleaned and bandaged it earlier. Athos swallowed. "It's no surprise at all."

Philippe's voice came out soft and low… "I know, I just…" He glanced down at his hands, trembling on the windowsill, and then back at the musketeer with a look of total lostness.

"You what?" Athos prompted

It came out as a whisper. "I feel lost"

Athos shifted, unsure how to answer. "What are you afraid of, Philippe?" He finally questioned.

The boy made a small noise in his throat, as if he couldn't even begin to answer. He looked back out at the moon. "Being discovered and returned to that… place." He shuddered. "Afraid of… whatever it is that umm… that he wants me to go through with doing"

"Who?"

Philippe flushed. "I don't remember his name. The priest, the taller one that talks a lot…"

"Aramis"

Philippe buried his face in his hands. "I cannot even remember the names of 3 men who saved my life. How in the world can I possibly be king… It could cost you all everything and after all you've done for me…"

Athos reached out and placed his hands on Philippe's shoulders to steady him, as he'd done earlier that day in the drawing room. The boy slowly looked up and locked eyes with him and Athos saw so much pain there it broke his heart.

At the care he saw in the man's deep brown eyes, Philippe's throat tightened further and despite himself his eyes misted over. No one, not even his former caretakers, had ever looked at him with such compassion.

"I'm so afraid, Athos"

Athos gently, slowly, pulled the young boy into his arms, and rubbed Philippe's soft golden hair affectionately, just as he'd done for Raoul long ago when plagued by nightmares. He felt the younger boy clinging tight to him, grabbing at the back of his nightshirt, but awkwardly… like he was unsure how exactly to go about it.

That tore at the man's heart as much as anything else.

"There is no shame in what you are feeling," he murmured. "I need you to understand that, Philippe."

The only response was a shaky sigh, muffled by Athos' shoulder

"For all that you have seen and been through..." The man swallowed and held the boy tighter. "Hear me say that I'm sorry"

Philippe pulled back abruptly, brow furrowed, gaze tired. "But you've done nothing"

Athos let out a bitter laugh. "Yes and perhaps that has been exactly the problem"

"What..."

"You have a bright life ahead of you yet, Philippe," Athos continued. "Whatever decision you make, you will not be abandoned." He squeezed Philippe's shoulder to drive home his point. "I promise you that.

The boy could only stare at him through misty eyes, before moving shyly back into his arms. He flushed there. He knew he shouldn't be clinging to a practical stranger like some frightened babe… but for so long… oh Lord… he didn't even know how long… he'd never known of a soft touch. No man had come near him in years without meaning harm. In the way that Athos stroked his hair, held him firmly but gently, breathed slowly, for the first time he allowed himself to feel safe.

"Merci." He said after a while, his voice full of emotion. "Thank you, oh God… thank you."

Philippe held on to him late into the night in an embrace truly agreeable to both parties- the boy who had always lacked a father and the father who, until now, thought he might forever be without a son again.

The moonlight glazed over Philippe's soft features like warm honey on fresh bread, rested against Athos' shoulder.

And there, in the arms of a man he barely knew, he dared to allow himself to think he might yet find a place in this world.