AN: This is my first time writing a Musketeers fanfic, so I hope you enjoy. All recognizable events and characters are not mine and are instead owned by the author and BBC. Please review with good or bad criticism, anything is very welcome.

Also, I would like to credit celticgal1041's story "Cast Aside" for inspiring the beginnings of this fic. There are some parallels between these two stories, and I am very grateful that she has allowed me the opportunity to use some of her plot points and character ideas. If you have not read her story you should definitely check it out!

AN2: I have completely rewritten the first two chapters of this story and have condensed them to make up this first larger chapter, so I hope that you guys enjoy. It definitely needed to be revised. I have also added in an extra detail so that the plot runs more smoothly.

The pauldron dropped to the ground with a resounding thud, silencing the whispered hisses that drifted toward him from the mass of Musketeers, punctuated occasionally by snarled jeers that stabbed at d'Artagnan more sharply than a sword. The violent sounds echoed around his head, bouncing from one silently shouted plea to the other - please, this wasn't supposed to happen; please, don't send me away; please, I'm sorry.

Please, I need you.

With each word, his hopes died, crumbling at his feet in the onslaught of incoherent babbling. The loss of the Musketeers tore at his heart, but it was the gut-wrenching looks that had rolled off the faces of the only people in the world he could truly call family - Athos, Porthos and Aramis - that bit at him rabidly, clawing apart his insides; a hungry dog attacking his final meal.

Without looking back, d'Artagnan strode from the compound, managing to hold himself together long enough to round the corner of the garrison and have it drop out of sight. Brothers - so much for that. A dry laugh escaped his lips, drawing the eyes of those on the street and causing them to inch out of his way. His assaulted mind was crumbling, memories of what had transpired back in the courtyard playing on repeat: the men turning against him with a shuddering finality.

Betrayal. He laughed louder as angry tears slipped from his eyes, no longer able to fight them off. Blood welled against his tongue, seeping out from where he had bitten through his cheek in an attempt to make the pain something physical, something real. This had not been his idea, not in the beginning. It was something he had never dreamed of. Treville had known - had set the whole plan in motion - and still d'Artagnan was thrown from the compound without a backward glance. Yes, he had played beyond the bounds of his conscious, but he had done it for the mission, for the ultimate goal. His brothers, though - his family - they had become the final nail in his coffin-like existence. The mingling of disbelief and shock, the sickening understanding that had been brought about by Treville's sentencing; instantly they had doubted him, had refused to believe that he could have even a sliver of innocence, a reason for his actions. It sliced into d'Artagnan's heart and tore apart the trust that he had been so careful to cultivate for the three men.

Turning away from the cobbled streets that brought him closer to the middle of town, d'Artagnan worked his way toward the outskirts of the city, pulling his coin purse from his pocket as he went. Fighting back another wave of pitiful abandonment, d'Artagnan sifted through the purse, separating the coins into small piles in his hands. If he spent his money well, he had enough for an - admittedly very bad - horse and a few meals' worth of food. It would have to do. They would be looking for him soon - scouring the streets for any sign of him - and he needed to make his escape before they found him.

He could head west, back to his home and what was left of the burned remains of his farm, or maybe south, down into Spain. He had picked up a few words of Spanish from Aramis and it would be easy to get lost among the masses of people that populated the cities. Shifting his purse back into the folds of his clothing, d'Artagnan's hand brushed against a crumpled piece of paper, crushed deep into the corner of his pocket. Pulling it out, he let out a melancholy snort. It was a letter, signed 'Henri' and dated almost three weeks previous. The seal was broken and the pages crushed, but d'Artagnan had read it enough times that he could repeat it back by heart.

D'Artagnan,

Your aid requested. Bandits. Please help.

Your loving Uncle,

Henri

There was an address, scrawled hurriedly on the back of the paper, and then nothing. A loving letter from a loving uncle, from whom d'Artagnan had not heard in over ten years: not since the death of his mother and a family dispute that ended in anger and avoidance. D'Artagnan had never known why, but he hadn't pushed it either. Something had always felt… off when he was around his uncle.

Steering through the streets of Paris - streets that he had barely begun to feel comfortable in - d'Artagnan stopped at a small food cart on the corner of the road, grabbing a small armload of rations, barely enough to last two days. It was decided, then. With no food and no other logical plan, the only thing he could do - the only thing that made sense - was to go visit his uncle and lend help where he could. Bitterly, d'Artagnan mused that he would much rather have brought reinforcements along - people that he trusted to watch his back - but now, he would be lucky to find a horse that was able to carry him the two days' ride up to his uncle's farm. He had asked Treville weeks before for a small leave to determine that his uncle was alright, but his request had been denied, his work deemed "too important" to be left hanging and unfinished - loose ends and all - for a couple days off. D'Artagnan had bit his tongue and kept on with his mission, forgetting - eventually and regrettably - his uncle's plea.

But now; now he would be able to help. Help and hide all at once, taking time to plan his next move, slowly and methodically - so at odds with his normal behavior, so in tune with what Athos had been trying to teach him since d'Artagnan had been taken under his wing all those months ago.

He was nearing the outskirts of Paris now, the taverns and stalls and inns and brothels making way for a forge, a small farm, a stable, a house. A horse, face marred and eye missing, jutted its head over the edge of a fence, his old, matted mane tangled from years of neglect. D'Artagnan needed an escape from Paris, anything to put distance between the broken pieces of his life; and a horse, beaten down by the world as much as d'Artagnan was, would make as good a companion as anyone else. It chafed against his instincts, tearing even more forcefully into his already aching mind, but d'Artagnan moved silently to the steps of the house, emptying his money purse at the stoop of the drooping wooden door, before swinging open the horse's enclosure and mounting the beast, a plodding, lifeless trot being pulled from the animal with the sheer force of d'Artagnan's misery.

"I knew this was coming," d'Artagnan ground out bitterly, pushing the old horse into a canter. "If I'm honest, the signs have been there since the beginning. Wouldn't you agree… Jacques? Yes, that suits you just fine." He paused and scanned the road for any signs of life. "But you do agree, don't you? It's been more than clear ever since I started that assignment." He trailed off, lost in thought.

He recalled, even this morning, the uncanny energy between the three men, whole conversations shared with a single look, bodies shifting imperceptibly to account for the slightest of movements from each other. D'Artagnan was off to the side, the empty bench warmed by his presence as the only family he knew sparred before him - laughing, dancing - while he remained behind: tired, sore, the last to be let in on the joke, the last to be invited to join. He had pushed aside the feeling, always forcing himself to participate - always uninvited. Glances shared above him danced in his head: Aramis, suggesting dinner while d'Artagnan slipped onto the scene without invitation; conversations stuttering to a halt when he stumbled his way to the breakfast table each morning to eat; head count finding d'Artagnan last to be looked at, last to be questioned about his well-being.

The dark pit that had become his existence after the loss of his father had been gone, months of compassion and love and friendship filling the empty places inside of him until his body had been patched back together: whole, important. It wasn't as though he didn't matter, d'Artagnan reasoned; it was only that he ranked lowest on the internal radar of the three men he had grown to cherish almost as much as the man who had given him life and passion and wisdom, the man who had shaped d'Artagnan into who he was today.

D'Artagnan lurched forward on Jacques' back as he came to a sudden halt, planted firmly in the middle of the road like a tree. Cursing, d'Artagnan looked around as he tried to urge the horse onward. He knew he was heading in the right direction, but his exact location was a mystery. Sliding from the horse's body with an angry grunt, d'Artagnan gauged the last solitary minutes of the sun before it sank below the horizon. Ushering the horse into a grassy clearing near the side of the road, d'Artagnan dropped what little possessions he held on his person and collapsed to the ground.

He just needed to sleep, rest his eyes and look at everything with a new light in the morning.

He eyed Jacques through slitted lids - "If you abandon me, I shall never forgive you. Don't run off." - and rolled onto his side.

The way his whole life had been going, the horse would be gone by morning.

Bitter sunlight ate away the fog that hung like a specter upon the ground, blanketing the forest floor in a cloud of misery. Weary and emptier than the night before, d'Artagnan heaved himself to his feet, his legs leaden. His body ached and he had nothing but a mouthful of bread before he was seated once more upon Jacques' back, the miles left between his uncle and he shaved away under the lulling clop, clop of hooves. He consumed his meals as he rode, pausing only long enough to allow his horse to rest and grab a few mouth fulls of water whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The sun rose, higher and hotter and more malicious as the day wore on, a total opposition of everything that d'Artagnan was feeling. He slid down from Jacques' back, choosing to walk beside the slowly flagging animal as they continued forward. It would be well past nightfall before he stumbled upon his uncle's hometown. He was traveling forward with only distant memories to guide his way, and he hoped that all his father had mentioned of his uncle throughout the years was true, at least the portions that related to his location.

The faintest sliver of moon lit his path as d'Artagnan inched his way forward in the dark, pulling to a stop outside a small, well kept cottage on the edge of town. He had talked, fleetingly, to another traveler that had crossed his path, and luck - something that d'Artagnan sorrily lacked - smiled down upon him. The man's reaction, cautious and very nearly afraid when d'Artagnan mentioned the name Henri, set d'Artagnan slightly on edge, but the man had known enough to confirm that d'Artagnan was going in the right direction and suspicion was something that d'Artagnan's heart could not afford to hold.

Sliding onto the ground, his feet making almost no noise against the pavement, d'Artagnan settled in front of the door, trying to arrange his features into something that did not resemble a man on the run, fighting the demons of betrayal. And if his Uncle did not need him anymore? He paused. What then? He had no second option, no plan B. He forced his hand forward, the hollow sound of his knocking swallowed by the darkness that had engulfed his thoughts.

Silence greeted him, stretching for long minutes into the night, broken only by the pawing of Jacques' hoof against the ground and the creaking of the wooden steps beneath his weight. Without warning, the door swung open slightly, a deep blue eye peering out from the depths of the house, the pale light of the moon reflecting off the glassy surface. The two men - family by blood, strangers by circumstance - stared each other down, suspicion and fear filling them both, neither knowing where one emotion began and the other ended.

"Charles?" The whisper rumbled from the man's chest as the door was pulled open even further, a small, portly fellow cast into the light. The sound of his uncle's voice pulled forward long forgotten thoughts. Warm food and baking bread, days under the heat of the sun, working and laughing and being loved. His mother; soft and gently and caring, and then not, now fragile and sick and dying.

"Hello, Uncle." D'Artagnan tried to appear as though the sight of his uncle was not like a physical blow to his body.

"It is so good to see you, my boy. Have you finally come to help? And where is everybody else?" he peered over d'Artagnan's shoulder, his smile dropping from his face when it became apparent that there was nobody in the vicinity.

D'Artagnan had not though of this, had not assumed that his help alone was not what Henri had requested.

"I have finally come to offer my help. I received your letter some weeks ago and have only just been offered the opportunity to come down and assist you." D'Artagnan shifted awkwardly. "If the problem has already been solved…" He trailed off, rubbing at the pommel of his sword.

"Oh no, not a soul has come to help. Come in, come in." Henri swung the door open even wider, ushering d'Artagnan inside. Looking over his shoulder, he called into the depths of the room, "François, come take d'Artagnan's bag and put his horse up in the stables."

A small boy with mousy hair appeared out of the kitchen, cheeks red. He rushed out the door and went straight to work.

"He's the son of one of the families in town. They've fallen on hard times, grown ever worse by the work of the bandits, and I've offered him some work in exchange for a small sum of money." D'Artagnan nodded and watched as Jacques was lead off into the night. "Now, come into the kitchen and have a seat. I'll put on some tea and we can talk."

D'Artagnan trailed behind his Uncle, taking in the decor around him. The house was modest, but looked to be in good condition, clean and fully furnished. Henri had done well for himself then. Trade maybe? This was not the living quarters of a farmer.

"I had expected you to bring some other men with you," Henri continued on conversationally. "This task is immense, especially for one man to take on alone. The village has had no luck defending itself, and I had deeply hoped that the King's soldiers would scare the fear of God back into these men."

"I may not have the might of a hundred soldiers, but I most certainly have the skill of a well trained musketeer. I am sure that I will be of some assistance." D'Artagnan settled himself down at the table, gratefully accepting the bread and cheese that was placed before him. "What, exactly, is the issue?"

Henri sobered immediately, his happy smile from before slipping from his face.

"There is a man, Fernand is his name, nephew of the recently deceased Comte de Gerard. He has a small group of men that follow him, doing his dirty work when he is to lazy to get his own hands dirty." Henri's lips pulled back slightly. "Since he has come to power, his men have taken to terrorizing the village and surrounding farms, my own land included. The suffering here is immense. Anyone who stands against him is brought down brutally or dragged away in the middle of the night. It is… unfathomable, the lengths to which this man will go to control the people here." He paused, face pensive. "That is why I called you to help."

"And where do these people live?"

"Surely, you cannot still mean to go out in search of Fernand? The risk! You are my only living relative." Henri shook his head regretfully. "Why I even asked fro you to come I do not know."

D'Artagnan ground his teeth. This was something that he could do, something that he could make right in the midst of so much wrong. "You said you need help and I shall offer it. Where does Fernand live?"

Henri sighed, but answer. "Over the dip in the hillside, in the old manor of the Comte's."

"Then I shall go in the morning."

"And there is nothing I can do to dissuade you of this notion?"

"No." The answer was firm, commanding.

"Then you had best be off to bed. A good nights rest will do you well. You look half dead on your feet as it is, son."

When Henri rose the next morning, d'Artagnan was gone.

Jacques' head bucked as d'Artagnan looped the end of his reins over a tree on the outskirts of Fernand's property, trying desperately to free himself.

"What is wrong with you this morning?" With a sharp jerk on the reins, d'Artagnan tied Jacques tightly to the tree, giving the leather a sharp tug to make sure that the knot wouldn't come undone. The horse flicked his head again, testing the resistance of the branch. Checking the fastenings on his weapons belt, d'Artagnan moved toward the manor, his mind dwelling only on his sleepless night, an agonizingly slow ticking away of seconds that had offered him nothing but time to play again and again the events of the night before. The loneliness had grown, a hungry monster upon his chest, until he had to stand up for fear of being suffocated under the weight. He had already been awake; there had been no reason for him to wait until morning before he left.

He rolled the kinks out of his neck as he walked, frowning, his body stiff from the hours he had spent watching the house. From what he could gather, each entrance to the house contained two guards at all times, shifts rotating exactly every two hours. There were three entrances, and no reoccurring faces, which meant that at least twenty men were on the grounds at any given time, fully armed and itching for a fight if their boredom was anything to go by. D'Artagnan sighed. Henri was right; the chances of him making even the slightest of differences was, well, small to say the least.

D'Artagnan shook his head, trying to dislodge the faint sound of Athos' voice playing over and over in the back of his mind. You have natural talent, but too often you let your emotions run away with you. He grimaced. Then he just had to hope that his talent was enough to see him through the day. He had always been a rather skilled liar; at least until two days ago, when every lie that he had ever seemed to tell piled up around him, until he was buried six feet under.

The sun's rays bit through the early morning mist, sending multicolored splashes of light dancing across the ground all around d'Artagnan. He drew closer to the house, now able to make out the manor in even finer detail, impressed even after months serving in the castle. Three stories tall and made entirely of white stone, the building was covered with intricate carvings and sculptures, oddly out of place in a village so far from any French nobility. Gold detailing lined the bricks, the steps, the windows, and the expensive marble of the walkway leading up to the heavy mahogany door set d'Artagnan's teeth on edge. A large fountain blocked d'Artagnan from view as he approached, but eventually he skirted the polished stone basin, drawing loud shouts from the guards as he was spotted. Not the best security then.

He took another step before he stopped, both hands raised in the air.

"Three muskets is a bit much, don't you think?"

The guards ignored him, waiting.

A large man, neck the size of d'Artagnan's thigh, walked around from the back of the house, another two men trailing behind him. "Who are ya?"

"My name is d'Artagnan of the King's musketeers. I wish to speak with the new Comte, Fernand, about reports of banditry that has befallen this area. I have recently been informed that he has taken over his father's holdings." He tried to sound as unaccusing as possible. The man eyed him speculatively, stare intense, before nodding and gesturing for his men to lower their weapons. He gestured toward the entrance to the manor, the other men falling in around d'Artagnan until he was being herded up the steps.

A skinny guard with lanky black hair banged his hand against the door, leaving behind a small smear of mud. The men around d'Artagnan shifted, before one hissed quietly: "André, clean that up before Fernand sees."

André paled, reaching with an equally grubby sleeve to rub at the dirt, doing nothing but spreading the mess in an ever widening circle. D'Artagnan watched, silent but confused. Honestly, it was only dirt. Looking around, he noticed for the first time how incredibly white and clean everything was. The door swung open, drawing back d'Artagnan's eyes and making even more blood drain from André's face.

A sparkling entranceway could be seen behind a man with nicely pressed clothes and neatly trimmed beard. He was simple, practical, elegant.

D'Artagnan bent low, sweeping his cloak behind him. Nobility was nobility; there was protocol to follow.

"Comte de Fernand, I presume?" d'Artagnan asked, but the man was not even looking at him, eyes trained instead on the sullied door. André seemed to shrink into himself, growing even smaller.

"How many times have I told you to not mar my lands with your filth?" The question was conversational, light, but it was obvious he did not want an answer - obvious, at least, to d'Artagnan.

"Three, m'lord."

The man's eyes narrowed. "It is evident that your mother never taught you to listen; such a waste. I must teach you myself."

André shook his head furiously. D'Artagnan feared that if he did not stop is would fall from his shoulders. "P-please m'lord, it won't happen again."

Fernand grinned. "No need to be so afraid, André. It will barely hurt at all." He shifted his eyes to another one of the guards, tall and blocky in stature. "Take him to the cellar. And don't worry about giving him one of the cleaner rooms." André squeaked, but said nothing, following the other guard around the side of the house.

The man turned toward d'Artagnan as soon as André disappeared from sight, his face warm and welcoming. "Sorry for the delay." His voice was clam, soothing. "I had to take care of a bit of, well, housekeeping." D'Artagnan's skin crawled. Was it too late to turn back now? "You were indeed correct; I am Fernand - and who might you be?" The question was innocent, but d'Artagnan felt as though there was a threat behind the words. Was this what his friends betrayal had gotten him? Suspicion and distrust?

Once again, d'Artagnan introduced himself. "My name is d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers and I have come regarding the reports of banditry that have made their way to the castle. I was hoping you might be able to aid my fellow musketeers and me in our investigation?" Better to pretend he had numbers behind him. Fernand's smile slipped a fraction of a second before sliding firmly back into place.

"And where are the rest of you?"

A calculated look entered Fernand's eyes, and d'Artagnan shifted his hand closer to his sword. Maybe he was right to have been suspicious.

"About a day's ride out. I was sent ahead to scout the area. One of the villagers told me you might be willing to aid the king. If nothing else, I would like to make sure that you understand the severity of banditry. It is a crime punishable by death." The double meaning was clear. "I am only here to assist those in the village."

Fernand nodded, relaxing, and d'Artagnan eased his stance slightly. "I regret to inform you that I have no idea what banditry you speak of. However, if anything should come to my attention, I will be sure to send for you as soon as possible. Where is it that you are staying?"

D'Artagnan schooled his features into a relieved expression. Porthos would be proud: poker had never really been one of d'Artagnan's specialties. Except, Porthos will never know, will he? "I'm staying down at the inn until the others arrive." He smiled. Did his expression look strained? "Please, don't hesitate to contact me if anything is amiss."

Fernand nodded in agreement. "Certainly, and thank you for informing me of this, truly. Now, if you don't mind, I have a very busy schedule for the day and must be going. I will have Bernard here escort you to the road." He gestured toward the thick necked guard that had spoken to d'Artagnan earlier.

D'Artagnan nodded, unusually relieved to be on his way. "Thank you for the accompaniment. I do hope to hear from you soon."

"Most definitely."

Bernard fell in step behind him as d'Artagnan moved down the polished stairs. A dark feeling nipped at his heels as they walked. D'Artagnan knew that any man would be foolish to attack a musketeer with more on the way, but that didn't mean that Fernand had not seen through the lie, had not suspected.

If only help really was traveling hours behind him. But dwelling on that was wasteful, ignorant. No one was coming, not now. He was no musketeer, no part of the brotherhood that had become his family. Somehow, d'Artagnan felt more alone than he had even after the death of his father.

D'Artagnan noticed the rush of air behind him too late as something swung toward his head. He moved to duck, but he had wasted precious moments lost in thought. The object caught him above the temple, dropping him like a stone. His vision blurred, faded in and out.

A voice laughed above him. "If they're all like this pup, they'll be easy to pick off."

His back scraped roughly against the uneven terrain. Voices floated around him:

"I wonder what's gonna happen to André."

"Who knows; just be glad you're not him."

"I thank the Lord every day I'm not that ugly."

D'Artagnan heard a rumble of laughter, and then nothing; blackness.

A gate clanged. D'Artagnan jerked awake.

"… or neck?"

"Arms for now, you know how Fernand always like them to be alive when he gets down here."

D'Artagnan groaned quietly. "Bernard, he's waking."

"Well then, we best make this as painful as possible."

D'Artagnan's eyes flew open as he was hauled aggressively toward a pair of chains that dropped from the roof of what looked to be a small cellar. His head pounded, the light that leaked into the room making his eyes water. First one arm and then the other was wrenched behind d'Artagnan's back and up towards his head, his wrists encased in iron manacles behind him. He hissed quietly in pain, trying to cut off the sound before either of the men heard him.

"Look at the boy, thinks he's tough."

"Bet you 20 livre he breaks by tomorrow night."

"I say he lasts till the end of the week."

Grinning, the men shook hands before Bernard reached for something just out of d'Artagnan's view. He could hear the clanking of chains and knew, somehow, exactly what was going to happen. With a pull, d'Artagnan's arms were dragged high above his head, forcing him off of his knees and into a crouch in an effort to relieve some of the weight that now rested entirely on his shoulders. His body hung over his knees, his legs trembling.

He fought the darkness for a moment, two, and then once more there was blackness.

A scream echoed through d'Artagnan's cell, pulling him from unconsciousness. His head banged, beaten leather resting over the barrel of a drum. His room was black, a night with no moon, and d'Artagnan thanked small mercies for the lack of light. It was cold, the scent of mildew in the air, and d'Artagnan shivered, frozen.

Another scream. Barely muffled by the stone walls around him. His head jerked up, tugging at his shoulders, pain radiating up his back and down his arms, into the the very core of his joints. He tried to shift his weight, tried to move into a more comfortable position, but his legs had gone numb while he was under, and had no hope of moving them. He was surprised they still supported his weight.

Again the screaming, until it was cut off abruptly, the silence somehow louder in the deep black of the cell.

Voices bled through the quiet, moving closer, until a loud squeak shattered the it altogether as the door swung open. The light filtered into the room, dim, almost nonexistent, but blinding nonetheless, distracting d'Artagnan from the muffled thump of something heavy falling to the floor.

He barely managed to open his eyes before the door was shut once more, but even in the newfound darkness, d'Artagnan could see André, body lifeless and staring, burned into his mind.

D'Artagnan's skin crawled; the darkness a thousand insects eating away at his skin. He dropped his head once more, empty.

Was he going to die like this? In the cold and the dark? Lonely and alone and so, so tired?

God, what he wouldn't give for one more moment with his friends, one last drink or joke or meal. He laughed bitterly. To be betrayed by those you love and to still need them, still long for them.

How weak could he be?

His laughter chocked off into nothing.