Warnings: Milady being a sex worker from a young age on is implied here (it's point three, so you can skip it entirely if you want/need to), thus warnings for implied child abuse, rape, and underage. There are some descriptions of violence (mainly point six), implied/hinted sex (point nine), and implications of the canon hanging (point ten). It's all pretty vague, but still.

zero

"The court will hear the testimony of Madame de la Chapelle," Richelieu announces, and Milady practically feels the smug self-satisfaction, the one that underlays his every word, resonating through her body. But this is her spectacle, her show. She's rehearsed this entry until it followed her into her dreams. And how dark these dreams were, how satisfying.

Light sweeps through the hall, bright and clear, and she becomes a part of it. She steps forward, into the light, always into the light, and makes her way through the crowd flanked by guards. The dark material of her dress catches the sun so that it shimmers like an insect's shell. Milady hides her face – and the wandering of her eyes – behind her fan, as she passes the group of the King's Musketeers standing idly by. Two names burn on her tongue, and she wishes in that moment that she could call them out. Declare to the world that she knows them, and that they know her too. But that's not the plan. They're not to recognize her, not yet.

"Madame de la Chapelle, tell us of your experiences at the countess's salon." The Cardinal's eyes have a dangerous glint, feverish, obsessed. He masks it, but not well enough to fool anyone who knows him as the man he turns into when there's nobody watching him, nobody whose opinion matters anyway. But Milady herself? She knows him and it doesn't hurt that he regards her as nothing more than a tool. It makes him careless around her. Richelieu may think he's the mind behind all of this, that she does as he bids, but it's not true. Not this time. With a look back at Ninon – who doesn't move, who doesn't bow her head and nods at her oh-so-unaware of the knife that's about to split her back -, she turns to speak.

"Ninon did to me what I saw her do to other women."

Athos' choked gasp does not escape Milady's attention, and neither does Porthos' burning stare. She doesn't dare to smile, but the excitement of it rushes through her head, as she continues her act.

one

The snow under her bare feet is brown and solid. Too many feet, too many hooves, and wheels, have pressed it into a compact form that imitates the cobble stone buried underneath. She's cold and tired, but a familiar warning resonates through her head: Death comes to those who linger. She's not lingering, she's not, she won't, she just needs a moment to rest. There is a sheltered corner behind an empty market stall and it's too tempting to pass it by.

Exhaustion surges through her body once she lets it relax against the icy underground. She keeps watching the street, looking out for movement, for someone who could harm her, but there is nothing but the dim flicker of light from inside the houses. The rest is darkness and cold. Her feet are numb and and her eyes are tired – her whole body is aching with tiredness. She shoves it away, buries it under alertness and fear. And it works, if only for a few moments. She rubs her hands and her face and her legs, but the warmth is like a spark that leaves her skin burning with cold even worse. It hurts. She curses.

Suddenly she spots a boy on the far end of the street. Dark brown skin, black hair. Shoes, actual shoes. No visible weapon. Which means nothing. Dread flares through her mind, just for one moment, and she doesn't dare to break her gaze away from the stranger, even as she searches the ground for a weapon. Anything. There's a stone, small and with sharp edges. It will have to do.

"Go away or I'll kill you," she hisses at the boy who, she realizes, can't be much older than herself. It does not matter. He is a risk, a risk she's willing to eliminate. "I'll kill you," she repeats a little louder as the boy comes closer. He drops something, and then steps backwards, as if he fears that she will cut him from behind if he turns around too soon. He's not so wrong. Then, as fast as he appeared, he disappears into the night again.

Still, the blood keeps thumping in her ears. She hugs herself and waits until her breath is evening out and her heart rate lowers again. It's too dark to see what the boy dropped and she licks her lips, regretting it immediately as the cold stings even worse now. She decides to wait a bit longer. Seconds that turn into minutes that turn into even more minutes. There's not a soul to be seen as curiosity takes the better of her and she leaves the corner, the stone still firmly in her hand, and steals into the open street. She gets on her knees to pick it up, only realizing what it is as she touches it and her belly starts to rumble.

It's a piece of half-frozen bread.

two

Charon's warm laughter spills out of the room and when he enters he sees Charon on his back, Flea sitting on top of him, huffing indignantly, and holding him down with what little weight she has.

"Porthos!", Charon calls. "You'll never guess what happened tod-"

Flea snorts and scuffs him softly. "Nothing happened," she says, turning half-around to flash him a brilliant smile, before she turns back to Charon who, despite her efforts, still won't stop laughing.

"I think I'll come back when you've sorted this out," Porthos replies, hardly managing to keep a straight face in the light of Charon's gleeful joy and Flea's facial expression that shifts from annoyance to amusement and vice versa every few seconds.

"She was out-thieved today," Charon manages between two breathless laughs. "The self-proclaimed queen of the thieves, robbed of a day's worth of-"

"Keep your gossip to yourself! That's not what happened."

Porthos can't help but grin now. "So what did happen, Flea?"

"Hah!" Flea's smile is sharp and her eyes are aflame. "You two couldn't even steal from an unconscious drunk without getting noticed, so I'm not talking to you about anything related to the fine art of theft."

"Um, I'm not asking about the incident itself, but do you know who it was?", Porthos asks and now Charon laughs even harder, while Flea rolls her eyes and announces: "This conversation is over. And don't think I won't make you both pay for this." Swiftly, she gets off of Charon and pushes past Porthos, mumbling something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like 'bloody beginners'.

"You know we'll have to apologize for that, right?" Porthos sits down beneath Charon and gestures towards the door Flea rushed through. "So, why did we tease our queen exactly?"

"She was robbed in broad daylight, "Charon says with the most serious expression he can muster before his mask breaks and he smiles at him all too brightly. There's nothing malicious about it, though, he simply looks like he received the gift of his life – which is probably the only reason Flea did not scoff him harder before. "This girl, Anne? Goes by the name of Milady these days, works for Sarazin, you know the one?" Porthos nods, raising an eyebrow, and Charon continues lightly: "So Milady comes up to Flea and talks to her with this sweet charming voice, and it was nonsense, of course, but Flea gets really flustered. She gets so flustered that she doesn't even notice that she got pick-pocketed until Milady waves her goodbye holding her purse."

"You're making this up."

"I swear this is how it happened. She even blew Flea a kiss. It was amazing, Porthos, I've never seen her blush this deeply."

Porthos starts laughing and lets himself fall back, joining Charon flat on the bed. "No wonder she's in no mood to talk about it." They laugh together and the sun shines through the window and paints their skin, until Charon suddenly stops laughing and turns around.

"What? What is it?", Porthos asks and Charon looks at him with disbelief, touching his empty girdle.

"She… took them. My knives. But. When?"

This time, Porthos' laughter fills the room.

three

Her body is a weapon and she treats it like one. Polishes it, enhances it, trains it.

Her eyes are bullets, ripping through hearts and minds alike, her lips are poison, intoxicating, deadly, her tongue a dagger, sharp and elegant and quick, and her fingers are cords, soft yet smothering. Her arms are traps, her legs too, the rise and fall of her chest is bait, and when she bares her teeth they don't know what's coming.

They desire her, because she's young, she's clever, and she's beautiful. It's only half the truth. In the end, they still treat her like they treat any other prostitute. She does not like to call herself that, though. She's an entertainer, an actress. She's brilliant at pretending; it's what keeps her alive.

Milady's body is a weapon, but her wit is the far more dangerous one.

four

"Give this to your friend, the annoying one who steals from Sarazin's guests." Milady smiles, but there is an edge to it. "And tell her that if she spits at me one more time I'll have her gutted and thrown into the Seine."

She turns around before Porthos can answer, and so he watches her leave, becoming one with the crowd on the market. Frowning, he looks at the little brown purse Milady handed him. It reminds him of the one Flea used to have, years ago. Upon opening it, he finds it's filled with coin, and a piece of writing with only two words in neat, curved letters: My pleasure.

Porthos shakes his head, snorting, because there is no way Flea will believe this is not Charon's or his doing. He's smiling all the way back to the Court.

five

She likes watching him from a distance. Porthos. She says the name softly to herself, lets it pass over her lips smoothly. She likes the way he moves, the way he seems genuinely interested in the person he talks to – even when he takes their valuables later. Or how, when he fails to do so undetected, he smiles apologetically and makes a run for it. Surprisingly agile, even.

Time did him a favour, turned him from a lanky boy into a youth with broad shoulders and a confident stance. If he wasn't so devoted to Flea and Charon, so loyal to the Court, he'd make a good guard for Sarazin's girls. Alas, he is undoubtedly devoted to this pair of urchins and their following, so Milady just keeps watching him. Studying him. Always from a distance, but always with his name upon her tongue.

six

His head spins, and there's blood in his eyes so he can't see properly, and it hurts. Porthos stumbles into the street, trying to regain control over his body, but it works against him, leaving him vulnerable to the shadow that attacks him with determined rapidity.

"He killed my right hand and I'll kill his. I hope you're ready to die for your so-called king and his arrogance." It's a hushed whisper, piercing through the high pitched sound that shrills in his ears, and fuck, Porthos just needs a moment to orient himself, but the shadow comes at him again. And again and again and again. All he can do is shield his face and chest with his bare hands, and it's not a fair fight, never was – he's alone, unarmed and probably a little drunk -, and it's not one he can win. But the shadow doesn't seem to want to kill him swiftly. Instead it practically slices him apart. Streaks of blood cover his hands and arms, but the hits keep coming, and the shadow laughs. Porthos steps back until his back hits a wall and he knows, he just knows it's over, he's trapped, as the laughter abruptly becomes a gargling spitting. A body drops to the ground.

Porthos wipes at his face with one hand, the other still raised in case he's next, but through the haze of blood and tears he recognizes Milady. The slim blade of her dagger is bloodied.

"You don't remember, but you were kind to me once when you didn't have to be. Consider this a favour returned." Her voice is calm and dark, like the night sky. "You should go, before the guards find you here."

"Wait- thank you," he rasps, and Milady smiles briefly.

"Don't be so careless next time. I'd hate to lose you to false loyalty."

Porthos wants to argue, it's an impulse, but she's not paying attention to him anymore, stepping gracefully away from the pool of blood that has built around the shadow's cut throat, and back into the night. Porthos blinks, but she's gone as fast as she has appeared.

seven

"You have a visitor, my lady."

"Do I now?" Milady watches the girl, a small frame with nervous eyes and shaky hands. "Well, take them to me. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm sorry, my lady. As you wish, my lady."

She hears the creaking of a door and the fall of foot steps. The girl steps into her private chamber again, lowering her gaze. "A monsieur Porthos du Vallon for you, my lady."

"Thank you, you can take your leave now."

"As you wish, my lady." The girls disappears, but Porthos doesn't enter her room. The bruises have almost faded from his face and the wounds have healed, leaving fine scarred marks on his skin. There is one scar that stands out; the one that parts his left eyebrow and continues under his eye.

"And here I thought I would get to see you with an eye patch," she says with a half-sided smile. "You may come in."

"No, thank you. I don't want to disturb you. I just wanted to thank you again."

"Is that so? Are you sure you do not have an ulterior motive? Most men do have one."

"I'm not most men," Porthos replies with a shrug and an easy smile. "Thank you. I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."

"I already told you, it was to even out a debt between us."

"I don't remember what I did for you."

"It does not matter. It was a long time ago." Milady looks out of the window. "Will that be all?"

"Yes. Thank you, Milady."

Porthos turns to leave, and she can't quite stop herself before the words are out: "Maybe I'll tell you of your kindness next time."

The smile he gives her is bright. "Until next time, then."

eight

"I'll be a comtesse soon."

Porthos smiles. "Yeah? Who's the lucky comte?"

"That, my dear Porthos, will remain my secret," Milady says lightly and smiles back at him. "I don't want you and your band of thieves turning up at my estate one night. My husband doesn't have to know about this – my past."

Her words are like small arrows that find his heart with the precision of a healer's scalpel, but Porthos knows that his feelings regarding her choice – her choice to start anew somewhere else and conceal her past, to leave him in the past - are irrelevant. She looks happy. And she deserves her share of happiness, deserves to rise in status as she always dreamed of. He wishes he could do the same, but duty binds him to the Court.

"Your past is nothing to be ashamed of," he offers anyway, and Milady's smile falters instantly. He's seen that enough times in the past to know what it means. Anger flashes through her eyes, and she says sweetly: "Well, I'm glad you will never have to hide your past – seeing as it is your present and future."

"So? At least I'd never pretend to be someone I'm not." Porthos knows he's gone too far the moment he has finished the sentence. The accusation. Milady's eyes are sad but her mouth is a hard line, and she unlinks herself from his arm. "I hope you won't be disappointed when you find yourself in the real world and realize that you have to do exactly that to survive."

"I didn't mean-"

"Goodbye, Porthos."

"Anne-"

"Don't you dare," she hisses, "or I'll kill you right on the spot."

Porthos steps back, gives her space, and she leaves in a wave of fine cloth and silk, and suddenly Porthos remembers the night, the snow, the little girl hunched up behind a market stall, and he calls after her. But it's too late.

nine

She comes back, a last time. It's weakness, weakness of the heart and flesh. Porthos whispers apologies into her skin and she forgives him, forgives him because she can, because she'll leave and won't return, because it doesn't matter if he knows that she's weak.

"Don't look for me. Don't look for me, swear it," she demands with closed eyes and pretends her voice did not break away. "I love him. Him. Do you understand? I cannot see you again."

Porthos' kiss is gentle, his voice is soft, and his words are final.

I'll miss you.

ten

"You're one of us now." Aramis smiles, there's fondness in his eyes and he places a hand on Porthos' shoulder. "Officially. Of course you've been one of us for quite some time, now."

"This is… thank you," Porthos says, unable to swipe the grin from his face and unable to stop touching his new uniform, a Musketeer's uniform, made of fine leather and the promise of an honorable life.

"We're celebrating tonight. Even Athos will be there. I mean he doesn't really have a choice in the matter, since he basically lives in this tavern. Don't be late – I may have bet money I don't possess, so I need your… assistance. Don't worry, it's nothing major, I'm half-way convinced we can win this."

"Whatever you need. I'll be there."

"Excellent. I'll make the arrangements." Aramis squeezes his shoulder – it feels unfamiliar through the new layer of leather -, and flashes him a genuinely happy smile before hurrying off to… wherever he has to go. Porthos smiles, and he knows he must look ridiculous but he doesn't care, and makes his way back to the barracks.

"I see you've made new friends. Are you in bed with the enemy now, Porthos?"

The voice cuts right through him, as it always did, as it always will, and he spins around to face Milady. Milady who wears a veil, who doesn't wear the warm bright colours in which she left all this time ago, but is dressed in a dark solemn blue that forms a contrast to the paleness of her skin.

Porthos stumbles over his own words as he tries to build a sentence that makes sense, that will express how glad he is to see her and yet how worried he's at the same time. She was supposed to be gone for good, she shouldn't have returned to Paris, if she's here again it means something went wrong. A deep unsettling fear spreads in his chest. "Are you- is everything…? Why are you here? What happened?"

"Life." Milady smiles, but it's a bitter smile. "I did not expect you to become a musketeer. Funny, here I am ready to return into your arms to find you living a life where I have no place anymore."

"Milady, why are you here? Where's your comte?"

"I'm done pretending. This is all you need to know."

"What…?"

Milady looks him straight into the eyes, exposing her neck with a small gesture. "I have one too, now." She still smiles but her voice is listless. Fury claws at his heart and he pulls her into an embrace, close, as close as he dares, and growls: "I'll kill him. I swear that I'll kill him."

She frees herself from his arms, and there's something broken in her eyes. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I swear it," he insists, because what else can he do? There is his sword, he suddenly remembers, and he pulls it out of the sheath an inch, drags his palm over the blade, until it's wet and red. "I swear it by my blood. I will kill whoever did this to you, even if it was the Cardinal himself."

Milady's eyes are unforgiving and punishing. "You swear it?" She shakes her head, laughs bitterly. "I'll take you by your word, Porthos. We'll see what kind of man you've become when the moment of truth arrives."

"Where will you go?"

"Home."

zero

"I felt a deep and terrible shame…" Milady concludes her statement, waiting for the inevitable, her pulse already jumping. And it comes, comes sweet and quick and predicted: Athos explodes.

"This woman is a liar, she's not even who she claims to be!"

Like you, screams her heart.

"She is a convicted criminal and deceiver!"

You're a murderer, spits her heart.

"She is not to be trusted!"

But neither are you, cries her heart.

Chaos follows. The Cardinal sends her away, and she allows herself a smile. Only for a second, only for herself. Athos is raging. It's sweeter than any applause she could have imagined. Milady flies by them, one more time, one last time, catching Porthos' eye. He looks at her like he lost all faith in the world. For a moment she regrets making him shoulder her burden, but the moment passes, and she leaves the hall with her head held high.

The curtain has fallen.

It is not in her hands anymore.

eleven

Porthos grabs Athos by the shoulder: "Who's that?" Athos refuses to look at him, distraught, and steps wordlessly away from Aramis and him. It's enough of an answer.

Something inside of Porthos cracks, something else mends. He loses the ground beneath his feet, and still feels like a heavy, silent weight anchors him to the ground. To the truth. We'll see what kind of man you've become when the moment of truth arrives. Porthos clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

The cut on his palm - healed, scarred, and faded out what seems a life time ago - starts to burn.