Rarum in Sanguinem

Summary: d'Artagnan decides one morning that he's had enough of losing those he loves. Unfortunately for him, he's got two friends, a potential lover, and an adamant superior fighting in his corner, which is more than any Theta has had before him. Expanded Alpha/Omega-verse. d'Artagnan/Athos.

A/N: Translation of the title is roughly 'A Rarity in the Blood.' Below is a brief description of the universe I've come up with. This goes a little beyond your simple alpha/omega relationships. Also, I'm calling these types inclinations. One more note about canon: this is going off the fact that d'Artagnan did face and defeat LaBarge, but was not immediately awarded with a commission-hence the disappointment which leads to where this story starts off.

Alphas – dominant personalities.

Omegas – submissive personalities.

Betas – an equal mix of dominant and submissive tendencies.

Gammas – Asexual, philosophical and politically minded.

Sigmas – Bloodthirsty, sado-masochistic manipulators.

Epsilons – provocative submissives, creative, never the type to do anything twice.

Theta – unpredictable, occasionally volatile, untamable by nature, and also naturally attract danger. The most rare of any type of inclination or personality because of a short life expectancy.

Warnings: Sexual content, eventual non-consensual and consensual situations, action, and lots of angst.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just borrow because I'm bored and I need the writing exercise.


-To Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers

It has been my utmost pleasure and honor to have served under your command, even for so short a time. Given different circumstances, I would happily and honorably continue my service to you and his majesty until my dying day, but duty calls me home to tend to what remains of my family estate. Please understand that I did not lie to you when I said all of my affairs were in order, but my fears of bringing further trouble to my duties within the regiment have turned my feet homeward. Please give my regards to the others and impress onto them my deepest gratitude for their friendship. Should I be fortunate enough to see them again someday, I should hope it will be under better circumstances and with no history of ill feeling. Forgive me.

Your most humble servant,

-Charles d'Artagnan

Treville looked up at his men who stood before him. Aramis, Porthos, and Athos all bore similar expressions of shock, indignation, and anger. For one moment he took a deep breath and exhaled, slamming the letter down on his desk after he was done. "It's the biggest load of bollocks I've read in quite a long time," the captain growled.

"I said it first," Porthos muttered.

Aramis shot him a glare. "I thought it first," he whispered back.

"We all share the same sentiment, captain," Athos drawled, giving both Aramis and Porthos a warning glance.

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Treville stood and walked to his armoire, opening it with a key and sifting through a mess of sorted papers. "All of you, it is now your sole responsibility to go after d'Artagnan and bring him back. God as my witness I won't let go of a soldier as good as him without a bloody fight, no matter how foolhardy and stupid he is, or what duress he's possibly been subjected to."

Porthos took a step forward. "You think someone got to 'im?"

"The cardinal, perhaps," Athos postulated.

"It certainly would not be the first time," Aramis agreed. "But whether it is true or not, d'Artagnan is not even a musketeer yet, respectfully speaking, of course. I hardly think the boy will be inclined to return without the promise of anything less than a full commission, if he is in dire financial or personal straits."

"He'll have it. It's been long overdue. Athos," he said, approaching the man with a sealed letter. "This is for the boy's eyes alone. Bring him back. He belongs here. I won't accept anything less than a face to face apology for this horse shit excuse of a resignation."

Athos raised an eyebrow, none too keen on the idea of forcing d'Artagnan into something he did not wish for. That was often the consequence bound omegas suffered under dominating alphas. And d'Artagnan was by no means a dependent omega. "Do you expect us to drag the boy back if he does not wish to come of his own volition?

"By whatever means necessary, I do, but do not chain him. He's no omega to be bound to the will of a stronger inclination. Some still adhere to the old days of King Henry, but I do not."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Porthos said, paling at the mere mention, having suffered a chaining when he was a child by lesser-educated inclinations. Though the chaining had been premature, before he had come into his own alpha nature, it has still left a mark upon him. Aramis rested a comforting hand at the small of the man's back and Porthos shot him a grateful glance.

"Go now. He'll have a day's head start on you, but perhaps you'll be able to catch him up before he reaches Gascony."

"Come hell or high water," Athos muttered to himself, as the three of them left the captain's office without wasting another second. Aramis and Porthos kept any further comments to themselves, smelling Athos' anger and the wildness in him that had been set loose once he learned that not only was the boy gone, but of his own volition.

Athos didn't speak another word to either man once they left the garrison. He could feel himself churning on the inside, like a ball untethered by a wind storm. He hadn't felt this unsettled since Anne… and he didn't like its return one little bit.

d'Artagnan had a lot to answer for.


d'Artagnan knelt down in the unkempt grass, picking away weeds as the wind tossed his unruly hair. Then he laid the wildflowers in front of his mother's grave, arranging them in a vibrant fan of color like he used to do when he was a boy. God knew how much he wanted his father buried next to her, but to do so, he'd need time, money, and a priest. None of those things were within his immediate grasp, and none from the nearby town seemed too eager to help him once he turned up again. His father had few friends, and of those friends that remained, all seemed to be too preoccupied with their own affairs and that of the town's.

d'Artagnan certainly hadn't gotten a warm welcome when he returned. It had even been too difficult to buy flowers for his mother's grave, so he resorted to picking them himself from the wild. Though Gascony was his home, the stark difference with which his kind was treated out here in the country compared to the almost-normalcy he'd been able to experience in Paris was staggering. He was either a very good liar or people in the city were simply more accepting. Oddly enough, he felt more homesick now at home than he had felt in Paris longing to see his farm again, or what remained of it after the fire.

He hadn't told any of his friends, but the stress and strain of maintaining his family farm prior to the burning at the hands of LaBarge had worn him thin. He'd had whole groups of workers quit at once, then when he'd managed to hire more and they'd find out about his family, he'd barely be given a week before he'd be at the task again. Not only that but he had civil cases pending against him for only a week's worth of pay when there was no crop to show for it. Luckily, he'd been able to avoid any legal entanglements since his return, so far. He didn't like the idea of running or hiding. But all he wanted was some peace to grieve, the kind of peace he hadn't had a single moment for since he gave into his childhood desire to one day become a musketeer. He'd heard of Thetas having to start their lives over in different countries, how it didn't last for long, but that it at least provided some kind of thrill before the inevitable. Why not dream big and go out with a bang? Live life to the fullest? After all, it was how his kind lived and died. d'Artagnan would only be living up to example.

The Gascon hadn't given much thought as to where he might go, should he decide to go on the run, but he knew he couldn't quit France without at least trying to put things back in order. His father had run into this issue several times before in d'Artagnan's youth and somehow his father always managed to pay the workers and find others who would stay for more than a week at a time. Mostly that depended on him and his father having to tend to the fields themselves, but they had managed. They had made it work. So, why couldn't he seem to figure it out?

d'Artagnan hadn't even seen what remained of the farm yet and he was dreading it. There likely wouldn't be much of anything to salvage, if anything at all. He'd heard a local priest had doused the fire in the house before the entire structure could be consumed, and for that he was thankful, but he had no hopes that it would still be livable. Frankly, he'd spent so many nights out under the stars that it would not bother him much if his old room no longer had a ceiling. But it was all he had left of his family home. His childhood. His parents. It didn't feel right to abandon it to ruin.

He laid a kiss on his mother's grave before he stood up and wearily trudged over to his horse. The ride to the farm was slow, and many a passer-by gave him wary looks, some surprised which soon turned to scorn. When he was finally greeted with an innocent smile, he'd come across so many looks of suspicion until that point that he couldn't help but be suspicious himself. Finally, when he crested the hill that overlooked the small valley in which his farm lay, he pulled the horse up short.

It was worse than a punch in the gut. He felt like LaBarge was squeezing the life out of him all over again. He almost wished there was nothing left to see in the place of this torched shell. Anger churned in his gut the closer he got, when he was better able to catalogue the damage. Half the roof was gone. The windows were broken and the frames charred black. The front door was charred as well, split down the middle from the heat, but still sound enough to stand a gentle push open.

d'Artagnan took one small step over the threshold and swept as calculating a gaze as he could manage without dissolving into tears. His mother's hope chest had suffered little damage, but had been rifled through and overturned, the precious contents long gone. The military swords that hung above the mantle, two identical swords that had been gifted to his grandfather many years back, were also gone. Some of his mother's dishware lay broken in shattered pieces on the floor, his father's harvest logs were at the bottom of the hearth with the rest of the ash, his old wooden toys his father had carved for him were hacked to pieces-

His knees suddenly went weak. He fell into the wall next to him, jarring his shoulder, as he slid down to the floor. Tears only broke free after d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut. Even with his eyes closed, the carnage of what had once been his peaceful home, a place full of so many happy memories, was seared in his mind. Not even the memory of his parents could soothe his turbulent state. This was all he had left in the world, and to see it not just lost but actively destroyed, as if someone had planned just how to hurt him should he ever return, burned a gaping hole in his heart.

It was some time before he found the strength to stand again. When he did, he didn't wipe his face dry, nor did he make a noise. He simply trudged over to the fireplace and cleaned out the ash. He didn't even stop to remove his uniform, and by the time the task was done, he was dirty from head to toe. He pulled his leathers off and piled them on what remained of the corner bench. He would clean them properly later. He swept, cleaned, and made piles of what was to be trashed and what could be salvaged. His search of the rest of the house turned up a few blankets, one unripped pillow, and a small treasure that gave his bleeding heart a little balm. His mother's wedding band had fallen beneath the armoire, hidden by a bunch of feathers from the slashed mattress and pillows. It was a simple band of silver, but with laurel leaves engraved along the length.

He had cried silent tears of joy upon it's discovery and kissed it before pocketing the treasure. It had meant the world to his father after his mother had died. Sometimes he even wore it beneath his shirt on a leather cord, but for some reason, he did not have it on him the morning they left for Paris. d'Artagnan had wondered why and only asked him after they had put Gascony far behind them. His father's easy answer of bandits seemed empty somehow, but he had accepted it then. Now, with the ring back in his possession, he almost wondered whether his father had known it would be safer to leave it home, as if fate would ensure it would not be lost forever.

It was a fantasy, of course, but one that d'Artagnan took to heart anyway.

The barn was no better, but no worse than the house. All of his father's tools had been stolen. Spare equipment for the horses gone as well. But whoever the culprits had been they had left the hay where d'Artagnan had last remembered leaving it the night before he and his father left. He spread some down for his own horse and grabbed a pail on his way out, intent on walking through the forest instead of going to the town well for water. When he stepped back out into the cool evening, he found he wasn't alone.

Stephan Machart, a childhood friend, had ridden up and was dismounting in haste. Was there trouble? Had Stephan come to warn him? Either way, the presence of a friend, no matter the temperament, was welcome. But before d'Artagnan could extend that warm welcome Stephan approached with decisive steps and pulled out a short musket, aiming it right at d'Artagnan's head without hesitation.

"Into the barn," his friend said. "Now. And quietly."

d'Artagnan gaped in disbelief. "Stephan-"

"NOW, I said! And release the horse."

d'Artagnan was about to argue, but one murderous look from his so called friend had him reluctantly releasing the poor beast to the back pasture. He could only hope the horse was too tired to go too far, but he had a dark feeling it wouldn't matter where the horse ended up. After he released the horse, d'Artagnan raised both of his hands and led the way into the skeletal remains of the half-torched barn.

"That's far enough."

"What are you going to do, Stephan," d'Artagnan asked, turning to face the man and suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Shoot me? You're not a murderer. That's not even your musket-"

"Don't you dare turn this into a joke-"

"Monsieur, I am far from it!" D'Artagnan clenched his fists together and took a small step forward. "This is my home! You threaten me on my land and expect me to-"

"This isn't your land anymore. It's back where it belongs, with the true people that have tilled it long before your cursed family ever set down in these parts."

"If it is no longer mine, then why are the lands still in such disrepair?"

"Because they're cursed!"

"I'm no curse! And to hear such horse shit from you of all people-!"

An explosion of pain sent d'Artagnan to the ground. He cradled the side of his face with his hand and felt blood where the butt of Stephan's pistol made contact with his cheekbone. He looked up, not entirely surprised, but with unveiled betrayal and hurt. Stephan had been one of his biggest supporters growing up, and now he stood over d'Artagnan seething in rage, much like the bullies of his youth had done.

"Stephan, you were my friend for so many years…why?"

Stephan cocked the pistol and kept a steady aim. "You're a bloody Theta! You've been trouble ever since you were born-since we were boys. You've gotten people killed, Charles-Isn't that enough?! All we've paid at your expense?! This was a peaceful place after you left. You've got no one to blame but yourself for our misfortunes! I dare you to challenge me on that!"

"Was all the time we spent as boys a lie? You've always known what I was. You defended me from this town instead of feeding me to the wolves!"

"And what did that do for my family?!"

d'Artagnan closed his eyes and ignored the terrible sinking feeling in his heart. "Is this about Henri?"

"Don't," Stephan whispered with a cold glare. "Don't you dare, Charles."

"I wish every single day it had been me, Stephan," he whispered, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "I wanted it to be me, but Henri wouldn't let me-"

"Shut up! Don't say his name again or I swear to God above I will kill you!"

"I loved him," d'Artagnan cried, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Was that a crime?!"

"Yes! Because you killed him! Because of what you are," Stephan exploded. "You don't think we're ignorant of what became of your father months ago?"

D'Artagnan stumbled back against the back wall of the stall and clamped his shaking jaw shut. Tears spilled forth but he didn't have the energy to stop them. He felt a faint pain in his hands from his rock-hard fists, but paid it no mind. The pain grounded him as he fell to his knees under the weight of all his old pains resurfacing.

"I thought you would be different, Charles," Stephan said. "I wanted so much for you to be different! I even prayed for you! But you've been nothing but a disappointment. You know why I have to do this. You're to blame for all our troubles and it needs to stop here and now."

"Perhaps I do deserve to die," d'Artagnan whispered. "But my parents raised me to believe that I am not to blame for what I am."

After a long while of staring Stephan down, silently challenging him to get it over and done with while he still had the courage with the musket in his face, Stephan relaxed, just a little. "You're right," he allowed. "They are for letting you live. "

Just as d'Artagnan was about to hasten his own demise and rush Stephan for daring to make such an accusation, he stilled at the sound of three pistols cocking behind Stephan.

"I would suggest, sir, that you kindly take yourself far from this estate before you become acquainted with bullets courtesy of His Majesty's Musketeers."

"Well-trained marksmen, Athos. You forgot that bit."

"Aye, and pissed off too."

Stephan paled and tried to collect himself as he turned around and faced Athos, Porthos, and Aramis with muskets aimed at him. "Th-this is a private matter-"

Athos discharged his musket at Stephan's feet, which caused the man to jump back. "I believe I just gave you a gift. But I cannot say that you will be so lucky with a sharpshooter like Aramis, nor a man of Porthos' caliber. Do you want to live?"

Stephan paled and reluctantly dropped his pistol, giving d'Artagnan one final dark look. "This isn't over." Then he turned and swiftly made for his horse and left like the wind.

While Porthos watched Stephan's retreat, Athos wasted no time and dropped to d'Artagnan's side. "Are you alright?"

d'Artagnan nodded, not finding the strength to speak.

Athos touched the side of d'Artagnan's face and the boy winced. "Aramis," he called when his fingers came away with blood.

The medic in Aramis immediately took over as soon as he caught sight of the extent of the injury. "Might be a fractured cheekbone, but I can't tell in this light. Otherwise I just need to clean the blood and access the bruising. It'll be your most colorful yet, I think."

d'Artagnan couldn't even find the strength to smile, much less give a worded response. He felt relief, but his emotional reunion with someone he had been proud to call a friend at one time had left him drained and a little weak. Aramis gently pried his fists open and inspected the deep crescents in his palms. Only a few of them in his right hand actually drew blood, but Aramis gave him a handkerchief all the same and quietly instructed him to press down to staunch it. To his credit, he obeyed without question.

"Shall we into the house," Athos asked softly.

"Or what's left of it?" Porthos added. "Dunno which is better, the house or the barn."

"We should keep watch and make sure no one else returns tonight," Aramis added.

"If that's your way of asking if I'll take first watch," Athos grunted. "You've wasted your breath."

Athos and Aramis supported him from either side and led him into his family's humble house. d'Artagnan was still in somewhat of a daze. Porthos took care of lighting a fire in the front room while Athos settled him down in a salvaged chair and Aramis went in search of some drink and food, which didn't last more than a few unsurprised but undeterred minutes.

"It's a good thing we came prepared," Aramis said, bringing out the food rations they spent the time to buy early that morning a few towns away. "You said nothing about being in such disrepair. This makes Athos' chateau look hospitable!"

"Couldn't tell you," d'Artagnan mumbled.

"What was that," Athos asked.

d'Artagnan pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before continuing. "I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It was too much… and there was never enough time to sit and talk, let alone think about it."

"Oi," Porthos said, sofly, getting the boy's attention with ease. "We'd make time for you."

"Readily," Aramis added.

"Although," Athos drawled. "Were we about to be immediately tortured, exploited, or on the occasion put to death, I'd imagine those would not be the most opportune of times for a discussion."

d'Artagnan smirked. "Hence the lack of time." but his mirth didn't last for long. He winced and put a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and biting back a groan.

Aramis frowned. "Headache?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan hissed.

"Does it come and go or is it constant?"

"Constant."

Aramis approached and placed both hands on the sides of d'Artagnan's head, pressing in on points which garnered lots of groaning and cursing on the boy's part. "How long?"

"Since yesterday…"

Aramis frowned, but took his hands away. "And it's constant?"

d'Artagnan made a pitiful noise of confirmation. Athos offered him his water skin and the boy took a couple of gulps before passing it back.

"Steady throbbing all over your body or just in your head?"

"All over."

Aramis leaned over and put a hand to d'Artagnan's forehead and leaned close to smell his hair. d'Artagnan pulled away with a wince and a curse, arms flailing in surprise.

"Aramis," Athos chided. "You know better-"

Ignoring Athos completely, Aramis rounded on the seated boy. "And so does he! You really are an idiot, you know. You've got a fever."

"I'm not sick," d'Artagnan groaned.

"No, you aren't. You've got a repressed fever! How long have you been doing this to yourself? I can barely smell you!"

"My sexual proclivities are my own business, Aramis," d'Artagnan said, putting on his best Athos impression. "I know you like to think of yours as public knowledge, but I have no mind to ever be an exhibitionist."

Porthos laughed so loud d'Artagnan could only whimper and cover his ears.

Aramis rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at the boy while Athos, the only one with any empathy, pulled up a stool and sat himself right in front of d'Artagnan. "Lean down," he commanded softly.

d'Artagnan obeyed, propping his arms on his legs.

Athos sank his fingers down on the tendons between d'Artagnan's shoulders and neck. The boy yelped in pain and jerked, ready to put up a fight, but Athos didn't overstep his boundaries and began to knead the tension away. He couldn't help but moan as the pressure in his head abated. A reassuring cloud of warmth hovered over him. It didn't penetrate his senses, but stayed at a respectable distance that could still be of some use. Athos' hands still lay on d'Artagnan's shoulders. He had every right to shrug them off, but found the weight of the physical touch grounding.

"There are cures for such ailments," the man reminded. "Cures that need no bodily contracts."

d'Artagnan shook his head gently. "None hold any interest to me."

"Have they ever?"

"Once," the boy sighed. "But that was a long time ago. When I was a different person."

When d'Artagnan didn't elaborate, Porthos came to stand behind a still seated Athos. "Well? We ain't going nowhere…"

The boy smiled sadly to himself and dropped his gaze as he muttered, "Not yet."


A/N: Not sure how long this will be, but definitely less than ten chapters. Five if I can manage it! Hope you enjoyed reading!