A/N: Sequel to "Unlikely Rebels". The plot of the original fic is briefly summarized below along with a short timeline and background for the events related to the story. Like the series, this fic plays fast and loose with dates. (In S1 Ep1 Aramis tells Adele that he was stabbed in Montauban in 21 and shot at Ile de Re in 22 - those battles actually happened in 1624-1625 and the Siege at La Rochelle was in 1627.) Be prepared for historical inaccuracies and liberal doses of Wikipedia inspired names and places. This fic is one of my pre-series stories set during the Huguenot Rebellions.

My gratitude to EnjoyedIt for inspiring and encouraging this story - it would never have been written without her! As always, my deep thanks and respect to Issai for being my beta-reader and collaborator. Much of the plot of this story developed with her help. The work is all the better for her influence, but the piles of mistakes are all mine. Sadly, the characters aren't.


Historical and Story Notes

Late Summer, 1626 - Almost a year and a half after Aramis survives the massacre in Savoy (1625) and four years after the Huguenot rebellion at Montauban (1621) and the English incursion at Ile de Re (1622). The siege of La Rochelle is just ending and the still relatively new King's Musketeers (formed 1624) have been in the region for eight months, routing out pockets of resistance, chasing down the leaders of the rebellion, and bringing stability back to the region. Cardinal Richelieu has risen to power for both his role in conducting the siege and also as adviser to the new King. Maria de Medici, after attempting to take her own son's life in a bid to claim the crown, has been exiled and has taken refuge in the Dutch Free States, a young republic eager for international acknowledgment. The Comte de Rochefort, a favorite of Richelieu's, has gained favor from the crown due to the strategic nature of the port of Rochefort but also in recognition of his ruthlessness during the rebellions and the siege.

Summary of "Unlikely Rebels" - The Musketeers, gaining reputation both for their skill in battle and their loyalty to their unit and their King, are under the command of Captain Treville but assigned as part of Richelieu's forces in the region. In a bid to weed out Huguenot sympathizers, Athos, Porthos and Aramis are assigned to a special mission under Rochefort's supervision to assassinate French citizens thought to be in collusion with the Huguenots. The gruesome assignment pushes all three men to the brink and only through Treville's successful intervention to have them reassigned will they remain Musketeers and not deserters. Treville has sent them on to Royan, vowing to board a ship to Corsica with them if Richelieu refuses to release the three musketeers back to his command. (read the original story for all the glorious angst you know you love!)


It was rare that Treville got to ride alone. If he wasn't leading a column of men to a battle or encampment he was flanked by guards as he rode between military outposts organizing provisions and coordinating troop movements. Some months ago it would have been foolish for any man so obviously in the King's service to have ridden in the region without a quartet of guards, but the strongholds of the Huguenots were either routed or under siege and the remaining forces scattered and on the run. There was always a risk, but the risk was far greater to the men that the Captain protected had Treville's secret mission not gone well.

Mission wasn't the right word. This had been personal between him and the Cardinal and memories of their encounter caused enough of a physical response that his horse whined and danced under the unexpected tension in his legs. Treville soothed a hand through her mane and shushed her as he gently reined her back to a walk, consciously relaxing in the saddle. While the exchange had been disturbing the outcome was in his favor. But Richelieu's interest in his Musketeers, particularly Aramis, remained of concern. His instincts told him there was greater purpose in the Cardinal's ill-conceived actions although Treville could not quite define what.

It was like a chess game, some of the pieces clearly defined and others not yet revealed, on a board that he could only see part of. The Cardinal was always a presence, but now Rochefort too was in play and seemed far more than just a pawn in Richelieu's service. The Cardinal's commission to form his own guard was troubling, as was the fact that Treville had received no notice of it from the King. Richelieu claimed he could draw from the roster of any regiment, even the Musketeers, to fill the ranks of his Red Guard but Treville had to wonder if Louis had truly authorized that. The King's Musketeers were a point of pride for Louis and while he ceded much power to Richelieu he was not likely to let the Cardinal have the best of anything if it was at his expense. And there was also the list of names that Rochefort had provided to Athos as their next set of targets. Some were known Huguenot sympathizers but most had little to nothing to do with the rebellion. Judging by the Cardinal's reaction, he had been far from pleased. So was Rochefort truly the Cardinal's piece to play? And what plot was then in the works that Rochefort was targeting merchants and nobles in the region?

Treville scrubbed a hand across his face then took up the reins in both hands as he kicked his mount to a trot. He appreciated the solitude of the ride as he puzzled out the events of the last two weeks, but he was also road weary and ready for the ground beneath his feet and a bottle of wine to take the dust from his throat. He was also more than ready to be reunited with his three Musketeers.

He gave a glance to the sack tied to the pommel of his saddle. Athos's unexpected visit to him three days ago had initially caused his heart to clench in a fear he had not known since his own days in the ranks. His regiment was small and young in many ways, but those three men - Athos, Porthos, and Aramis - had quickly become the foundations on which he built the Musketeers. His first thought at seeing Athos standing angry and alone before him was that one or both of the others had been lost. He was a commander at war and knew a kind of anguish at the news of each soldier's death under his command but these three . . . the ache in his chest had been that of a father, not a captain, steeling himself for news of a lost son. Knowing they were alive and well, Treville had quickly been able to snap his feelings back into that deep place where soldiers locked their secrets but Athos's news had been dire nonetheless.

The three pauldrons tied to his saddle spoke volumes to the depth of the damage the Cardinal's grim task had inflicted. He had known these men to be disruptive, unruly and irreverent. They had a habit of creative interpretation when carrying out their orders and things Treville did not ever want to know were hidden within the silent communication between the three of them, but he had never known them to be anything less than good soldiers. Obedient, loyal and committed in their duty to the King and to France. Yet two weeks under Rochefort's command and they had been pushed to the brink of desertion. Treville urged his horse forward. Yes, he was more than ready to see them despite his worry about what he might find.


Treville rode into Royan just as the evening bells were ringing. The port city left a tang of salt on his lips as the sea breezes whisked down the narrow streets. Royan was not a large city, but it played a crucial role in the chain of defensive positions along the coastline. It was also part of the brisk trade route that sent French wares up to the English and Dutch brought back exotic goods from Morocco and Cameroon. The years of unrest in the area had also brought Royan a darker trade - it was a place to find soldiers for hire, mercenaries, assassins, cutpurses and privateers. When Treville suggested they meet in Royan, it had been with the full knowledge that leaving France was their only pathway to escape for his men should desertion truly be their only option.

Treville had visited at the Captain's Rest on several occasions while he had been stationed in the area. Only a month ago he had met here with General De Foix, assessing troop positions and hiring on two ships to assist in coastal patrols. That De Foix was both a military genius and Treville's sword-brother had made their days together pleasant and the inn itself a respite from the day-to-day trials of military command. Treville hoped his men too would find peace in its secluded courtyard, clean rooms and startling view of the sea.

Treville was not surprised to find his musketeers had gravitated to the table in the small courtyard, much as they had taken over similar space in their garrison. Although it had been months now since they had been in Paris, Treville couldn't help but smile remembering nights he had spent working in his office, windows open to the cool evening air, their conversation and laughter drifting up on the breeze.

As Treville dismounted, he caught Athos's eye. Ever vigilant, his Lieutenant was already on his feet, calling to the stable boy to help the Captain with his horse. Porthos raised his head to see if he was needed but a gesture from Treville kept in him his seat. He continued to idly shuffle the deck of cards in his hands but his gaze had drifted from Treville toward the shade of the apple tree on the other side of the courtyard. Aramis stood in quiet conversation with another man, the marksman's hat slung low over his eyes. At Athos's shout he had looked up and given a wave of acknowledgment to the Captain but now he leaned in toward his companion as he listened intently to words too soft to carry far.

"The journey was uneventful," Athos's dry statement hinted at a question as his eyes flicked over the Captain looking for signs of injury or distress. Treville gave a snort. Athos could be as bad a mother hen as any of them.

"It was fine," Treville said, pulling his saddle bag and arquebus from his mount, "I'm parched."

Athos gave a tip of his head and gestured toward the table. Treville paused to give the stable boy a coin and pull the sack from the pommel of his saddle. Athos raised an inquisitive eye but Treville just snorted again and moved toward the table. It wasn't that he wanted to add more tension to the situation, but Treville had no intention of having this conversation until they were all gathered.

Treville deposited his belongings on the table while Athos poured him a cup of wine. If Treville had been wondering how the men had passed their time the bottles and cards told most of the story and the well-oiled pistols and blades laid out beside them told him the rest. Drinking, gambling and fighting were the standard pastimes of his Musketeers. Treville downed wine and held out the cup to Athos to fill again.

"I like this inn," Treville said, taking off his hat and dropping it on the table with his saddlebag, "Tell me you haven't outstayed your welcome." Porthos raised his head from the cards and gave the Captain a half smile.

"Not yet," he said, "My heart ain't been in it."

Treville sighed and scrubbed at the back of his sweat-damped hair, giving Porthos a nod. The big musketeer was not particularly prone to melancholy but Athos had not exaggerated about the toll they had each paid for their last mission. Porthos was subdued, no easy light in his dark eyes. His hands fidgeted with the cards in idle distraction, not the deft shuffles and fans he typically practiced. Treville glanced at Athos as he passed him another cup of wine. His Lieutenant seldom gave anything away but he knew the tautness in his frame and the tension in his bearing spoke of the deep unease they all felt. Athos was still on guard, protecting his men even here when the only danger present was the news their Captain might deliver.

"What's that about?" Treville asked, giving a nod toward Aramis and the stranger still conversing under the tree.

"We're bein' courted," Porthos said with an ironic smile as he pushed himself back from the table and stood, " Although that one seems to only have eyes for Aramis." Treville scowled, looking immediately to Athos for clarification. He didn't miss the smile that twitched at the edge of the swordsman's lips.

"We made the mistake of sparring yesterday morning," Athos explained, "And it has brought forward all sorts of invitations."

"Two ship captains, a mercenary in need of partners, a cutpurse who has a plan to rob the Portmaster and a nobleman wanting an escort to Barcelona," Porthos ticked off the people on his fingers, "And that was just this morning."

"This afternoon we were offered our choice of Moroccan whores in exchange for transporting a locked chest and a thin little man to Brest." Athos added, "And that one has been back twice," Athos said with a glance toward Aramis. Treville could sense the discomfort coming from the two men. He was not surprised that they had been approached for work - it was common to assume that any man not in a uniform was someone who might be for hire and their sparring match would have immediately marked them as men of skill. Why this man in particular bothered Athos and Porthos though, Treville was not sure.

He followed Athos's eyes to where Aramis was still in conversation. It seemed one-sided, Aramis's head cocked, his hands on his hips as he listened intently. The man he spoke with was dressed head to toe in black leather, trim and tight in a manner that was much like Athos. The rapier at his belt was of fine quality, the ornate silver basket flecked with colored jewels that sparkled in the sunlight piercing through the leaves of the apple tree. The man's gestures seemed practiced and contained, a discipline about his movement that suggested a physical control that would put the expensive blade at his side to good use. As Treville watched, Aramis took off his hat and placed it on his chest, giving his head a slight bow. The other man raised a hand, making the sign of the cross. Aramis raised his head and extended his hand, the other man clasping the marksman's forearm in a gesture familiar to soldiers. He held on to Aramis's wrist, pulling him slightly closer to say one last thing. Aramis gave a nod and the men parted giving Treville an unimpeded view of the heavy gold cross at the man's neck.

"A Jesuit," Treville said with curiosity. Rome's elite order was hardly known for dealing with blades-for-hire. He wondered what this could be about. The marksman replaced his hat on his head and made his way to join them at the table as the stranger left through the open gate.

"Captain," Aramis said with a nod as he approached, "Apologies." Aramis gave Treville a practiced smile. Treville took Aramis's hand in greeting, searching the marksman's face for clues to his state of mind. While all three of them would bear a burden for the business of the last two weeks, Aramis already seemed to carry more than his fair share. The crinkle of lines around his eyes said he had not been sleeping, the tentativeness of the hand that clasped his spoke of his uncertainty to Treville's news but in every other way, the marksman's feelings were locked behind eyes that showed only their determination to persevere.

"It's good to see you," Treville said warmly, "All of you," he added. And he meant it. These men touched his heart like no others.

"You have news?" Athos asked casually. Instinctually the three of them shifted closer, shoulders almost brushing as they waited on word from Treville.

"The Cardinal was quite impressed with your work," Treville said, knowing full well the men would hear the hollowness in the compliment, "But after some discussion, he has disbanded his reconnaissance squad." He felt the men bristle at the term. They had been assigned as assassins, not spies, Aramis targeting men on orders from Rochefort and Athos and Porthos holding the responsibility to make sure he kept firing his gun.

"And us?" Porthos's tight-lipped question held a dangerous edge. Treville reached to his pile of gear and pulled open the sack that had been tied to his horse. Three leather pauldrons spilled out onto the table.

"You are reassigned to my command," Treville said gruffly, surprised at the emotions threatening his composure, "We will rejoin the unit and begin preparations to return to Paris." Their relief was collective. Immediately Porthos's face broke into an enormous grin as he pulled his pauldron from the table.

"Hello beautiful," he said, giving the tooled leather shoulder piece a quick kiss before slipping it back on his arm. Porthos was a straightforward creature and there was no mystery as to his pleasures or his pain. Porthos's place in the world was defined by being a Musketeer and his entire demeanor changed as things were set right by him.

Athos rolled his eyes at Porthos's needlessly dramatic reunion with his uniform, but Treville could see the fondness in his gaze. Athos took his pauldron from the table and with a glance at Aramis picked up the marksman's as well and offered it to him. Aramis and Athos exchanged an unreadable look but Aramis took up the pauldron, turning it over in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first time. Athos started opening up the buckles on his but paused before slipping it on his arm.

"Are we free of the Cardinal that easily?" Athos's question was simple but there was so much more behind his words. He wanted to know what the Captain had done to have them reassigned. But he also wanted assurances that they would never be in this position again. Both were things Treville knew he could not answer.

"Nothing about dealing with the Cardinal is easy," Treville said with a sigh, "Now that you have gotten his attention, I suspect he will not forget you," Treville gave a nod toward the pauldron in Athos's hands and the swordsman handed it over. Widening the opening, he slipped it up and over Athos's shoulder, moving behind him to do up the buckles. There was something sacred in placing the leather armor on the shoulder of a Musketeer, something of a promise that in exchange for loyalty, bravery and skill they would in some way be under Treville's protection. His watchful eye to guide them to be better soldiers, grow them to be strong men and watch over them when they were powerless to do so themselves. As Treville buckled the pauldron onto his Lieutenant's arm he felt the familiar ache of failure - this was not the first time loyalty to the the crown and the orders of the Cardinal had put that promise in jeopardy. Finishing the last buckle, he gave a glance to Aramis.

The marksman's face was inscrutable as he held the pauldron in his hands, but his eyes looked tired and there was an emptiness there Treville had not seen in months. Treville felt a pang of guilt stab at his heart. His dealings with the Cardinal had twice now forced him to act without honor and both times it was Aramis who paid the greatest price.

"Aramis," Athos said softly. There was a question in the word. On Aramis's other side Porthos had stiffened, his features set in a grim line as his eyes widened in worry. Aramis exchanged a look with each of them that Treville could not decipher before turning the pauldron over in his hands, tracing the scores and slash marks that ran across the etched fleur-de-lis.

"This has served me well," Aramis said with a fond smile, "But I wonder sometimes if I have done the same."

"You are a fine soldier, Aramis," Treville's answer was immediate and sincere, "I could not ask for better."

"I am good with a musket and pistol but that does not make me a fine soldier," Aramis raised his eyes to meet Treville's gaze, "I disobeyed orders."

"Orders we shouldn't have had to carry out in the first place," Porthos interjected fiercely.

"You acted with conscience and principle," Treville affirmed, "And that will always be a hallmark of being a Musketeer." Aramis gave him a small smile.

"Duty and honor. We think as Musketeers we are somehow . . . more. More than mindless soldiers who aim a gun at anything in front of them." Treville heard the bitterness in his words. Aramis cradled the pauldron in his right hand, pressing it against his chest. His tone softened, "Thank you for returning this to me," Aramis gave a respectful dip of his head and cleared his throat, his tone lighter but not easy, "Please excuse me. I've got to speak to the farrier," he nodded toward the man in the leather apron who was just entering the stable, "My horse needs a new shoe," and turned away, moving toward the stables, the pauldron held carefully in his hands but not yet on his shoulder where it belonged.

Porthos sighed and moved to follow the marksman but Treville laid a hand to his chest. "No, let me."

Porthos looked grim but gave a shrug and sat back down to his cards. Athos caught Treville's eye, his steely blue gaze holding both a threat and promise. Treville had a feeling that if Aramis refused his pauldron the other two would be lying again on the table beside it. Treville scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened his shoulders. Nothing was ever easy with these three.