AN: Hello again and Happy Easter! I'm sorry that this took so long to get posted. I'm not even going to bother to make any excuses. My inability to produce chapters as promised is entirely my own fault. *sigh*

Anyway, thanks again to celticgal1041 for letting me use some of the broader beginning ideas in her fic "Cast Aside." You should definitely go read it after you finish this is you haven't already. She's very talented.

Please review, and I hope you like it.

AN2: I have made some slight adjustments to this chapter so that the plot flows better and makes more sense.


Traitor.

The word hung like an empty vow; the promise of a thousand lies, all now drowning in the murky pit called honesty. Athos could not force his mind to wrap around the sounds that Treville let fall from his lips. He could not process the silence that was d'Artagnan's reply; the hunched, vulnerable, betrayed shape of Porthos' body; the trembling hand of reassurance that Aramis rested against Porthos' arm.

Traitor.

D'Artagnan.

Slave trade.

The words didn't fit together in his head, jumbling around and forming sentences that should never have even been thought. He could have sworn he heard Treville string them all into a few angry lines. Could have sworn they had said something that couldn't possibly be true.

Slave trade.

D'Artagnan.

Traitor.

Gnawing guilt chewed vicious holes through the lining in his stomach, a notched bayonet ripping through him from the inside out. Why could he not say anything in defense against the words that were thrown harshly at the newest and dearest addition to the group? Why could he not completely ignore the sense of betrayal that settled like a heavy cloud over his mind? Why was d'Artagnan not saying anything?

"We have a traitor in our midst." That's what had been said. "One among you has been privately profiting from the sale of slaves." Even the word made Athos' stomach churn. "D'Artagnan, your trial will be in the morning." His heart had stopped.

We have a traitor in our midst.

Traitor in our midst.

Traitor.

D'Artagnan.

God, he needed a drink. Needed that mindless numb feeling; the forgetful feeling; the nothingness feeling. He was vaguely aware of movement from where d'Artagnan was standing before. A thud amplified a thousand times around the silent training grounds. A sense of loss that he hadn't felt since- no, he did not need to think about that now.

Traitor.

D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan is a traitor.

Slaves.

D'Artagnan is a traitor selling slaves.

Gone.

D'Artagnan is go-

"Athos! Athos, he's gone. He's gone, Athos." The blanket disappeared, pulled swiftly from around his mind. Aramis was shaking his shoulder. "Athos, pay attention. What's wrong with you? We have to go get him. We have to go talk to Treville. He won't come back if he thinks we believed what Treville said, even for a moment."

"'E'd never 'ave done it." Porthos' determined voice somehow calmed Athos down, making him kickstart his brain. Porthos still looked shocked, but there was a certain resolve in the set of his shoulders that made him look more sure of himself than he ever had before. "You saw 'em when we 'ad Bonnaire; 'e was as disgusted as the lot o' us."

That was true, beyond true. D'Artagnan has been repulsed. Shocked. Horrified. Not that he had let the rest of them see that; at least, not as far has he had been aware. But they had known; all of them could tell from the set of his shoulders and the clench in his jaw. Even after knowing d'Artagnan for only a short time, he had already managed to latch onto them, burrowing into their hearts. And then after, when the house was burning and Athos was dying inside and Milady was coming back to life and Athos was still dying inside, d'Artagnan was there, dragging him from the flames, holding him as he cried, listening to the sad story that was Athos' life. Finding for Athos a new reason to live, a reason to continue on, a reason called d'Artagnan. The little brother that he had never wanted, but suddenly needed. A life line that lessened the pain of the world. A drug that replaced the alcohol-hazed mind that he always craved. A glue that drew the three older men even closer together. A younger brother who was theirs to protect and to comfort and to watch over.

A younger brother who was gone.

"We must go and speak with Treville." The words left Athos with force; a command from a leader bent on protecting his soldiers. "We need to understand the charges and prove that they are false. We must find d'Artagnan. Aramis, see if Constance knowns anything about what is happening here. Porthos, you know the city better than any of us; try and catch him before he does something foolish and disappears. I'll go speak with Treville." His two companions nodding, they turned in opposite directions and moved forward, determined. They would not allow such false charges to stand against their newest member, especially one so close to their hearts.


"Do you think he did it?" The words were out of Aramis' mouth before he could contain them. A small ember of doubt burned just below the surface of his thoughts, eating away at his certainty that d'Artagnan was innocent. He was sure that Treville was mistaken, but what had led Treville to say those things to begin with? What had caused him to accuse d'Artagnan of such a crime? Was it possible that Aramis was blinded by his love for his youngest brother?

"O' course 'e didn't do it." Porthos' gruff voice soothed Aramis' racing thoughts, helping to quell the nauseating theories that had begun to form. "Treville is mistaken. I don't know what 'e's gotten 'imself into, but we're gonna get 'im out of it just as quick."

Unwavering loyalty was something that Aramis had always admired in Porthos, something that he wished he was able to dole out as freely as his closest friend. Countless betrayals were a thing that Aramis had grown to accept, and with that acceptance came a loss of trust. He trusted d'Artagnan, truly he did, but he also trusted Treville and d'Artagnan had been gone quite often the last few months. Disappearing and then reappearing at random - and sometimes extremely inconvenient - moments. Sneaking back into his rooms well past a time when everyone else had gone to sleep. Turning down missions given to the group in exchange for tasks that could be completed closer to home. Showing up to training sore and exhausted. Cutting training short to attend to some undisclosed matter. Never saying what he was doing, or where he was going, or how he had managed to receive yet another wound somewhere on his body.

Aramis trusted d'Artagnan, but Aramis had been wrong before.


Porthos moved across the rooftops, leaping from one building to the next, flinging himself higher and higher in an attempt to gain better ground. He jumped over gutters, climbing along the beams of the thatched roofs all around him, searching desperately for a sign of where their youngest member had gone. Treville was wrong, Porthos knew this without a doubt. When the words had reached his ears, he had been shocked by the accusation, overcome with a sense of dread, and hurt by the idea that anyone could even begin to assume that d'Artagnan had turned against the closest thing he had to family: the Musketeers.

To be honest, they were his family. They were the people that watched out for him, protected him and comforted him. They cared for him in a way that only a brother could. Porthos' mouth set into a determined line as he changed his course and continued onward, keeping a sharp lookout for d'Artagnan. His thoughts replayed the sound of the pauldron hitting the ground as he hooked his hands onto the ledge of a building that was almost out of his reach, causing his feet to scramble precariously against the side of the wall below. He hadn't done this in a long time, not since he was a young child, not since his days in the Court of Miracles.

If Porthos could not find him, he knew someone who would be able to help. If d'Artagnan was anywhere in the city he would not be able to hide for long. They needed to rectify what had happened and clear d'Artagnan's name. The betrayal that d'Artagnan must be feeling at this moment. Porthos shook his head at the thought, forcing his attention back on the streets around him. Maybe Aramis was having better luck than he was. Maybe Athos was clearing up the whole misunderstanding at this very moment. Maybe they would all laugh this off in a few hours, surrounded by the warmth of each other's company, drinking in their favorite pub. Maybe things would get better.

But then again, maybe things would get much worse. Porthos had always been a dreamer.


"What is the meaning of this charge?" The fury was visible around Athos, oozing from him in waves. Someone had tried to squander the reputation of one of his closest companions: an unforgivable act. Someone had sentenced him to die. Someone had wanted to end his life. It did not matter that this someone was Treville, a man renowned for his levelheadedness and his sense. It did not matter, because Athos knew that he was wrong. He knew that the lie that had been spoken was meant to wound; to inflict pain; to cause suffering.

D'Artagnan's suffering was unacceptable.

D'Artagnan's pain was unacceptable.

D'Artagnan's wounds were unacceptable.

And Treville was the cause of all of these wounds and pain and suffering. Athos found this unacceptable.

The question remained unanswered as Treville looked into Athos' eyes, his own weary with sorrow and regret. Always sensible, always demonstrating an overwhelming amount of self-control; this was Athos at his finest. A sigh escaped from Treville's lips, filling up the small room and only seeming to add fuel to Athos' anger.

"He did not do the things you have accused him of. What is the meaning of this?"Athos repeated.

"That is," Treville paused, quiet, "Not entirely true."

Athos eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" His resolve was cracking, his panic mounting.

"Has he left the city?"

The question threw Athos off guard, making him answer on impulse, "He is gone, but Porthos and Aramis are out looking for him now." Treville's shoulders sagged visibly with what Athos could only describe as relief.

"Stop looking for him; he should not be found."

"Why? What has he done?" The anguish inside Athos was growing, taking over, filling up all the cracks that could be found in his composure; leaking through into the final words of his question. "What has he done?"

"Everything and nothing. That is the problem. It matters not what he has done, only that he must leave. D'Artagnan must remain gone, Athos, do you understand? Do not look for him. Do not hunt him. Do not talk of him. Do not try to find him. Forget him." Weariness suddenly seemed to overtake him. "This is how we will protect him. D'Artagnan will just… be gone."

Gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

No, not gone: driven away.

"What have you done?" The question came out more accusing than Athos had intended, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was finding d'Artagnan. "Do not play games with me, Treville. One way or another we will find him and rectify this. He is our brother. All for one and one for all. That is what we taught him, and that is what we shall continue to show him."

Another sigh, this one resigned. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to accept what I am saying without question, and move on?" Cold eyes leveled upon Treville as he continued. "He is in trouble, more trouble than we can simply hope to get him out of. Trouble that will most likely result in his death. All of those times that he was gone and could not explain, he was on an assignment from me. He's still new enough that the Red Guard thought nothing of it when he integrated himself in amongst the slave traders. He was doing what I had assigned; he and two other that have been at this for years. We've been trying to end Richelieu's little side business for a long time and we were almost there, until something changed.

"More bruises and no information was all d'Artagnan was getting. Somehow, the Red Guard had figured out what was going on and were getting less and less subtle in their demonstrations of power." Athos winced. "Do you remember last month? D'Artagnan was gone for three days, and when he returned he wouldn't even pick up his sword to train? He wasn't taking a letter to a priest as he said; he was lying abandoned in an alley until, miraculously, one of the other undercover Musketeers stumbled upon him." Athos had to fight down the bile that was rising in his throat. Suddenly the disappearances, the bruises, the quiet all began to make sense.

"I told him to pull out, to break his cover and step back, but he refused. He completely ignored my orders. He continued to play his role, but it was growing increasingly clear that he was going nowhere, but to a quick death. There is a price on his head, Athos, and, when I asked him to leave until everything settled down, he refused that as well. He wanted to remain here with you. I had no other choice. He could have stayed and died, or left and lived. Do not squander what I have done here in an attempt to bring him back. He needs to remain far away from Paris, as far as he can go. This was the best option."

"We will fix this." The resolve was evident in Athos tone. "I will fix this."

"Athos -"

"Where would he have gone? He has no family to speak of, save for those who have just branded him a traitor."

Treville closed his eyes for a moment, debating with himself how much he could say. All of his hard work would be for nothing: his fabrications, his careful protection of d'Artagnan, his hope that things could be different…But maybe they could be. The man before him was a man of many talents, a man of strength and courage and cunning. A man of pain. Could he take any more pain? Treville wasn't sure. "A few weeks back, d'Artagnan showed me a letter from his uncle, a letter requesting assistance. I could not let him go to his uncle's aid because he would have been gone to long, but now I would not be surprised if that is where he has gone. He has no other family to speak of; that is where I would look."

Athos nodded slowly, his head turning over all the other possibilities that he could think up. His mind came up blank. That was the most likely place for d'Artagnan to go. "Where does his uncle live?"

"It is a two days' journey northwest, with constant riding. I will give you leave from your duties for as long as I can while you try to find him. Rest up, and leave in the morning."

Athos gave another nod, this one filled with relief at the prospect of finding their missing companion. "We will depart as soon as Aramis and Porthos return."

Treville paused before agreeing. "As soon as they return. Yes, I should have expected nothing less. Go pack and try to sleep, Athos. Get the stable boys to prepare your horse, and by the Lord above, do not make me regret this."

Athos nodded his head and backed from the door. There would be nothing to regret, because d'Artagnan would be back where he belonged before long, fighting beside his brothers.

If resolve could change fate, Athos would be a very lucky man.

Athos never did have any luck when it mattered most.


"Constance? Have you seen our young friend?" Aramis was banging upon the door, yelling into the open window and praying that Constance would hear him. "He's gone missing and we can't find him. Constance? Constance, are you there?"

"Young man, stop your jabbering." Aramis swing around to view the person behind him. "Good heavens! You'd 've given this old lady a heart attack if it weren't for the fact that I'm as fit as a piano. Is that how the saying goes? I can never quite remember. What do you need Constance for anyways? Have you come to break 'er heart like that other young man? What was his name again? I think it started with an 'A'… maybe a 'D'? No, no, it was an 'R' I think. Oh, never mind. He was such a nice boy, too; who'd 'ave thought 'e had it in 'em? Such pretty brown eyes! And 'is 'air was so long. 'E reminded me of my late husband, now that I think about it. Are you married, young man? I 'ave a lovely daughter that 'as almost all of 'er teeth still, I think you'd just lo-"

"Was the man's name d'Artagnan?" Aramis looked at the old lady in front of him, her back hunched and her right eye glazed over with a cataract.

"Yes, yes, that sounds about rights. Terrible taste that man had; awful! Wouldn't even consider marrying my sweet Marie. Said 'e was too much in love with Constance. Marie's only thirty-four, young man; still quite easy on the eyes, if you ask me. Perfect for someone of your caliber."

Aramis ignored the old lady's words. At any other time, he would have been entertained by the lady before him, probably even more entertained than the one time that d'Artagnan managed to get himself chased by a swarm of bees. But not today.

"Has he been around here recently? To see Constance?"

"No; but then no one's been around 'ere recently. That house has been empty for several weeks now. Off to some fabric merchant up north. I've always wanted to travel, but my Pierre was never one for horses. Strange, now that I think about it, as he did their shoes for a living. Maybe that was the problem though. 'E never could seem to make the horses like him, always getting bit and-"

"Thank you madam, you've been very helpful." Aramis pulled off his hat and swept into a bow, always the charmer. "I must be on my way now, I have something very urgent to attend to." Aramis began to back away as quickly as possible, the woman's words growing quieter with the distance.

"Such nice manners you 'ave. Did I tell you I have a daughter? I'm sure she would love you. Almost all her teeth still, and no diseases, at least nothing visible. And 'er 'air; it gets washed at least three times a year. Quite excessive if you ask me, but Marie doesn't care what I have to say. Maybe if she washed it less there wouldn't be that one bald patch just on top. Young man? Is he even listening to me? Youth these days, so disrespectful. 'E 'as no manners! None. Whatever will Marie do about her…" Aramis breathed a sigh of relief when he was finally - blessedly - out of earshot.


"Flea, thanks for everythin'." Porthos leaned forwards to embrace his oldest friend.

"I'll keep an eye out for you, Porthos, don't worry. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Besides, what's life without a bit of adventure?" Porthos chuckled, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes, something that made Flea instantly uneasy: Porthos was always happy. "If he's in the city, we'll find him."

"'E's my brother, Flea." The sound of loss was there, hidden under Porthos' smiling facade. "I don't know what I'd do without 'im. I don't know what we'd all do without 'im."

"I know, Porthos." Porthos didn't handle loss well; but then again, who did?

"Go find 'im for me, Flea, please." His voice cracked on the final word. With a nod, Flea was gone and Porthos was turning back to the garrison.