I am so astounded by the response to this story. Maybe it's because I haven't written in a current and such active fandom before, but I am so buzzed by the level of response. Thank you to those who have reviewed or are following. It is always so very much appreciated. As is usually the case with my stories, this one has grown as I have begun to flesh it out. I'm not sure how long it will end up, so I guess just enjoy the ride while it carries on :-)

Chapter Two

D'Artagnan slowly and carefully turned in a tight circle. Three heavy-breathing horses pranced around him as their riders jeered at him. None of them had any weapons drawn, but he could see each of them carried at least a pistol and a musket. So far, they were just toying with him.

"Now where do you suppose a grubby farm boy got his hands on a sword like that?"

"Probably stole it!"

The other two roared with laughter as they continued to march their horses around their prey.

"Well I guess that evens the odds a little. Except I'd wager he has no idea how to swing that blade."

More laughter echoed in his ears, but d'Artagnan was happy to drag this little charade out if it put more distance between them and the boys. He prayed they had not seen his pistol tucked into the back of his breeches and covered by his shirt. It only had one shot and he would not have time to reload it when it was three against one. He kept his tongue and allowed the raiders to continue their taunts. Athos had repeatedly told him that allowing his emotions to rule his actions would always end in trouble. As much as he wanted to respond, he bit back the retorts that arose in his mind. A small grimace twitched at his lips as he realised that Athos would never get to know that his lesson had sunk in.

"You do know those brats are getting away. They can warn somebody we are back. Takes away our surprise."

The apparent leader of the trio looked up to see how far the boys had made it. He frowned as he realised they were farther away than he had expected. The farm boy's horse was clearly from good stock.

"Well then you'd better stop them, hadn't you?" It was clearly an order and not a question, but the first one hesitated.

"Why me? This one looks like much more fun!"

D'Artagnan glared at them and found he couldn't stay silent any longer. His blood was boiling at the thought that these men, if they could be called men, were prepared to go after innocent children.

"Trust me, you won't be having any fun at my expense." The low growl in his voice made the trio laugh.

"Oh really?" The leader turned his attention back to his original conversation. "Get after those boys! I promise you can have first turn at the next wench we come across."

D'Artagnan simply glared at him as the man reeled his horse out of the circle.

"I'm going to hold you to that," he shouted as he raced his horse away across the meadow.

The other two kept circling their horses around the young man in front of them. Barely concealed rage distorted his features as he struggled to keep control.

Finally, as if tiring of their game, one of the men kicked out at him from the saddle. Anticipating the move already, d'Artagnan sidestepped the thrust and the man overbalanced. As he tried to correct himself, d'Artagnan lunged at him and pulled him to the ground. In one smooth move he plunged his sword into the man's chest.

As his companion drew his last ragged breath, the other man pulled his horse back a few paces. Clearly he had not expected their victim to have any such skills and he briefly wondered who they were up against. He didn't have long to wonder as the stranger took another wild swing with his sword. The horse shied back from the blow and the sword glanced across his upper thigh.

He yelped in pain before pulling a pistol from its sheath on his saddle. With only seconds to react, d'Artagnan again sidestepped and lunged once more. This time his sword found its mark and the second rider toppled from his mount. Leaving the man to die where he fell, d'Artagnan sheathed his sword and quickly swung himself into the recently vacated saddle. The horse pranced on the spot as it was unaccustomed to this new rider. With the ease born of many years experience, he gathered in the reins and pushed the horse in the direction of his two young friends. He whipped the horse with the reins in a desperate attempt to cover lost ground as quickly as possible.

As he scanned the meadow ahead of him he could barely make out the last of the raiders. The fact he was still riding meant he hadn't caught the boys yet. As he searched past that point, d'Artagnan could see that the boys were not that far ahead. He cursed under his breath as he knew Henri would have struggled to control his spirited horse. He spurred his own horse on and pushed it to the limit, wishing he was on one of the Musketeers battle-seasoned mounts. Galloping at full pace could only be maintained for a short time, especially for an unconditioned horse.

It seemed like hours before he drew close to the rider in front of him. The man had pulled alongside the boys and grabbed at the reins. Both horses had pulled up short and d'Artagnan could hear Henri screaming his name. He urged the last he could out of his spent horse and virtually threw himself out of the saddle.

Henri was still clinging onto his horse's mane, but Philippe had been knocked out of his grasp and had fallen to the ground. As the two horses jostled against each other the man slid from his saddle and tried to grab at the terrified child. Henri urged the horse forward and the man skipped backwards as the large horse almost stamped on his foot.

"Philippe, run!" The child stumbled as he tried to comply, but being caught up in the middle of two large horses dancing around him was too much and his legs gave way beneath him. As he crumpled to the ground his brother could see the man once more heading in his direction.

D'Artagnan sprinted towards the child while simultaneously drawing his sword. His mind reeled as he saw the raider draw his pistol and aim it squarely at the defenseless child.

"Noooooo!" Without thinking, he threw himself forward and crashed over Philippe.

He sensed, rather than heard, Henri's scream behind him. As the metal ball bit into his flesh the only thing he could feel was the adrenaline coursing through his veins and a pounding in his ears. His mind refused to respond and his upper arm suddenly felt very heavy as he tried to wrap it around the small boy under his chest. Acting solely on instinct he swung wildly with his sword arm and was surprised when it finally connected with something solid. The force reverberated up his arm and he felt the sword fall from his fingers as he struggled to move.

"Philippe!"

The second scream drew him out of his stupor and d'Artagnan twisted sideways to see the raider staggering backwards, away from him. Blood poured from his side as he clutched at an open wound with his left hand. D'Artagnan frowned as it all seemed to be happening in slow-motion. The sounds of the battle were fading in his ears and instead he heard his friend's voice.

"A stomach wound is always fatal."

The words floated through his head and he remembered Aramis telling him that once as a Red Guard lay dying. He had felt a whisper of sympathy for the man, but the one in front of him deserved nothing but contempt. He attempted to untangle himself from the child clinging to his shirt and he belatedly noticed that once again, a pistol was being waved in his direction. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how his attacker had had time to reload when he realised he was staring down the barrel of his own weapon. Somehow the man must have pulled it from d'Artagnan's back when he lay crouched over Philippe. He briefly had time to wonder what words of disapproval Athos would have for him on that count before he felt it again; the burning sensation that burrowed into his flesh. This time there was no more adrenaline left to block out the pain and he was left with the sour knowledge that once again, he had failed his mentor.

Porthos always snored when he was drunk. Or had overeaten. Or had just won a major victory. Or for pretty much any other occasion really. Most of the time his friends could live with it, but when he rattled the windows of their rooms as well as his own, they had various ways of dealing with it. Often a pillow was involved. Or sometimes a bucket of cold water. Occasionally even a death threat accompanied by a musket.

Athos sat on his bed and held his head in his hands. Tonight was one of those nights where he decided that nothing was going to help. He had tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up on the notion of sleep. He pulled on his boots and slipped out into the darkness. He knew the garrison so well that he could move about comfortably in the dark and felt no need to light a candle or lantern. Instead he headed out to the practice yard and settled down next to the remains of a firepit. The dying embers glowed red and the warmth radiating across from them was not enough to be uncomfortable on the still-warm night.

He could vaguely make out the sentry guards in the pre-dawn light and watched as they crossed from side to side of the garrison. He mentally counted off the number of steps before the two men turned and paced back towards each other.

It had only been a few minutes when his senses alerted him to movement behind him. He barely turned to see as he already knew who it was.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

The question rolled out of the darkness before the shapeless blur beside him resolved into Aramis.

"Alongside the earthquake? Not a chance!"

Aramis snorted in response and sat down next to his friend. "Hmmmm, he does seem to be particularly threatening to the well-being of my windows tonight."

Athos just nodded. The two of them sat comfortably in silence for a while before Aramis finally tried again.

"Anything else that might be keeping you up?" He continued to stare into the darkness, but was so well attuned to his friend that he still picked up on the stiffness beside him. Athos was clearly trying to hold it in, but Aramis was too perceptive to miss it. The fact he was struggling with it too made it easier to see. If only he could be more like Porthos and sleep through it. Maybe he just needed more spirits in his stomach.

When Athos still didn't respond, Aramis nudged his arm. "I'm worried about him too."

Athos simply exhaled a breath, but still refused to comment. Aramis leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. This was clearly one of those conversations that was not going to involve any talking. The two were good enough friends that silence was not uncomfortable, but it didn't stop Aramis from wishing that Athos would let more out sometimes. As he pondered that thought he nearly missed his friend's words.

"I'm not worried about him."

Aramis was glad it was still fairly dark so his friend wouldn't see the grin on his face. He choked back a retort and waited.

"I just don't understand … why did he decide to go alone? Doesn't he understand yet what it means to be a musketeer?"

"You mean, all for one?"

Athos nodded slowly. Of course that was what he meant. "We would all have his back. Why wouldn't he give us the option to do that for him?"

Aramis stared across the practice yard towards the guards and realised they were growing more visible. In the pre-dawn light he could actually almost make out their faces. The men of the garrison slept soundly each night, knowing that their brothers guarded the gates and would sound the alarm if there were a hint of danger.

"I think … maybe … that we forget how short a time d'Artagnan has been one of us. So much has happened that it seems he has always been here. In reality, it has only been a short while."

Athos shook his head angrily. "Have we not already proved ourselves worthy of his trust? Many times over?"

Aramis knew the anger was not directed at their young friend. Rather it came from Athos' deeply ingrained sense of honour. He chose his next words carefully as he attempted to smooth his friend's ruffled feathers.

"In matters of battle? Yes. In matters that go deeper? Well … we all hold our secrets to our chests sometimes."

Athos knew that his friend was referring to their recent unplanned visit to his neglected and abandoned home, but stayed silent. As always, Aramis was right.

"How did you become so wise for one who is an uneducated fool?"

Aramis smiled at the insult. His friend was coming back. "I am educated in the things that matter."

Athos laughed softly in response. "Yes, there are many ladies of the city who could attest to that!"

Before Aramis could reply, they were both drawn to their feet by a commotion at the guardhouse. Raised voices had them both moving quickly and quietly towards the sentries. Athos' hand moved instinctively to his side and he smothered a curse when he realised he was unarmed.

"I demand to speak with your captain!" The shout rang out across the practice yard.

"Who are you to be demandin' anything at this time of night?"

Aramis recognised the voice of one of the younger recruits and smothered a smirk. Waking Treville from his bed before dawn was not a good idea, especially since their captain had spent most of the last week at the court. He was exhausted and the experienced Musketeers knew it had more to do with dealing with court intrigue than anything else. A soldier never enjoyed the convolutions of politics.

As Aramis and Athos stepped up beside the two sentry guards they could see a man, dressed in simple peasant clothing, being held back by the two of them.

"I demand help from your captain!"

Athos stepped squarely in front of the man and the guards slowly removed their restraining hands.

"Help with what, exactly? We are the King's Musketeers and not at your beck and call." The low measure of his voice made the man step back slightly, but he did not back down.

"I am a citizen of France! I went to seek the King and he would not hear me."

"And what makes you think you can then seek us out if the King would not grant your audience?"

Desperation flared on the man's face, but before he could reply, Treville moved into the debate. Nobody had heard him approach, but his men were not surprised by his sudden appearance. Nothing happened in his garrison that he did not know about.

"The King has other matters to attend to at present. His musketeers are assigned at his requirements. And only at his requirements." The authority in his voice resonated with his men, but the stranger would not be deterred.

"My wife is dead! So are others! Farms have been looted. We need help! Not a lesson in politics." The man's voice trailed away as he stared at the soldiers in front of him. He read a flash of sympathy on the face of the dark-haired man and allowed himself a moment of hope.

Aramis schooled his face into a mask again and glanced across at Treville. The captain's hand was clenched by his side. His men knew that small give-away showed his frustration, but a stranger had no way of knowing that. Something had transpired at court that related to this man's demands.

"I waited for two days at the court, but the King was not inclined to hear my plea. I was told I could not enter your garrison until daylight and I have waited all night outside your gates. Please! If the King does not care to save his subjects, perhaps he will be a little more concerned when our produce fails to reach Paris and the court goes hungry!"

"Careful! You are on dangerous ground!" Treville's voice was low in warning. Speaking openly against the King was never a good idea, but especially so in a public place.

As the sun began to crest the roof line in front of them, Treville could see the clear mark of bruising on the man's face. An older scar had almost healed across his cheekbone. He softened his stance a little, but nobody except those closest to him would know that.

"Where, exactly is your home?"

The man was caught off guard by the change and he hesitated momentarily. "Over a day's ride from the city on the south road."

"I am aware of the petition you sought to bring to the court. I am due to return there today and will take your request with me. In the meantime, you would do well to return to your home."

The farmer knew he was being dismissed. Although he wanted to wait and hear the outcome before leaving the city, he also knew his boys were waiting for him. Every minute he was away from them was another minute longer they were not safe. He had considered bringing them to Paris with him, but knew he could well be attacked on the road. The decision to leave them behind had been prefaced by stern warnings and instructions on what to do if the raiders returned. He could only pray they did not need to listen to those instructions.

He nodded slowly in agreement and began to turn away. "Thank you for allowing me your attention. The Musketeers' reputation is one of honour."

Treville knew the compliment had an implied expectation buried in it. Men of honour did not stand idly by and watch innocents suffer. Men of honour would come to their rescue. Unfortunately, men of honour were also bound by duty.

"Sir, may I inquire as to your name?"

The farmer turned back to face the Captain of the Musketeers. "Armand Dubois."

When it was clear that no more was forthcoming he turned on his heel and headed over to where his horse was tied to a rail. He swung himself into the saddle and headed away down the laneway. Treville stood staring after him long after the sound of hooves on cobblestones had faded. Finally he blinked and turned to head for his office.

"I need to prepare for court," was all the explanation any of them were apparently going to get.