I just can't stop writing this! Things will become a little clearer this chapter, and because of that, Claude's life will be even more complicated. I'm so cruel.

I'm hoping to have a bit more characterisation of the Musketeers in this chapter. I want to make sure they are all firmly fleshed out, and that I don't miss anyone, because although this will eventually be and AthosXOC fic, I love the others because they're just so awesome ._. It's a fairly long chapter, and I apologise if it's a little boring at times, the excitement is near the end...

The Musketeers belongs to the BBC

Chapter 3 - The Things Lost to the Flames

Treville had kept them busy for most of the afternoon and evening, and by the time they had managed to finally head out, the musketeers were on edge. The boy's heart-felt pleas kept playing over and over in their heads. The group had been quiet, much quieter than usual in fact, the normal chit-chat having died off hours before. Porthos seemed to be taking it particularly hard, Athos had reason to believe that inside his friend's tough exterior, the boy's words had stung. After all, Porthos had been one of them earlier in life. He knew the hardships those boys would be facing.

They chose to walk out to the house on the edge of town, hoping that their presence would be spotted less easily if they weren't on horse back. When they reached the long north road, the wind brought the scent of burning with it, acrid, stinging. There was a fire up ahead, a large one. The closer they got, the stronger the smell grew. A hot, orange glow was appearing in the distance, and a the sound of the crackling, roaring flames began to reach their ears. The four men exchanged a glance before sprinting the remaining distance.

It was anarchy. Complete and all encompassing chaos. Gunshots were echoing over the sound of the flames, and there were boys screaming, choking, pulling themselves from the burning building only to be shot or run through with a blade. The musketeers split off, drawing their swords and pistols and entering the fray. It was hard to keep track of each other in the madness. The heat of the flames was ever present, and it was difficult to tell the older boys from the attacking men. Porthos and Aramis brought down two men apiece, and D'Artagnan was engaged in a challenging duel with a cloaked man when Athos spotted the boy, covered in soot, crumbling over the body of his friend. And the man, the man behind him, approaching with a cocky swagger. That monster was enjoying this.

The boy had ran, back towards the center of Paris. And that had left them to defend those who were remaining, but it became apparent that their numbers were few. It was hard to say if any boys had made it into the tree line, although the sheer number of armed men made it seem unlikely. The attackers had started to disappear as quickly as they had arrived, as soon as they realised that they had an opposition that did not consist of unarmed children. The musketeers were soon left alone, among the bodies of the fallen.

"Bunch of sick bastards, the lot of them!" Porthos spat on the ground at his feet. "You know one of them was laughing? Laughing while he shot the boys trying to get out?"

"I hope you gutted him," Aramis replied bitterly.

"Oh I assure you, I did,"

"Did anyone see our young friend?" D'Artagnan asked, still slightly breathless from his duel. His opponent lay vanquished not far to their left.

"I sincerely hope we're not about to find him among the dead," groaned Aramis.

Athos shook his head. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. "He's safe. I made sure of it,"

Porthos gave him an almighty clap on the shoulder, before they reluctantly started to search the dead. The residents of nearby houses had awoken with the noise, and having waited until the gunshots had stopped, were not appearing in small groups. Aramis approached them, assuring them that the danger had passed, and they began to fetch buckets of water to put the roaring fire out. A bell began to ring somewhere nearby, a call for more help no doubt. A light rain had started, in fact it was sleet, and the flames were beginning to retreat slightly. The ruined house was now a complete shell.

The total number of dead totaled in the 30s. Three quarters of those were children. Children with no families, no parents to mourn them, to bury them. They'd be placed in an unmarked, mass grave. They would be forgotten. But not by those four men. That night would stay in their memories for many years to come.

Athos approached the bodies where he'd last seen Claude. He knelt at the dead boy first, and with a sickening jolt he realised it was the small child who had followed him in the market. How old was he? Four? Five? And there he lay, cooling on the ground, bleeding into the earth below. A wasted life. Athos reached out to him, closing the lifeless staring eyes, and then turned his attention to the man.

There was nothing remarkable about him. He was no doubt, some hired thug, as were the other's they had inspected. No distinguishing features, or clothes. Just plain brown and black leather. He was about to stand when a glint caught his eye. Something on the man's hand was reflecting in the light of the dying fire. On his finger, he wore a great, blue ring. The ring. Athos slipped it off his dirty finger, and placed it in a pouch on his belt for safe keeping. He'd think about the ring later. There were more pressing matters at hand. They had a young man to find.

Claude ran until he could longer do so for coughing. His lungs were burning, and his throat felt raw as he choked and wheezed down the street. Where was he supposed to go now? No home, no friends. Growing up on the streets had been hell, but as he'd gotten older, he felt like he'd had a purpose in life. And that purpose was to help Thomas look after the younger boys. They were gone now. He had no purpose. And every time he closed his eyes he saw Mud's corpse lying on the ground at his feet.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, tears finally escaping his eyes and scoring tracks through the soot on his face. Sleet was beginning to fall in waves, cold and icy, a sudden chill compared to the blistering heat of the flames. It provided a blessed relief to his burnt arm, but he began to shiver as it soaked into his ragged, fire bitten clothes. Claude worked up the courage to look at his arm. It didn't look quite as bad as if felt, but was a nasty, redish colour. Blisters were starting to form across the surface, painful, protruding from the damaged skin. His hand wasn't as bad, with a little redness. It still stung to touch however.

Claude gave a start as a bell began to ring in the distance, back towards the house. What did that mean? He was suddenly aware of how exposed he was, sitting on the dirty cobble street. He picked himself of the ground, ignoring his protesting body, and set off along the street once more. After ten minutes of walking, he found himself in the market square. It was empty now, apart from a few carts left by the vendors. He pushed away the memories of Mud that this place brought with them, and approached one of the carts. There was nothing in it, the vendors would take their wares with them at night, and the wood was soaked and rotting. It provided some protection from the weather and watchful eyes however, so he crawled underneath, pulling his legs up under his chin and curled into a tight ball.

His body was tired. Exhausted even. He longed to sleep, but at the same time, the thought repulsed him. Closing his eyes left him with images of the fire and the bodies burnt into his mind. His fingers and toes were beginning to go numb with the cold. Claude had the sudden thought that he might not survive the night in this weather. A part of him admitted that it was probably for the best. At least it would be painless, in his sleep, unlike his brothers.

Voices jolted him out of his stupor. Male voices, talking quietly, coming along the North road. He froze, fear building inside him, rising from his chest and into his throat. The cart suddenly didn't seem like great cover. He tried to curl into a tighter ball, but his feet scuffed on the ground, making a noise in the dirt, so he stopped, staying as still as possible. Four cloaked figures entered the square.

It was dark, and he couldn't see their faces, or tell the colour of their clothes, but the hats gave it away. They paused in the center of the square, looking around carefully. Claude was still frozen. Would they see him here, in the gloom, under the cart? Should he shout? Should he stay hidden. One of the men said something, and he heard a murmur of replies, and they began to move off again.

"W-Wait!" His voice caught in his sore throat. "Wait!"

The figures spun around as he crawled out from under the cart. His burnt arm scraped across the dirt and he hissed in pain, scraping his knees on the cobbles through his thin breeches.

"Claude! Are you alright?" D'Artagnan was the first to recover from the shock of his sudden appearance.

"Christ lad!" Aramis began to quickly remove his cloak. "You look frozen half to death!"

Claude gratefully accepted the Musketeers thick cloak, which seemed to dwarf him completely. It was still warm from it's previous owner, and he felt some feeling returning into his cold limbs.

"T-Thank you," He shivered, feeling suddenly awkward. What now?

"Are you injured?" Athos asked, breaking the silence.

"Uh...my arm. My arm's burnt, I don't know how bad," He held out the blistering skin. Aramis inspected it gently.

"You've been fairly lucky. But it's going to need cleaned, the wound is dirty,"

"We need to get you inside anyway. D'Artagnan, do you think Madame Bonacieux would mind receiving us at this hour?" Athos asked.

"Her husband might. But she won't turn away someone in need. She'll take us,"

"Then we make for her lodgings straight away. Come,"

Much to D'Artagnan's relief, Monsieur Bonacieux had left earlier that day on business, and would not be back for a few days. His wife however was not pleased that he was waking her at such an hour, and launched into a tirade, having not spotted the smaller figure that was currently hiding behind Porthos.

"Really D'Artagnan, I do not mind you coming and going at whatever hour in the night seems reasonable to you, but my house is not a tavern that you and your friends can spend a drunken evening in! If my husband were here, what do you think he would say to -" She stopped, finally spotting Claude who had been ushered into view by an amused Porthos. "Oh!"

"Madame Bonacieux, we must apologise for the intrusion, but our young friend is in need of your hospitality," Athos explained, his voice polite and measured as always.

Claude felt extremely uncomfortable under the groups stares. The young woman in front of them stood with her mouth agape for a few more seconds before recovering. She quickly resumed her tirade, but it was no longer directed at her lodger.

"Athos, what on earth have you been dragging this poor boy through! He's half starved! Sit down you poor thing, get a warm at the fire. Honestly, using children to do your dirty work, is that what you call honorable-"

"I'm- I'm not a child," Claude cut in. "And Athos saved my life," He said simply. What else was there to tell?

He glanced over at the ever impassive musketeer, and was slightly surprised to see some form of emotion cross his face. What was that? Shock? The idea seemed to amuse him suddenly, in fact, the whole situation did all of a sudden. Here he was, standing in the home of this woman, listening to her lecture these formidable soldiers. He gave a small chuckle. And then he remembered the nights events and his smile slid from his face. Without another word, he took the seat that Madame Bonacieux was offering him.

He missed the look she was giving the others. It said an explanation please, and it would not be argued with. The men took their own seats around the table. Claude was vaguely aware of them talking, explaining in hushed tones about the fire, the cloaked men. He felt suddenly sick, and took a deep gulp of air, trying to keep it down. He was panicking, sucking breathes in greedily, his heart pounding. He was brought back to earth with a jolt when he realised there was someone in front of him, talking.

"Sorry?" He asked, his voice squeaking embarrassingly high. The others exchanged a look.

"I'm going to clean your burn," Aramis repeated. It might be a bit painful, but I'll do my best to be gentle,"

"Aramis has a magic touch when it comes to medicine," Porthos reassured. "You should see his needle work,"

"As neat as the Queen's seamstress," Aramis jested. He was wringing out a damp cloth in a basin. Where had that come from?

Claude sucked in a breath through his teeth as Aramis placed the damp cloth on his arm. It stung like new again, and he had to grind his teeth together in an attempt to stop the unshed tears developing in his eyes from falling. He didn't want to cry in front of these people. He decided to think of something else. Instead, he chose a topic which was equally painful.

"Did- did anyone else make it out?"

The men exchanged unsure glances. D'Artagnan was the first to reply. "We don't know. There were a lot of bodies. A few might have made it to the trees, but there was no way for us to tell,"

"What about Thomas? He would have looked much older than the others, taller,"

The uncomfortable looks he received in return were answer enough. He decided that the pain of his arm was bearable after all, and returned to watching Aramis work. But there was a thought growing in his mind, and it was suddenly all consuming. It filled him with rage, made his heart beat excruciatingly fast. He had to speak his mind, had to say it. It burst out of him in a strangled shout.

"If you'd came when I asked, this wouldn't have happened!"

"You have no way of know-" Aramis tried to sooth his temper, placing the damp cloth down and beginning to wrap the wound with a clean cloth.

"No I'm right and you know it!" He stood up, brushing Aramis off. "I told you it wasn't over, but you sent me away!"

The cloth on his arm was trailing, and he grabbed, it, wrapping it around his forearm briskly, ignoring, no, feeding on the pain it caused. Aramis opened his mouth to protest but thought better off it. The boy's attention was focused squarely on Athos.

"They're dead now! They're all dead, and if you'd just came when I said-" He cut himself off, his voice breaking once more. His hands reached up to his hair, grabbing it in great clumps, pulling while he let out a painful whine that cut right through everyone in the room. Athos stood, his chair scraping across the floor, he reached out to grab the boys wrists.

"Just calm down-"

"DON'T TOUCH ME! IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S ALL YOU FAULT!"

He started pounding his clenched firsts off of the taller mans chest, but there was no force behind them and they bounced off. The flood gates had opened and he began to weep, no sob uncontrollably, finally giving in to the man's reaching hands, and folding against his chest. Athos stood for a second, looking extremely uncomfortable with the boy's sudden display of emotion, and then, shocking everyone else in the room, he wrapped his arms around Claude's shoulders and held him.

"Blimey..." Porthos muttered, exchanging a look with Aramis, who looked equally flabbergasted.

"Madame Bonacieux," Athos said quietly. "Would you be so kind as to prepare a hot bath for the young garcon,"

Constance nodded, looking visibly moved by the situation. I'll prepare it in D'Artagnan's room. He can sleep in his bed after, if that's alright-"

"Of course, of course," her lodger nodded, and she hurried from the room.

Claude broke free from Athos' grasp, suddenly feeling, and looking, extremely awkward after his outburst. He found he couldn't look any of them in the eye, and shuffled his feet on the floor. He could hear the mistress of the house, boiling water and preparing the spare room. He returned to his seat, and allowed Aramis to tie his bandage properly, in silence this time.

It took a while for his bath to be ready, but when it was, he couldn't help but feel an odd sense of excitement. The last time he had had a bath was before his mother had died, and the water had been shockingly cold. The idea of being immersed in warm water was a completely new one to him. It was something that he'd never thought he would experience in his life.

He left the men in the main room, and entered the guest room. It was of a modest size, with a fairly large bed, a bed that he would be sleeping in! That thought added to his excitement even more, until Constance uttered a sentence that sent a wave of panic through him.

"I'll send one of them in to help you get that shirt off shall I? You'll struggle with your arm like that,"

"No-no you can't!" He blurted out. The woman looked slightly taken aback. "I mean, no thank you, I'm sure I'll manage,"

She gave a small smile, and then motioned to the chest at the foot of the bed. "There are some clean shirts and breeches in there. Help yourself when you're done,"

"Thank you Madame," He repeated again. "For everything,"

With another smile, Constance left him to his bath.

Claude turned and looked at the warm, steaming water. He could feel his heart begin to beat quicker, and decided to waste no time in getting in. He peeled off his dirty breeches first, shivering slightly when his bare skin touched the air. His shirt came next, with a little difficulty, and he winced at the pain in his arm. Claude looked down at his chest, inspecting the dirty rag that was bound around it, and considering the best was to proceed. He fumbled at the poorly tied knot, and then pulled, slowly unwrapping the rag round and around, until it came off completely, exposing the small breasts that had laid bound underneath.

Claudette, for that was her real name, loathed to admit as she was, dipped a toe into the hot water, testing it. She gasped as it stung her freezing feet, before taking a deep breath, and plunging her whole foot in, followed by the other, and then lowered herself into the tub with a satisfied groan. She'd never felt anything like this before! The warmth enveloped her, like one massive blanket. Taking care not to wet her bandages (she was fairly certain Aramis would not be impressed), Claude lay back in the water and closed her eyes. Allowing herself a few minutes of pleasure, before the grief would surely take hold once more.

I'm grinning like a maniac after that reveal. And god Aramis you little cutie! And Athos OH GOD! I hope he's not too out of character. Gah I'm really worried about what you will all think of this chapter in general!

I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope this isn't a disappointed revelation D: