Author's note: this is a Thank You to the guest reviewers, just wanted to let you know that your words are very much appreciated!

This was futile, they were still far off from wherever the battle had raged and as much as it was physically painful for him to admit, Porthos knew they had to stop. He called out to Athos, he was sure that he was heard and he was absolutely sure that he was being ignored. It was the 'Athos rule' as he had come to realize it soon after they were recruited in the Musketeers regiment and this rule stated that either you followed the man or you got out of his way.

Gritting his teeth and itching to grab the reins of the other man's horse, consequences be damned, Porthos decided to give it just one more shot.

"We need to stop Athos!"

A heartbeat and another later Athos slowed his ride. Relived at having been acknowledged and ignoring Marsac's cursing, Porthos pulled up next to Athos.

"We need to stop," he wiped the sweat from his brow, "We need to take a break."

"We can get there," Athos's gaze never left the road ahead of them.

Porthos could relate, there was a knot in his chest that demanded him to just get there, like he was need somewhere, but he could not lose the sight of their natural limitations. Someone had to point them out to Athos.

"The horses need to rest," he said.

His fellow Musketeer looked down at his beast as though he had just realized it was there under him. Porthos would have laughed at the rare true bafflement that flashed on the man's face if he wasn't so worried that Athos would keel over and out of the saddle.

"You look ill," he frowned.

"I'm fine,"

With the shake of his head Porthos slid off his horse and began leading his beast across the road and down the slope. Just the sound of the bubbling stream past the trees was enough to sooth his nerves and he wondered if the long sweltering summer would ever give way to the cooler weather. There had been no rain since the heat had started and the baking weeks had stretched until there wasn't even a breeze to relieve the populace. Despite the reason of their mission, Porthos was glad that they were away from the packed quarters of the garrison and the shade-less grounds of the palace.

He turned at the sound of tumble, saw Athos roll to a stop on the ground and hurried to pull the man away from the path of his slipping horse.

"Don't touch me," Athos shook off his hold.

"Next time I'll let you get trampled,"

"I didn't ask you to save me,"

"Maybe I should just stop then,"

"Maybe you should!"

"Fine!" Porthos stalked past a sneering Marsac and catching his horse's reins led the beast to the stream.

Not for the first time in the two years that he had been with the regiment, Porthos wondered if he had made a mistake. He splashed the cool water on his face and nearly gasped when Flea's parting look came unbidden in his mind. She had warned him that he was chasing an illusion; her words had stung far worse than her punch to his face.

He had hoped to find a place with the Musketeers; he had tried to be a friend to Athos. Although the man never talked, Porthos had been there when they had left La Fère. He may not know the details but he knew of the loss the ex-Comte had suffered. But he was slowly getting tired of the cold disregard. Porthos found himself thinking again about moving on, he had tried to make it work and had come to the nagging conclusion that maybe Flea had been right all along.

He nearly jumped at the loud splashing that broke the natural silence around them. A man out in the stream bubbled up to the previously calm surface like the mysterious whales Porthos had heard stories about in the Court of Miracles.

Shocked to a pause, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth, Porthos watched as the man swum towards the ground until he could stand up in the shallow water. Sputtering and bent over with his hand on his knees the man regarded a dark item floating away. With an audible inhale he dove back the way he had come, caught the object and made his way back into the shallow waters.

Coughing and gasping he trudged up the muddy bank and came to drop on his back right beside Porthos.

"Hello there," the man rasped.

Porthos stared wide eyed as the other grinned, then turned to his side and coughed up a good sized puddle.

It was instincts that urged Porthos to drag the man further away from the stream and to the rub the quaking back as the younger man wheezed and gagged. He looked up as the other two Musketeers approached them and wiped back the strands of dark wavy hair plastered onto the man's young face, his mind not having caught up with his actions.

"Ya gotta breathe," he murmured and helped the man sit up as Athos and Marsac reached the two of them.

"Thank you," the man nodded, "I'm –"

"You're the Falcon," it was Athos who cut in.

"Feeling more like a toad at the moment," the other coughed and pushed to his feet. He swayed dangerously and Porthos found himself reaching out with a steadying grip.

It gave him a chance to study the man before him, the sharp jaw-line defined by a neatly trimmed beard and the well kept mustache gave an air of age from the distance, but up close the person before him was young, much too young for what he had heard about the infamous Falcon.

"The scar on your forehead, the feather in your hat," Athos said, "Your reputation precedes you."

"And yours does not," still wheezing slightly, the lad pushed his hair back and slapped the squelching hat on his head; Porthos distantly realized it was the hat that the boy had swum out for, a hat that still supported a wilted and battered feather of a Falcon.

"Forgive us for not living in the forest and stealing from the rich to give to the poor," Athos replied blandly.

"You mistake me for the old lord of Loxley, Monsieur," the chafed voice replied with an impudent eye roll.

"You're well informed,"

"I live on the road," the Falcon coughed before he bestowed a cheeky grin to Athos, "what's your excuse?" He asked.

"We're the King's guards," Marsac announced from beside Athos.

The bandit tore his gaze away from Athos's blasé one and regarded the other Musketeer. He looked the man up and down, noticed the fleur-de-lis embossed pauldron he had tapped on his shoulder and quirked a brow as though thoroughly unimpressed.

"And you all left your flowing red capes back to cover the palace windows?"

Porthos chuckled but realized his mistake soon when the notorious bandit gave him a delighted smile and a mischievous wink.

"We are the Musketeers," Athos said.

That seemed to shock the younger man into silence. Porthos watched the bandit openly stare at Athos; something odd flashed in his warm brown eyes but before he could ponder over whatever it was that the bandit saw in Athos, Porthos was hit by an epiphany of his own. Beyond the facial hair and the disreputable persona it was the same boy who had recued Treville from Porthos and his men.

The last time they had met, Porthos was the one who was a bandit, his face obscured behind the very bandanna he had now tied on his head. So he wasn't surprised that the boy didn't remember him but the big man remembered, from two years ago and his nose twitched at the thought of the trauma it had went through at the hands of this whelp.

Of course the lad would be surprised Porthos mused as he remembered that first encounter; he had after all coined the name of their regiment. Not that he would have known that the Captain would use the term.

Porthos felt a strange flutter of emotions at the thought of what the lad may have gone through to become this Falcon. He knew from experience the sting of life's whip and couldn't find it in his heart to judge the boy for the image he now portrayed, yes Porthos decided he would at least not judge him instantly.

"I don't think it's the Falcon," Marsac snickered, "It's just a boy playing at being a man."

"Care to challenge me to prove it?"

"I don't need to, what are you? Sixteen years old?" Marsac said.

"I'm eighteen and if you're too scared to take me on…"

"Alright then, I'll show –"

"Let it go Marsac," Porthos surprised himself by the near growl that echoed through his words. It even garnered a raised brow from Athos and even left himself wondering where this protective streak was coming from.

"What? Feeling a kindred spirit here Porthos?" Marsac turned to the big man, "A code among thieves and all that?"

"Marsac…." the warning was clear in Athos's tone.

"Oh the great Athos has taken offence? Is he finally talking to me?" Marsac sneered, "Does it finally mean that you'll actually tell me what the hell you have me chasing after? Because I'm sick of the planning you two have been doing behind my back. As soon as we get to the Captain I'm done with ever going on a mission with you two! Discipline, orders, chain of command that you two apparently know nothing of! And how would you? An arrogant highbred idiot and a no good gutter thief can't possibly understand –"

A loud smack cut of the tirade in a spray of blood.

Porthos stared as Marsac staggered; sputtered under the blood pouring from his nose and teetered sideways almost into Athos, but the man's aversion to touch had him stepping back. It forced Marsac to come to a stop by leaning against a tree until he slowly slumped down against it. His glassy eyes blinked rapidly before he groaned out of consciousness.

Porthos looked back at the young man who was shaking out his fist.

"What?" the younger man caught the rather bewildered look Porthos was giving him, "He's annoying,"

Porthos looked to Athos and despite the blank face he could tell that man was closely examining the bandit. At length he turned quietly and went to his saddlebag and brought back a piece of rope to Porthos. The big man began tying up their prisoner without further instructions.

"Admit it," the lad gave the two of them a brilliant smile, "You wanted to do that too,"

Athos simply shook his head and went to check on the fallen Musketeer but Porthos couldn't help it, he chuckled at the sheer audacity of the lad he was tying up. It tapered off when he felt the younger man's eyes on him when he took the twin daggers sheathed on either thigh of the bandit and then pulled him along quite gently, away from the stream that the lad had emerged from.

The warm brown eyes regarded him with flinty intensity and Porthos couldn't help but feel that he was being judged. He surprised himself when for the first time in his life he actually cared what the other person thought about him.

"Aramis," the lad said finally, "I'm Aramis."

Athos checked on Marsac while tracking the movements of the other two men from the corner of his eye. This Falcon was not was not what he had excepted and while every thought screamed at him to pack up and get the bandit to the Captain, a tiny persistent curiosity snapped back at these ideas.

He found it troubling; he had spent the two years in the regiment in a haze of alcohol broken by short bursts of purpose in the form of the Captain's orders.

The man had ordered him to survive and Athos had done so, but that was all he had done, survived, but now looking at the younger man sitting beside Porthos like his hands weren't secured behind his back, like he was there because he wanted to, looking exceptionally comfortable in the company of his captors, Athos found his thoughts venturing towards another human being for the first time since them.

Don't think about them, he reminded himself and pushed to his feet, the dizziness was a surprise but he managed to steady his steps and came to a stop before the duo. Porthos patted the lad's shoulder and left to check on the horses

Ignoring the pounding in his head Athos sat down on a thick moss covered fallen branch and regarded the drenched bandit. He was oddly pleased that the obvious scrutiny didn't shake the younger man who grinned like the rogue he was and stared right back.

"It's my good looks isn't it?"

"Clearly," Athos replied in a flat tone.

"It's a heavy burden to bear," came an overdramatic sigh.

"You're favoring your right shoulder and your movements are stiff."

"You're feeling dizzy and nauseous and not sweating as much as you should."

"You're injured,"

"You're suffering from the heat,"

They were at an impasse, toe to toe, it was a first time for Athos.

He was used to being listened to by those under him and used to taking orders from his superiors, he was even used to the genuine concern that Porthos offered him even though he told himself that he neither liked it nor wanted it.

This was strange.

"I have questions,"

"And I have answers," the bandit settled back against the tree with a cheeky smile, "I will give them to you but at a price."

Athos found himself glancing towards Porthos who had come to sit a little bit away at their side facing the road above, with his musket settled between his legs. But Athos could tell he was listening in and it was proved true when the big man turned to him just as Athos looked his way.

Despite how much they couldn't stand each other it was scary how Athos could tell that Porthos simply understood just as easily as he understood the other man with a single look.

"Name your price,"

"For every answer I give you I'll tell you the truth," the warm brown eyes sparked with something akin to mischief, "if I can't give you the truth I'll tell you. But for every answer you'll have to drink two mouthfuls of water."

Athos paused, that was not what he had expected.

He wasn't surprised easily; but this demand had hit him out of the blue. His stomach clenched at the thought of putting something in it and he swallowed the sour taste that came to his mouth just at the thought of drinking water. He noticed that Porthos was looking at him and despite the shock on his face a small smile was curling at the corner of his lips before he glanced from one to the other and then turned back to face the road.

Athos silently went to his horse and brought back the water-skin he had been carrying. He took his position and went straight into the matter, curious to see if this Falcon would keep his word and give him the truth.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes."

Athos took a mouthful of water and nearly gagged, but he refused to show it and swallowed harshly. He took another mouthful and screwed the water-skin shut with unnecessary viciousness. The cool liquid felt slimy in his stomach that churned at offensive invasion.

He decided to go for a tricky one, planning to get a vague answer and skip the next forced drink. He just hoped the answer wasn't in singular.

"How many have you killed?"

"Seventy-nine men,"

Athos blinked, he wasn't sure what he found more unnerving, the fact that this boy had killed so many men or that he remembered the exact number. From the corner of his eye he could tell by the stiffness in Porthos's stance that he was surprised as well. In their two years of service, between them, they had taken the lives of around fifteen men.

"Do you want details to validate that?" the young man before him asked.

As a reply Athos drank the water he owed. The next question formed on its own in his mind, whether out of curiosity about the information the man had offered or some unspoken morbid challenge, he couldn't decide.

"Who was the first person you killed?"

"A robber,"

Athos drank the water and didn't bother to wipe what spilled down his beard.

"The next?"

"My uncle,"

"You regret it?"

"No,"

It hit him somewhere deep. The younger man before him had killed a relative, just as he had ordered her death. Yet Athos could not bring himself to not care, to not feel the crushing weight of guilt, to not regret like this Falcon had stated. He was envious of the man and more than a little curious to know how he had managed the level of detachment that clearly even Athos had not mastered.

He was pulled out of his surprised silence by the young bandit clearing his throat and pointedly arching a brow. It prompted Athos to drink and he vaguely noted that he actually felt thirsty this time around.

"The attack on the Royal Convoy near La Bol, did you have anything to do with it?"

"No,"

"Do you have any information about it?"

"Yes,"

Athos drank the water to hide the surprised lift at the corner of his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled and it was disconcerting that a murderous bandit of all people had wheedled it out of him.

"You! I'll kill you, you brat!" Marsac fumed his way over from behind Athos.

Instantly on his feet, Athos rounded on him.

"Don't," he said.

He didn't know why but he found himself standing in the raging Musketeers path. He glanced back to find that their third Musketeer was standing before the bandit who was on his feet but pinned back by Porthos' hand. The big man was glaring at Marsac.

"I'll kill that little piece of –"

Athos didn't hear the rest of it as he suddenly found himself pressed to the ground and spitting out dirt. His ears rang as the weight rolled off him immediately and he ducked even as he got to his feet. They were under fire.

It was their prisoner who had launched at him. He saw the young man roll to his feet with Athos's own pistol in his hand and shoot down one of the men who were firing at them. The enemy came down the slopes like a swarm of insects and Athos met them with his sword at the ready.

He parried with the first rider that bore down on him, dragged the man out of his saddle and clashed blades with the other one who was already off his horse. They were grossly outnumbered but Athos knew from experience that skilled weighed more than quantity in encounters such as this.

Later, if he lived, he would ask their prisoner how he had escaped his bindings Athos decided as he reveled in the thrill of imminent death. Ironically, it was in these short moments that he found himself alive, pitting his skill against fate, daring it to claim his life, to ride on an enemy blade and end the numb existence he was pulling around for two years now.

He was almost disappointed in his enemy's ability; even with three of them against one they couldn't land a blow where Athos knew he had left himself open.

And then he was too late to see the blade arching towards his neck. He saw it flash in the sunlight and accepted that fate had won when a piercing hiss of metal sliding on metal too close to his ear startled him.

It was Porthos, of course it was Porthos.

The blade of his sword had blocked the one aiming for Athos's throat; but it had left him open to his own opponents.

Athos growled as he was pulled away from his savior and backed against the stream with the now four swordsmen boring down on him. He watched in horror as one of Porthos' adversaries' swipe down his blade too close to the man.

It had Porthos clutching his face and reeling back.

As Porthos fell to one knee, Athos fought like a man possessed; he attacked his foes with chilled violence that had nothing to do with his own life but of the man about to lose his because he had stepped in to save Athos. For the first time in a long time, Athos fought for someone.

He tried desperately to reach out and deflect the blow that was about to kill the big man who was still on the ground, but he knew, deep down he knew he wouldn't be in time. He'd not be on time to save Porthos just as he had been too late to save Thomas.

But then the falling blade clanged with another and their bandit was there. A curved dagger in each hand and looking every bit the dangerous Falcon he was famed to be. His movements precise, sure and fluid, not a single step wasted as he defended the fallen Musketeer.

Just as abruptly as it had started the fight ended, leaving the afternoon littered with dead men. Dropping the last of his opponent, Athos found himself moving straight to the Musketeer who had saved his life. He reached him just as the Falcon helped the man step away from their fallen enemy.

"Not the eye," Porthos groaned.

His hand was still pressed to his face, the entire side of which was soaked in crimson that trickled to stain the collar of his doublet. Athos faltered at the sight as Porthos allowed himself to be led towards the stream.

"You have medical supplies?"

Tearing his gaze away from Porthos, he finally heard the question directed at him when it was repeated. He nodded mutely and went in search of their horses, praying that they had not gotten much far away in their fright.

When he returned, their bandit had already coaxed Porthos to show him the wound and he was examining it carefully in the light of late noon. He took the satchel from Athos without even glancing his way and used a wet rag to clean the blood from Porthos's face.

The Musketeer hissed in pain and their bandit winced.

"I'm sorry my friend," he whispered.

His fingers gentle yet firm examined the man's left eye. The long gash that extended from his forehead down to his cheek still bled and Athos found his hand reaching for the silver decanter he had brought back with the medicine bag.

"I'll take that," it was plucked from his fingers by the Falcon who didn't even regard the offence he had made, "Wasn't there another Musketeer in your merry band?" he asked pointedly.

Athos couldn't believe he had forgotten about Marsac. The two men before him had been in the circle of his awareness all through the fight but he had no idea how the other Musketeer fared. It was with a twinge of guilt that Athos went to look for him.

He found him slumped against the branch Athos had been sitting on. A dark stain had spread around his shoulder that was impaled with a dagger. Feeling ill, Athos stumbled back the way he had come.

"Did you have to use the wine?" Porthos was cursing.

"Would you rather it get infected and you lose the eye after all?"

"We can't have that," there was weariness in Porthos's voice.

"No we can't," the comforting voice turned teasing, "Although an eye patch could look good on you, give you a bit more menacing aura."

Athos was surprised by the obvious camaraderie between the two men as they shared a grin. He cleared his throat and motioned for the medicine bag. When it was handed to him, he went back to Marsac and unsurprisingly found himself at loss about what to do.

He was saved from asking for help when their bandit crouched before the fallen Musketeer and pressed two finger's to the man's neck.

"Aramis?" Porthos packed a lot of questions in that one word.

"He's alive, but the pulse is a bit too fast," the man shrugged, "not surprising though."

"Who were those people?" Porthos asked.

Aramis examined the wounded man closely. He began laying out the strips of linen within an arm's reach, soaking few with the water from one of the water-skins and then placing them on the satchel. He rolled up his sleeves and lightly grasped the hilt of the dagger.

"They're Porters, I thought they might have given up and left me alone. Guess I'm not that forgettable," he shrugged, "I can't believe your medical supplies are only clean linens and not even a sewing kit. Now I need you to hold him down."

He addressed the last part to Athos and wondering when he had started taking orders from this teenager, the man complied.

It was a good think he did because Marsac came to with scream and thrashing when Aramis pulled out the dagger from his shoulder. It wasn't that Athos was unfamiliar with blood, but there was something infinitely brave to clamp down on a gushing wound with bare hands like their bandit did.

Their bandit? Why do I keep thinking of him as our bandit? Athos never said a word and his face never showed but he found himself stumbling over this strange idea that had sprouted unbeknownst in his mind.

Wild eyed with fear Marsac stared at Aramis as the man pressed down on the wound.

"Let me go," he groaned, "What are you doing?"

"Saving your life," Aramis lifted the pressure to see if the blood had slowed.

"Why?" Marsac gasped as the other man pressed down again.

Athos very much wanted to know the answer too.

"Irritating you may be Marsac," Aramis bestowed the man with an impish grin, "but it's hardly a crime punishable by death," he said and swiftly poured a generous amount of Athos's high quality wine into the open wound.

Marsac gave a choked scream as he tried to get away from the sting, but Aramis held him steady until the man passed out while still cursing the existence of a certain bandit.

"I want it stitched," Aramis muttered to himself, not at all fazed by his patient's unconsciousness. Instead he cleaned the wound thoroughly and wrapped it tightly in clean linen.

After washing his hands in the stream and ordering Porthos to rest a while, Aramis began collecting his various boot-knives from the bodies of their enemies. That solves the mystery how he got free, Athos thought to himself, a bit disgruntled at not having realized it since apparently the man had quite literally sat before him cutting his binding during their questioning.

"Why were the Porters after you?" Athos asked.

"Because they know I'm coming for them," the man picked up a discarded musket and began examining it.

He looked to Athos and shrugged at the brow arched in question. Tucking the musket under his arm he picked up a pouch of ammunition while he dug into his pocket with his other hand. He pulled out a cross bearing pendant from his pocket and showed it Athos.

"They took the Queen,"

Relief he hadn't been expecting washed over Athos as Porthos audibly exhaled and came to stand beside him. They weren't too late to save their Queen and at least for now there was a chance to keep it that caught up were they in their fortunate break that neither of the two noticed that the Falcon had loaded his musket, they didn't catch on until the long barrel was hovering inches from Athos's forehead, right between his eyes.

TBC