'Where are we?' The question, which Elise thought would have been uppermost in the man's mind, sounded like an afterthought.

'The court.'

The voice took Elise by surprise though the young man's look simply flickered to the door. Elise moved to get to her feet at the sudden presence of her queen, though Flea was quick to impatiently wave away such formalities. The blond woman came further into the small room, moving to crouch in front of the musketeer. She looked at the nasty head wound, clucking her tongue in sympathy as d'Artagnan sat impassive, Elise catching a flicker of something like recognition on Flea's face. 'That's going to leave quite the scar.'

D'Artagnan didn't look like he could summon the energy to care at that moment, his look never wavering from the new arrival. 'A Musketeer, alone in the Court.' The words were said with some amount of condensation, and Elise found herself uncharacteristically offended at the words on behalf of the man. She needn't have worried, Flea's look and head dropping in a semblance of a bow. 'I thank you.' The tone had changed, was soft and sincere. 'The Court thanks you, for saving those children.'

D'Artagnan's look darted with some discomfort to the entrance Flea had come through, and he seemed to contemplate then dismiss the idea of escape. 'We are in your debt, musketeer.' Flea added, hand coming up to grasp his uninjured arm, just under the leather pauldron clasped to his shoulder.

'You owe me nothing.' D'Artagnan finally spoke, look bouncing once again to Flea though he seemed unable to hold it. 'I did what anyone would do.'

Flea laughed incredulously, and even Elise smiled revealing gums dotted with a few blackened teeth. 'No one would stand up for the Court.' Flea said. She regarded d'Artagnan, and Elise caught the look of recognition again, stronger this time.

'I know you.' Flea sounded like she was trying to remember exactly where from. 'You were one of the men who came to rescue Porthos.' She finally remembered.

D'Artagnan's look had snapped to hers at the mention of Porthos's name, and he nodded slightly.

'Seems we were already in your debt. Porthos is well?'

D'Artagnan cleared his throat, wincing slightly before he answered. 'Yes.'

'Does he know you're here?'

'I doubt it.' There was a bitterness to the tone that made both woman wonder at the story behind it.

'Musketeers do not usually patrol alone. Or around here.' Flea said, settling herself more comfortably on the floor.

'Wasn't alone.' D'Artagnan answered, his head rolling back against the wall as if it was too heavy for him to hold on his own. His eyes were on Flea's though, and he seemed increasingly aware.

'You were with Porthos? Or his friends?' Flea sounded unconvinced; she knew Porthos would never walk away from a confrontation, and doubted he'd be friends with anyone who did.

'No.' bitterness and something more in the short answer, though he held back from saying more. Loyalty to the musketeers, Flea assumed, even if he had been left by a coward. She watched as d'Artagnan straightened up again, a determined look on his face. 'I need to get back.'

Flea held back the laughter though a smile still tugged at the corners of her mouth. 'If you could see the state of you, you would know you are going nowhere.'

'Have to.' D'Artagnan argued, though his head rested against the wall again for a moment. 'Have to report.'

'Musketeer, you would never make it out of this room.'

Flea watched her words get taken as a threat, the immediate straightening of the body, the alertness that adrenaline brought to his look. She was reminded of the soldier the injuries were doing their best to hide. 'Settle down.' She added, hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. 'I doubt you could stand, let alone put one foot in front of another.'

Stubbornness settled on the young man's face, and Flea had no doubt that he would stand and walk simply because he had been told he couldn't. She shared a wry grin with Elise before focusing back on the musketeer. 'You should at least have a drink first.' She tried. The thought of drink did not appear to settle well with the young man, his head turning away as he paled just at the thought. Flea shared an eye roll this time with Elise. Young men; too stubborn to be told what to do even when they could not stomach the mere thought of water.

Her thoughts were interrupted by one of her runners ducking his head through the curtain at the door, obviously looking for her. 'Yes Andre?' Flea asked as the young man's look flew in confusion between her and the musketeer sat attempting to not pass out against the wall.

Andre brought his attention back to Flea with some reluctance, obviously scrambling to remember what had been his mission before his thoughts had been side swiped by viewing the much rumoured musketeer in person. 'A word?'

Flea stood up and joined him at the door. 'Rumours abound that the Red Guard are going to avenge their fallen comrade.' The man said quickly.

'Really?' As soon as Flea had heard what had happened, and that one of the Red Guard had been killed in the fight, she knew to expect retribution. Red Guard would never leave the death of one of their own unchallenged.

'They are gathering reinforcements.' Andre continued.

Flea resisted rolling her eyes, though it was close. The Court of Miracles was too big for the whole regiment of Red Guard to hope to overrun. But they could do damage, lasting damage to her people, to their fragile life and home and sense of security. She would not stand quietly by while someone threatened her and her own. 'Ready the guard.' Flea commanded. 'Every entrance and exit covered. Make sure everyone is armed and ready.'

She turned to the room after Andre left with his orders, about to tell d'Artagnan that once they had dealt with the pesky Red Guard she would send word for Porthos to come and collect him, surprised to find him stood behind her. His face was a sheen of sweat, any colour leached from his cheeks by the ascent upwards, and Flea half wondered that a stiff wind looked like it could down him.

'Where are you going?'

'The Red Guard are coming.' He stated. Elise hovered at his elbow, and Flea might have laughed at the idea that the old woman with her arthritic knees had a hope of stopping the musketeer who towered over her falling should his legs fail him.

'So?'

'They are coming because of me.' D'Artagnan said.

'Hardly.' Flea said with an unladylike snort. 'They would come with any excuse.'

D'Artagnan stepped towards her hesitantly, as if testing that his legs would hold him up. Flea was as unsure as he looked. 'I stepped into the fight. They would not be coming otherwise.'

'No they would have killed 2 of our children and claimed justice had been served.' Flea said with a bitterness of her own. 'You did not kill a Red Guard.' She added, seeing his eyes widen slightly at the words, guessed that event had been after he'd been knocked unconscious. 'This is our fight.'

'No. It is my fight too.'

'You can barely stand!' Flea gestured impatiently at him.

A stubbornness that The Inseparables would instantly recognise straightened d'Artagnan's back, firmed up his trembling legs, and put a stony look on his face. 'I can fight.' He corrected. Flea was caught between awe at the sudden change and the urge to roll her eyes at such headstrong behaviour.

'You won't be able to hold a sword.' Momentarily derailed, d'Artagnan lifted his painful, swollen right hand up to inspect it for a moment, as if he had only just become aware of it.

Brown eyes locked with hers again, and Flea knew logical argument would not sway him. 'I have another hand.' He even lifted it, flexed it, in case she doubted him.

She knew then he was going to fight whatever she said. He was too stubborn not to despite the injuries. 'Fine. But it's barely dawn and everyone knows the Red Guard do not surface till late. Rest till then.'

She thought he would fight her at that too, and that was certainly the immediate reaction. Then he seemed to reassess the situation and his shoulders slumped. He glared at her for a moment, suddenly looking older, his direct look making a drop of fear work its way up her spine despite the injuries. 'You will get me before they come.' The threat, when aimed at her, had her agreeing quickly.

Dawn over the garrison brought relief from a long and mostly sleepless night. Spies at the Chatelet confirmed no musketeer had turned up during the night. A similar runner despatched to the morgues brought the more welcome news that no body had turned up either.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos sat at their table, contemplating the news that the new day had brought, wondering what on earth could have come of d'Artagnan. They had already discussed their new plan of action for that day. Porthos would try and get any news from the Court, the only musketeer who had a hope of doing so. Athos and Aramis were going to try the taverns again, though neither held out much hope of any more information than they had found yesterday. They had to do something, though.

Treville was finishing a morning meeting at the palace, inevitably delayed as the king was not known to be a lover of early mornings. He had asked for them to wait his return before they left that morning, though none of them were even pretending to do so patiently. As soon as Treville appeared on horseback at the gate, they were on their feet, moving towards him before he had a chance to dismount. He glared at them, understanding of their impatience, but not about to let such behaviour go.

'The Red Guard have not brought a complaint against a musketeer to the Cardinal.' He told them after his feet were on the ground and the stable boy had taken the horses' reigns.

It was small comfort, but comfort none the less.

'There are rumours, though, around court, that a Red Guard was killed by members of the Court of Miracles.' Treville caught Athos's eye and saw the calculating look the news had brought. 'A division from amongst the company are reported to be gathering to confront the rogue element.'

'They need more than a single division to get into the Court.' Porthos scoffed.

'The Cardinal of course is turning a blind eye to such matters.' Treville carried on.

'Mathis reports d'Artagnan fought with the Red Guard just outside of the Court of Miracles. The Red Guard report a death at the hands of members of the Court.' Aramis sounded dubious that 2 such events could be unrelated.

'If the Red Guard had killed d'Artagnan they would be unable to keep it quiet.' Treville added quietly.

There was one option that no one was willing to say aloud, perhaps the most obvious conclusion. If members of the Court had killed a Red Guard, what was to say they had stopped there? There was no love lost between the various regiments of His Majesty and the Court though Flea did try and keep obvious violence between the Court and the musketeers to a minimum when she could. The musketeers in their turn left the Court mostly to their selves. The only glimmer of hope was the lack of a body. The Court had no reason to keep such a thing after all.

'Perhaps a small company of Musketeers should be patrolling; after all rumours of attacks against noblemen cannot be ignored. And we wouldn't want the Red Guard to be hurt when they underestimate the court.' Treville said aloud.

Aramis inclined his head slightly, 'Oh no, we wouldn't want the Red Guard to suffer unnecessarily.' He agreed with a wicked look in his eye.

Athos's look was almost amused. 'Is that a request, sir, or an order?'

'I am your captain, Athos. Everything is an order.' Treville was rewarded with a twitch of the lips, a half smile from the lieutenant at his flippant words.

Aramis smiled. Porthos, looking slightly confused, bent his head slightly in Aramis's direction to whisper in his ear. 'We're going to help the Red Guard?'

Aramis turned slightly, enough so that Porthos could hear the whispered words and glimpse the wicked grin that wasn't hidden on Aramis's face. 'I wouldn't call it help.'

Porthos muttered about people not speaking plain as he straightened back up to his full height. He was looking forward to going back to the Court, though.

MMXV

D'Artagnan stood, twisting the sword in his left hand around and around, getting used to the feel and swing of the long blade in the unfamiliar hand. It felt wrong, but even a slight flexion of his right hand told him he had little choice.

He was alone in the room he'd woken up in earlier, the colourful sheets of material hanging from the ceiling swaying in the breeze lending a gaudy touch to the run down room. Elise had gone with Flea earlier, leaving the musketeer alone to rest. D'Artagnan had tried to settle down but sleep remained elusive. A headache drummed relentlessly through his skull, pulsing painfully behind his right eye, worse with the sun making its presence felt through the dirty sheets hung at the window. His hand was throbbing, though d'Artagnan found it calmed slightly when he tucked it into the leather jacket he wore, immobilising it between leather and his body slightly. All in all, d'Artagnan guessed that he wasn't looking his best at that moment. His legs were steady, though, where he stood. He'd managed water and a bit of bread that someone had brought for him earlier and to his surprise instead of vomiting it all straight back up it had settled his stomach slightly. He could mostly see in single vision now, and for the moment the ground was as stable as it usually was. It was the best he could hope for d'Artagnan thought somewhat grimly.

He was listening closely as he swung the sword. There was a charged atmosphere around this place. He'd entered the Court only the once before, to find Porthos and to halt an explosion. He hadn't seen much of the court then though he guessed he was somewhere in the heart of it at the moment. Footsteps regularly paraded up and down outside his room. Whispers reached his ears as they passed, commenting on a musketeer in the court, the upcoming advance of the much loathed, and feared, Red Guard, making him feel guilt.

He knew he had only inadvertently brought the Red Guard to the Court, and wasn't the one who had killed one of the Guards though it had been done in his defence. He had been merely interceding for the sake of 2 children, but still he'd begun the chain of events that had led the Red Guard to the door of the Court. And d'Artagnan wasn't ready to leave the Court to the mercy and injustice of the Red Guard whilst he could stand.

He had been wondering at the best course of events, trying to think tactics rather than heading straight to bloodshed. It wasn't easy, the unrelenting pain drove every thought, every lesson he had learnt as a musketeer from his head.

Footsteps approached and slowed, Flea ducking her head in the room. If she was surprised to find him on his feet swinging a sword she didn't comment, just quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him a cursory look over as she stepped into the room. What she saw didn't enthuse her with much confidence at first. The bruising was coming out in force on the right temple, spreading down to the eye that didn't appear to be able to open more than half way. The mangled right hand was hidden away in the depths of the jacket and though the sword moved fluidly through the air in his left hand, it limited his movement.

Flea, though, knew better than to rely on first look. Looking closer, Flea saw a little more colour in his cheeks than before. He didn't look likely to collapse in the next few minutes (she wasn't ready to bet beyond that) and more importantly he at least had a sword in hand. Flea loved her people, trusted them to fight for what little they owned in their small slice of Paris, but having a trained (if ropy looking) musketeer on their side could only help. Even if she didn't fully understand his reasoning.

D'Artagnan looked up and caught her eye. 'Do you know anything about bandits killing a rich merchant?'

The seeming non-sequitur had Flea scrambling to keep up. 'You talk of the noblemen killed a few nights back.' She finally guessed.

D'Artagnan hadn't known it was a nobleman, but he nodded anyway, understanding now why the Musketeers had been called to investigate. Flea's sudden broad grin made him start slightly. 'Family, you know, is not everything. I hear he cut his son off from his inheritance.'

D'Artagnan nodded, filling away that information. He didn't know why he was bothering, the likelihood of walking away with his life intact was far from certain. But d'Artagnan's only reason for being in the vicinity of the court was the investigation into a murder and d'Artagnan had been curious.

'Our runners have spotted a group of guards heading this way. About ten minutes out.' Flea said quietly, getting back to her original reason for coming here.

'What's your plan?' D'Artagnan asked.

'The older woman, children, anyone else who chooses have moved to the centre.' Flea told him. 'Everyone else is ready at the various entrances though we think they will enter via Rue Lepic.'

'Let me speak to them first.' D'Artagnan said.

'What? No!'

'Let me speak first.' D'Artagnan steamrolled over her protests, 'and try to avoid a confrontation all together.' Flea still looked mutinous but d'Artagnan didn't give her a chance to interrupt again. 'It is unlikely they will converse, but we have to try. Flea! I have no doubt that the Court will best a small group of Red Guard, however, there will be blood shed on both sides. I doubt the Cardinal is bothered at this point but you allow a killing of a company of Red Guard and you will have the Cardinal coming to fight instead. And he does not fight fair.'

Flea let a host of arguments fly through her thoughts, trying to settle them. Because if there was a way to walk away from the Red Guard with no more violence, for the sake of her people (though they were unlikely to thank her for it) she had to try. She finally nodded her agreement, d'Artagnan meeting her look, both defiant, both ready to fight for what they believed was right.