A/N: Great to read everyone's comments about the twist in the last chapter, and thanks also to the guest reviewer's who I couldn't reply to personally. Hope you enjoy this next part.


It had been impossible for any of them to get any more sleep after the discovery that Aramis may have met d'Artagnan when both were much younger. The marksman had remained quiet and introspective as he'd stared into the fire, stealing the occasional glance at the Gascon. Athos and Porthos had settled nearby, keeping watch over both their friends as they discussed their plans for the day in quiet tones.

"This changes things," Porthos said, looking meaningfully towards d'Artagnan.

Athos nodded wearily, the lack of sleep and continued pain of his wound beginning to catch up with him. "We need to get to the bottom of this."

"There's no way last night was d'Artagnan's fault," Porthos declared.

"You believe he was drugged?" Athos asked. He was surprised a moment later when a third voice entered their conversation.

"There's no doubt," Aramis replied, having moved from his solitary vigil to join them. He now settled himself so the three men formed a loose triangle. "d'Artagnan's later confusion is easily explained by his injury, but what happened prior to that was due to something else entirely. The only question is what and how it was given to him."

"You're certain?" Porthos pressed, receiving a curt nod in response.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Athos squinted against the glare of the rising sun, recognizing that the others would be awake soon. "It's not safe."

"For us, or for him?" Porthos asked, motioning toward the Gascon with his chin.

"Does it matter?" Aramis countered.

Before the larger man could respond, Athos spoke. "No, it does not." Turning his attention to the marksman, he asked, "Is it possible to identify whatever d'Artagnan was dosed with?"

Aramis pulled a hand through his tangled curls while he considered his friend's question. "Possibly. I couldn't make any more than a guess based on his symptoms…" He broke off at Athos' upraised hand.

"What if we searched everyone's bags?" the older man suggested. "Would you recognize it if we found it?"

"You sure you want to do that?" Porthos countered, concerned with the idea of casting doubt over the entire camp. "Why not just search Viellard's things?"

"You have proof that he is to blame?" Athos pinned Porthos with a hard look for a moment, before shifting it to Aramis. "Either of you? Because if you have even one shred of evidence that will convince me that it's unnecessary to look any further than him, I'll happily go along." Neither man spoke, and Athos took their silence as confirmation of what he'd already suspected – they had nothing more than doubt and a collection of suspect actions.

"Look, I don't like it anymore than you do, but we need to know who's behind this," the older man said in a conciliatory tone.

"No, you're right," Aramis agreed. "I just hate the thought that one of our own could have done this."

Porthos gave a bitter snort as he replied, "Not one of our own yet, 'Mis. They have to pass their trainin' first, and that's looking pretty doubtful for at least one of them." The other two merely nodded in agreement. "How do you want to do this?"

"Wake them up, line them up, and search their things," Athos replied. "No need to go about this covertly given what happened last night."

"You're right," Aramis offered. "I'd bet it would be more suspicious if we didn't try to unearth the cause of d'Artagnan's strange behaviour."

"Alright," Porthos agreed. "And then?"

"Then, we head back to Paris. I'm not putting anyone else's life at risk, and I can't wait to deliver this whole mess squarely into Treville's lap." Athos stated. "The sooner, the better."


The recruits stood in a line, their backs ramrod straight, and their faces telegraphing their disapproval of what was currently happening. Porthos was carefully observing them, ensuring that no one interfered with the search Aramis was conducting. Athos stood next to the marksman as he rifled through each recruit's belongings, not participating, but lending a second set of eyes while he cradled his aching arm.

The medic had offered another pain draught when he'd seen the deep lines of pain etched around his friend's face, but Athos had refused outright, stating that he needed a clear head to deal with whatever might result from their actions. Aramis had acquiesced, for now, but was resolute that his friend would have something before they set out for Paris.

"Nothing," the marksman muttered lowly, the sound reaching Athos' ears but no one else's. He dropped Lebas' saddlebag and pushed himself wearily to his feet. "Perhaps I missed something…" he began, only to stop as Athos shook his head firmly in denial.

"If there had been anything to find in Viellard's belongings, you would have found it," he stated with certainty.

"I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this," Aramis responded, nodding to Porthos as he approached the recruits.

"Doublets off, and drop your purses on the ground," the large man ordered sternly, privately grateful for Athos' forethought it having the recruits divest themselves of their weapons earlier.

"You can't be serious!" Viellard complained loudly, making no move to comply.

Porthos wasted no time arguing with the other man, instead stepping forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the recalcitrant recruit. "Do it, now, or we can do it for you." His voice was low and dangerous, and left no doubt in the other man's mind that the Musketeer would follow through on his threat.

His eyes wide and his cheeks flushing deeply with resentment, Viellard fumbled with the clasps of his doublet, shrugging out of the garment and throwing it angrily to the ground in front of him. At his first motion to comply, the others quickly followed suit, and Aramis waited until all of them had been divested of their outerwear before moving forward to pick up Viellard's doublet. The recruit threw him a dirty look as he stepped back to start looking through the pockets. "Will you be subjecting your belongings to a search as well?" Viellard spat, his hostility eminently apparent.

"Actually," Aramis said slowly, "that won't be necessary." He held a small paper sachet in one hand and had draped the leather garment over his other arm. Unfolding the top of the small, paper envelope, he looked inside before sniffing carefully at the contents. Wetting the tip of one finger, he dipped it inside, removing a small amount of the powder so he could cautiously taste it. With a grimace at the flavour, he spat to one side, not wanting to ingest any of it. His expression turned dark as he muttered angrily under his breath.

Noting the marksman's strong reaction, Porthos and Athos traded inquiring looks before the latter man spoke. "Aramis, what is it? What's wrong?"

He looked up from the sachet in his hand, angrily crumpling it in his fist as he replied, "Salvia divinorum, more commonly known as lethal white." When his two friends continued staring at him expectantly, Aramis clarified. "It's a strong hallucinogenic. Relatively fast-acting, and luckily quick to loosen its hold on its victim. In small amounts, it's used to help people connect with loved ones who've passed." Porthos eyebrow rose at the odd comment, and Aramis merely shrugged in reply, unwilling to get into a debate about the strange practice. "It's meant to help loosen the grip of the mortal realm on the one ingesting it, supposedly allowing them to communicate with their dearly departed."

At that, Porthos could no longer contain his disbelief, snorting as he muttered under his breath, "Poppycock."

Aramis smiled briefly until Athos interjected. "Why lethal white? Could this have killed d'Artagnan?"

"No," the marksman quickly replied. "It refers to the behaviours that can result. The hallucinations produced can be very powerful, and in some cases, those affected have acted violently." Aramis trailed off with his explanation, knowing that nothing further needed to be said given d'Artagnan's attempt to kill Athos the previous night.

Their discussion was interrupted by Viellard, who'd been watching the scene with a mix of confusion and indignation. Unable to remain silent any longer, he said, "That's not mine. I don't know what it is or where it came from, but…" He stopped in his tracks when Porthos approached, gripping his upper arm in a steely grip before yanking him forward.

"What do we do with him?" the large man asked, addressing his question to Athos.

"Restrain him until we've broken camp," the older man replied without hesitation.

"Why?" a new voice asked, before anyone had a chance to move. As one, the Inseparables' heads swivelled towards the newcomer, faced with a pale and shaky looking Gascon.

Despite the tension in the air, Athos softened his tone as he replied, "Why what, d'Artagnan?"

The Gascon's attention was firmly fixed on Viellard, and he addressed his response to the recruit. "Why did you do it?"

Faced with his apparent victim, Viellard spluttered as he attempted to answer. "I didn't do anything."

Ignoring the other man's words, d'Artagnan went on. "What have I done to make you hate me so? Has it all been you?"

Now it was Viellard's turn to look shocked as he processed the meaning of the Gascon's question. "You mean all of your mistakes? You think I had something to do with your broken girth strap, with your pistol not firing…" He broke off for a moment as he tried to regain his balance, the events implicating him unfolding with such speed that he was barely able to keep up. "Why would I do that? Any of it? I'm just a recruit on a training mission."

d'Artagnan seemed dazed as he stared at the other man, waiting for answers that were apparently going to be denied to him. Behind Viellard, the other recruits were starting to shift uncomfortably as they continued to stand at attention, while clearly uncomfortable with what was happening.

Taking charge, Athos ordered, "Porthos, get him restrained, preferably out of our sight." He glanced meaningfully in d'Artagnan's direction, hoping the large man would understand. Porthos offered a short nod in reply, confirming that he'd received the unspoken message to move the recruit away from the Gascon. "Aramis, please check on d'Artagnan and confirm he's fit to ride. The rest of you," he addressed the recruits. "Collect your things and break camp. We're leaving as soon as you're done."

With that, he turned his back on the trainees, trusting they would do as they'd been told, and headed towards Aramis and d'Artagnan. The young man had slept through the remainder of the night, barely rousing enough to satisfy Aramis on the two occasions he'd prodded the younger man to wakefulness. Now that they'd ferreted out the saboteur in their midst, it was time to confirm that the Gascon hadn't suffered any long-lasting effects.


"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked once he'd gotten d'Artagnan settled on a nearby tree stump. He was crouching in front of the Gascon, examining his young friend's eyes as he posed the question. While the Gascon looked much better than he had several hours ago, he still seemed somewhat disconnected from reality, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. "Are you hot?" he questioned, noting the coolness of the air around them, which hadn't yet been warmed by the day's sun.

"Hmm," the Gascon replied. Aramis frowned at the unsatisfactory response and watched as d'Artagnan shrugged out of the blanket that had remained carelessly around his shoulders. "It's warm."

Filing that piece of information away for later, the medic progressed in his examination. "How do you feel otherwise? Any pain or nausea?"

d'Artagnan seemed to think for a moment before replying. "My head hurts."

Aramis leaned forward slowly, telegraphing his intention, and gently probed at the bruising around his friend's eye. "I'm surprised that hasn't completely swollen shut," he commented, somewhat to himself.

"Why did he do it?" d'Artagnan asked, bringing his unfocused gaze to the medic's face.

"Well, you weren't really yourself last night," the marksman replied, leaning back on his haunches.

The Gascon's expression shifted to one of deeper confusion as he grasped on to his friend's words. "What do you mean? Did something happen last night?"

Athos had been standing a few feet away, observing as Aramis had examined their friend. At d'Artagnan's questions, he stepped closer. "What do you remember?"

The Gascon's brow furrowed as he struggled to pull information from his spotty memory. For some reason, his mind dredged up sensations of floating, and hazy images that refused to focus, no matter how much he concentrated. Finally admitting that he couldn't remember anything of consequence, he replied, "I'm not sure. Nothing I remember makes any sense. Kind of like a dream that slips away from you once you've woken."

Aramis nodded in understanding. "I'm sure that's what it feels like." Turning his attention momentarily to Athos, he explained, "What he's describing isn't unusual with this plant. I'd be more surprised if he recalled any of what he did last night."

The medic's words had sparked a flash of panic in d'Artagnan's chest, and there was suddenly nothing more important that knowing what Aramis was referring to. "What did I do?" he demanded. His gaze moved from the marksman to Athos, noting the hesitation in his mentor's features before moving downwards to catalogue the odd way in which he was holding his left arm. Struggling to his feet, d'Artagnan closed the distance between himself and the older man, his hand pushing at the shoulder of Athos' doublet. "d'Artagnan, stop." Athos said, making the younger man pause and drop his hand.

Glancing at Aramis, Athos saw a look of resignation on his friend's face, encouraging him to be honest with the Gascon. With a sigh, the older man carefully slid his arm out of his doublet, exposing the ruined left shirtsleeve, under which sat a bandage. d'Artagnan's hand rose once again, his fingers moving slowly toward the white linen that peeked through the rip in Athos' shirt. He stopped himself before actually touching his mentor's arm, lifting his eyes to the older man as he said, "I did that."

Behind him, Aramis placed his hand on the Gascon's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "It wasn't your fault. You'd been drugged." Several long seconds passed before d'Artagnan gave a slow nod, but the marksman couldn't see the devastation in the young man's eyes. From where Athos stood, he could clearly see the guilt and desolation that colored d'Artagnan's features. He was certain that the Gascon had only nodded in an attempt to stop the medic's sympathetic words.

Deciding that they'd need to deal with the young man's mental state later, he said, "Aramis, is d'Artagnan fit to ride?"

Almost surprised by the question, the medic regrouped quickly to respond, "Yes, I believe he'll be fine. No galloping, mind, and I'd like one of us to ride with him, but I don't see any reason to delay our departure."

"Good," Athos gave a nod of approval. "I'll go check on the status of the others while you help d'Artagnan pack his things."

Aramis dipped his chin agreeably. "Fine. That will give me time to prepare a pain draught."

Athos winced at the medic's words, noting from the corner of his eye how d'Artagnan flinched at Aramis' comment. Not wanting to draw further attention to either the Gascon's discomfort or his own, Athos gave a short nod before walking off in search of Porthos.

Left alone with the Gascon, Aramis led the young man over to where their saddlebags sat, before opening his to begin rummaging for the ingredients he required. Deciding that the best approach was to keep d'Artagnan busy, he handed over the items he'd be using, the Gascon taking them automatically.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis began as he took a small amount of dried herbs from one pouch, adding them to the cup that the young man held. "Do you remember any of our conversation when you woke up in the middle of the night?"

The Gascon's free hand rose to his head, his fingers pressing gently against the damaged skin around his eye, before wincing and dropping his hand again. Seeing the look of pain on his friend's face, Aramis reached for a second cup to which he added another measure of his herb mixture. With both hands now full, d'Artagnan frowned momentarily before giving a slight shake. "No, not really." Moments passed before an expression of horror appeared on the Gascon's face. "Please tell me I didn't say anything stupid."

"No, nothing like that," the medic assured as he took one cup from d'Artagnan's hands and began grinding the herbs into a fine powder. "But you did say something odd that I wanted to ask you about. You asked me if I was going to tend to the scrapes on your hands."

The Gascon raised his free hand to examine it, before replying, "There's nothing wrong with my hands."

"Yes, that's what I discovered, too," the medic responded, trading one cup for the other. Changing tact, he queried, "Do you recall falling from a tree as a child. I believe you would have been about seven or eight at the time, and a stranger happened upon you and escorted you home. Afterwards, you fell into a deep sleep and could not be roused."

d'Artagnan gave a slight shrug. "Not really, although I think I know what you're referring to. Father told about a time when I'd hurt my head and wouldn't wake for two days. I don't really remember any of it, and I don't honestly know what happened, but he refused to let me climb trees for several years afterwards. I always got the impression that I'd scared him, badly. Why do you ask?"

Aramis hesitated, wondering if his need to know outweighed any potential damage he might inflict by admitting his part in the young man's past. "I believe that I may have been the stranger who found you."

The Gascon's eyes lit up with renewed interest. "Really? How incredible to think that we'd met before and didn't realize it."

The marksman's expression lightened at his friend's response, before he recalled the initial source of his guilt. "Actually, the experience wasn't exactly a highlight for me." As soon as the words had left his lips, he knew he'd said the wrong thing, the crestfallen look on his friend's face reinforcing his conclusion. "No, I didn't mean meeting you, I meant how I'd left things." d'Artagnan's expression turned inquisitive, and Aramis knew he'd need to press on know that he'd begun to share his story.

"After I brought you home and left you in your father's care, I went into town to seek some companionship," he blushed momentarily as he recalled the nubile, young woman he'd spent the night with.

Knowing the marksman's tastes for beautiful women, the Gascon remarked, "So you were acting true to your nature." For a moment, Aramis was about to protest, until he caught the glint of amusement in his friend's eyes.

"Yes, I suppose I was." He sighed as he prepared to relate the rest of the tale. "I was young, and had just left home to make my way in the world. Probably a little younger than you were when you came to Paris," Aramis reflected. "Anyway, I'd checked you over for injuries, but apart from your scraped hands and knees, you'd said you were fine." The medic gave d'Artagnan an accusatory glance, and the Gascon grinned sheepishly as he ducked his head at the familiar response.

"It wasn't until the next day that I found out that you'd been hurt worse than anyone had realized, and instead of going back and apologizing to your father, I left as quickly as I could," the marksman ended his story. "Until last night, I had no idea that you were that young boy, or even that you'd survived." For several moments, silence reined between them, and Aramis bit his lip as he waited for the anger he was sure would come.

"And you think that being drugged caused me to remember what happened?" d'Artagnan asked.

The marksman shrugged as he replied. "It's possible."

"If I truly am that boy, then you have nothing to feel guilty about," d'Artagnan said, placing a hand on his friend's upper arm. "It was a long time ago, and clearly no harm was done."

The marksman was shaking his head as he countered the young man's words. "No, you don't understand. I should have gone back to check on you. Obviously, I missed something and it was my fault that you didn't receive proper care earlier."

At that, d'Artagnan huffed and would have rolled his eyes if it hadn't been for the fact that his left one ached from Viellard's punch. "Aramis, do you honestly believe that you could have found an injury that I was trying to hide?" Before the marksman could answer, the Gascon continued. "I was forever finding trouble, and I can assure you that our meeting wasn't the first time I'd fallen from a tree. As a matter of fact, I'm fairly certain that my father had forbidden me from climbing them by that point," he added, somewhat sheepishly.

"But I'd thought you dead for all these years," Aramis began, stopping when the Gascon squeezed his arm.

With all the sincerity he could muster, d'Artagnan responded, "Then I'm grateful that I was drugged last night. At least, this way, you can stop carrying that guilt with you since you know that I'm fine."

The Gascon held Aramis' gaze for several long seconds, silently pleading with him to accept the gift that was being offered. Finally, the marksman's lips quirked in a smile and he nodded, d'Artagnan responding in kind. Turning back to the draughts he'd been mixing, Aramis pinned d'Artagnan with a serious look. "Don't think I'm going to let you fool me again by telling me that you're fine. Now, let's finish these so you and Athos can both start feeling better."


A/N: Next chapter will be posted on Wednesday. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.