I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's The Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.

I'm gonna give you all another chapter today since I have a test every single week for the next month, a week off, and then finals...Basically, I'm being mean/nice to you depending on how you see things since I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance right now.

Ages in this chapter:

Athos: 47

Porthos: 41

Aramis: 40

d'Artagnan: 30

"Alright," Aramis muttered as they waited for d'Art to finish speaking to the innkeeper.

The man was really yelling at the boy, angry at him for bringing Musketeers before him. The young man had shot back that he'd never given what Regiment his two friends were in and so the innkeeper was to shut up and help them. Either that or face the guilt of causing an innocent man's death.

"What?" Porthos hissed.

"I know I taught him to shoot," Aramis admitted.

"So? I taught him to grapple."

"Who taught him to ride?" There was a pause as Porthos thought back to the journey to the inn.

"He does have an oddly good seat doesn't he?"

"Aramis," d'Art called. "It's still here."

"Lead the way," Porthos said, his voice urgent. They had only until morning to get a pardon though so it was ignored.

The grave was shallow, which left Aramis frowning more than he already had been. Now, if only the man in it was someone he knew, he may have cared more. Porthos was quick to point out the man wasn't a Musketeer but it was d'Art's observation that he'd only shot the man once that made them all uneasy. Two holes in his clothes but was only shot once? Porthos clambered into the grave, finding the hole over the man's right breast matched no wound. Cornet's troupe had disappeared, he remembered as he mentioned what this turn meant. The uniform had been taken from a dead man.

Another hour or so of riding brought them to the road Cornet and his men would have taken. The most narrowed off section of road left little doubt of a possible ambush. The crows led them to the bodies that had been left without regard in the melting snow. Porthos roared at the treatment while Aramis turned a sympathetic eye to their young friend.

"d'Artagnan, you couldn't have known," he soothed as the young man pressed his face to the large black horse they'd secured for him.

"I know Musketeers," he mumbled past tears. "I knew…I doubted the allegation but…"

"You're helping set things right. That's all that will matter later on."

"Look at this!" Porthos cried, holding a coin up for them to see. The tail of the scarf over his hair slid from his shoulder as he turned for d'Artagnan to see the coin of Spanish make.

"You can go a year in Paris without seeing a Spanish doubloon," he continued as he dug in his coin purse to produce another doubloon of the same make in his hand. "That makes two…in a week."

"Where did you get that?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I won it," Porthos ground out, "in a card game with a Red Guard."

Aramis was a bit surprised d'Artagnan only stood to the side as they threatened Dujon with bodily harm. He didn't say anything when Aramis brought out the long barreled musket claiming to be pretty good with it. He was even silent at Porthos corrected the modesty. Aramis was the best with the muskets. Porthos was the best with hand-to-hand. Athos was the best with the blades. Everyone knew this of the three.

It began to worry Aramis when he was rattling off how he could miss as often as he hit from a hundred yards but rarely missed from fifty and still no word from the young man. He was quiet at the unveiled threat of which organ he should choose to hit first at ten yards, he and Porthos settling on the stomach because of the hours of bleeding to death. He was quiet for the promise of not telling it was murder if Dujon remained silent.

He was almost glad when Porthos had to gently guide the boy away from Dujon when the man started talking. D'Artagnan, not taking being attacked all that well, had asked who'd ordered the robberies, a hand gripping at Dujon's hair and his face in the other man's space.

They released Dujon after he'd led them to the ruins, trying to come up with a plan to get inside when they'd run into Constance. She was a fine thing she was; even if d'Art was bold enough to reminded Aramis she was married despite the entire idea being his.

The woman proved herself capable as she distracted the guard, though Aramis was a bit horrified by her being alright with only ten sou. Now, if d'Art weren't so god damned fast on his feet and as reckless as Athos was when he felt invincible. What had been something requiring surprise had gone into an all-out fight. He and Porthos ended up killing most of the men when d'Artagnan reappeared fighting the Red Guard captain they were after.

Who taught you to use a blade, Aramis wondered in horror as he watched the young man slash and hack his way through the guard's defense. It wasn't pretty but it was effective and showed far too much potential to be comforting. He had to yell when, after securing the captain's sword, d'Artagnan nearly took the man's head off.

"We need him alive," he said only to later wish he'd let the boy kill the bastard in the first place.

A hidden knife and an opportunity. That was all it was but the sight of someone trying to stab d'Artagnan in the back had frightened him. He'd known this boy for years now. He'd watched him grow and had taught him. He'd watched the boy keep up with Porthos in the little sparing sessions they'd shared together. The knowledge that d'Artagnan was quick enough to catch the man's arm and slide his sword into his attacker's stomach was almost comforting.

He ignored d'Art put his short cloak over Constance's shoulders before leading her away with whispered words. Instead, he helped Porthos sort through the stolen uniforms, smiling at the break. Even with their main target dead, the uniforms and Dujon's confession would be enough for a pardon.

Athos wanted to drink himself to death.

No matter how glad he was that his friends had stopped his execution, he was still annoyed that he hadn't been able to feel death. It may not wipe him of guilt as the priest suggested without his confessions out but he knew he'd finally have some peace.

He'd even yelled for them to shoot. He'd joked it off, telling them he thought he'd finally shaken the two idiots – his brothers – off. He'd been amazed that their shared friend, one they hadn't told him of, had come along with them. After claiming him to have committed a wrong, the boy still helped clear him? Also, why had the boy looked so hurt when he'd looked at him after he'd revealed himself?

He listened to the three talk, joking about irony, and explaining what they knew of his 'woman troubles' to the boy, as well as how the boy had his eyes for a woman he'd met all of once. Aramis left at one point, Porthos and the boy beginning a game of cards. Athos tried to content himself with staring at the locket about his neck and praying she had found her peace. He tried ignore Porthos asking the boy if he was alright, that he'd looked like he'd seen a ghost. He noted the boy wave the questions off though it didn't look like his heart was in it.

He was stumbling home, knowing dimly that Porthos was following, when he noticed that the boy was turning down a corner ahead of him, a girl holding his hand. He was a bit jealous of that girl, though he didn't know why. He stumbled further on until giggles caught his attention.

"Charlotte, it's not that funny," the boy's voice, ragged from what had to be lack of use, chimed in the dark.

"Oh but it is!" the girl, a small blonde haired creature with breath taking blue eyes that glowed amber in the torchlight. "To think, you go to Lupiac only to come home and help Porthos stop imposters discredit the Musketeers!"

She broke into another fit of giggles as Porthos slid up to Athos' side. The boy smiled ruefully at her, a hand catching her wrist as she patted his shoulder with weakening strength.

"That's Charlotte," Porthos whispered. "She's the same age as him. He used to never talk to her though…to shy with others."

"Shy? Nothing about that boy is shy," Athos muttered.

"You're a strange case," Porthos muttered, scratching his neck. "I think since he was talking to Aramis and I when you spoke to him made it easier…He usually doesn't talk to people outside of his closest friends."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He does the polite stuff like asking the cost of room and such but that's a rare thing indeed," Porthos admitted. He frowned then. "I'm real surprised he even questioned Dujon with us. Actually asked the bastard a question while getting in his face about it."

"Why? He was helping his friends help one of their own. It makes sense to me."

"You don't know d'Artagnan though, now do you?"

Athos blinked. He'd heard wrong. He must have. There was no way…

"Come on then," Porthos said as the boy and Charlotte disappeared down the alleyway, laughing as they went. "Let's get you home."

"Right…Home…"