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

I still have no idea what the internet is doing at my house but there are steps I'm taking to attempt to keep in the loop with things. Now, if only summer classes weren't a thing and I would stop finding distractions that keep me from re-watching The Musketeers.


"Maybe you don't want to remember," Charon suggested. "If you did kill that boy–."

"Flea's right!" Porthos yelled, tired of the shell game his mind was playing on him "I would remember! No matter how much I drank!"

It happened fast. Porthos happened to look out the side of his eye just in time to catch the masked man at the door lifting a long barreled pistol. He grabbed Charon, shoving him to the floor as the pistol went off. He wasn't quite fast enough as the musket ball tore into Charon's shoulder. A second later, he was tossing a knife into a barrel as the man ran off.

"It's nothing!" Charon insisted as he huffed through his new injury.

"Why would someone want to kill you?" Porthos asked.

"How do you know he was aiming at me?" Charon shot back.

Porthos glared at the door where their attacker had run off through. Charon had a point; he couldn't be sure if the gunman had been aiming at Charon or just had pathetic aim.


"Religion without art is so much less…seductive," Aramis whispered as he stared at the plain walls of the church he and d'Art stood in. The simple glass of the windows allowed in nothing but gray light which made the rest of the white walls glow with an almost blinding glare. It reminded him of a church from a long time ago. One he hoped to never set foot in again should he be able to avoid it.

"In this church we worship God. Not beauty," the Protestant Pastor Ferrand grumbled behind them. His face was stern as he glared at them, a scar lining his right eye. D'Art remained silent.

"The Catholic faith allows us all a little bit of joy before we die," Aramis quipped.

"We Protestants will have joy eternal at God's right hand," Ferrand shot back. "While you–."

"Roast in Satan's inferno?" Aramis interrupted, his face calm as he went about ripping the Pastor's words apart without actually doing it.

"As all benighted heretics must."

Aramis smiled and pointed at the broken windows where the pigeons were entering through. "Surely even you all believe in windows?"

"We removed the stained glass. We don't have the money to replace it," Ferrand grumbled. "The collection plate is behind me, should you wish to make a contribution."

Aramis chuckled as d'Art looked over papers in the unguarded sanctuary section of the church. He pointed at his own face as he asked where Ferran had served. Too many hellholes apparently and Aramis could concur with the statement. There was no such thing as beauty in battle. Aramis asked if the man killed Catholics to find Ferran hadn't done so specifically; he'd fought for money.

"And then you found God," Aramis quipped, his arms out to his sides to show off the bare church again.

"He found me."

"Did you know Jean De Mauvoisin?" d'Art asked. Ferran faltered then, his mouth opening and closing as d'Art stared him down. The boy nodded in understanding. "He's dead."

"The poor boy. I will pray for his soul," he assured. "How, may I ask, did he die?"

"He was shot," d'Art stated. "Did you kill him?"

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan, a questioning brow lifted. The young man gazed at him levelly, his head kicking towards the papers he'd set down in the sanctuary.

"Why would I do such a thing?"

"Maybe because he was a Catholic who intended to blow your Protestant church to kingdom come," d'Art stated, his brown eyes fixed on Ferran.

Aramis understood then. He was gauging the man's reaction for truth as well as for something else. The young man didn't seem to believe what was happening and was getting to the truth in his own fashion. Aramis nearly applauded him.

Ferran breathed out a scoff that fell into light laughter.

"And why is that funny?" d'Art asked.

"Jean was not a Catholic," Ferran stated. "He was a committed member of this congregation."

Aramis frowned. "His father's a prominent Catholic who hates Protestants and urges the King to act against them."

"Monsieur De Mauvoisin only converted to Catholicism to win favor in Court," Ferran said. "Before him, the family was Protestant for generations. Jean found he couldn't sell his conscious as easily as his father did."

He left in silence after his speech. Aramis dropped a couple coins into the flat collection plate as they left.

"Not telling us something?" d'Art asked.

"I believe so," Aramis sighed as he shoved his hat onto his head. "I almost expected him to tear your head off when he entered."

"He may remember me from a few years ago," d'Art shrugged.

"Oh?" Aramis chuckled. "Why's that?"

"I stole some food off his kitchen window."

Aramis gaped at him. "You what?"

"It was winter, the Little Ones were starving and cold. I got them food."

"I thought…" He trailed off, his hand pushing his hat back as he scratched his brow in amazement.

"Thought what? That I only go after information?"

"Yes!"

"That's only what I specialize in, Aramis," d'Art sighed with a shaking head. "Everyone in the Court of Miracles knows a few trades."

"What about Porthos' saying kids stayed to safer activities?" Aramis asked, the horror evident in his voice.

"Information gathering just as dangerous, I assure you," d'Artagnan murmured. "And stealing from an old man who wouldn't pay it any mind as long the food was going to something worthwhile is far less dangerous than stealing in front of a Red Guard."

"You've done what?"

"Aramis…Really? You think so highly of me you can't see I'm just as bad as Porthos?"

"Neither one of you is bad, d'Artagnan," Aramis hissed, pulling the boy's arm so he was flush with his side. "Remember that."

"And yet, my eldest brother can't even recognize me."

Aramis scowled. "Athos is a stubborn idiot. You know that." The boy shrugged him off though, Aramis let him. He wasn't about to force d'Artagnan to look at him when he was worrying over something in his head.

"Look," Aramis sighed. "Athos admitted something to Porthos and I before all this happened." The boy looked at him with curious brown eyes. "He said if you're really are who we've claimed you to be…he has his ways to prove it."

D'Artagnan nodded, chewing at his upper lip. "He didn't give them though," he murmured. Aramis shook his head.

"I think he doesn't want us giving you too much of a head's up," he sighed.

"Sounds like him."

"Doesn't it just?"


De Mauvoisin was praying over his son's body in his lavish chapel when Athos returned to the villa. The man mumbled about the difficulty of watching a son die before a father, how he'd hoped Jean would bring greatness back to the family. Athos showed him the license to purchase gun powder only to be asked what Jean was involved in by De Mauvoisin.

"It's possible he was plotting to attack Catholics with Protestant fanatics," Athos murmured.

De Mauvoisin looked aptly horrified, exclaiming that he'd warned Jean to break away from Ferran and his 'nest of vipers' to no avail.

"Perhaps he had second thoughts? Broke with the other plotters?" Athos asked.

"Whatever my son did, I forgive him," De Mauvoisin stated.

Athos let him return to his prayers, standing in the chapel in silence as he thought over the situation. None of it made sense. Jean De Mauvoisin was dead, Porthos possibly framed for the deed, and now Religion was beginning to play a part in things.

Athos had found through experience that Religion tended to make things messy. Many lives had been taken in the name of it as well as other atrocities. No one seemed capable of understanding that they were all praying to the same deity either. Athos, himself, had given up on asking God to do him favors when he'd seen a burnt out house in Lupiac.

No 'loving' god would have allowed such things to be done in their name.


Flea was a bit horrified that Porthos' hands were steady as he carved the musket ball out of Charon's shoulder with a knife. His statement of being an old hand at such duties worried her further. When Court members got shot, they tended to go to doctors they'd all bribed to be quiet. Porthos' deft movements and barely any flinch at Charon's yelling in pain as the knife slid in and out of the wound however, spoke to his words being true.

D'Art hung around Porthos. She'd known that for years, glad that the two remained close enough to speak. Even if it was only to one another. She hadn't known the full extent of the contact other than it had been present. D'Art didn't talk about what he and Porthos did or if he'd seen Porthos. She'd just known from the lightness in the boy's feet, the brilliant smile being just a bit more genuine, and the glow of glee in his chocolate eyes.

Where d'Art had gotten into a few scrapes in his time with them, she'd expected as much. Dealing in information wasn't always safe and d'Art was one of the best in the trade. He was rarely harmed in his information dealings but, like all of the other young ones Flea had helped raise, d'Art had had a few scrapes because he'd had to do a few things she wasn't proud to say he'd done. Getting food for the children, getting blankets, getting a weapon or two for protection purposes…No, she wasn't proud of what the Court had turned d'Art into.

Yet, he'd remained that sweet boy she remembered and loved and she was sure it was because of those moments with Porthos he'd secreted away that had protected him.

"Let's say you're right and that shot was meant for me," Porthos muttered as he loomed over Charon. "Who would go through the trouble?"

"The Cardinal," Charon ground out through the pain. "He's the grand leech of the Church so he sent a trained killer."

"A shooter in some low dive in the worst part of Paris? It doesn't add up." Porthos smiled as he held up the lead ball then. "Got it."

She left him to bandage the wound, leaning against a wall outside. She'd found Charlotte earlier, the poor girl screaming through hysterical tears about the guards being dead. That was when she'd rushed to fine if Charon and Porthos were alright. She hadn't seen where Charlotte had gone after she'd rushed off. She hoped the girl was alright.

Charlotte and Radha were another worry she had swimming in her mind. They would have known if d'Art had come back but they hadn't said anything about him returning. Either they hadn't seen him or they'd been hiding things from them. She couldn't see them hiding it unless d'Art has asked them though so that left her wondering why he'd want no one else to know about his returning to Paris. She knew that Charon and d'Art had stopped speaking at one point but she couldn't remember it being serious enough to warrant d'Art's wish to not tell anyone he'd returned from…wherever he'd gone.

When Porthos came out, wiping his hands dry from his work, she watched him with confused eyes. She wanted to ask him if he'd seen d'Art before today – his tone having given her an inclination to believe he had – but something different came out of her mouth.

"Why did you abandon us Porthos?"

"I wanted more," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Why didn't you come with me?"

"I've felt right here. I belong," she said. "It wasn't like that for you…I saw it. So I let you go because I loved you."

"Me? You chose Charon."

"He feels that same as I for this place and I admire him for that," she shot back.

"Admire? Ah," Porthos said skeptically. "Thought you loved him."

"One thing I forgot was what an idiot you were," she hissed, stepping into his space. It took only a second for her to get onto her toes – when had he gotten so tall? – and press her lips to his. It was natural too.

As his hands hesitated around her waist, she thought of all her questions on d'Art, on Charlotte and Radha, and on Porthos. They could wait.


The church was dark, a pale glow flowing through the windows above their heads. D'Art led the way in, his boots thumping against the unprotected wood flooring. Athos, who had not seen the church, was a bit surprised at the lack of ornamentation. The seats were simple benches that a tavern would have used had they not looked so flimsy. Aramis was stone faced as they marched through to the door on the side wall. D'Art rattled the door; locked.

"Try that key again," Athos stated. D'Art rolled his eyes before dropping to a knee. The lock cracked and clunked but Athos was more interested in d'Art's expression. He knew the key worked the instant d'Art's dark eyes rose back to him, brows hiding in his bangs, and head cocking to his shoulder as if to say 'What do you know?'

"Stairs," Aramis sighed, shoving his hat down on his head. "Dark. Stairs."

"Naturally," d'Art grumbled as he slipped through the door. He came back with a smirk on his face. "Someone forgot their lanterns." Aramis smiled, his arms lifting his hands palms up to the ceiling as he mouthed his thanks.

The walk down the steps was quiet past the thudding of the steps under their boots. The lanterns did little to lighten the space but the flicker of a small flame did wonders for Athos as he descended into a stone walled chamber. Stings with papers hung overhead while tables were scattered about the room. Barrels lined a wall by the tens.

"A bomb making factory?" d'Art asked.

"No," Aramis said as he handled a wheeled device that was attached to a strange looking table with an inset and gearing. "It's a printing press." He strode over to the barrels and yanked a stopper free. Black liquid burbled onto their boots and the floor. "Ink," Aramis confirmed.

Athos snorted. "Not this one."

"There's the gunpowder," d'Art murmured as the fine powder shifted onto the floor.

"What are you doing here?" a voice yelled. Aramis was the first with his sword out as he turned to face a man in preacher's clothes. The sword in the man's hand however dragged Athos' eyes more than the sack in his other hand.

"There are three of us Preacher," he ground out.

"Then you're outnumbered," Ferrand growled back. "God is on my side."

"I hope he's good with a sword," d'Art quipped, skepticism coating his voice like a varnish.

"You lied to us," Aramis snarled.

"Unwise," d'Art hissed, a hand at his mouth as if revealing a secret.

"You in on the conspiracy," Aramis continued, his voice getting soft.

"Conspiracy? I keep in touch with my congregation by means of this printing press!"

Athos pointed at the barrels of powder. "Do you use gunpowder over ink?"

Ferrand stared at them in shock for a moment until d'Art finally got annoyed, muttering they should continue the conversation upstairs. They sat Ferrand on one of his backless benches, watching as he rubbed his hands together in his lap.

"My church has nothing to do with it," he insisted. "I preach reconciliation."

"Someone wanted to blow up your church, probably during a service," Athos stated.

"Could Jean have lied about his beliefs?" Aramis asked. Ferrand shook his head.

"Jean wasn't a turncoat. He was a gentle, softhearted boy."

Athos showed him to the order slip for the gunpowder then, asking about it. He was tired and was annoyed with having gotten almost nowhere in this investigation. All he had was the gnawing feeling that Porthos could have killed that boy and more questions on d'Art. He couldn't reconcile the young man who could pick locks, had stolen food to survive, and stood off to the side like a silent judge with the tiny child in Gascony. Even when he considered the idea of living on the streets being the reason for his complete disconnect, he still couldn't quite get d'Art and Charles to fit as the same person.

Ferrand snatched the slip from Athos' hands and looked it over. He snorted after a moment, his head shaking as if in disbelief.

"This is Jean's name. It's not his handwriting…It's his father's."

Well damn it all, Athos thought as he turned to leave.

"Before you go," Ferrand called. Athos turned and found the man glaring at d'Art.

"What?" he snarled.

D'Art gave him a questioning look which he ignored as he moved in front of the young man. He pointedly ignored Aramis' small smirk as well. He liked d'Art and he'd made a promise to avoid situations that would get the boy harmed like he had been with Vadim months ago. Aramis didn't really have a right to poke fun at him for it either.

Ferrand raised a brow in interest at the action but leaned to the side so he was looking at d'Art again.

"Did that bread and sausage you stole from me feed you well?" There was a sneer in his voice.

D'Art snorted. "No, but they fed the seven-year-olds and five-year-olds fairly well that winter," he shot back with his own little smirk. "Oh, and the blankets kept them quite warm as well; in case you were wondering."

Ferrand blinked at his retreating back with a gaped mouth. "You stole to feed children?!"

"Damn near starved myself in the process," d'Art called over his shoulder. He leaned against the doorjamb, lips curled in a smile. "If you're done questioning me, we need to be going."


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