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

If only I would stop finding distractions that keep me from re-watching The Musketeers.

Hope you enjoy.

Tréville stood with his feet a little more than shoulder width apart, his blue cape limp in his hands. His fingers rolled between a light grip and a tight grip as he stared down at the body before him. It was a young woman with startling, wavy hair that looked like fire despite the mud clumping in it. Her clothes were patched and a bit big on her thin – yet still healthy – frame. Her green eyes were still open, staring into space as her slack jaw showed the barest hint of teeth.

As he bent to lay his cape over her body, he spotted his men tightening their circle against the crowd that had been gathering. No blades were being drawn but he hadn't missed the uneasy expressions on his men's faces. He knew those looks; understood the fear behind their eyes. He hadn't missed their whispers either.

"You think he knows?"

"How's he going to take this?"

"Isn't she…his friend?"

"I think so…I've seen them together."

No, Tréville hadn't missed a single thing his men were saying. He tended to not miss much his men said or did anymore. Not since the Three Inseparables barged into his life. It had never been safe to miss anything concerning his men but when Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were concerned it was downright dangerous. Since they'd added d'Art, things had gotten all the more so.

Though, Tréville couldn't quite blame the young man for the…noted increase of odd instances since d'Art had reentered his life, entered the lives of his men, he hadn't thought he would be staring down at a girl he'd seen with d'Art and his men. Not when she lay dead at his feet, her throat gaping from a cut that spanned from her ear to her clavicle.

The light blue of his cape molded itself around her face as his fingers slipped from the cloth. He scrubbed a gloved hand over his face with a heavy sigh. D'Art was off with the Three Idiots doing…something. Tréville had a suspicions that it had something to do with the baby and his mother but he didn't want to know about it. He was happy to let this situation fix itself the way the boys would fix it. The Cardinal didn't even want to know where the baby might end up.

As long as Marie de Medici was left unable to take over France, no one gave a damn what happened to the child or his mother.

"Captain?" Beaufort called past the line of men. His fellows had allowed him through a bit but they had remained pressed close to keep any of the civilians out.

"If he's not with you, leave," Tréville growled as he looked over his shoulder at the man. There was a bit of scuffling as Beaufort slipped back from the line. Within a moment, d'Art was almost shoved past the line, his face pulled in a frown.

"Captain?" d'Art asked.

Tréville waved him over, his face grim at the thought of what he was doing, what he was going to reveal to the boy. He had only called for the boy due to his connections and knowledge of the city and its occupants. It was only fair to inform the boy of the girl first if she truly was a friend of his. Tréville had heard his men talk about the fiery haired young woman who pulled the young recruit's attentions.

A girl like her was hard to ignore.

D'Art cocked his head at Tréville but remained silent as the elder man looked at him. Part of the old soldier was trying to gauge how this situation would go. Would d'Art cry? Would he scream? Would he – god forbid – shut down and disappear? There was no way for Tréville to know having so little interaction with the young man.

He knew how his men would react; the Dangerous Trio especially. Aramis would pray, shed silent tears, and demand justice be held once the girl was buried with proper rites. Porthos would growl and snarl before he would lash out, demanding vengeance. Athos….Athos would drink. A body would appear one day but Athos would deny involvement until he couldn't.

But d'Art wasn't those three. He was like them in many ways but he wasn't them. There was also the concern was that this girl was one of d'Art's connections. One who got the boy to smile on occasion from what Tréville had seen from his balcony, his office window, from a distance. He feared vengeance.

"d'Art," Tréville stated in a soft voice. "You need to be the first person outside myself and the men here to know as is only fair. I do, however, wish to ask a boon of you."

D'Art raised a brow at him but nodded approval at hearing the catch.

"Don't run off immediately," Tréville said, a plea in his voice. He ignored the side long looks over his men's shoulders at the tone.

The young man's brow went a bit higher. He nodded again, a slow and jerky movement. There was acceptance there but a cloud of confusion still masked how willing he was to listen to the request.

Tréville pulled his cloak back from the girl's head, dragging the cloth past her low cut collar. He kept his eyes fixed on the young man. Flashes of emotion rushed over the boy's face as he too knelt to the ground. Anger and horror were the predominate emotions but there was grief and pain present as well. Tréville knew those expressions well, even when they were flashing over a person's face in such a way that they barely registered on skin.

"Radha," the young man whispered, his voice croaking as he reached a hand over the girl's brow.

His olive finger tips brushed away a clump of matted braiding, tucking it behind her pale ear. A fist pressed against the boy's lips as he choked back the beginnings of tears, his white teeth digging into his flesh almost to the point of drawing blood. His entire body was shaking, his shoulders the stillest part of him as he drew his knuckles over the girl's cheeks.

Tréville watched, enraptured by the display. He'd never seen d'Art this tactile; not even with the Three Terrors. The young man brushed away invisible tears from the young woman's face with his knuckles, her skin not moving under his ministrations. This girl was a friend. A close one.

Tréville had a sudden vison of d'Art and the young woman, Radha, pressing their lips together in dim light. In the image, Radha's long legs were wrapped against d'Art's waist while his hands weaved into her flaming hair. Dark olive skin against pale porcelain, flaming curls mixing with black, beads reflecting flashes in the dark was suddenly a favored combination in Tréville's mind. As well as he could see them as lovers, he could also see them as kin, arms locked over shoulders and laughter filling his thoughts.

"I wish for Aramis to do her rites," d'Art croaked out as he moved her chin with his fingertips.

His eyes were fixed on the cut on her throat, his ears not picking up the creaking the movement caused. The cool mud had counteracted the warmth of the day but the smell told Tréville the girl had been without breath for longer than the afternoon.

"Of course," Tréville said with a nod. "Come. We should get her somewhere more decent."

"Wait."

"d'Art," Tréville groaned, his hands trying to pull the cloth back over her face until the young man smacked his hands away.

"I know this type of cut," d'Art growled, his body bending over the girl until his nose was almost buried in the gaping wound.

"How so?"

"I've experienced it," was the hissed response as the boy rocked back onto his heels. He swiped a hand over his nose as he sniffed back tears. His hand pulled the blue cloth back over her body, pausing at her chin until his other hand closed her eyes. He remained still once the cloth sank over the rigid body, molding back around her features.

"Experienced it?" Tréville asked in horror.

The young man gazed at him, lips thin against his face as he looked over the older man's form. His hand rose to pull the scarf away from his neck, the long scar left in the dim light of the setting sun. Tréville swallowed bile at the sight, dark thoughts shifting through his head. The line was familiar to the cut Tréville had been staring at moments before. The jagged edge was probably due to being stitched together as well as the path of the blade.

"Who did that?" Tréville asked. "Who did this?"

He waved a hand over the body, anger seeping through him at his fresh understanding. The scarf was old; at least twenty years if his memory served him. The scar was just as old if not older. The same track of a knife, the same skill maturing over time. Someone had harmed his newest recruit before he could do anything. Now they had done it again, killing a friend of his. Someone was harming his people through association.

"A man who took me from my home," d'Art said through his teeth, his hands fisting in his trousers. "A man who took much form me." His hand fell on a chain at his neck. "So. Very. Much."

Tréville stared at the young man, his eyes flicking over the shaking body. Aggression and grief were warring over the young man – he wasn't a boy; hadn't been for a while. He hadn't run off. He wasn't shutting down. He was holding himself back from doing anything, including grieving, as he answered Tréville's questions. The elder placed a hand on d'Art's shoulder, squeezing as much comfort as he could through the minimal contact.

"We should move her to the barracks," he said. He ignored the soft, relived, smiles that crossed the line's faces.

"The barracks?" d'Art asked.

"I'm not taking her to the coroner," Tréville growled. "She deserves respect." He scooped the shrouded body into his arms as he spoke, his sword clicking against his legs as he rose.

"Thank you," d'Art whispered as he tripped back to his feet.

"Thank me later, Lad. I still want to know who this person is."

The line of men wrapped around them like a barrier. A few, gloved hands clasped d'Art's shoulders to give support as they proceeded through the city. Nothing was said though, the men understanding the privacy sweeping between the Captain and the little thief. It didn't matter that the two weren't talking; the men were being respectful in their own way. They drifted off on their way once Tréville and d'Art turned towards the infirmary.

"Captain," d'Art stated as Tréville lay the girl on an empty bed in the infirmary. "Thank you."

Tréville pulled a sheet over the body once he'd tucked the young woman's arms over her stomach and pressed her legs together. His blue cloak had been dropped to the wood floor once Tréville had kicked the door open.

"No need, Lad," Tréville stated as he stared down at the tenting sheet. Radha's features were quite soft while under cloth. "It is the least I can do after all you've done for us, her help included."

D'Art smiled at him with a soft smile pulling at his lips. He'd slipped the scarf back around his neck while Tréville hadn't been watching him.

"Did you ever get the man's name?" Tréville asked.

When d'Art looked away from him in the way a child would look away from his mother after stealing a cookie from the pan, Tréville held up a hand.

"I wish to catch him; give Radha justice. That's all."

D'Art glanced over at the bed behind Tréville for a moment before he sighed.

"I never had his name," he admitted. "I only have his face trapped here." He pointed to his temple, his fingers taping at the skin there. "That, along with my name, my father's name, the name of my home, a trinket from a friend, and knowledge that a gift from my father is likely still held by the man who nearly killed me and killed Radha are all I have to my person."

Tréville nodded. Of course that would be all d'Art would have to his person. Porthos had told Tréville about living in the Court; who he'd raised, who he'd taught. Porthos' description of one of the girls – one of the two had known of d'Art's return to Paris – had been one reason Tréville had even stopped his evening walk to see old friends and catch up on things he may have missed. He'd found himself feeling as if he was even further out of the loop since d'Art arrived with tips and leads Tréville never could had found before him.

"Alright," Tréville sighed, flattening his beard with his hand. "I will call Aramis to speak her rites and arrange a place for her to be laid to rest. She's one of your friends so I will claim her as family of a Musketeer Recruit."

"My thanks," the young man said as Tréville stepped past him.

Tréville paused at the door, the creaking hinges making his hearing almost miss the whisper from behind him.

"d'Art?" he asked, turning to face the young man.

"Charles de Batz d'Artagnan," the young man stated.

"…What?"

"My name…I trust you with it. All of it."

"…Lad-," Tréville breathed.

"I have for a while, Captain," the young man admitted. "I just…couldn't find an opportunity to tell you without having too many people hearing it."

Tréville chuckled, shaking his head. "As expected of you, Lad." He took a step outside only to halt when the name truly registered.

"You're Alexandre's boy, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"…My condolences."

"Thank you."

Tréville closed the door, leaving the boy to his privacy, as he hobbled to the table under his balcony. He sank onto the bench with a heavy exhale, his mind spinning. The child he'd met two decades ago was Alexandre's son. The child Tréville was supposed to meet the summer after a fire destroyed the farm in Lupiac had been in Paris this whole time, so close and yet hidden from his sight. His visit was a whole season too late, the letter of both condolence and divulgence appearing on his desk in a swarm of papers detailing property loses form bandits. He'd seen the wreckage himself, needing to see it in person after seeing the notification.

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos wandered past him well after the sun had set. Aramis was unsure on his feet, the two dragging his slurring and loud self through the courtyard as they tried to get him to quiet his ramblings. Athos was the one who noticed him sitting at the table, leaving Porthos to deal with Aramis.

"Captain?" Athos asked, a booted foot rising to press against the other bench.

Tréville let his eyes move over the other man's frame. He could remember the man when he'd been in his early twenties; cocky and sure of himself as he bossed his fellows about as if he were aware that he had a future as a soldier. There was little question in the idea that Athos would be one of Tréville's oldest combatants, Porthos and Aramis chugging on the same way to ensure Athos was never alone.

There was a fourth to consider now though and Tréville wouldn't – couldn't – reconcile the son of his friend being nearly killed because he'd made the friends he had. All because Tréville had let the death of his friend slip away from him.

"Just…thinking of an old friend," he lied.

This secret was like Savoy; dangerous and necessary. He would keep it until it decided to blow up in his face like the powder keg it was. He could reason with himself that it was only a partial lie; he was thinking of his old friend. He was wondering if this course of action would truly protect his friend's son instead of alienating the young man.

Athos had his forearms pressed against his raised knee as he leaned his head towards his less dominant shoulder. Tréville read something akin to bemusement in Athos' features that pressed him as intriguing – if it weren't for the situation.

"Should I be giving condolences?" Athos asked, his blue eyes shifting towards where Porthos and Aramis had stumbled off towards the dorms. Was it the man's way of showing his respect?

"Well…it's been over twenty years since I last saw the man," Tréville admitted. "But, yes, condolences would be welcome."

"Then you have mine," Athos stated, his eyes glanced towards the gates of the training yard. Tréville frowned. He understood being uneasy when dealing out condolences thanks to his own experiences but he had a suspicion that Athos was looking for someone; someone with red hair.

"Looking for someone?"

Athos's eyes were wide as they met Tréville's, shame at being caught seeping through them as his breathing hitched. Tréville couldn't remember the last time Athos' breathing skipped in its rhythms. There was a faint trace of pink lining Athos' cheekbones as well.

"Wondering where a certain informant's gotten off to," Athos said with a shrug, his eyes falling back to the gate.

A flash of blood soaked mud, mud caked curls, and staring forest green eyes rushed through Tréville's mind as Athos stared off into the distance.

"One of d'Art's little friends?" Tréville asked. Athos nodded. "Want them to look for something?" A shrug was all he got. "Should I even bother asking if it's potentially dangerous to you, your friends, or the Regiment?"

"I won't endanger the Regiment or my friends," Athos stated in his usual calm manner. A manner Tréville knew brought nothing but trouble, Aramis making excuses, and Porthos' grumbles. It also brought back memories of how that manner tended to bring in large catches.

All Tréville could do was groan.

"Deal with Aramis," he ordered. "I want him sober by morning."

Athos's head tilted again but he nodded as he pushed off the bench. He wished Tréville a good night before he too disappeared into the dorms. Tréville waited for a moment before he rejoined d'Artagnan in the infirmary. Old Serge stumbled out of the room, muttering how unhealthy it was to skip a meal as Tréville moved into the dim area.

D'Art had his head laid on the bed next to the young woman's elbows, his hands under his temple. He still wore his weaponry and jacket but he had pulled a chair over at some point. His boots were tucked under the chair, toes wrapping around the front legs. Tréville pulled up another chair, sinking into the chair with a sigh. He glared at the light blue cloak still on the floor for a while before his eyes couldn't resist the pull of sleep any longer.

Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.