Hello all my friends! I hope you enjoyed your holidays, whatever they may be, and that you're excited for this new chapter! I think it'll be one of 3 parts, though I'm not entirely sure. I can't remember if I responded to all your kind reviews- if not, I apologize, so much happened within the last three weeks that updating just became a hassle. Nevertheless here it is, and I am SO EXCITED TO SAY THANK YOU TO LORDANDEMPRESSDOODLE, who made us some more FANART! OH goodness it really is just so spectacular, thank you so much- if you want to take a gander go ahead and check out my profile, there's a link.

This is actually based off a headcanon of mine (and ugh it's my favorite honestly I think it's so amazing) so here's the chapter and I hope you like it as much as I do, folks!

D'Artagnan could sort of remember his mother.

Not much, mind you, but a little. She had been from Sicily, Italy, and had spoke very little French. Over the years his father had taught his mother common French sayings and she could speak her piece when she happened to go out to market, but in Gascony, which was primarily farming country and had acres of rolling hills between manors, it wasn't anything of real consequence.

As a result, d'Artagnan's first language happened to be Italian, so he could better speak with his mother. All of his siblings' first languages had been Italian too, his father (seemingly) perfectly happy to let his children first understand and talk to their mother. It hadn't taken him long to master French once he'd learned Italian- but he could speak both, and he could speak them well.

As far as he could remember, he looked like his mother- dark eyes, dark skin. Dark hair. His father had been very fair skinned despite living under the harsh sun of Gascony and his eyes had always been a light hazel, but d'Artagnan and his siblings had all inherited their mother's darker skin tone and hair color. D'Artagnan, however, was the only one who had gotten her eyes, and he found it often made him easily mistaken for Spanish.

His mother had passed away when he had been naught but twelve- disease. D'Artagnan couldn't quite remember what she had contracted, but it had killed her slowly and painfully, and she had practically withered away before his very eyes.

He loved his mother dearly. He hadn't understood why she'd left him.

He couldn't remember the last words they spoke to each other.

But he could remember the old Italian song she used to sing.

His mother had been a firm believer that prayers and songs and hymns lightened the spirit and replenished the soul, and had always had a tune on her lips. She had been a good baker, too, d'Artagnan could recall- she always sang when she cooked. But he couldn't remember what she had been preparing or why, or the traditions she had at Christmastime, or the way her eyes sparkled, or how dearly she truly adored her children.

But he could remember the song- bits and pieces and snatches of a tune that floated around at the back of his mind. When he was lonely or missing her or his father too much or generally uncomfortable or frightened, he tried to remember her voice singing it to him, crooning it to him at bedtime, humming it gently around the kitchen. But he couldn't remember her voice. Just the words.

It no longer saddened him- his mother had been gone a while. The agony of her loss had soothed to a dull ache- the absence of a mother's love, the knowledge that when he went home no loving, doting parents weren't waiting for him- it had long since died down to a faint tug of longing. That didn't mean it wasn't still there though, and maybe that was why he could find himself softly humming it under his breath when he did things- simple things, like brush down his horse or prepare his own meal, but they must have somewhere in his mind reminded him of her.

Francoise had been her name. Italian origin, he was told by his father later, and that she needn't change it, so used was it in France.

D'Artagnan thought that was good, his mother being able to keep her name. It made his memory of her sweeter and made her more compact as a person- like she truly lived instead of just having existed.

He had never told his friends because they had simply never asked. D'Artagnan wasn't so willing to have his history spewed out for all to see, after all, and he was still mistaken for being of Spanish origin. That was fine with him. He honestly didn't care if his skeletons stayed in his closet- in fact, he rather liked them that way.

Unfortunately, they seemed determined to escape.

And the day they did wasn't unlike any other day.

The Musketeers had hung about the Garrison for awhile, Aramis and Porthos sparring with each other, d'Artagnan training further with Athos. The older Musketeer seemed- if not impressed, then pleased with d'Artagnan's continuous progress, and the thought made something inside d'Artagnan preen with pride. It was hard to gain the approval of Athos and even harder to maintain it, but d'Artagnan had the feeling he had successfully done both so far.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan," Tréville barked, making them all stop and glance up at him. "Change and be ready in five minutes. We've been summoned by the King."

"I wonder why that is?" Aramis asked once Tréville had retreated back into his office. "There's no crisis to be dealt with at the moment, is there? Tréville wouldn't have gone back into his office had there been."

"Dunno," shrugged Porthos, pulling on his pauldron and shrugging on his coat. "Best we get goin' to see what it is, eh?"

'It' turned out to be a middle-aged woman that had been found lying on the side of the road into Paris, sobbing incoherently and seeking audience with the King. Louis, as it was, was sitting rather impassively on his throne, looking terribly bored.

D'Artagnan had a hard time keeping the sudden anger that flared in check, and he narrowed his eyes as he tried to rein in his temper. Getting angry at the King- especially accidentally channeling all the anger already there- was a dangerous business.

The middle aged woman was of darker skin tone- darker than d'Artagnan's, anyway. Her hair was dark and so were her eyes, and when she turned desperately looking for someone who would understand her, d'Artagnan was struck that this woman's eyes were the same shade as his mother's.

This woman must have recognized something in his face, for she lunged for his hand and clung to it, bringing it close and simply holding it, huge caramel eyes pleading with him. "Per favore, signore, per favore- parla italiana?"

Louis sighed, blowing it noisily from his lips and making a dismissive gesture with his hand. "She's been asking the same thing all morning and we're no closer to understanding her- why didn't you send for someone useful, Tréville? Your Musketeers obviously don't speak Italian," he said, and d'Artagnan could almost see the sigh shift his captain's shoulders.

Porthos turned to Aramis, who shrugged. "I only speak Spanish," he told them.

D'Artagnan sighed and gave the poor woman a gentle look. "Si, signora, io parlo italiano. Non hai paura- sei al sicuro." He tried to look reassuring.

"Oh, grazie, signore, grazie!"

D'Artagnan was all too aware of the stares he was receiving. They burned a hole through his back, and it was making him slightly uneasy. "Signora, come ti chiami? (Ma'am, what's your name?)" He opted for informal this time- it tended to make people feel better. That's what his mother had always said. (Granted, using the informal tense without express permission was a mite risky- but d'Artagnan had a little faith.)

"Io sono Signora Maria Bonacelli (I am Mrs. Maria Bonacelli)," the woman told him breathlessly, eyes wide and tear filled.

"Bene, signora," he said softly, and her hold on his hand grew tighter. "Sono d'Artagnan dei Moschettieri del Re. Aiuto te. (I am d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers. I'm going to help you)." He turned and, ignoring all of their dropped jaws, informed them calmly, "her name is Maria Bonacelli. I've told her that I'm going to help her, and have introduced myself."

Athos himself seemed completely unperturbed, but Porthos and Aramis blinked at him like they couldn't believe their ears. D'Artagnan canted his head slightly at Athos, eyes narrowing, and Athos just gave him the ghost of a smile.

Oh, he should've guessed. Athos had been brought up as the future Comte de la Fere, after all.

"Mi puoi dire cosa è successo? (Can you tell me what happened)?" d'Artagnan asked carefully, and Athos nodded his approval. The story comes first, he'd always told d'Artagnan. Story first, comfort later.

Signora Bonacelli took a deep breath. "Stavo Caminando con mio figlio sulla strada . Siamo stati attaccati da banditi sulla strada per Parigi. Avevamo fatto il giro e ci entra attraverso il guascone." She paused to gulp something back that d'Artagnan interpreted as a sob. "Hanno preso mio figlio e mi ha lasciato in mezzo alla strada. Mi hanno dato lividi brutto e mi taglio qui, e poi mi ha lasciato a mortire."

D'Artagnan gently squeezed her hand as he watched a couple of tears escape her eyes, barely catching Constance's surprised gaze as he turned to the King and his fellow Musketeers. "She says that she and her son were walking on the road to Paris- through Gascony- and attacked by brigands." D'Artagnan found he had somewhat of a hard time relaying this story on- something about this woman distinctly reminded him of his mother. Maybe it was because the last time he had spoken Italian it had been on her death bed.

He was desperately trying not to think about that.

"Sei andato attraverso il confine con la Spagna?" He asked, canting his head. Signora Bonacelli sniffed and tentatively nodded. D'Artagnan pursed his lips and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt; that would make this conversation all the harder. "Grazie, signora. Un momento, per favore."

"Her son was taken and she was left with bruises and cuts on the side of the road, where the brigands thought she might die. They left and she must have been found there." He paused. "She...she went through Spain to get there."

There was silence around the room for a few moments, but then Louis began to slowly clap, a huge and indubitably fake grin on his face. "Well done, d'Artagnan! I wonder, was your mother or father Italian, then?" He seemed not to notice the part about Spain that d'Artagnan had added, and for that, the youngest Musketeer was unendingly grateful for, even as the question set him on edge as he grit his teeth and turned away.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. He had to remind himself firmly to remain composed. "My mother," he replied in a clipped tone that he couldn't quite manage to keep in check, and turned away, indicating enough there had already been enough words on the matter.

"Vuoi trovare il mio figlio?" The woman pleaded, and d'Artagnan nodded.

"Si, signora. Faremo del nostro meglio per troviamo suo figlio."

He turned to Athos, whose lips were curled up in the startings of a smile.

"What'd'ya say?" Porthos asked, and d'Artagnan looked at him.

"She asked me to find her son," he said. "And I promised that we would do our best to bring him back to her."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" Aramis asked, and d'Artagnan turned back to translate, though he hesitated. "What?"

"I haven't spoken Italian in ten years," d'Artagnan scowled, suddenly defensive. "Give me a moment to think of the words, would you."

Aramis made a face in Porthos' direction, who just stared back at his friend with varying degrees of disapproval and amusement. It was hard to determine which was greater.

"Sapete che potrebbe essere…?" D'Artagnan winced through, and Signora Bonacelli canted her head.

"L'ultima volta che l'ho visto era sul lato della strada che è stata trovata su."

"The last time she saw him he was on the side of the road she was found on," d'Artagnan reported.

"Well why should we help this woman?" Louis suddenly asked, not unkindly but somewhat petulantly. "She isn't anything to us, she's just some...Italian."

"Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said, and it almost sounded like a rebuke, "she is a woman, and she is in France. I believe it right to give her some respect; she is a guest on French soil."

"You know, if it was anyone else speaking to me in that way, I would have them hanged," Louis informed gravely.

D'Artagnan held his gaze.

"Fine, fine!" Louis dismissed, flipping his hand at them. "Find the son if you so wish, Tréville. It matters not to me. But don't let your Musketeers stray far, lest I need them. Actually," and Louis all at once sounded delighted, "I'm going on a hunt tomorrow, just around that area- Gascony has always been such fertile hunting ground. I'd like to stay a few days. Why not escort me there, kill two birds with one bullet?"

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Tréville bowed, "we'll be sure to arrive promptly and readily." And, just as quickly, he ushered his Musketeers out. D'Artagnan gave Signora Bonacelli a lasting look, something kind and gentle hidden in its depths as he reached down and brushed a kiss to first her left, then her right cheek, and she clung to his face as she returned them.

"Rimani al sicuro," she whispered to him, and he kissed the top of her hand.

"Cerchero`," he whispered in return, and with her words echoing in his ears, followed his friends out to the courtyard.

"What did she say to you?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan didn't answer.

o~I moschettieri~o

The four of them saddled up at the Musketeer Garrison and rode out in a party of ten, none of them quite in the mood for small talk as they made their way to the palace in the pre-dawn air. D'Artagnan himself couldn't stop remembering Signora's words from last night and, try as he might to dismiss it, his mother's song was determinedly stuck in his head. It was quietly annoying and made him irritable only because it was so distracting, and it was a song he had only heard in the back of his mind for ten years. To have it at the forefront of his thoughts was disconcerting and slightly upsetting, rousing memories that d'Artagnan had carefully tucked away.

In truth, he was also trying to distract himself from the fact they were returning to Gascony, right on the borders of his farmland. He wondered if, perhaps, the King might permit him to visit some of his siblings- he was sure his sisters would appreciate the visit, if not the familiar company. As it was, the King would most likely forbid it.

"So you know Italian," Aramis finally spoke, pulling his horse alongside d'Artagnan's. The younger man kept his face carefully neutral despite the darkness that came before dawn, aware that Aramis likely couldn't see his face.

"I do."

Silence for a beat. "From where?"

"My mother."

"But...how? Was she- well, obviously she was Italian, but...what happened?" Aramis seemed determined to pry those closet doors open, didn't he?

"She died."

Aramis finally seemed to get the hint that d'Artagnan didn't want to talk about his skeleton past, instead turning his attention to Porthos, starting up a story about when he had wooed an Italian seamstress and how she was the most enchanting thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Every woman you're infatuated with at the time is the most enchanting," Porthos snorted, and Aramis shook his head, sweeping his hat.

"Alas, you are mistaken! She was truly the moon in the sky, my friend. I wish you could've seen her."

"Chances are you were done with her by the time you even thought of me," Porthos laughed, and Aramis scowled at him. There was silence for a time as they awaited the King, and further silence as their monarch struck up a conversation with Tréville, something involving the way one could track and hunt more efficiently without an escort. The Musketeers were quiet for a time, Aramis relapsing back into sleepiness without inane chatter to keep his mind preoccupied, and he was looking more likely to tip from his saddle any moment.

D'Artagnan would laugh when it happened.

But later, when it did, d'Artagnan couldn't find it in himself to get his lips to so much as twitch.

o~I moschettieri~o

D'Artagnan, it seemed, had finally managed to move on from his soreness towards Aramis, and was not staring blankly at the treeline, calmly lost in thought. Perhaps too calmly, Porthos admitted, to truly be completely over what had happened, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

The King eagerly dragged them out for the aforementioned hunt in the early morning, the late autumn air a welcome thing out of the bustle of Paris. Porthos wasn't complaining, of course, but the crisp air did burn a little as he breathed it in and Aramis was swaying drastically on his horse, eyes at half mast. If Porthos didn't know better, he wouldn't have felt such sympathy for his friend (who had already tipped from his saddle once today, thank you). As it was, the love of a woman was not what kept his friend awake half the night- this time, the nightmares had been his bedtime companion.

It was the peace of the morning that had them all off guard, Porthos decided later, though he wasn't to know that yet. The sun was barely slipping through the trees, making dapples of light flicker across the leaf strewn ground, the hooves of their horses barely clomping, the wind gently tugging on their clothes. It was tranquil.

It wasn't unlike any other day, unfortunately, and that was what should have put them all immediately on guard. There never was a calm day- and on the rare occasions they started out as so, it never lasted long.

Shouts and shots rang out louder than thunder and Porthos watched out of the corner of his eye as Aramis jolted fully awake and rolled off his horse, dragging d'Artagnan down with him. They landed with a harsh thud and scrambled to their feet as more shots roared through the air, whizzing past Porthos' head as he pulled his own pistol free- Athos was already firing in retaliation, screaming something at Aramis about d'Artagnan and he, and Porthos quickly aimed and fired and Aramis' hair trembled as the ball flew past it and lodged itself in the head of the man behind him. Aramis didn't waste the few precious moments it would take to check- only reloaded and took out another of the appearing men dashing out of the forest around them.

"The King!" Athos was shouting, "where's the King?!"

Good question, Porthos thought to himself, glancing around and covering his brothers' backs, taking out another bandit about to sever Treville's head from his neck just in time.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis was demanding- "where is d'Artagnan?!"

This offered enough pause for Porthos' heart to skip a beat and he furthered his search, his eyes scanning the forest around them. The men were depleting in numbers despite more simply spawning at the treeline, but the Musketeers were also losing fighters. They had been a small party of ten- Porthos and the other three of their quartet included- and they had lost maybe four or five other men. Only one recruit and Treville remained standing, and still bandits surged forth.

Porthos only had half a second to himself before he heard Aramis' garbled noise of pain, and turned quickly enough to see him falling to his knees.

Enraged, a shout pulled its way free from his lips and he charged, knocking Aramis' attacker from his feet and stomping on his dominant wrist, satisfied when he heard the loud crack. The bandit howled in pain and spat something foreign at him- probably an insult, though Porthos wasn't concerned about what it truly meant.

He'd heard enough Spanish from Aramis- this was different.

Italian?

"PORTHOS ON YOUR LEFT-" Athos yelled from across the clearing-turned-battleground, and Porthos whirled his fist around and caught his potential murderer in the face with the barrel of his gun, sending the shorter and darker skinned man sprawling. Growling, he went to fire another shot-

And his gun clicked.

He needed to reload.

Plunging his fingers into his pocket, he searched around a few seconds in vain for another ball before giving up and abandoning his pistol to the ground, unsheathing his rapier.

"Porthos," Treville called, his voice flat.

Porthos swore as he turned around, coming to face the exact thing he'd dreaded.

D'Artagnan's young recruit friend Aubin lay dead, unseeing eyes staring at the sky. He lay in a pool of his own blood, his throat still languidly bleeding from where it had been slit.

Porthos' eyes flickered to Aramis, who was half conscious and had blood leaking down his temple and the side of his face- undoubtedly from a nasty cut hidden by his hair. Athos' hand was twisted, all his fingers at an awkward angle and crookedly bent. Treville himself had a few scratches here and there, a rather painful looking one at his hip, oozing blood into his clothing.

"Drop your weapons," the man holding Aramis snarled, grabbing a fistful of the Musketeer's hair and stretching his head back until Aramis uttered a short cry. "Or he'll end up like that stronzetto over there." He jerked his head in Aubin's direction and procured a dagger, pressing it to Aramis' exposed throat.

Porthos didn't know what a stronzetto was, but he reckoned it wasn't particularly nice.

He must not have complied fast enough, because the Italian pressed the blade to Aramis' skin harder, drawing a few beads of blood. "Okay, okay!" He growled, and threw his rapier down. He wasn't sure where d'Artagnan or the King were, but he didn't glance about. Just stuck his hands in the air and waited.

Sure enough, someone appeared from behind to roughly seize his wrists and wrench them into an impossible position behind his back, and his shoulder gave a loud crack as it popped from its socket. Swallowing a grunt and glaring over his shoulder, Porthos was forced to his knees and dragged, thrown down aside Aramis, who wasn't looking so good. Blood made his face look chalky, Spaniard skin nearly white.

Porthos jammed his uninjured shoulder into Aramis' chest to keep him upright, nudging him with his chin. "Aramis...c'mon. Stay awake."

Aramis didn't respond and Porthos watched as the Italians- about thirty in total, though there truly were only three that looked to be in charge- retreat to the horses to scavenge, and only once he was assured they were distracted did he allow his gaze to flutter to the treeline. There, through a patch of green, Porthos thought he could see wild hair framing a tanned, distinctly Gascon face.

Woohoo! A lot happened this chapter, I feel like. I'm sorry if it's a little clipped- hooray for writer's block making my life impossible- but I do hope you enjoyed and that you can't wait for next chapter! I don't know when exactly I'll have it out to you all, but I'll stumble through somehow. Thanks again for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! Again check out my profile for the AWESOME fanart Lordandempressdoodle kindly made us, thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion/prompt on your thoughts, and I hope your day is fantastic!

Sarah: Thanks so much! I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter and hope you like this one just as much!

Moniker: Aww, thank you! :) Nah, it's not annoying to me- especially because I know how it is! You will attempt that fanart? OMG THANK YOU! I'm so excited. Musketeer Musical I can't reveal much on...but it's in progress, don't you worry. Thank you for your understanding about the marshmallow prompt- and I will ALWAYS be willing to mess up history for marshmallows. Always. No no- thank you for letting me know! I wasn't sure which he died in, so I appreciate the logic :) Oh thank you! You guys and your compliments always make me so happy! Pfft are you kidding rambling is like my favorite thing I love it. Have you watch the season finale yet? It premiered for me over here, I don't know why- maybe on different viewing schedules? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter too!