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.

The weeks after Radha's burial went along in a blur for Athos.

All he could think of was what had transpired in the infirmary the morning after they'd seen Agnès away and Aramis had gotten himself drunk enough to ponder futures. The night had been short thanks to deep sleep once he and Porthos had settled Aramis' ravings for a child of his own one day. The morning had come in a shattering of reds, pinks, oranges, and barely present purples. The beaming sunlight had streamed into the room the three of them had collapsed in, sharing the bed in a tangle of limbs and almost shed clothing.

Tréville had woken them with the banging of a kicked in door and a bellow. Athos had been the first out of the mass of limbs, tripping over his trapped feet – or Porthos' feet; he wasn't sure. He'd been dimly thankful that his trousers were still on and that his shirt – while loose and wrinkled – was still on his shoulders. Porthos and Aramis had fallen to the floor with a thud and resounding curses, hands flying about at odd angles as they untangled themselves. They were in their small clothes, Porthos' shirt strewn somewhere on the floor while Aramis' was sliding from between their bodies.

No, Athos wasn't quite sure how that had happened – the night before fuzzy in his mind thanks to sleep and the wine – but it was a typical occurrence with the three of them. Also, Tréville had just barged in, eyes flaming with pent anger that only tended to spark about after Tréville had had to deal with Richelieu.

"Outside," was Tréville's next – coherent – order once they'd managed to make it to their feet.

He was out the door before Athos could ask what was going on and the former Comte de le Fère found himself scrambling to get his boots and jacket on. He didn't bother strapping his weapons onto his body until he was out of the door and rushing down the steps to the training yard. He'd distantly registered Aramis and Porthos following him but he only took stock of them once they'd made it down the steps. Aramis was shrugging on his jacket while Porthos was combing his hair back with a hand, the other buckling his sword to his waist.

Tréville was waiting for them, the yard filled with the roar and clash of their brothers practicing. There was a tension in the air though, one born of frustration and confusion. It was like the men were trying to figure out a puzzle but couldn't wrap their heads around it so they'd resorted to sparing their frustration out of their systems. Athos knew the feeling; he'd warred with it since he'd seen the husk of a farm he'd loved.

Tréville was stone still, his lips rolled into his mouth as he watched his men spar. His arms were crossed over his chest, his clothes protesting against the tight hold despite his not moving. Athos could almost see the whiteness of Tréville's knuckles through the harsh leather gloves he was wearing. Tréville was showing his age for once, the creases in his furrowed brow deeper than usual.

"Captain, if this is about last night, I apologize," Aramis ventured with a truly apologetic expression on his face. As he had begun to wake up, his brain supplied he, personally, hadn't done anything but someone may have made a complaint about Aramis' yelling. He'd placed his hat over his heart, his other hand behind his back. Porthos had his hands behind his own back as well, head bowed in apology.

Athos was about to follow suit when Tréville spoke again.

"This has nothing to do with you three getting drunk, again," he snapped as he spun to face them. "You're needed in the infirmary. Go. Now. Before I make up my mind on what to do with you three louts."

They scattered immediately. Well, Porthos and Aramis scattered. Athos was dragged away before he could say or do something that would – in retrospect, Athos found – get them killed. He hadn't been clear on who was dragging him other than there were hands on his coat and he'd had to fight for balance.

Serge was the one to meet them in the infirmary, his weathered hands tucking in a familiar mop of dark hair. Porthos was the first to make any noise, his tromping steps nearly shaking the place as he'd stormed to Serge's side. Serge hushed him before he could question what was going on though, shoving Porthos towards a different bed; one with the sheet pulled over a body, red turning brown in the sheets.

"He's been sleeping all night," Serge muttered, jerking his head toward to the other occupant in the room. "Captain stayed with him through to breakfast, no less." The old man was wringing his hands together as he spoke, eyes darting over his shoulder to make sure the boy he'd tucked away wasn't going to sit up any time soon.

"Serge," Porthos hissed, his temper barely held back. "Tell me what happened to d'Art or, so help me, I'll-!" Aramis slapped a hand over Porthos' mouth, a finger pressed to his lips.

"If anything happened, he needs rest," Aramis whispered, his hand dropping. Porthos lifted a lip as if her were a snarling dog but he backed away from the old man.

"It's not d'Art who's hurt," Serge muttered. "She is." His beaten hand rose to point at the sheets covered body next to them and Athos began to understand. Tréville had sent them here to look over a body. The body of a girl going off the curves outlined by the sheets. A girl who d'Art had stayed with all night.

"Red or blonde?" he asked. Serge gave him a questioning look. "Her hair. Red. Or. Blonde."

"Red."

"Radha?" Porthos – Lord save them all – squeaked. It wasn't a traditional squeak but there was a loss of air as he'd breathed the name, disbelief coloring his tone.

"I never got her name," Serge whispered as if he were revealing a conspiracy against the crown. "All I know is that the Captain stayed here most of the night and so did d'Art."

Athos had lifted the sheet then, his blood leaving him entirely as he stared down at the young woman he'd come to think of as a relation. She was a sister to d'Art and he considered d'Art a brother – no matter how much he hoped the boy wasn't who Porthos and Aramis thought him to be (for if d'Art was that boy, he'd been so close to Athos and that would mean Athos had only managed to fail him differently).

It wasn't just for the convenience either. She was something he almost expected to be around; like he expected d'Art to have those eerily familiar smiles and gestures now.

Porthos had lifted a fist to his mouth, his body reacting violently at the sight of Radha's slack expression and porcelain pallor. He was across the room in a heartbeat, dragging his breathing back under control audibly in a manner Athos knew well. He'd done it once in the rain after a hanging lead to a burned husk of a farmhouse. Porthos was trying to not wake d'Art with his distress but he couldn't keep everything under control.

Aramis stared, his movements to pull his hat over his breast stiff and uncoordinated. The resulting prayer that spilled from his lips came in Spanish. He whispered it as if to make sure only the girl laying before him would hear it.

They'd all buried her, named as family of the Musketeers. Athos had seen the others leave copious amounts of flowers near the pale cross that marked her grave. Charlotte had been spotted after the funeral, screaming and crying into d'Art's chest and the men had watched for as long as could be considered polite before leaving, their gait stiff as they made sure to bow a head to the two without interrupting the scene.

There were things that had stopped being secret after Therron, apparently, that Athos had missed. Everyone knew who Charlotte and Radha were and knew they were the ones to find should d'Art be away for Tréville or something. How he'd missed it though was beyond him.

There were still whispers of vengeance flitting about the Garrison. He'd heard hundreds of plans on what should be done to the person responsible for the death of a girl he – honestly – hadn't expected to have such respect form soldiers.

It'd been partially lost on him that it was possibly Radha's involvement and proximity to d'Art – who had retreated to Constance's home after the funeral – that had sparked the outcry. Another part of him knew that it wasn't just d'Art's involvement that could be blamed. It was also the fact that Tréville had made the arrangements himself, possibly lying (or bending the truth) to the King to have the girl named as a Musketeer's family.

It could have been anything that had sparked the whispers but some of those whispers worried him. These were whispers of what d'Art would do now that a friend of his was gone.

Would he leave to find the bastard that had done the deed?

Would he leave to keep the remaining one safe?

Would the boy stay?

If he did stay, would he become a Musketeer?

Would he make a different path for himself by leaving Paris altogether?

The last idea shook him to his core. He'd lost too many brothers as it was and he couldn't see himself being okay with d'Art leaving; even if it was to return to Flea in the Court of Miracles. He knew, instinctively, Porthos and Aramis felt the same. There was a fear in their eyes every time a whisper filtered past them that someone would be right. Sooner or later, someone would call the future down and d'Art would be gone, out of their reach and never to be seen again.

Even if Athos had to let his friends' claims that d'Art was that child he'd loved be true, he would do it if it would keep d'Art within arm's reach. He'd thought of letting his disbelief slip away while they were saving Agnès and Henri. He found himself unwilling to allow d'Art to leave; and if he thought about it deeply, he'd been unwilling since Vadim. He didn't want to lose another brother.

His thoughts on the matter were drawn to a halt as he and Aramis' attentions were dragged to an alleyway by a man shouting about thieves. It didn't really matter that they were to part the crowd so the King and Queen's carriage would have less obstacles. Tréville had Porthos and d'Art right behind him as he led the carriage. It was odd the man they'd gone to help called for them to leave the bag, let the thieves leave with it.

He only grew more confused when he managed to wind his way back to Tréville and the others, a ring of Red Guards surrounding them to keep the crowd at bay. Aramis had stayed with the man from the alley while he gave his report. A girl lay dead at the center of the ring, Porthos trying to keep Constance calm as d'Art helped the Guard shoo the people off. He was dismissed quickly once he'd given Tréville the explanation to his and Aramis' not being at the front of the line at the time, Tréville's eyes wild with something Athos couldn't recognize.

There was anger there but Athos wasn't sure what the anger was aimed at; him or the death.

"What was she even doing running up to the royal carriage?" Aramis muttered as they remounted, his brow furrowed at the news Athos had brought.

"Who knows," Athos sighed.

He was probably correct, seeing that Tréville took a look at it, his eyes widening whatever was written there. There was to be a meeting, the Cardinal next to the King and Queen later. Of that, Athos was sure.

He and Aramis, however, had to escort the man they'd 'helped' to his destination. Keep him from getting robbed once more.

"We'll find her," d'Artagnan said in a soft, rumbling whisper as Constance paced her husband's home. She was worried – and rightly so – about Fleur, the girl who'd been with her and the young woman who'd died in an attempt to give a missive.

"What am I going to tell her father?" Constance moaned, her face scrunching in annoyance at the situation. "He's my husband's cousin!"

Or possibly that little bit of information, d'Art thought ruefully as Porthos herded Constance into a seat without touching her. Dealing with family seems to be a problem the lot of us share.

"How long have you known her friend, Thérèse?" Porthos asked.

Constance shrugged, her head shaking as tears gathered in her eyes. "A month or so," she answered. "I know Comtesse de Larroque took an interest in her; teaching her to read and write."

"Many enlightened nobles show their servants kindness," d'Artagnan said as gently as he dared.

"This was more than kindness," Constance urged. "Thérèse knew Greek, Latin, and studied the stars. Fleur attended a few lessons herself. They…went in secret."

He and Porthos shared a look, part of them already knowing that secrets were never things that stayed hidden; not with what they did for a living, what d'Art was trying to get into more than where he stood currently. With Radha dead, he wanted even less to do with the Court. Flea had given her condolences but she'd asked about what d'Art had had Radha doing. Charlotte wanted was still torn between screaming at him, screaming at the world, and shutting down.

"Comtesse de Larroque's home then?" d'Art shrugged.

"Father Luca Sestini," the Cardinal introduced. "He and I are old friends."

That much was clear from how you greeted him, Athos thought as the King brought up Sestini's being Jesuit and – apparently – inclined to think the Pope should be in charge of all matters be they of state or spiritual. Part of him rushed back to his lessons as a boy, remembering how certain kings had stood in the snow to win favor back from the church. He couldn't imagine his own king standing, barefoot, in the snow and begging forgiveness.

"Just well my people can't read," Louis muttered. "Or they may get ideas."

"My apologies for any offence," Sestini murmured. The King wished him a pleasant, and brief visit before returning to his chair.

"Your Majesty," Tréville called. "A young woman, a friend of the girl who died this morning, has gone missing. We have reason to believe the Comtesse de Larroque may know something."

"What makes you say so?" the Queen asked, worry flashing over her face as the King fidgeted in his seat.

Athos closed his eyes, trying to place the name through the hedge maze of nobility he'd been forced to memorize once. Female, enlightened, rumored beauty all flitted through his head but he couldn't get anything more solid in nature past her traveling constantly.

Well, that was fruitless, he thought darkly.

"I have it on good authority that she attended the Comtesse's salon and seems enthralled by her," Tréville admitted.

Good authority? Well, that would be d'Artagnan, Athos thought, glancing to Aramis. His blue eyes found resonating agreement in Aramis' brown.

They both twitched an eye at the Cardinal's claim that the Comtesse was sneaking women to her boudoir. The comment was a bit…out there considering the lack of empirical evidence and such but also that it was against a woman of high standing; her gender aside. Athos had learned that women weren't to be underestimated. A long time ago.

And, the Cardinal's claim of ugly rumors aside, the Queen was already looking rather…prickly considering the death of the girl as well as her husband claiming another woman as pretty. Athos hadn't missed how the Queen's head had jerked at the wayward – and it had been nothing less – comment from the King. Just as he hadn't missed the look on her face as the King asked for discretion. Though, from where Athos stood, it was a bit difficult to miss such things from a beautiful, gentle woman.

"You're too generous, your Majesty," the Cardinal ground out.

"It's a weakness."

Athos and Aramis met them outside the grand house, servants leaping out of their way when their horses barged through. Porthos and d'Art had been waiting, Porthos ignoring the way d'Art pressed against his arm and side. Porthos couldn't blame the boy given the circumstances going through the whole of the garrison. No one wanted the men doing anything rash but it wasn't lost on anyone that d'Art was the most affected out of the whole lot. Tréville had a lively standing as the second most affected, his words harsher at times than they needed to be and his demeanor towards d'Art changed a bit.

Porthos, while not sure why the change had come about, had noticed how Tréville had begun to pull d'Art closer to his side at times, how the two whispered in Tréville's office or behind other closed doors. There were soft looks that Tréville would send towards d'Art when he was training or even just hanging about the garrison. He was concerned about the boy; that much was clear. What that concern was being driven by, however, was what worried Porthos.

"Cardinal's making claims already is he?" Porthos asked as they sauntered into the place, a maid trailing along after them, her voice giving directions.

"Yes," Athos sighed. Porthos snorted.

The library, in which, they ended up had a high ceiling and glowed white as the sun streamed through the skylight. Women were seated all about, reading, chatting, doing…things. Porthos tried to keep his surprise at the utter normalcy of the scene hidden as Athos asked about Fleur Baudin. The Comtesse herself stood before them in a moment, her eyes cool as she gazed at them. Porthos had the sudden impression she was unimpressed with them.

He tried to ignore how d'Art slid to stand behind him, the boy's wide-eyed expression making it tempting to lift a brow in questioning. Comtesse Ninon de Larroque made it quite easy when she interrupted Athos – "I know who you are." – and telling him she thought him handsome.

He'd never seen Athos blush before. Hell, he'd never seen Athos nervous either. It was more enlightening than the escapade to le Fère.

It only got harder to not laugh when she commented on the 'melancholy aspect' to Athos' person that had interested her until she'd noted it was 'probably mental vacancy'. Aramis smiled first, brows lifted in surprise at the wit and cutting edge of the Lady's words. Porthos chuckled softly, patting a hand on Athos' shoulder in reassurance.

"I apologize for the intru-," Athos tried again.

"I will not," Ninon stated. "This is a place of scholarship, for women to enjoy each other's company without men's crude attentions." She took a breath. "What do you want?"

Athos stumbled over his words then, trying to avoid the Comtesse's eyes as he spoke of their reason for being there. She batted down his comment on Fleur's family being anxious with a slick comment on marriage and domestic slavery.

As much as Porthos disliked the second word, he found he could almost agree with the usage. Madame Bonacieux was subject to that – idiot – husband of hers, her fears weighing on what would please him or displease him. Her worry over Fleur was fueled over relation to the girl but not her own, but her husband's.

"She's not here. You can go."

"Your broach," Porthos called. "What's it mean?"

She looked down at the bird at her chest, a soft smile gracing her face for a moment.

"It's a Wren. A bird that cannot be caged; a symbol of hope and freedom," she said proudly.

"A symbol of your own dreams and ambitions I'd imagine," Aramis said with one of his charming smiles.

"Ah! We have a Romantic in our midst. Observe, ladies, the remarkable phenomenon of a man of wisdom and protection."

"If by romantic, you mean a man who willingly acknowledges the superiority of the female sex then," Aramis smiled, saluting the Comtesse with a slight flourish, his pauldron squeaking a bit, "I accept the description."

"We're all quite immune to your charm here," she smirked at Athos.

This led into another little 'debate' on their reason for being there and if Ninon would mind if they searched her house for the girl. Athos lost, backing away from the woman's keen gaze. They gained access to her home only because she was feeling indulgent though, Porthos was sure that wasn't what she was feeling.

She slipped past Athos, eyes fliting over Aramis and Porthos' forms for a moment when she stopped in her tracks, eyes fixed on the person behind Porthos' back. The large man barely had enough time to leap away as she gave a cheerful cry of 'Charles!' with her arms thrown wide as she went to hug d'Artagnan.

They all stared in amazement as she kissed the boy's cheeks, cupped his face in her hands as she pressed her brow to his, and smiled a radiant smile.

"My goodness!" she cooed, turning his head a bit as she looked him over. "You poor thing, you look like you've not slept in days!" Her hands slid to his shoulders, pushing him away from herself to look him over more thoroughly. "You're still too skinny!" Her finger bopped his nose in gentle admonishment, her smile never leaving her eyes. "I should feed you up so you'll have a bit of meat on those bones of yours," she laughed.

"Comtesse," Athos coughed. She glanced at him with a hum of confusion, hands still on d'Art's shoulders. "You know him?"

Aramis scowled at Athos' idiot question, Porthos rolled his eyes, and d'Art sighed.

"Of course I do," she snickered. "I met him a year and half ago in Lupiac." She smiled back at the boy who smiled back at her nervously. "Such a shame you can't speak," she sighed before pushing the boy off to a young woman. "He's a friend; see that he gets some actual food in him."

D'Art gapped like a fish at her, holding a finger up to call everyone to a halt as the girls about them started to really whisper. He waved the girl off, his head shaking as his hands waved in a cross formation in front of himself. He turned to Ninon and signaled he wasn't hungry, pointing to the food, himself, and shaking his head. Ninon scowled at him until he took an apple from the table, his sword clacking against his legs. Her eyes fell on it with distaste.

"And where on earth, did you find that?" she asked as he chewed at the apple. He smiled and shook his head. "Won't tell me, is it?" Another shake. "Fine. I'll ask your friend while he searches my home."

He bowed at her as she swept out of the room, Athos tripping after her as he kept looking back at d'Art in confusion. D'Art only shrugged at him as he continued eating the apple.

"Boy," Porthos groaned. "I'm getting real tired of the way you reveal things."

D'Art shrugged at them, an apologetic smile on his face. Porthos rolled his eyes, knowing d'Artagnan wouldn't speak now that he'd been claimed a mute. Aramis sighed, shaking his head before he launched them into a different topic; Athos and Ninon's flirting with each other.

"Rubbish," Porthos grunted. "She can't stand him."

"One day, we'll sit down and I'll explain women to you," Aramis smiled, earning a quiet laugh from d'Art.

Comtesse Ninon de Larroque was an enigma as far as Athos was concerned.

Having verbal debates over status and class in regards to women was interesting – enlightening really – and had proven to him he still knew very little when it came to dealing with the opposite sex. He learned a few other things as well. Things such as how Ninon was thought of as a corruptive force by the men whose women came to her, how she viewed women as equals to herself no matter the situation, and that she (possibly) wished to see him again (if that kiss was anything to go by).

He couldn't see it ending well. Even if it stayed as only a dinner, all he could see it ending in were flames, tears, blood, and pain. He could think of his childhood home burning around him while someone called his name; calling Olivier against the roar of the fire – he still had yet to ask d'Art about that incident; where he'd gotten that name from. He imagined a farm in Gascony being burned, a small boy calling Olivier as well.

No, he most certainly would not attend dinner with her, her order aside.

Why he had agreed to such a ludicrously idiotic action continued to allude him as he stared at the books in Ninon's library that night as he waited for her to join him. This was a stupid plan. This was an idiot plan. This was stupid. This was rude of him to do.

"I won't kiss you again if you don't desire it," she said gently.

"I'm better prepared to fight you off this time," he countered with a smile. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

"Shall we dine?"

"There's something I have to show you first."

Another thing he learned was that Ninon flinched at death, a hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes as any sane person should. Her word play turned strained when under pressure; as he found when he questioned her before the body of young Thérèse. When she'd been in her home, she'd been confident and a tad loquacious. Before the body of a girl she claimed fondness for, her words were more succinct, even terse. There was still confidence but it wasn't as loud as it had been earlier that day.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said, knowing she'd see the lie for what it was; a lie.

"Yes you did."

She said something flowery for the girl before them both, asking the coroner to cover the girl's face once she'd finished. Athos blinked then, her movement away from the body having gained him access to see another body.

"Do you know him?"

"A thief," he replied. "How did he die?"

"Undetermined," the coroner sniffed. He made an excuse, claiming the dead man had to wait his turn or some such nonsense.

"Look after the bag. I'll send for it in the morning," he ordered before her escorted the Comtesse out. Athos had never cared for the balding man before him but he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. The man would do as he was told by a Musketeer; something about Aramis and d'Art making a point ringing in his memory.

"May I ask," he inquired as he walked Ninon home. She stood to his left, refusing her typical gender role as he'd come to expect her to do. "Do you…dislike men?"

She smiled. "I believe marriage to be a curse and won't submit to its thrall."

"I agree," he sighed. "But why?"

"On my wedding day, all I own will become my husband's property," she explained. "This, naturally, includes my body. I won't be owned by anyone."

"So what they say is true," he mused. "You are a 'rebellious woman'."

She smiled at him. He found himself willing to share his views on the subject; that he was done with romance. Her question of if it had ended badly was such an understatement he couldn't find the words past 'You could say that' for nothing else would do at that moment. Simply nothing. He could believe her when she stated her wish for equality between the sexes, instead of hate. He could truly believe it.

He was about to ask her about d'Art, knowing this could be his only chance – to find out about her knowledge or assuage his thoughts on what Aramis and Porthos claimed he was unsure – but Aramis had the worst damned timing.

"Trouble," the Spaniard huffed, jerking a thumb to the orange glow of the house behind him. Athos would have rolled his eyes had it not been for Aramis' rather explosive tossing out of a Red Guard.

"The Cardinal's men," Athos breathed. "I knew nothing of this," he added as he rushed inside to find Guards shoving his friend, tossing the books about, and screaming women.

Questioning the Guards' authority was quashed the moment one idiot laid hand on him. He and Aramis avoided drawing their swords though, the hard tomes surrounding them all effective weapons against hardheaded Guards. The fight was a blur – as many were becoming for him recently – until one came out with a group of girls he didn't recognize.

Actually, he recognized one. Constance had given a vivid description of Fleur earlier.

"Found them! Sleeping in a hidden chamber!" Silence for a moment, the girls looking to Ninon for understanding of what was happening. "Comtesse de Larroque, you're under arrest for the abduction of these girls."

"You told me she wasn't here," he ground out.

"She begged me not to tell you," Ninon said as the Guards caught her up. "Please, make them stop this!"

"I can't!" he yelled back as they were lead away.

Reviews are welcome. I love reading your opinions.