A/N: Thank you pallysd'Artagnan, LadyWallace, SnidgetHex, and BrokenKestral for your reviews of the last episode!

Some dialogue from episode 2x8 in this fic.

Chapter 1

Porthos stared sullenly ahead at nothing as he meandered a leisurely pace on horseback down the country lane toward his destination. Normally he would have taken Vrita to cut down on travel time, but for this occasion he needed the prolonged journey to think about what he was walking into.

"It's been two hours," Aramis spoke up from beside him and a horse's head length back. "You haven't said a word."

Porthos had idly wondered how long it would take for his friend to say something. The only reason Aramis was here was because the captain had told him to go with Porthos. No explanation, just a look. Aramis hadn't questioned it, even when Porthos had gone to saddle a horse instead of his dragon. He'd been waiting for Porthos to be forthcoming—Porthos was honestly surprised how long he'd lasted—but evidently his patience had finally worn out.

"Whatever the captain told you must have been significant," he went on.

"He told me who my father was," Porthos said brusquely. "Is that significant enough fer you?"

Aramis fell silent at that. Porthos hadn't meant for his response to be so cutting; he was angry with Treville, not Aramis. Treville had known all this time who Porthos's father was and had never told him. General de Foix had known too, Porthos was sure of it. That was why the man had seemed taken aback at their first meeting.

The general was dead now, and Treville had come to Porthos immediately afterward to drop this earth-shattering news on him. There had been no explanation, no answers to his questions. Treville had merely cautioned him to think about what he did next. As if there was any other choice than to track down the man who sired him and who was apparently alive and well.

A large wrought iron gate appeared at the end of the lane ahead, enclosing the estate Treville had said belonged to Porthos's father. It looked locked with chains, which was going to prove problematic for reaching the house. Perhaps they should have ridden their dragons after all, though Porthos wasn't sure that was the type of entrance he wanted to make.

There was a commotion on the other side of the gate and Porthos caught sight of two girls running through the trees. A man on horseback was following, shouting and cracking a whip at them. They reached the gate just as the musketeers did, throwing themselves at the bars as their pursuer bore down on them.

"Get away from the gate!" the man shouted, accent thick. "Yah! What are you doin'!" He snapped the whip at them again.

"Hey!" Porthos barked, pulling his horse to a stop outside the gate. "What's goin' on here?"

"What business is it of yours?" the man retorted sharply.

"What have these girls done?" Aramis demanded.

"They're my wife's maids. They stole from her. Move! Now!" He cracked the whip at them again and one of the girls cried out as she turned and fled back toward the house. The other girl remained where she was, clinging to the bars of the gate in abject terror.

"Is this true?" Aramis asked her.

Her lip trembled and she looked fearfully back at the horseman, then gave a jerky nod.

"Now, tell me what you want here," the man snapped.

Porthos tore his attention away from the maid, remembering what he'd come for. "We've come to see the Marquis de Belgard."

"Then you've wasted your time. He doesn't receive visitors." He whipped the girl again. "Come on!"

She prized herself away from the gate and darted after her friend. Porthos's jaw clenched at the harsh treatment, but he wasn't going to get into an argument and be deterred from his primary goal.

"He'll receive me," he declared.

The man stared at him for a moment, then sneered and dismounted from his horse to come unlock the gate. "Head straight up the path," he said with a notable tone of disdain. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He then climbed back onto his horse and rode after the maids.

"Nice fellow," Aramis remarked dryly.

Porthos didn't comment. He nudged his horse forward and followed the lane up to a large house that had faded and cracked siding and was half covered in overgrown ivy plants. They left their horses out front and went to knock on the door. No one answered, and after several long moments they simply tried the handle and found it unlocked. Aramis arched a brow and Porthos just shrugged before letting himself in.

The inside was in as terrible disrepair as the outside. Everything was dusty and cluttered. Cobwebs were thick in some corners, and half the curtains were drawn closed, leaving the place dim and gray. Porthos couldn't believe anyone actually lived here.

He lingered in the foyer, not sure what to do now. It wouldn't be polite to just go roaming through the house. But fortunately a few minutes later a servant came scurrying in.

"We're here to see the Marquis," Porthos said.

The woman bobbed her head and didn't say a word before hurrying off, presumably to announce them.

Aramis roved an appraising eye around but didn't comment on what he thought of the place.

"What the hell do you want?" a rough voice sounded from the shadows of a hallway.

Porthos straightened. "I'm looking for the Marquis de Belgard."

Footsteps scuffed along the floor as a figure emerged. "You've found him. Who are you?"

Porthos faltered at the sight of the man that appeared before him, dressed in bed robes, shoulders hunched, hair wildly falling across his shoulders. He hadn't known what to expect when he came here, but this person was…not that impressive, was Porthos's first reaction.

He swallowed and forced out the words he came here to say. "My name is Porthos. I'm your son."

"Who told you this nonsense?" was Belgard's immediate response.

"Captain Treville of the Musketeers."

Belgard piqued at that. "Treville? It was his treachery that ruined my life."

Yet another reaction Porthos hadn't been expecting. Damn the captain for not telling him more!

"That's our captain you're slandering," Aramis rejoined with a thread of warning. In the past, Porthos would have been just as quick to defend Treville, but he no longer knew what to think or feel.

"That's my friend Aramis," he said instead. "Also of the Musketeers."

"If you knew what I do, you would not take your captain at his own valuation," Belgard responded disparagingly. "What else did he tell you about me?"

"Not much," Porthos replied.

Belgard looked thoughtful for a moment. "You'd better come in. Your friend can wait here," he added tersely.

Porthos exchanged a look with Aramis before following this man—his father—down a dark corridor to a study.

"Forgive the mess," Belgard said. "Since I withdrew from the world of affairs, I spend most of my time alone, here. I'm something of a recluse."

Yeah, Porthos could see that. He looked around the dreary room, illuminated faintly by one narrow window not shuttered.

"You must know the story of the infamous Marquis de Belgard?" Belgard continued. "I was captain of the royal bodyguard, the day the present King's father was assassinated. But Henri died at the hands of a lunatic and a scapegoat was required. I was court-martialed. Treville and de Foix both gave false evidence—"

"With all due respect," Porthos interrupted. "That's not why I'm here." In fact he didn't know the story; of course the tragedy of the previous King's assassination was known, but not these details Belgard was abruptly painting.

"You want to know if I'm your father?" Belgard surmised. "I believe I am. You have the look of your mother about you—Marie-Cessette, the love of my life."

Porthos's jaw tightened. "The 'love of your life' died abandoned an' in despair, in the slum they call 'The Court of Miracles,'" he spat.

"If I had only known, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you."

Porthos didn't know what to say to that. It was a sentiment he'd yearned to hear, yearned to be true, but it didn't change the past, didn't change the fact that he and his mother had been abandoned, that she'd died and Porthos had been left on his own, an orphan to grow up on the streets in abject poverty while his father lived the life of a Marquis. If Belgard had known, he would have come after them? Why, then, hadn't he known?

Belgard gestured to him. "Come, we have much to discuss. I'll summon the servants to prepare the midday meal."

Porthos nodded stiffly. There was much to discuss, he just wasn't sure where to even start. This was all a bit overwhelming for him and he was trying not to show it.

They left the study and headed back down the hallway to where they'd left Aramis. Porthos heard a woman's voice coming from the foyer.

"I'll have the servants bring you refreshments before you leave," she was saying curtly.

Aramis shifted awkwardly. "We're, um…"

"We're stayin' for dinner," Porthos interjected, drawing both their gazes.

"Ah, Eleanor," Belgard said. "There you are. Meet your half-brother, Porthos."

The look the woman gave them was one of scandalized shock. Porthos couldn't really blame her, and that introduction had been rather abrupt. The tension in the room was palpable, crackling like the tingling before a thunderstorm. Eleanor's cheek ticked as she composed herself, and she turned sharply on her heel and swept out of the room.

Aramis flicked a discomfited look at Porthos, who gave a subtle shrug in return.

Belgard led them to the dining room, which was in no better shape than the rest of the house. It was deep within the chateau, so there were no windows and the only light was from a fireplace and some candles. It made for a rather dark gathering place.

Two servants bustled in to set the table. They didn't make eye contact with anyone and skittered away as soon as the meal was laid out.

Shortly after that, the doors slammed open and Eleanor came in, followed by the man they'd met at the gate.

"This is Eleanor's husband, Levesque," Belgard introduced with stark indifference.

The Irishman curled his lip up at the musketeers again before striding toward the table. Porthos waited to see where everyone else was going to sit before he took the chair to Belgard's left. Aramis sat next to him, across from Levesque. Eleanor sat at her father's right hand.

Belgard picked up a goblet of wine and raised it. "To my son, Porthos, who was lost and is found."

An uncomfortable feeling niggled at Porthos's gut, despite the fact that this was more or less the reception he'd only dreamed of having. He wasn't naive enough to believe a son of mixed descent, and likely a bastard too, would be embraced by the nobility side of the family.

"Raise your glass, Eleanor," Belgard said with a note of warning.

She didn't move.

"I understand," Porthos spoke up, hoping to diffuse the tension. "It's a lot to take in."

Levesque surged to his feet, bumping the table. "My wife is not related to you!"

"Forgive him, Porthos," Belgard said. "He comes from trade and lacks any breeding." He skewered Levesque with a scathing glare. "I loved this man's mother and will not have him abused. Now, sit down and behave yourself."

"You say you loved his mother," Aramis put in candidly. "What happened?"

Porthos's stomach clenched again, but he was grateful his friend was there because it was the question he wanted answered but hadn't been able to bring himself to ask yet.

"She came to this house as a servant," Belgard replied, directing his explanation to Porthos. "We fell in love and married in secret. After you were born, my father discovered the truth and ordered me to cast you both aside. I refused. A few days later…you and your mother disappeared. Treville and de Foix were in league with my father. They told me you were dead.''

Porthos frowned at that twist in the tale.

"I never stopped thinking of you," Belgard went on earnestly. "But in the end, and for the sake of my family name…I married this girl's mother." He cast a dismissive nod Eleanor's direction.

"I won't listen to this," she hissed and got up from the table.

"Eleanor has her looks, but also her character—shrewish and spiteful."

Levesque slammed a fist on the table. "Apologize, damn you!"

"Look, whoa, whoa," Porthos interjected. "Jus' sit down, eh? I didn't come here to cause a fight."

"We know why you came here!" Levesque took out a coin purse and threw it at Porthos. "There! Take your hand-out and go!"

Porthos's jaw ticked and he had to fight to maintain his composure. "I'm givin' you a chance," he said calmly. "Sit down now an' we'll let this pass."

Levesque spat in his face.

"Hey!" Aramis was on his feet quicker than a musket shot, enraged. Only the table between them prevented both of them from making a more direct move. Aramis pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to Porthos, who stolidly wiped the spit off his face.

"You brought this on yourself," he said lowly, getting up and moving away from the table.

Levesque rounded the table, grinning wolfishly. He threw the first punch, which Porthos easily blocked with his left and delivered a right hook in turn. Levesque's head snapped to the side briefly, his nostrils flaring with rage. He struck again, and again Porthos deflected the blow, following through with a sucker punch to the stomach. Levesque cried out and dropped to his knees.

"You savage!" Eleanor shrieked, rushing toward her husband.

Aramis stepped into Porthos's space, angling himself just slightly between him and the defeated man on the floor. "Porthos, that's enough," he said quietly. "Unless you want to kill him."

Porthos kind of did want to do that, but it hardly made for a good family reunion, so he released a breath and backed off.

Belgard was still sitting at the table, leaning on the armrest and watching with an almost feral eagerness glinting in his eyes. "A champion, at last," he said. "A son to defend my honor."

The remark was perhaps odd, but Porthos couldn't help but straighten with pleasure at hearing his father was proud of him.

.o.0.o.

Aramis stepped out of the house, needing some air after that tense dinner. Something about this whole family was off-putting. But they were Porthos's family and he deserved the chance to get to know them. For whatever they were worth. Aramis hadn't liked the tale Belgard told of Treville and de Foix being part of a sordid plot to get rid of Porthos and his mother. He couldn't imagine the captain doing something like that.

He wanted to confer with Porthos in private, see what he thought of it all, but there wasn't opportunity yet and Porthos was still working through this mountain of revelations himself. After dinner he'd once again sequestered himself with Belgard, and Aramis hadn't been invited. It was a personal matter; Aramis understood. But the open hostility continually displayed by Eleanor and Levesque left him sorely missing some friendly company on his end.

Hooves clopped across the stone as a cart clattered under the covered archway attached to the side of the house. The man driving it slowed to a stop as Aramis stepped out. "Whoa. Steady."

Aramis roved his gaze over the single sheet covering a lump in the back. Something prickled at the hairs on the back of his neck, and he moved forward to throw the tarp back. He gaped in dismay at the body of one of the girls he'd seen at the gate, alabaster skin pale like porcelain, save for the stark bruising around her neck.

"A terrible accident."

He jerked his head up as Eleanor appeared.

"Poor Martine," she tutted, looking in the cart. "She took a fatal kick from a horse. It's all very sad."

"A kick?" Aramis repeated dubiously. "Look at her throat."

"The foolish girl slipped from a horse and became entangled in the reins," Eleanor smoothly said. "She was dragged under the animal's hooves."

Aramis glanced back at the girl's body. He knew what the marks of long, thin objects looked like—and those of fingers. Not to mention there wasn't another mark on her, not even dirt from purportedly being dragged underneath a horse.

"Where are you taking her?" he asked.

"To her parents for burial. It's the least we can do." Eleanor gave him a simpering moue and snapped her fingers. The servant driving the cart flicked the reins and moved the horse along.

Aramis gritted his teeth and forced himself to cant his head politely. He didn't believe Eleanor's story of how the girl died—she was most certainly murdered. Which begged the question: what of the other one? When Aramis had first met Eleanor and she'd said she wouldn't be sending the maids to the magistrate for stealing, he'd remarked on how enlightened such a stance was. Now he saw a second chance hadn't been her intent at all.

He meandered around the grounds, pretending to be out for an idle stroll while surreptitiously looking for signs of the other maid. The house was very large but so much of it lay empty, and Aramis didn't imagine the other girl would have been brought upstairs. The servant quarters were likely around back near the kitchens.

As he was making his way around the side of the house though, he spotted Levesque driving another cart, with the girl sitting on the bench seat beside him. Her hands were clenched in her lap and she looked just as frightened as when Aramis had first seen her.

He quickened his pace to reach his horse, which was exactly where he'd left her. Swinging up into the saddle, he followed at a distance, keeping to the trees in order to remain concealed as he trailed Levesque out of the estate and into the surrounding woods outside. It wasn't long before a hunting lodge came into view.

Aramis slowed his horse and peered through the trees as Levesque shouted something he couldn't make out. The door of the lodge opened and five men filed outside, armed with crossbows and looking ready for a hunt. Levesque grabbed the girl and dragged her off the cart.

Aramis had a very bad feeling about what was in store for that poor girl and he immediately began to calculate how to rescue her. He slid off his horse and slunk closer, evaluating his opponents and odds. But as he drew closer, he realized his worst thoughts weren't even close to reality.

"Got a pretty prize for you today," Levesque declared, thrusting the girl forward. "A lively filly who likes to run."

The men exchanged a series of grins and sniggers at that.

Levesque flung her away from him. "Go on, get!"

Her eyes were wide and terrified as the men fingered their crossbows suggestively. She whirled and bolted off into the woods. The men didn't immediately give chase, apparently content to give her a head start.

Aramis quickly backtracked to his horse and mounted up again, urging his steed to go around and hoping he would catch up to the girl before those men did.