Summary: Attempting to arrest a smuggler turns disastrous and threatens to shatter the Inseparables.

A/N: Thank you Jmp and Uia for your reviews! Uia, I'm open to prompts/requests, but no promises I'll write them. I keep a list of them all in case inspiration ever does strike. Your previous suggestions are on it.

"Ashes to Ashes"

D'Artagnan jogged across the street to where Athos and the others were concealed behind a wagon. "Someone saw Bertrand going into the mill this morning," he reported. "Can't say whether he's still there or not."

"And here his brother said 'e hadn't seen 'im," Porthos huffed.

"Perhaps he's in on the smuggling ring," Athos commented. "Aramis, you and d'Artagnan go in and see if Bertrand is still there. If not, take his brother into custody for more questioning. Porthos and I will cover the front and back."

With a nod, Aramis stepped into the street, d'Artagnan following. They crossed the wide stretch to the flour mill situated on the edge of the city and entered as Athos took up position outside and Porthos skirted around to the back of the building.

The inside of the mill was musty with dust thick on the air. A grist mill ground grains into bits and Bertrand's brother, Leroux, stood around the basin sifting the flour through a sieve. The man looked up at their entrance and scowled.

"I am quite busy, messieurs, and as I have already told you, I don't know where my brother is."

Aramis arched a brow at d'Artagnan in feigned surprise. "Really? He was seen coming here just this morning. He's reportedly a regular visitor. Or perhaps you are so intent upon your work that you completely miss him?"

"I could see how you could get caught up," d'Artagnan casually agreed. He roved his gaze around the mill but couldn't spot Bertrand hiding among the sacks of grain or equipment. Perhaps he'd already gone out the back. Hopefully Porthos had caught him.

Leroux stepped away from the grist mill, expression as hard as the grinding stones. "Whoever saw him was mistaken."

Aramis pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "That is possible. It's also possible that you don't want to tell us where he is because you are involved in his smuggling activities."

Leroux snorted. "Look around. You won't find anything."

D'Artagnan exchanged a look with Aramis. The miller did seem rather calm and confident. Aramis cocked his head for d'Artagnan to check the building. It wasn't that large and didn't take him long to make a circuit. He met Aramis's gaze as he returned and gave a subtle head shake.

Aramis's mouth turned down. "Well, monsieur, it seems we'll have to continue this questioning elsewhere."

"I haven't done anything."

"Your brother, unfortunately, has. If you truly have nothing to do with it, tell us where to find him."

Leroux clamped his mouth shut. Aramis moved forward to reach for his arm and take him into custody when a figure seemed to step out of nowhere. Bertrand leveled a pistol at the musketeers before either could draw a weapon in response.

"Don't move."

Aramis flicked a look at d'Artagnan, who could only gape in stupefaction. He'd checked the building! The man hadn't been inside. And neither door at the front or rear had opened, so where on earth had he come from?

"There are more musketeers outside," Aramis said. "There's no escape, Bertrand."

The smuggler smirked. "There's a reason I haven't been caught yet. Hands up."

Aramis slowly raised his arms, and Leroux stepped in to relieve one of his pistols from his weapons belt. The marksman's fingers twitched as though fighting the urge to snatch it back.

Bertrand waved his own pistol. "Back up."

A muscle in Aramis's jaw ticked, but he carefully stepped back toward d'Artagnan. Then Bertrand got a strange look in his eye, the corner of his mouth curving upward in smug satisfaction. D'Artagnan had no time to react as the man pulled the trigger. Aramis moved though, tackling d'Artagnan to the ground just as the pistol shot cracked the air and a fireball abruptly exploded above their heads. The sudden belch of fire and searing heat washed over d'Artagnan as he landed hard on his side. He lay there dazedly for a moment, unable to comprehend the flames swarming up to the ceiling and encasing the wooden beams.

Hands grasped at his shoulders and hauled him upright, trying to get him on his feet. The heat was suffocating, smoke swiftly cloying the air as the flames spread with ferocious hunger. D'Artagnan coughed and bowed forward under the oppressive force.

Aramis shoved him forward, both of them stumbling through the haze in search of the exit, but suddenly there was no distinguishing front from back in the curtain of fire. They nearly tripped over the body of Bertrand, his face and hand badly burned. A few feet away lay his brother, who also looked dead. D'Artagnan had the fleeting thought that they should check, but Aramis was already dragging him away, trying to find the door. But the flames were everywhere, devouring everything in their path. Pieces of the roof wreathed in fire fell around them and the building creaked and groaned in the throes of buckling.

Something snapped above their heads and a beam came crashing down, hitting Aramis across the back and throwing him to the ground. D'Artagnan pitched to his knees from the impact and doubled over as hacking coughs punched up through his throat. He twisted, heart lurching in horror at the sight of tongues of fire slithering from the debris onto the marksman. D'Artagnan surged forward, slapping his gloved hands at the flames to put them out. He shoved the beam off Aramis and tugged at the man's collar.

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan coughed raggedly, ash sticking to the roof of his mouth and clogging his nostrils.

Aramis tried to roll over, hissing sharply at the movement and triggering a coughing fit of his own. All around them flames raged with the roar of a rushing wind. Sweat poured down d'Artagnan's face, running into his eyes with soot and blurring his vision with stinging grime. He couldn't see the exit.

Aramis's arm flapped wildly around his shoulders, trying to propel him forward as d'Artagnan desperately grabbed at his waist in return. They only made it a few steps before more falling debris cut off their path. He couldn't breathe.

D'Artagnan crashed to his knees, hacking up a lung. They were going to die here. Oh God, they were going to burn…

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted, yanking hard on his arm.

He didn't think he could get up again, but then his gaze landed on something in the floor. A piece of canvas was curling in on itself as it burned, revealing a metal ring. It seemed an odd place for something like that.

And then, as quickly as the fire had started, realization struck d'Artagnan. Bertrand had to have had a way to transport what he was smuggling. And d'Artagnan had searched the mill and he hadn't been there.

He grabbed Aramis's sleeve. "There!"

His shout was partially swallowed in the raging crackle of flames but Aramis seemed to understand his meaning. They crawled toward the ring in the floor and d'Artagnan noticed grooves that could have outlined the shape of a trap door. He grabbed the ring and yanked the floor panel up. A ladder descended into flickering darkness.

Aramis gave him a shove and he nearly fell into the hole, but d'Artagnan managed to catch himself and grab the ladder instead. His boots slipped on the rungs as he hastened his descent. Aramis almost kicked him in the face trying to follow.

The bottom wasn't that far and d'Artagnan soon hit solid earth, stumbling away to make room for Aramis. The marksman was still close to the top so he could slam the trap door shut. D'Artagnan expected to be plunged into darkness, but there was a torch in a sconce on the tunnel wall, providing some illumination.

Aramis slipped climbing down and fell onto d'Artagnan, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of unwieldy limbs and swords and wretched coughs. It took them both several moments to catch their breaths. The air in the tunnel was instantly cooler and it felt like inhaling icy air compared to the inferno above. D'Artagnan lay on the ground, not bothering to even try to get up and instead focusing every ounce of effort on sucking in painful oxygen.

o.0.o

The explosion that had rocked the mill had nearly knocked Athos off his feet. He'd stared in stupefaction for a moment before running for the doors, but the moment he flung them open, a huge cascade of fire had flashed out at him. Athos had barely thrown himself aside in time, the wave of scorching heat enough to sizzle the back of his neck without the flames actually touching him. He'd scrabbled away from the blaze, looking on in horror with the knowledge that Aramis and d'Artagnan were inside.

The flames had overtaken the front of the mill, so Athos bolted into a run to reach the back where he found Porthos shouting for the others. The rear door was also engulfed but open as though Porthos, too, had tried to go to their brothers' aid. Athos got as close as he dared to try to see inside, but no shapes came barreling out of the smoke into open air. Porthos made a move to charge in, but Athos threw himself bodily against the large man's chest.

"Get water!" he barked. They needed to put out the flames, prevent them from spreading. Fortunately the mill wasn't immediately adjacent to any other buildings, but all it took was an up-stirring of wind to carry embers across the street.

People were already running toward the crisis, carrying buckets of water. Athos yelled out orders, all the while keeping an eye on the burning frame that was slowly collapsing. Come on, come on, he silently urged.

He grabbed a piece of canvas someone had brought over and slapped furiously at the flames, attempting to beat them back. A line was set up and water brought in a steady stream, but it wasn't enough. The fire was an untamed beast raging wildly out of control. Athos's eyes watered from the blooming smoke and something else that threatened to undo him as the building gradually began to collapse in on itself. And there was still no sign of Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Time had lost meaning, but the pain in his arm muscles and back suggested he'd been hauling buckets for an extended period. The flames had finally died down, but only because there had been nothing left to consume. Ghostly plumes rose in lazy tendrils from still simmering embers. Athos could only stare at the devastation. His hands were numb and his body felt cold despite being soaked in sweat.

Inside, though, he was screaming.

Porthos picked his way through the debris, shoving aside burnt beams and yelling for Aramis and d'Artagnan. Athos blinked slowly. It was impossible they'd survived. Still, something drove him to finally move, following in Porthos's wake.

The charred remains they found on the ground were blackened beyond recognition. Athos told himself Bertrand and his brother Leroux were inside as well. It might not be…

But then Porthos bent down in the detritus and pushed some chunks aside. He picked up an ornate pistol, dirtied with a layer of ash but recognizable nonetheless. Athos's lungs forgot how to breathe.

Porthos let out a primal howl, like a wounded animal, and sank to his knees in the rubble.

A moment later Athos dropped down beside him, the strings to his limbs cut as surely as the ones to his heart had been.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan came awake with a harsh gasp that ignited a wretched fit of coughing. He rolled onto his side, clutching his chest as he hacked up a glob of something foul. He spat it out into a shadowed corner of the tunnel, which was probably just as well as he didn't really want to see what had just come up.

He rolled back over and bumped against Aramis lying next to him. When the marksman didn't make a sound, d'Artagnan quickly yanked one of his gloves off and pressed two fingers to the pulse point under the man's jaw. He was alive, just unconscious. D'Artagnan wondered how long he'd been out himself. As he listened, he realized the tunnel was utterly quiet, no echo of the roaring blaze overhead.

Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered to the ladder and climbed up toward the trap door. He laid his bare palm against it tentatively. There was no heat. The fire must be out. How long had they been down here?

D'Artagnan pushed against the door to flip it open but met with resistance. He ran his fingers over the ridges in search of a latch or something, and when he didn't find one, he pushed his shoulder into the wood. It refused to give. Maybe it was buried under rubble.

Huffing in consternation, he climbed back down and knelt next to Aramis. They needed to get out of there, and the smuggling tunnel had to lead somewhere.

D'Artagnan gripped the marksman's shoulder and gave it a light shake. "Aramis."

Aramis's brow pinched and he let out a muffled groan.

"Come on," d'Artagnan urged, worried now that he may have missed an injury in their mad dash to escape the fire. "Aramis."

"Mmph." Aramis's eyelids cracked open. He squinted at their surroundings and turned his head, only to wince and reach a hand up to the back of his neck.

"What?"

Aramis rolled onto his hip, hissing when his fingers brushed raw and inflamed burns just under his collar. "That smarts," he said hoarsely, obviously attempting levity but the strain in his voice lent anything but humor to the situation.

"Let me see," d'Artagnan said, leaning over to get a look. He winced in sympathy. "Minor burns," he assured. He frowned though as he realized they had nothing to soothe them with at the moment. Not even cool water, which d'Artagnan would have given a month's worth of pay to have for his own ash coated throat right now.

"We need to get out of here," he said. "But the trap door won't budge. This tunnel has to come out somewhere though."

Aramis nodded and started to push himself up. D'Artagnan grabbed his arm to assist getting him on his feet. Then he grabbed the torch off the wall sconce and took a closer look around. One side of the tunnel was solid rock, which at least made it easier to know which direction to go.

Their pace was slow, beleaguered by a persistent cough that dogged them both. D'Artagnan coughed into his sleeve once, but his coat was also covered in soot and he just ended up inhaling more of the filthy grime. God, he needed water. They both did.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before there was finally light up ahead. D'Artagnan doused the torch and they emerged into the woods outside the city. That definitely explained why it had been so hard nailing down the smuggling activities. The sun, while a welcome sight, was now an unwelcome companion as they trudged their way back to the city, its overheating rays beating down on their already taxed bodies. They just had to make it back to Athos and Porthos though. Then they could rest.

o.0.o

Athos stood next to Treville as the captain took in the scene, composed in the face of grief over losing two of his men. Athos was composed as well, but only because he had gone completely numb and could barely move, let alone speak. Porthos had been the one to voice the tragedy out loud when Treville and a troop of musketeers had arrived for damage control. The words had only made it more real, piercing Athos's heart like a dagger.

Aramis was a part of his soul, the fire to his ice, with Porthos tempering their two extremes. For years it had been the three of them, fighting side by side, holding each other together when the pain of their respective pasts tried to shatter them. Athos felt shattered now, like a part of him had died with his brother.

And d'Artagnan…only recently commissioned and too young to die. He had so much left to accomplish, as a musketeer, as a man.

Athos honestly didn't know how he could go on without them.

"How could this have 'appened?" Porthos raged. He was equally devastated in the face of such loss, a bristling bulk of seething grief that oozed out in waves in wrath. "We had the exits covered! No way Bertrand and Leroux could 'ave set off a bomb and escaped."

Because only two bodies had been found.

Treville looked thoughtful and turned to Athos. "You said you heard a pistol shot?"

He nodded mutely.

The captain sighed. "I don't think it was a bomb. I've heard of this happening before—flour mills spontaneously catching fire. No one knows what ignites the incident, though a spark from a pistol sounds like it could be responsible."

"What?" Porthos blustered. "Yer sayin' it was just a- a crazy happenstance?"

Treville shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think we'll ever know."

"What about the other bodies?" Porthos pressed, pacing like a caged animal.

Treville's expression was sympathetic. "We might find only pieces, Porthos."

The large musketeer pressed his lips together and spun away.

Athos had nothing to say. A random accident only made the tragedy that more meaningless.

A commotion stirred among the musketeers sifting through the rubble. Athos paid it no mind but both Treville and Porthos looked over, their brows furrowing in confusion before shooting up in disbelief. Athos turned his head. The other men were looking away from the debris, out past it to the field where two figures were approaching. Athos would recognize that doublet anywhere but…it was impossible. His grief was playing tricks on his mind, just like after he'd thought Anne had died.

But then the other musketeers started forward and Porthos bolted into a run, overtaking them in a mad dash to get to the grime covered figures first. Athos found his legs moving of their own accord, quickening his pace to reach them. He saw joyful smiles break upon the dirty faces as Porthos arrived and scooped Aramis up into a massive bear hug. The marksman chuckled and patted him on the back, but then started coughing roughly. D'Artagnan reached over to pull him out of Porthos's constricting embrace.

Athos reached them just as Aramis recovered and d'Artagnan was rewarded with his own fierce embrace from their large friend. Athos walked up to Aramis, a wetness in his eyes he had neither the control nor care to restrain.

Aramis's expression softened upon seeing him. "Were you worried?" he quipped.

Athos didn't deign to respond to that and simply cupped the back of his head and pulled him in to kiss the top of his brow. Aramis patted his chest fondly, slanting a look of concern his way, which was laughable given his own state: hair limp and greasy, face covered in soot and clothes not much better. But he was alive.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who was giving him a tired but joyful smile. Athos stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. The lad froze for a second as though unsure what to do with that. Athos held the embrace until arms reached up to return it.

Porthos laughed and clasped the back of Aramis's neck, but the marksman winced and pulled away. Porthos instantly straightened in alarm.

"I'm all right," Aramis was quick to assure him. "Some minor burns, nothing serious."

Athos turned to d'Artagnan. "Are you injured?"

He shook his head. "No. Just in need of a bath." D'Artagnan flashed a rueful smile.

Athos suddenly became aware of other musketeers around them. One handed Aramis a water skin, another passed one to d'Artagnan, everyone sharing elated smiles at their miraculous return from the dead.

"How? We found two bodies," Athos said, voice level though his throat tightened with emotion still too fresh. "One had your pistol."

Aramis grimaced with understanding and nearly choked on the water he was gulping down. "Bertrand surprised us. There was a tunnel beneath the mill, led out to the woods. Leroux took my pistol, and then when Bertrand tried to shoot us, everything exploded. We escaped through the tunnel."

Porthos shook his head in amazement. "By the luck you live by."

Aramis grinned and tipped some of the water down the back of his neck, hissing sharply. Porthos moved around behind him and picked at the back of his collar to get a look. Aramis shrugged him off.

"When we get back to the garrison," he said.

"Which I think you should do now," Treville finally interrupted. "I'll send someone to call a physician and meet you there."

Athos studied their exhausted postures and how they kept taking desperate swigs of water. "Should we procure a cart?"

Aramis pulled a face at the suggestion, but his response was tired. "No. It will help clear our lungs to make the walk."

"We walked all this way," d'Artagnan protested with a groan.

"We took in a lot of smoke," Aramis pointed out. "You'll be grateful later."

D'Artagnan huffed and rubbed at his face, smearing the grease on his cheeks. "Fine."

Athos took two more water skins that were handed to him and they set off, him and Porthos flanking their wounded brothers between them. And with each step away from the burnt out ruins that had almost claimed them, Athos felt a stitch in his chest loosen bit by bit as the world slowly righted itself once more. His brothers were alive and safe, and he would see them home.

A/N: When I learned how combustible flour dust is, of course my first thought was "how can I use this for whump?" Lol. Historically, however, the first recorded dust explosion in a flour mill wasn't until 1785.