When a scrap unexpectedly turns into a snack..

An expansion of another scene in the first episode of the series. This also ties in with Snack number 3, The Two Gascons, like a backstory. Needless to say, any recognizable lines are taken directly from the episode.

VIII. Reasonable Doubt

"I am sorry about your friends - Captain Cornet and the others," d'Artagnan added as Aramis's eyebrows rose. The marksman's face fell as he nodded.

"They were good men. They deserved better than what they got."

d'Artagnan was curious whether Aramis was particularly close to any of those men. When they had come upon their morbid discovery among the snow-covered forest, he'd felt disgusted at the sight of the murdered Musketeers, stripped of their clothes and left to be scavenged by ravens. He'd walked a few steps away, turning his back to the scene to give his two companions a moment of privacy among their fallen comrades. He'd glimpsed how heavily Porthos's hand had landed on the crouched Aramis's shoulder, and a shudder pass through Aramis's hunched frame. His back turned, in the frozen silence of the woods, he'd heard Porthos grumble, "Come up, 'Mis. No use lingerin' 'ere."

A moment later, the snow had crunched and Aramis had risen to his feet. Kicking a bit of snow with the tip of his boot, d'Artagnan had turned on his heel, just catching sight of the Musketeer pressing two fingers on his eyes. In only a few moments he had lowered his hand; looked up through the sky, blinked rapidly and released a breath, forming a cloud in the frigid air; he'd looked right and left, brow creased, as if searching for something among the trees. D'Artagnan's hand had strayed to his sword, feeling on edge as always.

But Porthos just placed a hand on Aramis's bicep, dark eyes concerned, and Aramis's slightly confused eyes turned to meet his; the bigger man didn't say a word, but d'Artagnan observed something unspoken pass between them. Whatever it was, Aramis took a deep breath, broke eye contact and visibly shook himself; Porthos released his arm, then, Aramis's gaze strayed aimlessly among the trees until they landed on d'Artagnan.

"d'Artagnan," he beckoned to him, "Come and take a look. Have you seen any of these men before?"

Frowning, the Gascon approached and took in the dead men's faces. None were familiar. He relayed as much.

The two Musketeers sighed. Aramis took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, his expression greatly troubled; Porthos, scowling, pursed his lips and set to the grim task of arranging the bodies side by side. d'Artagnan watched, eyes narrowing, as Aramis once again crouched, and blessed the dead men, one by one.

If Aramis was sorrowful, anger was rolling off of Porthos in waves.

"They shot them like animals an' stripped 'em of their uniforms!"*

"D'Artagnan. The men who did this, killed your father as well. If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos's name."*

D'Artagnan huffed, acknowledging the man but keeping his silence. He didn't know what to think. Aramis was insistent, eyes flashing at d'Artagnan's lack of response.

"Do you still believe that Athos was the one who murdered your father? Do you not see that something else is at play here - our comrades were murdered, their uniforms stolen - someone is trying to blacken the Musketeers' name."

D'Artagnan would die before admitting it, but the steady glare Porthos fixed on him from behind Aramis was quite intimidating. He averted his eyes.

"I don't know," he still replied stubbornly. He had heard that the King's Musketeers were men of honour, the most elite of the King's regiments, high above common soldiery. Yet what did he know of these men? What did he know of this Athos, or Porthos or Aramis for that matter? They were genuine in their distress about the murdered men, d'Artagnan did not doubt that. And he was certain that if they had any hidden agendas - if they were indeed murderers and highway robbers! - well, they had had plenty of opportunities to dispose of him since they had left Paris! No. These men were genuine.

And still. And still.

Until he had definitive proof that this Athos was not his father's murderer, d'Artagnan wouldn't know what to believe. Even if, deep in his heart, he had already believed Athos's own word when the man had nearly pinned him to a post in the garrison courtyard.

And yet, right now, it was still his father's - last - word versus that of the three Musketeers he'd met this morning. Only one thing was certain. D'Artagnan was going to see this business through – he simply had to know.

"That trial was a mockery of justice," Aramis spat, repeating Captain Tréville's words from the day before as he stalked towards his horse, "Athos was given no chance at defending himself. He wasn't even properly questioned, or allowed to call his own witnesses-"

"Yeah - if they 'ad bothered, they'd find a dozen Musketeers ready to testify Athos was at the garrison that day," Porthos agreed. "'e wasn' anywhere near that inn two days ago." He looked at d'Artagnan. "You said you an' your father were attacked a couple hours before sunset, right?"

"Yes?"

"Athos 'ad returned from a mission just before noon that day. We 'ad a meal together, then he went to 'is rooms to get some rest, passin' by a courtyard full of Musketeers as 'e did. 'e was in Paris at the time your father was killed."

d'Artagnan blinked, once, twice, then frowned deeply as his hands perched on his hips. "Then why didn't you speak up? Why didn't the Captain speak up to give his own testimony?"

"The captain wasn't at the garrison-" Aramis began, but Porthos cut him off.

"Are you not listenin'? No witnesses were call'd forth on his behalf! Athos's conviction was a foregone conclusion."

"But why?" d'Artagnan insisted, his own irritation rising, "You're convinced there's a conspiracy against your friend - help me understand this: if you were in the room and could testify to save Athos, then why didn't you?"

Perplexed, Porthos and Aramis exchanged another long glance. d'Artagnan tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for another silent conversation to reach its conclusion.

"You do not speak of your volition while at their Majesties' presence, d'Artagnan," Aramis explained at last, his tone careful, "Only if you are called to."

Slightly discomforted, "I know that," d'Artagnan objected - even though he hadn't - "but surely etiquette shouldn't be a concern when there's a life at stake."

But Aramis's gaze was firm as he reiterated, slowly, "That is not how things work at court."

"Besides," Porthos grumbled, "the Cardinal kept speakin'. He wasn' givin' anyone a chance; even the Cap'n could only get a couple words in. I never saw judgement passed so quickly -" Aramis's sharp glance turned to him this time, cutting him off from speaking ill of the king's 'infallible' judgement.

But they were only confusing d'Artagnan further.

Court etiquette prevented these men from testifying for their friend. Not only did d'Artagnan have difficulty understanding that, but it also made him feel very much out of his depth. He had only come to Paris twice in his life. While his father had raised him as a gentleman, the proper ways to conduct oneself at the king's court had escaped his tutors' attention.

But much more disconcerting was the vision of justice these two men were drawing for him.

Because if Athos was indeed innocent - and d'Artagnan was believing more and more strongly that he was - then the man's treatment by the king and the Cardinal was making him quite uneasy about the way royal justice seemed to be dispensed.

His thoughts were diverted when Porthos picked up something from the ground and turned to them with a scowl.

"Was Cornet carrying Spanish gold?"*