a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.

Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):

Note: I've come to realize that when I write "biter(s)" I unintentionally keep writing "bitter(s)". I just wanted to let you all know that I've gone back and corrected this mistake in the other chapters. Sorry if you were thinking of spirits instead LOL. Thanks for all your great reviews! Yay! :)

#2: As promised, this chapter is posted! ... Their first meeting. [fingers crossed].

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Life is Death is Dead
Chapter 4: —

Aramis was a mother-hen by nature. He'd lost too many people in his life because he was incapable of saving them or caring for them—so he made himself capable. He sought lessons of the sword, he became the best shot the regiment had seen, and he apprenticed in medicine. He didn't turn from a fight, especially if it meant saving someone's life, whether he knew them or not. All life was valued in his eyes. It was the human race that should be worried about being extinct. He couldn't understand why people turned from those who needed their help, who could have survived if they had just had that little bit of assistance.

Those people back in the cells dying. It wrenched Aramis' heart to think that he could have saved them, or at least been there to give them comfort in their last breaths. d'Artagnan was dying to, but the Spaniard was damned if he wasn't going to bring him back to life!

Aramis had several hours to work on the boy unhindered; being forced to drug him after his sudden attack on Athos, coupled with his fever, dehydration, malnourishment, and exhaustion left d'Artagnan dead to the world in all senses but the most important.

Aramis stripped the boy of the last remains of his clothing and he cleaned the boy as he examined the full extent of his injuries from head-to-toe. Seeing him exposed in the complete light was even more sickening shocking than the deep shadows playing across him in the cell.

Some of the bites were unrecognizable; naught but torn and ragged flesh. Others, the bites were so clean, Aramis could see and count clearly each tooth mark. They were weeping and crusted, but the liquid was clear and despite the conditions of the boy, Aramis could be thankful that there seemed to be no infection. The cuts on his arms had been done with purpose. And though it appeared that Lemay wrapped them in bandage at one point, he had stopped when the boy's arms became clustered with bites.

Aramis took a poultice that he kept in his kit, and spread it on the worst of the bites. And especially around his wrists, which were torn and rubbed raw from the harsh metal of his shackles. He hoped it would help ease the pain he knew the boy was feeling.

Aramis covered his shivering, naked form with the blanket for now. And, with Porthos' help, forced the boy to take an emetic. What Lemay had been feeding him was disgusting and depraved and Aramis needed to get it out. So Porthos held the boy's head and Aramis grasped his lower-jaw, pouring in the castor oil and mustard, before making him swallow. Even drugged and unconscious, d'Artagnan fought them. He coughed and choked, and spit the emetic back up. But they got half of it down, in the end. They shifted d'Artagnan on his side, and leaned his head over the side of the bed as they waited for it to kick in.

When it came, it was a purge. Porthos supported the boy's back and shoulders, keeping him steady. Aramis kept the boy's aim true into the chamber pot from under the bed. The smell hit them instantly. It was as if they stuck their faces into the opened torso of a gutted walker. Even with a stomach like iron, Porthos gagged at just the smell of it. When he was finally finished, Aramis rubbed the clear flesh on his back soothingly as the boy was left trembling and shuddering. They laid him back but weren't quite finished with him yet.

He made the boy drink some tea with herbs that he mixed up to help settle his stomach, hydrate him, help with fever, infection and pain. He gave his wounds another once-over and then tucked him and switched the cool cloth out on his forehead.

Aramis had never felt such violence and hatred inside of him before. For the Cardinal, for Lemay, for Milady. For all who had done this to the boy.

Porthos had kept a strict eye on his best friend the hours through the night and into the morning as he treated every single wound on the lad's body tirelessly. He watched as the Spaniard's expression, already dark, went to shades unfathomable as his thoughts turned toward the perpetrator of the scars forever left on the boy.

But it was only as Aramis finally sat back with a long, exhausted sigh, did Porthos step forward and place a firm hand on his friend's shoulder.

"If you think I'm lettin' you out of my sight, you're wrong." His voice rumbled softly.

Aramis continued to stare at d'Artagnan. "I don't know what you're talking about, Porthos."

Porthos sighed. "You do. And I won't let you do anythin' foolish like risk your life in a half-cocked assault on th' Cardinal—"

Aramis pushed the big man's hand from his shoulder and twisted around to face him. "Foolish? Is that what you think?"

"You know what I think."

Aramis stood and faced him fully. "Why do you want him to die so badly? Why!"

Porthos' expression hardened. "I don't want the boy dead. I don' know 'im enough to want 'im dead."

"Then what is it?!" he demanded.

"You! Aramis! You!" Porthos let out a quiet roar of frustration and the side of his fist thumped against the bedpost, making the bed rattle behind the force. d'Artagnan was not disturbed. "I love you, you're my family, my brother—but ever since we heard about the boy, you've not been actin' like yourself!"

"I've finally found God's path, Porthos! This is the road He's sent me on. I've been lost, for so long," he ran shaky fingers through his unruly hair, "But I've come to realize that this was what it was all for... My family, heading off on my own, finding my way to Paris, the Musketeers, you and Athos—it's all been leading to this moment, here, now! I know it, Porthos. My path. Where it's most important, I know it!" he thumped his chest, over his heart.

He shook his head helplessly. "I just want my friend back."

"I've never left." Aramis whispered softly. He gave his friend's arm a reassuring squeeze.

Porthos said nothing as he stared back at him friend who looked at him earnestly, and exhaled through his nose.

He dropped his hand and took a step back. "I won't let you hurt him. I won't let anyone hurt him." Aramis replied. "We need to save this boy, Porthos, because he will save us," he glanced behind him at the boy, "all of us." He rubbed his bandaged wrist.

Though the sun was over the horizon, one wouldn't have known it through the grey sky. Athos made his way back to his apartment as the streets grew steadily busier.

He'd stayed several hours with Treville last night, he'd had given the older man a full report of all that they had seen beneath the Old Seminary. The Captain was just as appalled as if he'd been right there beside them, instead of just hearing it second-hand.

He didn't come empty-handed. Carried with him in a covered basket were three bowls of thin stew, and he even managed to score some broth for the boy, though he was unsure whether that was even necessary. But he was sure that if there had been any change, like the boy passing, Aramis and Porthos would have sent him notice.

He wasn't sure that the boy even wanted to live. Athos understood that feeling. For the longest time, he didn't care what happened to himself. Whether he lived or died or turned. After losing Thomas, after being betrayed by Milady, he had no hope or want or cause. He just wanted some kind of oblivion. His heart was crushed. He smothered it with drink, his sword clogged with the blood of the dead and the live. The world wasn't real to him—not until Aramis and Porthos had rescued him, forced him back into life. And one-day, they just didn't have to push him as hard to live any longer—he lingered on his own. They became his blood brothers.

He mounted the stairs to his apartment, and tapped lightly on the door. His pause of caution was due to last nights affair. Moments later, the door cracked open and Porthos peered out at him, his other hand resting on the dagger in his belt. On seeing his friend, he dropped his hand and opened the door wider with a raised brow.

"Is it safe?" Athos murmured.

Porthos glanced briefly behind his shoulder back into the room. "Aramis said that the drugs 'ave worn off by now an' it's just the fever and exhaustion that 'as 'im out. But it should be fine, as long as you don't do whatever it was that you did last time."

"I didn't do anything last time." He muttered, but he was cautious when Porthos stepped aside and allowed him entry.

"Hey." Aramis called softly in greeting of the man. He gave the lad one last look before he stood from the chair at the bedside and approached the pair at the table. "I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed one of your nightshirts." He nodded back at the boy.

Athos shook his head, glancing at the boy before he turned back and put the basket on the table.

"What'cha got in there?" Porthos wondered, circling in like a vulture, scenting the wares. "It smells like my stomach not growlin' anymore."

"And you'd be right." He set out the three stews and Porthos sat at the end of the small table, instantly digging in. "I also managed to get some soup for the boy if—"

"That's great, Athos!" Aramis said happily, taking the bowl. "This is just what he needs." It was cold now, of course, but he quickly put the bowl in the holder over the fire to reheat the food. This was something that d'Artagnan greatly needed to keep his strength up—real food.

"He's improving?" Athos asked incredulously. "Last I saw, he seemed on death's door."

"I was surprised, too." Porthos said, huddling over his bowl almost as if one of them were going to snatch it away suddenly.

"I said you were wrong about him," Aramis said quietly as he leaned on the mantle with his forearm, his back to them. "He's strong."

"Or it's your magic touch in effect." Athos said.

When the broth started to steam, Aramis retrieved it from the holder. He'd eat once d'Artagnan had. Though he wanted to let the boy rest, he needed food to gain his strength. "Porthos," he said, approaching the bed.

Porthos groaned and quickly ate the last few bites of his stew before he pushed from the table and approached the bed. Athos watched them work like a team that had done this particular manoeuvre more than once. Aramis blew on the soup like a parent. d'Artagnan fought them, still fevered, he roused half-way, but was in no form coherent. Aramis settled the boy back down before he returned to the table with Porthos and Athos, taking the bedside chair with him.

"What did Treville say?" Porthos question quietly as Aramis started to slowly eat his stew.

"What could he say?" Athos sighed. "He's allowed leave for Aramis to care for the boy, you too, Porthos. But after I shared with him what happened last night, he agreed that I wasn't a permanent fixture here and has given me light duty and the freedom to filter between that and here. If we all just suddenly disappear, if could look suspicious." The others nodded.

"And what-of after he's healed?" Aramis asked, pushing his empty bowl away from him. He rubbed his injured wrist absently.

"We can't know until that actually happens." Athos' eyes followed his movement. A kid or not; injured or not, he was dangerous. "I think we should bind him—"

"We are not binding him!" Aramis snapped, his brown eyes flaring. "You saw what happened—"

"Exactly!" Porthos agreed. "'Ow do you think e's goin' to react if 'e wakes up 'ere in this strange place and strangers? If I was in 'is situation, you'd better watch out."

"This is wrong!" he said, shaking his head. "Have you seen the damage that those shackles have caused? Where do you intend on binding him and not cause him further injury? Athos," he grasped the man's upper arm to stop him. "You know this is wrong. He wakes up, clear-headed, and the first thing he finds is he's bound—the damage it could cause... it will be harmful, not just physically. He won't trust us, and we need him to trust us."

"What 'bout us trustin' 'im?" Porthos returned, becoming the devil's advocate easily where the boy was concerned.

"What do you mean, he's gone?!" the Cardinal screamed and hurled the empty goblet from his desk across his vast office. Milady's only indication of surprise was the blink as it flew across passed her. Richelieu was usually a very controlled man. But it was the incompetence of people like this, that pushed him towards his snapping point. "How did this happen?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Stealthily." She answered evenly, giving no indication at the flutter of fear she felt in regards to him when he was in a mood like this one. She made no move and kept still as he stalked slowly towards her. "They knocked out the Guard that was posted at the door to the tunnels and just walked in. They knew what they were doing and exactly where they were going. What they were after."

He finally reached her. "An inside man, are you suggesting?" She nodded. "My Red Guards are disappointingly or not, too dumb or smart to cross me..." An angry light suddenly came on behind his pale eyes. "Are you suggesting Lemay?"

"It's the obvious place to start, at least." The corner of her red lips twitched upward. "He is just stupid-hearted enough to try."

"I want him found," he spun curtly on his heel, his robes flaring away from him. "And I want him questioned. Do you understand? That boy is the key to this all, it's just a matter of time."

"Yes, Your Eminence." She smiled.

That morning, she'd gone done into the Old Seminary. She was board and she had wanted to see that if after Richelieu found his inoculation to the sickness, if there would be anything salvageable left of the boy. If he was still useful, she would have hated for him to go to waste. She had a husband to kill, after all. It was a pity that her plan for revenge against Athos hadn't panned-out. All the work and effort to kill those Musketeers and have Gaudet and his men pose as her lovely husband and his men felt like an entire waste. d'Artagnan had a fire in his belly that was just hard-pressed to find these days. The only one who could match such a thing with his cold fury, was Athos.

But upon her arrival, the gate to his cell was partially opened, a burnt-out torch in the holder, a dead guard on the ground and d'Artagnan vanished.

It had not been a good morning after all—and she was the one that had to tell Richelieu. He didn't take bad news well. Being the messenger of bad news was a very dangerous and precarious job—but the man had taken it better than she expected, though she left quick enough. It was best not to linger.

Athos made the allowance of only binding the boy when he stirred into wakefulness as he continued to heal over the next several days. Aramis refused to leave his side. He felt guilt and ashamed to admit that he didn't quite trust Porthos alone with the Gascon. It wasn't that he thought that Porthos would out-rightly kill the boy, but he wouldn't hesitate if something like what happened with the episode with Athos were to happen again. Aramis couldn't allow such a thing.

His wounds were healing nicely and cleanly, Aramis was still amazed that none caught an infection, but he was grateful. Whatever it was that made d'Artagnan special, it helped him stave off not just the infection of the zombie's bite, but the general infection that could occur with a bite wound in general.

When d'Artagnan fever finally broke, it was just Aramis in the apartment with him. Porthos had developed cabin fever and his grumblings and pacing to the window and back again were gaining on the Spaniard's last nerve and he growled for the bigger man to take a walk, get a drink, anything as long as he got out of his hair. Porthos seemed relieved enough to go, but he paused briefly in the door and asked if Aramis would be alright.

Aramis had assured him and waved him away, giving him a small, fond smile that seemed to have been absent from his lips as of late. It felt odd to be in the room alone, he thought it was the first time since all this began. But, he amended, he wasn't alone with d'Artagnan there. He sat on the open windowsill himself, feeling the warm air brush against his face. He glanced down to watch Porthos disappear down the street.

Aramis pushed up his shirtsleeve and unravelled the bandage. He inspected the bite in the late noon sunlight that filtered in, his thumb gently grazing the edges of the wound. d'Artagnan had not gone easy when he had bitten, but Aramis realized how lucky he was that he hadn't ended up like that Red Guard. It was clean and clear of any infection. Any worry that he might of had on the subject of him turning, had disappeared long ago when, after several hours of being bitten by the boy had not gaining any noticed fever or sickness.

He left the bandage off, allowing the wound some air. Gazing out into the street below him.

Aramis had often wondered about the bites that covered d'Artagnan's skin. He thought it obvious how dangerous it was to bring in a live walker into the cell where d'Artagnan had been held. But one thing that he had noticed about them, that though they appeared random, their positioning was quite uniform he's notice after long looking at them. They were placed, carefully, methodically. He shivered at the implications. To do such a thing... he didn't want to think about it, but it was hard not to, especially after seeing the evidence forever marked into d'Artagnan's skin.

d'Artagnan sighed and shifted, the bed creaking lightly at the movement. Aramis turned to him, instantly alert. As soon as Porthos had left, he's removed the bindings from the boy. They were made up of thick strips of material, tied to the head bedpost, and bound at nearly the boy's elbows, in a space that was clear of bites but was on the edge of most of the cuts on his arms. He knew that Athos and Porthos had a point, about how d'Artagnan might react when his fever broke, but he knew how he would feel in a similar situation, and wouldn't want to wake up like that, not if he was rescued and freed.

Aramis bent and felt the boy's forehead, brushing the uneven bangs from his forehead. And felt cool warmth instead of raging fever. He let out a happy chuckle. The fever had broken, d'Artagnan was finally out of the woods at risk of death. But he didn't wake. His body was finally now able to properly rest and heal without the raging fever tearing and weakening his body.

When Porthos returned, it was with Athos and food in company. He'd rewrapped his wrist.

"His fever broke!" Aramis told the pair with a grin.

"So, your touch really is magic." Athos commented from his chair and the younger man laughed.

"I can't claim all the credit," he said fondly.

Porthos looked at the sleeping boy, and then narrowed his eyes. "You took off the restraints, Aramis." He snapped. He bent over the boy and bound him again.

Athos sighed tiredly as Aramis glared at the bigger man. "He's sleeping, Porthos. He doesn't need to be bound."

"That was the agreement." Porthos growled, turning to the other man in frustration. "The last time you weren't careful, 'e bit you!"

d'Artagnan furrowed his brows at the raised voices. He had been in a deep sleep of oblivion and peace. He was with his father again, back when he was younger and they were in Pinon. But the raised voices and sharp tones were punching holes in that world, peeling away the unwilling layers.

"Keep your voice down." Aramis hissed quietly, conscious of d'Artagnan, even if Porthos didn't care. "We've already discussed this. This bite, was no more than just a bite. I haven't been turned and I'm not going to be turned."

"Enough." Athos' single tone was enough to stop their argument from flaring. "What is wrong with the two of you? You've been at each other like this for a week now."

Why is Pa arguing? d'Artagnan wondered tiredly. He sighed and tried to drag himself from sleep. But it was like slugging through the thick mud of a bog in April. His body hurt, he didn't understand. Something wasn't right. Pa?

"Talk to him, Athos." Aramis gestured sharply at the big man. "He's the one that's been a complete ass since this started."

Adrenaline rushed through d'Artagnan sluggish blood, sending it crashing into his brain and heart. He knew that name. Athos. Athos killed his father—because Alexandre was dead.

"An ass?!" Porthos repeated indignantly. "You're the one that's been possessed since 'e came."

"Don't blame him for your own problems!"

"My problems?"

They weren't in Pinon, they were... they were... d'Artagnan's eyes snapped open and he lurched upright. They were forever separated.

The three men nearly jumped from their skin at the sudden and unexpected involvement from the boy, and they stared, their tongues frozen and argument forgotten.

d'Artagnan breathed heavily, looking around in confusion, but not seeing properly. His mind moving severely fast and super slow at the same time. He turned his head and took them in, lurching back against the wall. His blurry gaze flitted over each of them, and then zoned in of the black leather pauldron on the seated man's shoulder.

His eyes widened and anger reared inside of him. He knew that leather guard. How could he forget? A Musketeer murdered his father right before him!

"Musketeers!" d'Artagnan spat the word with contempt, his voice scratchy from disuse. "Pa said you were honourable men, that Captain Treville would help us. But you killed him, took him from me! I'm going to find him. I'm going to kill him. Athos! He took everything from me! I'm going to make him suffer as I have suffered!" he roared, and lurched forward, only to be halted by the restraints that he hadn't quite registered before. "I will have his head!" he chocked.

Athos was startled to hear his own name and as surprised as his brothers and the three Inseparables shared a fast look.

"You know Captain Treville?" Aramis questioned, finding his voice. As shocked as he was, he was smart enough that it wouldn't be the best time to mention that Athos was seated right there.

d'Artagnan instantly went tight-lipped at the question. He tugged on the restraints in confusion and grief, his pain dulled by whatever they had given him. "Let me go! I'm no use to you. Why can't you just let me be?" he hated at the tears that overwhelmed his gaze.

"We're not here to hurt you." Aramis promised him quietly.

He was weak and vulnerable. His fever was finally broken after two-weeks in a haze of rage, confusion, and a nightmare. But even now, he was still trapped in such a world. Injured, bound, held captive. A never-changing pivotal-point was Alexandre's death at the Musketeer Athos' hands. "Hurt?" he scoffed. They only pain he knew now was the loss of his father. What had been done to him, what they would do to him, were nothing on the spectrum. "I don't think it'll hurt much after I kill him, and then kill him again after he turns—do you?"

Aramis shook his head sadly. "It will if he's an innocent man."

"Inn... innocent man?" d'Artagnan sputtered. "Innocent men don't murder." His eyes narrowed eyes suddenly. "Do you know him? Do you know Athos? You're pleading his innocence, aren't you? You must know him."

Aramis shot a glance over at Athos, unsure of what exactly to say. Athos sighed and stood, stepping next to his friend.

"How exactly did you meet... Athos?" his gaze flickered.

d'Artagnan gritted his teeth. "You're Musketeers, you know what he did. You work for that bastard, you did this to me!" the restraints taunted as he gestured to himself, a little surprised when he looked down and noticed that he was covered in a nightshirt, his legs tangled in a blanket. He was on a bed, he noted. An apartment, not a cell. But he let the confusion be shoved aside by his anger.

"Answer th' question." Porthos snapped, speaking for the first time.

"Come a little closer and say that!" d'Artagnan growled. Porthos inhaled sharply and said nothing.

Athos and Aramis looked at the big man in a flash of surprise at his lack of resistance. Aramis held his hand up to the boy.

"We do not work for the Cardinal—the man is evil. We're trying to stop him." Aramis explained. "We got you out of that cell. We want to help..."

d'Artagnan looked at the Spaniard, who looked back with open and pleading brown eyes.

- The hands that touched his face were gentle—The brown eyes filled with sorrow and care. -

He shook his head and blinked in uncertainty.

"Please... tell us what happened."

d'Artagnan continued to stare at him, Aramis stared evenly back. Porthos found it unnerving. He found the boy unnerving. He couldn't get the sight of his biting Aramis out of his head. He's killed that Guard with his teeth. He shivered silently at the boy's dead stare. Right now, in was filled with a passion that had been completely absent before.

- soft words murmured through fevered haze—Tenderness and promise carried in each unheard word. -

"Rain." d'Artagnan croaked. He didn't look away from Aramis, he couldn't. If he did, he'd... he'd…"T-there was a storm. We were attacked by zombies. Musketeers c-came... Athos... they... they killed... Pa!" his voice broke and crumbled.

Aramis had to fight not to rush over to him, to try and comfort him in his grief. And all their eyes widened in realization that seemed to dawn in the same instance. The bodies they had come across on the main road on their return for their search of Gaudet and his missing men. The biters, and the thief dressed as Musketeer. The grave dug at the side of the road.

"Musketeers didn't do that." Athos denied. "Those men were not Musketeers."

d'Artagnan inhaled sharply in response, pulling against the restraints as his anger flared again.

"Athos did not kill your father." Aramis swore, taking a step forward and regaining the boy's attention. "Milady set up your capture." The teen tensed at the woman's name. Aramis thought, good, he's paying attention. He's listening. "It was her men who killed your father. They ambushed a group of patrolling Musketeers outside the city and claimed their identities. They did this—the Cardinal, his Red Guards, Milady."

"Who is Athos?" d'Artagnan gritted through his teeth, his eyes bright.

There was a beat of silence.

"I am." The man with the pauldron said.

His eyes widened, his rage temporarily overridden by his shock at the confession of the man before him. "You killed Pa." He accused.

"I did not." Athos denied. "I am sorry for your father, but it was not I who killed him."

He shook his head. "You're a liar!"

"What reason would I have to deny such a thing?" Athos asked instead. "You are at our mercy. You have nothing over us."

d'Artagnan suddenly stopped straining against the restraints, too preoccupied to realize that if he really thought on it, the bindings weren't all the difficult to get out off. He slumped back, exhausted. These men were Musketeers. Alexandre said that the Musketeers would help them, keep them safe. It was Musketeers who killed his father and tore his world apart.

Aramis slowly approached him, his hands held up, open-palmed in placation. "I'm going to take off the restraints, alright?"

"All right..." he repeated like a puppet.

"We won't hurt you," he promised, "But you can't try anything either."

d'Artagnan watched him warily, tense. But Aramis undid them without a problem and stepped back again. The silence in the room was roaring.

They all waited with bated breath for the boy's definite response.

This man was Athos.

d'Artagnan suddenly raised his head. His eyes briefly flickered up Athos' body, but they settled on his blue eyes. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, wavering, never taking his eyes off the older man who stood stock-still. Porthos shifted on his feet and Aramis put a hand on his chest to stop his interference.

Flashes stilted thought d'Artagnan's mind as he stopped in front of the Musketeer.

- Black night—Pouring rain—Horsemen silhouetted in the night lit by lightening. -

"Athos."

- The gunshot—Pa in his arms. -

Grief swelled in d'Artagnan's throat and he grasped Athos' doublet. "Athos." He croaked and swallowed.

- Blue eyes floated bodiless—haunting. -

His grip tightened and the leather creaked.

- Athos surrounded by d'Artagnan's red fevered-rage, hitting the floor. -

- Gaudet at the at the city gate—'Athos'—strands of greasy hair—blue eyes—a malicious grin. -

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as the memories swamped, swam, twisted and morphed in his head.

"Athos—"

- Scarred leather pauldron gleaming wetly in the rain, darkened by blood. -

"—killed Pa. He—"

- The flare of gunpowder. -

d'Artagnan flinched. "He—"

- Blue eyes grinning at him. -

Tears trembled on the boy's eyelashes and crawled down his gaunt cheeks. Athos could feel his own emotion swell and roll as he watched the expressions on the boy. Could feel his emotions through his grip. Athos lifted his hand and in a attempt to reach out, to comfort, at something, laid each on a smooth-fleshed patches left unbitten on d'Artagnan's arms.

d'Artagnan gasped at the contact. Athos' hands were rough and gentle and firm—familiar like Alexandre's:

("Your hands," d'Artagnan grasped his father's larger hands in his. "Why can't I have hands like yours?" his thumbs brushed over the calloused pads on the old Gascon's palm.

Alexandre smiled and reversed the hold, cupping his son's hands. "You've your mother's hands."

"I do?" the nine-year-old's eyes widened.

"Yes." He nodded. "These are the strongest hands there are. They carry such love and fierceness in them, Charles. They're the hands of a warrior and a nurturer. These hands will save many lives." Now, he twined their fingers, pressing their palms together. "And these hands," he said, nodding to his own, "Will guide you until you're ready."

"Promise?"

"I promise, son. I will not leave you until you're ready.")

His eyes flew open.

- The gunpowder flared as it ignited—blue eyes in blackness suddenly set into a face—Gaudet's face—'Athos' from the city gate—not Athos now—not Musketeer—Red Guard—Milady—His Eminence— ... Lemay! -

d'Artagnan look electrified and he released Athos suddenly, stumbling back. Athos reached for him, but he stopped suddenly when he realized that he was the cause. Aramis quickly stepped in. d'Artagnan flinched lightly at his sudden touch, but let himself be guided to the edge of the bed.

"I am Aramis." Aramis murmured. "That is Porthos. And…"

"Ch—d'Artagnan." He whispered. He wanted to be remembered for his Pa.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis said softly, perching on the edge beside him. It was the first time that the Gascon had heard his family name from gentle lips in such a long time. His fingers brushed against the sweaty forehead. "You're not well yet, you should rest."

"Athos," d'Artagnan said and grasped Aramis' wrist, "Didn't kill my father—a man—R-Red Guard—" he shook his head, so overwhelmed that he didn't notice the marksman flinch when he grabbed his wrist. "Milady"—this time Athos flinched—"His Eminence... L"—d'Artagnan suddenly paled further if that were possible, and green. Aramis' eyes suddenly widened in realization and with his free hand, scrambled beneath the bed for the chamber pot. "Lemay!" d'Artagnan heaved and was sick.

The smell immediately permeated the room and the Inseparables' expression twisted with distaste. d'Artagnan finally finished, breath ragged, covered in another layer of sweat, and utterly exhausted. Aramis took the pot away, shooing it away on the floor with his foot. Without having to be asked, Athos handed him a cup of water. The Spaniard helped the boy drink, the Gascon still gripping his injured wrist.

"Come now," he murmured softly. "It's rest you need." And he shifted and lowered the boy back onto the bed with no resistance.

d'Artagnan shifted his grip from Aramis' wrist to his hand and squeezed. He could trust Aramis, he knew that he could. Alexandre promised. "My Pa—" His voice broke as his grief fought with his exhaustion.

"I know." Aramis hushed him and tucked him all in. Athos and Porthos watched the exchange silently. "Your father was right—we will protect you, d'Artagnan. No one will lay a hand on you again." He promised.

Porthos hardly restrained himself from protesting upon such a huge and impossible promise.

d'Artagnan wept, but exhausted, he let Aramis' words take a hold on his heart. The man's voice, his warmth. Feeling warm, comfortable, and safe since he couldn't last remember—he slept, actually slept.

Aramis sat there for a long while, just staring at the boy, making sure he was actually asleep. The grasp on his hand lightened, but did not relent. His hope had soared with the knowledge that they had gotten through to the drained teen.

"Well..." Porthos said into the surrounding silence. He sat down, suddenly feeling exhausted. Though he hadn't done anything physical, it had been an emotional drain—on them all.

"I was not expecting that," Athos admitted, brushing his fingers through his hair, his fingers brushing the still lightly tender flesh at the back of his skull from the incident days earlier. "After all he's been through..."

"That there wouldn't' be anything left?" Aramis whispered. "Not a boy in there who'd lost his father? Because that's what he is, Athos. Just a boy." He shook his head. "He must have been bitten when it all happened. That storm, that fever, burying his father... he must've been taken shortly after."

Porthos scoffed and shook his head. "This entire thing is ridiculous!"

Aramis turned to him with narrowed eyes. "You still don't believe, do you?" he asked, incredulous. "Even with the state that he's in?"

"No." Porthos agreed. "And I won't 'til I see 'im survive the fever myself."

"Well, I hope that day never comes." He said promptly. And turned matters to other things, "From what [Lemay]"—Aramis mouthed the name from the boy's hearing and his lips felt soiled afterward—"intimated, he was getting nowhere with this cure. Maybe... you have to be born with it—it can't be transferred." The Spaniard had a lot of time to contemplate this.

"Are you sayin' the boy 'as outlived 'is usefulness?" Porthos asked bluntly. "So they'll just let 'im be?" He snorted, "Even if that usefulness part is true, the Cardinal will come after us for 'principle' alone."

"Porthos is right." Athos agreed, sitting in the chair at the small table by the fire heavily. "Whether the b—whether d'Artagnan"—he remembered the teen's name for his report to Treville—"is the 'cure' or not, we've slighted Richelieu. He'll be pissed that something of his was stolen from him."

"d'Artagnan is not some thing!" Aramis hissed vehemently.

Athos held up his hand placating. "I know that. But that's how Richelieu sees him, Aramis. You know that. He'd doesn't care."

"Well, I care." Aramis retorted. "He's not going to get his hand's on d'Artagnan again."

"You're right. He's not."

Porthos sighed quietly at the pair of them. Whether he truly believed in the cause, in what they were doing—didn't matter. He was always going to be at his brother's sides, he's always have their backs. Maybe eventually he would see, he would believe. But believing in his brothers was enough.

"So, what's the plan?" the big man wondered.

"We take down the Cardinal," Aramis said simply and Athos nodded his affirmative.

"Oh, is that all then?" Porthos reply was deeply sarcastic. "Nothin' too complicated then."

"When is anything easy, worthwhile?" Athos raised a lightly amused brow. "Besides, I thought you were stir-crazy being stuck in here."

"Oh, I am, believe me! But you're right, I have been out of it for too long." He cracked his knuckles and neck with a grin, "So why not start with taking out a power evil?"

"So, gentlemen," Athos mused, his fingers tapping the tabletop, "Who's ready to dismantle Richelieu's empire?"

[tbc]

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Well, this was an exhausting chapter to write. Even now I'm uncertain how well d'Artagnan's meeting with the Inseparables went. Please, tell me your thoughts on this. I know you're probably all wondering what the hell Porthos' problem is… that just mean's I'm doing my job correctly! Everything will be revealed… when I feel like it. (jking). It'll all come out, I promise!

Is this the part where I plea for reviews?

Please sir…

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