"There is a house built out of stone

Wooden floors, walls and window sills

Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust

This is a place where I don't feel alone

This is a place where I feel at home."

To Build A Home - The Cinematic Orchestra

"Come on, now. You look like you're not even trying!"

"That's because I am, in fact, not trying."

Aramis groaned and threw the dagger he had been holding. It soared through the air and joined several others in the centre of a target they had placed on the other side of the courtyard.

"Why bother, when we both know your aim is better than mine," Marsac yawned. Aramis had suggested the game little over two hours ago, and hoping it would keep him awake, Marsac had gone along with it. In Treville's absence, the musketeers had been taking shifts at guarding the gates. Not that they had anything to guard – they simply had to be present, should anything happen.

Marsac glanced towards the gates and groaned for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. Being the two newest commissioned musketeers, he and Aramis had been left with the worst of the shifts. He could almost hear his soft bed calling out to him, promising warmth instead of the humid air they had been standing in for the last couple of hours.

At the sound of a wonderful musical laughter, his head snapped back towards the gate.

Treville came walking, leading his horse by the reins, with a young woman who was still laughing heartily. Long wavy blonde hair fell below her shoulders, framing her face. Beneath her thin eyebrows, forest green eyes sparkled. Her tawny beige skin was flushed from the cold. The dress she wore had once been a lovely shade of light blue, but was now slightly torn and spotted with dirt.

A stable boy appeared to take the horse into the stables, and Treville led her towards the two musketeers who couldn't take their eyes of the her.

"Meet Aramis and Marsac – both newly commissioned musketeers," the captain said, gesturing to the two of them. "This here is mademoiselle Chevalier-"

"Oh no," she cut him off, "no mademoiselle. Please just call me Iris."

Aramis reached out and took her hand in both of his.

"Our pleasure to meet you, Iris," he said with a charming smile and kissed her hand. Marsac gave her slight inclination of his head, and remained silent. All of a sudden he wasn't so tired any more.

"I see it's been a slow morning," Treville muttered, nodding towards the target. Aramis gave a shrug and ran a hand through his long hair.

"We had to do something to keep warm."

"You must have been at it for a while," Iris commented, looking at the daggers that stuck out of the target. On the long table they stood next to, lay a few more, ready to be thrown. Absent-mindedly, she picked one of them up and turned it around in her hand.

"Be careful with those, they're sharper than they look," Marsac quietly warned her, but before he had finished his sentence she threw it towards the target. They all watched as it sank into the very centre, the impact knocking one of the other daggers loose. She felt a triumphant thrill go through her as it clattered to the ground, and turned back towards the musketeers.

Aramis stared at her in surprise. Marsac's jaw had dropped. Treville just shook his head in wonder. Iris quickly changed her own expression to one of indifference.

"Must be beginners luck," she lied with a smile, figuring it would be best not to mention how she had just half a year ago been learning to use a bow and arrow, in secret, with one of the servants back at the mansion. It had done wonders for her eye-hand coordination.

Treville cleared his throat, and went serious.

"I have some business to attend to, but I'm sure you two will help Iris with whatever she needs – dry clothes, some food and a place to rest."

Giving her a nod, he turned and walked towards a wooden staircase.

"Marsac – if you will come with me for a moment," he called over his shoulder, not stopping. Marsac groaned inwardly and went after his captain, leaving Iris and Aramis, who had finally shaken off his surprise.

He made a sweeping motion towards a door leading away from the courtyard they stood in.

"Shall we?"

Iris followed him though a hallway, up a staircase, and down another hall. As they passed door after door, she wondered just how big the musketeer garrison was.

Aramis glanced at her as they walked, wondering what had happened to her to make her appear like this. She noticed, and nervously smoothed her hands over her dress.

"I can see my appearance puzzles you."

"It does raise a few questions."

"Let's just say I've had a long night."

He had been about to inquire for more information, but something in her voice made him hold his tongue. Aramis caught a slight change in her eyes, though she did a good job of covering it up. He slowed down when they reached his room.

"I'm afraid all my best dresses are being cleaned as we speak, so we'll have to make do with what we can find," he joked, successfully bringing back a smile on her face.

"I'll take what I get."

As he went through a dresser, looking for something that would fit her, Iris let her eyes wander. His room was very orderly. On a table next to the bed lay a worn out copy of the bible. She would never have guessed he was the religious type. Pistols of different sizes were neatly placed on a desk. A grey hat with a colourful feather hung on a chair.

"See if these fits," Aramis said as he held out a pair of dark breeches and a clean white shirt. Iris took them and looked at him expectantly. He stood for a moment before realising she was waiting for him to leave.

"I'll wait outside," he declared, and rushed from the room. When the door closed behind him, Iris sighed in relief. This was the first moment alone she had had since being found by Treville.

Their ride to Paris had been shorter than she imagined. One or two times she had nodded off, lulled to sleep by the rocking motions of the horse. When they had neared Paris, he had asked her if there was anywhere in particular she wanted to go. Iris had admitted to not knowing of any places in Paris and had gladly accepted his offer to let her stay at the garrison for the time being. She had waited for him to begin asking questions, but none came. After a while they had slid off the horse, to walk the way back to the garrison, and Iris had listened to him tell tales of his time as captain of the musketeers.

The feeling of security she had felt after learning of his position had only grown as they talked. Somehow she had managed to evade any questions of where she came from, and why she had been running away when he found her. She wouldn't want to lie to him – especially after the kindness he had shown her – but was sure that discussing the circumstances of her escape wasn't an option. Making a mental note to have a story ready for when the questions eventually would come, she started slid out of the still damp dress.

Aramis' clothes were a few sizes too big, but she was glad to find that she wouldn't need a belt to keep the breeches up. The shirt he had given her felt soft, the softness fabric got when it was worn regularly. Sliding it over her under-shirt, she glanced at her boots. Walking through the forest at night, in the rain, had done them no good, but they would have to be cleaned another time. Balling up the dress in her hands, she opened the door and found Aramis waiting.

"All good?" he asked.

"Much better," she admitted. He eyed the balled up dress in her hands, and took off down the hall, looking intently on the doors he passed. Iris went after him.

"I'm sure one of these are available... let's see, yes. Thirteen," he muttered to himself and came to a stop by a door. Next to it was the number thirteen, painted in black that had faded with time. He opened the door and took the dress from her, leaving it on a chair, before closing it again.

"You must be getting hungry," he stated, not wanting to leave her out of his sight. Iris had a similar feeling, and after a moment she heard her stomach growl. Aramis took it as confirmation and led her back towards the courtyard.

"You're in for a treat – our cook, Serge, takes great care of us."

When they re-entered the courtyard, there was more activity than when she had arrived. Musketeers were now going about their business. Some of them stared at her as they passed, and she figured a woman wearing men's clothes was very much out of place.

Marsac, who had been talking to another musketeer, joined them as Iris noticed the pauldron they all wore on their right shoulder. Each one was unique, though they all bore the fleur-de-lis that was the symbol of the musketeers. They all had marks and scratches, some more than others. Neither Aramis nor Marsac were wearing theirs at the moment.

Serge did indeed take care of them. He took one look at her, and started filling a bowl with some porridge from a pot he had been stirring. Overhearing her when she said it was more than enough, he kept on filling the bowl before setting on a table before her. After tasting it, she didn't mind at all. It was delicious.

They watched her eat her way through her breakfast, before Marsac broke the silence.

"If you don't mind me asking, how exactly do you know Treville?"

"I don't think I've ever seen him go that long without snapping at anyone," Aramis added curiously. Iris took a deep breath, and tried to sound casual.

"We've never met before this morning."

When they didn't say anything, she continued.

"Last night I began a... shall we say, a clean slate, with my life. Captain Treville was kind enough to offer me a lift to Paris when our paths crossed."

"And do you plan to stay long?" Aramis asked. Iris chuckled and shook her head.

"I wouldn't want to take advantage of you all, I'm sure you have better things to do than look after me."

She had excused herself and found her way back to room number thirteen before they could ask her any more questions. Curling up under the blankets on the bed, she felt how exhausted she had become.

Tomorrow, she would thank Treville, Aramis and Marsac for their help and then she would disappear into the streets of Paris and never see them again. The thought had her saddened for a moment, but it would be better that way. So far, she had been lucky. A kind soul had offered her sanctuary, but her demons would still be following her, and knowing the determination of the comte, she knew he would at this moment be throwing everything he had into finding her.

Yes, tomorrow she would leave. Iris Chevalier would be nothing more than a memory to the musketeers she had met.

Two weeks later, she still hadn't left.

Iris almost expected Treville to throw her out after a week had passed, but he simply treated her like he had meant for it to be so all along. When ten days had passed she stopped telling herself that she would leave the next day. Now, two weeks in, she started to feel at home.

She owed a lot of it to Aramis and Marsac. Whenever she suggested it was time for her to leave, they found a way to keep her there another night. They quickly sensed her discomfort at discussing her past, so they stopped questioning it. The two of them made her feel more relaxed than she ever remembered being, so the longer she stayed, the harder it seemed to part with them.

When duty called and they weren't around, Iris went to the kitchen to offer a helping hand to Serge, feeling it would be the least she could do in exchange for living freely at the garrison. Most of the work he had her do was like what she had done at the mansion.

It seemed easy to loose herself in the world of the musketeers, and completely forget about the life she had had before.

The musketeers seemed to accept her presence almost immediately. Sometimes she suspected this was because Treville wanted it like that – it was easy to see that they all had a great deal of respect for their captain. Iris soon understood what Aramis had said about him snapping at people. He wasn't an angry man, simply a man who needed things done. When she was around, the lines on his forehead disappeared, and he automatically acted more calmly.

The garrison itself had become familiar to her. Treville had handed her a key to room number thirteen, calling it hers. Aramis had joked about the superstition of the number, but Iris had brushed the thought away. She didn't believe in such things.

There were certain things about the place that she soon connected with the musketeers. A smell of gunpowder and horses. The sound of swords clashing. The obvious brotherhood and familiarity between the men who bore the fleur-de-lis with more pride than she had ever seen anyone show before.

It had taken her two weeks to realise that she wanted the same. She wanted to truly be part of the bond they all shared. She wanted to do what they did, to feel like she could make a difference.

She had never given it much thought before, but hearing Aramis and Marsac tell stories of their work, to so casually mention how they had yet again escaped death, she wanted to feel the thrill of it.

This wasn't a woman's world. Everyone knew it. She definitely knew it. It wasn't only frowned upon, it was irregular. Fighting was a man's field of expertise. Iris sometimes found herself dreaming of proving everyone wrong.

"Iris, do you know what you're doing?"

The sound of Marsac's voice brought her out of the jumbled thoughts in her mind. They were sitting on either side of the table in the courtyard of the garrison. Marsac had been disassembling his pistol to properly clean it – Aramis had scolded him for not doing so more often. She had quickly learned that Aramis held a great deal of respect for his weapons, and much like anything else in his life he made a big deal out of keeping everything clean and orderly. Iris had often watched him tend to his own pistol, almost as if it was a living thing.

Marsac was frowning and she followed his gaze down to her hands. While her mind had been occupied, her fingers had grabbed onto the parts on the table in front of her and she had started to assemble them without noticing.

He leaned in and gently took it from her hands, looking it over with wonder.

"Oh Marsac, I'm sorry, I had no idea I was doing that," she apologized. She stopped when he began chuckling, the wonder still clear in his eyes.

"No Iris, this is... this is right. Where did you learn that?"

Now it was her turn to frown.

"I haven't. I mean, I've seen Aramis do it a few times, but I've never actually made an effort to try it myself."

"You are unbelievable Iris, do you know that? First the perfect aim with a dagger and now this? Unbelievable."

He put the half-assembled pistol back on the table, and continued cleaning the rest with a mischievous smile.

"If you can assemble a pistol after simply watching someone do it, imagine what you could do if you actually had someone teach you," he jested quietly. Iris felt her heart beat faster. She leaned closer to him, over the table, and spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

"Maybe someone should."

His hair, that was usually tied away from his face, had fallen down like a curtain, shielding his reaction. Slowly he put down what he held in his hands and looked at her seriously.

"Iris what are you-"

She held up a hand and spoke quickly. Her eyes were shining with enthusiasm.

"Marsac I know it sounds mad, but I really think-"

"Do you have any idea what people would say-"

"No one would have to know-"

"Treville would kill me."

They looked at each other in silence. Iris held her breath as he searched her eyes, only to realise she was serious.

"What if you get hurt?"

"What if I don't? Would it really be such a bad idea?"

She had reached out and put her hand on top of his. For half a second he tensed at her touch and then she watched as he silently gave in.

"Perhaps it wouldn't," he sighed and she grinned.

"When do we start?"

A/N

Let me just thank everyone who had given my story a look. This story serves as a prequel (to what you will have to wait and find out) and I hope you find it enjoyable. Let me know what you think x