Charl(i)es' Angels!

by ThomE.Gemcity-06

Tag: Season 1; w/ major spoilers [something's will stay the same, some will be altered]. 'The challenge to the man that had murdered his father, that he had readied to issue from his lips, died as he found not only one beautiful woman in front of him, but three.' Would things really change if the Inseparables were women instead of men? Note: !Gender-Bender!, OOC Traits, m/f & f/f.

3. Pursuit 3: Commodities

a/n: —

Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers, just gonna borrow them and their adventures.

Episode Tag: Season 1, Episode 3: Commodities.

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

Charl(i)es' Angels!
Pursuit 3: Commodities

"Wait," Aramis stopped d'Artagnan, pushing him back into his seat. "I want to see to see how this plays out." She grinned. "I always love a good catfight."

d'Artagnan looked at his friend, an amused spark in his eyes. "So, when you, Athos and Porthos scrimmage in the yard, that's what I should call it? Good to know."

Aramis shot him a look, and he gave her an innocent smile in return. "I think that's what the other Musketeers call it when you fight us, Charlie." He glowered at her comment on his looks. It wouldn't be the first time that he had been described as beautiful instead of handsome. She gave him a wide grin. "Don't look so sad—I know many a-woman who would kill for your looks... Some men, even."

"Great." d'Artagnan growled threateningly at her, ready to give a retort in kind when a catfight really did happen, one that would soon turn pretty violent.

Treville had sent the Inseparables, and of course, d'Artagnan by extension, on a mission to Le Havre, to collect the man that was standing at the table across from the pair. His name was Emile Bonnaire, and he was accused of breaking the trading treaty between the French and Spanish.

It had been twenty-minutes since d'Artagnan had watched his boat dock, and he came to this tavern, and already there was trouble. It started out with some innocent flirting with the bar wench, but turned into an angry cat fight when a second woman burst into the tavern, screaming Bonnaire's name, and then soon attacked the wench.

It was all fun and games, as Aramis might put it. The intruding woman took a slash at the wench, and the wench shoved at the woman to get passed her. But the woman grabbed for her, tearing her sleeve. The wench threw a plate at her from the table, and the woman slashed at her again. The wench ducked to dodge it and dive away, but the woman grabbed a handful of her hair, and with a cry, threw her back onto the table where she leapt on her chest, and put the knife to the wench's throat, who whimpered underneath her.

"I'll kill you!" the woman screamed at Bonnaire,

"Darling, calm yourself, I beg you." Bonnaire scoffed at the woman, taking his seat once more. "It's far to early in the morning."

And then things really took a turn, when one of the several men who had been following the trader, much like the Musketeers, but with far more foul intent, pushed through the gathered crowd with a club in hand. Bonnaire's eyes widened and fired a pistol from under the table, kneecapping the man.

The woman jumped from the wench's chest and spun around, the knife barred, and hissed at the crowd. "Touch him and die!"

Headless of the warning, another man charged from the crowd, and d'Artagnan and Aramis could stay back no longer. The Gascon tripped the charging man, and Aramis planted a foot on the man's chest, her pistol pointed at him.

Athos and Porthos, having been seated themselves on the other side of the tavern, stepped in as well. Porthos flung her arm out, and with unnatural strength, swatted an intentful man into the wall like a fly. Aramis let her man go and turned to the woman.

"You can stay away, too!" the unknown woman warned her.

"A moment ago you wanted to kill him!" She scoffed, incredulous.

"I have the right." She spat. "You don't."

"Yeah. Why's that?"

The woman slashed at Aramis in response, who dodged out of the way and grabbed her wrist, twisting the dagger free before the Spaniard shoved the woman back towards d'Artagnan.

"Stop! Get your hands off me!"

The young man tried to hold the woman, but it proved harmful when she managed to sink her teeth into his hand. He quickly released her when his bones crunched under the pressure and gave an exclaim. Porthos laughed at him.

d'Artagnan looked over at them, dually surprised and embarassed. "She just bit me!"

"Ladies, sir," Bonnaire addressed them. "Thank you. Thank you." They slowly closed ranks around him. "I can't thank you enough. Lucky for me, you were here."

"Not entirely." Athos disagreed. "Emile Bonnaire. I am Athos of the King's Musketeers." Porthos started to frisk him. "You are under arrest." Bonnaire's expression dropped, and Porthos relieved him of his sword, a long dagger, too. "We're taking you to Paris to appear before the King."

"Uh, no..." Bonnaire shook his head, his voice a scratchy deep. "I'm afraid I can't... I can't travel today, 'cause I've got important business—"

"You're important business will have to wait," Athos interrupted him.

"Right." he said quietly into silence.

"What about her?" d'Artagnan asked, giving the woman next to him a uncomfortable nod.

"I have a name." Said woman protested, glaring at him. "It is Maria Bonnaire."

Bonnaire gave them an uncomfortable smile. "Musketeers, my wife."

"That's explains a lot!" Aramis said, Porthos laughed across from her and she smiled in return. d'Artagnan fought the urge to switch places with the woman, for the scathing look that said wife was sending across their way.

"Any hidden weapons we should know about?" Porthos asked.

"Uh, no. No, I never carry any concealed weapons." He said, lying terribly, just as Porthos pulled a small flint pistol hidden poorly on his person.

"Hmm." Porthos was not impressed.

Bonnaire glanced back at her a little wide-eyed. "I completely forget about that one."

"Easily done!" Porthos smacked him 'good-naturedly' on the back with enough force to make his stumble forward a step.

"I would hate for you to lose anything so valuable." Interceded two men dressed all in black, holding out Bonnaire's papers canister to the man. "You wouldn't want this to fall into the wrong hands. Would you?" his words were dressed in politeness, but hostility rumbled beneath.

Porthos confiscated it first, however, Bonnaire seeming frozen with unease at the attention of the two strange men.

Bonnaire quickly turned to the Musketeers. "Well, Ladies, Paris it is." And quickly headed for the door. "Oh, Um..." he paused and turned back to the foursome behind him. He looked a bit awkwardly at the three women, but pushed forward. "Grant me one last favour before we go." His eyes glances across at Maria, and they locked gazes. "A few moments alone with my wife."

d'Artagnan couldn't help but chuckled as he looked at the man, his thumbs tucked into his belt. "You must think we're stupid." He looked at the others, but instead of seeing offended agreement, their reactions were ones he was not at all expecting.

Aramis shrugged, and smiled congenially—she was always one for some loving, never saw the harm in it. Porthos chuckled, very nearly a giggle, her mind going a bit dirty. d'Artagnan looked to Athos, the voice of reason, and the twitch of her brow threw sanity out the window.

"Apologies," d'Artagnan said. "I've just come to realize that we are exactly that stupid, do as you please, Monsieur. We'll just wait here. Have no worry."

Athos nearly rolled her eyes at the Gascon's sarcasm. She addressed Bonnaire, "I must have your guarantee that you won't try to escape, Monsieur."

"You have my word on it." Bonnaire said firmly. Porthos gave him the raised brows. "As a gentleman." He swore.

---

"I can't believe that you guys agreed to this," d'Artagnan protested, sitting astride his horse alongside the inn.

"Come on," Aramis played, next to him on her own horse. "Relax. Have a little fun!"

"He's going to escape, you know." He pointed out.

"He will." She nodded. "So why not get it out of the way now? Show him who's boss?" Bonnaire clabbered out the window on the second story window and onto the roof. "Right on time!" she smiled as he dropped sloppily to the cobblestones below and rushed to jump into the waiting cart on the street. Both man and woman had that same experience, on the same day no less, though they didn't know it; one hiding from her lover's lover, the other fleeing from a small mob, accused of murder he didn't commit, by a woman he had a one-night stand with. "Come on," she said, and tapped her horse's ribs, walking after the moving cart.

Porthos leapt upon the wagon bench with ease, the driver oblivious. She grinned back at Bonnaire, laughing at the look upon his face at seeing her there. "Come sit up 'ere, won't you? I don't think your friend will mind." She pointed her pistol at the startled driver, who gave a yelp, jumped from the bench and ran away.

With a tight and reluctant expression, Bonnaire climbed up onto the bench next to the tall Musketeer.

Aramis spurred her horse a little faster and pulled ahead of the wagon. She called back slyly to Bonnaire. "That was a rather quick moment with your wife, Monsieur. I hope that you didn't leave her wanting, because who know when you shall see her again."

Bonnaire turned red at the suggestion of his ineptness and Porthos laughed next to him. Her rider-less horse attached to the back of the wagon and Athos and d'Artagnan bring up the rear.

---

The group decided to take pause at a derelict building they had come across, when Aramis felt unease inside of her. Her steed shifted uneasily next to her as she tied its lead off a piece of broken fencepost. She turned and started to walk towards Athos and d'Artagnan, and it was clear in the unnatural quiet, punctuated by a snapping branch, that an ambush was afoot.

"Come out with your weapons down!" Aramis shouted into the silence.

"That was awfully cordial." Athos remarked.

"I like to be polite…" Aramis shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan screamed at the man running at her from behind. With reflexes quicker than Aramis spinning around, Athos drew her pistol and fired. Aramis had only time to give her friend a thankful look, before the shot was like a starter and a dozen men spilled from the scenery and attacked.

"Ambush!" Athos shouted, and pulled her sword. "Porthos! Protect Bonnaire!"

And then they were in the melee, with Musketeer sword meeting makeshift clubs and staffs, and farmers tools. They were much the same who had attacked Bonnaire back in Le Havre.

d'Artagnan and Athos fought nearly back to back, and he remembered the time that he had challenged the woman to a duel, and was happy and thankful that he was now fighting with her and not against her.

Aramis cried out at the thunderclap of pain in her lower-back, as she was struck by a chain that wrapped around her hips like a vice. It's master gave a hard tug and the woman was jerked to the ground, her sword lost to her.

She quickly rolled onto her back, gritting her teeth at the sharp throbbing heat in her back, and grabbed the links that led to the man, and tugged the chain towards her with equal strength.

The man let out an exclaim as he stumbled toward Aramis, unprepared, and right onto her main gauche. The man grunted as the dagger stabbed deep into his abdomen, helped even deeper by his own weight. She felt him tense in a flash of pain and surprise, and then his body was lax as his last breath wheezed wetly with blood against her shoulder.

His dead weight weighed heavy across her body. It strained as she struggled to push the man's body from hers. She got to her feet, almost like an old woman, a quiet groan on her lips. And was in the process of unwinding the chain from around her waist, when another man charged at her. With a grunt, she swung the chain at him.

His eyes widened at the on-coming, heavy iron links, and lifted his wooden staff to block its dangerous path. The cane slowed it down, but ultimately didn't stop it, and broke apart. The chain snapped around behind the man's ear and he collapsed to the ground dead. The back of his skull bloody and caved.

Panting lightly, she dropped the chain, and, groaning quietly, bent to retrieve her fallen sword.

Porthos did as Athos ordered, and stayed by the wagon to protect Bonnaire—who was cowering under the cart, whimpering like a babe. She fought two at a time, which wasn't much of a challenge for the woman, and though their weapons were mediocre, hand-made wooden staffs, they were wily buggers. By a chance tag-team attack that had her back turned, they broke her sword and left her open to a back assault.

For an instant, the axe in the back of her shoulder was more of a surprise than a pain, but then that came, and it came hard. Her knees went almost immediately and she fell to the ground, overwhelmed with pain, and defenceless against further attack.

"Porthos!" Aramis screamed, turning and running to her fallen sister. She skewered that axe-wielding man through the back as he was in mid-overhead strike.

d'Artagnan quickly finished off his current opponent, anxiety stabbing through him at Aramis' cry, so shrill and filled with fear, that he feared the worst.

"Enough!" a new voice called behind Aramis, her only thoughts of Porthos, as the last surviving men fled. Smart, because they never would have survived her rage. "You have a man down. I have no qualm with you. Surrender Bonnaire, and you're free to go!"

A new man made an appearance, the orchestrator of this attack. Athos faced him with a cold quality. "Out of the question, sir. Bonnaire is in the custody of the King's Musketeers and he shall stay there until our arrival in Paris, where he shall answer to His Majesty."

Knowing Athos would have that well-in-hand, d'Artagnan quickly secured Bonnaire—the object of everyone's keen interest—and offered his help to Aramis.

Bonnaire awkwardly cleared his throat. "Ladies, allow me to introduce my business partner, Paul Meunier."

"On the face of it, I would say your partnership isn't going well." Aramis snapped from beside Porthos, anger filling her usual gentle tone.

The round, squat man offered an explanation, clearly unhappy. "I funded Emile's expeditions for eight years, and yet, I discover his ship has arrived, my cargo is nowhere to be found," as he spoke, Athos slowly approached, "and he's made no contact with me."

"There was no... there was no time, Paul. I was forced to travel to Paris without warning." Bonnaire stammered.

Meunier narrowed his eyes around Athos at the man. "Hand him over and we will be on our way."

Athos shook her head. "I sympathize with you grievances, Monsieur. No doubt you partner is a cheat and a swindler. However, it is our duty to deliver him safely to Paris. So, you must wait and seek justice there."

"I'm not leaving without him." He refused.

Athos aloof tone turned hard. ""That is unfortunate, because neither are we."

"I don't suppose I have a say in this, do I?" Bonnaire muttered and was ignored.

Aramis suddenly snarled, nearly like an animal, rage and impatience making her a tad unpredictable as she shoved to her feet from Porthos' side, shoved Bonnaire out of the way, and levelled her pistol at Meunier. "You're men deserted you, sir. You are the one outnumbered, so I suggest you give up. Bonnaire is coming with us, so depart from here willingly, or I will depart you from this life entirely."

"Aramis." Athos gave her a sharp look and after a tense moment, the Spaniard lowered her gun and returned to Porthos.

Athos was sure that they could solve this peacefully, even after Aramis' outburst, and with an offer of peace, she convinced Meunier to speak with her reasonably, Bonnaire in their company.

"I will inform the Cardinal of your claims against Bonnaire." Athos told him.

"How do I know you won't betray me?" Meunier questioned with suspicion.

She narrowed her blue eyes. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." She paused, watching the man closely. "If I see your scouts on the road again, there won't be any second chances."

His brows furrowed. "What scouts?"

She stifled the sigh. "Two men in black. They've been on our tail since Le Havre." She turned.

"They're not mine." He said and Athos gave him both a surprised and concerned look before she schooled her features. Meunier sneered at Bonnaire, "I'm not the only man with an account to settle with Emile Bonnaire." And with that, Meunier departed.

Athos returned to the wagon with their trouble and planted him on the bench of the cart, and looked at Porthos with a tight heart.

Porthos couldn't believe she'd been hit. She'd allowed herself to be distracted, for those two men to turn her attention, make her expose her back. "Will I loose my arm?" she worried, she couldn't be a Musketeer with one arm. She couldn't go back, back to before Treville found her.

"No," Porthos felt relief for a brief second, that was, before Aramis continued with, "but you might lose your life."

"That bad?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded tightly. "It requires needlework, and soon."

"Will she make it to Paris?" She was all to aware of where they were, how close. It was too close.

Aramis' expression was grave as she looked up from her best friend. "She won't make it to the next village—unless I get a chance to sew up this wound."

"We should leave the road and look for shelter." d'Artagnan said. He knelt next to Porthos with Aramis, holding the wine skin as the markswoman started to tie off the other woman's shoulder wound.

"Not here." Athos insisted, it tearing at her heart, even as she said. She didn't think she could bear it, going back there. Even after all these years, the wounds were still too fresh, like they were happening that very second. "We will ride on for a few miles and then find somewhere."

"Porthos isn't fit to ride anywhere." Aramis told her.

"Get her on the cart." Their leader ordered d'Artagnan.

Anger flashed through Aramis' normally charismatic eyes as this, and she grabbed d'Artagnan's hands and pressed them against Porthos' wound. "Like this." The dark-skinned woman grunted in pain. "Didn't you hear what I said?" The Spaniard leapt to her feet and was on Athos in a second. "If we don't operate soon, she'll die!"

"We wait until it's dark." Athos insisted coldly.

"What's the matter with you?" Aramis grabbed her, her lips twisted into a snarl. Athos' expression didn't change. "Don't you care about Porthos?"

Of course she did. "Alright." She was just having a moment of pure selfishness and cowardice. "I know somewhere, nearby." She could do this. Porthos' health was more concern than her mind. Aramis released her to go back to Porthos, and she turned away.

"Why didn't you mention it before?" d'Artagnan wondered in confusion as Aramis checked the wound's makeshift bindings, but the woman didn't answer.

Aramis was tight-lipped and just as confused as the young man. What could it be that Athos would rather risk their friend's life? "We've got to move you, Porthos. Brace yourself."

With a nod to d'Artagnan, the two set about getting the injured woman into the back of the small, covered wagon. It was clear that she was trying to muffle her cries of pain through clenched teeth.

It made his heart ache that he was helping to cause Porthos more pain than the woman was already in. But he knew already that she was just too damn stubborn let the pain take her to oblivious land, even if it would have done her better.

"Sorry, Porthos!" he cringed at the woman's wretched cry as he pulled her into the back of the cart.

"Agh! You could do wha'ever you wanted t'me an' I won't feel it for th' pain." She gasped with wry amusement.

Aramis gave a light chuckled as she helped settle her injured friend on her uninjured side. "If our Charlie were any less of a man, you might have to watch out, sister."

"Eh. I wouldna mind tha'."

d'Artagnan's face went hot with blush as the suggestions the conversation had suddenly taken. "Can you two please stop speaking?" his voice was a slightly higher pitched than normal.

"Ooh. You can't see it, Porthos, but he's blushing like a maiden!" Aramis crowed.

He ignored the sniggering pair and climbed up front onto the bench, already occupied by an amused-looking Bonnaire. d'Artagnan sent the older man a hard look, and the smirk fell from his lips. It was his fault that Porthos was injured, he had nothing to smile about.

Aramis patted Porthos' hip and saddled on her own horse at the back, staying near her friend.

"Athos," the Gascon called, "We're set."

Already astride her steed, her back to him, she gave a short nod and spurred her horse. d'Artagnan cracked the reins and the mule took up pace. Aramis, and the two rider-less, Musketeer horses led at the back.

The ride was met with a halting conversation that was somehow struck up between Porthos and Bonnaire, of the man's grand plans to own a tobacco farm with cheap help and Porthos agreement upon possibly joining in his enterprise; punctuated by the woman's grunts of pain at nearly every bump along the way.

Behind d'Artagnan was his worry for Porthos, and in front of him was his confusion at Athos.

Finally, much to everyone's relief (though Athos seemed to grown more tense as they went), they rode through a small hamlet, its tenants stopping their work with murmured whispered as they passed, and were slow to came upon a grand, if derelict, chateau.

"I'll tell you something." Bonnaire took in the sight. "If this place is for sale, I might be interested."

"It's not." Athos replied.

"No. You're right. It's a bit dark."

"I don't suppose there's anything to take the edge off." Porthos groaned from the bed of the carriage, very near her threshold.

"There'll be wine inside." Athos said.

"Oh." Bonnaire shook his head. "Oh, I have something better. a bottle of rum bouillon." He started to dig around in his bag, "Colonists make it out of sugar molasses. So potent, they call it killdevil."

Porthos very much liked the sound of that right now. "We'd best get acquainted then." Bonnaire passed it back to Aramis with a chuckle, who helped Porthos drink.

They finally pulled to a halt outside the front, and d'Artagnan jumped from the bench and started around back to help Aramis. "So, how did you know about this place?" he asked the still mounted Musketeer.

Athos was quiet for a long moment before she admitted to something that no longer brought her pride. "I own it. "

That revelation was a shocking one. d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis and it was clear that even the Spaniard, after years of being Athos' friend, didn't know the little fact that she was the Comtesse de la Fère. But that nugget was going to have to wait. A surprising delve into Athos veiled past was not as important at the moment, as saving Porthos' life.

d'Artagnan and Armis carried Porthos into the dinning room, Athos leading the way and Bonnaire scurrying behind. They laid her stomach down on the table.

"My—" Aramis started, but Athos was already setting her saddle bag on the table. She nodded her thanks and immediately turned to the woman's wound.

d'Artagnan pushed Bonnaire into a chair by the wall and turned the table, ready in case he was needed.

Aramis unbound Porthos' shoulder and the woman hissed through her teeth. The Spaniard tried to get a good look at the wound, but tsked and shook her head.

"Doublet's got to go, Porthos. I can't get at the wound otherwise." The injured woman grumbled. "Help me, or I'll cut it away."

Porthos assisted after that. The blood and tear was bad enough, but repairable. If Aramis cut it, it might as well be forfeit.

And when Aramis said, gone, she meant gone.

d'Artagnan's eyes widened when she got a glimpse the woman's ribs and perhaps a graze of something else that he shouldn't have—and put heat in his cheeks. He turned away. "Face the wall!" d'Artagnan snapped at Bonnaire, when he caught the man trying to peek. Bonnaire had a sour look on his face, but did as commanded.

"Alright." Aramis murmured. "It's all clear now, Charlie." She sounded amused, and looked it, too, when d'Artagnan cautiously faced them. Porthos was back on stomach, her breasts covered by her discarded shirtsleeves.

He swallowed at the supple curve of her back, the colour of light cocoa powder. For some reason, it seemed to feel all the more real that Porthos was a woman. Of course, he knew the Inseparables were women, but he'd never seen any of them as vulnerable and as exposed as Porthos was now. Their uniforms did much to disguise their bodies. Unbidden, the remarks Porthos and Aramis made in the cart came back to him.

"Porthos?" he cleared the lump from his throat.

Porthos turned her head towards the young man, her cheek pressed against the table. "'M alright." She said, though the pain of it shone clearly in her dark brown eyes. "'M in good 'ands now, aren't I, 'Mis?"

"That you are, my friend." Aramis nodded, threading her needle with a long strand of horsehair. "That you are."

He turned his still anxious gaze onto the Spaniard, who gave him a gentle smile in return. "Stitching it up will be the first order of business."

"Fine needlework, Aramis does." Porthos hissed through her teeth, grinning. "Should 'ave been a seamstress."

Aramis smiled and gestured to a scar on Porthos back. "Two inches deep, the blade went, but you wouldn't know, would you?" Her finger traced another at her hip. "This one, I trussed up during a skirmish we had in Poitiers. Stitching that's fine enough for the Queen's chemise."

"I agree." d'Artagnan deadpanned. "But perhaps you should save this for another time?"

"Mm."

"If I'm not needed..." Athos remarked, and headed straight for the door. She needed to get out of there. She needed—

"Oh. Before you go," Aramis said, and the older woman paused. "Could you prepare the patient?"

Taking a silent, deep breath, Athos turned back. d'Artagnan furrowed his brows as Athos gave a grim nod and stood in front of the laid out, injured woman. "Porthos?"

"Mm?" Porthos picked her head off the table and looked up at their leader.

wham! Athos punched her without reserve, and Porthos' head fell back to the table, unconscious.

"What are you? Brutes?!" Bonnaire exclaimed, wide-eyed at the event, having had turned back at Aramis' allowance to d'Artagnan.

He wasn't the only one. d'Artagnan was in a similar state. "What did you do that for?!"

"It was for her own good, and ours, too." Athos said. "We've learned that from experience."

Aramis nodded. "It's true. She doesn't handle the pain well, and lashes out, even when it just makes things worse." She petted the woman hair soothingly, brushing her long braid out of the way. "I would like to not have to stitch more than one wound at any given mission—preferably, none at all granted."

d'Artagnan watched Athos leave, his brows knitted in concern to the odd way the woman was acting, but was soon distracted as Aramis bent stiffly over Porthos and started to clean and stitch it close.

---

It was like a suffocating weight on her chest. Athos had tried so hard to bury it, to repress these feelings of her past. Drink was her go-to. It made the memories too hazy to recall properly, it dulled them. But when she had been imprisoned in the Chatelet, on the day that d'Artagnan walked into the garrison and accused her of murdering his father, she had thought that she was truly, to finally meet her end. And if she was honest with herself, which wasn't often, it was almost a relief. To be free of the pain, the guilt, the shame, the loss.

All of it.

But then she wasn't to die, Aramis and Porthos, and d'Artagnan, too—they had saved her from execution. But now that she back, she was here in the blueprints of her past; the emotions were overwhelming. She needed to be alone, from the others. She didn't want them to see her struggle, to ask her questions. Aramis was smart enough to know when not to, but d'Artagnan would have no such reserve.

That room, she could hardly have taken it. It was the room that she found her covered in her brother's blood, his body just laying there, sprawled on the floor. Gone forever, by her hand.

She very nearly lost the contents of her stomach on the floor. But after guiltily using the excuse of knocking Porthos unconscious, to have a brief outlet for the flooding emotions, she was able to escape.

Her fingers created tracks in the thick dust that was collected on every surface that she touched, each bringing back a flash of memory and past that spanned from when she was a small girl, holding her baby brother for the first time; to when her father first taught her to shoot a gun; to the lessons he gave on ruling the estate of Pinon when he was gone; to his death and the first time that she met Anne not long after.

Anne. She was both Atho's heartthrob and her heartache. After her father died, it had been just her and Thomas—and then she had found Anne. Back then, she wasn't Athos, back then, she was just plain old Olivia. And the beautiful dark-haired, green-eyed woman had had given her something she'd never felt before—true love. She fallen for this woman, who'd come into her life when she was needed the most and Athos had never thought twice about it.

Athos had found her the small sitting room, not realizing that was where she was until she'd stepped into the abandoned room.

Olivia tried to fight the grin as she made her way through the house where she knew that she would find Anne. Ignoring the side-glances from the servants, and unaware of drawing Thomas' attention in passing. She paused in the doorway and gazed openly at Anne sitting at the small table, it's surface crowded with her favourite flowers.

"They're like a carpet on the grass outside." Anne sighed, smiling. "Forget-me-nots." She stood and turned to the other woman. "Here." And she walked to the woman, standing close, and tucked one such flower into her simply pinned locks. "Beautiful." She kissed the woman's cheek.

"And I have something for you."

"Oh?" she looked at the brunette in curiosity.

Olivia revealed to her a locket, and inside, painted by the Comtesse' own hand, a forget-me-not. "A flower for you, that shall never wilt, my love." And she put it around the woman's slim, pale neck.

"A memento." She gasped. "A perfect day. A perfect life." Anne wrapped her arms around the other woman, pulling her close. Olivia kissed her, breath gasping, their tongues pressing against each other.

Anne's fingers brushed the edge of the door, giving it a gentle push shut, but not before Thomas saw. And then Olivia was pushing her back, against, onto the table—a bed of forget-me-nots to make love upon.

Athos gasped, stumbling back a step as she came back into reality. She could feel Anne's lips against hers still, a ghost's impression. It ached so harshly. She turned from the room and found the wine cellar fast enough, and a much needed bottle of wine.

---

It had grown late and was Bonnaire bedded-down on the other side of the room. And Porthos was now resting comfortably (or as best as her long-limbs could) on the settee. Athos had disappeared after knocking Porthos out, and the concern he felt after the woman was always at the back of his mind. This place was obviously bringing back memories for the Comtesse, but whether they were good or bad, was yet determined.

d'Artagnan's ears perked as he caught the quiet grunt from Aramis as she bent over the chair, sorting through her saddle bag. "Aramis?" he asked, stepping next to her. "Are you injured?"

There was a minute pause from the woman, and he cursed. She would be too concerned for Porthos to mind herself, and if he'd learned anything during his time with these stubborn Musketeers, it was that they showed more concern for each other, than themselves (though his father always said he possessed the same self-mind).

"Aramis..."

"It's nothing," she denied.

He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me," he said, knowing it was the only way, "and I'll tell you."

"What?" she spun around to him with an accusing look. "Your—" she cut off at the gasp of pain the movement caused. "Tell me, Charlie. Right now."

He shook his head in refusal. "I'll only show my injury, after we tend to yours—which is clearly in need of more attention than mine."

"I swear—"

"Aramis," he sighed. "Porthos is okay. She'd resting. Now it's your turn."

"You should have told me you were injured!" she protested.

He raised a sceptical brow at her. "I just following after my superior's example." She glowered at the low blow. "Are you going to make me get Athos?"

It turned into a hard scowl, but denied the suggestion on defeat. If d'Artagnan was hiding an injury from her, she would do what she would have to do to tend to it—even if that meant giving herself up. She started to undo her weapons belt.

"Whoa!" he held up his hands. "Where exactly is this thing located?"

She gave a small chuckle and shook her head. "Get your brain out of you pants, kid. It's just my back." She winced as she moved onto the buckled-strap across her chest, before she removed her frock coat and set it on the back of the chair with the others, leaving her in naught grey-blue shirtsleeves and a pliable corset underneath (the latter of which she also removed). He averted his gaze modestly.

She wasn't afraid or ashamed of her body. She, Porthos, and Athos had seen all manner of each other. Be it naked, injured, sick, drunk... and all manner of all else. d'Artagnan was their brother now, a soldier, and sometimes he was going to see things, some of the time. It was unavoidable, inevitable. (She knew he caught a glimps of Porthos earlier). Just like they were going to see things of him. If they didn't trust each other now, then what was the point? In their line of work, there was no place for distrust or shame.

She turned her back to the young man and grasped the hem of her shirtsleeve, raising the shirt on her back whilst keeping her chest covered.

All of her layers, the corset, her frock, her many belts and straps—they saved her from any permanent damage, but that didn't mean there was none to speak of. His sharp inhalation spoke to that.

Carrying the woman, and then hunched over Porthos, stitching her wound with more than a dozen stitches; it hadn't done her back any favours.

"Describe it to me." She instructed.

There was silence for a moment behind her, and she could feel his breath ghost across the assaulted flesh as he leaned forward for a closer inspection. "It's bruised pretty bad, Aramis." He whispered, and his fingers ghosted above the flesh as he could actually see some of the design of the chain links. "Some vessels are broken..."

"The muscle's bruised," Aramis agreed, able to feel it pretty keenly. "And inflamed."

"Do you have anything for it in your bag?"

"There should be a salve in a small tin." She could hear him digging around for it.

"I don't want to hurt you further," he stated, tentative.

Aramis thought it sweet, really. But she could turn around and cuff him upside the head in that moment. "It's going to hurt either way," she said instead. "At least like this, it'll hurt less afterward."

"Right."

She bit her lip for the pain, but soon, as d'Artagnan rubbed the ointment into her skin, she could feel the soothing warmth of it that coated the hurt. She gave a soft sigh as he finally took a step back.

Aramis instantly turned to the Gascon, her shirt hardly settling back around her hips. "Show me."

A couple drops of dread filled the young man. "Alright." She was going to take a bite out of him when she found out. He took a deep breath and held out his left palm.

Brows furrowed, she took his hand and inspected it. "What—?" All she saw was all the earmarks of a sliver at the joint in the thumb. When she looked up at him, he gave her a sheepish grin.

"I didn't say exactly how I was injured."

The corners of her lips were tight with displeasure at this revelation. He had tricked her clean and good. She gave the minuscule scratch a flick before she released his hand and he pouted at her back as she turned from him.

"Aramis." The Spaniard instantly turned back to him at his tone. "Athos. She..."

Aramis shook her head. "It's not our concern, Charlie." She sighed. "Athos, like all of us, has a past—one she clearly tried to leave behind—and it's her decision how she chooses to come to terms with it. As long as it doesn't affect our mission..."

The Gascon looked reluctant to let it go, nonetheless.

---

A grin curved Olivia's lips as she kissed Anne's supple neck as they lay naked, tangle in the bed sheets.

"Swear nothing will come between us?" Anne whispered.

Olivia looked up at her. "I swear."

Anne wrapped her arms around the other woman and rolled them, laying across her as she kissed her heatedly.

---

d'Artagnan woke the next morning to Porthos' groan. He'd slept all night upright in a chair, and he felt the kink in his neck and the ache in his back. Bonnaire was already awake, working on some papers from his paper canister, and Aramis was absent.

"Porthos? How're you feeling?"

"Alright." The woman rubbed at her jaw. "But, I swear—did someone punch me?"

"Uh... not that I know." He paused. "I'll just get some water." He quickly put his boots on and grabbed the jug from the table. He wasn't sure how the woman would react to the truth, so he thought it better to leave it alone for now—leaving Porthos and Bonnaire to chat.

He headed out the door and cut through a small, corner hall. He paused at the sight of Athos, gazing at small grouping of three portraits at the one corner. One was obviously of Athos, posed in a dress, she was nearly unrecognizable, but he'd know those piercing blue eyes anywhere. Next to that was a young man. And the third portrait, the canvas was torn and it's occupant's portrayal corrupt.

"Hey. What happened here?" He came beside Athos and gestured to the torn painting.

Athos almost jumped at his sudden intrusion, so deep inside herself with the still ambushes of memories that continued to assault her. "Vandals, I suppose." Though it truth, she'd done it herself. Unable to look at the devil's face painted there, smiling at her, mocking.

d'Artagnan shook his head sadly. "And this? Who is this?" He gestured to Thomas' portrait.

"Thomas, my younger brother." She responded in a monotonous manner. "Everyone's favourite."

"What happened to him?"

"He dead." She turned to the single window that overlooked a tree on a small hill in the distance, shrugging off the Gascon's sympathetic eyes.

It looked just like it did, all those years ago.

The priest pressed his lips to the Crucifix around his neck in a silent prayer to God. Anne wore a white, lace dress with bands around her elbows. It was similar to the dress she might have worn on her wedding day, had Athos been a man. In her hands, was a small bouquet of forget-me-nots. But it wasn't to be. It was to be this. It was to be her death sentence. Her hands were grasped and dragged behind her by Remi, a close friend to Olivia, a grim expression on his face as he bound her wrists.

Instead of in the grass, she stood upon the bed of a handcart.

d'Artagnan sighed at Athos' distant and distracted look, and continued on outside to the well.

He was just returning with the water, when Aramis shouted his name from the front of the house, and, dropping the jug, ran for the woman. She stood, with an eyeglass to her eye, looking down the distance that they had rode on the previous day. He squinted, and in the distance, he could see a rider.

"Is it Paul Meutier?" he asked.

Aramis scoffed and inhaled. "You'd better take a look." She handed over the eyeglass.

d'Artagnan put it to his eye and saw the rider more clearly. "Bonnaire's wife. What's she doing here?" the question was filled with a wary quality.

Bonnaire rushed from the house upon seeing the rider, and Porthos followed more slowly.

d'Artagnan narrowed his eyes and pulled up his pistol, directing it at the fast approaching woman. Aramis gave him a look."What? I've still got the scar from the last time I underestimated her."

She shook her head at the young man before she turned her attention back at hand. "Stop there." She called to Maria.

The brown gelding came to halt, with Maria slumped over the saddle.

"Don't shoot!" Bonnaire shouted and d'Artagnan stuck out an arm to hold him back, not lowering his pistol.

"I came for you, Emile..." Maria gasp softly, "As I swore I would,"

Aramis wasn't sympathetic. "You've had a wasted journey, then."

Bonnaire exclaimed, "Can't you see she'd injured?"

Maria moaned. "I was attacked on the road. Two men dressed all in black..."

Shooting a glance at Aramis, d'Artagnan slowly approached. "Let me help you down." He reached up with his free arm.

Suddenly, not so injured anymore, she pulled a gun on him and d'Artagnan cursed his stupidity. "Patronize me one more time and you'll lose your head." He slowly raised his hands. "Drop your weapon." He did.

"Why, you fooled even me! My darling!" Bonnaire cheered at the turn of events.

d'Artagnan slowly turned and gave the Spaniard an embarrassed and apologetic look. Aramis silently groaned and reluctantly dropped her musket, though she wasn't want to see d'Artagnan without his head.

Maria jabbed him between the shoulder blades, prodding hid forward next to Aramis. With a grin, Bonnaire pushed past the pair. "Now, gentlewomen and man, fascinating as this has all been," he mounted the horse behind his wife, "I must dash."

Maria smirked at them. "I was Emile's scout in Brazil. There's nothing I can't find if I want to."

Bonnaire cheered. "And she chose to find me. True love is a beautiful thing"

Aramis' lips twisted in disgust at that, and the two jumped when Maria shot at d'Artagnan's feet, before she steered her horse around and galloped off.

Athos burst out of the house passed Porthos leaning against the entry for support, at the sound of gunfire. The two women and young man quickly got their steeds and rode after the pair, forced to leave Porthos behind; who cursed at feeling so useless and being left behind, unable to have her sisters' and brother's backs—but found a use for herself as she came across Bonnaire's papers, the ones that he had been so reluctant to show the woman.

Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan just came upon the fleeing husband and wife as they were ambushed by the persistent men in black.

"Maria!" Bonnaire screamed as the man killed her with a shot from his pointed pistol, and she fell from the horse, already dead before she touched the ground. "Forgive me, my love." He whispered, leaping forward into the saddle and urging the horse off the path.

"Allow me!" d'Artagnan growled, and steered his stead after the man off the trail.

And Athos and Aramis faced the two men in black. "Hold your fire." Aramis called as the man was still attempting to reload. "We're King's Musketeers!"

But the man fired at them anyways. Luckily, he missed.

"Stop! Or I'll shoot!" Aramis slid from her horse and levelled her harquebus on the man as he turned to tried to flee, but the shot was simple and clean and he dropped to the ground. She'd warned him. He wasn't quite dead yet when the two Musketeers approached, gasping and chocking on blood, the through-and-through chest wound gaping.

"La resurrección de las muertos y eterna vida." The man gasped to Aramis in Spanish as she knelt by his side.

"Quien es usted? ¿Por qué estás aquí?" She questioned him urgently, but the man was too dead to answer.

Athos wasn't as fluent in Spanish as Aramis, though she was taught in lessons as a child, but she knew enough to understand the man—but this vague piece of information just confused things further. "Why would Spain send Agents after Bonnaire?" she wondered.

Aramis was just as confused as she.

---

"Come on, come on!" Bonnaire cursed as his horse refused to move under his ministrations. "You useless nag, for the love of God!"

There was an unamused twist to d'Artagnan's lips as he approached the man. "It's a classic mistake. A horse can gallop two miles, at most. If you'd have kept doing a nice, even canter, you might have escaped."

"Yes, I suppose if I were a farm boy, I'd know that sort of thing." He'd tried it as an insult, but d'Artagnan wasn't ashamed of his heritage.

"Yep." d'Artagnan shrugged and nodded. "Now," he pulled his pistol and levelled it at what little heart the man had, "Want to try again?" he raised a hard brow, his horse shifting uneasily beneath him at his growing anger and irritation.

Bonnaire gave a nervous laugh, his brown gelding refusing to budge even as he dug his heels into the animal's ribs. "Can you blame a man for trying?"

"Yes." His tone was unforgiving. He leaned forward and took control of the mare's reins, and hissed, "It's your fault that Porthos is injured—she was protecting you. And your wife..." he shook his head and the other man glanced away, "She tried to rescue you, and you leave her dead. What kind of man are you?" He spat in disgust. "Get down. You can walk back. Give the horse a rest."

---

They finally returned to the chateau, Maria's body lain across her horse's back and just as d'Artagnan had suggest, Bonnaire bound and pulled behind the horse—much as d'Artagnan had been when the Red Guard had arrested him for illegal duelling.

Relieving the horse of its burden, the dead woman to be buried later, the four headed inside.

"Porthos!" Aramis admonished at seeing their injured party on her feet. "You shouldn't be up just yet, you—"

"You lyin', filthy swine!" the dark-skinned woman bellowed, and went straight for a surprised Bonnaire, amid three other surprised parties.

Porthos kicked him in the jewels, and kneed him in the face when he doubled-over in pain.

d'Artagnan and Athos quickly grabbed an arm, holding the woman back.

"No! What are you doing?" the Gascon shouted.

But Bonnaire didn't seem to be as confused. "I-I can explain," he stammered.

"Get off!" She strained against the pair, and for a moment got close enough to the man to kick at him.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan worried, even injured, the woman had an unusual strength. She managed to get out of Athos' grip and gave Bonnaire one hell of a right hook—that tore her stitches and laid Bonnaire on his back.

d'Artagnan winced in sympathy at the sound of pain at the back of the woman's throat as she stumbled back and he steadied her. Aramis covered her face with a hand, groaning to herself about her needlework. He shot her a look, and at least she looked sheepish. But he also felt relief about her reaction, because that meant that despite this set back, the injured woman was coming along nicely.

"Porthos! Enough!" Athos shouted, her commanding tone at least enough to prevent the other woman from body-slamming the man. "What is going on?"

Porthos took several deep breaths and pointed at the papers scattered on the table with a finger, shaking from exhaustion and rage. "That's Bonnaire's cargo," she panted. Aramis collected a few of the papers and looked at them. |"Men, women, children—it's a slave ship."

Aramis looked up at her friend in horrified realisation. "Porthos..." she whispered. She knew exactly why the woman was reacting how she was. As disgusting and horrific as it was to a third party such as herself, it was personal for the other woman.

"The drawings make it look far worse than it really is." Bonnaire squeaked like a rat.

Aramis' grip tightened on the pages, and would have turned on Bonnaire herself if Porthos hadn't spoken up. "Look at this one." She pushed off d'Artagnan's and Athos' hands and stumbled to her best-friend. Aramis reached out with both a comforting and stabilizing hand. "People packed on the deck, like fish in the market. I envied 'im," she spat, in disgust at him and herself, "boasting about 'is plans to farm tobacco. Boasted that labour is cheap out there." She turned on the man, "Well, it isn't cheep labour, is it, Bonnaire? Its stolen labour, stolen lives!"

"I am not a prejudiced man!" he shouted, heedless to all the deathly glares sent in his direction. "This is business. Strictly business!"

"The business of misery and sufferin'!" Porthos gasped sharply.

Her expression hard, her feelings knowing and disgusted, Athos put her mask into place as she turned to her friend and fellow Musketeer, "It's our duty to protect him."

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at the woman in shock.

"And turn a blind on to 'is crimes?" Porthos demanded.

Athos' expression was grim, but she was relentless. She was their leader, Treville's second, it was her duty to make the hard choices, and this was one such time. "Slavery is cruel and disgusting," Porthos grabbed her black leather doublet, but she was unmoving, "But it's not a crime."

Porthos scoffed as she looked into her friend's eyes that seemed cold, even when she knew they were not. "I heard stories about those ships, as a child." She sniffed, the tears ever gathered in her eyes, but never falling, "Of hellish stories." She finally released the woman and looked at the others. "Know why they were shackled? Hm? To step 'em jumpin' overboard." Her lips twisted and unshed tears made her eyes shine. "Yeah, 'cause that's better, than watchin' your friends, your family, your children, die of starvation, and sickness, and hopelessness." A tear slipped from her eye, and traced over the scar that lay across her eye.

d'Artagnan was completely horrified at what Porthos was describing. He couldn't imagine hearing that as a child and to not be affected. It was a horrible thing to do to any person, but to have a parent go through that like Porthos had... it was unthinkable.

Aramis looked at her best friend. "You'll get your justice, Porthos." She narrowed her eyes at Bonnaire. "The King will see to that."

Knowing that she would be unable to kill or attack Bonnaire, now that the others were on their guard, Porthos shoved past them, the back of her shoulder marked fresh with blood. She knew they cared, knew that they wanted Bonnaire to pay as she did, but they couldn't know how deep inside of her this was.

Porthos didn't remember much of his mother. She was too young when the woman was lost to her. But she couldn't forget about the stories that she would tell her. About her home being West America before she was captured and put in shackles aboard a ship to be slave sold off somewhere, not as a person, but a thing; and how she'd come to France when she was eventually freed. Freed and had her. How her true name was Izzie… but was left to raise herself in the Court of Miracles, she'd given herself the name Porthos du Vallon. She wanted to cherish the first thing that her mother had ever given her when she was born into his harsh world, for herself.

After a look shot at Athos, and shove of her own at Bonnaire, Aramis quickly followed her sister.

---

Porthos stifled her whimper of pain in a bottle of Athos' dusty wine, as Aramis repaired the needlework to her wound.

"You couldn't have used your left arm, at least?" she asked as she worked.

"Doesn't Jesus say: turn the other cheek?" Porthos murmured.

"He does." Aramis' brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Scum should 'ave turned the other cheek, then I would 'ave punched him there, too!" she growled, drinking more wine.

"I don't think that's entirely what he meant." Aramis couldn't help the small smile at that. She sighed. "Just be more careful. Please!" She cut the thread.

Porthos snorted but nodded. "If all nuns were like you, th' world would be a better place."

Aramis chuckled softly as she wrapped the wound in fresh bandages. "I think you mean a more dangerous place."

Porthos shook her head. "Nah. A funner place." The Spaniard grinned at her friend's way of thinking. "Oi, what're you doin'?" She protested as the sharpshooter just kept wrapping and wrapping until it wasn't just her shoulder, but her arm, too, now bound to her chest.

"Just a little insurance," she said. "I'll not be stitching this wound a third time, you hear me?" she stood and dusted off her hands and Porthos glared through eyes rimmed in pain and drink as she finished off the bottle.

---

Athos was a cruel mistress and assigned Porthos to watch Bonnaire as he dug a grave for his late wife.

"So, what's it like? Buying people?" Porthos' voice was rough, her face a hard mask of burning anger and disgust. "I suppose you have a shopping list."

"Actually, I do." He said absentmindedly almost, as he dug. "Makes the whole process a lot easier."

"I'll bet." She spat.

Bonnaire glanced at her, sick of this treatment. "It isn't a choice between freedom and slavery. It's choice between one life as a slave and another. If I don't buy 'em, someone else will. And, believe you me, I'm offering by far the better life."

"Men are born free." She growled. "No one has the right to make slaves of them."

He scoffed. "Yes, but the real world isn't driven by romantic notions of freedom, is it? It's driven by commerce. And I'm a trader. that's all. I deal in commodities."

"A man is not a commodity."

Bonnaire didn't look away as he said, "Oh, in Africa, he is." He looked over Porthos' shoulder to where Aramis and d'Artagnan were preparing Maria's body for burial. "Poor Maria. She came here to free me, and this is her reward."

"Crocodile tears," Porthos spat at the man from where she sat in the grass. "You didn't love her."

"You're wrong!I did love her." Bonnaire denied, knee-deep in dirt. "I owed it to her courage to escape."

She shook her head in disgust. "But she did you, despite your scales—and this is what she gets." She gestured at the sloppily dug grave.

Though she wished they were burying him instead, she had a duty to uphold. She was a Musketeer, and she must set her personal feelings aside—though she honestly didn't see why they couldn't hand him over to the King with a few broken bones. Who knew, he might've fallen of his horse on the journey back to Paris for all anyone else had to know.

Her pleasant thoughts were interrupted as Aramis and d'Artagnan approached, the latter of which was caring the shrouded body of Maria and she again felt her anger towards the man turn hot.

As d'Artagnan laid the woman in the grave, Bonnaire collapsed onto his knees and started to sob. "Forgive me, my love. You deserved a better man." He cried. "I seem to have forgotten all my old prayers."

"Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God." Aramis said a prayer for the woman, crossing her herself and pressing her lips to the crucifix that the Queen had given her, as they buried the woman. "Amen."

---

While everyone had been at the burial, Athos was fighting the overwhelming grievance of her own. She'd already drunk half a bottle of wine, the other half spilled red like blood on the dusty featherbed. It was their bed and it was like she could still smell Anne, feel her lingering warmth. With a low moan in the back of her throat, she came from the house and found herself at the quite literal hanging tree.

She hadn't been here since it happened. Despite its history, it was a beautiful place. They used to picnic here all the time. Athos remembered leaning against the tree, looking up at the sky through the fluttering leaves, Anne laying with her head pillowed in the Comtesse' lap.

Athos squeezed her eyes shut and sank down onto her haunches, her fingers shoved down into the flattened grass. Opening them again, she sucked in a breath at the sight of a clear white button tangled in the grass by her hand. With shaking fingers, she picked up the seemingly innocent button—but it was far from that…

There was an eerie calm to the woman now, as she stared at Olivia with a twisted hate as Remi put the noose around her neck.

Olivia sat astride her mount, wearing a black leather tunic and black breaches—she was in mourning for her baby brother. She would forever be mourning. It was her fault that he was dead. She'd been selfish. She should have known who Anne truly was. But she'd been blinded by love.

"You may kill me now, Olivia." Anne whispered, and it carried on the breeze. "But you will never forget me! I own your heart, do you hear me? I own you heart and I'm never going to let it go. I love you to the ends of the Earth. So run away, turn your back, my love! Because you will never be free, trapped in this hell as I am sent to another!"

As the cart was pulled away at Remi's hand, and the rope pulled taut, Olivia wheeled her horse around and rode away, the forget-me-not locket pressed against the flesh of her breast like a hot poker.

And she left behind Olivia Comtesse de la Fère, and became Athos, soon to be of the King's Musketeers—once she was able to pull herself out of the bottle long enough to repaired herself into something that at least resembled a human. Forever running away from a devastated heart.

"Athos?"

---

When the four returned to the chateau, Athos was nowhere in sight. She hadn't been present for the burial, he hadn't seen the woman since their return with Bonnaire in hand once more.

"Where's Athos?" d'Artagnan wondered, worried. Aramis glanced at him. "I'll find her."

Aramis sighed, he worried too much sometimes. "Fine. But if she cuts your balls off for bugging her, don't come to me for medical attention, alright?"

d'Artagnan gave her a mocking smile, and found his gaze instinctively pulled to that same tall tree on the hill that he had seen Athos' gazing at with such a broken expression; and found the very same there. As the others went inside, d'Artagnan headed that way.

He was closing the distance, but from where she was crouched, Athos still didn't to notice him, drowning in remembrance. "Athos? What are you doing?" he said finally.

Athos shot to her feet in a blink, and turned to look at him, her expression a mask. "There's someone I need to see in the village." She told him and started to walked passed.

"Wait. What?" he grabbed her arm, stopping her.

She gave him a look and he released her, and paused long enough to comment. "You three will head back to Paris, there are some things here that I need to tend." She said.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan was confused and concerned. "What about the Spanish Agents, won't they still try for Bonnaire?"

She shook her head. "After his friend's death, he won't be trying again—for a bit at least. Might as well move while he's vulnerable."

"But—" d'Artagnaan stopped himself and took a breath. "If you're sure?"

The woman nodded. "We've spent enough time delaying already. I'll follow at day's end." And she started down the hill again.

Severely unsatisfied, and even more concerned, he called after her. "I should come with you. You haven't been yourself since we got to this place!"

Athos completely ignored his statement and called over her shoulder. "Keep an eye on Porthos. Don't leave her alone with Bonnaire."

"Wait!" he shouted and rushed after her. "Athos, please! We shouldn't split up like this."

"d'Artagnan," she said clearly. "Just get back on the road as soon as you can. Get Bonnaire to Paris. Tell the other my decision, I'll follow after shortly." And she left him looking after her, worry like bile in the back of his throat.

By the time he returned, Athos was already astride her steed and galloping to her destination.

"Well?" Aramis questioned when d'Artagnan returned to the chateau. "Did you find her?"

He nodded, though his expression had a grim quality to it. "She said to return to Paris as fast as possible and she would follow later, when she took care of some personal business."

"Alright." Aramis clapped her hands. "You heard the boss. Essentials only, let's get out of this place."

"What about my wagon?" Bonnaire protested. "I have gifts for the King."

"The wagon stays here." Aramis said firmly.

"We need to get to Paris as quickly as possible." Porthos told him again, sitting on the back of the settee, resting for the horse ride to come.

Bonnaire stood. "What do you think the King's going to do to me when he finds out that I don't have a gift for him?"

Aramis didn't look all that concerned as she wrapped her blue wrap around her waist and tied it off. "Quite ugly things, I'd imagine."

Porthos chuckled at the thought, but then said in all seriousness. "We should wait for Athos."

d'Artagnan jumped on that comment like it was a squealing piglet. "Porthos is right. We should wait."

Aramis shook her head at the young man. "And you should trust Athos to handle her own affairs." She cinched her weapons belt around her waist, noting the clenching of his jaw in tight response, even as she held but the grunt at the pressure on her still sore back. She headed outside and the other were forced to follow. "I'm serious, d'Artaganan. We're leaving now." His worry was a palpable thing in the air. "Let's move." Her tone took on a harder quality, that had him mounting.

They had packed and finally headed off, leaving behind the Comtesse, to whatever trouble she might find in town, alone.

Athos' chest grew tighter the closer she got, and she stared firmly ahead as she galloped to the village center, ignoring the stares from the tenants she had long ago left behind, as she passed.

Remi was Pinon's blacksmith, and a close friend to Athos back when. But when she made him hang Anne, made him bore that responsibility, he was a changed man, especially towards the Comtesse. After, they'd avoid each other. Athos found a new friend in drink, until she couldn't stand to stay any longer and she ran. But it was true, what Anne had screamed after her, all those years ago. She was running away, but Anne followed her, clung to her anyways, like the scent of a skunk that only she could smell. No matter how hard she tried, she could never let go of the Anne's locket. It was like an anchor on her ailing heart.

Smoke trailed from the cracked doors of Remi's shop, and it made her eyes water as she entered. "Remi." She caught sight of him almost immediately, sitting at the table, his back to her. He didn't react to her presence, but now that she was here, with someone who knew the truth of her past, she couldn't stop the musings that she had been holding these past years.

"Was it quick? Did she suffer much?" Athos finally came around the front of the man and stopped at the sight before her. It was no wonder the man hadn't reacted to her presence, she should have realized sooner but her emotions were crowding her thoughts. He was slumped slightly in the chair, blood poured down the front of his shirt from the slit in his throat, from ear-to-ear like some sick shit-eating grin, his fingers loosely wrapped around a knife.

She took a crushed breath. "I should never have involved you." She whispered, and left, unable to take the sight of him any longer. He had killed himself because of her, she knew. She had forced him to do something that they both wanted no part in, but had to be done. But she held the power, the authority, and like commanding officers that she hated, she'd passed on the order and made Remi carry it out.

It had changed him, like it had changed her.

When she returned to the cursed chateau, she went into the wine cellar and brought of a case of red wines. She poured glass after glass after glass, until finally, she just forwent the cup altogether and got her milk straight from the bottle. She needed to drown the guilt, smother it in the alcohol.

Athos wandered, drunkenly, and came to a halt in the small hall that held her, Thomas' and Anne's portraits. She stared at her own partite and hatred flared up inside of her, dark and consuming. With a cry, she hurled the wine bottle at herself. It shattered on the picture, red wine painting her face like blood.

"Thomas!" she sobbed, dropping to her knees. "Why? Why?! It should have been me!" Unable to stand his accusing stare, she dragged herself from the room and to another bottle of wine.

Olivia ran through the house and to the drawing room where she heard the screams, her heart racing. "What has happened?" she demanded, pushing through the small crowd of servants in the doorway. "What—" She stopped short at the sight in front of her.

Her brother sprawled on the floor, blood pooled around him on the carpet, and her Anne standing over the body.

"Olivia!" Anne sobbed, her hands, the front of her dress, all covered in wet, gleaming red, a bloodied letter-opener on the floor at her feet.

"What—What have you done? Anne!" Oliva screamed, rushing to her brother, even as she already knew it was too late. "Thomas!" Tears welled from her blue eyes.

"He knew!" She cried. "I had to, he knew about us! He... knew."

Olivia looked up at her and her tears dried, and she turned cold. It was better this way, it didn't hurt as bad this way. "You murderess!" She climbed to her feet, blood staining her skirts. "You will be hanged for this."

"What?" Anne exclaimed. "No!" she stumbled towards the Comtesse in despair. "I did it for us. Us! So we could be together. He was going to send me away, I couldn't leave you. I love you, Olivia."

Olivia's lips twisted cruelly. "Arrest her!" Two of the male servants quickly took the woman into custody.

"No! Olivia! NO!" Anne screamed, struggling against their strength as they dragged her passed Thomas and passed Olivia. "Please!"

But her pleas were fallen on deaf ears as Olivia's world fell apart around her.

Athos moaned, something rousing her through her drunken state. At some point, she'd passed-out, slumped beside the dead hearth in the dinning room. She slumped to the floor, she just wanted to go back into oblivion, the distorted, drunken darkness that was too confusing to make sense. But something was pulling her.

It took her several tries before she got her feet unsteadily beneath her and stumbled out the room and down the hall, leaning heavily on the wall as she squinted through the thickening smoke. As she drew nearer the orange glow. She stumbled into Anne's favourite sitting room, and stopped in front of the flickering flames that were licking at the wall.

She reached out slowly towards the flaming curtains, trying to ascertain if it was real or not in her intoxicated state. Close enough to feel the blistering heat, movement out of the corner of her eyes had her spinning to the door and stumbling backwards as, standing there was Anne holding a flaming torch, staring back at her coldly.

"You're dead." Athos slurred, almost accusing. "I watched you hang."

Milady, was in fact, not a figment of Athos' drunken psyche. She watched the confusion cloud her lover's eyes. "But you then didn't watch, did you?" she scoffed. "You couldn't stand to see your beloved girlfriend choking on the end of a rope."

Slowly, even drunk, realization dawned on her, and it felt crushing. Anger, confusion… "Remi." She should have realized that no one would kill themselves in such away, but she had been too distracted.

"I seduced him" Milady stepped into the room. "As soon as you fled, like a coward, he cut me down and revived me. But look." She reached up with a killer's hand and pulled the choker away from her pale and supple neck, the same Athos used to kiss, revealing the crisscross of thin scars. "I still bear the token of you love. Such a generous love."

Athos expression hardened as she glared at the other woman, "You killed Remi."

"Put him out of his misery." Milady corrected callously, taking another slow step forward. "He spent the last five years waiting for you to show up and discover his crime. He was half-dead already."

With a cry, Athos charged at her, unsteady. Completely sober, Milady spun fluidly out of her way, and the woman crashed into the doorjamb. Milady watched her in distasteful amusement as the woman turned, breathing heavily and leaned against the wall for a moment in weakness.

"I'm dreaming." She whispered to herself and stumbled from the wall.

"Drunk, perhaps. But not dreaming." And with a grunt, she swung the torch at her, striking Athos on the side of the head and sending her to the floor. Milady sneered down at the senseless woman, who struggled to roll onto her back.

Athos stared up at her. "Why are you here?"

"To erase the past. To destroy it completely." Milady paused. "I'm glad you came back." She set the torch down and knelt at Athos' side, her painted-red lips twisted cruelly. "It's right you should die with this house." And she pulled out a hidden dagger. "Die with him."

"The house, where you murdered my brother." Athos choked.

Milady grabbed her collar and jerked the woman up into her lap, and pressed the blade to her throat and spat, "I killed Thomas to save our love. But you threw it away like it was nothing!"

Athos glared up at the dead woman, hardly noticing or caring for the knife at her throat. "You killed him because he discovered the truth. That you were a criminal, who lied and tricked your way into my life. I was vulnerable after father's death, and you used that to steal my heart."

Milady screamed. "Thomas was a fool and a hypocrite. He deserved to die. I thought you would understand that." She looked away into the flames in pain, its light flickering warmly across her and moved the blade away.

Athos watched her in sorrow, and sobbed. Her warmth was so real, she could smell the woman. She missed her so much! Against her will, she curled into Milady's lap, an arm wrapped around her waist, pressing her face against the woman's breast.

"Olivia." Milady grasped a handful of the woman's tangle hair and kissed her head almost dispassionately.

"Anne..." Athos gasped.

Milady straightened at the name, and slowly pushed the drunken woman back, murmuring, "Perhaps it's best it ends like this." And she pressed the dagger back beneath the woman's chin.

"Do it." Athos whispered, urging. "Make it end." She lifted her chin. But Milady fingered the locket that had fallen out from Athos' open collar. She remembered the day that Athos had given this to her. She opened it and gazed with a broken look at the lightly faded forget-me-not on the inside. "Do it! What are you waiting for?!" Athos demanded, gripping her arm, pressing the blade to her throat deeper, breathing heavily, feeling the sting.

"I loved you!" Milady gasped, tears filming her green eyes. The blade nicked the delicate flesh and blood welled. She pressed harder. "You ruined my life!" She screamed. "I love you!"

"Athos! Athos, can you hear me?" Someone screamed from outside the house.

"d'Artagnan." Athos whispered in confused realization.

Pain flashed across Milady's face and pressed a harsh kiss to Athos' lips, before she jumped to feet and ran from the room. Her plan for revenge brought to a bitter halt.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan screamed, dismounted, frightened as he saw almost every window this side of the chateau alight inside from a spreading fire. "Athos!" He jerked around at the sight of a cloaked woman racing from the house on horseback. "What—? Athos!" he realized in horror and ran into the burning house, heedless.

Milady paused and watched him run into the house, feeling a twinge before riding away. How many times had she plotted the womans death? How man? It would be up to God whether the fire took them or not, this time.

d'Artagnan ran through the house, shouting his friend's name. His arm over his mouth and nose for the smoke, he had no choice but to go through room to room when he got no answering call. He coughed, and nearly missed the weak ones coming from nearby. He ran towards them and paused at the sight of Athos laying on the floor, struggling, before he kicked himself into gear and rushed to the woman. "Athos. It's me. It's d'Artagnan. Come on, get up. Get up!" He pulled the woman's arm over his shoulder, pulling her up. The woman was nearly a dead weight, and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if it was from smoke inhalation, or if she was completely drunk.

Knowing it would be faster and ignoring Athos' weak protests, he picked her up bridal-style and stumble from the building. He finally released her, wheezing, next to his horse and quickly grabbed his water skin. He dumped a portion onto the woman's face, bringing her lightly from her daze. He rubbed her face and neck, noting to smear of blood and brought her further around.

"What happen? Who was that woman?"

"Sine we arrived, I felt her presence everywhere." Athos murmured, not taking her eyes from the fire, the dazed quality in her voice as well. "I thought I was imagining it."

He grabbed the loose lapels of her open doublet and tugged at them, making her pay attention. "Who? Who?"

"My girlfriend." She blurted and d'Artagnan was shocked. "She died five years ago now, by my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderer, so I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."

"Look at me. Look at me!" he demanded, smacking the woman's cheek lightly, trying to get her to focus and make sense. Praying that the smoke hadn't addled her brain. "Are you saying the ghost of your dead girlfriend tried to kill you? Athos, that's—"

Athos shook her head, stopping him before he could say that word; insane. "She's not dead, d'Artagnan. She survived."

That made a bit more sense, then. "This was her revenge?" He thought of the woman on the fleeing horse and felt an anger inside him towards the woman who would do this to his friend.

Athos sobbed. "It was my duty. It was my duty to uphold the law!" She grabbed d'Artagnan and gave him a weak shake of her own. "My duty to condemn the woman I love to death—for the murder of my brother." She clung to him, desperate for him to understand, to not judge her. "I've clung to the belief that I had no choice. Five years learning how to live in a world without her." Tears leaked from her blue eyes. "Only to find out that she's never left." She released him and pulled from his grip weakly. "What do I do now?" Breathless, she fell back onto the ground.

d'Artagnan looked down at the vulnerable woman, so glad that he hadn't listened to Aramis, and had come racing back. The gnawing in his stomach had never subsided, but seemed to grow the further he rode from Athos. If he had tried to ignore his feelings any longer, had delayed his return, Athos could be dead to them all right now. He never would have been able to forgive himself, had that happened.

---

The next morning, Porthos, Aramis and Bonnaire finally returned to Paris.

"I refuse to arrive at the Palace on an ass," Bonnaire declared, scowling with a deep voice. "And I am within my rights to demand a fresh set of clothes."

Aramis' look was a cold one, and Porthos' voice was just as frozen. "What rights?"

"The rights of every man to some fair treatment." Bonnaire claimed, astride his donkey. "Justice, dignity. Just a little dignity."

"You do know how ironic that sounds coming from a slave-trader, don't you?" Aramis pointed out.

"Yes." He nodded. "I've been thinking about that." He paused dramatically. "I'm out of the slavery business. Thank you for inspiring a new Emile Bonnaire."

Porthos shook her head at the man in disgust. "You'd say 'bout anythin' to save your own skin."

"Well, of course I would." He didn't even try to deny it. "Who wouldn't?" He chuckled.

Porthos joined him with a hollowed one of her own, and with exceeding forced, smacked the donkey's ass. It brayed loudly and bolted ahead, Bonnaire exclaiming as he was carried away unceremoniously.

Porthos looked over at her best friend. "'How do you think Athos is fairing'?"

Aramis sighed. "You're as bad as d'Artagnan!"

"You can't tell me you haven't been the least bit worried 'bout 'ow Athos had been actin'."

"Of course I have. I'm not blind and stupid, you know?" She drawled. "But you know how private she is. She can take care of herself."

"I 'ope you're right."

---

"Athos—"

The woman shook her head as they finally arrived in Paris after a long ride. "Not now, d'Artagnan—please." She was exhausted, mentally. Her head was pounding like it was being hammered against an anvil. It had been so bad at one point, that she had actually vomited that morning. She couldn't remembered the last time that had happened, though it might have been when she'd slept with Gaudet. She could only wish there was enough drink that it would eventually wipe her mind of the event, eventually.

d'Artagnan's lips pressed into a thin line in response, clearly wanting it to be now.

It hadn't been long after he had pulled her from the fire, that the drink, and exhaustion and stress, had caught up with her and she'd passed out. He made camp, covering her with the travel blanket from one of his saddlebags, and leaned up against the tree to take watch. By morning, the chateau had been completely burned through, but the building was resilient and stayed standing. Athos had awoke as well, with the just sun breaking over the horizon, with the most pitiful moan he'd ever heard from her. She'd squinted into the growing light, and stumbled up onto her feet, wavering precariously.

"Whoa!" he'd reached out for her but she smacked his hands away and instead, bent with her hands on her knee, fought the sick. He'd held out the water skin to her, and she rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply. She shoved it back at him and started off towards the burnt house of horrors. "Wh—?"

"I'll be back."

And he had been helpless as she disappeared around the back of the house. His heart was lodged in his throat as he waited for her return, his worry mounting with each passing minute, fearing something unreasonably bad had happened to the woman—though after resent events, it wasn't so irrational at thought.

But naught twenty-minutes later, she returned, astride her steed. "Let's ride."

He looked up at her, open-mouthed for a moment, before he scrambled to pack up his things. The whole ride back, precarious glances were thrown her way the entire time, but she never said a word, and he was almost frightened to open his mouth about the events of the previous night—of all that he had learned about the woman that was his mentor and friend. How to broach the subject that had clearly caused the woman so much pain. But he hadn't been able to, but once the finally reached the city outskirts he had to at least know if she was alright, in the simplest terms of the matter.

"Look." Athos pulled her horse to a halt, the Gascon automatically doing the same as she jerked her chin in indicating direction. He followed her gaze and was surprised to say the least. "Our Spanish friend."

"What are we going to do?" he asked, the mission coming to the fore-front once more.

"Not we." Athos replied. "I, will take care of our friend."

d'Artagnan didn't seem to like that any more than her not now comment.

She turned hard blue eyes on him. "It's not a suggestion, go home. Porthos and Aramis should have Bonnaire in His Majesty's presence by now, the mission is through."

There was a tense moment, before d'Artagnan nodded and started to steer his horse away.

Unease suddenly went through her. "d'Artagnan?" she called and he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Don't tell the others what happened, okay?"

Hurt flashed through his brown eyes. "You have my word." You didn't need to ask, his eyes seemed said, and the fact that you did means you don't know me at all. And he urged his horse down a side street.

Athos sighed, and clicked her tongue, pressing her steed after the Spanish Agent before she lost sight of him, even in the street upon a horse. The only one who had known anything of her past life, was Treville, and only that she had been the Comtesse de la Fère. He knew nothing of Anne or Thomas. Now that d'Artagnan knew, she didn't know what to feel. Freer that she had gotten some of the built of feelings off her chest after all these years, or more trapped than ever before that someone knew her dirtiest secret.

She was still too hung-over to delve into these issues, and later, she'd would be too sober. Even drunk wasn't the right middle ground. Undiscussed and shoved aside, that had always been her go-to.

She found the Spanish Agent just in time, at a perch on top a building with a crossbow as he prepared to kill Bonnaire. A pistol pressed to the nape of the man's neck solved that fast enough.

"I suggest you put that down so we can talk—unless you find that a musket ball will state all that needs to be said, friend."

---

Porthos paced in the tight hall outside of the Cardinal's office impatiently. "'E's been in there an awfully long time." She complained.

Aramis silently agreed from where she sat on the sill of the window. "You know the Cardinal... he's picky with his punishments."

The tall woman grinned. "I 'ope it's somethin' good."

"Why don't we ask?" Aramis smiled. "Here he come's now."

Porthos turned and saw Bonnaire coming down the hall from the Cardinal's office, slowly, looking dazed. "Well?" she asked when he finally reached them. "What is it? Execution? Imprisonment?" If she sounded eager, she couldn't help it. The bastard was finally going to get what he deserved.

"Whipping?" Aramis mused when he still didn't respond. "Wht-ch!" she mimed said whip and she and Porthos laughed.

"Not quite, no." Bonnaire finally spoke up, faintly. "No, the Cardinal and I have set up a joint stock company together. He agree to invest... ten thousand livre of his own money, and I'm to set up tobacco plantations across the Antilles." Bonnaire laughed in amazement as Aramis and Porthos were left speechless.

Porthos managed to wrap her head around it and she didn't like where it ended up. She straightened. "These plantations... They'll be worked by slaves?"

He gave an awkward expression and answered hesitantly. "Yes. Yes, of course they will." He paused and shrugged. "I'm actually off to le Havre to charter a ship."

Aramis stood and slowly approached the man. Bonnaire gave a nervous chuckle at her intense stare and tensed when she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him a couple steps closer to the glaring Porthos. "I thought you were out of the slavery business."

Bonnaire looked between the two crowding woman nervously. "Circumstances, my friends." Aramis slowly took her arm back. "Adapt to circumstance." Porthos seethed at him. He gulped. "It's really all you can... do." And he hurridly squeezed passed the two Musketeers and rushed down the hall, their anger chasing after him like a physical thing.

"This is unbelievable!" Porthos growled, and Aramis reacted just in time to stop the angry woman from striking at the wall and injuring herself further.

"Come on," she murmured gently, still hugging the woman's taut arm. "Let's get back to the garrison."

---

When d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence where he was lodging, his mind was a bit crowded, and figured a wash might be a help to start to clear his head. He hadn't had a bath in nearly five days, and while it hadn't been an uncommon thing, it always made him feel better.

Hair still dripping, he was just buttoned his breaches when he heard the floorboards creak behind him. He turned to find Constance standing in the doorway.

"Constance!" he grinned at her, forgetting his half-undressed state at the sight of her. "Just got back from a mission. How are you?" But she looked conflicted as she looked at him. "What is it? What's wrong?" he took a step towards her.

"There was a woman her while you were away." Constance told him after a moment. "She said her name was Milady de Winter. She seemed to know you... quite well."

d'Artagnan's brows furrowed and he thought on the name. "Milady de Wi—I don't know any Milady de Winter." He confessed. He saw her staring and realized his undressed state. "Sorry!" he hurriedly put on his shirtsleeves.

"Dark hair, green eyes." She paused. "…Very beautiful."

Still, nothing was coming to the Gascon's mind, his head already crowded enough to think much on it. "What did she want?" he wondered, tying his shirt-strings.

"She'd offered my husband work."

d'Artagnan looked at her. "That's good."

Constance nodded, by for whatever reason didn't seem to happy about it. What she said next, caught him completely off guard. Her demeanour turned firm and almost angry. "My husband wouldn't approve of you receiving women alone in the house." He could only nod for his shock and confusion. "In case you intended to..." She trailed off uneasily.

"Constance," he scoffed. "I haven't brought any women here. I'm to busy for that right now." Plus the fact that it would be too awkward with Constance around, not with his growing affection towards her—which he knew completely inappropriate but unable to stop. "I promise."

She seemed relieved by this and let out a shaky breath. "She frightened me, d'Artagnan."

"I won't let anything happen to you." He swore, stepping to her, a warm hand on her shoulder.

She looked up into his deep brown eyes and nodded, because she believed him.

d'Artagnan finally finished dressing and headed back to the garrison. News on Bonnaire's fait should be in by now.

He saw Porthos and Aramis seated solemnly at the usual table by the kitchens and came over. He sat next to Porthos. "So, what happened with Bonnaire? Tar and feathers? Or is it castration?"

"I like 'ow your mind works, lad," Porthos said. "But the Cardinal 'as other ideas." She drank deeply from her wine cup.

"Oh." He was completely disappointed. "So it's something boring like the Chatelet."

"Not even that." Aramis shook her head. He looked at her in confusion and she explained. "It seems like the Cardnial rather liked Bonnaire's plans of a tobacco plantation worked by slaves and made a deal to fund him."

"What?!" d'Artagnan shouted, incredulous. "Richelieu is going to fund him? I know there's nothing that can really be done about the slavery, but what about the fact that he broke the trade treaty between France and Spain. It was the whole reason that we arrested him in the first place!"

"Drink up," Porthos told him, pouring him a glass of wine. "It might help a tick."

He took a deep gulp and sighed. "Bonnaire has more lives than a cat."

"If only those Spanish spies 'ad taken 'is last one, eh?" Porthos mused dryly. "Or I had."

Aramis chuckled. "What did they want with him, anyway?"

Athos came down the stairs from giving Treville her report, just in time to hear Aramis' question. "The Spanish Kings wrote to Louis demanding he put a stop to Bonnaire's actives " Like d'Artagnan, she had changed from her usual black leather doublet, to a blue-quilted, sleeveless tunic that brought out her blue eyes. She sat at the end of the table with d'Artagnan and Aramis on either side of her. "The spies were sent to make sure he didn't escape en route and to shoot him if he did."

d'Artagnan watched her careful, but Athos just gave him a passing glance. He didn't blame her for the way she reacted the next morning after he had found her. She had been drunk, light-headed from the smoke, in shock from the reappearance of her dead lover who would have slit her throat if he hadn't shown up when he did. So it was no wonder in that state that she had confessed what he knew she thought was her deepest and darkest secret. He understood why she had to clarify.

"Oh, we should 'ave let 'em!" Porthos bemoaned.

Athos raised a brow at that and Aramis explained, "Bonnaire's in business with the Cardinal."

Athos was just a shocked about the news as the rest of them were. "He won't be punished?"

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Rewarded."

Athos sighed. For all they'd gone through, her having to return to her past, Porthos getting injured, Maria getting killed—they should have just left Bonnaire alone like Porthos had suggested.

"Well," Aramis held up her glass in announcement, "Here's to us dying together on some forgotten battlefield, while Bonnaire ends his days, old and fat and rich." She dumped the remaining contents onto the ground in loathing.

"Thanks for that cheery thought," he muttered sarcastically and she gave him a mild smile.

"Now, that man will go on to destroy thousands of lives." Porthos said, her voice rough with emotion. "An' there's not a damn thing we can do to stop 'im."

They all sat in silent misery and anger, but Athos' was a different kind of quiet—it was a thoughtful one. "What do you say we shoot some fish in a barrel?" she said, the idea slowly coming to her.

"I am a bit hungry, I could go for some fish." d'Artagnan agreed.

"Nah. I can't eat, not much of an appetite after this mess." Porthos shook her head.

Athos gave them a hard glare. "That's not what I meant."

The pair gave him twin grins.

"Of course we know that's not what you meant." d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. You'd never be tha' fun." Porthos nodded.

Athos expression turned icy and Aramis chuckled until it was sent in her direction.

"I'm still hungry, though." d'Artagnan mumbled.

"Eat later." Athos snapped, rising.

---

The three Musketeers and d'Artagnan found themselves back in Le Havre, in the same tavern where this whole mess started, hidden from sight as Bonnaire made a show of his disgustingly good fortune.

"Tonight, my friends, the drinks are on me," Bonnaire declared, holding up a cup, "The drink are on me, for tomorrow, I set sail to a new and disgustingly prosperous life. Santé!" several patrons cheered and drank.

"We had a deal, Bonnaire!" A dry voice toned with anger cut through the ramble.

Bonnaire stammered, all cheer dropping as he found the source the voice. "Paul, is that you?" Paul Meunier gave him a deadpan expression. Bonnaire tightened himself up, remembering the fact that he had the Cardinal at his back now. "Yes, and I have a new business partner, Paul. You lay one finger on me, and you'll have the Cardinal to answer to." He gave the other man a cocky grin.

Meunier sneered across at him and made a gesture. The smile fell from Bonnaire's lips as around the tavern, several men stood and faced him menacingly, weapons in hand.

Bonnaire instantly wanted to placate. "Uh... Well, I'm sure that we can settle this like men of honour, and we should." He said horridly.

Athos jumped from the crowd before anyone else could move, her sword drawn. "Attack Bonnaire and you attack the King." d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos soon joined him.

But Porthos wasn't feeling much of the love and turned to Athos, angry. "Why are we doin' this? 'E's scum! 'E's a slaver!"

"He's under out protection." d'Artagnan reminded the angry woman.

"Protection be damned!" She snarled.

Aramis turned on Porthos, annoyed at the woman. "We have our orders. We obey them."

Porthos bumped chests with her friend, her eyes hard. She threatened, "I'll kill you to, if you get in my way."

"Ladies!" Athos hissed. "Now is not the time."

They ignored her.

Aramis pressed forward. "Oh, Yeah?" They glared at each other, foreheads whacking.

Unexpectedly, Porthos shoved Aramis, sending her to the ground.

"Shit." Athos cursed, her attention split.

"Come on!" Aramis spat from the ground.

"Bonnaire," Athos spoke quickly aside to the man, "There's a ship waiting in the harbour. d'Artagnan will show you. Hurry and you might live!"

Bonnaire ran through the door before any could react and after a moment's hesitation, d'Artagnan followed. Out on the street, he quickly led the man away from the brawl and to the docks.

"The captain will see you on board." d'Artagnan gestured him up the ramp to a docked ship.

Bonnaire climbed the plank and boards. "Do drop in any time you're near the Caribbean. I'm sure to be home."

d'Artagnan headed back to the tavern, a smirk on his lips as he muttered, "Where you're heading, Bonnaire, is a place I certainly wouldn't visit of my own volition—if only to see you rot, my friend."

The Captain of the ship said, "Welcome, Monsieur Bonnaire. So good of you to join us." And gave a most evil chuckled. "We've been hoping to board you for sometime now."

"Wait..." he called weakly after d'Artagnan, but the young man was already gone. He turned back to the Spanish Agent. "Can't we talk on this?"

"No." He said simply, and his men swooped in on the coward.

---

d'Artagnan returned to a peaceful tavern, in the same state as it had been when he left. He took a seat at the table between Porthos and Aramis, a drink already waiting for him.

"Sorry for th' shove." Porthos grinned at Aramis with no hard feelings.

"A little spontaneity never hurt anyone," Aramis replied, rolling her shoulders.

Porthos chuckled. "But admit it. I frightened you."

Aramis held up a trembling hand for the pair to see, and said in a faux quavering voice, "I-I-I w-was quaking in my b-b-b-boots!"

Porthos gave a hardy laugh. "I knew it!"

"The key to Bonnaire's warehouse. Everything in it is rightfully yours." Athos sat with Meunier at a table pushed together with theirs, and slid a set of keys across the tabletop. "If I were you, I'd move it before the Cardinal takes an inventory." She suggested helpfully and the man stole away said keys. Meunier smiled and shook the clever woman's hands. "No one must know of this. Technically, we're both guilty of treason."

"My lips are sealed." Meunier smiled and left. She was right when she had told him not to doubt her.

"You're the boss around here," d'Artagnan pointed out. "We're just minions, so in all fairness, you should take the blame."

Athos looked aside at him. "Keep that up and it'll stay that way, smartass." She faced them fully. "So far as the Cardinal is concerned, the Spanish kidnapped Bonnaire."

"And spirited him away." Aramis grinned, making a soft gesture through the air.

"Embarrassin'." Porthos agreed solemnly, nodding. She sat back and grinned after a short pause. "But there's not much 'e can do about it."

Aramis raised her glass. "God speed, Bonnaire. May your time in the Spanish prison be long and uneventful."

"Let 'im adapt to those circumstances." Porthos cheered darkly.

"Hear, hear."

They drained their glasses. Mission well done.

Soon after, they left the tavern and Porthos turned to Athos. "Thank you." She said sincerely.

Athos went to pat the woman's shoulder, but Porthos quickly pushed it away. "Oi! Watch my wound."

"Mind my needle work. " Aramis corrected and Athos held out her hand placating. "Though you didn't seem very hindered when pushing me." She pointed out when the pair departed.

Porthos grinned and gave a small shrug. "Special circumstances."

"I'll bet." Aramis gave her shoulder a feinting pat. "Just wait until I take that thread out.

"If only all wrongs were so easily corrected." Athos murmured to d'Artagnan before taking her own leave.

d'Artagnan sighed and watched his mentor leave. He wasn't going to bother a second attempt to question Athos further on what happened that night in Pinon. But if the woman was ever ready, he would be there.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he whipped around to look behind him. But all he saw through the faint torchlight was the blurring fog. Sighing at his nerves, putting them off to being pursued these last couple of days, and started back for his lodgings. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too late when he returned, because Bonacieux always locked the doors early and he could have to find an inn to stay the night in if that happened.

If the young Gascon had turned a bit earlier, or perhaps a bit faster, he would have noticed Milady watching him and Athos, both from the obscurity of the fog.

---

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

As you can see, I kept the relationship between Athos and Anne/Milady, much the same as it was in the show, except for a few minor details, like the fact of them being married. I don't know what/whether Porthos' mother named him something else, but I believe I read somewhere that mentioned Isaac, so I changed it to Izzie, because Porthos is a woman in this fic. Whether this fact is true or not though, I supposed it doesn't really matter because I don't plan on mentioning it another time. :[]

Note: I recently discovered that the estate Athos was previously the Comte to, was not called la Fère, but Pinon, so I corrected that in chapter. Sorry for the mistake.

---

Reference:

In Matthew 5:38-41 , Jesus made three radical statements. First, He said that a person should turn the other cheek when someone strikes him...

"Nothing, how little so ever it be, if it is suffered for God's sake, can pass without merit in the sight of God." - Thomas a Kempis

Translations: (Spanish to English)

La resurrección de las muertos y eterna vida = The resurrection of the dead and eternal life

Quien es usted?= Who are you?

¿por qué estás aquí? = Why are you here?

(French to English)

Santé = Health

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