Charl(i)es' Angels! Chapter 4: Pursuit 4: The Good Soldier, a musketeers fanfic

a/n: Thanks to everyone who has left awesome and encouraging reviews, I'm glad you guys like it so far. Here's another chapter for your pleasure! :)

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

Episode Tag: Season 1, Episode 4: The Good Soldier.

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 4: The Good Soldier —

When d'Artagnan had been asked to join the Inseparables on parade, for the King to welcome the Duke of Savoy—he'd been excited, but now he was starting to wish that he declined.

He groaned quietly. The sun was high and unobscured in the sky, and it beat down on the four of them without reprieve. "It's not all adventure and intrigue, d'Artagnan." Athos told him, standing on his right. "It's better you find that out now."

"Heat. Flies. Boredom. I do so love parades!" Porthos muttered sarcastically. "I'm thinkin' about faintin', just for somethin' to do." Porthos muttered. The others chuckled, but there wasn't the usual charisma that accompanied Aramis' laugh, because she hadn't laughed at all.

"And I'm almost willing to let you." Athos replied, wryly.

"Catch me, if I do?" She wondered.

"No."

"Mmm." The tall woman thought on it. "I'll risk it."

d'Artagnan saw the corner of Athos' mouth twitch, but she said nothing further and he tried to hide his own mirth. It wouldn't do to burst out laughing like that at an official and his first, hopefully of many, Royal parade.

"The King's not happy." Athos noted.

"The Duke's late," d'Artagnan said, that was why they were left standing there. The four of them stood shoulder to shoulder; d'Artagnan, Athos on his right, Porthos on her right, and Aramis at the other end. They were placed in a short hedges path, and on their right, further down, was the King and the Queen, seated under the shade of a small tent, with the Cardinal on the King's right and to the front, and Captain Treville, the same on the Queen's left. Red Guard and other Musketeers were scattered strategically around, and several royal attendants were in company as well.

"Nah. 'E's just bein' an ass 'cos 'e knows the King has to wait." Porthos said.

At d'Artagnan's questioning look, Athos explained. "Savoy's placement. Strategically important against the Spanish influence on France's boarder. That's why we need this treaty signed, and that's why the Duke can take it upon himself to make the King wait."

d'Artagnan gave a low whistle as he looked at the others. "No wonder Louis' pissed."

Aramis hadn't said a word since they'd arrived, had hardly said anything since morning muster at the garrison.

"Is Aramis alright?" he whispered quietly to Athos.

Athos glanced briefly across Porthos, to Aramis, who stood on the other end of their line, looking tense and a bit distracted, and line of sweat on her upper lip. Athos shot a questioning glance at Porthos.

Porthos gave her a look and whispered quietly so Aramis might not hear, "Have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?"

"What massacre?" d'Artagnan gasped.

He had overheard a piece of conversation between the Treville and Aramis before they'd left and wondered if maybe that had to do with this:

"Aramis, if you're not up for this, that's fine. With d'Artagnan going, there's more than enough men."

"Trying to replace me, are you?" But her smiled was tight around the edges. "I'll be alright, sir."

"I'm right here!" Aramis hissed at them. She wiped the sweat front her lip with the back of her hand, refusing to look at them. Apparently not as out of it as the other had suspected.

Before there was any chance of an argument breaking out, the Duke's arrival was finally announced, their carriage pulling one of the several fountains. Out stepped the Duke of Savoy, his wife, the King's sister, the Duchess, and the man's First Minister.

The greetings were frosty and board line rude, but for the King and his sister.

And that was when d'Artagnan saw it out of the corner of his eye, as the King and the Duke shook hands, and turned his head to the line of hedges and trees on the other side, a scattered breeze like a cool exhale that ruffled the leaves. He tensed, his brown eyes narrowing on the spot as he took a intense step forward. And then he saw it, the flare of a flint from a harquebus, and before he could open his mouth in warning, the shot was fired.

An attendant next to the Duke let out a scream that was cut off as he hit the ground dead. And a thing of chaos commenced.

"Protect the King!" Treville screamed.

"Get into formation, now!" Porthos shouted to the other Musketeers.

The King's guard rushed around the King, Queen, and Cardinal, the King's sister and a pissed off Duke, quickly ushering them from the exhibition and back to the Palace.

"Here!" d'Artagnan had shouted, instantly taking of around the drive, the Duke's carriage, and confused Red Guards, Aramis and Athos running after him, Porthos going the long way around.

d'Artagnan jumped over the bush where the shooter had hidden, the gunpowder smoke washing away as he leapt through it and came through with a summersault, instantly popping into his feet. Aramis leapt over, almost like a pouncing cat and scrambled to her feet. Athos was like a graceful gazelle. They came into the garden and were forced to part ways. Aramis went left towards the Palace wall, d'Artagnan straight down the middle, and Athos in the opposite direction.

Aramis came through the hedge and found herself at the Louvre wall. She stopped at a rope that was hanging over the roof and gave it an experimental tug in his gloved hand, shattered clay shingles on the ground at her feet.

Had the shooter already managed to escape? She cursed her inattention. She stepped under the outside walkway through one of a dozens of arches that designed in. Her first thoughts were that he had, but the prickling on her skin she felt, didn't. She slowly looked one way and then turned to the other.

She didn't hear him until it was too late and he was already behind her, a dagger at her throat, her back pressed to his chest. She tensed, her hand on his arm.

"Hello, old love." He whispered in her ear.

"M... Marsac?" she gasped in realization at the voice she hadn't heard in five-year—at the touch.

Marsac loosened his hold slightly as her voice stabbed into his heart, and she flared with sudden anger, striking out at the man. She struck him on the face over her shoulder with the back of her free hand, and gripped his armed wrist at her throat with the other. She twisted from his hold, gripping his wrist still, and kicked him gut before tugging his arm and throwing him to the ground.

Marsac groaned and coughed, rolling onto his back. Aramis, having claimed his dagger, pointed it at him.

"First a deserter and now an assassin?" She scoffed in distaste.

"You don't understand." He told her quickly, a spilt across the bridge of his nose. "It was the Duke of Savoy that led the attack and killed our friends five-years ago."

She tossed the dagger to the gravel outside the walk in disgust and turned her back on the man. Anger griped her, and the ache in her heart was like opened anew. She pulled her pistol and spun back around at him, cocking the weapon as she pointed it down at him. "Put your weapon on the ground."

He eyed the weapon. "We were friends, Aramis. We were in l—"

"Now."

Marsac pulled his sword from its sheath at his hip and set in on the ground, she quickly kicked it away, out of his reach.

"Aramis—please listen to me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Porthos running through the fountain path adjacent to the walk and out of some sense of something, she quickly grabbed a fistful of Marsac's poncho, pulled him up, and pressed them to the pillar hiding them from view until the tall woman jogged passed, not noticing them. She clipped her pistol back onto her belt.

Aramis found them closer, found herself looking into his blue eyes. She stepped back before she could do something even more stupid than before.

"Thank you," he whispered and touched her cheek.

Anger blazed in her usual liquid brown eyes once more, and she drove her fist into his gut. His breath whooshed from his lungs and he doubled over with a wheeze. She took a step back and drove an elbow between his exposed shoulder blades, driving him to the ground. "And that's for leaving me with 20 dead Musketeers!" She gasped for breath, fighting the tears that wanted to overwhelm her—angry tears.

Marsac cautiously climbed to his feet, when he got a reasonable amount of breath back into his lungs, he spoke. "Have you never asked yourself what really happened that night? All those years, we thought it was the Spanish that butchered our friends..." Aramis paced in front of him, took her hateoff and rain her fingers through her short locks, remembering a hand that wasn't her own that used to do the same thing when they were longer; only half paying attention until he finished with: "It was the Duke."

She pushed him against the pillar. "How do you know?" she demanded. "The raiding party was all masked."

"I've made it my life's work to find out the truth."

She narrowed her eyes and gave him another shove before she backed away. She found it hard to think, too overwhelmed by the past. Bus just as suddenly she was back at him again, her hand fisted in his poncho.

"You left me!" she sobbed.

"I couldn't stay," he whispered in a broken voice, "I couldn't—"

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan came skidding to a halt, her back to him.

She inhaled sharply, schooling her features before she looked at him over her shoulder, though clearly her eyes were overly shinny.

Confused, he said, "Is that him? I'll get the others." He turned.

"d'Artagnan, wait." He turned back to her. "Don't tell the other's, not yet."

"What?" he laughed, incredulous. "Of course get the others. He tried to assassinate the King!"

"Not the King!" Marsac corrected.

"Shut up!" Aramis gave him a shove.

"What the hell's going on, Aramis?" d'Artagnan demanded, raising his pistol and pointing it at Marsac, his question punctuated by the clicking of the cock. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. She been acting uneven ever since Treville announced their assignment at morning muster, and talk of this massacre at Savoy. Something was clearly amiss.

"Please." She released Marsac and walked towards him.

He felt extremely uncomfortable pointing it at her and lowered the gun. "Aramis, this is insane!" he hissed at her, shooting furtive glances at the shooter.

"Trust me, Charlie." She said. "He's an old friend."

"An old friend?" he scoffed. "An old friend that just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy."

"Hear him out. Marsac was one of the best soldiers in the Regiment."

"He a Musketeer?" he was sceptical as he looked across at the man, who stared back at him with blazing eyes.

"He was." Her expression twisted as she turned back to him.

"For the sake of our friendship, for what we once were—let me prove what I know!" Marsac pleaded to her.

She went back to d'Artagnan. "I need you to keep quiet about this for now."

"Have you gone mad?" he hissed.

"Possibly, but... I owe him my life."

d'Artagnan searched her eyes and she stared back at him steadily, a firm expression on her beautiful features. He sighed and groaned, flicking his bangs out of his eyes; he was going to deeply regret this, he knew he was, but he agreed anyways. "If this gets me hanged," he warned her, "I'm going to take it very personally."

Aramis gave him a weak smile and relieved breath, patting his chest. But it was short-lived as Athos came running to them. They tensed.

"Anything?" she questioned, looking between the two, Marsac just edged out of sight.

"No." Aramis said. "It's where he came through, but it looks like he's long gone by now."

Athos sighed. "Alright. You two keep looking, just in case he decided he has a pair, and wants a second go at the Duke. I'll head back and report to Treville." She left, cursing to herself under her breath.

d'Artagnan turned narrowed eyes on the woman. "I'm not if I should be worried, or impressed, at how well you just lied to Athos."

"We need to hide him somewhere," she said instead, and was giving him a pointed look.

He returned the look for a long moment and dread visibly filled him as he realized what she was thinking. "No." He said. "No!" He was going to regret this even further, and he wondered, not for the first time, or the last time, exactly what kind of shit storm he was allowing himself to get dragged into.

Aramis quickly tugged the flap of her cloak over hers and Marsac's bound hands, to hide the fact that he was a prisoner and not an innocent guest. She glanced at d'Artagan, who had a tight expression on his face out of sight of Constance, clearly not happy with this situation at all.

"So, Monsieur Marsac, I assume you're a soldier?" Constance queried politely.

"Not at all." Aramis answered for him. "He a cabinet-maker."

"Cabinet-Maker?" Marsac muttered.

"High skilled." She agreed, giving him a look.

"Of course, that's exactly what I am, uh," Marsac drawled, trying to find something that he knew about cabinet-makers, which wasn't much. "An artist in oak, uh, walnut... chestnut... ?"

"Chestnut?" Aramis muttered this time.

"I don't know, all types of wood." Marsac shrugged helplessly, but Constance didn't seemed to notice.

"How long will you be staying?" Constance wondered.

"Oh, just a few days." d'Artagnan said pointedly.

"Can't he answer for himself?" she raised a brow at the Gascon.

"He's just very shy and doesn't go out much, if ever." Aramis said through her teeth. "Do you?" she elbowed him. Marsac grimaced but said nothing.

"Well, if you're willing to vouch for him, he can stay in d'Artagnan's room." Constance told them.

"Great," d'Artagnan muttered. He was lying to Constance, hiding a fugitive, lying to Athos and Porthos and Treville, and now he was out of a bed for the night. Just fantastic.

"If you'll excuse me?" Constance squeezed passed Marsac and Aramis in the doorway, her arms full of material.

"I'm in your debt, Madame!" Marsac called after her with a lingering eyes.

d'Artagnan glared at him. "She's married... and a friend."

"I was admiring from a distance," he said innocently, and the Gascon didn't miss the flash that went through Aramis' gaze when he said it.

"Make it as far away as possible, so far, in fact, it doesn't exist at all." He growled, pushing passed the man and after Constance.

"Come on," Aramis tugged the man's bound wrist with her own and guided them to where d'Artagnan had indicated his room.

Aramid pushed him onto the edge of the single bed, in the small room, and sat next to him briefly while she untied their bound wrists, before kneeling in front of him to bind his own hand together this time.

The whole time, she could feel his eyes watching her, but she pointedly kept to the task. Since his reappearance, she had been alternating between hot and hotter, physical anger and emotional anger that wanted to sway between crying, screaming and hitting.

"Where would I go if I escaped?" He murmured.

"I don't know." She admitted just as softly. "That's why I'm not letting you loose." She tied off the rope and gripped his bound hands tightly in her own, in—she didn't know what. She looked up at him. "I've thought of you many times, Mar. Wondered... wondered what you were doing, what you were thinking, if you'd moved on, or had found somebody."

He chuckled without humour and his blue eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, and a loneliness that made her heart ache for him, for herself. And she suddenly just wanted his arms around her again, but she stifled the impulsive urge—that was what got her here in the first place.

"Moved on?" he scoffed. "Found somebody?" he shook his head. "It's been precarious. A musket for hire, with thieves for company and one eye on the door. I'm weary of it, Aramis. I can't take it any longer—that's why I came back, to finish this."

"You're name is held in contempt amongst your old comrades." She told him bluntly. "You're a coward and a deserted. For that alone, you're under the sentence of death."

"No one has the right to judge me!" he shouted. "You alone know what really happened..."

Silence descended between the pair, and with a heavy heart, she covered his with his poncho and stood. She slung her soft blue Musketeer's cloak over one shoulder and turned to the door.

"Treachery can't go unpunished, Aramis." He called after her departing back. "The lives of our dead friends much be avenged!"

"So? How's it going?" d'Artagnan asked gently, wondering after Constance with a guilty conscious.

She gave him a critical eye. "What? What have you done?"

"What do you automatically assume I've done something?" he asked, specifically not answering the question, because soon it would be what hadn't he done?

"Because you do." She returned back to her work.

He sighed and smiled despite himself. "You know me so well, Constance."

"Hmm. We'll see," she smirked and he grinned back.

"Ahem." Aramis cleared her throat from the doorway. "Am I interrupting something? I can come back later."

"No, we're fine. "Constance rolled her eyes and turned back to her task.

"We should head back to the garrison and give our report." She told d'Artagnan, who nodded and said his farewell to Constance.

d'Artagnan was only able to hold his tongue on the matter for as long as it took him and Aramis to walk the 10 yards from the Bonaciuex's doorstep, to their mount harnessed in the small, open stable in the courtyard.

"What happened in Savoy?"

Aramis stilled.

He could understand if Aramis didn't want to talk about. He'd lost his father months ago now, but every time he talked or thought about what it was like to have Alexandre die in his arms, it tore the hole in his heart afresh. A lump of emotion would always form in his throat and choke him and tears would prick his eyes.

Perhaps, when he was older, there would be a time when he thought about his father, and though he would be sad at his sudden passing, he would remember the good times that they shared, the connection that they had, and not linger of the devastating memory of his father dying in his arms in the pouring rain.

He knew it was not the same to what Aramis was sure to have been through. Massacre. Just the word made d'Artagnan shudder. She would never force him to speak about Alexandre's death scene, and he felt guilt rise up inside as he had done just that.

"If you—"

"No." Aramis whispered, interrupting him, knowing what he was going to say. "No. I forced you into this situation, the least I can do is tell you why." She slung her cloak across her horse's saddle and they slowly walked to the square's well. She took a deep breath. "We were camping near the French boarder. It was a training exercise. We had no reason to be on our guard." Pain flashed through her eyes and she took off her hat, picking at it in her hands as she spoke. "We were attacked in the night, most of our men killed as they slept. Marsac and I knew we were going to die, but we fought side by side, regardless, like soldiers."

"How did you survive?" he gasped. They finally arrived at the well and he sat on the edge, dipping his hands in the full bucket next to him, watching his sister dredge up the past, that he was sure she would rather leave there.

"I was wounded." Her thumbnail drew across the thin, nearly invisible scar on her forehead, her draw not straying, like she'd done it unconsciously thousands of times over the years. "Marsac dragged my to safety in the woods. He didn't go back to fight. He hid in the trees, watching the massacre. When I woke up the next morning, I... found him sitting amongst the bodies, overcome with shame and remorse. He felt he should have died, too." She gave a broken sigh and leaned against the well next to him. She dipped her hand in the bucket and rubbed the back of her neck. She choked as she continued. "He ripped odd his uniform and rode away. I should have stopped and told him that he hadn't done anything wrong, that throwing his own life away would achieve nothing.

"We were more than friends, you know?" She scoffed lightly and shook her head. "Just the day before, we had talked about our life after the Musketeers—about our life together..." she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "He just saved my life, and I let him ruin his own. But in his own eyes, he is a coward and a deserter. Not in mine," she whispered. "Never in mine." She pressed her hat back on her head pulling the brim low over her eyes, needing some semblance of privacy to collect herself.

The second that massacre happened, she lost whatever life they might of had. That day broke the man that she had loved, turned him into a shell, changed him beyond repair. In the back of her heart, there was always that hope, that dream—but she knew she was just being a fool. It was only a matter of when she would actually admit it to herself, and stop committing to a lie.

The closer they rode to the garrison, the more that d'Artagnan filled with dread and unease. Until finally, the four of them followed Treville to his office and it was too late to do anything else.

"How in God's name did he escape?" Treville demanded, frustrated at the prospect of the assassin still free to attempt another go.

"We lost him on the grounds." Athos said.

"He just, uh... got away." Aramis shrugged helplessly.

Yeah, just with a little help from us, d'Artagnan thought.

"Did you see him either?" Treville stood behind his desk, looking at him.

d'Artagnan was caught unawares by the pointed question his way, and floundered. "I, um... slipped." As soon as it left his mouth, he wanted to throw himself forward and smash his head against the Captain's desk. Why? he wondered. Oh, why?

Treville scoffed and straightened. "You slipped." The others were giving him similar expressions.

"Wet grass... (?)" he whispered. Aramis really wanted to join in the head banging, if she could, please.

"There's a killer on the loose," his voice was hard as he started to come back around his desk, "And security of the nation hangs by a thread," he stopped in front of d'Artagnan, so close that young Gascon fought the urge to step back."But at least little d'Artagnan didn't get a nastly bruise!" he spat.

Embarrassment stained his olive cheeks, and he had to bit his tongue from speaking. Any respect and confidence he had worked to achieve, was just smashed to bits in seconds. He really wanted to kill Aramis in this moment, not caring that it took two to get into a bad situation.

"Athos. Porthos. Report to the Palace in the morning." Treville ignored him now, and went back behind his desk. "As long as the Duke is in France, his safety is now your despicability. And be vigilant. The assassin is still out there somewhere." He looked at d'Artagnan, "Perhaps avoid the grass." He dismissed them.

d'Artagnan and Aramis shared a look that Athos didn't miss as they left, and her already suspicious inklings from earlier mounted.

"You slipped?" Aramis hissed at d'Artagnan as the pair hurried from the others, down the stairs. "That was all you could come up with?"

d'Artagnan glared at her. "What about you? Cabinet-Maker? Really? 'He just, uh, got away'?"

"That was better than wet grass! Nobody slips on wet grass!"

"How would you know? The only grass in Paris is at Louvre!" d'Artagnan jerked his arm in the general direction on the Palace.

"Hey." Athos called to the hurrying pair, stopping them at the garrison gate before they could escape her attention. "You're hiding something."

Porthos crossed her arms and nodded in agreement.

"No idea what you mean." Aramis said pointedly, sliding a warning glance at d'Artagnan.

Athos narrowed her eyes at the answer, and then turned her gaze onto the unhappy Gascon. "You, too." His lips were pursed. "What is it?"

"That grass was dry as sand, mate." Porthos added, with narrowed eyes.

Aramis shot him an I-told-you look and the young man narrowed his eyes.

"If you don't tell them," d'Artagnan growled at Aramis, sick of this, enough was enough already! "I will." This wasn't like him holding onto Athos' secret past. What the two of them were doing, hiding a wanted fugitive, the attempted assassination of a high-ranking nobleman—they could be hung themselves, branded traitors to King and Country.

"Tell us what?" Porthos glowered at the tight-lipped Spaniard.

She suddenly groaned and hung her hand, running a hand along her face, suddenly looking haggard. "Here's the thing..."

"You brought a wanted man into my house?" Constance clearly wasn't happy. "A deserter?"

"Deserter and assassin." Athos pointed out helpfully from the end of the table in the Bonaciuex kitchen where the six of them had convened after Athos and Porthos had stopped Aramis and d'Artagnan at the gate and pulled their confessions. Neither woman had been happy at the big secret that was kept from them, especially Athos. And d'Artagnan was sure this was some sort of sick revenge on her part, siccing Constance on them.

"I'm guessin' they didn't mention that part." Porthos noted the expression on the red-haired woman's face, standing in front of the unlit fireplace.

"Failed assassin, technically." Marsac piped up unhelpfully from where he sat at the table as well, near the opposite end of the table from Athos, Aramis standing at his left shoulder, and Constance at the end of the table.

"Oh, you keep quiet. I don't want to know." Constance shook her head. She turned to d'Artagnan, angry. "But I trusted you."

"d'Artagnan's not to blame." Aramis spoke. "He behaved with honour."

"Honour?! Honourable people don't lie to their friends." Constance clearly wanted to slap Aramis, but luckily for the woman herself, with Marsac seated between the standing pair, she was out of reach—but d'Artagnan wasn't. "You lied to me." The force behind it made his eyes water. "You looked me in the face and said you weren't up to anything!"

"Constance —" he whispered. He'd caused that, the hurt and the betrayal that shone on her eyes. "I'm sorry. We'll find somewhere to else to put him—"

"No." She told him.

"What?" he looked at her.

"He can stay." She said. "But you can pack your things immediately." And she brushed passed him from the room, her shoulders and expression tight.

d'Artagnan looked after her helplessly. "That hardly seems fair." He whispered. The door slamming the next moment made him flinch.

"She'll forgive you," Aramis offered after a moment of awkward silence. "Just give her time."

He looked at the woman earnestly. "How much time?"

"Ah, a decade or two... maybe." Porthos wasn't as funny as she thought she was and he glowered at her.

"That's... mean, Porthos." He sulked.

"Have you both completely lost your minds?!" Athos demanded, her hand slamming on the table. She looked between Aramis and d'Artagnan like it was true. She'd held herself in check long enough while Madame Bonacieux was present, but now—now she felt like her head was going to explode with anger and frustration. "The two of you are completely unbelievable!"

"Perhaps Athos doesn't care about 20 dead musketeers." Marsac muttered loudly.

And there he was, the cause of all of d'Artagnan's problems. He glared at the man.

"Insulting a woman that holds your life in her hands?" Athos clearly wasn't impressed, and her entire demeanour plainly said so as she rolled her eyes at him in cold disdain. "I see you are a fool as well as a coward."

Marsac jumped to his feet at the insult, blazing in anger. Athos jumped to her own feet, readily confronting the man. She didn't much like him, even back before the massacre. And afterward, everything she had suspected of the man was proven correct. But Aramis never had such clarity, not during or after—and certainly not now. She held a blind spot for the man. Athos had the same problem with Anne, but there had been that single event that shot everything into clarity, put a spotlight on the obscure little things that really painted the picture. Eventually, her friend would see, and unfortunately, it would break something inside of her. But maybe, unlike Athos, she wouldn't be broken.

Before either could tear the other's throat out, Aramis jumped in-between them, and separated them. "Just hear him out." She beseeched the other woman. "If you're not satisfied, I'll do whatever you suggest."

There was a bloated pause as Athos turned her disgusted glare from the man she looked down on, to one of her few friends in life. She saw the earnest and pleading look in the brown eyes, and Athos gave a solid nod in agreement to the terms.

"There's somebody you should speak to first, then." Marsac told them.

Marsac led the four warily from the Bonacieux residence, through the crowded streets of Paris, and to a derelict cellar that was empty but for a few barrels shoved in one corner, and a man a bit roughed up and trussed by his wrists to the ceiling, left to dangle on his toes, and rag shoved in his mouth as a gag, looking as if he'd been there for days.

"Found him in a bar, drunk and bragging about killing Musketeers." Marsac went to the man and pummelled him harshly in the gut. The man groaned around the rag. He pulled the rag out. "Tell them what you told me!" he screamed in the man's face, before punching him.

"Easy!" d'Artagnan shouted. "He can't talk if he's out cold."

The man glared at the group, but spoke without more prompting. "I was a soldier in the pay of the Duke of Savoy. At Easter, five-years ago, he told us the French had come to kill him and put his son in his place."

"Go on." Aramis urged, stepping forward. Her heart was jolted to the base of her throat.

He inhaled. "We rolled out on Good Friday. Slaughtered the Musketeers as they slept." He continued cruelly, "They were snoozing like babies when we crept into their tents."

Aramis felt bile rise in her throat and wanted to be sick. She took her hat off, turned slightly away, running a rough hand through her hair, trying to get herself under control. If only they had been sleeping, instead of gutted and sprawled in the snow, their tents shredded and soaked with blood. She'd remembered. They only reason why her and Marsac hadn't been slaughtered in the first 10 minutes was because they'd snuck off to fool around.

"They were my friends!" Marsac shrieked, striking him with a roundhouse that made the man's head lull.

"No! No, wait!" The man shouted quickly as Marsac went to punch him again. "I'll tell you who gave the Duke his information."

Athos quickly grabbed the blond man and shoved him away before turning back to the man, blood dribbling from his broken nose.

"Speak." She ordered.

He spoke quickly, breathless. "I overheard him and his Chancellor—uh, uh, Cluzet, discussing his name. We knew where you were camped. We were tipped off!"

Aramis turned back to him, and said around the lump in her throat, "What name did you hear?" But he didn't answer. "Who betrayed the Musketeers? Who?!" She grabbed the man's throat, choking him, but no one tried to pull her off like they had Marsac. "Tell me!"

The man gurgled. "Yarville. No! It was C-Captain—Captain Treville!"

"Treville..." Athos muttered in disbelief.

"Well, that makes sense. Every man had his price." Marsac spat.

"You take that back!" Porthos roared and went for him.

"Porthos!" Athos stepped in front of the tall woman, blocking her path. Porthos seized and fought herself about shoving the woman aside and throttling Marsac anyways. She could think of nothing more satisfying in life at the moment. "Ladies, d'Artagnan." He murmured and jerked her head.

And slowly, the four went to another corner in the cellar, away from the man and Marsac.

"The Captain? Really? The Captain?" he repeated, shaking his head. "A traitor who organized the murder of his own men? It's impossible."

"Well, 'e's lyin'." Porthos declared simply.

"How did the Duke find us so easily?" Aramis persisted. "Someone had to tell him. Someone who knew our orders... It was Treville who issued them." She said reluctantly and the three of them looked at her in disbelief.

"How do we even know what this guy is saying is the truth?" he protested. "I mean, look at the condition he's in—"

Aramis narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying, d'Artagnan?"

"I'm saying…" he took a deep breath and he looked back at her solemnly, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't want to say this, not because he cared for Marsac, but because he cared for Aramis. "Marsac has been clearly going at the guy. He looks, and smells, like he's been here for days. I think he's just confessed to the things that Marsac has been screaming, and hammering to him about. I can't blame the guy, with Marsac as his captor."

Aramis was really getting angry now. "Are we going to have a problem?"

"That's enough." Athos intervened and the two glared at each other. "We don't know if this man is telling the truth—you know that as much as any of us, Aramis."

"Hey, Marsac." The man hissed so the others wouldn't hear. He mocked the already unhinged man. "You're friends made a pretty picture with their throats cut, eh? Laying in the snow, half naked!" He laughed.

Marsac saw red as he approached the man... and then he really saw red.

"He's obviously heard Treville's name somehow." d'Artagnan reasoned, oblivious like the other three, to what was happening just on the other side of column where the man was hung.

"He'd say anything to save his own skin." Porthos nodded in agreement, her arms crossed over her chest. Porthos remembered a man just like this. She rolled her right shoulder unconsciously in remembrance. Bonnaire was now rotting, miserable, and deserving in a Spanish prison right now. He'd been on the cutting block, too.

"I agree." Athos said, ever the calm voice in the unreasonable. "There must be some explanation."

They looked at Aramis (who reluctantly knew they were right), waiting for her response. In the pending silence, there heard the clear gasping, choking pants of a dying man. The three women were very familiar with the sound of the dying, and soon enough, d'Artagnan would be as well.

They rushed to the opposite corner of the cellar.

"Marsac! Marsac!" Athos quickly wrenched Marsac away from the convulsing man and d'Artagnan quickly checked him.

"He's dead." He said, even though an inspection was unneeded. His gaping throat was clear and grotesque, his whole front soaked with blood as he hung limply from his bound hands tied to the ceiling.

"Not laughing now, are you, you son of a bitch!" Marsac spat. "What a pretty picture you make."

"You idiot!" Aramis screamed at him and Porthos punched him, finally, with her unusual strength. He fell back into the barrels in the corner, nearly senseless. "We needed him, he was a witness."

"Enough!" Athos' voice sliced through the tension and anger like a wicked blade. "Porthos, d'Artagnan—cut him down." The tall woman and young man went to work. "You really are an idiot." Athos looked down at Marsac, who sat up on the ground. "Do you even care about 20 dead Musketeers?" she said his own words back at him coldly.

They had no choice but to leave the man's body in the cellar. They didn't know his name, they knew nothing about him, but that he claimed to be a part of the party that slaughtered those Musketeers five-years ago. They only had dead man's word, and Marsac's word—which meant nothing to the older woman. Marsac had killed the man before anything could be done, but a shotgun confession and it made d'Artagnan's suggestion all the more reasonable. Who knew how long that Marsac had held that man prisoner. Porthos had been right when she said that he would say anything.

It was clear to Athos, to anyone, that Marsac was a loose canon. He couldn't be trusted and he was unpredictably unhinged. He was hardly a man any more. The man didn't think, he just acted. He was a beast in all but shape.

She had let this madness go on for long enough.

"Treville is a patriot, a man of honour." d'Artagnan said. "The charges against him are ridiculous!"

"We have accusations, not proof." Athos corrected.

"Then we'll find proof." Marsac insisted.

Porthos looked at him in disgust. "There's no 'we' here."

"Aramis, you were there." Marsac pulled the woman to a stop, and the others came to a halt as well. "You saw their butchered bodies—"

Aramis spun on him. "You don't need to remind me." She paused. "Athos is right. There is no proof. With the man dead and no identity, we have no way of knowing."

Marsac scoffed. "Don't you want revenge?"

"I want justice." She said tightly.

Porthos looked at Aramis. "This is the Captain we're talkin' about."

She sighed. "Which is why we owe it to him to clear his name."

d'Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest, and said from where he stood behind Porthos. "So, really, we be doing him a favour?" the disgust towards Aramis' reasoning was clear. "Let's hope he sees it that way."

"This is none of your business." Marsac dismissed him with the flick of a finger. "You're not even a Musketeer."

That cut d'Artagnan deeper than he was willing to admit, least of all in front of this man. He sneered back at him and said, cuttingly, "Apparently, neither are you."

Marsac charged at him, and he tensed, but luckily for the blond man, Porthos was in his way, otherwise, d'Artagnan would of had an outlet to unburden his feelings on.

"Don't go there," she growled lowly, threateningly, and shoved him away, "Not if you want to keep breathin', mate. I'll have your heart inna minute."

Marsac didn't look half-done yet, even at the clear threat, and Aramis put a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. "I have to know the truth." She told Athos.

Athos sighed as she looked at her friend. "I don't believe Treville is guilty, and I never will..." she paused and decided how to continue. "But I won't stand in your way. Do what you have to do." Aramis looked tremendously relieved to have Athos' acceptance. She would have gone ahead and done it anyways, but it was a weight off her shoulder to have the older woman's credence. "One condition, though," and the sharpshooter waited, Athos' blue gaze cutting to the blond man, "Marsac stays under house arrest."

Aramis glanced at him and nodded, and Porthos grabbed the man roughly, leading him away.

Aramis called after the group, "During the massacre, I wounded their leader—a cut across the back. If it is the Duke who led the attack, he'll still carry the scar." She'd done it as he turned to flee, it was how she got the scar on her forehead.

"Aramis." Athos urged the others forward, but turned back to woman. "Before you take this road, ask yourself one question... If it's true—what then?" Blue eyes met brown and Athos squeezed her shoulder before she went after the others.

Aramis gazed after her for a long moment, her expression hard with her resolve. She wanted answers—needed them—but she didn't know where she should start.

She found herself without company, not alone in the garrison yard, but isolated nonetheless. She hadn't allowed herself alone to her thoughts since Treville made the announcement of the Duke's visit. She was afraid of what kind of state of mind it might leave her in, and she needed to function, to think clearly.

Though she'd standing next to the others at the parade, she had to fight hard not to let the memory engulf her, drown her in snow and blood. Despite the heat of the hot, beating sun shinning down on her, she'd felt chilled, and haunted.

But now, lost, with nothing to distract her, it was like she was thrown back to that horrible dawn.

The snow danced down from the grey sky, light flurries like little feathers that landed on her chilled skin and in her dark, tangled tresses—melting. She could hear men shouting, the screams—but it was like she was underwater; their cries distorted and muffled. Soon she would realize that it was just memories, of echoes of past screams of dead and slaughtered men, but not just yet. Their bodies thrown around the woods, like some sick ritual.

She'd remembered the flash of steel, the sudden flare of pain on her forehead, and then she was falling, blinded by blood spilling hot into her eyes, before she struck her head on the ground. She's slashed the leader's back and this was retaliation.

She'd moaned, the noise sounding muffled in her ears and she opened her eyes to see Marsac above her, tightening a scarf around her head roughly.

"Come on!" Come on!

And she remembered his arm around her chest, dragging her away, blood bleeding into her eyes, distorting her sight, blinding her—but not blinding her enough because she saw it—saw their bodies fall as easily as an overturned stool.

His despair was violent as she was to move herself, to verbalize. She blinked in and out of time, and the next she opened her eyes, he was missing and she stumbled from their hiding place, disoriented, searching for the man she loved. For the man that had saved her life.

The camp was in disarray. The bodies of Musketeers were scattered around the frozen ground like dead flies. The blood was so bright, red against the white snow. Splashing, painting any surface it could reach. She tripped stumbling over an outstretched arm, and reached out to catch herself, only to fall onto her knees.

Gasping, she'd found him, standing in the middle of the massacre, turning, the bloody bodies blending into one.

She'd been helpless. Able to do nothing as he tore off his pauldron and let it drop to the ground. His lips moved as he said something to her, but she couldn't hear, the screams stuck in her ears. And then he turned his back on her, and disappeared, leaving her with twenty butchered Musketeers.

"Marsac! Marsac..."

But it was too late. He was gone.

She crawled to his discarded pauldron, the engraved Fluer-de-lis, lined with blood. It was like she'd been drugged.

She curled up onto her side, hugging the leather to her chest, her tears coming to freeze upon her pale and cold cheeks, and was happy when she knew no more of the world and its horror, forever etched into her body, her heart... her soul. It became a part of her, just like the scar on her forehead did.

"You want some dinner?"

Aramis was jolted out of remembrance as Serge set down a bowl of rolls in front of her.

She gave herself an internal shake, and the old man an apologetic smile. "No, thanks." She hadn't been hungry since that morning, didn't have the appetite with all that had happened since then. The churning in her stomach was more than enough to fill it.

He just shrugged and with a sigh, started to limp back to the kitchens, but she found herself calling to him. "Serge?" he turned back to her inquiringly and she stole herself. "You remember Marsac?"

"Oh, I remember him." He nodded. "Good soldier until... well, you know." He paused and looked at her, keener than before. "It's the visit from the Duke of Savoy, isn't it? Stirs up bad memories." He gave her a sympathetic smile before going back to the kitchens.

She sighed heavily and turned back.

She caught sight of Treville out of the corner of her eye, and looked up to find the very man of subject in her troubles, leaning against the railing of the balcony, looking upon his yard. He saw her, and gave a nod, she returned the gesture automatically as a plan started to from inside her head.

Athos and Porthos went to the tavern for food a drink before going to rest for the night for their morning duty at the Palace tomorrow, as d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence, with Marsac in tow. And reluctantly, a Constance's previous behest, started to pack his meager belongings after he'd settled the man in. He didn't have much in the way of possessions, not even back home on the farm in Lupiac. His family hadn't been rich, and they only had what they needed, but for some few items that were considered a 'splurge' of their coin. He hadn't been back but to bury his father next to his mother in the village graveyard. His most prized possessions were the ones he always carried with him, his father's sword, his main guache, and just recently, Vadim's coin.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing my things." d'Artagnan told her, sighing. "Just like you told me." He turned to her, the tied bag in his hand.

She looked at him in disbelief, and then her expression hardened and she grabbed the back from his hand, leaving his startled. "After everything we've been through, and you still don't trust me."

"What are you talking about?" he scoffed. "I trust you!"

"Then why do you keep insisting on lying?"

"I was trying to protect you." He protested.

"Do I look like I need protection?" he opened his mouth to respond. "Shut up! I don't. I don't want it. What I want, is to be treated as an equal."

He looked at her. "I made a promise to Aramis." He reached for his bag but she pulled it from his reach.

Something flashed in her grey-blue eyes. "So you chose her, over me?" her voice was quiet.

"Constance," he murmured and reached out, brushing his thumb across her cheek for a brief moment. "It's not that simple." He leaned forward and her eyes didn't leave his. He took his bag back. "There's a question of loyalty."

He stepped back and she blinked out of her daze, giving her head a little shake. She gave him a serious look and he sighed.

"I know, okay? But it's different. Athos, Aramis and Porthos; they're different from you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she crossed her arms over her chest indignantly, looking a bit cross.

"They're them and you're you, Constance. It's not an insult. They're my friends, my sisters" —My Angels— "and you're... you're Constance."

The way he said her name, it made her heart flutter in such a way that made her want to put her hand over her heart, but she refused the action. "If you put it like that... then I suppose you can stay."

"Great." He grinned. "That was my plan all along, flatter you until I got my way!" But there was something fast that flashed quickly through his passionate brown eyes before it was shut away just as fast, that indicated otherwise. "You won't regret it. I won't make the same mistake next time."

She gave a small, wry smile. "Next time?"

He looked sheepish. "Is that what I said? I meant never." He gave her a tentative grin.

She gave a small chuckle and shook her head despite herself. "I don't think such a word could ever apply to you, d'Artagnan. But the next time there is a next time, you'll be out on your ear. Hear?" d'Artagnan nodded rapidly. "And... perhaps I would miss you."

He gave her a pleased smile in return and she left smiling to herself.

Feeling the best he had all day, since the start of calamity of a day, he dumped the meagre contents from his bag onto the bed, feeling satisfied and home.

Athos and Porthos reported to the Palace with Treville, like the Captain had ordered the previous day, standing to the side as the King and Cardinal received the Duke and his First Minister.

"A bodyguard of Musketeers?" the Duke groused. "It's like being protected by... she-wolves." He sent a scathing glance towards the two women, who gave no outward reaction. "Have you captured the man who tried to kill me yet? Or have you been sitting on you hands?"

"We shouldn't allow ourselves to be distracted by minor issues." The Cardinal said soothingly, waving away his concern. Little did the men know, that the Inseparables already had the man in custody.

"My life might be a minor issue to you, Cardinal," he spat, "but not to me."

"You came to Paris to sign the treaty! Further delays are in no one's interest."

The Duke scoffed and slowly approached the two Musketeers. "I will fight a duel..." he said, and eyed the two woman, his grey eyes narrowed as they landed on Athos, "With this Musketeer." Athos and Porthos shared a quick glance as the Duke turned back to the Cardinal. "If she wins, then we discuss the treaty. I triumph... then I return home without delay."

"Sorry, I assume you're joking?" the Cardinal argued.

The Duke just grinned at the man before turning to his First Minister, and removed his doublet and retrieved his weapons. Athos glanced at Treville, who gave his assent and she turned to Porthos, who took her pistols, blue uniform cloak, and her black leather doublet as well.

The Cardinal quickly turned to Treville and hissed, "Will your woman win?"

"Athos is the best swordswoman in the regiment." Treville told him.

"That's not what I asked—And hardly helpful, seeing as there's only three of them!"

"Perhaps I should have said better than any man? Would that had satisfied you?" Treville scoffed at the other man in response and the dignitary went to stand next to the King, not a happy man.

"Is this a good idea, Cardinal?" King Louis murmured to him.

"That rather depends on the outcome, sire." He muttered.

Athos moved to the center of the room, slashing her sword lightly through the air in front of her, warming up her muscles a bit for the task ahead. She'd drunk last night, of course she had, it was just supposed to be a simple parade. The King would welcome the Duke, they would sign the treaty and then go their separate way—but then the past had to come back and bit them in the asses and pulled them into this entire mess. Luckily, she'd hadn't drunk herself into a stupor, and didn't need Porthos to carry her back to her apartment. Who would have guess she would have to do a duel?

The Duke faced her. "He who draws blood first is the winner." He said. "And don't think because you're a woman, I'll go easy on you. I'll cut you down just like any man in my way..."

Athos' blood was simmering under the surface. She'd remembered that fear that had choked her, when she'd heard news of the massacre. Like the earth was opening up before her feet again and all she could see was Thomas, sprawled on the floor, bloody; Anne, as the rope pulled taut around her throat;— and then Aramis in the snow.

But by some God, she was alive. She had survived. If not broken. But she and Porthos, they were their to pick up the pieces, to put her back together from the devastation of the massacre and Marsac's desertion.

Aramis was her sister. It was more than just a word, it was more than just a title. It was because of Aramis, and because of Porthos, that she was even here today, that dragged her out of her fragmented life. They were the reason she was here today, why she was able to function to the standard that she did. And it was because of d'Artagnan's twice interference that Athos was still here, to stand present for this duel.

But Marsac had come back and stuck all their foots in it. The Duke was here, and the distaste in her grew—the anger.

She saluted with her sword and held the steel out in front of her. He touched his tip with hers, and they slowly circled.

He pushed forward in a thrust of his sword, and Athos shoved it away, backing up a step. He made to strike and she threw in a quick thrust that he turned aside to avoid and swung back. She blocked it, and in their close proximity, he elbowed her in the face.

It blinded her for a moment, and she could feel him tense against her for another strike. She put of her sword just in time to block it and stumbled away from, straightening as she wiped the corner of her mouth. He chuckled as she looked back at him with cold eyes.

They met in the middle with a flurry of strikes that were blocked. She threw an overhead stroke at him, but he blocked it and returned the favour double-handed. She was forced to block it double-handed, and felt the shocks from the strength go down her arms. Their blades locked and he shoved her, throwing her at the King's feet. Laughing quietly as she leapt to her feet just as suddenly and rounded on him.

Their blades clashed and their hilts locked and it was a battle of strength for a moment, before Athos jumped away and the Duke pulled out his main gauche. The Duke struck in tandem with his sword and dagger, but Athos expertly blocked them. He did a roundhouse strike and she struck back before she managed to grab his left hand holding the main gauche, causing him to drop it. The Duke thrust at her with his sword, but still griping his wrist, she pulled it behind his back and he swung his sword behind him. And just as he had done her, she came round his front with a hard left hook, causing him to stumble, she used the opportunity to knock his sword out of hand and punched him a second time, revelling in the feeling of her gloved knuckles making contact. He fell at the King's feet, much as had happened to her. And as he turned on his back, she slowly approached, her sword arm held straight in front of her—and pressed the point to his breast.

The Duke had called her wolf, and all she wanted to do was sink her teeth into his throat and rip it out.

"Athos!" Treville warned, but Athos continued to stare down at the Duke, his grey eyes widened. Anger blazed in her blue eyes and she wanted to take his head. "Athos!"

And suddenly, coolly, she cut him at his collarbone. He winced, blood soaking the cut material as she stepped away and walked towards Porthos, panting lightly.

"Shall we say, 9 o'clock in the morning?" the Cardinal grinned at the Duke, who glared, climbing to his feet and left with his First Minister back to his rooms, breathing heavily, not a happy player.

Porthos chuckled and clapped the other woman's shoulder, her hand moving to the crook of her neck, squeezing kindly and lead her a bit aways. "I'm glad it was you. I would 'ave cut 'is bloody head off!" the tall woman said, Athos glanced at her. The other woman had no idea how much self-control it had taken her to not do just that.

Her wry eye-roll was interrupted as Treville grabbed her arm and jerked her around. "You're duty was to win, not start a war." He seethed. "You could have defeated him in a way that allowed him his dignity."

"If I hadn't, he would have gotten up and continued the fight."

But he was unrelenting. "Go and apologize."

Athos sighed, and donning her black leather doublet once more, went off to see the Duke with Porthos following.

Back at the garrison, Aramis subtly looked around her making sure none of the other Musketeers around were paying her any mind, before she headed up the stairs and to the balcony. The records room was left unlocked, and she quietly shut the door behind her. She instantly went to the records cabinet, but the doors were locked.

She cursed quietly and quickly went to his desk, checking the drawers for the key, but found none. Cursing a bit more intensely, she shut the drawer roughly and heard the distant jingle of a key, froze. Brows drawn, she gave the desk a shake and heard it again. She felt all around the sides, under the drawers, before feeling under the desk. She grinned as she felt the key hidden away under there on a nail.

Retrieving it, she went back to the cabinet and unlocked it, searching each tagged cubby-hole for the documents she was in want of.

"I have news." Said the First Minister, and Athos took the opportunity to walk into the guest rooms of the Duke's without invitation. Her hat was in-hand but her blue cloak was missing.

The Duke raised a brow at her. "What is it?"

"I have come to apologize... I was overzealous."

The Duke gave her a small nod. "You won a fair fight, I can't hold it against you—even if you are a woman." He turned his back to her and pulled his soiled shirt over his head, tossing it at his First Minister, before grabbing a clean one and slipping it on—and giving her an unobstructed view to the long scar across his back. She got her expression under control by the time he turned back to her. "You wanted to kill me." He remarked. "I saw it in your eyes. Why?"

"You are mistaken." She looked at him plainly. "What motive could a Musketeers possible have for wanting to kill the Duke of Savoy? It's unconscionable."

He gave her a sharp look, but said nothing as she gave a shallow bow and left, pressing her hat over her loose hair. She met Porthos, who had been waiting outside the door.

"Did you hear all that?" she inquired softly.

Porthos nodded, her lips a hard line. "Saw the scar, too. Marsac was right about the Duke." She said it like she'd tasted something bad, and Athos had to agree.

"That doesn't mean he's right about Treville." She sighed. "Perhaps we should find out what Monsieur Gotrand really knows." She suggested and Porthos got the message loud and clear.

"Mmm."

Porthos discarded her pretty blue ceremonial cloak, for a more, down to earth, plan and worn cloak and large-brimmed hat as she followed the Duke's First Minister as he left Louvre to get more information on this 'news' that the Duke was so interested in.

She trailed the oblivious man to a rundown tavern, where he met a man, and paid him coin. After the transaction was finished, Gotrand left, but Porthos didn't bother following him again, and instead, kept watch over the man he'd done business with. The man stayed for another round, and then Porthos found herself out in the rain, following him through the streets. And 'lo and behold, his destination was the Chatelet.

While Porthos followed Gotrand, Athos found herself back at the Bonacieux residence with d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Marsac, in Monsieur Bonacieux's sewing room.

"The Captain keeps record of every Musketeer campaign since the regiment was founded—all except for that one night." Aramis shook her head. "There's no documentation for the mission on Savoy, no maps, no letters... nothing at all. Coincidence?"

"Maybe you just didn't find it." d'Artagnan suggested.

"His filing is meticulous." Aramis argued. "There's nothing there. The documents have either been removed or destroyed."

But d'Artagnan still refused to believe it. "I'm still confident there's a perfectly good explanation."

"I will be happy to hear it." But he wasn't forthcoming with one.

"I admit it's troubling," Athos finally spoke up, "But I agree with d'Artagnan."

Aramis growled in frustration. "So, you're content to do nothing?" She turned to the woman, her voice raised. "How much evidence do you need that something is badly wrong? What does it take to make you act?!"

"I will never believe the captain is a traitor." Athos replied evenly. It wouldn't do to get into a shouting match, even if she wanted to be yelling, too.

The woman scoffed. "You think I want to?"

Athos' raised brow was a statement in itself. Marsac seemed to be rubbing off on the woman, and not in a clear-headed, unemotional way. The further they delved into this, the farther Aramis was going downhill.

"Let me help." Marsac stood and drew their attention, for once, he'd been quiet during the proceedings, his hands bound by rope in front of him. "I give you my word as a gentleman that I won't try to leave." d'Artagnan shook his head clearly at the plea. "Aramis, tell them. You know me."

Aramis was silent for a long moment as she looked at the man that she had loved, and slowly shook her head. "I thought I did."

"Every word I have told you has turned out to be the truth!" he protested. "Why would I deceive you now?"

Aramis looked at Athos, because it had been true. It was the Duke that Aramis had injured five-years ago in the massacre. The woman groaned and pulled her main guache and cut Marsac free.

d'Artagnan muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and Athos knew what he was thinking—she knew what she herself was thinking as well... this wasn't going to end well.

When Treville finally returned to Louvre after that hazardous duel between Athos and the Duke, it was to find his three Inseparables and their new cohort waiting for him on the balcony outside his office.

"What is this?"

"We have questions to ask you." Athos replied.

"Why aren't you with the Duke?" Treville repeated, his gut turning.

"Five-years ago," Aramis stepped forward, "You ordered a troop of Musketeers into Savoy, on a training exercise. They were killed, all except myself and Marsac."

Trevilles lips twisted. "Don't say that man's name to me." They all looked at him. "I remember."

Treville knew. Yesterday, he knew, even before the parade, that something was going wrong. It was a feeling in his gut. Or maybe it had just been as much a reminder of what happened five-years ago for him, as it was for Aramis. Though for completely different reasons. He could wish that he had put a different set of Musketeers on parade duty, but he knew that wouldn't have changed a thing. The assassin would still have tried to kill the Duke. But what had brought on all this odd behaviour from his women? Five-years, and nothing of this sort had happened before. His eyes cut to d'Artagnan. The young Gascon was the only changed variable this time around. But, so was the Duke. Curse that man!

"At the time," Porthos spoke this time, from where she was leaning against the railing, "the attack was blamed on a Spanish raiding party."

"What do you mean, at the time?" But he knew the truth, a truth that none of them could ever know. One that held the axe of guilt and shame and regret chopping at his heart. The thing that made himself sick and unable to face himself, that had him cursing the King—the Goddamned Cardinal and his endless tricks and deceptions. And Treville's hands were just as red in this case.

"We have information that it was actually the Duke of Savoy who was responsible." d'Artagnan said.

Silence followed at he looked at each of them with narrowed, blue eyes.

Aramis stepped up to him. "You don't seem surprised." She accused.

"What you spew at me is nonsense." His stare turned hard. "And the only thing that surprises me is your dereliction of duty. Get back to your posts, before I lose my temper!" The order given, he walked past them and into his office. He was stupid to think that was that. The Inseparables weren't his best without reason.

"Did you know it was the Duke?" Aramis persisted.

"I am not accountable to you." Treville replied sharply. He came behind his desk and when he looked up, he found the entire group there.

"Are you not accountable for the men who died?" she spat.

"Be careful, Aramis." He warned her. "You're in dangerous territory."

"Not as dangerous as Savoy was for you're men." Porthos joined in the pointed accusation.

"I'm going to put this down to a fit of temporary insanity." He leaned across his desk dangerously. "Leave now and we'll say no more about it."

"How did our orders get into the Duke's hands? Who told him where we were camping? Why did he think we were going to attack him?" the Spaniard was persistent.

"Get out!" Treville roared.

"Who killed those Musketeers?! And why!?" Aramis shouted back just as loud, leaning back across the desk.

The silence that followed was loaded and filled with both of their heavy breathing.

"Who have you been speaking to?" he whispered.

"It's doesn't matter," she returned just as quiet. "What matters is the truth."

Pain flashed through Trevilles blue-grey eyes, before it was gone. He straightened. "Leave now, and I'll spare you a court-martial—and that's giving you a choice you don't deserve. If I hear of this again, there will be no talk."

Aramis looked ready to jump down his throat, but Athos stepped to her and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She looked at Treville. "One last time... will you answer our question?"

"No." He said. "I will not."

Athos looked at him with those cold, piercing eyes, but he didn't baulk. She could be hard and cold, but so could he. He'd been doing this for far longer than her. He'd seen things, done things, for his King and his Country. Things that would break a lesser man.

Finally, they left and he sank into his chair with a shaky breath. They were right. It was the Duke of Savoy that had killed his men, twenty good men and he'd let it happen. He'd had a long life in the military, and he had many things that he'd regret doing and not going through with. This was something that he had done and it was something that he would forever regret, no matter the cause he had done it for.

Athos leaned on a beam at the railing on the balcony and gazed melancholy out at the yard and the oblivious Musketeers going about their daily duties. And Porthos struck out at the wood in frustration as d'Artagnan leaned tightly against the wall.

While his heart was in the right place, he didn't have the experience of being here five-years ago and on that horrible day, and the months that followed with the emotional upheaval that had affected the Inseparables, and Aramis most personally.

"Marsac is right. How much more proof do we need?" Aramis insisted.

"Treville didn't admit to anything." d'Artagnan pointed out.

"He didn't need to. It was written on his face!"

"The Captain is th' finest man I've ever met," Porthos said. "And any man would react like that if you accused 'im of betrayin' his own men, and givin' away information that got 'em murdered." She paused and didn't seem apologetic as she said, "And when it comes down to it, I'd be on 'is side, than Marsac's."

"You may be content to do nothing." Aramis said with a cutting gesture. "I'm not." And before they could try and stop her, she was already stomping down the stairs.

"Is she going to be alright?" d'Artagnan asked.

"If it was anyone else, Aramis would say 'it's personal, they can take care of themselves'." Porthos said with a shake of her head.

Whether intentional or not, d'Artagnan and Athos' gazes met and they were both thrown back to that night. Aramis had kept telling him that Athos could deal with her past herself just fine, but if he had listened to that logic, Athos would be dead right now, gone from the world. What had he learned today? Aramis could be just as wrong as the next woman, no matter how smart she was.

d'Artagnan sighed. "I'll head back, and check in with Constance, see if Marsac is behaving himself." And he left as well.

"And what 'bout us?" Porthos asked Athos.

"Didn't you hear the Captain?" Athos headed down the stairs. "Back to our posts."

Constance trusted the others' word enough, that Marsac wouldn't cause a problem, that she was treating him more like a guest than a prisoner. So when he bid her drink with him when she was serving lunch, and she refused, the last thing she expected was to be grabbed.

"It's been such a long time since I've had such attractive company."

"Don't touch me!" She tried to pull from his grasp, but it was like a vice.

"If I were d'Artagnan, you would be a lot more receptive, wouldn't you?" he whispered and she slapped him. He shoved her back against the table. "Just picture I'm him."

"No! Get off me!" She struggled against him, her heart rammed so hard into her throat she couldn't even scream.

"Oi!" d'Artagnan arrived just in time and quickly pulled Marsac off Constance, punching him in the face and throwing him to the floor.

Marsac grunted at the impact, but glared up at the Gascon, swiping at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you alright?" he instantly turned to the assaulted woman. She leaned heavily against the table, pale, breathing heavily, and unable to get her voice to work at the moment, merely nodded. "Are you sure?" he insisted, gently touching her arm, his brown eyes instantly turning soft when in her direction.

"Just a friend, eh?" Marsac scoffed. "First Madame, then Aramis... who do you think you are, her boyfriend?"

Anger turned his blood hot. "No." d'Artagnan grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him up, slamming him back against the hard brick of the fireplace's mantelpiece. He noted with satisfaction, the flinch of pain. "That privilege went to you, an undeserving bastard—and you just fucking abandoned her in death's valley. A real hero, you are. A coward and a deserter—you don't deserve how Aramis feels about you—you're unworthy!"

"Better a deserter than a nobody." The man mocked. "Hanging 'round like a lost puppy, begging for attention and acceptance. It's sickening." Marsac pushed against him, but d'Artagnan pushed back harder.

He wanted so bad to beat this scum into the ground. But he didn't—for Aramis. She would never forgive him. Instead, he whispered harshly, "You should be ashamed of yourself. You never deserved the title Musketeer. You're just a lowlife rat. You don't have the honour. What's sickening, is looking at you and knowing that you were allowed in the King's guard." He glared at the man. "Touch Constance again and I'll kill you. Hurt Aramis again and I'll make you suffer."

"I-I apologize," Marsac said, suddenly cowed. "I used to be a man of honour, a Musketeer. Now I... Now I hardly recognize myself. I beg your forgiveness. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

d'Artagnan just looked at him in contempt and pushed him from the room, following behind. He was browbeaten as d'Artagnan tied him up again in the other room, but as soon as the young man was from the room, his face twisted with fury and hate.

"Constance?" When d'Artagnan returned to the kitchen, he found the woman cleaning up the spilled food from the table. "I've tied him up. He won't be trying that again." She made no response as she took the dishes to the sink by the window. "Constance—"

"It was just as well you came when you did," she said, forced humour into her voice, "I might've hurt him otherwise."

"I'm sorry." He told her. "I'm so sorry. I've brought you nothing but trouble since I came here."

Constance took a deep breath and went to the table next to him. "Well, it makes a change, having someone else try and kiss me. Makes things more interesting."

"Please, don't joke." He shook his head.

"I really am fine, d'Artagnan." She said quietly. "It was just a bit of surprise, really. I don't know what I was expecting—"

"He's a deserter and assassin. I should never have brought him here. I wish there was something I could do to make amends."

She paused at that and slowly looked at him, a certain expression on her face as a thought struck her fancy. In truth, she'd been thinking about it for quiet some time, but she didn't know how to ask it of the man, but now was just the opening she needed. "There is one thing. No one in the world could know—especially not my husband."

d'Artagnan leaned forwards towards her slightly, drawn in by her intense gaze and the mystery behind her request, the fact that she didn't want Bonacieux to know. "Of-of course. What it is?"

Constance stepped closer to him, biting her lip, and leaning forward. d'Artagnan swallowed, his gaze flickering down to her perfect lips. Surely not. But he can't have been imaging the electricity between them. She was close enough to kiss—and then she turned her head and whispered in his ear, "Teach me how to shoot."

She pulled back and smirked at his floored expression.

"Sh... shoot?" he repeated when he was finally able to get his bearings.

"Sword-fighting as well." She agreed eagerly. "I've always like the look of that." He looked at her, slightly agape. "Why should men have all the fun?" He couldn't stop the smile at her indignant reaction. "Why do women have to be dignified and ladylike?"

"Good question." He mused. "I have no idea. But why haven't you asked Athos? You knew her before you knew me."

"She's different with you than I've seen her with anyone else." Constance said slowly; he couldn't help the warm feeling that comment brought on. "Beside, I was kind of intimidated... she can be so surly and then aloof. It's very confusing around her, it's hard to know where you stand."

d'Artagnan waved the concern aside. "That's so not true. Sure, she's a private person, and most people think her cold and emotionless—but once you get to know her... not nearly as much!" he grinned at her.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him. "So you'll do it?"

d'Artagnan looked at her in contemplation for a long moment, before he sighed and nodded. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he would feel better if she knew how to take better care of herself, especially after what had just happened with Marsac. The mere thought of it made him angry, but he forced it away and focused on the beautiful woman in front of him. "Fine!"

"Yes!" she cheered, grinning, her entire expression lighting up. She laughed in success and he smiled back at her.

Aramis had waited and watched out of sight until Treville came from his office and followed him like a sleek shadow. When he arrived at Louvre and met with the Cardinal, she knew she was finally, finally going to get some truths that had been denied her for the last five-years.

Coincidently, and luckily for the sharpshooter, they decided to take a stroll on the very same outside walk that Marsac had repelled into the grounds.

"What do they know?" the Cardinal wasn't happy when Treville admitted that they knew it was the Duke of Savoy who had attacked and that there was an inside man.

"Just that my orders fell into the Duke's hands—that our men were betrayed." Treville said.

"Can't you control your women?" he asked in derision.

"They want to know the truth. It's a matter of honour."

"Honour?" The dignitary scoffed, almost like Constance had when Aramis said the same thing about d'Artagnan. "There's no word in the English language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience. You do realize what's at stake?"

"Of course I realize!" the Captain hissed.

"Then handle it." Was the man's sharp reply.

Aramis sword scraped across the stone pillar as she pressed herself against it and froze, silently cursing. She prayed that the man hadn't heard, but was denied that when suddenly, Treville was standing right there, staring back at her. She looked back, wondering what the man's next move was, the ball was in his gun now.

"What is it?" the Cardinal asked.

"Nothing..." Treville said after a moment, turning from Aramis and walking back to the Cardinal.

"I must go. The Duke has demanded an urgent meeting with the King."

"Why?

"I've no idea." He admitted at the door, guarded by two Red Guard. "Hopefully, he'd finally come to his senses."

And he left Treville alone, who waited until the thick wooden door clanked shut before turning back and returning to the pillar that Aramis had been hiding at.

She came into view, her expression hard.

"You think you're entitled to an explanation, but this is not your concern." Treville told her.

"You and the Cardinal, as thick as thieves." She sneered. "Twenty dead Musketeers... that makes it my concern."

"You think I won't have you arrested?" He demanded. "That you're above the normal laws of soldiering? Because you're not. You just as expendable as the rest of us."

"Expendable like those men, you mean? Did you betray your own men to the Duke of Savoy?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"You are meddling in complex affairs of state." Treville hissed angrily.

"It's a simple question, Captain. Did you do it?"

There was silence as Treville looked at her, breathing heavily through his nose. And then he admitted, with guilt and determination, "Yes."

Aramis already angry eyes flashed brighter and she struck him with enough force that he stumbled to the ground. Up on his elbow, she struck him again.

"This isn't over!" she told him. "You've gotten away with it for five-years now, but no more!" And she ran.

Treville watched her leave and slowly climbed to his feet. "If only you knew." She left him with a bloody nose and a split cheek, but it was less than what he deserved. This wasn't just going away.

She thought him a traitor, and it pained him to think that one of his Inseparables doubted his honour and integrity like that. But they didn't know the truth, the real reason. The one that had made him go through with the order. To sign the death warrants on his men. To hand away their lives.

Aramis went straight from Louvre and to the Bonaciuex residence. When she arrived, she'd sent Constance away. And went to the sewing room where Marsac was tied to the table. She cut him free.

Treville had admitted it.

She wasn't in the coherent state of mind to question why he was bound again—when last she saw him, Athos had cut her free. She couldn't think straight, now that she knew the truth—now that she knew Treville had sold them out to be slaughtered. And for what? For what?!

She told him what she had heard between Treville and the Cardinal and what the man had admitted to her.

"What will you do now?" Marsac questioned, rubbing at his wrists, waiting with anticipation upon her answer. Now, they would be on the same page. Now—

"Report Treville to the authorities." Aramis answered. "He'll face a court martial."

"What?" He scoffed in disbelief towards her. "With the Cardinal involved, it won't make trial! We have to act now, Aramis! We can handle this ourselves."

"I'm a soldier," she shook her head. "Not a vigilante." At least she was clearheaded enough for that. "This has to be handle properly."

"If you want justice, then this is the only way." He insisted.

"Marsac," she whispered, and cupped his face. He couldn't help but sigh into her touch again. "It's not my way. And it didn't used to be yours. They deserve to be punished, but it has to be done the right way."

"You're right." He said after a long moment, and Aramis smiled at him. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Finally, she was getting him to see it through the right lens. Maybe, after all this was done and over with, he could become a Musketeer again, like it was supposed to be.

Her thumb brushed his cheek and she patted his chest as she stepped away. "You're still a deserter. If they catch you, they'll hang you." She glanced out the open door. "Best thing for you to do is to leave Paris as soon as possible."

She looked back and didn't even have time to process, before he punched her. She fell back against the wall by the door and slumped down to the floor, out like a light.

He looked down at her, pained. "I'm sorry, my love." He whispered. "But you said you wanted justice, this is the only way." He dragged the unconscious woman, and hid her behind the door, out of immediate sight. "When Treville is dead, you'll have it." He kissed her forehead and stole her pistol.

"Shouldn't you two be with the Duke?" d'Artagnan questioned at the gates of the garrison as he ran into Athos and Porthos.

"Our services are no longer required." Athos said, "Now that the Duke is to sign the treaty—and we have the assassin in custody, though no one knows it."

"That's for sure," Porthos sighed and crossed her arms. "We need to talk with th' Captain again."

"I need a drink." Athos muttered instead. "Where are you to?" she asked the Gascon

"I was just on my way to check in on Marsac, make sure he hasn't crossed another line. " d'Artagnan told them.

Porthos smirked at him. "You sure that's all you're doin'? For a woman who's kicked you out of 'er house, you seem to be visitin' quiet a bit."

He glowered. "With no help from the three of you, she's taken me back." The tall woman chuckled. "And I don't trust that deserter one bit, the last time we did—"

"Go." Athos told him with a pat on the back.

d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux residence to check in with Constance again, and make sure that everything was alright. With Aramis who-knew-where, he didn't like leaving the man alone, least of all after what happened the last time they trusted Marsac not to do anything. Even though he'd tied the man up good and tight, he still wasn't one-hundred percent comfortable leaving him along with her without company.

He dismounted in the small courtyard and tied his horse's lead to the rail, next to a second horse, that on closer inspection, appeared to be Aramis'. He glanced up at the dwelling in worry and took the steps of the enclosed stair two at a time.

"Hey—?" d'Artagnan stopped at the top of the stairs, in the kitchen entryway, staring across at Marsac, who was free and unbound. He was agitated and froze at the sight of the Gascon. "Where's Constance?" he narrowed his eyes.

"She went out." He answered.

"I saw Aramis' horse, where's she?"

Marsac shrugged as he slowly approached the young man. "I haven't seen her."

"Where do you think you're going?" d'Artagnan put out a hand to the man's chest, stopping his progress. "How did you get free?"

Marsac's expression twisted and d'Artagnan flinched in pain at the unexpected punch that put him back a step, and he struck out in defence. Marsac had given him a black eye, but he'd finished Aramis' earlier job, and had given the blond a broken nose.

Marsac grunted at the sharp pain, and wiped at the free-flowing blood with his shirtsleeve. "You bastard!"

And d'Artagnan had only time to scramble for a grip at the doorposts before he was falling backwards with a cry as Marsac gave him a shove that sent him tumbling down the stairs. He cracked his head on the wall before he came to a stop at the bottom of the stair, half his body hanging out the enclosed stair, black spots in his vision.

He groaned, fighting the blackout that played tug-of-war with his consciousness as Marsac stomped down that stairs and stepped over him. d'Artagnan made a grab for him, and managed a weak grab of his pant leg.

Marsac jerked his leg free and spun around, kicking the Gascon in the ribs several times with a bruising force that left him both breathless and hurting, before he brought a heavy heel upon his temple, pounding him into the blackness that had already threatened him.

Marsac sneered down at the unconscious young man, wanting to do more, to keep going until he was a bloody pulp, but guilt rode him already from having no other choice than to knock Aramis out cold, so he mounted her horse and rode from the yard, towards the garrison and his target. He was finally going to get his vengeance—for his brothers that were slaughtered, and for what was taken from him all those years ago.

d'Artagnan managed to climb his way back into conscious, groaning. His head was pounding and splitting, he could feel the ache in his ribs, the sharp pain when he breathed, the twinge in his right wrist, and the tenderness around his left eye.

He pulled himself to his feet with the support of the wall and was forced to cling to it as dizziness and nausea washed over him and he doubled over, unable to stop the sick. It wasn't pretty but he managed to pull himself together, and set up the stairs.

"Aramis?" he called. "Aramis!" he gave a general search of the house, but saw no sign of the woman and didn't receive an answering call. He returned to the kitchen and leaned against the table for a moment; pulling his thoughts together.

He didn't know where Aramis was, and he worried about the woman, wondering if Marsac had done to her what he had to him. He needed to get back to the garrison and tell Athos that Marsac was loose.

"d'Artagnan!" Constance gasped as she returned and saw the Gascon. She quickly set the basket she'd been carrying down, and rushed over to him. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He waved off her concern. "Have you seen Aramis?"

"What? Yeah—Yes. She sent me away when she arrived. What's happened? Who's done this to you?" She lightly grasped him arm.

He straightened. "If you see Aramis, tell her that Marsac's missing and get to the garrison. I have to—"

"What do you mean, missing?" she asked. "d'Artagnan—"

"Just do it, Constance." He interrupted. "Please. I have to tell Athos and Porthos." He pulled himself from her touch and headed for the door. "And I'm fine!" he called back to her and disappeared down the stairs.

He mounted his horse and urged the beast as fast as he might through the crowded streets and to the garrison. He didn't know what Marsac's plan might be, he was beyond reason at this point. He pulled the animal to a halt in the yard and jumped off with a grimace to face a surprised Athos and Porthos... and the Duchess?!

"d'Artagnan? What happened?" Athos demanded, catching sight of his blackened eye, and what was soon developing into the heel print of Marsac's boot on his forehead behind bangs.

"Marsac escaped!"

"Please!" the Duchess interrupted. "There isn't time for explanation... but there's an important prisoner being held somewhere here in Paris—"

"You mean Cluzet?" Athos asked.

She looked surprised. "You know him?"

Athos and Porthos shared a look.

"Not exactly." Porthos said. "But we know where to find 'im."

"The Duke is on his way to find him right now." The Duchess said hurriedly. "For the sake of France, he must not be discovered. Many lives are at stake... including my own."

"We can't stop the Duke entering the prison." Athos shook her head, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed slowly, her eyes lighting up with an idea as they landed on the old Musketeer at the table in the yard. "But that doesn't mean 'e has to find 'im inside."

Athos looked over her shoulder and landed on Serge as well, and understood the tall woman's meaning immediately. "Serge! You're coming with us!"

"What for?" the old man asked.

"We'll explain on the way!" Porthos grabbed the man.

Athos turned to the Gascon. "d'Artagnan—"

"I'm fine!" d'Artagnan quickly jumped into his saddle with a grunt. "Let's go."

It had been a mad gallop to the Chatelet, and an even madder rush once they were inside. The Duke and Cardinal were only minutes behind, not even that.

Porthos had a pistol to the Red Guard, great incentive to cooperate. It was the same man who had met with the Duke's First Minister, so they knew they were on the right track. The Guard unlocked the cell door and the group piled in.

Cluzet was confused at seeing the rest of them, but as soon as his eyes fell on the Duchess, he jumped to his feet. "You traitor!" he spat.

Porthos quickly grabbed the old man.

"I want nothing to do with this!" the Red Guard shouted.

The Duchess knocked the man out with his own pistol, her expression stone.

"Not you're average Duchess, then." Porthos remarked, dragging the struggling Cluzet from the cell. "Serge!"

The old Musketeer shuffled into the cell, and Athos and d'Artagnan dragged the Guard's unconscious body from the cell and around the corner. d'Artagnan quickly put on the man's cloak, and grabbed the man's hat as double insurance, pulling the brim low over his eyes. He'd just managed to lock the cell door, with Serge inside, and slump into the stool outside as the Duke, his First Minister, and the Cardnial came rushing down the tunnel.

"Open the door!" the Duke shouted at him.

"This is a waist of time! It's absolutely pointless." The Cardinal insisted. He was startled as he recognized d'Artagnan, standing in front of him, and quickly changed his tune. Obviously the Musketeers had a plan. "Well, do as he says!" he ordered.

d'Artagnan quickly unlocked the door and opened it. The three men pushed inside and shut the door, and there voices were muffled from there in. The Gascon glanced into the dark recesses of the corner, knowing, but unable to see the three women and one man hidden in the darkness. He jerked back to attention as the Duke threw the door open.

"You impertinent fool!" he snapped at his First Minister, who rushed down the tunnel after the angry man.

The Cardinal was last to leave and paused long enough to give d'Artagnan a nod, before he left. The Gascon waited a moment before he let out a relieved breath from his bruised ribs and turn round the corner to the others and grinned.

"We're clear." He nodded to Athos, who nodded.

"Nice look. Better with th' hat." Porthos grinned at him, her arms still wrapped around the struggling Cluzet, her hand clamped over his mouth to cover his insisted protests. "It's a good look for you."

"I think I'm for the Musketeer uniform, if that's alright with you?" d'Artagnan replied, taking off the hat and running his hand through his hair, winching at the combined twinge in his wrist and sharp pain in his forehead.

"Eh," she shrugged. "Red's not your colour anyhow."

d'Artagnan put right hand to his chest, gaining a twinge out of his sprain wrist that he ignored. "You really know how to make a guy feel warm inside."

She chuckled. "It's a gift."

"If I get lice, I'm coming for you."

"If you get lice, I'll shave your 'ead for you." She offered.

"Do that, and I come for yours." That wiped the grin of her face, but put a devious one on his.

Aramis came awake confused as she climbed to her feet, but it all came crashing back to her as she realized that her pistol was missing. She cursed. Marsac had knocked her out! She grabbed her hat and ran from the sewing room.

"Aramis!" Constance gasped at the woman's sudden appearance. "Where did you come from?" Aramis halted.

She grimaced. "That's a little difficult to explain, Madame. I hate to be rude, but I'm in a rush." She headed for the door.

"Wait!" Aramis made herself pause, despite the urgency. "d'Artagnan was here. Hurt. He's said Marsac was gone and that you needed to get to the garrison."

She cursed. "I have to go!" and she ran down the stairs and headed for the garrison, leaving a utterly confused, frustrated, and worried Constance.

Aramis hoped and prayed that she wasn't to late to stop Marsac from doing something utterly and irrevocably stupid. d'Artagnan must have come just after Marsac had knocked her out, and took him by surprise as well. She hoped that the kid wasn't too injured because of her folly, but didn't expect so, with the state that Constance was in.

After his encounter with Aramis at Louvre, Treville had returned to the garrison and found himself in the armoury, taking inventory and neatening out the weapons. He was tightening out the row of harquebus' and their partnered forked posts, when he heard the distinct click of a pistol.

He froze, wondering if Aramis had come back to finish him off, but was thinking of the wrong survivor.

"Treason has to be paid for, Captain."

"I always thought you'd be back one day." He remarked.

"Was is money?" Marsac spat. "Were you paid by the Duke?"

Treville turned around to the man, clear disgust on his face. "If you think that, then you know nothing about me. But I know all about you, don't I? You're kind."

Marsac seethed at him, and approached. Treville backed up, through the arched pillars and to the other side of the armoury.

"I'm going to blow you to hell!" Marsac shouted at him. "But first... First I want to know why. I want to know why you sent the Duke to slaughter us. What was it worth to you, to kill twenty of your own men, you bastard?"

"Put it down, Marsac." Aramis said evenly, raising the pistol she had commandeered from a Musketeer in the yard, coming through the same door that he had to catch the Captain unawares. She hadn't seen the others, and wondered what might have taken them, but decided she better focus on this right now, because whatever it was, they were capable.

Marsac jerked at her sudden appearance, but quickly recovered and pulled a second pistol from his belt and pointed that at her. "That's not going to happen, not until he tells me why!"

"Whatever the Captain has done, he will account for it at a court martial." Aramis reasoned. "He will not get away with it."

"There will be no court martial." Treville shook his head. "The King knows what happened. I was acting on his instructions." He'd finally decided, that on his way back, next he saw the Inseparables, he was going to tell them the truth. That was what this whole mess was about, and he was sure that if they knew the reasons, they might change their minds about what they thought was the truth.

"The King told you to betray us?" Aramis looked across at him, confused.

"I was told to pass on your position to the Duke. Those were my orders, and I obeyed them." He reasoned simply. "I'm a soldier, it's what we do. You know that. We're all just cogs in a wheel."

"And what reason can there be for sanctioning the slaughter of you own men?" Marsac demanded.

"It was done to protect the King's most important spy in Savoy... The Duchess." Treville said.

"You sold us out... for the Duchess?" Aramis repeated in surprise.

Treville nodded. "Cluzet was a Spanish spy. He began to suspect she was passing us information. We had to distract the Duke and snatch Cluzet before he exposed her."

"The secret to a good trick is to make people look the wrong way." Aramis whispered in realization. Vadim had told d'Artagnan that, and it was this that had nearly cost them their lives.

"Twenty of our friends were murdered!" Marsac snarled. "What right did you have?"

"I was mislead!" Treville protested. "The Cardinal allowed the Duke to believe that your mission was an assassination attempt. I didn't know, not until it was too late, not until..."

Aramis chest tightened. She'd been wrong. All wrong! Treville wasn't a traitor. He was honourable. "Put the weapons down!" she told Marsac, jerking her own.

"You just heard him!" Marsac looked at her in disbelief. "You heard him! He admitted it. He's guilty!"

"And you heard his reasons," she shook her head, "So... put them down, Marsac. It's over. We know the truth now. We can—"

"This has to end here, Aramis." Marsac whispered, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "You know that." He turned to Treville and aimed his pistol. "It's going to end, finally."

"No!" Aramis screamed as Marsac fired. The contents of the table in front of Treville exploded with the impact of the bullet.

Aramis fired her first shot wildly. Marsac ignored the returned fire and levelled his second pistol at the man, he wouldn't miss this second time.

Treville froze as the shot fired, but it was Marsac who stumbled, who had blood spreading on his chest.

"Marsac!" Aramis cried, dropping her spent pistols and ran forward, catching the heavy man in her arms. "I'm sorry." She dropped to her knee with him in her arms, and remembered back to five-years ago.

"Better to die a Musketeer, than live like a dog." He whispered through the blood on his lips, with his dying breath, "Don't let it consume you, Aramis. My lo…" His eyes slipped closed and his head fell against her chest.

Aramis hugged him to her, pressing a kiss to his head as she cried quietly. Even as several Musketeers rushed in at the sounds of the gunfight. She held her friend and lover like she hadn't been for able to for years. And cried at his loss, because even though they hated him, she loved him. Even after he had left her, she still loved him.

The Duke had signed the treaty, after not finding Cluzet, he had to—and left immediately afterward, and they were all relieved for it. This entire mess started because of that man's arrival, and now that he left, hopefully, the pieces could start to be put back together again.

d'Artagnan needed a minute distraction, while Aramis attended to Marsac's burial. She had to go through that alone, while they were still at the Chatelet. It was a finished thing by the time they returned to the garrison to report to Treville of the event and the truth that the Duchess had told them. But it was all too late in coming. So he decided that he might as well start on Constance's lessons because he knew that she wasn't about to forget that he had agreed to teach her.

He set up some empty glass bottles in a row out back (despite the pouring rain) and handed her a loaded pistol, and stood back and watched. She rose the weapon, her arm wavering lightly and she squinted and attempted to line it up. When she finally pulled the trigger, the ball ended up somewhere beyond in the bush.

She looked aside at him with what he might come to believe was the cutest expression of consternation, and he smiled at her, handing over his second loaded pistol in his bandaged wrist, and hooking the empty one to his belt.

"When you meant lessons, you really meant it." He joked.

"Quiet, you!"

"Alright, alright! I'll show you how." And he stepped behind her. "Hold it out for me." He requested, and she did as he bid, feeling the warmth of him behind her. "Don't snatch at the trigger—your arm is far too stiff." His breath tickled her ear. "Straighten your arm." He ran his hand along it, and she gulped. "Keep your arm up—elbow loose. Deep breaths." She jumped a little as he patted her stomach through her corset. "Sight down the barrel. Re-lax." He squeezed her strapped shoulders in a encouraging and warm gesture before he took a step back. "And fire."

Constance took a deep breath, and relaxing came easy with him near as she sighted through the pistol—and fired. The glass bottle shattered as she hit her target.

"Oh, d'Artagnan!" she gasped in delight, spinning around and hugging. "Did you see that shot? It was good!"

"It was." He murmured in a low tone, gazing at her.

"Ahem." Her own flickered away and she attempted to shake off the warmth that his brown stare ignited inside her. "Swords?"

A grin broke across his lips and he gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, swords."

Aramis kissed the cross that the Queen had given her as stood next to the fresh mound of dirt that now covered Marsac, the rain pouring from the heavens upon her and Treville.

They stood in silence, peace between them once more. The massacre at Savoy had haunted each of them for their different reasons. Perhaps now that they had been revealed to each other, they could start to heal a wound that was long overdue.

"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five-years ago—it just took this long for his body to catch up." Aramis murmured. She sighed and looked over at the silent man. She knew that Marsac affected him, just as much as it had her. They both blamed themselves for what had happened to the man, but for obvious different reasons. "We're soldiers, Captain. We follow out orders, no matter where they lead—even to death. It was the lives that we chose for ourselves. It's a commitment we live by. Our positions don't matter, but what lies in our hearts, do."

Treville nodded and he finally looked at her. He held out his hand and she shook it. They shared bitter-sweet smiles before the man turned from the unmarked grave of the deserter, and left.

But Aramis turned back.

She wondered if their roles had been reversed, if Marsac had been the one concussed and dazed, would things have turned out differently? If her brain hadn't been addled and confused like it had been, would she have been able to deal with the full repercussions of that slaughter? Would she have been able to handle the horror, and the scars, the screams and the blood? The bodies littered around her, real and horrible?

But it was something that she would never know, because it had happened how it had, and no matter how much she wished and she prayed, that she could go back or that it never happened—it wasn't going to make it true. She just knew that no matter what horrors she was bound to see in her life as a Musketeer, she wasn't going to turn her back on Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan or Treville. They were her family. Like a warrior angel, she would defend them with her life.

She was going to do what Marsac had said with his last breath. She would live, and love, surrounded by friends and family, and not let the past consume her.

Head wounded, senseless. Men's dying screams. Marsac dragging her away. They fall into the cold snow. He cries over her in his arms. Desperate, scared, breaking, lost—broken…

"Rest now, Marsac. With your brothers..." She drew his sword from her belt, and stabbed it deep into the earth at the head of his grave, marking it, before she too, turned her back. "Free of the burden on your heart, my love."

Aramis returned to the garrison, intended to just let the last two days take her apart. Not want for company, but herself, God, past memories and wine.

"Aramis?" The woman reluctantly turned to the young man, every bit as wet as her.

"Have you been out here this whole time?" she eyed him, looking every bit the drowned rat. She noticed his black eye, and the harsh brusing exposed on his forehead with his wet hair slicked back and remembered what Constance had said about him being hurt and instantly, all her previous plans were pushed to the back as she took a step towards him.

But whatever amount of man-handling she was about to put him through to determine his true condition was put to a quick halt as he took her into warm, if wet, embrace.

"Wha—?" And then, like with the snap of the fingers, whatever she had forced to ride in the shadows of her heart, came forth. She squeezed him tightly in return, just needing to hold something, to anchor her into this world.

"I'm sorry about your friend." He whispered, and she nodded into his shoulder, her tears discarded in the rain. For it wasn't this man that he had met and she had encountered five-years later, but that man before the massacre, before he lost the essence of who he truly was, that d'Artagnan was giving his sympathy's towards. And she remembered just exactly why she loved him like a brother—like family.

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

As you have read, I wrote it so Aramis and Marsac were in a relationship. I wrote a small tag for this concept in chapter 2, when Aramis thought she was about to die and /"She remembered her friend, partner, and lover, the man that she thought she might marry and have children with, how they'd both leave the Musketeers when the time was right—before he had left her surrounded by 20 cold Musketeers."/ that was Marsac. And I ended with that scene between Aramis and d'Artagnan, because that's just the kind of guy that he is.