a/n: Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers, just going to borrow them and their adventures for a bit. No copyright infringement is intended; just some good old gender-bending!

Episode Tag: Season 1, Episode 5: The Homecoming.

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 5:The Homecoming

Porthos pushed herself through the darkness and attempted to bring herself back to consciousness. The cook-a-doodle-do of a nearby rooster sending a sharp stab through her brain, jolting her. The animal did it several more times and she knew it was a complete cock. When she found it, she decided that she would behead it and consume it for its punishment.

"You're a chicken, Charlie!" Aramis booed the Gascon. "Porthos, show the man how it's done!"

Porthos grinned at her best-friend as the Spaniard grabbed the melon from the table and pressed her back against the post in front of the stables in the garrison, and placed the fruit upon her head.

The inebriated woman whipped out her pistol.

"Whoa!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, wide-eyed as the tall woman actually aimed it at the other woman—or at least, attempted to as her arm wavered widely. "Porthos, this is insane. You'll kill her!" But the woman continued to take aim. "Athos, come on, please tell me that you can at least see—"

"Come on, d'Artagnan! Where's your sense of adventure? Of excitement?" Aramis wondered.

"It's firmly placed in reality! I'm all for fun, but this—this is just dangerous."

"Porthos has never made the shot—sober." Athos told him, watching the scene with her arms crossed over her chest, nursing a cup of wine and as if it wasn't a rare occurrence. "Drunk, she never misses."

"Ready?" Porthos slurred.

"Wait!" Aramis held out her arms and d'Artagnan breathed in relief, but then the other drunk woman continued with, "I wanna fix my hair in case you do miss."

Porthos laughed and stumbled back a step. Athos reached out and stabilized her.

"Just enjoy the show, d'Artagnan." Athos clapped him on the shoulder. And then deadpanned, "It could be their last act, after all."

The tall woman directed her pistol at Aramis once more, and squinted down the sight—and fired.

Porthos groaned as she blinked open her eyes and stared into the grey, open sky overhead. The thumping in her brain seemed to be a double act as she forced herself up onto her elbow and looked at her surroundings. It was clearly Paris, but not the garrison. Before she could start to discern exactly where her night ended, she saw the body.

"Aramis!" she gasped. Its face was away from her and she felt sick. The last thing she remembered was shooting the melon from Aramis' grinning head—or had she? She felt sick as she quickly crawled across the ground towards it, reaching out just as three Red Guard came running around the corner.

"Take him!" he shouted, and blew the whistle around his neck.

Porthos stumbled to her feet, and came up swinging as the other two came at her. She sent the first one stumbling with a punch and grabbed the other one, throwing him to the ground with yell. And answering the call of the first Red Gaurd, four more men arrived and she only got in a few more punches and a couple of kicks before she found several sword points at her throat and was forced to her knees, two holding fast to her arms.

Had she not been hung over, her reaction time cut to none, she could have taken them, she knew, seven or not, they were Red Guard and poor swordsmen as a principle. They caught her at a bad moment, otherwise, their teeth would be scattered around the street like pearls and they'd be on the ground not her.

"Not a him then." The de facto Red Guard with the whistle remarked as he approached, stepping over the body. "One of Treville's Inseparables," he sneered. "One of his concubines, more like!" the other men around her laughed and with a growl, she threw her head to the side and cracked one of the men holding her fast in the face. "Musketeers! Always good for a little street theatre." He back-handed her, sending her already pounding head, ringing. "Get her up. You're going to the Chatelet, but looking at you, I'd say you're coming home."

They dragged her to her feet, and she let out a satisfied sound as she kicked and caught the man between the legs, before she was dragged through the streets and to the Chatelet.

She nearly sagged in relief as she was dragged around the body and finally caught a glimpse of its identity. It was the only relief that she'd had got out of this whole mess. It wasn't Aramis who was laying there, like she had first despaired, laying dead with a bullet in the head, but some lad that had to be around the same age as d'Artagnan—but thankfully wasn't him either.

They threw her into an already occupied cell, and as the key was turned, the roommates stood and approached with chuckles and grins. They thought they were in for an easy time because she was a woman, she taught them soon enough. With a sneer, she punched each out and gave them a few extra bruises in her disgust and anger.

And then she was left to wait.

The melon exploded all around Aramis, and the woman whooped as she skipped over to the other three, melon pieces caught in her curls, snatching a flagon of wine from a Musketeer's hand as she passed.

"See, Charlie? That's how it's done! Porthos, the best drunken-shot in all of Paris!" she wrapped her arm around the taller woman's shoulder.

Porthos grinned at her. "'Ow 'bout we try it blindfolded next?"

Aramis didn't look so sure anymore. "What?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "You wear a blindfold, an' I'll see if I can still make th' shot!"

The Spaniard let out a bark of laughter. "You are drunk off your gourd, my sister... I like it!"

"Ugh!" d'Artagnan groaned and put his hands over his face. "I feel old, and too clear about all this."

"d'Artagnan," Athos clapped him on the shoulder loftily. "Take a drink, it will help in the long of it." And put a cup of wine in his hand.

He downed it in a breath, then another when Athos refilled it. It was a celebration, what was the harm?

News of a Musketeer being arrested spread fast, and Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were allowed a visit.

"I see you're making new friends," Athos commented dryly upon noticing her fellow cellmates unconscious on the floor.

Porthos snorted in derision. "They'll do again later, if I'm not out of 'ere soon."

"How are you, Porthos?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly. To see the woman behind bars, it didn't seem right. He remembered when he was in the Chatelet, though they had been under different circumstance, in was nonetheless real.

"Best I can be, not rememberin' a damn thing." She told them. "When am I getting' outta 'ere, Athos?"

"Treville's working on that right now." Athos replied. "You didn't kill him." She said with a firm surety that Porthos wished she could feel. Athos didn't avert her blue gaze until the tall woman nodded back.

"What the hell happened, Porthos?" Aramis questioned. "You must remember something. The dead man. Do you know who he was? Where you met him?"

She squinted lightly, the pain in the back of her head like a dull roar through her skull. "I don't know, I can't—"

"Alright, times up!" a Red Guard approached, a key ring in his hand.

Athos turned a cold gaze on the man. "We just arrived."

He shook his head. "This lot's heading to the magistrate's court for their sentencing."

"Already?" Aramis shook her head. "She's just g—"

"I don't make the rules." He said and unlocked the cell door. It creaked when he opened it, and Porthos tensed as he grasped her forearm.

Athos shook her head and the tall woman allowed herself to be led from the cell after a moments hesitation.

"It's going to be fine, Porthos." Aramis tried to reassure. "This is just a big misunderstanding. The judge will see that. You... you'll see."

"We'll fix this, Porthos." Athos called after the woman.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos as Porthos was taken from sight, anxiety painted clear across his face. "We will fix this... won't we?"

Athos exhaled and shared a look with Aramis, but said nothing.

Three men were sentenced before her, none with hanging, but two were to carry out sentences in the Chatelet and the other received a whipping, and then Porthos found herself facing the Magistrate, high up on his bench, sneering down at her. Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan and Treville stood witness at her left, behind the rail, and the gathered crowd behind her.

"I think it's quite clear what happened here." The judge announced from behind his bench.

"Your Honour," Treville spoke up from next to Aramis, stepping forward, his blue uniform cloak draped over his left shoulder. "If I might say something?"

"We'll come to you, Captain Treville." The judge spat his name in contempt, and with a clenched jaw, Treville stepped back. The old man turned to Porthos. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

When Porthos didn't immediately answer, one of the Red Guard standing on either side of her, gave her a shove. She glared at the man over her shoulder, her hands held in front of her by shackles and turned back to the judge. She was on edge, anxiety putting a thumb in her throat.

"It was my birthday..."

It was late. The celebration was all but dead, the other Musketeers passed out drunk around the garrison yard, those too drunk to make it back to their quarters at least. d'Artagnan had already headed back to the Bonacieux residence, Aramis was out in a man's bed somewhere, and Athos was... well Athos was... she had no idea where the other woman had disappeared to.

"... The party was over, so I took a walk."

She found a bottle that still had drink in it, and she took a long pull of the contents. She wasn't ready to let the night end just yet. Like every year, there was a place she went. It was a familiar haunt she used to go with her past life, before she'd become a Musketeer. She entertained the brief notion that she might see him, but every year, she never did.

"And what did you do on this... walk?" the judge waved his hand.

"I, um..." She looked at the floor in embarrassment. She'd worked hard on her reputation as a Musketeer, she had to make a hard shell around herself growing up to survive, but there was a softness inside of her that very few knew about and she didn't want to air her frilly braies in a crowd like this, but had little choice. "Admired the beauty and the serenity of Paris after dark."

The crowd laughed at her response and she clenched jaw to keep from hollering at them to shut up, her cheeks hot, but the judge didn't look amused.

It was the seedier part of Paris, a tavern called the Wren. It was as close to her home as she was willing to venture, without stepping foot in the Court. It didn't matter how much she might want to see him and her, after the way things were left, Porthos wasn't sure how much of a welcome she would get.

She sat at a table alone, drinking. Remembering. When an old woman came from the bar and spotted her sitting alone. She approached and sat in the chair across to her.

"And what brings your sort to this part of town?" She asked, seeing the tall woman's pauldron.

Porthos didn't tell her to shove off, actually, she quite liked the way the old woman's voice sounded. It had a wise and soft quality to it and Porthos found herself opening up to this stranger.

"I grew up 'round here. It's my birthday." She took a drink from her cup.

"Many happy returns!" she smiled at the woman. "How old are you?"

Porthos didn't answer for a moment before she shrugged. "No idea. I don't know when I was born." She gave the old woman a sad smile. "This is just th' day I picked when I was a kid. One day's a good as another t' celebrate."

The old woman looked at her in sympathy, but it wasn't as much a rare occasion around these parts as one might think. Children left to fend for themselves at such a young age, from their parents abandoning them for many a-reason—too many mouths to feed, a black heart, death—too young to know their birthdays, to remember their name, where they came from. It was just a sad truth of a harsh cycle.

Porthos glanced into the dregs of her cup, and then gave a melancholy chuckle. She raised her hand and called to the bar server. "Get this fine lady a drink!"

"What happened next?" the judge said when Porthos had stopped talking.

This was what had concerned the dark-skinned woman so much while she was waiting in the Chatelet. The blank space that she was drawing and kept drawing, every time she tried. And when she tried to force the matter, her head thumped uncomfortably with her frustrated heartbeat.

"I can't 'xactly recall." She finally admitted. "I must 'ave fallen asleep."

She cringed internally at her thin suggestion and remembered not too long ago, when Marsac had returned and threw their lives into an upheaval, especially Aramis'—when they had been in Treville's office, after the initial attempt on the Duke, and d'Artagnan had weakly suggest he'd slipped on some wet grass. She imagined what he must have felt saying that, but she was sure to have felt it a hundred times more. This would be no scolding from Treville, her life was hanging in the balance.

"Asleep!" the judge was incredulous at her answer. "To awake alongside a dead man with a bullet in his head?"

Porthos a glanced towards her sisters and brother, but they looked as helpless as she felt. "Yes." She had no choice but to answer, and they hung their heads in dread.

"And you claim to have no idea how that happened?"

Porthos shook her head in defeat after a moment.

"I see." The judge scoffed and shook his head. He waved his hand at Treville. "You might speak now, Captain. And make it good. I can see this ruling a minute away."

Treville didn't waste time in stepping forward and addressed the magistrate in front of his bench. He could feel Porthos' anxiety behind him, his hat held in his hands. "Porthos du Vallon is a woman of fine reputation. A good soldier and a Musketeer of many years' standing."

"du Vallon?" the judge repeated, his lips twisting. "Another of these fellows who adopts a noble name. A woman," he laughed. "Playing a man's game. I see the respect you have, Treville. I can see it in the three 'soldiers', you have stood next to." He looked over towards Athos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis; one cold, one indignant, the other hot. "Women, in a man's world—this is what happens." He turned his sexist gaze back upon Porthos behind Treville. "A murderess!"

"I know many born noble who could not hold a candle to Porthos." Treville said, his mouth hard.

"Let me tell you something life has taught me, Captain!" the Judge said. "You can dress a bitch in a fine suit..."

"...oh..." Treville scoffed in disgust, and he could feel the building rage from Porthos, not to mention from the direction of his Inseparables and their unofficial member, d'Artagnan.

"...But once a mongrel, always a whore." He finished, and the crowd murmured.

Porthos clenched her jaw so hard she was sure to break her teeth, and she seethed, but did not take out the Guards on either side of her and go for this man. People said many harsh and cruel and demeaning things about her. Because her heritage, because of the colour of her skin, the way she talked, or acted. Many found her fists' in response, but if she were to push past Treville and leap across the bench and strangle the bigoted judge with the chains between her wrists, she would get a death sentence for sure.

"A man lies dead—murdered! An example must be made! Porthos du Vallon, I sentence you to death by beheading to be carried out immediately!" and the judge banged his gavel in finality. The gathered audience struck up a din.

And her pauldron was ripped from her shoulder, like the sound of a tear ripping into the universe. Everything that she had fought so hard to be, ever since she was old enough and bold enough to be herself, was represented in that shoulder guard.

"This is highly irregular, sir!" Treville shouted. "I will lodge an appeal with the King!"

"That is your right, Captain." The judge said dismissively. "But I suggest you make haste, because in a few moments time, you'll be petitioning for a dead woman's head! Take her to the execution wagon."

Her mind was shocked into compliance, and she let out no resistance as she was dragged down the isle, passed her sisters and brother, the latter of whom attempted to leap over the rail to get to her before he was held back. But as soon as she reached that threshold of the courthouse, her brain kicked in.

"Delay them!" Treville shouted at the three.

She struggled against the Red Guards, digging in her heels, but more men just came and picked her up and carried her bodily. She writhed in their hold as they came onto the street, the crowd inside the court rushing after to witness her execution; Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan struggling to push through.

Last night, she had been celebrating her birthday, and today, she was sentenced to death.

The journey from the court house to the portable execution cart was a drastically short one, and even as she elbowed a Guard in the face—"Strap her to the cart!"—she was hauled up and her restrained on either side of her block.

"Cut the rat tail off!" the executioner ordered.

"No!" was all Porthos was able to protest, whipping her head around before her long braid was grabbed roughly and her movement pulled to a halt. Her high collar was pulled down and roots of her braid pulled taut. There was the digging pain in the back of her neck where the dagger cut her as they sawed off her hair, leaving the path clear for her death's sword.

"No need for all that pretty hair where you're going." He laughed, and then lined up his sword—

A masked man pushed through the gathered crowd, and hit one of the Red Guard on the back with a club, and a second masked person brandished a pistol—And that was when the shooting started.

Porthos laughed as she realized what was happening as her executioner fell off the side of the cart, dead. There were shouts and more shots fired, more Red Guard dead; and then the cart's mule was whipped into action and the cart took off down the street.

Porthos looked up at the masked woman in front of her. "Athos!" she grinned.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan screamed from behind, and she looked back over her shoulder, between the two masked at the back of the cart, to see the Gascon running after the cart with fear on his face, Aramis and Athos right behind him. He fired a shot, catching one of the men as she turned back to the woman standing in front of her—and received the butt of a pistol at the temple.

"No!" d'Artagnan cried, having no other choice but to stop running as the cart was too fast for him and disappeared from sight.

Athos knelt by the masked dead man and tore off the mask. The man's appearance was unremarkable, but his neck wasn't. "There." She pulled down his collar and revealed the Fleur-de-lis brand. "A mark of a criminal."

"Whoever they are, they saved Porthos." d'Artagnan said, at least having that relief. If it hadn't been for these masked men, Porthos would be dead right now.

Aramis crouched by the dead man's head and stared at the mark branded into the side of his neck. "I think I know who took Porthos." She said, sharing a knowing gaze with Athos.

d'Artagnan followed Aramis and Athos on horseback from the court, deeper and deeper into the poorer parts of Paris, until they laid upon an enclosed entrance. They three dismounted and secured their horses, and when d'Artagnan stepped passed that open threshold, it was like he was entering an entirely different world.

The street was crowded with people; men, women, children, young and old. Littering stoops and open windows and makeshift scaffolding. And as soon as they entered this place, the people started banging and hammering on anything available, the off-rhythm sound sending the young Gascon on edge as they were watched openly.

"Why are they doing that?" d'Artagnan asked, his gaze shooting from one person to the next, taking note of all the men and women who wore masks like the ones who had taken Porthos, and everyone of them with a weapon of some sort.

"It's a warning," Aramis said and d'Artagnan automatically reached for his sword hilt. She touched his hand, stopping its progress and shook her head. "Do nothing, unless you're attacked."

That did not help assuage his amped nerves, so he focused on something else so he didn't unconsciously provoke an attack. "So, where are we?"

"The Court of Miracles." Athos said.

Their progress was forced to a stop as they came upon a group of the masked blocking the street.

"This is too dangerous." Aramis was tense, but kept her harquebus rested on her shoulder in a non-threatening manner. "We should turn back."

Athos nodded in agreement, and patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder as she turned back. Despite the danger, he had to push back the urge to draw his sword anyways and push through to find Porthos, but made himself turn his back and follow the two woman, least they leave him behind.

"What about Porthos?" he hissed, glancing behind him to see that the masked were walking slowly after them, urging them backward like a collie and its herd of sheep.

"She'll be safe for now." Aramis murmured, sighing. "She has friends here."

The Court of Miracles was a miniature kingdom within Paris, of professional thieves, highway robbers, whores and beggars. The inhabitants of the Court were violent and feral. The Cardinal was in the process of attempting to persuade them to join the King's march of progress. It was to be the first district to be cleared for rebuilding, but it was no simple task. They remained strongly attached to their depravity, their way of life as depraved as it was.

A modern capitalistic city for a modern France. That was what the King was attempting to accomplish. It was to be his legacy to a grateful nation. But how was he to do such a thing when there was such an body sore in Paris like the Court of Miracles?

The Cardinal didn't intend for the place to be standing for much longer, he was going to blow it away. In fact, he had a man on it, who had a woman on the inside. She wasn't Milady, but she might feasibly entrench her shadow.

Porthos had awoken in motion and in darkness. It was forced, a sack pulled over her head, blinding her to her surroundings. And her movement wasn't that of a cart or wagon, but two men grasping her arms and dragging her along. She stumbled to get her feet under her, and was too disoriented to struggle free. Too nauseas to try and count the turns that they took and which way, concentrating on not throwing up with the sack over her head.

They made it back to the 'outside' world and their horses without incident, but they didn't breath any easier. Porthos was still somewhere in there, away from them.

"Who are these people?" d'Artagnan questioned in confusion. "Why would they save Porthos?"

"Porthos was an orphan, born and raised here." Athos revealed to d'Artagnan.

"Amongst thieves?" he gaped.

Athos gaze a small nod in answer and he leaned against the broken wagon before the entrance of the Court. He never would have thought that the tall woman could come from a place like this. But he supposed, he never would have thought Athos was the Comtesse de la Fère, though she held that kind of detached authority about her. Or that Aramis had intended to be a Sister nun, before her life had led her to the Musketeers. He thought about Porthos and cards, and the brutality in which she could fight, and her unusual strength. Had she learned to fight like that in order to survive through her childhood?

When they had escorted Bonnaire from La Havre to Paris, he had learned that Porthos' mother, a freed slave from West Africa, had come to Paris, and died when Porthos was just a child. She had been left here, in the Court of Mircales, to defend for herself.

"She never said a word." He whispered, and his awe and opinion of the woman rose. To survive like she had, and still be the person that she had become, you had to have something nearly indestructible inside.

"She's a little touchy about it." Aramis replied from next to her horse, finished strapping her harquebus to the saddle holster. "She's worked harder than any of us to become a Musketeer and for the life that she has now. She doesn't like to tell people because of how they might judge her as undeserving."

"Undeserving?" d'Artagnan shook his head. "I've never met someone more deserving!" he paused. "So, why do they call it the Court of Miracles?" he asked as a lad came limping towards Athos with a coin bowl in one hand, bandages around his eye.

"Because," Athos said and d'Artagnan watched the proceedings with an open mouth. "Entering it opens the eyes of blind men," she lifted the boy's eye patch to reveal a healthy eye beneath, blinking into the light. "And gives more cripples the use of their legs than our Lord ever did," and she pulled out her main gauche and sliced through the binds that tied the boy's leg out of sight. She dropped a coin into his bowl. "Buy yourself an instrument. You have the hands of a musician." Wide-eyed, the boy nodded his head rapidly and left in a faster pace than he had arrived in.

He shook his head lightly and closed his mouth. "What... What if Porthos did it?" d'Artagnan voiced reluctantly. Two hard stares pinned him down. He rubbed the nape of his neck. "She was drunk. And shooting melons off heads. I'm sure it was an accident, but what if she's guilty? What is she—"

Aramis' eyes flashed and she threw him back against the abandoned wagon he'd been standing next to, her fists balled in his doublet. "This is Porthos. She's no murderer and she didn't kill that man. You understand? To doubt her... what kind of friend—when we find her, you're going to apologize!"

"Okay. Alright." Athos pulled Aramis off him. "Let's not be at each other's throats, when there's several there already. I'm going to find Porthos. You two make nice, and go to the Wren. See what you can find." She patted both on the shoulder.

Aramis and d'Artagnan looked at each other for a moment before they mounted their horses and left Athos to the Court. She sighed after them.

Finally, her motion was stopped when Porthos was shoved down onto her knees. The sack was yanked from her head and she blinked into the beam of sunlight that shone through the high window directly at her. She held up her hand and squinted at the figure, almost haloed as they stepped into the sun's beam, blocking it.

Though it had been years, she would know the short, dark-skinned, stocky woman anywhere. "Charon." She started to push to her feet, but one of the masks that had dragged her, kicked her back down. Her lip curled and she sneered at him over her shoulder and said in a rough voice, "Do tha' again, and I'll break your leg."

Charon jerked her chin and the men backed off. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Why am I 'ere?" she asked. She'd just been thinking about this woman last night. Now, she was going to face the truth of it. If the other woman held hard feelings towards her, after all these years.

"Aren't you glad to be back?" Charon raised a brow.

Porthos sat back onto her knees, glancing around the room before she looked back at the woman, her expression tight. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

"'Cause we're all still friends—though you forgot about us a long time ago." Her tone was off-hand, but her eyes were not.

"I didn't forget."

Charon smiled down at her peaceably, and held out her hand. After a moment, Porthos took it and rose to her feet. She guessed the footing was fair.

"You really don't remember whether you killed that man?"

"No more than you do." Porthos replied, and Charon's dark eyes flickered. "You seem disappointed."

Charon shook her head. "I have a reputation to think of. People just believe I saved the life of a murderer."

Porthos nodded in understanding and only said, "Maybe you did." Though she wouldn't be the first murderer in these parts.

Charon smirked at her remark and held open her arms, pulling in the taller woman for a hug. Porthos let herself be taken, though she couldn't relax into it like she'd always been able to with Aramis. She was too on-edge, too hyped to be anything but be dubious. As they pulled apart, she didn't miss the throne-like chair sitting right there.

"You the Queen 'ere, now, or somethin'?" Porthos indicated the chair.

Charon glanced back at the chair and snorted. "Queen of sorts."

"Aramis," d'Artagnan stopped the woman before she could enter the tavern. "I—"

She sighed. "I didn't mean to be so harsh, Charlie, but Porthos didn't kill that man."

He nodded. "You're right. And I am sorry that I doubted."

She patted him on the chest in acceptance. "So let's find out what really happened."

They stepped through the threshold, and paused, surveying the cliental.

"There." Aramis murmured, nodding towards a table that sat an old woman alone.

On their way to the table, Aramis bought a bottle from the bar, and slid into the empty seat across from the old woman, filling up her cup. d'Artagnan leaned against the wall behind her shoulder.

"Is it raining Musketeers outside?" the old woman inquired, a gentle lilt in her voice.

Aramis chuckled lightly and took off her hat, setting it on the table. "I'm guessing you saw my friend here."

She nodded and took a drink from her filled cup. "Tall—sad—prettier than you."

Aramis glanced over her shoulder at d'Artagnan and murmured, "I know I shouldn't be, but I find myself wounded." He gave a quiet snort and shake of the head and she turned back to the old woman. "Did you talk with her?"

"She bought me a drink. She was a gentlewoman."

"And did you notice anything unusual?" d'Artagnan wondered, joining the conversation.

The woman drank as she thought back. "Now that I think on it, there was an argument involving a young man."

"Did you know this young man?" Aramis asked.

But the old woman shook her head. "Never seen him before. He didn't look the type to drink here."

Aramis and d'Artagnan shared a look; that was what they wanted to here. The Musketeer rose to her feet, pressing her hat back upon her head, and sliding a coin across the table top.

She took it with a smile. "Now I look proper, I can see you're the prettier one."

Aramis smiled, and put a hand lightly over her heart, looking touched as they left the woman to her drinking. "I feel better now."

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Buying compliments. I know your dirty little secret now, Aramis." They stepped out into the grey day from the dark surroundings of the bar and mounted their horses. "Do you really think that was our man?"

"Perhaps." Aramis allowed. "The crime scene is just around the corner from here. Shall we take a look?" and urged her horse on.

Aramis squatted amid the street that Porthos had been arrested at, and where the body of the young man was discovered by the Red Guard. All just around the corner from the Wren. It was no coincidence, but the scene didn't make sense.

Aramis squatted center street, her hat in her hands. "Where's the blood?" she questioned. "I once saw a man take a musket ball back in a street fight—Pfft!" she mimed brain splatter from a head shot. "Contents of his skull painted a rather pretty picture all around."

"And yet," d'Artagnan continued the thought, "There's not a drop of blood or shard of bone." She stood. "He wasn't shot here!" he realized.

Aramis nodded her agreement. "Perhaps were should pay a call on the victim himself." She chucked him on the chest. "See what he has to say about all of this." She put her hat back on and returned to their horses.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Aramis?" he mused and followed, a smile playing on his lips. "Can you speak with the dead?"

"Charlie," she tsked gently. "There are a great many things you need not know—but my speaking to the dearly departed... I would entrust that secret to you, little brother."

"You bring me to the most lovely places, Aramis." d'Artagnan said to the woman, who smiled in turn, as the coroner led them into the belly of the Paris morgue. It looked as pleasant as it smelled.

"Here, we wash the cadavers and remove the internal organs." He lead them to the table where the victim lay, covered in a dirty linen. "After the body has been salted and stuffed with straw to prevent odours, it will be put on display until someone identifies it."

"Just how I imagined it." d'Artagnan muttered.

"In this case, though, it's not necessary." The coroner nodded at the small shelf at the head of the table that displayed the victims person effects.

d'Artagnan spotted the indicated object, and picked up the watch. "Nuremberg egg." He remarked, inspecting it and Aramis raised a brow at him. "Portable timekeeping." He shrugged and opened it and noted the inscription. "Expensive."

"Jean de Mauvoisin, a son of nobility." The coroner said solemnly. "A tragedy indeed." d'Artagna fingered a brass key on the table as well and picked it up. "Put the key down. That's evidence!"

d'Artangana and Aramis sharked a fast look, a subtle nod.

"One question." Aramis held up her finger, and then lifted the sheet. "The victim was shot in the head, right?"

"Yes." The older man nodded. While he was distracted, d'Artagnan quickly pocketed both the watch and the brass key.

"Why carve him up?" she wondered, giving the Gascon a minimal nod.

"This is science. We can learn a great deal from a fresh cadaver!" he said defensively.

"Oh, I see." She peered closer at the work. "The pistol was close."

"Conjecture." The old man crossed his arms.

Aramis gave him a level stare. "Based upon extensive experience on the battlefield."

"Hardly a clinical observation," he sulked.

"Well, killing's not an exact science, Monsieur," d'Artagnan piped up, "but a messy business."

d'Artagnan grinned internally. He remembered back to when he had first met his Angels and watching how seamlessly Aramis and Porthos had worked when interrogating Dujon. Their communication between each other a collection of nods and silent looks that spoke volumes. He never thought he could know someone so well, as to be able to do that, but he was starting to convene there with these three women and it gave him a warm feeling inside.

She nodded. "And as soldiers, it is our business." She put an arm around the Gascon's shoulder, nodded, and steered them away, back the way they came. "The killer was no more than a foot away when the shot was fired." She murmured to him. "This was no accident—it was murder. The judge was right on that, at least."

"Now all we have to do is find the true killer," he agreed.

Athos slowly made her way deeper and deeper into the Court of Miracles, and old, hooded cloak disguising her from a Musketeer, a limp going further to her cause as she huddled in on herself. She was determined to find her sister, and wasn't planning on turning back until then.

Charon nodded to a short and lean, masked man across the room and Porthos narrowed her eyes, watching the man approached with a lethal step, wary. Even as the familiarity pulled at her, it wasn't until the man stopped, and pulled the hooded-mask from his head, revealing the handsome face and blond mane, that he registered with her. It had been so long, had she truly forgotten that picture of the man.

"Flea!" a huge grin broke across Porthos' features, brightening her previously dark spirit. "Is that you?"

"Oh, recognize me, do you?" he raised a brow. "All these years, and not one letter."

"How d'you know I even learned to write, eh?" she raised a brow in return and then chuckled; their old times just clicking into place, even after all this time.

A small smile broke across his previously sour expression. "You always were a show-off." He started to approached the taller woman, but when Charon held her arm out, he changed direction and slipped into place beside the short woman, his coldness returning, and a pointed-possessive flashing across hers.

Porthos' own brief of happiness vanished as she looked at the pair, sighed, and nodded. "It's like that now, is it? You two are together." She cleared her throat. "I'm happy for you." She gave them a tight smile. That used to be them, her and Flea. But she gave that up when she left the Court. She was happy for them, she really was.

"You had your chance, Porthos." Charon stuck her chin out, her eyes narrowed and arm tightening around the man. "If you wanted Flea, you should have taken him with you."

Porthos' eyes narrowed, a resentment flashing inside of her. "You think I didn't try?" They glared at each other for a moment, before the tall woman forced herself to back down. She was happy for them, both deserved to find someone to love and if they found that in each other after she left, who was she to interfere? Even if it was like a stab to the heart. "But you're right." She held up her hands peaceably and chuckled.

Charon shot a glance at Flea and said to Porthos, "Rest now. Tomorrow, we'll get you out of Paris."

Porthos instantly shook her head. There was no way that she was going to leave Paris. When Athos made a promise, she kept it, no matter how long it took her. And Aramis was her best-friend, her sister, the woman would never abandoned her, leave her hanging. And d'Artagnan, who had become her little brother and a dear friend in such a short time, was loyal to a fault. No, wanted or no, she had too much in Paris to just leave behind, no matter the risk to herself.

"The longer you stay—every minute increases the risk to all of us." She spoke over any protests.

"Charon." A masked man interrupted and gestured for the woman's approached.

"I'll be back." Charon told Porthos, and pressed a kiss to Flea's lips. "What is it?" she muttered quietly to the man as they walked from the main chamber.

"We have a visitor." The masked answered, just as low.

Porthos watched them go with narrowed eyes and when she turned back, it was to find Flea standing right close in front of her. "You forgot about us." She whispered.

"I didn't fit in here." She protested quietly.

"You could have, if you really wanted to."

"That's not fair." She shook her head.

Amusement suddenly sparked in his eyes as he looked her up and down playfully, appreciatively. "We'd best get you out of those clothes... before someone mistakes you for a noble and slits your throat."

"Heh."

He brushed passed the woman towards the door, who's dark gaze followed with keen attention. Taken or not, Flea always did know how to move, like no other man she ever knew.

He paused at the door, and looked at her over his shoulder, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. "And watch where you lay your eyes, I'm a taken man." And disappeared from the main chamber into the hall.

"Can't 'elp that any more than you." Porthos murmured and followed after the man.

Her face covered with the scarf around her neck, and her eyes shadowed by the hood of her cloak, Athos had made it into what she safely assumed was the outlaws' headquarters. This was the center of where all those masked congregated.

Porthos was close, it was like she could feel it tingle in her blood.

When she got called out, she had no other choice but to reveal herself as an intruder, and quickly knocked the two men out. And now she had to rush, it would be only a matter of minutes before the other masked were alerted to her presence.

She jumped down a short set of stairs and turned to the right and found a surprised mask in front of her, and a cry from behind alerted to another. The mask behind her charged, and she spun around, grabbing the man and shoving him away, kicking out behind her at the other mask. She turned and punched the man, grabbed his shoulders in his brief senselessness and kneed him in the gut. She grabbed the side of his head and bashed it against the wall, dropping him unconscious to the floor. The mask that she had shoved away, screamed his charge again. Athos ducked just in time to avoid a bashing from a club. As she came up, she grabbed his wielding arm and punched the air out of his gut, and without giving him time to recover, punched him in the face. She shoved him back against the wall and drew back her arm for one last strike, when she felt the barrel of a pistol press against the back of her head and froze.

She released the man in her grip and he slid down the wall to the floor.

"I'm looking for Porthos."

The pistol was removed from her skull and a hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her around to face her adversaries, the scarf pulled from her face and knife put to her throat.

Athos ignored the two masked and focused on the unmasked, dark-skinned, stout woman in front of her, dressed in breaches. "Where is she."

"She's fine." Charon replied curtly.

Athos narrowed her blue eyes. "Take me to her."

Charon shook her head. "She doesn't want to see you."

"She said that to you, did she? Just in case I stopped by."

"She didn't need to tell me, because I know her."

It was clear that her request wasn't going to be answered, so she switched tactics. "Tell her a message, then. Tell her, her friends are working on clearing her name—"

"You left her to die!" Charon snapped. "We saved her. I saved her. I'm her real friend, not you!"

"Friends who murder for the sake of coin. I know your kind." Athos' lips curled as she stared at the woman—stared and saw. "You're a pretender. You don't have to wear one of those masks, because you're wearing one already."

Charon seethed. "The only reason why you're not wearing a bloody-grin from ear-to-ear right now, is because I know Porthos would be upset. Get her out of here," she ordered her men. They grabbed Athos and dragged her back the way she had come. "You should just forget about her! Porthos is with us now."

Charon let out a sound of frustration and clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides. Wondering if she would have saved Porthos still, if it hadn't been for Flea.

d'Artagnan and Aramis returned the garrison and took up in Treville's office, to fill the man in on what they had discovered thus far, and wait for news on Porthos from Athos.

"The de Mauvoisins were once amongst the great families of France." Treville remarked, and examined the watch that d'Artagnan had secreted away from the morgue. "They've fallen on hard times as of late. But Emile de Mauvoisin is still in the King's inner circle." He leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed lightly. "What was his son doing drinking in a place like the Wren? It's hardly a place for a man of that stature—even with the family in troubling times."

They hardly had time to sit in contemplative silence before Athos walked in, without knocking; back in her usual wear, removing her gloves. She didn't look pleased.

d'Artagnan rose from his seat and turned to the woman. "Did you find Porthos?"

"No trace of Porthos... but I ran into a friend of hers." Athos replied, her opinion of said 'friend', not a good one. She exhaled. "She thinks that we left her to be beheaded, that we abandoned her."

Treville shook his head. "Porthos fought harder than any to become a Musketeer." Unknowing that Aramis had said a similar piece to d'Artagnan earlier. "She wouldn't give up on us that lightly—like us, her."

Aramis scoffed and shook her head. "Her friend is just spinning webs—hopefully, Porthos will catch wind before she's ensnared."

"The King has allowed further investigation into Porthos' case, at least until the Cardinal's Red Guard find her. Start by making a call on Monsieur de Mauvoisin." Treville ordered. "Find out what kind of company his son kept." He handed the watch back to d'Artagnan, and the trio left, intent to call on Monsieur, further determination in their step.

Treville sat back again with a heavy sigh. Whatever the people from the Courts intention, if it hadn't been for them, Porthos would be buried alongside many of the other fallen Musketeers—and his Inseparables wouldn't be the same, because the trio was fast becoming a foursome.

"No way, am I wearin' that." Porthos shook her head.

"Can't blame a man for trying." Flea tossed the dress aside and smirked. "Same old Porthos." And handed over a sleeveless tan tunic, crossed with buckles in the front.

Porthos switched jackets. "Whatever, y'know you love me." She rubbed the back of her neck, grimacing as she scratched the cut. She'd almost forgotten that those bastards had sliced her hair away.

Flea caught it and tsked at her. He didn't miss the dried blood that lined the back edge of her doublet's high-collar. "What have you done to yourself now?"

Porthos dropped her hand and straightened under the man's scrutiny. "Nothin'."

Flea's expression said that he clearly didn't believe her, and before she could blink, he pushed her down into the single stool in his bedroom. He went behind and his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, inspecting the slice present.

It obviously wasn't life-threatening, the gouge already sealed with dried blood. He gave a quiet sighed and got a bowl of water and wiped at the dried blood, cleaning the wound.

"The... The Red Guards cut of my braid before they were 'bout to cut my 'ead off." She said gruffly. She hung her head, her short and wavy loose locks tickling her cheeks.

"I know how much your hair meant, Porthos." Flea murmured, his fingers brushing lightly at the hair at the nape of her neck.

Porthos' hair became a point of self-pride for her. Not long before she left the Court of Miracles behind her, they were hit with a lice infestation. Flea was forced to shear off her hair, there was nothing else for it. And when she left, she promised herself that she would never be so low and dirty that again, and made a point of growing her hair. She hadn't cut the back since she'd left the Court, but kept it short around her head otherwise.

Athos had always told her that that braid was a hazard—and it wouldn't be the first time. She'd had several close calls during fights in close-combat, with her opponent grabbing her braid and using it like an anchor. And that was why, when on a mission or during a duel, she kept her braid tucked in her high collar.

"Nothin' to do 'bout it now." She replied, her voice hard. They were lucky they were already dead, she thought.

"Still..." he pulled away abruptly. "We should find Charon, she's probably wondering where we are." And he hurried from the room.

Porthos sighed, rubbing a hand along her face tiredly. With all the excitement, she still hadn't remembered and it frustrated her. She couldn't believe that she'd drunken so much that she blacked out. But it had been her birthday. She shook her head, pressing her knuckles to her forehead—it did nothing to bring the memory forth, but made her forehead hurt needlessly instead.

Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan were let in to see Emile de Mauvoisin by his valet, and told the man of the death of his son. Athos was cut and dry with the truth of it, and perhaps that helped the man.

de Mauvoisin told the three that Jean didn't have enemies, he was a man of conscious and honour. While d'Artagnan was sure that was true, one never thought one had enemies until something like this happened. Aramis asked after his rooms, but they were told that Jean had taken lodgings on Rue Calbert a few months before hand.

d'Artagnan had returned the portable timekeeper to the man before they left, but kept the brass key that had also been in the young man's possession when he died.

They three rode from the de Mauvoisin's chateau, for Rue Calbert.

Porthos sat across from Charon and Flea in the short woman's 'throne' room, drinking and reminiscing.

"That boy. What if I did kill him?" Porthos whispered doubtfully.

"Either way," Charon told her, "We have to get you out of Paris. It's either that, or hang."

But Porthos shook her head. "I can't leave. I can't. You know I'm grateful—But I think I should stay in Paris and try to clear my name. My f—"

"The risk is far too great—for you and us!" Flea interrupted her. "Unless you don't care about this place anymore?"

Porthos gave him an edged look at that, and he returned it. Ever since she returned, he had been hitting her with a hot and cold attitude—it was exhausting.

"You always did what Flea told you." Charon interceded.

"Except when I begged her to stay." He muttered. Porthos glanced away and Flea shoved to his feet, giving the woman a glare before she left.

Porthos sighed heavily in defeat and looked back up at Charon. "Okay. I'll do it."

Charon smiled at her in relief and leaned across the table towards her, whispering, "I've ordered the celebration for tomorrow. The people here need the distraction from their misery. It's the perfect cover for you to slip away—get out of France."

"Thank you." They picked up their goblets and toasted before drinking.

Porthos felt bad for lying, but what else was she supposed to do? Paris was her home, her life was here, her family. She couldn't leave that, she wouldn't be able to stand not knowing the truth. One way or another, she had to know, good or bad.

She hadn't seen the others since court, but knew they would tirelessly be looking for the truth—seeking out her innocence. And tomorrow, when Charon thought her from Paris, she would find her sisters and brother, and aid in the case.

"A Bit down-market for a de Mauvoisin." d'Artagnan commented as the entered the building that Jean de Mauvoisin had chosen to live in down in Rue Calbert, instead of at home in the grand chateau with his father.

"The family's bankrupt," Aramis shrugged, "Been living off borrowed money for years.

At his apartment door, d'Artagnan pulled out the brass key from inside his doublet, and presented it to the keyhole, but a match was lacking. "No." He shook his head and quickly stepped back with Aramis unhooked her pistol from her belt, and cocked the weapon.

Aramis took her hat off and used it as a shield from the sparks as she fired at the door's lock.

d'Artagnan raised a brow at her and said dryly, "You could have tried knocking."

"That's true," she agreed, putting her hat back on and kicked the door in. "But I think he'd hardly be able to answer, being from this world, after all." She entered first, the other two following, as she started to reload.

The front room was bare of hardly any furniture, but for a steal framework that was still smouldering with burnt papers. Athos picked through them with a gloved hand. Aramis continued on, packing in her bullet as she discovered Jean's office. Like in the front room, papers were everywhere. She caught sight of a reflection of a masked man behind her through a long looking glass on the wall, and reacted fast.

She spun round on her heel, dropping to her knee and pointing her pistol. But the man was on the move, and the bullet lay into the wall instead of the man. She instantly leapt into pursuit, but the masked man had already leapt through the window, slid down the tin roof, and took off on foot. She was quickly met at the window by Athos and d'Artagnan.

Athos sighed. "That explains how the papers were still burning." She silently cursed her inattention. She had assumed the apartment was empty because its tenant was dead—assuming was the worst thing that a soldier could do.

They went back and did a more thorough search of the office, the man was long gone. Athos through the desk and d'Artagnan through the cabinent

"Whoever he was," Aramis remarked, leaning against the doorjamb, some of the burnt papers from the front room in her hands, "He was keen to cover his tracks; most of this is burnt beyond recognition."

"So, what you're really saying is—someone may have answered the door, had you knocked?" d'Artagnan mused.

"Smartass," she kicked him lightly in the thigh with the side of her boot and he gave her an innocent look. "More like he would have said hello with a bullet."

He turned back to the rolled and loose parchments in the cubbies of the cabinet.

Ignoring them, Athos held out a page. "A page from a Protestant hymnal."

Brows furrowed, Aramis took it in-hand and read it through. "What would a Catholic like de Mauvoisin want with this?"

"Never mind that," d'Artagnan said into the prevailing silence, sitting back on his heels, holding a piece of paper in-hand. "What would he want with 6000 lbs. of gunpowder?" Athos stood and instantly went to him, taking the paper from his hand. "Bought from a mill outside the city three weeks ago." He stood up next to the woman, and pointed, "It carries his signature."

"'Sermons And Prayers' by Pastor Ferrand." Aramis murmured.

d'Artagnan looked at her. "Who's that?"

"A well-known Huguenot preacher."

Athos looked up. "Jean's father is known for his hatred of the Protestant faith. Perhaps the boy was radical." She gestured to the gunpowder receipt. "And was perhaps planning to blow of this Pastor's church."

The Spaniard flicked the brim of her hat and stated sadly, "People have done worse in the name of religion."

After Flea had made his abrupt exit, Porthos and Charon had gotten pretty heavy into the drinking, which lead them into the reminiscing of past and less complicated times, where nothing mattered but survival and each others backs.

"No. You." Charon pointed at her with her goblet. "You were the best thief here—and you enjoyed it. Don't try and deny it!"

Porthos shook her head but then grinned. "Ah, maybe. Yeah. Th' thrill, the danger... the sisterhood." She whispered the last bit, and Charon's expression stilled. "Ah, an' then I found those things somewhere else. A sisterhood with honour." She gulped from her drink.

"So, there's not honour amongst thieves, is that what you're saying?" Charon responded lowly. "That it's all family until you got something that you want, and then it's the knife instead of words?"

Porthos shook her head. "That's not what I meant!"

"You're Musketeer sisters." She sneered and shook her own head; remembering her encounter with Athos earlier. "Where are they? And where were they? At the Chatelet this morning, at court—but what about when you were about to be executed, right there on the street like some show in the Circus, huh? I saved you, not them!" She tapped her chest, then flung her hand out.

"They're m'friends, Charon."

"Yeah," she scoffed. "I thought I was your friend."

"I can have more than one friend!" she returned in a hard tone.

"You believe that if it makes you happy." She muttered and drank, hunching over her cup. "But someone always gets lost in the shuffle."

Porthos sighed internally, resisting the urge to strike the table—and they slipped into a silence that screamed the distance between them.

She wanted to deny that it wasn't true, but it was. Some when, in her desperation to get out of the Court, she had shoved Flea and Charon behind her as well, even when she promised that wasn't going to happen.

She didn't want to be like her mother, before she'd been freed—a slave. Because that was what was happening to her. The Court swallowed you. It was the Master, poverty the Whip, and you the Slave. It was like a living thing that digested peoples hopes and dreams, withered them out of existence and devoured your soul.

She wanted to be better than the Court people—better than a thief and a beggar—better than a bastard.

But she also had to lay thanks into the Court of Miracles. It made her compassionate to others suffering, it made her strong to defend the helpless. It had made her into the strong woman she was today, it had given her the skills that she had used on several occasions as a Musketeer. It was what made Treville take an interest in her. He didn't look on her origins as something that held her below, but helped elevate who she was. She owed so much to that man, and she knew that she would never be able to pay him back.

And she moved into her new life, and left the old one behind. She'd always head back there, but could never step over that threshold, that line that was drawn between all of Paris and the Court of Miracles. She was afraid, afraid that it would try and swallow her again—and somehow succeed. That she had been able to escape it once, but if she stepped foot back into the Court, she would never leave it again.

That was because a deep part of her was afraid. A part of her would always be that little girl, sobbing for her Mama, her one anchor in the world that kept her grounded in the world. But then she'd met Flea and Charon, and they became her anchors for the longest time until it stopped feeling like an anchor and more like a cage, the Court bearing down upon her. But then Aramis and Athos and Treville came into her life—and now d'Artagnan, too—they'd freed her from that cage and let her soar.

A sharp pain suddenly went through her skull and she gasped, jumping to her feet and knocking the stool to the floor. She hissed, holding her head.

"What's wrong?" Charon demanded, her anger from before vanishing with her concern.

Porthos groaned quietly.

She was in the Wren, the old lady passed-out on the table across from her. She'd just blinked, but she might have blacked-out. She blinked drunkenly, her eyelids not corresponding and going at different intervals. Glancing, even over the laughter, she could hear the arguing. Her vision blurry, she spotted a pair of men across the tavern. One man's back was to her, shorter than the other, with a cloak and feathered hat pulled low. Her eyes focused on the other lad, though she wouldn't know it—Jean de Mauvoisin.

"I 'membered somethin' from last night." Head still in her hands, she paced a frenzied step next to Charon, not noticing how she straightened and stiffened at the mention of a recovered memory. "The lad." Charon was doubly startled by that omission. "The one who... I... Who was killed. 'E was there—at the Wren. I saw 'im, arguin' with someone."

Charon breathed through her noise, her grip on her cup tightening. "Who?"

But Porthos shook her head with a growl, and Charon gave a silent gasp of relief. It had been there, the thread to the memory, to the rest it. But just as fast as it flashed through her mind, it was gone again before her fingertips could do more than trace it.

With an angry groan, her fist pounded into the wooden table top, making the contents on said surface and Charon, jump from the force. "Why can't I remember?!"

The valet tethered his small horse at the entry of the Court of Mircales and adjusted the hooded mask draped over his face to better see out the circle holes cut into the material. It had been a close call at Jean's apartment. He looked conspicuously around him, and moved without hold through the streets to his destination, not being stopped or questioned. Not until he was inside the Queen's headquarters, nearing her rooms, was he stopped.

"Charon's busy—and take that mask off!" the man said, standing from the low, makeshift table of cards that he was playing with another.

The valet said nothing, and instead struck the man without warning. As he stumbled back, the valet whipped out a large knife, stabbing the man in the gut, even as the second man jumped to his feet. But the Valet was already pulling the knife free, and the man dropped to the floor, dead, and he stabbed the second man in the ribs, shoving him down against the table, and stabbing him in the back.

He left both men dead, continuing on down the hall towards a frustrated sounding woman and his destination.

Porthos slumped down in Flea's previously occupied stool, her head in her hands. Charon slid her wine goblet in front of her, but the tall woman pushed it away and shook her head.

"I need to clear my 'ead." She shook her head. "If only I could remember what 'appened!"

"Perhaps you don't want to." Charon hedged. "I mean, if you did kill that boy..."

"Flea's right!" She said vehemently. "I would remember, no matter 'ow much I drank. This doesn't make any sense!"

The sheets hanging over the door were pushed aside, and both woman looked over at the masked man that stepped inside. A cross-look flashed across Charon's face at the man's unannounced interruption, but it died on her lips when he pulled a pistol and aimed it at them. Porthos' body just reacted as the trigger was pulled, and she flung herself at Charon, tackling her to the floor. She grabbed the knife from the short woman's belt and whipped it back at the man. He moved just in time, hissing a curse as the knife grazed his upper arm, before it embedded in the post behind him. He turned and fled.

"Charon!" Porthos quickly turned her attention back to her friend, who was groaning in pain, clutching her upper arm. "Alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It's nothing." She said through gritted teeth.

Porthos nodded and helped sit her up. "Why would someone try an' kill you?"

Charon's eyes flickered, but Porthos took it to be the pain. "How do you know he wasn't aiming at you?"

That caused Porthos to pause. But who could want her dead? The dead man's father, perhaps? It was something to think on, but not right now. She had to make sure that Charon was fit.

Athos tasked Aramis and d'Artagnan to see the Pastor Ferrand, while she paid another visit to the grieving father.

The church was empty of any person, lined with cheap wooden benches in two rows, and a simple wooden podium on a slight dais at the front. A locked door stood behind it.

Bells tolled as Aramis did a slow circle, usually, with the sun setting like it was and shinning through the windows, the room would be bathed in many beautiful shades. But the windows were all plain and broken.

She sighed. "Religion without art is so much less... seductive."

"In this Church we worship God, not beauty. " The Pastor spoke from between the aisle, a scar marked the entire right side of his face; chin to hairline.

Aramis turned to him, taking off her hat and hung it on the hilt of her sword. "Well," she looked him up and down with a flick of her eyes. "At least the Catholic faith allows us a little joy before we die."

"But we Protestants will have joy eternal at God's right hand," the Pastor returned coolly. "While you..."

"Roast in Satan's inferno." She finished pleasantly.

He nodded, and said not unkindly, "As all benighted heretics must."

d'Artagnan silently watched as Aramis gave him a tight smile, and pointed upwards at the wall. "Surely even Huguenot believe in windows."

"The stained-glass was removed." He answered in a still tone, eyes tracking d'Artagnan as he turned from them, and stepped up on the dais and to the wooden podium, respectfully inspecting the book that lay open there, fingering the old pages. "If you wish to make a contribution, the collection plate is behind me." Ferrand said pointedly.

Aramis stepped forward a couple steps towards the man. "Where did you serve?" she inquired, her finger tracing the side of her face in indication of the scar he bore alongside his face.

"To many hellholes to recall."

"You killed Catholics?"

"Not specifically." He paused. "I fought for money."

Aramis spread her arms. "And then you found God."

"He found me." Ferrand corrected.

d'Artagnan finally decided to enter the conversation, or lack thereof, in the silence that stretched between the pair as they stared across at the other. He turned to them. "Did you know Jean de Mauvoisin?" the Pastors silent stutter was all the confirmation he needed, and taking a page from Athos' playbook, decided to say the harsh truth without warning, and gauge the reaction. "Well, he's dead now." He came to stand beside Aramis, thumbs hook into his main belt.

Ferrand finally recovered himself, somewhat. "Poor boy. I will pray for his soul." He murmured. "How did he die?"

"He was shot." d'Artangna told him plainly. He paused. "Did you kill him?"

Aramis looked at him, and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. Just because the man was a Pastor, didn't mean he couldn't be a killer—he'd even admitted to such a thing earlier.

"Why would I do such a thing?" he demanded in shock.

"Maybe because he was a Catholic who intended to blow your Protestant Church to Kingdom Come." The Pastor scoffed at the ridiculousness of that statement for several reasons. d'Artangnan flashed a fake smile. "And why is that funny?"

"Jean was not a Catholic. He was a committed member of this congregation."

d'Artangnan and Aramis shared a look. "A Huguenot?" he asked.

"Well," Aramis noted, "his father is a prominent Catholic, a man who hate Huguenots and urges the King to act against them—"

"Monsieur de Mauvoisin only converted to Catholicism to win favour at court." Ferrand corrected her again. "Before him, the family were Protestant for generations. Jean didn't find selling his conscience as easily as his father." And he turned from them pointedly, a clear order for them to take their leave of his church.

So Aramis and d'Artagnan did, the former dropping a coin into the collection plate on the way out.

"There's something he's not telling us," she whispered to d'Artagnan as they left, and he nodded in silent agreement.

"So, what did Emile de Mauvoisin have to say when you showed him the gunpowder receipt?" Aramis asked Athos, when they met up with the woman again, at a nearby tavern and inn that was nearly equal distances from their previous destinations.

"Claimed to have had no knowledge of the transaction, or any involvement that Jean was plotting with other Huguenot fanatics to attack Catholics. He knew that Jean was involved with Pastor Ferrand and said he warned Jean to break with them."

"Mmm." She nodded. "The Pastor acted in the same regard. But claims he was a devout Protestant, even though his father converted."

d'Artagnan scoffed, his arms crossed lightly over his chest. "Like either would admit anything to our faces."

Aramis raised a brow at him. "You think their lying about their involvement?"

"You said it yourself, Aramis, as we left the church!" he gestured. "The Pastor was holding something back."

"Sure, but that could be an entirely different thing."

"And Emile, he converted, and knows that his son's death is mixed up in all this, yet he said nothing. Why?"

"Either way," Athos said. "We'll conduct another inquiry into the good Pastor tonight—and if he's asleep, all the better."

"Porthos!" Flea ran into the main chamber, fearful and out of breathe. He gave a relieved breath at the sight of Porthos, but rushed over to the pair where he caught sight of Charon. "Charon! What happened? Are you okay?"

"Help me get 'er to the bed." Porthos told him, and together the helped move the woman to the horizontal surface. "Light a candle an' I'm gonna need some thread an' needle, bandages an' boiled water. This wine will do, too." And she picked the jug off the table as Flea ran to get what she had requested. She also retrieved the embedded dagger.

"'Ow you doin'?"

"Fine!" Charon said through gritted teeth and eagerly drank the drink that Porthos held to her lips.

Flea returned, breathing a bit fast, the bandages tucked under his armpit, rushing as fast as she could with a basin of hot and steaming water. He set it on the nearby tabletop.

"That's everythin'." Porthos nodded her approval, looking over the load, in the dying light that leaked through the windows.

Flea gave her a firm nod and squeezed her shoulder as he went 'round the other side of Charon, taking the woman's uninjured hand in both of hers. Porthos wiped away the blood from the wound with a wet rag, then splashed it with wine, making the woman whimper. The blood looked black in the flickering of the candle flame.

Porthos took up the knife and held the blade over the flame of the candle, sanitizing it.

"Oh, don't worry." She grinned lightly as Flea watched her with wide eyes. "I'm an old 'and at this."

Though she wasn't always the best student, Aramis had made her and Athos sit down and at least learn the basics of treating injury in the field, in case something unthinkable happened to the Spaniard that left her unable to perform. Porthos had avoided it for as long as she could, in the absurd belief that if she didn't take the lessons, then by result, Aramis was not allowed to be injured. It didn't quite work out like that, after Aramis was injured in an ambush and made unconscious. After that, Porthos was forced back to reality and faced several gruesome lessons alongside Athos.

Though nowhere near as expert as Aramis, her intentions were passable. And with a flesh wound that Charon's appeared to be, would be able to treat it without trouble.

"'Old still, 'cause this will 'urt like a right bitch." Porthos warned the short woman.

"Just do it." Charon breathed heavily through her nose, squeezing Flea's hand back.

"Right." And in the flickering light of the candle, Porthos dug the point of the dagger into her flesh. Charon's back arched for a moment and she cried out in pain, but Porthos didn't relent. It would be worse to go back in a second time to try and retrieve the bullet. "Suppose you're right an' the bullet was intended for me," she said, using it both as a distraction for the patient and a way to get unguarded answers, "Why all th' trouble?"

"The Cardinal." She gasped. "His guards can't reach you, so he hires a professional killer."

Flea furrowed his brows at that. "Why would the Cardinal care about someone like Porthos?"

"She's a Musketeer, ain't she?" Charon said shortly, and with a bit of scorn. "The Cardinal hates them, everyone knows that."

But Porthos was shaking her head. "A shootin' in some low dive in the worst part of Paris? It jus' doesn't add up."

Charon groaned hard in pain, breathing heavily; and Porthos suddenly grinned, holding the bullet between two fingers on her bloody hand.

"Got th' sucker!" She dropped the lead onto the table and poured more wine on the wound, making the other woman curse, before she wiped away the blood, and set about sewing the wound with the needle that Flea had threaded for her.

Flea set Charon's hand down, the woman finally passing out for the pain, stress, and exhaustion and got up, leaving. Porthos cut the thread, then wrapped the wound in clothing, ripped into strips. They were clean, and that was what mattered.

She cleaned the sticky blood from her hands in the now warm water in the basin, and stepped out of the main chamber and into the hall, drying her hands on a rag. She found Flea rocking against the wall a little ways down, and slowly approached.

"She's goin' to be fine."

He nodded. "Why did you leave us, Porthos?" Flea asked unexpectedly, catching the tall woman off-guard.

Porthos sighed and decided to answer honestly—it was the least he deserved. "I wanted more." She paused, and decided to do the same to the man. "Why didn't you come with me?"

"I always felt right here." He answered, just as truthfully. "I feel right here. I belong." He shook his head, "It wasn't like that for you. I saw that. You were killing yourself here. It hurt to let you go, but it would have hurt more to see the light inside you die away. So I let you go, because I loved you."

"Me?" She scoffed softly. "You chose Charon."

Flea straightened and narrowed his eyes. He replied defensively. "She feels the same way about this place as I do, and I admire her for that."

"Admire?" she laughed. "Oh. I thought you loved 'er."

Flea stepped from the wall and right into her personal space, his jaw square as he looked up at the taller woman. "One thing I'd forgotten about you, Porthos, is what an idiot you are."

And suddenly he was kissing her, arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Porthos didn't even try and fight it. Even as she knew she shouldn't, Charon was shot in just the other room. But it was Flea. She could never resist the man. One of the few people she could give herself fully to and didn't push her away.

After having agreed upon another course of action, the trio, feeling the keen absence of their fourth, left the tavern and inn, and staked out the church after dark until they wouldn't be sighted, and broke in.

"Am I the only one that thinks this is a little bit weird and creepy?" d'Artagnan whispered quietly as the snuck through the benches.

"If you think this is weird and creepy, then you are still innocent yet, Charlie." Aramis mused.

"Cut it." Athos hissed to the pair as they came to a halt at the wooden door behind the podium. "Try that key again." She instructed the Gascon.

He had nearly forgotten he still had the thing. He wasn't expecting much, starting to think that it might just be a memento to the dead man or something, and sending them on a endless chase—but he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The tumblers inside the lock moving sounded deafening and he grimaced.

"I can't believe that worked." He muttered.

"Believe it," Athos quipped.

They grabbed three lanterns, lighting them and filed down the stone stairs into the shadows, until finally, the reached the room of a dirt cellar. A thing that was immediately noticeable was a machine in the middle of the floor, a contraption that the Gascon had no idea was.

"A bomb-making factory?" was his first thought.

But Aramis shook her head. "No." Her fingers traced over some of the gears on the machine. "A printing press."

"Hey." He approached the shelf that stood on the other end of the cellar, stocked full with small, wooden kegs.

Aramis turned from the printer, and came next to the young man. Picking a barrel at random, she pulled the stopper from one and black liquid started to glug out. "It's ink."

"Not this one." On her other side, Athos did the same to a keg on the other side of the shelf, but this time, black powder started to pour out. "Here's the gunpowder we've been looking for."

Aramis' brows furrowed in thought at the implications.

"What are you doing here?" Pastor Ferrand demanded from behind them; in one hand, a lantern, in the other, a sword.

The three spun and instantly drew their own rapiers in such a smooth motion that the metal sung from their scabbards.

"There are three of us, Pastor." Athos felt inclined to point out.

"Then you are outnumbered," the man countered, "I have God on my side."

"Oh, I do hope he's good with a sword." d'Artangna responded sarcastically.

"You lied to us." Aramis said. "You were in a conspiracy with Jean de Mauvoisin."

"Conspiracy?" Ferrand shook his head in denial. "I have a large congregation. The printing press is the only way I can stay in touch with them."

There was a tense moment, and then Athos lowered her sword. The other two followed suit and the Pastor a minute after.

"Do you use gunpowder instead of ink?" Athos wondered.

"No." Ferrand shook his head. "As you can see, I use ink. Please." He gestured to the shelf behind the trio. "It's very hard to come by."

Athos nodded and allowed the man passed and to recork the two kegs. After, they convened upstairs, and Athos outlined clearly where the man stood in her regards to this matter.

"As God as my witness," Ferrand said, seated upon one of the benches that lined the back wall, Aramis and d'Artagnan on the next bench over, and Athos standing in front of him. "This was nothing to do with me or my church. I preach reconciliation—not hatred."

"Someone intended to blow up your church," Aramis said. "Probably during service."

"Catholics?"

Her expression turned bland. "Is it possible Jean was lying to you about his beliefs, that he infiltrated your church in order to destroy it?"

The Pastor scoffed and shook his head. "Jean was no turncoat and he was a gentle, soft-hearted boy—not an assassin."

Athos sighed. "Then why did he need a dozen barrels of gunpowder?" She held out the receipt to the man, the one that d'Artagnan had discovered in the dead's office.

After a moment, Ferrand took the paper from her and read it over. He exhaled in understanding and nodded. "This is Jean's name." He agreed. "But it's not his handwriting." He handed the paper back.

Athos folded it and tucked it in the inside of her black doublet as she shared an annoyed look with Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Oh, the time for bullshit was over and done with. Athos was sick of the slick words given to her by that man, masked in the fluidity of grief over his son—that may or may not even be there.

Porthos could feel Flea's breath brush lightly against the back of her neck, feel his tight body pressed along her back, long missed. She knew she must be a bitch, at least, sleeping with Flea when he was with Charon now, who not two hours ago, had been shot. But she couldn't bring herself to feel much guilt. She and Flea had an old connection, it couldn't be denied.

Flea laced his fingers with hers, his arm curving around her bare hip, his nose pressed against a recent scar on the back of her right shoulder.

"Why do you do it?" he murmured, his lips brushing against the scar.

"Do what?" she shivered.

"Throw yourself into harm?"

Porthos chuckled. "You're exactly th' same."

"I'm not the one that goes gallivanting around Paris, bare knuckling." Flea protested.

Porthos twisted her head around and gave him a arch look. "Gallivantin'? D'you even know me at all, man? I dance like a master." Silence lapse between as they looked at each other, and it was filled with tension. Porthos turned onto her back and looked at him, leaning up on his elbow on his side. "What's with you lately?"

"Lately?" he scoffed. "You haven't been around long enough to have a lately with me."

"Flea—"

"I'm still angry that you left!" he burst out.

She gazed at him. "When I got out of 'ere, I was goin' to stay out. If I came back, I was afraid that the Court would drag me back in. That once I laid eyes on you again, I wouldna want leave. So I wasn't goin' to come back here, not even if it killed me."

"You say that, but every year you go to the Wren on your birthday."

Porthos raised a brow at her. "'Ow do you know that?"

"Because we'd always go their together than too, even without the coin… and I's spot you sometimes."

She smiled. "I said you loved me, didn't I?" Flea rolled his eyes, but his expression had softness flowing through it, before it melted away. "You could 'ave told me 'ow you felt."

"Like I said, you're a complete fool. Why do you think I tell you what to do all the time? How have you survived this long out there without me, is a mystery."

Porthos grinned. "I found others t' do that for me now."

"A lot of good they've done." He deadpanned.

Porthos sighed. "Things 'appen. That's the way life goes, Flea. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that." He pushed himself up away from her and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

Porthos turned onto her side and watched him. She knew she'd never be able to see him like this again. It was their goodbye

"Haven't I told you, watch where you lay your eyes?" he mused, pulling on his braies.

"An' don't you know, I 'ave selective learning?"

"Charon can't know about this." He said seriously, turning to her. "I don't want to hurt her. You know how she can get."

Porthos sighed. "Hmm." She nodded.

"After tomorrow, you'll be gone. This was nothing more than a goodbye, Porthos. I mean it." He finished dressing.

"I know… You can always come with me." She was only half-joking, but Flea wasn't amused.

"We're from too different worlds, Porthos. On different paths. You know it would never work."

"So this was nostalgia, then, was it?"

"Maybe." He whispered, and left.

She watched as the sheets fell back into place and covered the blank doorway. Porthos groaned and laid back down, snuggling under the covers that smelt of Flea and of her, of them together. She stared up at the cracked ceiling for what felt like a long time. Tomorrow, she would leave this place behind her once again—one way or another.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

Charon sat in the main chamber, her throne room—on her throne. It was nearing morning, and the time was ticking down until her plan was to be kicked into action. She couldn't sleep. It wasn't just the pain in her arm, for which she nursed a bottle of wine for, but the anxiety... the anticipation she felt.

She'd throw the celebration like she'd told Porthos, and then, while she and Flea went to see the woman off, that was when it would happen. Yeah. It was as simple as that, there was nothing else. And then she'd finally be free, she'd finally be able to be something.

It was coming dawn and Porthos was on the cusp of asleep-and-awakening, when it came to her like a dream.

Thunder crashed, and like always, the rain was heavy in Paris. She pushed herself up from the table. She must've passed-out. And grabbed the bottle and its remaining dregs and headed for the door. Heading through the rain, and back to the garrison. She didn't get very far, cutting through an alley and stopped in confusion at the boy lying on the ground, and the man kneeling next to it with a pistol in his hand.

When the valet answered the door to his Master's chateau that morning, it was to two intense women, a lad, and three sword-points directed at him, forcing him back into the house. He had no other choice by to comply. He might be able to take out one, perhaps injury another before they took him down, but that wasn't completely the reason. If they already didn't know, then making a move would put them on the scent.

They forced him back into Emile de Mauvoisin's office, a dagger now at his throat, and ordered him to unlock it. He told them truthfully that he didn't have a key, de Mauvoisin was the only one. In the end, it didn't matter, because Aramis forced the cabinet's doors open with a dagger.

d'Artagnan kept an eye on the valet, but he didn't believe the man was much a threat to them, while Aramis went through the scrolls and documents in the cabinet and Athos sat at the man's desk, going through the ledger.

"Treville needs to see this." She remarked, and with a nod, d'Artagnan left to do just that.

When Porthos awoke next, it was morning, and Flea hadn't returned. She could hear the celebration that Charon had spoken of the night before. She wasn't exactly sure how Charon intended to get her out of Paris, but decided that when she found the woman, she wasn't going to lie. Why go through the charade? It was just a waste of her time, time that she could use to find Athos and Aramis and d'Artagnan.

She needed to know what was going on. What had they figured out? Why hadn't they come to see her?

She could have stayed in that bed for hours longer. It wasn't the most comfortable, but that wasn't what tied her. It was being surrounded by Flea's scent, and his warmth, and his touch. Flea, who had only been the one able to make the Court feel like it could be a home instead of a prison.

She hadn't left the building since she'd been dragged here, dazed and hooded the previous morning. It was this place, separate from the real world. Looking, seeing, admiring, but only at a distance, never allowed to touch or experience or live. The only thing that could keep Porthos tethered to this place, was Flea. It had always been Flea. She knew, that that day she had left, if Flea had begged her to stay, she would have.

She forced herself from under the warmth of the blankets, and naked into the cool morning air. She did her ablution via the water in the basin, and dressed in her braies, breaches and boots, put on her soft corset and fresh shirtsleeves that Flea had left her, and the tan tunic from the night before. Her neck and right shoulder were left bare.

She didn't have sex as frequent and as free as Aramis. She liked woman, saw nothing wrong with them, but she didn't love them. She wasn't into women like that, how Aramis was. She loved men. The way they could make her feel small, but not in a belittling way. How they could make her feel small in a delicate way.

Flea was the only man she had been ever able to let her defences go down complete and fully. She had yet to find that connection with any other man. Sure, she needed those nights where it was just fiery passion, screaming-forget-the-world kind of sex. But she always had that little dream that every woman did, to find a man, to settle down, to have love and acceptance. She had most that with Flea, but he had been right, they just wanted too different a-thing.

The back of her neck felt naked and exposed with out her braid and the short collar of the tunic. Her shoulder felt too loose and light, vulnerable without her pauldron. She sighed, her fingers grazing the cut on the back of her neck, even as her other grasped her right shoulder.

She wouldn't feel right in her skin until she at least got the latter one back and where it belonged.

She saw one of Flea's bandanas on the table, and picked it up. She inhaled. It carried his scent still. She tied it around her forehead and knotted it at the base of her neck, tying her short locks out of her face.

And taking a deep breath, Porthos headed for the door.

Though the hour was early, people were drinking freely, and already drunk. Unfamiliar with the layout, and the push of incoherent people, she became lost in her surroundings, and then frustration when she tried to ask where the main chamber was located and just got laughs and hoots in answer. She started to grow frustrated, trying every room, flinging aside curtains when there wasn't any door, and forced away when every time she did find a door, they seemed to be locked.

She found herself in a deserted corridor and flung aside the hanging curtains at the end, intending to duck through the doorway, but instead, came face-to-face with a stack of kegs. If it weren't for the fuses stuffed in the cork holes, she would have thought nothing of it. Instead, her eyes widened, and now her need to find Charon and Flea was an all the more urgent and concerning one.

She got completely turned around, and it was only by luck that she reached the familiar hall that led to Flea's room, and heard the raised voices of both the parties she was in search of.

The air was tense when she flung back the curtain, and they whipped around to stare at her. She ignored it, their domestic dispute would have to wait. "There's somethin' you need to see, th' both of you."

Retrieved from the garrison by d'Artagnan, with news, Treville now stood with two-thirds of his best at Emile de Mauvoisin's house, flipping through his ledger, and a bit baffled by the read.

"All of these are for houses inside the Court of Miracles." He remarked to the pair on either side of him, and Athos standing at the other side of the desk in the office. "All bought for a pittance within the last few months—hundreds of them.

Aramis' gaze skimmed over the contents of the pages in her hands, her brow furrowed. "But no rents have been paid in the Court for decades." She slapped the pages down onto the desk. "Why buy something that's worthless?"

The valet stood tense in the doorway, his expression in shadow. He heard the front door and knew de Mauvoisin returning from his update meeting with the Cardinal. He met the man in the hall, and after a brief explanation of the Musketeers in his office, de Mauvoisin gave him the go-ahead to work the plan. By the time the Musketeers realized what was happening, it would be too late.

"The land these houses occupy, covers most of the Court." Treville's fingers tapped the pages. "The paper value is immense... if there is a way to make them pay it."

"A business mind like yours, Captain Treville, is wasted in the Musketeers." de Mauvoisin said as he walked into his office, cool as a cucumber. The four turned to face him. He stopped in equal space between them and the door. "You're right. If the Court wasn't there, that land would be worth a King's ransom. Who knows when it might prove a wise investment?" He paused. "And, shall I say, this search is illegal. I suggest you leave before I inform the Cardinal."

Treville silently seethed. He didn't have the entire picture quite yet, but already he knew this was only the kind of scheme that had the Cardinal's greasy fingerprints all over it.

None moved to exit, and instead, Athos came around the desk to stand with the others, and held up the gunpowder receipt. "Did you forge your son's signature?" de Mauvoisin shifted uncomfortably. She nodded in acknowledgement the shift confirmed. "It's a simple matter to compare the two signatures. I'll ask you again. Is this your signature?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Yes." de Mauvoisin admitted.

Treville shook his head and took a few steps towards the man. "Acquiring gunpowder without a valid license is an act of sedition punishable by death."

Aramis stepped beside her Captain and admitted to the man in front of her, "At first we thought this was about attacking Protestants—the fanatical convert proving his loyalty to a Catholic King."

"But it never had anything to do with religion, did it?" Treville stated, "This was about greed, pure and simple. With the Cardinal involved, just as you've admitted, there is nothing else for it."

Athos handed the receipt over to Treville for further safe-keeping. "You're planning to destroy the Court of Miracles."

"And you must of had someone on the inside," d'Artagnan continued the thought, standing on Treville's other side. "No one could have moved that amount of gunpowder into the Court if they didn't belong—someone would have been seen."

Treville stared. "When is this plan to be executed?"

de Mauvoisin stared right back. He hadn't expected to be found out this quickly, if at all. But there was nothing to do for it now. "At Midday."

The three looked at Treville, wound tight in an instant, and he quickly nodded, and they rushed from the room and to the Court, praying they weren't too late.

"You're too late." de Mauvoisin told Treville. "My men are already at the Court."

Treville narrowed his dusk-coloured eyes. "My Musketeers aren't to be underestimated."

Porthos managed to lead the tense pair back to the deserted corridor that she had discovered, a re-revealed the kegs of armed gunpowder. Flea stood next to her, but Charon stayed several feet behind them, stiff.

"Gunpowder?" Flea gasped looking at something that looked to be so harmless, but in truth, could wreck devastation.

"Yeah, the fuses have all been primed. Someone's goin' to blow this place to 'ell."

"But why?" Porthos could only shrug in answer. "The Cardinal?"

"Perhaps." This seemed like a thing that scum would do, blow up a bunch of innocent people, for whatever reason.

Flea was horrified. "But there are hundreds of people living here—women, children..."

"There's somethin' else, Charon." Porthos turned to the woman behind her, who still yet had to say anything. "I didn't kill that boy—when I left the Wren, 'e was already dead. Found 'im in the alley, the killer was standin' over him."

Not registering the danger, her mind drunk. She reached for the man's shoulder, grabbing it. He stood and slowly turned towards her... (de Mauvoisin).

"When I find out who the old man was, I can prove my innocence." She continued, "I can't leave now. Not when I'm this close to findin' the truth." But Charon didn't appear to be as relieved as her; though she put it off to the shock of the gunpowder. "Let's get these fuses cut, make th' gunpowder safe." She crouched down in front of the kegs, Flea nodded and bent down beside her.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Charon saw no other choice. She couldn't let Porthos interfere any longer. She pulled her pistol and cocked the weapon. "Step away."

Porthos stilled and after a moment, stood, slowly turning around to see Charon pointing a pistol at her.

"Charon?" Flea stood and looked at her on confusion. "What are you doing?"

Charon ignored him and stared at Porthos. "You were at the wrong place, at the wrong time, Porthos—Why did you have to go back to the Wren? Why do you always have to mess everything up? The old man argued with his son. He shot him... and there you were," she shrugged. "The perfect scapegoat."

... Charon came up behind the woman, and struck her over the back of the head. Porthos dropped, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

No wonder her head had throbbed so painfully. Not only had she been dealing with a hangover, but a light concussion as well. She had enough experience with them, that she should have realized, no matter how much alcohol she had consumed.

"So, why save me then?" Porthos asked.

"We ran these streets together. So much changes. Everything becomes... complicated and compromised—but not that. Not sisterhood. Loyalty. Well, I couldn't leave you to be beheaded. Flea insisted—like you, I always did what he asks."

"But what does gunpowder have to do with it?" Flea asked in confusion.

"The old man—de something—bought up all the land in here." Charon said. "He's paid me to smuggle in the gunpowder." Flea gasped. "There's more after the job's done—a lot more."

He paled considerably in realization and complete horror at her confession. "This is why you wanted me to pack a bag, why we had to leave so suddenly and fast? Oh my God! The expensive drink, the celebration—"

"Why not give them a good time before they go?"

Porthos growled and made for him, "You were goin' to blow this place up?" but she was held a bay as Charon raised the gun at her.

"I deserve better than this, Flea." Charon told the sick man. "Why did Porthos get to leave, and not me? Why was she able to free herself of this dung heap? It wasn't fair. I just need a bit more money, a fair chance like everyone else!"

"But this is our home!" Flea found his voice again.

"I'm sick of it." Charon scoffed and turned away and started to pace. "The... the dirt! The disease! The poverty! Human beings rooting in filth like animals! It's no way to live."

"They're just poor, is all!" He said. "It's not there fault."

"The Court is finished!" She spun back, the gun raised, directed at him. He baulked. "The people here are doomed, they were from the start—they're just took simple to realize it. I don't want to leave you here, Flea. Come with me." She insisted.

"What makes you think I would go anywhere with you? After this... you're a monster! A murderer! A terrorist! No! I'm not going anywhere with you, Charon."

Charon narrowed her eyes. "Last chance," and she pointed the gun towards Porthos. "Her or me."

"That's not a choice!" He shook his head.

"I didn't save Porthos, just so she could steal you away from me! She had her chance, and kicked you aside. She never cared for you like I do, Flea. She's not like us."

"And I'm nothing like you!" Flea said forcefully. "But if you ever loved me like you say, then stop this nonsense right now." He glanced at Porthos.

"You always loved her. I was just all that was left," she whispered and gave him a pained look. "I knew it! I knew, but I'd hoped, that if enough time passed, you might start to see me the way you saw her after she abandoned us. I thought that you would see I was better for you—but you never stopped loving her, did you, Flea?"

"No!" he screamed as Charon pointed the gun back at Porthos, and her intention was clear. He didn't think, just reacted and grabbed the gun, jerking it from Porthos and towards himself.

He cried out in pain and dropped in shock as it fired. Charon dropped the pistol and ran.

Porthos fell to her knees at his side. "Flea!"

Flea gasped through gritted teeth, clutching at his shoulder, blood swelling between his fingers. "Go. Go. I'll be fine." She insisted, when Porthos looked inclined to stay.

Porthos nodded and ran after Charon, thunder in her voice as she screamed her name.

The valet lit his torch in the Court from the flame burning in the stand, and pulled his mask over his face. He addressed the four men in front of him similarly masked.

"I'll light the fuses. Keep guard and kill anyone that gets in our way."

Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan had rode their horses hard through the streets of Paris, to the Court of Miracles. The streets were quiet, all but empty; Aramis had never seen the likes of it before.

They heard gunshots and screams, and hurried their pace.

"de Mauvosin's men!" Athos shouted, spotting the only masked men through the people that started to run through the streets, away from the gunfire. "Get them!"

A masked turned and fired. Athos was only saved by an innocent running passed and getting hit. She returned fire and killed the man. d'Artagnan spent his own pistol, killing another mask, and the three of them rushed down the street after the remaining.

"They mustn't get to the gunpowder!" Athos shouted and ran into the building that she had previously secreted into in search of Porthos, after the leader.

Aramis set her sights on a masked man, torch in hand, rushing to climb the ladder of some scaffolding. She took a knee and blew the fuse to her harquebus as she aimed. She allowed the flicker of a smirk twitch grimly at the corner of her mouth before she fired. The man cried out as the ball buried itself in the meat of his arse, and he fell from the ladder, back to the ground.

Aramis clipped the long weapon onto the right side of her belt, and knelt beside him. She ripped his mask off. "Where is Porthos?" she demanded, grabbing the front of his shirt. But his only response was incoherent groaning. "Where is she?" She spat, even as she grabbed the man's head and angrily slammed it into the ground until he whimpered.

d'Artagnan followed the last mask into the same building that Athos had the leader, but his man headed down. As he rushed down the stair, the Gascon dove for him, tackling him down the stair and to the ground. d'Artagnan jumped back as the man scrambled to his feet, yanking off his mask. Their swords sung from their scabbards.

"I'm gonna kill ya jus' like all th' otha garbage in this place!" the man laughed as he swung at d'Artagnan.

His strikes were fast and furious, and left the young man no chance to respond, sparks flying in the air between them. The man thrust and d'Artagnan mirrored the motion, twirling their blades together and locking them. He kicked the man's leg out from under him. The man came up swinging a moment later, he blocked, and grabbed the other's sword hand and d'Artagnan's sword pierced his stomach before he could make another move. The man let out a quiet groan as d'Artagnan released his arm and he fell back into the dirt.

"It looks like you're the only garbage dying here tonight." He said and ran back up the stairs to find whomever he might first; Athos, Aramis, or Porthos.

Athos saw the valet walking down the dead-end corridor with his lit torch towards the piled kegs of gunpowder, and the injured man on the ground edging out of his way.

"Hey!" Athos shouted from the end of the hall.

He spun around to face her and she rushed at him, her sword out and tossing her hat aside. He swung at her with the torch, she dodged and jabbed. He jumped aside. Sword and torch connected and locked, embers flew into Athos face, blinding her (his mask protecting him). He took advantage and kicked her shin, making her knee give for a second before locking and he punched her the side of the head. He jumped back, back towards the barrels, and Athos charged him. She swung and he had no choice but to block her. She grabbed the wrist holding the torch, and forced them to change standing, moving him from the gunpowder. She shoved him against the wall with her shoulder, shoving back against him and was forced to release her sword to keep a hold on his torch-hand, but she had to hold off when his free-hand grasped the side of her face. She winced as she felt him nails gouge her skin, and squeezed her eye shut, grabbing his wrist.

She forced her head back, and he grunted at the assault of her skull to his nose; but she didn't receive the satisfying crunch of broken cartilage. He continued to claw her face, but his grip released the torch and it clattered to the floor. Still lit, it rolled in a half circle, gaining ground towards the wired fuse that snaked on the ground.

Flea's eyes widened and his foot shot out, kicking the torch away from the fuse and back towards the struggling Athos and valet. He released his hold on his shoulder wound, and dragged himself to the bucket of water nearby. He shoved it over and water sloshed across the floor, reaching the pairs entangled feet, and the torch. It sizzled and smoked at the contact, but went out.

The valet cursed in Athos ear, and without the worry of the gunpowder being lit, she suddenly became dead weight and dropped from his hold. She drove her elbow into his sternum, forcing the air from his lungs and him to double over. She grabbed his head and flipped him over her shoulder and onto his back. She wrapped arms around his throat and put him into a chokehold. He grabbed at her, his feet kicking, but she leaned her face back out of his reach. His fingers caught in the ends on her loose hair, but his yanks were weak, and then stopped all together when she crushed his windpipe.

She slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily, the dead man in her lap, giving herself a moment to recover. Finally, she shoved the man from her lap, and gathered her sword, flipping the tangles hair from her face. Before she stood though, she removed his mask and recognized the valet from de Mauvoisin's residence. It made sense. He would want to use his own men. She double checked that the torch was out and no threat, before she went over to the injured blond man.

"Are you alright?" she questioned, noting the bloody wound on his shoulder.

"I'm fine." He shook off her assistance. "Porthos," he said, his eyes flickering to her pauldron. "She followed Charon to the main chamber." And he gave her directions. "Save Porthos!"

Athos nodded and rushed back down the hall, passed the dead valet and grabbed her hat again in passing. Tucking her hair out of the way, and pressing it down on her head.

Aramis ran into the building after the others, rushed into ever room she came across, down every hall she saw, but found neither masked man or Porthos. But she ran into d'Artagnan, and together, they searched for their two missing friends.

By chance, they happened across Athos, who was in a rush herself. "Porthos! This way!"

Charon stood in the main chamber, her throne room. The place where she had ruled the Court. She guessed that it was the only place for this to end, one way or another. She was passed going back. Not after she shot Flea. It was here where Porthos found her.

"Welcome to my Empire of Dust," she spread her arms wide, her back to the other woman, her voice rough with emotion. "Flea loves this place. I could never understand it. Who would settle for a place like this? You didn't. Why should I have to?"

"You should 'ave come with me all those years ago, Charon." Porthos said softly.

"I wanted to! I wanted from this place so bad. But you never asked me, did you? You asked Flea!" Charon spun around towards her, a knife in her hand. "But when he refused, I stayed... I stayed because I thought that he would finally see that you weren't worth it—that he would finally see me, be mine." Porthos carefully circled her, her arms up lightly, Charon mirrored her. "But he never was. Not really."

Porthos narrowed her eyes. "You say you love Flea? You shot 'im," her arm shot out in the direction of the door, "And just ran away like a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Charon screamed and slashed at her.

Porthos jumped back and sneered at her. "I don't want to fight you, Charon. Leave now, and I won't come lookin'—I won't come an' kill you."

Charon spat at her. "I hate you!" she leapt at the woman, coming with a overhead, downward stab.

Porthos grabbed her wrists and spun them around and around, lifting the smaller woman off her feet. Charon strained and managed to tuck her knees into her chest and stomped the taller woman in the stomach, forcing her to let go. Charon was sent tumbling but managed to keep a hold of the knife and Porthos fell to the ground. Porthos jumped back to her feet with a grimace; Charon was a bit slower to get to her feet.

"You had to have everything. You couldn't let me have one thing. Even gone, Flea was still yours. I'd sit here, in this room, it that chair!" her knife stabbed towards the throne, "And I wasn't happy, not for a second, because all I could think about was how you got out and I was stuck here in this dung heap of hell."

"People like you make me sick." Porthos told her as they went back to circling like wolves. "You think the world is just goin' to roll over for you? Because it won't! That's not 'ow life works. You're born in th' dirt, you get shit thrown at you every second—and you, Charon, you jus' laid back and sulked, but I fought back, I threw the shit back at it and I got out of this place... I made somethin' of myself. I became better than my circumstance."

And Porthos punched her, with a strength that forced her to the floor. But Charon came back up swinging and stabbing with a shriek on her lips. Porthos dodged out of the way, and grabbed Charon's wrist, wrenching the knife from her grasp. She punched the woman straight on, making her stumble back, and then hit her again, kicking her feet from under her and forcing her onto her back. Porthos sat on her chest, the knife straining to get at her throat.

Charon gritting her teeth, fighting to hold the knife from her throat. She could see the anger and deathly threat in the dark eyes above her, and felt a true fear inside of her.

But just as suddenly, it was gone and there was just weariness. Porthos pulled back and stood, staring down at the gasping woman. "I'm not like you, Charon." She shook her head and tossed the knife down. "That's why I left." She turned and headed for the door. "I'm a Musketeer."

Charon's eyes alight with anger and she snarled, grabbing the knife and pushing to her feet.

"Porthos!" Aramis called in relief as they three rounded the corner and finally found their missing sister.

Porthos' eyes lit up as she saw them and didn't have time to register it as Aramis' eyes widened.

"Look out!" she cried, Charon coming at the dark-skinned woman from behind with the knife, and she just reacted. It was instinct, as Aramis' sword left its scabbard and buried itself in Charon's stomach.

"Charon!" Porthos grabbed her friend and held her, lowering her to the ground, just as the Spaniard had done Marsac.

Aramis fought the sick as the realization of what she had done, of who she had just killed, struck her. Porthos didn't talk of her time in the Court often, but Aramis and Athos had been the two souls that she allowed that part of herself. Sometime, she would speak of Charon, her closest friend and confidant in the Court, next to Flea.

"I... I told you, Porthos." Charon gasped, gazing up at the woman, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. "I told you I was get... Getting out."

And Porthos watched through tears as the light left the woman's eyes and she stilled in death. She bowed her head, her hand over the woman's still heart.

"Porthos," Aramis gasped, her sword dropped to the ground with a clatter. d'Artagnan put a hand on her back in concern. Porthos looked back at her, tears marking her face, and Aramis was simply horrified with herself.

Flea stumbled around the corner, grasping his shoulder. His view blocked by Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. "Porthos?" he called, and Athos glanced behind her at the man, a formal look on her face and stepped aside. Flea came forward and he moaned at the sight in front of him. "Charon!" he gasped. "Charon..." he dropped on the other side of the woman, tears filling his green eyes. He reached out with a shaky hand and laid it over Porthos' laying over Charon's heart.

While Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were saving the unknowing people of the Court from a horrifying outcome and re-establishing contact with Porthos, Treville had been making some discoveries and decisions of his own regarding Emile de Mauvoisin.

At the current moment, he stood just outside the man's office double doors in the hall, the pistol missing from his belt, and de Mauvoisin's written and signed confession on the death of his son, the purchase of the gunpowder with a forged signature and the events transpiring the destruction of the Court of Miracles.

For which he knew his Inseparables had negated, for Paris wasn't in complete chaos over the massive explosion and deaths mounted inside the hundreds. When the explosion didn't happen at midday, it had sealed de Mauvoisin's fait.

Treville couldn't help the flinch that the sound of the gunshot from inside the office ensued. The signed and sealed confession that de Mauvoisin had given him would be more than enough to exonerate the charges against Porthos. He saw no reason why not to give the man the choice of how he died, seeing as he would have been sentenced to hang when the King charged him for his crimes.

They eventually had to move to move Charon's body from the hall, and into the main chamber. Aramis had gathered herself enough to treat the through-and-through bullet wound of Flea's shoulder, her fingers shaking lightly as she threaded the wound.

News of Charon's death slowly spread through the Court. Of the shooting in the street, and the Musketeer invasion. But not of the gunpowder. Or the Cardinal's plot blow up the Court of Miracles, for which Charon had been deeply involved.

Neither Porthos nor Flea said anything, but it was clear for Athos to see, as they prepared Charon's body for burial, the two Musketeers and Gascon weren't welcome. And she and d'Artagnan had to usher Aramis out along with them.

Aramis was unable to form the words of regret that she felt, the sorrow that she was the cause of the similar pain she had felt when she was forced to choose between Treville and Marsac, and ended of having to kill the latter. She remembered the dying words he had whispered to her, same in meaning to the ones that Charon had gasped to Porthos.

No one bothered them as they made their way back to the entrance of the Court and their horses. They would wait for as long as they must for Porthos. They weren't going to leave her this time, even as they gave her her space.

Porthos walked slowly next to Flea after Charon's funeral, the silence between them filled with loss and acceptance.

"Are you goin' to be alright?" Porthos finally asked, pausing and touching his arm.

Flea turned to him. "I'll survive." He said honestly.

"Hmm." Porthos nodded. "Charon, um.. She didn't want to kill you, you know that, right? She loved you."

"Not me," he agreed, "But she wanted to kill you."

"She was just angry—"

A look of thunder crossed his handsome face. "This was beyond anger! She went mad! She—"

"It's this place, Flea." Porthos grasped his uninjured shoulder. "It'll either make you strong, or it'll break you. It broke 'er, is all. I'm not angry, just... sad. That I couldn't help 'er, that I drove 'er over the edge."

"That's no excuse!" he protested. "Charon was going to destroy my home, she was going to kill hundreds of people. And for what? Money?" he shook his head vehemently. "She crossed the line on so many levels."

"She jus' wanted to be free of the Court, and saw this as 'er only option."

"There's nothing wrong with the Court." He insisted. "Why couldn't either of you ever see that? It's more than just criminals—families live here, it's a community."

"I know—I know, an' that's why you're meant to sit in that chair and not Charon." Porthos said. She sighed. "The Cardinal isn't goin' to stop, 'e'll keep tryin' until he destroys your world."

"And the same can't be said about yours?" Flea asked with a raised brow and Porthos could only nod in agreement, and then shrug. "So let's enjoy them while we have them." He said quietly.

"Spoken like a true survivor." She murmured.

"Porthos..." he gazed up at the woman. It never bothered her that Porthos was taller than her.

"I never stopped lovin' you, Flea." She confessed. "I never forgot 'bout you." Her thumb brushed across the shadow on his chin.

"I know." He whispered. "Me, too." And he leaned in close, giving the woman a deep and slow kiss, imparting on the woman the exact truth of her words. "Goodbye, Porthos." He murmured, pulling away and walking back into the belly of the Court of Miracles.

Porthos exhaled and opened her eyes, turning to look after the man and watch him appreciatively.

"Watch where you lay those eyes," he smiled, knowing without turning. "They'll get you of trouble one of these days!"

"Take care of yourself, Flea!" She called after him, grinning softly.

"You're the one causing all the trouble, Musketeer." He mused, holding his hand aloft to her as he turned the corner.

Porthos sighed and continued to gaze into the Court of Miracles. This was where she'd grown up. This was where she learned that you couldn't survive in the world on your own, that you had to surround yourself by people that you loved and trusted. She'd found that here, and she'd found that outside, in Aramis and Athos and Treville and now d'Artagnan. She turned her back and walked into the opposite direction, back towards where she knew her family would be waiting.

Porthos saw Aramis pacing the entrance of the Court and jerked to a stop when she spotted the dark-skinned woman. She took several steps towards her, but then abruptly came to a stop, unsure of the woman's reaction.

Porthos' stride didn't stop until she was in front of the Spaniard. She knew that Aramis was blaming herself, aghast and horrified for killing Charon, but Porthos didn't blame her. She knew the woman was remembering what had happened with Marsac not too long ago and it had brung up old heartaches.

"I—"

Pothos pulled her into a hug, holding the woman who had saved her life in more ways than one, and on many occasion. Who had been nothing but a true friend and sister to her.

"Charon knew what would 'appen—just like Marsac, Aramis." Porthos whispered in the woman's ear. "You can't blame yourself for either, like I know I can't. They made their choices an' we made ours."

"Mm-hmm." Aramis nodded, and squeezed the woman tightly, the restriction around her heart easing for the first time since news of Porthos' imprisonment had reached the garrison yesterday morning.

They parted, but Porthos kept an arm around her shoulder and kept her close.

"It's good to see you, Porthos!" d'Artagnan gasped.

Athos gave her a solemn nod that conveyed all she needed to say, and Porthos returned it.

"I couldn't very well leave you, 'ow would you ever cope?" she remarked, sparking quiet smiles from the others. "Be honest," she paused seriously, looking at each of them in turn. "Did any of you think I did it?"

Aramis and Athos both glanced over at d'Artagnan. He hung his head for a brief moment and swallowed before he rose it again and looked at her resolutely. It was true what Aramis had said, he did owe the woman an apology. He had doubted her, and that was unacceptable.

"Porthos—"

"Mm." Porthos shook her head and waved her hand. "It's okay. I... I thought I did it for a while, too."

"Still—I'm sorry."

Porthos nodded. And turned her gaze to Athos. "What 'bout you?"

Athos raised a surprised brow. "Me?"

Pothos nodded. "Yeah, I mean—did you get into a fight with a kitten, or what?" she indicated the scratches on Athos' face.

d'Artagnan snorted with laughter, and a surprised sputter left Aramis, and Porthos gave them a soft grin.

The Comtesse pursed her lips in response, but there was vague amusement in her blue eyes. Athos was fine being the butt of the joke, so long as it helped mend the injured air amongst her sisters and brother.

She turned from the three and to her horse, opening her saddlebag. "In honour of your glorious return, Porthos," she said, "We have a present for you."

"Really?" Porthos smiled. "You know 'ow I love some free stuff!"

Aramis smiled. "Then you're definitely going to love this."

"Presenting!" d'Artagnan said dramatically, waving his arms as Athos turned. "You're very own Musketeer pauldorn!"

"Jus' what I always wanted!" Porthos gasped dramatically. She presented her shoulder and allowed Athos to strap the shoulder guard over her studded doublet. "Thanks," she said seriously. "I'm 'ome." She declared, fist thumping her shoulder. "Let's get the 'ell out of here," she urged them along, Athos and d'Artagnan getting the tethers for the horses. They left the Court of Miracles and into the streets of Paris. She grinned mischievously at Aramis at her side. "I 'ave a sudden cravin' for melon."

The look Aramis gave her was positively sour and she burst out laughing.

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

Writing this chapter, I realized that what I had mistaken for a braid on Porthos, was in fact just the braided tail of his bandana. So in what I hope is an interesting turn, I had the judge sentence Porthos to beheading publicly, and had the Red Guard cut the braid off, giving it a little back-story.

I gender-bended Charon and Flea, who were male and female respectively originally, but keeping to my Porthos-is-straight motif, I changed them around. I had such a hard time writing Flea as a man. I guess it was because of how Flea was as a female in the episode, the way she spoke and acted, it was hard to write Flea as a man, and not having him seem weak and feminine. I'm not sure how I did. I also had a severe block when trying to write the scene between Porthos and Flea after they slept with each other. So I left to the very end, but I'm still not quite happy with the way it turned out.

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