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!

Note: New content added to second to last scene!

[Pronounced: Alic = Al-ICK or Alec]

Episode Tag: Season 1, Episode 8: The Challenge.

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 8:The Challenge —

They rode into Paris with an assortment of bruises from their recent task. Their claimed prisoner, Labarge, a beast onto himself—it had taken all four of them to capture the man, and only then because of Porthos' unnatural strength. Now, they lead him towards lockup.

But it wasn't only bruises that marked d'Artagnan. Though the rough encounter with the hulking man that Porthos had bound in ropes and tethered, had lead them to Gascony, it was outside of Lupiac they had made their capture. He hadn't been back to Gascony since he had decided to stay on in Paris and train with the Inseparables to become a Musketeer.

Though he had lacked time to make visit on his father's farm. Despite the man's death, d'Artagnan still called it that, because thought law dictated that the property was now his own, he felt it not his place. He'd never been a farmer. Though he could do the manual labour that it entailed, and he had no fear of the animals and handled them with confidence, he wasn't a farmer at heart. Had he returned to the farm after Alexandre's demise instead of venturing into Paris, it would have been a tether on his heart.

But what he found heart in, was that because of them, Labarge would not be setting fire to peoples lively-hoods for the unjustified taxes that plagued their land. High taxes of which had sent the two d'Artagnan men to Paris in the first place.

When a group of five Red Guards approached them, d'Artagnan was sure that disaster was going to be upon them within the next several minutes. They drew their horses to a halt. Those in the streets already felt the taut tension between these two groups—the animosity between them a great known in Paris.

Captain Trudeau of the Red Guards, the only man upon horse, spoke. "I have a warrant from the Cardinal, for the immediate arrest of your prisoner—Martin Labarge."

"He's already under arrest for the murder of two Musketeers." Aramis exclaimed. Rumour had reached Paris of Labarge's dealings in Gascony, and Treville had sent two of his men to investigate, when they never returned, he then sent his Inseparable's and their fourth.

"Ah. Well, you're to hand him over to us for questioning." Trudeau said, and handed down his Lieutenant the Cardinal's orders and seal.

"It's not safe here." Athos replied, taking the scroll Lavoie handed her. She broke the wax seal and read the contents. She gave a minimal nod to the others. "I want it noted he's a very dangerous man."

"So noted." Trudeau said with scorn, no doubt believing it just the hardships of women.

Athos narrowed her blue eyes lightly. "Very well." She nodded to Porthos, who shook her head, gathered the length of rope leading to Labarge and handed it over to Trudeau.

"Don't say we didn't warn you." d'Artagnan huffed.

Trudeau gave him a tight smile that was no more than a twist of the lips, before he turned his mount around. "Come on, Labarge!" he kicked the large man to move his pace.

"This'll be entertainin'." Porthos had time to mutter, before Labarge gave a deep scream and pulled back on the length of rope that bound him with a strength that rivalled even Porthos'.

The horse whinnied frantically as it was forced backwards before finally being overcome by momentum, and fell to the ground, taking Trudeau with it. Labarge tore free of his bondage. Lavoie leapt over the fallen horse and downed Captain, his sword drawn. Labarge ducked under the strike and punched him in the stomach. Two more Guard came at him, coming in from either side. Labarge leapt back and the two Guard narrowly missed slicing into each other. Labarge took advantage of their fumble and punched one. The other struck out, but the big man swept him feet from under him.

"I think they need our help." Athos remarked.

"Aw, they're just to shy to ask!" Aramis grinned cheekily.

"Perhaps we should leave it another minute, let 'em learn a lesson." Porthos said.

"They're Red Guards," d'Artagnan scoffed. "You'd have a better chance of teaching a dog to meow." Aramis and Porthos chuckled.

They leapt from their horses and made slow approach. Labarge punched a Guard and grabbed his shoulders, meeting heavy knee with solar plexus.

"Stay out of this, damn you!" Trudeau finally managed to get himself from under his horse and onto his feet. "I'll not have women do a real man's work."

Porthos sneered. "Can't we let 'im tear 'em apart?"

Athos shook her head. "It wouldn't be proper etiquette."

"Always the Comtesse, hmm?" Aramis chuckled and the other woman gave her a twitching glare.

Labarge faced the Captain, who lunged at him with sword. Labarge grabbed the blade with gloved hands and snapped the flimsily-made blade over his knee. He punched Trudeau in the face before he turned to face the approaching Musketeers and trainee. Trudeau lunged at him from behind, but Labarge turned and grabbed the man around the throat in a clutch of muscled arms. He continued to move, turning, as Lavoie brought his sword down with a cry. But instead of slashing open Labarge's back as intended, he split his Captain near stem-to-stern.

Frozen in horror, Lavoie collapsed under the weight of his dead Captain as Labarge shoved Trudeau onto him. He had a wide grin on his face as he flipped the top of the broken sword in hand. "Come on!" he screamed and rushed the Musketeers.

He slashed at Porthos, who was closest. The tall woman dodged and came back with a hard punch. Labarge barely stumbled and stabbed. Porthos was able to deflect the otherwise deadly blow and boxed him around the ear, making his drop his broken blade. Labarge swung at her, punching her in the chin and forcing her back.

Before he could continue the assault on the woman, Athos grabbed the man from behind. Labarge turned and swung. Athos ducked and struck the man in a stomach like rock. He laughed and before he could bring interlocked finger upon the woman's head Aramis intervened, punching the man in the kidney and then face, forcing him away and into d'Artagnan's strike. The Gascon put his weight behind it, pushing off the ground. Labarge stumbled back from the blow and Aramis clamped her smaller body around his left arm, while d'Artagnan quickly grabbed the other. On her feet, Athos power-kicked him in the gut, forcing the air from his lungs. Porthos jumped on his back, arm wrapped around his throat, even as the huge man started to struggle. Athos quickly added her weight to the game, throwing herself at the man, and it took the four of them to pull the man to the ground.

Among the doggie-pile, the man suddenly ceased struggle after Porthos dealt him a punishing blow to the temple from the rounded butt of her pistol. Aramis quickly bound the unconscious man, wrist as well as elbows bound behind his back. It would be a true and near impossible struggle to escape this time.

Lavoie finally managed to extract himself from under his Captain, his Red Guard's uniform painted a even deeper red by the blood covering his front. "Musketeer scum!" he screamed.

They four crowded around Labarge's body, looked over at the Lieutenant in surprise as he pointed his sword at them. "It's your fault that Captain Trudeau is dead! He told you not to interfere!"

They stood as the other three Red Guards took position on either side of Lavoie.

"Your Captain died at your own foolish hand." Athos replied coldly.

The Musketeers drew their own sword. d'Artagnan ignored the throb of his hand as he gripped his hilt. Then they charged, steel clashing upon steel as the two companies brawled in the street.

Of course, as was always the case. It was Captain Treville who had to deal with the aftermath of his soldiers' escapades. The fight had been short-lived, but the damage was still done. And their trouble was brought to the King's attention. Treville had no choice but to sacrifice Labarge to the Red Guards.

"I am sorry for the loss of your soldier, Cardinal. But Captain Trudeau was given fair warning on the matter." Treville said.

"Labarge is a regional Intendant." Richelieu replied. "You had no business arresting him without coming to me first."

Treville seethed. "Your Intendant is a violent criminal, who subjected Gascony to a reign of terror—he killed two of my Musketeers!"

"As was my Red Guard."

Treville stopped and turned to him. "Your own man killed his Captain. The only reason no one else was harmed, was because my Musketeers were there."

The Cardinal raised his chin and turned to the King. "It is true Labarge exceeded his authority, but I was in the process of recalling him to Paris before Captain Treville so recklessly sent his men to interfere."

"The Red Guards put innocent lives at risk in their foolhardy attempt of bringing in an already arrest man."

Richelieu sneered at him. "You're Musketeers are lucky my Guards didn't kill them."

"Oh, really?" Treville scoffed and spat. "You know what?" It irritated him to no end of Richelieu's insolence when it came to his men's lack of honour and skill. He needed to be taught a lesson at the true integrity of a soldier. "Any of my Musketeers could thrash any of your Red Guards at any time!"

The King grinned at the exchange. "A 1000 livres Captain Treville is right. Each side to choose his champion in a contest to settle the matter." Both men looked at him in surprise. "What do you say, Cardinal? Do you accept the wager?" he drank from his glass of wine as he awaited answer.

Richelieu narrowed his eyes and smiled. "Why not make it 2000 livres, Your Majesty?"

Louis lips stretched into a impish grin.

Treville hadn't meant for such an outburst, but at the King's agreement, it seemed a competition was struck. Finally, everyone would know. The Red Guards were overly ordinary. They had the run of the city, but their skill and civility was mediocre at the best of days.

d'Artagnan clenched and unclenched his right hand experimentally as he made his way to the Bonacieux residence from the garrison. Aramis had noticed upon their arrival and ordered inspection. One of his knuckled had been dislocated after his strike of Labarge, and his hand bruised, but the end result had been worth it.

He had found the injustice of what Labarge had done to his fellow Gascons building, and it had been a relief to have a brief outlet. Aramis had popped the joint back into place, and bade him put his abused hand in a basin of cold water to let the swelling down.

But any discomfort fell from thought the closer he drew to Constance. He had finally announced his true feelings for the woman hardly a month beforehand. And she returned his sentiments. They had been together as much as two people can be, when one was still married. It wasn't ideal, but their happiness in each stolen embrace and kiss afforded their acceptance.

He was finally drawing closer to fulfilling his dreams. Becoming a Musketeer and gaining Constance for himself. As soon as he was able to gain commission from the King and become a Musketeer, he just knew everything else would fall into place. Constance would leave Bonacieux and they could be together truly, out in the world instead of hidden. But he was as content as he could be with the slow progress of things as they were.

She was in the kitchen, standing at the counter and kneading dough for bread when he came behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. "Did you miss me?" he kissed the side of her pale neck.

She giggled. "Not at all!"

"Mmm." He didn't much believe her.

She set her dough down and wiped her hands on a towel and turned in his arms. Wrapping her arms briefly around his neck, she kissed him. "This is so wrong." She sighed dispassionately, gazing into his eyes as she played lightly with his dark, silky locks. "I just wish it felt wrong. At least then I would know what to do."

He caressed her cheek and pressed his lips to her forehead. "If you've changed her mind..."

"Never." She grasped his hand on her cheek and he couldn't stop the involuntary eye twitch. "Your hand!"

"Minor injury." He smiled.

She rolled her eyes lightly in reply to his answer and just pressed her lips tenderly to his bruised knuckles as they heard the back door open. They quickly parted.

Bonacieux entered, taking off his hat and setting it on the kitchen table. He paused as he caught sight of the pair. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the Gascon. "Your rent is over-do."

"Yes, my apologies for that, Monsieur." d'Artagnan took a step forward demurely. "I haven't received any income from my father's farm for the last two months."

"Well, you've put yourself in a reckless position." Jacques remarked, his eyes flickering. "You are a farmer who neglects his lands and a would-be Musketeer with no commission in sight." d'Artagnan's jaw tightened subtly at the sore subject but made no other reaction. "I would point out your folly, but... perhaps it's not necessary." He murmured condescendingly and walked from the room.

Constance looked at him with kindness. He was struggling to control his expression. He clenched his bruised hand white-knuckled as a distraction. "I should get back to the garrison," he said. "Treville's sure to have returned by now, and who knows his mood after what's happened this morning with Labarge and the Red Guards."

Constance nodded and he left without allowing her any words. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what she might of had to say. He was both humiliated and embarrassed—and by that weasel of man, no less.

The walk from the Bonacieux house to the garrison was one of need and necessity. By the time he arrived, his surface had at least cooled.

"Gentlemen!" Treville called to his gathered Musketeers, having returned from the palace. He stood middle-stair. "Finally we have the opportunity to prove what we have always known. That technically..."

d'Artagnan shifted through the gathered men and stood next to Athos near the front, Aramis and Porthos in front of them, both grinning. "What's going on?" he murmured.

"There's to be a competition between the Musketeers and Red Guards." Athos said quietly.

Porthos shifted back on her feet lightly. "Yeah. Each side will choose a champion, to settle th' issue of which is greater." This wasn't quite the reaction he had been expecting on Treville's return, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Aramis hook her head. "As if we're in doubt."

"How will the champion be chosen?" d'Artagnan called to Treville boldly, his arms crossed lightly over his chest.

"There will be competitive trials," Treville answered. "And a 30 livresentry fee." That caused murmurs of concern and groans to flitter through the crowd.

Porthos' grin dropped. "Thirty?"

"It forms a prize purse." He explained. "Winner takes all." That got their spirits back up again.

"Why didn't you say so before, huh?" Porthos grinned.

Treville narrowed his expression. "This isn't about money. This is about the honour of the Musketeers."

d'Artagnan's fist tightened in the crook of his elbow, and nodded. That was one of the reasons why he wanted to become a Musketeer. And this—this was a chance presenting itself to him. It was a sign. He wasn't going to be a would-be any longer.

The Inseparables sat around the table in the yard afterward, Aramis doling out the wine. "Well, ladies, may the best woman amongst us win."

"Those of us who are allowed to complete." d'Artagnan spat in contempt where he slumped upon the bottom of the stairs, a dark cloud making him foul. Apparently, he wasn't a Musketeer, so therefore, he couldn't technically represent them in the competition with the Red Guards.

"You're a Musketeer in all but name, d'Artagnan." Athos drank her wine, looking over at the Gascon.

His right fist clenched on his thigh. "So everyone points out at every turn." Yes, it seemed to be a humiliation that every person seemed intent on pointing out. Treville, Athos, Marsac, Bonacieux...

"All you lack is the King's commission." Athos continued over the interruption, though the anger in the statement did concern her. "Go to Treville, ask him to participate, I'm sure he'll allow you."

"And mind that hand." Aramis warned him, pointing with her cup as she sat next to Athos. "You keep on like that, and the discomfort will last longer. Don't make me come over there." d'Artagnan exhaled and forced his hand flat against thigh.

"Now there's just th' thorny issue of the entry fee." Porthos said, drinking her own from where she sat across from Athos and Aramis. "Anyone got it?"

Aramis sighed. "My pockets are empty and the cupboard is bare."

"Yeah, I just pawned my cupboard."

"Porthos, my friend," Aramis' eyes brightened as she looked across at her friend. "I think it's time for us to go fishing for a patroness." Porthos raised a pointed brow at the woman. "What?" the brow stayed its place. "Fine." She sighed in disappointment. "You can't blame me for trying. Patron."

She grinned. "If needs must." They both chuckled and clinked glasses. "To our future affairs!"

"Mmm. I so do love our jobs!"

"Just try not to drag along any angry husbands or wives." Athos deadpanned.

"I won't make promises I cannot keep." Was the Spaniards answer with a smile that was way too pleased. She and Porthos drained their glasses and departed.

Porthos had followed Aramis' lead, but was starting to worry and wonder about her friend as they ended up at a Requiem Mass. "I worry on you, sometimes, you know?" Porthos whispered close to Aramis beside her at there pew near the back of the church.

"Trust me," she said.

Porthos paused. She was desperate. "Alright. Jus' this once." Aramis gave her a shoulder nudge. "So, 'o is the departed?"

"Head of the candle-makers guild, she died a year ago."

"A woman? We really are going up in the world." She muttered sarcastically.

Her eyes scanned the sparse crowd. "Forth pew, left side." She nodded towards a plump, woman in her forty's. "Madame Laurent. Has a thing for Musketeers." Aramis continued. "Many have brave have gone there, but few have returned." Said woman looked back at them a flirtatious smile.

"Are you one of the few returned?"

"How poorly you must think of me." She intoned and Porthos fought back the snigger.

Porthos made a discontent noise in the back of her throat. "I think she's more you're type than mine."

"Fifth pew, right side." Porthos discovered a pretty young blond woman. "Madame Marchand—in possession of one indifferent husband, three lovers and five small and irritating dogs." She sighed, smiling of a want already discovered and soon to be again.

Porthos rolled her lightly at her friend as the Priest continued to read a passage from the bible. Her eyes scoured the scattered crowd of mourners. And her searching eyes met that of a man's in a front pew. He was one of a few men present and he looked a handsome vessel. She gave the man an alluring if not sympathetic smile, before he faced front again.

"Easy does-it." Aramis muttered out the side of mouth, elbowing the tall woman.

"Hmm?"

"It a Requiem Mass, not a party at Madame Angel's."

They looked at each other and then crossed themselves respectfully.

d'Artagnan strode into Treville's office determined and without knocking. "I need your permission to compete." He told the older man, halting behind him where he leaned forwards on the front of his desk. "I'm ready."

Treville wasn't surprised by the Gascon's request, but what did was that it had taken him this long to come to him. "There's no guarantee you'll win." He turned to the young man. "You know that." He walked back around his desk.

d'Artagnan shook his head. "I'm not asking for a favour—only a chance to prove myself. I'm sick of people saying I'm a Musketeer in all but name. I ready to take that step forward."

Treville sighed and leaned forward against his desk. "You'll be up against the very best."

He nodded and smiled. "I know." But it faltered as Treville looked at him and seemed to hesitate. He furrowed his brows in question.

"d'Artagnan, there's no easy way to tell you this." Treville started slowly, and d'Artagnan's fingers twitched, wanting to clench into a fist. "I've just received a list of charges against Labarge from the Cardinal." He held up a piece of paper from his desk.

"I don't understand." He shook his head.

"Your farm was one of the properties destroyed by Labarge." Heart hammering in chest, he stepped forward and took the page, reading through the list of names. "Apparently, he did it as a warning to other local landowners—he knew your father was greatly respected amongst them." Treville watched him carefully.

He was still and silent, his left hand holding the paper didn't shake, even as the swell of emotion inside of his was great. His right hand clenched, slightly aside and from view. "That farm was my only source of income." It was the only unemotional thing he could think to say. And suddenly, the lack of money received these last two months, made sense. He'd just thought that the crop yielded and sold had not been as bountiful—never did he dream that his was one of the properties that Labarge had razed to the ground.

Treville nodded, unsure that this was entirely the response he had been expecting from the passionate Gascon. "I'll make sure justice is done—if that's any comfort."

He shook his head and handed the paper back. His voice briefly betrayed him as it wobbled. "Justice won't pay the rent." And he turned and left.

He went straight from Treville's office, down the stairs, passed practicing Musketeers in the yard, and made it into the garrison gate-tunnel before the emotion claimed him.

He planted both palms flat against the stone wall, and watched the Musketeers with their Fleur-de-lys, jealous. He shook his head, and back to wall, slid down to the ground, his knees drawn to his chest like that of a little boy. Unshed tears burned in his eyes.

Labarge had destroyed his father's legacy, burned it to the ground in flames. Turned something with so much history and perseverance into nothing more than rubble and scorched earth. It felt like he was losing his father all over again.

At the conclusion of Requiem Mass, Aramis had approached her Madame Marchand, the pair leaving shortly after, arm-in-arm. And Porthos made her own Monsieur Alic Clerbeaux who's wife it was that had died a year ago.

He was a handsome man, with dark hair and blue eyes that she felt could rival that of Athos'. He had what people called a beauty spot, and it really did as its name suggested.

"My condolences, Monsieur." Porthos said respectfully, hesitantly. "Your wife, er... was a great woman. A great candle-maker. Well, that goes without saying..."

Alic looked at her lightly. "I don't believe we've been introduced—?"

"Ah." Heat flushed her cheeks. She didn't think anyone had ever called her Madame before. "Jus' Porthos," she put a fist over her heart and bowed her head lightly, her wavy bangs falling into her eyes. "Of the King's Musketeers."

"Well, Porthos... of the Musketeers no less." Alic mused lightly and Porthos nodded. "How is it that you met her?"

"Ah, well, it's..." Porthos stammered for a moment, put on the spot. Of course he would be curious as to how she might know his late wife, even if it wasn't true. But Alic just watched her curiously and waited. "It was an event. You know, we both attended the, uh, same one, you know, obviously." She smiled. "It was ages ago now. So..."

Alic nodded. "If you don't mind me saying... you don't exactly look like the kind of woman who cares for making candles."

"Well," she shrugged helplessly. "Candles are a practical thing an' I'm a practical person."

"Yes," he hummed. "You seem a very practical woman."

"Well," she chuckled.

He returned the inflection. "Would you like to walk with me, Porthos?" he asked her boldly. "It's just that—I would enjoy the company, that is, if you don't mind the walking...?"

"Oh, no, I—It would be a pleasure." Porthos nodded.

d'Artagnan didn't know how he did it—perhaps it was rebellion—but he had pulled himself together, and left the garrison before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

He hadn't actively been looking for her, but he found her anyways, carrying an armful of flat material spools. He took them in-hand without permission and she smiled at him. He told her of what happened after going to the garrison as they slowly walked back towards the Bonacieux house. Of the competition and of his father's farm, at least.

"Oh, d'Artagnan." She murmured softly.

He just shook his head. "This contest—It's my only chance, Constance. I have to win that prize." He sighed. "I just need to raise the entrance fee."

"30 livres is a lot of money." She pointed out gently.

"You don't have to remind me." That was something he was extremely aware of.

She put her hand on his arm and drew him to a stop. "d'Artagnan..." he faced her.

His hold tightened on the materials. "First, I loose my father, and then I loose his farm. No money. No prospects. I honestly can't think what you see in me." He tried to make a joke out of it, taking a page from her own book, but it didn't go over well. She could hear the break in his heart as he spoke, and she could feel it in her own at what he said next. "It's a good thing he's dead, otherwise he'd be disappointed in me. Nothing had gone right since I came to Paris."

"That's not true!" she denied him. "You have Athos, Aramis, and Porthos... and me." She reached up and cupped his cheek briefly. He leaned into the touch for as long as he could before she reclaimed her hand. "Now, d'Artagnan, you listen to me." She told him firmly and he nodded. "Everything will be fine. You'll raise the money and... You'll win the contest. I know you will. Trust me."

"That's what I'm supposed to say to you." He told her.

She chuckled lightly. "Well, it's my turn now. So believe me, like I believe in you."

He looked at her with such deep affection. He slowly smiled. Her confidence in the matter was infectious, but there was still the small but large matter of the entry fee. "Where am I going to find 30 livres?" Treville never specifically said no. If he managed to acquire it, surely Treville could not deny him then.

"You'll think of something."

"You're the best, Constance." He handed her back the material with a small grin and when he left, there was more life in his step than when he had arrived. She smiled gently after him, clutching the material to chest.

Their simple walk had turned into the act of an invitation to lunch, and Porthos found herself waiting in the sitting room. Alic returned.

"Apologies for the delay," he told her sincerely. "I haven't had much occasion for guests."

"No, no. I understand."

"I, um, hope you're hungry." He said. "I've planned a rather full menu."

"I'm always 'ungry." She confessed and they laughed. It was the way she held herself, her gruff manner, that she knew turned men off. But it was who she was, it was set into her bones. If they couldn't accept that, then they weren't worth it. But, from what little time she had spent with Alic, he didn't seemed to mind the way she talked, or acted. That she wasn't a proper lady.

"This way." He gestured and she stepped towards him. With the hand at the small of her back, Alic lead her to the dinning room.

Porthos needn't have been trepid as they sat, he at the head of the table, and her on his right, when the first course was brought. When Alic said a full menu, he meant it. The conversation between them flowed easily and they had more laughs than not. Afterward, Porthos had never felt fuller.

She lingered and they took wine after. A better port than she'd had in a long time. In honesty, she'd forgotten why she first approached the man. She was just enjoying her time with the man.

"It was a hard time." Alic confessed quietly. "Watching the sickness take Charlene..."

But Porthos nodded. "I can understand."

"You've lost someone?" he enquired softly.

She was quiet for a moment as even now the loss hit her. It would hit her forever. "My..." her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "My Ma. She, um... she died of fever when I was a child."

"Porthos," he gasped. "And you saw this? Just a child."

She nodded. "But I got to say goodbye, tell 'er that I loved 'er."

"I'm so sorry." His fingertips briefly brushed across her clenched fist at the corner of the table in comfort. "Who raised you?"

She was a little sensitive on the matter, and didn't share it easily. Especially things far into her past. Her childhood. Porthos found herself unable to let go so easily, not when, in her life growing up, that could mean her death. To lay trust in someone was no simple thing. But as she looked into Alic's soft blue gaze, which had thus far not looked at her in any such judgement, she felt that she did.

"Myself." She said and his eyes widened. "In... The Court of Miracles."

"You had no family?" he whispered, when she had expected nothing else but judgement.

She shook her head mutely. "Jus' me, and Flea and Charon. They became my family. We looked after each other. Now, I 'ave the Musketeers. And you—you 'ave all this."

"Yes," he looked around the room sadly. "What you must think I me."

She shook her head. "I'm not one to judge, trust me." He smiled at her. Porthos cleared her throat and gave her a gentle smile. "But, at least you're surrounded by 'er things." She gestured. "Keeps 'er memory alive, I imagine."

"Yes, I supposed so." He allowed.

"'Aving something to remember 'er by, it must be a great confront."

"You have nothing of your Mother?"

"Just a few simple memories, ones that shall never fade."

"You knew Charlene," he said suddenly. "You should have a token for yourself."

"Oh, no." She immediately shook her head.

He ignored her refusal. "How selfish of me not to think of it. Here I am in this house, surrounded by her things... you should have something. Perhaps, a comb. Or, no... the candle snuffer." He stood. "An entrepreneur of candles, yourself."

"No. No no no." Porthos continued to stammer out her refusal, but Alic had already gone to the table at the side lined with candelabrum and retrieved the snuffer.

"Er... I couldn't, er..." she paused as she looked at it in the man's hand. "That must be worth 30 livres at least." She realized.

He scoffed as he turned it in his hands. "I should say so. It's solid gold."

"Oh."

Alic held it out to her. "I insists you have it." He said knowingly. "Charlene used it every day of her life. I want you to have it."

Porthos hesitated for a long moment as she looked at the man. "I'd be honoured." She said finally and took it. Alic sat, pleased. They held up their wine glasses and toasted to the woman one-year gone and her Ma, not forgotten.

d'Artagnan had returned to the garrison after his talk with Constance, but any ideas on how exactly to gain to 30 livres that he needed to enter the competition that would determine his future, bore no fruit. And he was left wondering if he was going to have to find a patron/ess like Aramis and Porthos had set out to do. But who would do him such a favour? He was with Constance now, and he refused to cross a line like that might force him to do.

"Treville told me what happened to your farm," Athos said in a sleeveless tunic, watching the young man carefully. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan."

His back was to her as he stripped off his doublet and tossed it onto the table, his shoulders tense as he pulled his gloves up. "It's just a farm, Athos. Wood nailed together."

Athos wasn't convinced. That farm was more than wood nailed together, it had been d'Artagnan home, all his first memories and experiences were made there—his family. Just as the chateau in Pinon had been her home, her family, her memories—all of it. The good ones and the black ones. And though there was nothing left for her there, hadn't been for almost six-years now—she was glad it was burned. But she knew the same could not be said for the d'Artagnan farm.

She only said one thing further on the matter, because she knew he wanted to speak on it no longer. "Leave justice to the courts. Labarge will get him. You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."

d'Artagnan faced her. "I am ready." Athos smiled at him. "What?" he asked slowly.

"You have natural talent—but you too often let your emotions run away with you." She said. "Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."

Eye narrowed, he threw the unhooked sheath from his belt, off his rapier. "Can we just get on with it?" he flicked his sword through the air skilfully, going to face against the woman.

"My point in a nutshell." Her own sword was drawn.

d'Artagnan's only response was a first attack. Athos allowed him at her, parrying his strikes. And then it whipped into fast, sparks flying briefly as their swords met. d'Artagnan spun round on-heel, his slash aimed center and Athos arched out of reach. They circled, tips touching.

"I hear an ordinary prison isn't good enough for Labarge." Athos intoned across the blades. "He in the Bastille, living in comfort." Treville coming into the yard to watch his men's practice was an afterthought. They exchanged a few quick strikes. Athos pointed her sword at d'Artagnan's chest, and he swat it away, irritated. "His every whim attended to." d'Artagnan came at her, and Athos quickly grabbed his sword wrist as he came in close and jerked it down. She got in close and could see the tightness around his passionate brown as eyes as she continued to taunt him. "Imagine him there, living the life of a King. While you are left penniless, unable to pay your rent."

d'Artangna shoved the woman away angrily, and swung at her head. It was a sloppy execution and Athos grabbed his wrist again, twisting it towards the young man's own stomach. He whipped out his main gauche, slashing at the woman, but he over-reached and Athos put him on the ground, still holding his wrist.

d'Artagnan glared up at the woman. Athos stared coolly down. "Every soldier has an Achilles heel." After a moment more, she finally released his wrist and he rose to his knees. "Control that, and you control the fight."

But d'Artagnan was alit. He bypassed Athos and Treville. "So, Labarge is in the Bastille, is he?" he spat, grabbing his doublet and storming form the garrison.

That man ruined countless lives, and they left him to the Bastille? More a inn than a prison. He'd had a short stay at the Chatelet and it was not a pretty place to be. And he had just participated in an illegal duel. What Labarge had done—Justice? Where was this justice that Treville and Athos kept speaking to him of?

Treville approached Athos with a raised brow.

"I was trying to provoke him." Athos explained.

"You succeeded." Treville agreed. "Probably more-so than you intended." He sighed. "Keep an eye on him."

She nodded. "He's bound to do something stupid in this state."

d'Artagnan's outrage and anger didn't relent an inch in the journey from the garrison, straight to Louvre and the Cardinal's office. It was this man's doing, he knew. Labarge was his Intendant. The whole start of this mess was because he sent the Red Guards to collect the man who was already arrested by Musketeer hands.

"Cardinal!" he screamed, fighting loose of the Red Guards' hands that try to restrain him as he burst unwanted and unannounced into Richelieu's office. "I wish to talk to you about Labarge. He destroyed my property and sold everything I owned."

The Cardinal waved his Guards back and allowed the Gascon's heated approached. "There are many claims against him. No doubt his trial will establish the truth of them." He knew this young man, he'd seen them with Treville's irritating Inseparables—God forbid there was another one.

He seethed. "What am I to live on until then?"

He didn't have a pauldron, so Richelieu knew d'Artagnan wasn't yet commissioned into the Musketeers by the King. "What?" the Cardinal said insolently, "Still no commission from the Musketeers?" He didn't move as he watched d'Artagnan's eyes brighten with even hotter anger, his jaw clench, and his fists, too. Richelieu could see how he wanted to strike him, but knew he wouldn't, not if he wanted to live. "How disappointing."

If his best fighting man amongst the Red Guards had been Captain Trudeau, who'd died at his own man's hand, then he was positive that he was going to loose this competition—and that was something that could not happen. The Musketeers and Treville had humiliated him enough. It was his turn.

This young man was obviously discontent. This could provided him with opportunity. Perhaps, though the boy was foolish to join with the Musketeers, he might see opportunity given and ripe fruits bloom. The Gascon's answer would either further assuage or urge his plans for Labarge.

"But there are other regiments." Richelieu suggest.

"Other regiments like the Red Guards?" The suggestion had surprised him, but his response was immediate and sarcastic. "The very same fools who killed their own Captain?" he turned and bowed sarcastically to the Guards at the door.

Richelieu's jaw tightened briefly before he ploughed ahead. This business with Trudeau was an embarrassment he didn't need, one witnessed by the Musketeers no less. He could see an opportunity with d'Artagnan, and he was never one to let such a thing slip through his fingers if he had a say in it. "Why not?" he enticed. "A young man of such talent and ambition as yourself could flourish to great levels in the Red Guards under my patronage. You could rise through the ranks."

d'Artagnan's lips twisted in distaste. The Cardinal was trying to bribe him onto the Red Guards with a commission and position—something for which he dreamed, only in a different regiment. He felt shame for the brief instant that he entertained the idea and by way the Cardinal's gaze brightened, he knew the man saw.

"I'll take me chances, thank you."

He knew the man was slime already, but to see it up close...

The Cardinal narrowed his eyes. "As you wish." It was a disappointment, truly, but Richelieu was not a man to just have one card up his sleeve.

"What about Labarge?" d'Artagnan insisted a moment later.

The Cardinal turned back to him and replied flippantly. "If he confesses, you may well receive some form of recompense. If not..." he shrugged simply.

"As a citizen of France, I demand my rights!" he screamed angrily at the man.

Richelieu spun. "You demand nothing of me!" he snapped his fingers and his lingering Red Guards approached.

d'Artagnan glared harshly at the man, his fists clenched at his sides. Richelieu could see the Gascon wanted to strike him, but despite his anger, the young man knew the Cardinal would have his head if he did so. He would rot in jail at the least.

A Guard grabbed his shoulder, and d'Artagnan grabbed his wrist harshly, throwing it away. He spat, his features twisted with a deep anger and grip that could make him unpredictable. He backed away through the doors he had barged through earlier, his glare harsh as the Red Guards followed him out.

A pity, had d'Artagnan said yes, Richelieu would have given him all he dreamt of and even more so.

Milady slithered from the single door near the Cardinal's desk that lead to his chambers. "I almost feel sorry for him, lodging with that misery cloth merchant Bonacieux."

Richelieu turned to his Secret Weapon. "First Athos and now d'Artagnan? Your fascination with these Musketeers seems exhaustible."

"What can I say, my enthusiasm proceeds me. But there's no need to be jealous, Cardinal." She smiled. "I do everything for you."

He didn't seem impressed. "Permit me to doubt that."

"I would never lie to you, Richelieu."

He scoffed. "I take everything you say with a grain of salt."

"If you so wish." She shrugged, uncaring. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Oh, I have a few ideas."

"I understand you're a cloth merchant?" the Cardinal inquired from where he sat in behind his desk. Looking across at the rather unimpressive man in front of him. Milady hadn't been kidding when she said the man was a misery.

"The house of Bonacieux has been in business for three generations." Jacques Bonacieux rambled nervously, all but wringing his hat in his hands as he stood before His Eminence. His snatching from the street had been quite sudden and he didn't think he had been so fearful in his life. The same Red Guards that had taken him, had shoved him in front of the Cardinal—the last place he expected to be.

"I'm sure you're a visionary amongst drapers." Richelieu commented dryly and stood, slowly walking over to the man. "Now, I may be in need of a new supplier to my Red Guards. The contract is a lucrative one. But the merchant must be someone I trust."

Bonacieux's eyes widened in understanding. "Then, how might I prove it?" A chance like this, to supply for the Cardinal, he wouldn't have money fears any longer, he could give to Constance the beautiful things that she deserved as to be his wife.

Richelieu briefly took a few steps back towards him desk. "I am interested... in your lodger—d'Artagnan." He turned back. "I want you to find out who he sees, where he goes, and in particular if he had any clandestine female companions."

"You want me to spy on him?" he was surprised.

"I can see you are a man of quick intelligence." Richelieu sat back at his desk.

Bonacieux never much liked the Gascon. Ever since Constance had given him kindness upon his collapse in the Market, and he himself had allowed the young man to lodge in his home—trouble had knocked on his door more than once. Those Musketeers were just trouble, and it wouldn't do to have such an ingrate in his house, to soil the good of his name. Constance had changed as well, and it wasn't a change that he appreciated. The Red Guards were the authority of Paris, and the Cardinal was a great man. Obviously, he could see that d'Artagnan was a scoundrel and a villain as well.

"It will be my honour to serve you." Bonacieux bowed. This was his chance to finally get rid of the man, and make a move up in societies ranks. To be associated with the Cardinal, was like that of the King.

d'Artagnan's approach of the Cardinal had bore him nothing but a spreading and deepened anger, that made him act more reckless than not. Justice? The Cardinal didn't care about Labarge's victims getting recompense any more than he cared of the people left the starve in the Court of Miracles. The only intersects Richelieu held were his own, whether to further his reputation or reach. If anything was to be done about the monster, he was going to have to do it himself.

It didn't matter that reason would dictate that if he went through with this half-charged idea, he would be the one to come out the end of it gravely injured or dead. That it had taken the four of them, working in tandem to bring down the man—on both accounts. That Labarge already had experienced Musketeer scalps on his belt, and one half-made trainee didn't stand a chance. But he didn't care. Labarge needed to pay. For what he had done to all those families just trying to survive, for what he had done to d'Artagnan. And the Gascon seemed the only one willing to do it himself.

Sneaking into and through the Bastille out of the night and rain was child's play. It was a wonder all its residents just didn't walk straight out as he had walked in. He ducked into the shadows of the flickering torches and waited for a Red Guard to pass, oblivious, before he grabbed the man from behind and put him in a chokehold. He snuffed out his breath, rendering him unconscious before he stripped the man of his uniform and donned the red designed doublet of the only regiment uniform he seemed to be afforded to. He refused to see this as some sign for him taking with the Cardinal's Red Guards. He was born for the Musketeer blue. He would have that pauldron and he would show them all just how great he could be.

"You're early." The Guard standing outside Labarge's cell commented.

"Are you complaining?" he raised a brow.

"No. But watch out." He handed over the key ring. "He mangled Gershaw's hand earlier. Don't know what the Cardinal sees in him. He's a monster."

"So I hear." d'Artagnan muttered as the man left. He waited until the Guard rounded the corner, and forced himself to wait several heartbeats before he turned and unlocked the door.

The cell was large and better furnished than the room he had rented at the inn his first night in Paris. Thunder crashed outside as the rain flooded the ground, turning packed dirt into wet mud. A candle flickering on the desk at the side of the room, as well as a torch near the head of the bed which Labarge was currently slumbering on lit the cell.

"Wake up, Labarge." But the man didn't move. He turned from the large man, inhaling deeply as he fought the simple and cruel urge to run Labarge through whilst he slept. But he had honour, and he would fight on a playing field that the scum didn't deserved. He wanted Labarge to know it was him who ended his sorry life.

But Labarge was awake. And he slowly turned and sat up, silent. He grabbed the plate from the stool which was still smeared with Gershaw's blood and aimed for the young man's head.

d'Artangna had sensed the movement behind him, on the raising of the hair on the back of his neck, and turned just in time to avoid behind clipped in the ear.

"I know you!" Labarge stood and d'Artagnan pulled his rapier from sheath. "Such a fickle bitch. What are you? A Red Guard now?" he spat. "What do you want?"

"My name is d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony." He announced, very similar to what he said upon his first entry of the Musketeer garrison in looking for his father's murderer. "You burned down my farm."

Labarge laughed. "I've burned down a lot of farms. What makes you think I can remember yours?"

"I want your full confession. Without it, I will not get justice. And then I will take your head!"

Labarge grabbed the towel from the back of the chair next to him and wrapped the end around his hand. He had been sitting idle for too long. His blood pumped with the prospect of this whelp's on his hands. "I don't see what good a confession is to you—with a broken neck." He lit the end of it on fire by the torch and walked towards d'Artagnan, swinging.

d'Artagnan ducked, backing up as embers of burning material floated in front of his face. He lunged suddenly with his sword. Labarge swung the flaming towel at him, and was struck in the face, falling back to the ground. He slashed at it with his sword, and his vision cleared to find Labarge on top of him and a large fist coming his way. Knee planted on his narrow chest, Labarge's hands wrapped around his throat and tightened.

His oxygen instantly cut off, d'Artagnan had a brief moment of panic as he released his sword tangled in the flaming towel and scrambled uselessly at the man's hands. This was not supposed to be how it went. Their roles were supposed to be reversed.

"Ever kill someone with your bare hands?" Labarge grinned as d'Artagnan's olive skinned started to blotch red. "Watch as the life slowly drained from their eyes? There's nothing like it."

Black spots entered his vision and he knew it would only be a minute before he met his true end. And for what? A brief calm clung to him. His right hand scrambled along the floor beside him. He found the hilt of his rapier and flung the flaming weapon as his killer. Labarge yelped as flaming material engulfed his head and he jumped back away from d'Artagnan.

That first gasp of oxygen crackled through his throat painfully. His head was lightened and his throat abused as he took gulping breaths. He attempted to scramble away, but Labarge was on him again almost immediately. On his stomach, Labarge grabbed his main gauche from the small of his back. d'Artagnan leapt like a frog and grabbed his sword. He faced off against the giant.

Labarge grinned. "I like when they fight." He tossed the knife from hand to hand.

"You will give me that confession." d'Artagnan growled, a harsh roughness to his voice that was partly anger and partly damage onto his throat.

"You know what I like about cutting people's throats?" he asked. "It's stops them talking!"

d'Artagnan slashed at the man, and then jabbed, getting close. Labarge blocked it with the knife, locking the blades as he forced d'Artagnan's arm behind his back and punched the smaller man in the kidney before shoving him into the desk on the side wall. d'Artangna grunted at the edge of the desk in his ribs, but quickly spun with a slash, forcing Labarge to jump back.

Labarge tossed the dagger away carelessly with a smile. And thinking it a opening of stupidity, d'Artagnan lunged. Labarge let the blade pass recklessly close to his ribs before he grabbed d'Artagnan's sword wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon as he forced the Gascon face first to the ground.

d'Artagnan writhed under him, but the man's knee to the small of his back pinned him firmly. Labarge was crushing his right hand in an iron grip. His heart was pounding in his bruised throat, fear making his pupils pinpricks. He cried out as the man grabbed a harsh fistful of his dark mane and wrenched his head back.

"Didn't I say something about a broken neck before?" and though Labarge released his hand, it allowed him no leverage as the bald man grabbed his around the chin and started to slowly pull his head back.

d'Artagnan screamed as he felt the popping in his neck, the harsh pull. Labarge wasn't going break his neck, he was going to pull his head off! Since coming to Paris and joining up with the Musketeers, d'Artagnan had found himself in several life-threatening situations, but none were ever as this was. He was going to die, and no one was even going to know it.

"Let him go." Athos ordered, her tone deathly as she ran into the cell, her pistol aimed squarely at Labarge's head.

Labarge's face twists angrily at the woman and her weapon, and released d'Artagnan, standing back. Athos stepped forward, forcing the man back so she could get to d'Artagnan. She silently grasped his arm, pulling him to his feet as he grabbed his sword. He rubbed at the abuse onto his neck.

"Get out." Labarge growled. He would get them, in his own time.

A sneer on his own face, d'Artagnan pulled from Athos' grip and brushed passed her and out the cell. A second later, Athos backed out, locking the cell door again with the key ring d'Artagnan had left in the lock.

d'Artagnan stripped the wretched red doublet from his back, back at the spot where he'd grabbed the Guard. The man was starting to come around as he put back on his own doublet and he put heel to the man's temple before moving on. He thrusted out of the Bastille and into the rain, and would have kept on regardless of the passing Guard, had Athos not grabbed him.

"What do you think you are doing?" she hissed.

He couldn't meet her eyes. It was over, he hadn't been able to complete his task. He was a failure.

She sighed. He looked just a kid, hair plastered wetly to skull, standing there in abject misery. "What did I tell you about thinking before you act?"

"I couldn't help it." his voiced was hardly more than a croak and she winced internally in sympathy. "I'm not like you."

Her voice was soft, despite her frustration and fear towards the man. "You are." If she had been a minute later... she planted her palm firmly against his chest, as much to allow herself the reassurance of his beating heart beneath her palm, as to keep his attention. "More so than you know. Come on." The coast clear, she dragged him along away from the Bastille and his would-have death. "Get some rest. Honey and tea to ease your throat—we will train tomorrow."

He said nothing as he left her, and she sighed, turning her own way. It was late, but she didn't head straight back to her apartment. The walking helped her process, especially in the quite of the streets at night with the route she took herself. The rain halted.

"You are growing careless, Athos." The voice was sweat and smooth, and Athos stopped her stride, a chill stabbing her. "I could have killed you just now." Athos turned towards Milady, who stepped from the shadows—her Anne. Her expression steel, she walked towards the venomous woman. "Shall we call this... mutual ground?"

"If you wish." She replied. And said with irony, "I won't attack a defenceless woman."

She chuckled. "Your beautiful face is full of questions. Ask me anything you wish." She went and leaned sensually back against the wall.

She wasn't one to waste an opportunity presented to her. Athos turned and stopped in front of her. "What is your connection with the Cardinal?"

"I have to make a living somehow, after all you have taken from me. What better patron could I have?" she whispered.

Athos stepped closer. "What exactly do you do for him?"

"I'm a solider, just like you." She murmured. "Well, perhaps we're not quite the same." She exhaled. "But we all have to exploit out natural... talents." And she stepped towards her, leaving them breast-to-breast. She hummed softly. Her fingertips brushed gentle against the exposed flesh of Athos' chest at her open collar, in such similar manner to what Ninon had done, that Athos fought the shiver. Milady's fingers picked up the locket from between her breasts. "You still wear my locket?" their noses brushed. "Why?"

Athos cocked her head lightly, gazing into the eyes of the woman who had stolen her heart—and broken it. "Sometimes... Sometimes I ask myself the same question." It did nothing to remedy her of the past, but remind her, burden her every day with the truth. Her brother dead, her betrayed, lied to, used.

"Shall I show you why?" Milady breathed and put a finger under Athos' chin, pulling up so that their lips met.

Anne always made something else rule her instead of her head, and for the briefest of milliseconds, Athos threw away the past. Milady's tongue flickered against her own, and Athos was herself again. She parted from the kiss, and nudged the other woman back against the wall. Her blue eyes were cold.

"Did you really think I could forget... who you are and what you did?"

Milady's own expression hardened and she narrowed her eyes. "It seems neither of us can forget the past."

"Why are you here?" Athos hissed. "What is it that you want from me that you already haven't taken?"

"Hah. I want your life, Olivia! I want to destroy you, like you destroyed me!" she pushed back against the woman, but there was no real power behind it.

"You have already done so!" She shouted. "You murdered my brother because he found out the truth of what you really are. A criminal, a liar! You used me to get my name. You're nothing but a whore!"

Milady slapped her. "I loved you! You threw that away, the minute you ordered me to hang!"

Athos hardly even flinched at the contact. "Love? You don't even know the meaning."

Milady seethed and shoved Athos back, with force this time. "I give you fair warning, Athos." She brushed passed her. "Come at me—and you'll regret it." And she picked up her skirts and disappeared down the dark and empty street.

Athos breathed heavily as she stared after the green-eyed woman. Her fist clenched, she gave a wordless cry, spinning around, her fist striking out. At the last moment, she opened her hand, and her palm stung against the stone wall. She looked at the locket and ached, the forget-me-not she had painstakingly painted in herself, hardly faded over the abuse it had suffered of the years around her neck.

d'Artagnan did head back for the Bonacieux house, though the late hour, but he took the long route that left him no more less angry and all the more wet and chilled. By the time he arrived, he discovered the door locked. And rightly so, he thought. His thumbed his forehead irresolutely against the wood. Constance would be in bed with her husband, instead of the likes of him who could get nothing right. Who did nothing, it seemed, but fail. But for whatever reason, she still loved him.

His feelings were just too mixed and heated. Of course, he thought of banging down the door until it was opened before him, Bonacieux and everyone else be-damned. But then Athos' tone from earlier came back and halted him.

He rubbed his abused neck, as he hunkered down for the night in the shelter of the hitching host. There was no tea and honey—but at least it had stopped raining.

He was haggard. His sleep had been restless and interrupted by the damp chill of the night. But he'd arrived at the garrison bright and early, his throat feeling swollen. Athos gave him a silent nod that was accompanied with an outstanding question upon his state.

Even against the olive-tone of his skin, Athos could see the dark marks of Labarge's fingers clamped around his throat and she was struck again by how close she had been to loosing the Gascon. Any later, and she would have lost a second brother.

"'M f'ne." He answered and the rasp in his voice stated otherwise. He cleared his throat and grimaced. The water he took was cold and hard.

She could clearly see that he did not do as she had instructed him upon their parting last night. It was a wonder that she herself was not passed-out from drink in some dark corner of a tavern after her encounter with Anne the other night. Instead, she had forced herself to drink in her apartment, and only then a single bottle of wine.

"Aramis." Athos called, her eyes not leaving the young man. His eyes instantly narrowed on her for her cheap trick in calling on the medic. Athos didn't blink an eye.

Aramis looked over from where she and Porthos had been preparing for their own practise duel. Later in the day was the deadline for the entry fee, then the competition for Treville to choose the Musketeers' champion. The next morning was to be the contest against the Cardinal's Red Guards at Louvre.

At the silent jerk of the woman's chin, the pair approached.

"What's up?" Aramis looked from Athos' stern expression directed at d'Artagnan. She looked at the Gascon, who resolutely turned his head from her, staring at the clutter on the table next to him. Her eyes narrowed, for she knew the look upon Athos' face and though he looked rumpled, it wasn't until his bobbing Adam's apple and grimace caught her attention. "Charlie!" she gasped. The marks were a dark purple, appearing nearly black on his toned skin. "What happened?"

She approached him, fast and furious, already reaching for him before he could blink. Before he could think of pushing her hands away, her glare stilled him. He didn't want attention, he wanted to fight. But the woman pushed him back and forced him to sit on the bench at the table.

"Labarge." Athos said simply, her tone hard.

"Labarge?" Porthos repeated in confusion and then her eyes widened. "You went after 'im? Why?"

"d'Artagnan's was one of the properties Labarge destroyed." She explained, and his jaw gritted harshly in response, his eyes aflame. "So he took it upon himself to make the man confess."

She sat beside him. "That was foolish." Aramis chided. "He could have killed you." She whispered, and he winced at her feather-light touches brushed against the abused flesh. "By appearances sake, it looks like he nearly did." When it appeared no answer was forthcoming, she laid instruction on Athos and Porthos to fetch some things for her. They went immediately to the task. "I'm sorry for your farm." She murmured her sympathies.

He turned his face away before she could see the hot tears that clouded fresh in his eyes. It took his a hard moment of pure will to force them away. "What's a farm is just a farm." He repeated in a lacking tone of something similar he had said to Athos just yesterday.

She sighed. "And your hand?" she reached across his lap and took his right hand without permission. He allowed her to inspect it. The only other thing that might owe to a brief allowance of attentions would to be to push her off the bench and make a run for—though that would only work until she caught up with him. When one of them was injured, even with a minor cause, she was like a demon after their well-being. It could be as frightening at times as it was annoying and comforting.

Athos and Porthos finally returned. Porthos with a basin of water and Aramis' kit; and Athos with a small dish filled with honey, a kettle of boiled water, and a cup tucked under her arm. They cleared the present clutter from the table, and replaced it with their own.

Aramis bid him to turn round and immediately put his bruised hand in the cold water in the basin. Before she poured the steaming water into a cup, dumped a packet of herbs into it from a folded packet of paper out of her kit, stirred the mixture and then spooned honey into the mixture before pushing it in front of the silent Gascon.

"You know you want it," she said. "Don't make me feed you like a child."

Porthos chuckled. "You know she will."

d'Artagnan took up with cup with his left hand and took a tentative sip. He knew it tasted bitter, and would have more-so if not for the honey that seemed to coat his throat with silk. They watched him like a hawk as he drank, the mixture too hot for him to chug. The heat went down. And though he could still feel the strain and the pain, it didn't cause him much when he cleared his throat this time around.

Aramis could tell that it was working without him even having to say a word. "No need to thank me, I live to serve." She patted him on the back.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos. "I'm ready to duel."

Athos glanced at Aramis, who gave a subtle nod of allowance. "Fine."

Aramis and Porthos went back to their interrupted practice as well, as Athos and d'Artagnan squared off once more.

"Every taunt is an attempt to distract you, to discover your vulnerabilities and exploit the weakness." Athos spoke as they circled. "Last night, you let your hatred of Labarge overcome your judgement." She slashed head-level and he ducked, sending a jab her way. "You're trip to the Bastille was a childish mistake." She could see his expression harden further and further as she continued, bringing up the still fresh and sore subject. "I thought you had brains, but clearly not."

Their blades twirled together and he spun, slashing. She parried the blow easily, forcing him back a step. He growled in frustration.

"I know what you're doing."

"Even so..." she replied. She rested her sword flat on her shoulder. "That kind of stupidity is exactly why you're not ready to be a Musketeer."

d'Artagnan faltered and pointed his sword at her, "You don't mean that?" His eyes were wide open and vulnerable. Her words had shaken him. To hear everyone else say them... but not Athos. His mentor, friend, and sister. The woman whom he respected on such a high level. Surely she didn't...

"Of course not." She murmured firmly. He attempted to level himself. His next attack was severely lacking and Athos shoved his trusting arm away easily, twisting it around his front and over his shoulder, forcing him to his knees before putting her own blade hovering over the abused flesh at the side of his exposed neck. "But unfortunately... you're now dead."

d'Artagnan shoved her blade away in frustration. He clambered to his feet, and without word, stalked angrily from her, passed Aramis and Porthos and out the garrison.

Athos sighed heavily as she watched him go. She sheathed her sword as the two women approached.

"What's wrong with 'im?" Porthos questioned.

"Reality," she answered in a harsh truth. "Now, he just has to find out how to deal with it."

Constance knew d'Artagnan didn't come home the previous night, and he hadn't been there when she awoke. She was concerned. Their last conversation had been on the 30 livres that he would need to entry the competition.

She loved d'Artagnan, and she wanted him to be able to live his dreams. She knew how important being a Musketeer was. She wanted to help him see it to reality. She knew he would probably refuse her, but she could be persistent and convincing and she would turn him her way in no time. It wasn't charity, it was support.

So she'd spent the first few hours of her morning in the Market haggling for a good price on a few things that she knew wouldn't be missed around the house, as well as a basket of bakedgoods. The man she was locked in negotiations with was offering 20 livres, but she managed to get him to part with the 30 livres that she needed. And so she headed back with coin in-hand and a smile on her face.

d'Artagnan had returned from the garrison to find the Bonacieux house absent Constance but her husband present. d'Artagnan avoided the man and he took the opportunity to wash himself and change. And it helped to lighten his mood, if only marginally. He knew that Athos didn't mean what she said, she had just been teaching him a lesson in control, but it had hurt nonetheless.

His approach on the Cardinal had bore no fruit but anger, which had driven him to go after Labarge, which had nearly been his head. He was embarrassed and humiliated and angry. He had yet to acquire the 30 livres that he needed to even make the entry, and after all that had happened, he was once more lacking the confidence of a winning head.

He was surprised when he left the house, and encountered none other than the dark-haired, green-eyed woman who seemed to be both savoir and threat.

Milady smiled at him. "I believe this is something you need." She held out a coin purse and then tossed it the short distance between them. He caught the unexpected gift on reflex. "It's 30 livres, right?"

He narrowed his eyes but nodded. "How did you know that?"

She shrugged. "I've taken an interest in you, d'Artagnan." A sensual smile curved her red lips. "And it's not as though we are strangers, is it?"

d'Artagnan wasn't much in the mood for her flirting. No matter how many times they met, or that they had slept together, he would always be suspicious of her. "What's the catch?"

She seemed slightly disappointed at his reaction, but rallied immediately. "My, how suspicious you've grown since coming to Paris!"

"Can you blame me?" he replied drily.

She stepped closer to him. "There is no catch." She told him. "I simply want you to compete. You're very talented, I would see you go far."

"Funny, seeing as you seem to know all this about me when I don't even know your name." He commented. It was odd, because it was true. They had slept together. She'd blamed him for murder. She had killed two men in front of him. And he never quite got the chance to catch her name.

"Mmm." Her gaze was intense as she stared back at him, but didn't seem forthcoming with that piece of information either.

He was silent for a long moment as he looked at her and felt the real weight of the coin in his palm. It was here, what he needed to entered the competition that could lead to his commission into the Musketeers. He had it in his fingers tips. There was no possibility that he could deny it. Even as suspicious it was that she happened to appear with what he needed at the moment when he needed it most. He didn't delve to deeply into it at the moment. "I'll accept it," he said finally. "As a loan. I'll pay you back when I win."

"That's all I wish." She murmured. She smiled and turned, making her leave. Unnoticed, Bonacieux watched them from the kitchen window.

d'Artagnan cleared his throat to regain her attention, the sound crackling lightly. She paused, and glanced at him over his shoulder. He held a small chain between his fingers and hanging from it was a small medallion with a forget-me-not impressed in it. "What's this?" he had pulled it from the coin purse.

"A little good-luck charm." She answered sweetly. "And a token of my friendship."

Constance returned just as the Milady left. She scowled after the woman. "What did she want?" her last encounter with the woman hadn't been pleasant.

"She just gave me the money so I can compete." He told her, putting the necklace back into the purse.

"What?" Constance looked at his hands, her only clenching around the loose coin in hers. "You shouldn't have taken that."

"Don't worry. I didn't do anything untoward to get it, if that's what you're worried about." He said. "It's a loan. One that was in much need." She still didn't look convinced. "I can handle her."

"Are you sure about that?" she knew the woman was not what she outwardly appeared to be.

His mood overly brighter now that he had the fee. It was just a matter of time before he showed them what he could be. "There's no need to be jealous." He mused. "I would not cheat on you." He reached up to brush his knuckles at her pale cheek but she knocked the gesture away with a glare.

"I'm not jealous," she scoffed. "Don't be an idiot."

"Than what?" he asked, somewhat hurt at her refusal of his touch. "Who else is just going to walk up and hand me 30 livres? This was my only chance. I had to take it."

"You're right." She agreed. And he left. She turned and watched him leave. "No one." She whispered and looked at the coins in her palm. What did that woman want with him? Whatever it was, Constance knew it was bad news.

Porthos found herself returned to the Clerbeaux mansion later that day when she was freed from the garrison. Yes, the food was good, the wine too. But she felt herself wanting to be in Alic's company more.

Porthos didn't have luck with finding men like Aramis had in her consumption of both the sexes. As was made evidence time and again. Porthos just wasn't a popular commodity. Because of her manner, her looks, the colour of her skin. She just didn't have that romantic, flamboyant charm that Aramis exuded. Or that noble and aloof air that Athos did. Or even that young, heated passion that d'Artagnan carried.

But for whatever reason, Alic liked her anyways.

She'd never thought of life outside the Musketeers. It just never seemed to be in the cards for her. She didn't have anything else. Just the Musketeers, Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan, and even Treville. But being with Alic, it was starting to make her believe other things were possible.

"You have a fantastic cook." Porthos said after the dishes were cleared away. She'd taken off her studded doublet and hung it on the back of the chair, leaving her in her shirtsleeves.

Alic nodded. "Charlene didn't take much pleasure in food. She always felt self-discipline as a moral virtue."

"Oh." She drank the last of her wine.

"But I imagine a soldier such as yourself is very disciplined as well." He said.

"When we're fightin'." She agreed. "Off duty, well..." she stared at the table top instead of him, playing with her empty glass, her bangs falling into her eyes.

She was startled when she felt his fingertips brush her temple as he brushed her wavy hair aside to gaze upon her hidden face. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "That's... that's alright."

"You're very beautiful, Porthos." He murmured, and before she could respond, he leaned across the corner of the table and caught her lips softly. The touch of his lips lingered, even after he leaned back. "Apologies, I couldn't stop myself."

"No apology necessary." She said, and then she was the one kissing him.

Alic stood and took her hand. "You—"

She grinned. "I'd lead the way, but only get lost."

He laughed, kissing her again before he lead her from the dinning room and to his own.

Next time he was alone in the house, Bonacieux snooped through d'Artagnan's room. In his end table drawer, he found the coin purse, minus its 30 livres, but present was the forget-me-not medallion. Something to show his new friend the Cardinal.

Treville stood in the yard with a dish that was slowly filling with coin purses as the Musketeers handed in their 30 livres entry fee.

Porthos had pawned the gold candle snuffer that Alic had given her, which afforded her more than the 30 livres that she needed. Though neither said, they both knew that had been her beginning intention, but just after the short time they had spent together, it was heading in a direction neither of them expected.

The tall woman sent out a good-natured cat-call as she turned and spotted Aramis with the reputable Madame Marchand in the garrison tunnel saying farewell. "Entry fee?" she asked the woman

"I've earned it, believe me." She said, putting her amount on the pile. The two woman each chose a harquebus and support post for the first test. "So, it looked like your widow worked out."

"That an' more." Porthos replied as she primed her weapon.

d'Artagnan arrived. "Looks like I'm just in time!" and put his fee in entry. Treville nodded to him, and the Gascon picked a harquebus and pronged post from the stand.

"'Ow did you raise the money?" Porthos wondered.

"Found at patroness of my own." He said, raising his harquebus and checking the charge. Athos smiled at the news, this would give the young man the chance that he had been hoping for. She had been close to offering her own patronage, but knew he would take more offence on it than not.

"Oh?" Aramis raised a brow. "Perhaps the beautiful Madame Bonacieux?" She winked.

"Someone else." He answered, and said nothing further.

"A wealthy widow?" she asked as the four of them stood in line in the yard, facing the set up targets.

"Not as far as I know." He lined up his shot.

"Right, ladies and gentleman. When you're ready." Treville called ready.

And they fired. It was a no-brainier that their expert markswoman won the round. There were five rings to the target. Athos hit second from the center ring, Porthos forth from the center, d'Artagnan cursed as he landed same as Athos. Aramis waited to fire until last, a quark to the corner of her lips. Why not give the little guys hope. She hit dead center and doffed her hat to each of them cockily.

Next round, was hand-to-hand—Porthos' love child. d'Artagnan flinched round after round as Porthos stood against each Musketeer in turn. It was a brutal showing and d'Artagnan flinched every time Porthos' hit landed. They were like rag dolls in her lithe construction. And then it was his turn. He always found it an interesting experience to have the world turned upside down; literally, when Porthos swept his feet from under him and then took him up by the ankles—he hadn't been the first on such treatments either.

He was failing, and he knew it. How could Treville think him worthy to represent the Musketeers? The Inseparables all brought something to the table; Aramis with her sharp shooting, Porthos with her hand-to-hand, and Athos' skill with a sword—they were all the best in the regiment. He knew it was going to be one of the three that Treville chose, and he was starting to question what his place even was there.

The last test was a duel. This was his last chance to prove himself. He knew that he must be facing Athos.

"Remember," Athos told him. "Head over heart. Treville will be assessing your attitude as well as your skill."

"Wait." He furrowed his brow at the woman's given advice and what it meant. "I'm not fighting you?"

"Over here, kid." Aramis called and he turned to find the Spaniard stretching. "Just me and you."

He inhaled deeply and brushed his rapier and main gauche together. d'Artagnan nodded and rolled his shoulders, squaring off with the woman. They saluted each other with their own flourish as the others watched on. Whether it was Athos, or Aramis, he couldn't fail, he couldn't let this chance go.

He struck first and she met him. He swung his knife, but Aramis flicked it aside, jumping back. Before taking that step forward and pointing sword point at his chest. He backed up a pace before he came at her with a double-tap, and then spun, aiming low. She blocked with her sword and slashed overhead with her gauche. He ducked the swing and she put a boot flat to his chest, throwing him back into the mud. He spat and came up swinging. She countered his move and they slowly circled each other. He came at her again, unrelenting. Using both blades, it seemed she parried and blocked him at every turn.

Head over heart. Athos' words repeated to him. And he took a breath at the brief pause in the attack. He would not let his heart overwhelm his actions. This wasn't life or death, but it felt like it. He refused to look over to Treville and gauge his expression, but he was going to take this seriously and focus what was in front of him. Head over heart.

He slashed overhead. Aramis blocked it with a crossing of her two blades. He stabbed with his knife, and in a bold move, she raised her leg and kicked it from his hand, leaving him unbalanced. She threw his blade aside and slashed at him with her sword. He jumped back to avoid it, and turned, tucking his shoulder in and going into a somersault. He cam back up on his feet again, facing the woman and once again brandishing two blades, having swiped up his lost gauche in his roll.

Aramis looked at him for his impressive move. She let him come at her again briefly, before they circled. And she smiled as she looked across their connected blades and saw his eyes dancing. He laughed as he caught Athos eyes briefly over the Spaniard's shoulder as the moved, and made a "Well..." gesture at her.

Despite his recent mood, his desperation and his anger, he was having fun striking swords with Aramis. He forgot about where his fee came from and what implications might lie behind them. And his confidence on this matter started to return. He could do this, he knew. He could make this happen.

Treville fingered his goatee as he watched the Gascon, slowly making up his mind on the matter. His eyes met across with Athos' and her eyes glowed.

Treville held off on announcing the man who would represent the King's Musketeers in the competition against the Cardinal's Red Guards. He had secreted himself to the Red Guards barracks and saw the Cardinal himself make an appearance—with a surprise guest.

Richelieu was up to his dirty tricks again. Treville shouldn't have expected more from the man, he just wasn't built that way. Commissioning Labarge into the Red Guards just to participate and facilitate a win in the competition was a despicable missive. But what had made him believe that the Cardinal would change his colours now?

He thoughts of allowing d'Artagnan as the champion vanished from his mind. He couldn't risk the outcome. He had facilitated this competition in the first place when he challenged the Cardinal boldly in front of the King. He couldn't let another deal with the aftermath. He alone must accept the consequence. He knew what he had to do. The lad, Inseparables and other men weren't going to like it, but he didn't see any other option in the matter.

Porthos found herself in the aftermaths of orgasm, laying sated in Alic's arms.

"All these places you've been... it makes me realize that I've never been more than five miles out of Paris." Alic murmured, his hand lightly trailing up and down her arm. "Isn't that a sad fact?"

"It's never too late." She said. "With your keen tongue... you should go."

He chuckled. "Are you trying to tell me something, Porthos?"

She grinned at him. "Jus' that you're a very talented man."

"You could come." He whispered. "Be my guide."

She sighed quietly and settled her head back on to broad chest. "The places I've been... I've never 'ad much time for sight-seein'—someone was always tryin' to kill me."

He chuckled lightly at her dry remark and shifted, laying her down and leaning up on his elbow, looking upon her. "Have you never thought what you'd do if you weren't a soldier?"

She nibbled her lip in thought as his fingertips brushed a line between her breasts. "Becomin' a Musketeer... was the best the best thing that ever 'appened to me. It saved my life, ironically enough." She turned her head and looked at him. "Until I met you, that is." And reached up to around the nape of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

He chuckled. "Flattery will afford you my keen tongue." He paused and looked at her gently, cupping her cheek. "Another life is possible." He whispered. "If you want it." And pressed his lips to the scar over her left eye.

d'Artagnan had hardly slept that night. In the morning, his future would be cast. He almost didn't want the sun to rise, to prevent a possible bad outcome. But the world didn't pause because of his own fears, and morning came at a faster pace than he had anticipated. And so, before he left for the garrison, he decided that he could use all the luck he could get, and searched his room for the forget-me-not necklace. But was bewildered when he couldn't find it. He was sure that he had put it in the drawer.

"Have you lost something?" Constance spoke up from the doorway, trepidation over their angry previous parting.

He turned to her. "Nothing important." She nodded and gave him a small smile. "I should go." She straightened at that, an unknown fear taking her. He seemed to have sensed it. "Treville's choosing his champion this morning."

"Of course," she breathed in relief and gave him a bright, confident smile, despite the rolling in her stomach. "Good luck."

He nodded, his hand briefly brushing her shoulder as he passed after her. She frowned as she heard the front door slam. This was a big day for d'Artagnan, whether the news was good or bad. She couldn't bear the thought that he might be upset with her, after the previous day. She didn't want for him to go into this with a clouded head.

And so she picked up her skirts, and ran after him. "d'Artagnan!" she chased the Gascon down the street. He stopped and turned to her, allowing her to catch up, breathless.

"Constance, what are you—"

"You were right." She interrupted him. "I was jealous of Milady."

His eyes flickered as the name clicked into place. Milady de Winter. That was the name to this mysterious woman. Constance had mentioned her before, but he didn't make the connection, because he hadn't rightly known her name. This was something, at least.

"Of course you had to take her money." She spoke unaware through his revelation. "It's just... well, she's... so beautiful... and glamorous and... wealthy. So it's left me to wonder what you could possibly see in me... when all there is, is me."

He shook his head. Milady might portray those appearances, but he had glimpsed her true character on occasion, had been a victim in it at one time or another. He took her hand. "You..." he was breathless. "You shine so brightly in my eyes, it puts all other woman in the shade."

Her cheeks turned rose as she was rocked by his passion, aimed straight at her. "Well..." she swallowed. "That's a good answer, that."

"It's the truth." He whispered, and gulped himself. "Look... I'm going to win this competition, alright. And I know everything else is going to work out for us. I don't want you to worry. Okay? I meant what I said."

Constance nodded and she reached up, pulling the Gascon in for a kiss, not caring that they were in the street and someone might recognize her as Bonacieux's wife. But she should have worried, because Bonacieux did see as he kept on the oblivious trail of d'Artagnan and fury filled his head.

d'Artangna kissed her cheek before he pulled back completely. "I'll see you later with news." She nodded, biting her lip and he headed back to the garrison.

d'Artagnan gathered with the other Musketeers as Treville addressed them, mounted on the stairs.

"Choosing a champion from such a fine group of soldiers is a near impossible task."

Athos clapped him on the shoulder confidently, and he raised his chin.

"For that reason, I have decided that the only person who can fairly represent you..." Treville took a deep breath and stood firm. "Is me."

There was a brief silence as they took the news, then mutters as the slowly broke up.

d'Artagnan was held frozen as everything crashed down around him. His chance at a future were whipped. He failed... he had failed.

Athos knew there was nothing more harsher than watching the purpose leave a man, to watch someone's dreams drain away in a moment. Anger took her as she looked after him with concern as he bolted from the garrison, and turned to watch Treville's own back as he went up into his office.

Bonacieux was waiting for her when she returned home, unaware of what he now knew. His anger had been building and was mounting into a viciousness that he didn't know until d'Artagnan had come into their lives. Constance was his wife, and he would not let another man have her!

"Was you're life so bad, Constance?" he murmured, his back to her as he gazed out the window, his hands clasped tight behind his back. "Was I ever cruel to you? Did I beat you?"

Constance paused and looked at his back, and suddenly, she knew that he knew. She didn't know how, but he did. "You were never cruel, and I wasn't unhappy." She answered him slowly. "At least... I didn't know I was."

He turned to her, his expression frozen. "Until d'Artagnan came here."

She couldn't quite look him in the eyes and he nodded to himself, as if that kiss wasn't proof enough. A kiss that she had initiated. He clenched his hands hard from her view, struggling to tamp down his temper, lest he strike her. "I order you to break with him immediately." He turned back to the window.

She didn't love Bonacieux, and if she did for any amount at any point in their lives together, it was never with the passion and conviction that she did d'Artagnan. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage inside his anger. "I'm sorry to cause you pain. But I won't give him up—I love him."

He whipped around at her proclamation, his face twisted in anger. "End your affair, or d'Artagnan will be dead within the week."

She let out a short laugh. "Don't be ridiculous! What are you talking about?" it was the most absurd thing she had ever heard the man say.

He seethed. "I have powerful friends now. That new client I told you of—is the Cardinal." And then she realized. The day before. The sudden money he had come into, the expensive bracelet he had gotten her, this new 'friend' of his. "And believe me, he hates your lover even more than I."

But Constance shook her head. "Why would he kill him just on your say-so?"

"Because of a plot I overheard d'Artagnan hatching." He waved his hand. "Some attempts on the Cardinal himself. Do you honestly think he'd stop and ask questions?"

"You're bluffing." She insisted.

"Give him up, or he dies. It's your choice." She stood stock-still as he approached. "Break his heart so thoroughly,"—his breath was harsh against her face as his nose pressed against hers—"That he will never look at you the same again, or at all. You will make him hate you, understand?" It was only until he saw the true fear and helplessness in her eyes that he left the room.

Her breath shuddered in her chest and tears flooded her eyes. This was not how it was supposed to go. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of her husband. It didn't matter that if push came to shove, with the defence that d'Artagnan had taught her, she could overpower the man—for this was a fear she had never felt before. Not when Marsac attack her, or Milady approached her, not even when she killed that man defending Aramis and Agnes' baby, Henry.

Treville had hardly sat behind his desk before Athos stormed into his office, furious.

"This is wrong." He made no answer and she continued. "d'Artagnan is ready. You saw him, how much he's approved. I know you were going to choose him. Why did you suddenly change your mind?"

He didn't answer her question and instead replied, "Not too long ago, you were in that same spot branding him unprepared and immature."

"And wasn't it you who said that he had to prove himself sometime?" She returned harshly in-kind. "So why not now? Hmm?"

"This challenge is my own doing." He said. "It's my responsibility to see it through."

"Instead of giving yourself one last moment of glory, " She slammed her fist on the desk, "You should be giving d'Artagnan the chance to win his commission from the King."

"You think this about glory?" he was surprised.

She straightened. "All I know is that d'Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer—perhaps the greatest of us all. But now?" she shook her head. "Now we'll never know, because you, have stolen his best chance to prove it." And she left with a sneer on her face, slamming the door.

Treville sighed and rubbed a hand over his face as he leaned back, haggard. He knew there would be backlash, but that didn't mean the infliction hurt any less.

Each step he took towards the Bonacieux residence was like a punch in the gut. d'Artagnan wished for anything else, but after everything they had together, Constance needed to know the truth.

When he entered the kitchen, he found her seated quiet at the other end of the table. He gripped the back of the chair closest to him in physical and emotional support. "I didn't get it, Treville took the fight himself."

"Well, then." She murmured quietly. She was pale and had tried to pinch some colour back into her cheeks. She swallowed and continued, even though every word from then on would tear her heart. "I suppose that puts an end your daydreams." She knew how trampled he must be, how broken. But if she didn't do this... better a broken heart than a dead one.

He looked over at her in confused startlement. "What do you mean?" He was still in shock himself, his dreams shattered. Each breath he took was a hard one, crackling through his still sore throat.

She stood and faced him. "We're fooling ourselves, d'Artagnan. There's no future for us together."

"Constance," he shook his head. "Why are you suddenly saying these things after—"

"I'm a married woman!" she snapped. "And this..." she waved her hand and huffed, "Silly flirtation has to end."

"Flirtation?" he gasped. "I love you."

She looked at him with disdain. "But I don't love you."

He balked at the cold retort and removal of affection. He didn't understand, he couldn't comprehend. He had believed, that even though he didn't get the chance for commission... but, maybe it wasn't that. "If this is about Milady de Winter—"

"You should go to her." She said, and continued harshly, "You'll be needing a rich mistress now. You've got nothing. No commission. No farm. No prospects left to you. Perhaps Milady will feel sympathy or pity... and look after you."

He shook his head, tears burning in his broken eyes. "I don't want her. I don't want her, I want you." He pleaded desperately, reaching out as he stepped closer.

She turned from him and to the fire, unable to look at him and not burst into tears. If he saw her face this close, he would know she had been crying, that something was truly wrong. Instead, it just looked like the cold-shoulder.

A sob tore at his abused throat and he choked on it. "Constance..." his voice was broken. "Look at me. Please!"

She felt her hatred for Bonacieux rise, and harshly, she used it as a way to lash out at d'Artagnan. She just wanted him to leave so she could break down and cry already! "I was tempted, I'll admit that. You are young and handsome. But I can't risk my future on someone who has none." He couldn't meet her eyes and sucked in a harsh breath. "I have far too much to lose, and you give me far too little to gain."

There was silence between them and all she could hear was his harsh breathing and she held her breath, forcing back the climbing sob up her throat.

This was a bitter truth that he knew that he was going to have to face at one point or another. Why would Constance want to love a man as him? He had nothing to offer as she had pointed out.

He chocked. "I'm sure you made the right decision. What use is it to love a failed man, compared to money? Thank you for helping me see things most clearly." And he fled, slamming the door harshly behind him.

Her breath shuddered savagely in her chest as she was coming apart, but it wasn't until Bonacieux stepped from the sewing room where he had been listening the entire time, offered her a satisfied nod and leave, did she break down.

A sob clawed harshly from her throat and she clapped her hands over her mouth as tears burned down her cheeks. Her knees gave and she collapsed to the floor. Not once in her fear, did it occur to her to tell him the truth. Of the threat Bonacieux presumed on him. Perhaps if she had, things might have been different. But if ever there was a monster, it was the likes of her.

The competition for the best was underway. The King had made a small arena in Louvre's backyard just for the occasion. A fenced-in dirt pen; on one end, the Musketeers' tent and its men lined up; the Red Guards' tent was set up on the other side. On the third, was the spectator bleachers. Across from them on the last side, were two constructed raised stalls for the King and the Cardinal.

There was a gap next to Athos that didn't belong. d'Artagnan was supposed to be filling it. She could understand why he might now want to attend, after all that he was going through. But if he ever did want to become a Musketeer, he was going to have to stop being childish and start acting the professional.

Unnoticed, Milady sat among the crowd. But Aramis recognized Alic from the church, even at this distance.

"You invited your widow?" she questioned Porthos next to her in surprise.

"'Is name is Alic." The tall woman's reply was clipped.

"You only needed 30 livre, not a husband." She scoffed.

"Did I say anythin' about marriage?" Her voice was hard. Aramis raised a brow. "No. I didn't."

"My God." She gasped, looking at her best friend. Porthos stared straight ahead. "I was only kidding, but you're actually considering it?"

Porthos finally looked at her and said softly. "There is a life beyond the Musketeers, you know."

Aramis wasn't much amused any longer. Porthos was considering leaving the Musketeers? The thought was just unfathomable to the Spaniard. This was Porthos, her life, everything she had fought so hard for. Not once had she heard the woman talk of leaving. Fear seized her heart and she clenched her hand to stop from grasping onto the woman and claiming her prisoner.

"You—"

"Well, one thing I've learned..." d'Artagnan muttered, stepping into place between Porthos and Athos. "Never put your trust in love." They all looked at him in surprise, for there was such a loathing and astringent cut to the usually curious and young tone. He let the bitterness mask the broken.

"I fear you would not come." Athos remarked, her gaze intense as she looked aside at him, standing rigid. She noted the curious bruise on his cheek and the scraped knuckles of his already bruise right hand where it clenched his belt.

"Where else would I have gone?" Was the barely audible whispered response.

"The Musketeers' champion, the former warrior, Captain Treville!" The announcer center-arena stopped any further comment as he brought the event to a start.

The truth was, d'Artagnan wasn't sure he would have made it. After his leave of the Bonacieux house, he'd just ran and kept on running. His broken heart blinded him as much as the tears in his eyes. Any thoughts of coming to the competition to watch Treville fight was not in the vicinity of his thoughts. He just wanted the pain to end.

When his father lay dead in his arms, and a hole was left in him that nothing could quite fill—he had screamed into the thunderstorm until his throat was hoarse, and then it was his anger that fuelled him and carried him the rest of the way to Paris. He would find his father's killer, and help him take leave of this world. Nothing else had mattered to him. There was no plan beyond that. If it killed him, then so be it, as long as the murderer died first. But then he had met the Inseparables...

Before he had even realized it, he was at the city limits. A few more steps and he would be outside of Paris. He could leave this wretched heartbreak behind him and go... go—he had no where to go. He had nothing. His childhood home, was burnt from the world. His heart was torn from his chest with gouging fingernails and put to heel. He had... nothing.

"'E's part of th' group now!"

"We'll make a Musketeer out of you yet, d'Artagnan."

"It takes a different kind of man to survive among those three," he said. "They're no angels, son."
"But they are, sir. These women are warrior angels, and they're beautiful."

.

"They're my friends, my sisters" —My Angels—

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

.

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

"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."

"And as soldiers, it is our business."

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

.

"You're young yet, feverent, to understand quiet yet. But someday, hopefully very far from now—this life will put calluses on your heart, Charlie."

"You're in this life now, Charlie."

"There's always a chance that something might go wrong, d'Artagnan. Nothing in this world is predictable. Nothing."

.

"Charlie here is as bright and capable as any woman."

"I knew there was a reason I liked you—"

.

"You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."

"You have natural talent—but you too often let your emotions run away with you. Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."

"I'm not like you."
"You are. More so than you know."

.

But that was wrong. Constance may have crushed him, but he had Athos and Aramis and Porthos. They were the family that he found after he lost his father. He wasn't alone, because he had them. And suddenly, it was like a weight lifted off his heart. He turned, taking the first deep breath he had in what felt like a long time—and ran straight into a pair of Red Guards.

d'Artagnan clapped along with the others as Treville strode determinedly from the tent and to the center of the arena.

"And representing the Red Guards, their champion..." the man gestured to the Guards tent. d'Artagnan caught sight of a beaten-looking Lavoie across the way. "Captain Labarge!"

There was scattered applause as Martin Labarge came out of the Red Guards' tent in uniform, shoving passed Lavoie, who stumbled into the man next to him. But the Musketeers didn't move.

"This is some sort of sick joke!" d'Artagnan hissed, fire burning his throat. He rubbed it in an angry manner.

"Be that as it may," Aramis agreed. "The Captain isn't surprised."

They all looked to their Captain to find the man cool as a cucumber as he warmed up.

"He knew." Porthos gasped.

Athos briefly met Treville's steady gaze before the man turned back to face Labarge and now she knew the reason for his change of heart. He had been intending to make d'Artagnan their champion, to give him the chance to make a commission that was much deserved. But somehow, he had found out of the Cardinal's dirty little trick of commissioning Labarge into the Red Guards. It wasn't for the spotlight of glory, but in an act of protecting one of his men.

"The shooting and wrestling rounds have been waived!" The announcer called. "The contest will be settled in favour of the superior swordsman." He bowed to the King and stepped from between Treville and Labarge.

Athos glanced beside her at d'Artagnan, who had his gaze trained on the man who had taken his farm from him. He was tight-lipped, and she could see the gears turning in his head, the emotion filtering through his brown eyes.

Labarge struck first, without warning or respectful salute, but Treville parried the attack expertly. Labarge's strikes were hard and fast. There was a force behind it that made Treville stumble back. But the Captain recovered and struck back. There blades locked briefly and Labarge took the opportunity to head butt the man harshly. Blood dribbled from Treville's nose and Labarge struck in the dazed moment. The Musketeers tensed, but their Captain managed to get his sword up in time.

"Come on!" Treville screamed at the large man, slashing at him overhead.

Their blades moved fast together in a flurry of strikes, and upon their parting, Labarge threw his dagger at the man without much success. Next the two men met, Treville drew blood.

Labarge met the Cardinal's eyes and gave the big man a subtle nod. Kill the Musketeers' champion and you go free. He narrowed his eyes, and with a cry, he went after the Captain.

The attack was brutal. Labarge beat the man down, and though Treville fought back onto his feet, it was only to be thrown back against the rail. Labarge punched him twice before Treville was able to return the gesture. Labarge slashed at him, and he ducked, before managing to knock the man's sword from hand. Labarge grabbed him, and with a shout, picked him up bodily and threw him to the ground. Managing to keep his sword in-hand, Treville started to climb to his feet.

Labarge bent and retrieved his own sword. He liked to beat things, it was much more satisfying to him than a clean death with the sword. And so he turned his sword around, gasping the blade instead, and beat Treville to the ground with the hilt, before he could even get up. Treville rolled and attempted to get to his feet again, but Labarge kicked his sword from hand and put a boot to his chest.

Treville groaned from where he lay on his back, and looked up to find Labarge over him. His eyes had only time to widen before the scream was ripped from his throat. Labarge brought his foot down brutally into Treville's shoulder. The snap was audible. The crowd gasped in shock, the Musketeers protested.

"He'll kill him." And d'Artagnan moved on his own accord, unsheathing his sword. He was already nearly to Treville before the Inseparables threw aside their blue capes and were also on the move. "Labarge!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Treville managed to demand in a gasp of pain as he clutched his shoulder, still on the ground.

"Saving your life." He answered, eyes only for Labarge.

The Red Guards didn't much like Labarge, but he was winning and that was all they cared about. So when the Musketeer scum invaded the field, their metal met upon the middle in clash.

"Stop!" the King stood and called. Almost instantly the fighting stop and they all turned to Louis. Athos pulled Treville to his feet. "Your man broke the rules, Cardinal. Captain Treville may nominate another champion is he so wishes."

There was an expectant silence as they waited. Treville looked at Athos, who nodded firmly. Treville gave his own nod and straightened despite the pain radiating from his shoulder and turned to the King. "I nominate d'Artagnan to take my place."

There was murmuring amongst the other Musketeers as they flowed back towards the tent, but with an ultimate acceptance. d'Artagnan was in shock, he hadn't been expecting this at all. Treville nodded to him, before heading back towards the tent.

"Your shoulder," Aramis started towards him.

But Treville moved from her reach. "It can wait."

Porthos clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder before following the others.

"Head over heart." Athos murmured in passing. d'Artagnan nodded and released a big breath as he turned to face the man he hated, the field cleared.

Labarge laughed as he realised who it was that his next opponent was. "My little friend from the Bastille?" he grinned. "You look even more pathetic in the daylight. I'm going to enjoy this."

"Somehow," he said bitterly, "I doubt it."

d'Artagnan came at him quick, Labarge parried. There blades locked, Labarge checked the smaller man aside and to the ground. Labarge slashed at him, but d'Artagnan rolled from harms-way. He kicked and slashed at the man's legs, knowing he must have made a mark at the man cursed and jumped backwards. d'Artagnan took the pause to jump back onto his feet. Though he drew blood, he wasn't going to get cocky—he was going to kill.

They circled.

"Is that the best you got?" Labarge laughed.

d'Artagnan's expression twisted in anger, but he made no response and waited for Labarge to come at him. There blades locked and Labarge grabbed his sword hand. d'Artagnan grimaced at the already injured limb. He could feel the bones grinding as Labarge attempted to crush his hand. d'Artagnan struggled to get out of it, as Labarge held him close, towering over him, crowding him.

The Inseparable's held their breaths, their heart pounding collectively in their chest as they watched their brother struggle.

d'Artagnan rose his knee. His aim and power were a little off at the close proximity, and he struck the man's thigh instead. The man cursed and the Gascon seized the falter to break the hold and slashed at the man. Labarge arched back and slashed back in a fast strike.

d'Artagnan twisted. There was cries from the Musketeers, but he straightened, breathing hard, adrenaline replacing his blood. They let out a breath, believing him unscathed.

"I wish I could remember burning down your farm! It would make killing you a lot sweeter!"

d'Artagnan lunged at him with a growl, double-tapping him. Labarge pressed back against him hard, and booted him in the stomach. The air left the Gascon, and he stumbled backward, his lungs burning, but he managed to stay his feet. Labarge stabbed, and d'Artagnan moved minimally to avoid the deathly blow, making the man come in close. He grabbed Labarge's sword hand and in a flow of moves, twirled around the man and stabbed him through his front. The King gasped, impressed at the display.

The blade slid in deep and smooth, and their position held. Labarge choked in his ear.

"That's for the people of Gascony." He hissed harshly in the brute's ear. And then jerked his blade free. A groan left Labarge as he dropped back to the ground like a sack of heavy stones and d'Artagnan looked down at him with satisfaction. The Inseparables converged on him, giving congratulations.

"Bravo, d'Artagnan!" the King called. "I herby declare the Musketeer regiment the winners." The crowd applauded. He said aside to the Cardinal, "Ah, yes, now, the prize money is forfeit to the Treasurer. After all, the rules were broken." The pair climbed down the stairs and approached the Musketeers.

d'Artagnan bowed along with the others, starting to feel the stitch in his side. He ignored it as he straightened again.

The King addressed him. "You defended your Captain with great heroism toady. I admire loyalty more than any other virtue. Please kneel."

d'Artagnan looked at him in confusion. "Get on your knees before he changes his mind." Athos muttered to him and he obeyed.

At the King's gesture, his attendant gave him royal sword, and another passed along a pauldron beyond d'Artagnan's view, to a grinning Aramis, who passed it on to Athos.

"I herby commission you," Louis tapped d'Artagnan on both shoulders with the flat of the his sword, "Into my regiment of Musketeers." d'Artagnan let out a breathless and unexpected laugh at this and was startled as Athos bent next to him and started to strap the Musketeer pauldron with the Fleur-de-lis onto his shoulder. "May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today." They bowed again as the King left them. The Cardinal made his own leave with a bitter expression and more resentful than when he arrived, and Milady with a conflicted one.

d'Artagnan grinned as he turned to the others and hugged his Angels in jubilation. They returned it to him in-kind.

"Well done, d'Artagnan." Treville said and the Gascon turned to the Captain. "I'm proud to have you under my command." He held out his right hand, and d'Artagnan shook his hand firmly.

"As I am to be under it, sir."

"Alright." Aramis clapped her hands and drew their attention. "In the tent with the pair of you. That shoulder needs to be bound, Captain. And Charlie... I see you." She gave the Gascon a pointed and challenging look.

"I'm fine." He protested the automatic retort. But he wasn't fine, not on so many levels.

He allowed himself to be ushered into the Musketeer tent with Treville, but the Captain's injury took precedence and he was fine with that. The King was generous enough to send the palace's physician Lemay and Aramis welcomed the man's assistance in binding what turned out to be a broken collarbone.

d'Artagnan could feel Athos' piercing gaze like a hot torch held close to the skin. He kept his gaze down and stayed silent. He knew that she wanted answers, but knew that for the moment, he didn't want to speak them. Like, exactly how he had gotten those fresh bruises before his fight with Labarge.

He startled at Aramis' gentle hand on his shoulder. "Charlie." He hissed and she narrowed her eyes. "What have you done to yourself?"

"This and that." He retorted and she raised a pointed brow. He looked sheepish in turn. "Sorry. It's... it's been a long couple days, Aramis."

She nodded her allowance from where she knelt in front of him, noting the bruise on his cheek that she didn't recall him receiving in the duel. But her main concern with the discovered tear in his doublet across his ribs that she only noticed until now. "Off with the doublet."

He made to protest. He had just gotten his pauldron, he didn't want to take it off. He felt as if it was the only thing holding him together now. Athos took a single and pointed step forward. If he didn't, she would assist him.

Reluctantly, he did. And he felt naked in a different kind of way. Exposed and vulnerable. He wanted to hide from their sight. He was sure they could see all his secrets, knew what a broken man looked like, held together with but a single stitch afforded to him—his pauldron.

"Need me to do anythin'?" Porthos asked, eager to speak with Alic before the man departed. Aramis' droll stare was all the answer she needed and the tall woman left the tent.

Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan and inspected his left-side straight-off. She remembered the slash, their cries, he'd done a lithe twist and they had breathed in relief. The relief stayed as she traced with her finger over the raised welt.

His skin twitched at her touch. "Well," she remarked. "You're one lucky son of a bitch if I ever knew one." It appeared that Labarge's blade had sliced through both doublet and shirtsleeves, and grazed his ribs so minimally that it didn't even break the skin.

"Yes, lucky." He said bitterly.

She furrowed her brows at the remark, but her attention was turned elsewhere at the molten bruising on his torso. She remember Labarge kicking him in the stomach, but the bruising she was seeing, didn't fit with that. "And what happened here?" He gave her a stubborn look, and grunted as she prodded his ribs to check for any breaks. There were none. "Speak," she said, "Or I'll sick my assistant on you." She threw a thumb behind her at Athos.

d'Artagnan gaze flickered to the blue-eyed woman briefly before looking away. "I might have gotten into a fight before I got here." He mumbled.

"Hmm? A fight?" Aramis repeated in that tone. "With whom if I might ask?"

He felt like a child. Instead of answering, he tugged his shirtsleeves back over head, but before he could grab his doublet Aramis stole it for herself and stood next to Athos.

"I'm not a child—I'm a Musketeer—give me my jacket." He growled, standing him up.

"If this is what you act like as a Musketeer," Athos said harshly, "Than more's the pity to Paris."

d'Artagnan stopped and looked at her. Hurt and grief and anger burned through his eyes. "I was leaving! Alright?" he shouted at them. They pair looked at him in stunned silence. "I—" he crossed his arms over his chest, but it seemed more like a grasp. "Constance, she—" he stopped himself. Their affair was a secret one, one that the Inseparables didn't even know about. And now that there was nothing left of it, what would be the point of its revelation?

But the truth was, they did know. How could they not?

"I'm sorry, Charlie." Aramis murmured in sympathy. A broken heart was a harsh pain. She handed to Gascon his doublet.

His grip clenched around the material. He took a deep breath and told them of the brief encounter with the two Red Guards who recognized him from the brawl in the street with Labarge and the other Red Guards, when he decided to turn back.

Athos' grip on her sword hilt tightened. "What made you decide to stay?"

"You, Aramis, Porthos... and the Musketeers." d'Artagnan whispered, pulling his doublet back on. "Even if there was no commission. This is all I need." There was a desperation in his eyes. "This is all I have." He took a deep breath. "I have to go back to Bonacieux's and get my things."

"Do you want—?" Athos started to offer, but he shook his head.

"No. No, this—it's something I need to do on my own." He admitted.

They nodded and let him pass them by to leave.

"We could have lost him." Aramis whispered, aghast. "And we didn't even know it."

"But we didn't." Athos replied firmly. "And we won't." Not if she had anything to say about it.

Aramis nodded, and then her eyes widened. "Porthos!" and she went in search of her best-friend, afraid of what news the tall woman might be bearing.

"I'm curious... which side is it that you are on?" the Cardinal remarked.

"Yours, of course." She laughed.

"Really." He nodded. "So, why did you provide the fund for d'Artagnan's involvement? Why so invested in this young man?"

"Have you been spying on me?" she demanded.

He rolled his eyes. "I need to know who my friends are, Milady. Did you think that I wouldn't be curious of your obsession with the Musketeer Athos? Were you hoping that I would never find out that you were the lover of the Comtesse de la Fère?"

Milady gritted her teeth and glared. "If you wish to see the Musketeers destroyed, d'Artagnan is the key." She raised her chin, rage concealed in her green eyes. "I'm planning to bring him over to our side."

The Cardinal laughed at the absurdity. "Honestly? Do you think after getting his commission now, he'll be turned? If he didn't before, he won't now."

"You underestimate the powers of seduction."

"For your sake, Milady, I hope you're as persuasive as you believe."

Porthos walked hand-in-hand with Alic at Louvre, not far from the ring where people were still departing. She couldn't ever remember holding hands with a lover. In fact, she hadn't accumulated many herself since she became a Musketeer. The fact that she dressed as a man, wielded a sword with skill and could use her fists with such brutality if forced. Her scars, and sometimes loud and dirty remarks—it took a certain kind of man to like that, for which there weren't many.

But she was also a woman. She had needs and feelings like any other—even if she'd killed men, been stabbed and shot. She'd been through so many hardships since just a child and felt it hard to allow herself to put the thorns away and let someone in. Especially this way, that left her more than just vulnerable and exposed.

"This is your life, isn't it?" Alic said.

Porthos pulled the man to a stop, but still held his hand. "I don't enjoy killin', Alic. But I do what I have to."

"I know, I understand that." He nodded. "But..."

"I've never seen you at a loss for words." She rumbled.

He chuckled. "Well, I've never met a woman like you." She smiled sadly at that. He narrowed his eyes and cupped her cheek, drawing her gaze back to his. "A talented, practical, beautiful woman who can take care of herself, with a boundless laugh, sense of honour and family.

She chuckled nervously, her cheeks on fire. "That's... well, then."

"Yes." He smiled. "I decided that I wanted to travel," he told her, "See the world."

"I could never give up soldierin'."

"I know. And I would never ask you to." His thumb brushed the tail of her scar. "I know what it mean's to you."

"I wish it could be different." She grasped his hand on her cheek.

"So do I." He leaned forward and kissed her. "I'm glad I met you, Porthos." And he walked away.

Aramis felt both relief and sadness as she spotted Porthos standing forlornly as she watched Alic depart. She loved Porthos, her sister and best-friend. The woman deserved to be happy, and if that meant marrying Alic, then so be it.

"So... will you marry the handsome widow?" Porthos gave her a look and Aramis grimaced. "Alic." She corrected.

She gave the Spaniard a sad smile. "'O would look after you if I did, eh?"

"That's true." She consented.

They both chuckled lightly. Aramis wrapped her arm around the tall woman's shoulder and started to lead them away, happy that the woman was slowly coming back to herself.

"'Ow's our newest Inseparable?" Porthos asked.

"Never to escape." Aramis said firmly, seriously.

Porthos raised a curious brow at her friend's wording. "Are we so unlikable that we 'ave to 'old 'im prisoner?" she mused.

"No." She grinned, "We're that lovable."

Porthos chuckled. "I knew it 'ad to be somethin'."

d'Artagnan strode determinedly into the Bonacieux house and went straight to his room. Even though he had the entire walk their to prepare himself, he didn't think he was ready to run into Constance. So it was a relief when she didn't seem to be there. He packed his things without trouble, what little he had—it was sad, but true, a bitter truth.

And stopped short as he came back and Constance was in the kitchen. She turned around to look at him and was as surprised as he was.

Her face began to crumble, not expecting to see him, but she swallowed and tried to hold herself together. Finally, her gaze was drawn to the pauldron on his right shoulder and she choked back the sob.

"Surprised, aren't you?" he was shocked at the own bitterness in his voice. "That a nothing like me, could make Musketeer?"

"You're wrong." She shook her head. "I'm happy for you."

He made no response, what exactly could he say? Was she lying, even now?

She cleared her throat and her gaze was drawn to the bag clenched in his hand. "I... I suppose you'll be living at the garrison now?"

He scoffed. "That my home now." He started for the door. "I hope you enjoy your respectable life, Madame." He said harshly, and then he was gone.

Constance couldn't stop herself. With tears in her eyes, she went to the window and watched him. He hated her. She broke his heart and he hated her rightly.

d'Artagnan felt like he wanted to be sick. His breathing harsh, he forced himself to keep going, to not stop, to not turn back and look and see if she was at the window. Until a carriage halted in front of him, blocking him into the small courtyard.

An encounter with Milady was the last thing he wanted, but it appeared as if he didn't have much say in the matter. His emotional reaction to her was different. He schooled his expression to indifferent.

"Well, if it isn't Milady de Winter." He said.

She smiled, pleased. "So you found my name."

"Yes." He replied. "Thanks for the patronage."

She nodded at his pauldron. "I knew I spotted a great talent." She paused as she looked at him. "Shouldn't you be happy? Why look as though a kicked puppy?"

"I am not a puppy!" he bristled.

She smiled and her eyes racked him seductively. "That, you are not. Why so glum, d'Artagnan? Did the Madame of the house break your heart?"

"What do you know of heartbreak?" he scoffed.

Milady reached up and pulled down the laced chocker around her neck, revealing the scars left behind by her attempted hanging—this was the second time he had seen them, the first, when they slept together his first night in Paris. "I know everything." He said nothing and she dropped her hand. "Everyone has a past that shapes their future, whether they are fully aware or not. Just as someone else's past can come and take away your future."

"Haven't you ever heard of making your own destiny?"

"That's entirely what I'm doing." She gave him a secret smile that caused him to narrow his gaze. She opened the carriage door. "Can I offer you a lift?"

Constance turned from the window, her hands clamped over her mouth as she sobbed. She had driven the man she loved into that hateful woman's arms.

But d'Artagnan's thoughts were not the same. He watched her for a long moment. Though she played it well, he knew enough of her not to be drawn in. He closed the door. "Another time, perhaps." And he walked away. Maybe, if he didn't feel so broken, he would have taken her up on the offer. If Constance had never been in the picture, but Luck had her hands on him in that moment.

Milady's expression twisted in fury and she barked for the driven to get on. Damn the Cardinal. Damn Athos. And damn d'Artagnan! She would have her revenge when all was said and done. Soon, she thought. Soon.

He released a deep breath as he made his way back to the garrison. He didn't need Constance, and he didn't want Milady. He had what he needed. Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He was a Musketeer now. The only path for him now was forward.

"Welcome home," he whispered, looking around the room. There was nothing grand or fantastical about it. It was just a simple room with simple furniture. But it was his now, from whoever had occupied it before him. He dropped his bag on the floor by the door, and dust particles danced in the air. The bed creaked as he sat on it. The mattress wasn't the worst in the world. He stared up at the ceiling. "Home, sweet home."

"What do you think you're doing?" Porthos all but kicked the door in.

d'Artagnan sat up in surprise at the three women standing in his door. "What—?"

"You just got commissioned into the Musketeers, pup. Time to celebrate!" She grinned. "There'll be enough time to sleep later."

"Porthos—" he shook his head. "I appreciate it, but I'm not really—"

"You only become a Musketeer once, d'Artagnan." Athos spoke. But the Gascon still didn't move. "Alright, ladies," she addressed her two sisters. "Pick him up."

"Wait! What?" his eyes widened as Porthos and Aramis started towards him. "No no no no!" he waved his arms, trying to ward the pair off. But they were insistent. He tried to roll to the other side of the bed, and put it between them, but Porthos grabbed his ankle and pulled him back. "Come on!" he cried.

And the next thing he knew, he was in their arms, if not more awkwardly than not. "Alright! Alright!" he pleaded for mercy, his voice muffled. "Just let me from this dark, dark place!"

Aramis laughed so hard, she lost her hold on the young man, dropping him. Porthos, still holding him, fell to the floor under him at the sudden imbalance of weight. d'Artagnan extracted his face from under the woman's arm, gasping dramatically.

Porthos glowered. "It ain't that bad—I bathed last week."

Aramis stumbled back to sit on the bed before her knees gave out and more peels of laughter filled the room. d'Artagnan grinned and burst out laughing. Porthos could feel the genuine shakes that took his body and she shared a grin with Athos leaning in amusement on the doorjamb, before her own bellowing laughter shook the place.

"You're an Inseparable now, d'Artagnan." Athos murmured through the laughter. "Better get used to it."

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

a/n:
Quotes
Pursuit 1:

[Porthos] "'E's part of th' group now!"

[Athos] "We'll make a Musketeer out of you yet, d'Artagnan."

[Treville] "It takes a different kind of man to survive among those three," he said. "They're no angels, son."

[d'Artagnan] "But they are, sir." He contradicted the man, looking over the railing at the gathered women. "These women are warrior angels, and they're beautiful."

Pursuit 4:

[d'Artagnan] "They're my friends, my sisters" —My Angels—

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

Pursuit 5:

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

[Aramis] "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."

[Aramis] "And as soldiers, it is our business."

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

Pursuit 6:

[Aramis] "You're young yet, feverent, to understand quiet yet. But someday, hopefully very far from now—this life will put calluses on your heart, Charlie."

[Aramis] "You're in this life now, Charlie."

[Athos] "There's always a chance that something might go wrong, d'Artagnan. Nothing in this world is predictable. Nothing."

Pursuit 7:

[Aramis] "Charlie here is as bright and capable as any woman."

[Porthos] "I knew there was a reason I liked you—immune to what Aramis thinks is 'er charm."

Pursuit 8:

[Athos] "You fought for this chance. Now fight to prove you're ready."

[Athos] "You have natural talent—but you too often let your emotions run away with you. Talent won't keep you alive if your heart rules your head."

[d'Artagnan] "I'm not like you."
[Athos] "You are. More so than you know."

y