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Homecoming

Porthos fought the urge to Fade. It wouldn't help, here, when he was the centre of attention. If he'd had any warning that the guards were coming – well. Wishes never filled an empty belly.

Captain Treville did his best. The others weren't permitted to testify, but they stood as close to him as they could get, watching him all the time. Porthos half wished they weren't there. This was hard enough to bear as it was.

The sentence was completely out of order. Porthos distantly registered d'Artagnan's attempted leap to his side, and he was glad the other two pulled him back. Good heart, that lad, but not much brain.

He didn't see much of the fight, trussed up as he was, and the blow to the head knocked him unconscious briefly. He was vaguely aware of being dragged through corridors, of scents and sounds and feelings that he knew, but he couldn't pin down the memory until the sack was unceremoniously pulled from his head and he saw Charon standing in front of him.

Charon, who had once been his brother. As close as Athos and Aramis were now; closer, in some ways. Charon held parts of his past he'd never given to the Musketeers. And then, while he was still reeling from that, Flea. Flea, who'd been his sister, and his lover, and his other half; three parts of a whole, the best thieves in the Court, untouchable, uncatchable.

Until he'd walked away and left them behind.

He didn't want to leave Paris. He wanted to believe the Musketeers would save him, make this right. But Flea was right; he couldn't justify putting the Court at risk, and that was what he was doing just by staying there.

He'd leave. But not for long. He hadn't told Charon that, didn't want the inevitable argument that would ensue. But if the Musketeers wouldn't clear him, and the Court couldn't, he'd have to do it himself.

The dead man's belongings made a pitiful pile on Poupart's table. Aramis watched as d'Artagnan trailed a finger over them, hovering over a key before settling on what he vaguely recognised as a Nuremberg Egg. d'Artagnan sucked in a breath; Aramis moved to steady him and then hesitated, uncertain. "d'Artagnan?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan murmured, swallowing hard.

"Are you certain?"

"Mmm."

"Problem?" Poupart asked, coming back towards them.

"Ah, he's just a little unsteady. First time, you know." Aramis smiled brightly. "He's fine."

Poupart eyed them indifferently. "If he's ill, take him outside."

d'Artagnan nodded quickly, taking a step and stumbling against the little table. Aramis clearly saw the flinch when his fingers closed over the key, but he didn't comment, ushering him out without touching him.

"Are you all right?" he asked as soon as they were outside.

"Yes, I'm fine," d'Artagnan repeated. "Honestly. Sometimes it's harder to handle than other times. That's all." He slipped the key and the Egg into an inside pocket.

Aramis watched him, mind racing. d'Artagnan had refused to discuss his Ability, or Aramis' Ability, or listen to any of Aramis' assurances that he was safe. He still didn't know about the Musketeers; he just wouldn't listen. "You can read objects as well as people," he murmured.

d'Artagnan eyed him. "Yes. Why do you think I wear gloves so often?"

"This is Paris, everyone wears gloves." Aramis shook his head. "Does it help? The gloves?"

"Sometimes."

"Extraordinary."

"It's all just part of the same thing, Aramis." He started walking away. "People or objects, it doesn't matter."

"No," Aramis said firmly, catching up with him in a handful of strides. "No, I have known a handful of empaths, and almost all could read people or objects. Not both. You, my friend, are something special."

"Almost all?"

"Ah." Aramis winced. "Yes. There was one woman I knew of, who could read both people and objects."

"And?" d'Artagnan prompted.

"She, ah…went mad and jumped into the river. But there's no proof that it was related to her Ability. It's quite likely she simply went mad."

d'Artagnan stopped walking, staring at him. "I'm so glad I can talk to you about these things, Aramis."

"You can, you know," Aramis told him. "If you'd only let me –"

"No." d'Artagnan fished out the Egg. "He wasn't wearing this when he died, he had it in a pocket, so I can't tell you anything about his death. But someone in his life did something – everything he knew to be true and right was turned upside down. Very soon before he died."

"Someone," Aramis repeated. "Who?"

"Someone close. A parent, or a sibling. A lover, maybe."

"Well, then, perhaps we should look into the de Mauvosin family. What about the key?"

d'Artagnan shook his head. "It's something important. He was afraid to let it go. But I don't know what." He touched his pocket, eyes distant. "It scared him, whatever it was."

"I can carry it," Aramis offered. "If it's hard for you."

"No. It's fine, thank you."

Aramis nodded slowly. "d'Artagnan, let me…"

"We don't talk about this," d'Artagnan said again. "You promised me."

"I promised not to tell anyone, and I have and will keep that promise. But if you'd let me explain, the Musketeers –"

"Aramis."

Aramis nodded sadly. He didn't have d'Artagnan's skill, but he knew fear when he saw it, and fear could drive a man to do foolish things. "Very well; that is my last word on it. If you will promise me that if you ever do wish to talk, or need help, you will come to me."

"Yes," d'Artagnan agreed quickly.

"Then you have my word." He caught d'Artagnan's eye. "I am trying to help you."

"I know you are. I'm quite good at handling this."

He turned and started off again. Aramis watched him for a moment before sighing and following.

Porthos knelt beside Flea, mind racing. She shouldn't have been hurt; the bullet should have passed right through her. Except that he'd been behind her, hadn't he…

"Go," Flea insisted, one hand pressed to the wound. "Stop him."

Porthos wavered, but he was still a Musketeer and his duty was clear. "I'm coming back," he told her. "Be alive."

"Get going or none of us will be alive!"

Charon was standing in the main chamber, staring at his throne. "Welcome to my empire of dust," he said without turning.

"You shot Flea."

"Flea shot herself, I was aiming at you."

"These people trust you!"

Charon turned, studying him. "These people are nothing, Porthos. You know that, you left them behind."

"I didn't want 'em dead!"

Charon charged him, weapon held high.

It wasn't even really a fight. Charon was a street fighter, one of the best, but Porthos knew all his moves and he had Musketeer training on top of that. They exchanged a few blows before Porthos put him down hard.

"I'm not like you," he said, directly into Charon's ear. "That's why I left. I'm a Musketeer."

Athos was shouting, outside the room. Porthos went out to meet them, already dismissing Charon, worried about Flea.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan shouted.

Porthos stepped aside and Aramis was suddenly there. Charon ran onto the sword, made no effort at all to stop himself.

Aramis jerked backwards, eyes flying to Porthos as he caught Charon. "Porthos…"

"Go find Flea," Porthos said, voice thick. "You can help her."

Charon smiled dreamily as the others retreated. "I told you," he said. "I told you I was getting out."

"Charon," Porthos said softly. Charon smiled again, and then he was gone.

Porthos knelt there for a long moment before carefully laying Charon down and standing. Athos was waiting at the end of the corridor; Porthos went to join him, wiping blood from his hands. "We'll tell them that Charon was killed foiling the plot to destroy the Court."

"If that's what you wish," Athos agreed.

"It's not what I bloody wish. It's what they need. They can't – Charon was their King. He can't have betrayed them."

"I understand."

d'Artagnan was standing guard near where Porthos had left Flea; he straightened as they approached. "We took care of the gunpowder. Aramis is with your friend now. He says it was only a scratch, that she's fine."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, rubbing his face. He hadn't thought, when he'd sent them off together; he should have kept d'Artagnan with him, let Aramis work in peace. "Yeah, she's tough, old Flea. Athos, Charon said there was other gunpowder, spread around the Court. We should round it up; don't think Treville'd be too happy, we left it in the Court's hands."

"Can you arrange that?" Athos asked.

Porthos followed his gaze; several of Charon's heavies had appeared at the end of the corridor. "Buzz off," he snarled at them, and they vanished.

Turning, he called "Aramis?"

"You can come in," Aramis replied, and they went in to find Flea fixing her dress and Aramis looking satisfied. "Only a scratch," he said when Porthos looked at him. "It didn't even require stitching. She'll be up and about in no time."

Porthos nodded, turning to Flea. A couple of the heavies had followed them in; he ignored them completely. "Charon died helping us stop that plot," he told her, eyes locked on hers. "He saved the Court and all her people. I'm sorry, Flea, I'm so sorry."

Flea nodded, blinking away tears. "He was a good man."

"He was," Porthos agreed, and he meant every word. "Flea, my friends and I, we have to take the gunpowder. The Cardinal'll never let you keep it. You're Queen now; I need you to make it happen."

"Queen," Flea repeated, laughing softly. "Yes, I suppose I am." Looking over his shoulder, she added "Porthos has the freedom of the Court. Allow him and his friends to do as they will, provided they hurt no one."

Athos bowed his head. "My thanks. We will endeavour to be as quick as we can."

"I'd rather you were as safe as you can," she told him.

"We can do that."

Porthos glanced around as d'Artagnan left the room; one of the heavies went after him. "Where's he going?"

"To tell Treville what's happened, and to find a cart," Aramis said briskly. "I don't intend to carry six thousand pounds of gunpowder back to the garrison on my back. Madame, if you have any more problems, please send for me."

"I will," Flea promised, watching as they left. Porthos hesitated for a moment before shaking his head sadly and following them, leaving Flea standing alone in her kingdom.

d'Artagnan leaned forward on his saddle horn, watching as Porthos and Flea said their goodbyes. "She'll be a good Queen," he murmured.

"Do you think so?" Athos asked.

"She cares about the people here."

"Clearly," he agreed, discretely looking away as the goodbye reached a particular stage.

"She's just stolen his purse," Aramis pointed out.

"She is the Queen of Thieves," Athos said dryly.

d'Artagnan sat upright suddenly, blinking. "She just walked right through that post."

"Yes," Athos agreed mildly.

d'Artagnan shot him a look. "She has an Ability?" he hissed.

"It's not uncommon here in the Court," Aramis told him. "Many of the denizens flee here out of fear when they realise what they can do."

"Did you know about this?"

"Not specifically," Athos said.

"But you're not surprised."

"It only stands to reason that the Queen of the Court would have an Ability. You said she walked through the post? That must be a useful trick for a thief."

"Best thief in Paris with or without it," Porthos said as he reached them.

d'Artagnan flushed deeply. "Porthos, I'm sorry…"

" S'all right."

"It's not, I shouldn't have…"

"It's all right," Porthos repeated, and he meant it. d'Artagnan relaxed a little. Talking about Abilities was almost as taboo as having Abilities, but maybe here in the Court people didn't mind so much.

It must have been nice, living among people who didn't care if you had an Ability or not. d'Artagnan clicked his horse into movement still imagining it.

Well, maybe some day.

Treville leaned over the balcony, scanning the Musketeers practising below. "d'Artagnan!" d'Artagnan backed away from Athos, looking up. "Get cleaned up. We're going to the palace."

"The palace?" d'Artagnan repeated.

"I have a meeting with the king. Quickly, now."

He turned as though to go back into his office, pausing just inside the door where he couldn't be seen from below. He was fairly sure the Musketeers knew how well sound carried up here, but he kept taking advantage of it anyway.

"You won't have to do anything," Porthos said reassuringly. "He just needs someone to go look dangerous."

"So he picked me?"

"Someone must attend on Captain Treville," Athos told him. "Think of it as standing on parade. The king may ask your opinion; be honest and clear."

"Might he?" Aramis said, sounding surprised. "He never asks me."

"Nor me," Porthos agreed.

"Ah. Perhaps that's just me, then. In any case, you likely won't have to do anything but stand at attention while they talk. Watch Treville, he will signal you what he wants you to do. Now hurry and clean up, the captain won't like being kept waiting."

Treville slipped into his office, waited a few minutes, and then headed down to the yard. d'Artagnan was waiting, clean and tidy and holding the reins of two horses. Treville nodded to him, glancing at Athos. "Try not to destroy the garrison while I'm gone."

"I make no promises," Athos told him. Treville ignored it, swinging up onto his horse and heading out.

When they reached the palace he turned the horses over to a stable hand and gestured to d'Artagnan to follow him. "The first part of this meeting is between the King, the Cardinal and myself. For this part you will stay just behind me, you will not speak unless spoken to, if spoken to you will be polite and helpful no matter who has spoken. Yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it, d'Artagnan. I know Athos' opinion of the Cardinal. That is not something you want to pick up from him. The man is the First Minister of France, you will show him the respect due to him." At least he'd remembered not to say the respect he deserves; he'd made that mistake with Aramis.

"Yes, sir," d'Artagnan agreed.

"Good. The King and I also have matters to discuss privately, so when the Cardinal leaves, you will retreat to the door. You will make no effort to listen to us."

"Yes, sir."

Treville glanced at him. "Normally, I bring a full Musketeer with me, d'Artagnan. If the King notices you, it may help you gain your commission. The Cardinal will probably make fun of you. Do not rise to it."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Thank you." Treville thought he'd honestly absorbed everything he'd been told.

The Cardinal did attempt to have d'Artagnan dismissed – "If you can't scrounge up a real Musketeer to attend you, I'm sure I can find a Red Guard" – and Louis, as always, thought it was hilarious. d'Artagnan ignored the whole thing, since he was never directly addressed, standing at attention behind Treville with his gaze locked on the windows behind Louis.

Treville very carefully did not smile when Richelieu was dismissed; he knew how much the Cardinal hated the thought that Treville had the King's ear on any subject. d'Artagnan bowed politely as Richelieu swept past him, following him to the door to make sure it was closed and then sliding back into attention.

Treville dealt with the matters he needed to and then leaned in closer to the king. "My new recruit, your majesty."

"Yes, I wondered when you'd bring him up," Louis agreed, watching him steadily.

"We don't have any proof yet, but Athos and Aramis have both approached me."

"You haven't run him past your checker?"

"My checker can't pick him out of a crowd, and he's never alone at the garrison. I'll make it happen when we're more certain."

"I'm sure you'll learn all there is to learn. Who is he?"

Treville started to answer and then turned. "Introduce yourself to his majesty."

d'Artagnan bowed obediently. "d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, your majesty."

"Gascony! Your old stomping grounds, Treville!"

"Yes, sire," Treville agreed, deciding not to bring up the fact that he'd known Alexandre d'Artagnan, once upon a time.

Louis looked back at Treville. "Well, I'm certain you'll be able to make a fine Musketeer out of him."

"I'll certainly try, your majesty."

Louis dismissed them and Treville led d'Artagnan back to the stables, waving to one of the boys to find their horses. "That was well done, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan eyed him. "What is it I've done well, Captain?"

Treville smiled, stepping away to mount his horse. "Answer me that one, d'Artagnan, you'll be a step closer to becoming a Musketeer."

d'Artagnan's – undoubtedly sarcastic – answer was lost as he turned to mount his own horse, and Treville grinned to himself as they headed out.