Drowning, he had heard, was a painful but beautiful death. The lucky ones told stories about vibrant and present colors before the blackness came, like little angels battling to save a life. Though it eased some of his childhood fear of the water, it did nothing to comfort the icy grip of fear that seized his chest when he saw Athos pushed over the edge of the bridge.

Aramis thought he heard someone screaming, and realized that it wasn't himself when he saw D'Artagnan struggling with his captors on the bridge. Their position wasn't good. Any attempt for a rescue seemed too great a risk, even under the cover of night. There was too much open field between the tree line and the riverbank. Aramis sighed to himself with their decision already made, since there never was a choice in the matter.

He pulled out his gun and turned to Porthos who hadn't taken his eyes off the rippling water. "Go now," he said to Porthos. "We'll cover you."

The man needn't have been told twice, because when he moved he made Aramis question whether cover fire was truly needed. But once he gave the order for it nothing could be rethought or taken back. The first legion they fought back at camp was quick. The second on their way to the river was quicker. This third one was slower due to disorganization. And after their first round of shots Aramis realized why; D'Artagnan was right in the middle of it.

"Hold your fire," he shouted to his fellow musketeers. For if they didn't, there was a chance their friend would be hit, or worse, killed.

Their enemies took advantage of the pause and set off fire of their own, which drove most of them back for cover. When the shots seemed mostly spent Aramis swung his reloaded pistol out and saw his friend being taken away. Without thinking, he turned to look for Porthos in the river, not accepting that things were falling apart around him-that they were falling apart. And then it came. Searing hot with blinding white pain.

He cried out as he fell, because he'd been shot.

Athos and Porthos were good swimmers in their youth due to necessity. Escaping their mothers, their chores, and even each other meant crossing waters and using them for hiding. There was one instance when Porthos had proven he could hold his breath for close to five minutes. Athos had teased him and said that he cheated because he was normally so full of hot air. Now, he wished that it had been Athos who had bested him back then, for it would have given him more reassurance as he dove under the cold surface.

The break in the storm above aided him with a little moonlight and he spotted Athos easily in the darkness. He grabbed the knife Athos must have hid earlier and snapped the blade through the ropes at his hands and feet, sparing no time in hauling them both to the surface when he was done. When they broke the surface he heard nothing but shouts and gunfire. He heard his own gasp for breath, but not from Athos.

Once he reached the shore and lugged his cousin's dead weight to dry grass he looked down and froze. It was impossible. Athos hadn't been under that long. He was an experienced swimmer just like himself. There was no sense in this, in hauling out a dead body. He wasn't dead. Not Athos.

Porthos called to him.

He slapped him on the cheek.

He shook him.

He did everything he could think of.

And when that list ran out he shouted at the top of his lungs for Aramis. But when he looked up his friend was nowhere in sight. He growled and grabbed at his own hair in desperation, trying in vain to think of something he could possibly do.

But the rational part of his mind started to take over.

Athos was too pale. He wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.

Porthos didn't think. He acted, and in an angry panic. He struck, or rather, punched Athos in the stomach with a trembling hand, more so to vent his own fear and frustration than to do any further good. Although he'd been aiming for the chest he was instantly glad that he missed, because it instilled a sudden fit of retching, coughing, and gasping in his dear friend.

Porthos laughed in relief as he helped Athos turn over. "You God-damned fool. Think you can skip out on your card debt, eh?"

Athos moaned in reply once he was done and left coughing. Not too long after that Porthos was yanked down by his collar in a vice-like grip that belied the shaky but obvious exhaustion of a near-drowning. "Where's D'Artagnan," Athos rasped with wild eyes.

"Taken," Aramis said with a grunt of pain. When he trudged over Porthos and Athos turned to look at their comrade who was sporting a bloody shoulder. Aramis waved Porthos and his efforts off, tightening a makeshift bandage on his own. "I'm fine."

"Where," Athos breathed. "Where did they go?"

"Across the bridge. We killed the rest that stayed behind, but there aren't many of us left. Those men fight like bloodthirsty pigs!"

"Get me up," Athos groaned. "Now!-we-can't let them-"

"You nearly drowned, Athos. Let Porthos and I-"

Athos shrugged him off and sat up under his own power. "You don't understand! It was a ruse. All of this. They want to recruit him. Their aim is to either kill us or make him believe we are all dead and break him with the guilt and weight of our wronged souls."

"But how could they possibly…" Aramis trailed off, and Athos filled in what he couldn't.

"We heard gunfire before they pushed me in."

Porthos stared blankly into the distance. "D'Artagnan thinks…?"

Aramis rarely swore, and in the known instances in which he did it was always under breath so no one else could hear him. Now, however, was completely different. He shouted it, so loudly that it echoed across the field.

"Get me on my feet," Athos repeated. "Now! We must not lose them!"

Tears ran down his face, but it didn't matter because no one could see them. He wanted to scream and cry until his voice was gone. He wanted to return to that tree he hit earlier and hit it until every bone in his hand was broken, but no amount of physical pain might ever match this kind that was eating him from the inside out. It seeped into every crevice, every pore, and every inch of his entire body, paralyzing him from any thought of escape or further thought for his own well being.

Because what was the point? Aramis and Porthos were likely dead. Athoswas surely dead by now.

D'Artagnan had failed them. The worst of his nightmares over the past few days had become reality. And here he was, hands bound, a hood tied over his face (just like Athos) with his body slung over the shoulder of the man he was forced to call father. D'Artagnan wasn't one to admit defeat easily. He had never liked the feeling of it in the first place and normally railed against it any way he possibly could, scraping his way out by tooth and nail just to keep it at bay. But now it clung to him like a stubborn snake, squeezing the will to go on right out of him.

Had it been wrong to think so strongly of the friends whose lives he fell into not that long ago? They had taken him in, looked after him when he couldn't do so himself, and saved his hide and defended him as if they'd known him all his life. To them, he was more than an unknown farm boy from the country, and to him they were more than friends. They were the brothers he never had, the brothers he grew to love, the brothers who selflessly threw themselves into harms way for one another.

He could see them as clear as day in the blurry darkness of his hidden tears, as if they were somehow still with him. Porthos was making him laugh at every possible occasion and forcing good homely food and wine into him, Aramis was bringing him out of suddenly strong morose thoughts with a tap on the shoulder or flick on the ear and keeping him grounded with a knowing smile and a story, and Athos…

Athos was looking at him.

Cracking a rare smile during supper.

Talking to him.

Listening.

Teaching him how to properly deflect out of a spin.

Keeping him balanced.

Keeping him on his toes.

Glaring in disapproval.

Staying by his side in a fight.

Staying by his bedside when he was sick.

Whispering reassurances in his ear.

Berating him on taking care of himself.

Telling D'Artagnan to leave…

To abandon him and save himself.

Holding him close…

And not close enough.

Holding his hand…

And telling him not to let go.

D'Artagnan kept the sobs of an agonizing misery inside, and welcomed the festering anger that erupted from it, because anger would sustain him. Not this grief. Not this sadness. And not any amount of this painful regret.

So he did the only thing he could. He started kicking and thrashing about again, only this time with more fire and determination. If he was to die, then he would do it on his own terms, and take them down with him. His efforts were eventually rewarded when he was tossed to the ground in frustration. Though he hadn't expected the impact he quickly regained his bearings and kicked out against the person who tried to lay hands on him again. From the sound of a rough cry, it was his father he had managed to blindly kick in the face.

A second later someone else came from behind, yanked off his hood, and stuck a blade in his face to make him stop. If looks could kill, then D'Artagnan would have had much better odds than he did presently. "Don't know when to stop do you, boy," Degare laughed. "Not when you're outnumbered. Not when you're alone. My men could learn a lot from you."

"If they're stupid enough to follow half-witted disgraces like you," D'Artagnan spat. "Then they're already lost causes-"

D'Artagnan's father moved past his companion, hauled his son up by his shirt, and shoved him against a tree. Before he could think he'd been slapped across the face and his chin caught in a tight but slippery grip, from a mixture of tears, sweat, and blood. "I've had enough of your mouth, boy-"

"That's too bad because I'm not finished-"

D'Artagnan's head knocked against the tree and he knew he was pushing his father's limitations, but where he would have taken care before was no longer his current sentiment. "You're finished when I say-"

"Like hell I am," D'Artagnan shouted. "I am no boy you can strike without answer! Cut my bonds and fight me like the man you say you are if you want my tongue stilled, because there is nothing else that will stop me. Not even you."

"You want to fight me," Bertrand scoffed. "Have I taught you nothing of respect?"

"You taught me enough. But you've shown me far worse."

His father turned to their only witness, a man whose name D'Artagnan wished he could temporarily erase from his memory so he could better focus the multitude of his anger. Degare shrugged, nonchalant and nothing like the quick man barking orders for them to quicken their pace half a mile back. This man was no longer nervous about being pursued, only smug in the fact that the three of them were alone in a wide open pasture.

"Do what you must, Bertrand," Degare said, hiding a smirk. "Some boys have to learn the hard way."

His father turned back to him and almost looked disappointed.

When D'Artagnan's bonds were cut he was subsequently shoved forward to the ground and his sword landed with a thud next to him. He wasted no time getting to his feet because one second later he was forced to block his father's first attack. It was a grueling duel that only the elements could add to. When the storm clouds opened up again the rain came down in sheets, drenching both father and son further into their need for vindication from the other. The power of trading blows escalated, and soon D'Artagnan was fighting more for keeping a hold on his own sword than anything else. When he barely missed a swipe his father swung at his face a trickle of familiar fear crept up from the not so distant past.

It hadn't been that long ago that he feared his father's anger and been the victim of it. Back then D'Artagnan had nothing to drive him but that fear. Now, his hunger for vengeance proved a better fuel for his focus. He quickly learned to predict his father's strikes and when he would lash out with his legs he could almost hear Athos next to his own ear telling him what to do and where to step. D'Artagnan also used his smaller stature to his advantage, as Aramis had taught him, ducking and darting under blows when he could, making his opponent tire himself out to give him better opportunities to strike. And when those opportunities did come, he struck with all the strength he had to up his chances of overwhelming his enemy, like he often had to do with Porthos.

Suddenly, his father crouched down and rammed his elbow and shoulder into his mid-section. D'Artagnan answered it by swinging his knee up to crack the man under his chin. He stumbled but grabbed onto D'Artagnan's leg and swept him off his feet. He landed onto the ground hard despite the puddles of soft mud. He kicked out with his other foot and stunned his father with a kick to the back of the head, scrambling away and getting to his feet first. His father rose slowly but did not pursue. His eyes narrowed and D'Artagnan could feel the scrutiny without looking for confirmation. He did not cower and stared the man straight into his eyes, as if to say 'Come again if you dare. My answer will be no different.'

The older man circled his son with his glimmering sword aloft, swiping and deflecting away with small meets when his son struck back with equal backbone. D'Artagnan kept a straight face and mirrored his father's aloof manner, just for spite. And as he planned, he drew his father into attacking first. But by this point, his limbs were screaming for more air and slower exertion.

Then, his sword was struck aside like two boys fighting in the woods with sticks. D'Artagnan's head snapped to the side after his father hit him in the jaw with the hilt of his weapon. And then he cried out when he felt metal slice through his thigh. Somehow he stayed on his feet and swung low, forcing his father to avoid what would have been a vicious cut to his stomach. With one warm and bloody hand on his thigh, D'Artagnan watched as his father drew himself up to his full height again and glowered down at him.

For no reason whatsoever, under those eyes he felt like a child again, the child that feared the man disguised as his father. Perhaps it was the pain, and the memories of being in pain at the hands of his father that made him feel suddenly so small. Perhaps it was the realization that he was finally fighting back and receiving injuries despite it. Either way, he failed to hide the burst of fear that overtook him. His father shook his head in disappointment.

"You almost had me convinced," Bertrand said. "That you were no longer a boy."

"Was that all that ever mattered to you," D'Artagnan asked, hating the vulnerability that pushed forward and held the stability of his voice captive. "Seeing the day I could finally hold a sword and use it? When I was a child all you ever told me was 'wait,' or 'you're not old enough,' 'just one more year,' 'not until your mother says,' never 'not until I say' but 'when I think you're ready' and 'when I'm ready to let you go.' I remember a father who loved his son for who he didn't want him to be. Where is that man?"

"Dead," Bertrand said, without missing a beat.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't believe that. You believed in something once-you believed in me!"

"Is that all that sustains you? People in your life that fight for you and die for you? People change, Charles. Their allegiances and loyalties change! I learned from a very young age not to depend on anyone-and when I thought I was wrong-when I learned to trust, it cost me nearly everything. By now you should know the same!"

Bertrand lunged at his son again and D'Artagnan parried as best he could, dodging holes and puddles in the field as they went.

"All I know," D'Artagnan growled. "Is that you took away the only true friends I have ever known. And for what? Seizure of the crown? A rebellion? If you think I could ever join you after what you have done to me then you're mad!"

"He doesn't know," Degare called. "Does he, Bertrand?"

"Marcel," Bertrand called back. "Hold your tongue!"

Degare walked over to them, stopping by his father's side after giving D'Artagnan an assessing look-over. "He'll understand us better if you do."

"This is my fight. I trusted your lead before, and I have trusted you since then to let it stay mine."

"And what would you have me do when I see you falter," Degare whispered. "You tell him or I will."

His father turned his murderous gaze onto him, and D'Artagnan was surprised to see it soften, change into some wary but resolute determination. "You want to know why? You want the harsh truth of why I wanted you back? Why that sword and that uniform make my hate sing?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and reached into his reserves for the strength he needed to stay upright. "Yes. I. Do."

"In the old days becoming a musketeer wasn't just a matter of nobility, nor was it the amount of noble blood you had flowing in your veins. You were tested. For your loyalty. Your bravery. And your spirit…"

As D'Artagnan listened he watched the jaded dispassionate and angry person he'd known for so long change. It was as if he were on the other side of a dirty window, looking into a house he would only know from memory. The curtains and layers of grime peeled back, just as layers of emotion did on the face of his father. Then, like a flash of light, he realized what he was seeing.

Pain.

"It was all your grandfather ever wanted for me. I and my training were all that filled the house of my father and brothers. That passion that was instilled into me was how I met Jean-Armand, how we fought our way into the preliminary ranks of the musketeers, and how we stayed there, facing trial after trial to further success. One day, a rogue in a company of bandits broke my leg in the middle of a battle…"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes as a memory fought its way to the surface of his mind.

His father entered his room, limping quietly to the side of his bed. He sat on the edge, not knowing that his slumbering young son was awake. D'Artagnan didn't move an inch, not even when his father brushed his unruly hair aside.

"My dear Charles," he whispered. "One day you will be old enough to understand, and I hope that when that day comes you'll find a way to forgive me, for all I've done. It will surely be a miracle if you do, and it is one that I do not believe I will ever be worthy of, so I will not look for it…"

"Jean dragged me out of the scuffle and we hid for cover while the others tried to hold the front line. I told him to leave me, self-sacrificing fool that I was. He did not go easily or quietly, not until we heard the dying sounds of our captain and superiors yards away. I fainted some time after that. And I woke hours later. Alone. I'd been left for dead. They abandoned me. But I refused to go quietly into death's embrace."

He had heard the raised voices from his bedroom and went to see what was the matter. On the stairs he saw his father pointing a finger in his mother's face while he held her against the wall. "I am protecting this family from ruin," his father hissed. "I am ensuring that we live to see another season. Tell me what lengths you wouldn't go to building a future for our son?"

Something was wrong. His father never spoke to his mother like that before. And he had never seen his mother so upset, not since his grandparents died. Had someone else died?

"I crawled my way to a nearby farm, where a good man and his family took me in and helped me recover. Months later I returned to Paris and found Jean in a similar state of recovery, but the rest of the regiment were not as friendly, not the same brothers I fought beside. I was refused the return of my commission due to my leg. And no one but Jean spoke up in my defense. Jean gave me some hope, but that day I turned my back and vowed never to return."

They were arguing. His father was trying to drown him out but the stubborn streak in D'Artagnan made him only speak louder. Then his father slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. D'Artagnan stilled with words caught in his throat. Fearfully he looked up at his father who was seething in silent rage. His father closed his eyes and flexed his hands before abruptly rising and storming out the front door of the house.

The front door slammed shut as he left.

"Jean begged me to reconsider, to petition the king. But by then I'd already met your mother. My dream of being a musketeer, even if given some hope, was by then lost. That is why I wished the world for you."

D'Artagnan cried out as he fell to his knees, holding his bleeding nose in his hand. Once he got over the shock from the pain and amount of blood he looked up to his father, almost fearful that it would happen again. His father appeared guilty and regretful for the injury. But he didn't apologize and he didn't offer his hand or bother to check and see the extent of the bleeding.

"A man takes care of his own needs. And hurts," he added with a dark look.

D'Artagnan looked at his father, judging the entirety of the story to be truthful, but finding it hard to swallow. What was worse was seeing how much the pain of those days weighed on the man, how it made him older and more burdened than his real years.

"Among my men," Degare started. "Your father was valued for what his musketeers deemed a liability-"

"Enough, Marcel" Bertrand said, turning his back and walking to his son. D'Artagnan stiffened and raised his sword. It met nothing but air. His father stopped, well within striking distance. "Believe me when I tell you that that kind of pain…the pain of lost dreams and regret turns the best of men into shells of who they used to be. I was taught that honor is everything in this world. To have that stripped from you and be forced to move on without a backward glance is an damned insult and the worst kind of betrayal I never wanted you to know."

His grip on his sword tightened and he kept it between himself and his father. D'Artagnan spoke, but not as loudly as he wanted to. "You never hated me for my own dream?"

"You're my son," Bertrand snapped. D'Artagnan flinched and would have backed away had he not noticed his father look away in regret. And acceptance. "You…are everything I never was. Everything I never could be. It's not hate son. It's pride."

D'Artagnan lowered his sword to hide the shaking in his arm, but felt his face darken with memories of what consequences he had suffered because of that truth. "Pride and ridicule aren't the same thing. You struck me unjustly and tore me down because of it. You never spoke to me of this before, not even when I asked for your permission to leave for Paris. You let me go. You pushed me out and when I returned after achieving what I thought would have been impossible I come home to disappointment."

Something cracked in his father and D'Artagnan knew he was pushing for more pain, but part of him couldn't help it. Seeing his father hurt, seeing him vulnerable and finally open to feeling something other than anger and coldness made him…happy. It made the pain in his leg dull to an ache, it made his head clearer than it's ever been, and it gave him strength. "Tell me," D'Artagnan said in a shaky voice. "If I do nothing but cause you pain and agony at my failures as your son then why bother with me at all? Why care if I live or die?"

Bertrand paled in shock. "…You're talking nonsense, Charles-"

"I am speaking the truth-something you never cared to hear," he shouted, stepping forward and shoving his father away from him. "You never listened-it was always your thoughts over mine, your voice drowning mine into submission. You think you can give me the answers I craved as a boy and be satisfied knowing my forgiveness would surely follow? I hate you for everything you did to me, for everything you've done, and I hate you still!"

Seeing red wasn't an expression that D'Artagnan had much knowledge of, but in that moment he finally understood. He started raining powerful blows on his father, driving him back across the field that they had previously trod over in opposite footfalls. Bertrand gasped for breath in his attempts to keep up with his quick son, but was fading under the unnatural wrath that possessed D'Artagnan. Then he was falling backwards, disarmed and at the mercy of a sword near his throat. His hand flew up in mercy and, thankfully, his son stopped.

"What are you waiting for," Degare asked, sneaking up behind D'Artagnan. "After all he did to you, here is your chance. Give yourself justice. Avenge your friends. Until you do their murdered souls will aimlessly wander these empty lands and yours will bleed itself dry in want for your revenge."

"Charles," his father tried. But D'Artagnan brought his blade close enough to touch the skin.

He could feel the monster inside of him hungry for more pain, more vindication after all the torment he suffered. The power-high was like nothing D'Artagnan had ever felt before. It was completely overwhelming, sustaining, and comforting in that he was now the one with his father at his mercy. He would have heeded the words Degare was whispering at his back but for one thing. His father was crying. He wasn't pleading for his life. He wasn't crying for himself. But his father was crying. And repeating two words. Over and over.

"My son."

He was sitting in his father's lap in one of the earliest memories he had. He was small, perhaps only five, because when he reached for the dull blade of the sword his father was showing him his hands weren't quite big enough. It didn't shine like his father's did.

"This belonged to your grandfather, Charles. It was a gift from the King of France for his bravery. One day, I will pass this to you when you're ready."

D'Artagnan tilted his small head up and saw his father's, upside down, looking down on him. "Can I be ready now?"

Bertrand smiled. "Not yet, my son. Stay my little angel for a while longer?"

"But I'll always be that. I want to be better than anyone else in the entire world, just for you!"

"I believe you will," he chuckled. "Certainly better than anyone in the world considering you're my son. Perhaps one day you'll be a better man than me."

D'Artagnan pulled a face. "That's too hard!"

"Afraid of the challenge, little one?"

"No! But you're perfect. What's better than that?"

"You," he said, pressing a soft kiss to D'Artagnan's head.

His mind whirled with more images, trying in vain to string some coherent sense of his life together. He vaguely recognized that his face wasn't just wet from the cold of the rain, but with warm tears of his own, streaming down like a floodgate had been opened. The answer was right in front of his face, and it had been with him since that fateful night, not so long ago, when his secret agony had been discovered. It felt shameful to still want it, and the knowledge that it was only natural confused him still. He tried to take a deep breath and steady the torrent inside him but it wouldn't abate.

"Father," he moaned, defeated and dismayed. "I don't…I can't. Father, I can't be you. I cannot do it! God help me, but I can't!"

Something passed between father and son, something that broke through the thick wall that had been between them for years. It was something D'Artagnan could only later describe as an awakening, as if both of them had woken and realized who they still were; D'Artagnan the frightened young child desperately seeking guidance, acceptance, and recognition, and his father…the warm, loving, caring person he hadn't been in years.

Bertrand swallowed with more tears in his eyes. "Then don't," he whispered. "I couldn't stand it if you did. I've ruined enough of both our lives in my need for vengeance, for meaning and foolish pride. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but if there is any shred of love that a son can still have for this broken man, please heed my warning. Be nothing like me. Do not follow the path I mistook for righteousness!"

And there it was, tarnished by the years, but recognizable even in the darkest of memories. It's the one thing any child ever craves from a parent. It's the first thing he knows. The first thing he understands. And the last thing he remembers at the end of his life.

Love.

Naked and brilliant.

A glimmer of it in the darkness shining so bright that it hurt.

His sword fell from his boneless hand. And in the comfort of those familiar eyes, D'Artagnan's hatred fled, bringing him to his knees in some strange breathless place between awe and understanding.

"Kill him," Degare warned. "Kill him now!"

"No," D'Artagnan gasped, barely having the strength to shake his head, but keeping eye contact long enough to see his beaming father. "No."

"Like father like son," Degare hissed, drawing his own sword and preparing for a killing strike. "Weak."

D'Artagnan was tired. Exhausted even. His eyes fell closed of their own accord because the thought of defending himself after all this seemed impossible. Even if he reached for his sword there was no way he could bring it up in time to stop the inevitable. So he waited on hands and knees and listened for the swoop of the downward strike.