It had been a pink dawn, the sun itself was sore when it rose that morning he mused. His stiff back thanked him as he pulled his horse to a stop. The animal shook its head and scratched the ground with his hooves as if it remembered what it had witnessed in this clearing the previous night.
The cave beyond was silent and his eyes inadvertently sough the dark stain where the Shredder had bled out. Someone had taken away the body and Athos wondered if the Captain had had the presence of mind to order the transfer to the morgue. Last night he had seen the Captain shaken like never before in the short span of time he had known him.
A soft thump had him glancing back towards the young woman who had dismounted from her horse. Suddenly glad that the corpse had been taken away Athos too slid out of his saddle and led their horses to a nearby tree. As he looped the reins around the tree bark he studied the girl from under the tipped brim of his hat.
He had no idea what she sought to gain from revisiting this place but Athos hadn't had it in him to refuse when she had asked to accompany him. He had been too surprised to see her roam into the stables in the pale light of pre-dawn, bloodshot eyes searching for answers she did not voice.
"What happened here Athos?"
Until now that is.
"How did I even get here?" Constance wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her sides, "it's like I was there but I wasn't. I remember seeing; hearing, talking but I couldn't do anything. Do you know how it feels to have your body move without your command? To have it saying words against your order?"
Athos shook his head but Constance wasn't watching him. Her eyes roved over the trees, flitting from one to the other as though expecting her nightmare to step out from behind one of them.
"She – it – brought me here," Constance said before she turned to face Athos, "why?" she asked.
He was not the expert on this subject, if anything he was still learning about his own place in this set up.
"I don't know," Athos said, "but she said you agreed to help her,"
"NOT FOR THIS!" she screeched suddenly, "I didn't agree for this! She told me her son was in trouble – I wanted to help her but not for this! Not for her to trap me in my own body!"
Raising his hands in placating gesture he nodded.
"I believe you," he said, "she took advantage of your kindness because she's a vile creature working towards her own ends that I don't think anyone of us understands yet."
Unbidden in his mind flashed Isadora's angry eyes and her smug grin, "You question to give me a part of a weapon when you hold influence over the most dangerous of them all?" Isadora gave him a wild grin and pointed a shaky finger towards Aramis, "He will betray the king you serve with such diligence and he will cast doubt onto the throne you work so hard to protect." She had been so sure of it.
Athos wondered if Aramis was a weapon then did it make him and Porthos one as well, because they were tethered to him, whatever that implied. He raised his hat with one hand and drew his hand through his hair with another, he needed a drink.
"I don't want to be a part of it," Constance shook her head.
Her words pinned his inhale in his chest.
Because suddenly Athos was acutely aware that they might not have a choice in this at all. He didn't ask to be a part of this and as far as he knew neither did Porthos, nor did Aramis asked to be born a knot. And yet they were linked together and dragged into this insanity, like a wave under the surface pulling them out to the sea.
Athos suppressed a shiver and forced himself to move, scanning the ground for what he had come looking. If his luck held he would be able to find the seal of Comte d'Fleurhelm that the Weaver had tossed in this place.
"Aramis is like her isn't he?"
"No," Athos snapped as he stopped his search and turned around to face her, "he is nothing like her."
"He was able to get across her to reach me,"
"He saved you; he would never put you through what she did,"
"But he can," she shrugged her shoulders, "if he wanted to do,"
He remembered all that the Captain had shared with them, how psychics as powerful as Aramis could compel others to their biding; but then a fierce need to defend burned in his heart, the desire to protect so strong that he had only felt it towards Thomas before. Athos clenched his fists at his sides and fixed the already shaken girl with a glare.
"But Aramis will never choose to do that," he said, "that's what makes him different from her,"
Surprise etched on her face as her eyes widened at the force behind his words. Athos couldn't believe that he was standing up for his friend in this. He was still not comfortable with the thought of magic and knots and tethers, the idea of being one of those, the implication that he actually bore some magic left his skin crawling. But he would never back down from defending Aramis and Porthos, they were brothers.
The acceptance left his breath staggering.
Beyond skin, status and blood – they were brothers.
It was as simple as that.
As his eyes focused back on Constance he found her expression had softened and realized something must have shown on his face.
"I see what Etienne meant when he wrote about you three in his letters," she said.
Athos nodded and turned on his heels. He did not want to know what stories her deceased brother had shared about them and a tiny part of him was afraid that the girl might start crying if he prodded her. He was thankful that she had not sought comfort from him again since the first time he had informed her of Etienne's death and latching onto that optimism he looked for the seal of the Comte.
He found it near the edge of the grove where he remembered Isadora to be standing last night.
When he turned around it was to find Constance wiping her face with her sleeve. Although tears still leaked out of the corners of her eyes and past the reddened nose the girl had composed herself. She looked around at the clearing and the thicket before nodding to herself.
Letting her gather her bearing in peace Athos pocketed the seal and readied the horses.
"I'll be sending a letter to my aunt from the inn," Constance said as she got back in the saddle, "but I don't think she'll make it in time for Etienne's funeral."
"Do you wish to wait for her?"
Constance shook her head, "I love her I do – but Etienne and I – it was us against the world before he left for Paris and I –I'd like to see him put to rest with no trouble."
Athos nodded.
He cast one last glance at the place where he had stood by his friend when the man was using his abilities and for the first time he hadn't flinched away from Aramis for that. With the knowledge that his view had expanded and the feeling of quiet dread about what this new horizon would bring Athos turned away.
The yard was bustling. Musketeers practiced their battle skills in laughing pairs as the zing of rapiers and the occasional retort of pistols from the target range echoed in the air. He sat at the table, polishing off the hearty breakfast Serge had spread in a fit of unexpected vigour. But then Porthos mused that it wasn't unexpected, a shadow had been lifted off their city and the air itself was lighter, cleaner.
He inhaled deeply and grinned at Jacques when the stable boy hurried by with an armload of tack, nearly tripping over his own feet. Taking a bite out of an apple Porthos rubbed his leg where the wound should be, the wound that should have killed him or at least would have left him battling an infection.
"Is that still hurting you?"
He looked up at the voice and a soft smile lit on his face.
"Captain!" he straightened a bit, "not all. Though I know it should have,"
Captain Treville nodded even as his gaze travelled over the Musketeer for any sign of distress he might have missed. Porthos felt warmth curl in his belly at the veiled concern and poured the man a drink. The Captain accepted the glass as he handed the reins of his horse to Jacques.
Porthos didn't miss the way Treville's eyes flicked to the doorway of the infirmary and lingered there.
"He's still out, but no sign of fever," he said, "looked to be sleeping peacefully. Considering everything he's better than fine Captain,"
"I know he is, or you won't be out here,"
Ducking his head Porthos could not keep the smile from his face. It was true that his friend's well being had been his first concern upon waking up. He had broken from his slumber at the sound of Athos shuffling to Aramis' cot to make sure the wound in the man's shoulder wasn't infected.
"And Athos wouldn't have left if he wasn't sure of Aramis' health,"
"Where did he go?"
"Something about a seal" Porthos grinned as he remembered the bleary encounter from earlier that morning, "and that no he didn't-need-to-have-someone-watching-his-back-for-this-so-sit-back-down Porthos! He was insistent and irked over being drugged?" he arched a brow.
The Captain gave him a bland look.
"He needed it,"
Porthos chuckled.
The Captain downed his drink and set the glass back onto the table. He rubbed the back of his neck and Porthos didn't miss the pinched corners of Treville's eyes nor the shadows under them. He didn't need to ask to know that the man hadn't slept through the night.
"Trouble at the palace Captain?" he asked.
Treville rested an arm on the railing of the staircase leading to his office and regarded the musketeers practicing swordsmanship on the other side of the yard; a corner of his lips quirked up as he glanced sideways towards Porthos.
"If Athos knows where the Comte's seal is then I don't think there'll be any trouble at all," he said.
"He seemed intent to retrieve it," Porthos nodded, "he'll be back with it I'm sure."
The Captain nodded as he surveyed his garrison.
The Shredder had dared to step into their sanctuary; he had stained their home with the blood of their own. Porthos hated the Shredder for the lives he had taken but then he found himself wondering of the lives that man had left behind. He had had a wife and little ones, a family already stuck in poverty.
His recent breakfast roiled in his stomach at the thought of the way the man had been used and his wife had said that he hadn't even been paid for it yet. Porthos knew that feeling, he knew what it was like to do the dirty work for the higher ups and then be cheated out of your earnings.
He decided that he would help the widow, see to it that she found her way back to her feet.
"That watchman who hired him, do you know him Captain?" he asked.
Captain Treville whipped his head around to glare at him, eyes narrowed in suppressed rage but there was fear lurking behind that too, Porthos could tell. It was obvious in the way the Captain swept a glance around them, as though expecting to find someone listening in.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"Whoever hired 'im didn't pay," Porthos said, "he did it for money for his family and now they're worse off with his death."
To his surprise the older man fixed him with a steely gaze.
"You are nothing like him Porthos, you've may have faced the same hardships as him but you had courage enough to make the right choices. You never strayed from your principles,"
The fierce conviction behind those words nearly knocked him over where he sat, the Captain had seen where his thoughts were going and Porthos mused he shouldn't be surprised since that man had known where Porthos had been before he joined the Musketeers.
It was oddly breathtaking to hear the man speak out loud what Porthos had always tried to do, of the lines he had drawn around himself when everything had seemed like a fair deal with his empty belly, freezing toes and bruises on his skin.
"You are a good am Porthos," the Captain repeated what he had a little over three years ago and turned on his heels, "get some rest, that wound in your side still isn't healed."
For a second he wanted to do something completely Aramis-like and tease the Captain about caring for his men. But then he noticed the exhaustion in the heavy footsteps up the staircase and found only gratitude for the sentiment in the man he respected.
Treville turned to regard him once he was up on the balcony and Porthos nodded.
The Captain turned into his office with a smile in his eyes and Porthos turned his attention back to the apple in his hand. He had just finished eating when shuffling footsteps had him turning his head to the sound. He surged to his feet at the sight of Aramis slowly making his way over.
"Sit down Porthos, 'm fine!" the man waved his good arm at him, his bound shoulder leaving his other arm pressed tight to his chest where it was held by a sling.
"You're a portrait of fine my friend," Porthos rolled his eyes as he sat back down.
Wordlessly he scooted over on the bench and with a sigh Aramis plopped down in the now empty space nearer to him. Leaning over the table the younger man made a grab for the bottle of wine but Porthos plucked it out his reach.
An undignified groan escaped Aramis.
"Food first," Porthos said.
He grinned when Aramis broke of a chunk of bread and bit into it viciously. The brown eyes narrowed over bulging cheeks before his friend swallowed, wincing as he did.
"Happy?" Aramis rasped.
"Ecstatic," Porthos said.
He poured his friend a drink and ladling the lukewarm porridge in a bowl he pushed both items towards Aramis. The younger man drained both the utensils before reaching out and grabbing an apple. Porthos felt his nose twitch at the sight and a fond grin pulled at his lips as his friend threw a leg over the bench and sank back against Porthos' shoulder, facing the yard beyond.
Porthos threw a sideways glance at the back of the dark head.
"Never imagined it'll all turn out like this when we first met," he shook his head, voice light at the memory of the teenager from years ago.
"You were supposed to take me prisoner,"
"I was talking about before,"
"Before what?"
"Before you rose out of the river and flopped out onto the bank,"
Aramis shifted so that they were shoulder to shoulder again and stared at him.
"What're you talking about?"
A strange feeling roiled in his gut, like a giant fish flipping its tail in there and Porthos grimaced. He was suddenly not sure if he should share that first encounter with his friend, fearing that it might just nip their budding friendship.
"Porthos?"
Running a hand through his curls the big man regarded his friend.
"The first time met it was in a village where we followed a soldier visiting the Comte de La Fere at his châteaux," he said, "you put up quite a fight, hit me in the nose with an apple."
Aramis stared, brown eyes wide as his jaw worked soundlessly to form words.
"I was with the bandits," Porthos clarified, "you didn't see my face, not all of it."
That place, that time, the events that followed after the arrival of that soldier, it hit too deep past his already shaken defenses. His mind was still reeling to come to terms with all that had happened in the last few days. Aramis closed his mouth with an audible click and pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
It would do no good for him to get swept back into memories of the life he had left buried beside his mother's grave. The place where he had lost Thomas his first real friend, the place where he had lost the boy he was, where he had taken a life for the first time.
" 'Mis?
He swung his head to face Porthos, not liking the uncertainty there.
"I –I'd never imagined," he shook, "that was a different life of a different person,"
"What happened?" Porthos asked.
There were so many things that had happened, the Comtess, Thomas, his mother and then Remi. He had said that his mother had asked him to kill the boy should he cross the line and now there was an ill feeling coiled in Aramis' gut that the man may have been telling the truth.
His mother had known about him and she had feared him. It was not his imagination when he had seen her withdraw from him when he had awoken at his home after the fight with the Comtess. His hand on the table clenched into a fist, the still raw skin from healing blisters stretched painfully and his nails scrapped the hard wooden surface as his fingers curled in; she had been aware of what he could do, the danger he posed.
He glanced at Porthos and wondered if his friend knew the worst of him would the man turn his back on him, would he be afraid as his own mother had been.
"I killed my uncle," Aramis said.
Porthos blinked.
Aramis could hear his own heartbeat in his head. He had no idea why he couldn't stand the thought of losing Porthos and Athos. He had dragged them into this magical mess, unintentional as it was and he didn't know how accepting they would be of it all.
"I'm sure you had your reasons," Porthos shrugged.
Aramis let go an audible breath that tapered into soft laughter. He shook his head and Porthos grinned back, bumping their shoulders together. They looked up at arched entrance of the garrison in unison as the slow clatter of a horse announced Athos' arrival.
For a split second it was the Comte that Aramis had often seen ridding down the village road and he blinked rapidly. Porthos' trip to the memory lane had brought to the front the carefully tucked away childhood that Aramis had spent in the village around the d'la Fere châteaux. While he had seen the other man often they had never interacted, but after being friends with Thomas Aramis knew how much his friend had meant to his older brother when the former had not yet married the Comtess.
"Don't tell him about this," he said to Porthos.
The reason he hadn't told Athos that he knew him when they had first met a year back, was the same reason he hadn't broached the subject in their time together since and that was why he was asking Porthos to be quiet about the matter; he could not touch upon the subject of Thomas with Athos.
He knew it would hurt the older brother and it would hurt him as well, he did not wish to dwell on the pain of that loss for either of them.
Porthos nodded although he seemed confused. Athos handed the reins of his horse and of the empty one behind it to Jacques. He touched the brim of hit hat in greeting and Aramis found himself pleased beyond belief to find his friend still looking him in the eye.
"Still alive I see," Athos said as took a seat on the bench from across them. Placing his hat on the table he reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a drink.
"Did you find it?" Porthos asked.
As an answer Athos raised the seal between his fingers and tapped it on the table. He downed the entire glass in one go and smirked at them.
"Was there any doubt?"
"Your modesty does you credit," Porthos rolled his eyes before he arched an eyebrow, "did you have a companion on this ride?"
"Constance," Athos refilled his glass and took a sip from it, "she's staying at the inn. We are to go ahead with Etienne's funeral although she would be writing to her aunt."
"She'll be staying in Paris?" Porthos asked.
"If Monsieur Bonacieux would agree to marry her like he was supposed to,"
It was the touch distaste that had Aramis looking from Porthos to Athos.
"You don't look pleased," he said, "You don't think she should go ahead with this marriage?"
Athos placed his elbows on the table top and hunched forwards. Aramis could tell that the man was remembering something before the frown in the corners of his eyes eased and he shook his head. Athos drew a hand through his hair and his shoulders sagged a bit.
"She seems sure," he said, "it's not my place to question her."
"Does she love this man?" Aramis asked.
Athos gave him a bland look and arched his brow in a sardonic look that needed no words.
"If she does then it's alright I guess," Aramis shrugged, "you marry for love, that's how it lasts."
"Is that so?" there was a hint of bitterness in Athos' voice.
"All I'm saying is that she should marry the man she loves," Aramis raised his hand in defense; "if it's not this Bonacieux then she could wait for the one who is that man."
A wisp of an errant thought flashed in his mind and he shook his head at the idea, grinning suddenly.
"Who knows? She might just find her love one fine day in the market," he said.
"Just like that yeah? Go to the market and come back home with the love of your life?" Porthos chuckled, "You suppose she'll have a basket big enough to carry a man?"
Aramis laughed and gave his friend a shove.
"It's a possibility," he said.
"With all that we've recently learned maybe it is," Athos said.
Aramis shifted his weight where he sat and absently rubbed the injured shoulder. His eyes traced over his friend's face but he could not hold the gaze fixed on him and instead looked down at the tabletop between them. He could feel Porthos shift towards him and was grateful for the leg that pressed against his own.
Glancing sideways Aramis flashed him a smile before looking back up at Athos.
"I found out about this – this ability just over three years back," he said, "I still don't know much about how it works and I can't really explain how I use it. When I need it, it comes to me like breathing," he shrugged a shoulder, "natural and easy. But all that the Captain told us I hadn't known before and I honestly haven't been able to make sense of it."
Aramis found the blue gaze boring into him soften as his friend looked to Porthos and then back to him, there was that fond look of playful arrogance that Athos had come to adopt in the past years when he was being indulgent of them during their missions.
"Then I suppose we'll have to make sense of it together," he said in that infuriating resigned way.
"I suppose we must," Porthos gave an exaggerated put upon sigh.
"I hate you both," Aramis grinned.
His desk was littered with papers save for one neat pile at the far corner; it was dishearteningly thin he noted with a glance and went back to his scribbling. The disasters one after the other after that mess of the Comte's hunting party had put every administrative duty onto hold. There were reports to be made, requisitions drawn up, explanations offered and condolences letters written out. And then there were the funeral arrangements for the two Musketeers who had died.
The Captain of the Musketeers hoped that had succeeded in finding the Comte's seal. His Majesty had been more than testy in the face of the Comte's own tantrum and threats to support Savoy. Treville would be a happy man to see the back of the Comte's carriage as it left Paris.
But that was not what was leaving his thoughts in tangles; it was the need to come up with a way to break the news of his parentage to Aramis. As he had sat vigil over his men last night he had decided to man up and claim the son who was oblivious to his position. If only he could stop the shivering in his knees at the very thought of revealing that secret.
What if Aramis got angry? Or disappointed? What if he hated him and left the Musketeers because of that?
He paused in his writing and bit back a sigh. Sitting back in his chair Treville wiped a hand down his face before pinching the inner corners of his eyes, picking out the moisture that had gathered there lest it trailed down is face.
A knock on his open door had him straightening.
"Captain?" Aramis stood in the doorway.
"Yes," his voice coming out gruff as he reined in his emotions.
"I come with a peace offering?" the end of his declaration twisted into a questioning tone as Aramis held up the seal of Comte d'Fleurhelm.
"I was told Athos went to retrieve it,"
A sheepish smile flashed on his face as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"He thought it would be my chance to get back in your good graces," Aramis said.
Pushing his chair back the Captain got to his feet and rounding his desk he came to stand before Aramis with his arms crossed before him. The younger man was staring at a spot on the floor between them, standing in his shirt with one arm in a sling while his other hand still ruffled the hair at the back of his head he looked too young to be someone who had lived the life he had.
Just a lad, Treville's eyes narrowed at the thought, not even twenty and with so much blood on his hands. He had to wonder if he had stopped him, somehow saved him that night when he ran from his village, could he have saved his boy from this.
Aramis took a few steps forward, stopping before the Captain with his back straight, free hand by his side and eyes fixed ahead; until they met Treville's gaze.
"I did not follow your orders yesterday and it was not my place to challenge you in the infirmary last night," he said, "I will accept any punishment you see fit."
And then he stared ahead, not moving an inch.
And just like that the boy disappeared and it was a man before him, a soldier, accepting his place by giving his senior the authority over him.
"But you are not sorry for it,"
"No sir,"
He had done what he saw right, stepped into the heat of things and was ready for the punishment it would bring. Treville was reminded of the boy he had first met, he didn't like the easy way his son had accepted his uncle's response to his actions then.
That was why he could not bring himself to dole out corporal punishment now; the boy had had enough of those growing up. But then his sense of justice demanded if he was being fair and the next words out of Treville's mouth came out in a tone much harsher that he wanted.
"And why is that? Because if you're not sorry for your actions then this is a waste of time. I don't see how any punishment could be meaningful,"
"My actions were disrespectful towards you Captain and I regret that," he offered a fleeting glance before straightening, "But they saved my brothers and I'm not sorry for that."
"There could have been better ways,"
"You're right sir,"
Assigning him duties in the kitchens and the armory were out of the question, Treville still shuddered internally at the memory of the lad's 'special gunpowder' and his 'experiment' with the food. He let his hands drop by his sides and nodded.
"Very well," he said, "starting tomorrow you will be helping me with my paperwork in my office every day until you've recovered from your injury. That means you will have to report to me an hour before the morning muster. And once you have your strength back you will be helping Jacques with his duties at the stables until I see it fit to release you from them."
"Yes sir,"
Aramis nodded sharply.
"Now that seal that's been haunting me this morning," he held out a hand.
The younger man smiled slightly as he handed it over, his shoulders relaxing and a hand coming to rub at the injured one.
Checking an answering smile before it could break through Treville turned back to his chair.
"You're dismissed," he said over his shoulder.
He had not yet reached his chair when the Captain stopped, the sound of receding footsteps urging him to say something, to get it out now and be over with it. Praying and hoping fervently that his son would accept him, he turned around and moved across his office.
He was on the threshold when he saw the younger man standing on the balcony outside, a hand clutched at his hair as he stood undecided of his path.
"Aramis?" Treville called.
The man whirled around and the Captain signaled him to get back in the office. Aramis was back in quick strides, stopping short in the middle of the room.
"Captain?"
"Something on your mind?" he asked.
"I have to ask something," Aramis spoke with an uncharacteristic hesitance that put his father on the edge.
A strange jittery feeling crawling under his skin as the Captain braced himself for another inquiry about the younger man's long absent father. This time he would get the answers he had been searching for.
"Can your friends in the watchmen give you something to keep you from getting affected by my abilities?"
"What?" it slipped out without his assent.
"Is there a way we can be sure you're safe from my influence?" he asked.
Treville frowned and rubbed his forehead, he had no idea where this was going but he knew he couldn't tell the man that he was a watchman, not when he had just seen the extent the watchmen can go to get results.
"There may be a way," he lied.
"Good," said the younger man, "I need you to use it please, and I need you to promise me something."
Treville did not like the way it was sounded, the crease between his eyebrows deepened as he stared at the young Musketeer and motioned for him to go ahead.
"I need you to make sure that are safe from my abilities and I want your word that should I cross the line you will put a bullet through my head or a blade through my heart." Aramis said.
Treville stared.
His son, his boy was asking him to – he was asking for his word that – he stared.
There was a tightness in his chest as the edges of his vision frayed grey and he suddenly pulled in a sharp breath; his body finally remembering that it needed to perform the vital function. Treville bumped back into the edge of his table and stayed there, because he was acutely aware that his watery legs would not take his weight.
"Why do you –?" he closed his eyes and searched for words, "Why do you think you need this promise?"
"Because there are three people in this world that I trust," his voice was soft, fond even, "and the other two would not be able to come to this logical conclusion if the need arises."
Shoving aside the pride in finding himself in this select group Treville glared at the man.
"And you think I would be able to do that?" he demanded.
"They stood up to you for my sake when we had almost just met," Aramis ran a hand through his hair, a smile pulling on his lips as he looked to the Captain, "they won't don't it and I can't ask them this. We're brothers," he said.
And I'm your father; he bit his lip to keep from screaming at him.
He wished he hadn't told Aramis all that his mother had told him, he wished that Felipa hadn't told him all that in the first place. He should have stayed, he should have known about it all to begin with, he should have protected his family.
With a shake of his head he looked away from the young face before him.
"And what is this line that you might cross?" he asked quietly.
"I'll let you be the judge of that,"
Treville turned to face him so fast his neck hurt. There had been no cutting sarcasm in those words and there was no teasing smile in the eyes before him; only honest trust that left him shaken. The Captain could not stand to gaze upon it; the faith in his judgment for this was too much of a burden.
"So you're appointing me your judge and executioner?" he snapped.
"I am," it was simple.
The pliant acceptance of it all grated on Treville's nerves, especially since he was in denial of his son ever turning evil and destroying the world as he was supposed to.
"And what makes you think that you will even cross this damned line?"
Aramis snorted, shaking his head in abject incredulity.
"You heard what you were telling me didn't you? And you were there when I killed my uncle –"
"He was not your –"
"I gathered that much but I had grown up looking to him as my uncle and I killed him –"
"He murdered your mother; he had been trying to kill you."
"I was sixteen, how many boys that age go about taking lives and it was not in self-defense Captain. You saw that we were out of the fire and the man was nowhere near me at all –"
He stopped abruptly Treville collared him. Holding him by the scruff of his shirt he shook the younger man in barely suppressed rage. Blue eyes brimming with frustration held the surprised gaze of his son.
"Why are you so insistent to believe the worst of yourself?"
The hands that had grasped his shoulders in reflex gripped tight as the younger man in his hold blinked rapidly.
"My mother had hired a man to kill me if need be, she knew me the best and she believed that Captain," he spoke as if he was confused of the older man's stubborn denial, "my mother knew the risks of keeping me alive and I'm sure so did my father. She stuck around with a backup plan and he left, what more proof could there be of this all being the truth?"
Treville let him go as if he'd been burned.
His son's words, although spoken conversationally stung like a lash from a whip; sharp, deep and fiery.
"Captain?"
He shook his head, realizing that the younger man had stepped back from him too. He looked to him with an ache in the hollow between his lungs and forced his voice to come out steady, free of any emotion.
"About your father –"
Aramis raised his hand to stop the older man's words and with a shake of his head he took another step back.
"I don't want to talk about him anymore," he said.
"But I want to tell you –"
"Please Captain," Aramis looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at, "last night was the last time I would have wondered about him. The man left, if he's still alive he had forgotten about me and if he had died then he still chose to leave his family behind. I need to move on from that."
His son was moving on, he was too late, Treville was certain there was a sinkhole opening under his feet. And the fear and pain of the loss pushed forward the soldier in him that could face it; he stood tall, stiff and proud with his hands clasped behind his back and steady eyes on the younger man before him.
Aramis ran a hand through his hair again, the ends which were starting to stand up by now.
"I know what I ask of you is a big responsibility to take on," he said, "Would you at least consider it Captain?"
He could not trust himself to speak.
He nodded.
"Thank you," said the boy before he left.
For several minutes the Captain did not move. His trimmed fingernails were embedded in the skin of his wrist that he had clasped behind his back and his jaw hurt from being clenched shut too tight. He swallowed down the salty taste of unshed tears at the back of his throat and forced his breathing to remain steady even as his heart pounded as if it was ready to break out of his chest.
"So much misery in this place," said a voice from behind him.
He turned around slowly, pulling out his sword as he did.
The woman wrapped a strip of her dark hair around her finger and perched on a chair. She sniffed lightly.
"The air just reeks of it you know," her dark eyes fixed onto him, "don't stare Captain it's rude."
The tip of his rapier rested on the woman's throat and he watched her lean back slightly.
"Come now, I thought we were friends," she said, "I'm the Weaver remember? Isadora? We've met before not in this face but still..."
"You die now,"
The tip of the blade broke skin but it healed instantly.
"You can't kill me Captain," she said, "and I'm not here to kill you either."
"What do you want?"
"Nothing that is ready to be taken," she said, "I see now that the set is not complete. But it will be."
Treville pulled back his rapier and placed it back in his belt. A deep exhaustion was stirring in him and he still had a lot to do and a lot to think about.
"Speak plainly or leave," he said.
She got to her feet with a smile.
"It's like the seasons my dear Captain," she turned away from him, tracing the armrest of the chair with her fingers, "Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring;" her fingers danced over the edge of the backrest, "The rise, the catalyst, the fall and the hope," her finger tips settled on the border of his desk and she turned to look at him, "Porthos, Aramis, Athos and…." she smirked, "I won't tell you."
His hands fisted at his sides.
"But I can tell you they've met your son," she said, "Did you know Athos and his family came to live in that châteaux after Aramis had moved there with his mother? Did you think it was a simple coincidence that you went looking there for recruiting? Or it was just chance that Porthos found his way there after a life time in Paris?"
"What do you mean?" he was getting sick of the games and the secrecy, "was it your doing?"
"Me? Ofcourse not," she shook her head and smiled, "it was him Captain, your son. He had pulled you all there, he called you without knowing I'd think and you all answered without knowing either. And I can tell you this; he had met the fourth already too."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to keep an eye out for the last piece," she said, "be sure it'll be drawn here where the others are. They are young and not ready to face what's coming. But yours is a child of strife, he will propel you all into it. A born knot of two bloods, did you tell him that? Did you tell him that there's a watchman's blood in his veins too?"
"I told him nothing of that sort," he snapped.
"A pity," she said and glanced over his shoulder, "maybe now's your chance?"
He whirled around with a curse on his lips and found the office empty. He snapped back to the woman only to find she had disappeared too. Cursing under his breath the Captain pulled out the drawer in his desk that was emitting a glow and stared at the bough of white lilies that was glowing again.
The letter was short.
It demanded his presence before the leaders of the Brotherhood of the Watchmen and he knew they would be chewing him out for his role in the whole Shredder business. How they had managed to link it back to him was something that the Cardinal Richelieu did not understand.
With a scowl he wrote down his acceptance of the summons, sealed it with the insignia of their brotherhood and handed it to the messenger. Scowling harder as the man bowed and left.
He pushed his chair away from his desk and glared at the woman who stood leaning against the wall.
"You said it would work," he said.
Drawing her gaze back from the open window she settled her catlike green eyes onto him.
"It did," she said.
He was on his feet and in her space with a dagger under her chin in a matter of seconds.
"Care to enlighten me how?" he asked, "because as I see it those Musketeers just disposed off the man I had put in charge of ending that born knot."
With an almost gentle touch she pushed the blade away from her skin and smirked at the man before her. M'Lady titled her head to the side and regarded him with a look that had him questioning his own intelligence.
"But it worked your Eminence," she said, "This proves that whoever that knot is it's a Musketeer. Your puppet targeted the garrison, it brought back one of the Musketeers alive, doesn't that sound odd to you? And it was the Musketeers who were able to dispose him off in the end."
Mulling over her words he stepped back from her.
Her deductions made sense and the Captain had been worried about one of his injured Musketeer. Maybe that Musketeer would be able to shed a light on the matter of this knot; maybe the Captain could identify him for the watchmen.
Sitting back in his chair Cardinal Richelieu smiled.
It was a week after the city had been rid of the Shredder.
The sun was out, the streets alive with people and they were finally free of their duties for the day. Dodging the squealing children chasing after each other the three of them made their way towards the small party on the cobblestone yard outside the cloths merchant house. Many revelers looked their way as the three Musketeers in full uniform, with their pistols and rapiers, came to a stop at the edge of the celebrations.
"Can I help you?"
Athos looked at the man before him.
"We're looking for Madame Bonacieux," he said.
"I am Monsieur Bonacieux, she is my bride," he puffed out his chest.
The three of them looked at each other before turning to the man with thin whiskers and beady eyes.
"Congratulations on your wedding –"
"Athos?" Constance appeared at her husband's shoulder, "Athos? You all made it!"
She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him tight. Patting her lightly on the back Athos couldn't help the tiny smile in the face of her happiness.
"Apologies for the delay Madame," he said as she pulled back.
His eyes widened at the sight of her wiping her eyes.
"Constance?" Porthos asked.
"It's nothing, just happy tears," she said with a small laugh.
Then turned to Porthos and hugged him too. Her delighted laughter echoed all about when Porthos picked her up in his embrace and gave her a whirl.
"You look beautiful," he said as he set her down.
"Thank you," her eyes were turning red.
"But they do say it's in the eye of the beholder," Aramis spoke up.
And she backhanded him for that before pulling him in a hug a too. When she drew back the man held her at an arm's length and kissed her fingers.
"But it would only be the blind who can't see how beautiful you look," he said.
She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder, only for him to stagger exaggeratingly at her blow.
"We'll make a musketeer out of you yet," he grinned.
"Stop it you," she scolded although she grinned and took the arm he offered.
"Now I thought this was a wedding," Aramis looked around, "why are the musicians in mourning though?"
"I can fix that," Porthos grinned.
And just like that Athos found himself standing alone with a flabbergasted Monsieur Bonacieux. The groom stared at the big man who stalked over to the small band and seconds later the mellow music cut off. A jaunty tune filled the air instead and Monsieur Bonacieux turned to the Musketeer left standing before him.
"Who are you?" asked the groom.
"I'm Athos, that's Porthos and Aramis, we're the king's Musketeers," he said.
"And you know Constance how?"
"We're her brothers,"
"But she had one brother who died recently –" Monsieur Bonacieux faltered.
Athos glared at the man who stepped back a little, his head swiveled to Porthos who was eating pastries and despite the grin the warning in his eyes was clear. His eyes went to where Aramis had Constance twirling under his hand and the groom flinched at the forewarning in the gaze that flicked his way.
"You're her brothers," Monsieur Bonacieux nodded, "I see that."
From over his shoulder Athos caught his brothers' eyes.
"Yes we are," he nodded.
"You cannot see brotherhood; neither can you hear it nor taste it. But you can feel it a hundred times a day. It is the pat on the back when things look gloomy. It is the smile of encouragement when the way seems hard. It is the helping hand when the burden becomes unbearable." – Peter E. Terzick
END.
A/N: If you are still this story you have my gratitude and respect for your patience. Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Secrets come out in the next one in this 'verse but I won't post until I've typed it ALL out; lessons learned with this one :)