Part one in a long, long, LONG project where I made an SBI AU based on The Musketeers. Yes, I have issues. Four chapters in this first part, one for each of our boys. Tommy up first!

In his almost nineteen years on earth, Tommy had never set foot outside of the rural town he grew up in.

Not that such a thing was unusual. So many people were born, worked, and died on the same plot of land their entire lives. Wasted their days away toiling in the fields, then sold the food for pennies from the royal treasury while the king lived it up in the capital city. Tommy's father was a landowner, the leader of their community. Tommy's mother died when he was born. One day, he would follow in his father's footsteps.

But not today. Today Tommy was finally headed for Paris.

"How much further is it?" His hands were raw from the leather of the reins. His father turned half toward him, a grin splitting his bearded face.

"A few hours more. If you're tired we can stop for the night."

"I'm not," Tommy said quickly. "I just wanted to know how much longer we needed to ride, is all." But his father laughed, steering his horse to the side of the road. There was an inn not too far up ahead, glass window panes illuminated by a warm glow from within.

"We can't travel in the dark anyway and we're not expected on audience before next week. Let's give the horses some rest."

Biting at his lip, Tommy relented. It was hard for him to contain how excited he was about going to the capital. Paris was the sort of place a boy like him could only hear about in stories. Tommy used to interrogate every traveler who came by their town until they were sick of him, wanting to hear another tale spun about a bustling city, about the things that went down between the cobblestone houses and rodents.

Tommy was bored by the countryside. And while he had come to accept that he wouldn't be able to bear the thought of abandoning his father, that didn't mean he couldn't dream of the adventure forever out of his reach.

The courtyard out front of the inn was muddy from yesterday's rainfall. When he got off Henry, Tommy's boots sunk into the gravel. He cursed, but his father laughed as he got off his own horse.

"Stable them, why don't you?" He offered the second pair of reins to Tommy, who took them. "I'll go inside and see about arranging us a room."

Tommy nodded and started walking to the side of the building, where a large stable was built. Several horses were already inside, presumably other people were also staying at the inn then. Tommy wondered if they would be awake, if they would be up for talking. What kind of things they'd have to tell. He found an empty stall that was big enough to fit both horses and led them inside, pushing against the hay with the front of his shoe. It seemed clean enough? Especially for one night.

There was feed in the trough but no water. Tommy looked around to find an empty bucket before heading outside to fill it at the well. As he was standing there, five more riders arrived. They were wearing dark clothes with long cloaks that draped over one shoulder. The man that led them was wearing a fanciful hat that made Tommy frown. He wouldn't be caught dead wearing something so fucking ridiculous. No doubt they came from Paris too. Only somebody with too much self-importance would think a hat like that was a good choice.

They left their horses out at the front and didn't stable them. Pulling the bucket back up, Tommy glanced at them as they entered the inn. Perhaps they just weren't staying the night?

Back in the stables, Henry neighed happily at Tommy's reappearance. She had to be extra thirsty after being on the road all day. He upended the bucket into the second trough for her. While she drank, Tommy petted the side of her neck. His fingers almost got caught in her mane, that's how filthy she had gotten. Though Tommy was partly to blame for that, he hadn't taken the time to groom her since they set out for Paris.

"You look like a fucking mess, you know." The horse snorted and nudged his cheek. It made Tommy smile. "I suppose I can brush you before heading inside, I'm sure Father wouldn't mind."

There was another snort from Henry that Tommy choose to interpret as her wholeheartedly agreeing with him. On a low workbench against the wall, several tools were laid out. A boar bristle brush was among them. Tommy picked it up and started to take care of Henry first, planning to move onto his father's horse when he was done. If they arrived in Paris tomorrow, they needed to look their best. They were going to petition the king, after all. Obviously, the court would know they were commoners. All the rules and words about gentlemanly manners that his father had pressed on his heart over and over again in preparation for the trip still spun around in Tommy's head. They said that if you disgraced yourself to the royals, they had the power to throw you onto the gallows - just like that! Because if the king decreed something that was the will of God. Even if that decree was putting somebody to death less than a minute after meeting them.

Tommy didn't think that sounded exactly fair, but what did he know of those matters?

Anyway, it was probably smart to make sure they looked nice. Henry whinnied happily at having her mane groomed, exhaling warm puffs of air against Tommy's palm when he pressed it on her snout. "There, all better," he said, pleased with a job well done.

Then that peaceful atmosphere was shattered by a shriek and a series of gunshots.

It took Tommy only a few seconds to drop the brush into the hay and rush into the courtyard, confusion and fear clouding his mind. What the fuck was happening-

Yet those few seconds meant he was too late to do anything.

The men who he had seen earlier were already back on horseback, heels digging into the flanks of their steeds and sending them careening into the night. Their capes billowed out behind them, stealing them from Tommy's view. But his attention was drawn to the entrance of the inn instead, the door thrown open and half off its hinges.

His father stumbled out, hand clutching at a horrible wound in his stomach.

Tommy rushed to him and they met halfway, the older man's knees buckling beneath him the moment Tommy reached him. Mud soaked into his pants, and the rain that had started falling again while he was in the stables drenched his coat. It washed the pallor off his father's face, the blood dotting along his chin.

He was bleeding so much.

"Dad?" Tommy's voice broke on the single syllable, one simple word clogging up his throat more effectively than brambles. His father looked up at him with lidded blue eyes, blinking away the pure agony reflected there. A musket shot to the gut might be one of the most painful wounds Tommy could imagine. And surely fatal unless tended to quickly.

Tommy didn't know what to do.

"Thomas." A hand grasped his shoulder. Tommy couldn't remember the last time anybody has used his proper name for him and that made him want to cry. He closed his fingers over his father's, gripping them tighter since they were shaking so badly.

"You'll be okay," Tommy said desperately, voice rising in pitch. As if maybe the lie would become true if he said it with enough conviction. "You're going to be okay, just hold on."

His father shook his head, fingers intertwined tight enough to turn white. "No, no, boy. Listen to me. Listen, you need to-"

"Who did this?" Tommy cut in. His father was dying. Was dying in his arms.

Tommy wanted to know the name of the man responsible.

His father coughed, more blood spilling across his lips. He wouldn't last much longer. Tommy held him closer, praying that the man who had raised him from birth would not feel cold in his final moments. "They were a group of bandits, king's musketeers."

"Musketeers?" Tommy echoed numbly.

That didn't make sense. The musketeers were a regiment of elite guards in the employ of the king himself. They were honorable soldiers, good men. They were supposed to protect people. They weren't- they weren't supposed to kill in cold blood with no explanation. Through the confusion, Tommy blinked, tears sticking to his lashes.

"Their leader," his father managed. His strength was draining fast. "He identified himself before the massacre. Philip d'Athos."

"Philip d'Athos," Tommy said. Something angry and real balled up in his gut. Tommy was furious. "I will get our revenge, Dad."

Then the hand holding onto his shoulder fell away, falling into the mud below them. The rain washed off both the tears on Tommy's cheeks and the blood that ran into the road. His father was dead.

How much time passed with Tommy sitting there, he could not say. It felt as if only a few minutes passed, though when he was finally able to blink through the fog that had settled on his mind, the sun was rising and the body he held against him felt cold and stiff. His father's eyes were still open, staring into the distant nothing. Tommy stood up, feeling dirty. Methodically, not really perceiving anything, he went back to the barn. He had seen a shovel inside there earlier.

The weather of the past days had left the ground soft and easy to upturn. It did not take a lot of time for him to dig a series of graves, one for each person who had been in the inn at the time of the raid. Not a single one had been left alive. Tommy buried his father last, kneeling at his grave when he was done.

His fingers were numb with cold, but Tommy still pulled the cross necklace free from his throat and tied it around the makeshift marker he had made.

Then he got Henry and rode her to the nearest village. He hailed a farmer in the field and told them what happened, instructing them on where the inn was so they could fetch the remaining horses from those stables. They would take good care of them, Tommy knew. They would treat the animals well. Tommy only needed Henry.

She would take him all the way to Paris, to find the man that had killed his father.

Tommy knew he didn't look his best, but the woman across from him was frowning at him as if he'd personally bring disease into her lodgings. Considering she had been chasing rats out of the kitchen when he entered, he seriously doubted his poor hygiene was the worst thing this place had ever housed.

"You can rent a room for ten livres per night," she said. "Food is extra."

With a nod, Tommy reached into his purse. "That's fine. Just some clean sheets will do."

"Clean sheets are also extra," she said. With a gesture, she started herding him upstairs, up a set of rickety wooden steps that looked as if they would collapse under the suggestion of weight. Tommy frowned, carefully watching where he put his feet.

They entered a dusty little room with a cot in the corner, an armoire that was half-sunken into the floor, and a table that must be the sorriest excuse for a desk he'd ever seen pushed up against the window. Tommy looked around it demurely.

Paris was already a lot less glamorous than the stories made it sound.

"We have an outhouse out back with a tub you can use," the landlady said. She brushed her blonde hair over her shoulder, not making eye contact. She hadn't asked about Tommy's business in the city, why he was traveling alone, or what he was doing there. Probably, it was better for her not to know.

"Warm water?" Tommy asked.

The woman opened her mouth and he held up a hand to stop her.

"Let me guess… also extra?"

She grunted. "You're starting to get the hang of this." Before heading back down, she bumped her elbow into his side. "Use of the communal towel is free, though." She gave him a crooked smile with yellowed teeth then left. Tommy frowned at her retreating back.

Weird fucking Parisian sense of humor.

Tommy did use the tub, though not the towel. He washed his face, fingers pressing into the bags beneath his eyes. Tomorrow, he would head to the musketeer's garrison and confront that Philip guy. The rapier he had latched to his belt felt heavier than it should, weighed down by the task he knew he'd need to complete. An honorable duel, yes, but one that would end in death. Tommy was confident about his win. Back in town, he was the best swordsman. He could take a man that was used to being a coward and firing at others with a musket.

Then why wouldn't his hands stop shaking?

Back inside, the downstairs area was alive with music and a fire blazing in the stone chimney. Tommy sat down at a table in the corner, waiting for his meal. His father had left him a well-filled purse. Enough to pay the rent and food for a week at least, if not more. He'd only need a day or two to take care of his affairs. Then, Tommy would need to decide what to do. He had already sent a letter homebound, informing the town of what had happened. His father had appointed a trusted man the responsibility of looking after the community while they were gone. They could probably fend for themselves.

Tommy might not want to go back.

There was nothing left for him to return to. He had nothing waiting for him back there.

The stew he was served was passable, if a little bland. The cloying sweetness sat unpleasantly on Tommy's tongue. Every swallow was like sawdust going down his throat, but Tommy knew he needed to keep his strength up for the long day ahead of him.

A small bell above the door rang out when it opened. Tommy didn't pay much attention to the pair that stepped inside until one of them started talking.

"Give me the best room this establishment can offer," a heavyset man with a mustache said. He snapped his fingers for emphasis. Unnecessarily so, since the landlady was already bustling over to help him. "And if it has flees, you will be whipped."

There was little reaction to his threat. Tommy doubted this lodging had even one bed without vermin in it.

"And draw me a bath, would you?" It was the woman who had spoken up this time. She had long, black hair that hung around her shoulders in waves.

Tommy cleared his throat. "Warm water is extra, madame."

Both their faces turned towards him. He shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth.

"Are you addressing me, kid?" The man was taking lumbering steps to reach the table, moving with the grace of a beached whale.

Tommy's eyes traveled all the way from the top of the guy's head to his overly polished shoes. His lips almost twitched into a grin as he answered. "Not unless your name is madame."

With a huff, the man reached for his pistol. Tommy was quicker though, standing and in one swift motion pressing the tip of his sword against the man's throat.

"If you want to settle this like men, I'll be happy to step outside," he said.

The woman walked up next to her companion. Slowly - showing no fear of the sharp-edged blade - she closed her hand around Tommy's sword and pushed it aside. Her eyes were a deep blue, almost purple in the flickering candlelight of the room. "Leave him be," she told her friend. "We have more important matters to attend to."

Glaring at Tommy a moment longer, the man put his gun away.

When he sat back down to eat, he could swear the woman was still watching him. But Tommy ignored her.

He would get an early night's sleep. Because by tomorrow, none of this would matter.

Heavy footfalls outside his door woke Tommy up.

People were talking, yelling. Somebody screaming for the guards. As awareness trickled back in, Tommy felt his instincts go haywire. He had a bad feeling about this. He shot up out of bed on stumbling legs, reaching for his sword that he'd left on the armoire.

When he opened the door it was for a moment as if he was in the courtyard again.

Through the group of other lodgers that had crowded around, he could see a slumped body, the dagger still sticking out of their chest. Blood pooled on the wooden floorboards, seeping into them and probably trickling straight through to the room below. The man that lay dead in the hallway had to be attacked in his sleep, mouth still agape in a choked gurgle.

It was the same man Tommy had almost come to blows with the night before.

The landlady turned to him, looking panicked. When her gaze fell on Tommy, her expression became suddenly even more horror-struck.

"Him!" She raised her arm to point an offending finger in his direction. "He did this!"

Tommy took a step back. "What?!"

A murmur swept through the group as they stared at him, eyes flitting up and down. Tommy's fingers clenched around nothing and he was surprised by the warmth on his skin.

He looked down to find his hands were covered in blood.

"What the-"

One of the other patrons was already reaching for their weapon. They were going to accost him and turn him in for murder. They were going to send him to jail.

Tommy bolted.

It was stupid because logically he realized something fucking weird was going on and he must be getting framed for a crime he hadn't committed. But trying to explain that would be a hard selling point and he might see the gallows before he could convince anybody of his innocence.

So he did the only thing he could think of and ran back into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him and Tommy barely managed to shove the dresser in front of it before somebody was trying to follow him. They cursed and rattled the handle, but the weight of the blockade bought Tommy some precious time. There was nowhere for him to go, however. He had basically locked himself in this tiny room.

And there was only one exit. Quickly, he put on his overshirt, pantaloons, and the leather pauldron he'd taken from his father's corpse before burying him. He pulled on the straps, though the armor was ill-fitting at best. Grabbing a sheet from the bed, Tommy wrapped it around his arm and face, hoping it would protect him from the glass shards.

Then he threw himself through the window.

The fall wasn't too deep, though pain shot through his back when Tommy landed on the unpaved road below. More shrieks rang out, this time because for these pedestrians a random guy just fell through a window. It wouldn't take long for them to catch onto what was actually happening though. And Tommy needed to be long gone before that happened.

Ignoring the pain, he forced his body into motion so he could get upright. The guards would be there any moment. Tommy didn't want to hang around to meet them.

He had come to Paris to kill a single man, for fuck's sake. Not to fight a whole army!

Running through the streets of the capital city, some irony couldn't help but bubble up in Tommy's chest. Why, he had hated his boring old rural life sometimes, this was not what he had been after. He was weaving between throngs of people, getting elbows and knees jabbed into him for good measure. An ache all over that wouldn't leave anytime soon had become Tommy's constant companion. His flight led him onto a market square, where vendors were selling their wares from carts and fold-out stalls. It was even busier than the city streets and thus ideal for somebody to disappear into.

Tommy ducked among the droves of people going about their day, between women in dainty corsets and men so prim and proper that getting a whiff of their cologne gave him a headache. Turning a corner, Tommy pressed his back against a pillar and hoped it will be enough to hide him. There was not a lot of cover though.

The bunched-up petticoats of the nobility gave him an excellent idea.

His arm shot out to drag the nearest woman towards him by the wrist. Tommy covered her mouth with his bare hand.

"I promise this is all some big misunderstanding, but I will give you five livre if you help hide me," he hissed urgently. Her brown eyes widened. "Please," Tommy insisted.

She nodded. He knelt as she took a step closer to the pillar, effectively squeezing him between the ample fabric of her skirts and the bricks. Unless somebody were to look closely, it would be hard to see him. And the rushing guards definitely didn't afford them more than a passing glance.

Tommy held his breath and waited. But after a few moments, he felt safe to exhale and stand up again.

"Thank y-"

The flat of her palm connected with his cheek, hard.

"What the fuck?!" Tommy said, only trying to keep his voice down because the guards might still be around.

"That's for messing with a lady's dress unprompted," the woman said. When she glared her entire face scrunched up around her rounded feature, anger blazing in her pale blue eyes.

Holding his smacked cheek with his own hand, it smarted fiercely but Tommy supposed he kind of deserved that. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't fancy the idea of being executed for something that wasn't my fault."

Her expression softened. Tommy could see the exact moment she realized how young he was, how exhausted he looked. And the fact that it made her pity him. He hated that.

"My name is Nicole," the woman said. "Friends will usually call me Niki though. Yours?"

Tommy pressed his back to the pillar, using it to keep from falling over. "Thomas. Most people just say Tommy."

"Well, Tommy…" She smiled kindly at him. "You're not from around here, I presume?"

"Yeah, not really."

"My home isn't too far away, I own a bakery." Niki took a step back. "You can stay at my place if you're in trouble."

"Why?" Tommy asked instantly. It made Niki frown so he clarified. "Like, not to be a dick about your kind offer but why would you help somebody you barely know?"

"We've all been in a spot of trouble before, have we not?" Niki straightened her skirt with one hand. "I only offer the sort of empathy I wish more people would feel for strangers."

"If you tell me where you live, I'll visit you after I'm done with my errand."

"Your errand?" Niki asked.

"I came to Paris to avenge the death of my father," Tommy said. "So you wouldn't happen to know where the musketeers have their garrison, would you?"

The barracks were shaped like a giant U, with a big entrance gate that wasn't even guarded. Tommy could just stroll inside, looking at the men milling about on the dusty patch of ground that served as their courtyard.

"I'm looking for Philip d'Athos!" He raised his voice so it rang out clearly above the talking and laughing of the off-duty soldiers.

One man turned around. He had shoulder-length blond hair and the blazon of a captain on his shoulder. "You've found him." The words were slightly lilting, more of a question than an answer.

He had no idea who Tommy was, clearly.

But that would change quickly.

He pulled out his sword, causing the atmosphere to immediately shift as tension rose. "My name is Thomas d'Artagnan, from Lupiac in Gascony." His fingers clenched on the hilt.

There was no going back now.

"Prepare to fight," Tommy said. "One of us dies here."