Chapter Two

'Are you with me?' Athos demanded, hand still on d'Artagnan's shoulder still squeezing sharply, a hint of worry in the tone.

'Yes.' His voice was too loud, too shrill. He cleared his throat, feeling smoke clog it once again. 'Yes.'

Athos didn't believe him for a second. He'd fought side by side with d'Artagnan for over a year and had never seen him freeze, or seen the colour drain so completely from his face. For a moment Athos had looked for a wound, but finding none he had turned his attention to the nobleman d'Artagnan stood in front of, the sword held up, d'Artagnan palming the blade in gloved hand in a mockery of a silent fight.

Quality velvet in a deep blue made stylish and top of the line jerkin and breaches. They encased a tall figure, the paunch around his middle testament to the finery's of life. Red broken veins making him appear ruddy in the face from the excess of food and alcohol. Perhaps mid sixties, if Athos had to age him, though it didn't look like life had been particularly kind to him. A frown of displeasure creased his forehead. Studying the face a little more, the brown eyes, what looked like a permanent scowl etched into the skin with wrinkles, Athos felt a slight tug of recognition. He was certain he'd never seen the nobleman around the court before, but there was a hint of familiarity in the face he couldn't explain.

The nobleman had been as silent as d'Artagnan, staring at the young man in deep concentration, almost as pale as the Gascon, when he suddenly seemed to become aware once again where he was. He huffed loudly, puffing up his chest and loudly exclaiming his disapproval at being stopped as he turned on his heel and walked away. It seemed mostly for show and Athos ignored him, turning his attention on d'Artagnan. 'Who was that?' he demanded, worry for the sudden change in d'Artagnan unintentionally hardening his tone. He still had a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, unsure if he was keeping d'Artagnan from running after or away from the nobleman.

D'Artagnan didn't acknowledge the question. 'd'Artagnan!' Athos said deliberately harshly, having to repeat himself before d'Artagnan finally looked his way, the movement sluggish.

D'Artagnan's eyes finally seemed to focus properly, meeting Athos's. There was something akin to desperation that d'Artagnan was quickly trying to hide in the depths. 'I…I have to get back.' D'Artagnan stammered, and turned, dislodging Athos's hand effortlessly as he stepped towards the doors. 'Have to get back.' Athos heard him mutter, sounding to Athos as if he was trying to remind himself of that fact.

xx

It was nearing two am when Treville came to begin dismissing them back to the garrison. Athos beckoned him over with a single look, ostensibly still surveying the lingering guests in the ballroom as he dipped his head towards Treville, whispered in his ear.

D'Artagnan told himself he was being paranoid, that Athos wasn't talking about him. But Treville's look came up and caught his, studied him as he simply nodded to whatever Athos had said, stepping away, indicating for d'Artagnan to follow him. He was dismissed back to the garrison along with half of the musketeers, Athos, Aramis and Porthos amongst those staying to round up the last guests and see them to their bed.

D'Artagnan wanted to argue with the order, though he knew it would be useless. Wanted to stay with his brothers with a desperation he hadn't felt in a long time. He didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to go back to his silent room and face the night by himself. He didn't want to see those eyes, the eyes that had forever haunted his dreams.

Didn't want to have the chance to contemplate the fact that he was here. Here in Paris. Here in the city. He couldn't think, didn't want to think. Whilst the logical part of him knew it a lie, his unconscious thoughts whispered that he was being sent away, that he was unneeded, unwanted, that he wasn't good enough. That they knew, they had found out from just the look, that Athos didn't want him because he had found out the truth. He looked up at Athos, but Athos was watching the ballroom and ignored him.

xx

Athos didn't watch d'Artagnan leave. Couldn't. Whatever had happened between the stranger and d'Artagnan, had left d'Artagnan looking washed out and more exhausted than he had that morning. He knew it was the right thing to do to ask Treville to send d'Artagnan back to the garrison for rest. Knew it was the right thing to do, but yet it felt very wrong. There was something going on that Athos didn't know, and he didn't like it, didn't understand it and it made him want to keep d'Artagnan close, exactly where he could see him. To protect him.

However, Athos had to stay, the arrangement made for him to be the senior guard now that Treville was leaving, and more than anything, Athos knew that the coming days were going to be long and exhausting and d'Artagnan needed to rest. Logic had to win over compassion.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to watch though. He knew without turning around the look that would be on d'Artagnan's face. The look of hurt at being set aside. It was there every time, however quickly d'Artagnan worked to cover it. When he was sent away from them, be it on mission or not the look was there. Athos had thought he knew of why the fear remained, however much d'Artagnan hid it, the fear of being abandoned. Had subtly worked, at first without even really realising it, to include d'Artagnan in things, assuming that the loss of his father, his only family had left the young man cast aside in a strange city. Anyone would flounder in such circumstances.

Now Athos wasn't so sure. There was something else, something deeper, older than those events that was twisting d'Artagnan up. He had known it for a while, had witnessed it in the restless sleep, the haunted look during the mission. Now he felt completely at a loss, not knowing where the man fit in, but knowing that he was someone significant.

'Who was that? Aramis asked, sidling up to Athos as he watched the last few party guests determined to finish all the alcohol that was on offer. Athos should have known that the events wouldn't go unnoticed by the pair, looking on his other side to acknowledge Porthos.

'I don't know. Can you see him?'

Porthos spotted him in the main hall, pointing out with a subtle nod of the head. Athos glanced over, again feeling that familiar hint of recognition frustrating him. He stood with a younger man, perhaps 18, the gestures indicating a less than peaceful discussion between the two. 'His son?' Aramis guessed after a glance at the pair, the hair colour and tone marking them of the same stock.

Athos shrugged, looking around for Gilbert. Gilbert was a veteran of the musketeers having served almost as long as Treville. Athos wandered over to him, knowing that if anyone would know, Gilbert would be the one to share the knowledge almost painlessly.

They exchanged pleasantries for as long as Athos could bear, before he gestured to the corner where father and son were getting increasingly animated. 'Know who that is? Haven't seen him before.'

Gilbert looked around, his expression surprised when he identified who Athos was pointing out. 'The Duke of Toulouse? No wonder. Haven't seen him at court in years.'

'Why the appearance now do you think?' Athos asked.

Gilbert tilted his head, considering the pair as Athos watched the doorway behind him, the pretence at least of the ever watchful guard. 'That must be his son, Edwin. Haven't seen him since he was barely a babe, just before the duchess died.' He finally spoke. 'The duke had him rather late in life. He has to be mostly of age by now.' He said considering. 'Perhaps he is in search of a suitable wife.'

Athos glanced at the older musketeer, noting the shadow of a grin as he leaned his head into Athos's speaking like an old gossip in Athos's ear. Athos would have shuddered but something told him he needed all the information he could get. 'Heard recently there was a spot of bother in Toulouse. That the son got himself into trouble with a servant girl and left daddy to clear up the mess, if you know what I mean?' Athos internalised the eye roll with difficulty. 'Heard he got sent to a monastery to be "straightened out". Still,' Gilbert continued, straightening slightly, still grinning. 'Apple don't fall far from the tree with that one. His father'

Whatever the father had done was lost over a shout of anger, and the musketeers were forced yet again into the role of glorified bouncers, keeping the nobles from killing each other. By the time Athos returned, Gilbert had gone, any interest in the conversation lost.

They were able to leave not long afterward, helped by Athos growing impatient that cleared the hall in a single efficient sweep, his glare prompting any of the nobles left to decide that yes, it was time to go to bed after all.

'What did Gilbert say?' Aramis asked as they walked the quiet streets.

'He's the Duke of Toulouse, with his son Edwin. They haven't been at court for a while, but he thinks Edwin must be in need of a wife.'

'That's it?' Aramis asked.

'We were interrupted.' Athos said dryly.

'Still, you were talking for at least 5 minutes.'

'Gilbert gossips like an old woman.' Athos grumbled.

'That he does.' Porthos agreed with a chuckle.

'You think d'Artagnan knows the Duke?' Aramis asked as they neared the garrison.

'Yes.' Athos answered without hesitation. Then he sighed, unable to assimilate that certainty into any type of knowledge he held about the young man. 'It's how that worries me.'

xx

D'Artagnan paced his room, trying to bleed out the swirling emotions that raged violently through him. Whilst he hadn't wanted to go, he'd been grateful to leave behind the noise and chaos of the ballroom. Now, though, confined to his room at the garrison, the silence felt constricting, the walls felt like they were closing in around him. He considered going to an inn, and though the distraction of alcohol would have been welcome, he felt too antsy to be in a room full of people.

He walked some more, trying desperately to blank his mind, to force the emotions out in the movement. It wasn't enough. The room was too small; too crowded with furniture. He didn't have the space to move, to let off steam, to stop the scream that felt like it had been clogging the back of his throat all evening escaping.

He had to get out. He had to escape the confines of his room. He wondered how many musketeers and recruits would be still in the garrison if he left, how many were there to tell Athos, Aramis and Porthos that he had walked out of the garrison. He wasn't ready to answer the questions he had seen so clearly on Athos's face. Wasn't ready to reveal a reality that he had tried so long and so hard to forget.

Wasn't ready to consider the implications of seeing that man after so long.

His look went to the window.

It wasn't the first time he had used it to escape his room, and he doubted it would be the last. He made short work of the latch, the small pane opening into the room. His room was along the eastern wall, looking out onto Rue De Ville, on the third, and top, floor, giving him a view of the sharp fall to the road below. He didn't hesitate now he'd made the decision, using the window as a bench, facing the wall, digging fingers into uneven brickwork above to push himself slowly to his feet, balancing on the frame before climbing up onto the roof. From the roof it was fairly easy to traverse to the edge of the corner of Rue De Ville and the corner of Rue De Lille, where a town house backed onto the Garrison, the gap barely 4 feet. From the townhouse his options opened up, the whole of the city of Paris beckoning him in the dark and quiet, the perfect escape.

Walking the city was not a new exercise. When he'd first arrived in Paris d'Artagnan had had many trips through and around the city. Fuelled with grief and anger, at a loss of what to do, caught between one life and another, he'd walked around every inch of the city seeking answers.

He had been homesick for Gascony, for the space of open fields and fewer people, where he could run to his heart content, where he knew everyone, where he had space to escape. But thinking of Gascony had led to thoughts of his dad, the grief that felt like it was crushing him at times. He couldn't comprehend returning to Lupiac, to his home without his dad by his side.

But the city had often seemed too loud, too crowded, too walled in. He'd walked the length and breadth of the city, wandering any path from wide open avenues to the smallest of alleyways. He'd found a peace in the movement, had eventually found solace in the chaos of city life. Surrounded by noise and energy and people he'd been able to bury some of the grief of his father's untimely murder away behind it.

He'd learnt the lay out of the city almost by accident, sometimes walking off pain and anguish, other times running off anger that burnt red, that made him shake with pent up energy. And as much as he wished for home, he knew returning would not be the same. That the bitterness of memories in the small village would be too strong. Paris was big and anonymous. She held him in her grasp now, swallowed him up. Perhaps more importantly she held no memories of his dad to remind him at every corner.

When he was allowed to stay as a recruit at the musketeers, as the three men he now called brothers somehow saw fit to welcome him into their group, as they shared their knowledge and wisdom of things far beyond just shooting or hand to hand or sword fighting, d'Artagnan had found another release for his energy, had found a more useful way to funnel his emotions. But he occasionally walked the streets still. During nights he simply couldn't sleep, feeling enclosed in the four walls of his room, surrounded by memories that he couldn't seem to escape. But the trips certainly became less frequent, less needed as he fell into the rhythm of the Musketeer life.

His traitorous conscious started prodding him as he turned down seemingly random streets. It took a little longer for d'Artagnan to admit to himself that above all he was angry and looking for a fight. That the random streets were actually a way to search out the seedier parts of Paris, the parts no sane man would travel any time, let alone in the dead of night.

It was never quiet in Paris. Even now there was cries and laughter, the odd scream, metal scraping against metal, wind making sheets covering windows flutter in its grasp, a dog barking, a glass shattering somewhere to his right. D'Artagnan let the music of the city wash over him, ground him, drown out the thoughts of his head till he had some control of the anger that filled him, allowing other thoughts to surface. It took a long time for the sensible part of d'Artagnan's conscious, that appeared to have taken on a voice that sounded a lot like Athos, to prod him into turning back towards the garrison, entering his room once more through the window.

He knew why he wanted to fight, even if he could barely admit it to himself. Seeing him again after so many years, suddenly having to remember so forcefully had sent him looking for a way to prove he wasn't a boy anymore, that he wasn't helpless any longer. That he could fight, and win, and maybe the pain and the adrenaline would bleed out some of the fear that seemed to have taken up residence in d'Artagnan's soul again.

He managed a few hours' sleep, thankful for the dreamless sleep of exhaustion that allowed him to feel at least somewhat rested when the sun rose. Sleep and daylight made controlling the feelings easier, allowed him to shut out the memories far better than the streets of Paris in darkness had.

As he dressed, pulling on the familiar weight of his fully loaded weapons belt, he took strength from reminding himself over and over that he was a musketeer. He was strong and able. He was the King's champion. He'd taken out Lebarge. He would never be helpless again.

He did, however, go marching to the courtyard looking for a fight. He still sought the physical need, the physical reminder that he could fight. Not from some nameless nobody in the street as he had searched unconsciously for last night. He needed the reminder of crossing swords with a fellow musketeer. He needed to know, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, that he was good enough to wear the pauldron that sat snug on his shoulder.

He hoped Athos would be there but was surprised to find the courtyard mostly empty, only a few of the recruits, eager enough to be seen early in the garrison, hoping to be noticed. D'Artagnan realised it was earlier than he had thought.

D'Artagnan briefly looked them over. He'd fought with all of them at one time or another. He was known for skill with the sword, and patience to teach so was sought to help train. He was also young enough to have the energy to fight when the day was done and everyone else was looking for more restful pursuits. One, Jean, d'Artagnan had trained with more than the others. He was ok with the sword, a little slow and obvious at times, and whilst it wasn't the fight d'Artagnan was seeking, perhaps the familiar movement of sword play would be enough for now. He still felt antsy, ready to climb out of his own skin if he didn't just move.

Jean was certainly up for it, standing smartly, sword ready when asked. D'Artagnan could have ended the fight with the first clumsy parry. He let the move go, though, counting through the familiar steps, the thrusts and parries that Athos had painstakingly taught him, day after day until he could do them in his sleep. Jean was obviously nervous but soon settled into the same rhythm as d'Artagnan, recognising this wasn't so much a fight, but an exercise to learn from. He copied the moves as best he could, occasionally slipping as he forced his feet through the unnatural patterns.

It wasn't enough, movement wasn't enough, frustration building as his opponent failed to keep up for his own need. D'Artagnan was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate solely on the movement, his treacherous mind trying to force itself backward in time to memories d'Artagnan had long since thought buried. So desperate was he in the attempt to forget it took him a second longer than it should to realise Athos had suddenly appeared at Jean's shoulder, tapping him aside gently and settling across from d'Artagnan. He didn't say anything, and d'Artagnan bit his lip in unconscious worry at what he was thinking, at what he'd read on d'Artagnan's face.

Athos, as usual, was impossible to read, simply met d'Artagnan's eye, bowed his head slightly and lifted his sword in acknowledgement. D'Artagnan lifted his own sword in salute, even as his heart beat finally picked up, as adrenaline coursed through him and brought blood flowing fast into battle ready muscles. This was the fight he had been after, and all the memories finally slipped away as he faced his mentor.

They had fought countless times before. Athos still got the better of him most of the time- he was the undisputed master swordsman of the musketeers after all. But d'Artagnan had managed to win a few times. A couple through luck, recently more from skill, each time a pride filled "well done" from Athos, the nod of approval more than enough for d'Artagnan.

They circled each other. In most of their fights it was d'Artagnan who bored first, too impatient for the start of the fight and going in for the first strike, Athos waiting out the inevitable. Now, though, d'Artagnan was counting again, determined to force Athos into the first strike, reaching 99 before Athos sword lashed out, quick and deadly had d'Artagnan not been moving almost as fast to parry. The resultant clang of metal on metal echoing around the silent, empty courtyard. At least, D'Artagnan had assumed the place was still empty, not stopping to look as he focused entirely on Athos, unaware that the courtyard was filling up, fellow musketeers or recruits stopping to watch what was quickly becoming a popular spectator sport in the regiment as the sheer ferocity of the fight between d'Artagnan and Athos broke out.

It was a beautiful spectre to behold. They were both graceful in their own way. Athos with clinical moves and efficient strikes, every thrust and movement parried with deadly intention. D'Artagnan moved with the ease and grace of a dancer, flexible and quick he could move almost as if he read the intention straight from Athos's mind. Aramis and Porthos, amongst the spectators having arrived with Athos could see the honing of natural talent that Athos had slowly instilled in his protégé, taking the energy and temper and stubbornness and grace that was all d'Artagnan and moulding it into a deadly package that put him on a par with anyone in the garrison.

Round the courtyard the fight went, quick and brutal at times, slow and intense at others. D'Artagnan let the movements flow, not having to consciously think through every movement his body knew so well. He let Athos have the attack, before growing bored and forcing the man into a surprised defensive shot. He let his mind wander briefly over tactics but he didn't want the fight to end, he wanted his body to keep going, to keep pushing, past the burning pain in his legs, past burning lungs that were desperately trying to keep up with the oxygen demanded of them. If he was moving, and fighting and his sword was clashing again and again with Athos then he wasn't thinking, the memories were absent, his mind blissfully clear. He could force away the feelings of hate and helplessness that had plagued him since seeing that man. He could remember that he was a musketeer and he had no need to feel anything but the fight.

But his mind wandered.

As he fought to stop thinking about that man his mind once more wandered to days long past, to red leaves and a pyre. To a haunting cry and burning pain. Memories surfaced of the impotent rage that had filled him as he hung, just a child and completely powerless to do anything but watch, screaming as the fire licked at his mother. Completely helpless. Completely defenceless.

Eyes that long haunted his dream flashed through his mind, caused something to snap and black fury to tidal wave through him. Adrenaline blanked out pain, fury riding roughshod over exhaustion. His moves became hard and fast, clinical as he channelled the fury into movements that moments ago he had drawn such comfort from.

D'Artagnan didn't remember the last stage of the fight. He didn't even realise he'd gained the upper hand until he was staring down at Athos on the floor, diverting his sword at the last moment to stop an inch from Athos's unguarded throat. For a second another image swam over Athos's face, another face, from another time, another life, but then the shocked silence of the garrison chased it away, and d'Artagnan obliquely registered the quickly hidden shock on his mentor's face. The entire garrison appeared to hold its breath, just waiting, till d'Artagnan forced himself to take a step back, sword swinging limply to his side, and Athos smiled proudly, the quiet "well done" like a signal for the noise to start again.

A clap to his shoulder made him startle, made his heart stutter, Aramis adding his own observations about him besting Athos so thoroughly. Porthos's hearty hand to his back almost made him fall forwards. He felt shocked, panting as his pained lungs forced air in as quickly as they could. Athos took his proffered arm, levering to his feet, just as out of breath. He held on to d'Artagnan's arm for longer than necessary, his probing eyes seeking information d'Artagnan desperately wanted to hide, before he simply nodded again, resettling the hold rather than letting go of his arm. 'Breakfast.' He announced, not giving d'Artagnan a choice as he forced him away and towards the kitchen. Aramis and Porthos shared a glance before walking after them.

'The day will be long.' Athos commented when they were all settled at the table with food and drink. He met d'Artagnan's eye with a mild, questioning look, assessing his ability to stay in the moment, to not have a repeat of last night. D'Artagnan felt his look grow slightly mutinous although he struggled not to show it. He simply nodded, and looked away.

'Aye, watching the king try to hit any animal from ten paces and sulking when he misses.' Porthos commented, effectively lightening the mood though neither he nor Aramis missed the by play.

'Always the height of entertainment.' Aramis agreed.

None of them asked the obvious question and d'Artagnan was grateful for that. He wasn't stupid enough to think that they wouldn't, as much as he might wish it. But there was not time that morning. Their fellow musketeers who were to accompany the king were already milling about readying their mounts for the day. D'Artagnan knew that Athos wasn't about to let it lie though.

Athos was frustrated at the lack of time and opportunity to question d'Artagnan, though it didn't show on his face. Whatever was distracting d'Artagnan, whoever the man was that had caused such tumultuous emotions in the Gascon, Athos would find out, but he knew he needed more time than was available to do that.

He just hoped there would be time.

He wasn't sure why he felt so unsettled about the whole thing. Perhaps it was simply because he had never seen d'Artagnan as he had yesterday. Had never been witness, as he had that morning, to the blank look of detachment on d'Artagnan's face as his sword descended swiftly towards his neck. For a moment Athos had feared for his life, unable to defend the blow, d'Artagnan clearly not aware of whose neck his sword was moving towards.

He had to know what was happening because he feared the consequences if they didn't. Athos glanced at Aramis, then Porthos, no words needed to express a desire that their young Gascon not be left alone today. They both simply nodded.

xx

Author's note

Thank you for the reviews, favourites etc- as anyone knows who posts to this site, they are always longed for and cherished.

Oh, and I know nothing of sword play. Please forgive any inaccuracies!