Chapter five

The parade through the streets of Paris the next day was long, boring and wholly without incident, largely due to the big dark clouds that loomed ominously low over the city, though they kindly waited until the royalty was back at the Louvre to let forth with their watery contents. D'Artagnan was on horseback, to the front left of the Royal carriage, keeping the small crowds that braved the threat of rain to glimpse their majesties back. Not that it was hard, most people too sensible to get in the way of the dozen large horses, large musketeers, or equally large carriage wheels. Porthos was mirroring him on the other side, Aramis and Athos completing the square at the back of the carriage.

Prayers for the King's long life and great reign were offered in the small cathedral at the palace, the sweet sound of the hundred small boys making up the choir filling the space with their sung Eucharist. The Canon droned through an address that most of the musketeers didn't even pretend to follow, except maybe Aramis, though even he fought not to look bored as it dragged on.

The evening ball, by contrast, was by far the biggest and loudest event of the weekend, the grand finale of the birthday weekend, including a sit down meal, live music and dancers, jugglers and other live entertainment. It stretched beyond the ball room to the great hallway, and several other wings of the Louvre, and would have spilled into the gardens except the earlier heavy showers had curtailed those plans. D'Artagnan had thought the Ball on the first night was spectacular, but that seemed a minor prelude now to the main event. The Louvre had never looked so elegant, spectacularly dressed up, like the thousand guests that milled about, the finery probably able to erase poverty in the city in one foul swoop.

The Musketeers and Red Guard were strung out through the Louvre, keeping the more excited patrons under control, and making sure the King and Queen remained unmolested when they toured the spectacle. They all assumed that the Duke would not dare try anything in such surroundings, if he was planning anything, though Athos, Aramis and Porthos kept a subtle eye on him throughout the evening, made easy by the fact the man stood out, even among such finery, in silks of peacock blue. His son was by his side at the start of the evening, dressed more classically in robes of deep green, but his look was downcast, his face pale as if he was ill, and no one was surprised when he retired early.

D'Artagnan didn't bother worrying about the Duke himself. He still wasn't sure how he felt about all the secrets that had been revealed. As he stood behind the king on the throne, watching the simpering mess and stilted words of powerful noblemen (who would normally be sneering down their noses at d'Artagnan) prostrating themselves at his Majesty's feet, he fought to keep his thoughts in the ballroom and not worrying over the events of last night.

He'd woken up to a cricked neck and surrounded by his brothers, all of them having slept on the floor of his garrison room. It had been comforting, and he was startled that despite the few hours' sleep they had had, the night had been dreamless and more restful than he had thought possible. The morning routine had been comforting in its normalness; nothing had changed, and whilst it was subtle d'Artagnan was glad of the efforts the others made to make it so. One of his fears was that they would view him differently, and it was comforting, as much as it was irritating as Porthos teased him, and Aramis fussed over them eating, and Athos issued orders as naturally as he breathed.

It was still somewhat perturbing to know that they knew, though.

Startling to know that the events that had shaped and controlled so much of his early years were now out in the open, after everything that his father had done to keep them secret. He wasn't sure if the others would understand that he hadn't deliberately been keeping it a secret as such. Not from them.

It was the truth that he didn't think much on it during his waking hours. Twenty years, and whilst the events could hurt as deeply as when they had happened, time had allowed him to build walls to house the memories in. The scars that rippled the skin on his lower legs was a permanent reminder, but even they rarely provoked memories in the daylight hours, as much a part of him as his brown hair. The nights were always worse, when his unconscious mind had free reign to remember, to augment, to torture him with the memories.

He wasn't ashamed of his past. His father had never let him be. But he had grown up with one unbreakable rule, the one rule d'Artagnan had never broken: that he never speak of the events to anyone but his dad. Even through his angry adolescence when he had pushed and shoved at every boundary his dad had ever enforced, he had never spoken of it, to anyone, ever. He had lived his whole life by that one rule and knowing that he had broken it felt wrong, even in the circumstances, even though he knew there was little choice.

Ironically, d'Artagnan didn't even remember the events all that well. He told the story in the third person not just because it was easier, a way to detach himself from the events, but also because it had been told to him that way by his father. His own memories were broken, fractured bits of pictures that didn't make any sense viewed alone. And whilst he revisited it regularly in his dreams, the dreams changed, warped, twisted till he had little idea what was real, what was imagination.

The perspective changed. Sometimes he watched it from above. Sometimes he stood next to the Duke. Usually he was desperately, desperately trying to get closer to his mother. He would be held back, though. Held by ropes against a wooden stake. Or held by slithering snakes tying themselves around his middle. Sometimes nothing held him back but however much he tried, however much he desperately ran towards his mother, he could only keep watching as the flames engulfed her and she continued to scream.

Sometimes his mother lived. Her green eyes would look up at him from her burnt face, and she would beg him to help. Mostly she died, but the time it took, how she died changed.

The screams, though, they didn't change. Her screams were set to forever haunt his nightmares.

And the red leaves never changed. They littered the floor, crackled in the flames, flew in the wind, but were always present. An annual reminder every time Autumn rolled around.

And the eyes of the man that watched it all with an impassive look on his face was always the same.

Sometimes he looked like a monster. Had a scaly body. Or devil's horns. Maybe claws instead of hands. Or fur; patchy and mangy. Or long sabre teeth. Face like a wolf. Or a leviathan. Sometimes he was simply a man, scarier in a way when he was just…normal.

But his eyes. His eyes…they were always the same. D'Artagnan could never forget his eyes. They haunted him, every time he looked in the mirror. The eyes that looked back at him, dark and watchful, identical to those in his dreams, the one part of his looks he had inherited from his father.

He shuddered, forcing his mind back to the present but the sound of the crowds suddenly seemed too loud, the light of a thousand torches too bright, the air stiflingly hot. A brief touch on his shoulder and he startled slightly, looked up to Athos who was studiously looking out at the crowd. 'We've been ordered to patrol the grounds.' He said, nodding to his other side, where two other musketeers stood ready to take on the duty of guarding the king.

D'Artagnan followed Athos out into the quiet and dark grounds, breathing in the fresh and cleansing air. They walked in silence for a long time, round the palace to the back of the grounds, seeing no one but a few servants emptying rubbish into the waste pits.

They crossed the stables, and d'Artagnan remembered the Duke hiding in wait for him there, only yesterday though it felt longer. He'd been startled, and then annoyed as the Duke stepped out of him, d'Artagnan too slow to reach, finding himself pushed flat against the wall of the stable and unable to reach for a weapon. D'Artagnan hadn't been entirely truthful about the event, though to be fair it had been a minor point of all that had been revealed last evening. His father had held his shiny unused sword to d'Artagnan's throat, holding him in place. Luckily, the sword really was mostly a decorative jewel on his belt, the blade dull as it pressed against his throat.

'I couldn't believe it, last night. When I realised who you were.'

'Must have been a shock.' D'Artagnan had been shocked that he could keep his voice so mild when faced with the monster of his childhood. There, in the cold stable, the sound of horses moving uneasily in their stalls, the unique equine smell filling his nostril, the monster looked old. It didn't stop his heartbeat tripping into a fast, uneven beat, cold sweat to break out, and a fear as old as he was running through him.

'You look like her.' There was accusation in the Duke's voice, as if it was purely d'Artagnan's fault that he looked more like his mother than his father. 'You should be dead.'

'You should know; you were the one who ordered it.'

'Dead.' The Duke had all but whispered, and d'Artagnan, somewhat abstractedly, realised his father almost sounded scared.

'You think repeating it is going to make it anymore real?' d'Artagnan drew himself up to his father's height, pushing against the steel held against his throat.

'I searched for you. But you and that gardner' he spat the job title as if it was truly offensive, 'had disappeared. I assumed you'd died anyway.' The Duke was searching d'Artagnan's face as if hoping for a sign that he wasn't really who he was. 'I heard someone call you his name, though.'

They were interrupted before he could continue, a couple of stable boys noisily arguing about a game of dice coming in through a side door, neither of them having any idea what they had interrupted. D'Artagnan pushed the Duke away, putting much needed distance between him and the man, as the stable boys realised they weren't as alone as they had thought.

'Alright, d'Artagnan?' One of them called out, recognising the musketeer who often graced the stables and was always polite to them.

'Yeah, Lons, I'm good. Busy few days. Never seen the palace so packed.' D'Artagnan responded, stepping further from the Duke.

'I know, never seen nothing like it.' The second boy, Eric agreed, reaching out and patting a horses' head when it came down to snuffle in hope at his pockets.

'What's 'e doing 'ere?' Lons asked, peering at the man who was stood in d'Artagnan's shadow now.

'The Duke wanted to be sure his stead was well cared for. I reassured him that only the best stable hands worked in his majesty's stable.'

'course, they do.' Lons agreed with his cheeky grin. 'the horses 'ere get fed better than we do.' He joked.

The Duke turned and disappeared, probably recognising that whatever he had come to do wouldn't be happening just then. When Treville had appeared five minutes later, d'Artagnan had been standing ready, both horses saddled and waiting, the adrenaline rush mostly subsiding to a fear d'Artagnan hadn't felt for a long time.

He cast his look now away from the stable, towards the grounds and the palace, blanking his mind of the Duke and the threats. He didn't think the Duke would try anything, and knew that with his friends aware, he would be protected anyway. But a childhood fear, the memories of the cold look on his father's face as his mother screamed, had him wanting his dad, his real dad, the man who had saved him all those years ago, with a longing that threatened to take his breath away.

'Ok?' Athos asked at length, breaking the silence as they completed the circuit of the palace, the sound of the river running somewhere to their left masking their voices from anyone who might be listening. A few guests wandered the grounds in front of the palace, new or old conquests on their arms as they looked for a spot of privacy in the gardens, only to be denied by the Red Guard or Musketeers also patrolling the area.

D'Artagnan nodded, for once the more silent of their partnership.

'The guests will disperse tomorrow. The city will return to normality.' The unspoken question and comment that he only had to last till then.

'Not sure what normal is now.' D'Artagnan finally found his voice, speaking one of the fears of telling them all his sordid childhood tale.

Athos shrugged. 'Everything and nothing has changed.' He said at length, d'Artagnan feeling his intense stare like a burn on his cheek. He frowned as he thought this over.

'Not one of us can choose our family. And it would be poor on our part, if after everything you know about us, we let such events cloud our view of you.'

'That's…' d'Artagnan swallowed, comforted somewhere deep inside at having his fears allayed so simply.

Athos didn't appear to expect him to finish the sentence, merely clasped his forearm in a long grip before they moved off again, d'Artagnan soothed and able to believe that there would be an ending to the nightmare.

xxx

Athos could see the effect of his words in the instant release of tension that had seemed to hold d'Artagnan it its grip all day. His shoulders relaxed, his face smoothed out, his whole demeanour returned more towards normal leaving Athos to wonder on the thoughts that the young man had been torturing himself with.

Porthos had been the one to alert him to d'Artagnan, stood on the dais behind the king, pale and staring in the chaos of the ball. Athos was glad that it would take someone who knew d'Artagnan well to see that he wasn't watching the crowds as he appeared to be doing so, and he had been the one to order two musketeers to take his place, dragging a willing d'Artagnan into the quiet grounds for a much needed breather on the pretext of patrolling.

The tension had still been wrapped around d'Artagnan and Athos knew that more needed to be said but that it would take the Duke leaving the city (in a body bag may have been all of their preferences, but it was an unlikely dream) for things to begin to settle.

Hearing the whisper of some of d'Artagnan's fear, that they would view him as different, Athos was quick to debunk. Glad he had when the weight seemed to lift from d'Artagnan's shoulders in a long exhalation.

They re-entered the chaos of the ballroom, Athos recognising the fast dance Courante being completed by a group of dancers, accompanied by the live musicians. After showing appreciation of the talent on display, the dance floor was soon swamped by couples wanting to show off their own, rather less graceful moves as the music struck up again. He looked around, spying Porthos standing motionless in the corner of the room giving him the best view of the entrance and the crowd of dancers. He briefly met Athos's look, nodding a greeting before his eyes briefly went to d'Artagnan returning to Athos with a raised eyebrow, the question obvious. Athos briefly nodded, moving off into the crowds, d'Artagnan more himself as they began to herd the increasingly drunk noble off to their beds. He didn't even mind as he was separated from d'Artagnan by the need to be in more places than there were guards. D'Artagnan was back with it, and when they had swung past Aramis earlier, the marksman had indicated the Duke had already retired to bed.

It was a long night, the hour closer to dawn before Athos caught up with the others, watching with Porthos as Aramis and d'Artagnan buddied up to convince the last of the party to go to bed. A skeleton guard would stay, larger than the normal night guard, but Treville released them back to the garrison, all of them glad the weekend was over and not just because of the obvious. They were all exhausted, none of them having slept that much the night before, and they were expected back to normal duties the next day, but they were all longing for their own beds, even for a few hours.

Athos slept deeply, the morning bells waking him still tired, but without a hangover to compound the feeling. He wasn't surprised to find Aramis and Porthos already seated, empty bowls in front of them showing they hadn't waited for him and d'Artagnan to arrive before eating breakfast. He frowned at that thought; d'Artagnan wasn't known to sleep in, he had been teased often enough for his early morning habits. Aramis must have followed his thoughts as he was quick to put him at ease. 'Treville sent him on a missive delivery.'

'Where?' Athos asked unsurprised now that he was over that initial moment of panic; it wasn't the first time d'Artagnan had been sent on an early morning mission simply because he was first at the garrison.

He grabbed the bowl of hot oats that Porthos held out to him as he answered 'Amadiers. Should only be gone an hour or two.'

'At least it's not raining.' Aramis commented, looking up at the light grey cloud that hung unmoving above them.

'Did Treville have any other orders?' Athos asked between mouthfuls.

'Training.' Porthos told him with a grin.

Athos couldn't help feeling relieved that they weren't being expected to do anything. It felt like he hadn't stopped in a long time.

'Palace later.' Aramis added.

He sighed. He should have known it would be too good to be true.

The morning was cut short, a messenger from the Palace asking Treville to send his guard early. Treville looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but contained it, looking over at Athos and Aramis, who had been throwing each other somewhat half heartidly around the garrison in a pretension at training. Porthos stepped over, having taken money off some naive cadets who believed a musketeer couldn't shoot a moving target. That wasn't just Aramis's trick, he just happened to be able to do it better. Blindfolded for example.

'Go.' Treville simply commanded. 'D'Artagnan is due to deliver the reply there on his way back, he can join you.'

Athos nodded, and walked over to retrieve the jacket and weapons belt he had abandoned on the table. They were mostly quiet as they returned to the Palace, all of them thinking that they could have quite happily stayed away longer.

Lons, the blond stable boy stepped forward to take their horses, grinning at them. He was unfailingly cheerful, whatever was going on; Athos didn't trust anyone that happy for no reason. 'Athos.' The boy smiled, completely unshaken at Athos's barely concealed glare in return. 'thought you'd get at least a day off.'

'No rest for the wicked.' Aramis commented, passing his own reigns to Lons.

'You just missed d'Artagnan.' Lons told them, fussing over the horses who preened at the attention and nosed at his pockets.

'Oh?' Athos asked. He knew d'Artagnan, in his usual way, was always friendly with the stable boys, like he was with the porters and guards, and cooks alike, and wasn't surprised that he would have spoken to Lons. Athos could remember many times waiting impatiently whilst d'Artagnan chatted to the boys about some aspect of horse care, or some palace gossip.

'Yeah, he didn't stay long, said he just had a letter to deliver.'

Athos felt eyes on him and looked up at Aramis. 'Want me to go get him?' He asked.

Athos wasn't sure he would trust either of them to return if he gave Aramis a legitimate reason to leave, so he shook his head. 'Leave him. I'm sure whatever is needed, won't need all of us. No point all of us being here.'

By the look on Aramis's face, he was clearly wondering why he also needed to be there, but he dutifully followed Athos into the palace. The highly trained King's musketeers found themselves standing guard over the king as some of the most influential noblemen in France came and bowed before him, offering their birthday congratulations and sincere thank you for the weekend. And to ask for a favour or two whilst they were down there. Why a musketeer guard was needed for such a duty was a mystery, why it was wanted soon become clear, because having three highly trained musketeers dressed in full uniform and cloak was an intimidating show, and every nobleman who came to prostrate before the king took a second look at the blatant show of power.

Athos was just finished glaring at a blatant lack of attention from Aramis, who had been intimately studying the ceiling, when he stiffened, his hand automatically moving towards his sword hilt as the Duke walked in. He felt Aramis shift next to him, glanced over to see both him and Porthos had unconsciously done the same, the slow burn of anger that had long settled in the pit of his stomach since learning about the man flaring bright once again.

The familiarity that Athos had sensed the first time he had seen the man now made sense. Knowing what to look for, he could see that whilst d'Artagnan didn't particularly look like his father, the eyes were the same, the shape, the colour of them. He wondered what d'Artagnan's mother had looked like.

'Ah, the good Duke of Toulouse.' The king said, not bothering to straighten from where he was slumped slightly on his throne, cup of wine in hand. 'Where is your son?'

The man looked uncomfortable as he rose from his bow. 'He sends his apologies, your majesty, he…he is not well.' Athos felt his eyes narrow at such a blatant lie, but stayed silent, his look intent.

'Shame.' The king answered, insincerely. 'his introduction to court could have gone…smoother.' The king sounded amused by it all.

'Yes, your majesty.' The Duke agreed, his eyes down cast.

'You are returning to Toulouse today?' the king asked, his voice suggesting that anything but an answer to the positive would not be well received.

'Uh…yes, your majesty, that is the plan.' He straightened himself to his full height, but Athos could see he looked somewhat uncomfortable. Wary of something. Studying him more, Athos decided it wasn't as simple as that. The man looked perturbed by something, and he didn't like the way his look frequently flickered to the three of them, the look searching. Athos was quite glad right then that d'Artagnan wasn't there to have to stand before this man. 'Thank you for the invitation, your majesty, it was an honour to be here.'

'Don't wait so long, next time.' The king commanded, though he didn't sound all that sincere.

'No, your majesty.' Hearing the dismissal, the Duke bowed low, taking two steps back before turning and walking out with hurried steps.

Athos caught the shared look between Aramis and Porthos, knew he wasn't the only one with a feeling of relief that the Duke would soon be out of the city. The relief, however, couldn't completely blanket the foreboding that he had been experiencing the whole weekend. At least he didn't have to worry about d'Artagnan, safely back at the garrison by now, hopefully staying out of trouble.

Thankfully, the king grew bored of the spectacle a little while after they did, and decided it was time to eat instead. They weren't outright dismissed, and stood around impatiently till a guard remembered to come and tell them the king no longer required their immediate service.

'Should have sent Lons after d'Artagnan.' Aramis commented as they made their way back to the garrison. 'The king is always in a better mood with him to talk to.'

'At least he didn't have to see the Duke again.' Porthos reminded him.

Aramis nodded, looking a little guilty about his comment as he thought about it. 'Yes. But the Duke will soon be gone.'

'Weird, in it?' Porthos commented. 'You can see a bit of the Duke in him. When you look.'

'The eyes.' Athos agreed.

'To think someone like d'Artagnan could come from him.' Aramis said.

'I was thinking last night.' Athos commented quietly as they neared the garrison. 'I never really asked d'Artagnan about the past before.' There was censure in his words, that he had been remiss in such a thing.

'None of us have.' Porthos corrected.

'D'Artagnan was never really forthcoming, either.' Aramis added.

They were silent as they all pondered the thought. Perhaps d'Artagnan had been reluctant to talk of his past. In retrospect, Athos couldn't remember him ever willingly start a conversation about it before. He hadn't really even thought it strange, even.

Perhaps they should have taken the time to ask. Perhaps the amount of time Athos had tried to forget about his own past meant that he had not even considered d'Artagnan's. Or perhaps it was because the boy was just too damn young, that when he had stormed into the garrison filled with grief and rage they had all forgotten that he hadn't been born the day he'd watched his dad die on the road to Paris.

Then again, perhaps it was because they had known all they needed to. Athos allowed his thoughts to wander to all they knew of the young man. His strength in the face of insurmountable odds. The fire and passion and honour they had all come to rely on. The sheer stubbornness that could be so infuriating. The quick mind, quick wit, and even quicker feet and hands in a fight. Maybe they hadn't asked about his past because they hadn't felt the need to: they had learnt all they felt they needed, fighting at the young man's side, sharing a deserved drink or meal, watching him grow into the pauldron that had been more than earned. Athos couldn't remember ever feeling as proud as he had the day he had fastened the leather strap to d'Artagnan's upper arm.

'The time for secrets has passed.' Athos murmured, mostly to himself though the two men by his side caught the words, and the heartfelt emotion behind it, and simply nodding their agreement.

xxx

Author's note

Again, my thanks for all the support and reviews- I can't lie, I do love them!

Apologies if this feels a little like a filler chapter, it felt too long if I ran it to the next natural break. Anyway, next update hopefully soon (just doing a little editing on the go!)