D'Artagnan was going to be burned, and he fought like a man possessed to get free as the flames crept closer, licking at his boots now, the heat intense against his skin. His mother's screams surrounded him. The eyes of a monster watched it all. And he shouted in desperation for his dad to save him.

xxx

Aramis was depending on the fact that building a pyre would take time. It was the only thing that was driving him, keeping the panic in check as he urged his horse forward through the city crowds. The Catholic rites to burning of witches surely took time, the process of prayer and salutations, the ritual involved with any high Catholic service. He had never witnessed a burning himself, would never choose to be a part of a church that even believed in self-flagellation let alone burnings as punishment. His faith had always involved an image of a loving God and he couldn't see where burnings fit in with that. But Aramis thanked God now for the long rituals of Catholicism and then wondered if that was blasphemous. He quickly sought forgiveness as the crowds finally parted and he could dig the heels of his boots into the flank of his mare, urging her forward.

The Monastery of St Michael and St Matthew was outside of the city wall. It was set apart from the villages that surrounded it, it's history long and storied with the rumours of all the parts of the Catholic church that had been falling from favour. Surrounded by forest on three sides, a river on the forth, it deliberately hid itself away from the modernising world around it, keeping firmly entrenched in the past.

Aramis had never visited the monastery, finding his comfort within the walls of the many churches in the city. However, he had heard the rumours ever since he had been in Paris. If the rumours were true, it was probably the only monastery in Paris that would allow such an act on its land. Hoping against hope that he had read the situation right and that he wasn't leading his brothers on a wild goose chase to the wrong monastery. That he hadn't condemned the young d'Artagnan to his death.

Aramis had never thought that the smell of burning could bring such relief and such dread all at once. They approached the monastery at speed, lazy smoke visible from some distance, drifting upwards from inside the large stone walls that surrounded the Monastery. A scream rent the air, piercing through the sounds of the forest that surrounded them, Aramis flinching at the sound as he aimed for the open gateway, ignoring the posted monks on the entrance in favour of riding straight through, Athos and Porthos by his sides. Shouts followed them from the monks, but nothing more harmful followed their progress.

Inside the stone walls, the church was flanked by the stone rooms of the monastery, stables to the left, the kitchen garden beside it. Aramis headed to the right where the smoke had been visible, another scream tearing through the air, spurring them on as they circled around the church, forced to slow as they navigated the unfamiliar territory.

As much as Aramis knew what a burning pyre would look like, the first sight of d'Artagnan, strung up on a central pyre with flames already burning around his trapped legs took his breath away. He moaned quietly in horror, hearing a sharply drawn breath from Athos and a loud, horrified curse from Porthos.

Tight ropes held d'Artagnan against a central stake, a large heap of wood at his feet burning merrily, filling the courtyard with the smell of charred wood, the smoke making Aramis's eyes water and his nose to run as they drew closer. The piercing sound of d'Artagnan's screams, the desperate fight he was having against the thick ropes that held him to the stake made them all shudder as they dismounted without waiting for their mounts to fully stop, breaking into a run.

Aramis saw Edwin, stood in front of the pyre, watching with a look of sick fascination. A large man, presumably his servant, stood blanked face at his side. Aramis ignored them for now, leaving Athos and Porthos to deal with them, hearing the singing sound of steel as they pulled their swords even above the crackling fire. Instead he veered to the back of the fire, seeking a part that was less alight, shuddering as another terrified, choke filled scream filled the air. He looked up, his eyes streaming, the smoke pulling a cough from his lungs, seeing d'Artagnan's movements were weakening as the smoke surrounded him, choked him, more deadly than the flames climbing his legs.

There was no finesse in the movements as Aramis jumped atop the back of the bonfire where the flames had yet to find a path, feeling the wood shift unsteadily under foot. He didn't stop to think, simply used his full weight to bring the central stake that d'Artagnan was bound to crashing backward, the only plan to remove d'Artagnan from the fire's deadly path. Porthos appeared as Aramis stamped out a flaming log that dared fall by him, his own eyes already red and streaming from the smoke. They moved as one, shedding jackets to fling over d'Artagnan's legs, Porthos stamping at the rest of the blazing wood that had fallen from the pyre as Aramis beat out the smouldering breeches.

The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils as he lifted the coat, making him gag slightly before he got a hold of the reaction. D'Artagnan was coughing, choking, fighting against the ropes that still held him, lost in the terror and pain of the fire. Porthos was hacking away with his short sword at the ropes that bound d'Artagnan's hands to the stake. Aramis took in the burnt skin, relieved that the leather boots had offered some protection but the fabric stuck tightly to the shin of the leg and he could not see how extensive the burns were at first look. There was little he could do though, when d'Artagnan was still thrashing against the bindings that held him, and he left trying to assess the burns to try and calm d'Artagnan down as Porthos worked steadily through the thick ropes. Cupping d'Artagnan's face in both hands, he held the man steady, calming some of the furious movements as he took in the large and spreading bruise that burst in sickening blacks and purples over d'Artagnan's temple, deeper welts that formed the shape of a fist spoke of some kind of metal knuckle dusters. The injury helped explain how the young man had been caught and then transported without putting up more of a fight and Aramis knew he would have to be as careful of concussion as he had to be with the burns.

For the moment, though, Aramis simply moved to comfort the scared young man. 'Calm, d'Artagnan. breathe, you're safe, you're ok. calm.' A litany of words fell from his lips though d'Artagnan continued to fight.

Porthos finally got the ropes binding his arms and torso free, and d'Artagnan lurched up, away from the central stake that had held him tightly, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. Aramis caught him easily before he could try and fight against the ropes still holding his legs, holding the shaking body close, reassuring him with touch. Porthos freed the rope from around his legs, and Aramis looked up as Athos settled beside them. 'Edwin?'

Athos met his look, 'dealt with.' He said shortly. Aramis studied him for a moment, taking in the impassive look, as Porthos ran a calming hand over d'Artagnan's head. Aramis allowed a simple sigh, holding d'Artagnan tight for a moment more before he nodded at Athos, settling d'Artagnan back and onto Athos so that he could have a proper look at the various injuries.

He examined the head injury a little more. D'Artagnan was quieter, his face flushed from the heat of the fire, his eyes red and streaming. The smoke was still thick, even here, behind the worst of the fire and they were all coughing a little now. His eyes were glazed over, and didn't seem to be comprehending what was happening or where he was. He hadn't moved from where he was resting against Athos who held him gently.

'D'Artagnan?' Aramis asked, hoping for some recognition. Whether solely the head injury, or having a childhood nightmare come so brutally to life, d'Artagnan didn't respond to his voice. Heaving a worried sigh, Aramis knew there was little he could do at that moment for a concussion so he moved to examine the burns.

'Well?' Porthos eventually demanded, and Aramis looked up to find he was being watched closely by him and Athos. Porthos, at least, was clearly breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of burnt flesh that rose from the legs. Aramis could see that the skin was red and blistered, clear fluid leaking from some, where the blisters had burnt. They spread across the front of d'Artagnan's shins, reaching almost to the knee, but had not had time to move further, and had not spread to the back of the calf or higher.

It could have been a whole lot worse, Aramis knew, and he let out a small sigh of relief before he spoke. 'The river.' Porthos simply raised an eyebrow in question at the seemingly non-sequencer. 'We need to cool the burns.' Aramis explained.

Porthos remained silent as he simply moved to immediately put the words into action. Between him and Athos they carried d'Artagnan, keeping him upright as he started coughing more relentlessly in the fresher air, following Aramis towards a back gate in the wall. Away from the still burning pyre, Aramis could hear the sounds of the river more clearly, relieved as his stinging eyes calmed and he could cleanse his own lungs with the clearer air.

The autumnal rains had filled the rivers, and it was higher than Aramis was expecting, making him second guess his plan as he saw how fast it was running. 'Over there.' Athos said, pointing with his chin to a larger rock, around 20 yards along the bank of the river, stood sentry in the shallows of the raging river. Its bulk caused a natural break in the flow of the river, and whilst it raged against the rock, the river slowed to a trickle in its shadow. Aramis still warned them to hold d'Artagnan tight.

Athos and Porthos lowered d'Artagnan to sit on the bank, all of them cringing at d'Artagnan's ragged cry of pain when Aramis helped Athos lower the burnt legs into the cool water. Aramis was pleased that d'Artagnan immediately tried to fight the hold, to escape the river, the natural tendency to escape from pain still present. The cry caused him to start coughing again as it pulled at his smoke ravaged throat, Athos and Porthos holding him steady.

He eventually settled as the coolness appeared to bring some relief to the burning pain. Aramis stripped off his boots and pulled up his breeches before wading into the frigid water, stepping carefully on the rocky bottom of the river. He pulled off d'Artagnan's boots, glad to see that his hopes held true and that the skin beneath them had been protected from the worst of the fire. However, for the first time he was witness to the old burn scars, rippled skin stretching down the lower third of d'Artagnan's legs, the burns of his youth that none of them had ever seen before. He ignored them now in favour of easing the breeches away from the newly burnt skin, making sure none of the fabric stuck to the skin, allowing the cold water to cleanse the burnt skin.

They kept d'Artagnan in the river until he finally showed some sense of awareness, and his lips began to turn blue. Aramis had stepped out and dried off as much as he could, redressing as the temperature of the day dropped with the receding sun. He helped the others to pull d'Artagnan to a grassy flat nearby, away from the shadow cast by the large monastery wall, using whatever weak sunshine was available. Aramis half considered asking the resident monks for help, but couldn't bring himself to go anywhere near the church, to return to the scene of the burning pyre, and the monks that could stand by and let such a horrific act occur on their land. Porthos went to find their horses as Aramis turned his attention to d'Artagnan.

Athos had sat behind d'Artagnan, holding him close and grounding him. D'Artagnan was aware enough to catch Aramis's eye, a wince appearing briefly as he squinted in his direction. 'How's the head?' Aramis asked, looking at the nasty bruising once again.

'Hurts.' D'Artagnan answered, his throat sounding wrecked.

'Not surprised. Looks like you were hit with a mallet.' Aramis commented.

'Feels like it.' D'Artagnan said, his head lulling unsteadily against Athos's shoulder. Athos reached to steady him slightly.

Porthos walked up leading Aramis's horse by the reins, the other 2 mounts following sedately behind. The horses didn't appear to like the smell of burnt flesh any more than they had, and stayed away. Aramis wasn't bothered, he was just after the contents of the saddle bags. D'Artagnan flinched as Aramis used an old shirt to dry the legs off as best he could, seeing the young man was beginning to shiver with the cold now, despite the weak autumnal sun.

The burns were bright red, blistered in places, covering the shins but Aramis was pleased to see they weren't as extensive as he had first feared. The old scar tissue stood out, pale and white against the new red burns and Aramis felt a flash of intense anger that such an event had been allowed to be repeated to the same person. Athos and Porthos had also seen the old burn scars, and Aramis was sure he saw a slight flush stain d'Artagnan's cheeks at being exposed. How d'Artagnan had not lost his legs, or any movement from the extensive burns was a miracle. That the senior d'Artagnan had managed to provide such care and escape on horseback at the same time was even more impressive.

'I'm going to wrap them up and we can get back to the garrison.' Aramis told them all. 'I'm sorry, I don't have anything for the pain.' He added to d'Artagnan.

'Not so bad now.' D'Artagnan reassured him, coughing slightly as leant back into Athos, looking like all the energy had been sapped from him, bruising stark against his wane face. His voice was hoarse, and painful to listen to. Porthos picked up a waterskin, filling it in the river and offered it to d'Artagnan to try and soothe his throat.

'That was his son. I…didn't know.' D'Artagnan sounded as wrecked as he looked.

'We were remiss in not telling you. I assumed you knew.' Athos said.

D'Artagnan shook his head as he heard the self-reproach in Athos's voice, quick to reassure his mentor despite the lingering effects of the head injury. 'Couldn't have known.' He countered, 'Doesn't matter. His son. My…' he coughed again, 'brother. Didn't see that coming.'

'The Duke is under guard at the palace.' Porthos told d'Artagnan as Aramis completed one wrapping, moving to the other leg.

'Edwin and him will stand trial' Athos informed d'Artagnan. Aramis couldn't help but look up in surprise; he had assumed that Athos had killed the young man. 'unfortunately I had to kill the guard.'

D'Artagnan shrugged, and it was clear that he wasn't able to fully comprehend all that had happened, and all that it meant at that moment. That there was finally some chance at a hint of justice. Understanding, and dealing with the fall out, Aramis knew, would come later. 'Come, we must get back to the garrison before night fall.' He instructed, Porthos helping to pull d'Artagnan's boots back on.

Athos nodded. 'He can ride with me.' He looked between Porthos and Aramis 'one of you can bring Edwin.' He didn't look like he cared much how the young man was brought back.

The trip back was slightly less frantic, and though it was highly tempting to race back, they kept the pace so that Edwin only had to trot to keep up. It was clear d'Artagnan found the ride increasingly painful as he shook off the effects of the head injury, though they knew better than to expect him to complain. Mainly he appeared to have escaped into himself, quiet and still on Athos's horse. Too quiet, and too still for any of them to find comfortable.

Eventually they were able to hand Edwin over to some confused musketeers at the garrison, instructing them to take him immediately to the Chatelet on the charge of attempted murder. The two older musketeers nodded, only needing a look at d'Artagnan to understand some of what had happened even if they didn't know the full story. Aramis saw their hardening looks as they put enough of the story together to know that it had been a fellow musketeer at risk.

Eventually they were able to settle d'Artagnan in his own bed, Athos forcing some pain relieving draft into him before Aramis smothered the burns in a cooling poultice, wrapping them again in fresh linin. The big risk now would be infection, and Aramis was determined to do everything he could to prevent further problems. He checked over the head injury once more before spreading the remaining poultice thickly over it, relieved to find that underneath the spectacular black bruise the skull was intact.

'How have we never seen the scars before?' Porthos asked once d'Artagnan had succumbed to the effects of the draft and slipped into an uneasy sleep. Aramis sat opposite Porthos at the small table in d'Artagnan's room, both of them digging into bowls of stew and pieces of crusty bread, hungry now the excitement was fading. Athos had left soon after d'Artagnan had fallen asleep, going to somehow report all that had happened to Treville, to explain why they had left the Duke under the control of the Red Guard, and why his son was currently shackled in the Chatelet. There would be no way of keeping d'Artagnan's childhood a secret now, whether he wanted it or not. Aramis did not envy Athos's task at all.

He shrugged belatedly in response to Porthos's question. 'He hid everything.'

'But, they're not exactly subtle.' Porthos pointed out, popping a chunk of hard cheese into his mouth.

'When you spend your life being told you must not tell anyone an event for fear of your life, I expect it comes naturally after a while.' Aramis said, chewing thoughtfully on a warm crust of bread.

'What do you think will happen now?' Porthos asked.

'That will depend on the whim of the King.' Aramis said, Porthos raising an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic bitterness that was in his tone.

'Edwin- I mean, no one can deny he tried to kill d'Artagnan.' Porthos pointed out.

'No, Edwin will pay for his crimes.'

'He should hang.'

'And if he was a common man, he would.' Aramis agreed. 'But if daddy pays enough to the crown he will spend his life in the Bastille.' The bitterness was back. 'But the Duke…'

'He will deny everything.' Porthos finished for him.

Aramis simply nodded in agreement. 'And we're back to the start. His word against d'Artagnan. A nobleman against the childhood memories of a commoner.'

's'not right.' Porthos groused.

'No, my friend, it is not.' Aramis said with a large sigh.

Reluctant to leave d'Artagnan alone, they set up a schedule for watch before retiring that night, worried should he be in pain, or the nightmares return. Athos gladly took the middle shift, unable to get the image of d'Artagnan strung up in the fire out of his mind. He tried to put the events of the weekend into some order, to reflect on all that had happened, all that had been revealed, but it was hard to fully comprehend it all. His thoughts were interrupted by a brief knock on the door, Treville pushing the door open. Athos nodded as he studied his face, searching the blankness for answers 'Captain.'

Athos had told Treville everything earlier. The captain had listened in silence, asked a few questions to clarify, then had simply gone to the palace to seek an audience with the king. There had been no comment, no opinion expressed at the time, leaving Athos to wonder on his reaction. That had been many hours ago, and Athos was surprised that the captain had obviously only just returned. He had assumed Treville was simply waiting for the morning to talk further.

'How is he?' Treville asked, studying the impressive bruising on d'Artagnan's face.

Athos looked over at d'Artagnan as if seeking the answer to his questions. 'He'll recover.' He eventually said. 'physically.'

'The burns?'

Athos shrugged. 'Aramis assures me they are not as bad as they could have been.' He struggled to shut of the inevitable image of d'Artagnan, the sound of his screams as the fire licked at his legs. The smell of burning flesh would long linger in his nostrils.

'Has he woken?' Treville asked as he settled in a chair opposite him.

'Briefly, a few times.'

'Did he say much?'

'No.' Athos said shortly, turning the conversation to what he thought of as the more important matters. 'What happened at the palace?'

Treville let out a weary sigh. Athos took pity on him, knowing that the king was never easy to deal with, and stood to fetch the captain a glass of red wine, pouring one for himself as he was there. The captain accepted it gratefully, taking a large gulp. 'I waited a few hours before the king could see me.'

'I'm sure he was very busy.' Athos said sardonically.

Treville ignored the tone. 'He listened, and agreed that Edwin should stand trial. He will go before the magistrate in the morning.'

Athos nodded, but knew that was always going to be the case for Edwin. There were many witnesses to the event, no denying that the young noble had attempted to kill a musketeer in a most hideous way. 'And the Duke?'

Treville sighed again. The simple shake of the head told Athos all that he needed to know. 'It is the memories of a child against the Duke, and the king has refused to even consider a trial. He said it was a ridiculous accusation to make, and he would hear no more. I protested as much as I could.'

Athos knew it was a fine line that Treville balanced on every day when dealing with the king. Athos knew he would have pushed as much as he thought he could get away with, pushing the King to hear what was being said. It was disappointing, though, that after everything that had happened, the Duke would still walk away. Without any son, maybe, but still disappointing.

'You, Aramis and Porthos are required at the court at nine to stand as witness.' Treville told him.

'Does the King seek the death penalty?' Athos asked.

Another shake of the head, and Athos couldn't hide the frustration. 'If found guilty, Edwin will be sentenced to the Bastille.' Treville said quietly.

It wasn't enough. It was a cruel joke. After everything that had happened, after setting a man on fire and standing to watch him burn, and all he would get in return was a luxurious stay in the Bastille as punishment. Even then, the Duke would likely pay enough to have him released eventually.

As if sensing his emotion, d'Artagnan stirred, his head shaking back and forth, eyes moving restlessly between closed eyelids. Athos blew out a forceful sigh before laying a gentle grounding hand on the man's shoulder, watching him until he settled again. He met Treville's look, saw understanding there. 'I know.' Treville simply said. 'It's not enough, but it has to mean something.'

Athos just shook his head, too angry to reply. He wanted to scream and rage at the injustice. He wanted to hit something, preferably Edwin and his father for everything they had done. He thought of having Edwin under his sword, just that afternoon. The snivelling young man who had pleaded for his life when he thought Athos was about to take it. Athos could have easily killed him then, brought his own brand of justice or vengeance against the man for all that he had done. He hadn't, and as much as he knew it was the right thing, that he couldn't act as judge and executioner, a deep regret burned his soul at that moment. Only because he knew it would disturb d'Artagnan's rest did he not yell out his frustration.

xx

Thank you for sticking by the story and I hope you enjoyed this chapter and it was worth the wait! Hopefully not such a long wait for the next chapter. Let me know your thoughts, they're always welcome!