*Chapter Warning: A mention of suicide in the first section.

Chapter Eight – Feather-light and 'heavy-'handed (Pt. 3)

"Where did you go?"

It was an innocent question that went unanswered over supper. It took a fair amount of self-control for Athos to calm himself and actually get half of the stew down. To Planchet's credit, the stew was delicious, but it warred with the separate stewing his stomach was doing after learning their most vulnerable was being hunted. It worried him that now every time D'Artagnan stepped foot outside the door, someone may be waiting for him. They were the exact kind of risks being a musketeer entailed. Easing back into his duties, after being disbanded was not difficult for him, Aramis, or Porthos. Early retirement had suited none of them well. Porthos may have had his kicks with the ladies, but the misery he returned home with often led to several 'practice duels' between friends that had steadily stopped being for fun.

Working for the magistrate as a lowly officer of the public had been sucking Aramis' sharp intellect dry. Often when he returned home he dove right into his tomes, barely giving Athos and Porthos a second glance, though bless the former-priest and his kind ears for moments when Porthos and Athos got too heated in their blows. Athos had consistently beaten Porthos on a daily basis with levels of drunkenness. Hangovers came every morning like clockwork, and soon after they cleared he was at the bottle again, stuck deep in malaise and melancholy.

And then this boy barreled into their lives.

Quite literally.

The change was like a breath of desperately needed fresh air and a bucket of ice water simultaneously. Happiness was suddenly an easy companion with Porthos. Aramis danced circles of wit around them both while reading and with the occasional joke. Athos… had cut back a significant amount on his drinking. Having the boy with them had been such an improvement on the atmosphere in the house they rented that even the insults toward Planchet had diminished down to a shocking level. Though the servant was as infuriating as ever, even he was bubbling with optimism, though that was probably partially due to the fact that they allowed him now to sleep in the kitchen near the hearth instead of the balcony.

Now though…

The atmosphere was much subdued, and it was starting to feel much like the old days, threatening to haunt like before and stay. It cemented Athos' mind when after supper, he raised a brow at Aramis as a signal to depart with Porthos. Aramis gave him a warning glare before clapping his hand on the larger man's shoulder.

"What do you say to a drink, Porthos? Madame Leroux, on me?"

Porthos gave Aramis a funny look, then shot a glance toward Athos across the table. Athos rolled his eyes and nodded towards the door. "On your money," Porthos asked Aramis. "Need you ask," he questioned with a smile.

As Aramis and Porthos made their way to the door, D'Artagnan stood up and opened his mouth to speak, but Athos beat him to the punch. "Stay for a short while? There are some things I would discuss with you."

The boy pressed his lips back together and sat back down. He watched as Aramis and Porthos closed the door behind them. Then, the boy crossed his arms in front of himself and leaned on the table, seeming calm enough. Out of curiosity's sake, no doubt, Athos thought to himself. He hadn't exactly had anything planned for this. Nevermind what he wanted to say or should say…where was he supposed to start?

Athos called for another bottle of wine from Planchet, which the servant retrieved and smartly left. He busied himself with uncorking the bottle and pouring them both a generous glass. When he looked up and noticed the boy staring apprehensively at the bottle of wine, then forcing himself to look away, Athos paused. He remembered the boy only had memories up to his sixteenth birthday. In his own youth, Athos had been introduced to wine at a younger age than D'Artagnan, but that was not to say the same of the boy's own family. But the closer Athos looked, he saw that wasn't the issue.

"Something on your mind," he asked.

"No," D'Artagnan replied quickly, shaking his head. "Nothing."

Athos resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. "Words are not exactly pouring forth from my lips at the moment. So, please…"

D'Artagnan frowned and pursed his lips together in silence. "There's just one thing I can't quite understand about you…And I mean no offense-though it's none of my business, anyway-"

"Out with it-"

"That's your tenth glass. How can you drink so much?"

Athos blinked. His mouth fell open and his slight irritation was forgotten. When he came back to himself, he promptly closed it and tried very hard not to frown. "Years of practice."

D'Artagnan looked away and frowned at the full cup in front of him.

Athos sighed. "I assumed and I should not have. You don't have to drink it."

"I'm from Gascony, Athos," the boy said with a look. "My father taught me that men who place faith in wine like that do no better with their purses than a man does with a lady of the night."

"Apt financial advice," Athos conceded. "What else did he tell you?"

"That they also want to drown some kind of pain they don't want others to see."

Suspicion narrowed his eyes with a worry that their conversation was quickly taking a turn into territory that Athos would have otherwise avoided like the plague. "I take it your father wasn't a drinker?"

"Good wine is not as inexpensive as it is here in Paris. But my father did drink if the time and quality of drink permitted. He did not encourage me, however."

"And you did not imbibe in secret? Not once?"

"Never," the boy said with a smile that clearly said he was lying.

Athos smirked. "Pray tell, where did you find trouble then if not at home?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Where every man finds trouble when he's a boy. Taverns mostly. Miguel and I…" The boy trailed off and his face colored.

To Athos' surprise, the young musketeer fidgeted uncomfortably, as if he forgot himself and hadn't meant to say so much. Though it did make Athos curious, he held his tongue and waited for D'Artagnan to continue, which he did when he gathered himself a few seconds later, determined to make his point. "Well, we used to sneak into the tavern when we were boys. We'd hide under the shelves and wait until the barman turned his back before stealing drinks from the counter. Sometimes we'd drink them, other times we'd switch them when the men were too drunk to notice. Once, and I've never forgotten since then, I reached up and the man whose drink I was trying to take grabbed my wrist and pulled me up over the counter. I thought he was going to break my arm, but when I looked into his eyes I understood. He never said a word to me, but he didn't have to."

"Would it make you feel better if I didn't?" Athos gestured to the glass of wine he had yet to touch.

"I would just rather not be surprised at what kind of drunk you are."

"Fair enough," Athos said, feeling a heavy pang of guilt settle into his gut. True to his promise, he pushed the wine away. "Was Miguel a friend of yours?"

D'Artagnan bit his lip at first but reluctantly nodded. "Yes. "

"I don't remember you ever mentioning him."

"I don't see why I would have. He's dead."

Perhaps he should have expected it. The boy talked so much about his parents and home life that there really was no other reason why he never mentioned his childhood friend before. A flash of guilt made him look away when he apologized, because though he wanted to know more it was not his place to hear it when D'Artagnan wasn't completely of sound mind. "I am sorry to hear that."

"So was I," the boy whispered, tracing patterns in the wood of the table between them. "The memory's still fresh in my mind, though I know years have passed. He was quiet-natured and a bit private but he was never sad, not a day in his life… He hung himself in the stables behind his family's house. We discovered him the next morning."

Shock kept Athos' mouth closed this time, but it didn't help the fact that he was openly staring at the boy in disbelief. D'Artagnan paid it no mind with his own eyes trained to the wood beneath them, lost in his own dark memories that he had previously kept under lock and key. The guilt increased, ten-fold. He had been the instigator. He had asked the simple question. And now Athos had no choice but to listen.

That was why. All the attention, all the care, all the kindness D'Artagnan had been showing him the past few weeks before his accident -despite his terrible moods, sometimes in effort to deter the boy from helping him- …well, it all made sense now. And in a such a horrible and sad way. To lose a friend in battle or to sickness was one thing, but to have a friend taken away was so much worse than any kind of pain Athos could try to imagine. Looking at the boy now made him understand things better, things that had gone unanswered and been swept under the rug of youth and inexperience. In this case, Athos was the inexperienced one, and he found he couldn't blame D'Artagnan anymore for seeking him out, for invading his privacy, for simply caring when Athos felt he couldn't return the favor. If Athos had lost a friend in such a way…God forbid any of their company, he didn't think he would be able to take it.

"Could we talk about something else," the boy requested in an uncharacteristic and catchy voice. Tears didn't fall but shone in his eyes behind the curtain of hair around his young face.

Athos rose, ignoring the wine, though he was desperate for a drink, and pulled the pliant boy over to sit with him by the fire. Athos sat down in his chair with his back to the boy, wanting the distance physically and mentally when his own memories of that one fateful day filled his thoughts. But D'Artagnan joined him a moment later, effectively destroying the wall Athos had tried to put up between them for his own safety. This time, he didn't lash out at the boy, nor did he shun him or walk away. Now that he thought about it…he didn't think he would ever have the heart to do so again.

"There was a siege," Athos began. "About a year ago in La Rochelle, between the Protestants and Catholics. To lose such a city so close to the sea and close to Paris would have been unacceptable. We fought on those lines for months, and in the damn miserable dead of winter too. More of our men died from sickness than from the bloody battles we had to face. Sometimes it was a miracle that we went a single day without having to bury someone. They were not our first battles together, but we fought and ensured victories when we could…You…fought bravely and honorably. And… you saved my life."

The boy pressed a hand against his upper chest absent-mindedly. "Was that how I got the scar on my chest?"

"Did I know you well, then? All of you, I mean?"

"Very."

"I would have hated to recover from something like that alone."

Athos fixed him with a strong and commanding stare. "You never were and you never will be alone. Of that you can be certain."

D'Artagnan smiled. "I had always dreamed of being a soldier. Was I a good one?"

"You still are one of the best, D'Artagnan."

The boy smiled and then gestured his head to the forgotten wine on the table. "Just one glass?"

"Just one," Athos agreed. "Between friends."

Athos offered him a glass of wine, and the boy accepted it wordlessly. It took all of his self-restraint not to down the entire glass in one go, but one look from the boy told him that D'Artagnan was thinking the exact same thing. Though that alone would have granted him the comfort he sought, he was comforted more when the boy suddenly took a big mouthful of the wine and attempted to swallow it. Shock painted D'Artagnan's face after that one generous mouthful.

"This is good," he said, laughing.

Athos cracked the barest hint of a smile, letting the infectious mood lap at his lonely shores. He wouldn't sleep tonight, but having this with the boy-what they used to have, however small it was now-seemed a fair exchange. "That sounds like you don't trust me."

It wasn't youth that stared back at him and it wasn't age either. It was something between those two. Something vibrant and full of the kind of fire that reminded him so much of normalcy it hurt. "I'm learning."

D'Artagnan woke early the next morning in the same chair, covered with a blanket. Judging by the light outside it was already mid-morning. He shifted to a more comfortable position but didn't get up or stretch out like his body wanted him to. Instead he kept his head pillowed on his arm and blinked the sleep out of his eyes, thinking. Thinking and letting his thoughts wander and adjust to consciousness again. He had slept through the night without waking up once. That was a good thing. He felt refreshed, like he'd caught up on all the sleep he could never seem to catch. That was also a good thing. And his mind felt clearer than it had been in days. All were something of an improvement, the sleep most of all, and probably not all that unexpected after the exercise he got yesterday.

…his eyes snapped open, alert with realization.

He sat up and let the blanket pool into his lap. The house was quiet, except for the sounds of swords clashing in the courtyard. Was it really that simple? Had he really been that dim-witted about it all? In any case it needed to be rectified. Right now.

So when he appeared outside, washed, dressed, and with his sword held confidently at his side, it was with a more familiar disposition. His three friends turned to him and eyed him with an air of surprise and disbelief. The enticing beginnings of a forthcoming challenge, he thought. Now, this…this felt familiar. And liberating.

"You look well," Aramis observed from the sidelines, genuinely pleased and a little surprised.

Athos simply stared, impassive and panting in the morning heat alongside his opponent, Porthos, who was also sweating.

"Planning on doing something with that," Porthos teased, catching the spark in D'Artagnan's eyes.

"I figure I can't really afford the time to wait for it to come back to me," D'Artagnan stated. "So I thought I'd join you, if your offer still stands, Aramis."

Aramis laughed. "Of course it does!"

"You know what you're getting yourself into," Athos asked between breaths, with an underlying tone of warning.

He shook his head, but with a calm and happy air of uncertainty. "Not entirely, no. But I'll find out sooner or later, so don't go easy on me from the start!"

Porthos smirked and shrugged his large shoulders. "You heard him, Aramis!"

"We all did, you great oaf," Athos interrupted, healthy sarcasm dripping from his brow. "You need your hearing checked again. Don't dither by the door if you're so eager now, boy! Come on…sword out. Feet straight. En garde!"

Athos gave D'Artagnan no time to think, only to act when his sword met his in a flurry of quick meetings and what was soon becoming familiar reunions.

Pounding on the front door.

His family looks up in surprise at the lateness of an unannounced visitor.

His mother looks to his father in surprise that they have a visitor.

He looks to his older sister and brother for answers while their parents guide them to the closet door. They put Lucio and his sister inside. She tells him to be quiet. He peeks through the wooden slats of the door. He hasn't breathed since the first set of pounding and French voices. She puts her hand over his mouth when his parents escort two French guards into their small home. Once the door shuts one man draws a knife and pins his father to the wall. The other grabs his older brother and puts a gun to his head.

His mother shouts, then wails in Catalan.

"Où est notre argent sale vous Espagnol?" (Where is our money you filthy Spaniard?), the man says to his father.

His father sweats in the firelight. He shakes his head. He mumbles something Lucio cannot hear. His brother squirms. His sister trembles. His mother weeps.

Lucio?

He looks to his sister in the darkness. She is pale as a corpse. She doesn't hold a hand over her mouth.

His father repeats the same thing, over and over. "Te he pagado!" (I have paid you!).

His mother falls to her knees and reaches toward his brother, repeating words too. "Él no le debe nada!" (He owes nothing!)

Lucio.

The infusion of sounds, his sister's gasping, his mother's wailing, his father's shouting, his brother's pleadings are not loud enough for the cracks of guns. His own screams are silent.

"Lucio, ¿has oído una palabra de lo que dije?" (Lucio, have you heard a word I've said?)

"No," he replied, staring out the window as he gouged at the windowsill with his knife that was never sharp enough for his liking.

Mateo sighed. "Debes escuchar a mí, primo." (You must listen to me, cousin.)

Listen? All Lucio had done was listen. He followed his cousin and his cousin's orders. He ran when his cousin told him to run. He hid when his cousin told him to hide. And he fought when his cousin didn't need to ask for help. Mateo was rarely wrong. Lately, that firm stability had been shaken for them both. Mateo had grown lazy under the fruits of their labor. It was Mateo's fault they had been imprisoned. And even now, under their short reprieve from the dank cell blocks in Madrid, Mateo's foresight was short.

Mateo had his head in the clouds.

"Es posible que hayamos perdido nuestros hermanos, sino que nuestra causa no ha muerto todavía." (We may have lost our brethren, but our cause is not dead yet.)

Mateo was delusional.

"No se han incautado el cargamento de Baviera. Si puedes renunciar a esta cruzada de los tuyos, todavía podemos tener éxito en nuestra misión." (They have not seized the shipment from Bavaria. If you can give up this crusade of yours, we may still succeed in our mission.)

Mateo would be the end of them both before long.

"Nuestro Rey nos de confianza." (Our King trusted us.)

Lucio turned on him and pointed the knife at his cousin for emphasis. "Confió mercenarios condenados a hacer su trabajo sucio. Sabes lo que el futuro sigue siendo para los asesinos y traficantes como nosotros una vez que esto se ha acabado. La lealtad es nada a los reyes."(He trusted convicted mercenaries to do his dirty work. You know what future remains for murderers and smugglers like us once this is over. Loyalty is nothing to kings.)

Mateo didn't flinch. "¿Preferirías ser cazados por la monarquía como perros por lo que hemos hecho? (Would you rather be hunted by the monarchy like dogs until the end of our days for what we've done?)

Lucio took a step closer to Mateo. "Prefiero tener mi revancha de la vida, un francés a la vez." (I would rather have my life's revenge, one Frenchman at a time.)

"Y cuando se ve que la venganza a su fin?" (And when will that revenge see its end?)

Lucio didn't have an answer.

There never was one.

A/N: Two years later and I finally get around to posting the rest of the damned story. Sorry for the wait. I'll be posting the next few in the next day or so just to get up to date so I can start writing the ending. Thanks for reading and sticking with it!