From The Ashes

by Ecri

Takes place between the pilot episode and episode 2. My take on what they went through to forge a brotherhood so quickly. D'Artagnan returns home to Lupiac after Athos's release from prison to bury his father. Chapter 10. Loose ends are tied up, things become clearer to d'Artagnan and takes steps to build a new life for himself from the ashes of his old life.

2. Chapter 2

In gratitude for the multitude of emails notifying me that my first chapter wasn't formatted properly, I've decided to post chapter two. I think this will be about eight to ten chapters in total. Please read and review!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 2

Funerals and Friendship

Aramis took a step forward, hat in hands, and the other two Musketeers hastily removed their own. "Forgive the intrusion, Father," He said, bowing slightly. "We meant only to pay our respects."

As one, the Musketeers genuflected, crossed themselves, and made their way to sit in the last pew.

A murmur raced through the congregation at this admission as people whispered. How was it three of the King's Guard had come all the way to Lupiac to attend the funeral of Alexandre d'Artagnan?

A few people gazed at d'Artagnan as though this might be a bad thing and somehow his fault.

The priest finished his prayers and indicated to d'Artagnan and the other pallbearers that they should take their places.

D'Artagnan rose and took his place at the front right. He glanced at the other men, and the trepidation he'd kept at bay throughout the mass now bubbled up to worry him. "Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked the oldest and frailest of the group. It was a man who had known his father all his life. They'd grown up together, and d'Artagnan had sometimes called the man uncle when he'd been small.

The man nodded and signaled to the others that he was ready. Together they raised the coffin, but only d'Artagnan could hold it. The other men could not manage and down it came.

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide in shock and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from wailing and pushing them away from the coffin. Instead he leaned close to the nearest man. "Can you manage?"

"He is my friend. Our friend," he said indicating the other two men, and there was indignation and a proprietary tone in his voice as though d'Artagnan were an outsider and their dropping the coffin was his fault, not theirs. "We can manage."

D'Artaganan could barely contain himself. Were it not for the fact that he knew his father would not look kindly on an emotional outburst he would have had one. He is your friend, d'Artagnan thought, but he is my father. Do not drop him again.

Again they lifted him. For a moment, d'Artagnan thought all would be well, but the moment passed, and the coffin dropped once more.

D'Artagnan was beside himself. He bit his tongue. His hands trembling, he looked at the men and with barely controlled impatience, asked them if they required help.

They defiantly insisted they needed no help and again, they lifted. Again, the coffin dropped.

It was all d'Artagnan could do to maintain his composure. He felt a tear slip from beneath his closed eyelids and willed himself to shed no more. He waited more than a few moments before turning to the men once more. "If you need help…"

"We don't!" The man he'd called uncle looked at him with a sneer on his face, and d'Artagnan could not help but be taken aback. He inhaled deeply and willed away the tears of frustration and grief that threatened to fall and make him appear to be the child they thought he was.

"I understand that you want to do this, but surely we can call on more of my father's friends…"

The man made a sound somewhere between outrage and irritation, and clasped the coffin once more.

D'Artagnan took the hint and moved back into position. He closed his eyes and held his breath as they lifted once more. He dared not hope that this would go well, and he braced himself for the drop. This time something was different. The coffin seemed lighter somehow. They carried it easily. Relief swept through d'Artagnan and he almost felt faint. He turned to smile his gratitude at the other men and understood what made the coffin lighter.

Aramis stood behind him, hands clasped on the coffin, adding his strength to d'Artagnan's and the others. At the foot of the coffin stood Athos, and he acknowledged d'Artagnan with the subtlest of nods. Porthos stood on the other side across from Aramis. Where there had been four—three old men and one distraught son—there were now seven.

"Aramis…" he began.

Aramis shook his head. "We will talk later, my friend."

D'Artagnan turned and saw the same understanding look in both Porthos's and Athos's eyes. He swallowed and stood a bit straighter as they left the church.

The walk to the churchyard was less an ordeal now, and they covered the ground more quickly than he could have hoped. During the brief ceremony, last prayers and the lowering of the coffin into the ground, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood by d'Artagnan. It seemed as though, having reached his side, they could not bear to leave him alone.

After Father Alain finished the final prayers, Aramis said a quick prayer as well. Then the congregation began to step forward. Some asked outright who the Musketeers were, but all d'Artagnan would say was that he had met them in Paris and they had brought his father's murderer to justice. It was true to a point, but it satisfied none of them. Some just stared outright obviously considering the Musketeers to be interlopers. Parisians cared nothing for Gascony, and d'Artagnan's neighbors didn't believe they were here with good intentions.

People stepped forward one by one to shake his hand, offer condolences, or commiserate with him. D'Artagnan smiled when appropriate, though the smile never reached his eyes. He nodded when correct to do so, and he added to the conversation when it was expected, though later he would recall neither what he had said nor what had been said to him. With so many neighbors attending, d'Artagnan, who'd slept little since his father had died in his arms, found his strength deserting him.

When he wavered and he was sure he would fall down where he stood, he felt a hand on his shoulder lending him strength. Turning, he saw Athos nod once, and felt he could go on.

It was when his nearest neighbor came towards him, a familiar gleam in his eye that d'Artagnan actually groaned aloud.

The Musketeers drew to attention at this.

"Who is he?" Porthos asked his eyes narrowing as he took in this man who had so obviously upset d'Artagnan with just his presence.

D'Artagnan sighed. "He owns the farm next to my fath…" d'Artagnan stopped and cleared his throat as he realized what he was about to say and the truth of it. "…the farm next to mine. He's always after my father to sell all or part of our land. My father caught him once trying to move the fence posts to claim some of our property hoping no doubt that we wouldn't notice. He claimed it was a miscalculation when he repaired the fence."

The big Musketeer nodded and moved fractionally closer to d'Artagnan.

"Monsieur Lambert, thank you for coming," d'Artagnan said. He was quick to open the conversation. He knew Lambert would feel thrown off balance by that, since he rarely spoke to the man. D'Artagnan had often insisted his father was too tolerant of their neighbor.

"Ah, young Charles," he said. "So sad. So sad." The man went on for a while speaking much but saying little, but it was something he said in the midst of the string of condolences that suddenly drew d'Artagnan's attention.

"What was that, Monsieur?" D'Artagnan blinked.

The man smiled a disingenuous smile. "You heard me. The offer stands. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement…"

"Are you seriously trying to buy my farm at my father's funeral?" He gestured to the open grave. "He is not yet covered by earth. He is barely in the ground…" d'Artagnan's voice cracked, and his hands both clenched in fists, his knuckles white, as he tried to rein in the anger that had come from nowhere and all but consumed him.

He could feel Athos tighten his grip on his shoulder. Porthos moved closer to his side and Aramis cleared his throat before stepping forward. "Thank you so much for coming, Monsieur," Aramis said in a soft voice full of sorrow. "As you can imagine, it's been a difficult few days for young d'Artagnan. We're just going to see him home, you understand…" Aramis kept talking as he slung an arm around Monsieur Lambert's shoulders and led him away.

D'Artagnan stared after them, his sudden rush of rage vanishing almost immediately. He simply did not have the strength to maintain it. It left him feeling raw and spent.

Athos patted his shoulder and stepped around to face him. Porthos meanwhile moved his hand to D'Artagnan's neck as though attempting to hold him upright, and, d'Artagnan had to admit, he very nearly was.

Athos spoke in a soft whisper, his eyes on d'Artagnan's. "If you have had enough, we can see you home and make your apologies to those who are still here."

Porthos squeezed his neck both in silent agreement and in a show of support.

D'Artagnan was speechless for a moment overwhelmed that these men had come all the way from Paris and would offer to do this for him. He who had challenged Athos to a fight to the death, had accused him of murder…

He was tempted, sorely tempted, to let them cosset him. To relinquish the burden of the last few days would seem a delicious luxury, but he knew what his father would say. He stood a little straighter squaring his shoulders. "Thank you, but no. I'm fine. I'll see this through. It is my duty to my father. My last duty."

Athos gave one quick nod of agreement, and, d'Artagnan thought, approval, and moved back to his previous position slightly behind d'Artagnan. By this time, Aramis had returned and he stood next to Athos. Porthos stood a subtle space ahead of the others and glowered at the remaining guests, which did keep their comments short and moved the line along.

Though they'd known this young man all of his life, the Gascon natives were intimidated it seemed by the three well-armed Musketeers who surrounded him.

For those who were not intimidated, Aramis, it is to be confessed, stepped in and hurried them along when it seemed they might linger. A well-placed word and they found it impossible to remain after the polite suggestion that they were so generous to sacrifice their time when they must be so busy themselves.

When they had all gone, or at least lost interest in him, he moved to Father Alain. Thanking him again for his help and his prayers, he finally found himself having met all duties required of him.

He was at a loss as to what to do next. He looked for a long while at the fresh gravestone, so new the name was not yet carved on it. It had cost more than he could afford, but as it was the last thing he could do for his father, he had not balked at the price. He blinked at the stone, saw the gravediggers come forward and begin to fill in the hole. He watched them feeling that as each shovel full of dirt hit the coffin below, his father was somehow moving further and further from him.

"I don't know what to do now," he whispered to the slowly filling grave.

"Now you go home," Athos said softly. D'Artagnan turned to see the trio standing nearby waiting for him.

"You came. I..I'm grateful," he admitted. "How did you know?"

Porthos smiled. "Your lady friend…"

"Landlady," Aramis corrected.

"Landlady," agreed Porthos. "Madame Bonacieux said you'd gone 'ome to bury your father. We thought we should pay our respects."

"But you didn't know him," d'Artagnan said then realized how that sounded. "I mean…I didn't…"

"Peace, d'Artagnan," Aramis said holding up a hand to forestall the apologies. "You are quite right. We've never met your father, but his son is an honorable man whom we admire and respect, and to whom we owe a great deal."

"You owe me nothing."

Aramis nodded seeming to consider the words. "We do not reckon debt as others do, but it is a conversation for another time. Come. We'll see you home."

D'Artagnan agreed. "You must stay with me."

"No, no. We wouldn't want to intrude," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan smiled. "It's an invitation, not an intrusion."

Aramis smiled in return at hearing his own words thrown back at him. He glanced at Athos and Porthos. D'Artagnan saw some silent communication between them and marveled at it. Aramis then tipped his hat in acquiescence.

The Musketeers

The farmhouse was cozy, well built, and a bit larger than Aramis had imagined. The furnishings were worn, the curtains faded, but it was clean, tidy, and stepping inside was like being folded into an embrace by a long absent but dear friend.

"Charles d'Artagnan, gentleman farmer," Aramis said as they took seats around the front room.

D'Artagnan, building up a fire in the oversized fireplace shook his head. "Not much of a gentleman, and my father was the better farmer."

"How are you holding up?" Porthos asked concern warming his voice.

D'Artagnan shrugged as he stood, the fire ablaze and already taking the chill from the house. "Better than I imagined. Worse than I would like."

The honesty of the answer was unexpected and Aramis saw by the looks on his companions' faces that they were equally surprised.

D'Artagnan left the room for a moment and returned with two bottles of wine and four glasses. He uncorked the first bottle and poured, passing the glasses around the room. "I am grateful for your help today," he confessed.

Aramis saw his eyes cloud a bit, but with rapid blinking, the lad cleared them. "If they had dropped him one more time…" he let the thought remain unfinished and turned to face the wall for a moment, clearly needing time to compose himself.

"We are Muskteers, d'Artagnan. We do whatever is needed." Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan chuckled humorlessly as he turned to face them. "I doubt that carrying the coffin of a Gascon farmer is a normal duty for Musketeers.

Porthos shrugged. "We're not normal Musketeers."

"No, I don't suppose you are. I heard the word inseparable all over Paris." D'Artagnan looked at them expectantly clearly waiting for an explanation.

"Ah," said Aramis, "That's the Captain's fault. Captain Treville called us his Insperables once, and the name stuck."

D'Artragnan nodded and raised his glass. "Drink with me, to Alexandre d'Artagnan."

The Musketeers immediately raised their glasses and repeated the toast. Aramis watched d'Artagnan. He'd known at the churchyard that the young man was on the brink. He'd known before that. As the pallbearers repeatedly dropped their burden, he had been watching the lad. He had been about to break. He seemed nearer to breaking now.

At the church, he, Porthos, and Athos had risen of one accord with not a glance passing between them. They'd moved swiftly to take up the coffin and prevent it from dropping yet again. D'Artagnan's relief had been quite visible. As had his rising anger when Monsieur Lambert had put forth a bid on the farm. He shook his head at the audacity of the man.

Now he appeared calmer, surely, but to Aramis's eyes, no less fragile.

D'Artagnan set down his glass and took a seat glancing at Aramis. "Is it another time?"

Aramis blinked. "What?"

"You said you owed me a great deal and when I protested, you said it was a discussion for another time. I want to make it clear you don't owe me anything." He looked at each of them in turn, lingering a bit on Athos, his guilt almost painfully obvious. "Any of you."

"Ah, but that is a matter of opinion," Aramis began.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "It's three to one. I reckon we win."

DArtagnan couldn't suppress a smile. "It doesn't work that way."

Porthos shrugged. "It works pretty much how we say it works."

"As you heard Aramis say," Athos said, drawing d'Artagnan's attention as he'd said so little until now. "We do not tally debt as other men do."

D'Artagnan studied Athos staring, summing up, evaluating, his every emotion earning a brief appearance in the brown depths of his troubled eyes. Aramis realized how disparate Athos and d'Artagnan were in that regard. They seemed similar in so many ways, and yet Athos never permitted any thought of his to show upon his face.

"And what," d'Artagnan asked, "is that supposed to mean?"

Athos drained his glass and set it down. He looked the young Gascon in the eye. "We are here to offer our services. You helped clear my name and save me from execution. In gratitude, we offer our help. If you are ever in need, you have only to tell us and we will be at your command."

Aramis thought Athos put it rather well, though he could have done without mention of Athos's near execution. The mention of it brought to mind the sight of this man whom he loved like a brother demanding to be shot. He had to clench his eyes shut for a moment to banish the memory. He opened his eyes and reached for his wine.

"I don't think life works that way," d'Artagnan was saying.

Porthos laughed. "Didn't you 'ear me?"

"Yes, yes, it works the way you say…but surely your duties…"

"We have a rather understanding captain." Athos admitted. "The offer stands." He uncorked the second bottle of wine and poured, passing the bottle to Porthos at the man's expectant look. "Come, drink to our accord and we will say no more about it."

D'Artagnan looked at each of them in turn and Aramis wondered if he might not take them seriously. In the end, he nodded and they drank again. It was then that Madame Boucher arrived with a large covered pot.

Seeing d'Artagnan's guests, she smiled and bustled into the kitchen.

D'Artagnan excused himself and followed.

Aramis heard hushed voices, and a moment later, d'Artagnan returned. "It seems

she insists on feeding me, and as she's bought enough for an army, she'd like to include all of you as well."

Aramis smiled. "She seems a formidable woman."

D'Artagnan nodded. "You've no idea."

"You're fond of her," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "She's the closest thing I have to family now." A wistful look passed over his face and he visibly shook himself free of it. "Gentlemen, please stay with me tonight. We'll eat Madame Boucher's fine stew, and drink all you like. My father has quite a selection of wines in the cellar. He makes…made…his own…" His voice trailed off as though a sudden realization hit him. His face darkened and he frowned a bit sitting heavily on the nearest empty chair.

He was silent for a time, and Aramis's concern made him ask. "What is it? D'Artagnan, are you all right?"

Again the headshake, and d'Artagnan looked at Aramis with a forced smile on his face that did not diminish the sight of the moistness around his eyes. As he spoke, his voice grew quieter and quieter. "The wine…he always thought I would learn more about wine making if I could figure out his recipe, his process, on my own. Every summer, I tried to do it. Every summer, I got more wrong than right. This year, if my attempt failed, he'd promised to explain what mistakes I was making. We were to sample my latest attempt and determine where I went wrong. This summer…" He covered his eyes with his hand and with a massive shudder forced the sorrow away. He stood. "Forgive me. It's been a long day."

Aramis felt helpless in the face of such sorrow. He knew what it meant to treasure a bit of your past. He had long ago learned how his father made his wonderful brandy and the thought of having lost that link to him made him shudder. He was about to speak to the lad, but he disappeared into the next room. They heard a door close quietly. "He's not coping," Aramis whispered.

"It's early days yet. The sting of it is tender. His time in Paris delayed his grieving." Athos insisted as he placed his half empty wine glass on the table.

Aramis could see the man was brooding again, but he couldn't guess what had triggered it. He often felt helpless in the face of Athos's darkest moods. Aramis wished with all his heart and soul to help him, but was unable to find a way. If Athos's dark moods lasted too long, or took too deep a hold, Aramis would obsess on finding a way to help him. When he found nothing, his helplessness would sometimes leave him feeling much as he had five years ago in the early days after the incident at Savoy. Rattled. Unable to focus. Heightened anxiety. An inability to permit either Porthos or Athos out of his sight lest something happen to them. The first few times that had happened, it was Porthos who had helped Aramis deal with the ghosts from his past. After that, when Porthos always saw this coming on, and he would usually do something to snap Athos out of it, but Aramis never knew what. The big Musketeer wouldn't permit Athos's self-destructive tendencies to spill over and harm Aramis.

"True enough," Porthos said, agreeing with Athos's assessment. "He was held together by determination and little else while we were trying to prove your innocence."

Porthos's words had brought to mind that hurried, frantic time in Paris as they had rushed about trying to find some way to prove Athos's innocence. Aramis had long suspected, after d'Artagnan had left and he'd had time to consider it, that d'Artagnan had likely slept little and eaten less during his short time in Paris. When they'd recruited him at the Bonacieux home, the boy had a haunted look in his eye, and Aramis had later realized that while it was grief over the loss of his father, it was also guilt at being unsure if he had accused the right man.

Aramis looked from Porthos to Athos. "So…that's it? We must help him."

"There isn't much we can do," Athos said.

"True enough," Porthos said again, though quieter and with more than a bit of regret.

Aramis sighed and that quickly d'Artagnan was back among them. His collar was a bit wet, as though he'd just washed his face. His coat was gone, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow.

"So, how was your ride from Paris," he asked. It wasn't a wonderful topic of conversation, but they all recognized it for the distraction it was.

Porthos was actively trying to get d'Artagnan to laugh, and each time he did—though it was more an appreciative chuckle than the belly laugh he was hoping to provoke—the look on the Musketeer's face spoke of victory.

Madame Boucher entered the room and called them all to dinner. D'Artagnan rose quickly and kissed her cheek. She blushed and batted at him with her tea towel. They insisted she eat with them, and before long they were regaling her with tales of Paris, with news of the King and Queen, and with descriptions of the Palace that widened her eyes and made her giggle like a little girl.

Before the meal was finished, d'Artagnan was struggling to remain awake. The warmth of the fire, the congenial conversation, a full belly, the abundant wine, not to mention the stress of the last week and the lack of any significant rest had conspired to both relax him and rob him of his strength and stamina.

"To bed with you, Charles," Madame Boucher laughed, and d'Artagnan smiled sheepishly.

The Musketeers laughed, and joined Madame in her cajoling.

"We will find our own beds, d'Artagnan," Aramis said as the man finally agreed and slipped off to bed.

Madame Boucher's eyes followed him, and her smile evaporated without a trace.

She crossed herself, and cast her eyes heavenward. "Poor boy," she whispered.

"Is there no one for him here?" Athos asked.

She shook her head sadly. "Just me, and I am an old woman with grandchildren. His father meant the world to him. They clung to each other when his mother died. Poor Charlotte. Too young."

"How old was he when his mother passed," Aramis had to know.

"He was not yet six. It was only a few days before his sixth birthday." She glanced down the corridor and once she was sure d'Artagnan was truly abed, she sighed. "I should not be telling you. It is his story, but you are such nice men. He needs friends like you."

Aramis glanced at Athos wondering how he would take being assumed to be a friend to a boy he barely knew. It had been Athos's idea to come here, but Aramis was not sure he had friendship in mind. He rarely knew what Athos had in mind. He'd greeted Aramis and Porthos as they'd come into the garrison not quite a full day after d'Artagnan had left and told them he'd secured time off from Treville and they were riding for Lupiac. They mounted and rode, and Athos gave them the truth of it as they traveled. He'd been surprised that Athos had so wanted to be there for the senior d'Artagnan's funeral.

Aramis knew the boy had some sort of hold on Athos. It was in the wistful expression he sometimes wore when he looked at d'Artagnan and thought no one saw him. It was in the ready way he'd stepped in at the funeral both in helping the pallbearers and in standing by d'Artagnan's side in the churchyard while Aramis dealt with Monsieur Lambert.

Athos did not react to Madame Boucher's words, so Aramis and Porthos encouraged her to tell them what she could of their young friend.

She sighed and sat down abandoning the dishes. "Charlotte and Charles would often go walking. They would collect flowers, herbs, swim in the stream nearby. He was too little to help on the farm, which upset him no end, I can tell you!" She smiled at the memory, and Aramis could imagine a little d'Artagnan raging against being unable to do a man's work.

"He used to demand his father take him to work in the fields, but he was so tiny for his age…" she threw up her hands, but stopped and found the thread of her story. "He told us all of this in bits and pieces over the months following, but one day, they were out by the stream. It had rained the day before, but the sun had dried the ground, and we had no way of knowing that worse rains were coming. The storm came out of nowhere. Charles used to love rainstorms. He was giddy at the sight. Loved the sound of thunder, and the sudden lightning flashes. He stood on a rock and looked up at the clouds. The rain came fast and sudden and the stream swelled above its banks. He was swept away. He heard his mother scream. He was tossed around a bit, and then felt her arms around him. She dove in and grabbed him. Then his father was there, and Charlotte handed Charles out to Alexandre. Alexandre put him down by the banks and reached back for Charlotte, but the river swelled and shifted, and she was gone. Her body was found days later and several miles away." Again the woman crossed herself shaking her head sadly.

The Musketeers had fallen silent. What could they say after hearing a story like that? Porthos wiped a tear from his eye. Athos reached for the wine, and Aramis for his rosary. "Mon dieu," Aramis whispered crossing himself. To have lived through something like that…

"Rain," Athos said.

"What?" Porthos asked.

"That was the one thing he said to me his last night in Paris. I was fairly drunk, but he…his grief and the wine had made him sullen." Athos swirled the remnants of wine in the bottom of his glass. "He held his father as the rain fell and his life slipped from him."

"There was a bad storm that night. It came down in sheets," Aramis recalled.

Porthos snorted. "More like blankets."

Madame Boucher stood and cleared the dishes to the sink and began washing. "He hated storms after that. He would hide under tables, chairs, in barns, and he would scream. Oh, he would scream!" She cried then, her heart breaking again for the boy.

Aramis stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. She put her hand on top of it and turned to him. "He is a good boy, but he is no farmer. His mind was always on other things. Oh, he is good at it. He learned well everything his father taught him. I know him, though. His heart is broken. He will stay here for me, for the men he employs, but his heart won't be in it. He's always been an outsider." She shook her head. "He clung to his father after his mother's death, forsaking other friendships. Alexandre was the center of his world. Without him…" She made a small sound almost of pity and sorrow. "He won't last. He will not recover. There is no one for him to cling to now." She looked up at Aramis, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears and full of hope. "Take him with you. Make him go to Paris. He should seek a life for himself there, for he will torture himself with memories if he remains in this house."

Athos cleared his throat and Aramis turned to look at him. To his surprise, the Musketeer had paled. "We can speak to him, but whatever happens, he must choose his own path," Athos said as he rose and left the room. Aramis heard him walk down the hall and open and close a door. Athos had found his bed for the evening.

Aramis sighed and shook his head. There would be no interrogating the other man tonight. It was unlikely he'd ever unravel whatever was going through Athos's mind now. He turned back to the conversation at hand.

"Come, Madame Boucher, it is late. Let Porthos see you home. I will clean up and we will return your pot to you in the morning."

She argued for a bit, but when Porthos smiled at her, she could not refuse. He walked her home, and Aramis found himself alone and thoughtful. The boy's life had been turned upside down merely because he and his father had decided to go to Paris and petition the King for a reduction in taxes for all of Gascony. A futile hope, to be sure, and certainly the King, had he even agreed to see them, would have refused such a petition. In effect, Alexandre d'Artagnan had died for nothing. One day, his son would realize that. Aramis shuddered to think how the Gascon would take it. He sighed as he scrubbed the dishes and shook his head in concern. The boy had chosen vengeance when his father was killed, and then he'd tormented himself when he realized there was a chance the man he'd accused could be innocent. Self-torment seemed to be an automatic response for him. He was just like Athos in that respect.

Things were so complicated. Madame Boucher had confirmed thoughts he'd been entertaining since d'Artagnan had left Paris. He assumed Porthos had the same thoughts, but it was Athos who was so hard to read. True, the trip to Lupiac had been his idea. True, he had stood by d'Artagnan with no prompting from either Porthos or himself. It was, however, also true that when Madame Boucher had suggested that d'Artagnan would be better off in Paris than alone on the family farm in Lupiac, Athos's color had drained from his face. What did that mean?

He was still puzzling over this when Porthos returned.

Porthos looked around the spotless kitchen. "You'll make someone a fine wife one day," Porthos smirked.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," Aramis replied.

"God made dirt," Porthos countered.

Aramis blinked. "I have no response to that…"

Porthos smiled and interrupted. "Good. I like winning."

"…Because I think we should talk about something else."

Porthos sat. "You want 'im to come to Paris like she said."

"So do you."

Porthos nodded. "True enough. What do you think Athos wants?"

Aramis sighed and took a seat next to his friend. "If I could tell from one minute to the next what he wants I'd be talking to him right now instead of you."

"Thanks!" Porthos growled.

"You know what I mean, old friend." Aramis placed his hand on Porthos's shoulder.

"I do, but you know Athos. Even if 'e agrees, he won't act on it. He'll want d'Artagnan to come to Paris of 'is own accord. If I read 'im right, d'Artagnan won't come unless 'e's sure we want 'im to."

"Ah," said Aramis, hearing the very words he himself had been thinking. "You mean he won't come unless he's asked."

"Yeah," Porthos replied.

Aramis sighed again. There it was in a nutshell. How would they get their friends to admit they needed each other?