Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the delay. I'm hard at work on the next chapter, after which things should go a bit smoother. Thanks to everyone who stuck with it until I got the formatting worked out. I appreciate it. Thanks also for the reviews. They keep me going!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 3

Plots and Promises

Athos sat on the small but comfortable bed in the room he had chosen. He sighed as he removed his shoes and tried to settle down for the evening. He knew sleep would not come, but his thoughts were not of sleep. He could think only of d'Artagnan.

When Madame Boucher had told the tale of the lad's mother's death, Athos could not comprehend how the boy had managed to get past it. She said he had clung to his father, and that explained much about the boy's reaction to the man's death. He had lost the center of his universe. Losing a loved one was hard enough. Harder still was to begin to believe that something conspired to rob you of all that you loved.

He won't last. He will not recover.

She had sounded so certain. He rubbed a hand across his face. Wondering not for the first time why he'd insisted they come. He was glad they had if only to help in the church. He'd watched d'Artagnan slowly come apart each time the pallbearers dropped the coffin. He'd seen the swell of grief, anger, and frustration and he'd risen from the pew—not at all surprised to see his friends rise with him—and moved to help.

He admired the way d'Artagnan had handled himself in the churchyard. When Aramis had led that fool Lambert away, Athos had seriously believed his friend—ah, yes, and friend he was—had had enough. He was more than willing to step in bringing all the grace and diplomacy his experience as Comte de la Fere had given him to assuage whatever hurt feelings d'Artagnan's early departure might bring.

Yet the boy had surprised him. He'd squared his shoulders, banished the anger and outrage Lambert's inappropriate offer had conjured, and he did what had to be done. Athos had been proud of him, but what right did he have to be proud? He barely knew the boy and yet…he shook his head. It wasn't about how long he'd known d'Artagnan. It was about having found a kindred spirit. That was what they were. D'Artagnan had somehow managed what no other ever had. Even Porthos and Aramis had not penetrated his resolve to remain alone and apart as quickly as d'Artagnan had.

He clung to his father when he lost his mother. There is no one for him to cling to now.

The truth of Madame Boucher's words was obvious in d'Artagnan's every move. She was completely correct. The boy would stay, would work the farm and try to provide for Madame Boucher, a woman who was more than comfortable in her old age, who spoke of children and grandchildren. He would not be able to cling to her. He would not be able to make someone else's mother the center of his life no matter how well they knew each other. There would come a time when the woman, formidable as she was, would be unable to come to his home every day just to cook for him. There was even a chance that someone, a husband, a son, would protest and intervene if she were to spend too much time looking after the boy. If she did stop coming, he could foresee d'Artagnan forgetting to eat, opting not to prepare a meal because after working in the fields all day, it was simply more than he could manage.

He will torture himself with memories if he remains in this house.

It was these words that had chased him from the company of his brothers. He knew too well how true they were. Had he not done the same? His own home had become room after room of memories best avoided after the death of his brother. When his father had passed, leaving him as the Comte de la Fere, had not he and Thomas clung to each other? Aside from being nobility, and financially better off then d'Artagnan, there were many similarities. When Thomas was gone, and the comfort he might have sought in his wife was denied him because you cannot seek comfort over a murder in the arms of the murderer, he had remained for a time in his home.

The very walls had seemed to mock him. Each room held memories, but even the good ones, the happy ones, brought him no comfort. He'd run from one room to another to escape a particularly poignant one only to be confronted by another that would bring him to his knees. The portraits, his brother, his wife, they accused him of stupidity, of blindness, of being a monster to have his wife killed, and of being a fool to allow his brother to die. He'd tortured himself with memories because he had nothing else. With nothing else to depend upon, he had turned to drink. He shuddered at the thought of d'Artagnan following him down that path.

Take him with you. Make him go to Paris.

If he himself had not gone to Paris, he would not have met Aramis and Porthos. His life now would be bereft of hope. He could not conceive of any way he'd have survived without them. Granted, there were times when he leaned too heavily on the bottle, when, perhaps, he should lean instead on his brothers, but he had not yet the strength to release the crutch.

Even so, Aramis and Porthos had changed him. They had welcomed him. They had become his family. They defended him. They trusted him. They accepted him when he could not accept himself. He was a different man for having met them. He hoped one day he might share the rest of his burden with them. He had not kept it from them for fear that they would leave him. He had simply not found the strength or courage to face it all, to accept the assurances they would surely offer. He wasn't ready to hear those things yet. He knew what they would say. You are not to blame. Your brother's death was not your fault. Your wife murdered your brother and put you in an impossible situation… No. He could not hear those things yet.

Aramis and Porthos had done so much for him. Could the three of them do the same for d'Artagnan?

With these thoughts chasing around in his head, a troubled sleep soon claimed him.

The Musketeers

The next morning, the aroma of fresh eggs cooking woke Porthos and brought him from his borrowed bedroom to find his friends all sitting around the kitchen table once more.

"He is awake!" Aramis called out loudly.

"Let me get your breakfast," d'Artagnan added as he rose and turned to the stove.

Porthos sat down as d'Artagnan placed a full plate in front of him. After a few bites, he turned to d'Artagnan eyes wide in admiration. "You can cook, lad!"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "As I told Athos and Aramis, Madame Boucher insisted on teaching me the basics. She thought it prudent that I would know enough to feed my father and myself. She could only come a few times a week. She worried we would starve. My father and I took turns…" he cleared his throat, but didn't bother finishing the thought.

The trio of Musketeers kept the topic of conversation light all through breakfast, after which Porthos offered to walk to Madame Boucher's and return her pot to her.

Aramis glanced to Athos, but the man seemed lost in thought, so he got to his feet and offered to accompany Porthos.

Porthos, still thinking about the breakfast he'd just eaten, breathed deeply and glanced upwards. "Never seen a bluer sky. Air smells better, too."

Aramis chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"I never would have guessed you to be so enamored of the country life."

Porthos shook his head. "I'm no farmer. I've never lived outside of Paris, but I could do with a visit to the country once in awhile. D'Artagnan wouldn't mind a visitor every spring or summer."

"Duty permitting, of course." Aramis said.

"All right, out with it." Porthos stopped walking and glared at his friend.

"What?"

"You got somethin' on your mind. What is it?"

"The boy…"

Now Porthos chuckled.

Startled, Aramis turned to look at him. "What?"

"Saw that one coming. This is where we left it last night."

"The boy," Aramis continued. "He's alone. There's no one for him here."

"You don't know that. That church was full of people."

Aramis shook his head. "None of them stood with him. Madame Boucher told us he's all but alone. His affection for her, his duty to his father's memory, these things will keep him tied to this farm, but his life will be all but empty. He needs purpose."

Porthos looked away and started walking again. His head was down and his hands were fiddling with the pot they were returning to Madame Boucher. "There's more to it, of course."

"What?" Aramis blinked.

"He and his father were going to speak to the King about the taxes in Gascony. If his father hadn't been killed, and if against all odds, the King agreed to see them, they would have left disappointed. Tax relief?" He laughed a hollow laugh. "Nah, they would have gone home disappointed. Then what? If the taxes are bad enough to cause a…what…third, fourth generation farmer and his son to travel from Lupiac to Paris, they might 'ave been about to lose the farm. How long can D'Aratagnan keep things goin'? He's down a man now he's lost 'is father. Can he afford to hire another? Farming's an iffy business. The weather conditions, the soil, the number of men to plant and to harvest…all of that with a belly full of grief…how long d'you s'pose he'd keep the farm running?"

Aramis blinked again. "I will confess you amaze me sometimes."

Porthos smiled a lopsided grin. "You forget. I grew up listening to everything around me. A poor orphan from the Court of Miracles wasn't noticed if 'e was quiet. I learned a lot, and I remember it all."

"You haven't talked about the Court in a long time." Aramis said watching Porthos.

Porthos shrugged. "What's to say? You know the important bits."

"It's all important, Porthos."

Porthos sighed. Aramis tried every so often to get him to tell him all about what it was like to grow up in the Court of Miracles. He knew why. Aramis cared. It wasn't just being curious. He wanted to know what Porthos had gone through. Porthos, however, never did see the point of dwelling on the past. He could recognize Aramis's need to know. It was much the same after Savoy, but the other way around. Then it had been him begging Aramis to explain it all to him. He'd needed to understand what his friend had gone through. He'd needed to know so he could help Aramis deal with it. He didn't need the same sort of help getting over his past, but Aramis knowing what he did know often made things easier. It was how they were able to communicate with just a glance sometimes, and it was why, sometimes, the glance wasn't even necessary.

"Aye, it's all important. It made me who I am." He turned and looked Aramis in the eye. "What's the point, then, Aramis? Why should a lad like d'Artagnan suffer so much? What's to gain from it?"

"Gain? Whose gain? Are you speaking of God? God did not force suffering upon the boy. God gave him the strength to endure it. God gave him people to help him endure it." He gestured to himself and Porthos and waved vaguely back the way they'd come and presumably in Athos's direction.

"But why does it happen?"

"Ah, my friend, you are full of surprises today. You discuss farming like a true farmer, and you come straight to one of the most debated theological questions in the church."

"And?" Porthos asked.

"And…God doesn't make the bad things happen. They happen on their own."

Porthos scoffed. "There's plenty o' people who help the bad things along."

"Yes, granted, but they do that without divine intervention. Bad things happen. God gives us what we need to overcome them."

Porthos considered that for a minute before smiling. "All right."

Aramis smiled back. "So…we take him with us like Madame Boucher asked?"

Porthos nodded. "But we have to make it 'is idea."

The smile slipped from Aramis's face. Subtlety seemed like it might be lost on d'Artagnan just at the moment.

The Musketeers

It was nearing midday and the kitchen was spotless yet again. D'Artagnan put the last of the dishes away, and Athos poured a glass of wine for himself and one for his young friend. He pondered what Porthos and Aramis had told him about their search for Gaudet and a way to save his worthless hide from execution. There had been plenty of stories. Porthos almost daily regaled him with the details of d'Artagnan's observations of the body they'd found at the Inn, and how noticing there were two bullet holes where there should have been one had been their first indication of what had actually happened.

Aramis described the fight between d'Artagnan and Gaudet to the last detail including his instinctive—and effective—defense when Gaudet attacked after d'Artagnan's back was turned. He'd also included a description of the look on the young Gascon's face when he realized he'd killed Gaudet and what that might mean for Athos.

What struck Athos most about these stories was that Porthos and Aramis, men who were inclined to embellish stories at each retelling, never altered a word when they repeated them. This told Athos the boy's skills were as good as he thought they were. He'd been impressive enough at the Garrison when he'd come through the gate in a rage and challenged Athos in a duel to the death, but Athos had gone easy on him. Partly, this was due to the fact that he knew there was a misunderstanding. He had not killed anyone recently, and certainly not the lad's father at an Inn somewhere outside of Paris.

It had also been partly due to the fact that he could sense the boy wasn't at his best. He was protecting an injury, and Athos would not take advantage of that.

He doubted the lad had any idea of his own talent. Confidence he seemed to have in spades, but he could not have found many opponents in Lupiac. Whoever had taught him had done well, and, suspecting that was the lad's father, Athos thought it fitting that he be told just how good he was.

"Was it your ribs?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan had just seated himself at the table opposite Athos, and raised his glass to his lips. Putting it down untouched, he leaned on the table with both forearms crossed before him. "My ribs?" He visibly stiffened his arms to keep from touching said ribs.

"When we fought at the garrison, was it your ribs that were hurt? You have fine form, but the way you fought I could see you were hurting."

D'Artagnan sighed heavily. "I don't know how I thought I would best a King's Musketeer."

"Thinking didn't come into it. It was rage and grief that did your thinking for you that day." He looked d'Artagnan in the eye. "I would have done no less." He held the youth's eye for a moment before continuing. "I was also impressed with your skill. Who taught you the art of swordsmanship?"

"My father." He swallowed almost convulsively for a moment or two. "He taught me everything."

Athos cleared his throat. "Then he was a master swordsman himself. Not a common talent for a farmer. You do him credit."

D'Artagnan looked down and whispered bitterly. "I do him a disservice."

"Why would you say that?"

"He would not have approved of vengeance. He would not have approved of anything I have done. I never tried to see the King. I never tried to get the tax relief for Gascony that he was certain would save us all. I wanted only to fight, to kill…and I admit that since that day, I have often wished our places had been reversed."

A chill raced up and down Athos's spine at those words. "You can't mean that."

D'Artagnan didn't answer, but he did raise his head and look the older man in the eye. Athos could read the truth of it there. It had taken a toll on the young man, and he wasn't able to see an end to grief and misery. Athos suppressed a sigh. He'd been in a similar state for the last five years. To see it in one so young, so full of promise, made him wonder how Aramis and Porthos felt to see it in him.

"He wouldn't want that."

D'Artagnan looked away again. "You don't…didn't…know him. You've no idea what he would want." D'Artagnan reached for the wine bottle.

Athos grabbed the bottle first. He didn't pull it away, but he kept hold of it until d'Artagnan looked him in the eye once more. "No father wants his son to die. No father would wish so desolate an existence for his son that he would wish himself dead let alone actively pursue death." He released the wine bottle, but d'Artagnan left it where it was neither claiming it nor filling his glass.

"I haven't pursued it," d'Artagnan insisted softly.

Athos eyed the bottle, but it would undermine his point if he were to drain it dry himself, so he abandoned that idea. "D'Artagnan, I think you should know you have the makings of a good soldier. Assuming of course, you can learn to follow orders."

At d'Artagnan's confused look, a hint of a smile played across Athos's face. "Porthos and Aramis have told me that you challenged Gaudet though they advised stealth as a better tactic. A less talented swordsman would have seen his end there. Some part of you did not want to die as much as you imagine you did."

D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos could see this wasn't a new idea to him.

"You are young. Whatever you choose to do now, you can change your mind later."

"My father, his father before him, back for more generations than I can number right now, have lived on this land and worked this land. It was my father's dream to make this farm bigger, better, to make something he could pass on to me, to my chil…children…"

The way he stumbled over the word and the look in his eyes as he said it made Athos certain that d'Artagnan had only just realized that any future generations of d'Artagnans that might come along would now never know their fallen patriarch.

D'Artagnan shook his head and moved a hand across his eyes before continuing. "I cannot abandon my father's home…the home he worked all his life to provide for me and my mother. I cannot simply put aside my father's dream."

"No," Athos agreed, thinking of his own father's dreams, his own father's home. "But you can make your own."

D'Artagnan stared at Athos for a moment and gave a short nod. Athos could see he'd given the boy something to think about. It was good enough.

Porthos and Aramis returned then carrying a cake Madame Boucher had insisted they give to d'Artagnan.

"She's doing an awful lot of cooking, d'Artagnan," Porthos grinned. "I'd say she's probably plannin' to fatten you up!"

D'Artagnan nodded. "She worries," he admitted glancing down. Sorrow seemed to cling to him, and, as the trio prepared to leave, each of them tried to lift his spirits. Porthos told jokes. Aramis regaled d'Artagnan with humorous tales of their exploits as Musketeers, and with the odd story or two of how his love life sometimes required him to find odd methods of egress from his ladies' rooms.

Athos said little, but when he saw d'Artagnan on occasion get distracted from the antics of the other two Musketeers by the thoughts in his own head, Athos would do something to ground him to the present. He'd add a word or two to the tale in a tone he usually reserved for giving orders. If he were nearby, he'd place a hand on d'Artagnan's arm or clap him on the back to bring him back to reality. It wasn't subtle, but it worked.

Soon, they were ready to leave, and they each said their goodbyes.

"You're good in a pinch, lad." Porthos told him. "Don't get so distracted by farming that you forget to practice your sword work." He leaned in conspiratorially. "The ladies love that!"

"Ah, and what would you know of a lady's favor, Porthos! That's my area." Aramis said, stepping forward and catching d'Artagnan's hand in both of his. "You have a lovely home, d'Artagnan, but don't forget your friends. Come see us in Paris if you ever have the time. I'll show you around, introduce you to some lovelies of my acquaintance…"

"And get him into trouble!" Porthos added with a laugh.

"Don't pay any attention to him!" Aramis insisted stepping aside to let Athos have his place.

Athos nodded to D'Artragnan and tipped his hat. "Don't forget our offer. If you find yourself in need, we'll expect to be asked to help. We'd take it as an insult if we found out later that we could have helped and were deprived of the opportunity."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I'll remember. Thank you all. I can't tell you how much help you've been, but there's little chance I'll have need to take you up on the offer. Nothing ever happens in Lupiac."

The Musketeers mounted and rode slowly away. Athos could feel d'Artagnan watching them until they were out of sight.