Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews. Sorry this took so long. Working on the next chapter and the wait shouldn't be nearly as bad. Thanks for your patience. Please review.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 4

Reflections and Realizations

For the rest of that first day after the funeral, after the Musketeers had gone, d'Artagnan felt disconnected. He accepted Madame Boucher's company, but, pleading fatigue, he saw her home and returned to his empty house. He had nothing pressing to do, but his desire to keep busy spurred him to do all the things his father would have had to suggest that he do. He chopped wood for hours finding a comfort in the mindless rhythm of the task. It lulled his senses and allowed his body to function at an instinctive level. He didn't think. He just lost himself in the task until his arms felt heavy and he found it impossible to raise the axe.

He took a break after stacking the logs and returned to the house changing out of his sweat stained clothes. He ate a simple meal of bread and cheese, though found he was too tired to eat much.

He fell asleep in the sitting room, waking at the first light of dawn in a state of mild confusion as his tired brain tried to work out why he wasn't in his bed. It came back to him in a rush.

That was one thing he hadn't expected. It was the newness of the grief every time he woke. Waking up and realizing his father was actually dead was like losing him all over again.

He rose reluctantly wincing at the stiffness of muscles strained from too much wood chopping and aggravated by a night sleeping in a chair.

Today, he realized, he would have to focus on the farm. Yes, it was early winter, but there were always things to be done, and he felt a bit of apprehension in the pit of his stomach at the realization that he wasn't entirely certain how things stood with the farm. His father had taught him much about running the place, but d'Artagnan had always been content to do what needed doing and not worry about the details that occupied his father's time.

Alexandre d'Artagnan had encouraged this. To some degree, d'Artagnan suspected that his father held tight to his responsibilities because he truly could not envision slowing down. Whenever d'Artagnan had shown an interest in managerial details, his father had put him off claiming there was time enough for d'Artagnan to worry about that, but that for now, he should enjoy himself while the burden of responsibility still belonged to his father.

So d'Artagnan had practiced his sword work and seen to the more menial, mundane tasks of keeping the farm running. His father had liked his cooking, which Madame Boucher had insisted he learn, so he had tried to master all of his father's favorite dishes. His father had enjoyed seeing him practice with his sword, so d'Artagnan had focused on becoming the best he could possibly be just so he could hear his father's hearty laugh of approval when he managed a particularly elegant series of moves.

Now, there was no one else. Ready or not—and he most assuredly was not—he would have to assume his father's responsibilities.

With a bit of trepidation, he entered his father's study. The sturdy desk—made by d'Artagnan's great-grandfather—seemed intimidating. He hadn't been in the room since his father's death, not by design, but simply because he hadn't given a thought past the funeral and after the funeral, he had simply not been ready to enter.

No more ready now, he knew he could not put this off any longer.

Crossing the room, he threw aside the heavy draperies and, with the weak winter sunlight streaming into the room in a feeble attempt to illuminate him, he began to read through the papers and ledgers. It was hours later, when he found himself leaning towards the window with the pages close to his face that he realized he had to stop if for no other reason that to light the lamps.

He rose, feeling his spine click in a few places as he stretched to relive his too-long inactive muscles. He had the beginnings of a headache, and his stomach felt empty enough to remind him he'd not eaten since he'd finished chopping wood the day before. As he pondered what he'd learned by going through his father's papers, he knew he really couldn't eat. The papers, the ledgers…everything he'd read told him he could lose the farm more easily than he could adjust to maintaining it without his father at his side.

It was no wonder Alexandre d'Artagnan had decided to go the Paris to plead for tax relief. Things were much worse than his father had led him to believe.

There was a distinct chill in the air, so d'Artagnan retreated to his room. With no appetite, aching muscles from both the previous day's wood chopping and sitting at the desk all day, combined with the knowledge that everything he had left in the world could soon be lost to him, d'Artagnan crawled into bed and threw the blankets up over his head. Childish, he knew, but he had little time to ponder the depths of his childishness as he fell into a troubled sleep.

It was cold. Dark. The air was so cold it was painful to breathe. Straining his eyes, he tried to force them to focus, to see something, but the absence of light was total and unrelenting. He focused his attention on his other senses…a smell of rain, the coppery tinge of blood…the sound of screaming, the feel of water pouring down on him from above. His vision began to clear as his heart began to pound. He turned his head hoping to find something to distract him from what he knew was there, but it was already too late. His father lay there at his feet, wet, bleeding and turning an accusatory stare at him.

"Where were you, Charles?"

" I was…the horses…" He gestured behind him to the stables where the armed men had found him before he fell to his knees and grasped his father's hand. "Father…please…"

"We cannot save the farm now. We will lose it. You will lose it all…everything we have worked for…everything my father and his father built!"

D'Artagnan frowned thinking how wrong this was. His father hadn't said this when he'd died…but now, his father grasped his hand and looked him in the eye. "You are not a farmer. You cannot hope to keep the farm going…" His eyes rolled up until d'Artagnan could see only the whites.

"Father!" d'Artagnan called, watching in horror as his father breathed his last.

D'Artagnan sat up straight in bed crying out as he woke. "Father!" he called, gasping as he slowly came to the understanding that he'd been dreaming. He put a hand to his pounding head and wiped away the sweat that had dampened his hair. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. It was hours before he slept again.

The Musketeers

D'Artagnan spent the next few days either brooding over an untouched plate of food or poring over the ledgers and journals his father had left behind. He grew more concerned with each passing day until he finally recognized that he'd passed right through worry and into panic.

The last time the taxes had been collected, they had managed to pay just under half what they owed the crown. That, added to what they—he—would owe when the tax collector was due to come again, was more than the farm had been able to earn in the last 5 years combined. When, how, had they fallen so far behind on the taxes? He'd found vaguely worded entries in the accounts that grew larger each season. What were they? Why had his father not told him of any of this?

Carefully, he combed through the accounts. He made list after list of the farm's assets. He would sell his father's horse. He would sell his tack, the bedroom set, one of the cows, and…his mother's jewelry. He could sell some of that. There must be something. Gripped by the thought he raced to his father's room. Pausing in the doorway, he realized he hadn't entered the room since the day he'd chosen his father's burial attire. Now he felt like a bandit, come to his own father's room to ransack it for his mother's jewelry or anything else his might be able to sell. He reminded himself it was to save the farm, and he walked inside.

The curtains were shut, so he threw them open. He'd found that, since his father's passing, he hated dark rooms. It was too oppressive. He could too easily lose himself in dark memories. He much preferred natural light. With the curtains open as far as they could be, he retrieved his mother's jewelry case and the box his father used to keep his own precious things.

There was very little. He remembered what he saw, but he felt there were items missing. He was sure his mother had owned a small, delicate brooch, but he could find no trace of it. He was also certain there had been a ring, too long out of style to wear, but one his mother had kept because it had belonged to her grandmother. It was nowhere to be seen.

His father's box was in a similar state. What was left was either not worth much, or was of such great sentimental value, he'd never dare to sell it. He saw it then…the pocket watch had belonged to his grandfather. His father's father had allowed himself the one extravagance though he had only kept it at the urging of his wife. He had, according to Alexandre d'Artagnan, threatened to sell it many times over, but Alexandre's mother forbade it.

His father had only worn it in the house or on special occasions. It was not the sort of watch one wore when farming. D'Artagnan held it in his hand reverently. His father must have maintained it well all these years. He clutched it for a moment unsure if the idea of selling it had made him dizzy or if it could be something else. Lack of sleep, nightmares…

He shook off the thought and carefully placed the watch back in the box. He knew he'd likely have to sell it to save the farm, but for now, he was overcome with a need to know how things had gotten so bad.

Determination flooded threw him and he put away his parents things and returned to his own room. A trip to the tavern was in order. He'd find his father's friends, talk to them and try to work out what had happened.

The Musketeers

The smell of wine, spirits, and rabbit stew wafted through the tavern. Voices of half a dozen people melded together into an indecipherable babble, and d'Artagnan felt suddenly self-conscious about having come. For a moment, he considered leaving before anyone saw him, but the moment passed before he could decide anything.

"Charles!" The barman called out to him. "Come, have a drink on the house!"

He should have remembered. Michel always treated people to drinks whenever some life-changing event occurred. Whether it was birth, death, marriage…Michel would not allow it to pass without marking the occasion.

He accepted only because it was the easiest thing to do in the circumstances, and because if he wanted to learn anything, Michel was the man to ask.

He sat at a stool far remove from where he usually sat with his father. It would be too hard to fight the urge to turn and say something to him. He'd found himself doing that at home, and feeling the loss all over again each time he realized anew that his father was gone.

Michel poured a glass of his best wine. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, and Michel shrugged as he poured another for himself. He raised the glass and offered a toast. "To Alexandre d'Artagnan. Lupiac is a better place for having had him live here so long."

D'Artagnan clinked glasses with Michel and they both drank. The toast was not the usual one the barman offered in such circumstances, but before he could find a way to ask about it, Michel set down his glass and leaned closer to d'Artagnan. "Your father was the best man I've ever met. Did you know he loaned me the money to open this inn?"

D'Artagnan shook his head in surprise. His father was always against the idea of borrowing or lending. "No," he admitted.

"You were a little thing then. The man who ran the inn in those days had died, and there was a lot of speculation that it would remain shut. I had always fancied the idea of running a place like this. Your father was a friend of my uncle's. They talked one day, and the next day Alexandre d'Artagnan knocked on my door. 'Here's what you need. No town should be without an inn to celebrate, to mourn, and to share the good times and bad.' He didn't ask for anything in return, but I paid him back in full. Then, every month I've been open, I managed to buy him a drink."

D'Artagnan smiled. "That's what that was all about? Every time we came in he would tell me, 'don't let Michel buy me a drink.' I never knew how that started." D'Artagnan shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. He had wondered why Michel had gotten in the habit of buying his father a drink, but his father refused to talk about it. He looked at Michel. "He always said you only did it because it irritated him."

Michel laughed. "He knew exactly why. Gratitude was hard for him to accept, but I will always feel that when I think of him. He was a good man."

They both fell silent for a moment or two as their thoughts conjured memories of Alexandre d'Artagnan, and for a brief time, d'Artagnan didn't feel quite so alone in his grief. He cleared his throat and dashed a hand across his eyes. Raising his glass once more, d'Artagnan drained it dry.

Composed, he looked Michel in the eye. "Michel, I've been wondering…before we left for Paris, my father told me he'd spoken to most of our friends and neighbors and everyone agreed speaking to the King about the taxes was the only thing left to be done. Did he speak to you?"

Michel sighed heavily and picked up a rag as though to start polishing the bar. He held it in his hands for a few moments before dropping it once more. He looked at d'Artagnan with apprehension. "Yes," he admitted. "We spoke. He believed there wasn't much else we could do. The taxes are draining away most of the ready cash in Lupiac. No one can afford to pay it anymore."

"How is it my father and I were chosen to go?"

"Your father insisted. He said he had information that would force the King to listen to him."

D'Artagnan drew back in surprise. " 'Force the King'…he said that?"

Michel nodded. "He had lost more than any of us. He'd helped so many of us keep our property…"

"How? What do you mean?"

Michel toyed with the rag again, looking away, but turned his attention back to d'Artagnan. "Maybe you had best talk to Monsieur Tremblay."

"Tremblay…" d'Artagnan didn't really want to speak to him. The man hadn't been the least apologetic after repeatedly dropping the coffin at the funeral. He had hoped to let a few months pass before needing to speak to the man. He studied Michel's face, but could find no hint of what the man thought he would learn from Tremblay. Determination roared through him suddenly, and he knew he would have to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. "Very well. I'll speak to him…but surely there's something you can tell me."

Michel's eyes softened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Just as he was about to say something, the door to the tavern swung open and a large man walked in. D'Artagnan didn't know him well. He hadn't been in Lupiac long, but Michel immediately shut his mouth and his face was suddenly hard and stony.

"Would you like another?" He asked d'Artagnan, his hand hovering over the bottle on the bar.

D'Artagnan was no fool, and it would take a special kind of fool not to notice the change in the atmosphere. He shook his head holding up a hand as he reached for what was left of his drink.

The newcomer crossed to the bar glaring at Michel. "Whiskey," he said.

Michel nodded and poured.

D'Artagnan watched the two. Saw how Michel never met the other man's eyes, poured a shockingly generous portion of whiskey, and left the bottle in easy reach. He watched the man sit with all the authority of any King or Lord as though this was his due.

"Thank you for the drink, Michel." He stood and left the bar. He'd need to speak to Tremblay today.

He found the man in question at his own farm on the opposite side of the town center from d'Artagnan's. He knocked on the man's door feeling like a young child sent to ask a favor. Cursing himself, he shook the feeling as best he could and waited.

Tremblay opened the door, his face souring when he saw who was waiting. D'Artagnan noted it, but didn't comment.

"Monsieur, how are you? I wanted to thank you…" he heard himself thanking the man for his help carrying the coffin, and cringed at the very idea. A small part of him would have preferred never to see the family friend again in his life. "…May I come in? I have some business to discuss."

"You and I have no business."

D'Artagnan was surprised once more. This man had been a close friend. Why was he so hostile now? "Please, Monsieur. I found your name in my father's records…he paid you some money…" Before d'Artagnan could inquire as to the nature of the payment, Tremblay all but snarled at him.

"I should have guessed it would not take you long to call in the debt! Well, I haven't got it. I cannot give it back to you!" A harsh laugh echoed his words. "If your father were here, I could not pay him…"

D'Artagnan held up a hand. "Monsieur, I have no intention of asking for the money. If he gave it to you, please, consider it a gift. I meant only to ask why he paid you. What was the money for? Judging by his records, he paid out a lot of money to a lot of people. Why? What has he not told me?"

D'Artagnan hated the desperation that tinged his words, but he was having trouble coping with the changes that he been through, and learning that his father, whom he thought he knew better than any living soul, had secrets made him wonder what else about his life was not entirely as he'd always believed it to be.

Monsieur Tremblay's eyes seemed uncertain for a moment, but then his expression softened and he seemed almost the man d'Artagnan remembered.

"You really don't know, do you?" He shook his head. "Ah, Alexandre," he whispered to himself. Then he put out a hand and clasped d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."

They sat in Monsieur Tremblay's living room. He'd poured some wine and stoked the fire. D'Artagnan could tell that he was stalling, but he didn't want to rush him. He had seemed so distant, so angry recently. That had come to a head at the funeral, and d'Artagnan had presumed he was the cause. He'd assumed Monsieur Tremblay blamed him for his father's death. They had been, after all, best friends in their youth. Now, he sensed there was more that he didn't know.

Finally the man sat. He reached for his wine and downed a sizable portion before looking d'Artagnan in the eye. "Your father knew that we were dying. Lupiac, I mean. There is only so much a town this size may give away before crumbling to dust. The taxes were a heavy burden and so many of us could not cope." He looked away, but looked back almost immediately. "I, too, could not see to my obligations. Your father paid my taxes last season. The season before, he paid Madame Boucher's. Half the people of Lupiac have borrowed something from him in recent years, but the taxes only increased. When Lemieux turned up with news of the latest increase, he set up a payment schedule claiming the crown understood it was a lot to ask at any one time. He collected payments and marked it in a ledger. Your father helped most of us pay. His own funds were running out when he proposed the trip to Paris. He claimed he knew things and that he had learned of some sort of treachery. He said it would be safer not to tell us details. He would discuss it with the King. I told him he was being foolish. Surely, the King would not agree to meet with a farmer from Lupiac. He would not be persuaded to abandon his plan."

D'Artagnan stared in open-mouthed shock at his father's friend. "Why would he keep this from me?"

Tremblay shrugged. "I suppose he hoped to handle it himself. You know, whenever we talked about you, he always mentioned…"

"My temper…" d'Artagnan whispered. He'd heard a lot about his temper from his neighbors over the last week or more. In retrospect, he'd heard a lot about it most of his life. He could only imagine the grief and trouble he'd caused his father, and how disappointed he must have been. When Monsieur Tremblay did not continue, d'Artagnan hazarded a look. To his surprise, Monsieur Tremblay was shaking his head sadly, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Oh, Charles, no. He always mentioned your idealism. He worried that one day you would lose it and that the loss would make you bitter. He said your temper was his fault. He said he fanned the flames with stories of chivalry and honor, and that you were offended when others…" he smiled a sad smile and shrugged before continuing. "Well, when they did not behave as honorably as you believed they should."

"I…" d'Artagnan had to clear his throat to continue. "I have worried that I must have been a disappointment to him." The confession cost him and he looked down once more unable to look the man in the eye and see his agreement.

Monsieur Tremblay rose and from his chair and moved to sit beside d'Artagnan on the small settee. "You," he said with a smile, "were his pride and joy, but the loss of your idealism, your innocence…the extent of your pride…these are the things that worried him, Charles. You were everything to him. He sought to protect you. He said he had to go to Paris or there would be nothing to leave to you…the d'Artagnan family legacy would end with him. It was something he could not bear…the thought of leaving you homeless and in debt. He claimed he would take you to Paris and, if he failed to speak to the King, he would secure a position for you somewhere."

D'Artagnan's head snapped up at that. "A position with whom? Doing what? Surely, he didn't mean that! I would have helped with the farm! Perhaps together we might have found a way to save it!"

Tremblay waved his hands. "No, he said if he failed there would be no more farm anyway, and he would not have you throw your chances away."

"Chances?" D'Artagnan rose and paced back and forth. Consternation and confusion raced through him. "Chances at what? What could he have intended? I have no prospects in Paris!"

Tremblay shrugged. "He never said, but…" there was a tone of amusement in his voice. "It seems you made connections of your own. There were Musketeers in town for his funeral. Surely they were here for your benefit. You could do worse than to gain a commission with the King's Guard."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "A commission? With the Musketeers?"

"Not so far-fetched, I think," he said with a smile.

The Musketeers

D'Artagnan began to spend more and more time alone in his father's study. When Madame Boucher stopped in every few days, he found he could not easily speak to her. His heart was too heavy for either idle chatter or detailed explanations of what troubled him. He had realized soon after Monsieur Tremblay's explanations that the missing items from his parents' room had been sold to pay the taxes not only on their farm but also for his friends and neighbors. His father had been loyal to those he admired and befriended, and he was unable to turn down any request for help.

D'Artagnan could not find fault with this. He only wished his father had shared the burden with him. Together they could have found some answers, he was sure. Tremblay knew nothing of whatever evidence of treachery his father might have found that might have aided Lupiac. In his father's absence, he had been unable to find a single clue that would help him reconstruct either his father's thought processes or rediscover any such evidence.

Madame Boucher worried. He knew she did, but he could find no words of reassurance while he was faced with losing what little he had left. He had little recourse. He had to go through the motions of working the farm until he learned something or indeed lost it altogether. It being winter, there was little he could do, however.

The cold seemed colder this year, and D'Artagnan sometimes caught himself wishing winter were gone. At this time of year, there was less to do around the farm than he would have liked. He found himself cleaning the house just to keep busy. He mucked out the stables more frequently than was strictly necessary. He even took to chopping wood for hours at a time just to feel the burn of his muscles as he did it.

By the end of end of the third week after his father's funeral, he had the cleanest house and stables, and the most firewood of any home in Gascony. He rose one morning and decided that he should take a wander through the farmland and inspect it. Compiling a list of projects, tasks, and repairs was how his father always used the winter months, and he saw the logic in it.

Winter had barely started, he knew, but he intended to do a lot of planning before the spring thaw. He had his father's notes to review, and he planned to be as meticulous as possible. He would not let his father down.

He left early one morning when the first suggestion of pink and yellow was beginning to paint the distant horizon. He'd dressed warmly and had packed a bit of wine and some food in case it took him longer than usual to do the task. He found that everything seemed to take him longer than usual these days. He didn't tell himself it was his grief making him slower. He was doing his best to avoid thinking about grief.

By mid-morning, he'd covered a good bit of the land and was pleased to see that, aside from a few fallen trees that needed to be cleared from where they had fallen in a storm, there was little damage to the farm. Winter was a long way from over, but the farm wasn't in a bad state.

His final stop was the eastern most part of his land. He approached the fence dividing his own property from Monsieur Lambert's and felt rage surge through his body at the sight that greeted him. The fence was crooked. It wasn't wind or snow that caused this. Monsieur Lambert was still there, slumped over one post and again moving the fence piece by piece as he'd tried to do last year. No doubt he imagined that d'Artagnan's grief would make him oblivious to the trick, and in truth it might have worked had he not rode up as Lambert was in the middle of the task.

"Lambert!" he called as he leaped from his horse. "What do you think you're doing?"

He made his way to the post. Lambert, infuriatingly, remained as he was. D'Artagnan imagined the ground must be hard, still frozen as it was, and he was forced to struggle to pull it up.

D'Artagnan approached and called again. "Do you hear me? I'm talking to you!" He put a hand on Lambert's arm and watched as he tumbled to the ground with a knife through his heart.