Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I hope to have another chapter up soon.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 5

Pathos and Prayers

The first of February was a sunny but cold day in Paris, and Athos strolled toward the Musketeer Garrison without noticing the cold, the people he passed, or indeed without any realization that February had actually arrived. His head was pounding from his usual evening activities, and, though Porthos and Aramis—it had taken both of them this time—had seen him home, he found he had little memory beyond arriving at his room.

As he entered the Garrison, Porthos and Aramis were already sparring, as were other pairs of Musketeers. Athos sat and watched his two closest friends trying to see if either were showing any particular weakness in their fighting styles that morning. As usual, there was no real room for improvement. If there were to be a loser, it would be luck that would decide who it would be.

He took a seat on the stairs prepared to wait until one of them lost when a boy of about twelve, mounted on a horse that had obviously been ridden hard, came racing through the courtyard. At the sight of the boy, the hair on the back of Athos's neck stood up. He watched the boy carefully, all thoughts of sparring with Porthos or Aramis gone.

The boy stopped by the doorway where the stable boy was clearing up some equipment and asked a question with a frantic look on his face. The stable boy turned and pointed at Athos, his face showing surprise that the Musketeer was staring at him so intently. The new arrival dismounted and dashed to Athos's side.

"Monsieur Athos? The Musketeer?"

"What is it, boy?" Athos asked. By this time Aramis and Porthos had abandoned their match and come to see what was happening.

"For you." He wearily thrust a letter at Athos.

Porthos called for someone to bring the boy water. He turned to Athos.

"Well?"

When Athos didn't reply, Aramis tried his luck. "Athos?"

Athos thrust the letter at him. "I am going to speak to Treville. We ride for Lupiac in five minutes."

"What is it?" Porthos asked, but Athos didn't reply.

Aramis and Porthos watched him climb the stairs. Aramis turned to the letter and read it carefully. Porthos watched in concern as his face paled. "I'm getting tired of askin'. What is it?"

"D'Artagnan is calling in his favor."

"What does it say?"

Aramis couldn't read it aloud, so, with a shake of his head, he gave the letter to Porthos.

Athos, Aramis, Porthos,

Please come. I'm to be hanged.

d'Artagnan

Porthos and Aramis raced to the stables to prepare their horses.

The Musketeers

They rode with haste. This was no leisurely jaunt to the countryside and the speed with which their horses tore up the ground meant they'd be utterly spent when they arrived, but none of them entertained any thought of slowing down.

They'd ridden for close to ten hours before grudgingly halting. Eating and drinking may be done from the saddle, but some bodily needs were best seen to on solid ground and not from the back of a horse.

Once stopped, the soldiers in each of them forced them to care for their horses. The poor beasts had been pushed beyond limits, and though their hearts cried out for them to press on, the animals required rest, food, and water.

Athos stared at the horses after they'd been made comfortable, but his eyes did not see them. His thoughts rested on what might be happening in Lupiac. The note from d'Artagnan had been short on detail, and though he'd memorized it, he still puzzled over what had not been included. It had been a few short months since they had left their young friend, and Athos had fully expected to see the lad stroll into the garrison on any given day requesting a chance to join their ranks. Each day that did not happen, Athos mood darkened.

Now, he pulled the brief missive from his pocket and read it through again.

"It won't say any more now that it did the first time." Porthos appeared at his side having failed to rouse Athos's attention before speaking. Athos could not be said to be startled. Instead he shook his head, the letter crinkling slightly in his tightening grip. "I don't understand why he didn't write more."

Porthos shrugged, and Athos wondered not for the first time at the ease with which he accepted such things. Porthos took what was given and rarely looked for more. He seemed to expect that he would learn more in due time or, if he didn't, he would have to accept the lack regardless so why not just accept it at the start. Athos suspected this was because of his upbringing. Living in the Court of Miracles didn't exactly leave him in a position to expect much of anything.

"Maybe 'e couldn't write more." Porthos said, his eyes taking on a thoughtful gaze. "Maybe 'e was bein' watched, or maybe 'e was short on time."

Athos nodded. He'd considered this. It didn't make him feel any better about the lack of information. If anything, it made him more apprehensive of what they would find.

They didn't linger, but moved on again as soon as they believed the horses were able to continue. In this fashion, they made the journey in eight days when it should have taken ten.

They rode straight to d'Artagnan's farm, unsure what they would find there. Dismounting, they were greeted by Madame Boucher who came running out to them at the sound of the horses.

"Monsieurs! Oh, Musketeers!" She cast her eyes heavenward and her hands, clutching a well-worn rosary, were clasped as though still in prayer. "Thank you, Lord! Thank you!" She grasped Athos's arm as he came running to her side. "Monsieur Athos! Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Aramis! He said you would all come. I have waited for you since we sent the letter! They hang him tomorrow! You must help him!"

"Madame, take a breath!" Athos turned the woman toward the house and they followed her inside.

Aramis helped the lady to a chair and knelt by her side. He looked her in the eyes. His hands rested on her arms in an attempt to keep her from losing herself. "We find ourselves with a lack of information. First, where is d'Artagnan?"

"He's being held at the town center. The town guards have him. They hang him at dawn!" She was practically screeching.

"Why is it always dawn?" Athos said softly.

Porthos poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. "Please, Madame. We're here to help. Why are they hanging 'im?"

"Murder! Monsieur Lambert was killed. D'Artagnan was discovered over the body in the fields. There was an issue with the fence. He didn't do it…I promise you…"

"Hush, Madame," Aramis whispered. "We're quite as certain as you are that he didn't do it. We will clear his name." Aramis looked up at Porthos and Athos.

"We should speak to the men at whose mercy he finds himself," Aramis whispered.

Their own horses spent, they cared for the loyal beasts and put them up in d'Artagan's barn. He only had two horses of his own, so they hitched them to the wagon and rode to the town center in that.

Aramis had managed to pull more information from Madame Boucher. They knew where exactly d'Artagnan was being held, and truth be told, Aramis considered it a distinct possibility that they might have to stage a prison break. These small towns never liked outsiders interfering with their business. He worried there would be little sympathy to their cause if these people honestly believed they had their culprit. He shook his head in consternation. He had known d'Artagnan for only a short time and yet he was certain murder was beyond the man's ability. Killing in a fair fight, in a battle, certainly, but cold-blooded murder wasn't something of which the honorable, enthusiastic, passionate boy could conceive.

"This is a small town," he whispered.

"What?" Porthos asked.

"It's a small town. They all know each other, move in and out of each other's lives, likely they have done for decades."

"Your point?" Athos asked.

"We've known d'Artagnan for what? A matter of days? Yet we're all certain he couldn't have committed murder. They've known him his entire life. How could they think this of him?" Aramis shook his head again.

Porthos scoffed. "Number of years you know someone don't always mean much. I've known some people all my life and nothing I'd learn about them would surprise me."

"And if you'd known d'Artagnan all your life? How would that affect your assessment of his character?" Aramis asked.

Porthos opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as he really considered the question. "Funny, but I feel like I've known him longer." He shrugged. "I'd never believe he could murder someone, but some people enjoy the gossip…the good story. It's a tragic one…hometown boy loses his father on a trip to the city, comes home and in a fit of rage and grief murders a man he and his father have had words with in the past. The story will run through the town like wildfire."

"But they know him!" Aramis insisted.

"Perhaps they know only what they wish to know." Athos interrupted and would say no more.

The Musketeers

The Musketeers had decided it best to arrive with all the pomp they could conjure. Though they couldn't arrive on horseback, they had changed into fresh clothes, before departing the farm, brightened and brushed out their hats and capes, and in short looked as they might for any formal job at the palace.

Athos had reasoned that they had made an impression at Alexandre d'Artagnan's funeral. These people were not accustomed to the sight of Musketeers, let alone Musketeers dressed as well as possible. They needed every advantage.

They left the wagon by the town hall, and entered as regally as possible. Yet they maintained a casual air. Athos insisted that a man who seemed unaware that he was impressive was ten times more inspiring than a man who knew he was.

Athos swept into the room, Aramis and Porthos just behind him. "You there!" Athos called to the first person they saw. Athos looked the man up and down, doing his best at appearing to assess and dismiss the man as unimportant. "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers. I want to speak to your superior."

The man was overwhelmed by the trio of Musketeers and raced from the room without saying a thing. A moment or two later, a large man entered. He was dressed in black and he had a glint in his eye that Athos did not like.

"What business do the King's Musketeers have here?" The man asked not bothering to introduce himself.

"We are here to see Charles d'Artagnan."

The man grinned, but it was more of a grimace. "Good thing you came today. He'll be dead by this time tomorrow."

Athos's eyes narrowed. "A lot can happen before dawn tomorrow. Where is he?"

"What interest do you have in him?"

"That isn't your concern. Where is he?" Athos said. He stepped forward slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Aramis and Porthos did the same.

"He's in there." The man looked over the trio, and Athos could see a hint of fear at the idea of taking on three of the King's Musketeers at once. It was gone in an instant and a haughty disregard for the situation took its place. It had been the briefest of glimpses, but Athos, long accustomed to reading an opponent's body language knew they would get what they wanted.

The man gestured through the door he'd just come from. "You can see him." He smiled again, but it was not a smile of friendship or hospitality. It was more an evil thing. "You can say goodbye."

Athos didn't reply. They walked to the door and straight through it where they found a narrow corridor with three doors. The man that had run off when they'd first arrived guarded the one furthest down the hall.

The Musketeers moved swiftly toward that door. Now that they were moments from seeing d'Artagnan, Athos felt more apprehension than he'd imagined he would.

Athos held out his hand for the key and the guard gave it to him before scurrying away. Athos used the key and threw open the door. The interior of the room was dark. One small window high in the wall let in a little light, but bars across it made it clear this was no guest room. There was a small fire in a fireplace clearly not large enough to heat the room properly, and certainly not large enough to illuminate the interior. This was by design. The fireplace was too small for the average man to try to escape by that route, and the top would, Athos knew, have bars just as the window did.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called out quietly. He was puzzled. He didn't see d'Artagnan, and began to wonder if perhaps they'd been misled. It was in that moment that a dark shape in the far corner of the room moved.

Athos glanced to the side of the doorway and saw a torch, unlit in a wall sconce. Carefully, he removed it and pushed an end into the fire. When it lit, he returned it to it's place on the wall. Stepping further inside the room to allow Porthos and Aramis entry, his eyes finally found his friend.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," his voice was a whisper, and he realized he had not expected d'Artagnan to look much differently than he had the last time they'd seen him. This was, after all, merely a holding cell in Lupiac, not the Chatelet.

Aramis hissed at the sight, and Porthos cursed.

"D'Artagnan. We came as soon as we got your letter," Athos moved closer to the boy who was squinting against the feeble light of the torch and holding a hand protectively before his face. It was then that Athos saw the chains.

His eyes scanned his friend as he moved closer. The boy wore no shoes on his feet, his clothes were tattered and filthy, and his wrists beneath the manacles were rubbed raw.

"What has happened? D'Artagnan, tell us everything and leave out not a solitary detail." Athos moved to sit by d'Artagnan, but the boy flinched away from him and covered his head as though expecting to be hit.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted the name in his surprise. To find the proud, passionate young man who'd demanded a fight to the death the moment they'd met to be cowering on the floor like an abused dog told him things about the boy's treatment that he didn't care to contemplate.

Something in Athos's voice must have gotten through to him, for d'Artagnan looked cautiously up at Athos, his eyes squinting a bit more. "A…Athos?" he asked. He turned to Aramis. "Aramis…" A glance up at Porthos, and a smile actually lit his features. "Porthos!"

Porthos smiled, though it did little to hide his fear and concern for the younger man. Aramis put a hand on the large Musketeer's arm and Athos knew he was trying both to comfort and to be comforted.

There was a small bed and he perched on it bringing d'Artagnan up from the floor to sit beside him, and with Athos by his side and Aramis kneeling before him to examine him for injury, d'Artagnan seemed ever so slightly more himself. Porthos was forced to sit on the floor between Aramis and the wall not willing to be too far from their young friend.

"What has happened? D'Artagnan, please, tell us everything."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and explained what he could. He told them how he'd found Lambert's body. He hadn't realized the man was dead and thought he'd been moving fence posts once more. He shrugged. "If he didn't, someone else did, because the posts were moved." He frowned as though doubting himself. "They were…I'm sure they were…" He spoke softly and belying his words, he sounded anything but sure. He'd shouted at the man, and only then realized what had happened. While he'd puzzled over it, Lambert's sons had arrived and began accusing him of murdering their father. They'd dragged him to town and presented their complaint.

"I had no proof that I had not done it, and they insisted they'd seen the attack from the distance and ridden in haste to intervene only to arrive too late." He looked them in the eyes, each Musketeer in turn. "I didn't do it! I swear…"

"Peace, d'Artagnan," Aramis said. "We know you didn't. You're too honorable a man to have done anything of the sort."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise. Eyes, now accustomed to the light, widened. "You…you believe me?"

"Of course, why wouldn't we?" Porthos asked.

"No one does…I mean…only Madame Boucher. The others…the men who have worked for us…for my father for years…the people I've known since I was a child…everyone believes I've done this. Do you know what it's like to have no one to believe in you?" His soft, broken whisper tore at Athos's heart and he clasped the lad's hand firmly in his own.

"We believe you." Athos voice was strong and did not break and he willed the boy to believe his words. "The three of us. The King's Musketeers. The Three Inseparables. Hold onto that, lad. We have come as we promised and we will help."

D'Artagnan looked up at Athos. "I didn't call you to save me."

"You didn't?" Athos glanced to Porthos and Aramis who could only shrug.

"No…I…my hanging. I only thought…I mean…I didn't want to die alone."

"Die?" Porthos spat onto the floor after saying the word as though the taste of it were something he intended to forget. "You're not going to die, lad."

"Quite right," Aramis agreed. "We've got until dawn. We're getting good at this saving people from execution thing."

"Listen to them, d'Artagnan. We have no intention of watching you die. We have every intention of proving to these people that you are a man of honor and could never have done as they suggest."

"It's no suggestion." D'Artagnan said. "They believe it. They relish it. They retell the story at every opportunity." Bitterness was boiling up to the surface now, and d'Artagnan couldn't stop it. "The story of Charles d'Artagnan, so driven mad by his grief, so overwhelmed by anger that without his father there to force civility down his throat, he killed the first man with whom he disagreed." He scrubbed his eyes with his chained hands. Weariness enveloped him and he trembled with the effort of so long a conversation.

"How long have you been chained here?" Athos asked. He could see things in d'Artagnan that he would have preferred not to see. There was bitterness in the boy, now. Bitterness, pain, and a hint of panic. He was familiar with the feelings. He'd struggled against them in the Chatelet the night he'd spent there, believing he'd die at dawn.

D'Artagnan's only reply was a half-hearted shrug.

"How long?" Athos insisted.

"I'm…not really sure." He admitted. "What day is it?"

Athos glanced at Aramis and Porthos. He cleared his throat and looked d'Artagnan in the eye. "It's early February."

D'Artagnan blinked. Once. Twice. "I…" He had to stop to clear his throat. "It was late December when I discovered the body. They arrested me immediately. I…tried to escape a few days later. I wanted to be able to investigate. There was little I could do locked up in here."

"Why did you delay in contacting us?" Athos asked, letting a bit of his irritation at the wasted time show. "I thought we'd made it clear when last we were here that we would come to help regardless of the circumstances."

D'Artagnan sighed in frustration. "I thought of it, of course. I asked for the paper to write a letter, but they put me off. Madame Boucher came last week. She had demanded to see me for weeks, but they only permitted it when it was decided I'd hang. She brought paper and promised to send a letter for me."

They were all silent for a moment. Athos felt anger at this unfair treatment, and worry that d'Artagnan had so casually mentioned his hanging as though it were a natural thing, a normal thing that would happen as surely as a sunrise...the next sunrise. The boy was being framed, and the only favor he'd requested of them was not to die alone. Athos wondered at the depth of his desire to protect d'Artagnan, but he shook off the thought as irrelevant. Something to be explored later when they'd saved the boy, or to add to the things he drowned each night in wine.

"Is this the way people are normally treated in Lupiac prisons?" Aramis asked.

Again, d'Artagnan shrugged. "I don't really know. There's not a lot of crime here. Nothing in the town much impacted the farmers on the outskirts." His eyes were haunted, and his hands trembled. "This is the first murder…" He shook his head, and his focus drifted. He stared down at the floor so long that Athos suspected he'd forgotten they were there.

"Look at me, d'Artagnan," Athos said. The seriousness of his tone drew not only the lad's eyes, but Porthos's and Aramis's as well. "We will get you out of this. You will not hang tomorrow." He paused for a moment. "Do you believe me?"

D'Artagnan struggled to say it. That he wanted to was obvious, but he'd been alone in a cell for a month. Isolated from all that was familiar to him at a time when grief was his only companion. After all that time alone, trust couldn't be an easy thing to give away.

"Yes," d'Artagnan finally admitted. "Yes, I do."

"Good man," Athos said with a hint of a smile. "Aramis?"

Aramis knew what he was being asked. "He's bruised and battered and I'm worried about his wrists. He has lost weight, though, and he had little enough of that to spare."

"A problem for tomorrow. We've got to discover who has framed the young man." Athos said.

Porthos snorted. "That's obvious. It's Lambert's sons."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Athos admitted.

"Do they have motive?" Aramis asked d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I suppose so. They own their father's farm now. If I die with no heirs, the town will get the farm. I suppose they could buy it."

Athos shook his head. Something about that sounded wrong.

"So…we talk to them?" Porthos asked.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan. "Is there anything you can tell us about them?"

"There are three of them. They never liked farming. They'd like nothing more than to be too rich to have to work. The oldest has only recently returned home. He left years ago. His brothers always said he'd gone to seek his fortune and would return rich." He was trying to think of something else, but was clearly at a loss. "I don't know them well."

"We will begin there," Athos stood.

"Courage, d'Artagnan," Aramis said before he stepped out of the door.

"Keep the faith," Porthos whispered before following.

Athos put his hands on the younger man's shoulders. "Whatever we discover, whatever we have to do, I swear to you, you will not hang." He held d'Artagnan's eyes a moment, and when he saw the boy believed him as well as he could be expected to while chained to a cell wall awaiting the hangman's noose, he stood, walked to the door, tipped his hat and was gone.

Athos strode through the corridor and back to the office. Spotting the man who'd told them to say goodbye, he aimed a look at the man that had set hardened soldiers quivering in their boots. "His treatment is unforgivable."

The man shrugged. "It's hardly important. He dies at dawn." He gestured to two men, even larger than he was, who stood by the door. He said nothing to them, but the men had their hands on the hilts of their swords and seemed to want nothing more than to fight.

Athos looked back at the first man, refusing to be baited. "It is important to me. Therefore, it will be important to you."

He turned and walked from the building, Aramis and Porthos close behind.

The Musketeers

D'Artagnan had to admit to feeling a modicum of hope that he hadn't felt before. He'd almost resigned himself to death. He'd almost made himself believe it was inevitable. His father's death, the way that everyone in the town seemed to want to believe that he was a murderer, it seemed so easy to give up when there was no one on his side.

The Musketeers had come as they'd promised, and, while d'Artagnan had meant it as a last wish, a sort of dying plea not to be alone as life was taken from him, now he realized they would never have been able to do that. It wasn't in these men to stand back and watch a man die—an innocent man—if they knew they could save him. He couldn't go so far as to consider himself a friend to them. After what he'd done, accusing Athos of murder, he thought it unlikely they would ever put that far enough behind them as to include him in their little family. In his experience, people didn't forgive that readily.

Watching them, having ridden along with two of them in a desperate bid to free the third, he'd grown envious of what they had. Perhaps in the early days of his father's death, it was inevitable that he'd long for that sort of connection.

Now he could only hope that the trio could help him. If he could live past tomorrow, he could return to his farm in time for the planting. He'd have to do most of the hard work. He couldn't afford to hire many men. Perhaps not any at all. He'd have to review the ledgers again. His father's accounts were always in meticulous order. He felt a surge of guilt. He'd not done much to keep things going. Granted, he'd been imprisoned for a month, but there'd been time before that to have reviewed things, decide what was needed to keep things running now that his father…

And with that thought, his nascent hope was crushed. His father was dead. His mother was long dead. Madame Boucher was the only person in town who believed he was not a murderer. What could Athos, Porthos, and Aramis do in the scant hours before dawn?

As he watched the sun slip away, and darkness descend on the tiny cell, he realized this would be his last night. He would die at dawn. Regardless of what Athos had said, if they found nothing, he would hang. The Musketeers could hardly break him out of prison. There was nowhere he could go if they did that, and nowhere they could go. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that they would give up their lives, their commissions simply to free a farmboy from Lupiac.

"Father," he whispered, eyes heavenward, "help me." He could have been speaking to Alexandre d'Artagnan. He might have been speaking to the Lord, but in the end he was merely speaking aloud, shivering in a cold cell, chained to a wall and waiting to die.