Author's Note: Thanks so much for all your kind reviews. I'm working on the next chapter and hope to have that up soon. Please read and review.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 9

Rage and Revival

The Musketeers

The lone rider travelled the road to Paris from Lupiac not sparing his horse and allowing his own rage at recent events and his avaricious, opportunistic plans to consume him.

He cursed himself for having left Lupiac in Lemieux's hands. He'd almost lost the town when that stupid farmer had gotten a look at his papers. Brilliantly forged though Lemieux thought they were, he'd have done well to move in with force rather than finesse. The end result was the same. Why waste precious time and effort attempting to trick the villagers into complacency? Had he been there, he'd have handled it much more directly, and the farmer's son wouldn't be wasting away in a prison on trumped up murder charges. He'd be lying in a shallow grave with his father and the farm would already be theirs.

Lemieux would fail. He had seen that. When he'd reached their rendezvous point and seen Musketeers besting the fool, he had seen Lemieux looking around for his help. He laughed, but it was a mirthless, cruel sound, full of irritation. If Lemieux thought he would offer help then the man was a misguided fool. Lemieux's approach was too civilized. In this life, you take what you want. You didn't ingratiate yourself into a town's day-to-day life and let them think you were acting within the confines of the law. Life was so much easier when people were terrified of you. Respect and good standing were overrated. He would take Lemieux's plan and stand it on its ear. Lupiac would be his, then all of Gascony. He would move across France and take all there was to take, but, unlike Lemieux, he would do so with the Cardinal's blessing.

The Musketeers

The Musketeers raced for Lupiac's town center. Porthos was acutely aware of the light seeping, spreading, reaching across the horizon and he cursed it. They were close enough to see the square when Athos pulled ahead. Porthos swore he'd never seen the man ride so fast. He urged his horse to move faster, and finally saw what had caused Athos's speed. D'Artagnan was being forced into a wagon bed, a rope hanging from the tree limb above him.

Porthos kicked his horse almost viciously and with a burst of speed overtook Athos. He hunched down low over the neck of his steed. He could hear Athos shouting, but his attention was focused on d'Artagnan. He could see panic hit the boy when the hood was thrown over his head. He knew they only had moments to save their young friend.

One of Lemiuex's henchmen startled the horses and they ran, pulling the wagon after them. D'Artagnan fell. His body convulsed as it made futile yet instinctive attempts to save him. Porthos knew there was no hope there. Bound with ropes and chains he had no chance of breaking, d'Artagnan's life was, as Aramis would say, in the hands of the Lord…and, Porthos had to add, the Musketeers the Lord had sent. He brought his horse to within a few yards of the boy and hurled himself off the steed. He took the impact on his shoulder, rolled, and got to his feet all in one smooth motion. Racing the few feet to D'Artagnan's side, he got himself under the boy and tried to position himself to take all of his weight. Just as he managed it, he felt d'Artagnan go limp.

His heart skipped a beat. Was he dead, or had he passed out from panic? He looked frantically around for help. Once again, he could hear Athos yelling, but from his position, he couldn't see him. His eyes moved of their own accord drawn to the sight of Aramis.

Aramis galloped towards him, then slowed a bit, still some distance away because of the added weight of a trussed Lemieux. His focus was on d'Artagnan and Porthos, but as the horse moved, Aramis shifted his weight to his left leg. Standing in the stirrup, he raised his right leg and, slowing to a walk, he kicked out at Lemieux. The man tumbled from the horse's back, and, in that instant, Aramis urged his mount to speeds Porthos hadn't thought the workhorse could reach. As the horse tore up the ground, Aramis released the reins and reached for his musket. At a full gallop and remaining in the saddle only by the strength of his legs, Aramis fired.

Porthos was falling. He tried to keep himself under d'Artagnan to prevent further injury. As soon as they were down, Porthos scrambled to d'Artagnan's head. Yanking off the hood and tugging the rope from around the boy's neck—a rope Aramis's shot had neatly severed from the tree limb above—Porthos's first fear dissolved in a pool of relief as he realized d'Artagnan's neck had not broken. With hangings, such things were not uncommon.

He patted d'Artagnan's face trying to elicit some response. Aramis joined him, and though he was loath to abandon his position at the boy's side, he moved away to allow Aramis space to examine the lad. Aramis checked for breath, called the boy's name, and listened for a heartbeat.

Porthos froze as Aramis, his ear pressed to d'Artagnan's chest, closed his eyes and allowed one small tear to escape beneath his lashes. Anguish he could never have expected to feel roared through his heart.

"D'Artagnan?" He whispered, and heartbreak and grief infused the name.

Aramis's eyes flew open. "No! No, my friend!" He reached a hand out and placed it on Porthos's arm. "He is alive! I was overcome with relief, not grief!"

The Musketeers

Athos felt both fire and ice in his heart as he raced to save d'Artagnan. He shouted at the nearest of Lemieux's men and drew his sword as he leaped from his horse. "You are hanging an innocent man! Stop by order of the King's Musketeers!"

The man laughed, though the older man who was from Lupiac looked shocked and seemed to sway slightly. Athos disregarded him.

"You have been given an order by the King's Musketeers. Disobey at your peril!" Athos drew his sword and slashed at the man, who drew his sword as well. Soon, the second of Lemieux's men had joined them and the trio traded blows until they were all covered in a fine sheen of sweat in the early morning chill.

Athos parried and disarmed one of the men, but the other only pressed forward trying to crowd Athos so he had no space to maneuver. Athos moved back several steps and spared a glance at the tree where d'Artagnan hung. To his relief, Porthos was holding the boy up, and, if God were truly merciful, saving his life. He saw Aramis's shot and his mind reeled at the impossible perfection of it. It gave him hope that they were not too late.

Heartened by what he saw, Athos attacked. He ran straight at the man, and contrary to his usual fighting style, he screamed all the while. It was not a conscious choice, but his heart would not be silenced and poured his rage and frustration out as it tried to cope with the sight of d'Artagnan flailing at the end of a rope.

Nonplussed, the larger man drew back. The man's sword arm moved again as he failed to react to the raging Musketeer, and that was what Athos needed. He brought his sword around and deftly disarmed the man. Unwilling to give up the fight, the man pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it not at Athos, but at the small group by the base of the tree. They stood close enough that, if the man were to fire, chances were high that he'd hit one of the three men.

"No!" Athos roared, and lunged forward blocking the man's line of sight and plunging his sword through the man's chest with such ferocity that it went right through him and protruded out of his back. The startled mercenary stared at the sword's hilt protruding from the center of his chest for a moment before falling to the ground. Athos retrieved his sword and, not bothering to clean off the blood, turned to seek out the other mercenary.

By now the man he'd disarmed in the first moments of the fight had retrieved his blade and he came at Athos in a fury. The attack was brutal, the blows imbued with the man's strength and his anger, but Athos could match that strength and surpass that anger. He spared a glance at Porthos and Aramis leaning over d'Artagnan and he wanted nothing more than to rush to their sides, but the mercenary was making that impossible. He shoved such thoughts far from him and forced himself to focus on his adversary. A mistake could cost him his life and the lives of his friends.

Athos gauged the man's fighting style and feinted to the right sidestepping to keep the man guessing. He dodged the man's powerful but ill-conceived lunge and almost succeeded in disarming him again, but his foe regained his balance and stepped back to avoid the blow.

Athos was so focused on the fight that nothing else seemed to exist. They were well matched, and the man obviously knew more about swordplay than his deceased friend. Athos took a step back trying to buy a bit of time so that he could ascertain the best way to attack. His opponent didn't give him the time. He flew at Athos, his blade slashing fast enough to demand all of the Musketeer's attention. Athos knew he would tire before the other man. He and his friends had pushed themselves to reach Lupiac by sleeping little on their route, and none of them had tried to sleep in well over a day and a half. Adrenaline and rage were all that kept him on his feet.

He moved back again and sidestepped a nasty lunge that would have ended him rather neatly. As he did, he saw Aramis and Porthos still hunched over d'Artagnan. The look on Porthos's face and the fact that d'Artagnan hadn't moved in any significant way from the last time he'd stolen a glance in his direction flooded Athos with dread. Fearing the boy was dead, Athos felt his guilt at his own inability to protect his friends become something else. He threw himself at his challenger, the roar of his rage making the man step back, wide-eyed, and fumble his defense as he nearly tripped.

The man regained his balance and tried to attack, lunging forward with such speed it would surely have pierced Athos through as Athos's own sword had done to the other mercenary. In a move as elegant as it was unlikely, Athos deflected the blow and plunged his own sword into the other man's belly.

Athos let the dying man lay where he fell and pulled his sword away. He raced to his friends with the bloody blade still in hand. "Aramis?" Athos asked, and the name held all the questions he could not bring himself to ask.

"He's alive, Athos. If we can clear this up quickly, I'd like to take him home."

Athos nodded and walked with all the dignity of his rank, and all the anger of a man who'd had to protect his friends from death, toward Tremblay.

"Monsieur, we have much to discuss." He spent a few moments explaining the papers they'd found and what they meant. He walked with Tremblay over to the heap that was Lemieux, still tied and lying where he'd landed when Aramis had kicked him from the horse. Still alive but in more than a little pain, Lemieux glared at the Musketeer, though his eyes still turned to scan the crowd as though searching for someone to help him.

Tremblay, heartened by the presence of the Musketeers, spit on the man. "I should have known the boy was innocent. He never confessed, did he?" He got no reply, but he didn't need one. He turned to Athos. "Monsieur, will you take him back to Paris to face charges? We have no facilities for hardened criminals here."

"No, of course you don't. Just facilities for a friend and neighbor whose innocence you should have believed and who certainly deserved better treatment than he received." He noted with satisfaction that the man was embarrassed. "I will lock him in d'Artagnan's cell for now. We won't be leaving until we're sure our friend will be all right. As for Lemieux, keep the door locked and don't speak to him. That way you should avoid any additional problems until we decide what to do with him."

That taken care of, he returned to Aramis and Porthos. Surprised to find d'Artagnan still not conscious, he looked to Aramis for explanation.

"I think he was stunned by the fall, though he may have lost consciousness before hitting the ground. He may also have received a few more bumps and bruises," Aramis admitted.

Athos's eyes latched onto the stark bruises rising around the boy's throat. D'Artagnan's paleness, a result of too long in a dark prison cell, made the mottled area stand out in a shocking, painful reminder of what he'd been through. Athos closed his eyes and allowed relief to wash over him. Opening them again, he found he had to swallow hard and clear his throat before he could speak clearly. "Can we move him?"

Aramis nodded. "We'll need a carriage."

Athos could have commandeered the carriage that d'Artagnan had been forced to stand upon while awaiting execution, but the thought only fanned the flames of his still simmering anger. He would see that wagon burn in a blaze before he willingly set d'Artagnan upon it again. Instead, his eyes settled on Madame Boucher, who still stood in the crowd, supported on one side by a man older than Athos, and most likely the woman's son. She would not have traveled on horseback. He approached the woman whose eyes were wide and filled with tears, and he greeted her with words much more suited to the situation than a shallow greeting.

"He lives," he said and watched her sag with relief into her son's arms. It was a short conversation that won them permission to accompany the woman and her son back to the farm with d'Artagnan and Aramis riding safely in the back of the wagon.

The Musketeers

Aramis climbed into the wagon first so as to direct Porthos and Athos as they gently eased the still unconscious d'Artagnan aboard. His attention was so focused on the young man, that he almost didn't realize that Porthos was handing him his saddlebag until the man called to him.

"Aramis."

"Thank you, Porthos," he said before digging through it for bandages and medicines.

"We'll keep the journey as fast as we can, but if you need us to speed up or slow down, just say so," Porthos cast worried eyes on the injured young man who'd not moved since being cut down from the tree.

Aramis nodded absently, and moments later the wagon began to move. His eyes moved along the young man first, assessing what might need the most immediate attention. Then he moves his hands along limbs and ribs looking for breaks, bruises and tender spots. He frowned as he catalogued more and more injuries. Most were minor, but there were more than he'd imagined, and some were rather severe.

D'Artagnan's wrists were raw from where the chains had bound him. The skin was red in places and weeping in others. Aramis shook his head. They seemed so much worse in daylight than they had in the small, dark cell.

He set to work with bandages and salves mentally noting what he would need to see to back at the farm. As he finished bandaging d'Artagnan's right wrist, he thought he heard a low moan. He glanced at the younger man's face and saw his eyes were now tightly clenched shut. He leaned down closer to his patient and whispered. "D'Artagnan? Are you awake?"

The only response was another low moan.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis tried again. "Try to answer me. Are you going to be ill?"

D'Artagnan blinked rapidly, clearly trying to open his eyes, but the direct sunlight was too much for him and he clenched them shut again and put a hand to his head. "D…dizzy." He managed to spit out the one word, moaning again and rocking.

"Stop the wagon!" Aramis shouted the words waving a hand in urgency. Monsieur Boucher pulled the wagon to an immediate stop and he and his mother swung around to look at Aramis. Madame Boucher's eyes were wide with fear and Athos and Porthos pulled their mounts to a stop their own expressions betraying the turmoil and fear Aramis's shout had stirred.

Aramis turned his full attention to d'Artagnan, whose hands still clenched his head and his eyes remained closed. "D'Artagnan? Will you open your eyes for me?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I know it's hard, but I think it's the motion of the wagon that was making you dizzy. Has it lessened?"

D'Artagnan slowly opened his eyes, but, as he nodded, he clenched them shut again. A moment later they flew open and he threw himself awkwardly to his side as his stomach finally rebelling at all he'd been through that day. With nothing to expel, he struggled against the dry heaves unable to keep himself from voicing the short, soft moans of misery between bouts.

"Breathe deeply," Aramis instructed as he held the young man through the worst of it. D'Artagnan's weakened muscles could barely hold him upright, and they shook alarmingly. Without Aramis's support, he undoubtedly would be prostrate. When the heaves slowed, Aramis offered d'Artagnan a bit of water, and that seemed to steady him. He blinked his eyes and finally opened them.

Aramis grinned in something close to relief, though he was still apprehensive about the young man's condition. "There you are!" He smiled and put down the water. "Now, please answer me truthfully and carefully. You're dizzy, yes?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan croaked, his voice sounding both soft and rough.

"It's a bit better, now though, isn't it?"

D'Artagnan nodded, but the movement caused him to moan once more and clench his eyes shut.

"Ah, try not to move your head like that, all right?" When d'Artagnan opened his eyes once more, Aramis smiled again. "Have a bit more water." As d'Artagnan drank, Athos and Porthos could stay silent no longer.

"Well?" asked Porthos.

"What's happened?" asked Athos.

Aramis glanced at his friends and realized they felt much as he did about the young Gascon. What had caused the boy to become so important to all of them so quickly he'd never be able to explain. He couldn't say that he had ever imagined anything was missing from their small group before they'd met d'Artagnan, but he also couldn't say that it felt strange or unfamiliar or in any way odd to have him with them. It was as if he had stepped into their lives and they had collectively thought, 'ah, there you are,' as though they'd been expecting him, waiting for him all along.

"I think the movement of the wagon is likely more motion than he's experienced in a long time. By his own admission, he was in that cell for weeks with little food or water as far as I can tell. You can see that much by looking at him. It's likely the movement was too much for him once you factor in the injuries, stress, anxiety, and lack of basic necessities. We need to take it slowly. His body hasn't adjusted to the change."

"That why 'e's squintin', coverin' 'is face?" Porthos asked.

Aramis turned to look. D'Artagnan was indeed, hiding his eyes from the sun. He also seemed less than aware of the conversation they were having about him. Aramis sighed. "It was a dark cell. He hasn't seen daylight in weeks. His eyes will adjust." He looked at his friends. "It will just take time."

"How slow should we take it, Aramis?" Athos asked.

"Take it at a walk—a slow walk. I'll let you know if we can go any faster."

Athos nodded and moved to the front of the wagon to confer with Monsieur Boucher. The man and his mother had been peering back anxiously. Madame Boucher looked as though she expected to be told d'Artagnan had died. Her relief was apparent even from Aramis's position.

Porthos smiled. "She's likely to mother 'im for a bit."

Aramis returned the smile. "I'd imagine so." He glanced at d'Artagnan, his heart breaking at the pitiful sight. "Truthfully, he could use some mothering."

They were soon moving again, albeit at a much slower speed, but Aramis was able to increase their speed almost to a cantor when they were nearly to the farm.

The Musketeers moved with an efficiency born of their long association, and a care born of their brotherhood as they moved d'Artagnan into the house and safely to his room. Aramis ignored everyone else and couldn't remember bidding farewell to the Bouchers. He hoped he hadn't been rude, but he could not worry about that now. He was sure they would understand. His attention was entirely on d'Artagnan. He bathed the boy, wrapped and treated his wounds, and brewed a tea he was sure would help fight the dizziness and help steady his stomach enough that he could begin to eat.

Athos and Porthos stood nearby hovering by the doorway so as not to get in the way, yet close enough to help and fetch things if Aramis required it. After a short time, however, Aramis chased them out. He'd offered little explanation, and he could see they'd both been inclined to argue, but were too accustomed to heeding his words where the health of a fallen comrade was concerned.

D'Artagnan slept through most of his ministrations, which he believed to be for the best. The pain, he was sure the boy would have handled, but the embarrassment was something else. He was provincial in his upbringing, and Aramis doubted he would have been happy with the attention.

When Aramis had done all he could, he sat back in a chair by the bedside. He checked d'Artagnan for fever not really expecting to find any. The injuries were not severe. Mangled wrists, a few bumps to the head, a shallow cut on his back…no, it wasn't injury that caused Aramis to worry. It was the lack of food and water, the weeks of darkness, the loss of hope. The boy had finally been able to send for the Musketeers, and his only thought had been that they would be with him when he died. Aramis knew this meant he'd been well down the road to despair. Perhaps he'd been far enough along to wallow in it.

Aramis knew despair. He'd lived it. He visited it from time to time in the dark corners of his mind. It's presence in his life proved to him he was unworthy of the clerics robes he once imagined he might wear. He had pleaded with God often to be allowed to live his days without ever feeling it again. God, in his wisdom, had sent him brothers. It was only Athos and Porthos who could pull him from its depths. It was what he and Porthos often tried to do for Athos, and, if he examined it carefully enough, it was likely what had spawned the annual birthday celebration for Porthos…hiding his despair at not knowing from whence he'd come amidst the raucous celebration and the shooting of melons.

If he were honest with himself, meeting d'Artagnan had been much the same. The young man had come to them full of vengeance and grief, but his quick understanding that Athos was an honorable man had offered both Aramis and Porthos enough hope to keep them from despair in the search to prove Athos's innocence.

Despair was a powerful emotion, and Aramis would not be able to declare the Gascon farmer on the road to recovery until he knew the state of his mind. Athos, however, had painted a picture he could not reconcile to his own recollections of the boy. As they'd hunted for Lemieux, he'd related d'Artagnan's condition when he'd found the youth in his cell, feral, raging and about to murder Marcel Lambert. Self-defense, it surely was, or had at least started as, but to be driven to that…it was not something he could imagine of the passionate, honorable boy who'd been driven to revenge for the love of his father, and driven to clear the name of the man he'd accused of murder in nearly the same breath.

He wasn't sure what he expected, nor how long he could delay going out to report on the boy's condition to his anxious friends. He had learned long ago to heed his own instincts, however, and right now, his instincts told him he had to be here by d'Artagnan's bedside.

It was barely thirty minutes later when he first heard it.

D'Artagnan moved and a low sound escaped him. It wasn't quite the sound he'd uttered in the wagon when he'd been dizzy. This was something else. Aramis sat up straight and moved to the edge of the chair. His eyes were intent on the sleeping youth. He moved again, this time thrashing a bit, and before Aramis could decide what to do, d'Artagnan was sitting up, eyes wide, pleading with his father.

"Father, please…please…"

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis called moving closer and taking the boy by the shoulders. "Wake up! It's a dream! You're dreaming. You're fine, now, safe at home!" Aramis looked desperately into the young man's eyes trying to see the moment of clarity, of awareness, when he would be himself again.

D'Artagnan was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, and suddenly, there it was, that spark in his eyes, the realization of where he was and his hands came up to grab at Aramis's arms in desperation at first and then in gratitude as his head hung down in embarrassment.

"No need to hide from it, d'Artagnan. Soldiers and nightmares go hand in hand." He said the words with just enough of a hint of trepidation as images of a snow-covered wood flitted through his mind, that d'Artagnan's head snapped up and he looked the Musketeer marksman in the eyes. Seeing, Aramis was sure, that the Musketeer had endured his fair share of such dreams, d'Artagnan still would not allow the excuse to stand. "I…I'm not…a soldier," d'Artagnan whispered.

"You have fought a few battles, though, have you not?" He waited long enough that d'Artagnan was forced to nod in somewhat reluctant agreement. "After what you have been through these past weeks, d'Artagnan, it's no wonder your dreams have turned on you. The loss of your father…the weeks in a cell accused of a crime you did not commit…"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "It was neither my father's death, nor the cell I dreamt of," he admitted.

Aramis was surprised for a moment. Then he realized what it must have been. "The tree…hanging like that couldn't have been an easy thing to bear..." He cut himself off as d'Artagnan again shook his head.

"Not the tree?" Aramis asked.

"No."

"Then what was it…if you don't mind my asking," Aramis could not hide his surprise.

D'Artagnan's head hung again, his hair, loose and long—much longer than it had been at Alexandre's funeral—hiding his face. He mumbled something Aramis could not catch.

"What was that?"

D'Artagnan looked up at Aramis and suddenly he looked fragile and unreasonably young. "Gaudet. I dreamed of Gaudet. K-killing him. I have done so often since my…incarceration. My f…father…he appeared by my side as Gaudet died…he…he was not happy. He would never have approved of vengeance…but this time…"

Aramis blinked in consternation when the boy paused. Gaudet. To Aramis, that was old news. Over and done and good riddance, as he was sure Porthos would say. D'Artagnan, however, could not so easily dismiss it.

Aramis's heart broke for the boy. To have killed someone, likely the first time he'd ever done someone real harm, and to have that hanging over your head while dealing with the grief of losing a loved one as well as fear, anger, and panic while awaiting his own death…and to bear it all alone. All the while, certain his father would disapprove of what he'd done, d'Artagnan had likely tortured himself for somehow failing the man who meant so much to him.

"This time it was different?" Aramis asked, knowing full well how even familiar dreams could become something new and terrifying given the right circumstances.

D'Artagnan nodded, looking so miserable in the process that Aramis had to push for answers. "What happened, d'Artagnan?"

"This time, he was there. My father, after I killed Gaudet, stood by and watched me hang for it. He would not forgive me. He said I deserved to die." His voice, already ragged and broken, broke further on the last few words.

Aramis knew the boy had been through a lot, but he also knew that, had he not been accused of murder, he might never have equated his actions against Gaudet with the crime against Monsieur Lambert. The lad had tortured himself with these thoughts waking and sleeping for who knew how long?

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, softly, his eyes holding the boy's like a flame drew a moth, "What you did with Gaudet…that was not vengeance, nor was it murder. That was self-defense. You gave up on vengeance when you withdrew. He forced your hand. Whether he preferred your sword to the hangman's noose…" he cursed himself for putting it that way when d'Artagnan's eyes widened.

"It was what I said. I told him he didn't deserve an honorable death…that he would hang…"

Aramis shook his head. "No, it was not your fault. It was his choice. He thought he would kill you and escape. You did not choose to kill him. You chose to defend yourself. You did it without thought, correct? You reacted to my shout, your instincts with a blade…you fought unconsciously to save yourself and to protect those who fought with you. Your father would have no reason to be unforgiving. He would not be anything but proud. You fought bravely and honorably."

D'Artagnan seemed to search Aramis's eyes. His need to believe the Musketeer was obvious. Aramis held his gaze, willing the boy to believe him for he'd meant what he'd said. Somehow, the thought that the fight with Gaudet might have ended with d'Artagnan dead and Gaudet escaping was not one Aramis liked to entertain.

After a moment, d'Artagnan nodded, and a shadow of a smile colored his still pale face. Aramis returned the smile and then checked his bandages. "Rest now, d'Artagnan. I'm going to tell your worried friends that you're well."

D'Artagnan settled down against the pillow and Aramis almost missed the surprised, whispered, and yet somehow satisfied and pleased reply. "Friends…"