Author's Note: Everyone, thank you so much for your reviews :) Here's the next chapter... Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I also realise I didn't put up a disclaimer last chapter, so here we are. To what I am assuming is everyone's utter surprise, I do not own anything that even remotely resembles 'the Musketeers'. I'm just using the ideas for my own peace of mind.

Chapter 2

Things change after that night. There is a distance between Athos and d'Artagnan that makes everyone extremely uncomfortable. It's not an animosity so much as a slight chill in their relationship. d'Artagnan, being his stubborn self, has not uttered a word about what transpired to make him look at his mentor differently. Athos on the other hand, has no patience with this silence and tries to push to find out what is wrong. When this yields nothing but d'Artagnan's passive aggressive mutter of, "Maybe you'll find out when you lose that drunken haze.", Athos gives up entirely. If the Gascon ever decides to stoop to his mentor's 'drunken' level and tell him exactly what he has done wrong then he will listen. Before that time, the young man does not need to expect any particular kindness or friendship.

Two weeks later, and Athos and d'Artagnan greet each other politely, and spend friendly time together when Porthos and Aramis were around. They don't seem to be able to carry a deeper conversation than a light quip about the weather, though. And quite frankly, it's driving everyone mad. So, overly eager, d'Artagnan grabs the first assignment he can go on without Athos. To Porthos' and Aramis' surprise he also declines their offer to join him. To their credit they don't comment on it, and instead join Athos' valiant attempt at drowning in a wine bottle. Bottle in hand, they try to ignore the guilty relief at being free of tension that their youngest friend has brought over the past few weeks.

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d'Artagnan is having a surprisingly good time. While he is slightly out of his depth – he's never gone on a mission without any of the inseparables involved – the new company is oddly refreshing. Of course, these men aren't total strangers. He's trained alongside them in baking heat and pouring rain. He remembers duelling Moreau in two feet of snow one time. Getting along with these men is easier almost than with his brothers. There is much less history within this group, which leads to light conversation that immediately sets d'Artagnan at ease. In no time he is comfortably laughing along with the jokes about Treville's newest haircut.

They're a group of five men. Moreau and Vasser are only a couple of years older than d'Artagnan, and they haven't been musketeers for much longer than d'Artagnan has. Having grown up as close friends, it's difficult to get a word between them. This doesn't, however, mean that they are bad company. On the contrary, they are firm believers of the idea of 'the more, the merrier', and they don't speak the dialect from their region – Brittany – a single time. Jean-Pierre DuPont is quieter, one of the older musketeers. He's mousey, and has that grim look about him that tells you he's seen too much in his life. Whatever he's seen doesn't seem to have affected his sense of humour, though. He shares a witty one-liner every once in a while that cracks the entire group up, but no one more than Jacques Petit. Jacques Petit, is not in fact very 'petit'. He is broad and tall enough to give Porthos a run for the money. Additionally, he is an incredibly well informed man in both political and cultural sense, he brings a nice twist to the conversation. Together, they make quite a jovial group as they ride through the French countryside.

It takes three days for the men to reach the manor that they need to deliver a letter to. Walls high, and seated comfortably atop a hill, it looks more like a fortress than a house. Truly a place for one of the King's cousins. Despite its less than friendly appearance, the place still manages to look somehow quaint in the setting sun. Vineyards circle up the hill, and a homely cloud of smoke billows out of a chimney.

However, as they ride up the hill becomes blatantly obvious that something is off. Half of the vines have been stomped into the ground, or been torn away completely. The horses start getting restless despite their training. And with good reason; closer to the manor, the ground is scorched, and the gateway to its courtyard hangs on one sole hinge. The easy-going conversation of the last few days stills. Scabbards are drawn as the men dismount. They enter quietly, in the vain hope that their arrival has not yet been noticed. That is highly unlikely, unless the attackers of the vineyard are blind – anyone standing anywhere on one of the walls would have seen the musketeers coming from miles away.

On entering the courtyard they find it empty, save for some pots and pans strewn haphazardly over the ground. Pigs walk lazily looking for food. Other than their occasional snort the place is quiet. No enemies. No corpses or crying prisoners. No danger.

Just as the musketeers decide that they can lower their defences in the absence of an enemy, a shot rings out. The musketeers duck instinctively, seeking cover near the walls as another shot cracks through the air.

DuPont, the eldest of the group, immediately takes the command. He directs Vasser and Petit to the walls – presumably to take out the sharpshooter that's aiming at them. Moreau covers the two men from below, and DuPont gestures at d'Artagnan to come with him. Sliding along the wall, and ducking the bullets that are constantly flying past his head, the Gascon makes his way over to the elder musketeer.

There's a door a few away, that they enter. It's a kitchen door, they find out as they enter. Behind it a small hallway leads to a dining hall that has an entrance on either side of a large dining table in the middle of the room. The entire place is in disarray. Tapestries are torn from walls, painting hanging crooked, and chairs are turned over. A large chandelier that hung from the ceiling now lies in shambles on the table. With barely a look at each other the two left over musketeers each decide to take a different door, in the hopes of finding at least some survivors of the carnage in this house.

It's just d'Artagnan's luck that he picks the side with trouble in it.

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Back in Paris Athos is trying (and failing) to avoid eye contact with Porthos and Aramis. At their self-claimed table at the garrison, the two men are staring him down.

"You must remember something from what happened that night, Athos!" Porthos sighs in exasperation. "Even something trivial, you know how thin our Gascon's hide can be."

"I told you already Porthos I do not know what I said to the boy." Athos' sounds equally frustrated when he continues, "I don't even know if I said anything to him."

Aramis shakes his head, "That's not even a question. Something was said to hurt him that night, and you were the only one he spoke to. How can you not remember?"

"Me being drunk might have had something to do with that." The older musketeer says dryly.

"Well forgive me if I don't find that a good excuse, because you never suffer from memory loss after drinking."

Athos sighs. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. It is true. He never forgets his nights, however much he wishes to sometimes. Often he has seen it as a curse, that no night ever truly passes in oblivion. Now, however he's coming to regret the one night when he truly drank enough to make him forget.

"It would seem there is a first time for everything. Even in my drinking habits." Looking up and making eye-contact with both his friends he adds, slightly bitter, "It would also seem that what I said to d'Artagnan is not something he wishes to share. I will handle it. There is no need for your interference."

Aramis merely raises his eyebrows, but Porthos openly scoffs, pushing away from the table.

"Sure" he says, "We'll just leave it up to you two. Then, maybe when hell freezes over we'll finally get an answer."

With a shake of head, Porthos leaves the table. Aramis follows him with a smirk, and significant look in Athos' direction. The compte is not nearly as amused, and well aware that there is no way that his friends will leave this alone. With another sigh he thinks of d'Artagnan, on a mission without them. Something akin to worry curls in his stomach.

Whatever their relationship may be at this moment, that boy had better come back in one piece.

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d'Artagnan is not by any means a weak fighter. Actually, he considers himself to be quite good with a sword. Still, four men is a bit much for one man to handle, and he's been driven into a corner. Arm tiring, knuckles bruised, and adversaries with considerable skill – the Gascon does not like his odds.

It is a good thing, therefore, that DuPont comes running in, dispatching one man immidately, with a stab to his back. Two against three are considerably better odds and d'Artagnan is sinking his rapier into his opponent's gut only moments after his colleague's timely entrance. Luck isn't quite on the musketeers' side yet, though, because Moreau and Petit come backing into the hall battling three men.

During the skirmish that follows, d'Artagnan finds he misses his friends. Yes, the musketeers he's fighting alongside are good, but they're no Inseparables. He misses Aramis' chatter that fills even the hardest battles as he mocks his opponent, he misses Porthos growl of annoyance when an adversary doesn't go down quite as quickly as he had hoped. And of course he misses the rhythmic clanging of Athos' sword and the bored look he like to throw d'Artagnan's way when he dispatches a man with too much ease. Mostly though he just misses having those three stubborn men at his back.

But that is something he will not admit even under the pain of death. Not after Athos' words.

Thoughts of Athos prove enough of a distraction for his opponent to deal d'Artagnan a heavy blow that snaps his head into the wall behind him. For a moment he sees stars. Ouch, he thinks. That really hurts. He opens his eyes to see a man approaching him, grin on his face, and rapier raised. Right, he was fighting.

The world spins lazily around him and d'Artagnan only raises his scabbard just in time to stop the blow that was meant for his chest. Pushing away from the wall with all his strength he forces the man into a defensive stance. For a moment their blades stay interlocked, but then d'Artagnan's adversary jerks forward slightly, jostling the man's already painful head.

Everything tilts, and before he knows it, d'Artagnan is staring up a falling blade. Once again, he brings up his rapier – which he's surprised to find is still clutched firmly in his hand – to stop the blade from skewering him. Unfortunately, he isn't quite fast enough to stop in entirely, and instead of killing him, it simply slices into his shoulder. His rapier is ripped from his grasp by the sheer force of the blow.

Great. That leaves him on the ground, disarmed, with a bleeding shoulder and an aching head. Not great odds. Judging from the smug smirk on his face, d'Artagnan's adversary has noticed this too. The man brings back his rapier, ready to deal a final blow. And this time, there's no blade to stop it.

So it's a good thing Porthos taught d'Artagnan to fight dirty. He puts all his strength behind the kick to enemy's groin, doubling the man over in pain. With a flourish, the young Gascon pulls a main gauche from his boot, embedding it deep in the stomach of his opponent. The man crumples to the ground with a pained grunt.

d'Artagnan lets himself fall back.

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The manor is empty, save for the bodies in the hall and the pigs in the court. Or so d'Artagnan is told. DuPont and Moreau have him sitting in a chair in the kitchen next to Petit and Vasser. Why? Because they're 'injured'. Inwardly, d'Artagnan scoffs at that. Sure, his head aches, and he's got an annoying graze on his left shoulder. That does not mean that he is incapable of walking around a house to look for survivors. Nor does it mean that he needs any help from Vasser, who is trying to clean the starch on his shoulder. Petit sits next to him, with bruised ribs and a broken nose. The large man has just as little patience for Vasser's careful ministrations as the Gascon, and it does not take long for the man to give up with and exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I give up." Vasser says, gesturing wildly with his arms. He mutters something else in what d'Artagnan assumes is his own dialect from Brittany, because he does not understand head nor tail of it. "It's not like I want to be here anyway."

d'Artagnan wastes no time getting up, ignoring the spots in his vision when he does so too quickly, and asks, "Good. I suggest we help the others."

Vasser nods eagerly, but Petit shakes his head in sadness. "I doubt we'll find anyone alive."

"That would be a sad turn to an easy mission." Vasser interjects. "We were only supposed to hand over a letter, and now we find the family slaughtered."

"The King will not be pleased." d'Artagnan muses. "And we don't even know who the attackers were."

Silence falls again, and d'Artagnan can't help but think that Athos would have known who the men were. He would have spared one for questioning. But Athos was not here.

d'Artagnan's walking past one of the few tapestries that is still firmly attached to the wall when he hears a soft shuffling. He signs to the musketeers to stop and listen, pointing at the tapestry. A moment passes, and just as the Gascon starts to think that he may have imagined it, he hears it a again. The sound of someone shifting from one foot to the other. He can see that the others have heard it as well.

Petit unsheathes his rapier, while Vasser loads his musket. d'Artagnan moves up quietly to the tapestry. Then, slowly, very slowly, he moves the tapestry away from the wall. Behind it is a door. It blends in almost perfectly with the wall around it, but there is a simple knob somewhere to the side. On the count of three, the Gascon turns the knob, his fellow musketeers armed and ready to take on any potential threat.

Before he can so much as pull at the door, however, it swings open out of own violation. And it's a good thing that d'Artagnan has quick reflexes, or he would certainly have been beheaded by the giant candelabra that swings his way. As it is, it misses him by a hairs breadth, when he ducks away from the doorway.

Filling that very doorway is a dishevelled woman. Her nose is smudged with soot, and she still has the candelabra raised above her head and ready to strike.