Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry for the late update… Uni kind of caught up with me over the past week. But here we are. I hope you will enjoy. I'll have a further note at the end of the chapter.

Also, because have no time to do obscure research of the House of Bourbon, I have no idea about any family Louis XIII might have had. So the characters and places are absolutely fictional. Again.

The forests around Paris are always lively. Even in the autumn, like today, there's a constant rustling of animals among the brush, a whistling of wind through the trees, a singing of birds. It's only the musketeers riding through the forest who are completely silent. Actually, it's four particular musketeers who ride silently, each fuming on their own horse and trying very hard to get their tempers under control. They're not very successful.

With four musketeers in brooding stance, the remaining ones feel the need to be even louder than they usually were. As a group of eight musketeers and one noble woman, they make for quite a sight. Unsure of his position, d'Artagnan moves to ride next to Marie-Claire. She shoots him a knowing look, but she does not say anything. He appreciates that.

Athos rides in the front, next to Aramis. The medic is obviously still fuming from the argument earlier that day, waves of anger are streaming off of him. Athos understands. Really, he does. Aramis has an incessant craving for friendship and human contact. Especially after Savoy. That need for human contact means that more often than not he ends up in a stranger's bed at night. That contact is only superficial and sporadic, though. It is in the musketeers that he finds what he truly needs. And d'Artagnan had downright denied that necessity. Denied their brotherhood.

Porthos rides somewhere between d'Artagnan and his other two friends, but ever a peace maker. He's hurt, too, by the Gascon's words, but he has always been a head on sort of man. He does not distance himself to deal with his emotions quietly on his own. He faces them head on so he can get them over with. Usually, this involves a lot of yelling and punching things. But then does end rather quickly. Now, though, on a mission is not the right time for a large fight. Porthos realises that all too well. Everyone needs to be in their best form and on their best behaviour. So he hovers somewhere in the middle of a confrontation and ignoring d'Artagnan entirely, hoping for at least some civility during their journey. The man finds distraction in Moreau and Vasser, who kindly let him jump into their conversation.

DuPont and Petit share a look of understanding when they see the rift between four men who used to be brothers. Perhaps the Inseparables are not quite as inseparable as their name suggest. Perhaps this argument is temporary. There is only one thing that can be said for sure.

This is going to be a long journey.

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With a slight tug of this reins Athos leads his horse further away from Aramis. He needs some time to think over his sentiments concerning the events before their departure. Time… and space. Space without his friend's brooding, but watchful gaze.

For that reason, Athos is grateful for the cold weather this autumn. Small clouds of warm air obscure his face with every breath. He knows that this cover will disappear in due time, their destination lies in the South, where the air is warmer and the autumns are mild. For now, though, he uses the white vapour to his advantage, hiding behind it and letting his thoughts consume him.

Athos feels... Well, he is not entirely sure what he feels. He knows it's not positive, though. Mostly he feels guilty, his words when he was drunk were harsh and unnecessary. But there's also an anger in his bones that infuriates him because of its the sheer irrationality. It's not that the idea of d'Artagnan not needing the Inseparables is ludicrous. Maybe they are keeping the boy too close, allowing him too little space to find out what he can become. As soon as he thinks that another thought comes to his mind unbidden.

I don't need you anymore, screams the d'Artagnan in his memory. Something surges inside his chest at that – a empty emotion that leaves his chest burning with hollowness. It is the same one he felt when he heard of his wife's treachery and lies. Betrayal. It's been laying deep on his heart for a while. Never more than today, though.

The betrayal is only eclipsed by the anger he felt before. d'Artagnan was being rude, and frankly absolutely full of himself. You're keeping me from my full potential! It's so irrational, and so untrue that it Athos can't help the indignation he feels. Yes, Athos has said some things that he is not proud of, but this friend's deliberately hurtful words were as out of line as his.

d'Artagnan did not only place himself above his brothers, but he denied their importance. He denied there friendship. That, Athos admits to himself reluctantly, is a touchy subject. And he feels no shame for his anger.

Or, he wouldn't if it was not for that uncomfortable niggling at the back of his mind. That annoying feeling that he has forgotten something, something very important. No doubt something that happened the night he offended d'Artagnan. Like a word that lurks at the tip of his tongue, the memory prowls just behind the boundaries of his mind. It is distinctly there, just not concrete enough to form.

It's not just a feeling though, there is some definite reason for the feeling. Athos may be at odds with his protégé, he may be angry at the boy and find his words both childish and insulting, but that does not mean that he does not still know the Gascon. Or know when the Gascon is hiding something.

Athos just hopes he will find out what before it is too late.

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Every day, the weather gets better. The grounds are no longer frozen when they rest at night, and though there is still a distinct chill in the air every morning, it is no longer quite so numbing. d'Artagnan, for all his pain and anger, visibly perks up at the renewed strength of the sun. When he tilts back his head one afternoon to absorb as much warmth as he can, Athos feels a fondness for the boy that he hasn't felt in days. It warms him slightly, but it can't quite unfreeze his resentment.

Marie-Claire laughs in a very unladylike manner when she sees the Gascon bathing in the scarce warmth. "I'm guessing you're from the South, monsieur?" she asks with a smile.

Madame de Boirgeaux's mood has also grown kinder with the growing proximity of her family and the promise of safety. Originally from the south as well, she understands the happiness that a bit of warmth can bring after the months of rainy cold that are common in the more Northern part of France.

"Is it that obvious?" d'Artagnan asks with a grin. Marie-Claire, who has taken to riding next to the Gascon often, nods with a laugh. The two share a few anecdotes about the weather, and let their hearts soar for a few moments.

That is, until d'Artagnan sees Aramis' figure in front of him. The man is sat straight as rod on his horse, and his grip on the reins is white-knuckled. The Gascon still laughs, but his heart is no longer in it, weighed down by anger and guilt.

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After a long week of riding, laughing, and brooding stares, the company of nine reaches the castle of Demaire. Tall and threatening it looms over the landscape like a giant, ready to crumble anything that comes close. The place is old enough that it still shows signs of earlier defensive structures on the walls. The whole place is circled by a deep canal that can only be crossed by guarded bridge. In stark contrast is a quaint little village not two miles out. Rickety stone houses are surrounded by miles and miles of farmland. It is no surprise, therefore, that the inhabitants are farmers. What does come as a surprise is the look obvious animosity the musketeers receive from them. Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux, on the other hand, gets many a smile and cheerful greeting.

It takes one look at the noble woman for the seemingly impenetrable guard on the bridge to crumble. The noble woman is well known to the guards and they greet her with open smiles. With half a glance at their pauldrons, the musketeers are also let in. The court they enter is lively, people run to and fro. d'Artagnan can't help a quick thank you to God at finding that this place lacks the smell of death that he still carries in his nose from the manor where they found Marie-Claire.

The lord of the castle, who has walked out to meet them, is ecstatic to see his niece. Antione de Mausin is a large man, with a well-trimmed beard. He is dressed entirely in a deep colour blue that accentuates his light eyes. His hands are weighed down by so many rings that d'Artagnan wonders with some amusement how he even manages to raise his arms above his head. It's only when he sees the look on Marie-Claire's face that he realises the situation she is about to be thrown in. Her face is absolutely leeched of colour. All he relief at the familiarity of the castle has disappeared, leaving her with a worried look on her face. And d'Artagnan knows she has every right to the tension in her body.

After all, she brings a message of death.

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Silence fills the dining hall where the musketeers meet up with Marie-Claire's remaining family. Only the youngest son of her dead uncle cries and cries like he can somehow sense that he'll never see his father again. The other four children are out playing tag through the halls, yet unaware of their loss. Jacqueline de Boirgeaux- Parcet sits at the dining table stoically, her face is drawn but she does not cry. She thanks the musketeers for saving Marie-Claire, who is like a daughter to her. Then, with a slightly wild swing of her head, she turns to her brother.

"We should tell them now, and send them back to Louis as soon as possible, Antione." She says, voice surprisingly strong. Some of the musketeers make eye contact at those words, though d'Artagnan is careful to avoid the Inseparables. Madame de Boirgeaux-Parcet's words sound ominous.

Before any of the King's men can even open their mouth, though, Marie-Claire asks sharply: "Tell us what?"

The lord of the house closes his eyes with a tired sigh, leaning back in his chair. He plays momentarily with a large ring on his finger before raising his head with a serious expression. The ridiculous attire of the man pales in the presence of his character now. Gone is the boisterous man who ran out to great his niece. The man who sits at the head of the table now is the King's uncle, a general to the previous king, and a trusted advisor to the current one. When he speaks his words are calm and deliberate, betraying the sorrow the man had in his eyes only moments before.

"Almost a week ago we, too were attacked by a group of men." He lets his eyes roam over the musketeers, searching for the one in charge. "These men were no ordinary bandits, they were skilled and driven. In their, admittedly foolish, attempt to breach my castle, we managed to capture two of the assailants. They are currently being kept in my dungeons under the highest possible guard."

The lord's eyes rest between Athos and DuPont, having recognised in them the natural leadership that comes with age and experience. He allows a moment for the words to sink in before he continues. "I had some of my guard question the men. They were played out against each other so we could get the full story. The story that came out is disconcerting. The men are part of a larger faction that undermines the position of the king. They are planning a coup d'etat."

When no one looks surprised at this large revelation Marie-Claire cuts in softly, "I heard them say something like that, and have already told the king. He has doubled the guard and already has men looking into the question. Doesn't he, Petit?" turns to ask the larger man, who nods.

"While I do not doubt the fortitude of the King's guard, or anyone he has looking into this treachery, I fear that they will not find the assailants before it is too late. This faction is smart, they do not intend to just barge into the palace, rapiers out and muskets blazing. Their plan is one of betrayal, from those whom Louis trusts above all. Both the men that attacked my castle, and those who attacked my sister's estate did so in order to recruit close family of the king. People who have no trouble walking into the palace, and close in on the king." Antoine de Mausin argues.

"Then you have eliminated the threat, my lord." Athos answers in simply.

"Sadly, no. Apparently this faction is quite aware of my loyalty, and were probably also of my brother-in-law's. We were fully expected to defy them and be killed. The real threat does not come from within France." Antione starts, and at the confused looks of the musketeers, continues, "As I understand it, King Louis will be welcoming and Earl from Sweden into his castle this week. This man is a far away cousin of the king's, but he has a claim to the throne if Louis were to perish. He plans to make that happen. The two grew up as friends. Louis will never see it coming."

"Then we must let him know!" d'Artagnan exclaims in shock, "Have you already sent out a messenger?"

Athos throws a disapproving look at his outburst. At the moment, d'Artagnan doesn't care. There could have been a coup by now. The king could be dead, the queen too. And the dauphin… he'll need to disappear as well if the earl wants to claim the throne. All d'Artagnan sees, though, is Constance. A million images flash in his mind. Constance dead, Constance captured, Constance bleeding, empty-eyed, waiting for execution...

He has already lost his brotherhood. And though Constance has never truly been his, he knows that her death would destroy him. It's almost more than he can handle, and right now, the only one who can do something about it is sitting in a chair and sighing his time away. In his agitation d'Artagnan doesn't see Aramis going still and pale at the idea of Anne and the dauphin in danger, doesn't see him stumble at the weight the images that assault him. He doesn't see Athos put a reassuring hand on Aramis' shoulder that says 'we'll save them' in a way that no words ever can. Nor does he see Porthos notice this silently and step up next to his brother, to take over when Athos needs to go back to being a leader.

What d'Artagnan does see, is a man, who has knowledge of a dire situation sitting back and doing nothing. So, he steps forward threateningly, ready to give the lord at the other end of the long table a piece of his mind. It's DuPont who stops him, shaking his head lightly, which only breaks d'Artagnan's heart more. It's Athos who does that, usually. Athos who holds him back with a soft touch while Aramis' eyes twinkle and Porthos tries to make his chuckle sound a like a cough. The trio doesn't to that now, they don't even seem to notice him.

But really, d'Artagnan has to remind himself, that was what he wanted right?

Antione de Mausin's eyes flicker at the musketeers implicit accusation, "I did. His head was thrown over the walls yesterday."

Vasser loudly sucks in a breath behind d'Artagnan. He whistles softly at their opponents' cruelty. Some of the others look shocked, or worried at how far these men will go for their cause. d'Artagnan, though, opens his mouth. After all he does have a reputation of being brash and impulsive to maintain.

"We'll tell the King. We'll leave right now." It's out before he can even think about it. Even once it's said, there's not a single fibre of his being that regrets his words.

"It'll be dangerous." de Mausin drones, "You will not come out of this unscathed, maybe not even alive…"

"No offence, Monsieur," Moreau says in his usual loud drawl, "But we're musketeers; danger is in our job description."

"Of course if anyone wants to stay…" Porthos says with a chuckle.

Nobody does.

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The musketeers enjoy one night in the luxurious castle, in the agreement that they are no use to anyone dead on their feet. d'Artagnan sleeps badly, his entire being is thrumming in anticipation of their coming journey. His worry for Constance lets him forget, momentarily, the situation between him and the Inseparables. Everything fades to the distance at the thought of the woman he loves. Aramis also lies awake, staring at the ceiling in terror. Terror for the women he loves, for her son. For his son. The others do not fare much better in terms of sleep. Athos and Porthos cannot keep their thoughts off the strife within their little family.

They sleep a grand total of three hours, combined.

When morning comes, bathing the castle with a deceptively cheery sun, the musketeers ready their horses efficiently. Some of the castle's staff has crowded around them, helping here and there, but mostly just seeking a moment of reprieve in their days' work. They mean to ride off as soon as they can. If they hurry, they can reach Paris in five days. Just as they're all mounting their horses, Antoine de Mausin stops them. In his hand he holds a parchment with his seal on it. On it, written in his delicate script, is everything he told the musketeers.

"In case Louis does not believe you." He states solemnly. For a moment he hesitates, deliberating. Who should carry the proof? The tends towards two of the older men, trusting their experience.

Then his gaze passes over the youngest of the group. d'Artagnan if he recalls correctly, with a slight Gascon accent and eyes full of impatient fire. This is the man who openly questioned his motives the day before, not out of insolence, but out of a deep loyalty that seems overpowering in its sheer magnitude. Whether the loyalty is to the King or to someone else doesn't matter much. De Mausin spent 15 years as a general. He knows soldiers. He knows men. And he can see that this man holds not only a ferocious loyalty, but also a fierce will to prove himself. The combination makes for an unstoppable force. He hands the letter over.

"The king must receive this letter. Everything depends on it." For a moment the man looks surprised, taken aback by the responsibility. It does not last long, however, and soon a look of fierce determination comes over his face. He nods. And de Mausin knows that this time, the letter will reach the palace. Whatever the cost.

The musketeers steer around the crowd that has gathered in the court, almost knocking over a woman's laundry basket. Then, they're riding through the gates, over the bridge heading straight North.

With the letter tucked firmly over his heavy heart, d'Artagnan rides between his fellow musketeers. He may be at odds with some of them, right now they are united in their need to save the King.

At least, he hopes they are.

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Somewhere deep in the castle, a washerwoman sneaks through the halls. She glides through the servant quarters, nearing the south side entrance. A basket of laundry in her arms, she smiles at everyone she passes. Outside, by the stream, she dunks her clothes into the cold water. A thick-set man comes up beside her. There's a fishing net in his hands, but the stream is too small to carry fish.

"The musketeers, they're heading to Paris." the servant whispers, never looking up from the clothes she's scrubbing. "They carry a letter with de Mausin's seal."

The man's lips curl up in a murderous smirk. "Which road did they take?" he asks softly.

"The same one they came from." The man's smirk grows wider. He throws some coins into the laundry basket, and doesn't look back. Doesn't turn to look at the money in the basket until she can no longer hear the man's footsteps. For a moment she wonders at the significance of what she said, at the consequences. Then she remembers her husband's broken leg, and the healer she can now pay for. The coins are tucked into her dress, and the rest of the clothes are washed. There is nothing to regret.

The man, who circles around the castle starts making plans. The king must not get that letter. He smirks again. He'll enjoy fighting some musketeers.

Even better, he'll enjoy killing them.

Author's Note, continued: So, I saw that my previous chapter ignited some debate as to the way Athos is portrayed in fanfiction.

I appreciate everyone's honesty in the reviews, and everyone is of course entitled to their own opinion. I do not want to get into any debate on the subject, but I do want to make a few things clear that are important to my fic in particular.

First off, I did not intentionally mean to demonise Athos. He is in fact one of my favourite characters (dry wit, intelligence, leadership – what's not to like), but for the sake of plot I felt it necessary to make the biggest clash that between d'Artagnan and Athos. It is because of their awesomely strong relationship that the clash had to be severe.

Second, I am fully convinced that Athos did not mean in any way what he said. It was a poor choice of words in a night that the man was full of despair. Terrible things tend to come out with too much alcohol. Do not underestimate that.

Also, the previous chapter was written almost entirely from d'Artagnan's perspective, which gives us an extremely biased view of the events. We'll see the different points of views in different chapters.

That being said, I must admit that his the portrayal of his character may have been slightly OOC. I have now added that to the Author's Note (as a reviewer suggested), but will not be making any further adjustments.

I want to thank everyone for their kind words (Tidia in particular), and everyone else for their honesty.

As to 'Confused Reader'. You raise some fair points about Athos' portrayal and I understand your irritation. However I do want to remind you that if you do not like a piece of fiction, you are not forced in any way to read it. I hope you find some works that live up fully to your expectations.

Well, that's all I have to say on this subject. I've already spent too much time typing this. So, night (or day I guess, for those in other time zones).

Moonlight Taylor.