"The stories were true."

x

"Is that really how it happened?"

The boy – Luc – is leaning forward with his question, shrewd eyes pulling d'Artagnan's attention from the rapt focus he's been holding on their storyteller.

It is not a wonder that d'Artagnan needs a moment. Adele is a gifted narrator, with dark eyes and a controlled but fiery energy.

Those aspects, combined with her name, are enough to make Porthos just the slightest bit suspicious about whether or not Aramis and the cardinal's mistress might have had a child they'd managed to cover up and secret away.

It's an unfair thought that hates him the moment it appears.

He shakes it loose by keeping himself still, angling his rough shoulder into the wooden joist at his side and closing his eyes.

In another life, he could have uttered the thought as a joke that would have made Aramis laugh. Now, it just feels ugly.

"That is... mostly... how it happened," d'Artagnan is answering, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck as though uncertain about whether to feel embarrassed or proud. He settles somewhere between the two, opting for a mild expression of chagrin. "I did confront the man who framed Athos and killed my father – that part is true enough – though I don't believe Aramis was quite so pleased with how I went about it at the time."

"He was there?" asks Luc, equal parts awed and suspicious.

"Oh yes, he was there. I wouldn't have found Gaudet without him. Well, without them. Him and Porthos." D'Artangan ticks a thumb in his direction and Porthos does his best to neutralize his face for the fast glances from the curious onlookers. "I will admit I was quite uncertain about what to think of them at the time. They were... interesting. And when you got down to it just a little bit scary. At least if you were a bad guy."

"But they helped you? Aramis too, I mean. He joined you? He really helped find Gaudet?"

"Absolutely. It was rough at first. We'd had such an unusual start to our acquaintance. Since I'd threatened Athos's life upon first meeting the three of them, you might imagine my surprise when Aramis and Porthos tracked me down and asked me to join up with them in order to hunt down the culprits of our collective misfortune. Especially surprising, since I believe Aramis in particular found me and my attempt at dueling Athos rather more amusing than formidable."

He's not wrong, Porthos thinks, remembering it. Aramis had been compassionate under his deflecting surface, but most definitely amused. Always amused, their Aramis.

At this news, Luc appears for a moment like he might laugh. Porthos can't tell if it's from the tone of d'Artagnan's telling or something else. Regardless, the expression disappears soon enough, pulled away as the boy narrows down to the seriousness of his curiosity. "But you did track down the murderer – you found Gaudet and his henchmen – if the story is true. So why wouldn't Aramis have been pleased with you?"

"Well, when we found Gaudet's camp and made our way in, Aramis was leading our approach. As we got closer, instead of listening to him and waiting for his signal to spring our attack, my anger got the best of me and I jumped the gun – screaming my head off and running into the camp like a man possessed."

D'Artagnan waves his hands above his head for effect and Porthos snorts, recalling it, even as the children giggle. He can't help but look over in amusement.

"So there I was, ruining our careful advantage and alerting everyone in the vicinity that we were upon them," d'Artagnan continues, shooting a grin and wink in Porthos's direction.

"And Aramis was angry with you for giving away the element of surprise?"

Rubbing his neck again, d'Artagnan sits back from the boy for a thoughtful moment. "No. No, not really. I think later he actually found that part rather amusing as well. Probably at the time also."

Luc folds his knees up, trading a look with Adele. "So, he wasn't really upset with you at all?"

"No, no he wasn't. Aramis was always very quick to find the amusement in life. He liked finding the humor, even in some of our most challenging endeavors. Or, our most boring ones. He used to tell jokes with Porthos when we were on guard at the palace, just to see if he could make Athos laugh."

Another smile comes to Porthos unbidden, remembering the first time he and Aramis had made it happen, but he stops himself when it makes his chest thump. His attention drawns down instead to the small girl in the group, the one who had kicked him – Marie – as she laughs softly, clutching a crude but finely sewn doll to her chest.

"Anyway, the rest of the story – as young Adele here so masterfully related – is mostly correct. After I ran into the camp, screaming Gaudet's name, Aramis and Porthos charged right after me. They are both skilled fighters, so we, of course, prevailed, with Aramis at one point fighting three at once."

The children murmur at this, purring at the apparent feat of brilliance, while Luc continues to play inquisitor. "But he won?"

"He did, indeed. And later, when Gaudet would have killed me when my back was turned – that part was true – Aramis is the one who called out to warn me and by so doing, saved my life."

"After Constance had already saved your life too, correct?" one of the other children pipes in, apparently feeling very strongly about this point.

"Infallibly correct." D'Aratangan grins. "I needed a lot of help that night."

"But you got him – the man who killed your father. And you saved Athos, just like the story."

"We did," d'Artagnan agrees. "All of us."

"And Aramis was with you the whole time?"

"Is that so surprising to you?"

"A little, I suppose. I mean, he's a monk."

Porthos can't help the chuff that that rocks out of him at that.

Collectively, the children stare at him. He's quick to school his features and in short order, d'Artagnan pulls their attention away.

"He's always getting after me for playing soldier," says the boy, "Telling me that there are better things to do with my time. Better lives to imagine."

And that. That stings. Porthos clenches his hands, curling them tightly around his belt while glancing into the adjacent space, where Athos and Aramis are talking, heads tipped together like not even the least of things have changed.

"I imagine he's not been anxious to see you run off and join the war," d'Artagnan is saying.

Porthos can no longer listen. Down the length of one of the longer corridors, he finds a supply room of sorts. Depleted barrels of grain and a crate with single line of pigeon eggs. In the opposite corner, rolls of cloth tied into bandages by Aramis's signature style.

He hears a scuffling and turns, wondering if d'Artagnan has come to look for him. But it's the child again. The little girl – Marie – hovering near the truss support as though ready for a quick escape.

"Are you a protector?" she asks.

He's cautious as he moves, getting down on one knee, like unto what Aramis had done, meeting her at her level. "Yes, I'm a protector," he answers.

She watches his face, but doesn't draw any closer.

It is enough progress perhaps, that she is speaking to him directly, without requiring the translation-mechanism of Aramis to take her whispers.

"Will you protect us?"

"Yes. I'll do all I can to get you out of here safely. I promise."

She nods, with her doll clutched in her hands. Then, light as a sprite, disappears from the archway.

In the absence, Porthos rubs gruff fingers to his head, and tries to figure out why that hurt so much.

x