A/N: Thank you guest Laureleaf for reviewing! Yeah, that was a hard decision to make about Flea but it felt right for this verse. And yes, Vrita is not going to be very happy her rider is missing. ;)

Chapter 3

When Athos returned from informing Treville of this recent development—which the captain was not happy about—the three of them set off toward the rendezvous point for the exchange.

"Put your hands behind your back," Aramis advised when they were almost there. He pulled a slip of rope he'd grabbed earlier and looped it loosely around d'Artagnan's wrists. "For appearances."

They rounded the last corner and came to a stop at the empty street that had been selected. Aramis roved his sharpened gaze over the nooks and alcoves one might hide in. He didn't detect any movement in the shadows, not even a cracked door creaked.

The three of them waited for several long minutes with no one showing themselves. Aramis began to feel anxious, his fingers twitching near the grips of his pistols.

"Why would they not show up to their own ransom drop?" d'Artagnan whispered.

"Perhaps Porthos gave them trouble," Athos mused quietly.

Aramis's jaw tightened. That didn't bode well. But surely they would have sent someone along to parley with them. Or perhaps ambush just to get their hands on d'Artagnan.

But not a single leaf was stirring in the area. It seemed the only ones who had shown up for the exchange were them.

"I'm beginning to feel like we've been played," Aramis said.

Athos made a thoughtful noise. "But to what end?"

"What's that?" d'Artagnan spoke up, forgetting to maintain his act and bringing one arm around to point over one of the rooftops.

Aramis followed the direction of his gaze and frowned at the wisps of brown smoke rising into the air. As he watched, it grew into thicker and darker plumes.

"Fire."

The three of them broke into a run, abandoning the failed meet and rushing to investigate what was happening. They rounded the next block over, one of the wealthier Paris neighborhoods, and pulled up short at the sight of a house ablaze. Up the street, a group of masked men were running from home to home, throwing bottles of liquor with flaming rags stuffed down the bottlenecks through windows. Glass shattered and tongues of fire climbed up the sides of the broken frames and curtains.

Aramis immediately drew one of his pistols and shot at one of the men before he could set another house on fire. The ball hit its target in the shoulder, twisting him mid-air as he pitched to the ground, the flaming bottle rolling out of his hand and across the dirt.

Athos and d'Artagnan had charged forward, drawing their swords. Someone drew a pistol and fired back at them but missed. Athos returned the shot with his pistol but was too far away for accuracy.

Aramis was running toward them now as well, but screaming from one of the houses had him skidding to a stop and changing direction. He darted toward the door which was already in flames. A woman was on the other side, clutching her young son as he screamed. Aramis took a running leap and jumped through the flames. He immediately snatched the boy up in his arms and grabbed the woman's elbow, directing them into the sitting room that had yet to catch fire. With the child braced on one hip, he drew his second pistol and flipped the grip over so he held it by the barrel, then smashed the window to pieces. He spared a brief second to brush some of the broken shards away from the sill with his sleeve before urging the woman to climb out. Once she was on the other side, he passed her the boy and scrambled out after them.

An alarm bell was ringing somewhere in the distance as people gathered in the street. Aramis ushered the woman and her child a safe distance away before whirling in search of Athos and d'Artagnan. Athos was yelling orders to people who had turned up with buckets of water. It appeared the men responsible for the devastation had fled.

But where was d'Artagnan?

Aramis turned in a circle again, eyes scanning the crowd. He didn't see the young Gascon.

A screech sounded overhead as Musketeer dragons swooped in carrying buckets of water and dirt to dump on the flames.

But underneath all the din and chaos, however, Aramis heard the telltale ring of clashing steel.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan had chased after the men setting fire to the homes with fierce abandon. The masked figures had looked like the thieves he'd fought before, but why were they attacking wealthy homes instead of following through with the hostage exchange they'd arranged? It just didn't make sense.

Not that d'Artagnan was going to take time asking those questions.

He briefly fought with one before the man had turned tail and ran. The rest had scattered as well, their destruction having been wreaked. Athos had given up pursuit to turn his efforts toward the immediate crisis of the fires. D'Artagnan hesitated, loath for these men to get away again. But the multiple fires were a significant threat to the rest of the neighborhood. D'Artagnan looked around for a source of water…and spotted one of the masked men darting down a side street.

D'Artagnan immediately charged after him, only to pull up short when he found himself facing four of them. And by their stances, they'd been waiting.

"You were never going to make the exchange," he said in realization.

"I knew the Musketeers would never hand you over," someone spoke from behind, and d'Artagnan partially turned to see an unmasked, dark-skinned man block him in. "But now they're busy."

"You set fire to an entire neighborhood just to get at me?" d'Artagnan sputtered.

The man's eyes glinted with malice. "The wealthy think they're better than everyone. But now a few of 'em are jus' like us—no rich homes, no possessions."

D'Artagnan's gaze hardened at the man's cruelty. "Where's Porthos?" he demanded, tightening his grip on his sword.

"Enjoying the comforts of his old home," the apparent leader replied. "I'd suggest you could say goodbye to 'im, but I doubt you'll come quietly."

D'Artagnan considered it for a brief moment, if only to find his way to Porthos. But he didn't trust these men.

Shifting into a ready stance, he raised his sword. "You're right, I won't."

The others attacked. D'Artagnan fought with every ounce of fury as they tried to overwhelm him. Five against one was impossible odds, but they'd chosen to corner him in a narrower street that only allowed two abreast to come at him at once with blades swinging. D'Artagnan managed to stab one in the chest, but in the time it took to yank his sword back out, a second assailant managed to shove him back against the wall. D'Artagnan barely threw his main gauche up in time to catch the strike aimed at his neck.

A third blade caught him across the arm, and he hissed sharply from the sting. With a raging cry, he shoved the first man away from him and spun to meet the others trying to get a hit in. A fist punched him in the back, nearly buckling him, and a kick to his stomach sent him sprawling on the ground. Before he could get up again, he felt the pointed end of a sword pressing under his chin.

Then a pistol shot cracked the air and one of the men screamed as he fell. The one holding the sword half turned toward the source, giving d'Artagnan the chance to roll away from the blade. He caught a glimpse of Aramis storming into the alley, tossing his spent pistol away and drawing his rapier.

D'Artagnan leaped to his feet again and slashed at one of the goons who didn't block in time. One score across his stomach followed by the throat saw him felled. D'Artagnan turned as Aramis dispatched the fourth. The last man, the leader, was running toward the end of the alley, and d'Artagnan knew from previous experience that they'd never catch him with his acrobatic stunts.

But then Vrita suddenly climbed over the wall ahead, eyes alight with wrath. The thief skidded to a stop and immediately tried to backtrack, but Aramis and d'Artagnan closed in behind him.

Aramis leveled his sword at the man. "Where is Porthos?"

The thief slowly raised his hands in the air, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "He's fine, fer now. But if I don't make it back, my men have orders to kill 'im."

D'Artagnan exchanged an uncertain look with Aramis.

But before either of them could decide what to do, Vrita let out an enraged screech and climbed down from the wall. It was a tight fit in the narrow street but she managed to knock the man down and pin him beneath a taloned foot. He shrieked and flailed in terror.

Aramis sheathed his sword and nonchalantly walked over to crouch down next to him. "Let me introduce you to Vrita. She's very angry about Porthos and less reasonable than I am. And if he isn't back by this evening to feed her on time, well…she'll probably decide to find her dinner elsewhere."

Aramis let the implied threat hang in the air, though d'Artagnan wasn't sure the thief had even heard it, given how much of a blubbering mess he was under Vrita's gnashing teeth.

Aramis patted her neck. "Let him speak."

She growled again but lifted her head away.

"Where's Porthos?" Aramis asked again.

"In- in the Court."

"Where exactly?"

"I- I could take you there," he bleated.

Aramis scoffed. "How about you draw us a map? D'Artagnan, would you mind finding Athos and seeing if he can pull away to join us?"

D'Artagnan put his own blades back in their scabbards and headed out of the alley, confident in leaving Aramis and Vrita with their prisoner. He blinked in surprise to see a line of dragons from the garrison flying back and forth with buckets of water and dirt that they were dumping over the houses that were still burning. With their efforts, the work on the ground seemed more focused on keeping people back. Athos was standing in conference with some musketeers that had arrived at some point.

"Where did you get off to?" Athos asked when d'Artagnan made his way over.

"Fighting off the thieves who thought the fires were a good distraction to get me alone."

Athos's eyes narrowed a fraction, and his gaze shifted slightly to the side. "Are you all right?"

D'Artagnan glanced at his bloodied sleeve, only now remembering the cut he'd received. "Fine. Aramis has a prisoner who can take us to Porthos, if things are in control here."

Athos turned and nodded to the other musketeers before stepping into stride beside d'Artagnan. "Let's go."

.o.0.o.

Porthos struggled against the ropes pressing across his shoulders, stomach, thighs, and calves—to no avail. He'd been bound as thoroughly as possible, standing erect against a support column in an upper room of Charon's "royal" house. He'd woken up like that, and Charon and his men had been gone. Porthos had no idea how long it had been and he needed to get free, needed to warn d'Artagnan and the others.

But no matter how hard he strained, he couldn't loosen his bonds.

A familiar shriek suddenly split the air, followed by resounding impacts on the roof that shook the entire house. Outside, Porthos could hear people screaming. Then the window to his right shattered and he gaped in bewilderment at Aramis perched on the sill, holding a piece of wood. The marksman used it to knock the remaining shards free, then dropped the implement and unhooked his anchor line so he could hop through the window and land inside.

He scanned the room swiftly. "Any guards?"

"Don't think so. That ruckus yer makin' outside probably scared 'em off."

Aramis grinned. "That was the idea." His expression sobered as he crossed the distance and drew his main gauche to cut Porthos free. "Are you all right?"

"More embarrassed than anythin'," he said gruffly, shaking the ropes off. The movement jostled his aching head and he reached up to feel the knot on his temple. At least he didn't find any blood. "Charon was behind the whole thing."

Aramis gripped his chin and turned his head toward the light to get his own look and Porthos pushed his hand away.

"'M fine. Where's d'Artagnan? Charon was gonna go after him—"

"He's fine," Aramis assured him. "Waiting up top for us. You good?"

"Yeah. How'd you find me, anyway?"

"We received a ransom note wanting d'Artagnan in exchange for you," Aramis explained as he walked back over to the window and leaned out to snag the dangling anchor line. "No one showed at the rendezvous because they were busy setting fire to some rich homes nearby. Apparently they thought that a better distraction for getting d'Artagnan alone. Almost worked too." Aramis gave the line a tug and craned his head to look up, then signaled someone. "After we apprehended the leader—Charon, I presume—he was kind enough to draw us a map to where you were being held."

Porthos arched a dry brow at that.

Aramis just shrugged with a grin and passed him the anchor line. Porthos clipped it to his belt and climbed up onto the window sill. He felt the rope go taut and started to scale up the side of the wall. Once he reached the ledge of the roof, two pairs of hands grasped at his coat and hauled him up the rest of the way. Athos unclipped the line from his belt and tossed it back down to Aramis.

"You okay?" d'Artagnan asked in concern.

Porthos nodded, looking him over critically as well, and was pleased to see Charon hadn't gotten to exact his revenge.

Vrita chirped impatiently and Porthos grinned as he turned to give her a fond pat.

Aramis climbed up and the four of them mounted their dragons to return to the garrison. Porthos got a more detailed recounting of what happened on the way and was able to see the charred remains of the neighborhood that had been burned as they flew overhead. He looked away mournfully, trying to reconcile the boy he knew as a child with the spiteful man Charon had become.

They landed in the garrison, which was full of the other dragons having recently returned from putting out the fires. Treville was directing the men but strode over when he caught sight of the four of them.

"Porthos," he greeted with a nod. "Good to have you back."

"Good ta be back," he said as he dismounted.

"We only have the one arrest, and the four that Aramis and d'Artagnan killed," the captain informed them. "Did you discover how many were part of this gang?"

Porthos shook his head. "You have the leader though. That should put a stop to it."

Treville nodded. "He will face execution for his multiple crimes."

Porthos looked away.

"I'm sorry," the captain added. "I know he was your friend."

He shook his head, jaw tightening. "Was my friend. The man who did all this…I didn't know 'im."

Treville reached out and clapped his shoulder, then headed off.

Porthos sighed wearily. The day was almost over and he was spent.

"I think we could all use a drink," Athos suggested.

Aramis smirked. "That's always your answer to everything."

Athos shrugged blithely.

"Porthos?" Aramis queried.

"There's somethin' I'd like to do first."

"Would you like company?"

Porthos paused, then nodded. "Yeah."

His brothers followed him out of the garrison, not pressing him with questions as he made his way through the streets back toward the Court of Miracles, but not to the district itself. There was a square a block away from the Court where a lone tree grew next to a well. It was bigger and gnarlier than Porthos remembered, but still there.

And on the trunk was a clumsy flower he had carved into the bark as a child in remembrance of his mother. He knelt before it, reaching out to run his fingers over the rough grooves.

"What is that?" d'Artagnan finally spoke up, his curiosity always getting the better of him.

"A marker, I guess," Porthos replied. "There was no funeral when my mother died. I actually don't even know what happened to her body. I was so young at the time; all I knew was she was taken away. Probably in Potter's Field somewhere." He caressed the etched marks in the tree. "I didn't know her name or how to write even if I had, so I jus' came out here and made these childish scratches on this tree, because I felt she deserved to be remembered."

"She does," Aramis said.

Porthos bowed his head for a moment, then drew his dagger and set the tip to the trunk, carving an "F" for Flea. It was a few years late, but she was mourned too.

Porthos stood. "What's become of us?" he murmured to himself.

"Charon made his choices," Athos replied, having heard him.

"Did he really have a choice though?"

Aramis stepped up next to him. "Of course he did. Look at everything the four of us have been through; we could have let it turn our hearts black and forsake all honor. But we didn't."

Porthos drew in a long breath and lifted his head. No, they hadn't. The world had been cruel to them in different ways, but they had not let it defeat them. Each of them had had to pick up the broken pieces of shattered lives and keep going. That was the choice they'd made.

Porthos slung an arm around Aramis's shoulder. "Let's have that drink now."

.o.0.o.

It was late by the time d'Artagnan returned to the Bonacieux home that night, and he was a little tipsy from all the wine that'd been passed between him and the three musketeers. But it helped dull some of the stinging pain from his mild injuries so he didn't mind.

He was surprised when he entered the house and found Constance still up, sitting in a chair by the hearth. "Hey," he said softly.

She gave him a calculating once-over. "You've been to the tavern."

He grimaced sheepishly. "We caught the leader of the gang of thieves. It turned out to be someone Porthos knew, so I guess we were drinking both in celebration and commiseration."

"Oh. Is he all right?"

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "He will be. And the streets of Paris are a little safer now."

A little relief flickered over Constance's face. "Good."

D'Artagnan lingered for a beat, then gestured awkwardly toward the hall. "Well, I guess I better get to bed…"

"D'Artagnan." Constance stood. "I wanted to ask you something."

His heart gave a little flutter. "Oh. Okay."

"Since we've been doing a lot around here helping you learn your way around dragons…I was wondering if you'd return the favor and do something for me."

D'Artagnan quirked an intrigued brow. "Um, of course. What is it?"

She closed the distance between them, and his heart started to patter more rapidly. When she leaned closer, he felt himself flush hot.

"Teach me to shoot," she whispered in his ear.

D'Artagnan blinked. "Wh-what?"

"And fight with a sword."

"Um…okay." He really had not been expecting that. "Why?"

"I don't want to feel weak and vulnerable like I did when those men attacked us," Constance answered. Her lips curved upward. "Besides, why should men have all the fun?"

D'Artagnan shook his head with a smile of his own. Why indeed.

NEXT TIME

A foreign Duke asks for Constance's hand in a political marriage, threatening the blossoming romance between her and d'Artagnan. And what happens if the man won't take no for an answer…