AN-This was originally written because I needed like two paragraphs explaining my headcanon of Athos' past in a story I was writing and it turned out at around 5,000 words and counting, so I decided to make it it's own story. I've never done the writing bit of fanfiction before, I'm mostly a consumer, and I haven't written anything in three years. Also I don't have anyone to beta and my dyslexic mind didn't want to cooperate, so all feedback is welcome and cherished. Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to update regularly. Anyway, on with the story...

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Five years ago, when his brother was murdered and he had had a noose put around his wife neck, Athos had turned tail and ran, staying only long enough to see the her weight pull the rope tight. In retrospect he could have done with staying a little longer, it would have saved them all a lot of trouble. But in his heart of hearts he knew he couldn't have, the wounds where still too fresh. He couldn't even look at the house where they had been happy together, where they had loved each other, where Thomas had…

No, he would never have been able the watch the life go from her eyes. And she would have kept staring into his till it was done; she had no mercy in that respect. So he had run, like a coward chased by her memory, and not looked back.

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Paris had simply been the closet city with enough taverns for him to drown himself in anonymously. He hadn't planned on staying, hadn't planned on much to be honest, save drinking himself into a stupor deep enough to numb the pain.

Every day was the same; he would drag himself out of wherever he had collapsed the night –or in some cases the morning – before around noon, hung-over and miserable, then head to the nearest source of wine. It would take him quite a while to get sufficiently drunk, much longer than it used to. Annoyingly near constant alcoholism seemed to have given his a higher tolerance for the stuff. But he would always be lost to the drink by the time darkness came. Then he would pull out her locket and look at the flower she had pressed for him, 'the memory of a perfect day'. And then he'd drink some more, and more again, until he either stumbled back to his room or was kicked out, in which case he would probably pass out in the street.

He'd had spent more night in the gutter than he cared to admit. Luckily he hadn't looked like a Comte anymore otherwise more people might have tried rob him. His embroider jerkin had been practically torn in two in a bar fight during the week he arrived –that was also, incidentally, the first establishment he'd ever been thrown out of, but not the last – and he now only wore his shirt and brown cloak to keep out the chill. Neither had been washed since he arrived, and after two months they looked a little worse for wear. As did he, by all accounts; his scruffy, untrimmed beard, red eyes and pale, dirty skin tended to keep people away. So, wandering the streets after the drink had stolen the last of his grace and fine speech, there was really nothing left of the nobility he was born as to identify him.

Still there had been attempts. There were those that were easily discouraged, like the pick pocket who lost the end of his finger when he'd accidently woken his mark. He had felt guilty for that one, it had been purely instinct and the boy did look half starved, but it kept the rest of the street urchins away for a while. A couple of weeks after that there had been a man, whom, looking back on it, he was almost entirely sure was not after money. But he gave up quickly realising Athos may be dunk, but he was never defenceless, and always looking for somewhere to pore his rage.

More serious things had happened too. One night he was drinking, as always, in a little place by the Seine. There was a group of soldiers in, the King's guard, celebrating a new member joining their ranks and they were loud, especially the one they were drinking to. He was a mountain of a man, whose laugh, Athos was certain, half of Paris could hear. He bore it as long as he could, but Athos was a man who like quiet, or at least quieter than this, for drowning his sorrows in. He had a room here, but he could always get one somewhere else, or come back later when the rabble had cleared out. Picking himself up unsteadily and making his way to the door seemed to take all the concentration he had, so he didn't notice the group of men following him out until he was well into the dark of the Paris night. His senses did however give him enough warning to draw his sword before they could put a dagger in his back.

The fight hadn't lasted long. Athos was good, he had learnt to use a blade from being a child and even drunk the movements were second nature. But he was out numbered severely, and even though he managed despatch three of them, the three that remained managed to take him down. Two held is arms, pinning him to the floor, while the other straggled his legs to keep him from kicking out. If the original plan had been to kill him quickly with a knife to the back it seemed it had been abandoned in favour of a more violent approach. Punches rained down on his face and torso as he struggled so hard to escape he heard his shoulder pop from the socket. But it was no use. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision and blood was dripping into his mouth. He knew he was about to die. They would beat him to death and strip his body before they throw him in the Seine, and it dawned on him that he didn't care. He had given up on life the day he left la Fère, this would just be making it official. He could go, either to heaven to be with the brother he failed, or to hell, where at least the woman he still loved could keep him company. So he stopped struggling and waited for sweet oblivion.

What came instead was a mountain of a man, who hurled the one punching Athos into a wall so hard he was surprised it didn't break under the pressure. He made short work of the other two, seemingly an experienced street brawler. The man on Athos' left ended up with two broken arms in the river and the other was knocked out by a chunk of wood found in the street, aimed at his retreating back.

The mountain man then turned back to the bloodied mess on the floor. Athos was too drunk take much of him clearly, but his hands were warm and gentle as he helped him up.

"Easy does it, carful with yourself, I dare say the bastards broke a few bones," his voice was gruff and deep, but friendly sounding, especially after he had turned the volume down from earlier. His fingers gently lifted Athos face into what little light there was. "You'll be alright, I've seen worse, nasty head in the morning though. But judging by how you were going at it earlier it's probably not going to make a difference. What's your name?"

Athos, who had been staring of into the night of Paris wondering why a merciful God would insist on keeping him alive, snapped his attention back to the face in front of him. Two months in Paris and no one had asked him his name. What did he say? Comte de la Fère? No, he wasn't that person anymore. Oliver, the name his mother had given him? No, not that either. He'd failed her the moment he let his wife slit one of her sons throats. He didn't deserve that name any more. He looked up at the mountain of a man, whose expression was looking increasingly worried, desperately trying to think of something to say.

"Mountain…"

"What?"

He hadn't meant to say that out loud and now the mountain man was looking at him as if he was crazy, so he had to think of something soon. There had been a little hill in the woods near le Fère nicknamed Athos' mount. It was where he had met her. She had said he looked like a king to her, up on that hill, and she had called him Athos from time to time when they were alone, in homage to that day.

Why not, he thought bitterly. After all, this drunken, broken man was the one she had made of him.

"Athos," he said slowly, speech a little slurred, and the other man raised his eyebrows, "It's a mountain. In Greece," he added by way of expiation and his rescuer set his face strait and nodded.

"Well then, Athos, where are you staying?"

Athos made an awkward gesture back to where they had both come from, wincing in pain as his arm jostled.

"Okay, first I'm going to pop that solder back in, which is going to hurt. Then I'm going to help you back to your room, and you're going to try not to get beaten up in dark alley ways again, deal?"

Athos nodded, his head throbbing in protest. The mountain of a man gripped him tightly; one arm rapped round him, pushing on his shoulder blade from the back, the other hand on his shoulder at the front.

"Three, two, one," there was a sickly noise as joint slid back into place, and the searing pain of it seemed to be the final straw for his beaten body. His consciousness left him and he slipped away into darkness.

When he woke in the morning with a head pounding from more than just the drink, he was in his bed at the inn. His boots and cloak were folded on a chair, though not very neatly, and his sword lent up against the side.