I have never written in this genre and actually only discovered the series a few weeks ago. I confess I have never read the book, but have always loved anything to do with the musketeers. Forgive me if I have missed the mark on any details. Consider it poetic license. I hope you enjoy this little story that would not get out of my head until I wrote it down.

Brothers in Arms

D'Artagnan raised his hand to swipe it across his brow for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning. The oppressive heat was almost unbearable. The road stretched before him like an unending ribbon of dirt and he felt like he would never get home.

Home.

He chewed on his bottom lip as he contemplated that word. Emotion swelled in his chest and he shook his head as if he could somehow shake it off. His home was gone.

Aramis lifted his tankard to his lips and slowly sipped at the liquid inside. In the heat, the alcohol didn't do much to quench his thirst, but it did allow him the opportunity to discreetly observe Athos.

For his part, Athos was lost in thought. His tankard sat on the table in front of him and he seemed oblivious to the noises and smells of the tavern. Porthos was off to their left, plying his card-playing skills with some poor unfortunate who didn't know his reputation. When he let out a deep belly laugh, Aramis looked across to see what was so funny, but Athos merely continued to stare into the empty space before him.

"Why would he choose to go alone?"

The words were barely a whisper and Aramis wasn't sure he had heard correctly.

"What?"

Athos finally made eye contact with him and Aramis patiently waited for him to respond. For all his gruffness, Aramis knew how fond Athos had grown of their little Gascon idiot.

Athos stared at his friend. "Why would he choose to return to his farm alone? There could be trouble and you know how he seems to attract trouble."

Aramis smiled across the table. "Yes, he does!" he thought to himself.

"It has been months since the raiders destroyed his farm. Their leader is dead. There won't be any trouble as they'll be long gone."

Athos knew his friend was making sense, but couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that had hung over him since d'Artagnan announced he was going.

"Of course, as always, you are right."

"You still didn't answer my question though."

"As always!" Aramis grinned at him. "Now drink up so we can save that poor fool from Porthos."

Athos laughed as he glanced across at the gaming table. It certainly did seem that Porthos had stacked the odds in his favour and the sap on the other side of the table was beginning to show signs of anger. Time to wrap up the game and take their brother home, before a card or two fell out of his sleeve.

D'Artagnan's horse was tiring and he clearly needed to rest. The heat was unrelenting and both horse and rider needed water. It was still some way to Paris and there were no more towns along the way. He did recall a small village somewhere to the east, but didn't really want to detour to find it. Instead he had been scouting for a river or stream.

As he scanned the area, looking for a telltale line of trees to tell him where water was flowing, his thoughts once again returned to his home. The rolling hills he was traversing were so similar and yet so different to his beloved Gascony. The tiny farmlets that dotted the landscape only served to remind him of how much he had lost. He blinked back tears as he recalled his first sight of his childhood home. The blackened timber had collapsed to the ground and the stones of the chimney had fallen in on themselves. Labarge's men had done a thorough job of their destruction. His father's handiwork had been wiped from existence.

The tears began in earnest as that thought hit him. His father had laboured his whole life to provide for his family. His young wife had died with the fever that had taken so many that winter, many years earlier. D'Artagnan and his father Alexandre were all that each other had. Except now, thanks to Gaudet, he didn't even have that.

Fresh grief welled up in him and he struggled to contain it. Since that awful day where he had held his dying father in his arms, he had tried to bury the grief. He had focused firstly on avenging his death by going after Athos, fully intending to kill the man. When the lie had been exposed and he knew Athos was not the man responsible, he had helped bring some justice to the situation. But it was not enough. The men of the musketeer garrison had accepted him, but somehow it was still not enough. He had no blood relative left in the world. And the last few days had proven to him that he had no home either. His former neighbours had come out to meet him and express their condolences, but as he rode away he knew it was for the last time. The farm boy from Gascony was no more. In his place was … d'Artagnan wasn't sure what was in his place.

His horse noticed it first and picked up his pace. Water. D'Artagnan shook himself out of his maudlin thoughts as he noticed the change in his mount. Horses had a sense for water and he gave the animal enough slack in the reins to allow it to take him there. As they headed across the meadow and into a copse of tress he could hear the faint sound of laughter. Children's laughter, to be exact.

A slow smile spread across his face as he realised what he was hearing. A smouldering summer's day, water and children. His mount had brought them to a swimming hole. The sour taste of memories quickly wiped the smile from his face as he recalled the swimming hole near his home.

"No!" he muttered to himself. "I don't have a home anymore."

His horse was insistent on reaching the water as quickly as possible and he dismounted smoothly before allowing the exhausted animal to drink his fill. For his part, d'Artagnan simply knelt down and plunged his entire head into the water. As he pulled back and shook out his hair he noticed two boys had crawled up onto the opposite bank and were staring at him. The older one of the two had his arm protectively around the other as he scrambled for a tree branch.

D'Artagnan smothered the smile as he realized the boy was simply trying to defend them. He held out his hands to show he meant no harm and slowly stood up.

"Sorry if I startled you. My horse and I have traveled a long way and needed water."

The older boy stood up, tugging at his younger brother. He waved the tree branch as menacingly as he could and once again, d'Artagnan had to hold back a smile.

"My father has gone to get the Musketeers! You had best be off before they get here!"

"And what would you be needing from the Musketeers?"

"My father says there has been enough killing and looting and he has gone to the King for help."

D'Artagnan felt his stomach churn and he grabbed at his horse's reins to calm himself as the bile began to rise up his throat.

"Killing and looting?"

The boy studied the stranger as though he was unsure what to say next. He waved the tree branch in the air in a show of defiance and d'Artagnan couldn't help but admire the boy's courage. His younger brother seemed frozen in fear and he could only imagine what they had been exposed to.

"You called for the Musketeers and … well … " d'Artagnan bowed deeply before straightening up again. "At your service."

He smiled as he watched the confused look spread across the boy's face.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is d'Artagnan."

The boy shook his head at him. "Where is you uniform? You don't look like a musketeer to me."

D'Artagan glanced down at himself and was forced to agree. In the heat he had removed his jacket and stowed it in his saddlebag. His shirt was smeared with travel stains and his head still dripped with water from the swimming hole. Treville would have also told him he didn't look the part.

"My captain would most certainly agree with you. Here, let me prove myself to you." He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out his heavy leather jacket. The fleur-de-lis insignia certainly proved his identity, even to a poor farm boy's eyes. The older boy slightly eased his stance, but his arm did not move from his brother's shoulders.

The two of them began to edge closer to the stranger. D'Artagnan sat down on the nearest log and began to remove his boots.

"Would it be all right with you if I cooled off in your swimming hole? It has been a long day's ride."

The older boy nodded and finally seemed to relax. He reached down to grab his brother's hand and moved closer to the stranger. They watched as the man removed his outer clothing and strode into the soothing water. He ducked under the water and ripples fanned out across the pond. It seemed like forever before a dark head appeared again, quite some distance from where he had gone under.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Swim under the water like that?"

D'Artagnan slowly stroked towards the bank where the two boys were watching him.

"My father taught me." The simple words brought pain flaring across his chest again and he turned and dove underwater. When he surfaced again the boys had edged back into the water.

"Will you teach me?" The eagerness in the boy's voice made d'Artagnan laugh before another stab of pain hit him. How many times had that same tone of voice come out of his own mouth? He had followed his father like a puppy. Eager to please and content just to be around the man he adored. He swallowed back a sharp breath and nodded.

"Of course. But first I need the names of my pupils."

"I'm Henri," the older boy pointed his own chest. "And he's Philippe. But he doesn't talk much." A wistful look caught d'Artagnan's attention and he decided he didn't want to know the cause. The boys looked far too young to have experienced what he knew they had and he was in no position to give any comfort. Instead he reached out for Henri's hand and encouraged him into the water.

The afternoon waned as the trio splashed in the tiny pond. Henri showed himself quite adept at swimming and eventually he was brave enough to try skimming along underwater. Philippe was happy to stay in the shallows, but his eyes never strayed off his brother and the funny stranger.

Finally d'Artagnan decided it was time to get out and despite Henri's protests, managed to drag the two boys up the slope and onto the embankment to dry.

His horse had wandered a short way to graze so he whistled for him to return. As the sleek black animal pulled up alongside him the boys watched in awe as the horse nuzzled into d'Artagnan's back. They lay on the grass and waited for their new friend to finish dressing. It was still far too hot for the leather jacket, but Henri sat bolt upright as d'Artagnan began to strap on his weapons belt.

"Someday, I'm going to have one of those."

Even though he heard the comment, d'Artagnan made no move to acknowledge it. He heard it in the tone of voice. He had said it himself. One day he would avenge his father's death. His stomach curdled as he wondered what Henri had to avenge. The boy had only talked of his father and that told him all he needed to know.

The heaviness from earlier in the day was back and threatening to overcome him again. He leaned into his horse and drew strength from the familiar scent of leather and horse mingled together. Time to go.

He felt the change in his horse in the same instant his own ears picked up the sound. Heavy hoofbeats, coming their way. He looked down at the boys and could see the alarm on their faces. Without thinking, he clambered up into the saddle and reached for Philippe. The small boy looked frozen in terror and refused to move. Henri nudged him forward as d'Artganan reached out for his arm. Before he knew it, Philippe was sitting in the front of the saddle and his brother had been dragged up behind.

In a blur of motion they were flying across the meadow towards the farmhouse. Three riders were quickly closing on them from the left and d'Artagnan knew he could not outrun them with three of them on one horse. He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt and slid out of the saddle. Henri looked at him with understanding, but Philippe looked terrified.

"Don't go home. Ride to the village. You'll be safe there. Tell them to send for Athos of the Musketeers."

There was no time to argue and Henri just nodded. With a slap to the rump, the horse took off and d'Artagnan turned to face their pursuers. The three men were upon him and circling him menacingly as Henri glanced back over his shoulder. Philippe was crying softly and Henri leaned in to hug his little brother.

"It's all right. He's a musketeer." Even to his own ear the words sounded hollow, but his father had placed his hope in them so he would too. He struggled to hold the reins to steer the giant beast, but somehow the horse kept heading for the road.