Sorry for the formatting problem. I hope this fixes it.

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 1

Tears and Rain

The rain, the cursed rain, ran down his face making it hard to see. His clothes were soaked through, and the trickle down the back of his collar had left him unbearably uncomfortable. He had to keep blinking and rubbing at his eyes as the relentless downpour reminded him of the night before his arrival in Paris and all he had lost before he'd ever seen the city.

He feared rain would always remind him of death, and as rain was fairly common, he envisioned himself plummeting into a miasma of emotions any time so much as a misty drizzle occurred.

A crack of thunder and a flash of lightning startled him. After a few more blocks, he had to stop, the emotions and memories so overwhelming that he found it hard to breathe. He put out a hand and touched the wall he was passing, the solid mass of it somehow reassuring. His head hung down, his hair hanging in his eyes. Forcing himself to breathe normally, he eventually managed to push the grief far enough away that he could focus once more on his self-appointed task.

He shook his head to dislodge thoughts of rain, loss, death and blood, trying instead to focus on his surroundings. He'd been in several bars already and he was beginning to think there were more taverns, inns, and drinking establishments in Paris than in all of the rest of France combined.

Seeing another such establishment just ahead, he took a steadying breath and went inside. He blinked the rain away and tried to get his eyes to adjust. At first, he saw no hint of his quarry. He'd been all over Paris and was beginning to believe he'd never find them. He could wait, of course, and try to catch them at the garrison in the morning, but he had never been patient. As he cleared his eyes of excess water, he was both relieved and a bit apprehensive to realize that those he sought were actually here. They sat at a table near the hearth with several bottles of wine, the combination of which allowed them to toast both their good fortune and their chilled bodies.

He hesitated to approach, but he had set this task for himself, and he would not abandon it now. To do so, he believed, would risk his father's disapproval from beyond the grave. He didn't believe in supernatural reprisals, but causing his father disappointment was a thought that chilled him more than the rain, and he felt a shudder race through him. Not giving himself a chance to turn around and leave the task undone, he weaved his way through the room, around tables, dodging patrons and serving women until he stood at the table by the hearth.

He stood by the table for a few moments before the occupants registered his presence. Athos sat nearest to where d'Artagnan stood, but it was Porthos who noticed him first. "D'Artagnan! Sit! Let us buy you a drink!"

Aramis smiled and Athos, though he did not smile, did indicate an empty chair beside him as though it had been placed there just in case the Gascon farm boy joined them.

"I…" his courage wavered and he cleared his throat forcing himself to look at each of them in turn, but lingering on Athos. "I want to apologize. I was wrong." He looked Athos in the eye. "You are an honorable man." He looked at Aramis and Porthos. "You all are." He turned back to Athos, his gaze both determined and anxious. "I let my grief and anger persuade me that I knew all I needed to know. My fa…" The word caught in his throat. His voice cracked and he found he had to swallow twice before he was able to continue. "My father would have been disappointed in me. I beg your forgiveness." In a gesture he knew was rather old-fashioned, but of which he knew his father would approve, d'Artagnan drew his sword and placed it on the floor at Athos's feet. He then knelt before the man, his head bowed. The symbolism was plain for any who dared to read it. D'Artagnan offered his life to Athos to atone for maligning his honor and his name. In the days when his father had worn a sword, this sword, this would have been a sign that he was serious and penitent.

After a moment, Athos stood. D'Artagnan forced himself not to flinch. Athos reached down and grasped his shoulders gently bringing the young Gascon to his feet. Once d'Artagnan was standing, Athos waited until the younger man looked him in the eye. "If you acted on misinformation, you atoned for that by helping to clear my name. For that, you have my gratitude." Athos reached for d'Artagnan's hand. D'Artagnan took it and they shook. Athos then reached down and retrieved d'Artagnan's blade. Looking at it critically, he held it out hilt first to the young Gascon. "This is a fine blade." As d'Artagnan sheathed it, Athos added, "It suits you."

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise at the subtle compliment.

"Join us for a drink," Porthos called.

D'Artagnan, still slightly overcome by the unforeseen turn of events shook his head in quick denial. "No, thank you. I don't want to intrude."

"It's an invitation," said Aramis. "Not an intrusion."

D'Artagnan considered that. He really didn't want to intrude, but refusing seemed wrong in light of what had happened. "Will you let me buy the next round?"

"Alas," said Aramis with a devilish twinkle in his eye, "Athos has claimed that privilege for the remainder of the evening."

Athos shrugged as he poured. "I am grateful to be alive. It makes me a bit more generous than usual."

Porthos snorted. "As if you need an excuse."

They drank and talked of duty, of honor, of missions past and of Aramis's conquests, and Porthos's games of chance, and before long, d'Artagnan felt almost as though he were a part of this special group. He found that his clothes had dried, and that, unfortunately made him remember why they had been wet in the first place, which made him remember what the rain generally brought to mind. To his horror, he realized he'd actually forgotten about his father's death for a short time. How, he wondered, could I sit here laughing when he died such a death? He berated himself for several minutes and then began making excuses to leave.

They argued, but the full weight of his grief had returned, and he could not have stayed there under the burden of it. He thought he heard the trio deciding to leave as well, but he didn't stop to confirm it.

He was gone and out the door barely realizing that the rain had stopped, and the muddy streets were all but deserted. The chill in the air told him to move quickly, but he found that he really had nowhere to go. It was late, and Monsieur Bonacieux would have locked the door by now. He claimed he had to secure the house since it held so much of the materials for his business, but d'Artagnan believed he simply preferred to lock his tenants out after a certain hour so he could believe he was managing to be paid his full rent for providing less than that for which he was paid. He berated himself again for such thoughts. He hardly knew the man. He shouldn't make assumptions about his character. His father wouldn't approve. He shook his head realizing that that thought had crossed his mind more in this one night than it had in his entire life before now.

He wandered aimlessly around the streets, slightly too drunk to realize it wasn't the best idea. In a short time he was a bit lost. He realized he'd been going in circles after he passed the same tavern once again. He turned a corner, then another, and that's when he saw Athos.

"What are you doing out here?" Athos asked.

"I could ask the same," d'Artagnan replied.

"You left us some time ago. Why are you not in bed?"

D'Artagnan almost blushed. "Monsieur Bonacieux locks his doors at a respectable hour. I could not get in now without breaking down his door."

"Of course he does." Athos said softly with a shake of his head. "We can't have you sleeping on the streets of Paris. You'd best come with me."

As they walked, the rains began again, and soon the pair found themselves soaked through and hurrying along the mud caked streets.

D'Artagnan expected to be taken to the Musketeer garrison and given the privilege of a spot in the stables. To his surprise, Athos led him through the winding streets of Paris to a small flat. The room was modest, but it was dry and warm, and d'Artagnan, shivering, thought that was the most important thing.

Athos led him to sit by the fire, and, producing a bottle of wine, poured two cups. After they'd drunk a bit, they were both warmer.

After a time, D'Artagnan reached for the wine and was surprised to find the bottle empty. He distinctly remembered Athos uncorking the bottle, so either it held much less than most, or they'd had a great deal more than one glass each all ready. He stared at the bottle in confusion.

Athos chuckled. "Are you well, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan opened is mouth to say he was fine. To his dismay, something else entirely issued from his traitorous lips.

"I…I'm alone." He dropped his voice to a whisper because it wasn't really the sort of thing you said loudly. "I'm an…an orphan." His brow furrowed in drunken consternation. "How can I be that?" He shook his head, but stopped and put a hand to it with a groan.

Athos was looking at him with the strangest expression on his face. "D'Artagnan," he said sounding completely sober somehow. "Have you ever been drunk before?"

"Ah," d'Artagnan said. "I've drunk plenty…but no…never enough at any one time to be drunk. F…father w-wouldn't approve." He realized what he'd said and he laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, he realized. It was more manic than anything else.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called.

D'Artagnan looked at the Musketeer. His brow was furrowed and there was a look in his eye d'Artagnan had once seen in his father's. It was when d'Artagnan was about seven and he'd come down with a fever. He'd been talking perfectly coherently one moment and babbling nonsense the next. He'd talked of seeing his mother, of golden light…he remembered none of it later, but his father had told him of it. The only thing he did recall was the look in his father's eye that somehow Athos had now.

He laughed until he felt like crying, and then he clenched his mouth shut. He wouldn't want to do such a thing in front of this man. He'd come to respect him too much since his arrival in Paris. Perhaps it was Aramis's and Porthos's stories. Perhaps it was that he seemed so honorable and d'Artagnan's father was just the same. Whatever it was, d'Artagnan found himself leaning closer to him and confiding in him. "Athos, I'm alone. He died. How can he be dead?" Anger bubbled over and warred with grief. "I did nothing to save him!" He looked at Athos. "How could I have done that? How could I just have let him die?" He searched Athos's eyes as though searching for the answers. "I just watched him die." He said it in a whisper, and the rage was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "I held him in my arms as he lay on the ground in the pouring rain. There was so much blood, and so fast. He was gone so quickly. It seemed he died before I had a chance to realize he was dying. How can a life end so quickly? How is it he can be dead in the time it takes to blink?"

"That's usually the way of it," Athos said softly and there was both bitterness and experience in his words.

"What do I do now?" D'Artagnan asked, but Athos couldn't answer.

The Musketeers

Athos could feel the effects of the wine he'd consumed dissipating. It was d'Artagnan's laughter that had chased it away. It had scared him. It was tinged with madness, and Athos was only too aware that grief that deep could be any man's undoing. The realization that the hell Athos had gone through in the Chatelet had been matched if not surpassed by the hell this farm boy had had to endure, and was still enduring, was, quite literally, sobering.

Athos's life had, or so he'd thought, been forfeit, but now that he'd been proven innocent, his life would resume much as it was before. The boy had no such comfort. His life had been irreparably altered. The boy had suffered a loss that Athos had not allowed himself to consider. It stirred something in him, awakening something that he'd thought he'd lost.

D'Artagnan looked Athos in the eye, and Athos could see a pleading, desperate need for answers. "There was so much blood. So much. Why couldn't I stop it?"

A crash of thunder and an almost simultaneous flash of lightning had the boy flinching as though struck. Athos opened another bottle and poured him another glass of wine, though he knew it wasn't the answer.

Athos could tell from the description that the fatal blow the boy's father had suffered had been a vicious one. Gaudet had not been kind. He knew where to strike to cause the most damage, and he'd opened the man up and let him bleed out like a deer in a hunt.

He listened to d'Artagnan's self-realizations, and the depths of the man's emotions surprised him. He hadn't expected this. He'd been lost in his own head, reliving things best left alone, facing memories in the Chatelet he'd only faced with a bottle in his hand. He'd been denied that bottle in prison, and had wallowed. He saw that now. He'd voluntarily leaped into the abyss of his grief, self-loathing, and recriminations and he'd tortured himself with well-practiced efficiency and accuracy. The only difference to any other night was his sobriety.

Another crack of thunder and d'Artagnan closed his eyes and moaned slightly. Athos took the half finished glass of wine set it on the table. The Gascon youth didn't seem to notice. That was when Athos realized his own heart had seemed to thaw. He'd cared for very little when he'd joined the Musketeers. He cared less for his own safety than for anything else. He had soon realized that becoming a Musketeer hadn't relieved him of any responsibility. As Comte de la Fere, the people of La Fere had turned to him in troubled times, depended on him for justice. In escaping to join the Musketeers, he had merely made his responsibilities more intimate. He depended on his men and his men depended on him. Porthos and Aramis had been the only two to breech his personal defenses and lay claim to what was left of his heart. He looked after them as well as he could, and they, in turn, looked after him. He had accepted long ago that they had become his brothers. He needed no one else in his life.

Why then should the plight of this farmer's son touch him so deeply?

D'Artagnan's plight had barely registered amidst his preoccupation with his own misery. He'd not expected the depth and breadth of the young Gascon's emotions. Grief, yes, but there was abandonment, bewilderment, isolation, confusion, anger…he tried to remember back to the early days after losing his brother, after finding out his wife was a murderer, and he realized it was all just a haze. Without his brother, his last remaining family member, there was no one to help him grieve. That was the role his wife should have taken, but as she'd murdered Thomas, it was a role she was ill equipped to assume. The solitary grieving had him thinking himself mad for some time. That's what this boy faced now. That thought was overwhelming for him. What must it be like to d'Artagnan? The boy must have someone to help him through this. Mustn't he?

Once he'd been released and pardoned, Athos had begun to realize that d'Artagnan reminded him of someone. It eluded him for some time, and he realized that was because the resemblance wasn't physical. No, it was a much different resemblance.

Athos's brother, Thomas, had been even-tempered, lousy with a sword, unwilling to learn all but the basics as far as defending himself, and more willing to take on responsibilities of the Comte de la Fere than Athos was himself. D'Artagnan was brilliant with a sword, willing to learn, and able to admit to mistakes—as evidenced by his willingness to accept that Athos was not his father's murderer—and less at home on a farm than he would have liked given how much he seemed to have respected his father.

D'Artagnan didn't remind Athos of Thomas. He reminded Athos of himself. Good with a sword, quick to defend the defenseless, acting on his emotions rather than thinking things through rationally. These were all things he had done himself before he had forced himself to learn how to rein in such things, to control his temper, to think before acting. D'Artagnan seemed like his brother but only in the sense that Athos and d'Artagnan should have been born brothers and were not, much like himself and Aramis and Porthos.

The thought shocked him, and in his surprise, he forgot about d'Artagnan's pain for a moment. He'd never compared a new acquaintance with Aramis and Porthos. His obstinate side rebelled at the comparison. The friendship he shared with those two was quite enough. He needed no one else. Certainly not a wet behind the ears boy…

His gaze shifted to the boy in question. He had dozed off with his head at an awkward angle that made Athos wince. If Athos left him in that position, he'd barely be able to raise his head come morning. Athos moved the Gascon to his own bed and made him as comfortable as he was able. Then he retrieved a spare blanket and pillow and made himself comfortable on the floor.

He wanted to drink, but lacked the energy and the motivation to fetch a bottle. His thoughts chased themselves around his head, and he permitted it. He watched d'Artagnan sleep thinking only that he would be better off heading home to Gascony than lingering in Paris. Someone must be waiting for word back in…what was it? Lupiac? Someone…a mother, a sibling, a best friend…would be waiting for him. Unable to confirm the feeble hope, Athos let his thoughts and questions chase themselves around his head as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, when he awoke, he was alone.

He glared at the sun streaming through his window as though that celestial body were to blame for d'Artagnan being missing. Dressing in a hurry, Athos went in search of him.

It was later than he'd thought, and he felt justified in knocking on the door of the Bonacieux house.

"Athos?" Madame Bonacieux seemed surprised to see him.

"Madame," Athos said removing his hat, "I was wondering if d'Artagnan is at home."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. He came back early this morning, packed his things and left. He said he had to go home to bury his father."

"He's gone." It wasn't what Athos had expected to hear and he was shocked at how bereft the news left him. "He's gone." Athos said it again.

Madame Bonacieux nodded. "Athos, are you all right."

Athos inhaled and put his had back on his head. He gave her a quick nod. "I am well, Madame, thank you. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It's no bother," she called out to him, but he had stopped listening and was walking away.

He returned to the Garrison and told Aramis and Porthos that d'Artagnan had gone. Then he'd joined in the training of the new recruits until Treville had to intervene to keep the lads whole.

The Musketeers

Lupiac's church was small, wooden, and, by Parisian standards, modest, but it suited the needs of the people. D'Artagnan sat alone in the front pew going over the arrangements in his mind. His only real worry was the pallbearers. His father's friends had insisted on doing it, with him helping of course, though he knew they still saw him as a child. What worried him was that they seemed old and fragile. He'd never them this way before. Had his father's death made him think these men must follow him soon?

He shook his head hoping that would clear it, but knowing it wouldn't. He'd heard too much at the wake last night. He'd sat in the local tavern listening to the stories, the laughter of oft-repeated tales. At first he'd laughed, too, but the laughter soon rang false in his ear. It seemed too much of a contrast to the heaviness of his heart. How could he laugh now? How could he ever laugh again now that his father would never share the joke? He'd sat at the bar, not drinking, not daring to raise his eyes to look at his neighbors. He could not bear to see the sympathy, or worse, the accusations, in the eyes of his friends.

He knew some of them thought him too reckless. On hearing Alexandre d'Artagnan had been killed in an Inn a few hours outside of Paris, some of them, at least, would blame him.

D'Artagnan had heard the whispers.

There were hints, suggestions, that Alexandre's son must have done something, must have said something, to enrage the bandits. Perhaps they had killed the senior d'Artagnan as a lesson to him. Perhaps they had killed him because Alexandre had tried to protect his impetuous offspring from the consequences of his actions. Certainly Alexandre d'Artagnan would have talked them out of it. The fault must lie with Charles.

He'd pretended not to hear. He'd lacked the strength—and the will—to defend himself. How could he when he agreed with them? He knew he'd said nothing, done nothing to save his father. He'd not been there, but that was it's own problem. He imagined himself admitting that he'd been nowhere near his father when the fatal blow fell. The accusations would merely shift. You left him alone? You were not there to help? Regardless of the contradiction, he knew that's what they would say. He was either guilty for having provoked the bandits directly, or he was guilty for not being there at all to defend the man who meant more to him than anyone.

He remained silent. He already condemned himself. Hearing these people condemn him would be his undoing.

Only one person had seemed to be above it all. One person had seemed to understand what d'Artagnan was feeling. "Charles?" the voice had called to him.

"Madame Boucher," he'd stood and moved to embrace her. This woman was the closest to family he had. His father had hired her when his mother had died to come to their home and clean for them. Eventually, she'd begun cooking for them, and on days when his father was away or too busy, it was to her that he'd run when he was a small child for comfort with some small injury—a scraped knee, a bloody elbow. She was there to dry his tears and bandage his hurts.

Her age was undetermined in his mind. She'd seemed always to look so old, yet so vital. Her gray hair was pulled back away from her face and secured in a chignon. Her rosy cheeks were stained with tears, the sight of which made his breath hitch. The look on her face was tinged with sorrow and concern. It was the first hint of concern he'd found in the faces of his friends and neighbors.

"Oh, my dear Charles," she spoke softly. "What a loss for you to face, and so young!" She threw her hands up and gazed at the ceiling as though beseeching God for the strength to go on. She finally looked at him critically. "You have lost weight! You're not eating. I will come and cook for you."

"Madame, thank you, but there is no need." The truth was he'd had little appetite since returning, and less time to see to that sort of thing.

"Will you cook for yourself?" She asked him, her eyes boring into him.

He opened his mouth to reply not knowing what he would say, but she gave him no chance. "Of course you won't! You must eat! What will you do?" Tears welled in her eyes, and in the face of her genuine sorrow and concern for him, he felt his own control slip. The numbness on which he had relied was replaced by a weight of loss and pain too heavy for him to bear alone. He could not hold back a gasp as it took hold of him. Alone. That's what he was now. A word came unbidden and unwelcome to his mind as though through a drunken haze: orphan. He balked at it. He could not conceive of it applying to him though, intellectually, he knew it did.

He blinked rapidly to hide his tears. He feared if he started to cry he would never stop.

Madame Bucher tutted and stepped forward embracing him, whispering and making shushing noises. In the face of such understanding and sympathy, he could control himself no longer. He clung to her trying to hold back the tears or at least to cry quietly. The neighbors gathered to drink to his father's memory seemed intent on laughing and telling humorous stories. His grief seemed somehow out of place.

As he clung to Madame Boucher, he recalled his mother's funeral. He had been so young. How little he'd understood then, how bereft he'd felt without her, but this—Mother, forgive me!—this was so much worse.

As unlikely as it might seem, his father had been his best friend, his anchor, his teacher. D'Artagnan could not recall a day that his father hadn't taught him something, a day where they hadn't laughed uproariously at something.

How would he live without his father?

Returning from Paris had been difficult enough. Making funeral arrangements had been nearly impossible. That was next to nothing, however, against a new realization. After the funeral, he would have to rise early and go about his day as he would always have done, yet sans his father's reassuring presence, his guiding hand, his easy laughter. He doubted himself. He doubted he was capable of adjusting to such an absence. His strength had faltered.

His tears, he knew, would flow until he consciously stopped them, so he willed them to stop. He pulled back from Madame Bucher. "Forgive me, Madame." He could see she wanted to help him, to say something.

"I will come to the house tomorrow with food." She said the words, but he could see she wanted to say so much more. He didn't argue.

Now, he realized, the flood of memories from just last night were distracting him from the funeral.

The mass had been both strangely long and strangely brief. His attention shifted in and out, noticing first the cut and color of Father Alain's vestments and next the noise of the pew as he shifted his weight. He could not focus long on the priest's words, nor could he follow the prayers, though he had heard them all his life. Whether from exhaustion or grief, the day passed from moment to moment with a surreal quality, which made him doubt both his perception and his sanity.

The priest stepped forward now, arms raised as he said his final prayers. He stopped speaking in mid-word and it took d'Artagnan a moment to realize the man had fallen silent. He glanced up at the man in confusion to see him staring towards the door of the church. He also noticed that the attention of everyone else in the church was focused in the same direction.

D'Artagnan turned around and saw three men stood in the doorway. Strong, tall, imposing, and wearing the familiar blue cloaks of the Musketeers. Such a sight was rare in Lupiac, but d'Artagnan knew these men. These three Musketeers were Athos, Aramis and Porthos. He gaped in shock, blinking at the sight he'd never imagined he would see.