Though they did not have to hire a carriage as Porthos had disparaged, his augury of a taking a week to get home did come true. Grandier was the only one capable of staying in the saddle more than a few hours a day and Athos made no attempt to rush them back. It took a seven-day to convey their battered bodies back to Paris.

Tréville was waiting in the courtyard when they rode in late on a Wednesday afternoon.

"What are they doing here?" As a greeting it left something to be desired, but Athos was in no mood to deal with the deputation of Red Guards lounging about in the Musketeer garrison.

"They are here for me," Grandier said.

Tréville caught the minimalist gesture from Athos that halted the priest's dismount, and kept his mouth shut.

"Then they are here in vain. Captain, they may be dismissed, Father Grandier will remain our guest until such time as his trial takes place. I will stand as his bond."

"That is not necessary, monsieur. I hear the Bastille is more than comfortable." Grandier had obeyed that gesture though, and did not move from his horse. Nor did the remaining trio of men slouched in their saddles dismount.

"No," Athos said without emphasis, though there was in the denial a flat finality. "You will take him over our dead bodies and I assure you, mon capitan, after the week we've had, you don't want to tangle with us."

"I will speak to the cardinal," Tréville inserted into the suddenly escalating tension, though the quintet still on their horses had not moved a muscle.

"We could just take him." The Red Guard leader postured menacingly.

"You could try," Porthos offered softly, pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic. "This here ball's got your name on it. You wanna eat it fer dinner?"

"You only prolong the situation with your ridiculous swagger, musketeer." The leader, at least, was smart enough to recognize the futility of arguing. At his signal, the contingent formed up in a neat square. "The priest will be in the Bastille before sundown," the man snarled, and marched his formation out through the arch.

"Buncha' pompous asses, Father," Porthos said, swinging down. Aramis, Grandier and d'Artagnan all swung down and turned their horses over too.

"How are you to attend at the Hôtel de Rambouillet if you are in the Bastille, Father?" Athos followed suit, handing off his reins to a second stable boy. Taking Grandier by an elbow, he drew him forward. "Captain Tréville, I commend to you Father Urbain Grandier of the diocese Poitiers, church of St. Croix in Loudun. Father Grandier, you will soon come to appreciate, is a man of wit and charm and endless stories, not to mention as brave as the day is long. Like St. Peter, he gave up an ear on our behalf, though Aramis does not quite have the messiah's healing touch." Athos made an obeisance toward the priest. "Father, this is Captain Tréville, our garrison commander, and a man as honest as the day is long."

Tréville bowed as well, more than a little surprised at Athos' unusually garrulous introduction. "At your service, Father. We keep quarters for guests here at the garrison, though they are neither as luxurious as the cardinal's palace nor quite as inhospitable as the Bastille."

"I am sure I would be quite comfortable here if you can arrange it, good sir, but please do not cross swords with the cardinal on my behalf. He will do with me as he pleases, no need to incur other causalities along the way."

"I will at least speak to Richelieu on your behalf, Father. In the meantime, if I may be so bold, we have the finest cook in all of Paris, bar none. You are welcome to dine with us if you care to. Aramis will see you to the guest quarters so you can rid yourself of the road dirt it seems you've all accumulated." The captain's keen eye roamed over his trio of musketeers and their two guests. "Based on the reports Athos has been sending, I'm thankful you are all home safe, if not entirely sound just yet." He bowed to the priest again and turned on a heel. "Athos, d'Artagnan. My office."

d'Artagnan, with a little rest and the indefatigability of youth, had rebounded quickly. The black eye had faded to a lizard-underbelly-yellow with faint traces of metallic green still at the center and he canted occasionally to the left, but Aramis said that would pass, along with the headaches he was still experiencing.

Athos made a graceful gesture toward the stairs, putting a hand briefly to small of the stiff back as d'Artagnan passed him. "It will be fine, you have my word."

"You'll break me out of the Bastille if it comes to that?" d'Artagnan was not joking.

"Porthos can pick any lock in the kingdom in under five seconds." Athos followed the foot-dragging youth to the top of the stairs, propelling him along the short walkway with a steady hand. "A useless waste of worry, borrowing trouble."

"This I'm not borrowing," d'Artagnan hissed. "This is all my own."

"Shut the door." Tréville picked up a letter on the desk, perused it briefly and folded it closed.

Athos following d'Artagnan into the office obeyed the command, removed his hat, and leaned back against the solid oak egress.

d'Artagnan stopped in the center of the large room, half way between the door and the desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them but did not know what to do with his hands. Sticking them in his sword belt would appear insufficiently contrite, sticking them under his arms, as he was wont to do when in doubt, would likely give the appearance of guilt.

"I did not kill the ambassador," he stated firmly, thankful his voice did not quiver like his knees.

Tréville's faintly troubled look gave way to an equally faint smile, just a twitch really at the left corner of the mouth. "That matter was resolved several days ago."

d'Artagnan's hands dropped to his sides, then lifted to his sword belt. The dark eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Then why am I here?"

Tréville tapped the letter on the desk. "Your father says you wish to be a musketeer."

d'Artagnan's mouth dropped open. In all the tumult of the last week he'd completely forgotten that conversation with Aramis and Porthos in the inn dining room. He felt a chill chase up his spine, followed by a little thrill, as if his father had reached out from the grave to lay his hand in blessing upon his son. He could hear the doctor in his head as if the man was standing right beside him, breathe through your nose. He did - but it didn't help. He was so lightheaded with the expansion of relief in his chest, there was hardly any room for the elation unfolding petal by petal like a flower opening at the direction of the sun. At the very least he was not about to join the priest in the Bastille.

He felt Athos' solidity at his back, their shoulders brushing lightly, the small purposeful touch grounding d'Artagnan in the present. "There is a letter?" he breathed faintly.

"I've had it for a month," Tréville stated, extending a hand with the piece of parchment.

Athos bumped his shoulder in friendly fashion again. "Perhaps you should read it for yourself."

d'Artagnan stepped forward to take it, but stepped back again immediately, needing the support of that unyielding presence at his back.

"I am sorry, things were in such chaos when you arrived, I did not at first connect you with the letter. But then when you and your father did not appear at the appointed time, I began to put together all of the events and realized who you were. Athos is right, you will wish to read that."

d'Artagnan glanced to Tréville, then sideways at Athos. "A month? You received a letter a month ago? The subject of a trip to Paris only came up a month ago."

"The letter," Athos prodded again. "Perhaps it will give you an explanation." He physically lifted the hand holding it, moved the thumb that held it closed and spread the tri-folded piece of parchment.

d'Artagnan read silently.

Captain Tréville,

Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Alexandre d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, though I write on behalf of my son, Charles d'Artagnan. He has grown into a fine young man with well-set principles and a keen eye for justice. Whatever he chooses to do with his life, he will do it with passion and purpose. He will be twenty at the end of this month and it is time to let him pursue his own desires.

Since childhood he has dreamt of serving at the pleasure of the king as one of the elite Musketeer Guard. I am unskilled with the sword and so no fit judge of his talent. But my late brother-in-law taught d'Artagnan everything he knew of the craft and believed my son has the ability to hone the expertise he has already developed and would be an outstanding addition to your garrison.

Our land produces enough to feed the families we house and care for, and a few of those communal souls our village maintains, but it will not stretch to cover the price of a commission. I know there are as many earned positions in the Musketeers as purchased, and so I am writing to ask if you would be willing to at least allow me to bring d'Artagnan to Paris for an interview.

If you agree to this, I will tell my son we go to Paris to petition the king. The taxes here in Gascony are execrable, he will not think twice about such reasoning. If it should come to pass that you accept him, I would appreciate your keeping this letter between us. (He does not need to know quite the extent of his father's doting.). If you turn him down, he will at least have the comfort of having had the opportunity to make his case. And finally, if he is not good enough, he needs to know this too.

You may reach me at the address above if you are so inclined. If I do not hear back from you, I will consider the matter closed and d'Artagnan will follow in my footsteps caring for our retainers and the land because he is a good son. Though I believe with all my heart that would be a great waste of his talents.

Sincerely,

A. d'Artagnan

Athos scooped the suddenly floating letter out of the air, grateful the legacy of his name as Alexandre d'Artagnan's last word had been eclipsed. And heart glad for d'Artagnan that the youth would be able to set aside his guilt and pursue his dreams with intention and a clear conscience. Perhaps not right away, as the comte was well aware his old friend guilt never just disappeared into thin air. But eventually d'Artagnan would grow into an acceptance of the currently bewildering parental change of heart.

Athos folded the letter again and slipped it in his coat pocket. He would return it when the youth was coherent enough to tuck the relic away in some place safe.

d'Artagnan put a hand to his head, as though it was aching again. Trembling fingers slipped into the curtain of hair hiding his face, shoving it back to reveal - unashamedly - the bright tracks of tears. "I had no idea. We argued about this all the time." The quiver in his knees climbed up to his voice, though for entirely different reasons now. "No idea." A warm hand closed gently around the back of his neck, a small discreet connection that steadied him without drawing any attention.

Tréville smiled kindly. "When you've had a chance to absorb this news, come back and let's discuss how we can make your father's last wish a reality," the captain offered with genuine regard. "Why don't you stay to dinner as well? If you like, we can talk afterwards."

d'Artagnan's mouth opened and closed several times.

"He says thanks, he'd like that," Athos said after a respectably long pause, taking the youth's arm and steering him toward the door. "Aramis has the curiosity of a cat, he's been dying to know the contents of that letter. You will likely find both he and Porthos back in the courtyard waiting for you. Let me give my report to the captain and I will join you shortly." He thrust the still gaping youth out the door with an equally discreet squeeze of the shoulder, and closed it firmly behind him, though he waited 'til he heard the booted footsteps trail away before crossing the room again.

"Anything else you want to know?" he inquired, settling his hat back on his head and adjusting the brim as he set a hip against the front corner of Treville's desk.

"I believe your messages told me everything I needed to know. So what do you want?" Tréville pulled out the chair and sat himself down. "Do you know," he remarked, eyeing his second-in-command curiously, "I don't believe I've ever seen you unsure of yourself. From the day you walked in here and announced you wanted to purchase a commission yourself ..." he trailed off, understanding dawning. "No," he said.

"It would cut off so many dangling threads."

"No," Tréville repeated. "If d'Artagnan is half as capable as you've made him out to be, he'll earn it himself in short order. I will not let you purchase a commission for him."

Athos scowled. "It would guarantee we could keep him out of the cardinal's clutches."

"We will manage that without a commission."

"I promised him he would not end up in the Bastille."

"He won't. I took your first letter, with the details and the woman's description to the cardinal. Told him I could produce an eye witness to attest to everything in the letter. He frothed at the mouth a bit, but backed down."

"Did you tell him the man he was seeking was the witness?"

Tréville just looked at the comte.

"Apologies, of course you did not." Athos bowed slightly, though the action made him grimace as the broken ribs poked uncomfortably.

"I suspect this woman is in the cardinal's employ, though I do not think he sanctioned the murder of the ambassador."

"What makes you think that?"

"His Eminence's coyness."

"I see." Athos experienced those creepy crawly fingers practicing arpeggios up and down his spine again. He could easily imagine his late wife in collusion with the cardinal.

"Any other dangling threads I can alleviate for you?" Tréville inquired, lips twitching again.

"Just one. We should send funds at the very least, to the Dunkirk inn. Perhaps return to help raise the roof on the barn."

"And you have a time frame in mind for this?'

Athos picked up a letter opener shaped like a rapier, a fine piece of work. "Sooner rather than later. We would need to take some leave - all of us."

"How long?"

"A fortnight." They would have to ride hard to get to Dunkirk, raise a roof, and still be able to make it to Gascony and back, but Athos had not pulled the time frame out of thin air. "Give or take a day or two."

"You'll let me know when so I don't put any of you on the schedule?"

"Yes, sir." Athos neither put down the letter opener, nor removed himself from the desk.

"More dangling threads?"

"No sir, at least none that come immediately to mind. Though I wish we could house d'Artagnan at the garrison where we could keep an eye on him. If this female assassin thinks he could identify her, she may be prowling around still. And if she does indeed work for the cardinal, d'Artagnan could well be a marked man."

"He does not have a place to stay?"

"Aramis mentioned they collected him from the cloth merchant, Bonacieux. However I believe he ended up there only because he passed out at Madame Bonacieux's feet after fleeing the scene of the crime. She, being too kind-hearted to leave him lying in the marketplace, had him taken to their residence."

"If he needs somewhere to stay we will find some place to lodge him here until we can find a way to show off his skills before the king."

"I think he would be more comfortable here than staying with me."

"Meaning you would be more comfortable with him staying here than with you." Tréville allowed the smile free rein. "Yes, I saw the hero worship. He'll get over it when he gets to know you better."

Athos buffed his fingernails on his jacket, eyes cast in shadow by that hat brim though the visible features were perfectly straight as he replied with what sounded like complete sincerity, "I don't know, sir. Best swordsman in France, perhaps all of the Continent. It might take awhile."

Tréville's unrestrained laughter followed Athos out the door.

"What was that all about?" Aramis asked, all four faces turning synchronously as Athos joined them at the courtyard table where Serge had set out cheese and rolls and ale to tide them over until dinner was served.

"Nothing," Athos said, sliding onto the bench beside d'Artagnan. "Just revisiting ancient history. If you need a place to stay, d'Artagnan, the captain says he'll have one of the barn stalls cleaned out for you." He turned his head, affecting a pleasant smile. " Grandier, how are your accommodations?"

"Far more pleasant than Captain Tréville made them out to be." He turned to d'Artagnan with a slight frown. "You would accept accommodations in the stable?"

d'Artagnan had scrubbed his face, pulled himself together and taken himself downstairs as ordered, though he had told the waiting contingent nothing. He needed a bit more time to absorb this message from beyond the grave, to savor the thought, in private, that his father had believed in his skills enough to apply to the Captain of the Musketeers on his behalf and kept it from him to save him disappointment. He needed time to fully embrace the fact that he could freely pursue his dreams, and with his father's blessing.

Just a very few days ago, envy had been his most stalwart companion. This afternoon, he sat in the midst of the cause of his envy, a part of the group in a way he could not have imagined a week ago. It was a lot to assimilate.

He shook his head slightly, when Athos, glancing around the table started to speak and replied to the priest himself. "Athos is well aware I have a place to stay."

The barb bounced off the impervious musketeer. "I would like you to stay here until we can resolve some things." The hat did not lift, though Athos removed his gauntlets, tossing them aside as he reached to carve off a chuck of cheese with his parrying dagger. If d'Artagnan had said nothing of the letter to the others, then it was not his place to open the discussion.

"Hope you cleaned that," Aramis muttered from across the table.

The hat tilted, though no response was forthcoming.

d'Artagnan took the piece of cheese handed over to him and accepted a roll from Porthos sitting next to Aramis. "When I have earned the right to be here, even accommodations in the stable would suit me perfectly."

"Father," Athos said, changing the subject before Aramis could jump in, "about that invitation to the Hôtel de Rambouillet, perhaps you ought to ask your friends to include your guardian angels in that invitation." He would talk to d'Artagnan later about housing arrangements as well.

As a diversion, the ploy worked beautifully. The table instantly erupted in a heated debate over the merits of attendance at Madame's salon.

d'Artagnan glanced at Athos, gratitude in his eyes, though he gave no other outward sign.

The hat canted in acknowledgement.

Abruptly, d'Artagnan shoved up from the table, stepping back over the bench from his place between Athos and Grandier. The priest rose as well, as did Athos.

"You wish to return to your lodgings I am sure," Grandier said, clapping d'Artagnan very lightly on the shoulder. "It is my hope I will see you again before I return home. If I do not have that pleasure, may God grant you a long and amazing life. I will be speaking to our Lord regarding that pauldron as well."

d'Artagnan grinned. "My thanks, Father, I would very much appreciate that. And yes, much as I hate to admit it, I am ready to go to bed again. Never thought I'd be saying those words ever in my life!"

"Ahhhh, enjoy your youth, it is not yet eternal as we take for granted when we are young!"

With an obeisance lacking only in depth due to discomfort, d'Artagnan made to take his leave.

"We will see you in the morning." Porthos grinned up at the youth. "7:00 o'clock sharp. Don't be late."

"Shall I send over the liniment?" Aramis asked, glancing askance at Athos, employing their shorthand voiceless communication - are we just letting him go off by himself? - with the look.

Athos shrugged, practically imperceptibly. "Bonacieux's is on my way home, I'll walk with you."

Aramis tipped his head in a slight nod.

"No need," d'Artagnan replied to Aramis' question, "but thank you. And I will see you both in the morning. Father Grandier," he bowed again and tipped his head with a small smile to Aramis and Porthos. "Until tomorrow, gentleman."

They left together, Athos and d'Artagnan, the silence between them companionable and easy.

Athos, who had lived in his own contemplative silence for much of his life, did not press for speech. He understood the need for a period of adjustment. As Aramis had noted only a few days ago, though it seemed like a lifetime already, d'Artagnan's whole existence had been turned upside down and without the slightest warning.

"I will be fine at the Bonacieux residence. I know what that woman is now and will not be so lax in my guard should I see her again."

Athos, a little surprised the youth had either guessed or anticipated his thoughts, said only, "Good."

"You're not going to lecture me about still being in danger?"

"It appears to be unnecessary."

"But that's why you wanted me to stay at the garrison."

"Yes."

"If she's looking for me, Athos, it won't matter where I am. She killed a man in the middle of an inn full of people."

"Not likely brazen enough to risk an entire garrison of musketeers to slit your throat."

"I will sleep with one eye open."

Athos kept his sigh to himself. "You could stay with me, I suppose, until this situation is resolved."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not a puppy and I don't need looking after. I know I haven't quite made that apparent yet, but I am capable of taking care of and defending myself."

"I know you are more than competent, d'Artagnan, your weakness lies in not understanding your own vulnerability. You cannot watch every second story window, or your own back constantly. Do you know why we're known as the Inseparables?"

d'Artagnan stopped under the shade of a tree in the Bonacieux yard. "I suppose I assumed it was because you are constantly together." Inland Paris was much warmer than costal Calais. The sun shone down with merry disregard for aching heads and still not-quite-healed bodies.

"That is a small part of it, yes, though the appellation devolved to us because if you try to kill one, you take on three. Don't give us cause to regret making it four."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"An excellent translation." The hat dipped in a silent language d'Artagnan was coming to understand. "While you are not yet obligated to obey any command of mine, I would appreciate it if you would wait here for me in the morning."

d'Artagnan considered. "All right. I can do that."

"Then-" the hat was swept off and a courtesy obeisance offered with just a slight touch of amused impudence, "I will see you in the morning."

d'Artagnan stood beneath the shade of the tree long after the musketeer's tall, striding form disappeared around the corner. In fact, he stood so long, Madame Bonacieux, spying him from her window, came down to investigate.

"Are you unwell yet, monsieur?" she asked softly, since he seemed completely unaware of her presence, though she had taken no measures to conceal her approach. She had not even come up behind him.

d'Artagnan startled - and laughed ruefully. "My apologies, Madame, I was woolgathering. No," he said, in response to her question, "I am well thank you. But I do need to ask if you and Monsieur Bonacieux would be willing to take on a boarder for a more extended period of time."

"I am sure we can accommodate you for a while at least. You will stay in Paris then, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Yes." d'Artagnan's grin lit his whole face, making Madame's heart flutter just a little. "Yes, my father bespoke a place among the Musketeers before his death. I will have to earn it, but it is my very great hope to soon be serving at the pleasure of the king."

Madame Bonacieux returned the grin shyly. "This is what you really wanted then?"

"My whole life, Madame, my whole life." d'Artagnan offered his arm and escorted his new landlady into the house.

Across the square, a lone figure stood in the deep shadow of a recessed pillar, the hood of her dark burgundy dress shadowing her face as well.

Soon, she thought complacently, very very soon. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

-la fin-

A/N: Urbain Grandier, in case you're interested, was plucked from the historical archives to be the basis of a semi-OC. He was born in 1590 and died in 1634 - a violent death at the behest of Cardinal Richelieu. Grandier publicly called Richelieu to account one too many times, causing His Eminence to accuse Grandier of witchcraft, and when the priest would not confess, had him 'put to the question', as they sanitized the word torture in the 1600s. I have bent his history a little to bring him to Paris, as there is no record of his ever being brought before the king. In August of 1634, he was tried and found guilty in him home parish of Loudun and subsequently burned at the stake.

Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Rambouillet is also a true-life character. Her Paris salons were frequented by many of the intellectuals of the day, including Corneille and Molière and the radical priest, Bossuet. I thought Grandier would fit right in with that crowd.

My thanks to every reader whose wandered through these pages, with special thanks to guests Sarah (a faithful reviewer), Tait (a fellow devotee of hurt and comfort), Alone Dreaming (who leaves great reviews), Linda (who made me happy because she told me I'd made her happy), and Violet Eternity (who said she couldn't wait for more!) as well the guests whose names I don't know, but made my day with great reviews as well. This was a long story and I very much appreciate each one of you who invested time in something of mine. To all the great members who've left reviews - if you haven't heard from me, I should be getting to you no later than tomorrow - but extra extra thanks for choosing to spend time in my itty bitty corner of this fandom. While I would write in the sand if stranded on a desert island if there was nothing else available - because I am compelled to write and have discovered only recently that writing is my spiritual junction box - sharing is such a sweet, sweet joy! My real life companions would tell you I have been really fun to be around this week as this story has posted and I've had the opportunity to share the joy of reading and writing with all of you. There is something about feedback that makes the blood flow faster in the veins and the heartbeat quicken. While writing is my true life-blood, feedback certainly makes that blood circulate faster and intensifies every bit of joy each new review offers. Thank you thank you thank you for each and every gift you've given me this week!

Disclaimer: The characters and some of the settings in this story are the property of Alexandre Dumas' ancestors, and BBC America, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.