Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable in this story, they belong to their owners. The characters belong to Dumas and bbc. The Lyrics in this story are from 'Mars' that belongs to Sleeping at Last. I'm just borrowing them for inspiration.

Author's note: This is my first ever fanfic and English is not my first language. I have tried my best but there will be errors, for which I apologies before hand. Please Review and help me improve.

We laid our names to rest
Along the dotted line.

He travelled alone. The pale winter sunlight spilled in streams through the gaps in the canopy and the underbrush gleamed with the early morning dew like the polished bones of a long dead creature. His horse trudged along the soggy path until it trickled out into the open expanse. Rolling grounds of pale green and dark brown greeted him.

He had been this way before, almost seventeen years ago. An image of dark curls and an honest laugh wisped before his mind's eye and Treville pulled his horse to a stop. He was a man of honour, a man of his word. His word that had only been divided once in his life; between his country and his wife. She had turned away from him then, on that fateful night when his orders had come, and he had not begged for forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. He had ridden out into the rebellion with a broken heart and taken out his rage on the Queen Marie's loyalists. He was captured, then wounded in his escape, one thing led to another and by the time Treville made it back home, his wife was gone.

But he was not crossing through here for the matters of the heart. Instead he was here on duty set by the King himself. When his Royal Highness had ordered the formation of a new regiment and appointed Treville to the task, the soldier had taken his job seriously. He had hashed out the details and smoothed out the tangles. No one had expected the brusque soldier to posses such art of conversations but Treville was nothing if not persistent.

Now he was looking for soldiers, men of honour and of sword. This had brought him down to these paths again. The two lads of his old friend the Comte de la Fère would suit this new regiment perfectly. In their latest correspondence the Comte had told him about the budding passion of his oldest.

Olivier d'Athos, he remembered the lad's name from those faded letters filled with anecdotes. The lad had excelled in fencing from a young age and had upheld the values his father had instilled in him with a sobriety far from his age. But it was not this that had brought his name to the forefront of Treville's mind when he had began looking for young recruits, it was actually the fond way his friend had written about his oldest son watching out for his little brother.

That was almost ten years ago. Olivier would be a young man of twenty-one now, a prime age to join in the service to the crown and country.

Treville smiled as the village came into view and the modest château peeked from behind the trees on the far edge. He dug his heels in the horse's side and the beast quickened its pace with a snort. He was half way there when he heard it, a steady thrum beating on the ground behind him. There were five of them, clad in black, their faces half covered as they galloped towards him.

Treville's sharp blue eyes narrowed just as the barrel of a musket flashed in the watery light and a resounding crack pierced the air. He ducked instinctively even as he pulled his horse around and into a gallop. He hated bringing trouble to the quaint village and he hated to retreat, but to stand out in the open in front of musket wielding bandits was an entirely foolish way to meet his demise.

People scattered out of his way as he charged into the market on the outskirts of the village.

"Clear the area!" he yelled at the horrified faces, "Bandits are on their way, clear the market now!"

As the humdrum broke into shrieks and crashes, Treville turned and shot the bandit at the front of the group and instantly began re-loading the musket. But then the men were upon him.

He blocked the sword arching towards him with his own blade and countered the attack with a thrust while he kicked out at the man on his left and upended him from his saddle. He parried with another bandit on his right and thrust back the first one. It was the bandit that he had pushed out of the saddle that grabbed his ankle from the stirrup and yanked him down, hard.

The muddy ground was unforgiving and his breath left him in a terrible woosh. A booted kick connected with his side and pushed him onto his back. Four sharp points rested on his throat as he desperately clawed the ground to reach his discarded sword.

"Let the musketeer be," said a voice.

"Who?" one of the bandits frowned in the direction the voice had come from.

"The man with the musket," the voice sounded clearly exasperated, "the musketeer."

"Get outta here whelp, its nothin to do with you."

"No need for name-calling gentlemen," Treville heard and strained his eyes back in their sockets to look at his saviour who was standing a few feet away from his head on the ground.

It was a lanky dark haired figure, a lad probably in his teens who snagged a small rock with the toe of his boot and began flipping it between his heels. Intent and grinning at his task he did not look up at the bandits he was talking to.

"It's a bad habit you see, calling names and hitting people when they're down," he said as he tossed the rock from his heel to his hand and regarded the bandits with a reckless grin, "so let the musketeer go."

The leader of the bandits charged at the boy with a growl, only to stop with a howl of agony. He grasped his face and fell to his knees while the boy kicked up the bandit's discarded sword and plucked it from the air. He twirled it with a flourish and met the three bandits with a devil-may-care laugh and hard gleam in his dark eyes.

Treville jumped into the fray immediately. The lad was good but it was clear that the bandits were skilled. On a good day Treville knew he could beat three well trained swordsmen but his fall and the journey had left him stiff. Still he parried with the three bandits as the lad ducked and dodged and clashed blades with last one who wielded a cunning dagger after losing his sword.

From the corner of his eye Treville kept track of him, but try as he might he could not keep the bandits engaged for long and soon another joined the battle with the slim boy. But the lad was quick on his feet and evaded the blades like a cat at play.

So focused was Treville on the boy's safety that he didn't see the blade that swung towards him; he shifted at the last second. It left an arched trail of blood from his back to the front of his stomach. He fell to one knee with a muffled grunt and looked up at his executioner just in time to see something green connect with the man's temple, dropping him in a heap.

He looked to his side and saw the boy standing atop a barrel of apples, balanced with a feet on either side of the rim. The lad swung his blade in a curve to push back his opponents then flipped backwards and landed on his feet behind the barrel. Between one blink and another one more bandit dropped with an apple to the head while their companions rushed off on their horses, one supporting a nose bleed and the other a stab wound to the shoulder.

The boy flourished the sword once with a rotation of his wrist then struck the blade into the ground.

"Come out from behind the cart Thomas, it's not a suitable place for a Comte's son." He called over his shoulder as he neared Treville. He crouched down and gently maneuvered the man to lie onto his uninjured side.

"May I?" he asked

Treville gave a sharp nod; he would blame it later on the blood loss and not onto his curiosity that was piqued by the exuberant calm of this young man.

"Oh…oh that is not good," Thomas looked down at the injured man and averted his gaze, "René this is not good. My brother will know and he will not be pleased. And your uncle! He'll beat you death! You just had a duel in the market. What are we going to do?"

"You are going to hand over that ridicules sash of yours," René extended a hand and Thomas instantly complied, "Then we're going to take this musketeer to your home."

"Olivier wouldn't want strangers in the house. You know she doesn't like it." Thomas looked anywhere but at the two on the ground as René pressed the sash onto the wound and Treville felt incapable of swallowing down on a gasp.

"He's a soldier Thomas, I'm sure even your stuck up brother wouldn't find anything wrong in helping him."

"And how do you know he's a soldier, he could be a bandit."

"A bandit with the court's symbol?" René tapped the fleur-de-lis on the shoulder of the long brown coat that Treville wore.

"I'm Treville, his majesty's soldier, here to meet the Comte de la Fère," Treville said through gritted teeth as René pulled him into a sitting position.

Thomas bent to stare him in the face, pale blue eyes studied him for long seconds and whatever the young lord saw in Treville it smoothed the nervousness from his soft features and drew a nod of assent.

"Now don't just stand there Thomas, help me get the man up." René motioned for his friend and Treville soon found himself balanced on wobbly knees.

"I'll get his mount," Thomas nodded and with that the three of them began moving towards the château.

People had come out to check what the problem was now that the commotion had died down. They stared at the odd procession; one or two even nodding at the young lord, though no one came forward to assist them. Treville didn't mind, he was too focused on putting one step in front of the other in a way that didn't put pressure on his injured side. As it was, Thomas's sash was soaked through by the time the Comte's residence loomed into view. It was only René's arm around his middle that was staunching the blood flow and the boy's solid presence by Treville's side that was keeping him up.

"Take it to the stables and put him in the guest room in the east wing," Thomas's command broke through Treville's reverie. He felt rather then saw the servants who took him from his warm support and an inexplicable sense of loss washed over him.

"Don't jostle the man, he's already in pain." He heard René's exasperated tone and felt the sash tighten around his wound. Treville distantly heard Thomas order the surgeon to be summoned as the world shifted from bright to pale and to blissful, soft white.

He came to with a gasp and his face pressed into a soft pillow. There was fire in his side, its flames spreading out onto his back and his stomach. He groaned when something stoked that fire.

"It's not that deep," a cheerful voice spoke in a tone strangely soft.

"The surgeon's two villages over," came the distraught answer.

"I can patch him up."

"Oh please will you?"

"Worried about your sheets getting stained?" the teasing tone bellied the words as Treville felt the fire in his side stoked again, "Why don't you send up some wine, warm water, linen and a sewing kit? Then see to the message to your brother?"

"Are you sure you don't need my assistance?" the hope in there was barely veiled.

"I'll meet you when I'm done." a chuckle followed as the tunic from Treville's side was torn further, "Besides; vomiting near an open wound is hardly sanitary."

"I did not throw up," came the distant retort.

"You just swooned,"

"I did not,"

"And turned green,"

"I'll see you after I contact Olivier." The sound of door closing pushed Treville's drifting consciousness back to the sharp reality.

"Olivier?" he asked.

"The Comte is not here," Rene told him with a pat on his shoulder and went to the assist servant who had brought up the contents he had asked for. Lying on his uninjured side, Treville looked over his shoulder as the lad sorted the items. He held up a bottle of wine and grinned.

"Wait till he finds out that Thomas sent you his best wine. That man is too possessive of his drink," he said.

It was true, even with the burning pain Trevillle could tell the fine quality of the wine when Rene helped him take a few mouthful and then softly washed the wound with warm linen. He had only just gathered his bearings when the boy soaked another piece of linen with the wine and laid the sopping cloth over the arched gash.

Treville hissed at the sting.

"Don't be a baby," Rene said, "It looks worse than it is." He frowned at the wound that seeped blood even after being cleaned.

"It will need to be stitched." He nodded to himself although there was a hint of apology in his voice.

"Then we'll wait for the surgeon?" Treville could not hide the dread that had trickled into his voice but he was hard-pressed by the almost gleeful look that the boy had as he prepared the needle with wine and the candle flame. The lad snorted and threaded the needle before he looked at Treville.

"My mother is a seamstress; I know what I'm doing." He said, "But if you want we can wait for the surgeon and let the wound be for a day. You will lose blood but," he shrugged, "at the speed it's flowing, it wouldn't be fatal I suppose."

Treville looked at the boy, because really that was what he was, a boy. One who had jumped in to save his life without being asked. He glanced from the mischief curling at the corner of his mouth to the steady hands wielding the needle between blood-stained fingertips.

"How old are you?" he asked and received a quirked eyebrow for his effort.

"I'm about to let you plunge a needle into my skin, I think I'm entitled to know something about you." He added and couldn't help but smile back at the grin that lit Rene's face.

"I'm sixteen," he said as he carefully pulled together the ends of the torn skin and began stitching it back together. He made no comment as Treville grit his teeth and got his breathing under control.

"You have experience in this?"

"Some,"

"You don't look like someone who stays indoors learning to stitch," he observed because despite being on the slim side the lad had strength in his built that came from an active life, "And you don't fight like one who spends most of his time with the needle."

"I help my uncle with his work. He's a swords-smith."

"And you practice with them too?"

"I'll neither deny nor confirm," Rene's warm brown eyes locked with his as the boy gave a cheeky grin; "let the witnesses be the judge of that."

Treville rolled his eyes and inquired about the Comte and Rene told him he was out on a hunting trip. But it was not Olivier that Treville was asking about.

"I meant his father, the old Comte,"

"He died," Rene glanced at his face, "Over a year ago."

Treville closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath. He hadn't had many friends and those that he had were lost on either battlefields or in the folds of time with each parting of the ways. The old Comte was a rare link to his boyhood that he had tried to keep in touch with and it hit him deep to know that his friend had departed from this world without him being aware of it.

"I'm sorry for your loss Monsieur Treville," the level of compassion surprised him into focusing on the lad again.

"How did he….?"

"His horse, it spooked and kicked him in the head."

That was not what he had expected. Not an end he ever thought his friend would meet.

"A wasp nest fell on the horse, it was tied under a tree while they made camp," Rene cast a searching glance over his face, "Thomas was there; he told me all about it."

It sounded like a sick joke; an accident that was mostly jested about and even that in derision. Treville felt his meager breakfast rise to his throat and knew it had nothing to do with blood loss and pain. He noticed the dark eyes studying him but at his glance the boy resumed his focus on his work.

"Is there more?" Treville asked.

Rene shrugged lightly and kept to his work. It was only when Treville felt the last firm tug on his skin that the boy sat back in the chair he had pulled closer to the bed earlier. He wiped his blood stained hands with a wet cloth and examined the stitches with a critical eye. When those dark eyes turned to him Treville was surprised by the flint like gleam. Steady and piercing, the gaze focused on him for a few minutes before Rene spoke.

"In my experience, thriving wasp nests don't just fall off from the places they're stuck on." He said.

Treville wasn't going to tell the lad that he was thinking along the same lines although at a slower pace, apparently he was more exhausted then he had led himself to believe.

He was saved by dwelling on the subject by the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside. So instead he looked down at the stitches Rene had put in skin. All tightly set in a neat line.

"You're good at this." He said in surprise.

Rene leaned back in his chair with a hand over his heart in mock affront, "Your shock wounds me," he said.

The doors to the room swung open with a muffled bellow and Thomas hurried in, his round face pink with excursion and breaths coming in gulping puffs.

"He's coming here. Your uncle! He's come looking for you." He said.

"About time don't you think?" Rene got to his feet with a short laugh and moved to the wash basin in the corner of the room. He rolled his eyes as Thomas opened the door and peaked outside.

"I must take my leave Monsieur Treville," Rene inclined his head a little before he walked to the window.

"He knows where you live, what's the point of this escape?" Thomas hurried to him.

"My dear friend, if he has pursued me here then it is my duty to allow him a chase." Rene grinned and clambered out onto the window.

"But we're on the second floor…" Thomas called out too late and dashed forward to check on his friend.

He turned with an exasperated fondness in his big eyes.

"Reckless idiot." He said.

Reckless idiot indeed, Treville thought as the day's events washed him out to sleep.

He dreamed of her, for the first time in nearly a decade she walked in his slumbering mind amongst the din of musket fires and clanging swords, she came to him and handed him an acorn.

He jerked awake to the wild thrum of his heart. For a second he lay staring at the far wall that was too ornately painted for his liking and felt himself sink further into the mattress that was much too comfortable to be a soldier's bedding.

The room was bathed in the warm glow of the candle light even though the window displayed the evening sky that was still bright. There was a snip in the air and Treville was suddenly glad for the lit candles. He stilled when a sweet feminine scent invaded his mind and he hastily rolled over to his injured side, receiving a shooting pain in his back for his efforts.

A mass of dark curls greeted him.

"Felipa?" the name tumbled from his lips.

"No, this is Milady Comtesse, my wife," a figure detached from the shadows of the door and loomed closer to Treville. It took the wounded soldier more than a few minutes to assemble his thoughts, that name hadn't crossed his lips in over a decade. The warmth of that vision was sharply dispersed when a cold hand touched his.

"Monsieur Treville, are you well?"

"Comtesse," he jerked straight and bit back a hiss as his wound made itself known again.

Soft blue eyes looked into his soul even as a charming smile graced the woman's face. He felt it, an invading presence under his skin, crawling and searching. It wouldn't have been noticeable to him if he hadn't met Felipa, fell in love with her, married her.

Treville drew a sharp breath and met the Comtesse's gaze, because if he didn't that would mean that he thought she was - no - he shook his head.

"You look like you are in pain,"

"I'm well Milady," he lied and looked away even though he felt her eyes on him despite her hand reaching for her husband. The inspecting presence receded from his mind as the Comte came forward.

Gone was the child he had remembered, the clear blue eyes were as bright but more solemn and in love. Even a soldier who had deserted his wife could tell. This man was smitten, it was in the smile he bestowed on the Comtesse, in the manner he grasped her hand and the way his gaze lingered on the woman even as he took a seat on the chair she had vacated.

Treville glanced at the Comtesse and immediately looked away; it was wise never to look an unknown Psychic in the eye, he remembered Felipa's warning. It drew him short. He could not be thinking of the Comtesse as a Psychic. No, she was simply a fine lady with a strong presence.

"I don't suppose you remember me," he said instead to Olivier.

"No," Olivier said, "But my father spoke highly of you."

Treville would later blame it on his wound and the exhaustion he had suffered but the young man's words brought a sting to his eyes and he had to look away again. How much had he missed in these past years, how much had he lost. Not lost, Treville mentally berated himself, he had not lost but sacrificed; his love and friends for honour. But it was his choice and he would stand by it.

"And he told me much about you in his letters," he said finally, "he was proud of you."

Olivier blinked and pain flashed across his face. It almost looked like a grimace drawn out by a wound in the flesh. The Comtesse laid a hand on her husband's shoulder while her other hand smoothed his dark hair. The young man seemed to settle and Treville dropped his gaze to not look into this suddenly private moment.

"Why do you come here seeking my husband Monsieur Treville?" the Comtesse asked.

"I am looking for soldiers; men of honour whom I can trust," he said, "The King had appointed me in charge of forming a new regiment; one with the sole purpose of protecting His Highness."

"Is that not what the Red Guard is for?" Olivier asked.

"No they're under the Cardinal's command; it would make sense to have a regiment solely under the King's control." It was the Lady who answered.

Her surprised gaze met Treville's shocked eyes. Affairs of the State were confined to the Palace, yet Treville knew that its walls could not contain the secrets and Royal gossip was an entertainment for a noblemen's lounge. Yet it was unusual to come across a woman interested in the politics of it. Unusual but not unpleasant Treville decided.

"Milady," Olivier drew the hand from his hair to his lips, "Beautiful and clever, how am I blessed with you?"

"Luck of a fool?" the lady offered.

"A fool in love," the husband countered.

A loud cough broke through the mood and another form came forward from the shadows. Stockier, shorter and younger; Thomas pointedly ignored the couple and looked to the soldier. For the first time since he had met him, Treville sensed a firmness about the young man.

"I would like to join this regiment," he said.

"You can hardly spar," it was Olivier who replied and the younger one visibly bristled.

"And how would you know," Thomas snapped back, "We haven't sparred in months."

"I don't have to," Olivier finally pulled his gaze away from his wife; "It's clear in your clumsy movements. A swordsman is poise, he's balance and control."

"Spare me the lecture,"

Older cold blue eyes met the younger fierce blue gaze. The Comtesse pressed tighter on her husband's shoulder and Olivier stilled further. Treville glanced from the couple to Thomas. He had not imagined the brothers to be on such terms, especially Olivier. Truly, gone was the child he had remembered.

"How old are you Thomas?" he asked in a neutral tone.

"Seventeen,"

"That is too young," he settled the matter, "I am sorry but the rules state the minimum age be twenty. However I would gladly take you up in three years."

"Maybe by then you'll know that the sharp end of the sword is what you point towards the enemy."

"Swordsmanship is but a skill, it can be learned. However that is not all that makes a soldier." Treville couldn't keep the sharpness from his tone. He didn't mind the surprised glare from Olivier but he was acutely aware of the Comtesse's gaze that focused back on him.

"Maybe we should let the good soldier rest. And send up something for him to eat?" the Comtesse suggested and Olivier nodded immediately.

Treville watched from the corner of his eye as the couple left the room and felt oddly disconcerted at the manner in which Olivier's eyes kept going back to the beautiful face of his wife. The awestruck smile behind the young man's short, well kept beard left him unsettled; still he could not with good conscience convince the Comte to follow him into this new regiment. He would not wish the pain of disappointing the love of one's life unto anyone.

It was the lull in action he convinced himself as he shook away the sudden thought of himself and Felipa; young, in love and foolish to believe that it would work. He was a French soldier and she was Spanish, but that wasn't all. She was a Psychic and a powerful one. A near princess of her clan that channeled the force, plucking notes into rhythms Felipa had explained to him. Magic, his mind had simply nodded.

It was the loud slow exhale of Thomas that drew back his mind. Treville looked to the lad sprawled on the chair and strangely, found himself wondering what Rene would be about at the moment.

"You don't want to be a soldier," Treville said and before Thomas could protest he went on with a shake of his head, "You stay back from a fight when you have a chance and you cannot stand the sight of blood. You know you don't want to be a soldier."

"I'd be anything if it means I can leave here." Thomas shrugged, "Anything to get away from her."

"Strained relationship with your brother's wife." Treville nodded.

Thomas snorted and wiped a hand over his face. He stared at the soldier for a moment before glancing back at the door. Treville knew a conflicting decision when he saw one; he had also learned to wait them out. His patience was rewarded when Thomas sat forward.

"You truly knew my father?"

Treville nodded. It was an odd inquiry but he added nothing to the conversation. Thomas wiped his hands on his breeches and glanced back at the door.

"Not in the beginning, no, but after a while, he didn't like her and I think she knew and I know there's no proof, it was the horse it's obvious but I think she did it." Thomas hurried over his tripped confession.

It was…possible; but there was no apparent motive and like Thomas ha said there was no proof. It could simply be an accident. People did not go around executing elaborate murders of people who simply didn't like them. Treville considered but his thoughts again wandered to what he had felt in the presence of the Comtesse. She could be a Psychic, did Olivier know? Did his father know? Could it be the reason the Comtesse had somehow influenced his death? Or was it just a hurting son's imagination?

"Forget it, it was nothing," Thomas took his silence as his disapproval, "Just please don't tell my brother."

"Of course not," Treville hurried to put the youth at ease. He didn't like the drop in Thomas's shoulders nor the way his arms were curled around himself. Now that he looked closer he could see the shadows under the lad's eyes, a clear sign that he hadn't been sleeping well.

Yet he could not outright agree with the lad. Treville decided to look in the matter but for the moment he sought a way to put the lad at ease.

"Your friend seemed apt with a needle." He prompted and found himself smiling at the thought of Rene. He looked to Thomas and found him grinning too.

"That's what the surgeon said," he replied and nodded to a small tin-can set at the bedside table, "he left you a salve for your bruises."

"The surgeon came? He was two villages over."

"A day and a half's ride." Thomas shrugged, "I sent good horses."

"How long have I been here?" Treville looked out at the now darkened sky and then back at the lad. He tried hard to not get alarmed at the thought of the time he had lost and as though summoned by the realization he suddenly felt hungry.

"You arrived yesterday morning," Thomas raised his hands in a calming gesture, "You were exhausted so the surgeon advised to let you rest. He was pleased with Rene's work and said that there was no danger to your life."

Treville looked down at himself and cringed. He hadn't been that exhausted, but it seemed that his body thought otherwise. In any case he was not gaining the time he had lost and it seemed that his efforts to come here had been futile. Olivier would not be joining the regiment and whatever may be boasted of his skill, Treville was not in any way an army unto himself.

"Your friend didn't stitch up something in me that wasn't supposed to be stitched up?"

"Rene would never do that," Thomas shook his head, "He is the best when it comes to sewing up wounded pigs and he nursed my horse back to health too."

Treville didn't want to tell that lad how it did not instill him with confidence.

"The surgeon approved?"

"I told you he was pleased, wanted to go and meet Rene." Thomas's light tone sounded weary all of a sudden, "It took a lot to convince him otherwise."

Treville noticed the light shudder that went through the lad and pinned him with a questioning look.

Thomas shrugged and rubbed his eyes.

"It's his uncle; he wouldn't have liked it and then would've taken it out on Rene," he sighed, "Monsieur d'Herblay has a bad temper."

The name hit Treville like a punch to his chest. He pulled in a sharp breath and stared at the lad who seemed a bit alarmed at his reaction. But the boy had said d'Herblay, he had said there was a man here named d'Herblay. A man from Felipa's clan. Someone who may know her. Who may know where she went, how she is.

"d'Herblay?" he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Yes, the sword-smith," Thomas spoke carefully, "he lives around here with his sister."

His sister. Treville felt his heart thundering, his mouth suddenly felt very dry and he was embarrassed to note that he was close to passing out. With deliberate slowness he measured his breathing and sat for a while to catch onto his scattering control.

"This sister is the seamstress, Rene's mother?"

"Yes."

"Her name?"

"Mademoiselle d'Herblay," he provided with a frown.

Treville couldn't understand if the lad was being honest or deliberately dense. He needed to meet this sister, Rene's family could be connected to Felipa's and they would know….anything that was supposed to be known. Treville looked at Thomas.

"When is Rene coming to visit?" he asked.

"How good is your aim Monsieur Treville?" Thomas grinned.

Charon groaned when Flea checked the bandage over his shoulder wound. Her eye roll brought a smirk on Isaac's face, but it slipped just as quickly as it came when the muscles under his mustache protested against the movement. That whelp had damn near broken his nose; good aim though Isaac nodded to himself.

"You're lucky it's a shoulder," Flea tucked a strand of her golden hair under one of the braids looped on either side of her head, "Imagine if he caught you in the gut."

"It still hurts like a—argh! " he glared at the girl who had poked him in the wound and had the audacity to blink back at him, looking a picture of innocence.

Isaac snorted then hissed and grabbed his sore nose.

"Damn that whelp." He added vehemently, "who was he anyway?"

"He wasn't with that man was he?" Charon asked.

Isaac shook his head. Their mission had been simple; intimidate the traveler away from the Comte de la Fère. And what had they done? Rode him right through the gates!

Isaac took a bitter mouthful from the bottle hanging between his fingers. That was no traveler; that was a soldier.

"A bloody trained soldier." He growled and tried not to think about his fallen comrade. Living in the streets of Paris meant that a death was a relief in the food supply. Death of a person you knew was simply lessening of competition.

"Did you know about it?" he asked Charon, "Did you know it was a soldier?"

The bald dark man grimaced and looked away. It wasn't the pain from his shoulder, Isaac could tell, it was guilt twisting his friend's gut. He nodded, his friend deserved that much.

"When are you gonna learn Charon?" he took another gulp from the near empty bottle and frowned then cringed, then simply grasped his nose sloppily, "When'll you see we're nothin to those prissy men of the Palace?"

"The Cardinal promised us a good reward." Charon sighed and groaned when Flea threw his travel roll at him with more force than necessary. Isaac tried to ignore how pretty she looked in the firelight as she turned and sashayed away from them.

"Cause he wasn't expecting us to survive," Isaac turned his gaze back to his friend, "We're fodder to these people's plans. Ya hear me?"

Isaac watched Flea as she set up her own bed and tried not to linger on why he was suddenly very thankful that she hadn't accompanied them yesterday morning. She set her bedding away from the two lumps snoring nearer to Isaac and Charon. Those two were the reason they weren't in Paris right now. Damn good arm that whelp had Isaac mused and shook his head then brought the bottle to his lips again.

He cursed vehemently to find it empty.

"Maybe I can offer you a better deal," a hooded woman spoke from the edge of their firelight.

Isaac was on his feet, his blade drawn before the sentence had ended. He had not seen nor heard the woman approaching them. From the corner of his eye he could tell that neither had Charon.

"Who are you?" he demanded as Charon drew a blade as well.

The woman came closer, floated Isaac made a note then forced his eyes to open wider in order to sharpen his gaze on the figure that drew close. There was no crunch from her step and no rustle of her long dress. Isaac decided he had had too much to drink.

"Who I am is not your concern," the lady spoke again, "The younger son of the late Comte de la Fère, I want him dead."

"We don't work that way," Isaac spoke before Charon could.

The lady pointed to the hole in the bark of the tree they had been camped under, "Half your payment is in there if you wish to accept my offer;" she said.

Isaac wasn't going to fall for some random lady ghost who appeared in the middle of the forest demanding murder and leaving them payments in obscure tree holes. He was not that stupid; he shook his head and caught Charon reaching into the gap in the tree bark the woman had pointed at. Apparently Charon was that stupid he groaned to himself, only to stop short when Charon pulled out a handful of gold coins from a modest sized bag.

"We accept," Charon told the lady.

"Tomorrow night. Just before dawn" She gave an imperceptible nod before turning back to the shadows from whence she had come.

Isaac threw down his sword and rounded on his friend. He shoved the man into the tree bark so hard that he dropped the bag full of gold coins.

"Murder? That's how low we've fallen now?"

"Look at what she left us Isaac," Charon said, "it's only half of the payment."

"We're not assassins."

"It'll be one time," Charon told him, "One time and we're set for life; a better life"

Isaac let the man go and turned around. His eyes inadvertently turned to where Flea was sleeping. A better life was all that he ever wished for. Born to a slave mother with an unknown father had left him with very few options in life. He longed for nothing much, just a chance.

With a heavy sigh he drew a hand over his coarse dark curls and short scruffy beard. He plopped down by the fire and took out his worn pack of cards, shuffling them almost as a reflex.

Isaac looked up and caught Charon's questioning gaze.

"We're not assassins," he repeated.

TBC