A/N: this is third in the verse of The Untold Chapter, if you haven't read the other two you might not understand what's going on in this story. This one has more AU characteristics than the other two, the plot hinges more onto the supernatural side of it but for me the story will always be about the boys and their brotherhood. The name of this story is inspired from the poem 'Alone' by Edgar Alan Poe, it just seems to fit the characters of the four protagonists.
As always I apologize for any mistakes there may be in this story.
And I don't own anything recognizable nor am I making money from it.
"I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at. " – Maya Angelou
The streets of Paris lay silent and deserted as he moved under the cover of the night. This was not what he had expected when he had signed that contract or whatever it was that Marcus had wily offered him a year ago. In fact he hadn't known what to expect, but night time meetings at the borders of the city every two months were becoming a nuisance. He was the Captain of the Musketeers, not a character in some cheap theatre act!
He had real duties, like the security of the Royal Guests at the palace. His Majesty's distant cousin the Comte d'Fleurhelm had been the target of an ambush on his journey and some had even tried to rob the guest wing of the palace. The king wasn't happy; he had been hoping that the Comte's loyalty and allegiance to the crown would be easily refreshed by this visit.
Still Treville couldn't refuse his place in the Brotherhood of Watchmen, safety of many dear lives depended on it. He only wished that he could once again handle Marcus's increasingly pointed questions about Felipa and Rene – not Rene, Aramis – he reminded himself.
As something small and furry scuttled along the stone edge of the river, he glanced back the way he had come before he stepped onto the bridge. He noticed a figure that loomed off to his side near the low railing and his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword; for a moment Captain Treville was sure that he was going to meet a rather grizzly end this night. There was a reason the streets were exceptionally quite at night and the taverns not that packed. A killer had descended into the maze of the city and The Shredder had left many a messy remains for the citizens to find.
This person however was not proportioned like the feared murderer was famed to be nor was he armed. Treville looked up and down the empty bridge then frowned at the long limbed figure leaning onto the railing.
"Hey," he neared the slim figure, "What're you doing out here alone."
A long brown face regarded him with a deep scowl and dark eyes flashed angrily from under the fringes of straight dark hair.
"What's it to you?" the boy demanded.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," the Captain said, "There could be dangerous characters about."
The boy crossed his arms in front of chest, arched an eloquent brow and pointedly leaned away from the man. Treville sighed heavily and wiped a hand over his face.
He was already running late, it would push Marcus into that politely enraged mood that irritated the Captain to no end and he could just picture the Cardinal gloating in the background; but he could not leave this child alone in the night, his conscience wouldn't allow it.
"I'm not one of those characters," he shook his head wearily.
"Of course I should believe you since you're obviously telling the truth," the teenager rolled his eyes.
Treville was suddenly reminded of Aramis, that one still has to take an order without a comeback although his sarcasm was of the cheerful sort; but it had drawn out Athos' rather scathingly dry wit and Porthos sharp humor. Treville looked down at the boy who would fit right in with those three and pitied the fool who would try to command such a group.
"Go home kid," he said, "The city isn't safe at night."
"Your concern is touching,"
"Look, I can tell you're not from around here, either you're visiting or you're new to the city. Now I'm the Captain of the King's Musketeers and I have somewhere to be. So you tell me if I need to escort you to an inn or a house or should I just dump you back at my garrison for the night?"
The boy sighed and looked up and down the empty bridge. His arms crossed in front of his chest became more of a hug around his ribs and he finally gave a short nod.
"I'm visiting with my father, we came from Gascony." He said, "We're staying at an inn and I kinda lost my way."
"Your father would be looking for you,"
"He's out for a meeting," the boy shrugged.
"You know the name of the inn you're staying at?"
"I know the name has the word Inn,"
Treville could tell the boy was testing him; it was clear in the all too innocently bland face. He had a feeling that he would have to go all the way back to the garrison and hand this boy over to somebody responsible.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Charles," the boy straightened a bit, "I'm Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac from Gascony."
The name brought Treville's shifting plans to an abrupt halt. He looked the boy up and down as a deep frown appeared on his face. On a closer look the boy did look like him quite a bit.
"d'Artagnan?" Treville said, "You know Marcus d'Artagnan?"
The boy smirked at the mention and nodded proudly.
"He's my grandfather,"
"Good, come along then," Treville grabbed the slim hand before there could be a protest.
"I'm not a child! I have feet I can walk on!" Charles tried to wriggle out of his grip.
The Captain managed to drag him all the way across the bridge, beyond the waterfront buildings and into the street where the current meeting house was. They never had a meeting in the same house twice; smart but damn annoying Treville decided.
He checked the address from the letter he carried and moved to knock on the door whilst still holding onto the boy who squirmed in his hold like a spooked tadpole.
"How do I know you're not one of his enemies? My grandfather is an important man; there are people out there who would want to harm him or his family!"
"So you decided to take a stroll at night in the city you barely know?"
"I was following my father and got lost alright?!" Charles growled.
The boy pulled in a last desperate tug and when that didn't work he bit into the hand holding on to him. Treville let him go with a hissed curse and shook out his hand where he could feel the teeth marks dented in his skin. The boy stumbled back and fell onto his rear end just as the door to the house opened.
Pale yellow light spilled across the doorway as Marcus came forward to greet Treville.
"Ah Captain, how kind of you to join us this night," he inclined his head with that smile.
Before Treville could speak however, a loud gasp from behind him followed a scuffling sound as the boy launched himself forward towards the older of the two men.
"Grandfather!" he threw his hands around the long neck and hugged the old man.
"Charles?" Marcus looked from the Captain to the boy, "how did you get here?"
"I would like an answer to that too," another man pushed through the door and came to stand in front of the Captain, frowning deeply.
He was on the shorter side, with a stockier built but the straight graying hair seemed familiar.
"Did he put you up to this?" he nodded towards Marcus, "Did he pay you to get him here?"
"Alexander, really now that's preposterous." Marcus came forward with an arm around Charles' shoulder, "Captain Treville I would like you to meet my son Alexander and my grandson Charles. He's a special boy; destined to lead us all aren't you Charles?"
The lad gave a fleeting smile before he hung his head, effectively hiding his expression behind the curtain of dark hair. Treville knew it was to avoid the death glare Alexander was sending his son. When the boy didn't reply or look up, his father grabbed his other arm and pulled him to his side.
"Charles has nothing to do with this," he said.
"He dreams of Flares my son; if that isn't a precursor for a great destiny I don't know what is."
"He'd been having odd dreams ever since his mother died," Alexander's grip tightened on the boy, "It's a grieving child's imagination."
"He is a D'Artagnan,"
"He's my son and he's too young for this," Alexander almost hissed at his father, "I told you we'll have nothing to do with this and when you asked for this favor you promised you'll leave Charles out of it."
"I found him on the bridge," Treville felt the need to add.
It wasn't that he would mind someone landing a hit on Marcus's arrogant face but he couldn't let a son believe that his father had betrayed him. He caught the scowl of utter betrayal that flashed for the seconds Charles looked up before ducking his head again.
"I was following you," the boy shrugged, "I didn't know you were going to meet grandfather."
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to insist upon coming along," Alexander drew a hand through his hair and shook his head at the obviously vain attempt, "In any case, we're leaving."
"But I just got here," Charles said, "And I haven't met grandfather in ages."
"And for good reason,"
The father tipped his head in the Captain's direction in gratitude and farewell, before he led Charles away into the winding darkness of the streets. Treville watched the man go and turned to Marcus, his curiosity piqued.
"You're quite close to your grandson," he observed.
"We only met once, a few months after his mother died," Marcus gestured for him to follow him inside, "we correspond through letters, as you can see my son doesn't appreciate my presence."
"And why is that?"
The blunt question brought Marcus to a stop in the narrow corridor. Something flickered onto his visage in the dim light and for a second his face hardened, the edges sharpened before smoothening into a mellow smile.
"He is in denial of who we are;" Marcus shrugged lightly, "Now the reason for our meeting tonight, come our brothers are waiting."
Treville dreaded going into the room filled with men who were quickly becoming familiar. They had a knack of going on and on about the lack of happenings from where ever they were posted. In the beginning the Captain had been intrigued to find so many people in various important position all through the nobility of the country, but now he was just irritated at the thought of another man heaving out of a chair and droning on about how he realized that there was nothing going on under his charge.
The Captain took a seat around the long table with a barely concealed grimace. Cardinal Richelieu sitting across him shook his head in disdain but for once kept quiet. Clasping a long object that stood by his side, the Cardinal glanced at Marcus before frowning down at the table, he looked paler than usual but Treville didn't inquire about his health, he was happy to take the small mercies that came his way.
"We are here tonight for an important issue," Marcus sat on the chair between Sebastian and Arkin, "there is a threat on the horizon, a strike coming our way. Should it befall us, it may destroy our Brotherhood."
Treville had grown used to the dramatics very quickly and had grown tired of them even faster. So he wasn't much worried about another eminent doom heading towards them, comfortable in his assumption that it would be another cross-clan knot formed that Marcus would be losing his sleep on.
"The Weaver is at work again," he said.
His words shot through the room like a cold gust of wind that seemed to freeze everyone where they sat. Some made to speak but faltered, others simply shook their heads, it took a while and then furious whispering broke out among few of the men. The Captain looked to the Cardinal and found him staring fixedly at the three men heading the table. The First Minister, the Cardinal, the man who was the closest advisor to the King looked shaken now that Treville looked closer.
Whoever this Weaver was, this person was trouble.
"Do you have any proof?" someone demanded from behind Treville.
Marcus nodded towards Richelieu who brought up the long object from beside him, which turned out to be a container and extracting it contents the Cardinal unfurled a tapestry onto the table. Everyone sitting close to it leaned forward as one and men from afar pressed closer for a good look. It had a black web like pattern on a dark red backdrop and the fine quality that wouldn't have made it seem out of place at a palace.
"This Knot here appeared on its own around three years ago," he tapped the one near one end of the tapestry, "a Knot that appeared out of nowhere."
That sent a new wave of whispering through the group until Marcus rapped loudly onto the table. The silence was instantaneous and the older man nodded towards Richelieu to continue.
"Yes there is a born Knot and it has already Tethered," Richelieu raised a hand to silence the questioning, "No it is not tethered to any known Psychic. That is the problem, it has created two others. About a year ago, my associate felt the tethering; it was powerful enough that we have reason to believe that most if not all Knots in the world may have felt it. "
"Your associate is a Knot?"
"You're working with one of them?"
"Yes," the Cardinal didn't even flinch at the accusations, "I am working with a Psychic and this same Psychic had assured me that this born Knot is not a toddler like the Brotherhood had been searching for."
The three men at the head of the table shook their heads, for the first time that night Marcus looked like he didn't believe what the Cardinal had to say.
"We will discuss it later, in private." Marcus said, "Tell us about the Weaver."
Cardinal Richelieu looked like he had sucked on a lemon, but he nodded and pointed to the top corner of the tapestry. It was so deeply embedded that it seemed like a harmless glint of the light on the rich surface unless one looked closer. Treville followed the tracing finger on the fine gold thread that seemed to flow like a thin river on the map, curling and stretching it seemed to move on the edges of all the other threads only occasionally touching on a Knot; its end however was lose, linking to nothing.
"It seems that the Weaver is coming for this new Knot," Cardinal Richelieu said, "We all know that it is attracted to those born as knots, this one is no exception. Marcus however has a way to stop the Weaver for good."
"It is a stone that is believed to be able to strip a Psychic's abilities. I heard about this stone over a decade ago and sent my own son to find it. That he managed to achieve about three years ago," Marcus said, "But he only found half of it, legend says that when it was used the last time the Psychic was so strong that the stone broke in half. We have legitimate reasons to believe that this other half is in France and close to the capital."
"So it's here in Paris?" someone asked.
"Possibly or near the city, we had begun searching through the settlements as soon as we narrowed its whereabouts."
The other men at the meeting wanted to know more about this stone but Treville was more interested in the tapestry the Cardinal had rolled up. He wondered if the d'Herblay clan was there on it and if it was then did the tapestry show Felipa and if it did then did it link her to him in some way and then to Aramis? Because the Captain had no doubt that the Knot that had appeared on its own was for his boy.
As the meeting adjourned, he studied the rather ill profile of Cardinal Richelieu; with the deepening creases around his eyes and the firm clench of his jaw he looked every bit like a man under pressure.
"You are worried about this Weaver," he observed as he drew closer to the man who was getting ready to leave.
"Of course I am. There is a fresh target and the Weaver is moving towards it faster than we had anticipated." He adjusted the collar of his jerkin and the knot of his cloak, "And the Brotherhood is out there looking for a three year old!"
"If the Weaver is a danger to this Knot than why is the Brotherhood so upset about it?' Treville sounded casual although his heart thudded like the stomp of a horse on a battlefield.
Cardinal Richelieu looked at him sideways as the frown deepened the lines on his face. He adjusted the tapestry under his arm and smiled tightly as Marcus, Sebastian and Arkin walked past them towards the main door where their carriage awaited for them.
The two of them stood silently and watched the carriage disappear into the darkness of the streets. Soon the others followed until it was only the Cardinal and the Captain left.
Treville still waited for the answer as his companion locked up the house behind them. Checking one more time that he had indeed left the rooms empty and bolted, Richelieu met the Captain on the steps.
"You know that a born Knot wields power right?" he didn't wait for a confirmation, "and every time a knot is born it is the epitome of darkness, the source of massive destruction wrought by its own hands or that of its tethers."
"It is their destiny to be evil," Treville hoped that the man beside him didn't hear the catch in his voice.
He could not imagine his son as evil and yet his wife had insisted. With a shake of his head the Captain drew a hand through his short hair and narrowed his eyes as the Cardinal began to walk towards his approaching carriage. He fell in stride with Richelieu quickly.
"But why help a Psychic then? Why not let them sort it out amongst themselves?"
"For Marcus' favored, you are quite dull Captain," the Cardinal sneered, "You don't hear the answer even when you speak it yourself. "
As Treville began to speak, Richelieu shook his head and waved a hand at the Captain as though to tell him to to keep his words to himself.
"You said it was their destiny to be evil," the Cardinal said, "Destiny is coming for him Captain."
"This Weaver will make him…."
The Cardinal gave a sharp nod to ascertain his horrified question.
"Wait, how do you know it's a 'him'?"
"I have my sources," the Cardinal shrugged, "I know it's a boy and I'm certain he's not three years old. While the Brotherhood searches for a babe learning to walk, the new source of destruction may already be upon us."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Like I said, I have my sources," the Cardinal swept his cloak around him as he stepped into his carriage, "Keep your eyes open Captain, the shadows are reaching out."
Treville scowled as the carriage pulled away from him an he silently wished that it would find every rut and pothole on its way to the palace. In the empty street he adjusted his cloak around him as his mind raced at the thought of two opposing forces converging towards his unawares son.
Athos could do with a drink, or two, or more, the number really didn't matter as long as they blurred his nightmares. The recent killing spree haunting the city had supplied ample fuel for his nightmares to burn bright and strong every time his head hit the pillow. He had already woken up with the image of his brother's mangled body, when in reality Thomas had looked peaceful in death. But his mind obliged him with imposing the memories of the recent bodies they had found over the faces of his brother and his wife. It left his waking hours riddled again with circular questions he hadn't been able to answer and with his wife dead; they were likely to hang unrequited over his mind all his life. Why his wife had done it? Had she done it because him? Was she under orders? Was she insane?
He felt the pull on the chain around his neck and looked down at the locket he had gripped unconsciously.
Athos could honestly do with a drink or two.
Taking off his hat, he drew a hand through his hair as he took his seat across from Porthos. In the soft glow of the lamplight he could see the dark shadows glinting in the other Musketeer's eyes. The big man had been unusually quiet, but then Athos wondered so had he. Night after night, coming upon the torn remains of the people of their city hardly left anyone with words to spare. There was nothing to say in the face of senseless brutality, the seemingly aimless violence. He found himself fingering the pommel of the sword he had placed on the table beside his hat and imagined drawing the blade through the madman who was terrorizing their streets.
He looked up when the kitchen doors opened and warm light spilled through. Even if it was nearing midnight, Serge still brought them two steaming bowls of mutton stew. They thanked him with fleeting nods yet neither of the Musketeers touched the food, their appetites suffering from the stress. It hung like a wet rag on their faces, it had been two weeks since the last murder and every one of them was waiting for the vicious strike to fall again. Because fall it will, they knew it was just a lull in the storm, for whatever reason the killing spree had stopped it would return with a vengeance until someone put a permanent stop to the murderer.
Athos glanced at the arched gateway of the garrison and caught Porthos doing the same. They had been assigned to patrol the streets on foot and in pairs; Aramis and Marsac had still not returned. Athos knew that neither he nor Porthos could retire for the night until their friend had made it safely back to the garrison. Although the nineteen years old had been in the regiment for almost a year now and was by no means new to weapons and fights, the two Musketeers still felt the need to keep an eye on him.
There was a good self-preserving reason behind it Athos assured himself, because when the lad wasn't tormenting Serge by 'experimenting' with the food he made that left over half the garrison purging their stomachs then he was found in the armory amidst a number of disassembled pistols and muskets, some beyond reassembling, just to see how they worked. Athos still had to suppress a shudder at the thought of the gunpowder that the younger man had 'enhanced' with something he had bought from a 'friend' that had nearly blown up the garrison.
It was a miracle that other Musketeers not only put up with their new member but forgave him with a surprisingly patient good humor. Athos had been worried at first about how they would take to the former bandit and Porthos, who had never risen to the bait at the whispers targeted at him, had been ready to defend his friend with all the ferocity that the men around them assumed of him.
But Aramis had won the respect of his fellow Musketeers with his superior aiming skill and their friendship with his kindness; he could turn a sore loss into a humorous teaching experience and cheerfully tease the man he was sewing up until his patient would be cursing the man patching him and not the pain radiating from the wound.
His gaze had just drifted to the garrison entrance again when Athos saw a shadow flit across the wall. He stood up as a dark blur ran in to the yard. The man saw the two Musketeers, slowed to a halt, looked back over his shoulder then bent forwards with his hands on his knees and a wide grin on his face.
"Athos! Porthos!" He straightened and spread his arms wide, "My friends, I knew I'd find you here!"
"Since it's the Musketeers garrison and we're Musketeers, I hope the observation didn't cost you the better part of your mission," Athos said.
He moved towards his friend with his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword as he searched the silence behind Aramis, waiting for the enemy he had been running from. He didn't fail to see the eye roll that soon gave way to an exaggerated stagger as Porthos came up and slapped the younger man on the back.
"What're you running from this time?" Porthos laughed.
"The Red Guards,"
"I thought we were done with them after the first two months," Athos said
"Athos, one can never be done with tormenting the Red Guards!" Aramis placed a hand on in his heart in mock horror, "One can never swindle enough money from the Red Guards," he grinned and shook a small pouch that clinked lazily.
"What'd you do?" Porthos asked as he weighed the small pouch and grinned appreciatively.
"After our shift ended, I challenged the new recruits of the Red Guards to a game of targets," he shrugged, "And I may have implied that I'm a terrible shot."
Porthos shook his head and smacked Aramis on the side of the head.
"Hey!"
"That was for the swindling," Porthos shrugged.
"Like you wouldn't have done the same," Aramis groused as took off his hat and rubbed the side of his head above his ear.
Athos cuffed him upside the head.
"HEY!"
"That was for getting caught," he said.
"Oh you're both hilarious," Aramis grumbled.
Athos felt the corner of his lip rise in a smile and Porthos grinned at him. The bigger man threw an arm across Aramis's slim shoulders and helped him rub at the spot on his head where Athos had hit him; he did it quite thoroughly and laughed when his friend squirmed and yelped.
"Not the hair!" Aramis scowled and pushed away from the big man.
He smacked at the large hands reaching for him again and smoothed his dark, wavy locks before plopping his hat back on his head. Smoothing the rim of his hat between his fingers he gave his friends a rakish grin.
"You would be pleased to know I plan to spend this money very wisely." He said.
"On drinks," Porthos nodded.
"On drinks," Aramis affirmed.
"While you were working for this hard earned money where was Marsac all this time?" Athos wanted to know.
"He placed his bets and collected his money," Aramis shrugged again, "last I saw he was running towards the other end of Paris."
Athos had never liked that man and he knew that Porthos held the same sentiments. The two of them hated to know that they weren't there to watch their friend's back and the fact that they had to give up the job to Marsac irked them like an itch they couldn't reach. It wasn't that the other Musketeer wasn't skilled; it was just that he attracted trouble and Aramis did not need help in that department. While Athos and Porthos enjoyed Aramis learning a few lessons the hard way, they never let matters get too far. Marsac just wasn't cut from the same cloth as them and to the two self-appointed lookouts that was a problem.
Aramis had just caught the fat pouch Porthos tossed to him when Athos again caught the stretching shadow on the wall of the arched gate of the garrison. In a flash they turned as one, their weapons at the ready.
Captain Treville raised a brow as he came face to face with his three Musketeers, each with a weapon leveled to his chest. His men took a second to register who it was then sheathed their swords. Athos and Porthos offered a nod that was both an apology and deference.
"Captain! I thought you'd be in your room at this hour, asleep or praying." Aramis grinned as he shoved his pistol in his holster and rested an elbow on Prothos' shoulder.
"Praying?" Treville inquired.
"Isn't that what people at your age do at night?"
Athos brows shot up to his hairline and Porthos dropped his head in his open palm, but Treville was not falling for the too innocent to be true face before him. He was trying to decide if he should call out his Musketeer on the teasing right now or rip into him at the morning muster.
"But I guess I misjudged you Captain," Aramis grinned and waggled his eyebrows, "You look like someone who had just gone through some exerting night time activities."
This time even the Captain couldn't keep an impassive face, the idea of what Aramis was implying nearly pulled forth an exasperated curl at the corner of his lips. He was immensely grateful when Porthos caught hold of the younger man by the back of his collar and began dragging him out towards the gate.
"Come along Kit before the Captain decides to subtract from you nine lives," the larger Musketeer managed to say somewhere between a choked laugh and a groan.
"Not a Kit," Aramis grumbled although he let himself be to be led away.
Athos offered the Captain a tiny smile and a shrug that spoke a lot more than his words could. Almost a year ago, Treville wouldn't have dreamed such a reaction from his Lieutenant. Despite his newest additions tendency to shake up the world around him Treville still felt that he owed the lad for the thawing in Athos's attitude and the booming laugh of Porthos that often rattled the wooden floor of his second storey office.
It warmed him somewhere in the deep hollow of his chest to see these men together. He may have fathered only Rene and he had handpicked all the other men of his regiment as well, yet these two men held a special place, they were his men, his boys.
"What of your patrol?" he asked.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Athos reported, "We changed shifts with Henri and Etienne then came straight back to the garrison."
"Claudet and Andrew took over for us and it was all clear," Aramis decided to join in the conversation but Porthos dragged him back again, "Wait Porthos, I'm giving my report."
"You wanna tell the Captain what happened then?"
"Yes Aramis where is Marsac?" Treville inquired.
"He took the scenic route Captain," Aramis grinned, "He'll be huffing in through the doors any minute now."
Treville could tell there was something that the men were trying to cover up; it was obvious in the insistent tug with which Porthos dragged Aramis away again and the too blank look that his second in command was giving him. But he was sure that if it was a matter that should not be covered up, his men would come clean.
"Marsac and you three are on the guard duty for the Comte d'Fleurhelm tomorrow. The King's cousin has planned a hunt for the afternoon, a mile out beyond the east villages and His Majesty wishes that there be nothing left in terms of security." he told Athos.
"His Majesty desires the Comte's allegiance,"
"It hangs in balance between France and Savoy," Treville nodded, "I don't need to press how important this mission is. Turn in soon for the night; you'll need to be alert in the morning."
Athos gave a brief nod and turned to leave, but Treville stopped him with a hand on his arm. The Lieutenant raised a surprised brow and looked to his Captain in silent inquiry.
"Be careful out there," he said.
"Always,"
Captain Treville watched his men leave the garrison and hoped that they were instead tucked away safely within the four walls. He had no idea when he turned into a worried father but in the past year he had learned that these three men idle and together somehow ended up in reduced collective judgment. So if Aramis would think it a good idea to go jumping roofs of the Parisian buildings, then Porthos would turn it into a competition and for all his strategizing mind Athos would be right along with them; filled with alcohol but not quite drunk, knowing it's insanely wrong yet fully participating in whatever suicidal task they had set themselves.
Really, it was like they turned into children every time they were out of his sight. With a shake of his head and heavy steps Captain Treville trudged up the stairs, grabbed the lantern from the nail in the balcony pillar and lit it. Holding it up, he made his way to his office and stopped short just inside the door.
A lone figure stood by the shelves in the far wall. Even with her back towards the Captain, the man could recognize the cascade of wavy hair. But it couldn't be so, Treville shook his head, because she was dead, he had buried her.
"Can I help you?" he demanded sharply.
She turned and Treville gasped at the sight of her.
"Felipa," it fell unchecked from his lips.
She smiled and twisted the green bough she held between her fingers. Treville took half a step towards her before his rational mind kicked his awareness and he stopped by his desk. Smiling, she floated towards him like a feather on the wind.
"You're dead," he reminded himself.
"She is," the apparition dipped her head in a nod, "I thought this face would allow me a few seconds of your time and it seems I was right."
"Who are you?"
"I think you already know," she placed the bough onto his desk and offered that shy smile Treville had once loved.
He flinched and gripped the pommel of his sword at his side.
"I see a future riddled with war and strife and I see your men cast into immortality in its pages. Tell me Jean-Armand Treville, are they ready for it?"
"Stay away from them,"
"But how will I know how far they have grown?" she said, "A gardener must look out for the seedlings don't you think?"
In a flash Treville pulled out his sword but the woman had vanished like a wisp of smoke. On his table, fresh and fragrant lay the small bough with little white flowers that she had carried. Lily of the valley, his mind supplied as he sat down on his chair and stared at the flowers on the single bough. That carried a subtle, barely visible brightness. It almost gave it an ethereal quality and Treville had a feeling it did not bode well.
TBC
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