Elisabetta hummed quietly to herself as she stooped to pick some herbs from outside her front door. The sun was slowing rising behind her house and like every day, she rose along with it, having to tend the farm as her husband used to before he was killed by bandits. The past year had proved tough as she was unaccustomed to farm work, but necessity had forced her to learn and her arms had grown strong, her hands calloused, and her skin tanned by the sun.

As a woman living alone in the countryside a few miles outside of Paris, she had learned to keep a blade on her at all times, and more than once she had to chase away bandits who mistook her as a feeble, delicate young lady.

At 24, she was easily the youngest woman living in the area; her husband had moved them out of the city after they got married, hoping to make room for the children they planned on having. But after 3 years of marriage, it seemed as if she was infertile, and then her husband was killed, so the farmhouse would remain empty forever.

On this particular morning, something seemed off to Elisabetta, a strange feeling in her gut warned her of danger, and she was constantly glancing at the road that ran in front of her property, her hand moving to touch the knife at her hip with each look.

Reassuring herself that she was being silly, she had just turned her full attention to her garden when she heard the distant sound of shuffling feet along the gravel path. Whipping her head around, she peered into the distance and made out the figure of a man, hat sitting crookedly on his head, stumbling and shuffling along the road, almost losing his balance with every other step. She relaxed and tutted, "Oh those stupid taverns always produce even stupider men in the morning."

Forgetting the drunk, she sat down in a very unladylike manner, muddying her dress, to inspect the oregano, gently removing the browning leaves from the plant and tossing them aside. Engrossed in her pruning, she did not hear the footsteps approaching until they were directly behind her.

Ready to fight off her attacker, Elisabetta jumped up and had her knife at the man's throat in a second, holding the drunkard off at arm's length.

"Don't come any closer or I will not hesitate to lay open your jugular! Just because I am a woman does not mean I won't—"Elisa stopped speaking as she realized the man she thought was drunk was wearing a musketeer's uniform. Looking up at his face, as he towered over her small frame, she realized that he was extremely pale, his half-closed eyes were unfocused and distant and his lips moved as he whispered something in a language she didn't understand.

Confused, she lowered her knife and looked the man up and down, eyes widening as she saw his hands clutched over a large patch of blood right under the right side of his ribcage. The blue sash he had tied around the wound was completely soaked through with blood and just as Elisabetta opened her mouth to ask if he was alright, the man's eyes rolled back and he crumpled at her feet.

Giving a small yelp of surprise, Elisa stood over him for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, when the man quietly moaned in pain as he regained consciousness, she snapped out of her stupor and knelt at his side. She carefully pried his hands from his wound and winced as she saw the full extent of his injury. He had obviously been shot, but not recently as the ragged hole in his skin was barely oozing blood and the skin around it had already had a chance to turn the angry red color of infection. Elisa quickly tore off some of her skirt and pressed it tightly against the bullet hole, trying to stem the sluggish blood flow.

The musketeer gasped as she applied pressure, and his right hand caught hers, squeezing tightly and groaning in pain. Elisa tore her eyes from her now bloodied hand that was enfolded in his and studied the man's face.

His hat had fallen off when he fell and his wavy brown hair lay tousled around him. He was very handsome, and Elisabetta silently chided herself for staring too long at his thin nose, sharp cheekbones and full lips partially hidden under a neatly trimmed moustache.

The musketeer's brow was drawn with pain and he was sweating from fever yet his dark eyes that were studying her were sharp, cautious, and fearful. He had grown quiet, his incomprehensible mumbling had ceased and his mouth was open only to take in quick, panicked gasps of air.

"Um, you must speak French because you are a Musketeer, so would you mind telling me your name, monsieur?" Elisabetta blushed slightly despite herself as she felt his intense gaze on her.

"Aramis."