January 1626

"Five paces!"

"Come on now, five? No less than ten!"

"Oi, what?" A guffaw of rough laughter followed. "He's drunk! He's just as likely to blow the Musketeer's head off!"

"Eh, if he misses at ten then he'd miss at five anyway," another voice sniggered. "Ten paces!" The call was taken up by the crowd and soon a chorus of voices was demanding ten paces.

Athos grabbed Porthos' arm as he began to count out his steps and the bigger man stared back at him blearily. "Are you sure about this?"

Porthos yanked his arm out of Athos' grip and readjusted his shirt with exaggerated care. "Course I am. I've never missed!"

Athos raised an eyebrow. He'd had more to drink than Porthos but, despite the fact that the big man probably had a good twenty kilos on him, Athos was certain he was the more sober of the pair. "How many times have you done this?"

A little furrow appeared between his brows as Porthos thought hard. "Once? Was a couple years ago though. On my birthday." A big grin split his face. "Took a few tries but I got it."

Athos' eyes widened and he looked over his shoulder to where Aramis was patiently waiting against the wall, a lumpy white gourd sitting on top of his head. He gave Athos a little wave and then took a healthy pull from his glass. "Ready when you are, mon ami," he called out, and gave an elaborate little bow when the room applauded his bravado. The gourd fell off his head and Aramis swore loudly, scrambling to replace it. He held it steady on his long, mussed hair with his free hand and took another carefree swig of wine. Athos shook his head at the sight.

"I'm surrounded by fools," he muttered. "Soon to be dead fools, if I'm not mistaken." He stepped back to watch the proceedings and tried to ignore the sourness that curdled in his stomach. This was not going to end well. How could it? He was starting to get the idea that Aramis was a reckless sort of person, but Athos hadn't realized he'd be harebrained enough to allow a drunk man to try and shoot a melon off his head. Especially when that man was Porthos, whose aim did not exactly have a sterling reputation even when he was sober.

Beside him, Porthos was taking in deep, slow breaths, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled loudly. He raised his pistol and pointed the muzzle at his friend, sighting down the barrel with one eye squeezed shut. "Are you absolutely, positively certain you want to do this?" Athos asked again. He really did not want to have to explain to Tréville why one of his best men was in a prison cell while another was dead.

Porthos lowered his gun and glared at Athos with open annoyance. "If you don't want to watch, then leave," he slurred. "You're ruining my concet... contrec..." Porthos growled with frustration. "You're ruining my focus." He raised his pistol again.

"Good lord," Athos murmured. He considered leaving for a brief moment but then decided against it. He instead eyed Aramis, who had been unusually quiet the entire evening. The man was normally loud and cheerful on their nights out, but tonight, he'd been oddly withdrawn. It wasn't until Porthos had suggested that they try their 'old trick' that Aramis had brightened. Which, when Athos thought about it, probably said something very unflattering about the marksman's sanity.

Aramis was fixedly staring at the dark end of the pistol that would soon fire a ball straight towards his head. If he was worried about Porthos' drunken state or the distance of the shot, it was impossible to tell. The young Musketeer's posture was relaxed and unconcerned, and all Athos could see in his face was pure trust. He had faith that Porthos would hit the target.

"Three sous that the big one misses," a voice crowed.

"Make it five!" another called out. "And I'll bet that the shot blows apart the Musketeer's pretty head instead of that ugly melon."

Athos' teeth clenched in sudden anger at the callous statement. The wagers flew furiously, and it soon became apparent to him that the only person in the room that had any confidence in Porthos was Aramis himself. Although I haven't the faintest idea why, Athos thought exasperatedly. Still, the glee with which the other tavern patrons predicted Aramis' death grated on his nerves for reasons that Athos did not care to examine too closely. He set down the wine bottle he'd been carrying onto a table with an aggressive thump.

"Five livres that the gourd dies, and not the Musketeer," he said loudly. Silence abruptly fell over the crowd and Athos felt heat flare in his face. Perhaps he was more inebriated than he had thought - he'd just wagered twenty times the amount of the highest bet thus far. Athos doubted anyone else in the room would be able to cover it. Porthos glanced at him with eyebrows raised.

There was another hushed beat before someone yelled, "You're with them! You can't bet on this. Ain't fair!" A murmur of agreement circled the room, but the only thing Athos was paying attention to was the pleased look on Aramis' face. The marksman acknowledged him with a small nod, still propping up the target on his head. A few seconds later, the melon exploded as a lead ball unerringly ripped through its center. Aramis laughed, delighted as he was showered with a sticky mix of rind, pulp and juice.

The next morning, he was gone.


March 1626

He was desperately hungry.

Hunger had been his constant companion for over a week, gnawing incessantly at his shrunken, empty stomach as he slowly scraped his way through the icy, hilly forests. Aramis crouched down behind a fallen log, pressing a hand tightly against his aching belly while he scanned the trail for any signs of pursuit. It had been several days since he'd last seen Spanish soldiers on his tail, and for the moment, it appeared that he had successfully lost them. He knew it wouldn't last for long, however. It never did. They always managed to pick up his scent sooner or later.

He'd had been wary about the assignment even as they had made contact with Bianchi in Milan. The reports they'd received had been outdated and vague at best. Aramis supposed that some might consider their mission to have been successfully executed, but it had come at a high cost. Far too high, in his opinion. Girard was dead, killed during their brief layover in Torino. Aramis' mind shied away from the memory of their frantic fight for survival. There was no point in dwelling on it now.

He turned his attention to more pressing, immediate matters. It had been over a day since he'd last eaten, and the continuous toll on his body was beginning to be become obvious. Exhaustion shook his limbs as he carefully pushed himself up. In the distance, over the ridge upon which he had stopped, Aramis could see a lonely homestead nestled up against the bare foothills of the Alps. It was the first sign of civilization he'd seen in the last few of days of his journey, hiking with painstaking care through unfamiliar, harsh terrain. Along with a little stone house, there was a pen outside for holding small livestock as well as a barn. Game was still rare at this time of year, not that it mattered much to him. Hunting with his firearms was out of the question, and he didn't have the time to set traps. As much as Aramis hated to steal dwindling winter stores from innocent people, there was no other way for him to find sustenance. Sending up a small prayer asking for forgiveness, Aramis made his way down the slope.

Settling himself against one of the trees on the edge of the homestead's clearing, Aramis huddled into his dark, ragged cloak and waited for evening to fall. Despite the holes and tears in the material, it was still a good, thick wool and provided a measure of warmth for which he was grateful. He dozed against the tree, attempting to rebuild some of his energy reserves. He jerked awake periodically, convinced that he could hear the sounds of dogs barking and hooves beating against the hard, frozen ground.

Once twilight deepened enough that Aramis was confident he wouldn't be spotted, he crept forward, shivering as he tried to stay warm in the rapidly cooling air. To his relief, he discovered cellar doors to the side of the cabin, providing access to the storage space from the outside. A thick stick inserted between the door handles was the only security protecting the food inside. It was clear that whoever lived on the homestead did not expect human thieves to raid their stores.

Sliding the stick out, Aramis carefully lifted one of the doors open. He quietly walked down the stone stairs, gingerly placing each step so as not to make a sound. The cellar was a small, cool space. Small, colorful jars of preserved fruits and olives, wheels of hard cheese and baskets of root vegetables lined the shelves. Barrels of wine were stacked up on the floor, while large hunks of salted, smoked meat hung from hooks bolted into the ceiling beams. His mouth watered at the sight of all the food laid out before him. The people that lived in the cabin had apparently had a very prosperous year.

Taking out his dagger, Aramis began to hurriedly shave off thick slices of meat. He shoved one into his mouth and nearly groaned out loud at the rich flavor that flooded his mouth. Cutting off a few more pieces, the marksman hastily stuffed them into one of the empty pouches on his belt. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. He grabbed a jar of purple fruit and slipped it into another pouch, and was eyeing the cheese when the sound of turning hinges caught his ear. A square of mellow light flooded down from the trap door above the ladder that stood in the middle of the room, and Aramis froze. His mind and limbs were still sluggish from fatigue and hunger, and while he knew he needed to get away, he couldn't seem to get his body to move.

A dark-haired woman carrying a small woven basket stepped down onto the ladder, and the sight of her finally spurred the marksman into action. Unfortunately, the sudden motion he made as he leapt for the staircase alerted the woman to his presence. She turned her head over her shoulder and screamed with startled fright when she saw him. The shock made her release her grip on the ladder, and she tumbled to the floor.

Aramis paused in his flight, torn between the urge to escape or to render aid to the fallen woman. The decision was taken from his hands when the woman began to yell, scrambling back towards the wall and away from Aramis.

"Thief! Matteo, there is a thief in our cellar!"

Aramis scrambled back up the steps and into the frigid evening air. As he raced across the open glen, the stolen jar of fruit banging heavily against his hip, he heard shouts behind him.

"Stop where you are!" An angry, male voice called out to him in Italian. "Stop, thief!"

Aramis heard the burst of a musket shot right before a burning sting bit into his right arm. Gasping in surprise, he stumbled briefly before wrenching himself upright. He absolutely could not afford to go down here. Keeping his eyes focused on the tree line, his chest heaving with exertion, Aramis kept running, ignoring the loud cursing behind him.

As soon as the shot had fired, a countdown had begun in marksman's head. If the man shooting at him was proficient, it would only take him about fifteen seconds to prime and load his weapon. Aramis simply had to make it back into the forest before then, and then pray that the man shooting at him would give up the chase.

Twelve, eleven, ten...

Aramis nearly fell again as his feet slipped on a frozen puddle. He was close, so close...

Seven, six, five...

He could feel his heart pounding, could hear his own harsh gasps as he ran as hard as he could. He was not going to get caught here. He was going to make it.

Three, two, one...

Another shot followed him but it was too late. A tree to his right blasted out shards of bark and Aramis veered to his left. He wove through the thick tree trunks, his legs churning furiously as he raced uphill. Only when he crested the ridge did he stop, hands on knees as he tried to catch his breath in the thin mountain air. A glance over his shoulder showed him a large, dark shadow standing at the edge of a clearing, a musket in his hands. "I am sorry," Aramis whispered, watching as the man turned around and trudged back to his cabin. "I didn't want to do this."

Reaching into his pouch, Aramis plucked out another piece of dried meat and chewed on it slowly. He hadn't managed to take much, but it was better than nothing. He inspected his arm with shaking fingers and thankfully found that the wound was nothing more than a shallow graze. He would have to wash it, but it would not be debilitating.

Looking down the rocky slope, Aramis spotted a group of shadows in the distance, moving at pace along the valley floor. Aramis supposed it could have been anyone, or anything, but the leaden pit in his stomach told him that it was them. Despite the growing darkness, he thought he could make out the uniform of Spanish soldiers. They chased their quarry with a determination that bordered on obsessiveness. Aramis ducked his head to block out the sight and tried not to let despair overtake him. He'd been alone and hunted like a terrified rabbit for so long for that it seemed like he might never escape the pursuit and make it home. The memory of Paris and the garrison seemed like some hazy, summertime dream, warm and bright and completely unreal in this cold, hostile place. The marksman shivered, not knowing whether it was from the cold or from dread.

"I will make it," Aramis whispered. He wanted to believe it. "I will make it back to France." All he had to do was cross over the Alps undetected and back into his homeland. He'd see Porthos, Athos and all of his friends again. He'd feast on Serge's savory lamb stew with fresh bread and good French cheese, and he'd find comfort in the arms of the lovely Mademoiselle Lisette. Or Margot. Or Célia.

Or he would die trying.


Hello, and thank you for reading! I suppose this could be considered a follow-up to 'Irresistible Forces'. I hope you enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: This is written for fun, not profit. None of the recognizable characters belong to me.