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Huge shout out to Happyday Girl and Thorny Hedge! Please check out their stories – they're incredible! Happyday Girl's story: Blink of an Eye, is a must-read for Musketeer FF J

Ok, loooong chapter, but I needed to establish a lot of details :S . As always, I do not own the Musketeers – I just love playing in Dumas' world J

Porthos had insisted that he take Aramis' place on the trek to the market road. He had his reasons, and Athos suspected what they may be. D'artagnan however, bless his naive heart, didn't think for a second that Porthos could have had a reason for trying to convince Aramis to stay, and rather further insisted the Musketeers of the need for someone skilled with scripture.

"Well you can say a prayer if you like, Porthos, but I think Aramis would be far better suited to speak," noted D'artagnan.

"Brat," growled Porthos.

"What?"

"Nothing." But was paying keen attention to the odd instance of his friend, and had heard the retired pirate muttering curses at D'artagnan's persistent interruptions.

"Porthos my friend, what has gotten in to you? I assure you, I would feel at ease to say a few words," said Aramis from atop his horse. "Besides, the weather has improved significantly - it would be a pleasant day to visit the countryside, even if the cause for our venture is most regrettably unpleasant."

Porthos rolled his eyes signifying his defeat, and grumbled to himself as he too got on to his horse. Aramis regarded him with a quizzical brow, still confused as to why Porthos would have insisted that stay behind.

Athos however, only sighed at the pirate's resignation - he knew he wouldn't be successful in convincing Aramis to stay behind, but he admired that he had at least tried. Porthos' heart was a big as hands and he cared deeply for his friends. Ever since the tragedy that befell their friend in Savoy six years prior, the retired-pirate has been increasingly protective over his friend; not in lieu of battle or of violence or duty, but of ...reminders of that tragic day. Athos had no doubt that Porthos' protectiveness had been triggered the minute that Treville had mentioned a "body in the snow". It had been six years since Savoy, yet for the friends who found him surrounded by the frozen corpses of twenty Musketeers; a chill wind could make it feel like yesterday.

Athos watched as D'artagnan rode in front of Aramis as if to challenge him to a race, which had Aramis slowly shaking his head. Athos couldn't see his friend's face as he was trotting at an even pace behind them, but he knew the expression, and Athos smiled to himself.

D'artagnan bounced around at the front of the group with a boundless energy not even explicable to youth. It was not long ago that the lad from Gascony had blown in to the garrison like a windstorm, but all fresh air that was most welcomed. D'artagnan had not seen Savoy and nor had he known Aramis before the massacre, and Athos was glad for it.

There had been many a time that Porthos and Athos would fret over the strange and erratic sleep patterns that would plague Aramis as a result of trauma and nightmares, or cast worried glances back and forth when their Spanish friend would drift off during a conversation and be momentarily lost in a waking nightmare. D'artagnan however, would pay them no mind. Every time he caught Aramis 'adrift' he would jokingly try to poke his eye or take his tankard of ale, and all much to Porthos' amusement. In fact, D'artagnan would walk directly in to their concern and unknowingly change the subject entirely. It was indeed irksome at times for he and Porthos, but the group's leader knew that Aramis appreciated it - D'artagnan's indifference made him feel normal.

Athos' thoughts were interrupted by D'artagnan's raised voice, seemingly pleading with Aramis over a heated issue.

"Well it isn't fair at all 'Mis! In fact it's absurd!" stated D'artagnan, almost pouting but still unable to hide a smirk. "I mean, where does it say I cannot have a feather in my hat? What rule is this you speak of?"

Aramis let out an dramatic sigh, "My dear fellow, it is not so much a rule as it is a law of nature. In order to don a feather in one's cap, a man must be able to first produce a beard...or a mustache at the very least."

D'artagnan's face dropped and Porthos, who had ridden up beside his friend let out a howl of laughter, slapping Aramis on the back.

"Oiy that's true D'art!" laughed Porthos. The look of D'artagnan's face was priceless, and even Athos couldn't suppress a grin.

D'artagnan consistently walked in to Aramis and Porthos' jibes - and by the mischievous smirk on his face, Athos could swear that on certain occasions he did so on purpose.

The remainder of the ride to the market path was spent in jest and casual conversation. As was very customary to their effortless dynamic, Athos rode to the side of the trio, listening to them laugh and discuss matters of the garrison. The mood was light and the weather was fair, but Athos couldn't shake a foreboding chill that clung to his bones as they turned on to the deserted market road. The mud was deep in sections on account of the melting snow, and as such the road remained empty for the time being.

Athos felt exposed on the road, and he cast his eyes about the tree lines, feeling as though he was being watched. But there was not a sound to be heard aside from his comrades' conversation, which had also quieted considerably as if sensing whatever plagued Athos' nerves.

"He should be along this road facing east," announced Athos. Out of pure habit, all of the three Musketeers to his right slowed and let their leader proceed ahead of them, all of their eyes now scanning the tree line. A north wind suddenly brushed past them, ruffling their capes and it brought with them a foul smell. Athos knew that smell all too well.

D'artagnan crinkled his nose and turned his horse slightly from the wind. "Ugh, rotten goods I suppose? That's wretched."

"No D'art, something far more wretched than spoilt vegetables carries on this wind," muttered Porthos, who cast a wary glance at Athos. Aramis remained quiet, his keen eyes still searching for the boy.

They trotted a distance further until Aramis stopped them.

"There, Athos. I think I see him," said Aramis pointing over to an old tree that stood at the roadside, next to a deep ditch.

Athos saw him next - a small figure hunched forward at an odd angle against the base of tree. Nature had done her best to give the lad some privacy in death, and turned him much the same color of the surrounding brush. It was a wonder that the farmers had even noticed him - he was truly camouflaged to all but Aramis' hawk-like eyes.

Now the entire group looked to where Aramis pointed, and they stopped their horses on the road. There was an unplanned moment of silence as the nature of their mission finally dawned upon each and every one of them.

After a moment, Athos nudged his horse, "Right, on with it," he muttered, and lead the group forward.

All of the men on the road that day had seen their share of violence and death. It was an intrinsic part of their lives. So there was so fear or trepidation approaching the body - only sadness and curiosity. And truth be told, the boy looked rather peaceful. His chin was resting on his chest - a mass of black wavy hair rustling in the breeze. His arms had fallen to his side, but it looked as though he was at one point holding his knees.

"Trying to keep warm perhaps?" suggested D'artagnan, his eyes full of sadness.

"Perhaps," replied Aramis, who dismounted but not before Porthos went ahead of him and knelt next to the body.

"Small fellow, but I would wager he's around 16. And will ya look at that," mumbled Porthos as he reached for the cloak that swept about the boy's shoulders, "The Royal insignia. His clothes are good but they aren't royal. Probably worked at the court?"

"Aye Porthos," said Athos, removing a document from his saddlebag. "Treville noted that there was a servant of the recent employ of the palace last year - a kitchen boy." Athos scanned the document further before finding what he was looking for - a name. "Pierre Desrocheres of Paris, employed in the kitchen. Sent with papers to collect geese from the market in December of last year, never to return".

The Musketeers absorbed the information. "Well did they look for him?" asked D'artagnan, unable to hide his disappointment.

Athos shook his head, and Porthos answered for him without even having to look at the document.

"Doubt it," sighed the pirate. "He was probably an orphan - of no previous fixed address. They probably cared more about not having the geese for the table."

Athos sighed heavily, breathing through his nose. Porthos was right - had he not returned promptly, his position would have been filled the next day.

Aramis had been listening to the whole discourse while examining the boy from a few meters back. He then quickly walked to Porthos' side.

"While life may not have treated him fairly, or with any measure of kindness, but we are all equal in the eyes of god," stated Aramis, bending down to one knee. "He deserves a proper burial.

"Indeed," nodded Athos. "D'artagnan, fetch the cloth and blankets." D'artagnan gave a swift nod and went about gathering the supplies to wrap the body.

Porthos had removed his hat next to Aramis as his friend whispered a series of prayers, his hand resting lightly atop the boy's bent head. As he prayed, Aramis noticed that the boy's eyes were not entirely closed. He continued to read from his bible, and then lifted the boys chin so as to finally close his eyes in death. The gasp that escaped the Spaniard immediately had everyone's attention.

With his face now turned skyward, it was clear that the boy's body was gruesomely devoid of its' eyes.

Aramis tried to compose himself, but the damage was done - the horrible memories of Savoy had been savagely triggered. Porthos clutched his friend's shoulders and eased him back, all the while silently assessing the situation with Athos.

And with everyone shocked in to silence, it was up to D'artagnan to state the obvious.

"Where are his eyes?!" cried the Gascon. "What happened to his eyes?"

Aramis had stood up and paced a small distance away from the body, obviously troubled. Athos approached the boy now, and kneeled down next to Porthos. Sure enough, all that looked upward were too gaping and horribly empty sockets. And suddenly there was no peace about this boy or his passing. His expression now looked to be one of pure horror.

In the pensive silence that followed, D'artagnan had slowly approached Athos and Porthos to stand behind them; Aramis was still pacing off to the side.

D'artagnan couldn't hide the dismay from his expressive features as he looked at the corpse's disfigured face.

"Well that's….unpleasant," mumbled the youngest Musketeer. "Crows are disgusting."

Porthos sighed, "Aye, they'll eat anything. Boy must have died with his eyes open…"

"It was not crows," snapped Aramis, interrupting Porthos mid-sentence. He hadn't uttered a word since stepping away, so now he had everyone's attention. Aramis removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself.

"It was not crows. Crows are not …precise in their meals," sighed Aramis, his voice notably shaken. "Crows would have left scratches about the eye sockets, and much more damage to the face. This was done intentionally. Note the small slicing cuts around the eyelids. My friends, this was done with surgical precision and intent."

Porthos sighed and rubbed his face, weary with the weight of Aramis' words, while Athos' expression remained stone-faced as he undoubtedly considered the group's next move. And as for D'artagnan, faced with the silence that now weighed upon them, well, he simply couldn't help himself.

"But are you certain 'Mis?"

The exasperated sigh that left Athos and Porthos was audible. Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to consider an appropriate response, but Aramis spoke for himself.

"Because I have seen it before…for myself. I know the difference," muttered Aramis, walking away.

Porthos was glaring knives at D'artagnan and by the time it dawned on the youngest as to the memories that Aramis was referring to, he looked so hurt and guilt-ridden that Athos actually felt bad for him.

"'Mis I'm sorry, I did not.."

But Aramis waved him off, and gave him a sad grin.

"Worry not, my friend" smiled Aramis, "let us focus on the task at hand. We need to move the body to a place where we can examine the corpse further prior to burial."

Athos agreed and stood up, brushing some of the mud off his breeches. "Aramis is right. There is an apothecary to the west, not far from here. D'artagnan, ride to the Apothecary and secure a cart – he will undoubtedly have the tools and supplies that we may need. Porthos, with me," ordered Athos, gesturing towards the blankets. Porthos was visibly enthusiastic to assist Athos, as it meant that Aramis would be spared he task. But Aramis almost looked rather offended that he was not included in Athos' address, and turned sharply on his heels, stalking back towards the horses.

...And so consumed he was in his misplaced anger towards Athos, that the one they called Aramis never looked towards the trees on the other side of the road, where a pair of dark eyes had been watching them the entire time.

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