A/N: Thank you for the reviews and follows! It means a lot to hear from each of you. Many thanks as always to Issai for her talented beta-reading skills. I take full responsibility for the errors!

Aramis was restless. He had considered another visit to Madame Chevreuse but a stern command from the Captain that he and Athos be ready for an early departure tomorrow and remain on their best behavior tonight quashed that idea. They each knew what the Captain meant. For Athos, he had taken his wine to his room, for Aramis, his wings were clipped and he was to remain at the Inn. Without Porthos to goad him into some mischief at cards, or Athos's conversation, or the Madame's welcoming bed, Aramis's mind could find no distractions from his own troubled thoughts.

The late summer sun had set about an hour ago and Aramis sat at the table in the courtyard at the Inn, thinking of things far away from Royan and the distant echo of the disturbing sea. Porthos would have made camp by now, as the last of the sun's light died and Aramis smirked as he remembered his comment about the wood nymphs. If only it were such, Porthos of all people deserved it. He'd had enough lonely nights in his past, of that Aramis was sure even if he was not sure of the details. He knew Porthos would much prefer to be in someone's company than to be alone, although he was more than capable of taking care of himself. They all were though, he, Porthos and Athos, they were more than capable alone. They just chose to be together and for that Aramis was routinely grateful.

With a small sigh Aramis tugged at a thin leather thong that hung around his neck and pulled out the small wooden cross he wore tucked in his doublet. It was a delicate carving from a bit of an olive tree, something his mother had taken with her when she left Spain and had then given it to him long ago when he had left her care to join the household of his father. It was one of the few things he had taken with him when he had run off to join the infantry. The wood was warm in his hand as he held it and closed his eyes. The words of the prayer came to him without bidding. He whispered them quietly in Spanish first, as his mother had taught him, then in French as that is how he prayed for his comrades and brothers, and finally softly in Latin, for that was how he prayed for himself when he was at his most troubled:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,
that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection,
implored your help, or sought your intercession,
was left unaided.
Inspired by this confidence,
I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother.
To you do I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
despise not my petitions,
but in your mercy, hear and answer me.
Amen.

Finishing the third repetition, Aramis was dismayed. This prayer soothed his spirit like no other but tonight it seemed powerless to vanquish the doubts crowding his mind. Aramis sighed and was about to begin again when a soft cough from nearby interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flew open and his hand shifted to his rapier, already admonishing himself for having been caught in the open unawares.

"Mi scusi," Father Pietro said, holding out his empty hands and giving Aramis a respectful nod of his head, "I did not mean to startle you." Aramis released a soft sigh and immediately relaxed, recognizing there was no threat from the priest standing before him.

"My apologies as well," Aramis said formally, "It was instinct that brought my hands to my weapon. I mean you no harm." Father Pietro gave him a friendly smile.

"It is easy to come to the wrong conclusions when there is so much unknown," he said kindly, "But please, I did not mean interruptions to you. I heard the Latin of the Memoare and thought to listen."

"It's alright, Padre," Aramis smiled in return, "I don't think it is a sin for a priest to eavesdrop on your payers. Perhaps even it is a blessing."

"That is a powerful prayer you offer," Father Pietro said, taking a few steps closer, "Are you troubled, mio figlio? Do you wish to make your confession?" Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Grazie, Padre," He said with a respectful dip of his head, "But no, I have made my confession. What I seek is not absolution for that has been offered but rather intercession."

"Your circumstances I do not know," Father Pietro said with a small frown, "But I would say that the Lord asks us to follow him in all things and if you do so in good conscious then intercession is already yours."

"How do you reconcile it, Padre," Aramis turned the topic, but it was the thing most on his mind, "Being a soldier with being a priest? Surely there are times when you cannot be both?"

"If I raise my sword in the service of God, then there is no conflict," Father Pietro said simply.

"But it is men, not God, who issue your orders," Aramis replied, "They cannot always be right in the choices they make."

"No, the decisions are not always right," Father Pietro said thoughtfully, "But the intention always is. God knows our hearts so He knows that for me, my heart tries to follow His commands. I go to mass, I say my prayers and I put my sword in God's hands, a weapon to Him as surely as His angels are."

"Have your orders lead you to commit acts that you know to be unjust?" Aramis asked trying to keep the bitterness he felt over his own orders from leaching into his voice.

"I have done things I have not been certain of," Father Pietro said hesitantly, clearly searching for an appropriate answer, "But my certainty is not required, only my obedience. Is that not like any other soldier?"

"Obedience has never been my best quality," Aramis said with a shy smile.

"Perhaps then, mio figlio, that is what you should be praying for," Father Pietro said with a shrug, "If you give yourself to obedience then you surrender all doubt to God. You do not have the need to question if you empty yourself to be a vessel of the Lord." Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pausing to rub at the base of his neck as he looked up at the priest through his unruly hair.

"I'm not so skilled in surrender either, Father," Aramis felt shame creep hot into his cheeks, "I'm stubborn, defiant, willful - all things I tried to tell to Brother Marcos when he asked me to join the order. I'm not fit for God - I'm barely fit for soldiering sometimes."

"I see your restlessness, Fratello Marcos did as well," Father Pietro looked at him kindly, not with the chastisement he had expected, "He spoke to me of your conversations about scripture and of your disillusionment with being a Musketeer. I encouraged him to speak with you about our order and I would welcome more discussion with you if you are so inclined. I understand the yoke of obedience is often seen as a burden, but in truth, it is a release. This is the lesson we all learn before we take our vows. That I wield my weapons through the will of God means I do not suffer the trials of doubt."

"You feel nothing when you take a life?" Aramis was taken aback, that ruthlessness was not expected.

"No, mio figlio, you misunderstand," Father Pietro put a gentle hand on his shoulder, "We are sorrowful for the lives we take, even if the cause is just and the Lord has asked it of is. We can never rejoice in the suffering of others."

"I didn't find your men so generous or forgiving yesterday," Aramis challenged.

"Well, we are not without faults," Father Pietro chuckled, "Brother Luigi in particular has many. In fact, you both might be good companions as his struggles would be tempered by yours and yours by his I suspect." The evening bells rang out, punctuating Father Pietro's statement. Aramis could not decide if they were a sign of approval, or of warning.

"I go to celebrate Compline with my brethren before we retire," Father Pietro said, "Join us. We offer again the prayers for Fratello Marcos. You said yesterday you were troubled by his death, come then with me to pray for his soul and for his place in heaven."

Aramis considered the priest's offer. He felt just as unsettled as he had before their conversation, as he had in the last several days. An hour in prayer with the Jesuits was appealing - an opportunity to tether himself back to the things he knew were important. Aramis found attending mass as uplifting an experience as spending the night with a beautiful woman was a grounding one. He gave the priest a smile and gestured for him to lead the way.

They left just after first light as planned, but not without some disagreement about the route first. Their journey from Royan to Saint-Medard-en-Jalles required them to follow the course of the Garonne River. They could either cross at Royan and follow the western bank or follow the eastern bank and delay their crossing until Macau. Porthos had taken the eastern route as he journeyed toward Chalais. The Musketeers preferred the crossing at Macau as the roads were better on the eastern side and if Porthos had run into any difficulty the night before they would likely find some sign. Brother Luigi strongly advised the western side, where the roads were through thick forest and low hills. Their journey would be slower, but more concealed and with more opportunity to take alternative pathways should they suspect they were being followed.

Treville was skeptical but given the murder of Brother Marcos, he could not deny that someone was trying to impede the Jesuits' mission. Still, the passion with which the man pressed for the western route seemed excessive and though none of the musketeers spoke much Italian, Aramis could understand enough to know that Brother Luigi had had a heated argument with Father Pietro regarding the route. Ultimately the priest gave in to Luigi and the Musketeers had no choice but to go along. The Cardinal's orders had put the Jesuits in charge, although Treville would step in if at any point the choices the priest made put his men in an unnecessary danger. But as they mounted up, Athos had shared a look with Treville and he knew the swordsman was just as suspicious of Brother Luigi's motives as he was. They would be keeping an eye on him.

Treville had attempted to broach with Father Pietro that Brother Marcos could have been killed by one of his own comrades but the priest had shut down the conversation at the first suggestion of betrayal within his ranks. Treville admired the priest's loyalty to his men and he shared the same faith in his own, but to not even consider the possibility after murder had been committed seemed short-sighted to the Musketeer captain. Blind loyalty was not a virtue in anyone as far as Treville was concerned.

They were delayed again just at the ferry when Brother Giovanni's horse dropped a shoe. The soft-spoken man seemed ashamed of the circumstance but assured them that he knew of a blacksmith just two streets away from the ferry landing. He urged them to continue on and he would catch up but Father Pietro preferred to wait the hour and not reduce the number of their company any further. This brought more arguments from Brother Luigi, but this time, Father Pietro would not be swayed.

Aramis bought a sack of apples from a fruit vendor at the dock and shared them with Athos and Treville. They stood in the shade beside their horses a few paces from the Jesuits who formed their own cluster beneath the sheltering trees. Brother Luigi stood apart from everyone, rummaging in his saddlebags for something and sending scowls toward the three musketeers.

"If he could wither us with a glance I believe he would," Aramis said around a bite of apple.

"Is it a hatred of all musketeers, or just us?" Athos wondered.

"He is the one who accused Aramis of murder," Treville said, "I doubt he has let that go simply because he was told to."

"Jesuits are unruly," Athos was dismissive, "I would have expected more discipline and less dissension from men of God. And more humility."

"Tell that to the Cardinal," Aramis said with a mirthless smile, "Besides, you cannot say that musketeers are any better."

"We're not supposed to be better," Athos shrugged, "We're not priests."

"That doesn't mean I wouldn't appreciate a little less arguing," Treville gave his men one of his trademark glares.

"Captain, your long-suffering patience is a blessing to us all," Aramis's sarcasm brought a true smile to the other men. Treville started to offer a rebuke, but Aramis tossed him an apple and changed the subject. "What do you think are the orders locked in the box?"

"And why was the Cardinal so adamant that Aramis carry the key?" Athos added.

Treville sighed. He had been wondering that himself. "The terms of the treaty would have been carefully negotiated in order for Rome to unite Spain with France. I suspect secrecy is crucial. Nor is it surprising that the key is held by one side and the box the other. With the loss of his man, Aramis would be the Cardinal's logical choice given the request he received from Father Pietro. Let's not read more into it than necessary." Even as Treville said the words he had difficulty believing them himself. But it would do no good to further the anxiety of his men with no cause.

"Where are the Spanish in all this then?" Athos asked.

"We are to meet them at Saint-Medard-en-Jalles," Treville explained, "I would not be surprised if they hold another part of the treaty. Our biggest concern though is that whoever killed Brother Marcos, may know exactly where we are headed. If so, they are likely to seek another opportunity to disrupt this treaty."

"That's assuming Brother Marcos's death was even connected to this," Aramis said, his eyes narrowing, "We have no evidence of that. It could have been the work of nothing more than a common cutpurse. I don't like that we learned nothing before we left."

"Given the Medici dagger, we have to assume that his murder was at their hands," Athos said, "All of this intrigue and secrecy speaks to them."

"So what then do we do?" Aramis said, "Ride out and hope we spot an ambush before it happens?"

"If someone knew enough to kill Brother Marcos, who was the Cardinal's emissary, they may know enough to want to kill you too," Athos said. His voice was calm and confident but Treville did not miss the softness in his eyes as he looked at Aramis, "I suspect we will need to watch your back as much as we watch the road." Athos gave Aramis a look that Treville could not decipher, but it brought a smile to the marksman's lips. Apparently, he appreciated Athos's concern.

"You think it's one of the Jesuits," Aramis was not asking a question. Athos gave a nod.

"It would have been very difficult for an outsider to get close enough to Brother Marcos to kill him, the Jesuits themselves said that," Athos said quietly, "And it would have been highly unlikely that he, or you for that matter, would not have noticed someone following you over the last few days."

"Also, why did whoever killed him wait so long to do so?" Treville mused, "They were here for several days before you arrived. What changed?"

"He wanted me to join them and I said no," Aramis said, regret lining his face, "Could it be that I had something to do with his death?"

"It could," Treville admitted reluctantly, "While you are a fine soldier, Aramis, I have never known the Jesuits to press so fervently for a recruit. They need you for some reason."

"So was Brother Marcos killed because he failed to recruit Aramis," Athos asked darkly, "Or because he was Richelieu's representative and the murderer was planning to ask Richelieu for Aramis as a replacement all along?"

Aramis let out a long sigh and looked over at the others gathered not far from them. Treville could see how it pained the marksman to think he was at the root of Brother Marcos's death. Nor did any of them appreciate the musketeers once again being caught up in the political machinations of the Cardinal. Treville was even more convinced he was right in insisting he ride with his men and sending Porthos on to issue orders to the regiment. They might bear him some resentment for it, but the best protection he could offer them was at their sides.

"We should talk to Father Pietro," Athos suggested.

"He won't listen," Treville said, "He can't bring himself to suspect one of his own men."

"Well then," Aramis said, adjusting his hat on his head and taking up the bag of apples, "I suppose it is up to us then to flush the traitor out." Aramis gave a grin and then with a cheery wave strode over to their Jesuit compatriots to offer them some apples.

"Is it possible for him to be any more reckless?" Treville huffed in annoyance. He would have preferred a discussion about their next move before Aramis took it upon himself to wade into the fray, a target possibly on his back.

"For Aramis," Athos answered dryly, "Yes, definitely possible."

By the time they made camp for the evening, Aramis had melded easily into the company of the Jesuit soldiers. Their pace toward Saint-Medard-en-Jalles had been steady but comfortable, allowing ample opportunity for conversation which the gregarious musketeer took full advantage of. Athos sat propped against a tree, his feet resting on his bedroll as he sharpened his blades and observed Aramis in deep discussion with three of the Jesuit company. Brother Luigi still kept his distance, but Brother Giovanni and two others seemed willing to engage in friendly conversation in a blend of Italian, French and Spanish that Athos had no hope of following. Educated as he was, French and Latin were his only languages and his Latin so little used that it was of no help with the Italian. The root words of Italian and Spanish were close enough that Aramis said he could understand most of what was being said if he at least knew the topic they were discussing. It seemed the Italians could do the same with Spanish and then they used French to communicate more directly. Frankly, it gave Athos a headache but as Aramis had set his mind to flushing out the traitor, he had held nothing back in trying to communicate. Even now, as the evening grew late, the men continued their quiet conversation.

Athos set his blades aside and leaned back against the tree. His hat was pulled low over his brow despite the darkness settling around them. Anyone looking would most likely think he was asleep but something about Aramis and his companions was bothering Athos. He had watched his friend all day. Watched how wary attempts at communication gave way to genuine exchanges and unexpected laughter. It's as if Aramis had grown lighter over the course of the day, a lightness that Athos had not seen in him since before their assignment to the Cardinal three weeks ago. Athos had excused himself from their evening prayers, taking instead the opportunity to patrol their campsite, but it was clear Aramis already had a place among them as they recited the Latin mass. They had been friends for nearly two years, their relationship formed and tested in the Huguenot campaigns and at the siege of La Rochelle and yet Athos felt Aramis might keep riding when it was time for the Jesuits to head to the Italian border. He wished Porthos were here - their jovial friend would have been more than willing to join Aramis at the fire with the Italians and something about him seemed to tether the three of them together, to ground them in their friendship. Porthos made everything easier.

Treville seemed oblivious to Aramis's affinity to the priest clan, or at least not worried by it. After supper he had sought out Father Pietro and they too remained locked in quiet conversation. They had a map spread between them and Athos knew that as Treville's second he could easily join them as they planned the journey for tomorrow, but he chose instead his solitary watch of the camp and of their marksman. Setting aside his personal concerns, Athos turned over the puzzle of the orders in the box and Aramis's strange role in their mission. Was it just happenstance that they had met the Jesuits in Royan, an unplanned trip for them, or had someone been watching them all along and sent the Jesuits there to find them - or more specifically Aramis? They certainly had connected with them quickly and Brother Marcos had taken a specific interest. Had the marksman been a target all along? The only connection could be through the Cardinal. If they had pursued the people Rochefort had identified on his list, it is possible their route would have led them right to Royan anyway. Could all of this be connected? Again Athos wished for Porthos's company. His strategic mind was a complement to Athos's cunning and together, they could usually puzzle out anything. With Aramis's steady access to information and gossip and his innate understanding of human nature, the three of them together seemed almost unnatural in their ability to root out deception and unmask intrigue. They were a powerful combination and Athos felt the frown that creased his brow as he looked at their marksman sitting among his new companions. All he needed was the black leather and he could be one of them. Athos sighed. He did not like to be troubled like this. People came, people went and there was nothing left for him to have faith in when it came to relationships. So why was this bothering him?

He didn't have time to pursue that thought as Aramis rose from the campfire and said his good nights to the Jesuits. He gave a last check to their horses, then took up his bedroll and kit and settled himself beside Athos for the night. Athos found the familiarity comforting and then immediately chided himself. Was he a child that he needed someone to sleep by his side? He couldn't help the frustrated sigh that slipped from his lips as he kicked open his own bedroll on the ground.

"Would you rather I slept by the horses?" Aramis offered, but there was no hurt in his voice. Athos knew that he and Porthos both generally ignored whatever mood he might be in at any given time. It was a large reason they were such good friends. They knew better than to assume that Athos's glowering had anything to do with them.

"Sleep where you want," Athos grumbled, "Just as long as I don't have to listen to any more Italian."

"It's not so bad," Aramis said, lying back on his blanket, "It's not as lyrical as Spanish of course, but at least it's not German." Athos chuckled. Dutch and German escaped both of them completely.

"For all of that talking, have you learned anything useful?" Athos asked as he settled on his back beside Aramis. A sense of deja vu crept over him. How many nights on campaign had they spent like this, laying on their backs and quietly talking away the last of the day? The only thing missing was Porthos's snoring. He was always the first one asleep.

"About our mission, no," the disappointment in Aramis's voice was clear. He wanted the same answers that Athos did, "But I have learned much about them. They too leave their past behind when they join the order, all that matters is that they have taken their vows and promised to serve God and Pope above all other things. They have a vow of service but not one of poverty. Unlike other orders, they remain in the world, influencing the course of political events and promoting the policies of the Pope and the tenants of Catholicism. They are extremely loyal and try to act with honor. They are very much like Musketeers," Aramis's soft explanation also held a note of wistfulness, confirming Athos's fears. The marksman was drawn to the warrior-priests. While he valued Aramis's friendship above almost all other things, Athos knew it would be unjust to keep him back from what his heart truly desired. Something heavy seemed to drop inside his stomach. Athos was no stranger to loss but he did not welcome it.

"Why are you a Musketeer, Aramis?" For all their time in the field, this was a question he had never asked of his friend. Now it was Aramis's turn to sigh. The marksman fidgeted, fingers pulling at the edges of the blue cloak he had pulled over himself.

"My father wanted me for Seminary," Aramis's voice did not waiver but Athos could hear the sadness, "But I fell in love. I was young and so was she. Her father sent her away and I could not bear the thought of it myself, being locked behind monastery walls. I ran away and joined the infantry. My first combat was at Mountaban. We know how that went," Aramis gave a little laugh as he rubbed lightly at his chest. Athos knew from their longtime soldiering together that there was a scar from that battle under where Aramis had placed his hand. Not Aramis's only scar, but as it turns out, his first as a soldier.

"And your mother?" Athos asked, "What did she want for you?" he said, thinking of his own mother — dead before he had a chance to know her as anything other than a soft voice and a tender hand. He wondered sometimes what his mother would think of his choices or if he could have even made the choice to leave Pinion knowing the shame it would have brought to her.

"A whore," There was no irony and no bitterness in Aramis's voice, "She was happy for me the day my father came for me. She would have liked either - priest or soldier. Anything that took me from life in a brothel."

"You were raised in a brothel?" Athos couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. Aramis gave a wicked chuckle and turned his head toward Athos. He could see the marksman's eyes glittering in the darkness.

"I come by my love of the female form quite honestly," Aramis was unapologetic.

"I think this explains why you are not a priest," Athos gently teased back.

"There are many forms of worship, mon ami," Aramis said conspiratorially, "I am practiced in more than one." They shared a quiet laugh together. Athos felt the heaviness in his gut dissolving. Someday he might lose Aramis to the priesthood, but not yet.