Sorry about the long delay in posting this chapter. Life happened and she was a needy bitch ;)

The man stayed hidden in the shadows, quietly watching the Musketeer's fevered actions.

It took him a moment to realize that his mark, contrary to all evidence, had not lost his mind, but was in fact trying to achieve something. The procedure was well known in his homeland and the Persian had witnessed it being performed many times before by trained physicians. Never, however had he seen it done in such a barbaric manner.

He stood back and watched, mesmerized by the sheer willpower of one headstrong man. Headstrong but made of flesh and bones, and, from what he could see, the course of action that he Musketeer had chosen could easily end his life.

So, the Persian waited patiently, to see if there would be any need to finish what he had come there to do, or if the Musketeer would take care of the task for him.

As it was, the man was more resilient than what his looks led to believe. He seemed taken over by a superior force, guiding his hands and lending strength to his arms.

For a moment, the Hashashin almost admired that Musketeer. Aramis.

But only for a moment. He had been paid to do a job, a fact that he had not forgotten, and it was his task to make sure that this man would not be allowed to cast a shadow on the succession to the throne of France. First, however, he wanted the Musketeer to know the reason for his death.

As a courtesy from one warrior to another.

That would come soon enough. In the meantime, he had some arrangements to make.

~§~

There had been no rest that night, something that both men were well aware that they would soon regret. But the heart listens to no reasoning, and both Porthos' and d'Artagnan's had spent the night filling their heads with terrible visions of their friends dying in the most gruesome and varied ways while they rode hard towards the city.

"A few more hours, perhaps," he guessed, looking at the dark road ahead of them, thankful for the full moon to light their way. At a distance, they could easily see the monastery, its walls turned blue from the moonlight. "It seems so bloody peaceful from here..." the big man mused, gazing back. From that distance, it indeed looked pristine, bare of any signs of the violence and blood inside.

By his side, d'Artagnan nodded. There were dark smudges under his eyes, adding years to his face and making him look withered and exhausted. "We shou-"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips as the young man tensed and reached for his pistols in one single and fluid movement. He exchanged a quick look with Porthos before turning on his heels.

Hooves. The tall man had heard them as well.

As one, they each moved to one side, dismounting before taking cover behind the trees and raising their weapons.

As far as Porthos could tell, there were four riders coming their way, easy pickings for the two of them even in the dark. He took aim, ready to unsaddle the first rider as soon as he came into range...

The big man nearly dropped his pistol in fright as the horseman came closer and he realized that it was no man riding that animal. "Hold yer fire!" he nearly screamed. "Tha's Charlotte and our mates," he added in a hushed tone.

D'Artagnan sighed in relief. Help had come.

"Yer a sight fer sore eyes!" Porthos let out as soon as their companions were close enough. "How did Treville know?"

The looks of confusion on the riders' faces were answer enough. "Know what?" Saint-Dié asked, sliding off his horse. "Where are the others?"

"Bandits," Porthos offered, sending a look to d'Artagnan. Until they knew for certain what those men's intentions had been and who had paid them to come after Aramis, it was best if they kept some details to themselves. "Athos' hurt...Aramis' staying with 'im at the monastery."

"And why are the two you on this side of the bank?" Bourges let out with a snigger. "Monks scared ya off? I hear the Abbott's a personal friend of Richelieu, so tha's scary enough on its own."

"Well, if that is the case," d'Artagnan started, "then we have some sad news to deliver to the Cardinal." His face was grim and solemn. "They're all dead."

Porthos, who had been gauging Charlotte's reactions from a distance, threw a look at the Gaston to mind his words. The young woman had turned white as sheet when she heard about Athos' injury and what had happened to the monks.

"You..." she started, coughing when the word came out as a very feminine squeak. "You left Athos and Aramis surrounded by corpses?"

"'tis not the dead we need worry about," Porthos reminded her. "We need t'send word to t' Cap'ain about what happened here...tell him to keep the King and Queen safe in Paris."

"Too late fer that," Saint-Dié said, looking none-too-pleased. "We left Their Majesties at Rouen and came looking fer the lot of you."

"Treville was worried ya might've lost your way," Bourges added with a fond smile, unable to hide his relief at finding them alive.

"So, you two were on your way to report to the Captain, was that it?" Saint-Dié asked, eyeing the exhausted horses. "Planned to ride all the way straight to Paris, ready to leave yer mates to their fortune for a whole week?"

Saint-Dié had always been a suspicious little bastard.

"Whoever killed those monks might still be around," d'Artagnan explained. "We had planned to make it to the nearest town and send a message to Treville. We wanted to make sure that Athos and Aram-"

"Your duty is to the King of France," Saint-Dié cut in, needlessly reminding the young man of his task. "Not to your friends."

"Our brothers," Porthos pointed out stepping closer to the other man, his hands balling into fists, "are in need of aid...I suggest ya send yer men back and tell the Cap'ain the news, while we go back t' help Athos and Aramis. Now."

From its very start, there had never been much room for rank and other military formalities within the Musketeers. Treville had always wanted it to work that way, all men with equal duties and benefits. A round table of knights of sorts.

There were, however, some unofficial ranks inside the regiment that had become natural and evident to all. For one, every Musketeer knew that when Treville wasn't around, Athos was the one in charge, even if Athos was the first one to rebel against such notion.

Aramis was one of the oldest and more respected amongst all the soldiers in the regiment, a born leader on his own merit, even if everyone knew that he was content to follow and remain in the shadow of Athos' leadership... when he felt inclined to do so.

And then there was Porthos. There wasn't a single Musketeer inside the garrison foolish enough to believe that Porthos would ever take orders from anyone else other than Treville, his second-in-command or Aramis.

Which meant that Saint-Dié would be a complete fool if he tried to do something different than what Porthos had 'suggested'.

"Bourges...you go," Saint-Dié ordered. "Take Charlie with ya," he said dismissively, not even looking at the cadet.

Upon hearing the command, Charlotte looked positively ready to desert the regiment right there and then if anyone forced her to walk in any direction other than the monastery.

Fortunately for the young cadet, Porthos caught the expression on her face before she could do something she would deeply regret.

"Charlie here's been takin' some lessons with Aramis on how to take care of wounds and things like that," Porthos pointed out, meeting the girl's fierce look with a barely noticeable wink. "Wouldn't hurt to have another set of hands around...just in case he needs it," the tall man added.

Saint-Dié opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again with a snap before a single sound could escape. Everyone knew about how close the new recruit had grown to the infamous quartet of Musketeers, a position that caused no small amount of envy in some of the others, who had been there longer and never had a chance to belong to the close-knit group.

It wasn't like Charlie got special treatment or better missions than the rest of them, it was just that...life seemed a little more colorful, a little more dangerous around that particular group, as if trouble was nothing but some young fool in love, following them around in search of attention.

Porthos' reasoning to keep Charlie there was, however, a valid one. Not many had the stomach to tend to the ill and the young recruit seemed to have a knack for it that needed to be cherished and preserved, for it was a skill the regiment desperately needed. If Aramis, the one Musketeer with the most experienced in wound-tending needed help, who was he to deny him that?

~§~

Porthos sat on the sand, watching the small island for any sign of their friends. He knew it was a fools errand, for small as it was, the place was still big enough to swallow the sight of anyone venturing beyond the shore and into the woodland surrounding the monastery. Cut against the dawning sky, the sharp-edged construction at the top of the hill remained shrouded in darkness, like a silent tomb. Devoid of life.

Something inside him was screaming, pulling at his guts, urging Porthos to get a move on, to get himself back to the monastery as fast as he could.

Looking at the place where the pathway was supposed to be, the Musketeer sighted. All he could see was dark water, waves big and angry, violently crashing against the shore with the sound of gunpowder explosions.

Still, all Porthos wanted to do was leave everyone else behind and try to swim for it. He would probably -most likely- die trying, but at least he would be trying, instead of sitting there, slowly losing his mind.

"Just a few more hours."

Porthos startled, caught by surprise by Charlotte's light feet. A worthy and valuable skill in their line of work, but one that Porthos' hated when used on him.

"Thought I might as well join ya before you decide to jump in the water," the girl added, her gaze peering into the darkness, with as much success as he'd had.

"I wasn't," Porthos rushed to say, sounding guilty even to his own ears. "Not yet, anyway." If the damn tide didn't hurry up to open up a path for them to pass, he wasn't putting the idea completely aside.

"Porthos," Charlotte whispered, taking a seat next to him. "What happened out there?"

The tall man sighed, rubbing a hand against his forehead. The whole thing was giving him a headache. "Yer guess is as good as mine," he confessed. "There's some'ing fishy about the whole thing, if ya ask me."

"How so?"

"Those men," Porthos gave a nod of his head towards the place where they had left the bandits' corpses, even though it was miles away, "'t was Aramis they wanted dead, not Athos. Him being hurt was just bad luck."

Charlotte's sharp intake was the only visible reaction she allowed herself to have, even if her face paled at the news. "Why Aramis?"

The older Musketeer punched the ground with such degree of violence that sand erupted into the air like a volcano. "Tha's the question, ain't it?"

"Is there a reason why y'er beating on the sand like it has offended ya? Was it something I said?"

Porthos looked at his hand, knuckles red from rubbing against the grains, and sighed. "It ain't what you said, it's what Athos and d'Artagnan ain't saying," he voiced. "That question you've just ask? Not one of'em dared to ask it."

Charlotte rubbed her short hair, casting a furtive look towards where d'Artagnan stood, brushing one of the horses. "I wouldn't think much of it," she mused. "Perhaps they just had other thoughts on their mind."

"Or perhaps they know t'answer already," Porthos let out.

~§~

Treville had told himself that he would not spend the entirety of his day looking out the window, in search of any sign of his men in the horizon, like some damsel waiting on her betrothed. Instead, he found himself on top of the fortified wall, smoking his pipe and pretending that he wasn't searching for any sign of his men in the horizon. Exactly like some damsel waiting on her betrothed.

It never ceased to gnaw at his insides, waiting for his men to return home safely. As a Captain, Treville knew that losing soldiers was an unavoidable part of the job, the worst, ugliest part. And he had lost so many already...

As it often did in those grim occasions, Treville's mind drifted to the days after the massacre in Savoy. The angst, the feeling of helplessness and guilt, the knowledge that precious lives had been lost for nothing more than political gambling and needless displays of power. That his naivety had gotten his men killed.

For some reason, those same sentiments had been filling his mind for the past days, ever since Richelieu had come up with such a foolish journey. Treville had been working with the devious Cardinal long enough to know there was something up his ecclesiastic sleeves, even if he couldn't prove it.

It was in France's best interest that the Queen gave birth to a strong and healthy child, preferably a boy. Given Anne's sad history of losing a child before birth, the Captain could not fandom a single reason worthy of the risks they were currently taking. If the Dauphin was lost for the sake of a journey the Cardinal had insisted on undertaking, not even the King would forgive him.

So, if not to risk the safety of the Queen and her child, what else could have possessed the First Minister to insist on performing a blessing ceremony that far away from Paris when Notre-Dame was just a short walk away?

Not for the first time, Treville's mind offered him with a answer to his questions that he still refused to accept; that the motive behind the Cardinal's actions had nothing to do with the Queen or the Dauphin, but with the Musketeers who would be involved in the mission. Like Aramis.

The events were still too fresh to be forgotten, and even if they were, Treville was not a man prone to forgive and forget.

Although at the time they had been unable to prove it, Treville knew that Richelieu had been the one behind the attack on the garrison, once again bringing grief and loss into his garrison.

His agent at the time, Rochefort, had been responsible for stealing important documents pertaining the Savoy mission, blowing up the Musketeer's garrison and last, but certainly not least, kidnapping and torturing Aramis.

And all of it because of some whispered rumor that Aramis had been a part of the mission and was the last living survivor.

It had taken some time and a lot of maneuvering on Treville's part to put the matter to rest and convince the Cardinal that Aramis had nothing to do with Savoy. Marsac's return, despite its unfortunate outcome, had been a blessing in disguise as it offered at once, a credible target for the Cardinal's machinations and definitive proof that Aramis was not the man Richelieu had been looking. A new target that the Cardinal could do no harm, for the man was already dead.

But... what if that hadn't been enough? What if Richelieu was still plotting to put Savoy to rest by murdering the last man, apart from Treville and the King himself, who knew the truth?

Treville shook his head, pulling a smoke from his pipe. He was being paranoid. Too much time spent in the Court instead of doing what he was good at, soldering.

There was a reason for all that was happening, Treville was certain of that. The truth, however, still eluded him. Perhaps once they reached the monastery he would find his answers. But for now, he just wanted to find out where the hell were his men.

~§~

Aramis gasped awake in complete darkness, the sudden intake of rushed air feeling like a knife, stabbing at his chest. He looked around, eyes fumbling with reality, pain clouding his thoughts. For a second, the Musketeer was completely lost on his whereabouts.

The sturdy stone walls and the ever present smell of melted wax were almost as familiar to him as the smell of gunpowder and straw from the garrison. He was inside a church... somewhere.

No! Not somewhere, he was at the monastery of Mount Saint-Michel, surrounded by the dead monks that once took residence there.

Athos!

Suddenly Aramis could put a name to the sense of unease he had been feeling since waking up, one that had nothing to do with the ailing of his lungs. He was supposed to be taking care of Athos, but, instead, his senses had betrayed him and he had fallen asleep. How could he so irresponsible?

For all he knew, his brother could have died alone and unattended, as Aramis slept like there was absolutely no pressing matters to attend to. Fool!

Resisting the urge to slap himself, Aramis searched the room for his fellow Musketeer. Even in the dying light of the fireplace and the meager moonlight seeping through the high windows, Athos should be easy enough to spot, had he been in the same place they had left him, laying under the covers on the bed.

He was not.

"Athos?"

The rush of panic that took over the marksman was enough to erase all aches and pains and shortcomings he could have been feeling. Where the hell was Athos? How had he been able to even stand, let alone walk?

"Athos!"

Aramis searched everywhere inside the sick room, sure that Athos' injury would have not allowed him to wander far. However, it soon became obvious that the swordsman was not the in the room. Which left him with an entire monastery to search. Alone.

"ATHOS!"