Anne was still smiling over some private intrigue when Aramis locked the door after Constance. Her smiles always delighted him, since he was so used to seeing her expression of almost unnaturally controlled poise—and in the last two days, fatigue. But her color was higher now, and she had eaten dinner, and seemed less weary, all good things.

He raised an eyebrow. "What amuses you?"

She played with a fold of her dress over her crossed leg. "It's very evident to me how strongly my friend feels about monsieur d'Artagnan."

"I think he might have some doubt about her feelings," Aramis said.

"Perhaps it is selfish of me to have brought her with me, when they could be happy..."

"Except that I seem to remember it was her idea."

"But I still might have insisted she remain in the city."

"You shouldn't be alone, not even after we reach our destination." Aramis pulled out the chair and sat in it, placing his belts of weapons on the table now that the food dishes were cleared away.

"I am not alone, I have you."

"I cannot stay long." He allowed regret to enter his voice, because he felt it, after all. He would deny his heart, he would go back. That did not mean it was going to be easy.

"Do you remember?" She was still looking down, twisting pieces of fabric in her fingers, but eventually she glanced up. "How it was with us?"

He didn't know if that was a rhetorical question. Did he remember. Of course he remembered, try as he did to put her out of his mind the moment she ever crossed it. Of course he remembered, despite the fact that he had been with women before and after her, and the ones after had never satisfied.

"Tell me," he said. "How was it...with us?"

"I told myself not to think of it. Not to remember. But it meant—too much to forget. At least to me. I didn't know—I don't know—if you felt the same."

"If you're not certain of how I felt, I must have failed. My concern was...I suppose still is...that you would regret what happened between us." He watched her intently now, perceiving the emotions flitting unguarded across her face. When she did not speak, he pursued—"Do you?"

"No." Anne's hands stilled.

He stood up, aware that they were treading a path together fraught with potential complications, aware of the fragility of all of it, not wanting to destroy anything. Not wanting to deprive himself unnecessarily, either.

Anne blinked at him as he came, slowly, to stand in front of her. Then he dropped to one knee because he didn't want her to be in his shadow, and took her hand. "And now," he said, "if I kiss you, will you regret it?"

"No." She shook her head.

He indulged, then, bringing their faces together in a way that was first rather pure, almost chaste, but then quickly became less so.

"Aramis," she breathed.

"Yes, my love."

Her eyes widened, and then she was pulling him up on the bed towards her, and he had no will whatsoever to resist.


D'Artagnan hadn't really intended to stay in the hallway for long, but although there were boisterous noises coming from the tavern's main room downstairs, the hallway itself was surprisingly quiet at this early hour. Not an unpleasant place to linger, given that he wanted some space.

He sank to the ground, propping his elbows on his knees and adjusting his sword so it lay comfortably beside him, then popped open the cork of the bottle. "Just you and I, my friend," he told it, and indulged in a long swallow and a corresponding moment of self-pity. Constance was wrong—he did understand. Well, he could imagine what it was like to be in her position. But she hadn't even wanted to hear what he would offer. He wasn't asking her to be his mistress. Not that he would have refused if she had made such a proposition, if he was being completely honest with himself, but the fact was, his sense of honor wouldn't have allowed him to bring it up first. Now here they were, less close than ever. He didn't want to leave her like this.

Not that he would have wanted to leave her after spending the night together, either.

His head was beginning to ache. He took another drink of the alcohol. It warmed his stomach pleasantly enough. He tipped his head back, letting it fall against the wall in a not-so-gentle thump.

Someone was singing their way, bawdily, up the stairs. D'Artagnan put the cork back in the bottle, just to be prudent. Whoever it was seemed already adequately under the influence, but sometimes such a one had had just enough to be on the lookout for more. He stood up; the hallways were too narrow and he'd be impeding the other's progress.

"What's this? Been banished, yes?" The speaker—the singer—upon quick evaluation was probably harmless, a portly fellow ten years or thereabouts his senior, swaying as he paused at the end of the hall.

D'Artagnan rubbed the back of his neck and debated his options. Remaining silent was usually the most advisable course of action.

"W-what could've you done wrong? Whores aren't usually so particular, are they?"

He had his sword drawn and leveled several inches from the man's neck within a few heartbeats. "I suggest more walking and less speculating, monsieur."

"Pah! In need of a brawl, are you?" The older man leaned away, rather close to the railing. He reeked of alcohol.

"I had no wish to fight until your poor choice of words. Apologize and you may be on your way." He knew Constance would have the sense not to open the door to investigate, unless her curiosity proved too great (which was an actual possibility).

"I have not said anything f-for which I wish to apologize."

"Then perhaps you would give me the satisfaction of a name and a time when we can revisit this conversation. Ideally, for your sake, when you're less inebriated."

"No need," said the other, struggling to whip out a dagger, which had, to its credit, a wickedly sharp blade that if drawn faster might have done some damage—but d'Artagnan used the hilt of his rapier to knock it out of the way over the railing, where it clattered somewhere below. He looked after it, d'Artagnan's sword once again at his neck, and then back, frowning. "Well, as you say. Quite. May I offer...my condolences. My..."

"Apologies?"

He tilted his head, rolling his eyes. D'Artagnan thought about running him through, but it wasn't the honorable thing to do. He waited a few more moments until the man grudgingly mumbled something sufficiently regretful, and then stepped back, withdrawing the blade. The other huffed down the hallway and disappeared into another room with a dirty look.

The door to the neighboring room slid open and Aramis' head appeared. "Everything all right out here?"

"Quite," d'Artagnan said, tilting his blade and looking down the length of it. "Good of you to check in."

It was rare that Aramis was ever lost for words, but he seemed to be struggling for them in that moment, before he finally said, "I was not exactly, er, dressed for combat."

D'Artagnan stared at him, not even trying to hide the disbelief he knew was spreading across his features. Mixed with something else. Anger probably. Maybe jealousy and concern and some other emotions he had no particular words for.

Aramis winced, looked back over his shoulder into the room, looked back at him.

D'Artagnan shook his head and refused to speak; it would only be things he would probably wish to take back, and even if they were true, they weren't going to change the situation.

But one thing would be said...

"You are unbelievable."

"d'Artagnan..."

"No. You're actually crack-brained, do you realize that?" So much for not saying anything, but he felt resentment forming a storm in his chest and it had to escape somehow.

Aramis glanced behind him again and stepped outside into the hall, pulling the door closed. He was, at least, wearing pants and had his rapier belted on. D'Artagnan gestured, palm up, in sarcastic approval of these items.

"I am not going to receive that as a personal insult," Aramis said, holding his index finger aloft as if to ward him off, "because I know you're angry and you don't mean it."

"I do in fact mean it."

Aramis sighed and dipped his head, then tossed it back at the sky. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything. Or do anything. But it appears as if it's too late for that." He couldn't bring himself to put his sword away, even though he knew he ought to.

"Go back inside." Aramis nodded his head sideways, his mouth set in a line less angry than resigned.

"Are you giving me orders now?"

"It was more of a suggestion," the other musketeer said, evenly.

"You're not our captain," d'Artagnan said, whip-fast.

"Thank the Lord in His goodness and mercy for that. But I am a decade your senior, and I am in charge of this mission, and I'm damned if I am going to stand in this hallway half-clothed and argue with you a minute longer."

"Then one of us should probably return to his room."

"All right. You're angry—"

"I'm not..."

"—and we can talk about this later." Aramis made it sound like a question. He took two measured steps backward and let himself back into the room.

"What is done is done," d'Artagnan muttered. He blew out a breath between his teeth.

At least Constance was still within. Perhaps she'd somehow managed to fall asleep during all of it. He ought to go back himself, but he couldn't bring himself to, just yet, so he stayed out and brooded a while longer.


The abbey of Saint-Pierre Mozac, their second destination after having moved on from the connection in Vouet, was located high in the mountains. It was here the women were to stay and assimilate into the community until such time as Minister Tréville advised otherwise.

En-route to the abbey, Aramis explained who their first connection within would be: a faultlessly loyal man placed by Tréville, going by the name of Boguain. There would be a secondary contact to fall back on—owners of a nearby estate, but Constance and Anne would have to do their best to fit in with the others here, living apart from the world as much as possible, in order to optimize their safety. Communication with Paris would be coded, slow and complicated, subject to delays. Constance and Anne would need to look after themselves, work, pray, garden and keep to the rules of the abbey just like the rest of its inhabitants.

The abbey was a long day's ride from Vouet, and they arrived at the base of the mountains as dusk was gathering in the river gorge below. Boguain was to meet them at dawn. They made camp with little conversation, sobered by a shared awareness of the upcoming separation of ways. Aramis and d'Artagnan would remain nearby, in the town of Riom, for a short period—perhaps a few days—before making the return journey to Paris to report to Tréville.

Aramis drew Anne away from the others, into the cover of darkening forest away from the firelight. She followed him, anxious, thinking he had something particular to relay, but he told her gently it was only he didn't want to make their farewell in the morning. She was grave, resolute; he appreciated her strength of character in that moment, that she had no tears or questions—though he would not have blamed her for either. She took his hands and thanked him, and if there was an element in her voice of feeling that suggested she did want to know when she would see him again, or if they could ever be together as they had, she did not actually say the words.

And he almost told her he loved her, just as he'd almost told her when they'd passed the night in each other's arms, bodies intertwined and hearts pounding, but he did not, and perhaps it was for the better. "God keep you and save you, my queen," he did say, and he pressed a kiss into her hand and placed it against his heart.

Then Constance and d'Artagnan took a similar venture away from the illumination of the fire, and were gone longer; their interaction was perhaps somewhat more stormy, for she returned with flushed cheeks and eyes bright with tears, and he with a face that did not invite questioning, or indeed communication of any kind.

There was no sitting around the campfire that night; they ate the last of their provisions, the women went to sleep veiled in their cloaks and Aramis and d'Artagnan both sat up, watching the progress of the moon over the star-blanketed sky. And dawn came, bringing Boguain with it to shepherd the women up the hills to their temporary asylum. Aramis and d'Artagnan rode away and watched, from the top of a parallel cliff, until the women had gained admittance through the abbey's main gates.


Present day - Spring

Since being granted the captaincy of the musketeers, Athos had had plenty of opportunities to deliver information both positive and negative to those under his command. Most of the time, he didn't concern himself overmuch with their reactions.

It was, occasionally, slightly more complicated when those under his command had also for years been his compatriots. His friends.

He knew how to tell them things. He could predict with fairly infallible accuracy how they would react to any given situation.

But they sometimes surprised him.

On the heels of his meeting with Minister Tréville, he was aware that this might be one of those instances where he could not be certain what type of reaction his news would provoke. And so when he called them into his office, he took a few moments to gauge their individual and collective moods.

Porthos seemed sunny, as was normal for him. D'Artagnan was definitely off, thanks to his overindulgence from the night before. Aramis was harder to read.

Athos offered glasses of wine from the decanter on the desk in front of him. d'Artagnan declined with a quick shake of his head, while the other two accepted.

Athos stood behind his table and said, "Take chairs," gesturing to the furniture—rarely used, as debriefings tended not to be lengthy. The men exchanged glances, and did as suggested. Porthos sat on his chair backwards and leaned on the back, draining his glass. Aramis tugged at his top two buckles. D'Artagnan tried to look as if he were paying attention.

"As you know, these past few months have been..." Athos paused. "Not without difficulties. The minister has been doing his best to maintain control in the absence of our queen. He tells me today that he has, among other things, cleaned up the red guard—"

"We could have done that for him anytime," Porthos rumbled.

Athos continued, "—and got control of the political situation—"

"That's a little vague," Aramis put in.

"Well, he was a little vague. May I finish?"

They made deferential gestures. D'Artagnan winced, as if his head was still hurting, or perhaps starting to again.

"...Are you with us, d'Artagnan?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. As I was saying—the political situation. Is far from completely sorted, but he believes the time has come to retrieve the queen."

They all straightened, attentive. He gave them each a look in turn.

"This retrieval will be just as delicate a situation as it was when we sent her into safety, if not more so. It is for that reason that I myself will be going."

"Who are you taking with you?" Porthos, again the least personally affected, was the one to ask.

"Aramis will be accompanying me."

He watched d'Artagnan, half expecting words of protest, some argument, some physical reaction to the choice. Aramis, too, seemed to be attentive, because though he didn't move his head, he cast his eyes sideways at the youngest of the musketeers.

But d'Artagnan's face held, though Athos could see his knuckles tightening on the arms of the chair.

"When do we leave?" Aramis asked.

"Tomorrow at daybreak." Athos stacked into order a sheaf of papers that had fallen to the side. "There are some preparations to be made. Porthos, I will have some tasks that I will be leaving in your hands." The dark-skinned musketeer nodded in assent.

Athos made a triangle with this thumbs and fingers, considering. "Are there any further questions?"

"Who's in charge while you're gone?" Porthos said with a grin.

"As a matter of fact I am still deliberating on that decision."

Aramis drained his drink and set it down on the edge of the desk. "Tomorrow, then."

"Yes. And if there is nothing else, you are all free to go."

D'Artagnan was the first off his chair, followed by Porthos and Aramis, who took the time to slide their chairs to the side.

"D'Artagnan." He called him back, while Porthos and Aramis filed out, the sound of their bootsteps fading away into the night.

"Captain."

Athos came round the desk, because the younger man hadn't turned, was still standing in the middle of the room where he'd halted him, facing away.

"My choice was not a reflection on you."

D'Artagnan nodded, eyes downcast.

"Look at me."

It seemed to take an extreme effort of will, but when he did, Athos was, for a moment, unprepared to see the amount of pain in his eyes. Perhaps it was not new, perhaps it had been there ever since he'd come back from the initial journey to the abbey, but he was just now seeing some of it revealed.

"You haven't done anything wrong. You're not being punished. This is just what makes sense."

"Yes, Captain."

Athos reached out—he'd let his gaze fall again—and rested a hand on the back of his neck, hoping to impart some comfort, some clarity, by the gesture. "Do you believe me?"

D'Artagnan was silent for a long instant. "I haven't known you to lie to me before."

"And I do not now."

"But—" He cut himself off, almost before Athos could. Athos appreciated the self-control. It bode well.

He released his hold and said, turning, almost casually, "I'm naming you acting captain while I am away."

D'Artagnan's face was instantly alive with conflicting emotion again. "Me?" he said, in little more than a whisper.

Athos inclined his head. "Trusting, of course, that you're fully aware of and able to accept the responsibility I'm giving you."

"Yes—Captain."

"I don't expect that you'll disappoint me."

D'Artagnan nodded fractionally, the sudden combination of hope and fear solidifying on his face making him look much younger than usual.

"Now go sleep off that headache. Dismissed."

He knew from communications over the past few months that a direct ride to the abbey on accomplished horsemen could be completed in a day and a half, so he estimated they would return with the women in less than a week. He wasn't worried about leaving the garrison in d'Artagnan's hands for that length of time, especially since Porthos would not resent the temporary commission and would provide ample assistance. D'Artagnan might be doubting himself, but it was probably just the assignment he needed, and a necessary distraction since he had to remain behind in any case.

Athos emptied the decanter into the last glass and drank to the fact that the meeting had gone as smoothly as it had.

Tomorrow, he was sure, would bring its own problems.