A/N: Thank you pallysAramisRios for reviewing!

Chapter 2

Aramis waited in the woods until nightfall before entering the camp. He stayed away from the road and the bridge that had people congregated around braziers and instead crossed the small stream where it was shallowest. Once he was on the other side, he pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head and meandered through the tents and various campfires where families had gathered to share the evening meal, navigating his way toward Emilie's lodging. The good thing about there being so many people there was it was easy to go unnoticed as one of them.

He slowed his pace as he approached Emilie's tent, sweeping his gaze around. When there was a break between passing peasants, he carefully backed up and slipped through the outer tent flaps. Emilie's voice wafted out from the inner sanctum.

"The anguish and suffering, the cries for help. I feel I'm in Hell."

Aramis paused just inside, remaining behind the second layer of canvas folds.

"God is showing you the agonies of the damned," came the reply. The older woman who never seemed to leave Emilie's side. "So you know what will happen if you fail."

Aramis faltered. He'd thought Emilie was the orchestrator behind all this, but perhaps she was being encouraged. There was still the matter of her visions, though, and while the others obviously doubted her, Aramis could hear the genuine pain and fear in her voice just now as she spoke of them. It triggered memories of his own recent experience with terrible, haunting visions.

The tent flap suddenly flipped open as the black man from earlier entered. For a split second, they both froze at the sight of each other. Then the man swung the scythe in his hand and Aramis ducked underneath it. He had only his sword with him but he didn't dare draw to spill blood and instead brandished it like a staff, knocking the man aside.

Unfortunately, several more men came charging in at the commotion. Aramis whipped his cloak off and thwacked it in one man's face, disorienting him enough to follow through with clubbing him with the side of his sheathed blade. But there were too many and he was soon seized by multiple hands and flung to the ground inside the tent, his weapon yanked away.

"We've captured an assassin!"

"Kill him," the old woman snapped.

"No!" Aramis grunted as his arms were pulled back and his head forced down as he was held pinned to the floor on his knees. "I mean no harm. I'm here to see Emilie," he exclaimed.

"Let God's work be done," the old woman declared.

Aramis strained against the men holding him as the black man set the scythe to his neck and raised it high to strike.

"Wait!" Emilie yelled, surging to her feet.

Everyone stopped at her command, and Aramis lifted his head toward her, blood roaring in his ears.

Emilie moved to stand before him. "I know you. You're one of the Musketeers."

"I heard you preach," he said, fumbling for what to say to convince them not to kill him on the spot. "I…I was inspired, I want to hear more."

"He looks Spanish," the older woman said disparagingly.

"I'm French!" he retorted.

"They've sent him to kill you," she went on.

"No," he pleaded, looking at Emilie as she knelt in front of him, her gaze searching.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I've deserted, to join your cause," he answered hurriedly.

Emilie considered him for another moment before nodding to the men to release him. Aramis's labored breathing stuttered as he was finally let go. He stayed where he was, though, on his knees, knowing he was still at their mercy.

Emilie got to her feet, still regarding him with thorough contemplation. After another moment, she held out her hand to help him up and he took it.

"Have a seat," she said casually.

Aramis's nerves were still ringing from his near brush with execution and he didn't move right away. He glanced at the black man who was still holding his scythe threateningly, but at least Emilie seemed to have his leash firmly in hand. Aramis slowly moved toward one of the short stools by the cooking fire and sat down.

The older woman dished out some stew into a bowl and handed it to Emilie. She glared at him scathingly as she served him one as well. Then she went outside with the man to converse in private.

"My mother is very protective," Emilie said by way of explanation.

Ah, that explained some things.

"Are you really a deserter, Aramis?" she asked over their supper.

He tried not to flinch, already regretting that ruse, though he'd had little time to think of something better in the heat of the moment. The word stung, too, echoes of his dead comrades from Savoy spitting that accusation at him. He tried to push them away.

"When I heard you preach, I knew…this was where I belonged." He looked up as the older woman returned. "As a soldier, I'm used to following orders," he went on. "But sometimes a man must follow his conscience instead."

"Even though they might hang you?" Emilie challenged.

He waited a beat before answering soberly, "Even then."

She smiled with delight. "I will ask the King to pardon you. I'm expecting an audience very soon. I've dreamt it will happen."

Aramis hesitated. Again, Emilie seemed sincere when speaking about her visions. "Do your dreams always come true?" he asked carefully.

"Always."

Again, he could only detect sincerity in her. She truly believed what she was saying, that was for certain. The question was whether her perceptions and reality were congruent.

"People are calling you Joan of Arc reborn," he said, standing to dish out more stew for himself, in an effort to keep the dinner conversation going.

Emilie shook her head in disbelief. "I am not Joan." Her confident demeanor slipped. "I lack the courage to face the flames as she did," she admitted.

"But God has always spoken to you?" he pressed.

"When I sleep."

When she slept. Then how could she be certain her dreams were from God and not just an overactive imagination?

"I'm glad you're here, Aramis," she said, brightening again. "You will be at my side when we ride into Madrid."

He barely managed to return her smile and it came out more as a grimace. That certainly wasn't going to come to pass. Was she basing that statement on confidence because he'd played his part well or did she think God was giving her that message?

Despite Aramis's assertion in front of his friends that Emilie might be truly blessed, he found himself very uncomfortable. Supposing God did speak to her, how did Aramis reconcile these messages of hate with the God of love he believed in?

They finished their supper and Emilie's mother shooed Aramis out for the night. There was a goats' pen just across from her tent, and he brushed some hay together before settling down for the night, though he didn't try to sleep right away. His thoughts were in tumult. There was enough light from all the various fires lit throughout the camp that he was able to pull out his Bible, which he'd brought with him, to read. The Word had always given him guidance.

Noises from the camp died down as everyone eventually bedded down for the night, leaving a still silence save for the crackling of flames.

It was abruptly broken by strangled cries coming from Emilie's tent.

"No! No! Stay back! No!"

Her shrieks continued. Aramis saw the older woman's shadow cross the tent to Emilie's cot, though her pained cries didn't stop for some time.

Aramis stayed where he was, his troubled thoughts stirred up again. If God spoke to Emilie when she slept, it did not sound pleasant. He remembered what he'd overheard when he'd first come here, how Emilie said she felt as though she were in Hell. How could that be from God?

Maybe Rochefort was right and it was witchcraft, just not of Emilie's own doing. Like how Milady had afflicted Aramis with tormenting visions of his dead brothers-in-arms. But who would be behind it and to what purpose? To instigate war with Spain? Could that be Milady's doing? No, he didn't see a motive. Her sights were set on more personal revenge.

Another of Emilie's screams had Aramis reaching for his rosary. Were they dealing with another witch, then? That was just what they needed.

Aramis closed his eyes and bowed his head, pressing the rosary to his lips. Our God in Heaven, these evil forces seem to be so prevalent now. How can we combat them? I pray for Your might to aid us. Let us not be overcome.

.o.0.o.

The next morning Aramis was woken by the old woman who told him Emilie wanted to see him. But first she had him accompany her to the stream to fetch some water. Aramis broached the subject of Emilie's dreams, but the girl's mother remained staunch in her belief that her daughter was some kind of prophet. She seemed to relish the fanatics' attention more than Emilie did.

They returned to the tent where Emilie was sitting before the cooking fire, fidgeting with what looked like restless excitement. She looked up with a breaking smile as Aramis entered.

"I had a vision," she told him. "I saw you and me with the King. You were close by my side." She reached out to clasp his hand in both of hers. "I was happy."

Aramis couldn't bring himself to return her elation. The more he saw of Emilie of Duras, the more she seemed so young and innocent. Childlike, in a way. A child with a power she didn't understand or know how to use with grave responsibility.

He moved to sit across from her, letting gravity drop his hand out of hers. He forced out a smile. "What else did you dream of?"

She looked at him blankly.

"I heard your screams," he explained.

Emilie's expression shifted. "Death. Suffering," she said with a small shrug, like it was a common feature in her nightly visits. "A terror like a sharp blade cutting at my soul. I pray when the Spanish are defeated, God brings me peace."

Aramis's heart twinged with sympathy. He more than most could understand what she was going through, though he wasn't going to try to explain his own ordeal to her. That wasn't what was important here.

"How can you be so sure these visions come from God?" he asked.

"I feel God's light inside me. I have no doubts. Even in the agony there is a joy beyond comprehension. This is all His will," she said earnestly, gesturing toward Heaven. "It's not mine. How can I ignore it?"

Aramis didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't very well suggest her visions were from evil; that certainly wouldn't go over well. And she was so certain that her faith was true. But if her faith was in line with God, then what of Aramis's? He did not believe God wanted the Spanish slaughtered. His God espoused love, not hate. Peace, not violence. One of them was wrong, but how to find tangible proof in the face of an intangible, immeasurable God?

Emilie smiled again and stood. "Walk with me?"

Aramis rose slowly and followed her out. The camp was bustling with activity, not the least of which was people sharpening their blades in preparation for war. But these were peasants, not soldiers. If they marched on Spain, there would be a slaughter alright. But Aramis wasn't making any headway here on putting a stop to it. He was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.

In the sky in the distance, he saw a red dragon circling high above the countryside and relaxed slightly. He wished there was a way to send word to the others about his status, but he couldn't risk it.

"My people are restless," Emilie spoke up. "They love their King. Why does he not love them? I don't know how long I can contain their anger."

Aramis turned his attention back to her. "That sounds like a threat."

A child ran up to Emilie and she smiled brightly in greeting, taking the little girl's hand so she could walk with them.

"The King and I are both servants of God," Emilie said. "We must obey His will. He must send for me soon."

"If you march on Spain, most of these people will die," Aramis said, trying to appeal to reason. "Do you think God can protect them from muskets, artillery, gunpowder, dragons?"

Emilie bit her lip for a small moment before looking him in the eye. "I know He will. Faith is the only armor we need."

Aramis exhaled in frustration. That was the problem with faith—it defied reason.

"Why Spain?" he tried next. "Why not England or the Holy Roman Empire?"

"It is not for me to say."

"You think God told you explicitly that King Philip was the Antichrist?" he pressed.

Emilie gazed back at him, unfazed. "I know you don't believe in me, Aramis. But I know you for a good man." She bent down to pick the little girl up in her arms. "You won't betray me."

Aramis's conscience twinged at him. That was exactly what he'd come here to do.

So did that disprove Emilie's faith in God's so-called prophecies…or his?

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan took Ayelet out to do an aerial survey of the encampment. It was difficult to tell without actual numbers, but there was an obvious train of people arriving that only added to Emilie's mass of followers. And that didn't include the groups in the city that were forming the mobs and attacking anyone they thought was Spanish.

He caught sight of Rhaego flying in a wide circle and waved to him. The russet dragon veered away to land on an outcrop of rocks far from the edge of the camp. Given the small concealment it provided, d'Artagnan guessed he'd spent the entire night out there.

"Have you seen Aramis?" he asked once he and Ayelet landed as well.

Rhaego bobbed his head in the affirmative, which was a relief. At least Aramis seemed to be doing okay in the camp. D'Artagnan wondered about his progress but of course they couldn't go in and ask, and he imagined Aramis would find it difficult to get away without drawing suspicion.

Rhaego's expression turned sullen, and d'Artagnan could imagine how frustrated he was at having to stay away.

"Aramis can handle himself," he assured the dragon. "Have you eaten?"

Rhaego hunched down, which d'Artagnan took as a negative.

"Why don't you go get some food," he suggested. "Ayelet and I will stay here and stand watch until you get back."

Rhaego flicked a hesitant look toward the camp before relenting and taking off.

D'Artagnan stayed in the saddle, both his and Ayelet's gazes directed toward the growing army and the lone musketeer in their midst.