The Comte de Rochefort was happy. Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it in his bones- he had recently been invited to the upper echelons of the Royal court; his coffers were relatively full, and he had woken up with a beautiful woman in his arms (one of the benefits of having a healthy bank balance.)

He looked up into the blueness of the Parisian sky, barely a cloud to shadow his face as he walked purposefully to the palace from his lodgings. If all days could be like this he could die a happy man. All he had to do now whas schmooze his way to the King's side, and he would be unstoppable.

He usually rode in a carriage to the Palace, but this day he wanted to walk, to savour the crisp air and the sunshine. As he turned to walk up the long road to the palace his eyes were caught by a clamouring of dirty peasants huddling round an equally dirty man, who was gabbling at them all like a madman.

Rochefort frowned, slowing a little to see what this man was saying- he was attracting a large crowd, and he pondered whether to flag down a red guard to clean this scum off the street. It was creating a spectacle, and so near the palace too.

'What do we have here?' He called loudly to the group. As the crowd parted, eyes flicking to the ground as he sauntered over to them, he noticed the man's shirt was almost matted with blood, and he had a nasty cut at his shoulder.

'A bar room brawl?' He spat, eyeing him up. 'Nasty habits you people have.'

'No Sir, not at all-' the man threw himself forwards, eyes wide as he shook his head. 'Living dead men did this! They came alive and did this!' He opened his shirt, grimacing as he turned his neck to show the slash mark in his clavicle.

'What?' Rochefort frowned at his words, before turning up his nose as the man moved to grasp his cloak. 'Unhand me! I think drink has addled your brain- someone take him away and out of my sight!'

'Dead men are walking!' The man yelled, eyes wide as he nodded. 'I swear on all that is holy! I swear it!'

Rochefort, despite his disgust at the state of the man and the insanity of his words, oddly felt compelled by his ludicrous story. 'Where? Show me.' He ordered, motioning for the man to follow him.

'It is a day's ride, I have only just returned, I-'

'Very well- come with me then.' He turned and walked off, leaving the man to stumble after him.

Once they were in the relative shelter of a courtyard Rochefort turned and, in one movement, grasped the man by the lapel and slammed him into a wall.

'Now run that by me again- dead men came back to life? How?'

'We were just minding our business and they came upon us and -'

Rochefort sneered and, moving his hand over the cut mark on his shoulder, squeezed it. The man sucked in a pained breath, tears erupting in his eyes as blood oozed down his chest.

'Come now. If you are telling the truth, these men are supposed to be dead, no?' He smiled sardonically as he released the man, who flinched back, face now pale. 'Now. What happened?'

'They were carrying the entire fortune of a nearby village. We pretended to help, to escort them. When we were alone we fired upon them to steal the money…' he eyed Rochefort warily.

'Your petty crimes do not trouble me- what happened after?' He said, impatient now.

'We were counting the money by the fire when we heard a noise- we turned to find them all up as if we had missed every shot, but we had not. Their blood flooded the ground, they were shot up, but they were alive. They started shooting us, stabbing us, I barely escaped with my-'

'Where did these men go?' Rochefort interrupted him, not interested in his life story. Dead men, arisen as if not affected by mortal weapons. If this crackpot was to be believed, that was.

'Tell me you saw where they went?'

'I-I ran into the forest, fleeing for my life.' The man swallowed as Rochefort rolled his eyes. 'But, but I followed them at a distance as they moved off. One of them spoke of Paris. They could be here by now.'

'They're coming here?' Rochefort breathed, mind whirring. How fortunate.

'Sir I tell you, do not seek these men!' The man shuddered as Rochefort stepped back. 'They are abominations, devilry!'

'Yes, yes…' Rochefort nodded to appease him, rolling his eyes again. 'What do they look like? Any distinguishing marks?'

The man hesitated, eyes widening as he thought. 'They wore plain clothes, however one, a man with brown hair, had on a red scarf. The others were plain.'

'A red scarf.' Rochefort resisted the urge to close his eyes in frustration. 'How….easy to spot…'

'They would be newcomers, I-' the man suddenly turned his head, eyes widening once more. 'There!' He gabbled, nodding his head. 'Him, he's there!'

Rochefort turned, unwilling to believe his luck could be so good. A man was walking the outskirts of the courtyard, a brown bag in his hands and a red scarf around his neck. 'You're sure?'

'Positive.' The man relaxed as Rochefort stepped backwards. The two men looked at each other, before Rochefort realised why the man was staring at him. He sighed and dig deep in his pocket, throwing a handful of Livre onto the cobblestones, before walking off, following the man in the red scarf as he walked the alleyways of Paris.

After an hour the man turned and headed into a tavern, which Rochefort knew was relatively quiet at this time of the morning. After waiting for a few beats Rochefort entered, spying the man at a table in the far corner, a glass of ale in hand and a plate of bread, cheese and meat in front of him.

'Travelled far?' He called as he waited at the bar. The man tensed, turning his head towards him with narrowed eyes.

'You look tired. I haven't seen you around before, and I know everybody.' Rochefort explained easily, throwing a sous onto the bar as he was handed a drink.

'Is that so?' The man said, spearing some meat on his fork as Rochefort advanced, planting himself on the chair opposite him.

'Yes.' Rochefort nodded. 'You can call me Rochefort.' He offered his hand.

'Marsac.' Marsac accepted the handshake, voice still wary.

'Another drink?' Rochefort asked, before waving the barman over. 'You look like a man who likes a drink.'

'That obvious?' Marsac snorted, before ordering his drink. 'What do you want?'

Rochefort smiled, sitting back. He nodded to Marsac's red scarf, smiling appreciatively. 'I am a man that people like to talk to, you know? Just this morning a fellow, injured and bleeding, told me quite an absurd story of a group of people who…' he stopped, delighting in the way Marsac's eyes widened a fraction. 'Well…silly really…he seemed to suggest that some recently deceased people just…woke up. Killed many of his friends.'

'Is that so?' Marsac said, shrugging as he popped some cheese in his mouth. 'What an imagination.'

'Quite. He seemed so sure, and he was also able to tell me that one of the dead men wore a red scarf, just like yours…' Rochefort smiled wider. 'Also, and here's the smoking gun….he pointed you out in the street. Fancy that.'

'Fancy that.' Marsac echoed, pushing his plate away. A few weighted seconds passed. 'What do you want?'

Rochefort couldn't believe his luck- he would have thought an admission would be like getting blood out of a stone. He could just imagine the fortune he could amass from a troupe of never-dying men. He would be famous through Paris, no, the world…

'Must be tiring.' He muttered, taking a gulp of wine to show he wanted just a cordial chat. 'To live for so long and never to die. All those years, alone I take it?'

Marsac eyed him, saying nothing. He looked to the door- he cursed himself for leaving his weapons in the safe house.

'Please. No need to run- I mean you no harm.' He spread his hands out, shrugging. 'It's fascinating, is all. I am a man of science, but-' he touched his crucifix and eyed the heavens. '-don't speak too loud or He may hear..' he grinned.

'Science cannot explain this. Nothing can.' Marsac said ruefully, taking a swallow of what tasted like rum that the barman handed him.

'I beg to differ. These are enlightened times, despite what you may hear. I have a friend- he could help, I'm sure.'

'Help?' Marsac scoffed. 'How?'

'He can find out what makes you live. He could turn it off, perhaps. Would you like that?'

Marsac breathed in, eying the man up. He didn't know whether to trust him, but he seemed sincere. Aramis and Porthos has expected him back with the ingredients for their evening meal over an hour ago. Athos was due to meet them that night. He needed to get back, yet….

'Come now…' Rochefort shrugged. 'How old are you?'

'Too old.'

'Living forever can't be fun. You've lost people I bet, haven't you? People you loved. Gone, yet you keep on living.'

Marsac swallowed, images of his sons wafting in front of his mind. 'It's…hard. When you have no one.'

'Yes, I can barely imaging your pain of living whilst others perish.' Rochefort said, nodding at his words. Finally he stood, scraping his chair back on the flagstone floor. 'I can help you- my friend is more than able to help. Perhaps speak to the others, see if they would be willing to talk. Meet me back here tomorrow with their answer?'

'They will not want to talk, but I can try.' Marsac nodded.

'Marsac, you will not regret this.' Rochefort smiled, shaking his hand again. 'Your troubles may soon be over, my friend.'

'I have to go now.' Marsac said, gathering his things.

'Of course…' Rochefort followed him out, before watching as Marsac loped down the street, looking back suspiciously.

He turned and dropped a bag of Livre in a scruffy man's lap. Hugh was useful at times like this. 'Follow that man, report to me where he lives.'

Nodding once, Hugh stood and walked away, following Marsac as he made his way back to the safe house.