Warning: Brief, graphic description of violence ahead.

Aramis tugged at the edges of his hood, pulling it down low and tilting his head so that very little of his face would be visible to the casual passerby. He tried to minimize his tall frame by hunching his shoulders against the frigid wind, shrinking down into himself in an effort to make himself as unmemorable as possible. It took a concerted effort not to drag his feet as he walked along, his leaden limbs weighed down by exhaustion. He had reached Susa so much later than his contact expected that Aramis wasn't certain whether his message would be received and passed on, but he had left it as agreed. All he could do now was pray that something on this godforsaken mission would go his way.

The cathedral was large, much larger than Aramis would have expected for a town the size of Susa. It was not an elegant building, like so many of the churches in Paris with their ornate carvings and delicate spires, but was rather build like a fortress, square and resolute in the face of heavy snows and harsh weather. A flash of uncertainty made him pause, and he surreptitiously glanced about himself as he approached his selected sanctuary. A vagrant sat on the street at the corner of the cathedral, muttering to himself, and the other people in the street paid him no mind. Aramis craved a few moments of peace, and hoped that he would not be sacrificing his survival for such a brief, ephemeral bit of relief.

As he pulled open the heavy, unassuming doors and stepped inside, the warm scent of old wood and candle wax enveloped him. The inside of the cathedral was dimly lit by a few flickering torches hoisted along the colonnade and what seemed to be a thousand candles on every available flat surface. Breathing in deeply and muffling a cough into his fist, Aramis seated himself at one of the middle pews, hiding on the end where the shadows were most pronounced. Despite the sharp, nervous vigilance that had kept him alert and alive the past few weeks, the marksman eventually felt a profound sense of calm wash over him as he simply sat and rested, momentarily free from the immediate fear of being caught. Bone-deep fatigue worked against him and his head drooped forward, eyes slipping shut without his permission.

"This way!" Girard hissed at him from the mouth of the alleyway, waving him along. "Took you long enough."

Aramis stepped in beside his partner and the two took off in a brisk walk. No running, as it would have attracted unwanted attention.

"Sorry," Aramis whispered. "Marques was very skittish. It took some convincing before he would agree to send our message."

"And with good reason," Girard muttered. "God damn Bianchi. God damn that traitor to hell. I should have slit his throat when I had the chance."

Aramis frowned. Perhaps it would have been better to let Girard murder the miserable man. They had been given no indication that Bianchi had turned, and when they had found out, it was too late. Girard had wanted to take a shot at the informant, but Aramis had insisted they run. There were too many enemies around them, and no allies. And run they had, fleeing like foxes in before a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.

The two men wound through the streets of Torino, and Aramis had no idea where they were going. It seemed as though they had been walking forever, and yet they never seemed to make any progress. Fear began to rise up inside of the young Musketeer, creeping up his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. They walked and walked, and suddenly, the heavy sound of boots pounding against cobblestone began to follow them. In front of them, Spanish soldiers appeared, shaped by the dark mist swirling in the street.

"Aramis, run!"

Aramis peeled off to his left. Girard followed. The marksman pulled out one of his pistols and fired into the darkness, watching as the ball tore through one of the soldiers. The soldier dissipated into a fine vapor, and Aramis watched in disbelief as it coalesced into two soldiers. Those two soldiers then multiplied into four, then eight, and before long, Aramis and Girard were completely surrounded. Aramis pulled out his other pistol and took another shot. Like the first, it failed to kill any of their enemies. The circle of phantom soldiers closed ranks, moving inexorably toward their targets, wicked shining blades held stiffly before them.

A hard shove pressed against his shoulder. "Over there. There's an opening. We might make it if we go now." Another push nearly sent Aramis staggering. He found his feet and charged at the soldiers, eyes widening as the sword points lowered and aimed straight at his heart. He tried to stop, tried to keep from skewering himself on those weapons, but something slammed into his back. His momentum carried him forward and his mouth opened to scream as metal flashed, seeking to take his life...

And then he was through. The shock of it sent the marksman to his knees and he felt Girard take a hold of his arm, roughly pulling him up.

"We have to go, Aramis. We have to run!" The urgency in his partner's voice scraped at him but for some reason, he couldn't get up. He was tired. It felt as though he'd been running all day and all night.

"Aramis, get up, get up! We need to - " The words were suddenly cut off and something warm sprayed the Musketeer's face. Girard slowly toppled, his face wearing a blank look of surprise. His throat was torn open, pulsing a gruesome fountain of blood over his doublet and onto the dirty street. Aramis caught the man as he fell, his heart pounding hard enough to burst from his chest.

"No, Girard! Oh no, no no no..." Aramis continued to mutter as he stared helplessly at the lifeless body of his partner. His fingers fluttered around Girard's mangled neck as if to try and search for a pulse, but Aramis already knew it was useless. The man was dead. Aramis' hands were coated in his blood. He looked down to find that his shirt and breeches were dyed scarlet, as well. There was so much blood.

Out of nowhere, a Spanish soldier appeared in front of him. Aramis looked up as he stumbled backwards, away from certain death. The soldier's face was an unreadable blur as he reached out towards the marksman. His hand clamped down around Aramis' shoulder.

"Are you in need of assistance?"

Aramis jerked awake and he leapt to his feet before his muddled thoughts could crystalize. His hand wrapped around the grip on his knife and it was only sheer willpower and the snap realization of where he was that prevented him from whipping it out from under his ratty cloak.

"¿Cómo?" Aramis asked confusedly. The Spanish slipped out of habit.

The priest stepped back from him, clearly startled by Aramis' reaction. He was middle-aged man, his gentle face round and the outline of his expanding waistline visible beneath his woollen frock. He peered curiously at Aramis as he stepped forward once more, reaching out towards the marksman.

"I asked whether you needed help," the priest repeated, switching from Italian to Spanish.

Aramis took a breath to reply and was immediately overcome by a fit of coughing. He held up a hand in apology as he turned away, fighting to regain control of his lungs. Freezing nights, constant stress and a lack of nourishment had all conspired against him. Aramis knew he was suffering from more than just exhaustion, but there was nothing he could do other than to ignore it and trust that it would not get worse.

"My apologies, Father," he gasped once he'd swallowed the last spasm. "I did not mean to startle you."

The priest smiled. "I rather think that I should be the one apologizing to you," he said dryly. The other man continued to study Aramis, and the skittish marksman resisted the urge to pull up his hood and run. "It seems that you have suffered some recent hardship."

Aramis smiled at the priest, but he was certain it did not reach his eyes. "Perhaps a little, but not more than I can bear." He sincerely hoped he was not lying to a priest.

"I see. That is a fine outlook that will serve you well. What is your name, my son?"

"Renato."

"I am Father Francis. Well, Renato. I was about to have my supper, and there is more than enough even for this growing belly." The priest rubbed his stomach ruefully. "Would you care to share it with me?"

"I - " Aramis stopped abruptly. The very mention of food made his mouth water. It was incredibly tempting, and not just because of the promise of a meal. After feeling like prey for so long, Father Francis' sympathetic face was almost impossible to refuse. Almost. The marksman shook his head reluctantly, ignoring the complaints from his empty stomach. "Thank you for the kind offer, Father, but I should be going."

"Are you certain? Our humble church offers refuge to all souls."

Dread began to rise up in Aramis' throat and he pressed it down, silently berating himself for his own paranoia. The idea of spending the night within the warm confines of the church was alluring, but it would paint a target on the building and anyone within it. "Yes, I'm afraid I must. I have duties to attend to. Thank you again." He pulled his hood up and with another smile, slowly walked away from the priest and back into the cold.

Aramis did not know how long he'd been inside the cathedral, but guessed that it must have been a few hours. The sun had still been above the horizon when he'd entered, and now it was well out of sight. He made his way to the edge of town, and was grateful to find an abandoned building within which he could take shelter. The building appeared to once have been a stable, as empty stalls lined each of the longer walls. More importantly, there was rotting straw still strewn within the stalls and more towards the rear of the building. Aramis made his way to a corner in the back and gathered the straw into a large pile. He then wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and burrowed into it, covering himself the best he could with the old stalks. The straw smelled of mold and animals long gone, but as he lay shivering in his makeshift bed, it gradually grew warm enough to thaw out his frozen limbs. Eventually, Aramis could no longer keep his tiredness at bay and drifted off.

He was dozing when shouts from below caught his ear. A single pistol shot soon followed, ringing sharply through the empty street. Cursing himself for a lazy bastard, Poulain scrambled up from his chair and stood by the window which he'd kept propped open. His breath puffed white in the watery, early dawn light and Poulain shuddered. The air coming in through the window was absolutely frigid. The cheap room at the inn across from the abandoned stables was a concession to the firm grip that winter still had on Susa. He owed Tréville a favor, but he certainly wasn't going to turn himself into an icicle whilst clearing his debt. The damn mountain village was already out of his own familiar territory.

What Poulain saw did not bode well for the Frenchman that he'd followed. Keeping himself hidden behind a curtain, he nudged the window open wider and peered down into the street. Spanish soldiers had surrounded the old building, and he saw one shabby-looking figure burst from the stable doors, followed by two well-fed soldiers. The first man looked pale and desperate, wielding a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other. Bits of straw clung to his dark, unkempt hair and his cloak. His face was a mask of utter concentration, and Poulain could tell that the Frenchman had no intention of quietly surrendering.

"Lay down your weapons." One of the Spaniards was still mounted, and his horse pranced back and forth beneath him as if eager to join the fight. Poulain assumed that he was the leader. The man spoke quietly but with confidence. And why not? He had his quarry surrounded. "Bianchi wants you alive, but I would not be terribly opposed to dragging back your dead body back to Milan."

Tréville's man - Poulain could not remember what his name was and didn't really care - twisted his face into a snarl. "Bianchi is a traitor."

The Spaniard shrugged. "That is not my concern. Lay down your arms."

At this point, the Frenchman attacked, transitioning from stillness to motion in less than a heartbeat. His arm came up and he fired at the soldier on the horse. It was a shot taken at an impossible angle, and rather than hitting the man, the Frenchman's shot hit the animal instead. The horse went down heavily, spilling his rider onto the dirty street. A scream of pain and rage suggested that the Spaniard had likely not survived the fall unscathed. "Do not let him escape!"

With a whip quick motion, Tréville's man pivoted towards the enemy soldier to his right, ducked under the swing of the soldier's sword and surged upwards, driving his short blade into the enemy's belly. He tried to run then, but another Spanish soldier tackled the Frenchman from behind. He turned as he landed, shoving at the Spaniard and scrabbling backwards. The Spanish soldier refused to let go, however, and a hard punch to the Frenchman's face left him prone on the cold ground. The Spanish soldier clambered to his feet and delivered a hard kick to the dazed man's vulnerable center. Poulain winced at the choking grunt it drew from Tréville's man as he curled up in an effort to protect himself. The soldier drew his blade and swung it high, ready to sever the Frenchman's head when a barked order stopped him.

"No! Don't kill him, not yet. A quick death is far too easy. Tie him up, and we will bring him back for Bianchi to deal with as he pleases." The leader pushed himself to his feet, favoring his left leg. A sneer in the leader's voice implied that Bianchi's pleasure would mean pain for his quarry. He then ordered one of his soldiers to obtain a cart for transport.

Tréville's man put up resistance as the soldiers roughly bound his hands and feet, fighting like a wildcat. He was subdued with another brutal punch. Once the small caged wagon arrived, pulled by a sturdy-looking workhorse, the prisoner was thrown into the back. "Be grateful that we are not going to drag you behind us all the way to Milan," one of the soldiers muttered as he locked the gate on the cart.

The leader commandeered another soldier's horse and swung up into the saddle, using one arm as the other remained closely tucked into his side. "Make haste," he said. "I want to return to civilization as quickly as possible." He wrenched his new horse around and expected the others to follow, which they did. The cart lurched into jarring motion as it rumbled after the soldiers.

Poulain bolted from the window and out of his room, down the stairs and into the street. Picking up the Frenchman's discarded pistol off the street, he slowed to a rapid walk and followed the Spanish contingent, keeping to the shadows and remaining unseen. Poulain lost sight of his target several times, but it did not matter as he knew exactly where they were headed. It had begun to snow again, so despite the leader's desire to move quickly, they would be hampered by the weather and the slow cart. He watched as the group of soldiers and the prisoner left Susa, carrying them away from any potential aid Tréville's other men would be able to provide. Poulain hoped that they would arrive soon. If not... then it wasn't his business and he could go on his way. He had done as Tréville had asked, and now it was simply a matter of waiting.

tbc

Dialogue in italics is for any language other than French. As always, thank you so much for the kind reviews, and thank you for reading!