A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, reviewed, etc!

Two

Palais de Louvre

It was right around sunset that Athos woke up, his throat raw and his muscles stiff. The hunger was still raging through him – sleep had done nothing to dull it. His hands were shaking; it was starting to get bad. There was going to have to be a meal at some point, otherwise, he'd be no good to Treville. He'd be no good on patrol if all he could think about was the damned hunger.

He went to his window, to see if the bucket of water had been left there as he wanted. He'd need it to wash up – the cold water always helped snap him back to awareness. He tucked the curtain aside, then carefully opened the window, just enough to reach out and grab the bucket. The bucket was out there and full of water, but there was also something else, sitting right next to the bucket. Cautiously, he peered out the window. Next to the bucket was a bottle, half-full of a thick, dark-red liquid, a note tied to it. He hauled the bucket of water back inside, then grabbed the bottle, pulling the shutter closed. In the low light of his room, he ripped the note from the bottle and read it over.

Athos,

Knew you would need this for tonight. Venison.

Treville

Captain Treville. God, he could have thrown himself at Treville's feet and kissed his boots in gratitude for this. He pulled the cork out with his teeth; his hands were shaking too much to do it. As soon as the bottle was open it was to his lips and he was drinking furiously, savoring the taste. It's not the best, but it killed the hunger that had been gnawing at him. And, if nothing else, it was still somewhat warm.

He finished the contents of the bottle quickly, setting it aside to dispose of it quietly later. The bucket of water was next, to help with the fog of sleep – though that was slightly diminished now that the hunger was gone. There was a thin layer of ice on the top of the water in the bucket; he punched through it, before sticking his entire head into the bucket to really wake himself up. He was supposed to be joining Aramis and Porthos almost as soon as the sun went down. Palace guard assignments waited for no man. Getting groomed was going to have to be quick tonight.

He skipped shaving – it was too much effort to expend, and besides, his beard was fine, it wasn't that out of control. He stripped his shirt for a new one, tucking it into his pants and grabbing the familiar layers that were strewn across the room from there. The leather doublet went first, then the jacket, the pauldron fixed firmly to his shoulder. The cloth mask that he and the others used to protect and conceal the lower halves of their faces, that went tied around his neck – it would be unseemly to present himself to the King and Queen with that thing over his face. The cloak was next, and it would be a necessity, as it was getting colder out. His sword belt got strapped around his waist, his blade – silver, of course – slipped into the scabbard on his left side, his pistol in the holster on the right. His gloves cover his hands – he's going to need those too, with the steadily-dropping October temperatures. Finally, last is his hat, perched atop his hair, which is gradually curling as it dries. He's ready to go out and face his duties as one of the King's Huntsmen.

"Well, there you are."

Aramis is already mounted on his horse when Athos makes his way to the gates of the garrison, the stable hand leading his own horse behind him. Porthos is placing his hat on his head, watching as Athos joins them in the courtyard of the garrison.

"We were starting to wonder if you were coming or not," Porthos remarked, placing one foot in the stirrups of his horse and swinging himself onto the horse's back.

"Sorry, was just…getting ready. Washed up." He thanked the ostler who had brought him his horse, stroking the horse's neck and checking to make sure the bridle was in its proper place. "Figured I'd take the time to actually seem like I care about my appearance. We're only meeting the king and queen."

Truth to tell, Athos had only ever been close to the king and queen once, when he received his commission to the Huntsmen three and a half years ago. And that had been for such a brief moment he'd scarcely gotten a good look at them. Aside from that, the king and queen conducted all their business during the day, protected from what would threaten them during the day by another regiment of guards. The Huntsmen were responsible for taking care of that which would threaten the country at night.

"Did you eat something?" Aramis asked as Athos swung himself onto his horse.

"I did," he said, glancing upwards, noticing Treville on the overhang, watching as the three of them mounted their horses. He gave Treville a small, grateful nod, and the captain responded with a nod of his own, as well as a pointed look – the kind of look that said you need to get better at keeping up with your needs, you fool.

It wasn't the first time he'd given Athos that look.

Probably wouldn't be the last.

"Let's go," he said, focusing his attention on the open gates. "We don't want to keep Their Majesties waiting."

He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, giving the reins a sharp snap and taking off out of the gate at a steady canter. Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look behind him – suspecting something was perhaps a little off about their comrade – before they, too, spurred their horses on, heading for the palace.

Armand Richelieu was waiting for them as soon as the three of them rode up to the front of the palace. During the day, the Palais de Louvre was a magnificent sight to behold, with its massive façade and ornate ivory brickwork, the fountains spewing water high into the air and the gardens lush and green. All that detail, however, was lost in the darkness of the evening. Almost all the lights in the palace had been extinguished. The cardinal stood in a circle of torchlight, held by a palace servant; he was an older man, older than Treville, imposing with his red robes and his consistently sour expression, as if someone had stuck something foul-smelling under his nose. The trio rode up to him, dismounting, Aramis grabbing his arquebus from the holster on his saddle as he did.

"Cardinal Richelieu," Athos greeted with a nod – for whatever reason, he always seemed to be the one that does the diplomatic talking. Porthos and Aramis always argued that he had the most experience with it, growing up as part of the nobility. They knew that much about him, though fortunately, they'd yet to figure out exactly how wealthy his family had been, how much land they owned. Thank God for small favors. Whatever the case was, though, when it came to doing the talking, the role was usually deferred to Athos.

"Good evening Athos, Porthos, Aramis," he greeted, with a nod – it's more jerk of the head than a nod, but at least he's bothered to acknowledge them. "You are running late. The King and Queen are ready to retire for the evening."

"Well, they needn't have waited on us," Porthos said with a shrug, exchanging a look with Aramis.

"Her Majesty insisted on greeting the Huntsmen assigned to protect herself and her husband this evening," Richelieu said. "She always insists."

"Well, then, let's not keep her waiting." Athos gestured towards the palace. "After you, Your Eminence."

Giving them a cold look, Richelieu swept up the stairs in a swish of his red robes, heading in through the massive doors of the palace. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis followed along; while they didn't expect any threats right away, that didn't stop Athos from keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword, nor did it do anything to loosen Aramis's grip on his arquebus.

Their footsteps echoed loudly on the cool stone floors. Richelieu led them through a winding series of hallways, long enough that they're started to wonder if they're going to find the king and queen before daybreak. Finally, Richelieu stops in front of a set of double doors, guarded by two of the palace guards.

"The king's solar," he announced, and the guards each opened one of the doors. The room beyond was richly decorated, a sign of the wealth of the occupants of the castle. In front of the vast windows that looked out over the gardens was a massive desk, covered with many curious odds and ends that almost didn't seem suited for a king – including a replica of a ship, complete with not French, but Dutch flags flying from the tiny mast. A telescope was in the corner near a window, although it looked a bit dusty, as though it had not been touched in a while. Several bookshelves were placed throughout the room and filled with books, but the action in the room was taking place in the middle, where there were several chairs carved from exotic woods and a divan covered in richly-embroidered brocade. On the divan was a petite young woman, one they had all seen, but only a few times since receiving their commissions. She was wrapped in a warm cloak, but they could all see a hint of thin, white fabric peeking from the top, suggesting that she was wearing nothing but a nightgown underneath. In a chair so elaborate it's practically a throne of its own sat a man maybe a few years her senior, wearing a silk dressing gown. He was talking to the woman, smiling, even, but as soon as the doors opened, he was on his feet, facing the intruders.

There was no mistaking who he was: Louis XIII, the King of France. Richelieu swept him a bow, and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all did the same, staring down at the floor. The young woman – Queen Anne, she could be no other – rose from the divan, and they remained bowing for her.

"Rise," the man commanded imperiously.

"Your Majesty," Richelieu began, rising. "The Huntsmen, as requested. Three of Captain Treville's finest men."

"Which of you is the leader?" Louis asked, his dark eyes sweeping over the three hunters in front of him. Knowing it was either step forward or be pushed forward by Aramis and Porthos, Athos stepped forward, sweeping his hat off to place it against his chest.

"I am Athos, of the King's Huntsmen," he introduced himself. "These are my companions, Porthos and Aramis."

"Athos has distinguished himself as one of Captain Treville's finest hunters in his years of service," Richelieu said. "His companions, Porthos and Aramis, also have records of note. They are easily the best that the Huntsmen have to offer."

"Oh, look," Aramis whispered to Porthos as Richelieu rattled on. "He's making us sound so good."

"Why do I feel like the lamb about to be lead to the slaughter?" Porthos hissed back. Athos glanced back to cut the two of them a glare, and they fell silent – just in time, too, as Richelieu had concluded his rambling. Louis stepped forward, close…but not too close. Anne came to his side; she had to be the kinder of the two, there was something in her face that suggested it. Her gaze was curious, not shrewd, like her husband's.

"Has Captain Treville discussed why you three have been brought here?" Louis asked.

"We've been made aware of the situation, but not much beyond that," Athos responded. "Why have we been brought here, if I may ask?"

"These past few nights, we've felt…a presence in the palace," Louis said, eyes glancing about nervously, as though he expected something to attack them right there in the solar. "We're not sure what it is, but it makes us feel…vulnerable."

"We trust Treville's Huntsmen to be the best at what they do," Anne said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Louis's shoulder. He gave her a look – vaguely affectionate, he appeared to have appreciated her comfort.

"Then you have put your trust in the right place," Athos said, nodding firmly. "Where did you sense this…presence? Precisely where in the palace?"

"The first floor, towards the left wing," Louis said. "We do not go there often at night, but that is where the guards have reported feeling the presence. I went to that wing a few evenings ago, and I confess, I could feel it too."

"Well, then, that's where we'll start," Athos said, nodding. "If we may?"

"Yes, of course. Please."

Athos nodded, as did Porthos and Aramis. They turned to leave, although they were stopped by Cardinal Richelieu, who had them bow again. As soon as they had bowed, they set off, towards the left wing of the palace.

Upon arriving at that wing, the three hunters could instantly tell it was not a very popular wing of the castle. While it was obviously still cared for, the cleaning was perhaps a bit less precise; a few wispy spider webs could be found in the corners, and motes of dust floated in the patches of moonlight let in by the large windows. The three of them followed the hallway down, until it branched off into three separate corridors – one to the left, another to the right, and the third continuing straight ahead. They all exchanged glances.

"We'd cover more ground if we split up," Aramis suggested.

"We'd also lose our backup if we actually encounter something down one of these halls," Porthos informed him. "I'd rather stick together, if it's all the same."

"If we run into something, we can call for backup. It's simple as that," Aramis argued, giving Porthos a mildly insulted look.

"Are you suggesting that I couldn't handle a problem by myself if I ran into one?"

"I didn't suggest anything," Aramis said. "You're the one putting words into my mouth."

"Why I never – "

"Aramis is right," Athos cut in, breaking off the admittedly playful argument his two companions were having. "We'd cover more ground if we split up. I'll take the center corridor. Aramis, you take left, Porthos, right. We find something, we take care of it. If we need help, we call for it. I think that sounds fair enough, don't you two?"

"I suppose it does," Porthos said, nodding.

"Our unquestioned leader," Aramis commented with a faint smirk.

"We'll rendezvous here in, say, an hour?" Athos asked.

The other two nodded, and, with little bows to each other, set off down their respective hallways. Athos listened to the faint footsteps of his companions as long as he could, until they were far enough into the corridors that he couldn't hear them anymore. Despite being the center corridor, he could tell that guests back here were few and far between. The drapes were faded from years of sunlight expose, and the furniture was showed some signs of imperfections that would not have been permitted in the more populated wings of the palace. The dust was thicker here – clearly, the maids either didn't wish to venture here. Or, perhaps, they feared the presence that the king and queen claimed to be residing in this wing of the palace?

While he couldn't say he felt a presence, in particular, there was something about the empty wing that made him feel unsettled. This wing of the palace was old – and he could feel it, as if the history was seeping through the walls. His footsteps echoed loudly against the stone floor. He placed his hand on the guard of his sword, ready to draw it if needed.

The corridor ended in an old drawing room, clearly abandoned for the better drawing rooms he'd seen in the right wing of the palace. He looked around – the room looked familiar. Quite familiar, in fact. He'd never been there before, but…this drawing room reminded him of a manor, far away. Of another life, a life he'd almost forgotten about, a love he'd tried to forget about.

He shivered. Now that he was in the room, he could feel it. That shivery feeling down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, he knew that feeling all too well.

He was not alone.

"Olivier."

He spun, quickly, staring into the corner. He swore, he swore that was where he heard it, heard that name that he hadn't been called in nearly five years now. But the corner was empty, no one was there.

"Olivier."

There it was again, more insistent this time, coming from a different corner. He spun again, just in time to catch a flash of cloth. The curtains, blowing in a breeze? But where would that breeze have come from, when the windows were tightly closed? No, these were not the curtains. It had to have been a bit of clothing, another person. He wasn't alone. He drew his blade, holding it out in front of him, turning in a tight circle. Instinct told him to try to get his back against the wall – never leave your back unprotected, they always went for the back. But he was far more determined to figure out what – or who – was in there with him. The moonlight, streaming in from the tall windows, caught the silver in his blade, making it gleam.

"Show yourself," he murmured.

"Olivier!"

The voice came from behind him. He whipped around, his sword slicing upwards in a deadly arc, but all he caught was thin air. His heart thudded in his chest. Someone was in there with him, playing games with his head. Someone was calling him that name, that name that brought to mind sharp green eyes and sinfully crimson lips. He breathed out hard, teeth clenched, heart beating so hard and so fast he swore it would explode or stop entirely.

He couldn't take it.

He hurried from the room, heading back towards the rendezvous point as fast as he could, hoping to put that room – and those memories that it brought – behind him.

"Athos?"

He opened his eyes, finding himself face-to-face with his own pale reflection. He had been waiting in the main corridor, head resting against the glass of a nearby window, trying to use the coolness of the glass to ground him back to reality. To wipe the memories away. He straightened up, turning around to face his companions. He hadn't realized the hour was up already. Porthos and Aramis stood behind him, looking no worse for wear – although Aramis's boots, he noticed, we more than just a little dusty. Both of them were looking at him with concern. He swallowed hard.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Nothing much," Porthos said, shaking his head. "Mostly dusty rooms. A few cobwebs."

"Any sign of a presence?" he asked.

"Nothing that I've seen," Aramis said. "I won't deny, it is a little…unsettling back here, but there's no presence that I sensed."

"Same here," Porthos said. Athos nodded. They hadn't felt that presence. Had he been the only one to feel it?

"Athos, are you all right?"

He shook himself from his reverie. Aramis was staring at him, head tilted to the side, eyes concerned.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"Are you all right?" Aramis repeated. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Oh, if only Aramis knew the half of it. If only Aramis knew what he had heard down in that hallway, knew that name, that name that had brought back so many memories of a life he thought he'd finally turned his back on. A life that was as dead as the brother he once knew and loved. A life as dead as he believed her to be.

But now, after tonight, after what he had heard down in that hallway…he wasn't so sure that she was as gone as he thought she was.

"More like the ghost has seen me," he said.