A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read, favorited, or followed the story so far!

Three

Thrall

"Did the Huntsmen report finding anything?"

There was little over an hour before dawn, and Louis was still in his solar, wide-awake and pacing like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Anne, he said, had long since gone to bed, feeling reassured having the Huntsmen there to patrol the palace. Clearly, that was not a feeling that her husband shared.

"They said they found nothing," Richelieu said, shaking his head. They had departed not half an hour ago, after reporting back to him that they had found nothing – although Athos looked so pale and startled that he had to wonder if they were lying to cover up for something. "They explored the wing as thoroughly as time allowed, but found nothing."

"I don't understand. Why are they finding nothing?" Louis rounded on Richelieu, his expression angry – but the Cardinal could see it in his eyes, Louis was scared. A scared child asking his parents to fend off the monsters under his bed. "There is something in that wing of the palace, and I will not have it be dismissed so easily!"

"No one is dismissing it, Your Majesty," Richelieu said, doing his best to soothe the king's temper. So many years in service to Louis had gotten him used to his petulant tantrums. "The Huntsmen simply have not found anything as of yet. They've only had one night here at the palace. It may be that they need more time."

"I do hope that is the only issue," Louis pouted, sinking into a chair. "I should hate to think my prize Huntsmen are growing incompetent."

"Never, Your Majesty," Richelieu said, shaking his head – although he could deny, his heart gave a gleeful little start at the thought of the Huntsmen being considered inept by none other than the man who had insisted so much on commissioning them in the first place. "You created them, after all. And your judgment is infallible."

"Quite right." He nodded, though he still didn't look so sure of himself. Richelieu glanced out the windows again. Another quite pressing matter was calling his attention, and he needed to deal with it presently. Before the sun came up. "I beg Your Majesty's indulgence. I have affairs I must attend to before retiring for the day."

"Of course." Louis remained seated while Richelieu swept him a bow. Before the Cardinal could leave, however, the king stood. "Cardinal?"

Richelieu turned around. "Yes, my liege?"

"Promise me this will be stopped," Louis asked. "Before the situation escalates. Before people start turning up dead."

"I swear, it will be done," Richelieu said, nodding. "Now, you should go rest, Your Majesty. After all, you have a country to run."

"I do. I shall leave you to your tasks, Cardinal."

Richelieu swept him one last bow, before hurrying from the room. He had a meeting to make.

The windows of Richelieu's own home, the Palais du Cardinal, were still dark by the time he arrived, panting slightly, at the gates. He made his way into his home, up the stairs, to the second-floor solar where they always conducted their business. It seemed oddly dark, the closer he got to the solar, but then he remembered – he had put up the thick drapes, as a favor to his guest, before he had left that morning. Unlike the rest of the house, which was receiving some of the pre-dawn gray light coming in from the windows, his solar remained dark.

She was in there. Waiting.

He took a breath, smoothed his robes, and stepped into the room. The drapes had done their job well, and the room was dark enough that he could only make out the shapes of the furniture in the room – the furniture, and her. She was standing by the fireplace, studying the portrait mounted above it – done years ago, when he was a much younger man.

"I must say, the look suited you," she said, without even turning around. She knew he was there without even seeing him – something that still unnerved him, even after nearly five years of partnership with him.

"Milady," he greeted.

She didn't turn to respond to him, only reached up, taking a flint from the mantle, using it to light the lamp that was there, throwing a flickering orange glow into the room – more for his sake than for hers, Richelieu knew that. She could see him just fine without the light.

She was a beautiful woman, her face pale and untouched by time. Her dark brown hair had been left down, brushing over shoulders left exposed by the rather scandalous cut of the crimson dress she wore. Her eyes were a startlingly bright shade of green, seeming to pierce right through him. The corner of her lips twitched up into a smirk.

"Cardinal Armand Richelieu," she greeted. "You're out quite late."

"I could say the same for you," he said. "It's nearly dawn."

"I was waiting for you." She glanced at the clock on the mantle. "You're late."

"Terribly sorry." He bowed his head out of deference. "I was detained by His Majesty. He wanted an update after the Huntsmen searched the castle."

Her eyes narrowed at his words. "Ah, yes, he's brought the Huntsmen in, hasn't he? I do suppose if anyone's cut out for the job, it's them."

"Milady, I must ask…were you there tonight?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes on her.

"What business of yours is it if I was?" she asked with a sneer – and a flash of deadly white fangs. Richelieu held up his hands, an offering of peace.

"Merely curious. I would hate for your…personal history to cloud your sense."

"My sense is just fine, Armand," she told him. "But if you must know, yes, I was there. Seeing to an…old friend."

Exactly as he thought she was. He shook his head. "As I said, make sure your personal history isn't clouding your good sense. This is a matter for discretion."

"I haven't been found yet, have I?" she asked him.

"You haven't done anything yet," he pointed out.

"Patience," Milady told him with a little smile. "You can't rush art."

"I'm not rushing art," he said, feeling a bit irritated at her apparent amusement for his carefully-laid plans. "I'm rushing murder."

"I was starting to wonder when you'd call it what it was," she chuckled. "It's taken you long enough. So you're openly admitting that you're plotting murder now, Cardinal?"

"Only for the best interest of France," he said. "The Queen is barren, the King is a petulant child, and the empire is weak. The King needs an heir – and a wife better suited to give him one."

"And if his new wife cannot give him an heir?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Then you know the plan," he said, taking a seat at his desk. "If his new wife cannot give him a strong heir, then we will give France a new king."

"And I can only assume you mean yourself, Cardinal." She draped herself onto the couch, as casual as if she were in her own home, resting one pale arm along the back of the couch.

"Well, I don't want to seem overzealous," he remarked. "But I do suppose that was the intention, yes."

"And, of course, when the spoils are tabulated, I trust there will be something in it for me?" He winced at Milady looked up at him, her green eyes shrewd. "Especially considering that I'm doing most of the work here."

"Because you are the one who is best suited for the task."

She snorted, a very un-ladylike sound. "Because I am the one who is not afraid to get my hands dirty, you mean."

"But I am the one who faces the truths that the rest of the empire cannot stomach," Richelieu argued back. "This is a joint effort, Milady. And do not worry – I shall see to it that you are justly rewarded, whatever the outcome is."

He had hoped the answer would please her, but to his dismay, her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean, Armand?"

"Should our plan not go as seamlessly as we hope for it to, there will be consequences," Richelieu told her, reaching up to touch the cross around his neck, thankful for whatever small measure of protection it provided from her. "I do not plan to be the only one who takes the fall."

"Ah. I see." Milady smiled, but the look in her eyes was cold and deadly. "I do suppose I make the perfect scapegoat for the ever so noble Cardinal Armand Richelieu."

"I never said you would be a scapegoat." Although truth to tell, he'd thought of that upon entering a partnership with the notorious Milady de Winter – what to do to survive the fallout of their plans going awry. He'd never admitted it, but throwing himself at the King's feet and crying "thrall" had seemed like a good response. Most likely to allow him to keep his station and to deal with getting rid of any potential threat to his claim over France.

"So we'll be sharing the rewards equally, good or bad?" Milady asked.

"Of course, Milady," he replied with a nod.

"Good. Because remember, Armand…it is not only our own fates at stake."

She raised two fingers, making a beckoning notion towards the door to the room. A young, dirty woman – one of the kitchen maids – stepped inside, leading a tiny girl by the hand. She was perhaps five at the oldest, with a cascade of thick brown hair and sparkling green eyes. Her dress was spotlessly white and spoke of her wealthy upbringing. Though she appeared frightened, as soon as her eyes landed on Milady, she broke into a gap-toothed smile…a smile that flashed a small pair of fangs.

"Mama!"

"My darling." Milady held out her arms, pulling the little girl into her lap when the girl rushed forward. She kissed the top of the little girl's head, smoothing her hair. Richelieu swallowed hard – Milady had mentioned the girl before, dropped hints of her over the years, but this was the first he'd ever seen of her. And the look in Milady's eyes suggested that she now had him exactly where she wanted him.

"After all, Armand…we wouldn't want anything to happen to our daughter, now, would we?"

"Do you think he's alright?"

"I don't know…something at the palace spooked him, definitely."

"You don't think there's actually a ghost there, do you?"

"Hard to say, I couldn't feel anything. You?"

"I felt…something, but…Athos, he must have gotten the full brunt of whatever it was. Must have been bad, I've never seen him like this."

As soon as the three of them had returned to the garrison, he had abandoned his horse and headed for his quarters. Despite the fact that he had closed the door to his quarters almost two hours ago, he could hear Porthos and Aramis talking through the wall – they were still outside of the door. They hadn't been talking at first – at first, they'd just stood there like sentries; every time he thought they had left, he'd hear their hearts beating, or one of them would cough or shift their weight. Aramis sneezed a few times while they were standing out there. After nearly an hour, Aramis had started gently knocking on the door, calling his name softly, trying to get his attention. But he had refused to answer. Eventually, Porthos had joined in, knocking so hard Athos thought he would take the door off its hinges and bellowing his name loud enough to wake the entire damn garrison. Now, they were talking amongst themselves. Talking about him.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. His hands were shaking and his stomach felt clenched like a fist, but it wasn't from hunger this time.

It was from fear.

It was the reason he was standing with his forehead to the wall, one hand on the wall to stabilize himself, the other clenched into a fist and pressed against his mouth. He had bitten down on his knuckles hard enough that they were bleeding, and his mouth was filled with the cold, coppery tang of his own blood. His breathing was shaky, and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears was almost deafening.

"He said something…"

Aramis's voice sounded so clear, it was almost as if they were standing next to each other. He glanced over to the door, fearing that they'd somehow managed to get in without him hearing them. But no, the door was closed as tightly as it had been earlier. He was still alone. Aramis and Porthos were still outside.

"What do you mean?"

"When we met at the rendezvous point, he said something," Aramis elaborated. "Something about the ghost having seen him."

"What do you think he meant by it?"

Aramis sighed – he could practically see his face while he was doing it. "I don't know. Hard to say, really."

Porthos made a noise of assent. "Think he knows what's going on at the palace?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't think he wouldn't tell us if he did, though."

"Maybe it's something he's seen before? I mean, let's face it, Aramis, how much do we know about him?"

"You do have a point." Aramis sighed again. "We don't know much, outside of what we've learned from knowing him these five years."

"Think he'll ever tell us?"

"Doubtful." There was the sound of boots on dry dirt, and then, a knock on his door again. "Athos? Can we please come talk to you?"

He sighed, turning so that his back was against the wall, running both hands through his disheveled hair. Some part of him felt bad, hiding so much from them. They were his best friends, after all – his only friends, really – and all they wanted to do was help.

But there was too much at stake. Especially if she wasn't as gone as he had hoped.

His stomach turned over at the thought, and for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick. He had been certain that chapter of his life was thoroughly closed the moment he had left Chateau de la Fére, the moment he had left the two people he had loved most in his life lying dead on the floor. But now? Now that she might have been back?

His hands were shaking again, worse than before. The fear was mixing with something else, something hot and awful in the pit of his stomach: Anger. His life had been completely changed that night – he had been made into something else that night, something awful, something he hated to be. And it was all because of her.

The bottle that Treville had given him early was within reach, and empty now. Acting solely on impulse, he grabbed the bottle and threw it with a guttural screech that he didn't even realize was coming from him. The bottle shattered against the far wall of the room, leaving a dull red smear and a shower of broken glass in its wake.

Outside of his quarters, he heard Aramis sigh. "He's drinking again. He's not going to answer us."

"We should stick around," Porthos said. "In case he needs our help."

"I don't think he's going to let us in." There was a thud, like Aramis had plopped down outside of the door. "He'll drink himself to oblivion. Probably pass out. We can go in and check on him then."

Athos sunk down onto his bed, barely holding back a weak chuckle at Aramis's words.

If only drinking was still a viable option…