A/N: Happy 2015, ! Enjoy the new chapter, and thanks to everyone who reads and follows the story! Remember, reviews are always appreciated and will be answered!

Five

Death Becomes Her

"I need to see the King!"

Aramis sighed. D'Artagnan had been singing that same tune for the past four days, despite the fact that his injuries were still just barely healing. As it was, he'd spent the first two days after he'd been brought to the garrison in and out of consciousness, feverish and moaning and worrying Aramis into not sleeping. Three days into his recovery, the fever had broken, and d'Artagnan was spending longer periods of time conscious – but whenever he was conscious, it was always the same thing.

"I've told you, you're in no shape to see the King," Aramis told him, shaking his head and trying to coax the young farm boy back against the pillows. "You haven't even mastered sitting up yet."

"I have! Watch." He tried to force himself up into a sitting position, but after a moment's struggling, he yowled, clutching his side and sinking back onto the mattress with a pitiful groan. Aramis shook his head, pressing his lips together to hide both a smirk and an 'I told you so.'

"First, let's work on sitting up," Aramis said. "On your own. And perhaps feeding yourself, too."

"I am kind of hungry," d'Artagnan confessed.

"I'm sure you are," Aramis said. "The only thing I could get you to swallow down in the midst of your fever was water and a little bit of willow tea. Porthos should be coming in with some food soon."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the door creaked open. Aramis rounded on the door, to greet his companion and thank him for his promptness in bringing back food, only to find it wasn't Porthos coming in – it was Athos, freshly washed and dressed, his hat held in front of him. He glanced to d'Artagnan, who was slumped against his pillows, half-sitting, and then looked to Aramis.

"How is he?"

"As well as anyone who got attacked by a werewolf can be," Aramis said. "His fever broke sometime yesterday, so things are looking up."

"You know, I am sitting right here. There's no need to talk about me like I'm not here," d'Artagnan protested from the bed. Athos looked back to him, then stepped up next to the bed, settling into the chair that Aramis had drawn up two nights ago, so he could sit and watch and fret and make sure his patient didn't stop breathing in the middle of the night.

"Why have you come to Paris?" he asked.

"I've told you, to speak with the King."

"A farmer's boy?" Athos raised an eyebrow. "What do you have to say that would be of interest to the king?"

"Athos!" Aramis hissed, frowning – but if d'Artagnan was meant to be insulted by what Athos had said, he gave no sign of being insulted. Instead, with a grunt of exertion that turned into a moan of pain, he managed to push himself up into a sitting position, turning to look at Athos. He tilted his head back to rest against the headboard, a gesture of exhaustion, but his eyes were bright and alert as he looked at the two Huntsmen.

"There are werewolves in Gascony," he said. "They're terrorizing the farmers. They're killing the livestock, and…" He swallowed hard. "A farmer's little girl, she was out playing with the sheep and a werewolf tore her to pieces. She was only six. They've gotten a taste for human blood now, and what's to stop them from openly attacking farms because they think it's fun? Well?"

"You've come to petition the King for help?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan nodded. "For the help of the Huntsmen. My father…he's getting older. He insisted he could make the journey, but I told him I'd ride in his place. My father is well thought of in Lupiac. He figured I could be trusted." He pressed his lips together for a second, squeezing his eyes closed. It was then that both Athos and Aramis could see how truly young he looked – no older than twenty. His next words were little more than a croak.

"I failed…"

"No, you haven't failed," Aramis said, shaking his head. "You've made it to the Huntsmen. I'd call that fairly successful, minus the, ah…"

"We can take your case to Treville," Athos offered quietly. "He may be able to dispatch a troop to Gascony to see to the problem."

"Y-You think so?" d'Artagnan asked, looking up at the two of them with wide eyes, full of a childish sort of hope that almost broke both of their hearts.

"Treville would want the threat seen to as soon as possible," Athos said with a shrug. "Likely, he'll dispatch a troop."

"Well, if you can bring this to his attention?" Aramis asked. "Porthos should be back with food for the lad any minute now. Don't know what's taken him so long; I'd swear he's gone all the way back to Gascony to bring the boy some authentic cuisine."

"On it." Athos turned to the door, intent on heading to Treville's office. Much to his surprise – and Aramis's as well – the door opened to reveal Treville, and a somewhat taken-aback Porthos behind him. The captain's expression was stern, and in his hands, he held a letter.

"Captain," Athos said, straightening up. "I was just about to come find you."

"Whatever it is, it'll have to wait," Treville said, looking between his two men and the injured Gascon boy, who scowled.

"Try telling that to the farmers who lost their sheep!" d'Artagnan growled, trying to force himself up from the bed. "Or the family whose daughter was torn to pieces! Is that what I should go back and tell them as they bury their little girl? That the great Captain Treville said it can wait?"

Athos and Aramis were on him immediately, holding him back down to the bed. He struggled with a surprising amount of ferocity for someone who had sustained the injuries he had. Athos leaned in to hiss in his ear.

"I understand that you're upset," he began, "but for mercy's sake, shut up."

D'Artagnan gave him a dirty look, but, to his credit, he stopped struggling and slumped back down on his bed, glaring at Treville. Treville returned the glare with a rather cold look, before turning to face Athos and Aramis. Porthos, who had followed the captain in, set the tray of food down on a nearby table and came up behind them.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I've just received a letter from the Cardinal," Treville said. "There's been a murder at the palace."

Though a crowd had gathered around the body of the dead girl by the time Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Treville had arrived at the Palais de Louvre, they had, mercifully, left the body alone.

No one could blame them for not wanting to touch the body, though – or, rather, what was left of it. The corner of the palace in which her life had ended was a bloody nightmare, in every sense of the word. Louis stood as far away as he could without being in another room, face pale and his black hair a tousled mop. If he was offended by his Huntsmen seeing him in his nightshirt and dressing-gown, though, he gave no indication of it. Anne stood nearby, dressed similarly; she looked pale and shaken, but was talking soothingly to her husband. As soon as Treville swept in, flanked by the trio of Huntsmen, Louis abandoned his wife and hurried over, Richelieu rushing behind him with a sweep of his robes.

"Thank God you're here," he said.

"Your Majesty," Treville said, sweeping a bow to the king; Athos, Porthos, and Aramis followed suit. "What's happened?"

"Can't you tell? The girl has been ripped apart!" Louis exclaimed, gesturing to the scene with a shaking hand.

Treville looked to Porthos and Aramis, jerking his head towards the body, and they hurried to examine it. Athos let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, casting Treville an appreciative look. The captain responded with a nod, facing the king again.

"Do we know the identity of the girl?"

"Her name was Caroline," Anne stepped forward, resting a hand on her husband's arm. "She was one of my ladies-in-waiting."

"Do you happen to know what she was doing up this late?" Athos asked, inclining his head politely to the Queen.

"I presume she was on her way back to her quarters," Anne responded, shaking her head. "I dismissed my ladies a few hours ago. We didn't realize anything was amiss until we heard the screaming."

"I was assured, by your men, that there was nothing in the left wing of the palace, Treville," Louis said sharply, drawing himself to his full height. "It would appear they were wrong."

"My men are rarely wrong," Treville said carefully.

"Then why is there a dead serving girl in the palace?" Louis took a step towards Treville, who stepped back slightly. Anne stepped forward with her husband, laying a hand on his arm again.

"Sire," she said calmly. "There's no need to get angry with Treville. I'm sure his Huntsmen searched the palace thoroughly."

"Well?" Suddenly, Louis's attention – as well as the attention of Anne and Richelieu as well – was on Athos.

"Our results were…inconclusive," he responded slowly, choosing his words carefully. "There is something in the palace; we initially believed it to be a spirit. However, we couldn't be sure."

"Did you see anything?" Anne asked.

Athos froze. He hadn't seen anything that night…but he couldn't say for certain that there hadn't been anything there. That voice, calling his name, his true name – someone was definitely there the other night.

Fortunately, he was saved by Aramis and Porthos returning; the former was wiping his hands on a handkerchief, a grave look on his face. Everyone turned their attention to the two men.

"Well, it's hard to determine what exactly was the cause of death," Aramis said with a sigh. "The damage to the girl is extensive and thorough."

"What did it, at least?" Richelieu asked.

"Werewolf, we think," Porthos said. "Judgin' by the brutality of the attack."

"But why?" Louis asked.

"Honestly? We don't know." Aramis shrugged, shaking his head. "It could be that this is meant to be a warning to Your Majesties. It could be a case of mistaken identity. Or…well, it could be just a random kill."

"Here? A random kill at the palace?" Athos shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"You expect werewolves to make sense?" Porthos said, making a face and shaking his head.

"Was there anything of note at the scene?" Treville asked. "Any clues to the identity of the murderer?"

"Not much," Aramis said, shaking his head. "We combed the scene for any hair, fur, anything...nothing of the sort."

"We did find this, though." Porthos extended his hand, opening his fingers. In the palm of his hand was a blood-splattered sprig of forget-me-not.

Athos's heart dropped, stomach churning sickeningly. Forget-me-not…it had grown wild in the meadows of his hometown, on his own estate. She had loved them, filled the house with them. Instinctively, his hand went to the locket around his neck, running a thumb over the face of the locket, knowing there was a pressed forget-me-not within. A memento of a perfect day. A reminder of one of the last perfect days of his life.

Was it just a coincidence? But he hadn't seen any of that damned flower since he'd come to Paris; the appearance of it after so many years couldn't just be mere coincidence. She can't be here, he thought. It's impossible.

But who else could it be?

"Athos?"

He jumped. Aramis was only a few inches away, eyes concerned. Porthos was showing Treville and Richelieu the particulars of the crime scene, while Louis and Anne stood several feet away, talking in hushed tones.

"Is everything alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…again," he said.

"I'm fine," Athos replied, shaking his head.

"You're lying. What's going on?"

"It's nothing."

"Is there something you're not telling us?" Aramis came in closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. Athos would have pulled away, if not for the look in Aramis's eyes. "Something's happening, here, isn't it? At the palace?"

"Well, of course," he said. "We've got a dead serving girl on our hands. Of course something's going on."

"I don't mean like that," Aramis said. "This palace is doing something to you, isn't it? When Porthos and I found you the other night, you were white as a sheet. You saw something while you were patrolling, didn't you? You said something about…the ghost had seen you?"

Athos looked away. Aramis gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Look, if there's something going on that we can help with, tell us. Please? Especially if this is getting people killed. If this is getting people killed, this is something we all need to know about. Alright?"

"Alright," Athos said, nodding once. Aramis, satisfied with his response, drew back, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good. Let's go see what they're up to over there," Aramis said, turning on his heel and heading for the crime scene again. Athos followed, slowly, the smell of the blood overwhelming. He had to stop ten feet away from the girl and take several deep breaths. His gums were aching. His hands started shaking, and he tried to get himself back under control. He'd already taken care of the hunger that evening, and the fact that it was rearing its head again made him feel sick with shame and disgust. Aramis stopped, turning to look at him in confusion again.

"Athos?"

"And can we please do something about the body?" Louis called.

Athos almost smiled from relief.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you letting me go, is there?"

Constance raised an eyebrow at d'Artagnan, who was offering her a winsome sort of grin. At her disapproving look, the grin faded, and he settled back into the bed.

"Thought I'd ask."

"You can barely sit up," Constance said firmly, bringing the bowl of stew that Porthos had brought before he'd left to the bed and settling in next to d'Artagnan. "You're in no shape to go petition the king. Besides, he's not going anywhere."

"That's not what I'm worried about." He took the bowl and tried to worm his way into an upright position, but when that ended with him crying out in pain and nearly spilling the bowl all over himself, his bed, and Constance, she reached out, taking the bowl from him.

"Here, let me hold that while you get settled," she said. "What are you worried about, then?"

"My family," he said with a sigh. "My farm. My father's getting older, my mother's gone, and I'm all he has left. If I can't get someone out there to help defend the farm…" He shrugged, his eyes downcast. "It's not much. But it's all I've ever known. It's what's kept the d'Artagnan family going for generations. I don't want to be the idiot that loses it because he couldn't do one simple task."

"Oh, hush," Constance said, firmly though not unkindly. "You're hardly an idiot, I'm sure. And you're not going to lose that farm. You need to focus on getting better first before you go to the King. Besides, you've already found the Huntsmen. Who's to say you still need to see the King after all?"

D'Artagnan didn't say anything, only reached out and took the bowl, eyes still downcast. Constance sighed, watching him as he clumsily attempted to feed himself while also trying to move his broken wrist as little as possible.

"Please be careful," she cautioned. "I don't want you to do anything to disturb that bone while it's setting. Can I at least hold the bowl?"

Though he pouted slightly, he did grudgingly hand her the bowl. She held it firmly while he fed himself; clearly, he was not as skilled at tasks with his left hand as he was with his right. After a few bites of stew, he swallowed, looking up at her.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"You were injured," she said, shrugging. "I knew if I brought you here, Aramis would be able to help me clean you up and assess your injuries. He's got more experience than I have when it comes to werewolf attacks."

"Yes, but…why?" he asked. "Why not just leave me in the alley to die?"

He almost regretted asking, from the look on her face. She looked horribly guilty – like she felt responsible for his attack. But that was impossible; she wasn't a werewolf. Couldn't be a werewolf.

Could she?

That look vanished, under a guise of careful concern. She placed a hand on d'Artagnan's uninjured hand, offering him a kind but sad smile.

"Because it wouldn't be right," she said. "Because I'd like to think that, if I had been attacked, someone would come to help me."

There was something about her eyes, something so compelling and yet, so very sad. Almost hopeless…what had put that look into her eyes? Had someone hurt her? D'Artagnan swallowed hard, biting back a hot tide of anger that had risen up at the idea of someone hurting her. It seemed silly – he barely knew her. But she was a good person, he knew that much. And she was beautiful. Someone as beautiful and as good as her didn't deserve to be hurt.

"I would," he said.

"Well, first, let's work on getting you back on your feet," she said with a small laugh, shaking her head. "And then, perhaps you might find the gentlemen here will be willing to train you in being a good knight in shining armor."

"Wait…train me? As in…to be a Huntsmen?" he asked.

"Well, why not?"

"Oh, no, no, I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I couldn't possibly, I've got my farm to go back…I just came to Paris to…to petition the King for help from the Huntsmen…" He groaned, shaking his head. "The King. I need to see the King, soon."

"I believe Athos has already taken your case to Captain Treville," Constance said, standing up, bustling with the bowl of water and Aramis's medical supplies. "He'll devise something, I'm sure. So you can get back to your farm."

He offered her a small smile. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

"It's madame." There was a hint of steel in her tone and her expression, but it softened when she looked at him – he didn't realize he had physically reacted to her remark, but apparently, he had. "Madame Bonacieux. But…"

"But?"

"But you can call me Constance."