Author's note: Sorry I'm late, I'm on holidays and my schedule's a bit weird. But hey, at least you won't have to deal with this cliffhanger for too long? :D

Entr'Acte, part 3

Aramis woke a little after dawn. Porthos, familiar with his post-Healing needs, brought him water and then food and then more water. d'Artagnan woke while Aramis was still drinking and washing his face and hands, talking quietly whenever Porthos was near enough. He was keeping an eye out, but Aramis didn't try to go near him until he'd eaten and drunk and looked at least marginally better.

"Morning," d'Artagnan murmured as he sank down to sit next to him.

"Morning," Aramis returned. "How are you feeling?"

"I hurt," d'Artagnan said. "Aches all over. But I don't feel as hot or as sick, really."

"Good sign. Have you been drinking?"

"Yes, Porthos made sure."

Porthos grinned cheerfully at Aramis' look; Aramis made a face and went back to questioning d'Artagnan.

"You should rest today."

d'Artagnan grimaced. "I'd rather stay with you. Can you help me that much?"

"It won't last," Aramis warned him, but he was already taking off his gloves. "How's the town this morning?"

"It's actually – I think a lot of people have just gone numb. Too much too quickly. It's not so heavy now."

He didn't mention the other reason he might have been sensing less people, and Aramis didn't either. Porthos didn't bother bringing it up. He knew they were all thinking it.

Athos woke a few minutes later, grumbled about Aramis doing any Healing without telling him first, and went off to stick his head in a bucket. Porthos went about packing up what they'd need for the day. d'Artagnan wouldn't be carrying weapons today; Porthos carefully hid them in the barn.

Actually, what was d'Artagnan going to do today? Even if most people were numb, or otherwise unfeeling, he wasn't sure the tavern was a good idea, and he didn't think the lad would stand up to chopping wood for the pyre. That really needed to be done today; they needed to get the bodies on it quickly.

He meant to ask Athos when he came back, but Aramis was desperate to get back to the tavern and they ran out of time somehow. When they reached the tavern, Athos vanished to start cutting wood for the pyre, Aramis vanished into the tavern, and Porthos was left looking at d'Artagnan.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos said carefully, seeing the faraway look he never liked on d'Artagnan's face.

d'Artagnan shook himself back into the present. "I'm all right. I was just thinking. How can I help?"

Porthos glanced at the water barrel; he could see halfway into it from here and it was at least that empty. "We're going to need water, but it's heavy work."

"I'll just do a bucket at a time," d'Artagnan promised.

"Make sure. And shout for Aramis or me if you have to."

"I will," d'Artagnan promised, picking up the bucket and heading for the river.

Porthos watched him go uneasily. He didn't like leaving him alone, but Athos had vanished and there was no way to keep Aramis and d'Artagnan in the same place right now. At least the boy was only walking along the road and back; he could hardly get into too much trouble doing that.

Aramis was crouching beside one of the cots. Porthos took in the small form under the blanket and sighed. He would be drawn to the children, of course.

He picked up a handful of rags from a pile that might once have been a dress and brought them to offer Aramis. He was praying softly; Porthos listened for a moment before shaking his head. "Pray in Gascon, Aramis. Get some distance."

"She won't understand Gascon."

"This isn't Extreme Unction, it's intercession, she doesn't need to understand it." He glanced down and sighed. "And get your gloves back on. Athos will drag you out of here by the scruff if he sees that."

"She is a child, and she is in pain." Aramis brushed a strand of hair from her forehead; his hand shook slightly.

"You can't stop this, you know that."

"I can stop her pain," he said, so softly Porthos barely heard it. "Don't ask me to stop, Porthos."

"You can't do this," Porthos said, just as softly. "There's too many, Aramis."

"I can help this one."

"Why this one?"

He laughed bitterly. "She was the first one I saw."

"I'm not letting you hurt yourself," Porthos warned him softly. "I'm going to do a round of the room. If you haven't moved on by the time I get back, I'm moving you on. You aren't killing yourself here, Aramis."

Aramis didn't answer. Porthos grimaced, turning to continue around the room, distributing the rags at each cot. He passed Marc on much the same errand; the man looked exhausted and Porthos wondered idly if he'd slept.

Aramis had moved on to the next cot by the time Porthos came back around. Porthos let him be, keeping an eye on him to make sure he wasn't spending too much time with any one person. Several small Healings were just as bad as, maybe worse than, one big one, but he was familiar enough with Aramis that he'd be able to catch him before it got too bad.

He was starting to think about pulling Aramis out when there was a sudden noise outside and d'Artagnan all but fell in the door. "Athos is in trouble!" he shouted; he had to pause to cough before he could continue "I think they're going to kill him!"

Aramis gestured Porthos to take charge of d'Artagnan as they spilled out of the tavern; the boy was obviously sickening again, Aramis' Healing wearing off, but he didn't have time to do anything about it right now. Everyone left standing in the village was crowded towards the north end of the street, and while he couldn't make out any words from here the tone was very, very angry.

"Where's Athos?" he demanded of d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan gestured weakly. "Right in the middle of it."

Aramis swore, spinning and hurrying towards the mass of people. Porthos chivvied d'Artagnan along behind him, but Aramis dismissed them completely from his thoughts; Porthos would take care of d'Artagnan, his focus had to be on Athos.

Two of the men had Athos by the arms; Christophe was shouting at him, screaming. Athos was so blank he had to be worried; he didn't show anything until he realised Aramis was coming, and then he flinched.

"What is going on here?" Aramis demanded, breaking into the little circle around Athos.

Christophe turned on him, weeping. He was clearly ill, trembling where he stood. "He has an Ability!"

"Nonsense," Aramis said briskly. "Why would you say that?"

"I saw you. Last night. I was cutting wood when you were heading out to Pierre's."

Damn. Aramis shook his head. "What is it you think you saw?"

"I saw him break his arm!" Christophe's hand was shaking when he pointed at Athos. "I heard you say it was broken. He's not hurt today!"

"We were wrong," Aramis said as calmly as he could manage. "He didn't break anything. He just knocked it. Once we got back to Pierre's, I looked at it, it's fine."

"There's no bruise. There's no mark! In as much as it is given –"

"Stop," Athos said before Christophe could recite the Church Law.

"Athos, shut up," Aramis said urgently. One of the village men caught his arm and shoulder, pinning him in place; Aramis couldn't concentrate enough to break free, straining uselessly against the hold.

"I forced Aramis to be silent when I realised he knew," Athos continued calmly. "He has no part in this, he's just happened to be present."

"Athos…"

"He had nothing to do with my Ability."

"Athos!"

Christophe was still crying, scrubbing a hand across his face. "He's brought this down on us. Released to the divine judgment of God. Kill him! Save our people!"

Marc appeared, stepping past Aramis and his guard, staring at Athos. "Did you do this? Bring this illness to us?"

"I've done nothing but try to help you and your people," Athos said evenly.

"But you do have an Ability."

Athos' gaze slid over Aramis and away. "Yes."

d'Artagnan was howling from somewhere behind the crowd.

"Marc," Aramis pleaded.

"They knew nothing," Athos said firmly, watching Marc.

"This is madness!" Father Maurice protested from somewhere to Aramis' right. Aramis couldn't see him past his guard. "Marc, you can't possibly…"

"Your men are innocent?" Marc said over him.

"Completely."

"These men have saved lives!" Father Maurice again. d'Artagnan was still screaming.

Christophe said something to Marc that Aramis couldn't hear. Marc nodded slowly, eyes on Athos.

"Marc," Aramis said desperately. "We'll go. We'll wait this out in the woods somewhere. We'll never come near this place again. Don't do this. He hasn't harmed anyone."

"Released to the divine judgment of God," Christophe said again. "Let God judge him."

Marc nodded. "That's Church Law. Isn't it, Father Maurice? Burn him."

The words made no sense for a long moment, too long. By the time Aramis parsed them Athos had been dragged to the pyre, now stacked high and ready for the bodies. Someone tied his hands; someone else punched him in the face, hard enough to daze him. There was no stake to tie him to, since it hadn't been designed for living people, but the bonds and dizziness together would do it.

Porthos was shouting, but he wouldn't abandon d'Artagnan, who'd fallen eerily silent. Father Maurice was calling for calm, for time, but no one was listening. They wouldn't listen. The crowd was shouting for revenge, jostling to get closer, fighting to watch Athos burn to death.

Aramis elbowed his guard, breaking his hold mechanically, without thinking about it. Drawing his pistol, he shouted for attention.

Christophe shoved a burning torch into the base of the pyre and it lit up, fire racing towards its dazed occupant.

Aramis breathed scrambled words that might have been a prayer, aimed through tear filled eyes, and fired.