It swept out through the forest like spilled milk and Aramis only had the chance to catch the blue of his fellow Musketeers at the far end of the Comte's men before the thick fog swallowed the world. He was aware of Porthos at his side although he couldn't see the man and his confusion lessened a bit when he managed to grab onto the big man's arm.

It was then when the firing started and he heard his friend hiss in pain before the multiple booms reverberated through the thick mist and toppled him over to his side.

He sensed it then, another presence that hummed of a power that he was familiar with, the same power that flowed within him and answered readily to the call. It flowed under his skin and settled behind his eyes. Aramis blinked rapidly as he sat up with a muffled grunt, he could see now, although the pressing fog lingered as if it was a conscious being irritated at his ability to resume his vision. It left the entire world around him in faded shades of old draperies.

Shaking off the ringing in his ears, he crawled over to where Porthos lay on his side and gently moved his friend onto his back.

"Porthos?" he lightly traced his fingers over the shallow cut bleeding sluggishly near the man's hairline, "Porthos, wake up."

There wasn't even a twitch from the fallen man and Aramis cursed when he found the deep furrow dug into his friend's side. The bullet graze was deep and Aramis wasted no time in pulling the man half way in his lap even as he wrapped his sash around the wound.

"You'll be fine my friend," he told the unresponsive man, "I'll just stop the bleeding and go find Athos, you'll be fine and Athos will be fine too, he'll be really mad at you mon ami and don't think I'll save you from his wrath…."

He kept up the nonsense because in all honesty Aramis couldn't have his two best friends as not fine. He knew he would have to go and investigate who the enemy was but it was the silence around him that was unsettling, Athos should have been at his side by now. The only reason he wasn't was because he couldn't and the lack of clashing metal was a deafening proof that his other friend was not on his feet as well.

"And here I thought you'll be a vicious one." A lilting voice spoke from near him.

Aramis looked up at the woman who shimmered like sunlight on water. With a scowl he pushed to his feet and came to stand between his friend and the silver haired beauty.

"What? You don't like this face?" she grinned and right before his eyes she shifted into the face of his mother. "Is this one better?"

Aramis sucked in a breath and grit his teeth to keep a lock on the pain of seeing his mother's face alive again. He glanced beyond the woman trying to ignore the visage she had taken and traced the clearing that was disconcertingly empty. He was sure that the Comte's hunting party was coming in from that direction; they had made it quite close to the camp before the fog caught them.

"Your other pet is fine too," she purred in his mind.

"Stay out of my head." He growled.

She only grinned wider and melted into another form, this time she took the face of the Comtesse with deep black hair, the face that still haunted Aramis every time his nightmares brought him back to the clearing where Thomas had died.

Aramis clenched his teeth as she turned and pointed to the clearing with a childlike excitement that felt completely wrong over the face of the woman who had murdered his friend.

"There see? Do you see him? He's there with the horses."

The last remaining shreds of the mist whisked away and distantly Aramis realized that this creature had pulled back the resistance that was hammering into his view. The four horses were visible quite clearly, each facing a different direction and the distinctive blue of a Musketeer's cloak covered the lump in the center of it all.

"I expected more you know," the woman shrugged, "They're not even a sprout yet and you're just breaking the surface."

"Who are you? And what do you want?"

"People call me the Weaver but you can call me Isadora," she smiled.

"What do you want?"

"The question Rene Aramis d'Herblay is what do you want?" she said glanced towards the horses behind them.

With a startled whine the four beasts stomped the ground and clomped a few steps ahead. The Musketeer in their centre shifted, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. It dawned on Aramis what was happening.

"No," he shook his head and broke off in a run.

This witch had tied Athos to the horses; each limb to a different horse, facing a different direction. She was going to tear him apart. Aramis felt sick at the thought of his friend scattered about in the clearing and reached for his sword even as he came to a skidding stop by the first horse. Without a thought he slashed at the thick green vine only for it to twist and turn thicker.

"That won't work," a sing song voice said.

The horses shifted again and Aramis brought the tip of his sword to the woman's neck.

"Stop it," he said.

"That won't work either," she disappeared like a cloud in the wind and materialized on his other side, "At least not until I find a body, even then its highly unlikely."

She shrugged a slim shoulder and flicked her hand, the horse shifted ahead even more.

"You should try something different." she said.

The horses moved again and Athos jerked awake, confusion marred his face as he blinked at his stretched limbs then turned his head towards Aramis. The woman vanished and appeared closer to the Musketeer sprawled onto the ground.

"Hello Athos," she grinned.

"Aramis?!" a chocked scream reached for him.

"I'm here," he dropped to his knees beside his friend and placed a calming hand on his heaving chest. The man eventually stopped straining against the vines that had ensnared him. One of the horses shifted ahead and Athos grunted against the pull in his arm.

"Stop," it pulled from the core of his power and reverberated into the minds of the beasts that stilled immediately. Aramis felt another presence squirming for dominance.

"Now you're getting it," Isadora's gleeful voice echoed in his head.

"Stop it, just stop," Aramis focused on that single order and kept the words going on repeat in his mind, "Stop, stop, stop…."

He felt the pressure rise behind his eyes as he struggled for control over the four animals and even as he hacked away the twines of the witch's power he scampered to gain footing of his own. He had to keep calm the agitation in the horses because he knew otherwise it would end horribly for his friend.

His hold slipped on one of his charge and the animal pressed to bolt. A sickening 'pop' cracked the air and Aramis clamped down on the poor animal with far more viciousness. He couldn't find in himself to care for the raw fear of the horse when Athos' guttural cry filled his ears.

"You really do want to save him don't you?" the Weaver looked at him with a grin.

She floated closer and her hands hovered over Aramis' where they clutched Athos. She looked at him in delight and pushed a little against his mind.

"The Comte d'Fleurhelm has brought a seal of his forefathers to Paris," her voice echoed in his head, "It so happens that I need it and you Aramis are a perfect man to acquire it for me."

"Why?"

"Because I know where to hit you to make it hurt," she smiled at him, "The targets are quite literally walking around unprotected."

Aramis nearly sagged when he felt her retreat. His head pounded fiercely as he settled the animals and hated himself for flinching when the woman materialized even closer to him.

Aramis hadn't the chance to speak as the plant sprouted from beside his knee, curled up over his wrists and into his gloves with a cruel burning sting. The nettle reached and stuffed into every corner of his gloves as a mark appeared on the back of the worn leather

"Just a reminder of our meeting," she spoke in his mind, "They won't come off until you hold the seal I ask. When you have it you must speak my name thrice and I will come to collect."

The nettle twisted just a little tighter, "Remember, no tricks,"

He bit his lip to keep from crying out loud and when he glanced up she dispersed like smoke in a breeze.

Not wasting anytime Aramis slashed away the vines holding his friend and the man curled onto his side with a barely suppressed groan.

"Easy, easy my friend, don't put weight on it," Aramis murmured as he rubbed his friend's back in soothing circles and pushed down at the horrible sting in his hands. He could feel his friend's muscles quivering under his hold and his heart squeezed at the sound of the ragged breaths that escaped from Athos' legendary control.

Ignoring the scalding throb in his hands, he gently pushed the man onto his back.

"I need to set it," he said when the blue eyes found his.

Athos' jaw was set tight against the pain and his gaze was dulled as well, but Aramis didn't like what he saw lurking behind the haze of agony.

"Athos if I don't put it back now it will get worse." He said as he patted his friend on the chest and flinched at the pain that his instinctual gesture wrought on his hands.

He had half a mind to try to pull off his gloves but he was pretty sure that once he actually saw his hands he wouldn't be able to help Athos and Porthos. Resisting the urge to touch his friend again in reassurance he pushed to his feet. But Athos grabbed his arm.

"Your eyes," he gasped, "they're black."

And there it was, what Aramis had noticed lurking behind the confusion, the shock and horror was clear on Athos' face. The younger Musketeer simply nodded, although he wasn't aware of any physical changes he wasn't surprised if something showed when he used this power that he had.

Without another word he slipped out of Athos' good hand and griped his arm that had been ripped from its socket. Bracing his friend with a knee Aramis wrenched the limb into its place. The loud groan reverberated all around them and as his friend lay there breathing harshly, color returned to the washed out world. Aramis knew that the fog had really lifted this time.

His entire world was reduced to the agony in his shoulder; it pulsed out to the tips of his fingers and to the base of his skull. Athos swallowed to stay the bile that rose in his throat and measured his breathing as the pain receded into an ache. Blinking clear the moisture in his eyes he stared up at the clear blue sky and squinted against the bright sunlight. His view was blocked when Aramis' face loomed over him.

"That's it, breathe, slowly now, wait let me help you," he eased Athos into a sitting position.

Without warning the image of his friend with his eyes having gone completely black flashed in his mind and Athos shrugged off the help immediately.

"Don't touch me."

Aramis cringed like he had been slapped and dropped both his hands to his side to show that he meant no harm. He nodded towards the shoulder Athos was hunched over.

"Let me help you to get it in a sling," he said, "It needs support."

"I can manage," he kept his voice steady although he did not look the man in the eye.

Aramis bristled and sat back on his hunches.

"Fine, I'd watch you try."

Athos pulled off the scarf he wore around his neck, spread it in his lap and folded it neatly. Stubbornly refusing to look at the Musketeer before him, he used both his hands to tie the corners in a knot then using his good arm he placed the makeshift sling around his neck. Unable to sit still any longer, Aramis surged forward to help and Athos jerked away.

"Don't." he hissed through his teeth.

"Athos?"

"There are others who would benefit from your aid," he pulled out his commanding voice, "Go and see to the wounded."

He hated the resigned look Aramis cast his way but the sight of his wife, the sound of her voice was still fresh in his mind and it had left his shaken. She belonged in his nightmares, in the deep recesses of his consciousness that he filled with alcohol until every tender lie and brutal truth of his love was drowned out. He could not understand how she had been here, how had she been someone Aramis could see, could talk to.

His friend's eyes filled with deep, glinting, unnatural black flashed in his mind again and Athos suppressed a shudder. As he made to stand he saw the Comte limping over to him with a rather dazed Marsac at his heels. The portly man with stubby limbs was red in the face though out of exertion or rage there was no telling. He pointed a thick finger at Athos' face and his dark eyes narrowed.

"You! You will explain this to me! What is the meaning of this Musketeer?" Comte D'Fleurhelm demanded.

Athos did not appreciate the finger wagging in his face. He arched a brow at the fuming Comte, his gaze worth freezing the fires of hell.

"Control over unprecedented weather changes unfortunately falls a little out of our authority my lord," he said.

The Comte's finger stilled, he frowned as though in contemplation the deflated like a punctured sack of feed and frowned as Athos surveyed the damage.

The tents had collapsed and the ladies were all huddled together on the far end of the silken pile. A few servants were on their feet as were two Red Guards. The attack seemed to have been focused onto the campsite if Athos was to judge by the number of Comte's men standing about gawking while the wounded servants and soldiers lay scattered in the grass.

"Porthos," he frowned.

Marsac clutched his swelling wrist closer to his chest and nodded towards Aramis who was bent over a prone form.

"Porthos' wounded but not fatally. He's better off than some of the others, gained consciousness before Aramis left his side." Marsac supplied, "Oh and Aramis says you should look for a way to get us back to the city."

Athos nodded, he knew that Aramis was offering the distance he had asked for by allowing him a valid reason to not go and check on Porthos while the younger man was still there, tending to him. The Lieutenant didn't know if he should be glad, gratefully or thoroughly irritated.

"I will not stand for this!" the Comte snapped at the two of them, "Your medic has denied me his services!"

Athos looked back from where Aramis was had returned to Porthos' side, he couldn't fault the man even if he was familiar with propriety and politics. Their friend always tended first to them unless there was a fear of imminent death for another wounded.

"He is not a medic, not officially." He said.

"He carries the healing supplies."

Athos carefully looked up and down the disheveled Comte before his piecing gaze met directly with the nobleman's.

"Are you in danger of bleeding out my lord? Internally or otherwise?" he asked.

The Comte made to reply but then closed his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth. Athos watched as Aramis waved over Marsac and began bandaging his wrist, he ignored the seething nobleman at his side and went to see the condition of the carriages.

Once he was sure that he could at least get the noblemen and women back to the palace he went to collect the horses with the remaining Red Guards. Some of the animals have broken lose and bolted into the woods, it took quite some time to track all of them. He had never been afraid of these animals even when he had finally taken his place in a saddle for the first time. He had been eager to mount the horse after spending all his young life watching his father ride. Yet when he reached for the reins that day he couldn't help the slight hesitation, never again would he look at a horse and not respect the strength of the beast.

He looked around when he heard footsteps approaching; from the sound of it he knew it was neither Porthos nor Aramis.

"Aramis doesn't have enough supplies, he says we need to at least get the nobility back to the city and send litters for the others." Marsac told him, his own wrist was wrapped tight with a handkerchief.

Following his line of sight Marsac shrugged, "He's saving the bandages for the bleeders but most of the injuries among the servants are closed ones."

"The Red Guards?"

"Seems like they were caught in the firing line of the panicking nobles," Marsac said, "That's how Porthos got grazed."

Athos nodded as he left the horses to the two Red Guards left standing and went in search of his friend. In the time that had taken him to secure their transport, Aramis had managed to gather up the wounded in some semblance of order and had stabilized them for the time being. He found the younger Musketeer sitting on the barrel Porthos was leaning against and without permeable Athos crouched before the big man. He had not been one for tactile assurances up until a year ago but now it was the most natural thing to reach for his injured friend's shoulder.

"I think I'll go for mucking the stables next time." Porthos grinned at him.

"But it looks like at least this time you'll be excused," Athos arched a brow at the tightly bandaged sash that supported a purple stain; thankfully it wasn't as soaking wet as he had expected.

"You'll be left out of it too," Porthos nodded towards his shoulder before he sent a wide grin towards Aramis, "Looks like you'll be shoveling crap all on your own Kit,"

"Or I could ask the Captain to forego the punishment owing to my commendable services in the aftermath of this noble-born shooting squad." Aramis tossed back as he leaned forwards with a smile and stopped just short of shoving Porthos on his shoulder.

Athos found it odd because both his friends were inclined to touch, a poke in the ribs, a bump of shoulders, a slap on the back, still he refrained from calling Aramis out on it. Instead he patted the big man's shoulder and pushed back to his feet.

"Most of the servants can ride back, although it'll be painful for the few who cracked ribs," Aramis informed him, "Tent poles and frightened feet," he added by the way of explanation, "the Guards will need to be carted, multiple wounds, they may have stabbed each other in confusion."

"We'll need someone to stay back with the wounded," he said.

"I'm staying, so is Marsac." Aramis spoke up, "take Porthos with you."

Athos nodded, he hated that he could not look him in the face and didn't miss the subtle drop in his friend's shoulders.

"I am staying?" Marsac frowned then shrugged with a nod, "I am staying."

"I'm not leaving you here," Porthos said, "Not after whatever the hell that was."

"Yes you are," Aramis countered before Athos could; "You are going back to the garrison where Monsieur Ancel will wrap up the wound; stop the blood for good and save it from infection. The sooner he gets it done the better."

"He's right Porthos the faster it's cleaned the better, I'll come get you when we have packed up," Athos told his friend, "Aramis a word?"

He didn't wait to acknowledge the surprise with which the younger man shot to his feet and followed him away from the rest of them. They came to a stop halfway to where the Comte and his party were getting ready to leave. Athos fleetingly met the warm brown eyes but he could not bring himself to forget the demonic look he had witnessed there.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"I don't know, Athos I honestly don't." Aramis sounded tired.

"That woman, the one you were talking to, who was she?"

Aramis shrugged and stopped just short of clenching his hands into fists.

"She said that people called her Weaver but I could call her Isadora."

"Do you know her?"

"No,"

Athos nodded and absentmindedly rubbed his sore shoulder, he hadn't realized how worried he was at the thought of Aramis knowing his wife. Still it only brought more questions to his mind instead of the solace of answers. He couldn't understand how he had come face to face again with the woman who was dead, who had been executed on his orders, whom he had seen hanged. And then there was the whole other list of questions regarding Aramis himself.

"Your eyes, they were…."

"Black; you told me remember?"

"How?"

"I can do things Athos, I don't know how and I don't know why but I can do things. Maybe that's why my eyes changed."

"What sort of things?"

"Things with my mind I guess," Aramis shrugged helplessly, his voice was achingly soft and nearly a whisper when he spoke again, "Are you afraid of me?"

"I saw you," Athos knew it was not the answer his friend wanted but he could not give an honest reply, it was too soon.

Aramis nodded as though it was the answer he had expected and Athos couldn't ask what his friend had derived from his words. He wasn't sure that he would like it.

"What are you?" Athos hated the question the moment it slipped out.

"I don't know," Aramis took off his hat and drew a hand through his hair, "I don't know."

Cardinal Richelieu stood beside His Majesty's chair in the lavish study and listened to the Captain of the Musketeers as he explained the danger of a certain killer wandering the streets of their city. He had not obtained the latest report so he could not judge how much of Captain Treville's words were true, not that he pressed for daily updates from his man.

"Fine, fine, what would you have me do then?" His Majesty huffed irritably as he propped his elbow on an armrest and placed his chin in his hand.

"I have gathered information concerning his whereabouts, if Your Majesty should order we can move against him in a matter of hours," said Treville.

"Should we not let the Red Guard handle it Your Majesty?" Richelieu spoke up lest the King was spared time to actually think about the Captain's words.

He ignored the sideways glare Treville sent him and moved just a step closer towards the King. He was after all His Majesty's closest advisor.

"The Musketeers did start an investigation without the orders from Your Majesty," the Cardinal's tone implied the dereliction of duty, "And the Captain does admit that his men aren't equipped to handle this man."

"They were not prepared for him," Captain Treville was quick to point out, "He wears an armor that our weapons could not pierce."

"Did your men not know that they could encounter this person in the streets?" His Majesty inquired as he examined his nails.

"Your Majesty, he had never attacked in daylight," Captain Treville explained, "We lost a man today, the other was injured. Please allow us to bring this murderer to justice."

Cardinal Richelieu clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head towards the king.

"Well if I must then I will, I'll send my men to get rid of this threat Your Majesty," he said.

The King beamed and sat up straighter. He managed a little happy clap and grinned at the Captain.

"There you go Treville, Richelieu will see to it!" he said, "No need to get so despondent over the matter."

And that was the end of it.

It was when Captain Treville had been dismissed that the Cardinal felt the urgency to talk to the man. He knew that even if His Majesty had officially assigned the job to the Red Guards still Treville and his band of trigger happy maniacs would find a way to 'accidently' interfere in the matter. And Cardinal Richelieu would not have any disruptions in this.

He stopped the Captain in the courtyard. Treville was not pleased when the Cardinal emerged from behind the tall hedges.

"Now what?" he asked.

"I just wanted to remind you to keep an eye on your men," the Cardinal said, "This is the Red Guard's business now and I will not tolerate the Musketeers just 'stumbling' onto the action."

"I don't know what you're implying," Captain Treville shrugged dismissively.

The Captain made to sidestep but Richelieu stopped him.

"You don't understand, he will not stop until he has finished his job." The Cardinal lowered his voice, "He is a brother."

He did not anticipate the tight scrunch of his collar in the Captain's fist neither had he expected to be feel the sharp stab of clipped twigs in his back, it took him a few seconds to realize that he had in fact been pushed up against a hedge. There was bloodlust in the sharp blue eyes regarding him and the Cardinal couldn't help the smug grin that stretched over his teeth when the Captain shook him.

"He's a Watchman," it wasn't a question from Treville, "The Brotherhood set him up."

Cardinal Richelieu snorted, as if Marcus and his dithering fools could come up with such a daring plan. They wouldn't take such a risk, not when they searched the country for a giggling three year old. It was their absolute lack of interest in his findings that had pushed the Cardinal to such extreme measures, and what he wouldn't give to see Marcus humbled and chastised.

The blue eyes boring into him narrowed.

"You – you sent him." The snarl was feral.

"He is looking for the born Knot, it is his sole mission." The Cardinal shrugged, "Once he's dealt with the Knot, he'll bring me the remains and disappear, leaving no more than his terror behind."

Captain Treville paled like his blood had just drained out a fatal wound. He stepped away from the Cardinal with an ashen face and bloodless lips pressed tightly close. Richelieu watched him contemplate the ground before him until he looked back up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He stared long and hard at the Cardinal before he shook his head and walked away as though in a daze.

Adjusting his collar and smoothing his jerkin, the Cardinal turned back to the palace with a swirl of his luxurious red cloak. He paused in the long corridor when he felt the sunlight shift behind him and turned around just as the woman emerged from behind a pillar, her silken gown hardly producing a rustle at her movement.

She plucked a leaf from the nearest topiary and twirled it between her fingers. Milady watched the way Treville had left before she looked back to the Cardinal.

"He seems far more upset than I anticipated," she said.

"He's a sentimental creature," the Cardinal shrugged a shoulder, "You are certain that the armor he wears will save him from every weapon?"

"Our Scholars are far more powerful than those of your brotherhood's," she leaned against the pillar and gently tore the leaf in a clean half along its spine, "the best your Scholars can do is make healing potions, we managed that ages ago."

"The armor –"

"Will not be penetrated and will only be released by your order," she said, "Or when he has finished the work assigned to him."

TBC