AN: For some reason the story didn't pop to the top when I posted chapter 2, so if you don't get email notifications you may have missed the last one!

Chapter Three

They took what supplies they could and made off with the guard's now abandoned horses. Romero was left with only three men: Lucero, Casilla and Mendez, who had merely been knocked out. It was a setback for sure. Once they were far enough away from the inn Romero had them ride into a copse off the road to rest and see to their injuries.

There was nothing more serious than cuts and bruises, unfortunately. A gash on Romero's arm needed stitching, and Aramis set to work, although it made him sick to his stomach to be helping him like this.

Romero's hand fisted in Aramis' shirt as he began to pierce the skin. "We need to send word back. There are men in place near the border, hidden, to relay messages... we will need more men."

"We may yet be enough."

"To infiltrate the castle? No. I need men on the inside and outside supporting them. We need to weave a web that goes deep, and right under their noses. We will need more men for this to work."

"What do you suggest?"

"We hole up somewhere and send word requesting reinforcements. It will delay the mission, but it is better to do this properly or not at all."

Mendez suddenly clicked his fingers. "I know just the place! The innkeeper mentioned a house gone to wrack and ruin, abandoned by one of de Luynes relations."

"I have heard of such a place, but I am not sure where it is." Romero settled his eyes on Aramis. "Priest, do you know of a house belonging to a de Luynes?"

For a moment the words stuck in his throat. But Aramis would appreciate a roof over his head as much as any of them. To help the Spanish would be to help himself in this instance. And it would give him more time to foil whatever plan they had concocted.

"I know it. It's not far, I can take you there."

Romero raised an eyebrow. Was he expecting more resistance or a negative answer? "Good."

Aramis finished with the stitches and moved away from Romero, but the Spaniard suddenly reached out to grab his arm and pull him back. Aramis went rigid in his grasp.

"You have blood on your hands now, priest. Your first?"

He nodded his head slowly, regretfully.

"Blood of your own countrymen no less. Tell me, how did it feel to take the life of another?"

Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Exciting.

The feelings he had as a soldier. The ones that told him he was still alive, and those that he had cast aside since taking to the cloth.

He could not deny it had awoken something in him.

Aramis frowned as he considered his answer. Should he give the answer Romero was expecting, or the truth?

"It felt… good." He settled for something simple, and true.

Romero laughed, his grip shifted to Aramis' shoulder. "That would be a feeling called bloodlust my friend. It hides in the hearts of all men, even priests it seems."

But a part of Aramis felt devastated, he felt he was losing his divinity, it was being pulled away from him piece by piece. First with the removal of his cassock, and now with the slaughtering of men.

It seemed Aramis' devastation showed on his face. Romero gave his shoulder a friendly pat. "Do not look so sad. You must realise that men have killed men ever since men have been around to kill. Life comes cheaply, especially ours."

"But, the teachings of God reject such wanton violence…" Aramis found himself voicing his doubts, almost against his wishes.

"And God made you as you are. He put that bloodlust in your heart. You should embrace it as a gift from God. It will keep you alive. You would have died back there if you refused to raise a hand in violence."

And maybe it would have been better to die. His divinity was being stripped away from him, and he was becoming something else. Each piece that fell away seemed to reveal a monster beneath.

He had killed his own countrymen in time of war. There was a word for men who did that…

Traitor.

It loomed large and terrifying in Aramis' mind.

But Romero seemed oblivious to the horror on his face. "We will rest a while and then move on. I want to reach this house before night fall."

~oOo~

Now being mounted the group moved swiftly. Just a few hours passed before Aramis led them off the main road. They travelled down a path that seemed as if it was maintained meticulously at one point, statutes stood along it, and colourful rose bushes matched on either side. But they were overgrown, grass grew through the gravel, and the statutes had delicate parts broken off. Outstretched hands were missing, and a patina of dirt had blackened them. Eventually it led to a house that was more of a mansion. Definitely smaller than Athos' estate but much bigger than anything Aramis could have hoped to own.

The men dismounted as they approached the doorway. Romero directed Lucero and Mendez to take the horses and look for a stable. The rest of them tried their luck with the door. It gave way with a little force and creaked open wide. Inside was a grand hallway, with a staircase and several doors leading off it. The same neglect outside was found inside. Decorated walls were now stained and peeling, the air felt musty to take in. The three of them moved forwards. All was quiet apart from their footsteps echoing around the empty space. They tried the door directly ahead and Aramis couldn't help but utter a small gasp as they stepped through. The main room centred on a circular tower that went directly up and was surrounded by large windows at the top, although most of them appeared to be broken. A chandelier hung down from the middle, and a few birds roosting upon it took flight at their intrusion. A chorus of flapping crashed around the room, and a delicate feather or two floated down in front of Aramis' face.

Beside him Romero growled. "Such extravagance. It's shameful."

It was beautiful, in a ruined sort of way. But Aramis took his meaning. Aramis supposed he himself had just become used to the opulence that surrounded life at the palace, even as he walked the streets and saw the contrasting poverty all around.

They moved on and searched through other rooms. A few bits of furniture had been left here and there, beds and tables, but most everything of value was long gone. Either taken by the nobles or stripped away in their absence. Eventually Lucero and Mendez joined them again, and they settled in a smaller room with a large hearth and a few chairs.

"Get a fire going, and take the priest down to the cellar. There'll be one somewhere."

Aramis looked up in confusion and tried to pull away when Casilla took his arm.

"Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Just a little walk, you'll see."

To resist would let them know he understood. And so Aramis begrudgingly went along.

Mendez led the way, looking into various rooms as they passed by. "How the other half live eh?"

They went down some stairs and through a kitchen area. A few high windows at ground level were the only source of light. Mendez opened a door to a small side room and waved them over.

"What are you doing?" Aramis asked as he was thrust inside.

They didn't answer. The door was shut and moments later there was the ominous sound of something heavy being moved against it. The room was pitch black, there were no windows and they had not even left him with a candle.

Aramis went to push against the door. It wouldn't move. He frantically put all his weight behind it, but it did not shift an inch. He sighed and stilled. What was the meaning behind this? One minute Romero had a hand at his shoulder and he was treated as a friend, the next he was a prisoner again. Aramis shook his head and resigned himself to spending the night down here. He went to search around the room with his hands. His fingers brushed against nothing more than dusty shelves, and so he settled down against the wall and wrapped his arms around himself. It was going to be a long night.

~oOo~

Aramis was woken by the sound of scraping behind the door. He assumed it was morning, he couldn't really tell being in darkness. When the door opened a flood of light spilled in around Romero's shadowed frame. Aramis held up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Can I come out now?" He asked tentatively.

"Not yet." Romero walked in and seemed to loom over Aramis. "What do you know of the road south of Quillan?"

"I know that it leads to the foothills of the Pyrenees."

"And?"

"What more is there to know?"

The blow came from nowhere. Aramis felt an explosion of pain at his cheek and fell to one side.

"This is important, do not try me."

Once Aramis recovered his breath he stuttered out his reply. "There is… a way through... crosses the border..."

Lucero's voice filtered in from outside. "Then it must be common knowledge surely. The scouts said it was not well used, or watched, but that is old information by now. The French would be foolish to leave it unguarded."

"Are there soldiers in those parts? What do you know of the military's movements?"

"Nothing. I'm just a monk, I know nothing of such things!"

The silhouette of Romero's fist rose, but then Lucero's voice came in again. "Maybe he is telling the truth. I suppose monks know little of war."

"Don't be so sure. There is something… something strange about him. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he understands every word we speak." Romero leered down at Aramis. "Do you understand me? You French dog, do you know that I say your mother was a whore and your father a hopeless drunkard?"

Lucero laughed in the background, while Aramis did his best to keep his expression blank.

"Even if he is telling the truth, he has been out amongst the people, and people like to gossip." Romero bent down to pull Aramis to his feet and push him against the wall. "You are telling me you have heard nothing? Not a single soul has spoken of seeing soldiers? You know what will happen if you lie."

Aramis swallowed hard, clutching the hands that held him. "The people I deal with are more concerned with putting food on their plates than what seems to them a distant war."

A twisted smile graced Romero's face, just about visible in the gloom. "War will reach them eventually."

He let Aramis go and abruptly turned to leave. The darkness closed in once again.

~oOo~

Aramis was supplied with food, water, and a bucket. Mendez and Casilla always brought the food to him, he saw nothing of Romero. Aramis couldn't be sure how much time passed in the dark. Was it days or weeks? All he knew were periods of fitful sleep and a gnawing hunger that rose and waned. A weary sort of detachment fell on him. The threshold between dreams and reality seemed to waver. At first Aramis could tell the difference because his dreams were full of colour, they were full of blood, and voices he half remembered knowing. But reality was a quiet, dark room. And then he saw a face in the darkness. It disappeared when he blinked. He saw more… Ravens, hopping about, curiously watching, before melting away. He heard approaching horses, even knowing it was impossible for them to be down here. Aramis thought he had spilled his water, suddenly feeling wet. But the full cup was right there. He felt like he was beginning to go mad.

He had to get out.

Aramis made the decision - when the door next opened he would attack and escape. So he groped for the door and crouched down behind it. He would be ready.

It wasn't long, but he wasn't sure, it didn't seem long, and the door was scraping open. Aramis surged to his feet and lashed out with a fist, pushing forwards with a yell. He caught Romero across the face, but Mendez was ready to step in. A blow to his ribs drove the breath from his lungs. When he dragged in another he screamed.

"Let me out!"

And then he was crashing face first into the wall, his arms were violently wrenched behind him.

Romero's blood stained face pressed up close. "You struck me." His voice was deceptively calm. "You know I never hurt you unless you gave me cause. What did you think striking me would do?"

Romero pressed his weight into Aramis, crushing him against the wall a little more. A slight whimper escaped.

"What do you have to say for yourself? Nothing?" Romero wiped a hand beneath his nose and thrust it at Aramis' face. "That is my blood you have spilt. You know what I have to do now, and you know that you brought this on yourself."

Between one breath and the next Aramis was swung around and thrown back into the store room. He lost his footing and rolled against the hard stone floor. Romero was on him in an instant, lashing out with fists, kicking out at his ribs. Aramis curled up and raised his arms to try and protect himself from the raining blows. Romero swept them aside and took a tight grip on his throat.

"You do not raise your hand to me. Not ever. Do you understand?"

Aramis choked, feeling the darkness creep from the room and into his eyes. He managed a stilted nod, and was dropped abruptly. He lay heaving against the ground, every part of him felt on fire.

"I was going to bring you out, but not anymore. You can stay down here."

"Please…" Aramis whispered hoarsely, but the only answer was the door slamming shut.

It was pitch black once again. Their footsteps faded away and Aramis was left listening to his own harsh breaths and the dull thud of his heartbeat.

~oOo~

Aramis was left alone for what felt like forever. He couldn't see the lurid bruises that no doubt painted his body, but he could feel them. They flared and ached with every movement of his body. It was a mistake to attack Romero, he knew that. Although he hadn't realised it would be Romero opening the door. Aramis shivered, it was cooler down here, below ground level, and he had nothing but a shirt on. His mind began to drift again, and he was sure he heard the sweet singing voice of a young woman. But when he tried to pinpoint where the voice came from it would move.

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child… Bye bye, lully, lullay… Herod the king, in his raging, charged he hath this day, his men of might in his own sight, all young children to slay...

Eventually the voice became quieter and lapsed into whispered prayers. That's when Aramis realised he was joining in, and perhaps the prayers had only come from between his own lips.

Romero visited, Aramis wasn't sure whether it was hours or days later. He just knew he still hurt. He shied away from the meagre light of the candle Romero brought in. Even that was enough to hurt his eyes. It was clear the Spaniard was still angry. He flexed his fists and paced, until he swept down upon Aramis. Aramis tried to crawl away to the corner, but he didn't make it far. Romero grabbed his ankle and pulled him back. No questions were asked this time, only violence was offered.

When Romero left him alone Aramis was kept company by phantoms that crawled out of the darkness.

I'm not going to lie to you, Aramis. Your life cannot be saved.

Rochefort's insidious voice wound around the room, and Aramis rubbed at his wrists, feeling echoes of a previous confinement. He could not be saved. He would be left here until there was nothing left of him. The room was filled with an absence that seemed to seep through Aramis' skin so that he couldn't be sure he was really there himself. Only the ghosts kept him tethered in this half life.

Curled and shivering in the middle of the room Aramis caught sight of something through the slow flickering of his tear stained lashes. He picked his head up and inhaled sharply. Marguerite leaned against the wall. Her sudden appearance shocked Aramis. He shot up and cried out, scrambling backwards until his bruised back flared in pain at hitting the wall. Aramis couldn't tear his eyes away from her though. Marguerite's gaze was fixed, her skin was pale, and she was still in a way that only came with the rigidity of death. It was a stillness that Aramis was intimately familiar with. He was once granted time in a far away forest to witness every moment of warmth fading and rigor mortis setting in. Twenty times over. Twenty times. Twenty one.

The dead lay unreconciled.

A thin layer of snow dusted the room as Aramis took in Marguerite's vacant stare. Only one thing moved in the stillness. Her arms were locked around a bundle that wriggled. Aramis crawled closer on shaking limbs. Something drove him forwards, he wanted to save what he could if he could. With every inch Aramis gained the stillness infected the bundle Marguerite held in her dead arms. He stalled, his head dropped.

He should stay away.

He should have stayed away.

If he had kept his distance there would be no rigidity and stillness. There would have been breath and life.

But it was too late. Death had followed close on his heels again. It haunted his footsteps, stealing breath from the lives whose paths he crossed. When he turned to face it, to embrace it, it was gone.

Why not twenty two?

Come back.

Please.

Aramis' abused arms gave out and he fell to the floor. His breath shuddered in and out and he closed his eyes as he felt the cold of the stone floor against his cheek. When he opened them he stared into blackness, he stared until the nothingness drove him to distraction. Aramis rubbed at his eyes furiously, desperate to see something, anything.

Anything but that.

Adele's empty eyes lay an inch away. If she drew breath he would have felt it brush against his lips, but the air between them was still. Looking into her eyes he felt as if he stared into the void, her pupils were fixed and as black as the surrounding darkness. It was a mockery of the times he lay next to her, whispering sweet nothings, his fingers playing with a stray curl. Her eyes were bright and alive, not glassy and dead. Her complexion was blushed, not a sickly shade of grey. But the more he tried to remember Adele as she was the more this pale imitation was seared into his mind.

Why did he not stay away?

Aramis screwed his eyes tight shut. He only opened them when he felt a gentle hand run down the side of his face. He smiled. Adele was restored, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes alight with awareness. But when he reached out to touch her a hand clamped tight around his wrist with an unearthly strength.

Her soft lips parted, and a whisper chilled the air between them.

"You will become what you deserve."

She brushed a hand over his eyes as if laying him to rest.

If he deserved anything, he deserved this.

~oOo~

Just as the phantoms distracted Aramis from Romero, when the ghosts became too much Romero was a distraction from the phantoms. He dealt out a pain that Aramis felt was deserved. The reasons became a tangled web in his muddled mind. He had hurt so many people, so many innocent people. He had even hurt Romero unintentionally.

Each time Romero came to Aramis he unleashed a fierce anger. Not much was said, apart from the occasional slur… French dog!… Between outbursts Romero seemed distracted and even anxious. Often a frantic hand ran through his hair before he lay into Aramis again.

During this latest round Romero drew back, the sound of his harsh panting filled the room.

"I'm sorry…" Aramis muttered from between bloodied lips.

Romero frowned. "What did you say?"

"I… I am sorry. I should not have hit you. I did not mean to, I didn't mean to make you angry." Aramis dropped his head to the cold ground and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

His eyes flew open again as he felt Romero drop to his knees beside him. But instead of a vicious strike, as he was used to, Romero gently clasped his hand. Still, Aramis let out an involuntary whine at the unexpected contact.

"Thank you." Romero squeezed his hand. "You know you did wrong, you accepted your fault in this and apologised. You've won back some trust, and I do not trust so easily."

"I'm sorry, Romero." Aramis spoke again, as if the words could protect him.

"I know." A strangely tender hand reached out to run down the side of Aramis' face. "You've done well. So well." Romero turned to pull the candle between them. "You've earnt this."

He got to his feet and the door closed quietly moments later.

Aramis shuddered in a breath and let it out slowly, feeling his eyes filling up. Romero had left the candle with him, he was in darkness no longer. For the first time in a long time Aramis could see. That small flickering flame was like a blessing from God himself, and Romero was the angel who had brought it.

"And God said, let there be light, and there was light…" Aramis whispered as he watched the wax melt and run, just as tears ran down his own face.

He wanted to stay awake to appreciate the light. But Aramis' aching body pulled him under for a time. He woke to find the candle nearly burnt out. Pushing himself up with a groan Aramis sat cross legged before the candle, begging it to stay alight. If he stared at it hard enough his sheer will might have kept it burning. He didn't want the darkness, not again.

The moment came when the small flame flickered and died. Aramis threw his head back and screamed as the darkness blinded him once again. Having the light, even for such short a time, seemed to deepen the pitch black. It was like enjoying a warm summer's day and suddenly being plunged into the depths of winter. The cold didn't bite as hard when you lived with it day to day. Aramis opened his eyes wide, but it didn't matter whether they were open or closed, it was all the same. He groped around, trying to find something, anything, to hold onto. Aramis lurched to his feet, stumbling around on pained legs, feeling around the shelves. But his hands only ran through thick layers of dust. He found the door and scrabbled against it, crying out helplessly without meaning to. He worked frantically at the handle before dropping to his knees, heaving breaths in and out. There wasn't enough air, the walls were closing in. There wasn't a world, just darkness, around him and through him. He couldn't breathe, there was a void in his chest where his lungs should be.

And then the door opened. Aramis fell forwards to clutch around Romero's legs. The Spaniard said nothing, he just waited for Aramis' frantic breathing to calm.

"Thank you… thank you." He whispered when he found his voice again.

Romero brought another candle along with some food. He set them down in the middle of the room and stepped back as Aramis scrambled forwards.

Aramis watched the candle as if it was his entire world.

"If I can trust you I will bring two next time."

Aramis turned to look at him with hope in his eyes.

~oOo~

True to his word Romero brought two candles. Aramis made sure he was worthy of Romero's trust and in return he was treated with such kindness.

And then one day Romero left the door wide open.

"Come with me."

Aramis hesitated, unsure of what lay out there.

"It's all right." Romero held his hand out.

Aramis struggled to his feet and limped towards it. Romero took his arm when he was close enough. They stepped across the threshold and Aramis hid his face in the crook of his elbow at the sudden brightness of the world outside. Mendez stepped forwards to help guide Aramis along. He was trembling. He was free, and it was almost too much.

They came to a room upstairs with large windows. Aramis winced and hid his face again.

"Casilla, close the drapes."

The drapes were worn and riddled with holes, but they blocked the light enough for Aramis to bear. He squinted around the room. A fire crackled in the hearth, the three men seemed to have made this their room to settle in.

Romero sat in a chair in the middle of the room and Mendez led Aramis to stand before the fire. He felt his back warm as he faced the Spaniard.

"Who are you?"

Romero spoke in Spanish and so Aramis kept his face impassive.

"I know you can understand me. Drop the pretence."

Still he showed no reaction.

"Take off your shirt."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying." Aramis tried.

Romero smiled slyly. "I think you do. I brought you up here because I thought I could trust you. If I cannot you will have to go back…"

A look of horror took Aramis' face then. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands as if in prayer. A stream of Spanish slipped between his lips. "Please, don't take me back! You can trust me! I'm sorry! I should have told you, I shouldn't have kept it secret… I will accept what punishment you deem fit, but don't take me back down there!"

"Hush, hush… there is no need for that. Get up." Romero waited for Aramis to gain his feet. "I knew it. I've watched you listening so intently to our conversations, you gave yourself away with such little things. The looks of confusion at my words, the way you knew I wanted the location of this place before I asked in your language… if it is your language."

"I am sorry. I await your punishment." Aramis hung his head.

"There will be no punishment. You told me the truth when I asked. You've shown me I can trust you. Just make sure to tell me the first time I ask in future." Romero gave an easy smile. "I want to trust you. Take off your shirt."

Aramis did as he was asked straight away. His filthy shirt dropped to the ground at his feet.

"You are not a monk. At least you haven't always been one." Romero got to his feet and approached Aramis. He ran curious fingers over the scars that marred Aramis' body. "I suspected when I saw you change. How would a monk come by gunshot wounds? And then the way you fought..."

Aramis had never felt so vulnerable before, standing half naked with Romero breathing down his neck.

The Spaniard leaned in close to whisper. "What were you?"

Aramis stood up straight and swallowed hard. "A musketeer… I belonged to the king's musketeers."

"A guard of the king!" Romero stepped back with a laugh and dropped into his chair once again. "All this time I thought I had a monk and here stands a man who no doubt knows the palace as well as the back of his hand!"

"I am sorry, I should have told you…"

Romero waved a hand. "No matter, no matter. Just be sure to tell me anything you think I need to know."

"There is one thing."

"And what is that?" Romero sat forwards eagerly.

"My name. It's Aramis."