Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan just stood there for a moment in the center of Aramis' room. They couldn't believe he had actually taken off. Looking silently at each other, the worry in their faces was identical. He couldn't be out somewhere with no protection with someone apparently causing accidents that could have been fatal more than once now.

Looking around, Athos spotted a note sitting on Aramis' table. Picking it up, he read aloud: D'Artagnan, I am so sorry you were injured. That should not have happened. I have gone away to prevent any of you (yes, I know you are all reading this now) from being further injured or killed because of me. Do not look for me, or worry about me. I will be fine. One for all. Aramis.

Porthos slammed his hand against the wall, anger and frustration marking his face. "The idiot!" he exclaimed. "Fine! He doesn't know the meaning of the word!"

"His heart is ruling his head in this one," Athos said. "We need to find him quickly. He does not know who this person is, and neither do we. The man could have followed him wherever he has gone, and Aramis would not know it, and which could make him more vulnerable because of it."

D'Artagnan spoke up, his voice barely audible. "He does know I don't blame him for the accident, doesn't he?", upset that he was the reason Aramis felt he had to leave.

"This is not your fault, d'Artagnan," Athos replied. "Aramis is dealing with someone who appears to be slightly unhinged. Aramis feels things deeply, and right now, is hurting that what had been intended for him instead hurt you. He feels it should have been him. We will find him and bring him back, and bring his tormentor to justice. Let us just hope this unknown man did not see and follow Aramis to wherever he has gone.

D'Artagnan spoke up, "Where do we begin looking? Paris is a very large city, and he is familiar with a great deal of it. We all are."

"He needs a safe place to sleep at night," Athos said. "But he will not go anywhere we have been to regularly. No room above any of the taverns we frequent. None of the ladies he has been with in the past (he knew that since the night at the convent, Aramis had been very quiet in the evening, not going to his former female companions).

Athos spoke again, saying, "We need to obtain Treville's permission to start searching. With any luck, we could have Aramis back with us before nightfall," heading towards the door.

Porthos had been silent while Athos was speaking. He had a bad feeling, and kept it to himself. Aramis, he thought, how can we have each others' backs if we don't know where you are, mon ami. He wished he had a little of the deep faith Aramis had. He could use it right about now, as he followed his brothers out the door to Treville's office.

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Two days later.

Aramis felt trapped. He looked around the dingy room he had taken with distaste: the table he sat at, chipped and stained; the bare floor, scarred and made with uneven wooden planks that caused him to tread carefully walking across at night; the bed that creaked with every movement, and a lumpy mattress and musty smelling bedding; the bare, unpainted walls with not even a picture hung to relieve the plainness. The chair he was seated upon wobbled on uneven legs, and he had already dug one splinter out of a tender area.

Not for the first time, he wished the room at least had a small fireplace, as the day was quite chilly. But, he thought, you get what you pay for.

He sighed, wishing he didn't need to be there, but still feeling that his actions had been needed.

He had stayed away from the solitary window, grimy and cracked, not wishing to give his unknown nemesis a possible target. He had no way of knowing who the man was, or what he might look like.

He had stayed clear of anywhere familiar to his brothers or Treville: taverns they frequented, areas they patrolled fairly often. He knew his brothers would move heaven and earth to find him, which was exactly what he needed to prevent.

He sighed again, wishing there was something he could do. Boredom was something he had always found difficult to contend with. He almost wished-almost-that the assailant would try something, so that things might come to a head.

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Leaning against the wall of the dingy tavern where Aramis had rented an upstairs room, the young man drew the hood of his cloak tighter around his face against the cold, looking upwards with a small smile. His target had no idea that his unknown enemy was right beneath his window. He could wait, let the Musketeer relax where he thought he was hidden from all who knew him. He was in no hurry. Sooner or later, the Musketeer would emerge.

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His brothers were at their wit's ends. They had searched for two days, and not come close to finding their brother.

They did give thanks that they had heard of no incidents involving a Musketeer. Of course, if Aramis had removed his pauldron to become incognito, they wouldn't hear anything at all.

It was very frustrating. The longer the time he was gone, the more likely something could happen, given the short time periods in-between the 'accidents' that had happened already. They could only hope Aramis was being very cautious, but they knew Aramis. He grew increasingly restless the longer he was forced to be inactive.

He had obviously found a room somewhere, but where? Hopefully, he would stay put and not go out, where he could once again become a target.

A target of whom? If only they could solve the mystery. And if only they could find their missing brother unharmed and safe.

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The nightmares had come to him just before dawn again. He had awakened shaking and drenched,at first not remembering them. Sitting up in bed with his head in his hands, after a moment, he rubbed his hand down his face to calm down. It came back to him, the growling, the feeling of utter helplessness, the wolf landing on his legs snarling with his fangs exposed.

He took a few deep breaths, then sat silently thinking. I've got to get out of this room. It was bad enough before the nightmares started, but now...

Where could he go, though. He quieted himself some more, then prayed. 'Dear God, there has to be somewhere safe that I can go. Somewhere maybe that is quiet, out-of-the-way'...looking around with a shudder, he added 'clean'.

For a brief while, nothing came to , his face cleared, and became peaceful as it came to him: Father Luc Longueau! When he had first come to Paris years ago, he had visited the little chapel near the southern edge of Paris, a place full of light and peace. He had met Father Luc, and went back often over the years to visit with him, and to pray. The little chapel, gleaming white walls, tenderly and meticulously cared for by the now-aging priest, had been a refuge of peace and prayer whenever he had been there, and he was always welcomed so warmly by Father Luc. The added plus was that, for some reason, he had not brought up the chapel around his brothers for quite some time now. He didn't know why, but it was turning out to be a handy bit of help right now.

Getting to his feet, he stuffed the few things he had brought with him in a small bag, looked around once, then left the room.

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As he emerged from the front door of the tavern, the shadow detached itself from the wall and followed him. He waited for Aramis to walk a few paces down the street first, not wanting to be seen.

It was once again a busy market day, carts and vendors lining the street, even in this poor, run-down part of Paris. He didn't dare try anything this morning. But he would keep track of where his quarry went. The Musketeer having no trouble on his walk, with any luck at all, would cause him to relax, thinking he was now free of whoever had been causinghis troubles.

He had overheard the Musketeers talking about the 'accidents' possibly not being 'accidents'. This suited him just fine. After discussing matters with the arrogant young nobleman recently, he would just do what he had to do without fine-tuning things so much. No one knew who was behind it anyway. He was free and clear.

It was quite a walk that the Musketeer led him on that morning. He wondered where in the world he was going. They were almost at the edge of the city. What could be here that would draw him and make him think he would be safe?

Finally, Aramis turned in...at a chapel? What was the man doing?

The young, hooded man scratched his head. He couldn't figure out why anyone would want to visit a chapel. He hadn't been in one since he had been quite young, and even then, he couldn't wait to leave so he could play in the street. This Musketeer actually wanted to come here? Why?

Aramis knocked on the door of the small building attached to the chapel. The door opened, and a black-robed middle-aged priest came out smiling embracing. He and the Musketeer embraced like old friends, then Aramis went inside with him, the priest's arm affectionately thrown around his shoulders.

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The watcher in the shadows thought to himself, what an unexpected place for him to have gone.

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Aramis and Fr. Luc sat down in the small kitchen, and the priest busied himself preparing some coffee for the both of them as they talked. Despite the difference in their ages, they had always been very comfortable in each other's company, and found that they still were as they talked. Fr. Luc was a good listener, his warm brown eyes paying complete attention to everything Aramis said.

Aramis wanted to make sure that he fully described the situation to Fr. Luc before settling in. Fr. Luc, knowing how dangerous Aramis' job could sometimes be, had told him more than once to come to him if he needed anything, which was the only reason he had felt all right with doing so now. But he had a right to know exactly what could happen if his suspected attacker found out where he was staying. He knew it wouldn't deter his friend, but he wanted to be honest with him, as he always had been.

Fr. Luc, knowing Aramis, also knew exactly why he was being told, and said, "Aramis, you are welcome here for as long as you want or need to say." Seeing the hesitancy still in Aramis' eyes, he continued, "You know I was a soldier before giving my life to God. I am not afraid of anything that might possibly happen for that reason, but ultimately because I trust in our God that you should be here, not because I know nothing will happen, but in case it does. You do know I would willingly give my life to protect yours, do you not? As I know you would do for me, as well. I would have been very disappointed if you had stayed away. Now, let us go talk to Him, shall we?"

Aramis' eyes were a little moist as he followed his friend down the narrow hallway that connected the little house to the chapel.

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A couple of hours later, Aramis smiled to himself, his first smile in days. Sitting in the tiny chapel, surrounded by pristine white walls with *Stations of the Cross every few feet around them to meditate upon, and the altar and beautiful Crucifix in front of him, he was more relaxed than he had been since this whole stretch of 'accidents' had begun.

He had gained an understanding through praying that, yes, this assailant might possibly find him here, but he no longer felt the guilt at being here after Fr. Luc's words earlier. He had needed to come to terms with the fact that if anything did happen to himself, he had at least been able to be at peace before God.

In all the many phases of his life, battles, loves and losses, happiness and tragedy, he had always shared them with his God, but so far hadn't this time. It had contributed to his restlessness the past few days, but here in this out-of-the-way chapel, he felt somehow right again. It felt good. He still thought he was probably in danger, but he had been many times over the years, and had always come through all right.

He felt so blessed to have such special friends in his life, especially the ones he was currently separated from,and included them in his prayers. He didn't know what he had ever done to deserve all them, but was so grateful for them all.

As he rose and went back to Fr. Luc's home, he smiled once again, looking forward to a relaxing evening and conversation with his friend.

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The man smirked as he kept an eye on the house Aramis had entered. Seriously, did the Musketeer really think a priest could save him? He would find out he was deluded, if he did. He decided he would wait a couple of days, to create a sense of safety in the Musketeer before striking. He still wasn't sure what method he would use here yet. It wouldn't be hard to get in, or even if he needed to. Once he struck, it would be all over for the Musketeer. He smiled, already sure in his arrogance that he would succeed and finish things.

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Aramis and Fr. Luc enjoyed their time together. Aramis helped his friend out around his home and assisted him in taking care of the chapel. It was a labor of love to be able to help, and was so peaceful polishing the wood of the pews until it shone in the sunlight coming in through the stained-glass windows, dappling the wood in blues, reds, greens and yellows. Fr. Luc was a good cook, and enjoyed making their meals. Aramis insisted on cleaning up afterwards. They had some long, wide-ranging conversations in the evenings before the fireplace with a glass of wine.

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Next morning, Fr. Luke grabbed a basket and took off the to purchase some food supplies from the vendors' carts that had already started lining the edges of the streets even this early in the morning. Aramis, still half-asleep, was taking care of the dishes left over from the night before when they had talked til the wee hours of the morning.

He had almost finished, when he heard a scraping sound-an instant before a loud explosion threw him clear across the room, hitting the opposite wall and dropping to the ground.

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*The Stations of the Cross are a 14-step Catholic devotion that commemorates Jesus Christ's last day on Earth as a Stations may be of stone, wood, or metal, sculptured or carved, or they may be merely paintings or engravings. Some Stations are valuable works of art, as those, for instance, in Antwerp cathedral, which have been much copied elsewhere. They are usually ranged at intervals around the walls of a church, though sometimes they are to be found in the open air, especially on roads leading to a church or shrine.

Stations of the Cross are found in almost every Catholic church, and sometimes outside, like the large ones at the retreat house I used to go to up against the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, not far from Pasadena (also where we encountered the wolf I shared about in a comment about my ff story, Concealed).There are 14 of them, and can be made of of stone, wood, or metal, sculptured or carved, or they may be merely paintings or are used with meditations on Jesus' passion and death.