The real world ending turned out to be the polar opposite of his nightmare. It seemed the Catherine of flesh and blood was not as brilliant as the one of his fever-driven mind. Or they were just luckier.

The four musketeers had arrived, at the appointed time, at the deserted looking meeting place, outside the edge of Paris proper.

Tethering their horses in the woods, they had carefully examined the outside of the abandoned building. It was a single story, not large, with a single entry point. The windows had been boarded over and it didn't look as if anyone used it in some time. With guns drawn, the four brothers had entered the building.

As they suspected, it had been a trap. How she had obtained a barrel of explosive powder and gotten it inside they would never know, for dead women tell no tales. But she had, and she rigged it to explode once they were all trapped inside.

Catherine must have lit the fuse upon seeing them approaching, then scooted outside without being detected. She had the barred the door behind them once they had unsuspectingly entered her web. The feeble light of the smoldering fuse had been hidden behind the keg of powder so the musketeers didn't see the dim glow upon entry. It had been the Gascon, scouting about, who had discovered the fuse and yelled a warning to brothers.

The fuse had burned most of the way through and they were unable to extinguish the deadly flame. Their only recourse was to exit the building. When they went to execute that option, they discovered they couldn't escape through the only door in the place, for it had been secured from the outside. The windows were likewise barricaded. That left them only one chance for survival; retreat to the four corners of the room, which were structurally soundest, and ride out the blast.

The explosion knocked them senseless, which was a blessing as they didn't feel the dilapidated building raining down upon them. Catherine had waited at a safe distance, her gun trained on the wreckage, ready to shoot Athos, if he had the devil's luck to survive. When she had seen that three other men had accompanied him, even though the note she forged had said he was to come alone, she had felt a twinge of remorse. But that quickly passed when she saw the other three were only the low-life musketeers he had chosen to join when he renounced his heritage.

Inside the ruined building, Porthos was the first to revive and he used his considerable strength to dig his way out from under the rubble covering him. His corner had held up fairly well to the blast and he had not sustained any major injuries. He pushed the last piece of debris aside then clambered to his feet, his skin and clothes covered in a fine white ash.

He maneuvered around the outside perimeter of the building, which was fairly clear of rubble, as the structure had collapsed inwards. Skirting to the next corner, he began heaving the fractured wooden planks aside to reach the trapped musketeer below, which turned out to be d'Artagnan. The boy was just starting to stir when the street fighter flung the last board off of him. With care, for he didn't know if the lad was injured, Porthos gently assisted the Gascon to his feet.

After a brief inspection and assurance from d'Artagnan he wasn't more than lightly battered and bruised, together the two moved onto the third corner, where there was already evidence that the musketeer underneath was alive and moving. Between the two of them, they quickly unearthed Aramis, who like the Gascon, would be covered with bruises come the morn, but otherwise, the marksman was intact.

Catherine watched dispassionately as the three musketeers extracted themselves from her trap, not caring if they lived or died. She only had eyes for the fourth, still missing, musketeer. The one that had ruined her life. The one she wanted dead.

Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan moved onto the fourth and final corner of the collapsed building where they detected no sign of movement. Given that Athos had already been sporting half-healed injuries before the structure had fallen on him, they were concerned for his survival. Making quick work of the debris, they soon had a path cleared to where Athos laid still upon the ground. With a non-verbal consent, Aramis was the one that made his way to the side of the stationary man and after a fervent prayer to his God, he reached out two tentative fingers to Athos' neck. The questing digits found a steady pulse and the smile he beamed at his friends was all they needed to release the collective breath that they had been unconsciously holding.

From her position, Catherine couldn't determine the fate of Athos, so she stayed hidden and ready, as she watched the other men extract him from the wreckage and carefully lay his body on the ground a few feet away from the rubble. It didn't take long for her to get her answer. Based on the fact that the musketeers were working on Athos, not standing over his body mourning, Catherine had to believe that the damn man was still alive.

She slapped her hand against the trunk of the tree behind which she was crouched, in frustration, as she debated what her next move should be. One thing was for certain, she was bound and determined to have this end here. Calming her frayed emotions, she checked Thomas' pistol to make sure it was ready to fire and then took a deep breath. She'd simply be patient, stay hidden, and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Knowing she couldn't overpower three men, she'd have to bide her time.

The medic ran his hands over Athos searching for injuries while d'Artagnan ran to the horses to get water and the medical supplies that Aramis kept in his saddle bags. When d'Artagnan returned with Aramis' pouch and a canteen of water, he handed them to the kneeling medic. Using a clean cloth, Aramis wet it and bathed Athos' dusty face and it achieved its intended purpose, reviving the unconscious man.

The green eyes gingerly cracked open, though it took a few minutes for the dazed look in them to recede. As soon as it did, the swordsman began to struggle to rise, his eyes wildly scanning the area to ensure his brothers were all safe. Porthos moved behind him and propped him up, while Aramis assured the concerned man his brothers were all alive.

Porthos could feel the tension seep out of Athos' body at Aramis' words of assurance. The wounded musketeer sank back against the strong man's chest in relief, and Porthos gladly supported his brother's weight.

"Besides the bruised ribs, concussion, and sword wound in your side, all of which you had before you came here, things look pretty good," Aramis joshed as he sat back on his heels after examining Athos.

d'Artagnan, who had been poking about the rubble, rejoined them. "No sign of who did this or why."

Porthos, with Aramis concurrence, helped Athos to his feet. The swordsman was still unsteady and the street fighter kept a close eye on him, ready to lend support, if required.

Athos let his eyes roam over the destroyed building, then the surrounding woods. "We have a lot of enemies."

"Yes, well once again they have failed to kill us and so we live to fight another day," Aramis said breezily as he packed up his medical supplies.

"Against the Spanish," Porthos intoned gravely.

All four musketeers grew solemn as they digested Porthos' three simple, but deadly accurate words. War. They were soon off to war. They had survived many nameless battles together, but the battles of war were significantly different. None of them wanted to contemplate the fact that they might not survive. Or worse, that one might while a beloved brother died by their side on the battlefield.

Finally, d'Artagnan broke the silence with the wisdom of the elders. "My father always said don't borrow trouble."

"Then your father was a wise man. We shall do as we have always done. Fight for our Country, our King and our honor," Athos declared, stoutly.

"And trust God to watch over us," Aramis added, even though he knew Athos' views on religion differed from his own. "God, and our new Captain, who is about to fall over."

Aramis quickly extended his hand to steady Athos, who indeed had begun to wobble.

"Porthos. d'Artagnan. Go get our horses, while I kept our illustrious leader on his feet."

Athos gave him an indignant eye roll and accompanying scowl, which might have been more impressive if his body hadn't betrayed him, forcing him to lean heavily on Aramis to remain upright.

As the other two men headed into the woods to where they had tethered their horses, Aramis wrapped his arms tightly around his weakened friend. "I have you, brother."

A bitter laugh sounded behind his back, along with the distinctive click of a cocked pistol. "Brother. You aren't his brother," a resentful feminine voice informed him.

Slowly turning around, Aramis positioned his body between Athos and the person with the gun. "Catherine," he said neutrally upon seeing her face. "Was this your doing?"

"It was," she replied haughtily. "It was meant to kill him for what he has done to me."

"Revenge isn't the way, Catherine," Aramis tried to reason.

The gun pointed at his chest shook a little. "It is all I have left. He and that whore wife took everything I ever had. Step aside, musketeer, or I will kill you first. I have a second gun, loaded and ready to draw. I am very good with a pistol, thanks to Thomas' tutelage and years of living on my own. Believe me when I say I can kill you, and draw fast enough to kill him too. Now step aside."

Aramis shook his head slowly as he felt the minute shift of Athos' body behind him. They were called the Inseparables for a very good reason, and that invisible bond was in play now. He knew what Athos was about to do; forced to do. He also knew what a burden it was going to place on Athos' already much battered soul.

"Catherine, please," Aramis begged the delusional woman. "It doesn't have to be like this."

"Oh yes, it does," she replied in a very firm voice as she leveled the gun.