Part +1: The Specter

"So we're to take him back to Paris?" Porthos asked, while the four musketeers waited on the docks below an English ship at Calais. The English were late, as usual, and they were all bored. None of them particularly liked playing errand boy for Richelieu, but such was a soldier's lot in life.

"Those are our orders," Athos said evenly.

"Who is this man?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Does it matter?" Aramis said with a shrug. He fanned himself with his hat, as the sun was bright and the day was warm. "Though I am curious to know what he did that merited such a long spell in an English prison."

"Not to mention the Cardinal's involvement in getting out," d'Artagnan added. It was curious, Aramis thought. Their orders had come from the highest level, and were strikingly vague for a matter of such apparent importance.

Finally, a pair of English soldiers appeared on the ship's gangplank, leading a third man between them. "Delivery for Cardinal Richelieu," one of them spat in English.

He propelled the prisoner bodily forward with a mighty shove. He tried to catch his balance, but his hands were chained before him and he toppled to the wooden planks. The English retreated back to their ship without so much as a tip of their hats.

"Friendly lot, aren't they?" Aramis observed, and d'Artagnan smirked.

Porthos hauled their charge to his feet. He was not tall, nor as gaunt as Aramis might have expected after so many years in prison. He stood straight and carried himself well, though his once-fine clothes hung all in tatters and rags. A pair of piercing blue eyes stared mockingly out at them from beneath unkempt, stringy blond hair.

"My thanks," he said to Porthos in a quiet, nasal drawl.

Aramis moved to flank their prisoner on his other side. "Shall we?" he said aloud, glancing at Porthos.

The prisoner seemed to be in no hurry to move. "Am I to walk to Paris in chains?" he asked, gesturing a little with his bound hands.

"We've a horse for you back at the inn," d'Artagnan told him. "But the chains stay. Right, Athos?"

They all instinctively looked to Athos, but he did not respond. He stared at their prisoner, seemingly frozen in place. The prisoner's eyes roved to Athos in turn and his brow furrowed slightly. Athos quickly looked away and tugged his hat down low over his face. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at Aramis, but Aramis had no answers for him.

Athos turned on his heel and strode away, heading back towards the inn. "Bring him," he snapped over his shoulder to Porthos and Aramis.

They exchanged a questioning look before following. Aramis' brow furrowed. If anything, Athos appeared to recognize their prisoner. He'd taken two steps after Athos before realizing that the prisoner was not moving with him. Aramis glanced back to see Porthos gave the blond man a little shove, but he did not move. He stared at Athos' back.

"Mon Dieu," he said loudly, so that Athos would be sure to hear, "is that you, La Fère?"

Athos stopped in his tracks. Aramis saw his shoulders tense as if to brace himself before turning slowly to face the prisoner. His lips pulled back from his lips a little distastefully when he spoke. "You know very well who I am, Rochefort, and I know you."

A cold light came into Rochefort's eyes and a smirk played about the corner of his lips. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he drawled, and there was no mistaking the glee in his voice. "I scarcely recognized you under all the dirt. Olivier de la Fère, King's Musketeer. Your father must be turning in his grave."

"I could say the same of you," Athos retorted with no small amount of venom. D'Artagnan put a hand on his arm and he turned away stiffly. Athos' shoulders squared, but Aramis knew he was badly shaken. "Come. We've some miles to go before dark."

Porthos jerked his head at d'Artagnan, indicating the prisoner. D'Artagnan drew his pistol and immediately traded places with Porthos. Aramis guessed what he was about, and quickly took three long strides to block Athos' path. Athos shot him a long-suffering look, but Porthos had already come up behind him. Together they drew Athos a few paces to the side.

"You know him?" Porthos asked in a low voice.

Athos sighed. He looked pensive and vaguely ill, like he always did when confronted with some aspect of his long-buried life before the Musketeers. "We were at court together, once."

"Rochefort?" Aramis asked. He frowned slightly, thinking. If he remembered correctly, there had been a great uproar at court some years back over a man called Rochefort. "Wasn't the Vicomte de Rochefort arrested a few years ago?"

"Comte de Rochefort," Rochefort corrected him loudly, as if to demonstrate his presence. "My father was called to God while I was yet imprisoned."

"Tragic," Porthos grumbled.

"Bring him," Athos said shortly, slipping out from between his friends and continuing down the muddy street.

Aramis nodded to d'Artagnan, who moved to the rear of their little group. Aramis and Porthos resumed their positions on Rochefort's sides. Porthos gave him a none-too-gentle shove forward, and they were moving again. It wasn't far to the inn and the horses. Aramis sensed the sooner they were rid of this prisoner, the better.

"What is this then, La Fère, some kind of absurd penance for your wife?" Rochefort asked while they walked. D'Artagnan cuffed the back of his head, and he paused to give the boy a look cold enough to freeze Aramis' blood and loaded with enough menace that d'Artagnan instinctively took a step back. Athos' jaw clenched, and Aramis imagined he could hear his teeth grinding. "A curious sort of penance, isn't it? Helping to burn the Comtesse de Larroque as a heretic, I mean."

Athos stopped, bringing the group to a halt. Porthos growled low in his throat.

"You're very well informed for someone new freed," Aramis said sharply.

Rochefort ignored his unspoken question and turned that icy, dangerous smile at him for a moment before continuing. "I shall never forgive the Cardinal for that, for all his intervention with King Charles," he said, his voice light and conversational. "That woman was no more a heretic than you, La Fère, and far less than I."

He paused for a moment, glancing down at the chains that bound his hands. "Though what would one expect from a man who hung his wife."

For a pair of tense heartbeats, Athos went very still. Porthos's eyes went wide, and Aramis' breath caught in his throat. Athos turned on the spot and quite deliberately slammed his fist into Rochefort's jaw. Rochefort tumbled backwards into the mud. Aramis lunged forward and grabbed Athos' heaving shoulders, dragging him back from their prisoner. Several people around them looked up, but between Porthos' glower and d'Artagnan's pistol, they quickly went back to their business.

"What he said," Aramis quipped to Rochefort, over Athos' head. He could feel Athos trembling with rage under his fingers, and his face hardened.

Rochefort laughed from the ground. Nobody moved to help him to his feet. He struggled to his knees slowly, laughing the whole time. Blood flowed freely from his nose, and he reached up to feel his jaw with his bound hands. Athos shook off Aramis' hands and stalked towards his horse without a second glance at Rochefort.

"Your wife sends her regards," he told Athos.

Athos went white with anger, but this time he refused to be baited. Porthos was not so temperate, however, and aimed a hefty kick at Rochefort's ribs. His burbling laughter stopped.

"Our orders were bring him back unharmed!" d'Artagnan protested.

"It's not our fault if he trips onto a rock or walks into a rake, is it?" Aramis said coldly.

Rochefort's icy eyes fell on him, and a chill went down Aramis' spine. "I see I shall never forget the courtesy of the gallant Musketeers."

Porthos' eyes narrowed dangerously at the insult, but at a glare from Athos, he did nothing. "Get him on a horse," Athos said dismissively over his shoulder. Aramis could hear the effort it took for him to keep his voice steady. Athos stalked to his own mount and climbed into the saddle. He did not look at Rochefort again.

Porthos dragged Rochefort to his feet by his collar and bundled him towards a horse. "One more word out of you," he growled, while Rochefort scrambled into the saddle, "and you'll be walking to Paris."

Aramis mounted his own horse and levelled his pistol at Rochefort, in case he decided to try something while Porthos bound his hands to the saddle. There was a rather large part of Aramis that hoped he would, but Rochefort merely glowered as Porthos carried out this final indignity. Unfortunately, he seemed loath to try his luck. Athos mechanically drew up his horse while he waited for Porthos and d'Artagnan to mount. His eyes were sad and distant. Aramis gripped his reins tightly. Athos was not one for scenes, but Aramis knew that below the stolid façade his friend was distraught, and it pained him to see Athos so.

"Are you quite sure you don't want to hit him again?" Aramis said lightly to Athos, attempting to break the thick pall of tension. "I would gladly volunteer for that duty."

"No, Aramis," Athos said evenly, but he was still pale. "We'll leave him to the King's justice. This time."

"Pity," Aramis replied, winking at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "I rather liked the rake idea."

A/N: This concludes the story. Thanks for reading! :)