The skies were blue, with the occasional white, cottony cloud passing above them slowly, pushed by the soft breeze that made the warmth of the day tolerable. Earlier, they had passed by a lake who's waters were so pristinely clear that d'Artagnan could see all the way to the bottom, before he dove in causing the dirt and silt at the bottom to be disturbed, as he swam lazily through the refreshing liquid. Porthos had laughed at his antics, sitting comfortably at the edge of the lake and watching his younger brother with amusement. It had taken the young man a bit of time and teasing, but eventually the older man had surrendered to d'Artagnan's whining and joined him for a dip.

Their horses now ambled through a meadow, the carpet of green broken by intense shades of blues, pinks and purples representing the abundant wildflowers that grew here. On his horse, d'Artagnan sighed contentedly; seldom could he remember a time when he was this relaxed and at peace since becoming a Musketeer. It was true that the companionship he shared with his fellow Musketeers, especially his three closest friends, offered him a steadiness and constancy in the world that he hadn't experienced since his father had been killed, but while the men offered their love and friendship freely and shared both times of entertainment and silence in equal comfort, a soldier's life was still dangerous and they didn't often have the luxury of letting down their guard.

Today was different and d'Artagnan thought it might actually be a perfect day, as he and Porthos walked their horses towards the estate of the Comte de Chartres who had requested that the King afford him the presence of two Musketeers to attend his annual festival. The Comte had a good reputation as a kind and fair man, one who was generous to those living on his lands, and he hosted this event as a way of celebrating the years' hard work, which not only kept him and his household fed, but also ensured sufficient stockpiles to allow the families who lived in and around his estate to safely weather the many months of winter. Every year two Musketeers were afforded an invitation to partake in three days of good food and wine, enjoying the pleasures of sleeping in proper beds and having servants who would wait on their every need. It was an experience not often enjoyed by soldiers and, as such, Treville made sure to use the opportunity as a way of rewarding his men who had either endured a particularly difficult mission or needed time to recuperate from significant injury.

This year d'Artagnan and Porthos had been lucky enough to be selected in recognition of their recent defense of the King during a failed assassination attempt. They had been on duty at the palace when d'Artagnan had noticed a glint of something in the gardens where their Majesties were walking. Making eye contact with Porthos, he had silently communicated his belief that danger lay ahead, prompting the larger man to slip unobserved from their party and into the foliage to ferret out their attackers. d'Artagnan in the meantime had moved closer to the King and Queen, bringing with him four of his fellow Musketeers, effectively creating a perimeter that would be difficult to penetrate. When he heard a shout from the bushes on his left, he reacted without thinking and stepped immediately in front of the King, who was so startled by the act that he actually bumped into the man. There was no time for the King to question what was happening as a shot rang out, caught in d'Artagnan's upper arm where it could not harm those he protected. The sound spurred d'Artagnan and the other Musketeers into action, tightening their circle further as they hurried their Majesties into the safety of a nearby alcove.

The excitement was short-lived and as d'Artagnan watched from his place in front of the King, Porthos emerged from the bushes, pistol in one hand and the attacker in his other, pulling the would-be assassin along by the collar of his shirt and vest. The King was of course shaken but also impressed with the intelligence and quick action of the two men, thus prompting the Captain to send them on this most coveted mission, if it could even be called a mission. d'Artagnan's arm had healed well in the days since the attack, the ball having lodged in the muscle but missing the bone, and he now revelled in the thought of the three days of enjoyment that lay ahead of them.

The two men now traded looks, wide grins on their faces, as they approached the walled courtyard of the Comte's grand home, already anticipating everything that the next three days would bring…of course, they never anticipated that anything would be anything less than perfect.

The Musketeers had been to many nobles' homes in the past, but even compared to some of the grandness they'd experienced, the Comte's estate was still impressive. Tucked into one end of a beautiful valley, it was surrounded on three sides by a slow-moving river, which seemed to encircle the estate before diverting into the woods that sat at the back of the home. Inside the river's perimeter, previous generations of the Comte's family had built and rebuilt an imposing stone wall that was three feet deep and rose to the sky another 15 feet. A wide, sturdy bridge welcomed visitors safely across the river and deposited them at the gates of the estate, which could be closed quickly by two men using an ingenious pulley system that used leverage and gravity to push closed two massive wooden doors. The inside of the main courtyard was used by farmers and merchants alike, matching buyers with sellers and providing all manner of food, drink, cloth and many other goods and services, attending to the needs of everyone in the vicinity.

In preparation for the festival, the courtyard was now decorated with garlands of fresh flowers, strung from various points on the tall wall, and beautifully died linens in yellow, red and orange were draped from the high windows overlooking the square below. Various stands had been erected around the courtyard and would be filled the following day by a multitude of wares. At one far end of the courtyard, the men could see a platform being erected, no doubt for the following evening's entertainment, which might include anything from musicians to actors, depending on the Comte's tastes that night.

When Porthos and d'Artagnan crossed through the gates of the estate, the young man couldn't help stopping and gaping, having never seen such a spectacle despite his service to the King. Porthos grinned at him, knowing that he too would normally be just as awestruck had he not been told what to expect by Aramis, who had enjoyed the Comte's company three years prior. While normally a busy place, the courtyard was now nearly empty as preparations were being made for the extra visitors and guests who would be joining the Comte the following evening to celebrate another safe and successful year.

They were noticed right away by the stable boy, who rushed over to take their horses, and d'Artagnan grudgingly dismounted, still trying to comprehend everything he was seeing. Porthos clapped the young man on the back and nodded to a man approaching them, explaining, "I think that's our welcome, now."

Porthos was correct and the man approaching them was indeed there to welcome them and to present them to the Comte. The man bowed deeply and had a sincere smile on his face when he exclaimed, "You must be our most honored guests from the King's Musketeers." It was not a difficult deduction on the man's part as both men wore their brightly colored blue cloaks and Musketeer pauldrons on their shoulders.

Porthos slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment of the man's greeting. "Porthos and d'Artagnan," he motioned to the other man, "at your service."

"My name is Pinot, the Comte's most humble servant, and I welcome you on his behalf," the man bowed again as he welcomed them. "The Comte extends his apologies for not being here to meet you personally, however he has been unavoidably detained with estate business. In his stead, please allow me to show you to your rooms so that you might rest from your trip before tonight's festivities."

Not to be outdone by Porthos' politeness, d'Artagnan replied, "It would be our pleasure."

As Pinot bowed again before turning to lead them through the courtyard, the two Musketeers exchanged looks, both wondering at the excessive bowing that Pinot seemed to favour. Pinot weaved his way skillfully through the materials still littering the ground of the courtyard as the preparations continued, leading them up the steps to the doors of the Comte's chateau. Inside, they climbed two floors up a grand staircase, where they were shown to adjacent rooms on the third floor.

Each room contained a large bed that sat centred against one wall, affording the fortunate occupant a view from floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the well-manicured gardens. Along one side of the rooms sat a large bathtub, while the other wall contained a striking fireplace, adorned on the outside with highly polished marble and intricate woodwork that was gilded with gold. A small table and chairs and a large wardrobe completed the rooms' furnishings, drawing looks of appreciation from both men.

"I trust you will find the accommodations to your liking?" Pinot asked.

Porthos nodded, "Yes, these are very suitable, thank you.

Pinot bowed again. "I will have water brought for your baths and the Comte extends an invitation to dine with him this evening. Please do not hesitate to ask the household staff if there is anything else you require." With a final bow, Pinot exited the room, leaving the two men to gape at their surroundings.

"Not bloody bad, eh?" Porthos beamed.

"I could get used to this," d'Artagnan agreed.

"Best not to," Porthos replied, "Next week we'll be back to sleeping outside and eating salted pork." He walked to the table, pulling a grape from the bowl that sat there and popped it in his mouth. "You want this room or the other?"

"I'll take the one next door, since you've already made yourself comfortable," d'Artagnan teased, pointing at the fruit bowl.

Porthos' grin simply widened as he threw another grape into his mouth, making the young man shake his head at his friend's antics as he left for his room.

The two Musketeers had enjoyed the baths that had been prepared for them, d'Artagnan even adding a sachet of scented powder that had been left for him and luxuriating in the sweet-smelling water until it started to turn cold. When he'd finally washed and pulled himself from the tub, he felt wonderfully serene and again sent a prayer of thanks at his luck at being sent to the Comte's.

He finished dressing, carefully buttoning one of his new linen shirts, which was a gift from Athos for his birthday. They were of such a fine quality, trimmed with expensive lace, that d'Artagnan had been hesitant to wear them for anything other than a special occasion, knowing he could never afford to replace them if they were damaged. When he'd finished dressing and examined his appearance in the mirror, he walked next door to collect his friend so they might go meet the Comte.

Porthos seemed just as relaxed as the young man and he smiled approvingly upon seeing the shirt d'Artagnan wore beneath his doublet. "It fits you well; Athos would be pleased."

The Gascon ducked his head shyly and Porthos clasped his shoulder, guiding him from the room. "Come on then, I'm starving."

This comment pulled a laugh from the young man as he pointed out, "You're always starving."

Porthos gave the Gascon a mock look of anger, clapping a hand to his chest, "Of course, I am. Takes a lot of food to build all this muscle!"

The comment had the desired result, pulling an even larger laugh from the young man as was Porthos' intention. Although the Gascon had grown accustomed to nobility from his service at the palace, Porthos knew this was the first time the boy would be expected to directly interact with them and he was a little anxious at the thought. He led the way downstairs and into a grand dining room where the Comte mingled with various other guests.

At the Musketeers' arrival, Pinot spoke quietly in the Comte's ear who immediately took notice of them and moved forward to introduce himself. At his approach, it was Porthos' and d'Artagnan's turn to offer small bows, lifting their heads afterwards to greet their host.

"Musketeers, you are most welcome in my home. Apologies for not having been available to greet you earlier, but a Comte's responsibilities must always come first, I fear."

"Porthos and d'Artagnan," the larger man introduced them. "We are most grateful for your invitation to attend your festival and thank you for opening your home to us."

There was no time for further conversation as dinner was announced and the two men were seated on opposite sides of the table, near the middle, while the Comte took his place at one end. The food that was presented was excellent and paired with strong wine that flowed plentifully. By the end of the meal, d'Artagnan realized that he might have overindulged a bit, feeling somewhat giddy from the effects of the alcohol he'd consumed. Porthos must have noticed his slightly glazed eyes and he pointed to his water goblet, indicating that d'Artagnan should stop drinking wine and switch to water instead. The Gascon gave a slight nod of understanding, pushing his wine glass away as he leaned back in his chair in satisfaction of the fine meal they'd had.

From this position, the Gascon watched as Pinot re-entered the room, bending low to whisper in the Comte's ear. At Pinot's words, the Comte seemed to pale and moved to stand from the table. d'Artagnan looked to Porthos, seeing that the other man had also noticed the Comte's behaviour. Excusing themselves, the two rose with the Comte and followed him from the room.

"Comte," Porthos started, stopping the man from walking away, "may we have a word?"

The Comte seemed conflicted by the request, but ultimately turned to face them, affixing a tremulous smile to his face.

"We couldn't help but notice that you seem disturbed by something," d'Artagnan offered. "Is there something we might assist with?"

Again, the Comte seemed at odds with himself for several seconds and then deflated before their eyes. "Yes," he breathed out gratefully, "I am most troubled and you may be able to help. Please," he said as he made to walk away, "follow me."

He led the two men into the library where he poured three glasses of brandy, toasting the Musketeers with his glass as he downed the fiery liquid. Once he had fortified himself with the brandy, Porthos and d'Artagnan waited patiently for the man to speak. "Over the last several days, people have been getting sick."

Porthos frowned, asking, "What do you mean sick? How?"

The Comte put down his glass, wringing his hands together, as he explained, "It begins with a general feeling of being unwell and sometimes a low fever. This lasts for several days before those afflicted begin to suffer from cramping of the stomach, usually leading to vomiting and a running of the bowels. This seems to be accompanied by a high fever at which point the person is unaware of those around them, often falling into a deep but restless sleep." The Comte paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Pinot just told me that one of the first to suffer the effects has just died."

The Gascon traded a concerned look with Porthos, "When did people start getting sick?"

"It has been more than a week," the Comte admitted, despairingly. "I had thought to delay the festival but Pinot and others convinced me that it was nothing and we should proceed as planned. I fear that whatever is causing people to fall ill is spreading and that I may have condemned those who have joined us to a painful death." The Comte nearly sobbed his last words, clearly distraught at potentially causing harm to those at the estate.

"Where are the people who are sick?" Porthos inquired.

"They have been asked to remain in their houses if living outside these walls, tended to by their families, and those within have been kept in their rooms as long as they, too, have someone to care for them. I fear that no matter the loyalty of my household staff, they will not be willing to care for those infected if this continues to spread."

"You think this might be another fever?" Porthos questioned, recalling stories he'd heard from others of the devastating fevers that spread like wildfire and killed nearly all those who fell ill.

The Comte shrugged, "It is a reasonable conclusion."

"If this is a fever, as you believe, then it will be highly contagious. We must keep people from coming into contact with the sick," d'Artagnan stated.

The Comte nodded. "I have been considering moving everyone in the house to one of the larger common rooms and sealing the gates of the estate to prevent people from coming and going." The man drew a shaky breath, as he continued, "I was hoping this might resolve itself before taking such drastic actions."

Porthos nodded, "I think you've done the right thing so far, but this could be serious. We must advise the King."

The Comte's reaction was immediate and vehement, "No!" Calming himself, he tried again. "No, I think it's too early yet to raise the alarm in Paris. There's only a handful of people sick at this point and the person who died may have been unwell already. We'll proceed with the festival as planned tomorrow." At that, the Comte seemed to decide that the conversation had ended and moved to return to his guests. "Thank you gentleman for listening. I'll rely upon your discretion in this matter. Good night."

The two Musketeers watched as the nobleman disappeared down the long hallway, d'Artagnan looking after the man with a look of astonishment on his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, Porthos took his arm and led the way back to their rooms, whispering a short, "Not here."

Porthos opened the door to his room and ushered the young man in, closing the door firmly behind them.

"Porthos, we must send news to the King. If this really is another outbreak, it could devastate France if not properly contained," d'Artagnan immediately pleaded.

"I know. I've 'eard the stories same as you and I know how serious this is," Porthos answered.

"Why isn't the Comte taking this more seriously? I'd heard him described as a fair man, one who cares for his people."

"Fear does funny things to folks," Porthos responded. "It's easier for him to continue to deny what's going on, than to admit that his estate could be remembered as the place that spread death to France."

d'Artagnan sat heavily in a chair, looking beseechingly at his friend, "What do we do?"

Porthos ran a hand across his face, considering the boy's question. "We wait and watch. Tomorrow we'll be meetin' a whole bunch more of the guests and we see what information we can pick up to get a better idea of how bad things are." Porthos pinned d'Artagnan with a steely gaze, "If it's bad, we'll find a way to advise the King, no matter what the Comte wants."

The Gascon looked at him gratefully, immensely glad for his strong presence in the middle of such a potentially dire situation. He rose from his seat and briefly clasped the larger man's arm in solidarity, heading for the door, "Then I'll wish you a good night. From the sound of it, we have a difficult day ahead of us."

Porthos watched the young man leave and allowed his shoulders to droop. He was more terrified than he'd let on, but knew that d'Artagnan needed him to stay steady. Now that he was alone, his mind conjured unbidden the many stories he'd heard from those who'd survived the fevers in the past – if this was the start of another epidemic, no one was safe.