Hello! And welcome to Claude's next adventure! If you are a new reader, STOP! Go read Cut-Purse first, or you'll be completely lost!

This fic is rated as T, but may become M later on, we'll see how it goes. I'm not saying any more than that ;)

Secondly, this contains spoilers for all of series one, so beware!

Anyway, thanks for joining me again, I hope you guys like this one!

You can go follow the cut purse tumblr too for updates, pictures, you name it. Link is on my profile.

Prologue: Marked.

It was still dark when Claude awoke, rocketing upright, eyes wide, a cold sweat covering her brow and neck in a pale sheen. Her breathing began to calm, as she gulped in the morning air, and screwed her eyes tight shut, clearing her mind of the dreams of flames. There was no point going back to sleep, she knew that all to well, so the girl swung her legs out of bed, shivering slightly as her bare feet made contact with the cool stone floor. There was a bowl of water on the table opposite, so she crossed the small room towards it, bending over and splashing her face with its refreshing coolness.

What time was it? Early, very. A month ago she would have snuck off to some dive and got her self a drink, something to nurse away the night terrors until a decent hour, but something stopped her. Probably the image of her friend's unamused faces when she turned up smelling of a drinking den. They're constant nagging was finally paying off, or at least, she was finally listening to it and giving in. Drinking bad, sharing feelings, good. Claude wrinkled her nose at that thought. Maybe not.

She pulled on her breeches and boots, flinging the leather jerkin over her shoulders and belting it tightly, before quietly slipping out into the early morning darkness, careful not to wake the girls in the room beside hers with a slamming door. Her neighbours were friendly, bubbly lasses, who worked in the kitchens, helping to cook and mend clothes, a busy job, that required plenty of sleep. As she passed the door on the other side, she could hear one of the stable boys snoring away. Lucky git.

The yard was empty as she crossed to the stable doors, her breath misting in the air as she hurried over. The warmth of the barn was welcoming, a strong, cosy smell of hay and horses surrounding her. Most of the horses were still asleep, so she settled herself in the doorway, and pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket, well worn, with ragged corners, her latest memento from writing lessons with Athos. She squinted through the gloom at it, trying to decipher the letters on the page, but it was too dark to see. Cursing under her breath, she tucked it away, slumping back against the door frame. After a few minutes of consideration, she got up. Plenty of work to be done.

By the time she'd mucked out a good few of the pens, the sun had started to come up, and there was movement in the courtyard. A few musketeers were already gathering, chuckling at some in joke as they passed the stable doors. She paused for a second, wiping the sweat from her brow. It looked set to be another hot, late summers day, although the clouds above were threatening. Thunder perhaps, the stuffiness of the air had been warning them all week. Claude shrugged her jerkin off, and continued work.

A short while later, the other stable boys arrived, bleary eyed and yawning profusely. She took the opportunity to head out for a bit, sliding onto the end of the empty bench outside and pulling out her parchment once more. It was much easier to read in the dawn light, and she sat muttering under her breath, trying to pronounce the words before her, only stopping when Old Serge brought over a hunk of bread for her to chew on.

"Muh-" She struggled, trying to sound out the word in front of her. "Muhs- mushk...oh!" Claude's hand paused, bread half way to her mouth. "Of course, musketeer!"

"You called?" The bread was swiped from her hand as Aramis slid onto the bench in front of her, taking a bite out of her breakfast. Claude looked up from under furrowed brows, pouting at the smirking man, who was chewing away quite heartily. His smirk slipped as she grabbed it back off of him.

"Oi!"

"I've done a few good hours work already, get your own!"

"A few hours?" Athos slung his leg over the bench and sat down at her side. Claude winced. She just had to open her big mouth. "Have you even been to bed?"

"It was a beautiful morning, seemed a shame to waste it," She chirped, apparently too cheerily, as Athos' constant frown grew further. Claude quickly diverted her attention back to the parchment, making a show of running her finger over the page, and muttering the sounds under her breath. Luckily, Porthos' arrival dew attention from her.

"Make way lads, make way, Musketeer coming through!"

Claude suppressed a snicker as she spotted the great man, shoving the you D'Artagnan by the shoulders towards him. The new recruit look thoroughly unamused as his friend pushed him onto the bench, dusting his shoulder guard irritably.

"How long is this going to go on for?" He asked.

Porthos gave a chuckle. "As long as it's funny,"

"May I?" Came a voice beside her, and Athos' hand hovered over her own, his head inclined towards the parchment. Their hands met as she handed it over, a thrill running through her at the touch. She glanced up at the musketeer to find him looking at her with a small smile on his lips, and she found herself almost grinning back.

They had made sure to keep any form of familiarity at a minimum while at the barracks, both preferring to stay professional amoungst the other men. It was obvious to their friends that there was something between the two, perhaps the way they stood together, or the quiet conversations they would share. Claude would often spend an evening at Athos' lodging, scribbling on pieces of parchment, trying to copy his neat script, sharing a drink and company together, perhaps the odd kiss if she was lucky. But although it had been a good few months since they had first shared a kiss, Claude was feeling...frustrated.

It was clear Athos was unsure about having any sort of relationship, and after hearing about his wife, she could see why. But the constant will he-won't he game that she felt like they were playing was slowly driving her crazy. Fleeting touches, the whisper of his breath as he leant in to speak. Watching him train was unbearable. No, Claude was fairly sure she was going mad.

"Your script is coming along nicely," Athos commented beside her, and she almost shook her head to clear it.

"S-sorry? Oh! Thank you!" She accepted the parchment, clearing her throat nervously. "I uh...I better get back to work. I'm meeting Constance later, so I want to be finished early,"

She didn't miss the scowl that slid across D'Artagnan's face as she slid out from the table, ducking under Porthos' hair-ruffling reach, and hurrying back to the stables. She'd have to ask her friend about that later.

Aramis looked between the retreating girl, and his friend across the table, eyes narrowed.

"Something we said?"

"She's fine," Athos muttered, his voice sounding suddenly quite sullen. He picked himself up from the table, his breakfast untouched. "D'Artagnan, a duel perhaps?"

"With pleasure," Came the young man's equally dour voice, and the two headed over to the training area, where they began to fight with much gusto.

"What's wrong with everyone these days?" Porthos asked his friend.

Aramis shook his head, clapping his hand on Porthos' shoulder. "Love my friend. It makes fools of us all,"

"Well I wish they'd all bloody well cheer up!"

By the time Claude had finished work, there were black clouds beginning to gather on the horizon. The heat of the day was still very much there however, and the market was packed with people trying to find the supplies they needed before the weather broke. She scanned the crowd of people, trying to keep an eye out for her friend, and vaguely considered what her actions would have been, a year ago maybe. This would have been prime cut purse territory, so tightly packed together, these people wouldn't notice a skillful hand, a quick swipe of a knife. In fact, if she paid close attention...

There, off to her right. Three young boys, that, with a jolt, she realised were about ten, not much older than Mud. They were scruffy, painfully thin, and probably hadn't had a decent meal in days. And probaby wouldn't for a while, because they were bad at their job. Terribly in fact.

They looked too shifty, constantly checking over their shoulder, flighty. The key to a successful job was to keep low key, to not attract any attention. These boys stuck out like a sore thumb.

They were ahead of her now, checking over their shoulders once again. If she'd noticed, no doubt the guards had. And sure enough, they were winding their way carefully through the crowds towards the youngsters. Claude hesitated. This wasn't any of her business, she didn't know the boys, didn't live on the streets any more. But the sight of them stirred some deep protective inclination inside of her. Perhaps it was their background, or their age. Maybe she just wanted to look out for them, knowing how hard life on the streets was. Mind made up, she quickly followed after them.

The tallest one was at the back, and he noticed her a few seconds before she reached him, furrowing his eyebrows in question. He should of scarpered. Obviously not the brightest. The two in front had their hands reaching towards the well dressed gent in front. It was now or never. Claude stepped in, grabbing one of their shoulders.

"The guards have spotted you!" She hissed under her breath. "You need to be more careful!"

They exchanged glances, before the smallest plunged his hand into the man's pocket anyway , grabbing the purse inside and then running for it, hell bent towards the side street. His friends followed, throwing scared looks over their shoulder at her, at the advancing guards. Shaking her head in utter disbelief, Claude turned to leave.

"Thief! Pick pocket! Guards, guards help!" The man grabbed her thin wrist tightly, nipping the skin. She tried to yank it away, heart speeding up in panic, but the stout man had a remarkably tight grip.

"I wasn't- it wasn't me!" She cried, trying to pull his hand open. "Let go, you've got he wrong person!"

"A likely story! Guards, arrest this cretin! Uuff-"

Claude kicked him hard in the shins, and he let go enough for her to pull free, nearly tripping over her own feet. She should have left the boys alone! Now she was in trouble, again. Turning quickly on the spot, she found her way blocked by guards. They were all around her, and no matter which was she darted, she was fence in. The claustrophobia was building, she couldn't stop seeing Dalvaux' men around her. But these were guards, surely they'd treat her fairly.

As if in answer to her question, she was grabbed at both sides in an unrelenting, painful clasp, and before she could protest any further, Claude found herself being dragged from the square.

Constance was going to kill her for being late.

Claude was late, again and she was going to kill her. If she was in one of those drinking dens again, god help her. Constance paced the step she stood on, gripping her basket tightly, stopping every few steps to peer over the crowd, to see if her friend was coming. But no sign.

These days out had mainly been to cheer Claude up at first. And they seemed to be helping, the girl smiled more often, laughed more often, and had stopped staring off into space, a wild look in her eyes. There were still moments that Constance caught her far away, fists clenched tight as she relived some horror. Certain things seemed to trigger it, the smell of smoke for one. Who knew how long it would take her to recover. It reminded her of the soldiers who came back from a hard battle, caught in some tormented space in their mind. So she did all she could to help.

But recently, she'd found herself needing these outings just as much as Claude. Partly just to have someone to talk to, but also to get away from the house, her husband. From the gloom that had covered her life since...since the day D'Artagnan had joined the musketeers. She tried not to think of it, tried to push her feelings aside, but the cold, creeping heartache seemed to follow her everywhere, although it was worse at home.

But once again, Claude was late.

She could hear shouting in the distance, an angry voice calling for guards. Three boys pushed through the crowd towards her, running, from who she didn't know. They were young, around the age of the boys Claude had told stories about, and one was carrying a purse. Pick pockets perhaps?

"Who was she?!" One of them was grunting.

"I dunno! Just keep moving!"

Dread settled in Constance's chest. Surely not...She started to push through the crowd, and as she got closer, it grew thicker. There was no going forward. A woman beside her stood, craning her neck to see. She caught Constance doing the same, and gave her a roll of the eyes.

"Some thief. A woman. They're dragging her off,"

Athos was going to kill her.

She had expected them to take her to a musty, damp cell. And although the thought of being locked away filled her with a cold, creeping panic, at least it would give her friends time to find her. So when she was dragged into the court house, her stomach dropped.

It was half empty, and judging by the crowd of sorry looking folk standing at the opposite wall, she wasn't the only one up on trial. There was a small group of people standing at the back, watching the proceedings, perhaps family members, or maybe victims. Claude briefly caught a glympse of an extremely well dressed woman, before she was dragged over to the line of criminals, and told to stand.

She was quaking in her boots, fidgeting nervously, hand scratching at the scar on her neck, pulling at a scuffed bit on her jerkin. She could explain her way out of this. It would be fine. Perhaps the doors would burst open, and her friends would storm in, shouting for her release. Yes, it would be fine.

The line in front of her was dwindling.

Imprisonment.

Branding.

Fine.

Imprisonment.

Fine.

Flogging.

The punishments were read off and the criminals dragged away. Sick, that's what she felt. Sick to the stomach. And where were her friends? This was a mistake, surely they would come, surely-

"You, next!"

The guard shoved her into the center off the room, where she felt 2 inches tall. The judge sat high up, a severe, older gent, tiny glasses perched on his nose. He studied the writing in front of him, not even looking at her as he spoke.

"Name."

"Claude. I mean Claudette Cordonnier. Really, there's been some sort of mis-"

"Silence!" He drawled, sounding unamused. "I did not ask to hear your pitiful excuses! Now, the charge, theft-"

"I didn't-"

"The sentence for petit theft is branding. To be carried out forthright," He continued, as if he hadn't heard her.

The guard began to drag her away.

"Branding?!" Claude spat out. "You sentence me to be branded for a crime I didn't commit, and you can't even look at me! Who the hell do you think you are?!"

The judge finally looked up. "The law. Take her away,"

The court room door slammed shut behind her.

The rumble of thunder overhead spurred Constance even faster, wobbling through the cobbled streets as quickly as she could. The garrison appeared before her, and she could have sung with relief. But it wasn't over yet.

The few musketeers in the courtyard looked at her curiously as she ran forward, holding onto her hat to stop it falling off her head. She spun on the spot for a few seconds, trying to spot a familiar face, until she heard a voice she'd been hoping to avoid. D'Artagnan was walking down the steps from Treville's office, deep in conversation with his three friends. Constance felt her breath catch in her throat, but she ignored it. There were more important things to worry about than her own heart break.

"Athos!" She called, hurrying across to the stairs.

"Madame Bonacieux," His voice was level as always, but she could hear the concern that laced it. "Is everything alright? I was under the impression you were meeting with Claude this afternoon,"

"Claude's been arrested!" She blurted out. "Pick pocketing, the guards carried her away,"

"There must have been some mistake," Aramis suggested hurriedly.

"Yeah, Claude's got no need for cutting purses these days," Porthos agreed.

D'Artagnan didn't speak, avoiding looking in her direction. Instead, he focused on Athos, who's face was unreadibly. The musketeer flexed his healed shoulder, a recent habit.

"If we hurry we can make it there before she goes on trial," Aramis added.

Athos gave a curt nod. "I'll speak with Treville, perhaps he can procure a pardon. In the meantime, we should make for the bastille. She'll be in the cells by now,"

"Unless we're too late," Porthos muttered.

Exchanging worried glances, the musketeers hurried off.

This wasn't happening. This was not real. Her friends would arrive, stop the guards in time. They wouldn't let this happen to her. Not now, not after all they'd been through. So why did the ground beneath her knees feel so real? The smell of mud and straw so strong? The hot iron was drawn from the burning coals, and her mouth went dry. Her friends were not coming. She was alone.

Claude started to struggle.

"Listen, I told you, this is a mistake-"

The guard behind her grabbed her head, shoving it to the side, exposing the soft skin of her neck.

"Hey! What the hell? Get your hands off me, this is wrong, you've got the wrong person! Damn you, I didn't do it!" Her voice sounded angry, but there was a raw, pleading edge to it, desperation. She opened her mouth to protest again, but the guard lent forward, shoving a dirty piece of cloth in her mouth.

"Wouldn't want you biting the tongue out of your little mouth," He mocked.

Claude was shaking, tongue gagging on the dry material in her mouth. Not this, anything but this. God, she'd take a stay in he cells over the brand, over the pain, and the permanent mark.

The hot iron pressed against her neck.

She let out a guttural scream through the cloth, her vision blurring as white hot pain erupted below the iron. The smell of burnt flesh reminded her of the burn the fire had inflicted on her arm, a tangy, bitter smell that made her feel sick. Tears raced down her cheeks, as she was brought to her feet. It was over? So why did it feel like the iron was still held against her skin?

The guard's grip tight upon her arm again, she was forcibly led to the gates, where the guard shoved her out, and clanged them behind her. Done. Branded and then chucked onto the street, like some kind of animal. Claude quickly wiped her eyes, trying to hide her anguish, and stalked off. The dark clouds which had been gathering started to rain down cool, fresh droplets, which hit her neck, soothing the deep throbbing burn. A bright flash of lightening lit up the sky, and a roll of thunder followed after. She stopped at the side of a deserted street, trying to peer into the murky water of a nearby puddle. The skin of her throat was painful, inflamed the fleur de lis already sticking out on swollen skin. It was ugly, a great big stamp of her social status. There was no denying hiding her background now. Everyone would know.

How would she show Athos? He'd accepted her, sure, but he thought she'd given up cutting purses. What about now? Would he believe her story? Would he not want to be seen with a criminal? Perhaps she could hide it. Claude reached a hand up rubbing her face. Oh what was she going to do? Returning to the garrison was not an option right now. Perhaps if she waited, they wouldn't be there. And anyway, the rain was easing the pain somewhat. Mind made up, Claude began to wander in the opposite direction from the garrison.

She hadn't gone far when the sound of wheels and horses hooves came behind her, squelching in the softening mud as the rain grew heavier. Claude automatically moved into the side of the street, to let the carriage past, but it began to slow, stopping beside her. She sent a nervous glance towards it, hand automatically reaching to her boot. But of course, she hadn't carried a knife since...for a while. The carriage door opened.

Inside sat a beautiful woman, skin a pale, crisp white, hair dark and perfectly curled. Her dress was exquisite, a fine silk with a tight corset, shawl draped over her arms. Claude's eyes widened in shock at her beauty, in slight awe of her. She seemed familiar thought, and Claude was sure she'd spotted her somewhere before.

"Claude?" She asked, her voice as gorgeous as the rest of her. The girl nodded in return, her hand reaching up to cover the new brand. "I wonder if we might have a word, just between us girls,"

"Y-you were at the court house," Claude blurted suddenly, the memory of the woman hitting her.

But the woman only smiled in return. "I know what it's like to be victimised Claude. Come, we have much to discuss,"

The girl began to frown. This woman, although beautiful, had turned up out of the blue. What business did she have with some street urchin, a criminal? No, something wasn't right here.

"Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. My name is Milady De Winter. And I've come to warn you,"

"Warn me about what?" Claude asked, puzzled.

"The musketeer Athos,"

Uh ohhhhh!