A marksman extends the reach of it's army. They represent the highest refinement of the infantry soldier's art. But they take the random business of killing and turn it personal and become outcasts amongst their own.

But yet…

Somewhere in the night a quiet professional is waiting.

He does not care that he is tired.

That his hardened body is sleep deprived.

He is unbroken and vigilant in his task.

Somewhere this warrior is the final tripwire.

He has trained all his life in brutal conditions day and night.

This barren and desolate world is his home.

He lives and survives by an ancient Creed.

Somewhere this weapon of war will not ask nor give quarter.

He thrives on the mission and completing his objective.

That he allows the taste of fear to motivate his actions.

He is…the final option.

~ by Mingo Kane ~

Save it for a Rainy Day

X.

Levesque pitched backward to the ground, a small hole, smoking and trickling blood; dead center between his eyes.

The four musketeers rushed forward, indifferent to the young girls and women as they scattered, screaming and crying.

Treville knelt beside Levesque as the others provided cover. He didn't have to look further to verify the man was dead. He looked up at his men and shook his head.

No one felt remorse.

They pulled away from the dead body, and with their pistols and swords drawn, they frantically scanned the chaotic square for the shooter.

"Do you think it was one of his own men?" asked d'Artagnan, his back pressed up against his mentor's as they slowly circled.

Athos darted his eyes about the square, trying to see past the hurried and frightened women, but he was struck with nothing but a flurry of white as there were so many of them. He could feel his heart racing, but his sword was still and unflinching, an achievement born only from years as a trained soldier. "Perhaps," he replied, pressing his back closer to d'Artagnan's as they continued to move slowly in a circle.

The Comte's eyes caught those of Porthos' who was near the well using his body as a shield to cover some of the cowering girls. Athos noted his confusion without so much as a word, and he nodded for him to stay where he was just in case the shooter wasn't finished.

He then found Treville by one of the entrances to the square, trying to hurry the women out of a possible line of fire.

"Do you see any of them?" Athos called to d'Artagnan over his shoulder.

Spinning quickly, pistol raised with Athos keeping pace to cover his back, d'Artagnan shook his head. "I can't tell who I'm seeing," he replied, having to raise his voice over the accumulating din of the crowd. "There're too many people here!"

"Spread out," ordered Athos, stepping away from the Gascon. "Treville and Porthos are taking care of the girls. Let's find Levesque's men!"

D'Artagnan accepted the order with a curt nod before charging into the throng of people scurrying about- randomly seeking cover wherever they could find it. When Athos could no longer see him, he did the same in the other direction, hoping to find at least one of the men involved. But he surmised, based on d'Artagnan's observation before the deadly shot took Levesque's life, his men had already vacated the square in order to save themselves.

~Musketeers~

"I'm going to need your help," Aramis said, his voice reflecting his years as a disciplined soldier.

"Me? What can I do?" breathed Constance, taken aback by the marksman's sudden fortitude.

Aramis strained his neck as he looked backward over the top of the bed. He could see Athos' pistol sitting on the ledge and he grimanced. The Comte had gone out there with nothing more than a sword and knife, but Aramis had no time for compunction, he needed to act quickly. And he also needed something that packed a bit more substance than Athos' pistol.

He turned back to Constance, his right arm still draped over her shoulder as they sat on the floor leaning against the side of the bed.

The soldier in him was begging to be released, but he knew Constance would never abide having orders shouted at her. He would have to play this carefully; keep her calm, focused, and not thinking about d'Artagnan outside facing off against a madman bent on sadistic revenge.

He winced inwardly at how problematic his situation had suddenly become. His friends were outside and their lives were at risk, and here he was, stuck on the floor, barely able to stand and with a hand that was clumsy at best. He also felt a deep seeded compulsion to protect Constance, even though, he had to admit, she was one of the strongest people he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Finally, he took a deep breath, gave her shoulder a squeeze and steeled himself. "D'Artagnan taught you about weapons, did he not?" he asked in a quiet, commanding voice. She nodded, but her face reflected a hesitant confusion. He had to ignore it and push on. "Do you remember if my musket was retrieved?"

She nodded slowly. "I believe so."

Aramis pointed toward the door. "I need you to go and get it," he said, his brows raised pleadingly.

Constance started to rise, unsure if her legs would carry her weight.

"Stay down," ordered Aramis, indicating with his hands for her to remain crouched.

Bent low, Constance made her way out of the room on shaky limbs. She could hear people shouting outside and it worried her immensely that d'Artagnan was out there. Drawing on her remaining courage, she swallowed her fear and continued on with a renewed vigor. A moment later she was crawling back into the room, sliding the musket out in front of her.

Aramis pushed himself up higher against the side of the bed and drew in several deep breaths to calm the nerves betraying his experience. He then signaled for her to propel the musket toward him, which she did without hesitation.

Aramis pulled his knees up, his left one painfully, and reached for the weapon, drawing it into his lap. He took a moment to gather his strength before setting to work. It felt comfortable and familiar in his grip, but he found he didn't quite have the dexterity required to properly load it. Frustrated, he threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. When he righted it again, Constance was kneeling before him, staring wide-eyed and frightened. It was not a look he was used to seeing on her, but again, he didn't have time to hold her hand. Keeping occupied by helping him was going to have to be comfort enough.

He harnessed his resolve, knowing every movement he was about to make was going to hurt. But there was a fierceness for justice born in him through experience, and he'd sworn to uphold the sanctity of it a long time ago, so pain or not, he was going to do whatever it took to end this.

So with pride aside, he passed the musket over his knees to Constance.

"Can you load this?" he asked, trying to convey his confidence in her through quiet determination.

Constance nodded as she took the weapon gingerly in her hands, but her words were rushed and frantic as she spoke. "You're not suggesting…"

Aramis placed a hand on her shoulder and used it for support as he painfully hefted himself onto the bed, remembering to stay low and out of sight from the view below. "Just load it," he said through gritted teeth, as he waited out the spasm in his hip.

She did as instructed, having to fetch a lit candle to ignite the matchcord, and while she prepared the musket, Aramis sat on the bed bracing himself for what was to come.

"Now what?" asked Constance, the loaded rifle held carefully in her hands.

There was a loud bang outside in the square below and they both froze.

Suddenly, Constance passed Aramis the musket and ran to the window at the foot of the bed.

"Get down!" shouted Aramis, a panic rising in his chest for both her and his friends outside.

Constance only turned and dropped below the window when she was satisfied d'Artagnan was still alive and uninjured. She collapsed under the sill and stared up at Aramis who was sprawled low across the bed.

Aramis offered her a hand, which she took gratefully, and let him help her back to the bed and away from the window. He gave her a moment to regain her bearings before asking what she had seen. He knew d'Artagnan and his brothers were safe by the expression on her face, but he still wanted, needed, a layout of the scene below.

"Levesque," she said shakily. "He's got over a dozen women surrounding him…" her voice trailed off as she tried to erase the image in her mind.

"He's hiding behind them?" asked Aramis carefully, not wanting to spook her but yet needing information faster than she was giving it.

Constance nodded. "He just killed one of them," she said, turning frightened eyes toward him. "She's just lying there. Dead."

Aramis gave her hand a squeeze. "You must be strong," he said. "Push that aside and let us finish this."

Swallowing thickly, Constance nodded her head. "What do you need me to do?"

Aramis pointed to the chair by the bed then over to the window. "Put that over there," he said. "Then help me over."

Constance took a moment to stare at him with surprised curiosity, then she followed his orders and came back to the bed to help him stand. He threw his right arm over her shoulder and tried not to burden her with too much of his weight as they shuffled toward the chair. When he was seated, and most of the pain had dissipated into a deep ache, Aramis motioned for her to take cover by the wardrobe. He wanted her out of Levesque's sight, and also unable to see the square below.

Aramis did not wish her to witness what he was about to do.

Carefully, with his right hand, he closed the shutter on his side of the window and then broke out several slats. Then, cautiously and painfully slow, he pushed the window open a mere fraction- just enough to fit the muzzle of his musket. He sighted down the smoothbore barrel and blew gently on the matchcord as he breathed steadily. But there was a twitch in his left hand that made his aim unsteady, and it did not go unnoticed by Constance standing behind him.

"Just take your time," she whispered over his shoulder, then quickly added, "well, not too much time."

"I thought I told you to stand back," admonished Aramis, not looking away from the target below.

"As if," she rebuked.

Aramis had to smile at her tenacity, despite their tenuous predicament. He shifted in his chair and tried to settle himself once again, but the fingers on his left hand were not behaving and he was finding it hard to maintain his grip, and therefore his aim.

"Keep it steady," whispered Constance. "Look down the barrel, see your target. You can do this."

Aramis wanted to look back and glare at her, but he didn't want to break his concentration. "Be quiet," he said. "Talking about it won't help. I need to feel it."

Constance kept quiet after that and Aramis drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the feeling of the heavy butt plate squared against his shoulder, the warm wood against his cheek and the smoothness of the barrel under his fingers. He started to feel an old familiar calmness take over his body, like warm honey seeping through his veins. It innately morphed his senses, numbing the ones he didn't need, yet igniting the ones he did. But when the marksman opened his eyes to take sight, he immediately found himself squinting and having to look away. When he looked back, he noticed a sharp, blinding glare coming off one of the upstairs windows from across the square.

Aramis followed it back to its source and saw shafts of golden light breaking through one of the clouds above. In a sky made dark and heavy by oppressive clouds, a few meager rays of sunlight were able to break through and represent their true nature. It made him smile to see such beauty and power triumph over gloom, but even more so, he felt invigorated. All the fears and hesitations he was subconsciously harboring melded into an opaque ball in his throat that he swallowed away.

He resettled his musket and sighted once again down the barrel, a renewed vigor and desire for vengeance and justice flowing through him.

He took in a steady breath, relaxed, and let his breath escape naturally until it stopped on it's own. Sensitive, and instinctively perceptive to the respiratory pause at the end of his breath, Aramis then squeezed the trigger.

True to his notoriety, the shot landed dead center between the eyes of Antoine Levesque.

~Musketeers~

With most of the women and girls accounted for, and the remainder of Levesque's men bound, gagged and gathered around the well, Athos sauntered over with d'Artagnan by his side. "Is this all of them?" he asked, looking at Porthos who was guarding them with an intense loathing.

"This is all that didn't get away," grumbled Porthos, kicking one of the men purely for antagonizing fun. "You know," he lamented, looking back at Athos. "I've just spent the last few minutes wanting to kill these men, when if fact, I should have actually been killing 'em."

D'Artagnan put a hand on his shoulder, sharing in his friend's sentiment. "Did any of them confess to shooting Levesque yet?"

Porthos let out a huff. "They all did," he replied. "I figure, they think we'll go easy on 'em if we think they killed him."

"Not likely," replied Athos, scanning his eyes over the haggard men leaning against the well. He walked around them, taking in each disgusting and disheveled man as he passed by, and came to the conclusion that none of them were capable of such an accurate shot. "None of them did it," he said, looking back at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "I doubt any of them could hit a barn from ten feet away." He paused to let loose a small smile. "Even if they were sober."

"Then who did?" asked d'Artagnan.

The three of them looked around the square. Treville had taken charge of the girls and was talking with some of the local residents. They had offered shelter to the girls till their parents could be notified, so Treville was busy sorting everyone out. But other than that, there were not a lot of people about.

"He probably got away during the turmoil," sighed Athos, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back to gaze at his brothers from under the brim of his hat.

"Not sure if I'm happy or sad 'bout that," replied Porthos.

Athos nodded, unable to find argument with his brother's lament.

"You don't think…"

Athos and Porthos turned as one toward d'Artagnan.

"You don't think… maybe…" the Gascon let his words trail off once again as he slowly turned to look up at the second floor window of the Bonacieux home.

"Naw," dismissed Porthos.

"Aramis was in no shape, or state of mind, to do anything of the sorts," replied Athos.

"But who else could make that shot?" d'Artagnan voiced aloud.

The question briefly plagued all their minds, and then all at once, the three of them were rushing toward the front door of the Bonacieux home.

~Musketeers~

Constance flinched at the sound of the musket discharging.

After a moment, wherein Aramis quickly crossed himself- not for the purposes of Levesque but rather, to absolve himself, he relaxed his posture and turned his head only half way back over his shoulder. "You shouldn't have watched that," he said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," replied Constance, her voice emotionless and her gaze fixated on the near distance. "I've seen men killed before. Even killed one myself, remember?"

Aramis took a moment to breathe deeply, and then turned all the way back to look at Constance. "This was different," he explained gently. "It wasn't in the heat of battle. It was a precision kill. Some would call it murder."

Constance shook herself from her trance and met his worried gaze. "He deserved what he got," she stated emphatically.

A small, almost regretful smile, turned up the corners of Aramis' mouth. "I agree," he said. Then he lowered his musket to the floor with the butt plate balanced on the ground. He rested the barrel against the window ledge and reached a hand toward her. "If you don't mind?" he asked, swallowing thickly as he was forced to close his eyes. "I'd like to return to the bed. The force of the musket has unfortunately left me rather…" he paused, searching for the right word that wouldn't cause too much alarm in Constance. "Dizzy," he finally chose, opening his eyes to find her already taking his hand.

They moved slowly back to the bed, leaving the smoking musket at the window. Once seated, Aramis nodded his gratitude and pushed himself back further. He breathed through the pain, but had to admit, it wasn't nearly as bad as he had anticipated.

Constance watched him get comfortable, but he seemed different to her all of a sudden. It wasn't because he was acting more like himself, but because she felt like she was seeing his true self for the first time.

Aramis had just become a completely different person to her. It amazed her that she hadn't noticed this before, how his eyes conveyed an intensity reserved only for hardened soldiers, how his relaxed posture exuded a preternatural strength that betrayed his current, weakened condition. He seemed younger all of a sudden, but yet hardened beyond his years.

Constance felt like she was truly seeing this man for the first time since they had met, and every last ounce of annoyance she still felt concerning him and the Queen vanished from both her conscious and subconscious.

Aramis cleared his throat, his expression conveying the fact that he knew she was staring.

"Do you need anything?" she asked hastily, more than a little embarrassed at being caught.

"Perhaps a little wine," he replied, noting the slight tremble in his left hand.

She raised a challenging eyebrow, frowning as she recalled his behavior the last time he drank.

"I promise to not damage your walls this time," he said, quirking up the corner of his mouth with a cheeky wink. When it seemed she wasn't going to believe him, he dropped the smile from his face and placated her with a defeated sigh. "Perhaps just a little?" he pleaded, holding his forefinger and thumb up to indicate a mere inch.

"All right," she conceded. "But you're having some tea afterward. With honey…" she turned to leave the room and spoke the last of her words over her shoulder. "With some of the herbs the doctor left."

Aramis had to concede that did sound almost more enticing than the wine. His throat did still hurt, and he was almost about to change his mind when Constance returned to the room. She was holding a small glass with mere drops of red liquid sloshing about and suddenly Aramis realized it was definitely wine he wanted. He took the drink eagerly and downed it quickly. It didn't do much for the pain in his throat, or the ache in his hip, but it did help stem the twitching of his left hand.

He returned the glass and then stared down at his bandaged fingers. He flexed them, which brought a near dispirited smile to his face. It hurt, but it was a good pain. Something he felt he could work with, or even better, overcome.

He looked back up at Constance feeling that maybe not all was lost anymore.

Aramis could feel his psyche returning to its natural state of easy confidence, his muscles innately relaxing and his spirits rising, and he realized he was starting to feel like his old self again.

A sign from the heavens, his brothers foreboding deaths; he wasn't sure which one, but he was certain it was one of those things that had inspired him to return to himself. He decided it didn't really matter what had caused his sudden turn around, only that he had found himself again and the spark within him to fight- fight for justice, fight for survival, was back.

"I'm sorry."

The strange and sudden words from Constance made him look up. "For what?"

"I spoke with Athos like you said."

Aramis reached out a hand to which she took with an apologetic smile on her face. "I was not looking for an apology when I suggested you speak with him."

"I know," replied Constance. "But you're getting one anyway."

Aramis smiled, his heartfelt joy reaching his eyes and causing the creases around them to crinkle. "Thank you." Then suddenly, as he heard his brothers scrambling up the stairs of the house, he dropped her hand and gave her a wink. "Why don't we save that conversation for later?"

Constance nodded with a smile and stepped back out of the way as his brothers careened around the corner and into the room

All three of them gathered around him, making no room for Constance who gladly got out of their way and went into the other room.

"That was you, wasn't it?" asked Porthos, a proud and broad smile adorning his face.

Aramis frowned. "Porthos, please. Who else could make that shot?"

"No one but you, Aramis," replied Athos, a smile also appearing on his lips. "So are we to assume," he paused to look around at his brothers before resting his eyes back on Aramis and lowering his questioning voice, "that everything is as it should be?"

Aramis squirmed slightly, flexing his left hand carefully as he stared upon it. "I had some trouble, I won't lie," he began, some of the eagerness in his voice disappearing. "But perhaps it is more promising than I had once thought." He shared a quiet acknowledgement with Athos before addressing the rest of his friends in the room. "I promise to be extra vigilant in my exercises and not get too down on myself in the meantime."

D'Artagnan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's good to hear. We missed your lively wit these past few days. It wasn't just the weather that was dreary."

Aramis had to laugh at himself for his behavior over the past few days; surprised he was even capable of such despair.

"What say you join us in the other room?" urged Porthos, waving his friend toward the door. "About time you saw something beyond these four walls."

Aramis held up a hand and shook his head. "Not yet," he said wearily. "Too much excitement for one day. Besides, I've seen what's out there, remember? And it seems to be quite a mess. I think your duties still beckon."

Porthos bobbed his head back and forth in contemplation, seriously thinking about shirking his responsibilities in lieu of staying with his friend.

"Go," ordered Aramis, with a wave of his hand. "All of you. I will be here when you come back."

Porthos rushed toward him with his arms outstretched. He embraced his friend, pulling back only slightly when Aramis cautiously reminded him that he still hurt. But Porthos could not help himself. He held his friend a moment longer before releasing him and stepping back.

"I, ah… I …" Porthos' words were stuttered as he began to walk backward toward the door, tears evident in the corners of his eyes. "I, ah… yeah," he continued, hitching a thumb over his shoulder as he sniffed back a few errant tears. But he held strong and did not allow anymore to fall.

Then he smiled at Aramis once more, making sure he had his friend's undivided attention. "It's good to have you back," he said, then turned quickly and left so he could hide the emotions toying with his masculine pride.

Shortly after, d'Artagnan also bid good-bye with the promise to bring out the good wine later that evening.

Athos remained behind, his frame filling the doorway as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the marksman in wonder. "What happened?" he asked, nodding to the musket resting by the window.

Aramis smiled sagaciously at the Comte. "You mean besides the obvious?" he asked with an air of amusement.

Athos rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. We were in trouble and needed saving. Yes, besides that. Something changed and I have a feeling it wasn't just our precarious situation."

Aramis lay back on the bed. Exhaustion was starting to creep back through him, so he closed his eyes and relaxed into the mattress. "I still have a long way to go before I'm fully recuperated," he said, quietly. "And I can't promise there won't be trying times ahead, even some frustration and lamenting," he paused and opened his eyes, glancing out the window at the foot of the bed. He saw rays of light breaking through the clouds, striated and glorious as if shining down from the heavens and he smiled. "But today it is just too nice outside to be hindered by such things." He turned to look at his friend in the doorway. "I think I'll save all that for a rainy day."

Again, Athos rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said dryly. "Keep your reasons to yourself. Far be from me to invade on someone's privacy, but please refrain from the poetic drivel. I'm the one who's good with words, remember? Not you." After that, he shared a knowing smile with the marksman and took his leave.

Aramis let his eyes close once again. Without awareness, he began flexing his left hand as he reflected over the past few days. Back when this had all begun, he had promised Porthos he would never let him go. Now that his mind was clearer and his focus unquestioning once again, Aramis realized that he had actually almost done just that. Let him go. But not just Porthos, everyone, including himself.

"I cannot see a future without you fighting along-side me, or your brothers. Nor do I wish to."

Athos words bounced about in his head, dissipating his melancholy and awakening his spirit. They wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, echoing in his head as they brought a smile to his face. "Perhaps you aren't so bad with words after all," he said aloud.

When the body has reached it's limit, and there seems to be no hope left to speak of, sometimes it's the spirit that prevails. And as Aramis turned over to watch the awakening day from the window of his room, he felt like maybe, just maybe, his spirit- so intertwined with those of his brothers, had been the reason he had come back to himself. The thought of them not there, not in his future, had been too much to bear, and so, just as the rebellious rays of light had broken through their prison walls of oppressive clouds, so had Aramis' spirit broken through his despair.

And as he continued to watch the daybreak outside the window, he decided that indeed it was much too nice a day to think about such things. He tucked away all his discomfort and let his thoughts drift away as he succumbed to sleep.

He would save the gloom for a rainy day, but for now, he was at peace.

~Finis~