The Innocent & the Damned

Proglogue

"What happened? Who was that woman?"

"Since we arrived I felt her presence ... everywhere. I thought I was imagining it."

"Who? Who?!"

"My wife. She died ... five years ago now. By my orders. She was a cold-blooded murderess. I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."

"Look at me. LOOK AT ME! ... Are you saying the ghost of your dead wife tried to kill you?"

"She's not dead, d'Artagnan ... she survived."

"This was her revenge?"

"It was my duty ... it was my duty to uphold the law! My duty to condemn the woman I loved to death. I've cleansed the belief that I had no choice ... Five years learning to live in the world without her ... what do I do now?"

- Commodities, S1:E3

Chapter One

One hand still on the comte's knee, mind racing, d'Artagnan turned back to the house. Beside him, Athos folded like a paper doll left out in the rain, breath gurgling harshly. He reeked of smoke and alcohol, the combination so potent d'Artagnan was practically gagging with it.

He was half in love with his mysterious lady, despite her nefarious activities, and already more than slightly infatuated with his landlady, but intuitively he recognized those feelings could not hold a candle to the conflagration of emotions consuming the comte with the same ferocity as his burning house.

...what do I do now? ...what do I now? ... what do I do now? The anguished utterance rolled around in d'Artagnan's head like an echoing drumbeat.

His father's death had rent his heart from top to bottom, but the farmer in the youth had acknowledged the natural order of progression as well. Plants and animals, and even humans, were born, matured and died, all in the cycle of life.

This was different. Something beyond the ken of mortal understanding had happened here tonight; the dead walked among the living.

d'Artagnan pushed off Athos, staggered as a cough tried to split open his chest, and dropped back to one knee. The force of the wracking pitched him forward, gagging, until he spit out a rock-sized glob of sludge and he could drag in a gasping breath. He had not been in the house that long, but the blazing heat and smoke had affected his lungs, too.

Forming and holding coherent thought was nearly impossible, but he had experience with fire. He needed ... a well ... and buckets ... and people ... though even as the notion took shape, glass exploded from the second floor windows, showering the two of them with impaling splinters and shards of glass. Red hot flags of flame shot from the upper story, sheets of it wrapping around window embrasures, scorching the ancient stone facade. Two floors of the right wing were completely engulfed.

There was nothing he could do here ... nothing. d'Artagnan lurched back around, dropping to his knees again. "Where's your horse?" They'd left the horses tied to bushes in front of the house when they'd first sought its sanctuary last night, but Athos' great black beast was nowhere in sight.

There was no response from the comte and d'Artagnan reached to drag him up by the sleeve of his jacket. "Where's your horse?" the Gascon demanded, shaking his slack-jawed, bleary-eyed friend. "Athos! Where's your horse?!"

"Horse." The single word came out on a cough that spasmed deep in Athos' chest, caught at the back of his throat and would not release its hold. The Musketeer had been in that blazing inferno far longer than d'Artagnan; he flopped like twelve stone of cooked pasta.

d'Artagnan snatched a second handful of jacket, jerking the man upright again. "Yes, horse. Where?" The reek of spirits was stronger even than the noxious smell of smoke. It was a wonder Athos hadn't spontaneously combusted, it had been as hot as hell inside the house, and the Musketeer appeared to have been drinking steadily the entire time he'd been alone.

"d'Artaga..."

"Where's your horse," d'Artagnan repeated, dread creeping up his spine like a snake uncoiling. "Athos, stay with me! How much did you drink?"

"Not worth it ... you should have left me ... in there ... should have left ..." Athos sagged forward, forehead catching d'Artagnan's collarbone with enough force to rattle both their teeth.

"Holy Mother of God," d'Artagnan grunted, borrowing Aramis' blasphemous prayer. For a just a moment he let his cheek rest against the dark head slumped against his shoulder, then lowered the Musketeer carefully back down on the grass.

Cursing Aramis, who should have known better than to leave Athos alone in this place when he had clearly been reluctant to even reveal its existence to begin with, d'Artagnan went for his own horse. Except the creature balked, half rearing, jerking at the reins ruthlessly dragging it toward danger.

"I know, I know," d'Artagnan soothed, the words grating in his raw throat as he swept a gauntleted hand down the tense neck even as he led the horse forward, "It's all right, we won't get too close, just a little further. See? Just here, where we can get our friend Monsieur Athos on your back."

Though how he was going to accomplish that, d'Artagnan as yet had no clue. If he let go of the reins, the horse, terrified of the roar and crackle and heat pouring from the house, would most assuredly bolt, leaving both of them stranded. Though neither could he leave Athos and go for help. A resurrected woman diabolical enough to wait five years to have her revenge made more than just d'Artagnan's spine creep. Every part of him cringed at the thought of leaving his unconscious friend at her mercy should she decide to return. He drew his pistol as a precautionary measure, but then both hands were full, and Athos still lay in a drunken swoon on the ground.

d'Artagnan breathed a few of the new curses he'd learned from Porthos over the last few months.

The fire was not going out anytime soon, the horse was not going to stand still, and Athos did not appear to be giving any thought to rousing and getting himself on the animal. d'Artagnan walked the fidgeting steed in a tight circle twice, thrice, and then a fourth time before inspiration struck. He shoved his pistol back in his belt for ease of collecting and began searching the ground as he walked the horse in wider circles.

He found a good-sized rock he could scoop up one-handed and chivvied the stallion back over to Athos' recumbent form. "I'm sorry," he told the horse, pulling its head down so he could tether the reins with the rock. "I know this will be uncomfortable, but it will only be for a few seconds while I get Athos up. Behave and I swear there's a bag of oats at the end of this hellish night."

Lifting an unconscious Athos was not an easy job as it turned out. While d'Artagnan was whipcord thin, he was not without strength. He was, after all, a farm boy; he'd handled teams from the time he'd been able to thread the reins between his small fingers. He was also a swordsman, a feat that required a great deal of upper body strength, in addition to the stamina to outlast an opponent.

Attempting to get Athos' dead weight on his backing and filling horse, though, raised a sweat, and not because the fire was sucking the cool from the night like a tide pulling out to sea. Failing for the third time, d'Artagnan resorted to his water skin again, trickling the cool liquid over Athos' face.

"Come on, come on," he begged. "We can't stay here and I'm afraid I'm going to break your neck trying to get you on the horse. You have to wake up, Athos. Wake up!"

For all practical purposes, the fire created so much light it might have been day. d'Artagnan peeled back an eyelid, having watched Aramis do it enough times to know what he was looking for. Completely rolled back; not even a bit of the blue iris was visible. Though a vivid bruise marked the left cheekbone, blue filling in the hollow beneath the eye, shading to dark purple as it crept inexorably downward.

"We can't stay here," d'Artagnan repeated, as much from anxiety as trying to rouse the Musketeer. "You leave me no choice."

Propping Athos so the man was at least half upright, d'Artagnan bent as far as he could, jammed a shoulder under the lower ribs and shoved up to standing, staggering under the additional weight. But he managed, this time, to sling the inert body over the saddle, grab the trailing reins, get his foot in the stirrup and fling a leg over the hindquarters before the horse bolted with both of them into the black of night.

A/N - According to history dot com, the first reported account of spontaneous combustion dates back to 1641, eleven years after this story is set. Yes, I did look it up. Prior readers will know that I have a tendency to bend and reshape history to fit the needs of a story. So please pretend that even though there were no recorded reports prior to 1641, perhaps farmers with hay stacks were aware of the phenomenon.